how could you be the one if you're not the same?

[byfrost]

It all starts with theatricality, and this is just as he's planned.

Odin is a ruse that he can't hide in forever, a foxhole out of which he's likely to be chased as soon as he's found his steady footing within it. If asked, he'd say he couldn't bear to wear the skin of the old goat as long as he had; he'd spit at Odin's feet with whatever cruel words he could conjure if so given the opportunity, but what the trouble really boils down to is inconvenience. It is inconvenient to be busied with such menial tasks to which Odin's court is so attuned. It is inconvenient to carry such candor and frivolity as the vaulted ceilings of this throne room.

It is inconvenient to be trussed up as a man he so thoroughly loathes, and loathe isn't a word strong enough, nor is it so cruel as idle indifference. But it is Loki who should be ruling, not Odin.

Sif is a key that so many in Asgard overlook, a bright individual and a fine warrior who's discounted because of what lies between her legs. (This, Loki has never told to her face; that's Thor's job, and she knows it to be true.) Tricking her is not so easy, as she has her wits about her and she trusts him about as much as his brother does - brother, not brother, brother - and so when he appears in her chambers that night, it's as a balm. A spirit haunting the dark of the corners. A friend, moreover.

His face shines with translucency, and his image almost as if static on a television. None quite so solid as his usual tricks, and the gaunt look to his expression, he can note from the shadows across the room, does wonders for making the entire 'dead and gone' lark convincing. He could speak to wake her, but instead a dagger goes pinging off one of the shelves, burying itself deep into the wooden frame of her bed.

Loki's spirit's hands raise, and he means to be placating. The noise will have woken her immediately - she's a fighter first and foremost. "I can't control it yet," he tells her a bit weakly, fingers curling in towards his palm in the slightest of shame.

Comments

[omgthorplease]

Simply put, no one enters her chambers at night. For thousands of years there have been no invitations to anyone, because what would be the point? She's of an age now where simple dalliances mean little, better carried off where she could take her own leave rather than throw some young man out on his ass once she had tired of him.

These days there is only one man alive she would welcome into her bedroom. The thing she stares at, unsheathed sword in one hand, loose hair tumbling around her face, the man she sees there would have been welcome, once upon a time. When they were both younger, more foolish, and she had called it love.

Her eyes are wide as she watches and this should be impossible. Spirits, here? How would he have found his way here when his body was worlds away? It was impossible and she looks around the room, quick glances to each dark corner, but there's nothing there. Nothing except the flickering image of Loki, lost to Asgard twice now. She looks again but it makes no sense.

"What trick is this?" She demands of him, and even now she's still having trouble looking at him, because every instinct tells her he'll attack from behind her.