A/N: I've been bitten by the Avengers bug so badly. Like, Sherlock-obsessive badly. So naturally I have to express this love through fanfic. Let me preface this by saying that I took from both Marvel and Norse mythology for this fic and further explanation can be found at the bottom of the page.
I have some more ideas for this piece but for now it will stand as a one-shot. Feel free to offer your opinions about this; I will be excited to hear them.
Summary: With the recovery of the Tesseract the Asgardians stranded throughout the Nine Realms can at last return home. Some return to loved ones and respite, and others return to face duties of a more...arduous nature.
Disclaimer: I own nothing except some snark. I will always claim some snark. Though most of it belongs to Loki.
The brilliant glow of the tesseract's power dissipates and she drinks in the towers of Asgard that rise above the fragments of the Bifrost. They shine in the brilliant starlight like the golden halls of Valhalla and she breathes deep the familiar clear air of home.
It is a welcome change from the smoke-ridden wasteland of Muspelheim.
A group of eager Asgardians has gathered on the bridge to welcome them. Their conversations fall into expectant silence at their arrival.
Theoric calls the order and the company breaks with a cheer. They rush forward over the rainbow bridge, embracing (and outright tackling) loved ones, friends that have not been seen in three years: a blink of an eye, yes, but when one is stranded on a world of molten fire and ash the time does begin to drag.
She finds Sif and Hogan and in a rare show of emotion, they embrace her from either side.
"You smell like a forge," Sif quips.
A hush falls on the rowdy crowd when Thor arrives, cape billowing as he swings from his horse. Theoric shouts for attention and the company hastily reconvenes into sloppy lines, fists over hearts in deference to the crown prince.
Thor holds his solemn composure for another few seconds. Then his face cracks into its trademark grin and he pulls a startled Theoric into a bear hug with a happy roar.
"Welcome home, my friend!"
Theoric gasps something resembling a greeting as best he can while Thor is cutting off his oxygen supply. Their commander thus subdued, the company takes this as their cue and breaks apart, joyful murmurs bubbling up once again. The crowd wanders up the Bifrost, the sound of laughter carrying toward the shining city. The company from Muspelheim gradually covers the welcoming Asgardians as well as the rainbow bridge with dark streaks of soot, though no one seems to mind.
She makes to follow when a hand on her shoulder stops her.
"Would you accompany me up the bridge, my lady?"
She raises her gaze to meet Thor's and sees age in his eyes, weariness around the corners not present when she left three years before. It is understandable; the Bifrost's destruction surely weighed heavily on Odin and the rest of the royal family. It is only because the Tesseract was recovered that the Red Hawks have returned to Asgard at all. She decides not to press Thor for the story, just yet. She will know why the bridge lies in pieces soon enough, now that she is home.
Home. She cannot stop the grin from spreading across her lips as she accepts Thor's offer.
They chat amicably as they pass through the gates and the city engulfs them in warmth and brilliance unparalleled in any of the Nine Realms. She struggles not to jump and reach for her sword at the onslaught of noise, the sudden press of people. She has been living in a volcanic cave for far too long.
She is escorted straight into the throne room, despite her protestations. Her boots and armor leave a light trail of black ash on the golden floor and she struggles not to blush. She is surprised not to see Theoric or anyone else from her company. Only Odin waits, standing before the throne, Gungir in hand.
She kneels, fist to heart. The Allfather's expression is warm when she rises.
"Welcome home, brave warrior."
Her spine straightens as warmth floods her. "Allfather. No words can hope to describe the joy in my heart to be home again."
Odin's smile does not reach his eyes. "You must forgive your king his impatience, to bring you away from your loved ones so quickly."
She blocks the thought that her only loved ones were with her in Muspelheim, keeping her focus on what she is sure is a foreboding expression on the Allfather's face. She can almost taste the bad news in the air. Her fingers twitch of their own accord, seeking the reassurance of her sword hilt in her palm. She stifles the motion, waits for Odin to state his business.
"I am sure you wish to know the circumstances of the Bifrost's destruction."
This is unexpected. She fumbles for a moment. "I….yes, my lord, but I…"
"Why have I not assembled the rest of your company? They will hear the tale in time. I wished you to know immediately, so that you might accept the task I am appointing to you with clarity of mind."
A glance at Thor's carefully blank face reveals nothing. She has never seen the eldest prince of Asgard so composed, in fact. Ice settles in her stomach, the prelude to a gruesome battle. She salutes the Allfather once again.
"I am at your disposal, my lord."
Suddenly she is painfully aware of the irregularities of the throne room. Frigga is absent, which would not be too unusual, given that she is the only subject to which the Allfather is addressing. However….
"My lord?" She blurts before Odin can speak. "Where is Loki?"
Thor's face does crack then, like a chasm has opened and swallowed him whole. Her blood pounds in her veins and she can't seem to stem the adrenaline flooding her system. The Allfather's voice is as jagged as corroded iron.
"That," he sighs "is where the tale begins."
Her skin is clean, free of ash for the first time in years. The sky is once again full of stars and branches of the galaxies instead of fumes and roiling black clouds and yet she descends to the lowest reaches of the palace, miles below the last window. Her brief glimpse of the city, of home is not enough to steel her self against the coming task. To make matters worse, her sword, her trusted friend that saved her from the horrors of Muspelheim, is no longer at her side. None of her weapons have passed the dungeon's gates; she feels their absence like a missing limb. Her fingers twine in the fabric of her tunic sleeves, gripping it tightly.
There is no window to mark the cell; there is barely a door. A slab of rock is pushed inward to reveal the cell. The guard hands her a small lantern and she takes cautious steps into the dark. She only has a second to see the body strung up the wall in chains before the door closes behind her with a solid scrape of rock against rock.
The cell stretches into eternity outside of the lantern's little circle of light. She forces her feet slowly across the floor, unwilling to risk stumbling or tripping over the low stone table she knows is nearby or –Odin forbid- him. When the lantern light catches the glint of metal that covers his mouth, she kneels and places the lantern carefully between them.
She slides her fingers along the muzzle until they find the catches-one on each side. It is a thorough trap. It falls heavy into her hands and she places it on the ground by the lantern. She uncorks her waterskin and tilts his chin until he can drink.
That task completed, she takes the lantern and gropes through the cell for the stone slab that serves as a table. She places the lantern, concentrates, then casts the light into the corners of the cell with a small push of magic, illuminating them both.
He watches her without word for a long stretch of time. She expects as much, and perches on the stone table, dispassionately takes note of the new scars, hollow cheeks and distinct increase in visible ribs jutting out from a concave chest. She wills her breathing to stay even, draws on the well of calm in her mind and waits. It is the most difficult part, she knows. Once the biting words begin to fly she will be able to focus. Her mind is at its most composed in battle.
"Sigyn."
She meets his sharp green gaze, hoping the relief isn't apparent on her face. His lips curl into a feral grin. "You look well."
"You do not, Loki."
The grin freezes. Sigyn takes advantage of the opening and continues. "It is a shame to meet again like this. I would have preferred to walk outside."
Loki snarls softly. "End your visit early, then. Go with my highest blessing back to Asgard and all of its beauty. Take your fill of me, and revel in the contrast when you emerge and behold your beloved golden city."
Sigyn resists the urge to drum her fingers on the stone. She had not expected such despondency from him, chains and perpetual darkness notwithstanding. She almost feels pity for him before she remembers to whom she is speaking. Force of habit dictates that she give nothing that comes from his mouth within the first ten minutes any credence. She throws her next verbal dart with a clean conscience.
"I am the new prison guard. I am afraid it will be long before I have had my fill of you."
Loki shifts in his bonds, ensuring that the chains rattle and scrape against the walls of the cell. He bows his head, reticent.
"How fitting," he murmurs almost to himself. Sigyn shrugs.
"I did not question the Allfather."
That comment draws his eyes to hers again. He watches her intently as the moments become minutes. Sigyn fights to meet his blank stare evenly, maintain a casual stance.
"Didn't you?" he finally asks.
Sigyn guesses that he is asking about more than Odin's orders. She hedges,
"At least I may carry out my service in Asgard. The fires of Muspelheim do not agree with me."
Loki blinks, the only sign her deflection surprised him. But he plays along, for motives unknown to Sigyn.
"So that is the source of the charred smell."
"I assure you, it is the scent of victory," Sigyn retorts loftily. Loki's lips twist into the second cousin of a grimace.
"I am certain that your company battled heroically, even with the knowledge that they might never return home. I wonder, then, why is such valor rewarded with such an unpleasant task, mere hours after your victorious arrival?"
Sigyn's eyes narrow. How did Loki know of their return so quickly? He was imprisoned in a hole in the ground. A brief memory of Thor's bowed shoulders in the throne room flashes in her mind's eye and the thunder god's weariness, she realizes, stems not only from age or new humility. Thor grieves for his brother, despite all of this, perhaps even hopes for some kind of reparation from Loki, from his brother.
The evidence of Thor's attention lies in Loki's statement; Thor must visit him regularly, bring him news of the happenings of Asgard, if not the rest of the Nine Realms. She doubts any other would deign to visit the God of Mischief for reasons other than punishment or scorn. The pragmatist in her silently berates Thor for providing his brother with knowledge even as she feels a small pang of guilt for having to think so lowly of Loki in the first place. She pushes it all aside impatiently.
"Oh, the tales I could tell," Sigyn sighs, feigning wistfulness for the fiery battles, "We will be drunk on Asgard's finest mead for at least a week, to properly celebrate our noble quest. I suppose it goes without saying that we retrieved the runestone. The trick was to hold on to it until a path back to Asgard was found."
She knows-or postulates with a moderate amount of certainty- that her open deflections will begin to grate on the trickster's nerves. Underneath the flippancy, she presses the question of the Bifrost's destruction, even as Loki demands, in his underhanded way, that she bring it up first. Was he searching for an accusation, or some sign of her forgiveness? One glance in hardened emerald eyes gives her the obvious answer. He is accustomed to condemnation. Sigyn will try her best not to mention it first, to give him the opportunity to lash out and subsequently seal the rest of him off from her.
She must fight against that steadily thickening layer of ice surrounding the younger prince of Asgard. True, Odin did not put it so…dramatically, but his order carried the same message.
She is called loyal because the title pig-headed does not suit a citizen of Asgard. Sigyn would bet her life this is why she was chosen.
Loki shifts and swallows; Sigyn notices new tracks of blood dripping from his wrists. The smell that isn't quite a smell, the sense of a disturbed current of magic wafts from the shackles that stretch his arms out to either side, flush against the wall. Loki unfolds and rises to his feet, as if to counteract the image of a bleeding god. Sigyn catches the glance he casts at her waterskin and rises as well.
This time she does not touch him, but allows her wrist to slip and some of the cool water sloshes down the back of his neck. He lets out a small sigh. Sigyn steps back to lean against the table, folds her arms.
"Theoric will be greatly honored," Loki says, neutral. "Perhaps the weeklong inebriation will give him the courage to make you his wife at last."
Sigyn's hands clench around her biceps, a defensive instinct. Loki's smirk is knowing.
"How considerate of you to make such happy predictions," she deadpans, nearly choking on the word happy. It's a flimsy barrier, especially because he is aware of how the rumors affect her. Had he not known, the strain in her stance would have given her away.
"Yes, I aim to please," he purrs, "What a lovely bride you will be, give or take a battle scar. The good commander Theoric does not seem to mind your flaws."
Only the knowledge that his information is dated by three years prevents her from lunging at him and shoving a thumb into his eye, royal mandate be damned. The exile in Muspelheim had at least provided Sigyn with the opportunity to corner Theoric and exorcise him of the desire to marry her, without the eyes of the court of Asgard pressing down on her, demanding that she justify her refusal with something besides 'I do not wish to spend eternity bound to him, because I don't want to, that's why'. She begins to pace; it is useless to hold the façade of indifference on this sore subject anyway.
Her flaws. He did not mean the scar that drags across her cheek, not entirely. But what else did she have that would garner disapproval from Theoric, from anyone? Then she remembers where she is standing and why and sudden clarity ceases her restless movement.
"No," she agrees, trailing a finger across her marred cheekbone absently, "He does not mind any of my flaws. He does tend to rankle at some of my decisions, however."
Loki's face is impassive, carved from pale stone.
"But he knows, as does everyone," she spits it out with more venom than she intends, "that my sense of duty is unparalleled in all of the Nine Realms. Fortunately, some duties far outweigh others in importance."
She stands before him, head titled to see his deep green eyes, completely shielded behind an indifferent mask. Sigyn can almost hear the cogs and gears turning as he digests the layered statement. He cocks his head, lifts one eyebrow.
"And what duties weigh most heavily on Sigyn's scales?" he muses. He shifts in his bonds, ribs sliding underneath taut skin with the movement. Sigyn's lips quirk.
"At this moment? I owe my stomach a banquet of Asgardian's finest delicacies. To fail my hunger is to shirk duty of the highest import."
That startles a huff of laughter from Loki and Sigyn mentally raises a fist in triumph.
"Theoric will be heartbroken to fall behind roasted pheasant in your eyes," Loki grins, but Sigyn is prepared for the barbs now and simply pushes on.
"My next duty? The task the Allfather has appointed me."
Loki lets his head tilt back to fall against the wall with a soft thud, smile losing what mirth it once held.
"Alas, I am the one whose heart is crushed by pheasant," he drawls. He lets his head loll to the side, sneers up at her through stray locks of black hair. Despite the sarcasm in his tone Sigyn feels a trickle of panic down her spine. Beneath the dramatics she hears him retreating, replacing any genuine interest in the conversation with a mocking act and he knows that she will be able to recognize such an obvious front. Damn it to Hel, Sigyn growls at him silently, you will not throw the game board across the room now.
She uses the last weapon she has: honesty.
"My third and final duty," she keeps her voice quiet, forcing him to lean forward to hear, "is to a lost and broken friend, though what that task entails I am not entirely sure."
Loki makes a wordless sound of rage, snapping the chains taut. Sigyn is not positive if she has failed in that moment or if she at last has gained a foothold.
"So you would bestow your righteous pity on me?" Loki snarls, feral in his anger. "You would join with Thor, imploring day after day until the worlds crumble to dust that I return the little Prince of Asgard to your arms? He never existed!"
"He never left!" Sigyn shouts back, tact thrown to the wind in favor of blind frustration.
They are inches apart, both comfortable in the familiar haze of a fight. Loki's eyes shine with a manic light and Sigyn witnesses the hollow face of the madman that sought to destroy worlds. She wants to put a fist through his temple.
"No, Sigyn. I can never be what I never was. You were raised with a monster in your midst, nothing more. Nothing less. A Jotun in Asgardian skin. Take your childish notions and leave me in my den. You will find nothing of your friend here."
The only sound, then, is Loki's labored breathing, punctuated by Sigyn's controlled huffs through her nose.
Slowly, slowly, Sigyn's murderous glare softens to an exasperated scowl.
"Are you quite finished?"
Loki's jaw drops and Sigyn fights a fit of hysterical laughter at the sight.
"You-," he sputters, "Did you hear nothing that the Allfather told you? Sigyn!"
His shout is almost plaintive as she abruptly turns away from him to retrieve the water skin. At a backward glance, she notes his eyes are still wild but panic has crept in, edging out the rage. Not entirely, but enough.
She returns and offers him a drink. He shuts his eyes and takes another swig because his throat is raw from screaming and he knows that she knows and Sigyn can feel the waves of choked anger radiating off of him. She must tread carefully, now that she has gained this much ground. She cannot make the mistake that Thor made, of blundering forward in search of the idyllic little brother that only existed, truly, in the thunder god's mind.
Spilled water runs down his chest, settling in cracks and valleys that were not there when Sigyn left, three years ago.
It would be so easy, she realizes with crystal clarity in that moment, to toss away the pieces of Loki that are so misshapen and twisted, bury them in the darkness never to return. To drag the few whole parts of him back from the dark and sew him back together as best she can. She suspects that she might be able to do it, if she pushes hard enough. Right now.
It would be such an injustice.
"The Allfather told me many things," she speaks at last. "Of Jotunheim and Midgard. Of the Chitauri. Of the crimes you committed, in the name of kingship, then the name of betrayal."
She holds up a hand as he opens his mouth to speak and miraculously, he shuts it.
"What I never heard, in the tellings of your atrocities, was when you ceased to be Loki. I still see Loki before me now."
"So you agree that this beast before you has always existed. How insightful of you, Sigyn, to see it before any other."
There is grudging admiration in his biting tone. Sigyn resists the urge to roll her eyes.
"I saw…I see no such beast."
Loki raises an incredulous eyebrow. His body seems to deflate as he realizes that Sigyn will not rise to the bait of another good shouting match. Sigyn notes this with satisfaction as she chooses her next words with care.
"I see….Loki Silvertongue. Your hatred is too great stem from anyone less than a prince of Asgard who loved his brother and his family so passionately that their betrayal drove him to madness. No monster, no indifferent beast can possibly accomplish what you have, nor be so cut to the bone by the loss of what you love.
"No, Loki Silvertongue stands before me, with a pitiable excuse intended to drive me away. We both know that I do not shirk my duties. Stop insulting my intelligence with your ravings of monstrosity. Loki is Loki; do not cheat yourself by claiming some bond of blood ties your mind to the instincts of a monster."
Sigyn retreats, then, turning away to take a long drink of water and summon the light back into the lantern. The cell is cast into shadow, allowing both occupants to gather the remains of their respective masks and lodge them into place.
Loki lets out a heavy breath of air, dissipating the tense silence.
"You are a pig-headed fool," he grumbles. "No argument with such sentimentality as its cornerstone can hope to hold up to logic."
And yet, Loki does not elaborate how exactly her argument would fail. Sigyn has the good sense not to point this out. She has always been a graceful winner.
Granted, the most she has won is Loki's attention. Still, at least it isn't a horde of fire demons on Muspelheim.
She notes, wryly, that the last twenty minutes have exhausted her nearly as much as a battle, anyway. From the way Loki's head rests against the wall, the feeling is mutual.
Sigyn watches the trickster over the dim lantern light. Loki's mouth is tight and he avoids her eyes. Sigyn waits patiently. At last he mutters,
"Chess."
"What?"
"Chess," he repeats, "Tell Thor I want a chessboard. He will understand." He pauses. "Ask him to get you an introductory tome on Chess as well."
Sigyn's brows lift, but she does not ask. There will be plenty of time for questions next week.
They share a glance as Sigyn latches the muzzle back into place, scraping his hair out of the way and fastening it-perhaps more loosely than before. She tucks errant black locks behind his ears and mops the sweat from his face with her tunic sleeve. Above and beyond the duties of a guard, but Sigyn suspects that this is the outcome that Odin intended when he ordered a friend of his son to guard his imprisonment.
Sigyn cannot decide if the Allfather's decision is wise or cruel, for both of them.
The stone door latches back into place behind her with a solid boom and she allows all of the tension to leave her body. Sigyn sinks to her knees, closing her eyes against the torchlight in the dungeon corridor that is suddenly too bright, after the cell. She schools her breath, sucking in the musty air, holds it in, releases it until she feels as if she could melt into the floor.
A large hand appears in her line of vision.
"Lady Sigyn?"
She lets Thor pull her to her feet, offers him a wan smile.
"Thank you, my lord."
Thor's blue gaze is intense. "Has my brother harmed you?"
Sigyn shakes her head. Thor's eyes remain on her, searching, sending a chill down to her stomach.
"My lord?"
The thunder god finally looks away, examines his boots in a rare show of uncertainty.
"Did Loki….has my brother….did he say anything to you?"
Sigyn gapes up at him. "Has he not spoken to you?"
The muscle twitching in his jaw gives Sigyn her answer. Damn it to Hel. She should not have given it away that Loki had spoken to her so easily.
Sigyn turns and begins the long walk up to the ground floor of the palace, the elder prince of Asgard keeping pace and perfecting the art of looming.
"Loki asked for something called a chessboard, and an introductory book on Chess. He said that you would understand."
Thor beams down at her and a bleak, shuddering feeling of impending doom descends on her shoulders.
"I know of what he speaks. Dr. Selvig plays that game often, though I do not enjoy playing against him. He always wins."
Sigyn calculates the odds that Loki orchestrated Thor's reaction to Sigyn's request, knowing that the thunder god would dog her steps with hopeful looks and questions for the next sennight because she had garnered some kind of reaction from his younger brother. Thor claps a mighty hand on her shoulder, nearly toppling her and she decides that Loki is indeed a shrewd bastard and she would have to fight not to kill him next week.
A/N Part Deux: Some clarifications- I read the story of Loki and Sigyn and thought it was a pretty misogynistic mashup of a marriage, not to mention Sigyn's brilliant decision to stick with the guy that just murdered her betrothed because of the fine print. Don't get me started on Marvel's take on the whole debacle. So. Needless to say I didn't like those versions, decided 'to hell with it' and wrote Sigyn the way I'd imagine someone who has to interact with the god of mischief on a regular basis might act: as a professional detector/deflector of B.S. I tried to stay loyal (haha, I made a pun) to Sigyn's own title as the goddess of loyalty when reconstructing her character, however. I thought it wouldn't be much fun if I didn't have something canonical with which to play, and I hope you enjoy the result. Even if you didn't, leave me a review and let me know what you think!