the second summer

i.

The seasons continued their inexorable march, and Sif and her father refused to yield. It was true that they were alike in some ways. Sif would not beg forgiveness when she had done nothing wrong and Stigandr was firm regarding the seriousness of her transgressions. Even Auda — sweet, pleasant Auda — had all but given up. She visited Sif at the palace once a week and stopped mentioning Stigandr during that time in all but the most cursory of fashions. Sif became an expert at avoiding her father's haunts.

Frigg knew, though Sif had not told her directly. Perhaps Thor had or maybe even Heimdall, or perhaps she had simply divined it — with or without her talents. In either case, she did not pry, only offered the same gentle concern and quiet companionship she always had to Sif. And if she was inclined to find things for Sif to do about the palace on occasions when Sif had been quieter or more distant than usual, neither of them spoke of it.

Stigandr had declared her free from burdens and Sif did feel free. She refused to feel anything else. She redoubled the effort she put into her training; before she worked twice as hard as her fellows, now she was three times, four times more diligent. For her efforts, the battlemaster declared to her before anyone else, even Thor, that she was nearly ready. Nearly ready to step onto a true field of battle and not be felled instantly was his specific qualification, but that was his way and everyone recognized the benediction for what it was.

It was easy, then, not to think of her father, though she did think, often, of the night he cast her out. She thought not of Stigandr or her own outburst, his cold declaration or Auda's pleas, but instead of being in the library under the soft light with Loki. She'd thought he might be false in the moment, with his silvered words, playing another of his games. But in the weeks after, and especially in the many months since he'd left Asgard, she'd the distance to reconsider. His face had been soft when he spoke to her and he'd endured her interruption with little complaint. The gentle cadence of his voice had lulled her to sleep and the memory of it never faded. It came to her sometimes late at night in familiar, hazy dreams which she happily let fade upon waking. Sif had not thought she would ever feel better that night, but he had made her feel thus — as if she wasn't alone.

She would never say that she missed him — the strange, funny, little jötunn prince — not least because she had no desire to make him even more arrogant. There was an absence, still, and she felt it, at times so acutely that it staggered her. She did not mention it to Thor, even when he looked wistful himself, and she could see that he was thinking that Loki would enjoy some jest they'd heard or odd thing they'd come upon. Thor would smile at her though, as he did when they were children and shared secrets.

Sif was surprised, yet, the day Thor announced suddenly that Loki was due to return. They'd trekked away from the palace grounds that morning, off into the forest in search of a cave that one of the warriors had told Thor about. Sif felt strongly that Fandral was not worth listening to about such things and many more besides, but Thor was adamant so she went along. They found nothing, of course, and took their lunch beside a noisy stream with sweet, cold water that chased away the heat of the day.

"We should bring Loki here," said Thor. "I think he would like it, though I doubt he'd say so."

"Is he coming back soon?" Sif asked.

"Within the next fortnight," Thor replied brightly. Sif could not account for the rapid beating of her heart, so she filled her mouth with bread.

"Mother and Father confirmed it just yesterday," Thor continued as Sif chewed aggressively. "A party the same size as before with Loki, of course, at its head."

Sif swallowed, the bread a thick lump down her throat. Her pulse had calmed, but she felt an anxiousness grip her. Her teeth itched.

"I wonder if he's grown any," Thor said, between sections of an orange. "You know, huge like a real jötunn."

"He's real enough a jötunn," Sif replied. "I only care if he's grown less insufferable."

Thor chuckled at this, then stood.

"I think I shall get wet," he declared. "To cool the walk back," then he stripped with lightning speed and cast himself into the water.

Sif watched, nerves still strangely frayed, until he splashed her enough that she was forced to join him and dunk his head until he learned better.

Sif offered Frigg her assistance with the preparations a few days later. The queen looked at her with curiosity, but accepted in good faith. There was less to do this time, for there would be no grand banquet or celebration — only dinner much more akin to other evenings, in one of the small halls.

"Our guests found the last a bit… ostentatious," Frigg said as Sif held up a length of cloth for her to examine. Sif could not remember if it was for curtains or bedspreads, but she doubted it would matter overmuch.

"Did they say that?" she asked. Sif could not imagine Loki being openly rude to the queen that way. He was sly and loved to weave layers of meaning into his words, but being ill-mannered without provocation was too common for him. Of all people, Frigg would never give him reason and from what Sif had seen of them, the other Jötnar were not inclined to offer their opinions on much of anything for good or ill.

"Oh, no," Frigg assured her. "They were very polite, but I could tell.

"Darker, I think," she added, and Sif put down the cloth she had been holding and reached for another length in navy.

Frigg eyed it, then scribbled a few things on a scrap of parchment as she spoke. "It's been such a long time since we greeted them as friends. Once, we knew each other. Perhaps not so well as we could have, but now our ways have become foreign to them, and theirs to us.

"So," she said as she marked out measurements on the fabric Sif was holding, "we adjust."

Frigg smiled, but Sif's thoughts were dark as she helped her lay out the cloth for cutting. The illusion of peace, Frigg had said before this all began. Was it still that now? For all the strides they'd made was someone, everyone, still waiting to take up arms again? Sif knew the way some had treated Loki, had looked at him, even after he'd been in Asgard for months. The stories had power. Even over her, who'd liked him in spite of herself from those first days, when she'd pinned him and he hadn't treated it as an insult. It had still been so difficult for her, sometimes, to look at him and think jötunn, for Loki was… a companion, and a jötunn was meant only to be a monster.

"Is it working?" Sif asked Frigg. "All of this, is it working?"

Frigg considered it, the tip of her pencil at her mouth, and scratched out a few more things before she answered.

"It's a start." Her eyes were serious and she looked, all at once, very old. "Every little step is worth something. There's been much hurt on both sides, and there will always be those who are resistant.

"But as long someone keeps taking steps forward, eventually we can begin to heal."

Only beginning to heal seemed so little to ask for that it should take so much. Were they still bleeding? Asgard had never seemed to be. Sif was not alive before the wars, though, so how could she truly know? And she knew so little, almost nothing, of Jötunheimr. What reason had she ever had, before now, to think about it? Perhaps, in the distance, through the stars, it had been hemorrhaging all this time.

The Jötnar arrived while Sif was preparing. The Bifröst lit up the horizon. The affair was not so formal that she needed assistance this time, so Sif dressed herself in a lavender gown and affixed a silver pin to her own hair. The hall was crowded and the guests meant that, once again, Sif would not able to sit with her fellow warriors-in-training or with Thor. Her father had not come. None of it seemed to matter compared to the churning in her stomach and the fluttering in her chest like a thousand tiny birds furiously beating their wings.

She felt tense, as before a fight, when she knew that everything would hinge on the choices she made. It wasn't an appropriate state for dinner, but Sif had little in the way of a solution since she couldn't identify the cause. She was not given to nerves; she never had been. It wasn't until her heart jumped as they entered that she thought to consider it anticipation.

As before, there were guards, sages, and advisors in the procession, but this time Sif's eyes went immediately to Loki. She could not tell if he'd grown. If so, only a small amount as he was still dwarfed by his companions. He'd dressed far better for the weather this time, and the lightest cloak she'd ever seen him in was thrown back from his sleeveless tunic. He had new markings — new adornments, as he'd called them. They swirled along his forearms. He was still very thin.

The royal family waited at their table. Odin nodded his acknowledgment and Frigg bowed, but Thor went to Loki and embraced him like a lost brother. Odin, Frigg, and the Jötnar all stared, alarmed, and at least one of the guards looked ready to pounce. Everyone stood down as Loki lifted one arm and lightly patted Thor on the back. When Thor released him, he straightened himself in an exaggerated manner, running one hand through his curls, but Sif could see how pleased he was.

At the head table, they talked animatedly through most of the night, though Thor looked to Sif often, clearly wishing for her to join them as much as she wished that she could do so. If Loki looked at Sif, he made sure not to do so when she would see him. As she could think of no reason for such subterfuge, she assumed that he had not looked.

She hardly tasted her food and sat wondering why she'd come at all: to sit alone and bored while her best friend carried on lively conversation with a jötunn prince who couldn't be bothered to spare her glance? By the time the hall began to clear and people milled about casually enough that she could get away with approaching them, Sif was no longer certain that she wanted to do so.

The choice was taken from her when the party of Jötnar, as one, excused themselves to their quarters for the night. Sif watched them go — Loki with a last bow to Odin, Frigg, and Thor — her ire rising. She stomped off herself soon after and pretended not to hear Thor calling her name. He would wish to speak of Loki, to tell her what they'd talked about and what he'd done in the time since he'd last been to Asgard, and that was the last thing she wanted to hear.

Sif got back to her room, stripped off her clothes, threw them about, and laid down to sleep before she began to feel silly. She needn't act, a small internal voice said, as if she'd stood all night in a corner, waiting to be asked to dance. Half-buried in her pillow, her face still flushed warm. Should Loki have left his hosts to come sit with her and call her a brute with laughter in his eyes and compare her to something in the stables, to glance at her from under long lashes and wet his thin lips too much when he spoke to her? Perhaps not, she allowed, but a personal greeting would not have been untoward.

Nearly an hour passed before Sif accepted that she wasn't going to sleep. She threw off her bedding and pulled on trousers, rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, and left her room. She was halfway to the library before she acknowledged where she was going and by then it was clearly too late to turn back.

She had not been to the library often since Loki went back to Jötunheimr. Though he'd often said it in jest: it was true that Sif and Thor found little reason to frequent it. The door was unlocked, as she expected it to be. She found him quickly; she knew his favorite sections.

Loki stood staring ponderously at a bookcase, eyes on a shelf a foot above his head where his little conjured ball of light floated, illuminating the titles. The light pulsed blindingly bright for just a heartbeat when Loki noticed her standing there. Its core changed from blue to brilliant white before settling as it floated down to hover near his shoulder. He was already holding two books and Sif noted that the new markings on his forearms crawled all the way up to make complex patterns on the backs of his hands. She wondered what they meant.

Loki stared openly at her, and she felt naked under his gaze, but she would not falter. His free hand hung at his side. He brought it up near to his hip as if to reach into his pocket, but dropped it again after a pause. Then, he looked away.

"You were very rude tonight," Sif said. She meant it to sound flippant, but it came out petulant instead.

"My most sincere apologies, Lady Sif," Loki said, as if she were a stranger, and actually bowed.

"Stuff it, Prince Loki," Sif replied and gave him an exaggerated curtsy. She moved closer and snatched one of his books. Even the title was too densely scientific for her to bother deciphering.

"I think you have a problem," Sif said as she set it back on top of the book he was still holding.

Loki looked at the shelves again, not at her. "Do I?"

"Have you ever considered coming to the library at a normal hour? Or even, just asking to visit it instead of breaking in?" she asked, more determined by the minute to ignore his odd behavior. "What happens if you get caught?"

"I don't plan to get caught," he said mildly as he cracked open a book and scanned a page before re-shelving it.

"No one does," Sif replied.

"If it worries you so," Loki said, "you'd best leave before you're caught up in my crime."

The smirk that accompanied it was familiar — fixed and false. It was the one he used when he wanted to pretend something a jest that he really meant. It briefly drove the breath from her like a hard punch in the stomach.

He wanted her to leave.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked.

"Didn't you just say? I know your memory isn't that poor." He traced one finger along the book spines, searching. Sif grabbed his wrist. She could feel the ridges of his scars against her fingers, smooth under the palm of her hand.

"No," she said. "Really. What's wrong with you?"

Gently, but firmly, Loki pulled his hand away.

"It's very late, is all," he said. He was comparing something in one of the books, now, to a scrap of paper he'd produced covered in Jötnar text.

She wanted to shove him into the bookshelves, knock the books out of his hands, and push him to the floor; pin his hands down and sit on his stomach and stare until he was forced to look at her. Her arms tensed, so too her legs as they ached for her to spring forward. The compulsion clawed in her belly, danced with the roiling heat rising there.

Instead, Sif said, like an invective: "I didn't mean to disturb you."

Then she turned on her heel and left Loki there, alone among the stacks as he'd wished.