Robert Winter

“Ah, the traitor pays a visit,” a voice sneered from behind Magnús, drawing him to an abrupt stop. “Killed any more of our native creatures? Are you here to find victims to persecute in your humans-first campaign?”
Magnús’s jaw tightened as he turned to face the speaker. “Lars Berkisson. You must be desperate if you’re grubbing for supporters here.”
Lars gave Magnús a tight smile, his steel-gray eyes narrowing. “I came to offer comfort to Vörður, and to tend to his affairs while he rots in the cell where you put him. Tell me, Magnús. How many more of your own people will you try to destroy in your self-hatred?”
“Vörður put himself in that cell when he stole a human baby and tried to pass himself off as the infant. He ignored the edict laid down by Queen Hildur, risked violating the First Covenant, and in any event, the act was despicable. Changelings have been forbidden for decades.”
Lars laughed. “Of course, you and Bryndís are too modern to gather servants in the old ways. But we who honor the ancient customs have long known that if we must tolerate non-magical humans on our shores, then they are best taken as babes. Those raised from infancy make for superior attendants and retainers. The queen has been led astray by your misplaced devotion to mortals, but I have confidence she’ll return to tradition.”
Magnús clenched his jaw, determined to keep his temper. “A tradition of bigotry and false piety, pretending the gods want us to use humans as pets or chattel.”
“Well, isn’t that what Sigurjón was to you? A pet?”
The twist to Lars’s upper lip enraged Magnús. Although Lars had been back from his exile for nearly a fifth of a century, Magnús’s every encounter with him brought them close to battle. With a tremendous effort of will, Magnús refrained from pulling the dagger tucked in his belt.
“Sigurjón was as much a child of the gods as you once were, Lars,” he said through gritted teeth. “The path you follow leads to Hel’s sunless lands, though you lie to your followers and promise them Valhöll.”
Lars shook his head in a way that infuriated Magnús. “Álfheimur is the true home of our people. Those who hear my words long only for a return to the days before men invaded our shores. Before they killed our trees, stole our magic, and built their abominable cities.”
“The gods led mortals here to Iceland, Cousin. Your brand of fanaticism sets those who believe you against the will of the Æsir. And I, for one, look forward to a reckoning.”
With that, Magnús strode away. He didn’t trust himself to spend one more minute in the presence of the vile creature who had murdered his beloved Sigurjón.”
― Robert Winter, Falconsaga