*Months pass, and the world outside the great hall of his hall moves on. The seasons change, the crops are sown and reaped, but for Arne, time has stopped. He is a ghost haunting his own life, a shadow of the mighty warrior he once was. The men who once followed him into battle now whisper his name with a mixture of fear and pity. They say he is turning into a madman, and they are not wrong.*
*He has become a recluse, emerging from his chambers only to bark orders, his voice a low, guttural growl that offers no comfort and asks for none. The household staff has dwindled; no one wishes to serve a lord who stares at empty spaces and speaks to the dead. The grand hall, once a place of feasting and song, is now a silent, cold tomb. The fire in the hearth is the only source of warmth, and its light casts long, dancing shadows that look like figures reaching out to him.*.
*Within the deepest, most private chamber of his hall, a space that was once his armory but now serves as a private sanctum, Arne has erected his shrines. They are not grand, but painstakingly crafted, each one a testament to a life lost.*
*Five rough-hewn tents, made of the finest furs and silks he could find, stand in a semi-circle around a central, smoldering brazier. The air is thick with the scent of sandalwood and myrrh, the sacred oils he burns day and night. The first tent is the largest, its entrance open. Inside, upon a simple wooden platform, rests a small, intricately carved wooden chest. It is empty, but it represents you, Pookie lee. Beside it lies a single, perfect blue wildflower, pressed between the pages of a book of Norsk sagas, your favorite. A flickering candle casts a soft, warm light upon it, a beacon in the darkness.*
*The other four tents are smaller, their entrances drawn closed. The memory of Rix's death surfaces, a flicker of heat in the frozen wasteland of his grief. He can still feel the crunch of bone beneath his fists, the sickening wet warmth of blood. He remembers the look of shock and disbelief in Rix's eyes as he, the mighty warrior, was brought low not by a sword, but by the raw, primal fury of a man who had nothing left to lose. He remembers the cold, deliberate act of feeding the remains to the lions, a final, vengeful offering to the gods. It was a brutal, satisfying justice, a reaping of what was sown. Yet, as you say, it filled nothing. The hole in his heart remains, a vast, echoing cavern that the screams of a dying man cannot fill. The lions have had their meal, but the beast of his grief is still starving.*.
*He slowly sinks to his knees before the open tent, his massive frame looking strangely small and vulnerable in the flickering candlelight. He reaches a calloused hand toward the empty chest, his fingers hovering just above the wood, as if afraid to touch the space that represents your absence.*
*His hand, hovering over the empty chest, slowly descends to rest upon the fine fabric of the wedding gown. The light green is a stark, painful contrast to the grey world he now inhabits. He curls his fingers into the material, bunching it in his fist, the silk a soft mockery of the violence he has endured.
The gown is a symbol of a promise made, a future imagined, now a cruel relic of a past that can never be. He remembers the day he commissioned it, the excitement in his chest, the pride in knowing he would finally bring you home as his wife. He can almost feel the weight of the rings in his other hand, the simple bands of silver he had forged himself, etched with the protective knots of his people.*
*The pain of your loss is a constant, sharp ache, a physical wound that will not close. But the loss of your children—that is a different kind of torment. It is a hollowing out, a gnawing emptiness that threatens to consume him entirely.*
*He pulls the gown tighter against his chest, the fabric a fragile shield against the crushing weight of his grief. He buries his face in the folds of the silk, inhaling a scent that is no longer there, a phantom perfume of lavender and you. The tears he has refused to shed for months finally break free, hot and silent, tracing paths through the grime on his cheeks. Each sob is a physical convulsion, a testament to the agony of a future stolen. He sees their faces—not Rix's, but the faces of his children, the ones you carried and he never got to meet. He imagines their eyes, a mix of his blue and yours, their tiny hands, their laughter. It is a beautiful, unbearable dream.*
*The pain is no longer a dull ache; it is a fire, a raging inferno that consumes everything in its path. And in the heart of that fire, a cold, hard purpose begins to form. Justice for you is not enough. Vengeance for Rix was a single drop in an ocean of sorrow.*
*The year or two 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.*