Disclaimer: I don't own Thor, 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.
God And Devil
A/N: Alternate events.
This woman is not at all like the others. Not soft or warm in disposition, nor frighteningly stunning in appearance. She is even, on occasion, quite the vulgar, spewing wild profanities from those pale lips. If she has any grace it all, it is with a blade. A blade that, any fool can see, she wishes to drive right through him.
"Did you not hear me?" he says, mocking her. "I said, we're done."
Lady Sif stands tall in her defiance, daring him to force her away. Her hands tremble slightly, fingers seeming to slip closer to the hilt of her blade. Though her face does not betray the emotion, the woman clearly seethes.
"You are not my king," she spits, and Loki quivers.
She infuriates him, not at all in defiance, but in her air, in the way she openly weighs him and his brother upon her gilded scales. In yet another's eyes, he falls far below Thor. Oh, how that eats away at him.
Loki stands, fingers curled around Gungnir, a feigned smile upon his face as he takes to the stairs. Sif remains still, only her eyes moving, smoldering, as he comes to stand before her. How clearly she hates him, wishes it were he on Midgard and not Thor.
"A shame that you have no say in the matter," he teases, sweeping around her. "And, even if you did, there is no one in Asgard worthy and able to protect my dear father's throne... save the god seen before you now."
Sif turns on him, a cry tearing itself from her throat. "Were it not for you," she hisses, "Asgard would be in the hands of a true king; a god rather than a devil!"
"You think I do not mourn my brother's absence," Silvertongue replies, taking her chin in a hand. She tenses, wishing to strike his arm away. "As I have said: I love Thor more dearly than any of you. Of course you could not hope to understand..."
"Were it not for that fork in your tongue, perhaps I could believe the lies you try to feed."
Loki smiles. "Such a shame, Lady Sif, that you mistake my sincerity as but a lie..." The warrior wrenches herself from his grasp, and he turns away. "I do hope you'll excuse me," the devil replies, "but I must see to my mother. She has not been well since the Odinsleep began."
He can feel her anger as it radiates across the room, the white hot needles of her gaze chasing swiftly after him. That amused smile is prolonged as she shouts:
"You lying bastard! What right have you to speak of love, of Asgard, when a stolen throne is what you hold?!"
It matters not what she thinks. Both know his mother will not help her; her friends cannot help her. With precious Thor banished to Midgard, she has no one to help cast him down in blood. The truth of Lady Sif's words have no hope with which to stop him now.
For he is king, and king he shall remain.