A/N: The actual title is The Lady Sif's Completely Accurate Accounts Proving that Asgard's Younger Prince is an Incorrigible Prick, but that wouldn't fit, so I was forced to shorten it... Title aside, I hope you enjoy what is expected to be a nice little five-part saga!
actual chapter title (on AO3): the "let's bring back chivalry at only the most misplaced times even though the lady in question doesn't need your help" game
It doesn't rain much in Asgard, what with its ever-golden seasons and its immaculate climate, but Vanaheim is a realm of much more rustic scenery, its land filled with the ochre and emerald of forests and its seasons so different the realm feels like a different one each turn.
It's early autumn now, right at the tail end of summer where the blazing heat has already begun to dwindle its way into a pleasant cool. It's similar to Asgard's perpetual perfection, if only a bit crisper, the air a bit earthier. When Sif, the Warriors Three sans Hogun, and the two princes arrive on Vanaheim, the sky is cloudy and the air smells of rain like it scarcely ever does on Sif's home realm; she takes a moment to stand on the runes of the Bifrost site and soak in the scent with a tranquility that only nature could instill.
The five of them make haste soon after, as wind wraps around them, biting their skin and promising rain. Said rain begins to drizzle as the five make their way to the isolated village that Hogun and his family live. They bring word of the Einherjar's initiation ceremony, and Hogun's own cousin is to be within the ranks; no doubt their friend wants to attend. As they walk, water falls from the needles of the elegant pine trees like drops of glinting glass. Sif can feel the cool water dripping down her scalp and under her armor as they trudge along, and she almost wishes they could stop for a moment so she could feel nothing but the rain on her face.
Unfortunately, her wish seems to have come true as they happen upon a river and a seedy looking bunch of trolls gathered around a pile of treasure much too golden to be of their own possession. The five stop in their tracks as the trolls look up, and an awkward silence permeates the air before Loki's voice cuts smoothly — and somewhat exasperatedly — through. "The trolls wear thieves' garb, their treasure is emblazoned with the mark of Vanaheim's master craftsmen, and they might as well be armed with half of Asgard's armories. Need I say more?"
A series of roaring battle cries from either side fill the air in an instant. No one catches Loki roll his eyes and scoff before he summons his knives and joins the fray, but none would be surprised if they did. He quickly makes his way to the trolls protecting the treasure and the other four place themselves in the very center of the battle.
As such, Sif is surrounded by three enemies. It's hardly a challenge, not for her. In fact, the sweet smell of late summer rain makes the experience somewhat enjoyable. Fighting against an entire guild of troll thieves isn't that bad in such ideal weather, and she almost wishes her friends would give her a bigger part in the action. The warrior Sif slaying a scant three enemies while her comrades battle off the brunt of the horde; why, Thor and Volstagg would only be two drinks in before her role in the stories goes from a meagre "there to help out" to an even more insignificant "sharing the same breathing space as them"!
She huffs, but the rest of her wistful thoughts are interrupted by a spiked ball of metal narrowly missing her head. Ah yes, there was a battle going on. With a large clang of metal, she raises her glaive up to block an incoming blade, shoving the troll away and advancing on the bothersome one that had swung at her earlier. The three trolls trap her against the thick of the trees, weapons held aloft, and Sif only grins.
As the three simultaneously charge at her, she weaves in between two of them, turning about and stabbing the first troll through the back. She wrenches her sword out, thrusts the body at the other two, and they stumble back as she regains her distance. They gawk at their fallen comrade with wide eyes before turning furiously to Sif when the shock fades.
"I accept your surrender!" she laughs, raising her glaive in a mock-toast to them. The two trolls don't surrender. Sidestepping their messy charge is easy when their actions are muddled by rage, and Sif can hardly help the crazed grin splitting her face, the searing thrum of adrenaline sprinting through her veins. She's practically dancing on air as she blocks the giant broadsword swung down at her head, using the troll's own brute force to send him careening forward into the dirt. Her mind is completely focused on the fight around her, blood singing with the sounds of blade and battle, and Sif is too busy jumping over clubs and spinning past swords to notice the status of her comrades around her.
It's not as if she doubts the prowess of her friends; they've fought more than tenfold the number of enemies they are fighting now on many occasions. If anything, she overestimates the prowess of the trolls. An impossibly loud shriek echoes across the battleground, and all eyes look up, if just for a moment. At the source stands Loki, idly twirling a dagger in one hand with the body of the largest troll at his feet, the leader by the looks of it. The entire horde freezes where they are, and then, one by one, they begin to lay down their weapons. It's an unnervingly quiet process — Sif and her friends stay tensed the entire time, waiting for the other shoe to drop — and all is calm. Sif rests her swordpoint on the ground, satisfied with the result, until one troll, the one Sif had been fending off, is the only one left armed.
The troll looks to be rather large himself, just as ugly as the leader, if not more. Perhaps he was a second-in-command, or — trolls being considerably greedy — wanted to be in command himself; whatever the rank, he doesn't drop his weapon. The troll grips his impressive broadsword harder, suddenly letting loose a terrible battle cry and charging for his nearest enemy — Sif.
Sif heaves her glaive up from the ground, but it's a little too late for that. A piercing scream cuts through the air; a single, painful cry as the rest of the warriors are only left helpless to watch. Blood already starts to pour out from the lethal wound, and the quiet is even more uncomfortable than the first.
"I had that completely under control!" Sif exclaims, glaring and pointing her glaive accusingly at Loki. All eyes that were previously on the dead troll with Loki's knife wedged in his neck fly up to Sif. She is scowling, her eyes narrowed in anger, and marches over dead bodies and dropped weapons to the Prince in question. He has his eyebrows arched in amusement, still managing to appear smug as Sif holds her glaive up to his face. "There was no need to interfere."
"Apologies, my Lady," he allows, a saccharine smile on his face, "I could hardly leave a damsel in distress in such a manner."
Sif's nostrils flare and her eyes flash dangerously, and right when Thor and the Warriors Two were sure she was about to run him through, Sif turns on one heel and swings her glaive, swearing in the least damsel-like fashion about something along the lines of Loki and stupid and misplaced chivalry. She calms down after a moment, and turns to Thor with a serious face. Thor does well to hide his nervous swallowing.
"Let us just tie up these trolls and find Hogun," she announces. "We shall alert the warriors at his village of this menace."
Her companions quickly oblige to her request, none too keen to argue with her after her recent episode; even Loki remains silent for the duration that they round up the trolls. When they are safely bound, the five head again in the direction of Hogun's village. Thor, Fandral, and Volstagg make no move to ostensibly hurry, keeping a respectable distance behind Sif as she plummets through the forest, the rain no longer making her any happier than she was.
Loki strays unnecessarily close to her; she can hear his footsteps a few feet behind her, and she does her best to ignore them as she journeys on. Hogun's village is just a few more minutes away, if she remembers correctly, and then she will be able to busy herself with finding someone to deal with the trolls and locating her absent friend. She quickens her pace, trying to ignore the way her footsteps line up with Loki's — or rather, how his line up with hers.
By the time they reach the village, the rain has slowed to a slight drizzle. Sif only feels it on her skin like a prickly afterthought. Water collects on the dirt in puddles and fills the empty vases and vessels lying around. Hogun's home is near the center of the village, and as soon as they reach the village borders, Thor, Fandral, and Volstagg quicken their pace to take the lead; they mutter something about finding someone to take care of the trolls. The shieldmaiden does not protest, enjoying the leisurely pace she adopts for the homey village, and tries to focus on the small feel of rain on her skin rather than the footsteps that align seamlessly with hers.
A cart wheels past, splashing mud on her boots, and Sif frowns, if only because of the fact that she is the one that must clean that off later. Clucking her disapproval quietly to herself, she quickly shakes her head before continuing forward. The silence isn't bad, punctuated by the sound of squelching mud underfoot, and she hopes the wordsmith can read her implied words of annoyance somewhere in it. Serves him right, anyway. Damsel in distress, she snorts mentally. Sif allows herself a vindicating series of likewise titles unto the prince, stopped only when said prince's arm cuts in front of her.
"Loki," she begins warningly, turning to glare at him, but he is quick to cut her off.
"My Lady," he bows grandly to her, gesturing to the cloak he has just laid out across a puddle of muddy water for her. His curtsey is low and no doubt exaggerated, and Sif freezes. She blinks — once, twice — and he still remains bowing before her.
Her face floods with red; she feels instantaneously affronted, unable to imagine anything other than a haughty smirk pulling up at his hidden lips. Multiple pairs of eyes are on her and her dark haired companion, all curious and questioning and making her feel more and more uncomfortable with each passing second.
Is that the Prince of Asgard? voices whisper. I wonder what he is doing here. Who is that woman beside him? Sif's eyes flicker up to look at the people around her — trying half-heartedly to hide the fact that they are spying — before returning her gaze to Loki. Hitting him, as tempting as it sounds, is hardly an option with all the gazes set upon her and the Prince, so she smiles tightly, teeth clenched so tightly she's afraid they might shatter.
"Loki, you fool, what are you playing at?" she hisses, trying to keep her lips from moving too much, displaying her none too subtle hesitance and suspicion. Her three friends have stopped a short distance ahead, Thor speaking to one of the village's warriors, but the other two are gazing back curiously in search of their companions. Fandral's eyes land on them first and when he nudges Volstagg, Sif can hear his decidedly unsecretive whisper — "What are those two up to?" The passing seconds collect like droplets in the ocean of her discomfort.
"Obviously, I am here to provide safe passage across these perilous waters for a dear, distressed friend," Loki replies without missing a beat, tilting his head up so he can flash a teasing smirk. She bites back growl at his predictable expression, and thrusts her chin up into the air, paying him no more heed as she traipses across the dry fabric of his cloak, avoiding the muddy mess that was concealed underneath.
"Hardly necessary," she tells him in a clipped voice after he picks up his sodden cloak and follows after her. "I do not yield to such inane obstacles, nor do I need shelter from them." Her head is still head high and she still avoids his gaze, but she can practically hear his amused smirk, sense the laughter ringing in his head at the embarrassment he just caused her; the thought makes her simmer in anger.
"As expected of the valiant Lady Sif," he chirps, obviously pretending not to notice her frustration at all. "Such an act of sacrifice must be seen as mere child's play to a warrior of her calibre, no?"
Sif doesn't reply and tries to push away the image of his wicked grin as he falls into step beside her, but her eyes flicker once in his direction and the image is imprinted onto her eyes nonetheless. The corners of his mouth are pulled up into an accomplished smirk, just smug enough to make her knuckles itch, and when he sees her eyes on him, the arrogance dims as he angles an eyebrow. Maybe it's a genuine curiosity in his eyes, wondering why she was peeking at him, but it lacks the frustrating aspect of most of his looks and makes Sif turn away, feeling inexplicably like she was in the wrong for staring instead of him for his ostentatious theatrics — which wasn't true, of course.
She banishes the small tightness in her chest, quickening her step and leaving Loki behind, casually hoping he trips face first into his bundled swab of muddy cloth as they continue walking along.
When they reach Hogun's hut, Loki only knocks once before the door flies open and he is smacked in the face. It is then that Sif finally feels like due justice has been paid for his foolery earlier and laughs unashamedly with the rest of her group.
"Feeling particularly distressed at the moment, Loki?" she quips, not even attempting to bite back her amused smirk. "Perhaps the fair Prince needs his knights to ease the pain with a kiss?" They laugh again at this, and harder when Fandral steps forward and grabs Loki's hand, making a show of bowing and kissing it before Loki rescinds said hand and brings it down the blond's head. It looks painful.
Fandral is rubbing his head, Loki is glowering, and all save the younger prince are still laughing raucously. Sif attempts to stifle her giggles, holding her side to soothe the laughter-induced ache, but fails terrifically at forcing the beaming grin off her face. Small chuckles still shake her shoulders, and as they slowly fade, she spares a glance at Loki. He hadn't softened his seething glare through the entire laughing escapade, and when his hardened gaze meets Sif's twinkling eyes, he balks at her unfading smile and turns his nose up swiftly in the opposite direction.
Sif watches him, hating the way her smile grows a bit heavier as he moodily turns away, but then leans over and sneaks a glance at his expression again; he's no longer glaring and — even if the slight purse of his lips isn't the telltale sign of biting back a smile — something about that makes it obvious to Sif that he's somehow not so angry about the entire joke anymore. She leaves him be after that, not questioning the way she feels lighter and not seeing the way his eyes follow her and soften only at her smile.