Loki's shadow was long upon the wall, the outline of his horned helmet stretching past the golden carvings, Gungnir's silhouette reaching far beyond the ceiling as it was held loosely in his grip.
Sif felt surprise, at first, at the sight of the young prince, looking so small on the throne, looking so falsely intimidating, sitting so tall and arrogant as he looked down at them from his perch.
It was something she never thought she'd see.
But she felt anger, and a growing rage, a burst of indignation that he, Loki, could ever take what should have been Thor's, that he could ever replace Odin, that he could ever be anything but a conniving snake. That truth, too, shone in his eyes, bright orbs of green in the flickering light, just as it gleamed within her own irises, clear and obvious and certain.
Her friends dropped to one knee around her, and so she followed, glaring up at Loki as the smirk twinkled in his condescending gaze, and the fist pressed above her heart only clenched tighter with fury. She watched him, silent and fuming, as he made his way down the large steps, his tone, eternally laced with amusement, now consumed by the lust for power, the drugging effect of it, the addict long-hidden within him surfacing after a mere taste of kingship.
And who was he to speak in such a way?
Who was he to deny them assistance?
Who was he to refuse his own brother?
Sif ground her teeth together, the guards around them standing alert and stiff, eyes staring off into the distance, and she felt her pulse quicken as he gazed to her.
"…for the good of Asgard," he finished, that taunting catch in his voice so infuriatingly apparent to her, after centuries of hearing it whenever she was in Thor's company.
She stood, wanting so immensely to punch the mirth from his eyes, but a stern, cautious hand wrapped about her wrist, and she stayed where she was, listening to Loki's orders, listening to his attempts to keep his kingly status, listening and hating and waiting.
Gazing up at the trickster, she could have seen the ghost of who he used to be, could have seen the faded, near-forgotten image of a childish, laughing Loki trying relentlessly to gain Thor's attention, but she only saw red blossom across her vision, only felt the urge to wrap her hands around his throat, only wanted, above all, to find Thor.
She smiled bitterly, making sure to hold his gaze so that he could read the message written in her steely expression, just as he always used to be able to, and she caught the tell-tale widening of his eyes in recognition.
I will defy you.
And she turned, then, letting the echo of her booted footfalls drown out the rush of blood in her ears, letting the memory of Loki in his young years dissolve into the fresh image of him standing before the throne, letting herself give up on any hope they'd ever had of being friends dissipate as she followed the Warriors Three, determined to find her way to Midgard, no matter the cost.