Sif fled from the palace without a care for who she brushed past or bumped into. She heard her mother call for her when she thumped up the stairs to her room, but she didn't answer, escaping to her room and bolting the door behind her. Her mother didn't follow and she was grateful.
There was already a tub of steaming water awaiting her, yet another reminder, and that sparked off an entire new tantrum as her training clothes were tossed about the room as if she'd become one of the tumultuous storms off the sea that she'd always so loved to watch.
When her temper was spent, she dropped into the tub, muttering under her breath, still indulging in a sulk, but the heat of the water drained even that away. Her movements were methodical as she un-plaited her braid and began washing the dirt and grass from her blond hair. She lost track of time as her muttered curses and rants faded away into silence.
Finally, she rose from the tub, feeling the water slide down her sun-kissed skin. Turning to grab her towel, she caught sight of herself in the large mirror across the room, staring at herself for several long moments in silence. Her form was still as thin and lanky as any boy's, her height too tall, her shoulders too broad. Her arms were not the pale dainty limbs of the ladies at court, but the muscled arms of someone who spent hours training at sword, axes, and bows. A slender scar marked its way over one collarbone, an old wound long healed but the most prominent of her imperfections. The vibrant bruises she'd attained this morning were already coloring her ribs.
She ran her hands down over the faintest curve of breasts on her chest, barely enough to require a binding beneath her clothing. There was no sensual curve to her hips, merely the sinewy muscle that matched everywhere else on her lean form. Her blond hair hung in limp strands around her face, making her look like a bedraggled urchin. She clenched her fist around the dripping cloth she still held before flinging it at the mirror, hearing the quiet splat before the bathwater drizzled down, distorting her reflection.
Turning away, she dried herself off before grabbing a dressing gown, wrapping it around her and tying it off with a simple sash. Fingers combed through her hair as she sank down on the edge of her bed, but she had no temper left to sustain her. Instead, fat teardrops splashed against one skinned knee, then another.
Giving a broken curse, she turned, hating herself for this weakness, hating everything and everyone. Flinging herself down on her bed, she buried her face in her pillows, giving a wordless shriek that was muffled in the down before her tears soaked the familiar fabric.
She didn't know how long she drenched her pillow, but she was even less aware of slipping off into an unhappy slumber when all her tears were at last spent.
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There was already a tub of steaming water awaiting her, yet another reminder, and that sparked off an entire new tantrum as her training clothes were tossed about the room as if she'd become one of the tumultuous storms off the sea that she'd always so loved to watch.
When her temper was spent, she dropped into the tub, muttering under her breath, still indulging in a sulk, but the heat of the water drained even that away. Her movements were methodical as she un-plaited her braid and began washing the dirt and grass from her blond hair. She lost track of time as her muttered curses and rants faded away into silence.
Finally, she rose from the tub, feeling the water slide down her sun-kissed skin. Turning to grab her towel, she caught sight of herself in the large mirror across the room, staring at herself for several long moments in silence. Her form was still as thin and lanky as any boy's, her height too tall, her shoulders too broad. Her arms were not the pale dainty limbs of the ladies at court, but the muscled arms of someone who spent hours training at sword, axes, and bows. A slender scar marked its way over one collarbone, an old wound long healed but the most prominent of her imperfections. The vibrant bruises she'd attained this morning were already coloring her ribs.
She ran her hands down over the faintest curve of breasts on her chest, barely enough to require a binding beneath her clothing. There was no sensual curve to her hips, merely the sinewy muscle that matched everywhere else on her lean form. Her blond hair hung in limp strands around her face, making her look like a bedraggled urchin. She clenched her fist around the dripping cloth she still held before flinging it at the mirror, hearing the quiet splat before the bathwater drizzled down, distorting her reflection.
Turning away, she dried herself off before grabbing a dressing gown, wrapping it around her and tying it off with a simple sash. Fingers combed through her hair as she sank down on the edge of her bed, but she had no temper left to sustain her. Instead, fat teardrops splashed against one skinned knee, then another.
Giving a broken curse, she turned, hating herself for this weakness, hating everything and everyone. Flinging herself down on her bed, she buried her face in her pillows, giving a wordless shriek that was muffled in the down before her tears soaked the familiar fabric.
She didn't know how long she drenched her pillow, but she was even less aware of slipping off into an unhappy slumber when all her tears were at last spent.