Erik’s mug looked more like a pot than a cup, and it was full to the brim with golden ale. Greta could hear his raucous laughter now and again, and his thick palm would slap one or two of the youngsters gathered around him on the back. And she would hide a smile when she saw them wince. Though painful, his blows on their bodies were nothing compared to what Erik’s powerful hands were capable of.

The afternoons were cold but Erik was a creature of ritual. After carving tools or toys in the morning, he would sit at the same table and have a drink at midday, before heading back into the workshop. His nephew Bjorn, now his apprentice, was always with him. And he would regale the raven-haired, pale youth with stories from his past. And on occasion, a crowd would gather.

The old Viking ran his chunky fingers through his greying beard, his fingers stopping at the rings he used to hold it together. It looked like a furry rope. And when he spoke the ground rumbled.

“Have you ever wondered how my sword broke?” he asked, looking at no one.

Greta gasped, the jug in her hand spilling the wine she was pouring. She’d been pretending not to listen as she served drinks but she couldn’t help herself. No one could, and Erik’s audience was suddenly the whole tavern. This was a story he had never told. Everyone had wondered what had happened that fateful day when a band of warriors had departed but only Erik had returned.

Greta could see the tears beginning to pool in the warrior’s eyes. No one else would notice them, but she had known Erik for a very long time. She caught a glimpse of her weathered face in one of the glasses. She was starting to wrinkle but her eyes were still as clear as they’d always been, and an intense blue, almost violet.

As Erik began to speak, she thought of a different day. Erik just returned from battle and the village was in mourning. She remembered the dread in her legs as she approached the wooden shack at the edge of the village. Trees were scattered around it, all full of luminous green leaves. Birds were in full song, flowers in full bloom, and the woods were teeming with sound. Spring had arrived, but in her heart was the ice of winter.

She was a step away from the door when a growl made the hairs on her arms stand. She’d seen what he’d done to all the people who’d come before her. He’d been welcomed like a hero before everyone realised only he had returned. Erik the giant with hands of stone. Erik the proud who stood like a mountain amongst men. Erik whose scarred face and bowed head told a story no one needed to hear.

He'd struck Darius first. She’d seen him flying across the square from the force of the blow. And then Micah, then Thomas, before everyone just let him pass. The returning hero who wanted to be left alone. He’d built the cabin and retreated to the woods. Erik the Strong had gone to war but Erik the Regretful had returned instead.

“It’s me, Erik,” Greta yelled, “Are you going to throw me down the hill like you did Marius?”

Greta was shivering and her legs were knocking into each other.

There was a long silence and then there was movement inside. The sun was hidden behind a cushion of clouds. It would have been perfect weather for the many picnics, she’d shared with Erik as they grew up.

Greta took a step backward as the door of the shack creaked open. Greta was hugging her arms closer now, wondering if she’d made a mistake. Lunacy everyone had said.

“You broke his leg, Erik,” Greta started, as the Viking’s face emerged from the shadows, “Marius can’t work for a few weeks, and his family might starve.”

The normally tanned face was white, like pure snow. And his piercing green eyes had dulled. His hollow cheeks made him appear gaunt. Like a man haunted by the spirits.

He stepped out of the house and despite the alluring scents of spring lingering in the woodland, his stench was overwhelming.

Greta took a breath as her eyes watered.

“I’m not afraid of you Erik. Are you going to throw me and your kin down the hill?”

She could see he’d heard the words but he was slow to process them.

“My only brother died in my arms, Greta. Do you come here to torment me with talk of the dead,” he finally said, barely a whisper.

Greta was emboldened because he hadn’t shown any anger towards her, but he’d kindled her rage with his words.

“And what of your brother’s wife? Do you think it was food that made her belly so round? Have you also lost your memory along with your sanity, Erik” she spat out.

He let out a low growl and, with panic, she thought she’d gone too far. His face was reddening and she could see a glint of anger in the dead eyes.

“She died in childbirth,” Greta added, speaking fast, “A boy. He looks just like Magnus.”

She opened her arms to reveal the bundle that had been wiggling inside her coat.

Erik’s jaw dropped.

“Magnus,” he said, looking to the ground, ignoring the child.

“I don’t care what happened in the battle. Everyone lost someone. But you’re the only warrior we have left. The young men have no one to train them and we will perish if anyone raids again. You’ve been locked in her for six months, dispatching men you once called friends as if they were enemies. I’ve been looking after your blood for the last year. But I’m giving you a week to move back into the village and come and collect him. Otherwise, the son of a Viking will be raised by strangers whilst his own blood wallows in his mess like a pig.”

Greta’s heart was beating so fast, it was threatening to escape her chest, but her fury made her numb to fear. Erik the Regretful was a taker of lives, but she’d known him well once. Before the battle, they might even have been something more between them.

Erik didn’t speak but instead shuffled back into his shack and slammed the door. Greta stared at the door for a short while, before tucking the child back into her bosom, and heading back to the village. She wasn’t sure if he’d heard her, but she knew she had to try. For everyone’s sake.

Erik’s voice in the tavern shook her back from the past. He turned to glance at her, as he spoke about the battle for the first time in 16 years. She caught his eye and smiled. He nodded and continued to speak. Erik had come to her house in exactly a week, picked up the little bundle, which was now drinking ale with the men, and left.

Erik had never thanked her, at least not until now.