bladesofasgard | Because Sif Needs a Good Brain Melting

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Because Sif Needs a Good Brain Melting

Thor left Odin's chambers feeling as if he had been punched in the gut. Worse than that, actually. A simple punch could take a man's breath away, but he'd be able to steady himself quickly and continue to fight. The reality that his father had laid upon him still had him reeling, feeling as if his heart had become unsteady and his lungs had forgotten how to hold air.

Odin had tried to warn him, had asked him three times if he was certain he wanted the full truth. And while Thor was glad that he had stood his ground and maintained his angry demand to know what it was that had driven his brother over the edge... it didn't make things any easier on the other side.

I'm not your brother. I never was.

It had hurt then. Now it had become a sensation suspiciously like agony, because he had some small sense of what had been running through his brother's mind.

And even in the space of his own head, Thor refused to call Loki anything but brother. Even now.

He made his way to the common room they had all often shared after battles or adventures, not because he was seeking out company, but because his feet carried him that way. It was a place of happiness and comfort. But it was still no small relief when he looked inside and discovered it empty. He loved his friends, but now was the time for thinking, something he had always left to Loki before. Only now, he needed to learn to chew things over on his own, and it was a difficult, unpleasant task.

He walked over to the firepit and sat at its edge, arms propped on his knees, hands loose.

This was the time that Loki would come walking softly up and ask what troubled him, he told himself. This was when his brother would fill his head with words and all sorts of queer notions, and whether it turned out to be a trick or a genuine idea, either way it would be interesting. Any time now, there would be the swish of a heavy cloak, the creak of leather boots as Loki sat next to him...

Aside from the crackle of the fire, there was only silence. And, Thor told himself sternly, there would only ever be that silence from now on.

He put his face in his hands.

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She'd been watching for him, sensing on some level that something was afoot, especially when he'd vanished into Odin's chamber with that look on his face.

Sif was more than familiar with that look. The one that said no power in any of the realms would sway him now that he'd planted his feet. Time itself would pass into nothing before Thor's resolve would change, and not even the Allfather could avoid the sheer stubbornness that made up his son.

So she'd waited, retaining her place at the feasting table beside Volstagg as he downed yet another entire boar in celebration. They were all celebrating, but Sif couldn't bring herself to join them, not truly. There was nothing in her that felt the need for celebration, just this aching empty yearning that had opened up in her core like a mortal wound the moment the Bifröst had shattered. Fortunately for her, she wasn't a terrible actress and none had noticed that she did not join in the toasting with her normal gusto and if the Queen's gaze lingered on her a little too long at times, Sif did her best to ignore it.

But the moment she saw the familiar swish of a red cloak outside in the corridor, she found a moment to excuse herself, hurrying on slippered feet to their common room, the one they all had always shared. It had felt empty for a while now, lacking the boisterous presence of Thor, as if all the life had gone out of it.

She'd never expected Loki to leave the same sort of gaping empty hole, his absence just as large and noticeable as his brother's.

Who was she trying to fool? Of course she had...

She instantly pushed that niggling voice away the moment it had appeared. She'd been growing more and more frustrated with it the more it appeared in the past few days, wishing for the solitude and assurance that had once been her world. She feared that time had crumbled as surely as their road to Midgard.

Thor sat alone, curled in on himself, his head buried in his hands - a form so foreign for a moment that it stole her breath away. Had she ever seen him looking more hopeless? More lost? It was not like her oldest friend to give in to utter despair, but the form before her was not the mighty warrior she was so used to seeing within these halls.

She hesitated for a moment in the doorway, for the first time uncertain of her welcome just now, but she could not leave, not when he looked so dejected, so alone. So much like how she felt. So she crossed the room, slippers whispering softly over the gleaming marble, the silks of her gown sliding over a lithe and limber form in a way she was still getting used to. She sank down on the edge of the firepit beside him, laying one hand on his arm. The other lifted, brushing limp blond locks away from his face so she could see his expression, feeling a cold knot of dread tighten in her stomach.

"What is it, Thor?" she asked softly, hating the uncertainty she heard in her own voice, wondered if he could hear it too. "Has something else happened? Has there been news?"

Thor looked up; he'd been so lost in the twisting of his own thoughts that he hadn't heard Sif approach. Perhaps because her footsteps were familiar, but not the ones he'd been desperately listening for.

"News, yes," he said. "But old news."

Perhaps it would hurt less, be less bewildering if he shared this burden. Among his friends, they had always shared their troubles.

...except for Loki.

Loki had always been the one he told his secrets to, what few he had, because he knew that his brother would keep them. Loki had cherished secrets like others cherished gold, but perhaps with even more avarice.

But in his absence, Sif was the person Thor trusted most to have wise counsel, to keep to herself that which should probably not be spread widely. While he'd yet to wrap his mind around everything his father had told him, he knew one thing for certain. This was not something he could simply howl out, as he did with most of his troubles. He loved... had loved Loki far too much for that.

He looked intently at Sif for a long time as he wound his way through those thoughts, his expression troubled. Finally, he said, "When Loki and I... fought. He said something to me. Well... he said many things. But what hurt the most was that he said we were not brothers. That we had never been brothers."

That made no sense to Sif, and her bewilderment showed clearly on her face as she clasped Thor's hand, searching his expression. "Surely he spoke in passion, Thor. Loki would not... I can think of no reason he would say such a thing. Loki loves you as no other, he always has. He must have... he must have sought to disarm you with words."

Although even for Loki, that was a line she would have never expected him to cross. What could he have meant by something like that?

Thor shook his head. "He was... I too thought it was something spoken in madness." It still disturbed him to remember Loki's face and the tone behind his words. His brother had never been given to displays of emotion like that; he could think it was nothing other than madness of some kind.

And that thought had led him to his father, and his father had told him...

"My..." Thor shook his head. "Our father told me that... Loki was not my brother by blood." Because no matter what else was said, he would still hold it close to his heart that they were brothers in every way that mattered. "Loki was adopted. A foundling." He covered his face with large hands for a moment, as if that could somehow wipe away this truth that he still couldn't tackle. "From Jotunheim."

Sif froze where she was, staring up into his hidden face, expression caught betwixt disbelief and denial. Because that could not be right. It had to be some terrible horrible jest. Was this one of Loki's pranks? But why would he? And why would the Allfather play along, encourage such a horrible lie to be spread, even so far as to reach Thor's ears. And hers.

"No," she said, the denial catching in her throat. She shook her head, her voice stolen for a moment. She tried again. "No. No, Thor, this cannot be. Loki... That's impossible."

"It is the truth," Thor said, his voice heavy. "One unknown to Loki himself until... he found out, somehow, while I was in Midgard." For that, he cursed himself a thousand times. He couldn't even begin to understand how his brother must have felt, and at perhaps the worst moment of his life Thor hadn't been there for him.

He let his hands fall, looking at Sif with blue eyes begun to get a little watery. "Perhaps this was the source of his madness. I don't... did you see anything, Sif? Anything at all? I cannot believe..."

There were so many things he still could not believe, the he had no way to name them all.

Her thoughts were spinning - too many, too fast, a maelstrom that made her feel as if she were drowning in questions she would never find an answer to. "I... How do I answer that, Thor? Did I see this? No. Not this. Never this. How could I? How could any of us? It must have..." she could not imagine how he must have felt. How had he learned of it? When had he learned of it? Was this the cause of his distance those last few days?

"He was different..." she whispered, sinking down to her knees before him. "Those days you were in Midgard, he was different. Distant. Tense. His eyes were wild. I thought... We all thought it was because of what happened. At Jotunheim, and afterwards."

It had been a reasonable thought. They'd all been distraught over what had happened in the Frost Giant's realm, and what had happened when they'd returned. Should she have seen more? He'd been acting oddly, true, but she'd chalked it up to the stress of being caught where he was, in a role he'd never wanted, separated from his brother with his father lost in deep sleep. But he'd been distant, more than she'd have guessed at.

"Loki..." she whispered, the word almost hesitant, even now, as if speaking his name on the winds might summon the man himself. And for the first time, she did not know what she would say when she saw him.

No, she amended, feeling the familiar burn of frustration bubble up inside. No, that wasn't entirely true. She had a hundred things she wished to say to him, and not even this could change her mind. But now the frustration was mixed with hurt, and worry. He'd discovered this all alone, dealt with the realization about himself on his own. She knew Loki prized secrets, especially his own, but this one...

What had he thought? What had he feared they would think? Was this, then, the cause of his unexpected attack on Jotunheim? Did he seek to destroy that part of himself he did not want? Or did he hope if the truth came out, that his actions against the Frozen Realm would balance the scales of his very existence?

Sif was upset, and he couldn't blame her at all for those feelings. He was upset as well, but in a way he had no conception how to deal with. He hastened to take her hands, shaking her head. "Do not think I blame you, or Fandral, or Volstagg, or Hogun. I just... I should have known better. No one kept secrets like Loki. Of course you could not have known."

He had to believe that, because it made Loki's madness, and his subsequent death... an accident. An unlucky turn of horrible fate. But no one's fault.

His voice fell quiet, to barely above a whisper. "His madness still cannot be forgiven, but at least now we might understand. Though I think him beyond forgiveness or understanding now."

"No."

Her voice was sharper this time, a flare of temper in her dark eyes as she shook her head. "No. I refuse to believe that. He is not beyond anything. Just because we cannot reach him does not mean he is gone, anymore than Midgard or..." She didn't finish, couldn't, couldn't say the words that might bring that haunted sadness back to his eyes that she'd seen so often recently. He mourned, not just his brother, but the mortal woman he had left behind in the other realm. She knew how heavy his broken promise lay on his shoulders, and she squeezed his hand lightly in comfort.

"I won't give up hope, Thor. Not on any of them. Understanding or not, forgiveness will come in time, as it always does. Although punching his smug face will do wonders to improve my mood, I confess it," she added, allowing a wry touch of sarcasm to flavor her tone as one corner of her lips quirked upwards.

But it was different, Thor thought. Because Heimdall could see Midgard, could see Jane. And while that separation was painful, he knew that it was only a matter of time before it would end. Even as the sorcerers of Asgard sought a way to repair the Bifrost, Jane was searching for a path from Midgard. And if he was in the mood to bet, his money would be on Jane.

But Loki... Loki was beyond Heimdall's sight. Beyond everything. Thor looked into Sif's eyes and didn't have the heart to point that out.

Especially considering his was the face that would get punched, he had a feeling.

He gave her a watery smile. "I'm sure I will share your confidence in time. I confess that perhaps I am less optimistic than normal. My... our father's words hang heavily upon me."

Sif nodded in understanding, expression slipping into one of mock seriousness as she propped her hands on her hips and regarded him with solemn sympathy. She hated seeing that emotion in his bright gaze. It wasn't right, to see him so sorrowful. Thor's moods were often as varied and widespread as Loki's - it was one thing the brothers had shared, blood or not. She missed Thor's easy smile as much as she missed Loki's knowing smirk.

So it was with mock seriousness that she regarded him now in an attempt to chase the sadness from his gaze. "Yes, I've noticed that. I've heard some get maudlin with old age. It is entirely understandable for your formerly unquenchable optimism to have fallen a bit... limp."

Thor snorted. "Old and limp are not words to use around me, Sif, not unless you're in the mood for a fight." He did give her a half smile; he knew what she was trying to do, and he appreciated it.

And really, he was more than willing to be distracted. These things... he did not like thinking about them. He had no solution, and there was nothing he could simply break apart with Mjolnir. It was not so easy to make things right, here, perhaps impossible.

He stood. "Perhaps some good mead will brighten my outlook."

Sif couldn't help but laugh at that. And there he was, the Thor she knew and loved, reappearing as instantly as she'd expected him to. "Good mead is enough to brighten anyone's outlook," she agreed, getting to her feet with him. She would digest everything later, when she was alone, when she had time to think. At the moment, she had a more important duty.

She clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Although if you want this, we should return before Volstagg and Fandral finish it off between them. They were attempting it already when I departed," Sif teased him with a smile, his shoulder warm beneath her fingers.

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idealitys-npc.livejournal.com - 2011-11-09 20:11 (UTC) - Expand

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shield_maiden - 2011-11-09 20:37 (UTC) - Expand

Time passed, as it was so skilled at doing. For some, Sif supposed, it had moved too quickly, but not for her. It had crawled with aching deliberation, falling into a cycle that might have once been 'normal' but was now only torturous. She kept up the facade of normalcy, however, for the sake of Thor and the Warriors Three. If any of them noticed anything was amiss with her, none were unkind enough to mention it. Out of any of them, she'd only anticipated being seen through by Hogun, who saw everything but often kept his opinions to himself anyway. Once, Thor might have noticed, but her friend was preoccupied these days, torn between the responsibilities of Odin's heir and worries for Midgard. Many days he spent out beside Heimdall, staring out into the universe, as if his will alone would allow him to reconnect with Jane Foster, or to catch a glimpse of his lost brother.

And then one day, it did.

Sif still had no idea how Jane Foster had managed to rebuild the Bifrost. There had been talk of tesseracts and wormholes and other things that Sif suspected Loki might have understood but were far beyond her comprehension. Thor's as well, but the Prince didn't care about the how, only that the Bifrost was once more.

Odin had objected fiercely to Thor's decision to return to Midgard, but Sif was not surprised by this. The time when the human's realm had worshipped them as gods had long since passed and Asgard only had one Prince left to take up Odin's rule, should something happen. Odin was of the opinion that the mortals should be left to their own Realm's problems, an opinion that Thor had objected to most fiercely.

The two had raged at each other in a frightening but familiar display of clashing tempers before Frigga intervened. Sif admired the Queen, for no other could speak only a handful of soft words and calm both the powerful warriors into a compromise. She envied that, and wished she had learned such a skill. Would it have made a difference?

So Thor returned to Midgard, to the side of his Jane Foster and the friends he had made there. In his absence, Asgard seemed even more empty and only two days passed before Sif came to her own decision.

There was no noisy and boisterous row this time, for she told no one. Perhaps it was cowardly of her, but this choice of hers was hers alone and she wanted none to try and sway her from her path. She sent a note to her parents' house, another to the Warriors Three and one final one for the Queen. Out of all of them, she suspected that Frigga would be the only one who would understand her actions and hoped the Allmother would intercede on her behalf, for Sif knew her actions hinted of treason, disobeying Odin's orders about Midgard.

If she’d expected Heimdall to hinder her, she was in for a pleasant surprise. Her half-brother did not look surprised when she stepped up beside him at the edge of the still-cracked road and stared out over the universes, a small knapsack draped over one shoulder, tucked beneath the bronze fabric of her travelling cape. The hood hid her features, but was useless against Heimdall. The man could see anything and anyone he wished.

With one exception.

“There are shadows moving on Midgard,” Heimdall stated without preamble, but Sif was used to this. Her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her satchel before she glanced up at him, searching his face.

“Is it Loki?”

“I don’t know. If it is, he has hidden himself from my sight. It is likely he is up to no good.”

Sif’s lips twisted into a frown as anger stirred. “You don’t know that,” she stated sharply, her tone firm as her gaze narrowed, fixed on the distant point of light she knew to be the human’s Realm. “Perhaps he just doesn’t want to be spied upon.”

Heimdall’s gaze turned on her and she had to fight off the urge to fidget more, feeling uneasy and uncomfortable beneath the weight of that gaze. Heimdall always saw too much. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice giving away none of this thoughts. “Perhaps. I do know that Thor has not found him, though he looks. He has lost the trail. He lingers in the desert, but there are no shadows there. He has moved north, but I can pinpoint no specific location or reason.”

Surprise flickered over Sif’s expression before she composed it once more. “Loki has never given away his reasons until it suited him to do so,” she stated blandly, although this information was priceless to her.

Unexpectedly, Heimdall gave a noise that might almost be confused for amusement, if one did not know him better. “One day, Loki will out-smart himself, to his detriment. Or perhaps fate will be kind and grant him someone who can puzzle him out better than he can.” His gaze turned back to the stars and his sword lifted, pointing out into the endless space. Sif’s eyes widened as the ground shifted under her feet and the sword tip began to glow with a blinding light.

“Safe journey, Lady Sif, and good fortune on your task.”

Those were the last words she heard before something hooked around her middle and yanked and she went tumbling through space towards Midgard.

Travelling in Midgard was vastly different than it had been when she had journeyed here centuries ago. Travelling it alone made it a lonely and somewhat frustrating experience, but Sif made do, keeping mainly to herself. She’d headed north after she landed, but whenever she picked up a whisper of what she thought might be Loki’s presence, the trail inevitably went cold.

Also, she came to the conclusion that human cities were better explored when she was with someone that could explain them to her, so she could next time avoid the near-altercation with their version of guards without it coming to blows. Namely, her blow, which had left him senseless on the road from a blow to the head because he foolishly would not see reason. She could not lay down her weapons and remain silent and expect him to understand the importance of her mission, especially when he was so determined to return her to this station of his and she was just as determined to continue on her way without interruption.

Still, she felt slightly guilty as she stared down at him, regretting the lack in their understanding of one another. He had not been an enemy and she hoped she hadn’t struck him too harshly. Of course, she wasn’t feeling enough regret to wait around until he got up and tried again, so she left him there, deciding to avoid large cities from this point on if she wanted to remain subtly hidden a while longer.

Another three days of fruitless searching had her patience at an end and Sif decided it was time to try another tactic. Which, she realized, she should have done the moment she landed in Midgard. If Loki did not wish to be found, he wouldn’t be found, not even by her. Instead, she had to make him find her. Which, sadly, was a much easier challenge. At least, to someone more familiar with this realm. At the moment, she had no idea where she was, to pass on information about her location to anyone.

She’d entered the thick forest sometime around midday and had come across the deep lake a few hours later, just when she was starting to get protests from her stomach that it had been a while since she’d last had nourishment. This looked as peaceful a place to rest as any and she made camp beside the lake, catching herself her dinner from within the calm waters and setting up a spit over the fire she’d built for herself.

It was a simple meal, but she was used to rougher fare, and for her this was perfectly comfortable. Night fell over the lake and a waning moon rose above the treetops, casting a silvery glow over the lake’s surface. Only then did Sif leave the warmth of the campfire to move to the water’s edge, crouching down in the loose stones to trail her fingers in the cool water, sending ripples through her own reflection.

“Loki,” she murmured, sending his name out on the night air, willing the cool breeze to carry her voice to him, wherever he was. “I am here. I am waiting for you. Are you going to hide forever?”

There was no answer, but she hadn’t expected any, not entirely. He would come, or he wouldn’t. Although she hated the idea that she’d have to return to the desert, to seek out Thor and start over, but the trail she had followed north had long gone cold and not even Heimdall could help her now.

So it was up to Loki.

“I’m tired of playing hide-and-seek,” she told her reflection, fingers brushing over the cool surface of the water. “You never played fair anyway. Three days, Loki. Three days will I remain here. Do not keep me waiting.” A splash disrupted her reflection entirely and she pulled her fist from the cold water, standing and stalking back to her campfire to wait. Wrapped in her cloak, sleep was a long time coming.

Of course he waited the full three days; he could not do otherwise. There was always a certain way for things to be done, and he didn't wish Sif to think him anything but reluctant to see her.

And he was reluctant, make no mistake. Sif was a ghost from his past, and a half-formed one at that, of a past only dreamed of. To think of it was like probing at a loose tooth or picking at a scratch: painful and irritating, but also impossible to avoid. It had been amusing at first to see her wander around Midgard, to hear the occasional whispers of her passing, just as it was equally amusing to watch the ripples caused by his once-brother. But it was also painful, the reminder of a wound unhealed, reopened because there were those that refused to let the dead lie.

At least, he supposed, he was not bored. Pain was still better than boredom.

As night fell on Sif's little camp, he waited until she had finished building her fire, eaten her supper, and begun to settle for the night. Then with only a whisper of sound he slipped from the deep shadows from beneath one of the trees and moved into the unsteady ring of light cast by the fire.

He gave her a bow that was nothing but irony, lips quirked and eyebrow tilted at a mocking angle. "My Lady Sif. Fancy meeting you here."

Her glaive was in her hand the moment he stepped from the shadows, tensed and braced for attack until he stepped into the light of the fire and even then she did not entirely relax. The sight of him hit her like a blow and for a moment, she was speechless, eyes drinking in the familiar sight of him with wide dark eyes.

"Loki..."

His name came as a startled whisper as she stared at him, glaive still clutched in one hand, completely forgotten. She'd nearly given up hope that he would come, that he could come. Perhaps Heimdall had been mistaken, perhaps Thor right in his pessimism. Or worse, perhaps he had heard and not cared enough to answer. That had almost been the more painful thought to endure, that he was alive but apathetic. Friendship and rivalry had been a constant between them for as long as she could remember, full of all the passions and emotions tied up with both, but there had never been apathy.

Words escaped her as she stared at him, feeling a torrent of emotion well up within her, so many she could not decipher where one ended and one began. Frustration, anger, fear, sorrow, relief, joy, confusion. Finally, she managed two words, her voice strained and thick with everything she was feeling, unashamed of the way her eyes stung as she met his gaze.

"You're alive."

It was strange to see Sif in such a state, to hear that odd strain in her voice as she spoke his name. He was uncertain if it was prayer or curse, though he fancied it a bit of both. But the sound, it made something shift in his belly, some long-forgotten notion he'd thought long buried.

His expression was too well practiced to show any deviation in his thoughts. While he had long ago given up on neatly categorizing Sif as he did with all others, that didn't mean he would let her muss his composure. Particularly not when that composure was so hard won and so difficult to maintain.

He made a big show of spreading his hands and inspecting them. "So it would seem," he said, voice amused. "Are there any other obvious facts you should care to state for my ears, Lady?"

"You're an ass."

The statement was dropped bluntly, tone caught midway between temper and sarcasm. A shift of her hand and she stabbed the end of her glaive into the soft dirt at her feet, stalking towards him, leaving her weapon behind as she closed the distance between them. She stopped an arm length away from him, her gaze taking in every detail, every nuance she could pick up from him. It was difficult - even when he was being open (or as open as he ever let himself get), Loki was one of the hardest people to read that she'd ever encountered. He was thinner than the last time she'd seen him, his face a bit more pinched and there was a look in his eyes that she was wholly unfamiliar with. It made her uneasy.

She was sure it showed on her face. Most things did. Sif hated being caught off-balance and the man in front of her had an uncanny knack of making her so, without even trying. Out of all the things she'd planned to say to him, she was coming up blank now that she was finally face to face with him.

She curled her fingers into a fist but restrained the urge to punch him. Instead, she jabbed a finger sharply into his shoulder, temper flaring in her dark eyes.

"An ass!" she repeated, poking him again for emphasis. She was rather proud of her restraint in not punching him, to be honest and fair. Thor would have punched him. "We thought you dead, Loki! Dead! Do you know what pain you caused?"

Loki stood his ground as Sif approached. He could admit to himself that if she really wished to do him harm, she probably could anyway, and running was a little too undignified for his tastes. He merely quirked his eyebrow higher at her words, at the sharp poke to the shoulder.

He caught her wrist lightly before she could poke him a third time, his eyes flicking down to her hand for a moment as he considered planting a kiss on her knuckles for the sheer mockery of it. He thought better of that at least and returned his gaze to her face. "I suppose I don't, and my imagination fails me at the moment," he drawled. "Tell me, should I care?"

He let his touch linger lightly on her skin, tracing a thin line on the tender underside of her wrist with one finger before he forced himself to let go. He stepped quickly away, pacing slowly around the fire, keeping the flames between them. "I admit, I am curious. Is my--" he stopped himself with a sharp shake of his head. "Is the Allmother well?"

Frigga, he would ask after. In some corner of his heart that he normally tried to ignore, he knew that she had genuinely loved him, or at least as much as anyone could. And for that, he owed her appreciation.

The skin on the inside of her wrist tingled where he'd touched her, and she tucked her arms close to her chest when he relinquished his hold and swept away, putting distance between them once more. She watched him, her gaze narrowed and intent, studying him in silence until he spoke again.

"I have never known your imagination to fail you in anything, Loki, and I doubt it has done so now, no matter what you say," she replied. Her voice was firm, but there was no temper in these words, only careful interest.

"Your mother is well," Sif answered, stressing the relation, falling into an easy stance, her arms still crossed over her chest as he paced on the other side of the fire. She shared his restlessness but did not move, content to let him vent the tension they both seemed infected with. "However, she mourns your absence, Loki. The palace has been empty without you. Your family all misses you, including your father, and especially your brother."

Loki's eyes followed her hands as she tucked them away defensively. For a moment there was a spasm of something in his expression, though it was difficult to tell what - resignation, perhaps, or hurt, or even anger. Even Loki himself wasn't certain; it was a combination of that and more that he felt, and strangled down, smoothing his expression into a curious half-smile once more. Almost mirroring her gesture, he passed his hand lightly down the front of his coat.

"A lot can change in a short amount of time," he pointed out, voice falling lower. "Why, an entire realm could be torn apart in a matter of less than an hour."

He snorted softly as she spoke of Frigga. There was a slight pang that came with her words, but he hid it effortlessly. And as for the rest, as for his so-called family, "Somehow I doubt that." His voice was still polite and bland to be called a growl, but there was something deeper in it.

"Are you calling me a liar, Loki?" Sif's words were deceptively mild as her gaze narrowed on him, watching the flickers in his expression, trying to decipher what they meant. He'd adopted an entire new depth to his mask since she had seen him last and she liked it not.

Sighing in frustration, she threw her hands in the air and moved back to the long log she'd been using as a seat for the past three days and sank down on it, making herself comfortable. If he wanted to be difficult then so be it. It wasn't as if she wasn't used to his or Thor's moods after all these years.

"I'm well aware of how quickly things can spiral out of control, Loki. I didn't sleep through the last several weeks, after all," she pointed out, adding another small log to the fire and reaching for the flask of wine she'd set down before he startled her. "Wine?" she offered, holding it out to him. "I promise I didn't poison it."

"I would never doubt the word of a lady," he said. "But perhaps there are facts you are not in possession of." He stilled and watched her sit, then sank to the ground opposite her, hands spread lightly on his knees.

He inclined his head, one brow quirked with inquiry. "A particular reason for such restlessness?" he asked. "And thank you, but no." He hastened to add, "Not because I think you would do such a thing, of course." Simply sharing wine with Sif felt too much like the past, like everything that had gone wrong could be right again. It was a trap that he refused to fall in to.