“I blame you, you know.” Mead sloshed out as Sigrun waved her goblet in Mikkel’s direction.
“What for?”
“Here I am, sixty-four years old today--”
“You are sixty-two.”
“Eh, who can keep track of such huge numbers! Anyway, here I am, blahty-blah years old, and alive. And for that, I blame you. I had many opportunities to die in battle. I could have died from that head wound in 103, or when I got mauled by that giant in Sweden, or of disgust after that sea monster swallowed me last summer… but no no no, each time, you just had to heal me. And now I am ancient, barely able to lift my sword--”
“The sword you used to kill two beasts just this morning?”
“They were mere wolf beasts! No chance of ending up in Valhalla by fighting something so easy. And so I sit here, not dead, not in Valhalla, but in a longhall, feasting and drinking mead with friends, and-- Wait a minute. That sounds very suspicious. Maybe I am dead.”
“Do you want my medical opinion?”
“Sure.”
“No. You are not dead.”
“Ugh.” Sigrun took a long swing of mead. “Your medical opinions are the worst.”
