Sigyn of the Vanir

 It was Heimdallr, the great seer, who had found her, hours after the last man had been slain, cold and half asleep underneath a pile of broken logs. The man, so large that when at the age of twelve no horse could carry him, frightened Sigyn, and she screamed out in terror as he grabbed her arm, and pulled her to her feet. Her screams died in her throat, however, when she had seen the seer’s eyes. The unbearable sadness in them told her that he had known that this day would come, and that the slaughter of their people was inevitable. 

She had allowed him to lead her numbly through the carnage, to a gathering of Æsir warriors circled around a small group of Vanir prisoners. The Æsir parted to let Heimdallr and herself through, as everyone present knew the last two free Vanir people had no choice but to resign themselves to be prisoners. They immediately went to kneel behind Freyja and her kin, the leaders of the once great Vanir people. Though she knew that the Vanir had been utterly broken, Freyja had kept her head high, and her face void of emotion.

Sigyn tried to mimic her queen, but she could not keep from shivering. Though her head was bent in shame, she still prided herself for not crying; it was not a day for children. She hoped with all her might that all the Æsir present would die from strong drink while celebrating with immoderate joviality at the death of their helpless enemy later that night. Her thoughts were murderous, and the cloud of anger had had taken Sigyn a few moments to realize why they were al kneeling in the same direction. She looked up from the blood-caked earth into the one eye of the great and terrible Allfather. A gold patch concealed his other socket, and the corners of his mouth were turned down into a grimace. Not even the bloodthirsty warrior god had taken pleasure in the battle fought that day.

Her heart was never so full of hate as it was then, glaring upon the man responsible for so much destruction. She had them made a great vow she would likely not be able to keep. But like all five year olds, she had believed that anything was possible at that age. One day she would have their positions reversed. One day, she would see Óðinn kneeling before Freyja, or her successor, and he would be the one mourning the loss of his people and his home. This vow solidified in her then young, and rash mind as the Allfather began to speak.

 “Disaster will always wait upon the Vanir, their maidens shall tread the path of exile, and the raven and wolf contend over their warrior-dead.” These words had haunted Sigyn’s dreams, and filled her with dread and fury that was only barely contained to keep herself from gouging out Óðinn’s remaining eye.