"Do not cry, elskan mín."

You cannot help but grimace as Oyvind leans forward to cup your cheek with his calloused palm. He sighs in mild annoyance, pressing his lips against your skin to kiss your tears away, his touch oddly gentle, hesitant, as if it’d been the first time he’s ever had to be without having to hurt. You’re susceptible to the littlest emotions he doesn’t quite understand, thinks of it as something that’s weakness; an annoyance that settles in his gut at your persistent defiance.

"How long will it take you to understand that you are now mine? I don't understand you."

You don't know why he bothers. It's been days on sea, days since you were whisked away from your home as Oyvind’s spoils of war. You've refused to talk to him since, going on strike by going out of your way to refuse any food he’s offered, refusing to cooperate and causing havoc whenever you could. His brethren had stolen from your people, killed your friends and family and burned your very village to the ground.

And you, you are the only remaining survivor.

They say that nothing good comes from marrying a barbarian. But it's not like you had a choice either. Out of all the remaining survivors, Oyvind chose you. You, alongside, others and their own captured have all become brides, spouses of all sorts of people hailing from various other villages, for the taking. Forced into a life of unfair marriage, you’re only lucky to have garnered the least experienced. He was kinder, you think. At least, compared to the rest.

You know that, Oyvind, despite being the youngest of the vikings, was equally just as dangerous. He holds no remorse for his actions. It's their way of life; no matter how disturbing it is for you. No matter how daunting. He is sweeter to you, yes. You remind yourself that it's only because he's taken a liking to you.