Thor Fic: "Always A Bridesmaid Never" (Sif, PG)
Title: Always A Bridesmaid Never
Characters: Sif, Darcy, Fandral, Loki, Volstagg, Hogun, mention of Thor and Jane (implications of Darcy/Fandral, Darcy/Loki, and Sif/Loki)
Rating: PG for adult themes and some references to sex
Length: 3,140 words
Notes: Refers a little to Purity Is Totally Overrated but written as a stand-alone
Summary: Sif has never enjoyed or much approved of weddings.
Sif is of the opinion that she has far, far too many cousins. Some of them are by half-blood and some of them are by matrimony, but honor and custom dictates that they are all her cousins, nonetheless. And that means there are certain courtesies she is expected to pay all of them.
Sif is of a mind that she only pays courtesies with ease to those she feels have earned it. Anything else she chafes and wriggles and scowls under, like the heavy fabric of formal dresses she was forced into wearing to court as a child.
It would not be so bad, she thinks, if it did not seem every time she turned around another cousin was getting married.
Sif has never enjoyed weddings. This is something about her that time has not improved but in fact made worse.
The latest cousin to announce himself as giving up bachelorhood for a life of wedded bliss is several years her younger, and Sif still remembers clearly when they spat cherry pits at each other across the dinner table one hot summer’s eve, until both their parents finally noticed and he was dragged away by the ear while she was given a firm scolding.
She might have considered him a favorite cousin of hers, if she were forced at the point of a sword to choose one, if not for how in the days leading up to the ceremony he names her as his second.
Any favor he’s ever curried with her vanishes that moment.
Bad enough she has to attend yet another wedding, wait on yet another dull and tedious formality. Now she is expected to play an active role in it as well?
She can tell by the looks on the faces of the Warriors Three they would love to laugh and make merry of her predicament.
But all it takes is one glance at the expression on hers to know better, and they bite their tongues.
“Alright then,” Sif says to them, stiffly as she can manage it. “Tomorrow is the day before the wedding. We all know what that means.”
Three heads nod back at her in agreement.
“Aye,” Fandral agrees. “Any thought yet as to what you’re going to do? For your, ah, ‘gift’?”
“If you need any suggestions…” Volstagg begins, but Sif quickly holds up her hand, stopping him.
“I have an idea. The only help I require of any of you is in retrieving it.”
Fandral brightens. “Oh, splendid! But of course we’d be happy to help you, Sif. Only tell us what we need do.”
Before she can explain however they are all distracted by the sound of feet and voices, as someone appears from around the corner of the corridor.
Darcy Lewis strolls along, not seeming at first to notice the presence of the others. In her hands is a thin golden leash, a brown and white unicorn foal gamboling and tugging at the end of it. Darcy is caught up in conversation and laughter with Loki, who is walking beside her, easily matching her pace.
The second prince spots Sif and the others and instantly he stills, gazing at them.
“Oh. I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Reaching out a hand he clearly intends to take Darcy by the arm and lead her back the way they came. But Darcy doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort.
“Hey guys,” she greets the warriors, cheerily. She looks somewhat out of place in the long shift-like gown she’s been given to wear while she’s visiting. Her unicorn struggles at the end of its lead, bleating, but Darcy ignores it. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing really,” Volstagg answers her, just as bright. “Just helping Sif get ready to serve her role in the upcoming nuptials.”
“Oh, that’s right - there’s that wedding in a few days,” Darcy remembers. Both her and Jane expressed interest in seeing an Asgardian wedding, and so they’ll be attending as Thor’s guests. “You’re in it, Sif? I didn’t know that. That’s cool. What are you, the maid of honor or something?”
Fandral’s forehead crinkles in confusion. “The maid of…what strange terms you have for things on Midgard, Darcy!” He laughs in a boisterous manner meant to get her to laugh along with him.
When Darcy does not, only staring at Fandral with a puzzled frown, he trails off awkwardly.
“It’s how they refer to the second of the bride,” Loki puts in, being the only one there who understands both worlds enough to translate. “And no, Darcy. Sif is the second to the groom.”
Darcy turns to look at Sif, blinking. “You’re the best man? Really? I mean…is that allowed?”
Fandral coughs. “It is usually a role fulfilled by a man, true-”
“It is a position of honor,” Hogun interrupts, his voice stately and somber. “It reflects well on the groom, to have at his side a renowned warrior of Asgard like Sif.”
Were Sif not so aggravated at even being in this situation to begin with and of the thought someone else can gladly have the honor, she’d be giving Hogun a smile.
“Okay. I see.” Darcy nods. “So what does a groom’s second have to do anyway? On Earth they like, keep track of the rings and throw the stag party.”
Sif sighs. “Mostly it is a meaningless position. In theory I am to attend upon the groom, which nominally translates into standing next to him at the ceremony and little else besides.”
“There are other…traditional tasks, though, as well,” Volstagg reminds her with what, for him, serves as a gentle nudge.
“Ah. The ‘morn before’ gifting,” Loki notes, shrewdly, understanding. “I had wondered why you were all standing about looking conspiratorial.”
“Yeahhh, I’m lost again,” Darcy says. She looks back and forth between them. “Somebody want to fill me in?”
“It’s, well, a prank really,” Fandral explains to her - taking the opportunity to step in close. “On the morning of the day before her wedding the bride will open the door to her chambers to find a gift left for her by her intended’s second.”
“It’s supposed to be something impractical,” Volstagg adds.
“And in some way be a reference to her ‘marital duties’,” Hogun finishes. “The last wedding I attended, the gift was many live rabbits.”
“I get it,” Darcy says, thinking. “It’s like Hitchcock without the stalking. So what are you going to do, Sif?”
Sif straightens, mouth set in a firm line. “I was thinking apples.”
“Apples?” Fandral frowns. “That’s a bit…halfhearted, don’t you think?”
“They’re a symbol of fertility, certainly a large pile of them can be thought more inconvenient than useful, and they’re easy enough to gather,” Sif snaps at him in response. Fandral flinches, and the Warriors Three quickly shift back. “Now you said you would help me. Are you men of your word or not?”
“No, no, of course we’ll assist you,” Volstagg says, the other two quickly chiming in with agreement.
“Yeah,” Darcy says far more eagerly. “We’d love to help you, Sif!”
This gets a sideways stare from Loki, who immediately realizes Darcy’s ‘we’ is to include him as well. “Excuse me?”
“Oh come on. The trickster, opting out on a chance to perform a prank? Even a sort of half-assed one?” Darcy rolls her eyes, absently stroking her fussing unicorn’s mane to calm it. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“But I-” Loki steals a look Sif’s way and then very quickly breaks eye contact. “I don’t think Sif needs my help.”
“No, I do not,” Sif cannot resist saying, tersely.
Loki bows his head to gaze at the ground and says nothing. But at the surprised look on Darcy’s face, Sif finds herself relenting.
“But if the two of you would like to come along, it would be…welcome.”
The last word sticks somewhat on her tongue, but even Sif can give in out of mercy, on occasion. Darcy at least she does not mind at all. Loki she can tolerate, as she has on many occasions since his return.
However, Sif shoots an unyielding glower towards the unicorn by Darcy’s feet; currently it’s settled for chewing on a mouthful of her belt.
Sif points. “That thing stays.”
“Okay, yeah, sure.” Darcy tugs at the leash, pulling her belt from its teeth. “Come on, Spot. Let’s go leave you with Jane.”
There’s an orchard not far from the main palace grounds that boasts a wide array of apples, green red and yellow. The walk there is quick enough. Sif throws the woven baskets she brought down on the ground and begins gathering fruits off the lowest branches, tossing them in. Darcy and the men follow her example.
Sif works in swift wordlessness. The others, however, are much less so.
“You have to at least check to make sure they’re ripe, you know,” Fandral chides Hogun. The latter responds with a stony glower.
Volstagg, unsurprisingly, is already eating one of the plucked apples. Its shiny skin is almost as red as his beard. “How many do you think we need?”
Sif shrugs, careless. “Not sure.”
Darcy is frowning at an apple she picked only to discover its side is half brown and rotten. “I’ll bet all the better ones are still at the top.”
“Well spotted, my good lady!” Fandral exclaims. He draws his sword. “And in that case, I know just what to do!”
“Fandral, don’t-” Loki begins warningly.
Not listening, the warrior uses the flat of his blade to strike the nearest tree’s trunk, very hard. There’s a shake, and then a rumble; Fandral grins proudly as apples begin dropping from the tree in a veritable rain.
His grin vanishes as the apples start also landing on the heads of those nearby, himself included.
“Oof!” Volstagg bends forward, attempting to shield his head with armored forearms, only to be struck on his broad shoulders instead. “Oh, good plan, Fandral!”
“It was Darcy’s idea,” Fandral mutters, apparently put out enough to pin blame on a lady.
“Was not!” Darcy throws an apple at him - he ducks and it gets Hogun in the sternum. “Oh, shoot, sorry!”
Hogun’s only response is to darkly begin gathering up apples with both arms.
Fandral scoops up a very rotten fruit and chucks it in Darcy’s direction. She dodges out of the way, diving behind the nearest trunk.
Instead the projectile smacks wetly into the side of Loki’s face, leaving a trail of sticky pulp that smears and trickles slowly from forehead to collar.
Loki whips around to face Fandral, who is stepping back with a hand over his mouth to unsuccessfully conceal his laughter.
“You did that on purpose,” Loki snarls accusingly.
“Not entirely,” is Fandral’s very unconvincing protest. He’s caught in the crossfire as Loki uses magic to levitate an entire branch’s load of apples at him, and Hogun dumps the ammunition he’s gathered onto him all at once.
Volstagg joins the impromptu fruit fight with a broad smile. Within seconds the four of them are lobbing apples at one another from all directions, the Warriors Three going with the more straightforward approach while Loki conceals himself in the shadows and relies on sneak attacks instead.
Sif normally would take part as well, but today she is in no mood for childish antics. Frustrated, short-tempered, and more than ready to get away from foolhardy men, she finds the closest tree with good footholds and climbs her way up it.
From her half-concealed leafy perch she watches the fray below with arms folded, scowling.
“Hey! Wait for me.”
Sif looks down to see Darcy at the bottom of the tree. Kicking her shoes off, the other woman hikes up her skirt to well past her knees.
Behind her, Fandral goes still as he stares at the exposed length of leg, and from his hiding place Sif can see Loki’s throat working as he swallows.
Sif rolls her eyes, but reaches an arm to assist Darcy’s ascent - there’s only room enough for two in the tree, and if Darcy holds it then it assures one of the others cannot.
The other woman takes a moment to settle herself in the branches, shifting position and brushing off her dress.
“So,” she remarks at length, “can I ask? Is it this one in particular that’s got you all hot and bothered, or is it all weddings? Because I’ve noticed you don’t exactly seem very happy.”
“The latter,” Sif responds, short. She turns her head away, frowning tartly. “I dislike weddings.”
Darcy nods. She glances toward the ground. “I’m not always crazy about them myself. Especially when they’re for people you don’t really know, like distant relatives, or your parents’ work friends? But you have to go anyway and sit through the whole thing and act like you’re happy for the couple, like you really care.” Her feet swing idly.
“It’s gotten better now that I’m older, but when I was a kid I thought it totally sucked. My mom always used to tell me ‘You’ll feel different about it when it’s your turn’.”
“I will probably never be married,” Sif states. Her voice is clear and firm, unhesitant, but still a slight flush creeps up her throat at her having the nerve to pronounce the previously unspoken thing aloud.
Darcy looks at her in questioning surprise. “Why not?” She grimaces, thinking. “Is it because, of…you know?” She mimes the act of holding a sword with both her hands. “The whole warrior maid thing?”
“That is a big part of it,” Sif agrees. “There are those still that would vie for my hand, either because they thought they could control me and still my passions if I were their wife, or simply because I’m of noble birth and would thus be a worthy match…regardless of my ‘unfeminine predilections’.”
Her derision for this manner of thinking is clear in every word she pronounces, and her eyes roll heavy in punctuation. Darcy stares.
“You guys are kind of…way, way behind on that gender equality idea,” she finally says. “Like, as a whole.”
Sif shrugs. She reaches to cup her knees.
“But if I were to marry, it would have to be to a man who understood and accepted me, as I was; in all my ways, unconventional or not,” she murmurs. “Who did not just tolerate or even allow it, but…one who truly saw me for what I am and will always be, as a warrior.”
With a rueful smile Sif indicates the four that still tussle with one another, now mostly without the apples but with weapons and magic and fists, down below. “There’re few who could unhesitatingly view me that way, and those that do…”
“Permanently in the ‘friend’ zone,” Darcy suggests. Sif gives a brief snort of laughter, nodding.
“We have known each other since we were children - we scrapped and bled together more often than not. They are like brothers to me. I could never see them any other way.”
Sif bites her lip, however, thinking of a brief time when that wasn’t entirely true.
When her girlish eyes considered one of her battle companions differently, as they lingered on him: a young prince with dark hair, bright eyes and a sharp but clever tongue.
It was a feeling she had at the time suspected - still suspects - was mutual, shared looks and occasional acts saying what words never did. But neither of them ever acted on it, and then …well that’s fully over now.
But Sif does not mention such a thing, not to Darcy. For inexperienced though she may be in matters of the heart, she is no fool. Darcy lingers often in Loki’s presence - she is, without a doubt, the closest friend to a man who would now bitterly swear he has none.
Nothing may come of it yet. But something very easily could. Until that time, everyone else around the two moves carefully, fearful and wary of upsetting the balance either way.
“There really aren’t any other guys on Asgard who might be able to look past that stuff and get with the times?” Darcy asks, oblivious to Sif’s thoughts, jarring her from them.
“Maybe. It’s not impossible. But.”
Sif pauses.
Darcy pokes her with a fingertip. “But…?” she prompts. Sif draws a breath.
“I don’t wish to have children,” she explains. Darcy begins to frown and so Sif continues, all in a rush, before she can say any of the usual things. “I have nothing against the concept of families, I don’t think that it would ‘get in the way’ of things, I don’t dislike children; I don’t even necessarily fear that I would be a bad parent."
She catches her breath again before finishing, softly, "I simply have no desire to be a mother.”
“Oh. Okay. Right.” Darcy sounds a little uncertain still, but to Sif’s pleased relief doesn’t at all appear about to start arguing with her. “Guess it’s not for everyone.”
“It isn’t for me,” Sif agrees. “My life will be fulfilled through other means.” He gaze drops briefly to her hands and legs. “But the thought of a married but still childless woman on Asgard is…unheard of.”
“So that’s the deal-breaker,” Darcy guesses. She winces in sympathy.
Sif gives her a thin, weary smile. “Even among the more understanding men of Asgard, having a family is considered a point of honor. Fathering sons to carry their names on. It is our way. So even if I were lucky enough to find one who loved me as both a warrior and a woman, they would never be willing to forgo that. Never. And so it is not meant to be.”
“I’m sorry,” Darcy says. “It’s awful to think that you’re going to be alone forever, just because you would choose to live your life the way you want.”
Sif gives a haughty scoff. She rolls her eyes at such a statement. “I never said I intended to die a maid,” she says bluntly. “Indeed - were I to fall from this tree right now, I would not die one.”
Darcy is sniggering, one fist pressed to her mouth, and Sif leans in, her smile growing gentler.
“Besides. I am not alone.” She nods towards the ground.
There is a distant cry of triumph from Fandral as he avoids one of Loki’s spells, and Volstagg is thrown down with a huff as Hogun tackles him.
“I’ll always have my companions.” Sif can feel herself growing warm with the reminder as she continues to smile. “They are all the family I will ever need.”
“Right.” Darcy smiles back at that, smugly, and moves to give Sif a hug. Sif allows it.
She sits there in the tree, at peace, with her mortal friend’s head resting on her shoulder, as they watch the antics of their other friends from above.
Characters: Sif, Darcy, Fandral, Loki, Volstagg, Hogun, mention of Thor and Jane (implications of Darcy/Fandral, Darcy/Loki, and Sif/Loki)
Rating: PG for adult themes and some references to sex
Length: 3,140 words
Notes: Refers a little to Purity Is Totally Overrated but written as a stand-alone
Summary: Sif has never enjoyed or much approved of weddings.
Sif is of the opinion that she has far, far too many cousins. Some of them are by half-blood and some of them are by matrimony, but honor and custom dictates that they are all her cousins, nonetheless. And that means there are certain courtesies she is expected to pay all of them.
Sif is of a mind that she only pays courtesies with ease to those she feels have earned it. Anything else she chafes and wriggles and scowls under, like the heavy fabric of formal dresses she was forced into wearing to court as a child.
It would not be so bad, she thinks, if it did not seem every time she turned around another cousin was getting married.
Sif has never enjoyed weddings. This is something about her that time has not improved but in fact made worse.
The latest cousin to announce himself as giving up bachelorhood for a life of wedded bliss is several years her younger, and Sif still remembers clearly when they spat cherry pits at each other across the dinner table one hot summer’s eve, until both their parents finally noticed and he was dragged away by the ear while she was given a firm scolding.
She might have considered him a favorite cousin of hers, if she were forced at the point of a sword to choose one, if not for how in the days leading up to the ceremony he names her as his second.
Any favor he’s ever curried with her vanishes that moment.
Bad enough she has to attend yet another wedding, wait on yet another dull and tedious formality. Now she is expected to play an active role in it as well?
She can tell by the looks on the faces of the Warriors Three they would love to laugh and make merry of her predicament.
But all it takes is one glance at the expression on hers to know better, and they bite their tongues.
“Alright then,” Sif says to them, stiffly as she can manage it. “Tomorrow is the day before the wedding. We all know what that means.”
Three heads nod back at her in agreement.
“Aye,” Fandral agrees. “Any thought yet as to what you’re going to do? For your, ah, ‘gift’?”
“If you need any suggestions…” Volstagg begins, but Sif quickly holds up her hand, stopping him.
“I have an idea. The only help I require of any of you is in retrieving it.”
Fandral brightens. “Oh, splendid! But of course we’d be happy to help you, Sif. Only tell us what we need do.”
Before she can explain however they are all distracted by the sound of feet and voices, as someone appears from around the corner of the corridor.
Darcy Lewis strolls along, not seeming at first to notice the presence of the others. In her hands is a thin golden leash, a brown and white unicorn foal gamboling and tugging at the end of it. Darcy is caught up in conversation and laughter with Loki, who is walking beside her, easily matching her pace.
The second prince spots Sif and the others and instantly he stills, gazing at them.
“Oh. I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Reaching out a hand he clearly intends to take Darcy by the arm and lead her back the way they came. But Darcy doesn’t seem to notice his discomfort.
“Hey guys,” she greets the warriors, cheerily. She looks somewhat out of place in the long shift-like gown she’s been given to wear while she’s visiting. Her unicorn struggles at the end of its lead, bleating, but Darcy ignores it. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, nothing really,” Volstagg answers her, just as bright. “Just helping Sif get ready to serve her role in the upcoming nuptials.”
“Oh, that’s right - there’s that wedding in a few days,” Darcy remembers. Both her and Jane expressed interest in seeing an Asgardian wedding, and so they’ll be attending as Thor’s guests. “You’re in it, Sif? I didn’t know that. That’s cool. What are you, the maid of honor or something?”
Fandral’s forehead crinkles in confusion. “The maid of…what strange terms you have for things on Midgard, Darcy!” He laughs in a boisterous manner meant to get her to laugh along with him.
When Darcy does not, only staring at Fandral with a puzzled frown, he trails off awkwardly.
“It’s how they refer to the second of the bride,” Loki puts in, being the only one there who understands both worlds enough to translate. “And no, Darcy. Sif is the second to the groom.”
Darcy turns to look at Sif, blinking. “You’re the best man? Really? I mean…is that allowed?”
Fandral coughs. “It is usually a role fulfilled by a man, true-”
“It is a position of honor,” Hogun interrupts, his voice stately and somber. “It reflects well on the groom, to have at his side a renowned warrior of Asgard like Sif.”
Were Sif not so aggravated at even being in this situation to begin with and of the thought someone else can gladly have the honor, she’d be giving Hogun a smile.
“Okay. I see.” Darcy nods. “So what does a groom’s second have to do anyway? On Earth they like, keep track of the rings and throw the stag party.”
Sif sighs. “Mostly it is a meaningless position. In theory I am to attend upon the groom, which nominally translates into standing next to him at the ceremony and little else besides.”
“There are other…traditional tasks, though, as well,” Volstagg reminds her with what, for him, serves as a gentle nudge.
“Ah. The ‘morn before’ gifting,” Loki notes, shrewdly, understanding. “I had wondered why you were all standing about looking conspiratorial.”
“Yeahhh, I’m lost again,” Darcy says. She looks back and forth between them. “Somebody want to fill me in?”
“It’s, well, a prank really,” Fandral explains to her - taking the opportunity to step in close. “On the morning of the day before her wedding the bride will open the door to her chambers to find a gift left for her by her intended’s second.”
“It’s supposed to be something impractical,” Volstagg adds.
“And in some way be a reference to her ‘marital duties’,” Hogun finishes. “The last wedding I attended, the gift was many live rabbits.”
“I get it,” Darcy says, thinking. “It’s like Hitchcock without the stalking. So what are you going to do, Sif?”
Sif straightens, mouth set in a firm line. “I was thinking apples.”
“Apples?” Fandral frowns. “That’s a bit…halfhearted, don’t you think?”
“They’re a symbol of fertility, certainly a large pile of them can be thought more inconvenient than useful, and they’re easy enough to gather,” Sif snaps at him in response. Fandral flinches, and the Warriors Three quickly shift back. “Now you said you would help me. Are you men of your word or not?”
“No, no, of course we’ll assist you,” Volstagg says, the other two quickly chiming in with agreement.
“Yeah,” Darcy says far more eagerly. “We’d love to help you, Sif!”
This gets a sideways stare from Loki, who immediately realizes Darcy’s ‘we’ is to include him as well. “Excuse me?”
“Oh come on. The trickster, opting out on a chance to perform a prank? Even a sort of half-assed one?” Darcy rolls her eyes, absently stroking her fussing unicorn’s mane to calm it. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“But I-” Loki steals a look Sif’s way and then very quickly breaks eye contact. “I don’t think Sif needs my help.”
“No, I do not,” Sif cannot resist saying, tersely.
Loki bows his head to gaze at the ground and says nothing. But at the surprised look on Darcy’s face, Sif finds herself relenting.
“But if the two of you would like to come along, it would be…welcome.”
The last word sticks somewhat on her tongue, but even Sif can give in out of mercy, on occasion. Darcy at least she does not mind at all. Loki she can tolerate, as she has on many occasions since his return.
However, Sif shoots an unyielding glower towards the unicorn by Darcy’s feet; currently it’s settled for chewing on a mouthful of her belt.
Sif points. “That thing stays.”
“Okay, yeah, sure.” Darcy tugs at the leash, pulling her belt from its teeth. “Come on, Spot. Let’s go leave you with Jane.”
There’s an orchard not far from the main palace grounds that boasts a wide array of apples, green red and yellow. The walk there is quick enough. Sif throws the woven baskets she brought down on the ground and begins gathering fruits off the lowest branches, tossing them in. Darcy and the men follow her example.
Sif works in swift wordlessness. The others, however, are much less so.
“You have to at least check to make sure they’re ripe, you know,” Fandral chides Hogun. The latter responds with a stony glower.
Volstagg, unsurprisingly, is already eating one of the plucked apples. Its shiny skin is almost as red as his beard. “How many do you think we need?”
Sif shrugs, careless. “Not sure.”
Darcy is frowning at an apple she picked only to discover its side is half brown and rotten. “I’ll bet all the better ones are still at the top.”
“Well spotted, my good lady!” Fandral exclaims. He draws his sword. “And in that case, I know just what to do!”
“Fandral, don’t-” Loki begins warningly.
Not listening, the warrior uses the flat of his blade to strike the nearest tree’s trunk, very hard. There’s a shake, and then a rumble; Fandral grins proudly as apples begin dropping from the tree in a veritable rain.
His grin vanishes as the apples start also landing on the heads of those nearby, himself included.
“Oof!” Volstagg bends forward, attempting to shield his head with armored forearms, only to be struck on his broad shoulders instead. “Oh, good plan, Fandral!”
“It was Darcy’s idea,” Fandral mutters, apparently put out enough to pin blame on a lady.
“Was not!” Darcy throws an apple at him - he ducks and it gets Hogun in the sternum. “Oh, shoot, sorry!”
Hogun’s only response is to darkly begin gathering up apples with both arms.
Fandral scoops up a very rotten fruit and chucks it in Darcy’s direction. She dodges out of the way, diving behind the nearest trunk.
Instead the projectile smacks wetly into the side of Loki’s face, leaving a trail of sticky pulp that smears and trickles slowly from forehead to collar.
Loki whips around to face Fandral, who is stepping back with a hand over his mouth to unsuccessfully conceal his laughter.
“You did that on purpose,” Loki snarls accusingly.
“Not entirely,” is Fandral’s very unconvincing protest. He’s caught in the crossfire as Loki uses magic to levitate an entire branch’s load of apples at him, and Hogun dumps the ammunition he’s gathered onto him all at once.
Volstagg joins the impromptu fruit fight with a broad smile. Within seconds the four of them are lobbing apples at one another from all directions, the Warriors Three going with the more straightforward approach while Loki conceals himself in the shadows and relies on sneak attacks instead.
Sif normally would take part as well, but today she is in no mood for childish antics. Frustrated, short-tempered, and more than ready to get away from foolhardy men, she finds the closest tree with good footholds and climbs her way up it.
From her half-concealed leafy perch she watches the fray below with arms folded, scowling.
“Hey! Wait for me.”
Sif looks down to see Darcy at the bottom of the tree. Kicking her shoes off, the other woman hikes up her skirt to well past her knees.
Behind her, Fandral goes still as he stares at the exposed length of leg, and from his hiding place Sif can see Loki’s throat working as he swallows.
Sif rolls her eyes, but reaches an arm to assist Darcy’s ascent - there’s only room enough for two in the tree, and if Darcy holds it then it assures one of the others cannot.
The other woman takes a moment to settle herself in the branches, shifting position and brushing off her dress.
“So,” she remarks at length, “can I ask? Is it this one in particular that’s got you all hot and bothered, or is it all weddings? Because I’ve noticed you don’t exactly seem very happy.”
“The latter,” Sif responds, short. She turns her head away, frowning tartly. “I dislike weddings.”
Darcy nods. She glances toward the ground. “I’m not always crazy about them myself. Especially when they’re for people you don’t really know, like distant relatives, or your parents’ work friends? But you have to go anyway and sit through the whole thing and act like you’re happy for the couple, like you really care.” Her feet swing idly.
“It’s gotten better now that I’m older, but when I was a kid I thought it totally sucked. My mom always used to tell me ‘You’ll feel different about it when it’s your turn’.”
“I will probably never be married,” Sif states. Her voice is clear and firm, unhesitant, but still a slight flush creeps up her throat at her having the nerve to pronounce the previously unspoken thing aloud.
Darcy looks at her in questioning surprise. “Why not?” She grimaces, thinking. “Is it because, of…you know?” She mimes the act of holding a sword with both her hands. “The whole warrior maid thing?”
“That is a big part of it,” Sif agrees. “There are those still that would vie for my hand, either because they thought they could control me and still my passions if I were their wife, or simply because I’m of noble birth and would thus be a worthy match…regardless of my ‘unfeminine predilections’.”
Her derision for this manner of thinking is clear in every word she pronounces, and her eyes roll heavy in punctuation. Darcy stares.
“You guys are kind of…way, way behind on that gender equality idea,” she finally says. “Like, as a whole.”
Sif shrugs. She reaches to cup her knees.
“But if I were to marry, it would have to be to a man who understood and accepted me, as I was; in all my ways, unconventional or not,” she murmurs. “Who did not just tolerate or even allow it, but…one who truly saw me for what I am and will always be, as a warrior.”
With a rueful smile Sif indicates the four that still tussle with one another, now mostly without the apples but with weapons and magic and fists, down below. “There’re few who could unhesitatingly view me that way, and those that do…”
“Permanently in the ‘friend’ zone,” Darcy suggests. Sif gives a brief snort of laughter, nodding.
“We have known each other since we were children - we scrapped and bled together more often than not. They are like brothers to me. I could never see them any other way.”
Sif bites her lip, however, thinking of a brief time when that wasn’t entirely true.
When her girlish eyes considered one of her battle companions differently, as they lingered on him: a young prince with dark hair, bright eyes and a sharp but clever tongue.
It was a feeling she had at the time suspected - still suspects - was mutual, shared looks and occasional acts saying what words never did. But neither of them ever acted on it, and then …well that’s fully over now.
But Sif does not mention such a thing, not to Darcy. For inexperienced though she may be in matters of the heart, she is no fool. Darcy lingers often in Loki’s presence - she is, without a doubt, the closest friend to a man who would now bitterly swear he has none.
Nothing may come of it yet. But something very easily could. Until that time, everyone else around the two moves carefully, fearful and wary of upsetting the balance either way.
“There really aren’t any other guys on Asgard who might be able to look past that stuff and get with the times?” Darcy asks, oblivious to Sif’s thoughts, jarring her from them.
“Maybe. It’s not impossible. But.”
Sif pauses.
Darcy pokes her with a fingertip. “But…?” she prompts. Sif draws a breath.
“I don’t wish to have children,” she explains. Darcy begins to frown and so Sif continues, all in a rush, before she can say any of the usual things. “I have nothing against the concept of families, I don’t think that it would ‘get in the way’ of things, I don’t dislike children; I don’t even necessarily fear that I would be a bad parent."
She catches her breath again before finishing, softly, "I simply have no desire to be a mother.”
“Oh. Okay. Right.” Darcy sounds a little uncertain still, but to Sif’s pleased relief doesn’t at all appear about to start arguing with her. “Guess it’s not for everyone.”
“It isn’t for me,” Sif agrees. “My life will be fulfilled through other means.” He gaze drops briefly to her hands and legs. “But the thought of a married but still childless woman on Asgard is…unheard of.”
“So that’s the deal-breaker,” Darcy guesses. She winces in sympathy.
Sif gives her a thin, weary smile. “Even among the more understanding men of Asgard, having a family is considered a point of honor. Fathering sons to carry their names on. It is our way. So even if I were lucky enough to find one who loved me as both a warrior and a woman, they would never be willing to forgo that. Never. And so it is not meant to be.”
“I’m sorry,” Darcy says. “It’s awful to think that you’re going to be alone forever, just because you would choose to live your life the way you want.”
Sif gives a haughty scoff. She rolls her eyes at such a statement. “I never said I intended to die a maid,” she says bluntly. “Indeed - were I to fall from this tree right now, I would not die one.”
Darcy is sniggering, one fist pressed to her mouth, and Sif leans in, her smile growing gentler.
“Besides. I am not alone.” She nods towards the ground.
There is a distant cry of triumph from Fandral as he avoids one of Loki’s spells, and Volstagg is thrown down with a huff as Hogun tackles him.
“I’ll always have my companions.” Sif can feel herself growing warm with the reminder as she continues to smile. “They are all the family I will ever need.”
“Right.” Darcy smiles back at that, smugly, and moves to give Sif a hug. Sif allows it.
She sits there in the tree, at peace, with her mortal friend’s head resting on her shoulder, as they watch the antics of their other friends from above.