AN: I wrote this the other day and I've been deliberating on whether I should post it or not. Here goes :)
Asterism: a constellation or a starlike figure of light
It was said that the human body, the Midgardians, were made up of water. That, when born, they are more water than anything else. The Midgardians were flesh, bone, sinew, blood, and nerves. They were of the Earth. They belong to the Earth, to Midgard. That is their home.
Sif envied them. The Midgardians knew just what they were. They knew their construct, their design. They were human, simple as that.
Myths and legends have made the Æsir to be something else. These mighty beings hail from Asgard, the golden of the Nine Worlds of Yggdrasill. Some said the Æsir were merely humans with powers and supernatural gifts. Others believed them to be gods.
But what makes up a god?
Instead of water, are they made up of stars, constellations, and black holes? Was their blood golden like the suns? Were their bones made of starlight?
Sif wondered, wondered, wondered. She sat there, in a glade with two others. Two princes who were so very different. One shone like the sun, bright and loud. The other, as dark as the space between stars, sharp and cold.
The dark prince had discovered this glade with its bubbling creek and tall, sentinel trees to keep away prying eyes. The three childhood friends gazed at the sky above them, watching the stars blink and wink down at their upturned faces. And Sif wondered and wondered but her breath would catch between her teeth, at the back of her throat before she could utter a syllable of a question. And the stars shone on.
They say he feel into the stars, the dark prince.
But Sif knew better.
Sif knew that the dark prince had jumped, leaped into that cold emptiness of space and star dust.
Thor had told her between shaking breathes and trembling lungs. Thor told her of the sight forever seared onto his eyelids. And she could imagine it herself. The world reeling around them, held on by the merest pull of a muscle, the simple stretch of a limb. Loki's slim, pale fingers holding onto that golden staff of office. That mere stick of metal that seemed to hold such great power. And then, just like that, his fingers let go, the tension sucked away into the black darkness surrounding them. His cape swirling in the windless ebb and flow, his body arching and fading in the stars.
Thor told her all amidst the remains of the dark prince's rooms. The last place anyone would look for them.
("I've placed a spell on the door, you see? It only unlocks if you know exactly where to knock.")
And Thor wept. Thor shook and clenched and gnashed his teeth to hide the sound of his muscles and bones crying out.
But Sif could not weep. For War does not cry, War does not feel sorrow. War raged, simmered, boiled, and lashed out. War struck and flung curses and balled fists and the only sound to tear itself past her lips was a war cry thirsty for blood. A war cry hungry for flesh. But the body was gone in an implosion of stars and empty space.
But he was gone.
And so they mourned.
Sif threw herself into the fighting wherever she could get it. She challenged every guard, every soldier to face her in the lists, to enhance her sword-play, to improve her reach, her strength, her footwork. She made up excuses when the blow came down too strong, when the cut was too vicious, when practice became an all-out fight. Her friends edged around her like keepers around a wounded wolf.
("Have you heard tell of the giant wolves Skoll and Hati?")
Her rage grew and filled her up. It crawled across her limbs, scraping against her bones, caught in the glint of her eyes, the strands of her hair.
(Her hair used to shine like gold before….)
And then Thor would be there, a hand on her shoulder or a blade clanging, sliding against hers. And the sorrow she could see in his blue eyes caught at her chest and pulled the breath from her lungs. And the rage would dim and fade, like a distant star fading in the rising sun's rays.
Her arms would fall, her weapon heavy and dragging. Her throat would squeeze and tighten then, her dry lips parted to speak, to apologize, to beg respite. But then her teeth would fall on her tongue, the taste of blood and copper would flood her mouth and she couldn't have arranged a word if she had tried.
("I prefer silence to meaningless, ignorant talk any day, Lady Sif. Maybe you and Thor should learn a thing or two about thinking before speaking.")
"I miss him too."
Her muscles clenched in surprise, her eyes stung and her breathe froze.
Thor's hand was offered to her, in guidance, in supplication, she knew not. His large, square hands with their broad, fingers and muscular wrists hung in the space between them, so very different to Loki's pale ones.
Her shoulders sagged and her back bowed. But she did not cry. Thor's hand found its way to the curve of her shoulder, and his fingers dug into the sharp point of her shoulder blade. But still, she did not cry.
("You're shoulders are so broad Sif! If they were any wider, you'd be the same shape as Thor!")
There was a rushing in her ears, a stillness in the air. The man she had been jousting with had fled with a hasty bow in Thor's direction and a nervous glance in Sif's. They were alone in the practice ring. The sun glinted off waiting weapons on wooden racks, on bits of armor waiting for a body.
("We can't recover a body, but it's believed that the second prince is dead.")
Her body lurched and swayed.
What were they made of? Water? Or stars?
("Have you ever seen a falling star, Sif? The curve of its tail or the after image left on your eyelids?")
They say he fell, she knew better.
They whisper that there's no way he could have survived the fall, no, the leap. The jump.
They say he fell, she knew he let go.
("You have a strong grip Sif. You mind not tearing the hair out of my scalp?")
"Sif." A voice like thunder, booming and loud in her ears. Not his.
She was gasping, panting, reaching for air. Her lungs were empty, a void, like a black hole.
Were they made of stars? Why hadn't she asked him? He would have known, he would have made a subtle lie, a quick weave of truth and legends. And they would have laughed with him, at him as he tried to explain in the most absurd way.
She felt hands grip her face, pull her neck up, up, up. She saw but didn't see Thor's face swimming before hers, his face clenched in pain and concern and the sorrow.
She felt it beneath her skin, writhing like a beast, a snake. Where had the rage gone? The blazing heat of War and wrath? The nebula of emotion had expanded to her fingertips and the very ends of her hair.
("I know it's not half as nice as the gold hair you used to have, but I think it suits you better.")
"Sif, please."
("Lady Sif.")
"Sif, look at me."
("Not so fast, my lady Sif. You can't close your eyes now. I need to see you fall apart! Yes, just like that! Scream for me.")
Her throat was raw and red. Glass shards scrapped against her, the breath rattled in her chest.
("Scream for me. Only for me, Lady Sif. Promise, promise that you will only ever scream like this for me. Do you promise? Yes? Now scream my name.")
He's gone. They said he's gone forever. There's no way he could survive. No shout or yell could bring him back.
But if they were gods, if they were made of moonlight and constellations, of galaxies intertwined, than a fall - no, a jump – into space could not kill a god.
"Sif, Sif, you-"
"Bring him back."
"What?"
She licked her cracked lips and tasted blood. She blinked and Thor came back into focus, through the veil of tears she had tried so hard to keep away. He was close to tears as well, she could see now. How selfish of her to breakdown now, just when he needed someone to help him through. How selfish. But she needed to be selfish once more, for she could not do it herself. She didn't have the power, or the strength to fly through the cosmos and snatch him back.
"Bring Loki back," her voice was a whisper, a raw shadow of the steel it used to carry, now all rust and misuse.
"I-" His voice broke and fell (no, he jumped). And then he nodded, a hard look came into his eyes, and he nodded. "I will."
And so he did.
The space between the stars had changed the man she had once known. But it was him. Months had passed, a year maybe. Sif hadn't kept track, so busy was she trying to put order back into her life. She no longer fought to hurt whilst practicing with her fellow Æsir and her bones no longer shivered with rage nor sorrow. A simple tension trembled along her being. The stillness of a predator stalking its prey enveloped her muscles and mind. The waiting was finally over, she could pounce if she chose.
Thor had brought him back. He was here. He was alive.
The first time she saw him, Thor's grip was tight on his brother's arm. A vice to keep him still, just as much as it was a hold to keep him close.
His face was longer, more drawn. The planes and angles sharper, the shadows darker. His hair which he had always kept so short now hung to his thin shoulders and curled around the pale column of his throat. And even though his eyes were haunted and steely and closed off from all around him, she felt a rift within her begin to heal. A black hole beginning to close.
The second time she saw him, Thor was ushering him into a private room while she waited with baited breath. There, Thor left them with merely a parting glance to Sif.
For the longest time, he didn't look at her. But she waited and stayed silent, just as he had taught her so long ago.
When his fist finally unclenched and his lashes flickered up, did she speak. But she didn't ask him why he jumped, why he terrorized Midgard. No, she didn't ask why he betrayed them all.
Her chest rose with and her lips parted and she said, "Are we made of stars?"
His features slackened in surprise and he finally met her eyes. And through the cracks in her being, the galaxy within her trembled and shivered and the shadows within him answered her call.