Evening, about 30 minutes before sunset.
Cloudy.
Licking her chops and spitting away loose hair that clung to her teeth, Sigrún rose from where she lay with a slain weasel between her forepaws. Catching the weasel had been no easy feat. Her hunt had mostly been a desperate, sloppy, ridiculous chase -- she was not the most adept hunter in her family by any means -- and she had gotten lucky when she chased the animal into a dead end and, in its panicked state, it stumbled and hesitated as it searched for a way out. It had tasted wonderful and had provided more of a meal for her than she'd had in quite a while. Her belly, though far from full, was comfortably sated for now. Casting one last look at the bloody, hollowed-out carcass, she then turned and padded toward the river.
She stepped into the river, walking a few paces out so that the cool water lapped above her ankles and tugged at the tip of her long tail. Lowering her head to drink, she was amused when she saw her reflection on the surface -- a grisly, macabre mask of red painted her muzzle and cheeks. A king's daughter and a hot-blooded warrior in her own right, she found a great deal of dark satisfaction in what she saw. Grinning, she lapped at the refreshing water until her thirst was sated. The sun was on its way behind the mountains to the west now, though it was cloaked behind heavy grey clouds that promised rain later. Turning to leave, she considered what her brother might say when she told him of her successful hunt today. The thought made her smile.
The fury she sparked in Tyr made him tremble. When sleep stole him for the night, he no longer dreamed of the glories of Valhalla and endless branches of Yggdrasil. No, he only could dream of her, and the terrible shame she had brought him. He was the son of fine blood, born and bred for glory. Tyr had slain fools in battle, he had tasted victory and one day the Gudrun Clan would obey his every word. He had done everything right, and his prize had been a simple one — a Queen to call his own. His mother had made things painfully clear, that he was to honor and love and ravish his Queen. Baldur might have been the clan Chief, but Hel's voice commanded him. She would not stand for Tyr mistreating the prize that had attained for him, and of the peace the offering would bring — the clans would have peace.
The glory of bringing peace between Gudrun and her clan was supposed to belong to Tyr. She had robbed him of his chance for that glory, and she had robbed him of his very manhood. Clan brothers had offered their sympathy — false smiles and lying encouragement, he had barely been able to contain his fury. It was with Hel and Baldur's blessing that he would seek her out. Seek out the white wench that had betrayed him, and robbed the clans of their peace. She had broken promise, law, her honor bound duty...but worst of all, she had shamed him.
The scent had nearly grown cold, but above all else, Tyr was an excellent tracker. The faintest whiff of her, the absolute (and probably foolish) certainty that it was her had driven him. With no other thought or purpose, he had sought her out. His body had thinned from its previous glory, but he still stood tall and strong. Hunting, growing fat and returning home could wait until she was where she belonged. Her scent was heavier in the lands he had found and with a nearly manic grin across his handsome face, he crept out from the cover near the river. Blood still stained her jowls, and faint droplets of water clung to her chin, and for a moment he was struck dumb by her beauty. But his fury eclipsed his appreciation of her (and oh, how he wanted her) and he spoke the name he had not dared allow himself to think since she had left him. "Sigrún."
Oh, but the gods did have a sense of humor. Of all the things they could have conspired against her, it was Tyr's appearance she expected the least.
Then again, she really ought not have been surprised. She and the Gudrun heir were not close friends -- in fact, they did not know each other very well at all -- but she did know a few things about him. Such as the fact that he was one of the most driven, determined, unshakeable males her mother had ever known. She also knew that he was one of the most exceptional trackers in the land. It was said that Ullr himself, god of hunting, and Váli, god of vengeance, had blessed Tyr with his remarkable talents for tracking. Gifted by the gods themselves, destined for glory, greatness, and leadership, and possessed of the kind of strength, valor, and beauty that storytellers sang about for centuries, Tyr was every female's dream. Salene had been thrilled when the Gudrun chief had accepted her offer, pleased endlessly that her daughter would be mated to such a fine male, destined to be queen of the Gudrun Clan and to bring peace to their clans after generations of strife.
But Sigrún had had other ideas. And Tyr did not take rejection well at all.
So when his voice, dark and rich and seething with a subtle, dangerous passion, came to her from the shadows amidst the trees near the rivershore, she froze, a sea of conflicting emotions bubbling up within her. At first she was stunned, completely struck dumb that he was even here. But then a sense of inevitability sank in, reminding her of who she was dealing with and that she shouldn't have been surprised at all. And then confusion came, unable to make sense of how he had managed to find her across the endless miles she had put between them. Perhaps the stories of the gods' blessings upon him were true after all. A brief, almost instantaneous flash of fear shot through her, knowing he must be furious beyond reason and seeking something from her she did not intend to give.
And then finally, anger. Anger that her effort to distance herself from her old life had been in vain. Anger that, regardless of how far she ran, she might never be in control of her own destiny. Anger that, in spite of all of this, they still had the thrice-cursed audacity to presume to command how she should live her life, as if she were property to be bartered with. The anger took hold, sweeping aside her other emotions like so many dried, scattered leaves, and she turned eyes of frigid sea ice toward him, meeting his simmering, gold-fire gaze. She bristled then, a low growl rumbling in her chest as scarlet-painted lips twitched threateningly. "Tyr." It came out a dry hiss, devoid of emotion, and hung suspended on the tension that buzzed between them like an electric current.
as dark as the winter, as black as her ghastly veil
as cold as her whisper and chilling gown