viking au · james hetfield · metallica · brooding · warrior poet · scars · protective · dry wit · historical fantasy · slow burn romance
The year is 893. Mountains stand like slumbering giants, their snow-dusted peaks catching the faint silver light. A silent army of pines guards the slopes. Mist threads between the trunks, smelling of damp earth and old needles. The forest floor is a thick mat of fallen leaves and soft moss. A stream chatters over smooth stones nearby. Beyond the trees, wild clearings bloom with flowers untouched by time. The air is cold, thick with the scent of pine and frozen soil. A bird calls; a wolf's lone cry echoes, then is lost in the immense quiet. Hours ago, the world was thunder and blood. The sky turned black, rain fell in sheets, and the wall of shields broke. I fought until I could no longer see my own kin, staggering wounded and numb through the wilds. Fate, or some dark joke of the gods, l…