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Chapter Text

Long ago, the Lióðgarðr (Song-Wardens) were Svartalfheim’s most elite warriors, a sacred order dedicated to protecting the realm’s magical harmony. The Lióðgarðr used enchanted combat techniques, blending swordplay with song-casting, a rare form of elven battle-magic that wove spells into their strikes.

But centuries ago, an unidentified force twisted their gifts into a curse. Some say a dark sorcerer envied their power and bound them to his will; others whisper that they broke an ancient law of Svartalfheim’s Council and were punished by the realm itself. Since then, the once-great Song-Wardens became monstrous, gruesome warriors, no longer driven by noble duty; only a relentless, battle-hungry militia.

They soon became known as the notorious Galdra Brutes.

Since no magic in Svartalfheim could undo the transformation, their own people sealed them away deep beneath the roots of the World Tree, locking them away for eternity in captivity

Until one day, they were set free.

The attacks came in a storm on an elven settlement, tearing through it without mercy or reason.

With Svartalfheim’s defenses failing, the elven rulers had no choice but to call upon Asgard for aid.

The Strategy Hall was cast in half-light. At the center of the room, the massive war table stretched out before Asgard’s greatest warriors, its surface enchanted so that rune-markers, glowing figures shaped like warriors and beasts, shifting as though alive. Some pulsed with golden light, representing the forces of Asgard. Others, flickering with sickly red, marked the Galdra Brutes rampaging through the village of their next attack, Glimsholt.

Odin sat at the head of the table; his one eye piercing as he listened first to his eldest son.

“We should strike them head-on,” Thor declared simply, arms crossed as he surveyed the battlefield, “A swift hammer blow to shatter their ranks.”

“…and risk the village becoming a battlefield?" Sif countered, “Those creatures will use the innocents as shields!”

“Then we cut through them,” Volstagg rumbled, one hand resting on his stomach as if he were already dreaming of the celebratory feast to follow.

“If we are to fight, we should be sure where the real threat lies,” Hogun added stoically.

The discussion carried on, but Odin remained silent, then turned toward the heavy doors of the chamber as they creaked open.

Prince Loki entered ominously, with his black and green cloak billowing behind him and his hands hidden within the folds of his sleeves.

For a moment, Sif found herself unable to look away from him.

Odin lifted a hand and beckoned him forward, “Come, Loki.”

Loki inclined his head and stepping toward the table, studying the placements and shifting figures.

“Tell me,” Odin asked, “how would you wage this attack?”

A flicker of amusement crossed Loki’s face.

Reaching for a rune-marker, representing a small unit of Asgardian scouts, Loki dragged it toward the outskirts of the village.

The room stilled instantaneously.

“We must strike with meticulousness. Fandral, Sif, and I are the swiftest; thus, our priority should be the civilians. We should slip through the chaos, removing them before they can be used as leverage. It is pertinent that they are evacuated before the battle exacerbates.”

Fandral smirked, clearly approving of being listed as one of the swiftest warriors. Sif, however, frowned slightly.

Loki reached for another rune, this one representing Thor, Hogun, and Volstagg.

“The brute force lies here,” He moved the pieces forward. “They shall drive the enemy out, force them to retreat, and make them think they are escaping.”

Thor’s brow furrowed, “Escaping?”

Loki raised a dark eyebrow deviously, “Into a trap.”

He moved his fingers in a delicate motion, and several golden-marked Einherjar shifted behind the enemy lines.

“The Einherjar will not meet them in battle, well, not immediately, that is.”

He flicked his wrist one more, and one of the Einherjar markers changed shape, morphing into what looked like a small, lambent hut.

Sif narrowed her eyes, “A…a false refuge?”

Loki nodded, “Precisely. We craft an illusion; perhaps a ruined fortress, a tunnel, or a path, that will serve to funnel them into the exact position we desire.”

“A Trojan Horse,” Hogun murmured, catching on.

“Indeed,” Loki replied smoothly. “Let them think they have outmaneuvered us by allowing them retreat into a space of our choosing…one where our Einherjar wait.”

He placed the final rune, a single golden blade, directly at the heart of the enemy’s position, “Once they are gathered, then we strike.”

“It is cunning,” Hogun admitted.

“It is efficient,” Sif added, though she hated that she found herself agreeing with Loki so easily.

Odin studied his son for a long moment and nodded before Thor clapped his brother on the back in pride and beamed, “Its brilliant.”

*The Battle of Glimsholt*

Smoke curled in twisting plumes above Glimsholt, the acrid scent of burning timber thick in the air. The village streets, once cobbled and orderly, were now a chaotic expanse of overturned carts and scattered belongings.

The plan had been unfolding as Loki intended; he, Fandral, Sif moved swiftly through the panic-stricken village, ushering civilians through concealed paths and out of harm’s reach. The Galdra Brutes, as anticipated, had taken the bait retreating toward the illusionary stronghold conjured by the Einherjar.

Everything was going according to plan.

Until the factory doors burst open.

A mass of hulking figures, a splinter group of the Galdra Brutes who had veered off course, stormed inside. Loki had just turned to usher out the last of the elven children when he felt deep tremor of something monstrous entering the space behind him.

The factory itself was a relic of Glimsholt’s industry, a cavernous building of iron and stone where young elven apprentices toiled under the hum of glowing machinery, weaving enchantments into silk-thin metal threads. Looms, suspended by chains, hung from the rafters like the bones of some great beast. Buckets of raw stardust ore lined the walls, the faint shimmer of their unworked magic glinting in the dim light.

But now, it was to be a slaughterhouse.

The Brutes wasted no time. They bellowed, their hollowed voices thick with rage, and charged toward the cowering younglings, their jagged weapons raised.

Loki’s seiðr crackled to life and before he could think, illusionary walls sprung up, and corridors twisted into dead ends. Barriers flashed into place to mislead the beasts and buy the children time to flee.

Sif was already in motion at the sound of the elven youngling’s cries. She vaulted onto a hanging loom, swung herself forward, and drove her blade into the nearest Brute’s shoulder, a sharp arc of blood spraying across the factory floor. “Move!” she barked at Loki.

Loki hands gripped the shoulders of two younglings, shoving them toward the exit, his magic flaring to keep the remaining brutes at bay. The children ran, and their wide, terrified eyes flickered back toward him as they sprinted through the smoke-clogged air.

One child did not run.

Loki turned just in time to see the Brute’s jagged axe descending, its rusted edge glinting in the dim light. The elven child, likely a boy no older than 600 years old stood frozen, his small hands raised as if they could shield him from the inevitable. His silver eyes were wide with terror, locked onto Loki’s for the briefest, shattering moment.

Then, the axe struck.

A sickening crunch split the air as the blade tore through the child’s delicate frame, rending flesh and bone with cruel finality. Blood sprayed in an arc across the factory floor, spattering the glowing threads of half-woven metal and dripping onto the iron machinery. The youngling’s tiny body crumpled to the floor, having been severed in two; his lifeless upper half collapsing while his legs remained locked in place for a heartbeat longer before buckling.

Loki’s lungs refused to expand, and vision narrowed to the pooling crimson, to the way the child’s fingers still twitched uselessly against the floor.

A sound wrenched itself from his throat; strangled, unlike anything he had ever uttered before. His seiðr flared uncontrollably, a violent pulse of emerald light trembling at his fingertips.

Then, a high-pitched, breaking scream erupted his ears.

The youngling’s sister.

She stumbled forward weeping, her small form juddering as she tried to throw herself toward her brother’s broken body.

Algrim lay gasping upon the cobblestone street, a great gash torn across his side gouting crimson with every shallow, rattling breath. Blood frothed in his throat, turning his attempts at speech into a terrible gurgling. Yet even so, with trembling fingers slick with his own lifeblood, Algrim reached out in a final, faltering act of devotion and brushed his hand against Prince Loki’s tear-streaked cheek.

Prince Loki, who had fallen to his knees, and bore royal attire once finely wrought but simple for a day beyond the palace, was now sodden with blood. His heart-wrenching shrieks tore through the square, echoing off the marble columns and market stalls.

“No, no, no PLEAAAASE,” Loki sobbed, clutching Algrim’s hand against his face as if he could anchor him to life. “I need you Algrim! PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME!”

A page-boy was dispatched at once, racing on his swift steed to the palace to alert the King and Queen.

Einherjar who had been escorting the pair surrounded the scene in a protective ring, barking orders to clear the square. Two knelt swiftly at Algrim’s side, assessing his wound.

“Hold him, keep him awake,” one said sharply after breaking through the stunned throng

A towering warrior stooped low, sliding his arms beneath Algrim’s failing form and lifted him as he gurgled wretchedly while feebly reaching for Loki. Another guard moved to the prince and pulled him away. Loki thrashed like a creature wounded beyond reason and weakly cried incoherent pleas, “ALGRIMMMM!!!!!” he choked.

“Your Highness, you must let go!” the guard shouted, hauling the thin prince back from Algrim’s side as he sobbed, reaching again for his fallen protector.

“Please, please don’t take him! I NEED him!” Loki wailed.

Loki shook off the memory and moved, catching the child before she could reach the carnage, his arms locking around her as she thrashed, her tiny fists beating against his chest.

“Ú! Ánin lerya! Ánin…” (Translation from Elven: “Noooooooooo! Let me go!) Her wails dissolved into gasping sobs, cracking under the immense grief too large for her small frame to bear.

Loki held her tighter, shielding her from the sight of the still-bleeding remains, but the image was already burned into his mind. Her wide, tear-filled eyes darted past his shoulder, locked onto the ruin of her brother, her lips forming broken, soundless words. Loki followed her gaze for only a moment before he turned her face toward him, cupping her damp cheek with a shaking hand.

“Mára hendunyat mínya,” (Keep your eyes on me) he murmured, brushing some unruly strands of blood-matted hair from her face, “Haryan lyë, netya.” (I have you, little one)

The child whimpered and she curled inward as she buried her face against his chest, shuddering with traumatized sobs.

The village of Glimsholt lay in ruins. The distant clang of metal on metal reverberated through the smoke-choked air, a cacophony of steel, splintered wood, and the agonized wails of the dying.

The younglings, 17 of them now, caked in soot and trembling, gripped to the edges of their tattered attire, fearful eyes darting through the ashen remains of the hamlet. Loki and Sif flanked them, ushering them toward an abandoned manor at the edge of town. It had once been a grand thing, with ivy-wrapped columns and towering stained-glass windows. Now, it was a skeleton of its former self, its great oaken doors left ajar and floors littered with fallen beams and shards of shattered light. But the upper levels were intact, and most importantly, it was abandoned. The Brutes would not waste their time scavenging what they had already razed.

Fandral waited for them in the foyer, his golden hair damp with sweat, a crimson gash stretching from brow to cheekbone. He had secured the doors behind him, bolting them as best as the splintered frame allowed. Relief flickered in his eyes as he caught sight of them.

“You found them,” he exhaled, striding forward.

“A few,” Loki muttered grimly.

Sif pressed a firm hand to the shoulder of the eldest child, a boy of barely ten winters, his lip quivering though he remained silent. “Take them the left wing to rest, Aerendyl.”

Fandral nodded, placing a hand on one of the youngling’s back, “Come now, little ones. You are safe here.”

The children hesitated, glancing between Sif and Loki, as if leaving their sight would unmoor them entirely.

Loki crouched next to the child, “Lenna as erya” (Go with him), he said, gaze sweeping over their small, soot-streaked faces “Vé tuluvammë lyenna rato” (We will come for you soon).

Another youngling swallowed hard, then nodded, tugging at the hand of a younger girl beside him. Reluctantly, they soon followed Fandral, disappearing into the darkened halls in the south wing.

Loki let out a slow breath. Only then did he glance at Sif and found her swaying where she stood.

His stomach lurched, noticing how her hand was pressed against her side now and her fingers curled.

“Sif?”

She said nothing at first; merely stared at him with unfocused eyes, as if his voice were coming from behind a thick veil.

Then, she wavered and nearly collapsed.

Loki lunged forward, catching her before she struck the ground.

“Sif!”

Then, he saw it.

A small, black-tipped dark was embedded just beneath the gap in her armor. The wound was shallow, but the skin around it had begun to mottle, veins darkening in portentous rivulets.

Poison.

“No,” he breathed out in horror.

Sif convulsed again, her lips parting on a strangled gasp. A fresh bloom of blood stained her teeth. Her fingers tightened around his wrist weakly, “I... can’t breathe... Loki... I can’t...”

Loki pressed a hand to her cheek, his other cradling the back of her neck, feeling the tremor that wracked her frame. “You’re alright,” he whispered desperately, brushing her hair from her face. His hand trembled as he tucked the strands behind her ear, “You’re alright, I’ve got you.”

Sif's breath rose in erratic spurts, and she looked up at him frantically, squeezing her fingers around his cloak. She exhaled somewhat like a laugh, but it came out hoarse and frightful, “Loki…”

Loki felt his vision blur. He had felt his plan was immaculate and assumed that every calculation had been accounted for and escape route was memorized.

Yet here he was, now watching her slip away.

“Blóðbinda”
“Sárlokka”
“Lífvörn!”

Ancient spells of blood-binding, wound-closing, and life-warding. Loki had torn them from forbidden texts desperately.

He bit his lip and dragged the dagger's point across the inside of his forearm, hissing as the skin parted and blood welled up. The pain was electric yet grounding. He pressed trembling fingers over the wound, whispering the spell again, voice hoarse:

“Sárlokka!”

The blood shivered, but it did not stop. Loki’s magic faltered wildly and unevenly. He cursed softly and pressed harder; green eyes bright with unshed tears as the olfactory of iron filled the air.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of movement from a painting.

It hung crooked now, where he had knocked it askew in a fit of rage weeks before: a moving, holographic portrait of himself at 1,500 years old, standing proudly beside Algrim. The older warrior's hand rested proudly on Loki's thin shoulder, both of them smiling radiantly.

Loki's breath tethered.

“I'm sorry,” he rasped. His bloody hand reached out toward the painting, fingers splayed wide as if he could bridge the chasm of time and death between them.

“I'm so sorry, Algrim. I will not fail again, I swear it.”

But the portrait only flickered gently in the candlelight, forever locked in a moment Loki could never return to.

As tears blurred his vision, the prince wrapped his bleeding arm against his chest, rocking slightly and weeping silently into the indifferent dark.

“I need to move you,” he whispered to Sif, securing her against him, his heart fluttered when he felt how was frighteningly cold she was.

Sif barely had the energy to give him a nod.

Loki gritted his teeth, “Hold on,” then moved franticly deeper into the manor and through the darkened halls, until he reached a secluded, dim room on the north wing. It had the appearance of a once-comfortable sitting area, but now it was tousled with furniture burned and toppled over, save for a solitary couch. Loki's hands shook as he gently lowered Sif onto it.

“Stay with me,” he whispered as he knelt beside her, fingers trembling as he reached for the clasp of her breastplate. He hesitated, wanting to preserve her modesty and dignity, even in these dire moments. The weight of her armor seemed to mock the delicacy with which he tried to remove it. So he worked cautiously to the edges of the metal armor just enough to expose the gash where the poison had entered her side.

Loki wove his seiðr through the air and brought the embers of the fireplace to life, flames licking at the logs as they crackled and sparked. Then, finally having the light he requires to work, he hovered his palms over her wound, the Skjálfblóð poison is working quickly, he noticed.

With shaky fingertips, Loki called upon his seiðr once more and wove it through her veins as the wound pulsed beneath his fingertips. Her slick blood soaked his fingers as poison fought back, resisting his every attempt to draw it out.

A sob tore from Loki’s chest. I cant stop it he thought. His frantic hands covered his tear-streaked face, the smell of iron filling his nose he looked down at Sif.

“Sif...” His voice cracked. “SIFFFFFF. Stay with me, Please!”

A faint, strained breath escaped her lips, but her body was slipping from his grasp. The hand that had been weakly clutching his cloak, suddenly fell away as blood curdled in her throat.

Loki shook as her gripped her shoulders, stumbling over his words as he cried harder, “I can’t lose you too…”

Sif eyelids fluttered as her remaining strength evaporated. The last thing she felt before she slipped into unconsciousness was Loki’s damp face pressed against hers.

As Sif drifted in and out of consciousness, her senses swam between obscurity and the burning sting of reality. Her head felt as if it were a foreign object bound loosely to her body. The Skjálfblóð coursed through her veins like a scorch. Sluggishly at first, like a creeping frost on a cold morning, more insidiously with every passing moment, turning her limbs to lead and suffocating her chest.

In one of these fleeting moments, when the haze of sleep tried to pull her under again, that she became aware of the crackling warmth of the hurst. As the flow flickered in her tired eyes, she blinked, fighting to keep them open. She could make out the shape of Loki sitting across from her with his form hunched over and head bobbing forward in a trampled chair.

The prince’s eyes fluttered open slightly, barely registering the wakefulness in his body, before sinking shut again as though he couldn't muster the energy of keeping them open any longer. His breathing was shallow, but there was a subtle twitch in his hand, a nervous movement that spoke of his restlessness.

She could see him wince even in his sleep, as his face twisted in a soft grimace as a muffled, indistinguishable sound escaped his lips. With one hand clutched a damp cloth and the other loosely gripping his throwing knives, it appeared as thought he’d completely forgotten he was holding them.

“Sif...” he muttered in his sleep again.

She blinked surprisingly, the heaviness on her eyelids dragging her down into sleep once more, but she couldn’t fight the pull of his voice.

“Sif...” he whispered again; his voice more pained this time. With her vision clouding over, the overwhelming pull of darkness tugged at Sif once more.

It had taken Thor, Hogun, and Volstagg far longer than expected to subdue the last remnants of the enemy within the manor’s grounds. The battle had not been swift, nor was it without cost. Their foes were not mere marauders but desperate men, fighting with the reckless ferocity of cornered beasts. Even with the Einherjar at their backs, the conflict stretched deep into the night, their steel clashing in the torch-lit halls, boots slick with the blood of fallen adversaries. Some had barricaded themselves in the lower chambers, forcing the warriors to root them out one by one. Others, too wounded to fight, had been rounded up and shackled, their moans mingling with the cries of the civilians who had suffered beneath their tyranny.

Once the last of them had been subdued and bound in irons, Thor ordered word to be sent to Odin, beseeching him to dispatch another fleet to aid the civilians. There were too many wounded, too many bereft of home and kin; more than they alone could care for.

Meanwhile, Fandral had taken to the separate wing of the manor, tending to the younglings who had been left orphaned and traumatized. With the help of the elder youths, he searched for sustenance within the shattered pantries, scavenging what little had not been spoiled or stolen. Bread, though hardened, could be softened with warm water. Apples, though bruised, could still be eaten. A meager offering, but enough to keep them from starving until proper aid arrived.

Loki had sought him out amid these efforts, his arrival heralded by the stench of blood. His once fine garments were now an array of crimson and black, his hands stained to the wrists. There was a wild, frantic look in his jade eyes, a desperation that set Fandral’s heart ill at ease.

“I need more supplies,” Loki had blurted out, his voice hoarse with exhaustion, “Lint, honey, hartshorn, anything to break a fever. If there is wine stout enough to cleanse a wound, bring that too.”

Fandral had not needed to ask whom the supplies were for. He had sought to check up on the his comrades hours after tending to the youngling, to find the dear shieldmaiden struck with poison. Fandral remained ever so terrified at the poison in Sif’s veins; and Loki had spoke of it as though it was unlike any mere affliction. Thus Loki, with all his knowledge, was the only one who could dare to extract it.

Now as the warriors regrouped, Thor leaned heavily against a wall with armor dented and smeared with grime. His brow furrowed as he turned to his companions.

“I do not like this,” he muttered in a low voice, “Loki’s knowledge is vast, but this poison is no ordinary venom. If it has taken hold of Sif’s blood, even he may not be able to undo its curse.”

Hogun somberly used a handkerchief to wipe the grime off his forehead, “…if he fails, she will die.”

“She won’t,” Fandral interjected, having bore witness to the youngest prince nearly work himself to death, though the confidence in his voice did not entirely reach his eyes. “He came to me, wild-eyed and shaking, hands bloodied beyond reckoning. I have seen Loki wear a mask of apathy, but this was not that. He is fighting for her.”

“Then we must hope he fights well,” Volstagg muttered, rubbing at his beard, “But I say we prepare nonetheless. If the worst comes to pass, if Loki cannot save her...”

Thor exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening into a fist, “Aye, but we give him the time he needs. Sif is unfortunately in no position to travel.”

Hogun nodded, “and in the meantime, we hold this place and protect those left standing.”

Fandral sighed, rubbing at the tension in his temples. “I pray that we do not have to watch Loki shatter should she slip beyond his grasp…”

They all fell silent at that, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows over their weary faces.

*Three Days later*

Thor walked through the dimly lit corridor. As he neared the secluded wing of the manor where Loki had sequestered himself to work on Sif, the smell of burnt herbs, damp cloths, and blood sent a chill through him. Though he had seen his fair share of battlefields, this was different.

Reaching the threshold, the golden heir hesitated. The chamber was shrouded in the dull glow of scattered candles. In their wavering glow, he saw Loki hunched over Sif, his fingers trembling as he worked with meticulous urgency.

Sif lay upon the worn couch, her face ashen and sweat glistening upon her brow. Her breath was shallow and each rise and fall of her chest so feeble it sent a stab of fear through Thor’s heart. She had always been a warrior of unyielding strength and will. So to see her like this, was almost more than he could bear.

Then his attention fell upon his brother.

Loki was a ruin of himself. His undershirt was mottled with dried and fresh blood alike. Dark crescents sat heavy beneath his eyes, and his features were drawn taut with exhaustion and dread. He worked with frenzied strictness, his movements quick yet unsteady as he pressed a fresh linen cloth to Sif’s side, where the last remnants of blackened venom seeped from the wound.

“Loki,” Thor called softly.

Loki did not look up.

Thor stepped closer, watching as his brother’s slender fingers moved deftly to apply a poultice to the raw, open wound. His breath came fast and shallow, as if he himself had forgotten to take in air.

“She is steadying,” Thor said after a long pause. “You have done well.”

Loki gave no response, merely clenched his jaw and continued his ministrations.

Thor frowned and watched the younger prince work. It had to be more than duty that drove Loki’s hands, more than obligation or guilt, Thor thought.

Loki had never been one to linger by a warrior’s bedside nor rush into the fray for the sake of loyalty alone. But alas here he was, giving every ounce of his cunning skill just to keep Sif breathing.

Loki’s hands finally stilled and his breath caught in his throat. He hesitated as he stood up, then reached for Sif’s wrist, pressing two fingers to the delicate skin just above her pulse point. A long silence stretched between them before he exhaled a deep, shuddering breath of relief.

“It’s done,” he whispered.

The last of the poison was gone.

The moment the words left him, the strength in his body seemed to snap like a bowstring drawn too tight. The room tilted precariously as exhaustion crashed over him. The blood loss, hours of meticulous work, and sheer force of will that had kept him upright was all dissipating simultaneously.

His knees buckled and he collapsed beside the couch, nearly landing heavily on the stone floor.

Thor caught him by the shoulder, steadying him before he could crumple further. “Loki!”

Loki’s head lolled against the armrest, his limbs trembling from expending so much energy. He did not meet Thor’s gaze, instead he looked upwards toward the barren ceiling of their secluded wing, lost somewhere between wakefulness and oblivion.

“You are spent,” Thor murmured, his grip firm but gentle on his brother’s head, “You must rest.”

Loki gave a weak shake of his head, “I…I cannot. Not yet,” he said croakily.

Thor sighed at his brother’s ruthless stubbornness, then tightened his grip on Loki’s shoulder, “You saved her, brother,” he murmured.

Loki’s breath shuddered and he stared at Sif’s sleeping form, the rise and fall of her chest a fragile reassurance that his battle had not been in vain. The room still smelled faintly of the bitter tang of magic and the lingering traces of what he had torn from her veins.

“I nearly lost her,” he rasped, exhaustedly.

Thor swallowed hard and his heart ached at his brother’s statement. Loki, who so often masked his true feelings beneath a veil of sharp wit and mockery, was stripped bare before him.

“But you didn’t,” Thor said, pulling Loki forward into a firm embrace. The moment Loki felt his brother’s arms around him, something inside him unraveled. The tension that had held him together for so long gave way, and with it, a shuddering sob.

Thor held him tighter, his own tears slipping free.

Their dear friend would survive.

“She will live,” Thor murmured into his brother’s curls, a promise woven into his words. “Because of you, Loki, she will live.”

Loki nodded weakly; his breaths still uneven but no longer frantic.

“Algrim would be so proud,” Thor added, still supporting his younger brother’s weight.

Loki would do nothing but suppress down a lump in his throat and nod into his brother’s embrace.

“Come,” Thor encouraged him, “Let’s get you some sustenance.”

Sif couldn't recall the passage of time lost to her like the fading embers of a dying fire. She couldn't tell if it had been hours or days, as everything felt like a distortion in her mind. Though her limbs still felt dense, she pushed through the endless fatigue pulling at her. She also noticed the searing pain in her side. Instinctually, her fingers grazed the bandages wrapped tightly around her waist and she winced at the movement, a reminder of how close she had come to the abyss of death.

As her senses finally cleared, that’s when she heard him.

The melodic sound of a lyre’s strings being plucked tenderly, accompanied by a man’s enchanting serenade, that permeated the secluded parlor like a stream. Focusing her eyes on the ink-tressed prince, she noticed as Loki’s fingers moved expertly as if he was lost in the act, attempting to soothe the nervous energy inside himself.

A sword may sing, a storm may weep,

Yet still the raven soars aloft…

and should he call but once your name,

Would you heed, or turn him off?

He paused, as the melody deepened with his discreet yearning.

A golden flame, a heart untamed,

A blade that rends the night…

You stand amidst the fury’s call,

Unyielding in your might.

Loki’s fingers tremble on the strings, voice tinged with his discreet yearning.

but steel must bend, and flame must fade,

and even men grow weary…

Does none but I behold the toll,

The weary heart grown dreary?

Over the years, Sif had seen Loki conjure many strange and curious things from the folds of his magic; an illusionary serpent coiled around his wrist, a steaming platter of dates, just when or even a shimmering raven that would dart between them on their travels, yet she had never known him to play an instrument. The forgotten heir of Asgard, who had always kept his talents close to his chest, never let anyone see his artistic sentimentality, yet here he was, playing for her.

Loki’s head snapped up, as though he hadn’t expected her to stir so soon, and he froze. Then, his expression quickly shifted to one of quiet relief. He appeared disarranged, as though he had not bothered with his appearance since he had brought her in. Now, only a simple under-shirt clung to his frame, and his usually well-kept curls were unruly, falling about his face as he regarded her.

Before she could voice her thoughts, Loki quickly hid the lyre into his pocket dimension, leaving only a flash of its form behind entirely.

“You’re awake,” Loki’s voice cracked as he came and knelt by the couch. Sif’s heart softened upon hearing the quiver of liberation in his breath. Her gaze lowered to the emerald cloak wrapped around her, and she could feel the warmth of his body still lingering within the fabric; the dark wool consoling her skin.

“We’ll die of heat before we finish our training,” Thor had groaned that afternoon, sweat beading at his temples as he leaned on his practice sword.

“You say that every time you get tired,” Hogun had replied dryly, though he hadn’t disagreed.

The six of them had slipped away, all defying any responsibilities for the thrill of something forbidden, making their excursion all that much sweater.

The cove they found was perfect.

It lay hidden beyond the cliffs, veiled by towering trees near a waterfall tumbling down from the rocks, glimmering in the sunlight, crashing into a crystal-clear lagoon. The water was deep and pure, rippling in endless rings where it met the stone. Flowers bloomed along the shore; starbursts of gold and blue, and the air smelled of wild thyme and sweet summer grass.

“By the stars,” Fandral breathed, grinning as he pulled off his boots, “Now this is a place for legends.”

Sif had wasted no time and to her comrades’ surprise, she leapt into the water before anyone else could move, laughing as she plunged beneath the surface. When she emerged, her dark hair was slicked back and water droplets gleaming on her skin.

“Are you all cowards?” she called daringly, eyes flashing.

The chaos continued for what felt like hours. Water splashed in all directions as they raced from one end of the cove to the other, made bets on who could hold their breath the longest; shouting so loudly that the birds fled from the trees.

Eventually, as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, exhaustion settled in over them.

Sif waded toward the shore, wringing out her hair and then next her soaked overshirt. However, the moment she stepped onto land, she shivered violently. The early afternoon summer air had been warm, yet now in the late evening it felt cool against her soaked skin.

Before she even realized it, something was draped over her shoulders.

Startled, Sif looked up to find Loki his tunic, having remained dry in the sun, being placed over her.

“What are y…?”

“Spare me your gratitude,” he cut her off, adjusting the collar with a careless flick of his wrist, “I simply refuse to listen to your chattering teeth all the way home.”

Sif swallowed, as he fastened the final buttons on the sleeves.

“Well,” she said slowly while raising an eyebrow, “that was kind of you.”

Loki paused, as if considering his next words carefully.

Then, with a reserved shrug, he replied, “Consider this a debt repaid.”

“Quite the healer, aren’t you?” she said to make light of the situation.

“You’re not going to swoon on me, are you?” He asked.

Sif rolled her eyes, “I’ll swoon the day you admit you care.”

“Then I suppose you’ll remain upright forever,” he scoffed. 

She winced slightly as she shifted her position on the couch, “I should have let the poison run its course and saved you the trouble then.”

“Oh, forgive me,” Loki said theatrically, bringing a hand to his chest, “How selfish of me to intervene instead of allowing you to bleed out with the casualties.”

Sif eyed him up and down, “Disappointed?”

Shaking his head sanctimoniously, though keeping a light tone his voice, he continued, “Milady, if you needed my attention so desperately, there were less dramatic ways to go about it. Besides…” he added while folding his arms tighter, “You look terrible.”

She raised an annoyed eyebrow at his taunting, “If I look terrible, I blame you! It feels like a thousand tiny daggers are under my skin, thank you very much my LIEGEEE.”

Loki, still unusually subdued moved so he was now seething on the couch where she lay, “I didn’t drag you back from the brink just for you to be reckless again.”

Sif let out an appalled gasp, as if feigning being offended.

He gave a humorous chuckle at this and rested his elbows on his knees while looking off into the fire with a smirk, “I never thought I’d see the day THE Lady Sif would accept help.”

Sif tilted her head at this, and her voice softened, “I never thought I’d see the day you’d offer such.”

Loki’s voice dropped lower, sincerity danced in his eyes as he looked at her intensely, “You nearly died, Sif.”

“…but I didn’t,” she retorted stubbornly.

Loki looked away from her again, voice barely distinguishable, “No, but you could have...”

Her eyes widened at this and after a brief, “You feared for me?”

After a long silence, he let out a reluctant whisper, “Yes…”

Sensing the discomfort in his disposition, she attempted to shift the conversation to ease the tension curling around them, “What song were you singing?”

 Loki stiffened slightly and paused, “… just an old ballad...”

Sif narrowed her eyes slightly, detecting something beneath his casual, dismissive tone, “I don’t recognize it.”

Loki glanced away, “It’s not one often sung in the feasting halls. Too… somber, I suppose. Not the sort of melody that pairs well with overflowing mead and clashing tankards...”

She eyed him curiously, “Yet you sang it in battle, nonetheless.”

He hesitated slightly before giving her a calculating response, “Or perhaps I simply wished to see if you’d be vexed by poetry in the midst of dying?”

Sif shook her head, unimpressed at his response, “You always did have an odd sense of humor. What is the meaning behind that ballad anyway?”

Loki studied her, reveling with the idea of entwining a solicitous response together, “The song speaks of a warrior who stands perpetual against a storm. The warrior wields fire and steel with undaunted hands, even as the encumbrance of battle intensifies.” He pauses, as if testing how the words were resonating with her before letting more slip free, “…but, even the strongest must tire; even the brightest flame must wane…”

 “…and the raven?” Sif asked.

He gave a careful smile as he continued gazing upon the fire’s flames. “The raven is merely…..an observer.” Loki said, “He calls out into the wind, but it is not for him to decide whether he is heard.”

Thought she felt the undeclared words beneath his answer, she didn’t press him any further. Instead, she exhaled and leaned back slightly on the pillow he had placed bind her while sleeping. “Hmph….curious choice for a battle hymn.”

“Undoubtedly,” he replied cynically, “On our next excursion I’ll be sure to provide something livelier.”

Sif couldn’t suppress her laugh, “Now that would truly be a battle worth remembering.”

He joined her chuckling, clearly charmed by her cynical response. As their laughter faded,  it was soon replaced by the sensation of emerging anticipation. Sif looked at him closely as his jade eyes remained ever so intentionally focused on the embers, fingers fidgeting against the others, before cautiously returning to meet hers.

“I wonder what inspired the composure to write the ballad?” she asked almost offhandedly, though she meant it more than she realized.

A flicker of uneasiness flashed across the prince’s eyes, and he shifted his position against the back of the couch as if to brush off the question, while his fingers draped lazily over his knee, “Must everything have an inspiration?” he said, sounding irritable.

He was deflecting, she realized,

Sif raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by his defensiveness, “Where did you first hear it, Loki?” she pressed again, as amusement danced in her eyes.

Loki cursed internally, emotions tangling within him as he exhaled dramatically. A muscle in his jaw tightened and he exhaled sharply, irritation dissolving into something closer to surrender. “You are infuriatingly perceptive when you wish to be.”

Sif leaned in slightly, “and you,” she countered, “are infuriatingly evasive when you wish to be.”

After flexing his fingers nervously, a clear betrayal of his unease, he finally answered her, “If you truly must know… I wrote it.”

She blinked amusingly, “You…you wrote it?”

“Does that surprise you?” he asked.

Yes! No…actually...

“You rarely share the things you create,” she reminded him instead.

He looked down at his hands as though grappling with an internal debate, “It was based on something I wrote long ago.”

 “What?” she inquired, pulling his cloak up around her shoulders even more.

Alas he responded, but so quietly it almost vanished in the crackling of the fire, “A letter.” He said, letting out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, “A letter…that I never sent.”

Sif’s heart accelerated slightly, though she wasn’t entirely sure why, “To whom?”

His affectionate eyes met hers once again, but there was no façade present, just inobtrusive resignation, “…To you…”

She looked at him in utter disbelief, “W..what…?”

Sif sat frozen, her pulse hammering against her throat.

With a deep sigh, Loki conjured the letter with his hand, “I wrote you this when I left for Vanaheim several years ago…” he said, his voice quivered slightly. His fingers trembled ever so slightly as he unfolded the parchment. Then, he began to read it aloud.

       My dearest Sif,

       The days here in Vanaheim stretch endlessly, yet they pass with a quiet, muffled rhythm, each one without the warmth of your presence to soften its edges. There is beauty in           this land, but none of it compares to the radiance you bring when you’re near me. The air here is still, but it is your laughter, your voice, the very way you move through the               world that breathes life into it.

At first, the words barely registered. She heard them, of course, the cadence of his voice, the ghost of longing stitched into every line, but they felt so unreal.

       Since I left, I have found myself restlessly searching for something to fill the space where you once were. I thought I knew solitude, but I had not truly understood what it meant        to be away from you. I miss the way you challenge me effortlessly, sharpening my every thought, and making me see the world through a lens I can only experience when I’m            near you.

      It is your strength I long for the most, the power in your presence steadies me and makes me feel that nothing is beyond my grasp. When I stand alone, I find I miss the subtle            way you ground me, the way you make everything seem possible.

      I’ve tried to focus on my studies here, of course, but every thought, every breath I take, inevitably returns to you. I have learned much in these past months, but none of it                  compares to the things I wish you could see with me, your eyes alight with wonder as we explore this strange world together.

As he continued tensely, the truth of his sentimentality struck her inescapably.

       Sif, you have become more to me than I could ever have anticipated over the past decades. I find myself yearning for your presence more than I can explain.

       I’ll be counting the days until I can once again stand before you, and I find myself needing that you’ll be there to meet me.

        Yours in ways I never thought I will ever be,

        Prince Loki

Every time she had convinced herself she was imagining it. She hadn’t been?!

The prince’s pale throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he apprehensively flickered his fingers against the parchment, holding himself impossibly still as though bracing for her to reject him sadistically.

Though being the royal notorious for beholding an incredibly witty remark, now he remained silent.

Because now, it mattered.

Slowly, Sif reached out her hand found his, fingers grazing over his knuckles that had gone white from forcefully riveting his letter. He flinched ever so slightly at the contact.

“Loki…I…” she said unevenly, her usual certainty shattered, leaving her only able to shake her head in disbelief, “Why didn’t you…”

His eyes fell in an expression that mirrored shame. At this, Sif’s throat closed around the question before she could finish. Looking at the frightened young man before her, the answer sat as clear as a crystal lake.

He had been terrified.

All the while, she had been cruel. Spending years misinterpreting him, judging him, and remaining blind to his sincerity.

Her heart fractured inside her chest.

Loki’s face remained uncertain as the vulnerability in his eyes slowly gave way to doubt. “I understand if you don…”

She reached up, pressed her fingers lightly beneath his chin, and turned his face toward her, “You infuriate me more than anyone I have ever known, Loki….and yet…if every battlefield demanded my last breath, I would still choose to stand at your side.”

Loki’s body began to tremble in disbelief, his green eyes wide with shock as tears fell, “You cruel women…,” he whispered as delicately as a gossamer, as though this revelation was too much for him to believe, “…you jest.”

“I swear on Bor’s beard!” Sif cried, gently cupping his cheeks with both hands now, forcing his doubtful eyes to meet her chocolate ones.

Loki’s heart ached with every word she spoke, each one washing over him as he stared at the floor in disbelief. He suddenly dropped the letter from his grasp and without another thought, his face crumbled.

“Forgive me L…” Sif began, her voice breaking.

But she never reached the end of her plea.

Loki’s lips captured hers in a tentative, chivalrous kiss, as though he was unsure if he could trust the emotions swirling between them. But then it deepened with a hunger that spoke of years of yearning, buried beneath layers of pride and fear.

His hands slid to the back of her neck, threading into the strands of her hair, he held her like he was petrified she might slip away. Her hands clutched at his undershirt, the heat of their bodies melding as she tasted the salt of his tears on his lips. She felt alive in his arms, as she responded with equal intensity, kissing him back with all the emotion she had kept hidden for so long.

His lips pressed harder against hers, coaxing her as if the world outside didn’t exist and time had paused to give them this moment.

Sif’s heart thundered in her chest, her skin thrumming beneath the residual hum of his seiðr. Her hands traced the lines of his jaw, feeling the trembling of his skin beneath her fingertips.

When they finally pulled away and met each other’s eyes, neither were able to fully comprehend what had just transpired. Sif’s struggled to catch her breath as Loki’s hands rested gently on her face, his thumb brushing across her lips in the silence that followed.

“Please stay with me?” she murmured at last, fingers still curled around the fabric at his chest.

Loki’s mind warred between self-preservation, instinct, and surrender, but Sif’s hand already found his and interlocking their fingers together. She huffed softly, exhaustion evident in her voice, “and not slumped in that ridiculous chair all night like some tragic figure out of a saga.”

The last vestiges of doubt flickered in his gaze before he softened, dissolving into submission and nodding.

“As you wish,” he said.

With orderly care he shifted behind her, moving hesitantly as he eased onto the couch. His moved like he was anxious she might change her mind. Once positioned comfortably, he curled an arm around her waist and settled his palm above her bandages, allowing his thumb to faintly brush along its edges in a rhythmic, absentminded motion. Slowly, he let his head rest against the curve of her neck as his eye drowsily blinked.

The tension in Sif’s limbs seemed unwind as she let herself sink into the solid warmth of his body, his breathing lulling her into an unguarded stillness. Her fingers lightly traced along the back of his hand, as if reassuring herself that he would not vanish into the space between dreams.

As Loki’s breath slackened, sleep finally stole over him. The last thing he felt was the muted symphony of Sif’s heartbeat against his own.

Morning’s hush unfurled across the war-worn manor. Thor had stirred before the first light kissed the horizon, invigorated by the prospect of reuniting the village’s younglings with their long-grieving kin. The gnaw of hunger had begun to weigh upon the warriors, their patience worn thin by days of rationing and waiting. Soon, they would return to Asgard and this espionage would be but another tale woven into their ever-growing legend.

He forewent the burden of armor this morning. Instead, he donned a tunic of deep carmine, the fabric rich and embroidered with subtle silver threading that caught the light in spectral flickers. His cloak, a darker shade of crimson cascaded from his broad shoulders, lined in fine Asgardian filigree. Bracers of polished steel encased his forearms, while his boots, scuffed from battle yet regal in make, muffled his footfalls as he strode through the quiet hall.

He sought to rouse Loki with news of their father’s fleet, which even now made its approach. But as he stepped through the archway of the chamber, his breath stilled.

There, upon the worn velvet of the couch, lay Loki… with Sif.

Thor's steps faltered and his mind stumbled over this tableau, struggling to reconcile what lay before him.

They were entangled in each other’s arms.

At first, he supposed it was merely exhaustion, the kind that seized even the most formidable warriors after days of relentless toil. But no, this was not the careless sprawl of fatigue.

Loki’s usual vigilance had utterly abandoned him, lost to the abyss of unguarded slumber. His form lay unfurled in quiet repose. His languid arms rested across Sif’s waist, with his raven curls tousled from sleep, spilling over his brow.

But it was Sif who commanded Thor’s attention most.

The Lady of War lay melted against Loki’s frame. The silvered gleam of dawn illuminated her in fragments, from the loose tangle of her brunette locks to the minute shift of her fingers against Loki’s forearm, as though even in sleep she acknowledged his presence.

Then, she stirred.

A drowsy inhale which was followed by a reluctant ascent from the depths of slumber.

Her brow furrowed first, still caught in the hazy web of dreams and her lashes fluttered as she surfaced into awareness.

In that fleeting moment, before reason reasserted itself, she curled closer to the darker haired prince.

Thor watched the proud, unrelenting, indomitable young woman he’d grown up with, chose in the sanctity of sleep-heavy quiet to remain in Loki’s embrace.

Then, as though sensing the weight of unseen eyes, Sif nearly jolt upright. Thankfully, she caught herself, but hissed as the movement sent a sharp pang through her wounded side, leading to one hand remaining clutched at her ribs.

“…What in the Nine?!” Sif hissed.

Thor’s gaze, bright as the morning sun flickered between the two. “Well,” he mused, voice thick with something almost akin to pride, “Took you two long enough.”

Sif frowned, still half-drowned in sleep. “…What?”

Thor’s lips quirked, “For all my brother’s surreptitiousness, I feared he would never find it in himself to trust another with his heart.” His gaze softened at the way Loki’s fingers, even in unconsciousness, remained curled ever so slightly against her waist. “and I feared, just as greatly, that you would never allow yourself to receive what has always been freely offered.”

Thor did not elaborate any further, just simply watched in the way elder brothers often do.

Annoyingly amused.

Then, clapping his hands together he stepped back toward the door, “I shall allow you two a moment before we depart,” he announced, the entertainment in his tone betraying his elation. “The All-Father’s fleet arrives within the hour.”

Before he turned away, a flicker of warmth passed over his face before he spoke again, “You deserve each other, Sif.”

Sif remained frozen, heart pounding in a rhythm she had yet to name. Beside her, Loki slept on, lost to the solace of his dreams, oblivious to the shift in the waking world.

Then, as though fearful to shatter the fragile peace of his slumber, she let her fingers find his and held on.