The air in the grand realm of ever-golden Asgard proves pleasantly crisp in the bright afternoon sun, a favorable set of conditions for all under its province, regardless of who they are or what they might seek to do. It is a day that Loki thinks would be most profitably spent training rather than studying indoors; perhaps he would take some time to practice his dagger wielding tricks or work the extra hours to get all that closer to claiming complete mastery of his aim with the throwing knives.
Loki makes his way down to the training grounds, magicking away the scroll that he had just been holding with a fluorescent emerald flourish; it's a rather new Midgardian volume detailing strategies and tactics, skillfully making an art of war — something most battle-hungry warriors would either scoff at or forsake in lieu of physical prowess — with its parchment curled and crinkled from countless reads. The old favorite could wait for today, Loki decides; the paragraphs he could very nearly recite needed no more repetition than the old tautology of magic potion and magic spell.
When he arrives at the grounds, the prince is not surprised to find the area already filled with the din and clamor of sparring soldiers, a symphony of swords and steel and bodies being thrown against dirt; it is a cacophony that permeates his every memory of Asgard's grand castle, background music to the everyday of his life. He's used to it, doesn't mind it, and often enough Loki contributes to the clamor, his sporadic tune floating in and out of the melody, always noticeable and always alluring. Those that frequent the training grounds know that the presence of the younger prince is a rare thing, and a few double take when his raven-haired visage approaches; the subsequent takedowns they are met with brings a smirk to Loki's face, reveling in the fatal attention he garners.
His eyes scan the yard idly, not looking for anyone in particular, but looking nonetheless. He spots three of his and his brother's companions — they have taken to calling themselves the Warriors Three in a feat of extraordinary creativity — but not the eldest prince himself. Thor is currently at afternoon lessons with their tutor today, lessons Loki has very effortlessly escaped. The topic his brother is forced to study, Loki had already studied thoroughly on his own, and with an unrestrained smirk and his head held high, he recited the entire post-text note of the tutor's chosen textbook and sauntered off from their gaping, affronted face; the tutor did not call him back and Loki suspects their mother might be forced to find a new one within the week, the only consequence of this afternoon's spectacle he might vaguely regret.
Loki rounds the last corner leading to the steps that go down into the training grounds when his eyes catch a flash of silver and onyx and he pauses by the railing. His eyes lock on Sif's agile form, the way she maneuvers through the air with a predatory grave, and and he might just be a little transfixed. He shouldn't be surprised that she's here, on the training grounds; the sandy setting is practically her second home, but he's admittedly surprised to see her. It has been nearly two weeks since the incident with her hair, cut off in a fit of childish jealousy of her and Thor and their asinine, matching hair. He doesn't know if it's been her that's avoiding him or him that's avoiding her, but where Sif stands, he finds he can no longer see the charming, nimble golden haired princess of swords he always used to see.
Now, she looks like a true warrior — bold and harsh and so strikingly undeniable — and Loki doesn't know how to look at her anymore, doesn't know how to explain away the new tightness in his chest that accompanies the all-too-familiar magnetizing tug of her presence. Her hair doesn't catch the rays of sunlight like woven gold any longer, but her new dark hair doesn't make the lethal shieldmaiden any less enthralling. The strands are dark as Loki's own hair, sheared off in a single stroke and stained midnight by the enchanted blade that now lies like a war prize on the highest shelf of Sif's room. Her hair falls around her face in a flurry of dark, feather-like tufts, just below her ear. It flies freely as she fights, easily falling in and out of her face with her deft movements, and if ever there were a time she looked more deathly graceful, Loki could not think of it.
With a loud thud, a hum of metal cutting through air, the Lady Sif's sparring partner falls to the ground, a blade pointed at his throat as Sif grins down at him, asking if he yields. He responds in affirmation and her smile grows as she helps him up, mouth pleasantly curving as she thanks him for the fight. She lowers her sword, wiping sweat off her brow and flipping her unruly hair out of her face in one fluid motion — a movement Loki can't help but watch in mesmerized fascination. His emerald eyes tear themselves away before she can notice her silent observer and he turns his gaze away, lifting himself onto the stone ledge and conjuring his scroll, eyes boring into it as if it was the most interesting thing in the world.
Sif returns to her matches, unaware of any secretive eyes on her, and Loki robotically unfurls a bit more the scroll he isn't reading. Sif spars anew with Fandral this time, somehow managing to smile amiably at her friend before proceeding to attempt to strike him mercilessly with her glaive. Loki forces his eyes to scan across the parchment in a sweep any would put off as pure entrenchment in the tome, but his eyes roam a bit too far, ending up on the dark haired maiden. She's quick on her feet, able to step around the speedy parries of his long sword with finesse, and ducks beneath his wide swings with a twist and a low kick that makes her short hair flutter.
His tome lies forgotten on his lap, the ruse of feigning attention to its words long since abandoned, no matter how interesting the book once proved to be. It isn't quite so interesting anymore, of course, easily paled by the blur of dark hair in the midst of a spinning kick and the arch of a smooth back as a swinging sword is lithely dodged. Something in her dynamism fixes every last ounce of his attention on her, makes his chest feel both constricted and light as something in him patters.
Fandral steps back from the thrust of her glaive, a mistake, it proves, as she follows the movement through and catches his ankle before he even finishes placing his foot down; he falls to the ground with no grace to spare and Sif's foot planted firmly down on his chest. Her blade hovers above his face and he's cross-eyed looking at it.
"Do you yield?" she asks, wicked grin glinting with well-earned triumph. Fandral chuckles, nodding at her.
"Any more losses by your blade and we may need to find you an entirely new class of sparring partner, Lady Sif," he comments half-jokingly, managing to still sound jovial while worming out from under foot and sword.
Sif meets his gaiety with a warmer grin and the other two thirds of the Warriors Three join in the light laughter. Volstagg's eyes finds Loki's from where he perches watching the four, and before the prince can avert his gaze, the warrior's voice booms across the yard.
"Why not have our dear friend, Prince Loki, come join for a spar?" he suggests in reply to Fandral's previous comment. "Why, hardly does he come down to these training grounds, so his class no doubt stands different to those here!"
Four pairs of eyes are on him and Loki meets only one of them. Hazel eyes shine with challenge and yearn for a fight meant only for him; he can feel the simmering cauldron of confusion and anger stoked by the incident two weeks ago, and he can hear her unspoken challenge, too: is that class of yours worse, just like your constant absence implies, or are you better?
He hops off the ledge with silent grace, magically swapping his scroll for his favorite dagger, and struts over to join them with a prematurely smug smirk on his face. He walks as if he's already won, the flash of annoyance in Sif's eyes only fueling his demeanor.
Fandral pushes himself into a sitting position on the dusty ground, grinning unaffectedly at the others from his low vantage point. "Ah, so the elusive trickster deigns to come out from his cave," he jokes, but no one seems to hear him. Loki completely ignores him, pointedly stepping over his outstretched legs as he approaches the group.
"A spar, you say?" Loki echoes smoothly, twirling his dagger in one hand. "Against the skillful Lady Sif? Why, I hardly think I could stand a chance against one of her prowess." He eyes her from the side, a shameless scan from toe to head, and the anger that flashes in her eyes and tightens her fingers around her sword pulls his smirk higher.
"False words of flattery will get you nowhere in a fight, Silvertongue," Sif bites, already tensed for battle. Loki remains relaxed as ever, placing an empty hand over his chest in mock hurt.
"Do you accuse me of lying?" he asks in affront, mouth trained into frown but eyes alight with glee. "Why, Lady Sif, never to you!"
Her glare hardens, and Loki doesn't even have the time to laugh at her predictability before she lunges at him much faster than he expected. He barely dodges her tackle, and the other three jump back in surprise themselves, Fandral scrambling backwards in an admittedly hilarious fashion. Loki loses the blasé posture immediately, twirling his dagger into the appropriate position and sliding his feet into a battle ready stance. Sif meets his level gaze with fiery eyes, and he briefly feels the horrible twist of his stomach her enemies must feel when faced with that glare. He pushes it down as soon as it appears, and Sif swings her sword at him, slicing through the air with a metallic hum.
Loki swiftly catches her blade with his own, stifling the force behind her swing and redirecting it above him. He steps in, aiming a punch at her abdomen, only to have her slam her blade down and force him to jump back before risking decapitation. A glance at her eyes shows only a raging fire, and he wonders if she uses a dulled sword for practice or leaves her weapons in battle-ready condition like he does. For the sake of his skin, he hopes her blade is dulled.
They continue fighting, for how long, Loki doesn't keep track, only concentrates on keeping her sword away from his valued limbs, and dances around her attacks, waiting for an opportune moment to strike. She doesn't seem overly exhausted yet, even with all the previous spars under her belt, but he can see the sweat trailing down her face, curling over her cheekbones and catching at her chin. Her hair flows with her in a flurry of onyx strands as she twirls and turns, and he's lying if he thinks it isn't strangely captivating, if she isn't strangely captivating.
A downward kick at his arm tears Loki's thoughts from him; he dodges enough to escape a broken bone, but the heel of her boot still scrapes at his flesh under his tunic, leaving an errant sting on his skin. He focuses his attention solely on the fight, on Sif, and shakes off the slight tremor of his pulse at the shake of her hair as her missed kick crashes to the ground.
He steps behind her, ever a master of speed, and steps in to bring an elbow to her head, only to be stopped by the twirl of her hair and the sudden jolt of bone against bone as she intercepts him with her forearm. Chrysolite eyes latch onto ochre ones for a moment, and then Sif shoves Loki away. She leaps into a jumping kick as soon as he is the right distance away, and Loki doesn't have the time to evade. He puts his arm up, taking the brunt of her kick, and stumbles to the side before regaining his bearings. Loki looks up in time to see another spinning kick aimed for his head and he ducks underneath it, using the half second it takes for Sif to plant both her feet back on the ground to lunge at her sword hand and knee her in the wrist.
Her grip around the sword loosens, Loki twists and extends his leg to add a blow to her shoulder, and Sif takes it with a grunt, her sword slipping out of her fingers. He lets a moment of accomplishment wash over him, but it's quickly broken as Sif's newly freed arm curls back and catches his calf, tugging him off balance while she simultaneously grabs her sword from midair with the other hand. Loki's weight is forced forward and up, and he loses footing on his only grounded limb, tumbling to the ground. Sif's eyes flash with triumph as he falls, and he lets them; the shock evident on her features when he rolls backwards and back into a fighting position are all the more satisfactory afterward.
Sif readies herself anew, and he makes to feint left only to be interrupted by the clanging of a loud bell. They both break eye contact with each other for a moment, searching the grounds for the source of the noise. Everyone else in the yards stops and stares, too, and when a messenger runs past, shouting that the warriors were back from Vanaheim, a different brand of clamor erupts, one of joyous shouts and worried whispers.
"Back so early!" Fandral exclaims, picking himself up and sheathing his weapon. "I heard they were not to return until later this eve."
"Aye," Hogun agrees, nodding sagely. "Here's to hoping they bring glad tidings of victories won and enemies slain."
"Glad tidings indeed!" Volstagg chimes. "Surely they bring many grand tales, bound to make a joyous occasion of the feast to be held in their honor."
Sif and Loki lock eyes, both momentarily unsure of what was to become their fight when already, warriors and friends alike were sheathing their weapons in an eager rush to go greet the conquering heroes. There's a flurry about them, bodies filtering out of the dusty grounds in a mindless, confusing storm, and soon, the two dark haired fighters are all that are left glued to the ground in the middle of an empty training yard. They're both a bit dumbfounded, Loki's eyes darting around the grounds as if he isn't sure what just transpired was real and Sif's gaze flickering critically between the trickster and the empty yard. The silence weighs heavily on the frozen two, and when their eyes meet up once more, Sif resolves to finish what she had started, swinging her sword once more at her sparring partner.
Loki's eyes widen and he barely manages to escape the arc of her blade. He's subsequently met with her fist to his face and her knee to his gut and staggers back a few feet, fully utilizing the infinite amount of space he has just been granted to curve around his stomach and spit out blood.
"That was for my hair," she sniffs at him, as if she had planned it all along. "I've been meaning to do that."
He takes the time of her bragging to reform his expression, wiping the surprise off his face and replacing it with his most infuriating smirk. He tilts his head up at her, wiping away blood with the back of his hand.
"Is that all your severed strands wish to say to me?" he quips, straightening his posture and ignoring the groan of protest his torso aims at him. "If that be the case, perhaps I should have cut off more, if only so their wrath might feel of some significance."
His response gets the reaction he was hoping and Sif yells as she charges at him. He bites back laughter at her simplicity, her predictability when provoked, and effortlessly trips her mid-charge, twisting her sword arm behind her until the ligaments no doubt scream and holding her tightly against him, knife poised by her throat.
"I can't say the so-called wrath of your fallen hair is quite deserving of my fear," he chuckles mockingly, and her muscles tense, thirsting to attack, to lash out, but stuck in a position that ultimately prevents it. "Now, do you yield, my Lady?" he whispers right by her ear, and the tense of her body quickly shifts into a stiffened alarm. Loki can hear hear holding her breath, the action bringing an amused quirk to his lips, but she doesn't respond, still as unmoving as a stone in his hold.
"Never," she finally hisses, jutting her head back to collide with his nose as she flings his dagger out of his grip and spins out of his hold. She gives him no time to counter, reintroducing her knee to his stomach and sweeping him off his feet. He crashes to the ground surely this time, not able to even roll back to his feet before she has his legs trapped between her own and her glaive hovering above his jugular. From this distance, he can tell her sword is, in fact, not dulled, and he forces his gaze off the threatening metal. Loki's chrysolite eyes eyes find Sif instead, and he can't be sure if that's really a better alternative. Her dark hair floats down from her face, framing her strong jaw perfectly, and the few pieces that hang in front of her eyes make his fingers twitch with an urge to brush them away that makes his heart ache. It's unfair how she looks so much more right in dark hair than he does, the thought distracting him until he sees her mouth start to move and feels her heavy breath on his face snap him back to reality.
"Why did you do it?" she demands, and his pre-prepared repetition of her never dies in his throat. Loki gawks up at her, mouth half open in a reply he no longer has. Her ochre eyes bore into his, and underneath the inevitable anger that burns in them, he's surprised to see confusion, absolutely shocked to see the painful betrayal that hides underneath everything else. She's talking about her hair again, and the minute surprise that flickered across his face is automatically displaced by a smirk.
"Why do I need a reason?" he responds, mimicking her tone, meeting her intense look with an decidedly apathetic one of his own. The fleeting afterthought that his words might have come off as defensive reaches him too late, and Loki blames it on the sharp metal against his throat, on the blood flooding through his head and the rushed beating in his chest.
"Because while Loki always plays many tricks," she replies, pressing her sword closer to his throat, "never does he shy away from the topic afterward, avoiding it with something suspiciously akin to regret." The metal is frigid pressed against his skin, her gaze is harsh delving into his own, and the prince shivers, from which of the two he knows not. He is sure it's the sword.
"I am hardly shying away from it," he scoffs, eyes trained more on the sword than on Sif. "If it pleases the Lady so, I'd be more than overjoyed to comment on her new appearance."
Sif opens her mouth, no doubt to argue, to attribute more faults to him, more accusations, but Loki decides he is having none of it and barrels on without once again reaching her eyes.
"If you were to ask me, the Lady Sif looks more akin to a raven now," he recites, haughtily and forcibly, with only the smallest undertone of bitterness. Offense grows on Sif's face with his every word, but Loki is intent on ignoring it all in favor of his speech. "In fact, her short hair can easily cause her to be mistaken as a man from behind, especially considering her daily choice in attire. She can hardly claim to be lady like, never mind ever being compared to the grandiose Valkyries of Valhalla any longer. Without her golden hair, she also does not appear as an absolutely asinine matched set with the Prince Thor, as so many idiots seem to claim."
His last comment is tinged with an all-too-present acerbity, something that does not evade Sif's notice; she opens her mouth to interrupt, but his tirade proves vigorous and she barely has the chance to fruitlessly utter his name before he rants on, eyes squeezed shut in concentration.
"Along with the loss of a few pointless titles, the Lady's visage can no longer be likened to the golden city she so adores. She still proves eye-catching, though, no matter her appearance," he rambles pointlessly, unconsciously pulling from his thoughts of her earlier. He's lost in the words, just letting them leave his mouth as they pop up, but knowing resolutely that he doesn't want to let Sif get a word in, not when he's determined to beat her down with words alone. "The rather bland title of the demure princess of swords hardly seems to fit her countenance any more, but that hardly matters when she looks all the more like a fierce warrior now. When she fights, it's terrifying and mesmerizing at the same time, and I don't know why, but I don't know how to look at her anymore; she was pretty before, but now she's so beautiful."
Loki hears the words leave his mouth, and his eyes immediately fly open. The first thing he sees is the sword no longer pressed against his throat, and the second is wide hazel eyes swirling with confusion and something softer that makes his heart leap into his throat and leaves him unable to speak. Sif stares down at him, catches the panic that flashes in his eyes at his absent confession, the way his mouth searches emptily for excuses to rescind his words; she only finds voice enough to whisper, a little bit awestruck and a little bit breathless, "Is that true, Loki?"
His eyes look anywhere but Sif's own and his mouth closes; he bites at the inside of his cheeks like he always does as he can't find the right response in the midst of his nervousness, and when eyes like chrysolite, beautifully green and clear, cautiously flit up to meet hers, she finds the answer she's looking for.
Loki doesn't know when it happens, but he finds himself back on his feet with Sif's fingers wrapped around his own, staring at their closely held digits for a moment before looking to her face. She sheathes her glaive, determinedly not taking note of their hand-holding situation, but the light roseate of her cheeks matches that of Loki's face, if not a bit less pronounced than the prince's own.
"We're hopelessly late in greeting the party back from Vanaheim," she states awkwardly, and Loki doesn't reply.
"Come on, then. Let's go!" she insists, tugging at his hand. Snapping back to his senses, Loki shifts his hand so their fingers can intertwine, adopting a small smirk when Sif seeks out his gaze curiously. She's silhouetted by the slowly setting sun, her dark hair accentuated by the citrine backdrop, and Loki allows himself a moment's observance before he turns himself forward.
"If that was your definition of going, we'll never get anywhere," he repartees smoothly, dragging her along behind him as he heads off in the direction of the gates. She follows quickly after him, squeezing his hand tightly in her own. She allows a warm grin to grace her features, curtained partly by the fall of her hair, then bolts forward, taking his position at the front.
"I believe this better suits my definition of going!" she shouts, dragging him into a sprint beside her. He catches sight of her grin as she dashes past, and with a similar one on his own face, Loki races Sif down the streets of Asgard, neither letting go of the other's hand the entire trip through.