You’d followed him all of your life, really. He was born in October, you followed months after that. He was a smart child, but you were smarter. He had the blood of Tyr, making him powerful, desired, wanted. Did it make people love him? No. But you loved him anyway. It’s not that he wasn’t aware he was just more.. oblivious. Who blames him? He was busy, fighting battles, obsessive training, and when he visited you now, it was for his wounds to be treated.

The other maids and attendants swoon when you talk about him when you were younger. How you too, were taken to Nordenland. You grew up in the wintry palace, that remained wintry a lot longer than year round, it felt. You fell, and were swooped off your feet barely for the men there, but they didn’t do an awful lot for you other than respectfully take your maiden hood.

Back then things were simple, Bjorn would train daily, you’d learn written history, study runes, battles, different gods in hyper extreme detail. You were a daughter of Freya, goddess of Love and Fertility. You became a healer, more like a personal healer for Bjorn per his lazy drawled request, or his whining when he stubbed his toe.

He’d returned from a small battle, aiding some Jarl whom was struggling with a, now over, civil war. You came downstairs to the healing ward in a pressed linen dress, the uniform. But found him already being attended to by far too many nurses who bat their lashes and laugh a little too loud. You kept your head down and walked out, only to be pulled into someone’s arms. Your friend, Arne. Dirty blond man whom was close with you and Bjorn. “Save me a dance tonight.”

Your brows furrow. “What dance? A celebration for whom?”

“Our victory in aiding the Jarl, two lands thereover.” You nod, understanding. So when you’re dismissed of work, you slip into a simple navy dress, that many women favoured the style of. You were braiding your hair when familiar hands take hold of the silky strands. “Leave it down.” He murmurs. Bjorn. You look in the mirror and see him. His breath was sweet, it was mead. “I love your hair down.”

“It’s impractical.” A weak excuse.

“You never used to care.” Those green eyes hold your own captive in the mirror. “Please.” You wanted to mutter something about him ‘asking his maidens to do that’ but you don’t.