They looked sort of like glowing poles, and the dvergar set them up in a ring around the group, themselves and the jötnar and the æsir and Sigmund standing inside. To say things were tense would be an understatement. Uni’s brother had surrendered quietly enough, though he had objected when Uni handed over the much-contested gauntlets to Þrúðr. The pair said some words, stiff and formal, and when they were done, Þrúðr was crying, though she wasn’t sad, exactly. Just…crying. “Annulment,” Lain had explained. He was sitting on one of the weird hexagonal columns of rock, cigarette hanging out of his mouth, looking damp and miserable. Which, good. He kind of deserved. At least it wasn’t raining anymore. Þrúðr had fixed that, lifting Mjölnir to the sky. Her brother—the one who wasn’t catatonic—had been horrified, and the þursar hadn’t been much better. But all Þrúðr had done was hold the hammer up, hands cupped just beneath the head. Then the rain had stopped, and the clouds had cleared, and Sigmund had been left squinting against the glare of sun on wet-dark stone, stinking of damp sheep.
