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The Journals of Raymond Brooks 55
the same after sensing her movement. We sat there for a long
time, silently looking into each other’s eyes. It seemed we’d

shared a silent bond; the kind no words could ever achieve. I
wanted so much to tell her how I felt, to confide in her about
my hopes and dreams. I wanted to openly bare my soul and let
her see the purity of my feelings. I wanted to sing of love and
forget all that is dark. But I had no words for these things, so I
watched her silently and hoped she would understand.
We did not leave the river until night had fallen and it was
too cold to remain outside. Though we slept apart, she, so far
above and I, so far below, she was never far from my thoughts,

and I would have almost slept in peace that night, if only I could
have forgotten that I had betrayed Ivar’s trust.
On that evening when young love first bloomed, the dark
figure appeared again, watching us. Ingrid was fast asleep while
I battled my shadow outside, wooden sword in hand. I could
always tell when he was about, as the hair on the back of my
neck suddenly stood upright, and a chill penetrated my bones.

I have always had this feeling — always when he was about,
even when I couldn’t see or hear him. This time, as I practiced
my swings, I tried to focus, to listen and feel the movement of
the wind, to sense his position.
Promptly, without warning I turned to him as he hid in the
darkness, observing me. I walked quickly towards him and
he slowly retreated towards an alley. Little did I know at the
time, that he only observed the house to gauge whether or not
Ivar had left the smithy that had been prompted by the latter.

Edmund retreated deeper into the alley as I closed in. I was like
a fly assaulting a spider’s web.
“Hey you, who may you be?” I asked. The figure gazed at
me for a moment, making a decision. Then he started walking