Symbol

By ZionAngel

Loki only raises his eyes to her when Sif finds him and clamors to the floor in front of him, too loud in the silence of the library. She shoves one of his piles of books out of the way so she can sit, and the texts cascade from their neat stack across the floor. All he does is raise his eyebrows, and wait.

Sif huffs angrily, and tries to calm down. Speaking will do her no good if her voice shakes with anger. Finally, "Is there an enchantment that will turn my hair black?" Her voice echoes faintly through the long row of shelves.

Loki slowly closes the book in his lap, and sits up straighter. He glances at the long strands of blond hair that have fallen over her shoulders. "You want me to turn your hair black?"

"Or brown, or red – turn it blue for all I care, so long as it isn't this insipid gold." She spits the last word, it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

"May I ask what brought about this sudden interest in your hair, Lady Sif?" he asks, voice even and cool. "It seems that as long as I have known you, you have scoffed at such feminine concerns for your looks. Have you not always claimed it is a useless concern for a warrior in training?"

She does not respond. Instead, she reaches into the sheath of her boot, and pulls out a long object wrapped in white linen. Loki watches as she takes it in her lap and unwraps it, revealing a dagger, small but with a gleaming sharp blade. She grips it tightly by the hilt. She looks to Loki, who leans back just so. His face is usually reserved and all but impossible to read, but Sif can see the worry in his eyes.

"I'm cutting my hair," she announces, almost shaking with determination. "All of it. And I want you to turn it black, permanently."

He purses his lips, but the worry ebbs. "Why this sudden desire to cut your hair, Sif?" She relaxes slightly when he uses only her name. She needs a friend now, not the prim and proper prince.

"Because I'm not a child anymore!" she barks. "I am nearly of age. I don't want the hair of a child, I've had this hair since I was a child." She pulls a handful of hair in front of her, and looks at it as if it were some hideous vermin. She huffs again. "Any time anyone looks at my hair, they think it their place to tell me what I should be doing with my life instead of running around with swords playing warrior. I can't go out into the city or greet one of my parents' friends without having someone ask why a beautiful girl like me would want the life of a warrior. I'm sick to death of hearing them say that every man in Asgard would want my hand in marriage and I could have my pick, and I should choose one and have such beautiful children someday." Her knuckles are no doubt white around the hilt of the dagger. "I'm not a child! And I'm not some maiden waiting to be married off. I don't want anything of that kind of life! I have committed myself entirely to the life of a warrior, in word and in deed. Yet all anyone sees when they look at my hair is a pretty maiden with nothing else to offer, no strength in her. I'm sick of it, and I won't have it any longer!"

She meets Loki's eyes boldly, squarely. He has remained silent, listening carefully.

She does not say that when she looks in the mirror, sees her golden locks, she cannot see anything but a useless maiden, either. She does not say that she secretly fears she is not fit to be a warrior, that the doubts of all those around her seep under her skin day by day, so that she cannot help but doubt herself. She does not say that she hopes to vanquish other's misgivings about her, as much as her own.

But, this is Loki. If anyone in all the realms would understand that without it being spoken, it is him.

"And why do you require my assistance?" he asks slowly, after a moment. "Why this vendetta against golden hair as much as long hair?"

"Gold is useless if not for its beauty. It's the mark of something fragile and decorative. I am none of those things."

"Thor is a warrior in training as well," he muses. "He has golden hair."

She scoffs. "Oh, please. Thor is in a class all his own, what can be said of him can hardly be said of anyone else." He smirks, and laughs just a bit before she cuts him off. "So do you know an enchantment or not?"

Loki is quiet for a moment, and looks up to the rows and rows of books above them. After a moment, he stands, and moves to another aisle. She listens to his faint rustling for a few minutes, sounds of pages being turned and leather bound volumes being placed back on a shelf. Eventually, he appears again, and sits before her again. He opens the book, his place marked by one long finger between the pages, and reads again.

"Well?"

He ignores her, skims through the rest of the page, and finally raises his eyes to her again. "All right."

"Good."

Sif wastes no time pulling her long, unruly locks back into a single fistful of hair at the back of her head. She grips the dagger tightly and presses the blade to the back of her neck, beneath her hair. But her strong hand quickly falters, becomes shaky and unsure. She frowns and puts the knife in her lap again. She chides herself, harshly, for being so silly. She knows this is what she wants, so just be done with it already! With a deep and forceful breath, she grips the hilt again, and returns the blade to her nape. Yet as tightly as she grips the dagger, as much as she tries, she does not move.

What is this? It is no difficult task. She knows she wants to cut away her hair, cut away the feeling of being a child, cut away the expectations of the whole of the realm, the doubts of the citizens of Asgard, of her trainers, of her fellow pupils and seasoned warriors. Cut away her own doubts and fears, cut away the past and begin anew. Yet even though her hand is nearly shaking with tension and her muscles are eager to act, she cannot bring herself to make that final motion.

"I could cut it for you, if you would like."

She snarls angrily and releases her hair. "I am not a child, or some frightened woman," she hisses, "I am a warrior, and I should be able to do it myself!" The words come out sounding too harsh. She does not mean to scold Loki, only herself, if anyone at all. But embarrassment, at her words and failure to act, stops her from saying so.

But instead of being angry or defensive, or refusing to help, Loki leans in close, face gentle and even tender, and speaks softly. "A true warrior never rides into battle alone," he murmurs. "A true warrior must have the courage to put her life into others' hands, to trust her fellow warriors to take care of her and hold her up when she needs it… to do for her what she cannot do herself, just as she would do for them."

Sif's body relaxes slowly as she listens, and in the quiet he draws her full attention for the first time that day. He is only a few inches from her face. Their knees are almost touching. She can almost feel his breath on her face as he speaks, and she can smell him, the scent a mix of leather and old books and what she has always guessed is only the residue of magic. His eyes are dark, and gentle. He so rarely shows any true emotion to others, rarely takes down his mask and lets anyone see inside him. The image is unfamiliar to Sif, but not unseen. There is something within the depth of his eyes that makes her trust him, that makes her feel calm, and even safe.

"There is no shame in a warrior admitting she needs help and asking for it, my Lady."

She looks down to the dagger, now resting lightly in her open hand. Slowly, wordlessly, she hands it to Loki, hilt first. He accepts it, silent as well. She shifts on the floor until her back is to him, and takes a slow, deep breath.

She hears him place the dagger on the floor. As he gathers up her hair, his slender fingers brush against her neck and shoulders. His hands are steady, and Sif relaxes further with each touch. He makes sure to gather all of the locks that fell wildly across her shoulders in frustration, careful not to miss a single piece. Finally, his fingers trace along her jaw and bare neck to gather any final strands, the touch feather light, and she sighs. When he pauses, she assumes he is re-reading the instructions for the enchantment.

"Are you ready?"

She inclines her head in a nod.

Loki wraps her ponytail once around his hand, his grip tightening, and picks up the dagger. He presses the cool metal against the nape of her neck, and Sif closes her eyes. Then he murmurs a few words she does not understand, and she can almost hear the blade slice through each strand of hair as he pulls the dagger back in one swift motion.

Her eyes snap open, just in time to see flickers of gold at the corner of her eyes as short, night-black hair falls around her face. She turns just as he drops the severed locks to the floor, a glimmering mix of ebony and gold.

She reaches a hand to the back of her head to feel , and is stunned at the unfamiliar sensation of the bristles between her fingers. She looks over her shoulder at him. His lips are turned up in a smirk, but it is unlike most of his others. There is no teasing or mockery in this, no silent joke that only he understands. This one actually seems genuine, even more so as it shifts into a shy little smile.

"It suits you quite well."

She grins and averts her eyes. "Thank you."

He looks to the dagger in his hand, and returns it to her. "You're very welcome, my Lady."

Sif returns the knife to her boot and makes to stand, not quite sure what to do now.

He lifts a hand to stop her. "My Lady?" Three times now he has used those words, she notes, even as he has never called her that before. Nonetheless, she stops, and rests on her knees again, facing him. Loki swallows, the muscles in his neck working, and she wonders if he is in fact nervous. "My Lady, if I may… perhaps being a warrior of the Realm does not mean you must sacrifice everything that comes with being a beautiful maiden, or even an ordinary person, in Asgard." She cannot seem to hold his gaze. "Perhaps you may still choose to partake in some of the traditions. That is, if you should find that they are suitable to the life of a warrior woman. And if they hold any interest for you, of course."

Sif is quiet, and watches him closely as his fingers fidget just a bit, and as he continues to look anywhere but her face. Finally, as the silence stretches out between them, he meets her eyes.

Sif leans forward and presses her lips against his, their noses bumping. Then, just as quickly as it began, Sif pulls away, stands, and is gone before Loki can muster up a single word.