DESOLATED DEVOTION

He did not know what prompted him to go deeper into the ruined house that they had chanced upon on their way back to Askr. He had a premonition that something awful would happen, yet he had foolishly ventured into the shaky maw of the building's interior. What had he been hoping to find within its mangled innards? There was nothing but rot here. But perhaps that was precisely what attracted him to the old stones and hole-bored roof. There was something about decay that was irresistible to worms.

Ótr had left Bruno by the entrance, snappily telling him to stay put. He had made this foray seem more important than it really was, just as he often made himself seem more important than he truly was. Whatever. It was not as though Bruno could understand.

He stepped into the den. Molding furniture arranged around a circle, and rusted metalwork ornaments greeted him. There were no signs of intrusion, but he could have guessed that a small family lived here before they abandoned it. Maybe they were three. Maybe they were two brothers and a little sister. His fists clenched. Quickly, jerkily, he backed away from the center of the room.

Snap! His shoulder collided with a rotting beam, splitting it in two. The fracture spread from the column to the ceiling, and the second floor of the house gave way, burying him beneath kilos of rock and wood. Dust shrouded the collapsed house, and for a few moments, there was nothing to see but pure gray. Then, it settled.

A toppled wall had Ótr pinned to the ground, where he could see Bruno just a pace or so ahead.

He glanced up at Bruno. The man was inscrutable—nevermind the mask he wore, there was something about his expression that was eerily even. Ótr did not dare speak any words. His pride would not let him. But his eyes betrayed what his tongue could not. I don't want to die…

Though he had coveted that eternal darkness at every turn, now that it was greeting him, fear gripped his body like a tightly clasped hand. As the stone continued to press down on him, the pressure building up by his sternum, something base and animal began to emerge from his beating chest. I don't want to die. He heaved. Gloved hands clawed at the dirt, struggling to find purchase in the wet mud. He looked pathetic. Yet even in his lowest he could not bring himself to beg for help.

"Leave me…" he finally rasped, "Just leave me."

Don't touch me.

Tenderness was something he stood in violent revolt against. How could someone other than his brother provide him with such warm comfort? How could anyone provide him with such warm comfort anymore?

Don't.

Don't touch me.

Ever since that fateful day at the burning heart of Niðavellir's capital, Ótr found himself crumbling. In the figurative sense, his selfhood was failing. He felt all his foundations come apart, leaving nothing but ruins behind. But physically, he had been seized with this almost eternal tremor, one that could not leave his being even when the reaper of sleep finally swung its scythe across his days-awake body. People pitied him. People wished to impart their condolences.

Don't.

Don't touch me.

But Ótr pushed them away. This Order of Heroes upon which he was forced; he cared for none of their sweet nothings, their posion-honey words which he knew would only make the pain worse.

"Don't." He hissed at Nel's outstretched hand, "Don't touch me."

He sat curled up in the Aether Keep's inn. He had been provided his own room, but he never went inside it, only lingering by the corridors like some ghost. Maybe that was true. I think I must have died with him.

All of the fellow members of the Summoner's defense knew to keep their distance. All except Nel.

"...What are you even trying to do?" he asked, equally puzzled as he was angry. He did not really know what anyone would want to do with him, he just knew that he would not like it.

It was not often that Ótr got to kill outside of his seiðjarn.

He was usually so encased, so detached—not to say that he was unused to the concept of taking a life (he had done it plenty in his brother's good name) but he had been used to the distance. He did not recall the blood splattering this much, nor did he think that their body would grow so stiff so soon afterward. If he had any sort of softness in his stone heart, the sight might have moved him. But it did not. He remained standing over the body, the slickness of a life once-had staining his clothes crimson.

The woman had asked for it. Begged for it, even. After bandits attacked their humble Askran town and burned most of their houses down, the woman had experienced significant burns all over her body. It was horrific—she was horrific. Ótr was surprised to even see her alive, crawling out from beneath the wreckage. How could anyone still be alive, if the esteemed Order of Heroes was so late in their rescue?

Killing her had been a mercy, he thought. The only one he was suited to provide. Though, of course, he could have done it in a less brutal way. Perhaps a heave of his axe through the chest was not the most painless of deaths, but it was better than the scorching alternative.

"...That's that." he said simply, then turned to his partner, Ronan, who he was so certain must have hated him at that very moment—who must have hated him in every moment leading up to this. But he did not care, "Let's carry on."

Up ahead, the flames of the village continued to roar. Cinders flew in the breeze like flies from a corpse—and the smell certainly reminded him of pure, unfiltered death. It was like when the capital of Niðavellir had been set aflame. He could not forget the wretched stench of burning bodies, then, and he could not forget it even now.

Ótr squinted at the village. He thinks he might have heard screams, though there was no telling what was truly there. Stepping over the body, he moved toward the fire, his axe hanging by his side, scrupulously cleaned save for where blood stained its blade.

But that would not stop him from trying. Sweet release was all he had to look forward to. Quietly, he crept up the ladder, blending in with the shadows which seemed so plentiful in the Abyss. He moved past the guard, past the people. He had a knack for disappearing, which was good, because he had to leave. He did not know where to, just knew that he should.

He made it to the surface, where the half-moon greeted him with dim light. He pulled his cloak closer around his body. It was rather cold tonight, but that did not matter. It would be colder where he ended up if things went well. He was no longer afraid of these things, besides. The cold, the hunger, the feeling of being alone. He was a useless child no longer. He was something else, something wicked.

He stuck close to the shadows. His back pressed against the wall, and he kept his breathing light so as to not leave silvery wisps of breath.

Now just go through the gate and find a way to scale down the mountain this academy stood on—but as he made his way toward it, something else caught his eye. Or rather, he was caught in theirs?

"Gah!" The figure's sudden appearance startled voice out of him. He did not dare believe what he saw. A head of blue, a round, red face? It could not be—it should not be. Yet in Ótr's mind, she was all he could see. Did she always have feathers, or did she assume the form of a valkyrie to mock him? He did not doubt Reginn's capability to haunt him even now.

A hand went to the knife he had kept by his belt. His eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing here, so late at night?" His tone held venom, as if he were some diligent patroller and not some wretch trying to escape paradise, "Shouldn't a girl like you be in her room?"