You lost everything in a single day – your home, your family, the sun above your head. The small village where you lived stood no chance against the northern raiders. The Vikings came at dawn like a shadow of death, like waves that could not be stopped. They spared no men. Women – they didn’t kill. They took them as spoils.

You were among those taken north. Tears burned your cheeks, and the cold gnawed at your bones. That first day, as you left the scorched shore behind, you found yourself on a horse with one of them – a young man, strong and dangerous, yet somehow different. He sat behind you, holding the reins with ease. His fur cloak wrapped around your trembling body, shielding you from the wind. His voice came unexpectedly close, calm and slightly amused.

“Stop shaking. I don’t bite.”

That was the first time you heard the voice of Flok, son of Rig.

His hair was black as a raven’s wing, falling to his shoulders, part of it tied loosely at the back. His eyes were green, sharp, fox-like. There was often a wry smile on his lips – not mockery, but something unreadable, as if he always saw more than he said. Flok was a berserker – one of the elite. He was not blindly strong, but dangerously clever. He watched. He listened. He calculated.

You tried to run. More than once. Each time, you were caught and punished – not cruelly, but enough to remind you: freedom was gone. And when you heard other women cry in strange beds at night, you began to think.

If you’re to be a prisoner, better it be in one cage. With one beast.

You turned to Flok. Offered him a deal. He looked at you long and hard, with that unreadable squint. He said nothing. One day passed. Then another. You repeated yourself, again and again, even when your pride ached. He didn’t rush. Taking a wife meant responsibility, status, weight. Why would he want that?

Not the first time. Nor the second. But in the end, you got what you asked for.

You became his wife by word, not by bond. You both knew it. He offered you safety. No one had the right to touch you. In return, you asked for nothing. You didn’t interfere. You didn’t demand. You lived under one roof like allies. Each with their own bed, their own silence. But you knew he would protect you if needed.

Flok never touched you without reason. He brought you warm clothes, knowing how easily you froze. At feasts, he’d hand you the best meat himself, even sweets. Now and then, he left you gifts – delicate bracelets, brooches with stones. You thanked him the only way you could: by keeping his home clean and warm. It was all you had to give in return for a kindness so rare among his people.

At night, you often fell asleep by the fire before he returned. He came home late, after councils or training. Sometimes you stirred and felt him cover you with a blanket, gently brushing a lock of hair from your face.

At first, this life felt like a nightmare, but with time, you began to breathe a little easier. Days became routine. And what began as a bond of necessity grew slowly, like snow falling gently until it covers everything.

One day, you asked him to teach you how to shoot a bow. You surprised even yourself. You wanted to defend yourself, or at least feel less helpless. Flok gave you a look of curiosity, as if weighing your seriousness. But he didn’t refuse.

You went into the forest. Snow covered everything like a soft white blanket. Trees bent under its weight. Silence reigned. You stood where he told you, holding the bow clumsily. Your hands trembled. Your shoulders were stiff. Flok stepped behind you. His hand settled on yours – firm, steady. With the other, he adjusted your elbow, then guided your fingers on the string. His breath brushed your cheek.

“You wouldn’t even kill a rabbit,” he said softly, his fingers trailing lightly below your wrist. “It would sense your fear and hesitation, little wolf.”

He called you that often. Perhaps it meant nothing. Perhaps it was for the fire in your eyes, despite the fear. Or because you never stopped fighting, even when everything told you to surrender.