He went alone, not wanting to take any companion lest Calsar's people wage a surprise attack while he was gone.

The women of the village greeted him cheerfully; they looked better than they had when he met them before, though the land itself was still sickly.

" Lady Aoife has sent me on an errand," he told them. " I will be going to the bog. Have a small cart made ready for me."

And so he went. They gave him questioning looks, but no one directly asked his business; he figured they all knew, and were afraid to speak it.

Somehow, he was afraid to go alone.

What if he drew this body up, and it came to life, as Helna had?

He passed by Étain's house, and walked into the wood. He could feel the illness radiating through the earth; it grew loose under his feet, the trees bowed and sickly. Soon, he was up to his ankles in rancid water, treading through thick moss and bog cotton.

He swallowed, his deepset hatred of water nagging at him.

Damn that Dubhán! If he was lying in order to trick them, Sif would slit his throat with no remorse.

His feet were sinking in the sludge, socks soaked through; it was completely intolerable, and yet he had not seen the stake. Knowing how Helna had been cast down, it would most likely be in the center of the bog.

He wished he could squeeze his eyes shut; he entertained a brief fantasy of having Rágn pull him on a litter.

Alas, no such luxury could be granted to him. The water, at least, evened out as he went.

He continued forward, shuffling so that he did not unexpectedly fall into a sinkhole or off an unseen shelf of sediment. He could see blackened logs rising out of the muck in the distance; there were some of those in the bog which had held Helna's body, so he figured he was going the right direction.

Indeed, a circle of upright logs were spread in a circle around a fresh-looking birch stake. When he came to the edge of it, he found that it dropped off, the ground suddenly much softer.

He very much did not want to step out towards it.

Yet he did, and found himself sinking up to his calves, the moss squelching beneath him as though it was crying in pain. He wished he could tell the vegetation he felt much the same way.

It became harder to step forward and move; he had to bend over to reach the stake, and only barely managed to grip it, intending to haul himself up more before yanking on it in earnest.

To his surprise and dismay, it came up out of the peat with no struggle- and with it, the ground parted, Sif falling over with less grace than he'd like, delivering up a body as leathered and mummified as Helna's had once been. This one was, to Sif's estimation, a young man. His body was tattooed with concentric blue circles.

" Damn you!" Sif cursed at him, standing up. " How ungrateful you are, knocking this great lord over when he's come to salvage you!"

He half expected a response, but there was none. The body remained withered and lifeless- just as Dubhán said it would be.

He huffed at it, and, having gathered himself, begrudgingly hauled it up; it flopped bonelessly in his arms, bending unnaturally.

He regretted that he had left the cart in the forested area; the texture was incredibly unpleasant, and this poor dead god smelled intensely of the peat.

If this man had been friends with Helna at some point, Sif could only inwardly apologize for his rough handling and impropriety; but damn it all, he hated everything he was doing. He hated water. He hated bogs. He hated dead bodies. He hated that bastard Dubhán and his clacky jewelry.

He hauled the body out of the bog, and last made way back to his cart.

Pushing it with a huff, he was surprised to see Étain outside his house.

" The women told me you'd- Oh," his face fell when he saw Sif's cart.

" It's for the good of Lady Aoife," Sif deadpanned at him.

" You look a terrible sight, Lord Hélna," Étain said. " Come change clothes. I have some that will fit you."

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