(SIGYN)
Life returned to the mind-numbing routine of endless dishes. I kept to myself and didn't bother trying to find comfort in anything beyond Tiwaz and my journal, making up stories that took me far from Asgard and the barrage of fighting in the streets.
Since I'd been demoted, our soldiers changed their strategies. They were more aggressive and had less regard for maintaining the infrastructure of the city. While it resulted in fewer casualties, the servantry was overrun with homeless citizens—it would take some time before rebuilding could begin, and False Odin declared the palace basement a temporary shelter. I was torn between appreciating his efforts and openly griping about his reluctance to bring Thor home to defend us.
Deep down, I knew it wasn't the most viable solution—while the war might've ended sooner with a true Odinson at the helm, it was impossible to know if he would've done so at greater cost to the people in the wake of his hammer. Thor was stronger than Loki, but I doubted he could be half as precise. Adding to the fact that other servants saw my unceremonious dismissal from the king's service as proof of a soured affair, it was in my best interest to keep any words regarding royalty to myself.
The dishes never asked questions or whispered behind my back. Wooden plates and ale horns have more important things to do. I felt like them, in a way—a vessel to serve everyone in the kingdom except myself. Every day, they visited, after feeding even more people than the most raucous celebration banquets I had the misfortune of cleaning up after. Things were sullied faster than I could freshen them, leading to an infinity loop of work. My hands passed over things so much, the tree ring patterns on every plate which should've been as distinctive as a fingerprint became familiar to me. The imperfections of the bowls were old friends. Speckles on the ale horns told me about every animal they once came from, mimicking the constellations I still so badly wished to see.
Only three weeks after my reassignment to remain in the kitchens full time, I tuned out the horrifying crash of vehicles and weapons outside. My position was considered one of essential service—never paused. The people depended on us to keep things operational. Seldomly a burst of laughter or even a scream would pull me away from the bubbles and rushing water in the sinks, but even that became less frequent if I'd already stayed on for a second shift without rest.
Today, the halls were eerily quiet. I checked my ears by snapping on either side of my head—equal and normal. Healers generally made a quiet buzz of traffic in the halls, but not today. Something was happening outside that I would surely learn about later, whether I wanted to or not.
A man shrieked in the distance without warning. "Shields down!"
Shields? It wasn't clear if he called out a warning or an order. I rubbed the plate in my hand in a swirling circle, feeling for residue. Why would they remove shields on purpose? Aren't skiff gliders essentially bare already?
More screams ensued. Far away. Too far to care about.
I moved on to another plate, but the energy changed. My heart knew something my head didn't. Pounding in my chest made me dizzy and disoriented. To calm myself, I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, focusing on the crisp scent of soap and the heat of the water.
Buzzing behind me drew my focus—coming closer, invading my territory. It sent tingles all over my back, and my hair stood on end.
Deep in the sink, a heavy stone handle touched the back of my right hand. Cautious not to move too quickly, I gripped it as tight as I could.
Ominous clicks joined the mechanical buzz. Mouth sounds—the kind of grating noises that could make even the kindest person lose their temper—but this was no Asgardian. It almost reminded me of a large, stinging insect, ready to strike.
I struck first.
Right foot back, behind the left. Twist. Lift and release. The hefty kitchen knife sliced through the Chitauri's head, lodging just under the brass helmet around his temples. Saliva, tinged with green blood, oozed through his exposed teeth and pooled on the floor as he fell. A trail of water from the sink to his skull marked the knife's trajectory, proving I had slain him without interrupting the flow of work.
I stood in place, staring at the creature ahead as he twitched in death throes. His sinister glowing weapon lost its shine in the following seconds, dying along with him. A combination of adrenaline and panic made my chest hurt. Thank Frigga for that aim.
But I couldn't pretend the creature was alone. He couldn't be. Chaos outside finally answered my riddle—the shields weren't lifted on purpose in the sky. The palace was unguarded.
They were here.
Now that I knew how fragile the Chitauri fighters were—perishing with a single blade to the head—my next steps were clear. I left the kitchen behind, bolting for my chamber down the hall, praying I wouldn't be caught unarmed before I reached it.
Almost there. Almost there. Everything else in the hall went black. My door meant salvation. I slammed into it with my shoulder, not wanting to waste a single second to potentially hide and gather more courage within. The room was dark, but the cries leaking in from my open window made the walls pulse red to me. I fumbled under my mattress for Father's knife, gripping its handle the way I did the one in the sink. It was more familiar. A better friend than any of the other dishes. It knew my skin, my blood, my life.
Perhaps it would also see my end. What did I have to lose?
I left the knife's bejeweled sheath on my desk. My soft shoes—purposely made with smooth soles to keep as quiet as possible—could easily cause me to slip, so I opted to remove them and fight barefoot. I pinned my hair anew to keep it from my face and clenched my jaw before venturing out again.
The hall was frighteningly bare. No Chitauri. No soldiers. No servants, either. They'd been chased somewhere. I tiptoed along the wall so as not to be surprised from behind and kept my ears open for anything mechanical like what I heard in the kitchen.
Around the corner, something buzzed. I took a few deep breaths and brought the knife in front of me. "Mother, Father, Frigga...guide me," I whispered to the blade. Without wasting more seconds, I swung around with my hands up to fight, yelling a battle note.
Lucky for me, the buzzing was a dead Chitauri. A pile of them, in fact. Several had been slain by the mouth of the great hall, held off by a dozen or so healers who had shut the main doors close by to keep the wounded safe. But beyond the corpses was a throng of fighting—soldiers and citizens alike, holding the line where the palace shield used to be.
I was needed there most. Alongside them.
For Asgard.
I charged in like a Valkyrie, swinging my blade against anything alien. The sun shined on us all, but the light was inconsistent—massive armored beasts filled the air, flying high above. Skiff gliders zipped back and forth, shooting down any Chitauri crafts that crossed an invisible line over the rainbow bridge and the water. On the ground, the enemy's forces were disorganized and mindless, charging forward regardless of being outnumbered, outwitted, and simply unskilled.
Four of them fell from my sword. Another. Another. Sweat poured from my temple and my hairpin came lose, but nothing stopped me from stepping in the intricate choreography I'd practiced all my life. Some of Frigga's moves were most helpful, as I crouched to take out a few knees if they were too tall first.
The commotion around me lulled. A loud cry above pulled my attention, and for a moment, my heart's galloping ceased. The world slowed. The sky dimmed. Everything was trivial compared to the man who addressed the realm with fire in his voice.
Only I knew the magnitude of magic required to raise his tone above that of an iceberg, let alone how much he mimicked one in life: cold, quiet, formidable, and capable of more than was evidence on the surface. He might've worn a mask of someone the people could trust, but I saw how his body language gave him away from the width of his smile to the strength of his stance, looming on his skiff to present the enemy's head.
"Asgard has claimed your leader, Chitauri. Go now, or be exterminated!" False Odin's armor was splattered with red and green blood from Chitauri and, presumably, the Skrull lead. He only stopped for a moment to deliver his message, then disappeared behind the city's towers to drive out enemy squadrons.
I had hope for the first time in months. Is it possible? Did we win?
A man behind me bellowed, "Look out!"
I barely had a chance to turn around when the Chitauri snuck up on me with his gun aimed for my belly. No sooner did I see him when a broadsword sliced his head clean off, revealing my rescuer.
He was familiar, though I couldn't place his name. Translucent slime spattered over his red armored chest; it didn't tarnish his impressive height, nor did it distract me from the light blue eyes that reflected the sky and renewed my quick heartbeat.
Our mutual gaze couldn't linger while enemies remained. I tore my face away to focus on a trio of aliens ahead, aiming for the one in front while the one at the back shot his weapon, killing the other two. A real Valkyrie shot an arrow into the remaining Chitauri's eye, dropping him to the ground as well.
From the corner of my eye, he reappeared. The Crimson Hawk from before. He swung his impressive sword in one hand and kept a small dagger in the other, always ready for attack. His movements reminded me of Father, like dancing, well-practiced and accurate. Despite the heft of his weapons and armor, he made everything look effortless. The sweat soaking his tawny, caramel-kissed hair enriched his ruggedness. Never one for beards, his was short and gave squareness to his jaw in a way that I appreciated. Indeed, he was a fine man to admire.
He seemed to move in slow motion when he turned my way again. Blinked when he saw me. A sweet smile lit up his whole face as if we were the only two people in the world.
But we weren't. Another enemy appeared behind him, raising his gun.
I threw my sword as hard as possible. It flew with invisible wings and a prayer, spinning in a cruel roulette of handle or blade. The soldier's face fell, though thankfully he didn't move as my weapon passed him and dispatched the Chitauri in much the same way I killed the first one.
The soldier startled and laughed nervously. "Good shot!"
I grinned this time. Were the flutters in my belly from pride or something else? "The least I could do."
Our immediate area clear of Chitauri, he stepped over the slain between us and sheathed his sword and dagger. Once next to me, he put his right hand over his heart. "My lady, you have my thanks."
"And you, mine," I said, giving a slight curtsey. "Forgive me for not knowing your name."
"There is nothing to forgive. I am Theoric, son of Ivan, and Captain of the Crimson Hawks." He didn't waste an ounce of ceremony and bowed widely. "It is I who must apologize, for I have seen you before and didn't think to..."—before he finished, Theoric gasped—"...get down!"
"What? I—"
He pulled me against his chest and dropped to the ground, kneeling enough to arch over me like a shelter. Rock rained upon us both, remnants of the neighboring building as a terrible crash shook the realm.
A few moments of hard breathing, and Theoric finally released me somewhat. "Are you alright?"
We were so close, his every hair was visible, including stray bits of white within his brows. His aroma was entirely different from the last man I'd been close to—true musk, an Asgardian man, sweaty and heated from battle. He didn't make me shiver or wish for a warm blanket. Theoric was one himself.
"Yes. I'm fine. I am." I blinked a few times, not sure what else to offer him. "Thank you again."
He smiled, but whipped his head away at a loud blare in the distance.
"What is it?"
"Do you hear it?" Theoric stood, raising me with him. "It's victory."
The horn was joined by a progressive cheer, which grew closer every second, starting at the edge of the city and working its way in. Chitauri fighters in the sky retreated and their flying creatures followed fast. None remained on the ground that I could see.
I yelled when the wave of celebration reached us, grateful to be outside to witness everything. My cheeks flushed with heat and my eyes itches with tears of joy. "Do you think it's really over?"
"The king has said the war will end with the death of the Skrull. He's gone. Asgard is at peace."
People inside the palace flooded out to greet the survivors alongside healers who searched for the injured. Within minutes, the entire plaza beyond the palace gates was overrun.
Theoric had to yell above the crowd, "You should go inside. Rest for all you've done for Asgard this day."
I nodded, but panic struck when I realized what remained behind him. "Wait, my weapon—"
"I'll get it to you. I'll find you. You have my word." He said it sternly, like a real promise, which didn't need to be made as if it were an exception.
I believed him. "Sigyn," I said.
He furrowed his brow, likely unable to hear me.
"Sigyn. My name is Sigyn." I kissed my hand and placed it on his cheek. "Thank you, kind Theoric Ivanson."
With that, I walked away from the final Chitauri battle, ready to end the war within myself as well and greet a new beginning.