The Return

The Jarl's Longhouse was alive with noise and revelry. The main hall, a grand space with a high wooden ceiling supported by thick, rough-hewn beams, was filled with people. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meats, spilt ale, and the smoke from the numerous torches lighting the space. The tables were piled high with food: boar, venison, fresh bread, and fruits. People stood up, dancing and singing, their voices merging into a loud harmony that echoed off the walls. This feast was one of many since the arrival of Jarl Bjarni, who had brought with him an abundance of food and wine to impress his bride-to-be. It had been nearly a week since the Jarl, Mikael, and their men had left Kattegat for the grand hunt in Darkmoon Forest. The hall had been in a near-constant state of celebration ever since, as Bjarni tried to win over the people with his generosity.

Siggy, the Jarl's wife, and Thyri, their daughter, were left behind to oversee the festivities. Magnus, eager to prove himself, had wanted to join the hunt, but his father had refused, instructing him to stay and rule in his stead. Magnus now sat in his father's chair, looking thoroughly displeased as he watched Jarl Bjarni dance with several women, none of whom were his sister. His face was twisted into a scowl, his fingers drumming impatiently on the arm of the chair.

Further away from the centre of the festivities sat Thyri. She wore a beautiful rich dress, a serk, made of rich blue wool, embroidered with intricate patterns in gold thread. Her brooches were finely crafted, holding her dress together at the shoulders, and a belt cinched her waist, from which hung a small knife in a decorated sheath. Despite her elegant appearance, her eyes were filled with sorrow. Jarl Bjarni had been worse than she could have imagined. He was a disgusting man, both in how he acted and his physical presence. His teeth were black and rotting, his breath foul with the stench of ale and decay. His fingers were thick and greasy, always grabbing at whatever he desired without care or consent.

Thyri forced a smile, but tears slipped down her face at times, ones she quickly wiped away before anyone could notice. She shivered in disgust as she saw Jarl Bjarni lick the neck of a girl he had grabbed from a seat. The girl, barely older than a child, looked terrified, her eyes wide with fear. Thyri's heart ached for her, knowing all too well the revulsion that came with his touch.

Magnus, noticing the scene, clenched his jaw and turned his gaze away, unable or unwilling to intervene. Jarl Bjarni's voice boomed through the hall as he told a crude joke, his laughter loud and coarse. He swayed slightly, clearly drunk, and pulled the girl closer, his hands wandering. Thyri's stomach churned, and she had to look away, focusing on a spot on the wall to keep from retching. The hall, with its roaring fires and lively crowd, felt suffocating. Thyri longed for the hunt to be over, for her father to return and perhaps for him to change his mind and take Bjarni away. But she knew that, her fate was sealed. She was to be married to this man, to endure his touch and his presence for the rest of her life. The thought made her feel hollow, and she fought to keep the despair from overwhelming her.

As the night wore on, Thyri's forced smile grew more strained. Her hands trembled slightly as she brought her cup to her lips, taking a small sip to soothe her dry throat. The mead was sweet, but it did little to ease her discomfort. She glanced at Magnus, hoping for some sign of support or solidarity, but he was lost in his own anger and frustration. Siggy waded through the sea of revellers, making her way to Thyri's side. The longhouse was alive with the sounds of laughter, singing, and the clinking of mugs, but the joy did not touch Thyri's face. Siggy sat down next to her daughter, her brow furrowed with concern.

"How are you doing, my love?" Siggy asked softly. "Why aren't you joining the feast? You usually love dancing and singing."

Thyri forced a weak smile, her eyes heavy with sadness. "I don't feel much like celebrating, Mother," she replied, her voice breaking.

Siggy's heart ached for her daughter. She reached out and took Thyri's hand in hers. "Oh, my love," she whispered, pulling her daughter into a hug. "I'm so sorry. I wish things could be different, but we need this alliance. So many work to bring our family down. Jarl Bjarni is wealthy and has powerful connections. With him at our side, we will not have to worry about anything ever again."

Thyri didn't know what to say. How could she convey that she didn't care about her father's power or wealth? She wore a fine dress, finer than anyone in the hall, even her mother. But while the others wore lower-quality clothing and couldn't afford to adorn themselves in gold and silver, they had smiles on their faces as they sang and danced. Thyri would trade all her father's wealth for that simple happiness.

"Why don't you speak to Jarl Bjarni, get to know him?" Siggy suggested, wiping the tears from Thyri's cheeks and fixing her wavy silky-brown hair. "You might have more in common than you think." Thyri looked over at Jarl Bjarni. He was shovelling food into his mouth, the grease from the chicken soaking his beard. Bits of meat and fat clung to his blackened teeth as he laughed, a thick chunk of half-chewed food lodged in his beard. The sight made her stomach churn with disgust.

She put her hand to her mouth to stop herself from gagging. She'd need to practice more. Soon, he'd be above her, thrusting himself inside her. It wouldn't do to throw up on herself while he did it. "I'll have my entire life to speak to him," Thyri replied to her mother, her voice trembling. "I'd prefer to wait until I don't have a choice."

Siggy rubbed her back, trying to offer comfort. "It will work out, my love. Things always get better," she said before standing up and heading over to Magnus.

Thyri sat there, her mind racing. She took out the dagger she'd been gifted by Jarl Bjarni. Its blade glinted in the firelight, a cold, hard reminder of her fate. 'Perhaps the gods help those who help themselves,' she remembered Thorfinn saying. Her grip tightened around the dagger's hilt. Could she do it? Could she kill the man? She'd never killed anyone before, never even been in a fight. It was either this or condemning herself to a life with a man who repulsed her. As she watched Jarl Bjarni laugh and gorge himself, she felt her resolve harden. The grease dripped down his beard, mingling with the spit that flew from his mouth as he spoke. He grabbed a woman by the waist, pulling her onto his lap, his hands roaming freely over her body. The woman's face was a mask of forced politeness, her discomfort clear to anyone who looked.

Thyri's stomach churned again. The man was a pig, and she knew that if she didn't act, her life would be nothing but misery. She had to make a decision, and soon. She couldn't rely on anyone else to save her; she had to take matters into her own hands.

The feast in the Jarl's longhouse continued, but the energy began to wane as the night wore on. Laughter turned into quiet conversations, and the music grew softer. Jarl Bjarni, now heavily drunk, stumbled to his feet, his face flushed and his speech slurred.

"Where is my bride?" he bellowed, swaying as he tried to focus his bleary eyes. "Where is she?"

Thyri, seeing the commotion, knew it was time to slip away. She moved quietly and carefully, avoiding the stumbling revellers and making her way out of the main hall. Her heart pounded as she reached the corridor, her hand gripping the dagger at her waist. She hurried to her room, locking the door behind her and leaning against it with a sigh of relief.

In the hall, Magnus watched his sister's discreet exit but chose not to intervene. He felt nothing but disgust as he observed Jarl Bjarni trip over himself, falling to the floor with a heavy thud while still calling out for Thyri.

"Get them all out of here," Magnus instructed one of his guards, his voice low and firm. "Do it gently."

The guard nodded and began to usher the remaining guests towards the exit, offering polite but firm words of encouragement to leave. Magnus watched for a moment, ensuring the task was carried out smoothly, before he too stood up, his face set in a hard line.

"Time for me to retire as well," he muttered to himself, his thoughts dark as he made his way to his own quarters. The image of Jarl Bjarni's grotesque behaviour lingered in his mind, a stark reminder of the grim future his sister faced if this marriage went through.

Back in her room, Thyri sat on her bed, her thoughts racing. She could still hear Bjarni's drunken calls echoing faintly through the walls. She clutched her dagger tighter, the cool metal a small comfort against the turmoil inside her. Her decision was made. She would not allow herself to be a pawn in her father's schemes any longer. She would find a way to escape this fate, no matter the cost.

———————————————————

In the early hours of the morning, Kattegat lay in a state of quiet recovery from the previous night's revelry. The main square, usually bustling with activity, was eerily still. Empty barrels of ale and discarded remnants of the feast littered the ground. The smell of stale alcohol and the faint aroma of roasted meat hung heavy in the cool morning air.

Villagers, who had partaken in the night's festivities, were sprawled out on benches, leaning against walls, or even lying in the dirt, snoring loudly. A few unlucky ones were on their hands and knees, retching up the excesses of the night, their groans and heaves breaking the morning silence. The cobblestones, slick with spilt ale and vomit, reflected the dim light of the rising sun.

Magnus, having seen to the last of the guests, stood at the entrance of the longhouse, surveying the aftermath. His face was a mask of disdain. The sight of Bjarni's men, sprawled in undignified positions, did nothing to improve his mood. He stepped over a particularly large pile of sick with a grimace, making his way to the well to splash some cold water on his face.

Near the docks, fishermen prepared their boats for the day's work, their movements sluggish and their eyes bleary. They muttered curses under their breath, cursing the fools who had kept them awake with their drunken shouts and laughter. Seagulls squawked overhead, drawn by the smell of rotting food, picking at the remnants left behind.

Women began to emerge from their homes, shawls wrapped tightly around their shoulders, their faces tired but resolute. They started to clean up, sweeping away the debris, scrubbing the tables, and dousing the fire pits. Their hands moved methodically, despite the aches from the late night.

...

Thyri walked along the beach barefoot, feeling the cold, coarse sand press against her soft, dainty feet. Her shoes dangled from her hands, forgotten for the moment. The early morning air was crisp, carrying the salty scent of the sea. It was a stark contrast to the inside of the longhouse, which reeked of stale food, spilt mead, and the rancid stench of unwashed bodies from the night's revelry.

As she walked, she thought about when she might kill Jarl Bjarni. The thought had plagued her since the night before. Various times flitted through her mind, but she discarded them quickly. He was never alone, always surrounded by his men, or worse, the other villagers. Any attempt in public would implicate her immediately. The wedding night seemed the only plausible time. He would be drunk, maybe even too inebriated to defend himself. The thought of him touching her made her shiver with revulsion, but she knew she might have to let it happen to catch him off guard. She found a quiet spot and sat down in the sand, staring out at the horizon. The vast expanse of water was calming, giving her a moment's respite from the turmoil inside her mind. She lost track of time as she sat there, the sound of the waves soothing her frayed nerves.

A loud horn blast suddenly echoed from the fjord, jolting her from her thoughts. She stood up, her eyes scanning the water. In the distance, she saw a ship approaching. Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized the rickety old vessel. It was Thorfinn's ship. Shock and disbelief washed over her, followed quickly by a surge of joy. She began to walk, almost run, toward the docks, a smile spreading across her face. As she hurried along the beach, others began to notice the ship and the sound of the horn. Curious villagers started making their way to the docks, wondering what the commotion was about.

By the time Thyri reached the docks, a crowd had gathered. The shore was packed with people, all eyes fixed on the approaching ship. Excited murmurs rippled through the crowd as they recognized the vessel. The ship drew closer, its battered hull and patched sails clear in the morning light. Thyri pushed her way to the front of the crowd, her heart pounding in her chest. She stood there, breathless, as the ship finally came to a stop at the dock. As Thorfinn jumped off the boat and onto the dock, the crowd collectively gasped in shock. He was bare-chested, his muscular body covered in bruises and scars, including the faded scar of a rune carved into his flesh. The women in the crowd couldn't hide their desire, their eyes roaming over his rugged, ethereal beauty. Even Thyri found herself squeezing her thighs together, unable to resist the allure of his scarred, powerful form.

"I have returned!" Thorfinn shouted, his voice echoing over the murmurs and gasps of the crowd. In his hand, he held something long, wrapped in rags. With a dramatic flourish, he unwrapped it, revealing a massive tooth, as long as his leg. "Victorious!" he shouted again, holding the tooth high for all to see.

The crowd erupted into cheers, a roar of excitement and awe. People rushed forward, clapping him on the shoulder, offering their congratulations and praise.

"Well done, Thorfinn!"

"Incredible!"

"You did it!"

Hands slapped his back, and men and women alike tried to get closer to him, their voices raised in admiration. Thorfinn grinned, the bruises on his face pulling tight, but he didn't seem to mind. He stood tall, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. He looked like a warrior straight out of legend.

Thyri stood at the edge of the crowd, her heart pounding in her chest. She was in shock, barely able to process that Thorfinn was actually back, and alive. A wave of relief and happiness washed over her, and she couldn't help but smile, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. The crowd continued to surge around Thorfinn, their excitement palpable. Men slapped him on the back, their faces alight with admiration. Women looked at him with barely concealed desire, their gazes lingering on his bruised and scarred body.

"You're a legend, Thorfinn!"

"Unbelievable, you did it!"

Thorfinn nodded and smiled, accepting their praise with a humility that only made him more appealing. He scanned the crowd, his eyes searching for familiar faces. When his gaze finally landed on Thyri, he paused, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Thyri felt her heart skip a beat as their eyes met. She wanted to run to him, to throw her arms around him and tell him how glad she was that he was back. But she stayed rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by the emotions coursing through her.

As Thorfinn talked to some of the others, a woman's scream pierced the air. "I see the heart!" she shouted, pointing towards the ship. The crowd turned, craning their necks to get a glimpse. Under a large cloak tied down on the deck was a huge black mass of meat.

People surged forward, trying to get closer. Thorfinn swiftly jumped onto the edge of the ship, grabbing a rope that connected to the top of the mast. "Calm down!" he shouted, his voice cutting through the clamour. "Calm down, all of you!"

"Is that the heart?" someone yelled from the crowd.

Thorfinn nodded, his grip tight on the rope. "Aye, it is the heart of the leviathan."

The revelation sent another wave of cheers through the crowd. The teeth were proof he had survived the leviathan, but the heart was undeniable evidence he had killed the beast. People hugged each other, tears of joy and relief streaming down their faces.

Thorfinn raised his hand, and the crowd went silent. "How did you do such a thing?" someone asked, their voice filled with awe.

"The gods favoured me," Thorfinn replied. "If not for Thor and Freyr, I would not be here." At the mention of Thor, the crowd collectively repeated the name, nodding their heads reverently. Some kissed their necklaces, invoking the god's protection and blessing.

"While the beast has been slain, do not forget the people it took," Thorfinn continued, his voice solemn. "I'm sure many of you know people who have been claimed by the creature." Heads nodded in agreement, the mood turning sombre.

"Let us not forget them and hope they may feast knowing that creature is banished to Hel," Thorfinn said, raising his hand towards the sky.

The crowd erupted into cheers once more, the noise almost deafening. As the noise died down, Thorfinn began to sing, his voice carrying over the waves and through the crowd.

"Fé deyja,

frændr deyja,

sjálfr verðr

at deyja."

He paused, the crowd listening intently, the silence almost tangible.

"En orðstírr,

deyr aldregi,

hvat kveðr

sér góðan."

Thyri, moved by the moment, joined in with the third verse, her voice blending with Thorfinn's.

"Steinhallir hrynja,

sævar gleypa lönd.

En djarfr,

hans verk,

lýsa gegnum aldur."

The rest of the crowd, caught up in the emotion of the moment, joined in with the final verses, their voices rising in unison.

"Í Valhöll,

hetjur stendr,

hátt.

Þeirra sögur sagðar,

þeirra sæmd aldregi

fölnar."

"Þótt vér förum héðan,

dýrð lifir,

rist í hjörtum

þeirra er minnast."

The singing echoed through Kattegat, a respectful tribute to those who had fallen to the creature. The end of the song was abruptly interrupted by the sound of shouting and the jostling of the crowd. Magnus and his guards pushed through, shoving people aside. Magnus's voice cut through the air, loud and angry. "What is going on here?"

The crowd parted, revealing Thorfinn standing proudly with the massive tooth of the leviathan in his hand. As Magnus's eyes landed on Thorfinn, they went wide, his face turning pale. Dread filled him, quickly followed by a burning anger at the sight of Thorfinn alive.

"Magnus," Thorfinn said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I was just going to show everyone here the heart of the leviathan. Would you like to see it?"

Magnus clenched his fists, his anger threatening to blow out of him and send him into a mindless rage. One of his guards put a hand on his shoulder, whispering, "Not here." The guard then moved back, maintaining a vigilant watch.

Magnus felt as if controlling his rage was impossible, but he managed to calm himself, albeit barely. He glared at Thorfinn, his voice filled with barely contained fury. "Everyone, get back to your jobs!" he shouted, his command clear and forceful.

The crowd, disappointed, began to disperse. They did not want to go against the Jarl's son, and many cast lingering, regretful looks at Thorfinn as they returned to their tasks. However, one person didn't listen to the order. Thyri walked forward, a bright smile on her face. She embraced Thorfinn, her voice filled with relief and happiness. "I'm so glad you survived," she said, holding him tightly.

Thorfinn returned the embrace, his eyes scanning the departing crowd and the simmering figure of Magnus. He knew that this moment of triumph would not sit well with the Jarl's son.

"Thyri," Thorfinn said softly, "it's good to see you."

She pulled back slightly, looking into his eyes. "When I heard the horn, I hoped it was you," she admitted. "But seeing you here, alive..."

"It wasn't an easy journey," Thorfinn replied, his voice low and serious. "But the gods were with me."

Magnus, unable to bear the sight any longer, turned on his heel and stormed off, his guards trailing behind him. His mind raced with thoughts of revenge and anger. Thorfinn's return was a threat to everything he had planned. "Damn fool Mikael, he's handed Rebekah to him on a plate, lest he make himself an oathbreaker,"

Thorfinn looked around, scanning the faces in the crowd. The familiar faces of his close companions were absent, and he felt a twinge of concern. He turned to Thyri, his expression serious.

"Where are Ragnar, Lagertha, and the others?" he asked.

Thyri glanced around, a bit of worry crossing her features before she replied, "A lot of them have gone to the Darkmoon Forest for the grand hunt. But I think Lagertha is still here, taking care of her son in Rollo's house." Thorfinn frowned slightly at this information. The Darkmoon Forest was known for its dangers, and the thought of his friends being there without him made him uneasy. But he nodded, accepting the situation.

"Thank you, Thyri," he said, his voice grateful. He took a moment to gather himself before adding with a chuckle, "I best tell her I'm alive."

Thyri smiled, the tension easing from her face. "She'll be relieved to see you," she said.

...

Thorfinn had managed to find an old but sturdy cart to transport his possessions to Rollo's house. The cart creaked under the weight of the cargo, but it held firm. He loaded it with the valuable items he had salvaged from the leviathan and the provisions he had brought back from his journey. Thyri walked beside him, her shoes in her hands, her bare feet pressing into the sand as they moved.

As they made their way through the town, the people greeted Thorfinn warmly. "Welcome back, Thorfinn!" called one man from a stall. "The Jotunsbani has returned!" cheered another. Thorfinn nodded in acknowledgement, his expression a mix of fatigue and determination.

Thorfinn turned to Thyri, his curiosity piqued. "What's been happening since I left?" he asked, his voice rough from the long journey.

Thyri's face twisted in distaste. "Mikael feasted that night," she said bitterly. "They all laughed at you, celebrating your supposed death."

Thorfinn's expression darkened, but he remained silent as she continued. "A week later, Bjarni arrived."

Thorfinn raised an eyebrow. "Bjarni?"

Thyri nodded. "He's as disgusting as they come, both physically and in how he treats the people of Kattegat. He's a vile man, with rotten teeth, a greasy beard, and a belly that seems to overflow from his tunic. He treats everyone like dirt beneath his boots." Her face turned a shade paler. "The first time I met him, he kissed my cheek. I threw up afterwards."

Thorfinn's frown deepened. "The Jarl and the others, how long will they be gone?"

Thyri shrugged. "A week or two. Father said they'll be back quickly. He wants the wedding to happen soon."

Thorfinn glanced at her, sensing her unease. "How do you feel about that?"

"Do you even need to ask?" Thyri replied, her voice thick with revulsion. "The man is disgusting in almost every way. It's hard to believe someone like him exists. I could look past his appearance if he were a kind man, but it seems the rot that lurks above the surface goes much deeper."

Thorfinn nodded, understanding her plight. "I'm sorry, Thyri," he said. "You deserve better."

She shook her head, a small smile forming. "I'd much rather hear the story of how you slew the leviathan."

Thorfinn laughed, the sound hearty and full. "It's a long tale, one that would best be told with mead and meat."

They arrived at Rollo's house just as Lagertha stepped outside with a basket of clothing in her hands. When she saw Thorfinn, her eyes went wide, and tears began to form. She dropped the basket and ran over to him, engulfing him in a tight embrace.

"Thorfinn!" she shouted, her voice a mixture of joy and relief.

Bjorn, who had heard his mother shout, came outside with an axe in hand. His eyes widened as he saw Thorfinn, and he quickly joined his mother in embracing him. The three stood there for a moment, holding each other, the relief of Thorfinn's return washing over them.

"I'm back," Thorfinn said, his voice thick with emotion. "And I've got quite a story to tell."

(Translation for the song)

Cattle die,

kinsmen die,

we too shall

pass.

Yet glory remains,

for those who seek it.

Stone halls crumble,

the seas swallow lands.

But the brave,

their deeds,

shine through the ages.

In Valhalla,

heroes stand,

tall.

Their stories told,

their honor never

fades.

Though we leave this shore,

our glory endures,

etched in the hearts

of those who remember.

(AN: Thorfinn has returned and Magnus is not happy about it, things are gonna be popping off my brothers. What will Magnus do now that Thorfinn has more of a right to marry Rebekah than he does.

*Bzzzt*

"Yes you Mrs Goob over there what's your answer."

"What is Assassination."

*Ding*

"Correct! You just won the wheel of fortune and a family station wagon or something, idk how these game shows work."

Anywhooooo yeah next chapter it's gonna pop off and Thorfinn is probably gonna be a little pissed. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.)

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