...I am so sorry door the long gap between updates. The hiatus took a little longer than I expected. Please forgive me ;w;

In other news, Brazil was beautifully wonderful and I'm going to miss my friend who lives there bunches, but the summer most go on! As much as I said that Syrgja ought to be my last fanfiction, I do have some oneshots/bookstore AU plots brewing insistingly in my head. I would probably post them on AO3 if they come to be anything.

Not that this is the last chapter; there's still one more after this. So please stay tuned everyone, and enjoy!

"Hope fades
Into the world of night
Through shadows falling
Out of memory and time
Don't say
We have come now to the end
White shores are calling
You and I will meet again

And you'll be here in my arms
Just sleeping…"

—"Into the West"

The war was won and the world had ended, so why did Natasha still feel, still breathe, still see?

She didn't know exactly if she consciously made to approach Thor, if she moved by choice or by need, but she kneeled beside him as he held Loki in his arms. Loki, who did not move, did not breathe, did not open his eyes.

"Loki, please," Thor said. Tears streamed down his face, carving clean trails down the grime and blood. "My brother, my little brother, please, don't go, please…"

Each breath Natasha took hurt her chest and she couldn't stop shaking. She felt someone kneel beside her, stand behind her, but she couldn't tell who they were. She could not take her eyes off of Loki's ashen face and his beaten chest that did not rise.

She thought of how dangerously close his lips came to hers that night in the waters and realized how he must have known for a long time that he would not live.

"Loki," she whispered. His name felt so soft, so painful on her tongue.

No amount of begging could restore breath and she knew that—her entire life had been surrounded by death. But she couldn't help it—she was a child at prayer with the basest sentimentality. That someone, something, anything would have mercy.

"Loki, don't leave us," Natasha said, and her throat swelled. She cupped his thin face, resting her forehead on his. She choked, trying to fight back the sobs that wracked her lungs. "Oh, dear God, please don't leave us. Don't leave us like this—don't take him away. Dear God, don't take him away."

Thor wept silently, his arms shaking as they held Loki with no strength left in them. Natasha lifted her head, half-expecting a miracle, that she would look upon Loki's face again and see those mischievous green eyes twinkling and a witty quip on his lips. But there was nothing in his face. The windows to emotion were now broken and dark, revealing nothing—windows that led to walls.

"Goddammit," said Clint. "Put him down, Thor."

"You—" said Thor.

"I said put him down!"

Thor stared at Clint, blue eyes raw and shining. He hugged Loki closer to him, as if afraid that if he let go of Loki, the truth would crash down on him—that he would lose his little brother forever, that Loki was already gone. Clint brusquely pulled Loki out of Thor's arms and onto the ground, and Natasha could see how Clint quaked as if too cold.

When Loki lay flat on the ground, Clint placed both hands clasped on Loki's still chest and pumped up and down. Natasha's eyes seared with tears and she shook her head mutely, clenching her teeth to keep away the cries.

"Clint—" started Steve, but Clint ignored him, trying to revive Loki. Trying to keep his heart pumping, to find a miracle.

"Come on, Loki," Clint said, his voice strained. Over and over again, he would not stop pressing his fist into Loki's chest. Loki showed no sign of change, as lifeless as ever. "Come on, Loki!"

"Clint, stop," said Tony, and the sound of Tony's voice strangled with tears made Natasha want to scream. "Clint—it won't work. Just stop."

"Goddammit, Loki!" said Clint. He was pushing nearly his entire body weight against Loki, against that beatless heart. "Wake up, you bastard! You can't leave us like this, after all—we've—been—through!"

Thor couldn't watch anymore—couldn't watch his brother's face empty of pain and expression and emotion, couldn't watch Clint cling to the last strand of hope that was long lost. He rose from the ground and backed away, eyes blinded by tears as he stumbled beyond them, trying to find himself in his loss. Mjölnir lay useless at his feet, powerful against all foes except death. Thor reached down to lift it, but no matter how much he tried he could not lift his hammer. His grief was too heavy to overcome, and he let out a terrible sob.

"You have to wake up, Loki!" Clint said. Up and down, up and down, and yet Loki still did not breathe, his heart did not beat. "Are you just going to leave us? Going to leave your family, going to leave Thor—going to leave Natasha?"

Natasha let out a sob and she tried to hide her tears in her hand. She felt Bruce wrap his arm around her shoulders and she couldn't breathe.

"She loves you! And we all know you love her, okay? And you're just going to leave her like this?" Clint said. He was screaming now, his face wet with his own tears. "You're just going to leave her, you sick bastard?"

Clint punched Loki's chest, trying to push the blood out of Loki's heart and throughout his veins in an attempt to keep him alive. Each blow barely made Loki's body jerk and Clint gasped for breath amid his cries each time. Finally, he nearly collapsed, his hand lying in defeat upon Loki's motionless chest and his shoulders shaking.

"This wasn't supposed to happen," he said, and even he couldn't keep the tears from his voice. "This was never supposed to happen."

Natasha lifted her head from her trembling hand, her head and heart hurting tremendously. They had won the war—they had saved Earth and kept the Nine Realms from being destroyed, so why had they lost? Why did she have to give up everything?

Her eyes fell upon Clint's hand prone against Loki's chest and her eyes stung.

They must have been stinging, half-glazed with tears, because what she saw couldn't have been possible.

She pulled away from Bruce, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand—again—again. But it still remained, still curled around Clint's fingers like twine.

Electric blue twine.

"Clint," she whispered.

Clint looked up at her, and then followed her gaze to his hand. He nearly pulled his hand away in panic, but kept it firmly planted on Loki's chest. The Mind Gem's powers were faint, brittle, but still present, tying Clint tentatively to Loki with as much solidity as balloon string.

"Oh God," Clint said.

"What is it?" said Steve.

Clint looked up, eyes wide.

"I feel the change," said Clint. "I feel my energy leaving me. It's going to him."

Thor turned sharply toward Clint, face pale with disbelief.

"How is that possible?" said Thor. "The Mind Gem—it shattered. It broke, and it would have faded by now."

"There must be a piece left still working," Tony said, voice shaking. "And Loki still has a chance if Clint is linked to something."

Without hesitation, Natasha placed her hand next to Clint's on Loki's chest. Soon after, soft blue curls of energy tied around her fingers like rings and she felt the cool rush of energy flow through her arm. Thor slid his hand next to hers, face set in determination. She had no idea how close to absolute death Loki was, if hers and Clint's and Thor's life was enough to strengthen him, but surely they had enough for all four of them…surely they had enough.

She felt Bruce shift behind her before his hand also reached between her and Clint and clamped on top of Loki. Steve and Tony knelt down close to Loki and placed their hands among the others as well. Faint blue power of the Mind Gem linked all six of them until their lives flowed down into Loki.

Natasha couldn't help but gasp—each breath was more and more difficult as she grew weaker and weaker. She could see it in the others' faces as well as they winced with fatigue and pain as each other's injuries and weariness leaked into their own, and yet Loki looked no more alive, no more healed.

She suppressed a wince when she felt a sharp twinge on the side of her head, and she could tell that the others felt it as well.

"Damn you, Stark," Steve said with a choked laugh. "I knew that the cut on your head wasn't 'just a doozy.'"

Tony swallowed down a chuckle, but it died immediately. He took in a deep breath, slowly, and let it go. In and out, a slow but sure pattern, until unconsciously the others followed him. Deep breath in…deep breath out…in…out…

And Natasha felt it. Loki's chest barely moved, but it moved nonetheless underneath her hand. She bent low until she could hear his very faint breathing and she gave a cry.

"He's breathing," she said. Despite her growing pain as Loki's weakness and the others' injuries sank into her. "He's breathing, he's alive—he's breathing!"

"We need a healer, fast," said Tony, but she could hear the incredulous hope in his voice. "He's breathing, but he won't be okay—not yet, not until he's fixed." He turned his head to shout over his shoulder. "Someone bring us healers now!"

Natasha shifted Loki until his head rested on her lap. He breathed, but he was so still and so deathly pale, and his magic left awful scars on his chest. She closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing as if that could tune Loki in closer to life, not caring about how her already little energy was waning.

Until Thor gave a gasp that shook her back into reality. She looked down on her hand and her heart skipped a beat; the Mind Gem's power that intertwined all their hands to Loki was beginning to flicker—threatening to fade.

"The Mind Gem is failing," said Thor. "It will soon disappear with the rest of the shards—and then—"

He needn't say it. Without what little of the Mind Gem they had left, there would be no way to link Loki to life, and as slowly and surely as he drew breath again, he could slowly and surely lose strength and die.

They were running out of time.

"Bruce, have you got anything to heal him for now?" said Steve.

"I only have bandages and minor healing stones on me," said Bruce. His breath was labored from the effort of sharing his life with Loki. "They wouldn't be of any help."

"Is a healer coming?" said Steve.

"Some of the Warriors Three went to find them," said Tony.

Clint cursed. "We're a good three miles from the healers' tent, where all the actual sorcerers are. We don't have time."

Natasha swallowed hard, trying to feel for Loki's heartbeat underneath the battered armor and torn tunic.

Come on, Loki.

"My father," said Thor. "He must come. His magic is powerful—if anything, he could heal Loki."

"We can't risk you leaving, Thor," said Bruce. "If you take your hand away—we wouldn't be enough."

"I will not leave," said Thor, and he closed his eyes.

And when no one spoke, when Natasha could think of Loki and Loki only, she remembered that all of their minds were connected alongside their lives. She heard each of their thoughts as they hoped, as they waited and prayed for Loki's return.

Brother, come back to us, please—

Loki, you can do it, I know you can, just keep breathing—

Loki, you bastard, don't give up on us now—

Keep fighting, Loki, just keep fighting and help will come—

Come on, Bambi, you're stronger than this, you can do it—

She did not hesitate in thinking this—she did not care if the others heard, so long as Loki did. So long as Loki knew without a doubt.

I love you, Loki.

These were the words she had feared to say, that she did not think herself capable or worthy of saying for so long—and now she could not keep it to herself for the life of her.

I love you, Loki. I love you, I love you, I love you…

Clint gave a laugh laced with tears—not out of grief or of derision, but of hope, of acceptance, of a desire for Loki to hear this and wake up. Natasha's heart swelled and she felt a surge of strength, of life—not by herself, but by all the unity and hope they had together—that they would not give up.

She heard the healers come from behind her. There were many of them, tattered and worn but glowing with a power none of them could imagine. She saw them place their hands upon the Avengers' heads and felt a pair of hands upon her own. When she felt a surge of a rest course through her veins and her pains cease, she almost protested—why were they healing her and not Loki? But then she understood, as Loki's breaths grew less shallow and delicate—by healing them, their renewed health could heal Loki gradually.

They were bonded, like a web, a chain, tied to Loki to save him, and they were so close.

She felt her limbs rejuvenate with energy, her wounds clotted and closed, her exhaustion trickle away—but Loki still did not stir, and she began to panic. Should not the effects of the healing diffuse into Loki by now, when instead she reaped all its benefits and seemingly gave nothing away?

"He still lives right now," Thor said, and Natasha knew he heard her fears. "He is strong, Natasha. He is a survivor. He has been through so much—he is strong."

Natasha swallowed hard. She knew Loki was strong—frustratingly strong, even—but she knew that he had been so, so tired. And there was no telling if he would instead of fighting to survive, choose to move…on.

The Mind Gem's tendrils slipped through the spaces between her fingers and she imagined that it was Loki grasping her hand. Its grip was so weak.

"The All-Father is coming," one of the healers said.

"I pray he will fly," Thor murmured.

The Mind Gem was beginning to slacken, that thin shard remaining fading. Natasha's heart beat rapidly with anxiety and she wished she knew how to shove her health, her strength, her life into Loki so that he would be safe. His head did not even make the slightest turn on her lap and she wondered if his state had improved at all. She took his limp hand and clutched it tight, relishing in the fact that it was not yet cold. She laced her fingers with his, waiting—waiting—for them to grasp back.

"Look—" said Clint.

The blue spider web that entwined all of them together was beginning to bleed away, the sharp blue diminishing to a translucent, cloudy light. She felt the bond weaken—no, not yet, not yet, he isn't awake yet, he's not all right yet—but she could not stop it from finally fading.

She waited with baited breath, her fingertips trembling as they rested on Loki's chest.

She felt it rise once.

Twice.

And—

"He still breathes," said Thor. His broad shoulders shook with emotion as he fought to keep the tears of tentative relief from his voice. "He will hold on."

Natasha raised Loki's hand to her lips, pressing his sharp knuckles against them. He still breathed. He still lived. There was still a chance.

"Father," Thor said, raising his head.

Natasha turned. Odin came to them, his steed behind him, tattered and bloodied by war. The moment Odin's eye fell upon his dying youngest, he let go of both Gungnir and the horse's reins, rushing to Loki's side and falling on his knees. He placed a shaking, bleeding hand on Loki's forehead, his face grave and grievous.

"Is he—?" said Odin, and he could not bring himself to say more.

"He still lives, my king," said one of the healers. "But only just, and must be taken care of quickly."

"Oh, my son," Odin said, brushing strands of Loki's hair away from his pale face. Carefully, he eased Loki into his arms and lifted him from the ground, gentler with him than he had ever been with anything else. Natasha held onto Loki's hand until she could not reach him anymore and left his fingers slip away from hers.

"The wounded and the dead must be tended to," said Odin, unable to take his eyes off of Loki's still form. "But I cannot bring myself to not care for my child."

"Your will shall be done, my father…my king," said Thor. His voice broke momentarily. "Just please—save him."

Odin bowed his head before climbing onto his horse, keeping Loki close to him. Natasha opened her mouth, to shout wait or please so that he would not disappear and take Loki with him without Natasha saying something to him, to assure herself that this will not be the last time, but before she could draw her breath, Odin had ridden off and Loki was gone.

Natasha was not with Loki when Odin carried him home to be healed. She was not there when Frigga waited for them, shaking with the ever-present fear that her loved ones would not return and pale from the fact that this was almost true. The healers would not stop doting on Natasha when she passed through the city, despite all of her protests that she was absolutely fine, she had already been tended to, did anyone know how Loki was?

They wouldn't let her visit him, when she finally wriggled free from their care. The royal family allowed only, they told her, despite all her screams and arguments and improper threats. Thor had disappeared within the room the moment he shrugged off the healers and she rarely saw him since, not even during the vigils honoring the fallen or the feasts of victory. She could not control the pang of jealousy or the guilt that followed.

There was only one time she caught sight of Thor during one of the funerals, and she was only able to get one confession out of him: the fight for life alone was Loki's, which the healers could not aid. He could fight to live…or he could resign and move on. And they couldn't be sure where he was now.

She couldn't stomach anything—not the seeing off of warriors' ashes on ships to sea, not the heavy stew at the feasts that tasted of smoke in her mouth, not the words of gratitude and encouragement that Odin gave to his people before silently returning to his youngest son's side. When the returning civilians thanked her and the other soldiers endlessly, she could only return a tight-lipped smile and accepted the flowers they placed in her hand. Primroses, delicate in color and touch that felt too clean between her calloused fingers, but she pinned them in her red hair and they never withered for her to take them away.

It was Sif's funeral rites, however, that made Natasha feel inexplicably hollow, and this time she could only wish that her mind was distracted enough that she did not have to remember the deadening forlornness that fell upon them. Sif's ashes were cast into the ebbing shores alongside what was left of her sword and shield that had been so faithful to her for centuries. Several blooms of feathery asphodels drifted on the surface about her like swans.

Her parents wept loudly by the shore and Natasha wondered if they regretted letting their daughter pursue the life of a warrior, that it had led to such an early death. The Warriors Three were silent with grief; Volstagg let his tears run free, the saltwater tangling with his beard as he drew his young children away from the funeral, and even Hogun's face of impassiveness was contorted with sorrow. It only took one look at their faces for Natasha to understand that grieving truly never ended for the immortal.

Clint, however, shook her the most. He was silent and still the entire time, but she could see the heavy guilt upon him and it broke her heart. When Sif's remains were long out of sight across the horizon, she gently led him away, quietly sitting him down on the stone benches of Frigga's gardens and waiting for him to open his heart to her—to his best friend.

When he spoke, his voice was soft, and he looked down at his hands the whole time.

"I could have saved her, you know," said Clint. "She must have died while I was carrying her. I couldn't make it back in time. I didn't even try to protect her from getting shot."

"She wouldn't have wanted you to," Natasha said. "She was always one hell of a warrior, and she'd want responsibility over what happened to her."

"I just…God," said Clint. "Looking back, there were so many ways I could have done things right. I should have bound up her chest or something first. I should have tried looking for a medic along the way to help her a little more before taking her further. I should have carried her in another way, I should have ran faster, I should have done a thousand different things but then it ended up like this."

He bowed his head, running his hand through his short hair. It seemed as if he would always be wracked with guilt for one thing or another and Natasha desperately wished that there was some way to lift that burden from him.

"Don't blame yourself for this, Clint," she said. "It's not—"

"You always say that," said Clint. He was not accusatory or distraught, but his voice was drained. "I know you mean well, but you always say that. And I just can't. I was with her for almost the whole time, and then I let her die. How is it not my fault?"

"You weren't the one who killed her, Clint," said Natasha. "And if you weren't with her—if she was by herself when she was shot, then she would have just been alone. Just dying is by no means the worst thing. You took care of her, Clint, you cared for her, you fought with her, you were there for her…until the very end. Is that so bad?"

"I don't know," said Clint. He rubbed his eyes; he must not have slept in a while. "I don't like to think that she died because I messed up…but I don't want to think she was meant to die no matter what happened." He gave an empty chuckle. "I don't want to think that anyone that died in this war was meant to die, no matter what. But they are dead."

"And we're alive," Natasha said softly, tracing circles on the stone bench.

"We're alive," said Clint. "And Thanos is dead, and a bunch of Chitauri, and all the Kree in the other Realms after they lost…and Earth is alive. Jotunheim's alive, Asgard's alive, they're alive. There's so much living and dying when it comes to war. It's hard to remember the living part, though."

Natasha looked to Clint. He watched the sky, the clouds hesitantly pale, indecisive of whether or not to storm. She looked to his hands that were folded on his lap, hands that he saw only stained with blood and unworthiness. But she looked upon them and she remembered how they put away the arrow pointed to her and stretched out to her as a second chance all those years ago, how they clasped onto his friends' shoulders in encouragement and camaraderie…how they beat against Loki's chest to try to save him.

"You're a good man, Clint," said Natasha. "You really are."

Clint cracked a smile. Natasha clapped a hand on his shoulder, giving him a gentle squeeze.

"How are you?" said Clint.

"Me?" said Natasha.

"Yeah," said Clint. "You don't sleep or eat either. None of us are, honestly. But I know you're worried. About—you know—Loki."

Natasha's gaze fell to the ground. "I don't know," she said. "No one's telling me anything. No one's letting me see him either. I told that Eir woman that I was going to melt off her toenails if she didn't and she still wouldn't let me in."

"Not going to lie, Nat," said Clint. "That's not exactly the best way to convince people to let you do things, especially to the head healer."

"Right," said Natasha with a grunt. She exhaled heavily, interlocking her fingers. Not unlike how the Mind Gem had tied itself to her. "I'm so going to kick that bastard's ass when I get the chance. He could have warned us, for God's sake. I don't know if it would have helped but—"

Her throat caught up and she couldn't help but laugh thickly, shaking her head. She missed Loki. She wanted to see him again, to speak with him again…but she couldn't even be sure if there would be another chance.

"You know," Clint said. "We are master assassins that snuck into even SHIELD pretty smoothly before Chitauri threw shit into the fan."

Natasha turned quizzically to Clint, who raised his eyebrows.

"I think that a couple of peaceful healers who probably have no experience in dealing with espionage would be no problem to slip through with the proper plan," said Clint.

Natasha blinked before her face cracked in an uncontainable smile.

"Oh Clint," she said. "What could anyone in the world ever do without you?"

Clint positioned himself to stand guard at the door for Natasha, promising her at least a good thirty minutes until Eir would come running back—and probably quite cross too—after finding out that Clint's claim that Tony falling off a roof and breaking his tailbone was a lie (Tony was enthusiastic in going along with the plan that included both aiding star-cross'd lovers and yelling at the top of his lungs about his 'achey breaky ass').

Natasha readily agreed, thinking thirty minutes enough time for her, just to assure herself that Loki would be all right, but when she stepped into his room and saw him lying on the bed, a gold haze of protective healing cast over him, she knew she didn't want to leave him at any time.

He lay so silently on the bed, still worryingly white but looking more asleep than dead. His hands were thin upon the sheets, doves come to rest. Eyes still hidden behind paper-thin eyelids. Her prince of a dream that nearly did not come true.

She sat at his bedside with baited breath, afraid that if she touched him—if she did so much as reach out to him—the golden haze would shatter and rain shards upon him and he would break. But she needed to take his hand—she needed to reassure herself that he was there and alive, that this was no mirage or that he was no illusion. She gently placed her hand on top of his, running her fingers down the knuckles as prominent as marbles. She let her fingers sink in between his, waiting for the squeeze in return that did not come.

"Hey, Loki," she said.

There was no Shakespeare to occupy the both of them, and she was no master of poetry, but she hoped she could still entice him to wake anyway.

"I…" She swallowed hard, unable to take her eyes off of him. His cheeks were hollow as if he was starving; she reached out and traced a hand down them. He was chilled, like glass, but not deathly so.

"I miss you," she said. "I miss you and I wish that you'd come back soon. Come back now."

She combed his hair with her free hand. Would he come back to her? To all of them? Or would he be too worn from life, too tempted by an eternal rest she could not offer him, to turn back?

She felt the tears prick the corner of her eyes and she was unabashed.

"You're making my past several days a living hell, you know that?" she said. "I'm waiting for you to come back, I'm waiting for a sign…and I can be impatient."

She clasped his hand with both of hers protectively, as an oyster would shield a pearl.

"You heard us all, didn't you?" said Natasha. "When we were linked to you—how we all want you to come back. To be okay."

She didn't know if he could hear her and she wished there would be at least some sort of sign.

"I'm telling you, you'd make a lot of people disappointed if you didn't—if you didn't come back," Natasha said, her voice wavering.

It baffled her how Loki, who spun and ran and fought and danced out of her grasp without ceasing, could not even hold up his hand on his own without her help now. As unresponsive as a ragdoll, and she rested her hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat to remember that he was alive now.

"I promised you something," she said, her lips barely moving. "I promised that once we got out of the war…once we've won and survived, I'd kiss you for the first time."

She curled his short hair behind his ear, letting her fingers graze his jawline. She leaned in closer, and wished she could sink into him again. Wished they shared the same bones, the same blood, because she did not want him to ever be alone—she did not want to be alone.

"I'm not known to be an honest woman," said Natasha. "But I keep my word."

She closed her eyes and gently pressed her lips against his. She wished she could breathe life into him—kiss him until he returned to her like a myth, but here she could only remember that he was still alive, still here with her, and that she loved him.

His hand was cool but his lips felt warm and she wanted to melt into him.

But when she pulled away from him and hungrily searched his face, half believing in the fairy tales, she saw nothing change and her heart sank. She almost laughed at herself—what did she expect? She was not one to tease reality.

Instead, she laid her head down on his chest, ear against his beating heart. Every beat made her feel warmer inside and it filled her with a rush of joy. It was the sweetest sound, an echo that almost spoke to her, saying, I'm here…I'm here…I'm here…

The lullaby lulled her to sleep, her cheek warm with the kiss of his heart.

(She woke to long fingers running through her short hair, the touch as gentle as a breeze. The lights were dim with night that crept so stealthily up on her, and her eyes were glazed with unexpected sleep.

She raised her head barely an inch above his chest, cheek reddened from lying so long. She felt a cool hand on her cheek and she recognized it immediately—she had long memorized the pattern of lines on his palm, the slimness of his fingers…his touch.

"You're beautiful," he said, and the voice she so longed to hear was so earnest.

Her eyes met his—wide open, glimmering, and she let herself cry.)