Chapter Text
She is dour and sullen at the feast, but Thor can’t stop looking at her.
They are fifteen, and he’s fairly certain this is the first time he has ever seen her in a dress. The skirts swish around her ankles, crimson overlaid with silver, and her dress is cut straight across at the collarbone, held at her shoulders with brooches decorated with shining red stones. Her hair – normally always pulled back for efficiency when practicing her fighting – is loose around her face. He watches as she tries to hide behind it, her face twisted in a scowl.
The men – his father and his father’s warriors – have returned triumphant from battle. They sit around the table telling stories of their victories, and so Thor is confused by Sif’s air of detachment – usually she listens with rapture and hangs on every word. Today, however, she toys with her food and shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
The meal is a long one. Cups are filled and filled again and at some point music begins and the voices and tales become more raucous. Loki falls asleep at the table and his mother takes her leave to escort him to his chambers. Thor wonders if he, too, shall be encouraged to retire, but she passes him without a word and he feels a sliver of pride at clearly being old enough to stay and revel with the men. For the first time that evening, he and Sif share a look of excitement, and he is glad to see her finally smile.
Late past evening finds them outside the main hall, leaning on one of Asgard’s long glistening balconies, throwing scraps to his father’s ravens, watching them swoop and dive in the open air.
Groups of men pass – the festivities clearly winding up, the scent of wine hanging thick and heavy – and most simply ignore the youngsters. It is only when one of Odin’s young warriors – a man Thor recognises by face but not name – walks by, that they are addressed.
“Late festivities, for ones so young,” he comments, a crooked smile on his lips and the aura of mead around him.
Thor raises his chin, “My father permitted us stay,” he counters, ready to argue, but the warrior simply nods his head. He takes a weaving step closer.
“You must take heed of your lady, young Prince,” the man begins, leaning in, his hand landing on Sif’s shoulder. Her face is blank, her well-bred manners winning out; she doesn’t move. “Many warriors look to continue their conquests after dark, and such a face would be a prized victory.” His thumb sweeps across her bare skin, and he winks heavily at Thor, who stares stony-faced back at him.
There is a long silence, and then the young warrior laughs, removing his hands, holding them up in supplication. “Apologies my liege. I believed I was talking amongst men, but I see I was mistaken.” The words burn into Thor’s ears; he feels shamed, but doesn’t truly understand why. “I shall leave you children to your game.”
Despite the man’s words, his hand drops down, this time missing Sif’s shoulder and instead grazing her narrow waist. “Good Lady,” he addresses, his voice a murmur, and Thor watches as his fingers trace around the curve of her body.
He can see Sif’s face harden. He wonders where she has hidden her dagger in those clothes, but has no doubt he will find out if the warrior’s hand wanders any further.
“Enough,” Thor snaps, and his words hold an authority he hasn’t heard from his own lips before. He sounds almost like his father. “You should be run through with a sharp blade, touching my future queen in such a manner. Apologise to the Lady Sif for your insolence and then take your leave promptly, before my lenience abates.”
The warrior looks surprised and then bemused. Arching his back, he bows, arm pressed across his chest. “My apologies, m’lady,” he says, and Thor thinks he sounds almost sincere. “I wish only to convey my admiration of your beauty, now your attire states you are officially a Maiden of the Court.”
Thor doesn’t really understand his words, but he can see the way the blush paints light over Sif’s cheeks and down her neck.
“Leave us,” Thor orders the other man, imperiously, and then watches as the young warrior bows again before striding down the long golden halls.
He and Sif are left in silence. She shifts on her feet, and her brows knit into a frown. He’s expecting her thanks, and so doesn’t understand when she turns on him, her voice full of ire.
“I do not need your protection,” she tells him firmly, arms held taut at her sides, her fingers bunched into fists. “I may have to wear a dress now – be a woman now - but I can still fight as well as any man!”
“Sif I - ” he begins, but she cuts him off by hitting him in the shoulder, hard.
“Do you respect me?” she asks, hands on her hips and a strand of hair falling from the silver combs that hold it back.
He is affronted by the question. Puffing out his chest, he folds his arms in front of his body, defensive. “You know that I do.”
“Then do not act as though you should fight my battles for me! He is not the first man to behave in such a manner towards me and I should imagine he will not be the last. Trust I do not need your position nor sword to fight in my stead.”
She is breathing hard when she finishes. His bottom lip juts forward. “I am not a child.”
“And I am not a toy nor a prize to be fought over with other boys.”
They stand in the hallway for a long moment, simply staring at one another. Thor wonders if he has ever seen her looking so fierce, and is almost surprised when the angry blush in her cheeks makes him wish to grab her and hold her against him. His fingers tingle at his sides.
A low, firm cough from behind them makes both of them start. The Allfather stands, silhouetted against the low burning light of the great hall, his ravens swooping to come to his shoulders.
“The feast is over,” he states simply. “Thor, see the Lady home, and return to chambers. Not,” he adds with a wink in Sif’s direction, “that she is incapable of finding her own way, but because I should grant you the pleasure of her company for a few moments longer.”
Neither can argue with Odin, so they both simply nod, clumsily murmuring their thanks, and then heading off down the long halls together. Arms swinging down by their sides, their fingers brush accidentally, and Sif looks at him oddly.
At the door to her chambers, he clears his throat to break the silence, standing back from the entryway. “Sif...I...I should." He pauses. "You do…you do look fair,” he tells her finally.
She laughs then, and the sound is bright and rich and makes him feel both a little stupid, and warmed from the inside out. On tiptoes, she presses a fleeting kiss to his cheek. “Next time you compliment me, try and avoid sounding so surprised.”
*