Author's Note: Yeah, so I adored the Thor film, and though I've never read any of the Marvel comics, I've always been a fan of Norse mythology – and Loki in particular. He was the only one with a sense of humour. :'D
But yes, the character featured in this could be considered an OC, but she's a well-known figure in Norse mythology, for reasons you'll soon discover. I don't know whether she ever appeared in the comics, but for this ficlet's sake – pretend she didn't, kay?
Also, I'm not really happy with how this came out. I kept stopping, then coming back to it a while later, so it feels kinda choppy and jumbled. Still, hope it comes out okay.

It all could have been, should have been so very easily avoided, she mused. Decades of living in the all-encompassing shadow of an older sibling so very loved by all in Asgard, of desperate bids to earn the approval of a loving, yet somehow oblivious father.

Loki had never been evil, this Sigyn was so very sure of. Mischievous, and with a deep affixation for good-natured trickery, but never, never had he ever been evil.

Her memories were filled with nothing but fondness for the man, and though time ran so differently for them whence compared to the way mortals experienced it, he had been born what they called a century or so before her – give or take a few decades. By the time she'd been born, he had the appearance of a child nearing a decade of age, and the streak of mischief had already taken root; according to the scornful tales that fell from the lips of her judgemental mother.

The first time they'd met, he was well onto his way to becoming a man, and she was nearing the very adolescence he was experiencing. Even then, when naivety had been a positive quality and not something to be scoffed at behind closed doors, she'd been able to see that he was troubled. Not outwardly so, no, but there had been a deep-seeded sense of loneliness, a strong feeling that he didn't quite belong.

Compared to loud and boisterous and likable Thor, Loki was nothing exceptionally outstanding. He tended to fade into the background when in the presence of his older brother. His prowess in the field of magic made him even more of an outcast, especially amongst those jealous of his innate intuition in that area.

It was his gift for magic that had drawn her to him, all inquisitiveness and curiosity; unusually large, wide eyes the colour of honey peering out from a messy mop of messy brown hair that her mother, no matter how she tried, could never manage to tame.

Sigyn had never been particularly skilled in any area of study Asgardian children were expected to engross themselves within. It wasn't that she was useless, she managed to pass every class and session reasonably well, but that was all. Her results were always average, her mind too prone to drifting and her imagination too flighty for her to really excel in anything.

So when she had seen an older boy clasping green flames in his hands as if it was the easiest, most natural thing in the worlds, naturally, she'd been intrigued. And perhaps a little envious of the ease with which he conjured them.

She'd ambled over, all gangly limbs and awkward features, in that stage of growth before everything fit together properly, and casually perched herself across from him; blinking when a pair of emeralds eyes flicked up to look at her, the flames reflecting and melding with the colour of his irises.

How are you doing that? She'd asked, truly curious, and it had been that, that genuine interest in something he'd done that had paved the first stone in the road they'd travel down together. A small, shy smile had tilted one side of his lips upwards, and on that day, he began teaching her how to embrace magic.

For magic wasn't a tool, he'd explained, but an extension of one's self. Being young, Sigyn hadn't particularly understood it at the time, but as time progressed, with a great deal of patience on his behalf, and an unusual amount of effort on hers, it became easier for her, clearer as well.

And her tutor noticed.

She began to do better in that one class, and the little teaching sessions with Loki enabled her to excel in something for once in her life.

Things changed, however, as she grew older. Though there were exceptions to the rule, women weren't typically expected, nor allowed, to fight. They were expected to remain within the safety of Asgard's borders, to live scholarly, domestic lives where harm could never befall them. Sigyn hadn't ever been particularly bothered by this, since she knew her presence in any fight would be a hindrance at the best of times and her sense of self-preservation ran deep.

It was the protocol that came with becoming a young woman that became an outlet for her disdain. Whereas they had been able to walk around and sit around and be around each other before without encountering any problems, their doing so eventually began to draw the eyes of their elders.

Walking around with an unbound man, like some harlot, her mother had so passionately exclaimed, you are a young lady, Sigyn, and I won't have you ruining your future by doing something so unseemly!

Sif walked around with unbound men, and she was no harlot, had been her quick reply, knowing that even her mother – for all her temper and pride- wouldn't dare speak a word against the fearsome warrioress.

Yes, well, you are not Sif. You are a young girl, and I won't have any of it.

And that, had been the end of that. Or at least until Sigyn had remembered she could use magic. After making a copy of herself, and refusing to notice how hazy it was, or how it flickered in and out of sight every few seconds, she had calmly loped out of her window and onto the ground – something that wasn't anywhere near as exciting as it sounded, considering her room was on ground level.

She had found him where she always found him, sitting in that same spot in one of the less-travelled halls of the Allfather's Keep. He'd been surprised at first, having been given the very same speech she had, he told her, but had wryly noted that she was far too free-spirited to be told to do something.

Especially when it was something so stupid.

They had walked around, as was their 'tradition', carefully avoiding any other people, and had stopped in one of the smaller, quieter gardens. He had looked at her differently, she remembered that clearly enough, the caring green eyes gazing at her with something they hadn't ever gazed at her with. And when her cheeks began to feel warm, she'd spun around, lifting and dropping her arms a few time as her mind raced to fill the awkward silence surrounding them.

The steady friendship, formed out of a mutual lack of social ties, had changed that afternoon. With a clasping of hands and an innocent embrace, the line that they'd been so fervently warned against crossing had been leapt over.

The son of the Asgardian King, and the daughter of a widely feared governess, a pair that would have never been suspected by anybody in any of the realms.

And knowing this, it had been kept a secret. For years afterwards they continued on together, and with the exception of certain acts of affection, everything progressed as it usually did.

But she had noticed it when they first met, and the closer they became, the more she noticed it. The desperation out of which he acted, trying to impress his father, and be recognised for his own accomplishments, rather than that of his father or brother…

It changed him from the man she loved into somebody that she didn't recognise. Still, that adoration and affection kept her from bringing it up. She was there for him when nobody else was, when the stress on his shoulders became too much she tried to share the burden, but she knew that damage had been irrevocably done.

What she hadn't known, what she wished she had have realised, was just how deeply that damage had affected him. As he orchestrated his own plans, arranging things behind the scenes, trying to keep it all a secret from her, she'd watched. She'd watched, and then pretended not to notice. Turned away, time and time again, not wanting to admit that her gentle, silver-tongued husband was doing terrible things.

He wasn't perfect. Sigyn knew that, and it had never been a problem, because nobody was perfect; she herself was far from it to boot. But for all his trickery and antics, he'd never before tried to consciously hurt anyone, and it was that knowledge she'd clung to; referring to it over and over again, an almost religious mantra to stop herself from contemplating anything otherwise.

Thor's banishment, the Allfather's unusual slumber, Loki's claiming of the throne… It had all set off warning bells in the back of her mind, and as he retreated further and further from her, becoming more aggressive and uncaring of those around him… She'd refused again and again to contemplate that anything other than grief was affecting him.

His brother, his only older brother who, regardless of the envy that was always present, he adored and idolised, had been banished to the mortal realm. His father, the father whose approval he so doggedly attempted to earn, had fallen into a slumber so unlike those he was known to take. And he was ruling Asgard, as King and protector of such a realm, it was understandable that he be stressed, and doubly so when everything else was taken into consideration.

And so she ignored it. When he snapped at her, ordered her around, she had smiled sadly and with a caring touch to his arm or shoulder, had done as she was asked to do. She became complacent to do as she was told, to stand behind her husband, and to support him no matter what he was doing.

It was with Thor's return that she began to face everything. Her suspicions were confirmed by the blonde warrior, but it wasn't this that caused her pain. It was Loki's apathy. At her questioning, her shaky demands for answers, he had looked at her, his face so blank and devoid of any emotion, and it was in that moment that she had felt pain.

Everything had become numb, her legs shaking beneath her as the two brothers battled one another; supported by an equally horrified Frigg, she had cried. When Odin had awoken, rushing from the room so quickly she barely registered it, Sigyn had cried. When Thor returned with his father, his own face stricken with grief and tears of his own, Sigyn had cried.

Because she knew. She knew that her husband wasn't coming back, but above all else, she knew that even if he had come back, he wouldn't be her Loki.

And looking back on it all, she felt guilty. Because they all should have noticed the signs. His parents should have noticed how out of place the man had been as a child, always fighting with his brother for the spotlight. His friends, though more appropriately Thor's friends, should have noticed how their fawning and idolising of Thor affected his brother. She should have noticed all of this and more. And to some degree she had.

But she'd done nothing about it.

It was this grief that plagued her, coupled with regret, and as she stood at the edge of the road that had once lead to the Bifrost, she released a shaky sigh.

She would wait for him, that much was true. However long it took, she was prepared to wait. And when he returned, for she refused to think about the possibility he might not ever come back, she'd apologise. She'd apologise for not taking enough notice. It was more than likely he would also receive a hearty slap for having put her through so much, but she doubted she could stay angry at him.

She'd never been able to before. And besides, she thought wryly, placing a hand over her slightly rounded stomach, it wouldn't do any good to stay mad. It wouldn't be good for their little Vali.

Author's Note: Yeah, so this may stay a one-shot, or I might write out a longer story. Who knows?
Let me know what you thought in a review, yeah?