actual chapter title: the "i'm not in the mood for your stupid games" game
It has been a while since Sif last had to attend any grand ceremony of Asgard. At least, one that was not a ceremony celebrating a grand victory she had been a part of. But alas, the initiation of new warriors into the esteemed ranks of the Einherjar is not an occasion to be taken lightly, especially since only the few and greatest warriors of the crop were even allowed to choose the path of royal palace guard.
Sif does not remember the last ceremony, for she had been absent visiting her family that time, nor the previous one, for she had been nursing wounds in the infirmary from a battle gone wrong during that time. In fact, Sif isn't quite sure of the last time she had attended such an event in her fine silks and made-up hair. Somehow, she'd been able to escape the stifling fineries and proprieties for quite some years now. And yet, it seems her luck has reached an end, for Sif is now sitting in her chambers, legs folded atop her bed as she stares across the room at the only two situationally appropriate gowns she owns.
They hang on her wall, right over where her sword and shield always perch, and she can see the outlines of her beloved weapon forming hills and mesas where the delicate fabrics of her dresses lay draped. There is a frown on her lips, just as there is an irreparable gash along the skirt of her brown and gold gown from when she tripped at Thor's name day fest an unmemorable number of moons ago, and a vivid blotch of mahogany on her silver gown from when some oaf had bumped into her with a wine goblet at whatever event she last wore that gown at.
Situationally appropriate as the gowns were, now they are no longer proper to wear to a royal banquet and Sif curses many things under her breath. For one, she scowls at her past self for being too exhausted to remember to correctly dispose of her dresses after those nights. She also swears at the ceremony for being so inescapably close — only a day away — not nearly enough time for her to make some suitable excuse or to adequately injure herself. Not that she really was a fan of the second option. And last but certainly not least, she curses and swears at and promises to punch Loki because he had asked offly if she had adequate wear for the initiation ceremony the following evening because he and Thor were required to get fitted and she was welcome to come if she needed help getting a gown, too. He had this unreadable look in his eyes, something hiding behind his mask of indifference, but Sif stubbornly told him that she did not require his help and he could bugger off because she had a dress. Two, in fact, and she sauntered off as he nodded in acquiesce.
Sif scowls at that past self, too, because her two gowns turned out to be none, and she couldn't very well show up in her armor. It wasn't even her own initiation ceremony — she had chosen the path of shieldmaiden at that time, even if she was top of her class at the Academy — and if she showed up in full armor, Loki would know she had fibbed about her clothing situation and he'd doubtless let her live it down for a while. A smug Loki on top of this nigh-chauvinistically chivalrous Loki she already has would probably only take centuries off her life as it is. Sif rather wanted to keep those centuries.
With a large sigh, she falls down into the plush of her bed, legs sprawling out lazily. Perhaps she can find Thor and ask if he and his brother had gone to their fitting yet. He would let her tag along without question, she would be able to get her gown, and if Loki were to ask, she could say that Thor had invited her and she decided that if both Princes had asked her, she couldn't say no.
In fact, that's what she is going to do! With a renewed determination, Sif leaps up and races out of her room, heading in the direction of Thor's quarters. She is halfway there when she catches sight of the prince in question.
"Thor!" she calls.
"Sif!" he stops, turning to face her with a smile. "Is there trouble afoot?" he follows, tone growing serious for a second.
"No," the woman reassures, "All remains well. I was simply wondering whether you and Loki had attire for the Einherjars' initiation ceremony in tomorrow," she explains casually.
The blond nods in understanding, smile returning. "My brother and I have just returned from our fitting, though your valiant concern for us is well appreciated, my friend. I take it you will be joining us, too, no? It feels like too long since you've attended the initiations with us, always away on some business or other come the eve of celebration!" He chuckles amably, and Sif smiles despite the small disappointment at the fall-through of her plan.
"Worry not, my friend, I will be attending this time," she confirms, and her friend beams.
"Wonderful! Now, I have previous arrangement with Hogun and Volstagg to attend, but I shall see you then, Sif."
She nods, smiling as warmly as she can, and by the time Thor rounds the corner, her cheeks ache. The expression drops with a heavy sigh and Sif crosses her arms, wondering what her next move is. A normal tailor wouldn't be able to get her a whole new gown in time, but she had missed her only window to get one done by the royal seamstresses. She wonders how well her hair might hide the wine stain on her silver gown if she wore it down, but Sif is suddenly startled by a voice in her ear: a smooth, "Is something troubling you, my lady?"
With a start, Sif spins around, kicking her victim away and grabbing the knife from her boot before grappling them by the neck and holding her blade to their throat. The adrenaline of her instinctive attack fades away as the familiar scent of magic and fading winter fills the air. The low chuckle is even more familiar, rumbling against her chest as she presses his back against herself.
"Why, Sif," he practically purrs, and his voice makes her freeze with grace of a startled animal, heart suddenly trying to burst out of her chest. It's a different adrenaline than before, this one stiffening her limbs and emptying her mind. She's sure it's terror that has her — terror of what, Sif doesn't know but just knows it can't be him — and it is that feeling that prevents her from stopping him as he carefully pushes her blade away so he can twist around and face her. His eyes are glinting and his breath is warm on her face and her very being screams danger! while all she does is remain frozen under his gaze.
"If you needed a gown so badly, I hardly think offing me is the solution," he murmurs with those glimmering eyes, and the jibe, if not the rumble of his voice, snaps Sif out of her stupor, banishing the racing pulse of her blood in her ears as she steps back, snarls at him.
"Do that again, Loki, and we'll see if your head really will trade well for a gown. I doubt it, of course, what with all the hot air that seems to fill it," she bites, sliding the dagger back into her boot. His smirk doesn't fade as she threatens his life, and she reaffirms insufferable as a key word to describe the man before her.
"Do what again?" he questions innocuously, and suddenly he is behind her, breathing against her ear, "Sneak up on you?" Her heart is a startled hare in her chest, her skin is a fire where he has breathed on it, and oh how Sif wants to punch him and leave him for dead on the dirt.
She bellows his name, rears around and grabs his neck, slams his back against the wall and pulls her opposite fist back — she'll blame it on instinct if he decides to needle her later — and somehow, he finds the gall to grin as her palm presses against his windpipe.
"The hallway is hardly an appropriate venue for this," he quips, a lascivious glint to his smile — that sadist, that masochist, that insufferable bastard — and Sif's knuckles settle for Loki's stomach. He doubles over and Sif wastes no amount of prideful satisfaction at the sight. "Or for that," he wheezes under his breath, and Sif pretends to ignore him, brushing her knuckles off on her tunic.
"Yes, sneak up on me," she answers curtly, slowly feeling her mood begin to improve. But then, the reason why she had even left her quarters to begin with reenters her mind, and she has trouble smirking to herself as Loki stands a respectable distance away from her. He looks the same as he always does — easy smirk tugging at his lips and posture impeccable with the ineffable air of sophistication he always exudes. There's no trace that he was just punched terribly in the stomach, a momentary disappointment for Sif, but she relives the memory of him hunched over and bites back the small smile that follows. Eventually, he regains his ability to speak coherently, a fact easily worse than it sounds.
"Alas," is what Loki sighs dramatically, and Sif can feel the groan bubbling up in her throat at the inescapably histrionic speech that is about to follow. "I was simply on my way to locate my flighty brother because the seamstress said she had surplus fabric that she could use to make another garment," here he flashes an annoyingly knowing look at Sif, "but, despite obvious tribulations," another look at Sif, and she begins to feel her knuckles itch again, "it seems he is wont to avoid my seeking. I suppose I'll just tell the seamstress to throw the fabric away. Don't you agree, Lady Sif?"
At his last sentence, he turns his eyes completely toward her, and his smile somehow manages to be both innocuously charming and absolutely vile, a contradiction that fits the trickster almost too well. If Sif even had a moment's consideration in accepting his less-than-subtle offer, the sentiment is instantly shattered.
"I could not care less, in fact," she snaps curtly, voice like cut glass. She hopes her words can cut his ego down for size like glass might, too, but ends up trying not to grind her teeth at how unaffected he remains. "Do what you wish with your fabric troubles; I am in no mood to be playing any more of your exceedingly asinine games, my lord. If I wanted to waste away my spare time with stupid trivialities, there are many more things I could do." She sniffs at him, tilting her head up in defiance, and when Loki remains silent, Sif nearly has the urge to sneak a glance at his expression. Stubbornly, she resists the urge and marches away without a second glance.
She is seething from his insufferable antics and makes her way to the training ground to release some of her frustrations. The way Loki watches her leave with an imperceptible frown is lost to her, but there he stands, staring at her figure with unreadable eyes until she disappears.
