Loki

His world freezes.

Sigyn had been walking behind them, saying nothing. She had seemed uneasy about this place, eyes darting warily from side to side. He had not been worried about her at the time; she was always nervous about journeys like this. But he knew the right words to talk her into it. They didn't call him Silvertongue for nothing.

So he had walked on, a few paces ahead of her, concentrating instead on their surroundings.

It was only when she lurched that he senses something is wrong.

He turns to face her. She is bent nearly double, in a half-crouch low to the ground. At first he thinks she merely stumbled, caught her ankle on a loose stone. But as the seconds pass, and she does not straighten, he begins to worry.

"Sigyn?" he hears Thor ask. He is further ahead than they are. Always the first into danger . . . and the last to recognize it.

She does not answer. Her back is arched, tense, head bent low as if in pain. Her arms are tight to her sides, fingers curling in on themselves. Beneath the cascades of liquid sunshine, he sees her neck muscles tightening, her chest laboring as if every breath was a monumental effort.

He frowns. Sigyn was always straight, filled with poise and grace that would draw envy from the greatest queens in the Nine Realms.

This . . . this was not the girl he grew up with.

"Sigyn, what's wrong?" he calls. They had always been close, and it was his voice that could always elicit a reaction from her.

She does respond to him. Her head slowly rises, lifting from its low perch. Shoulders pull back slightly, fingers stretch out minutely . . . and he feels an involuntary shiver trickle down his spine. There's something . . . wrong is the only word that comes to his mind.

Her head finishes its upward journey. Her hair parts back from her face . . .

Her eyes. Sigyn's eyes are a midnight blue, lightening to cascades of color when in the full light of the sun.

But Midnight slides away before his eyes. Beginning with her pupils and spreading outward, like liquid shadow or a putrid sickness, her eyes change into total, solid blackness.

"Concerned for your dear little friend?"

His heart turns to ice in his chest.

Sigyn's mouth moves, lips forming words that should not have been frightening. But the voice that comes with the words . . .

Her face twists into a hard, cruel smile, those solid black eyes makes his blood run cold. He feels he has never known true fear until this day. If that fear were only for himself . . .

"The Sons of Odin have indeed grown soft if the plight of one girl can affect them so. You both have changed, as she has told me."

"Sigyn?" Thor calls again. In any other situation, he would make a cutting comment about his brother's lack of instincts. But this is no time for jests. His eyes are fixed on whatever this is in front of them.

She laughs again. Dark, feral, and dangerous.

"Nay, Thor Odinson. It is I." When neither of them reply, she continues with . . . he shudders. Those cannot be Sigyn's eyes . . . "Can it be that you have forgotten me? It really is too bad of you."

A deep, mocking voice. And somehow familiar . . .

"Who are you?" Thor demands angrily. She – he – IT – turns to regard his brother. Perhaps Thor is finally beginning to see the truth. But he must use this distraction to plan. He eyes her doubtfully, a dozen plans racing through his mind, and each are rendered useless.

"I am your reckoning," she mocks. "I am your destroyer. Your little friend has granted me the chance to speak with you again."

He stiffens. He understands now. It makes sense.

Sigyn has been overshadowed.

"What have you done with her?" He keeps his voice quiet, soft, smooth as liquid glass. But beneath the surface he is trembling with rage and fear. Fear for his friend, fear for himself. Those black eyes turn back to him . . .

"Nothing. Yet." A maniacal grin spreads over her face, and the light of madness burns in those eyes as hot as the fires of Muspelheim. Her tongue passes over her parched lips, looking for all the world like a deadly serpent . . .

The air is suddenly alive with something he has never felt before; a tingle in his fingertips and the back of his neck speaks of the presence of magic. Sigyn has some skills in enchantment. Crude, rudimentary. They have played games together using these skills. But she can never match his ability in battle. But this . . . this is stronger, darker, burning hotter than anything she – or even he himself –could ever hope to possess.

Still ITS magic grows, stretches. He can see it in the terrible expression being forced on Sigyn's face. IT is searching, biting, clawing inside her, desperate to seek a way to launch itself at them.

Inhale. Exhale.

Calm. He needs to be calm.

"If your quarrel is with us," he whispers coolly, keeping his hands clenched at his sides, "then release the girl. Surely she is nothing to you."

Fire burns the air around them. IT is angry. Very angry.

"Ah, but alas, that is something I cannot do, little prince," she mocks. His eyes narrow, shoulders stiffen, back tightens. "Like all puppet masters, I cannot perform without a body to work with. Your father robbed me of mine. So, in turn, your dear little friend will lend me hers for a time."

Dark magic. The air reeks of dark magic. It clouds his mind, dulls his senses. His feet are frozen in place, his legs turned to stone, his arms so very heavy. He can't breathe. He can't fight.

And IT knows.

Without warning, Sigyn charges.

He is only just able to avoid her strike, her fingernails clawing the air inches from where his head had been seconds before. He is so close that he can see the veins in her arms, now glowing with a sickening red light. Searing heat sweeps past him, as if the magic locked in Sigyn's body had become living fire. Thor is the first to return the attack. Always the warrior. Always attack, attack, attack.

But can he bring himself to turn on his closest friend?

She easily sidesteps, Mjolnir flashing past her harmlessly. Flames are dancing in her black eyes. In ITS black eyes.

He has no choice.

He plucks at a string of magic, feeling it flow down to his fingertips, a living waterfall. Green-white light snaps from his hand, aimed squarely at her heart. It is not his most powerful charm. He won't risk hurting the avatar. But perhaps he could break its shell –

Sigyn is a blur, avoiding his attack as gracefully as a dancer. She was always a graceful dancer . . .

She flings her arm out with a snarl, and flames erupt from her fingertips.

He falls back. He is no match for her, and they both know it. Their eyes meet again, and he sees the rage, the intent of the other. Thor lunges forward. He is too slow for her.

IT will use Sigyn to destroy them.

Thor lunges forward again, but her left arm slaps Mjolnir away as if it was made of wood. But her eyes never leave Loki's. Her right arm swings up and out too quickly for him to see. Black magic strikes back. He falls back with a sharp cry, clutching his hand.

IT knows Sigyn means more to him than to anyone else. IT will use that as its weapon.

Sigyn will kill him first.

He has to stop her. He has to stop IT. But does this mean he has to kill her to do it? If he kills her, he will go mad. If he lets her remain as the puppet, she will go mad. Either way, IT will triumph.

Thor swings again. But his strike is too high, too slow. He doesn't want to hurt her either. Mjolnir once again flies uselessly passed her.

At last, a chance. Her head is turned. She doesn't see him. He steps in close, gathering his magic once more to strike –

A flaming dagger appears from nowhere.

- And too late he realizes his mistake. She drew him in. IT was ready.

He sees the blow coming, as if in slow-motion. He tries to twist away, but he is too slow, he can't stop –

Armor shatters, green-magic flashes uselessly, and a scream is torn from his lips.

Pain. Pain. Blinding, searing, white-hot, mind-shattering pain. His voice fails him. He cannot scream loud enough, long enough. His skin is flaming, his eyes are burning. Rivers of fire spread through his side, eating up from his stomach to his heart. Torrents of blood spill over her hands as she digs the dagger deeper into his flesh. Deeper, deeper . . .

Until it pierces his soul.

Through it all, he hears laughter. Sigyn's ringing, mocking laughter.


Loki's eyes flew open, a scream caught in his throat.

Terror. Confusion. Pain.

His world was nothing but pain.

For one horrific moment, he thought he was still living the nightmare.

But the room was dark. The room was empty. He was alone.

There was nothing to fear. Not anymore.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep, steadying breath. He was trembling all over, a cold, clammy sweat clinging to him like the blood that had poured from his side. He felt sick, and desperately fought the urge to vomit.

His side was throbbing, remembering the searing pain of Avatar-Sigyn's claws tearing his flesh apart. And remembering the bite of that terrifying magic that had turned his childhood friend into a monster's puppet.

He sat up carefully, wincing, and looked down at his side. He breathed a shaky sigh of relief. The bandages glowed a soft white in the light of the midnight stars. They were clean.

It had been three days since he, Thor, and Sigyn had returned from their journey to Muspelheim. Three days . . . it could have been three lifetimes for all he knew. He had only been partially conscious, so his memories of their return were muddled and confused. The Healers had told him Thor had carried him back to the palace, wounded as he was himself, shouldering a burden far heavier than Mjolnir could ever be. It had taken two full days and nights before his mind was restored to his weakened body. And ever since it had, these nightmares had plagued his dreams.

What had taken control of Sigyn like that? What kind of creature could turn someone into their personal marionette, giving them powers that were far beyond their ability to control? They had met someone like that before, long, long ago. But the All Father had destroyed that monster.

Hadn't he?

It was still dark outside, but sleep was impossible. He needed to think. He needed time to reconcile memories with nightmares.

He sighed and rose carefully from his bed. The Healers would surely object to him taking a midnight stroll unescorted.

But they still saw him as a Prince of Asgard . . . and not even the Healers could disobey a royal command.