I know every single scar on her body. From the rictus of scar tissue around her shoulders, where bone forced through; to the lines of a whip on her lower back, from an offense she will not speak of; to the straight line on her stomach where she was hit with a spear fighting Rome; the scar along her left upper arm where she was caught in battle and had no time for the wound to be healed; the mottling around one ankle where a burning rope caught her unawares. Her life has left its marks. But none as terrible, or as obvious, as from where Death slapped her for saving our lives. Bright white lines lay along her right cheek, from where she was backhanded by the right hand. I know what that means to her. By backhanding her, Etana has been put in her place. Beneath Death.

I can imagine her, standing defiant in front of a being more powerful that Odin, staring her straight in the empty eyes and never once flinching. Taking the blow without recoiling. But nothing anybody does can ease the stark whiteness on midnight fur. The fur has burnt away, the skin has bleached colourless. Doc Strange daren't even try. Even Tora, who I have seen heal the most terrible of wounds, can do nothing. When she poured water over it, the liquid boiled away.

Etana is marked by Death. Marked as one of Death's servants. It is…difficult. Our enemies of more occult or supernatural origin fear her from the first glance. Others simply laugh. And then she draws one of her swords.

I now know the name of the sickle-sword. It is a khopesh, a blade used by Canaanite warriors in the first days of Israel. But Etana wields hers with grace. I have never seen her use the sword made of fire, but she recently turned up with the blade made of bronze. She says it was a gift. A gift for killing a man. And then she turned away, ashamed that once her blade could be bought, even if it was by her own king.

She's sitting down just now with a whetstone and oil, running her hand over the blade with a critical eye.

"Too sharp. Look."

She holds up a hand with a red line of blood down it.

"The blade's too thin. I need to blunt it, get it to a more manageable thickness."

She starts grinding the stone down the blade, then pulls down one of her magnifying lenses that fit into the rather convoluted glasses.

"Can you stop that? It's mildly disturbing."

Her head snaps up and she stares at Hawkeye.

"What?"

"The way you're looking at that sword with some sort of creepy adoration thing."

She raises an eyebrow.

"And you don't talk to your bow?"

"Oi! How do you…"

"Oh, so you do. Bit of a shot in the dark, but ever so interesting."

"What!"

She smirks and goes back to drawing the stone over the edge of the sword, humming something under her breath.