Alas, I still don't own anything that belongs to Marvel.
Also, thank you so much to A Lonely Angel 6 who made me write my first more-than-one-chapter fic; and to Wilhelm Wigworthy who was the first to read & review & follow the previous chapter. Much appreciated! I wanted to get this up for you, but it doesn't feel as polished as my other stuff - usually because I mull over anything I consider putting up for a couple of months as a minimum. Maybe this is why I don't do chapter fics?
Chapter Two
Even through her eyelids, the light was too bright. Had she slept till noon? Sif ached from head to toe, and she debated long about the effort needed to lift her arm and shield her eyes. With a groan, she flopped her right arm up and was startled to hit herself in the face with her own vambrace. Sif couldn't remember the last time she had passed out in her armour, no matter how much mead she consumed. What had happened…?
Slowly, her mind began to process properly. There had been a fight, hadn't there? Not the one against the Dark Elves. She was fairly certain she had lost, but she hurt too much to be in Valhalla, and not nearly enough for her to be among the traitors in Hel's realm.
Now why in the Nine would she think that?
Oh, yes. She was a traitor. Again.
"Are you well, Sif?" So Volstagg had survived as well. She could muster no more than a further groan in answer.
"Eir's assistants looked her over before she was brought here. She will be well." And that would be Heimdall.
"Thor?" She managed to force out. There was a pause as Heimdall looked out.
"Both princes and Jane Foster left Asgard, but I can see little more from here." Which raised a question Sif couldn't answer through the mist in her mind.
"Where?"
"Where else for Traitors to the Throne?" Of course. The prisons. That explained the too-bright light. She forced her eyes open, wincing at the brightness, and tried to sit up. Her left side was agony, and her breathing became ragged. Volstagg was at her side in a moment, moving easily in spite of his size, his hand on her uninjured shoulder. "Rest easy, Sif."
Someone was missing. Not Hogun – he'd been on Vanaheim, or Sif would have made him fetch Jane. "Where's Fandral?" Volstagg shrugged. Fandral had been the last in the line, and had met the escaping trio outside the city. Even if he hadn't made it off world, he was the most likely to evade capture. Sif rested her head back a moment – it was swimming. Which raised another question: "How is it I have something to rest on?"
"The healers insisted. Especially since the guards only had to fetch it from over there." He waved a hand, and Sif managed to focus on the chaos in the opposite cell. To add insult to injury, they had put her in Loki's bed.
Thor had said success would bring them exile and failure would mean their deaths. It was some time before they found out which their prince had met with, let alone their own fates. The first night, Volstagg and Heimdall had insisted she sleep in the bed – a point of honour because she was injured, they said, and for no other reason. Sif had made a point of moving around the next day – simply walking laps at first, then trying some cautious calisthenics to stretch out her strained muscles. Deep breathing still hurt a little, but she could move well enough if she was careful. Her companions joined her, but made no attempt to do more than she.
Volstagg was complaining about prison rations by the end of the day, though that may have been because he moved some of his meal onto her plate when he thought she wasn't watching. He regaled them with stories of heroic deeds that may or may not have come to pass, watching her carefully all the while, trying to gauge her reaction. Heimdall gifted her with a few of his rare smiles and whatever tidbits of information about the princes' journey he could see or hear – from the soldiers and servants in the palace if not first hand.
They worried about her, she realised. In this dungeon, awaiting execution for all they knew, and with little hope of Volstagg seeing his wife or children again, her friends were worried about how she was coping. She was surprised she wasn't angry about that – she usually hated them to make allowances for her - but actually she was grateful.
Sif had been trying to rest when marching feet disturbed her. It wasn't time for the meal, or for the Einhejar to change shift. More prisoners, then? There had been few arrive since the Bifrost was shut down. Odin didn't seem to have reopened it. "Look what the cat dragged in!" boomed Volstagg.
"Prison food seems to agree with you, my friend: you are as rotund as ever." But for the voice, Sif would have had a hard time recognising him. His hair was matted, his armour dulled and dented, his normally pristine self marred with muck and blood. "Fandral!"
The guard pushed him into the cell, and closed the barrier. Fandral staggered, and Sif immediately surrendered the bed. "Here, you're hurt. Rest." He sat down on the edge, but seemed able to do no more. Remembering her own rude awakening, Sif eased him out of back-and-breast and as much of the rest of his armour as she could decently manage. She brought a basin of wash water and a scrap of linen so he could clean his face and hands. "I see Heimdall, and one would be blind who missed Volstagg, but where is Sif? And who is this gentle maiden who ministers to me?"
"When you are well again, if you continue this, I will kill you."
"Ah, there she is." Fandral fell asleep almost before his head touched the pillow.
Fandral was never the tale-teller that Volstagg was; nor was his account particularly heroic. When he had rested and eaten – he looked askance at the prison porridge for barely a moment before eating his share at a pace that matched Volstagg's – he told them what he knew of the journey for which they had all risked everything.
He reveled in the telling and Sif in the hearing of Loki's fall from the Svartalf Harrow. "I see your time in the dungeons has made you no less graceful, Loki!"
"You lied to me. I'm impressed." This had, of course, been directed at Thor.
"I'm glad you're pleased, now do as you promised: Take us to your secret pathway." Loki had taken the helm and guided the skiff, his face filled with a glee they all remembered well. Loki rarely struggled to find something to enjoy, even in the direst circumstances. Most of the chasing pack had followed the Harrow, but not all. One found and followed them, and though Loki was a skilful pilot, it would not be avoided. "Thor asked me to deal with it, so I said 'For Asgard'…"
"Of course you did." Sneered Sif, but she was smiling.
"… And leapt aboard the other skiff, and dealt with the pilot and the two Einhejar in short order."
"Only three? You must add more when the reality is so sorely lacking: I myself fought at least twenty!"
"Yes, but even if you really had, no one would believe you. If I may continue?" The others nodded quickly. Even Heimdall seemed to be interested in the tale. "Very well. Loki seemed to be heading straight for a cliff on one of the isles near the rim, but I was a good way behind, I couldn't be certain. When I got nearer, there was nothing – no skiff, no wreckage. I can only assume they succeeded…"
"I saw Thor with Jane and Loki on Svartalfheim before I was brought here."
Fandral nodded. Now came the less glamorous portion of his tale, and he wasn't sure where to begin. "My shipmates were unconscious – Thor said no killing, if you recall," here the others nodded, "- so I had little time. I turned the skiff back towards the city, and dived into the sea near one of the islands the fishermen use sometimes. When chance came, I bought a particularly malodorous passage to one of the fishing villages, told them I was heading for the mountains, and less than a day's march inland, turned aside and headed for that hunting camp we used to use. It is even more miserable than I remembered, and I had not properly appreciated Loki's gift for starting fires. Truth to tell, I was glad when they found me. Do you suppose we're for the axe?"
Later that day, Heimdall announced: "The Convergence is past, the Nine Realms still stand, and the universe remains one of light." Volstagg breathed out heavily.
"Now we find out how much trouble we're in." Sif shoved him lightly.
"Does Thor live? Jane? What price was paid?"
"Thor lives, though he gambled with his life. I see few Midgardian dead – Jane Foster, Erik Selvig and Darcy Lewis all live. I…I cannot see Prince Loki."
"You said once he could hide himself from you, he may be..."
"Thor grieves." That was the last word said on the matter.
Marching feet disturbed the warriors once more. Tyr himself had come for them, with a phalanx of Einhejar. "My lords, my lady, I have orders for you." They stood back against the wall as the barrier was lowered. Eight soldiers entered and two chained the hands and feet of each prisoner, fitting a heavy collar for good measure. Volstagg, then Heimdall, Fandral and Sif were marched out of the cell in single file, surrounded by guards, and separated from one another by more. "See?" quipped Fandral, "They start with the big one."
"Quiet you." snapped a guard, as he cuffed Fandral across the back of the head. Not yet a week ago, these had been comrades in arms, Sif mused. As they were pushed roughly towards the stairs, she wondered whether there was any point hoping for mercy.
Sif wasn't sure Thor's voice should carry to them where they waited in an antechamber to the Throne Room. She, with her constant companions of the last few days, remained chained, guarded and awaiting their audience with their King and their Judge. It seemed strange to listen in to Thor's conversation with his father. The Einhejar acted like they heard nothing, but perhaps they were accustomed to ignoring chatter they were not supposed to hear. "One son who wanted the throne too much, another who will not take it. Is this to be my legacy?"
"Loki died with honour. I will try to live the same. Is that not legacy enough?" There was a brief pause, then:
"It belongs to you, if you are worthy of it."
"I will try to be." Sif and the others didn't understand that part. They looked in confusion a moment, then adopted the stoic faces of the Einhejar, who seemed well practised at not listening. "I cannot give you my blessing, nor can I wish you good fortune."
"I know."
"If I were proud of the man my son had become, even that I could not say. It would speak only from my heart. Go, my son."
"Thank you, Father." She heard Thor's retreating footsteps, and realised he had said no word of them. He had neither asked their fate nor that they be granted mercy. Had they even entered his mind at all? Sif was accustomed to Thor ignoring her, but this was beyond all that. She readied herself to face with dignity whatever was to come - a traitor, after all, has no honour. This, however, she was not ready for: "No, thank you."
She was imagining it. She had to be. Sif whispered to her fellow warriors, "Wasn't that…? Did that sound like …Loki?"
