This is, to be fair, a lot for Claudius to take in. Words like car bomb and fire extinguisher he more or less takes in context, but the context itself is the trouble. None of Claudus's brushes with other cosmologies have outright contradicted his own -- and to be fair, this one doesn't, either. But it feels as though it ought. The tense contradiction between a pagan past and a Catholic present is why, he thinks, the pulpits bristle with so much brimstone fire: the priests believe they're fighting a war for Danish souls, and have come armed. (And that's not to mention the Lutherans.) And then here's Magnus, with his litany of heroic souls -- truly heroic, not simply celebrated war heroes -- who have somehow slipped between the battle of Heaven and Hell to go somewhere else entirely. Settling back in an armchair, Claudius twists the signet ring around his finger in thought. "I'm beginning to think I should have asked you for lessons on what it's like to truly die," he says after a moment. "You died rather young, didn't you?" It's probably not rude to ask when someone else has broached the subject. "I thought you looked young when I saw you."