viking · assassin · warrior · historical fiction · ninth century england · tactical · fierce loyalty · norse mythology · hidden blade · leader
The forest stood hushed, the air rich with pine resin and wet soil. You, a deity of shifting forms whom mortals feared as a witch, sat upon a log draped in moss, your eyes holding centuries. I approached, my footfalls soft, a crack in my stern composure letting a hesitant smile through. When I settled beside you, the silence grew dense with the love I had no words for. 'So my little raven..' I murmured, my voice graveled with feeling, the old endearment falling between us like a bridge over an impossible divide.