It is a truth universally acknowledged that a sorcerer bereft of sentiment is a sorcerer impotent of magic.
And this, apparently, was lost not on one Loki Laufeyson.
For never, not once in all of his traverses of many stars, many Realms, many pathways hidden to so very many souls, did he believe himself to be capable of want (other than the rather obvious want for power).
Sif stared at him at the table.
Jane Foster nibbled her bread.
Thor was sitting churning the scene in his mind.
He could not believe, refused, in fact, to listen to Jane and her silly assurance that everything was going to be alright. It wasn't going to be alright, for she had absolutely no idea what she was in for.
He looked at Loki.
Loki looked at him.
Was that a hint of a smug smile?
"You, brother, have enchanted her mind," whispered the thunderer.
"I have done no such thing."
"You have, for what other reason…?"
"What reason, indeed? Has it never occurred to you that there is something precious in me? Something, I might add, you once claimed to see, but now in the wake of much heartache, you've fallen blind to?"
Thor stood. "She does not love you, Loki!"
"I do," whispered Jane.
The massive man whipped his frame in the direction of the assurance. "How? How can you?"
"I just do," was her reply. Soft, but firm.
Thor relaxed his taut muscles.
He slackened his grip on the table.
He realized that though he thought he loved this tiny creature, love was surely a reciprocating enterprise, and if her love was so fallible, so changeful, perhaps he, too, didn't love her as he thought.
He left the hall.
"Well, Jane. That was much more pleasant than I had imagined it to be," said Loki, with a hint of victory.
"It's not over yet," she replied.
"No…but it will be easier henceforth," and he stood, and went to her, pulled her chair out, and took her hand.
They too, left the grand hall, whispering words of adoration and playful suggestion.
And Lady SIf was there, left in the wake of the scene, static and its cadence rising like steam in the aftermath.
Even without Jane Foster's love, he still remained blind to her.
And Sif, with a sob, said to no one in the room save the empty plates and chairs, "How do you stop loving someone when they've stopped loving you?"
But even that, she thought, was not entirely true…the whisper of love in the heat of the black of night was something she had since convinced herself she had heard. And that one night, just before he was banished to Midgard, was a solemn swan song, a painful curse, a want preserved…
One night did not a commitment make.
And Sif felt it acutely.
She rose from the table.
She felt her armor in its steel glory.
And she commenced what she did best.
Ignore her heart in favor of friendship with the Thunder God.