Cellmates

16

Everyone was silent. Everyone was still. And all in a way that made it seem like time had simply stopped. But the pause button had only gotten stuck and soon the grim reality of it would return. Naomi learned then that silence has a sound – a very definite sound. First it's a dull ringing: the absence of something truly audible, before everything else overwhelms it. A breath barely exhaled is as loud as a train whistle. A tiny sniffle sounds like an avalanche. Everything resonates so loudly, in ways it is worse than if hundreds of sounds fought over one another. Predominantly, the room was staring occupants, breathless and unbelieving. If stares had sound, she wondered. If stares had sound, hers would be screaming.

Loki lay on the floor, half curled on his side, his spine awkwardly twisted. She watched – watched closely until her eyes were dry – to spot the rise and fall of his chest. But it wasn't there. He didn't move. She into the room, half a step at a time, her wide eyes never leaving him. She gripped the hilt of the sword for dear life as she finally came close enough to see what had become of him. A perfect puddle of blood had accumulated around his face, no doubt staining his cheek where it was pressed against the floor. His eyes were still open, partially lidded, but their once vivid green was now diluted and pale and lifeless.

Naomi didn't take note of Thor's presence until she was nearly on top of him. She assumed the same of him the way he suddenly startled, though without much concern. He knelt beside his brother, hands fisted against each other in his lap. His eyes were wet. He didn't care about her or her previously unwelcome presence. No one moved to intercept her, even though they were all aware of her by now. Loki's shell of a body was the chilling center of everyone's attention. She hovered over him, the blade of the sword dragging slightly, her grip having slackened considerably. She watched him in silence as the others did, for an eternity it seemed, until she snapped back to her reality. This is real.

Turning to fully take in the mourning man beside her, she remembered. He kidnapped her. He brought her here. She saw the wounds in his arm that had led Loki to that conclusion. She noted their king on the dais – Loki's not-father – staring as wide-eyed and lost as the rest. And then there were all of the guards standing idly by. All of them, unmoving and useless. Her grip tightened, her hand fisted around her weapon. "Help him," she said. Her whisper echoed loudly in the quiet. "Somebody help him." Louder this time.

Thor looked up, the whole of him utterly defeated. "It's too late."

Without warning, she swung the sword and hit Thor square in the cheek. "It's not too late!" Surprisingly she had only nicked him under the eye, in spite of her concussive strength blow. He recoiled at her startling aggression, more so when she raised the blade again, threatening to inflict the proper damage this time. The few surviving guards seized her, but this time she would not be silenced. The sword slipped out of her hand and fell with a resounding clatter to the floor, the metal on marble ruckus snapping the entire room from its fog.

She squirmed until Loki's shirt tore and she slipped free, sliding swiftly to the floor at his side. She felt the guard's heavy hands again, threatening to steal her away. But not this time. Not this time. Loki's mother rushed to their aide, or so she suspected. But instead, miraculously, she settled in beside her, one hand gentle on Loki's side and the other quickly soothing the anger in her shoulders. The attempt only boiled her blood further, as she tugged Loki tighter into her grasp, fisting the wrinkled fabric of his shirt. But her maternal touch continued its crusade and Naomi heard her quiet voice over her shoulder, "Let her be."

The guards retreated.

Naomi tried to escape her as well, but she only moved closer. So Naomi ignored her instead. She turned Loki onto his back, grimacing when she saw the blood marring his beautiful pale white skin. She pressed his eyelids shut, the half-stare sickening her to look at. Pressing her ear to his chest she found no sound, no steady thump, no rise and fall, not even a gurgle. Nothing. "Loki?" she called quietly. Her hand brushed through his hair without response. "Loki, you promised me. You promised you wouldn't do this again." Loki's mother, the woman called Frigga, her soft and slightly aged hands moving up and down her arm. Her forearm would lose feeling before long at her pace. Already, she hardly felt it. She felt Loki's soft hair stick and knot around her fingers. She felt his skin, growing colder and more rigid. She felt reality – cruel fate – tugging on the hairs at the back of her neck. He's gone. But it burned her to even consider it. "I know you're still there – I know it. I know it."