“What do yours mean?” “Mine?” “Your tattoos. Yours haven’t gone anywhere.” “Oh.” He looked down at himself. “Well. Our runes are complicated. But yes, they do have meanings. This one,” he said, holding up his left hand, “means vengeance.” He held up his other hand. “This one means justice.” “What about that one?” I asked, pointing at the large, swirling section of ink on his forearm. “Sacrifice,” he said, his voice hitching. “Why is it so much bigger than the rest?” Fisher took in the rune, then slowly drew down the sleeve of his shirt, covering it. “I think you can probably guess why,” he
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