The days were growing shorter. Colder. For weeks she had pushed herself on her own along the same path her brothers had taken. It had been her path to find. Her fur had already become plush and soft from the thick undercoat that had restored itself. Thank the Gods that Freya had bestowed upon her such furs to keep her warm during a bitterly wet journey. On her own it seemed nearly impossible that she might find them, even from their trails.
At one point, their trail had abruptly vanished, or else was washed away such that she was unable to locate them again.
Valmúa was positive they had done it all on purpose. They wanted to leave her behind. Her, the only interesting damn thing in their lives they wanted to be rid of. Idiots.
Every day grew more dull without someone to torment. Every sunset grew uglier. Eventually even she started to grow ugly as her muscles wasted and her body consumed itself. What a shitty mechanic. But eventually a heartbeat from the heavens banged its foul instrument hard when she awoke one especially shitty morning
Hringja. Its alluring song called her name that day stronger than it had even been when she’d left Stormhaven. She followed it. It felt like the worst headache she had ever had, which she supposed made some sense since those two dumbasses were the worst headache anyone had ever had.
The trail she found late in the afternoon was fresh. She ventured over coastlines, past mountain ranges, until Val was positive they were close. She narrowed her eyes, creeping through the brush, searching for them.

He knocked the wind right out of her chest as the world was thrown upside down. An outrageous snarl rattled in her head as she struggled to breathe. Screeches of sparrows sounded a great alarm, shrill on the cold wind. He really was excellent at making her headaches worse.
Abruptly, Valmúa burst into a loud, noisy, snorting laughter. She used every ounce of breath in her strained chest to laugh in her hálfviti brother's face, spittle flying from her defiant lips. She inhaled sharply to continue this laughing fit, then grabbed one of his wrists with her mouth and rolled her body hard to the side, flinging herself into his legs to perform a reversal.
This was much harder to do given the amount of weight she had lost on the way there, and all she managed was to press her back nails hard into his crotch. She let go of his wrist and shouted, Farðu í rassgat!!, which was a curse she'd commonly used since learning it in childhood.

Why was he so fucking heavy?!
Stjor must have been eating every piece of fatty beast he could find. Sol had probably gotten just as massive while they were gallivanting in this strange, southern place. Fat pieces of shit, the both of them.
Valmúa groaned and moaned underneath of his thick, lazy body. Worth it, she thought, enjoying his male pain like a fine beverage even as she struggled to breathe under him. She wiggled her head from the massive blob of his overfluffed neck, cursing in the common tongue, Eat a dick. Finally she was able to mostly roll herself from under him as she kicked at him; her back legs and waist were still trapped.
Hélt að þú myndir fara frá mér? she hissed in a strained voice, still trying to pull herself out.

Kisa. What a little bitch. One shot in the goodies and Stjor was down for the count, unable to lift himself from her. She scrambled like a cat half caught in tube that was just too narrow, pushing with all her limited might at his body, annoyed beyond belief. As usual, she had done this to herself, but the fault was his and his alone. He started it.
She shouted something like a war cry at her predicament, struggling for a solid minute before she finally accepted the position she was in was permanent until he decided to do something about it. She wondered what would happen if she'd killed him. She imagined Sol would just sit there and watch his brother rotting on top of her while she was forced to chew her way out.
Valmúa narrowed her eyes, looking ahead of her but talking to his temporarily out of order body. Hvað, áttu skyndilega kúlur Óðins? Please.

The moment she spotted Solpallur, Valmúa felt her stomach churn. She knew exactly what was coming, because it was always the thing they did to one another when they disapproved. The boys in particular were prone to physical action, and Sol used words only when absolutely necessary, being practically mute.
Val couldn't tell if Stjor had woke or not. She hoped he wouldn't. She didn't want them ganging up on her. They all had ganged up on one another at one point or another, but Val knew that she was momentarily weaker than usual and unable to fight back properly. They would not kill her, but hurting her? Well..
She flattened to the ground as Sol's dark figure approached, soundless and imposing. She didn't try to get away from it. He scruffed her harshly and pulled, and she yipped sharply in response. She yipped like she had as a pup, but writhed and tried to snap at the air. For a moment she refused the discipline until her legs came free from Stjor's mass. Then, she submitted to her elder brother's punishment, curling her tail between her legs and shrinking as he pulled and put real pressure on her.
Valmúa stayed silent. Mouth would get her nowhere for now.

Rather than answering her dark brother directly, she grinned. Like a child caught in the act of some heinous, disastrous crime that she still thought was funny even though she was in trouble for it. Stjornuati joined in the action, giving her some nasty pinches. She flinched at each, laughing as though he was tickling her.
She rolled over quickly and licked Solpallur's chin and lips, annoyingly submissive in order to satisfy her own humour. Stjor was right, of course, she would have done it regardless of whether or not anyone else was around. Valmúa broke off this overt display to answer the question, grinning slyly. I did, she said, knowing it gave them zero answers. Miss me?

Hmph. What a kúta. She knew better, of course. Solpallur wasn't really the sort to miss anybody. Of all of them, he was the one that was trained most to instinct without emotion. He went where the skies willed him to be, always feeling the natural world about them instead of his own damned heart and soul.
Valmúa, in contrast, functioned almost entirely on emotion and the gut instinct one associates with desire. The three of them were alternate sides to the same strange Nordic die.
Hringja, she said. The earth led me to you, she said, snorting at him as if in defiance. It felt almost like he questioned her validity for even being there, which was not something she would accept. The call was sacred. He knew it. The old gods had brought her here for a reason, she just didn't know why yet.

Whatever welcome she had been expecting, this had not been it. She sneered openly as her dark brother stared at her and spoke his dark humour. She was no fool; surely they both knew that. Yet Stjornuati did not defend her, for they had seen her young self in Stormhaven and knew her to be no wise creature.
They did not run her own, and this alone she took from her simple brother to mean a lame acceptance of her presence. Stjornuati said nothing. He nipped her again rather harshly on the neck. The pressure given from them both would see her bruised from several days. Strangely, rather than feeling malice for this treatment, it was comfortable and familiar. She had spent enough time having free reign.
This was a place of revision once again. She stood at attention as Solpallur and Stjornuati left here there. She followed where they were heading, not to intrude but only to stay near them at a respectful distance. They were together once more, whatever such a thing meant.