Elmenham, 890

The table grew very silent as little Eadith described her father's duel with the mad warlord who'd plagued his kingdom, and how it had ended with the two of them plummeting to what seemed like their watery graves. Her audience was holding their breaths, even. The scarred drengr only continued to pet old Aghi; the tomcat was eating a piece of fish she'd slipped under the table.

Eventually, a young drengr asked, "Did he… did he die?"

The older man next to him cuffed him behind the head. "Of course not, Ulfgrim, you idiot! Else, where would these children have come from? You think their mother was plowed by the ghost of their father?"

Eivor and Eadith made the same grimace of disgust, prompting laughter around the table. Before any of the girls could speak, however, a great clamour sounded from the entrance of the longhouse. A procession of proud drengir was making their way inside the meadhall, causing a few people to cry out, "It's the king! King Guthrum is back!"

Indeed, the scarred drengr could see an aging figure leading the group of warriors. Guthrum's once straight back now stooped a little, and he was a great deal skinnier than the broad-shouldered warlord she remembered. Beside him stood another man—plain-looking, with a wholly forgettable presence. Still, the scarred drengr felt a surge of affection at the sight of his amiable features. The man led Guthrum to the seat of honour without ever noticing that she was present.

Some of the young warriors who'd gone hunting were displaying the catches of the day—a few rabbits and, more importantly, a rather formidable-looking buck. The sight of the proud beast prompted cheers through the meadhall, and people raised their tankards to salute the victorious hunters. One grinning youth left the procession, heading toward their table with a self-assured gait. He was taller (and more handsome, if one had to be honest) than the man described in Eivor and Eadith's tale, and his messy curls, shaved at the sides in a Norse style, was the wrong shade of blond. Still, anyone looking at the lad could not doubt his parentage; the thegn of Elmenham probably saw an older version of this boy's face whenever he looked at his own reflection.

The lad snuck behind the two girls to grab them in a crushing embrace, laughing maniacally all the while. Little Eadith giggled as he lifted her off the ground, but Eivor's face twisted into a scowl.

"Eohric, you arse," she growled, "put me down!"

"Make me, you little troll!" Eohric answered. The scarred drengr noted with some amusement that a number of young girls were giving him coy looks. He resembled his father, yes, but that charming grin definitely came from his uncles.

Eohric laughed even louder as Eivor elbowed him in the ribs. The scarred drengr felt a dull pang, remembering a set of siblings much like these two. She hoped young Eohric and Eivor would be served with a better fate than the brother and sister in her memories.

"Did you catch anything?" Eadith asked, as her brother finally released his hold on her.

"No," Eohric said, "but I did land a hit on that buck. Besides, those drengir wouldn't boast of it, but most of these rabbits came from the traps Mother left this morning."

"Did Father catch anything?"

Eohric snorted. "Of course not! As if the man could ever shoot straight. He scared the prey away for the most part." The lad ruffled Eivor's dark hair, and she groaned. "We would have fared better if we'd brought this one instead, but you know these old wolves types. Wouldn't have taken well to have a wee lass be a better shot than they are."

"Pigs," Eivor grumbled.

"You are good with a bow, then?" the scarred drengr asked young Eivor.

"She can shoot through the eye of a squirrel while hanging upside-down from a tree," Eohric said, not without some pride.

"Hm." Eivor shrugged, though her cheeks were a bit tinged pink.

The hint of a smile showed on the scarred drengr's lips. Her young namesake took more after her mother than her father, evidently enough.

"So, you are our host's son," she asked the lad. "Eirikr, is it?"

"Eohric," the boy corrected. "Though the man for whom I was named was called Eirikr, yes."

She snorted. "Those Saxons and their mangling of the language..."

"Watch your words, drengr," Eohric said, with equal good humour. "I am Saxon as well as Dane. The blood of two proud people flows in my veins."

"The blood of kings," the scarred drengr added. "The blood of heroes."

"Stop it," Eivor said sternly, "or his head will be even more inflated than before."

Eohric laughed. "Too late for that, sweet sister! Now, I only await the occasion to prove myself worthy of that lineage. To rise up and meet my fate, just as our father has done. For everlasting glory, and a chance to carve my name into the great runestone of history!"

At this declaration, the warriors sitting at their table cheered for him like they had not cheered for his sisters. The scarred drengr looked at them and could only think, They are young. So very, very young. She felt a deep-seated weariness, down to her aging bones, and sighed.

"Did your father fight for glory?" she asked the boy, rather quietly.

"Of course," Eohric replied. "What other reason is there to fight?"

The scarred drengr was struck by a sudden vision: she saw in her mind's eye this proud young man, barely older than he was now, his once bright blue eyes staring blankly at the open sky as he lay amidst a field of corpses. She shivered, hoping that the Nornir had chosen a different fate for her old friend's son.

"Your sisters were telling us the tale of how the man gained his crown," she said. "They spoke of your father's courage, and of his integrity. I'd be curious to hear what you would say about this matter, young drengr. Will you give this story the end it deserves?" Perhaps if Eohric understood why his father had fought, he could learn from the man's example, and the terrible vision she'd seen would not come to pass.

"If my sisters agree," Eohric said. "Who am I to steal another's tale?"

"You're itching to jaw our ears off, I know it," Eivor said. "You wither when you're not the centre of attention."

Her words prompted chuckles from their audience. Eohric shrugged, still grinning.

"Right," he said. "So, what part of our illustrious sire's life were you describing, exactly…?"

"We were about to speak of the battle of Burgh Castle!" Eadith said.

"Burgh Castle?" Eohric considered this for a moment. "A grand tale indeed, but Father didn't fight in that one, not exactly…"

"No, but Mother did," Eivor said. "Only a fool would forget to speak of her glory."

"Our uncles fought as well," Eadith added. "And Afi Finnr!"

"Not to mention the cunning drengr Eivor Wolf-Kissed," Eohric completed, "after which this arseling is named." He motioned at his sister, who responded with a curse so foul her poor Christian father would have fainted from shock.

"I'd be curious to hear of this warrior," the scarred drengr said, tongue-in-cheek. "Was she as guileful as the sagas say?"

"You should hear our uncle talk about her," Eadith said. "Even after all these years, I think he's still a bit besotted with her!"

"Is that so?" the scarred drengr said. Poor Broder…

"Well, well!" Eohric dragged a chair so he could sit in it. "As you all know, after his duel with Rued Maðkfullr, my father seemed to have fallen to his death at Dunwic. My mother and her allies were left to pick up the fight in his stead…"