Sea Lion Shores the halls of our fathers

Not awkward at all! I love her!

The bright-eyed female grew immediately defensive, demanding to know the catalyst of Szymon’s untimely laughter, but he found it difficult to articulate precisely why he found the situation humorous. The droop of her ears conjured a rare measure of compassion in the black-banded boy, and he hastened to reply: “I know,” he assured her, when she pointedly told him she was not speaking in jest. “I am n-n-not l-laughing at y-you. Or y-your father.” His rich bass timbre, marred though it was by the stutter, was as quiet and steady as he could make it. “If you were m-m-me, m-maybe you would l-l-laugh,” he stated, “and if I w-were you, l-likely I w-would not.” His words were clumsy, but a shift of his sharp, angular shoulders attempted to shrug off the whole thing. He could easily imagine being in the Shieldmaiden’s position; if he returned to Warsaw and saw it inhabited by lesser wolves, he would have been livid — and they would have laughed. It was the way of things. The conquerors laughed and those who had come before them scorned.

When she stuttered, he eyed her keenly, unsure as to whether she mocked him or not, but she seemed earnest enough. “L-Leviathan is our Jarl,” he explained. “Alpha. My b-brother, S-Skellige. I am Szymon.” He listened attentively, without demur or interruption, as she explained her title — for it was a title, it seemed, and perhaps not a name. “H-Have you a n-n-name, Sh-Shieldmaiden, d-d-daughter of R-Ragnar?” he asked, his tongue flicking to moisten his salt-crusted lips. She spoke of battle in a calm, clinical way, that telltale pride still lacing her staunch tone, and spoke of her father in the same manner — devoid of grief, borne within an overarching theme of bloodpride. He filed away the knowledge that the former king was dead, keeping it safe in case Skellige needed to know of possible usurpers and the like. “Odin,” he repeated the unfamiliar word. “Odin is…y-y-your g-god?” he guessed.