Author's Notes: As always, thank-you everyone who has taken the time to read and leave your thoughts. This story has been quite the fun side-trip for my muse, and I am glad you all were able to come along. :)

Part VI

He wandered for he knew not how long.

He should have been tired, his mind wearily told him. He had not slept at all the night before when anticipating Thor's kingship upon the sunrise, and war was always taxing on its own without the further complications their latest skirmish brought them . . . He waved a hand, sending his armor away in favor of simple linens and leathers. He uttered a quick spell to freshen his appearance, but he still did not turn towards his rooms. He felt as a stranger as he walked the paths he had known for centuries, every step before him suddenly new. Every hall and balcony and room seemed to greet him as if for the first time, and he greeted them in turn.

I am Loki, son of Laufey, he said into the shadows as he passed, but the words rang false, even to his ears. I am Loki, born of Laufey, but Asgard is my home. Truer still did this sound, but harder still was it to tell wish from truth at times.

He had come to alow level of the palace, wherehalf of the massive hall was left open to the night sky and the mad swirl of the cosmos above. The great river that bisected Asgard's capitol widened where the Risar falls emptied into a large basin, forming a lake of its own that glittered as a mirror, reflecting the play of the stars above. His eye tangled with the waves, finding the restless tempo of the tides and unconsciously mimicking them with the tap of his fingers on the railing. It was a small song, broken only by the sound of footsteps behind him. It was a silent step that approached him, a hunter's step, but the lady had faced death not even hours before, and the step of her right boot was heavy in response.

"My Lady," he called into the darkness.

"You should not be up yet. What would Thor say?"

"It matters not what Thor would say," came the arching tone in reply. Her voice had recovered its strength, at the very least. Loki had still not turned towards her. "It matters more what Eir would say," Sif hedged, and he could imagine the tilt of her head. He imagined the flush that would darken her cheeks, staining their white curve even within the shadow. "But she had turned away, and so I took my opportunity to leave. You . . . whatever you did, it worked. Laufey's magic is nowhere to be found, and all I now need is rest."

Loki swallowed against the raise of feeling that tried to smother his breath. It settled in his throat, restless.

"I am glad for you," he said, his voice soft from his mouth.

He heard as she made a frustrated sound. He felt her hand on his shoulder

for but a moment before she was turning him, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were very bright in the non-light. They flashed with the vigor of one living, and for that gift alone, he was grateful. Truly, he was.

Truly.

"Look at me when you speak to me," she said, her voice a growl from her throat.

"My apologies, my lady," Loki said stiffly, and Sif rolled her eyes.

"Sif," she pressed the syllable though her teeth. "You said my name before, it should not be so hard for you to say again. Sif."

"Sif," he breathed, his voice working without his conscious thought. He watched as her eyes fluttered closed at the sound. When she opened them again, there was a small, sad smile on her lips.

"There," she said softly. "Was that really so difficult?"

"More than you know," he whispered, looking down to stare at his feet – at her feet – anywhere but at her too-bright eyes. He did not want to know what feeling rested there.

She sighed, an audible sound in the soft night. "Loki," she said gently. "You just saved my life, and yet you stalk the shadows like one expecting only censure and scorn. You did not even let me thank you before leaving. You did not let me take my first moments back with you."

"I did not think you would wish to," he said stiffly, the truth a horrible, awful sound from his mouth. "Not with . . ." he gestured weakly at himself, encompassing the winter-blue that was hiding somewhere beneath his skin.

She raised a brow. "You would think me that weak of heart?" she returned. "That shallow and base of character?"

"To hold no love for a monster of the ice?' Loki returned. "Nay, Sif, I would not think you shallow and base, but wise and within every reason you have been raised with."

"Loki," she breathed. "I meant what I said earlier . . . about you seeing only fault where you should see strength. So blind are you to the worth you hold that you expect the same blindness in others. It pains me to see this in you . . . it always has."

"You remember?" he asked, the first, stupid thing to roll out of his mouth. His heart was starting a sad, giddy dance in his chest. Hope was worse than the certainty of rejection, he knew. It was a feeling that bit at both ends, and he no longer had the skin to spare for its teeth. And yet . . .

"Every word," she affirmed. "I remember you at my bedside as I told you that I was craven in the face of death, that I was scared at the idea of finding the Halls of Hel rather than Valhalla's golden ways. I told you that I knew regret, and that I . . ."

"Please," Loki finally said, putting a finger to her lips to stay the rapid flow of her words. The touch was warm against his skin, and he felt her shiver as his own. "Please . . . today has been a day of revelations for me, and I am still reeling in their wake. I cannot . . ." I cannot handle your promises when they will prove to be for naught, he thought. He was not strong enough. He could not . . .

"Loki," Sif said, her voice small from her mouth – small where normally she was battle bold and brilliant. She was not War before him now, but rather a woman with her heart in her hands and he understood then that he could hurt her as much as she could hurt him. He could destroy her, and her end would not come from the sharp kiss of a blade.

It was . . . humbling, that revelation. Humbling and terrifying.

"Loki," she tried again, swallowing in order to gather her voice. "Please, tell me that I am not the only one with such regrets. Tell me that I am not the only one with things left unspoken. There is so much I would see set to right, but only, only if . . ." Only if he wanted her to, he heard the unspoken in her words, and suddenly the hope in his heart was a full blown roar of feeling. His hands made fists against the fierce, savage urge he had to claim what was given while the offer was still real upon her lips.

"Please," she breathed. "Please, just tell me . . ."

But, for once, he could not find the words to sooth her fears – to return the feelings she inelegantly expressed with those of his own. Instead, he found only actions serving him as he leaned down towards her.

Most would say that every part of Sif was hardness and steel - even Loki would think so at times, and he knew her better than most. But her lips were soft, and that first kiss was too – a surprised, searching thing until she realized what was happening, and then he felt her hands slip into his hair to cup the back of his neck and she was pulling him forcibly down to him. The kiss did not stay soft, and he could feel her teeth nip at his lower until he parted them and then her tongue rushed forward to war with his own. There was something desperate about the way they came together, the events of the day building upon each other and then shattering beneath the strain. He could not decide where to put his hands, everything seemed to warrant his exploration – from the curve of her hips to the warm skin of her arms to the rippling muscles of her back. Her hair was still bound in a long braid from the sick-bed, and he wanted nothing more than to unwind it in that moment and feel the silken masses slide through his fingertips. She wore only a thin linen shift, and he could feel the curve of her breasts as they pressed against her chest - everything about her soft and hard in turns, and he felt his mind go hazy at the flood of sensation and the thought of finally that was pouring into him.

But a moment later he had her pressed against one of the ornate pillars that lined the hall, and Sif was doing her best to wind herself around him as her nails scratched at his back and he tasted blood from their kiss – he was not sure from who – and he realized how very intimately entwined they were for anyone to see. He broke from their kiss, amused when she tried to follow him, her strong hands insistent as they pushed against him. Her eyes when they flickered open were half aware and hazy, their hazel shade having taken on bright tones of blue and brown. This close, he could see the flickers of gold within, even as they blinked and she tried to come back to herself. He watched her flush pink as he took a step back from her – not yet leaving the circle of her arms, but distancing himself enough to truly look at her, suddenly anxious for any sign of displeasure or acceptance from her.

But she was smiling softly, and the tight rope of her braid was loosened from his fingers, and she wore both battle-lust and the fever of the hunt in her eyes, but it was for him. A greedy, possessive part of him hungered at the look – wanting it for himself always, even as he opened his mouth as if trying to find the words to speak. She traced one fond finger from the corner of his mouth to his brow and back again, as if unwilling to break contact with him, and for a moment he could not make sense of her actions.

"You would let me kiss you?" he stammered out, even though they were the last words he wanted to say. "I, a stolen son of Jötunnheimr. And even if I were not, I would still be the second son beneath Thor the Mighty who would have your hand if you but breathed his name . . . Why . . . how?"

"Because you are Loki," she answered, something soft invading her eyes. "And I have stopped questioning my reasons just as I hope you someday will. It . . . pains me to see the pressure you mount on your own shoulders, and I would see that gone in favor of what I see before me . . . What I have always seen before me."

"You have cared for me . . . all of this time?" Loki asked, the question stammering and stupid to his own ears.

But she only smiled with affection in her eyes, and simply answered, "Yes."

"Most would say that you hate the very air I breathe. I have had nothing but your barbs and your glares for centuries," Loki pointed out, his words breaking light in response to the heavy feeling that had built in his bones since Utgard. "And I had thought . . ."

"Glares?" Sif said, teasing. "I had thought my looks to be sultry."

He raised a brow, not believing her.

"Some of the time," she admitted. "At other times, you fully warranted my ire. And I am not the only one to offer my barbs – and I know that you enjoy my words, so do not act as if you do not."

He huffed, but did not disagree, instead leaning forward so that he could rest his forehead against hers. He was suddenly weary in that moment, but it was a contentment he felt, the same tired feeling that came with a battle's end when they had found triumph on the field. His fingers could not stay away from playing with the long plait of her braid.

"You would have me then?" he asked, his voice small . . . so very small. "The stolen, monstrous -"

" - I would have Loki," Sif interrupted him. "And all that he is."

Warmth; he felt it surround him, he basked it it. It was so foreign a feeling after the events of the day – the revelations and the desperate struggles and the winter taking them both . . .

"Are you cold?" he asked, feeling as she shivered in his arms. Worry peaked in his voice, but her smile was soft in reply.

"Perhaps," she tilted her head. "A very little. The air is cool in here."

From beyond, the wind blew in from across the water. He felt the bare skin of her arms prickle at the touch. "The lady lies as well as I," Loki said, but there was fondness in his voice when he said so.

"Not quite," but she wrapped her arms tighter around him, even still. "But I welcome your warmth, even still . . . and in that there is a truth."

.

.

It took the better part of three days for Eir to release her patient from her care, and a day longer than that before Thor found Loki in the Vault, staring down at the Casket he had returned only moments before. This time, Loki looked on the Casket, and felt a peace soothing at his skin. While he found 'acceptance' too strong a word, he knew he was well on the path to doing so. He felt peace in his bones, an ease of heart that he had not felt in centuries. Between every possible moment spent with Sif, and the unseen weight lifted from his relationship with his parents (his parents, he had to force the thought), he felt . . . home within his skin, as he had not in an age. The veil of a lie and the open acknowledgment of prophesy vanishing between them had laid the start of strengthening his relationship with Odin. The Allfather was quicker to simply speak with him now, taking his opinions and councils and offering his own in return. He had never truly been in his father's confidence before – or taken Odin in his, for that matter, and the change was still surreal to him . . . surreal, and yet, not unwelcome.

He had not needed to seek out the Allmother that night when Sif returned to Eir's halls, instead Frigg had sought him out, embracing him without a word and whispering my son into his hair as she had not since he was very small. He had clung to her, and she had spoken to him long into morning hour, telling him the story of his herritage. She spoke of her knowing his birth-mother before the peace between Laufey and Odin had snapped. She told him of Nál's unmatched might as an enchantress, and the complications with the Jötunn's queen's last pregnancy that had resulted in his small stature. She spoke of the lines on his face, explaining how they spoke of his bloodlines and his might as an enchanter both – how more markings would come over the years as his powers grew. For the Jötunn carried their magicks with pride as they who were born of the Mother's elemental might, and in their ranks, Loki's prestige would have been great indeed.

He stood with his hands besides the Casket now, careful not to touch it. Instead, he simply let the winter's song sooth at his soul. He felt it as a caress against his skin, and Thor was silent for a moment, watching him with something Loki could not name in his eyes.

"I have made my apologies to Jötunnheimr," Thor said softly by way of introduction. "Our peace will be tenuous, but both Laufey and I would see no more sons lost to war. I . . . only days have passed, and it may well be an millennia for the feel of it in my bones. I do not feel to be the same person. Instead I feel . . ."

"Grounded?" Loki offered. "As if grasping something you had long thought beyond your reach?"

"Yes," Thor answered simply, never one who felt the need to hide when another gave him aid. He stood on the opposite side of the Casket, looking down at the winter trapped within. His great arms were crossed, his brow was creased with thought. There was a peace that emanated from him like something living, and Loki felt . . . pride upon seeing him as such. For so long he had been content with his hate, with his jealousy. In that time, he had fallen away from truly knowing his brother, and a part of him looked forward to getting to know him again.

That was . . . if he wished it to be so. Loki swallowed.

"Then you will wait?" Loki asked. "Or do you take Father's throne as planned?"

"Father must partake in his Sleep," Thor answered after a moment. "He shall take his rest, and I will watch over Asgard until he can again give his eye to her rule. But . . . until Father takes his final sleep, I shall merely watch as his second, and learn what I may. I will not call myself King until I am equal to the task, and I . . . I thank you. I would never have reached this point if not for you. I . . . you are dear to me, Loki. Whether born of our father's blood or Laufey's blood, or even the blood of a troll - it matters not to me."

Loki felt his mouth work, even though no sound came. Next to the Casket, his fingers had taken up a restless rhythm upon the stone column. Thor looked, and saw his jaw lock, his voice work as it tried to gain sound.

"Can I see it?" Thor asked simply, giving him his moment.

"See what?" Loki replied, feigning ignorance. His voice shook when he gave it.

"You act as if I shall recoil in horror," Thor complained – something of the petulant breaking into his voice, and it was his brother as he had long known him to his ears. "I shall not."

Loki raised a brow, and Thor's cheek's flushed. "Well, you know me ill at concealing my thoughts . . ." he admitted. "Show me, and perhaps you will know that I speak true when I tell you that you are still Loki to my heart as you have ever been."

Loki chewed at the inside of his mouth. He could think of no reason to say no that did not speak of his own doubt in the other and the insecurities that were all his own, and so he let his hands rest upon the Casket again. He let the winter greet him, hearing her fond song as she touched his skin and breathed frost into his bones.

When he opened his eyes, he knew them to be ember-red. He exhaled, and could feel his breath frost on the air. He watched as Thor's eyes widened minutely, but it was a look that Loki was long since used to – having seen it nearly every time he came to his brother with a new trick or spell to show to him. And now he watched as Thor's eyes traveled, taking in the blue of his skin, and the black lines upon it. He waited, expecting disgust or hate, but neither came. Instead his look was merely curious. He wanted to understand, Loki thought, even as he held his breath.

Thor reached out, as if to touch one of the elegant scrolls on the back of his hand, but he did not. Instead he swallowed. The feeling was very bright in his face, like sunlight, Loki thought, feeding all below.

"I know not how I ever looked at the Jötnar and saw monster," Thor finally said. "We have been wrong about so many things, and I would see those wrongs righted . . . with your help."

Loki raised a brow, questioning. How he wanted to believe the words he heard, and yet . . .

"You can't very well see me ruling without you?" Thor sounded amused at his hesitance and surprise – which was such a foreign reversal of their roles that Loki nearly snorted aloud at it. "I shall bankrupt the Realm within a season if not for your steady hand at my side. And without your silver words we shall be at war even sooner than that. No, you will be an adviser to my reign, a trusted and revered one, at that. I shall be nothing without you, brother. But . . . together. With us together, I do believe that Asgard shall flourish with such a reign."

For a moment, Loki felt small beneath the strength of the other's regard. But it was not a smallness of shame, but rather a humbled awe. He felt . . . honored by Thor's regard. Honored and unworthy when he had spent so much of his own time in petty jealousies and insecurities.

"You would have a frost giant whisper to the crown of Asgard?" Loki finally found his voice, at long last.

"I would have my brother whisper to the crown, yes," Thor corrected without even pausing to consider his words. "I would have my brother say his words loud for all to hear, and know that we two are who keep the crown of Búri safe, and all nine of the Realms at peace. I would have you by my side, for as long as your years may be – my brother."

A moment, a long moment, passed. And then . . .

"Brother," Loki said, the word near reverent on his tongue. "Then a brother I will be."

Thor placed a hand on his shoulder, nodding his pleasure at his words. Loki felt himself stand up straighter at the weight, the words he spoke settling into his heart like truth.

And . . . if a part of him doubted, if a part of him still did not believe, he would simply say the words again and again until they were as truth to his ears. He would be both brother and son as Thor was brother and son, and he would not listen for the lie in those he would slay his insecurities with the strength of Thor's belief . . . with the strength of Sif's belief, he knew.

He would wait for that day to come . . . but by then, he would no longer be listening for he difference.