"Viking" He repeated, though with a touch of shame. He didn't want that life anymore. His hands were far to stained in blood, the weight of the horrors he brought to the people who got in his way. The things that made his name known, made him something to be proud of were now his shame.

He wouldn't have understood the horned helmet, even if he could understand English. History was funny that way.

"Fountain." He repeated the word, it felt heavy on his tongue, but he spoke it, pointing back to the water. "já, ég kom frá fountain." He moved his hand back to his chest, then back to the fountain, then to her. "You, fountain?" He tried, he knew a few words in English but not enough to get by. And her use of you confirmed what he thought it meant. He wanted to know if she to had come from the water. He moved his hand back to his chest once more. "ég er Þorfinnur Þórsson." His hand shifted back to her again. "You?"