Part I Summary: After Loki faked his death multiple times, a bit of magic was supposed to keep him and Sigyn connected. Perhaps it worked a little too well.
Part I: Soul
Undying Fidelity
The attack had been brutal, and the aftermath equally devastating. Half of her people had been killed, and the remaining Asgardians were packed into an escape vessel. Sigyn was restless in her corner of the ship. She wanted to climb out of her skin and crawl up the walls. Her heart hammered in her chest and her breaths came quick and shallow. Everything was too sharp, too loud: the rumbling and whirling of the ship's engine, the whispering and crying from the rest of her people, the Valkyrie giving orders and taking command of the ship. Somewhere, Sigyn knew that she should be helping; she had been a queen of sorts after all. But every time she inhaled her chest felt tight and the words wouldn't come. Outside the tiny window, the Statesman grew smaller and smaller. Thor, Heimdall, Banner, and Loki were still on that ship. Loki, who should be here, who had promised that he was right behind her before he ordered Valkyrie to restrain her on the escape ship. "I'm sorry, my darling, but I can't risk anything happening to you."
A chill passed over her like icy needles under her skin. The too bright, too sharp surroundings on the escape ship faded and blurred. Shadows of the Statesman flickered at the edges of her vision, all jagged edges and fading embers. "Undying…fidelity." Loki's voice echoed in her head, shaking her bones.
"No. Nonononono." White hot pain shot through her arm and Sigyn dropped to her knees. A shadow loomed over her, and the deep voice that followed seemed to shake the walls. The details of his face may have been lost to shadow, but she knew him: the monster Loki spoke of in hushed tones, always checking over his shoulder. Tears stung her eyes and burned their way down her cheeks. She promised him every Infinity Stone, every star, moon, and world if he would just let Loki go. And for a fleeting, hopeful moment, the pain stopped, and Sigyn thought he might have heard her.
Until the sensation of a hand closed around her throat.
Still, Sigyn pleaded, her voice straining as the grip tightened. Her words were little more than wisps, lost and dying as soon as they were given life. Her nails bit at her throat, scratching; if she tried hard enough, she could pry the hand from around her—and Loki's—neck.
"You will never be a god."
The edges of her vision darkened, and echoed voices swam around her. "Please," she gasped. "Let…him go."
There was a sharp crack along along the vertebrae in her neck. And then it all stopped.
Air rushed back into her cavernous lungs. The muted world of the Statesman shattered into the too bright escape vessel. Every part of her felt numb; a void blossomed where her heart should have been. Loki's name was barely a whisper on her lips, but it left a tiny crack in her, one that fractured the way ice does when it starts to give under a great weight. With every hollow breath, the fractures spread and the realization closed in around her.
Loki was gone.
The last fracture gave under that realization, and as she felt herself shatter, a howling scream tore free from her throat.