Archive of Our Own ^beta

As soon as the doors to the throne room close behind Thor, Loki bursts out laughing. Ten minutes later, he laughs still, although it is just chuckles now, mostly, with the occasional guffaw punctuating at random intervals. With Thor now on his way to Midgard, he is, at least temporarily, out of the way, which means that Loki has made it over the Thor hurdle and has conquered his first obstacle. Odin is still alive, but stashed deep in the recesses of the palace where no one is likely to find him (as no one else, save Thor, has Loki’s encyclopedic knowledge of the palace), so he is out of the way. Loki may actually be able to get away with this mad scheme. Whatever this mad scheme is. He is not entirely sure what his endgame is at the moment, and that uncertainty irks him far more than he will ever actually admit to anyone. But he did recently get out of prison, after all. Allowances must be made. He will come back into his own, he is sure of it.

At the moment, he is content merely to revel in his freedom, for all that he knows that, while enjoying his freedom, he will be wearing his not-father’s face for most of his time in the near (and maybe even far) future. Chuckles finally dying away, he sends out a tendril of power; subtle and sinuous, it slips from the throne room and out into Asgard at large, and Loki is so thrilled that his power has room to breathe, that it is no longer confined to his prison cell, slowly suffocating him with the wasted potential, that he nearly weeps. He wants to let all the seidr simmering just below the surface explode from him in fireworks and flashy displays, in bombast and extravagance, but that is not Odin’s way, and, especially in the wake of Frigga’s death, the court would be suspicious. No, Loki knows that he must wait, any changes—both in personality and in policy—must happen organically, subtly. He must play the long con, his grandest jest yet.

As he sits on Hlidskjálf, letting his fingers run over the armrest, allowing power of a different sort to envelop him, to encase him, to encompass him, he reassures himself that he is up to the task. He was born to be a King, of course. Now is his opportunity to prove his worth.

+++++

Two days after Thor leaves for Midgard, Loki calls Heimdall, Volstagg, Fandral, and Sif before him. They stand at attention in a line at the foot of the throne, trying as hard as they possibly can to avoid shifting their weight restlessly or doing anything other than stand stock-still, eyes forward. Loki makes them wait, lets them stew in their disloyalty, while he stares down at each of them in turn with Odin’s eye. Odin would be well within his rights to throw them all in the dungeons for their treason. They know it, Loki knows it, and he very seriously considers it, given how each of them had so egregiously betrayed him when he himself had been their king in his own right.

Instead, he sits down on Hlidskjálf, abruptly breaking his stare at Sif. “Return to your duties,” he says, quietly, forcefully. “Dismissed.”

They cannot help but all share a slightly incredulous, but nevertheless relieved, glance with one another, and they each bow before him (Loki does not believe he will ever get tired of that) and go their separate ways.

Mercy is not usually within Loki’s nature, and it sits uneasily on his shoulders, but a little of it here will go a long way. It will be useful to have these four owe him a favor, after all.

+++++

Two months after Loki assumes the mantle of kingship under disreputable and clandestine circumstances, he starts giving Sif specific orders. Innocuous tasks only, of course, certainly nothing that she would find morally objectionable. Just a test. Just making sure her loyalty lies with her King. Twice now it has not. But now she seems almost eager to atone, she appears grateful for not being sent to the dungeons in disgrace, and she completes every task she is set perfectly. When he gives her an order, he stands before her as the Allfather, and Thor is not present to offer a counter agenda. His legitimacy to rule, to order, to command her is not now in question.

He cannot resist toying with her a little as well. Slipping some of his own mannerisms, his own patterns of speech, his own memories of their past together (but only memories he conceivably would have shared with Odin, so, not many; he uses these sparingly) into his occasional conversations with her. He is playing a dangerous game, he knows that, his position is not secure, but no one knowing his secret, no one knowing he yet lives, no one knowing how terribly clever he has been is just so unfathomably dull, it almost makes him want to put Odin’s other eye out just to cause a bit of a stir, to bring a bit of excitement to the court. He needs something to keep things lively, to keep people talking. He knows she cannot know his secret yet, for he cannot trust her to keep it quiet and hidden, but he just cannot resist watching her reactions.

Most of the time he is disappointed, for she does not react at all. Ever the stoic warrior is his Sif. Or if she does react, it’s just a mere twitch. A puzzled expression when she stands before Odin’s desk and he twirls his pen through his fingers, just as she has seen him do a million times before. If he is lucky, she will favor him with a roll of her eyes when he tells a story of one of Thor’s more ridiculous antics, or a half-hidden wince when he shares a tale of one of his own. He wants to sing every time she lets that reaction surface. That wound still a little too raw, Lady Sif? Good.

He busies himself with thinking of how she will react when she learns the truth, that he lives, that he has ruled as King and Asgard has not yet fallen into ruin. He is under no delusions with regard to this: she will be livid. She will most certainly punch him. She will definitely have harsh words. She may even draw her sword and challenge him right then and there, cursing his name, threatening to send him to Hel for real this time. She will be righteous fury, supreme indignation, and beautiful wrath, and it will be glorious.

He looks forward to this day.

+++++

Two months after Loki begins testing Sif’s loyalty, he sends her to retrieve Lorelei from Midgard. He does not offer his rationale for the order, and she does not request any explanation. He merely explains what he wants done, and Sif, completely blank, betraying no hint of her personal feelings on the matter, nods and turns on her heel to complete the task. Which she does with her customary efficiency, with no detours to London to visit Thor and his mortals. If Sif had even wanted to so visit, she shows no outward sign of it while carrying out her duties, none at all, at least from Loki’s vantage point on Hlidskjálf. She delivers Lorelei into his custody with another crisp nod, and only the slight furrows in her forehead and the tension in the line of her shoulders gives any indication that the retrieval had gone any way other than perfectly smoothly.

“Lady Sif,” he calls out just as she is about to leave the throne room. She turns sharply, inquiring but deferential. “Good work,” he finishes, and he has to stifle a smile at her look of surprise.

“It was my pleasure, Allfather,” she replies, quickly regaining her composure.

He dismisses her with a nod, and Loki stares after her until she disappears completely from his view before he directs the Einherjar to escort Lorelei to her new accommodations in the dungeons. His old cell, in fact. He no longer has use for it, so, as far as he is concerned, she is welcome to it.

The Einherjar carry out these orders without question, and finally, when the last one has given him the final update on this undertaking, he makes his way to Odin’s chambers and collapses on the lounger in the corner of the room, dropping the Odin-illusion as he falls backwards.

It is exhausting being King, he thinks as he lies sprawled on the lounger, finally wearing his own face for the first time that day. He enjoys that he gives an order and it is immediately carried out, no one daring to countermand him. He has yet to notice any members of the court looking at each other askance after he makes a proclamation, asking each other with their eyes just what is Odin playing at? He has not observed them discussing him in what they think is secrecy either, and the Norns know he looks in on them all from Hlidskjálf often enough.

It rankles him that he has to wear Odin’s face to attain legitimacy, for he knows that, if he were sitting on the throne as himself, his orders would be questioned and debated, at best, or outright disregarded, at worst. He hates that, every day, he must wear the face of the man who lied to him for so long, that he must carefully maintain the illusion of being him, constantly on guard, making sure that he always appears Odin-enough—in both appearance and in deeds—not to raise any suspicions. He needs to establish a firm foundation, he needs months, if not years, of solid, prosperous, good rule before he can even think of making the reveal that he, Loki the dark prince, Loki the disgraced prince, has actually been governing. At least, he must do so to have any hope of not being run out of the realm in disgrace, if not actually executed, at his big reveal. It would be so tiresome to try to establish himself elsewhere. Even more tiresome than dealing with the thousand tiny matters that require his attention each day as the ruler of the mightiest of the Nine Realms. Even more tiresome than watching his face dissolve into Odin’s in the mirror each morning after deliberating rumpling the linens on Odin’s side of the bed and before the servants and his valet come to wake him. Even more tiresome than ruling alone, no one there with whom he can share the burden, no one there to whom he can complain about the court, no one there from whom he can receive honest, true counsel.

The one he would choose to rule alongside him was there in the throne room with him this day, head held high, proud and beautiful as she returned from Midgard. But Loki is quite certain that, these days, Sif would sooner run him through with her sword before she becomes his Queen.

That thought accompanies him into dreams, and, not for the first time since becoming King, Loki’s sleep is a restless one.

+++++

Three months after Sif proves that she will follow his orders if he dons a different face, Midsummer arrives. The absolute last thing that Loki wishes to do is hold a feast, for he finds them exasperating even at the best of times (and this is hardly the best of times), but it is tradition, it is expected, and he must still do what is expected of Odin. Life inexorably moves forward, and Asgard lumbers on.

He moves amongst his councilors imperiously, nodding at those he wishes to bestow his favor upon, ignoring those who have irritated him recently. The latter, perhaps not surprisingly, greatly outnumber the former, and Loki feels something approaching sympathy and maybe even begrudging admiration for Odin, who somehow had managed to be King for millennia without brutally murdering his entire court. He overhears someone (he does not catch precisely who, lucky for them) whisper to someone else that with the loss of Frigga and Loki, and with Thor’s return to Asgard very much in doubt, the Allfather might want to think about remarrying in hopes of producing an heir. Not knowing the speaker of this asinine idea (which actually makes entirely too much sense, and therefore Loki hopes to avoid it at all costs), he levels an icy glare all around, causing all conversation in the vicinity to cease momentarily, before stalking off to procure some mead. Loki wishes to keep his wits about him, but stars above, he needs it.

Of course, he meets Sif along the way, of course, and he cannot handle Sif at the moment, he just cannot, and he starts to pass her by with nothing more than an almost-courteous nod when he catches a glimpse of her hair. Specifically, he catches a glimpse of the pins in her hair. Silver pins, one end of each carved into a curling dragon, ready to attack. He knows them well. He gave them to her after all, long ago, or so it seems now.

“Lady Sif,” he greets her.

“Allfather,” she returns, and she accompanies her greeting with a slight bow and a fist to her heart.

He thinks about making wearisome small talk with her before needling her about the pins, but he finds that he cannot stomach it, and so he dives right in. “Those are lovely hair pins, Sif.”

She raises an eyebrow at the unexpected line of conversation but replies evenly, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Dwarven crafted?”

“Yes, sir.”

“A gift?”

“Indeed, Allfather.”

He may be vexed, he may be exhausted, but he is still Loki, and pushing people’s buttons, testing them, seeing if they will admit to uncomfortable truths, that is what he does, and if he is ever too tired for that, it may then be time for him to give it all up. “Are they weapons also?” he asks, knowing full well that they are, for he had commissioned them for that very purpose, ornamentation and implementation of destruction. “If so, the giver made a fine choice.”

Sif hesitates, clearly debating how much she should reveal. “They are, sir.” She pauses, and Loki waits. “They were a gift from your son, actually. From Loki.”

Not many things in life surprise Loki, but the fact that she admitted the pins were a gift from him, when she just as easily could have said nothing about the giver, that manages it. He clears his throat. “Beautiful and deadly. He knows you well.” He realizes too late his slip with the verb tense, and he could kick himself for making such an amateur mistake.

Sif, however, merely replies, “Yes, he does.” He thinks that he detects a hint of longing in her tone, and she does not meet his eyes.

In an uncharacteristic burst of compassion, he does not press her further; instead, he nods at her in dismissal, knowing that she will see it in her peripheral vision, and she quickly departs his company.

Sif does not stay for the feast.

Loki, of course, is not so lucky. He arrives back in Odin’s chambers far later than he would have preferred and wanders out onto the balcony. He looks vaguely in the direction that he knows Sif’s chambers to be, wondering if she also sought solace from the stars this night.

As he looks in vain for her, he thinks that she will probably still punch him upon learning the truth, but maybe, just maybe, there is the slightest chance that she might kiss him as well.

Loki has never had much use for forgiveness in his life. He has never been one to beg for it from one he has wronged, and he has never been one to offer it to one who has wronged him. But as he remembers the way Sif’s voice shook ever so slightly when she hinted at their connection earlier, he supposes that it might behoove them both to forgive each other, when that time comes.

+++++

Five months after Midsummer, Loki finds himself reveling in his power while simultaneously despairing at the lack of it. He can order (and has ordered) Sif to do innumerable tasks for him, which she carries out faithfully and without complaint, every time. Of course she does, he is her King, and she is the realm’s foremost warrior.

The little bitter voice tucked away in the depths of Loki’s consciousness reminds him that her obedience is only because he appears before her as the Allfather, as if he has somehow forgotten her treason when he sat the throne as himself, Loki of Asgard, first of his name. That hateful voice grows dimmer each day, however, and at some point in the not-too-distant future, Loki may—may—be willing to concede that perhaps if he had been in her shoes on that fateful day, he also would have disregarded the orders not to seek out Thor on Midgard. He had, after all, not made a very sincere effort before Sif and the Three to appear reluctant to wield the power of the throne and Gungnir. (Apparently, his acting skills suffered during times of extreme emotional upheaval.)

There is a part of him, the vindictive part, the part that still seethes over past betrayals, that still spits vitriol at any who try to appease his rage, that, even now, wishes to make increasingly outrageous demands of her, to test the limits of his power over her, to see just how high he can make her jump before she starts to question why. There are days where he is almost overcome by how heady it is to be in power over those who once scorned him, even if they are ignorant of their new relative positions. But those days are becoming few and far between. He could, very easily, pull Sif’s strings and make her dance, but that has ceased to hold much of his interest for a while now.

Instead, he just wants. He wants her physically, to be sure, and he often tortures himself by taking advantage of the enthusiastic reception Odin receives at every sparring match, every training session, to stand in the open and admire her lean strength, her quick footwork, her deft hands. He remembers their own sparring sessions from days gone by, sword battles turning into hand-to-hand combat (they never had turned down an excuse to touch each other, openly, acceptably, with no one else the wiser) turning into, once the yards emptied, clothes coming off as they fought for dominance down to the ground, bruising kisses, scratches down backs, nips to necks, more, more, more. Now, he claps a hand to her shoulder after a particularly fine bout, a pleased commander-in-chief, nothing more, but he secretly chases the sense memory of the feel of her bare skin under her hands, on his tongue, it whets his appetite, it almost brings him to his knees, and it takes every ounce of self-control that he possesses to keep his expression neutral while his heart threatens to beat straight out of his chest and the blood in his veins sings for her, his Lady War.

He wants her even more in the quiet moments. The moments when he is not Loki-Pretending-To-Be-Odin, King of all Asgard, solving disputes, issuing edicts, handing down his judgment, improving Asgard, still rebuilding after the destruction Malekith brought to bear on the city. No, it is the moments when he is just Loki, alone with his thoughts, alone with his rage, alone with his grief, alone. That is when he wants her the most. That is when he misses her the most. That is when he remembers her the most.

He curls up in the lounger in Odin’s chambers after a long and tiring day, wrapped in a quilt hand-knit by Frigga that he had retrieved on a surreptitious mission to his old chambers, and he stares at the stars visible through the window and he dreams of her. He dreams of their days as children, bursting forth from lessons to watch the warriors train, to search for frogs in Frigga’s gardens, to beg to groom the mighty warhorses, to roam through the fields outside the city walls, lighthearted and carefree, to pester Heimdall about the furthest reaches of his sight, to watch the mechanics fine-tune the ships, fitting in each part with perfect precision.

He dreams of days spent together in the library, Sif reading tales of adventure, whispering stories of derring-do in a tone of hushed awe, listening captivated as Loki described Bifrost theory and bawdy Alfar poetry, trying desperately to keep their tittering laughter as quiet as possible so they do not get thrown out for being too loud again. He dreams of the first time they sparred, when Sif grabbed Thor’s extra practice sword, far too big for her, when they were still but children, and she attacked with such tenacity and fire. She had disarmed Loki easily, and they just stared at each other, shocked, an undercurrent of excitement thrumming in the pocket of garden where they played, and Sif had whispered excitedly, “Loki, I am going to be a warrior,” and they could hardly breathe for laughing, they were so overcome with possibility.

He smiles when he dreams of those days, and he feels young again. (He is objectively young, of course, in the reckoning of the Aesir, but ever since his fall from the Bifrost he has felt positively ancient.) He feels weightless, he feels like he did then—full of potential, the entire universe open and waiting and available to him and to them. He learns that he does still have a heart when he dreams those dreams.

He dreams of other things, too. He dreams of furtive glances and increasingly desperate pranks played upon her. He dreams of their first kiss, the combination of inexperience and enthusiasm making it perfect. He dreams of how, when she had pressed her lips to his, he was intoxicated on the smell, the taste, the essence of her. His heart beats so fast and so hard at the remembrance, he wakes up breathless. He dreams of every kiss after that, a catalogue he has kept in the depths of his brain, hoarding their kisses, storing them up because in the back of his mind he always knew that Loki&Sif would not last forever, that he would destroy them, that he would one day need the memories of them to keep himself warm.

He dreams of evenings curled together on the lounger on his balcony, stargazing, seemingly attempting to meld into one being. He dreams of the way she would intuitively know when he needed both company and silence simultaneously and would sit at the low table in front of his fireplace, cleaning her daggers or reading his favorite volume of Alfar poetry while he puzzled through a spell or tinkered with some spare piece of machinery, finally coming over to him to run her hands down his chest and kiss his neck when he would give a great sigh of frustration. He dreams of the times they huddled together in the library, studying only each other, lips hardly parting lest their wanton moans bring all of the librarian’s wrath down upon their heads. He dreams of thousands upon thousands of shared, secret glances, of gentle caresses, of words of devotion whispered into the silent stillness of the night, meant to be absorbed into the other’s very being, not meant to be heard. He dreams of fevered kisses on the shadows of the public balcony, not twenty meters from the revelry of their first feast after they both came of age. He dreams of making her scream and of her making him lose every scrap of composure he had ever cobbled together. He dreams of their first I love yous, and he wakes, aching.

He could pull her strings and make her dance. He could change the tune mid-song, call out a new dance number when she least expects it and watch her scramble to keep up. He could, he is King. He finds, however, that he would rather her dance with him.

+++++

Four months after Loki’s pleasant dreams of Sif begin to outnumber his ruminations over her betrayal, he overhears Hoenir remark on Odin’s newfound vigor and vitality, and part of Loki is thrilled because he has never in his life been more powerful. But at the same time, his heart quails because he grows more entrenched as Odin by the day, and it grows harder and harder to extricate himself. He begins to think, in his more despairing moments, that he will die as Odin and will never have a chance to be Loki again.

+++++

Three months after he wonders whether Loki will ever live again, he stands to the side of the training yards with Tyr and Hoenir and watches Sif spar with a younger guard in the Einherjar, an Erik Olafson, who is eager to prove his mettle against the fearsome Lady Sif. Olafson very nearly succeeds in besting her as well, landing several hits that Sif ordinarily would never allow anywhere near her and almost knocking her flat on her back at least twice. She has not been this sloppy since she first received her invitation to train formally, and Loki, Tyr, and Hoenir all watch with raised eyebrows. She finally disarms Olafson and kicks his sword away with a yell, although her breathing is heavy, and she is clearly exhausted. Tyr clucks his tongue but says nothing, and Loki decides to follow suit. Even the Lady Sif is allowed an off day.

The matches resume, and Loki decides to loiter about, ostensibly because the presence of the Allfather serves as a motivator for the younger recruits, encouraging them to fight their hardest for their realm and their King, but in reality, Loki lingers because he cannot handle any more discussion about the newest trade arrangement with Nornheim, he just cannot. Normally such a debate would be right in his wheelhouse, as all interactions with Nornheim are fraught with political intrigue, a delicate balancing act, but he has to work out in the open when appearing as the Allfather instead of maneuvering in the shadows as he would if he were still the second prince, and, as a result, he just finds the entire exercise to be tedious to the extreme. Odin is well known for mulling over weighty affairs of state while checking up on his warriors. Loki cares not for the state of most warriors, save for how the general might of his armies further solidifies his position on the throne and Asgard’s position as the foremost of the Nine Realms, but he does care about the state of one warrior in particular, and so he is willing to show his face, or Odin’s face, as the case may be (as the case still is, and oh, how Loki finds that to be wearisome), at the yards on a daily basis.

Sif vacates the yards immediately after Tyr calls a halt for the day, clearly frustrated with her performance. Loki sees her go and the part of him that remembers all the times she consoled him when he did not live up to perfection wants to run after her and serve the same function for her now, but she would certainly not welcome it coming from her king, so he stays put and pretends to listen to Tyr and Hoenir discuss the up and coming recruits. That is, after all, a topic of interest to the King of Asgard. He must keep up appearances.

After twenty dull and tiresome minutes, Loki is ready to make his excuses, unable to withstand a moment more, when he hears Sif’s name spoken. He casts his eye around as surreptitiously as he can to see Fandral and Volstagg sauntering over to their gear mere paces away. Loki shifts his attention fully over to their conversation, while still facing Tyr and Hoenir, just in time to hear Fandral say, “She certainly was distracted today.” Volstagg merely grunts in agreement.

“She must miss Thor,” Fandral muses, and Loki almost, almost, puts his fist through the nearest column, because of course that would be Fandral’s first thought, but Volstagg’s quiet reply belays his imminent property destruction and almost-certain identity reveal.

“Not just Thor.”

Loki is not the only one brought up short by that. Fandral’s surprise is obvious and he asks, “What is that now?”

Volstagg gamely repeats himself, clearly taking some measure of satisfaction in knowing something that Fandral, with all of his extensive connections within the court and knowledge of gossip, does not. “It is not just Thor that Sif misses.” His voice is quiet, an undertone; he obviously does not desire to betray Sif’s confidences to the yard as a whole, and were it not for Loki straining as hard as he possibly can to hear, these secrets would be beyond his knowledge as well.

“Well, we all miss Loki. And Hogun, of course.” Fandral’s sincerity is apparent, and Loki is more touched than he cares to admit by the fact that Fandral mentions him before Hogun, the missing third of the Three, who is thoroughly enjoying his life on Vanaheim. Loki, as Odin, receives missives from him every now and then on the state of Vanaheim’s security. Terse as always, but Hogun still finds a way to express his condolences over the loss of the rest of the royal family via death and Midgard. Loki has always liked Hogun.

“Of course, but Sif misses Loki in rather a different way than the rest of us,” Volstagg replies, and it is clear that if he were imparting this information in any other situation, that is, not when they all believe Loki to be dead, he would be overcome with glee instead of somber at Sif’s loss.

“What do you mean? Out with it, man!” Loki struggles not to roll Odin’s eye at Fandral’s uncharacteristic obtuseness with regard to matters of the heart. Perhaps he just does not wish to believe that Sif could ever love one such as Loki, and he is determined to resist accepting the thought for as long as he possibly can. Loki understands. He often wonders himself how Sif had managed it.

Volstagg sounds just as exasperated when he replies, and Loki hears the thump indicating that Volstagg had punched Fandral on the arm. “They were together. Romantically,” he hisses, and Fandral drops his rapier to the ground with a clatter.

“I had no idea,” Fandral finally says after a long, dramatic pause. (Fandral always has enjoyed drama and a bit of a show.) Loki has no idea how Volstagg knew either, and he inches closer, or at least as close as he can while still appearing to be part of Tyr and Hoenir’s conversation.

“They hid it well,” Volstagg allows. “But Sif could not hide her glow around him, how she appeared to shine just that little bit brighter when he would look her way. And Loki,” he sighs, “not even Loki, with all his gifts at masks, could hide the way his eyes softened when he would watch her fight or the way he would smile, despite himself, whenever she would tell a tale of our exploits.” He pauses, and Loki desperately wishes that he could see the expression on Volstagg’s face at that moment, but Hoenir is now looking right at him, and he cannot turn away. “They loved each other, they both did. I am certain of it,” Volstagg finishes, and he again grunts his agreement as Fandral mutters, “Poor Sif.”

Their conversation on the topic clearly over, Loki turns his full attention back to Tyr and Hoenir just in time to hear them mention Erik Olafson. He gives a gruff nod at the young warrior’s promise, but he cannot keep his mind from wandering back to the conversation he just overheard. He makes a mental note to work on keeping his eye—Odin’s eye—hardened and unforgiving, and he revises his estimation of Volstagg’s shrewdness and powers of observation up a few notches.

That night, as Loki sits on Hlidskjálf, as himself this time, he cannot do this as Odin, his curiosity gets the better of him and he casts his eyes to Sif’s chambers. Loki has never been one to draw many lines that he will not cross, but up until tonight, this had been one. The cynical part of him muses that what is one more transgression against her added to the lot? The ever-increasing part of him that is sincere in his contrition and that genuinely desires to make amends to her once he is in a position to do so as himself is wary of violating her privacy—for Sif has never been one to tolerate that with good grace—but he has to see her tonight, and this is the only way available to him. Maybe, should she ever find out, he could claim he did it for love, which would have the benefit of being true, for all that she would be unlikely to believe it.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his fingers tracing nonsense patterns on the armrests of the throne. He opens his eyes and for the first time in over a year, he wants to weep. Sif lies curled on her side on his side of her bed, a book open before her. It is a volume of Alfar poetry, his favorite, one he had kept in his chambers, which means she must have snuck in and retrieved it at some point, and she recites one of the poems to herself, a lone tear sliding down her cheek. Loki finds himself saying the words along with her, his favorite of the collection, the one he had planned on reciting to her whenever he got around to asking her if he could court her formally; an evening derailed by their ill-fated trip to Jotunheim, it lives on now solely in the portion of Loki’s consciousness designated never was.

He knows beyond a doubt that he still has a heart, for he feels it breaking.

+++++

Three weeks after Loki first looks in on Sif in her chambers unbidden, unbeknownst to her, Erik Olafson succeeds in besting her at the yards.

+++++

Eight months after Sif suffers her first defeat at the sword point of Erik Olafson, Loki receives a letter from Hogun. Bandits have resurfaced on Vanaheim, and he seeks Asgard’s military prowess, lead, of course, by his old friends, Fandral, Volstagg, and Sif. Sif currently suffers from a badly sprained ankle, an injury she had received in a recent bout with Volstagg when she was a little too slow in moving out of the way of his axe and she stepped wrong. But her tactical mind is sharp, and she still wins more matches than she loses, and no rational reason exists for Loki to hold her back, to order her to stay, to keep her safe by his side.

So he gives his assent and off she goes and it turns into an utter disaster. The disaster is not Sif’s fault, of course, but she gets caught up in it just the same. These marauders are better organized than bandits usually are (somehow they have off-world help, and Loki decides that he needs to find a way to monitor all of the supposedly-secret pathways between the realms), and it quickly devolves into guerrilla warfare. One month stretches into two into four into six into more, and although Tyr routinely sends soldiers back to Asgard to rest and recuperate and calls up fresh companies, a certain lady warrior refuses to be sidelined.

Ordinarily, Sif’s tenacity would be a boon, but now she runs herself ragged, she fails to properly take care of herself, she does not eat enough, she does not sleep enough, she ignores all those who tell her to stop, to rest, to breathe, and she becomes a liability-in-waiting, a bomb searching for an opportunity to go off. Her reflexes slow, hits start to land, her sword takes longer to find its mark, and minor injuries mount. Loki looks in on her from Hlidskjálf when he can, he has to parcel it out, a few snatches here and there; he cannot sit and watch her for hours on end every night without arousing the suspicions of his councilors, however much he may want to do so.

Normally, after a day of fighting, she would be going over her forms, practicing her footwork to cool down, playing over what went wrong that day in her head, and drilling herself to correct it. Now, at night, she sits before a fire, gaze inscrutable, there but not, utterly blank, diminished in a way no one, least of all someone as strong as Sif, should be, and Loki would give all the gold in Asgard’s treasury and his kingdom too in order to sit beside her on the log, to tell her a truly terrible joke just to get her to smile, to hold her close and hold her tight, and to face their foes together. But she thinks he is dead, and he has more problems on his plate than banditry in Vanaheim, and so they remain where they are, surrounded by people and yet utterly alone.

The battles on Vanaheim rage on, and one day Sif slays a combatant but does not notice his companion barreling at her from the left. He knocks her over the edge of an embankment into a rocky ravine, and she breaks her leg in four different places. Loki sees it happen from the safety of Hlidskjálf, he sees her face crumple in pain, he sees her lean her head back on a rock, and he sees all the fight and fire drain from her. Tyr brings her back to Asgard himself, and Loki greets them at Heimdall’s observatory, Sif quiet and uncomplaining in Tyr’s arms.

Loki wants to kiss her breathless. He settles for tense silence. It is time for a change.

+++++

Five weeks after Sif arrives back on Asgard, battered and bruised and broken, she and Loki embark on a tour of the realms. He needs to find tasks for her that do not involve fighting, that keep her safe, but that do not insult her by appearing to be designed solely to keep her busy. Escorting the Allfather on an inter-realm tour to shore up foreign relations, with plenty of trips back to Asgard to ensure that the business of their own realm proceeds apace, certainly fits the bill. Sif is an ideal head of security: she may have suffered from a reduction in her physical prowess, but her mind is as keen as ever, and she takes no chances with her king’s safety.

In truth, even those skills of hers are not particularly needed that much. Odin may be aged and wizened, but he still commands respect throughout the realms (even on Jotunheim, embroiled in a brutal civil war ever since Laufey perished at the hands of Loki and Gungnir, although that respect is more wary and is tinged with distrust), and Loki has more than enough youthful power such that he practically radiates strength and might as he walks down a promenade in Alfheim, strides across the ice from the Bifrost site to Utgard on Jotunheim, or nips about bustling Midgardian streets incognito, steering well clear of both Thor and S.H.I.E.L.D. Combined with Sif’s stoic presence (the only ones who have ever seen her falter are her comrades, who will say nothing, and the foes she has faced and who are now dead—either by her own hand or the hands of said comrades—and dead men tell no tales), they are formidable indeed, and the journey, which lasts months, passes entirely without incidence.

Incidence of the martial type, that is. For Loki, it is both pleasant and tortuous to travel the realms with Sif by his side. He cannot help but remember lazy days, lying entwined on his bed as the sun’s rays peaked into his chambers and created intriguing patterns on their bare skin, when they would talk of the future, we will travel the universe when you are Princess Sif, he would murmur into her shoulder, and she would roll on top of him and whisper back, will you show me the stars, Prince Loki? Yes, every one, he would reply before rapture momentarily silenced his tongue. He wonders if she remembers those days as well. He often catches a glimpse, a spark of something in her eyes as they wander the verdant forests of Vanaheim (far away from the site of the previous unrest) and the healing springs of Alfheim, and he has never wished more ardently for the ability to see into another’s mind than he does at those moments, for they are so rare, lost as they are among the fading luster and light and fire in her eyes.

Every day she slips a little further from him, and he cannot think of how to solve the problem without revealing that he still lives, which he cannot do just yet, Asgard is still not ready, but Sif’s time is waning, and Loki is so frustrated at his inability to solve this conundrum that, at times, he cannot think straight. He is lost in the past and a present that seems to bring nothing but pain for them both and an increasingly hopeless future.

+++++

Three months after they return to Asgard for good, miscreants, aided by fire demons from Muspelheim of all things, start making trouble on the third moon of Alfheim, and Sif accompanies the armies sent to quell their mischief. Loki wants to hold her back, but he saw how she had begun to chafe under the lack of physical activity toward the end of their tour of the realms, and he had promised her, when he pledged his heart to her so many years before, that he would never cage her. Loki has broken so many promises, to her, to himself, to everyone, but he cannot break this one, even if it ultimately leads to her death. Loki will do literally everything in his considerable power to attempt to prevent that outcome, but if Sif goes down, she will go down fighting.

They left four days ago, and Loki has been restless ever since. He has barely slept, he catches glimpses of the action from Hlidskjálf when he can, and he paces endlessly when he cannot. He constantly wonders if seeing Sif in the observatory as she departed while he remained behind next to Heimdall will be the last time he ever sees her alive and in the flesh. He desperately wishes that he could make her smile and laugh again, that he could touch her, hold her, kiss her even if it is just for one last time. But his hands are tied, all this power and nothing to show for it, nothing to show but dark circles under his eyes and his fingernails worn down to mere nubs from where he has chewed on them when out of sight of his councilors, guards, and servants, an old habit, one he had thought himself rid of an age ago.

During a break between council meetings, Loki takes a seat on the throne and casts his eyes Sif’s way. She holds her own for the moment, nowhere near her prime form, but enough to fight off her foes. She is dark hair flying and silver steel piercing, death and destruction and war itself, but Loki widens his sight and sees that she has been separated from the rest of Asgard’s armies by a good distance and that the enemies keep coming her way, relentless. He can see the moment when she starts to tire, and one of her opponents does too and begins to press his advantage. They fight, and Loki can hear the clang of steel against steel as well as if it were happening in the room with him. Just as Sif is about to land the killing blow, a supposedly defeated enemy rears up and stabs her in the side. That is the cue the others have been waiting for, and they spring to attack, war cries deafening. Sif staggers and somehow remains upright, but Loki sees the expression on her face, part panic, part acceptance, and his decision is made. Their story cannot end this way.

He jumps up from Hlidskjálf just as Hoenir comes in to collect him for the next meeting, but Loki spares him no explanation as he vanishes in a blink. He reappears before Heimdall who takes one look at his king and slams his sword down to activate the Bifrost, no words necessary in the face of Odin’s disheveled robes and wild eyes.

Loki lands not ten paces from Sif, amazed to see that, in the time since he left Hlidskjálf, she has dispatched all but two of the remaining bandits, clearly determined to enter the golden gates of Valhalla in style. Not today. Not if Loki can help it, and he does, throwing a dagger with deadly precision into the neck of one of Sif’s adversaries, the one who was creeping up behind her to stab her in the back, just as she runs the other through with her sword. When two bodies audibly hit the ground but she remains standing, barely and in obvious pain, she whirls around, stunned into speechlessness at the sight before her: Odin, hair in complete disarray, breathing heavily, looking every bit like he has just dropped everything and sprinted across three realms to come to her aid.

She kneels, paying no mind to what has to be a sharp, stabbing, excruciating pain in her side. “Allfather,” she begins breathlessly, “I thank you for your—”

Loki cuts her off, resolutely ignoring the resignation in her tone over the fact that her death will not come today. “You can thank me by not throwing your life away needlessly.” He pauses, weighing whether he truly wants to make this reveal, and he sees her start in surprise, for the Allfather has ever been quick and sure decisions, always certain his path is the right one, no wavering, no equivocation. But he wavers now, and Loki can see how it sends her even more adrift. Finally, he takes a deep sigh and closes his eyes, a familiar golden shimmer washing over him. Sif cannot help the way her jaw drops when Odin gives way to Loki, undoubtedly looking more exhausted, weary, and heartsick than he has ever appeared before.

He speaks to someone else in his own voice for the first time in years, and that in and of itself is liberating, but this is to Sif, and she is alive and he is alive, and it is joyous, if a little subdued. “Do not throw your life away because there are those of us who still need you, my good Lady Sif. Those of us who could not bear to see you ascend to the golden halls of Valhalla before your time. Those of us who have realized that all the power and all the strength and all the might that the throne of Asgard has to offer turns to ash without you there to share it.” He cannot remember the last time he has been this painfully sincere, and he wills her to believe him, to take his words to heart, to live again.

She just continues to stare at him in disbelief. “You are not dead,” she finally blurts out, and she will surely kick herself later for uttering such an obvious, useless statement.

“I am not,” Loki replies, still testing out his own voice.

“The Allfather?”

“Also not dead. He is hidden, but alive,” Loki chews on his lip and fingers his remaining dagger restlessly as he watches Sif assimilate this information. She sways slightly as she does so, and Loki begins to pick his way across the clearing to her, gingerly stepping over bodies of fallen foes.

He is five paces away when Sif finally swoons from blood loss, and he dives to catch her. “I am so very angry with you,” she gasps out as he lays her across his knees and rips a strip off Odin’s robe to press against her side.

“At least you are alive to be angry at me. I can accept that,” he murmurs. “You have time to revel in your very justified anger. And I have time to work to earn your forgiveness, for a great number of things.”

She punches him weakly on the arm before reaching up to touch his cheek with bloodstained fingers. “Always so insufferable.”

He smiles down at her, grasping her fingers in his own. “Ah, insufferability. My specialty. Always here to oblige you, my lady.” At her eye roll, he calls Heimdall to bring them home.