We're in the empty library as the sun begins to sink in the evening. The bookshelves cast long shadows on the marble floor, and we sit at an old table, near where I stood next to Algrim the other night.

Loki is copying some old accounts on a long yellow strip of parchment paper. The feather of the quill swishes as he writes.

"I think", he murmurs and begins another paragraph, "We should discuss titles". My eyes flicker up from watching him write, "What titles". "Yours". I stare at him, lost. He looks up at me quickly, then dips the quill in the ink, "Your name". Comprehension dawns on me.

Of course I have a name already, or rather, I did until I died. I didn't know dead people could have names.

"We could just find my real name. Couldn't you do that thing where we relive parts of my life again?", I perk hopefully.

"Do you want me to do that thing where I drown you in your own blood again?" he raises a thin eyebrow at me, then turns back to his writing when my face darkens, "Didn't think so".

"I suppose the duty rests on my shoulders", he sighs and dusts the quills feather against his chin. I raise my head from staring at the table, and narrow my eyes at him, "Not necessarily".

"I suppose…", he ignores me and shrugs his shoulders, "Sky is a fitting name". Then he goes back to copying the old accounts to new parchment paper.

I mean just like that. He just spews some random word out of his mouth, and that's the end of it. "Sky", I repeat stupidly, "What does that translate to?".

"In the words of my language? Guess", he doesn't so much as glance my way, he just keeps writing. I sit there staring at him. "You want to me after the goddamn atmosphere".

"The atmosphere is a gift to man. Some planets are not so lucky as ourselves".

Seriously? 'There are suffocating kids on other planets who would love to have your air', is pretty much what he's saying.

He's lying on the bed with a pillow propping his head, and staring at the dark ceiling. I've been laying on the sofa, and I have not uttered a word since fifteen minutes ago, when he said 'Sleep well', and I mumbled something incoherently.

"Oh come now". We're lying in the dark, the moonlight pooling in through the window. "Come now what", I sigh. "You are seriously still upset about it?". "About what", I mutter, even though I know exactly what he's talking about, and yes, I am still upset. You could even say I'm mad.

A pillow flies across the room, whaps my face, then falls to the floor.

"The word Sky", he says in the way you would say 'uhh…duh?'. I turn on my side and glare into the dark. "It's a horrible name", I hiss, throwing the pillow back, but it doesn't make the satisfying sound of hitting skin.

"It's a good name, at least in my opinion. And you sing that song of it all the time", I can just imagine him shrugging his shoulders and trying to go back to sleep with that pitiful excuse lying on his tongue.

"WHAT song". "You know…", a few notes reverberate in the air between us.

" 'Over the Sea to Skye'? I've never sang that", I snap, "I don't even sing". "You have, and you do", he groans, clearly yearning for sleep that I wasn't about to let him have now. "Well I certainly don't sing it enough to be named for it", I hiss in a harsh whisper. There's silence on the other side of the room, then "Did you make it yourself?".

"what? No, of course not. It's like a folk song", I flip on my stomach and nestle my head in my arms, expecting him to drop it. I should w by now that Loki does not simply drop things, at least, not without having the last word in. "Tell me". I blink and rub my eyes. "I don't know it exactly. Someone just told me the story once".

I stare out the window, at the white light of the moon. "This one time, a prince was in dire straits. He lost a war, or something. So he disguised himself and fled away on a row boat, through an Isle called Skye", I murmur, "It would make it a lot cooler if he was never seen again, but I don't think that's the story".

There's an empty silence, then "Surely, that can't be all there is". "All that I know". " Then you are a poor storyteller", he sighs, and I hear the sheets shift.

He's said his peace and insulted me, so I presume he will drift off sooner or later. I turn on my side and cross my arms, and then it hits me. I remembered learning that song when I was a kid.

That's the second memory.

I toss and turn, and finally my eyes slowly close.

I drift into darkness and the song rings somewhere in my dreams.

Onward the sailors cry,

Carry the lad that's born to be King

Over the Sea to Skye.