Title: Truths Might Vary
Author: Girl Who Writes
Word Count: 580
Genre: Gen, Angst
Summary: When it is all over and done, she feels like screaming. Long and raw and for once, not worrying about who saw her pain, her anger and frustration, her weakness.
(And it is a very long life for War without Mischief.)
Notes: *nervous* Okay, my first Sif fic, my first vague foray into the glittering world of Sif/Loki. I always feel the first fic for a character or a pairing is a little unsteady, trying to get the voices and thoughts down properly, so I hope that this isn't too out-of-nowhere.
This was inspired by a mash-up on Tumblr of Imagine Dragon's It's Time and Of Monsters and Men's Little Talks (which is also where the title is taken from.) More notes at the end of the fic. I hope you enjoy it, and thank you for reading!
Disclaimer: The characters of MCU belong to Marvel and Disney. If I owned them, we'd have a Black Widow movie. I make no profit from this fan-based venture.
When it is all over and done, she feels like screaming. Long and raw and for once, not worrying about who saw her pain, her anger and frustration, her weakness.
(Her grief. Her resentment. Her bitterness.)
She has been forged in steel and iron; she does not give into that moment of weakness, vulnerability, not even before the ones who know her best. She has hollowed herself out before, rendered herself in stone for her ambition before, so that no one can touch her.
(Not with their words or their glares or even their blades.)
Hundreds of times has she rebuilt her walls to protect herself; why should this time be any different at all?
Because of so many things; because a person can only resist so many chips in a façade before cracks start to appear.
(And when the cracks appear, it is only a matter of time before it shatters.)
Because Queen Frigga is dead and gone.
Because Thor has gone and left them again, to Midgard, and friends and a lover who are not them, who are some how preferable to them. As if they have not stood shoulder to shoulder with him on any number of battlefields, have not fallen and bled and hurt with him.
(Everything, everything that has happened is utterly his fault. In the harsh light of day, she is beginning to see that. Oh, if only she had not been so indulgent of her oldest friend, the one who is the other side of her, and called him out on that ridiculous, petty excursion to Jotunheim. But she has always been a sucker for sweet, pretty words, for a grin and a terrible idea.)
And because there is an icy body wrapped in cloth in the depths of the palace, face pallid and chalky from whatever foul poison tipped the blade; she has seen him, and the only thing that stopped her from… something, from anything but being the statue that she has so long prided herself on being, was the weight of Fandral's hand on her shoulder.
(It took months, months, for her to stop turning to mutter something to him, to look for his smirk and commentary, and every time she did and found nothing but empty air, it was like she was adrift, lost and gone and half of what she had once been. But they had enough problems that Thor and the Warriors Three never really noticed anything off balance, whilst she felt like she was on the edge of a blade and just waiting for the fall.)
And what is she to do now?
The King is fallible, the Queen is dead, the Prince is gone (does it matter which one? The one that could have steadied her has moved on to greener pastures, and the one… the one is cold and dead and crumbling to dust.)
And it is a very long life to be without her touchstone.
An extremely long life for War without Mischief.
(When she is alone in the dark, she presses her head to her hand and murmurs that if he lives, if this is another trick, if he comes back with glittering eyes and smirks and sweet, cruel words, she will admit the hypocrisy she has seen, beg for his forgiveness – he always liked it when she begged – and swear her fealty to the throne of Asgard, in service of her Prince and try to rebuild the things she believes in.)
Notes: I'm an addict to the morally grey area, and have briefly become obsessed with the idea of Sif throwing her lot in with Loki's. Not-quite-dark Sif, kind of more 'taking a chance on the dude I'm in love with but would never actually say that out loud; if it goes sour and he screws me over, I'm going to use my warrior oaths to save my skin and screw him over twice as hard.' Or something along those lines, but a little bit more romantic.
The events of the Dark World would have changed Asgard so much - Loki is dead (to them), Frigga is dead and Thor has left for Earth; that's a lot to happen to a world that doesn't really see much drastic change because of their long lives. I can picture Sif being very disillusioned with her lot in life after everything has happened.
I also really liked the idea of Sif being furious, enraged, beyond angry with Loki whilst he was alive, but the minute he has died she realises how alone she is; it is also very easy to forgive a villain when you have both distance and grief.
I'm also highly abusive of parentheses. I love them.