Based on the theory that Loki was suffering from heat exhaustion when he arrived on Earth at the beginning of The Avengers.

He can't remember falling. He can't remember hitting the ground. He can't even acknowledge the pain in his back, the many broken ribs, the fact he fell inches away from a rock and could have died instantly had he hit it. He can't, he couldn't even if he tried. Heat. There's only heat, everywhere, inhibiting his senses and clouding his mind. He is aware of the drop of sweat rolling from his forehead to his ear, of the headache, as if Thor was smashing his skull with his hammer, of his nausea – and it's probably a good thing he can't remember the last time he ate then. He barely even notice the low mumbling next to him until burning fingers touch his forehead and a long hiss escapes his lips.

It's pathetic.

He's pathetic.

Still, the fingers don't leave his face, brushing locks of sweaty hair away from his forehead, and the feeling wouldn't be that bad if it wasn't for the heat. Moments later, arms are around his chest and, last thing he knows, he's standing up on his weak legs, shivering and feeling numb. He tries to take a step but his limbs give out and he almost falls again if it's not for those foreign arms around him. A moan rings to his ears as his whole body weight drops on the stranger's shoulder, and only then does he understand. A maiden. If it wasn't for the fact his ego is as crushed as his bones are, he would shove her away, for he doesn't need the help of a woman. Especially not a burning one.

But he lets her do, and slowly follows her wherever she leads him, and it's probably a trap and he's probably about to die but it's not as if he can do something against it. He can't even feel his magic, as weak as he is, and knows he couldn't cast a spell to save his life. He's doomed. About to be killed by a maiden who isn't Lady Sif. Oh the irony.

There's a strange 'bip bip' followed by the sound of an opening door – not a wooden one, as strange one, as if metallic, but it doesn't make sense because doors are made of wood, he's not confused enough to forget that – and last thing he knows she makes him sit on some weird chair. He'd damn himself before saying it's actually comfortable, especially after what he's been through. There's the sound of a closing door that startled him, same strange sound that doesn't make sense, then opening and closing again to his right and an awful noise, like a never ending thunder. His last straw of survival instinct tells him now would be a good idea to start panicking, but he just can't find the strength to do so, and his head fall against something flat and cold – well, colder than everything else but that's a start. He sighs for the feeling is heavenly, and the little giggle coming from his abductor is a surprise.

He has spent enough of his childhood years in the hospital wing of the palace to recognize a heat exhaustion when he sees one, and know the symptoms – too many hours spent in the sun frolicking with Thor, it would always end in sunstroke. But this one is biggest than everything else and, when he opens his eyes, he's absolutely sure he's hallucinating.

She's here, her hand on some weird round thing, and everything is moving around them. She's here, looking at him once in a while as to make sure he's still alive. Her smile grows on her lips, not the gleeful one, the one she has when she's scared or worried, the 'everything is going to be alright one'. It was her fingers on his skin, her arms around him, her shoulder to lean against and the universe must hate him to inflict such a torment upon him.

"Sigyn..."

She looks at him again, and he can see her lips moving but there's not sound or maybe there's sound and he just can't hear it because his head is spinning as fast as Mjölnir in his brother's hand and black spots appear in front of his eyes and he can feel himself fainting but the last thing he acknowledge is her warm hand on his cheek. Maybe she won't kill him.