Torsten's gaze fixated on the door as the side entrance at the rear of the fortress emitted a creak, revealing Thyra's arrival. The sight of his sister Thyra stirred a coiling sensation in his stomach, a familiar sense resulting from the witch's cruel treatment he had endured.
However, Torsten pushed thoughts of the witch aside, firmly closing his eyes. If fortune favored him, he could banish all memories of her forever and he need never think of her again.
The cursed girl had never allowed him a moment's freedom, but now she was summoned for more pressing affairs. With her mind preoccupied with a man from a vision the gods had bestowed upon her, a man both Saxon and Dane, supposedly destined to lead in Winchester, Torsten seized the opportunity to take matters into his own hands and escape.
Months ago, he had managed to break free from their encampment, enduring a grueling journey that led him to crash onto a small hamlet after nearly two weeks of relentless running.
His ears had turned purple at times, his lips and skin cracked from dehydration, and what remained of his fingers and toes, untouched by the witch's cruel acts, were pale and nearly bloodless from the biting cold. The threat of losing his digits to the freezing frost was imminent, but salvation arrived in the form of an elderly farmer and his wife.
They provided him with nourishment from their food stores, ultimately saving his life. Grateful for their kindness, he took refuge with the couple, sustaining himself by hunting game in the forest. However, this time of year, opportunities for sport in the woods were scarce. He could only find the occasional hare, perhaps a squirrel or an owl, and if the gods favored him, a boar or a deer.For nearly two months, he lived alongside the family, finding solace in their presence. But when he returned to their dwelling after an absence, he was met with a horrifying sight.
Their throats had been mercilessly slit, and there, in their home, awaited the witch, patiently anticipating his return. Once again, Torsten found himself fleeing from the clutches of the witch, relentlessly pursued by the Danes who had allied with the Seer.
Death lurked close behind, evident from the arrow that grazed his arm during the chase.
If not for the unexpected aid of the Saxon man, a Prince, Aethelwold, he called himself, and his man Tidman, Torsten would not have survived this far. Fear and trepidation swelled within him as he realized he owed the Saxon Prince his life.
Torsten felt his blood turn stagnant as the Prince visited his cell, days after they had meticulously devised a plan to sneak him into Dunholm undetected and told him that his life was his, and he owed him a life debt for saving his life, and truly, the plan the Saxon Prince had hatched to ensure he was undetected by his brother Ragnar was truly genius.
Disguised in the tattered garments of a servant mere days ago, he seamlessly blended into the bustling atmosphere within the fortress walls.
Together, they maneuvered through dimly lit corridors, skillfully evading Lord Ragnar's guards, exploiting every moment of their ignorance to the Prince's advantage. Eventually, they arrived at the dungeons, which the Prince described as a perfect hiding place for Torsten. The Prince's words flowed like melted butter on warm baked barley bread, but Torsten couldn't shake the lack of sincerity in the Prince's demeanor. However, his attention snapped to full focus when the Prince mentioned Thyra, his sister, and his brother, Ragnar, during their earlier conversation.
A surge of hope and concern surged through him simultaneously. Thyra and her brothers were his only chances of salvation, the only hope that might come for him, but his blood ran cold when Prince Aethelwold threatened to take an ear off him if he dared reveal the truth about how he came to be in Dunholm to anyone, especially his sister and brothers.
The Prince's words dripped with menace as he emphasized the element of surprise. With a smug smirk, he adjusted his doublet's collar, reveling in the power he held over Torsten.
"It's meant to be a surprise, Torsten."
Torsten felt his heart quiver within his chest, his thoughts enveloped by the Prince's chilling and sinister tone.
The memory of the Prince's icy gaze haunted him still, sending shivers down his spine.
"Torsten...brother?" a voice called out, causing him to startle.
He looked up abruptly, and there she stood, a striking figure against the backdrop of the dazzling white snow.
His vision blurred with tears of anguish and betrayal, rendering him nearly blind as he struggled to comprehend the situation. His sister appeared content and secure, just as Ragnar did, or so he had been assured by the Prince during his visit to the dismal confines of his cell.
They were safe and happy, his siblings. Yet, any flicker of relief and hope that stirred within his heart was swiftly extinguished. With a heavy sigh, he released all his pent-up stress, turning his back to conceal his shame. The Prince's suggestion of allowing Thyra to witness his disgrace infuriated him.
The overwhelming surge of emotions threatened to reduce him to tears once more. Desperate to escape, he yearned to flee, to run away and let the wintry storm claim his life. He preferred freezing to death out in the unforgiving cold or even slitting his own throat rather than subject his beloved sister—whom he had been led to believe possessed a gentle and compassionate soul—to witness his wretchedness.
However, he knew the Prince would never allow him to take his own life. Though he hadn't known his new master for long, it was evident that the Saxon Prince possessed infuriatingly enduring patience when it came to preserving his existence, much to his bewilderment.
His mind raced, filled with a whirlwind of thoughts as Torsten hastily shut his eyes and jerked his head to the left.
His trembling hand instinctively rose to his head, fingers grazing what remained of the shock of his red hair, remnants untouched by the witch's hacking off it one morning in a fit of rage. He couldn't bear for her to see him like this, standing so close, uncomfortably close. The shame weighed heavily upon him, and he dreaded meeting his sister's gaze.
Torsten flinched, catching the sound of Thyra's breath hitching, and he fought against the overwhelming urge to flee. Yet, he could feel the piercing intensity of her stare, searing through him, scorching his insides with heat more intense than any dragon's fire or branding iron. The fear of being reduced to mere ashes lingered on the edge of his consciousness. Time became an enigma, its passage unknown to Torsten as he stood exposed at the frozen lakeside, the world around him held in suspension.
He steadfastly fixated his gaze on the snow-covered ground beneath his boots, determined not to break that focus. His sister had not fled from him yet, but he sensed that her stillness was born out of fear, a frozen moment waiting to thaw. It seemed to be the only plausible explanation.
Torsten nearly jumped out of his skin, however, when…her voice reached his ears, even over the harsh winds of winter that pinked his cheeks and nearly turned the tips of his ears and nose black the longer he lingered out in the cold like this.
"A-are you….hurt?"
His sister's innocent question wafted through the air and nearly warmed him over. Torsten's eyes flew wide open and for a moment, he forgot his shock, forget the state of his monstrous form, the devil the witch has made of him, and looked up at his half-sister.
There was fear in her blue eyes as he had expected, but…something else had begun to build behind Thyra Ragnarsdottir's shining eyes. Something he did not recognize.
What did she mean, 'Was he hurt?' Was he hurt that his sister, his family, all he had left to call his own assuming she'd not turn him away and reject him, had to see him this way?
Was he hurt that he had been cast away by a family who'd not wanted him yet one that he had no choice but to return to now years later, for help in escaping his hellish existence?
"N-no," he began, his voice trembling. "Only if it h-hurts both of you to see it..." Torsten's grotesque appearance, his shame, his cursed existence.
His one good eye cast downward, fixated on the snow-covered ground that he could no longer feel through his numb boots. He lowered his head, allowing a stubborn lock of coarse red hair to shield his misshapen face, hiding his expression from his half-sister and the man beside her.
However, to his utter astonishment, he did not hear Thyra depart. Instead, he felt a cold yet incredibly gentle hand caress his cheek, tilting his face upward, leaving him with no option but to meet her gaze directly. Thyra's blue eyes remained wide, yet devoid of fear as they roamed over his countenance.
"It doesn't matter, Torsten. I have... seen worse," she murmured, accompanied by a faint smile.
Torsten drew in a breath and held it, overwhelmed by the indescribable rush of emotions crashing upon him like a tidal wave.
She... she was truly seeing him, not fleeing from his presence. His sister was here. Thyra, his Thyra, his family, right by his side.
One-eyed, scarred, with missing fingers and toes, and a lame gait, his appearance held no significance to Thyra.
"How many times, brother? How many times were you beaten for...for the way that you look? How many times did people call you names?" Thyra whispered, her cheeks turning bright pink as confusion furrowed between her and Ragnar's half-brother, deepening his brow.
"Too many... I didn't always used to look like this," Torsten whispered, his face filled with shame as he averted his gaze abruptly, suddenly feeling remorseful.
Thyra furrowed her brows and frowned, certain that she must have misunderstood.
"What?" she whispered, her mouth becoming dry, and it felt like a challenge to speak the words. "Someone... someone did this to you?" she demanded, struggling to maintain a calm and composed tone.
"Yes..." Torsten whispered, his voice fracturing and shattering, each shard piercing Thyra's heart. It appeared as though he was attempting to swallow his shattered pride, as Thyra watched her half-brother struggle to contain his emotions as if trying to reclaim his wounded heart.
"No..." Thyra tightly shut her eyes, vigorously shaking her head to banish the horrifying image of an anonymous figure inflicting such pain on an innocent young man, a mere boy. "Who?" she whispered, uncertain if she truly desired to know, yet compelled to ask and uncover the truth behind his assault.
Torsten remained silent.
"Oh, Torsten, please, tell me. Who did this to you?" Thyra asked, suddenly sounding angry with him.
"I... I don't want to talk about it." Torsten suddenly grew tense, barely parting his lips, which gradually turned blue from the biting cold. With those words, a heavy silence descended upon them, broken only by the wintry winds' howls and the soft landing of snowflakes on their shoulders.
Thyra glanced down at her brother, meeting Beocca's gaze, then slowly raised her head to find her new love staring at her intently.
Only when he nodded did she allow herself to avert her gaze, returning her attention to Torsten.
Take care of him, she silently urged herself, acknowledging that she was beginning to grasp the first inklings of understanding.
As she withdrew her hand from his disfigured face, Torsten fought against the overwhelming urge to seize his sister's hand and express his gratitude through a kiss. Instead, he resisted, feeling his knees weaken as the weight of his wretched heart lifted, overwhelmed by the surge of emotions coursing through him.
The strength in his legs failed, causing him to buckle under the burden, but before he could collapse onto the snow-covered ground, the priest swiftly darted forward, his unexpectedly strong hands winding around Torsten's waist, providing support to keep him upright.
His sister sensed his confusion it seemed, and after swallowing hard and exchanging a glance with a man she was with, she took a cautious step forward and she stretched a trembling hand and rested her hand on top of his forearm. Torsten flinched, and Thyra was taken aback by the obvious jump of surprise he involuntarily gave from her touch and she almost jerked her hand guiltily back, but decided against it.
Torsten was a man whose touch, just as hers had been once, in her other life, had become his demon to overcome.
"Torsten... brother... this storm is dangerous and it will only get worse. Could we please go inside? We must get you warm and something hot to eat, please let us help you," Thyra gently uttered, her voice exuding compassion and understanding. Her countenance was gentle, and her sapphire eyes shimmered with tears, mirroring Torsten's internal conflict.
With a faint smile on her lips, she summoned her courage and inched even closer to him, bridging the gap between them. Ignoring any uncertainties or anticipation of Torsten's response, she gently enveloped him in her embrace, nestling herself against his frame and resting her head firmly on his chest.
It took Torsten a full minute before his arms finally encircled Thyra, their embrace rigid and hesitant.
"Please, come inside," Thyra pleaded softly, her timid and bashful voice barely audible amidst the blizzard's fierce gusts. Yet, somehow, Torsten could discern her words with utmost clarity. "No one will hurt you, we are bonded, and a family, and you'll want to meet your brothers, Ragnar and Uhtred. You... you are home now. Whatever happened before this moment holds no bearing anymore, brother," she murmured gently. There were more words spoken, though they were lost amidst Torsten's overwhelming surge of emotions.
He surrendered to his tears, burying his head on Thyra's shoulder, and they clung to each other, refusing to let go for an extended period. Torsten's heart pounded fiercely, its palpable rhythm making him momentarily fear that Thyra could hear it. Parting slightly from their embrace, his mind raced with apprehensions of rejection, yet a flicker of hope ignited within his chest, despite the tears welling in his eyes. With trembling hands, his deformed fingers missing their intended form, Torsten reached out, struggling to clasp Thyra's hand, violently shaking due to the numbing cold. However, their embrace had to conclude as the priest, who had accompanied Thyra outside, stood behind her, placing a hand on her shoulder and urging her to bring Torsten indoors.
Torsten observed the priest with quiet intensity, detecting no fault with the man. However, bitterness seeped into his thoughts as he considered how circumstances could have been different, and his sister's husband could have been his brother, Anwen, taken from him too soon.
But the priest spoke softly and eloquently, carrying himself with the demeanor of someone of high standing, perhaps even the priest to a king or noble.
When their eyes briefly met, Torsten detected no trace of fear, disdain, or disgust. The priest's gaze exuded warmth, and his slight smile appeared genuine. Yet, an unsettling feeling crept over Torsten in the presence of this clergyman. There was an intangible air, an aura surrounding him that spoke of danger.
Torsten's thoughts raced wildly, searching for the source of his unease regarding Thyra's husband. Torsten scrutinized the priest's countenance, desperately seeking any trace of fear or hesitation, yet found none. The older man's sole discernible emotion now was a resolute determination to usher them away from the biting cold and into the safety of the fortress, where a comforting fire awaited. Turning his gaze away from the priest, Torsten directed his attention to his half-sister, his eyes no longer burdened by the weight of unshed tears but still carrying the remnants of their presence.
"You... you won't... turn away from me?" he asked, his voice laced with vulnerability.
Thyra gently tightened her grip on Torsten's hand and responded promptly, surprising him with her unwavering certainty. Even more astonishing was the genuine affection evident in her voice, as she spoke for his comfort.
"Never, Torsten." Her voice trembled along with her body as it shook with the solemnity of her promise. "I would never. You, along with Uhtred and Ragnar, are my brothers. I have longed for this day, to meet the brother fate has bestowed upon me. You are an integral part of my family, and nothing could ever alter that truth. Please, come inside."
Tears welled up in Torsten's eyes, the formidable walls that had guarded his heart over the years beginning to thaw. His gaze shifted towards the Saxon priest, a blend of mistrust and vulnerability residing within his one good eye, while the corners of his mouth downturned into a frown.
"Bu-but what about him, sister? Y-your husband, will he accept me as readily as you have? I am a monster, you know," he blurted out, his words stumbling and direct.
The moment they escaped his lips, Torsten realized his mistake, perceiving from the priest's flushed face that he had misinterpreted the man's role in his half-sister's life.
It had nothing to do with the frigid cold that assailed them as the blizzard raged on.
Thyra's expression turned grave, her gaze shifting worriedly between Torsten and Beocca, comprehending the weight of her brother's concerns. However, a shy smile graced her face as she cherished how naturally the word "husband" sounded when uttered by Torsten as if Beocca had always been destined for her and her alone.
"Stop talking about yourself like that. You truly hold such a low opinion of yourself?" Thyra snapped, her frustration evident, but her anger quickly dissipated as she witnessed the young man's fear. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled slowly, willing her nervousness and temper to subside before proceeding further. Her expression softened, reflecting her newfound composure. "Torsten, this is Beocca. Beocca is not my husband, not yet, but we will be wed very soon here in Dunholm. And now that you have returned and become a part of our lives once more, I want you there beside Ragnar and Uhtred when we...when we marry," she shyly revealed.
Beocca stepped forward, his gaze meeting Torsten's, and the intensity of the priest's scrutiny almost made Torsten flinch instinctively. He fought the urge to avert his eyes, instead facing Beocca directly, determined to confront the priest's penetrating gaze.
"You may not know me yet, Torsten, but you will. Your sister spoke the truth. I am—soon to be—Thyra's husband. Thyra's happiness and the unity of our family are my highest priorities, alongside that of my duties to God and King Alfred in Winchester. If you should choose to return with us, you will have a home with us," Beocca's voice carried a slight stutter, likely a manifestation of his nervousness. Torsten chose to overlook it, focusing on the priest's words. "We are bound together now, you and I, alongside Uhtred, Ragnar, and Thyra. We are family, and within this bond, you will always find love and acceptance. Let the blood we share strengthen our connection," Beocca softly corrected himself, his face reddening further as he spoke.
Yet, even in his embarrassment, Torsten could see the overwhelming joy and unwavering devotion in the priest's expression as he exchanged a tender glance with Thyra. With gentle guidance from Beocca, who took Thyra's hand, they began to make their way back toward the warmth and safety of the castle.
Torsten felt a sense of astonishment, though less pronounced than he had anticipated.
As if his feet now had their minds, his feet moved in sync with the familiar terrain, his legs seeming to possess a will of their own. He nodded in response, silently acknowledging the profoundness of the moment, and followed Beocca and Thyra inside the fortress. The dimly lit corridors exuded an eerie atmosphere, illuminated by the wavering torchlight that cast unsettling shadows upon the frigid stone walls. Beocca briskly walked beside Thyra, but Torsten couldn't tear his gaze away from his sister. To his surprise, the determination was etched upon her fair and exquisite features.
A jolt of unease coursed through Torsten as he realized that Thyra had made up her mind, unyielding in her decision. Sensing his apprehension, Thyra turned towards him, her shy yet encouraging smile offering solace. "Have faith, brother. We will not allow anyone here to harm you."
Torsten nodded, though his lone good eye betrayed a mixture of fear and uncertainty.
Continuing their resolute stride down the corridor shrouded in shadows, they were on the verge of turning the corner when a figure emerged from a hidden alcove, obstructing their path. Torsten's heart leaped into his throat, and he narrowly avoided colliding with the priest as he abruptly halted.
Leaning casually against the stone wall, Torsten's new master, the handsome fair-haired Saxon Prince, wore a smug smirk upon his slender lips. Mischievous gleams danced within his deep brown eyes as he observed the group now standing before him.
"No, please, gods, no," Torsten pleaded, his breath trembling with desperation.
He silently implored Thyra not to utter a single word, fearing the wrath that would befall her from their master. The memories of the torment he had endured, the pieces into which he had been torn, haunted him, bringing tears to his eyes and an overwhelming emptiness to his chest. He fought back the sobs that threatened to escape, stifling them.
There was no escape, no way to evade the punishment their master would inflict upon him if he failed... failed to...
His thoughts grew fragmented, trapped within a tormented labyrinth, leaving him teary-eyed and gasping for breath. The tension between them became palpable, hanging heavy in the air.
"Father Beocca. Lady Thyra," he sneered. "Well, well, well, what a delightful surprise to stumble upon both of you here in these halls, accompanied by a guest who seems to have been plucked straight from the fiery depths of Hell itself. But then again, Lady, considering that this very place was once your personal Hell, I shouldn't be too astonished to discover that you've managed to unearth a demon lurking within the fortress's grounds," he added, trailing off as he cast a glance towards Torsten.
The mere presence of Prince Aethelwold sent involuntary tremors through Torsten, aware that only they and the two men who had been in the cell alongside the Prince earlier knew of the prince's intentions for the next several days.
Torsten desperately tried to maintain a facade of disdain, masking the overwhelming fear that gripped him. Sniffling, he actively averted his gaze, seeking anything to fixate on other than the prince.
Gritting his teeth, he turned their attention to Thyra, yet even the far lovelier sight of his half-sister couldn't suppress the searing sensation of Prince Aethelwold's penetrating stare, which fixated on Torsten's disfigurements. A malicious smile, reminiscent of a malevolent troll, swiftly marred the prince's handsome face.
"What a captivating sight it is, isn't it, Lady? Father?" he purred, his voice dripping with scorn. "It appears that you've discovered a loyal protector in this wretched creature. My uncle has always held a fondness for you, Father Beocca, but I'll never fathom the depths of your bleeding heart. Pray to tell, Father, do you and the lady truly revel in the company of this... accursed wretch, this demon? I suppose, given the company you choose to keep, it suits a man of your... refined tastes," Prince Aethelwold bit out, his gaze shifting towards Thyra, his eyes turning cold.
Torsten's eyes darted frantically around the room, his gaze filled with fear. In a desperate attempt to escape the Prince's intense stare, he instinctively sought refuge behind his sister's potential husband. A pitiful and terrified whimper escaped his lips, causing him to curse himself for his weakness.
He hastily covered his face with his trembling hands, trying to hide his shame from the prying eyes around him. To his astonishment, the priest's face twisted in a blend of astonishment and fury, his eyes narrowing in response to Prince Aethelwold's spiteful insults hurled at Torsten.
To his left, Thyra parted her lips and stepped forward in a quest to defend him, but before his sister could utter a word, Beocca finally found his voice.
When he spoke, his tone was gentle yet resolute.
"Aethelwold, as followers of our faith, we are called upon to embrace compassion and empathy, even when faced with our challenges. However, it appears that you may be lacking in this capacity, boy, you've never struck me as a particularly bright young atheling, the Witan was right in my mind to deny you the crown," he spat out, his anger mounting and his face reddening with an infuriating intensity. "This is Torsten, Ragnar and Thyra's brother, and you will treat him with the kindness and utmost respect he deserves."
Aethelwold scoffed, dismissively waving his hand to brush aside Beocca's words, causing Torsten to swallow hard, suppressing a lump in his throat. Though he refused to turn and face his newfound master, to whom he owed a debt for saving his life, he could sense, from the corner of his vision, the lingering malice in the Saxon Prince's smile. Aethelwold's smirk merely widened, revealing his disdain for Beocca's perspective on Thyra's brother.
"Or else what, Father? My soul will be damned to Hell for all eternity when you bore me to death with another of your lectures? Hmm? I should have known, Father Beocca, that you would be the virtuous defender of such a wretched creature," he snorted. "But mark my words, this—this demon you shelter will bring nothing but ruin and chaos to your doorstep should you decide to keep it as a pet, Father. You may think yourselves righteous, but your naivety blinds you to the dangers lurking within your walls. Your noble ideals will be your downfall, and were I you, I would wash my hands of this affair."
Beocca's face burned with indignation and restraint, his tired features etching a fierce determination to defend his future bride's brother. However, before either Beocca or Thyra could speak, Thyra, driven by a newfound protectiveness for her brother, stepped forward.
The words escaped her lips without her own volition, and she realized too late the weight of what she had said.
"What danger, My Lord? The only danger I see...is you. Your words are poison," she accused, her normally shy voice transformed into one that was piercing and resolute. "The way you treat those who are different from you is cruel and unjust," she added, maintaining a cool and emotionless tone. She refused to let the king's nephew witness her anger so readily. "Have you ever been kind to someone else in your entire life, My Lord?" she asked, cringing as she heard the faint warble in her voice threaten to break through the surface.
"Thyra, my dear, do not say another word! I beg of you, do not give credence to any bile he spews, the lies he tells are meant to get under your skin," Beocca intervened, his tone harsh and he was nearly shouting at her, making Torsten jump, but Beocca did not acknowledge it as his gaze remained fixed on King Alfred's nephew, sensing danger as a flicker of rage crossed the handsome face of the king's nephew.
However, Thyra cut him off, realizing that she could not allow the Prince to continue disparaging Torsten in such a manner.
"No, Beocca, my brother does not deserve to be talked about like this, king's nephew or not! Torsten is not a monster, no matter what has happened to him..." She trailed off, concerned, and looked away from Beocca. Her expression softened as she chanced a glance towards her brother and swore she heard him whimper.
Deep down, she knew she would regret speaking so boldly to the Prince, considering his high status and the power he held over not only her but also Beocca and her brothers.
Nevertheless, she couldn't restrain herself. This was her opportunity, after six months of enduring, to express her true feelings towards this cruel and heartless young man. It was too late to undo what had transpired. Thyra advanced towards him, her anger steadily escalating.
"You are the only 'wretch,' the only 'monster' I see!" she shouted, her words filled with fury.
A few seconds of profound silence enveloped them, and at that moment, Thyra embraced her Danish heritage, her demeanor embodying the fierce spirit of her upbringing. Even she, however, felt a flicker of apprehension at her intensity, realizing the depths of her emotions that were now beginning to unnerve her.
And in a swift motion, faster than she could have anticipated as if her hand acted independently, she delivered a resounding slap across his face. And there was over ten years of anger behind that blow, as for a moment, her imagination ran rampant and she thought she saw the Prince's face twist and contort and suddenly, he wore a mask of the faces of both Kjartan and Sven. The force of her palm meeting his cheek reverberated through the air like an explosion.
Before Beocca or Torsten could react, she struck him again on the other cheek.
"You would not make a good king, Prince Aethelwold, a good king, one who will be remembered, does not belittle and mock his subjects," Thyra's voice pierced the heavy silence, her words laced with both anger and disappointment. Her tear-streaked face remained unyielding, her resolve unbroken. "You are nothing more than a coward and a bully."
Aethelwold's eyes narrowed, his fury simmering beneath the surface.
"How dare you!" he seethed through gritted teeth, his hand still cupping his reddened jaw. "You filthy Danish bitch, you will regret this insolence!" Aethelwold shouted hoarsely.
But Thyra had seen enough and had heard more than enough from the king's nephew. Without another word, she turned on her heels, her skirts swishing with each swift step.
Torsten, sensing her urgency and realizing this might be his only chance to escape his new master, for the moment, followed closely behind. The corridor seemed to stretch before them as they made their escape, leaving Beocca behind to deal with the aftermath. Beocca watched Thyra's retreating figure with concern and determination in his eyes.
He knew he had to follow her, to protect her and Torsten from the potential consequences of her confrontation.
Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself and began to stride after Thyra, his footsteps echoing in the silent darkness, though the sound of the Prince's curses followed him anyway, lingering in his ears. Beocca's heart raced within his chest as he hurried down the corridor, desperately trying to catch up to Thyra and Torsten.
A knot of worry twisted in his gut, and his brows furrowed deeply as he pressed onward. Yet, he dared not cast a glance behind him, for the darkness that lay there held only uncertainty and, perhaps, the enraged figure of the Prince. Nevertheless, the echoes of Aethelwold's screams and curses reverberated in the air, reaching Beocca's ears and intensifying the chill that permeated the desolate hallway. It seemed as though the cold itself conspired to silence him, sending shivers down his spine.
As Beocca stepped into the brightly lit hall, he caught sight of Thyra in the distance. She had already noticed Uhtred, Ragnar, Brida, and their assembled men.
Amid the gathering, Ingrid and Haesten were also present, with Ingrid seemingly on the verge of hyperventilation and visibly concerned about Thyra, who appeared chilled and pale, her lips nearly blue from the cold. However, Thyra's touch on Ingrid's arm brought her some comfort, and Ingrid's anxiety subsided as Thyra whispered something to her.
With a nod of gratitude, Ingrid swiftly departed, likely off to fetch a warm bowl of soup for Torsten.
Once Ingrid had disappeared, Thyra shifted her focus back to her brothers, who awaited her introduction of their long-lost sibling. Determination etched across her face, she gently guided the hesitant and frightened boy toward the group, intending to introduce the terrified poor boy to his much old brothers.
At that moment, as Beocca prepared to join them, a simple yet poignant thought consumed his mind.
Oh, God, oh, Lord, Thyra... What have you done?
The weight of the consequences hung heavily upon him, overshadowing the uncertain future that lay ahead. Beocca's footsteps faltered for a moment as the gravity of the situation settled upon him. He knew he had to act swiftly to protect Thyra and ensure her safety. With determination burning in his eyes, he made a silent vow within his heart.
Tomorrow morning, before anything else could happen, he would marry Thyra. No more delays, no more uncertainty regarding their future together. He would solidify their bond and shield her from the perils that awaited be they in a House of God or in this hellish pagan hall itself, it mattered not to him.
Beocca couldn't bear the thought of Thyra enduring any more hardship or facing the wrath of the Prince alone.
As he stood beside the woman he loved, words eluded him. With Thyra by his side, Beocca held back, insisting she warm herself near the fire after being outside for too long. Together, they observed Torsten conversing with Uhtred and Ragnar at a nearby table in the hall.
Though Beocca could not hear what was being said between the men and the boy, the expression on Uhtred's face revealed that he already considered Torsten as one of his own.
Embracing Thyra tenderly, Beocca disregarded any judgment from those around them, wrapping his arms around her waist. In an attempt to soothe her worries, he delicately kissed her cheek while holding her from behind.
"Tomorrow, my love," he whispered hoarsely into her ear, gently brushing aside a stray wisp of her red hair. Almost smiling, Beocca watched as Thyra squirmed in his embrace and looked up at him. There was a prolonged silence as if she were searching his face for something unknown to Beocca.
Thankfully, Thyra seemed to comprehend the meaning of his words without the need to elaborate further and raised her hand to touch his cheek, offering peace.
Beocca wished he could etch Thyra's peaceful countenance into his memory—a rare expression of bliss and joy that he had never witnessed in Uhtred's gentle sister before this moment. He prayed that their upcoming marriage would enable them to discover and nurture each other's serenity and happiness.
"Tomorrow, Beocca, my love," Thyra whispered shyly, suddenly looking years younger and happier than he had ever seen her, leaning up to give Beocca a silent kiss on the lips.
Their encounter in front of the blazing fire within the grand hall remained a clandestine moment, concealed from the rest of the world—an acknowledgment of their profound bond. For now, all thoughts of Aethelwold were banished from their minds.
However, Beocca and Thyra were unaware that there were still other forces conspiring to tear them apart.