Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was only natural, of course, that with the budding of adolescence came a shift: when young lads who once scorned maidens as bothersome creatures with imaginary plagues suddenly found themselves gawking with dumbstruck expressions and tugging at their braids in some hopeless attempt to win their favor. Articulation failed them; confidence wavered. Then, just as naturally, the young ladies who might have once dismissed them as wart-headed toads, now met their antics with teasing smiles, singsong voices, and fluttering lashes.

Thus, it was only natural then, that the sons of Odin would be no exception.

Thor, in his preposterous way, would shove other lads about in a hopeless attempt to prove his boisterousness; flexing what little muscle he had, built only from endless arm-wrestling matches and tumbling through the mud in roughhouse brawls. He would grin with unshaken pride, certain that the maiden in question would find his antics charming. Instead, he would earn himself a firm ear twist from his mother, unimpressed by his rashness and boyish bravado.

The younger prince, ever the keen observer, would follow in his brother’s footsteps, eager to imitate his every move: led astray, of course, from the very start. Therefore, it was no surprise when Prince Loki, upon reaching the budding age of his own feelings for maidens, expressed himself in the most ridiculous of ways: leading to pinched cheeks, playful punches on the arm, and irritable pouts.

It when he was just 720 Midgardian years old, Loki found himself oddly amused by Sif Bjarkisdóttir, a girl who wore two tightly woven braids along her scalp and wielded fire like a second skin, a fierce presence that even the Einherjar couldn’t ignore. Sif was a girl of her word: untamable, rarely one to cry, and even less likely to play with dolls or become vexed by frivolous things.

It was during Odin’s annual High Court Banquet, that said shift occurred within Prince Loki. The banquet, a formal event where Odin would host visiting rulers and envoys for political alliances and treaty signings, was filled with musicians, storytellers, and strict etiquette.

On this occasion, Sif’s mother had arranged for her to wear her older sister, Thyra’s finely embroidered overdress, woven with intricate knot-work patterns of trees.

A bronze clasp shaped like shields adorned her cloak, a mark of her family’s heritage. She wore a delicate circlet of silver crafted to resemble birch branches, and a golden ring symbolizing her noble blood.

It was on this day, amidst the regal surroundings, that Prince Loki Odinson found himself completely enamored by the eight-year-old Sif. He could do nothing but stare from his seat at the high table. Queen Frigga, noticing her child’s distracted gaze, gently interjected with a reprimand by discreetly whispering to her curly-headed boy, “My son, staring at a lady in such a way is not becoming of someone of your station. If you are to speak to a lady, look her in the eyes, bow your head slightly to show respect, then speak with grace.”

Yet, as was often the case with little Loki, he did the exact opposite. In his nervousness, his usual silver tongue twisted in awkwardness. His hands, usually so sure in their magic, now felt clammy and indeterminate. So, in a fit of impulsive, stubborn insecurity, Loki resorted to what he knew best: deception. Without warning, he coaxed Sif’s signet ring from her pinky with magic whispering through the air like a thief in the night.

The moment the ring was in his palm, guilt surged within him. The boy’s heart initially raced with the thrill of having a piece of her with him, yet shame quickly followed and darkened the excitement. Loki couldn’t help but feel both elated and self-loathing in equal measure as he stood there, caught in his own impulsive act.

Sif hadn’t initially realized that her family heirloom was missing. However, several hours later when her mother, Brynhild, had noticed her naked hand and scolded her for being “a careless varlet” for losing such a precious piece of jewelry, Sif had fled the grand hall in a burst of dismayed tears. Driven by guilt, Loki had followed her out and spun an elegant lie about finding the signet on the floor. The poor girl, still ashamed, looked up at him through damp lashes. Then, caught in a moment of awkwardness, snatched the ring from his hand, displaced anger flashing in her eyes, upset that she had been vulnerable in front of him.

Prince Loki was in turn grateful she hadn’t realized the truth.

So, it was in this very moment that the tumultuous liaison between the shieldmaiden and the illusionist prince, began.

Chapter Text

As hopeless as Thor was with synthesizing the linguistic devices of poetic illustrations, Loki was equally inadequate in yielding a sword. Thus, it was only fitting that for his 1000th name day, that his parents had gifted him throwing knives instead. 

The grand hall of Asgard had been adorned with lavish decorations, blending the sumptuousness of royal tradition with the mischief of his nature. Rich tapestries hung along the walls, depicting both Asgard’s history and subtle illusions that shimmered as onlookers passed, changing and shifting in ways only Loki’s magic could inspire.

 Torches flickered, their flames dancing unnaturally. Green velvet drapes covered the tables, where delicate flowers in hues of green, silver, and blue were arranged alongside vines that seemed alive, curling and twisting in impossible patterns.

 The long feast table was laden with Loki’s favorite foods: smoked salmon served alongside fresh, sweet blueberries and raspberries, pickled vegetables, and large bowls of carrots and turnips, roasted to perfection. Strawberry pastries, their flaky crusts still fresh from the oven, were scattered across the table as a sweet treat.

The entire hall seemed alive with the energy of Loki’s presence, as if the very air itself was enchanted to match his spirit.

Frigga’s gentle hands smoothed over Loki’s shoulders, and she looked at him with an expression filled with pride and love. Her son was dressed in a rich green tunic, tailored perfectly to his frame, with subtle gold embroidery tracing delicate runes and swirling patterns across the fabric.

The prince’s tunic was paired with a dark green, fur-lined cloak, its rich texture draping over his shoulders with an air of nobility. Frigga then bent down to his level with a tender voice. “Oh my son! You’ve grown so much, darling. I remember when you were no more than a babe, and now… now you stand on the brink of becoming a young man!”

Loki’s introverted, jade eyes flickered to hers as he shifted on each foot cumbersomely, “I… I don’t feel much like a man, Mother.”

The queen let out an affectionate laugh, then kissed the top of his obsidian locks. She pulled back slightly, her hand lingering on his cheek, “Oh véfrídr, you’ve always been more than you think you are.”

A subtle flush colored his cheek, embarrassed by how much attention she was giving him.
“Mother, please…” he mumbled, glancing briefly at Thor who snickered with an impish grin, clearly amused at Loki’s discomfort.

The Allfather’s entrance soon interrupted and startled the prince. Loki’s eyes locked his father’s single one, then to the emerald box wrapped in dark leather with silver runes etched along the edges he was holding.

“Step forward, my son,” he entuned with authority, gesturing to his son with a single hand.

Loki took tentative steps, eyes locked on the ornate box his father held, its leather-wrapped edges lustrously.

Odin continued, “On this day, we commemorate the birth of my youngest son,” he said, his gaze never leaving Loki’s face. His tone carried an air of tradition, steeped in the connotation of nobility. “In our realm, the tenth name-day is not a mere marker of age, but a pivotal moment in the life of a prince. It is the age when he begins to grasp the colossal accountability woven into the very fabric of their name. Loki, is understood to signify 'the one who brings change.' This designation reflects your unique perceptiveness to unravel the convolutions that lie concealed beneath the surface. Such a designation is no mere convenience, my son. It is an appellation earned by those whose minds are attuned to the unseen and whose judgments carry the force of revelation.”

Odin paused, allowing his words to resonate, “Your name calls upon you to cultivate both intellect and audacity, for it is the one who can see beyond the immediate, who can think with invention and resolve, and shapes the tides of history. Your name, my son, will serve you as a beacon to illuminate the murk of uncertainty, and to lead you with wisdom that will carry you through the darkness of doubt.”

His tone softened as he regarded his son, “Your name is not a mere appellation, Loki. It is a symbol of promise: that you will evolve into a man who comprehends the delicate equilibrium between light and shadow, between strength and strategy. Most importantly, it signifies a name borne of our enduring love and our unwavering faith in your potential.”

So, my son,” he said, presenting the box, “I offer you these throwing knives. They are more than mere tools of war, they are instruments of focus, of precision, and of patience. They will test your mind, hand, and resolve; just as a blade is honed through repetition and practice, so too will your mind be sharpened by their use.”

            What Prince Loki did not know, however, was that receiving the throwing knives on this day was no mere coincidence. His father, having received numerous reports from Týr regarding the boy’s struggles in weapons training, had conspired with the general to determine a more suitable choice for the child.

“My lord, if I may speak plainly,” Týr had said steadily, “The boy has not the strength nor the inclination for the broadsword, nor the patience for the spear. We could perhaps consider a blade. Throwing knives require finesse over might and strategy over reckless charge. I daresay the prince may find them more… accommodating to his physic and swiftness.”

Týr had long served as Odin’s general, a warrior whose name was spoken with reverence among the Einherjar. Though he was but a few years younger than the king, he had fought at his side for centuries, shaping the finest warriors of Asgard. Yet, for all his years of training countless soldiers, Týr had never encountered a child so unlike the father who sired him.

He knew well that children were not mere reflections of their parents, but never had he met one who stood in such stark contrast to his own bloodline. Though he would never admit it aloud, the youngest prince of Odin perplexed him.

Odin had agreed with Týr of course, though not without careful deliberation.

He had initially been silent for a long moment, having known his son’s frustrations quite well: the way Loki’s shoulders stiffened when his sword work fell short, the veiled disappointment in his eyes when yet another lesson ended in failure. While Odin was not a man prone to sentiment, he was not blind to his son’s struggle.

“So be it,” the king finally said.

What none could have foreseen was the tragedy that would unfold during the sparring session Loki attended after receiving his name-day gift. The princeling had arrived at the training grounds with newfound confidence, his stride lighter, his grip firmer on the carefully polished knives he had sharpened the night before. Unbeknownst to him, his opponent for the day would be her.

The match began as expected, with Thor’s relentless goading escalating Sif’s irritation, his insidious jests stinging at Loki’s nerves like a nettle to the skin.

The moment their bout was announced, Thor's laughter rang through the yard, his amusement grating as he clapped Loki on the back. “Try not to run this time, brother,” he jeered.

Loki bit down the retort forming on his tongue.

Their bout was meant to be a test of skill, yet it unraveled into something far more vicious.

Sif lunged first, wielding her practice sword with both hands as she feinted left before driving forward in a brutal downward arc. Loki was already moving, sidestepping with a dancer’s precision, his boots skimming the packed earth. He pivoted sharply just out of her reach and countered with a flick of his wrist with a glint of silver flashing as one of his knives spun through the air. It embedded itself in the wooden post just behind her. A taunting warning.

Sif snarled.

“You think you’re clever?” she spat, chest rising and falling with exertion. “Darting about like a skittish hare? Fight me properly!”

Loki smirked, rolling his shoulders as if the fight had yet to demand any real effort from him. “Properly?” he echoed, his voice smooth, teasing. “It isn’t my fault you cannot land a blow."

Sif’s frustration deepened, evident in the way her grip tightened around her hilt. She came at him again with her blade arcing toward his ribs. This time, Loki bent low beneath the strike, twisting in a fluid motion as he swept a leg behind hers. She barely avoided the trip, regaining her balance with a sharp pivot.

“You fight like a jester in court,” she growled, circling him now with her boots kicking up dust. “Dancing, weaving, and playing with your food!”

Loki’s expression remained infuriatingly composed, and he did not answer. Instead, he let his next knife glide through his fingers before launching it toward her shoulder. Sif deflected it with a sharp turn of her blade, the clang of metal against metal ringing through the sparring yard. The gathered onlookers murmured, eyes darting between the two combatants.

Sif’s irritation burned hotter. She adjusted her stance attempting to anticipate his next move, but Loki did not advance. He only moved as he always did light, effortless, and untouchable.

“You’re afraid" she said suddenly with a shifting tone. Her lips curled, “Not of losing… I think you know you’d lose in a fair fight.” She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with cruelty. “You are scared of proving what you already suspect: that no matter how quick your feet are or sharp your tongue is, you’ll never be more than a Ræfill Ómenni!”

Loki went still.

The laughter from the spectators, the taunt in her voice; it all coiled around his ribs, constricting his breathing.

Then, something flickered beneath his skin.

A pulse of sharp and unbidden seiðr surged through him, and before he could reel it back, his grip on the knife in his hand tightened and his pulse roared in his ears. When he moved too thoughtlessly, so did the magic.

The knife flew true.

…and blade kissed Sif’s cheek in a clean, shallow cut.

She froze.

Loki’s stomach turned into ice.

The girl’s fingers lifted shakily to the wound in shock, coming away slick with crimsoned. She did not cry out nor move. The sparring yard had gone silent, when suddenly a furious bellow shattered the hush.

Týr was already striding toward them, his face dark with anger, “Loki! Sif! Stand down this instant!”

Loki barely heard him; his heart pounded furiously in his ears as he stared at Sif, mortified.

What have I done?

The onlookers of children began whispering among themselves, their murmurs rippling through the yard. The initial shock of the moment faded giving way to hushed excitement. Prince Loki had bested Sif. A feat that no one had expected, least of all Sif herself.

Her fingers curled at her sides, the sting of the cut paling in comparison to the deeper wound to her pride.

Thor had suddenly stormed forward thunderously and without warning, he grabbed Loki by back of his collar and yanked him back, barking obscenities about striking a little maiden unfairly, which much to Sif’s dismay, only made her feel like a defenseless little girl.

Now, poor Týr found himself tasked with managing more than the usual unruly crowd of excitable Asgardian boys. He had to rein in both of Odin’s sons and Lord Bjarki’s daughter before the sparring yard erupted into complete disorder.

Loki freed himself from Thor’s grasp, his movements precise, eyes immediately seeking Sif. Her face was blushed a brilliant red, the blood from the thin cut on her cheek a stark contrast against her skin. Her indignation, visible in the harsh color of her cheeks, seemed to be more rooted in wounded pride than the actual injury. Loki’s pulse quickened and he moved toward her with a hesitance he couldn’t conceal, “Sif... I didn’t mean to…”

Her laugh was as bitter as a crabapple and filled with disdain, “All you ever do is deceive! I can’t understand how anyone tolerates your presence, it’s a wonder you even have anyone to call a friend!!!” Her voice was dripped with contempt as she swept over him as though he were nothing but an inconvenience.

Loki stood dumbstruck by her comments. It wasn’t just the mockery that offended him; it was her sentiments of distain that settled cold in his chest.

His newfound confidence now dwindled like a faded lantern, leaving his victory to now feel hollow by her scorn.

“Such a pity Sif...” he said smugly, having finally found his voice again and tilting his head just enough to feign pity, “You’re awfully good at swinging that sword, but I thought refined warriors were supposed to accept defeat with dignity….but by all means, do continue sulking.”

Sif’s eyes obscured and without thinking, she shoved the younger boy into the dirt with more force than intended. The prince’s head struck the ground with a sharp crack, sending a jolt of pain through his skull. Momentarily his vision blurred, and a wave of dizziness washed over him as he struggled to regain his bearings, opening his eyes to find the cruel little girl straddling him, with one fist raised threateningly.

 “And I thought princes were supposed to have spines,” she shot back, “But you seem quite content hiding behind your words instead!!!”

Loki’s smirk faltered ever so slightly, but it was enough for Sif to see she’d hit a tender nerve. As if suppressing the urge to react, he suddenly yanked hard on her braid bringing her face towards his. His gaze flicked over her, calculating, then menacingly he whispered, “and tell me, Sif, has your strength won you what you truly want? Has it provided you the respect you’re always clawing f...?”

He never got the opportunity to finish.

Sif’s fist crashed into his nose with a sickening crunch, the impact causing an eruption of chorused gasps from the onlookers as blood gushed from Loki’s nostrils. His hands flew to his face in a desperate attempt to stem the flow, crimson seeping through his trembling fingers.

“LADY BJARKISDÓTTIR!” Týr’s voice thundered across the training grounds as he lunged forward, wrenching the defiant little girl away from the staggering prince as she kicked her legs about insolently. He had barely managed to settle the elder prince, only to have missed the escalating typhoon invigorating between the younger two.

Loki stumbled to his feet with a ragged breath. Hot, metallic blood trickled past his lips, pooling at the corner of his mouth. He spat into the dirt near his boots and wiped his lips, in a mingled mess of phlegm and crimson. Then, with a slow raise of his head, his jaded eyes locked onto hers, sweltering with a smoldering fury fortified with degradation.

Then, just as quickly, his lips curled into a wild, taunting bloodstained grin, Prince Loki turned on his heel and bolted, vanishing beyond the training grounds before anyone could call him back… throwing knives remaining abandoned and scattered about the grounds.

Loki navigated through corridors of the palace briskly, one hand hovered near his nose with the other clenched at his side over the empty space in his baldric where his knives should have been. For now, all he could focus on was slipping past the prying eyes of the palace servants, knowing any one of them would be overzealous to report his bloodied state to his mother.

As always, fate had a cruel sense of humor.

Turning a corner too sharply, Loki collided with someone. Barely catching himself, the child instinctively dropped his gaze to the floor, a flicker of dread coiling in his gut as the timbre of his father’s voice rumbled overhead.

“Mind yourself, boy,” Odin began, more out of habit than ire. Then, as if realizing whom he had spoken to, he frowned, “Loki?”

Curse the Norns. Of all the moments to cross paths with his father, it had to be now?

Odin had not been alone. Beside him stood Jorundr Sveinsson, an elder noble with a silver-threaded beard, speaking in low tones of an academy soon to be established. Important matters, Loki might have blossomed interest in on another day, slipping into the conversation with a perspicacious remark just to prove he could.

But now, his thoughts disseminated. He should have greeted them, offered some polished words of propriety, but instead he stood still with his head bowed.

Odin’s brows knit together as he observed his son’s peculiar silence. Why was the boy standing like that?

“Loki, you will greet your elders properly,” Odin said. When Loki failed to move, his father’s expression hardened, “What manner of disrespect is this?”

Still, Loki did not lift his gaze. His fingers remained pressed to his nose, half-shielding his face as though he could simply will himself invisible.

“Speak, boy!”

A tense silence stretched between them. Then hesitantly, Loki inhaled and lifted his head at last, allowing Odin’s gaze to meet his own.

Chartreuse eyes shimmered with redness at the edges, met Odin’s.

Odin's finally noticed the way blood had seeped from Loki’s nostrils, trailing in thin rivulets down his chin and that’s when Loki could instantly feel the transference in his father’s demeanor. Briefly, the cynical king’s lips parting as if to demand an explanation, but Loki moved first.

With an eerie sort of grace, the boy straightened his posture and the waver in his stance disappeared. In its place, be regained a meticulously composed, even regal stance.

He tilted his chin up ever so slightly and offered a small, almost sardonic smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh, my apologies, Father,” he said smoothly as if nothing at all was amiss. Blood still dripped from his nose onto the fine fabric of his tunic, but he made no move to wipe it away. “I didn’t mean any disrespect.”

Odin studied him for a long moment.

Jorundr cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Loki…” Odin began, but whatever words he might have said next were lost. His son had already stepped back and offered a shallow bow before turning on his heel. Without another word, Loki vanished down the corridor.

When Sif finally retired home that night, after being scolded to the ends of the Nine Realms by her parents, she found herself incapable of quieting her mind. The day’s events swirled in her head like a brewing caldron, refusing to release her.

Word had reached her parents through a page boy that she was forbidden, per Týr’s orders, for 4 moons from the sparring grounds for her insolence and that had sparked an hour-long conversation about her behavior. Her mother’s voice had been oozing with trepidation about her “pretty little face” and how such a reputation could be tarnished by roughhousing with boys and audacious disrespect. “So this is how you care to represent our family’s name?!” she’d lectured. Her father’s interjections warned her about her temper and the ramifications of inflicting violence on royal children.

So now, Sif couldn’t escape the feeling of impending guilt that corroded in her heart. She had acted irrationally, and it wasn’t just her parents’ criticisms that rattled her, it was the image of Loki’s face after she struck him. The haunting memory replayed in her mind relentlessly; the way his blood seeped through his fingers, the tremor in his eyes, and how he looked at her with that mix of pain and rage.

Sif turned in bed burying her face in the pillow once more, though sleep continued to evade her. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his flabbergasted, little face.

Thought at the time she had stubbornly felt so sure of her opinion, now she felt disordered. Initially, she’d resentfully convinced herself that her actions were justified and he deserved it. Though deep down, she knew it wasn’t true.

Sif’s thoughts continued to spiral as she stared into the dark, wishing the night would simply cease.

Chapter Text

* January 9^th,  Loki's 1,800th Birthday*

In the biting depths of winter, when the twilight sky glimmered with pale stars above a silent realm, came a trivial time in the eyes of Asgardian culture: Prince Loki’s coming of age. Born beneath the quiet moon of January at the cusp of an era where war had once darkened the land, Loki’s birth marked not only the end of strife, but also the soft stirring of new beginnings.

The day was an array of joy and sumptuousness, where the breath of the cold was pushed aside by the company and festivity. Courtiers clad in robes of midnight blue and wine-red, glittering with the glint of jeweled clasps, gathered under the stone arches of Asgard's grand halls. The air carried the fragrance of spiced mead, beneath the high ceilings of gold and sapphire, the laughter of nobles echoed like the gentle rattle of silver coins, and every flicker of candlelight seemed to dance with the life of the day itself.

Loki, second-born son of the realm, stood amidst it all, poised as a prince whose essence was more than blood or title. His coming of age was not a proclamation of command, but a celebration of the intricate role he played: quiet, elusive, and laced with a charm that could unravel even the most hardened of hearts, and thus, the festivity swirled around him, a parade of vibrant silks and whispers of the young man’s 1,800^th birthday.

The nobles of Asgard were draped in fine furs and brocade and sat astutely with goblets in their hands, whispering of the past as snow lightly fell outside.

It was Jorundr who first stirred the embers of recollection, “It was upon a day such as this when the sky was pale as cut quartz, that Odin Allfather returned from the frozen fields of Jotunheim, his cloak heavy with the spoils of war and his spear stained with the final battle. We had awaited him at the foot of the golden gates, prepared to offer him laurels of victory, but none among us had expected the admission that awaited within the palace.”

A soft murmur rippled through the gathering, the old tale pulling them back into its thrall.

“Aye, I remember the very air shifting when we learned it!” Interjected Hrolfr, “We had thought the queen secured within the high towers, hidden away with her maidens waiting out the storm of war as was custom. Who could have imagined that she had labored in secret? That even as we counted the fallen upon the battlefield, she had brought forth life?”

Gudmundr’s chuckling infectiously carried about the group, “In silence, no less! It was Eir herself who later confessed that not a soul beyond the queen’s most trusted attendants had been permitted near her chamber. She swore by the healing stones that the babe had been delivered beneath a shroud of moonlight, swaddled and pressed to his mother’s breast before the dawn had kissed the realm.”

A woman’s voice, Sigrid, interposed, “Oh and what a unique child! A licorice-haired, forest-eyed prince. We had expected that another golden child would grace the house of Odin, even a princess. But this one, with hair curled about his brow like the wild ivy upon the ancient walls and his gaze sharp even in infancy, there was something uncanny about him that even then whispered of fate.”

There was a hum in agreement as the nobles all looked exchanged glances and looked upon the high table where the royal family sat, taking in the youngest prince once more.

In the blossoming vernal of his 1,800th year, Prince Loki had emerged into an enigmatic figure draped in the rich residues of noble pedigree. His raven-black curls cascade in untamed waves, each lock seeming to dance with a life of its own, framing a visage both striking and hauntingly reserved.

His gaze upon his emerald orbs, twin beacons of intrigue that shimmer with mischievous light, their depths holding the secrets of ages untold as he greeted royals that approached him.  These verdant eyes, portals into the labyrinthine corridors of his mind, radiate a beguiling allure as he bowed gracefully.

Adorned in garments that echo the opulence of a bygone era, he sported a tunic of deep forest green, embroidered with silver filigree that glints like starlight upon the rich fabric. A flowing cape, as dark as the obsidian night was draped regally over his shoulders and swept the ground with ephemeral grace as he moves.

Though rare, he held a rare and fleeting crescent smile, holds within it ever elusive and ever captivating, yet deucedly handsome when wide enough to show off his dimples.

“You forget how stunned we all were,” Jorundr reminded her, “When Odin strode through the gates, victorious and terrible in his war raiment and Frigga stepped forth with the babe in her arms. I swear, the court nearly forgot to breathe. We had believed we greeted a warrior-king returning home, but instead we beheld a father made whole.”

“Oh and what a sight they were. The Allfather, wearied yet alight with pride, the queen unbowed even in her exhaustion, her golden-haired toddler clutching her hand.” Said Hrolfr reminiscently, “The family was complete, it was as if the ancestors themselves had blessed Asgard anew.”

Sigrid leaned forward, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her goblet, “Do you recall the murmurs that swept through the court? That the timing of the child’s birth was an omen? That on the very night Odin laid the last frost-born foe to rest, a son was drawn into the world? No sooner had war ended than new life was placed in the queen’s arms.”

Gudmundr let out a low hum, nodding, “It is not merely idle talk. The birth of the boy tempered the court. Those who had sought more war, who still hungered for vengeance upon the Jotnar, found their voices muted in the face of such tidings. No realm thirsts for blood when its queen holds an infant close to her heart. No king rides to war anew with his child still cradled in his wife’s arms.”

Jorundr exhaled slowly, his gaze distant, “It was the first time we had seen Odin at peace. Truly at peace. With young Prince Thor standing proud at his feet, and Prince Loki nestled against Frigga’s chest, it was as if all was finally set right. We toasted to the future that night to an Asgard secured in strength and in wisdom.”

Silence followed his words as fire snapped, sending golden embers swirling into the dim air, a flickering echo of the past.

Sigrid then softly added, “May the house of Odin stand as a single, unbroken star upon the heavens.”

The nobles drank to that, a silent toast to a day long past.

*1 week prior*

It should have been a time of revelry.

The Golden City had long been steeped in merriment’s promise, its courtyards and halls readied for the youngest prince’s Coming-of-Age. But festivity had soured into mourning, for a week before the celebrations, the streets of Asgard ran red.

An assassin’s blade had struck true, but not its intended mark.

Algrim, Loki’s seidrmaster, had stepped forward without hesitation, his own life an offering upon the altar of devotion. The gathered crowd would never forget the sharp gasp of steel meeting flesh, nor the prince’s anguished cry as his mentor crumpled before him. They would speak of how Loki’s hands trembled against blood-slicked skin, pressing desperately against wounds too deep to mend. How his cries for aid shattered against the indifference of fate.

No frantic plea could unwrite what had already been inscribed in the ledger of the Norns.

The healers spoke in clipped whispers behind closed doors all the while the Second Prince of Asgard retreated in fear.

Sif had not sought him out.

Their paths crossed by mere happenstance that evening, when she found him ensconced in a dim recess of the armory. At first, he was but an indistinct silhouette against the cold stone, seated with his back to the wall, knees drawn to his chest, head bowed to some unseen specter.

She might have passed him by. Then moonlight glinted off a blade.

“Loki?” Her voice was sharper than intended, laced with uneasiness.

He did not stir.

That’s when then she saw the dark pools seeping into the floor, staining the intricate weave of his brocade sleeve and how blood smeared his fingers in ribbons of crimson.

Her breath hitched.

“Loki!” She strode forward, horror quickening her step, “What in Hel’s name are you doing?”

He did not look up, “It should have been me.”

The words barely left his lips, yet they carried grief woven into marrow.

“What?” she breathed.

His knuckles whitened around the hilt of the dagger, while his gaze remained painfully distant, “Algrim is dead,” he whispered.

Sif had heard the tale in fragments; a shadowed alley, an unseen assailant, a master stepping forward to shield his student from death’s grasp. She had known too that the healers whispered of waning hope to the King and Queen.

Still, she was unprepared for the desolation in Loki’s eyes, “It was meant for me...”

Then, in a single motion he turned the dagger downward once more, its keen edge seeking the flesh on his wrist.

Sif lunged.

“Are you out of your damned mind!?” she roared, seizing his wrist with bruising force. Nails dug into his skin as she fought to wrest the blade from his grasp, “Stop it!”

Loki’s eyes flashed with fury, a storm behind emerald glass, “Let me go!”

“No!” She cried back, wrenching the dagger free. She flung it across the chamber causing it to clatter against stone.

Loki twisted against her grip with wild movements, but grief soon sapped his strength. When he moved to shove her aside, she drove her fist into his abdomen knocking the very air from his lungs causing him to crumple forward and breath shallowly.

Then, when a fractured voice, he spoke up, “He… believed in me,” Loki whispered, a single tear carving its way down his cheek. “He treated me as if I were worth something.”

Sif stilled.

Since his youth, Algrim had poured into him; an unwavering mentor where others had been fickle. “You need not their permission to be great,” he would tell the boy prince with a certainty that Loki had clung to like a lifeline.

Now the man who had given him that lifeline was dying.

Sif’s grip tightened around his wrist, lifting his wounded arm with pointed force, “So you think bleeding yourself dry will change that!?”

Loki flinched all the while Sif’s gaze turned savage with wrath.

She grabbed him by the collar, dragging him close, “You think this is what he would want?” she hissed.

The dark prince looked away.

Sif’s patience snapped and she slammed him back against the wall, fury crackling like fire through her veins, “You think Algrim threw himself before that blade so you could do this!?”

Loki’s face twisted, his expression breaking apart, “He shouldn’t have done it! He should have let me…”

She shook him. Hard. “You are not allowed to say that!”

For a moment, there was only silence save for their uneven breaths.

Then, Sif’s disposition softened, and she tore at the hem of her undershirt, ripping free a strip of cloth before pressing it against his bleeding wrist, “Hold it,” she ordered.

Loki obeyed, but only barely as his fingers curled weakly around the fabric.

Sif exhaled once more, but this time harsher before delivering a swift, final slap to the side of his head, just above his ear.

Loki blinked, eyes widening in bewilderment.

“You ever try this again,” she murmured, “and I swear on my steel, I will kill you myself.”

A weak, bitter laugh escaped him, “Counterproductive, don’t you think?”

Her glare could have shattered mountains, “Shut up.”

After several moments, Loki shifted, glancing at her from the corner of his eye, “You will not speak of this to my mother or Thor...”

It was not a question.

Sif huffed and folded her arms, “No.”

“Alright,” he replied.

Sif let out a steady breath before lowering herself onto the cold stone floor beside him. Then , she reached for his hand; her fingers firmly curling over his in the dark and alas she broke the silence.

Loki opened his mouth, “Sif, I…”

But she cut him off gently, “Don’t… “If you truly loved Algrim, you would live for him, not chase him into the grave. This is not what he would want for you.”

And lo, the young prince made no attempt to quarrel nor rebuttal.

* January 9^th,  Loki's 1,800th Birthday*

The feast had stretched on for hours, a grand affair where nobles filled the hall, their voices rising in the air like the very echoes of Asgard itself. 

Amidst the jubilation, the Second Prince of Asgard felt as though he stood apart like a ghost watching a world he no longer belonged to.

It ought to have been a night of gladness, yet, Loki’s heart felt hollowed as if Algrim’s death had carved a space within him that no chorus of cheers could ever fill. He did not despise the merriment, but he could not breathe in it either. Every toast felt like a bell tolling in the distance, each cheer he felt too weary to carry. The court’s laughter, speeches, and harps singing from gilded balconies blurred into a miasma of sound, suffocating in their excess.

Then there were the stares, ever-prying, and clinging to him like thorns.

So thus, the prince crowned in sorrow beneath his wreath of silver laurels, sought to steal a moment of quiet away from the unrelenting glare of celebration.

He turned toward the great oaken doors, attempting to slip away as unnoticed as a wraith. However, just as his fingers brushed the iron handle, a thunderous voice rang out.

“Loki!” Thor’s voice boomed, full of enthusiasm on the brink of tipsiness. There was no hiding from it. Thor, in his royal garb of crimson and silver stood at the heart of the room with his broad figure commanding attention as always. The light of the hall caught his armor, shining with gleams of brightness. His face, full of exhilaration, was a stark contrast to the quiet restraint Loki often wore.

Loki stopped mid-step, a sigh escaping like breath from an extinguished candle. Then he turned, composing his features into a mask of mild civility, “Hello, brother,” he said coolly. “I am merely off to retire…”

“Come now, brother! You’re not getting away that easily,” Thor interrupted, his voice companionable and congenial. With a heavy hand he slapped Loki on the back, causing him to stagger slightly. “It’s your night! There’s still plenty of fun to be had, drinks to be poured, and…” he leaned in closer with a teasing glint in his eye, “perhaps you’ll meet a few beautiful maidens who’ll keep you well entertained?”

Loki raised an unamused eyebrow, “I’ve no need for flattery, nor flirtation,” he replied dryly, though he couldn’t help but let out a small, reluctant chuckle, “and I’ve little appetite for gaiety this eve.”

Thor laughed uncontrollably, causing his voice to ring against the walls. “It’s your coming of age, Loki! A little celebration won’t hurt you. The night’s still young, decides it’ll do you well to stay out of your chambers for some time,” He nudged Loki playfully with his shoulder, then allayed his tone. “Just a drink, you deserve it. It’ll be good to get away from the feast, I promise.”

Loki looked toward the doors, feeling the chaos of the feast behind him. Part of him wanted to retreat, there was something in his older brother’s electric, eager eyes that made him pause. With a reluctant sigh, Loki gave in, “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll come, but only for a little while.”

Thor’s face lit up triumphantly, “Splendid!”

Together they left the hall, walking toward the stables where their horses awaited, boots crunching through the snow with each step. The rigid night air swept across Loki’s face, a welcome relief from the stifling hall. As they rode through Asgard, the cobblestones and ice clicked beneath their horses’ hooves and the city seemed alive in the night with lanterns flickered along the street.

Thor rode ahead, his boisterous laugh echoing across the streets as be babbled on, while Loki followed behind with wandering thoughts distracting him, snowdrops decorating his hair as they rode.

Alas, the Vargheim tavern came into view, with its glow spilling out into the snow-covered street. The noise from within was unmistakable: hilarity, clinking tankards, and the rhythm of a bards’ song. Thor dismounted first, his royal attire catching the eye of everyone nearby as he entered, and Loki followed suit.

Inside, the fragrance of smoldering resin intertwined with the earthy scent of damp wool, with remnants of cloaks shed to fend off the evening's chill. Loki wove his way through a congregation of warriors enmeshed in fervent discourse, his discerning gaze sweeping over the assemblage with a predatory meticulousness.

Fandral was the first to illuminate the throng with his presence, raising his goblet in a gesture that embodied effortless charisma, the flickering firelight casting jewels of brilliance upon his flaxen hair. Draped in a garb of silver and robin-egg blue, tailored to accentuate his lithe frame, he embodied both magnetism and vanity. Despite acknowledging Loki, his attention was a fleeting specter, drawn instead towards a group of maidens attired in silks, their laughter cascading like crystalline chimes amidst the room's persistent hum. His voice was woven with mellifluous charm, glided through their conversation, gilding compliments and veiled innuendos in equal measure.

Volstagg’s presence was formidable as ever, his barrel chest enveloped in deep crimson and his long, russet curls framed his visage while his beard billowed with every animated gesture. At the epicenter of conviviality, he captivated an eager audience with elaborate tales: voice oscillating while eliciting expressions of amusement and incredulity as he spun his narratives to daring crescendos.

In stark contrast to the joyous tumult stood Hogun ever aloof, a stalwart sentinel amid the frenetic dance of souls. His fathomless eyes flickered towards Loki in silent acknowledgment with a nod that eschewed yet held no trace of dismissal. His garb was unadorned and somber; a simple vest of deep onyx over a slate-hued tunic; proclaimed him a warrior unperturbed by ostentation, his essence a tranquil counterpoint to Fandral’s flamboyance and Volstagg’s exuberance.

Then, there was Sif.

At 1,974 Midgardian years old (approximately 19 by Asgardian standards), her figure became an arresting presence even in repose. Dark tresses, free from their usual braid spilled over her shoulders in wild waves, catching iridescent flickers of auburn in the fire’s embrace. Clad in a midnight-blue robe: a fabric that whispered of elegance yet exuded resoluteness, she stood as a testament to the indomitable spirit within. This evening, she embodied something primal and unpolished, a paradox of her usual valor. Her posture was natural, her gaze a nonchalant observer of the revelers, engaging peripherally yet never fully immersing herself in the fray.

Sif attempted to avert her gaze from lingering on the younger prince, however, soon found it nearly impossible. Since their fateful encounter in the armory after Algrim’s passing, her mind had become traitorous in its fixations. She could be polishing the edge of her sword or binding the leather of her bracers, and unbidden, she would feel it again:

When her fingers brushed the bloodied cuff of his sleeve, and her voice snapped at him rasping with frustration, he had only looked at her as if daring her to see him as a grieving and bloodied young man.

Then had come the singular, involuntary shudder of breath that escaped him, as if he had been struck by her nearness.

He had not pulled away … and she had not let go, at least not right away.

Even now the sheer absurdity of it, that he of all young men could haunt her thoughts so; might have made her laugh, were the feeling not so sharp.

Perhaps it was the riddle of him or the way he had looked at her as a man beholds a rare artifact with hunger.

Shaking away the memory, she couldn't help but notice against her better judgment, how undeniably handsome Loki was.

She blamed the wine for the strange heat that curled in her chest as her thoughts strayed into foolishness, taking in how much he’d shed the last remnants of boyish softness, the indistinct particularities of baby fat that once softened his jaw and cheeks now whittled away, leaving behind sharp, sculpted cheekbones. His shoulders, though not as broad as Thor’s, had lengthened into a lean, elegant frame causing the angles of his collarbones subtly visible beneath the high-cut royal garb he wore. His hands, long fingered and graceful toyed absently with the stem of the goblet that had been pushed into him upon entry; the movement oddly mesmerizing in its absentminded poise.

Then there were his eyes.

Eyes that had met hers with perilous restraint.

Sif had always known them to be striking, a rare shade of green like cut peridot, but she had never truly noticed how expressive they were. How they flickered with fleeting emotions; contempt one moment, amusement the next, guarded contemplation when he thought no one was watching. His eyebrows arched and articulate, seemed to dance with every thought undeclared, framing expressions too nuanced for mere words. Even in stillness, his presence was compelling, his posture effortless yet composed, a stark contrast to the boisterous warriors around him.

Three days after the funeral rites for Algrim had been set in solemn order, she had crossed paths with Loki once more, this time in the halls of the palace. He moved like a shadow among the stone, arms burdened with a stack of ancient tomes; De Arte Sanandi, Liber Sanguinis, Medicina Corde et Corpore, texts of healing and bloodcraft.

Their eyes met in that moment, but she could not tell what she saw there: gratitude, perhaps; shyness, or even surprise.

Her gaze flickered to the books clutched to his chest, then back to the prince himself. Words escaped her before she could summon any sense, “How do you fare, Loki?”

The question fell between them like a stone dropped into still water. She was usually so sure of herself, but her question came out more tentative than she intended. Why do I care so much? she thought, chastising herself even as the words left her lips.

For a heartbeat Loki merely stared at her as if the inquiry itself was precarious, then the faintest shift occurred. He bowed his head slightly, clutching the books tighter, “I fare well enough,” he said quietly, “… but I am grateful for your consideration...”

Sif exhaled sharply, tearing her gaze away and taking a deeper sip of her wine, as if the burn of it might sear the thought from her mind.

It was the drink clouding her better senses.

That was all.

As Loki surveyed the boisterous crowd, the cacophony of joyous banter and flowing ale filled the hall, he soon found himself ensnared in a paradox of solitude. In this vibrant congregation of laughter and camaraderie, he felt the keen sting of estrangement amidst the glow.

Thor’s voice rang out over the merriment, and before Loki could react, a muscular arm wrapped around his shoulders pulling him from his thoughts. His elder brother, golden-haired and beaming, jostled him playfully. “Come now, engage in the joviality,” Thor teased, his deep chuckle vibrating through Loki’s slighter frame. He swept a broad hand outwards as if presenting a great victory. “Look at all this! We have spared no effort to celebrate you here in this Tavern. All in your honor.”

Loki blinked, struggling to formulate words, “I…uh…”

Thor roared with laughter, clapping him on the back. “Ha! It seems we have done the impossible, my friends! We have stolen the silver tongue right from his mouth!” He turned to the carousers, grinning with satisfaction. The room erupted in ovations; tankards raised high.

Yet Loki alone did not partake.

Seated beside his brother, he idly turned his goblet between his fingers once more, watching the ale swirl but never lifting it to his lips. He had no desire for the taste, nor for the reckless abandon it promised. But Thor, already flushed with drink, took quick notice.

“Lokiiiiiii, you have hardly touched your ale!” The elder prince’s brows knitted in exaggerated concern, as if his brother had fallen gravely ill. He leaned in unsteadily, pointing a thick finger at the untouched goblet.

“I do not care for it,” Loki admitted plainly.

But Thor, ever the roisterer, would not let it pass unnoticed.

“Don’t care for it?” he repeated, his booming voice drawing the attention of those nearby.

“Don’t care for it?” He laughed, shaking his head as if the notion was beyond belief. “That excuse may have suited you once, brother, but not tonight. Tonight, you are a man!” He thrust his arms wide, addressing the assembled guests, “and a grown man drinks on the day of his Coming-of-Age!”

A chorus of raucous approval echoed through the hall, fists pounding on tables, voices calling out in agreement. Sif shook her head disapprovingly from where stood, flicking back a piece of hair behind her ears and watching the scene unfold.

At Thor’s signal, three buxom barmaids emerged, balancing between them a great wooden plank, upon which sat a myriad of goblets brimming with grog. They set it before Loki, and the sheer volume of it made his stomach tighten.

Loki eyed the drinks warily. He had watched Thor, and his companions indulge far too many times, had seen them stumble and shout, had watched them wake in the morning groaning from the excesses of the night before.

“I do not wish to get drunk, Thor,” he said quieter now, hoping to diffuse the moment before it became something he could not escape.

Sif took a light sip of her wine once more and made her way towards the Odinsons, still unsure of what exactly it was that was drawing her towards their conversation.

Thor scoffed, “How can you know, when you have never even tried?” he asked.

Apparently, many Asgardians would pay virtuous coinage to see reserved, stoic Loki drunk.

Loki’s attention was swiftly stripped from his brother her as Sif came into view. The flickering torchlight above caught in the strands of her dark-brown hair and her coffee bean eyes gleamed as she nudged Thor playfully.

“Let him be, Thor,” she teased having finally approached where they stood, her voice wholehearted, “Not all of us need to drown ourselves in ale to enjoy a celebration.”

Loki didn’t know if it was merely a hoax of the light, but his heart waved as she eyed him up and down.

Thor only snorted, lifting his goblet as if in challenge tempting the rowdy crowd to join in.

Sif turned to Loki then, tipping her cup toward him in a silent toast, “It is your birthday, Loki. Celebrate how you see fit.” she reminded him.

Had she always been this intoxicatingly beautiful, he thought?

Looking at her was dizzying enough without the need for wine or ale; as was the way she leaned toward him made resistance feel impossible.

Sif tittered, her fingers curling briefly over his own accidentally, a flush of insobriety already prospering across her face. Her hand was inviting, just as it had been that night before, a stark contrast to his own naturally chilled skin.

Before Loki could respond to the sudden outwards display of unaccustomed affection from her, Thor turned back to him, eyes alight with excitement. “I think Prince Loki could use a little more encouragement, yes?”

The already-tipsy partygoers erupted into cheers. A few pounded the table, others raised their goblets, sloshing wine onto the stone floor.

“Well brother,” Thor grinned.

Loki exhaled slowly, knowing there was no way out. The crowd would not relent, and Sif; Sif was still watching him with that look.

He conceded with a small nod.

The tavern exploded with wild applause as Thor seized his arm, lifting it into the air in victory. “Now that’s more like it!”

The first goblet was placed in his hand before he could think twice. Potent, bitter grog filled his mouth as he swallowed. The foam bubbled against his lips and already, another was being pressed toward him.

Fandral, ever the eager instigator, kept the drinks coming. Loki barely had time to take a breath before another goblet was forced into his grasp. Beside him, Thor clapped a heavy hand onto his shoulder, making Loki lurch forward slightly as the liquid spilled down his chin, soaking into the dark fabric of his tunic.

“Thor!” Loki growled as his stomach twisted. 

“You won’t feel that way later on,” Thor promised. Loki rocked forward, gripping the table for balance.

“Less talking, more drinking!” Fandral crowed from where he stood, two maidens wrapped around his arms.

Thor tilted his head back and let out a booming laugh. “He’s right, brother!!!” he grinned.

Then with little warning, he pressed the mug to Loki’s lips.

Loki barely had time to protest before the bitter liquid surged into his mouth, forcing him to swallow hurriedly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he struggled to keep up, and the cheers of the tavern only grew deafeningly gaudier.

Hours later, the room seemed to spin in a maddened swirl, the edges of reality blurring as Loki struggled to keep his footing; he had never been drunk before. He’d initially attempted to use his magic to ward off the effects of the alcohol but given he had already drunk more than he ever had in his life, the rapidity with which the evening had unfolded had left him no time to shield himself from its overwhelming effects. His jade eyes blinked, struggling to focus on the figures moving around him, and his mind remained a hazy fog that threatened to swallow him whole.

Having abandoned several layers of his royal garb, he now sported his linen, evergreen under-tunic and watched in bewilderment as the swirling colors of the ladies' dresses and the young men's capes rushed past him in a blur of silk and velvet.

“Having fun yet?” cooed out a merry voice. Once in front of Loki, Sif allowed her calloused fingers to press into his firm, slender muscle of his arms beneath his undershirt, as if grounding herself in the reality of this moment.

Loki's dizzy world shifted at the sudden motion, and had it not been for her steadying touch, he would have found himself sprawled on the floor. His laugh, nimble and melodious, tickled against her ear as he bent forward towards her, and if he wasn’t already drunk, her presence alone might have been enough to render him so.

“I always have fun with you, Sif,” he mumbled, a half-daze creeping into his tone, his green eyes glazed with alcohol met hers with a sleepiness that felt surprisingly affectionate.

Though her tongue was a scourge, her hands betrayed a gentler truth. With a touch far softer than her fury, she wiped the blood from his wounded wrists. He could scarce look upon the fire in her chocolate-brown eyes as she tore her own tunic to bind his shame.

He had braced for scorn, for the revulsion he thought well deserved, yet found tender care that sundered the walls about his heart. Against the ruins of his grief, something fragile was born.

Sif tilted her head slightly in amusement. The prince returned the expression, his smile broadening as his hand lethargically reached out to touch the delicate curve of her hip, though he couldn’t entirely distinguish why.

A hiccup bubbled up from his throat and before he could steady himself his legs gave way beneath him sending him tumbling forward. He would have collapsed onto the floor if not for Sif’s strong arms catching him with surprising ease. Her hands secured him, but even she struggled to hold him up as Loki’s weight bore down on her slight frame.

His vertiginous and heavy head flopped forward, resting against the nape of her neck and he let out a sigh, the sensation of her against him as inviting as a soft pillow for his aching skull. His lips tinged the delicate skin there, taking in her subtle tremor accompanied by her perfumed laced with undertones of earthy, sweet amber.

“ss..so..hic…soft,” he murmured absentmindedly. Then after another pause, “Sif?” He continued, fingers continuing to caress her arm, the world around him slithering further into incoherence.

“Yes?” Her voice was a low serenade, attempting to push his head gently upwards.

“Youuuusmeehhhlll suhh good,” he muttered as a helpless smile formed on his lips as his hand found purchase on her side once more.

Sif chuckled lightly at the absurdity of his confession, “Are you okay, Loki?” she asked.

Before Loki could fully comprehend the concern in her voice, a set of hard-wearing arms gripped his torso and hoisted him to his feet.

“He's fine!” Thor’s booming voice sounded from behind, jovial and assured as he slung his massive arm around Loki. Loki swayed, unsure whether he could keep himself upright without his brother’s support. “Right, brother?” Thor nudged his chin playfully.

“Idunnnnuh,…hic…Thor… I think…I think I’m gonna…” Loki paused, struggling to articulate the swirling sensation in his head, his heavy-lidded green eyes flicked toward Sif and back to his brother. “I think... hic... I thinkimmgonnnn be siiiick,” he mumbled incoherently as he struggled to sit upright, only to slump back down further into his seat.

Sif rolled her eyes and gently placed a hand on Loki’s arm.

Like this, he was unarmored: undone in a way that made her pulse quicken. 

Then, glancing at Thor disapprovingly, she shoo'd him with a subtle motion to let Loki rest.

“You shouldn't worry so much, Sif. Any proper son of Odin can hold his liquor!” Thor declared, elaborating on some half-formed idea swirling in his drunken mind. As he rambled on, a soft thud echoed, signifying Loki's forehead meeting the table with an almost melodic force.

“Right, Loki?” Thor asked, crossing his arms and nudging his younger brother's back. “Right?” When Loki did not answer, Thor prodded again and without waiting, he grabbed him by the collar and hoisted him into a seated position. “NOW, ISN'T THAT RIGHT, LOKI?!?!”

“RIGHT!” Loki answered enthusiastically, head still down on the table, though his voice was louder than usual and filled with a delirious energy, unsure of what exactly he was agreeing to.

As Thor walked away to join the merriful dancing alongside Fandral and everal maidens, Loki felt a delicate yet calloused hand return to on top of his.

“You can't sleep here,” whispered Sif.

“Sif!” he babbled dreamily, forgetting she had been the entire time.

Loki flung his arms out with exuberance and despite the fog in his mind, the beauty before him seemed to sharpen the edges of his senses. She looked ethereal and unattainable, like a hallucinogenic revelation. The delicate shimmer of her dress hugged every curve with a grace that stole his breath away. Loki’s eyes wandered lower, tracing the elegant way it clung to her slender waist. His bashful gaze flickered over her toned legs, before slowly rising to the exposed skin of the sensual line of her neck.

He swallowed hard, his thoughts clouded by the alcohol swirling in his system, but there was a poet’s desire behind his gaze, his words a bit slurred but no less sincere. “You…” His voice was softer than usual, “you’re… the…hic…moonlight on water...” He blinked, trying to focus as the words tumbled from his lips, “Like... like…hic…a stroke of a masterful painter’s hand, the perfect...uh... a perfect...”

Sif’s lips quirked into a an almost timid smile, struck by the innocent earnestness of his admiration. There was no bravado, pretension, nor perversion: only the unguarded Loki whose cheeks were flushed a deeper shade of pink with every word he spoke. She watched as his emerald eyes wandered over her as if he was lost in her, so painfully adorable in its simplicity.

She allowed him to regard her for a moment longer, observing the slight glint in his eyes, the way his breath hitched as he tried to stand tall but swayed slightly in place; he seemed, in that moment, caught in the spell.

“I mean…” Loki continued, his eyes searching hers with a half-lidded gaze, furrowing his eyebrows, “not that you donnnnnnlook pretty alllll thaaatiiimeee...hic…It’s just...” He faltered.

Sif forced herself to smile, trying to maintain her usual composure, though the awkwardness spreading across her cheeks betrayed her.

“Thank you, Loki,” she said quietly.

Without warning, Loki leaned forward and rested his forehead against hers. The movement was so innocent, yet it sent a jolt through her, especially the press of his face against her skin. Sif’s hands went instinctively to his head, trying to steady him.

His whisper was barely audible, slurring slightly. “Itinkkkyou’re...an angelllll, Sif.”

She cackled; the sound more nervous than she intended.

Loki pulled back slightly, his bright green eyes now wide with curiosity, and his lips parted in an almost childlike manner. “Whatttttaboutmee?” he asked chipperly, though the drunken edge still dawdled in his tone. “Do Iiiiilllookhammmmsome?” he asked, the question slipping from him unfiltered, hinting at his yearning for her attention.

Sif looked at him for a moment, her eyes outlining his disheveled form. She couldn't help but smile at how endearing he was in this defenseless state.

Through the gloom, her hand folded tenderly over his fingers as if to weave solace into his very bones. Loki’s innocent yet unguarded lifted to hers, and in that stolen span of silence, he let her hold him fast.

“Hmm, let me see,” she murmured as she smiled playfully, suddenly finding her fingers grazing his arm as she took him in. “Smooth back your hair,” she instructed, not waiting for him to respond. Then, she delicately adjusted his tousled mane, pushing curls back with the same gentle care she might use on a child, but there was an undeniable intimacy in the way she touched him, especially how her hands dawdled in his locks.

“Fix your shirt,” she continued, sweeping alongside his chest as she straightened the fabric of his tunic. The touch was brief, but the lightest tickle of her fingertips against his collarbone sent a quiver through him.

“Now stand up straight,” she commanded almost playfully as she circled around him. Loki, still struggling to keep his balance, slapped his arms to his sides attempting to stand at attention.

Sif let out a small laugh as she stepped in front of him, her eyes sparkling. “Yes,” she said, affectionately, finally realizing this was her first time acknowledging this. “You look very handsome.”

Loki’s cheeks glowed, a satisfied bashful smile curling on his lips. “Really?” he asked almost longingly amidst the haze.

“Really,” Sif whispered back and suddenly, she couldn’t help but notice how close they were and how his nose and lips almost brushed against hers. The delicate flutter of his obsidian eyelashes against his cheek seemed to draw her in, as if the air between them was too electrifying to ignore.

For a fleeting moment their breaths tangled, then, Loki’s breath caught, and he bowed his head, posture shifting into something, daringly almost… ashamed?

The voice of his mother echoed in his mind, a stern whisper about flirting with maidens under the influence, how undignified it was and potentially reckless it could be.

His thin hands trembled as he reached for hers, rubbing his thumbs nervously against her skin. “I... hic... I shouldn’t have... I apologize, miiiladyy... I... didn’t mean...to...” His words dissolved into a disorganized slur as his eyes lowered in embarrassment.

Without thinking, Sif lifted a finger to his lips and gently pressed against them, attempting to silence his rambling.

“Don’t,” she said.

Loki blinked rapidly at her, searching for clarity.

“Let me get you home,” she added amiably grabbing his hand to lead him out the tavern. The words sent a shock through him and his eyes enlarged.

“Come now,” she urged gently, ushering the unmoored and languid prince to where his steed stood.

Before Loki could even make the attempt to summon his seiðr and slip away into the shadowy folds of magic that could carry him home, Sif raised a hand in resolute refusal. “No teleportation,” she said, “Not tonight, you shall not vanish into thin air in this state.” Her eyes met his imperiously and thankfully there was no argument, only the yielding of a young man too plastered to defy her.

So she helped him onto his horse and alas they set off, the rhythm of the steed’s hooves a continual beat beneath them as her fingers curled around the leather reins, the snowfall around them exaggerating like powdered sugar.

As they rode through the moonlit night, Sif’s senses heightened with every passing second. She felt his erratic breath against her ear as he lay his head against the back of hers, his fingers remained securely grasping her waist modestly.

As they neared the palace, she slowed the steed and brought it to a halt. Dismounting with rehearsed grace. Loki, uncoordinated as ever, slid down from the horse with her assistance, searching for her hand to fasten him.

“Take the prince’s horse to the stables,” she called to a young stable boy, his name escaping her for the moment, “and make sure he’s well taken care of.”

The boy bowed obediently, and he led the horse away, leaving Sif alone with Loki. She glanced at his endearingly crooked posture, frenziedly leaning into her for support.

Loki’s staggered gait softly padded against the tiles of the palace. His face was reddened, ringlets askew, and yet, despite the intoxication, there was something disarmingly tender about the way he moved while holding onto Sif.

Sif held his hand tightly, locking in her fingers with his. “You’re alright, just lean on me,” she said, noticing how his hands possessed a velvety refinement.

They treaded through the hallway until they reached the rich wood panels of Loki’s bedchambers. The doors were intricately carved with symbols of arcane power and embellishments gilded in sublime gold, dancing like reflections.

She and the Warriors Three often found themselves immersed in heated card games and boisterous banter in Thor’s chambers, reminiscing about past quests and the reckless abandon of their youth. There had been one time, when Thor was but a child, and he had desperately tried to drag Loki from his rooms to join them in their fishing expedition. But as he laid a hand upon the door’s handle, he was met with a sizzling burn from a rune of protection, scalding his fingers as it warded him away. Thus, it seemed tonight the layers of the inscrutable, younger prince would continue to be peeled away.

“Loki, you must lower the wards so we can enter,” Sif reminded him as he stood stooped.

“I…hic…Sif I dunnnootinkkk it is proper...for…suchaprog..ppp…progression of such matters to…” he attempted to stumble out, shaking his head sloppily and looking down at her with lustrous, watery eyes.

“Loki,” She pressed, unaware of the uneasiness he was inferring to.

After hesitating slightly, with a quiet wave of his hand, the gilded doors before them shimmered and dulled, the vibrant golds fading to muted tones as the wards lowered.

Sif escorted the curled-stressed young man inside and couldn’t suppress a gasp at Loki’s bedchambers. They were a stark comparison to Thor’s.

There was an intellectual chaos to Loki’s room, a pure reflection of his mind, filled with a blend of sophistication and capriciousness. The walls were adorned with deep green and gold tapestries, weaving intricate patterns of Asgardian sigils. It was dimly lit, with flickering candles levitating like ethereal will-o'-the-wisps, leaving an enchanting and slightly mysterious ambiance.

His bed was large with a dark velvet canopy hanging above, embroidered with subtle designs and covers would be a mix of rich, silken fabrics in deep greens and blacks, adorned by plush pillows scattered haphazardly as if Loki’s presence was rarely still, even in sleep.

Loki's desk was surprisingly cluttered, covered in parchment, ink wells, and quills, evidence of his late-night scribblings. Next to them were half-finished spell books, disseminated obscure trinkets, and notes with precise handwriting.

The walls were adorned with bookshelves, filled with tomes: some with frayed edges, some pristine and untouched. Among them were trinkets from various realms, each a memento of his journeys and worldly curiosities.

Amid this clutter on his desk, an open sketchpad caught Sif’s eye. The drawing had charcoal outlines, depicting a woman with alluring eyes. She was drawn with such striking intensity and mystery; deceptively almost looking alive.

The sudden sound of Loki toppling against a piece of furniture jolted Sif from her thoughts. His boot slammed into a chair, sending it skittering across the floor as he clumsily tried to right himself.

“Mm... mi... hic... lady...” His words spurting out in a drunken lisp as his thin body staggered forward. “I reallyyyy... thinkyouuuu should... re…recccconsider this...” he murmured, his feet catching the leg of a chair. He tumbled forward, barely catching himself before landing, and Sif suppressed a giggle at the delicate, meager movements he made.

“Loki, what are you talking about?” she asked, both amused and perplexed.

The large orbs of his sensitive eyes suddenly met hers, “I... I hhhhhavennnnn even... I...” He trailed off, eyes drifting toward the far side of his chambers, where his sunroom lay, a space bathed in the radiance of the nightfall.

“I... neverrrr... ever courted aaah maiden before... hic... I havvennnn eeeeven... kissed...” His words came out in a drawn-out drawl, eyes flickering down in humiliation refusing to meet hers.

Sif blinked in surprise, “Huh?”

Then it hit her. Oh.

At first, she felt shameful that she had missed the implication; he had misread her intentions entirely. But what struck her more was the thought that Loki, a prince of Asgard, had never courted a woman nor known the intimacy of a first kiss. It was almost…incomprehensible.

Sif didn’t notice that she had been quiet for several moments, perplexed his preposterous admission. Rumors were more often exchanged in hushed tones through the servants’ quarters, painting a picture of Thor’s endless conquests: the women fawning over him in the stairwells, the whispers of fleeting affections, only to be discarded by the next full moon. Thor’s affairs were as much a part of Asgardian lore as his victories in battle, yet for all the talk of Thor’s romances, no one had ever spoken of Loki in such terms.

Loki’s was seldom linked to a fair lady, and the absence of such rumors had led to a growing question in the hearts of many: Did Loki even feel such admiration for anyone beyond his books? Sif hadn’t realized that through this, her own curiosity had shifted subtly with time, especially as she saw him evolve into a more assured and commanding presence. The thought of Loki in the arms of another lady stirred a peculiar, almost sickening sensation within her and surprisingly curdled nastily within the pit of her stomach: a sensation she hadn’t ever conceded until now.

Amidst her pondering, she didn’t realize that her deafening silence had caused a rise in the prince’s anxiety, and so he had slowly shuffled away self-consciously into his sunroom, collapsing sloppily. Kicking over her heels, she padded over to where he lay, eyes ridden with melancholy introspection as he stared up at the constellations.

He was leisurely blinking up at the skyline and let out a brief sigh as she gathered up the skirts of her dress and sat next to him on the chaise longue, before allowing her fingers to drift over and brush his curls out of his face.

“Loki...” she coaxed as she slowly inched closer to him.

Having sobered up ever so slightly, his brows contorted in confusion and his lips parted slightly, yet a coherent response evaded him. Instead, he blinked hastily and let out a chuckle, though it lacked its usual biting edge.

“What?” He asked innocently.

Sif’s eyes danced dangerously close to desire, then, in one fluid motion she closed the space between them and her lips claimed his before he could so much as draw another breath.

Loki’s inhalation caught in his throat, and traitorously a sound almost like a whimper escaped him in a broken sigh of surprise. His eyes fluttered shut and his mind began to reel, but his heart surrendered to the kiss, shrouding the startled gleam in his eyes as he melted into her.

He barely registered the way his hands lifted, wavering before settling lightly at her waist, fingers flexing as if testing the reality of what was happening. He was too unsure of what to do next, but too lost in it to pull away. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the taste of her lips against his, and the exquisite sensation of elation sweeping through him.

What are we doing? Sif thought.

Loki’s lips parted just enough to invite her closer and let himself be guided by the dizzying indulgence of being wanted by her.

Sif pulled back ever so slightly, her lips still ghosting over his, as if savoring the moment before fully retreating. Her eyes drunk in the bemused, defenseless expression he wore.

With deliberate tenderness, she lifted a hand to trace the curve of his jaw with her fingertips, letting her thumb graze his cheekbone causing his breath to deepen against her.

He blinked sleepily as his black locks remained boyishly mussed between her fingers.

Then, as exhaustion began to settle over the prince, Sif planted one last adoring kiss on his lips and whispered, “Happy birthday, Loki.”

Only when she was certain he was lost to slumber, did she silently extricate herself from his chambers.

Chapter Text

The day after his coming of age, Loki woke slowly as his mind was ensnared in the lingering haze of mead and slumber. A dull throbbing pulsed behind his temples and a dry heaviness clung to his tongue. He shifted sluggishly and his breath tethered as the imperturbable morning air pricked against his skin. His lashes fluttered apart, revealing eyes clouded with remnants of sleep and indulgence, struggling to focus.

For a moment, he lay still on the chaise longue piecing together fragments of the night before. His brow furrowed slightly, confusion bleeding into recollection and a soft, near-inaudible groan slipped from his lips.

Then, his memory returned.

The invigorating pleasantness of her lips against his. The way her fingers had threaded into his hair, teasing him into surrender.  

He swallowed, its lingering effecting igniting thrill inside him. His breath faltered as he remembered the way she had looked at him almost admiringly.

His mind betrayed him with a smoldering hotness curling at his core at the thought, a reaction as unwelcome as it was impossible to ignore.

A curse nearly left his lips as the creeping horror of self-awareness settled in. He had been drunk! Had he acted…irrationally? Overzealous? He swallowed, trying to recollect what transpired the night before, fearing he had kissed her like some fumbling, pathetic, awestruck fool?

Or worse.

Had he sighed her name like a lovesick wretch and in some drunken fit of sentiment, laid bare the longing he had spent years burying beneath jests and jibes?

Jolting up from the longue, another spike of unease ran though him.

Sif was not the sort to humor weakness and if he had embarrassed himself and been anything less than poised and refined; then surely, she regretted it.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his already untidy hair. No, he would not allow himself to be undone by this. He needed to know, to see her, and read the truth in her gaze.

Yet…if she looked at him with anything less than desire, if she merely laughed off what had unraveled between them, could he bear the rejection?

Stumbling into the washroom, Loki moved with a frantic energy, his fingers trembling as he fumbled with the taps. The water poured over him and he scrubbed his face with harsh determination, attempting to wash away the remnants of sleep.

He worked swiftly, slicking his unruly curls back with a fine pomade then looked into the mirror, which reflected only a half-dressed, anxious young man.

After a few moments, he found a clean poet shirt, the rich moss green fabric soft and supple against his skin. He draped it over his frame, allowing the billowing sleeves gathering at his wrists in subtle folds, sophisticated cuffs buttoned neatly. The neckline, cut low and laced with delicate black cords, remained undone, then turned his attention to finding a fresh pair of trousers.

Rushing to slip on a pair of casual leather loafers, Loki cast a final, hurried glance at the mirror, his eyes catching a fleeting glimpse of his reflection before nearly tripping out of his chambers. His tousled curls—still rebelliously unruly despite his efforts—stuck out in every direction like an unkempt mane, stubborn and defiant. He sighed heavily, the memories of his evening still pressing against his chest as he made his way down the hall.

As he neared the busier corridor, Loki slowed his pace so his movements less hurried as he navigated the bustling space. The polite greetings rose from the scattered servants as they crossed his path.

“Good day, Prince Loki.”

“How fare thee, my lord?”

He offered a quiet, distracted “Excuse me,” and his fingers rose to brush at his face in a futile attempt to smooth his appearance.

Once finally the threshold of the grand hall, Loki paused as he mentally prepared himself. His eyes nervously skimmed across the room. He noticed the familiar sight of Volstagg seated beside Thor, his animated, booming voice was the first to reach him.

“Ah! The young prince, now OFFICIALLY a man! Come, join us, Loki!”

With an inward breath Loki moved forward, his feet carrying him to the long table where Thor, still bleary-eyed and half-dazed from the night before, was devouring his breakfast with a singular focus, barely aware of his surroundings. The thunderous warrior seemed to be nursing a hungover stupor, munching on slabs of bread as though the world around him might cease to exist unless he continued his feast.

Fandral, ever the charmer, sat a little further down puffing himself up as he spoke in a rather pompous tone. “Ah, you should have seen the woman I entertained last night, Alfhild I think her name was,” he said, his eyes glinting with the memory of the previous evening’s indulgences.

“A fine specimen, indeed.”

Hogun and Volstagg, both sitting opposite him, launched into a teasing banter about Loki’s apparent enjoyment of his coming-of-age festivities. “A bit too much fun last night, eh?” Volstagg remarked with a leer grin, while Hogun nodded with a hint of hilarity in his stoic demeanor.

Loki, feeling suddenly all too aware of their scrutiny, picked absentmindedly at his plate, his fork poking at his bláber. His mind wandered once more as he words of his companions dull against the backdrop of his thoughts.

Until she walked in.

Sif’s dark brown pools swept the room casually, her ponytail swaying gently with each movement. Still groggy from sleep, she scanned over the food before her with the same detached ease she always had, indifferent to the trivialities of life.

She hadn’t seen him yet. But Loki knew, deep down, that at some point he would have to face the truth of what had unfolded between them the night prior.

As she took her seat across from Loki, her gaze loitered on him for a moment too long, as though he seemed intent on fixating his gaze firmly on his plate. He was uncharacteristically quiet, almost withdrawn even. She noticed how his bright jade eyes widened slightly as she settled into her chair, before he quickly looked down once more. The quickness of his avoidance caused her stomach to constrict.

However, what Sif didn’t know was that she was misreading his bashfulness.

Is this how he chooses to greet me now? She thought irritably. Am I mistaken to think that it meant anything beyond a fleeting moment of indulgence for him? Perhaps that kiss had been nothing more than a well-placed game of mischief, a moment he’d decided to collect as he would any other victory. Perhaps he was no different than the suitors who had only ever sought to satisfy their own desires, too eager to take what they wanted and discard it once it had been consumed.

The bitterness settled in her chest began to solidify and a sudden anger began to fester where warmth had once taken its hold. Did his first kiss mean anything to him at all?

With an agitated breath, she reached for the serving spoon to dish herself more lønsuppe, hoping the simple task would quell the surge of insecurity welling up within her. But just as her fingers closed around the spoon, she felt another brush against her hand. Her eyes flicked up and she saw Loki’s fingers retreat quickly and face flush imperceptibly. The movement was so subtle, that it could have been missed by anyone who wasn’t paying attention.

He jerked away as though her touch were repulsive, as though he couldn’t stand the very proximity of her, so she assumed.

Sif’s brows furrowed, her lips pressing into a thin line as she scooped the spoon into the bowl with more force than necessary.

To Loki, Sif’s sudden reticence served only to crystallize the very fear he had harbored: that he had, in some egregious way, demeaned himself in her eyes last night. His gaze lingered on her every movement, each subtle shift in her posture scrutinized with intensity, compelling him to overinterpret every nuance.

When she had reached for the serving spoon at the same time as he did, the inadvertent brush of their fingers had ignited his disquiet. The unexpected touch made him panic, as if his mere existence in her space was an unwelcome intrusion. As her gaze flickered momentarily toward him, narrowing with what he misinterpreted as distaste, his chest constricted in agony. She is repelled by me, he thought. This made him feel as though he stood dreading the smallest misstep, afraid that it may send him plunging into irreparable ruin

Thus, assuming her reactions were the very confirmation he had feared: any fragile connection they may have shared, were officially shattered by his own inadequacies.

Sif rolled her eyes in frustration, the gesture filled with a sense of self-recrimination that stung like a slap. How foolish she had been. Loki had probably forgotten about everything already, she thought, and here she was, the one still clinging to that moment like a fool.

Loki, still ensnared in his own spiraling thoughts, blinked up at her in perplexity.

“Is something wrong?” he asked almost sheepishly.

Stubbornly, without so much as a glance in his direction, she pushed her meal aside stiffly. Rising from her seat, she gathered her composure as best as she could, clenching her jaw to ward off the wave of emotion threatening to break through.

“I am tired,” she muttered sharply. “I will see you all in the afternoon for training.”

With that, she made her way from the table.

Loki sat frozen for a moment, his gaze tracking her retreating form as an astonishing pang of hurt convulsed inside. He nearly blinked away the sting, his mind still grappling with what had occurred, his breakfast now tasting like ash on his tongue.

In the first few days that followed, Sif refused to acknowledge Loki. In turn, he would grant her a mildly inquiring look.

When her cold resolve lasted beyond a week, his expression grew grimmer, and she could feel those keen, green eyes analyzing her.

On the one hand, Sif had convinced herself that if he truly cared for her as much as she had once thought, he should have sought for her and demanded answers, challenging her sudden indifference to his charms. Much to Sif’s dismay, Loki retreated into himself. Until alas, when she no longer felt his gaze lingering upon her, she felt suddenly unsettled by the quiet absence of it.

So, assuming that the young prince was simply ignoring her back, Sif decided to retaliate.

She chose her moments carefully, ensuring that Loki was always within earshot or just close enough for the dagger to slip between his ribs. The weapon she wielded was Yrling Varbrandr, the son of Ragnvald Varbrandr.

The Varbrandrs hailed from a distinguished lineage of warriors and strategists, known for their obstinate loyalty to the throne and their expertise in both battle and diplomacy. Ragnvald, once a formidable shield-brother in Odin’s campaigns, had since taken his place among the high council, safeguarding the realm’s military interests. Yrling however, was no mere shadow of his father. Though he had inherited Ragnvald’s tactical mind, his reputation amongst the noble’s children was of charm. As a prominent figurehead, he thrived in the art of social maneuvering, handsome, yet painfully self-assured.

Unlike Loki, whose intelligence manifested quietly, Yrling flourished in the spotlight. He knew how to command attention, how to turn a jest into admiration, and how to wield courtly graces with effortless ease.

Sif became theatrical. Laughing too easily at anything Yrling would say, her voice carrying just enough for Loki to hear. A delicate tilt of her head, the casual brush of her fingers against the nobleman’s arm, gestures so small, so seemingly insignificant, yet devastating to Prince Loki.

She would lean in just slightly, as if enraptured by Yrling’s words, but doing so not for the man before her…for the one watching.

One evening, Thor asked her to join him on a stroll through Idunn's orchard. He was uncharacteristically subdued, his usual liveliness tempered. It wasn’t until they walked the length of the orchard, where a fountain stood in the center that he finally broached the topic.

“My brother has been unusually quiet of late.”

Thor was awkward when it came to such sensitive matters. Still, despite his reluctance for emotional repartee, he had confided in her. Told her that Loki was barely eating and that he was avoiding company.

What Sif did not know was that over the past weeks, dark shadows had begun to form under Loki’s eyes; a consequence of neglecting his own welfare amid the turmoil in his mind. Whatever had taken root within him, caused him to become so consumed by thought, that he would forget to eat and sleep. Sometimes, it seemed as though he were resolute on working himself into enervation, as if he had something to prove.

The bitter tang of alcohol burned Loki’s throat as he tipped the bottle of wine back, the fire inside him dulling then flaring hotter, an unsteady ebb and flow that matched the chaos in his mind.

The world felt off-balance and the ache in his chest festered.

Loki’s breath hitched as he dragged a hand through his disheveled hair, his pulse hammering.  

I should not have let myself believe, even for a moment...

  He exhaled sharply and his vision blurred as he reached for the candle burning low on his desk.

  He turned it on his palm, watching the flame flicker.  

He wanted to feel something real enough to carve through the ache inside him.  

The fire licked at his skin as he passed his hand over it, it stung immediately but he barely flinched. Instead, he watched it mesmerized, as the pain anchored him. He turned his wrist, letting the heat bite deeper. It was better than the way his heart twisted at the thought of her.  

Suddenly, having forgotten to enhance the wards on his bedroom door, the double doors slammed open. “LOKI!” Thor boomed, cutting through Loki’s haze.  

Loki didn’t bother looking up, only let out a slurred chuckle, tilting his head back as the room swayed around him. “Biiiiigbrothhhher,” he drawled, “Come t’…hic…llllecture me? Or tha’ I’m a…” a humorless laugh escaped him, “…a disappointment?”

  Thor took a step forward, “You’re…drunk?”

“Very astute,” Loki muttered, raising the bottle in mock salute before taking another slow sip. It dribbled down his chin, but he hardly noticed, “Youuuuuu alwayzzzz were t’ brightttt one…”

Thor’s gaze swept over his younger brother and the mess of his chambers, ; the shattered glass and how Loki swayed even while sitting. His stomach twisted, “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”  

Loki’s amusement vanished as his fingers clenched around the neck of the bottle, all the while an ugly feeling rose in his chest, “Nothinnnnn,” he spat.

Thor’s patience snapped, “You are not fine, Loki. You’ve been hiding away for days, you stink of mead, and…!” he stepped forward again, his voice darkening, “…what else have you been doing?!”  

Loki’s lips curled. “Wouldnnnnn’tttt you like t’ know?”

Thor’s grip closed around Loki’s arm, yanking him upright. Loki let out a sharp breath as the room spun violently.  

“Lemmmmmmeeee GO,” he snarled, shoving at Thor’s chest, but the action was weak.

Thor didn’t budge, “Not until you tell me what’s going on!!!”

“Nothinnnnnngs goinggggon!” Loki’s voice cracked raggedly,“Why d’you evennnnncarrre?” His words slurred together, venomous and broken all at once, “Yyy…hic…yyou donnn understand, you never have!”

Thor’s eyes darkened, “Then make me understand!”

Loki let out a bitter laugh, shoving at him again, harder this time. “There’s nothin’ tttttuhhhunderstand, Thor! I’mmm..hic…I’m just tired.” His breath hitched.

Thor’s chest ached, “Loki…”

“SHUTTTTTUPPPP!” Loki lurched forward, swinging wildly. It was uncoordinated and sluggish.  

Thor caught his wrist with ease and Loki struggled, teeth clenched as he fought to yank free, but Thor’s grip was firm.

“Lemmme…go!” Loki hissed through gritted teeth, thrashing against him.

Then Thor’s gaze dropped, and he yanked Loki’s sleeve up, exposing his wrists.

The skin was burned raw, scorched with angry marks, as if fire had been pressed into the flesh.  

A cold dread settled into his bones, “What the HEL is this?”  

Loki froze.

“LOKI…”   Thor bellowed.

“Donnnnn lllllook ahhhhme!” Loki’s voice broke entirely.

Thor tightened his grip as his stomach twisted, “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”

Loki let out a ragged, unhinged, bitter laugh. His head lolled back as he grinned up at Thor, teeth bared in contrived amusement,“Yyyy…hic…youuuuuwwwwouldnnn’ get it,” he slurred. “No one does…”

Thor’s heart shattered.  

Loki sagged suddenly, and his chest heaved as he trembled in Thor’s grasp, the burns stark against his pale skin.

“Please,” Loki rasped, “Pleaeeeseee, jus’…jus’ leammmmme be.”

Thor loosened his grip just enough to shift Loki’s sleeves back down, covering the burns. Then, with deliberate care, he pulled his brother into his arms.

Sif soon came to learn that Loki’s silence was its own kind of war.  

Jealousy was a plague that even affected the hearts of the most surreptitious minds; and unfortunately, Prince Loki Odinson wasn’t spared from its affects.

In the solitude of his room, Loki swept his arm across his desk, sending inkwells, parchment, and quills flying. The air in the room crackled as his seiðr flared uncontrolled. Books lifted from their shelves, swirling in a chaotic storm before slamming against the stone floor. Loose pages, once filled with careful musings and sketches, now drifted through the air like dead leaves caught in an unseen current.

He raked his hands through his hair and yanked at the raven ringlets, causing his jaw to clench so tightly it ached. His nails scraped against his scalp as he attempted to drown out the gnawing voice whispering in his mind. She does not want you. She never did. He tried to swallow down a choked, half-sob forcing its way past his lips.

Staggering backward, his legs finally gave way and he slid down against the towering bookshelf, his back hitting the cold wood with a thud. He buried his face in his hands, swallowed by the silence of the wreckage around him.

The room was still now, save for the occasional flutter of parchment drifting to the ground. His magic had spent itself, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

He had made a fool of himself by believing that he was worthy of something as foolish and fragile as love. But the court had always been a stage, and he ever the jester, had played his part perfectly.

Bitterness soon gave way to vindictiveness. Let her see him for what he truly is, Loki thought, his lips curling into a twisted smirk. Let her witness the futility of his vanity, his desperate attempts to charm her with words as hollow as his promises.

The opportunity came swiftly.

One afternoon, as the vaulted ceilings of the dining hall resounded with the clatter of plates and the murmurs of nobles enjoying their midday feast, Loki stood cloaked in shadows at the back of the hall intensely tracking the movements of Sif and Yrling with a predatory gaze.

Without a word, Loki’s hand twitched at his side insidiously, eyes narrowed as he focused his power on the hapless Varbrandr, feeling his magic tighten like a serpent ready to strike.

Yrling’s voice faltered mid-sentence, and the handsome noble seemed to stutter, the smoothness of his words warping into an unsettling squeak. His confident demeanor shattered in an instant and voice rising in pitch unnaturally, as though he had become nothing more than a puppet whose strings had been pulled too tight.

The change was grotesque, Yrling’s face contorted as if struck by some unseen force, his features warping in as his jaw seemed to elongate, his eyes bulged, and before anyone could speak, his once handsome visage was consumed by a monstrous transformation. A wild boar’s snout began to form in place of his nose, his once-rosy skin taking on an unhealthy, unnatural hue. The laughter that erupted from the surrounding guests was so discordant, a cacophony rang through the hall like the clanging of iron.

Sif, struck by the spectacle retreated in horror, struggling to comprehend the bizarre sight before her. It was as if something malevolent had altered him beyond recognition.

Her eyes swept across the hall, then that’s when she saw Loki, standing at the rear of the room, cloaked in shadows. His presence was undeniable, yet he gave no indication of his involvement.

Without a second thought, her feet moved of their own accord, her instincts screaming to confront him. Laughter continued to roll through the hall, but Sif’s attention was now entirely fixed on the cloaked figure.

She chased him out and through one of the neighboring courtyards. As they emerged into the afternoon light, she couldn’t suppress yelling at him. “Þú fáran ormr!” she roared, yanking the hood from on top of his head and pushing him into the outer cobblestone wall, ignoring the wince he let out. She then swiftly reached by his belt and grabbed one of his throwing knives from its compartments, aiming it at his neck fiercely. “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!?!” shrieked, unaware of the dejected look in his eyes.

“Oh Sif...are we really about to play this game?” he asked sweetly.

“Do not play me a fool Loki Odinson, you have no right!” she yelled.

“No right?” he panted almost wildly? “NO RIGHT?!” he repeated even louder.

“You are no different than the rest, Loki,” Sif snarled, “A base wretch, seeking only to slither your way into a woman’s skirts. You are naught but a swine!”

“Y..You know nothing of me,” Loki stammered back and for a second Sif thought she caught a vulnerable tremble in his jaw.

“That night was naught but a cursed chance for you to grasp some desperate control over a woman's flesh!” Sif hissed. Loki gasped as if struck and horrified eyes locked onto hers before his head dropped, eyes closing in mortification and his shoulders slumping. He trembled as if her accusation crushed him. The throwing knife, still gripped in Sif's hand, pressed coldly on his throat.

“That night...? It meant everything to me,” he trembled, thick with unshed tears.

Sif found herself lowering his knife in disbelief, “Wwwhat?”

Inhaling shakily and biting his lip, he lifted his grief-stricken eyes to hers once more, eyebrows contorted in sorrow.

“I…I thought…” Sif could barely articulate herself.

“Whatever I did that night to displease you…I thought you wanted space from me for it. I apologize if I overstepped or misinterpreted your actions, milady. I can assure you though, sharing my first kiss with you…it was…” Loki began to trail off as if almost afraid of being struck if he continued.

Sif dropped the throwing knife into the grass below them as though it had scalded her; its cold edge now forgotten.

The gulf between them seemed so terribly wide, bridged by the mutual feelings the held for one another, but failed to recognize in the other in fear of rejection.

Sif stared at him regretfully, unable to find the words that would undo the damage.

How had it come to this? she thought.

“I will leave you be,” Loki offered, then he bent down to pick up his throwing knife, placed it back into its compartment, and left Sif standing all alone to bask in her regret.

Chapter Text

In all sincerity, Loki should have foreseen that acting out of terms against his father would have never ended in his favor.

Despite being a bright and highly promising 1,936-year-old (equivalent to approximately 19 in Asgardian years), he, like many adolescents, struggled with the art of composure amid turbulent emotions. Yet, his aching excitement over the invitation he had received was an undeniable opportunity of a lifetime!

The prince had been invited to join the Sylvan Circle; an elite, invitation-only sorcery training held in the heart of Vanaheim. Hosted by its most revered seið-kona and seið-madr. The summer excursion is both a test and an honor, reserved only for the most promising young mages across the Nine Realms.

It was to take place at Eldðýr Grove, a sacred sorcery sanctuary hidden deep within the woodland, an ancient nexus of magic, overseen by Vanaheim’s Mage-Knights. These formidable sorcerers bridge the disciplines of magic and battle, wielding spells not only as tools of knowledge but as weapons of war.

Within this sacred refuge, apprentices are said to have the opportunity to hone their craft in the presence of the Mage-Knights.

For Loki, the invitation to the Sylvan Circle is more than just an honor, he saw it is a rare chance to prove himself in ways Asgard has never allowed.

Loki was only 937 years old and feverish with ambition when Algrim had told him the story of how he had been but a young elf when his invitation came.

Loki could still recall that day in aching clarity. They had been sparring at the edge of the training grounds, dusk bleeding gold across the grass.

  Algrim had clapped him firmly on the shoulder with encouragement, “You’re on the right track, little raven,” he had said reassuringly, “I have no doubt you’ll earn your place among The Sylvan Circle one day.”

  Loki had taken those words like scripture.

  There was no higher honor in his young mind than to one day stand where Algrim had stood, to master the old magics with the same effortless grace.

So when a falcon had come and delivered the tome to his rooms, Loki could barely contain his excitement before he sought off to tell his parents.

He had barely finished speaking before Frigga clasped her hands together with delight dancing in her eyes, “The Sylvan Circle? Oh, Loki, what an honor!”

She placed her gentle hands on his face, beaming, “This is a rare invitation, my son. Vanaheim does not extend such offers lightly!” Her voice brimmed with pride, not just for the prestige, but for what it meant. A chance for Loki to flourish in the arts he was born for.

Loki felt exhilaration spread through his chest. He had expected Frigga’s joy, but when he turned to Odin, that feeling withered like a wilted rose.

His father silently tapped his fingers absently against the armrest of his throne.

“You are barely past 1900 years old.” He said in contemplation, “This is an excursion in another realm, one where I cannot easily call you home should something happen.”

Loki straightened, “Father, the opportunity is exceptional,” he reasoned, “This is no mere dalliance but a confluence of the finest minds in the Nine Realms, a sanctuary of intellect and refinement. To decline would not be prudence but folly, an abdication of the very scholarship that Asgard claims to revere.”

Odin did not so much as shift, “Folly is precisely what I seek to spare you.”

Loki inhaled sharply, though he kept his expression respectful, “Vanaheim is an ally, no?” he pressed. “The Circle is esteemed, its teachings ancient and unmatched. Are we not a kingdom that prizes wisdom, or does that only apply when it is convenient?”

Odin exhaled through his nose, but his gaze did not waver, “Wisdom, Loki, is knowing when one is prepared.”

Loki’s fingers curled at his sides, the edges of his composure chafing, “Father, I have studied relentlessly,” he said. “I have devoured texts in forgotten tongues, dissected spells with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. My magic is not mere conjuring, it is an art, a mastery of will over reality itself.”

Odin’s brow furrowed, “Yet, you wield it like a blade with no sheath.”

Loki flinched.

His voice darkened, “Does Thor not wield his Mjolnir like an untethered cyclone? Do you shackle him so? Do you lecture him on restraint before sending him to ravage foreign lands in the name of ‘honor’?”

Odin’s expression darkened.

“Thor is older,” Odin said at last, hints of frustration starting to steam through, “He has more experience and understands the responsibilities that come with the choices he makes. You are not yet ready for s….”

“To bludgeon his way through conflict?” Loki interjected, his restraint fraying, “To resolve with fists what others would solve with wit?” He let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “It is not strength you favor; it is simplicity.”

Odin’s silence was a crevasse.

“Loki!” Frigga hissed, her eyes casting him a warning.

However Loki continued venomously, “You keep me here not for my safety, but because I am an enigma you have no patience to decipher.” He took a step closer, “Thor is the sword, you know what to do with a sword. But what of me, Father? Am I blade too fine for war? A quill too sharp for a warrior’s hand?”

Odin’s stood up and approached his youngest child warningly, “You would presume much.”

“I presume nothing,” Loki countered, and now his once melodic composure twisted, “I merely see clearly what I have always known.”

“Mind your tone, boy,” Odin boomed in his intimidating gravitas.

A lesser son would have bowed his head, but Loki smiled deviously, cruelty was the last refuge of the ignored.

“Why?” he murmured, dark eyebrows raising mockingly, “You spend your days relishing in the Crown Prince’s glories, while I….I am left in the shadow of your single eye, a half-formed afterthought. Perhaps it is easier for you that way?” he inquired, tapping his fingers on his chin as if he was feigning being lost in inspection, “Perhaps your mistake was having a second child at all!

“LOKI ODINSON!” Odin bellowed.

“Algrim would have wanted me to go! HE actually believed in me!”

What followed was the crack of metal against flesh and a mortified shriek coming from the Queen.

Sif remained in the armory well into the evening to assist Týr with polishing the remainder of the weapons. Her intention to leave the palace had long since faded with the crawl of time. Upon finally departing, whispers of a “horrifying incident in the throne room” permeated, but she dismissed them and chalked them up to the usual gossip, likely a ploy by some lawless citizen hoping to win the Allfather’s favor.

Her steps slowed as she entered the stables to grab her mare, Zarfr, but was drawn by the faint sound of a brush against a horse’s back. It was a rhythmic scrape she hadn’t expected to hear at this hour, especially one that sounded so melancholic.

When she rounded the corner, she was surprised to see Prince Loki inside, back to her, brushing his black stallion with a steady, distracted hand. He didn’t turn nor acknowledge her, though the pause in his brushing hinted that he recognized he was no longer alone.

Ever since his 1800th birthday and their confrontation in its wake, an awkward strain remained between them, one neither dared to address further.

Sif sighed as she rounded the corner, boots crunching in the hay below as she leaned on a wooden beam.

It’s been too long, she thought.

“Seems like a lot of fuss in the palace today, no?” she ventured lightly.

“Perhaps...” Loki murmured flatly with a distant disposition.

A frown tugged at Sif’s lips and she crossed the stable floor slightly without ever diverting her attention from him.

“Well... Týr was wondering why you weren’t at sparring today. He seemed to think you had fallen ill,” she teased, hoping to spark some reaction, and provoke him into a verbal volley, as was customary between them.

“I was tired…” Loki’s responded defensively, as if the mere suggestion of his absence needed to be safeguarded.

Sif arched an eyebrow; she was no fool. He is most definitely hiding something, she thought. Moving so she was standing directly in front of his stallion, Loki shifted away and dipped his head, avoiding her eyes.

“Are... are you al…” she began, baffled by his jumpy response.

“I’m fine,” Loki interjected abruptly, “Good morrow, Lady Sif.”

Sif’s heart clenched.

She grasped his arms gently, trying to turn his face toward her, but he flinched away in terror.

“Stop!” he cried out in a strained voice as his hands rose to shield himself instinctively.

But it was too late.

There, on his right cheek, lay the unmistakable mark; a fierce, carmine bloom, dark and spreading across his skin like a terrible flower.

Sif’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of it, “Loki!” she whispered in shock.

Loki jerked away from her, the tremor in his shoulders didn’t escape her notice. “What happened?” she asked intensely, “Who did this to you?”

“It’s nothing,” he muttered, but his cracked voice betrayed the lie. “Just leave me be,” he whispered brittlely, yet it came out more like a plea than a command.

Sif did not relent until she was standing directly in front of him, she raised her hands gently to cradle his face lightly. Lifting his head, she forced his anguished eyes to meet hers: allowing her to take in how pale and tear-streaked he was.

He looks defeated, she thought.

Turning his face to the right, Sif's breath caught. The mark wasn’t just a bruise.

There was an imprint of a symbol finely etched into his skin like a cruel signature. A cursive O.B. with thin, jagged lines. Beneath it, tiny beads of blood welled, darkening into a rust-kissed scab.

O.B.?

Her thoughts stalled. Odin Borson. The Allfather’s signet ring!

Sif’s eyes widened in horror and at this Loki’s chest heaved and jaw began to quiver.

Sif had known the Allfather to be a strict disciplinarian, one who demanded loyalty, honor, and unwavering respect from his children. Yet, she had never known him to lay a hand on them.

He had been only 1,530 years old, and spent countless hours pouring into the report his father had asked of him.

Now, sitting in his father’s study, Loki could feel his heartbeat quicken as he awaited his father’s assessment.

Finally, Odin lowered the report in a way that made Loki’s stomach churn.

“Loki, you’ve done well in some areas, but there are gaps in your strategy that must be addressed. It is not enough to simply place defenses along our borders and assume that our enemies will be dissuaded. We need to think beyond that,” Odin said.

Loki nodded and held his breath.

“You’ve focused heavily on physical defense,” Odin continued, “But Asgard’s strength is not merely in the walls we build or the soldiers we command. You’ve overlooked the power of information warfare. A defense proposal must account for how we gather intelligence and respond to covert threats, as well as how we disrupt our enemies’ communication lines. You’ve focused on hard power without considering the soft power that complements it.”

Loki’s heart sank, he hadn’t thought about espionage or disrupting enemy communication systems. In his mind, it had been about building a fortress, both physical and magical, around Asgard. He hadn’t fully considered the subtle strategies that could turn the tide before a single sword was drawn.

“Your magical defenses,” Odin continued, tapping the corner of the report, “are commendable, but they lack the element of unpredictability. You’ve created illusions, but you’ve failed to make them dynamic. A mere decoy is useful only once, so you must refine your use of illusions so they can adapt. Consider diversifying your approach, yes? A static defense is no defense at all against a clever opponent.”

Loki felt his stomach twist. To him, they were his most ingenious idea…he had even accounted for how the light would interact with the illusions to make them appear even more lifelike, tricking the eye in ways even a seasoned warrior might fall for.

“Additionally,” Odin added, “I see that you’ve underestimated the importance of psychological tactics. You must think of morale: of both ours and theirs. A frightened enemy is a weak enemy. You cannot just defend; your strategy must disrupt the enemy’s resolve before they even step foot on Asgardian soil.”

Loki’s mind raced as he absorbed the feedback.

The Allfather paused, then looked at him with a piercing gaze. “Loki, you’ve given me the foundation, but it is incomplete. A good strategist doesn’t only fortify the land. What you’ve written here is a plan for an army, but not a war. You have the raw materials, but you need to refine them. This,” Odin lifted the report in his hand, “is not enough.”

Loki’s sank further in his chair as he struggled to swallow the lump in his throat, the words ‘it’s not enough’ leavng him feeling small.

As he looked at his father, a single tear fell from his eye and onto his lap before he could stop it.

Odin’s let out a deep sigh at this, “Son, you cannot be swayed by your emotions. You are not a child anymore. If you wish to be taken seriously, you must learn to control yourself.”

Loki nodded stiffly at this and his cheeks colored with shame. He wanted to say something that would explain the effort he had put in and passion he felt for working on this project, but all that came out was, “I’ll do better.”

Loki's voice trembled as he tried to explain it away; and in his attempt to do so, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Foolish, isn't it? To have thought... even for a moment... that I would ever have been granted…” His words grew more disjointed as he rambled, his earlier excitement now slipping into an ocean of shame and suffocating feeling of inadequacy. “The Sylvan Circle’s invitation... Father would never...”

Tears that had been threatening to spill for hours now began to trickle down his face. He wiped at them with the back of his hand, but the effort only made them fall faster. “It's... pathetic, isn't it? To even dream...” He stammered and shook his head, attempting to push the emotions away with each stuttered breath.

Sif heart began to ache at the sight of him breaking before her.

The 2,837-year-old girl, with her own pain and weariness, couldn’t stand watching him any longer. With an instinctive pull, she enveloped him in a hug. At first, he stiffened in her arms, the tension of his broken pride turning him rigid. But soon, he couldn’t hold himself together any longer and he broke down in sobs. Though no sound escaped him, his body shook violently, and his tears soaked into the fabric of her tunic. Sif could feel the dampness spreading across her left shoulder.

“Why are you doing this?” Loki’s muffled against her shoulder, barely audible, “You hate me...”

Sif couldn’t suppress a gasp at this, “I hate you?!” She shook her head, pulling him closer. “I know... we’ve never made things easy for each other. But hate? No... never.” She pressed her cheek against his dark curls, “If I hated you, I wouldn’t be holding you like this.”

            As his body wracked with more silent cries as she held him. Then gradually, Sif guided them down, so they sank weightlessly to the hay-strewn floor of the stable, the soft rustle of straw fusing with the faint snuffs of the horses’ breaths, her arms remained around the raven prince.

After a while, Sif reached up and brushed the dampness from his cheek with the pad of her thumb. She had seen Loki cross before, smug, and even indignant, but never like this.

She shifted to sit in front of him, her brown eyes flickering over the bruise darkening his cheek. He had turned his face slightly to hide it from her.

“You didn’t deserve it,” she said alas.

Loki gave no response at first, just lowered his gaze and idly twisted his fingers between a piece of straw.

Sif frowned, “Loki?”

Still, he didn’t meet her eyes and his shoulders remained taut.

“You didn’t,” she said again, but firmer.

Loki let out a short, snort and finally looked at her, tired, “You sound so certain.”

“Because I am,” she retorted.

He scoffed, shaking his head. “I provoked him...”

“That doesn’t mean you deserved to be struck in the face by your father,” She countered.

Loki gave her a wary, skeptical look as if he almost wanted to believe her.

“I don’t know…”

Sif studied him, then reached out and took one of his hands in hers. “Come on,” she said, tugging gently, “I know you hate the healers fussing, but at least let me get you something cold for it.”

Loki’s jaw tightened.

Sif rolled her eyes but didn’t let go, “Then consider it my selfish request, because I hate looking at it.”

Loki signed softly, “How very considerate of you.”

Without waiting for his permission, she jumped to her feet. “I’ll be right back,” she said simply.

*The King and Queen’s Chambers*

Odin paced back and forth with his hand resting on his brow, trying to collect his thoughts.

Frigga’s voice broke through the reticence, eyes blazing with maternal ferocity, “How DARE you backhand our child, Odin! How can you POSSIBLY be so blind to your own cruelty?!” she stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest.

“Frigga…” he began.

“No!” she snapped. “I will not hear excuses!”

“He spoke out of turn!” Odin barked, “His insolence demanded such a response! I am king, Frigga. I cannot allow disrespect to fester in my house.”

Frigga eyed him up and down angrily, “You are also his father, Odin! A father who has a son who feels discarded, who feels like nothing in your eyes!” She shook her head, eyes filling with tears, “Did you truly think that hitting him would teach him respect!? Have you no care that it has only broken what little trust he had left in you? You are supposed to be his refuge, not the reason he runs!”

Odin’s face tightened, but the intensity of his defensiveness began to dim, “Frigga…Loki needs to understand his place. No one can escape the duty that comes with being a part of this family!”

 “Our son is not some soldier in your army, Odin! He is terrified of failing you! You cannot teach him the value of duty by breaking him down!” Frigga cried.

A knock at the door interrupted the moment, causing both royals to turn sharply as a palace servant hesitated on the threshold, bowing quickly before speaking.

“My Queen, my King, Prince Loki has been seen within the palace grounds.”

Frigga pressed her hands to her chest in relief.

“Where?” Odin demanded.

“In the stables my lord, with Lady Bjarkisdóttir.”

Frigga was the first to move, stepping past Odin without another word. After a pause, he followed his wife in pursuit to their youngest.

In an alcove near the palace kitchens, Sif had rummaged through a basket of chilled linen-wrapped herbs stored for the cooks. Finding a cloth that had been cooled against blocks of ice, she grabbed one and then returned to the stables.

“Hold still,” she instructed, pressing the folded cloth carefully against the bruise.

Loki grimaced as the cold contacted his sensitive skin, squeezing his eyes shut intensely.

“Oh, stop,” she muttered when he exhaled sharply, “You’ve had worse.”

After some time, as the ice in the cloth began to melt, trickling cool water against his cheekbone and down onto his chin. Sif finally lowered the cloth, glancing at the slight redness where the cold had pressed onto his skin the hardest.

“There,” she said. “Not so awful now, is it?”

Loki looked unrequitedly at her with an expression Sif could only interpret as appreciativeness.

Before either of them could say more, a hurried scuffle of boots interrupted them.

Frigga entered first and rushed to immediately to her son, arms tightening around his slender frame to ease the rigidity in his temperament. She whispered sympathetically in his ear, offering him the comfort that only a mother could give. Loki discreetly allowed himself to melt into her touch, just ever so slightly.

Odin stood at the entrance to the stables, his eye moving between his wife and son. He finally spoke, authoritatively.

“One of the Einherjar will escort Lady Bjarkisdóttir home,” Odin said, motioning to Sif.

Loki, still clasped in his mother’s arms, stole a glance toward Sif as she was ushered out by one of the guards. Their eyes met briefly, and he gave her an inaudible look as though he was pleading her not to depart.

Sif, for her part, seemed to sense his uneasiness. However, not seeking to worsen things, gave a polite bow to the king and queen, then grabbed the reins of Zarfr and followed the guards out.

Loki barely remembered the fall itself, only the sharp scrape of stone against skin. He sat on the ground stunned, blinking up as his knee throbbed angrily, blood welling in a cerise smear against his pale skin.

Before he could even cry, Algrim was there.

Strong arms lifted him off the ground easily, letting the young prince press his face into Algrim’s shoulder and wrap his tiny arms around his neck.

“You are all right, my lord,” Algrim rumbled, voice reassuring as he carried Loki away from the gaping onlookers, “Nothing that cannot be mended.”

In the quiet of Algrim’s quarters, Loki sat on a bench while the elder elf knelt before him, cleaning the scrape with the flick of his sorcery. Loki bit his lip against the sting, watching solemnly as Algrim murmured a gentle healing spell under his breath. Not only did the magic sooth the child, but also the patience in Algrim’s hands; the way he worked tenderly, as though his little apprentice mattered more than any ceremony or protocol.

When it was done, Algrim gently placed his warm had on the young prince’s locks and offered him a fleeting smile, “Brave child,” he had said, and for the first time that day, Loki smiled back.

Years later when he was many inches taller, Algrim would embrace Loki and murmur words of pride against his temple; and Loki would never forget how it made him feel.

Like a son forged by apprenticeship, not lineage.

Chapter Text

As it turns out, the King could be persuaded to change his mind.

Thor, Sif, and the Warriors Three sat gathered around a sturdy oaken table, snacking on the plump grapes sat at the center, alongside wedges of aged goat’s cheese and roasted hazelnuts.

Then came Thor’s careless admission.

“At first light, aye. He sets out for the Sylvan Circle.” The words clung to Sif's mind like burrs on a cloak.

“Hold a moment,” Fandral interrupted, setting his chalice down with a leaden clank. He leaned forward, “Loki departs on the morrow? Since when?!”

“Since Father finally saw reason,” Thor said, taking a lazy gulp of cider and rolling his eyes, “Took him long enough. Mother argued on behalf of Loki, of course and…”

“Thor,” Sif snapped, “Why did he not tell us?”

Thor blinked at her, surprised by her reaction, then shrugged absentmindedly, “Perhaps he thought it mattered little?”

“Matters little?” she repeated cantankerously.

Frigga’s hands cradled her son’s head, fingers gliding over the bruised flesh lightly. 

“Oh, my son,” she breathed, her voice breaking as she drew him into her arms.

Loki let himself be held against her chest as if he were still but a child  as h is tears continued to slide down his face silently.

Odin’s massive figure approached them slowly. Once near the pair, he tentatively reached out to gently lift Loki's face to meet his. The calloused fingers that had weathered countless battles were terrifyingly regretful, as they met the wound on his son's fragile skin. Instantly, Odin’s usual sternness faltered in the quiet moment.

“Loki,” Odin said unexpectedly tenuously, “A father's hand should never bring pain to his son. I will learn to do better by you.”

Loki’s eyes widened at his father’s words, surprised by the apology.

“You wish to join the Sylvan Circle…” Odin continued while keeping his hand on his child’s face, though it was not a question.

Loki did not answer, his pulse hammering aggressively in his chest, but he forced himself to lift his gaze to meet his father’s single stern one.

When Loki found his voice, it was steadier than he expected.

“I would rather die by my own hand than waste away in the shadow of another.”

Odin’s eyes flinched imperceptibly as though he was wounded by his son’s words.

Perhaps in some small way he was. “Then I will consider it,” Odin said.

Loki exhaled sharply, with sentiments of relief and despair consuming him.

As Odin turned to exit the stable, he turned over his shoulder once more to address his youngest, “Get yourself cleaned up and get some rest, son.”

Once her husband disappeared with his fleet of Einherjar, Frigga remained holding Loki unwaveringly. She kissed his brow as gently as the first snowfall upon a barren field.

“What he did was wrong my son,” she whispered. “Despite his failing, I promise you your father does lovely you tremendously, he just doesn’t always know how to show it.”

Loki closed his eyes, “If that were true,” he murmured, “he would tell me so himself.”

Hogun merely observed her while Volstagg scratched his beard. “Strange,” the large Viking mused. “Loki is one to keep his triumphs to himself. However, for the way he fought for this chance, you’d think he’d be boasting of it from the utmost steeples.”

Sif clenched her jaw, that was what precisely what troubled her. Loki had let this pass in silence.

“It is a great honor,” Fandral mused.

“I know that,” she bit back, fingers tightening around the handle of her tankard. “It is well deserved.”

But even as she said it, she could not suppress the twinge in her heart.

Would the halls feel… barren without the strident bite of his tongue, forever poised to strike with arctic wit. Without the subtle youthful gleam in his eyes? Would the hours crawl endlessly in his absence? Would she find herself turning, only to discover the space beside her empty, the space asphyxiating where once his gaze had lingered onto her with amusement?

Would she, dare she concede it, miss him?

This was absurd, farce even. She should be relishing in his departure and the freedom it would bring him. Yet…

…her lips remained a whisper from his, savoring the delicacy of the moment. Her gaze traced the softness of his expression, a mix of wonder and defenselessness, as though he were a trance she defied not wake from…

She bit down on her lip. Sentimentality is pitiful, she thought, but the heavy sensation in her chest refused to abate.

He would be gone at first light and for reasons she could not name, she found herself desperately wishing for more time with him.

In the dawning of the morn, Sif was walking, nay striding down the main corridor when she caught sight of the servants carrying bundles of Loki’s belongings. They passed her without a word; but it mattered little as her attention was fixated upon a figure further down the hall.

He was walking idly, in a gradual yet graceful way with his restless hands smoothing over the fabric of his attire as if seeking some comfort in the simple touch.

His striking green eyes lay beneath the fall of his lashes, where the faintest trace of vulnerability took homage.

She couldn’t look away and found herself calling his name.

“Loki…”

He froze and his eyes widened momentarily, regarding her as though he sought for her to summon the courage to offer him a gesture of affection.

“I bid you good luck,” she landed on sincerely.

Loki’s eyes momentarily betrayed him, unable to quell his disappointment.

Then, as though nothing had transpired, he raised his chin and regained his habitual, study of indifference, replaced by an unemotional composure.

“Thank you, Lady Sif,” he intoned and nodded to her ever marginally.

Without another glance, he made his way down the corridor to the front of the palace where his family sought to bid him farewell.

The weeks following Loki’s departure felt like an endless cascade of irritation, the undercurrent of unease running beneath every interaction Sif had. It was as though the absence of his presence left a void that gnawed at her until every conversation, every gesture, felt incriminated with her frustration.

Thor had noticed how their usual sparring sessions had taken a turn for the worse; he had barely drawn his Mjolnir before Sif was on him, uncompromising in her assaults, her focus tight as a bowstring and aggression hardened only by sheer thwarting.

“Easy, Sif,” Thor had called after their third clash in a row, stepping back for a moment, holding his hands up in an exaggerated, almost comical gesture of defensiveness, “By the ancestors, what's gotten into you?”

She had barely spared him a glance and simply cut her sword through the air with a resounding clash against his, “Perhaps you should reconsider your next move, Thor,” she continued antagonistically, “That is, if you intend to leave here with all your limbs intact!”

The Crown Prince raised a bushy, blonde eyebrow in surprise, but said nothing further.

The warriors three had also sensed the shift in her. Fandral, notorious for instigating lighthearted banter, had taken one look at her tense posture one afternoon and suggested, with an exaggerated grin, that they should perhaps postpone their training for the day.

“I have no need for your suggestions, Fandral,” she countered, “I’m here to train, not to entertain you.”

Vosltagg had winced at her tone, his hearty chuckle faltering. Hogun, had simply stepped back, silently acknowledging the tension.

In all, her attitude hadn’t gone unnoticed by her comrades: Sif was off-kilter, and no one could understand why.

Despite their best efforts, she couldn’t alleviate the sadness materializing into a cavity in her heart.

It wasn’t until her older sister, Thyra, came to visit, that her frustration finally found some outlet.

Sif was seated at their parents’ dining room table, uncharacteristically silent as she stared at her hands, gripping her cup of tea too tightly.

Thyra had always been the more reserved of the two, causing their personalities to clash throughout their youth. Unlike Sif’s fiery, intense brown eyes, Thyra had eyes the color of a calm summer sky, a baby blue holding depth of astuteness and benevolence.

She also had a fondness for long, flowing dresses that combined practicality with grace. Often seen in shades of yellow and peach, and though simple, they were elegant: tailored with wide sleeves and hemmed edges that swayed gently as she moved.

Her presence was a calming one, an embodiment of reflection and thoughtfulness. Where Sif carried herself with the steely precision of a warrior, as a teacher, Thyra imparted lessons in history and literature to children who came from humble beginnings: fishermen, artisans, and workers on the fringes of Asgard, far from the halls of nobility. She had always found her joy in nurturing young minds.

Now, sitting down across from her sister, Thyra set her tea aside and studied Sif closely, easily sensing the agitation simmering beneath Sif’s stoic exterior.

“How fare thee, dear sister?” she asked with the cadence of one who had long since learned to see beyond facades. As she regarded her sister, she folded her hands in her lap.

 “Fine,” Sif muttered, regretting how her reply came out too curtly.

Thyra didn't buy it, “I remember you used to come to me when you were upset,” she said with a hint of nostalgia in her tone.

Sif braced at the mention of their past.

Sif remembers a soundless morning when the first snows of winter scattered the fields outside their house. She had been scarcely old enough to hold a sword. Thyra, older by several years and already graceful in the way Sif longed to be, had taken her hand and led her outside, the world glittering pale and silent around them.

They built a fort of snow together carefully, as if they were crafting their own hidden stronghold. When Sif’s hands grew red and raw from the cold, Thyra tucked her little fingers into her own sleeves, warming them gently. This time Thyra didn’t scold the younger, only smiled a calm, fierce way.

Later, as they sat atop their snow fort, cloaks wrapped around their shoulders, Thyra braided Sif’s hair with patient fingers, weaving small bits of winterberry into the strands.

“That was then, Thyra,” Sif said again, but this time her voice lacked its usual conviction.

Thyra, with her oh-so-gentle and prodding force, didn’t let it go. She moved behind Sif and began to untangle her thick hair. As her hands worked quickly through the tangles, Sif could feel her sister’s perceptive gaze on the back of her neck.

“Do you remember when we were children?” Thyra asked calmly, “When we used to chase the butterflies by the river? You’d always end up with your hair full of sticks, and I'd have to fix it for you. It was always a mess, just like you are now.”

Sif felt a tug in her chest at resurfacing nostalgia of simpler times with her sister.

Thyra’s fingers wove into her hair, moving in rhythm as if she had done this hundreds of times before. “Who is he?” she probed.

Sif’s breath hitched in her throat, and she suddenly felt as though her heart was beating too quickly. She stiffened beneath her sister’s hands and sensed tears sting the corners of her eyes.

“I..I don’t…” Sif began.

Thyra was patient, but her braiding never vacillated, “Only a lady in love would be acting as harshly as you have been.” She replied, devoid of any judgment.

Sif didn’t argue, instead, she simply sat quietly as Thyra finished weaving the last strand of her braid, securing it with a pale, lily-colored ribbon. Once finished, Thyra shifted to kneel in front of Sif and without hesitation, she took her sister’s hands in her own.

For a moment, she simply studied her sister’s face, then gave Sif’s hands a gentle squeeze.

A tremor ran through Sif’s breath; she clenched her jaw and bit down on her tongue, willing herself to remain composed, but the floodgates broke.

“I miss him…” She cried as the words tumbled out in a fragile whisper.

Thyra’s brows furrowed.

An unrestrained sob tore through Sif as she stammered over her words, “I miss Loki,” she hiccupped, voice breaking over his name.

Thyra’s eyes widened in surprise. “Prince Loki?” she asked as though she hadn’t heard correctly.

Sif could only nod, her face crumpling as more tears spilled down her cheeks. She hated this: how utterly undone she felt, how missing him had pained so deeply within her to the point that she had no armor left to hide behind.

Thyra only looked at her adoringly, as though she found it endearing that her vivacious, battle-hardened sister could feel so deeply for the enigmatic prince. With a small smile, she reached into the pocket of her gown and retrieved a handkerchief, gently dabbing away Sif’s tears as they fell.

“Have you told him?” Thyra asked softly.

Sif sniffled, gaze dropping. “…No.”

Thyra let out a light, innocent laugh, shaking her head as if she were speaking to one of her students.

“You youngsters are hopeless,” She said as she tucked a stray lock of Sif’s hair behind her ear, then squeezed her hand, “Write to him, sister.”

Sif looked at Thyra nervously, her fingers tightening slightly around her sister’s hand. “I can’t… I am not good with words.”

Thyra giggled, a sound full of both fondness and amusement, “Then I will help you.”

“No,” Sif grimaced, shaking her head, “I couldn’t possibly do such a thing.” The very idea made her stomach twist. She had scoffed before at the tales of emotional young maidens pouring their hearts into parchment, sending hopeless love letters to lads off to war or on distant quests. She had always told herself she was not that kind of woman.

…and yet…

Thinking of Loki now, especially the way his beautiful, olive eyes had loitered on hers in their final parting.

Thyra moved to one of the cabinets behind them and grabbed some parchment and a quill. “Start simple, you do not have to confess your heart in full if you are not ready. Just… let him know that you are thinking of him.” She smiled as if it were the easiest thing in the world as Sif gave her a mortified look, “Perhaps ask how he fares? Think as though he were standing before you now, what would you say?”

Sif swallowed hard, her mind conjuring a hundred possibilities, none of which she dared give voice to.

“Whenever you’re ready, sister.” Thyra encouraged. “You have nothing to lose,” she said firmly. “But if you stay silent for far too long… you may never know what could have been.”

Days passed since she had tea with her sister, and it took another two weeks before Sif finally gave in.

Sif had told herself she had no time to consider writing Loki, yet, late one night when the hustle of her home were quiet and the glow of the lantern had dimmed, she found her thoughts drifting back to her sister’s advice about the youngest prince.

In the solitude of her quarters, she stared at the blank parchment. Then, gripping the quill, she pressed it down.

“Loki, I hope your time with…” No, that’s too formal.

“Knowing you, I suspect the mystical inclinations of the Sylvan Circle…” Uhg, too fanatical.

“…words cannot truly describe how much I miss you...”

Once completed and before she could second-guess herself, she folded the parchment and sealed it, then set it aside for the couriers.

Unbeknownst to Sif, a cosmic maelstrom disrupted the delicate equilibrium of inter-realm travel. Asgard’s Vethrvængr, the messenger birds, struggled against the gravitational anomalies and spatial distortions that fractured their usual flight paths.

As a result, missives intended for distant recipients were displaced from their trajectories, either cast into the void or redirected into unreachable coordinates, their contents irretrievably lost.

Thus, Sif’s letter, composed with careful deliberation, never reached the prince for whom it was intended.

On Vanaheim, Loki sat in modest yet peaceful, small guesthouse. His quarters were constructed of weathered wood and stone, with large windows that open to the surrounding lush forests. His room featured a low platform bed draped in simple linens, with a quiet nook for study and reflection.

In contrast to Asgard, the architecture in Vanaheim favored organic, flowing designs that blend seamlessly with nature; with timber and stone buildings, adorned with intricate carvings of flora and celestial motifs.

The prince retrieved his small leather-bound journal from a drawer, the dark edges of the pages worn from use. His fine quill rested delicately in his fingers as he sets it down beside an ink pot made of polished black stone.

For a long moment, his eye drifted toward the window before he began writing with the same fluid grace as his sorcery.

“...I’ll be counting the days until I can once again stand before you, and I find myself hoping, no, needing you to be there to embrace me once more. Until then, I’ll hold onto the hope that you feel the same.

Yours in ways I never thought I could be,

Prince Loki”

         Reconsidering the prospect of admitting his most intricate sentiments, Prince Loki ultimately refrained from sending such an unguarded letter. After a prolonged hesitation, he closed his journal with finality and fastened its bindings. Whatever affections had stirred within him would remain sequestered within the pages that no one else would ever read.

*Three Months Later*

After the quiet passage of three months, Prince Loki returned to Asgard. Upon his arrival, a buzz about his purposeful serenity from the chamberlains and heralds permeated through the palace. Many described the young man’s presence was the epitome of refinement.

As Sif stood in the throne room with the royal family, warriors three, high court, and the prince’s personal retinue, she watched the verdant-eyes prince avidly. Though he prince had always had a lean physical stature, his height now loomed, creating a silent declaration of self-assurance. Captivated by his natural elegance, she noticed the effortless charisma that seemed to drip from him, leaving her caught between awe. He was different now; in an exhilarating way her heart didn’t seem capable of containing.

Observing him stand before his parents, she saw how his eyes seemed to touch only the surface of their interactions, never quite reaching her.

How had it come to this? She thought. She had borne herself in ink and thought, just for a moment he would…

That evening, Sif wept alone in her chambers, allowing quiet tears to fall onto her pillow sheet; mourning the realization that the chance to pursue him was as elusive as the cosmos.

*Loki’s Chambers*

Loki, for all his intelligence and capacity, found himself wrestling as to why Lady Sif had never written him during his absence, but the thought soon shifted inward grotesquely. Perhaps it is my fault, he pondered inconsolably. The idea of waiting and hoping she would reach out, without even sending her the letter he wrote, now seemed so foolish. As he sat alone in the quiet of his room, he swirled around his glass of wine idly beneath his fingers, its rhythmic sloshing mirroring the tumult in his chest, drowning out his hardening heart.

“I am a fool,” he thought bitterly as he took another sip, then the silence of his solitude pressed in on him for the remainder of the night.

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.