“Because of the fires, I would say,” he said, with a strangely warm smirk that sent a chill shivering down my spine. “Little people must put a name to everything. It helps them believe they control it.”

“But they don’t control you,” said Leofstan. “You are clearly too clever for that.”

Ljósberari’s eyes narrowed. I tensed, worried that Leofstan’s clumsy flattery would send him into another rage. But after a moment, he let out a long sigh.

“They controlled my body for a long while,” he said, his voice far away as he looked into the past. “But never my mind. No, never my mind.” I longed to ask him more questions, but I sensed that the tale he was weaving could all too easily unravel. Leofstan was silent too, and we both waited patiently for him to carry on.

“Can you imagine what it is like to be a thrall?” Ljósberari asked suddenly. “You are both men of learning, I can sense it. You were not always a warrior, eh?” he said to me, and I nodded, not wishing to break the flow of his thoughts with my words. “I would read and pray every day. I did not know the truth then. Oh no. But like you, I studied, and I was always searching. And then the foul devils came from the sea. In their wyrm-prowed longships.” He fell silent and his gaze darkened. I remembered what had happened at Lindisfarnae and wondered where this man had been before he was enthralled.

“They did things…” he said, and his voice cracked. “They…”

“We were at Lindisfarnae when they came,” said Leofstan, and I was worried that he would cause Ljósberari to halt his tale. “Where were you?”

Ljósberari shuddered and reached a hand out across the table. Leofstan raised his cup to avoid him taking hold of his hand.

“I knew you understood,” Ljósberari said. “I could see it in you. We are alike, you and I.”

Leofstan said nothing.