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As she stalked through the palace with a snarl, rage flashing in her eyes, Sif could only focus on one thought: He had gone too far this time. His status as her prince notwithstanding, she was going to kill Loki Odinson, and, by the Norns, she was going to enjoy it.
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3 Days Prior
“I don’t understand why he’s doing this!” Sif howled in fury as she flung her jar of silver polish, which had abruptly turned into some kind of jam, at the wall of the sitting room.
“Sif!” Her mother admonished, complete with hands on hips and a stern look on her face. “Please try to behave with some level of decorum as befits our status.” She moved to clean up the puddle of jam and blinked when it suddenly vanished.
Sif looked mildly surprised that the mess had disappeared (she would not put it past Loki to deliberately turn her polish into something that would make a huge mess when thrown, knowing that she would throw it in anger, and delighting in the prospect of her having to clean it) but quickly dismissed the implications. She rested her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands.
“Sif, what is going on?” Her mother’s tone had softened, and she placed a gentle hand on her daughter’s shoulder, tutting softly when she noticed that the seams of Sif’s under-tunic were starting to fray with use and wear.
“It’s Loki!” She shouted, ignoring her mother’s slightly scandalized look at her familiarity with the younger prince. “He keeps playing all these stupid pranks on me. It’s been going on for months!”
Her mother chuckled. “Well, like what?”
Sif heaved the sigh of the long suffering. “He keeps doing things like enchanting the pieces of my armor to dance, or causing my sword to turn into a tangle of yarn whenever I pick it up, or making me sink into a spot of quicksand when I’m sparring with Thor. He doesn’t do this to anyone else! I’m starting to think that he hates me.” As much as she tried to pretend in public that nothing concerning Loki affected her (she was of the sound opinion that, sometimes, he just needed a good ego-deflate when he got a little too full of himself), she had to admit that this prospect hurt. She would needle him sometimes, sure, but it was nothing that she didn’t also do to Thor. She thought they were friends.
“He doesn’t play tricks on Prince Thor and Fandral and the others?” If Sif had been paying attention to something other than her own unexpected despondency at the thought that Loki no longer considered her a friend, she would have noticed that her mother’s tone of voice had taken on a shrewd cast. “And it’s been going on for months?”
“Well, yes.” Sif looked up just in time to see her mother giver her one of those looks, one of those looks that meant you’re a very intelligent girl, darling, put the pieces of this puzzle together. With great vexation, Sif had to confess to herself that she did not understand this puzzle.
Her mother just smiled at her daughter’s confusion and moved to the doorway. “I’m quite sure Prince Loki doesn’t hate you, child,” she reassured cryptically.
It wasn’t until she heard her mother mutter, “Not the prince I was expecting, but this’ll do,” under her breath as she walked away that the pieces suddenly clicked into place. Oh. Oh.
That night, as she wrapped herself in her linens and sat on her window seat, staring out at the brilliance of the galaxies, she contemplated this idea. This idea of SifandLoki, together in that way. She hadn’t ever really thought about it before, but she couldn’t say the idea was completely unpleasant or repulsive. Loki was annoying, sure, but he was a better fighter than people gave him credit for (nobody could hit a distant target like he could with his knives), and he was improving daily with his sorcery. Once he perfected his illusions, they would undoubtedly be an asset in a battle or on an adventure. Others mocked him for how long he spent in the libraries, but Sif actually kind of liked that he could converse on topics other than weapons and the great battles of old. She always seemed to learn something new when she was with him, and even though the political theories of the Vanir nobility had no practical application to her life, it pleased her that Loki deemed her intelligent enough to discuss it with him.
And, alright, he’s not terrible looking, she thought as a faint blush crept across her cheeks. She twirled the ends of her own dark hair around her finger. Loki certainly looked different from most others in Asgard, with his black hair and green eyes and lack of bulging muscles. But as she remembered the way he had carelessly stripped off his tunic after training that afternoon, revealing his lithe build, all pale skin and long smooth lines, she felt her cheeks grow even hotter, and she hastened to add, but different isn’t necessarily bad.
No, not terrible looking at all.
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Loki was irritatingly good at hiding in the palace, and it taken Sif so long to find him that she found that her rage had abated somewhat. Maybe I won’t kill him. But I will punch him very very hard.
Besides, how did he even do it? Sorcery, obviously. Right? But how did he sneak out of the palace to do it? A cloaking spell, definitely. I wonder if there was some kind of delay in the spell? Is his skill that great? Or was he in my chambers last night while I was asleep? Oh, there’s that blush again. It and I are becoming fast friends now. Damn you, Loki. Maybe I’ll punch him very hard.
At last, Sif reached an alcove on one of the highest levels of the palace. It was a swelteringly hot day, even inside, and Loki had opened the windows in the hopes that a cool breeze might happen across him and decide to visit. As Sif approached, she saw the wind ruffle his hair, and he bit his lip in concentration as he pored over some ancient tome. Alright, I’ll punch him hard.
Her wrath having almost entirely dissipated, she pasted an angry expression on her face and tossed her practice sword down to the marble floor with a clatter. Loki’s head snapped up, and, for a moment, Sif could see that his eyes were slightly unfocused and that he was still lost in the world of whatever he had been reading. At two paces before him, she could see a bead of sweat start at his hairline and travel down the side of his face. She followed it with her eyes, and she had the sudden urge to lick it. I’ll punch him.
“Sif!” He exclaimed, sounding far too pleased with himself. “Did you have a good night’s rest?”
Sif’s anger momentarily rekindled and flared up. I’ll punch him hard.
She grabbed the front of his feather-light tunic, resolutely ignoring the fact that he had unlaced it in concession to the heat and that a sizable portion of his lean chest was right there for her viewing pleasure, and hauled him upright. She ignored his affronted “Sif!” as his book tumbled to the floor, drew back, and punched him right in the nose, hard enough to snap his head to the side and send his hair flying across his face.
“What—”
She pulled him in even closer, close enough so that they were sharing breath. “You didn’t have to put snakes in my bed, you imbecile. You could have just told me that you liked me.” She pressed her lips to his before he could respond, and she felt a thrill run through her at Loki’s surprised gasp. He tasted like lemon cakes, and Sif liked that very much. When she finally pulled back, he stared at her, speechless with wonder, and Sif liked that even better.
Well, she thought as they both moved back towards each other, unable to stay away, this should be very interesting.