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I’d liked Astrid and it sorrowed me to think we wouldn’t snuggle up in her husband’s bed again.
The night can last twenty hours and even when the day finally breaks it never gets above a level of cold I call “fuck that”—as in you open the door, your face freezes instantly to the point where it hurts to speak, but manfully you manage to say “fuck that,” before turning round, and going back to bed.
“Need to get something from the boat.” I said that a lot on the way down to the harbour. It was almost true.
“I knew his wife. I knew his children, Jal. I bounced them on my knee. They called me ‘uncle.’ If a man can let go of that he can let go of anything . . . and then what point is there to his life, what meaning?”
I opened my mouth, but even drunk I hadn’t answers to that. So I lifted my tankard and said nothing. •
but each sound held a discordant tone, as if the skylarks were just a note away from screaming.
“Can you carry us away from the Red Vikings?” Snorri asked. “Well no, but—” “How’s the damn boat then?”
It seems that the prospect of taming a dangerous reprobate who is unlikely to truly care for them is sweeter honey to some than, say, a strong and moral man like Snorri. Don’t ask me why. It makes no sense to me—I just thank God for making the world this way.
Hennan furrowed his brow, staring at the coin, then at me, then at the coin. “I’ll . . .” He reached out, then pulled his hand back. “I’ll . . . the advice.” He blurted it out as if the words pained him. I nodded sagely. “Always take the money.”
“A prince of Red March doesn’t return from the dead to re-enter the palace after six months by a side gate, captain.”
Didn't Jorg?
The road forgets. Make your life a journey, keep moving toward what you want, leave behind anything that’s too heavy to carry.
The idea gave me a peculiar type of pain, deeper and different from the simple fear of what Snorri would say if he found out I’d let the boy run away and get himself killed.
