Goddess of War

Summary: Thor – The Dark World. She has won wars for him but she will never win his heart. Drabble-esque one shot- Sif.

Warning: Spoilers for the movie.

Set: story-unrelated.

Disclaimer: Standards apply.

Their glances meet over the length of the corridor.

Women recognize each other. It does not matter if it is as close friends in the future, companions in drowning grief or as rivals for life. It never happened to Sif before – which is why, for the fraction of a second, she freezes. It is not that strange, really, the reason why it never happened to her before is plain and simple. All those thoughts cross her mind quick as flashes of lightning, like those that announce Thor's arrival: born and raised in a society in which Sif was taught to fight just like every other male child she never met many other women like herself. There were the servant girls, giggling and silly and boring and weak, and the old matrons in the kitchens and laundry rooms. There were many other women but few of them cared for fighting and Sif had always felt like she did not belong with them. Her childhood was spent with boys: growing up, she has become one of them. She has shaped herself into a sword like the one she carries, tempered, steely and sharp; her mind is a blade as much as her body is a weapon. It sets her apart from the women whose presence her male companions enjoy; the soft girls with glowing eyes and minds round and breakable as polished river pebbles. Sif never felt like she wanted to talk to them, be with them or even be one of them. And yet now, suddenly, she has the feeling she met someone who could match her in strength. If not physically, surely mentally. The woman gives off an aura of determination, raw and oozing like a bleeding wound. And Sif thinks – if this was another place, another time entirely – she would very much have liked to get to know this woman closer. How strange. She never wondered about something like this before. But she never wondered about looks before, either. For the first time in her life Sif looks at another woman and sees someone she could have been friends with. And everything she never was and never will be.

Jane Foster is pretty.

Sif can tell that much, even if Midgardian beauty standards are foreign to her. Among the long-lived, beautiful Asgardian women Jane can easily stand her ground. Her long, auburn hair trails in her wake as she follows Lady Frigga down the corridor, quick steps but still full of the kind of grace Sif never achieved. It is done in a simple braid that manages to look compellingly sophisticated. Her skin is smooth, her face even and sweet; her hazel eyes shine with steely determination and worry – but not for herself. There is nothing in her stature that would cause a man to find a fault. Sif should know – she has been fighting and travelling with Thor and the Warriors Three for decades already and when regarded as a comrade, albeit female, they do not make any differences between her and each other. Especially when it comes to drunken conversation. Or just conversation. Lady Frigga must have given the Midgardian woman another set of clothing because the style of the golden robe is familiar to Sif. It brings out the warm glow of the woman's skin, makes her dark eyes shine even brighter. And her hands. Her hands are small and delicate and probably soft as the fur of an ice fox. Sif's hands are rough and calloused from holding a sword since she can remember and scarred from more wounds than she cares to count. Jane Foster is more than pretty: she is beautiful. Everything in her appearance seems to radiate and Sif can only look, silently. She sees not only a beautiful woman but a strong mind, a woman who would continue fighting until she goes down, a woman who has learned a different way of fighting than Sif has but who in that aspect is just like her. But in contrast to Jane Sif is muscular and lean, her body shaped by her upbringing and her life. Her hands are scarred, her eyes full of everything she has seen. And although she knows she is pretty, too, in her own way – men tell her often enough, drunk and otherwise – she knows it is a different kind of beauty that the Midgardian woman possesses. And that it is not her beauty that Sif envies.

Jane Foster: a woman whose love for Thor Odinsson shines from her eyes and drips from her lips in unspoken words, clear for everyone to see and hear. A woman so strong and beautiful she won a god's heart.

This, more than anything, sets them apart.

…

Thor has changed and Sif is not the only one who sees it. While Volstagg isn't the brightest and Fandral usually is too preoccupied with himself to think about others; even they notice what Hogun and Sif have noticed ages ago. Thor – the god who enjoyed feasting and celebrating almost as much as he enjoyed fighting – now seems withdrawn and thoughtful. He leaves banquets early, wanders through empty hallways and stares at the splendid view of Asgard from the great balcony but Sif is pretty sure he does not see his land.

"Must have been a blow to the head during his fight in Migard against the Far Outsiders last time," Volstagg finally grumbles and takes a large bite from the meat skewer. "Don't know how he could miss this. I certainly wouldn't."

"I think it's a woman," Fandral muses and Sif is amazed how, for once, he could state the obvious without realizing the truth in these words. "But he's had many women and he's never been like that before."

And Hogun is quiet, as usual, and Sif catches him watching her but she does not ask so he does not say anything. They have a silent agreement and she is glad for it.

…

Sif tries. She owes it to Thor. He is her oldest friend, after all. But she feels like a traitor.

"I thank you for your sword – and for your kind advice, Lady Sif."

She does not try again. It becomes useless, either way.

…

Sif cannot remember her mother.

Raised in a warrior society by her father, she has always been more fighter than woman. However, it does not make her a member of the male society and she is at a loss when it comes to women, as well. One of the rare contact points are the women's' baths: she does not enjoy the atmosphere but she enjoys the warmth and the water. The idle talk she witnesses is an unavoidable part of those hours.

"He kissed me," a girl exclaims and her entire entourage breaks into silly giggles. Sif can't understand how girls can pretend to be that innocent when she has seen them interact with men in the banquet hall. "What am I going to do?"

"Wear your sapphire dress tonight," another advises. "It goes so well with your eyes. He won't be able to stop looking at you."

"Lucky girl," a third crows. "You'll surely win his heart quickly in that dress!"

Sif has never in her life kissed a man. She has slept with them – but never kissed them. It does not matter. She is not one of those silly girls with their silly heads and minds. Sif is a warrior. She has seen more blood than either of those girls can imagine, has killed more people than they will ever meet. She wonders what would happen if she told them how she received the many scars running along her back and her sides, twining down her arms and legs. She wonders what they would say when she told them their silly problems were nothing in comparison to saving worlds and to restoring peace and order. She wonders whether one of those girls ever touched a sword in her life. She wonders what she would have to do.

She has won wars for him but she will never win his heart.

…

"A mortal," someone whispers, one of the guards, his face hidden in the shadows underneath his horned helmet. "A mortal."

They break so easily, she can hear a voice, has she heard someone say it before or is it in her own mind. They die so early.

Sif just needs to wait.

Jane Forster is a mortal woman. Compared to Asgardians her life is a mere blink of an eye. She might be pretty now but she will grow old so quickly, always looking at Thor who hasn't changed for the past hundred years. (Sif can remember him when she cannot even remember her own mother.) The mortal woman will be desperate, growing older and older, there is nothing she can do, and-

The mere thought makes Sif sick.

They are no gods. It is a lesson she has learned the hard way: every time one of them died. Asgardians are mortal, as well, but they also are stronger than their Midgardian counterparts. They possess a life-span that covers other species' ones a hundred times but that does not set them apart from what they call human emotions. Sif can feel it: the loneliness, the short-lived battle elation. The desperate wish to be held and to have one person for oneself. Human, in that regard, are other emotions of hers as well: She wants Thor to be happy. Is that such an impossible thing to ask for? She has known him forever. She can see when he is happy and when he is tired, she can see the strength of his mind and the weaknesses that are part of his extraordinarily strong heart. Sif can see the light in his eyes and the softness in his voice when he talks of Jane Foster and she cannot even hate her for it: while this woman softens him, she also makes him stronger. What a curious thing, Sif thinks and tries very hard not to think anything else. She grabs her sword tighter and marches forward – there are enemies in the palace. She has a task.

…

She realizes somewhere along the way:

It is impossible.

She cannot destroy a happiness she would kill for to keep. It is antagonistic and completely irrational but she never cared much for rationality.

It's a Midgardian thing.

…

Goddess of War, the people call her.

Sif smiles grimly as she sees the first of Malekith's minions and throws herself headfirst into the battle. Ducking an arrow she lashes out with her sword in a two-handed blow and two foes fall, she pivots and stabs a third, then drops her sword into one hand and takes hold of her long dagger. A dark elf tries to ambush her from behind and she lets him think she hasn't seen him only to have him run into her blade, his own sword grazing her shoulder. She doesn't even feel the cut. A faceless guard plows past her and severs the head of another elf and Sif feels the black blood splatter over her face. There is no time to wipe it so she continues on, ducking, slashing, attacking, she beheads another dark elf, runs one through with her sword while holding off a lance with her dagger, the impact sends waves of something through her arm but there is no pain, no pain. And then she laughs, throws her head back and laughs. She is the Goddess of War because it is the one thing she does well: fight. And she does not ever lose.

But she can only fight for others, never for herself.