She would have died defending Asgard. It was her duty and that would have been reason enough. But it ran far deeper than that, for Asgard was her home. It had been the place where she had grown up, and had made the fondest of memories. If one had asked her before that moment, she would have floundered for an answer. Perhaps she would have answered that it had been her duty to serve the throne. She would have given it no further thought, for looking too deeply would have uncovered too much. Maybe deep down, she would have realised there was more to it then her role as a Shieldmaiden. But such knowledge would have terrified her, and leaving it locked away was preferable until it no longer became an option.
She would have died that day in the name of Asgard. There had been too many, the overwhelming swarm of trolls closing in on them, all of them, though Sif had been unfortunate, cut off from the rest. But being ready to die did not mean she would give up so easily without a fight. She had been a vision of war and death, her glaive singing for the blood of her enemies. Perhaps if there had been less, the numbers more in her favour, the outcome would have been different. But even the goddess of war was not invincible, and the tide soon turned. They came from everywhere, surrounding her, the desperation in her blows more evident now. And still they fell, one by one, the pile of bodies growing steadily at her feet.
She didn't see it, not until it was too late. The blade that swung down towards her whistled through the air, and she knew when she heard it, she would turn too slow to be able to stop it. But the blade never reached her, and the piercing scream took place instead. She didn't recall much of what had happened then when she had turned around. She remembered seeing Loki lying there, the blade still embedded in his ribs, remembered driving her glaive through the troll's throat, and reaching him, fingers pressed against the wound to stop the bleeding, futile though it may have been.
She didn't remember the ferocious cry that had escaped her, or the violent battlerage that took hold of her and the countless deaths that followed in her fury. She didn't get those stories until after. And she didn't remember the tears that had stained her cheeks as she scrambled to his side, or the way his name had torn from her lips, strangled and half choked.
Loki had been alive when she reached. His face was far paler than normal, almost ashen in colour. Closer now, she could see the damage wrought by the blade. If he had been human, it would have cut him into two. But it had lodged in his ribs instead. He had tried to form words, but she had silenced him, reminding him to save his strength. His fingers had found hers instead, entwining with them, a remnant of a distant past, when they had been younger, and innocence had prevailed.
He had taken the blade meant for her and the one question that flickered through her mind was why. But she knew why, buried deep down in the depths of her heart, and maybe she always had. Loki had been her friend once, and she was his. In their youth, they had been inseparable. Time had forced the distance, though perhaps she had been wrong on his behalf. And her own as well. Wild eyes took in the blood soaked battle field around them, desperately seeking out someone, anyone, who could get them out of here alive.
Her gaze had turned back to him, his head propped up on her lap, one bloodied hand covering the gash, the other remaining in his. She had squeezed his fingers then, blinking back any further tears that threatened to stray, a certain fierceness taking hold of her.
"We're getting out of here," she whispered to him, a promise she intended to keep, no matter the consequence. There had been the briefest flicker of a smile on his pain stricken face then, as if he didn't doubt her for a minute.
If one had asked Loki why he had stayed, his answer would have been clear. One honest truth from the tongue of a liar. He stayed because of her. Of all of Thor's friends, Sif had been the only one that was his friend first. She had taken to him the moment she had met him, despite his older brother being in the room. She had seen him, this painfully shy boy, and she had loved him first in her own way. The rest had never mattered, as long as he had her.
But time and his own selfish nature had driven barriers between them, forcing her from him and into his brother's arms. He had never had anyone else to blame except himself, something he realised far too late. So as much as it hurt, all he could do was watch her from afar. And he was always so keenly aware of her, even at a distance. So it was little wonder it had been Loki that had seen the troll's blade long before anyone else. He had reacted without thought, pure panic in his chest when he had realised what would happen. Sif would have died for Asgard, may have preferred it, but he was selfish, and that was never an option for him.
He didn't recall much after the blade had struck him in her place (maybe the only selfless thing he had done, for a world without Sif was no world worth living in), but he did remember her cry, a high pitched keening sound that tore at his heart strings and made him want to reassure her she was okay. And then he remembered the face of the angel peering down at him, her whispered words, fingers around his, before his world had turned dark.
The feeling of warmth pressed flush against his side was the first thing he noticed when he slowly regained consciousness. When he finally pried his eyes open, and the light had receded back to normal, he realised what had caused it. She was tucked up against him, face pressed against his shoulder, her own eyes closed. Gone was the battle armour that he had last seen her in, replaced by a simple tunic and leggings. She seemed younger, more peaceful, and less like the Goddess of War, and more like the Sif he had known in childhood. The Sif who would have followed him anywhere, the one who had loved him and trusted him before he had ruined it with his spite and jealousy. Her hair, tangled in knots, covered her face, and his free hand had come up to brush it away, before the hiss of pain escaped his clenched teeth.
"You're not supposed to move," she mumbled from his side, and her voice alone was enough to still his actions. Brown eyes met green, and had he been anyone else, he would have quelled at the disapproval radiating off of her. She would have sat up as well then, but his arm that she had been lying on tightened around her. Breaking free would have not been a difficult task for her, but she stayed where she was, fixing a glare upon him. "What were you thinking Loki? You could have been killed!" Her voice had risen an octave then, before she clearly recalled where she was.
"Don't tell me you care, Sif," came his reply, sarcastic and sardonic, and her urge to strike him rose. Once, that would have never even been a question, but in the years his bitterness had taken hold, replacing her Loki with one far colder and crueler. She never did know what she had done wrong by him that had resulted in him pushing her away, as if she was nothing. He continued, obviously missing the reactions that passed over her features. "I'm sure you would have been quite heartbroken over that."
Fury blazed in those dark eyes then, and she was out of his grip, swinging one leg over his body, mindful of the injury, straddling him. "Do not ever say that I do not care about you, Loki Odinson," she growled at him. "Do not ever think that. You were my dearest friend, and I loved you. I would have followed you anywhere, done anything you asked. It was you who pushed me away. I never left you Loki. Perhaps it would have been better if you had let the trolls finish the job. Then you would not have to worry about avoiding me, as if my presence does nothing but disgust you."
He visibly recoiled at her words, the shock in his eyes difficult to hide, but she was too angry to care if her words had struck him. He had done the same to her on countless occasions. He had done so just now. She realised she was shaking, and it wasn't until his hand came up, thumb brushing against her cheek that she came to understand she was crying.
"You always preferred Thor." When the words were out, he realised it was a lie he had told himself, not one she had told him. Had she not been his friend first? Had it not been him she had come running to when she had been afraid? Every countless detail of her life, she had shared with him first. How confused she must have been when he had turned away from her, and scorned her, when he had cut her beautiful golden hair, and taken away his friendship and his love for her. It was little wonder she hated him. She had every reason to.
"You're an idiot if you think that," she replied. "When did I ever show an interest towards your brother in our childhood? Why would I have ever taken an interest in him when I had you right there? I saw you. I will always see you."
His silvertongue, so normally blessed with words, had turned to lead in his mouth. But she knew him better than he knew himself, and when she bent towards him, those dark locks he'd had made for her tumbling over her shoulders, he kissed her. And he may as well have died and gone to Vahalla, for she had kissed him too.
Sif was always loyal to Asgard. If one had asked her why, she had the perfect answer. It wasn't duty, or her role to serve the throne that had caused such devotion. It wasn't just because it was her home. Her loyalty ran much deeper than that. Asgard was Loki and she had loved him her entire life.
