Title: Aristeia
Author: Girl Who Writes
Characters: Sif, Sif/Loki
Word Count: 1453
Rating: M
Genre: Horror, Angst, Drama
Summary: She is so tired of this fear, that lays so heavy upon her shoulders. There might have been a time when fear was something easily discarded but she will not think of those things that have come before. Not now. Not yet.
Notes: This takes place in a Post-Avengers, possible Post-Dark World.
I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to read, leave kudos or review. It means a lot to me.
This was originally written as the final chapter, but I've since continued onwards, consider this the end of the first arc - more questions are asked and a few of them even answered in the next 'arc'.
Anyway, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this chapter!
Disclaimer: The MCU belongs to Marvel and Disney, and I make no profits from this fan-based venture.
part three: when all of this makes the news, will they remember to tell it right?
They take her away from the dust and the dirt, from the darkness and the rock. She can listen to them a little now, captures strands and sounds and pieces together these people who remembered her.
She cowers when the hammer is swung so close to her, her breathing a fragile thing, shattering a chain she never notice looped so tightly around one wrist, blood and skin flaking away as it is pried off and tossed aside.
It is the Captain, the one who brought her the water, who so gently gathers her in his arms, so concerned with her pain and her ruined leg. It is Loki - that name is like a chime, a death knell in her head but she is not ready to put the fragments in order yet - who tucks a cape around her.
And they leave in a moment of bright lights and the acrid sting of magic on the back of her tongue.
They go to a place called The Tower, and something about that makes her feel well guarded, at least, because safe is something that is long gone and lost for her.
But there is too much light, too much sound.
There are more people, wide-eyed and horror-struck and she is tired and wants to be left alone now. There are three new men that leave her rigid in fear, remembering the blows of a mace, the dull strike of an axe, the slash of a sword. She cannot look in their eyes, cannot hear their words, so she does not.
She wants water and sleep, but is offered neither, is ferried down into the depths, to a cold metal table under harsh, blinding lights that leave her squinting and her head pounding and she is finally sick, coughing around the scant mouthful of water as she is surrounded by people once again, their lips moving in words she doesn't hear.
The one who bears the hammer approaches her and flinches as she shrinks back at the sight of him. He is so careful, as he meets her gaze and places the hammer across the room from her, where she can see it.
She is unsure whether that gesture is meant to be a threat, a reminder or a comfort.
He holds her arms against her body firmly, enough that she cannot move and it is enough to make it hard for her to breathe.
The one who bears the axe holds her leg down, and the Captain looks at her with eyes that apologise before he pulls and pushes the bone of her leg back into place, tearing the skin more and the pain is a live thing that swallows her whole and she screams, and chokes and struggles away from all the hands that hold her down. Her good leg swings out, catches the Captain in the chest; the one who bears the axe jumps backwards before it catches him, with the hint of a hopeful smile on his face. She buries her elbow into the one who bears the hammer, and he grunts, releasing her.
She is so tired of this fear, that lays so heavy upon her shoulders. There might have been a time when fear was something easily discarded but she will not think of those things that have come before. Not now. Not yet. Everything is too raw.
The Doctor is calm, soothing, speaking to her and offering her something. A stone of gold, with veins of quartz and impurities that smell of something that allows the tension to flee, the silent threat of the hammer to disperse.
Healing stones. These she knows, remembers. Crushed and scattered, they knit flesh, smooth over scars, brush away the hurts. They are a promise without words, and she nods at the Doctor, her hands closing carefully around the one he has given her.
It takes time. The hurts remaining on her body are numerous, hidden under her ragged clothing. The Doctor is patient, and the smell of the crushed stones is something leafy that makes her relax some more, running her fingers over the scars as they slowly sink back into her flesh and vanish.
They piece her body back together slowly, carefully, wrapping her in rough cloth bandages to remind her of weakness. The white of the bandages is startling against the dirty stains of her skin.
Then there is the Widow. She likes the Widow without knowing her - her title alone makes her think of a survivor, of the last one standing, and that is something she respects to the bone. She brings soft, clean clothing and understanding without pity.
The Doctor helps her stand for the first time in so dreadfully long. They ache as she tries to center her weight, and her first steps are clumsy. Reassurances rush around her, that she will heal and get stronger. That it's been so long, it will take time.
Time lost all meaning a long time ago.
For all intents and purposes, she is wrecked.
The Captain takes her arm with a kind smile and they slowly make their way to the strange box that will take them to the top of the tower again. When her feet falter, catch and slip, he holds her up without a word.
There are so many people when they arrive in the right room, but they are not her focus. They are more words and pitying gazes. Her attention is upon the window, the light. The window stretches across the entire wall, revealing a blue sky streaked with pink and gold, a sprawling city of shining grey buildings, a perfect green expanse in the center. The Captain obligingly escorts her to the window, where she can press her bandaged hand against the glass and consider where she is now.
Perhaps she should feel relief, gratitude, hope. Emotions that bury nothing, that are all weakness and debt.
She still flinches when the one who bears the hammer appears at her shoulder, shrinks back as his hand rests heavily upon her shoulder. She is so aware of him, of his violence, that his words sound very loud, very sudden and urgent.
"We are in Midgard," he says. "Where I came when I was banished." He smiles at her with hope so obvious it is a tangible thing. She just looks back at the sky.
"Do you not remember? The disastrous excursion to Jotunheim?" His hope is stretched thin now.
The Captain shifts at her left side and says something; suddenly she is in the grip and care of the one who bears the hammer. But he does not draw her from the window - he lets her stand before the window and gaze at this place called Midgard as the sky slowly turns from blue to pink and gold to darkness. He watches he the entire time, his eyes scoring her bruised face.
She feels her lips move in the old mantras, the ones that kept the agony from breaking her entirely in the beginning, nonsensical words that are just sounds, and only when the great city is wreathed in darkness does she look back up at her companion.
His eyes are shiny, reflecting light and something akin to guilt.
"It took us far too long," he says so quietly, carefully that she wants to wrench out of his cautious grip. "But we came for you, Sif. You're safe now."
She does not say a word.