Author's Note: Heeey! Welcome to September, my stars! Feeling like a half-dead sloth, but I am alive! Thank you so much for your encouragement! You're all amazing. :) Lots of love and hugs to all of you! ;D

Warnings: some violence, physiological torture, mild torture, potentially disturbing elements.


Chapter Five:

Sif's heart won't beat right inside her chest. It feels like it might stop at any given opportunity, and she has to clench her teeth together to keep herself calm. Her fingers are going numb from how hard she's grabbing at Hogun, but she can't stop.

This has to be some sort of awful dream.

It can't be reality.

It can't be.

"Tell me you're jesting." Sif pleads, her voice barely above a whisper. She doesn't know why they would pull a jest like this. At least, not during this. This is no time for games. No time for pretending things aren't serious. Fandral could be dying.

Hogun shakes his head.

Sif exhales stiffly.

She moves to the swordmaster and stuffs two of her fingers up against his neck. His skin is hot to the touch, an indicator of fever. Not good. Her lips thin and she tries to feel for a pulse, but her hands are shaking too much. She flexes her forearm muscle almost to the point of pain before she can get them to steady enough.

Breathless, she waits.

Thump...thump...thud…

It's slow and uneven, but there. He's alive. He's breathing. He's alive. Sif thinks she could sob with relief, but holds herself together. This isn't the time to break down. They have more important things to do than put her together after a fit.

"I don't…" she swallows the words, and then forces them out because she has to. "I don't know...what to do. He's alive, but I don't…"

She has basic medical training, as all members of Asgard's army do. Field dressing. This is different. She was never taught how to care for illness in a life or death situation. Never taught how to do much else than care for a basic fever. And that's only with the right equipment. They don't have any of that here. Their bags were taken when the Weeping Siren claimed them.

Sif doesn't...she has no idea how to take the initiative here. For as long as Sif can remember, even when they were children, whenever Thor wasn't able to be in charge, she was always the second in command. Even despite her age. She's always taken the role of leader and drawn the Warriors Three together—and occasionally Loki—and gotten them to work as one unit.

She doesn't know what to do.

She feels utterly helpless.

"We need to get his fever down," Loki says and takes a slight step forward, reaching for Fandral's forehead, "does anyone have any spare water?"

No. She hasn't had free access to water since before they were claimed. (What do they do? What do they do? What do they—?)

No one answers vocally, but it seems to be enough of an answer for the second prince. Loki gently, but firmly, pulls her away from Fandral so he can feel for his pulse. Sif remembers abruptly that Loki was trained in the art of healing and thinks she might weep with relief. Loki may not have proper supplies, but he's good at improvisation. He won't let Fandral die.

Sif waits with baited breath as Loki runs a few more tests. Then, he looks up at them. "His lymph nodes are swollen and he's not breathing deep enough. An infection of the lung, I'd guess."

A swear escapes her lips softly.

What are they to do about that?

"Is he going to die?" Idrissa asks. Sif whirls. The children. There's children here. In the midst of everything else, she'd forgotten. They're huddled together with wide eyes, their hollowed faces making them look like skeletal ghosts. Sif wonders if she looks that sick, and decides that it's probably unavoidable.

She shares a frantic glance with Volstagg and Hogun.

"He's just a bit sick, is all." Volstagg is quick to promise, drawing up a smile that looks too stretched to be authentic. Even the youngest in the group don't seem to believe it. Sif doesn't blame them, and hates that she feels much the same. Forcing in a deep breath, she turns back to the Snake Prince.

"What can be done?" she questions.

Loki gives a slight shake of his head and waves her forward. Sif hesitates for a moment before moving and Loki leans down to whisper in a barely audible tone, "Without my sedir, I can't…" he trails, stops, grits his teeth and then continues, "we need a healer. Without access to water or even the most basic medical supplies, Fandral is going to die. I'd give him a few days if we're lucky."

Lucky?

They can't base the survival of their shield-brother on luck!

Sif's teeth set, worry gnawing at her bones. "Loki," she whispers, and has to remind herself to keep her voice quiet for the sake of the children behind her. "Loki, there must be something…"

Loki shakes his head. "I'm sorry, Sif. I…"

"What about escape?" Sif questions desperately, still in that hushed tone. "I've been looking, but found nothing. If we could get him to Ju, we might be able to intercept Prince Tjan's party, perhaps run into Thor. Or Heimdall. We could get him to Asgard after that."

Sif's voice is desperate. She stops, breathes, and then realizes that this the Blodig Skog. Escape would be trivial. "We have nowhere to go even if we do get out," she barely bites back a moan of despair, "we don't have a map. Norns, Fandral's going to die here."

This can't be real. Someone has to tell her she's dreaming. She'd expected her comrades to fall in battle, herself a wound away from joining them. Never, even in her wildest fantasies, had she predicted this to be their end. This is not a warrior's death. It is the death of a victim, unable to help themselves.

Loki's expression furrows and he gnaws at his lower lip before whispering, "Not...not necessarily."

Sif stops, and then looks up at him. "What?"

The second prince is quiet for a moment longer, and Sif manages to pick up the edges of conversation between Hogun, Volstagg, and the worried children behind her. It hardly seems to matter. Her gaze is locked onto Loki's pale, sickly face.

"About the map," Loki murmurs, "I still have the one I stole from my father before we left."

She casts her mind back, barely managing to pick the conversation out. It feels foggy, overshadowed by the mess that happened between then and now. It feels like so long ago. Had it really been less than a month? It must have been longer. (It hasn't been. Unless she's lost the ability to keep track of time.)

Sif's nails dig into her palms. "You said he let you borrow it." She hisses.

Loki winces, eyes closing briefly and he shakes his head. "I lied."

Had it been a few weeks ago, she doesn't think she would have been surprised. She would have scoffed, of course you did, and then refused to speak with him. They don't have time for such childishness, not with Fandral's survival on the line. The warrior is her priority right now, and if Loki wasn't honest with them, what does it matter?

Still, though, "Why?" the word tears from her throat before she can stop it.

"Thor asked to borrow it from our father, but when he couldn't procure it I...took matters into my own hands. It is what it is, and not important right now. I have it stored in a cache, if I could get access to my sedir for a few minutes, I should—"

The trapdoor to the ceiling opens, metal grinding and releasing a high-pitched wailing noise. All of them freeze, turning to look in the direction and Sif feels her stomach tightening with knots of dread. The Weeping Siren. It's morning, isn't it? That's why they were able to leave the beds. How they learned Fandral is sick in the first place.

The creature has returned to claim them for the day.

Rain splatters down onto the hard rock before the ladder Sif has come to yearn for and hate is dropped down to them. The heavens still pour down on top of them, then. Sif had privately hoped the creature's dome would repel the droplets, but it hasn't, and Sif suspects it won't.

Her throat burns, apprehension locking her limbs.

The Weeping Siren drops to the floor in a low crouch, silver hair soaked and clumping together, making her appearance more haggard and disturbing. Sif stands her ground in front of Fandral; if worst comes to worst, she will defend her shield-brother with her life. She doesn't know what the Siren does with those who are ailing.

(Did she hear Loki's confession about the map? Will she force it from him?)

"The skies still cry," the Weeping Siren notes, musical lip in her tone. "They have been unhappy for many, many days now."

No one answers her. The Weeping Siren seems to have expected this, because she isn't upset. Instead she sweeps her gaze across their gathered groups and tilts her head, "What are we doing, my darlings?"

More silence.

"Mother wants to understand, my dearests, but I can't if you don't explain." The Weeping Siren presses. Her eyes narrow and the room seems to drop in temperature. Sif's sure she's imagining it, that her frightened mind is adding to her fear, but Li—the eldest child—jumps forward and grabs at the Weeping Siren's arm.

"Mother, Mother—" Sif flinches at how desperate the boy's tone is, how little thought he places in plastering the title onto her "—don't be angry. Please. The older one is sick with fever. They fear he is dying."

The Weeping Siren's head raises, sharp gaze barreling through Sif as if she can read everything she needs to from Fandral despite the person in the way. The woman turns her attention back to Li for a brief moment to gently caress his cheek. "See, that wasn't so hard, was it, my son?"

"No, Mother." Li agrees, his face pale and haunted.

The Weeping Siren gently pulls him away to shove him towards the others and moves with purpose towards Fandral's prone form. Sif tightens, prepared to fight, but Loki grabs her shoulder and shakes his head in warning. She wants to shove him off and tackle the creature to the floor, beating the thing until she agrees to leave Fandral alone, but she's half a second too late in her dithering.

The creature shoves past the two of them easily, standing in front of Fandral for a long moment, glassy eyes sweeping up and down him. She hums almost contemplatively, and then reaches a hand out to touch Fandral's forehead.

"Wake up little bird, you miss the sun." She sings softly. The words hold weight, and Fandral's eyes tear open, the swordmaster shoving upwards. He draws in a deep, heaved gasp before coughing sharply and moaning.

He looks wretched, but Sif only manages to find relief in the fact that he's moving. He's alive. Awake. That's all that matters right now, isn't it?

"You all worry for nothing, silly little children," the Weeping Siren clicks her tongue and reaches forward, grabbing Fandral by his upper arm. "He sleeps to avoid work, and avoiding work is something we musn't avoid because punishment must be delved out."

The Weeping Siren hauls Fandral from the bed and he can't stand upright. He tumbles, disoriented and makes a weak plead Sif can't pick out distinct syllables for.

"Mother!" several children protest, beginning at first with frantic calls and then moving to wails. None of them move to offer assistance, but Sif finally manages to find her footing. She moves after the Siren and grabs the woman's shoulder.

"Stop this!" she commands. "Fandral is in no state to move let alone—whatever it is you're planning. He's not well, you demon! Let him go!" Her fists tighten, and Sif has to grind her teeth together to stop herself from tackling the Siren all together. It won't help Fandral if she does that.

The Weeping Siren smiles, but it feels more like she's baring her teeth. "I am the mother. I decide when my children are fit for work, and you do not. Trust my judgement, daughter."

"I can't…" Fandral whispers, hand pressed against the left side of his chest. He looks up with wide eyes, coughing. "I can'...breathe."

A new wave of panic washes over her. "You have to let him go!"

"He must work." The Weeping Siren insists, "If he does not want to be punished, he must work. It is the way of things."

Hogun releases a swear under his breath not fit for the age of their audience, and Volstagg cries, "That's an outrage!" behind her.

Fandral coughs several more times, spitting up blood. The Weeping Siren can't be serious. She can't be planning to drag Fandral out into the rain again and make the infection worse! The only thing that will happen is Fandral's death, punishment aside. Fandral needs rest. He needs medicine, and he needs to visit Asgard's healers.

"He must rest." Sif pleads. "Let him go, if you are so caring a mother, why will you not let him rest?"

The Weeping Siren's eyes narrow and her face grows hard edges. Sif feels as though she's crossed a line she should not have, but doesn't have the energy to care. Her head is spinning. She has to get Fandral to safety so he can breathe again. The Weeping Siren still clutches his arm in a vice-like grip.

"The punishment—" Loki starts, voice soft, but strangely commanding all at once, "—it is delved out if he doesn't do the work?"

"That is correct." The Weeping Siren agrees, bobbing her head up and down with a pleased smile. "You see, he understands—"

"Let me take it." Loki interrupts, and the room goes quiet. Sif lifts her wide eyes from her shield-brother to Loki, wondering if she heard that right. "Let me take it," Loki repeats, voice filled with more conviction. "Allow him the rest, and I will take whatever is needed so he can."

"Loki," Sif hisses under her breath, trying to breathe sense into him with her single, harsh word.

The Weeping Siren begins to shake her head, lips turned down, and Loki takes a further step forward, hands lifted as if trying to calm a wild beast. Given what this is though, the analogy may not be too far off. "No—listen to reason, he can't do anything right now," Loki's words are even, careful—Norns this is the first time she has ever wanted to weep with gratitude at the existence of his silvertongue—"it would be better for him to rest."

"But—"

"Mother—" Sif's lips part with surprise as the word falls out of her prince's mouth. Her gut tightens with a sting of betrayal on the All-Mother's part, "—please, there is no need for this. Let him rest. It will be balanced, then, yes? He rests, and I suffer for him?"

The Weeping Siren is contemplative for a moment longer before giving a slight nod. She releases Fandral and Sif moves to catch him before he can crumple forward completely on the ground. Realization at what has just been bargained strikes her, and she looks up towards the creature, "Wait—let me share the burden with Loki. I can—"

"No," the Weeping Siren shakes her head, pressing a finger to her lips, "shh. We don't punish everyone for the mistake of one. He has made his choice. Fandral rests and he will not."

"You can't—"

"Shh, daughter." The Weeping Siren's words are heavy, and Sif feels her lips press together without her support for the action. Spells. She didn't realize how heavily sedir could be intertwined with words, but now she is more aware than she ever wanted to be.

She holds Fandral close, keeping him upright so he can take in heaving gasps and looks up towards Loki. The Snake Prince refuses to meet her eyes, jaw set, eyes turned up. His fists are clenched and in the pale light from the clouded sky Sif realizes how sick he looks. He bares the face of the other children, tired, worn and hungry.

They must all share the same face now.

The Weeping Siren claps her hands together, looking jovial and it sickens Sif. "Well, children, we have no time to sit still. There is things to finish, so much to do. Come, come, who is hungry?"

000o000

Sif keeps waiting the entire day for the Weeping Siren to grab Loki by his hair and drag him off to some sort of torture chamber, but it doesn't happen. Loki isn't allowed breakfast, but it isn't filling in the first place. Sif thinks of the watery oats she barely managed to swallow this morning, and they churn in her gut. They had to leave Fandral behind, alone.

Sif sees the Siren make several trips to the cellar several times throughout the day, but she isn't allowed any further updates on the swordmaster when she asks or attempts to see for herself. Sif keeps herself rooted firmly to Loki's side as much as she can without being obvious about it, preparing for the torture chamber.

The rain falls, pattering against their clothing and skin, refusing to relent. Down and down it goes, as if the sky weeps for their plight. (A part of her wonders if this is Thor's doing, and she hates how much hope twists in her gut in her that this is the case).

Sif keeps her blade gripped hard, turning to look at Loki who is chopping at the long stalks of the seemingly never-ending field. Sif doesn't even know what the creature does with all this wheat. From what Sif's seen, the demon doesn't use it unless she somehow transforms it into oats. Maybe she sells it. Sif doesn't really care to contemplate it, save to hope that the Weeping Siren won't find any buyers for her soggy mess of weeds.

"You have the map, though?" Sif presses, when they're more isolated, and Loki looks up towards her. He gives a slight nod.

"My sedir does," he mumbles, "but I can't reach anything with the Aetheitin...and…"

"Does it hurt?" Sif questions, and suddenly realizes how insensitive the question was when Loki's shoulders tense. The second prince pauses for a moment before giving a slight nod. His hesitation makes it seem as if he expects to be reprimanded for his answer.

"Like a bruise. Sometimes I can focus on nothing else." Loki mutters. Apparently desiring to switch topics as fast as possible before Sif can further this line of inquiry, he fumbles out, "But without a way out of the dome, it's pointless. We'd need somewhere that the Siren wouldn't be aware of to cover, but there's nothing here but open field."

Sif sighs, "So we're still trapped? Even with a way to navigate?"

"Yes." Loki answers. Both of them return to the wheat, trying to pretend that the weight of this doesn't feel like they're being crushed. Still stuck. Still trapped. Still helpless maidens waiting for the rescue Sif is beginning to suspect won't happen for a long, long time.

000o000

The Weeping Siren gathers them for dinner, and hands out some sort of dish Sif suspects is fish from the river separating the two halves of the field. Sif has never been a fan of fish, not in the way she knows her parents are, but she dives into the food with a vigor she can't repress. She's almost embarrassed, but she's exhausted and her body demands substance for the energy she's expended.

Loki is again not allowed the food.

Sif hates eating in front of him, knowing he is not allowed, but when Volstagg had attempted to share the watery goop this morning with him the Weeping Siren had struck the warrior hard enough that the mark still lingers by the evening meal.

It serves as a warning, and Sif hates that it's almost enough to stop her.

She keeps waiting for the Weeping Siren to turn her back so she can slip Loki something—the prince has always been good at sleight of hand, this will be nothing to him—but the creature never does. She sits at the table Loki's hunched over at and strikes up a conversation Sif does her best to ignore.

"Stop waiting." Avil murmurs after some time when Sif has stopped biting into her food to save some for the prince. She looks towards Hogun's younger sister, trying not to be unsettled by how clear her intentions were.

"Beg pardon?"

"It's part of the punishment." Avil murmurs. "He must watch us. The Siren will not let you help. He must suffer."

"All of you made it seem like he'd be whipped to an inch of his life," Sif says, brow furrowed. She keeps her voice low so she won't draw the attention of anyone else but Hogun, seated on his sister's other side. "You said this is part of the punishment? What's the other half? Torture?"

The girl shakes her head, eyes wide. "Not the bloody kind. Not like the blood eagle Asgard does to punish the unjust kills."

Sif glances towards the Snake Prince again, and her fists curl around the edge of her plate. Norns, that idiot. If he'd just—if he'd done nothing, Fandral would be out here, sicker and weaker than before. If he'd done nothing, her friend could be dead tomorrow. He had to do something. Sif just wishes it wasn't this. She hates the unknowns of being here. The rules that make no sense and leave her only flustered and angry.

"Then what kind is it?" Sif questions.

Avil wraps her arms around her stomach, "Just hope Fandral feels better soon. It will be better for everyone."

After more prodding by Avil, Sif gives up on waiting for the Siren's attention to drift and finishes the fish. She doesn't feel satisfied, and her stomach churns as she realizes how hungry Loki must be. They've already been half starved since arriving here. To go off of nothing…

The Weeping Siren gathers up the plates and vanishes them as she has every other dish with a smile, and rounds them all towards the cellar for bed. The children go without complaint, happy to be out of the rain. Sif's headache has gotten worse as the day's passed, and she's prepared for the few hours of sleep she'll be able to catch, even if it is uncomfortable.

Her fantasies crash when the Weeping Siren grabs Loki's shoulder at last, and, in the nasal voice that's nothing flattering, says, "Stay behind with me, dearest."

Torture, a part of her mind insists, and Sif wants to grab it by the throat and rattle it. Will you stop that!? She's had no indications that drawing blood will be part of this, but her brain keeps flashing back to it again and again.

Sif stops, and looks back at the creature. She catches as Loki's face falls for the briefest second before the mask is back and he straightens any slumping that was in his posture. "What are you going to do to him?" she asks. She means for her tone to be hard and angry, but it's only quiet and tired.

"Nothing bad," the Weeping Siren promises, eyes shifting in a way that's almost a roll, "I am a loving mother. I care for my children, I will not do them harm. As Fandral sleeps, Loki will not. That was the deal. Loki takes Fandral's punishments until Fandral is well again."

"But that's—" Sif starts, wondering if this is really all it is. Sleep deprivation and forced starvation? The children's protests this morning—they've been here so much longer and she'd thought…

"Off to bed," the Weeping Siren demands, "you need to keep up your rest."

Sif holds her ground, Hogun and Volstagg beside her. "We're not going to just let you—"

"Off to bed." The Weeping Siren's voice holds no question and Sif's limbs move before she can stop them. Her teeth grind together hard enough to make her headache worse, and she doesn't stop until she's laying flat on her back and the spell releases.

The children have all huddled beneath their blankets. The room smells like wet cotton, clothing, and sweat. It's not exactly the most alluring aroma.

Sif forces out a breath and turns to look at Fandral. His eyes are closed and he's breathing with a rattle, in and out. The Weeping Siren chains them to the beds, pressing kisses against a few of the children's heads and leaves the room.

Loki doesn't come back that night.

000o000

Fandral isn't awake when they're rushed up the ladder to gather their food. Sif barely has time to check on his fever (still much the same as yesterday), gather her bearings and try to ignore the pulsing headache pounding inside her skull. Her throat is raw and aches in a way that's almost disturbingly itchy.

The rain has slowed to a soft drizzle, hardly the soaking downpour it was a few days ago, and Sif is more than grateful for this fact. (And disappointed, because this can't mean Thor is coming anymore. It doesn't mean he's here). As every day before this, Sif takes her portion of the watery oats and sits at the table.

Loki is already seated there, wet, but otherwise seeming unharmed. Some anxiety releases and she takes the seat across from him as Volstagg sits down next to him. The entire mass of children seems to ignore the usual table they sit at to crowd around this one, all stuffing themselves as much as possible around the second prince.

"You sleepy?" one of the younger children asks, voice a quiet hush.

Loki looks drastically uncomfortable in the attention—and is that strange, a rather sly part of her sneers, shouldn't he be basking in it? Doesn't he love it so? She shakes the voices off as unimportant and rendered from exhaustion—staring at the lot of them like they've grown an unnecessary body part.

"What?" He looks down at young daughter, who has squished her way onto his other side.

"Sleepy." The girl repeats. "You need the sleeps-sleeps yet?"

"I'm fine, thank you," Loki promises, smiling in a way that's a little too tight to be sincere. His eyes are wide, though, as if he wasn't expecting this to happen. For anyone to ask.

The girl's lips turn down in a frown and Li's expression goes pained for a moment. Haunted. "Enjoy it while it lasts."

That's not ominous at all. Sif sighs and shakes her head at the dramatics of the young ones, focusing her attention on the Snake Prince and ignoring the Weeping Siren's frowned displeasure sent their way. "Did she harm you?"

Again, Loki gives her that wide-eyed look. "No." He says slowly. "No, I'm fine."

He looks fine. A little tired, maybe anxious, but fine.

"What did she do?" Hogun questions, brow furrowed some as he gives the second prince a hard stare.

Loki's lips press together and his fingers tighten some. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not discuss it. You should eat that," he tips his head in the direction of their bowls, "it's going to get cold."

"Was it ever warm?" Sif mutters conversationally, dipping her spoon inside of the watery mush. It tastes like ash in her mouth, and she can see Loki's quiet longing even if he voices nothing. The Weeping Siren stares at them with a near-murderous stare that prevents Sif from trying to slip Loki the food again.

000o000

Sif keeps an eye out for any possible escape routes, but finds none. Her hands are still jittery and her head feels like it's been stuffed with cotton, but she keeps moving forward. Keeps cutting, and trying to focus on something other than how much her shoulders hurt.

They return that night, and it's a near mimic of before. Loki is kept out, and they return to the cellar.

Fandral is awake this time, groggy and barely able to get two words of a question out before he's vomiting everywhere and the Weeping Siren rushes at him to soothe his aches and clean him up. Sif scowls into her back, but if the creature is aware of it, she says nothing.

Fandral doesn't get better (to the point of standing or moving) the next day.

Or the following.

Or the one after that.

It's day six when Sif finally cracks and plops herself down beside the second prince, shoving a bit of her meal towards him. Loki has not slept or eaten since that day, and it's starting to show. His hands are twitching and anxious, he cut himself on the dull blade three times this afternoon. His eyes have gained deep shadow-like bags. The bones on his face have become more prominent.

Sif curses their enhanced metabolisms and shoves the bit of food towards him. "Fandral's getting better," she whispers, "I'd say a day or two before he's on his feet again. You need to eat something. Keep up your strength."

Loki looks like he might be sick at the sight of the bit of barely cooked fish she's shoving towards him. He shakes his head. "I can't." He breathes.

"Loki, please," Volstagg pleads. "It's been nearly a week."

"I can't." Loki repeats, stuffing his fingers into the crooks of his arms. "Mother will be cross with me."

Sif stills, her tongue tangling inside the roof of her mouth. She shares a frantic look with Volstagg. Mother. He really said that in regards to the Weeping Siren. Not his mother, the Queen, but this—this creature that has half-starved him.

Mother.

"Loki," Volstagg barely manages to keep his voice in check, "that thing is not your mother. You are the son of Queen Frigga."

Loki bites at his lip and wipes hair from his face. "I'm so tired, please, don't...don't make me think. My head is too loud. I want it to be quiet." He grips at the sides of his hair.

The Weeping Siren's arm suddenly latches around Loki's shoulders and Loki stills at the contact. The creature's smile is wide and sickly. Sif wants to break her nose hard enough to cause deformation to the ugly face.

"Do you eat, my child?" the Weeping Siren questions, "It is not fit for you to consume anything yet."

Loki straightens, slapping Sif's attempted offering aside and shakes his head. "No, Mother. I did not."

"Good." The Siren coos and runs a hand through his hair. "Very good."

Sif thinks she might be sick at the sight. Loki has still not told them what happens at night, but from what Sif's managed to wrangle from the other children it involves being wet, uncomfortable, and the Siren forcing you to stay awake with her songs. Sif's still not certain about the last part, and has mostly put it together on inference, rather than actual facts. None of the children like to talk about it.

All of them call her mother.

Sif wonders idly if this has something to do with that.

Loki doesn't take her food.

000o000

It's close to ten days when Fandral can finally drag himself out of the dank basement, and Sif thinks she might weep at the sight. The Weeping Siren's pleased smile as she wraps her arms around him in a stiff embrace makes her sick, and it only gets worse when Fandral says, "I'm well, Mother, thanks to your aid."

Sif remembers the Siren's frequent trips to the cellar, and hates when she realizes that the only reason Fandral likely survived was from the creature's aid. The reason her shield-brother almost died was because of the woman, but she's also the reason he still lives.

Loki is barely coherent when they all go back to the cellar and he stands near the creature like he's done every night previous, only for the Weeping Siren to grab his elbow and lead him towards the dank sleeping quarters.

The gnaw of worry she's been shouldering since this whole mess started eases some. Loki will sleep tonight. Everything will get better from here. They just need to be more careful in the future, and then they can work together to find an escape route from the dome.

Loki collapses against the empty bed across from hers and lays there like the dead. His eyes remain open, face tilted only so he can breathe. The mattresses are like laying on top of bricks, but the way Loki is draped across his makes it seem like a cloud.

The Weeping Siren clicks the chain on Sif's ankle before moving towards Loki and tapping his shoulder. Loki flinches, jerking away from her and making a little noise Sif can't interpret. "Please," Loki's voice is a rasp, "please, Fandral is well again. His punishments h'v' stopped, I can sle'p now."

The Weeping Siren gives a little laugh, lifting up a syringe. Aetheitin. Sif's stomach tightens and she can't help but stare when Loki's eyes go wide and he muffles noise of open protest. The Weeping Siren grabs his arm and shoves the ratty sleeve up to his elbow. Sif barely contains her gasp to a sharp inhale. Loki's forearms are a mess of bruises from past injections. Purple and sickly yellow with clearly collapsed veins dotting almost everywhere.

The sight is sickening.

The Weeping Siren has to try several veins before she finds one and she shoves the liquid down. Loki makes a noise like his lungs are being torn from his chest, eyes wide and chest heaving with a voiceless scream. Her eyes go wide and she sits up, but she knows that anything she says or does will be useless.

She wants to offer comfort, to reassure, but she has nothing.

Loki has had to endure this by himself for ten days, with no food or sleep. Tears of pain slip down his thin face and Sif's resolve crumples. She can't do this. She can't stand by idly and pretend that she's being a hero while he suffers. The Weeping Siren pulls the syringe from Loki's skin and wipes away his tears with her thumb.

"Shh. There, there, dearest." The creature coos. "It's only a moment."

Does it hurt?

Like a bruise. Sometimes I can focus on nothing else.

She can't. She can't. Her mind grabs at the only thing that will work and she shifts, turning her gaze to face the woman. "Mother," she whispers the title, has to swallow her horror down because this is more important. "Mother."

The Weeping Siren stills and then turns slowly. Her eyes are alight with delight and the smile she's wearing seems so genuine Sif doesn't know if she can finish. She hates this. Norns, she hates this. She can't do this anymore. She can't handle another day to add to the list of...oh, for the love of—she can't even remember how long it's been anymore.

Twenty days?

Seventeen?

Weeks.

"Daughter?" the creature prods. "What ails you? What do you need?"

She swallows, forcing the words out like she's being strangled by them. "Please, Mother. Loki is sick and he's exhausted. Please let me offer comfort."

Had she had a weapon, Sif's voice would have a been a confident threat. As it is, she feels like a hopeless little girl, lost in the woods. She wants to talk with her parents, to see her real mother and reassure herself of their solidity. She had a life before this, she's so sure. Thor was there. And Asgard. She has not always just known these barren fields and time warps.

The Weeping Siren must be pleased enough with her calling it the title—Sif had expected as much—because she nods eagerly and moves to release the chain. Sif barely mumbles out a thanks before she staggers the little space between herself and the gasping, sobbing youngest prince and climbs onto the mattress beside him.

The Weeping Siren watches them like they're some sort of entertaining fight, but Sif has grown used to her stares. (Sif hates that this is the case, but what can be done?)

Sif gently wraps her arms around Loki's stiff shoulders and draws him close. The second prince stiffens immediately at the contact, harsh breathing coming to a stop as he inhales deeply with surprise. Possibly pain. Sif immediately winces, and quietly curses herself for being stupid.

Why would Loki take comfort from her?

She hasn't exactly given him a bountiful amount of reasons to trust her in the first place.

Loki loosens some after a second and sinks into her touch. "Sorry." He mutters, voice barely audible. Sif's hands relax and she holds him closer, Loki slumping against her frame as if too exhausted to hold up his own. "Not used to…this..." Loki trails and coughs softly.

Sif's eyes narrow and she chances a look up at the others. Fandral is turned onto one side, exhausted and slumped against the meager bed. Volstagg is watching them with a furrowed expression, seeming as confused by Loki's words as she feels. Hogun is much the same, but his gaze keeps settling between his younger sister and herself and Loki.

How can Loki...is this just the murmurings of the drugs or something else?

But how could Loki not be used to hugs? Sif doesn't know Queen Frigga awfully well, but she seems like the affectionate type. The one that would give out hugs often. Thor never stiffens when Sif draws him in for an embrace, and Loki never flinches away from Thor's frequent shoulder touches or pats on the back, so it's not like they've been touch starved by their parents.

It's...it has to be the drugs. It must be. But she still can't appease her mind with the platitudes. "What do you mean you aren't used to this?" Sif questions, trying to keep her voice level and the surprise from creeping in. Her parents...this all seems so trivial somehow.

Loki shrugs, sighing deeply and squeezes his eyes shut. "Don' know why you care so much. It's not...appropriate for the royal family to show physical affection to each other in public—Thor should know better, but he doesn't care, I think—and I rarely see my parents in private since I've gotten older. I have to make an audience to see my father privately, and Mother only has a few spare minutes at a time for talking. It's not a problem. Used to bother me. Doesn't now."

Sif adjusts to hold him better and feels her eyes widen some with surprise.

Oh.

She doesn't know why this hadn't occurred to her before. She's heard Thor mention offhandedly about how hard it is to get in contact with his father, but it seems so strange to have to schedule a time to do so. Almost ridiculous. But Thor and Loki are princes of the Golden Realm, their parents easily run five of the Nine realms—despite the insistence otherwise—and influence the rest without a second thought. A few states wouldn't have been a problem, but these are worlds. The fact alone that they manage Asgard is nothing short of a miracle.

How many times has she taken for granted her mother's warm meals and ceaseless attention? How many times has she expected her father's warm embrace when she returns home? How many times has she burst into her parents' room and wordlessly asked for attention? Had her hurts and bruises fretted over for weeks despite having healed in days? Trusted her mother with deep secrets because she considers her parents to be some of her closest friends?

What if that had just...stopped suddenly? She knows that when Loki and Thor were younger the royal family was closer. What if her family had just…

Loki seems so calm about it all, though, as if this is a normal fact of life everyone has to deal with. Sif holds him tighter subconsciously. "Loki…" she breathes out.

Loki squeezes his eyes shut. "Hurts." He mumbles, and the admission must mean it's far worse than Sif first thought. "Why are you being nice to me? You hate me."

Sif sputters. "We don't...we don't hate you." She nearly swallows the words. There's truth behind her words of course, and she's almost startled by Loki's blunt honesty. It seems so out of character for him. Raw. Broken. So unlike the mask she's seen him wear for decades. Perhaps, a soft, silky voice murmurs in the back of her mind, he has not trusted you with the truth before.

She tries to shove the notion to the side, but it lingers with her. Sticking like a parasite inside her mind and refusing to be quieted.

The truth.

The truth.

Loki's still stiff, as if his body doesn't know how to relax inside an embrace, and something in her heart twists painfully. Loki is so young. She can't believe how ignorant she's been of that fact, but Loki is so young. Yes, he's come of age, but only just.

"Alwa's saying nast'y things." Loki shakes his head, hair sticking to the sides of his face. "It hurts. You don't even like me, and I used to tr' really, really hard to mak' all of y'u, 'cause I don' know...how to have friends, but you always…it okay, I know it's my fault. Somethin' wrong with me, not you."

"Loki," she inhales the word, horrified.

The truth.

Loki slumps further against her, as if he can't hold up his weight anymore. "You hate me." He insists, "You hate me, and I tr' to not let it hur't, but I can't...figure out what 'm doing wrong. I'll get it. Hopefull'. Fat'er says 'm hopeless cause."

She shakes her head, lips forming words that won't come out right. The truth.

"I don' mind i'. The hug." Loki slurs. She has her doubts that any of these words would be leaving the Snake Prince's lips if he wasn't half dead and delusional off of Aetheitin and lack of sleep. "'t's nice. I see why Thor likes you. You're warm."

She can't come up with anything intelligible to say, so she says nothing. She can't believe half of what just came out of the second prince's mouth—half of her wants to outright deny it as an attempt for attention—but this is no place for games. Loki took Fandral's punishment, he kept them all alive. He has done nothing but give them reasons to trust him.

So why would he lie?

You hate me.

Sif holds him until she can't. Loki eventually nods off in her embrace, face smoothing and the creases of pain vanishing. She hadn't realized they were there until they're gone, and wonders just how awful the injection is. The Weeping Siren tugs her away once Loki has relaxed and Sif allows herself to go without protest.

The chain clinks around her ankle and the Weeping Siren presses a kiss on her brow. Sif feels oddly numbed to it. She doesn't try to fight. Doesn't retort with burning anger. She can't focus on anything but the to-thin frame across from her.

You hate me.

After a few more rounds of goodnight and a failed attempt at soothing a child, the Weeping Siren leaves. Sif watches her go, and presses a hand towards her forehead where the creature's lips brushed her. It feels cold, as if the skin has withered to bone in disgust and angry at her for not even trying to escape the affection.

You hate me.

Sif thinks, and she can't stop thinking. If they'd simply caught the Siren, this never would have happened. She doubts she would have ever heard those broken words escape Loki's lips. She can't stop her mind from whirling around her and her companions interactions with the prince.

Thor's constant reassurances that they should just try harder and Loki wasn't who they thought he was. Loki's defensiveness at everything he says, as if constantly preparing for a rebuke and often receiving it. Their nitpicking, talking behind his back, openly complaining at his presence, the teasing that could cut to bone, blaming him for mistakes that weren't even his fault, mockery of his skillset, constantly tearing down his status and trampling his titles beneath their feet as if it meant nothing—

Why are you being nice to me?

You hate me.

"The hardest truths are often spoken when we least expect them." Hogun's voice is soft. Sif startles, rolling to the other side of the mattress and sees the Vanir warrior looking at her. She can tell that Fandral and Volstagg are awake because their breathing isn't deep enough. If she listens close enough, she can also pick out their heartbeat.

"What do you mean?" Sif whispers, barely daring to raise her voice any higher.

"Lack of sleep does things to the mind, Sif," Hogun murmurs, "Loki is losing himself to it. Words he would not dare to say outloud are now being pulled from him, and we were not ready."

Why are you being so nice to me?

"Surely he couldn't have meant any of that." Volstagg breathes, "Just the ramblings of a drug-addled mind."

"He hasn't slept in ten days," Fandral reminds in a soft baritone, "what of that?"

"That, I'm sure, is adding," Hogun sighs, "but Aetheitin has more than one purpose. It is also used in law enforcement; as a way to encourage any under questioning to speak the truth."

You hate me.

"But we don't hate him." Sif grasps desperately, "Surely he must know that."

"If you'd asked us before the capture, what would you have said, Sif?" Fandral questions, his voice is gentle, as if trying to break a hard truth to a distressed victim. Sif stops, trying to absorb all of this. It doesn't feel real. "We haven't exactly given him a bountiful amount of reasons to think otherwise—even here. He's saved our sorry butts from mess after mess with the Siren, and in return we've done nothing."

As would have been normal.

Sif wouldn't have even thought twice about it because that's what Loki does—but now she scours back through her memories to find similar instances, and realizes with a slight jolt she can't even count them. She and the Warriors Three profess to be one of the closest groups in the training field. They understand each other at an intimate level most troops will never reach. It's almost like telepathy.

But she and the Warriors have never known their second prince. Have not even bothered to try because they assumed that since they've known him since they were adolescents, they have properly judged his character.

They were wrong.

Why are you being so nice to me?

You hate me.


Author's Note: Not gonna lie, sleep-deprived characters are a guilty pleasure of mine. :) Thanks for your encouragement, guys, it's really been a boost. You're all amazing!

Next chapter: September 13th, possibly sooner.