Author's Notes: Hello all! I am sorry for the delay in updating this - my time out of town was highlighted by coming home to a nasty virus on my laptop, and I was away from my documents longer than I planned for. I am updating tonight, and then updates will continue on scedule next Saturday, as planned. That said, I do hope you enjoy this latest instalment to this tale.

Part VII: the path to Hel

Dawn slipped from the cosmos to cover great Asgard eternal.

Frigg stood in the Hall of Valaskjálf, her face turned to the sky beyond. She had had Fulla dress her in full ceremonial garb that morning, needing both the power and grace of Queen alongside that of wife and mother. The soft light of the approaching dawn caught on the golden thread of her dress, in the long falls of her cloak. Her shadow was a blow cast from her body, so set to swallow any who dared crossed it. The rising sunlight warmed her face, thawing against the ice that had coated her bones since her son's return from the Mórrigan's moon.

She did not have to wait long before she was joined so by her lord and husband.

Odin's strides clicked against the polished floor, pointed and angry. In time with the strides was the beating of wings; her husband's ravens, no doubt, cawing in discordant tones in the yawning expanse of the throne room, reflecting their master's foul mood. She heard the clatter of metal against metal, and tilted her head when she realized that he wore armor rather than the leathers and suede that he normally preferred. At the sound, she turned, her eyes slipping over the bronze and silver points of him before coming to look into his one eye, reading the thunder that stuck there.

"I bid you good morning, my lord," she said, the affection in her voice real, even though she braced herself against the storm she knew was coming.

"You deliberately disobeyed me," Odin said without preamble. He stopped a pace from her, his stance a warrior's one – feet spread and shoulders squared.

"Yes," Frigg answered levelly. She kept her posture straight, her hands crossed loosely before her stomach. The fabric there rippled, rich as it caught the light.

"I made it clear why such a path was dangerous to take, did I not?"

"And I made it clear why I disagreed," Frigg returned, her voice the water between the ripples striking opposite to her. "I sat at my loom last night. I wove a path – believe me when I say that your First will prove your trust true were you to give it."

"And if he does not?" Odin took a step forward, his feet restless. His boots struck the ground like blows, fit to march."If your vision proves made for another time, and this one leads to the death of both of our sons, what then?"

Frigg bristled. "There is danger to each and every battle which Thor marches in to. And yet, how you and our people so value every empty fight – in which much is risked, but little is gained. Now that there is truly a risk worth fighting for, you would advise caution?" her voice pitched higher with her incredulousness.

"Dwarfs, giants, mortal men – hippogryphs," Odin's voice scorned. "There has yet not been a challenge Thor has embarked on which I did not believe him capable of succeeding in."

"And each was an empty fight," Frigg exclaimed. "Now, he fights for his own. He did not even think to do anything else – such is the way of family, of kin."

"You would lecture me on the bonds of kinsman?" Odin gave incredulously, his tone struck.

Frigg sighed, glancing up at her life's partner. The patch at his eye was sharp and metallic, a blade catching her eye. "I would not," she said, choosing her words carefully. "You have always been the best of husbands to me, and Thor adores you as his father. But with Loki . . . you fear more than you love at times. And someday that fear may hurt that love . . . for you, for all of us."

There was a long moment of silence between them. She counted out her heartbeats, sharp against her chest.

"Indeed," Odin finally returned. "It is fear that stays my hand. Fear for how this trek will treat Thor. Fear for he meeting the Mistress of Niflheimr and discovering her secrets. For Thor I fear, but for the shield-maiden, as well. What should happen if the Lady Týrdottir does recognize Death? Hel's secrets are as many as they are deep, and all of them could be a catalyst for the Twilight were Loki to find their truths before he is ready."

Frigg squared her jaw, knowing that their argument would be the same as it was the night before. Time had done naught to soften so much as fortify. Their difference of opinion was the same as it had been for centuries - since the time when Odin had first decided to hide Loki's heritage so, and Frigg had disagreed. The topic would always be a chasm so between them – and there was nothing she could do to change it until it would be too late. And so, she said, "Then what would you have me do? Already Thor and Sif march for Gjallarbrú. You cannot stop them." There was no pride in her voice. Merely a weariness, tired and old.

"Indeed, I can," Odin said then.

Instantly, Frigg instinctively narrowed her gaze at the words. It was rare when Odin talked so as leader and commander of his troops to her rather than withher. Her jaw locked at the tone.

"And how so?" she queried, daring him.

He took her challenge with a still eye, unblinking. "There are nine days and nine nights between the center of the city and the bridge of Gjallarbrú. I am ordering my guard out now – Thor and Lady Týrdottir will be returned before they make it to the land of Niflheimr."

Frigg let her surprise show openly upon her face – shocked that he would so send his own troops against her vision to uphold his word. "Thor will not let you pull him away from this path," she declared. "He shall not understand – not with you keeping your secrets close and dear. Sif too will have her grief harden to hate should you force this."

"Then so be it," Odin said, crossing his arms. "I am prepared to take that weight."

The breath in Frigg's throat was a desperate thing, catching incredulously. Her eyes turned pleading, desperate. "I cannot let him die," said she, and her voice was a hollow echo in her mouth. "I cannot let him go without doing everything possible to keep him with us." Her last syllable caught like a sob, and she could not pull it back in.

And across from her, her all seeing husband faltered.

Odin sighed, great and deep from his chest. The steel seemed to fade from him, leaving him as flesh and bone. Always had he been so before her. Always, she had given him the comfort and peace of being so.

When he reached out to draw her nearer, she did not fight. While their quarrels could be fierce (Thor did not get his temper merely from Odin, although she was loath to admit it aloud), it was rare that they went unsettled for long. She was a stone in the river of him, completely covered even as she stayed the current above. Always, she had been content to be so.

Moments passed, and then he pulled back, one hand warm and heavy about her shoulder as the other reached up to wipe away the tears that had escaped her. She sucked in a breath at the feel of him, his hands sword callused, as familiar to her as her own as they mapped over the planes of her skin. "Please know that what I do, I do for us all . . . I do not desire any harm to come to the boy -"

"Our son," Frigg interrupted softly.

" - but know that I cannot let them go down this path. I cannot risk the future of the realm so, no matter what I may personally prefer."

She inhaled deeply, her lungs aching to hold the gesture. She understood why the Allfather would say so. But it was not the Allfather who held her so, but Odin. There was a balance to be struck between monarch and patriarch, and she wanted desperately for it to be set before they lost something they could not regain.

"I understand," she said. "Truly I do . . . but, Odin, I do not agree . . ."

"You do not have to," said he, and it was another step between them. She sighed, weary as he turned from her. With a wave of his hand, he summoning the guards right beyond the hall – no doubt ready to march towards Gjallarbrú.

Frigg watched him leave, her frown a heavy blow upon her face. Huginn and Muninn cawed reproachfully at her as they swept down from the rafters of the throne room to perch upon Odin's shoulders, awaiting his order. She held her hands together before her dress, worrying the golden band upon her left hand as she bit her lip.

She could not agree with Odin, but the means to fight his orders were growing past her, now. She had done all she could to save her son, now his life was entirely in the hands of Thor and Sif. More capable hands she could not wish for.

After Odin had departed, there was a second flutter of wings, loud and flapping in the silence of her husband's Hall. When Frigg turned back to the open expanse of the balcony, Anann stood as she did the eve before, her face reflecting a sympathy and determination which could only be born of war and its tragedies.

A heartbeat. The warrior woman's eyes held a question.

"Odin sends his men after my son and the shield-maiden," Frigg so answered.

A sigh, long and deep. "And they ride for the bridge of Gjallarbrú?" Anann asked, her brow creased in thought. Her shepherd's hook was a heavy weight in her hand, pulsing with the grandeur of Asgard's magic.

"They do," Frigg answered.

Anann nodded, the light streaking warm tones in the dark bind of her hair. She then said, "My sisters and I can waylay the men of Odin, at least until the bridge of Gjallarbrú is reached. It would be a pretty piece of magic to allow us into Niflheimr, and I have not the time to perform it. But . . . here and now, I can see your weaving hold true."

Frigg said, "I can take no more a stand against my lord husband than I already have. If you move, move of your own accord, and know that you have the blessing of Asgard – no matter what events transpire from here."

Anann bowed from her waist. "Milady queen," she said, giving her understanding and acceptance.

Frigg nodded to the other, lifting her head up high. "Daughter of War," she gave in return.

Anann backed up towards the edge of the balcony again, and let the wind sweep her away, the caw of the raven and the flutter of black wings her last farewell. Frigg watched her until she was but a smear of ink against the turbulent horizon, and then turned away once more.

.

.

By noon, Thor and Sif had made it past the northern walls of the city.

The markets of Asgard had been silent so early in the morning. The merchants had just started to spread their goods, and the bakers fires had just started to lighten the skyline. The golden city was pot marked with bright flares of color from the hanging tapestries and the rings of spices held high above the tents and booths in the interlocking squares. From the eternal sea beyond, waterways crisscrossed the city, and the webbing of bridges and gardens piercing the underbelly of the city were well traveled paths to Thor and Sif – certainly the people had long become accustomed to the Thunderer and the shield-maiden riding through at a quick pace, eager for adventure, and the stories waiting to be told beyond the great city. That morning, the encouraging cries from the people they passed had a new meaning – a new weight, even as Sif wondered how many would cheer if they knew their heroes rode for the life of the second son of Odin.

It was a thought she put from her mind as they passed the high wall of the outer city, and she was determined not to turn it over in her mind again.

Past the golden walls, there were low lying flat lands, verdant and rich with fertile soil and thick grass. It was here where Sif had learned to ride and war from horseback all of those centuries ago, alongside the sons of Odin. The long lanes had seemed never ending as a child, the golden cast of the wheat fields before the harvest matching her hair from where it had been bound at her neck. Now, the ripe grain was sweet on the air, the thick spray of grass and mud from their horses hooves as they rode hard and quick through the land even more so.

Soon enough, the flat lands gave to the foothills of the Trúfinr mountains. The mountains were the barriers of great Asgard to the north, just as the sea was the barrier to the south. Above the peaks, the cosmos stretched rather than horizon, never letting one forget that this was no mere realm they resided upon – but rather the height of light and splendor at the top of great Yggdrasil's boughs.

She and Thor did not let up their pace until the wooded lands started in the foothills, reigning their mounts and giving them each a well needed break. Hófvarpnir, Sif's mare, and Þjálfi were well seasoned warhorses, and they shared the spirit of their riders, throwing their heads back in distaste when they were finally reigned in from their gallop. Sif stretched her lips, chapped from the hours of ridding, into a thin smile, and reached forward to pat the great roan neck of her horse fondly as they trotted through the wooded land.

Beyond them, they heard the sound of a raven's caw – the same sound that had drawn them short just moments before. They knew that call, and Sif did not need Thor's command to slow to better access their situation.

Wordlessly, she dismounted as Thor did. Long was the time they had spent as commander and commanded to each other, and she knew the path he would take before he said so. Leaving their mounts behind a few paces, Sif, lighter of the two, took to the nearest oak tree that grew in the copse they stopped in. She swung herself up through the branches, until her height gave her a clear view of the flatlands they had just covered, and her sharp eyes seeing almost all the way back to the great city behind them.

She frowned at what she saw, and quickly slipped back down through the boughs, landing silently again at Thor's side.

"Your father moves quickly," said she.

Thor frowned. "I had hoped that he would not set the guard on us this time," he said, his voice an exasperated exhale from his mouth.

Sif's frown mirrored his own. "Huginn and Muninn already made sight of us – they report back to Hrodgæir and his guard."

"Hrodgæir?" Thor repeated the name, surprised. "Father must truly want us back."

Sif made a face at the name of the other man. A young man and warrior who had gone through training with she and the princes, Hrodgæir had since gone on through the ranks to captain Odin's personal palace guard. He had been most vocal in time's past of his disapproval for a warrior maiden – drawing Loki's pranks, and Sif's ire in the rings more times than she could remember.

Hrodgæir would rejoice to bring them back, bound and repentant, to Odin.

Sif let her lips part, a battle sneer. "The ravens spoke of our location. They are not an hour from us."

"I would not have them be a thorn in our side the entire march to the northern gate," Thor frowned.

Sif raised a brow. "Your orders, then?"

"Deeper into the woods," Thor said. "Our pace will slow without the room to ride hard, and they will catch up. Unfortunately for them."

"Most so," Sif's grin was sharp.

"Come now," Thor tilted his head back to their mounts.

They rode for another hour's time, until the wood turned thick and unfriendly, cutting out the sunlight from above. The path higher into the foothills grew steeper and steeper until they were picking slowly through the path lest the horses take an unfriendly fall.

When they stopped next, they were with company.

"About fifty paces past that last bend," Sif said, instead listening to a dagger she had dug into the ground, rather than going up high to gauge their situation. The forest was thick here – and Huginn and Muninn would not have been able to spy that far ahead.

"Well then," Thor bowed. "After you, milady."

Sif dismounted, and handed her reins to Thor. Thor's words were light, even as his face turned serious. "Do try not to take every blow, Sif."

"If you so insist," her tone was sharp, fighting away the frown from her face.

Thor led the horses away, and Sif once again took to the oak tree nearest her. This time she climbed until she met the thick branches not even twenty feet in the air. Raising a brow, she judged where the limbs best twisted and knotted over the path below. Once choosing her place, she crouched low, the dark shades of her cloak over her armor making her indistinguishable from the shadows all about her.

And while she waited, she wondered at the Allfather trying so hard to stop them so. It was not the first time that Odin disapproved of a quest and sent his guard, but this was different than them marching on some wyrm's nest. Did he not know that such delays could cost his youngest son his life? Did he not trust Thor to successfully restore the breath to Loki while keeping his own in his lungs?

The questions were dark and insidious things in her mind – making her question where she had long since blindly served, and Sif did not care for them. And so, she cast them aside as the first of Hrodgæir's guard appeared just beyond her hiding place in the trees.

Six men, she counted, and her frown returned again, remembering the six more who would be behind them. At least the Allfather could have sent a serious deployment after them. Didn't he not know that they would fight with their all for Loki? A mere six, and six more, of Asgard's men would not stop them.

Sif cast her thoughts aside, and instead let the threat of battle rise up in her veins. She counted out her heartbeats, waiting until the sixth warrior passed under her perch.

She exhaled.

With her next breath, she leaped, soundlessly knocking the last rider from his mount. Her unfriendly fingers found the pulse points at the man's neck, and squeezed, making sure that he would sleep until long after the fight had past. Fighting one of Asgard's immortal ranks was different than fighting against mortal kind – whose flesh tore and pulse ended so very easily, and she took care to make sure that he would not soon be a threat against them any time soon.

Her seat on the mount was strong and steady – quieting the anxious beast so that he would not give her away. As soon as she was sure the horse would not spook, she stood up straight upon the saddle, reading the path and the silken play of the horse's withers so that she would not lose her balance.

A bend in the path.

She leaped from the last horse to the fifth, and that guard bore the same fate as the last.

By the time she sat upon the back of the forth, the path was thin and narrow, and she didn't dare trust standing straight upon the animal beneath her. Instead she reached for the branch above her, using it as leverage in order to swing herself up and forward to the third guard. Soundlessly, he fell.

In her mind, she counted the seconds. No doubt the second group had found their fallen comrades by now. Ahead, the clearing that she and Thor had spied was coming.

Time to move then.

The second guard actually saw her coming, but her fingers at his throat silenced him. She was too close to Hrodgæir himself to let the man fall away without causing more noise than she was prepared to let, so instead she sat perched behind the unconscious man, holding him aright while she moved in time to the horse in able to perch so upon it.

The clearing came into view, and Sif saw where Thor had tied up Hófvarpnir and Þjálfi at the same moment Hrodgæir did.

"Then where are they?" Hrodgæir looked over his shoulder to question what he thought was his second in command, and instead found Sif ready for him, glaive in her hand and shield waiting at her back.

"Right behind you," she sneered, and struck out with the butt of her weapon, striking for the tender area of the neck between helmet and armor. Hrodgæir dodged her blow, and she reached out with her other hand to tug meanly on the flat horn of his helmet, dismounting him. He struck the ground hard, the sound loud in contrast to Sif's light step as she leapt from the horse, ready to engage him.

Above her, the ravens cawed, flapping angrily about her.

"You have left none for me," Thor's voice complained further into the clearing when he saw that Hrodgæir stood, but none of his men.

Sif smirked, never breaking Hrodgæir's gaze. "On the contrary," she said, just as the sound of pounding hooves could be heard. "I have left six for you."

Thor grumbled, "Such graciousness."

Sif thumbed her nose in the air, before gesturing to Hrodgæir's hip. "Come now, draw your weapon," she addressed the man. "I shall not have you say that I was unhonourable to you in a fight."

Hrodgæir was still, his expression cruel and sharp. He was an unfortunately handsome man, with high aristocratic features, complete with clear blue eyes and hair seemingly spun from pale gold – like so many of Asgard's children. In the end, he ignored her words in favor of stating his mission. "In the name of Odin Allfather, High King of the First Realm, you are hereby ordered to hand over your weapons and submit to returning with the First Guard back to Asgard."

Thor's smile was sharp. "I am afraid we must decline."

"Respectively," Sif added, extending the reach of her glaive. The sound of the steel slipping was loud in the clearing.

And Hrodgæir sneered. "I had thought you might say so," said he, his hand falling for the hilt of his sword. The metal glinted as it was drawn from its scabbard, and Sif knew from experience that the other man knew how to wield it well.

Years ago, Hrodgæir had been one of the young warriors most vocal against having a maiden training with the elite of the Aesir. His words had instigated many such things from others – both within the warrior caste and beyond, and Sif had spent many a day defending her path with words along with her deeds. At that time, Hrodgæir had yet to solidly beat her in the practice rings – which was the heat and height of his anger against her gender, no doubt. Until, one day, Sif had stood victorious over him in the ring, declaring herself the victor. She had still reached down to help him up, as was honorable, when he had pulled her down in order to jab a hidden dagger deep into her side. The men in the rings that day had been supporters of Hrodgæir, and all had laughed to see the shield-maiden bleed so – Hrodgæir having said that the wound was placed earlier in the fight.

Volstagg – the only one of the fighters there who did so support Sif - had taken her to Eir before she could challenge them; and then, while she was so with the healer, he did spilled the tale to the princes two.

Thor's response had been predictable, and Hrodgæir's wounds sustained at the hands of the Thunderer had been trifle in comparison to what he had born sparring with Sif.

Loki's answer had been more subtle . . . and of a sort that Hrodgæir did not so easily forgive. Or forget. Loki had taken jewels from the keep of the Lady Illa, Hrodgæir's mother, and had thrown them into the sea. At the same time he had forged a letter from Hrodgæir to his sweetheart so promising the jewelry to her. When the letter and the missing jewels had been discovered, Hrodgæir had been razed mightily by his father - and Loki's smile had been snide the next day when he inquired about the missing jewelry. How it must ache to bear the blame for something past his control, Loki had mocked. Something past control – like ones gender or choice of weapons. Hrodgæir had never taken it easy on Sif in the ring in the centuries since then, and they had each left their blows upon the other.

Behind Hrodgæir, the six guards from further on the trail had arrived. Each bore one of their fallen comrades upon their mounts.

Sif felt her teeth bare, even as Thor inquired, "Do you wish for the snake here, or the six?" His tone was light, as if inquiring about the weather.

"I would not so deprive you of your sport," Sif said gracefully.

"Nor I yours," Thor clasped Sif on the shoulder as he passed her – heading for the six with Mjölnir in hand. "Do try not to break anything that cannot be repaired."

"If I must," said Sif, their banter age old between them. Past settling the anger in her bones – how much time they did so waste! - the careless banter of the Thunderer and the shield-maiden had never failed to put those they faced off guard – especially when those they faced knew full well of their strength and reputation.

Sif held as Thor approached the guards beyond Hrodgæir. When the first clash of steel sounded beyond them, Hrodgæir did so say, "Shall we?"

She did not respond, standing still as Hrodgæir began to circle. Always was it so with him – he would charge first, thinking himself quick, and she would sidestep him. He would move to his right as he often favored, and she would shift left, blocking his sword with her shield as he brought his weapon back around to defend himself. Her glaive would then strike at the side of his body he left open.

This time, though, she did not feel the waiting in her bones. Instead she struck first, quick on her feet – like a dancer as she met his block and twisted down and around to slip behind him. One two three, one two three, she remembered the dance mistress teaching her the steps so long ago, and now she repeated them with steel in her hand and war in her heart. Perhaps that was not what Sif's mother had intended when she had insisted on the formal etiquette, but either way – such lessons had allowed her daughter to serve Asgard to her fullest. There was honor in that, Lady Gná had finally acknowledged over time.

"It is treason to strike so against your own," Hrodgæir hissed at her when their blades crossed, faces close enough to play a gross parody of a lover's ease.

Sif's smile turned sharp, a blade set to cut. "It is never treason to strike so against you."

Beyond them, Thor was a force – already few of the six were rising still to fight against him. He struck with his fists, Mjölnir held merely to fend off opposing steel rather than strike herself. He was pulling his punches for his kinsman, she knew, and she smiled at the thought.

Thor never fought back to back with her – with anyone, at that. The battle was his domain, and his glory alone - and so was the violence of his attack that he could level legions while his comrades picked off armies one at a time.

Normally, Sif fought with Loki at her back. She knew the movements of him – the ebb and flow of his fight, and together they were a force enough to rival Thor. She fought best close, and Loki fought best with thrown weapons – spells set for flames, rendering skin asunder and shattering weapons all with the incantations of his tongue rather than the steel in his hand. He was the wind to her rain, and nothing could escape their touch.

Normally, it was her left side he so guarded. She struck right, her shield striking out as a melee weapon, leaving her left side vulnerable. She twisted her upper body as soon as she realized her mistake. Not quickly enough, it did seem, for she felt the sharp kiss of steel at her side.

She made a face, more annoyed than pained as Hrodgæir's sword drew away bloody.

A curse on her tongue, she felt at her side, finding the telling tackiness of blood, seeping through the stays of her armor. Glancing, nothing that would even slow her while traveling, but enough to set her glare in a vexing line. Stupid of her, expecting him so at her back.

Her fist was tight upon the hilt of her glaive.

"You are a silly girl if you think to ride to Niflheimr while not even competent enough to ward off such a simple blow."

Her glaive struck right, her shield left. Hrodgæir stumbled, his balance caught.

She did not respond to him – instead pressing her advantage. Always, his weaknesses had been his feet. His footwork tangled him – normally he was strong enough to defeat an opponent before such was an issue, but Sif was quick and danced more than she bludgeoned an opponent. Where Thor was stronger than Sif – and that would almost always leave him the victor in a true fight – she was quicker and smarter. She was the better fighter in technique. In plan and execution.

She was War itself – and it would do well for Hrodgæir to remember that he did not so face Thor.

Hrodgæir spat blood upon the ground, feinted left, and Sif struck right. He stumbled.

"Why do you even ride for Niflheimr in the first place?" he snorted, incredulous. "You should take the escape we offer – return to Asgard. You realize who it is you fight for, do you not?"

"For my prince," Sif said, a claim in her words that all would be blind to. "For your sovereign."

Hrodgæir laughed outright at that. "By the Allfather's blood only. He is a mockery to the steel of the Aesir. A blight to the house of Odin. Why do you think that the great Allfather wishes you not to take this journey? Even he does not see value in the Silvertongue's life."

Her shield against his head. His helmet cracked with the force of her blow.

"Watch your own tongue," she ordered him sharply. She could feel the battle rage lurk within her veins – behind her eyes, in the furious tattoo of her heart against her chest.

"Only Hel would find worth in his useless soul," still Hrodgæir chortled, for he would never think Loki's soul to find peace in Valhalla, the golden hall for those most honorable of warriors. The thought of Loki's worth was so far past him. "So strike against Death for him – die there! And what a fitting match in Hel's hall you shall make; the unnatural girl and the useless prince."

Sif snarled at the implication in his words. In his taunts she saw all of Asgard's laughing court. She heard their whispers against their second – against her. She heard their laughter, a memory, as Loki's mouth was sewn shut. The symphony of mockery and rage rang in her ears. It incensed her, making the steel in her veins molten as centuries worth of frustration finally came to a point and boiled over.

This time, Sif's cry was mighty as she struck against him – and there was none of the curbed blows she bore for those the same of her blood. There was just the violence in her veins left to her. The fear she felt for Loki was a flame beneath her heart, igniting her. Her frustration and her pain finally spilled over until she thought of nothing more than silencing him with her blows until he could say no more ever again. Did he not know that Loki was Sif's strength, and Sif's strength was Loki's? She dared the fates to frown upon that.

"A fitting gift to Hel you yourself shall make," Sif sneered as she leveled one last blow against him – striking his hand, sending his sword clattering upon the ground. His hand was broken, she had heard the bones shatter – knew the shape and sound of his scream from experience as it rendered upon the air so.

He was crumbling before her – red and brown organic matter smearing against the soft pastel tones of the clearing.

Her glaive was held loosely in her left hand – but it was not the satisfaction of her steel cutting skin she needed, but the sensation of blood upon her knuckled she so craved. She drew her fist back, and was surprised when a grasp encircled it.

Instinctively, she struck back against who had caught her so, her fingers pointed and seeking, undoing the dagger in her sleeve. But it never made it to the throat behind her. Thor's exclamation of "Sif!" drawing her ear and her mind as she stayed her blow.

The battle lust snapped from her veins, and she calmed in her friend's hold.

"You would have killed him!" exclaimed Thor when he finally released her, his blue eyes harsh.

"Yes," she let the word tumble from her mouth, still hoarse and battle worn. Yes, she would have. In that moment, he had embodied all that had struck against her for years, and did still threaten to tear asunder all she held dear and -

"By the Norn's teeth, but I would have," she repeated, letting her face fall into her hands as she sickened with the implications of her actions. Rare was it that she so lost herself to the beserker rage that some her comrades so favored – a warrior without control was a dead one, and she already bore enough handicaps with her sex to surrender her mind and sanity in the heat of battle.

She sheathed her glaive with shaking fingers. It stuck in its straps. She felt her stomach lurch.

Thor, who was watching her closely, sighed, deep and from his chest. "Let us move the bodies further up on the trail – no doubt the next group will find them there."

Sif nodded, her cheeks still bright as she moved to the soldier nearest to her feet. She would let Thor take Hrodgæir, not trusting herself to not deal the man a further injury, even though the battle was done and she had proven herself the better once more.

They worked in silence, moving their comrades and tying their mounts, until the task was done and they were free to push north once more. Closer and closer to the gates of Niflheimr.

.

.

Higher on the pass, where the rocky crags saw all, Macha chortled merrily when she saw how her shield sister laid waste to the guard.

"I truly do like this one, sister," she approved, striking her boot with her riding crop in her mirth. "What a glorious little spit fire she is."

Anann's smile was wry. "Indeed, I cannot imagine what you would find to like."

"She should have killed him," Macha still snorted. "It is men like that who give the warring caste a bad name."

Anann was silent. "I think that there has been enough blood spilled in these realms to last a hundred lifetimes. The Thunderer was right to stay her hand."

Macha's raised brow said what she thought of that, but she kept her words to herself.

Anann sighed, and drew two corked vials from her coat. She handed one to Macha and one to Badb. Badb took the vial without blinking, and threw the contents back. Macha made a face as she uncorked hers, before swallowing the potion as a child may a healer's tonic.

Anann took the vials from her sisters, and waited. Before her, the familiar features of her sisters shifted – Badb's pale and grey tones warmed, taking on the shades of honeyed gold and sky kissed blue. The warriors garb over her body morphed – taking on the high plates of Asgard, and a long fall of red – sweeping down to cover her white mount, just like the one Thor was riding.

Macha's bright red hair darkened, taking on the shade of night, her freckles fading and her fiery eyes darkening to a hazel tone. Soon, she looked at Anann from the shield-maiden's eyes, an exact replica of the Lady Sif's every feature.

"Well, how do we look?" said Macha with Sif's voice. Badb smiled grimly with Thor's full mouth.

"Good enough to fool Huginn and Muninn," Anann decided.

Beyond them, Odin's ravens circled, regrouping. Their cries split the air, thundering.

Anann glanced up, her sharp eyes searching. Macha was tight with Sif's glare, Badb a weight with Thor's might.

"Come now, my sisters, let us give something for Odin to truly chase," as Anann spoke, her eyes flared with her power, the wind whipping around her until she too wore the feathers of the raven, a shadow to her sisters as they took an alternate road north – far away from the true riders so as to let them continue on uninterrupted by their own.

Mira's Mythological Madness

Note: I am far from an expert in Norse paganism, and all mistakes are mine own. ;)

Huginn and Muninn: Odin's ravens, 'thought' and 'memory', respectively, whom Odin used to scout and see over all nine of the realms, and Midgard especially. Odin was refereed to as the Raven-god often in the myths, which made it even more interesting to pit Anann against him here, as well - whose symbol is also the raven, or the crow.

Fulla: Frigg's confidant, and handmaiden, who may even have been her sister.

Gjallarbrú: The northern most bridge, seperating the land of the living from the land of Niflheimr, and Hel's realm.

Gná and Hófvarpnir: In the myths, Lady Gná is Frigg's messenger, who had a horse who could travel over both air and sea. I liked giving Sif a mother with just as unconventional a role in the court as Sif, and the name of Sif's mare just fell into place.

Trúfinr Mountains: My own creation, by putting together the terms for 'truth' and 'finger' to name the mountains. I apologize in advance for my linguistic butchering. ;)

Berserker: Norse men who fashioned themselves to be 'Odin's special warriors', who fought in a vicious, trace like state during battle. Some theories have these warriors purposely drugging themselves before warring, in order to reach that frame of mind when fighting.