Chapter Text
But this is all I ever was
And this is all you came across those years ago
- "Ditmas", Mumford & Sons
She watches one brother rise, and one brother fall.
When she is but a little girl, she meets two princes. One is fast and rough and quick to laugh, loud and boisterous already even at such a young age. The other is quiet and graceful and thoughtful, shy and pensive. The loud one – Thor – introduces himself to her in one breath and in the next is already running off to rejoin the other children in their play, yelling at them that he wants to pick the next game. Sif wants to follow him, but she feels scared, nervous – the other children are all little lords and ladies, offspring of the upper echelon of the Aesir, and she is but a lesser man’s daughter, an imposter amongst them.
“Want to play?” asks the quiet prince at her side, his eyes meeting hers.
She nods at him, grateful for his kindness, and smiles as he takes her hand.
“I’ll stay with you,” he tells her, grinning back at her, and leading her into the chaos of children before them.
She doesn’t really notice the moment when she drops her hand from his, leaping away to chase Thor – or the hurt in the quiet prince’s eyes when she doesn’t come back.
When they are adolescents, they run through the halls of Asgard, small tornadoes of movement and energy and sound. Thor is always in the front, his blond mop of hair bouncing up and down with his already long strides. The rest of them trail him, eagerly following – always following – their defacto leader, charging into the future blindly following him, blindly trusting him. They play fight in the gardens with makeshift swords, Fandral and Volstagg tackling Thor to the ground declaring their victory, before she and Hogun rush in to defend their leader, all five of them collapsing, laughing, into one great pile on the ground. Sif loves this – loves them – and this feeling between them all, of camaraderie and friendship and trust – even as she pins Fandral down with her hand on his chest and the other tipping her “sword” down at his throat.
As Fandral yields, Sif rolls away grinning to herself, and catches the eye of the other prince ( the quiet prince) his nose buried in a book, but his eyes searching out into the courtyard, surreptitiously watching the rest of them play and fight and laugh. “Loki!” she calls out to him, and he starts, surprised that he has been found out. “Come and join us!” she tells him, and from behind her she hears Thor yell out the same.
Loki doesn’t even look up from his book, though she knows just moments ago he was watching. “I would rather not,” he says softly, the words muffled from behind the pages of his tome.
Thor simply shrugs at his brother’s response and jumps onto Volstagg’s back, laughing, tackling the other boy back down into the grass. Fandral and Hogun dive in, trying to wrestle their leader for dominance as always (and rarely succeeding). Sif glances back at Loki one last time, but his blue eyes are focused on the printed words beneath his gaze, so she turns around and leaps into the fray, hooking a leg around Fandral’s waist and bringing him down to the ground. They all giggle and smile and tease together, their bonds of friendship already so deep that none of them truly know what life was like before this. Before each other.
Loki slips away, alone as ever.
Centuries pass. They fight, they grow up, they learn. From the battlefields of Vanaheim to the cold wastelands of Jotunheim to the lands of the dark elves of Svartálfaheim, they mature. They are young yes, but yet children no more.
Sometimes, Sif finds herself staring at the first prince for just a moment too long, her eyes resting on the lines of his deep smile, the gleam in his eyes after a battle, the powerful strength in his arms. She catches herself longing to be on the receiving end of his sunny grin, the clap of his large hand on her shoulder after a battle well-found, the feel of his arms around her as he crushes her into a post-battle embrace. No longer is he only her friend, one of her beloved companions – but something more, something more primal.
She watches him become a man. She watches him grow into his title, becoming the man worthy enough to wield the mighty hammer Mjölnir. She watches him, this evening, from across the hall of celebrations, as he challenges Volstagg to a mead-drinking contest and trades boisterous stories with Fandral of their exploits across the nine realms.
“You care for him,” she hears from beside her, as she jumps with surprise at the interruption.
“LokI!” she hisses angrily as he gracefully slides into the space beside her, before calming herself. “I care.. I care him as I care for you, for all my friends,” she tells him weakly, though she knows the conviction in her tone is not truly there.
He shifts beside her, and then settles. “Not in the way you care for him,” he states, and she can’t help the blush that rushes up to her cheeks.
“I…” she starts, but doesn’t finish. It doesn’t matter, with Loki. With Loki, she always knows it’s futile to deny anything. Little prince of mischief and lies though he is, he always seems to know the truth.
The second prince turns to look at her, his deep blue eyes meeting her own. She stares at her friend - he has not grown like his brother. Where his brother’s hair is the colour of the midday sun, Loki’s runs as black as the depths of night. Where Thor is big and muscular and all brawn, Loki is lean and fluid and quick footed all at once. Not for the first time in her centuries of life, Sif wonders how two brothers can be so overwhelmingly different.
“You long for him,” he murmurs, his gaze locked on her own. “You want him. Crave him. Desire his touch on-”
She raises a hand to strike him, but swift as ever he catches her wrist in midair, his eyes burning at her, a dark fire in his eyes. She glowers at him, silently daring him to act, but instead he simply chuckles and lets go.
“You know I’m right, Sif,” he tells her softly, but not kindly. “I’ve seen you stare at him, I’ve seen your gaze linger on him longer than it does on anyone else. Your eyes follow him across the field of battle, trail after him down the halls, longing for him. I’ve seen the envy and anger in your eyes when he caresses a wench in a tavern on Vanaheim, or when he paws with lust at the behind of an elf-maiden on Álfheim –”
This time she actually does strike him – she raises her hand and slaps him across the cheek, the sound of it echoing away behind him. She glowers at him, even as he smiles wryly to himself and raises one large, pale hand to gingerly touch the reddened skin from where she’d struck.
“I seem to have struck a nerve,” he remarks, raising an eyebrow at her.
She gets up to leave, and looks down at him, glaring. “Do not speak of this to anyone, Loki Liesmith. Or else I will hurt you,” she growls, already walking away.
“That I do believe,” she hears him whisper behind her, but she doesn’t look back.
She is angry – furious – with herself.
What type of a warrior is she, to be made a fool of so easily by the affairs of the heart? What warrior – what pathetic, useless warrior- she must be to be so affected by such petty emotions as these. And yet she can’t help herself, can’t help the pain and the anger and the jealously that rises like bile in her throat, as she watches Thor pull yet another blonde, buxom lass onto his lap, his lips pressed against the curve of her collarbone as she laughs loudly at what was likely nowhere near that amusing of a joke. Sif grips her mug of mead even more tightly and gulps even more of it down, her head already swimming with anger and alcohol and sadness. She glares at the revelers beyond her, all celebrating yet another of Thor’s great triumphs, yet another step closer to the glory of his coronation as King of Asgard that comes ever nearer.
Despite herself, she can feel hot tears pull at the corners of her eyes. What fools they all were – her mother who told her that she was destined to be the warrior-bride to the warrior-king; or her friends who had told her that Thor would be an idiot to miss out on the strong woman who fights by his side; or even the Allfather, who had once taken her hand and told her she was everything he would have wanted in a daughter. And yet here she was – alone, on the outside yet again (just like that little peasant girl watching the little lords and ladies play by themselves so long ago). They were all liars. The lot of them. The tears spill down her cheeks and she angrily wipes them away, choosing instead to drown her sorrows in the dregs at the bottom of her mug of mead. Insanely, she wishes she could hurt him like he hurt her (but he doesn’t even know does he?), show him that she doesn’t nee dhim, doesn’t need his approval or his touch or his love. She drains the last drops out of her mug, wiping away her tears as she sways on her feet. She feels so alone, so helpless, and if there’s one thing Sif hates it’s feeling helpl-
“Watering down your mead I see?” purrs a voice from behind her.
She turns (wobbly), and sees the man of the silvertongue himself in front of her. She scowls at him, angry and embarrassed to have anyone see her this way. “Go away Loki,” she tells him, venom dripping from her words.
He raises an eyebrow at her. “Pining away I see,” he says, “after that oaf”. She is surprised to hear the bitterness in his tone, and she realizes that he might have also imbibed too much of the evening’s ale and mead.
“Leave,” she tells him curtly, and turns away.
“He doesn’t want you, not like that,” she hears in her ear, and despite herself she looks over at Thor again, at the blonde who is now sprawled across his lap, her mouth pressed against his. Her blood boils.
Even with the alcohol in her system, she moves quickly. She throws an arm back and catches the inebriated Loki off guard, pinning him up against the wall with her arm on his throat.
Loki doesn’t even look fazed. “It hurts to hear the truth, doesn’t it Sif? It hurts to know that the one you want doesn’t want you in return. To see them lust after someone else. To watch them –”
She doesn’t give him any more time to hurl his insults like daggers. She presses her open mouth against his, catching him off-guard and biting at his bottom lip with more aggression than passion. She hears him gasp and despite herself, she grins. “Silence, Trickster,” she whispers, using her free hand to slide her hand down his side, tracing the outline of his body through his tunic. She can’t bear it anymore, to see the first prince (her prince) kiss and paw and touch other women, while she waits in the wings. Because despite being the best female warrior in Asgard, despite being strong and powerful and brave, she is still a woman, and she is still haunted by the thoughts of things she won’t ever have.
So she settles for the second prince.
She releases the arm that is pinning him up against the wall, and reaches up, grabbing his neck and pulling his mouth down to hers for an even more desperate kiss. She pushes a thigh in between his own, stepping into his body as his arms wrap around her. Despite herself, she loses herself in his touch, relishing in the feel of passion for her, someone’s arms desperately grabbing at her, pulling at her clothes, devouring her skin. Without warning, Loki moves in a flash, pushing her off him and swinging them around, his arms coming down on either side of her, trapping her against the wall. He breathes hard, his gaze locked on hers, his blue eyes searching hers for something.
“Sif…?” he asks breathlessly. And there’s something in his eyes then, something longing and lonely and… but before she can process it, it’s gone, retreating back into the cold expanses of Loki’s gaze.
“Use your silvertongue for something else, for once,” she tells him, before pressing herself against him again.
She steals away while he sleeps (she’s actually never seen Loki sleep before). She doesn’t give him a chance to leave on his terms - he doesn't get to take that from her.
(And as she goes she can’t help but think about the way he looked at her when she moved above him, his hands grabbing onto her hips as if it was the only thing in the world that was real, as if this was something… more to him. She pushes those thoughts away.)
When she ignores him for a month straight after that night, she supposes she shouldn’t have been surprised at the trick he pulls.
It takes Fandrall and Hogun both to pull Thor off of his brother, Mjölnir at his throat. Despite his peril, Loki smirks at her maliciously with her hood over her head, hiding her shame.
A week later she has hair again – dark brown in place of the golden yellow she once had. The irony of it does not escape her.
Days later, they fight frost giants on Jotunheim and Thor is banished to Midgard. The Allfather sleeps. Loki rules Asgard – briefly – with the pain and the madness in his eyes of a tortured man. Brother fights brother on the bifrost, love against hate.
Asgard mourns a fallen prince (in more ways than one).
She hears whispered rumours, sometimes. About Asgard’s (former) second prince. About the colour of his hair, the paleness of his complexion, the temperature of his skin – how unlike Thor he truly was. Unbidden, memories rise in her mind of that night months ago, her lips pressed against his, her skin on his skin, his hands in her hair, on her hips, holding her close. She thinks about how cold he felt, how he felt chilled even in the warmth of an Asgardian summer night, and she can’t help but wonder if they are right.
She places a hand on her swollen belly, hidden in the folds of her cloak, and feels how the skin there is slightly cool to the touch.
She supposes she will find out soon enough.