It was the third day since his da had died. Or at least, that was what he thought, but he couldn’t be sure. It had taken a day to get back home, after Ulf and Hildith had gathered their scattered hunting party back to them, he was sure of that. He strained to remember, a wave of fresh pain crashing over him with the coming of memories, making him wince and groan. They’d camped in the forest that night, lit blazing fires, and wrapped the dead in cloaks. It was not only his da who had fallen to the white bear. The next day had been a sombre procession back through the forest, carrying litters fashioned from spears and cloaks, Drem carrying his da. He’d been aware of men around him, Ulf offering his sympathy, others like Wispy Beard and Burg saying nothing to him, and for the most part Drem had been unaware of anyone else’s existence. All he could think of was his da, the fact that he was gone now feeling like when the giant bat had sunk its fangs into his shoulder. Sharp, excruciating pain, followed by a numbness to all else, then a memory surfacing through the fog that would drag him back to the pain, followed by the numbing sensation again, over and over.

They had reached his hold on the evening of the first day, bringing his da’s body into the cabin. On the second day Ulf and Hildith had returned with half a dozen men and they had carried Olin’s body into the paddocks and there helped Drem to raise a cairn. Words had been spoken, by Ulf, and Drem remembered even saying something himself, though he could not remember what he’d said. More vivid was the pain in his knees where he had dropped to the ground in his grief. His breeches still bore the snow-salt and grass stains as a reminder.

And now it was the third day since his da had died.

I think.

His stomach growled, but he ignored it, the thought of putting food in his mouth making him feel sick.

Or is it the fourth day? How long have I been sitting here?

He didn’t know.

A shiver rippled through him, his body telling him he was cold, but he didn’t care. He was close to the hearth, though no fire burned in it; only cold ash and black embers filled it. Blinking, he looked at the shuttered windows, realized that it was getting lighter outside, faint beams of light stretching through the slats.

The fourth day, then.

What does it matter?

Da’s gone.

I’m alone.

No one and nothing to live for.