Ficlet: Fragile Balance
Fragile Balance
A Thor/Avengers Ficlet
Rated 13 and Up for Angst, Trauma, and Co-Dependent Brodinsons.
It should be the happiest day of her life. There are white flowers with the faintest of fragrances wound through her hair, blood red ribbons trailing from her braids, her wrists, the only dress she will ever wear fitting her waist like a well tailored glove. She is beautiful and fierce; a well made match for her soon to be husband who in turn will be her king. Well made.
Yet her Lord-Prince barely spares her a glance, bright blue eyes flitting from one shadow to the next, a level of anxiousness in his movements that take careful soothing sounds and soft gestures to still. She feels more like a mother with an easily distraced child than a blushing bride.
Thor could crush her if he had the mind to it. He wears his armor -there are none that can take it from him, not anymore- and his hammer and nothing else. No ribbons. No flowers. Where Sif must shine like spun gold he walks the isle to the Queen dowager as one who is wading into a warzone. His smile is bright, brilliant, and empty.
The people cheer. The people always cheer.
Sif smiles, forcing her lips into a grin as Frigga sighs and takes her son by the hand. Quietly, with a hint of reproach, she gets him to set Mjolnir on the ceremonial altar that creaks under the hammer's weight. Sif holds out her callused palm and Frigga sets Thor's in it. They speak their vows, the Thunderer repeating after his mother in a loud bellow as though it is a game, and drink the wine mixed of their blood. Tradition states that Sif is to be given Thor's weapon, to be used upon him if he breaks his vows or grievously offends, but no one but he can lift the hammer. Instead Sif takes his arm and holds it up, Thor is unsure until the crowds cheer at the clever display -Thor is her weapon- and then laughs, roaring.
The AllMother makes excuses to cut short the ceremony, and the new King and Queen of Asgard make their departure for the bedchambers.
But Sif knows Thor will not share her bed. She can no longer keep his attentions, and her skirts whisper against stone as the God of Thunder, Prince of War vanishes through the corridors.
She knows where it is he goes, of course.
Sif clutches her elbows, hugging herself, and bites her lip to stop from screaming. 'Tis all a fiction, but one that must be played, because the sons of Odin were born in blood and Patricide runs through their veins. Secure in her new Queenly chambers Sif falls to the massive, luxurious, empty bed. If she were to exercise her right to mount Hlidskjalf she would see Worlds at War with themselves. She could see the miracle of Life as children off all kinds are born. Nothing will be beyond her ken.
She would see as her King-Husband, her Man-Child, as he brushes his Trickster-Brother's hair and kisses his cheeks. She would watch as Loki uncurls like a skittish cat, allowing the affections and innocent fascination that in any others would be positively lewd. And even though Thor will not permit any others to touch his brother Loki's roundness is impossible to miss.
Sif presses one hand to her mouth, one to her stomach, and the lies make her feel like a hollow, shallow thing.
Something that had been cracking within the Thunderer since that first failed coronation had shattered when Thor went to retrieve Loki from his just, due punishment.
Loki wasn't a threat to anyone, now, and never would be again. Odin-King had made sure of that.
Sif was Queen. Thor was King. Thus was her every dream realized.
Thus her nightmare began.
A Thor/Avengers Ficlet
Rated 13 and Up for Angst, Trauma, and Co-Dependent Brodinsons.
It should be the happiest day of her life. There are white flowers with the faintest of fragrances wound through her hair, blood red ribbons trailing from her braids, her wrists, the only dress she will ever wear fitting her waist like a well tailored glove. She is beautiful and fierce; a well made match for her soon to be husband who in turn will be her king. Well made.
Yet her Lord-Prince barely spares her a glance, bright blue eyes flitting from one shadow to the next, a level of anxiousness in his movements that take careful soothing sounds and soft gestures to still. She feels more like a mother with an easily distraced child than a blushing bride.
Thor could crush her if he had the mind to it. He wears his armor -there are none that can take it from him, not anymore- and his hammer and nothing else. No ribbons. No flowers. Where Sif must shine like spun gold he walks the isle to the Queen dowager as one who is wading into a warzone. His smile is bright, brilliant, and empty.
The people cheer. The people always cheer.
Sif smiles, forcing her lips into a grin as Frigga sighs and takes her son by the hand. Quietly, with a hint of reproach, she gets him to set Mjolnir on the ceremonial altar that creaks under the hammer's weight. Sif holds out her callused palm and Frigga sets Thor's in it. They speak their vows, the Thunderer repeating after his mother in a loud bellow as though it is a game, and drink the wine mixed of their blood. Tradition states that Sif is to be given Thor's weapon, to be used upon him if he breaks his vows or grievously offends, but no one but he can lift the hammer. Instead Sif takes his arm and holds it up, Thor is unsure until the crowds cheer at the clever display -Thor is her weapon- and then laughs, roaring.
The AllMother makes excuses to cut short the ceremony, and the new King and Queen of Asgard make their departure for the bedchambers.
But Sif knows Thor will not share her bed. She can no longer keep his attentions, and her skirts whisper against stone as the God of Thunder, Prince of War vanishes through the corridors.
She knows where it is he goes, of course.
Sif clutches her elbows, hugging herself, and bites her lip to stop from screaming. 'Tis all a fiction, but one that must be played, because the sons of Odin were born in blood and Patricide runs through their veins. Secure in her new Queenly chambers Sif falls to the massive, luxurious, empty bed. If she were to exercise her right to mount Hlidskjalf she would see Worlds at War with themselves. She could see the miracle of Life as children off all kinds are born. Nothing will be beyond her ken.
She would see as her King-Husband, her Man-Child, as he brushes his Trickster-Brother's hair and kisses his cheeks. She would watch as Loki uncurls like a skittish cat, allowing the affections and innocent fascination that in any others would be positively lewd. And even though Thor will not permit any others to touch his brother Loki's roundness is impossible to miss.
Sif presses one hand to her mouth, one to her stomach, and the lies make her feel like a hollow, shallow thing.
Something that had been cracking within the Thunderer since that first failed coronation had shattered when Thor went to retrieve Loki from his just, due punishment.
Loki wasn't a threat to anyone, now, and never would be again. Odin-King had made sure of that.
Sif was Queen. Thor was King. Thus was her every dream realized.
Thus her nightmare began.