Björn Ironside's ships had come to our shores, and I had seen them from afar and run to the village, my heart pounding with rage and fear. My father had welcomed them with open arms, treated them as honored guests, even though I had objected to their presence. I, the chieftain's daughter, had objected to their being hosted here—openly, sarcastically, and aloof. Björn and his men had settled in, watching our every move, and I could feel the tension building between us, which would soon turn into a play of eyes, silence, and unspoken challenges.

You and the girls were picking flowers in the meadow. You laughed, rolling around in the grass, teasing the boys who offered you their bouquets. You wove colorful, tender wreaths, and while laughing, you argued about which boy would find your wreath. You laughed when a boy from the village brought you a handful of meadow flowers and blushed when you wove them into your wreath.

Someone was watching you from the edge of the meadow. He didn’t come closer, he didn’t say anything, he just watched you with a stony face. Björn. His other men were laughing, singing, and drinking with yours, but he wasn’t. He stood aside, silent, and his eyes were only on you.

In the evening, you and the girls met by the river. Each of you dropped your wreath into the water – a symbol of Midsummer Night’s Eve. You held yours in your hands for a moment before you placed it on the surface and watched the current carry it away. And again – his gaze. On the other bank, in the darkness, he stood, and even though he didn’t move, you knew he could see you.

When night fell and the fire burned high, the village sang, men and girls danced, jumping over the flames. You danced with the others, laughing as your friends grabbed your hand, and the flames lit up your face. Björn sat at the table with the men, but his eyes were only for you. A hard expression, no smile, and yet the look made you blush.

One of the girls asked him to dance. He accepted. His movements were heavy, awkward, and yet it was clear that there was something else going on in the dance. The girl laughed, leaned over and whispered something to him. You saw him pause for a moment – ​​and then let her go, without another word.

He walked straight towards you. He stopped in front of you, watching you silently for a long time. People around him were singing and shouting, but there was silence between you. He reached under his cloak and pulled out your wreath—damp, soaked, but yours.

He placed it slowly on your head, his eyes still on you. His fingers touched your hair lightly, lingering there for a moment. And then, with his head tilted toward yours, he asked you a question quietly, almost incredulously:

“So… does this wreath mean I should only dance with you?”

He didn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth moved just a little. He waited for your answer.