Written for this very simple, very lovely prompt on norsekink: "Myth-verse and movie-verse clash, Movie-Loki and Myth-Sigyn get it on. Run with it!"

She Visits With A Broken Wing

One

She's looking at him the way an unsuspecting dog-owner would look at their puppy after they had performed an especially complicated, especially adorable trick: delicate eyebrows raised ever so slightly, eyes wide and gleaming over barely parted lips that look as if they want to pull up into a smile, but aren't quite sure as to how to go about it.

This on its own would have grated him enough to make some rancourous, unforgiving remark, had he been back on Asgard. He had not been a tolerant man, even before all of this. But he is not on Asgard. He is on Midgard. Midgard, where he is feared and hated and alone and exactly how he wants to be. The fact that she is meeting his gaze at all is enough to earn her a swift and painful death, but that she dares to look at him like that -

She breaks into giggles.

Giggles.

"You dare to-"

"Look at you!" she laughs, and strides over to him, skirt held up above her sandals as to not trip on the rubble and before he can blink she is half a foot away, staring up into his face like he's the birthday gift she's always wanted.

"How marvellous," she whispers, and her hand is up and reaching out to touch his hair before he has the sense to push her roughly back. He is seething.

Quick as lightning as if to make up for letting her so near, Loki has the jagged point of his staff trained on the woman's chest, so accurately that it rises and falls with her too-fast breathing. She is still looking into his face - how dare she, this puny mortal, he will tear out those damnable eyes for her insolence - and she- wait. No.

Wait.

Mortal?

Because she is staring at him - straight at him, seeing the venom in his eyes and hearing the feral growl that pushes past his teeth before he can stop it, staring straight into the heart of him - he can not help but stare back, and then, even though she has been standing there for at least five minutes (as far as he is aware, but she was there watching him when he turned from the battle which means he really has no idea, and that he could have been so careless of his surroundings as to let a brazen thing like her go unseen disturbs Loki deeply) he actually, finally, sees.

She is not mortal at all.

The puny mortal standing in front of him rubbing her shoulder like he burned her actually appears to be a puny immortal wearing all the daytime finery of an Asgardian noblewoman, and he will be damned if that isn't discarded embroidery poking out from under the subway entrance he blew up not fifteen minutes ago.

Ah. Well at least now he knows how long she's been there.

Loki snorts, and tightens the grip he hadn't realised had loosened on his staff. "What purpose does one such as you have on a Midgardian battleground?" he barks. A thought hitches in his mind, and he lets out a short, manic laugh. "I would wager the All-Father would not have so little faith in his golden heir as to send an anonymous little court mouse to fetch me."

The woman narrows her eyes then, still rubbing the bare skin of her shoulder where he struck her. But she looks confused; either she had not realised the implications of being sent to lure back Asgard's wayward prince when she'd agreed to Odin's request or she is a very good actress. "So you two don't get on well in this universe either," she says, her hand leaving her shoulder to brush a patch of dust off the front of her dress. "Well, I should have known."

This throws him a little. 'This' universe? What is she talking about? It hardly matters, Loki thinks, because watching her stand there, with a weapon trained over her heart and surrounded by the ruins of a city and busying herself with her skirt as if she's just idling in the royal gardens, he is angry - so very angry. His control over this whole situation is rapidly spiralling away from him and the magic gathered at the tip of his staff boils and bubbles, ready to release-

"Oh, can you turn that off," she sighs, and with a flick of her wrist the energy that was about to blast through her sternum is dancing harmlessly around her fingers. She flings it up into the air and a hundred tiny blue butterflies scatter into the wind and up through the shattered window frames of the only remaining wall of an office building, lighting up the wreckage in the dusk. "I already have a headache from coming here. I could do without all that nonsense." The woman reaches back up to her left arm and winces. "And I seem to have acquired a very sore shoulder," she huffs, shooting him an accusing glare.

Loki can only gape.

He takes stock of this woman a second time, the top of the building to his right still flickering with the glow of blue wings in the corner of his eye. Honestly, the only other person who has ever managed to give off such a blatant I'm-standing-in-front-of-the-almighty-God-of-Mischief-and-one-true-ruler-of-Midgard-and-I-do-not-give-one-single-damn vibe is that thrice-cursed Tony Stark, and Loki thought he had gotten rid of that when he'd tossed him through the top floor of the Empire State. He is reminded of that Hydra beast he has heard mention of, and wonders briefly where the other 'head' must be to accompany this woman who appears to be Stark's replacement, but then he remembers the archer is probably still alive somewhere and decides to drop the metaphor. He already has enough of a headache.

But this fleeting reminder that the Avengers are nearby sparks a voice in the back of his mind and it's telling him to move, they'll see that damned blue light, he needs to gather his strength before they find him he is not losing this one, but the woman in front of him suddenly and completely eliminates whatever concern he had for Thor and his lackeys. If this creature can render the deadly power of an Infinity Gem into a dainty little butterfly display without so much as a second glance then she is far greater a danger to him than they are, and must be… dealt with immediately.

As he analyses her he realises he should have known. She can not be more than 5' 6", even with the uneven terrain of a crumbled Manhattan giving her extra height, and while she is obviously used to a life of Asgardian luxury there is not a spare ounce of fat or muscle on her. Odin is underhanded, but he is not wasteful. Of course he wouldn't send a witless court maiden to retrieve the most dangerous war criminal in the Nine Realms, Loki thinks. This battle must have taken more out of him than he first surmised; how could he have been so stupid?

His eyes snap to the sorceress's face and are met with almost disarming concern. The All-Father has out-done himself, this time. Large, deep blue eyes framed with thick golden curls that flow halfway down a sky blue dress which clings in all the right places. Lovely. And appearing, for all intents and purposes, entirely harmless. Had Loki been a lesser being - or had she not just flippantly disposed of magic strong enough to bring down a skyscraper - he might have fallen for it.

As it is, he is not a lesser being. He is the almighty God of Mischief, and he is, in fact, about to become the one true ruler of Midgard. And no siren, no matter how bold or beautiful, is going to stop him.