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The first time he sees her, it is completely by accident.
After years of begging, the Allfather has finally acquiesced to the wishes of his young sons and allowed them to join him on horseback as he performs his semi-regular review of the Einherjar as they line up in parade formation.
The review is always overwrought with pageantry, the citizens of Gladsheim seeming to find it as exciting as Loki and Thor do as they flock to the palace gates to witness the spectacle of it all. Each soldier's armor is polished to a high gleam and Loki beams with pride as he settles on his new horse, finally comfortable enough to control his mount without the aid of his mother or elder brother.
He and Thor ride slightly behind their father, keeping to a slow trot as they make their way down the clean lines of the formation, the Allfather intermittently granting severe nods while Thor attempts to restrain his excitement at the wide array of weapons carried by each unit. Loki occasionally attempts to imitate his father, nodding at the generals, but it feels increasingly like an act with too much weight for one so small and anyway, his focus keeps getting pulled to those who have gathered to observe.
Many of those in the crowd are families, bunched together, excitedly whispering and pointing at a father or brother, but further down the line he sees a flash movement. Nothing so sudden as to be concerning or dangerous, but it's intriguing and he leans forward a bit, trying to get a better view. He can almost see it, the cause of the disruption, when suddenly a horn sounds and his head whips back over to the soldiers just in time for the royal standards to be presented.
The rest of the review offers little in the way of entertainment, though briefly one of his father's ravens spooks a cavalryman's horse, but things are quickly wrested back under control. These men are the best of the best, after all, and Loki forgets about the unusual motion until they have gone all the way down the line and turned around, making their way back to the palace gates. His eyes drift to the crowd again, this time catching on a girl standing alone in the front row, a toy sword gripped tight in her hand, staring intently at the soldiers before her. He doesn't know how he knows this, but he's certain that this girl, who looks no older than him, was the cause of that movement earlier, that she is the one who pushed herself to the front of the crowd with a look on her face that could challenge an army one day.
He finds he can't seem to look away from her; everything about this girl entrances him from the spun gold of her hair to the determination that burns in her ferocious hazel eyes to the dirt he can see collected around the hem of her dress. Then her gaze shifts to him, as though she could feel the weight of his eyes, and he almost wants to jump down from his horse and run to her. He hasn't a clue what he would even say, but he wants the chance, wants to know what kind of voice, what kind of spirit could match a girl like that.
Having her focus on him makes him feel warm and tingly, and though he fights to push this strange reaction away, hands clench on the reins of his horse and he bites down hard on the inside of his mouth. He hasn't a clue what expression is on his face now, but she raises a brow at it, curious but still wary. Loki shakes himself and in return gives what he sincerely hopes is an encouraging smile as he nods at her sword. That seems to do the trick, a grin splits her face and he is completely and utterly lost.
Long after the parade is finished as he is trying valiantly to pay attention to the bedtime story his mother is telling, Loki still finds himself thinking about the girl with the wooden sword, wondering about her name and if she lives in Gladsheim and remembering the way she'd smiled.
"Loki? What is it my darling?"
His mother's voice pulls him from his thoughts and he feels his face heat as he stumbles through a vague fib. Despite his love for mischief, he is not in the habit of lying to his mother and yet, something in him does not want to share the memory of the girl, he wants to keep it safe and close and his.
He wonders what it means and if he'll ever see her again.
- - -
The celebration for his five hundredth nameday is, for the most part, perfectly average.
It's true, the court never seems to have love enough to spare for their quicksilver prince, but everyone loves a party and so the throne room is stuffed to the gills, a bevy of subjects relishing the chance to rub elbows with the royal family and enjoy the fine food and drink on the crown's coin. That part of it remains frustrating as ever, but it isn't anything Loki hasn't been used to since he first began to understand the whispers of the court that plagued his childhood, stretched through his adolescence, and still are whispered intermittently, even now.
As he makes his way down the central aisle towards his parents, standing proud on the dais in all their regal glory, he finds Sif at her post near the stairs. True, she is blocked somewhat by denizens of Gladsheim who are all leaning about to catch glimpses of their prince who so often lurks in the shadows, but it matters not, he just seems to know precisely where she is, as if her whole being is a beacon, calling him home.
He does not pick up the speed of his steps, no, surely that would alert the court to something amiss, but he does not, cannot tear his eyes from her as he moves closer. Their relationship is no longer new, but she enraptures him all the same with the emerald dress she's donned for the occasion and the delicate but deadly combs that weave through her dark hair like silver-dipped snakes.
Sif is, rather unsurprisingly, the most beautiful person in the room and for a moment, he toys with the thought of approaching her and offering his arm. He thinks of leading her up the dais, signaling the nature of their relationship to the court in an undeniably obvious, public way.
It is the sweetest temptation and he feels an invisible dagger twist into his heart knowing that can never be.
He does not stop, nor take her arm, nor lead her to the throne, but he does not do nothing either. As he passes her he sends a pulse of magic out, nothing obvious, just the hint of a shimmer upon the air. The magic curls around her sharp cheekbone, winding down her neck to whisper over her collarbones and he fights back a smirk at the way she barely suppresses a shiver. The spell slithers down her arm until it settles into her palm, coiled and serpentine, warm yet electrifying as it rests there. It is a promise, more honest than most of the words that will pass through his lips today as he obfuscates before the court, and from the small grin on her lips and the light in her eyes, she knows it.
The last glimpse he gets of her before he moves too far down the aisle to watch her with ease, is of that contented smile and he feels his nerves settle, knowing she understands, as she always seems to. He can feel Sif's gaze settle on his shoulders, wrapping around him like his favorite cloak and the look of happiness that had been mostly illusion up to this point, turns more genuine.
He relaxes and glides with ease to the throne.
- - -
The feast that occurs the night before his brother's coronation is raucous in the worst possible way. Thor is lost in his cups before the food is even served, the Warriors Three seem to be in competition to see who can follow his brother to drunkenness fastest, and he's overheard one too many whispers about how queenly the Lady Sif looks on this fine evening. Little by little his blood works its way to a boil as a never ending stream of minor nobles from the furthest reaches of the nine pack themselves into the Great Hall, eager to get a glimpse of their soon-to-be king at his most undignified.
Frustration mounts, climbing to new heights with every smashed cup, slurred tale, and overloud laugh until he sees Sif. From across the room he finds her easily and she rolls her eyes, quietly scoffing at the exaggerated yarn his brother is spinning. For the first time tonight he feels himself relax just a little bit. As angry as he is, he also knows he is never alone in his commiseration, not with the bravest, most brilliant woman in all the nine at his side, if not always in body— especially at feasts like these where they must hide their true intimacy— at least in mind.
Loki grinds his teeth through each course, forcing out laughs when he absolutely must, and avoiding the way his mother seems to see through him as she and his father take leave of the crowd after the dessert course is concluded. Then, the dancing begins. Here is where he finds he must cast an illusion to hide the way his whole body goes tense, an unbecoming jealousy splashed across his face at the way the whole crowd is set a-titter when his brother asks Sif for the first dance.
There are many things he's always found unfair about his brother's ascent to power but the one that has always nettled at him more deeply than the rest is that Thor is not just allowed, but expected to wed Asgard rather than find a woman off-realm to build an alliance with yet simultaneously, the reverse has always been true for him. Even as children Loki remembers asking his father why it had to be this way when it hadn't been for his father before him, and he'd been given no real answer other than that was what had been decided. No rhyme nor reason to it at all, just an arbitrary ruling that has become one of the many reasons he and Sif have kept the truth of their relationship secret for so many centuries.
Thankfully, the first dance is over quickly and without thought, he pushes himself from his chair to claim the second. Not a word is spoken between them, there never needs to be, really, and besides, there are too many people pressing too closely on this night. In a room this full, any word, every word is dangerous.
Their dance drags out, longer, slower, closer than the first, and from her smirk, he can tell that she knows at least one of the musicians was paid handsomely to slot this vals into the setlist early. It ends with a bow, with a curtsy, tame as ever, and they part, no wandering eyes or hands, no slipping away to a darkened corner. Sif merely returns to her friends and he introduces himself to some Vanir royalty who may come in handy sometime soon.
He does not stay longer than a few dances more, indeed, his reputation of relative aloofness in crowds aids him here and yet, as he leaves, the weight of her eyes follows him out. Soon, he knows he will hear her footsteps behind him, soft and deliberate, a huntress tracking her prey. When they finally make it to his chambers she will enter in behind him and do her best to soothe the ache that burns in his chest at the thought of what is to occur tomorrow with her words and then her lips and her body as has been her practice near-constantly these days. He knows all this and yet, he will not change his plans.
Once she has fallen asleep, their limbs tangled together, he will slip out of bed and make his way upon his forbidden paths to open a gate that has remained closed for a thousand years then, stealthy and silent, he will return to the warmth of her arms and the comfort of her presence and wait for his machinations to unfold, resolutely ignoring the spiral of increasingly terrifying thoughts of what will happen when Sif inevitably discovers what he's done.
- - -
He finds her immediately and without thought as he is led to Odin's throne in chains and her expression, at first glance, seems sharp and severe, but then, he meets her eyes.
It shocks him when he does not notice anger first, but heartbreak. He nearly looks away as he fights to maintain his composure. Even as pain, anger, and regret churns through her gaze, heartbreak lies just beneath it all. He wants to scream, to run to her, to beg on his knees that he can do better, that he can come back, but he knows that even if she believed him, Sif's duty to the crown, her loyalty to Asgard would not allow her to forgive so easily.
He loves that about her. He hates it too.
The chains pull and Loki nearly stumbles. Mentally he shakes himself, resolutely pushing down the fear that this will be the last time he sees her as he tears his focus from her because surely, it will not be. Sif will come to visit or he will escape, he tells himself as his breaths grow ragged and panicked behind his mask, this is not the end, this is not the last time, he will see something other than anger and sadness and heartbreak in her eyes, she will be proud of him again, she will be with him, she will—
The royal dais is now in sight and he is forced to meet his mother's eyes. He swallows thickly; however bad it was to see Sif, this is somehow worse and yet he has been through worse too. He will not break under this, he cannot.
His meeting with Odin goes as poorly as can be expected, leaving him bristling, furious with rage as he is led down to the prisons and yet, without really intending to, he risks one final glance back.
Again, he finds Sif immediately, it takes no effort at all, and her lovely hazel eyes spill over with tears.
- - -
His father is dead, Asgard is destroyed, Sif is missing.
The words ring through his mind as he wanders the halls of the Statesman, boots echoing on the unbelievably gaudy flooring, loud where most of the ship has now quieted to a murmur. A complete count of those onboard is still in process but, as of this morning, their oh-so-brilliant gatekeeper still wasn't able to ascertain the whereabouts of his own sister.
Loki is rapidly vaulting between firmly ignoring the fact that it's his fault Sif is gone in the first place and begging Heimdall to use his sight to look again, damn you! Ultimately he does neither, finding his way to the observation window at the front of the ship and silently pacing before it, tossing a curved dagger in quick precise circles, until he hears heavy, familiar footsteps behind him.
"You know this is the third night in a row I've found you like this?" Thor asks, his voice echoing loudly in the mostly metal room, "Will you not tell me what's on your mind, brother?"
"Would you care to hear it?"
Thor scoffs, "Loki, of course I do."
He bristles at the overly familiar affection in his brother's voice, uncomfortable with it, even now, even at the end of the world.
"I am thinking that we're going to need all the help we can get. You have no idea the things that lie in wait in the furthest reaches of space, that would relish the chance to slaughter those of us that remain."
"I would if you told me!" His brother shouts before restraining himself, his gaze turning canny, "But there is something else on your mind too, there is more to your agitation than merely this, will you not tell me what else is troubling you?"
"I…" he catches himself, attempting to move smoothly through his hesitation, though not quite succeeding. He is determined to be a bit more honest with his brother than he's been in the past but he's also determined not to show his hand just yet, "I am simply uneasy at the thought of those Aesir who were off-realm when Hela arrived on Asgard. Those who have no knowledge of her reign of terror or of Surtur's destruction. Who knows how many are scattered across the universe with no way of knowing our home is gone."
A flash of genius strikes Thor, surely that is the only explanation for the words that come out next, "Are you worried about Sif?"
Loki falters in his step, tripping over the leg of a garish orange table and just managing to right himself by grabbing onto a chair shaped like a massive claw.
"Wh— why would you say that?"
"You keep…I don't know, you never ask about her, but you keep hinting about it, asking Heimdall all these questions that lead back to her," he says with a shrug and the barest hint of a sly smile and all of a sudden, Loki has to reevaluate his brother's investigative prowess, "and you keep pacing in front of this window and playing with that one dagger."
"What are you talking about?" Subtly— he hopes, Norns, he hopes— Loki turns his wrist, spiriting the dagger in his left hand away into a pocket dimension.
"That…you know, the dagger," he gesticulates wildly, hands flapping about in a general shape that mimics said dagger in an irritatingly perfect way, "the one she gave you for Yule then stole back because you did something stupid, then you stole it, then she stole it and so on and so forth."
"Brother, I think you're seeing th—"
"Loki," his brother strides up to him and lays a hand on his shoulder and tries not to notice how comforted it makes him feel, "we will find her, I know it. You have nothing to worry about, she will be perfectly fine, indeed, I'm sure she'll have a couple dozen new feats of daring to share with us. And we'll help her understand all of...this, you'll help her."
"I don't think she'll want anything from me." He doesn't mean to say it, but he can't quite help himself, feeling each jagged edge of his heartbreak.
Thor raises a brow and smirks and Loki feels his stomach drop.
"No of course, why would she ever want anything from the man she fell in love with?"
With that, Thor strides out of the room, looking far too pleased with himself and or a moment Loki is struck still in complete and utter shock as his brother's words sink in and finally find purchase. Without a second thought to his fear or worry, he turns to run after him, his shouts echoing down the hallway.
"Thor, wait! You can't just say that! How did you even— Thor!"
- - -
It is an unseasonably cool summer's day when he finally makes his way back to Midgard in search of the Aesir settlement he's heard so much about.
Between meeting the Nornir, coming back from the dead, and having to essentially hitchhike halfway across the universe while his magic returned to him in fits and starts it's been a trying few…months? Years? He's not actually sure how long it's been since he sacrificed himself on the remains of the Statesman; time works differently in death and he's heard such varying reports from the planets he's stopped at in the meantime that his sense of time is all the way off.
Nevertheless, he is back on this planet he never thought he'd return to and it is a brilliant day. In a manner that should be unsurprising to him now, he finds Sif within minutes of stepping through the interdimensional passage that has led him here. Up to now, he'd remained cloaked in invisibility as he made his way through the settlement but as he comes to what seems like training grounds and sees her familiar form, he lets it fall away.
She stands before a large group of children, wooden sword in hand demonstrating various warm-ups he remembers from a thousand years ago, a wide, easy grin visible whenever he sees a flash of her profile. Without thought he stops to observe her, just long enough to make sure she's okay, he tells himself, a lie so blatant Loki shakes his head at his own ridiculousness as he rests upon a fallen log. As Sif moves, her shoulders remain loose, relaxed, and he can tell from the way she carries herself that she is comfortable here, happy even.
It makes him feel strangely warm to see her training the young ones, laughing and joking with them, and he has to work to shove down the desperate wave of longing that comes on the heels of realization that she is good at this. Finally, he drags his gaze back to the children who have just started their exercises only to find that the boy standing closest to Sif is staring at him, his bright golden eyes glinting with suspicion in a way that feels far too familiar. Momentarily he considers hiding himself again, creeping back into the shadows, but before he can even think about calling the spell to mind, the child has pulled Sif's attention and pointed him out.
Her sword falls uselessly to the dirt, but she doesn't even seem to notice it as she makes her way across the field in a trance. Quickly, she closes the distance and he stands to meet her, unable to speak for fear of breaking the moment.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she reaches up to lay a hand upon his cheek, and his chest tightens as he forgets how to breathe. He covers her hand with his, confused by the unfamiliar texture of her skin, and looks down only to realize that her hand, and indeed, everything up to her elbow, is a prosthetic. He hadn't been able to tell from afar but feeling, knowing that she was injured, lost use of such a vital limb, and has learned how to keep going in his absence well…he's not surprised she did it, but he aches at the thought of knowing he wasn't there.
"Is this real? Are you here?" He nods and she rests her other hand over his heart, seeking out tangible proof of his words, breath catching as his pulse picks up. "They said you were dead."
He swallows thickly and his words crack as they come out, "They were misinformed."
"Yes…" her voice sounds dazed, the words slow to come, drenched in some emotion he can't quite discern, her hand clenches on his chest, bunching up the fabric as though she wishes she was still holding her practice sword, "I can see that."
He's not sure if he's more relieved or horrified that Sif's eyes fill with tears but then, he doesn't have much time to think of anything because she removes her hands from him and punches him hard in the shoulder.
"I deserved that."
"And more."
"Very likely." She smirks but the sadness, the reservation remains. She is guarding herself and any hopes he'd previously held sink, he looks down and away, trying not to betray his anxiety and failing spectacularly. "Well, it seems you have much to consider then, many choices to make."
"I do?" His head whips back up to her faster than he'll ever admit, "What do I have to consider, my lady? What choices do you see that remain open to one such as myself?"
"To stay, to remain here, in As— in New Asgard." She is silent for a long while after that and he can see her thinking, turning over what to say, how much to reveal, and he would not interrupt her for all the universe, "Will you stay?"
His heart is no longer in his heels but feels like it is practically bursting from his chest. He must have misheard her, there is no way she would— "Excuse me?"
He can no longer hold his surprise back and she ducks her head, looking a bit abashed, it's a setting that fits her so ill he nearly laughs.
"It's an honest question." Sif shifts uncomfortably, crossing her arms defensively, and suddenly that emotion from before that he couldn't quite parse becomes comprehensible. He sees a desperate longing and somewhere deep in his soul, long shoved aside and forgotten, the embers that have remained burning in his chest for all these years spark into an inferno.
"Well, I…would they even let me?"
"Does it matter?" Her jaw works as she starts and ends a thousand sentences he's desperate to hear. He can see where she bites the inside of her cheek, fingers tapping anxiously on her arms as she fidgets, holding back her words until she can't any longer. "I want you to stay, is that not enough?"
"You do?"
Her responding nod is jerky and awkward but so utterly sincere, so full of a love he thought she'd set down long ago, one he was convinced was blown to bits with Asgard that, though he is fleetingly concerned she still might punch him in the stomach, he steps closer.
"Lady…"
"Stay."
Her voice comes out small and he cannot hold back any longer, he rushes to her, gathers her into his arms, and for long, silent moments they stand, each holding the other up as silent tears wet their tunics.
"Sif…"
"You came back to us, came back to me." She murmurs into his worn leathers, her breath warm on his neck, and he tries not to shiver with delight, "I want you to stay."
Loki nods, too undone to say anything more, and with a gentle hand, tilts her face up so she meets his gaze. He wants to kiss her, gods, he wants her more than anything in the universe but he will wait, will hold off until she is ready until—
She kisses him.
It is a slow burn and a roaring fire, tentative, then not, tender and passionate and searching in turns, it is everything he's missed with an overwhelming longing for the last decade and he realizes that finally he is home.
"Alright," he says, as they catch their breaths, "I'll stay."