The warmth of the longhouse, the crackling fire, and the steady flow of mead do their work in loosening the men’s tongues. The room, once tense and filled with guarded glances, is now a cacophony of boisterous laughter and clinking cups. The tales of raids, the boasting of battles won, and the recounting of near-death escapes fill the air. Some speak of their wives, others of their children, and a few of the lands they’ve seen, distant places that seem almost mythical. The raucous energy is contagious, and even Oleksandr finds himself loosening up a little, despite the weight of their business in this place.

  But Samorix is always alert, and his sharp gaze doesn’t miss the subtle movements in the room. His good eye catches sight of a young man stumbling away from the feast, a few concubines trailing behind him with flirtatious glances and coy smiles. A smirk spreads across his face as he leans in closer to Oleksandr, speaking low but not too quietly.

  "Looks like someone’s found themselves some company for the night," Samorix murmurs, the amusement in his tone evident. Oleksandr’s attention shifts to where Samorix’s gaze is fixed. The young man stumbles, clearly a bit tipsy, and one of the concubines giggles as she playfully grabs his arm. It’s a sight Oleksandr’s seen before—raiders and soldiers who indulge in pleasures of the flesh after a successful mission. Oleksandr grunts in acknowledgment, before Oddvarr looks back over at him.

  "And what of you two? I have plenty of pretty girls to go around."

  Samorix chuckles. "Oh, I'm a little too old for that kind of entertainment these days."

  Oleksandr shoots him a brief glare. "I have no need for the company of those women." He says stiffly. Oddvarr's eyes dance with amusement, but something under the surface.

  He leans back slightly, eyeing Oleksandr. "No need, or no desire?" Oleksandr raises an eyebrow. Oddvarr grins, his eyes holding a knowing gleam. He nods slowly, as if pondering something. "A man your age, with your strength, and you've no desire? I find that hard to believe." He gives a small scoff, looking towards the young man who disappeared with the concubines from before.

  "We've all got wives waiting for us at home, Chieftain." Oleksandr responds, stuffing his pipe. Oddvarr raises an eyebrow, his grin sharpening.

  "Really? Each one of you?" His gaze travels around the table at the other men, sizing them up before returning to Oleksandr. "I've yet to see a ring on any of your fingers." Oleksandr pulls up his sleeve, revealing the braided cord of Savka's hair on his wrist. Oddvarr's eyes take in the braided cord, studying the threads. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Ah, the old ways. A lover's knot." Oddvarr leans back, his eyes narrowed as he scrutinizes Oleksandr. "A black-haired lass? That's what you like?"

  "No one else's business." He replies cryptically.

  One of the nearby vikings, a hulking man with a tangled red beard and a broken nose, chuckles. "Looks like the Russian wants to keep his woman a secret. Can't blame him, if she's a looker." Other vikings around the table join in the jesting, hooting and hollering.

  Another man across the table, a younger blonde warrior, joins the conversation, his words slightly slurred. "A real beauty, I bet," he says. The other vikings at the table chuckle and jeer teasingly.

  Oddvarr takes a slow sip of mead, his eyes never leaving Oleksandr. "He must have a great love to keep his heart out of the beds of my women."

  "Show me a woman more beautiful and loyal than mine, and maybe I'll reconsider." Oleksandr jokes dryly. Oddvarr lets out a hearty laugh, slapping his knee with amusement. He glances over at a woman dancing nearby, her curves accentuated by the light from the fire.

  "I have many beautiful women here, loyal and willing to please. But I don't think they'd measure up to yours." He says with a wink. "Not that I don't enjoy a challenge."

  "I just can't find myself interested in sour grapes when I have a whole pot of honey waiting for me."

  Oddvarr laughs again, louder and longer. The other vikings join in, slapping the table in amusement. Oddvarr raises his mug, grinning widely at Oleksandr. "Damn, that's good. You have a tongue of silver, you bastard. You should be a bard."

  One of the older men at the table chimes in. "I'm with you, lad! And these other dogs, they call me crazy! I can't help it, my wife's like a valkyrie herself. I can't help but be enthralled." Some of the vikings join in the agreement, shouting jokes and boasting about their own wives.

  Oddvarr grins, taking another slow sip of mead. "Ah, a man after my own heart. It seems we have an alliance of loyal husbands here." He looks at the other men, his smile turning sharp. "Maybe you should start a club." The table erupts in laughter and agreement.

  Another man speaks up, an older, white-haired viking with sharp eyes. "But you're all young fools. Wait until your hair starts to grey, and the years start to take their toll. You'll appreciate a warm touch from a soft body."

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  "Nay, not me." The loyal warrior responds. "My woman ages like fine wine. Not my problem if yours aged like milk!" Another burst of laughter ripples through the group, the men roaring with amusement as they slap the table in agreement.

  Oddvarr chuckles, his eyes dancing with humor. "Damn, I think you're outnumbered, you old fools. It seems our young friend here is determined to remain true to his honeypot." Oddvarr looks over at Oleksandr. "And she's faithful to you, aye?"

  Oleksandr meets Oddvarr's gaze, his expression serious. "Of course." He replies firmly, his voice leaving no room for doubt.

  "Hm, you sound sure of yourself, don't you? Women, they're full of secrets. Can't trust them, myself." A few of the table occupants murmur in agreement, eyeing Oleksandr with a hint of skepticism. Others, however, scoff, rolling their eyes at the distrustful perspective. Oddvarr's eyes remain fixated on Oleksandr, a small smile on his face. He leans back in his chair, swirling his drink in his hand. "You trust her completely then, boy? No doubts, not even a whisper of suspicion?"

  "Her father promised her to me. They both hold true to their words. I have no worries." Oddvarr raises an eyebrow, his gaze studying Oleksandr's face.

  "Her father, you say." Oddvarr murmurs, his tone dripping with skepticism. "A father's words carry weight, that much I know. A promise is powerful. But what if her heart changes? Her father's promise will have no control over that."

  One of the men at the table, a muscular bear of a man with a braided beard, speaks up. "Eh, you worry too much, Oddvarr. Maybe you're just bitter 'cause your woman chose your brother over you."

  The men at the table snicker, and Oddvarr lets out a hearty laugh, despite the jab. "Oh, don’t you go there, Rolf. You're still bitter that your wife left you for a tailor."

  "Perhaps we're just used to the faithful Christian women." Samorix quips with a shrug. "Seems you're all missing out."

  The men around the table erupt in laughter, some of them giving Samorix sly grins. "Christian women?!" One scoffs, "you mean dull as dirt!" Another adds, "Faithful, maybe. But they're as spicy as a bowl of unseasoned cabbage!"

  "Not my Layla!" Samorix hollers.

  The men laugh again, teasing Samorix good-naturedly. "Oh, yeah, your wife's a real hellcat, eh? She runs you ragged like a horse, doesn't she?"

  Oddvarr chuckles, taking a drink from his horn. "Looks like you've got your hands full with that one, Scot. Better keep her satisfied, or she might turn her passion elsewhere…"

  "Oh, I keep her hands full, don't you worry."

  "Ha!" One man bellows, "Looks like you're keeping more than her hands full, you sly bastard." Another pipes up, "You're a lucky man, keeping a woman like that satisfied. She'll keep you warm at night, that's for damn sure."

  The group of rough men continues their rowdy banter for a while longer, the air filled with crude jokes and raucous laughter. Oddvarr sits back, a sly smile on his face as he watches the spectacle. "They're quite the bunch, aren't they?" He remarks to Oleksandr, chuckling. "But, I'm on your side with this one, lad. My greatest love too was a Christian girl."

  Samorix raises an eyebrow, surprised. "You loved a Christian lass?"

  Oddvarr nods, his smile turning rueful. "Indeed, I did. And she was as beautiful as the sunrise, and as fiery as a storm. But, unfortunately, my own brother stole her from me." The other men at the table share knowing looks, nodding as if they'd heard this story before.

  "Ah, I remember that." Rolf mutters through a mouthful of meat. "You took it awfully hard, if I recall."

  Oddvarr chuckles and nods, his eyes a bit wistful. "Aye, I was, scorned like a beast. Feels like it was a lifetime ago, now."

  One of the men snorts. "Oh, don't play the tragic hero, Oddvarr. We all know you were a drunken fool for ages after that, drowning your sorrows with any wench that'd let you into her bed."

  Oddvarr laughs, waving them off. "Ah, let it rest. I'm an old man now." This elicits another wave of banter and laughter from the group.

  Oleksandr stays back as the noise of the feast quiets down and most of the men retire for the night. He watches Oddvarr, who is lost in his thoughts, a faraway look in his eyes. After a long pause, Oleksandr speaks.

  "You loved a Christian girl, is that right?"

  Oddvarr nods slowly. "Aye, I did. She was the love of my life, and I was damn near smitten the moment I laid eyes on her." He pauses, his gaze drifting into the distance. "I wanted her all to myself. But, she didn't love me." There's a note of regret in his voice, a crack in his usual confident demeanor that Oleksandr doesn't miss. The silence that follows feels heavy, as if the weight of lost love hangs between them. "No, she loved my little brother. But, as much as it hurts my pride, I'll admit it was my fault."

  Oleksandr raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Your fault?" He asks, his deep voice echoing slightly in the room. "How so?"

  Oddvarr's expression darkens, the flickering light of the fire creating harsh shadows across his face. "Aye, I was young and stupid, and I thought I could control her. I treated her like a possession, not a person. I was bad to her, cruel. I wanted to mold her to my will, and any time she resisted I'd grow angry and take out that anger on her." He pauses, taking a deep breath as if reliving the memories. "It was only after she was gone that I realized how much I had hurt her, how much I had taken her for granted. I sent her away, like a scorned fool, and, gods, did I ever regret it. I lost her." He lets out a deep sigh, downing the rest of his drink. "I searched for her everywhere. I sent men to scour the land, but it was no use. Five years I searched myself."

  "Did you ever find out what happened to her?" Oleksandr asks, his brow furrowing.

  Oddvarr's jaw clenches. "No. No trace of her. She was gone as if vanished into thin air. It drove me mad, begging Freya to send her back to me. I couldn't accept it, I couldn't let her go. But, eventually, even I had to accept the fact that I had lost her for good. It's been thirty years. I swear, if I ever find her—"

  Oleksandr interrupts, his voice low. "Do you still love her?"

  Oddvarr hesitates, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, he slowly nods. "Aye. I do. It's a bitter pill, but I do. I always will. No matter how many wenches I took to my bed, there was always a shadow of her on my heart.” He says, looking directly at Oleksandr. “And her eyes… I've never forgotten those eyes."