"You put him in a barrel of ice?"
Fandral retreated hastily beyond the immediate range of Sif's arms, but met her outraged stare with an easy grin and a shrug. "Well, he's always tricking us—I don't see why we shouldn't trick him back."
"You could kill him."
Hogun and Volstagg exchanged silent glances behind Fandral's back, Volstagg reaching out to grab Fandral by the arm.
"What are you—" Fandral started, shaking away.
"Thor," Hogun said quietly. Everyone's eyes followed his, traveling to the other end of the courtyard, where Thor had appeared from behind the pillars. He didn't seem to be angry, but Loki wasn't following him—which could mean only one thing. He was still searching.
Fandral swallowed, suddenly looking very pale.
"Where is he?" Sif hissed quietly.
"Near the kitchens—you know—in the ice for tonight's feast. I wouldn't put him in the icehouse, I wasn't trying to kill him, I thought he would be found before anything happened—"
"You should probably shut up," Hogun advised in a low voice.
Sif ran off before Thor could meet up with his three guilty-faced friends. She hoped they would have the good sense not to give it away. If she was quick, he might not even know anything had happened. (Another, more panicked part of her wondered what it would be like to die in a barrel of ice, and how quickly such a thing could happen. If they had inadvertently killed one of the crown princes… she knew the punishment for that.)
Sif skidded into the kitchen, looking around for the ice barrels, standing near the edge of the pantries, almost completely blocked by bags of grain and barrels of mead for the feast. She ducked down, weaving herself through the busy throng of people. She was still short enough that it was easy to slip her way through without really being seen, and soon she had gotten across the kitchen and to the barrels. There were three of them.
"Loki," she said quietly. "Loki, can you hear me? Tell me which barrel you're in."
Nothing. Sif dragged a crate up so she could reach the top of the nearest barrel, trying it to see if the top was loose. It wasn't. She went on to the second one.
It was the third one—of course—that did it. Her shaking fingers slipped up under the lid and she pushed, muscles straining, but was unable to lift it more than a few inches. She looked around wildly. A stick would do, but there was nothing…
She grabbed another crate, and another, stacking them atop the first. Now she could climb up almost to the lid of the barrel, and with a great heave she pushed the lid up. A burst of cold flew from inside and the lid landed on the floor with a crash. There was no time to see if anyone had heard—in the midst of the ice she could almost see something—a shadow—a figure. She dug her hand down, flinching at the cold shock, pushing as hard as she could through the chips and shards until she felt something different. It was not any warmer than the ice but it was soft and smooth—an arm. A hand. She pushed her other hand in, leaning over farther until she was afraid she would fall in herself, reaching until she got her hands around fabric, pulling up under his arms. At first the body was unresponsive. She closed her eyes, biting her lip so hard it bled, pulling up, willing the body to move.
As if in answer, there was a stir. Faint at first, but then more vigorously, he was fighting her, trying to push her away.
"I'm saving you, you idiot!" Sif said, as loud as she dared, sweat dripping from her brow and down her back. She braced her knees against the side of the barrel and tugged. The crates slipped and she fell backward, but even in her shock she thought to grab tighter to the body she only just held.
They tumbled to the ground.
When she opened her eyes, she saw him.
He was lying next to her, exhausted, wearing the prince's clothes. He had to be the prince—but his skin was bluer than the ice allowed, and when he met her eyes—
She could not help her shriek. A pair of inhuman red eyes stared back at her, the pitiless red of the monsters that all of Asgard knew to fear—she had rescued a frost giant.
/
Sif scrambled to her feet, thoughts racing. Why was it here? What was it doing? Where was Loki?
The thing—it was small, she noticed now, nearly Loki's height—blinked. It looked down at its hands.
"What have you done to me?!" it said at last, fury and terror mixing into a strange, shaking noise.
It was Loki's voice.
"Get away from me—" Sif said coldly. She backed up, taking one of the fallen crates in her hand and holding it before her like a shield. "Get—get away from me, monster. No! Wait! Tell me what you've done with Loki!"
"I am Loki—what have you done to me! I demand to know! What is this curse?!" It stood up, clenching its fists. "I'll have you flogged—"
"You can't," Sif said. "You can't, no one would believe you, you're a jotun." She wondered who she was trying to convince.
But the monster flinched. "You lying—" he cursed.
"I'm not lying!" Sif shrieked. "I'm not lying, look at yourself!"
It looked at its own hands as if it had never seen them before, breathing heavily. Some sort of emotion passed over its face, something that had no place in such a barbaric creature.
It made an aborted, half-strangled sob that turned into a laugh. "You—you have to be lying. It wasn't enough to just kill me! You would have me cast out from Asgard, a traitor—"
Sif lunged forward, bringing the crate down into its stomach. It was winded and crashed to the floor, and she brought the crate down upon its head again and again. It seemed to be fighting but she could not tell—perhaps it was only trying to get away. Tears streamed down her face, and blood ran from cuts on her hands where the crate splintered.
But a noise brought her out of her fury before she could finish the beast off. Footsteps, and the annoyed voice of the head cook. "What in the world—" the muttered words came slowly to her ears.
Sif froze, dropping the crate. If she was found, she would be the culprit, the cause of all this trouble. The space behind the barrels was covered in overturned crates and melting ice and the Jotun lay still, curled into a fetal position, arms over its head as though to shield itself.
Blood covered it. Red blood, coming from deep gashes in its arms and legs. When it lifted its head cautiously, a trail of blood seeped from its hairline, down to its lips. It licked at it unconsciously.
Sif ran, ducking out of the exit before the cook could round the corner. After a short hesitation, she heard footsteps behind her, and when she turned to look, she saw the Jotun following her. Not chasing her—it, too, was running away from the wrath of the cook.
They had hardly gotten to safety when a shriek rent the air. "Who did this?!" the words were loud and full of dire purpose.
She crouched down to see that the way was clear before dashing across the courtyard. The Jotun followed. She dug an elbow into its side but it only scowled and pressed closer to her, forcing her to run faster. They melted into the shadows of a small garden between two walls.
Finally Sif collapsed with her back to the wall. The plants and bushes made a screen to cover them, the trees a small canopy through which even the sun could come through only patchily.
The frost giant crouched, sitting poised on the balls of its feet like an animal about to flee. For a few minutes, no one made a sound. Their breathing slowly became less hurried, and Sif let her body relax—though she kept a wary eye on the enemy.
It wasn't paying any attention to her. It seemed, in fact, to be fascinated with itself—it stared at its own limbs with something like terror.
"It's not real," it said at last. Loki's voice again. She tried not to listen. "It can't be real."
Sif let her bare toes curl into the soft earth. She pressed her hands into the ground.
It noticed her once more, but made no move toward her, only opened its mouth, eyes wide and scared. "Sif, please."
She tried to avoid its gaze.
"Please, what have you done to me?" it reached out in supplication, but before it could touch her she smacked its arm away, hard enough to bruise. She curled up in as much of a fighting stance as she could make without standing up—a warning.
"Don't," she said.
It drew back, more in bewilderment than in fear.
But then it frowned, and began to speak. "What do you want? I'll give it to you. Whatever you want. Anything. You can take it off now, it doesn't matter anymore."
"Loki—" the name slipped out without her consent, hearing his voice so desperately conjuring up far-fetched conclusions. She could not look at him. It. Her cuts were beginning to sting. She stood up.
"Yes?" it was eager, far too eager. Far too familiar. Even out of the corner of her eye she could see it, wearing Loki's clothes, behaving like Loki.
She told him.
"You must be a changeling," she said.
"That's—what—you can't be serious. I thought we had a deal!" It stood up as well, face now ugly in fury.
"Don't you see?" she said, slowly. "It all fits, doesn't it? You were always a frost giant. They just slipped you into the castle in place of the real Loki, and you didn't know because you were bewitched. But when you were in all that ice—"
When it was a choice between death and your true form, the enchantment could no longer hold out. Don't you see?
She could not speak. She could not look at it, knowing it had been her friend all these years.
Some part of her almost felt sorry for it.
"That's impossible," Loki said flatly.
"Go," she answered. "Go. I won't say anything if you go now. You can leave. No one will know."
It tried to meet her eyes once again, but she looked at her feet, twisting her hands, digging her nails into the cuts.
It left.
/
When Sif finally made her way back to Thor and his friends, they were playing a game with stones in the dirt. Loki was with them. His clothes were clean. There was no trace of any cuts, no trace of any blue skin. But he was silent and sat beside them without speaking, and he was not reading either. He was looking at his hand, a frightened, haunted cast in his eyes.
"What happened to you?" Thor asked, seeing the small cuts that littered her hands and arms. She had not bothered going to a healer—they were small enough wounds, and were already scabbing.
She shrugged. "I had a battle with a thorn bush."
"Did you win?" Thor asked eagerly.
"Of course."
/
When the day was nearing its end and they finally dispersed, Fandral came up to her for a moment.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Sif nodded, resisting the urge to look back at where the princes had left, Loki trailing behind the older prince. She did not say she wished she had been too late. It would have been better if Loki had died.
.
.
.