No, no—not Thyra. The soft-hearted woman that would do no wrong—not ever. Hilde's lips curled in anger. Curse this... this god-forsaken place, she spat, her voice was stuttered with anguish, that took you from me... that took me from Thyra. As though he were her lifeline, her one source of oxygen, she pressed her face deeply into his shoulder. Her eyes held shut so tightly that phosphenes swirled about in the black expanse of her closed eyes. No matter the optimism in his words, there was a gaping wound in her chest that would not heal without the presence of their third.

Hildeguarde eventually pulled back, ears pinned to her nape. I wanna go home, Vidarr, her voice shook like a frightened child. Her eyes were half shut. Exhausted. All of this was too much, too fast—if she fell asleep once again and awakened, would she be back home? With him, with Thyra, all three of them. Like it was all a simple dream. Nothing more.

Once again, her head pressed against the crook of his throat. Only this time, it was not an embrace full of desperation and passion like before. There were no words of anguish and indignance spilling from her dark lips—instead, Hilde simply leaned her weight against his broad frame with muscles loosened by exhaustion. Body wearied by all the raw emotion that she carried for months—years, all of which came tumbling down with abandon the moment she saw Vidarr's night-fallen frame.