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If your head got chopped off, did that count as dying in battle? Sif wondered. It was. Perhaps, a morbid thing to wonder as the court gathered to learn which young woman would next suffer the wrath of the sultan. Sif’s mother despaired of her interest in the combative traditions of their Norse heritage, but the hand that gripped her younger daughter’s shoulder was nonetheless strong. Neither of them was eligible, Sif's mother being married and Sif herself being only twelve. Sixteen year old Sig, however, sat below in the shaded area where the young ladies of the court sat, mostly unconcerned. The odds of their names being drawn was minuscule when one took into account the thousands upon thousands of lower-class girl in the city, from whose numbers had been drawn every victim thus far. With that in mind, most families were not with Sif and her mother, though there were more joining them now than had attended the recent beheading, still being cleaned up by unlucky servants. The macabre fascination had waned after the first dozen beheadings, but Sif’s mother brought her every day, insisting that the poor girls who were chosen deserved at least the dignity of witnesses, especially in a land where the man who passed sentence also passed on the responsibility of carrying it out.
Beside her stood Loki. His older adoptive brother Thor was on the practice courts, while the younger Steve was too frail to travel. Frigga, Sif’s aunt had brought the two older boys to visit. Loki fell somewhere between adoptive son and well-kept hostage. Having witnessed his first execution the previous day (and losing his breakfast, much to his brother’s delight), he gripped her hand uncomfortably tight, but she held on without complaint. Despite fourteen-year-old Thor’s teasing, Loki was the one who had returned.
Sif was so unprepared for the name when it was finally read that she didn’t believe it at first. It wasn’t her mother’s grip going painfully tight but rather Loki’s shuttered expression that made the news sink past her mind’s defenses. Sig would see just one more sunrise before discovering firsthand the answer to Sif’s question.
It wasn’t until they returned to their rooms that Sif realised she was still holding Loki’s hand, and now it was his that was white and blue from the disturbed blood flow. She murmured an apology and allowed his mother to drag him away. Sif marvelled that her sister could sit so serenely when she wanted to shout and break things. It was important to go to one’s death with dignity, of course, and bravery, but not without a fight! She would never understand the girls who fit into the small, narrow lives allowed for them by society. Despite her appearance of calm, Sig’s hands were quietly tearing the shreds the handkerchief in her lap.
“I will take her place,” she said firmly.
“What?” asked her sister, showing alarm on her unnaturally pale face.
“Mother,” Sif said, because Sig did what their parents told them and Father was away - and in any case generally agreed with what her Mama decided. “I will never be the daughter you want,” she said, choosing her words as carefully as did her hostage-cousin.
“I have never loved you any less than Sigyn!” her mother said fiercely. In private, Mama was not always serene and stoic.
“I know,” Sif assured her, sinking to her knees next to her mother’s chair and taking her hands. “But it remains true that I am not the daughter you and Papa wish for me to be. Nor, in equal measure, will my life be what I wish,” she said. “Sig will do much better and happier things with it, so allow me to take her place, and perhaps I will earn my way to Valhalla.” She smiled through tears she was not alone in shedding.
Her mother put a hand on each side of her face, wiping away tears with her thumbs. ”I pray that in the halls of Valhalla you will find all that has been denied to you in life.” She kissed Sif’s forehead and then let her go. Almost immediately, she was tackled to the ground by her weeping sister’s hug. It was like they were children again for a moment, Sig suspending (perhaps as a final gift) the restrictive dignity she had adopted when she passed from childhood to womanhood. When Sif looked up, her aunt and mother were talking in the doorway.
“I will make the arrangements,” said the queen outside her country. She gave Sif a look that seemed to take her measure and left behind Loki and Thor.
Sif rose. “I would not spend the day dying a thousand times over,” she said awkwardly. “I will see you for dinner, alright Mama?”
“Whatever you wish,” she replied.
Sif walked past her into the hallway. “Come on,” she said to the boys. She waited until her mother had closed the door. “Can you sneak away some practice swords?” she asked, leading them down the hall.
“Why?” asked Loki.
“So that she may die a warrior’s death!” Thor chortled. “I approve, fair maiden!”
Against her will, Sif felt her cheeks redden.
“Why not run away?” Loki whispered, leaning in so that only they two could hear it. The puff of air against her ear didn’t help to return the blood in her cheeks to its normal location.
“They would punish Sig and Mama,” Sif explained. She was quiet, but loud enough to include Thor. “But other girls have fought – never well – and nobody blames them.”
“Blades and fists are not the only weapons with which to win a battle,” Loki said.
“Of course not!” Thor boomed, clapping him on the back hard enough to force him forward a step. “There are also hammers and axes!”
“Discretion is not one of my brother’s strengths, many though they are,” Loki said dryly. “I will fetch what you need and meet you in the field you showed us.”
“Thank you, Loki,” Sif said. He swept her an elegant bow before they went down separate hallways.