As I write these words, you are six years old. I am thirty. I am in my prime, but I know already I'll never teach you how to shoot a bow, nor how to ride a horse or care for a sword. I'll never take you on a raid nor out fishing.
I took a wound to my knee during the last raid. It's taken a turn for the worse. It shouldn't have taken more than a few days to heal over... but something got in my blood. Wound's full of pus, stinks. I'm losing feeling. The druids say it's beyond their help, and that I'll bleed to death if they cut off my leg.
So I'm preparing for death. You're in for some tough years, lad. Our family's got a great many enemies. I've defended you against them, but now you'll be on your own. Perhaps someone will help you - and perhaps not. That's why I've had part of our goods hidden - in Old Ule's house, under the floorboards. That way no one can take it from you, no one can steal it - and you can dig it up once you're all grown. I've asked your mother to give you this letter when you start your eighteenth spring.
You take that silver, son. Buy yourself a fine blade, some armor, a horse. Raid the Continent. Exact revenge on the men who did you wrong after my death. Make me proud.
I never told you this, but I've always felt it: I love you, Janne. I hope one day we'll meet in the halls of Freya's eternal green garden and you'll tell me about your life. The life I was not able to see.
You have my blessings, son.