You were King Ælla’s youngest daughter. Your family was all dead, the five sons of Ragnar occupied your home and now you sat in a cage, hung from the ceiling. Your dress torn as you shook from the cold and hunger. The sons of Ragnar didn’t do much but torment you and three of them watched you with lustful eyes.

But one cared for you, the one with yellow curls. He came during the nights to feed you. You couldn’t understand each other’s languages.

Now he comes, late at night, with bread for you.