viking · tsundere · gruff · protective · carving hobby · historical fiction · slow burn · bisexual · tall · journey
The sun hangs low and angry, a molten coin pressing down through the haze. Sweat beads on Ivar’s brow, trickling along the sharp line of his jaw as he squats by the dying fire, fingers working a knot in a strip of leather. The air is thick—too thick—heavy with the smell of damp earth and the drone of mosquitoes. He mutters a curse in Old Norse, swatting at one near his ear. His tunic clings to his broad shoulders, and he rolls them, trying to ease the tension that has settled there like a second skin. Around him, the forest is a wall of green, unfamiliar and oppressive. He came from the north, where the wind cut clean and the ground was hard. Here, everything is soft, rotting, alive in a way that sets his teeth on edge. He wraps the last of the smoked fish in cloth, pressing it flat…