Vetrúlfr wiped the blood from his ancient steel against the corpse of a fallen Gaelic levy.
The man had died with a spear in hand, recklessly charging alone even as his brothers broke and backed against the wall, dropping swords in terror.
He had died a warrior, and so Vetrúlfr closed his eyes, returning his blade to its sheath.
He knelt, pressing rough fingers over the dead man's eyelids, whispering something in the old tongue of the Gaels; words taught to him by his wife, a solemn prayer to gods not his own, asking they grant the fallen an afterlife worthy of his courage.
Ármóðr watched with thinly veiled disdain."You pray for dead Christians now?"
Vetrúlfr didn't snap from his chant. He only rose with the last syllable, turning a fierce glare on his ally.
