The door opened, letting in a blast of frigid air and a swirl of fine, crystalline snow. Bjorn filled the doorway, his massive frame blocking the light, his face a mask of wary relief. Behind him, visible over his shoulder, was the younger, leaner form of Leif, one of Eirik’s most loyal crewmen. Both men’s eyes swept the dim interior of the croft, taking in the humble surroundings before landing on Eirik, propped up on his pallet.
“Eirik!” Bjorn’s voice was a rough bark, thick with emotion. He took a step inside, his eyes cataloguing his chieftain’s son—the bandaged leg, the pallor of his face, the furs he was wrapped in. Seeing Eirik alive and coherent seemed to loosen a tension in the old warrior’s shoulders.
“Bjorn,” Eirik said, his own voice tight. He felt a surge of profound relief at the sight of his men, a connection to his own world. But it was immediately followed by a strange, protective urge, a desire to shield the quiet sanctity of this place from their judging eyes. “The Sea-Wolf? The crew?”
“The ship is battered, but she’ll float again. We’ve beached her properly, lashed the sail. We lost Arn and Finn to the sea,” Bjorn reported, his gaze flickering towards Astrid, who had moved back to stand near the fire, her arms crossed over her chest. Her posture was not hostile, but it was a clear demarcation of her territory. “The rest are hale. We’ve been working in shifts, making repairs and sheltering in the sea cave. It’s dry, but by the gods, it’s cold.”
“We are in your debt,” Eirik said, the words directed at Astrid, but meant for his men to hear. He was establishing the terms of this encounter, reminding them of her status as a benefactor, not a captor.
Bjorn grunted, a non-committal sound. His eyes, hard and flinty, remained fixed on Astrid. “So this is the healer.” He did not call her ‘Svartfjell’, but the name hung unspoken in the air, a ghost at the feast.
“This is Astrid,” Eirik said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “To whom I owe my life.”
Leif, standing just behind Bjorn, shifted his weight. His hand, Eirik noticed, rested on the hilt of his seax. The gesture was likely unconscious, a reflex born of a lifetime of ingrained hostility, but it made the air in the small croft feel suddenly thin.
Astrid did not flinch. She met Bjorn’s stare with her own unwavering one. “Your man’s leg is badly bruised. The wound on his head is clean. He needs rest, warmth, and food. He will not be able to travel for several days, perhaps a week. The snow will make it impossible before then, regardless.”
Bjorn’s jaw tightened. A week. A week in the territory of their bitterest rivals, reliant on the charity of the enemy chieftain’s daughter. It was a nightmare scenario for any warrior.
“We have supplies on the ship,” Bjorn said. “We can bring them here. We will care for our own.”
“You may bring what you need,” Astrid replied, her voice cool. “But this is my home. You will respect it. You will not track in excessive snow. You will not crowd this space. Two of you may stay to assist him, no more. The rest remain in the cave or with the ship.”
Leif’s eyes widened at her audacity, giving orders to Stórbrodir warriors. Bjorn, however, seemed to assess her not as a woman or an enemy, but as a force of nature, like the storm itself. He gave a short, sharp nod. “Agreed. Leif and I will stay. The others will tend the ship.”
An uneasy truce was forged in that moment, as fragile as the ice forming on the edges of the cove. Bjorn and Leif retreated back into the snow, their footsteps crunching away, leaving Eirik and Astrid once more in the quiet of the croft.
The silence they left behind was different now. It was charged, strained. The outside world had intruded, and with it, the full weight of the reality they had been temporarily ignoring.
Eirik let out a long, slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “They are good men. They will keep their word.”
“The big one, Bjorn… he does not trust me,” Astrid stated. It wasn’t an accusation, merely an observation.
“He has fought the Svartfjell since before I was born. He has buried friends because of them. Trust is not a currency he spends lightly.” Eirik found himself defending Bjorn, yet the act felt strangely like a betrayal of Astrid.
“I do not require his trust,” she said, turning back to her herbs. “I require his compliance. There is a difference.”
The men returned within the hour, their arms laden. They brought Eirik’s own sea chest, containing a change of clothes and his personal effects. They brought sacks of salt fish, hardtack, a skin of mead, and extra furs. Their presence immediately changed the energy of the croft. The space, which had felt spacious in its solitude, was now cramped. Bjorn’s bulk seemed to absorb the light, and Leif’s youthful, nervous energy was a constant, flickering disturbance.
Astrid worked around them with a quiet, steely determination. She directed them where to stack the supplies, showed them where to hang their wet cloaks, and pointedly moved her precious carved figures to a higher shelf when Leif got too close. She was like a shepherd managing two large, potentially dangerous wolves who had wandered into her fold.
Eirik watched the dynamic unfold, a silent spectator to his own life. He saw the way Bjorn’s eyes followed Astrid’s every move, not with lust or even open malice, but with a deep, ingrained suspicion. He was analyzing her, looking for the trap, the deception, the moment her Svartfjell nature would reveal itself.
During the evening meal, a tense, quiet affair of shared fish and barley, Bjorn finally spoke directly to Astrid. “You live alone here. It is a hard life for a woman. Your clan… they do not provide for you?”
It sounded like concern, but Eirik heard the probe beneath it. He was trying to understand her place in the Svartfjell hierarchy, her value, her potential use.
Astrid met his gaze evenly. “I provide for myself. My clan has its concerns. I have mine.”
“Your father, Jarl Kveldulf, he allows this?” Bjorn pressed, taking a sip of mead from his own horn.
A muscle in Astrid’s jaw tightened. “My father’s ‘allowance’ is not a cage I choose to live in. He has his wars to fight. I have my peace to keep.”
The word ‘wars’ landed heavily in the room. Bjorn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And if he knew of our presence here? Of his daughter tending a Stórbrodir heir? What would his… ‘concern’ be then?”
The question was a gauntlet thrown. Leif stopped chewing, his eyes darting between Bjorn and Astrid. Eirik held his breath.
Astrid did not look away. “Then the fragile peace you currently enjoy would shatter. My father’s longships would darken this cove before the next sunrise. The blood feud would claim more lives, starting with all of yours.” She paused, letting the grim truth settle over them like a shroud. “So, for all our sakes, it is a question he will never have reason to ask. Is that not a concern we share, Bjorn Stórbrodir?”
It was a masterful counter. She had taken his probe and turned it into a statement of mutual, precarious alliance. Their safety was now inextricably linked to her secrecy. Bjorn, for all his suspicion, could not argue with the cold, hard logic of survival. He gave another of his curt nods, a gesture of grim acceptance.
Later, as Bjorn and Leif settled on furs they had laid out near the door, creating a human barrier between their leader and the outside world, Eirik lay awake. The croft was filled with the sounds of other people now—Bjorn’s sonorous snoring, the rustle of Leif’s furs as he shifted in his sleep. But his attention was fixed on Astrid.
She was a shadow on the far side of the room, but he could feel her wakefulness. He could sense the weight of the burden she was carrying. She had not asked for this. She had simply done what her healer’s conscience demanded, and in doing so, had placed herself in a web of danger and deception that could cost her everything.
He thought of Bjorn’s suspicious gaze, of Leif’s nervous hand on his seax. He thought of his own father’s rage if he were to ever discover this. And he thought of Astrid’s calm, resolute face as she faced down that suspicion.
The hatred he was supposed to feel was nowhere to be found. In its place was a confusing, terrifying brew of gratitude, admiration, and a dawning, profound connection. He was seeing her, not through the distorted lens of clan lore, but through the clear, sharp focus of shared peril. He was seeing her strength, her intelligence, her unwavering integrity.
And in the deep, silent watch of the night, Eirik Stórbrodir made a silent vow. Whatever came next, whatever price this secret demanded, he would ensure that no harm came to her because of him. The weight of her gaze had become the new compass of his honour, and it was pointing in a direction that terrified him more than any Svartfjell blade.