Author's Note: Privet, my stars! Thank you for taking a look at this! I hope you enjoy; I have, as per usual, plenty of angst.

This is a sequel to my previous story, The Weeping Siren. Reading that before you read this will defiantly help, but it's not necessary. Just know that the Warriors Three and Sif are closer to Loki now. And went through some generally not-great stuff.

This was requested by CHATNOIRandPlagg, who I must thank for their patience. I'm sorry that this took so long to get up, my friend!

Summary: The Weeping Siren, though dead, haunts them. A restless pest that drew the Warriors Four and Loki together, but may very well succeed in pulling Odin's sons apart. When Vanaheim's haunted forest, the Blodig Skog's, magic begins to spread like a curse, the five have no choice but to return to the very place this whole mess started.

Warnings: Some violence, Post traumatic stress disorder, mild supernatural elements, bullying, self-harm, references to depression, suicidal thoughts, past child abuse. If further warnings are needed, they'll be posted at the top of chapters. No slash, no smut, no incest, no non-con. Just a slight heads up, this story is going to deal with some heavy topics and I ask/encourage everyone to remain as safe as possible. :)

Disclaimer: I own nothing

Pairings: Mild Odin/Frigga

Basic-ish age frame: Volstagg: 20; Hogun and Thor: 19; Sif and Fandral: 18; Loki: 16

For your information, this story is cross-posted on Archive Of Our Own under the penname of "GalaxyThreads."

Just a personal note, if you could refrain from using cussing/strong language if you comment (no offense to how you speak! Promise! =) It just makes me uncomfortable) I would greatly appreciate that. ;)

Chapter One:

"Try not to drown," the creature whispers and shoves him over the edge. His initial reaction is panic, a desperate sort of frantic, flapping wave that he does with his arms unnecessarily. He's not going to get himself to swim this way, only cause the sinking to happen faster. He tries to steady himself, to calm down, but all his breath escapes his lungs and slips towards the surface. He's helpless to stop it.

The water, unlike what he'd first suspected, is not freezing cold. He thought it would be, because it looked so crystal-like. So clear. So innocent. He was wrong, though. It's hot. Unbearably hot. His skin feels like it's boiling, and his eyes are burning, even behind the closed lids. He tries to kick up with his feet, but the water is too heavy. Too incapable of movement. It's like he's trying to push through solid rock, rather than a fluid.

He panics.

He's can't breathe, but he can't find his way towards the surface. His clothing is sticking to his skin, weighing him down. He is going to drown.

"You misunderstand my intentions," the creature says, laughing slightly. She glances back at him once, her eyes dark. There's a weight that's settled there, almost like regret, but he's not stupid enough to believe it. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm a good mother. What type of mother would I be to wound you so?"

He feels his eyebrow lift. "I wouldn't go declaring it out of character for you."

The skin around the creature's eyes grows tight. She's smiling with venom, and turns fully around to face him, a small glass vial in her grip. She holds it out to him like it's a gift. "Drink this."

He stares at her, not twitching a muscle. He's been poisoned before. He's not going to take any chances, even if this is supposed to spare Fandral. Her eyes narrow the slightest bit, that faint smile twitching on the edge of her lips. He would learn, later, that it meant she was angry, but he didn't know it then.

"No." He states blankly.

"No?" She sighs softly, turning away from him. "Well, I suppose that dear Fandral will have to be up to work in the morning, poor child—"

The wet rattle of Fandral's lungs and his pale face flashes through his mind. Sif's open panic and the Volstagg's attempts to calm the children to ignore his own hyperventilating. His teeth grit and he snatches the glass vial from her, twisting off the cap. She looks smug, and for a moment he's tempted to throw it at her face.

He doesn't.

He's afraid of the outcome, and feels like a coward. Thor would never succumb to this witch's desires, even if it meant the cost of his own life. He hesitates all the same before lifting it to his lips, self preservation demanding that he cast the bluish liquid away and run. But where will he go? With Aetheitin in his system he's practically lame against the creature and her defenses.

Fandral. Those idiots will be the death of him. If this kills him, he will haunt them.

He forces his wrist to tip, and the liquid touches his tongue. The taste is faint, almost as if it's an afterthought rather than a prominent feature, and he feels slightly sick. He's studied potions before, he knows that the stronger the taste the weaker the concoction. There's less magic involved, so there's not much to mask the taste. The strongest magic-laced poisons have no taste at all.

Whatever this is, the creature has spared no expense.

When he's finished with the bottle, he does throw it at her head. His aim, sharped from years with a bow and throwing knives, holds true. The creature apparently wasn't expecting it, because the glass smacks into her forehead and she releases a shriek of pain and surprise. He allows himself a moment of satisfaction, but it's quickly tarnished when she leans down and picks up the intact vile before looking up at him, face alight with fury.

"Is that any way to treat your mother!?"

"No." He concedes, smug, "Of course not. I would never throw anything at my mother."

He lets it hang. Let's her fury grow to frustration as his implications settle inside her wild thoughts. He smirks faintly, but lifts a hand to his throat and rubs at it slightly when it feels tight. His chest is compressing, and his vision is growing slightly hazy. He tries a deep breath, but it doesn't help anything.

A blurred figure steps into his line of sight and his chest constricts with irrational panic.

It's a drug, he tries to tell himself. But it doesn't help his body's heightened flare or adrenaline and the more powerful urge he has to flee. The creature moves forward and he backs up, suddenly needing to be away.

Coward.

"I never did tell you, did I?" her voice doesn't sound right, blurred and pitched, "But my children really are so lovely. They dug that stream for us all, you know." The river. It doesn't look handcrafted with all the rocks, soil, tree roots and...things that shovels wouldn't make it past in the hands of youth. She made them dig a river? "But before they did that, we had to get our water somewhere."

He keeps pushing until his back hits something and his entire body lurches. He grabs for his magic, but there's nothing there but a gaping hole and it hurts more than any physical wound could have. He gasps, curling around his stomach, his back pushed against the solid stone behind him. He needs to run. He has to get away. He can't—

Can't—

"We had a well. Dried up now save a few hands of water." She says, and dread seeps into his stomach. His entire body rigid with a sudden realization on what he's leaning against. What she led him to. When he'd agreed to take the punishment for Fandral's illness, he'd thought it would be a few more hours of hard labor. Perhaps a beating. He'd braced himself for that, not this. He'd only grown more confused when the woman had guided him far away from the basement, from the field, from her dwelling—everything.

Hands grab his shoulders and he flinches back from them, trying to scramble away, but it's fruitless. He wants to start screaming, but he thinks he might already be.

"Try not to drown," the creature whispers and shoves him over the edge of the crumpling well.

He falls—down, down into the never ending blackness, but something inside him insists that he should have hit the bottom by now. That it wasn't ever this deep and he could see moonlight flickering through if he tried. But he keeps falling, and he doesn't stop, his heart a scattered mess inside his chest and entire being hoping for relief that isn't going to come.

He keeps falling.

Then he smashes into the hard earth of the bottom, water splashing against his face and through his clothing, soaking him. His head is plunged beneath the surface for a moment, and when he struggles, scrambling to yank it out, he can't remember which way is up.

He's going to drown.

She told him not to, and he's going to do it anyway.

Try not to dr—

Loki kicks his way to the surface and his head breaks free of the frigid water. He gasps for air desperately, ripping his eyelids apart in a desperate effort to see something other than the ever-pressing darkness. The twin suns beat down on him immediately, and though it can't have been more than a minute at most since he fell, it feels like an eternity.

The brightness hurts.

His chest aches.

Loki eyes the shore of with trepidation, but awkwardly shoves his way to it; limbs unused to the movement. He used to be better at swimming, he would do it frequently before...before, but now some days drinking water is hard enough. Relief crashes through him hard enough to make him wheeze when his feet smack against sand. He stumbles to his hands and knees as soon as he's on dry ground, coughing. His clothing sticks to his skin, his hair plastered to the sides of his face. He can't breathe, still. He's coughing like he's dying, even though he knows he didn't inhale any of the fluid.

"They were right. You do look like a drowned rat when wet." Someone sneers, and Loki feels his hands clench around the moist sand beneath his fingertips. The coarse grain is like daggers against his skin, and it's a relief.

"Come now," another voice says cryptically, "it was barely a little splash. You sound like you're dying."

Their jeering doesn't stop just because he's trying to remember how to put air into his lungs.

"Good grief, is that his spine? Do you have no muscle, my prince?" another questions mockingly. He sneers the title as Loki has long since grown accustomed to, but sounds bored at the same time.

Loki's teeth snap together. He spits water onto the ground between his pale hands and lift a shaking, sand-covered hand to try and swipe hair back from his face so he can see better. His attempt fails, sandy black hair falling in front of his eyes. The movement of his jostled arm causes his sedir to pulse. It's burning beneath his skin, demanding release. It's angry. Angrier than Loki can ever allow himself to be.

"Clearly not," the high-pitched wail of a female sing-songs, "we'd see it then, wouldn't we?"

Do they have to—!?

The tip of a sword lightly touches is hand, as if afraid he'll bite something. He doesn't react, trying to calm the swirling beast inside his chest. It feels unfamiliar to him, as if he hasn't been levitating items since before he could talk. "You yield, then? You've put down your sword. In a way. That does beg the question—can anyone see it in the river?"

Someone snickers. "Really. You'd think that you'd stabbed him instead of shoved."

The sword pokes at him again. "Are you still with us? Do I not claim victory?"

"Maybe he's having another fit!" A female voice suggests, upper class lip seeping through her tone. She and her other companion were servants who'd stopped to watch the battle like it was some sort of grand tournament instead of a training match. "The Norns know that he needs to be locked away where he won't hurt anyone instead of among the sane!"

Loki remembers to breathe, and exhales sharply.

"Boo!" Something screeches next to his ear, and Loki nearly goes toppling back into the water again in his effort to get away. It's less so much the sudden sound as it is the movement that startles him. Laughter bursts out among the group once more. "Ooh," the boy lifts his fingers, dangling them, "I'm the creature come back for what's left of your soul, huh? She's dead, you fool!"

He knows that.

"Allfathers," the swordsman sighs and draws his weapon back like there could be no worse fate in this universe than the one that has befallen him, "this is the future of our realm. A crippled prince who hasn't seen the training ground in months and a mad, glib-tongued snake who can't handle a little dip in the river!"

"Our beloved Thor has been lost to the madness of this creature!"

"And now the insanity of the Prince is going to finish him off!"

Before he can think, before he can process, Loki's hand shoots out and he grasps the origin of the voice with sedir, wrapping an invisible hand around their throat and squeezing. The delighted laughter stops abruptly as a high-pitched gasp takes its place. Loki's arm is trembling, but his sedir isn't confined to the constraints of his body.

He lifts his head, staring at the group with narrowed eyes. The laughter has stopped, the delighted chortles of their amusement ceased as they stare between him and the redhead with growing horror.

Not so funny now, is it?

Loki's hand twitches involuntarily, and the redhead jerks. His hands are raised towards his throat, lifted at the invisible hand like he can peel it away. Loki wants to laugh. Sedir doesn't work like that. For all he's been claimed insane, Loki knows that much. Water is dripping from his clothing, running down his face. Too much water, it's choking him. The water is a liar. It caresses where it should stab, soothes when it should bite.

Try not to drown.

He wants to be sick. He might be sick. He parts his lips to speak, but he can't get any words out. He wants to yell at them all to shut up, but there's nothing there but a desperate whine.

"He is having a fit!" One of the maids whispers in a despaired screech, grabbing onto the arm of the nearest soldier like he can save her soul, "Someone call for a healer! He's going to kill us in his madness!"

The redhead gasps, his face beginning to turn shades. Loki staggers up to his feet, stumbling despite his best efforts. There's seven Aesir, including the redhead, which means that no one has gone running for help. They were supposed to be running practice rounds, but it would appear that they forgot about their swords, instead standing there gaping at him like he's some sort of horrendous beast.

But their slander, and everyone else's, is nothing new. Even before the creature's trial. Before he had to be excused from the public execution because he was a coward. Frigga says that it was for the best that he "wasn't in the state to see his captor so soon after the torture", but he's not an idiot. He knows what it looks like, even if there's nothing that can be done.

Prince Loki, who can't even see his enemies to the chopping block, is one of Odin's heirs.

Asgard is humiliated. (Thor was there. Thor, who can do no wrong. Loki can't even—)

"Whoa, snake," one of the men in the group lifts up his hands, trying to placate. They're beyond that now. "This—this isn't a warrant for murder. Just...calm down, aight?"

"Yeah," they sound considerably more uncertain, and Loki wants to laugh. Instead he feels his throat grow hot from tears. "Yeah, just," another man waves his hands, like Loki is some sort of rabid dog he can ease the temper of. And he is an animal to them, isn't he? Snake Prince, everyone calls him.

"What on the Nine is going on!?" the voice startles him, and Loki's hold on the redhead, Hyn, falls. Hyn stumbles onto the green grass, coughing. The other six flutter over him, demanding the state of his health and wellbeing, but Hyn waves them off, scowling up at him. There's the barest edge of a smirk there, though, and Loki squeezes his eyes shut in defeat.

"I leave you alone for three minutes to practice your form, and now you're trying to murder each other?" Tyr sounds angry, which isn't anything new. Tyr usually sounds angry. He's a brusk man with an even brisker attitude.

Loki's teeth grit together.

"Loki attacked all of them!" one of the girls shouts, "Me and Mis came over to help, but he was already out of control." To add to the weight of her story, she breaks into hysterical sobs, and Loki can almost see as she buries herself against the nearest man and offers her crocodile tears.

And they call him the liar.

"Yeah!" one of the other youths agrees quickly, likely grateful that the servant girl was capable of spinning falsities. His enthusiasm is so quick, but false that the deafest of men could hear the quaver of mistruth within his voice.

High Commander Tyr stops, somewhere off to Loki's left. The group is quiet, and Try releases a breath before saying, flatly, "Loki."

He has no rank here. Tyr doesn't care about the heritage of his troops, Loki could be the All-Father himself, but if he's serving beneath this High Commander, he's just Loki. It makes him uncomfortable. Raw and vulnerable, like he's been stripped of an outer skin and forced to lay himself bare before the man.

He hides behind his titles, for all he hates them.

Loki chances opening his eyes and twists slightly to look back. As expected, Tyr is on his left. His red hair is slicked back, but the short beard is frizzing within the humidity of the day. The heat that had previously made Loki sick enough to affect his form beforehand. Enough that Hyn managed to shove him into the river instead of just disoriented him.

Try not to drown.

Loki parts his lips slowly, "What would you have me say, Commander?" he questions.

Tyr's eyes narrow. "An explanation would be nice—"

"We gave you one!" the servant girl wails. Loki wants to hit her. It's not a common feeling, and his sudden violence startles him.

"—You don't normally attack people without provocation." Tyr continues. His patience is thinning further, getting sharp and frustrated around the edges. Loki almost wants to keep pushing, just to see how far he has to go before it snaps all together. But because he's not stupid, he doesn't.

His voice is bland, "They shoved me into the river." He gestures towards himself for evidence to back his statement. Wail all they want, Loki is soaking wet. Tyr put them near the river because he thought that it would be a good real-life battleground.

Loki had bit his tongue to stop himself from screaming when the commander suggested it. He hates water.

Try not to—

"So you nearly strangled Hyn?" High Commander Tyr lifts one bushy eyebrow. His hard face is tight. "That I struggle to believe."

Well, he should. Loki's not about to admit that he's seeing things again. It's been more than half a year since the creature's execution. Loki should be fine now. The Warriors Three and Sif have bounced back as well as they can. They struggle, but they aren't like him. He, who spent no more time there than they did, but seems so much worse off. He knows what people say about him now. He's Odin's insane son, a "pity that the boy barely reached coming of age before losing himself", unstable.

(And maybe they're right.)

"I don't like being wet." Loki's humor falls flat. In the awkward silence that follows, he swipes his long bangs away from his face, looking away. He catches the eye of one of the youths and they sneer at him angrily. Loki's temper flares again, but he forces himself to swallow it down where it won't damage anyone permanently but him.

They claimed they do this for Thor (they always do, because Loki went and got himself lost in the woods and if he hadn't, Thor would have been fine), but they slander him at a moment's notice? His brother doesn't—shouldn't—receive the treatment that Loki does. Asgard has ever been the golden prince's faithful coddler, just because of his leg doesn't mean he should lose that. Thor needs that support. He needs to bask in the warm sun's rays; he knows nothing else.

Tyr looks more frustrated than he did before Loki spoke.

It must be a gift that he can do this so often to people. Truly.

The High Commander turns to the others, and Loki knows he's lost the small fragmented chance he had to walk away from this without baring the full weight of the blame. If he wasn't dripping, if they hadn't shoved him, then maybe he would have been able to cling to his silvertongue. As is, here they are.

"Will someone—" Tyr starts up again, but a louder voice overshadows the High Commander, shouting Loki's name. He turns towards it by habit and feels his teeth set together even harder despite the relief that crashes into him all the same. He dreads her arrival, but welcomes it all the same.

Sif comes to a breathless stop in front of him, stopping sharply only to grab at his shoulders. He flinches back from the contact, but she holds fast, staring him up and down. The weight of her stare is no comfort, and he doubts he'll ever grow accustomed to it. "What happened? I heard the shouting. Are you hale—?"

"I'm fine." Loki interrupts. It comes between gritted teeth, and he watches her eyebrow lift with disbelief before something seems to register and she draws her gloved hands back, making a face. Her eyes linger on his hair before she comes to the startling conclusion that "You're wet."

"Hadn't noticed." He mutters. She rolls her eyes in annoyance, huffing slightly.

"Why are you wet?" Sif presses. When he stubbornly offers no answers, her head tips, staring towards the seven youth behind him. He can see her slowly putting together pieces of a fragmented puzzle, but he offers no guidance. They shoved him. They didn't...it's not like sparring is supposed to be gentle taps and giggling. It's meant to be shoves and bruises. He just overreacted.

As he is prone to.

Emotional.

"Loki attacked us!" Hyn exclaims, but his voice is wheezy. Loki suppresses a wince, but only just. "We shoved him into the river to protect ourselves, and when he crawled his way out he tried to strangle me! He's mad I tell you! He needs a cell, not a coddler!"

Loki's jaw tightens and he looks away for a brief moment. His chest hurts. There's too much there. He wants a release, but he can't...

A chorus of agreed murmurs sound within the group and Loki watches with hesitant wariness as Sif's jaw tightens slightly. There's a hardness to her eyes that promises someone's broken nose and Loki grabs her upper arm before she can do anything rash.

"Sif—"

"Don't." Sif rips herself free from the group and stalks past the High Commander to the other Aesir. Tyr makes a grunt of disagreement, but beyond shifting his weight slightly, makes no move to stop her. Loki wraps his arms around his stomach and digs his nails into his back. He hates this. He hates that she doesn't think he can handle himself, hates that she flutters around him like some sort of broken bird, hates that she—

Now he's just being petty.

But sometimes he wishes that they could re-settle smoothly into their previous arrangement: they ignored each other, only interacting with strictly necessary. They'd settled into something professional before the creature happened. Loki was okay with that. He doesn't...he doesn't know how to handle her now.

How to handle any of them.

He doesn't know how to have...It. Them. Friends. Even after all this time.

"What did you do?" Sif demands, jabbing her finger into Hyn's chest. A part of Loki, not shaken and screaming, is partially amused by this. He's been on the end of her fury too many times to count, for both real and imagined slights, he knows the fear that's flashing freely across Hyn's face.

"Who said that we did anything!?" another man demands. He's blond, and sporting a rather unflattering face of facial hair. Is he attempting to grow a beard on his neck for the Norn's sake?

"I do." Sif's hand rests on her sword. She's sporting a confidence he envies. "Because this is sparing you dimwit. Loki was supposed to attack you. That's how this works. Who did this?"

"He tripped, Lady Sif." One of the girls murmurs. "He's clumsy enough as it is without wet earth to help with that."

Loki digs his nails tighter. It's beginning to pinch skin, but the pain is a relief.

Sif doesn't laugh, but a few try for hesitant smiles that fall quickly. The warrior's back is so straight it looks nearly painful. Loki doesn't know whether to stop her, or watch. It's the strangest sensation to him to not have to defend himself.

And he hates it.

Sif's head turns, likely staring the entire group down. Her voice is still so calm, which makes this worse. "Who shoved him?" No one answers. Sif pulls on the hilt of her weapon, beginning to draw. Loki takes a step forward as High Commander Tyr does, prepared to stop her from doing anything stupid. She's so much more like Thor than she realizes. Hotheaded. Impulsive. Angry.

"I did!" A Aesir exclaims that Loki knows for a fact wasn't the perpetrator. It was Hyn because that's who he was fighting. The Aesir speaking was on the other side of the group when Hyn's hands shoved against his arm and Loki toppled. "It was me. No need to start taking off hands, my lady."

"I was rather thinking fingers, but I'm not fastidious." Sif takes a step back and goes quiet. She shoves her sword back into its sheath and Loki sees several of the Aesir openly relax. Idiots. Her fists are tight by her side, and Loki can almost see the calculating shift in her gaze as she determines where hitting the Aesir would hurt the most.

This is completely unnecessary. It's like she said. It's sparing. And they just shoved him, it's not the worst thing that's been done to him. A river of water won't be the death—try not to drown—of him. His jaw is beginning to hurt from how tightly it's clenched.

Loki steps up behind her, managing to grab hold of her shoulder before she can do anything. "Sif." He keeps his voice quiet. "Stop. It's nothing. We can go."

"I think not."

How much trouble would he be in if he punched her? Just this once? Probably a bountiful amount, he's already reacted wrongly once today. No need to add to the growing pile. Loki's shoulders slump thinking about the talking to he's going to get later.

Sedir is not a weapon of violence, Frigga will say, ignoring everything he's just tried to explain, it is a tool for healing and creation.

Why do you never think? Father will mutter, before heaving the great sigh that only Loki can make him draw, and then he'll begin to talk. Father will go on and on, as if somehow speaking at him enough will leave him properly castigated and repentant. It doesn't.

"Sif. Please." Loki tries. Her hazel-brown eyes catch his and her gaze softens almost immediately. He's already been the idiot today. There's no need to drag her down with him. Her posture relaxes somewhat, and Loki turns away in relief, prepared to leave the river far behind them, but Sif lashes out. He wasn't watching her feet, and he suspects she knew that.

The edge of her boot catches the shin of the blame-claiming Aesir and he crumples with a loud surprised shout. Given what Loki has seen her do on the actual field of battle, Sif was holding back considerably. Loki suspects the worst that the Aesir got was a deep bruise, and not a snapped bone. His jaw tightens all the same, irritated.

He side glances her, but the woman doesn't even have the audacity to look guilty.

"Lady Sif," High Commander Tyr sighs, "please stop damaging my students."

Sif scoffs and gestures towards three, "They were in Thor's class. They're long beyond your guidance."

"They're increasing their rank and therefore have to do more years of service." The Commander explains tiredly and glances towards the group. "Get him up. It's just a bruise." The Aesir glances at him, eyes narrowed, "I'd rather you left for the day, Loki. I'll inform your parents of what happened; regardless of what they say, don't come back until next week."

Loki's face heats with humiliation, his fists curling. Can he react like a normal living creature for once in his life? He shakes off the thoughts and forces himself to center in the present as High Commander Tyr stalks off with a huff. Clearly, he's determined that none of the wounds life threatening, and will continue to shout at other soldiers.

"Oh, she broke something!" the Aesir wails, gripping at his calf. The group is fluttering, obviously unsure whether to help Hyn or this idiot first. Hyn, much to Loki's quiet relief, seems mostly undamaged. There isn't even any evidence of Loki's mistreatment on his neck. "I can feel bone rattling within my muscle! Cruel witch!"

Sif smiles. "Indeed." She turns to him, gesturing away from the group, "After you then, my prince."

Loki turns on his heel and stalks off into the grass, ignoring the sharp jibes the group yells after him. Sif's hand lands on his shoulder, and he lets her keep it there until they're from view. Once they've entered the familiar arcs of the beginning of the palace courtyard, he shrugs it off and turns to her, attempting to breathe through the compression in his chest. The suns are helping dry him, but not by much.

The loss of the outside tension has made the inner one worse. He's wet. He's wet and afraid and why is Mother being quiet, she promised she would talk to him, she promised that the dark wouldn't...wouldn't...He's dripping. The world is blurring.

"You didn't have to do that." Loki snaps. "Why did you? I was handling the situation perfectly fine by myself."

He can't breathe.

Sif draws back, but only just. "Clearly. I was trying to help you. It's my duty in case you've forgotten."

To stalk him, she means. Because now she has to be involved of every gritty part of his life whereas before they barely spoke to each other. Before.

Before it.

Before her.

"You didn't have to take up the position of captain to my guard any more than the Idiots Three were forced to join it!" Loki hisses, his words are getting tighter. His vision doesn't look quite right. "I was handling it...I was...I…I—" he grabs at her shoulders to keep upright, feeling his mask crumple, "—can't breathe. Sif!"

He tumbles to his knees, and sees the woman kneel beside him immediately. Her hands grip his shoulders, the pressure tight enough to capture his attention, but not to hurt. The hardness to her face has fled, leaving only concerned sympathy in its wake. "Loki," her voice is soft, "look at me."

He's making hiccuping gasps, and his vision is blurred, but he lifts his head in her direction. "Breathe with me. In for four, out for seven. In…" she does the motion herself, raising her hands to mimic what she's trying to get him to follow. Loki manages to catch her rhythm after a few tries, but can't hold it for long.

Pathetic.

He buries his head into his hands and bites on his inner cheek to stop himself from screaming. It's been months. He has been free for weeks, so why can't he stop thinking about it? Why is he still trapped here? What is wrong with him?

He hears Sif sigh, dropping down next to him. Loki doesn't move. He lets himself crumple, because, though there are few people he trusts to let himself fall apart in front of, Sif was there.

She doesn't say anything. When they get like this, there isn't much to, is there?

At long last, she murmurs, "What happened?"

Loki scoffs, lifting his head up to grumpily stare at her. "Hyn shoved me. I fell in the river. There's not much more to it." He sets his teeth and looks away, but not before he sees Sif's head tilt slightly in confusion. He hasn't told a soul about what happened in the well. Not Frigga. Not Thor. Not them. He can't. Every time he tries to open his mouth, the words fail him. He doesn't even know what to say.

The children who were punished in such a way...they get it, and as much as Loki hates that they understand, it's a relief to not be alone in it.

Try not to—

He rubs his forearms, sighing heavily into the air. The column they stopped behind offers some shading, but not enough to ease the sheer misery of the twin suns beating down on them. He hates summer. He hates being wet. He hates Asgard. Hates that he can't escape the shadow of the creature, though she's been dead for so long.

"This...has to do with her, doesn't it, my prince?" Sif's voice is quiet. Loki bites his tongue to stop himself from correcting her for the umpteenth time. It's Loki. No matter how many times he's tried to tell her that, she keeps calling him the title. He's used to people saying it in mockery, he doesn't know what to do when people don't.

Loki looks forward miserably. "Doesn't everything?"

Sif bites on her lower lip. It's clear she agrees, but she won't admit to it. The Weeping Siren is something they avoid discussing with a wide berth. They've barely said a few clipped sentences to each other since the execution. Their ignorance isn't going to make her go away. Even dead she haunts them.

In the way that Hogun hasn't returned to his homeworld since they were rescued, how Fandral is never without a blade anymore, how Volstagg has little appetite, the way that Sif rubs her arm subconsciously when she's thinking, as if trying to ease the pain of her long-healed broken forearm. Thor's constant, prominent limp. Frigga's paranoia. Father's increased temper. The Warriors Four switching their long-held captain status among the army to join his guard.

It's been months.

How much longer do they have to go before she dies in more than body?

Sif gets up to her feet, if a little awkwardly, and holds out her hand. "I think it's better if we leave the past where it belongs, don't you?"

Yes.

But here they are.

Avoidance. Again.

He takes her hand and lets her pull him up to his feet. Loki's only damp now, and, with a whispered—physical words help concentration—spell, removes the rest of the water from his clothing. It hadn't occurred to him to do this until much later. His mind is far to much of a frazzled mess now.

Both of them are quiet as they go forward.

It's in times like this that Loki misses the arguments. At least there was something to fill the void.

000o000

Loki doesn't have an appetite at supper. He spins the food around the plate, but the thought of consuming anything makes him ill. So he lets it sit there and pretends to listen to the quiet conversation between his parents. Thor, on his left, is boredly looking towards the tapestry behind their parents chairs. The small, private family dining room has only one window, and it's behind the side of the table he and his sibling are seated at.

Loki doesn't know what Thor finds so fascinating about the tapestry; he and his sibling have been looking at the same woven cloth for decades. It doesn't change. Loki could draw a picture of the same waterfall behind Mt. Arne with his eyes closed.

The clicking of cutlery comes to a momentary lapse and Loki sees Frigga's lips purse. She shares the briefest look with Father before leaning forward on the table, clasping her hands together. And here it is. The conclusion of Frigga and Father doing their best to pretend they haven't been staring at him all evening. "Are you not hungry tonight, Loki?"

Loki bites on his cheek, giving a slight shrug. The fork makes its way around the rim again, pushing the grape through the fancy looking salad. Realizing that she's waiting for an audible response, he bites back an annoyed sigh and looks up. "Not really." He pauses for a moment before asking, hopefully, "I'm exhausted, may I be excused?"

"No." Father interjects before Frigga can get the chance to.

Loki slumps. So they heard about Hyn then. He braces himself for the inevitable and sees Thor glance towards him. There's the briefest raise of his eyebrows before he asks, "What did you do now?"

Loki's teeth set. He ignores his brother and looks to the other side of the table. Frigga is carefully picking the napkin up from her lap and folding it with a grace Loki doubts he could mimic on his best day. In silence, she sets the napkin next to her plate and clasps her hands together again, resting them on the edge of the table. The white tablecloth creates a stark contrast with her deep blue sleeves.

"Thor," her voice is even, "would you mind stepping outside, please? Your father and I would like to talk to your brother."

Thor's expression flickers. He glances towards Loki for the briefest moment as if hoping that Loki will ask for him to stay, but Loki makes no such movement. He sits in his chair, rigid, and watches as Thor sighs, but gives a nod to Frigga's question and stands. "Of course, Mother. Good even'."

Loki notices that Thor, as he always has since the healing rooms, keeps a firm grip on the rim of the table. It's in an effort to keep his balance.

Loki hates how he can't stop himself from looking down at Thor's leg. The malformation isn't as obvious as it used to be, months of continued treatment from Eir have some-what straightened what is left of the shattered bone. They're watching the injury now, waiting to see if Thor's body will be able to heal itself given the proper medication, or if they'll need to install a permanent brace.

Loki hates the phrase "watching something"; he's been in enough treatment to know that it means they're putting it on a shelf until it comes exploding off of it. Usually dramatically, and in a way that could have been prevented.

Loki sees Frigga's lips grow tight for a brief moment before Thor manages to right himself and exits the room quietly. His limp makes more noise than any words could have. The obvious sway to his posture, the leaning.

The brokeness.

The door laps shut behind the elder, and Loki turns to his parents as the weight of their gaze settles on him. Before he can really think about what he's going to say, he blurts, "It was sparring. It's not like I removed a part of his body permanently. He'll be fine. Eventually."

"Loki." Frigga's voice is flat. Her expression is still so carefully constructed to hide away her anger, but Loki isn't a fool. He can see it in how tense her hands are, how she's leaning towards Father. "You attacked with the intent to kill. Sedir is not a weapon. It's a tool to heal and create."

"I know that." Loki says between clenched teeth. "Did the High Commander even explain what happened?"

"He did." Father assures, expression growing sharp, "Why do you never think?" he mutters. Loki does his best to repress a flinch, but his father's anger weighs on his shoulders like a physical weight. Crushing him.

Loki's tongue snaps down from the roof of his mouth and, before Father can start on his familiar tirade again, shoves up to his feet. He slaps his hands down on the tabletop.

"I was thinking. I was defending Thor's honor. Why is it that he can beat someone bloody on a battlefield and receive a medal for it, but I shake Hyn around a little and this—" he gestures wildly "—happens?"

"It's not what he did, it's how he did it. Loki." Frigga's tone is disapproving now. "Sedir isn't a weapon; I thought you would know that by now."

They're going in circles.

"You only think that because you were raised among pacifists!" Loki throws up his hands. "You weren't there!"

They never are, but he can't say that. They're the king and queen of the Nine. Expecting more than this once-a-week meal together is more than he should. He's known this since he was young. Yet he can't help wanting.

Father's jaw has gained a tic, but both remain seated. It makes him feel stupid, and strangely childish, even though he left that part of his life behind a long time ago. Carefully, his father asks, "Tyr said that they most they did was shove you into the river. How could this warrant attack? A strangulation, for that matter?"

"It was sparing—"

"Don't use excuses with me, boy!" Father snaps, slapping a fist on the tabletop. Loki flinches back, his breath escaping in a harsh gust. "Your actions can not and should not simply be brushed to the side! This is not the first time one of these...outbursts has happened since the Weeping Siren—" something dangerously close to a squeak slips through Loki's lips at the spoken name "—and unless you manage to pull yourself together, we will be forced to interfere. You're not well, son."

Son. The word slithers into his subconscious and drags up nothing but nausea. His fists clench at his sides. He wants to hold the king's stare, but finds he can't. "Please don't...say that."

"My point proven exactly." Father snaps. Loki chokes, his nails digging into his palms. Not well? Do they think he's as insane as everyone else does? What is wrong with him? Why can't he get any better? Is he stuck like this? Eternally warring with the ghosts that haunt him? Is there no escape? What does he have to do to make people see him as more than a problem?

"Odin," Frigga's voice is sharp. A warning. Frigga rests a hand on her husband's arm before saying, softer, "What your father is trying to say is that we are concerned for you. What happened today is only proof that there's something else going on. If you would talk to us, explain your side…"

"Then you'll still be angry." Loki bites. A nastier part of him wants to sneer that they don't know how to be anything different, but he swallows the words. "What Tyr told you was the truth. I'm unwell." He steps away from the table, intending to slip away from the small confinements, but Frigga rises to her feet.

"Loki. Stop. Sit down. We're not done yet. We need to talk about this."

He freezes, wrestling between his urge to flee, but unable to. Defying authority isn't something he can do anymore after the creature. He tries, but the knowledge of the ever-awaiting consequences to his actions stops him before he can get much of anywhere.

He deflates. The indignation seems to seep out of him in one gust of air and he falls stiffly into the chair again. He waits for them to strike him, but it doesn't come. This isn't the Blodig Skog, he tries to tell himself, the circumstances are different.

But he can't help instinct.

Frigga's expression smooths over, "The High Commander asked us to prevent you from returning to the ring for the rest of the week. I agree. This isn't the first outburst where you've been reported as...absent mentally. What can we do about it?"

Do they really think if he knew that he wouldn't have told them?

He shakes his head. "May I be excused? Please?"

"Loki, please," Frigga seems earnest. "Please try better to control your temper. You're going to get someone hurt if you don't."

It stings, vaguely, that Frigga is more concerned about everyone else's safety than his own. He bites on his tongue. "May I go?"

Frigga looks hesitant, but Father gives a stiff nod, eyes angry. "Yes. You can go."

He almost sounds like he's trying to shoo Loki out of the room, and he bites harder on his inner cheek as he stands up. He tries to keep himself as put-together as he can before he slips away from the room. He shuts the door as softly as he can, even though his muscles are coiled tight enough to slam it.

"You tried to kill someone in training today?"

Loki startles at the noise, magic rising to the surface sharply in defense, but there's no threat but Thor. His brother is staring at him incredulously, obviously having been listening to the entire conversation. Loki's face heats with humiliation. He doesn't want to explain himself. He doesn't want to go into detail about what happened and why he did it. He already knows he's crazy, he doesn't need everyone around him to confirm it. Again. They already have.

"Yes."

Thor's eyebrows raise. He looks doubtful, but there's the slightest edge of unease on his face, as if he actually thinks Loki is capable of cold-blooded murder. Well. Pleasant thoughts. Such trust. Does Thor think he's mad, too?

His brother shifts on his feet, the briefest edge of a wince appearing on his features. "That doesn't..." he starts, obviously conflicted. "Why would you do that? What did he do to you?"

"I'm insane. Do I need another reason?" Loki starts pick his way through the royal family's wing to his room, tasting blood in his mouth. He must have been biting harder than he thought.

"Loki!" Thor calls at his back.

"Save it." Loki snaps without looking towards him. "I'm not in the mood for another lecture on honor."

"I wasn't—"

"Good eve, Thor," Loki says pointedly and slips into the confines of his room before his brother can formulate a response. He shuts the door quietly and doesn't bother to light anything, any strength leaving him almost immediately when he's alone. Loki slumps down against the wood, wrapping his arms around his legs and trying to breathe.

The darkness wraps around him, a familiar feeling. If Loki closes his eyes, he swears he can hear the rhythm of the Vanir children and Warriors Four breathing into the dark of the cellar. But when he opens them, he's alone.

Author's Note: Everyone please stay safe and healthy. If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to hear your thoughts about the chapter. ;)

Next chapter: April.