a/u: my first Thor fanfic. I've had this idea for while. Eventual LokiexSif. Reviews are always nice. Enjoy!

There was pain, and then there was death. The two were so close together that it was near impossible to determine which one has wound itself around me, clawing up my limbs like fire. The sand beneath me felt like snow. I was hollow, blood sticking to me; and there was Thor. My not-brother/brother. I don't know anymore. I know that my chest is seizing and my words are choking me, so I spit them out into the open air, and I taste my own blood in the back of my mouth. Apologizes are nothing. They're worthless. Thor doesn't know that I am not apologizing for my anger, my destruction; I am just apologizing for dying. I came into this battle, this treason, knowing that I might not come out of it, but Thor looked shocked. Did he not know the risks? I almost laughed.

I closed my eyes. Darkness was warm, and I had grown as chilled as winter. Thor's touch lingered on my body for a while longer, his tears drying on my face, and I wondered if he could still feel my pulse. I guess he didn't. I knew he had to leave, and I let him, because this was it. I was going to die here.

I wondered if the shallow wind could blow through me, and I wondered if I believed in Hell. More darkness; it covered me like a blanket, and I sank into into it, suddenly grateful for warmth. I was no more.

But I was. The magic that soared in my veins started pumping, stuttering and stopping sometimes but flowing all the same. Pain was blinding; it always hurt the worst, right when it started, and then it grows hot. Part of me didn't want it.

No. I have said what needs to be said, done what had to be done. This is it; I am gone. No more.

Alas, there was more. My body temperature rose, and I could feel the fire on my tongue and the ash in my lungs, but I was fading. Foggy, distant, I ran my fingers over the sand and fell into oblivion (again).

I am moving. I feel an engine beneath me, humming, living breathing, apologizing, dying, maybe. I cannot open my eyes; my skin is on fire. The magic burns me. I don't want it.

There's a hand lying easily, lightly on my shoulder.

"Sleep. You're very ill."

I didn't feel ill; I felt dead. But I didn't tell them, I couldn't, so I concentrated on their touch and tried to recognize the voice, but everything inside of me was a mess.

Voices thunder against the inside of my head. They're close, outside of me, my mind, but I still feel them like venom. I don't know where I am or how I am. But the voices stop, and again there's that hand on my shoulder; a guide. Their fingers brush my neck, and I shiver. They are too cold or I am too hot, one or the other.

"Is he coming to?"

"It looks like it. Maybe you should leave, my Lady; there's no telling what he could be like when he wakes. He could be violent."

"I think I could handle that, if it comes to it."

I still can't place the voice, and I don't think I'm coming to. My body aches. It feels as if my bones are breaking and then fixing themselves, filling me with faulty seams that curse my every breath. The hand moves to my neck, to my head, and I lean into it. It keeps me grounded.

"Loki."

I don't respond, I can't.

"He's very ill, my Lady. Let him rest."

"I'll stay with him while he sleeps."

"It would be no use to him, or to you, m-"

"It will comfort him, at the least. If he will die," she mumbles, as if I couldn't hear, "then he shall not do so alone."

Foot steps leave the room, and I am left alone with the faceless voice, the faceless touch.

"Am I going to die?" My voice is hardly a whisper; the effort makes me dizzy inside my own head.

"No, Loki. I won't let you."

I lean further into their touch. It cools me.

"I'm going to beat you into a pulp as soon as you're okay, got it?" She almost sounds angry, but she sound like a lot of other things, too.

My heart skips a beat, and I smile. "Oh, Sif. How I've missed you." Almost sarcastic. Almost.

"Shut up. Go back to sleep, you idiot."

I do as she says. I always seem to have done it, anyway.