3. Hopeful

“Hilda is dead.

I saw her just the other day by Horvorr’s Great Lake, hands resting on pregnant belly, her smile slight and resolute while she watched over her young sons. She glanced at me, and looked swiftly away as if I were an ill fated apparition.

Part of me wanted to speak to her, but Hjorvarth was beside me. Then when the boy ran off to play with Anna’s son, I felt the moment had passed.

She appeared serene. Hopeful. It would seem that the last time truly was the last time. It is a strange thing to feel such a great weight of grief and be unable to voice it.

In happier news, Gudmund now has a daughter.

Though the Chief of Horvorr has yet to meet her. His hall is barred, and Grettir is fearful enough for his bleak temperament that he has asked Brolli for help.

I always told myself he never loved her. She told me that as well. Yet when I saw him the night last, he was a gaunt and haunted man. It surprised me. Despite all that he has lost, and the atrocities we suffered—and inflicted—throughout the war, he had always appeared proud and resolute. Not as if he had been born into the role of a Jarl’s son, but as if he had been painstakingly cast to play one on the stage.

Now he was more akin to a draugr. I cannot see any way to bring him back to life.”

Sybille sat, her legs crossed under her white dress, while the marble seat beneath her caused her to ache. She wasn’t quite sure how to present herself, and as the wait had stretched, she’d shifted her posture and position to try and appear reposed but not cold, welcoming but not desperate, confident yet humble.

Then she simply sighed, leaning back on the uncomfortable chair, and wondered what was taking so long for Thorfinn, son of Thrand, to meet her.

The vast room of marble around her stretched so wide and long that it should have been used as a feasting hall. And the great space made her every fidgeting movement seem all the more louder. Every now and then she would hear Engli from the hallway outside clearing his throat, or adjusting his shield.

She’d asked him to wait with her, but he’d rightly said that, that her future husband might not look kindly on that, and that he should wait outside instead. Which was sage advice.

Though Sybille did wonder how happy he was about the purpose of this trip. He had promised to marry her when they were younger, after all. Though that was so long ago perhaps he’d forgotten. Now he was her only friend.

The women of Horvorr were few and far between and her father had never much liked letting her leave their family’s hall, even though Horvorr, encircled by a huge log wall, was as safe as could be.

Despite that, Sybille had never felt alone when she was younger. It was only as her brothers got older that she felt forgotten.

Geirmund had grown quiet and thoughtful, while Agnar was rarely around. Grettir still stopped in on her, but as she’d grown into a woman, he seemed less and less sure of how to speak with her.

He must have seen that she was feeling isolated though, because he’d suggested that she get her own guard.

Then Engli, who had been her friend as a child, became her guardian as well.

Strangely, her brothers had started to visit her more often after that. Not best pleased that their sister had picked a handsome young man to watch over her. No doubt they hoped she’d have picked someone with a grey beard and failing eyes and ears.

Sybille did wonder, sometimes, when Engli would look at her in the way that he looked at her--with his eyes so bright and appreciative as if she were truly wondrous--how things might have been had she not needed to marry a powerful man for her family’s sake.

But then he’d spoken no bad words of Thorfinn, or of her being married at all, and had only encouraged her, telling her not to worry and to hope for the best.

Though he looked at her differently now. And his kind smile seemed more strained than before, as if some sadness were trying to pull down at the corner of his lips.

Still, Sybille had outgrown Horvorr. Or Horvorr had outgrown her. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her days in a cold and lonely place. Though a city of stone didn’t seem that much better.

Here, at least, she would be able to make a family of her own. Sons who could battle and bicker and cause a ruckus like her young brothers had. A daughter as well, perhaps, who she would love unceasingly, and dote on often, so she would never have to feel that awful feeling of being unloved.

A teardrop struck the marble between Sybille’s feet.

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She blinked, and rubbed her at eyes. “Stupid,” she whispered to herself, glad that no one was here to see her crying like a child.

Her father had always hated when his children were sentimental. Perhaps that was why Geirmund had begun to impersonate a living statue. Only Agnar, brash and rebellious, pretended not to care what Gudmund thought.

They all loved Grettir. Doling out more warmth than their father ever had with his one arm. Though he was sad too. Sybille had never noticed that when she was younger. But she now recognised in his wild eyes the same disquiet and sorrow that had been growing in her.

Footsteps, swift and deliberate, sounded out in the distance.

Sybille cleared her throat, straightened in her seat, and adjusted her dress. One stray lock of red hair covering her eye, she gently brushed it aside.

A sharp voice spoke in the hallway beyond, presumably to Engli, but he did not answer. And the hissed words were too swift for Sybille to hear, but they were clearly unkind.

The steps then continued, echoing loudly in the vast marble hall, as a tall and lean man, dressed in dark leggings and a silk shirt of red and gold, crossed into the room.

He paid Sybille a cursory glance, heading straight to the room’s center, and then stood staring off at the masterfully wrought fireplace of brass amid the far marble wall.

“Come here,” he instructed in a brittle voice as if he had been the one waiting.

Sybille pushed her annoyance aside, and forced her lips into a gentle smile. “My lord, Thorfinn. It is a pleasure to meet you. My name—”

“Yes, yes,” he cut in, turning his head slightly to regard her. He had a strong jaw and chiseled cheeks despite his narrow face. His hair was a lovely golden shade of blond, and his eyes were bright and blue. He might have even been handsome were it now for the scowl fixed across his features. “I know your name, Sybille. I know you must be used to simple minded fools, but I am not as slow minded as the men on your guard.”

“Forgive me. I had only—”

“Forgiveness is earned, dear. I—”

“Do not interrupt me,” Sybille demanded, her voice coming out far more fiercely than she’d hoped. “It is very rude,” she finished in a slightly more diplomatic tone.

Thorfinn’s scowl deepened, and his eyes glimmered in a way that almost made her fearful. Then he sharply exhaled, as if amused or impressed, and smirked. “True.”

Silence reigned for a long moment.

Sybille swallowed, unsure of what to say, or even of what to feel. She didn’t want to ruin things so readily, but she wasn’t going to spend her life being talked down to either.

“You are pretty,” Thorfinn then said. “For a Horvorrian, I mean. I half thought you might shuffle in as some sort of beastly wretch. I jest,” he added when Sybille glared. “You were very pretty when you were younger as well. And it seems the winters have not robbed you of your allure. Though my own sister’s beauty remains unmatched it seems.”

“Thank you,” Sybille eventually said, unsure if he were complimenting her and quite confused as to why she should be compared to the man’s own blood. “You are a very handsome man. I do not remember much from when I last visited. I was quite young.”

Thorfinn raised his blond brows. “Yes… your father keeps you under lock and key.”

“He is very… protective of me,” Sybille agreed.

“Your guard is also very handsome. Though not very bright. He’s scratched our walls with the boss of his shield. To think, since the founding of Tymir, they remained unscathed and invaluable, and all it took was one wayward fool too lazy to stand without leaning,” he mused with a disappointed smile.

“Oh. I am sorry, my lord. I am sure he did not mean any harm.”

“No matter,” Thorfinn dismissed. “He will be replaced soon enough.”

Sybille frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Surely you hadn’t expected him to stay on? I will hand pick his replacement, of course,” he added brightly. “I would not want you to come to any needless harm.”

“That is very kind. But I would feel much better being guarded by a man I know.”

Thorfinn shrugged. “You will have chance to know your new guard as well.”

“I—”

“Sybille. This is already decided. Perhaps your efforts at fighting for a man’s companionship should be better directed towards me? Unless you would sooner marry the handsome fool out there?” Thorfinn’s features twisted. “Is that why you’re so attached, Sybille? Has he won your loyalty with his grubby cock?”

Sybille blinked. She opened her mouth to speak, but found no words. Her cheeks turned red and her dress began to feel hot and stifling.

“Not denying it, then. I am afraid, even pretty as you are, I cannot bring myself to marry you if you have already debased yourself by being some commoner’s whore.”

“I… I have not. I am not—” Sybille clenched her teeth, trying to bite down on her anger. “I am virgin. But you cannot speak to me like this. You will show me respect.”

“Respect? For what? For whom? Your father is a joke, Sybille. Your brothers are a joke. One a carousing whore and the other so desperate to embody a Jarl but set to inherit the mock title of Chief. Chief Geirmund. Like he was leading a feral goblin clan. No, no,” he added. “You are you the one who will show me respect. It is a punishment of my father that I am even forced to entertain marrying you. And even if you are now inclined to hurry back home with your tail between your legs, do not forget that I can stop all grain trade to your miserable region. And do not ever delude yourself into thinking that anyone of importance has any fear or respect for your father. He has no power. My father offered him stewardship of Horvorr as a cruel joke. The only reason marrying you serves any purpose at all is to fend off claims from men who have actual power.”

Sybille sighed, feeling cold and miserable, as all the heat fled from her cheeks.

“Do not be sorrowed, Sybille. If you do as you are told then—”

Sybille’s small pale fist struck him square in the nose. She punched him again as he staggered, in the neck and in the brow, until he overcame his shock. Then he answered in kind with a vicious backhand blow that robbed her of her senses and sent her reeling.

Room spinning, footfalls thundering close, she glimpsed Engli’s familiar face. Though the vengeful wrath twisting his features was something she had never witnessed before.