Loki ate a quiet meal, this time finding his evening distinctly lacking in dwarves, which he was perfectly fine with. Making his way back up to his room, he wondered idly how long the meeting with the officials would take Sif. He wanted to talk to her, if only to ease the tedium of being here.

Casting the same spell on the mirror, it's edges flickering green with his magical signature, Loki looked into Sif's room, hoping by some miracle that she would be there, already finished with the meeting and back at her rooms to rest, and bathe.

Yes, bathing would have been a good time to catch her.

Sighing at the empty room, Loki flicked his hand and the portal closed. He knew the assembly would likely last longer, especially if the guests had been deemed important enough to warrant a feast, or a hunt. Nothing more boring than traipsing through the woods, intent on killing a poor creature for supper, and not even being allowed to use magic to track it. Really, it was an unfair disadvantage.

Turning his thoughts over on his head, Loki sprawled across the bed he had been given in the inn, knowing he would be restless this night with thoughts of the dwarves, and Sif. Dragging his finger down the side of his forehead, Loki cast a simple sleeping spell on himself, one that would ensure he would sleep soundly through the night. Hopefully, in the morning, the dwarves would have returned, he thought sleepily. His last thought before he drifted off was of Sif in his own gold and green armor, fighting an unseen enemy.

Sif had been brought before the Allfather, the dwarves close to her side as she fought the urge to glare at them in defiance. Trying to pace her breathing and calm her nerves, she steeled herself and met the gaze of her would-be decapitators.

"Brokk, Eitri...surely there must be another price I could pay, that would satisfy both of you. I am afraid I was a bit hasty in my agreement to the wager, and while I will honor your win," Sif entreated, "I beg you to choose a different price." She hoped her desperation did not come across in her voice. It was nearly impossible to try and speak calmly, much less try and persuade the dwarves of her opinion.

It gave Sif a new respect to just how hard Loki had to work to be such a Liesmith.

But she still hated him, the insufferable wretch.

The dwarf Brokk seemed to consider her offer, but looked back at her with hardened eyes that promised no pity. "While that may be, Prince Loki, the wager was agreed upon by both parties as fair, and there were a fair number of witnesses. We are not to be held accountable for your state of inebriation the night of the wager." The dwarf seemed to draw himself up at the thought, as though he was the clear victor, what with his tolerance being higher than that of an Asgardian prince.

Sif cursed, knowing that Loki had memorized quite a few spells that would turn mead into water, none of which he had obviously used. Wonderful, now she was dead because her friend had had a bit too much to drink, and a loose tongue.

Trying to command her thoughts, she searched for something else to say, something that would convince the dwarves that her life was worth more than a petty wager.

She could try to tell them she was not truly Loki, that she was merely Sif in a powerful illusion spell, but really, who would believe her? Everyone would think that she was just trying to escape death, and without the real Loki around to back her up, it would be just another lie that Loki had spread to save himself from the blade of the dwarves.

The Allfather had his face in his hands as the palace guards moved forward to restrain her, leading her to the front of the throne room. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the dwarves, gleeful. In the other corner, there was Thor, looking for all the world lost, unable to help in this game of wordsmiths and wagers.

Forced to her knees by the guards, the dwarf stepped forward, brandishing a sword that he had most assuredly brought along especially for this occasion. Sif felt numb. She felt completely helpless. It was not like her to go down without a fight, to gracefully meet death so prematurely, but as much as her brain worked, she simply could not think of a way out of this predicament.

This was not the way War was supposed to surrender.

She prayed for a rescue that she knew would not come, for Loki had promised not to return home for a few more day's time. She let herself consider how Loki would react, when he found out about her death. The thought made her flinch. There was a darkness in his eyes, one that she was afraid would consume him in the future, and she knew if he returned home to her corpse burning in her funeral boat, he would give in to it, completely.

They would not know the joys of a life together.

The thought was a blow to the stomach.

While Sif had always been careful to hide away her involvement with the second prince, she had felt that maybe, with time, and once Thor had a bride of his own, they might become more public in their affection, if only to be able to enjoy the perks of a relationship without the censorship of the Aesir. How many times had they almost been caught pressed up against the wall of a garden, his hand tangled in her hair and the other up the side of her dress?

How many times would she have to deny the presence of a suitor, and then laugh off someone's suggestion that she pursue Thor, even while she was in Loki's presence?

Brokk tested the sharpness of his blade on the palm of his hand, grinning as he found it sufficient. The cold blade kissed her neck suddenly, the dwarf setting the blade on her shoulder casually, the blade close enough to cause a trickle of blood down her neck.

God, the memories rushed in.

Adventures with Thor and the Warriors Three, enemies fought and defeated. Her mother plaiting her hair, telling her of glorious battles her father had won. Waking up amongst green silk sheets, the sweet way Loki's fingers would dance across her knuckles at banquets, when no one was watching.

It was enough to prompt Sif to make one last, desperate plea to the dwarf. Just as the blade pulled back, readying to swing, Sif shouted out, "Wait!" With enough force for the dwarf to stall, weighing the options in his mind. "I have wagered my head against your win, true, but I have not promised you my neck. You cannot slice at that which you do not own." She said quickly, trying not to shake.

The blade lowered, slowly, and Sif could not contain her relief, her arms wrapping around herself. Odin stood, clearly demanding the dwarf comply.

"My son speaks the truth; if you still wish to acquire Loki's head, you may not harm his neck."

Sif knew it was grasping at straws, and barely a good defense at that, but thankfully the Allfather had latched onto it, determined in some way to save his son. Sif could see relief flickering in Thor's eyes, Frigga standing a bit straighter at the new circumstances.

The dwarves huddled together, talking quickly, and Sif prayed with all her might that they would not think of another way to sever her head from her body. While she did not know of any ways that did not involve harming her neck, she was sure there were some out there.

The dwarves looked dramatically less jubilant when they broke apart, though, and Sif counted that as a small victory. Glaring resentfully at Sif, they once again approached Odin. "Since we cannot separate Loki's head from his body without harming his neck, we have decided on an alternate punishment. Since we still own Loki's head, we shall put an end to his Silvertongue."

Pulling out his awl, Brokkr took a step forward to where Sif was kneeled.

"We are going to sew his mouth shut."

Sif gasped, her body involuntarily shuddering at the horror they promised.

It was a better fate than death, but barely.

Steeling herself as the dwarf walked forward with greedy eyes, she bared her teeth in a last display of defiance. Brokkr narrowed his eyes, looking back up at the Allfather. "I would require help in restraining him."

The idea of being pinned down as her mouth was sewn shut was insufferable, and Sif looked around challengingly at the palace guards, daring them to step forward and offer their assistance.

Let them rest assured, they would suffer later.

"I'll do it."

The voice that called out was pained, and Sif realized with a shock that she recognized the voice.

Thor.

He came to kneel in front of her, his eyes filled with unshed tears at the situation she had found herself in. "Loki..." he whispered, reaching out to wrap his hand around her shoulder, trying to reassure her.

It was a sweet gesture, but it was lost on Sif, who was so mired in her own panic now that reality was starting to set in.

She had endured a great number of wounds in battle. While she had quite a high pain tolerance, this was a completely different beast. Allowing someone else to sew her lips shut was a horror she had not even thought to comprehend.

Oh, the scars she would carry, once this trial was over.

Thor looked at her with the deepest of sadness, and she could see how conflicted he was in his decision. There was no way he would want a part of this horrible punishment, but he refused to let anyone else touch his brother.

Sif could see the raw emotion on her prince's face, the tears that threatened to spill out of his eyes when he kneeled next to her, clutching her shoulder.

"Oh, brother..." He whispered, and at once Sif felt like an intruder, invading on some private moment that should have been between brothers.

But it was her punishment now, not Loki's, and try as she might to distract herself from the dwarf threading his awl with a leather thong, she could not look away.

She was War, and, like it or not, she would face her trial with courage, and do her best not to cry out from the pain. There was only so much she could take, though. They were Gods, but they could bleed.

Then the dwarf's grubby hands are on her face, clutching her cheek as he brings the awl near.

And pierces her skin.

It was worse than she imagined, and there is more blood than she expected, having not suffered many wounds to the face .The leather thong is the worst of it, though, dragging through the hole the awl pierces, tearing at bared flesh and oh god it hurts how it hurts. She trembles, and the grip Thor has on her shoulder tightens. She can feel her eyes watering instinctively, though she is sure it looks like she is crying.

And perhaps she is crying, out of rage and injustice and how Loki has not saved her from this, as he ought.

The awl plunges in again, and there is more more more blood, coating her teeth and sliding down her throat, the metallic taste enough to make her gag. She tried to take a struggling breath, but only tore at the fresh laces, causing searing pain to stab at her mouth.

Her vision tunneled, and if not for the strong hand at her shoulder and now her back, she would have fallen over.

A third time, and Sif's mouth is half-closed. The laces are drawn tight, so any halting breath she draws to her lungs must be drawn through her nose. She tries desperately not to cry, so to not impede her last way to breathe.

The pain, good god, the pain.

It is worse than any wound she had suffered before. She had suffered a deep wound from her shoulder to her hip from a dark elf's blade, which took many days of Eir doing her best work to mend and close back together. She had broken nearly every bone in her body at one time or another. But nothing compared to this to, willing her body to sit through this onslaught of pain, trying not to squirm (though she was failing miserably), flinching so violently every time the dwarf brought the awl to her lips that she was sure Thor would end up pinning her to the floor.

It was almost over, she told herself, and in a distant voice Thor held her close, trembling himself as he whispered to her words of encouragement, trying to distract her from the bloody deed.

But it was no use, as the awl pierced her again, Sif let out a muffled scream, the blood overflowing in her mouth, her body arching up as the leather thong dragged its way through her flesh, aggravating an already open wound.

Death would have been easier, she thought with a sudden wave. So much quicker, more painless.

The last stitch seemed worse than the rest. Sif was done. She had nothing left, no strength left in her body as the dwarf leaned forward with his awl once again to pierce her. She collapsed against Thor, and he had to support her body as the cold metal dug through her flesh, scraping tooth and gum before exiting through more tender flesh, the quick pull of the leather thong through the hole more cruel than she could have imagined.

And then the knot was tied, and it was over.

Tears streamed down her face, and her hands fought a battle to touch, to feel for herself what had been wrought to the remains of her lips.

The blood dripped down, coating her chin and staining the leather tunic, glinting a garish color against the gold of her breastplate.

Sif was lost after that moment. The world went black as she pitched forward, and only by the quickness of Thor's reflexes was she saved from crashing unceremoniously into the floor.

When she woke, she was in Loki's room, the blood running fresh from her wounds as she tried to open her mouth unconsciously, whimpering at the pain when the leather thong reminded her of her new lacerations. A trembling hand reached up, and touched lightly at the strips of leather, her eyes stinging with tears at the pain. Blood coated her fingers when she pulled away, and the tears were real this time, as she cried at the cruel turn of fate that had been wrought upon her.

This was not her punishment, and yet she had willingly accepted, for a man that loved her.

Or so she thought.

The longer she lay quivering on the bed, staining the green sheets with dark crimson, the more she slowly realized that Loki had not come to save her, had not warned her of this very real danger.

Her mind raced to defend him, while the blood on her lips lay blame.

But Sif could not find it in her heart to blame him. Hate him, yes. But when did she not hate him, at least in some small way? Their relationship was not based on fair-weather affection. It was grouted with fist and fight, of passion and need.

Sif curled in on herself, hoping for his return.

She could not free herself.

Around midnight, as Sif trembled in an awful sleep of waking and remembering, tearing at the stitches, and dreams filled with nightmares, her body changed back to her own, her hair flowing once again to her back and her form softening and shrinking.

It hurt even worse, being in her own form. The laces shifted as she changed, and she moaned as the shift pulled them tighter in some places.

It was worse, now, knowing that it had been done to her. Her body would forever bear the tale. She had no illusions that the scars would fade away, as so many did after time.

These were too raw, too real and bloody and large.

AN: Thank you to everyone who's reviewed! We'll see next chapter how Loki reacts...