Characters/Pairings: Sif, Loki/Sif implied
Warnings: Major Character Death
Notes: I asked for a prompt and was given: Sif finding out Loki was dead. Using the movie as your emotion pool. I don’t know how well I stuck with using the movie as my emotional pool, but this is what I came up with. (Also, second time I am writing Sif POV, let me know how it works? I’m still finding my way with her voice).
Summary: She hadn’t believed Thor’s news when the messenger arrived.
She hadn’t believed Thor’s news when the messenger arrived. Loki had been slain in battle, the missive read. He was asking she and the Warriors Three to act as bearers for his brother’s body. She did not doubt that there had been a battle — one most likely of Loki’s own design — and that he had created some illusion or spell to make his brother believe him dead.
Loki always had a plan — and any number of counter plans and strategies — and she had never seen one of his plans honestly fail so completely. Still, she made sure that she and the others were waiting at the edge of the bifrost for Thor’s return.
There was a sense of relief welling in her heart, though. No matter Loki’s plans, he would be returned to Asgard and she would not let him run off a second time.
He was a mischief-maker.
It wasn’t until they were part way through the city that Sif realized she couldn’t feel the spell. At first she thought it was the residual feel of the bifrost echoing off her flesh that kept her from feeling it. But as they progressed towards the palace — leaving the bifrost behind them — she still couldn’t feel any sense of Loki’s magic stepping along her skin.
She was familiar enough with Loki’s magic to know it by sense alone. Sif had often partnered with Loki in the training sands because he presented more of a challenge. It had come to a point that she knew when he had called on his magic before he had even cast his spell.
As they made their way through the city — peasants and merchants lining the streets — Sif wondered if she had forgotten the feel of it when they drifted apart. She wondered if she could truly have forgotten the way Loki’s magic would dance and prickly along her skin like soft spring grass on her naked flesh when he called it to his hand, how it would settle like a gentle snowfall when he placed a charm or spell on her, or the way it broke against her when he would lash out, his magic rising like a tide.
She felt none of this. But then again, Loki knew who he would need to keep the nature of his falsehood from.
He was a cheat.
He was presented to the Allfather and the Queen. His shroud wrapped body laid neatly on its litter before the throne.
Thor knelt — Sif and the Warriors Three following suit — and began to recount the tale of Loki’s last battle for his parents and the inner court. Sif listened intently to the story as Thor told it. How Loki had fought bravely, with great prowess and cunning, how he had shown courage and strength. How Loki had defeated some creature called Doom with the metal face.
She listened to the Allfather say the public words of grieving. Listened to him say that Loki, Odinson, Second Son and Second Prince, Once King, First of his name, had died with honour and valour; that his crimes would be put to rest with his death.
Sif had to fight back a smile. Perhaps that had been Loki’s plan. To have his crimes forgiven with his death, and then return. They had spoken of it but once — how they could cast a spell to make all believe them dead and shed their names and their pasts and begin anew somewhere else. It had been wild talk, both drunk on strong mead.
Sif offered to stand the last night of vigil.
He was a trickster.
She had waited all the night for Loki to rise from his spell-cast death. The spell should have broken sometime in the small hours of the morning. She had even prepared for it, ready to land the punch on his nose that would stop him from completing the spell that would allow him to slip away unnoticed. She had never understood how a blow to the nose disrupted his casting when nothing else did.
She was never given the chance to ask.
The dawn came clean and clear. The others arrived with Thor to take Loki’s body to the water’s edge where his funeral pyre waited. Sif remained close, taking her place at Loki’s left shoulder, and followed Thor who followed the Allfather and the Queen. It was another procession through the city — peasants and merchants lining the streets, children following the wake of the procession. Even through her panic, Sif wondered what Loki would think of the children coming to his funeral.
But they were fast approaching the water’s edge and Sif’s concern was growing steadily in her breast. Loki’s spell had yet to break as they travelled through the city. Surely he wouldn’t wait until he was on his pyre before he shrugged off his illusion of being dead? He could be careless and reckless some of the time, but to risk himself for a bit of theatrics? Even Loki’s chaotic tendencies would be overrode by his instincts for survival.
He was a liar.
They lit his funeral pyre, the fire catching the dry wood and kindling readily.
Sif watched, wide-eyed and terrified, as the small fire began to blaze. The spell had yet to release him when Loki’s shroud caught.
And then there was a terrible, broken sound. A sound Sif supposed someone would make if they were being burnt alive, or if their very heart and soul had been torn from their bodies. It was a mix between a scream and a sob, and she couldn’t understand why no one was rushing forward to help him.
It wasn’t until she felt Thor’s arms come around her, pulling her up short as she stepped forward, that she realized. Those horrible sounds were coming from her. There was no movement or sound from the funeral pyre except for the flames.
Loki was gone, truly dead.
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