Enchantments
For all the years he'd spent in Thor's shadow, Loki had managed to equal him in one respect: he could have any woman he wanted. Any goddess of Asgard, any enchantress of Vanaheim, any fair mortal in Midgard. Even Freyja in all her haughty pride had not been able to resist him when he focused his will toward winning her…and his form to one she didn't recognize.
In truth, he was choosy and not particularly promiscuous. His pleasure derived more than anything in perfecting his allure, in recognizing the moment that he knew he had won, that the object of his desire would do anything he wished.
But Sif was a case apart. She was friendly, but just enough. She responded to his charms with an eye-roll. If he really asserted himself, it might be accompanied by a wry smile. It seemed she would never truly forgive him for the prank on her hair, even though the dark color much improved her looks, in his opinion.
Besides which, her eyes and heart had ever been for Thor. And he had no intention of directly competing with his brother in this particular arena.
So it was that he blinked in confused astonishment when she approached him in the tavern on that cold winter night, a challenge in her eyes and a slight wobble in her stride. He'd taken a table in an inconspicuous corner, where he could sip on his spiced wine in anonymity and amuse himself listening to the chatter of the drunkards. He'd chosen this place precisely for its tiny, dank insignificance; nobody he knew came here.
Yet here she was. In her shapeless tunic, long loose breeches, and plain brown cloak, he hadn't noticed her. "Loki!"
Her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed, but stranger still was the smile she wore, as though genuinely happy to see him. Was she drunk?
"Sif," he replied, wary.
She pulled a chair over from a nearby table and sat down across from him without asking permission. "What brings you to this filthy hole?" she asked amiably.
Any other night, he'd have welcomed such a stunning development - Sif, seeking him out? It was unprecedented. But on this night he was tired, and full of melancholy, and in no mood to battle wits or rise to bait. Loki shrugged a shoulder, for once unable to muster a properly droll response.
Her eyes flicked over his face, her expression sobering as she nodded. "I suppose we all have need of drink and solitude at times," she observed. "Shall I leave you?"
No. But he shrugged again, and kept his face impassive. "As you like."
She hummed thoughtfully and took another drink from her mug. "Well," she sighed as she brought it back down, her eyes on his. "I myself was in search of company. But I shouldn't want to intrude." She made a move to push her chair back.
"It's no intrusion," he said quickly. He picked up his own goblet and drained the last of his wine, studying her over the rim.
With a lifted eyebrow and half-smile, she settled back down in her chair. Observing his empty cup, she made a motion toward the barkeep. "Another?"
He winced. In truth, he'd planned to leave after this one. He had neither the taste nor the tolerance for drink that Thor and his friends shared, and he was already warm enough. He disliked the sensation of dulling his wits too much.
She nodded understanding. "I'm close to my limit as well. Perhaps you would help me finish mine?" She pushed her cup across the table.
Bah! Sif the Shieldmaiden had no limits. But the barb died on his lips as Loki gazed back at her.
She was beautiful, to be sure. But it wasn't her beauty that unnerved him. He was accustomed to beauty, surrounded by beauty; Sif was not even the most beautiful of the goddesses. No, it was the friendly concern in her clear hazel eyes, the sultry half-smile that spoke of…desire?
Impossible. She was up to something.
"If it please you." He flashed his customary smirk, but his throat was dry and his voice cracked slightly. He took the mug in both hands, barely letting the liquid touch his lips before giving it back.
She stared into his changeable eyes, fascinated as they darkened from their deep blue, to violet, to brightest emerald, and back again. She'd spied him brooding in the corner the moment she sat down at the bar, and was surprised and not a little affronted when his eyes passed over her without recognition. Twice! True, she was not dressed in her finest, and her hair was hidden under the hood of her cloak, but it stung her pride nevertheless. Was she so invisible even to the one who observed everyone?
Did the true source of her frustration have anything to do with the fact that Thor had left the dining hall with Eydis, the captain of the palace guard's daughter?
Possibly.
On nights such as this, when hope was particularly lacking, she would seek out a lover. She hadn't expected to see anyone she knew here, much less Loki. Who didn't even recognize her.
On the other hand, it was a rare opportunity to observe him unnoticed.
Such an enigma, Thor's brother. So different. Too clever by half. At once the funniest and saddest person she'd ever met. Chin in hand, his gaze rested upon a table full of boasting drunkards playing dice, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere. It was the distant melancholy in his eyes that had captured her notice. It made her wonder what had put it there…and how she might remove it.
Loki had never shown any interest in her, though. He teased, he tormented, he mocked, but he didn't flirt. Not with her.
She'd always been proud that he never tried to turn his charms on her, considering it a sign of respect, until a recent dinner. For three hours she watched a tipsy Lady Inka leaning into his shoulder, practically drowning in his eyes as she stroked his forearm. Loki did not like anyone in his personal space. It was one of the things she knew about him, a certainty. Yet there he was, laughing and smiling with that silly horse-faced halfwit, letting her touch him, and Sif felt an inexplicable surge of something like resentment.
Why not me?
At last she broke his gaze with a small smile. "You never drink with me," she remarked idly, bringing the drink to her lips to hide her face as she took another draught.
"You've never asked me," he pointed out.
"Nor have you," she countered, pushing the mug back across the table to him.
He smiled, just enough to acknowledge the point. He traced a thumb over the rim of the mug but did not pick it up. "Where are your friends?"
"Still at the feast." She waved a hand, grimacing at the memory.
"Whyever would you leave them," he drawled with a smirk. He, too, had seen Thor with Eydis.
She gave him a long, hard look, which he returned with an expression of pure innocence. "They're not just my friends," she changed the subject. "They're your friends too."
A faint smile touched his lips. "Of course."
"They are," she insisted. "We are all your friends. Any one of us would lay down our lives for you."
He barked a short, mirthless laugh. "For Thor, you mean."
She met his gaze squarely. "I mean for you, Loki."
An uneasy feeling rippled up his spine. She seemed so…sincere.
His heart beat faster, telling him to get out of there, now, now. He threw her a courteous smile as he pushed back his chair. "A lovely sentiment, thank you. But if you don't mind, it's late…I should be going."
"Loki, wait." She reached across the table to lay her hand on his. He froze, stunned first by the gesture, then by the unexpected warmth of her skin. "Is it so hard to believe you have friends?" she asked softly.
He said nothing, staring down at the grooves that scarred the wooden table under their hands.
She slid her fingers down along his and gently turned his hand over to stroke his palm with her thumb. "Come and talk with me a while. Somewhere nicer than this wretched place." Her voice was soft, rich with invitation.
He felt as if he might spontaneously combust. Was she seducing him? Was it a trick? Her face was serene, her clear hazel eyes filled with warmth and yearning.
"If it please you," she added, with a quirk of the eyebrow and a playful smile. She pulled her hand back, trailing her fingers across his palm and down his fingertips until she finally drew away and picked up her mug.
Her touch lingered on his skin. He licked his lips, opened his mouth to reply, and found he had no voice.
He nodded, once, just barely enough to indicate his assent.
Sif tossed her long hair over her shoulder, drained the last of the mead in one long draught, and pulled her cloak up over her head. Without a word she rose to her feet and headed for the door. She did not look back, but extended her right hand behind her, beckoning him to follow.
Loki leapt to his feet and went after her.
~~~~~
Thanks for reading! I'm not sure where I'm going with this, to be honest; just enjoying the thrill of writing characters I love. Feedback is appreciated.