Canon Is Dead.

Authors Note: **You did NOT have to gas me up like this!!🫣💓 Thank you SO much for taking the time to write to me and for loving my work the way you do! I’m sorry it took me forever to respond! And, you didn't ask for this, but I wanted to give you something in return 😈 so hopefully you enjoy!!**

Passing Through Synopsis: You hate the Viking who watches you like prey, who mocks your faith and strips you bare with his eyes—but no amount of loathing stops your body from responding. CW: NSFW, Thorkell the Tall x FEM Reader, non-consensual/forced sexual situations, sexual assault, non-con, dub-con elements, sexual harassment, explicit sexual content, domination/possession, strong language, violence, physical restraint, insemination, power imbalance, predator/prey dynamics Word Count: 5,522

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction and does not reflect the official story, characters, or relationships of Vinland Saga. It contains explicit 18+ sexual content, including non-consent fantasy, and is intended for mature audiences only. This story is purely fictional; I do not condone or support non-consensual behavior

The Viking encampment sprawled along the rocky coast like a festering wound—a jagged collection of hide tents, smoke pits stained black from endless fires, and sharpened log palisades that jutted into the sky like teeth. The stench of salt and iron hung thick in the air, mingling with the shouts of warriors sparring beyond the perimeter. You clutched your woven reed basket tighter against your hip and quickened your pace. This cursed route was unavoidable, the only path to market without adding an extra hour’s walk inland, but each day it felt more like stepping through a lion’s den.

The first time you noticed him watching you was weeks ago, a hulking shadow against a fence post, his grin slicing through beard and scars alike as he barked something crude at his men about "E/C-eyed witches" and "weak knees." You'd ignored it then, chalked it up to drunken bravado. But now? Now he leaned against that same splintered post every damned morning like some heathen sentinel waiting just for you.

Today was no exception.

—

Thorkell’s massive frame dwarfed the warriors around him as he leaned against the post, one boot propped on an ale-stained barrel. Sunlight glinted off sweat-slick shoulders broad enough to bear a longship’s mast; his tunic clung damply to muscle chiseled by decades of axe swings, forearms etched with scars, jagged and pale against tanned skin, relics of a lifetime spent in war. The tankard in his hand rose in mocking salute— like clockwork— as you came into view.

“That dress is treasonous, woman.” His voice cut through the ring of steel and shouted drills behind him. “You trying to make a man forget his duty—hm?” he grinned.

Steel rang, then faltered. A blade missed its mark, A whetstone froze mid-stroke. One man straightened just enough to get a better look. Men nudged each other with elbows, laughter breaking low and rough. Some barked out a laugh like hounds catching scent.

A sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by laughter. “Oi! Come warm my bed, maiden—no shield needed!”

“Frey must be blind, letting her walk among us ඞ,” another snorted.

One by one heads turning, eyes dragging over you with unashamed intent. You clenched the basket harder, reed biting skin. Don’t run. Don’t show fear. Still, their attention pressed in, heavy as wet fur. Sweat, iron and mead soured the air — a brutish stench that made your skin prickle as if you’d stepped too close to a fire.

“Hel’s tits,” someone breathed, thick accent dragging the words low.

“Bet she moves like a ship in storm,” another growled low, calloused hands tugging at leathers already straining tight.

Thorkell watched it all with a grin, wide and pleased, like he’d set fire just to watch it burn.

“Louts,” you spat, continuing down the path.

Thorkell threw his head back and laughed, the sound vibrating through your ribs, loud enough to send gulls scattering from the rooftops.

“I’m no lout,” His single eye dragged over you, slow, assessing. “Just a man with eyes — and honest men are rare, eh?” He tilted his head. “Give us a turn. Let the lads know what they’re dreaming of tonight.”

More laughter rippled — ugly and pleased. A man clicked his tongue as you passed, sharp and appraising.

Revulsion curled hot in your gut — and beneath it, an unwelcome flutter, a flicker of awareness you hated yourself for. You kept your chin high, refused them the satisfaction. Shoving passed, refusing to look back.

Vikings… Mead-soaked, gods-forsaken bastards. Taking whatever they wanted — land, silver, or a woman’s peace — laughing as they did so. You hated it, Hated them.

—

Dawn had long given way to dusk — as had your hope for getting through the camp unnoticed.

The path along the palisade narrowed as you walked, shadows stretching long and uneven beneath your boots. The smell hit first: greasy roast meats, smoke clinging low, old blood and sweat ground into the dirt. Somewhere deeper in the camp, steel rang against steel. Men laughed. Dogs barked, harsh and mean, chains rattling as they strained.

You adjusted your grip on the basket and kept your eyes down, humming your mother’s old lullaby under your breath to anchor yourself. Above the din, gulls wheeled and cried, distant and free.

You almost made it past the last bend.

Then the noise shifted.

You felt it before you saw him — the way attention bent, the way voices paused and turned. You stopped short, breath catching.

Sprawled just outside the timber walls, sat Thorkell.

He’d claimed a makeshift bench of stacked logs, one leg stretched long, the other braced wide. The dying sun traced the damp creases of his shirt, clinging to every ridge of muscle, glinting off sweat and spilled mead alike. Your fingers tightened painfully around the basket handle.

You knew he’d heard you long before you stepped into sight.

“There’s my siren,” he drawled, his voice rolling out over the yard.

Your shoulders stiffened. You didn’t look at him.

“Or Valkyrie? Nah—” He wiped froth from his beard, teeth flashing in a grin that spread slow and deliberate. “Those curs wouldn’t blush half as pretty if I told ’em exactly how I’d ruin ’em.”

Heat crept up your neck despite yourself.

The men drinking with him took notice immediately. Whistles rose. Someone laughed too loud. One leaned back against a barrel, swaying as he squinted your way. “By Thor… look at the sway on those hips.” Another slapped his thigh. “Aye, winter’s been cruel—starvin’ the lot of us, aren’t ye’?”

You kept your lips shut, angling your body away as you passed, drawing the basket tight against your chest like it might serve as armor.

“Oi. Careful, lads,” Thorkell said, laughter rumbling deep in his chest. “She’s mine for the moment. Watch yer’selves.”

That stopped you.

You turned just enough for him to see your face. “You’re disgusting,” you spat. “Rot in Hel.”

The yard went quiet.

Thorkell leaned forward, thumbs digging into his belt, then rose to his full height, leather creaking under the strain of his massive frame. Instinct had you stepping back half a pace before you could stop yourself. His eyes caught the last light — half-lidded, sharp — shadows carving his face into something fierce and wicked, hunger flickering beneath his amusement.

“Ten minutes alone with you, little thorn,” he rumbled, voice low and rough, “and I’ll show you every disgusting thought rattlin’ in my skull.” His grin widened. “Have you beggin’ for things that’d shame your gods.”

Laughter broke out behind him.

“Aye!” someone called. “Make her scream!”

You turned away from him, sharp and sudden, forcing your gaze anywhere but his face. Heat flooded your cheeks, your stomach twisting tight as the men found their voices again.

Laughter surged back in, louder now — rough, emboldened. Crude, eager, half-drunken voices snapped at your heels as you went — things that stuck to your skin no matter how fast you moved. Promises dressed up as jokes. Threats softened with grins.

You kept your head down and kept walking.

Pride held you upright even as your pulse stuttered. You could feel it — his attention still fixed on you, heavy as a hand between your shoulders.

You were halfway across the yard when his voice came again, lazy now, drawn out just enough to snag.

“An’ don’t wear those dresses ’round here,”

You didn’t slow or turn. Humming louder, the lullaby wobbling as your breath thinned.

“Oughta be outlawed,” he continued. “Criminal, the way it clings—”

You scoffed under your breath, a brittle sound you hated for how small it felt.

“You hear me?” The edge crept into his tone.

Then the sound of boots in mud cut the air — wet, deliberate, closing.

You stiffened.

You barely had time to draw breath before he was there, filling the space behind you, hand closed around your wrist — not rough, not gentle — just firm enough to stop you cold. The contact sent a jolt straight through you — awareness flaring hot and unwanted where his thumb pressed against your pulse. His presence crowded the air from your lungs; the lullaby caught in your throat. You could smell mead and smoke, feel the solid reality of him close behind you.

His mouth hovered near your ear, voice low enough that it felt meant only for you, “Playin’ deaf now, little sparrow?” he murmured, Heat brushed your nape — his breath, sudden and intimate, “I said it’s criminal, the way it clings to that sweet ass—”

You suddenly felt hot. The vibration of his words skittered straight down your spine. Gooseflesh broke across your skin. Your feet refused to move.

A low, pleased chuckle followed.

You felt it before you could stop it — his thumb pressing deliberately against your jaw, tilting your face just enough to remind you how completely he could control you. Not rough. Not gentle. Certain.

Your heartbeat thudded in your chest like a war drum, hard enough that you could feel it in your chest. Every instinct screamed at you to run, yet your feet stayed rooted. Around you, the camp blurred, voices and laughter fading into a dull hum, leaving only him.

Heat pooled low in your belly, spreading upward, sharp and sudden, making your stomach clench and your skin prickle. Your fingers tightened around the basket, but it offered no comfort. Your body betrayed you, responding before your mind had a chance to rally.

“I’d wager you hate how much you think about me,” he murmured, low and dangerous, each word brushing against your skin like fire. His eyes traced your lips, then your wide, startled eyes, holding them just a moment too long, hungry and amused.

He leaned in, and a small, startled sound slipped from your throat before you could stop it. Your pulse hammered against your ribs as you clenched your eyes shut tightly, the ghost of his mouth brushed yours — and then he stopped, tilting back with that slow, wicked grin. You blinked and bit your lip, a quiet, almost disappointed noise escaping, your stomach twisting tighter.

“Mm,” he added, dark and deliberate, the amusement thick in his tone. Your breath caught, sharp and uneven. You swayed slightly on your feet,

“Bet you taste like honey, straight from the comb,” he mused, dragging his thumb lightly along your lips, just to watch you flinch.

That broke the spell.

Forcing yourself to take a step back— even as every nerve in your body burned with the memory of his touch— you wrenched free and spun away, shame flaring hot and molten low in your belly, thighs pressing tight as your feet finally remembered how to move. You didn’t look back. You didn’t slow.

Behind you, laughter rose again — his voice among it, deep and knowing — as you hurried toward the light of your village and whatever thin safety waited among it.

—

It became a ritual, whether you wanted it or not. Every errand that took you past the camp tightened your chest before you ever saw him. You’d brace for it — the low whistle, the drag of his voice, the way his attention found you no matter how crowded the yard was. Even when he didn’t speak, you felt his gaze track you, heavy and deliberate, like a blade at your throat.

Some days he sounded almost playful. Dangerous, but light, as if it amused him to watch you stiffen. “Why don’t you bend over and grab that for me, sweetie?” he’d call, voice easy, almost lazy. The words were tossed out like a joke, but nothing about the way he watched you felt casual. Each day he grew bolder. You saw it in the way he held himself now — shoulders squared, stance wide, like he no longer bothered pretending restraint. You heard it in the low sound he made when you ignored him, when you kept walking instead of reacting. Impatient. Possessive.

The Viking you despised — the brute you told yourself you hated — looked at you like something already claimed.

And still, your body betrayed you. A shiver would creep up your spine without warning. Your stomach would knot, tight and restless, your pulse jumping for no reason you cared to name. You told yourself it was fear. Anger. The tension of being watched in a place where women learned to keep their heads down. Anything but want. You wanted to hate him — truly, cleanly, without the confusion that followed you long after you’d left the camp behind. And yet some days you walked away flushed and unsteady, heat pooling low where shame and something sharper collided. Your heart would pound as if it knew what your mind refused to name.

That despite your loathing, despite every vow you’d made against the likes of him, part of you ached for his attention — for the weight of it, for the promise carried in the way his eyes lingered. And with each passing day, the line between fury and longing wore thinner, until you no longer knew whether you hated him at all… or only hated that you didn’t.

—

You were getting back later than usual.

The afternoon sun hung low, throwing long, warped shadows across the camp, stretching passersby and building into something misshapen and watchful. The air was thick with the smell of the sea, baked bread and dirt. You’d hoped — foolishly — that he’d be gone by now. Out on a raid. Passed out drunk in the mead hall. Anywhere but here.

Your steps slowed when you didn’t spot him slouched in his usual place, tankard in hand.

Relief came too early.

Just inside the training ring, Thorkell stood alone, shirt damp and clinging, muscles flexing as he heaved a heavy axe up over his head. It came down with a brutal crack against the wooden target, splinters jumping loose. He drew back again, breath slow, controlled — all power and ease.

Of course he noticed you.

He always did.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he drawled, lowering the axe as your steps drew closer. He planted it between his feet and rested his wrists on the hilt, watching you pass like he had all the time in the world. “Look what the tide washed in.”

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t slow.

He huffed a quiet chuckle and pushed off the ring, setting the axe against the fence. One thick forearm came up to brace himself as he leaned there, sweat darkening the hair at his temple.

“Ain’t you somethin’,” he said, licking his lips.

You kept walking.

“Sweetheart,” he called after you, voice easy, amused, “you walk by here any prettier and I’m gonna have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you straight to my furs.”

“Gods, Thorkell,” you snapped, stopping despite yourself. Your voice came out tight, strained. You tugged at the hem of your dress like it might shield you. “You’re insufferable.”

That grin — the one that meant he knew exactly what he was doing — spread slow across his face.

“Ah, don’t act so proper,” he said. “I wager you lie awake at night thinkin’ about me talkin’ to you just like this.” His gaze dragged over you, unhurried. “Touchin’ yourself and wishin’ you had the spine to admit it.”

Heat crawled up your throat. You hated that your legs shifted closer together under his stare.

“You can’t just harass women in the street,” you shot back, forcing strength into your voice.

Thorkell chuckled, low and rough. He dragged his tongue over his bottom lip like he was savoring something.

“Harassin’?” he echoed. “Doesn’t look like it, sparrow. You’re still standin’ here. Still lettin’ me look at you.” His eyes dipped. “Hel, lettin’ me undress you with my eye.”

“Keep dreaming,” you hissed, pulse skidding. You should have walked away. You knew it. But his words held you there, pinning you to the dusty path.

“Mm,” he went on, leaning closer over the fence. “That mouth. Those legs. Wearin’ dresses that tight…” His grin sharpened. “Makes a man think you dress like that just for em’.”

Your teeth caught your lip before you could stop yourself.

“Gods above,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Look at you.”

His hands shifted at his belt — deliberate, shameless — and your stomach flipped.

“Little girl,” he murmured, “if you keep chewin’ your lip like that—”

“You’re insane,” you cut in, trying to step away. The word came out shaky, traitorous.

His smile darkened. “You keep sayin’ that,” he said softly, “but I see it. That blush. The way your thighs twitch.”

He tilted his head, studying you like prey.

“When’re you gonna admit you like bein’ my distraction?”

“If you don’t shut up,” you snapped, hands tightening around your basket, “I swear—”

“You’ll what?” he interrupted calmly. “Tell who?” A pause. Then, lower: “Your gods’d laugh. Tell you I’ve talked like this my whole life.”

He leaned in just enough to crowd your space.

“Or maybe,” he went on, voice dipping, “you’ll come back after midnight. When the camp’s quiet. Find me waitin’ in my tent.” His eyes locked onto yours. “Then you’ll beg me not to shut up.”

Your stomach dropped.

“You’re disgusting,” you spat. “A gross old barbarian. Bet you can’t even get hard anymore without some witch’s brew.”

For a heartbeat, his jaw tightened. The grin slipped.

Then it came back slower. Sharper. Dangerous.

Without a word, Thorkell swung one leg over the fence and landed in front of you, his massive frame blotting out the sinking sun.

"Can't get hard, huh?" he rasped. Before you could react, his hand closed around your wrist—firm, unyielding—and pressed your palm flat against the front of his trousers.

The heat startled you. The unmistakable weight. He was already hard, straining against the leather, thick and solid beneath your hand.

“Feel that?” Thorkell growled, leaning close, his breath brushing your ear. “That’s what you do to me. Every day.”

Your stomach clenched. You tried to pull back, but his grip tightened, anchoring you there as if he wanted you to feel every twitch. "Y'know what I do every night, hm?” he went on, voice low and rough, “I crawl into my furs and wrap my hand around my cock. Thinkin’ about that dress. Those legs. That mouth runnin’ at me, pretendin' like you don't want it, when I know damn well your cunt's cryin' f'me."

You swallowed hard, heat pooling low in your belly despite yourself. He was hard as a fucking rock, straining against the leather, twitching under your palm.

He pushed you back until your spine hit the rough wood of the palisade. His body followed, caging you in—nowhere to go, nowhere to look but up at him.

"Feel that, sparrow?" Thorkell repeated with a growl, “Don't need no brew for that. Just need you walkin' by, swaying those hips. Gets me harder than I've been in years."

You gasped, a wet ache pooled between your thighs at the mental image of his hard cock. You tried again to pull back, but he kept you put.

"I see ya every mornin', breasts bouncin', hips swayin', an' I gotta tuck this cock up in my belt so my men don't see I'm hard as a fuckin' youth. You do this to me, sparrow."

"Thorkell—"

"Nuh-uh," he cut you off. "You been runnin' that little mouth for weeks. Callin' me gross, threatenin' me. But you stand here. Every day. Lemme talk to you. Lemme undress you with my eye. Y'want it bad as I do."

"I don't—" you started, but he rolled his hips forward, pressing into you, grinding his cock against your belly until you felt the blunt shape of him through the leather.

Your breath hitched. Your thighs betrayed you, drawing together as sensation flared where you least wanted it.

He noticed. Of course he did.

"Don't what?" he mocked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Don't want this cock? Don't want me poundin' you right here 'til you forget your own damn name? Honey, your thighs are squeezin' together right now. I see it."

You swallowed hard, feeling the way your body was betraying you.

Thorkell chuckled, pressing his mouth against your ear. "My hand ain't enough anymore, sparrow. Never was. I pump it slow, thinkin' about how this pussy would feel, slickin' me up, milkin' me dry. I spill all over my furs and I still ain't satisfied. Nothin'll satisfy me but you."

The kiss came without warning—rough, claiming. Teeth scraped your lip until you gasped, and his tongue took the opening immediately. When a sound slipped from you, low and helpless, he growled like he’d won something. His hands were everywhere, those calloused palms sliding up your thighs, bunching your dress, grabbing your ass, his grip bruising as he hauled you closer, starved and relentless.

"Fuck, baby," he muttered against your mouth. "Knew you'd be soft. Knew you'd melt the second I touched ya."

When his hand slid between your thighs, you stiffened—and then melted, hating yourself for it. His groan was deep, satisfied.

“There it is,” he rasped. "Knew this cunt was mine."

“Y–You’re wrong,” you breathed, even as your hips tilted toward his touch as he pressed and rubbed at your clit.

He smirked, eyes darkening, “Am I?”

You gasped as he hoisted you against the fence and yanked your panties aside, pushing two thick fingers inside you without warning. The shock stealing your breath. You cried out, fingers digging into the wood as he held you there, but the ache soon turned to heat as he fucked them in and out, circling your clit with his thumb.

"So tight, like a fuckin' vice,” he groaned. “Grip's so good I might bust before I even get my cock in ya." He said, watching your face twist.

"Thorkell—"

"Say it," he growled. "Say you been wantin' this dirty brute to ruin you."

"You… are…. an asshole." You spat, rocking your hips against his hand despite your words.

"Shut up," he growled, slapping your ass hard enough to sting. "You run that mouth too much. Gonna fill it with my cock next time. For now—" He pulled his fingers free, shoving them wet and glistening between your lips. "Taste it. Taste how sweet you are."

You whimpered, trying to turn away, but he gripped your jaw, forcing his fingers in. You sucked on instinct, and he groaned. "Fuck. That’s it. Suck 'em like you'll suck my cock. Knew you'd be a natural."

"Fuck you," you panted.

"Oh, I'll fuck you, sparrow. Don't worry." He shoved his trousers down just enough, his cock springing free, thicker than three of his fingers together, flushed dark at the tip. Bigger than you'd imagined. Your eyes widened, and Thorkell caught it.

"Yeah. That’s right. S'too big for you, ain't it? Gonna split this pretty little pussy open."

Before you could answer, he spun you, pressing your chest against the post . Your hands scraped the rough wood, your dress shoved up around your waist.

"Hold on tight," he rasped, lining himself up. "Ain't gonna be gentle."

And then he slammed inside. You screamed, digging your nails into the wood, the stretch was brutal. He groaned behind you, gripping your hips with his hands hard enough to bruise.

"Gods above," Thorkell grunted. "Tighter'n a goddamn fist. Squeezin' me like you were made for it."

He set a brutal pace, fucking you hard against the fence, his cock dragging deep, bottoming out with every thrust. The sound of skin slapping echoed, mixed with your cries and his filthy growls.

"Fuck, woman," Thorkell groaned, forehead pressed to your shoulder. "Splittin' you open so good. Made for this cock, weren't ya? Look atcha, squeezin' me like you don't ever wanna let go."

He pulled back and slammed in again, harder, faster, setting a violent pace that had his thighs slapping against your ass.

"Thought I couldn't get hard? Hm?" he panted, pulling your hair back, forcing your head up, "Feel that? Feel how wrong you were— that's a warrior's strength fuckin' you better than any young buck could dream of."

You gasped, you were shaking now—overwhelmed, furious, undone, your walls fluttering around him, tears stinging your eyes from the overwhelming stretch.

"Tell me," he demanded, “Tell me you love this old brute's cock stretchin' you out."

“Fuck you,” you gasped.

Another sharp slap to your ass. "I am fuckin' you, little girl." His laugh was mean, right against your ear. "And you're lovin' every goddamn second. Your cunt's givin' you away."

You pressed your cheek to the wood, splinters were biting into your skin, but Thorkell didn't give a damn. He had you pinned, his cock buried to the hilt, stretching you wide open.

"Fuck," he groaned, pulling back slow just to slam back in, the slap echoing in the empty camp. "This big fat cock feels so good in that tight little pussy. Don't it? Tell me, baby girl. Tell me you love it."

You shook your head, breathless. "I don't—"

Thorkell wrapped his hand around your throat, not choking, but firm, forcing your head back so you could look in his eye. "You do. Don't lie to me. Your cunt’s drippin' down my balls, squeezin' me like you never wanna let go. Say it. Say you love this old man's big fat cock."

A whimper slipped out before you could stop it. He chuckled darkly, slamming his hips harder, rutting deep. "That's it. Can feel you givin' in. Knew you wanted it. Knew you were walkin' by every day just beggin' me to bend you over an' fill you up."

He slid his other hand down, rubbing your clit rough and fast, making you jolt. You gasped, clenching around him so tight. His pace was brutal, unapologetic. The world narrowed to heat and impact and the way your body responded no matter what your mouth tried to say.

He groaned. "Gods above, pussy's gonna rip me in half if you keep doin' that. You love it. You love gettin' fucked by this big fuckin' cock, don't ya?"

The truth tore out of you—broken, breathless, "Yes," you panted before you could stop yourself. "Yes!" —his grin was savage.

“That’s it,” Thorkell snarled, thrusting harder. "That's my girl. Say it again. Louder."

"I love it!" you cried out. "I love your cock!"

He groaned, burying himself deep, grinding against you. "Say it right. Say you love this big fat cock stretchin' you open."

You sobbed from the stretch and the overwhelming pleasure. "I love your big fat cock, Thorkell! Fuck—"

"That's it," he growled, tightening his hand on your throat. "Knew you'd admit it. You love this brute's cock poundin' that little pussy. Gonna cum all over it, ain't ya? Gonna cream all over me while I fuck you stupid."

Your breath caught in your throat. The pleasure was unbearable, building faster than you could handle. "I-I'm cumming! Oh Gods, Thorkell! I'm cumming!" you screamed, tears stinging your eyes as wave after wave ripped through you. Your body jolted as your climax tore through you, your walls fluttering around him, milking him.

Thorkell cursed, his hips stuttering, his cock throbbing inside you. "Fuckin' yes! Take it. Take it all! Want me to fill you up? Want my seed inside that tight little cunt of yours?"

"Yes!" you screamed without thinking, desperate, trembling. "Please—inside me, Thorkell! Fuck—oh fuck!"

"That's my girl," he growled, smirking as he rammed into you harder. "Gonna spill every drop in this tight fuckin’ pussy.”

He slammed into you one final time, balls aching, cock rock-hard, before shooting his hot, thick seed deep inside your tight, slick hole, pumping every last spurt into you. His cock throbbed, each pulse sending another flood of sticky cum spilling inside you, making you shiver and tremble around him. You could feel him filling you completely, marking you as his.

When he finally pulled out, you felt his spend dripping down your thighs, your pussy aching and used after being stretched open by him, your legs barely held you. You sagged against the post, spent and trembling, his presence still heavy behind you.

—

“Gross old barbarian,” he said lightly.

Before you could recover, he hoisted you over his shoulder, hand clamped possessively to your ass.

The world spun, the camp a blur of firelight and shadows as he carried you toward his large, isolated tent at the edge of the encampment. You were too weak, too thoroughly fucked to do more than slap feebly at his broad back.

"Thorkell, put me down, you brute," you mumbled weakly, voice muffled against his tunic.

He just chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "Now why would I do that, sparrow? We're just gettin' started. A man works up an appetite after a good fuck, and I plan on feastin' on you 'til dawn."

He ducked inside his tent, the flap falling closed behind you, plunging you into a warm, dimly lit space that smelled of leather, pine, and the distinct, musky scent of him. He dumped you unceremoniously onto a pile of thick furs in the center of the floor. You landed with a soft oof, your dress still bunched around your waist, his seed still sticky dripping out onto your thighs.

He stood over you, a colossal silhouette in the flickering lamplight. His massive cock, still impressively hard, jutted out from his opened trousers. He looked down at you, his single eye gleaming with a predatory light.

"Look at you," he rumbled, reaching down to hook a finger under your chin, forcing you to look past his dick at him. "All ruined and messy. My little sparrow, with her quim full of my seed. How's it feel, knowin' you're mine now?"

You shivered, a mix of fear and a renewed, shameful arousal coursing through you. "I'm not yours," you whispered, but the words lacked conviction.

He laughed again, a loud, booming sound that filled the tent. "You still haven’t learned?" He knelt, his knees hitting the furs on either side of your hips, caging you in. He grabbed the neckline of your dress and ripped. The fabric gave way with a loud tear, exposing your breasts to the cool air. His gaze was hot, possessive.

"These are mine now," he growled, lowering his head to take one of your nipples into his mouth. He sucked hard, his teeth scraping the sensitive peak, his other hand roughly kneading your other breast. You cried out, arching into him despite yourself, your hands coming up to tangle in his thick blond hair.

"Thorkell…" you gasped, his name a plea on your lips.

He lifted his head, his lips glistening. "That's right. Say my name. Scream it if you want. No one'll care," He shifted his weight, his cock nudging against your still-sensitive entrance. "I'm gonna fuck you again, sparrow. Slow this time. So you feel every inch of me claimin' you. So when you walk tomorrow, you'll be reminded with every step who you belong to."

He pushed inside you, a slow, inexorable slide that made you feel every thick, hard ridge of him. You were still so wet and stretched from before that he sank in easily, but the sensation was still overwhelming. He began to move, a deep, rolling rhythm that was in stark contrast to the frantic pounding against the wall. This was a deliberate, possessive claim.

He watched your face as he fucked you, his expression intense, almost reverent. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. "Like you were made for it. Made for this cock. Made to take me. Your body knows it, even if your head is still fightin'."

You couldn't form words, only whimpers and moans as he drove into you, over and over, building the pleasure back up to an impossible peak. His hand snaked down between your bodies, his calloused thumb finding your clit again and rubbing it in slow, maddening circles.

"Come for me again, sparrow," he commanded, his voice thick with lust. "Come all over my cock, milk me dry."

The command was all it took. Your body obeyed, your back bowing as a powerful orgasm ripped through you, stronger than the last. You screamed his name, your inner walls clamping down around him. He groaned, his rhythm faltering as he emptied himself inside you again, his hot seed flooding your womb.

He collapsed on top of you, his immense weight pinning you to the furs, his face buried in your neck. You were both breathing heavily, the only sounds in the tent the crackle of the lamp and the pounding of your own heart.

After a long moment, he rolled off you, pulling you against his side, one massive arm draped over your waist, possessively holding you close. You were sticky, sore, and utterly exhausted.

"You're mine." he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact.

You didn't have the energy to argue. You just closed your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart under your ear, knowing with a terrifying certainty that he was right.

Tag list under the cut

🌿SFW / Fluff Alphabet

A — Affection How do they show love to their partner? What’s their primary love language (touch, acts of service, words, etc.)?

B — Banter How do they tease their partner? Is it playful, sarcastic, awkward, or soft?

C — Conviction What belief or value shapes how they love someone? How does it affect the way they commit?

D — Duty How do love and responsibility clash or align for them?

E — Eloquence When they first meet their crush, how do they speak? Are they confident, blunt, shy, or nervous?

F — Flowers If they give their partner flowers, what kind are they—and why?

G — Grudge What would make them hold a grudge against their partner, if anything?

H — History What is their background with love or relationships before the reader, if any?

I — Ice How do they break the ice with their crush OR how do they apologize after an argument?

J — Jealousy How do they handle jealousy, if at all?

K — Keep What part of themselves do they withhold even from someone they love? Why?

L — Limits What emotional or moral boundaries do they refuse to cross in a relationship, even for love?

M — Motive Why do they seek a relationship in the first place—companionship, stability, redemption, power, legacy, or something else?

N — Nicknames What nicknames do they give their crush/partner?

O — Ozone What small thing their partner does that completely takes their breath away?

P — Patience How much patience do they have—and what could exhaust it?

Q — Questioning What doubts do they struggle with in relationships?

R — Reciprocal If their feelings aren’t returned, how do they react emotionally and behaviorally?

S — Smooch What kind of kisser are they—gentle, hesitant, passionate? etc…

T — Tea How do they confess their feelings? Quiet moment or emotional spill?

U — Uwu What cute habits do they have around their crush without realizing it?

V — Vulnerability How emotionally open are they willing to be with their partner?

W — Woo How do they flirt? Subtle gestures, words, or actions?

X — Xeno How does their fear or distrust of outsiders affect who/how they allow themselves to love?

Y — Yearning How do they act when they’re hopelessly in love? Distracted? Soft? Clumsy? Tsundere? Distant? etc…

Z — Zzz What’s their bedtime routine or go-to sleep position? Do they like snuggling up, keeping their space, or just crashing however they feel like?

🔥NSFW Alphabet (18+)

A — Aftercare What are they like after intimacy? Soft, protective, quiet, affectionate? etc…

B — Body Part Their favorite body part—on themselves and their partner?

C — Cum (Anything to do with it)

D — Dirty Secret A desire they’d rarely admit.

E — Experience Are they experienced, inexperienced, or instinctual?

F — Favorite Position What position do they enjoy the most—and why?

G — Goofy Are they serious or playful/flirtatious during sex?

H — Hair Their grooming habits and preferences—on themselves and their partner.

I — Intimacy Are they romantic and slow, or rough and dirty in the moment?

J — Jack Off Do they masturbate? How often? Do they rely on imagination or need a reference?

K — Kink What are their kinks—are they common or unusual?

L — Location Where do they like to have sex? Do they prefer spontaneous, random, or unusual places, or more secluded spots?

M — Motivation What instantly turns them on?

N — No Absolute turn-offs.

O — Oral Do they prefer giving or receiving? How skilled are they?

P — Pace Do they prefer fast and urgent, or slow and drawn-out sex?

Q — Quirk Do they have any naughty tricks they like to use in bed to drive their partner wild?

R — Risk How adventurous are they sexually?

S — Stamina How long can they last, and how many rounds?

T — Toys Are they open to using toys—on themselves or their partner?

U — Unfair How do they tease? Do they enjoy denying or building suspense to pleasure themselves, or their partner?

V — Volume What sounds do they make? Are they loud, quiet, verbal? Do they have a thing for moans, whispers?

W — Wild Card Random sincannon of your choosing.

X — X-Ray What’s under those clothes? 👀

Y — Yearning What’s their sex drive?

I just noticed my blog hit 250 likes!! 🥹💘 I just wanted to thank you all so much for enabling me 😆

Authors Note: **Hiii :) thanks so much for your ask! I’ve had this one sitting in my inbox for a bit and kept sneaking in time to work on it whenever possible 😅 I’m so happy I could finally get it done for you I hope it was worth the wait! 🫶 **

Fallow Ground Synopsis: Navigating a fragile bond built on restraint and quiet understanding in a harsh world. CW: (Mature), Slow Burn, Power Imbalance, Guard/Slave Dynamic, Forbidden Relationship, Mutual Pining, Emotional Restraint, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Hurt/Comfort, Quiet Intimacy, Subtle Romance, Yearning, Bittersweet. Word Count: 3,134

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction and does not reflect the official story or characters of Vinland Saga. The story contains material that may be upsetting for some readers, such as power imbalance, abuse, and depictions of slavery, and is intended for mature audiences only.

Snake never learned the names of slaves.

Not at first.

Distance kept the hand steady, he told himself. Guards who learned names hesitated, and hesitation got people hurt—or worse. He’d learned that long before Ketil’s fields, back when the ground drank blood instead of rain and mercy was a mistake you only survived once.

That logic had kept him alive.

Then there was you.

—

You worked the eastern fields—the poorer land. Thin soil, scattered stones just beneath the surface, waiting to dull tools and split skin rather than feed mouths. Work there was slower, heavier. Mistakes lingered.

You didn’t rush it.

You measured each swing, shifted your footing, adjusting when the blade caught stone. Your hands were raw, knuckles split and wrapped poorly, sleeves rolled even as the wind cut through the valley. Hair tied back out of habit, not care.

You moved like someone who had learned, long ago, that wasted effort was a luxury.

He stopped behind you without announcing himself.

“Your row’s crooked.”

The hoe stuttered. You didn’t jump—just paused, grip tightening as you turned enough to see who stood there. Snake watched from a few paces back, arms crossed, weight settled evenly. His perpetually tired gaze moved from the uneven furrow to your hands, then back to the soil.

“I’ll fix it,” you said.

Not apologetic. No explanation. Just a statement—flat, factual.

For a moment, you thought he might chastise you, order you to redo the whole stretch, punish inefficiency the way guards often did. Instead, he nodded once.

Nothing more. As he walked off, he caught the reflection of your gaze in the corner of his eye—not lingering, not defiant. Measuring. The same way he measured terrain before a fight.

You didn’t look broken. Tired, yes—but not hollow.

That unsettled him more than fear ever could.

–

Time passed.

He nearly forgot you.

Nearly.

Shouting dragged him from sleep one morning—steel scraped free too fast, voices sharp with pride and stupidity. Snake crossed the yard in seconds, boots biting into dirt.

A group of his men had cornered a pair of slaves in the training ring, swords to their throats, one bleeding already. The young master stood red-faced nearby.

“Enough,” Snake snapped.

None listened.

So he moved.

He wrenched one man back by the collar just in time to break the chaos before it became slaughter. Another swung at him in defiance. Snake drove a fist into his face.

They forced his hand. He broke a man’s nose.

That ended it.

He hadn’t noticed you stepped in without being told. Kneeling beside the mercenary who was nursing his busted nose. You didn’t hesitate at the blood. Didn’t flinch when he snarled in pain. Your hands were steady as you pushed the brute's hands aside and pressed a cloth to his nose, calm voice cutting through his protests.

“Hold still,” you said. “Or it’ll heal wrong.”

Snake watched the way you worked—efficient, swiftly, unafraid. When you finished, you wiped your hands on your apron and stepped back without expecting thanks.

That was the first time he truly took notice, certainly not the last.

You’d share your rations. You’d stepped forward when the madam’s voice sharpened, placing yourself between her temper and a younger slave’s shaking shoulders.

You never complained.

Pain swallowed in silence.

He knew that feeling well.

—

Rain came one morning, steady and cold, turning the fields to mire. Work should’ve stopped.

It didn’t.

Snake spotted you kneeling in the mud, shoulders trembling with effort as you tried to force the tool back into sodden earth.

“That’s enough,” he said, sauntering over.

You looked up. Rain tracked down your face, indistinguishable from sweat. “B—but the quota—”

“I said that’s enough.”

Authority snapped clean through the air.

You nodded and pushed upright. Your foot slid.

Snake caught your elbow.

The contact wasn’t gentle or rough, rather quick. Instinctive.

You froze. So did he.

Rain drummed around you. Mud sucked at his boots. For a breath, the world narrowed to the heat of skin through soaked cloth.

Snake released you as if burned.

“Go,” he said, rough now.

You nodded once and hurried toward the stables without a word.

—

Ketil was far from a cruel master, though his lenience could not negate the cage it merely softened. Some nights, when your stomach burned too fiercely for sleep, you lay awake counting breaths, wondering if restraint was any kinder.

That was when you began listening more closely.

You learned the farm by sound.

Which boards groaned. Which hinges stayed quiet. The chicken coop’s back hinge never complained. The root cellar steps only groaned on the third plank down.

You never stole anything worth remembering.

Bruised apples. Misshapen turnips. Raw seed and grain hard enough to cut your gums. Crusts stiff as bark, tucked into your sleeves.

You’d been honest once. Proud of your work. Years ago, you would’ve hated yourself for this.

But you didn’t steal from greed. You stole because hunger was a slow, humiliating death.

Moonlight spilled through the barn door in pale stripes across packed earth. You were almost finished stuffing a thin duffel with scraps meant for cattle when the night went still.

The wind died. The animals stilled.

“Put it down.”

Low. Calm. Measured.

Your body locked before your mind caught up, fingers clenched tight around the bundle. A shadow filled the doorway, broad-shouldered, sword strapped loose at his side. Posture relaxed in a way that only came from lethal confidence.

Snake.

Ketil’s guard.

“I—I was just—”

You stopped. His expression was cold. Excuses were pointless.

“You one of Ketil’s?” he asked, voice level.

You nodded.

He exhaled slowly, almost strained—like something heavy had settled behind his ribs. “You know what happens if I take you to the master.”

You nodded again, eyes stinging.

“You’ve been up to this for how long?”

“…Since last fall.” you admitted reluctanly

That gave him pause. His gaze swept over you: the thin wrappings around your feet, the way your clothes hung loose, the sharp hollows hunger carved into your face.

“You’re thin,” he said, no judgment. Just fact.

He’d seen thieves before. Desperate men. Cruel ones.

You weren’t one of them.

He took the bundle from your hands, glanced inside and winced slightly, only scraps— things no one would miss let alone search for — then placed it back against your chest.

“Don’t let me catch you next time,” Snake grunted, shifting just enough to unblock the path. “I-I won’t,” you blurted, stunned and relieved.

He closed his eyes briefly, then tipped his chin toward the door.

As you passed him, you looked back.

He saw it.

Not fear.

Something quieter. Reverent, perhaps.

—

You didn’t stop stealing, you couldn’t afford to. But you kept your head down. He noticed.

He also noticed where you didn’t go. How you learned his patrols without being told. How you avoided his line of sight, worked faster. Took the longer paths. Found excuses to be elsewhere.

Mercy, once received, felt fragile—too easy to shatter if tested again.

He let the distance stand.

Until one winter evening, when you ducked out behind the barn to eat.

“Still stealing?” he rounded the corner, speaking mildly as if he hadn’t appeared from nowhere.

You nearly choked, spinning around.

He stepped beneath the overhang patting off the snow peppered on his coat and dark hair.

“I– I ah! um… Yes,” you admitted reluctantly. Lying felt useless to the man who’d caught you twice.

“What was it I told you?” he asked. “Don’t let me catch you again.”

Your face burned. “If you’re going to turn me in—”

“I’m not.” He waved a gloved hand dismissively.

You released a breath you hadn’t realized you kept, taking a small cautious bite of your takings.

He watched you chew, slow and careful, like the food might vanish if rushed. Something flickered behind his eyes—a memory. A past that tasted just as bitter as the spoiled root you swallowed.

“There’s a shack past the treeline,” he said, moving to lean casually against the wall. “Old trapper’s place. Lock’s broken.”

You swallowed, staring at him curiously. “Why tell me this?”

His mouth curved—not a smile. Something sadder.

“Jus’ don’t want you starving is all…” He muttered tucking his chin into the fur wrapped at his neck.

A pause.

He glanced at you and sighed. “Listen, I've done terrible things,” he said quietly. “I just… I don’t need another ghost.”

Snow fell softly around you. For a moment, the farm felt far away. The wars beyond it distant.

He stepped back, breaking you from your delusions.

“Be careful,” he said. You watched him disappear into the night and realized, with a quiet ache, that this was the first time someone had chosen to show you mercy in a very long while.

And, frighteningly, you found it harder to endure.

—

After that day extra rations appeared where you’d find them. Never handed to you outright.

You told yourself you’d keep away from him.

This attention was dangerous. Kindness always came with a cost.

And yet— you noticed him everywhere. Or maybe he noticed you? By the trough at dusk. Near the fields at dawn.

Coincidences, he’d tell himself—a lie that almost held.

The distance between you began to change. It became a habit before either of you named it.

When his duties thinned, Snake found himself drifting toward wherever you were working. When your tasks ended early, you found yourself listening for the sound of his boots as you lingered near the paths he patrolled.

Sometimes you walked together in silence. Sometimes you shared food.

Sometimes you rode saddle behind him while he made his rounds, the world reduced to hoofbeats, the thump of his heartbeat beneath your cheek and casual conversation.

You told him you were born near the coast. That you’d known freedom long enough to miss it properly.

That you didn’t hate him—and knowing that hurt more than if you had…

Snake had never filled his spare hours before. He slept, ate, worked—nothing else. But when you were nearby, his attention drifted despite himself. Conversations dulled. Orders blurred at the edges. His gaze returned to you again and again, uninvited.

Without realizing when it began, all his unclaimed moments led back to you.

—

The trail outside the old master’s house crunched under your boots as you carried water to the barn. Snake’s quarters were quiet, shutters closed, the faint scent of smoke from his hearth drifting out. You kept your distance, as usual, focused on your task, though your ears pricked at every sound.

You heard it first by accident. A grumble broke the morning calm.

“…Roald, you lazy fool, I swear… The fields won’t tend themselves!” You froze, water jug balanced in your hands.

The voice was unmistakably the old master’s, sharp with irritation, stepping into the sunlit yard.

Roald? The name tumbled out with the wind, a strange, foreign thing you hadn’t expected. Your chest tightened, the syllables rolling over your tongue. Roald.

The old master’s tone softened slightly, almost grudging, as if the name carried weight beyond anger. “I’ll be damned if all this work falls on me while you—” He trailed off, shoving the door shut and disappearing toward the fields, muttering under his breath.

You lingered a moment, heart thudding. It sounded… fragile. Not the weight you imagined a man like him carried, yet it fit—the silent strength, the patience, the quiet command.

The name rolled over your tongue, foreign yet fitting, and you imagined calling it, seeing if he’d respond. But the thought stayed lodged in your chest. You couldn’t. Not yet.

In the world you knew, he was Snake. Roald, the man behind the mask, was something you weren’t yet allowed to claim.

So you walked on, water sloshing gently in the jug, crunching over fallen leaves, the name quiet in your mind. Roald—Snake—had never taken what wasn’t freely offered. And so neither would you.

—

Night settled heavy over the farm, the kind that pressed close instead of offering quiet. Crickets rasped in the grass. Somewhere in the distance, a horse snorted and shifted in its stall. Snake’s patrol had slowed to a crawl—not from laziness, but because nothing stirred when he passed.

He found you where he’d half-expected to.

Beyond the last fence line, you sat with your back to a low rise where the grass grew thick and uneven. He hadn’t told you to follow him there. You hadn’t asked. It had simply happened the way habits do—two paths bending toward the same place without a word exchanged.

He stopped a short distance away, boots planted wide, posture loose but alert. Watched you for a moment. Then cleared his throat.

You turned your head and smiled, patting the ground beside you.

“Here,” he said, nodding toward the loaf wrapped in cloth at his side. He set it down between you and lowered himself onto the grass a few inches away, knees drawn up, forearms resting against them.

You hesitated only a moment before reaching for it.

You tore the loaf in half and ate slowly, staring up at the sky. Stars pricked through the dark—scattered thin tonight, dulled by haze, but still there if you looked long enough.

Snake kept his gaze forward. His eyes traced the dark line of fencing, the sleeping barns, the paths he could walk blindfolded now. He watched like something might appear if he didn’t.

“You’re a talented swordsman,” you said at last, voice quiet but steady. “Why this farm?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Moonlight traced his jaw, caught in the tired set of his mouth. He breathed out through his nose.

“Running off to fight pointless wars didn’t fix anything.”

You shifted, propping yourself on your elbows so you could see him properly.

“…Does staying?”

He was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer.

“No,” he said finally, shoulders dropping a fraction. “…But it keeps others alive.”

You studied him for a moment, then smiled—not bright, not hopeful. Just real.

“That’s something.”

His jaw tightened. He nodded once.

Eventually, it was time to move again. Duty didn’t wait just because the night was quiet.

The loaf was nearly gone when he reached for the cloth to take it back.

Your fingers brushed.

The contact was accidental. Barely there.

Neither of you moved.

The night seemed to draw in around you—the grass flattened beneath your palms, the faint crackle of cooling embers far off, the distant creak of wood settling. You became suddenly aware of how close he sat. Close enough to feel the heat beneath his layers, coiled and restrained, like a blade kept sheathed by will alone. His grip tightened once.

Then loosened. Deliberate.

“I shouldn’t,” he said under his breath, turning his face away like the words tasted wrong in his mouth.

“I know,” you answered quietly.

You didn’t pull your hand away. He went still.

For a heartbeat you thought he might lean in. Thought you might let him. Thought the rules of this place, this life, might thin enough to slip through.

Snake had spent years making ghosts. Men remembered only by how they fell, not by what they might have been. He knew the shape of endings. Knew when something had to be stopped before it began.

“You’ve enough ghosts,” you murmured. “Don’t let me be one.”

His breath caught.

The corner of his mouth twitched—not the empty calm he wore for others, not the dry smirk he used to keep distance.

Something real surfaced, brief and unpracticed.

When your fingers finally slipped free, neither of you moved right away. You sat in the space where your hands had been, sharing nothing but cold air and the sound of each other breathing.

Then he stood without a word. No apology. No promises.

Just a nod.

Later, when he resumed his watch, you noticed.

His eyes scanned the barn, the yard, the darkened trails beyond the fence line—methodical, sharp.

And always, they came back to you.

For the first time in years, Snake felt a weight in his chest he couldn’t name.

But he allowed it to stay just a little longer.

—

The night the farm burned, chaos tore through everything he’d tried to hold together.

Flames licked the edges of the barn. Sparks showered the ground. The heat pressed in from all sides, thick and choking. Through shouting. Steel. Fire.

He found you where he’d feared most—cornered by the king’s men, smoke stinging your eyes, a sickle shaking in your grip.

He cut them down.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered, offering you his hand.

You took it without hesitation.

He guided you down a narrow path between the barns. Your breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, the smell of smoke and scorched hay filling your nostrils. Broken wood and scattered tools snagged at your clothing. Ash fell like snow around you. Sweat streaked his face, his eyes scanning the shadows for movement.

Every sound seemed amplified: the crack of burning timber, the shriek of a distant horse engulfed in flame, the frantic wails of men at war. And yet, in the midst of it all, his hand never left yours.

When at last you reached the treeline, panting feeling faint, the firelight receding behind you, he helped you to the ground. You sank to your knees, weeping, dirt and ash smearing your face as your eyes welled with tears. Snake crouched beside you, bloodied, breathing hard.

“Shh, it’s okay, you’re okay, You’re alive,” he whispered, placing a hand on your back to steady your trembling shoulders.

“So are you,” you sniffed, a shaky laugh breaking free.

A pause.

“Roald.”

You looked up with glossy eyes, tears streaking down your neck. “That’s my name,” he said, cupping your cheek and wiping a tear with his thumb.

Something in your chest ached at what it meant.

“I won’t forget it,” you said softly.

He nodded, eyes unreadable—then pulled you into his embrace, a shaky breath leaving him as his grip tightened, protective. You fit against him like a piece he hadn’t realized had been missing.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The smoke of the burned farm drifted around you, acrid and heavy, yet here, in his arms, the world felt impossibly still. His heartbeat thumped against your ear, steady, alive. You let yourself memorize it, knowing there would be no other proof of this night, this moment.

He didn’t promise you freedom. Didn’t lie about the world.

But when this world took what it always took—blood, sweat, peace—he made damn sure it never took you. Not while he stood guard.

For a man like Roald, that was love.

Tag list under the cut

HAPPY HOLIDAYS

Authors Note: *** Hello! Not weird at all 💞 My ask box is always open, and I’m so glad I got this request I've been meaning to write for the other VS characters. I really hope you enjoy!! 💗***

The Mornings We Made Synopsis: The quiet joys and unexpected warmth of a life he never thought he’d have but now can’t imagine losing. CW: SFW, Family-friendly/Cozy, Domestic, Food prep, Old Celtic Tradition, Father-daughter, Family bonding Word Count: 1,261

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction. It does not reflect the official story, character relationships, or views of the creators of Vinland Saga.

*"cariad" is a Welsh noun that means love*

Before dawn, the house lay steeped in blue-grey quiet. Frost clung to the small windowpanes, tracing white veins across the glass. The wind pressed softly against the thin daub walls.

A faint creak of a floorboard tip toed closer,

“Da…?”

The whisper was tiny. A small hand, clumsy with sleep and excitement, patted blindly at his shoulder.

Askeladd inhaled sharply. Not startled. Just instantly awake, the way a man becomes when a lifetime has taught him never to sleep too deeply.

He rolled his head on the pillow, eyes narrowing out of habit before softening when he saw her.

His daughter stood shivering beside the bed, wrapped in a wool shawl that dragged behind her like a cape. Wild curls framed her flushed cheeks. Her toes curled on the cold floorboards, puffing tiny white breaths into the dim room.

“It’s Calan Gaeaf,” she breathed, leaning in until her tiny nose nearly brushed his. Her grin trembled with excitement. “It’s today.”

He exhaled a quiet huff of laughter, a ghost of amusement tugging at the edges of his rugged face.

“Aye,” he murmured, voice low and rough with sleep. “Though the sun’s not even awake yet.”

She bounced once — a little hop that sent the shawl sliding off her narrow shoulders.

“But the spirits are,” she whispered, eyes huge.

A smirk tugged at his mouth. He reached out, scooping her up effortlessly and guiding her onto the bed so her bare feet wouldn’t suffer the floor.

“Spirits don’t like noisy children,” he warned in a playful whisper, tapping the tip of her nose. “They’ll think you’re tryin’ to scare ’em off.”

She slapped both hands over her mouth to trap her laughter.

“Can we wake Mama?” she asked, muffled.

He shifted just enough to look at you.

Curled beneath the furs, soft and warm. Cheek pressed to the pillow. Hair spilling across your back like silk. Peace resting gently over your features.

A faint smile tugged at his lips; something unguarded flickered in his eyes — something he’d show to no one but the two of you.

“No,” he said softly. “Let’s let her rest. She deserves it.”

He rose from the bed with quiet ease, his daughter scrambling into his arms again before he padded into the main room. The cold greeted them at once — a crisp bite to the air.

She tucked her face into the warm space beneath his jaw.

“Cold mornings build strong bones,” he murmured, rubbing her back. “Besides… It makes the fire sweeter.”

He set her down beside the hearth and crouched, raking the coals with a poker. Sparks flitted upward like tiny glowing insects. His daughter watched in breathless fascination.

“Da, can I add the twigs?” she asked, crawling towards the sack of sticks she’d collected last night.

“Slowly,” he said. “Let them catch, not smother.”

She bent forward with exaggerated care, dropping them one by one. Askeladd kept a steadying hand to her chest, shielding her from leaning too close to the heat.

The fire stirred, stretching into life. Orange light spilled into the room, softening the shadows.

“You see?” he murmured. “Even small things make a difference if you place them right.”

She beamed, warming her hands, bouncing lightly on her toes.

–

They lingered by the hearth as the warmth grew. He gently detangled her curls with slow fingertips while she whispered half-awake observations about the neighbor children and who might already be up.

Then her hand snagged the hem of his tunic.

“Can we make Mama’s porridge now?”

He raised a brow.

“Already plotting to steal my duties, are you?”

She giggled and clung tighter as he stood — her little feet stepping onto his, riding along as he waddled them into the kitchen.

–

The kitchen filled with soft domestic sounds: the scrape of a wooden spoon, gentle bubbling of water, the deep timbre of his quiet hums as they worked together.

She stood on a low stool, stirring with all the solemn concentration in the world, tongue peeking at the corner of her mouth. He braced the bowl with a steady hand.

“You’re too excited to sit still,” he teased.

“It’s the spirits,” she whispered with a seriousness reserved only for children. “They woke me today.”

He paused, not worried, just thoughtful. His Welsh blood carried stories as old as the hills themselves. He was glad this, too, lived in her.

“Aye,” he said with a soft smile. “They walk close today. Which is why we honor them. And keep warm by the fire.”

She sprinkled berries with far too much enthusiasm, a few bounced off the rim — which he caught in his hand with impressive reflexes, tossing one into the air and catching it neatly in his mouth.

She gasped, delighted, and threw another for him to catch — it bounced off his chin and disappeared in his beard.

She burst into giggles.

He pressed a dramatic hand to his chest, feigning grave injury, then plucked the lost berry from his beard and popped it into his mouth with a wink.

“Come now,” he said, brushing her cheek with his thumb to wipe a smear of honey. “Before your mother thinks we burned the place down.”

She hugged his side with all her little strength, the stool wobbling dangerously; he caught her with one arm and set her gently onto the floor. Her small hand immediately sought his, swallowed completely by his large one. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles instinctively.

And he carried the warm bowl down the hall while she skipped behind, trying to step exactly where he stepped, mimicking his long strides with quick little ones.

–

They crept back into the bedroom — but your eyes were already blinking open, stirred by warmth and the smell of honey.

Your daughter squealed and launched herself into the bed.

“Mama! Mama! We made breakfast!”

You sat up, brushing your hair back, smiling warmly. He knelt beside you, one knee sinking into the furs, holding out the bowl with a steady hand braced near your hip.

“Happy Calan Gaeaf, cariad.” He leaned in and kissed your temple.

–

After breakfast, the three of you dressed warmly — wool cloaks, fur-lined shawls, dried herbs tied into your daughter’s belt to ward off bad spirits. He fastened a rowan-wood charm around her neck, the one you’d carved together the night before.

When you stepped outside, breath puffing white, you noticed something beside the door:

A woven basket. Heavy. Decorated in evergreen, holly berries, scraps of dyed cloth. Linen-wrapped parcels. Carved figures. Herbs. Dried apples threaded on string.

Your daughter gasped, hands flying to her cheeks.

“Mam! Da! Look! The spirits brought gifts!”

He raised a brow, feigning mild surprise, but you could see the faintest flicker of pride at the corner of his mouth.

“Ah, it seems the ancestors favored us this year,” he said, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

Your daughter knelt in the snow, touching each gift with reverence, whispering awe-filled things under her breath.

You slipped an arm around his waist, narrowing your eyes at him with playful accusation. He wrapped his cloak around you without thinking, drawing you into his warmth.

“Lucius,” you murmured into his chest, “you did this.”

His hand slid up your back, slow and steady.

“For you and her?” he whispered. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do.”

He kissed your forehead — lips lingering, soft as falling snow.

Your daughter’s laughter rang across the frost-bright morning, clear as a bell. The wind still bit at your cheeks, but as he held you close, the world softened, warm by the small family you’d built together.

Tag list under the cut

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction and does not reflect the official story or characters of Vinland Saga. The story contains material that may be upsetting for some readers, such as non-graphic depictions of intimacy/nudity, and is intended for mature audiences only.

Snow whispered against the thatch all night, and by dawn the storm had gentled into a steady white fall. Thin winter light slipped through the smoke-hole overhead, brushing over the tangle of furs wrapped around your legs. The fire had burned down to ruby embers, the only sounds the soft pop of the hearth and the deep, steady breath of the man sleeping beside you.

Outside, the wind clawed at the timber walls, making the beams creak. But under the layered pelts, the cold couldn't reach you—except for the faint fog of his breath mingling with the smoke curling up toward the rafters, where dried herbs hung in brittle braids.

You drifted in and out of sleep—too tired to rise, too comfortable to care—until the pelts dipped. He moved carefully, too carefully, which only made his weight shift clumsy in its restraint. A callused forge-hot hand slid over your hip, up your side.

Not rough. Not demanding. Just… careful.

His thumb brushed your cheekbone. A low, groggy rumble vibrated against your ear. He smelled of salt, earth, iron, and smoke —the smell you’d fallen asleep wrapped in countless nights before.

You smiled without meaning to.

His lips touched yours—soft, cautious. Nothing like the blood-spattered giant who returned from war grinning wide enough to split his face.

You murmured something half-asleep. He answers with a pleased sound deep in his chest—not quite words, not quite laughter.

“Mhm…” you breathed, eyes half-slit.

Another kiss—lazy, testing, like he was making sure you were real.

"Mmnh… what are you doing?" you muttered, squinting up at him.

A quiet laugh ghosted against your mouth. “Wakin’ you,”

“Been too long since I’ve seen those pretty eyes.”

You pushed weakly at his chest—warn skin over iron-hard muscle, forged by years of slogging through mud, cleaving men in half, enduring seas and winters that killed lesser men. But against you, he was simply warm. Alive. Yours.

“Mm… cut it out.”

He ignored that, naturally.

The furs rustled. "One more," he murmured, pressing a long kiss to your cheek—slow, starved, softened by months of hunger.

He’d been gone longer than expected. And somewhere on some frozen battlefield— between storms, skirmishes, and a hotheaded earl testing him— the brute had started missing you more than he cared to admit.

Right now, stripped of war, his needs were simple: hold you. Breathe you in. Let the world stop spinning.

–

You turned away, rolling onto your side with a sigh. Exhausted, pleasantly sore, unwilling to move for anything short of the roof collapsing. The “welcome home” last night had wrung you dry—only a man like Thorkell could overwhelm you completely without meaning to.

Sleep tugged at you again. Until the furs shifted—

A massive arm wrapped around your waist and hauled you back into him, your spine pressed to his chest like he’d reclaimed what was his. It was enough to stir you awake, though your limbs still felt weighted by sleep.

you sighed, not bothering to push him off this time.

"Shh." His breath warmed the back of your neck. “Missed this.”

"Mmhn you're supposed to rest. You just got back." you groan.

"Aye. And the welcome was soooo good," he drawled, smirking against your temple. “Sleep can wait.”

He brushed your hair aside and kissed the nape of your neck. Then your shoulder. Then lower—mapping you like a coastline he’d been away from for too long

His beard scraped down your skin — scruffy but plesant— it sent a shiver down your spine. “Stop that,” you muttered, even as your body betrayed you, leaning into him.

“No.” His voice dropped to a lazy growl. “Been months. Let me have this.”

He tugged at the collar of your tunic—his tunic, of course —it hung loose and enormous—exposing you to his mouth. His teeth grazed your skin lightly — not biting, just enough to raise goosebumps.

“Thorkell…” you huff under your breath, and buried your face into the thick wolf-pelt.

A pleased chuckle vibrated through his chest. His hand slid beneath the fabric, warm palm resting on your stomach, then down to your hips, rubbing slow circles with aching patience.

He felt enormous beside you. Too large for the bed, too large for the room. The warmth blooming under your skin betrayed you.

"You smell like me,” he murmured, smug as a cat despite nuzzling into your neck.

“You’re an idiot,” you muttered chest tight, drifting between irritation and sleep.

He snorted, delighted—a quiet, breathy laugh, instead of his usual booming bark. “Don’t be mean. I brought you gifts.”

“Is one of them peace and quiet?”

“No.” He said in mock offence, you could practically feel him grinning against your skin,

“You know better.” He pinched at your waist.

He always did that when you mouthed off—acted as if your annoyance was some private treasure.

His hands wandered again—slow, reverent, starved—until his palms cupped the underside of your breasts. You jolted.

“You’re impossible.” you groan into the furs, voice tired and weak. Another chuckle — soft as snow, almost boyish as he pinched your hardening buds between his fingertips.

“Mm,” He kissed your shoulder. “Can’t help it,” he sighed through kisses trailing up your neck, behind your ear, then tucked you beneath his chin. “Missed all of you.”

"And you missed me too," he added, smug.

You huffed—but smiled. He knew you too well.

Wrapped in furs and him, his chest warm against your back, his arms locked around you like he wasn’t letting go until midday—you felt comfortable and safe. Thorkell, for once, seemed content with the quiet… and the drowsy kisses he pressed to your forehead as the two of you drifted in and out of half-sleep.

–

A cold draft sliced through the longhouse. You shivered and tried to pull the furs tighter—only to find you couldn’t move.

A massive arm tightened around you, locking you to his chest. "Mmnn—no," you strained.

He dragged you closer, grumbling sleep-thick words into your neck. "Mmph… you’re not goin’ anywhere."

You blinked up at him groggily. “Thorkell… the fire’s out. I’m freezing.”

His answer was a low, barely-awake. “So get closer.”

You snorted. “I can’t. You’re already—”

He buried his face in your neck, beard rasping warm against your throat, breath hot on your shoulder.

"Warm enough now?" he murmured, nudging your skin with his lips. “Jus’ stay.”

“Thorkell…” you whispered, trying to sound irritated, but your voice came out softer.

You could feel him smile against your skin, the upward curve of his mouth ghosting along your throat. “Mm. Love it when you say my name like that.”

His hand spread over your stomach, pulling you deeper into him. The winter wind growled outside; ice shifted on the fjord.

"I need to get up—"

"Nope."

He rolled, effortlessly pinning you beneath him. Cold air hit your skin—then vanished under his heat. He peppered your cheek, your jaw, your shoulder with kisses, beard scraping in delicious, infuriating patterns.

Your breath caught blinking up at him. In the faint morning light, his hair was a wild golden mess, bandana lost somewhere among the discarded clothes. His beard darker from months at war, face tired, unshaven—yet his amber eyes… gods were they soft. Filled with love. All for you.

He cupped your chin, eyes flicking between your mouth and eyes.

You swallowed. He wasn’t starved for food or warmth—he was starved for you.

A draft swept the room. You shivered.

He noticed instantly.

"Alright, alright—c’mere." Before your mind could catch up, he’d scooped you up in one effortless motion—furs and all—lifting you clean off the bed. You yelp, arms flying around his shoulders.

“Thorkell!”

“Cold little thing,” he teased, walking naked across the room, utterly unfazed by the chill. “Should’ve woken me sooner.”

He crouched by the hearth breath steamed in the air, lowering you and the bundled furs to sit in front of the fireplace.

The cold stone beneath threatened to steal the warmth from your bones—but before it could, he was crouched at the ashes, muscles shifting beneath scarred nude skin, focused on coaxing life back to the embers. The flame catches and blooms, golden light pours across the room—revealing the two of you half-wrapped in the thick pelt, your skin marked from last night.

Thorkell settled beside you leaning back on his elbows, hair falling forward in a disheveled golden spill, a small tired smile pulling at his mouth.

“Better?”

You met his eyes. “Much.”

He lay back stretched out on the furs, patting the space on his chest. “C’mere.”

You crawled into him; his arms locked around you. The new fire warmed one side; he warmed the other. Burying his nose into your hair.

“Mmm, really you smell too good,” he hums into your scalp. “Can’t get enough.”

You elbow him lightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You say that, yet yer the one stealin’ all my tunics.” He sighs, arms flexing around your waist, sliding down over your hips. “And my bed. And my furs.”

“What choice do I have? You were gone long,” you whisper bashfully.

He softened. “Aye.” He brushed hair from your face. “Next time, I’m bringin’ you with me. Stuff you in my pack.” He kissed your forehead.

You chuckled, “I’d slow you down.”

“Worth it.”

–

The quiet that followed was domestic. Fire popping. Snow pattering on the roof. Your fingers tracing idle shapes on his chest as he watched with half-lidded contentment.

His hand rubbing slow circles on your back.

His beard brushed your cheek—lazy, claiming. Then he kissed you—slow, and starved.

You moved without thinking, bracing your hands on his chest, swinging a leg over his hips. He let out a helpless, guttural sound as you settled onto him.

“Nnh. Gods, yes, I missed this too.”

His lips found yours again. You rocked your hips; his breath hitched. Hands roaming up your thighs, your waist, your ribs—gentle but greedy.

“You’re trouble,” he chuckled against your mouth. “And I was trying to let you rest.” “You weren’t trying very hard,” you gruff against his mouth.

That earns a low pleased laugh. Your lips lock again, this time with more heat. He meets you halfway, mouth warm, impatient. Hands guiding your hips back and forth. He groaned, head falling back, propping his neck against his forearm as you lean over him. He grunts, gaze dropping straight to your bare chest, zero shame or hesitation.

His hand trailed up your body, large rough fingers caressing the underswell of your breast.

Then he leans forward, his mouth trailed down your neck, beard burning in a way that makes your breath stutter. He mouthed along your breasts—sucking a nipple into his mouth— making you gasp, hips stuttering.

“Thorkell!” you moan nearly losing your balance.

He looked up with a wicked grin, pupils blown wide. And hums against your skin, tongue teasing slow flicks against the bud that make you mewl despite yourself.

This man lives to be a tease.

“You,” you breathe, mewls turn to gasps as you grab a fistfull of hair, “are way too good at that.” He grins against you, “Mhm.” dragging his mouth lower, teeth grazing your sternum before his lips trailed along your ribs.

“Mmh—don’t be smug,” You whined, shuddering as you place your palm flat over his mouth.

He bit your fingers lightly, heat flaring beneath his half lidded eyes.

Then hauled you into a filthy kiss—deep, slow, tongue sliding against yours as you ground down.

He groaned, fingers digging into your thighs—

—And then the door slammed open.

“Jarl Thorkell—!”

Your heads whipped up to the door, back facing it, he turned to look over his shoulder.

Asgeir barged in with another man at his side and three servant women carrying trays of warm food, a basin of water, and a bundle of fresh sheets.

All of them froze..

You’re straddling him. Naked. He’s naked. The fire crackling merrily beside you.

There’s a heartbeat of absolute, horrified silence.

Then— “For the love of—” Asgeir spluttered. “Commander, can you not greet the morning indecently for once?!”

The other warrior turned away, coughing hard into his fist.

The servant women squeaked, staring at their full hands, ceiling, the floor—anywhere but at the two of you.

Thorkell just groaned and buried his face in your neck. Then grinned.

“So close,” he murmured into your ear.

You slapped his arm, mortified. He only grinned wider.

–

Asgeir cleared his throat. Thorkell rolled his eyes. “Terrible timing.”

“Terrible?! It’s practically midday!” Asgeir snapped. “We need to speak of the king’s summons, the troop movements, the— just put some godsdamned clothes on!”

Thorkell sighed dramatically, sat up on one arm, and pulled you in for a slow, deep kiss—long enough to make Asgeir groan in exasperation.

You broke away breathless, cheeks hot. A wicked glint flashed in Thorkell’s eyes.

Then he rose, lifting you off his lap effortlessly and settling you back down onto your knees by the fire.

–

Completely unashamed, he sauntered across the room toward his clothes. The servants rushed past him faces burning; the warriors grumbled. Thorkell only laughed, stretching like a waking bear.

“What? It’s my house.”

One woman set the basin over the hearth; the others wrapped a heavy fur around your shoulders.

“Come, my lady,” one whispered, ushering you behind the wooden partition. “Before the jarl decides he’d rather chase you back onto the floor.”

Your cheeks flamed as they pulled you away. Thorkell chuckled.

The moment you were behind the carved screen, the women erupted into flustered whispers like a pot boiling over.

“Oh, my lady—Ullr take me, you must be freezing—” “Sit, sit, lets get you warm—” “He didn’t even let you dress—gods, men returning from war forget their manners entirely—”

Despite the chaos, their hands were gentle. The carved chest at the foot of the bed creaked open. You heard thick garments unfold—an ankle-length chemise, a wool overdress, a winter cloak.

Another woman fetched the warm basin from the hearth. You sat on a wool-cushioned stool, letting them fuss over you. Their voices softened. Steam rose as one poured the fresh hot water in a bowl, pressing a warm, damp cloth to your shoulders, trailing down your back, chasing out the chill that had sunk into your bones.

“There,” she murmured. “We’ll get you presentable before he decides he’d rather drag you back into the bed.”

You bit your lip to hide a laugh.

A third servant worked delicately through your hair, untangling knots of sleep and passion after a night’s celebration with skilled fingers. She used fragrant oils—gifts your husband brought from overseas—rubbing them between her palms before smoothing them through your strands. The almond scent curled softly around you in the warm air.

Beyond the screen, Thorkell’s voice boomed:

“So, what’s so cursed urgent it couldn’t wait ‘til after my breakfast?” he grunted, the clip of his belt rattling as he pulled his waistband up.

Asgeir, long-suffering, launched into his exhausted report. “The scouts returned before dawn. Four ships crossed the strait—possibly allies, possibly raiders, but either way—”

“Mhm.” Thorkell said, utterly disinterested.

One woman snorted softly. “He’s looking this way more than he’s listening.”

“Shh! He’s doing it again!” another giggled

You felt the pull too, peeking over the top of the partition. From this angle, you could just see Thorkell’s broad silhouette—half turned to the men, eyes flicking your way every few breaths.

–

Outside, wind howled. Snow thumped off the roof. The women worked quickly—washing, drying, respectful but efficient—the kind of care reserved for wives of jarls, especially when their husbands were waiting impatiently mere paces away.

“Lift your arms, my lady.”

You did, and they slipped a fresh linen shift over your head, soft and warm from being stored near the hearth. Woolen underlayers followed, embroidered at the edges with delicate knot patterns you recognized—Thorkell had gifted these to you last spring.

–

“…and if that’s the case,” Asgeir continued, unaware of the battle between patience and desire happening in Thorkell’s skull.

“we’ll need to reposition the cliff watch-posts. Also, the men want to know whether to—”

“… Thorkell?”

Silence.

“Jarl Thorkell,” Asgeir eventually snapped, “did you hear a word of what I just said?!”

“Hm?” Thorkell turned sharply, caught. “Yes?”

Asgeir stared at him.

Thorkell sighed. “No. Say it again.”

“Gods,” Asgeir groaned.

Thorkell grinned like a boy caught misbehaving.

You covered your mouth to smother a laugh.

“He’s hopeless,” the woman braiding your hair muttered.

“No,” whispered another, tying the laces at your waist, “just in love.”

Heat rose to your cheeks.

–

A few more deft touches—warm oils rubbed into your palms, a brooch pinned at your collar—and the warmth settled into you like something sacred. Something homelike. A winter morning you wanted to bottle forever.

Then: a throat cleared, deep and impatient.

Thorkell.

“My lady,” one servant whispered after peeking out, “he’s glaring holes through the screen.”

“Is he at least decent?”

She peeked again. “…Just about.”

His shadow loomed across the partition. “Are you done in there?” he called, trying to sound gruff instead of impatient—and failing. “Because I ought to be leavin’ and—and these fools can’t remember half the things they’re tellin’ me—”

“He wants a kiss before he goes,” a servant translated dryly.

You heard him huff.

“Go on,” one woman said gently. “We’re finished.”

You stepped out.

Thorkell was fastening a leather guard impatiently. His head snapped toward you instantly.

He froze. Softened. Eyes sweeping over you like you’d walked straight out of a dream.

“There you are,” he breathed.

He crossed the room in three strides. Hands hovering at your waist, another trailing up to cup your cheek—as if asking permission in his own rough, wordless way. You nodded.

His thumb brushed your lower lip before the other hand pulled you into a deep, warm, kiss. As if trying to memorize the feel of your lips.

“I’ll be back before sundown,” he murmured, pulling away reluctantly but keeping his forehead against yours.

“I know,” you whispered.

He cupped your cheek with surprising tenderness. “And when I get back…” he pinched his fingers, squishing your cheeks to keep your eyes on his.

Voice dipping, rough like a promise.

“…we’re finishin’ what we started.”

Your stomach fluttered.

And Asgeir akwardly cleared his throat. “Commander. They’re waiting.”

He didn’t look away. “Right, right. Danes, ships, ice, raids—whatever.”

“You truly didn’t listen,” Asgeir groaned.

Thorkell lingered at your side, eyes locked with yours. You nudged him and he sighed turning toward his men— furs and leather thrown over his shoulders, hair still wild.

“Let’s go deal with it, then. The sooner we’re done, the sooner I’m home.”

“Stay warm,” he murmured, kissing your temple. With one last look—hungry, soft, certain—he squeezed your side and let you go.

–

The door thud shut behind them, muffling the winter wind.

For a moment, the room felt twice as quiet without his voice filling it—only the crackle of the fire and the faint clatter of servants tidying up behind you. Warmth lingered where his hands had been, a heat that had nothing to do with the hearth.

You stood there, wrapped in fur, ribbons and winter-soft linens, breath still unsteady.

One of the women passed behind you, moving to lift the cover from your bed. “Soon he’ll tear the doors off their hinges rushing back in,” she teased knowingly.

You tried to answer with something clever—something that didn’t sound as flustered and soft as you felt—but your voice caught in your throat.

Outside, the crunch of their boots faded. Asgeir barking orders. Thorkell’s deep and wild voice being swallowed by the storm.

You exhaled slowly, letting the quiet settle into your bones.

A soft rustle drew your attention. At the foot of the freshly set bed, a thick pelt-lined shawl he favored on long marches had been put out for you—placed there by one of the servants. You touched it, fingers sinking into the fur. Pulling it closer to your nose, pine, smoke, and him.

Your chest warmed.

Through the shutter slats, you caught the barest glimpse of him mounting a wagon—turning just once to look back at the house. At you. Even from here, you felt it. That stupid, heart-stealing softness he reserved only for you.

Then he snapped a command, and his men crowded the clearing. You couldn’t help but feel tense as you watched their silhouettes disperse into the fog.

Servant maids continued to work around you, gathering cloths and bowls as they set up the dining table for lunch, their chatter gentle now, the storm outside a distant hush.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be back,” one said simply, recognizing your unease.

A small smile curled at your mouth before you could stop it. You pressed your fingers to your lips, face flush, still tingling from his kiss.

Tag list under the cut

🎃🦇👻🔪🎃🦇👻🔪🎃🦇👻🔪🎃🦇👻

Homecoming Synopsis: A paradoxical despair where her love becomes both the source of her sorrow and the reason for her dreadful hope. She is trapped in a cosmic tragedy where the only potential happy ending involves the death of the person she cherishes most. CW: SFW(Mature), emotional grief, death of a spouse, battlefield, violence, blood, war imagery, mourning, bittersweet reunion, Norse afterlife themes (Valhalla), and spiritual elements. Word Count: 2,204

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fan fiction and does not reflect the official story or characters of Vinland Saga. The story contains graphic and disturbing material that may be upsetting for some readers, such as graphic depictions of violence and death. and is intended for mature audiences only.

🎃🦇👻🔪🎃🦇👻🔪🎃🦇👻🔪🎃🦇👻

The air was cold enough to bite through leather. Thorkell stood at the edge of camp, rolling his shoulders beneath the weight of his armor. Around him, the men worked in silence — sharpening blades, testing straps, muttering half-prayers to gods they no longer believed in. The world was hushed, smothered in white — the kind of morning that stung lungs and made steel sing sharper.

Snow crunched under his boots as he shifted, fingers closing around the haft of his axe. Something small dangled from his belt — a braid. Stiff and dulled with age. Her hair.

He lifted it carefully, thumb brushing the frayed ends. Even after all these years, when he brought it close, he swore he could still smell her — wildflowers, pine, and smoke. The scent of home. He pressed it to his lips, quick and quiet, like a habit he’d never broken.

It should’ve been him that day. The day she died.

He remembered every heartbeat of it — the clash of steel, the choking smoke, the shrieks that bled through the wind. He’d come home too late. The village was half-burned, the snow soaked through with blood. And there she was — his wife — standing in the doorway, knife in hand, hair wild, face streaked with soot and gore.

Pregnant. He hadn’t known until that moment. The way her hand cradled her belly told him everything.

She looked like she’d fought like a storm.

“Y/N!” he’d roared, voice raw.

She turned at the sound — a flash of relief lighting her face — just as a shadow moved through the smoke behind her. He saw the sword before she did.

“No!”

By Odin, he ran as fast as his legs would take him — barreling through the battle, over corpses, boots slipping through blood and ash — but he was too slow. The blade drove through her before he could reach her. Her body jerked, lips parting in surprise.

He cut the bastard down in a single swing, but it meant nothing. She was already falling. He dropped to his knees, catching her before she hit the ground. Blood poured hot through his fingers as he tried to press the wound closed.

“Hey,” he rasped, voice breaking. “Don’t— don’t close your eyes. You hear me? Stay with me.”

She tried to smile, eyes glassy with pain. “You’re late,” she whispered, voice trembling like the wind.

He cursed in every tongue he knew, his words half sob, half snarl. “Don’t— don’t say that. We’ll fix this. I’ll take you to the healer— gods, please—”

Her fingers brushed his cheek, leaving a streak of blood. “Thorkell…”

He bent over her hand, pressing it against his face. Tears carved clean tracks through the soot on his skin as his voice broke, raw and trembling. “Don’t go, woman,” he choked out. “Don’t you dare.”

She tried to laugh, but it broke into a cough. Blood flecked her lips. “Don’t lose sight… of what we’re fighting for.”

“No, my star— please, I can’t— not without you,” he sobbed, pleading to gods who’d long since gone deaf.

She smiled faintly — a soft, trembling thing — and her eyes unfocused. Her lips moved again, but no sound came. Her hand slipped from his cheek, falling limp into the snow.

“Wait— hey—” His voice shattered. “No, no, no— look at me.” He shook her, panic clawing through his chest. “Look at me, damn you— please! Love, look at me!”

Her head lolled back. The light was gone.

The sound that tore from his throat silenced the field. Thorkell cradled her body, rocking like a madman. When he finally rose, he was never the same again. The men who found him afterward said the streets ran red — that he tore through the raiders until there was nothing left but ruin and smoke.

–

The incident fanned the flames of rumors already surrounding him. They said no blade could cut him — that the gods themselves had blessed him.

But they were wrong.

He’d died that night with her. Everything since — every feast, every battle — was noise. A man chasing echoes. Drink after drink, war after war, all to fill the hollow where she had been. The world had moved on, and so had he — or so he let them think. But no crown, no whores, no spoils could surmount the treasure she was.

–

He looked down at the braid in his palm, still warm from his grip. He pressed it to his lips again, rubbing his thumb along the stiff strands.

“You’d have told me to stay home,” he muttered, voice low and rough. A wry laugh escaped him, half-choked, half fond. “Never did listen well.”

He exhaled, tucking the braid beneath his furs, close to his heart. The wind picked up, sharp and cold, flurries stinging his face.

The sun climbed — pale and thin — over the frozen ridge. Light struck steel, flashing along the ranks of men gathered on the trail, their breath ghosting in the air.

Thorkell turned toward them, shoulders squared, grin wide and wild.

“All right, boys,” he called, voice booming across the snow. “Let’s go make some noise.”

His men cheered — half courage, half madness — and he laughed, deep and rough, the sound rolling like thunder. That same old grin stretched across his face — the one that never reached his eyes, and made even death look small.

–

The horns sounded at dawn. Across the frozen plain, a tide of steel and banners rose like teeth. The enemy line stretched far as the eye could see, black shapes cutting through the snow, spears glinting like icicles in the rising sun.

Thorkell stood at the front line, legs spread, axes loose in his hands, breath steaming. His men formed up behind him, stamping their feet to keep warm, tightening grips, checking edges.

Thorkell spat into the snow and hefted his axe, the haft worn smooth by years of killing. “There they are,” he said. “Took their time.”

Someone behind him muttered a prayer. Someone else threw up. He grinned.

Asgeir, his right-hand man, came to his side. “They’ve got numbers.”

Thorkell snorted. “Aye. Shame for them.”

Laughter rippled through the ranks, tight and nervous, but it was something — a spark.

He stepped forward. “Remember, men! The gods are watching — wouldn’t you hate to disappoint an audience?”

He hoisted his axes across his shoulders. Old things, notched but sharp. Ugly work, but simple. War always was.

He pressed a hand to his chest for a heartbeat, feeling the braid beneath the furs — the only piece of her left. Close to his heart. Enough.

Across the field, the horns sounded again — deeper this time. The sound rolled long over the snow like thunder — and the enemy began to charge.

Thorkell smiled, a flash of teeth. “Finally,” he muttered. “Let’s see what they’re made of.” He raised his axe, bellowing, and the men roared behind him.

The lines collided.

Steel screamed. Shields splintered. Arrows hissed — black streaks in a white sky — finding wood, flesh, bone. Horses reared. The snow turned red in seconds.

Thorkell waded through the thick of it — slashing through herds of the enemy, his axe cutting through men like straw. Every strike sent another down, each swing a hymn to violence — the old savage joy that had lived in him longer than peace ever had.

It was chaos. The kind of chaos Thorkell had lived his whole life inside.

–

Among the clouds, vast black wings spread wide, gleaming in the dim sunlight. She had seen him the moment the horns blew — her gaze cutting through the snowstorm like fire through smoke.

To the men below, she was nothing — just a shimmer lost in the storm. But her eyes were fixed on one figure only.

Thorkell.

–

Many winters had passed since her breath last fogged the air. Death had come for her swiftly, and the gods found her spirit restless. She had begged to see him again — begged until they gave her purpose, not peace.

They made her a Valkyrie. Bringer of the fallen.

It was said Valkyries felt nothing for the souls they carried — divine, detached, above mortal ache. Lies. The gods had never known what it meant to love and lose.

Every soul she bore to Valhalla was penance. Her resentment grew with each passing day. And still, she searched the faces of the dead — always hoping, always hating herself for it.

To wish death on her beloved… how selfish.

–

Now here he was again. Older. Weathered. Gray streaking through his thick blonde beard — but still the same: fierce, reckless, laughing in the face of death.

She reached for him, but her hand passed through smoke. The living cannot feel the dead. She could only watch.

–

The snow came sideways now — biting, driven by wind that howled across the plain. The sky darkened, swirling with ash. She could feel it: the tide turning. The threads of life around him beginning to break.

Thorkell’s arms were heavy, his breath ragged. Around him, his men fell one by one.

“Hold!” someone shouted. “Hold the line!”

Thorkell ignored it, laughing as he split shield and skull both. Blood sprayed hot across his face.

“Captain!” someone screamed. “There’s too many!”

He spat blood and grinned. “Excellent! Gives me more to hit!”

He roared through the storm. “COME ON THEN! IS THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT?!”

Another came at him — spear low. Thorkell twisted, the blade scraping his ribs, and brought his axe through the man’s neck.

His men were thinning fast — maybe two dozen left. Still, none turned tail. To die by Thorkell’s side was a death worth song.

He looked across the field as the enemy regrouped. His breath came in clouds. “Let’s make this worth their efforts, eh, old friend?” he muttered.

He turned to his men, blood running down his chin. “We take as many as we can! No running! No begging! WE DIE ON OUR FEET!”

They cheered — weak but steady.

When the lines met again, the world split open. No formation. No order. Just massacre.

Thorkell hacked through the fog like a beast, arrows whistling past, blood soaking his furs. He tore them free, fighting on, until the world itself began to fade.

–

The spear came from nowhere. A black haft. Perfect aim.

It hit him square through the chest.

The force drove him back a step. An axe slipped from his hand. He looked down — the shaft jutting from his ribs, blood spreading hot against the cold.

Everything went quiet.

He laughed, soft and ragged. “Heh. ’Bout damn time.”

He staggered, the world lurching. The warmth drained from him, pooling fast. His breath came thick with iron.

He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, found the braid, and clutched it tight. “Still watchin’, woman?” he rasped. “Told you I’d be home soon.”

He fell forward with a grunt. The braid slipped from his palm, landing in the snow.

–

And then —

There she was.

Standing where the smoke met the sky — wings dark as a raven’s, hair catching the sun like flame.

His heart lurched. “Y/N…”

Her eyes softened, bright with tears. She descended, her armor gleaming like molten silver. Her feet touched the snow without sound.

She smiled — that small, knowing smile that always drove him half mad.

“Didn’t think I’d see you again,” he murmured.

“I’ve been waiting,” she whispered. “You were always so slow to come home.”

He tried to smile. “You always nagged too much.”

“And you never listened.”

“Still don’t.” He coughed, blood streaking his beard, grin weak but real. “Still mad I went off fightin’?”

“Always.”

He laughed — broken, fond. “Good. Wouldn’t be you otherwise.”

When he reached for her, his fingers met warmth. For the first time in decades, he felt her hand close around his.

“It’s time,” she said gently. “Come. There’s a hall waiting for you.”

He looked past her — the horizon had changed. No battlefield. No snow. Just golden plains beneath a sky that blazed like forge-fire. Horns sounded in the distance — not of war, but welcome.

“Valhalla, eh?” he murmured.

She brushed his cheek. “You’ve earned it.”

He smiled faintly. “Aye… I’ve fought long enough.”

She leaned down and kissed him.

The wind carried his final breath into silence.

When they broke apart, he stood — whole again — holding his beloved in his arms. The blood, the wounds, all gone. Only warmth remained.

He pressed his forehead to hers. “You’ve no idea how I longed for you.”

“And I for you,” she breathed. “Far too long to waste another moment.”

He grinned — that wild, boyish grin — and this time, it reached his eyes. “Then what’re we waitin’ for?”

She laughed through tears, pulling him into another kiss.

–

The battle raged on without him. Men trampled past, shouting his name, not realizing their commander had finally fallen.

On the field below, his body lay where it fell, hand still reaching for the braid.

His men fought until the last of them were cut down, crying his name like a hymn.

Thorkell the Tall — warhound of Jomsborg, son of the storm — had fallen at last.

The world did not weep for him. It simply sighed — for the gods had sent for their wildest son, and his Valkyrie had come to bring her warrior home.

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