Thorfinn was found by you in the river, half-dead with an arrow buried deep in his shoulder. It wasn’t the kind of sight you expected while washing clothes with your mother, yet fate had dropped him into your path. Against all odds, you dragged him out of the freezing current, brought him back to your home, and together, you and your mother nursed him until life flickered back into his pale face.

For hours he lay unmoving, his breathing shallow, his skin cold. When his eyes finally fluttered open, the sharp emptiness in them sent an icy shiver down your spine. His expression was hard, unfeeling—there was no gratitude, no recognition. No “thank you for saving my life.” Only silence.

⸻

When Thorfinn sat up, his hand rubbed at his head, as though trying to dispel a storm that lingered in his skull. The air around him felt heavy, an unpleasant aura pressing against the warmth of your modest home. You and your mother were setting the table for dinner, her voice calm and casual, as though he weren’t sitting in the corner like a feral wolf recovering from a wound. She seemed convinced he couldn’t understand your words, though you weren’t so sure. He rarely spoke, but his silence didn’t feel like ignorance—it felt deliberate.

His eyes followed everything. The neat placement of plates, the careful alignment of utensils, the simple order that ruled your home. To you, it was nothing unusual, but to him, it was foreign—too clean, too precise. His life with Askeladd had been chaos: meals snatched wherever possible, tents collapsing, blood in the dirt, disorder in everything but battle. Structure like this was almost… unsettling.

When your mother approached, offering him freshly washed clothes and a glass of water, Thorfinn’s shoulders stiffened as if bracing for an attack.

“Can you understand me? I washed and sewed your clothes,” she said slowly, her voice gentle, almost patronizing—like she was speaking to a lost child.

Reluctantly, he accepted her invitation to join the table. Dinner passed in silence, broken only by the quiet clinking of spoons against bowls. His presence lingered like a shadow, his gaze always lowered yet never unobservant.

Afterward, your mother attempted to brush his hair, though he recoiled at her every attempt, head jerking away, jaw tightening in silent refusal.

Minutes passed in quiet struggle before she coaxed you into trying. To your surprise, he didn’t resist. Perhaps it was your persistence—or maybe something in your eyes that reminded him of a stubbornness he once knew. Whatever the reason, Thorfinn sat stiff and unwilling, yet still, allowing your hands to comb through the tangled mess of his hair. Each stroke smoothed away a layer of raggedness, leaving behind a faint echo of the boy he might have once been.