ÉNOUEMENT

GOLDENROD

SHE WAS BLESSED with the beauty of sunrise, the gracefulness of summer wind, and the cheerfulness of a purebred filly. The earth sings her praises when she walks barefoot in the fields.

Sif is the goddess of the ground, and the ground sustains her. She eats its fruit and drinks from its streams. She sings with the wolves who lurk in the corner of her vision. Birds circle above in celebration of her glory.

The fall of Asgard is a cloudy memory to her. In the beginning, even thinking of her motherland brought pain like a knife to the gut. But as years passed and she died and rose and died and rose again, she began to see the beauty. For the others, this may be a punishment, but Sif thrives.

The goddess is still a goddess. She will not sink to the despair of mortals.

For many lives now, too many to count, Sif has disappeared from society into the wilds. Often it has taken many years for her to work up the courage to leave the comfort of a warm home.

How foolish she was then. The earth itself is her home. It will always provide.

This time, from the moment she was old enough to remember who she was, Sif ran. She left home with nothing, clothed only in her loose nightgown.

She doesn't know how old she is, only that when she left, the nightgown was pristine and nearly reached her ankles. Now, it is shredded and barely falls to the top of her thighs.

To Sif it is of no concern. How could tattered clothing taint the beauty of an Aesir? She has been boy, girl, life after life different in every conceivable way, but one thing has stayed the same.

Her hair, shining like gold. The same color, unchanging, no matter how else her looks evolve. She remembers the praise she'd received for it, both in Asgard and on earth. Thor, especially, had never gone a day without pressing his lips to her tresses, murmuring in her ear.

My goldenrod, he had whispered. May our fates always intertwine.

Each time a bittersweet memory slips through her blissful fog, Sif grows angry at herself for dwelling on the past. She claws at her skin as punishment for thinking of such futile things. She has no need of longing for past loves.

Her life is enough. Her beauty is enough.

"I am enough," she howls into the unforgiving night. "Please, please let me be enough." She is less woman than animal, driven mad with grief and pain.

Sigyn found her, once. A few lifetimes ago, though the exact circumstances have become cloudy with time. Sigyn had sobbed, knelt at the bruised and dirty knees of the goddess they would have one day called Queen.

Sif had stared down, eyes impassive. She can't remember how long the faithful one had stayed by her side. It had been nice, for a time.

There is no companionship now.

Just Sif.

One day, men come for her.

They have heard of the wild woman living in the woods. She's a legend among the locals, her very existence debated. They have come to see if the tales are true.

They find her half-naked and wandering, arms outstretched to the heavens. She is murmuring to herself. Covered in animal bites, emaciated, a creature more bone than flesh. There are tearstains cutting tracks on her filthy cheeks. Whatever color her hair once was, it is unrecognizable, ruined locks of matted filth. She doesn't fight when they wrap her in blankets and drive her away from the home she has made for herself.

She dreams of golden halls.

Sif wakes two days later. Nurses bustle about, and when they ask her name she looks at them with sympathy. Poor mortals, she thinks. They do not recognize their goddess.

She waits for them to realize her glory. They don't. They take blood and measure weight and cluck with concern at the scans of her body. They call her Jane Doe.

She speaks to them in her mother tongue. She will not dirty her mouth with the ugly words of mortals. The doctors gaze at her helplessly as she speaks, her words becoming an almost frenzied chant as she regales them with the tale of a life they cannot understand.

They drape her in soft blue robes that are befitting of peasants. They keep her in sterile white rooms. She glimpses others dressed like her, all shuffling dead-eyed mortals. It should irk her, but whatever they're pumping into her through the various tubes in her body keeps her sated and mellow.

Therapists with dumb smiles try to coax the truth from her. Their faces remind her of the silly animals her men hunted for sport. And animals they are, every single one. Stupid, plodding creatures beneath her.

"Please," one says slowly, as if it will make any difference. "Tell us who you are. Tell us how we can help you."

Jane Doe smiles, and laughs in an unknown language.