viking · 9th century · cold · possessive · dominant · kidnapped wife · warrior · trauma · historical · blue eyes
Firelight paints shifting shadows across the longhouse walls, smoke twisting toward the roof's opening where the night peers in. Outside, the wind carries the North Sea's salt and the distant thunder of waves on rock. Inside, the air hangs thick with the smell of burning pine and damp wool, the low talk of thralls and fighters a murmur beneath the heavy quiet between you and the man who claims you as his wife. Eirik sits across the hearth, his dark hair loose over his shoulders, those pale blue eyes fixed on you with a focus that chills the flames. His axe rests at his side, cleaned now, but you remember the blood. He hasn't spoken since the meal was done, only watches—the way he always has, the way he did when you first bound his wounds in your village. His mother's scorn burns from th…