Disclaimer: I don't own Thor: The Dark World, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Marvel and their respective creators. I only own any original characters that I choose to include, as well as any original plot ideas.
Ersatz
A/N: Hey, guys. I have been away for quite a while, but things keep on changing, and it's becoming difficult to keep up with everything all at once. Long story incredibly short, I am much more active on tumblr at present, but I will be making more of an effort to be posting things here as well as on LJ if you follow along over there.
"It is no jest, what they say."
Oh, how he had missed that voice. The lack of fear that so many others held while within his presence. The confidence in her air, in the way she conducted herself. The flinty resolve of those eyes that - were it at all possible to do without so drastically damaging that charming appearance - he would have gladly removed and turned to glass, carrying them about in his pocket for a flash of green light upon the darkest of days.
So steadily he turned, gently closing the book so as to direct his full attention towards her, that grin tugging at the corners of his lips until it had graced the god's features, drawing the woman's own expression into a scowl that did not befit her deceptive beauty in the slightest.
"And just what, if I may ask, do they say, my dear Sif?"
Her arms folded across the fabric at the front of her cloak, dusted slightly with the kiss of rain, her gaze seeming to harden as she looked him over a moment.
"How is it you can remain so smug, Loki? Does it fill you with pleasure, the knowledge that Asgard and her people so openly name you monster?"
"Explain," Silvertongue returned, face returning to observational stone.
"Surely you must know. The prison riot. Certainly not your doing, for it is here that you still remain. But I find it increasingly disturbing that you can sit here in silence, producing not even a shred of humanity to grieve for her."
A dark brow arched, pulse quickening a step as he surveyed the woman through the barrier.
"Her?"
The warrior gave a curt nod, the words produced from her lips striking him full in the chest:
"Your mother."
Nothing more than that was to be heard. Not her accusations, her earnest agreement with the whispers that went on on the outside, that he was fool and bastard and traitor to Asgard, a monster with not even an ounce of compassion nor regard for any man other than himself. His doing, surely, for it had been Loki himself who had directed the head of the coup towards the correct path into Odin's palace for no purpose other than to prove himself the God of Mischief and the epitome of chaos.
And those few words spoken to the beast, it seemed, had indirectly brought this madness about. A madness that he had not anticipated nor wished for, even amid the turmoils of his broken and manic mind.
"I can assure you, Lady Sif," came the reply, and Loki returned his focus to the page of his book, "this is certainly the first word I have heard on the matter."
"And?"
"And I've nothing to say on the subject."
From the corner of his eye, he could see her, see the evident disgust and shock upon her face, in seeming disbelief at the idea that this man - the boy so dearly loved by Asgard's queen - could so easily shrug off word of her unfortunate demise as though she had been but a foot soldier, irrelevant to his interests.
With that look of vile contempt and mourning, Sif shook her head, muttered that accursed word under her breath, and stalked away.
"Monster."
It was only when the woman was assuredly gone that the tome was released, tumbling from his fingers to the floor, hands pulling through his dark hair in rage and sorrow.
It had been madness what had driven him to this end. To this cage. And it had been that very same madness, his violent obsession with power and recognition that had, too, brought her to the end as well. An end ill-befitting a woman of her prowess, her strength. An end what had undoubtedly come at the point of the enemy's sharpened blade.