A/N: Sif better strap in tight because she's on one Hel of a roller coaster.
If you're not familiar with the Norse myths then I suggest reading at least the wiki info about Loki's children.
Thank you for reading and enjoy!
"How can you be sick in a hall of healers?" Ollerus complained to a now seemingly permanent lump under the blankets.
Sif could only moan and pull the blankets in tighter. Healers had no cure for her condition. The apothecaries' concoctions only treated symptoms, dulling the thud behind her puffy eyes, calming the tempest in her empty gut. There was no herbal mixture that could undo the past, make her a better mother, a better friend, or lover, or whatever she had been to Loki. She didn't even know anymore beyond its beginnings when they simply got tangled in each others sweaty company to burn off the adrenaline of the battlefield.
Those times had been so much easier.
Ollerus sighed impatiently. "Dinner is ready. Again." His voice now echoed down the hall. "Not that you'll eat it."
Yet those times also lacked a particular degree of challenge and reward.
Sif almost found the gumption to giggle at her son's familiar lack of sympathy for her ailments. It was the same treatment she had given him the last time he was sick. In war no one cared if you had a tummy bug, and the sooner she could prep him for the world outside the better.
Especially in light of recent events.
Sif moaned again, wishing it was merely a tummy bug that bound her to this bed. Not the incessant replaying and analyzing of everything that had happened these past few days. Not the dread of what was going to happen when Loki made a move to rightfully claim his child. And especially not the tease of hope that she could ever have an unbroken family, free of bitterness and betrayal.
That was a dream doomed from the start. Doomed by her own lying tongue.
"Sif." Eir appeared in the room, just in time to rescue Sif from another downward spiral of thought. "You need to eat." She set a steaming bowl on the nightstand and took a seat at the edge of the bed.
"What good will it do?" Sif grumbled.
"It will give you the energy to do what you need to do." Eir's voice was hard, lecturing, another example of the distinct lack of sympathy in this temple.
Sif sighed, her tone petulant even through the muffle of the covers. "And what is it I need to do?" She preferred to think that Eir didn't know the extent of her troubles, that the elder hadn't found Sif doubled over next to the river in a mess of tears, mud, and bawling confession of her encounter with Loki. That she was just as ignorant to Sif's failings as a mother as Ollie was.
"Go to him." Eir yanked the blankets down so she could pierce Sif with her most adamant stare. "Apologize. Set the wheels in motion to mend your wounded family."
Sif squinted at Eir with an ugly expression.
"There will not be a better time," Eir continued. "Loki isn't lost, or exiled, or in a cell."
"But it's only a matter of time before he will be," Sif argued.
"That may be. But we don't know for certain. Perhaps being a father to a boy like Ollerus, rather than a brood of demons, will be his redemption."
"No, no, no." Sif covered her ears.
"What is this childish display?" Eir barked.
"I won't believe that." Sif leaned her head in her hands, fingers streaking through tangled hair. "I couldn't bear Ollie's heartache."
"You cannot protect him forever. It's better that you unite the two in a peaceful environment than risk it happening in the courts, or on a battlefield."
"Why does it need to happen at all?" That was a weak argument and Sif knew it.
"Don't be daft." Eir made a grim face. "You know as well as I do this is the right thing to do, no matter the unforeseen outcome. Ollie may indeed have his heart broken but let it be Loki that does it and not his mother." She leaned in, placing her hand on Sif's and quieting her voice. "We've seen first hand the detrimental effects of prolonged deception in a family."
Sif moaned again and pulled the blankets back over her head. Eir wasn't telling her anything her own burdensome thoughts hadn't already driven in over the last couple of days.
"Eat your soup," the elder ordered, exasperated. "I'll give you one more night of self deprecation before I call in the assistance of your warrior friends."
"No!" Sif shot up again. "That would be a disaster."
"Then I suggest you plan your trip back to Asgard in the morning." Eir stood up and made for the door.
"Elder, wait." Sif called after her, desperately. Eir paused and turned around. "I can't see him. He hates me right now. He slapped me across the face."
Eir raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "You did slap him first."
Sif growled and buried her face in her arms, muffling her voice. "You're not making this easier."
"It is not meant to be easy. Not when it is the right thing to do."
Sif couldn't argue against that but didn't stop her from making more fitful noises of protest.
"Will you desist this behavior already?" Eir was losing her patience.
Sif sighed and lifted her head back up. "What do I say to him? How do I even approach him?"
"That I do not know." Eir looked back over her shoulder. Her eyes grew heavy with a rare softness and when she spoke, her voice replaced its edge with something oddly weighed with nostalgia, and regret.
"Listen to your heart." Eir then left the room.
There was still so much mystery to old healer, the closest being Sif had to a mother, a woman full of wonder and intrigue.
However, at the moment, Eir's mysticism was really annoying.
"Are you kidding me? Sif grabbed the spoon from her soup and threw it at the now empty doorway. It clanged loudly and splattered broth on the floor. "Since when do you give advice like a bleeding-heart bard!?"
"You're going to clean that up," came Eir's voice from the hallway.
"I know!" Sif hollered, gripping her scalp in frustration.
One more mess she had to clean up with no one to blame but herself.
Sif didn't wait until tomorrow to leave Glasir. She couldn't take another sleepless night or another of Eir's lectures. She knew what she had to do, and the sooner she got to it, the better off everyone would be. She hoped.
It was dark by the time she arrived in Asgard's shining city district, the illustrious gold statues and spotless stone masonry dusted with a fresh layer of snow that glowed and glistened under the starlight. The short winter days did nothing to diminish the city's splendor. Sif might even call it beautiful if it wasn't as cold as a Jotun king's ass on a frozen throne.
Sif quickly found her way to the fire-lit, revelry-fermented din of the pub. It was just past dinner time so Volstagg and Fandral would be there, a comfortable home base Sif could touch down on to collect her thoughts. She had gotten herself out of bed and into Asgard. That earned her a little pat on the back, right.? And by pat on the back, she meant ale.
Sure enough, half of her crew were at their usual table, bare-cleavage broad occupying Fandral's lap (surprisingly only one this time), and bare-boned goat carcass nearly in Volstagg's. Sif claimed the empty seat next to the larger of the two men, flicking stray pieces of meat in his direction before resting her elbows on the table.
"Lady Sif." Fandral greeted from behind a mop of dyed red ringlets. "You look like Hel." His gaudily-painted date giggled, giving Sif the elevator eye.
"Thanks," Sif sneered, well aware of her haggard visage. Perhaps she could have hidden the toll of the last few days behind some makeup.
"Where have you been?" Volstagg asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Sif paid him her attention, the food clinging to his beard a more pleasant sight than Fandral's flavor of the week.
"Been training with the Valkyries." Sif avoided eye contact, still horrible at lying even though she's had so much practice over the years."
"Darling," Fandral said, pouring Sif a mug of ale, "you're supposed to use your time off to rest."
Sif was going to respond but paused when the cleavage with lips nearly swallowed Fandral whole with an interrupting kiss. Apparently she was to be the only 'darling' here.
"What, like you do?" Sif sighed. She then claimed the anticipated mug with both hands. "Training is restful for me." That much wasn't a lie. "How have you spent your time off?" The diverting question was directed to Volstagg. There was no doubt how Fandral was using his time.
"You're looking at it, luv." Volstagg tore a large bite off from a rib bone. Sif could have guessed just as much but she preferred her friend's reviews of the menu over making up excuses for her absence.
"That's not all you've been doing." Fandral chimed in, his lips now smudged with a shade of tacky pink. "Tell her about the ordeal those demon spawn you call children put you through."
Volstagg laughed heartily at the recollection and Sif smiled with intrigue. The shenanigans Volstagg's children put him through always reminded her of Ollie's younger days, and she loved being able to relate, even if she couldn't speak of her parallel experiences.
Volstagg took a serious drought of his ale then cleared his throat, prepping for the retelling. Sif propped her chin on her hand, readying herself to listen, that is until Volstagg opened his mouth to speak but instead sent forth the foulest of belches.
"For the love of—" Sif grimaced, backing out of the line of fire and fanning the stench away.
Fandral rolled his eyes. "Classy, mate. Really classy." His lap growth looked utterly repulsed, turned-up nose in a crinkle.
"Oh please." Volstagg was unapologetic. "That was only a tease of what the two of you are capable of."
The busty maiden looked at Fandral with a raised eyebrow.
"He's joking, my sweet dove." Fandral tried to explain but the girl was not convinced. Sif felt the corner of her mouth curl. She then drained the entirety of her mug with one tilt, and Fandral watched her do it. "Sif." The playboy grew worried. "What are you doing? Don't do that. Please don't..."
Fandral's pleas were unanswered as Sif unleashed a beast of a noise then shattered the mug on the ground. "Another!" she roared.
Volstagg and a few surrounding revelers cheered and applauded. Sif curtsied a couple of times and Fandral just sat embarrassed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Sif took her seat and slid a full mug to Fandral. "Am I to be the unchallenged victor?" She turned to Volstagg for back-up. He sat, arms crossed over his belly, a hard expectant gaze on Fandral. The maiden scoffed and turned to Fandral with an 'are you serious?' look. Fandral made a relenting face then glanced apologetically at the pink scowl before reaching for his mug.
The maiden shot up from his lap, insulted. "Get back to me when you grow up!" She then turned her vengeance onto Sif. "Who in their right mind gave you the title of Lady anyway?" She didn't stick around for an answer.
"I did!" Sif bellowed after her. Volstagg chuckled, clapping Sif hard on the back—and nearly knocking the wind out of her—while Fandral glared at them both from behind his tilted mug.
His attempt at a proper belch would have shamed his ancestors and Sif was awarded, with raised glasses and jolly cheers, the title of champion.
Champion of disgusting bodily noises...
She sighed and plopped back down in her seat. What in the nine realms was she doing here? This was no way to prepare for the inevitable. The ale would certainly help her apology along, but what if Loki were here, disguised, watching her carry on as if the last few days hadn't been a waking nightmare.
Sif excused herself from the table, much to her comrades' disappointment, and made her way through the unforgiving night air in the direction of the royal hall. It only took a couple inquiries to learn of the king's exact whereabouts, and the hall was just far enough away that she had time to organize her thoughts while she walked.
Well, organize as much as possible given her slight inebriation and the disconcerting fact that she had no idea what to expect from the night. Was it even Loki in kingly disguise she had been directed to, or had the guards merely seen an illusion? And if it was Loki, would even want to see her? She wouldn't blame him if he turned her away. How unfair was it that he had to come to her, risk his safety and his pride, to finally learn the truths of his son?
A wash of guilt chilled her more than the frosty air. She should have gone to him first. A dozen years ago, laid the truth out plainly. Criminal behavior or not, he had a right to know.
Her boot steps now echoed down a grand corridor occupied only by Odin's personal guards. They were faithfully stationed outside of Frigga's bedchamber. Sif stopped in front of the first guard.
"May I see him?" Her voice was shaky and her lips were uncooperative, still thawing from the walk. The guard gave her a strange look before entering the chamber, and Sif understood why. It was odd for anyone to seek Odin's company during off hours, especially while he was alone and mourning. Sif would never dream of interrupting his solitude under normal circumstances.
But these were far from normal circumstances.
The door clicked shut and not a word could be heard from behind it. Which was ideal for when Sif would be in there but not now when she wanted to hear the reaction to her presence.
The guard returned an eternal minute later with a look of surprise and opened the door for Sif. She stepped inside with a nod of gratitude then froze just past the threshold once she saw the facade of Odin seated across the room at Frigga's vanity. The door slammed shut behind her and she turned to look at it, briefly tempted to flee.
When she got a hold of her courage again, she turned back around and gasped quietly as Odin disintegrated beneath of sweep of crackling magic, replaced with Loki's slender form. He stood up, gaze cast downward, his eyes in shadow. He was wearing minimal leathers over a warm shade of white linen that almost gave the illusion of purity, a surprising diversion from his usual dark green . Sif shivered at the sight of him. He was underdressed for the drafty room that opened up, free and exposed, to a large balcony. Underdressed for an Aesir that is.
She swallowed tightly and stared as he crossed the room with long easy strides. She was unable to formulate an appropriate greeting and regretfully unable to turn her eyes away. Despite all of his crimes, no one in Asgard could ever say the trickster prince wasn't beautiful to look at. She must have looked like a gaping fool.
He turned an elegant golden hairbrush over in his hands, Frigga's brush. Sif's heart sank for him, knowing intimately how close he was to his mother. Frigga had been his first teacher in the ways of magic, a shared passion that Sif imagined could create bonds as deep as blood. Sif felt a renewed gratefulness that the wars had never taken her from Ollie.
Loki's eyes were now fully visible, cool crystals set in deep sockets, growing closer by the moment. He stopped in front of her and handed her the brush. Sif inhaled the scents of him: polished leather and bathing salts.
"Mother would have wanted you to have this," he said somberly, lingering, his gaze curiously inspecting the dark circles and creases of Sif's own sleep deprived eyes.
Sif took the brush apprehensively and lowered her gaze. It was a gorgeous piece of Dwarven craftsmanship, made of intricately carved gold and fortified with magic. Frigga used to brush Sif's hair with it after a long day of battle training, claiming no other brush was worthy of her golden locks.
She ran her fingers over the bristles. "Thank you," was all she could manage. Loki inhaled deeply then moved past her.
"You reek of ale," he said as he helped himself to a glass of wine. Sif took a sharp, guilty breath and looked over her shoulder to where Loki had gone. There was an assortment of fancy bottles and colorful liquids on a small ornate table. "It seems I have some catching up to do."
Sif exhaled, relieved to be excused for her inebriation, which she couldn't even feel anymore. Loki quickly downed his first glass then poured a second. "Would you care for some?"
"No." Sif said automatically but questioned her reasoning. If Loki was drinking, why couldn't she? "Yes," she corrected. It would take the edge off.
Loki walked past her again, holding only his chalice. "Wine's there." Sif barely caught the hint of a smirk as he passed. She made an exasperated noise yet felt her body relax. His teasing wasn't unwelcome.
"Loki..." she began.
Loki circled around to face her, swirling the glass, impaling her with an expectant gaze that made her tense up again. She saw the moment as her cue, as did he apparently.
"I was foolish," she grit out. Loki took a sip of wine then nodded in agreement. "What I did to you was unfair." Loki kept nodding then gestured that she keep going. "And cruel?" He seemed satisfied with that but it was hard to tell.
He finished his wine and returned to the table for a third glass. Was that it? Was that all she had to say? Sif met him at the table and took the refilled chalice from his hand. She wasn't buying the relative ease of the encounter so far, but certainly wasn't going to risk it becoming more difficult by having to deal with both a bitter and drunken prince. Loki was notoriously a lightweight.
"What is this?" Sif gestured to the bottles.
"Spiced thimbleberry." Loki answered lightly. "Mother's personal stash."
"I mean," Sif struggled to keep her voice calm, "your complacency. The drinking. Aren't you going to yell at me or attack me?"
Loki smiled, seemingly entertained by all this.
"Because you can," Sif continued, resolutely. "And I won't fight back. Much."
Loki laughed. "How thoughtful of you." He then walked slowly away from the table, clasping his hands behind his back. "I don't want to fight you."
Sif took a deep, calming breath, quelling the frustration that always came with trying to communicate with Loki. She thought she knew what he wanted most of the time, but she never understood his method of asking for it. He always had to play these information fishing games.
She took a drink from his glass before speaking. "Loki..."
"Do I get to meet my son or not?" Loki cut in, twisting around.
"We need to handle this delicately," Sif countered. "Take it one step at a time." Her own words surprised her. What did she just imply?
Loki studied her with slitted eyes. "You still think I am a threat to him."
"I don't know what to think." That was the absolute truth. Loki had so far appeared to be harmless with his intentions toward Ollerus but Sif hadn't forgotten the strife he had brought upon Thor and all of Asgard.
"What harm could I do to him?" Loki questioned, arms held out. "He is my flesh and blood."
Sif shook her head. "You sent The Destroyer to kill your own brother. To kill all of us."
"If I wanted you dead, you would be dead." Loki said, breaking eye contact. "The Destroyer never stood a chance against Mjolnir."
"Then why did you..?" Sif was at a loss trying to grasp his reasoning. Thor hadn't been wielding Mjolnir, or any of his godly strengths, at the time of the attack. Yet that was the event that had earned him his power back. Could The Destroyer merely have been a test...?
Sif curiously studied the now fidgety prince. She then set the chalice down and moved toward him. "Loki, I want Ollerus to know his father, but I have to be sure you won't harm him, in any way. Or that you won't do something that leads to his exile or something worse."
Loki fussed with his tunic's sleeves, rolling them up to his elbows. His forehead glistened with sweat, which was odd since the room was so cold. It was probably the affects of spiced wine on his alien blood.
"I want only what is best for him, just as you do." A sweeping draft accompanied Loki's statement, the sheer curtains of the canopy bed now swaying behind him.
Sif pulled her fur cloak tighter around her hunching shoulders. "I want to believe that."
"What will it take to convince you?"
"I don't know," Sif said, hopelessly.
Loki was clearly not satisfied with the direction of this conversation, having to prove himself when he believed he was faultless. He deliberated for a moment, studying Sif hard while he searched the labyrinth of his mind.
"What if I take you to Fenrir?" he finally spoke.
Sif didn't see that one coming. "The...wolf?"
"My son," Loki corrected. "Ask him whatever questions you like about me, about my parenting. I did bring him up from a pup after all, remember? After Odin had thrown Jormungand to the sea, I begged him to spare Fenrir. I fed and nurtured him when all of the other gods were too frightened to go near him."
Sif nodded, reflectively. "I remember." It wasn't until Loki was away that a handful of gods had made their move on the oversize wolf, fettering and exiling him. Sif hadn't thought much of it at the time, believing the wolf to be only an exotic pet that had gotten out of hand. She shuddered at the thought of Ollie being torn from her protective care. "Will he..." she stuttered." I mean, can he even talk? Or have visitors?"
"He speaks, when he wants to." Loki's tone began to lighten. "And the ban on visiting him is lifted now that I occupy the throne."
The image of meeting the dreaded beast brought a wave of excitement and intrigue. Fenrir was technically Ollie's half brother and Sif had no doubt the boy would thrill to learn of that. Was it too much to dream that the two could ever meet?
Sif's heart skipped and she retreated back to the table to drink from Loki's cup again. She couldn't get ahead of herself. One meeting at a time.
"I would like very much to meet him." Sif spoke against the brim of the chalice.
Loki breathed a satisfied waft of air. He then joined her at the table, taking back his cup and drinking from it. Their eyes immediately locked onto each others, intent, exchanging thoughts of...what? Forgiveness? Hope? The prospect of a shared adventure to Fenrir's isle? At what point had this encounter taken a turn for the better? Why wasn't Loki still angry at her? It must be the wine.
Loki pulled the cup from his lips, now stained a warm purple. Then in one smooth motion he set the cup down and took Sif's chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting her head to the side. Her pulse flurried through her stiffening body, and against her better judgement she closed her eyes and awaited his next move. She heard his lips part and smelled on his exhale the flavor of spices and silver tongue. It teased her senses with a forgotten spark.
She hung in the moment with youthful expectation, and then Loki spoke. "How is your cheek?"
Sif's eyes fluttered open to witness a flattened smirk. "My cheek?" She smiled clumsily and felt her face heat up despite Loki's cool touch. "It's fine." Was he kidding? He never even left a mark. "Yours is the one that was hit harder," she teased back, fumbling for control of the situation. Loki released her chin but she was not ready to end the moment. She reached up and pushed a lone strand of raven hair behind his ear, maintaining the small gap between their bodies, studying every last pour on his face. The wine had given his cheeks a wash of color and his skin was clammy to the touch. His hair was damp, like it always had been, a seemingly permanent feature, only now since they had learned of his lineage did she understand why. Ollie's hair was the same way, even though it shined with her warm golden hues.
Loki's eyes draped closed when Sif's fingers brushed his skin, his long lashes dusting the dark crescents beneath them. She continued to trace his hairline with the backs of her fingers, over his assaulted cheekbone, into the hollow below and finally stopping at his neck. She had no idea what she was doing yet she couldn't stop. The absence of his gaze upon her seemed to give her hand free reign.
The moment could have stretched into dawn, until Loki opened his eyes. They were pained, to Sif's unsettling surprise, and a little fearful. She stilled her hand, her thumb still daring to graze his cheekbone. Her heart pounded and her her eyes searched his for answers.
"We'll leave tomorrow morning." He turned sharply from her, rejecting her touch, his body disappearing beneath a kingly disguise as he walked toward the door. "Meet me at the stables at dawn."
The mood shift in the room could have given Sif whiplash.
"Lyngvi is a full day's ride so pack accordingly," he now spoke in Odin's voice.
Sif allowed herself only a moment of shock, embarrassment, and insult before dropping her hand to her side and raising her chin. When he reached for the door, she was already upon it, yanking it open for herself.
"Stables. Dawn," she snapped, leaving the room, putting on a show of absolute composure for the guards and for everyone she walked past on the way back to the pub.
It wasn't until she reclaimed her seat next to Volstagg and wrapped her defiant hand around a full mug of ale, that she let out a proper growl of frustration. Her forehead dropped to the table and she began thumping it, much to her comrades' curiosity.
"Something on your mind, darling?" Fandral inquired, his lap filled with floozy again, a blond this time.
Sif groaned.
"Anything you care to talk about?" Volstagg asked. Sif didn't respond, merely lifted her head just enough to pour the needed ale down her throat. "Hmm, one of those kind of nights?" She nodded into her mug. "Very well then."
He took Sif's now empty mug and smashed it on the floor. "Another for the lady! And bring me a goose as well. Looks like we're riding this night until tomorrow."
And what a tomorrow it was going to be.
Music: Rise Up With Fists by Jenny Lewis and the Watson Twins