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Loki sighs and picks up one of the small glasses before him. “You know that crafting potions is not my strong suit.”
“I do,” his mother smiles kindly. “Which is why the practice will be good for you.”
Frigga had decanted a variety of draughts from their pretty, colored vials into eight matching glasses and had them arranged on the small table in front of where she and Loki sit on the plush chaise.
“You never know when such a skill may prove valuable. If someone with ulterior motives slipped something into your drink, you wouldn’t want to be caught unaware.”
“Which is why I never leave a drink unattended.”
“Clever boy,” Frigga smiles and then gestures towards the glasses. “Now, let’s begin.”
Loki’s protests were weak and mostly for show. He enjoys spending time with his mother and learning from her vast knowledge, even if their priorities do not always align. Looking over the cups, he picks one up at random and brings it up to his nose. A sharp, tangy scent fills his nostrils, like a citrus fruit that has sat in the sun too long. The slightly acrid smell gives it away immediately.
“A healing potion.” Loki declares.
“Very good,” Frigga smiles brightly and claps her hands together in delight. “Can you tell which?”
“Blood replenishing, if I’m not mistaken,” Loki swirls the glass under his nose and feels a small sense of pride at his mother’s happy smile.
His next pick takes him a moment longer. The odor is difficult to detect; woodsy and mellow, but almost unnoticeable. “A sleeping potion?”
Frigga nods deeply. “Just a splash can help ease insomnia, but too heavy a hand can totally sedate or even kill.”
Loki sets that glass far away from him on the small table and makes his next selection. The scent he breathes in is subtle, but not unpleasant, smelling of sunshine and grass. It brings to mind thoughts of dark hair pulled high and a gravelly laugh. The prince shakes his head slightly, trying to focus his mind and inhales once more. Again, he thinks of fiery determination and battle rough hands weilding a sword.
“Ah,” he pulls the glass away quickly, sitting up straighter and avoiding his mother’s expectant gaze. “A love potion.”
“Correct,” Frigga pats him happily on the thigh as he spins the glass slowly between long fingers. “That makes the drinker fall head over heels for the giver for an hour or two. A very perilous potion indeed.”
Before Loki can respond, they are interrupted by the guards pulling the doors to his mother’s sitting room open. When they announce the guest, Loki feels his cheeks warm and he rises to his feet.
The Lady Sif enters and offers a slight bow to each of the royalty before crossing the golden room to stand before them.
“My Queen, I return from Vanaheim with a letter from their council.” Still dressed in her traveling cloak, Sif hands the rolled parchment to Frigga with another bow of her head. She tilts her gaze to him and grins. “Hello, Loki. Drinking rather early in the afternoon, I see.”
Before he can greet her, she plucks the glass out of his hold.
“Oh, Sif dear,” Frigga raises her hand in protest but it is too late, the warrior downs the clear liquid in one quick swallow. Loki and his mother share an alarmed glance.
“Ugh,” Sif grimaces, and sets the empty glass down on the table between them. “That is the strangest tasting mead, almost like smoke and winter.”
Loki braces himself for the onslaught, dreading the inevitable reaction of relentless puppy eyes and fawning. He tries to take a steadying breath but his heart is aflutter. It will be utterly too much to bear, he is sure of it. Not only because of the absolute indignity the shield maiden is about to suffer, but more so because of how badly he has yearned for such a response from her. When her face twists with false love-sickness he is sure it will be a ridiculing blade to his heart.
They have had their dalliance, finding their way into each other’s bed for months now, yet there was a strict agreement that it was purely physical. He failed miserably at keeping his side of the deal, falling fast and hard almost immediately. Now he prays to the Norns that he can keep his composure and keep his secret hidden. His face grows hot again, feeling mortified for himself and for her. It is made worse that his mother will bear witness to the humiliation of the love potion’s effects.
They stand, waiting, but nothing happens.
“What are you staring at?” Sif brings a hand up to her face and rubs at her cheek, attempting to clear some nonexistent smudge of dirt.
“Are you feeling alright?” Frigga breaks the silence. Loki does his best to look away, to afford her some grace and privacy.
“Yes My Queen,” Sif smiles and gestures to the plate of fruit and cheese on the table behind the royals. “I admit I am feeling a bit hungry after the journey. May I?”
“Of course,” Frigga seems taken aback only for a moment but recovers gracefully, stepping around the table and holding up the tray, one hand gently resting on Sif’s forehead before she sweeps a stray lock from her face kindly. Loki can hear the intrigue, the roguishness, in his mother’s voice. “It seems like you ran here, child. How’s your heart rate? Feeling warm?”
Sif laughs, the crooked smile that tilts her lips making Loki’s stomach flip. “I’ve ran much further in heavier armor. I’m quite comfortable, thank you.”
“Nothing unusual?” Frigga presses.
“I feel perfectly normal.” Sif’s brows pull together briefly, a smile still gracing her lips.
Loki stands, dumbfounded. Clearly, Sif drank the potion, and a rather large amount too. Usually just a splash in a drink was enough to do the trick but here she is as if nothing had happened.
“That’s wonderful,” Frigga places a hand on her arm but turns to look at Loki with a soft smile.
Sif is bewitched to be in love with him, and she is acting exactly like herself.
Oh, he thinks.
“Oh, ” he breathes.
Sif’s eyes narrow, looking between the mother and son with suspicion. “What is going on?”
Setting the tray down, Frigga excuses herself with an affectionate touch to Sif’s shoulder. “I think I’ll leave you two to have this conversation.”
When the door closes, leaving them alone, Loki feels like there is an animal attempting to claw free from his chest. Sif steps closer.
“You have been nearly silent this entire time, and that is wholly unlike you. Tell me what is happening, Loki.”
“You drank it,” he says stupidly.
“The mead?” Sif looks down at the glasses next to them with confusion.
“What you drank was not mead.”
“Well, what was it?”
Loki hesitates, considering if he should spare them both from this conversation. “Potion.”
“Potion?” Sif steps closer, slightly alarmed. “What kind? Am I in danger?”
Loki’s mouth opens and closes, finding himself uncommonly at a loss for words. Sif steps closer again, her alarm growing, and wraps her hand around his bicep.
“Loki, tell me.”
“A love potion,” he admits. “One that is intended to make the drinker fall for the giver.”
Sif thinks, then her brows pulling together and then her face smoothing with realization. She pulls her hand from his arm.
“Oh,” she whispers and drops her gaze.
“Yes,” Loki repeats. “Oh. You drank the potion I was holding yet you appear unchanged.”
“Well,” Sif takes a deep breath and glances back up at him. “I suppose there’s no denying it then.”
“You...” Loki stutters, his tongue feels clumsy in surprise. “Deny it? So you admit to already feeling this way?””
“Yes,” she responds confidently, her eyes a challenge.
A small spark bursts inside of his chest, wonder and confusion washing over him. He shakes his head. “But you don’t show it. Not now, not ever. You’ve never told me.” His hypocritical protests slow. “You don’t show it,” he repeats faintly.
“But I think of you,” her smile is soft. “I think of you all the time.”
Breathless and feeling caught, Loki’s hopeless longing is stirred awake. Brows pulling and lifting, he can only stare.
“I had hoped you’d thought of me too,” she lifts one hand and places it against his chest, over his wildly beating heart.
“But the agreement,” he declares obtusely. Sif’s face falls a fraction and he could kick himself.
“Yes, the agreement,” her voice cools and she pulls her hand away. “Which is why I had planned to keep this a secret. But don’t worry, Prince, I can handle rejection. But it's pity I won’t tolerate.”
“I’m not,” he balks, realizing that she has misunderstood his own foolish astonishment. Loki catches Sif’s retreating fingers and presses them to his cheek, trying to convey an affection that feels too large to express.
“If you think I have spent these past months unattached,” he whispers, his eyes closing and his voice melting when her thumb brushes against his cheek, “unaffected, then you are as daft as I have been.”
“And now you insult me,” her smile has grown and she does not protest when he wraps his arm around her waist, pulling her nearer.
“I’m a fool,” Loki clarifies, his forehead dropping against hers. She tilts her head, her nose brushing against his, her lips a whisper from his own.
“I do wish that you would speak plainly, Silvertongue.”
“I’m in love with you,” he confesses. “I love you.”
She kisses him then, and his heart skips a beat, all the carefully held control he’d been tending to suddenly set free. He gives as good as he gets, raw emotion making him hold her tighter. Loki keeps his eyes half open, touching and seeing her every time he comes back for air, just to make sure he isn’t dreaming. But she is there and he is hers, completely.