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The polished marble was cold under Sif’s knee as she knelt before her King. Lighter than she has been in too long, yet hollow, and still far from feeling as tethered to her purpose as she’d always been. Her fist rested over her heart, head bowed as hazel eyes traced the golden patterns in pale stone. “You called for me, Allfather?”
She heard him shift, climbing to his feet, the clang of Gungnir upon the dais before he answered. “Rise, Lady Sif.”
Moving smoothly to her feet, she tilted her face to look up at her King, curious and a little bit wary for whatever task he might have for her now. He has changed, it shows in his bearing, the tone of his voice, little things that tug at her memories, but who can really blame him for behaving oddly? He has lost much over these last few years.
He looked down on her, his single blue eye locked on her face, but there was nothing friendly in the gaze. “I will humor no more of your self-pity.”
Muscles twitched at his accusation, and Sif tasted blood as she silences her objections.
“Oh, you are very good at hiding it.” Odin’s voice echoed off the gilded walls as he stepped down from his throne, moving closer. “However, you cannot perform to the best of your ability when you are heart sick. You were absent an entire fortnight, but you are needed here, not throwing a tantrum on the other side of the realm.”
Sif finally opened her mouth to speak then, but he raised a hand, halting her. “He loves her, the mortal. It should not vex you so greatly, however. It is obvious that it does.” He had reached the marble floors, but did not pause, circling around where she stood.
“I have taken care not to allow my personal feelings interfere with my duties.” She defended herself, unable to keep quiet on the matter any longer, and more than a little uneasy that Odin had noticed her state of mind. “The matters of Thor’s heart are none of my concern.”
The sconces flickered against the wall and guttered for reasons Sif could not name, darkening the room for a moment, and yet, even when the flame recovered, the light seemed not to return.
Odin’s presence was oppressive where he’d paused at her shoulder, and it took all her effort not to turn toward him. Her instincts screaming at her to be mindful. She settled for shifting, adjusting her stance so that she’d be able to physically respond to protect herself if necessary.
“Exactly. They are not.” He clipped his words between his teeth. “Thor’s matters in their entirety are none of your concern. I cannot imagine why someone as intelligent as you would cling to someone who would forsake your friendship in the first place.”
The remark stung, but Sif had enough experience in being berated in a public forum to keep from letting the full magnitude of the words show.
And yet…. Sif could almost feel his amusement. She shuddered, suddenly certain that if she did turn, it would not be Odin who stood there, but Loki. The absurdity of it was nearly suffocating, but she could no longer ignore it.
Fingers itching for her weapon, she made a three-quarters turns, facing her King straight on again.
Inexplicably, disappointment washed over her, and Odin seemed to regard her anew. “Is it possible that the Lady Sif has learned her lessons well? That she knows now that nothing can ever be taken at face value. Least of all, those you trust most? I hope so because you have a decision to make.”
It felt like a test. “Tell me.”
The Allfather’s lips stretched into a dangerous sort of smile, free of mirth, yet full of amusement, and Sif wondered what it said about her mental state and her King’s that he should so often remind her of a dead trickster.
“You will either do as Thor has done, and leave for Midgard, or you may stay in Asgard as a member of my personal guard.” His gray eyebrows rose a bit as he shrugged. “Of course, in consideration of all that have done recently, I will require your oath in blood.”
The lengthened shadows writhed, a sinister sort of dance, adding to Sif’s unease as she stood in stunned silence. Midgard was no place for her, and if she were to abandon Asgard, she would sooner sacrifice herself to Freya and return to the Valkyrie. The other choice was not much improved, however. A blood oath was not to be taken lightly, as they were unbreakable without sustaining personal harm in the process.
“You look undecided, my dear girl.”
A long many years had passed since last she stood before the Allfather in this way, she had forgotten how tall he was. Her armor creaked as she shifted minutely, squaring her shoulders.
“It will be difficult, I am sure,” Odin added dryly, “to declare your obedience to me when you can have Thor’s companionship, trotting along at his side like the good little pet you have always been for him.”
Her jaw flexed, but she knew her precarious position, and dared not test the whims of her King with the sharp tongued reply that sat heavily on her tongue. His remark hurt, but truth always did, and Sif knew too well the truth under the cruel statement. Understood with painful clarity that no matter how dear she had held her Prince, he had not the same esteem for her, proven well enough when he was already gone for the mortal realm before she and Volstagg had returned from their task to place the Aether in the Collector’s hands.
The wrinkles at the corner of the Allfather’s eyes shallowed as the amused curve to his mouth straightened, lips thinning. “You may think about it, but I require an answer before nightfall.” He moved past her to mount the dais, returning to his throne, and if that weren’t dismissal enough, he raised his hand, opening his fingers in a flicking motion. “You are dismissed.”
And as Sif made her way out of the throne room, she was certain the lights brightened when she reached the doors.
Late afternoon found her alone in her rooms, the sun long passed over any open areas on the North eastern side of the palace that the warriors wing occupied. Her own sconces lit the sitting room while she sat in gloom on the edge of her bed, a box of memories spread out before her. Loki had once teased her, calling the items inside her treasures, and she never forgave him for snooping enough to have found it in the first place. Thor, by contrast, had been completely the opposite. If ever he was curious about the parts of the lady Sif she did not openly display, he never sought them.
Too late now, Sif remembered that Loki’s teasing had remained between them, and she was again reminded of what had been lost, what could never be reclaimed.
They weren’t treasures, nothing in that box would be worth stealing, but they were important to her, a collection of reasons she had returned to Asgard rather than staying with Freya’s sisterhood of Valkyrior. A broken knife, a remnant of a girl’s clumsy attempts at learning to throw a blade, but it wasn’t the effort she had put into the skill that she wished to remember by placing the remains of an inferior blade in the box, it was the boy who had given her one of his own, better weapons, and taught her to use it. It was the constant struggle and failure to gain his accuracy, and the camaraderie, short lived though it was, that had grown between them that she preferred to think on.
There was a plain silver hair pin that she wore the first and only time Sif could remember her mother telling her that she was proud of the woman she was growing into, and the next day she had closed her doors on her own daughter, angry that she would throw away a life at court to bloody her hands on the battlefield. The pin was there to remind her that she made decisions to forge her own way, not to please others. Somewhere along the way, that had been forgotten.
Other things, the wrinkled, metal foil wrapper of a Nidavellir candy that Frigga had handed her one day when she found Sif, only a child, sitting in the hallway outside of court, banished by her mother when she hadn’t been able to sit still. Her first gauntlet, scratched and scarred from hard training. A pressed flower, given to her by Haldor before Lorelei had turned him against her and Sif was forced to take his life. The flower was yellow, just as bright as the day he had pushed its stem into her hair, but all she could see when she looked at it was blood. Blood that she had absorbed into her skin and would never be able to scrub away.
An ugly brown stone, rough and pockmarked, picked up from the ground of Muspelheim. Not that she could forget that realm, or the battle that nearly stole her life and permanently scarred her skin and mind, but it served to do so anyway.
She had sacrificed, and gained, and lost, and bled for Asgard.
The items were placed back into the box, all except a leather bound book which she pulled into her lap. It was her newest edition, retrieved from Loki’s rooms when he fell—when he let go. A collection of Alfheimr poetry that he had read to her one night, a long time past. One of those few times he had refrained from teasing. He hadn’t commented on her tears, just sat down beside her on the soggy ground and begun to read, banishing the nightmares and the ghosts with the sound of his voice, and later his body before they parted ways just before dawn, and finished the hunt as if nothing had happened.
She had always expected to one day serve Thor as King, but as she was already aware, expectation counted for nothing in the end. Reality was ever a harsh mistress, and Sif knew her touch well.
Odin would get his oath.