Archive of Our Own ^beta

"My Queen?"

Frigga kept her eyes on her work. "Mm?"

"You asked me to come." She kept all traces of impatience from her voice; her mother's cheeks would burst red with shame had she done otherwise.

An arched, amused eyebrow told her she shouldn't consider her efforts a rousing success.

"Yes, I remember now," Frigga said. "It was so long ago I had nearly forgotten. Here, sit with me." 

"I didn't mean to delay." She had in fact come as soon as the queen's maiden Lofn had found her. It was just the finding that had taken a while. A strange feeling had settled in Sif's stomach during her evening meal—not heavy, but light, jittery, lifting her out of her seat and down the empty corridors, down, down, to the shafts and shadows—

"You know," Frigga said, and Sif's posture stiffened, "your parents were owed a great favor from our house after the war. Your mother Syn watched over the doors of these very halls. She asked only in repayment that I teach you this." Her fingers danced over the shimmering threads.

Sif swallowed, her throat felt tight. This request she knew well, and it was like a pinprick to her heart, even after all these years. 

"Are you to teach me now?"

Frigga's eyes crinkled, and there was a glint of something familiar in them, something warm and playful and so long forgotten an unexpected ache shot through Sif like a spear of ice. It melted fast, though, under the sun of Frigga's open smile.

"I will tell you now what I told your mother then: No. I shall not, for in your heart you do not wish to learn it." She leaned over and patted Sif's knuckles. "And thus can it never be properly learned."

Sif straightened her back, affronted. "I could—"

Frigga only laughed. "My dear Sif. I am sure you could set about taming the wildest beasts in the universe with but a look, but in this you must trust me. I declined your parents' request and granted instead that you be given any place in court of your own choosing. Suffice to say, they didn't realize you meant to take your rightful place in the mud and muck of the training grounds."

There was that glint again—knowing and satisfied.

"But you did," Sif said, and Frigga smiled.

"Perhaps." Her fingers caressed her work again. The threads gleamed in the fading light of the sun, glinting golden and silver, tumbling wisps of starlight and moonlight ready to arch and leap into the purple blush of night. It was a magic—a gift—Sif could never even try to understand.

"You Saw," she said, understanding that much at least.

"I see many things," Frigga non-answered. She reached out and pressed her fingers to Sif's temple, cupped her cheek with the patience and love of a mother. A warmth spread through Sif, a sudden gladness—the thawing snap of spring after a long, cold winter. 

"But that is not why I called you here," Frigga said, removing her hand.

The warmth remained, buzzing under Sif's skin. Green firelight, familiar and comforting and electric. She had been too unsettled of late, her sleep unrestful, her heart too cold. 

"Here." Frigga turned suddenly and brought forth a tray laden with food, an empty goblet, a corked bottle of red wine. "Take this with you."

"I've already eaten, my lady."

"It's not for you. Lofn says you were heading to the prisons anyway, take this with you. And send my love." Her face was a delicate combination of regret and hope.

It was then Sif noticed the thick book under the plate of food, its spine aged and cracked, its pages yellowed, thick, handpressed. The sort of book oft caressed by pale, long fingers.

"I—"

"None of that," Frigga said, and composed her features. "Go on. I am busy, you know." To call her smirk faint would be to call Thor a shrimpling. 

"Oh." Sif took the tray with hands that did not shake, thank you very much. "Thy will be done," she muttered—very respectfully, Mother—balancing the heavy load as she stood.

Frigga laughed at that, a tinkling sound like crystals in the wind, and Sif found as always that she could not begrudge the queen her gift of Sight, no matter how vaguely unhelpful or annoyingly presumptuous it could be.

It filled her with no less dread, though, to have a reason to go down in the darkness, instead of a nameless compulsion. She wanted to see him, did not want to see him, needed to see him, to speak with him, to disavow him, to touch him, to scream at him and rage at him and crush his neck under her fingers while he explained to her, explained it all, made it all make sense because right now she had nothing. No comfort in his imprisonment, in his violence, in his silence. 

"You seek answers," Frigga said. "Something tells me that the Lady Sif, Tamer of the Wilderness, has the means to find them."

Sif would have taken it for the simple encouragement she was sure it was—that is, until Frigga winked. 

That blasted wink.

Oh, she had the means. She'd forgotten she had the means, but that didn't make the means any less had. 

Sif loved Frigga with all her heart, but reminding her of that damned cursed vial, not-so-innocently collecting dust in her dressing room, might have broken her heart and all her love with it.

"Damned cursed vial!"

It would work, or at least she'd been told it would work. It would bring her all the answers she desired, unknowns that kept her awake at night, that plagued her and vexed her and wouldn't let her have more than a moment's distracted peace—but at what cost? 

It was too much of a temptation, as she was sure he'd always meant it to be, the snake. Well, perhaps he wouldn't appreciate his little games when they were turned back around on him. Perhaps—perhaps it wouldn't be the unforgivable violation she'd come to suspect it to be.

And after all, the Lady Sif was a woman of action, not of politics. She pushed her shoulders back, tightened the band around her braid. Let others debate the moral necessity of her actions; she was meant only for hard, swift results.

She had a dressing room just off the east end of the training grounds, near the public baths. A convenience after the mud and sweat of endless maneuvers and spars, even more convenient when she wound up there in the odd hours of the evening, the founts fresh with privacy and untouched water.

The princes, of course, had their private baths, but that never seemed to stop Thor from carousing with his shield brothers—and purposefully flaunting his perfectly sculpted physique, no doubt.

Loki, though. Loki preferred not to share in their measuring contests. But that didn't mean he always avoided the baths. There had been more than a few nights when it had been just the two of them, and he would form the steam into moving shapes and animals and constellations, and smile when she smiled, and carefully push a strand of wet hair behind her ear, and ask her if she was enjoying the heat with far too much pleasure in his voice before turning the water around her to ice. He'd laugh until she dunked his head under the water. Sometimes that didn't result in the sort of revenge she imagined it would, but perhaps in exactly the kind of contrition he'd planned from the start of his devilry. Loki had always been the ask-for-forgiveness type over the ask-for-permission, and lucky for him he was very skilled at asking. And at using magic to breathe underwater with her legs draped over his shoulders.

Sif flushed at the memories, shame and heat igniting a spark in her blood that should have been tamped out long ago.

She passed the training grounds, sidestepped the entrance to the baths—her neck so stiff from refusing to turn even a millimeter in their direction it could bolster a wall against a siege—and gripped the tray in her hands tighter. The entrance to her dressing room came into sight.

A pause. A deep breath. A moment for her courage and her stupidity and her good sense to battle it out.

A moment that turned into a minute. That turned into three.

Footsteps sounded down the stone corridor. She turned, careful to keep the tray balanced, careful to keep the unease and indecision off her face as Hogun strode exactly in her direction, adjusting a wrist guard with one hand, gripping the handle of his mace with the other.

"Ah, Hogun," she said as he passed, and held out the tray to him for lack of anything better to do with her nervous hands. "Hold this for a moment."

"Sif!" Hogun lurched back, startled away from her. But a quick brush of his hand over his beard seemed to summon his composure. "Your stealth is improving. I did not see you approach."

"Improving! Pah. I am always at my peak. And anyway, I was standing right here. For a while. You could not have missed me." She swallowed down her nerves; they tasted like lightning. "It's no matter. Hold this while I retrieve… a thing. From my dressing room. A lady thing. For ladies. It would interest you not."

Oh, well done. Very smooth. As silk.

How annoying that her inner ridicule sounded so much like him.

Hogun's face barely moved; but the tiniest twitch in his brow was the equivalent of an aria in C major coming from him.

"I will return shortly," she said, plopping the tray into his hands before he could ask any questions. 

She dug through her cupboards, tossing mud-coated training gear aside, until—Ah. There it was.

The small vial, blown from light green glass, just where she'd left it, centuries ago, when she'd been on the cusp of adulthood and just savvy enough to know a bad idea staring her in the face. Apparently that good sense diminished with age, since here she was now, wiping dust from it with the pad of her thumb, revealing the amber liquid within. Before she could change her mind, she tucked the vial into the safety of her boot. It rested snug against her shin, cool and smooth as a long-fingered caress.

She didn't give herself time for deep breaths and second thoughts, just pushed her way back out into the corridor where her friend and mission awaited.

"Thank you, Hogun," she said, reaching for the tray, and he flinched as hard as she'd ever seen from him. Which was, to say, slightly.

"Stealthy," he muttered, as if offended, and that made Sif bristle in turn. It wasn't as if he'd cornered the marketplace on covertness.

But still—how in the Nine had she sneaked up on him again? He'd been staring straight at her. Or at least in her general direction.

She became aware, all at once, of a buzzing warmth in her cheek, recalled a motherly touch, green fire, and whispered, "Frigga," under her breath. A spell, a charm, to keep her from notice until the moment she revealed herself.

It was a surprise—perhaps more than it should have been—that her son had learned such tricks of concealment from her. 

Sif disregarded those thoughts as quickly as they came, retrieved the tray from Hogun, and was about to bid him farewell when he stopped her with a gentle hand on her bicep.

"You should abandon this plan," he said, grave as ever.

"And what do you know of my plans?" Her voice did not shake; she was well-trained. And stubborn. 

"Nothing." He glanced at the book on the tray, its gold inlaid lettering peeling but legible. Ice Elves of Alfheim. Only one person they knew would find it of any interest, and they were both very well aware it wasn't Sif. Hogun brought his gaze back to her with his kind brown eyes and said, "I just know you shouldn't do whatever it is you plan to do."

"Something I've oft been told in my life." She patted his hand, still on her arm, and he removed it just as gently as he'd placed it there. "Too many times, friend."

He gave her a wry smile. "And how often have you listened?"

She smiled back, tight as a drum skin. "More than I should have. And regretted it every time."

"I trust you," he said simply, before slinging the handle of his mace over his shoulder and moving along down the corridor, his stride as steady and unbothered as always. 

She hoped his trust wasn't mislaid.

The trek to the prisons, buried deep in the heart of the citadel, was a long one.

Long enough to make a person stop and contemplate turning right back around twelve or so times. Sif stopped at least twenty.

Desperation, though, won out. As it was wont to do.

Too many sleepless nights. Too many unanswered questions. Too much anger in her heart—bitter, poisoned arrows that needed a place to be aimed else they'd tear right through her. 

She set the tray aside for a moment and removed the vial from her boot. It would go well in wine, he'd said, to help mask the flavor. She uncorked both bottles, poured amber into red, swished. A plume of pink smoke puffed out of the bottleneck, smelling faintly of cut grass. Not as sinister as she'd imagined. Maybe that was a good omen.

Maybe he'd even forgive her some day. 

What did it matter if she never forgave herself?

As she suspected, the guards didn't see her as she toed past. Her heavy boots, which should have echoed in the wide chamber, sounded eerily muffled, went unnoticed, as if she were nothing more than a ghost, or a memory.

Loki's cell was the first in his row. A corner suite, lovely views.

He lay on a small bed in the corner. It was elegant furniture for a prison—all carved wood and curved posts, velvet throws, what looked like a goose down pillow. He seemed stockstill at first, staring at the ceiling, at nothing, but there was an agitated twitch to his fingers, resting just above his heart. He still had the coiled, dangerous energy of a wildcat readying for the kill, even declawed, caged, and alone. She couldn't actually remember the last time she'd seen him truly at ease.

He'd managed to keep up his usual fastidious appearance, with slick in his hair—longer now, past his shoulders—to calm the curls, the long line of his body dangerously sharp, somehow still regal in his drab clothes and—were those slippers? She would have laughed, but...

But his eyes. She knew nostalgia had a way of making one misremember the past, but they had sparkled with joy once. With love. She was sure of it. Now there was all snake and none of the boy she'd known.

Sif watched him, and said nothing. If she said nothing, he would never know she came. He'd be just as oblivious as the guards. She could abandon this mad plan.

She could. She would. Except—he sat up slowly, cocked his head, drummed his fingers against the bed, stood and edged toward the shimmering golden wall of the cell.

He opened his mouth, formed a word, changed his mind. Squared his shoulders. Finally settled on a quiet: "Frigga?"

She could still leave. His fingers fidgeted at his sides.

"No," Sif said, finally, and his eyes snapped right to her.

His mouth made a little 'o', but it was the only sign of his surprise. She tried not to take to heart the disappointment he didn't quite manage to hide. Her own disappointment far outweighed his in the grand scheme.

"Ah," he said, and cupped his hands behind his back. "The Traitor Sif. That's a new trick. Lovely to see you, and so on. I wonder, should it shock me that I'm not the only king whose words you disregard so cavalierly? Or have you not heard? I've been banned from polite company." He was prowling now, back and forth. "Unless you're here on orders? Has Odin's patience finally worn thin and this tedious clemency staid?" He stretched out his neck, as if on offer. "I would ask you to make it quick, if asking were allowed."

"You must be bored, to talk so much. I used to have to pull your hair."

How easy it was to fall back into this antagonistic play. How easy—and painful. His eyes burned bright, his teeth bared.

"I was sent," she said when he offered up nothing more, "by your mother. To bring food, drink, and history." She extended the tray, though she didn't know exactly where to put it. 

"On the ledge," he said, reading her confusion and gesturing to a tray-width notch in the stone wall where it met the magic barrier. She placed the tray down and it slid right in with a whish. 

"Ta-da," he said. "Like magic. What a clever house is mine." He made no movement toward the tray.

"Will you eat?"

"Will you leave?"

"I—" Courage, warrior. "I should like to stay for a visit. You can stand there and ignore me, if you prefer, but you know better than most how stubborn I am."

"I shall eat," he granted. "You may talk."

He cozied himself up on a plush chair, arranged his silverware on the small tabletop, tucked the book behind the table leg, poured wine into his cup, smoothed the napkin over his lap—meticulous with every movement—then glanced up at her as if to say I'm waiting.

"How—" She swallowed. Tried again. "How are you?" 

Loki said nothing. He popped a cherry tomato into his mouth and waited for her to catch on to the game. He never did say he'd talk back.

Well, if all went to plan, that wouldn't last. Sif smiled to herself, and it seemed to catch him off guard. He swallowed the tomato too quickly, coughed, and reached for the wine.

She watched him carefully. 

One sip.

But only one. Not enough for what she needed.

Now that she no longer had the tray, she wasn't sure what to do with her hands. She clenched them into fists, and part of her wished she were gripping her shield and sword, on a battlefield somewhere, anywhere but here, now.

But Sif never backed down from a challenge, even the ones she had no hope of winning. It was the only way she'd ever gotten anywhere she wanted to go. This was no different.

And if sometimes that meant playing a little dirty, well, Loki had perhaps earned a few dirty tricks coming his way.

So she said, "Your mother sends her love, of course," then paused. Waited for him to take another bite. "Thor hasn't made mention of you, but he's very busy. Business of running a kingdom, and all. I'm sure you remember."

Loki carved into his meat, knife-strokes careful, short, and vicious. Like his very best lies. And his deadliest battle strikes.

She could stop him, after one sip. Tell him the truth, or make up some falsehood. Either way, she could still save his secrets from spilling beyond his borders.

But her strategy was working. Loki opened his mouth to speak. She wouldn't abandon this plan now. Not when she was so close.

"You know," Loki finally said, his words clipped, "they say the frost giants eat only raw flesh, drink blood from still-beating hearts. Never had the taste for it myself." He brought the cup to his lips—she could stop him, should stop him; she didn't stop him—and sipped again. "In truth," he said, slowly, as if feeling out the words for the first time, "I have tempted myself since finding out what I am, but never actually found the stomach to try, for fear the stories are... true." He glanced up at her, and his eyes were a little bright, a little confused.

Then they narrowed.

"What did you do?" he hissed.

"What I had to," she said.

He slammed a palm down and it shook the table. "What did you do?" 

"Only what you taught me."

The wine bottle wobbled under the force of his blow; he stared at it as the concave glass bottom echoed its last faint song against the wood. Stared at it as a man would a traitor.

And then he laughed.

This is how it began, many, many years ago...

During the evening meal, Sif often wondered what other households did. She'd been to lavish meals with the royal and noble families, but those had all been formal affairs, with bards and tales and songs and ceremony.

She'd been also to informal day meals with Thor and his mother, and sometimes when they had been younger Loki would pop out from under the table conjuring a frog out of mist or, heavens forbid, a frog from the creek, still covered in silt and mud, before being waved off by a laughing Frigga or chased off by mud-splattered Thor.

But evening meals—she wondered if they were as stilted in all households, or if that was an experience hers alone.

Other young men and women probably felt quite at ease speaking with their loved ones about their day, their accomplishments, even their failures. They could unburden themselves to the waiting encouragement, or congratulations, or at the very least cursory interest in their lives.

Or so she guessed. Perhaps she could ask Hogun, presuming the Vanir were much alike in custom as the Aesir. Volstagg already headed his own family, and Fandral—well. He was busy with the vast pleasures that were other young women, ones who did less maudlin soul-searching and more contented tittering. 

As for the rest of their outfit, Sif was quite frankly afraid of what any private family meal with the All-Father could be like.

So she spent most evenings chewing her food as silently as possible, letting her mother flit through the day's gossip, her father's answering grunts sending her on new tangents, or polite enquiries about Sif's day and moving along after (or on top of) the expected 'fine.'

Maybe it was Sif. Maybe all it took was a courage she lacked; maybe she needed to speak up on her own. Maybe her parents would take an interest if only she gave them the opportunity to…

She drummed her fork against her plate and cleared her throat. Maybe tonight. Why not? Maybe tonight.

She opened her mouth. "This, um, this morning I—"

"Salt?" her father said, loudly, through a mouthful of turnips. Her mother set down her fork, her back iron-straight.

"Swallow, husband, before you choke at my table."

"In training—" Sif tried again.

"Syn. The salt." Her father brandished his knife toward the small bowl at the end of the table.

"You know, Sif." Her mother turned to her, hands folded prim on her lap. She looked ready to give a prepared speech. "I am sure that the Queen has stopped more wars from her weaving room than Gungnir itself has on the battlefield." She grimaced around the word 'battle' as if it tasted sour in her mouth.

"Mother!" Sif said, almost choking on her lamb. To cast even the slightest aspersion on the All-Father's prowess in war was tantamount to sedition. Probably. She'd have to ask Loki. But, probably!

"The salt?" her father said again. His knuckles had gone white around the handle of his carving knife, and he'd sawn the edge of his chop ragged.

"I am simply saying, my dear," said her mother, ignoring him, "think of all the good you could do."

Sif gripped the edge of the table to stop herself from striking it. "And I am sure the Norns do not hand out the gift of Sight with every bloody wheel."

The scrape of her father's knife against his plate was not a happy sound.

Her mother's mouth tightened, but she chewed through any heated response that threatened to boil up.

An empty silence, like an empty basin, begged to be filled. Everything around her, everything inside her, told Sif to keep her head down, her mouth shut, and suffer through it. But she was too fired up.

'You always get daft when you get angry.' She hated when Loki was right.

"Thor gave me my own dressing room at the sparring grounds today." She meant it as a way to show her parents just how valued she was as a warrior. Even if the only one valuing her was Thor. For now. She'd prove to the rest of them just how much she was worth. The good she could still do, in her own way.

Her mother dabbed a cloth against her lips and said, "Prince Thor."

Sif rolled her eyes. Thor was a lunkheaded teenage goober who laughed at his own farts. But sure, Prince Thor it was.

"Prince Thor, his royal highness, heir to Hlidskjalf—" here, she mock-bowed, "—believes me ready to challenge in the next tournament. Can you imagine that? The winners in each discipline get a kiss on the cheek from Queen Frigga herself. I much look forward to it."

Metal clanged against wood—her father's knife clattering to the table. He stood, quickly. The legs of his chair scraped against the floor in protest, and it seemed to make the whole room shake.

"I cannot abide so little salt in my food," he snapped, then stormed out of the dining hall. A door slammed somewhere in the back of the house; Sif felt the force of it rattle her bones like thunder in the night sky.

She and her mother sat in silence, neither one daring to move, until finally, softly, her mother said, "You would bring him such pride if you but acted like you wanted to."

What little food Sif had eaten sank like a stone in her stomach, and, excusing herself from the table, she fled to her room.

Sif laid blows upon her pillow until her knuckles turned pink and the fabric threatened to rip.

She could do just as much good as a warrior. Whop. She could bring pride to her family name. Whop. She could win that blasted kiss. Whop. She could prove them all wrong. Whop.

Eventually her arm grew heavy, unwieldy, and she flopped face-first onto the bed.

She didn't need her parents to see her as she truly was, exactly, or even to understand her choices. She wished only for them to try. 

Her brutality knew no equal during the next day's training, as two broken practice swords, a cracked spear, and the swollen purpling bruise on Fandral's side could attest.

"And what has you so vexed today?" Thor asked her, as Fandral inspected his wound with something she could only describe as offended curiosity.

"That ugly fungus you call a face. Like always."

"It's true, I'm not so pretty as my brother, but you seem to be the only maiden with any complaints." Which earned her a roguish grin and him a thwack on the arm.

She scanned the training grounds, noticed the brother in question was nowhere to be seen. "Where is Loki, anyway?"

"Truant again?" asked Fandral.

"Aye," said Thor. "While you two sparred he conjured a great swarm of winged slugs, then skittered off during the ruckus. You know how he hates sweating, and not being perfect at all times."

"Slugs?" Sif was still trying to catch her breath.

"Winged slugs. There, you see?" He pointed at a handful of luminescent purple lumps, lethargically bobbing their way toward a hay-stuffed practice dummy.

Fandral slid behind Sif, keeping her between him and the world's least threatening swarm. "What is wrong with that brother of yours, Thor?" he said.

Thor shrugged. "I may have dropped him, when he was a baby. Right on his head. Twice."

"I'll drop you on your head," Sif said, and pulled another practice sword from the rack. "Come on, oh ugly one, you're next to feel my wrath."

"Good luck," said Fandral, as he limped to the outskirts of the ring. He kept one eye on the slugs, now feasting on the dummy's head. "We shall all need it, I fear."

Sif knew where to find Loki on the days he wandered from his responsibilities. More importantly, she knew why she needed to find him, today of all days.

If anyone were to understand what she was feeling—the weight it put on on her shoulders to know, deep down, without being told, that she was a disappointment. That she'd somehow robbed her father of his pride in her. Taken it from him like an obstinate child and refused to give it back.

There was no one else. No one who wouldn't try to tell her she was mistaken.

She could see it well: Thor would slap her on the shoulder and say, "Of course he's proud of you!" in that sweet, slightly obtuse way of his. A relative truth, for Thor, who hadn't known anything else. 

Volstagg would say much the same, if the words could only fight their way out from around a mouthful of spit-roasted pork. 

Fandral would coo and flatter, while an arm meant to comfort snaked around her shoulders. 

And Hogun—dear, sweet Hogun—might be good for a grunt or two of begrudging encouragement. But understanding? Commiseration?

No. In this thing, in this one time, she needed another… defective.

She needed to wallow. And Loki Odinson was the most accomplished wallower in all the realms.

She found him sitting on the grassy riverbank, in the quiet glade he used to sneak to with honey cakes and sweet rolls pilfered from the kitchens. Still did, on occasion.

One of his purple slugs sat on his shoulder nibbling on a proffered blade of grass. Its gossamer wings shivered in the breeze.

Loki was using his free hand to shoot off tiny fireworks in front of its glossy black eyes, twisting and whirling the sparks with flicks of his fingers. The slug followed each looping light with its antennae, and then with its whole head, before it tipped too far to the left and toppled haphazard to the ground with a soft squelch.

Sif found herself holding her breath, until it raised up and shook its chubby head against the fading dizziness.

"Stop," she laughed, and Loki turned to her. "You torture the poor creature."

"Torture?" He gently scooped up the slug with a finger and replaced it on his shoulder with a fresh piece of grass, which it happily tucked in to. He kept his gaze on her the whole time. "We are dear friends. We understand each other."

"You both enjoy the sparkling lights, at any rate."

"Yes, and the beautiful views." He broke eye contact, stared at the trees across the river, cleared his throat. "In nature, that is."

"May I join you?"

He turned to the slug conspiratorially and asked, "Hmm. May she?"

To which the slug responded with a green-tinged burp.

"That means yes," she said, and plopped herself next to him. "I'm fluent in magic purple flying slug-ese." She knocked her knee against his.

"A woman after my own heart," he teased. But after a moment his grin faded. "You were quite… fierce in the round today. I thought you were going to slice Fandral clean in half with naught but a dulled blade."

There was no point in equivocating. She was here on a mission, after all. "I know my father finds no pride in me."

"So?" Loki, too, was apparently not here to beat around the bush. "So what if he does not? He loves you."

"He loves me." She did not mean it to sound so doubtful.

"You are his child. His flesh and blood. The love he must have for you. What is a vain, petty thing like pride compared to that?" 

She would have scoffed at his words, at the placating, patronizing, naive heart of them, except…

Except for the shredded grass in his clenched fingers. Except for the aggressive conviction in his voice. Except for the desperation it tried valiantly to hide.

"Believe me, Sif. I am quite the expert."

"Yes. You are constantly testing your father's love."

His mouth twitched, the beginning of a grin gone slightly too sharp. "Not his love; his patience. At every possible moment. But never his love." 

The river rushed over the rocks, and they sat and listened and said nothing more, until, looking down at his hands, stained green from the grass, Loki murmured, "That's the thing about birthrights."

Sif only nodded, deep in thought. "I just wish—" she said, then cut herself off. It didn't matter.

Loki cocked his head at her; so did the slug for some reason.

She steeled herself, blew out a breath. "I wish I knew for certain. One way or the other. Or if—I don't know. If he would just tell me what I could do better."

Loki scoffed. "I'd like to see anyone try to be better than you."

She didn't know what to do with that, so she bumped her shoulder against his, jostling the slug. It lurched off of Loki and hovered in the air around his ears before making a slow descent to the grass and nestling in among the blades for a mid-afternoon nap.

"I hate not knowing," Sif said. If anyone understood the overwhelming need to uncover all the unknowns, it was Loki. And if anyone knew the best way to do the uncovering, well. It was probably Loki.

She bit her bottom lip and looked up at him, and if her eyelashes batted just the tiniest bit it was only because of the breeze.

Loki took a deep breath, licked his lips. "I—" His eyes flicked from side to side, which was never a good sign. "I may know something that can help. Well, I say 'help.' These things have a way of… backfiring."

Sif sat up straight, hugged her knees to her chest. "I don't care." 

"Write that down please, so I can use the parchment to protect my face from your righteous fists of fury when it all blows up in yours."

"Oh, just tell me this trick of yours already."

"A spell."

"I figured as much."

"Of revelations."

"Again: figured."

"Well if you know so much about it, just brew the damned thing yourself."

She grinned at him. "Why would I do that when I have you to make it for me?"

"Oh ho ho. Not so fast. I never said I would make it for you."

"You did!"

"I did not."

She hmmphed, but that didn't stop her from bumping against his shoulder again. His dark clothes were warm from sitting so long under the sun, and it made her feel warm too.

"I could always go to Frigga," she said. "I'm sure she would help out a poor, desperate soul simply out of the goodness of her heart. Which clearly skips a generation, you heartless fiend."

"Try it," said Loki, calling her bluff. "Go to her if I've got such a rotten heart. I'm sure Frigga has nothing better to do than hold your hand and tell you how perfect you are. It's not as if she's got any other important business to tend to."

Sif knew, had been chastised again and again, that the proper addresses were the Queen or my Queen, perhaps my lady the Queen if one was being terribly formal—but for Sif, who had spent her youth watching my lady the Queen lick her thumb to wipe dirt from squealing boys' ruddy cheeks, tend scraped knees and attend mock frost giant trials, it was a losing battle—the only one she was ever content to lose. Frigga was her friends' mother and always would be, no matter her regal titles.

But that didn't make her responsibilities any less real. Alas.

"Please, Loki!" Sif gripped a hand around his forearm, played up her desperation. "I shall do whatever you ask of me. Anything. I beg of you. Please make me the spell."

"No," he said, eyeballing her hand on him as if it were some strange creature he'd never encountered before, and this from someone who was overly familiar with flying mollusks. He jabbed a finger into her forearm and said, "You shall do everything I ask of you and you shall make the spell yourself."

"Me?"

"Yes."

"Not you?"

"That's right."

"But Loki," she whined, kicking her heels against the grass. 

He shoved her until she tipped on her side, and when she righted herself they were both laughing.

"You child," he said. "I can't make the spell for you, because the spell is bound to he who casts it. It is a spell that requires specific intent."

"Or she," Sif corrected.

"For the love of…" Loki rolled his eyes. "Yes, or she."

"So." Sif scooted slightly closer. Only because his black shirt was so warm. "How does it work? A few chants here, a couple of finger squiggles there—" She mimed this for him. "And I've got my answers?"

"You make light, but it is a powerful spell. It… plays a bit with free will," he said, obviously sugarcoating. "You will find yourself in an unparalleled position of power. Whosoever you use it on will reveal things they may or may not wish kept hidden. That is why it has limits—very specific limits. It can be cast once, and only once. And that is why you must make it yourself."

"Ah." She understood. "You wouldn't want to waste your one chance to ferret out secrets when there's no benefit to you."

"Would you?"

"I would not do it at all if there were another way."

"Besides simply asking?"

"Yes," she said, resting her chin on her knee morosely. "Besides that."

"If you are certain," he began, drawing out the words, "then I will help you."

Sif narrowed her eyes. Since when did Loki offer his help freely?

"And what would you have of me in return?" she asked.

"The one thing I've always wanted from you." He stood, wiped his grass-stained palms against his trouser-leg, then reached down a hand and offered it to her. "Your trust."

She didn't hesitate, just grabbed hold. He hoisted her up—with a little too much effort, as she overbalanced and their chests collided. She caught him around the waist before he could topple backwards. Held him until he steadied. And for a little while longer than that. His breath was warm on her cheek, his hands cool on her wrists, fingertips brushing against her pulse points.

"Meet me back here tomorrow," he said. 

"Okay," she breathed out.

"Two fists past the zenith." He released her wrists and stepped back. She didn't know why, but she felt lightheaded. Must have stood too quickly.

"Tomorrow," he said again, pointing at her, then scooped up his sleeping slug and placed it right on the top of his head. Its wings quivered, silk-thin and delicate, but it didn't seem to wake. It actually sounded like it was snoring.

"Where are you going?" she said.

"Back to the training grounds." He shrugged at her dubious expression. "Probably bits of Fandral to clean up off my little lovelies' snouts." And then he was off, long legs quick as a deer, and Sif was left alone to consider what it was she'd asked for.

If a good night's sleep had been his plan to dissuade her from this, then he'd have to think of a better one.

One that didn't involve sleeping, since that's exactly what she didn't do.

"Your mother did not teach you this spell," Sif said around a yawn.

He'd met her in the glade, as promised, with an armful of pouches, a pestle and mortar about the size of a cooking pot, and—for some reason—the slug. Now he knelt beside her as he unloaded the hoard and settled it in order. The slug had tucked its wings close to its back and wriggled off in search of its own adventure.

"No, she didn't," he said, and his mouth twisted around the words. "She… would not understand the necessity." 

Sif couldn't argue with that. Even if Frigga did not have her gift, there wasn't a soul on Asgard who would hide themselves from her, not with her kind smile and understanding eyes. Which could be just as terrifying as the All-Father's commands.

"Did you devise it yourself, then?" Suspicion came naturally to her, especially when magic and Loki were involved.

"Yes." Loki picked at the grass, dug his fingers into the soil beneath, didn't look at her. "Well. Amora taught it to me. But I added to it! Made it far superior than her original."

"Amora! Now I'm even more certain this is some evil in disguise. You mean to trick me."

"I mean only to help."

"To see me fall on my face."

"To see you smile."

That brought her up short. There was that lightheaded feeling again. Like butterflies—or winged slugs—flitting all through her. Clearly the effects of too little sleep.

"There it is," he said, and he brushed his thumb just over the corner of her mouth.

Sif tucked her hair behind her ear and sat back on her heels.

"Okay," she said, taking a deep breath and willing her stomach to stop flopping around like a herring on the hook. "Walk me through this truth spell of yours and Amora's." 

"Don't call it a truth spell."

"But it is a truth spell."

"You spend too long with my half-wit brother. No, Milady Warrior Goddess, this is not a spell to reveal facts. Only feelings."

"Oh," she said, then amended, "An inner-truth spell."

He sighed. "If you must."

He guided her through the preparation and measuring of ingredients, with such unhelpful instructions (a whispering of this, a shade of that, no, Sif, I said a shade, not a shadow) that it took a concentrated effort not to sock him every five minutes.

"So, say, a drizzle?" She had the vial of black goop he called night's breath poised over the mixture.

"A drazzle," he corrected. His mouth twitched at her blank expression, and it gave away his game.

"You're making this up!"

"I assure you, Sif," he laughed, "the spellwork is real, and you're doing it marvelously, I might add. It just gets a tad boring, watching from the sidelines."

She shoved the mortar and pestle at him. "Have at it, then!"

He nudged it back. "I think not. Come on. We're almost finished."

"We better be."

"Here." He moved behind her so that his knees were on either side of hers, then wrapped his arms around and brought her hands to the pestle. "Crush everything together, like so." His lips grazed the shell of her ear, and he guided her hands into a steady rhythm. Each time the pestle made a full turn his chest pressed up against her back, solid and warm.

She thought about elbowing him off, but only too late. He'd already leaned back, removed his arms from around her, the last hint of his warm breath chased away.

"So this elixir," she said around the desert that had rooted in her throat. "It must be ingested?"

"It's probably best hidden in wine. Something strong, perhaps a little bitter to mask the sweetness."

Sif eyed the grey sludge she'd concocted. It looked as far away from sweet as it could get.

"How long do the effects last?"

He shrugged. "A few hours, maybe. You needn't fear any permanence. But you must also be vigilant," he said, "and count the sips."

"Count them? How many are needed?" That could pose a problem. Her father was not overly fond of wine. 'Too elvish' he called it.

Loki grabbed up a wide, flat leaf from his stores and rolled it, turning it into a funnel, then he started pouring the magic mud into a small green bottle. They both watched it ooze down. "The first sip unlocks the heart," Loki said. "The third closes off the memory. He won't have to remember any of what he's revealed, or that you ever spoke at all. That was my little addition." He smiled, proud of himself.

"And two sips?" Sif asked.

"Is more than one and less than three. Really, is this what passes for schooling nowadays? I should at least think basic counting is covered in maneuvers."

"Shut up, you brat."

He stuck out his tongue at her. It caught between his teeth, and he looked down, suddenly bashful. "Two sips unlock the, er, tongue, as it were. The secrets are revealed aloud. That's what you should be aiming for."

"So if only one sip is taken…"

"The 'inner-truth' as you call it is only revealed to himself. Which is not optimal, of course, but still beneficial in some cases."

"What cases?"

"You know as well as I do, Sif, that sometimes we hide the most important truths even from ourselves."

"Inner-truths," she corrected, and he swatted her upside the head without taking his eyes or his other hand off the funnel.

Once the bottle was filled, he looked up at her with eyes half-lidded and dark, and pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. There was a smudge of dirt on his cheekbone, and against that ghost-pale skin it made him look mysterious and dangerous, half-wild, in a way he never had before. 

"There is one last ingredient," he said, and his voice, too, was deeper, more adult, and it sent a tremble up her spine.

He pulled out a small dagger hidden in his sleeve. Sif felt her heart race, but it wasn't fear so much as an unnameable thrill. 

Loki leaned in and curled a finger around the hair at the nape of her neck. "A lock of the spellcaster's hair, so that you and only you can use it." 

He held the hair between his thumb and the blade; one swipe and it fell away with a whisper. With his free hand he tucked the strands into the vial and Sif watched them disintegrate, turning the gray sludge into an amber-colored liquid. The fingers of Loki's other hand remained on her, ghosting across her skin, cool against her neck. She turned and their noses grazed, he was so close to her now.

He glanced down at her lips, inched even closer, then said softly, "...and a kiss." 

"That's two ingred—" she said just as softly, before his mouth met hers.

His lips were questioning, tentative, brushing up against hers and retreating again like waves rolling in to shore. The fingers on her neck snaked up into her hair, and it made her think. 

"Hey!" She punched him in the arm and was only slightly mollified by his pained oof. "If my hair's all that's needed to code the spell to me, why did you say you couldn't make it for me?"

Loki had gone stiff as a board when she first pulled back, but he relaxed at her words, grinned at her, tilted his head in again. "Because this is so, so much more fun."

She tackled him onto his back, and they fell together on the grass.

"—you're not as smooth as you think you are, Odinson."

A hand lifted up and his fingers were back carding through her hair. She shivered at the feel of them. Or the cool late-afternoon air. Probably just the air. That was it.

"Liar," Loki said. He cupped the back of her neck and pulled her down for another kiss. 

He twisted and they rolled until she was on her back. They surged back together, and again, each time their kisses becoming more intense.

She drew his bottom lip into her mouth; it was deceptively soft and plush, like the flesh of an overripe plum, and she had the irresistible urge to bite down on it, so she did.

Loki flinched, pulled back, skimmed his tongue over his swollen lip, tasting for blood that didn't rise. His breathing rocked his chest in great rough heaves, his eyes were cloudy and raven-black, and he smiled at her with a sudden feralness that sent a lightning bolt of heat through her blood.

"Sometimes I don't understand you, impossible as you are," he said, voice like a purr. "But do not mistake it for lack of trying."

It was possibly the least romantic thing she'd ever heard, but also, strangely, the most. 

He dove back in, and his mouth moved along her jaw, to her ear—breath warm, lips demanding—while his hands roamed down her arms, curled around her hips, tugged at the metal and leather there. Tugged again. And one more time. He growled against her cheek, and it sent something possessive and predatory down her spine and she gripped him tighter to her.

"…and I certainly don't understand why your training clothes need so many buckles!"

"Rip them, I don't care," she breathed out. The swordmaster always did chastise her lack of patience.

"I'm trying!" It came out as a whine. Sif couldn't hold back her laughter. She was afraid for half a moment that he would take it wrong, jump up and away like an offended cat, but he only laughed with her. 

"I could magic us both in the buff right now—"

"You practice that one in the mirror?"

"—but there are twigs about," he said, ignoring her. "I'd hate for one to end up where it shouldn't."

"Hmm," she said, and felt brazen. One of her hands snaked down and cupped a generous portion of his arse. "Wouldn't want to damage the goods."

She was perhaps a little less than gentle, judging by his surprised squawk.

But it must have motivated him, because he had finally unbuckled her leather chest guard and threw it off of her, then lowered himself down and edged under the hem of her shirt with his nose. Lips on her navel tickled at first, but the first scrape of his teeth against the soft swell of her skin turned discomfort into something much, much more enjoyable.

She felt his tongue on her neck, painting a slow, wet line up over her jaw, onto her cheek.

But… no. That was wrong. Loki was still nosing at her midriff.

Confused, and more than a little dizzy from lust, Sif prodded at her face with a finger, felt something slick and soft. 

With antennae. 

"Loki?" she said.

"Mm?"

"Is your slug on my face?"

His head popped up. He pursed his lips and examined her for far longer than was necessary. "Yes," he said finally. "I believe he is."

"Get it off," she warned.

"He likes you. Don't you Stian?"

"Lords, you've named him."

"Stian the Wanderer."

"Can't he wander elsewhere?"

"But you have such a lovely face." He bent his head and kissed the tip of her nose. "You'd deny him all these precious peaks and valleys?"

"He won't be the only one exiled from these borders if you don't remove him right this second."

Loki's eyes went comically wide, he flicked a hand over her face, and the slug popped out of existence. "Better?" He bent his head again. 

"He's not—?" she mumbled against his lips. "Is he okay? You didn't kill him, right?"

"Sif," he laughed, warm in her mouth. "It's fine. I can bring it back if you like…?"

"No, no. That's quite all right." She took a deep breath, tried to calm the rapidfire beating of her heart. She ran a hand through her hair and her fingers caught against a twig. It gave her pause. Made her stop and finally think. What was she doing? This was—she shouldn't. This was a mistake. She'd got caught up in the magic and intrigue and forgotten her objective. She nudged Loki's shoulders up. "I have to—I have to get home anyway. It's almost mealtime. My father… I shouldn't be late." She pushed up on to her elbows and Loki slid off her, smooth as water.

"Will you do it tonight?" he asked.

"Tonight?"

"The spell?"

"Does it expire?"

"No. Should last. I just wondered." He was lying on his side, picking at the grass. "You should wait. You're angry. You always do get—"

"Yes, yes. I always get daft when I get angry," she snapped, suddenly annoyed at him. Annoyed at herself for getting caught up in the moment. "Compared to your great intellect, I am a fool just for breathing. Excuse me, I must be going."

"Sif," he said, but it had no strength to it. Was all defeat.

She straightened her clothes as best she could. Her hair was a lost cause, so she twisted it in a messy braid, twigs and all, and grabbing up her first-ever spell, marched out of the wilderness and back to the city.

She skirted through the training grounds straight to her new dressing room—still mostly empty—and gathered her composure.

Or tried to, anyway.

The sight that met her in the mirror startled her—cheeks flushed, lips red and kiss-swollen, eyes bright as fire. She brought a hand to her face; it was still warm, still tingled. Her blood still pumped high with arousal, and it would have to be clearly, painfully obvious to anyone who saw her.

And yet...

Every cell in her body felt alive, sang with power and triumph. This craven, wild thing inside—it was the same feeling as when she reigned victorious after a hard-fought battle, adrenaline-soaked and sweat-stained. It was a part of her. She couldn't change it, not even if she wanted to.

Not even if her father wanted her to.

She examined the small green bottle, still gripped tight in her fist. The spell would only tell her what she already knew, deep in her heart.

She was made for this feeling, for exhilarating, blood-charged victory, and if that did not earn her father's pride?

So be it.

She chucked the vial into an empty cupboard, then stood before the mirror, straightened her clothes one last time, and let the fire in her eyes burn as bright as it damn well liked.

She would push, she would fight, and she would win Asgard's pride.

Loki could call it daft, could call it anger, and though he was right about waiting, about rethinking her plans, he was wrong about her.

She'd show him, just like the rest of them, that she was War, and she was Victory. It was inside her, chanting out a battle cry. She brought her fingers to her lips, remembered the soft feel of his on her skin, and smiled. The chant rose up, I'll win you over, too.

This is how it ends...

Deep in the citadel, Loki laughed at her from his cell, and she didn't know a victory could feel so hollow.

"So you listened to me after all. I guess there's a first time for everything."

He pushed out of his chair and started pacing. His fists clenched at his sides and she could see the energy pulsing around him. He flexed his arms and the energy burst in a corona of green light, sending the furniture rocking.

He was breathing hard, his shoulders shaking with it. "I deserve this," he confessed, then let out a roar of frustration. He turned to her and slammed his fist against the barrier. It crackled, set off sparks, but didn't break. "Damn you! I will fight this. I won't roll over like some heeled dog! Not again. Never again."

She stood her ground against his tirade.

"Two sips, Loki. You can't hide from me."

"I should have known. I should have known you weren't here for me. Had some scheme. Sent here by Thor, were you? To pry me open and take everything I have left?" His voice cracked, and so did his expression. "I can't stop you."

She knew she was being selfish, was being nothing less than mercenary. Had accepted it as soon as she'd slid the tray to him, but it was done. She could finish what she started, or she could let this go to waste. She could spend the rest of her life haunted by the memory of him, of a boy who was her friend, a prince who owned her heartbeat, a king who betrayed his family and his people.

She wouldn't allow that, not when she could still fight. And if that meant being haunted, instead, by the consequences of her own actions, then so be it.

"When you sent the Destroyer," she started, perfectly willing to ignore his pity party to get what she needed. "I have thought about it, the long months after you fell, when I believed you dead." She swallowed around a sudden tightness in her throat. "There was a lot of fire, a lot of twisted metal and ash and debris. But it didn't do much more than stall us. That was—that was your intention, was it not?"

She didn't much believe it could be true, except in the most gullible recesses of her heart, but now that she had a chance to know for sure, one way or the other, she wasn't going to let the opportunity pass her by. 

"How delightfully naive," he said. "I'm insulted you should think so little of my rage."

"Then you meant to kill us."

"Are you dead?"

"Loki." It was like trying to herd an unruly, stubborn goat into its pen, even with the spell working against him.

"Then I did not mean to kill you," he said, his tone peevish, no hint of conciliation. But it was also the truth.

"No," she said. "Only yourself." 

He froze, face as blank as a statue's. 

"Why did you let go of the spear? Tell me. Please."

"You ask as if you expect the answer to explain. Why do I do anything? Because it pleases me. Because it is what no one expects me to do. Thor thought I should fight; Odin, to forget. I chose, instead, to be free." He laughed, short and hard, as if he had just heard an amusing joke for the first time.

"Free? From what? From your responsibilities? From the consequences of your actions?"

"Yes. From that. It is exhilarating, Sif. Like nothing you have ever known. To have no choices to make, no actions to account for. It was a gift… One I felt like sharing."

"A gift?"

"For the little mortals, of course."

"For those you would murder."

"Ah. Well. I could have been kinder, I suppose. I was very tired." He seated himself at the table again, rested all of his weight against the chairback.

He looked tired. His face was almost gray, the half-circles under his eyes two purple smudges.

"What happened to you?" She fought against the pity it would be too easy to feel.

"Everyone I love betrayed and abandoned me and I found that plucking out a few eyeballs here and there made me feel a little bit better."

And suddenly it wasn't so much a fight to cast aside her pity.

"I used the Bifrost against your orders and it was enough to earn me a near-death sentence?"

"Crimes against the crown are not so slight a thing as you think, apparently."

"Yet you were committing those crimes yourself. You don't see how that makes what we did justifiable?"

"I was your king." He bent his head, clenched his jaw like an obstinate child being sent to bed. "You should have trusted me."

"Why?"

He leapt to his feet. "Because I trusted you! I trusted you and you lied to me. Just like everyone else. I was your king and—" He broke off, scrubbed a hand down his face. "I was your king and still you couldn't love me."

He could be so stupid sometimes. So willfully blind.

"I may not have loved the king," she said, "but, believe me. I loved the prince."

"Which was plain enough, the way you always ran after him."

"Not Thor, you jackass! I loved you."

He shook his head. He didn't believe her. "The prince. And the monster? Surely you could not love that," he croaked out. "No, Sif," he sighed. "You could not love me."

"Did you ever love me?" she snapped, thoroughly sick of him deciding what she did or did not feel. 

"You think a monster capable of love?" 

"Loki. Please." 

"I…" His fists clenched. His jaw as well. Was he fighting the spell or did he really not know? "I thought I did. I thought I did but what I did to you on Midgard... Sif. What I did to you. Is that love? Tell me—is it?" He stared at his fists, twisting at the wrist to see the backs of his hands, his gaze flickering, lost. "No. No. This... creature is not meant for love."

He looked too washed out under the bright lights and white walls of his cell. Too flimsy, like he could dry up, dissipate in a plume of dust at any moment. Like every stolen word was making him less.

"Only a wretch would think it love to do what I did. To murder my own father and my—my own kind. Exterminate them, like the vermin we are.

"I thought if I could do it, then Odin would see me again. Not as his son. I'd finally realized—finally knew—it had never been that way between us, could never be. But I could be important again. I could be of some use to him, at long last. I could give him the peace he always wanted, the one thing I could give him that Thor could not. The one way I mattered." He clutched at his breast, shoulders hunched as if he were in physical pain, fingers flexing and clawing as if he wanted to rip the clothes and very skin from his body.

"He had great plans for me, you know. But then… after Jotunheim… of course those plans no longer mattered. I no longer—"

"Loki, no."

If the sound he made was a laugh, it was one dragged over broken glass, shredded and bleeding.

"'No, Loki,'" he repeated, a harsh whisper. "Sif. Sif—" He shook his head and a tear rolled down his cheek. "You should not have come here. The All-Father has forbidden it, has he not? But I suppose the command of your king is not so important a thing to you. Tell me, where is my brother? He must not yet sit on the throne. His every wish, at least, is yours to obey."

The breath he took seemed to rattle his whole chest. Sif could only stand and watch him in silence, like one would a horrific accident happening beyond the reach of aid.

"Do you know, all I ever wanted was for one person, one person on the whole of this wretched rock to look at me and love me more than my brother," he said, voice watery and paper-thin.

She shook her head, said quietly, "You see competition where there is not."

"One single person! In a realm of thousands! I know that I'm selfish, and always have been. And I know now what a low, vile creature I truly am. But, even so, in this one thing, I wasn't asking for too much, was I? For more than my share? I had thought…" His voice cracked, and he shook his head as if to set it back to rights, but it only set loose more tears. "More fool I. I had thought of all the people in the world, you would see me, understand me. Maybe even love me. Both of us jagged, a little slapped together. Neither of us quite... as hoped. Laughable, really, how close I was to believing it. Loyal Sif. Honorable Sif. She would not share one man's bed and pine for another's love."

"You know as well as I there are different kinds of love—" 

"But always—Thor. Thor who would start a century of war over nothing more than hurt pride. Who would lead you and countless others to reckless, icy death. Thor, exiled and mortal. And Loki, your king. Who would have ended the war swift, who would have won the peace his whole existence had been meant to forge, his only reason for surviving. His birthright."

"Peace? It would not have—" 

"All you had to do was trust me! Choose me! But, ah, of course. There was Thor. Poor, helpless Thor. Perfectly safe. Carousing with the mortals, drinking, singing, wooing their women, with his easy, lovable charm. We couldn't have that, now could we?"

"Loki. Peace through annihilation cannot be."

"So that is why Bor-King was cast out, thrown into an abyss when he wiped out the Dark Elves. Why Odin was deposed for subjugating the frost giants to millennia of hardship and misery. Yes, I remember it so well from our lessons growing up, don't you?"

Sif held her tongue, knew this was going nowhere. That he was purposefully misdirecting her questions and tangling their conversation into unyielding knots.

"Ran out of questions for me?" he asked, innocent as a child hiding stolen sweets behind his back. He sniffed, ran the heels of his palms over his cheeks to clear away any stray tears.

"I am not playing this game with you," she said.

"Oh, but you are," he said, all innocence evaporating from his voice. "Have you not figured it out yet? You cannot reveal my heart without first unveiling your own." A wolf's grin, a snarl. "But I guess it shouldn't really surprise me to see that traitorous, foul thing again. I always wondered what it would be like to have your heart, but perhaps it's not a trinket worth keeping. A disloyal dog, sniffing at the boots of whoever throws it scraps."

"You're certain it is of my heart we speak?" She stood straight, an impenetrable wall his words could not shake.

He had sauntered back to the table, picked at a scrap of food from the edge of his neglected plate. "When I was king—" He ran a finger around the rim of the cup, seemed lost in thought. "You always said the king would have your sword, and Asgard your heart. Perhaps I was a fool, to believe you. The girl who would poison her own father to satisfy a simple curiosity."

She lunged forward on instinct. "Poison?" Oh stars, no no no no, what had she done? What foulness had he taught her? She turned, ready to call for the guards, ready to reveal herself, ready to plead and beg that they take him to the healers at once—

"Not literally, of course," he said, steady as a pulse. As if this were nothing more than a chat between strangers. "Or has prolonged exposure to those idiotic friends of yours dulled your mind to metaphor?"

"I would have you speak plainly," she bit out, barely suppressing a growl.

"Ooh hoo hoo, it's as if you think I'm compelled to follow your orders. Your spell gives you my truths, whether I wish to part with them or not. It does not mean I must make them pleasing to you. In fact, I hope they are bitter enough to choke on."

"It gives not truth. You said yourself. Only your heart."

He picked up a chicken bone from his plate, inspected it, then threw it back down. "Needn't take by force what was already yours."

She held back her retort. Or rather, it was held back from her by the lack of breath in her lungs.

"Loki—" she finally managed to choke out.

"I hate you," he growled. His eyes shone, wet with tears, lit with fire. His jaw worked as he fought and fought and fought against the spell. "I love you." He shoved his fist against his teeth, as if he could hold back a flood with naught but his knuckles. "I wish I could say I didn't. I wish I could say I didn't wish to. But here is the rotted black heart you carved out of me, Sif, with your insidious poison." He looked at her, completely wrecked. "I wish I loved you better, or not at all."

"Prove it," she said.

"What?"

"Love me better. Be better. You may be lost now, Loki, but I do not believe you lost for good."

"What would you have me do, Sif? What could I possibly do to make up for what I've done?"

"You can start by saying you're sorry! By being sorry!"

"I am sorry!" He looked taken aback by his own confession.

"Tell your mother. Tell Thor."

"I cannot."

"You can."

"Odin has banned Frigga from my sight, and my brother has no desire to see the wretched monster he was fooled into loving all these years."

"And whose doing is that?"

"Oh, believe me, Sif. I take full responsibility for Thor's indifference."

"You tried to kill him."

"Let us not mince words. I did kill him. It simply didn't stick."

"But did you mean to?"

"No." He clenched his jaw, stared at his fists, regrouped. "Yes. Of course."

"You're fighting the spell again."

"I never stopped, you stupid cow."

She let that roll off her, just barely. "I know you. I know you love your brother, more than you hate him."

"Love. Ha. If ever there was a more violent ripping of a man's soul. Love is the deadliest weapon to inflict on someone. It's fitting for your arsenal, and mine. We're both of us traitors and wolf-hearts."

"Just—!" Oh, how she wanted to reach across the barrier and slap him upside his stupid, stubborn head. "Tell Thor you're sorry!"

"He won't believe me."

"Make him believe you. I hear you've some talent at that."

"What would you have me do? Lunge in front of a sword meant for him? Die in his arms, begging forgiveness, confessing my steadfast loyalty and love?"

"Do not jest."

He psshed. "It's the only way this idiotic notion of yours would work."

"You underestimate your brother's heart. He may not know it, he may not admit it, but he wants to forgive you. He wants you to be worthy of it. He needs it." She took a breath. "And so do you."

"And once I've done that?" he snapped. "All my sins are washed clean? That is a magic beyond even my reach."

"Your sins are your own to live with. I only want you to have the chance to make your brother see you again. Not this… this…"

"Monster?"

"This hate made whole."

"And what about you, Sif? Do you hate me now, too? Why even ask. You are not compelled to speak truths you'd rather not."

"I—I am angry at you."

"Wonderful. The feeling is very much reciprocated, in case you were curious."

"Yes, I picked that up when the Destroyer set me to cinders."

"And what a lovely pile of ashes you make before me."

"Do not pretend it was your clemency that spared me. My survival is my own."

He prowled closer to the barrier. "What is it you want from me, Sif?"

"I want you to pull your head out of your arse! I want you to stop letting all this bitterness and hate control you. I know you're hurting. I know you feel betrayed."

"I was betrayed!"

"And you betrayed us! We're just as angry as you are!"

They were practically nose-to-nose now. She'd be able to feel his breath had the cell wall not stood between them. 

"Oh. I doubt that very much," he said. "No one's set me to cinders yet."

"Where is the boy I grew up with? Where is the friend who knew when I needed to smile? Who actually cared about the wellbeing of others?"

His mouth twisted, an empty smile, and he took a step back. "Didn't anyone tell you? He never existed. An illusion." He outstretched his arms as if to put himself on display. "One of my finest. Fooled you all."

"You're only fooling yourself," she said, wishing she could take him by the arms and shake him, take him in her arms and hold him, wring his neck or write poetry on his skin. Or all of the above. 

Always a storm raged in her, and its gusts set her to action, certain of her course. But Loki had a way of making the winds change out from under her.

"I wish you would but remember yourself as I remember you," she said.

"Are you so quick to forget, Sif? All I need to do is take one more sip and remember naught. Have you got what you came for?" He clasped his hands behind his back, paced slowly like a predator forced to watch its prey from afar. "To see me debased? So pathetically at your mercy? A worm beneath your boot, where I've always belonged? Well, at least I won't have to remember it." He reached for the long-abandoned cup of wine, jerked it back; a sharp swallow outlined his neck. "It's done," he hissed, and slammed both hand and empty cup against the table.

"Loki—"

"The spell wears thin; your time runs out. I can feel it." He stretched out his fingers in front of his face, as if testing their range of motion after an injury. "Please, don't send my regards to Thor."

"I wish you didn't scorn every offering that came your way."

He shrugged. "And I wish you hadn't ripped my heart open and dug around for secrets that don't belong to you in some selfish, childish need to play hero for my undeserving brother. Life's just so unfair that way."

She never was content to lose. The idea of it sat in her belly like a sleeping dragon, and when it woke and breathed its fiery death in her, everything tasted of ash. She couldn't look at his face any longer, not this face that was broken and pieced back together with nothing more than malice and rage.

"Whatever happens next, Loki, know that you cannot blame anyone but yourself."

"I'll try to remember that," he said, voice ice-cold. "Except, well," —he spread out his hands, palms up— "I won't, you see."

Something in his eyes flickered, some tiny glimmer of pain and regret, and it was somehow harder to look at than his hatred. She turned away from him, steadied her breathing and her spine. There were other battles that called to her, other wars she actually had a hope of winning. All she had to do was climb out of this dark place and leave it behind.

She walked away from him without another word. In her muffled footsteps she remembered his voice, a whisper that was more like a hard fist squeezing around her heart.

"I wish I loved you better, or not at all." 

The fist tightened, became like a stone. In this, she thought to herself, they were very much the same.

This is how it begins… again.

Loki watched her stride away, all stiff shoulders and righteous ponytail, and prayed to the Norns she wouldn't look back—lest she see the way his arms trembled, the sweat dripping down his forehead and stinging his eyes.

The illusion had been incredibly difficult to sustain, even in the last waning gasps of her spell.

He held his breath, focused every ounce of energy within him for as long as he could, until he could be reasonably certain she'd gone. Had fled the scene of her trespass, of her betrayal and her failure, like a deserter and a coward.

His strength eventually buckled on him. His shoulders slumped and it brought down his illusion like a curtain torn from a window.

There was the cup, there was the bottle. There was the last sip of wine, unswallowed.

He dumped it all into the chamber pot in the corner of his cell.

Forgetting would have been easy. Too easy. And if there was one thing Loki Laufeyson had learned in this callous, cold universe, it was that easy was simply never as fun.

He squared his shoulders, dusted off any doubts like crumbs from his clothes. He was knocked down, he was locked up, but he wasn't defeated—for he was Lies, and he was Victory. He'd crush this realm under his thumb, or he'd make them all bow at his feet. 

He thought of Sif's hard half-smile, the one that promised pain and vengeance. Something hot and possessive and hopeful and featherweight surged through him, and he vowed to himself: I'll win you over, too.