Day Seven: Crimson (It's angst day, guys)

At the conclusion of every scenario Loki had conjured up in the fractured thoughts of his mind, he'd never expected this kind of outcome, and he couldn't figure out where he'd gone wrong with it all. He had predicted everything up to the final moment, that crucial point in time where his true allegiances would be brought to light. He had never really been sure, anyway, what side he would take, but he'd known that, despite what happened, blood would be coating his hands at the end of it.

He'd just never foreseen who's blood, and he was regretting the natural, haunting assumption he'd made that it would be Malekith's. He'd never sat down and thought long and hard about all of the other possibilities, and he was chiding himself on the action, or lack thereof, as his fingers shook threateningly, dark red staining his pale hands as he glanced, too soon, down at the ground, which was flooded with puddles that glistened scarlet in the shadows cast by the leaden clouds floating overhead.

He was sure, and horrified by the fact, that the warm spots on his face were due to the small dots of red littering his skin, after being sprayed with blood, and the sensation only unnerved him further. Loki hadn't counted the wildcards, hadn't expected any, and he felt ever the fool as he cradled her, just like he would a frightened child, in his arms, green eyes red and raw with the tears dripping down his cheeks, mixing with the dark liquid already there.

He'd never dreamed that she- after so many glares and threats, after all of the bad blood between them, after each year they had drifted and all the times he'd let her down, after that simmering look of hatred gleaming brightly in eyes that once gazed at him so adoringly-would sacrifice herself, and for him, of all people. And it was that surprise, that complete and utterly devastating shock, that pulled the question from him before he could stop its outpour.

"Why?"

Around them, Thor and Jane and the Warriors Three stood forlornly, some sobbing and some trying not to, fearful of coming too close to Loki, who was hunched over Sif's trembling body just like a statue, deathly still. Sif coughed, small dots of ruby clinging to her armor and spotting her lips, the mail at her chest broken and pierced and covered in blood. It caked the dark strands of her hair and painted her fingers as she clutched at his arm, his own armor torn and bent, the leather ruined and stained and missing in places.

With his palm pressed to the hole in her chest, the blood gushed around his fingers, and he could feel the failing pound of her heart, fluttering like a trapped bird's wings, just as fast and sure as it had all those years ago, her body pressed to his, so awfully familiar to the feel of her heart as they'd danced, or as she'd curled up with him to keep his nightmares at bay, or as she'd hugged his back when he was turned. So familiar, and yet so horribly foreign, for he knew that the strong certainty of each beat was limited, and that each rattling breath-and he compared the sound of it to when she'd gasp after one of his sudden pranks-was numbered.

He knew that the light in her eyes, always so bright and vivid, was dimming with each second passed, and that the strength in her grip, always a reliably steady thing, was quickly dwindling. Her cherry lips curved up at the corners, and he was brought back in time, brought back to the moment Thor had dragged him along on one of his sparring sessions as a child.

He saw a girl there, standing with her wooden sword and determined expression, her grey eyes lit up with a fire Loki'd never seen before, glimmering brightly with the lingering promise of a fight, her golden locks pulled back in a tight ponytail. The sting of jealousy soared through him. So this was the 'Sif' Thor had rambled about, her tiny fingers gripping the weapon like it was destined to be held in her grip, a small smile turning her lips up, a miniscule, triumphant gesture-but the fight hadn't even begun yet.

"There are some things…you don't forget," she choked, her body convulsing with each syllable, and Loki frowned, shaking his head.

"But you will. You will forget," he whispered, lowly so that the rest of his comrades wouldn't hear, and her smile widened, her brows knitting together after a fresh wave of pain. He blinked away tears, the water blurring his vision and making Sif seem like one hazy, bloodied image, swallowing past the lump in his throat as he sighed shakily.

"And I'll forget," he murmured hoarsely, fresh tears rolling, coldly, down his skin, heated with the grief threatening to swallow him.

"Time will pass and years will go by and I won't remember." He didn't mention how he wouldn't remember the exact hum of her voice, or the specific lull of her honeyed accent, or the vibrations of her melodic laughter. He didn't say how he'd forget the way the light made her eyes shine brighter than the sun, or how her skin looked at night, pale flesh awash with moonlight, or the tender press of her palms at his back when he needed her touch the most. He didn't say that he'd forget her, and the precise way she was, or how she acted, or the small mannerisms she carried with her, or the shade of her ebony hair as it basked in the haloed glow of the sunlight shining down on her, making her look for all the world like an angel cast out of Heaven.

Loki didn't even think to remind her that he would lose her, just as he was losing her now, every day of his life, when he realized he couldn't remember another thing about her, and the thought sent him shaking with renewed grief as she relaxed in his loose embrace, her lips parted as she tried to breathe one last time.

"I'm sorry," she gasped, and he brought his forehead down to hers, closing his eyes against the burn of tears.

"As am I," he said beneath his breath, his lips brushing against her nose, and he could feel her smile at his neck, feel the slow movement of it against his skin, but he was too afraid to look down, and so he just ran his slender fingers through her tangled hair, murmuring soothingly as her smile fell.

He could sense it, heady in the air, and he let her face flash in his mind.

Bright eyed and defiant, arguing with him before he kissed her, the slow tremble of her touch as she hugged him, the soft tone of her whispers late at night, the shine of her smile as he twirled her on the balcony, the flicker of her wandering eyes as he tried to read a spell book, the sharp point of a sword as she knocked him to the ground of the sparring court, the betrayed fall of her smile, the husky sound of her threat, the hatred lying in her eyes, the confused glance she sent him when he saved her life, the widening of her eyes as she moved to run in front of him, falling upon the ground with that damned sword piercing her chest.

Opening his eyes, he moved to press a kiss to her forehead, and refused to let her go, even when her body, so warm and alive and familiar, went still.

And Loki, for all of the times he'd sworn that he hated her and the life she stood for, couldn't look down, terrified of seeing the burning light in her eyes extinguished.

Please R&R! Feedback of any kind is always appreciated! ;)

And that concludes Sifki Week. THANK YOU to all who read and reviewed! :)