The Last Marigold

The Retaking of Uppsala

"Lord, there's still no sign of her," Eirik reported breathlessly, after having ridden the entirety of Uppsala's grounds in search of Su'a and then to Wolfgard. He sat positioned at the main gate, seated atop his mount, seemingly oblivious to destruction surrounding him.

Smoke from the burning buildings wafted on the breeze causing burning eyes and fits of coughing. Bodies were strewn throughout the grounds. Soldiers and villagers alike took up the task of repairing the wreckage. 

Hearing Eirik's words Wolfgard tensed. His fingers curled around the reins, knuckles becoming a very prominent white. His cold gaze turned on Eirik. He sat frozen like the statue of an angry, brooding god. The silent agita within him growing exponentially.

"I want her found," He seethed, in an imposing sonorous voice. His eyes narrowed on Eirik, "Anything they do to her will be visited upon them tenfold... And I do mean anything." He emphasized.

Eirik recognized the look in Wolfgard's eyes. His quiet inaction; his reluctance to involve himself in the fight was not because of cravenness but because he feared losing control. He held in restraint the overwhelming bloodlust that came with want of revenge. The sweet taste of victory now hollow and bitter at the prospect losing of his precious, Marigold. Even for Eirik, it made the yearning for violence stronger and desire for quick, brutal justice that more demanding.

"Your will, Cousin," Eirik wheeled his horse around and charged into the compound. 

Things had settled after the short scuffle. The gate had fallen, shortly before dawn. Orm's army fell with it and just as quickly. They were divided, leaderless, and scattered. Su'a's actions laid the ground work for a decisive victory. At Wolfgard's behest, what remained of Orm's army would be sold as slaves. But, the fate of Orm, Bodil, and Ravn would be levied at the end of his blade. 

"Jarl Wolfgard," Alrik called out, as he trotted the short distance across the crossway. A battle-worn elderly woman followed behind him. A tattered blue scarf tied her silver hair behind her. Her charred dress was steeped in muck and filth. Freygerd was a born warrior and would die as one too.  

"Lord, Freygerd, says she has a word from Su'a," Alrik gestured to her and the elderly woman stepped forward. Alrik glanced between them. His concerned gaze lingering on Wolfgard before stalking away to allow a modicum of privacy. 

"Freygerd, please," Wolfgard reached down and Freygerd clasped his hand.

She stepped closer nearly whispering, "Jarl, your woman left words with me for your ears. It seems, she expected that the fight might claim her life," The old woman, gave a direct gaze as she stared up at Wolfgard. 

"I will hear these words," Wolfgard uttered solemnly, a feeling of angst coiled in the pit of his stomach. That headstrong, foolish woman went through with this knowing it might claim her life. He was angry. Beyond that, he was devastated; mad with grief. But, he could show none of these. Not without losing himself to it entirely. 

"She bid me tell you, she regrets nothing. And that..." The old woman paused to hold back a sob. She wiped her tears away, steeling her nerves to continue, "That she wants you to forgive your sister. She knows just how much family means to you and what honor demands. But, you will never forgive yourself, if you were to harm your sister. She begs that you let her go and let peace reign. She asked me to tell you that there is no goodbye to be left for you. You will always be with her, in her heart."

Wolfgard felt something on his cheek. He brought his finger to touch it and found them wet with tears. His heart did not want to believe he had lost her but the pain was reminding him of the truth. She had taken from him. His only remaining consolation, the revenge he would exact on her murders.