Chapter Text
Sif was passion and warmth and fire. She blazed brightly, demanding recognition for her considerable skills. She was born to be a warrior, and anyone who saw her in battle would not be able to deny that.
Loki certainly hadn’t, the first time he had seen her fight. She was a lioness, regal and fierce, her blade a graceful blur as she danced around her foe. She was every bit as aggressive as his brother, but unlike Thor, she fought with strategy. Sif was to this day one of the few opponents who had defeated him in battle by actually outsmarting him, and he would never make the mistake of underestimating her again.
But though she kept her bloodlust on a tighter leash than Thor, when she let it loose she was a magnificent sight to behold: her long hair flying about her face as she whirled to parry an opponent’s weapon, her blue eyes shining in triumph as she made a killing blow, her lips stretching into a feral grin as blood ran in rivulets down her armor and stained her soft, pale skin. She took his breath away when she was like this, so wild and untamed, like a force of nature. It was as though she was one with the thrum of battle, her war cry enough to shatter the soul of any being foolish enough to stand against her. She was the Goddess of War, and when the All-Father—not-Father, king, thief, liar—had proclaimed her as such none had dared to challenge him.
He has wanted her for years, since the first awkward bloom of adolescence when he began noticing the attractions of the opposite sex—when he first saw her pick up a blade and strike down an opponent in the training ring. None had been able to deny that Sif was beautiful in any circumstance, with her well-built figure, her lovely skin, her bright eyes, and, of course, her hair, that river of gold, her crowning glory. But her beauty against the backdrop of a blood-soaked battlefield set his body on fire in a way that no other maiden of Asgard did. She had been his first “crush,” as the Midgardians called it, and had things proceeded the way his young, still-hopeful imagination had dreamed, she could have been his first love.
That dream had died the day he realized that, despite her prowess on the battlefield, she was no different from the simpering, fainting maidens she spoke so despairingly of: she was completely infatuated with his brother. She watched him eagerly, like a loyal dog did its master, always seeking his praise and approval. And not even Loki had denied what a fine fit they were. They had complemented each other, both in their love of battle and their golden looks. Nearly all of Asgard was convinced Sif would be Thor’s queen once he took the throne—the few who were not were those maidens who themselves were still vying for Thor’s attentions.
Loki had cut off her hair that night, after he had seen the way she looked at Thor, and had stolen his first kiss from her lips while she’d slept. She’d tasted of honey and sunlight, of things bright and warm and beautiful. When he had been caught, the hair he had given her in return was black as night. Then he was the one she mirrored, though he knew she loathed the reflection, despite how the dark locks enhanced her beauty in a way her golden mane never had.
He didn’t care. Sif would never have loved him, even if he had not done what he did. She belonged to Thor, in heart and mind if not in body. In time, she would have forgotten Loki completely. But now she could never forget. Every time she looked in the mirror, she would see her reflection and know it was his doing. If Loki could not have her love, he would take her hatred, for hate was still passion, and from passion desire could still be borne.
And while his dreams of love had fled, his desire for her had only grown with the knowledge that Asgard had all but marked her as Thor’s. He had always coveted what his brother possessed, and Sif was no different. But unlike the throne of Asgard—unlike Odin’s love, the bastard son of a Frost Giant could never have Odin’s love—Sif was attainable. Thor was completely unaware of her feelings, especially now that he had that little mortal woman to amuse himself with. Surely, given time, Sif’s love would turn to resentment—as his had, as his always did—and she would seek out someone who had never ignored her: him.
Then he would have her, would experience all that breathtaking battle lust unleashed upon a different field of combat. But this would be a field he would dominate; the Goddess of War was a maid yet, while despite being the unwanted younger prince Loki had his fair share of conquests to boast of. The thought of Sif, strong, defiant, beautiful Sif, at his mercy was a fine thing indeed, and when the time came Loki intended to savor every moment of it. He would mark her again, claiming her as his, so that she would never be able to give herself fully to Thor. Nor would she wish to, for in order for her to share his bed she would have to hate his brother as much as he did—as much as Loki was certain she now hated him.
Sif was passion and warmth and fire—but against her he was ice and he would freeze her heart until it was as cold as his own.