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66 Amit Bobrov
their lodgings, leaving me with a few more pennies than I had
started off with, which wasn’t hard, considering the fact that I

had started with none.
Intoxicated with a fatal combination of sleep deprivation and
cheap ale, I was seriously considering a career in gambling as I
left the Tavern. I swaggered left and right as I made way to Ivar’s
smithy, even half preparing a speech to recite when I got there.
This was why I didn’t see my assailants coming — all I heard
was a sound of rushing feet before a heavy blow to the head
stunned me. I dropped like a log to the ground, feebly trying
to defend my face with my hands. My assailants proceeded to

strike me with a thick wooden branch and a hail of kicks, until I
lay in a pool of blood and vomit. Though I never got to see their
faces, I made a fair assessment that I’d been accosted by my
adversary from the Tavern, and his friends.
As I laid there in the mud waiting for death to claim me, I
could not suppress the laughter in my belly. The irony stung me
too damned much. Of all the ways I could have died, this had to

be the most meaningless. To be beaten and left for dead in the
mud on account of a tavern-brawl. When I was done laughing,
I tried calling for help, but it was too late. I was half frozen and
my voice too weak to be heard over the sound of the rushing
wind. My body grew numb and I resigned myself to oblivion,
and fell asleep, only to wake very much surprised and in pain.
The first thing I saw as I opened my eyes was a golden halo
which I mistook for that of an angel. I smiled, stupefied; what
else could I do?

“You’re awake!” A familiar feminine voice called. As my vision
cleared I realized that the golden halo was in fact Ingrid’s golden
hair. My heart raced with excitement.
“...Ingrid!” I exclaimed.