Hello again, lovelies! Thank you to everyone who is following/favoriting this story! It absolutely tickles me that people are enjoying my tale. If any of you readers (any at all; not just followers, etc.) have questions, speculations, or ConCrit, shoot me a message! I usually try to message each individual person back so we can have a bit of a dialogue. I'm also totally open to scene suggestions, too. If there's something you'd like to see, lemme know. I can't make any promises, but I'll definitely consider everything!
Enjoy this new chapter! :-)
"'—and we fought the Dwarf army until only the king remained between Thor and his Mjolnir. From that point, it was a simple matter to take back what was ours; I think the king was far too shocked to even consider retaliating. He was gawking at us still, and his mouth couldn't quite form words. But, in the end, we restored Mjolnir to my brother's fist—for better or for worse—and I am proud to say that Sif got her dress back from me without even so much as a tug in the stitching.'" Loki looked up from the pages of his journal to see Sif smiling wryly at him. "What?"
"Nothing," she said. "Your modesty becomes you is all."
He almost laughed at that; he would have, perhaps, had Sif not glanced down the hall, for, when she did, the smile dropped from her face. He heard someone bid her stand aside as several pairs of boots marched closer. It suddenly felt very cold, and he felt a twinge ill.
Sif stood at the head guard's request, backing away from Loki's cell door, careful to take the book with her lest it get trampled. There were six guards on escort today, she noticed.
One of them noisily jammed a key into the lock and opened the cell so that two could go inside and yank Loki roughly to his feet. She wanted to tell them to have a little bit more respect for their prince, but, with a glance, he warned her to stay silent. Then, he shot a look at each of the guards holding him in turn; he didn't say a word, but she could almost hear the derision in his gaze.
"Lady Sif," another guard said to her coldly, "you are to be at the courthouse for the trial."
"I am aware," she returned. "I will walk with you."
"No, ma'am, that is forbidden." He leveled her with a gaze that might have intimidated her had she not endured so many much more scathing looks from Loki.
Remembering Loki's warning glance, she responded calmly, "Why is that?"
The guard to whom she was speaking puffed a little at her question. "Not only is it procedure, Lady, but it is also especially important that this particular prisoner be kept in isolation from this point forward." Before she could reply, he said, "You will be at the courthouse, ma'am."
Sif's hand went involuntarily to her sword, though she had no intention of drawing it. She tossed her hair back impetuously and said, "Very well." With that, she turned on heel to move past them and out of the dungeon, though not without one last look at Loki.
He was standing between two guards, hands held in front of him half-heartedly as his heavy manacles were exchanged for a lighter pair of cuffs—obviously enchanted as well. She recognized the impassive mask that was his expression as the one that only came out for dire situations. It was entirely deliberate, so that nobody could see how he was really feeling behind the ice-solid façade. Sif knew it as an instant indication of trouble.
She couldn't stop herself before she called his name, her voice a touch too loud. He turned to her, as did all of the guards. For a moment, she just stared at them all, wondering what it was she had wanted to say. Then, it came back to her. "One word," she told Loki simply.
The flash of understanding across his face was brief, but it was there. He remembered. The guards all exchanged glances, confused, but Sif was only interested in Loki's thoughtful face. He was mulling this over carefully. Finally, he met her eyes again and gave his response: "Goodbye."
"Goodbye," Loki said quietly.
As he said it, five of the guards were watching him carefully; only one—the youngest and most inexperienced of all of the escorting company—was looking at Sif. He couldn't stare or she would notice, but a second was enough to catch the wave of panic that crashed over her face. Her hand gripped the hilt of her sword tightly as though it could provide some sense of comfort; a tattered ledger was resting in her other arm, pulled in close like a leather-bound shield. She stood firmly, but the guard who was looking couldn't mistake the tenseness in her limbs; she was strangling herself into silence. It only lasted a split second, and then she had whirled around, stiffly walking out of the dungeon (though she seemed like she would have much rather run).
The last guard turned back to Loki before the others had a chance to notice his glance at the lady. Loki looked at him for a beat, face as neutral as ever, though it seemed incredibly inappropriate for the current situation. The overwhelming blandness of it sent a shiver down the guard's spine. He knew Loki had seen the change in Sif too, though there was nothing in his face to suggest so.
Then, the head pair of guards started moving off down the hallway, and the guards on Loki followed, giving the prince an unnecessary shove. Then, the lead guard and his partner moved, closing the prince within a box of armed guards.
There was something overtly eerie about the way Loki was behaving; he just stood, languid and careless as ever, neutral faced and stone silent. It had surprised the last guard that the others had neglected to gag Loki when they had cuffed him; the second prince was so sly with his words that it only made sense. Removing speech from Loki's tongue was like removing Mjolnir from Thor's fist – not easy to do, but worth the effort. But now, it just didn't seem to be a problem. Loki had his most lethal weapon within his grasp, and yet he wasn't moving to use it.
When they arrived at the mouth of the dungeon and pushed the massive doors open, the morning sun streamed through with enough power to offer hope to even the most desolate. The guard himself even felt his own spirits lift at the sight of it. Loki, however, merely cringed from the brightness, stepping forward as he was bidden, but half-blind in doing so.
The last guard watched the two head guards leading the prisoner very closely – he was to one day ascend to their position among the palace regiments, and he was eager to learn. This time, though, he saw nothing but confusion on their faces. He himself didn't need to wonder why.
Loki moved at the slightest whim of the lead guards, not an ounce of resistance in his entire body. His eyes were empty and dull – much unlike almost every other prisoner hauled in a panic up from the depths of Asgard's dungeon. He had lost his general air of arrogance, instead replacing it with one of acceptance – not resignation, but complete acceptance, though he knew not what was before him. The most shocking thing of all remained that Loki – the Wordsmith, Trickster, and Silvertongue – stayed entirely silent.
As they walked, the guard seized every opportunity to scrutinize Loki's profile; the prince went onward as though he had only been asked to go fetch a volume from the library – like this was but the simplest of tasks. There was not even so much as a trace of a smirk or sneer riding along on his lips. The guard wanted to ask him why he would not speak; he had every right to ask, being that he was a guard and Loki, a prisoner.
As soon as the words started their way up his throat, though, the guard swallowed them again, for the answer had become as apparent to him as the ground upon which they trod.
The second prince was silent simply because, for the first time in living memory, he had nothing to say.
"Saving your wit for the court, then?" asked one of the head guards, clearly addressing Loki.
As if to confirm the rear guard's theory, Loki cast his eyes over the one who had dared question him, but the gaze was just that: a gaze. There was no malice, trickery, derision, or smugness in it. Just a quiet look, as if to decline politely from giving a response.
The head guard said no more, and Loki did not encourage conversation (nor did he discourage it, the rear guard observed with mild satisfaction). He merely walked where they pointed him, giving less fuss than a well-trained steed.
The upper two guards seemed slightly agitated, for Loki was rarely so placid, and, when he was, it was because he had a scheme in mind that would make it entirely worth his while – usually causing at least one other party to want his head on a platter as a result. He thrived on such things. Knowledge of this had driven the head guards to their toes, both watching Loki furtively out of the corners of their eyes.
The rear guard, however, had seen Loki at some of his mischief before; he had behaved in a very similar manner, granted, but it had been entirely different at the same time. Now, there was something new in his eyes. A willingness – a maturity – that only came after many scars had been left unhealed, still trickling, dripping, or gushing blood, and then had been gently closed for the first time since the injury.
The guard's mind wandered back to the dungeon, drifting over the memory of Lady Sif's face only minutes before. It had spoken more than any words she ever could have uttered.
The guard wondered if, perhaps, Sif might possess a healer's soul. Somewhere beneath all that armor, the lady had made the decision to come see him; perhaps, the guard mused, that had been just enough to make the Wordsmith, for once, lost for words.