7444/The Hanging Gardens of Asgard

The Hanging Gardens of Asgard
Date of Scene:	19 August 2021
Location:	Palace - Asgard
Synopsis:	Sif and Balder dance renewed, secrets are revealed, something beautiful may yet be born.
Cast of Characters:	Balder, Sif

---

Balder has posed:
It was but moments after the kidnapping attempt at Club Sion.

Balder had decided it was time to return to Asgard, though he decided to take Sif back with him. Best to get her out of there before more blood can be spilled in the Prince's name - or for it's own sake. He requested Sif rest a moment before they met again, choosing to head to the gardens in the meantime. While he wears bits and pieces of armor like before, the only difference is that around his shoulders is a wonderful cloak of purple that covers his person.

He walks through the gardens, and whether they choose to submit to Balder's beauty or acknowledge that a God is present, the flowers seem to wilt as if they were bowing, before standing to their upright position.

In terms of any injuries he may have sustained? No such thing...at least to the common eye.

Sif has posed:
Sif rests as Sif does: reporting the attack to the commander of the Royal Guard, ordering the assembly of a rapid-response force to strike at Svartalfen interests as retribution/aversion therapy, authorizing lethal force, opening the armory to equip said force, and then, finally, washing up. Strangely, once she finally arrives, she is still in her gown from Midgard (causing more than a few servants to stare before hastily vacating), albeit cleaned of all blood by magicks.

"My Prince, I apologize for my tardiness," she says as she hurries up as fast as the cut of her gown allows while retaining dignity. "I had some matters to attend to." She leaves details for ... another time. Like never.

Her eyes rake over Balder appraisingly. "Are you hale, Prince Balder?" she asks. "Did any of the filth cause injury?"

Balder has posed:
Ah, yes.

Return every strike with a strike of your own. Return each affliction with an affliction of your own. But Asgardians were different in that way: If someone cuts out your eye, you cut out an eye and a limb in recompense. Balder never quite enjoyed such things, but was no fool: twas the way of the world. Twas Odin's law. No doubt the Allfather was furious that enemies would -dare- strike out at Balder while in peacable assembly with midgardians.

All the same, that is the way of the world.

Yet when Sif returns to his side, Balder seems to greet her with a smile of warmth that reflects the sun itself in his expression. Noticing she was still in her cut off gown, Balder uses his magics to return to the suit he wore during their dance. "I see our ritual continues." He teases her playfully.

"No need to apologize, Sif. I should be thanking you. You defended me against Svartalfheim elves...but, I only wonder for what purpose they would seek me." He shakes his head. "Is it not like those of the dark to hate the light?" He ponders a long moment. If she looked -very- closely, there was barely a scratch on his cheek, no doubt from an enchanted blade getting too close for comfort.

"Alas, I am largely unharmed, my Lady. What of you? Were you harmed?"

Sif has posed:
"What, now you insult me?!" Sif says with exaggerated offense. Then chuckles. "Your concern is touching, Prince Balder, but unnecessary. I didn't permit the filth to injure me. Only their blood stained my skin and gown. They chose the wrong time to attempt this assault."

She looks at Balder worried, sharp eyes seeing the scratch, quickly though it might heal. For them to have come this close...

"What troubles me is the timing. They knew you would be there, but somehow did not expect others. Who informed them? What was their goal? Did they seek to anger the Allfather into a rash war?"

The storm of anger and frustration in her head gets pushed back and a fragile peace is put into her mind.

"This is all something which can be worried over later. Let us try and rescue the remnants of the evening."

Balder has posed:
"I do my best not to." Anger Sif, that is. Balder was many things, an idiot he was not. He would rather cut off a limb than anger Sif. "I'm glad. I would've been displeased if they had harmed you." A protectiveness that Sif had for Balder is returned to Sif by Balder. A gift once permitted is a gift truly delivered. Alas, the scratch on his cheek seems to be fading before her very eyes.

Almost as if it...never quite happened. Some mischief on the part of Balder?!

He chuckles, stifling a giggle actually. "I apologize, I roped your concern. I was trying to understand how my brother finds this entertaining and...all I feel is guilt. No, your blade and Vintridr's kept me from harm."

Though he hums. "I suspect Malekith." Balder tells Sif then. He saw the rush of anger in her eyes, and maybe it is his influence that grants her a peace of mind. "But...battle can be fought on other days. I believe our dance was interrupted. You were enchanting."

Sif has posed:
"Shall we try a more civil dance here in the gardens, then, Prince Balder?" Sif asks, smiling as she swallows that anger deep to let it join the knot of anger deep within that festers until it explodes in battle as the battle joy she has that makes her the most frightening of Odin's generals. And most effective. His little prank is left uncommented on. Her way of saying 'hahayourhighnessverydrollindeed'.

She steps up, arm positioned for one of the slower, statelier dances. One that brings the dancers face to face more often.

"Because," she adds dryly, "I'm certain that you, just like your brothers, are only concerned with dance."

That anger is gone from her eyes. But they are still aflame.

Balder has posed:
"I would like that, my lady."

Balder seems to smile a little bit at Sif's playfulness, and when it is time to dance? He brings a hand to her waist to rest it there, the other lifting to join her lifted hand and as they begin? He looks deeply into her eyes, feet moving in perfect synchronity with Sif's own. Her comment though earsn a tilt of his head.

"Do you believe I mean to take advantage of you, Lady Sif?" Balder questions her, yet her eyes are aflame with a passion he's never seen before...and from her persective? She sees light. Nearly infinite light.

Sif has posed:
"No," Sif says with a chuckle, eyes turned down momentarily. "I believe you will accept what is offered openly and without regret." She rests her head against Balder's chest as they dance. "I have no time for games, Your Highness. In my world my end may be tomorrow. It may be in five minutes. You have seen warriors. We live large. We burn in great conflagrations. And we often burn to cinders before our time."

She follows Balder's lead, guiding him in return, though the source of music in their heads is unknown. Are they the same song, even? It seems so, given how their bodies and feet interlock in movement without catching.

"So there is no room for coyness in my life, my Prince." She whirls out, gown spinning and lifting as she does, before whirling back in. "There is room only for the desires and the entertainments of the now."

She looks up into Balder's lit eyes. "Am I clear, my Lord Prince?"

Because, you know, she's so SUBTLE.

Balder has posed:
"I have no games left to play."

Balder was not larger than life like Thor. He was not as smart or a great magician like Loki. He was as he was. The only son with humility and the only son who actually -questions- his decisions. At least he was, until Thor grew a conscience. The feel of Sif's head against his chest is a welcomed one. She can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong.

"I have seen warriors. I know of the threats you face every day...of the threats I helped you face every day. I understand your reasoning." Balder's eyes then lift to meet hers, a gentle hand taking hers as he twirls her and pulls her back into his embrace, as if they had practiced with each other a million times over the course of more than a thousand years.

"As the dawn."

A hand comes up to touch her cheek, the slight curve of her jaw...and he's leaning in to press his lips against hers. If she permits him to, it's not a hard or lustful kiss. It's slow. It's warming and gentle, filled with a passion yes...but something else with it.

Sif has posed:
Permitted? No. Sought after. As is her wont, unlike his, hers is stronger. More fuelled by passion than by gentleness. Gentle Sif. Gentlest of the Gentle. These were once her sobriquets. But the Dark-Haired Daughter of Asgard is, while still Fairest of the Fair, Sif the Unstoppable. Sif the Implacable. The Stunning Sif.

No, she seeks the kiss. Aggressively seeking the man behind it as her hand snakes up to cup his head, fingers running through his hair. A kiss from Sif is like a military campaign in its brazenness, in its decisiveness. In its unmistakeable intent.

Passion aplenty burns through her blood until it practically flows from her lips into Balders. But too, there's something else there. Balder. Her childhood playmate, along with the other princes. The similarly gentle one when she was Gentlest of the Gentle herself. It's as if his own behaviour sparks memories of a woman thought long gone.

Balder has posed:
The kiss itself lights a fire in Balder's soul.

..as if it lit a sun in his heart long since died. He remembers seeing the golden-haired Sif. He remembers as a boy hiding his face from her when she looked at him, shying from her as if he was afraid he was unworthy of her sight. Yet they wre gentle together, and perhaps that is what allowed them to become friends in the first place. Her black hair changed nothing - instead it made her unique amongst all the Ladies of Asgard...add to it that she was a General of Generals, and her beauty radiated. Light and Darkness. Peace and War.

Was it meant? Was this the thread the Nornir had strung?

THeir lips crash together, and she brings out fire from him. His hand grips her body tightly, divei nto the shadows of her hair. She wished for a war? He would fight it. He would be the Yang to her Yin. And so do their lips press forward in their exotic dance. His lips part, inviting her into the ambush.

No doubt if others peek towards them, they are filled with a passion they didn't believe was possible.

He welcomes her with open arms...and if this was what she wanted -- he hoped for a thousand years he would gain such a chance -- he intended to woo her in legitimacy. His hand grips her long dark hair until it finds the back of her scalp, as if to press her even closer still.

Sif has posed:
The campaign is waged in silent desparation. Attack, parry, feint, counterattack. Drums of war beat within, masquerading as her heart. Or such are the mental images in the back of Sif's mind where thought exists at all in the all-consuming flames of passion threatening to immolate. The campaign is fought, and then ends in stalemate. Sif withdraws her forces in an orderly fashion, head pulling back. Hand releasing Balder's head (but remaining entwined in his hair). Body, however, still clutched tightly against.

Has she been running? For days? For she is flushed and her breathing is laboured.

"Why ...?"

Why what?

"... so long?" she finally manages to get out.

Then a nervous laugh. Uncharacteristic. Sif is being ... shy? She's turning her gaze?

"I had thought," she says, "you were uninterested."

She'd been watching. Noticing.

"But tonight you showed otherwise." Voice strengthening, it's clear her faculties are rallying. Then wicked amusement. "Did you find out today how arousing near-death is?" Her eyes are dancing. She's joking. Ha ha only serious.

Balder has posed:
Who knew that two opposing concepts could fight so hard? Lips burn against each other with all the passion of Gods and GOddesses of love. Balder feels her warmth and presses against her as if he were looking for anything...-anything- to bring himself closer to her to feel her warmth, for her to feel his. When their lips finally withdraw from one another, it is slow and careful, smooth lips the last thing he touched. His hand remains in her hair, softer than the finest silk, and his eyes stay locked onto her own.

Yet he looks like he's been fighting for far longer than he should've been.

He hears her question...and it's the question of the millenium. Why did he wait so long? He ponders for a long moment. "As a young man, I loved you." He informs her, his eyes turning away from her like he were ashamed. "Yet I knew it would never be my eyes you sought, in hearth or in battle. I was putting squirrels in their nests while you were plunging your blade into the hearts of your enemies. We were...different." He finally brings his eyes to hers.

"My eyes have been on you -- and only one you -- since the day we met as children."

She can see it in his eyes that he's serious. That he just bared his soul to her. Balder the Brave just completed the most daunting task of all - telling her. Finally. After how many hundreds, thousand years?

Sif has posed:
    Sound of the drums.
    Beating in her heart.
    The thunder of guns
    tears her apart.
    She's been
    Thunderstruck.

Sif's eyes widen at the confession, mouth forming a shocked 'O'. The trick memory any immortal has to have to fit centuries into the same space as a human lifetime fits draws up one image after another. Balder who consoled her when Thor was thoughtless. Balder who wiped away her tears at the loss of her golden mane. Balder who watched from afar when she returned from the camps hard and disciplined. Balder who was always at the sidelines watching as she gained accolade after accolade. Balder who attended her when she verged upon the final passing after the war upon the frost giants.

He'd been watching.

He'd been waiting.

For a thousand years or more.

Sif's knees buckle like she's been stabbed in the heart. For once thankful of someone's grasp to keep her on her feet.

It takes a few moments of her staring in shock before she regains presence of mind, standing on her own again.

"My Lord Prince," she murmurs, eyes cast down. She swallows hard, like something was coming up under the stress. "You ..." The final words are a choked whisper. "...honour me."

Balder has posed:
For so long.

So long that he even suffered Thor's affections for Sif. He loved his brother, and he loved her....yet he did not interfere in an effort to avoid hurting either of them. Yet a thousand years time is a long time for the memories to seep in. She had her memories of him...but he had what he remembered of her. Sif who laughed with him. Sif who refused to let him be the last picked. Sif who helped him sneak out of the palace when Odin and Frigga prepared their enchantments. Sif who talked with him when visions struck. Sif who encouraged him when he fell behind. Sif who didn't laugh at him when he would nurse a clipped bird back to health.

So long he waited just to -touch her hand-. So long he waited just to -feel her hair-. Never had he once done something so simple as feel her hair, which had been the envy of the entire kingdom...but for him, it wasn't her hair. It never was. It was her eyes. It was her smile. It was her heart. It was her spirit.

Balder does not force himself upon Sif. He does not seek to guilt her into changing anything she's already doing. But a single finger reaches forward to gently touch her chin. It's a request, an asking of permission as he seeks to lift her head so she may look upon him.

"And for 1,000 years...you have honored me, Sif." He smiles at her then. "Despite my feelings...I had the greatest honor of being your friend. If even now you do not notice me, if you do not see me for what I wish to be..." He does not lower his gaze, but something rises in his eyes that he successfully burns out of existence. No tears before the warrior, even if she wiped them in the past. "Then your friend, I am honored to be."

He would rip the sun out of the heavens, out of every heaven, and give it to her if she so desired.

Sif has posed:
Her head raises. Her eyes lock onto his, wide and guileless. Frozen like the proverbial deer of Midgard.

He was light. He was beauty. He was kindness personified. Kind, but not weak. In his own way stronger, perhaps, than those who lived and died by the sword.

And she was not.

She was beauty, but of a dark, terrible kind. The kind presaged by Loki's ill-tempered jest that had led to her all-consuming tresses. She was the beauty of fire. Of blood. Of primal dance with the ultimate stakes. The kind of beauty that must be sought behind horror. Barely a step removed from reviled Hela.

And he desired her. Not only bodily. (Not only.) But her spirit. Her soul. Her being.

An unfamiliar sensation floods her body. Fear. Fear she angrily suppresses, but cannot deny.

Fear because she has heard words similar to these. From the mouth of the second prince. Spoken in a rare moment of vulnerability.

And, taking the coward's way out, she closes her eyes and and bows her head once. Raising them to look into Balder's eyes again, pausing only to flick them in the direction of the royal quarters wordlessly.

Dry-mouthed she says, "I feel a chill in this gown." Inwardly she screamed at her cowardice. "Are the fires in your quarters as warm as I remember?"

Her face is pleasant. Flushed. Artfully so. Her breath quickened. Uneven. Bodily and in mind she is ready. And her soul screams at her in disgust.