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Loki’s hair grows at an unbearably slow pace.
Life in the palace seems to blur around him; days and months unspooling like thread at the skilled hands of seamstresses. Time seems to march on without a second thought, all the while Loki’s hair remains frozen. Stuck.
Thor’s hair, like the rest of him, grows like a weed. Loki can hear the tittering words of the royal barbers, “so thick!” one of them remarks, a handful of Thor’s flaxen hair in her hand. “One might think it a horse’s tail, would they not?”
Thor merely sits there, a good-natured smile on his face, as usual. Loki fixes his face in a permanent scowl for the duration of these appointments, finding the process nothing short of humiliating. While Thor’s hair seems as resplendent and praise-worthy as everything else about him, Loki finds his own to be severely wanting. Bearing neither of his parents’ coloring, Loki’s hair is thin and black.
He supposes he should be happy - after all, he doesn’t want his hair to look like Thor’s - but any potential happiness is snuffed out by envy, and bitterness. These feelings are no strangers to Loki, but familiar guests, at this point. He welcomes them in, if only to feel anything at all.
By the time of his fifteenth birthday, Loki’s hair has barely reached his shoulders, and it seems to be stubbornly refusing to grow any further. He’s tried everything - silken pillow coverings to strange herbal tinctures - but it simply hangs limp, like a dark shroud, around his face. It doesn’t help that Thor’s friends source endless humor and mockery from the topic of Loki’s hair. Thor, to his credit, always puts a swift end to the jokes, but even he cannot stop them from being made entirely. They’re always made within Loki’s range of hearing, too.
And so, Loki finds himself in the library instead of combat training, where he’s expected. He likely would have been here anyway, but today his absence has a purpose. Here, in a disused corner flanked by dilapidated shelves, Loki clutches an old spell book in his hands. It’s one of Frigga’s, from her personal library. Loki studies its cover intently; Galdrabók, the title reads, in thin, gold lettering. He runs his thumb over the word, feeling the indentation of each letter, imagining he can feel his own magic responding to the book.
He cracks it open, the spine offering some protest. Flipping to the index, Loki searches for sections related to hair growth or maintenance, and is surprised to find more than one. He locates the first page mentioned, and begins reading. The words are written in an old dialect, almost like a song as Loki sounds them out in his head.
Before long, he finds a scattered number of spells, recipes, and a rune-drawing ritual, and each solution seems to offer a similar outcome: general improvement of the hair. Loki wishes he’d brought a spare piece of parchment to copy the instructions, but he decides his mother won’t notice the book’s absence anytime soon. Frigga seems beyond needing the crutch of books and instructions, her days of magical instruction long beyond her. He wonders how long he’ll feel this foolish for needing written words to guide his magic, wishing his powers were strong enough to rely on instinct alone.
He shuts the leathery cover of the book, and brushes himself off as he stands up. Instinct is nice, but Loki has the learning of ancient witches and warlocks in his hand. As he looks around, a few motes of dust float lazily in the air around him, caught in the rosy afternoon light.
The time of day dawns upon Loki - training should be over, the other students set free, back into the palace. He gnaws absentmindedly on his thumb, wondering if he’d get caught in the halls by the instructor, or worse, Thor and his friends.
Loki shakes his head as if to clear the thoughts. He would just cite his magical training with Frigga, if he needs an excuse. It’s worked in the past, since everyone in the palace seems content to accept anything that solidifies Loki’s strangeness.
He creeps out of the library, unbeknownst to the archaic bookkeeper tending to the stacks. The hallway is flooded with that same warm light as before. It gently illuminates Loki as he hurries down the hall.
Not even five steps from the library, though, comes the crew Loki dreaded to see, with Thor at the helm. He’s walking backwards, his back to Loki, and he’s leading a spirited conversation with Volstagg, whose arm is thrown across Fandral’s shoulders. Fandral, laughing loudly and obnoxiously, is alongside Hogun, who’s silent, but smiling, as he shoulders his weapon. Loki doesn't even attempt to suppress the urge to roll his eyes at the sight, but he freezes right before he can react.
For then, Loki sees Sif.
And it’s as if Loki has never seen Sif before this moment. She trails after the other four fighters, slowing to untwist one of the straps along the sides of her armor. As she stops, the light streaming in from the windows seems to cradle every inch of her within its reach. Her armor alights with oranges and pinks from the sunset outside, and her face, normally so intense, seems open and warm. And, her hair…
Her hair. Loki’s mouth feels dry. In the light, Sif’s hair is at once aflame, and pitch black. It seems to dissolve into ribbons and tendrils of pure light and magic, catching the warm tones of the sun and glowing. She flicks her head, and it’s as if strings of precious metals have been woven into her hair. Loki follows the movement, stupefied, and watches how Sif’s hair settles effortlessly - no, gracefully - against her shoulders, sliding off of her shoulder plates like silk.
It’s at this point that Loki realizes she said something to him. He wonders when his jaw dropped open, and struggles to recollect himself. “I’m sorry?” he asks, instantly feeling humiliated. He can hear Fandral whisper something to Volstagg, and they both laugh.
“I said,” Sif begins, a chord of frustration ringing in her voice, “what are you staring at?”
The others have ceased speaking, choosing instead to watch this exchange. Thor turns around to watch Loki with a confused expression.
Loki falters. “Ah, I simply-- well, Lady Sif, I- well, I--” he stumbles over the words, and Thor takes a step forward.
“Loki,” he says, “I’m sure you have a good reason, no?” he asks, a look of warning flashing over his fair brow. Keeping his eyes locked on Loki’s, he continues. “The good Lady Sif only wishes to hear it, that’s all.” Thor grins, as if Loki isn’t falling apart at the seams. Such a problem-solver, that Thor.
“Yes. Of course, brother,” Loki says, his thoughts catching up to his tongue. “Lady Sif, I did not mean to offend, rather I was struck by the beauty of this dusk light which we find ourselves in,” he says, featuring around the hallway. He’s lucky, and the warriors look around to find the hallway undeniably beautiful, with every stone, every sconce, gleaming.
But, Sif focuses her furrowed gaze upon Loki, who grins sheepishly. “It was gleaming ever so beautifully on your armor, my lady. Truly something from the canvases of the old masters.”
He’s sure she knows he isn’t telling the full truth, but what would that truth even be? Loki’s not sure how to name the emotions he’s still smarting from, the feelings which flooded his nerve endings just minutes ago.
Luckily, Volstagg - always one to plow through tension - elbows his companions jovially, and exclaims, “Seems our Loki has found himself with a little crush!” He laughs, and Loki watches as the other three crack smiles at Loki’s expense.
“Ah, young love!” Fandral adds with a wolfish smile. “Don’t you know, young Loki, the Lady Sif is quite out of your league?” Loki forces himself to grimace in response, his stomach still in knots. He can’t bring himself to look at Sif, though he can feel her eyes boring into him.
“I would never dream of it, truly,” Loki manages to say, choosing to glance at Thor, instead. He finds his brother regarding him closely, like Loki’s something to figure out. Knowing Thor, he’ll puzzle over this interaction well into the night. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Loki says, and he sets off down the hallway, his movement stiff.
As he goes, he can hear his brother’s friends trade a few more cutting remarks and jests about his awkwardness. Hogun lets out a laugh that echoes through the hall, and Loki chances a look behind him, only to find Sif doing the same. They barely make eye contact before Loki twists back around, but it’s enough that he could see the suspicious expression on Sif’s face. As he turns the corner, he clutches the book tightly to his chest, and inwardly curses himself. Why did he have to stare like that? What spirit possessed him so strongly in that moment? He can't afford to give those imbeciles any more reasons to call him a freak, behind his back or otherwise.
Loki passes the great hall, heading toward his chambers. He’s still mulling the horrible scene over in his head. It wasn’t love - or lust - he decides; while he isn’t particularly experienced in either category, Loki’s occasional brushes were different from whatever had seized his chest in such a way. Looking at Sif, he was reminded of that beautiful dress he’d found so many years ago. Beautiful, iridescent silk in his hands, like a piece of cursed treasure for how much he wanted it, and how badly he’d suffer for having it. He’d been wracked with feelings of desire, and intense disappointment; desire to have it, to wear it, to see himself in it, and disappointment that he couldn’t, that he wouldn’t look the way he wanted to even if he did. At that point, there had been nothing as crushing as the knowledge that Loki’s desire could never truly be fulfilled.
That’s how Loki had felt when he’d seen Sif. But it doesn’t make any sense why he’d felt these things. Loki scowls, keeping his eyes on the floor. He resents the possibility of anyone else trying to talk to him right now. Fortunately, it seems like most of the palace has congregated for dinner, and the halls connecting the royal family’s living quarters are blessedly empty.
He arrives at his chambers, and angrily pushes in through the door. Only a deep respect for his mother prevents him from hurling the book away onto the ground. Loki instead puts it down onto his desk. He stands there for a moment, palms on the wood surface, as if to brace himself. Loki stands, and breathes, trying to sift through his thoughts. He replays the interaction in his head again, and again, cringing each time. What's wrong with him?
Loki taps a finger on his desk, thinking, and the movement catches his eye in the mirror hanging across from him. He looks up from his musing, and regards his reflection closely. The lighting in his room is forgiving this time of day, a mix of dying afternoon light, creeping in through his windows, and a warm, flickering glow from his hearth. A maid must have stoked it earlier, while Loki was absent.
Here, now, Loki thinks he looks almost nice. His face - which Loki finds too long and angular these days - is softened, his cheekbones and mouth given a graceful slant. His brow, as Loki attempts to keep his expression neutral, is gentle, and his eyes are brighter in contrast to the shadows overtaking much of his features. Loki blinks at himself, subtly angling his head this way and that, observing the light from different ways. A smile threatens to surface, the corners of Loki’s mouth quirking up.
He hasn’t smiled all day, he realizes. As soon as it arrived, the loveliness slips away. Loki frowns, recent events flooding back into his mind. With this sour look on his face, Loki thinks he looks more like Odin, than anything - though he bears little else in common with his father - and he stares pitifully at the mirror. Even when he feels good about his reflection, Loki feels as if something’s missing, some key element that would solve his unhappiness. Loki touches his jaw, his lips, his hair. He runs his hands through it, smoothing it out, away from his face. If only, he thinks...
A thought begins to form, as Loki tries to fix his hair. Not even the flickering of the fire is reflected in his dark locks; light seems to almost be absorbed completely, leaving no trace of lustre or glow.
If only, he wishes, his hair looked like Sif’s.
Something in Loki’s mind clicks into place. He recalls how he felt seeing Sif’s hair shining in the hall, framing her face with a beautiful silhouette. It had looked so lustrous, so... pretty. Even when Loki finds himself, as he does now, bracketed in that same light, he finds his appearance sorely lacking. He wants to look like her.
He feels his stomach turn. He wants to look like Sif. As if the dresses weren’t enough. His mother had promised to start teaching Loki illusory magic, but she’d insisted he learn more basic and foundational skills, first. Now, still looking into the mirror, he imagined making his hair stream and shine like he’d seen Sif’s do. A flick of his hand, and the line of his jaw could relax into the curve which he saw in Sif’s proud visage. He could change - he could be beautiful.
But, Loki realizes, he couldn’t. Not really. As far as he knows, illusory spells are always temporary. Loki could never be Sif, just himself, with a few superficial, temporary changes. And there it is again: desire, and crushing disappointment. Loki worries his bottom lip, willing away the tears that are welling in his eyes.
But, before he can give himself over to despair, a thought flashes across Loki’s mind. He remembers the spells and rituals he’d seen in Galdrabók, and he wonders, briefly, if he’d find his luck in older, more intricate magic. Loki sniffs, and pulls his chair in, sitting down at the desk. He slides the book in front of him, and cracks it open.
The pages send bits of dust into the air, and Loki coughs slightly. Slowly and methodically, he begins to pore over the sections which he’d marked earlier. Some of them have explicit durations listed - one hour, two lunar months, as long as the caster holds concentration - but others are frustratingly vague. Loki feels close to pulling his own hair out, but is saved when he finds a section he’d missed, toward the back of the book. He scans the summary, and reads, it is to be noted that this spelle shall laste untyl the cast’r reverses the processe.
This is the most promising thing Loki’s read yet, and he moves onto the instructions for casting the spell. He notes it requires some verbal and some material components, and as he runs his finger down the short list of ingredients, he stops at a particular requirement: a locke of haire from a hede whiche the spellcast’r envyes.
Envies, it says. Loki wonders if this is the feeling he’s been experiencing this whole time: envy. Loki dislikes it even more, feeling ashamed that he should be jealous, even covetous, over something like this. He wonders what his father would say, if he knew his child was so distraught, so envious over hair. It certainly strayed from the heroic code Odin had tried to pound into his boys from the moment they could speak.
Loki returns his thoughts to the book. So, he decides, he’ll need a lock of Sif’s hair. Loki bites at his cuticle, thinking. He’s unsure how he’ll pull this one off; Sif is rarely alone, almost always accompanied by Thor and his three idiots. He’ll have to plan this out carefully. But, Loki decides, this is the best solution he can think of, given his circumstances.
He catches his eye in the mirror. In the window behind him, the sun has set below Loki’s shoulders. He’s backlit with a brilliant shade of red, like something out of Hel. Fitting, he supposes, for someone so bent on self-serving deeds.
He returns to the book.
---
Loki’s opportunity comes about a week later. He skips training - again - and finds himself wandering the halls, steeped in a mischievous mood. He thinks about popping into the kitchens to steal some early fixings, but decides against it when he considers the looming dinner crowd. Instead, Loki continues to meander on his search for entertainment, and trouble.
He finds it, though, when he comes across Sif asleep on a bench in one of the enclosed palace courtyards. He stops in the archway, disbelieving what he sees. Sif is stretched out across the bench, one arm flung across her face as if to shield her eyes. One of her legs dangles above the ground, and Loki watches as she breathes slowly, with the steady rhythm of deep sleep.
Loki darts his eyes around the courtyard, and finds it empty, save for them. He wonders why she isn’t at training with the rest of them, but then he distantly remembers something Thor mentioned about Sif transitioning to advanced one-on-one combat training, and being exhausted as a result. Loki had rolled his eyes when he’d been listening but, now, he thanks the stars above for his luck.
Loki creeps toward Sif, keeping his steps on the tile as quiet as possible. The sun above is angled into the yard in such a way that Loki’s shadow falls across her face as he grows near. She isn’t wearing her usual armor, and in this state she looks rather... vulnerable. Loki feels strange, sneaking up on her like this. But then, he sees her hair spread beautifully beneath her head, and Loki’s determination outweighs anything else.
He produces a small knife from his pocket, and flicks it open. It’s wickedly sharp, catching the sun in a bright, metallic point. Loki can almost see himself in its reflection, one blue eye staring up at him from the blade. It watches him carefully as he takes a section of Sif’s hair in one hand, trying not to pull too hard.
Loki freezes with the hair in his hand. How much did the spell require? He can’t remember. And how will he cut it? Sif’s hair is so soft and fine, he doesn’t think he can cut it without needing to pull harder. Maybe he needs to cut closer to her head. But, then she’ll probably wake up, he realizes. Loki feels his pulse quicken, options and consequences overwhelming him. But, amongst it all, Loki feels that deep vein of bitterness running through it all. Why should Sif be so beautiful, and not him? Why is Loki the only one ever knocked down a peg? Loki feels the great turbulence of his emotions, and closes his eyes.
Just then, Sif shifts in her sleep, as if waking up. Loki panics, and cuts. It’s harder than he expected, and he has to move the knife in a sawing motion to make any progress. He’s cutting much closer to her scalp than he intended, and Loki then realizes how big the section he’s grabbed is. Odin’s blood, this is going to look bad. Loki panics even more, and cuts faster.
Sif shifts again, moving her arm away from her face. Her brow furrows slightly, and Loki can see consciousness begin to fight its way through. He’s cutting erratically now, not even attempting to be gentle. Right as his knife clears through the last strands of hair, Sif blinks open her eyes. A confused look forms amongst the remainders of sleep on her face. Loki pulls his hand away, a chunk of hair in his fist, as she looks up at him.
“Wha--” Sif begins, struggling to sit up. Loki quickly backs away from the bench. “What-- Loki? What the hell are you doing?” she says, now fully awake. Loki, frozen in place, moves to pocket the hair. Her eyes track his movement. “I-- what the--” Sif touches a hand to her head, where Loki had cut her hair. He watches in horror as she feels the shorn, jagged section. It looks terrible, Loki can see even from here; what’s left on the side of Sif’s head sticks up at odd angles, like the end of a broomstick. Loki watches as realization dawns on Sif’s face. “Loki, what did you DO?!”
Loki turns and breaks into a sprint, exiting the courtyard as fast as possible. He can hear Sif run after him, her fast footsteps echoing behind him in the hall. “YOU PATHETIC, LITTLE CREEP!” she shouts at him, “LOKI, COME HERE, YOU MAGGOT. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”
Loki dodges a few kitchen servants as he skids round a corner. Suddenly, he spots a particular tapestry - one with three hounds and a stag - on the wall ahead. Loki darts to it, lifts up its edges, and disappears into the corridor hidden behind. Standing in the dark, he listens to Sif storm past, her thunderous tread growing quieter as she races down the hall. As he waits, Loki can feel his pulse jackrabbiting in his chest, his breathing loud in the darkness.
He’d discovered this hidden passageway last summer, when he’d first started skipping lessons. He suspects it’s a part of the palace’s original architecture, given how worn the stone feels under his feet. He knows if he follows the corridor, he’ll end up by the throne room. Who knows what purpose it originally served; now, it serves as Loki’s salvation.
He decides to wait until he knows the coast is clear, at which point he’ll leave the corridor and retreat to his room. He listens carefully for any sign that Sif is returning, but finds only silence. Lifting the edge of the tapestry up, Loki peeks out into the light of the hall. It’s blessedly empty, and so Loki steps out from the corridor, letting the tapestry fall back into place. He smooths down the front of his tunic, feeling the pocket where he’d stowed away Sif’s hair, and makes his way toward his chambers.
---
When Loki arrives at his room, the first thing he notices is that his door is ajar. He quickly unsheathes his knife, and pushes the door open carefully. On alert, he inches in, but he finds the room empty, except for Thor. His brother is sitting on Loki’s bed, and he welcomes Loki with a painfully cheery expression.
“Loki!” he says, throwing his hands up in greeting. “You’ve royally screwed up this time, haven’t you?”
Loki rolls his eyes, and pockets his knife. “That’s a silly choice of adverb, brother. Everything we do is royal.” Lingering in the doorway, he gestures vaguely. “So, what? Are you here to lecture me? I assure you, our parents are perfectly capable in that department.”
Thor gives him a laugh. “No, no, I wouldn’t dare,” he says. “I came to tell you to hide, if you weren’t planning on it already. I only saw the Lady Sif for but a minute, but I’ve never seen someone so furious.”
Thor shudders. “I assume you’re the one who’s responsible for that, uh...” Thor mimes his hand around his head, “haircut?”
Loki smirks, despite himself. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Thor smiles grimly at Loki, but his eyes have lost their initial warmth. “She’s on a warpath, Loki. You’d do well to make yourself scarce.”
Loki’s reaction is to scoff and dismiss his brother, but he falters. Guilt threatens to creep in, somewhere beneath the bitterness and adrenaline which Loki has been running on. “Well, brother, at least tell me where you saw her.”
“Heading this way, actually. From the south hall.”
Loki stares at his brother. Thor stares back, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“You’d better get going, I’d reckon.”
Loki takes off, running from the room. He heads north through the palace, not stopping to apologize when he nearly bowls over two of his mother’s maidens. He runs, until the large, ornate doors of the library come into view. They’re closed, but Loki decides to try his luck. Miraculously, the doors are unlocked, and Loki pushes them open, tumbling into the room.
He stands for a moment, catching his breath. The library seems to be empty, the old woman who usually yells at Loki, is noticeably absent. Maybe she’s on her lunch break, Loki guesses; at any rate, he’s unwilling to question his good fortune. He sends a wordless thanks to his mother’s deities, and heads toward the stacks.
Loki finds his way to his usual corner, hidden well within the older section of the library. As he descends into the shelves, the books grow dustier and darker, slouching against each other like fatigued soldiers. He loves this part of the library, where light and sound take longer to reach him. It’s like being one step removed from the world.
But, as Loki approaches his spot, he finds it preoccupied. He freezes, paralyzed at the sight of this figure. Their back is to Loki, and he can see this invader’s contemplative pose, shoulders inclined to read the titles on the shelves. For all the months Loki’s skipped training to come here, he’s never seen anyone else in this disused section. It was supposed to be his, he thinks bitterly. But he doesn’t have time for petty feelings.
Loki clears his throat, and Sif turns to him. He can’t see her face well, for it’s cloaked in shadows, but her quiet, simmering rage is as palpable as anything.
“Loki,” she says. She lets his name hang there, in the silence, and Loki swallows. He’s unsure how she found him here, of all places, but he doesn’t care to ask. Perhaps Thor ratted him out. It wouldn’t be anything Loki hadn’t done to him, ten times over.
“Sif,” Loki begins, his voice already trembling, “I can explain, I promise--”
“Can you?” she cuts him off, sharply. “Because I don’t think you can. And I’m unsure whether I’m willing to hear you try.”
Loki feels himself grow indignant at her words. “Well, then this is all rather useless, isn’t it?”
Sif steps forward, and slaps him across the face. Loki cries out in shock, staggering a bit. He clutches his cheek, staring incredulously at Sif. She merely stands there, watching him.
Loki breathes in, and out. He hadn’t expected this, but now feels foolish for lack of foresight. “I suppose I deserved that.”
“Yes,” Sif says, coolly. “You did. Now, explain.”
Loki chews on his lip, wondering how he could possibly recover himself from this. “I really didn’t mean for it to be this bad, Sif, I promise. It’s just--”
“It’s just what? You thought it would be funny?” Sif demands.
Loki holds up his hands defensively. “No! Not at all, this wasn’t some kind of prank. This is as far from funny as... well. You know.”
He can’t see much of her face, but Loki’s sure Sif has narrowed her eyes at him. “Then why, Loki? I look terrible, everyone’s going to laugh at me, even if you, supposedly, are not. Why could you possibly have done this? Sabotage? Revenge? What have I ever done to you?”
Loki opens his mouth, but shuts it when he hears the end of her words. “Are you joking? All you and your friends do is torment me!”
Sif scoffs. “Please, Loki. You know I don’t join in when they do any of that.”
“Fine,” Loki says, his temper rising, “but you certainly haven’t stopped them, have you? Is that not just as bad? You just stand there and watch, as your friends pick me apart.”
“Loki,” Sif says, “it can’t possibly be that bad. It’s just a few jokes, some harmless jests here and there. As dumb as they are, they don’t mean any harm by it!”
Loki feels something snap. “No, Sif!” he shouts, momentarily forgetting where he is. “It can possibly be that bad! You’re only saying that because you’re not the one being laughed at, are you? Every day, it’s another barrage of endless comments made about how I look, how I act, how I dress; I can’t even breathe without your idiot friends finding something wrong with it!”
“Loki--” she starts, but he plows on.
“You don’t think, after years of being shoved out by my peers, I might feel a little angry about it? As if it wasn’t hard enough growing up with Thor as my brother? Perfect, golden, beautiful Thor? I might as well be a different species, for how different I am from my brother. And you and Volstagg and Fandral and Hogun never let me forget it, do you? Because Odin forbid I go a single day without knowing just how freakish I am!”
Loki finishes, breathing heavily. Sif watches him in stunned silence.
“I just--” Loki says, his voice breaking. All the fight in him has leaked out. “I just want to be good, for once. I want to be something other people can’t pick apart so easily. Something... pretty.”
This last word comes out almost accidentally, but Loki can’t bring himself to feel embarrassed. He feels nothing but fatigue, wishing he could disappear into the shadows of the stacks around them.
“Something pretty?” Sif repeats.
Loki nods.
“But, Loki...” she says, struggling to understand. “Why did you need my hair?”
Loki hangs his head. Now, he feels embarrassed at having to explain his childlike fantasies of spells and potions. “I thought... I found some old magic rituals to make my hair look better. Prettier. Like yours,” he manages to say, eyes still fixed on the ground. “It said I needed some of your hair. It was stupid. I don’t know why I believed it. But, my hair just looks so... bad, I didn’t-- I wasn’t sure what else to do.”
“Oh, Loki,” Sif says, with feeling. She steps forward and Loki instinctively braces for another slap, but instead, she hugs him. Loki stands still for a second, unsure how to react. Slowly, carefully, he wraps his arms around her back, and rests his chin on her shoulder, burying his face in her hair. He breathes deeply, steading himself. It’s weird, but Sif smells good. Like wool, or leather.
He feels comforted, and confused.
“You’re a massive fool, you know that?” Sif asks into Loki’s shoulder. Though her voice is muffled, Loki can hear a note of affection creep back into her words. “Why didn’t you just ask me? I would’ve said yes.”
Loki closes his eyes. “I don’t know. It’s all kind of embarrassing. And, you haven’t exactly been... nice to me. Mostly apathetic.”
Sif pulls back, breaking their hug. She continues to hold Loki’s arm, and they’re close enough that Loki can see her properly, her eyes darting around to read his expression. He realizes his face is wet, and wonders when he’d started crying.
“Not that I’ve been particularly kind to you,” Loki adds. He feels Sif squeeze his arm.
“Yes, but...” Sif trails off; Loki watches her bite her lip. It’s weird to see his own nervousness acted out on someone else’s face. “Well, I certainly could have made a bigger effort to stop their ridiculous behavior. It’s unbecoming, and cowardly.” Sif sets her shoulders. “And cruel.”
“Well, don’t stop on my behalf,” Loki jokes, self-deprecatingly. Sif just looks at him.
“Do you really feel that way, Loki? All those things you said about how you look?”
Loki itches under her questioning gaze. “I... yes. I suppose I do. Is that so hard to believe? There isn’t much here that’s exactly worth celebrating,” he says, gesturing to himself.
Sif gives Loki a pitying look, studying his face for a second. “I don’t think so, Loki. I’ve always thought you’ve had a nice look about you.” She pauses. “Almost like a girl. Your features are so fine, and you’ve always had better cheekbones than I.”
Loki gives a small smile. “Please, Lady Sif. I know I’m pathetic, but there’s no need to sully yourself with lies.”
Sif hits his arm lightly. “I’m serious! Ask any of the Valkyries - gods know you're a popular topic of conversation amongst them - or Fandral. You might notice he protests rather loudly... and frequently. I’d wager you have more admirers than you think.”
Despite himself, Loki leers at her. “Including you?
Sif hits him again, but harder. “Don’t push your luck, your highness. I’ll still take you down hard enough to knock the dust off these books.”
Loki holds his hands up in surrender. “You’re right, I apologize.” He takes a moment, solemnity settling into place as he looks at Sif. “I am sorry, Sif. I didn’t mean to make you look bad. I was thinking only of myself. I let bitterness cloud my judgment.”
Sif holds his gaze steadily. “I know, Loki.” She drops her hands from where she was touching Loki. “I don’t know if I forgive you yet. But I understand. And I’m sorry for how my companions have treated you.”
Loki nods. The thick air between the shelves seems to hold the two of them in place, suspending them in silence.
“You know,” Sif begins, looking thoughtful. “I’d be happy to help you with your hair. My hair doesn’t just look like this naturally. I could show you some tips, perhaps. You’d only have to ask.”
Loki feels tears spring to his eyes once again. He blinks a few times. “I would appreciate that. Odin knows I don’t deserve it.”
“And I will talk to the others about their behavior. But... Loki,” she says, peering at him intently. “It helps to talk about these things. To tell others how you feel, before you decide to act. It serves nobody, suffering in silence.”
“I know,” Loki says. He feels ashamed, being lectured by one of his peers, but he knows Sif is right. Even talking to Thor could have prevented this; his brother, for all his flaws, has always been a steadfast confidant and supporter, no matter how badly Loki’s treated him. He wonders what Thor will have to say when Loki slinks back to his quarters. Probably something infuriatingly wise, and empathetic. Loki fights the urge to frown.
“So,” Sif says, drawing Loki out of his thoughts. “Let’s say we leave this dusthole, and make haste to dinner?”
Loki smiles at her, and nods. Sif nods in return, and moves past Loki, out of the stacks. Loki trails behind, feeling ashamed when he sees the cut section of Sif’s hair. She wears it well, he thinks. Somehow, Sif wears it with pride; her jaw tips up, eyes flashing. She looks as determined as ever, and as beautiful as ever, even with her shining hair interrupted so abruptly by the wild patch on her head.
Deep down, Loki still feels a strong pang of envy, as he watches Sif ahead of him. He supposes this is simply an existence he’ll have to get used to - envy and bitterness, old friends to Loki. At least, he notes, they’re accompanied by new feelings of affection, and companionship. Loki finds a small smile on his face, as he follows Sif out of the library, and into a hallway filled with warm, afternoon light.
---