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After tying her hair into a tight knot at the base of her neck, Sif splashed cool water onto her face. Presumably, it had been warm when the servant had placed it on her dresser, but the night had been young at that time. Now the evening was as old as the Allfather himself.
Following a triumphant battle, Sif and her warrior companions had retired to the pub for an evening of revelry and drinking. As cool ale passed between her lips and laughter filled the drafty hall, Sif had payed less and less attention to the dwindling hours. There was too much merriment to be had, too many acts of bravery to celebrate. So celebrate she did, with dancing and song, feasting and wine. Thor loudly recounted tales of their triumph to the strangers at the bar, and Fandral challenged nearly everyone to outdrink him. Volstagg’s full voice sang out patriotic tunes, and even Hogun cracked a smile. The only thing that put a damper on her mood was the youngest prince.
At the beginning of the night, Loki seemed to be enjoying himself. He had even joined as Sif’s partner when someone had drawn a fiddle and played a dance. However, as the night went on and the tables filled with rowdy soldiers and Einherjar, his disposition grew sour. Between loud choruses of drinking songs, she had overheard the two young men seated beside the prince begin to tease and antagonize him. Because Sif always enjoyed hearing the witty prince use words as a weapon, she had listened in from her seat down the bench. However, despite several well-spoken deflections, the drunken hecklers were persistent. They paid no heed to Loki’s digging replies, and still refused to stop when their words were met with silence.
“Tell me, my lord, how many hath you killed this day? The fires of Hel are filled with the screams of your brother’s victims. But then, I suppose trickery is not so effective a weapon as skill.”
There were several such men in Asgard’s army who idolized Thor above the other warriors, but they often kept their insults to themselves. Unfortunately, it appeared that ale made them bold...
“No, no, that is unfair. I suppose it is cruel to judge a child against a man. I doubt that your thin arms could so much as drag your brother’s great sword behind you. No indeed, we ought to compare you to the other women who practice your craft. But then, they stay in the temples and libraries where they belong, rather than burdening we warriors for protection.”
As the insults escalated, Sif had risen to her feet with the intent of shaking the harassers. However, as she approached, Loki had murmured something low enough that Sif could not hear and promptly left.
Removing her mud stained armor, Sif wiped away the dust and blood from body, before pulling her nightshirt over her head. She was thoroughly exhausted. After Loki had left, she had stayed another two hours at least. And though her revelry was muted slightly with worry, she managed to finish any last bit of energy left.
With a sigh she slipped under the cold sheets of her bed and rested her head upon the pillow. Her heavy eyelids sank gratefully to their resting place as the warm darkness surrounded her...
Then, there was a soft knock at her door.
“Please be the wind.” She groaned, her arm falling across her eyes.
Then came another knock, louder and more urgent than the first.
Hoping the visitor had the wrong door (as Fandral's lovers tended to get lost in the warriors’ wing of the palace) she waited for the knocking to subside.
However, it did not. Instead, it grew frantic, and Sif found herself begrudgingly curious.
Forcing herself to her feet, she grabbed the dagger from her bedside table and made her way to the door.
“Who goes there?”
“Sif, it’s me.” Loki’s voice replied at once, a strained panic in his tone.
Pulling open the door, Sif started, “Loki, what is it? It’s late and-”
She froze.
The youngest prince stood before her, leaning against the doorframe for support, with crimson blood soaking his tunic.
“My gods...” Sif breathed.
“Please...I find myself in need of some assistance.” He grimaced, a small glint of humor in his eyes.
“What have you done?”
“If you will help me inside, I shall tell you.”
“That blood is-”
“-my own. Now, are you going to help me, or let me bleed out?”
Pulse rising, she stepped forward and snaked her arms around his waist.
He responded in kind, placing his own arm across her neck and leaning into her.
Together, they hobbled across her tiny quarters to the bed.
Propping him up with a pillow, she heard her heart beating in her ears. “What did this to you?”
“A knife.”
“You were stabbed?”
“That is generally what a knife does.”
“Loki.” She glared.
He bowed his head, “Yes, I was stabbed.”
“By whom?”
“Does that matter?”
“You are a prince of Asgard, of course it matters!”
“Please, I will tell you everything in time. But for now, will you just help me stop the bleeding? I’ve cast a charm to slow it, but it won’t last much longer.”
Letting out a wavering breath, Sif nodded. “Yes, fine. But I’ll need you to remove your shirt.”
“I do prefer a bit of romancing before-” he was cut off by a pained grimace as he attempted to lift the tunic over his head.
“Loki?” Sif asked helplessly, grabbing his clenching fist.
“I’m...I'm alright. Just tear the tunic, it’s ruined anyway.” He breathed, a bead of sweat forming on his brow.
Nodding, Sif fell forward and gripped the collar of his shirt, ripping it down his chest. Then, she peeled it back cautiously.
To her relief, the wound appeared to be shallow. However, the blood welling up from the gash gave her pause.
“...How bad is it?” Loki asked, squinting down to where she looked.
“You’ll live.”
“Hurrah.”
Tearing a strip of cloth from her sheets, Sif pressed it against the wound firmly.
Loki gasped, his face scrunching.
“Hold still. This should only take a moment.” Leaning forward, she placed the hand that was not holding the cloth on Loki’s other side so as to achieve maximum pressure.
He winced and closed his eyes but did not complain.
“This spell you cast...”
“It’s not a spell, it’s a charm.” He grimaced.
“Fine! This charm...what exactly does it do?”
“It slows the bleeding. It’s meant to stop it entirely, but I was rather preoccupied when I cast it, so here we are.”
“You didn’t know any that could heal you entirely?”
“A great many, but none I could muster the strength to cast.” Opening his eyes slightly, he looked up at Sif with a small, teasing grin. “Besides, had I healed myself, I wouldn’t have gotten the pleasure of your company, dearest Sif.”
Rolling her eyes, she felt a blush creep onto her cheeks. He spoke like this often — wry flirtations said with a smirk. But that was all they were: jokes. Banter. He meant nothing by them, and neither did she.
Or so she told herself.
“Hm, don’t speak like that, or someday I may stab you myself to gain your companionship,” quipped Sif, her tone drier than the injured man.
“A small price to pay, surely.” Loki replied, grinning up at her.
It was only then that she realized just how close their bodies were. She could feel the warmth of his breath against her face as he spoke, an observation which sent a shiver down the lady warrior’s spine.
She cleared her throat. “So, when does the charm wear off?”
“It generally lasts thirty minutes at most.”
“When did you cast it?”
“Hm, it’s all a bit muddled. But I believe-oh….” he gasped, his head falling back against the pillow.
“Loki?” Sif’s eyes grew wide, “Loki, what is-”
“I believe your question has been answered.” He replied strainedly.
Looking down at her hand, she watched the crimson seep through the cloth.
“Oh, gods…” Grabbing her sheet, she quickly swapped the soiled strip for the clean bedding.
“Terribly sorry about your bed.” Loki spoke through gritted teeth, the wry edge a mere veil which failed to hide the distress in his tone. “This is not how I would have liked to ruin your sheets.”
“Loki…” Sif sighed, looking up at his face; her expression changing to panic when she saw how grey he had grown. “By the norns, you do not look well.”
“You wound me.”
“No, Loki, I mean it. I-I think I ought to call for a healer-”
“No, you can manage.”
“Loki, you’re bleeding through all of my sheets-”
“I trust you.”
“Thor, then! Perhaps he can help-”
“That is not necessary.”
“Your wounds needs to be treated properly-”
“No!” He shouted, eyes suddenly cold and commanding.
Sif froze in shock, her own eyes growing large.
For a moment they were both silent.
Then, Loki sighed. “I...I cannot see the healer because she will alert my father.”
Sif lifted her eyebrows in question.
“And my father cannot hear of this injury because then he will know I had...been in a duel.”
“A duel?” Sif asked, her heart sinking. “Are you mad?”
“Perhaps, but this decision was very soundly motivated.”
“Oh...those men at dinner.”
“Indeed. I was rash and challenged those bastard drunks. I suppose I should have deduced that they would not play fair, but I was angry. They had insulted me in such a way that wounded my pride to the point of action.”
“Loki, they were drunk fools. No one paid them any mind but you.”
“It was damned near impossible to ignore them, with their foul breath and pitchy voices.”
“What I mean is that no one else took their mockeries seriously.”
He laughed bitterly. “Now you are the one telling falsehoods.”
Eyebrows drawing together, she started, “What do you mean?”
“Come now, Sif. I am not naive. They were saying what everyone thinks but is too afraid to voice. ‘The strange prince, the weak prince, the prince who bares resemblance to his father only in his pride.’” As he spoke, his eyes grew lost and distant, “I’m not blind. I know Thor is the favorite. But I thought if I...if I bested them in a duel, if I defended my honor...”
For a long moment, Sif stared at him. Then she spoke firmly, “You did not need to duel two drunken hecklers to prove your value.”
“How, then? If not through combat, how am I to substantiate my claims of usefulness?”
“Through the brilliance of your mind! Through the skill of your sorcery! Loki, we would not have won this battle had it not been for the illusions you created.”
“I hide behind my deceptions-”
“If that is the case, then I hide as well, behind my armor.”
Loki thought for a minute, his eyes cloudy, before shrugging away the comment.
Easing off of his injury, Sif peeled back the cloth and felt her shoulders sag. The blood had slowed significantly.
“Sif…” Loki breathed after a moment.
Looking up, she met his gaze with a shiver. There was something in his eyes...a loneliness, a longing, which clawed at her chest. “Yes?”
“Do you think me a fool?”
“You said it yourself, your actions tonight were rash-”
“But do you think that I am a fool?”
Pausing, Sif bit her lip. For some reason, this question felt significant. It felt like he was asking for more than just her opinion.
“No.” She shook her head.
He held her gaze a moment longer, seemingly searching for any signs of falsehood in her eyes. Then he looked away, falling back onto the pillow.
As she watched him, Sif felt her arms ache with a longing to hold the lost young man. It came on so suddenly and with such intensity that it scared her.
But now was not the time.
Instead, she took a breath and said, “I’m going to have to clean and stitch the wound.”
He nodded.
And with that, the moment was gone.
The next several minutes passed in silence. Sif left her room briefly to fetch a bottle of whiskey from the kitchen, and a needle and thread from her maid (the young woman had looked at Sif’s blood stained nightgown with mild confusion, but said nothing.) When she returned, she took a washcloth from her dresser and doused it with the alcohol.
She cautiously approached the prince. “This will sting…”
“Give me the bottle, then.”
Handing him the amber liquid, he took a swig and winced.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Ready,” he replied.
So, Sif began. She worked quickly, prompted by the pained hissing from the young man. As the cloth grew soiled and his abdomen clean, the contrast was even more jarring. Pale, white skin, with a crimson shatter: Bloodstains on a snowy battlefield. When Sif was satisfied with her job, she rose to her feet once more and fetched the needle and thread.
“Do you know how to perform stitches?” Loki asked, his face scrunching with dread.
“My knowledge is the same as yours: what they taught us at the academy.”
“Marvelous.”
With trembling hands, Sif bent the needle into a “J” and dipped it into the whiskey to sterilize it.
“You ought to take a drink as well.” Loki spoke again, eyeing the needle doubtfully.
“I’m only just now sober after tonight’s revelries.”
“A drink will stabilize your hands.”
Sif paused.
He had a point.
Lifting the bottle to her lips, she took a swig as well. Almost immediately after, she felt the liquid courage taking effect.
“Alright, milord, this is your last chance to fetch a real healer.”
“It seems to me that you’re less eager than I, and I’m the one being sewn up like a doll.”
“You’re right, I’m not eager!”
“Just do it.”
Taking in a sharp breath, Sif shook off her nerves and threaded the needle.
A few calculated movements later, the deed was done. Sif’s hands were sticky with blood, and Loki’s face was somehow even more pale than when they started, but it was done. The stitches were unattractive and a bit uneven, but the wound would heal properly.
The frantic ordeal was over with.
Falling back against the bed with a sigh, Sif closed her eyes. “Next time you need immediate medical help, feel free to knock on Hogan’s door.”
Loki let out a breathy laugh.
For a beat they lay in silence listening to their evening heartbeats.
Then Sif felt Loki’s hand on her own.
It was cold and smooth, sending a shock through her veins.
“Thank you, Sif,” he spoke low.
“You are welcome,” she nodded.
The silence in the room seemed somehow louder than the winces and quips of the previous hour. As Sif lay beside Loki on her bed, their hands clasped, his bare chest rising and falling, she was almost scared to make a noise.
It felt brittle, fragile, like a misspeak would undue the stitches and separate their hands.
And Sif did not want to let go.
In fact, as she lay stiffly beside the young prince, their bodies almost touching, the thought of releasing his hand shot like a blow through her chest.
So, she stayed silent.
Loki spoke first. “I was set up.”
“What?” Sif asked, turning her head to look questioningly at him.
“The reason I lost the duel: I was set up.” Tracing the stitches on his abdomen with his non-occupied fingers, he shivered. “We were going to duel one-on-one, no weapons. But when the bastard saw that I was going to win, he called out for his friend...who had a knife.”
Her blood ran cold. “By the norns, Loki, these men could be imprisoned-”
“No, I don’t want that.” Loki’s voice grew louder, more desperate. “If my father hears that I challenged two drunkards to a duel, no matter the details, I will be confirmed in his mind as an embarrassment. That is to say, if I’m not already. No, I-I am telling you this because it’s...important to me that you know: I would have won.”
Sif felt her chest ache.
“I know you would have,” she breathed.
Nodding distantly, Loki seemed to be deep in thought. His tongue flicked out from between his lips before he confessed, “I passed many of our friends doors as I bled, you know. I could have knocked on any one of them. But I...I continued until I reached yours. I did not plan it, but in that moment, yours was the only face I could see. The Warrior’s Three would tell Thor, Thor would tell my father, none of them would understand. You were...are...the only person I felt I could wholly trust.”
“A misguided decision for a man who needed the help of a healer.” Sif joked softly, attempting to hide the yearning which welled up in her throat.
“Yes...I have been blind.” He agreed, a far-off look in his eyes.
A beat passed as their words disappeared into the air.
Their hands slipped apart.
Then Sif sat up, “You need to rest.”
Loki looked slightly disappointed.
“I don’t think it’s a very good idea to move you, so you may stay in my bed this evening. I shall sleep on the floor-”
She was cut off by Loki’s hand cupping her face, pulling her to him, and his lips capturing hers.
Letting out a small whimper, she felt her heart leap into her stomach. However, she quickly pushed aside her surprise and kissed him back.
His lips moved with an intensity, a longing, which made her feel weak.
Weakness had never been a sensation the female warrior enjoyed, but as his mouth undid her composure, she surrendered to the defeat gladly.
Gods, how she had wanted this. But her desires had been walled up behind logic, reason, and doubt. She had not allowed herself to imagine what this would feel like, what he would feel like. But the moment he had kissed her, the wall had crumbled and she indulged the longing wholeheartedly.
His hands and lips were cool, a welcomed sensation against her warm skin. The places his fingers grazed instantly mourned the loss of their touch, and the soft, low sighs he made when she stroked his neck made her lips curl into a triumphant grin.
However, when Loki attempted to lean closer into her, he let out a groan that was clearly not born from pleasure, and reality once again fell down around them.
Head falling back, he winced and lifted a hand to his wound. “Damnit. Damnit!”
“Loki-”
“I’m fine.” He insisted through a clenched jaw. “I’m...gah, I could use more whiskey.”
Face still flushed, Sif grabbed the bottle and handed it to him.
He took a swig and grimaced before passing it back to her.
“I do not recommend being stabbed.” He breathed after a moment.
With a snort of laughter, Sif rose her eyebrows. “I shall do my best to avoid it.”
“Hm.” Loki’s face began to relax again; He looked tired. “Tragically, I think perhaps I ought to follow your earlier advice and rest….no matter how much I may want to do other things. ”
“Yes, I think that would be best.” Sif nodded, a cold disappointment spreading through her chest.
“But we will resume those other things when I am not stitched up like a sack of grain?” The statement ended in a hopeful question.
Sif let her eyes sparkle in response, “I should hope so.”
Then she began to rise.
“You don’t have to sleep on the floor, you know,” he stopped her with telling earnestness.
“No?”
“No. I mean, what if I wake suddenly and need immediate assistance again? I think it would be...wise for you to sleep beside me here.”
“Hm, perhaps milord is right. I will do what you ask.” She replied, a teasing glint in her eyes. “And is there anything my patient needs before he sleeps? Water? Something to eat?”
“Could I kiss you again?”
Sif smiled.
He sounded nervous — almost an entirely different man than the one who had grabbed and kissed her moments ago.
Leaning forward, her eyes fluttered shut and she pressed her lips to his.
His hand moved gently to cup her face, his thumb stroking her cheek.
After a moment, they separated just enough to take a breath.
“You know, next time you challenge someone to a duel, I should very much like to be asked as your second,” she murmured, her lips brushing against his as she spoke.
“You have my word. Though I dare say my days of dueling are behind me.”
“Good.”
He smiled, before leaning in to kiss her one last time.
The next morning, Sif rose early.
Waking to find the sleeping prince’s head on her shoulder and hand in her own had added an urgency to her already boiling blood.
While last night she had been sympathetic, this morning her heart beat with a cold desire for one thing: revenge.
It only took her ten minutes to find the men who had stabbed Loki (sleeping in the stables behind the alehouse, still half drunk).
And it took her another five to tie them against the wooden beams and press her sword to their throats.
She did not hurt them, opting instead to take a page out of the silver tongued prince’s book.
“You have committed treason against the crown. Lucky for you, the prince is merciful and decided to spare you, for now…” Her eyes flashed with venom as she spoke. “But know this, traitorous fiends: To make enemies with a shapeshifter is to lose the ability to trust your own eyes. Should he change his mind, should you spew your slander again, he could assume any disguise, mimic any voice, hide in plain sight, and you will not know who he is. Not until the icy steel of his blade is piercing into your flesh and you hear the cries of Hel surrounding you. Do I make myself quite clear?”
She was back in bed by the time the exhausted prince awoke.
And the following evening in the dining hall, when the two slanderers bowed to Loki looking thoroughly paranoid and shaken to their cores, Sif grinned to herself.
“Hm, did you have something to do with that?” Loki murmured low in her ear when they had scurried off like frightened rats.
“Perhaps.”
“Oh no, what limb did you threaten to cut off?”
“I did nothing of the sort, milord.”
“Then what, pray tell, did you say?”
“I only spoke the truth.” Leaning close, her lips twisted into a satisfied smile, “I told them of your strength and warned against making you an enemy.”
“Really?” He lifted his brows suspiciously. “That’s all?”
“And...I may have mentioned a cold death and the fires of Hel.” She shrugged casually.
With a wicked glint in his eyes, Loki found her hand beneath the table and squeezed it, “I like you very much.”
“And I you.”