Hunched in his woolen cloak and with the rain lashing at his features the tall Northman strode on. Looking back at Jarnsalr for the last time the pouring heavens mingled their water with a brief tear of grief
‘There was no time to inform everyone.’
That he told himself and he was already on the way, fully packed and with his shield slung over his broad shoulders. Maybe, just maybe he would return to the west one day, but not before he had found the only son the gods had granted him. Not before he had seen the boy he rose.
Splash!
His sloppy boots stamped through the puddles and soaked soil, over hill and under tree. He could hear the rain dashing on the canopy of green leaves. Thick lumps of mud began sticking to his old waders and patch-riddled trousers. At least his gambeson kept him warm, even where the scrubbing wool of his scruff left a rash in his neck.
The rain was getting heavier, and so the drenched Northman disappeared from the sight of Jarnsalr. Where his feet would take him, he did not know. But his determination would keep him going, and keep him breathing.
Deyr fé,
deyja frændr,
deyr sjálfr et sama;
ek veit einn,
at aldri deyr:
dómr um dauðan hvern.
