furious on her blankets while Magni’s snores begin rumbling in yet another piss-poor attempt to emulate his father.
It’s not long after that I hear footsteps approaching through the grass.
“Lo—Lain?” Móði corrects the name as he approaches, and I open my eyes and fix him with their dimly glowing poison.
Móði’s holding a half-chewed loaf of bread and a blackened haunch of rabbit. He’s within grabbing distance, were that a thing I’d want to try.
“Food,” Móði adds when I say nothing. “For you. I…” He stops, visibly straightening himself and forcing the next words out with stronger voice. “We have a long ride ahead tomorrow. You must eat.”
I say nothing. Jesus, I’m hungry. But not enough to beg for scraps from Ásgarðr’s table. I’ll eat one of the horses in the night if I have to. Magni’s, probably.
Móði falters at my silence, just a little, and he puts the food down on the grass not too far from where I sit. “I will leave this here,” he says. “Eat.” The he turns to go.
I start counting down inside my head:
One…Two…Thre—
Móði turns. “Lain,” he says. “Magni is…he is a good man, with much to live up to. But he has a temper. Do not provoke him and things will be easier for you. Do you understand?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
This time, I do my own countdown. Then:
“Good cop, bad cop.”
Móði turns. “What?”
I gesture, between the two of us. “Good cop, bad cop. That’s what the humans call this, in their sagas. You got two guys—the cops—and a prisoner. One cop is angry, aggressive. Maybe beats the prisoner around a little. Prisoner gets scared, feels desperate, whatever. Then Good Cop comes in, offers sympathy, kindness. Food.” One pointed look. “The prisoner cracks, babbles to the good cop in return for protection against the bad. Bingo, the cops get what they want. Problem solved. It’s called psychology.”
“ ‘Sálfræði’?”
Móði tries out the word. Or the equivalent that he hears.
“Right,” I say. “And, see, here’s the thing. You can try all the Good Cop bullshit you want, but it’s not gonna work. You wanna fuckin’ know why?”
“Why?” Móði’s gentle façade is peeling back. Beneath it, he’s getting angry. Angry and scared, the stink leaking out of him like piss, all yellow and acid.
I lean forward, tilt my head down and my eyes up. “Because you wrote the
fucking
runes. Magni holds the whip, but you’re the one who cut the leather. Don’t think I’m gonna forget that just because you bring me some stale motherfucking bread. And don’t think I’m gonna forget you’ve turned your own sister into a whore for—”
“Enough!”
Móði’s voice isn’t loud, exactly, but he does back it up with a gesture that sends my head flying backward, cracking against the runestone hard enough to bleed.
“Enough!” Móði hisses again. “You were Father’s friend once, and I have argued mercy for you on that account. Do not make me regret my kindness.”
When I laugh, blood dribbles from my lips. “And how
fucking
proud he’d be of both of you right now.”
Móði’s jaw works back and forth, teeth grinding. “Well,” he says after a moment. “Father was far from perfect. And never much renowned for his wisdom.” Then he’s gone, and that’s that.
Or, well. Not exactly. Because, just beyond the runestone, a second set of ears are listening, and by the Wyrdsight’s strange synesthesia I see a tiny shard of pain and sorrow chip away and into hope.
Chapter 6
Sigmund never did manage to figure out the logistics of their flight, not really. Because the Earth was round, and huge, and hung in the vast black void of space. Not to mention Sigmund had been on airplanes before and he knew—empirically
knew
—that everything above the clouds was cold and bright and empty.
It certainly wasn’t full of leaves. Or branches. Or…was that a herd of deer?
“Where the bloody hell are we?” he
It’s not long after that I hear footsteps approaching through the grass.
“Lo—Lain?” Móði corrects the name as he approaches, and I open my eyes and fix him with their dimly glowing poison.
Móði’s holding a half-chewed loaf of bread and a blackened haunch of rabbit. He’s within grabbing distance, were that a thing I’d want to try.
“Food,” Móði adds when I say nothing. “For you. I…” He stops, visibly straightening himself and forcing the next words out with stronger voice. “We have a long ride ahead tomorrow. You must eat.”
I say nothing. Jesus, I’m hungry. But not enough to beg for scraps from Ásgarðr’s table. I’ll eat one of the horses in the night if I have to. Magni’s, probably.
Móði falters at my silence, just a little, and he puts the food down on the grass not too far from where I sit. “I will leave this here,” he says. “Eat.” The he turns to go.
I start counting down inside my head:
One…Two…Thre—
Móði turns. “Lain,” he says. “Magni is…he is a good man, with much to live up to. But he has a temper. Do not provoke him and things will be easier for you. Do you understand?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
This time, I do my own countdown. Then:
“Good cop, bad cop.”
Móði turns. “What?”
I gesture, between the two of us. “Good cop, bad cop. That’s what the humans call this, in their sagas. You got two guys—the cops—and a prisoner. One cop is angry, aggressive. Maybe beats the prisoner around a little. Prisoner gets scared, feels desperate, whatever. Then Good Cop comes in, offers sympathy, kindness. Food.” One pointed look. “The prisoner cracks, babbles to the good cop in return for protection against the bad. Bingo, the cops get what they want. Problem solved. It’s called psychology.”
“ ‘Sálfræði’?”
Móði tries out the word. Or the equivalent that he hears.
“Right,” I say. “And, see, here’s the thing. You can try all the Good Cop bullshit you want, but it’s not gonna work. You wanna fuckin’ know why?”
“Why?” Móði’s gentle façade is peeling back. Beneath it, he’s getting angry. Angry and scared, the stink leaking out of him like piss, all yellow and acid.
I lean forward, tilt my head down and my eyes up. “Because you wrote the
fucking
runes. Magni holds the whip, but you’re the one who cut the leather. Don’t think I’m gonna forget that just because you bring me some stale motherfucking bread. And don’t think I’m gonna forget you’ve turned your own sister into a whore for—”
“Enough!”
Móði’s voice isn’t loud, exactly, but he does back it up with a gesture that sends my head flying backward, cracking against the runestone hard enough to bleed.
“Enough!” Móði hisses again. “You were Father’s friend once, and I have argued mercy for you on that account. Do not make me regret my kindness.”
When I laugh, blood dribbles from my lips. “And how
fucking
proud he’d be of both of you right now.”
Móði’s jaw works back and forth, teeth grinding. “Well,” he says after a moment. “Father was far from perfect. And never much renowned for his wisdom.” Then he’s gone, and that’s that.
Or, well. Not exactly. Because, just beyond the runestone, a second set of ears are listening, and by the Wyrdsight’s strange synesthesia I see a tiny shard of pain and sorrow chip away and into hope.
Chapter 6
Sigmund never did manage to figure out the logistics of their flight, not really. Because the Earth was round, and huge, and hung in the vast black void of space. Not to mention Sigmund had been on airplanes before and he knew—empirically
knew
—that everything above the clouds was cold and bright and empty.
It certainly wasn’t full of leaves. Or branches. Or…was that a herd of deer?
“Where the bloody hell are we?” he
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