A/N:First off, apologises for taking so long to update. Second, the first version of this chapter posted up was pre beta reading, this was the one I should have posted up. sorry about that.
Chapter 11
The closer Sif came to the main road, the more people she passed, and the road became increasingly well maintained, widening out for a larger number of people and horses. Though more importantly for Sif, it welcomed the beginning of fenced off land. Normally this was would not be worth her notice, but today they were not simply fences—they were ladders up onto her horse. It was easy enough to position Thindel and clamber up onto his back. That was not the tricky part. She soon discovered that bareback riding was not as easy as it seemed. With no saddle and no stirrups she had nothing to hold her in place, no means to help her stay on the horse. Even at a simple walk, she found maintaining her balance awkward and uncomfortable. Her injured arm was jostled, shooting up waves of pain, not helping her one-handed use of the reins. She had fallen back on steering with her knees when possible, but she was having enough trouble staying on the horse. It was exhausting.
At least she was on the horse now, approaching the main road and her three quarter mark. It was even possible that she would run into a patrol that regularly rode down the thoroughfare. Soon she was shakily directing her horse onto the sleek and smooth road on which people bustled back and forth, carefully avoiding the riders that dashed down the centre of the road. As she travelled further, she became more accustomed to her new position, the ride jerking her injuries less. She started to find the right place and posture to keep her steady.
The passersby eyed her cautiously, taking in her rough appearance. She must look horrific. Bloody, sweaty, muddy, her clothes torn and looking as if she could use a good sleep. It was a far cry from her imagined return. They were supposed to be riding down the centre of the road as a group so that everyone could see them. Thor would have been at their front like the born leader he was while the rest of them carried spoils of their conquest, perhaps hauling the head of their prey between them. They would have looked glorious, like the truest heroes of legend—spirited, dignified and pristine. No, on second thought, there would have been a few blood splatters, a smudge of grime here and there, perhaps a few tears in their clothing as proof that they had faced the beast and come out the victors.
A particularly sharp jolt hit her arm, as if reminding her that her fantasies were just that and a distant cry from reality. Their entire journey had been as different to her assumptions as black was to white. Looking back over the events of the day, from deciding it was an ingenious idea to go to the damned valley in the first place to her failure to fend off common thugs with a few well-placed strikes, she realized that the idea that this would turn out perfectly was utterly ludicrous.
A small part of her still stubbornly objected and didn't understand how this had all gone so badly. Why had her first two real fights resulted in her just escaping with her life and body in one piece? She trained, and she didn't train for a couple of hours a day like most boys. She trained for as long and as hard as she could. She went down to the sparring grounds and fought anyone who would accept her challenges, then when Herleif was free she would coerce him into teaching her. She rarely lost against her peers, except against Thor and occasionally Hogun. The only time she had sparred against Loki she had 'lost.' It still annoyed her that Herleif had ruled in favour of the Prince, so she didn't count that. Everybody lost occasionally, but she was still better than almost all of her peers and she had worked hard to be so. She was a great fighter; even her aunt and uncle had stopped objecting to her interests. They hadn't done so since she started spending more time with Thor and his friends—it was hard to object when the Crown Prince didn't—but she liked to think that at least part of it was that she had earned their acceptance.
She liked to think that. That they were finally coming round to her way of thinking and she was proving herself. She refused to acknowledge any future than as a warrior. She boasted to them of her achievements: every boy she beat, every word of praise she received, every time she outrode her friends. Yes, she had had brushed off Herleif's insistence that a practice bout and a real fight were two very different things. Yes, she neglected certain areas of her training, but they were areas that she had disregarded as unimportant.
She was beginning to realise how foolish she had been to assume this and throw away anything that didn't immediately fit to her image of what a warrior was. She was only now understanding the importance and how obvious it was. Of course she needed to know how to tack a horse, she was idiotic to think otherwise. The realisation leaked into other aspects, spiralling into a new comprehension. If learning to saddle a horse was important, then so was knowing the upkeep of her sword and armour. She must know it until the action became a mindless task. Just because it bored her didn't mean she should just pass it onto a servant. By extension, she needed to know how to start a fire, cook a meal, skin a catch, treat basic wounds and pitch a tent. The more she thought about it, the more she realised that she had neglected everything but her combat training and horsemanship. She had latched onto that shallow concept since her childhood.
She cringed. That was it. She had a child's image of a warrior and that was how she must seem to others, like a child playing make-believe. Today's disaster was just further proof. Her uncle and aunt were indulging her as one would humour a child, as if this was a game that she would soon become bored of. Her guardians must think she would soon grow out of it all when she realised it wasn't what she imagined. She had twisted her golden locks round her fingers with big, blue, pleading eyes, like one of the mindless court girls she despised, and asked if she could play soldier. In her mind, what she was doing was no different from the real thing. She hadn't been prepared for the fear that had gripped her when faced with a fight on her own. Or the panic that had overridden all of her common sense and good judgement in the face of overwhelming pressure. She hadn't understood what it really meant to be a warrior.
So what now? What would she do after this whole sorry business? She had to turn this illusion around and make her guardians look at her with the respect they would bestow on any of her male counterparts. She should ask Herleif to train her in all the areas she had so far abandoned. She couldn't be the pampered lady anymore. No more twirling her hair to get her way. No more giving tedious tasks to servants. No more avoiding boring parts of her training. She would earn respect and she would do it the hard way. Warriors didn't bat their eyes to get their way, or wear dresses…
No, men didn't. But now a new dilemma crept up, one that she had never really acknowledged. She was no man, nor did she want to be. She was a woman and proud of it, thank you very much. She never wanted to stop being one, she just wanted to fight. She wanted adventures, not embroidery and tapestries. She would never admit it to anyone, but she liked her beautiful dresses and the chance to dress up once in a while. She just never wanted that to be all she was. How much of that would she have to give up? All? None?
She screwed her eyes shut and rubbed them. This was giving her a headache. She could think about this later when she had a clearer head and a good night's rest.
Sleep. It sounded like a divine spell now. She ached all over. Her injured arm was reduced to a dull constant thud, but it seemed to have spread to her entire body. She wanted to get back home, longed for it within her soul. She wanted to speak to Odin, get help for her friends and then fall sleep until all her sores had healed and everything was better.
Just a little longer, she promised herself. She was so close, less than three leagues left. If she trotted the rest of the distance, she was certain she could be back at the palace within an hour. However, if she found sitting on Thindel disconcerting while he was walking, she wasn't sure how she would deal with a trotting horse with no stirrups to help her rise and fall with the motion of her steed. Perhaps if she moved straight into a canter. It seemed like a good idea to her mind. Alas, like many things that day which seemed to her to be a good idea, the reality was decidedly different.
She squeezed her heels into Thindel and immediately the horse spurted forward. Her intent was to continue pushing her steed into a canter, but she found herself unable to control it anymore. She never quite made it past a trot. Without the saddle, she bounced uncontrollably, slipping and sliding, unable to remain in a secure position. She was going to fall. It was all she could do to cling to her horse, praying she could stay on. It was not to be.
Sif felt herself slowly slipping to her right. Her attempts to right herself failed; there was that dreadful anticipation before the fall, and then she slammed into the road. Once again, her injured arm was crushed. She couldn't help the cry of pain that tore from her throat as fire shot up her arm again, dwarfing her earlier discomfort. Her vision went dark and it took a minute to realise it was because her eyes were screwed shut. Sobs that she had tried so hard to hold back broke forth, and tears started leaking from her eyes. She was vaguely aware that someone was talking to her, a woman and another person were guiding her into a sitting position.
"Come, child, we must get you out of the road."
Sif shook her head, roughly wiping the tears to see several people gathered around her. She didn't want to move; she wanted to curl up and go to sleep.
A man spoke. "You cannot stay here—" She didn't register the rest of the words. He was right, she couldn't stay here. She had to get to the palace.
She forced herself to speak past her sobs. "I-I-I ne-need to g-get to As-gard City," she hiccupped, rubbing her eyes.
"You need a healer."
"No! I..ne-need to g-get t-to the ci-ty."
"Chil-"
"NO!" Sif struggled to her feet. "I do…not h-have time. I-"
"Sif?!"
At her name she spun round and nearly wept anew.
Sif could think of no other time when she had been happier to see her cousin Herleif than that moment as she stood in the middle of the road with tears streaking down her dusty face. He took in the sight of her with widening eyes. Behind him one of his men called for the crowd to disperse, and the captain swung down from his horse and was soon by her side, gingerly touching her arm.
"Sif, what happened? Where are your friends? Where are the princes?"
She reached up with her good hand and gripped the front of his tunic. She took deep breaths, calming her sobs. "I-I need to get to the p-palace. I must go, NOW!"
"Tell me what happened? Where are the princes?"
"W-We didn't go t-to the Great Oak—we w-went to the Mist Valley. Loki... Lo-Loki fell in and T-Thor, Fandral and Hogu-gun went after him. I-I came to get help."
Herleif paled a shade, but otherwise seemed completely calm and collected, a sharp contrast to her hysteria. For a moment he looked as if he may ask if this was a bad jest, but he ran his eyes over her and turned to his men.
"Eindride, inform the palace. Ake and Destin, ride to inform the change stations. Geir, Halvard and Inghard, clear the road for the king's men."
"Yes, Captain," and then the men shot off down the road.
Just like that, Sif felt the strain and pressure slip off her shoulders. She had passed on the baton; the responsibility was out of her hands and with someone better equipped to handle it. Someone more capable. Someone who could help save her friends. The relief sapped the strength from her. She would have sunk to the ground if it weren't for her cousin's arm round her waist. She gasped as he jogged her broken bone.
"Easy," Herleif calmed. "We will get you to the city and the healing rooms. Can you ride?"
She rested her head against his broad shoulder, ignoring the remnant drive she felt to race to the palace as quickly as she could. She needn't worry about that anymore. She nodded.
"Hmmm. I think perhaps you should ride with me. I can lead your horse."
She nodded again, not really caring about her pride much anymore. She could ride with Herleif a little—the rest would be welcome and the promise of a healer at the end was enough to silence any of her misgivings. It would be alright.
Everything was going to be alright.
A/N:
Sif's story is drawing to a close. I hope nobody was too disappointed that this didn't have Thor or Loki in it.
As a heads up, my beta reader will be away for a while, so there is a good chance that the next chapter will be a while as well.
On the happier side, just wanted to give a big shout out to GabxLuci027 who wrote the 100th review for this story. I'm so happy that I got so many so thank you to everyone who has written one. :) (I'll leave the anonymous review replies until the next chapter, just because I messed up on the posting of this chapter).
