For one instant, the world was at a complete standstill, frozen in a capsule of time stretching out into eternity in all directions.
Loki could see every snowflake in the air and on the ground, each rock and shrub and speck of dirt, all of it blissfully unaware of the surrounding horror.
He could see the dull reflection of every Chitauri soldier's armor, every weak point – at the neck, the groin, just under their arms – a bright spot just waiting for a dagger.
But most of all, he could see The Other bathed in the glow of the fire before him, the flames consuming the one being in all the nine realms that had kept Loki bound to the vestiges of his sanity. He could feel those tethers burning away, destroyed as quickly and decisively as Sigyn herself.
It was as if time was a tightly coiled spring, waiting to be pulled from either end. And when it finally unraveled, so would he along with it, and this world would finally know the destruction of which he was truly capable.
He sees her as soon as he turns the corner from the stairwell, and he stops before she can hear him coming.
His mother's newly appointed handmaiden…Sigyn Aradottir, according to the note his mother sent the night before.
It was a strangely worded note; in every instance before, his mother's requests for his surreptitious help had only asked for information, for his observation and regurgitation of facts and nothing more. Never for his judgment of the girl herself.
But this note, about this particular girl, asked for exactly that. I want to know what you think about her, it read. She reports for her duties in the morning; your opinion of her would be most valuable.
Odd…but if his mother wants his opinion, he will be more than happy to give it.
He watches her for a moment as she knocks on his mother's chamber doors and waits patiently for an answer. She is unremarkable from a distance; her light brown hair is pinned up in the braids so favored in the court – undoubtedly an attempt to please the queen's sense of style – each strand carefully plaited and tamed. She is slightly taller than average, of average build – perfectly average and ordinary in every way. He hopes she has a personality to make up for her outward mediocrity.
When there is no answer from the queen, she turns to look at the tapestries outside his mother's chambers. He can't remember the last time he even noticed them hanging there, but Sigyn studies them with such concentration he thinks the figures depicted would blush under the scrutiny, were they alive. She raises her hand as if to reach out and feel the cloth, but her fingers stay just above the images, tracing them without touching them.
The urge to talk to her is abrupt, compelling him to move forward – he takes care to walk noisily to alert her to his presence without startling her.
Hearing his footsteps, she stops her inspection and hurries back to the doors to the queen's chambers. The surprise on her face as she sees him and not the queen isn't entirely unexpected. What he doesn't expect is eyes the color of the mid-day sky at the edge of the Bifröst, and the way she looks directly at him without fear of rebuke or censure.
"Who are you?" he asks, knowing full well who she is, but needing to look curious. It wouldn't do to appear to know too much. Not just yet.
"Sigyn, Your Highness. Sigyn Aradottir," she says, executing a perfect curtsy in deference to him even in her obviously flustered state. "Her Majesty's new handmaiden."
"What happened to the last girl?"
"I believe she recently married, and left to start a family."
"I see," he says, already putting the last girl out of his mind. "Why are you out here? Does my mother have you studying the tapestries?"
"Oh, no. I was told to wait here if no one answered the door." Her face softens into a tentative smile, and it is all Loki can do to maintain his air of indifference. Far too late, he realizes his error; she is not average, not mediocre. Not at all.
"So, she is not here?"
"I can only assume not, Your Highness. I didn't open the door." A cloud of worry passes over her face at what she clearly feels is an impertinent answer, and he can no longer stop himself from smiling back at her to put her at ease. He tells himself he's imagining the slight widening of her eyes as he does so, the tiny hitch in her breath as she studies his features as closely as she did the tapestry.
"Of course not," he says. "Will you tell her that I stopped by to see her?"
"Yes, of course. Nothing more than that?"
"No." He decides to test her once before taking his leave. "Thank you, Sigrid," he says, deliberately using the wrong name to judge her reaction. He turns and is several steps away from her before she replies, her voice so low he nearly misses it.
"It's Sigyn."
For half a breath he wants to turn back to her, to apologize for getting her name wrong even if it was a ruse, but he merely continues on, only a momentary slowing of his pace giving away that he heard her. He doesn't stop until he is around the corner and down the first few steps of the stairwell.
Loki could no longer feel the cold.
The roaring in his ears clarified itself as time began to speed up once again.
He caught noises, voices in varying stages of rage and panic.
Stark, from his suit, hovering just above…behind?...him – "Thor, get him out of here!"
Thor – calling his name. Imagined perhaps? Easily ignored.
Natasha...barking out orders to the waiting S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers.
A whooshing sound – Barton's arrows…the Captain's shield. Chitauri weapons? Everything a blur.
The crackle of Mjölnir…gathering energy from the surrounding air. Preparing to expel it in a burst of lightning – to raze the Chitauri down.
But above all this, he could hear a scream, animalistic in its fury and possessed of an overpowering mournfulness, and it took him several seconds to realize it was coming from his own throat.
He was on his feet before he was even aware of moving, the shackles and fetters disintegrated from his wrists and ankles in a flash of magic and something more base and visceral…and as he glanced down to his newly freed limbs, he could see the telltale blue skin peeking out from his sleeve.
Oh, these creatures had no idea what they had unleashed.
His hands shot forward, a green haze of magic intermingling with the ice and cold of his jotun nature, and a dozen Chitauri were eliminated – some by daggers, some by sheets and spikes of ice, all before he had even taken one step forward.
He was mindless in his rage, every move automatic and involuntary. Daggers flew from his fingertips as quickly as he could conjure them, each of them finding a target effortlessly, one creature after another felled by his grief.
One more blast from his fingers, and The Other was encapsulated in a thick blanket of ice and magic, impenetrable to even the strongest Midgardian weapon.
That one…that one – he would die last.
He calls forth a bit of his magic to cloak himself from view, and returns to the top of the stairs.
She hasn't moved from the spot in which he left her, one hand on her hip and the other on her forehead. Her eyes are closed and she is shaking her head, talking to herself in a loud whisper.
"Norns be blessed, Sigyn – what is wrong with you? If the prince wants to call you Sigrid, or Olaf, or Lars the Bearded Goat, then you damn well let him." She blows a breath out between her teeth, and looks up to the ceiling. "Please, don't let this be a harbinger of things to come." One more sigh and a shake of her head, and she is as poised as a statue once more.
He is so struck by how quickly she regains her composure he almost doesn't notice the footsteps behind him. Keeping himself concealed, he dashes across the corridor and tucks himself into an alcove just as his mother comes into view.
"Ah, Sigyn!" she says as she approaches her chambers. "Good morning!"
"Good morning, Your Majesty. It's a pleasure to see you again - I'm so looking forward to working with you."
They make small talk as the queen opens her chamber doors, and Loki uses the opportunity afforded by their inattention to sneak down the corridor, slipping into the queen's rooms behind them right before the doors shut.
The two women make their way to the sitting area, and he leans against a far wall as they take their seats.
"Your son was here just before you arrived, ma'am. Though, you probably saw him on the stairs."
"Hmmm, no, the stairs were empty as I came up. Which son was it?"
For a moment, Sigyn looks nonplussed, but recovers quickly. "Prince Loki."
"Did you speak to him?"
"Yes, ma'am. He asked me to tell you he stopped by."
"I do hope he was pleasant to you. He can come across as fairly brusque to those he's only just met."
Loki's jaw tenses at this, the urge to reveal and defend himself almost overwhelming his better judgment. He cannot help that he finds so many of the court's sycophants intolerably boring.
"Oh, he was lovely," says Sigyn, and if he didn't know better, he would swear she's blushing. "Uh, kind, I mean. He was quite kind."
"Kind? You're certain it was Loki?"
Oh, he's going to have words with his mother later.
"Yes, ma'am. Tall, black hair, green eyes. Rather intense." She hurries to clarify. "But not in a bad way, of course."
His mother laughs quietly. "No. If I was allowed only one word to describe my younger son, 'intense' would be just about perfect."
A bolt of lightning from Mjölnir lit up the sky, shaking Loki from his thoughts. He looked down, noticing for the first time the ruined Chitauri mask in his hand, drops of the creature's dark blue blood and gore from its crushed head still clinging to the metal.
Loki looked around his feet to see dozens more lifeless Chitauri, unable to count their true number for the sheer amount of parts to which their bodies had been reduced. The fabric and leather of his clothing were saturated with what he hoped at first was their blood alone – but as his senses slowly returned, he could also feel the telltale ache of injuries where the vile creatures had been able to get in a few hits before meeting their demise.
He pulled forth just enough of his healing magic to remain on his feet, to keep moving and rending and splitting and slashing and killing.
He no longer had any expectations of leaving that field alive – Sigyn, prepare me a place in Valhalla; do not worry, our son will be well cared for, but I cannot survive without you – but he would be damned if he didn't send every one of the remaining Chitauri to their own doom first.
The queen and Sigyn talk for a while longer, discussing her duties and establishing what will be expected of her. Loki remains discreetly hidden, continuing his requested observation.
It takes him no time at all to come to the conclusion that Sigyn is fiercely intelligent, inquisitive and composed. Vibrant and effervescent and clever and…beautiful. Beautiful? The last descriptor flits across his mind unbidden, and he wonders for a moment how he could have ever thought her otherwise. He mentally chastises himself; he's certain that when his mother asked for his judgment, she wasn't asking for his thoughts on her new handmaiden's looks. He'll keep that opinion secret or the queen will think he's lost his mind.
He comes back to himself as they rise from their seats, watching as his mother hands Sigyn a slip of paper.
"I have a dress that needs to be taken to the palace seamstresses for repair. I also need you to stop by the kitchens and have them send up some tea and pastries this afternoon. I'm expecting a visitor later."
"Yes, ma'am."
Frigga retrieves her dress, handing it to Sigyn and sending her on her way. The door has barely latched behind her when the queen speaks.
"I know you're here, Loki. Show yourself."
He lowers his cloaking magic at once. "Must you always act so surprised when someone describes me as 'kind'?"
"Did I? I didn't realize."
He rolls his eyes, careful not to let her see him do it.
"Come sit with me," she says.
He settles onto the sofa, right where Sigyn had been sitting mere moments prior, and he can smell her in the air. Rain and apples and flowers and a thousand other things he can't put his finger on, and he has to stop himself from breathing in too deeply or noticeably.
"So, what are your thoughts?"
"Myriad. Unless you mean something specific?"
"Don't be daft. What are your thoughts about Sigyn?"
"She seems intelligent enough," he says, crossing one leg over the other at the ankle and picking at a scratch in the leather of his boot. "I think she'll be a passable handmaiden for you, Mother."
"Merely 'passable'?"
"Well, I'll need to observe her when she's alone to be sure. Intelligence doesn't preclude deviousness, you know."
"No, I rather think in some people those two qualities go hand in hand." She arches an eyebrow at him.
He ignores her implication. "My first impression, though limited, is that she will serve you well."
"Is that all?"
Of course not, he thinks. She is fearless and erudite and damn near perfect; I didn't even know she existed until thirty minutes ago and already if I think about her eyes or her lips for too long I get a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach – but of course he says none of this. "Isn't that enough?"
"I suppose." She looks at him for a beat, as though deciding if she wants to press the issue, before simply nodding her head.
Loki had never felt less alive.
The sky went white, brighter than anything the Midgardian technology or Mjölnir could produce – the Bifröst, opening up into the field and depositing wave after wave of Einherjar forces to reinforce their numbers – led by the Warriors Three and Sif.
The exhaustion that had settled into Loki was otherworldly in its pervasiveness. He could feel the Chitauri blood over his entire body, matting his hair and congealing on his cold jotun face. They had nearly all been eliminated, and those few that were left were falling quickly to the Asgardians' swords.
The sky lit up once more, and at once the remaining Chitauri fell dead. With considerable effort, Loki raised his head to the sky just in time to make out the image of the orbiting Chitauri ship being blown apart, the beam of the Bifröst having been opened directly through it.
He could no longer conjure even the smallest dagger to throw in relief or celebration; what little magic he had left to him was being focused entirely on healing his injuries. Not that it truly mattered anymore.
He took three more steps before collapsing face first into the snow.
A minute - an hour? a lifetime? - later, pain shot through his body as he was none-too-gently rolled over onto his back. He couldn't muster the strength to scream in protest; instead, the only sound he was able to produce was a shaky whimper. He looked up to see an Einherjar soldier leaning over him, one he recognized.
"Edmund," said Loki, his voice hardly more than a whisper. "Your sister…Sigyn…she is dead…"
"No," said Edmund, shaking his head in confusion, his knuckles going white on the hilt of his sword. "That's not –"
"She is dead because of me –"
"No," said Edmund once again, and this time he raised his sword.
Loki and his mother talk for a while longer, straying from the subject of her handmaiden to more familiar and comfortable territory before he excuses himself.
"I should really be going, Mother. Thor asked for my help with some information about a sword he'd like to have made for Sif. He's supposed to meet me in the library this afternoon; I do hope he remembers where it is."
"You don't give your brother enough credit, Loki. I'm sure it will take him no more than three tries to find it."
He takes her offered hand, and squeezes it affectionately. "If you like, I can come back tomorrow for more…observation."
"Yes, I would like that very much. Speaking of..." She looks over his shoulder as the chamber doors open once again, signaling Sigyn's return.
"Until tomorrow, then," he says, bowing to her before turning to leave. Just before he passes Sigyn, he makes an unobtrusive gesture with his hand, and the paper she is holding flies from her grip to settle at his feet. He retrieves it and holds it out to her.
She reaches for it, and he intentionally grasps it in such a way that her fingers slide over his as she takes it from him. For one instant, the world goes sideways.
"Thank you, Your Highness," she says, and this time there is no mistaking the blush in her cheeks or the falter in her breath. She lowers her eyes quickly, and steps away.
He glances at his mother just in time to catch her watching him with a look of smug knowledge, and he can't even bring himself to scowl at her. He spins on his feet before she can say anything, nearly launching himself out the door so he can gather his wits and draw in a halting breath.
Calm yourself, he thinks. If you're not careful, that girl is going to be the death of you.
The sun was just beginning to rise over the horizon, glinting off of Edmund's armor like a beacon.
Every shallow breath was agony. Edmund's sword would be more mercy than he deserved, but Loki couldn't form the words to thank him.
He closed his eyes, completely at peace for the first time in an age – thoughts of his wife the last thing on his mind.
Sigyn. I love you. I will be with you soon.
And then, darkness.
A/N: I am horribly, dreadfully aware that this new chapter does nothing to assuage the emotional devastation of the last, and for that I humbly beg my readers' forgiveness. Be comforted by the fact that the story is not yet over - and that barring any unforeseen complications, the next chapter will be posted next Monday, right on schedule. Thank you so much for all the follows/favorites/reviews - they are all noticed and appreciated more than I can express (even the angry reviews). ;)