Coven Yrnhold's wife arranged the funeral, and Sif followed along with it numbly. Since it was spring, the flowers put into the old woman's hair were fresh; the children had went out and picked them in the morning, Sif watching over them like a shepherd.

He watched as the shroud was sewn; he watched as the paper was made, and the wet sheets formed around armatures woven of soft wood.

When it was all finally arranged, and the first night of the funeral began, he went up and sat on his wooden platform, watching all the people below him. Each and every one of them was mortal; each and every one of them would die. He had always accepted this as the natural order, but the more he knew about his people, the more he stubbornly wanted to cling to them... Was it knowing them all so well that made Helna willing to die for them?

An unexpected hand was set on his shoulder.

" Are you alright, Lady Hélna?" Rágn asked, leaning over him. He stood in the same spot behind Sif that the old woman had always stood in.

Sif nodded, not turning to look at him.

" I know the ways of gods are different, but you may express grief without worry," he said. " No one will think you lesser for missing her."

Sif motioned to show he understood, and mercifully, Rágn did not speak again.

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