Chapter Ten: United Against a Common Enemy

Her voice was utterly flat, her icy gaze deliberately distant.

This person actually wanted her to abandon her "nest," to give up retrieving her father's remains, and run away with him?

Foolish infatuation!

Had he been brainwashed by those foolish love stories sung by bards, tales ignored by reality?

Restless, Oney stood up, preparing to leave.

She had wasted half an hour talking nonsense with someone so incompatible, like casting pearls before swine—utterly meaningless.

"Why?" Harold seemed struck by a heavy blow. "I once thought I had found love, but you tell me it was merely a dream?"

She ignored him.

"Oney, tell me why," came Harold’s questioning from behind.

"Our relationship is still superficial. You don’t truly understand me. You have no idea what I intend to do. A seagull cannot comprehend a speckled goose’s desire to soar high!"

"Is it because you don’t like me?" A faint tremor flickered in Harold’s eyes; his voice was tinged with hoarseness.

"You’ve helped me a lot. I never said I hated you. I just can’t accept your disregard for my wishes. I have no intention of hurting you, Harold, but don’t force me!"

Oney turned her head, only to see Harold suddenly lift his gaze, eyes shining with hope.

Their lines of logic were like two parallel lines that would never intersect. She had nothing more to say—their focuses were fundamentally different.

She quickened her steps, bent down to pick a few wild blackberries, popped them into her mouth to savor the sweet and sour taste, and was about to enter the forest.

"I can help you!" Harold’s shout rang out.

Oney faced away, feeling a profound relief, her mood as bright as a clear sky. Her arms stretched toward the heavens, swaying like willow branches in the wind: "No! No! No!"

"Feld was buried by my own hands. No one knows where but me!"

The thunderous voice roared like a tempest, and Oney felt as if an invisible hand pressed a vital point; she froze rigid, unable to move.

The oak leaves rustled softly in the wind, whispering some secret, while her heartbeat nearly drowned out the natural sounds around her.

She gripped the sturdy trunk of the oak as if seeking support, then glanced at Harold with eyes full of confusion and unease.

Lost in a labyrinth of memories, she only believed that finding that patch of land would lead her to Feld’s remains, forgetting that countless souls had long been buried there.

It was over—she had offended him deeply!

---

"Let me help you!" Harold stepped beside Oney, slightly bowing, his strong hands gripping her shoulders firmly. His gaze was piercing, looking directly into her eyes, conveying endless care and sincerity.

She looked up, startled.

"Next year, I’ll go with you. But we’ll need manpower—we can hire a group of free folk!"

Setting sail sooner was naturally better; she feared the environment might change, making it impossible to find Feld’s resting place.

Harold’s proposal was like a beam of light illuminating the path to reclaiming her father’s bones, yet behind that light lay the deep sea of unknowns and fears.

Suddenly, Oney, realizing her shoulders were being held, felt a surge of disgust like a bolt of lightning striking her face. She immediately tried to break free.

However, a vision flashed through her mind—traveling at sea with a band of strangers, none of whom she knew. Her pupils contracted sharply; her body seemed gripped by an invisible hand, rooted in place.

She recalled her previous dream, where the Viking warband that followed her to sea had no familiar faces.

The sensation of drowning, like having her mouth and nose sealed, the suffocating brush with death, was vividly remembered.

Did this mean that, like the dream of Feld’s death, she too would be buried beneath the waves?

No, impossible—that was just a dream, meaningless.

But no!

Every event has its premonitions; yawning signals tiredness and the need to sleep. By understanding these signs, one can grasp what the future might bring.

This meant the dream’s events had a probability of occurring; based on her rigorous thinking, that probability must at least double.

In other words, there was at least a fifty percent chance the dream’s events would come true.

Thinking about the dream—if such a storm truly arose, could Yarl’s ship endure it?

She shook her head inwardly. The Vikings had two types of ships: the narrow longship “Drakkar” and the broader merchant ship “Knarr.” Both had shallow drafts and were barely fit for the open sea.

She would inevitably need to modify the vessel, favoring a seventeenth-century “sloop,” a single-masted fast ship with many sails that, under ideal conditions, could reach speeds of fifty knots, swiftly crossing seas and avoiding pursuers.

Though primarily a nearshore military ship, the sloop had a deeper draft and some capacity for open ocean voyages.

"What do you say?" he asked.

Oney’s mind raced. She noticed Harold had quietly released his grip, his nervous expression evident. After hesitating, she slowly nodded: "Alright, next summer then."

Harold’s face lit up with joy.

Her independence was like a lone wolf, accustomed to weathering storms alone, while Harold’s aid was like a warm bonfire, attempting to melt the ice encasing her heart.

---

For a moment, she was at a loss.

A seagull swept past their ears, breaking the awkwardness and drawing their gaze as it flew swiftly toward the settlement, soaring over Oney’s house and courtyard.

“Where is Miss Oney?”

Two warriors, sent by Holger the steward, entered Oney’s yard, inquiring about the boys tending the furnace—adding charcoal below the fire and pumping the bellows.

The bellows were piston-style, similar to a later air pump. When the lever was pulled, the piston opened to admit air; when pushed, it compressed the air inside, causing the piston to close automatically and force air into the furnace.

They looked up.

"Don’t know. Someone just came looking for her. She left with someone else. Maybe Ralph knows."

Having seen her before, the two initially kind warriors’ faces darkened at the news she had gone out with another man, as if they had tasted bitter castor oil—a common medieval European punishment for disobedient children.

“A fine piece of meat has fallen into a dog’s mouth!” one warrior muttered with displeasure.

“Who is Ralph? Is he here?”

“Do you need something?” Ralph appeared from around the corner, holding a handful of wild blackberries, with something wrapped in his shirt.

The thumb-sized berries, resembling the devil fruit from the Pirate King tales, were sweet and tangy, mouth-watering just to see. Two children working near the furnace hurried over to ask for some.

Other children gathered quickly, and in an instant, half of Ralph’s blackberries were gone from his makeshift pouch.

“Gone, gone! Don’t snatch! If you want some, go pick your own!”

The two warriors eyed the berries, swallowing hard, clearly tempted.

“Do you know where Miss Oney went? Yarl’s steward needs to speak with her about something Yarl entrusted.”

“No idea. She left with a very tall man. I saw them heading that way!” Ralph gestured upward, though at only about four feet seven inches tall, he struggled to describe height and simply pointed toward a direction—the sea cliff.

Having long regarded Oney as a mother and dream lover, Ralph’s face was filled with anger, like a child whose beloved toy was given away. Jealousy consumed him as he silently wished the warriors would disrupt their solitude.

For some unknown reason, the boys here shared a sense of unity, seemingly forming a common front, hostile to Harold.

From afar, he spotted two figures beside an oak tree and pointed: “There—there’s a guy named Harold!”

“Harold?”