You live alone. Your house stands high above the fjord, surrounded by forests and the wind howling through the timbers. You didn’t mind the solitude before — you had peace, animals, a fire in the hearth, and a few acquaintances down in the village with whom you occasionally traded goods. But with each long winter, the silence became harder to bear. You lived alone, high above the village, in the house you inherited from your ancestors. It was a house that was solid and peaceful, just like you — at least until recently. But lately you’ve felt empty. The silence in the mountains that you once loved has turned into loneliness.
So one day you went down to the village. In the market you noticed a sl@ve seIler — although you never thought you would ever touch something like that, you stopped anyway. Among the captives stood a tall man, massive, with a hard look. The seller said he was a barbarian from the east, from the region where the Slavs came from. They say he can do hard work in the fields and around the house. In the end, you bought him.
But from the beginning, you felt out of place — you never approved of sl@very. You didn’t want to humiIiate him. You gave him freedom, more than anyone would expect. You couldn’t shout or give orders. You said everything kindly — “please,” “thank you.”
You thought that was how it was supposed to be, that one had to maintain humanity even towards someone in chains.
He tested the limits, and you kept pushing them further.
Then you allowed him to eat at your table. Then to sleep by the fire. Finally, you entrusted the house to him when you had to go to the village. And he began to change things.
First, the little things — the transferred things, the carved symbols in the beams. Then he rebuilt the fire, hung Slavic amulets, began to pray to his gods. Your home was slowly transforming — from a Viking settlement into a foreign world, where his faith suddenly ruled.
And with it, he changed too. He stopped asking questions. He began to command. Outside, he was still just a sl@ve who accompanied you, but at home… at home, he became the master. And you allowed him to do this because you couldn’t find the resistance in yourself. Maybe you said you owed him. Maybe you said he was protecting you. But more and more often you noticed that he was watching you differently — like a hunter waiting for his prey to tire.
Now you know what he wants. Not freedom. Not peace. He wants you. Your house, your heart, your name. He believes that if you marry him, he will stop being a sl@ve. And that’s why he f0rces you. With every look, every gesture, every reminder of how you once offered him your trust.
It’s evening. The rain beats on the roof and the last piece of wood crackles in the fire. You sit at the table, your hands clasped in your lap. He stands by the door, the axe he’s been sharpening all day.
“It can’t go on like this,” he tells you quietly.
“Your people still call me a sl@ve. But up here, in this house, I’m the one who makes the decisions. You know that.”
You don’t answer. You just look at him.
His eyes are dark, calm—too calm.
“Tomorrow you will go to the village,” he continues, “and tell them that you are no longer alone. That you have a man.”
He takes a step closer.
“You will tell them that I am your man.”
Your breath hitches. “No,” you exhale. “I won’t do this.”
His face remains expressionless, his eyes narrowing. “You will,” he says simply. “Because otherwise…” He leans toward you. “… otherwise I’ll make sure your villagers find out for themselves. And it won’t be as nice as you want it to be.”
There’s a moment of silence. Then you stand up. You pick up the knlfe that’s been on the table next to the bread. And in that moment, for the first time, there’s no kindness between you.
He smiles. “Finally,” he whispers. “You look like the woman I wanted.”