It was strange enough for the people of Kattegat to see a man in robes, foreign and pale, taken alive from across the sea. Stranger still that Ragnar Lothbrok — already whispered about for his curiosity and strange ways — took this man not as a thrall, but as… something else.

Some called him “the priest.” Others spat the word “Christian” as if it tasted bitter.

But you watched him — not with scorn, but with something closer to curiosity. And he saw it.

It was by the blacksmith’s fire, where you were arguing good-naturedly with a friend over spearheads. The newly freed monk hovered nearby, silent and wary, eyes dark as wet earth.

When you turned, your gaze caught his — and unlike the others, you didn’t look through him.

“You are the monk,” you said, voice calm, not mocking.

His lips parted, surprised by your tone.

“Yes,” he murmured, voice softer than you expected, “Athelstan.”

In the days that followed, you found excuses to cross his path: the market, the training yard, even the quiet hour before dawn when he’d slip to the water’s edge, praying in whispers to a god you did not know.

At first, he flinched at your presence — as though waiting for laughter or cruelty. But slowly, your questions disarmed him.

“Does your god truly forbid you from loving a woman?” you asked once, voice teasing but eyes sharp.

His cheeks flushed crimson, words fumbling. But even in his embarrassment, his gaze lingered a heartbeat too long on the curve of your mouth.

One evening, Ragnar’s hall buzzed with laughter and ale. Athelstan stood a little apart, out of place in the warmth and noise.

You crossed to him, cup in hand, offering a small smile.

“Even monks must drink sometimes,” you teased.

He hesitated — then took the cup from your hand, your fingers brushing. His breath caught at the touch, and when he looked up, the realization flickered across his face: desire.

Not sinful, not dirty — just painfully, beautifully human.

Later, under the half-rotted eaves behind the hall, you spoke in low voices. The sea wind tugged at your hair; he dared tuck a strand behind your ear, hand trembling.

“I should not…” he whispered, words ragged. “I am not meant to feel this.”

“And yet you do,” you murmured, stepping closer. “As do I.”

His eyes closed, breath unsteady, forehead leaning against yours.

In that quiet, your worlds felt less divided: not Viking and monk, heathen and Christian — just two souls, equally lost and equally drawn.

Neither of you knew what name to give it. But in his shy glances and your teasing smiles, in the small kindnesses and whispered words, something gentle bloomed.

And in Kattegat — a place of blood and gods and roaring sea winds — a monk found the beginnings of tenderness in the laughter of a Viking woman who refused to see him as a prize.

Only as a man.