She had taken a shortcut, running through the woods like she had done so often as a child, leaping over fallen trees that still laid in their ivy-lined coffins and splashing through streams that had seemed to shrink in size as she herself had grown. She knew that she would arrive at the courthouse before Loki and the guards did, but she pushed herself to sprint faster, hoping to beat Thor and the Warriors Three as well. Though she was uncertain as to why, she felt a burning desire that her face be the first one to grace the second prince's eyes as he was led into the courtroom.
There was something to the sense of continuity – she, being the last person Loki saw in the prison, and, framing it nicely, she, being the first person he saw before the trial. She told herself as much, at least. Someplace, deep within the parts of her heart that only Yggdrasil could see, she felt the falsehood in such a statement; she believed the lie only because she could never believe the truth.
She had asked him to tell her in one word how he felt, just before she left the prison. It was a game that they had often played as children; One Word, they called it. It had helped her initially learn to read his sometimes enigmatic expressions. They hadn't used it in decades. They hadn't needed to, until today. And, when she had asked him, he had simply said, "Goodbye."
She didn't know exactly which plethora of emotions he had been conveying with that single word, but it hurt to imagine it.
It required interesting footwork, running through the forest. Everywhere, there lingered a pothole or root ready to trip or a rock ready to injure. Tree branches swatted her face from out of nowhere, bushes snagged at her clothing, and the moist soil sucked at her boots. She fought ever harder, though, her journey only made more cumbersome by the book – Loki's journal – which she carried under her arm, held snug with tight fingers. She had almost left the large volume in the prison for this very reason; she had thought better of it, however. Leaving his secrets unprotected where any passing individual could read to their heart's content was hardly trustworthy.
Finally, she broke through the trees, almost stopping dead as the massive, golden building loomed ahead of her. Before her stride could falter at the sight of it, she forced herself to keep running, doing little more than putting one numb foot in front of the other, until she stood, out of breath and sweaty before the ornate doors. She tried to push them open, but they wouldn't budge even so much as an inch. The result was no different when she tried her whole weight.
"Who goes there?" boomed a voice. The androgynous sound seemed to completely encompass her, but, as it faded, she could trace its origin to someplace above her, though she dared not look.
"Lady Sif Tyrdottir, warrior of the realm," she answered boldly, hoping her tone alone would make up for her exhaustion.
There was a slight pause, during which she almost panicked at the thought of being turned away. But, eventually, the voice called, "Enter," and the doors opened inward, as if pulled by an invisible giant.
Sif took a breath, bowing her thanks, and then did as bidden, passing through the gilded doorway. Before her laid a hall – glistening and splendid as Odin's palace, but far less familiar – that made her feel decidedly out of place. The overwhelming aura of it stifled her.
Behind her, the massive doors closed again with a loud and heavy noise that sunk deep into the pit of her stomach. In the stillness that followed, there was little more to do than breathe – though her lungs still strained for air after her long sprint from the dungeon – as she moved forward, her shadow long and fearsome on the walls, her footfalls echoing forever in the unnatural silence.
The tension of the place intimidated her, making her wish that she had brought along some extra manner of weaponry; she compulsively weighed the book in her hand, feeling its balance as she would a club. If nothing else, she reasoned that it would function well enough in a crisis – for either defense or offense. She could be creative, if need be.
The door in front of her snapped her out of her planning, reminding her that she was not on enemy soil, but in the courthouse of Asgard. A plaque above the door read, "Witnesses." She almost went through it when she saw one immediately to its left, labeled, "Defendant." Curious, she pushed open the door through which Loki would walk very soon, wondering what awaited him on the other side.
When she poked her head inside the room, she was rewarded with darkness. Not so much a lack of light, though, as black walls and a black floor absorbing it all. The room was round, and, in the center, stood a semi-circular rail, equipped with chains; she swallowed a feeling of nausea that had come over her at the thought of her friend standing there, bound to the bar like an animal at auction.
Quickly, she ducked out of the room, closing the door sharply behind her. She took several breaths, regaining their regularity with practiced resolve, and then walked into the room for witnesses – before her trepidation could nail her feet to the hallway's marble floor.
The witness room could not have been more different from the defendant's room. Where Loki's room had been dark, hers glowed, seemingly of its own volition. One wall, long and curved, seemed to be comprised entirely of glass like an enormous window. The view, however, almost rooted her to the spot in shock.
The window arced around the edges of Loki's room, the bar with the chains in the exact middle.
She rushed back through the door, running into the defendant's chambers again. This time, she forced herself to stand on the circle in the center, turning around, looking for the window she had just seen. Nothing but endless, fathomless black.
Bewildered, she crossed to where she knew the circular wall to be and rapped it with her knuckles. It rang densely, like thick metal. Even as she pressed her face to it, cupping her hands around her eyes, she couldn't see the witness room.
The door opened at her back, and a figure stepped in, grabbing her arm and pulling her out into the hallway. Once the door closed behind them, she saw Fandral's hand clamped around her bicep. She followed the line of his arm up to his face, and she could see the compassion etched there. "I think you chose the wrong room, my lady," he said softly.
"That will be where he stands," she muttered, unable to shake the accursed disgust from her voice – or her face, she ventured.
Fandral nodded solemnly.
"And –" She found herself stammering in a most ungainly fashion, but she forced the words out. "And we can see him, but he cannot see us."
Again, Fandral nodded, this time moving his hand up to her shoulder in a gesture of comfort. "They say it procures more honesty from defendants," he said, his tone devoid of its usual cheer.
For a moment, she was quiet, her mind still back in the room which Loki would occupy so soon. He would never see her face at all. Her entire run through the loathsome forest felt weak – pointless – at the thought that he would not see the solidarity in her steady, reassuring gaze; such a thing had become tradition between them whenever he had been held accountable for his tricks in centuries gone by.
Now, though she may try to offer the gesture that had become so rote between the pair of them, he would not see it. He was left to face his demons on his own – something she had once promised would never happen again as long as she lived; all that time ago, her words had shaken, trembled like her bloody fingers that pulled the thread from his lips as he clenched his eyes shut in agony, willing the tears, the cries, and the moans to stay bottled up within him, and she had sworn that he would not ever have to endure punishment without her by his side.
She felt hot tears burn in her eyes, though she would sooner die than let them fall anywhere where Fandral, Hogun, Volstagg, Thor – anybody save for Loki, who had seen her cry enough times to merit amnesty – could see.
Her breath caught in her throat, and she tried to speak, but the sounds felt foreign, like syrup coated her vocal cords. Eventually, she mustered enough objectivity to bite, "And we say we are not barbarians."
Fandral just looked at her, all the sorrow he felt pouring out his eyes as he told her things he could never voice. "I think it best we go, my lady," he finally said.
She drew herself up proudly, tugging her shoulder out of his grip. "You go," she told him, nodding to the witness' door. "I'll be along."
He seemed reluctant to leave her, but he did as she had asked, casting only a single compulsory glance over his shoulder as if to check on her. She nodded once at his look, and he entered the golden room with no further protest.
She stood in the hall like a sentry, clutching Loki's book to her chest reflexively, though she knew she probably looked quite silly. She hadn't the heart to pace, so she just stood, feet planted firmly, everything still, as if at attention. Sif had no idea as to how long she remained like this.
Eventually, though, the main door to the courtroom swung open – she could feel the draught, a smooth breeze kicking the flames on the torches into motion, fueling their spastic dance. Her own heart hitched at the fresh wafting of air, and she both dreaded and longed for the face that she knew would only be able to see her for a few seconds.
Enough time for her to offer her support in a single glance, if she was good.
She saw Loki before he saw her; drawing a deep breath, she waited for him to approach enough for her to make sense of his facial expression.
A few seconds later, she could read him clearly, aided by the advantage of his having not seen her as yet. He seemed entirely unchanged from the last she had seen him – his whole countenance still accepting, willing, and empty. His eyes roved to the walls and ceiling, inspecting the building that had remained, until this day, one of the only ones on Asgard with an inside which he had not seen.
She wanted to call out to him. She wanted to warn him about the room. The darkness. The isolation. She wanted to tell him that she would be right on the other side of the wall, and that, though he would be unable to communicate, she would give him as much solidarity as she could manage.
When his eyes fell from observing the architecture, they settled on her, seeming mildly confused at first, but soon understanding the urgency in her own eyes as she expressed everything she could before being made to enter the witness room where Thor and the Warriors Three waited.
As soon as she cleared the threshold, she darted for a section of the glass that put her far from the others, standing so close that her breath fogged on the window.
She watched as Loki was led into the defendant's room and chained to the railing. He looked around, and, when he glanced her way without seeing her, she saw shadowed fear in his eyes.
The sight almost made Sif sick.