Fantasy OLD WORLD SHADOWS {p}

[Grook]

Yrsa Falkenberg shook a silent fist at the sky as a murder of crows passed overhead, an omen reflecting what was to come. A storm would be rolling in soon, and it brewed on the horizon like a trap as a few mocking rays of sunshine bled through the charcoal clouds. Cold winds blew from the north, chilling her even despite the deerhide which adorned her shoulders. She gritted her teeth and shivered, trying not to appear too impatient. The trial proceedings had only just begun, and they were far from over. Light was ebbing away from the sky, and a gathering of people had arranged themselves ceremonially on a high sea cliff above the crashing white wave-caps.

A wizened elder stepped from a tent where a small council had collected, surveying the general crowd with disdain. At the center of the gathering, laid upon a mound of stones, was a body draped in fine fabrics and furs. The body belonged to a once-great clan leader, now reduced to pale ashen finger tips clenched in a desperate hold, the result of rigor mortis. Yrsa stared at the hand which peeked out from under the rough cloth, waiting with bated breath for the village elders to expose the body and for the healers to analyze what had happened to him. Despite the seriousness of these proceedings, Yrsa simply could not wait to get the ritual over with. The funeral ceremony had lost its luster a long time ago, and she’d seen many an elder be draped in cloth and sent out into the ocean, never to return again, as torches blazed on their makeshift rafts. As if in response to her thoughts, a crow landed disgracefully upon the chest of the corpse, picking at it absently.

“Oye!” The elders shooed the creature away, alarmed.

She shifted, trying to get a good look at the cadaverous appearance of the deceased; whether it was out of morbid curiosity or eagerness to see what had truly happened, Yrsa herself could not pinpoint. She reached hastily into her pocket, feeling for a protective rune only recently given to her by one of her clan’s priestesses. They were nameless and faceless to her, with features covered by dark veils and wickedly long and knotted hair. But despite the priestess’ warnings, Yrsa felt little fear regarding her future. If futures could be read so easily, she figured, couldn’t they be changed easily, too? But this was a thought she kept to herself.

At last, the cloth was lifted. A collective gasp ensued, and Yrsa tipped her head upward, still vying for a better look. At long last she pushed her way to the front of the crowd, eyes narrowed and slim at the gruesome sight. The man’s face was weary, cut by lines of resignation and exhaustion etched permanently into his final expression by death itself. His face was left pristine for the most part, although the grime on his hands and knees suggested some foul play at work. Most horrifyingly though was the massive tear in his chest, jagged and ugly, a wound which ripped apart his form. Yrsa grimaced. Even she had some sympathy for a rival clan. I serve my interests and the interests of my clan and gods only, she reminded herself, suddenly realizing she’d been grinding her teeth nervously. There was nothing to be worried about. She wasn’t responsible for the murder. But in an instant, she could assume who was. An elder named Frigg began to speak, and Yrsa tuned him out, already formulating what she would say next.

“On this day, we celebrate and mourn the life of an Ingedottir, who valiantly led one of the clans of this island. May his name and semblance be blessed by the gods, and may the fruits of his labor not be squandered. And the body…. according to the healers, it appears he was slashed by a ragged knife, or perhaps even the claws of a beast!”

Another round of gasps. Yrsa let out a dramatic sigh.

“Get on with it,” she murmured, perhaps a little too loudly. “I think I know which coward did it.”

 

[Syntra]

Sigrún Ingedottir didn't weep. She hadn't wept when her mother had died, or when their home had burned down, or when the crows had brought back her father's severed head, with worms crawling out of his eyes. Indeed, you could say she was pretty used to this whole 'not crying' thing. So, no! She wasn't going to shed tears here, either. Especially since... you know.

Coward, Sigrún thought, biting her lip scornfully. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, dying like that? When dreaming about his death, Magnar had always spoken of battlefield; of promises kept, scores settled, and steel clashing against steel. Of all the things that really made men men. As it turned out, though? Talk was cheap. Not cheaper than the blow that had ended him, but cheap enough still. (Valhalla was waiting, the elders had taught them. Each warrior was not just welcome, but desired. All had a place at their table, more mead than they could drink, and songs sung of their glory. Except that warriors didn't die in their beds, you know? And it was there that Sigrún had found Magnar a few days ago; naked and alone, lying face-down in a pool of his own blood. No longer a leader, but a piece of meat. A disgrace. What would become of her foolish brother? Where would he go? Where would she go? ...A trick question, huh. The punchline was that there was nowhere to go, for any of them. Courtesy of their ancestors' sins.)

A chill ran through her, and Sigrún pulled her furs closer to herself. That was when she noticed that, despite being surrounded by people, she was also standing alone. Everyone kept their distance, more or less. And, really, could she blame them? Copper wasn't steel, and allegiance wasn't love. If Magnar had been the clan's future, then she, Sigrún, was its gravedigger. A rotten creature, with rotten blood. (Without really thinking about it, she wrapped her fingers around the hilt of her sword. No response came, of course. Why would it? Neither swords nor hands were known for being great conversationalists, and even if they were, she was sure to be stuck with killjoys. Still, for the first time today, Sigrún felt somewhere close to safe. Secure. It was calming, the way the weapon fit in her hand. Much like the sword had been forged for her, she sometimes thought that she had been born for it, as pathetic as it was. For that, and for... well, protecting her brother. Funny how that worked out.)

Instead of paying attention to the corpse, Sigrún lifted her gaze towards the sky. (Grey, smoky. Not weeping, no, but wrapped in sorrow. Good weather, for a death much better than what Magnar had gotten.) I will find out who did that to you, she promised silently. And then, my little brother? Then there will be hell to pay. That she owed to him, and it wasn't like Sigrún Ingedottir not to pay her debts.

Words, words, words. Always too many of those, Sigrún found; the old priests loved them, but no words could bring her brother back, nor would they reveal his killer's face. What were they even doing here? Saying their goodbyes? But Magnar couldn't hear them, and he'd been the one who had left. If they could just--

"I think I know which coward did it."

No way. A bloody joke. What was Yrsa thinking, with that empty head of hers? (Another punchline was that Sigrún didn't have to ask. Not really. It was plain to see what kind of story she was spinning, and what the ending was. The so-called twist, shrouded in betrayal. Who, after all, had any reason to kill him? Who, aside from his own sister? An easy assumption to make, in truth. It wasn't like Sigrún herself couldn't understand why they'd jump to that conclusion. Nonetheless, the witch had no right!)

"Do you?" the elder Frigg asked, oh so carefully. (If nothing else, it seemed that age had taught him consideration.) "That... is a serious accusation, Yrsa. Are you sure that you want to speak on the matter? There are words that can never be taken back." A soft murmur of agreement ran through the crowd like a knife, but...

"No," Sigrún said. "Let her speam freely, I say." Finally, she locked her eyes with the other woman, and there was nothing in them but cold contempt. Others likely sensed it, for they took a few steps backwards.

"So you think you know, Yrsa?" A smirk graced her lips, but it was neither amused not pleasant. More than anything, it resembled the snarl of a wolf. "Curious! Never thought you to be capable of that. Who did it, then? Enlighten me."

 

[Grook]

"Do you?"

Yrsa did not hesitate to cross her arms and set her jaw. She nodded firmly, and a wry smile cracked her lips. Then, with an exuberant gesture, she stepped forth. The crowd parted as if she wielded explosives in either palm. Sigrún seemed to shift with discomfort, and Yrsa could see the fire in her eyes as the woman glared back at her, gaze filled with nothing but a cool malevolence. The woman clenched her fists, nails digging little red crescents into her palms. Then she spoke.

“I do believe we all are thinking the same thing, are we not, Elder Frigg?” She paused, inhaling the cold air and striding forth, fired up by the prospect of ridiculing the Ingedottirs. Something pumped in her blood, perhaps adrenaline or nerves, as she suddenly realized all eyes were on her, including Sigrún's. At a funeral ceremony, no less-- but Yrsa was a bold soul, that much could be said of her. Clever, maybe not so much. The elders begin to light the torches, but their hands trembled anxiously as the group held their breath, waiting. In one swift, lazy motion, Yrsa slung a thumb in the other woman's direction.

"Who did it? What a horrific mystery! The elder Ingedottir, marred, killed in cold blood. It brings deep sadness and dishonor to the community to have one of our own die in such a way. Will Valhalla await him? Surely one among us would know... because one among us is responsible!" Her finger did not waver, jabbed in the direction of Sigrún. "In passing during the day, I have seen the Ingedottir clan come and go. Yes, perhaps we've had bad blood in the past, through no fault of our own, merely the circumstances of the situation-- but we would have no incentive to murder the poor old man. We all acknowledge the way the clans work, do we not? The head of the clan is replaced by their next heir. Between all the clans on the archipelago of Bera, there is only one clan without a male heir... the Ingedottir clan. The next in line for the throne is Sigrún Ingedottir. Now, let us think for just a moment. Perhaps I am moving too quickly for some of you... Sigrún is the only possible suspect!"

Yrsa stepped around Sigrún, placing one hand on her bone dagger and the other on the rune she'd been gifted a few mornings before. She felt like she had the power of the gods on her side. There was no way it was anyone else.

Sigrún and Yrsa had carried vengeance with them since they were mere girls. Yrsa recalled the other woman's strong hands, her assertive mannerisms-- the way she had knocked Yrsa to the floor when sparring or outhunted her in the winter season. It was embarrassing, to be defeated by another woman, one who was not even a clan heir at the time. And as the feud between their clans sparked animosity, they had only grown more and more distant and cruel to one another. Yrsa had cast many a glowering look in the direction of Sigrún whenever she spotted her by the docks or the village tents. It was like instinct at this point. Yrsa's instincts ruled in her mind; she was acutely aware of this, embraced it even.

"So, what do you have to say for yourself, Sigrún of the Ingedottir clan?"

 

[Syntra]

Of course. Of fucking course.

It couldn't have been anything else. Sigrún had known, much like she knew that the sun rose in the east and then, when it yearned to sleep, turned its eyes towards the west. In no way was this a knife in her back; more than anything, it was a fist in a tavern brawl, thrown after a round of insults. This tavern brawl was something that Sigrún had instigated, too. After all, hadn't she asked her to speak? To speak freely, as if Yrsa Falkenberg could do anything but spew poison? She knew, and Yrsa herself knew, and everyone watching knew that they both knew, in the same way that actors knew their lines. (The roles had been handed out long before they'd been even born, and the script written in blood. Fate? It did exist, alright. It did, and it looked like... well, kind of like this. Like the strings of a marionette, leading back to their fathers, and the fathers of their fathers, and ancestors so old they may or may not have been a memory.)

So, no! Nothing about this was even remotely surprising. An expected blow was still a blow, though, and when it broke your nose, the blood flowed regardless.

She really is saying I killed Magnar. My own brother. And, yes, it would be a lie to say that her mind had never wandered towards that solution, grotesque as it was. The gods may have hated kinslayers, but so what? It wasn't like they'd shown her much love before, and it wasn't like she wasn't already accursed. Not much of a difference to be found there, aside from... well. Aside from some loose ends being tied.

To hear Yrsa suggest it, though? Yrsa, of all people? Oh, was Sigrún's blood boiling! How dared she say those words, with those filthy lips of hers?! There was more honor among a pack of hungry wolves than in her entire clan, and yet, yet--

Calm down. What should be in your heart is sorrow, not anger. But, really, looking at her, you might have thought she was calm. Sigrún stood completely still, with not a muscle in her face moving; in that, she resembled a statue more than she did a human, and an empty husk more than she did herself. Was she even listening?

(Oh, she was. You see, it was hard not to listen when each word was a dagger in your chest, driven deeper and deeper.

"Yrsa speaks true," someone said, his true identity shielded by the crowd. He may have been anyone, and, in a sense, he was everyone. The one who said what they were all thinking, just like Yrsa. "Who else could it be?"

"The gods have branded her. Surely, they have done so to warn us."

"It does make sense, when you really think about it."

Still, words were just words. Had those been able to hurt her, Sigrún would have been dead many times over. In the end, what did silence cost her? Her pride? Already, the thing had been torn to tatters, and trampled into dust. There wasn't much to be lost, just like there wasn't much to be gained. A sick equilibrium it may have been, but better that than nothing.

...Or was it?)

Sigrún lifted her gaze and looked, really looked, at Yrsa's face. She hadn't done that for years at least; from a certain point onwards, she'd been Yrsa the enemy, or Yrsa the pain in the ass, or simply Yrsa the problem. A symbol to be destroyed, not a fellow human being. And when she finally did do that? Let's say that there were a couple of... realizations. Mostly realizations revolving around how much she wanted to wipe that smirk off her face, and how little she cared for the consequences of doing exactly that. A sad day for Yrsa, indeed!

"What do I have to say for myself?" Sigrún repeated. "Nothing. Nothing you'd believe, anyway. I don't feel like wasting my breath." There was a hint of something dangerous in her tone, akin to a snake in grass that was more sensed than seen, and Frigg didn't fail to notice. Why else would he have touched her shoulder? Anything else was unthinkable.

"This isn't the right time, nor is it the right place. Why don't you two honor Magnar as he deserved today? If you wish to settle this dispute, you may come here tomorrow and--"

Tomorrow, tomorrow, always tomorrow. Tomorrow, which was just disguised never. Oh no, they were doing this now! Now, before she could change her mind.

There was a flash, a sound of steel running across steel, and suddenly Sigrún was standing dangerously close to Yrsa, her blade in her hand.

"That's why our swords should speak for us. Let them decide who is in the right, not false human tongues. Or do you not want to be exposed for a liar, Yrsa Falkenberg?"

 

[Grook]

Yrsa took a startled step backward, fumbling to retrieve her old bone dagger from its deerskin sheathe. There was no way the woman would initiate a fight here. Here, at her brother’s ceremony? Surely the gods would frown upon this one. The audacity! It was perhaps the only thing she admired about the other woman, but this was not something Yrsa could admit to herself. A round of gasps and rumors ripples through the crowd like a pebble in the sea, and she heard murmurs of agreement grace her ears as she smirked openly, as if she had not a care in the world. She couldn’t imagine the embarrassment Sigrún was feeling. The only way to mitigate it was with their blades, wasn’t it? It was the natural progression of things, as predictable as the waves hitting the sea cliffs.

Then she remembered the skill by which Sigrún moved, the graceful sweep of her wrist as elegant as a swan but as dangerous as a wolf. She recalled being knocked to her knees by the force of Sigrún’s sword hilt as she had the wind utterly knocked from her and gasped for breath on her knees. Would Yrsa survive this encounter? All this animosity that had built up over the years… would it be resolved in finality in this moment? She searched incessantly for a reply, for some way to get out of this— and like an adder that could only spit venom, Yrsa lunged forward fiercely, although cowardice and fear ran in her veins. “I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to the crows,” she muttered, just low enough for Sigrún and Sigrún alone to hear.

Frigg’s gentle touch on Sigrún’s shoulder gave Yrsa some semblance of safety, but the fire that raged in her coal-dark eyes did not vanish and seemed to only grow brighter. Damn it, damn this! They were already too far gone to begin negotiations. What had Yrsa done? She wanted to chide herself, to apologize, but her pride stuck the words in her throat. She was doing this at a funeral ceremony… she was doing this now. With a keen ferocity and a sharp exhale, Yrsa raised her short dagger to Sigrún’s long, shimmering broadsword. This would be a challenge, perhaps the greatest challenge Yrsa had ever personally faced in terms of physicality. She tried to plan her escape thoroughly, but, like kelp stuck on a line, she felt herself being reeled into the fray. Dammit Yrsa! Dammit, there was no way of escaping this—

Wait. Was someone speaking?

The sound of exhausted panting and hollers hit her. This could be her saving grace. But she refused to turn her eyes away from the stormy face of Sigrún. One wrong move, and there might be a sword buried deep in her chest the next moment. So she stared deep into the woman’s soul as a flustered priestess rose from the beach shore, out of breath and wheezing.

“I have a message! A message from the gods!”

Everyone’s head turned except for Yrsa, her eyes still trained on Sigrún’s steely features. Then the priestess began to speak, and everyone went quiet.

“We have a sign written on the cave wall that there is a way to leave the Bera archipelago and sail past into the unknown. Odin has directed us to do so, but we are deep in the stormy season of spring and it will be an arduous journey. We’re still decrypting some of the messages on the cave wall and the omens are clear about one thing, and one thing only— those who make the journey will carve out a path for the rest of us to leave Bera at last!”

 

[Syntra]

A calmer, more level-headed Sigrún probably would have seen why this was such a bad idea. You know, considering the whole 'disturbing a funeral is a sacrilege' thing? But if such a version of her had ever existed, it had melted away by now; in the adrenaline, in the rage, in the helplessness, festering in her for the last decade at least. (In the the understanding that nothing would ever be like it had been before, too. With Magnar's death, Sigrún felt, something important had been taken from her. The guidance of the gods? Perhaps! Although it had been presumptuous to assume that they'd ever walked by her side, considering... well, everything.)

"Come and take it, then," she taunted. "What, are you waiting for Fenrir himself to do the job?" No, it wasn't exactly honorable to challenge her Yrsa like that, her with a greatsword and she with a glorified toothpick. Then again, was it honorable to call her a kinslayer? Sigrún didn't think so! And picking your battles was an important, if often forgotten, aspect of being a warrior. Time to teach the scoundrel one of the most valuable lessons: 'Only speak boldly once you have a sword to match.' (Too bad she'd actually never get to learn from it. Heh! Maybe Magnar had died for a good cause, after all.)

Men and women were whispering among themselves, clearly torn. What were they supposed to do, if anything? The tradition demanded for them not to interfere in duels, but the gods also frowned upon those who didn't know how to behave themselves during a funeral. The lines were... blurred, at best. And, perhaps even more importantly: was it worth it to get between Sigrún Ingedottir and whoever she wanted to kill? That Sigrún Ingedottir? The woman was a beast; a beast born from a dead mother and half-dead herself, clinging to life far more fiercely than a babe had any right to. 'A warrior,' the midwife had named her. 'One day, she will do things both great and terrible.' Needless to say, the woman had gone on to prove those words right many times over. Would they fight her to save Yrsa, of all people?

Sigrún didn't bother waiting for anyone's permission. Oh no, this fucking ended today! Her sword flashed in the sunlight, and then--

--then she stopped. There weren't many things that could stop her in that state, but the words of the priestess certainly did the job. A message from the gods? Convenient. Far too convenient, in fact; if there was anything Sigrún had learned about the gods, it was that they never appeared to save her skin. On the other hand, why would the priestess lie? And if what she said was true, and they really could leave Bera, then that... that changed everything. Once again, the seas would be theirs. They really would be, instead of them belonging to the seas! A new dawn, not stained by their ancestors' sin. Oh, how breathtaking would it be to witness that?

Uncertain all of a sudden, Sigrún threw a careful glance at Yrsa. To attack or not? That was the question here, and oh, answering it meant everything. So far, they hadn't left the grey zone; flirting with the sin, but not really committing to it just yet. Would she dare to take the step, now that the priestess had spoken? Would she--?

"Yrsa! Sigrún! Are you not ashamed of yourselves?! Especially you, Sigrún. Gods, at your own brother's funeral..." Elder Ortel was Elder Frigg's opposite in almost every way, and that, of course, included his physical might. A warrior he'd been once, and a mountain of muscle he still was; that, after all, was why it was so easy for him to step between them. (Where had he been all this time? Sigrún couldn't remember, but it was true that Sigrún couldn't remember a lot of things.)

"I shudder just thinking of it. The dishonor you've brought upon your clan is immense. And you, Yrsa! Deplorable, what you were trying to do. Truly deplorable." The man pursed his lips before looking at Sigrún, then back at Yrsa, and back at Sigrún again. It was hard to tell what he might have been thinking, though she didn't have to know that to feel ashamed nonetheless. Just... fuck. What had she been thinking?!

"You should both cool your heads, I say. And be thankful that I am not demanding for them to come off!"

***

It was a shack more than proper prison, though that wasn't really the point. They probably could escape, but why? To earn a guard's sword in the back? Or, failing that, everyone's contempt? Because that, that was the one thing an escapee could count on.

Sigrún was sitting on the cold, hard floor, her back against the wall. It was raining, because of course it was, and since nobody had bothered to repair the roof, a puddle was forming uncomfortably close. The shackles were pressed deep into her skin, almost cutting off the blood flow.

And as if all of that wasn't terrible enough? In addition to everything, she also had to look at Yrsa Falkenberg. Yrsa, who was to blame for this mess in the first place!

"Got what you wanted out of this?" Sigrún growled. "I hope running your mouth was worth it, fool. I think I know who killed Magnar," she mocked, her voice several octaves higher than usual. "You, Yrsa, wouldn't know thought from fart!"

 

[Grook]

“What, are you waiting for Fenrir himself to do the job?”

By the gods, she sure felt like Fenrir by now, enraged and dizzied as blood rushed to her head and her temples bulged. No one would intervene this time, though. It was quite the predicament, at least to Yrsa. She was a wild, fierce dog who had perhaps bit off more than she could chew, and with far more bark than bite. Yet she readied the pitiful ceremonial dagger, squinted angrily into the sun, and widened her stance, preparing to lunge at Sigrún with all the might she could possibly contain in her little compact body. There was zero chance she was going to let this one slip away from her. She’d survive, even if she came out injured, even if blood streamed down her face and matted her hair and immense pain streaked through her– Yrsa was sure of it now. Adrenaline seeped through her veins and erupted into a snarl on her lips, but she paused as the words the priestess was saying suddenly interrupted her train of thought, swimming in and out of focus. Some words flashed before her mind: gods, Fenrir, Bera, an escape from the archipelago.

It was impossible.

After so many moons, the archipelago of Bera had long given up trying to escape the island. Winter storms had seized the crescent-shaped groupings of land. There had been many attempts to leave in the early days, but they had all ended with futile and pitiful deaths. Yrsa even recalled her own brothers being sent away on missions that the gods had dismissed, never to be seen again, and given blessings that had not come to fruition. They had braved rains and monsters and winds, and still the gods had not acknowledged this feat, sending them deep into the ocean for their skeletons to be eaten away by fish and serpents, rotting in the abyss forever.

Elder Ortel’s words brought Yrsa back into reality. Shit… things really had gotten out of hand. She couldn’t believe Sigrún had agreed to her duel, but everything that followed had truly spun out of control. She let out a long exhale, then sheathed her weapon, putting her hands up apologetically.

“All right, all right. Fair enough, I was out of line.”

***​

“Running my mouth was more than worth it!” A smug smile graced her face, and she tipped her chin up pridefully. “What I wanted was just to show everyone the truth. You did it, didn’t you?” She tried to jab another accusatory finger at Sigrún but her hands were shackled and she winced. “And when everyone finds out that I’m right, they’ll know I only speak the truth. Who else could’ve done it? Seriously, Sigrún, do you think you’re fooling anybody?” She shuffled forward to confront the other woman, peering over at her with narrowed beetle-black eyes.

"And if we're getting out of here... I don't want to be trapped in a cell with a murderer."

 

[Syntra]

Well. Well, that was certainly one way of looking at it. And that it was complete fucking bullshit? No surprise here, Sigrún thought. Not when it was coming from Yrsa Falkenberg, whose every word was a drop of poison. (The woman was... just like that, she supposed. Much like rain could only fall down and fire only burn, Yrsa only knew how to hurt. Not a bad instinct for a warrior, you might say, except that she wasn't one. Oh no, no, no! To Sigrún, she looked more like a small yapping dog, begging for the scraps from her master's table. Pathetic.)

Sigrún didn't move. Every single fiber in her body screamed at her to do just that, but it wasn't as if Elder Ortel had been mistaken. After all, had she not disgraced her brother's memory? Did he not deserve a dignified goodbye, like his father before him? Yes, and yes. That she was stuck with Yrsa of all people now was the gods' punishment, and she had to take it. Otherwise, what would the point be? Absolution wasn't measured in how sorry you were, but whether you had suffered enough. Odin, too, had hung from his tree for nine days and nine nights.

(Regardless of that, Sigrún hoped they'd release them sooner. Nine days with Yrsa! She wasn't certain of many things, but what she did know was that, the longer this went on, the smaller the chance of both of them emerging alive. Not that she would particularly mourn Yrsa's death, though.)

"Curse you," Sigrún spat out. (The shackles bit into her skin, bit worse than cold and worse than a wolf would have, but still, still it was Yrsa's assumption that hurt the most in the end. She... really believed it. It wasn't a spark meant to light a fire, but something she had already accepted in her heart as the truth. Sigrún, the kinslayer. The nickname didn't roll off the tongue, but she supposed she would have to get used to it.) "How should I know who--?" Pointless. So pointless was it, really, that Sigrún didn't even bother finishing her sentence, instead letting her gaze fall to the floor. In the faint strip of light that crept in through the cracked window, Sigrún almost looked as if she also had feelings other than rage, bloodlust, and the desire to kick her enemies' teeth in. Actual, human feelings. You know, perhaps even something close to hopelessness? But the moment came and went, and before anything could be born of it, she returned to her usual steely self. (No point in showing weakness in front of an enemy, after all. Might as well be asking her to stab you in the back, and enough people already wanted to do that even without her invitation.)

"The truth," she snickered. "The truth doesn't need any advocates, Yrsa. It speaks for itself. What could someone like you know about that, though? There isn't a bigger liar in the whole of Bera!" It was a slap, the way she'd called her a murderer, but Sigrún took it in stride. (There wasn't much else to do, besides.) "And what are you going to do about it?" she challenged. "Murderer this, murderer that. Makes me think that you did it, and are now trying to pin it on me. What do you have to say for yourself?!"