Sif took her helmet off and shook her hair out, willing the strands to be neat enough that she would not need to brush them before dinner. She ran her fingers through black tangles and sighed. Some sweat had frozen in it; she needed at least to brush that out.
This internal debate was the first normal thing she'd done that day. The goddess of war did not like thinking about cosmetic details, particularly ones she cared about—it always felt like some bit of femininity she should have shed—and especially her hair. Black hair suited her, but that didn't stop her missing her old cornflower gold. "Damn Loki," Sif muttered on reflex.
Too many things had happened that day. Once Thor swept her up in whatever he planned, and she almost always reacted one step at a time, lining events into a narrative later. Between him and the Allfather, this was the first quiet moment Sif had had today, and that was only because her door was closed.
She took out a brush and tamed the snarls. The adrenaline from the fight—and Odin's anger—had faded some time ago; now the shock of losing Thor began to follow. Part of her, the part that came out best while she fought for her life, was uncomfortable with what was going to happen when that shock finished fading. Any warrior knew the feeling well enough. Deep slices don't hurt at first, then the ache settles in. This one was too deep to even afford her much time in shock.
She brushed her hair, and waited. The first ache set in.
Loki and Odin have a point. Thor clearly was not ready to be king. He had the charisma, surely. She would follow him anywhere, as would the Warriors Three, as would his brother, but he had no idea what to do with that power. Thor was impulsive, and needed to learn control.
The tangles started leaving her hair.
But, Sif thought, or hoped, that's all. Thor would make a good king, eventually. His heart was in the right place; he just needed the patience and experience to think.
The warrior goddess began braiding her hair, half for something to do as she thought, half so she would not have to brush it again if she sparred before dinner. Dinner will be odd. There had been a banquet planned. Would it simply not happen? Would they eat the food, as if Thor had been named king, not sent to Midgard?
She wondered, or hoped, that this was only intended as a challenge to Thor. That he would pass, soon, or be brought home to train more. That Odin had seen what she saw, that Thor needed to learn. The god of thunder had things to learn, but he would make a good king.
Thor wanted to be good. He didn't know what that meant, when one had so much power. Not yet. But the desire burned in him as surely as the desire to be a warrior burned in her.
The warrior goddess looked at her image in the mirror as the ache sharpened. She had moved against it, and now felt the true hurt. She thought she should feel like crying, but didn't see the point of it. Better to spar, to better herself and work off the energy somewhere she felt some control, than to sit here and hope, or cry.
Sif tied her hair.