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There were tell-tale signs of birth clinging to the woman; she was broader in the hips, and fat still clung to her body (though Siv noted she was rotund regardless of childbirth), and her breasts were still heavy and unusually full. Siv’s own body had tried to cling to fat desperately, but the need for fuel had all but eaten it away. Taller that the woman before her, the weight she carried was balanced out and accentuated a figure almost ethereal with its dark grace. She hated her willowy body and often wished for stronger muscles, like her father.
It was impossible to miss the venom in the woman’s voice, and Siv watched her impassively. Inwardly, she seethed. Did she think herself so mighty? Oh yes, she most certainly did. At that moment, Siv began to assign labels and views to the older woman, though her face carefully showed nothing. “I came of my own accord,” the woman replied. “There is no place for me over those mountains,” Siv went on. “I saw weakness there, and have no desire to allow my child to grow with a soul fed by dreamers.” Savage, brutal worlds. Thor’s children so often were.