It was a dark walk, a somber walk north. A dreamland where every tree, path, landmark was recognized in vivid detail, yet it all felt removed somehow; lived in another life prior to this one. Her bootfalls heavy, she walked with her head down. Taking in as little of this place as she could. That said, the old commander could have navigated these roads blind.
Her destination arrived shortly. A small residence by the water, a timepiece really, elven architecture untouched by the last wars. It twisted up from the ground and jut against the sky garishly, with its rounded angles and smooth stone. Somehow she had come to prefer the straight edges, the predictability of human cities. Utilitarian shapes. Purposeful design.
A ragged sigh tore from her chest. She stood a few paces away from the entrance, imagining the sleeping bodies within. Sif didn’t like to visit her brother — but not for the same reasons as the rest of her kin. On every occasion it felt as though she pierced his bubble, shattering this delicate façade of peace. Reminding them all that a real world existed beyond, with pain and endless suffering, evils beyond the fathomable imagination; and she, its martyr.
Though she had made it this far. Closing in on the door, her knuckles rapped against the wood cautiously, once, then with more feeling. Without waiting for it to open, she turns and settles upon the first step, her back to the home.
It took a long moment. She expected as much, silently praying that it would be his stride and not that of his wife. Commotion sounded from the upper level: feet tripping over themselves, a curse, the rattle of expensive finery.
Indeed, that was surely Sethan Dawnbane.
A breath later the door creaked open. Just an inch, so eyes could view the shape of the form outside, bringing it into focus from the darkness. Nonetheless, Seth already knew who would be out here at this hour.
He did not speak at first. A hand rose, lighting one of the arcane lanterns that flanked the archway. All Milly’s handiwork. His wife had outfitted the home with such magical quirks, wards and the like, more to keep the children in than keep visitors out. A friendly folk, despite their chosen life as outsiders.
He sighs, fingertips pinching at the bridge of his nose. Preparing for this conversation. Slowly, Seth closes in to sit beside his sister, gazing at the leather hood that shrouded her face. This was new, but not entirely unexpected, given her role in the Fourth War. He’d heard enough from town, seen the posters.
“…Sif.” He continues to stare, eyes narrowed, golden hued and sparkling in the dark. A hand settles tentatively upon the ground between them. “Are you…”
He pauses. Her hand was pressed at her side, bloodied between the fingers. Hiding a wound. Ears twitch, and his gaze inspects her more thoroughly, as if for the first time. The colors she wore, the manner of her armor — all foreign to him. Though he knew better than to ask about it now.
Instead, he moves in — not reaching for the wound yet. Just for her. The embrace was not confident. He did not force it, but merely offered his arms, which Sif found herself leaning into before she could process the strangeness of it all.
“I am fine.” Her voice hoarse, weak, unusual. When was the last time she’d allowed for this? Felt love from her own blood? Showed it herself?
Suddenly it was centuries ago. She as a girl, in their sprawling courtyard tended to with religious care. The lot of boys were training, and she, along with her sisters, stood back and waited their turn to prove merit. This was a fickle rule — she often insisted on fighting with the men, until she ended up in the dirt.
It was Seth — the youngest, and a prodigy in his own right — sparring Silas, the oldest and no doubt most prideful Dawnbane. The matchup had been protested against by their father, though it was their mother who now urged them on, and watched with eyes narrowed into thin, thin slits.
Sif could only spectate, her fingers twitching at her back, every sense prickled on high alert. She could remember this feeling as if it were happening now — the savage protectiveness she felt. Not for her sisters, for Silas, the others. Only for her little brother. The boy she had taught to hold a sword.
Seth was quicker, but his stamina wore thin, and he was nowhere near as strong. His parries weakened, slowed, and Sif watched with a sinking feeling as he was gradually pushed back against the wall. She leaned in on her toes, aching, waiting, as her sisters whispered from behind.
Why would he challenge Silas?
It came quickly. Silas broke through his guard, slashing forward in a wide arch. The tip of the blade caught Seth in the face, cutting a gash from his cheek to nose. Wide-eyed in horror, Sif glances up to their mother, expecting the fight to be ended there. Blood was not supposed to be drawn. Yet no movement was made, no words spoken. She watched with no falter in her expression.
Sif’s breath caught. She watched Silas rear back, preparing for another strike. When the younger cowered in fear, she was propelled forward by some will far beyond her own. Breaking between the pair, she caught the sword in an open palm; it cut deep, spattering her blood across the grass before them.
“SIPHIAH-!” The oldest roared in anger, his long hair flowing behind him, eyes wild as he shoved in nose to nose. “You would dare —?”
His words were interrupted by the back of her hand swinging hard against his face. A sheen of gold covered her, empowering the strike, seething in a manner that was very much alive. Here was her one advantage; she could not best Silas physically, though none of her siblings harbored such an innate connection to the Light.
Sent reeling backwards, he cursed her name, looking up to their mother in a fury. Rather than look his way, she stared down at her daughter with a deep-seeded frown. That look of disapproval settled heavy into Sif’s heart. She could see it now — the crease between her brows, the coldness in her eyes. It was far worse than her anger, and bit with a more venomous edge.
Sif turned then, to where Sethan was crouched, holding a hand over the wound on his cheek and staring in shock. She knelt and hugged him, fiercely so, shielding him from all that stood at her back. From Silas, their mother; from the city beyond these walls; from their country, from the world.
In the present, she reached up to thumb over that scar she could still feel on his face, etched in place since that very moment. Her breaths drew in unsteadily. The corners of her eyes stung for the first time in a year. She muttered once more, in a tone that indicated just the opposite was true,
