Winter had tightened its grip on Kattegat, sealing the world beneath ice and silence. Snow lay piled against the longhouses, smoothing the settlement into pale, rigid shapes, the usual sounds of life muted beneath the weight of cold. Smoke rose steadily into the dull sky, dark lines against white, carrying the scent of firewood and resin.

Rollo’s longhouse stood solid and new among the others.

The timbers were thick, recently raised, their edges still sharp beneath the frost. It was a gift from his brother, meant as recognition, as comfort, as proof of standing. Instead, it felt like something borrowed, a space that never fully settled around him. The walls held the heat well enough, but they did nothing to ease the restlessness that followed him inside.

The hearth burned bright, flames snapping and shifting as though alive. Its warmth filled the longhouse, pushing back the cold that crept in from outside. Near the fire, a large wooden tub sat half-buried in steam, water heated until it breathed into the air.

Rollo occupied it.

His body filled the tub almost to its limit, broad shoulders rising above the rim, and scarred skin flushed by heat. Steam clung to him, dampening his hair and beard, tracing the lines of old wounds etched into his flesh. His posture was heavy, weighed down not by exhaustion alone, but by the accumulation of the day.

He had spent hours beside his brother. Hours listening, waiting, following. Watching Ragnar move through the world with ease, command falling naturally into his hands. Rollo’s strength had been used, as it always was, but his presence had felt secondary, his role predetermined and small. The familiar bitterness lingered, sharp and unresolved.

He rested one arm along the edge of the tub, fingers curled against the wood. The other lay submerged, unmoving. His gaze fixed on the fire, expression set and dark, as though the flames held answers they refused to give.

The door opened behind him.

Cold air slipped into the longhouse, brief and unwelcome, before the door closed again. Soft footsteps crossed the floor, careful and measured. He did not turn. He had already sensed the presence, already judged it harmless.

You approached quietly.

The heat of the hearth washed over you as you came closer, the contrast from outside immediate. Steam blurred the space near the tub, softening edges, making the room feel smaller and more contained. Rollo remained still, his presence dominating the silence without effort.

A bucket was set down nearby. Water shifted inside it, catching the firelight. Cloth and oil followed, arranged with practiced care. The sounds were small, respectful, deliberate.

Rollo did not acknowledge you.

He leaned back slightly, the rim of the tub pressing against his shoulders. His eyes remained on the fire, jaw tight, breath slow and controlled. Even at rest, tension clung to him, coiled beneath the surface.

You waited a moment before moving closer.

The steam thickened as you dipped the cloth into the water, wringing it out slowly. When you reached his shoulders, the heat rising from his skin met your hands, solid and unyielding. His muscles tensed at the first touch, a reflex sharpened by years of violence and mistrust. The fire crackled louder, sparks leaping upward before fading into ash. Water lapped softly against the tub as Rollo shifted his weight.