Into the Dark
Love of mine some day you will die
But I'll be close behind
I'll follow you into the dark
His eyes stare, unseeing, at the fire that burns before him. The orange glow gives his pale skin a strange hue, and the heat should warm his skin, yet he feels nothing.
All of Asgard has gathered along the shores to see the Goddess of War off to Valhalla, for surely the Valkyrie will lead the shield-maiden to eternal honor and glory. And the Realm Eternal grieves not only for its beloved warrior, but also for their golden son. For the man who lost his dearest friend, the inseparable pair. But for the wicked Loki, no. No tears will be shed for him. For what claim had he to her?
And so Loki stands on the shore of the great sea, dressed in his ceremonial armor, dutifully paying his respects to the greatest warrior in all of Asgard. No, he felt nothing as he saw her laid out upon the small boat, dressed in her finest armor, her glaive and her shield in her grip, ready to depart this realm in glory. As it should be. His face was impassive as he watched Odin give a nod and boat was set aflame, pushed from the shore. Now he watches her burn.
Loki hears a sound to his right and turns his horned head to his brother. As the flames twist further from the shore, the dancing light highlights the tear tracks lining Thor's cheeks. Anger flashes through him, the injustice of it all, and Loki feels his mask begin to slip.
He turns his eyes back to the burning boat, drifting further into the dark, the bright fire growing smaller, until it reaches the fold where the night sky and the dark sea meet, and the flame is no more. Loki feels the weight of Thor's hand rest on his shoulder. Whether he is searching for comfort or offering it, Loki knows not. He only knows that the weight is too much to bear.
Loki turns, twisting from beneath his brother's grip and retreats, flees to the sanctity of the palace. His feet carry him swiftly through the many corridors, twisting and turning along an unseeing route. But even he is not fleet-footed enough to outrun grief.
Loki stumbles into a darkened corner of some shadowed hallway, his hands seeking out the solid wall, taking his weight as he slumps forward against it. He welcomes the protection the shadows offer him. What right did he have to weep over the warrior maiden? Asgard knew nothing. She was his, he was hers, and what they had was theirs to keep.
He meant to seek solace from the pain that threatened to surface but even here in the dark, he is reminded of her. Of whispered words and raven hair. In the shadows, he is reminded of the way her body made his blood sing, full of life. Alive, so alive.
But here in the black, his mind is able to put on its own cruel show before his eyes. His vision is blurred with the sight of his warrior, of her mangled form cradled in his arms, his hands painted red with her blood. His ears ring with his whispered words of promise. He would fix her, he would save her, just please don't go, don't leave him alone. But the prince is a liar. War has been struck down and Loki is alone in the shadow.
The realization crashes over him, crumbling his wall of numbness. The weight of sorrow presses down upon him and the prince falls his knees. The loss cuts deep, searing through him in devastation. He presses a hand to his chest in agony. Loki wants to cry out from the pain, beg it to stop, but no sound passes through his lips. He cannot breathe. A cold hand wraps around his lungs and claws at his ribs. His armored chest heaves, gasping for air, as he tears the heavy metal from the fabric beneath. But he cannot gain a full breath. The great horned helmet is suffocating. He reaches up with shaking hands to desperately rip the helm from his head, throwing it away from him with a loud clang before a deafening silence weighs upon him.
"Sif."
An emptiness engulfs him, cloaking bone, muscle, and soul. Pain and fear hold the dark haired prince firmly in their clutches. Grief has no mercy. He wonders how he will ever survive this. With a long fingered hand, Loki clumsily pulls his dagger from his sleeve. No, not his. Hers. Nothing gave her greater pleasure than to sneak his blade from his room, to claim it as her own. No matter how many times he tried to take it back, to hide it deeper, assuring her that she held no claim over it, she would prove him wrong. She had stolen his knife just as she had stolen his heart.
The cool metal feels heavy in his hands. The pointed tip flashes as he raises the dagger to his chest, aligning the blade with the source of his torture. At times, Loki thought that perhaps he was born without a heart. But Sif had shown him that it existed inside of him, that he was capable of boundless love. And now he is certain he has a heart, for it is attempting to claw itself free from beneath his ribcage. It is hers, always hers, it never truly belonged to him and now it is striving to return to her. He wants nothing more than for this misery to end, to join her in death. But Loki knows that he cannot follow her. No, she has been carried on to Valhalla. The Trickster is not noble and kind as she, and to take his own life would be seen as a dishonor. Surely his soul will be cast into the icy realm of Niflheim, and who would receive him with joy there? No, she is in sun and warmth, and he cannot join her. He has been abandoned.
He doubles over, the loneliness excruciating. He feels himself sink deeper into an abyss of despair. He grips the blade tighter in a futile attempt to stop time. On his knees in the dark, Loki prays. To the dagger in his hands, to stars above. Begs and pleads. He offers up all that he has; his wit, his magic, his mind, his life, his soul. Please, just give him one more chance to see her. Let him hold her in his arms one last time; feel the curve of her spine under his fingertips. Allow him to inhale the smell of rosehip and dirt that lingered in her hair. Let him hear the husky curl of her laughter when she teased him, when she pulled truth and love and warmth from his lips. Let him watch her sleep over the top his of book, watch her dance over the top of his goblet. Give him one more chance to feel the press of her back against his when they fought in battle, this time he won't break his promise. He'll protect her, he'll save her. Anything. Please.
The soft shuffle of slippered feet approaching goes unheard, the desperate litany of pleas racing through his mind fully consuming him. It's not until he feels a gentle hand touch his brow, delicate fingers brushing a raven strand of hair away from his face that Loki halts his prayers. For a moment, he is frozen. Have his prayers been answered? Green eyes lift from the dagger still grasped in his hands to the golden silk of a gown dancing in front of him. It cannot be.
"Sif," he exhales.
Slowly, he lifts his eyes further and looks upon Frigga's face. A new ache bites within his heart. The dagger clatters to the floor as Loki reaches out towards the only other woman whoever cared to know him, to see him, to love him.
"Mother."
Loki shudders, broken. The golden silk crumples in his hands as he clings to the front of her dress, childlike. Hot tears sting his face, sliding down the pale planes of his cheeks, an unending flow. They disappear into the fabric of her gown where his face is desperately pressed. Gentle hands run through his hair, soothing, as great, silent sobs wrack his body.
Loki was greedy and selfish. He had coveted Sif and kept her to himself. And now he will be punished, doomed to suffer in silence for centuries to come. But he loves her.
Still.
Forever.
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