#sifki week

[psychoticgirl]

Wow June really got away from me 😬 if anyone is interested in Sifki Week, how about we do it in August this year? Or very end of July? Please let me know interest/preference!!!

[sifkiweek]

Hello fellow Sifki shippers! It’s time to celebrate our favorite space vikings - Sifki Week 2024 is here!

How does it work? Each day of the week will come with two general prompts to give you inspiration for your work. You can follow the prompt(s) as loosely or closely, as literal or abstract as you want; prompts are mainly there to give you a starting point to create from. Or you can completely ignore the prompts if you don’t feel particularly inspired but have your own great idea. You can also submit for as many or as few days as you’d like, and creations can be any length or size. We want to see as much new fan work in the fandom as possible, so don’t feel limited. The schedule for this year’s celebration is as follows:

Day 1 (Sunday July 28th) - Throne | Theft

Day 2 (Monday July 29th)  - Braid | Bribe

Day 3 (Tuesday July 30th) - Gossip | God

Day 4 (Wednesday July 31st) - Sword | Swear

Day 5 (Thursday August 1st) - Reflection | Restrain

Day 6 (Friday August 2nd) - Shapeshift | Shatter

Day 7 (Saturday August 3rd) - For you | For all of us

What’s acceptable? Fics, Artwork, Graphics, Manips, Gisfsets, Videos, Playlists, Moodboards, Aesthetics, Headcanons, and pretty much anything else!

To participate, please mention @sifkiweek in your post and tag your work with #sifkiweek24 in the first 5 tags (and tag all mature, not work safe stuff with the appropriate tags). We ask that Loki/Sif be the main pairing for your work. Each day we will reblog the creations, and encourage you to do the same. If you have any questions, feel free to shoot us a message or ask here. Have fun and happy creating!

[gladsheimr]

would I run off the world someday? (take me home where I belong) - written for @sifkiweek day 1 - throne I theft. I thought I would write something small to participate! it looks like a fun event.

Shadows dance upon gilded walls and Sif’s heart is in her throat as she strides down the palace hall, her armour gleaming even in the dim torchlight. The air in Asgard has been thick with tension for days; whispers of discontent echoed through the stone corridors as the people of Asgard mourn their rightful king’s absence. She has come to plead for Thor’s return once more, her chest filled with righteous anger and desperation. When she makes it to the throne room, it is Loki who sits upon the grand throne. He tilts his head and watches her as she proceeds up the rows of curving stairs to stand before him. “Your majesty,” she begins, crossing her arm over her chest in a brisk gesture of respect, her voice steady despite the turmoil within her. “I have come to you again to ask that you reconsider.”Emerald eyes glint with something she can’t name. It could be mischief, perhaps, or eagerness. It could be madness. 

“I am certain I have made my existing reasons clear to you, Lady Sif,” Is his reply, his tone infuriatingly unconcerned. He leans back in the throne, which arches high around him like the sky at dawn, hues of bronze and golden rays, and looks at her as if the conversation is over. 

“He is your brother,” Sif replies fiercely, stepping closer. “How can you hold him in banishment knowing you have the power to end it? Surely you want him to return! Surely you…miss him.” Her voice trembles slightly at the end, and Loki’s eyebrow arches.

“Surely?” Loki echoes, leaning forward with feigned concern. “Sif, as I take on this mantle of leadership, I must consider not only my desires but also the needs of our people. You see, Thor embodies a certain...exuberance that can be both a blessing and a curse. While his bravery is commendable, it often veers into recklessness. The citizens of Asgard require stability and assurance during this transition. They need to feel that their king is someone who embodies wisdom and restraint rather than impulsiveness.” 

Sif shakes her head furiously. “Thor is beloved by the people! They would welcome him back with open arms. At a time like this, his presence would comfort them.”

“If I were to reinstate Thor immediately,” Loki replies. “It would send the message that my reign lacks conviction or direction.”

Sif clenches her jaw at the way he says my reign. She forces her voice to remain calm. “But Asgard is vulnerable, especially with the Frost Giants stewing as they are. Could you not do with Thor’s strength?” 

Loki’s eyes flicker with annoyance. They really are so green. Despite her anger, Sif cannot all erase an aching history of summers spent with the princes as the three of them grew up into their roles in Asgard. His eyes are the verdant green of the forests they traversed or the glimmering surface of a lake under the sun's touch. She is barefoot again in white cotton, and Thor and Loki are laughing at her about something as she chases them in river-drenched skirts. She’d felt a sort of desperation to be near them back then, so that if she found herself ever unsure, ever hesitant, one of them would be certain of what to do. She feels the same distress now in Thor’s overhanging absence, the panic slowly creeping up on her, the need to be by his side. 

“Leadership requires more than mere physical prowess, Lady.” Loki replies. She does not know when this bitterness, this hostility, grew between them, but it had started as a bunch of weeds and grown into an impenetrable thorn wall. “It demands an understanding of diplomacy qualities that you will find often elude Thor in favor of bravado. I must ensure that Asgard is led by someone who can navigate complex political landscapes without resorting to sheer force.” He says this pointedly. 

Sif sees his implication. “And you think you are better suited for this role?”

“Not necessarily better suited,” he answers easily. “But perhaps more attuned to the subtleties required at this delicate moment in time. My approach will be one of calculated decisions rather than spontaneous actions. We face challenges ahead both external and internal and I must prioritize unity over division.”

“And when Thor learns of your decision? He will feel betrayed.”

“That is a risk I must take for the greater good. If he feels slighted now, it may prevent greater discord later on when he realizes that my intentions are rooted in safeguarding Asgard's future. He knows that I love him, but this cannot be a personal decision.”

His eyes observe her lightly, challenging her, and despite Sif’s desperation, she feels her resolve waver momentarily. He loves his brother; perhaps he will bring Thor home once Asgard settles. But then she remembered all the times Loki’s ambition had led to chaos rather than order, all the times she has seen his face twist with envy when he is looking at Thor.

“Thor may have been unfit to be king,” she says firmly, and waits until Loki looks up in surprise to add, “on his own. A rulership is more then one man on a throne. Things would burn up and fall apart if he were to take on all of that responsibility without the assistance he would no doubt have received. What is a king without his brother?” Loki opens his mouth, but he says nothing. Sif says, “Do you truly wish to rule over ashes?” For a heartbeat, silence enveloped them both, before Loki scoffs and looks away. Still, he does not dismiss her entirely. “Bring him back,” Sif urges softly now, her voice almost pleading. “Let us face whatever comes next together.” With a flicker of disappointment crossing his features, Loki’s expression is quickly masked with his usual bravado. “We are done,” he replies, and there is an edge to his tone. With her heartbat pounding like a war drum and fury igniting her bones, Sif’s resolute is decided. She would not let Thor face this darkness alone; she will go and bring him back from Midgard herself should she have to, even if it means tearing apart the very fabric of destiny itself. Maybe then even Loki will see sense. She turns and leaves him to his grievances, her heart heavy with hope for one brother and remorse for the other. 

[the-boxgirl]

A Heart to Heart

Sifki Week Day One: Confession

Sif smirks to herself as she all but runs to her chambers. Finally, after months and months of tricks and pranks from Loki, she finally has the upper hand. If she admitted, it was true she had a bit of help in the matter. She tried very hard to mask the glee on her face when Thor handed over to her a very carefully disguised book that was hidden in the lower compartment of a box of blades . He warned her to that he would need them back as soon as she was done with them.

This was no ordinary book. This book was in fact the journal of one Loki Odinson. The secrets and innermost thoughts of the younger Prince filled every page. Sif has little time to read the whole thing. She locks the door to her chambers behind her and plops down in front of it as she greedily opens the journal. She skims the book, looking for her name or any mention of tricks or pranks against their friends.

However, there is one entry that Sif finds that she has to stop and reread again and again and again.

“It can’t be!” She reasons to herself before biting her lip and reading again. This has to be some kind of a trick or prank. Thor must have worked with Loki on this one. Sif slams the book shut and hurried unlocks her room before running off to confront Loki, who must be in his study.

It has to be a prank. Sif repeats to herself, mostly because she’s not sure what she’ll do if it’s not a prank. Sif runs faster until she arrives outside the door.

She goes to open the door when she hears a slam from inside followed by a desperate cry of, “Where is it?! It was just here this morning! I know I set it here!”

Sif looks down at the book in her hand, before hiding it behind her back. She opens the door carefully to peer inside. Loki is searching frantically about his study as he is currently riffling through a massive bookcase.

Sif opens the door a bit wide and carefully steps inside, not quite shutting the door behind her. She slowly inches toward the desk to set the journal there and pretend like she never had it at all. Loki is still at the bookcase, but he’s already examined more than half the book spines looking for the journal Sif possess. She gets in arm reach of the desk and carefully places it on one of the edges. She slowly backs away, keeping an eye on Loki.

Quicker! He’s going to see you! Sif shouts internally at herself. She takes a few quiet steps away, and she’s almost near the door again. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees movement and her blood runs cold at the sound of a loud thump as the journal falls off the desk. She quickly tries to stand up straight, to pretend like she wasn’t sneaking around in his study.

Loki turns at the sound, to see what has fallen when he sees Sif, her hands behind her back as she looks at him with a blank expression. “Looking for something to read?” She asks him before carefully looking away at the mess around them.

Loki narrows his eyes at her, “And what are you doing here?”

Sif’s chest feels heavy and her throat feels like it’s going to close in on her. Perhaps, the journal was a trick. She’s got to come up with something and do it fast. “I heard you shouting from outside the door-” she gestures back at the door as if she needs to remind him of it. “I thought maybe you were hurt.”

His expression softens ever so slightly at her last statement before his eyes go back to where he had heard the thump from. Sif follows his gaze and watches as his eyes narrow once again at the journal on the floor. “Since you’re fine, I will leave you to your searching.” Sif turns to leave and begins for the door. She’s only a step away when the door slams shut and Sif bits her lip. Damn. She turns around, ready to yell at him for locking her in here, when he appears directly behind her. She nearly punches him in the face but keeps her fists at her side.

“So you took my journal?” Loki questions, raising an eyebrow at her.

She really should know better than try to lie to him but she tries. “What journal?“ She asks as if she doesn’t know. The journal not three feet away from you, the one you had to give Thor one of your good blades for, the one that said-

"Sif,” Loki warns her as he takes a step toward her. She can’t help but take one back, but she collides against the door and has nowhere to run. “That journal was over on the chair this morning,” he gestures to the chair on the opposite of the room before the fireplace. “And now, it has somehow managed to escape my attempts to search for it until magically appearing on the opposite side-”

“I guess your magic is becoming even more unpredictable,” Sif tries to interrupt, but Loki is looming over her. Her heart is racing inside her chest, but she tries to keep her breathing calm. A lurking traitorous thought rises up and Sif hopes her face does not turn red and betray her at this moment. He’s cute when he’s angry.

Loki is clearly unamused by the comment, and crosses his arms in front of him. “So you didn’t put it there?” Sif shakes her head and opens her mouth to reply, but Loki leans closer and her whole brain stops and shuts down. His finger lifts her chin as his nose brushes against hers ever so slightly. “Are you sure?” He whispers at her. Sif hesitates to answer, knowing she must be blushing like a silly swooning maiden. Can she speak? Should she even try? The journal wasn’t lying though. The entry Loki had written wasn’t a trick, not if he’s this close to her. “If you confessed, I would let you leave.”

He is too close for her to think clearly. Has he always smelled this good before? Sif can’t even look him in the eyes right now, not when his lips are that close to hers. He wants to kiss you. The traitorous voice whispers at her again. He’s caught her so off guard. This Sif is so unlike her, she swallows hard. She’s got to get a hold of herself. No one can see this. No one can know- an idea pops into her head. A very bad and terrible idea, but her mind is a tangled mess at the moment. Sif bites her lip as she looks up at Loki.  “I have a proposition for you, Loki.”

“What kind of proposition?” An eyebrow is raised at her in surprise as he pulls back from her.

“One confession for another,” Sif answers as she stares into those dangerous green eyes. “You’re already convinced I took your journal so why would you want that forced confession when you can have another?”

“Why would I want this other confession?” Loki asks her.

“Because you like secrets about other people,” Sif attempts to persuade him. “And this one could be beneficial to you.” She knows she’s piqued his interest and does nothing to hide the smirk on her face.

Loki mulls it over for a moment before speaking, “How can I be sure of your claim for it’s accuracy?”

Sif shrugs her shoulders, "If you accept, you’ll know. If you don’t, you’ll regret it.“

Loki frowns slightly. He’d prefer to know upfront if she was toying with him or not, but if he finds out it was false, he could always prank her later for messing with him. "I accept,” he stretches out his hand to seal the deal and Sif smiles at him as she shakes his hand. A second later, she has pulled him back against her and her lips are smashed against his. He’s barely got a second to process what’s happening before he’s pulled himself away from her. His brain has stopped working and he’s opening his mouth to speak but nothing’s coming out.

Did she really just- Is this a joke- Sif has raised an eyebrow at him and she’s licked her lips too. She’s always turned red in embarrassment before when she’s trying to lie to him, but now he’s wondering if he’s been reading her wrong for the last ten minutes. Had she been blushing instead?

“I may need further proof,” he tells her after a moment. Sif grabs him by his tunic and presses her lips against his again Loki is frozen again before he just throws out all the thoughts in his head and kisses her back.

[the-boxgirl]

Sifki - The Only Way Out - Andra Day

As Loki is captured and put in prison, he thinks briefly on his relationship with Sif but knows he can’t love her while she hates him for his betrayal even if he has tried to make it up to her.

(This is just really late for Sifki week after it didn’t save properly and I basically lost all of it)

[metalshell]

My dearest fellow Sifki shippers! I haven't forgot about our next Sifki week of course, how could I, it's only that I am UTTERLY BUSY. I'm so sorry, haha!D: This will definitely happen, at some point, so don't worry, keep having faith, and stay shipping. Thank you! *big fandom hugs to everyone*

[metalshell]

My lovelis and Sifki shippers!:D I was wondering... would the beginning/mid April being a good moment for our third Sifki week to start? I mean, would you (WE) have enough time to create your fantastic art/fics/everything else for our little wreck of a ship?

Also if you have another period of the year in mind that you think could be more suitable just let me know, please! And any prompt suggestion would be absolutely welcomed too!:D

*tell me tell me tell me!*

[lexiewrites]

Remember that Hunger Games AU I started for Sifki Week last March?

I finished it. Sort of. Not sure if I'm happy with it, honestly. Tempted to end it at Part Seven, but then I feel like it's a bit of a cop-out. And I'm not entirely sure that the last line doesn't need something. I'll let it simmer for a day or two, and then reconsider I guess. And no title yet. 

One.

Her name is drawn first, and she does not even flinch, but walks steadily up to the stage. Her face is a blank.

She stands stiffly on the stage and stares flatly at the crowd as their escort simpers at her, before drawing the boys’ name. 

Two years ago, he stood in this crowd and watched his brother be reaped. Thor. Thor, who was the best tribute their district had had in years.

Who was paired with the Foster girl, Jane. Jane who was so delicate and terrified, she had to be half-carried to the stage. Jane who had no idea how to start a fire, how to hunt… she wasn’t even good at socializing. Jane, whose family was one of the few in the district that managed to escape decades upon decades of reapings.

And in the end, Jane had come home, shell-shocked and silent.

Thor had not. 

Now his best and oldest friend stands were he did, and he pities the boy accompanying her, because Sif will fight and she will kill and she will win. A fitting tribute for his brother.

“Loki Odinsson.”

The House of Odin has fallen and nothing will rise from the ashes.

Two.

His mother’s hands are shaking when they come to say good-bye.

She has been so sad since Thor, and he can see the cracks in her façade fracturing as she drags him into a hug.

“Loki, Loki,” is all she murmurs, and he can hear her grief.

“It’s okay, Mother,” he kisses her cheek. “It’s okay.” 

“My boys,” Frigga murmurs as Odin pulls her back gently. 

“Good luck,” Odin offers grimly. He expected no more. Since Thor, they have been distant at best.

As if Thor’s death was his fault.

As if he should have volunteered. 

Died for Thor.

It was always Loki’s fault for some invisible reason that was never said.

As if Thor would have done anything but laughed if volunteered for him. 

As if Loki would last a day.

“I love you, Loki,” Frigga manages as the guards return. “Don’t forget that.” 

“I love you too, Mother,” he calls, but he isn’t certain that she hears it as the door latches closed.

He hopes she doesn’t watch, when it happens. He hopes Odin spares her of that, for her sake. 

There is something terrible and lonely about dying like that.

He doesn’t want to be alone. 

Three.

They travel in finery that is wasted on them. 

Their mentor is another of Thor and Sif’s friends, Volstagg. He won when they were fourteen, but came out of it with a bad leg and a permanently haunted look.

They all remember what he managed with a single axe.

He was there when Thor died. They all remember that too.

He finds Sif after dark, when everybody else is sleeping, and she is in the lounge with the recordings of past games.

He watches her fast-forward through the footage to specific scenes.

Volstagg burying an axe in a girl’s back.

Volstagg decapitating a boy clutching a crossbow.

Volstagg allowing a knife to bury in his thigh and rip through the muscle to finally take out the final tribute.

And then she swaps tapes.

He knows what is coming before she even reaches the remote.

His brother.

Alive and laughing as he walks through the mountain arena with Jane at his side.

Alive.

It still seems utterly impossible that the boy on the screen is dead.

It seems utterly possible he will be dead in a week.

He wants to say something to Sif, but he doesn’t know the words.

Four.

Volstagg warns them, meeting the other tributes is always the worst. They are people, too, with mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and friends back home, praying for their safe return.

It isn’t that bad, not for Loki. But he doesn’t like people, generally.

But he sees how awful it is written on Sif’s face.

The boy with the bad heart who hovers protectively and nervously around the tall, graceful girl.

The sad, hulking boy who doesn’t let the brunette with the glasses out of his sight.

The redhead and the blonde who are so perfectly and uncannily still.

And four faces that are dreadfully familiar, enough that even Loki shudders.

Fandral and Hogun, who left their district after Volstagg but before Thor. Fandral, with his quick grin and honeyed words. Hogun with his stoic, silent support.

Fandral pulls Sif into a bone-crushing hug that she returns.

“The fates were not kind this year,” Hogun observes to Loki with a nod of greeting. “Us meeting again like this."

“When has fate ever been kind,” is his sharp reply. The other tributes are watching them, he can feel their eyes.

Fate is not kind, and neither is Loki Odinsson.

Five.

The opening ceremonies are a blur of ridiculousness, of offensiveness and he wants to scream, howl obscenities at those who send them to their death for their amusement.

But he doesn’t. 

Sif watches him carefully, swathed in fabric of gold, her hair woven with it, and her eyes painted with it. She is glorious, incandescent and that image of her is burnt into his mind forever. Some kind of righteous goddess, deigning the common folk their amusements before she reaps her pound of flesh.

He is hopeless in so many ways.

She clasps his hand as they ride through the opening ceremony. Gold and silver, first and second. Winner and loser. 

Of course, this is the games, so it is truly survivor and corpse.

They cannot bring themselves to return to their lodgings after the ceremony, and instead ride the elevator up and down, still dressed in their finery. Sif rubs her eyes and smears the gold paint in a way that is even more enchanting, and they lie together on the floor of that glass elevator, watching the people below them. Watch the confused faces of those who see them. 

Later, he sees he is smudged with gold.

Six.

Training sessions are dreadful, and Volstagg is grim. Watch, but never forget the others are watching them for strengths. For weaknesses.

Always overestimate, prepare for the worst you can imagine.

He makes some dark joke about carrying a shovel with him, and Sif embeds her knife in the table in cold, blistering fury.

He does as he always has. He watches.

He watches Sif heft the bladed weapons with affection, watches her put the fear of god into the other tributes, burying a dagger hilt-deep in the target with one lazy throw.

He watches the boy with the bad heart tinkering at a table, making rough, ugly devices that crackle to life with more force than anyone expected.

He watches the blonde boy string a bow, and a bigger blonde boy test the weights of several objects. He watches the hulking, dark haired boy show a curly-haired girl how to build something on the electronics table.

The girls are less willing to demonstrate their abilities, especially after Sif.

He sees fear and resignation in their faces – all except the redhead. 

She looks resigned in a way Loki recognizes intimately. 

They’re going down, but they’ll pave their way with blood.

Seven.

It comes upon them, looming impossibly.

The night before, he finds Sif, staring at the ceiling.

When the scores were released, they thought they knew what to expect. 

They knew Sif would score highly. They knew that would paint a target on her back.

But they didn’t remember to consider Thor.

That Loki’s legacy is a shadow wrought by his dead brother, a brother that took down anyone who stood before him, who threatened Jane. That the name Odinsson overshadowed the few paltry knife tricks he managed in his assessment. 

That the ten painted on his back is painted in Thor’s blood and the blood Thor spilt.

He joins her on the floor and she sighs.

“How do we do this, Loki?” she murmurs. “Tell me what to do.”

The words hurt, ache dully, because they are the ones she used as a child, when his games proved too complex, when she was bored and lonely.

This time, he has no rules or schemes.

“It will be an honour to be killed by you, Sif,” is all he manages. “But please, make it quick.”

He doesn’t expect the black eye.

He expects the tears and the hug even less. 

Eight. 

He is numb that entire morning, waiting to be taken to the arena. He eats and drinks almost mechanically, the tiny, practical voice in his head reminding him that this could be his last meal, and that he's no good to anyone if he doesn't eat.

He wonders why he bothers, truly. In two weeks, he'll be in the ground next to his golden brother, forgotten. 

Here lies Loki, a pound of flesh for someone else's sins.

Everything is a washed out blur as he is marched through the halls and tunnels, towards the arena. He is aware of moving and of the slight rattle every time he breathes. 

Here lies Loki, gutted for sport. 

The pod that takes him into the arena reminds him of a coffin, of a test tube, of a bell jar and he wonders what would happen if he tried to break out of it. Would they kill him on sight, or would they forcibly shove him into the arena?

Here, inevitably, lies Loki. 

Snow. It was everywhere. His breath puffs out in front of him, as he blinks at the brightness of the arena. Frost mottled the side of the Cornucopia, dulling the golden sheen. 

Ten. Nine. Eight.

He can hear the countdown dully, as he looks at the forest that surrounds them. Mountains, in the distance. Mountains mean caves, a place to run and hide. Warmth. 

Why should he bother?

Seven. Six. Five.

His entire body is coiled to run.

Four.

The number three is muffled as Freya steps off her pod and the world explodes.

Freya. He remembers her, too, from a childhood when the districts were easier to move between. She has caramel coloured hair, a laugh like bells. She had worn white to the interview, with flowers in her hair. 

Now he has her brains smeared across his face, and is staring, they all are, and the countdown has finished but no one has moved. They are staring at Freya’s pod, at the mangled, wet remains of the girl who just committed suicide rather than play to an audience.

He sees her out of the corner of his eye, looking up and seeing him and then she is moving like the damn wind. Sif was always a good runner, snow and ice slushing around her feet.

She is at the Cornucopia before anyone else has noticed, and then there is a fumbled scramble, but Sif is fast, efficient, deadly. She is strapped with things – blades and weapons, supplies – as some of the others approach her.

Hogun, Fandral and a few others are clustered around Freya’s remains. The girl with the glasses is vomiting.

He hasn’t moved an inch, and Freya’s blood is dripping off his face.

“For the love of god, Loki, run!” she bellows, and he does. 

Nine.

Sif finds him up a tree. She has an angry-looking cut on her cheek, and is a patchwork of bruises. Her lips are blue, and her hair is wet and she is dark and sinister amongst the innocent looking snow.

“Get down,” is all she says to him.

“Has the time come already, merciful Sif?” he sings out, and they are both being completely stupid because someone will hear them, and if he has to die today, he would like it at her hand.

She huffs and rolls her eyes.  He leaps from the tree to land at her feet.

“Have you eaten?” she asks, pulling the flimsy looking bag off her shoulders. Knives are strapped too it, and he could see blood staining the blades.

“With the bountiful meal options? Of course.” His sarcasm earns him a glare, and then she stuffs a bundle into his hand – dried meat and strange, crisp bread-like substance. Food.

“Fattening me up for the slaughter?” he asks.

“I will kill you if you don’t shut up and eat,” she snaps, and offers a water bottle.

He doesn’t know why she’s wasting her food and water by feeding him, but he eats and drinks, and ignores the fact that she is clearly limping.

When they get up to leave, she hands him things. Another tiny package of dried food. Some water purification tablets. An a bundle of shiny, sharp throwing knives, smeared with someone else’s blood.

At least she’s giving him a fighting chance.

Ten.

The knife juts out obscenely, buried right to the hilt, and he chokes.

This is a mess, a terrible mess, and Sif grins at him, and he can see the blood at the corners of her mouth, gathering, beading and spilling.

The boy who threw is looking sick and stammering, his voice catching, his eyes impossibly wide and is he trying to apologise?

It was supposed to hit him. He was the one who slit the boy's partner's throat in a moment of desperation and wildness that is long gone in the face of Sif with a blade buried unforgivably in her chest.

He is desperate as he begins peeling away the layers, the weapons. He screams obscenities at the lingering boy, until he turns and runs. There is hot blood, the warmest thing he has felt in days, spilling down her skin and in no way can he fix this. The serrated blade has torn, ripped, punctured and destroyed.

He is clutching at her and rocking her and demanding to know why, why she stepped in front of the damn knife, she was supposed to win and go home and be stupidly brave and smart. She has her head against his shoulder, and clutches at him feebly.

“You can be okay, Loki,” she manages, but there is something lacking in her voice that makes him clutch her tightly. “You’re better than this.”

There is hysteria in his voice and he knows he is crying, and that everyone is watching this moment and seeing Thor’s brother weep over a girl.

Thor would have protected her, would have saved her and sent her home.

Her hand is on his cheek, sticky with her own blood, and she guides his face to hers, and kisses him. He now knows how her blood tastes, and is all wrong – soft and final, and nothing like he imagined kissing her would be like. But she’s half-dead in his arms in the middle of a winter battlefield, so this is all they will have. He strokes her cheek, and he sees the terror in her eyes, so he kisses her softly again. 

“Make sure you fight.”

Those are her last words.

Not to win, but to fight.

Eleven.

He dies anyway, looking at the sky.

He dies, understanding his brother, Sif, and Jane Foster better than anyone else.

He dies with relief that he doesn’t have to go home again and pretend that surviving feels remotely like winning. 

He dies, spared a lifetime of remembering Freya’s blood on his face, Sif’s blood on his tongue; of understanding that hollow look in Jane’s eyes to the bone. Of being considering better than his brother, because he walked off a field of death with his heart still pounding.

He dies a better man than the boy who walked onto the field, bitterly composing his own epitaph.

He dies alone, with a thousand epiphanies on his tongue and an arrow in his chest.