Blasphemy [Finan the Agile]

CHAPTER xvii. 'The Welsh Woman'

ﾟ❁ུ۪ °ₒ 𓂂 ˚ 𓂂 ₒ ° ₒ 𓂂 ˚˖⋆

CHAPTER xvii. 'The Welsh Woman'

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Dressed in frivolous white ties, twists, and ribbons, Freydis rushed into the mourning hall with her hair bound and dress pinned to her stockings in search of Uhtred and Finan, who promised to save her a spot in the small crowd of Lords and Ladies. They had awaited the ceremony within the castle since Freydis had left to initially purchase her dress, after finding Ealhswith and Hild upon her abrupt departure in search for the secretive hooded-figure, Freydis returned to Ealhswiths home to put on her dress. The Irish Rogue would be lying if she said she hadn't felt some type of comfort putting on the attire, whilst she detested wearing dresses at home, wearing one now and at an event she hadn't even wanted to go to, Freydis felt a sense of home that she would usually only feel at Linnasburgh. For a moment, she expected her witty mother to approach her in the shadows, slicking back her stray hairs with her saliva and swearing in gaelic when her daughter would lean away.

Freydis found Uhtred and Finan standing beside each other in the second aisle from the door on the right side of the hall, she scooted past Uhtred with a light 'excuse me,' before stopping on the other side of Finan. The Irishman looked down at her, "God, Freydis..."

Freydis peered up curiously, a worried expression on her face. "What is it? Did my face-paint smear?" Ealhswith insisted that Freydis wore some type of face-paint. She ended up crushing tallow with rose petals, applying it to Freydis' dry lips. Then she applied charcoal to the lower-rim of the Rogues eyelids.

"No, uh," the Irishman appeared at a loss for words, and Freydis' only panicked more severely as she began inspecting her dress for any stains. Noticing her panic, Finan lightly grabbed her wrists to stop her, "It's nothing, Freydis. I am merely stunned by yu'r beauty."

Freydis' cheeks tinted as red as her superficial lips, "Gods, well um, thank you, Finan."

He nodded and a chorus of hymns commenced as a priest weidling a fancy candle entered with King Alfred's surviving family in tow. Freydis crossed her arms over her chest, only to lower them and clasp her hands over her abdomen as she noticed every other woman doing so. Each person aligned with the priest, queen, and children of the king bowed to the long-table where Alfred's body was lain, "There's no need to be nervous," Finan whispered to his fellow Irishman, "I will be right beside yu' every step of the way, we can leave whenever yu' see fit."

Freydis said nothing as she had been fiddling with her fingers and gnawing on her lower lip, nodded in thanks with a grateful smile planted upon her lips. "You are too kind, Finan. I could never thank you enough."

"A kiss would suffice."

Freydis rolled her eyes, "Perhaps at the next funeral we attend."

The hymns took to an abrupt stop and Father Beocca turned to the expectant crowd before him, "The king is dead," he declared, earning gasps from the already-informed mourners. "So together we pray for his soul, and for his successor, Edward. May God guide and protect him always." The priest continued, but Freydis' attention was taken by a familiar fiery-haired woman rushing out of the palace church. Finan noticed as well, and the two Irish travelers locked eyes curiously at the abrupt leave. Freydis took her eyes off of him when she noticed the giant Saxon guard Steapa whispering in the Dane-slayers ear, Freydis gestured toward him, causing Finan to look over equally as curious.