Title: algometry
Character/s: Loki, Sigyn (Norse myth.)
Summary: After an eternity of incertitude, they don't pretend to be sorry. "Aren't you supposed to be dead, dear?" —Loki, Sigyn—
Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the Avengers. Or Loki. They belong to Stan Lee and their respective makers. Sigyn is part of the Poetic/Prose Edda. Also, I make no financial profit from writing/publishing this fanfiction.
Author's Note:
PS. This is an endearing proof that nothing I ever write has good subject or any sense whatsoever. A sort-of parallel companion piece to AMARANTHINE (found in AO3) and vacillate—, version II is published in AO3, due to its format.
algometry
ver. I / crucifixion
Loki, Sigyn
—
i. / sleight of hand
The palace Gladsheim is ablaze with a hundred thousand suns, as if welcoming the banished Thor. Everywhere there is chaos; the Jötunns are wreaking devastation upon the Æsir, blood drinkers and murderers. At the cataclysm, by the palace gates, Loki and Sigyn utter their farewells.
"Move another step to Bifröst, this arrow will find your heart."
Her voice is calm and low. Making her threat a given truth. Sigyn stands behind Loki, bloodied; bow in full draw, arrow glimmering with ancient runes. Her hands do not quiver, her stance does not falter.
Loki laughs acerbically, but he does not move. "You would strike down your King?"
Both know the answer. They play their roles in front of Asgard magnificently, behind it they do sweeten the knife thrust.
Matrimony bound with wine and incense (ash of lies, deceit) never really did ensure loyalty.
"You swore to me, Sigyn."
"Not to you. Asgard."
"But beloved, you hate Asgard."
Sigyn hears his familiar heartbeat and shakes with rage.
ii. / dear darling, dead
In the Helicarrier (hell-carrier), Loki and Sigyn meet after an eternity.
She stands in the penumbra of the harsh light. Ochre hair, gray eyes, willowy form—the widow of Asgard's fallen prince, the (once) dear, pauper princess Sigyn. He bears his ground in the middle of the gilded cage and through its thick glass, they survey each other.
The silence between them is uneasy, pulled taut and thrumming with tension. They acknowledge the difference of past and present: things have changed now, they are older, wiser. Loki holds Sigyn's gaze, ignores the brief constriction in his chest. Inwardly, he congratulates the mortals' incongruous concept of torment. Sentiment is the core to man's suffering. He knows it and uses it against himself. But the fools do not understand.
Unsaid words hang in their mouths, rotting, waiting to die—and the first thing he says is:
"Are you not supposed to be dead, dear?"
"If I am, who will hold the poison cup?"
Loki smiles widely, acerbically. Sigyn returns the sentiment.
Pretense has lost its allure a long time ago. Here, they don't pretend to be apologetic.
iii. / crucifixion
This is where the cycle of their prevarication ends:
Loki keeps his word, Sigyn keeps hers.
"Do you remember what I said last time?"
"Before or after?"
"They are one and the same."
A memory stirs in Loki's mind, blood and poison, this woman, this woman almost died for you—almost-remembered but is gone in the next second. Now she will strike you down.
Laughter erupts from Loki's throat, unrepentant; "Ah, of course."
Everything has come full circle.
What comes out from nothing returns to nothing.
Blood, silk and bone, all reduced to ash.
Sigyn listens for his familiar heartbeat, (finds none) and draws her bow tight, envenomed arrow gleaming and—and—