"My daughter," sobbed the king. "Killed by a madman, my strongest fighter! Could it have been revenge? It must have been. Oh, that he had struck me down in her stead!"
He did not weep for Lombert, nor for the 30 knights that had been murdered. When they had presented him with her body...with his child's body, with nary a scratch...
The images flew through his head again. Jelanda's birth. Her mother's death, shortly after. Jelanda as a child...eating, throwing a tantrum (there had been no shortage of those), picking flowers in the garden, sleeping in her bed, asking her father why he never had time for her. Jelanda as a teenager...learning magic spells, reading, arguing with Lombert. And then, the events of the past few days unfolded before him like the carpet that stretched from the door to his throne. The presentation of the statue, Arngrim knocking the head off the statue, Arngrim walking out, Jelanda yelling at the guards to capture him as her feeble father trembled in his seat, too terrified to speak.
Yes...I was so scared on that day. I was scared that man was going to do me in. The way he laughed...a most fearsome laugh. But I was always a coward. Jelanda inherited her mother's stubbornness and courage. In the end, I was helpless to save her...The fear I felt when I thought I was going to die was nothing compared to the fear that consumed me when they said my daughter had been kidnapped.
He laughed ruefully, startling the servants in the room. That fear, that feeling of not knowing what would become of his daughter, was almost worst than the feeling of shock and sorrow upon finding out she was dead, and the overwhelming anger upon learning that she had been murdered by somebody he thought worked for him.
It's my fault. I should have known. I should have done more to protect her. I always left her with Lombert, thinking he could do everything better than I could. But nobody can replace the love and attention of a parent. I see that now. But, oh! what a terrible price to pay!
He buried his face in his hands and began to weep anew. "Jelanda," he wailed, "Can you ever forgive your foolish father? You were only 14. Just a child. You were smart, you seemed to grow up so quickly...but you were still just a young girl. How could I have been such a fool?"
The servants in the room began to weep with him. Jelanda had been spoiled--could one expect any less from the daughter of a king?--but she was a child. The death of a child is always more tragic than any other death. They thought of their own children, their daughters and sons, and how they couldn't bear it if they were to lose any of them.
The king declared 40 days of mourning for his beloved daughter. During that period of time, no one was to fight unless absolutely necessary, and the church bells were required to be rung every hour on the hour. The outpour of grief and sympathy was almost overwhelming. People brought flowers to the castle, and the churches were nearly overflowing with well-wishers begging the gods to grant her peace. None of them could have imagined that she was fighting for the well-being of all, god and human alike, as a trainee to become an Einherjar, a warrior of Valhalla.
I must live on, the king decided. I will become a better king, one that these good people deserve. A king that Jelanda would have been proud of. A king who will not cower before an arrogant mercenary. Oddly enough, the thought of Arngrim brought him no feelings of fury or hatred this time. It was almost as if he had been forgiven. How was this possible? This was the man who had killed his daughter.
He didn't know it, but the gods were granting him the ability to forgive the man who killed Jelanda. For Arngrim was also training to become an Einherjar, which is the greatest honor of all.
The elderly king was finally at peace. Now, he must accomplish the same for his kingdom.