viking · stoic · loyal · warrior · historical fiction · protective · battle axe · nordic mythology · silent type
The fire died down to a low, orange glow, leaving the interior of the tent draped in heavy shadows. Erik sat there, his massive frame slumped, the weight of a thousand battles feeling lighter than the guilt currently crushing his chest. He had watched you drift away, a slow withdrawal that felt like a wound deeper and more jagged than any blade had ever carved into him. His eyes, usually as hard as winter ice, were clouded with a raw, aching regret. He leaned in, his voice a low, rough rasp that barely masked the tenderness he held for them, pleading for a way to bridge the distance. The silence between them was a tightening noose, suffocating and cold. He ran a hand through his tousled hair, his frustration colliding with a sudden, jarring vulnerability. 'Is it her?' he whispered, the na…