Author: Girl Who Writes
Characters: Sif, Sif/Loki
Word Count: 472
Genre: Horror, Angst, Drama
Summary: "You think you know pain? He will make you long for something as sweet as pain." The Lady Sif is broken in a million different ways to pay for his sins.
Notes: This takes place in a Post-Avengers, possible Post-Dark World.
This started out as a more conventional chapter fic, but I found myself experimenting and it evolved into something else, something more interesting. I was really nervous about posting it because it's so different but I really enjoy writing it, so voila!
I know very little about any sort of comic-canon; most of my information (especially for the Thor-specific characters) is gleaned from the MCU, from Tumblr discussions and various headcanons.
Thank you for reading!
Disclaimer: The MCU belongs to Marvel and Disney, and I make no profits from this fan-based venture.
part one: i don't ever think about death; it's alright if you do
She does not know the passing of time.
She does not know where she is.
All she knows is pain.
And she cares for nothing else.
He strips her flesh from her body, her muscle from bone.
He burns her body black, makes her bones creak with ice.
She lost her warrior's stoicism a long time ago.
Now she screams her throat raw and bloody.
But she does not speak.
Oh, she prays to Yggdrasil. She repeats names under her breath like a child's prayer. She finds herself whispering to a death that never comes.
He learns quickly which faces to wear to cause the most perfect of suffering.
He wears Thor's face, grinning in feral pleasure, as he smashes her bones to splinters and dust with Mjolnir. He wears Frigga's as magic and poisons burn away at her. He wears Fandral's as he held her down.
And the terrible Loki's as he carved her up, knives flashing and descending so very slowly into her flesh. He would butcher her almost intimately, his teeth flashing white and bloody, as he cut his path downwards.
She knows in that terrible, raw, alive place buried deep in what remains of her mind that it is not him, not them.
But that is such brittle knowledge when her blood and flesh hang from his knife.
That sort of pain, there is no sound. There is heavy ragged breathing and bright lights behind shuttered eyelids. It is words on her lips that she cannot remember and cannot understand.
Pain is sharp and it is dull and it is exhausting. She has learnt how many different ways she can bleed - the scarlet stains smeared on rock; the flicker and silent death of all hope; the bitter choked scream of will.
She is so tired of seeing her closest and dearest carve her up with so much savage pleasure. She is tired of the taste of blood in her mouth. She is tired of fighting for her next breath, for knowing what it feels like to have her body broken around her over and over again.
He breaks her and then he brings her back, healed imperfectly so that she might remember, so the next time it will hurt more.
She chokes on blood and her own teeth and she glares up at him, the last of any sort of obstinance she might gather, through hair matted with blood and filth. And her rough, raw voice asks, "What do you want?" It still bears the ghosts of steel, of determination and strength, and that makes it impossibly unfamiliar.
He leans close to her, his stinking breath foul in her face. He grins at her as his hands close over her broken and burnt arms, holding her in place.
"There is nothing I want from you, Shieldmaiden," he laughs.