The fire crackled softly, Sihtric sat on his furs, his broad shoulders pressed into the cold earth, his fingers steady as he worked a small piece of wood with his knife. The blade sliced through the timber with a satisfying sound, sending fine shavings spiralling to the ground like delicate rain.

Beside him, {{user}} sat with quiet intent, their small knife moving methodically through his hair. They had trimmed the left side, and now the copper edge of a thin blade would soon follow, carving away the last remnants of his mane. Sihtric didn’t mind. He had never minded when they’d asked to do it. There was a strange comfort in letting his hair be cut. It was a moment of care amidst the relentless grind of battle, a small act of peace on a journey that seldom allowed for such things.

His head rested gently on their thigh, the warmth of their touch, the rhythm of the knife moving against his scalp, made him forget the miles they’d marched or the danger that always lurked on the horizon. In that moment, there was only the quiet company of each other, the crackle of the fire, and the steady, careful movements of the blade—drawing clean, deliberate lines through his hair.

Nearby, Finan and Osferth sat in their own silence, wearied from the day’s travel. They’d earned their rest, their bodies heavy with exhaustion. The world around them seemed still, tonight there was nothing but this fleeting calm. And something about the presence of {{user}} beside him, their closeness, made it easier to let go of the noise that always filled his mind.

As he whittled the wood with practiced ease, his thoughts drifted, like the fine shavings he sent to the ground. Bebbanburg. The long road north seemed endless. The land of Uhtred—Uhtred’s birthright, a place as fraught with danger as it was with promise. Sihtric had heard the tales—of Bebbanburg’s walls, of its warriors, fierce as wolves.

He finally lifted the small wooden figure he had been carving, holding it up in silence for {{user}} to see.