The chaos of the battlefield is difficult to navigate, even for an experienced warrior, and Sif is untested in many ways. She's bleeding from a few nicks and scratches that she's earned, but she is a force of nature in her own right, and she has gleaned the blood of her enemies tenfold for each drop that she has bled. It's easy, in many ways--she finds herself spoiled for choice here, surrounded by foes on all sides.

There are friends as well: she fought, laughing, side-by-side with one of Loki's ghostly clones for a spell before their paths diverged, but they are outnumbered now. She doesn't fear her own death, for surely Valhalla awaits her if she falls this night, but the lives of her compatriots are not so easily dismissed. Certainly there is no shame in dying for so great a good, but is it not better to live and partake in the good as well?

Explosions and blasting beams and gunfire all vie for her attention, but it's hard not to notice when allies and friends are sent flying through the air like paper dolls, when their bodies crash and crumple. Being a warrior means respecting your comrades to fight their own battles, but it also means never leaving someone behind if it can be helped.

Her swords rejoin into their singular form, a double-ended spear she can swing with one hand as she runs to check on those who have fallen. Harley is up on her feet with surprising speed, and Loki is with her. Instead, Sif singles out Matt's masked face and braces his body with hers. "It's me," she says, in case his senses are too overwhelmed for him to ascertain her identity. "Come on."