Fic: The Close (Loki/Sif)

[bookishwench]

“This is the end,” Sif said softly, “isn’t it.”

She wasn’t looking at him. Her head was resting in the hollow of his chest, and Loki’s view of her was the top of her head, her hair dark and shining in the dim radiance of what remained of the fire. Though she was a tall woman, he still dwarfed her, even now when they were lying on his bed. But no woman had come close to being her equal.

“Yes.”

The word held no venom. She didn’t draw back or stiffen, but her fingers absently stroked the texture of the silken sheet as though looking for some comfort, some connection to the world.

The silence stretched through the hills and valleys of thought, each of them alone as they lay together. The desire to offer her some comfort, to ask for it in return, was strong, but he said nothing, did nothing.

Nothing was enough to kill even the strongest love.

She didn’t ask for a reason, and he offered none. They had always known that what they shared could never be permanent. He had been betrothed since birth to a Vanaheim woman he had not yet met while she was meant for battles, not a hearth or palace. They had been drawn to one another as outsiders often are, and when they had at last given in to their desire, even in its sweetest moments, there had been a savor of inevitable pain.

They were not to be. The Norns had not spun that thread. Whatever paths they would have preferred to walk could not be taken if they were to remain themselves.

He moved a hand slowly over her back, fingers caressing in a touch that said goodbye more clearly than words. At length she looked up at him.

“Did you ever love me?”

“I do love you, and I will always love you,” he said, cupping her chin and speaking with a candor he knew he would never have with her again, “but I am not in love with you, Sif. Nor are you with me. It is not in our natures.”

A heartbeat passed, then another before she nodded in understanding. Slowly, he felt the weight of her shift, and she left his bed for the last time. He dragged himself upright, sitting against the headboard and watching her dress. She was turned away from him, not from modesty, but from something else, something he didn’t want to contemplate too carefully.

She fastened the last button of her gown, a task he usually did for her, then turned.

“Would you think me weak if I asked for a kiss this one last time?” she said.

“Only a fool would call you weak, for he would not live longer than it took him breath to say it,” he said, giving her a small smile.

He put aside the sheets and went to her, the sight of his bare skin a kind of gift to her, the last moment of vulnerability his. When he brought his lips to hers, she tasted of woodsmoke and autumn leaves, things insubstantial and impermanent, but no less beautiful for all that. He drew a finger tenderly down her cheek as she looked in his eyes, her own lost in shadow to him already.

“If ever you have need of me, send word,” he said. “I will not forget you.”

“Nor I you, my prince,” she said.

There was a moment when it might have changed and gone some other way, but the chance passed without being caught in their hands. If a hint of regret flashed in his eyes, hidden in green depths, she spoke not a word of it. Instead, she slid her shoes onto her feet and went to the door, resting her hand on the latch.

“Sif,” he said, stopping her, and she turned back towards him. “Call me by my name, just once more.”

She drew in a breath, and her lips trembled in what might have been the ruins of a smile or the beginning of tears as she said, “Loki.”

Then the door opened, and she was gone from his sight, leaving him in darkness.