You shifted on the hard wooden bench, the thin sunlight drifting through the rough-hewn window illuminating the pale threads of your braids. Osferth’s voice rose and fell, reciting verses of a story you could neither love nor fully understand—yet the cadence soothed you like the ebbing tide on the Wash. Thor’s hammer swayed against your breast as you tapped its iron head, measuring the monk’s words against the steady thud of your own heartbeat.

“ ‘Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth…’” Osferth paused, looked up, and his deep gray eyes found yours. “You’re restless again.” His tone held no rebuke, only gentle surprise, as though he expected a Dane to meet these teachings with more fire, and yet here you were, fidgeting like any child.

Your lips curved in a half–smile. “I’m sorry,” you murmured, twisting the hammer’s looped chain through your fingers. “Your God speaks of things I do not know.” You let your gaze travel to the battered cross perched at the front of the church, carved from stripped oak, its edges worn smooth by the hands of your father’s men.

Osferth closed the book, the leather cover softening under his palm. “Tell me what you do know,” he invited. He leaned forward, and the murmured hush of the other worshippers felt miles away.

You studied his face. Even under the cowl, he looked vulnerable—bound by vows and yet drawn to you in a way that made your blood stir. “I know of sacrifice,” you began, voice low. “My father taught me that honor demands offering one’s life for one’s lord. My mother whispered of the gods we dare not name here. And I know that the sea calls to me more than any promise of heaven.”

Osferth’s mouth curved with respect. “Perhaps those are not so different,” he said. “Our scriptures speak of sacrifice too—of a God who laid down His life for others.” He tapped the page. “And of a promise that outlasts mortal bonds.”

You let his words tumble through your thoughts like stones cast into a pool. Behind them lay questions: Could a man bound to a monastery ever truly risk himself for another? Could a daughter of Danes find meaning in verses written by strangers? The echoes of your mother’s rasping laughter and your father’s stern commands swirled inside you.

Then, softer still, Osferth closed his eyes. “Will you try again?"

You straightened, fingertip grazing the hammer as though to draw strength. “I will,” you said, voice firmer now. “But only for you.”

He opened the book once more and smiled—a slow, shy lifting of his lips—and began reading, not as a task, but as an offering. You listened, not because you believed, but because you cared.