When she dreams, they are children again, in the constant spring of youth. They are children, her hair is as bright and as golden as the sun above, and there is no malice in his heart. He is clean and shiny and new, stumbling after his adoring older brother and dear playmate.
When she dreams, she remembers the languid heat of a lazy afternoon, too hot to train. She remembers the vastness,the thick lingering smell of parchment, of Asgard’s libraries in which the two of them took refuge in. Much too vividly, she remembers the coolness of his lips on her neck and the softness of his curls on her jaw.
When she dreams, she is elsewhere. She is in another time or another place. She is somewhere where this travesty never existed. She lives where Midgard lives at it always has as they look upon it. She dreams of a world where there is no fall from highest held grace, no strange mortal beings who have power which does not belong to them, and no coldness that follows her where she goes and permeates her bones. She dreams of a world where her dearest friends are not taken from her.
But she is the Lady Sif, sworn warrior of the Realm Eternal. Such dreams do not befit one of such a position. They have left her. They have left her to act out their ridiculous brotherly squabble on a universal stage for all to bare witness. Much more remains. The queen, who aches even more eagerly for the return of her sons more than Sif, remains. Her own brother at his eternal post remains. Her friends remain in good spirits and high hopes. Asgard, for whom she has sworn to protect and even perish for, still stands.
She still remains.