A/N: Hey guys! Here's my very first Avengers fanfiction! (Although I guess this is a Thor fanfiction. Although there's very little Thor in it. Oh well. It's in the Avengers universe, deal with it.) This is a present to one of my best friends, who upon exiting Thor 2, immediately decided to look up Loki/Sif fanfiction. They get two lines together, and look what the internet does to them . . . *shakes head* *secretly approves*

So anyway, please drop a review to tell me what you think, no I don't own the Thor franchise although that would be awesome (I could just play with Tom Hiddleston's hair. All. Day. Long.) and enjoy!

-:-

Let the humans sing of angels and the Asgardians of stars, the beauty before him is greater than he could even imagine, and he spent half his life imagining. He had sat alone in that cell for centuries, playing his own game of chess and wondering at the light. There were times when brief bursts of freedom reminded him of living, but stubbornness and the inability to repent always sent him back to the cell. He didn't mind much. He likes chess. But millennia passed while he was locked away, and no one ever seemed to notice. Time passes quickly in Asgard for everyone besides those who have nothing to do but wait.

And wait he did.

Loki waited for an eternity with nothing to do but play one-player chess. Perhaps it was his just desserts, perhaps not. There had been a time when he would deny accusations with self-righteous venom, listing out his landers one by one. But there is no need for that now, just as there is no need for lies or half-truths. Now he believes it with a quiet kind of believing, soft yet strong, for it he stopped believing even for a second he is sure that he would lose what small part of himself that he has left. But the again, what does it really matter? He is staring at the very epitome of the space, at the very fabrics of time. What is he worth in the face of the vast scope of the universe's majesty?

Not much, he concludes. But he clings to the lie anyway as he watches the sun twist and turn. Perhaps he is more Asgardian then he wishes to be, for his eye is drawn to the endless twinkles flashing in the opalescent blackness. Pieces of souls, his mother would say. A false theory of course, but a good one, and a little part of him believes it. Were they watching him now, watching the last of the Jotun as he stared in a sparkling abyss? The child in him begs them to watch, for someone to keep him company, and the prince in him pretends that the child doesn't exist.

It is quiet now. He revels in the silence—he loves it. Even before his betrayal he always preferred the library to the battleground. While Thor and his band loved to dive into battles with a bloody zeal, Loki's passion was always in the bending of all things—elements, magic, and especially the mind. Loki did enjoy fighting, but not in the way that his brother did. Loki took joy in the thrill of the dance, flirting with his opponents, making them suffer before he finally ended their lives. Thor in all of his nobility never understood. The golden prince never understood anything about his brother—neither the love for silence, the bending or the dance. And yet, he always tried so hard; Loki found it cute to watch. Odin, unlike his son, never bothered, for he thought that locking the trickster king in a quiet cell would count as a punishment. (It wasn't really, except for when Frigga's hand disappeared under his own or when he had to play one-man's chess.)

But here it is, finally, perfect silence. It is a shame that he doesn't have a book. And at the same time, what is a book in the face of the universe's beauty? In front of him are endless swirlings of color and light, eclipsed by darkness and stars. The planets seem to align even as they crumble apart, even as the universe fades to nothing. The end is ahead of him, and only his last shreds of life are keeping him behind.

Footsteps tread softly on the edge of his consciousness, almost asking permission but entering without any. He wakes a little, enough to hear the steps breaking his silence. A flash of annoyance. Everyone is gone—what heartless creature still has breath enough to interrupt his peace? He turns reluctantly, with aching bones, and as he turns he sees her.

This is certainly a dream.

She can't be real—everyone is dead. He knows that her soul has passed. But that doesn't stop him from drinking in every detail of her. She, too, is old now, but still beautiful in every way, eyes stubbornly fiery from battle, exactly as he remembers. He does not move towards her, for he knows that his hands will pass right through her. Instead he studies her, using his centuries of experience, and he is surprised by what he finds. There is no hatred in her dark eyes, just a deep weariness, one that matches his own.

"Loki."

"Good to see you too, Sif." She smiles, eyes caught in remembrance. "Why are you here?" It's a valid question. Her appearance caused so many unknowns, so many emotions to stir inside him that he's lost with all of them.

She smiles again, a mysterious kind of smile, alien to her face. "Why don't you find out?" She holds out her hands. It is water given to a man dying of thirst, it is a feast offered to a starving man, and it is cruel beyond torture.

Loki growls. "Do not mock me woman! I know full well that you are an allusion!"

The hands remain. Sif—his heart, his temptation, his torture . . . his weakness. He reaches for the hands. Loki gasps as his fingers touch hers, the first touch he has received in over eight hundred years. He clasps the hands in his own, savoring the contact. Sif gives a little gasp of her own, and Loki frees a shaking hand to stroke her cheek. It is warmer than he remembered. He dares to smile, she dares to laugh.

"But Sif, truly, why have you come? I am old, too old, and there are millennias of strife between us." She laughs again and he is once again puzzled by this odd, laughing Sif. He finds that he does not dislike the feeling.

Her laughter fades to a smile. "Come now Loki, we area all old, and even the old and bitter are offered redemption."

"Is that what you're giving me?"

"See it as you will." She shrugs, and some of her old fire flickers behind her eyes. "When we were still on Asgard, war and loyalties and our own ambition kept us apart. But the afterlife is a place of second chances. I would take the chance."

"Are you offering?"

"Maybe you should find out."

There are an infinite number of possibilities for every given moment. There are victories and defeats, wins and losses, happiness and sadness. This particular moment could end in defeat, hurt and broken hearts. But Loki beats out his infinities and takes the chance. Worlds collide, three millennia of waiting falls to dust, and Loki of Asgard is kissing the Lady Sif. For a split second she is shocked, and then she responds in full, winding her hands in his hair, pulling him closer to her. He lifts her off her feet and her legs wrap around his waist as his tongue slides into her mouth. The moment lasts a forever but ends far too soon. They pull apart, gasping for breath, wrapped around each other as though the other would slip away if they let go. Loki feels only centuries old and when Sif laughs he realizes that he is. Both of them are—all wrinkles and greyness gone, youth fully restored.

"Looks like the chance was worth it."

He hums but doesn't respond. Over thinking is a problem of his, and sometimes he hates it with all of his being. "Things will never be the same as before." Sif presses kisses along his jawline. He closes his eyes but does not relent. "Sif, I will never repent."

She sighs and moves back, catching his eyes with hers. "And I will never trust you."

Loki looks into her eyes, and he finally realizes something. Yes, things won't be the same. He had broken the old days with jealousy and rage. But there are an eternity of new days before them, and the choice still stands, it still has power. This afterlife is a new chance for all of them—for Thor who made a monster of his brother, for Odin who was a king instead of a father, for Frigga who only wanted peace for her family, for Sif who chose loyalty over all, and for Loki who here, at the end of all things, could finally see that he made the wrong choice. And it is because of this revelation that he finds a confession on the tip of his tongue. It is the oldest lie, the oldest concealment, the most ancient of heartbreaks. Old habits held it back until now but Loki is just so tired, tired of loneliness, tired of self-inflicted pain, tired of hurting. So he throws caution to the wind and lets the secret go.

"I missed you, Sif. I missed all of you."

He is shocked to find tears in her eyes. She kisses him, not heated and frantic like before, but soft and passionate with trembling lips. He kisses her back with all of the joy of a dead man brought back to life, and something wet runs down his cheek. She pulls back slightly with a smile in her eyes. "We missed you too." Then she untangles herself, punching Loki's arm in response to his protests. He grumbles, rubbing his shoulder and she laughs. "Come-on." With an eye-roll that could only be perfected by millennia of practice, Sif grabs Loki's hand and leads him away from the stars, towards a light that he hadn't noticed until now. As they draw closer he can see them waiting for him. Thor gives a shout; his hand intertwined with that human's, Frigga's face is wet with tears and even Odin's eyes shine. Loki watches his family wait for him and treasures the warmth of Sif's hand in his own. His smirk, old as time, begins to creep back to his face. Eternity lies ahead, so he takes the chance and leaves the silence behind.

There is darkness in my mind
Sometimes I think I'm blind
But now I try to leave it behind