Word Count: 24,112
Summary of Events:
Friðljót continued to remain confined to her bed, not inclined to get up or eat, and told her chief lady-in-waiting — who had been her nursemaid when she'd been a child — that she would rather be dead than marry the king of Uppodlingland. Aðalbjörn went to place an order of fish on behalf of his father and on his way back encountered the daughter of the vitki, who took him to a secluded meadow and performed a special ceremony whose purpose he didn't know. Friðljót had been given no food since she'd expressed a preference for death over marriage, but decided to braid her hair for the first time in nearly a week because it was annoying loose, when her chief lady-in-waiting came in and prepared her clothes, as she was expected to go out and bid farewell to her betrothed by her mother . . .
Excerpt of the Day:
“I’m not going,” Friðljót said, hoping her tone came across with the amount of finality she thought it had.
Sólstigr looked up at her, looking rather shocked. “You would actually defy Eyhild?”
“I never want to see that man again,” Friðljót said firmly.
“This will not please her,” Sólstigr said.
“Why should I care what pleases her when she never has thought for what might please me?” Friðljót asked bitterly. “Time and again she does things that don’t please me, including this betrothal. If she can do a myriad of things which don’t please me why should I not have right to do the same in turn?”
“You are not her elder,” Sólstigr warned.
“She is not Father’s elder, and yet she has done this to me,” Friðljót snapped. “Father would never have done such a thing, but he is so withered and destroyed he knows nothing of what is going on, if he is even still alive to do anything about it. Father loved me, and he would never do such things as this, he would not forge an alliance with his greatest enemy, he would never give his daughter to that man in marriage when that man is his own elder, to say nothing of his daughter’s elder. I am not coming out of this room until Father is restored or dead, at which point I will take my place as Queen.”
Sólstigr looked rather astonished and dumbstruck. She didn’t move for a long time, hardly even blinking before she finally shook her head as if to clear it and blinked several times as she stared at Friðljót, whom she’d nursed and tended from her youngest days.
“You will be dead by then,” she said.
“My father is practically dead,” Friðljót replied bitterly. “Surely he won’t outlive me.”
“Why are you being this defiant?” Sólstigr asked.
“I will not be a pawn of anyone,” Friðljót replied. “Waste not your time with these preparations. I do not consent to the betrothal, and I will not lead my people to believe that I do.”
Looking rather distraught and helpless, Sólstigr started putting away all that she had gotten out, including the hideous golden gown before looking desperately at Friðljót.
“Eyhild will not be pleased,” she said, the anxiety tight in her voice.
“I care not,” Friðljót replied defiantly.
“The king of Uppodlingland will be angrier,” Sólstigr warned. “He may even make war.”
“May the gods help my people,” Friðljót said, set and determined.
“You care nothing for their lives?” Sólstigr asked.
“I care for them,” Friðljót replied. “That is why I would rather die than marry that lech to whom I am forcibly betrothed. I would not have my people become his thralls, for by this marriage he would be king of Gammelhjem and Uppodlingland.”
Sólstigr’s face paled. Apparently that hadn’t dawned on her before, but then again, she had a lot of duties, and worries, that likely kept her from having time to think about the ramifications of betrothals and marriages.
Pronunciations:
Sólstigr: s'ohwlsteeg'r
Eyhild: ayehihl'd
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