Chapter Text
All of Thor’s newly acquired self-control is put to the test as the Other pleads its case before Odin. It recites the long list of grievances (thievery, betrayal, attempted mass genocide-of the Chitauri, no less), its covered face meeting Odin’s eye despite its apparent blindness.
Odin himself remains stoic, as he has for the past hour or two while he waits the Other out, interjecting only a few times to repeat his refusal to release the prisoner to the Chitauri’s care, refuting the Other’s arguments with his own list of Loki’s misdeeds against Asgard as proof that he should be punished there.
To Thor it seems as if his father and the hateful creature are attempting to debate one another to death, though for what purpose the crown prince cannot fathom.
Nor does he wish to; his patience vanished three minutes into this pedantic mess.
The growing twilight seems to rouse Odin into action. Every muscle in Thor tenses in anticipation as the Allfather straightens on his throne and brings Gungnir down with a gentle but resounding boom.
“As it seems that we will not reach a compromise on this day, let the ambassador from the Chitauri find rest and refreshment in the guest wings of the palace. This discussion of terms will be resumed on the morrow.”
It took everything in Thor not to gape at his father or hurl Mjolnir at the Other, the foul scraping thing that acquiesced and was led away with (surprisingly) little fuss.
The moment the Other is out of earshot Thor turns to Odin.
“Father, what-“
“Thor, have you spoken to Sigyn today?”
“I-well, yes. But what does that-“
“I require her presence; I would speak to her on a matter concerning the orchard.”
“The orchard? What-“
“Now, Thor.”
Before Thor can protest or storm off- quite literally-the side door swings open and a prison guard bows low, panting slightly in the doorframe.
“Speak,” Odin barks before the guard can even move forward.
“The cell has been compromised,” he says. “There was…an attack. The prisoner is unharmed.”
“Where is he?”
“With Sigyn.”
“And where is Sigyn.”
“I…she was outside the cell, when I left…”
“Very well, return to your post and bring her here,” Odin interrupts swiftly. Skada bows and retreats. Thor watches his father’s eye go a little distant, a calculating expression he’d grown so accustomed to seeing on his little brother’s face drawing creases in the Allfather’s forehead. This look terrifies Thor more than he’d care to admit. For this reason he waits patiently for Odin to speak, holding his ire in check.
“Thor. My son. I must give you a task that you will find nearly impossible to accomplish.”
“What is it, Father?” Thor asks, nearly bouncing on the balls of his feet, his blood already singing for battle.
“Return to your chambers and have dinner with your mother.”
“Wh-what? Are you truly asking me to-“
“-do nothing. Yes. I am ordering you as your king to keep Frigga company until you are sent for.”
Through his red haze, Thor hears Jane’s voice, telling him to count to ten before he smashes the stove.
“I hope that I have not overestimated your love for your own son,” Thor bites out, surprised at his own vehemence toward his father. “I can see no wisdom in this action. I can see no wisdom in keeping me from Loki. I, who can protect him best.”
A flicker of what might have been sadness passes over the Allfather at Thor’s words. Just as quickly it is gone and a steel-eyed king remains.
“It is in Loki’s best interests that I do any of this. I do not ask you to understand or condone, but I do expect you to obey, Crown Prince.”
Lest he forcibly try to wrest Gungnir from Odin’s grip and de-throne his father, Thor whirls and strides away to fetch his mother. Perhaps madness runs in the family, Thor thinks darkly as he slams the side door behind him.
The Chitauri had moved too quickly. Far too quickly for Loki’s liking. The attack had followed too closely on the heels of his confrontation with Sigyn. Days, if that, Loki guessed: scant enough time to plant the seeds of curiosity in Sigyn’s mind, much less spur her to action.
Loki curses himself thrice over for losing focus. The whole exchange could have gone over with a more favorable outcome if only the Trickster hadn’t drawn Sigyn’s attention away from the effects of his shackles and onto his detestable second skin.
Now all Loki can do is observe and pray his machinations have taken root.
Now, Sigyn leads him into a labyrinth of catacombs that he knows will take them out from beneath the palace walls. The shackles weigh heavy on Loki’s atrophied arms and he must work to keep from stumbling in the near black of the tunnel, as the small fire in Sigyn’s palm provides only a pittance of light. Her hold over the flame seems to waver as they move. Loki cannot say with surety that the flame’s weakness is entirely the work of the shackles, either. He guesses that his sorcerer-cum-warrior guard is not accustomed to using her magic in a combat situation. A typical practice, of course, as magic is so repugnant to every Aesir, it seemed, but Loki is disappointed nonetheless.
At long last, they find a narrow set of stairs cut into the right hand wall, leading up to a trapdoor. Sigyn climbs the stairs with the length of Loki’s chains over one shoulder, heavy but manageable. Loki works to keep his balance and prides himself on only stumbling into Sigyn once.
They emerge in a tiny cellar, obviously rarely used, if the lack of foodstuffs and the thick layer of dust is any indication. The frantic thump of booted feet sounds overhead, punctuated by sharp commands. They are under a barracks, then, Loki guesses. Most likely Sigyn’s own company.
After sealing the entrance to the catacombs, Sigyn leads Loki to the foot of the cellar steps, then takes his arm and turns him sharply to face her.
“Do not move from this spot, or I will hunt you down and put a sword through you myself and tell the court it was in self-defense. Is that understood?”
When Loki refuses to answer, Sigyn grips his chin, forcing his blood red eyes to meet hers. Loki wonders why she doesn’t flinch at the sight of him. All he can see is steely determination in the hard lines of her face, all he could feel in the press of her fingers, hot on his Jotunn skin.
Loki gives a short nod and just as suddenly Sigyn withdraws, hurrying up the stairs and through the door.
Loki is no fool. His best chances are with Sigyn, but it doesn’t stop the sting of his pride at being forced to wait like a pet for its master. Especially with the temptation of escape so tantalizingly close. But he knows that true freedom must be bought with just a little more patience.
The Trickster lets his arms dangle with the weight of the chains and sinks to the ground to wait.
Sigyn rubs the fingers of her right hand together absently, urging warmth back into them after the icy bite of Loki’s skin.
Sigyn finds Theoric just outside the barracks, watching his company scramble for their weapons and armor, mouth set in a grim line. Sigyn pauses beside him.
“Captain.”
“Sigyn!” Theoric turns to her in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
She smiles wryly.
“What a question to ask a member of your own company. I need your aid,” she continues before Theoric can ask, “With a matter in need of some discretion.”
“What ever you need, you have it,” Theoric replied instantly. Sigyn feels some of the tension leave her shoulders.
“I thank you. Do not allow anyone near the cellar in our barracks. I will find you again at nightfall.”
“Sigyn,” Theoric calls and she pauses just before the barrack doors, looks back over her shoulder. “Do you know anything that may clarify this situation?” He waves a hand in the direction of the organized chaos of soldiers preparing for battle.
She shakes her head. “I know little more than you. Just….be ready for whatever may occur.”
“You as well,” Theoric replies gravely.
“The Chitauri have come,” Sigyn begins without preamble. Loki’s nails dig into his palms reflexively, not entirely a performance. He scowls at the floor as Sigyn explains the kidnapping attempt that forced her to move him. Loki’s eyes widen as she reveals that the Other had been attempting some farce at diplomacy with Odin, now revealed as a stalling tactic for the Chitauri assassins to find Loki.
As Sigyn explains the details Loki forces air into his lungs a few times until the boiling rage at the Allfather reduces again to a simmer.
Do you have use of me, now, Odin? Your relic is of some import at last?
At least Sigyn reacted as Loki had predicted, removing the magic-dry frost giant runt from immediate danger.
Though the barracks cellar bore a striking resemblance to his prison.
He assures himself that he is safe, he is protected and he is so close to freedom he can taste it in the dried blood on his tongue.
Sigyn finds Theoric on a grassy field near the training arena. Warriors mill about several small bonfires, roasting pounds of meat over the fires as blades are sharpened and cleaned. The sound of amiable chatter hums in the air, but beneath it is a hushed readiness. Every well-trained ear and eye is on alert.
Theoric offers her half a loaf of bread and Sigyn allows herself a few bites-she hasn’t eaten at all today, her stomach reminds her with a rumble-before drawing her commander a little ways from would-be prying ears.
“I have been ordered to oversee the guard of a prisoner in the palace,” Sigyn begins bluntly. “His identity must be kept secret, lest he be taken by interlopers from Asgard.”
A beat passes in which Theoric politely does not mention that everyone already knows the prisoner’s identity.
“Today would-be assassins located his cell, made an attempt on his life. My only option now is to remove him from prying eyes. It is a great risk, to you and our company to hide him away thus and I do not plan to stay long. With your leave, I would keep him under the barracks for a few days’ time, before I can move him safely elsewhere.”
“This…ambassador is one of his allies, then,” Theoric murmurs.
“Was an ally. It seems terms have soured since.”
“I see.”
They walk in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally Theoric says,
“You have my leave, with a condition. You are to inform me of your plans to move the prisoner when it is safe to do so. It is foolishness to have no eyes at one’s back, even if you are operating in secret.”
After a pause, Sigyn nods.
“As you wish, Captain.”
“All this secrecy and deception,” Theoric muses with a heavy exhale. “I’m finding it more tiresome by the minute.”
“You are not alone,” Sigyn says wryly.
Sigyn locks and barricades the cellar door with the remains of a wooden shelf. Loki watches her place a bag of what smelled of fresh meat and a water skin nearby. He considers uncurling himself and snatching the food but finds the lead in his limbs too cumbersome for the moment. The weakness disgusts him; he will be useless if he cannot regain a little strength and soon.
Sigyn goes to work on the length of chain, murmuring a simple spell of deterioration. The mundane metal slowly crumbles into fine dust until only the shackles around Loki’s wrists remain, pulling eagerly at Sigyn’s magic until sweat beads at her brow as she fights to complete the spell.
By the time she has finished, her breathing is labored and Loki knows that if she had any doubts about the shackles’ power to drain him dry, they are quelled now.
Sigyn walks to a cluster of dust-covered crates and settles on the one nearest the cellar steps. After a flicker of hesitation, Loki unfolds and walks the two paces over to sit across from her.
Sigyn says, “I need you to instruct me how to walk between Yggdrasil’s branches.”
Loki’s shocked “what?!” is muffled by the gag. Sigyn half-smiles, holds up a placating hand.
“Hear me out and don’t interrupt.”
Loki’s poisonous glare could melt the flesh from her face if he possessed an inkling of magic, Sigyn thinks.
“You need to disappear long enough for Asgard to prove that you are not present so that the Allfather can banish the Chitauri under lawful grounds of trespassing in the Realms. The Other would not risk an open war with Asgard. Unless of course, his master is not so weakened by the battle on Midgard?”
Loki schools his face into impassivity, unable to convince himself of either force’s superior power. Without the Tesseract Thanos is limited, cannot travel to the Nine Realms in less than several years’ time, by Loki’s estimate. Once the Mad Titan arrives, however…
Loki dearly hopes that he is able to bear witness to that conflict between Asgard and the Lover of Death. From a safe distance.
Sigyn’s lips thin as she considers Loki’s reaction.
“Either way we are leaving, and I require your assistance.”
He weighs the benefit of staying in Asgard, prompting the Other to lash out and Odin to retaliate, weakening the Chitauri forces further. It would be a heavy risk to take. Loki would have to gamble his life on the determination of his guards (considerable) and the conviction that the Allfather will not bargain his false son’s life in exchange for peace (unlikely). Loki wonders if, should Odin call for it, Sigyn would hand him over to the Other herself.
The thought is more disturbing than he cares to admit.
No, the better choice is and always has been away, away from Asgard and the Other. With more distance arises more opportunity for true freedom. Sigyn is clever enough to wish to hide him off of Asgard, (as Loki hoped she would decide to do.) He did not, however, consider that she would not take the Bifrost or some other (far more reliable) form of transportation.
It is a high price for secrecy, but deep in his bones Loki knows it is necessary if he has a chance to survive. That didn’t make the idea any less ridiculous.
Seemingly satisfied by his expression (his haughty glare must have fallen without his notice), Sigyn reaches around Loki’s head and lets the muzzle slip into her hands. Loki snatches the flask of water from the ground and drains half of it in one go, obscenely pleased to hold the damn thing himself to drink.
“You are asking to learn a technique so complex it takes years to master in the span of-what, a night?” Loki asks, dripping incredulity.
Sigyn shrugs.
“Perhaps three days, at most.”
Loki’s eyebrows are surely gracing his hairline. Sigyn drops the flippancy.
“I have studied Realm-walking before. I can sense the branches of Yggdrasil, and the gaps between, otherwise I would not bother to ask. We need not travel far, just enough so that the Allfather can claim truthfully that you are not in Asgard.”
Loki miscalculated. Sigyn is as mad as he is accused to be.
“Is this really the best plan you could formulate?”
“Yes.”
“Instead, you could-“
“No.”
Loki snarls.
“This is idiotic. It is more likely that we will both perish or fall into the void than find safe haven.”
“That is probably true,” Sigyn agrees and Loki has trouble resisting the urge to bash his head against the wall in an effort to find some sense in Sigyn’s plan. “But the alternative is unacceptable.” And that steely intensity creeps back into her voice.
“I will not risk the lives of Asgard’s soldiers, much less its citizens in open confrontation when I have the chance-however slim it may be-to prevent bloodshed. You will teach me, Loki, and we will either escape to relative safety or we will die between the branches. Asgard is spared with either outcome.”
A memory comes unbidden to Loki: in the labyrinth of rock and steel beneath Midgard, Barton deep in conversation with a group of hired mercenaries as he gestures to the Helicarrier plans on the table before them.
“Take out these security feeds first,” he’d said, “Or we’re royally fucked.”
Royally fucked.
Loki is well and truly tired of irony.
“Very well, Sigyn the Loyal,” he bites out, “Let us save Asgard with a blundering show of misplaced heroism. Thor will be so proud.”
That startles a laugh out of Sigyn and Loki feels a smile tug at his lips, despite everything.
Dumb luck (for Thor) brings Skada across the Crown Prince’s path on his way to his mother’s chambers.
“Missing?! Explain yourself!” Thor roars, crowding Skada into the wall. In a feat of incredible bravery Skada doesn’t tremble before the seething crown prince.
“When I returned, Sigyn and…and the prisoner were gone. I have no knowledge of their current whereabouts, and none have seen them.”
Count to ten, Thor, Jane’s soothing voice repeats over and over again. The Thunderer closes his eyes, counting slowly. Skada glances desperately up and down the corridor, but neither help nor potential witnesses to his demise arrive.
A heavy hand falls on Skada’s shoulder and he chokes on a fearful squeak.
“You will tell the Allfather what you have told me,” Thor rumbles quietly. “Come.”
Skada thanks every star in the cosmos and allows Thor to guide him toward the throne room.
“Can you see it? Its branches woven through space, time, through the heart of every Realm. It shines in the darkness of the Void, too bright to behold. Its energy calls to yours. Answer it, allow it to mesh with your seidr.”
Loki sees the moment that Sigyn connects. Sweat breaks out on her brow. She draws a ragged breath against the sudden enormity expanding in her chest, the feeling of indescribable power flowing through her like a conduit.
“Don’t fight it, open your channels.”
Sigyn grunts as more arcane energy than she has ever felt pours through her like a dam has broken, threatening to pull her under, into it, come loose from her physical body and disintegrate into pieces of the Yggdrasil.
“Open your eyes.”
Sigyn does. Instead of the cellar, she sees a burning silver branch stretched out into the universe, at least a quarter mile wide. It pulses and threatens to drag her to her knees as silver energy washes over her, covering her body in what appears at first glance to be stardust. It slowly begins to burn.
“Look around you. Count the branches you can see.”
Sigyn turns slowly, ignoring the growing pain to catalogue each twisting silver branch stretching for what seems eternity into the void. A shining sphere glimmers off of one branch nearby. Sigyn notes it to ask Loki and continues her slow revolution, until the brilliance suddenly becomes blinding in her peripheral vision.
She must have made a noise or said something because Loki’s voice is in her ear, low and urgent.
“Don’t look at the heart, you will burn to ash.”
Sigyn closes her eyes and makes to turn away, but the silver energy surrounding her begins to dig into her skin, taking tiny pieces of her until blood runs down her limbs, her chest, her back-
“Sigyn, listen to me!”
Two icy palms on her face snap her back into awareness. She tears away from the branch and it is like ripping hooks out of her flesh, but suddenly there is earth and the dank smell of old food and two hands framing her face that nearly burn like the branch, they are so cold.
Sigyn opens her eyes and Loki drops his hands as she doubles over, coughing wetly until she spits blood. It is everywhere, she realizes, seeping through her torn tunic and trousers.
“Tried to pull me apart,” she gasps, sinking to the floor. Loki follows, folding his legs underneath him.
“Yes, it tends to do that,” he says as if commenting on the weather. Sigyn snaps,
“That would have been pertinent to know!”
It is Loki’s turn to shrug, feign some casual indifference and Sigyn is almost sorry that she did that to him for weeks, it makes her blood boil so.
“I had no way to be sure until you stepped onto the branch.”
Sigyn bites back an incredulous reply in favor of hauling herself to her feet and hobbling over to the stash of healing elixirs in the darkest corner of the cellar, procured for just this kind of eventuality.
“Well now you are sure. Tell me how to avoid disintegrating on contact.”
Sigyn uncorks one vial and drains it. She closes her eyes as the potion spreads to her myriad of slashes, knitting up the skin as neatly as if it were never cut open. The elixir’s power circles furiously around her scar for a moment before it fades, unable to break the barrier Sigyn has placed around it.
“So cordial,” Loki drawls, “I don’t recall this acerbity around Eir.”
“Eir never sent me into a metaphysical plane to be flayed alive!”
“That wasn’t my intention and you know it!”
“Do I?”
They glare at each other, Sigyn’s fingers twitching like the muscle in Loki’s jaw. Finally, as if a light is doused, the tension seeps out of the room. Sigyn exhales sharply and begins to pace, ignoring the lingering soreness of her skin.
Loki runs a hand through his hair, grimacing at its oily texture.
“This is the difficult part, the one that prevents most sorcerers from successfully walking the Paths Between. To open oneself to Yggdrasil opens the current, but to walk upon the branches requires the strength of will to cling to one’s unique seidr, one’s very soul. Few sorcerers can open their conduits to the World Tree; fewer still can manipulate the conduit without being torn apart, going mad or simply falling. This is why you will fail.”
“So, your intention was to intimidate me out of doing this?”
“I wanted to show you the futility of such a feat, yes.”
Six paces to the far wall. Turn. Six paces to the Trickster. Turn.
“But I did open the conduits,” Sigyn whispers at last, revelation washing over her.
“What?”
Sigyn whirls on Loki.
“I opened the conduits! I stood on the branch, I saw the paths.”
“Yes, and you nearly died,” Loki deadpans, “Forgive me if I don’t applaud.”
“I can do this,” Sigyn says, conviction returning with the force of a tide.
“No, you cannot,” Loki replies matter-of-factly. Sigyn kneels in front of him to look him in the eye.
“Oh, yes I can, if the key to it all is strength of will.”
And there is the unspoken, if you can do it, so can I blazing out of Sigyn’s every pore, familiar pig-headed determination that so riles Loki in Thor but sets his nerves singing in Sigyn. For hers is for knowledge, for true power.
Well, Loki thinks, that was easy.
“I’ll be back with food, then we begin again,” Sigyn says, closing the debate with a sharp nod as she rises and heads for the stairs.
As soon as the door closes behind her, Loki slumps against the wall and dares to hope.