Chapter Thirty-Six
Brynja
Brynja woke in darkness, her heart hammering, the scream trapped behind her teeth.
Not again.
She lay rigid in the unfamiliar bed, counting her breaths the way Sister Ada had taught her. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four. The dream clung to her—blood on stone, her mother’s hand going cold in hers, rough voices speaking of golden braids and the coin they’d fetch.
Moonlight filtered through the fur covering the window of her chamber at Duart Castle. She’d been here over a sennight now, and still she couldn’t quite believe the luxury of her own room, her own bed, walls of stone that kept the world at bay.
Except walls couldn’t keep out memories.
She pushed back the covers and reached for her boots. Sleep wouldn’t return now—it never did after the dreams. Better to walk, to move, to remind her body that she was here, alive, safe.
Safe. What a strange word. She’d thought she was safe at the nunnery too, until men came in the night for Sheona.
And a boat with two men patrolled the isle constantly, looking for something.
Or someone.
Brynja pulled on her mantle and belted her dagger at her waist. The weight of it was familiar, comforting.
She eased her door open, grateful when the hinges didn’t creak, and slipped into the corridor.
She wanted to make sure she didn’t awaken Hildi, now that she was finally sleeping in a true bed chamber again.
The castle was quiet at this hour, most residents long asleep. She made her way down the stairs, past the great hall with its banked fire, and out the door to the courtyard. Fresh air might help clear her head.
She was halfway across the courtyard when she saw him.
Hagen sat on a bench near the stable, Freya’s reins in his hand. The mare stood beside him, already saddled, her coat gleaming silver in the moonlight.
Brynja stopped. He hadn’t seen her yet, his attention on the horse, murmuring something too soft for her to hear. What was he doing out here at this hour?
Then he looked up, as if sensing her presence. No surprise crossed his face. Instead, he simply said, “Couldn’t sleep either?”
“Nay.” She moved closer, confused. “Why is Freya saddled?”
“Thought you might need her.” He stood, holding out the reins. “You’ve been restless these past few nights. I hear you walking the corridors.”
Heat crept up her neck. “I tried to be quiet. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t wake me. Besides, it’s not your steps that I hear. It’s something deep inside me that I sense. I can tell when you’re troubled. I don’t sleep well either.” His smile was crooked, self-deprecating. “I think Lia is correct. We have some kind of connection.”
She took the reins, still bewildered. “But why Freya?”
“Because walls can feel like cages sometimes,” he said quietly. “And I thought you might want to run.”
Something in her chest cracked open. He understood.
He understood.
“I saddled Midnight Star too,” Hagen continued, gesturing to where his own mount waited in the shadows. “Da said to take him for a ride. That is, if you want company. Or I can stay here, if you’d rather go alone.”
The offer hung between them. No pressure. No expectation. Just... understanding.
“Come with me,” Brynja heard herself say.
His smile was worth the vulnerability of the admission.
They mounted and rode out through the castle gates, the guards waving them through without question. Hagen must have warned them, Brynja realized. He’d planned this. Not just tonight, but other nights too, keeping her horse ready in case she needed an escape.
The path he chose led away from the village, toward the cliffs overlooking the sea. The moon painted everything in shades of silver. The view was glorious: the rolling hills, the dark ribbon of water, the distant outline of other islands.
They rode in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The rhythm of hoofbeats, the cool night air, the vast open sky above, all of it slowly unknotted the tightness in Brynja’s chest.
When they reached the cliff edge, Hagen dismounted and walked to the very edge, looking out over the water. Brynja joined him, leaving Freya to crop the grass nearby.
“Better?” he asked.
“Aye.” She drew in a deep breath of salt air. “How did you know?”
“About needing to run?” He was quiet for a moment.
“Because of Derric, Dyna’s husband. He came back from war different.
He fought with King Robert for a few years.
Couldn’t stand to be indoors for long after that.
Used to ride out at night, just to feel like he could breathe.
Took him a long time to find peace again. ”
“Did he? Find peace?”
“Aye. But not by forgetting what happened, or by having someone tell him to just let it go. He found it with Dyna’s help, and having three bairns keeps his mind busy, he says.”
Brynja’s throat tightened. “The sisters used to tell me I needed to forgive. To find peace through prayer and absolution.”
“And did that help?”
“Nay.” The admission felt like sacrilege, but also like relief. “It just made me feel like I was failing at healing. Like there was something wrong with me because I couldn’t just… move past it.”
Hagen turned to face her fully. “There’s nothing wrong with you, Brynja. What happened to you was evil. Your mother was murdered in front of you. You were dragged away, nearly sold. That’s not something you just move past. It’s something you carry.”
“But for how long?” The question burst out before she could stop it. “How long do I have to keep carrying it? When do I get to just… be free?”
“I don’t know.” His honesty was startling.
Most people would have offered platitudes, false comfort.
“Mayhap never completely. Mayhap that’s not how it works.
But I think…” He stepped closer. “I think freedom isn’t about forgetting or forgiving or any of that.
It’s about choosing what you do with what you carry. ”
“Like riding out in the middle of the night when the walls get too close?”
“Aye. Like that.” His smile was gentle. “Or like learning to trust someone new, even when it’s terrifying. Like staying at Duart Castle even though you could run back to Iona. Like letting yourself imagine a future that’s different from your past.”
Wind swept up from the water, tangling in Brynja’s braids. “Is that what you think I’m doing? Imagining a different future?”
“I hope so.” His voice dropped lower. “Because I find myself imagining one too. One where you’re in it.”
Her heart stumbled. “Hagen—”
“I’m not asking you to be anything you’re not,” he said quickly. “I’m not asking you to be healed or whole or any of those things people say. I’m just asking… if mayhap you could see yourself staying. Here. With me. As you are.”
As you are. Not as some idealized version of herself. Not once she’d overcome her trauma or avenged her mother or learned to sleep through the night. But as she was, nightmares and rage and all.
“You keep Freya saddled for me,” she said, the words thick in her throat. “Every night?”
“Every night since you named her. After the first time I heard you pacing, I asked the stable master to keep her ready. Just in case you needed her.” He looked almost embarrassed.
“I know what it’s like to feel trapped. I thought…
I thought having a way out might help you feel less caged. Even if you never use it.”
“But you come with me.”
“Only if you want me to.” His expression was open, honest. “If you’d rather ride alone, I’ll stay behind, though I’ll admit I’d probably send guards behind you for safety reasons. This isn’t about me, Brynja. It’s about you having what you need.”
Something inside her shifted, like a locked door finally opening.
All her life, people had wanted something from her—the men who’d killed her mother had wanted her body to sell, the sisters had wanted her to be pious and forgiving, even Hildi sometimes wanted her to be the strong cousin who always knew what to do.
But Hagen just wanted her to be herself. Broken pieces and sharp edges included.
“I want you with me,” she said. “Tonight. And on the morrow night, if the dreams come again. And the night after that.”
“Then I’ll be there.” Simple. Certain.
Brynja stepped closer, close enough to see the way moonlight caught in his eyes, turning them silver. “You don’t try to fix me.”
“You’re not broken.”
“Aye, I am. A little bit.” She reached up, her fingers brushing his jaw. “But you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.” His hand covered hers, warm and solid. “We’re all broken somewhere, Brynja. Every person who’s lived through anything hard. The question isn’t whether you’re broken. It’s whether you’re brave enough to keep living anyway.”
“And you think I am?”
“I know you are.” He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm.
“You got on a boat after seeing your friend attacked and left for dead. You came to a strange keep full of warriors. You learned to ride a warhorse. You wake up every morning and choose to keep going even when the nightmares make you want to hide. That’s not broken, Brynja.
That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. ”
Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them back fiercely, but one escaped, tracking down her cheek.
Hagen caught it with his thumb, gentle. “And if you need to ride out at midnight every night for the rest of your life, I’ll saddle your horse.
If you need to keep a dagger under your pillow, I’ll sharpen it for you.
If you need to curse men in Norse and imagine terrible fates for them, I’ll learn the words to help you do it. ”
A laugh burst from her throat, watery but real. “You’d do that?”
“Aye.” His smile was crooked. “I might not be verra good at the pronunciation, but I’d try.”
She kissed him then, rising on her toes, her hands fisting in his tunic. He made a surprised sound against her mouth, then his arms came around her, pulling her close.
The kiss was salt and wind and promise. It was acceptance and understanding and something that felt dangerously like hope.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Hagen rested his forehead against hers.
“Stay,” he whispered. “Not because you’re healed or because you’ve dealt with your past or any of that. Stay because you want to. Because mayhap we could be broken together and still build something good.”
Brynja closed her eyes, breathing him in, leather and horse and something uniquely Hagen. Behind them, the sea crashed against the rocks, eternal and unchanging. Above them, stars lit up the winter sky.
She’d thought safety meant walls and weapons and keeping everyone at arm’s length. But mayhap it meant this too, someone who saw your scars and didn’t look away. Someone who kept your horse saddled in case you needed to run, and who ran with you when you asked.
“Aye,” she said, opening her eyes to meet his. “I’ll stay.”
His smile was like sunrise, slow and transforming. “I hoped you’d say that.”
They stood there for a long moment, wrapped in each other, the wind whipping around them. Then Hagen pressed a kiss to her temple and stepped back.
“Want to ride back? Or stay here a while longer?”
Brynja considered. The nightmare’s grip had loosened, replaced by this strange, fragile warmth in her chest. But the night was beautiful, and she wasn’t ready to return to stone walls just yet.
“Stay,” she decided. “Just a little longer.”
So they sat on the cliff edge, shoulders touching, watching the moon’s path across the water. Freya and Midnight Star grazed nearby, peaceful and patient.
“Tell me something,” Brynja said after a while. “Something true.”
Hagen was quiet for a moment. “I was afraid to talk to you at first. When you came to Duart. You looked so fierce, so… untouchable. I thought you’d see right through me.
See that I’m just a third generation warrior trying to live up to a grandfather’s legend, with a sister who’s already chieftain of a clan. ”
“You’re more than that,” Brynja said firmly.
“Am I?” He smiled ruefully. “Sometimes I don’t know. Everyone sees Alexander Grant when they look at me. Everyone expects me to be as powerful with a weapon as my father and grandfather…” He broke off, shaking his head. “Sorry. You didn’t ask for this.”
“I did.” She bumped his shoulder with hers. “Something true, I said.”
“All right then.” He took a breath. “I’m terrified I’ll never be as good as my father. Or Grandda. That I’ll fail somehow, and everyone will realize I’m not the warrior they thought I was.”
Brynja turned to face him fully. “Hagen Grant. You saddle a horse every night for a woman with nightmares. You teach her to ride without making her feel weak. You don’t try to fix her or change her or make her into something she’s not.
You just… see her. And accept her.” She reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together.
“That’s what makes a good man. Not how well you swing a sword. ”
His grip tightened on hers. “You see me too.”
“Aye. I do. Even though you’ve been overbearing before. And you growl at me sometimes.”
They both chuckled, and he rolled his eyes. “Take every growl as a compliment, lass. It’s meant to be.”
They sat in comfortable silence as the moon tracked its path across the dark sky. Eventually, the cold started to seep through their cloaks, and they rose reluctantly, mounting their horses for the ride back to Duart.
As they approached the castle gates, Brynja felt something she hadn’t experienced in four months, a sense of homecoming.
Not because of the stone walls or the warm bed waiting for her, but because of the man riding beside her.
The man who understood that safety wasn’t about fixing what was broken but about accepting it and moving forward anyway.
On the morrow, she knew, Dugan might show up outside their gates. She’d felt it in her dreams, seen glimpses of him riding hard across the winter landscape. Whatever news he brought would change things. Would set events in motion that couldn’t be stopped.
But tonight, she had this. This moment of peace, hard-won and precious. This man who kept her horse saddled and didn’t try to heal her, who simply loved her as she was.
It would have to be enough. Because on the morrow, everything could change.
On the morrow, there could be an attack.