where one begins and one ends [ sif ]

hel, great goddess
daughter, guardian
of the dying
of the dead

and spirit

our friend
our child
our poet
our–

they were ours,
they're ours
give them back
give them-





hel, great goddess
daughter, guardian
of the dying
of the dead
and spirit,

eyvindr has come to kneel
before you,
know this, hel
they were beloved
in this life by many

before their crossing
they fought with honour,
spirit steady, brave,
best of all, kind
to me, kind
always

hel, sweet hel,
who holds my mother
who holds my father,
who will one day hold me,
watch over them as
they walk the road
home to you

welcome them with honour
give them glory in your halls
make a home for them at
your hearth so that
they may live
forever

so that my heart
will know this

and hel, please,
on my knees I ask this:

for the one who walks with them,
Roe, washed up on the
shores of náströnd first,

arriving hand
in bloody hand-
do not turn them away
do not.

for the faithless one
I offer up grave goods,
safe passage earned by
my mother's necklace

all i have left of her
it shall be with you at last
just one more request,
receive them, I beg thee

to hel,
to niflheim,
to glory

and finally,
finally,

peace.

there is a story that begins like a song. freyja tells her that it's called an epic. it's a poem, spoken out loud, passed down through the ages to live on the tongues of the forresters. one day, when they cease to be, that is how they will be remembered. through song and tale about them, passed down.

but no one will know of sif.

she cannot share her story, there's no power in her throat to pass it on in that way. the only way that people will know of sif, is if someone else speaks of her. it's rare though, for others to even think of sif let alone tell tale of her deeds. she's just a stray dog that wandered into the wheat fields one morning.

they named her, gave her scraps from the table, a lap to rest her head in.

she's loyal, she's good to them. her chores are many, labour for the slow girl from the woods. she keeps the bees, chops the wood, helps with the milking, does as she's told, always. but some do not trust her, faces shutter closed when she draws near, afraid to speak around her lest she run home to freyja to tell her what she's heard.

and she would do that, she does, information signed crudely at her master, infractions handed out like honey milk in the hours after and sif, laying alone in the dark.

she listens to the sound of her own breathing, so loud in the silence. if she holds her breath then there's no sound at all.

if no one speaks of her, then when she dies there is nothing for her, her path will end. no glory for the hellhound.

she watches it happen slow, an unfolding on screen in a way that those who use words are unable to see. knees to her chest, she watches the moment that roe daniels achieves immortality.

it is a touch, barely, feather light, a brief flickering of a candle, a half-step, falter. but there. there it is, a look on vin's face that she's never seen before. there and gone again in the next breath, but it's too late.

just like that, roe daniels becomes a song.

she forgives him for it.

the long, mournful sound of a hunting horn runs over the fields. sif stands.

the sun leans down heavy on the top of her head, heat running down her spine. the dog stands too, staring up at sif. she can feel its eyes on her, watching her. she doesn't look at it. go home.

to nothing.

to no one. vin will not come for sindri. the dog is alone now.

she begins to walk toward the tree line. sindri trots along beside her, weaving through the grass, now a little bit ahead, creating a path for sif. the dog slows when she does. if she is too far behind the dog stops and turns to look at her, waiting patiently.

she wants to tell it, you are not mine. i am not yours.

she just shakes her head, tongue heavy in her mouth.

sindri stares at her.

they stand beneath the first line of trees, safe beneath the long branches, splayed out like fingers to catch the sun before it can touch them. sif stands there for some time, looking back out over the field. there are smoke stacks in the distance, grey wisps of silk dissipating into the cornflower blue sky.

it is beautiful, but it is changed now.

a softness beneath her hand. sif looks down at the dog, who has pushed his head into her open palm, spreading her fingers over his skull. he looks up at her beneath her touch, then pushes his head further against his hand. she understands, strokes the dog's head until it turns away, out of reach.

sif follows.

they walk for some time. there is a creek that runs through the hollow log of a fallen giant that sif knows. they crouch down together to drink from it. sif is finished first.

sindri lays down in the creek, panting from the heat. sif, always barefoot, dips her feet in the water, cold from it's swift movement. her toes curl from the initial sharpness. then it is fine.

she does not notice at first, the silence.

sindri does.

the dog stands, water beading off of his fur to drip back into the creek. what is parted will always return.

he looks towards the north, hackles rising slowly. sif follows his gaze and goes still.

a wolf there, between the trees. fur like starlight, head raised, shoulders slack. there is no tension in the stance, more a quiet watchfulness, the calm curiosity of someone simply passing through.

sif's hand closes around a large stone at her feet.

the wolf is bigger than her.

there is a silence in her head at the sight of it. A pain so acute, so brutal that she can pinpoint it within her even in that moment. a needle pushed between her bones to pierce her heart. it was long ago but it was yesterday that she was in the woods with her mother and father.

it was long ago but it was yesterday when the monsters in the woods killed them.

she kneels in the creek bed, her other hand on sindri's back, fingers curling around the loose skin near his neck. the dog moves closer to her, more in front now.

the wolf's focus moves past the two of them, gaze fixed on the path that they came from. it's tail moves slightly, swinging just once, head lowers, then raises again, mouth opening slightly, as if to howl.

the heavy sound of a step.

sif tenses, turning her head slightly to look at the path behind her. wolves don't travel alone. they hunt by surrounding their prey. sif is prey, she knows this. she is nothing, a mouse scavenging at the feet of giants.

there in the path, eyes like molten gold and a shaggy coat, blacker than night, a second wolf. it stares at sif as it uses the perimeter of the clearing to walk past the first wolf, who takes one last look at the dogs knelt in the water before turning to follow.

a bird chirps.

another.

sindri lays down, sif drops the rock.

they keep walking.

the creek grows wider. sif does not always go this deep but she knows that if she returns, they will tell her that vin is dead. they will be building the pyre. they will ask her for a jar of honey to sweeten their afterlife. she will nod, and bring two.

the creek becomes a stream becomes a river, too wide to cross but moving slow, lazy in the summer months. they stop to drink again, both bent forward over the water. neither of them notice the silence.

this time, sindri is done first.

he lets out a low growl as sif raises her head. she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, never lowering her gaze.

he stands there, in the shallows.

the boy from twelve. blue tint to his lips, hair dripping with water. his mouth opens and closes, words formed but no sound. his gaze is far away, over sif's head. the hair on the back of her neck stands up.

there is a chill, foreign in the heat of the sun. it arrives from the south, a slow breeze behind her, washing over her, pressing down on the tense spot between her shoulders gently until she loosens. it runs over sindri's head, once, then moves on.

and takes shape, seemingly out of roe's chest, as if emerging from him, a hand forms. then an arm, the torso, legs, and above all, finally, the head,

vin.

sif opens her mouth, as if to call out, but nothing comes from her throat. sindri's mouth then opens wide and snaps shut again, a soundless bark.

vin turns as if they heard them. they look at her and sindri, but they do not see them. they are not truly there, the dogs kneeling on the shore;

they are not where the wolves are.

vin's hand finds roe's. they turn as one, then begin their journey together down the middle of the river, a road shimmering with silver in the light of the late afternoon sun.

sindri paws at the water beside her, then steps forward as if to follow. she reaches out, wraps her arms around the dog's chest, holds him in place. if he tries to go to vin, she knows that he will drown. he fights her on it, rearing back beneath her to try and throw her off of him but sif digs in deeper, curling her fingers up in his fur.

sound filters in slowly, she can finally hear the dog whimpering in her hold, pitiful soft cries for his master scattering over the surface of the river.

she presses her face into his fur, not letting go even after the danger has passed and he finally calms.

there is a dampness when she finally pulls back. sindri licks her cheek, she leans away from him, he follows, leaning over the arm pushed out to block him to lick again at the salt on her face.

her hand finds his muzzle, closes over it and pushes. sindri's tail wags, he steps over her, she falls backwards, shaking with silent laughter, arms up to guard against his tongue.

a breeze runs over the both of them, touches down briefly once, then moves on in the direction of home.

they follow it.