Thorvald’s Wyrd 066
Warmth seeped into his body as Thorvald eyes fell closed. Perhaps a peaceful death wasn’t so bad after all. It leeched away all pain and put flight the cold holding his bones.
“Rise, my son. And well met.”
The Wanderer’s voice, and none other. Thorvald opened his eyes. He mostly saw thick blades of grass, but there lat his bare arm, pink and free of wounds, on the ground before him. “Odinsacre.” A whisper, not a croak. He lived? How?
“Aye, that is what men have named it. My place, as much as any might be in Jotunheim. Rise, Thorvald.”