Author's Note:
Me: tries to get this chapter below 6K.
Chapter: Nah, my dude, we need to reach above 35 pages at least.
Me: Tries harder to keep the chapter shorter. "These last few chapters are going to be enormous if you don't stop wording!"
Chapter: Well, that's not my fault, is it?
Me: ;l *eye-twitching*
Okay, that aside: Thanks so much for your interest guys! You're all amazing. I wish I could express properly express how much it means to me, but I'm pretty word-less. ;)
Disclaimer: Not mine
Warnings: Violence!, past child death.
Chapter Seven:
It starts—and it ends—with soup.
Time means nearly nothing, but Sif fairly certain it must have been at least two weeks since they discovered the tunnels when the Weeping Siren bursts into the basement alight with laughter. She's smiling in a way that makes Sif nauseous and holding some sort of large blanket.
"My children!" she exclaims, "We have much fun prepared for this day. Up, up, up! You miss the sun, little birds!"
"Good." A rather sour part of her mutters, but she nonetheless rolls up and attempts to get out of bed. Her limbs have felt heavy as of late, like all her energy is spent on breath, and there's none to spare for anything else. Her heart is aching beneath its cage, a constant, unhappy companion.
Wait.
The Weeping Siren said "fun".
What constitutes as fun for her?
"Come, come," the Weeping Siren presses, clambering up the ladder again, "we celebrate today. It's very special."
Sif shares an apprehensive look with Fandral before making her way up to the surface. The sun is overcast with clouds, and Sif silently pleads with the sky to be merciful and rain only while they sleep. She hates working in the rain. None of the storms have been as terrible as that first one, but even a drizzle can leave her wet and miserable for days.
The Weeping Siren is laying out the blanket on top of the small patch of grass near the tables, and Sif is admittedly thrown by this change in routine. The Weeping Siren, if nothing else, is a creature of habit, and this is odd for them to be doing something else.
The Weeping Siren waves them forward. Sif doesn't want to move, but her feet follow the command anyway.
"Sit." The Siren instructs, pointing to the blanket. "Today is a good, good day." She promises. The more she says that, the worse implications Sif gets.
Sif forces herself to sit down on the blanket, taking a seat in between Loki and Volstagg. The Weeping Siren hums as she buses herself with something, passing out several bowls of a weird looking sludge. It reminds Sif vaguely of a smashed fruit on Asgard and a wash of homesickness crashes into her. (Was it real? Was Asgard ever real? Did she dream it up?)
"Today we celebrate the sixth year since I began to collect my family." The Weeping Siren announces and sits down in front of them, a glass in hand. Sif suspects it isn't full of anything stronger than acidic water, but she raises it like it's fine wine. "A toast. To our happiness proceeding onwards for many more years."
Years. Oh, Norns, no. That's insane. Sif's not staying here for—
Six.
Six!?
Didn't they start chasing the Weeping Siren at five!?
No. No, no, no. They can't have been here for an entire year. It's been a long time, but not a year. That's too long. A year? Thor will have given up the search for them. Asgard will have likely declared them dead after seeing Prince Tjan's guard. They would have already had funerals if that is the case. Her parents won't be there to welcome her with open arms if they get out of here. Years. She can't—they can't—
It hasn't been a year. Has it? These days are long and the weeks even longer. A year could have slipped away and they wouldn't know. IT HAS NOT BEEN A YEAR! Sif can see a few months, easily. Weeks without a question, but not a year. That's impossible. No. They haven't been captives for a year. It's too long. Their escape is so close. It couldn't have taken a year.
Sif finds herself tipping her bowl back (did she raise it in the toast!? She's going to be sick if she did) and nearly chokes on the liquid as it flushes down her throat. It's bitter, but hot. Almost like trying to drink warm acid, or scalding tea.
The Weeping Siren releases a gentle laugh at something someone said, smiling and nodding eagerly. "Today we have no chores," the Weeping Siren promises, "we celebrate and are happy together instead. As a family. A holiday."
Shame.
Sif really would have liked the distraction of the chores to keep her from thinking.
The day passes slowly, and the longer the hours wane on, the worse she feels. It starts as a slight headache, and then builds into a tickle at the back of her throat, her stomach tightening, bile digging into the roof of her mouth, the world spins and Sif's muscles are weak. She's barely made it past midday before she collapses in the middle of the game they were supposed to be playing and vomits all over the earth.
Her limbs are shaking. Her recently healed arm doesn't seem able to bare weight anymore.
Tears burn the corners of her eyes and she dry heaves, spitting up any remains of what was in her stomach. She looks up, trying to find assistance or reassurance in a familiar face, but realizes that several others are on the ground, vomiting themselves. The Weeping Siren looks at a loss, standing in the middle of their group with her head tilted.
Sif dry heaves again.
Loki collapses in the corner of her eye. Fandral's hand lands on her shoulder, but his words blur together and she can make no sense of them. She tries to tell him this, but only ends up throwing up again.
Her headache grows in volume and her airway tightens.
She thinks she's going to pass out.
She doesn't. But she isn't the last to go. The Weeping Siren cuts everything short, rushing them back to the cellar with panicked words falling off her lips, platitudes not far behind. She criticizes them for their stupidity and then laments her own.
"I knew it was rotten," she mutters as she wrings a wet rag to lay on Sif's forehead to care for the fever, "but I had thought it would not cause so many problems. It has been collected before in the rain without being bad."
Food poisoning. Sif wants to laugh at this as it clicks in her head. They've endured weeks (months?) of this torture and it's not the starvation or the brutal hand of the creature that kills them, but her poor cooking skills. A deranged giggle does slip past her lips and the Weeping Siren shushes her.
"Daughter, rest. You will feel better shortly, I swear to you." The Weeping Siren instructs and lays her fingers against Sif's forehead. Her fingers are cold to the touch, and she leans forward to press a kiss against Sif's brow before she whispers, "Sleep."
000o000
"Amma! Amma—please!"
Sif jerks awake, brain sluggish and limbs even more so. The words make sense, but she can't register a meaning, just a sense of panic. She blinks several times, limbs shifting in an effort to move to see the source of the commotion.
"It is the night, my son, and you know that we must do the Aethetin now." The Weeping Siren's voice is soft, but clearly frustrated. "Comply now or I'll have to make you hold still."
"It hurts," Loki gasps. With far more effort than Sif thinks it should take, she manages to roll onto one side, looking at the two with a familiar sense of disgust in her gut. It's been a long, long time since Loki tried to fight the creature about this. Her feet shift.
Sif blinks at the strangeness of this concept and then realizes that the Weeping Siren didn't chain her foot to the edge of the bed. A glance towards Loki's feet reveals the same for him. This means something. Something important, but Sif can't figure out what it is just yet. She wants to throw up again. Her gut has not yet finished its punishment for her.
There's light streaming into the cellar from more than the awful candles. Sif's gaze keeps being drawn back to it, where the ladder is down and the trapdoor open on the top. It must be the evening judging by the lighting, perhaps early in the morning. Sif doesn't know. She's not sure if she cares. All she wants to do is sleep some more and throw up again.
"I know," the Weeping Siren promises, "but I'm here. I'll soothe the ache."
"I'm d-d-ying," Loki makes a strangled noise, "please. I hate needles. Please. They used one to sew my lips up, did you know that? It bled everywhere and I couldn't taste anything but blood for months. It makes me panic. I want to go home...I want...to go..."
"You are home, foolish child." The Siren promises, her voice gains a melodic edge, "Stop moving your arm, dearest."
Loki's movements stop. It was only his arm that was commanded, but Sif suspects he gave up the fight. A moan slips from his lips and he makes a hiccuped noise. "Amma. Amma please come save us." He whispers. "Please…"
"I did save you." The Siren has stopped, tilting her head. "Child? My son? Why do you ask such strange questions? Why do you doubt Mother so?"
"Shut up." Loki's voice is hollow. The words snap through the air, cutting and biting. Sif feels something in her gut clench with horror at how the Weeping Siren goes rigid. "My mother is on Asgard," Loki whispers, "because Asgard wasn't a dream. She's waiting for-for us to c-come back. The All-Mother. You are just a barbaric scavenger of lost souls."
The Weeping Siren sets the unused needle to the side, back straight, muscles rigid. Sif's breath catches in her throat and she tries to move, tries to will Loki to shut up, because if he says something else, the creature is going to snap, and Sif doesn't know what the outcome will be.
"You are not my mother." Loki whispers.
The Weeping Siren makes a gasping noise of pain and anger, face contorting with twisted rage. Something inside of Sif flinches away from it. A hollow sort of dread setting in her stomach. Her head is heavy. She can't get her limbs to work right. Or move. But the creature—
Something isn't right.
The Weeping Siren's hand snakes out and grabs Loki by the throat. He struggles weakly, making a wretched sort of gagging noise before the woman hauls him up and throws him into the far wall. Sif makes a noise as something cracks when it hits the stone. Loki.
Loki.
No.
No. She didn't survive all of this, dragging herself and the others through this horror only for the Weeping Siren to kill Loki before they can go home. Sif struggles to fight, to get up, to do something, but she can't. The Weeping Siren is advancing towards Loki rapidly now, and all she can do is shove herself up a little and then tumble because of how the world spins.
A few of the children are beginning to cry. She thinks she hears her other shield-brothers attempting to make a vocal protest for what is about to come. She hadn't realized she was the only one awake.
"You wretched, ungrateful child!" the Siren screeches, backhanding the Snake Prince hard enough to send him tumbling to the ground when he tries to get up. Loki is still sobbing with pain, and Sif feels something inside of her urge her to move harder.
"Am-A-Amma," Loki gasps out in a strangled heave. "T-Thor…"
The Weeping Siren slams a boot into his ribs. Then again. And again. The sound is becoming almost numbing. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The Siren wails, "I have given everything for you! This is what you give me in return!? I am a good mother. I am your only mother, you disgusting filth! How have you not realized that no one is coming!? You don't need anyone to come! Norns curse it, I'll KILL THIS ALL-MOTHER! I AM YOUR MOTHER, YOU WRETCH!"
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk—
Snap!
Loki screams.
Sif rolls up, an inner drive of panic rearing her onward. Loki. Loki. Loki. It's the only part of her thoughts that make sense, the only one that matters. Someone has to help him. Sif manages to sit up right, moving towards the commotion. The Weeping Siren is still sputtering out truths of her twisted mind, but it hardly matters.
Sif slams into the ground on her hands and knees and feels the horrible urge to vomit again. The world is spinning and the edges of her vision are dark. Dehydration, malnutrition, weakened immune system, unrecovered from recent bout of illness…the list goes on, unhelpful, but it's all her brain can seem to do properly right now.
As if a list of her problems will save Loki!
Sif attempts to move and feels tears of frustration burn her vision when nothing is happening. Loki is dying, and she can't do anything. She's too weak. Too sick. Too late. A shadow passes near her, moving towards Loki's abandoned bed, but it doesn't seem important.
Please, please, please…
Go. Move. Up.
Loki.
Go! Move! Up!
Loki.
Go—
The Weeping Siren lets out a piercing wail that comes to an abrupt halt, and a body smacks against the hard stone a moment later. Sif whips her head up, trembling and shaking to see Fandral standing beside the woman's fallen body, holding nothing. She can't tell if it's because of her blurring vision, but the warrior appears to be visibly shaking.
Breath hard and fast, Sif scrambles up to her feet as best she can, latching onto the edge of the bedframe for support. "What—" she swallows, "what did you do?"
"The syringe." Fandral's voice is barely audible. Sif flicks her gaze down to see the Weeping Siren trembling and making weak noises. The syringe she was going to inject Loki with is sticking out of her left arm, still half full, but the little amount she received appears to have been enough. Her eyes are open, but unseeing, and Sif wonders if this is what Loki looked like that first night so long ago. She saw nearly every night after that, but never the first, never—
Loki!
Sif moves. Hardly thinking, not breathing, but moving. She passes Fandral, who starts after her, but she tumbles to her knees beside their second prince first. Loki's not moving. His hands are slack against his head where he was attempting to cover it for protection. His knees are drawn in towards his chest, but it didn't seem to help much.
His breathing sounds off, but his lower left leg is what took the brunt of the damage. She suspects with a sick sort of fascination as she stares at the disformed area that it must be the source of the snapping noise. She doesn't want to touch him, afraid that she might damage him further.
Rage burns the edges of her hands, begging recompense for what has been done to her shield-brother. To her prince. The Weeping Siren did this to him. If she'd felt better, if it had been weeks (months?) ago when her strength was full and she was not starved and sick, she would have strangled the creature with her bare hands for daring to do this.
As is, she doesn't.
She only panics, feeling a helpless sort of bubble wrap around her chest and squeeze.
"Loki." Sif's voice is hoarse. Fandral tumbles down beside her, using her shoulder for support to stay upright. The Snake Prince doesn't answer. Doesn't shift. Doesn't acknowledge her in anyway. Her panic rises. "Loki."
She reaches a shaking hand out and grabs his shoulder as gently as he can. He flinches away from her, but the touch seems to have summoned life back into his body. With a wheezy gasp, Loki curls in tighter towards himself, a shudder racing across his to-thin frame.
"Loki." Her voice breaks. She can't seem to say anything else but his name.
"My prince, please," Fandral begs, "you've no reason to be afraid, it's just us. Calm down. We—"
Loki lurches upwards and launches himself at them. Sif's first reaction is to lurch away, but the Asgardian only wraps his arms around her shoulders and buries himself into her arms, a trembling, sobbing mess. "S-Sif." Norns, he sounds so young. How easy it is to forget his true age. "P-p-please...something's...ss-something's wrong...i-inside and I—"
She tightens her arms around him. "You'll be fine. Breathe."
Volstagg's hand grips her other shoulder and she looks up from Loki's raven hair to the warrior, a question on her lips. Volstagg's eyes are wide, but he's steady. The other children are on their feet behind him, and Hogun is holding his sister and another of those who can't stand on their own right now.
"Sif," Volstagg's voice is hollow, "we need to leave. Now."
Her breath stutters. Escape. Escape has seemed like a wispy dream since that first day.
Escape.
She looks. The Siren is incapacitated on the floor, syringe still sticking out of her skin. The ladder is down. All of the children are gathered together in one place, unlike these last few weeks. They know where the tunnels are. They have to go. Now. This is the only way, and the only time. Who knows when—if ever—they'll get a chance like this again?
Sif turns to Fandral, "Can you take him?" she whispers, head tipping towards their prince. Her arm may have tentatively healed, but the slightest strain makes the bone waver as if it intends to give out and she can't carry him if she's broken.
Fandral nods, and moves to gently pull Loki from Sif's arms. He gasps and flinches with pain, but allows Fandral to heave him upwards without complaint. His face is bruising. Sif looks back at the Weeping Siren and feels anger warm her stomach. She wants to do permanent damage. Wants to make the creature ache like she's made them hurt, but she's afraid. Her limbs are shaking.
Sif forces herself forward.
She encourages the younger children forward, "Go, go, go—" she whispers, trying to move them. Some of them are standing still as if they will be punished for trying to leave. As if they don't want to. Sif's chest hurts.
Volstagg helps her, herding the lost children towards the ladder. "We're just going for a fun adventure, is all." He promises. "Come, little ones, we're a little hard pressed for time."
Who knows how long the Weeping Siren will be incapacitated?
"But Mother will be angry," Li whispers. "I don't want—"
"Mother won't be doing us any harm." Volstagg quickly promises. "She's not going to catch us. How about we play a little game, alright? The faster you can run the more you'll win. Come; up, up," Sif keeps looking back at the Weeping Siren, expecting her to leap up at any given point and drag them down.
There's ten children up.
Nine to go, and then herself, Hogun, and Volstagg. She didn't see Fandral leave with Loki, but assumes that he must have. The Weeping Siren's eyes have a glassy edge to them. They're staring towards them, unseeing.
Sif's skin crawls the longer she focuses on the gaze and she pulls it away.
Five.
Three.
"Li, my brother, please," Sif whispers, gripping the son's shoulder. She tries to urge him towards the ladder, but he won't budge. He keeps looking at the Siren with wide eyes. He, like her, doesn't seem to believe that this is real. "We will keep you safe. Do you not want to see your family?" Sif questions.
"This is my family." Li says in a hushed voice, "I don't know...I don't know how to live anywhere else. How can we leave Mother? I don't...I'm afraid, Sif, please."
Sif forces herself to inhale and clenches her fists to stop her hands from trembling so much. She kneels down so she's eye level with the child and tries to offer a reassuring smile. "We'll be fine. Nothing bad will happen, I swear. We've been thinking about this for a while now, we have a plan."
Sort of, but Li doesn't need to know how circumstantial everything is.
"Do you swear?" Li questions. He won't stop giving her that wide-eyed look. Sif sees Hogun urge the other two up the ladder and climb up himself. Volstagg still remains at the foot, waiting for her. Sif grits her teeth and does her best not to rattle the child back and forth until he realizes how foolish staying in this prison would be.
He's a child, she reminds herself. He doesn't understand.
"Li, everything will be fine." Sif promises, keeping as much conviction as she can into the tone. "We need to leave. Please. We won't leave you behind, but we really can't stay here much longer. Mother could awaken soon."
That at least seems to settle with the son because he flicks his gaze back to the Siren before, at last, moving towards the ladder. Relief washes through her and she rises up to her full height. Volstagg gestures wordlessly for her to go first and he follows behind.
Sif breaks the top, hand clawing at the grass and she heaves herself upright. She can't seem to get herself to breathe deep enough. She hates how guilty she feels for doing this, as if she's broken some sort of oath and has to now face the consequences. The thought is ludicrous. She's done nothing wrong. (It feels like she has. Norns, she should go back—)
The children are gathered around Hogun and Fandral, the latter of which has one of Loki's arms swung over his shoulders. Sif doesn't know why Loki's standing. He shouldn't be, but it—just...they don't have time for this anymore. They need to go.
(Do they? Is it really that bad, here? What will Mother—)
Volstagg joins her from behind and they all stand there for a moment longer before Fandral exhales audibly. "Let's go."
000o000
They make it to the tunnels without much trouble. They're all still sick and several of the children have to stop to expel their insides again, but Sif tries to remain as patient as she can with this and makes a mental list of things they can reach before they get to the barn. Food. Water. Light. Weapons. Sif doesn't know where the Siren kept the things she stole from them, and they don't have the time to peruse.
Volstagg manages to locate the three empty canteens in the barn they'd found last week and Sif gathers as much of the stray wheat as she can while they run through the fields. There's a water source somewhere down in the tunnels, if the dank smell is any indication. None of them have been back since that first venture. The Weeping Siren had already started coming back by the time they'd realized what it was and rounded them all up to work again with more heat than before.
They all but shove the children down the hole, gathering lanterns and lighting them with shaky hands. Loki grabs her arm when she's on her fifth lantern and she looks towards him with wide eyes. Her senses are heightened, listening for the creature, but there's nothing. (Why is there still nothing!?)
"The barn." Loki manages to squeeze out. Fandral adjusts to keep him upright, and Sif sees the swordmaster gripping the stick he found and is currently wielding as a sorry excuse for a sword harder. "Light it on fire." Loki finishes after a few attempts at speaking.
Sif stares at him for a long second, looking down at the lamp before staring at the wood. It's flammable. "We'll leave a trail." She whispers in protest.
"It's meager protection." Loki argues. "Even she can't be impenetrable to fire."
And...and unless the creature knows about a different entrance, it will give them a few hours of a head start. Especially if it spreads to the field. Sif nods and releases a shaky breath, turning to Fandral and handing him the lamp. "Get down. I'll set the spark."
They nod and Loki limps towards the entrance shooting her a final glance before awkwardly starting his way down the ladder. Fandral's light vanishes as he follows. Sif releases a deep, shaking breath and moves towards the entrance of the barn with the flint and steel and scraping the two against each other. Her hands are shaking too much to have an effect.
She lit five lanterns before now and she can't—
A soft swear escapes her and Sif moves towards the back again and grabs one of the remaining lanterns. She dumps the oil all over the entrance and scrapes the sparks towards it. Unlike the wood, it takes almost immediately and Sif watches the fire greedily eat up the oil and then the wood beneath.
Sif stands there for a long moment, staring at the flames and then the land beyond. Her jaw tightens and she parts her lips with effort. "Rot in Helheim, Mother. It's the only place you're going when your soul is claimed."
She turns and walks back to the tunnels' entrance.
She doesn't look back at the flames beginning to clamber up the walls happily.
000o000
It's dark. Darker than Sif first expected, even with their light. Without the map—Loki doesn't have the strength to find it in his cache yet—they don't have an immediate knowledge of where to turn, so they follow the draft of air. The nineteen children huddle around them, jumping at the slightest noises, their breaths hard and fast.
Sif would try and calm them, but she can't get her own heart to stop racing.
The minutes tick by and the Weeping Siren doesn't come. Then the hours. The tenseness in her shoulders slowly begins to ease, a hopeful disbelief settling where the fear was (is). They're actually leaving. They're making progress in that direction. After so many days blurring into nothingness, they are going.
They'll see Asgard again. (They're going home.)
The long hours draw out as they walk. Sif's feet are aching, bloody, and bruising from how many times she's smashed them into rocks she wasn't expecting or cut them against the rough stone. She has never longed for shoes more than now. She's certain they're going to be a bloody, swollen mass when she finally stops to look down at them. Whenever that will be.
She tries to be brave. Norns, she tries, but every time there's a scuffle she wasn't expecting or a noise in the distance none of them can place, her heart stumbles inside her chest and screams in panic.
She's not brave. Not now. Her lantern is hardly the shield and spear she was trained with. These are not weapons of the Einherjar. If the Weeping Siren does catch them, all they're going to have to fight her off is a few sticks, rocks, and their lamps. It's almost nothing.
Conversation is sparse and only brought up when strictly necessary. Sif can hear the sniffles of the little one's tears as they walk on, but they can't stop to offer comfort. She's not even sure how. They're weeping. Weeping into the dark and Sif feels an urge to laugh at the irony of this.
"Sif," Hogun pulls up beside her—she doesn't remember when she walked up to the front, maybe she's always been here—his tone hushed. It doesn't matter. Without the white noise to block it off, he could have shouted with the same effect.
She glances at him expectantly, making sure she can still feel the faint trace of wind on her face when they move. Hogun lowers his voice even more, "Everyone is exhausted. We need to rest."
Her mind immediately protests at this, throwing up lists and charts in a frantic manner of why that's a terrible idea. She shakes her head. "Hogun, I don't know…" she argues, "we can't let Mother catch up to us. If we stop then—"
"Sister, we need to stop." Hogun says evenly. Now that she's looking, she can see the exhaustion in his stance and guilt squirms its way into her gut. She's pushed through the need for rest because she's afraid of what will happen if they stop, but maybe this isn't the best course of action. "A few hours of rest and then we can pick up. We can't walk the distance of the Blodig Skog in one night."
"I know. Alright. A few hours." Sif submits at last and sighs, gathering her nerves together. She stops and turns around and looks back at the group. Hollow, frightened faces meet her gaze. "We're going to stop for a few hours, catch up on some sleep, alright?"
Several of the children, already clinging to each other's hands, grab harder. "That's a bad idea." One of the daughters whispers. "Mother's already going to be mad we ran away. If she grabs us..."
I know, Sif wants to promise. I know, and I'm frightened, too. She can't say this. It will only make them panic more. She needs to be the adult. She has to be the brave one so they can make to the end of this. "It will be fine," she promises, drawing up a smile. Her lips are exhausted by this.
After a little more wrangling and convincing, Sif and Hogun manage to get all of the children to sit down and she puts the lamps in the middle of the circle to act as some semblance of a fire. They aren't dressed for cave exploration, and Sif's sure that when the adrenaline wares off—if it ever does—they're going to be freezing. With the children settled and Volstagg attempting to keep their attention focused on anything but how miserable they are, she slips towards where Fandral has helped Loki lay down and he and Hogun are fretting over their prince.
She crouches down next to them, gently grabbing at Loki's hand and squeezing it. His eyes dully lift towards hers and his expression flickers for a moment, pain etched into every crease possible before it smooths and he offers a tight smile, returning the pressure on her hand.
"How are you?" she asks in a whisper. It seems oddly inappropriate to speak in tones any louder than that. Fandral snorts and jabs at Loki's shoulder.
"If you say 'fine' again, my prince, I swear you'll be missing some important vital organs soon." He assures in annoyance. Hogun's scalding glare assures Sif that should matters come to that, the Vanir warrior will happily hold Loki down so Fandral can complete the task. "You're not helping anyone."
Loki props himself up on one elbow, a scowl set on his face. "There are nineteen children with us," he intones harshly, "do you honestly think that me admitting that it feels like my heart is exploding and my leg is being torn off is going to help them? They're already afraid. They don't need any more reasons to doubt us. They'll go running back to Mother."
Sif bites at her lower lip, resting her head in her hands. She swears under her breath and bites on the tip of her finger when she realizes he's right. As awful as their captivity has been, it's been stagnant. It's a reassurance. They could go running back and not have to face these unknowns...and to some that will be more appealing than wandering around in the dark. (Why did they leave? Mother will be so furious when she catches them.)
Sif glances towards Loki's leg and inhales stiffly, swearing again. Norns, that's so much worse than she thought it was. The leg is deformed enough that Sif has her doubts bone isn't sticking out beneath the fabric. There's dried blood making the black fabric strangely reflective and flaky. She bites back bile and squeezes her eyes shut, trying to reassure herself that she's seen worse on the battlefield before.
It doesn't help.
It's somehow different. Maybe it's because they don't have a simple fix for it. They have no healing creams, potions or tonics. Loki is going to have to wait this out until they can get to Ju...or Asgard. (Asgard. Which is real. It has to be.)
"We need to set the bone." Hogun says, tone solemn. He's followed Sif's line of sight towards the bone. There's not much else they can do for the wound beyond that. But even if they set it, how are they going to hold the setting? They don't have any sticks or rope to attached to his leg...It doesn't matter. Stuffing the bone back inside of the skin to prevent infection should be a priority. Bacteria can't be their murderer. Especially not to their prince.
Sif digs her teeth harder into her cheek. Loki's grip tightens on her hand to the point of pain and she startles. She'd forgotten she'd taken his hand in the first place. "No." Loki breathes. "No."
"It's not going to heal right if we don't, my prince. It's an open wound...and the chances of infection are something we need to lessen." Hogun's tone would be rough to anyone unfamiliar with him. Sif can hear the underlying worry and sympathy in it. Loki shakes his head several more times, eyes going wide.
"Please don't." His tone is dangerously close to a whimper.
Sif's heart gives in sympathy and she brushes long, sticky hair away from his forehead. "My prince, it will be okay," she promises softly, "this is a field dressing. We know what we're doing." It's basic medical training for the Einherjar, they can set the broken bone. They don't need to be useless in this endeavor, as they have almost everything else.
Loki squeezes his eyes shut, mouthing "no" several more times.
"Brother?" All of them flinch, looking up at Avil as she and a handful of the others, including Idrissa, gather behind the Vanir warrior with confused and worried faces.
"What, Avil? Is it urgent?" Hogun questions. "Loki needs us to help him with something."
To put it mildly. Avil is quiet a moment, looking at Loki's face with pursed lips. Loki's eyes have opened a sliver to stare at the group of six, his grip still tight in hers. Sif keeps her hand still despite how much it hurts. "Is he okay?" Avil asks. "Mother was very angry with him."
"Loki's…" Fandral trails for a moment, clearly trying to figure out how to explain this to someone her age. "He needs us to tend to him."
"I'm fine." Loki promises with a thin, tired smile. His pale complexion and over all exhaustion insists otherwise, but there's not much he can do to hide it.
"Are you dying?" Idrissa asks quietly, wringing her hands anxiously. She looks up at Fandral. "I don' want him to die. If he goes away, is he gonna have to join the dead bodies in here?"
The what? Dead bodies? Sif didn't see any dead bodies when they did the brief scope of the tunnel before they made their sorry excuse for a camp.
"What?" Sif sputters in confusion.
"What bodies?" Fandral's grip on her shoulder—and when did he start touching her?—tightens sharply. His voice is soft, but his inquiry is sharp. Pressing. What bodies?
Avil points north—the direction they'd been heading, but stopped a little over twenty minutes ago—and all of them follow her hand as best they can in the dark. Sif sees blurry shapes, but nothing to suggest a corpse. Bodies. (Where did they come from? Did the Weeping Siren…?)
"They're all withered." One of the sons promises with a grimace. "They've been dead a long, long time now. Are we going to have to leave the Prince here when he dies?"
"No. He's not dying." Sif says sharply and gets up to her feet, untangling Loki's death grip from hers with some regret. "Show me."
Loki's leg can wait a moment more. If there's a wild beast living down here and it killed someone (you know what it was)...it would be best to know that now, rather than later. Idrissa remains put stubbornly, but the other children guide her towards the bodies.
There's so much demanding her attention. She just wants to sleep.
Sif grabs one of the lanterns as they pass and once they've crossed a few more yards, Avil stops and points. "See?" She whispers. "Is Loki going to die like them?"
"No—" Sif's voice cuts off. The light casts long shadows, but it doesn't hide the skeletons from view. They've rotted mostly to bone, only a few scarce patches of skin sticking out sorely. The clothing is frayed and old. The most staggering thing is how young the two bodies are. Barely older than Li, she'd guess.
Where did they come from?
They look like they simply sat down and gave up the ghost. Old flower crowns adorn both their heads, the brown color bleeding into the skull. Sif has to remind herself to breathe. Out. Out. In. Out. Where? When? That's the most pressing question. When? Sif's better at estimating with fresh kills, she'd guess over a century for these two. Maybe two.
The flower crown children.
Where did they come from?
The Weeping Siren didn't start...didn't start collecting until five (six) years ago, and if they've been dead for a century, at most, then…
Sif's mind flashes back to the kitchen, standing in front of the counter and looking at the height measurements. Yei and Holland. The Weeping Siren's children of the womb. It's not a story for your ears. Bile rises in her throat as the pieces click in a horrid succession. The bones stare back at her, innocent of her thoughts.
Is that blood?
Yes.
Where are they now?
Dead.
A swear slips from her lips and she stares at the corpses for a long moment, frozen. She's not sure what to do. This is Yei and Holland. The children of the Weeping Siren's womb. They're here. Dead. Oh, Norns…
What if they're next?
The Weeping Siren must know about the tunnels, then. But they haven't been met with any resistance from the barrier, so maybe…(the dead sleep down here) it just doesn't seem plausible for them to have made a complete get away. They need to keep moving, then. The burned barn gave them a heads start, but who knows for how long.
They need to rest.
They need to set Loki's leg.
They need to move.
"Oh." Sif finally gets out of her strangled throat. She turns to look back at the children slowly, a sudden desire wrapping around her to be as innocent as they are. They don't understand the implications of this. To them, it's just two bodies sitting in a cave system. It means almost nothing. It's not the (maybe) first victims of the Weeping Siren's blood lust.
Prince Tjan's guard was taken in it.
They never found Thor. What if he, too, has been sitting out in the woods rotting?
"No. No, Loki won't be joining them." She promises, trying to draw up a smile. There's too much horror sticking to the sides of her face for it to be authentic. If anything, she feels like she frightens them more with her platitude.
Sif herds them back towards the main group, giving Volstagg a side-eyed look of horror and mouths, "did you see the bodies" and points towards the two. Volstagg's head immediately twists in that direction, giving her enough answer. No. He didn't. She keeps walking, not waiting to see his reaction.
Sif lands on her knees harshly beside Fandral, Hogun and Loki, clenching her hands into fists. The three stare at her expectantly for answers and she tries to maintain her plastic smile. It keeps cracking. "Do you...do you remember what we discussed after I broke my arm?" she asks. None of the children were there with that discussion. It's about as vague as she can make it.
All of them still.
Sif gestures towards in the general direction of the corpses, unable to get words out. Hogun pales and Fandral lifts up the back of his hand to his mouth, cussing under his breath. "That's them?"
"I'm fairly certain." Sif confirms, biting down sharply on her thumb. "I don't know who else it would be."
"Who's the who?" Idrissa asks, tilting her head. "Wait—you know the names of the bodies?"
Yes. Yes, and she's terrified. If the Weeping Siren would do that to a child…"No, honey," Sif promises, gently gripping her shoulder. "We might, but it's probably best if you don't know."
"I can handle old stuff." Idrissa says stubbornly, folding her arms across her chest. "'M not a babe anymore."
Sif grits her teeth. They don't have time for this. "Idrissa, will you go talk to Volstagg? He needs you to comfort him, he's scared." Fandral leans down towards the girl, messy hair falling in front of his eyes. "He won't admit it, but he needs a boost of bravery. You can give him that, can't you?"
Idrissa stays still for a moment before looking over at Volstagg and, sighing, moves in the warrior's direction.
"The leg?" Hogun questions, drawing them back. Sif bites at her lower lip, relieved that they aren't going to continue the discussion about what the implications of Yei and Holland being down here mean. She doesn't want to voice her frantic thoughts out loud.
"Leg." Loki sighs and squeezes his eyes shut. "Don't—don't count. It makes it worse."
Sif takes Loki's hand again and tries not to be surprised by how warm it is. Loki's usually frigid to the touch, but he's not anymore. What does that mean? Fever? Is he sick? Norns, if that leg gets infected they have no way to get help. Maybe he really will join Yei and Holland down here.
Fandral and Hogun move towards Loki's left leg and Sif turns her gaze away. She doesn't want to watch it. Loki's eyes are still squeezed shut and he holds his breath in anticipation. Sif only has to wait nearly a minute, possibly two, before there's a sickening crunch and Loki gasps sharply, squeezing her hand hard enough it feels like her knuckles are touching.
There's a following crunch and Loki makes a noise in the back of his throat, fresh tears of pain spilling down his face.
"One more time and then I think we'll have everything." Fandral promises. Sif still doesn't look down, focusing on the cave wall across from them with vigor. The third grinding sound follows and Loki sits bolt upright, nearly colliding foreheads with her.
"Stop, please," Loki pleads, breath ragged. He seems to be biting back a scream and lifts his finger up to his mouth to clamp down on it hard enough he draws blood.
"It's done." Hogun promises. "It's done."
Sif chances a glance towards Loki's leg. The pant leg has been rolled up to his knee revealing the pale skin beneath. Loki's near-white skin is smeared with red, old and fresh blood pooling around an area Sif suspects the bone was sticking out of the skin. How was he walking?
Blood is leaking down the side of his calf and some sort of yellowish substance. It's not an infection, almost sand-like, but—"Is...are you bleeding sedir!?" Sif demands, her eyes going wide with horror. There is nothing good about that, is there? Nothing. Oh, Norns, what—
"Oh." Loki blinks several times, leaning forward to dip his hand in the substance. It curls around his fingers, "Yes. That's normal. It's blood, remember?" he whispers. He sounds faintly dazed.
"It should be red." Sif hisses. "Why is it yellow!?"
"Because...because I don't know." Loki admits, running a hand through his hair. "This is good. I think. If I...if I...if this is happening and I can bleed it, it means that I'm processing it better than I was last time I stopped the...the drug. Or my heart is."
"Does it hurt?" Fandral asks, gesturing towards his chest in reference to Loki.
Loki nods. "Yes. But I...it's hardly capturing the center of my attention...Can I sleep now?" He lifts his gaze up from the floor. "Please?"
"Yes." Sif promises, guiding him back down to the stone. Her mind feels scattered and fragmented. She can't focus on anything, so she tries to keep her attention on this. It's still hard. She wants to throw up again. "We'll wake you in a few hours. Rest."
000o000
Sif gets maybe an hour of sleep between watches and clambers up to her feet herding everyone else forward. She takes the duty of being Loki's impromptu crutch for the day, letting him lean a majority of his weight against her as they hobble forward.
Volstagg manages to find a water source and they drink from it greedily before filling the canteens they snitched from the barn and moving forward. Sif's hyper aware of every noise and swears that she can hear something scuffling after them, but there's always nothing when she looks. Loki is no better, just as frantic and panicked as she is about everything.
They take another break, and then get back up again.
The hours keep passing.
The Weeping Siren isn't coming.
They must have been down here for two, maybe three days when Fandral and Hogun leave to find more water. She sits down next to Volstagg and Loki, trying to tell a story of one of their previous quests to the children, but she can't draw up as much enthusiasm as she would have had a few weeks (months) ago. Slaying a dragon seems so pointless now. Who cares how they gutted it? It was killed. That's the moral of the story.
"Mother used to tell us stories all the time before you came." Li murmurs in admission. "I think she was too busy poisoning Prince Loki afterwards to try it." A sickly part of her is relieved by this. She wouldn't have wanted to hear what kind of bedtime stories the Weeping Siren could come up with.
They put the children to sleep and Volstagg lightly bumps Loki's arm with his elbow. The Snake Prince has been sitting in the same meditative stance for well over two hours now—Hogun and Fandral should be back soon. Where are they?—and it's the first attempt she or Volstagg have made at trying to break him out of it.
Loki doesn't react to the touch. He merely sits there, hands moving back and forth in a slow rhythm. His breath is deep. He seems fine, just distracted.
Sif sighs and plops down next to Volstagg again, resting her head on his shoulder. He adjusts to her weight easily, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
"Tired?" Volstagg asks softly.
"Who isn't?" Sif counters rhetorically and then breathes out slowly. "We're going to starve before we make it out of here." She murmurs. The meager amount of food she'd managed to grab at was close to nothing. Even rationed, they've eaten everything.
"We can last a few weeks." Volstagg assures. "There's no need to panic yet."
"We'll be in the cave system for weeks." Sif argues. "We're going nowhere. Volstagg, what are we going to do? We don't even know where we're going beyond away from Mother. We could be going deeper into the Blodig Skog or the cave. What if we aren't going up? Where are we in relation to everything else? Where do we go so that Heimdall will see us if he looks?"
How do we leave? Where do we go? Why is no one helping them!?
"I...I think I can help with that." Loki whispers and she and Volstagg startle, and then turn to see him lifting up a thick roll of paper. Sif's stomach leaps to her throat.
"Is that the map?" she asks, reaching out a hand to take it from him. Loki nods, giving a grim smile. She unrolls the paper across her lap, eyes going wide as she sees the ink slowly trace itself across the white paper. The tunnels. It's a map of the tunnels, and how to get to the surface. Her eyes squeeze shut, relief threatening to make her weep. "Oh, Norns, Loki; I am so sorry for our pestering about this before. You have just saved our lives."
Loki nods several times, before he leans over to the side and promptly vomits up black blood. She starts, but Loki lifts up a hand and coughs, spitting out several times and wipes at the edge of his mouth stiffly, rubbing at his chest with one hand. "I don't think that it was the best idea to use sedir right now," he whispers, "my body is rejecting the idea."
Violently. But it got them the map. And Sif thinks she can live with that.
They force Loki to lay down and monitor from the corner of their eyes as if his body will simply give up the ghost. (He's so damaged he might and this terrifies her.) Fandral and Hogun finally return several hours later, Hogun hobbling as he's assisted by Fandral towards the small encampment. Fandral is sporting a nasty gash on his forehead, with a bruise forming around the blood. Sif moves to help him, helping Hogun down to the ground. "What happened? Are you alright?"
Hogun's lips press together and Avil moves forward to frantically fret over him. The Vanir warrior allows his sister to bother him and shoves a canteen up towards her moodily. Sif looks to Fandral for explanation.
"It was, ah, wet. I slipped and then he slipped. Huge gash up the side of his leg," Fandral lightly waves in the direction with his own leg. "I dressed it as best I could, but I don't know…"
Infection.
Death.
Great. Sif holds back a sob of helplessness and lifts up the map, trying to reassure herself that there's a chance for them to survive. This isn't the end of everything. They will be fine. They're going to leave this place. This prison. "We'll get out." She promises. "Loki got the map."
000o000
Day six slowly wanes onwards and Sif gathers the canteens and moves to the outcropping of water a little bit aways from the camp. Hogun's managed to break past the worst of the infection (they think) and Loki's leg is looking a little better, but they're still two or three days from finding an exit. (Maybe.) They'd been going the wrong direction from the start and had to turn around. Sif is just glad that the map is adaptive. It shows them where they are in the Blodig Skog, and that apparently includes, anywhere—even underground.
Sif fills up the canteens to the brim and then swings them over her shoulders, standing still for a moment to try and catch a moment to herself. She's hardly slept since this whole thing began and she's been running to and fro again and again. She's exhausted. She wants to sleep, and she wants a moment to herself. Needs it, as selfish as it is.
The calming noise of the water is soft, almost imperceptible and it's for this reason that Sif becomes acutely aware when another set of breathing joins hers.
Her spine stiffens. Her hands curl into fists. She ignores how they tremble, not wanting to turn. If it had been one of the others, they would have announced themselves. A wild animal would have attacked her. Oh, All-Fathers, please let it be a wild animal.
Sif stands still for a long few seconds, the ragged breathing sounding behind her before there's a soft scuffle and then—
"Found you."
Sif screams. She whirls around, breath coming hard and fast as she lifts the lantern up to the darkness and prays that her mind is playing tricks on her. The light of the lantern reveals the gaunt, sickly face and another wail threatens to tear out of her.
"Sif!" A voice shouts behind them, laced with panic. She thinks it was Fandral's.
This can't be happening. No. No. Loki said that because there wasn't a barrier that there's no way that the creature could have known about this. There's no way. They should have been—No, no, no—fine.
"We played a fun game," the Weeping Siren promises, baring her teeth, "but it's over now. It's time to go home."
"No," Sif breathes, shaking hand lifting towards her chest to cover her heart. She's panicking, but she can't do anything to stop it. Sif backs up, trying to reach the camp. There's no water here. That much she's certain of. Oh, Norns, why? Please, please, please—"You can't be here."
The Weeping Siren releases a cackling laugh. It's grating. "Dearest, you did not choose wisely to come down this path. Those who have wandered down before have only been met with sorrow."
Sif's mind flashes to the children's corpses. Her chest heaves with a gasp of horror and she drops the lantern, whirling around and breaking into a run in an attempt to reach the others. Some part of her insists that she should just find a different route, lead the creature away from them, but there's no point. They've been hearing the scuffling for days; the creature, Sif is beginning to suspect, knows where the others are anyway.
Run. Keep. Moving. Go.
Her vision is blurry. She feels light headed.
Keep. Moving.
Sif can see the firelight of their measly gathering of lanterns when something clamps down on her hair and yanks, dragging her to a halt. A cry of pain escapes her lips and she gasps with horror a panicked sob bubbling out of her. Its caught her. Its caught her!
She's pulled backwards and a hand clamps over her mouth to silence her hyperventilation. "Shh," the Weeping Siren coos. "There's no need to be afraid, daughter. Mother is here now. She'll keep all of you safe. I promise."
Sif doesn't want her promises.
She wants to go home. (Why is it, still, even after all this time, her mind flashes first to that cellar, and not Asgard?)
The Weeping Siren hauls her forward by her braid, and Sif looks towards the others through her blurred vision. The Warriors Three and Loki are standing in front of the children who have all clumped together behind them. Sif sometimes forgets how small the nineteen children can make themselves when they try. A helpless sob washes through her.
They don't have any weapons. Loki and Hogun can barely stand—shouldn't be standing—and all they're armed with is a few sticks and rocks. This isn't enough to fight off a sedirmaster. They're going to die. They're going to be claimed again. There is nothing they can do to stop this.
"Let her go, Mother." Volstagg demands, adjusting his stance to seem more intimidating, but he's failing. Sif can see how pale his face is from the lighting of the flame, how his hands tremble.
The Weeping Siren lets out another bout of laughter. "You all believe yourself so brave." She sneers the word like poison, "But you all know yourselves to be lost inside. I collect the lost children. I bring them home. How could you be so ungrateful? I have done nothing but care for you...and you abandoned me."
We didn't, Sif wants to shout, we wouldn't do that, we're good. We're—
No. No more. Please. She can't, she can't—stop.
"Li," Loki's voice is barely audible. "I need you to take the map and leave with the others, alright? We'll hold Mother off for you to get away."
"Loki—" Li breathes in protest.
"Oh, no need for such dramatics," the creature sighs, "we don't need to pretend all of you don't want to return. Please, my dearests, come home."
"No. Li," Loki demands and thrusts the map back at the child before he and the Warriors Three advance. The Weeping Siren sighs heavily and her grip Sif tightens almost to the point of unbearable.
"Fine. I'll prove myself if that's what you need." The Weeping Siren throws Sif forward. Her legs won't hold her upright and she staggers to her knees, trying to control the tremble. Trying to remember how to be brave. She won't stop crying. Norns, she's not a little girl anymore. The tears are distracting—all she can focus on—but Sif scrambles to find a weapon to help the others.
Li is leading the children off, and Sif's stomach clenches with displeasure at that. She needs to stay with them. To protect them, but she can't. She can't even get herself off this stupid floor. The sounds of battle are ensuing behind her, and the smell of blood has broken air.
Move.
It takes her longer than she would have liked, but Sif grabs at the nearest item, one of the lanterns—this one's oil was used up yesterday, but they didn't part from it for whatever reason—and whirls around, throwing it at the Weeping Siren's head. It makes contact. Sickeningly. The creature lets out a wail of pain, shoving Loki into Hogun and the two of them go tumbling down to the ground in a heap of tangled, broken limbs.
"You!" the creature shrieks, whirling on Sif.
Sif hasn't gotten up to her feet yet. She's still laying near the lanterns, trying to get herself to stand. Fandral is laying near one of the walls, blood trickling down the side of his head as if someone tried to bash his skull in. He's not moving. Volstagg is rounding around the Siren, but the woman seems fully aware that he's there. Sif withers under the creature's attention.
"Fine. Fine. If we must play with fire, so be it." She grits and opens her palms, wiggling her fingers. Flame sparks almost immediately, and the creature spins around and slams her fist into Volstagg's stomach. Her shield-brother lets out a scream, hands moving to clench at the area.
"Volstagg!" Sif cries, shoving up towards her elbow.
Up.
She still can't move. Her limbs are shaking too much.
The Weeping Siren turns towards them, fists glowing with the flame. She draws some sort of long sword from her sedir and turns towards Hogun and Loki. Loki is mostly upright, but Hogun is still stiff on the ground. "I don't want to kill you dearests," the creature sighs, "but you have left me with no choice. These deaths are because you made me. I must protect my family...and you encourage such bad behavior in the little ones."
No.
No.
Sif struggles to get upright.
Loki's hands lift and he clenches his fists. An attempt at a shield forms, but it sputters out and dies before Loki can solidify it. The Weeping Siren cackles, drawing closer. "Foolish child, do you really think that you'd have your sedir back within a few days? You have more power than I first thought if you've already manifested some now, but...well, you're likely aware what Aethetin does."
Six months to a year is the average amount it takes to kill someone, that's what Loki said. Loki kept getting sicker and sicker; nothing was helping. Oh, Norns, how long have they been here? Enough time that the Weeping Siren made significant progress in almost stopping Loki's heart. The Weeping Siren took his seidr. A little longer and she would have killed him.
The flush of rage that hits her is enough to help her draw herself upright.
She moves. She's still making little hiccups of terror, but she's moving. She's not going to let the Weeping Siren do any more harm to her shield-brothers.
"I—" Loki's face has drained of all remaining color. He looks ready to topple forward.
"Goodbye, my dear," the Weeping Siren sings softly, "please tell the others that Mother sends them her love."
"Wait!" Loki chokes out.
The sword Sif had forgotten the creature had in hand swings—in the change of light, Sif recognizes it as Fandral's from all those months ago—towards Loki's neck. Sif's muscles tense before she tackles the woman from the side, sending the creature pitching towards the ground. Loki inhales sharply anyway, stumbling backwards.
Curse it. Apparently she wasn't fast enough to leave him unscathed.
The Weeping Siren smashes against the ground and lets out a growl of anger before shoving Sif off of her and, before Sif has any time to react, plunges the weapon into her stomach. Hot, fiery pain spreads where the metal entered and she looks down at the sword trying to understand what just happened. She...was just stabbed.
Oh.
That's really not ideal.
The blade draws back and Sif's vision goes white. The creature shoves Sif to the ground and she smashes into it, gasping and curling around the ugly wound. Her hands press, but it hurts to do so. Apply pressure, you idiot. She presses, gasping. Blood is staining her fingers red.
The creature plunges the weapon into Hogun who twitches, but is quiet, and moves towards Volstagg. Loki is on the ground already, breathing sharp, short breaths. Sif can't tell how much of the first attack she actually prevented, but she hopes it was enough to stop him from being beheaded. Fandral is still leaning against that wall, unmoving.
This can't be it.
This can't be their fate. To die alone in a cave, abandoned and forgotten. This can't be the end. (At least, some less hysterical part of her mind insists, the children got away. Hopefully they can make it to Ju before the Siren catches them. It's something. It's nothing like what they were hoping. But it's something.)
It smells like ozone. It's thick, and Sif can't tell if it's from her wound or not. She draws in a wet gasp and the Weeping Siren raises the weapon. It glints in the light, stained with their blood. She raises it, swinging it towards Volstagg's neck—
Only for something to smash into her stomach, sizzling with electricity and driven with enough force to throw her back several feet. The Weeping Siren trips over Loki's prone form and smashes into the ground. Oh, Norns. Sif barely dares to breathe, head lifting as she tries to focus, looking towards the tunnel that the children ran off through less than five minutes ago.
Her heart thumps in her chest with anticipation.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Help.
Thor throws himself into the room with a loud war cry, calling Mjolnir back to him. The weapon flings back into his hand with ease, the lightning bouncing on the handle making flashes of light dance across the room.
Thor. Here. Thor. Thor. Thor. Her mind refuses to think of nothing else, and she wants to weep. It wasn't a dream. She hadn't imagined Asgard's existence. She hadn't pretended she'd had a life before the creature caught them. Thor is here. She can rest now.
He isn't alone. Einherjar pour into the space behind him, armed to the teeth and Sif can spot a few familiar faces among them through her blurred vision. Her father is one of them. The sheer amount of power that radiates into the small space nearly stifles her and hardly half a step behind their son is the All-Father and All-Mother.
Oh, Norns.
The king and queen of Asgard are here.
The Weeping Siren lets out a few laughs and hobbles up to her feet, hair smoking slightly. "You waste your energy, Asgardians. This is a family matter, not one of the State."
"You took my brother." Thor growls between his teeth. His voice sounds different than Sif remembers it. Deeper. Heavier. She hasn't heard it since that night in the Blodig Skog when everything fell apart. When they were claimed. (Is his hair shorter? He's favoring one leg, or is she imagining that?)
The Weeping Siren hisses, "He's not your brother. Not anymore. He's my son now. And we've been very happy together, have we not, dearest?" She nudges Loki with the side of her boot pointedly, obviously expecting him to say something. Sif doesn't know if he can. Is blood bubbling in his throat like it is hers?
"My dear?" The Weeping Siren's voice is hard. Heavy. A part of her shies away from the tone, knowing that nothing pleasant follows it.
"W-w-we h-have," Loki promises. His voice trembles. The Siren leans down and caresses a hand through Loki's hair. Loki stiffens, letting out a strangled sort of noise of panic. Sif wants to move, but the blood is everywhere and making it hard to focus.
"Don't touch him!" Thor commands sharply, shifting some only to be grabbed by High Commander Tyr before he can do anything drastic.
Everyone from her realm—her realm. Asgard. Asgard is here. (Not a dream, not a dream, not a dream). Her father is here—seems to stiffen as the creature moves, but when her hand makes contact with Loki's hair, the All-Mother's expression twists into something dark and her stance tightens. The short sword she has in hand gleams in the lantern's meager light.
"Shh." The Weeping Siren sings, looking towards Thor. "You were not meant to survive that attack, but here you are. It's of no matter, we'll just have to do the killing a different way. Drop your weapons." The last three words are sung in that awful tune and Sif's mind is thrown back months ago when the woman demanded the same of them and all of them had just done so.
There could be no fight. No resistance. The command had come and all of them had followed.
Siren. The word was not attached to her title for nothing.
A majority of the Einherjar follow the command after less than two or three seconds of struggle. Thor doesn't, ozone crackling in the air again. The Weeping Siren's eyes narrow, "Drop. Your. Weapons."
Mjolnir slips to the floor. The remaining Einherjar are disarmed a moment later.
No—wait! This wasn't how it was supposed to go! Oh, please. It was a recuse. A hope. They were going to...to finally get out of here. (She'll be free in death, but Valhalla wasn't where she wanted to finally breathe the air of a freeman again.)
The Weeping Siren is still stroking Loki's hair. The second prince is making noises of open panic. Sif thinks she's going to be sick. She can add her vomit to the pool of bodily fluid that should have stayed inside of her.
"I...am the end of your story; prepare for a death that is gory—" the Weeping Siren's fingers trace towards Loki's forehead, "—slee—"
The Weeping's Siren's voice dies. Her hands raise slowly towards her throat and she claws at an invisible hand, unable to draw in breath. Sif breathes out steadily, turning her head towards the Asgardians, trying to determine the source of the choking. The King and Queen stand side by side, unaffected by the Siren's calls. Gungnir is still gripped in the King's hands, and Queen Frigga still holds her short sword. These are some of the most powerful beings in the Nine Realms, Sif realizes. Why would the Weeping Siren stop them?
Queen Frigga's hand is raised in a clenched fist, fingers glowing with the unmistakable light of sedir. She's choking the creature. Sif's more upset than she thinks she should be. Queen Frigga jerks her wrist up and the Weeping Siren is dragged away from Loki forcefully. The command's of the creature seem to stop, as they always do when her song ends or the command has been fulfilled.
As the Einherjar gather their weapons, Queen Frigga strides towards the woman with long, but even strides and takes her by the throat with her physical hand. "Touch my son again and I'll do far worse than take your voice." The All-Mother's voice is heavy. "You are powerful, and that's not a good thing for you," the Queen leans towards the creature's face. "It means when I drain you dry of every lost drop of sedir you possess, it will hurt."
"You—" the Weeping Siren tries to say, clawing at Queen Frigga's forearm with a wild sort of desperation.
"Oh, silence." Queen Frigga waves her other hand in front of the beast and the Weeping Siren slumps. Queen Frigga's lips curl with disgust and she all but tosses the creature towards High Commander Tyr. "Restrain her, and be assured she won't awaken until I say so."
Good.
That's probably good.
Sif's head aches too much for her to determine otherwise. Everything is beginning to fuzz. King Odin takes control of the situation and the room becomes a flurry of movement, a few of the Einherjar securing the area as healers are rushed forward. (The children. Who has the children? Did they stop them in time? Where are they?) Sif recognizes Eir, or she thinks it's Eir, but her vision of everything blurs together when her father kneels down in front of her, eyes wide with panic.
"Sif," he whispers, hands scrambling for a second as he tries to assess her visually and determine what the best course of action would be. She blinks up at him, too exhausted to speak. His brown eyes land on her stomach and he swears under his breath, rolling her onto her back as gently as he can so he can help apply pressure.
It's not until his hands press against the wound that she realizes that everything isn't a frenzied hallucination drawn up by her panic. This is real. His hands are solid as they push on top of hers and his voice is real when he twists around to shout for the assistance of a healer.
He turns to look back at her, "Daughter—" she flinches at the word "—daughter, I swear to you that you'll be fine. Please. Just keep focusing on me. You're going to live through this. Everything will be alright."
Her vision is going dark around the edges.
She wants to agree with him, but she knows better.
She attempts to give him a smile, but it's a grimace. Months of waiting, months of pain and longing, and this is how she meets her father again. By saying goodbye. The wound doesn't hurt anymore. It's just kind of there, stealing her blood and making her father panic. His gloved fingers are warm on top of hers. She's freezing. And thirsty.
She opens her mouth, trying to say something, but her words aren't working right. Her voice is gone. She waits until her father has made eye-contact with her again before she tries to mouth, " I'm sorry, I love you."
"No-no, Sif—" her father starts to say frantically. Sif sees a healer land on their knees beside her father on the edge of her tilted vision before everything goes dark. Her father's words blur, vanish, and she slips away.
"My heart, my heart, my drowning heart; oh, all the tears I've cried,
Though I may weep forever more, my love will never die,
I will not say goodbye."
My Love Will Never Die - Claire Wyndham
Author's Note: Not gonna lie, seeing an enraged Frigga would make me 100% convinced of my painful demise. :) Thanks again for your support guys! One chapter left! :)
Next chapter: September 27th! See you all then! ;)
