Sif had taken Loki's death far better than the royal family, and yet far worse than the rest of the citizens of Asgard. They all but celebrated immodestly, stifling their relief with masks of sympathetic grief.

It was for the best, really-that was the thought flashing across all of their faces, the idea shining in their falsely tearful gazes.

She felt that everyone could see the secret, quiet happiness, and that was the worst thing of all.

For the family to know, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that the rest of the kingdom enjoyed Loki's demise was an awful concept, indeed, and Sif cringed internally as she recalled Frigga's tears, her sorrowful collapse as they'd all gazed fearfully out the window, watching the Bifrost fall into oblivion just as Loki had dangled precariously above it, emerald cape billowing about his body as he clutched Gungnir in his hand, gazing up at Thor and Odin.

The queen had been reluctant to watch, but equally so to turn away, and Sif had stood by her side, breath held as Loki'd let go, falling and vanishing into the void, Frigga's cries of anguish matching the distant sound of Thor's own as the woman had fallen upon the floor, screaming into her palms as she'd curled in on herself.

Tears might just have dotted Sif's face, as well.

And now, for them all to treat such a tragic turn of events as a mere joke, for them all to practically mock it, made Sif's blood boil with rage. But even then, there was the tiniest, most insignificant little voice murmuring in the back of her head, the epitome of all her doubts and fears whispering to her in soft, lilting tones that sent chills snaking up her spine.

There was something oddly wrong with it all, something she couldn't just ignore and turn away from. It haunted her, after the feast and after that first night without Loki in the world. It followed her closely into the sparring court the next day, and shone brightly in the spot where Thor would have been, in the spot that he always stood, in the spot that he was slowly, and with great sadness, leaving behind him. It was all changing, now, and she felt it in the air just as much as she felt the doubt at her back, and she desperately wanted to knowwhy.

She wanted to glean from Loki his motives, wanted with a burning, growing desire to know why he had relinquished his hold on both the staff and his life, wanted to know why in all of the realms he'd turned his back on everything he'd ever known.

She wanted, perhaps more than anything, to figure out the glint of reserved, aged sadness in Odin's eye, wanted to shout at him and ask him why he wasn't grieving like Frigga and Thor. She wanted to erase Frigga's pain, yearning to soothe the only person closest to a mother figure that she had in her life, and she wanted to go to Thor and apologize. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and wipe away his tears, wanted to eradicate his grief and let the sunlight pour in from the curtains. It was all so unbearable, but she was forced to carry the burden of her desires day in and day out, and after a month of it she was left hopeless and aching and empty somewhere within herself, lacking something she'd never known she had.

That void opening within her, and the voice still describing to her all of the things that were awry with the entire situation, made her desperate to rid herself of it. Thor's continuous retreat and Frigga's constant sobs were more often than not ignored, if only for the sake of Sif's sanity as she tried to deny the pain swelling within her own grieving heart. She'd harbored conflicted thoughts about Loki for years, and his betrayal only confirmed the suspicion that had been growing within her, but there remained the nagging feeling that itcouldn't be so easy.

It couldn't be that simple.

Loki, the man that had gotten them all out of many a tricky situation, the man that was always twenty steps ahead, the man that had mastered words and lies alike at a very early age, couldn't have just vanished.

He couldn't simply be written out of existence, taken down at his own hand, torn from the pages of legend and myth for the rest of time.

It was insane. It was impossible.

And yet, it was the reality. Sif woke during some hot, cruel night beneath the moon's gentle glow, eyes wide open as she sat up in her bed, tangled in the sheets sticking to her sweat-soaked skin, the memory of nightmares fresh in her mind, her pulse racing as she panted heavily.

There it was again: doubt.

Suddenly, it seemed so clear, so painfully obvious, and she ripped the sheets off of her body to hop up and run to her closet, trading her nightclothes in for her undergarments and armor, preparing herself in the midst of the hot night air before wrapping her favorite cloak about her shoulders.

She made sure to pack food and extra clothes, added a few of her most cherished weapons into the mix, and made her bed, slowly and meticulously, in a near-savoring kind of way, and walked out of her chambers, closing the door behind her and making sure to lock it.

Standing before the palace, which glittered in the moonlight, she felt her shoulders weighted and her breaths burdened, felt the heavy implications of her actions, but she wasn't abandoning Asgard, as most would think.

She would never abandon her home.

She only wanted to ease Thor's pain, to soothe Frigga's mourning heart, to pull from Odin some sort of emotion other than impassivity.

It was, too, a mission to help herself, to let her discover the logic, the reasoning, behind Loki's actions, to let her figure out for herself if she would ever truly grieve him, to let her know if he was really dead-which, she knew, she would never believe.

So, she tightened her cloak more snuggly about her body, lifting the cowl to cast her features in shadow, and turned to make her way to the end of the rainbow bridge, where a figure stood, tall and immovable and as stoic as ever, but as familiar to her as her own conflicted heart.

Based on an idea given by fyeahlokisif over on Tumblr.

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