Thyra was abruptly jolted from her thoughts by a faint sound, causing her to glance in the direction of Ragnar as her brother came towards her. He stood before her, his hand extended, a plain expression on his face.
Suppressing a sigh, Thyra's gaze shifted to the path leading to the closest thing Dunholm had to a prayer hall, the Great Hall where they gathered for feasts.
Those fleeting moments she had anxiously spent outside the chamber she now shared with Beocca, almost not wanting to leave the precious sanctuary the room would become after their wedding, had felt interminable as she waited for Ingrid and Brida to depart, leaving her alone.
While Brida helped to comb and weave tiny flowers into Thyra's red autumn locks, her expression remained visibly miserable. However, she wisely kept silent about Thyra's decision to marry Beocca and their recent argument.
Thyra was immensely grateful for Brida's discretion, not wanting anything to dampen her anticipation for what she hoped would be the most joyous night of her life.
For her wedding to Beocca, Ingrid meticulously selected a gown from her wardrobe and gifted it to Thyra as a wedding present. The gown itself was crafted from opulent dark blue velvet. The dress was embellished with elaborate gold brocade embroidery that traced the neckline and adorned the hems. The ensemble beautifully accentuated the autumn shades of Thyra's red hair, as Haesten's wife exclaimed in admiration while assisting her with bathing and dressing.
The dress was beautiful, the blue the prettiest hue she had ever seen before, and the dress was simple in cut but the fabric was the richest and most beautiful velvet Thyra had ever seen.
Ingrid had offered a gold necklace that, according to her, would go well with her gown, though Thyra refused her new friend's offer. That, she thought, would be stepping over the line, and on her wedding day at least, she wore no jewels save for a few rings on her fingers.
At the sound of her name being called, Thyra's focus snapped back to the present, and she swallowed nervously while exhaling deeply. Her hand trembled as she reached out to Ragnar's, finding it a surprise that he had come to fetch her instead of Uhtred. She presumed her other dear brother was by Beocca's side, given Beocca's familiarity with Uhtred.
Ragnar accepted her hand politely, guiding her arm to rest on his, but he remained still, his gaze filled with such intensity that Thyra's cheeks flushed crimson. Overwhelmed by shyness, she averted her eyes to her boots, suddenly too timid to utter a word to him.
"Thyra, look at you. You are a vision of beauty. I have never laid eyes on anything more exquisite than you. That priest of yours doesn't deserve someone like you," Ragnar whispered, his voice filled with affection. He leaned in to gently brush his lips against her temple and cheek, then pulled back slightly to observe Thyra's flushed face, studying her with a hint of admiration.
Thyra fought the urge to fidget under her brother's intense gaze. Deep down, she dreaded discussing the events that had driven her away from Dunholm for good.
However, with her impending marriage to Beocca just moments away, she knew her gentle and compassionate priest would inevitably become a topic of conversation between her and Ragnar. Ragnar reached out and tenderly held Thyra's hands, giving them a gentle squeeze.
His eyes lingered on a plain gold ring adorning one of her left fingers as if he found it to be one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.
Starting with a gentle approach, Ragnar softly inquired, "How are you feeling?" His concern for Thyra's well-being, both mentally and physically, was evident in his voice as they reunited in this place.
Thyra smiled, already sensing the direction of Ragnar's thoughts.
"I am well, brother, and I am being taken care of. Beocca has ensured that already, and he will continue to do so as my husband," Thyra beamed, her smile both soft and nervous as she looked at her brother earnestly. Ragnar's grip on Thyra's hands tightened, and as he looked at her earnestly, a wave of emotions washed over her.
For a brief moment, she had to suppress her tears, feeling as though she was gazing into the younger face of their late father.
"I am... glad to hear that. This priest, Thyra, is he truly your happiness?" Ragnar's dark eyes glistened, and without him needing to say anything further, Thyra understood his unspoken thoughts. She knew Ragnar was recalling the shock he had felt when he first saw his beloved sister standing in the bailey, embraced by King Alfred's priest.
Aware of Ragnar's fierce protectiveness toward her, Thyra suspected he had initially contemplated ordering Beocca to leave the premises. However, she was relieved that Ragnar had come to realize the depth of love her sweet priest had for her. She hoped that now, Ragnar could see that same love, shining brightly behind her blue eyes, directed towards Beocca.
Thyra understood that both Ragnar and Uhtred had always desired her happiness and yearned for her to experience love, just as their parents would have wished for her. Realizing that she owed her brother a response, Thyra swiftly replied, eager to ease any concerns Ragnar may have had.
"He is. I cannot imagine my life without him, I could not be without him," she confessed. Thyra's shy smile broadened, and at that moment, a strong longing for Beocca welled up within her, wishing she could be by his side at that very moment.
Ragnar nodded in understanding when Thyra did not speak, his gaze fixed on Thyra, and tears began to stream down her cheeks uncontrollably.
She watched her brother, captivated by his intense presence.
"All I want is your happiness," Ragnar assured her, his expression solemn and his words tender.
Thyra's thoughts immediately drifted to Beocca, the man she was moments away from marrying. Memories they had already shared, and the ones she hoped to create together, flooded her mind. A radiant smile adorned her face, illuminating the gloomy corridor as they finally reached a stop outside the sturdy oak doors of the Great Hall.
"I have found it in Beocca and in Wessex, brother," Thyra beamed at Ragnar, her happiness shining through her words.
Ragnar gave a slight nod, his expression hinting at unspoken words about Beocca. However, he decided against it and instead turned towards the doors, opening them. Thyra took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. She allowed Ragnar to guide her into the Hall, where all eyes seemed to be fixed on her.
A small crowd of Ragnar's men had gathered, some genuinely paying their respects to their lord, while others, she suspected, were merely curious to catch a glimpse of her. Her beauty had garnered fame, or perhaps infamy. At the far end of the hall, Thyra spotted a group of familiar faces. Ingrid, of course, was there with her husband, Haesten. Thyra couldn't help but imagine what Beocca would have to say about Haesten witnessing their union, but she knew she would hear about it later.
Osferth, King Alfred's bastard son whom Uhtred had taken into his service, was also present. The boy had practically begged at her brother's feet to be released from his studies as a monk. And then there was Sihtric, dear sweet Sihtric. Her gaze drifted towards Kjartan's bastard son, born to a Christian woman who was once a slave—the same woman who had given birth to Sihtric.
Thyra and Sihtric had shared a bond as prisoners of Kjartan the Cruel, each in their unique way. Sihtric had been the one to bring her meals while she was confined, and he had helped her obtain mugwort from Kjartan's healer to prevent her from conceiving One-Eyed Sven's child.
The Danish boy stood there quietly, his handsome features standing out even in the dim lighting of the hall. It was Sihtric who first met Thyra's gaze as Ragnar led her down the hall, offering her a shy smile that she couldn't help but return.
To Sihtric's left stood Torsten, still anxious and uneasy in the presence of so many people. Yet, the previous night, Uhtred had approached them before Beocca led Thyra to their chambers and expressed his intention to take Torsten into his service if the boy was willing. However, Torsten had yet to provide an answer.
Her gaze shifted towards Uhtred, who stood proudly in the center of the hall, his vibrant green eyes twinkling with a cat-like gleam. It had been a while since Thyra had seen her dear brother so genuinely happy. She knew that Uhtred rejoiced in Beocca and her union, recognizing that they brought each other solace and joy.
Behind Uhtred, Brida leaned against the bricked wall, her arms tightly folded across her chest. Brida's demeanor was nothing short of glaring coal, radiating anger towards Beocca.
On the other side of the hall, someone leaned casually against the wall, clutching a goblet in hand but leaving it untouched.
Thyra's heart sank as she realized Aethelwold had arrived to witness her marriage to Beocca. The color drained from her face, and she tightly pressed her lips together.
To her dismay, another man joined them, a dark-haired Saxon with cold, colorless grey eyes and a disquieting, blank stare. His presence unsettled her, even though she did not know his name.
The previous night, her heart had turned to ashes, and a seething hatred had engulfed her as she listened to Aethelwold's hurtful remarks directed at her brother. She had left Aethelwold in the dim corridor, his mouth agape and his cheek reddening, not knowing what had transpired afterward.
All she knew was that Aethelwold's lackeys had whisked him away as she passed by, escorting Torsten into the Hall. However, she swore she heard the boy's profane tirade before she joined her brothers and introduced Torsten to Uhtred and Ragnar. Regardless, she paid him no mind.
If there were consequences to face, she would confront them as they came. To hell with Aethelwold and his band of followers, whose words were nothing but venomous poison.
She forced herself to avert her gaze from the Prince, feeling her stomach flutter with the stirrings of desire as a priest turned to look at her, her priest.
A blush tinted her cheeks, turning them a rosy pink. Her priest's robes appeared clean and mended, and Beocca's unwavering gaze was fixed solely on her. It was as if the entire world had been stripped of all women, leaving only her standing before him.
In his attire, he almost resembled a virtuous figure, like a saint he secretly aspired to be acknowledged as one day after his passing.
Thyra noticed a glistening in his eyes, and she swore she caught a fleeting hint of a blush appearing on his cheeks before he glanced towards Uhtred.
However, Uhtred's gaze was not fixed on Beocca; instead, he was focused on Ragnar.
Intrigued, Thyra shifted her eyes to the left and observed Ragnar's expression. To her surprise, her brother's face remained stern and impenetrable for several moments, as if he were looking right through Beocca, who stood before the fierce Danish warlord, prepared to receive his promised bride.
For a brief moment, it appeared as though Ragnar might refuse to let go of Thyra. He stood motionless, as silent as an owl, his unwavering gaze unchanged and intense.
From the corner of her eye, Thyra cast a concerned glance at her brother and fidgeted uneasily, feeling a growing sense of nervousness.
Even Beocca seemed to be growing agitated and maybe even unsettled as the seconds ticked by and the silence stretched uncomfortably among the small crowd. Thyra blushed, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink, as she began to hear whispers from the onlookers behind her.
Without needing to listen closely, she knew that others must be thinking Ragnar was having second thoughts about allowing his now-Christian sister to marry this devout priest, Alfred's trusted right-hand man.
Thyra let out a sigh of relief, feeling the tension release from her shoulders, as Ragnar's lips twitched.
Although he didn't smile, his eyes started to twinkle with a familiar mischievousness that Thyra had dearly missed.
"I entrust her to you, Beocca," Ragnar muttered, a steely resolve glimmering in his Danish warlord's gaze, as he made no move to step away. Brida, meanwhile, emerged from the wall and positioned herself beside Ragnar. "She will always be my sister first and foremost. But if I find that she is unhappy with you in Wessex, do not think that I won't march there at the earliest opportunity to reclaim my sister from you."
Beocca hesitated momentarily, his conviction wavering, but as soon as his gaze met Thyra's, he regained his composure. Perhaps he sensed her nervousness, for he straightened his posture, standing tall with a newfound determination evident on his face. In that moment, Thyra couldn't help but think that her future husband would have been a formidable Dane if he had been born among them, rather than being a Saxon. Despite the noticeable height difference between her gentle priest and her brother Ragnar, it didn't faze Beocca. He remained unfaltering in the face of Ragnar's imposing stance and the challenging glare directed at him.
"I will do everything in my power to ensure Thyra's happiness, Earl Ragnar. You have my solemn promise, man to man," Beocca declared with unwavering conviction.
Ragnar studied Beocca intently, his gaze searching for any signs of insincerity. After a moment, he nodded, seemingly satisfied with Beocca's response and the resolute expression on the Saxon priest's face.
"Very well," Ragnar muttered, and without any further delay, he released his hold on Thyra and stepped aside, granting her to her chosen priest.
As Uhtred began to recite the binding words of marriage, an intertwining ribbon was clasped over their joined hands, symbolizing their union. However, Thyra would later realize that many of the details escaped her memory. While she managed to utter the words spoken in pledge, the finer nuances slipped away.
Perhaps it was the way Beocca's eyes sparkled with youthful vigor, appearing years younger than she had ever seen him. The lines of stress and worry that had etched his forehead seemed to vanish, replaced by newfound confidence and pride as Uhtred declared them husband and wife.
Or maybe it was simply the overwhelming presence of standing beside the man she loved, a profound moment that eclipsed everything else. Regardless of the cause, the ceremony seemed to pass much more swiftly than Thyra had anticipated. With half-closed eyes, she surrendered herself to the moment as Beocca's lips gently met hers, embracing her in their first kiss as husband and wife. His kiss was akin to a sunset, and she melted into its tenderness, feeling the depth of their connection.
When Beocca eventually pulled away, he lingered, reluctant to fully part from her. Once again, he pressed his lips against hers, this time with a delicate touch, before softly placing a kiss on her forehead. As he opened his eyes, he caught Thyra gazing at him, a mixture of love and awe in her eyes, before he gently withdrew.
As the serving girls brought in platters of buttered venison and spiced wine, the atmosphere in the Great Hall of Dunholm took on a festive tone. At least, there was a sense of cheerfulness in the air.
Thyra's stomach rumbled with hunger, and she craned her neck in anticipation, trying to catch a glimpse of the tantalizing spread on the table.
The aroma of venison and freshly baked bread filled the hall, intermingling with the sweet scents of raisin pastry and fruits adorning the platters.
Her excitement, however, was momentarily dampened as she heard the heavy footsteps of Prince Aethelwold approaching.
The thought of his presence threatened to overshadow Thyra's joy of being married to a good and gentle man like Beocca. She couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness, knowing that her family, if they were still alive, would have embraced and admired Beocca as she did.
"For God's sake!" Beocca erupted, his voice strained and raw, as he abruptly turned towards the Prince.
With one hand firmly grasping Thyra's slender waist, he seemed to believe that his gentle touch alone could shield her from any ill intentions the Prince might have harbored.
Beocca confronted the Prince with a fiery glare, his patience on the verge of shattering.
"Not a single word from you, boy, unless it is an apology to my wife for the despicable remarks you made about her brother last night. You disgraced yourself in that corridor, my lord, spewing such vile words. Your father would be utterly ashamed of you," Beocca seethed, his voice dripping with contempt as he leveled his gaze at Aethelwold.
Thyra savored a moment of gratification as she observed Prince Aethelwold's reaction.
There was a fleeting moment of surprise that crossed his face before his expression shifted. It was a subtle change, noticeable only in the slight drop of his rakish smile and the sudden coolness that replaced the fiery intensity in his dark eyes.
Disappointment and anger did not suit the arrogant Saxon Prince, and it was evident in his demeanor as he cast an appraising gaze over Thyra, clad in her beautiful blue wedding gown.
His gaze lingered on her, his mouth twisting into a displeased frown. Gradually, Aethelwold's gaze descended, and Thyra couldn't shake off the chill that ran down her spine.
Her stomach churned as she realized, with absolute certainty, that the Prince was shamelessly and openly ogling her, despite having just moments ago married Beocca.
A wave of embarrassment washed over her, causing her face to flush crimson, but she tried her best to feign ignorance and pretend not to notice his lewd gaze.
"What is it you want, Aethelwold?" Thyra inquired as she let out a frustrated exhale, struggling to maintain composure but ultimately conveying her unease.
"To extend my deepest apologies, Lady Thyra. I have come to atone my misgivings," Aethelwold declared, his tone overly cheerful, causing her skepticism to deepen.
Her eyes widened with astonishment, and she turned away abruptly. Had the realm fallen on him? Had he truly lost his sanity? Had he conveniently forgotten his appalling behavior towards her beloved brother only last night?
Now, it was clear to her that he was mocking her, mocking both of them.
Taking a determined step forward, the folds of her wedding gown rustling with her movement, Thyra's anger burned within her, hotter than the flames that had claimed her family.
"No. I do not forgive you. Your words are poison, Lord Aethelwold, as I tried to make you understand last night, though it seems nothing I could say to you would be enough to make you see," she growled through gritted teeth. "You may believe yourself to be clever, fooling others as well, but Beocca and I see through you."
Thyra tightened her grip on Beocca's hand, seeking his support in the unwavering presence of her new husband. Her gaze darted anxiously towards Beocca, and she witnessed her kind and gentle priest's face flush with anger.
She knew an outburst was imminent, and there was no stopping the brewing storm unless she took action to defuse the tension.
Conscious of the burning gazes from the small crowd that had gathered around her—Ragnar, Uhtred, and their other friends among them—Thyra briefly yearned for the comfort of her last conversation with Brida, wishing her dearest friend would come to her rescue or even Ingrid.
However, it seemed her boldness toward the Saxon Prince had left everyone stunned into silence.
Summoning a surge of courage as she observed Beocca parting his lips, undoubtedly ready to unleash his anger upon Prince Aethelwold, Thyra lifted her chin and spoke directly to him, cutting off any potential outburst. Her voice carried a mixture of defiance and weariness.
"Please, Aethelwold, leave us be. Beocca and I desire no trouble. I do not accept your apology, your words are not sincere, and you have not shown Torsten that you mean your apology. It is him that you should be apologizing to, not me." Her words were polite yet firm, but beneath the surface, a hint of warning lingered.
Despite the beads of sweat glistening on her scalp and the lump that formed in her throat, causing her breaths to falter, Thyra refused to avert her gaze. She was determined to establish her boundaries and demand the respect she rightfully deserved as the wife of King Alfred's priest.
Caught off guard by Thyra's directness and unwavering spirit, Aethelwold hesitated for a fleeting moment before a sly, mocking smile slithered back onto his face, sending shivers down Thyra's spine.
"Lady, you are indeed quite spirited," he taunted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "True to your lineage, you truly are Uhtred's sister, no doubt," he muttered, his words laced with contempt. "You are too good for a holy man like Father Beocca. Should you ever grow weary of this pious old fool and the dull, humble life that comes with being married to him, perhaps I could still claim you as mine, Lady."
As Aethelwold took a step closer to Thyra, Beocca swiftly advanced, standing protectively by her side.
Thyra's anxiety began to subside when she felt the comforting touch of her sweet and gentle priest's hand on her shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
"Enough Aethelwold, you have said more than enough, I will listen to your nonsense no more, boy," Beocca uttered through gritted teeth, his voice composed yet resolute. "My wife and I will entertain this nonsensical talk no longer. Keep your forked tongue behind your teeth, snake, and your repugnant fantasies to yourself. Thyra is my wife, bastard, and make no mistake, if you dare to speak to or go near my wife again or her brother Torsten, for that matter, I will beat the shit from you, regardless of your relation to Alfred. It matters not who you think you are, boy, here in Dunholm, you are no one of importance. Now, if you will excuse me, I shall escort my wife to our chambers, as she has been deprived of sleep for several nights and is easily fatigued," he snapped. Sensing Aethelwold about to open his mouth to retort, Beocca lashed out at him. "No! No more! One more word out of you, no matter what it is, and the next thing you will know is your teeth scattering about the floor, do you understand? That goes for any man you've managed to convince into serving you!" he threatened.
Thyra swiftly grasped Beocca's wrist, her hand finding solace in the warmth and strength of his grip. As she shifted slightly, intertwining her fingers with his, it felt as though their hands naturally fell into place, as if they had always been destined to be together. Beocca's hold on her hand tightened, the pressure causing a slight ache that seemed to penetrate her very bones. Numerous eyes now fixated upon the trio, dozens of gazes spanning beyond just their family and friends to include Ragnar's sons, servant girls, and other members of the household staff.
Aware of Beocca's racing pulse, evident by the throbbing near her thumb, Thyra understood that if they remained in the Great Hall for a moment longer, a confrontation would ensue.
Without uttering a word, she cast a fleeting glance towards Uhtred and Ragnar, who responded with sympathetic expressions and nods of understanding. With determination in her eyes, Thyra led Beocca out of the hall, beneath the watchful eyes of the entire Dunholm, and guided him into the sheltering embrace of darkness.
Entering their chambers after the bustling noise and brightness of the Great Hall was nearly jarring for both Thyra and Beocca. The room enveloped them in utter darkness and profound silence, causing Thyra to pause momentarily to adjust.
However, her beloved priest seemed unable to come to a stop. Beocca slammed the door shut behind them with such force that it reverberated on its hinges, shrouding them in complete obscurity. Moments later, a torrent of words erupted from his mouth, an angry outpouring that Beocca couldn't contain, nor did he wish to.
"That wretched bastard would stop at nothing to trap you, Thyra. He is naught but a treacherous snake in the night. Why Alfred continues to keep him alive is beyond my comprehension, and may God forgive me for occasionally wishing for his demise, I find myself praying he meets an unfortunate end as the days pass and he continues to whisper poison into the ears of any man who would do anything for coin and the promise of titles and wealth," he growled, restlessly pacing back and forth before her.
Thyra reached out, once again catching hold of Beocca's wrist, cradling his hand tenderly within her own.
"Hush, my love, do not trouble your mind with thoughts of Alfred's nephew, he deserves no space in your mind, Beocca," Thyra murmured, relieved that the darkness concealed the flush on her cheeks. She gently rubbed the back of his hand with her thumb. "Aethelwold is a foolish boy, a worm who knows not what he says. He would be even more foolish to make any move while Ragnar holds the power in Dunholm," she explained in a hushed tone, hoping to assuage his distress.
Thyra sensed Beocca's abrupt inhalation as her fingers traced the contours of his closely cropped beard, yet he did not recoil. His hand trembled as it caressed her cheek, finding its way to the back of her head. Amid Thyra's closed eyes, her heart racing as she willed it to calm, she felt the warmth of his touch against her skin and his lips meeting hers in a kiss. The rush of astonishment and elation obliterated any thoughts of Aethelwold and the potential repercussions of her actions the previous night. She allowed herself to surrender to the blissful sensation of loving her new husband, desiring nothing to tarnish this night. Finally, Beocca withdrew from the kiss.
"Thyra, my love," he stammered, his voice tinged with a hint of intoxication, though to her knowledge, he had not consumed a drop of ale since arriving within Dunholm's walls. "I... I... If you do not want this, what is to follow... then tell me, and we shall not. But you should know... I have never... done this before," he whispered, his voice filled with vulnerability.
Thyra, caught off guard by Beocca's admission, felt her mouth slightly agape in surprise. She nodded in agreement, though a flush of embarrassment washed over her, aware that Beocca might not see her response amidst the darkness of their chambers. Swallowing down her racing heart, she summoned the courage to speak.
"I... I haven't either, Beocca, my love," she confessed, her voice quivering with vulnerability. "Sven and Kjartan, they used me for their pleasure and took what should have always been mine to give you tonight, but the things they did to me, it was never love. You once told me that a man's touch doesn't have to bring pain, that it can be gentle and kind. I-I know what I want, and what I want... is you. Only you, my love."
Her tongue twisted in knots as she forced the words out, baring her raw emotions to him.
Thyra thought she heard Beocca laugh as his hands gently cradled her warm cheeks. With hesitant tenderness, she pressed her lips against Beocca's, finding him more than willing to receive her kiss. His hands traced through her fiery locks as their lips met with an intensity that stirred her desires. At first, she had not been certain about the kiss, sensing Beocca's nervousness, and hers, but eventually, it consumed them both, leaving them panting and gasping for breath.
Only when the burning sensation in Thyra's lungs subsided slightly did she summon the strength to speak, feeling a tremor coursing through her body.
Her stomach tightened, and a surge of energy surged through her limbs as she sensed Beocca's trembling fingers fumbling with the laces of her dress. Her body quivered, yet she reassured herself with the knowledge that Beocca could never be like Kjartan and Sven, knowing her love would never bring her harm.
The words spilled forth involuntarily from her lips.
"Beocca," she uttered softly, scarcely believing her voice. "I... I want you to... to love me, Beocca, as a husband loves his wife. I trust that you will never hurt me, Beocca," she whispered, moistening her lips with a dart of her tongue. "We are husband and wife for the first time tonight...let's not waste it," Thyra whispered shyly.
In the darkness, Thyra observed Beocca bowing his head, expecting another kiss, but he kept his head lowered. When he spoke, his voice carried a soft disbelief.
"A-Are you sure, Thyra?" he asked hoarsely, the utterance of her name pulling her slightly out of her daze.
"Yes, don't stop. I want this," she whispered to her newfound husband with unwavering conviction. Before the words had even fully escaped her lips, Beocca's mouth reclaimed hers, and she felt herself being guided toward the bed that now belonged solely to them within Dunholm.
Beocca's grip remained steady behind Thyra's neck as they eased their weight onto the bed, their bodies becoming entwined in a passionate embrace.
At that moment, amidst the softness of the fur pelts and blankets and the warmth between them, Thyra willingly surrendered herself to the overwhelming sensations of love for her husband and felt no fear at the fact that she was laying with a man.
Only love.
They spent the remainder of the night within the confines of their chamber, unwilling to part from each other or the bed. Their garments lay haphazardly strewn across the floor, alongside the discarded remnants of the embarrassment and shame that they had shed.
Beocca and Thyra conversed and delved into one another's thoughts, eagerly unraveling the mysteries of their beings.
From dusk till the break of dawn, they remained awake, their voices intermingling in the quiet room. The faint glow of a few dwindling candles flickered until they were eventually extinguished, succumbing to the darkness. It was around this time that Thyra, finally fatigued, drifted into slumber.
However, sleep evaded Beocca. Instead, he cradled Thyra as she dreamed, their bodies entwined, her head nestled contentedly upon his chest. A soft smile adorned her lips in her peaceful state. Within the encompassing darkness, Beocca tenderly caressed her fiery red locks, reflecting upon the profound encounter they had just shared.
Never in his wildest imagination had he envisioned finding himself at this moment, embracing a woman to whom he was bound by marriage and an immeasurable depth of affection—a woman who reciprocated those sentiments in equal measure.
Thyra, his beloved Thyra, the mad sister of Ragnar and Uhtred, the witch of Dunholm, she had been called by Kjartan's men, he had learned, had stumbled into his life and arms in a serendipitous twist of fate, emerging from Dunholm plagued by madness and confusion.
Now, she stood as the greatest blessing he had ever received. The Lord, in His enigmatic ways, had orchestrated this unlikely union.
Whether it was the divine intervention of God or Thyra's own doing, Beocca cared not; he was simply grateful to be able to call her his own.
This sentiment accompanied Beocca throughout the night and into the early hours of the morning until an urgent knocking at the door shattered the tranquility.
Thyra stirred from her slumber at the sound of the urgent raps to the door, while Beocca begrudgingly rose from the bed to hastily dress and answer the summons.
Opening the door, he discovered Ingrid on the other side, her complexion drained of color, as she informed the newlyweds that Dunholm had been engulfed by the snowstorm the night before, sealing them within its icy grasp.