And it was the sound of their laughter that followed me back to my bolt-hole, where I pulled out the stitches and howled in rage and swore that one day I would pay them back — all of them, and especially my loving brother — in full. In blood.
And it was the sound of their laughter that followed me back to my bolt-hole, where I pulled out the stitches and howled in rage and swore that one day I would pay them back — all of them, and especially my loving brother — in full. In blood.
The stitches healed quickly. The pain went away. But Brokk’s awl was a magical tool. It left a permanent mark on me. Nine neat little cross-stitch scars that faded silvery with time, but never vanished. After that, my smile was never quite as true, and there was something in my heart, a barbed thing, like a roll of wire, that never ceased to trouble me. The gods never suspected it. Except perhaps for Odin, whose eye I often felt on me, and whose morality, I knew, was almost as dubious as my own.
