THYRA felt the beginnings of a half-choked sob bubble in her throat as she watched her precious hounds lazily pace back and forth in the cage in which they stayed. Ragnar and Uhtred were here. She swallowed it back down as her tongue refused its release, sending the pitiful sound away with a rough and painful swallow. Tears glittered in her eyes.
Her brothers had finally arrived in Northumbria, aiming to rescue her from Sven, but their efforts were in vain. They had come too late, years too late.
They couldn't save her from Sven. A searing rage and bitterness crept into her stomach, igniting a fire within her. She clenched her fists, her dirty fingernails scraping down her torn, filthy dress, her knuckles whitening from the force of her frustration as her mind flashed with vivid images of the bastards forcing themselves on her night after night, and most mornings, her screaming would wake her up.
In the beginning, Sven had offered her gowns, better food, and to be free of her cage, if she would be with him willingly, but she had consistently refused him time and time again. It had not stopped the bastard from forcing himself onto her, though she had done what she could to dissuade his interest in her. The scars on her cheeks, arms, and legs, were proof of her efforts that had been in vain.
Her mind drifted to thoughts of the Saxon priest who had stepped in between her hounds. She would have killed Ragnar had Uhtred's friend, the Saxon priest, not stepped in between her hounds and stopped her. She furrowed her thin brows into a frown at the thought of the man who had stopped her, the edges of her mouth turning down in a frown.
Thyra let her mind wander as she thought of the man who had not hesitated to step directly in front of the path to Uhtred and Ragnar. He had stopped her from siccing her hounds on them and killing her brothers. He had told her that he was a friend, and begged to be allowed to help her.
As Thyra grappled with these conflicting emotions, a sense of betrayal gnawed at her heart. She had been raised to trust no one outside of her kin, to rely only on herself and her family. Yet here was this stranger, disrupting her world and offering help she hadn't asked for.
It felt like a cruel twist of fate, leaving her torn between gratitude for his intervention and resentment for his intrusion. She clenched her fists, struggling to contain the storm of emotions raging inside her. The memory of his earnest plea echoed in her mind, his words still haunting her. Was he truly a friend, as he claimed?
Beocca, he had called himself. A strange name and yet, it suited the man. He had come to her earlier and had sat with her for at least thirty minutes, content to just sit with Thyra in silence. Her thoughts felt like they were reeling.
Thyra reflected on the priest's appearance. His face was that of a normal, plain man, yet despite the age difference between them, she found his features handsome, in their own right. Time had weathered his face, leaving lines around his eyes that hinted at the wisdom he had gained.
Despite his years, there was a strength to his visage softened by a gentle, compassionate expression. His jawline remained strong, accentuated by a neatly trimmed beard that added to his aura of authority. Though his attire was simple, the priest carried himself with practicality and confidence in every step.
Beocca's deep eyes held a wealth of emotion, reflecting the depth of his life experiences. Despite the marks of time, there was a vitality to him, a determination that shone brightly in his gaze. His hair was sparse, and his ears slightly prominent, yet the warmth emanating from the priest was palpable. It was a warmth Thyra had sorely missed during her captivity in Dunholm. A shiver ran down her spine, unrelated to the drafty breezes that seeped through the cage.
The faint sound of footsteps approaching caused one of the dogs to bark at the noise, and her ears perked up at the sudden noise. She turned slowly, dread and want warring on her face. A part of her hoped that Uhtred or Ragnar had come to fetch her, the other hoped for him.
She turned and was pleasantly surprised to find the priest from earlier had returned, his hands folded neatly in front of his middle as he fidgeted with a pendant depicting a cross around his neck. A sign of the Saxons' God, if she understood from listening to Beocca explain it earlier when he had sat with her while she had calmed down.
In his hands, he carried a wooden crockery bowl from which a cloud of steam emanated. Thyra caught the delectable scent of a stew, and her mouth nearly began to water. She could not remember the last time she'd been given anything decent to eat. Thyra was pulled from her thoughts as Beocca spoke.
"For your strength, Thyra," he mumbled, a faint red blush creeping to his cheeks as he seemed too nervous to eye her for very long. "You- you will need to eat to regain your strength. You are much too skinny to be considered healthy." Gingerly, he crept closer and held out the bowl to her.
Thyra stared at the offering in his hands for a moment as she hesitantly reached out to take the supper he had brought her. She was almost unsure how to accept such kindness. Spending the last several years of her life in Sven's captivity had afforded her few opportunities to practice expressing gratitude, let alone with a man, not a Dane.
She shyly looked down at the bowl of stew she now held cupped in her hands. Thyra was too shy to speak though she continued to eye the Saxon priest out of the corner of her lowered gaze. Her heart soared with panic as he watched her intently for a moment, his shoulders slumping with what she perceived to be a disappointment.
He turned on his heels to go, though her panic welled within her chest and Thyra frantically wracked her brain to think of something- anything-that would keep him here. Just for a moment longer. She wanted his company. She knew what she wanted of this man was inappropriate, though she had not conversed with another kind soul in so very long.
"Wait, please stay, I… do not want to be alone," she blurted out, her words escaping her as shaky, and they sounded clumsy and blunt.
He froze in the doorway and turned his profile to the side to regard her. She could only make out half of his expression in the dim light of her cell, though Thyra thought she saw the man's lips twitch, as though Beocca was fighting back a smile.
Beocca returned to Thyra's side and cautiously sat down on the worn cot beside her, just as he had done before. Thyra couldn't help but inhale sharply as he drew near, feeling a mix of discomfort and something else she couldn't quite place. She released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and, feeling a surge of boldness, scooted slightly closer to him.
She noticed his reaction, his shoulders tensing at her closeness. Wanting to ease the tension, she searched for something to say, glancing between her bowl of stew and him, only to realize he had none.
Confused, Thyra furrowed her brow, unable to comprehend why he didn't have any food.
"Thank you for the supper, Beocca, but… y-you're not going to eat? You took none for yourself?" Thyra questioned, immediately concerned, fearing that perhaps something was wrong with Uhtred's friend, though her worries were alleviated as Beocca softly shook his head no.
"N-no, I ate earlier, Thyra, but you are sweet to worry after an old man like me," the priest told her, chuckling nervously. His voice held a slight stutter to it much like hers did, likely from nervousness.
For reasons she couldn't quite fathom, Thyra felt a glimmer of hope flicker within her chest. It appeared that Beocca was just as nervous as she was. She nodded shyly and took a tentative bite of her stew. Though it was delicious, as she continued to eat, a voracious hunger stirred within her. She longed to devour the entire bowl in one go, but the presence of the handsome priest by her side restrained her.
It felt like a small miracle from the Norse gods that she managed to eat with such restraint. Once she had finished her meal, she carefully set the bowl aside on a rickety night table, knowing she wouldn't be taking it with her in the morning. She allowed the faint ghost of a smile to flit across her pale and gaunt features.
"Thank you, for… for staying, Beocca. You did not have to, but it was kind of you to keep me company. I am grateful for it." She spoke to the priest in barely a whisper.
Beocca stiffened slightly, his gaze meeting Thyra's. He found himself unexpectedly drawn to Uhtred's sister, more so than he felt he should be. Her nervous yet friendly smile eased the tension that had been present since he had brought her dinner.
He still hadn't fully recovered from the gruesome aftermath of Kjartan's fate at the hands of Uhtred's brother, Ragnar. However, the sight of Uhtred's sister, Thyra, before him now brought a sense of relief. Taking a moment to observe her features, he couldn't help but feel a glimmer of hope.
Though currently pallid and emaciated, with proper nourishment and a touch of warmth and sunlight, she would soon regain her health. Imagining her with her hair untangled and neatly braided, he envisioned the vibrant red hues that would beautifully contrast against her fair complexion.
Beocca scrutinized Thyra's countenance, searching for any trace of discomfort or apprehension. Yet, there was none to be found.
Her last words lingered in his mind as he considered what to say next. The shy smile she offered him now hinted at gratitude for his company during her meal—a gesture unfamiliar to him. Reflecting for a moment, he pondered how to proceed with Thyra.
"I-I am… glad that you were able to eat and it is wonderful to see that you are beginning to have an appetite…" He trailed off for a moment, unsure what to say, for he had hardly ever had this sort of interaction with women before, outside of Abbess Hild and King Alfred's wife, Lady Aelswith.
His heart pounded loudly against his ribcage. He swallowed past a lump in his throat and when he did, it felt like he swallowed knives. For a moment, Beocca was afraid that she could hear it. He shifted nervously. And then, a question came to him.
He was unsure whether or not to ask this of Uhtred's sister as he did not wish to offend her. Her delicate condition seemed not only physical but emotional as well.
Beocca knew that he would have to be careful with her going forward if she was to return to Winchester with them. Though in time, he hoped to learn more of her past, that she would grow to trust him, and perhaps one day, she would think of him as a friend, someone whom she could confide in and like, even.
"Why did you want me to stay?" he blurted out, his words coming out clumsily and bluntly. He wished he could retract the question, but it was too late; his curiosity had been thoroughly stirred, and he couldn't simply let the matter rest.
Beocca watched as Thyra's peaceful expression changed only slightly into a look of puzzled bewilderment. She stiffened, straightening her posture and she folded her hands tightly over themselves and rested them in her lap, almost as if she were embarrassed at having been caught.
If she were to be frank with herself, Thyra couldn't pinpoint exactly why she had desired the company of Uhtred's priest to linger. There was a lingering urge to reconnect after his earlier visit, yet she couldn't articulate any concrete reasons.
It wasn't to interrogate him about Uhtred or life in Winchester; that much she knew. A glance at his troubled expression confirmed that probing questions weren't what he required.
Reflecting for a moment, Thyra searched for the right words. What she did know was her weariness with how Saxons treated her people, their portrayal of her people as nothing more than monsters.
Perhaps, she mused, returning to Winchester with Beocca's help, she might show King Alfred that not all Danes were adversaries.
What had she possibly done in her life to merit such relentless cruelty from the gods, far exceeding the torment of disease or death? For her, it was years of unyielding grief. She had faithfully fulfilled her role as the daughter of Earl Ragnar the Fearless and Sigrid, her mother. Sigrid often painted her as a tender dove, devoid of aspirations for power, but rather yearning solely for a romantic wedding and a blissful marriage, longing to experience the joyous patter of her children's feet and the melody of their laughter echoing through the halls of her future home. Meanwhile, her father had waged wars, asserted his dominance, and ultimately sacrificed his life in a feud that ended with the blinding of Sven. She wanted no such life for herself. Turning her attention back to the man before her, she realized she owed him an explanation. He had asked why she sought his presence, why she had requested him to stay.
"I am not quite sure, Beocca." Her cautious smile returned. "Perhaps...I am just looking for a friend," she whispered, downcasting her gaze.
Beocca looked a little shocked but less so than he expected to be as the two sat in silence. Beocca could only watch in awe as the beginnings of a hesitant smile played on the corners of Thyra's lips.
However, this time, they did not sit as strangers in her cell, but as the beginning of two friends.