Here's the last chapter! I'm glad a lot of people seem to be enjoying this one. :) Writing romance isn't something I do a lot, so I hope this last chapter works for you guys. Please review, and thanks for reading!

The days pass in a nearly excruciating quiet. It is as though I am trapped in the calm eye of a powerful storm, and things are swirling and eddying around me but I must remain separated from it all, and yet surrounded by it. Asgard is preparing to ride against the outlaws once more. My friends are going to battle without me. The first prince and his warriors are going to fight; the goddess of war must stay home. Such cruel irony.

My leg hurts less by the day as Eir's potions work to heal me. One week after the explosion, the wound is no longer open, but rather a long, ugly scar running from my knee down to my ankle. I wonder if I shall ever be able to wear short clothing again. It is a vain thought, for someone who should be grateful only to be alive. But I am too disillusioned with having to stay behind from the fight to police myself.

I find myself growing restless, and the day my friends leave for the mission, I find myself able to stay in bed no longer. Thor and the Warriors Three are off fighting for the safety of our people - is it too much to ask that I can at least leave my bed and think that I am accomplishing something? So I ask Eir if I might get up and walk around a little. She eyes me very closely, attempting to assess if I am being completely honest when I say I will not overexert myself or put too much strain on my leg. Finally, she agrees, but insists that I take it slowly. She watches me walk around the room twice, as I test the extent to which I can bare my weight. I can only take a few steps at first without having to stop and lean on something, but soon I determine how to adjust the pattern of my gait so that I can go further. She is still suspicious, but when I promise her that I will only go for a turn about the near corridor, she sighs and sets me free.

Of course, I have far more lofty intentions than just walking down the hall. I hobble my way down the corridor to the garden balcony, at least twice the distance I promised Eir I would restrict myself to. I am thankful that this area of the palace seems to be relatively vacant so that few may see the decrepit state in which I find myself. By the time I reach the balcony, I am admittedly a bit out of breath - in my own defense, I have not been on my feet in more than a week. And I did lose a good deal of blood.

When I arrive, I realize that while the corridor was mostly bereft of people, the overlook itself is not. Next at the edge, dressed in a soft, light green tunic and black trousers, hands resting on the railing, stands Loki. He turns to me, no doubt alerted by my heavy breathing, looking surprised at my presence.

"Lady Sif," he says, motioning to a pair of chairs as if to offer me a seat. I shake my head, beginning to regain my wind.

"I have been off my feet for over a week. I cannot stand to sit for another second." I come haltingly to stand near him and lean against the rail as he does. He looks momentarily unconvinced, but then nods.

"I feel the same way." His voice is even softer than usual with a hint of hoarseness, and the pallor of his face is of an even sharper contrast to his black hair than I am accustomed to seeing. He certainly looks as though he has been unwell. But then again, I am sure that I do, as well.

"Will Eir be as angry with you if she finds you out here as she will be with me?" I adjust my weight to take some of the pressure off of my right leg. It is holding up better than I expected, a finding which I note with pleasant surprise.

"She sent me here. She said the fresh air would be good for my lungs," he responds, but then adds in a quieter voice, with just the smallest hint of his old mischief, "But I am not supposed to be on my feet."

I feel the corner of my mouth twitching upward the slightest bit, just for a moment. We were both always stubborn and defiant in equal shares, but he in a subtler way than I. But there is more to the story. I can tell by the way he gazes wistfully, worriedly across the garden toward the southeast that, despite his lack of penchant for battle, he wishes to be fighting alongside our comrades just as much as I, although perhaps it is for a different reason. I long to be a part of the action, to fight as I am destined to, to not be left on the sidelines like an invalid. I belong on the battlefield. He worries for the safety of his brother, and wishes to be there to look after him should the battle go ill, just as Thor has looked after Loki for months without end. And Loki is, for the first time since their return from Midgard, without his brother at his side. Alone, to fend for himself. And he is uncertain - I can feel it radiating from him. I find I do not wish for him to feel uncertain around me.

"They will be all right," I say confidently, for I honestly do believe it, for the most part. "They are prepared this time - they know of what the outlaws are capable, and they have a much larger army than just six. And Thor is a good strategist, and a great leader."

He nods wordlessly, eyes still tracing the horizon. Then,

"I know. A few months ago I would have said in dark jest that he did not know friend from foe in a battle. But he has learned, and he has changed. I know they will be all right, but I cannot help but be apprehensive all the same, if only for selfish reasons." He looks down at his hands as he interlaces his fingers together thoughtfully over the railing, not meeting my eyes. He is being startlingly honest after having barely spoken to me for months. I wonder if it has something to do with both of our near-death experiences, but I find it difficult to speak to him in the same way. Try as I might, I cannot put all of my remaining emotions at his previous actions to rest. Or perhaps it is because discussing the inter-workings of my heart has never come easily to me.

He looks up briefly to judge my reaction. He is so trained at reading people - one must be in order to manipulate them as he does, I suppose - and he notices my reluctance. His countenance clouds over, and he tears his eyes from mine once more. When he speaks again, his voice has taken on a bitter quality - it would have sounded harsh had it not been so hoarse from over a week of coughing.

"But of course my reasons must only be selfish. Why should you expect anything more from me? The traitor, the murderer, the monster. I cannot say I blame you."

I sigh internally. While the secret of Loki's heritage is unknown to most of Asgard, partially for his own protection, the Warriors Three and I were told the story by a grieving Thor not long after what was thought to have been his brother's death. And while Thor seemed to have been reconciled with the realization from the moment it occurred, Loki continually seethes at the idea that he is a member of a race hated by the closest thing he has to a community. I once overheard Thor reassuring him, saying that he should not think less of himself because of his native realm. But Thor's words fell on deaf ears - Loki had turned away and refused to respond.

I can understand why. We were always taught that the Frost Giants, the Jotuns, were an evil race. When I was but a babe, they attacked Midgard simply because they could. They would have obliterated an entire race had the Allfather not stopped them with Asgardian reinforcements, a force to rival and overpower their own. From the time we were children, we always knew that the Frost Giants were the enemy, because our victory against them brought us together. Asgard had been victorious; Jotunheim had fallen. And caught in the middle of it all had been one quiet, different little prince. A prince who had not been able to grasp just what it was that made him feel so inferior. And when it had been laid at his feet, he had retaliated out of pain. He could no longer celebrate with a people who were not his own. Everything he had known, even the people he loved, had been broken within his heart.

"There is nothing wrong with selfishness when it is born of love," I say, more softly than I am accustomed to.

He scoffs. "What brand of selfishness is not born of some sort of love? Of oneself, of possessions, of power. Love is inherent within the very definition of selfishness."

"What of love of another person?" I ask. He does not respond, nor does he meet my eyes. For a moment, my thoughts are of Thor. Of him lying on the street in Midgard, mortal body bleeding and dying. Of the tears in his eyes and the way his voice shook when he told us of Loki's demise. Of the convoluted mixture of hope and betrayal on his face when Heimdall informed us of Loki's actions on Midgard. Thor is a good man, and a dear friend, and the fact remains that Loki has done much to injure him.

But Loki, as he has a habit of doing, draws my thoughts back to his own person. After all that he has been through - betrayals of his own, all of the lies and the secrets, and centuries of being overshadowed by his brother, the future king - he can still find it somewhere within the depths of his shattered heart to love Thor. And despite the atrocities he has committed, I must admit that I admire him for that, for somewhere within his profound weakness, he has found strength.

"Loki," I begin. He still does not look at me, so I do not think he notices my wince as I shift my weight again. I am about to be more vulnerable with him than I have with anyone in quite some time, and I want to be as comfortable as I can for it. "Back on that battlefield, when you sent me back to the palace...you nearly died because of what you did for me. And do not argue that it was an instinctive decision, because a natural instinct is to protect oneself rather than others. So forgive me if I am finding it difficult to call your actions selfish."

He does look over at me then, eyes full of uncertainty. It is as though, in this onset of insecurity and self-loathing, he has entirely forgotten the reason he has spent the past week in the healing chambers.

"I did what anyone would have done," he says, his logical tone of voice for some reason infuriating, the feature probably exacerbated by the effect of my physical pain.

"No," I say, my voice firmer than before. "It matters not what anyone else would have done. It only matters that you did it. And..." I do not wish to think of it, now that the immediacy of the possibility has passed, but I force myself to say it anyway. "...And I am here rather than in Valhalla because of you."

An angry sort of pain flicks over his face again. It is the opposite response from the one I wished to elicit.

"No doubt you would rather have been there, feasting with the great warriors of Asgard, than stranded here on a balcony with me while everyone else goes to battle." He seems mortified with the realization that he dragged me from the gates of the most glorious realm in all of the universe. This is not what I intended by my words at all. Norns, why must he be so frustrating? My leg throbs and I lean even more on the intricate, iron balcony railing, trying not to let him see.

"There was a moment I thought you had beaten me there," I say, trying not to sound too dramatic about it. His eyes widen and his lips part as though he is stunned at my words. There is a candle-flame of hope that dances in his viridian eyes - those beautiful eyes -but it is extinguished in but a moment.

"Do not make jests about such things, Sif," he says, and I can see that his knuckles are pale where he grasps the railing. "We both know I would have never accompanied you to Valhalla. Not after the havoc I wreaked, the pain I caused. You are a warrior; I am a trickster and a killer."

"You saved my life!" I cry, suddenly desperate to make him see the folly in his normally watertight reasoning. "And not just because it suited you."

"You know not my motivations!" He whirls on me and utters the words just as quickly as I did to him, but upon saying them quickly clamps his mouth shut and turns to stare down at the gardens again.

"Do I?" I ask, my voice infusing itself with a small portion mockery of its own accord. His cheeks flush pink and he flounders for a way to recover. Whether it be a week of illness slowing his reaction time or simply a state of being truly flustered, all he can seem to do is divert the subject of conversation in the direction that seems to permeate his mind most thoroughly.

"Do you truly believe it? That I would have gone to Valhalla?" His eyes meet mine, and I can see desperation apparent in them, a desperation almost akin to the one my mind told me he must have exhibited as he held onto his brother by one hand, dangling from the Bifrost. The image had haunted my dreams for months after the event, despite the countless times I had attempted to push it away from my subconscious. Such a question coming from him is surprising, and that is using a mild term. And suddenly I realize that his emotions have been stripped just as bare and raw as mine. I gaze at him unwaveringly, so that he can see my eyes and know that I am telling the truth that resides in my heart.

"I think that had we both perished, I would have arrived at the table of the Great Feast and seen you there as I once knew you. Someone who loved his mischief but never hurt people with it, and was assured of his place in the hearts of his family and his friends. Your hurts healed, your crimes absolved, you would accept the efforts of those who reached out to you..." Even if they do not know how to express themselves properly.

"What is this, Sif?" He still refuses to believe what I say, perhaps because he has not heard such words from someone other than his brother and mother in so, so long. "Not so many months ago, you would have been the first in line to see my head on a platter! And now...now you say..." He trails off, shaking his head. He looks pale - he must feel the strain of his illness just as I feel the pain in my leg. But his eyes shine with unshed tears, and I can tell that he his losing the battle of retaining what little composure he has left. I find myself reaching out to lay a hand on his forearm, before the beginning of the soft green sleeve, so that my skin touches his. He tenses for a moment, almost as though the sensation is foreign to him, but then relaxes, slowly.

"I say that we have both changed. For the better, if I might be so bold." I no longer see only the path just in front of my face. I have realized that even killers have pain, and that sometimes people wish with all their heart that they could take back their actions. That they could do something to make up for it all. And I have learned not to judge a situation before I know the whole story. "We cannot live as we once did - too much is different now. But...I do not think that is necessarily a bad thing."

"I do not want it to be different," he says softly, catching me once more by surprise. It is as though he has grown so very weary of hating himself and feeling guilty for his actions that he simply cannot continue anymore; he yearns to return to that internal place of comfort he had so many years ago, a place he could be with those he loved and who loved him and not feel the weight of the universe around his neck. Then, he amends. "At least, not everything."

I feel the slightest of tickles on my arm, and when I look down, there is a butterfly nuzzling my skin with its tiny feet, ever so gently. It flutters its wings a little - they are a sky blue and light brown, the color and pattern of an old map. Intricate, complicated, but beautiful. And when I look up, the disbelief in Loki's eyes is gone, and the pain has receded just a little. In place of what has vanished is gratitude, and on his face is just a hint - just the tiniest little reminder - of the smile that used to make my heart sing. But it is enough for me to realize that, changed though the both of us may be, there is still enough of our former selves to form the foundation for what we might have now. The butterfly alights from my arm as I reach up to clutch the front of his shirt with both hands, and by the time it vanishes I can no longer see, because my lips are exploring his. He does not resist this time, and leans forward after a moment, his slender hands cupping around my upper arms. We stay that way just long enough for me to realize that I need to breathe, and then the pulling away is mutual.

It is about half a second before our bodies catch up with our racing minds and burning hearts. I suddenly feel very dizzy, my weakness catching up with me at last as the blood rushes to my head. I manage to lower myself into a bench to prevent from collapsing and injuring - not to mention humiliating - myself further as I see Loki double over in a coughing fit, the kiss starving him of air just enough to irritate his weakened lungs. He sinks down into the seat next to me, careful even in the midst of his distress to mind my injured leg, and when he is still gasping for air several seconds later, I begin to become concerned.

"Are you all right?" I inquire, hesitantly placing my hand on his arm. He holds up a hand and nods in affirmation, and after several more grueling moments he settles into a pattern of labored breathing and leans against the back of the bench, closing his eyes. When my thumb moves down to his hand where it rests between us and begins to trace the pattern of his knuckles, I see the corners of his mouth twitch upward. And then I cannot contain myself anymore. I begin to laugh. It is an entirely inappropriate thing to do, given the situation, but at the same time, it is necessary. Terrible things have happened to us, our friends and loved ones are off risking their lives, and our futures - both apart and together - are uncertain at best. So it seems incredibly natural, humorously so, that the first kiss of two such people would end in both of us nearly losing consciousness. At first I fear that he will take my laughter as insult, given how emotionally raw he had been but moments ago, but after a few seconds his smile broadens, and he allows himself a couple of chuckles before checking himself to avoid another paroxysm.

We could have gone inside, back to our beds to rest. It probably would have been better for our physical health. But, without even discussing it, we come to the mutual conclusion that we should stay there for awhile, nestled in each other's arms, in the balcony overlooking the garden. We face southeast, in the direction that our comrades had departed, their fate in our hearts and minds but not on our lips. Despite our worries, our guilt, and our pain, we had found something beautiful now - something to hold onto. We might not be able to join our friends in battle as we wish, but at least we are not alone in our yearning. And I know that, whatever befall, we will still have each other, the garden balcony, and butterflies.