They - Eyolf, Hakon, Yngvar and five of their warriors – were riding in gallop to catch up with the caravan which was stationed at the entrance of the next town where the seiðmaðr was scheduled to hold a ceremony. The last town before their final stop on Eyolf's island on the west coast.

They had to delay their visit to one village, hoping no one would link their absence with the tragedy that had befallen Gorm's household: a fire where he and his father had lost their lives. Luckily, his wife had taken their children to visit her sister and Bragi, their brother-in-law, so they had escaped the misfortune. 

Rumours of arson were going about, but no one could pinpoint the wrongdoer. Perhaps the other landowners in the county, particularly a rather turbulent band of five brothers – known as Thorkell's sons - with whom Gorm had been quarrelling over property? There was no proof.

Eyolf looked exhausted, dark circles around his eyes and uncharacteristic silence. He had not spoken in two days, not about the mission and certainly not those trifles and outrageous anecdotes that his loquacious self usually delighted in.

Hakon loathed the silence, so he would often be heard chatting with the men. but Yngvar enjoyed that it left him time to think, to observe. And he was always observing Eyolf. 

The man had not even looked at Yngvar in days. Had the mission not been a success? Was revenge not sweet enough? Yet the seiðmaðr's chin was held high in pride, as it always was when he knew he was being watched.

It was only when they were approaching the town that Eyolf let his horse stay behind, in line with Yngvar's. Without turning his head towards him, he spoke:

“Yngvar... What happened back there... What I did, what I made you do...”

For the first time Yngvar had heard him speak, there was no theatrical inflection in his voice. No urge to prove his superiority, no compulsion to manipulate. No pretense.

“You need not explain,” said Yngvar, laconically. 

But Eyolf ignored him.

“Sweeping the ugly things under the rug is the surest way to allow them to haunt you and... I don't want to be haunted. Not anymore. I know you despise me for the things I did – you made that very clear - but...”

“Eyolf...”

“Secrets don't stay secrets forever,” the man went on impassioned. “I did things in my life – things that helped me reach where I am now, that made me who I am now - that I'm not proud of. I deceived and hurt people. I keep reassuring myself It was a harsh life – I did what I had to do to survive – They weren't innocent either – and all that.” His fingers fidgeted upon the reins, twisting and rubbing them absently. “But the truth is... I'd do it all over again. Because being overpowered, mistreated, humiliated, terrified, is the worst possible feeling.”

Yngvar slowed his horse, forcing Eyolf to stay behind, and spoke in a tone firm and still harsh:

“You were afraid, afraid I'd turn my back on you, throw you under to save my image from a scandal. But I didn't. So now you are relieved by my loyalty to our agreement, and a part of you wishes there were no more secrets between us – those deeds of yours that might still come out - but, still, you hate it that I know so much about you. The more I know, the more vulnerable you are...” 

Eyolf's pulse raised, suffocatingly. Could it be a threat? Yngvar's tone was unreadable, save for an uncharacteristic zeal that he knew not how to interpret.

“Back there with Gorm, when the house was burning...” Yngvar paused a moment, “...there was triumph in your face. I still see that triumph: to stand tall where you once stood broken, to overpower where you were once humiliated, where you once trembled in fear now you become the danger!” His voice raised. “I know how empowering this feels. But revenge is bittersweet. In that moment when Gorm spoke those truths out loud, your secrets became secrets no longer. Those experiences you spent years pretending never happened suddenly became reality!” 

There was a pause. “But we all have such realities. And yours is safe with me.” His eyes turned towards Eyolf and the seiðmaðr could see now that the fierceness he had mistaken for disdain was in fact... sympathy. “As I said: you need not explain yourself. I understand.”

The tenseness in the seiðmaðr's posture seemed to loosen. There was surprise in his expression; then a sort of ease washed over him. He paused for long moments. And when the caravan was in sight, he turned to the man at his side:

“Yngvar... Thank you. For trusting me enough to stand by me.”