Disclaimer: I don't own Thor and War Is Kind. Even if I modified the poem for the sake of the story. Otherwise, I'd be a fucking millionaire.
For Nikoleta.
Chapter 1 – The Shieldmaiden
In Asgard, they say that the Lady Sif hates Loki. They say that she thinks of him as a coward. An outcast seiðrmadr. Ergi. But that would be extremely inaccurate.
Sif did not hate Loki.
She knows that he is different from the others. She does not care, for Loki showed her things no other Æsir could. He showed her seiðr, an art no boy ever learned for fear of being called ergi. An art she couldn't be bothered to study or understand. It was beautiful nonetheless. She'd loved him then and gave him everything.
They laughed and fucked and fought and forgave. Some, if they ever knew, would've even called it love.
But they never spoke of it like that.
"Loki?"
"Yes, Sif?"
"What is this to you, this…dalliance of ours?"
"Love is for children, Sif."
"But we'll stay together, won't we, Loki? Always and forever?"
"Always and forever."
And one day, the Allfather had her betrothed to his golden son. But Sif never loved Thor the way she loved Loki. He was too different.
A few weeks later, Loki came and took her hair.
"You are mine. I will not lose you to him!"
"You already have!"
Sif's hair grew back a day later, black as night. A constant reminder of the lover she had lost.
"Is that what this is, Loki?! You're worried that I'll leave you behind?!"
"YOU BELONG TO ME, SIF, AND ONLY ME!"
"I BELONG TO NO ONE!"
She hated him then.
So when Thor comes back with the Midgardian called Jane Foster from the Dark World, why is it that the first thing that comes out of her mouth is a question about Loki?
"Where is Loki?" she asks. Thor says nothing. He doesn't need to. She can see the damning evidence in his sad, guilt-ridden eyes.
Loki is dead.
Do not weep, shieldmaiden, for war is kind,
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And your betrothed and his mistress ran on alone,
Sif walks the halls of Asgard like a ghost. The servants gossip amongst themselves and the ladies of the court look on at the shieldmaiden, always disapproving of her masculine ways.
"She fucked him once. Prince Loki, I mean," one servant says.
"What? That's forbidden! Isn't she promised to Prince Thor?" another replies.
"Yes, but I saw Prince Thor come in with a Midgardian on his arm once."
"You're right. Perhaps she is too much of a man to even be accepted as a prince's wife."
The Lady Sif ignores them all.
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Like all the other Æsir, Sif once believed that a glorious death in battle was the best way to go, that Valhalla favoured the warriors who fell by the sword while those who didn't went to Hela's domain.
No more.
Sif knows that Loki's death was not a quick one, not when it was delivered by a Kursed. She remembers the healers saying that the queen's death was a slow one.
She watches the barge burn and turn into starlight. She sees the others celebrate good fortune in his death and tell stories of days when they wished Loki Liesmith a painful death, and for the few who wished him no ill, a glorious one in battle. Sif smiles bitterly, her face dry and her eyes watery. They do not understand. All they know is glory in war and mead and battle and death.
Sif laughs at them. They got what they wanted after all.
A 'glorious' and painful death for Loki Liesmith.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiments,
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These gods were born to fight and die.
The halls of Valhalla await their slaughter.
Great are the Æsir, great, and their kingdom—
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
"Sif." Thor comes to her in one of the hallways, a few hours after Loki's funeral.
"Excuse me, my lord," she says in greeting and turns away. "I have business to attend to." Thor stops her, catching her by the arm.
"I must speak with you." She shakes him off and takes a step back, folding her arms in annoyance.
"Then make it quick." She pauses and quickly amends, "My lord."
"Enough with the titles, Sif. Only the servants and commons use them." Thor pinches the bridge of his nose, a tired look seeping into his eyes. "You've always thought of me as a friend, a shield-brother, even if I felt something for you once."
He looks at her directly. "If my father had never arranged our betrothal, would you have married my brother?"
Sif swallows.
"Thor…" she chokes out and the prince pulls her into an embrace. Sif sobs into his shoulder, finally weeping for Loki.
"I would. Oh gods, I would."
She loves him still.