A/N: A heartbroken Sif, who's a devoted mother, who's on the brink of a dishonorable death, was a tricky thing to write. I hope I did her justice.
"Oh, my dear, reckless shield maiden. Look what you've done to yourself."
That should have been the first clue, Sif thought. Eir does not gush.
"You know better than to take on more than you can handle."
Um, no she doesn't. Eir knew that.
"How careless you are with your life. Do you not treasure the love that surrounds you?"
Was Eir high? Why the blathering on while Sif was bleeding all over the table. The warrior was so baffled and had been about ready to argue had her blood not been flooded with an invasive sting, flagging all of her survival instincts into a state of shock. She gasped, watching in stricken confusion as Eir removed the needle and smiled darkly.
"Elder, what did you give me?" He words were choked, every muscle seizing, taut and scared, even the ones barely clinging to bone. The burn was unbearable, a pain beyond physical, stretching into the eternal. An agonizing scream tore apart whatever she had tried to say next, a rarity that frightened her even more.
Sif never screamed. Not like that. Not at pain, never at the lumbering monsters that stared her down on the battlefield. She had been the cause for others to cry out so helplessly, beings of lesser character that couldn't take a blade with a little dignity, but never did she allow such weakness to occupy her voice when her flesh was attacked. A warrior is trained to take it, embrace it even, for flesh wounds only make the body stronger. But this was no mere flesh wound. This attack came with a creeping horror, a venom slowly thieving her of Valhalla—yet another lost dream—and an unexpected enemy shedding the guise of Sif's beloved Elder. It was a figure tall and wretchedly skinny, cheek bones stretching a coarse blue skin she would slice before embracing, scarlet eyes whose beauty still radiated through anguish brought only by envy.
"Angrboda..." Sif shuddered.
She had always believed—until learning the true reason for her son's blue skin, when Thor had broken the news of Loki's true heritage—that her pregnancy had been afflicted by Angrboda's curse, a petty act of jealousy that always kept Sif looking over her shoulder. The very mention of the Jotun's name would raise hairs on her neck, both before and after her involvement with Loki, for rumors had bled through Asgard of Angrboda's alleged threats to any maiden who caught the dark prince's eye. Sif had laughed that off, though. She kept alert but wasn't afraid, especially not before Ollerus was conceived. No deranged exile prevented her from taking what she wanted. She may have even taken the giantess's reputable threats as a challenge.
How she was regretting that now.
"In exchange for what you took from me," the witch's voice flowed deep through the canyons of heartache, sultry and threatening, claiming strength by balancing on the edge of breaking, "I have taken your immortal glory."
Sif tried to spit out a defense but her tongue became tangled, literally, by Angrboda's chilling mouth enveloping hers. She froze, momentarily, then tried to push her off but hadn't the strength. Her body was hobbled by the array of assaults, this additional one completely blindsiding her. Feeble hands only splayed over thinly covered, tattooed breasts. Wooden beads and other clattering jewelry fell across Sif's neck as large moistened lips slicked over her split ones, creating an unwanted balm. She tried to writhe free but teasing talons, poised at the tips of bony fingers, captured her face and toyed with her fleeing tears. She had never, in all her life, felt so helpless. She recalled some noise of protest escaping her lips, not the vengeful roar she has hoped for, but a mere whimper. Pathetic. Weak. Scared.
"You're a monster..."
Sif always liked to boast that she didn't get scared. That no foe, no matter the size and ferocity of their weapon, could ever strike fear in her heart. But she had never faced an enemy like Angrboda before, a being driven by a merciless ache that only love can inflict. A shadow riddled with a pain Sif was growing to understand more and more as she sat on frozen cobblestones, wrapped in furs with nothing to occupy her time but her memories, regrets, and a residual chill on her lips. That phrase about death and fury and a scorned woman had never taken on such frightening clarity before.
It hadn't taken long, by all standard measures of time, for Loki to tear into the healing room and quake everything with a desperate and magical burst. Angrboda was ripped away and flung into the wall while Sif gasped for freedom and rolled off the table. It was all she could do in her condition. She clawed at the floor in frustration, hearing her assaulter escape and Loki hollering out futilely. He then called for help and fell at her side, turning her over and wrapping his arms around her.
"Sif," he said. "What did she do to you?"
At the time he felt wonderful. Despite the sickness clouding over her, and despite the impending tragedy, she had found peace and consolation in each of Loki's tears that fell upon her. She knew not where she was drifting to but her fear surrendered to the convincing ruse that bent over her and pulled her against him. He repeatedly apologized and she hadn't understood why, but thought very little of it as she stroked his cheek and spilt her heart, one last time.
What a fool she was.
Sif shrank and pulled the furs tighter around her, cursing. She had been played all along. Used and deceived. Slathered in false hope and sugared words, and for what. Another chaotic plan destined to fail, one that involved her son! How could she be so blind? Why did her heart override her common sense? How could she set herself and Ollerus up for this kind of heartache?
And most importantly, what did Loki want with him? How could he do this to his own child?
Through lies. And a blackened heart. That was how he would do it. He would string the boy along and use this tragedy as a means to sink his claws deeper, put on a grand show of grieving that everyone would fall victim to as they embrace him in consolation. Sif could only pray that Ollie was clever enough to see through the charade. That his intellect would defend him against the very being it was born from. Sif had to believe that. Any other outcome would be unimaginable punishment to dwell on. The very thought sickened her more than any poison could: Ollerus joining the ranks of Loki's demented offspring, his talents turned to spreading grief across the realms, Angrboda adopting him as her own.
Sif trembled with a rage reserved only for her worst of enemies. Loki and Angrboda better hope they find a means of immortality because if they end up down here seeking a little family reunion with the Queen of Unfortunate Lineage, Sif would step up where Hel may show mercy and make their afterlives a painfully regretful affair. That might just make this eternal damnation worth its while.
Her chest caved and she shivered. Anger did not ease the pain. A hot temper would not warm her this time. Lust for revenge would not help her son.
Sif hugged her knees closer to her retracted form, the cold spreading through her spirit the way she assumed the poison was spreading through her flesh. Eir would have some lengthy explanation for this phenomenon, pointing out all the parallels between the deterioration of her physical health and waxing ache in her heart, all spoken in that rigidity that Sif never thought she would miss so dearly. What she wouldn't give to be back in Glasir, peeling off her dented armor while being pelted by a stiff lecture about wearing her muddy boots into the temple. Or better yet, hearing the lecture directed at Ollerus while he dragged his latest kill in to show his proud mother.
A splitting pain streaked across Sif's sunken chest and down into her gut. She hung her head.
What a failure of a mother she turned out to be. She never should have hidden him from Asgard, never should have lied, never should have hoped for the impossible family reunion. She should have taken her chances with Odin. He may have shown mercy and spared him exile. He did, after all, adopt a Jotun baby as his own. If only she had known that thirteen years ago. Perhaps he would have taken pity on her baby too, accepting him into their world. Maybe Volstagg and Hildegund would have adopted him with open arms, giving him a real family and raising him with experience and natural parental instincts. Sif had only her unqualified intuitions with every decision she made on behalf of Ollerus, blindly trusting the gut of a warrior, hoping it would guide her through motherhood like it always reliably guided her across enemy lines. How wrong she had been. She only ever brought him isolation, false hope, and now grieving.
Perhaps this was the reason she was in Helheim. She would be eternally punished for ruining the life of an innocent child. It was a just sentence. Her boy deserved much better.
Sif lifted her head, looking out over the courtyard she had claimed for her solitude. A thought occurred to her, a faint flicker of consolation that was within her grasp, like the one candle lit window she could see in this ghost town of icicles and sorrow.
A mother's regret was the only torment she would accept from this cursed plane of existence.
She would allow herself to be burdened with only one channel of grieving, and that would be for her son, a soul worthy of it. Hel would only see her cry for an honorable love, not for a misguided one. That was the torture assigned to silly girls and daydreaming damsels, Hel bent on fulfilling fanciful ambitions. That would not be Sif's damnation. She refused to be shackled with a faceted heartache. There were too many hearts wounded by him and plenty more to come so long as his tongue stayed connected to his trickery. Sif would not be one of them. She would pray to whoever listened for liberation from Freyja's enchantment. She would ask that, once her soul finally departed her failing body, that it leave behind her love for Loki. She no longer wanted it.
Let Angrboda be cursed with it.
Music: Ball and Chain by Social Distortion