of shadows in darkness that i used to own

viii. by his spoke

Sif gave little forbearance to days of significance; though she made herself present at dances and feasts, Asgard's traditions were simply too numerous for her to grant them more emotional weight than was required by duty. Though Sif enjoyed food and frivolity, she disliked (perhaps surprisingly, to some) large crowds and boisterous drunks—with the exception of her friends, of course, whose faults were easily waived by the virtue of affection.

Soon arrived the night of Yule, which meant more feasting. Dressed in finery that made her itch, a restive Sif seated herself between Fandral and Volstagg. The pair greeted her with good-humored smacks to the shoulder, each one giddy with the anticipation of meat and mead. She relented to a bout of playful jabs, which naturally gave way to bawdy anecdotes, Hogun smiling wryly with feigned disapproval. Sif was comforted by their comraderie. She joked and jostled with them; she let them fill her goblet, as their laughter filled her soul.

A profanely cheerful Thor approached, descending his fist upon the table in salutation; to Hogun he threw a gentle jab, and to Sif, a rather unnecessary request to spar at a later time, given that outcome had been all but writ in stone. As the subsequently red-faced storm-god thundered about the feast hall, bowing comically low to the maidens at each table, Sif watched him with a bemused brow.

She spotted Loki seated at the farthest table in the farthest corner of the hall; he was engaged by a pair of elder-maids at either side, plate wholly untouched. He wore his horns, the helm a garish extension of his already oblong head.

Instantly he caught Sif's gaze, in what could be mistaken for deific perception. His eyes blazed green, as though mired in emerald flame. She could see their coruscation from across the room.

Volstagg was sufficiently drunk as to disregard it when Sif abruptly stood to take her leave, some time later, before the fruit and honey had been served. Fandral and Hogun still balked at the prospect of her exit. Thinking quickly, she cited an exigent itch to be rid of her gown; touching their shoulders affectionately, she made promise of a later congregation. This placated the ruddy-cheeked Fandral; with no cheer lost, he turned his attentions to a bright-eyed maiden seated to his right. Hogun, deflated, nodded in his glum manner.

As Sif marched carefully toward the doors, her eyes trailed the fabrication's seat.

She found the true Loki just outside the gilded hallway leading to his rooms, cool line against cold entryway, his smile carefully placed. One tiny light reflected in his eyes: a choke-point against the black. That untamed green flame was gone, and that's how she knew.

"Ah, Lady Sif," Loki greeted her silkily. "How charming that I should see you here."

"You were absent from the feast." Her surety circumvented Loki's condescension.

"I think you will find I was not," he droned; still, a sly smile wrinkled his lips, no matter how deft he might play at dispassion. "Many would attest my presence in the hall tonight, including yourself—or am I mistaken?"

"The others may be blind to your apparitions," Sif chided. "But I am not."

"It would seem my skills are waning, then," he lilted. She cast her eyes, as she did always, to his lips. "Or perhaps you are simply too perceptive for your own good."

"Your imitations have improved," she conceded, flickering focus from his wine-dark eyes to that lewd mouth and back again. "But I can always tell."

"Is that so," Loki grinned—a glittering string pulling her in close, closer to the silver tongue poised just behind those teeth. He stepped out from the wall to meet her, their feet forming a heavy line. "Festivities disinterest me. Better to leave the feasting and fraternizations to our future king, don't you think? Let him grow fat on these spoils."