Disclaimer: I don't own Thor (still?), but IF I did, I wouldn't have such a stomachache worrying about how the second movie that doesn't come out for A WHOLE YEAR could possibly mess with my Loki/Sif feels.
True facts, reader.
For Corruption is a Trifling Thing
They were said to be capable of creation.
Sif sheaths her dagger and looks at him. He acknowledges her with a hooded eye, listless.
Who? The question is silent, but he hears it.
"The wrens of the fields. The whispers of the trees." His shoulder flows in a slender curve, elegant. "You would know them by a different name, I think. They who color the realm, whose voices wake the sleeping." Reticent.
Do you speak of fairies? she asks with her eyes, and his smile is wicked.
He extends a hand, a finger over the silver of her armor, a careful stare. Her own face stares back.
I wouldn't have taken you as one for fairytales, she simpers, or legends.
"In worlds apart, we are the subjects of these stories," he replies.
Who? she asks, once more. He draws his palm across the leather housing her blade, the end of all things.
"Deities. Gods. Those who create, who destroy, who sling power in sheaths across their backs. In their hands."
The ribs of her armor are colored by her heart. He's nearly gone before she remembers the question she'd meant to ask.
Why?
"For the same reasons they believe." His voice is hushed. For a moment Sif thinks she can taste something in the air, bitter; a taste like lightning, or the metal of the moons, only perhaps not so sweet.
She turns her hand, and that year the flowers bloom more mightily than usual: robust with papery leaves, solid stems plump with the gift of her domain.
The blossom he picks is red, the color of fire, the color of war. It bends slightly between his fingers, yielding. He hides it away as he does all things of value, all treasures too precious to display among unworthy eyes. They'd have her as his, the thunder-warrior's, a pair to smite the wraiths which even now haunt children's dreams; this, Loki knows.
They were said to be capable of creation.
She never again asks why, in words or in gestures; but he continues to hear her, either way, and answers.
To forge a more fitting heart.
Post-note: I gathered the idea of this story upon reading the Old Norse legends, which vary in detail as time and location shifts. Midgardians have their tales of yore, which ebb and flow with succeeding generations across thousands of years; I thought it would be fitting to have Sif, the goddess of harvest in old legend and of war in the Marvel universe, and Loki, the god of mischief, talk of these stories.
I had Sif be silent in order to further illustrate Loki's abilities; in my mind, he would be capable of understanding her thoughts and even delighting in them. There's certainly suggestions for this in the movie, based upon visual cues.
I sincerely hope you enjoyed this little drabble!