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1000 years incarcerated. That was her sentence. No desperate pleas. No goodbyes.
Straight to her cell without delay. Sympathy was not deserving for a person such as her.
Murderer.
The word seemed harsh. Too harsh. But it was the reality Sigyn had to face and live with for the rest of her life.
The guards led Sigyn from the Throne room in chains enclosing her wrists and ankles. The weight of them hung heavily on her heart, with a burden she did not know how to carry. The Al-father had just deemed her fate and not a single person questioned it. Not even her own mother.
Her feet continued to trudge forward toward the doors, while her gaze was set straight ahead, blank. The idea that nothing more could be done to change her fate, left her feeling tired. Like the world had drained her of all that she had.
One of the guards yanked on the chain leashed to her cuffs and she stumbled forward and, with her feet unable to step far enough forward to recover herself, she fell with a loud clank of her metal bracelets that echoed through the hall.
The pain Sigyn felt as her knees hit the hard floor was sharp, although nothing in comparison to the emotional jab she felt. The ground beneath her palms was smooth and cold, she wanted to curl up and stay there and ignore the humliation she had to face. However, one big hand grabbed onto her upper arm, pulling her back to her feet, and back to the harsh light of reality.
"Move," the guard commanded.
Ignoring the throbbing in her knees, Sigyn returned her gaze forward and began to walk again. Her bottom lip trembled; it was the only external slip indicating how she truly felt. The rest was securely hidden underneath an vacant mask acting as a wall, protecting her from anyone else who tried to hurt her again.
When they approached the end of the corridor, she noticed about a dozen guards lined up to enter the hall next. Strange. This was an unusually large amount of guards, so naturally, her eyes began to scan the men standing there, aiming to steal a glimpse at what unlucky prisoner warranted such eleborate safety measures. Peering between the helmets of two guards, her eyes widened a little at whom she saw: Prince Loki.
Sigyn blinked, hardly believing her eyes. The younger prince was supposed to be dead, in fact it had been an a year since the entire kingdom mourned his loss, and yet there he was, standing a few feet away from her, unquestionably alive. Although, to be fair, it looked as though he had aged centuries.
How has he returned? And more than that, why was he chained up like a prisoner?
Her eyes swept over him: In the few past occurrences Sigyn had seen him, mostly at royal events and such, his hair had always been neatly slicked back without a strand out of place, but now it was longer, wavy, and absolutely wild. It only added to the chaos that ensued: there were scrapes on his face, tears in his lavish green and black armor, and yet, despite those elements, a hint of a smile traced on his thin lips. His stance, which she admired, was completely composed as if he hadn't done anything wrong– as though he wanted to be there, and everything that was wrong was simply expected, a minor set back more or less.
While Sigyn treated her chains as a heavy burden to her soul, Loki wore his chains like a second layer of skin.
Loki's sharp, pale-blue eyes flickered towards her, catching her own for a fleeting moment, and he gave her this beautiful, twisted smirk. Yet his eyes conflicted, portraying a horrible, hollow emptiness indicating nothing at all, and the sight of it made her feel chilled to the bone.
Even fallen princes could wear masks too.
Loki set his gaze forward as his own guards began to lead him out, his self-stature never faltering. Sigyn frowned bitterly as she continued walking in the opposite direction. She couldn't believe the Alfather would have the audacity to place his own son on trial. The act just seemed heartless. Surely matters between the royal household members would be dealt with differently? Especially under the circumstances of his disappearance. That is, unless the Allfather had no intention of deeming his 'lesser' son innocent.
Suddenly a new feeling turned itself in her gut and it wasn't fear or sadness. It was pure rage.
She was angry for everything that had happened, everything that had been unjustly accused of her, and the way she had been treated. She was angry at everyone, her mother and Odin most of all. She was even angry for Loki. She was just so angry.
So she smiled, lifting her chest and straightening her posture. If the Allfather wanted to enforce unfair sentences for his selfish cause, then let it be as such. She would not follow the rules of an unjust King and would play no part in his selfish scemes. She knew what it took, and how to wear her chains. Because in the end, this was exactly where she was meant to be.