Fic: The Pain of Memory (MCU, What If)
Oct. 10th, 2021 02:27 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bookishwenchA companion piece to "The Scent of Lavender" from Sif's point of view
Heimdall never lied. As Sif stood at the base of the throne, her knuckles white from clenching her sword’s hilt, she never moved while Heimdall spoke, but her mind raced. Thor could not be dead. After all the battles and adventures he had survived, for him to be killed alone on a planet light years away was ludicrous. Her eyes searched her brother’s face, hoping this was an attempt to unseat Loki from the throne, but no. Heimdall was in earnest. Either he had been tricked or Thor was truly dead.
Loki raged at him, accusing him of lying, and she barely restrained herself from grimacing at the thick irony of the prince of deceit accusing her brother of not telling the truth. A horrible possibility slithered into her mind. Could Loki’s outrage be an act? Had he planned Thor’s assassination? The thought sickened her, but it refused to be dismissed.
“I will not have Mother told of this.”
The words drew her attention, cutting through her silent accusation. While his mercy for Thor was questionable, the one thing Sif was certain of was Loki’s love for Frigga. He would never want her to experience the grief Thor’s death would bring her. No, if Thor was dead, it was not through Loki’s machinations for that reason alone.
“Is that an order, your majesty?” Heimdall said.
Your majesty. With Odin unconscious and Thor dead, Loki was now king, even without a coronation. He had wanted that for so long, and now, moving her eyes to take in his shocked face, she knew he took no joy in it. Even with all the hatred and intrigues and jealousy, his most cherished dream had become a horrible nightmare. The smallest ember of pity for him burned in a deserted chamber of her heart, one that had once been warm and soft and his alone. But that had been centuries ago.
Loki ordered Heimdall to leave, and her brother exchanged a swift glance with her while Loki was distracted in his own thoughts. The look told her enough. No hope was in it. Seeing him walk into the throne room had been proof enough of the seriousness of what he would say even before his mouth opened. Now, as sorrow was revealed in the golden gaze he shared with her, she felt her breath leave in a silent gasp. She saw him turn and leave, but nothing felt real anymore.
“It can’t be,” Loki mumbled to himself. “It’s not possible.
It was not her place to speak, but the words left her mouth without her permission: “I have never known my brother to lie.”
Loki’s head jolted towards her as though he had forgotten he was not alone. He stared at her for a moment as though he didn’t know her, then cruelty stained his features.
“There is a first time for everything. I warn you, Lady Sif, if your brother had fabricated this, the penalty will be great,” he said in a tone that would normally make her blood run either cold with dread or hot with fury at the insult to her brother.
Instead, she only nodded, knowing whatever torture Loki intended would never come to pass. He was scrabbling to cling to any possibility but the unthinkable one, and his panic was making him dangerous.
“I will not believe this until I have seen it for myself,” he said, getting to his feet. “I am going to Midgard.”
“Shall I send word to Heimdall to prepare the Bifrost?” she asked.
“No. No, if he is lying, I will not trust him to bring me there,” he said. “Other options exist, as I am sure you remember.”
She did. He had taken her places long ago, places beyond imagination, overwhelming in their beauty and power, worlds she had never dreamed could exist. She had felt perhaps even the Aesir themselves were not meant to see such glories, that they could unhinge her mind and leave her forever whirling in the empty places between the stars, but Loki had relished them dearly, had given the sight of them to her as a rare gift, and the gesture of treading the path of the universe together had been somehow tender. Now, the memory felt dark and cold. She hated remembering that time, but if he went to Midgard found what she knew was waiting for him, she did not want him alone. She would not want that for anyone.
She steadied herself before responding, “I do. My king, I would ask permission to accompany you.”
He looked surprised, almost suspicious.
“Why?”
Because, she thought, you should not be companionless in this battle, whatever I have wished upon you.
“Your safety is my sworn duty,” she said. “If anything has happened to your brother, some enemy may also attack you.”
He hesitated, his face inscrutable.
“Fine. Follow me.”
He walked towards a mirror in the room, and she followed. His eyes were locked on the glass, never once moving in any other direction, but without warning she felt the sizzling sensation on her skin that meant magic. Instinctively drawing back, she realized her armor had changed into a nondescript grey tunic and leggings. The intimacy of his magic changing her clothes bordered on a sense of violation, and in normal circumstances, she would have attacked him, magic or not.
“Your armor prevents stealth. If there is any danger, it will turn back. Otherwise, remain silent,” he said by way of explanation.
It was a reason, she supposed, and valid enough. She held her tongue and wished for the comfort of protection on her skin. He cast the spell quickly and grabbed her elbow, propelling her through the glass and into nothingness. She bit the inside of her mouth until it bled, willing the journey to be over soon.
Abruptly, they were alone in a nondescript room with three tables and the stench of death. She scanned the room, raising her sword, half expecting an attack. Three dead bodies were here, not one. Whoever did this could well want more blood spilled, and she had sworn an oath to protect her king, one she did not intend to break.
He removed one sheet, and beneath it lay a stranger. A tiny hope curled in her heart. Perhaps her brother had been fooled after all. She kept her distance, remaining near the door, sword ready, waiting.
Hope died when the next sheet was raised.
Loki spoke his brother’s name, but his voice was wrong. The quaver in it reminded her of how he had sounded as a child, still innocent, still vulnerable to the thousand slights and stabs the world heaped on him, still capable of love.
“Thor? Brother?”
Her own heart dropped as she came closer. It was Thor. There was no doubt. Her heart lurched inside her as her shield brother, her friend, her ally became a memory. Once, she had wondered if she could love him, with his booming laugh and bravado, his handsome smile and nearly arrogant confidence. Eventually, she realized she did love him, but she was never in love with him. The distinction was clear, but her heart broke for the death of her comrade and friend. The world would forever be colder without his light in it.
“This isn’t possible,” Loki said, the command for silence broken as he touched his brother’s shoulder and drew back in shock. “It is not possible.”
Sif looked closer and saw the wound.
“It struck him in the heart,” she said, remembering her brother’s testimony of an arrow. “I have seen this kind of mark before. It is always fatal.”
Loki gripped his head, and she worried he might slip into madness as he shook, slowly collapsing, the word “no” on his lips over and over. She turned from the sight, not knowing what to do.
A sudden thought occurred to her, and she strode to the third table, ripping the sheet from the remaining form. The man was unknown as well, but he was still armed.
“This one has a bow,” she said, realizing the connection, and Loki looked up, the shadows in his eyes clearing the tiniest bit.
“A bow?”
Disappointment laced the words. There would be no confrontation, no paying for royal blood. He had been robbed of that consolation unless, or course, he chose to make the innocent pay the debt. She knew that was possible. She had no illusions about his morality, particularly if someone important to him had been harmed. The assassin had not only killed his brother but also devastated his mother. Planets might burn.
“We need to leave,” she said, realizing it was only a matter of time before someone arrived.
He nodded, but remained staring at Thor’s face. She looked as well, not able to comprehend that his hearty laugh had been silenced forever, that his smile would never again greet those around him like welcome sunshine after winter. Sif saw Loki raise his hand, and a thin green mist wrapped Thor. The scent of flowers filled the room, replacing the obscene scent of decay.
“Thor’s favorite,” he said, and she was surprised he was speaking to her at all. “Ever since we were children. The soap mother used to bathe us, it was scented in lavender. To help us sleep, she said. Sleep with good dreams. I would have him sleep well.”
What was left of her heart shattered. For that moment, he was no longer the aloof, destructive liar whom she regarded with earned distrust. He was a friend mourning a brother, his words were laced with regret. She considered for a moment, then placed her hand gently on his arm, the first time she had touched him willingly since his betrayal of her more than a century before.
“Loki, we must go,” she said, knowing that as he was now undoubtedly king, she was breaking protocol, but she spoke not to her liege but to a hurt and grieving man. “Please.”
She felt her elbow gripped again, this time less harshly, as he led her back towards the mirror where they had entered. The journey was but a moment or two of chaos, and they were home again almost too quickly.
“I have to tell Mother,” he said, the words sounding strangely childlike.
A moment later he collapsed and was sprawled across the carpet, retching violently. For one wild moment she wondered if somehow he had been poisoned on Midgard, if he too would die, and she knelt at his side, her hand on his back, assuring herself he was still alive, only sick with grief. The shuddering of his body was so violent that it seemed he would crack apart.
“This was not what I intended,” he said, his stomach empty, his skin a clammy white. “He was not ready to be king. Father was in grave error on that point, and I would not have seen Asgard falter under Thor’s reign. I wanted him only to be stopped.”
He was trying to convince himself. Sif knew that Odin had made a terrible mistake, and as much as she loved Thor in her own way, she knew his faults. Thor’s reaction to the Jotun incursion was the act of someone not ready for the responsibility of the crown. Even so, her hand moved away.
“I admit I wanted the throne, yes, but not like this. Never this. Had I foreseen even the possibility, I would never . . .”
But what had he planned, then? Loki was never without a plan. He was clever beyond even the Allfather, and coldly merciless against his enemies.
“I did not kill my brother!” he shouted, the sound like a wounded animal’s.
He turned to look at her, his eyes searching for absolution, from her, from Thor, from his father, from anyone. She would be willing to gamble her soul itself that he was telling the truth. Whatever had been his goal, it was not Thor’s death.
“I did not.”
The words were said so quietly they were almost a whisper. Sif’s grief over her friend was still too near for her to understand fully, too raw, but she would give him what little comfort she had.
“I do believe you,” she said, her eyes filling with tears for Thor’s death, for Loki’s guilt-ridden conscience, for missed chances and betrayals and angry words and love that had never been enough. “Whatever was between you, I do not believe you intended to murder your own brother.”
The expression on his face showed no comfort from her words, but he slowly rose to his feet. The transformation from man to king happened in the straightening of his back, the settling of his shoulders. He was in control again, though she suspected the veneer was as thin as a moth’s wing over the tempest of grief beneath. Abruptly, she was clad once more in metal, cold and unyielding. The weight of it was familiar, but it felt strange against her skin. He had put it there, like so many barriers, by this own choice, and she felt safer within it but more alone.
“Please apologize to your brother for my accusations against his honesty, but I do wish this once he had been a liar,” he said.
An apology from Loki was a rare thing, an honest one rarer still.
“I wish that, too. I will tell him,” she said. Though she realized Heimdall had already seen the outcome of their journey, but she still moved to fulfill the king’s command.
“Wait,” he said, and she turned at once, obedient. “I will be going to Midgard with a contingent of Einherjar to seek vengeance for Thor’s death. Have the Casket of Ancient Winters readied.”
It was his right. The warriors would want someone to answer for the death of the first prince, and though Loki was not beloved by many of them, this was a command they would follow most willingly. Though she knew the bowman was dead, she could not deny she, too, wished for retribution.
“It shall be done, my king,” she swore.
“Sif,” he added, and somehow her name on his lips felt oddly intimate as he took a step forward. “When I appear before these mortals, I would have you at my right hand.”
The request was unexpected. There were hundreds from which he could have chosen, many far more intimidating in appearance and stature. It was a show of trust, one she had never expected from Loki. He was a puzzle, one with pieces that were lost long ago, and the image he was meant to form was forever beyond her comprehension. He looked at her as though asking for her agreement, not quite commanding her, allowing her to agree.
“Yes, my king,” she said.
She bowed, and when he said nothing more, she left.
Her steps took her quickly to the head of a troop of Einherjar who was stationed outside the throne room. She sent him to the barracks to have the warriors arm themselves and prepare for travel by the Bifrost. Sif herself took the Casket of Ancient Winters from its resting place in Odin’s treasure room, carrying it respectfully but swiftly to where her brother stood. She arrived before the warriors assembled, allowing her a moment alone with him.
“Heimdall, the pri . . . the king apologizes for his words to you earlier,” Sif said.
He nodded, but said nothing, his gaze looking towards the palace.
“They weep for him,” he said to her, and a shadow of sadness crossed his face. “I fear the combination of grief and rage in the new king makes him apt to commit violence when it may not be necessary.”
“Thor is dead,” Sif said coldly. “Violence has already started.”
“And it should end,” Heimdall said, his eyes focusing on her. “Counsel him against it, sister, if you would save the life of the queen’s remaining son.”
Sif felt cold at Heimdall’s prophecy, wondering if he had truly foreseen the outcome. She nodded in agreement. She would protect her king.
The warriors arrived, crowding under the golden dome, and then Loki appeared in a shimmer of green on her left. He regarded the casket carefully for a moment, then took it from her. For a moment, she thought she saw his eyes shine red, but it must have been a trick of the light for the next instant they were green again. She heard him take a deep breath.
“Einherjar!” he called out. “We go to avenge my brother! Has he your hearts still, even in death?”
The battle cries were deafening, her own among them, pure rage turned into sound. When silence fell again, Loki nodded to Heimdall, and the Bifrost opened. Loki stared straight ahead, his face emotionless, but then, Sif reminded himself, he had always been gifted in concealing the truth.
Heimdall never lied. As Sif stood at the base of the throne, her knuckles white from clenching her sword’s hilt, she never moved while Heimdall spoke, but her mind raced. Thor could not be dead. After all the battles and adventures he had survived, for him to be killed alone on a planet light years away was ludicrous. Her eyes searched her brother’s face, hoping this was an attempt to unseat Loki from the throne, but no. Heimdall was in earnest. Either he had been tricked or Thor was truly dead.
Loki raged at him, accusing him of lying, and she barely restrained herself from grimacing at the thick irony of the prince of deceit accusing her brother of not telling the truth. A horrible possibility slithered into her mind. Could Loki’s outrage be an act? Had he planned Thor’s assassination? The thought sickened her, but it refused to be dismissed.
“I will not have Mother told of this.”
The words drew her attention, cutting through her silent accusation. While his mercy for Thor was questionable, the one thing Sif was certain of was Loki’s love for Frigga. He would never want her to experience the grief Thor’s death would bring her. No, if Thor was dead, it was not through Loki’s machinations for that reason alone.
“Is that an order, your majesty?” Heimdall said.
Your majesty. With Odin unconscious and Thor dead, Loki was now king, even without a coronation. He had wanted that for so long, and now, moving her eyes to take in his shocked face, she knew he took no joy in it. Even with all the hatred and intrigues and jealousy, his most cherished dream had become a horrible nightmare. The smallest ember of pity for him burned in a deserted chamber of her heart, one that had once been warm and soft and his alone. But that had been centuries ago.
Loki ordered Heimdall to leave, and her brother exchanged a swift glance with her while Loki was distracted in his own thoughts. The look told her enough. No hope was in it. Seeing him walk into the throne room had been proof enough of the seriousness of what he would say even before his mouth opened. Now, as sorrow was revealed in the golden gaze he shared with her, she felt her breath leave in a silent gasp. She saw him turn and leave, but nothing felt real anymore.
“It can’t be,” Loki mumbled to himself. “It’s not possible.
It was not her place to speak, but the words left her mouth without her permission: “I have never known my brother to lie.”
Loki’s head jolted towards her as though he had forgotten he was not alone. He stared at her for a moment as though he didn’t know her, then cruelty stained his features.
“There is a first time for everything. I warn you, Lady Sif, if your brother had fabricated this, the penalty will be great,” he said in a tone that would normally make her blood run either cold with dread or hot with fury at the insult to her brother.
Instead, she only nodded, knowing whatever torture Loki intended would never come to pass. He was scrabbling to cling to any possibility but the unthinkable one, and his panic was making him dangerous.
“I will not believe this until I have seen it for myself,” he said, getting to his feet. “I am going to Midgard.”
“Shall I send word to Heimdall to prepare the Bifrost?” she asked.
“No. No, if he is lying, I will not trust him to bring me there,” he said. “Other options exist, as I am sure you remember.”
She did. He had taken her places long ago, places beyond imagination, overwhelming in their beauty and power, worlds she had never dreamed could exist. She had felt perhaps even the Aesir themselves were not meant to see such glories, that they could unhinge her mind and leave her forever whirling in the empty places between the stars, but Loki had relished them dearly, had given the sight of them to her as a rare gift, and the gesture of treading the path of the universe together had been somehow tender. Now, the memory felt dark and cold. She hated remembering that time, but if he went to Midgard found what she knew was waiting for him, she did not want him alone. She would not want that for anyone.
She steadied herself before responding, “I do. My king, I would ask permission to accompany you.”
He looked surprised, almost suspicious.
“Why?”
Because, she thought, you should not be companionless in this battle, whatever I have wished upon you.
“Your safety is my sworn duty,” she said. “If anything has happened to your brother, some enemy may also attack you.”
He hesitated, his face inscrutable.
“Fine. Follow me.”
He walked towards a mirror in the room, and she followed. His eyes were locked on the glass, never once moving in any other direction, but without warning she felt the sizzling sensation on her skin that meant magic. Instinctively drawing back, she realized her armor had changed into a nondescript grey tunic and leggings. The intimacy of his magic changing her clothes bordered on a sense of violation, and in normal circumstances, she would have attacked him, magic or not.
“Your armor prevents stealth. If there is any danger, it will turn back. Otherwise, remain silent,” he said by way of explanation.
It was a reason, she supposed, and valid enough. She held her tongue and wished for the comfort of protection on her skin. He cast the spell quickly and grabbed her elbow, propelling her through the glass and into nothingness. She bit the inside of her mouth until it bled, willing the journey to be over soon.
Abruptly, they were alone in a nondescript room with three tables and the stench of death. She scanned the room, raising her sword, half expecting an attack. Three dead bodies were here, not one. Whoever did this could well want more blood spilled, and she had sworn an oath to protect her king, one she did not intend to break.
He removed one sheet, and beneath it lay a stranger. A tiny hope curled in her heart. Perhaps her brother had been fooled after all. She kept her distance, remaining near the door, sword ready, waiting.
Hope died when the next sheet was raised.
Loki spoke his brother’s name, but his voice was wrong. The quaver in it reminded her of how he had sounded as a child, still innocent, still vulnerable to the thousand slights and stabs the world heaped on him, still capable of love.
“Thor? Brother?”
Her own heart dropped as she came closer. It was Thor. There was no doubt. Her heart lurched inside her as her shield brother, her friend, her ally became a memory. Once, she had wondered if she could love him, with his booming laugh and bravado, his handsome smile and nearly arrogant confidence. Eventually, she realized she did love him, but she was never in love with him. The distinction was clear, but her heart broke for the death of her comrade and friend. The world would forever be colder without his light in it.
“This isn’t possible,” Loki said, the command for silence broken as he touched his brother’s shoulder and drew back in shock. “It is not possible.”
Sif looked closer and saw the wound.
“It struck him in the heart,” she said, remembering her brother’s testimony of an arrow. “I have seen this kind of mark before. It is always fatal.”
Loki gripped his head, and she worried he might slip into madness as he shook, slowly collapsing, the word “no” on his lips over and over. She turned from the sight, not knowing what to do.
A sudden thought occurred to her, and she strode to the third table, ripping the sheet from the remaining form. The man was unknown as well, but he was still armed.
“This one has a bow,” she said, realizing the connection, and Loki looked up, the shadows in his eyes clearing the tiniest bit.
“A bow?”
Disappointment laced the words. There would be no confrontation, no paying for royal blood. He had been robbed of that consolation unless, or course, he chose to make the innocent pay the debt. She knew that was possible. She had no illusions about his morality, particularly if someone important to him had been harmed. The assassin had not only killed his brother but also devastated his mother. Planets might burn.
“We need to leave,” she said, realizing it was only a matter of time before someone arrived.
He nodded, but remained staring at Thor’s face. She looked as well, not able to comprehend that his hearty laugh had been silenced forever, that his smile would never again greet those around him like welcome sunshine after winter. Sif saw Loki raise his hand, and a thin green mist wrapped Thor. The scent of flowers filled the room, replacing the obscene scent of decay.
“Thor’s favorite,” he said, and she was surprised he was speaking to her at all. “Ever since we were children. The soap mother used to bathe us, it was scented in lavender. To help us sleep, she said. Sleep with good dreams. I would have him sleep well.”
What was left of her heart shattered. For that moment, he was no longer the aloof, destructive liar whom she regarded with earned distrust. He was a friend mourning a brother, his words were laced with regret. She considered for a moment, then placed her hand gently on his arm, the first time she had touched him willingly since his betrayal of her more than a century before.
“Loki, we must go,” she said, knowing that as he was now undoubtedly king, she was breaking protocol, but she spoke not to her liege but to a hurt and grieving man. “Please.”
She felt her elbow gripped again, this time less harshly, as he led her back towards the mirror where they had entered. The journey was but a moment or two of chaos, and they were home again almost too quickly.
“I have to tell Mother,” he said, the words sounding strangely childlike.
A moment later he collapsed and was sprawled across the carpet, retching violently. For one wild moment she wondered if somehow he had been poisoned on Midgard, if he too would die, and she knelt at his side, her hand on his back, assuring herself he was still alive, only sick with grief. The shuddering of his body was so violent that it seemed he would crack apart.
“This was not what I intended,” he said, his stomach empty, his skin a clammy white. “He was not ready to be king. Father was in grave error on that point, and I would not have seen Asgard falter under Thor’s reign. I wanted him only to be stopped.”
He was trying to convince himself. Sif knew that Odin had made a terrible mistake, and as much as she loved Thor in her own way, she knew his faults. Thor’s reaction to the Jotun incursion was the act of someone not ready for the responsibility of the crown. Even so, her hand moved away.
“I admit I wanted the throne, yes, but not like this. Never this. Had I foreseen even the possibility, I would never . . .”
But what had he planned, then? Loki was never without a plan. He was clever beyond even the Allfather, and coldly merciless against his enemies.
“I did not kill my brother!” he shouted, the sound like a wounded animal’s.
He turned to look at her, his eyes searching for absolution, from her, from Thor, from his father, from anyone. She would be willing to gamble her soul itself that he was telling the truth. Whatever had been his goal, it was not Thor’s death.
“I did not.”
The words were said so quietly they were almost a whisper. Sif’s grief over her friend was still too near for her to understand fully, too raw, but she would give him what little comfort she had.
“I do believe you,” she said, her eyes filling with tears for Thor’s death, for Loki’s guilt-ridden conscience, for missed chances and betrayals and angry words and love that had never been enough. “Whatever was between you, I do not believe you intended to murder your own brother.”
The expression on his face showed no comfort from her words, but he slowly rose to his feet. The transformation from man to king happened in the straightening of his back, the settling of his shoulders. He was in control again, though she suspected the veneer was as thin as a moth’s wing over the tempest of grief beneath. Abruptly, she was clad once more in metal, cold and unyielding. The weight of it was familiar, but it felt strange against her skin. He had put it there, like so many barriers, by this own choice, and she felt safer within it but more alone.
“Please apologize to your brother for my accusations against his honesty, but I do wish this once he had been a liar,” he said.
An apology from Loki was a rare thing, an honest one rarer still.
“I wish that, too. I will tell him,” she said. Though she realized Heimdall had already seen the outcome of their journey, but she still moved to fulfill the king’s command.
“Wait,” he said, and she turned at once, obedient. “I will be going to Midgard with a contingent of Einherjar to seek vengeance for Thor’s death. Have the Casket of Ancient Winters readied.”
It was his right. The warriors would want someone to answer for the death of the first prince, and though Loki was not beloved by many of them, this was a command they would follow most willingly. Though she knew the bowman was dead, she could not deny she, too, wished for retribution.
“It shall be done, my king,” she swore.
“Sif,” he added, and somehow her name on his lips felt oddly intimate as he took a step forward. “When I appear before these mortals, I would have you at my right hand.”
The request was unexpected. There were hundreds from which he could have chosen, many far more intimidating in appearance and stature. It was a show of trust, one she had never expected from Loki. He was a puzzle, one with pieces that were lost long ago, and the image he was meant to form was forever beyond her comprehension. He looked at her as though asking for her agreement, not quite commanding her, allowing her to agree.
“Yes, my king,” she said.
She bowed, and when he said nothing more, she left.
Her steps took her quickly to the head of a troop of Einherjar who was stationed outside the throne room. She sent him to the barracks to have the warriors arm themselves and prepare for travel by the Bifrost. Sif herself took the Casket of Ancient Winters from its resting place in Odin’s treasure room, carrying it respectfully but swiftly to where her brother stood. She arrived before the warriors assembled, allowing her a moment alone with him.
“Heimdall, the pri . . . the king apologizes for his words to you earlier,” Sif said.
He nodded, but said nothing, his gaze looking towards the palace.
“They weep for him,” he said to her, and a shadow of sadness crossed his face. “I fear the combination of grief and rage in the new king makes him apt to commit violence when it may not be necessary.”
“Thor is dead,” Sif said coldly. “Violence has already started.”
“And it should end,” Heimdall said, his eyes focusing on her. “Counsel him against it, sister, if you would save the life of the queen’s remaining son.”
Sif felt cold at Heimdall’s prophecy, wondering if he had truly foreseen the outcome. She nodded in agreement. She would protect her king.
The warriors arrived, crowding under the golden dome, and then Loki appeared in a shimmer of green on her left. He regarded the casket carefully for a moment, then took it from her. For a moment, she thought she saw his eyes shine red, but it must have been a trick of the light for the next instant they were green again. She heard him take a deep breath.
“Einherjar!” he called out. “We go to avenge my brother! Has he your hearts still, even in death?”
The battle cries were deafening, her own among them, pure rage turned into sound. When silence fell again, Loki nodded to Heimdall, and the Bifrost opened. Loki stared straight ahead, his face emotionless, but then, Sif reminded himself, he had always been gifted in concealing the truth.
