*The few years that passed have been a slow, deliberate descent into a self-imposed hell. The great hall that once buzzed with life and the loyalty of many is now cavernously empty, its silence broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the distant cries of gulls. The men who remain are but a handful, the hardiest, most loyal of his shield-wall. They stand by him not out of reverence for a king, but out of a grim, shared sorrow for the woman they all knew and respected. The title* "King" *has fallen from use, replaced by gruff, worried murmurs or simply a somber nod when he passes. He is no longer a ruler, but a ghost haunting the throne.*
*His appearance has become a reflection of his inner ruin. His once-proud braids are now tangled and greasy, falling past his shoulders. The thick, rich furs he once wore have been replaced by the same worn leathers day after day.*
*The figure inside the shrine tent is a silhouette against the dim light filtering through the fabric. It is small, slight, and moves with a desperate, furtive grace. The intruder is trying to melt into the shadows behind the chest holding your gown, their breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. The air is thick with the scent of incense and the intruder's fear, a sharp, tangy smell that cuts through the familiar aroma of sandalwood.*
*Arne does not move. He simply watches, his body coiled like a spring, his face a mask of cold indifference. The shouting from the great hall is growing fainter, muffled by the thick tapestries on the walls. His loyal men are searching the hall, their voices a distant clamor. The intruder is trapped. They have stumbled not upon a treasure room, but into the heart of a man's private grief, a place more dangerous than any battlefield.*
Arne's Pov:
*The woman scrambles to her feet, her body language a mixture of relief and lingering fear. She dusts off her tight leather trousers and shirt, her movements quick and economical. Her short, almost platinum blonde hair is a stark contrast to her dark, sun-kissed skin, and her figure is undeniably curvy, built for strength and agility. She lets out a breathless laugh,* "Phew, that was close," *she mutters to herself.*
*She turns, and her eyes land on you. For a moment, she simply stares, her initial fear morphing into a look of startled disbelief.* "Ahahahaaa, you scared me," *she exclaims, a wide, mischievous grin spreading across her face.* "Fuck," *she adds, shaking her head as if to clear it.* "You really gave me a fright."
*She takes a step forward, her gaze sweeping over your unkempt figure, your hunched posture, and the shrine you're kneeling in.**Her bravado evaporates the instant you rise to your full height. The sudden movement is like a predator shifting its weight, and the air in the room grows heavy with menace. Her playful smirk vanishes, replaced by wide-eyed alarm. Her hand darts to the small dagger lying beside the wooden carving of you—a carving you had painstakingly carved yourself, a portrait of your beloved as she smiled. The woman's grip is white-knuckled, her knuckles stark against her dark skin.*
*She holds the blade out in a trembling but steady gesture, a clear, desperate warning.*
"Don't come any closer," *she snarls, her voice losing its earlier casual tone and gaining a hard edge of fear. She is ready to fight, to defend herself against a man she clearly sees as a dangerous threat.*
*It is only then, as her eyes lock with yours in the flickering candlelight, that you see it. Not just the shape, but the very essence of them.*
*The sight of her eyes strikes him like a physical blow, a phantom echo of a face he sees every time he closes his own. It's not just the color, a startlingly familiar shade of deep, ember - red, but the shape of them—the gentle upward tilt at the corners, the long, white lashes. And the lips... they are fuller than he remembers, but the cupid's bow, the delicate curve of her upper lip—it is an exact replica of the smile that once lit up your face.*
*He does not move. He stands frozen, a statue of grief given a sudden, jarring jolt of life. The cold fire in his gut, the constant companion of his rage and sorrow, flickers. For the first time in years, it is not the only thing burning. A sliver of something else pierces the fog of his despair—something sharp, painful, and utterly bewildering. He cannot speak. The name that is a constant torment on his tongue is caught in his throat, a silent, agonizing scream.*
*The woman snaps her fingers in front of his face, a sharp, intrusive sound in the thick, incense-laden air.* "Hey," *she says, her voice regaining its edge,* "stop staring. It's rude."
*She gestures with her dagger towards the door.* "You'll just stay right there while I make my escape, okay?" *She takes slow, deliberate steps towards the tent's entrance, her eyes never leaving his, her body coiled to bolt at the first sign of a threat.*
*As she passes the chest holding the wedding gown, her gaze falls upon the small wooden carving of you. Her expression shifts from wary calculation to something softer, more genuine. A small, involuntary smile touches her lips, mirroring the one carved into the wood.* "Cute carving,"
*she murmurs, her voice losing its harshness for a brief moment. She sees it—the subtle details your own grief-blinded eyes had memorized: the slight gap between her front teeth and the deep, single dimple that appeared when she smiled just so.*
*The word hangs in the air between you, a foreign, impossible sound on her tongue. It is not a question, but a statement, a label she has placed on the carving, and by extension, on you. The sound is a key turning in a lock he had long ago thrown away, and the door it opens is not one of hope, but of a deeper, more terrifying abyss.*
*The fire in his gut roars back to life, but it is no longer cold. It is a white-hot inferno, and for the first time in years, it is not directed outward at a faceless enemy, but inward, at the ghost of a memory he has tried to cage. The name is a command, an accusation, a plea. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. The word is a stone in his throat, heavy and immovable.*
"Wait..." *It is a strangled whisper, a ghost of a sound, lost in the sudden, sharp intake of breath he takes as he lunges forward.**He lunges, his massive frame moving with a speed that belies his hunched posture, but he is too late. The window, a dark square in the stone wall, is empty. The only sound is the frantic scrabbling of leather on stone as she disappears into the night, and the frantic pounding of his own heart, a drumbeat of shock and disbelief in the sudden, suffocating silence of the shrine.*
*He stands at the window, the cold night air whipping his unkempt hair across his face. He looks down, but the ground below is empty, swallowed by the shadows. She is gone, as if she were a phantom conjured by his own grief. The only evidence of her presence is the faint scent of leather and something else, something wild and clean, like heather after a rainstorm, a scent that is utterly alien and yet, somehow, familiar.*
* He turns back to the room, his eyes drawn to the wooden carving on the chest.*. *He stands there for a long moment, the chill of the night air seeping into his bones, a stark contrast to the inferno raging within. The only sound is the frantic drumming of his own heart against his ribs. Slowly, like a man waking from a deep and troubled sleep, he turns back from the empty window. His gaze sweeps across the room, past the smoldering brazier, past the four closed tents representing his lost children, and finally comes to rest on the wooden carving.*
*He approaches it on unsteady legs, the floorboards groaning under his weight. He stops before the chest, his shadow falling over the small figure. He doesn't dare to touch it, as if the carving might shatter under his touch. Instead, he just stares, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The word she spoke echoes in the confines of his skull, a single, sharp, impossible note.*.
*The silence in the shrine is now absolute, broken only by the ragged sound of his own breathing. The scent of heather and leather, the phantom perfume of the intruder, mingles with the ancient scent of incense and the lingering aroma of your gown. It is a disorienting, maddening combination.*
*His eyes are locked on the carving, but he does not see the wood. He sees you. He sees the way your hair would catch the light, the way your eyes would crinkle at the corners when you laughed, the way your dimple would appear just so. He remembers the weight of you in his arms, the sound of your voice, the warmth of your skin against his.*
*The word she spoke hangs in the air, a taunt from a ghost. A thief. A word for someone who takes what is not theirs. But she had not taken anything. She had left him with something far more dangerous than an empty coffer.*