I’m not saying I cared for Tyz’vel or anything like that. I just understood exactly how Odin and Loki cared for each other.

How they had come to, apparently, hate each other that much. I didn’t care for Tyz’vel.

I just respected him enough not to want his destruction. I knew, though, I’d have to fight him, beat him, and send him home. And I had to do it in a way that convinced him I wasn’t going to ever be his.

The spirit bomb was tempting – if I could be sure it wouldn’t destroy him. And I had to do it myself, anyway.

So? So I grabbed the infamous bottle, which turned out to contain a blood colored liquid that, when I removed the cork, was definitely mead with fruit juice added. A mix of fruit juice. It smelled good, I decided. I couldn’t resist pouring myself a tiny sip.

Tasted good, too, although it didn’t seem to grant me any particular wisdom. Shame. I could have used some right about now. But I was right. It was just a recipe. Symbolic. Magic, Bruce had told me once, was all about symbols and representing things.

Representing things. What represented me? Fire? I wished…I wished I could do something about the fyrhund. At least Seb was alive.

Assuming he didn’t go over to those other hunters because they were hot. That was always a hard temptation to resist, and he was a young man. Not like I was that great at resisting temptations.

I’d just managed to limit myself to Kanesha-shaped ones. Part of me wanted to say “for now” but I was still thinking about it.

About possibilities. About how I knew it couldn’t last.

About how much I wanted it to. And I might not have my memories, but I seemed to have my sense of time back.

I wasn’t seventeen. But she was. And what… I shook my head, denied myself more of the mead, and started the ritual. This one was for me to do, I knew. I’d need to shapeshift to get it to them. Or…

No. I’d work through Fitz. Now he knew, and now I thought I could protect him a little. But I couldn’t carry the horn around.

Which was the point of what I was doing. Eventually, I had a bottle of mead that didn’t look like it had been opened. I felt like one of those horrible people who spike drinks. I felt like I was being horribly dishonorable.

But no. They were being messed with and it was right to get them un-messed with. I finished sealing the bottle and put it in my bag. Hopefully Fitz wouldn’t get me arrested.

Hopefully I really could tell him the truth.