If Bridget felt confused, Godric felt absolutely flummoxed. As if the memories from both his previous times in the village — and he did not know why he was able to recall those months, as others seemed to leave and recall nothing upon their return — conflicting with those from his real life was not enough of a daily correlative struggle, he now felt simultaneously drawn to and unsure of the girl who looked, and sometimes acted, so much like Sæunn.
All he knew was that the ease with which they spoke was not quite the same as his and Sæunn's, but nor was it wholly dissimilar. They got on well, although that too was not quite the same. And he reminded himself that it would not be, because this girl was not Sæunn; this was something he had to remind himself each time he sought to speak with her. Godric did not want to cause offense by calling her the wrong name, and he hated more to make an excuse for his actions, but — she looked so much like her, and there were moments and minutes when sometimes he forgot.
Coming down from the mountains to his clearing, Godric stopped when he heard a soft lullaby. He froze in his step, his face straining as he listened to it. This here was one of those moments when he could easily forget that this was a different girl from a different time, and not simply his love wearing what they called modern clothing. The lullaby brought back a bittersweet memory, of sitting here in this same clearing, as a boy of 18 and not a man of 42, sitting beside Sæunn and their infant boy Goðólfr, listening as Sæunn sang the boy to sleep by a fire which Godric had brought to life with magic.
"She used to sing that to our son, for the few weeks they were here," Godric said quietly as an introduction, sitting down beside her on the log, his long legs bent at the knees and his elbows resting atop them. "Why do you cry, Bridget?"