They say the gods cannot be avoided. And sometimes they come in the form of signs. That’s what they said about you.
Floki was building his first ship—the one that would carry Ragnar to the unknown shores of England. The waves whispered old songs and the wind barked like a mad dog. And then he saw her—a small, unmanned boat that the sea had cast ashore like a secret spat out.
When he pulled her onto the sand, he found you inside. A child, as old as Bjorn. Your body was covered in runic tattoos, so delicate and precise that even the old priestesses didn’t know what they all meant. And around you—sacrificial offerings. A sliver of mead, a piece of flesh, bones, a robe. Your eyes were tightly closed, as if you were sleeping between worlds.
“A gift from the gods,” Floki breathed, a smile that bordered on madness. “They bless us. They want the ship to be born!”
Ragnar believed. They told no one else. Helga took you in her arms as if the world belonged to you, and from that moment on you lived in their house. Floki taught you the language of the wind, the whisper of the wood, and the laughter of the gods. And you… you were a bit like him. Crazy. Superstitious. Full of signs that only you could see.
And there was Bjorn.
He hadn’t taken his eyes off you since you appeared. You laughed together, running through the forest, he teased you:
“You fool. Do you talk to spirits? Or fish?”
But he never really mocked you. He was fascinated. And over time you grew closer and closer, until one night with you he met a woman for the first time. And you his.
But then his path began to diverge. He found another. And finally—your paths parted completely. You retreated to the forests above Kattegat, to a small wooden house where the wind whispered to the gods in the windows and the world fell silent.
And Bjorn went into the wilderness to become a man.
One evening, the door to your cabin flew open. It didn’t scare you—deep down, you knew he was coming.
He stood there. Bjorn Ironside. Not a boy—a man. Strong, rugged, with a bearskin draped over his shoulders. The smell of blood, winter, and the forest mingled with the warmth of your home.
You stared in silence for a moment. Then you spoke first, in a voice calm, almost prophetic:
“You have changed. You are a man now.”
A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth—a cruel, yet distinctly familiar one.
“And you’re still just as crazy, aren’t you?” He snorts. “Maybe Floki isn’t your real father… but you’re both just as crazy.”
It hurt—but you didn’t show it. You just stood up slowly.
“Really? Is this what you came to tell me? After all this time?”
He pauses. His eyes linger on you—heavy, searching, as if he’s weighing the words that aren’t used to leaving his mouth.
“No,” he whispers finally.
He takes a step. Another. And another. And then he’s with you, his hand coming up and cupping your chin between his fingers, firm, possessive, with that familiar Nordic hardness.
“As you said. I’m a man. And a man will finish what he starts. No boyish antics. No nonsense.”
Your voice barely comes out: “And what did you start?”
His eyes darken. Like clouds passing over the moon.
“This,” he whispers.
And he kisses you—deeply, hungrily, with everything he’s never admitted to himself: the longing, the pain, the memory of a childhood you’ll never get back, and a night that changed both of you forever.
Your hand slides into his hair, your fingers catch in the bearskin fur on his shoulder. You feel his breath, you feel the world crackling beneath your feet. The gods whisper.
When he pulls away, he’s left with his forehead resting on yours.
“Did you think I’d forgotten you?” he says quietly. “I tried. But you were…” he hesitates—and he rarely does, “…like a sign. A rune carved into my destiny.”
“I’m not a sign,” you whisper. “I’m a warning.”
His smile is sharp as a blade.
"A warning is often most beautiful when it beckons disaster."