2018 AD: Somewhere in Space (Formerly Asgard)

A good seat from which to watch Asgard Burn.

Had there been any little part of him, buried deep in the darkest place in his heart, that had meant those words when he said them, it's long gone now.

Loki can do little more than watch the place where home had been, long after the shockwaves have stopped buffeting the small craft, until the threat of the debris hurtling through space finally forces him onwards. The Commodore is faster than the Statesman, and it doesn't take long to catch up to the larger ship, steadily sailing away from the still-bright wreckage of their planet.

Loki hesitates, paused at the console before the final approach, ready to ease the Commodore to land atop the other vessel, but his fingers curl around the thrusters. He could simply keep flying. Speed right past the Statesman and keep on going, destined for any of the countless places in the galaxy to which someone of his talents (not to mention current assets) could so easily disappear, again. He could go anywhere, be anyone. Be no one. No one's brother, no one's son, no past, no debts to repay— tear the red-stained pages from his ledger and pretend they never were.

You'll always be the God of Mischief…

It would be so easy.

… but you could be more.

The Commodore docks with a pneumatic hiss, and he drops through a connecting hatch in the floor to the tiny hangar housing the Statesman's emergency vessel. The hangar is empty, and he can hear the general din of a crowd in close quarters from down the corridor towards the central chamber and bridge of the ship. He steals into the room, keeping close to the walls, not entirely sure how he'll be received now that the immediate threat is over, and they have little more use for him.

He feels the weight of the crowd's scrutinizing gaze, but it doesn't fall quite so heavily as had the last time, before Thor had hauled him back to Midgard in search of Odin. Most barely take notice of him, but there are some suspicious glares, some whispers, some shrink away as he passes. His rescue has bought him tolerance, but no more; deep mistrust, but no outright hostility. Though, they may simply be lacking the strength for it. The atmosphere is sepulchral as the adrenalin wears off and the fear and loss are finally sinking in. There are blank stares and glassy eyes, some huddled together trying to comfort one another, some still searching for friends, or loved ones, separated in the confusion.

There's no sign of Thor, but the lack of outright panic assures him that his brother must be around somewhere. The hulk is easy to spot, towering over the rest of the crowd even without the raised dais at the other side of the chamber, fixated on the view of Asgard's ruin through the bridge's largest porthole. Through the crowd Loki is fairly certain he sees the Valkyrie is beside him, but doesn't venture closer to verify, just wanders the periphery of the crowd, looking for familiar faces.

Asgard was never densely populated by most planet's standards, but that what remains fits, more or less comfortably, onto a Sakaarian transport barge presents a visceral picture of their losses. Though he can't match everyone to a name, over the course of a thousand years, he's bound to have encountered each of them at some point or another, and most are at least passingly familiar, some far more so. He sees some of the ladies of the court, some dressed down, others in ruined finery. Sunna and Bil are together as always (though they seem to have gotten their hands on swords, which, even after everything else today, still warrants a double-take). There's no sign of the warriors three, and what Loki overhears from the crowd's chatter confirms them dead. He spots Volstagg's widow, Hildegund, and their four children, all safely aboard. Röskva and her brother Thjálfi are huddled with a few others from the royal household staff. His eyes pass over the crowd, and something tightens in his chest.

On Sakaar, he'd been plagued by the same dream: a little red vixen, running for her life from a monstrous black hound. Sometimes she hid, tucked tight into a dark burrow as the sound of baying grows nearer; sometimes in full flight, heart pounding as if to burst; and sometimes, finally, cornered at a precipice, with nothing to do but stand and fight, hopelessly outmatched as the snarling beast closed in—

Signs of an overactive imagination, he'd told Thor, but he knew better. He's the one who understands seidr and sorcery. He knew better then, and he knew better when he said it to himself each time he jolted awake, hair plastered to his face with cold sweat. He convinced himself that both the cause, and the solution, to his problems were excessive amounts of alien liquor, and drank himself back into dreamless, guiltless sleep.

But then the Statesman had pulled through the fog, and he'd found what remained of Asgard: trapped, defiant, doomed, waiting for death or deliverance— for Hela or for him. It's when he catches himself scanning the crowd for copper hair that he finally has to admit that he knew, had always known, whose terror it was reaching out to him across the cosmos.

Something catches his eye— deep pink fabric, embroidered with a garden's worth of bright, cheery flowers at its border, hand-stitched a little at a time over the course of countless boring meetings, functions, and get-togethers. But the owner is not the wearer— a different ásynja wraps herself in the shawl, a woman he recognizes vaguely from the kitchens, exhausted, an infant in her arms and two girls trailing behind her.

"Looking for something?" Loki starts, a hushed curse under his breath as he turns to find Heimdall watching him, smiling in that infuriating, knowing way he has. "My sight is limited, here, but if it's something on the ship you're missing…"

Loki assures himself that he isn't, not really. It's just a nagging feeling, an anxious curiosity to satisfy, something that should be here that he's beginning to suspect is not. He's trying not to think too hard about what that implies. It may even be a relief, in time.

Heimdall directs him to a set of rooms down the hall, out of the way, where the Eir and her healers have set up with their wounded and are now seeing to Thor's eye. Loki can't resist one last fruitless pass around the hallway before finally resigning himself to the obvious conclusion.

Eir appears in the doorway of the room just as he moves to enter it, methodically cleaning blood from her hands, and looks him over. "Ah, there you are," she gestures across the hall to a smaller room. "We thought best to give him some privacy," she explains, "but he should be ready to see you, now."

He finds his brother contemplating a drink, absently prodding at the eyepatch now fixed over his empty socket. There's a moment of weary silence when he makes his presence known, Thor greets him, threatens him with a hug, but the playful banter is weighted with resignation— until he the moment he realizes his little brother's truly come home to stay.

Loki does so enjoy subverting expectations.

Coming back down the hall, they're met with the Aesir filling the main chamber, and Thor hesitates. There they are, side by side, as Thor prepares to step out and face his people. It feels like a lifetime ago they were here before. Despite the ache the memory leaves, a sly, deliberate smile pulls at Loki's mouth. "Not nervous, are you?"

"Yes," Thor admits, this time. He then claps a hand to Loki's shoulder and studies him for a long moment, looks sincerely into his brother's eyes with the one left to him. "I couldn't do this without you."

He believes Thor means it, but that doesn't make it true.

"Go on," he returns the gesture, then nudges Thor's shoulder towards the gathered Asgardians, "they're waiting. I'm right behind you." Thor nods, takes a deep breath to steady himself, and starts forward, the crowd parting for him as he passes. Self-assured, but somber, so markedly different than the brash young prince he'd been— a king, truly. And as he takes his place at the helm, their makeshift throne, it's a very different kind of feeling settling into Loki's chest. Not familiar, venomous resentment, but something quieter, heavier, bittersweet— the weight of all that wasted time, clinging to the certainty that this is right. His brother smiles as he creeps up along the edge of the crowd to stand beside him, and it abates, a little— he feels it no less, but suddenly it's easier to breathe in spite of it. There's a flicker of uncertainty when Thor announces their destination, but he'll worry about that later.

At this ship's speed, Midgard is weeks away and gradually, the Asgardians and remaining Sakaarian gladiators make themselves comfortable. Over the next few hours, the main hall becomes a sort of makeshift camp, as people settle in groups, sitting or resting to the sides, or mill about in the middle. The air is still tense, the mood low, but Thor's lit a hope in the survivors, and the life seems to be returning to them.

Loki lurks while Thor sets about mingling. Practically, he's taking stock of who survived, what skills they have available, but mostly it's trying to comfort distraught citizens and reintroducing the Valkyrie to what remains of her home. It is, in addition, he realizes as the hours wear on, for Thor to reassure the people about him. He keeps trying to excuse himself, but Thor finds some way to pull him into the conversation, tries to bridge the uneasy gap between his little brother and the survivors.

He appreciates Thor's efforts, sees what he's trying to do: lend Loki some of the immense goodwill they have for him, like if he can just pull him in close enough, he might share in that halo, but it may just be bringing his failings into sharper relief. This is a lost cause. Even before his… fall, the general populace had never quite taken to him as they had Thor, and that was before he had deserved it.

Well-loved people don't need to write their own commemoratives.

Still, he's polite and gracious, if withdrawn, reflex calling up that deeply ingrained princely manner, and he reminds himself, when that still-present ache urges him to leave, that he is, above all else, doing this for Thor.

Thor puts on a brave smile for them, but Loki can see it waning with each wish of condolences he's offered for the loss of his friends. Some generous souls even extend those same sympathies to him, and he thanks them, but it isn't the same. He feels… something, certainly, but he knows grief— the guilt, and rage, and that gut-wrenching, world-shattering, knife-to-the-heart despair— and this is not it. But Thor… He knows his brother well enough to recognize the pain he's hiding behind that grin, and he might have a way to ease it.

"Follow me," Loki taps him on the shoulder to catch his attention between greetings, then takes a few steps towards one of the side corridors, "I have a surprise for you." He isn't asking, just starts away before Thor can refuse, and sure enough, a moment later his brother's caught up to him.

"That sounds so ominous when you say it," Thor raises an eyebrow. "This is going to end in me getting stabbed, isn't it?"

"No," Loki assures him as they reach the communications center, "I, however, am in serious danger of evisceration."

He leans over the console, begins fiddling with frequencies, glancing back to find Thor puzzling over the address of his intended target, somewhere on Ria. A gruff voice crackles over the system, and he replies. "Yes, hello. This is Asgard, would I be able to speak to our agent stationed with you?" There's a grumble from the other end, but the presumably-Kronan operator instruct them to wait. Thor looks to him for an explanation, but he doesn't answer, just waits until the static comes back over the device and watches as his brother's jaw slackens, good eye wide at the sound as the Lady Sif reports in.

"I needed her out of the way," he explains, as his brother stares, transfixed, at the source of his last remaining, lifelong friend's voice, "so I sent her on a peacekeeping mission to Ria. Nothing dangerous, just… endless, and annoying." Loki can't keep the smirk on his face as he pictures here there, trying to quell millennia of tension between warring Kronan factions in prefect Sisyphean futility. He means to simply hand the radio over, but he can see tears gathering and he gives Thor a moment to collect himself. He should probably change his voice, but he can't resist, and opens the line to reply. "Hello, Sif."

There's a very long pause from the other end, and then slowly, "who is this?"

"Who do you hear?"

Even through the grainy audio, her voice blazes. "You bastard—"

"Easy, easy. I'm afraid I have a great deal of unfortunate news, but I'll let you hear it from someone you better like." Thor nods, and carefully eases the radio from his hands, voice still thick when he speaks.

"Sif? Sif, it's so good to hear you."

"Thor?" The rage is gone, it's disbelief and delight, but then worry as she continues, "Thor, what's happened?"

"Sif, I…" he winces, takes another unsteady breath, still caught between sorrow and joy, "You might want to sit down, for this."

Loki steps away to give him space, and wait outside, but can't help but catch this end of the conversation as Thor tries to briefly summarize the chaos of the last short while: Odin, Hela, the loss of the warriors three, the destruction of Asgard. He does note one glaring omission that Sif might find relevant.

Finally, Thor emerges, casually rubbing at his good eye with the heel of his hand. "She's on her way," he says, clearly moved, but at least now hopeful rather than his feigned composure before.

"Meeting us on Earth?"

"No," he smiles, as they start back towards the rest of the ship, "she asked for our position and heading. She's on her way here, likely to put her boot in your ass. Don't worry, I won't let her maim you, nothing permanent. Your hair is forfeit, though, that's only fair."

"To her or to you?"

He runs his hand along what's left of his shorn mane. "Both."

"We can match. What fun." They find the Valkyrie again, talking with Heimdall, with whom she seems to be familiar. That troublesome feeling is back, and he's not sure what to do about it, just a desire to have it acknowledged. There's a twinge of something in his stomach, a humourless little twitch at his mouth and he speaks again before he can think better of it. "All I ask is for a decent head start before you tell her we've lost Sigyn."

His brother blinks at him, and exchanges a look with Heimdall. "Sigyn's over there with Hildegund." He nods, casually, towards the edge of the hall, and Loki whips around so fast he needs to push his hair back out of his face.

Sure enough, there he finds her: sitting on the floor as best she can in a dress, legs tucked carefully beneath her, being assailed by Volstagg's children. Loki knows them, if distantly. She's got the smallest, Gudrun, a toddler, in her lap, and is pulling Volstagg's oldest daughter, Gunnhild's deep red hair into an elaborate plait, chatting with her softly as she works, pretending not to notice when the teenager rubs tears from her eyes. She's offered up her own auburn tresses as a distraction for the other two, a boy and girl a few years younger, Jargsa and Gunnar, who are red-eyed and pale, but focused now on making an absolute mess trying to replicate her work (and by the look of restrained suffering on her face, none too gently). He's certain she hadn't been there before, but Sigyn blends in so well with the family it's hard to set her apart, like a cluster of trees in the last days of autumn.

"Norns," the Valkyrie breathes, beside him, and he finds he's not the only one staring. She looks haunted, and Loki knows what she's seeing. "What did your say her name was?"

"She is who you think she is," Loki replies.

There's a quiet, pensive look that comes across her face at the thought of her sisters-in-arms, and her hand drifts to the hilt of the Dragonfang at her side. "Whatever happened to Runa?"

"As I said: gruesome deaths."

Beside their exchange, Thor grins and calls to Sigyn, waving her over. She looks up and smiles, carefully extricating herself from the children's grasp and handing the little one back to Hildegund before making her way over. Loki takes a surreptitious step back as she approaches, while Thor steps forward, meeting her halfway.

"Your majesty," she greets with a graceful, well-practiced inclination of her neck, just shy of a bow. Thor cringes.

"I'm not sure I'm ever going to get used to that."

"I'm afraid you'll have to, your Majesty. Unless you prefer 'my lord All-Father'?"

"No. No, never again. That is so much worse." They beam at each other, a moment of levity to help them pretend they're not on the verge of collapse, before Thor quirks an eyebrow, and indicates the mess of uneven half-finished braids trailing through the waves of her unbound hair, playful, feigned hurt in his tone. "I love what you've done with it. It seems you haven't noticed anything different about me?"

"I mean. I noticed, just…" she gestures towards her face as he guides her back towards the group, "the eye was a little more pressing. I'm assuming there's quite a story here," she looks him up and down, head tilted thoughtfully as she takes in the hair, the eye, the strange clothing, "and I wasn't really sure if I should be the one to bring it up. It suits you, if you like it. And if you don't, then it will grow back, and it will still look quite handsome in the meantime."

"Is that not exactly what you said to Sif?"

"I didn't use 'handsome;' that would not have helped, but the sentiment is the same." She tries to run a hand through her own unruly hair and it catches "I may be joining you. I'm not sure there'll be any salvaging this."

"Well, we'll fit in beautifully in Midgard, then. Most of the men wear their hair short, and many women. If…" he scratches at his beard, Looks over her head to where the Hulk is still staring out into space. "Well, I was going to introduce you to a human, but that will have to wait. What I can do," he stops before the Valkyrie and Heimdall, Loki slinking behind them, "is introduce you to someone I found— well, it's a very long story, but Sigyn, this the Valkyrie Brunhilde, without whom I highly doubt I could have found my way back. Brunhilde, this is Sigyn, lady-in-waiting to my late mother, Queen Frigga, and," he looks back fondly towards Hildegund's smaller children, "a dear friend since we were about their age."

The ásynjur study each other for a long moment, the Valkyrie still seeing ghosts, but Sigyn's eyes are bright. "Lady Brunhilde, it is such an honour to meet you; I never imagined I'd get the chance. My mother told me much— and dear Sif!" she exclaims, catching herself off guard by the thought. "You must meet Lady Sif. She's been the only lady-warrior in Asgard since…" She falters when she notices Brunhilde studying her. Sigyn is dressed simply, for working: a plain dress in her favoured sunny colour beneath a deep brown hangerock, the missing shawl leaving her shoulders bare. She's unarmed, unarmored, unscarred. "I… tried," she admits, "but I could not follow in my mother's path. Sif took up that honour. She'll be thrilled to meet you."

"Warrior or no, Lady Sigyn certainly made her ancestors proud today," Heimdall interjects with a stately nod of approval towards her. "She evacuated the palace faster than I could have hoped, kept our people calm and the little ones diverted while we hid at the fortress." A wry smile lights his eyes, "and we still can't keep this one from climbing things along the Rainbow Bridge."

"I needed the height," she ducks her head, sheepishly plucks at the laces of the leather bracer Loki only now notices at her left forearm, his stomach sinking. "All else I did was at our esteemed Gatekeeper's instruction. His praise is too generous."

"Well, thank you both, then."

He's been slowly backing away from the group, hoping to evade notice until he can slip away altogether, but he's been distracted, and notices too late that his brother has moved, the sound of his voice coming from behind. Thor pulls him aside. "Where are you off to?"

"I've had enough socializing for one day," Loki replies, voice hushed.

"You were always the one who was good at this kind of thing. Isn't this what you did all day on Sakaar?"

"I also make an excellent projectile, that doesn't mean I enjoy it."

"Come on, it's only Sige," he means it to be reassuring. "It's not like stuffy diplomatic business, this is just talking with a friend."

"That's exactly—" before he can finish the thought, Thor seizes him by shoulder and pushes him forward, in part, Loki suspects, to prove he's corporeal. Loki mutters frantic protests under his breath, but it's too late.

"Look who else decided to join us!" Thor announced proudly as he steers him into the circle. How desperately he wishes his brother would stop pointing him out to creatures he'd rather avoid. That same panic is creeping up in him now.

Their eyes meet, and in that instant, Loki watches the light leave them. It's like standing near a hearth fire but feeling no warmth— impossible, cold, fundamentally wrong by its very nature. He doesn't know what he was expecting. "Your highness," she says, directed somewhere in the general vicinity of his boots as she suddenly feels the need to fuss at her hair again. "It's good to see you well. If… you'll excuse me, I should really be getting back to—"

"No. No, don't bother," he retorts, voice clipped, a match for her own detached civility. It comes out bitter. "I was just leaving." His brother tries to stop him as he spins on his heel, but he ignores Thor's objections, and stalks away through the crowd without another word.


980 AD: Asgard, Waterfront

It's dusk when they make their way down to the water with their mother, their father already waiting. It's not the first such service he's attended, but it is the largest, and the first the All-father has presided over, personally. Ten or so little boats bob in the shallow water, and dozens of mourners, villagers and armored Einherjar alike, gather along the cove's pebbled beach.

Their father approaches them, and after a somber greeting, starts with a reminder of what's expected. and their obligations, and Loki is only half-listening. He's fixated instead on the crowd, and only finds Sigyn by finding Volstagg. She looks so small beside him. She's pale, her stare distant. She looks fragile, and lost. Sif is next to her, their hands intertwined.

His father's hand cups his chin, gently redirects his gaze back towards him. "Loki, are you listening to me?"

"Of course, Father."

"What did I last say?"

He heard it, he understands it, but he doesn't like it. Loki sighs, resigned, and reluctantly repeats the instruction: "I'm here as their prince, not as her friend."

With an approving nod, Odin lets them go, making his way back to his place at the center of the gathering. Their mother strides across the beach, gracefully acknowledge esteemed warriors and families of the fallen as she passes, and stops before one of the pyre ships.

"I'm going to say my farewells," she tells them. "There's no shame in waiting here." The princes exchange a resolute look, and as one, continue along. With the nine realms in its charge, Asgard is involved in endless conflicts, and funerals for fallen warriors aren't uncommon. They've seen dead bodies before— but never someone they knew.

Lady Sigrun has been laid out in her finest armor, red and yellow gold, polished mirror-bright, the helm formed subtly like wings that reach around to cradle her head. It's only upon closer inspection that it becomes clear how broken the body is, beneath. The few glimpses of once porcelain skin the armor shows are ashen, mottled with dark bruises and marred by lacerations, her fingers, curled around the hilt of a sword, sit at unnatural angles, and there's something he can't define, something just not right about the way the armor sits, that sends an uneasy chill down his spine.

Loki can only begin to imagine the force it would have taken to do this to an adult Asgardian.

He'd known it was going to be bad when they heard the story: Sigrun stumbling across a group of Rock Trolls recruited by the insurgents, lying in wait to ambush Vanir supply routes. She'd held them off singlehandedly for over an hour, but by the time reinforcements found her she was too far gone to save.

Loki would like to imagine that Sigyn has spared herself this, but he can't; her presence here is unmistakable. The hawk feather is braided into her mother's hair. The wild fiery-red curls spilling from the helm fall in a more deliberate rendition of her usual untidy chaos, little braids, with beads and the few tiny spring flowers she had available, winding their way through— the kind Sigyn likes to put in Sif's hair in idle moments, or even Thor's when he'll sit still long enough.

The grave goods too bear her signature, carefully arranged around the little boat. The expected things are all there: her favoured spear and shield, trophies from monsters she's slain across the nine realms, her hunting bow and a quiver full of mismatched arrows, a bundle of enormous white feathers, tied with silver ribbon. But there are smaller, more personal treasures tucked among them, valuable only in sentiment: a familiar water skein and bedroll, a well-used hunting knife and another, virtually untouched, that he knows had once belonged to Sigrun's brother.

("Do you know what that makes it?" she'd asked when she showed it to him, taking it from its home above the fireplace, with all the reverence of a holy relic. He recognized the impish tone, thoughtfully replied that no, he does not, and waited. She beamed, barely able to contain her excitement. "A Dag-ger!")

He recognizes the small wooden figures that now sit beside the body, also once given honoured places on the mantle. They're gifts that Sigyn's father had carved for her mother while they were courting: a wolf, howling, a raptor with wings spread and talons ready. There's a third between them, its shape indistinct and rough-hewn: smaller, delicate, vaguely canine. He hadn't gotten the chance to finish it.

The last thing that catches his eye, as he looks anywhere but the brutalized remains, are the dried flowers strewn about her, Sigyn's beloved sunflowers most prominent. It's early yet, their garden only just begun to show signs of life, but Sigyn likes to press them and keep them, and this must be all she's collected. They'd pressed some together, years ago, that he'd brought home to his mother. She'd been so excited to show him how, and they'd wandered, through fields and mountain trails, and finally through her own garden, hunting for the most perfect and most interesting specimens to squirrel away in her cellar… weighted down by all those very heavy books he'd spirited from the palace.

Loki takes in a deep, shuddering breath, and rests his face in his hand, tries to disguise the noise he'd made involuntarily as a sigh. This is a very, very bad place to start chuckling to himself, and he doesn't mean to. He still feels as though he might be ill, and his stomach turns at the thought of breaking into nervous laughter, here. Somehow that makes it even harder not to.

"Oh Runa," their mother sighs, shaking her head as she takes in the sight, "now you've done it." They'd always seemed friendly, Sigrun almost audaciously informal with the All-Mother. The Queen regards her unflinching, not the stares of quiet horror he and his brother are wearing, and reaches down to brush away a stray curl, fallen across her face. She leans over and surreptitiously adjust her arm ever-so slightly, just enough to show the tattoo through the fasteners of her vambraces, and the thin line of white scar tissue that runs through it. "There we are."

Beside him, Thor's hands clench into fists at his side as he stares at the body— a friend's mother, a favourite teacher, a guardian on all the best childhood outings, the ones that had brought his friends together. He glances over his shoulder towards where they stand in the crowd. "The creatures that did this are dead?"

"Yes," his mother assures him, resting a hand on each of her sons' shoulders.

"Good," Thor replies with a quick, short nod, his jaw straining. Static prickles at the back of Loki's neck. "Good."

The hand at his shoulder gives it a squeeze, and she gives them each a subtle smile. "Go on," she says, "go see your friends. Pass along our sympathies, and try not to overwhelm her. I'll be doing the same with the other families, come and join me when you're done."

The princes join their companions, and they exchanges somber greetings. Sigyn tries to smile when they approach, and thanks them when they share their mother's condolences, but she seems dazed, far away, and the more he studies them, the more it seems like Sif's grasp on her hand is less like comfort and more like she's afraid the other girl will wander away if she isn't tethered. Sif, for her part, is resolute, her posture straight, her jaw set and every inch the Asgardian warrior, desperately hoping no one notices the way her breath trembles, or the sheen to her eyes. Fandral's to her other side, and when they glance to one another, it's a commiserating look of awkward misery, and uncertainty. Volstagg looks torn, visibly mulling something over, and it's something they're all wondering but not willing to voice. He's a single, young warrior, who rents a single bedroom flat, not in any position to take her in himself, though he's clearly considering it anyway.

Volstagg's massive hand envelops Sigyn's shoulder. "If it weren't for your mother, there would have been more ships," he says finally, after a long silence.

"A warrior's death, worthy of her. She takes her rightful place in Valhalla.," she murmurs. It's what she's meant to say, what's proper, but Sigyn's heart always shows in her eyes, and they're vacant. She recites quietly, nearly under her breath. "Nor shall we mourn, but rejoice…" They all know the words, and pick it up together, a chorus of low voices. They'll hear the prayer in it's entirety before the ceremony is through.

"I'm proud to be her daughter," it's the first thing she's said that she isn't out of obligation, something stirs in her voice, and ever-so-gently she nudges Sif with her shoulder. "She was very proud of you." Sif hushes her, her stoic expression faltering for a moment, but she quickly reigns it back in.

Farther along the beach, their mother is glancing back at them, and then to their father, and they have to excuse themselves. They spend what's left of the daylight following their mother as she visits the mourners, offers her sympathies and gratitude. Thor's polite with them, but antsy, glancing back towards their companions, often. Loki watches his mother at work, awed as he always is at her grace, how effortlessly she sets people at ease. He looks back himself, when the opportunity arises naturally, but each time there's no change.

Night falls, torches are lit, and the All-Father calls for the gathering's attention. As they settle into the crowd by the Queen's side, he's careful to place himself such that he can keep an eye on Sigyn.

His father begins to speak, a wave of Gungnir sends the little boats free of the shore, drifting into the bay, and members of the Einherjar ready their bows, nock their blazing arrows. Loki watches her, as they draw, and loose. Sigyn's fingers twitch at her sides, like a musician as someone else plays.

It's not long after returning home that Loki announces he isn't feeling well, and bids his parents and brother an early goodnight. He shuts himself inside his chambers, and stops halfway to the balcony. No, no, not yet. He lets out a frustrated breath, working at the joints of one hand with the other as he thinks, paces the generous length of the room, takes a seat on his bed, then stands again, overcome with restless energy, the need to do something. He can't be in two places at once, not yet.

A gentle knock at the door startles him, his mother's voice comes drifting through, asking to enter. "Of course," he replies, frantically kicking off his boots and throwing his coat hastily over the back of an armchair, and hurling himself, otherwise fully clothed, into bed. "Come in."

Frigga's graceful strides carry her easily across the room, to sit beside him at the edge of his bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Awful," he tells her, nestling miserably into his pillows. It's not really a lie. All he has to do is think too hard about anything after reaching the rainbow bridge that afternoon, and his stomach lurches. Sigyn's desperate panic, Sigrun's mangled body, how clearly he can picture his friend carefully, lovingly, weaving flowers into her lifeless mother's hair… It isn't an act when he shudders.

His mother's face is soft with concern, and before he can squirm away, she gently lays a hand against his forehead, slips it down to his cheek. "You do feel warm," she agrees, which completely baffles him but he's not about to complain.

"I mean," Loki adds hastily, "not so awfully that I wouldn't attend, were it allowed…"

Frigga sighs, studies him for a moment, his face still resting in her hand. "They're meeting in the tavern by the canal. That's no fitting place for a young prince, not either of you." He's about to protest, insist that Sigyn and Sif are both underage as well, really shouldn't he and Thor be there to help protect their grieving friends— but he stops, notices the sly tug at the corner of her mouth. "Get some rest," she tells him, with a knowing smile. "I'll see to it that you're not disturbed. I'll come check on you in a few hours."

He sits up when the turns to leave, and she pauses at the sound. He shouldn't needle at this. He shouldn't but he can't help himself, and the words come out as if of their own volition. "That's why he went, isn't it?" She turns back to him, brows knit together. "When he woke us up to say goodbye, he already knew—"

His mother sits back down. "We both decided," she corrects. "Obviously things didn't transpire as we had intended. Volstagg was meant to tell her, privately, once he returned. Until then, we saw no sense in burdening her with it, or you." Frigga gives him a remorseful smile, smooths down his hair. "We hoped to let you enjoy one last happy day together."

"It wasn't," he admits miserably, resting his head against his mother's shoulder, his voice thick in his throat. "I ruined it. I…." his eyebrows dip. "One last— you say it as though I'll never see her again." She hushes him. "What's going to become of her? She has no one else."

"Runa would have made arrangements for her." They sit together in silence for a long moment; his mother strokes his hair like when he was a child. He feels like one: helpless, small, his heart aching at the thoughts of loss this day has inevitably put in his head. He turns to her, eyes stinging, and tries to speak, but his voice falters. His mother only smiles as she stands again, presses a kiss to his forehead. "I love you, too."

It takes him a moment to will the lump from his throat after she closes the door behind her, crawls out of bed. A look in the mirror finds him gaunt and red-eyed, and he spares a quick moment to splash some cold water in his face and straighten out his tousled hair before throwing on his coat, pulling on his boots, and making for the balcony.

He makes a beeline for the balustrade, throwing a leg over the railing and—

"Loki!" He stops, furrows his brow, and turns to investigate the sound before it comes again, a kind of loud-stage whisper. "Loki, over here!" Now that he's expecting it he turns to find his brother on his own balcony of the next room down the hall, a considerable distance away. He gestures towards himself, more insistently when Loki doesn't move. "What are you doing?"

Loki looks from him, down to himself, straddling the balustrade, then back to Thor.

"Come over here," his brother insists. "I have a plan. We're sneaking out."

"Say that a little louder; I don't think all the Einherjar heard you." He rolls his eyes when Thor persists, and lets out a low breath as he relaxes, taps into some deep-rooted instinct and lets his shape become fluid. In an instant, he's changed, taking the form that comes most easily to him, and slithers to the other balcony across the windowsills and masonry between, pooling in coils and standing again as himself. "Alright, fine. Your plan, what is it?"

"We're going to go to the sjaund, obviously."

"That isn't a plan, it's a goal."

"I'm still working out the details, but the important thing is that we should be there. Honestly, I bet I've been only disallowed out of fairness to you; I'm old enough—" He isn't, not for a few years yet. Thor frowns as he looks his brother over, dressed for the night air, and looks hurt when he realizes. "Did… did you mean to go without me?"

Loki sighs, rests his head in his hand by the bridge of his nose. "We can hardly just walk through town in the middle of the night, into a tavern, from which we have been explicitly forbidden, without it getting back to Father. I can look like anyone, hiding you is harder."

"You can't just use some of that magic you were so keen on earlier?" his brother retorts, still a bit sorely, but then pulls the hood of the dark cloak he's donned over his head. "Here, perfect."

"Thor, that does nothing— fine, fine. Lets just go, we don't have time for this. I'll do my best. This way," he climbs the railing, shuffles over to the best place to drop from, and Thor follows behind as Loki leads the way across other balconies, rooftops and along the edges of walls to finally reach street level with the least chance of being spotted. He can consider this route well and truly compromised, but he has others.

Thor eyes at him suspiciously when they finally make it to the cobblestones. "How often do you do this?" Loki ignores him and presses on. Down the street, Loki stops suddenly, and hauls Thor into an alleyway as a couple of off-duty guards come around a corner. With a flash of green light, he takes on the shape of one of the younger stable hands. "No sudden movements," he instructs as he passes his magic over his brother's form. "Try and move predictably."

Thor actually seems impressed as he takes in the web of magic cast over him, tests the strange hands he sees when he looks down, and with a grin that's familiar even in a different face, nudges his brother appreciatively. The illusion warps and frays at the edges when he does, and Loki, caught in intense concentration, urges him to hurry. They strike out casually, making it past the guards without incident, and Loki drops the illusion so that he can think again.

"Alright," his brother begins, "there are a few places it could—"

"It's the one by the canal."

"How—"

"Mother told me."

"Oh," replies Thor, nonplussed. "Well why didn't you just say so?"

He has to hide Thor a few times as they make their way to the city, each time the illusion holds a little better, but leaves him more fatigued, and there's a persistent buzzing in his skull by the time they reach the right place.

There are fine inns and taverns higher in the city, but this is a more common establishment with a rougher reputation. The dingy alehouse is packed, tables and bar crowded with warriors, regaling each other with war stories, drinking and picking at the plates of food provided.

Volstagg sits at one such table, his sturdy form crammed into a small corner, clearly a few pints in, talking with Hildegund, the ásynja he's courting. Fandral sits at the same table, picking half-heartedly at a tray of fruit and taking small sips from a tankard. It's not quite raucous yet, but that's the clear direction of the evening.

"Volstagg! Volstagg, it's us!" Thor whispers, to explain his impenetrable disguise of having his hood pulled up. His brother bobs his head towards him, still in the guise of the stable hand. "Here, this is Loki."

Fandral shifts over in the bench to make room for them, flags down a serving girl for more drinks, and had anyone need of another sign that this were a terrible day, he doesn't even attempt to charm her.

Loki slides into the bench after Thor, and doesn't waste any time getting to the heart of the matter. "Where are Sif and Sigyn?"

"Ah," Volstagg nods, Hildegund offering a kindly pat on the shoulder as he sniffs, then takes another long draught. "The poor little thing drank too much of the sjaund, too quickly."

"Sif's taken her home," Fandral explains, as two more tankards of dark, bitter ale are set down before them.

They don't stay as long as Thor would have liked, but enough that the next toast to the fallen is attended by a boy from the palace stables and a lunatic who won't pull his hood down indoors.

"It's alright," Thor assures him as they make their way back towards Valaskjálf, an arm over his shoulder and maybe just a tiny waver in his step. "Sif has her." An involuntary little smile pulls at his mouth, for a moment, at the familiar choice of words.

"And I've got you," he responds, taking a bit more of his tipsy brother's weight.

"You lost her?"

Sif narrows her eyes at Loki's allegation, takes a sharp breath. "She isn't lost, she left. She was gone when I awoke this morning. What am I meant to do? Imprison her in my cellar?"

"Sif, you had one job—"

Around their favoured meeting place, Thor and Fandral are resting bleary eyes, the blonds seated on the steps with their heads in their hands as the dark-haired pair quarrel. Their redheads are absent. No one had expected Sigyn to turn up today, and they'd all taken a day from their classwork, but he had at least expected Sif to know where she was.

"She could be off in the woods somewhere," Thor offers. "We could go search for her."

"We'd never find her," Fandral groans beside him, shielding his eyes from the bright afternoon sun. "She could stay out there for weeks if she had a mind to. Or… You know, indefinitely."

"Look," Sif snaps, loud enough to make the other two boys jump. The girl takes a deep breath to compose herself, her mouth drawn into a thin line as she makes for the rack of weaponry. She continues, tersely, in a tone that brooks no argument. "She'll come back to us when she's ready."

She doesn't. Not the next day, not the day after. He waits in their usual places to no avail, more than once wanders to the little cottage at the edge of town. Pebble barriers and bare shrubs mark the place where their garden will soon erupt into a wild tangle of flowers and vines, cared for, but never shaped or tamed outside of the little vegetable garden around back. The fields behind, now bare, will be full of towering sunflowers come summer. The cottage is empty. The sheltered pile of firewood never diminishes between visits, and when he peers through the windows he sees no signs of life: just gathering dust, and an empty bookshelf in her bedroom.

More than once, he tries to find her with magic, but his attempts are clumsy and the fire yields nothing. His mother catches him over her brazier, and gently insists that he stop.

It's a week before Fandral and Sif report that she was there in the classroom that morning, in body, at least. Her mind was elsewhere, and she'd hurried away when they'd asked her to join them.

"Well that's something, at least," Thor says hopefully. "Did you get any sense of when she might come back to training?"

Sif and Fandral exchange a look that immediately sets Loki on edge. "That's just it, ah…" Fandral sighs, searches for a moment, with an uncomfortable grimace. "Sige's not coming back."

Thor's brows furrow, but his optimism doesn't fade. "It's still so early, of course she'll need a while—"

Fandral winces in sympathy, looking between them and especially to Sif's tense expression, with and a kind of reluctant understanding. "She was… adamant."

Loki observes the exchange but doesn't contribute, one hand anxiously working at the knuckles of the other, as Sif stalks over to him by the training weaponry, her jaw tight. "She wants nothing more to do with any of this. Congratulations," she snaps, "you were right."

Loki doesn't respond, just steps around her and keeps going right up the stairs. He's vaguely aware of Thor calling to him, but he doesn't stop. Soon he's cleared the courtyard, then the palace grounds to the street, then past the marketplace and down the central road that cuts through the city.

It's a long way to the Observatory. Normally this trip is made on horseback, but he doesn't' feel like explaining himself to the stable hands, and he's not opposed to long walks. It's time alone with his thoughts, which aren't exactly pleasant company today, but it's time to run scenarios and plan how best to approach the situation, whatever answer he gets.

The Rainbow Bridge's construction grows simpler as he draws farther from the city, eventually nothing more than an iridescent walkway suspended between the occasional support pillars. He's used the Bifrost, but he's never been here alone, not without his parents and brother and a full retinue and guard, bound for visits with the royal families of the Vanir or the Ljósálfar. He stops as he nears the brassy dome at the bridge's end, takes a few curious steps closer to the side, risks another, and once a few scant feet from the edge, peers over.

Far, far below the rainbow bridge, white foam churns on the water as it cascades over the rocky edge and disperses into the thick mist that drifts up from below, rainbow colours cast by sunlight through the spray, and past it, nothing but blackness and the distant light of stars.

"Careful," cautions a deep voice from behind him, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. "If you fall, there's no saving you." He finds Heimdall by the doorway to the outpost, imposing in his heavy golden armor, but his expression might be called pleasant, were it not for the unnerving, brilliant citrine eyes that somehow seemed to be looking into rather than at him.

"It's a long way down," Loki agrees, trying to force his heart back down from his throat, straightens casually.

"Were the Bifrost open, it would scatter you across all creation. Or, so the theory goes." Loki doesn't respond to that, but he does step away from the side. The gatekeeper smiles, faintly, bows his head in formal acknowledgement. "Did his Highness come down here to stargaze? Or is there perhaps some way I might be of service?"

Loki takes a deep breath, and pulls himself taught, lifting his chin, straightening his back. "Sir Gatekeeper, it is said that you see everything that transpires across the Nine Realms."

"And beyond them," the gatekeeper adds, but motions for him to continue.

"Sigyn Helgadóttir. You must know where she is."

Heimdall nods, slowly, with a look of patronizing sympathy that makes Loki bristle. "You cannot find your friend, because your friend does not wish to be found. My power is for the protection of Asgard from its enemies, and any secrets I come across in that duty are not mine to reveal— but know that your friend is safe, she is fed and sheltered. Her mother saw to that."

"What does that mean? That's all anyone will tell me," Loki hears the frustration rising in his voice and bites it back, tries to maintain the noble bearing his parents have shown him.

"I mean work, your Highness," Heimdall answers. He's deliberately ambiguous as he reassures the prince that Sigyn will be allowed to continue attending classes, but will otherwise be expected to serve the household that's taken her on.

Loki's brows furrow as he thinks. Deep down, a part of him had been hoping that some terrible obstacle was preventing her from seeking him out, one that could be removed. Why would she not want to see him? He'd come down here determined to find her, with or without Heimdall's assistance, but perhaps he should leave her be, as he keeps being advised. He dismisses all of that with a shake of his head, and looks back up at the Gatekeeper. "Is it at least somewhere agreeable?" Loki asks finally, his composure tainted by a troubled expression. "Are they good to her?"

"Go home, your Highness," Heimdall turns to look back towards the distant city, eyes unfocused as he takes in everything at once, and he gets the distinct impression that he means to signal the end of this conversation. "It's a fair walk back to the palace, and if you leave now, you'll be back in time for supper."

The sky is only just beginning to dim when he reaches home, trudging through the palace grounds and making for the royal solar. Despite Heimdall's warnings, he's well ahead of the evening meal, so the Great Hall is relatively empty as he passes by, not yet teeming with nobles and warriors, but he does hear voices from within.

"—speak only when spoken to, do I make myself clear?" Ugh, Fimafeng. He's not even particularly high up in the hierarchy of household help, but Loki can often observe him ordering the others around as though he were; but, unpleasant and uppity are an unparalleled combination when choosing a target for mischief, so Loki supposes he does have his uses. "I don't care how funny you think you are. Any trouble and it's back to the scullery. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," answers the soft, broken little voice, and Loki stops dead in his tracks. "I understand."

When he peeks into the chamber, Sigyn follows behind Fimafeng, carefully cradling a pitcher of water as he shows her where to stand, how to serve. She's dressed head to toe in the servants' dull colours: a brown dress with a lighter brown hangerock— like a little female songbird, drab and invisible. She looks pale, and fatigued, but tries to be attentive to his direction, even as the pitcher nearly slips from her fingers when she stifles a yawn.

She steadies the vessel to rub at her weary eyes with the heel of her palm as Fimafeng drones on about proper table setting, and as she blinks them open again, her gaze falls across the doorway. Sigyn freezes at the sight of him, her eyes wide for an instant. She ducks her head, mutters some hasty excuse to an annoyed Fimafeng, and scurries away.

Loki can do little more than watch her go, rooted to the spot, his heart sinking.

She's not allowed anywhere near the high table, so it's hard to get her attention.

That night as the Great Hall fills with the bustle of their court, he keeps his eyes on the servers, and traces the route the older girl she's shadowing takes around the hall. The closest she gets is a few tables away, but finally, finally he manages to catch her eye.

He knows he should probably point her out to Thor, but not yet. She still seems mortified that he's found her, and he tells himself to wait until she's looking a bit less fragile.

Sigyn's eyes dart away when she notices him watching, but he waits until she inevitably glances back in his direction again, and holds a secretive finger to his lips. Shh. Her brows dip, but Loki just smiles, and gently nudges the saucer of gravy on the table between himself and Thor a little closer to his brother.

Thor's hair is getting long, again, and though the top is pulled back from his face, he wears it loose around his shoulders. Every time he ducks his head towards his plate, he dunks a particular long lock of his hair into the gravy.

Sigyn's watching out of the corner of her eye, and suddenly she twitches, surprising herself as she suddenly raises a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.

"Oh what— augh!" Thor recoils as he realizes what's happened, grimacing and holding the slimy tendril away from him. From the seat beside him, he catches a sidelong glance from their mother, but she doesn't say anything as he excuses himself from the table, offering to grab some water to clean it up, and obviously it's quicker to just do it himself, than wait for it to be brought. Thor's more than a little suspicious, but thanks him.

The serving girl reflexively grabs the pitcher from Sigyn's hands, as though handing him something required a certain amount of expertise, but he thanks her for it, taking it with one hand. As he does, the other he slips behind his back, towards Sigyn, and with a tiny flex of his magic, the book they'd been sharing appears in it. He waves it insistently until he feels its weight leave his hands, and then hastens back to the high table. Thor wets a cloth napkin and starts scrubbing at the now-drying gravy strands.

The older ásynja points Sigyn back towards the kitchen, presumably for a fresh pitcher, and she hastens towards the back of the room to the kitchens. Loki catches her stop there, just outside of the hall and even with the high table, where she's hidden from the rest of the hall, and she pulls the book from her apron pocket to find the note he's left tucked inside.

My dearest Sigyn,

While I understand that this constitutes a profound breach of our agreement, I hope you'll forgive me for reading ahead without you. Under the circumstances, I wanted to ensure that this story had a happy ending before I returned it to you. Despite the seemingly impossible situation our protagonists found themselves facing where last you left off, I will attest that the conclusion is as satisfying as it is implausibly fortuitous.

I feel as though you could use it.

Yours, sincerely,

Loki

She turns to look at him, eyes wide, book hugged tight to her chest, note still caught in her fingers. Loki smiles at her, waves, a playful twiddle of his fingers. And slowly, hesitantly, she replies with a tiny, shy wave of her own, an acknowledgement.

He taps his brother on the shoulder to get his attention, a preemptive hand placed there, because when Thor sees what he's indicating his instinct is to spring immediately to his feet and Loki's ready to keep him from overturning his chair and barreling over to her. "Easy." His brother is shocked, but the baffled stare becomes a crooked grin, and he waves to her, a more animated gesture. He sees her shoulders shake as she stifles another laugh, but in that same hesitant way, she waves back.

Sigyn tucks the note back into the book, the book back into her apron pocket, and sets off towards the kitchen. It's still pained, but before she disappears down the hallway, he sees the beginnings of a smile.


Author's Note:

Still gradually bringing this over from AO3. A huge thank you to everyone reading, I hope you're enjoying thus far! I wanted to mention this last time, but it became relevant here, so. In terms of stuff that has virtually no comic book/mythological basis: apparently Sif was probably an agricultural deity and marvel made her the goddess of war, so I'm just going to make the executive decision that Sigyn can be outdoorsy.