The Room is long, much longer than the one in Kattegat and it has a table which keeps apart the ones who preside on the high seat and the commoners. Like in the days of his father.
The wood of the table shines like a mirror through good waxing and it smells of bees. Half covering it, a carpet with a design he has never seen, warms its support further. The carpet reaches the floor of stones. On the table top, an elegant enamel jug reaches in his opinion absurd height. His stepmother would love it. Until her eyes rest on the simple and rushed bouquet of wild flowers which crowns the long stem. Not queenly enough yet certainly more welcoming than Aslaug great hall. On each side on the walls benches await the tired visitor. Chimneys on both sides will warm some more the guest when next winter is coming.
The carpet falls to the floor in elegant folds and a guard keeps his vigil by some sort of red banner which looks uncomfortably familiar. Near one of the cold fires, a hound snoozes, content, by what looks like a chewed leather ball. This hall in all its grandeur and homeliness hurts him more than any blow he has suffered. It smells different yet it smells of the comforts of home when Father was just an earl and Gydda was alive.
The servant who has allowed him in the great hall is now gone, leaving him alone with the guard. His eyes search the walls and their curious tapestries. The one which runs on its right seems to tell the story of some giant who looks and now this is strange since he is in Christ God land… like Thor? A Thor with a very dark mane. and a Frank moustache. The hammer which looks different is put in good use doing what hammers do. The Jotuns who fight him are like Thor, they do look just as odd. Their swords are curved and their helmets are of a curious shape like the cap of the Arab merchant his mother is so proud to show around when she wants to prove than under her rule Kattegat has been thriving a lot more than it has even been. He hates her sly smile as nobody can miss who is the target of the slur.
The story progresses as it is clear this Thor is not the master of thunder. This Southern lord of the Hammer is crushing his enemies and the Cross of Athelstan is resplendent at the warrior side. A winged creature who is not a Valkyrie because it has no weapon flies above his head showing him the enemy to slay.
The tall man shakes his head. How curious these Christians are who celebrate the Hammer God, who approve of Odin faithful servants yet prefer a god who has died. Mind you he has resurrected. He sighs; Odin has hung nine days on a tree pierced by spears. Athelstan would tell him that Odin has died like this other God. Norse and Christian people may have a lot more in common than they think. Maybe they are the same people just apart by a different language and a sunnier summer. Maybe the man whose name is not to be pronounced has been right all along:has Time come to make alliances?
The master of the hall is taking his own good time unless he is somewhere far away from the hall. Franks love houses which are like rabbit warrens, full of hallways and little rooms and more rooms unlike you get dizzy walking through them. Sitting on the bench, he spreads his long legs and prepares himself for a nap following the example of the unperturbed dog when he notices the table cloth moves. Not a lot, but it moves. It is another pet or the pup of the older hound? The distinct giggle which meets his ears sets his mind at rest.
There is no hidden killer here but the would-be prankster deserves a lesson. Nonchalantly, he stands up to walk a bit further away from the table to walk back to it, feigning to try and find a better global view of the tapestry. The cloth is now immobile but the hidden imp has not run away safe in his touching trust that nobody has seen him. The visitor seems fascinated by the tapestry while the guard is resting now on his other leg. All is quiet in this peaceful afternoon. Until like summer lightning, the draping folds are lifted on one single swift move to reveal the owner of the mocking laugh.
Kneeling on the floor a little girl who seems a barely older version of someone he wishes but cannot erase from his memory looks at him, proud, daring him to catch her. He certainly tries, but the child is quick; and runs away from his grasp to the side of the high seats until she sits shameless on the smaller one dangling her short legs from the seat. Daring him more to try and get hold of her. The guard seems more awake; still, he does not move as if he has witnessed too many of these games. Proud of her success at this first round, the engaging girl looks like she is going to … And she does as she goes back under the table waiting for the visitor to play his part in this game of not hide and not seek.
The guest ignores her; he has better things to do, because there is a treasure under the table. A wooden sword which has seen better days along a diminutive shield. Another Frank shield which could do with fresh pain rests by a wooden horse on wheels, A very small helmet searches for a head; while somewhat covered by the shield , two legs of what must be the owner of the helmet are poking out.
As his hand gets hold on the horse, a voice is heard. Too bad he cannot make head or tail of it. The same sentence is repeated. This time, he gets he is not supposed to play with the horse!
- What is your name? Name? Nomen? Nomin?
The answer is just as barely comprehensible. Geirlaug? But the rest makes no sense as Adeela? He better stops this foray in Frank. The child is not fussed about his silence as she engages him in conversation. Of what she says, he has no clue but she smiles and this smile, given with such sweet innocence is a knife digging deep in his chest. She is so much like her. But she is not her; she is different. Physically, she must have her mother hair but the rest is claimed by her sire. She pats the stones by her side as if she is inviting him to sit proceeding to show him each and every bit of her treasure in an incomprehensible language where he can pick her and there a few words of his own.
The master of the house is not hurried to meet his visitor but his daughter is happy to offer his refreshment in a tiny chalice which would raise admiring whistles in Kattegat. The guard is not bothered by the disappearance of the guest. Not that he suspects him on witchcraft. The visitor head is showing above the table board. When he hears a step he remembers from the past, only then he stands up and let the fold of the cloth to hide once more the elfin creature.
The lord of this great hall is tall; not as tall as him. But tall, some grey hair has started to creep up on his temples but he has not changed much. The father of this guest hhas called him once bitch. Maybe, it is because he who will not be named, he who is outlawed in Kattegat, he who has shamed his ancestors has always shown better taste than his guest's sire.
The new comer climbs quickly the few steps of the stage and sits as he flicks the guard to leave the room. This time, the silence in the hall is tense. The two men are face to face. The young man's short sword is by inches away on his hand just like the axe which stands idle by the taller high seat is just a breath away for the hand of its owner.
- Father, I cannot find Sis!
Now another person enters the great hall; now, the sleeping dog is awake grabbing the ball to bring it to his master. His young master and its tail is wagging a merry dance. The boy, the older boy not that he is that old, just older than his sister walks calmly to the visitor and stands up but a feet away looking at him with an open mouth like he was a thing to be wondered at.
- Geirlaug, show yourself. We have a guest.
This time again, the drapes reveal the little girl who walks quietly to her brother side jabbering more Frank. The guest crouches in front the pair of siblings. They are indeed like two peas in a pod and their father can harbou no doubt about their parentage. The boy' iris must take their color after his mother but he is his father kinsman without the shadow of a doubt. Lucky boy.
The young man smiles.
- It has taken you a long time to give me playmates, uncle.