Of Golden Thread (Part I)

She had not intended to see.

Nobody had even realized she was there, hiding in the shadow of a column as the doors banged open, giving way to two dwarf guards, and, between them, Loki. She was curious, so she stayed. The image was almost comical; Loki was almost twice the height of the dwarves. She would have laughed, had it not been for the murderous rage on the guards' faces.

"Allfather," one of them growled, bowing his head in tense respect.

Odin eyed them all suspiciously. "Greetings. What brings the Dwarf King's private guards to my court?" His gaze shifted to Loki. "And why have you brought my son to me like a common prisoner?"

The other guard stepped up and bowed. "With all due respect, Allfather, your younger prince is a liar."

Loki didn't seem bothered by the accusation. He actually seemed to be bored with the futility of it all as he said, "Father, I told their king one little mistruth. I assure you it was unintentional." He held out his manacled wrists to his father in a silent request to be set free.

But Odin only stared at him. "This is not the first time you have been brought before me and called a liar," he said.

"And it likely shan't be the last, if people continue to react like this," Loki said, entirely unfazed.

"We are the house of Odin; our word means something," Odin told his son strictly.

"I know that," Loki said. "But I was just having a bit of harmless fun. I can't help that the dwarf king failed to see the humor." He shrugged and held out his hands again. "Now I know better."

For a long moment, Odin sat silently. Then, he turned to the guards. "Why have you chained my son?" he asked, voice neutral – unreadable.

"We were going to punish him according to our law," said one of the guards. "The King had us bring him to you so that you could offer your opinion."

At the word "punish," Loki's head whipped around to the guard speaking. He hadn't been expecting that. "I'm sorry?" he asked, stunned.

Odin considered for a moment before asking the spokes-guard about the nature of the punishment. In response, a malicious fire rose in the guard's eyes, and he reached into a pouch at his hip, drawing out a long, shimmering golden thread. "To close his mouth, Allfather," the guard said with sinister simplicity.

"What?" Loki stammered. "How do you intend to –"

"Very literally, Your Highness," snarled the other guard into Loki's ear.

Loki blinked for a second before he appealed to the throne. "Father, you can't be serious."

Odin only looked at his son.

"Alright," Loki tried again, "I know I do not always speak the truth. I admit that. But I never do so out of mal intent. You know I never mean to hurt anybody."

"Still, you must learn," Odin muttered. "Kneel."

Loki looked helplessly around him for anybody; for a second, Sif contemplated rushing out and stopping them. But, in that second, the dwarves had magicked Loki to his knees. "Father, please!" Loki begged. "I have learned. I promise. Just – please, don't do this."

Sif's breath caught in her throat when the dwarvish guard pulled more of the golden thread from the pouch, poking it through the eye of a thick, blunt needle.

"Proceed," Odin said to the guards.

"No! Father, please!" But the other guard had already moved behind him, holding his head in place and clamping his jaw shut.

Sif had never seen such acute fear in her friend's eyes before. Such hurt. He stared up at Odin, a thousand pleas in his eyes. Still, Odin did nothing.

When the needle made its first pass behind his lips, he jerked away, a small rivulet of blood trickling from the newly opened hole in his skin. The dwarves wrenched his head back into place and drew the thread down, poking the needle out through his bottom lip and pulling it tight.

Loki's eyes were clenched shut, and the rest of his body was rigid.

The dwarves made another stitch, this time in front of his lips; Loki shivered.

The work was slow, and Sif wanted to look away. Something sadistic within her forced her to watch, though, as Loki wrenched his head away from them like an abused animal. She had to press her hand over her mouth to keep from crying out.

The dwarves were nearing the apex of his lips now, and Loki's chin was streaked with blood that dripped to the floor like red tears. When the needle stabbed this time, the skin was thicker; he sucked in a tight breath through his nose, shaking from the pain. He was breathing hard, yanking his face this way and that with every sighting of the needle.

He bowed his head, and, before the dwarves could jerk it upright once more, she saw him spit out a mouthful of blood. They had barely made the next stitch when he tried to pull away again, blood seeping out the corner of his mouth. They didn't let him, though, instead holding his head in place and thrusting his chin upward. He fought the blood at first, sputtering and choking on it in an effort to avoid swallowing. He tried to cough it up, but the dwarves wouldn't give his head enough freedom to do it. Sif could see the conflict in his eyes – the agony – as he tried to breathe around his own blood for a second longer. She bit her knuckles until she too could taste blood and he swallowed.

She felt something cool and wet slip onto her cheek.

Before the dwarf guards pulled him around again, taking up the needle that spun in midair, suspended on the golden thread binding his lips closed, Loki looked right at her.

Sif gasped, backing further into the shadows and praying that he hadn't just seen her. Looking at her and seeing her were two different things, she tried to persuade herself. But a small voice in the back of her mind kept insisting, Not with him. He saw. In that instant in time, she knew he had seen her – all of the pain and horror plastered all over her face. The fear for him. The shame.

She was still thinking about it when the guards commenced their sewing. He convulsed with each stab of the needle, trembling on his knees, absolutely silent.

Sif watched them finish. Then, with a knot and a clip of scissors – Loki shied away from these, too – the dwarves were bowing their leave to Odin. Before they left, one of them produced a miniscule key from the same pouch that had contained the golden thread, unlocking the manacles on Loki's wrists with a dull clank. She watched Loki's hands – those elegant hands that cast magic and threw knives and danced with enthusiasm when he told stories – as the dwarf removed the chains; they were dead. Tears were cutting rivulets through Sif's cheeks, stinging as she sunk to the ground and leaned against the pillar for support that her muscles just would not give.

Once the door had swung shut behind the dwarves, Odin descended slowly from his throne, approaching Loki's huddled form. He placed a fatherly hand on Loki's head, brushing back the dark hair. Loki did not acknowledge it. "Let this be a lesson to you, my son," he said. "You must think before you speak."

If Loki had heard him, he didn't show it. With a sigh, Odin too left the room, his footfalls echoing in the massive chamber with the weight of what had just happened.

The air was thick when she finally crawled out from her hiding place.

He hadn't moved.

His legs were folded underneath him, his strong, proud back slumped in defeat. He hung his head and several loose strands of hair slipped from behind his ear, obscuring his face. She could hardly even see him breathing.

Clumsily, she scrambled to her feet, crossing the distance between them and kneeling at his side. From that vantage point, she could see the blood that dripped from his lips much more clearly. The floor was dotted all over with red in a macabre mosaic, Loki at the center. He did not look at her.

She sniffed back her tears, hands reaching out to touch him. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, throat thick. "I'm so sorry."

Very slowly, he laid a hand on top of one of hers. She could feel how it still shivered with torment, fluttering subtly like a butterfly with holes torn through its wings. Then, he turned to her.

The sight of his face could have stopped her heart.

Bloody. Everything around his mouth was slick with red, be it from swelling or from the bleeding. It streaked in thin lines down his neck, matting the ends of his hair in places. Blood had even found its way up onto his cheeks. Through all this shone the remorseless golden thread, lashing his lips closed in a jagged line of stitches. His face was pale, but his eyes were the most ghastly part of him. They screamed of betrayal. Abandonment. Hurt.

Why did you not speak, Sif?

She reached up to scrub away her tears, and he watched her. "I'm so sorry," she said again and again, begging him to forgive her. When he didn't respond, it struck her hollowly that it was not because he had nothing to say. It was because he couldn't.

Without thinking, she threw herself into him, nearly knocking him over. She held him close, comforting him, offering him an apology with more than just words. Words were meaningless now. After a long moment, his hands ghosted to her back, and he drew himself closer, laying his head on her breast and finally letting the tears come.

She had his blood on her shirt; she could feel it soaking through to her skin, mingling with his tears as his body shook, this time with sobbing. She simply held him, her own tears falling into his hair; she pressed a kiss into the top of his head, and she felt his fingers fist themselves in the fabric of her shirt. "I'm so sorry," she murmured once more, though not in apology any longer. "Loki, I am so sorry."

He just clung to her as if she was the only thing holding him still in a fast-spinning world. She let him, gently stroking his hair and waiting for her own tears to stop.

A/N: Another point in which mythology has found its way into my story! Again, I reinterpreted it, though Loki's mouth was sewn shut in the legends.