THYRA awoke to the frigid cold of her cell, the chill of the air biting at her skin. Despite the harshness of her surroundings, the memory of her parting with Beocca brought a sense of peace.
The gentle demeanor of the Saxon priest stood in stark contrast to the harsh and uncaring nature she had grown accustomed to with Sven. As she pushed thoughts of him aside, a smile crept onto her lips, recalling Beocca's kindness.
Though she hesitated, wondering if it was too soon to seek him out again, her desire to speak with him won over. Determined, she rose from her cot, dressed herself, and set out to find the priest once more. Before leaving the room, Thyra smoothed the tattered folds of her dress, pushing aside the ache in her heart for the life shattered by Sven. Her gaze fell upon the wooden crockery bowl Beocca had brought the night before, filled with warm stew—a small kindness that sparked a faint smile. Despite her uncertain circumstances, a glimmer of hope stirred within her; Beocca's unexpected presence had brought light into her dark world.
Making her way to the makeshift wash basin, Thyra caught sight of her reflection in the murky water. The sight of her hollow cheeks and sunken eyes served as a painful reminder of all she had endured. Yet, beneath the surface, she could sense a flicker of strength stirring within her. She would not allow herself to be broken, not anymore. With a deep breath, Thyra splashed her face with the cool water, letting its cleansing touch wash away the remnants of the night before.
As Thyra wandered through the dimly lit halls of Dunholm, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone wall, her mind churned with conflicting emotions. She couldn't shake the horrors of her past, of the years spent in torment as Sven and Kjartan's whore, nor could she forget the bitter resentment she harbored for Ragnar for leaving her to face that darkness alone. As she approached the bailey in search of Beocca, the sound of voices drifted towards her, drawing her attention.
With a hesitant step, she entered the open space, her gaze falling upon the familiar figures standing before her. Beocca, Ragnar, Uhtred, and Brida—all gathered together, their expression tense with anticipation.
Thyra's heart clenched at the sight of Ragnar, her brother's face a constant reminder of the pain she had endured, thinking that no help would come for her. She felt a surge of anger rise within her, threatening to consume the fragile peace she had found in Beocca's presence. Beocca noticed Thyra's arrival and turned towards her, his eyes filled with concern.
"Thyra," he said softly, "are you alright? Did you sleep well enough last night?"
Thyra forced herself to meet his gaze, swallowing back the bitterness that threatened to spill forth. "I…I am fine, Beocca," she replied, her voice strained. "Just…tired."
Beocca studied Thyra's expression, sensing the turmoil beneath her words. He knew that despite her attempts to appear composed, she carried a heavy burden of pain and resentment. With a gentle nod, he turned his attention back to Ragnar and Uhtred, who exchanged nervous glances in his direction.
"Perhaps," Beocca suggested tentatively, "Thyra should speak with Ragnar alone before we leave, Uhtred, Brida. There are things left unsaid between them that need to be addressed and are not for us to hear. Come, we should leave them be."
Ragnar's brow furrowed slightly at Beocca's suggestion, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. He knew that facing Thyra would not be easy, especially after the years of separation and the pain she had endured. Yet, he also understood the importance of confronting the past, of seeking reconciliation for their shared history.
Thyra's anger flared at Beocca's suggestion, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "Why should I speak with him?" she asked, her voice sharp with bitterness. "He left me, he went viking and left me to suffer here. What could he possibly have to say that would make any difference now?"
Ragnar's jaw tightened at Thyra's words, a pang of guilt gnawing at his conscience. He knew that he had failed her, had left her to face horrors that no one should endure alone. Yet, he also knew that he could not undo the past, and could not erase the pain he had caused.
"Thyra, please. I swear, we believed you were lost to us, Uhtred and I did not know you were still alive, we thought Sven and Kjartan had killed you," he began, his tone heavy with regret. "I failed you, utterly. I should have been there to shield you from harm. But I cannot change the past. All I can do is offer what support I can now, in whatever way you allow."
"Thyra, please," Beocca interjected softly, his gaze pleading with her. "Ragnar is your brother. He may not have been there when you needed him, but he is here now. Please, for the sake of the bond you once shared, hear him out."
Thyra's anger wavered at Beocca's earnest plea, her heart torn between the pain of the past and the hope for reconciliation. With a heavy sigh, she reluctantly nodded, her resolve softening.
"Very well, brother," she conceded, her voice barely above a whisper. "We can speak. But…I do not forgive you. Not yet. I-I would like to, one day, but for now, all I want is this to end
Ragnar met Thyra's gaze with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow, his heart heavy with remorse. He knew that rebuilding their fractured relationship would not be easy and that it would require patience and understanding. But as he looked into Thyra's eyes, he saw a glimmer of hope flickering within her—a spark of resilience that refused to be extinguished.
Without a word, Ragnar took Thyra by the arm and led her away from the watchful eyes of Beocca, Uhtred, and Brida, guiding her towards a secluded corner of the bailey where they could speak in private.
As they walked, a heavy silence hung between them, punctuated only by the distant sounds of activity within Dunholm's walls. Once they were out of earshot, Ragnar turned to Thyra, his expression earnest.
"Is it true, Thyra?" he asked softly. "Alfred's priest has told Brida and me that you intend to go to Wessex."
Thyra met Ragnar's gaze, her eyes shimmering with uncertainty as she recalled her and Beocca's conversation the previous evening that lasted well into the night. He had spoken of the beauty of Wessex, and of the chance for her to make a fresh start and build a new life for herself if she did not wish to stay.
"Yes," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "Beocca believes that Wessex may offer me a chance at a new life, Ragnar, away from the darkness that haunts me here. I will become a Christian and I will be baptized."
Ragnar's heart clenched at Thyra's words, a pang of longing stirring within him. He knew that if Thyra chose to leave Dunholm, he would lose her once again—this time, perhaps forever.
Yet, even as the thought filled him with dread, he couldn't deny the flicker of hope that blossomed within his heart at the thought of his beloved sister finally being given a good life.
"Thyra," Ragnar began, his voice thick with emotion, "are you sure this is what you want? Would you…would you consider staying here with me and Brida? We could rebuild Dunholm together, create a new future for ourselves—a future free from the shadows of our past."
Before Ragnar could finish, Thyra interrupted him, her voice firm with determination.
"I cannot stay here, Ragnar," she declared, her eyes blazing with intensity. "Not after everything that has happened. Dunholm holds too many painful memories for me—I need to leave, to find a place where I can truly belong."
Ragnar's heart sank at Thyra's words, a sense of loss washing over him. He had hoped that they could find solace in one another's company, that they could heal the wounds of their past together. But as he looked into Thyra's eyes, he saw the steely resolve that burned within her—a resolve that he knew he could not sway.
With a heavy sigh, Ragnar nodded reluctantly, accepting Thyra's decision. "I understand," he murmured, his voice tinged with sadness. "I only wish that things could have been different—that I could have been the brother you needed me to be."
Thyra reached out and gently squeezed Ragnar's hand, offering him a small, sad smile. "You were, brother," she whispered, her voice filled with quiet sincerity. "In your own way, you were."
Ragnar observed Thyra's reaction keenly, noting the flush that crept up her cheeks as she cast sidelong glances in the Saxon priest's direction. He followed his sister's gaze towards the figures of Beocca and Uhtred, engaged in what seemed to be a serious conversation by the horses. He couldn't help but wonder what his brother and the priest were discussing, though his attention quickly returned to Thyra as she shifted nervously beside him, playing with the edges of her pinkish-tipped fingers to keep them warm.
A flicker of amusement danced in his eyes as he returned his gaze to Thyra.
"Thyra," Ragnar pressed, his tone gentle yet insistent, "Do you fancy this priest, Alfred's man?"
Thyra's breath caught in her throat at Ragnar's directness, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder once more, watching as Beocca and Uhtred continued their discussion, oblivious to her scrutiny. Despite the distance between them, she could feel Beocca's presence like a warm glow, comforting and reassuring amid her turmoil.
Thyra swallowed hard, feeling the color drain from her face and she swore her heart burst at her brother's question. Her gaze flickered between Ragnar and Beocca, uncertainty etched upon her features. She had only just met Beocca, yet there was something about him—the kindness in his eyes, the warmth of his smile—that drew her in despite herself. And yet, she couldn't deny the lingering distrust that gnawed at her heart, the fear of placing her trust in another only to be betrayed once more.
"I…I…" Thyra faltered, her words catching in her throat as she struggled to find the right response. "I don't know, Ragnar," she admitted finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "He is…he is kind to me, Ragnar, in a way that I have not known before, and he has had the words to comfort me. But…" She trailed off, her gaze dropping to the ground as uncertainty gnawed at her heart.
Ragnar nodded understandingly, his expression softened by sympathy. "I see," he murmured, reaching out to gently touch Thyra's shoulder. "It's alright, sister. You don't have to have all the answers now. Just know that whatever path you choose, I will support you."
Thyra met Ragnar's gaze, gratitude shining in her eyes. Despite the years of separation and the pain they had endured, she knew that her brother's love and support remained unwavering—a beacon of light in the darkness that had consumed their lives.
"Thank you, Ragnar," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "For everything." And with that, they turned their attention back to the figures by the horses, ready to embark on the next chapter of their journey—whatever it may hold. With a deep breath, Thyra turned away from Ragnar and stepped forward, her heart pounding in her chest as she approached Beocca, Uhtred, and Brida.
As she approached, she could hear their murmured conversation growing louder, though the words remained unclear. Beocca glanced up, his expression initially vexed and agitated, but as Thyra drew nearer, a warm smile spread across his face, softening his features.
"Thyra," he murmured, his voice gentle, "we were just discussing plans for the journey ahead."
Thyra managed a small smile in return, though her nerves still churned within her. "Yes, I-I heard," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "I…I wanted to…to thank you again, Beocca, for all that you have done and are doing for me. Your kindness means more to me than words can say."
Beocca's smile widened at Thyra's words, his eyes filled with warmth and understanding. "You're welcome, Thyra," he said softly. "I hope that in time you will consider me a friend. I want to help you in whatever way that I can."
Before Thyra could respond, a small sound snatched her from her senses. Startled, she turned to see Brida standing near Beocca's horse, her expression fierce and determined and her arms folded across her chest. Ragnar moved to stand beside Brida, his brow furrowed in concern. Thyra's heart sank as she saw Brida's tense posture and the fierce glint in the warrior's dark eyes. She could sense the brewing storm within her former friend, a storm fueled by anger and resentment that threatened to consume her.
"Brida," Thyra began cautiously, her voice tinged with concern, "what's the matter? Is something wrong?"
Brida's lips curled into a sneer as she turned her piercing gaze upon Thyra, her eyes ablaze with fury.
"What's the matter, Thyra?" she spat, her voice dripping with contempt. "Him, how's that for an answer?" she gestured towards Beocca with a sharp jerk of her chin, her expression twisted with disgust.
Thyra's heart clenched at Brida's words, a sense of dread settling over her like a heavy shroud. She could feel the tension crackling in the air, thick and suffocating, as Brida's anger threatened to boil over.
Beocca stepped forward, his expression calm and composed despite the brewing confrontation.
"Brida, my angel, there's no need to wear such a sour expression, you look as if you've swallowed a wasp," Beocca interjected sharply, his voice unwavering despite the rising tension fueled by Brida's accusatory tone and venomous glare. "I understand your reservations about me and my intentions. But rest assured, I harbor no ill will toward Thyra or your people. My sole purpose in bringing her back to Wessex is to offer comfort and support during her time of need."
Brida scoffed derisively at Beocca's assurance, her eyes ablaze with contempt.
"Comfort and support, priest?" she spat bitterly. "Is that what you'll tell yourself when you hump her? You want her, I see it. Your desire for her is evident, whether or not you choose to acknowledge it. You're leading her away from us, from her kin, to your precious Wessex. Do you think you can simply swoop in and snatch her away like a coveted prize?"
Beocca's demeanor hardened, his usual gentleness crumbling under Brida's harsh accusations.
"How dare you speak to me in such a manner!" he exclaimed, his voice rising with intensity. "You know nothing of my intentions, Brida. I've dedicated my life to serving God and His people. Thyra is not a possession to be claimed or manipulated. She possesses free will, and it is her choice to accompany us."
Brida's lips curled into a sneer, her gaze unwavering. "Free will?" she scoffed. "Does she truly have a choice when you stand before her with the authority of your church and your God? You may veil your intentions in noble words, but I see through your lies, priest. You aim to strip her from us, to mold her into your ideal."
Beocca took a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides. "Enough, Brida!" he thundered, his voice echoing through the hall. "You speak of matters beyond your understanding. Thyra is dear to me, but not in the way you suggest. She is a woman of strength and resilience, deserving the opportunity to rebuild her life in peace. If you fail to recognize that, then perhaps it is you who are blinded."
Brida's eyes blazed with fury, and for a moment, it seemed as though she might strike out at Beocca. But then, with a defiant toss of her head, she turned on her heel and stalked away, leaving Beocca and Thyra alone in the midst of the tense silence.
Beocca let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping with exhaustion. "Forgive me, Thyra," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "I did not mean to lose my temper, but Brida's accusations cut deep. I only hope that in time, she will come to see that my intentions are true."
Thyra's heart pounded in her chest as she watched the confrontation unfold before her, torn between loyalty to Beocca and the lingering bonds of friendship with Brida. She knew that Brida's anger stemmed from a place of pain and betrayal, from the sense of abandonment that gnawed at her heart like a festering wound.
"Brida, please," Thyra pleaded softly, her voice filled with desperation, "try to understand. Beocca has been nothing but kind to me—he has offered me a chance at a new life, away from the darkness of Dunholm. Can't you see that I need this, that I need to leave this place behind?"
Brida's expression softened slightly at Thyra's words, a flicker of doubt crossing her features. She knew that Thyra had suffered greatly during her time at Dunholm, and had endured horrors that no one should ever have to face. And yet, the thought of losing her friend—the thought of being left behind once again—filled her with a sense of dread and despair.
"I understand, Thyra," Brida murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I understand that you need to do what's best for you. But…just know that if you go, you'll be leaving a piece of yourself behind. You'll be leaving us behind."
Thyra's heart ached at Brida's words, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. She knew that Brida spoke the truth—that leaving Dunholm would mean leaving behind the only family she had ever known, leaving behind the bonds of friendship and loyalty that had sustained her through the darkest of times.
"I know, Brida," Thyra whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "I know that it won't be easy, that there will be pain and loss along the way. But I have to believe that there's something better out there for me. I cannot stay here, Brida, please..."
Brida reached out and gently grasped Thyra's hand, her touch warm and reassuring. "I understand, Thyra, I do," she murmured, her voice filled with quiet resignation. "I may not agree with your decision, but I will support you, nonetheless. Just promise me one thing—that you'll never forget where you come from, that you'll never forget the bonds that bind us."
Thyra nodded tearfully, her heart heavy with sorrow. "I promise, Brida," she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper. "I will never forget." And with that, they embraced, their hearts heavy with the weight of their shared history and the uncertain future that lay ahead.
As Thyra pulled away from Brida's embrace, her eyes sought out Ragnar, her heart heavy with the knowledge that their time together was drawing to a close. She approached her brother slowly, the weight of their shared history pressing down upon her like a heavy burden.
Ragnar's gaze softened as Thyra drew near, his arms open wide to receive her. Without hesitation, Thyra stepped into his embrace, the familiar warmth of his presence offering solace in the face of impending departure. She buried her face in his broad chest, her heart overflowing with love and gratitude for her brother.
"I will miss you, Ragnar," Thyra whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "More than words can say, brother."
Ragnar held Thyra close, his grip firm yet gentle as he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "And I will miss you, sister," he murmured, his voice choked with emotion. "More than you can ever know."
For a moment, they stood locked in each other's embrace, their hearts heavy with the weight of impending separation. But even as they prepared to part ways, a sense of hope flickered within Thyra's heart—a hope that their paths would one day converge once more, that their bond would endure despite the distance that separated them.
As they pulled away from each other, Ragnar reached into his pouch at his side, his fingers wrapping around a small, wrapped bundle. With a sad smile, he handed it to Thyra, his eyes nearly shimmering with unshed tears.
"For the road. You will need to keep up your strength, Thyra," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Thyra accepted the bundle with trembling hands, her heart swelling with gratitude for her brother's gesture. She unwrapped it slowly, revealing a crust of bread and cheese nestled within. Though simple, the gift held deep significance, a sign that her brother still cared for her.
"Thank you, Ragnar," Thyra whispered, her voice choked with emotion.
With a final embrace, Thyra stepped back from her brother, her eyes filled with tears as she prepared to embark on the next chapter of her journey.
Though she knew that their parting was inevitable, she clung to the hope that their paths would cross once more—that their bond would endure despite the trials that lay ahead. As she turned away from Ragnar, her heart heavy with sorrow yet buoyed by the love and support of her friends and family, she took her first tentative steps towards a new beginning—a beginning fraught with uncertainty yet brimming with hope.
Beocca approached Thyra, his gaze filled with concern and kindness as he offered her a reassuring smile. "Are you ready, Thyra?" he asked softly, his voice gentle yet firm and tinged with concern.
Thyra nodded, her heart heavy with anticipation as she settled into the saddle. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the journey ahead. "Yes, Beocca," she replied, her voice steady despite the nerves that churned within her. "I am ready."
Beocca offered her a reassuring smile, his gaze unwavering as he met her eyes. "Remember, Thyra," he murmured, his voice filled with quiet determination, "no matter what lies ahead, you are not alone. I will be with you every step of the way, as will the others."
Thyra felt a surge of gratitude wash over her at Beocca's words, his unwavering support serving as a beacon of hope in the darkness that surrounded her.
"Thank you, Beocca," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion. "For everything."
With a final nod, Beocca turned towards the others, his expression resolute as he prepared to lead them on their journey. Thyra took one last glance back at Dunholm, her heart heavy with farewell yet brimming with anticipation for the future that awaited her.
Setting off towards Wessex, their horses' hooves pounding against the earth in rhythmic harmony, Thyra's heart soared with newfound hope. Though the road ahead would be fraught with challenges and uncertainties, she knew that with Beocca by her side, she would find the strength to face whatever lay ahead.
Riding into the unknown, Thyra's gaze remained firmly fixed on the horizon ahead of her. Thyra felt a sense of peace settle over her—a peace born of the knowledge that she was no longer alone, that she had found a newfound sense of belonging and purpose in the company of a man who was quickly becoming a dear friend.
As Thyra's gaze swept across the small band of men who had sworn themselves to Uhtred and rode alongside him, her heart lurched with a mixture of surprise and apprehension as her gaze met Sihtric's as the Dane sensed he and the others were being watched.
Memories of their past interactions flooded her mind—the quiet moments of kindness amidst the darkness of Dunholm, the fleeting sympathetic glances exchanged in secret, the unspoken understanding that bound them together in shared hardship.
Sihtric rode amidst Uhtred's crew, his lean but muscular frame exuding an air of quiet strength. His dark black hair fell in unruly waves around his sharp, angular features, his piercing gaze holding a hint of both wariness and resilience. She could not help but wonder how it had been that Sihtric had come into Uhtred's service.
Despite the weeks that had passed since they last crossed paths, there was a familiarity in Sihtric's presence that stirred something within Thyra—a sense of connection, and she desperately reached for it. For a brief moment, Thyra parted her lips as if to speak to Sihtric, a wave of relief washing over her at the sight of his familiar face alongside Uhtred and the other men who followed him. She wanted to thank him for his kindness, for the small acts of compassion that had brought her solace in the darkest of times.
But before she could utter a word, Beocca's sharp voice pierced the air, cutting through the moment like a blade.
"Dane boy with a face like a rat," Beocca snapped, his tone dripping with disdain, "you will say nothing to Thyra, do you understand what I am telling you, boy? I've been watching you these last few hours. You can't seem to stop looking at her of late. But I suggest you turn your eyes elsewhere, bastard."
Thyra's heart sank at Beocca's words, a surge of anger rising within her at his callous dismissal of Sihtric. She knew that disdain between the Saxons and Danes ran deep, rooted in years of conflict and animosity between their two peoples. But she could not stand by as he belittled the young man who had shown her nothing but kindness and compassion.
"Sihtric is with us now, Father," Uhtred interjected firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "He is a valued member of my crew, Beocca. Show him the respect he deserves."
Beocca's gaze hardened at Uhtred's words, his jaw clenched in frustration. But before he could respond, Thyra spoke, her voice soft yet firm with conviction.
"Beocca," she began quietly, her tone measured yet resolute, "Sihtric is a friend. He has shown me nothing but kindness during my time at Dunholm, and I will not stand by as you insult him. You should apologize to him."
Beocca's expression softened slightly at Thyra's words, a flicker of remorse crossing his features. "Forgive me, Thyra," he murmured, his voice tinged with regret. "I spoke out of turn. It was not my intention to offend you."
Thyra nodded, her gaze softening as she met Beocca's eyes. "Apology accepted," she replied, her voice gentle yet firm. "But please, show Sihtric the respect he deserves. He has earned it."
Beocca nodded solemnly, his expression contrite as he turned towards Sihtric, his tone apologetic. "I am sorry, boy," he murmured, his voice tinged with regret. "I spoke rashly. If Uhtred vouches for you, and so does Thyra, then you are welcome among us in Wessex."
Sihtric met Beocca's gaze with a curt nod of acknowledgment, his expression guarded yet grateful. "Thank you, Father," he replied, his voice respectful. "I bear you no ill will."
With each mile they traveled away from Dunholm, the tension between them began to thaw, giving way to a tentative bond of camaraderie and respect. Thyra felt a glimmer of hope kindling within her, buoyed by the realization that she was not alone in her journey.
As Thyra rode alongside her companions, an unease stirred within her, an indefinable longing for something more. Amidst the faces of those returning to Wessex, she sought a sense of connection, a glimpse of the possibilities ahead. It was then that her gaze met Beocca's, his smile a beacon of light amidst the uncertainty that surrounded her.
At that moment, Thyra felt a sense of peace wash over her—a knowing that no matter what trials lay ahead, she was not alone. Beocca's unwavering support and kindness had become a constant in her life, a source of strength and comfort in times of need.
With a grateful smile, Thyra returned Beocca's gaze, her heart brimming with hope for the journey ahead.
Riding towards Wessex, the promise of a new beginning beckoning on the horizon, Thyra knew that with Beocca by her side, she could face whatever challenges lay ahead. With a sense of determination and resolve, she turned her gaze towards the future, her heart filled with anticipation for the adventures that awaited her beyond the horizon.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, its warm glow enveloping the landscape, Thyra recognized that this moment marked merely the inception of her journey. Ahead lay a path imbued with promise, hope, and the steadfast support of the Saxon priest, who was swiftly transforming into a trusted friend, leaving an indelible mark upon her soul.
With a final glance towards Beocca, who rode alongside her with a reassuring smile, Thyra spurred her horse onward, ready to embrace whatever the future held in store.
She did not dare let herself look back.