Pouring over her maps and letters, Randvi often found it difficult to remain aware of the outside world.

Not much sunlight filtered in the heart of the longhouse, leaving her in the rather dim light of candles even in the middle of the day. True, she could still hear the sounds of life in the village—the laughter of children at play, the noises of the various animals populating Ravensthorpe, the arguments of her fellow clan members—but only barely. Worst of all, when people did come to visit, it was only so she could mediate the most inane of disputes.

Randvi didn't want to admit it out loud, but it was getting clearer by the day that she was soon liable to become utterly mad.

Of course, she had no one to blame but herself for her predicament. It was Randvi who had suggested that she'd stay behind in Ravensthorpe. It was Randvi who had sent Eivor to gather allies across the new land they now called home. As for Sigurd—

Randvi's scowl deepened. Well, only the gods knew what went on in her husband's head. Sigurd was doing what he believed best for the clan. That Randvi sometimes disagreed with his notion of 'best' was inconsequential. He was Jarl, and Randvi and Eivor could only speak and act in his name.

Randvi sighed, putting down the letter she'd been trying to write for the better part of an hour. She massaged her temples to defuse the beginning of a headache. What time was it, exactly? Her stomach was rumbling; was it close to midday already? How long had she spent alone in this near darkness, ignorant of—

"—dvi! Randvi?"

Randvi startled in her seat. She looked up, seeing someone darkening the doorway to the war room. It was Norvid, one of her scouts.

"Randvi!" He had a smile upon his lips. "They're back! The longship's back!"

Slowly, Randvi worked out the implications. Then, she stood from her chair, a smile easing on her face. It was a struggle to keep herself from sounding too excited. "Eivor is back?"

"Yes, though Sigurd is not with her."

Randvi's cheeks nearly flushed in embarrassment. "He isn't?" she said, cursing her carelessness. "That is strange. He had not said he would be staying with the Ragnarssons in his letter."

Norvid shrugged. "Eivor will tell you more, I believe."

"Let's hope so," Randvi said, following him outside.

After a day spent in candlelight, the sun seemed so bright Randvi had to shield her eyes with her hand. Still, the bright, cloudless sky was an auspicious sign. Randvi looked downhill, seeing that the whole of Ravensthorpe was swarming the village's docks. Laughter and cries of joy filled the air as Eivor's raiders were greeted by friends and family. Randvi only had eyes for a certain blonde drengr. Eivor clapped hands with an enthusiastic Gunnar, hugged Eira and Sylvi in turns, and laughed at something Alvis had said. Other villagers surrounded her, no doubt hoping to get her attention. Yes, Randvi thought, a warmth dispersing in her chest, Eivor was the beating heart of Ravensthorpe. Not that she would admit it, of course; her loyalty to Sigurd ran far too deep for that.

Randvi remained on the path leading to the longhouse, knowing that Eivor would come her way, eventually. Eivor raised her head, grinning as she headed toward Randvi. She was accompanied by a boy of perhaps fifteen or sixteen years of age. The lad's red-blond hair was cropped short, in a style that was decidedly not Norse in origin. He had pleasant features—bright brown eyes, a slight, pointed nose, and cheeks still round with the softness of childhood.

"Hello, Eivor," Randvi greeted her husband's sister. "It is good to see you again."

The boy stared at Randvi with some curiosity. "Is that her?" he asked Eivor, speaking in the Saxon language. "Is that Randvi?"

"Yes," Eivor answered, smiling at the lad, "that is her."

"Hello," he said, bowing his head. "My name is Ceolbert. Forgive me for speaking in Saxon only, I'm still learning the language of the Danes."

"We are not Danes," Randvi said, frowning.

Ceolbert's expression grew sheepish. "I'm sorry. You're from Norway. I'd almost forgotten."

Randvi blinked, surprised that he even knew the difference.

"Sigurd talked about you," Ceolbert continued, "though not as much as Eivor, of course. They both hold you in high esteem."

Randvi looked at Eivor with a raised brow. "Did you bring me a Saxon lordling just so he could sing my praises?" she said in Norse.

Eivor laughed out loud. The Saxon lordling in question just looked back and forth between the two women. Clearly, he was confused, but too polite to express it out loud.

"It's nothing," Randvi said, in Saxon. "I know who you are. One of my scouts informed me of your arrival. You're King Ceolwulf's son, are you not?"

Ceolbert pressed his lips together. "The king's son. That sounds so strange to my ears. As far as I can remember, my father has been simply an advisor to King Burgred. I don't feel like a king's son."

"But you are," Eivor said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come, I'll show you where you'll be staying."

Ceolbert's eyes widened as they neared the longhouse. "What a magnificent construction," he said, touching the pattern carved in the doorway with a reverent hand. "That woodwork… I've never seen such beautiful craftsmanship."

"It was originally built by the Ragnarssons," Randvi said, "but we added something of our own, I would say."

The lad considered the inside of the longhouse with even more awe. "It's quite colourful, isn't it? It reminds me a bit of the Roman buildings in Ledecestre. Saxon architecture doesn't favour such rich hues." His mouth quirked into another sheepish smile. "It makes everything look so dour, I think."

"Glad to see you approve of your new lodgings," Eivor told him, pushing him toward her chambers. "Here is where you'll stay."

"Eivor, you can't let him have your chambers," Randvi said. "Where will you sleep?"

Ceolbert's eyes popped a little. "Oh, goodness no. Eivor, you don't have to be so accommodating, I don't need—"

Eivor laughed loudly. "I've slept in war camps, grass as my pillow, for the better part of a month. Besides, knowing dear Randvi, I'm sure to be sent on some errand very soon."

Dear Randvi… Randvi inhaled deeply. Eivor was giving her one of her cocky grins. By the gods, that smirk was equally infuriating and—

"If you say so," Ceolbert said, snapping Randvi out of a dangerous train of thought. "Thank you again. For letting me stay, I mean."

Eivor snorted. "Don't thank me yet, little lord. I won't be your minder. That'll be Randvi. You need to thank her."

The boy turned to Randvi. "Well, then, thank you, Randvi. I will do my utmost best not to disappoint."

Randvi hid her hands behind her backs; they had tightened into fists. Once, she'd been a fierce shieldmaiden, chasing glory with a grin upon her lips. Now… what had Eivor said, exactly? That she would be the minder of some soft boy she'd just met?

Was that all Randvi was good for?"

"All right," Randvi said, masking her irritation under a layer of sternness. "I shall put your commitment to good use, then."

As Eivor had predicted, she remained in Ravensthorpe for only two weeks. Too soon for Randvi's liking, she was leaving for Grantebridge, in hopes of meeting with the leader of the remains of the Great Summer Army.

Again, the whole of the village gathered to see the longship off. Ceolbert remained by Randvi's side, a quiet but curious observer. Once the blue sail was gone from view, everyone scattered, leaving Randvi with the young aetheling. Ceolbert was staring at her with slightly furrowed eyebrows. Randvi sighed. The lad would be a pretty poor replacement for Eivor's company, yes, but it was through no fault of his own. Perhaps young Ceolbert harboured some resentment of his own for being left with strangers—and heathen northerners to boot. Quite possibly he had not been given much choice in the matter.

"Come," she told Ceolbert, motioning at him with her chin. "Let us see what you can do."

Thus Randvi found herself with quite the dutiful little shadow. Every morning before sunrise she would find Ceolbert outside her chambers, standing with his back straight, like a soldier awaiting orders. And every day he would follow after her with parchment and quill, jotting down her instructions as religiously as a Christian priest would note his scriptures. Ceolbert had lovely handwriting, Randvi had been surprised to find. Eivor could learn from his example.

The lad was quiet, deceptively so. Sometimes, Randvi would lose herself to her work—pouring over information brought by her scouts, handling correspondence from their allies, making preparation for the coming summer—only to startle when she would notice him, just sitting in complete silence as he worked on his own tasks. She had never met a boy so meek. It was lucky there was no one around his age in Ravensthorpe; otherwise he would have been mercilessly mocked for his lack of boldness.

He got along well enough with the village's children, however, and Randvi often saw him playing some game with Sylvi, Knud and Eira. Once, she even caught them in a makeshift training ground in the woods behind the longhouse. The three children were enthusiastically taking turns swatting at Ceolbert with wooden swords.

Randvi remained on the side to assess her young charge's technique. To her surprise, Ceolbert had a solid foundation; his footwork could use some work, yes, but his stance was strong, and his cuts and jabs showed a surprising amount of precision. Randvi had half-expected to have to start from scratch on that front.

The lesson ended with the children chasing one another through the woods, shouting battle cries at the top of their lungs. Only then did Ceolbert finally notice Randvi.

"Impressive skill," she said, approaching him. "You are a good teacher as well."

"I'm a thegn's son," Ceolbert said; the poor boy's cheeks were flushed, and not just from the physical exertion, Randvi figured. "Learning to fight was part of my education as much as memorizing my scriptures."

"It's more than that. You seem to enjoy it." Randvi took Sylvi's discarded wooden sword and shield. Ceolbert understood her intent, falling into a fighting stance as well.

Ceolbert parried her first attack with ease. "I do. Mens sana in corpore sano." He laughed a little at her expression. "A Roman idiom. A healthy spirit in a healthy body. Sparring is a good way to clear the mind of anxious thoughts." His hand tightened around his wooden sword. "It's the killing I cannot abide. I… I just…"

"There is a fine line between taking pride in defeating your opponent and deriving pleasure in wanton murder," Randvi said. This time, Ceolbert was too slow to meet her blade, and he winced as she struck him on the arm. "Glory lies with the former. Be wary of anyone who sees fighting only as a conduit to hurt others."

"Why would I ever trust someone who enjoys killing?" Ceolbert said, voice flat with disbelief.

"It's not always so simple." A cut, then another jab. Randvi nodded in approval as Ceolbert deflected both attacks with his shield. "And many people would disagree with my assessment. They would say there is no difference between the two."

"I see," Ceolbert mused. "It must be especially important to remember in a culture where so much is based on warfare,"

In response, Randvi raised a single eyebrow.

Ceolbert shook his head, cheeks reddening once more. "No, no, I am not criticizing your customs! There is valour to be found in war, if you act honourably. That's how the Romans did it, after all. Theirs was a warrior culture as well."

Randvi smiled slightly. She pressed on for another attack, and was glad to see the boy push back with his shield without missing a beat. Immediately afterward, Ceolbert swung his sword in a counterattack. Randvi parried with her own shield, though her smile had not lessened.

"Good reflexes," she commented. "A sign of discipline and frequent practice."

The whole of Ceolbert's face lit up. "You think so? I was under the impression… Ivarr once said..."

Randvi fought an urge to frown, and she wondered what, exactly, the famous son of Ragnar Lothbrok had told the boy. "Why would I lie to preserve your feelings? Do you think that I am one to offer praise so easily?" In response, Ceolbert only beamed at her. Randvi herself was buoyant in a way she had not felt for quite a while. "But remember to keep your stance low, even as you move."

She demonstrated her point by pushing at him with her shield, making him stumble backward. Still, Ceolbert's smile did not fade; in fact, it grew even brighter. When the orange sunlight of the late afternoon began to pour through the leaves, a few hours later, Randvi's muscles were aching—but in a good way. Poor Ceolbert was soaked in sweat through and through; still, he seemed happier than she had ever seen him. And that night, Randvi went to sleep feeling lighter than she had in some time.

Something seemed to change after that.

Ceolbert became… well, not exactly talkative—Randvi doubted he would ever come out of his shell completely—but he did share more about his life. Before the current troubles, he had not left his hometown of Repton very often. His favourite pastime was fishing, though he enjoyed hunting as well. He was curious about Randvi's faith, and often asked questions about Norse culture, noting that some of their traditions were quite similar to Saxon customs. Randvi also learned that his father was his only remaining family.

"What about you, Randvi?" Ceolbert had asked, then. "Did you leave any family behind in Norway?"

"My parents," she had answered. "I have a younger sister as well. Her name is Thora."

"I'm my father's youngest child. I don't remember any of my brothers and sisters, however. They all died at a young age."

Randvi's quill had stopped writing, and it hovered in the air as she mulled over those words. No wonder the lad had lived such a sheltered life, she realized. "I'm sorry."

Ceolbert shrugged. "It was a little lonely, growing up without siblings. I guess that's why I'm better with books than with people."

"You sell yourself too short, Ceolbert. You get along with others well enough."

Once again, he'd looked at her with an expression of bashful delight. Poor boy. Randvi suspected that the life he had led before coming to Ravensthorpe had been even lonelier than he wanted to admit.

Soon enough, Randvi could barely remember a time where he had not been part of her daily routine. Ceolbert helped her keep things clean and orderly (Eivor's chambers had never been so tidy). He brought her meals when she was too focused on her work to feast with the others in the hall of the longhouse. He taught her about Saxon culture, giving her a valuable perspective on their Christian neighbours (the different shires of Mercia were not as homogenous as they first seemed, Ceolbert had explained; Randvi could not expect an Anglian man from Lincolnscire to behave and think like a Briton from Glowecestre, for one).

After their sparring sessions, handling correspondence was the task he seemed to enjoy the most. Ceolbert's placid face would always liven up whenever one of Randvi's scouts would come in with a letter. That joy would be mixed with apprehension whenever it was his father who wrote to him, however. Randvi was not privy to the content of the king's letters to his son, but Ceolwulf was warm and grateful in his own messages to Randvi. She wondered why the boy was so uneasy whenever he heard from the man.

This morning, both Sunniva and Norvid had come with good news; Norvid had returned from the north to retrieve word from Tamworth, while Sunniva brought two missives, one written in Eivor's hand, the other in Sigurd's.

Randvi was grateful that Ceolbert was so occupied with his father's letter; she would not have wanted him to notice just how obsessively she combed over Eivor's words. Randvi's sister-in-law had met Soma, the jarlskona who ruled over Grantesbridge, and the latter had pledged an oath of friendship to the Raven clan. And—Randvi's breath quickened as she read further on—Eivor was heading back north to Ravensthorpe—back home. Randvi ran her fingers on the vellum, endeared as always by the crookedness of Eivor's runes. She glanced at Ceolbert, once again thinking he could teach Eivor a thing or two on the topic of tidy handwriting.

Ceolbert seemed equally absorbed by his father's letter. Eventually, he stood up, his brow furrowing. "I'm sorry," he mumbled to Randvi. Before she could place a word, he left the war room. Randvi did not call after him, figuring the boy needed some time alone.

Once she was done with her task, Randvi went to Eivor's chambers, only to find it empty. That was not odd in itself. Ceolbert was free to go anywhere he pleased; she was not his mother. Still, Randvi felt a hint of worry tugging at her heart. She set out for the village to ask for his whereabouts. It was Hytham who told her that he'd seen the lad heading toward the pond behind Rowan's stables.

"Poor boy rather seemed out of it," Hytham had told her. "Did something happen?"

"I cannot say," Randvi had replied. "I will check on him. Thank you, Hytham."

She made for the northern part of the village. As Hytham had said, there was a certain adolescent boy standing by the water's edge, a fishing rod in his hands. In a basket next to Ceolbert, a few fish were wriggling.

"Catching tonight's supper?" Randvi enquired.

"Oh!" Ceolbert startled a little. "Hello, Randvi. Well, I suppose so. Would you like to join me?"

Randvi snorted. "No. Fishing is more Eivor's thing." She stood by him, examining his face. Ceolbert's expression was closely guarded, but he was still not good enough to fool her. "So," she began. "How is your father?"

Ceolbert launched his line again, staying silent for a while. "He is well," he said, eventually. "A bit tired, but that is to be expected."

"That is good to hear," Randvi replied. She waited for him to elaborate, taking a moment to appreciate their surroundings. It truly was peaceful here, with the lapping of the fall and the rustling in the leaves providing a soothing alternative to the noises of the village. No wonder Ceolbert spent so much time here.

"It's only… my father, well…" Ceolbert seemed to be choosing his words very carefully. "His health can be poor. On most days, his mind is strong and clear, but sometimes… it's as if a veil of sadness is draped over him. At those moments, he seems to have one foot in the grave already. His condition worsened after my mother died, a few years ago."

"You should be more careful with whom you share this kind of information," Randvi gently chided. "Your father still has many enemies."

Ceolbert's cheeks coloured. "Ah! Yes, I know. Normally, I would not speak of this matter. It's simply, well…"

He trusts me, Randvi realized. Completely, utterly trusts me. She did not know whether or not she was touched or concerned by this candid display.

"What about the letters you received?" Ceolbert's attempt to change the subject was so blatant that Randvi almost laughed.

"One is from Eivor. She is returning soon to Ravensthorpe. The other is from Sigurd."

"Really?" Ceolbert smiled. "That is good to hear! How is he faring? Sigurd, I mean."

Randvi sighed. "He keeps himself busy. That much I know." Her husband's letter had been short, only saying that he would head to Oxenfordscire with Basim for an important matter—one he did not care to explain, of course.

"You must miss him," Ceolbert said. "He always did tell all those wonderful stories about the places he's visited."

"He certainly does," Randvi said. Did she sound too bitter? She hoped not. The last thing she needed was to burden the boy with her rancour.

"If you could travel anywhere, where would you go, Randvi?"

Randvi blinked, looking at Ceolbert with eyes round with surprise. He stared back with a guileless gaze. Had anyone ever asked Randvi what she wanted, lately?

"Me? Where would I go?"

"Yes. Eivor told me you used to be a shieldmaiden. You surely have some stories of your own. And some places you would wish to see."

A warmth dispersed in Randvi's chest at the lad's words, one she could not quite explain. "I would go to Rome," she answered, "and see for myself the birthplace of the people who left all those ruins I've seen on this isle." She remembered the first time she'd seen those crumbling structures, how her breath had caught in her throat. How could mere mortals have built such things, she had wondered? It had seemed like the work of giants.

"Oh, yes," Ceolbert agreed. "It is one of my dreams as well. I am sure Rome has some of the finest architectural wonders that can be seen in the world. I would be especially glad to see the ruins of the Colosseum."

"And that is?" Randvi enquired, stifling a chuckle. She knew full well that an enthusiastic explanation was sure to follow; in truth, she found herself looking forward to it.

"It was an arena that served for many kinds of public spectacles. Great warriors called gladiators fought for the amusement of the people. Sometimes, they would hunt dangerous beasts as well to prove their valour to the Emperor. It must have been rather grand to see." Ceolbert tugged a bit on his line, but no fish seemed to have taken the bait. "We have one in Lunden, though I've never seen it. I've never been there, actually."

"Give it some time," Randvi said. "You're still young."

"We could visit Lunden, one day," Ceolbert said, rather precipitately. His enthusiasm at the idea was making him livelier than usual. "The three of us, I mean. It's closer than Rome."

"The three of us?" Randvi asked.

"Well, yes… you, Eivor and me. It would do the two of you some good to spend some time together." Ceolbert turned abruptly red, before adding, "Er, I'm sure you would enjoy travelling together. You and Eivor, I mean."

Randvi hid a smile, shaking her head. "I'm sure Eivor would enjoy the proposition."

The boy then hung down his head, biting his lower lip. The wind seemed to have gone out of his sails. "No. All of this is wishful thinking. I'm being childish. My father wants me to be ealdorman of a shire. That's what his last letter was about, actually."

"A high honour to be sure," Randvi said. And a poisoned gift as well, she added in her mind.

Much like her marriage to Sigurd, in truth.

"Why, yes, but…"

"It's not what you would have wanted," Randvi completed.

"I would have been content with less," Ceolbert said. He began to pull in his line, which was tugging from the other end. "If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need

Randvi raised an eyebrow, and the boy's expression grew sheepish.

"A quote from Cicero. He's one of the great Roman orators. Of course, I have no garden, and my father's library is small enough that I've read every text ten times over. But I find I would be happy enough if I had both of these things."

"What a strange boy you are," Randvi commented.

"Ah… well, I suppose so… especially to the eyes of a Norse."

Ceolbert suddenly yanked his rod, and the line snapped. Randvi snorted out a laugh at his almost childish scowl.

"Perhaps that's why he wanted me to learn the art of warfare from Ivarr Ragnarsson," he added, sounding unusually sour. "So I can be more like him and his brother, and less like… whatever it is I am..."

Randvi's smile immediately turned into a frown. When she'd spoken of the campaign in Ledecestrescire, Eivor had praised the famed warrior, yet… Randvi knew her beloved drengr well enough to know that something about Ivarr Ragnarsson had left her uneasy. No, disturbed would have been the better term. Randvi did not want to imagine what could have troubled Eivor so greatly.

"I doubt your father would want that," she said carefully, "not really."

"Your people have stories of fierce warriors aplenty, and the Ragnarssons seemed to stand head and shoulders above the rest. Why shouldn't I aspire to be like them?"

"Because you should be forging your own path," Randvi told him. "Your father would want you to be your own man, of this I am certain."

"But I don't know how," he said, so softly that she wasn't certain he had meant to say it out loud. "If only I could have but half of Ivarr Ragnarsson's boldness, then I'm sure my father would…" Ceolbert fell silent, averting his eyes from Randvi's gaze.

"Ceolbert," Randvi said, firmly, "your father is proud of you. I doubt there is something in England that he treasures more than you."

"That is kind of you to say," Ceolbert said, shaking his head. He would still not look at her eyes. Kneeling down, he took his basket full of fish. "It's getting late, isn't it? We should be going, otherwise these will never be ready in time for tonight's feast."

"True enough," Randvi said. "With enough luck, we might even have Eivor at our table tonight."

She was glad to see a smile brightening Ceolbert's face. "Let's hope so!"

Randvi's wishes came true, and this very night the village gathered once more at the docks to give Eivor and her crew a warrior's welcome.

Again, Randvi waited on the path to the longhouse, eyes fixed on Eivor. The latter was smiling as she clapped hands with the people who came to greet her. Yet there was a tightness to that grin, a tiredness that seemed to make Eivor hunch a little. Randvi felt that weight by association, and, by the gods, how she longed to rush down that path to gather Eivor in her arms so she could find rest and comfort within her embrace…

Next to her, Ceolbert was giving Randvi a strange look.

"What it is?" Randvi asked him.

"N-Nothing," the boy stuttered. Still, he continued to look at her sideways even as Eivor climbed the hill, followed by her crew and the rest of the village.

The welcoming feast lasted well into the night. Eivor took great care to describe the battle in which they had reclaimed Grantesbridge—how they had breached into the city by turning its great gates into splinters and ashes, how they had made the streets run red with the blood of Saxon traitors, how they had then chased and slayed Wigmund, the wriggling eel of a man who had first taken Grantesbridge from Soma Jarlskona. Ceolbert listened to Eivor's tale with rapt attention, though he had paled when she'd talked of killing his fellow Christians.

After a while, Eivor grew uncharacteristically silent, while Dag took over her tale, drunkenly detailing each of his glorious battle-deeds. As the rest of the crew laughed and jeered at him, Eivor stood from her seat. No one seemed to notice as she walked out of the longhouse—no one save for Randvi and her little shadow, of course.

"Is she all right?" Ceolbert asked. "Shouldn't we follow her?"

Randvi nodded, and the two of them excused themselves from their table, following Eivor outside. The air was warm despite the late hour, a sign that summer was well underway. Randvi looked up at the starry sky, suddenly wistful. Their first summer in England. Had it been truly six months since they had founded Ravensthorpe, she, Eivor and Sigurd? It seemed longer, much longer.

Eivor was sitting in front of a campfire next to Hytham's modest lodgings, speaking softly with the young acolyte. When he noticed Randvi and Ceolbert approaching, Hytham stood up, dusting off his robes.

"Ah!" he said. "Is the feast over yet? I was feeling a bit peckish…"

"Some food still remains," Randvi told him with a smile, "though I can't say for how long it will be so. Better go now if you wish to eat your fill."

The man gave her a slight bow, before heading toward the longhouse. Eivor looked up at Randvi and Ceolbert, putting down her mug.

"Had enough of the revelries?" she said, grinning.

"All that noise is a bit too much for me," Ceolbert replied, sitting beside her as Randvi took place across the campfire. "I'm not good with crowds, truly."

"What about you, Randvi? Odd to see you ignoring an opportunity to get drunk beyond measure."

"I would say the same of you," Randvi countered. She then grew sombre. "We lost people, didn't we? I don't see Njal coming back with you. And…"

Eivor nodded. "And Yrsa as well. Njal was killed during the taking of the city. And Yrsa died defending me as we searched for that snake Wigmund."

Randvi closed her eyes, committing the faces of the two fallen to her memory. "We must send a letter to Njal's sister back in Fornburg," she said. "And Yrsa…"

"Has joined the rest of her family in Valhalla. She had no one left in Midgard." Eivor took a sip from her mug. "The first people we've lost in England."

And surely not the last, Randvi thought grimly. "Both died well. To Odin's hall they now await us."

"Indeed." Eivor raised her mug. "To Njal and Yrsa. And to glorious death. Skal!"

"Skal," Randvi said, drinking from her own horn.

"Pardon my indiscretion, but…"

Randvi nearly startled at the sound of Ceolbert's voice. He was raising his hand, like a child asking permission to speak.

"Warriors go to Valhalla, yes?" Ceolbert continued. "What about everyone else? Children, women, the elderly? Where do they go?"

"The cold mists of Niflheim awaits them," Eivor said. "A place forever frozen in time, where there is neither joy nor sorrow."

"Oh," Ceolbert said, frowning. "Such a depressing end to one's journey."

Eivor set her jaw tight. Randvi shot Ceolbert a glance, hoping he would not press the subject.

"That means people in Valhalla are kept apart from their loved ones who did not die in battle," Ceolbert said. Randvi cursed under her breath; now was not the time for a theological debate. "That does not sound like much of a reward to me."

"You would not understand," Eivor said. Again, there was an unusual hint of acrimony in her tone.

"And I doubt I ever will. Good people should not suffer needlessly, regardless of their prowess in battle." Ceolbert seemed to hesitate for a moment. "Don't you think? Would any of you want to go to Valhalla knowing well you would be separated from—"

"Ceolbert, stop." Randvi stood halfway, glancing across the campfire. Eivor's hands had tightened into fists, and she was looking away, face twisted in disgust.

"I know perfectly well what it feels like," she said, voice growing cold. "My father died a coward. I will not find him in Valhalla."

Ceolbert's eyebrows shot up, and his eyes widened. "Eivor..." he whispered. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"Eivor, your father died to protect you and your clan—" Randvi began.

"He died on his knees, begging. Odin has no use for men such as him."

"Eivor…" Randvi sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose. How many times had they had that argument? "Just because he died without an axe in his hand, that doesn't mean—"

"Do you think my father is a coward, Eivor?" Ceolbert asked, rather abruptly.

Eivor narrowed her eyes at him. Then, her frown eased a little. "Of course not. He's a man willing to make hard decisions. I can respect that."

Ceolbert hugged his knees, looking suddenly much younger than his sixteen years. "I doubt he has such a high opinion of his own character. He's tried to hide it from me, but… I'm not a child anymore. I know he feels like he's sold his soul to gain his crown. That he thinks he doesn't deserve salvation."

"Salvation?" Randvi asked. Sometimes, the Saxons' religion confused her. It seemed to her as if they only lived to make themselves miserable to please their fickle god.

"He believes that he doesn't deserve peace after death." Ceolbert sighed. "What I mean to say… Eivor, your father might have thought the same. He might have been willing to risk appearing like a coward in the eyes of your gods for the sake of his people. Or, rather, for your sake. Just like my father did everything for mine." He'd said that last sentence so quietly that Randvi was certain he hadn't meant it for their ears.

Eivor was looking at Ceolbert, her stare surprisingly icy. "And? Does that change anything? My father's reasons matter little to Odin and his maidens."

"Then it's their loss," Ceolbert said, firmly. He'd even raised his voice a little. "I would sooner have a dozen men like your father than all of the strongest warriors in Norway."

Both Randvi and Eivor looked at him, stunned into silence. Ceolbert stared back at Eivor, brows still furrowed. Then, she burst out laughing, clapping the young aetheling on the back and making him spill half the content of his own mug on the ground.

"Did you see that, Randvi?" Eivor said with pride. "How he talked back at me? You're rubbing off on him!"

Predictably, Ceolbert went red. "Wait, I wasn't… I didn't mean to be rude, I only..."

"And that little scowl!" Eivor's grin was now directed at Randvi. "A perfect mirror of yours, I'd say."

Randvi rolled her eyes. Still, not a second later, her expression had softened. The weight had not been lifted from Eivor's shoulders, not quite—but her smile was true, and her eyes had gotten some of their usual shine back.

"Perhaps," Randvi said, looking fondly at the lad. "He's a quick study, that much I cannot deny."

And something of a teacher in the making, she added in her mind.

Perhaps there was no glory to be found in the role of a tutor. Still, the pride that came with the role was a nice substitute.

A/N: I kinda wanted to puzzle out why Ceolbert, a sweet Christian boy, would be hero-worshipping all them murderous heathens currently invading his homeland—so I made him a fanboy of the similarly warlike Roman culture.

Also, who thought Ivarr was good mentor material while Randvi Was. Right. There!