Who else HATED the last episode of Loki?
Anyway, here's the first part of Thor: The Dark World! CW for character death.
Please read, review, and enjoy!
Mothers
His mother is visiting him in his cell again, reminding him of what he's missing out on beyond the enclosure of Asgard's dungeons. She doesn't mean to, Loki realizes, but it's bothersome nonetheless. Before he'd been imprisoned, he could have seen her at any time of the day, simply by walking down the hall to her rooms. Now, he has to wait around for her weekly visits, too stubborn to seek her out himself.
It serves her right, he thinks, her having to come down here and witness him in squalor. His cell—while extravagantly if sparsely decorated by furniture from his own rooms, save for the cot, which he believes her to have had specially made for him—is the same for him as for all the other prisoners: thoroughly bleak, oppressively small, and walled in by fenestrae that gape like an open wound. He hates it down here, and part of him wants to curse her for letting Odin stick him in this place. He should be in the palace, sitting on its throne, not rotting away beneath it.
"How have you been enjoying the food, dear," Frigga is asking him, ignorant of his inner musings. She appears as regal as ever, dressed in a blue frock, along with a silver robe and a matching breastplate. Her hair is up as usual, elaborately spun around her head. It makes him feel especially dreary in comparison. His clothes—while not of meager quality—are certainly in a poorer state than they've ever been.
He ignores her, clasping his hands behind his back and looking through of the diaphanous walls of his cell as a new crop of prisoners arrives. It's not as though he enjoys the insipid gruel they feed him down here anyway. "Odin continues to bring me new friends," he remarks. "How thoughtful."
Ignoring him in turn, she tries a different topic on which to engage him. "The books I sent, do they not interest you?"
They do, in truth, but that's not something he'll readily admit. Not wanting to give anything away, he makes sure to school his features before turning around to look at her and stepping away from the wall. Still, he accepts this avenue of conversation. "Is that how I am to while away eternity? Reading?"
Frigga moves, as well, and they end up with the chaise lounge that sits in the middle of the room between them. "I've done everything in my power to make you comfortable, Loki."
"Have you," he questions, letting his lips turn up in a smirk that he knows she'll find mildly infuriating. He leans forward, grabbing the back of chaise. "Does Odin share your concern?" Frigga doesn't change her expression at first—likely not wanting to give anything away or convey that his query bothers her—but finally, she permits her brow to rise. Emboldened, he adds, "Does Thor? It must be so inconvenient, them asking after me day and night."
Without missing a beat, she informs him, "You know full well it was your actions that brought you here."
Not quite caring for the turn the conversation has taken—though perhaps he has no one to blame but himself for that, as per usual—he pushes back from the chair, gesturing to himself. "My actions?" He heads toward the other the smaller window of his cell, the one that doesn't face the prison's main walkway. "I was merely giving truth to the lie that I'd been fed my entire life: that I was born to be a king."
"A king," she echoes, and he can just feel the oncoming lecture. She's leaning to the side as her eyes bore into his, fiddling with her wedding band. "A true king admits his faults. What of the lives you took on Earth?"
He feels himself getting defensive, tired of going over the same, meaningless human deaths with yet another too-soft woman. Rather than try to justify his actions—as he's failed before to do—he opts for deflection. "A mere handful compared to the number that Odin has taken himself." He steps back from her image yet again, as though trying to get some room in the confining space in which he's been held for over a year now.
She presses on, gearing up to make yet more excuses on Odin's behalf. "Your father—"
Loki, however, is unwilling to hear anything in Odin's defense. The fault is with him, after all, that Loki is where he is today. If not for his father's deceptive hand in raising him, never would he have gone down a path described by others as being driven by vengeance and megalomania. "He's not my father!"
Shocked into silence, Frigga's lips twist in dismay. Softly, she ventures, "Then am I not your mother?"
It's a wonder, Loki thinks, that he had ever been able to get away with anything as a child considering how easily his mother talks circles around him. He'd been completely in the right thus far—Odin isn't his father, he'd abducted Loki as an infant, as she damn well knows—but now here he is, having to say something cruel to her for the sake of his argument.
A silky, self-assured voice interrupts before he has the chance. "Don't answer that."
Jaw clenched, Loki turns his head to the side to see Sigyn standing just beyond the wall of his cell. She's decked out in her full armor, sans the helmet, and she has an expression of easygoing amusement. Unlike everyone else in the prison, who merely sees Loki lounging on his cot, he knows her to be able to see Frigga and Loki conversing in the middle of his cell.
In the past year, they've spoken all of two other times. The first had been a few months after he'd decided to give her some space. She had received numerous reports that he was stirring up discontent in the dungeons: behaving obstinately during the short trips he was allowed outside of his cell, playing pranks on the guards, and occasionally—though no one could prove it—inciting other prisoners to riot with subtle telepathic manipulation. One morning, it had been her and not the Lieutenant Arvid—to whom he'd gotten accustomed to seeing every other day—who had come to escort him to the prison's bathroom.
He'd felt her presence from where she'd stood outside the door throughout the duration of his shower, it itching at the back of his mind and stomping around under his skull. He'd been too agitated to do anything more than bathe himself as quickly as he could, ruefully forgoing self-gratification during the only time he ever got to do so.
Like always, the showers had been empty but for him, his special status granting him the privacy to not only occupy a cell alone, but to bathe alone, too. As such, he'd been nearly scared out of his wits when he'd turned around—having only just wrapped a towel around his waist—to find her standing right under his nose.
"Hello, Loki," she'd murmured, her eyes particularly soft in the low light of the bathroom.
"If this is the part where you kill me," he'd said, forcing himself not to take a step back. "I must ask that you leave be my face." Sigyn hadn't replied to that, merely humming and caressing one of his cheekbones with her thumb, at which he'd startled anew. It'd been the first they'd touched since returning to Asgard.
As though they were idly chatting, she'd mentioned, "I hear you've been making trouble for your guards."
"From an unreliable source, surely," he'd responded.
"Several unreliable sources, actually," she'd replied, pulling back her hand. He'd mourned the loss of her touch, but hadn't moved his own hand to stop her. He didn't say anything, and she went on. "Do you know what happens every time an inmate acts up?"
"Someone's back gets sliced open," he'd guessed, mostly joking.
A spark of amusement had taken to her eye, and she'd started slowly treading around him. Trailing an ominous finger along his spine, she'd said, "Nothing as fun as that, no. It's just boring paperwork, actually. A lot of boring paperwork. For me."
"I see," he'd said, trying to keep his voice even. "Keeping watch of me has grown tedious for you."
"Far too tedious," confirmed Sigyn, her nails suddenly digging into his flesh. Clenching shut his eyes, he'd resisted the urge to groan. "And my patience is not unending, so I suggest you cease in your mischief lest I have to devise a proper counterincentive."
After a moment, she'd started moving her finger up and down his spine again. Despite himself, he couldn't stop himself from shivering at the sensation, her touch oddly hot along his slowly-drying skin. She'd noticed, remarking, "I hadn't realized Jotuns could get cold."
"This is emasculating," he'd replied on impulse, hoping it would make her back off before his need for self-gratification returned with a vengeance.
Naturally, it hadn't. She'd leant in close, and he could feel her breath fanning across his nape. Despite himself, he'd shivered again. "Just be happy I chose to do this without an audience. Next time, you'll not be so lucky."
And he wasn't. The next time he tried something—a harmless trick, really, turning another prisoner's food into rats so as to watch him flail about in his cell and refuse to eat after the vermin had reverted into his meal—she'd unexpectedly and violently roused him from a nap, barking out his name as she'd stomped up to the foot of his cell. He'd promptly sat up, the book he'd had fanned out across his face to block out the manufactured, midday light of his cell tumbling to the floor.
Thrown first by her sudden appearance, he'd been thrown again by her appearance itself. Unlike how she was usually dressed in the dungeons, she'd been without armor, instead wearing a long, gold-trimmed, white dress with her hair done up, looking as though she'd come from her own wedding. For a moment, he'd been sure he was still dreaming, though that thought was dismissed as soon as she spoke up again.
"What did I tell you about making more mischief," she'd asked harshly, her hands perched squarely on her hips.
She'd been staring him down, and it had been all he could do to rub at his eyes and give her a drowsy, half-hearted repudiation. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Discounting the obvious lie, she'd worsened her glare. "Don't make me come in there."
"If only you would," he'd said without thinking.
Sigyn had recoiled in disbelief, her face lighting up in anger. He'd thought briefly of offering some sort of contrition, but hadn't the time to formulate one before a duplicate of her was phasing through the wall to his cell and marching up to him, leaning in close. "Are you trying to tell me that you could do with some socialization? Because if so, I could have you transferred to another cell for a week, let you make some friends."
Loki gives her a look as though to suggest she wouldn't dare. "Aren't you worried what I might do to them?"
"I could put you on Death Row, and it wouldn't matter," she'd ruthlessly rebutted.
Begrudgingly impressed and not wanting to test her to see if she'd actually go through with her threat, he'd backed down. "Fine. Consider the God of Mischief retired."
She'd looked satisfied, but she hadn't let her stern expression drop. "That had better not be the God of Lies speaking."
In the midst of her duplicate's disappearance, her true form had already been turning back to regard the colonel who'd been looming behind her throughout the tongue-lashing she'd given Loki. She'd sniped at him, "See? How hard would that have been for you? You didn't need to drag me all the way down here!"
The man's face had been overcome by an amusing fuchsia color as he'd sputtered at her. "It's not so simple, and you well know it. He has magic!"
Her teeth had glistened as she'd given him a sharp smile. "I have magic, and you're not afraid of me, are you?"
The colonel made a face as though to suggest that he most certainly was afraid of her, but she hadn't noticed, distracted by someone coming up behind him. It'd been one of the soldiers with whom she was very close friends, the one who he'd seen only a handful of times, Pontus. The man had never liked Loki, and as far as he cared, the feeling was mutual.
Pontus had tried to ignore Sigyn, clearly hoping she hadn't seen him, but to no avail. She'd stepped into his path, forcefully greeting him. "Pontus, hi. How have you been? We've not spoken for a while." The colonel had walked off at this point, having gotten from Sigyn what he'd wanted.
Grimacing, Pontus tried to turn her off him. "I'm at work, Sigyn."
She'd gestured at the scene around them, then at his armor. "No shit," she'd summed up.
He'd grumbled something at her—too quiet for Loki to hear—before stalking away. Sigyn had let him go, pouting with her brows knit, her eyes sliding from his retreating back as she slowly turned in place, coming to face Loki again.
Boy troubles, he'd asked, smiling cheerily at her as soon as he'd caught her eye. Frowning refocusing on him, she'd looked as though she couldn't make sense of his attempt to aggravate her. He'd answered her unthought question. You woke me from my nap.
Go back to sleep, then, she'd suggested, and he'd been struck by a wave of exhaustion strong enough to pull him under again within seconds.
Unlike the days before, today is different in that she had chosen to speak to him with neither prompting from anyone else, nor the aim of persuading him to stop causing other people trouble. On the contrary, she's speaking to him of her own volition to stop him from tearing a rift between himself and his mother.
Before he can think of that which to say to her in turn, she drops his eyes and steps away, albeit not before sparing his mother a respectful, nearly imperceptible nod. He watches her tread over to the other side of the hall and tells himself that he's not disappointed to no longer have her attention.
Her mood having seemingly recovered in the midst of Sigyn's interruption, Frigga's tone is far lighter as she speaks up again. "You know, I offered her a position on my guard again after your return. I was disappointed when she turned it down." Loki tries not to give an outward reaction, having never heard that any such offer had existed, though perhaps he fails simply by turning to look at her. She gives him a smile when he does. "She's the only person to have ever refused me. Other than you boys, of course. It makes me all the more certain she's perfect for you."
Grinning ruefully, he allows, "She may disagree with you on that point."
"I should hope so," she says, her smile turning wry.
Loki, not quite sure what she means by that and hardly in the mood for her games, decides they've spoken long enough for today. "Take care, Mother." Understanding his intent, she holds out her hand, and he waves his own through it, dispelling her projection.
After some debate, he picks up one of the books his mother had sent him, choosing one about the observation of lithopanspermia in the lesser realms. He settles against the post beside the cell wall, stretching out his legs and holding the book above his lap. The chaise would be a more comfortable spot to read, he knows, but this position is a better vantage point from which to watch Sigyn out of the corner of his eye, as he always does when one of her shifts happens to coincide with a time that he's awake.
She's standing not too far from him, speaking with her captain about their regiment's annual budget. The two of them are looking through a folder, the captain pointing out various figures and having Sigyn sign her approval. They're almost all the way through it when the girl under Sigyn's command—Tove, he remembers from years prior—comes up to her. She speaks too quietly for Loki to hear, and unfortunately, Sigyn matches her tone, waving away the captain and adopting a grave expression.
Loki all but abandons the pretense of reading his book at this point, far more interested in whatever workplace drama is taking place. It's not something for which he'd usually care, but after years of listening to Sigyn talk about the day-to-day of military life and a year of solitary confinement, he's not hard-pressed to pay attention.
Having been on something of a rant, Tove takes a deep, anxious breath as she finishes speaking, waiting for Sigyn's response. A second passes before a murderous expression overtakes Sigyn's face, and she says something at the same infuriatingly quiet volume at which they've been speaking. Tove nods in response, and the two of them head from the hall.
Disappointed, he returns his full attention to the book still perched in his lap, giving himself over to the long prose of academic writing. After a few minutes, he vaguely notices the guard changing shift, Sigyn's unit being exchanged for another.
Some hours later, Loki is lying on his cot, flipping a cup up and down in the air and catching it in his hand before tossing it again, over and over, when he starts to hear yelling and thumping. He freezes, grasping the cup with its mouth on his palm as he listens for more queer noises.
He doesn't hear anything more, but the lights dim, prompting him to lower his hand and move to get up. As soon as he does, an explosion rings out, though he can tell it's being muffled by something. From the sound of it, it appears as though it emanated from inside the dungeons. From his vantage point, however, his being the first cell in the prisons, he can't see much past the next three cells down, and they all look as though nothing is amiss aside from their own inhabitants behaving in much the same way he is: standing at the walls of their cells and craning their necks for a better view of the commotion.
Two guards run down the passageway between the cells, leaving his line of sight as soon as they'd entered it. A crashing sound follows, and then that of the cell wall powering down. Next comes a noisy commotion of some sort, metal clacking together and people grunting, but he can't hear much over the din being put out by the other prisoners. The distinct sound of two bodies hitting the floor does resonate, however.
It's a prison break, he grasps, the thrill at the realization getting his blood pumping.
There's a quick succession of more cell walls going down. After the fifth one he hears, a hulking creature comes into view. He's barely passable as being humanoid, his stone-like armor decorated by horns, spikes, and tusks. His face is obscured by a large mask painted to mimic a red skull.
After a few short minutes, he's freed most everyone else in the prison. His last stop is Loki's own cell, though he takes slow, measured steps in approaching it, seemingly put-out by the elaborate décor it contains. Loki tries to give off his best intimidating, I-am-a-very-formidable-villain-and-you-should-choose-me-as-your-ally look, but the creature hardly seems impressed. He quirks his head to the side, clearly debating as to whether to free Loki, too, though he never gets the chance to decide.
A burst of yellow light strikes him in the side, pushing him from the step beneath Loki's cell and forcing him to take several steps back. When he regains his footing, they both look up to see Sigyn standing at the wide-open dungeon doors, holding what appears to be a dislocated artillery gun of an Asgardian airship. Oddly enough, she's wearing only the bottom half of her armor, likely having been in the middle of changing into her day clothes when the skirmish had started. The shirt she wears under her armor, usually concealed from the world, is streaked with blood as though she'd cut through a few people on her way here.
Displeased with how unaffected her opponent seems to be after her attack, she tosses the gun to the side. As it crashes on the floor and breaks apart, she strides down the last few steps of the prison entrance, clenching her hand behind her to close the doors with telekinesis. "You seem confused, so listen up," she tells the creature, summoning her short sword to her hand. "This isn't a hostel, and you can't just check out whenever you'd like."
The creature growls, annoyed, and charges at her. She ducks to the side as soon as he's near, slicing at the back of his legs as she rolls out of the way. Jumping to her feet behind him, she stops, clearly expecting him to crumble to the ground. He should, Loki reasons, considering that the soft skin on the back of his knees is torn open, but he does no such thing, merely turning around to face Sigyn again.
A confused grimace overtakes her face, and she hisses, "The fuck?"
On his second try, the creature doesn't charge at her, opting to stomp towards her instead. Defiant, she stands her ground, shifting the short sword into her spear and holding it across her front. As soon as the creature within range, she slams the butt of the spear into his temple, though he doesn't so much as reel back. She tries again, this time sticking the pointed end of the spear into his breast. Unfortunately, she gets much the same reaction, the creature not even flinching.
Before she has the chance to remove her spear from his chest, the creature reaches out, placing his large, meaty hand against her abdomen. Sigyn jerks, a gut-wrenching scream suddenly tearing from her throat. From where he's standing, locked in his cell and unable to help, Borr damn it, he can't see what the monster is doing to her, but it's impossible for his nose to not pick up the smell of burning flesh.
Thankfully, she abandons her spear before the torture can go on for too long, leaving it hanging from the monster's torso and stumbling backwards. She collapses against the step outside of Loki's cell, her back digging into its ridge. Loki forces himself not to fall to his knees behind her, trying to appear as unaffected as possible.
After unsticking her spear from his chest and tossing it down the hall, the monster approaches her again. His footsteps seem to thunder along the ground, and Loki hopes more than anything that the it will open up and swallow him before he can reach Sigyn.
Luck, as always, isn't on his side, and the monster stretches a glowing, burning hand down towards her. She throws up her hand in turn, trying to repel him with her magic. She's trying to use mystical energy to blast the monster away, Loki can tell, but she's never had a talent for it, so her efforts fail fairly quickly.
The monster takes hold of her forearm, burning her again. She doesn't scream this time, though she does sob, and Loki's had enough.
"Pardon my intrusion," he interjects, leaning down so that he's at eye-level with the monster. Distracted, he looks up, and Sigyn is able to rip her arm from his grasp. Encouraged, Loki continues, "I can't help but feel as though you're wasting your time with this one. I think you'll find there are far more worthy opponents upstairs."
The monster, while intrigued—though it's hard for Loki to tell considering that all he can truly see of him are his eyes—seems reluctant to leave her alive. "Of course, I'm not suggesting you spare her," he adds. He directs his gaze down, and the monster follows suit. On the ground next to Sigyn, a dagger has materialized.
"No, no, no, wait," she starts rambling as soon as she notices the dagger, as well, a panicked tinge to her voice. The monster picks up the dagger, and she starts sliding to the right in an attempt to get away. "Please, you don't have to do this. I'll do anything—"
Remorseless, the monster plunges the dagger into the hollow of her throat. Blood gushes from the spot and her mouth, soaking her clothes as she collapses on the ground, twitching. Discreetly, Loki looks away. He knows it's an illusion, but he can't bear to watch.
The monster takes off with only a brief, backwards glance at Loki, at which he manages a conspiratorial nod. He leaves open the prison doors again, disappearing from view. At this point, the image of Sigyn's corpse fades away.
A few feet to the left of her original spot on the floor, she reappears in flash of pink, slumped against the step and breathing harshly. Loki comes to kneel behind her as he'd wanted to earlier, trying to get a better view of her injuries. Her shirt is badly singed, a hole in it the size and shape of the monster's hand, which is mirrored on her belly in a patchy, red mark that's already starting to swell. The burn on her arm has the same coloration, though it appears less inflamed.
Eyes fluttering as she struggles to keep herself partially upright, she looks up at him, hoarsely whispering, "Thank you."
Feeling uncomfortable saying something as glib as you're welcome considering how little he actually did to help and how poorly it could have gone, he opts for a light-hearted if dishonest quip. "I enjoyed the fake death. Very convincing."
She huffs out a light laugh, though she regrets it almost immediately. Her face contorts in pain, and she hisses out a slow breath with her teeth gritted. He pretends not to notice the agony her injuries are causing her for the sake of her pride.
The doors having been left open, the commotion from outside starts to pour back in, soldiers and escaped prisoners shoving and slashing at each other. Most don't pay Sigyn any mind, not looking at her long enough to realize she's not just another body left to rot on the floor, but only for so long. Soon enough, a man looking to be from Asgard or Vanaheim comes running at her with a stolen Asgardian sword held above his head. Loki has half the mind to strike at him with his own telekinesis, but before he gets the chance, Sigyn kicks the man in the shin, and he tumbles to the ground at her feet.
Before he can strike her, she brings up her hand to grip his forehead. Her voice low, she casts a spell, "Protect me." The man gets back up to do just that, cutting down the next person who charges at the soldier lying on the ground.
"Smart," Loki commends. He's not surprised at her ingenuity, though he is surprised that she had been able to withstand the movement of kicking the man.
She shifts so as to lean on her side, manifestly uncomfortable. "I'm the smartest."
At some point, Loki notices that Volstagg and Fandral have entered the fray, followed shortly thereafter by Thor. None of them pay him any attention—which decidedly doesn't sting—and the skirmish is put somewhat under control.
That is, until something rams into the palace from above them, shaking the whole structure and causing the ceiling to rain dust down on everyone. The fighting comes to a halt, everyone thrown off by the situation, leaving it quiet enough for all to hear another wreck, farther off than the first. This isn't a random prison riot, Loki realizes, Asgard is under attack. It's at this point that Thor leaves, likely having come to the same conclusion. Unfortunately, his departure reinvigorates the other prisoners, and the fighting quickly picks up again.
Sigyn's sentinel doesn't hold up forever, though she's fortunate in that it's her sister who lays him out. The man crumbles to the ground, knocked out cold by the butt of Haldana's sword. Like his other former friends, Haldana ignores Loki, moving to kneel at Sigyn's side. "What's wrong with you," she asks her, frantically looking her over. "What happened?"
"I'm fine," Sigyn promises her, though the frailty of her voice is hardly reassuring. She pushes Haldana's hands away when they reach for her stomach, reiterating, "I am fine. It's only a burn from some fire goblin. Help me up."
Haldana tries to do just that, but her efforts startle a yelp out of Sigyn. She goes slack in Haldana's arms, sliding back down to the floor. Haldana sets her down gently, frowning at Sigyn's rashness. "You're too injured to stand," she informs her, as though that much isn't obvious. "You'll have to stay here for now."
Sigyn nods, not seeing fit to argue. "What's going on?"
"Asgard is under attack, though we're not yet sure by whom," she imparts, a touch of anxiety creeping into her voice. She inspects Sigyn with an odd look on her face. "Is your mother working today?"
Brow furrowed, Sigyn tentatively answers, "Yes. Why?"
Looking reluctant, Haldana shuffles a little on her feet before finally admitting, "One of the enemy's ships collided with the military hospital. We think it was a deliberate strike."
So that's what the second wreck was, Loki reasons. The military hospital sits close enough to the palace that they'd have been able to feel the impact from here. Face pinching up, he hopes there wasn't too much damage done. He may not be on good terms with Asgard's leadership right now, but he can admit its people don't deserve to suffer.
With that in mind, his attention returns to Sigyn, whose own mother is under threat. She's looking down, expression turning first tortured then determined. "Help me up," she orders once more, in spite of her previous resignation. When Haldana doesn't move to do as she's asked, she tries to get her feet underneath her.
"Sigyn, no," Haldana insists, pushing her down by the shoulders. "You cannot stand, let alone walk."
"My mother is dying, I can feel it," Sigyn impresses upon her, her tone conveying that she is neither to be trifled with nor impeded at present. She speaks with such conviction that Loki is sure that she's tapped into the astral plane to find Walentyna. "I must go to her. I need to help her. Take me to the hospital."
Haldana is steadfast in her objections. "You can hardly help yourself right now. I'm sorry." She stands again, backing up as though to rejoin the fight.
"You're sorry," Sigyn shrieks after her in outrage, bending forward despite the pain it must cause her. "My mother is dying, you cunt! Help me!"
"I'm sorry, Sigyn, but no one here is going to help you get to the hospital, at least not one that isn't still standing." With one last mournful glance cast behind her, Haldana reenters the throng of fighters, drawing her sword with a flourish.
Brows drawn in, Sigyn's heavy breathing soon turns to anxious panting as she restlessly looks about the hall. Loki gets a glimpse at the look in her eyes—growing more desperate by the second—once her head has turned enough for her to look back at him. As soon as they make eye contact, her gaze turns distant, as though a mad thought has occurred to her.
Just as soon as it has, her head whips back around, and flying out from the crowd comes her spear. She throws out a hand to catch it around its middle, planting its base on the ground as soon as she has it firmly in her grip. With her eyes clenched shut, she hauls herself to her feet, letting loose a rumbling groan as she does. She briefly sways on her feet before taking quick, halting steps to the other side of his cell.
He follows after her, curious as to what she has in her mind. If she'd planned to limp all the way to the hospital, he thinks, she would have set off already, not sparing a second to drag herself over to a secluded corner of the prison.
Leaning against the wall beside his cell, she lets go her spear, which fades from existence before it can hit the ground. With one hand held protectively over her stomach, she brings up the other to the wall, and the keypad that lowers the generated wall of his cell appears beneath her palm.
Completely thrown for a loop, he stands gob-smacked as she quickly inputs the code to unlock his cell. Never in a thousand years would he have imagined that this would be how he breaks out of prison. Usually, he envisions killing the unlucky souls who have to escort him to the lavatory or enchanting a soldier to let him loose. Certainly, he'd never pictured Sigyn—painfully moral and faultlessly loyal to Asgard as she is—freeing him of her own volition, no matter how dire the circumstances.
The cell wall starting to disappear, its matrices receding into the ground, she finally looks up at him. Her gaze is unqualifiedly somber, and Loki matches it. He knows what she wants from him, and he's entirely willing to give it to her. This is his chance, he's aware, to truly make up for wronging her. This is his chance to prove to her that he will never set them on opposite sides of a conflict again, and that she can unequivocally trust him.
Still close enough to his cell to see witness Sigyn's treason through the melee, Haldana realizes what's happening just before the wall is at a reasonable height over which to step. She dashes over, reaching for her sister. "No! Sigyn, think about what you're doing—"
Sigyn reacts slowly, wincing as she turns to Haldana, but she reacts in time. She taps her on the forehead, her fingertip glowing pink. "I think I don't take well to people telling me no."
Eyes glowing an eerie shade of pink, Haldana moves neither when Sigyn turns back from her, nor as Loki picks Sigyn up and carries her from the prison.
Her nails digging into his shoulder, Sigyn starts puffing out pained breaths against his throat as soon as they've cleared the stairs that lead from the dungeon. Loki, disguised as the soldier who usually brings him breakfast, offers to slow down.
"Don't you dare," she hisses against his skin, hiking herself up a little higher into his arms and mashing her nose into his collarbone.
The military hospital isn't far off from the garrison or the palace, but it still takes them several minutes to make it there as he navigates through a throng of people, all of them screaming and running in every direction. When at last they arrive, it's at a half-collapsed complex, the front half of the hospital in rubble and the back half on fire with a burnt-up enemy ship crumpled in its middle. Most of the rescue efforts appear to be focused on the part of the building that's still standing, it likely being an easier task.
As soon as he sets down Sigyn, keeping an arm around her waist to keep her upright, three different men come running up to her, attracted by her blue major's cape. Each of them bombards her with information about the attack, asking for orders. One of them—the first to have approached her—mentions that too many people are still buried for an accurate account of the casualties thus far.
Still dazed, she latches onto his words. "Get everyone out of the way," she mandates.
Another soldier, a lieutenant, exchanges a wary look with Loki, who belatedly realizes that he's a lieutenant, too. "Ma'am, we're in the middle of digging everyone out. We can't—"
"I am going to pick up all of the wreckage," she talks over him, her voice firm and inviting no further argument. She repeats, "Get everyone out of the way."
Without any need for further instruction, the soldiers rush off to do her bidding. As people start extracting themselves from the wreckage, she extricates herself from him, moving to stand on her own. He permits as much, but doesn't let her get too far. Turning to face her more fully, he hisses, "Are you out of your mind? You're in no condition to lift a building, never mind how many pieces it's in."
Trying to steady her breathing, she analyzes the devastation before them. There are dozens of large chunks of stone littered about the area, but most of the wreckage consists of smaller pieces of all sorts of material: stone, metal, and brick, along with the destroyed remains of thousands of pieces of medical equipment. It won't be easy to move all of this detritus, especially if one has to take care to keep intact all of the people buried within it, but Sigyn hardly looks swayed by the undertaking. "May I remind you, my mother is somewhere under that building, and she's still alive."
Unhappy but fully aware that there's nothing he can do to change her mind, he relents. "Fine, but I'm helping you."
She gives him an incredulous look. "Was that ever in question?"
The lieutenant from before calls out to her, distracting them from their debate. He gives her the all clear. All around, people are standing at the outskirts of the site, waiting and watching for that which Sigyn has planned.
With one last deep breath, she steps forward, her feet surprisingly steady. In broad motions, she waves her arms up in a wide arc before quickly bringing them back down, crossed in front of her. In tandem with her movements, most of the debris floats into the air, slow enough so that no one amongst it is further injured, yet fast enough that she needn't hold this position for too long. He can already see the strain this is putting on her, her forehead quickly dotting with sweat.
As discreetly as he can, he begins to move those lifted up along with the flotsam. Luckily, his efforts go largely unnoticed, most people focusing solely on Sigyn, whose fingers are quivering enough for them to believe that such minute movements could gently sweep the wounded off to the side. Still, he notices a few of the onlookers standing closer to them casting him wary glances, though none of them appear suspect of his true identity.
He's moved roughly sixty people from where they'd been hovering over the ground before one of Sigyn's feet slips a few inches, and the debris follows suit. Those removing the injured people still on the ground let loose a few terrified screams before they realize they're not in any present danger of being struck. The medics pick up their pace, and after a few more agonizing minutes—during which Sigyn's arms begin to shake—they receive the all clear.
Sigyn sets everything down as carefully as she can manage, not wanting to drop everything at once lest anything go flying at unsuspecting bystanders. She takes a second to steady herself once more before heading off in the direction of the makeshift triage center, limping as she goes. Loki hurries after her, offering to shoulder her weight again only to be batted away. He tries not to take it too personally.
Off to the side of the wreckage, there are dozens upon dozens of people lying on a motley of mattresses, sheets, and anything else the remaining healers and soldiers could find. Sigyn scans each of their faces, walking quickly alongside their feet. She's almost to the second row before someone calls out her name, and she forgoes it entirely, levitating herself over to the very corner of the triage center and leaving Loki to scurry after her again.
He stumbles to a halt when he joins her there, brought up short by the sight Walentyna makes on the ground. Her face is shrouded in ash and blood, her eyes barely open for all the dust crowding them. More pressingly, her left side is in ruin, a stone post from the building rammed all the way through it. Unsurprisingly, Sigyn is caught up by the sight, as well, standing nearly stock-still with her hands brought up to muffle the sob that wrenches from her mouth. This isn't the scene they'd been expecting.
The healer Manning, who Loki recognizes from Sigyn's time in the hospital after Norval's attack on her, crouches by Walentyna's side, looks up at Sigyn with transparent melancholy in his eyes. He reaches out a hand to her, pulling her down beside him and beginning to speak to her gently about her mother's condition.
"Is there nothing you can do," she asks him, her voice cracking as she does. She reaches out, her hand hovering over Walentyna's chest as though she's afraid to touch her skin lest she disturb her any further.
To everyone's shock, Walentyna has it within her waning strength to throw out her hand, catching Sigyn's own. Her grip is weak, but Sigyn more than makes up for it, firmly folding their hands together. "Mama, I—"
"It's better this way," Walentyna interrupts. Her eyes seem unable to focus on Sigyn, blearily flitting about her form instead. Her breathing is slow and labored, and Loki isn't sure how long it's going to last. "I have lived plenty to die."
Sigyn looks as though she wants to argue, but her contentions must die on her tongue as hopelessness overwhelms her. There's nothing she can say or do to stop this, she must realize. "Okay," she offers instead, her lips pulling back in a heartbreaking smile. "Okay, Mama. I love you."
"Love you, darling," her mother murmurs, her speech slow and slurred. Neither of them say anything more, and after another minute or so, one of them no longer can.
Sigyn is well and truly bawling by now, no longer stifling her cries as she realizes her mother can no longer hear them. Manning is trying to say something to comfort her, placing a soothing hand on her shoulder, but Loki can tell she isn't listening. She stands as they pull the sheet over Walentyna and carry her away. Unfortunately, she'd done so too abruptly, and a fresh wave of pain causes her to double over and push out a louder, harsher sob. As she goes on weeping, it's as though the ground begins to shake, pebbles hopping along newly-formed fissures.
Her telekinesis is running rampant, Loki realizes, as it oft does when she's especially upset. Trying to get her away from the remaining triage patients, he takes her arm, guiding her back towards the outskirts of the site. Once there, he pulls her into a loose embrace, careful not to hold her too close lest he make contact with the wound over her stomach. Walking away seems to have curbed the use of her powers, though it feels very much as though his abnormally short hair is standing a little too high on his head.
In this moment, no longer in the midst of a rescue effort with his adrenaline pumping, reality crashes down on him. This isn't a momentary excursion from his cell. On the contrary, he's completely left it behind, and he needs to formulate an escape plan fast. Not only that, he's not alone in this. He has Sigyn to worry about, and she has to worry about him.
She seems to have the same realization instantaneous to him, pulling back to give him a searching look. Her eyes are still watery, spilling tears past her lashes and over her cheeks, which are a patchy red from her crying. She inhales, about to say something, but she never gets the chance.
A young corporal has chosen this moment to interrupt them, stopping her before she can say a word. He has the gall to tap her on the shoulder, and she looks over at him in overt disbelief. "Excuse me, Major, but there's word that you broke the Prince Loki out of prison and—"
She doesn't spare any energy to stop crying as she shoos at him like the flea he is. "What absurdity is this," she shouts, practically spitting in his face. His brazen stupidity is instantly, sufficiently curbed, and he shrinks back, dwarfed in the face of her fury. "How dare you make such a ridiculous accusation mere seconds after my mother drew her last breath!"
Eyes wide with terror, the soldier ducks his head, muttering, "Yes, sir. I-I'm so sorry, sir." He scampers away before she can berate him again.
Turning back, she exhales a slow, shaky breath and rubs at the back of her neck. Her crying starts to wind down, the shock from nearly being caught triggering her fight-or-flight response and forcing her to compartmentalize her emotions. "Okay, that isn't going to work again. We need somewhere to hide out."
Were she in any condition to be on the run, he'd be in agreement. "You need a proper healing first," he tells her, his voice firm where her expression is dubious. "And believe it or not, I'm not aware of any infirmaries that will discreetly treat fugitives."
Another shuddering breath escapes her. He imagines she feels further wounded by being referred to as a fugitive. Rueful, she scornfully asks, "What do you suggest we do, then?"
Ignoring the fact that her question had clearly been rhetorical, he looks around, trying desperately to think of something before someone else comes over and tries to arrest them. Peering over her shoulder, he spies a possible solution. Throwing up a hand, he waves at a soldier standing near the ravaged hospital entryway. He shouts, "Quimby!"
Eyes growing comically wide, Sigyn whips her head around to spot Quimby coming over to them. Turning back, she frantically whispers, "What are you doing? We've barely spoken in over a year!"
With Quimby fast approaching, he has little time to do more than give her a hapless shrug. She doesn't care for it.
He's saved from her wrath as Quimby finally arrives, dropping a hand onto her shoulder. "I just heard. I'm so sorry," he tells her as soon as she's turned towards him. He pulls her into a tight hug, squeezing her around the middle. She winces into his shoulder as he presses on her wounds. Hearing her hiss in pain, he pulls back and rucks up her shirt enough to see the burn covering her belly. "Shit, why haven't you flagged down a healer?"
He moves to turn around and do just that, but she stops him before he can, gripping his arm and tugging it down. Her lips press together in a thin line as she contemplates something, a frown forming when she's made her decision. Tipping her head in Loki's direction, she divulges, "This is Loki."
"What," wonders Quimby, his eyes flitting between her and Loki, who gives him his best guileless smile.
Eyes cast down, along with the volume of her voice, she admits, "This is Loki. I broke him out of prison." Quimby's confused expression melts into a horrified glower. In an attempt to excuse herself, she allows, "It was a temporary lapse in judgment."
"Lapse in sanity, more like," he snaps, lip curled as he continues glaring up at her. In an effort to calm himself, he pinches his nose and takes a deep breath. Holding out his hands, he ventures, "Okay, okay. You two go to my house and apprise Elshe of the situation. We should have enough burn cream to heal you most of the way. Meanwhile, I'm going to turn you in." With that last, alarming directive, he starts to walk away, though Sigyn doesn't let him get very far.
Taking his arm in her grasp again, she all but yanks him to a stop. "What," she hisses, indignant.
"I'm not going to implicate my family in your treason," he explains, his tone stormy. He's trying not to be too harsh, Loki can tell, but he's displeased by Sigyn's actions. Had Walentyna not just died, Loki wonders just how supportive and willing to help he would be. "I'll tell them I saw you two running off into the hills beyond the city, and then we'll figure something out from there."
"Fine, okay," she mumbles, releasing him. He stalks off, and she turns back to Loki, asking if he knows how to get to her house from here. He nods in confirmation, and they set off, stumbling most of the way as Sigyn has to be held up. He'd had half the mind to pick her up again when they'd started off, but she'd had to turn herself into a man to keep attention off of them, and one man carrying another bridal-style wouldn't have helped that.
As soon as her house is in sight, she points out the one on its right. They limp up to the door, Sigyn pulling a key out of thin air and opening it as soon as she's close enough to do so. They walk over the threshold, and Loki recognizes Quimby's wife, Elshe, as she slides a thin blade along his throat.
"Who are you," she growls, her face contorted in a mixture of anger and fear. "How did you get a key to my house?"
Sigyn kicks the door shut behind them, and they drop their disguises. At once, the blade disappears from under his chin, and he's relieved of having to carry Sigyn as she shifts into her friend's waiting arms. She's mumbling near-incoherent apologizes into Elshe's neck, her pain and grief beginning to overwhelm her.
Evidently confused, Elshe looks over her shoulder at him, mouthing, "What happened?"
Not sure how else to approach the question, he sends brief glimpses of the day's events her way: the skirmish in the dungeons, Sigyn's struggle with the monster who had induced it, his own prison break, and the scene at the site of the destroyed hospital. Belatedly, he wishes he hadn't bombarded her with so many images. She has to clench shut her eyes as she processes his memories, a few tears leaking out after she reopens them. Turning to Sigyn, she murmurs a few sympathetic apologies of her own.
It's at this point that they're joined by three curious newcomers, their small feet pattering against the floor as they clomp down the stairs. One of Elshe's sons is holding a wooden sword when he comes into view, though he drops it as soon as he sees Sigyn. He and his brothers shout out in glee, rushing over to her, though their mother holds them at bay with a few pointed words before they can get their clumsy hands near her.
Put off, the tallest of them turns to Loki, pointing at him. "Who are you?"
Loki had not been expecting such a question, having not gone unrecognized in quite some time. "You don't know who I am?" The boy shrugs, and Loki sees fit to properly introduce himself. "I am Loki. Prince of Asgard. God of Mischief. Rightful King of Jotunheim." Still, the boy gives no reaction. "That doesn't ring any bells for you?"
He shakes his head, his brothers jokingly joining in. Far above their heads, Sigyn has it in her to laugh wetly. "Loki, they're five."
"Yet I'm sure they know who Thor is, hmm," he asks, his voice taking on a smug lilt in his certainty.
Before Sigyn can think to deny his allegation, the boy to whom he'd spoken before confirms it, exclaiming, "I like Prince Thor!"
Loki looks up from the boy, shooting Sigyn a victorious look. She has the decency to blush in admission. Feeling spiteful, he asks the child, "And what is it you like about him so much?" Perhaps he'll shed some light on Thor's true nature for the boy; show him how poor a role model his brother is.
"He has pretty hair," answers the boy, most unexpectedly.
Nonplussed, Loki doesn't have it in him to respond. Privately, he's always thought that Thor could do to comb his hair more often.
Elshe, who had been speaking with Sigyn in hushed tones, calls his attention to her. She wears a noticeably unhappy smile. "I can't believe I'm about to ask this," she starts, looking as uncertain as she sounds. "But can you keep the boys distracted down here whilst I tend to Sigyn upstairs?"
Taken aback, he's tempted to ask after her sanity. What sort of person would trust a Jotun criminal to mind their children? "Must I," he inquires instead.
Holding up the tin of burn cream, which she'd seemingly materialized from nowhere, she explains, "This isn't what one might call a soothing remedy. It's not a sight for children."
He nods, understanding albeit displeased. It's to be a lot of muffled screaming and sheet-fisting, then, and not in a fun way. He spares a thought to staying by Sigyn's side to act as moral support, but he puts it out of his mind just as soon as it had gotten there. She's hardly faint-hearted. "Very well," he agrees, turning his attention to the boys with a healthy amount of apprehension.
The women head upstairs, Elshe supporting Sigyn with their arms thrown over each other's shoulders as they take the steps one at a time, leaving him alone with the triplets. Distantly, he recalls their names—Askel, Halle, and Jarvi—but he can't for the life of him place them. They all have the same features, blue-green eyes with blond hair, and their heights don't differ enough for it to be noteworthy. Far besides, the last time he'd engaged in a conversation about them had been over two years ago, and that's not an insignificant amount of time in terms of a child's development. He thinks of asking them to pronounce their names for him, but one of the children heads him off with a question of his own.
The boy's rounded face peers up at him, curious. "Do you know Sigyn?"
Loki has to suppress the urge to scoff. The child is unlearned, not stupid, he tells himself. Still, he can't keep himself from giving a somewhat disparaging response. "Of course, I know her. I just came here with her."
"She and I are going to get married," the child volunteers, apropos of nothing. He says it clinically, as though it's a matter of fact and bound to happen.
Scowling at the boy, Loki evenly informs him, "She and I are to be married, actually." It's not technically true—not as of yet—but he doesn't need to disclose that.
The boy looks positively outraged. He stamps his foot, scowling back up at Loki. "But I wanted to first!"
Calmly, he tells him, "I wanted to marry her before you were ever born."
"No, no," the boy insists, on the verge of tearing up.
"Cry about it all you want," he replies, merciless.
He stamps his foot again. "I'm not crying!"
"Not yet," chimes in his brother, regarding him with vague distaste.
The remark startles a laugh out of Loki. "You're funny," he commends the other child.
The boy hardly looks interested in the compliment. Like his brother, he volunteers a random piece of information himself. "I'm the oldest."
"Good for you," he replies, unsure of what else to say.
"I'm the youngest," chimes in the third child, the one who'd first spoken to him when they'd arrived.
"As am I." The conversation stalls there, and with nothing else to do or say—how had his life come to this, Loki wonders—he asks, "Who wants to play a game?"
The youngest and oldest of the boys chorus their enthusiasm, jumping up and down as they do. The middle child, the one who wants to marry Sigyn, darkly informs him, "I hate you."
Sighing, Loki glares at the space above their heads and dreads the day when he has a child of his own.
Quimby arrives home before Elshe and Sigyn return downstairs. Loki is embarrassed to have the man come upon him with two squirming children in his lap and another glaring at him from three feet away. Looking harried and disbelieving of the sight before him, he wonders, "What am I looking at here?"
Rather than state the obvious—that he's trying to explain a game of Tafl to a group of easily-distracted five-year-olds—Loki sends the other man a worn-out look, ordering, "Get your spawn off of me." Without complaint, Quimby does just that, though one of the children—the only one who'd deigned to disclose his name whilst they were playing—Halle, refuses to get out of Loki's lap. As such, he's still perched on Loki's knee when Elshe and Sigyn return downstairs, much to Sigyn's apparent delight.
Under her burnt shirt, thick swaths of gauze are wrapped around her midsection. Her arm doesn't have any bandages on it, though it's faintly redder than its twin. From what he can tell, she's been healed most of the way as she moves around as though nothing is amiss and the pinch between her eyebrows has vanished.
"Sigyn," whines one of the other children, rushing over to her at once. Simultaneously, Halle leaps from Loki's lap to embrace his mother, finally permitting Loki to stand and stretch his legs. "Loki said I can't marry you because he was going to do it first!"
Cooing at the boy, she picks him up as soon as he's near. The effort doesn't seem to cause her any pain or distress. "How awful. Don't listen to that mean, old man."
Turning around in her arms, the boy sticks his tongue out at Loki, who casts his eyes at the ceiling. Looking to Sigyn, he snarks, Very mature.
Says he who envies a child, she responds, her lips quirking up.
Quimby, whose wife had been welcoming him home with a kiss, claps his hands in front of him, catching everyone's attention. He spares Sigyn a not-so-subtle glance before suggesting, "What say we two move upstairs? I have, ah, some news." Nodding her assent, Sigyn sets down the boy and ascends the stairs with a spryness she hadn't possessed when they'd arrived here. He follows after her, and a few moments later, a door closes soundly.
Left alone with the rest of Quimby's family, Loki spares Elshe an awkward smile. Her sons crowd around her, the middle child still glaring daggers at Loki whilst the other two peer at one another from either side of her skirt. A long, uncomfortable moment passes, at the end of which Elshe seems ill-at-ease enough to strike up conversation. "So, how do you like being out of prison?"
Refraining from sighing, he laments, So, this is what counts for small talk in my life now. Aloud, he supposes, "The air is fresher."
"I'm sure," she politely returns.
One of the boys, the eldest, pipes up. He gazes curiously at Loki. "You were in prison? Why?"
Elshe looks stricken, at both her son for asking such a question and herself for having brought up the topic in front of her children. Loki, hardly offended, gives the boy the most benign answer of which he can think: "I got into a fight with my brother."
Eyes wide, he nods in compression. His expression turning dark, he turns to his youngest brother. "You're going to prison."
Loki laughs yet again at the child's antics. He points him out to his mother. "This one's quite the comic."
Flushing a little, Elshe makes to reply, but Sigyn's voice drowns her out. "Absolutely not," comes her shout, rattling through the house. She comes stomping down the stairs a minute later, Quimby hot on her heels. She's frowning something fierce at the floorboards, though her expression cools as soon as she sets eyes on Loki.
A shaky smile overtakes her face, her eyes oddly unsteady as she looks at him. "May I speak with you for a moment?"
Unsettled by her jittery demeanor, he follows her up the stairs just as Quimby had earlier. The farther into the house they go, the more he notices its similarities with her own house next door. They must have been built as part of a set, he absently realizes.
She leads into a room with three small, unmade beds and toys littering the floor, softly shutting the door behind them as soon as they're inside. When she turns to face him, there's a glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes, and her hands tremble as she wrings them in front of her.
"What's wrong," he asks, alarmed. He's seen her more nervous than this, he knows—he thinks of the brief moments of indecision she'd experienced during their confrontations in the palace and on the Terran helicarrier—but this is different somehow. It's as though she has something great and terrible weighing on her tongue.
She takes a deep breath, almost choking on it. "I don't—I don't know how to say this."
"Just say it, whatever it is," he urges. It can't be anything too bad, he reasons, nothing they can't think their way through.
Her eyes filling with tears yet again, she looks much as she had when she first caught sight of Walentyna at the hospital. She takes another deep breath, exhaling slowly, "The Queen Frigga was killed in the attack."
Loki freezes. His breath catching, he steels himself against the onslaught of emotions gathering in his throat and behind his eyes. This is most unwelcome news. "If I could have a moment alone," he requests, not looking at her. Vulnerable as he's been in front of her before, he doesn't want an audience for whatever comes next. With the mixture of sorrow and guilt swirling around inside him, he's not sure if he's going to cry, throw up, destroy everything around him, or if there'll be some combination thereof.
"No," she denies him, most unexpectantly. His gaze dashes up to her face, and he looks at her, incredulous. "I'm sorry, it's only that I don't want you to be alone right now because I don't want to be alone."
In an attempt to put her off, he tries, "You have your friends downstairs."
"I have one right here, as do you," she insists, grasping both her hands in hers. "Why don't we sit down?"
"On the floor," he asks, his tone definitely disapproving. Still, he lets her pull him down, and they sit side-by-side, their backs propped up against the wall.
She hums, leaning into him. It's as intimate as she's allowed herself to be with him in sometime, but he finds it difficult to enjoy, the terrible revelation she'd given him impinging on his mind. "It's grounding," she tells him, and damn her, he can't help but agree. He'd felt awfully light-headed standing up.
He grows numb to the world at some point, staring off into the space in front of him. Every so often, the clutter in the room starts to vibrate, lifting from the ground, but Sigyn always puts up her hand to stop any movement, and quiet returns.
As time passes, his mind races, pulling up memory after memory of his mother. He recalls fantastical bedtime stories from when he was young and late-night chats from after he'd grown out of his adolescence. He remembers her teaching him magic, telling him he could do anything. She'd seemed to know he had a knack for magic even before he showed signs of any such talent, but that had always been her way—mysterious, a queen raised by witches.
Before long, light ceases to shine through the lone window in the room, night having fallen. Sigyn rouses him from his thoughts, informing him that if they're to make it to the funeral—Quimby having offered her the opportunity to go in his place and shoot the arrow for her mother—they need to leave now.
Downstairs, Sigyn and her friends say their farewells at the door, the children and Elshe first crowding around her in a mushy group hug. Much to his surprise, Halle bounds over to him for a hug, as well, winding his stubby arms around his leg. Awkward and distracted, Loki pats him on the head.
Quimby looks impossibly sad as he gazes up at Sigyn, bereft as though she's already gone. "This is the last time we're to see each other, isn't it," he asks, forlorn.
She gives him a placid smile. "I love you," she says simply, but it's answer enough.
Pressing his lips together, he closes his eyes. He looks as though he's accepting defeat. "And I you. Always." He presses a kiss to the crown of her head, taking her in his arms again. From over her shoulder, he gives Loki a distrustful stare. Loki's too upset to care.
They leave before anyone can get too emotional, slipping seamlessly into Quimby and Elshe's bodies as they head through the door.
His mother's body rests in a grand ship, one she'd commissioned for his father when he'd fallen into the Odinsleep. She lies surrounded by the petals of her favorite flowers, the hilt of her husband's sword held in her loose grip. Her face is covered by a sheer veil, and that's all Loki can see from where he stands.
The remaining members of his family stand at the crest of a towering, golden gallery, built for such occasions as sending soldiers off to war or the dead off to Valhalla. He can't see them from his vantage point beneath it, but he can feel them standing over his head. Thor has grief rolling off him in waves, and Odin feels numb to his core.
When they'd arrived at the seaboard, he and Sigyn had been led down to the water's edge. It's there that the soldiers bestowed with the honor of casting arrows for the dead had been gathered, each of them receiving a bow and an arrow laden with incendiary chemicals. Sigyn had accepted hers with a grave somberness, her expression left carefully blank. She stands at the ready now, waiting for the signal to set fire to her arrow and cast it towards her mother's ship.
Walentyna had been one of the last people sent off into the sea, not being of noble blood or having died in battle. This had given Sigyn a chance to see her one last time, her body covered by a sheet and her face more relaxed than Loki had ever seen it.
A yellow light streaking across the sky catches everyone's attention, and they all witness as it dips to meet Frigga's boat. The vessel goes up in flame, illuminating the water around it whilst completely masking his mother from view. Loki tries to stifle his gasp at the sight, but Sigyn catches it, sparing him a sorrowful glance as she readies her bow, the flame on the arrow fluttering in the wind by her poised fingers.
The soldiers let loose their arrows, sending dozens of golden arcs through the air. Sigyn's arrow lands solidly into the wood beside her mother's head, lighting up the boat around her. She floats along quietly amongst the other commoners, following after the queen.
In the back of his mind, the part of it not drowning in grief, Loki realizes that none of the people occupying the smaller ships would have been allowed such a grand send-off if not for Frigga's death. They would've each been burned on a pyre, their ashes cast out to sea after the fact. Instead, they've been posthumously allowed the dignity of taking part in the elaborate spectacle of a royal's funeral.
It is a beautiful tribute, he thinks, watching as at last Frigga's ship crosses over the top of the waterfall at Asgard's end. Her body dissolves into blue stardust, the same color as was her magic. As the remains of her spirit float up into the cosmos, Loki is hit by a wave of gratefulness at being able to witness this last honor to his mother. He wonders if he would've been allowed or even made aware had he still been confined to his cell.
They stay until Walentyna's boat makes it over the end of the world. Sigyn watches its journey without blinking, the stars caught in her glassy, blue eyes. When it finally disappears from view, her lashes come together to let her tears spill down her cheeks.
With one last look at the empty waters, they clasp tightly each other's hands and walk off into the night.