#thrall

Freedom is a ghost. It is a concept your mind cannot yet hold, a word that does not exist in the guttural bark of this Northern tongue, and certainly not for a woman with invisible chains on her spirit. So, when the Giant—Ubbe—presses a heavy pouch of chopped silver into your palm and points a calloused finger toward the market stalls, you do not think you are free. You think you are a trusted hound being sent to fetch the kill.

“Krydd,” he grunts, miming the action of sprinkling something over meat. “Aftur. Fljótt.”

You nod, clutching the pouch to your chest until the jagged edges of the silver bite into your skin. To lose this would be death. To fail him would be worse.

But the air outside the longhouse is crisp, smelling of salt-spray and pine resin, and for the first time in months, no one looks at you with hunger. You wear a dress of blue wool now, thick and scratchy against your skin, pinned with bronze brooches that Ubbe fastened himself because your fingers were too cold to work the clasps. It is not the silk of Frankia, but it covers your shame.

You walk through the muddy lanes of the settlement, your boots squelching in the slush. You keep your head down, playing the part of the invisible thrall, bypassing the stalls selling iron weapons and wolf pelts. You stop at a table laden with dried roots and bundles of herbs.

The smell hits you—a phantom memory. Angelica. Dried dill. Mustard seeds.

It is not the lavender of your father’s garden, nor the costly saffron of the court, but it is the scent of a kitchen. It is the scent of order.

You barter with hand gestures and the few rough numbers you have learned, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. The merchant, a woman with a face like a dried apple, takes the silver. She hands you the bundles wrapped in rough linen.

For a heartbeat, standing there with the weak winter sun warming your face and the smell of herbs on your hands, the knot of terror in your chest loosens. You are not just meat. You are the lady of a house again, seeing to the comfort of her lord. It is a small, fragile joy, but you drink it down like sweet wine.

Then, you see the shadows lengthening. The sun is dipping below the fjord’s edge.

Panic. Cold and sharp.

You are late. The master will be waiting. The fire will have burned low. You turn and run, your skirts heavy with mud, clutching the spices to your chest as if they are the Crown Jewels of Frankia.

You burst through the heavy wood door of the cabin, breathless, your lungs burning from the sharp intake of cold air.

Steam billows out to greet you, blinding and white.

The main room is filled with a warm, wet fog that smells of woodsmoke and hot stones. In the center, near the hearth fire, sits a large wooden tub.

Ubbe is inside it.

He is leaning back, his head resting against the rim of the wood, eyes closed. The water is high, steaming hot, covering the intricate, dark ink of the tattoos on his chest, but his knees break the surface—islands of scarred flesh and blond hair. His hair, usually bound in tight, severe warrior braids that pull at his scalp, is loose today. It floats in the water like a halo of dark gold seaweed, softening the hard planes of his face.

You freeze. The basket of herbs slips from your numb fingers and hits the table with a rattle.

Ubbe’s eyes fly open. He tenses, a warrior’s reflex, water splashing over the side as his hand shoots out for a weapon that isn't there. For a split second, you see the killer in him—the man who breaks shield-walls.

But when he sees it is you, the violence bleeds out of his shoulders instantly. He sinks back down, a small, tired breath escaping his lips. He looks at you—at your heaving chest, your wind-reddened cheeks, the sheer, frantic life in your eyes.

To Ubbe, you look like a spirit. He was watching the door, a knot of irrational worry tightening in his gut that perhaps you wouldn’t return, that the earth had swallowed you whole. Seeing you now, flushed and breathless, he feels a sudden, sharp pang of want that has nothing to do with having his bath attended. He wants to cross the room and warm his hands on your cheeks.

You rush forward. You drop to your knees beside the tub, ignoring the wetness soaking into the hem of your new wool dress. You are terrified you have displeased him by your absence. You reach for the block of animal-fat soap and the rough linen cloth on the stool.

"I am sorry," you whisper in Frankia, your hands shaking as you lather the cloth. "I am sorry, I lost the sun."

Ubbe watches you. He does not understand your frantic apology, but he understands the tremble in your hands. He hates that tremble. He hates that you still look at him as if he is a wolf waiting to bite.

He catches your wrist.

His hand is wet and hot, large enough to circle your wrist twice over with room to spare. He does not pull; he just holds you still, anchoring you to the moment.

"Rólegur," he murmurs, his voice a deep rumble that you feel in your knees. Calm.

He guides your hand to the water, releasing you.

You begin to wash his arm. Your touch is firm but reverent, scrubbing away the mud of the training yard, the soot of the smithy. You move to his shoulder, tracing the heavy muscle, cleaning the white, jagged lines of old scars. The skin is hot under your fingers, the texture rough with hair and exposure.

You look at him for the first time without the filter of pure terror. He is a pagan savage, yes. A destroyer of your world. But beneath your hand, he is warm. He is solid. He is... magnificent. There is a raw, unpolished beauty to him, like a cliff face carved by the sea. You find yourself lingering on a scar that runs across his bicep, wondering what blade made it, wondering if it hurt.

Ubbe watches your face. He sees the concentration there, the way you bite your lip when you scrub a stubborn spot of pine pitch from his elbow. He watches your lashes flutter against your cheek. He thinks about how small your hands are compared to his, and the contrast makes his chest ache.

He wants to hear your voice. He wants to know the sounds you make when you are not begging for your life.

He reaches out with his other hand and taps the bar of soap you are holding.

"Sápa," he says clearly.

You blink, looking up at him through the steam. He taps it again, his eyes crinkling. "Sápa."

You realize what he is doing. You look at the yellow block. "Sápa," you whisper, testing the strange, round vowel on your tongue.

Ubbe smiles. It is a slow, lazy thing that transforms his face. He trails his wet fingers through the water, creating ripples.

"Vatn."

"Vatn," you repeat.

He touches the linen cloth in your hand. "Klút."

"Klút."

He pauses, then points to his own eye. It is blue and unblinking, fixed on you.

"Augu," he says softly.

You stare into that blue depth. "Augu," you whisper.

Then, a sudden burst of bravery—or perhaps curiosity—takes hold of you. You point to your own eye.

"Les yeux," you say in Frankish.

Ubbe blinks, surprised. He tilts his head, water dripping from his beard. He tries to form the soft, sliding sound of your language. "Lez... yew."

It is clumsy. It sounds barbaric and sweet all at once. A giggle bubbles up in your throat—a tiny, shocked sound. You clamp a hand over your mouth, terrified you have insulted him.

But Ubbe throws his head back and laughs—a booming, joyous sound that bounces off the rafters. "Lez yew," he tries again, grinning at you.

"Good," he says in his own tongue, looking absurdly proud of himself.

You move behind him to wash his hair. You cup the water in your hands, pouring it over his head. You work the soap into the thick, coarse strands, your fingers massaging his scalp.

Ubbe lets out a sound—a low, guttural groan of pleasure that vibrates through the wood of the tub and straight into your belly. His head falls forward, exposing the nape of his neck to you.

It is an intimate act. To wash a man’s hair is to hold him at his most vulnerable. He trusts you not to hurt him. He trusts you with his blind side. And you... you find you want to be worthy of that trust. You find yourself massaging deeper, wanting to soothe the tension he carries.

You rinse the suds away, watching the water cascade down the broad expanse of his back. You trace the line of his spine with the cloth, feeling the ridge of muscle shift beneath the skin. The heat in the room seems to rise. The air feels heavy, charged with something that isn't just steam. It is the static electricity of two bodies existing in a small space, stripping away the layers of master and thrall.

Ubbe turns in the water. He looks at you. His lashes are wet, clumped together, framing eyes that are darkened by the heat—and by something else. Hunger? No, not hunger. Reverence.

He looks at your mouth. Then he looks at your hands, red and chapped from the cold market.

He stands up.

Water cascades off him like a mountain shedding a river. He is naked, unashamed, a towering figure of male power. The firelight catches the water droplets on his skin, turning them to liquid gold. You instinctively look down, your face burning hot, clutching the wet cloth to your chest, but the image of him is burned into your mind. He is not a monster. He is a man. A man built for war, but standing before you in peace.

He steps out of the tub and wraps a towel around his waist.

You immediately scramble to grab the heavy wooden bucket to bail the dirty water. It is thrall’s work. Heavy, back-breaking work.

A large hand covers yours on the handle.

Ubbe shakes his head. "Nei."

He takes the bucket from you. Effortlessly, the muscles in his back flexing like coiled ropes beneath the damp skin, he begins to empty the tub, tossing the grey, soapy water out the door into the night.

You stand frozen near the hearth, confusion warring with fear. What is he doing? Masters do not clean. Masters do not carry.

Ubbe refills the tub with fresh, clean water from the barrel. He takes the hot stones from the fire—stones he must have placed there before you returned—and drops them into the water with a hiss of steam that sounds like a living thing exhaling. He tosses in a handful of the dried herbs you bought, crushing them in his massive fist until the oils release, and suddenly the air smells of dill, crushed pine, and clean earth.

He walks to the door and slides the heavy timber bolt into place. Thunk.

The sound is final. The world is locked out. The cold, the mud, the cruelty of his brothers—it is all gone. It is just the crackle of the fire, the lapping of water, and the two of you.

He turns to you. He points to the tub.

"You," he says.

You take a step back, shaking your head, clutching your skirts. "No... no, master. I cannot. It is forbidden."

Ubbe sighs, a sound of frustration at the barrier between you. He walks over to you. He does not grab you. He takes your shoulders—his hands warm and heavy, the heat seeping through the wool—and turns you toward the bath.

He walks around to the other side of the tub and turns his back to you. He crosses his massive arms over his chest and stares at the wall.

He is giving you privacy. He is giving you dignity.

Trembling, your fingers fumbling with the bronze brooches, you peel off the heavy wool dress. It falls to the floor with a soft rustle. You step out of your linen shift. You are shivering, not from cold, but from exposure. You feel the ghost of every eye that has looked at you with malice since you were taken.

You step into the water.

It is hot—gloriously, bitingly hot. You sink down, the water rising to your chin, the heat seeping into your bones, dissolving the knot of fear in your stomach. You close your eyes, a small whimper of relief escaping your throat.

You hear Ubbe move. You stiffen, curling your knees to your chest to hide yourself.

He does not loom over you. He kneels.

He kneels on the hard earth floor beside the tub, just as you knelt for him. The firelight dances over his bare chest, highlighting the ink and the scars, turning him into a pagan idol of gold and shadow. He picks up the klút. He picks up the sápa.

He looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable in the firelight. He holds up the cloth, asking a silent question. May I?

You stare at him, water dripping from your hair, your heart hammering against your ribs. You give a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Ubbe reaches out. He does not touch your breasts or your thighs. He takes your hand.

He lifts your hand from the water. It is red, chapped, the nails broken from weeks of scrubbing floors. It is a hand that has forgotten what it means to be held.

He soaps the cloth. With infinite, painstaking gentleness, he begins to wash your fingers. He cleans the dirt from under your nails. He rubs the soothing fat into the cracks of your knuckles. His thumb brushes against your palm—a slow, rhythmic stroke that sends a jolt of lightning straight to your belly.

He treats your hand as if it is a holy relic. As if you are holy.

He moves to your arm, washing the skin with slow, deliberate strokes. He pushes the wet cloth up to your elbow, then your shoulder. His eyes are focused on his task, watching the water sluice over your pale skin, but you are focused on him. On the way the firelight catches the gold in his beard. On the tenderness of a man who could snap your neck with one hand, but instead chooses to wash the mud from your skin.

He drops the cloth. He does not need it anymore.

He dips his hand into the water, slick with soap, and touches your neck. His fingers are rough, calloused from the axe handle, but the friction against your soft, wet skin sends a shiver racing down your spine. He traces the line of your throat, his thumb resting in the hollow of your collarbone.

He looks up then. His eyes lock onto yours.

The air is thick, suffocatingly intimate. His pupils are blown wide, swallowing the blue, dark with a hunger that terrifies and thrills you. He is not looking at a thrall. He is looking at a woman. He is looking at you.

You can feel the heat coming off him, smelling of soap and male skin. You inadvertently lean into his touch, your lips parting. Ubbe’s gaze drops to your mouth, and you see his throat work as he swallows. The tension is a pulled bowstring, humming between you.

He takes your clean, warm hand and places it against his own chest, directly over the thudding beat of his heart.

You can feel the life in him, strong and steady and powerful. His skin is damp and hot under your palm.

He points to you, his finger tracing a line from your eyes to your heart. Then to himself. He moves his hand back and forth between you, level, straight. No master. No slave.

"Jafn," he whispers, the word rough with emotion, heavy with a promise he hasn't yet made aloud. Equal.

You do not know the word. But as he dips his hand back into the water to cup the back of your neck, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin behind your ear, you understand the meaning. You understand that he is offering you his strength, not to rule you, but to hold you up.

And for the first time since Frankia fell, you do not look away. You hold his gaze, breathless and burning, and you let him see that you are no longer afraid.