Death is too easy.

This she spits at him, and in that moment, any delusion he might have had that an ounce of compassion existed in her - as much as such a thing being offered by a Yakut disgusts him - is gone, snuffed out of existence like the blizzard that had broken while he lay unconscious upon the snow. Grim stands stiff as a statue but for the violent tremors wracking his body, his eyes boring into her with a deliberate coldness that the rest of his frozen features struggle to communicate.

His thoughts are sluggish as a stream choked by shards of ice, and he cannot formulate any meaningful reply when she has finished speaking. Instead, they stand in silence for some moments, at an impasse. The rising sun is at Grim's back, sending shafts of golden light past him and illuminating the Yakut's coat to a fiery red that complements her expression of loathing. Though simply breathing the frigid air hurts, he can feel the warmth of the sun sinking into his skin, waking his nerves and filling him, bit by bit, with renewed strength.

For a moment he thinks of Veigar and the others. How ironic is is that those he had once trusted now want him - and likely hope he already is - dead, while his once-sworm enemy stands before him, ensuring he lives (if only so he can suffer).

Grim lifts one foreleg, testing its strength, and places it back in the snow with a crunch. He considers rushing the mare and baiting her into a fight. He would almost certainly lose, of course, but he would die a warrior's death. He would see the halls of Valhalla. He would no longer be bound to a broken body or the purgatory of a life in exile. And yet...

He averts his gaze, remembering the faces of those who had betrayed him, and how he had spat their names as curses as he fled into the sea, swearing to himself that he would return and kill them all. If he lets this Yakut strike him down now, his name and his reputation will die with him.

And he will never see Frigg again.

He tears his eyes from the glittering white of the snow and looks at the Yakut one last time. For a moment, he almost sees the resemblance again, and something in his gut wrenches with first longing, then disgust that he could ever compare the two. He flares his pink nostrils with a harsh snort and offers the mare a dark look. "A curse for a curse," he says through gritted teeth and shuddering breaths. "Now you must live with the knowledge that I survive. I hope you rest easy with your decision."

With a flick of his ashy tail, the stallion turns and limps away through the snow.