Part IV: between the two

Around the Mórrigan, there were shadows.

The light beyond them was fading, the sun dropping from its high cradle in the sky that told the noon hour to start to gently kiss the horizon below. The glade around them was silent, the wind sweeping through the grass as gently as fingers would through hair. The trees framing the glade swayed in time to an ancient beat – the pulse of magic which bound the clearing to the moon, which bound one sister to the next.

The clearing of Cúchulainn was a sheltered glade on the grand sweep of the mountain range. The tall pines naturally swept about the land there, parting for a magick in the fabric of the moon, a well that drew from the same deep springs as Mimir's own. A stone altar had been erected where the well parted the ground, formed by three slabs of stone in the tradition of the Gaelic lands of Midgard, runic symbols etched into the rock and pulsing brightly so close to its mistresses.

Upon the altar, stretched lazily, was Macha, tapping her riding crop restlessly against the tall leather of her boots. Her eyes were upon the clouds above, her mouth tightly drawn where her pose would suggest a lazy disregard for the goings on around her.

Some steps away from the altar was Anann, knelt down in the deep grace. There were two chalices out before her, filled with the water of the well and wine which she had poured from a flask at her side. She was staring into the glasses, her eyes foggy as her fingers turned white knuckled about the horn. Her staff laid in the grass next to her, close to her left hand, which was bound by a thick wrap of sheep's wool.

Macha's restless tapping against her boot ceased when a crow cawed from ahead, throwing a shadow against the ground from the long rays of sun above the black wings. Anann looked up, her eyes tracing the flight of the bird as she circled low. There was a shimmer of smoke, a burn that extinguished itself as soon as if had started; and then the crow's talons struck the ground. Wings beat, sending smoky feathers fluttering as the glass bones traded themselves for iron and warrior's wear; the slender curve of an ebony beak morphing into a thin straight line of a mouth. Badb blinked back the magick from her eyes as her form straightened. One callused hand brushed back her hair from her face, still trailing feathers to fall upon the ground below.

Macha didn't bother straightening from her lazy pose upon the altar. "You bear news, sister?" she asked quickly, bellying her easy confidence. Badb tilted her head, her dead eyes upon Anann as Macha flushed, her place remembered as she said, "If Anann here wishes to hear you speak, of course."

Anann gave half a smile, inclining her head. "Speak, sister."

Badb said then, "They have made it past the turns of the Knott."

"They approach the pools of Mara then," Anann tilted her head thoughtfully.

Macha snorted. "They are hardy, these Questors."

"Did you not expect them to make it so?" Anann asked her sister curiously.

Macha rolled her eyes. "All brawn and no brains is the first son of Odin, I expected him to wander those paths until sundown before asking Heimdall to take him home – curse and all."

"Obviously, you do not remember the stubbornness of Odin," Anann said wryly. "His son is no different - and he has surrounded himself with those who fill his weaknesses. His second had the mind to unravel our paths - and yet, the Trickster's steel is a token to the Thunderer. You see? They are a circle, sister."

"One would think that you would understand such a symbiotic circle," Badb said when Macha snorted at Anann's assessment. The words of the third sister were rare, but when spoken were loudly heard.

Macha sat up straighter. "Speak and explain your words," her tone threatened like a jabbing dagger. Badb merely blinked at the demand, her stare completely neutral.

"I need not," Badb said softly upon seeing that her arrows had landed as aimed. Macha, battle brilliant and every fierce, was but one part to a whole. Anann with her strategy and her trickery drew the rusting areas in Macha's armor, while Badb played anchor and shield to them both.

Anann quirked half a smile at the words of their third before looking down to the goblet she held in her hand. She held her other hand up, asking for silence, and receiving it. "The First has made it past the pools of Mara," she announced, feeling the exact moment when the Thunderer broke free. The low pulse of the enchantments were a shiver to her skin, making the fine hairs upon the back of her neck stand at end.

Normally, they allowed Mara and her shades to wander freely in the shadowed pools, taking what she wished to lighten her dark abode in Niflheimr. The woman had aided them in times old, and the Mórrigan were not one to sleight one so made of the dark ether of the universe. But the visions which Mara had fed the Aesir were different than so normal a nightmare. These visions Anann had asked for Mara to enchant specifically, and she had given the soul stealer a part of her own light to see the visions come to fruition.

Macha sat up completely, her brow furrowed with worry upon hearing so. "It is not possible," she said incredulously.

Anann looked bemused at the other. "I did not wish Thor to lose his soul over his slight," Anann rubbed her right hand about her left. The left was wrapped in sheep's skin, hiding her frostbitten fingers from view. The touch of Mara still lingered, and Anann would never know her hand to be the same. Still, she tried to restore warmth, as if by habit. "He saw what was needed."

"I would not see your warmth wasted on such a one," Macha still shook her head. "He understands naught what he saw, it will influence nothing."

Anann smiled, it was a sharp thing. "Truly?" Another caress upon her skin; the shadows whispered within her ear. "And yet, it was faith within his second which allowed him to break free."

Macha frowned, the freckles upon her nose stark against her pale skin as her ire returned. "Sister, we were all there when the Nornir spoke of that which is to come. I understand why you wish to show them these dreams, but you know . . . You know that there are only years remaining to the bond between the sons of Odin. There is nothing you can do when Skuld's die has already been cast."

"That was but one vision," Anann said sharply. "The Nornir have been wrong before – they will be wrong again. Even Frigg herself has woven a different future."

"She has weaved several futures," Macha said sharply. "Are you ready to accept the burden of seeing a worse future traded for one even more so?"

"I am ready to accept the fact that I have done all I have can to keep Yggdrasil from being torn from her roots. I . . . I understand, as do we all, the horrors of war – the blood spilled by mortal kind birthed us. And yet, to imagine that kind of horror starting from the roots of dear Yggdrasil up . . . No."

"And so you will force Odin's hand?" Macha said, one last attempt.

"I will do what he is not strong enough to do on his own," Anann said finally. She winced, hissing in a breath as she looked down to her hand. She unwound the wool, and saw the the skin beneath was blackened, pulsing with Mara's touch. The second vision had taken the most of her warmth, and to know . . .

"Loki has broken free," she whispered, unable to speak past an exhale. "Thor was able to reach him."

Macha was silent for a moment, a shadow clouding her normally clear eyes. "Of that, I am glad." The vision given to the second son was one she would envy no man, even steel blooded as she was. "And the lady?" she asked.

"The Trickster goes to her now," Anann whispered. "Be silent, and we shall see."

When her hand recovered enough, she stood, and picked up the two goblets. One shimmered with a faint mist about the rim. The other did not. She walked to the altar, and shooed her sister from its surface. Macha made a face, and leapt down, making room for her sister.

Anann placed the chalices down, her eyes shadowed with an old and primal magic. The one horn she released as soon as it was steady upon the stone, the other her hand still head steady. She raised her free hand, and called her staff to her; the enchanted hook rising at her biding.

The dead skin of her hand pulsed upon the staff when she closed her eyes and chanted an incantation. Her voice was throaty – the dying rasp of foot soldiers left to bleed upon the field, and the crack of steel upon steel as the wine in the goblet hissed and spewed angrily. The runes upon the altar glowed golden. Her shepherd's hook was a flame in her hand.

Finally, the crescendo broke; the steam hissed, and then cooled, suddenly defeated.

Anann released the goblet, her whole frame braced wearily against the altar. Her eyes though, were satisfied. The skin at her hand cracked, the sound of ice breaking from the shelf. She clenched it, made it a fist.

She glanced to her third, and said, "Badb, if you please – I wish to see the progress of our shield sister."

Badb inclined her head in half a bow, the movement throwing a shadow over the pallid tones of her face. A slip of a wing and the cry of the crow, and then she took to the sky.

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The shadows around her had grown.

Sif could not see her own hand before her, let alone a path. Darkness held her completely in its embrace, smothering in its absoluteness. While she could not see her step, she knew she held her glaive in her hand - she could feel the leather hilt of it, warmed by her palm. Her hands told her it was there when her eyes said no – for no sliver of light reflected off of her steel. It was as if she had been swallowed by the dark parts of the universe; as if the light had forgotten that she was there to shine on . . .

Sif did not exist in that moment. She called, and no one heard. No one listened. Alone, she was alone – and how the thought cut through her like a blade through silk – tearing asunder without resistance. Her tongue was thick in her mouth, and her throat was so very dry, refusing to aid her as she tried to form words – questions.

"Loki?" his name fell from her lips. "Why did you leave me alone?" She listened to hear her own voice, but to her horror, no sound escaped her lips when she spoke. She was mute to the air before her.

"Loki?" she tried calling again. But her breath left her in silence. Sound was lost to her as the darkness stole even her voice.

"Loki?" Again, silence.

Real fear spiked through her then – and the burn of it was such a foreign emotion to her as it broke sour and sharp upon her tongue. She was soundless, her voice lost, and where her eyes had naught to see, her mind spun its own images. Unbidden, she thought of Loki bowing before the court, forced to his knees between two guards as dwarfish manacles about his hands bound his magic to him. She remembered the reflection of pale gold – golden twine, sewing shut the mouth of the second son.

Fandral's fingers had dug into her skin at the time, but she had not noticed as he kept her demure and silent alongside the warriors of the court. How her heart had ached, how she had tasted copper when she bit her own tongue at the sight – her mouth had filled, but that had been nothing as compared to the blood Loki had choked on, the long lines of his throat swallowing without will. How red the dwarf's hand was when it was drawn away, how bloody Loki's now permanent smile . . .

Worse than the golden laces, she could so clearly remember the hatred that had crossed in Loki's eyes then. How she had wondered when the dwarf did not burn with such a gaze, verdant with all of the fires of Múspellsheimr within. She had not known Loki capable of such a look, such a hate . . . How the hate had deepened not with the prick of the needle, but with the laughter of the court for its second son . . .

Frigg had left the her husband's court when the sentence had been passed, her anger known loudly to all. Thor had stood numbly by his father's side - horror on his face, and fists clenched tightly at his sides. For all of his bluster, he often found the unthinkable far from his mind - he had not the capacity for the darkest of thoughts, the most unseemly of betrayals. And yet, Loki had seen none of his family, but for Odin severe as he declared that his youngest would see his debt through.

Sif's fingers had shook when she had cut the laces from him later, and she had apologized for every slip of her fingers, hating how her feeling made them clumsy, slick with his blood and by Yggdrasil eternal, but how could there have been so much of it . . .

Loki had been silent long after his mouth was free. Silent as she dried his wounds and traced the angry gashes left from the incisions. Silent as she kissed the corner of his mouth, the hollow of his throat, not daring to touch his lips. How she had hated his silence then. How she had burned with it as he had burned without his voice.

He was still scarred from that particular punishment, and he used charms to daily disappear the tangible marks of his failure. Her fingers itched, and she curled the hand that was not firm about her glaive; wishing to relive the memory of scarred skin under her fingers. It was a caress she knew well.

Sif swallowed against the stone in her throat, and sucked in a deep breath at the taste that greeted her. She lifted a hand to her lips, and found them bloody to the touch. She tasted copper on her tongue. Could taste his disgrace and fear and hatred, and a part of her understood as she never had before.

Her hand faltered upon her glaive. It clattered, and she knew that she stood upon solid ground when she knelt, alone in the never ending shadow around her. She lifted her hands to her lips, and they slipped. Her teeth knocked against her nails, she pressed but found no wound.

She traced her fingers up, and felt something wet at her cheek. If anything, the single tear made her feeling fan higher, burn hotter – cutting through her despair. It was rare that she shed tears . . . she had not cried since she had cut the twine from Loki, all those years ago – and it most certainly would not be a shadow that drew such from her now.

Sif wiped at her eyes, and narrowed her stare at the shadows around her.

As if sensing that she was recovering herself, the darkness swirled, crushing her with its weight. She could not breathe as it gave – as it parted, letting her see a grey tone of light ahead. Grey and sharp, like the smoke of a fire set to burn in the winter.

And so Sif followed the promise of light. Followed the smoke and ashen glow until she came upon a vision of her home . . .

Her home . . .

Before her, Asgard was gone - dust and ash blowing on the stiff breeze, all around. The ashes filled the very sea, making even the waves slow as they ached to roll in time to their immortal song. The bridges over the waterways that laced through Asgard like webs had been burned; even the bifröst no longer stood at its eternal post. Not a soul stirred. Whatever had ravaged Goðheimr had done so without thought for survivor or mercy.

A sound of horror was caught in her throat, but she could not push it past her lips. It was stuck, and she could give it no voice.

When she turned, she found that she was very small in comparison to the city around her. The blackness was lost to a shadow – she was the shadow. The shadow of a man . . . A man cloaked and concealed, but whose laughter sounded as sand being blown over bones. Next to him was Death, her form known to Sif as from the temple walls – half whole, and have decaying. Sif could make out little of her save for the white length of bared bone, a gently curving wrist, heavy with emeralds as a sign of the wealth of Hel's domain. Her face was turned from her, her expression absent. Death was silent while her companion continued to laugh; laugh and look out upon the wasteland of Asgard with cruel and satisfied eyes.

Sif tried to look up, to find a name to put to the being who held her in his shadow, but she could not see the figure's face. His identity was lost to her as he laughed and around them the ash of Asgard blew in a mockery of snowflakes upon the winter air.

The wind blew, and still the shadow held her tight.

Overwhelmed, Sif knelt down, looking past the pair to her ruined home. She let her eyes find the causeways she had walked so many times before - the Halls she had rejoiced in, the warrior's fields where she had trained in. All gone, all destroyed - only the bare husks of buildings left as the weeds after the harvest. She could spy her room in the palace, and no light burned there. Asgard, ever gold, had been extinguished, and Sif was left with ice in the core of her. She could not seem to warm herself . . . there was no feeling in her limbs.

Almost desperately, she held in on herself, trying to find a way around the bubble of despair that was rising in her throat. The feeling that was suffocating her. The silence was ringing in her ears.

"Sif?" a voice whispered across the wind to her.

She blinked at it, as drowsy as a hunting animal awakening to the spring. She was silent still.

"Sif?" That voice, again. She knew that voice. His name echoed in her throat, bidding her to rise, to break free.

But he had left her alone . . . He had left her alone, and now Asgard dwelt in ashes.

She shook her head, her glaive warm in her hand as she tried to make sense of what was around her. Her thoughts moved slowly, as if through a great mire – like trying to swim in full armor, weighed down by the waves.

"Sif, you must listen to me – follow my voice, and try to wake; break free."

She could follow his voice, but he could not follow hers. She could not announce her location. She could not be found. She was simply a forgotten shadow to a nameless man who laughed and laughed and laughed as Asgard burned. Such hate she had glimpsed in his eyes . . . had his lips bled with his words as well?

"Sif," the voice again. Sharper than before.

She followed the blow of it – as if it had physically struck her. She rose to it, supported by shaking knees. How the thought had scared her so . . . alone and forever so. Why did such a thought scare her? She pondered that, thinking of the voice who spoke to her – Loki, her mind knew him as well as she knew her own name. Knew his skin and bones as well as he knew hers. He would never leave her . . . would never abandon her. The vision she had before her was just that, a vision.

She would never be alone while with him. Asgard would never fall – they would not let it.

She worked her throat, and gathered up her famed courage – her steel and her warring heart and her fire cast veins – and screamed. The sound was liberating, tearing through the shadow of the man – through the grim cast of Death. She screamed and the shadow fell, and for a moment she saw Asgard wink gold at her as the vision let her fall away.

She awakened to Loki's concerned eyes verdant and aflame with magic before her, Thor ever vigilant at his back.

Such affection welled up in her at that moment – with Loki's hands cool against her face, wet with the shadowed pool's water, and Thor's exuberant grin growing until it was seemingly worn from his ears. She wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around each of them in that moment – she wanted to laugh. Her voice hummed in the back of her throat, and she welcomed it there. Loki shifted before her, raising to help her stand. Her legs were liquid for a moment before she steeled herself, rooted her stance as if an oak striking the ground deep.

Her hands were still in Loki's. His grasp was so very tight, a desperation that he expressed in the only way he knew to them in that moment. She wanted to kiss him then – to wrap herself around him like ivy to a stone, and tell him that she was okay. It was only a vision she had seen. Images and words had no power to hurt her.

Or him. Any of them.

He still wore whatever it was that he had seen in his own vision in the deep parts of his gaze. Worried, Sif lifted her hand to touch his face, her thumb resting right below his eyes.

"My lady, you are well?" Thor's voice was pained, true with his worry for them both.

She moved a pace away from Loki at Thor's voice, his tight grip falling from her hands as he too stepped away. Still, she smiled at them both the best she could. "Indeed I am," she said, throwing her nose in the air. "As if a little pool of water could defeat me so." Defeat any of them so.

"Indeed," Thor agreed. "Still . . . it was a worthy test," his tone was grudging, his gaze turning to the canopy of trees above as if he could see Anann there, watching and judging his worth by the strength and shape of his fears – and their triumph over them. There was the call of a crow from above them, echoed down between the boughs and the limbs of the timeless sentinels around them.

Thor's grin turned to smirk at the sound of Badb above, no doubt reporting to her others. "Imagine the tales we will have to tell of this one."

Sif nodded her head, but did not agree. She did not want to speak of her vision again – did not want to think of her voice lost and herself left alone in the shadow of Asgard's destroyer. No. Never again. Still, she inclined her head to Thor, feeling the weight of her armor against her body and her shield against her back. Indeed, for the moment she was untouchable. She took comfort in that.

Loki was watching them both, his eyes hooded. "Then, if we are ready," he tipped his hand to the path, which was soon free of the shadowed pools ahead.

"Yes," Thor clapped his brother on the back. "We have little time to waste. Twilight comes upon us all."

"Yes, it does," Loki muttered, his gaze slipping from both of them to look at the pools they had all just defeated.

Thor marched on ahead, once again all the strength and boisterous of a spring storm. Loki was slower to follow, the pools still ensnaring his gaze.

"You aren't thinking of going back for another dip?" she tried to let herself jest when Thor was far enough from them to not hear the syllables of their speech.

Loki was silent, his gaze lost to her. She once more threaded her hand through his own – the only comfort allowed to them with another presence so close.

And then Sif dared to ask on a whisper, "What was it that you saw?"

Loki's hand tightened over her own. "Nothing of consequence," he muttered, and then his touch fell away from her.

Sif frowned, wishing to pry more. But later. She fisted her hands by her side and willed herself to forget the desperate hold of him.

Ahead of them, Thor marched. And, as always, they turned from the shadows to follow.

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They did not reach the glade of Cúchulainn until the sun was just starting to touch the horizon beyond, flooding the sky with the flaming banners of twilight.

Anann and her sisters had already gathered, obviously in wait. The promise of the dying light beyond had added a mysticism to the women – goldening Badb's dead face, and heightening the flame that fueled Macha's eyes. Anann stood between both her sisters, no disapproval, nor approval upon her face as they made it to the final chapter of the quest.

"You cut your time close, Odinson," Macha couldn't help but grin, her teeth a very white slash in the setting light.

"And yet, on time I have arrived," there was a mighty scowl upon the Thunderer's brow – it darkened upon returning Macha's words. Thor had lost any levity over the Quest that he had had to begin with after the thieving pools, and in the shadow he cast, Loki and Sif were a solemn silence to match him.

Macha stepped forward, as if she would say more, but Anann held a hand. Macha stilled. "Peace, sister," she said softly. "They have made it far."

Anann stepped forward, her sisters taking point behind her much as Loki and Sif flanked Thor. "You have proven your cunning and your courage. Now, you must prove your right to lead."

"Then test me thus," Thor said, the vowels falling from between his teeth like blows.

Anann inclined her head. "Come then."

She gestured with her shepherd's hook to further within the clearing, to where there had been a stone altar erected. The stone had etched into its surface the same runic letters that they had all become familiar with, but now rather than hide their mysticism, they fairly pulsed with it – giving off a warm halo to the approaching evening. Upon the mouth of the altar, there were two chalices, the gold of the cups glinting like a wink.

Anann lead them to the altar, and then gestured to the chalices. "Within each there is wine. But in one only there is a toxin – a venom, fatally brewed. All of the wine must be consumed should you pass my test. And you, Thor Odinson, will determine who drinks which." She tilted her hand, mockingly benevolent before her. "The poison is tasteless. Odorless. Colourless. Decide which is tainted, and drink."

Thor's reaction was sudden and fiery. "And you expect us to willingly swallow your poison?" he turned from the altar, rounding angrily on Anann. "That is madness!"

Anann was silent, her eyes weighing.

"No," Thor shook his head when she said nothing, brow furrowed crossly. "I will not have dragged my companions so far to risk their lives so now. You speak of worth – but is it worthy to demand blood so? It is a waste you demand of us."

"You ask such where you took blood more easily than even I, Odinson," and for the first, Anann's voice was sharp – like the crackle of steel meeting steel. "If the requirements of my quest ask too highly, then declare yourself unworthy of the blood you spilled, and live with your curse in silence." Her eyes flashed, fervid, and Sif was reminded of Odin in that moment – of feeling small in the shadows his war helmet cast.

Loki stepped forward, holding out a hand out upon Thor's forearm to calm his brother. Thor tensed under the touch, but he did not move away from his second. "You say this test is true," he spun his words. "And how is worth chosen over this?"

Anann held his gaze, level and bold. "Do you trust your brother?" she asked then, rather than answer him.

"I trust my brother with my life," Loki declared, and there was no waver within his eyes, no silver upon his tongue – just true words honestly spoken, and Sif hoped to Odin that they would be enough to prove the character that Anann would let live.

"Then prove your truths," Anann bowed her head, gesturing to the altar before her. "Whomsoever drinks of the chalices will prove the worth of a leader. A prince. A king." There was a promise in her voice. Prophesy, even.

"I would drink rather than they," Sif declared, moving to step past Thor and Loki both, but there was a grip at her elbow, staying her. Macha held one arm, her callused fingers strong. Badb was a silent shadow – a threat thrown across them all, like a crow circling the battlefield at her left.

"This is not a test for steel, or War," Anann said in a soft voice. "And this, Lady Týrdottir is not your truth to be had. There are two chalices – each for a son of Odin."

Sif narrowed her eyes, but stepped back, her knuckles a white grip upon the hilt of her glaive. Macha released her, but did not step more than a pace away.

Thor stayed straight and still, not looking down at the poisoned chalices, but straight into Anann's eye. Around the stone setting, Loki started to circle like a caged beast, his eyes crinkling thoughtfully as he looked to decipher which was poisoned and which was not.

"I believe," the second son said with a forced lightness, "that she would place the poisoned goblet before you – she likes me more, brother."

Still, Thor was silent, his eyes burning.

Loki's eyes narrowed as he came to a pause, his stride ending thoughtfully. With steady hands he reached out and poured one goblet of wine into the other. Sif caught a glimpse of the liquid, so very dark – like blood poured after the sun had fled.

"Brother?" Thor finally looked over to him, his voice a question. "What are you doing?"

"All of the wine must be drank, and there is no question over who must return home," Loki said softly, his voice solemn and calm in a counterpoint to the red flare of feeling that slashed harshly across Thor's face as soon as understanding hit.

"Brother, that is madness," Thor protested hotly as to Loki's intentions. He moved to take a step forward, a hand held before him as if the wrench the cup from his brother's grasp - but he could not move. His great limbs were stuck, like an oak tree – firmly rooted. He made a darkly comical picture, huge and powerful, but useless against a bond he could not see.

Sif stirred as well, her blood as hot as Thor's, only to find that the same spell had trapped her. She fought against the charm, but her limbs struggling uselessly. She could not move, and even her throat worked uselessly around her words. Loki would not hear from her in that moment, and Sif fought wildly against the spell, something desperate and sour rising in her throat as she remembered her vision – her useless voice and her useless steel, and all she loved in ashes around her.

Loki's eyes flared green, an easy symbol of his magic, and Thor bellowed: "Brother, you will drop this enchantment now!"

"And let you do something foolish?" Loki returned, shrugging off the other's order. "I think not."

He raised the goblet to his lips, but did not drink; his eyes slanted across to hers, and she locked his gaze as if she were an archer taking aim, begging with her eyes where he would not allow her to with words. For, surely if she spoke, he would come undone. His gaze was oddly naked in that moment – open as she so rarely saw him. Then he blinked, and he was cast from stone before her once more.

He would truly . . .

"Besides, there will be no living with Father if you are not returned home." And with that, Loki threw back the poisoned wine, and drained it in a single gulp.

"No!" Sif finally felt her voice break free of the enchantment, the wards breaking as soon as he had swallowed the wine. "Brother!" Thor shouted at the same time, terror a broken chain linking their words together.

Almost primly, Loki placed the goblet back down upon the altar. The inscriptions upon the stone were so very bright. "It is a good vintage," he said with a black humor. "A pity, too -" and his words were lost to him as he slumped forward, catching himself against the stone altar.

As he faltered, his enchantments fell completely, and as soon as Sif felt her limbs under her own control, she leapt forward to catch him before he completely fell. He was a stone in her grasp, inelegant as he was so very rarely.

Thor had bypassed his brother entirely to stand up before Anann, grasping the slight woman by her collar and hoisting her up until her feet dangled from the ground.

Loki was so still in her arms. His breathing was shallow. His pulse was a weak cadence, faltering and dimming. Sif had felt such before – had seen life slip away like a ripple upon the water. But not here, not now. "Loki?" she pressed almost desperately, slapping his face and rocking his still form. But not a whisper. Not a movement.

"You, witch," Thor very nearly growled, "will fix the harm you have done." Above them the sky trembled. Sif felt the first spattering of rain strike against her skin, her armor, as Thor's rage drove the approaching storm above.

And only then did Anann's gaze soften. "One who would have those he would lead sacrifice so are worthy," and as she said so, Sif watched as the boils faded from Thor's skin. His hair filled back in, his eyebrows regrew to furrow in a mighty glare – not noticing the absence of the curse's hold as his brother's life hung on a precipice before him.

"And my brother?" Thor hissed. The sky above them lightened in a counterpoint.

"Your worth was proved," Anann said. She moved the hand that had not been holding her shepherd's staff in order to hand Thor a small vial, in which a clear liquid swam. "This will cure the venom's hold. His is a soul which I would not take from you."

Thor released her, flinging her away to be caught by Macha and Badb. Impatiently, Sif took the vial from Thor as soon as he was close enough, uncorking it with one hand as she cradled Loki's head with the other. It was a trick to get him to swallow the antidote as he was, but between her and Thor they managed.

She waited, her breath baited and her grip about Loki still desperate. She caressed almost absently at the sweaty hair that had fallen over his forehead. His skin was still so very pale, his closed eyes like bruises in the pallid expanse of his face. He still did not stir. His pulse did not leap. His eyes did not open, and why would not his eyes open?

"Loki?" Sif whispered brokenly, feeling something hot and urgent settle in her throat. "Loki, you will wake up this instant, or so help me . . ." the threat faded, useless on her tongue. For what would Sif do? Sif with her steel and her mighty words, but Loki lost from her . . .

She looked up at Thor. "It is not working." She did not recognize her own voice. It was a desperate, pleading woman who spoke so. Fix this, her eyes begged him.

Thor was quick upon his feet, like a viper striking. Again he thundered before Anann – Anann who looked as stricken as Sif had seen her yet.

Something was wrong . . .

"I do not understand," Anann whispered. "It . . . this was brewed from the waters of Múspellsheimr itself for the children of the flame. It was perfectly crafted for a son of the Aesir – it should not fail to heal one of Asgard's children."

"Obviously," Thor raged, "it has so failed. You must have some other way to heal him – to give back what you have taken."

"I . . ." and here Anann closed her eyes long and slow. When she opened them, Sif cared not for the shade of them – the sympathy . . . and sorrow. "It is not your worth that mattered," she said hollowly, as if she had figured out a riddle long eluding her. "My sympathies, Thor, son of Odin, but where you have proved your worth, I fear that there is a deeper stain here . . . A blight I am not at liberty to lift or ease away."

Thor shook his head. "Your riddles are not good enough," he cried. "Speak clearly, and restore my brother."

"Your brother," Anann whispered, her tongue turning the syllables in a way Sif could not interpret. "No . . . he is past my power to heal now." Her hands were white upon her staff. Her sisters were a shield at her back, the incredulous expressions on their faces fading to masks – stiff and unwavering.

They would find no quarter there, Sif finally understood. There was nothing more the Mórrigan could do.

"Then your own blood will join his," Thor declared, Mjölnir in his hands as the storm crackled angrily overhead. The rain was falling in sheets now – the wind drove it like daggers, and Sif held Loki closer to her as if to shield him.

Thunder crackled as he advanced, and Sif finally cried, "Thor! There is no time for that – Loki, we have to get him to Asgard. Eir might . . . there is still hope." His heart still beat - sluggishly, but it beat. There was a breath upon his lips. There was a chance that he could again open his eyes for her.

Her words cut through Thor's battle haze, and just as quickly the storms died away as Thor returned to her. There was steel in his gaze as he knelt down again next to her, his one hand heavy upon her shoulder, and his other shaking as he clasped Loki's still hands.

Thor called for Heimdall, and around Sif, her world turned white as she was called back home, Loki still in her arms and a prayer long and pleading upon her lips.

Mira's Mythological Mauling Madness

The Mórrigan: Were indeed a Celtic trio of goddesses and their duties were much as they were described here.

Anann was a warrior goddess of fertility, cattle (in the sense of culling the weak warriors from the 'herd'), and prosperity, and was known for comforting and teaching the dying soldiers upon the battlefield. Sometimes she is actually called Mórrigan herself, for she is the center of their three fold cord.

Macha was a war goddess who saw to war horses. Her name means 'of the plain', and she was based off of the real figure in Irish history – Macha, the bride of Cruinniuc. She is compatable with the Welsh goddess Rhiannon.

Badb was a war goddess who took the form of a crow, and was thus sometimes known as Badb Catha ("battle crow"). She often caused fear and confusion among soldiers in order to move the tide of battle to her favoured side. Badb would also appear prior to a battle to foreshadow the extent of the carnage to come or to predict the death of a notable person. She would sometimes do this through wailing cries, leading to comparisons with the bean-sidhe.

The Glade of Cúchulain: Cú Chulain was an Irish folk hero, comparable to Achilles, who was known best for his rally against Ulster, in which he slighted the Morrigan. He was the only one in mythology to slight the three, and live to tell the tale – even going so far as to heal Anann by blessing the milk she drew from a cow in the form of an old woman. Later, he was blessed in battle for this.

Mara: A dream stealing wraith mentioned in Celtic, Norse, and Germanic folklore. (Called a Mare, Mara, and Marh, respectively) that stole your terror from dreams. This is where the term 'nightmare' comes from. She is often compared to Incubi and Sucubi.

Seiðr: Norse term for magic.