There were two things that she knew about their leader. 

One: He had thus far been the only man successful in uniting a large number of his own people under a single banner. In fact, it was unprecedented. He sat now with his men, drinking and laughing to excess, boisterous. That was always the way of these foreign men.

It was their downfall.

Two: Bor son of Burri was a lover of strong women. She had watched him with his lover, the muscled shield maiden. Bestla was rather convinced that she would be of little concern to her. None of them would for long. (Not if things went as she planned).

There was movement near by. She could hear the other men leaving their tents to head toward the main one, and the sorceress smirked, waiting. A pair of footsteps stopped, hesitating, and she knew she had been caught.

His fury never ceased to amaze her. He was like a wild storm, and Bestla always had to resist the urge to bow before him. Did the Goddess see what she had brought for her? Did she listen to him railing like a maelstrom and nod her head in approval?

Bestla would have been happier with a subservient man, she thought, no matter how supremely excellent a specimen Bor Burrison was. She would have got far more done -- and she would have wielded true power.

The niggling thing in the back of the second son of Bor's mind uncurled itself...

Bestla woke with some reluctance from her slumber. The inner workings of the boy's mind were more complicated by far than those of the other two, she would wager. She had dredged herself up for the battle, experienced what lurked beneath the surface of his meek veneer, and had smiled.

He was to be her instrument after all.

It was in his unconscious state, barely able to make sense of the blurred memories and thoughts, that Bestla, too, had slept. She woke to the face of the girl who had tried to push her out, and quietly, so as not to be heard, she snarled at the little upstart who thought herself more powerful than the Queen of Asgard.

Still...now was not the time.

She'd yet to see Bor. Perhaps the old bastard had already died, and Vili was on the throne. But no, no...upon examining the memories floating about, easier to see now that he'd been healed somewhat, she knew for certain that he lived still. That he had been away. That there had been a siege happening upon Asgard. Perhaps her people were not so stupid as she remembered.

So Bestla settled in, amongst the memories and feelings, content to lie in wait. She'd waited so many, many years. A little longer would not hurt.

When the girl stopped Ve from lashing out, when she showed him what her magic could do, Bestla understood what it was that made the power that lay dormant within the boy's mind tick. She smiled again, sharp and knowing.

Everything was muffled. His awareness refused to move past his immediate surroundings, his eyes blurry, and his ears buzzing a moment before finally he was able to focus. Vili took in a sudden, deep, breath through his nose, blinking his eyes rapidly as he recollected himself.

He was in his room, he noted, and the buzzing became a familiar, low, hum. Vili turned his head, feeling heavy with fatigue, his gaze meeting his father where he sat beside the bed, eyes closed, humming. He couldn't tell if Asgard's king was merely humming to himself or not.

It brought back memories of childhood, his father sitting beside his cot and humming to him as he tried to fall to sleep, missing his mother, away from her for the first time. Vili's chest filled with warmth at the memory.

“We inherit ourselves.”

Othala - “Oh-thall-ah” – Literally: “Homeland” or “Ancestral Lot” – Esoteric: Inheritance, estate, noble

The raven lands ink black on her arm, amorphous as a shadow -- a cloud of black coal soot which chatters brackishly at her. She smiles at it with row on row of pearl-white teeth, a russet curl escaping from behind her ear, her blue eyes seeking Huginn's secrets.

"Where is your brother, hm?" Where is my memory?" the second raven wisps down to her seemingly from nowhere, preening his shining feathers, his beak like a sharp, black, diamond as it clacks rapidly opened and closed.

"Sweet dears," a bone-white finger comes out to sweep lovingly over a raven breast, "tell me all of your secrets," Bestla's voice is entreating, a sultry murmur dropped into the silence of the room where the King she has crowned still sleeps, blissfully unaware of her. She trails her bare legs along the furs, listening intently to all of the secrets her little village has to share.

"Kill the King," Huginn whispers after he has given up his morsels for her to hear, "you can be Queen in your own right."

Munnin whispers of the memory of the elder telling her she is greedy and vain, her purple mouth wet with spittle as her mottled old face turns disdain upon the beauty of Bestla.

"Remember who you are," Munnin purrs through his beak. The Queen's red lips curve upward, the fine tattoos on her face curving with her cheeks. Behind her Bor stirs, and the ravens take off in a flurry of feathers, one's wing cutting her cheek as he disappears like steam rising in the air.

Bor is still affectionate with remembered lust, a paper-dry finger trailing across the razor thin cut on her skin as he rests icy blue orbs upon her. Bestla curls toward him like a snake, coiling up as he reaches for more of her. She feels a certainty in her blood.