Cradle of Scars
Pairing : 'Giant'!Thorfinn x Tiny!Reader ᯓ★
Synopsis : Thorfinn expected another wild animal rustling in the grass. What he found instead was a child—so small they could fit in the palm of his hand, clutching a needle like it was a sword and glaring up at him with shaking defiance. Once, he would have met any ounce of fear with a blade. But Thorfinn isn’t that man anymore. With gentle patience and scarred hands that have learned how to protect instead of destroy, he offers the one thing this trembling little stranger needs most: safety.
CWs / Notes : Giant/tiny dynamics (size-difference, physical vulnerability). Child reader and adult Thorfinn (familial/protective dynamic only, non-romantic). Mentions of fear, trauma, and regretting past violence (no graphic detail/on-page violence). Themes of trust, comfort, and found family. Tooth-rotting fluff + protective giant trope. Thorfinn’s his regular human-sized self, while the reader is small (around 5 inches tall). The reader’s physical characteristics, gender, and name are ambiguous (brief use of Y/N towards the end).
WC : 2.7k , hope you enjoy reading! ♥︎
The underbrush rustled.
Thorfinn paused mid-step, his sharp eyes flicking toward the low thicket of tangled plants by the path. At first, he thought it was an animal—maybe a hare darting for cover. But then he heard something else, soft and ragged: the uneven breathing of someone trying very hard not to be heard.
Slowly, he crouched, pushing aside a branch.
Two small wide eyes stared back at him. Not an animal. A child. Small—so small his hand could cover them entirely. Certainly not taller than his knee, much, much shorter than that. The little one was trembling, their tiny fists clutching something thin and sharp.
A needle.
The child’s voice cracked, but they forced the words out anyway.
“G-get away from me, giant! I-I’ll use this if I have to!”
Thorfinn blinked. For a moment, the sight of such raw terror in those tiny eyes tugged at something deep inside him—an echo of how he had once lived, bristling with fear and rage, daring the world to hurt him first.
He slowly lifted both hands, palms open, lowering himself further until he was eye-level with the little one. His frown was soft, heavy with concern.
“Shh. It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice quieter than the wind through the grass. “I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to help, that’s all.”
The child’s hands trembled harder, needle still raised, though their gaze flicked uncertainly at his gentleness.
Thorfinn didn’t move closer. He didn’t reach, didn’t press. He only knelt there, as still and steady as a rooted tree. His scars caught the light, but his eyes—warm, earnest, and heavy with tired kindness—never wavered from theirs.
“You’ve been alone, haven’t you?” he asked softly. He tilted his head just slightly, a habit he’d picked up when trying not to loom over others. “Scared someone would find you, hurt you.”
The child swallowed, chin trembling, but said nothing.
“I know that feeling,” Thorfinn admitted, his voice low and raw with memory. “Always ready to fight. Always afraid of what comes next. It makes your chest heavy, doesn’t it?”
Their little fingers faltered on the needle.
Thorfinn let out a slow breath.
“I don’t want to be your enemy. I don’t want you to have enemies at all. No one should live like that.”
For a long moment, only the wind spoke between them. Finally, the child lowered their needle, though they still kept it clutched tight in their fist, as though afraid it would vanish if they let it go.
Seeing the gesture, Thorfinn gave the faintest of smiles, sad but hopeful. “That’s brave. You’ve had to protect yourself all this time. But… you don’t have to anymore. Not from me.”
He gently extended one of his hands, palm upturned, resting it on the ground like a broad wooden platform. No pressure. Just an offering.
“If you’ll let me, I can carry you somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. No more hiding under leaves.”
The child stared at the massive hand, then up into his scarred, weary face. For the first time, their fear gave way to hesitation—and then, just barely, to hope.
The silence between them stretched, fragile as spun glass. Thorfinn didn’t move, didn’t flinch. He only let his hand rest on the ground, palm wide and steady, like a safe harbor waiting for a storm-tossed boat.
The child’s tiny chest rose and fell too quickly, breaths shaky and uneven. They gripped the needle so tightly their knuckles went pale, eyes darting between the huge hand and the scarred face above it.
“…Y-you’ll just crush me,” they whispered at last, their voice so small it could’ve been mistaken for the rustling grass.
Thorfinn shook his head gently. “No. I won’t.” He paused, choosing his words with care, his tone hushed and steady as if speaking to a frightened bird. “I’ve spent too many years destroying. My hands… they’ve done things I regret. But I made a promise never to hurt again. Not you. Not anyone.”
The little one blinked up at him, eyes wide with disbelief, but the raw honesty in his voice was difficult to ignore.
Slowly—hesitantly—they crept forward from their patch of hiding leaves. Their steps were wobbly, like each one could be a mistake. When they reached the edge of his hand, they froze again, trembling.
Thorfinn’s hand remained unmoving, not even the twitch of a finger. “Take your time,” he murmured, watching the child with patient, softened eyes.
After another heartbeat of silence, the child scrambled onto his palm, still clutching the needle as if it were their lifeline. The broad warmth beneath them surprised them—the skin calloused, yes, but the heat radiating from it was gentle, protective.
The moment they settled onto his hand, Thorfinn exhaled softly, as though releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“You’re brave,” he praised once more. Not for pointing a weapon, not for their trembling threats, but for choosing to trust when trust had been so hard-earned.
The child’s shoulders shook, the weight of exhaustion suddenly pressing down now that they weren’t hiding anymore. They curled up in the curve of his palm, tiny knees drawn to their chest, still gripping the needle—but their head leaned against the warm skin of his hand, as though seeking comfort despite themselves.
Thorfinn’s chest ached at the sight. Carefully, so carefully, he lifted his other hand and cupped it around them like a shield, not touching, but offering a barrier against the world.
“You don’t have to fight anymore,” he whispered. “Rest. I’ll watch over you.”
For the first time, the child’s eyes fluttered closed—not fully asleep, not yet, but trusting enough to let their body sag against him.
And Thorfinn, once a boy who had known nothing but vengeance and blood, now sat as still as a sentinel, holding a trembling child in his palm as though they were the most fragile treasure in the world.
The tiny one’s breaths came slower now, evening out as their body gave in to exhaustion. Still, their little hand clutched tight around the needle, knuckles white, as though even in sleep they feared the world might lunge at them.
Thorfinn watched, his heart heavy. He remembered nights much like this—sleeping with a dagger clutched against his chest, too afraid to rest, too certain that danger was waiting for him in the dark. His scars were not just on his body, but etched deep in his memories. And now, here was this child, carrying that same burden.
He shifted slightly, his other hand curving protectively around them, the curve of his fingers forming a wall to block the wind. The warmth of his skin seeped into their tiny frame, steady and constant.
A minute passed. Then two.
And then—softly, slowly—their small fist slackened. The needle slipped from their grasp, landing with a faint tap against his palm.
Thorfinn’s breath caught.
There it was. The choice, silent but powerful. The child trusted him enough to let go. Enough to sleep unguarded in the hand of a giant.
He closed his fingers gently, just enough to keep the fallen needle from rolling away, and then let his gaze return to the tiny form curled in his palm. The corners of his mouth lifted into a faint, wistful smile.
“You’re safe now,” he whispered, voice low and tender, as though afraid to disturb the fragile peace.
The little one shifted in their sleep, curling deeper against the warmth of his skin, and Thorfinn felt the weight of that trust like a vow placed into his care.
For years he had lived to destroy. Now, he realized, this—protecting, sheltering, building a world where no child had to live in fear—this was the life he wanted.
Cradling the tiny sleeper close to his chest, Thorfinn rose to his feet. Each step was measured, quiet, steady as the beating of his heart. The needle lay secure in his hand, but it was no longer a weapon—it was just a fragment of the fear that child had carried, a fear he swore he would help them leave behind.
And as the wind whispered through the grass, Thorfinn held the fragile life against him, determined that no harm would ever reach them again.
Dawn came soft and golden, the kind of light that seeped into the world gently instead of breaking it open. Birds sang from the trees, their calls weaving with the rustle of the wind through the grass.
Thorfinn had stayed awake most of the night. He didn’t mind. His body was used to long vigils, but this was different—this wasn’t a soldier’s vigilance, fueled by suspicion. It was careful, protective watchfulness. Each time the child stirred in his palm, he adjusted his hands to keep them warm, to keep them safe.
When the first rays of sunlight touched the earth, the tiny figure finally stirred, blinking sleepily against the light. They shifted, tense for a moment—as though expecting to wake alone again, or in danger.
But then they felt it.
A steady warmth beneath them. A heartbeat deep and strong, echoing like distant drums. And when their eyes focused, they found themselves cradled in Thorfinn’s hand, his other palm curved gently overhead like a roof.
The child’s breath caught. Their eyes flicked up toward him. He wasn’t asleep—he sat there cross-legged, shoulders relaxed, his expression calm and tired, but softened with quiet patience.
“Morning,” Thorfinn said softly, his voice carrying the roughness of little rest, but also a warmth that was undeniably genuine. “You slept through the night.”
For a heartbeat, the child froze, bracing for a scolding, for danger, for loss. But none came. Thorfinn only tilted his head slightly, as if to show he meant no harm.
“You’re safe,” he reassured, voice low and steady. “No one’s going to hurt you. Not while I’m here.”
The words sank in slowly, like water seeping into dry earth. The child’s tiny shoulders trembled, and then—hesitantly, almost shyly—they leaned forward. Their little arms clung around the side of his thumb, hugging it tight as though it were a lifeline.
Then they buried their face into the pad of his thumb, hiding there.
Thorfinn stilled, his chest aching at the gesture. He hadn’t expected it—hadn’t dared to. Carefully, he shifted his thumb just enough to cradle their face, the warmth of his skin steady against them. His free fingers curled slightly around their small form, forming a protective cocoon without smothering them.
“…Thank you,” came the muffled whisper from where they hid.
Thorfinn swallowed hard, his throat tight. He gave the faintest nod, his voice nearly breaking with gentleness. “No. Thank you. For trusting me.”
The child pressed closer, clutching him tighter. For the first time in what felt like forever, they weren’t trembling from fear, but from the release of it.
And Thorfinn—once a boy who had known only vengeance—sat in the golden morning light with a tiny child curled against his thumb, vowing silently that he would never let that fragile trust be broken.
The morning stretched on quietly. The birdsong softened, and the mist that clung to the grass began to lift. The little one had not let go of Thorfinn’s thumb, their small hands still holding fast as though the world might vanish if they released him.
Thorfinn let them linger. He knew what it was like to need that tether.
But soon, he noticed the faintest rumble—so small that at first he thought he imagined it. Then the child’s face flushed, and they tried to hide deeper against his thumb.
His brows lifted slightly. “…Hungry?” he asked gently.
The little one gave no answer, but their silence was telling. Thorfinn didn’t press, only nodded and shifted to his pack resting nearby. With slow, careful movements, he broke off a piece of bread and a small strip of dried fruit. What was normal rations for him could have lasted the child several meals.
He thought for a moment, then adjusted. He used the very tip of his finger to pinch off a piece so small it wouldn’t overwhelm them, placing it in the center of his palm like an offering.
“Here,” he said softly. “Just a little to start.”
The child peeked up, hesitating. Their eyes darted between the food and his face, almost suspicious at first—then confused, then something else.
He wasn’t just feeding them. He was thinking about their size. He had noticed.
Carefully, they crawled across the warm surface of his palm and picked up the tiny piece of bread with both hands, nibbling at it. The taste must have hit them harder than expected, because their eyes watered, not from sadness this time, but from the ache of realizing someone finally cared enough to see them.
Thorfinn tilted his head slightly, watching in silence. He didn’t smile often, but the faint curve at the corner of his mouth now wasn’t forced—it was warm, quiet pride.
When the child finished the bread, he pinched off an even tinier piece of fruit and set it down beside them, as though he’d been doing this all his life.
“You don’t have to rush,” he murmured. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
The child froze mid-bite, then—almost against their own disbelief—a small smile tugged at their lips. It was tentative, fragile, but it was there.
Thorfinn’s chest ached. He lowered his free hand slowly, letting his index finger rest on the edge of his palm like a railing. “That’s good,” he said quietly. “It suits you. You should smile more.”
The child ducked their head quickly, cheeks warm, and leaned against the side of his thumb again. Their tiny frame shook not with fear, but with a kind of overwhelmed relief.
For the first time, someone wasn’t treating them like a burden. For the first time, someone had looked at their size, their fragility, and hadn’t turned away.
And Thorfinn—scarred, weary Thorfinn—sat steady and patient, feeding them with hands that once only knew destruction, now learning the gentlest kind of strength.
As the day waned and the air cooled, Thorfinn glanced down at the little one still curled in his palm. Their eyelids drooped with the heavy pull of drowsiness, though they tried to fight it, blinking rapidly. Their little head kept bobbing forward. Thorfinn huffed softly, amused. “Still awake, huh? You need somewhere better to sleep than my hand.”
He shifted, tugging at the fabric of his shirt pocket with careful fingers, he tested the size, then nodded to himself. It would do. But it needed something softer.
From his pack, he pulled out a worn handkerchief. He tore a neat square from the corner, frayed edges fluttering. Gently, he laid the small scrap onto his palm beside the child. “Here. A blanket, just for you.”
The little one blinked, then reached for it with both hands, hugging the soft cloth to their chest. Their tiny smile bloomed warm and genuine. “Th-thank you…”
Thorfinn eased them into the pocket, the fabric forming a snug little hollow. The child nestled inside immediately, clutching their makeshift blanket, then leaned their head against the steady rise of his chest. His heartbeat thrummed beneath their ear—deep, steady, safe.
After a few breaths of silence, Thorfinn tilted his head down toward them. “What’s your name, little one?”
They peeked up sleepily. “…Y/N.”
“Y/N,” Thorfinn repeated slowly, tasting the sound of it on his tongue. He gave a small, approving smile. “That’s a pretty name.”
The child tucked their chin shyly, warmth rising in their cheeks. “What’s… yours?”
“Thorfinn,” he answered simply.
“Thorfinn…” they echoed, testing it in a whisper, then giggled softly. “It fits you.”
His smile deepened, faint but true. “Does it now?”
They only nodded, snuggling deeper into the pocket, the square of cloth pulled up to their chin. The combination of warmth, a full belly, and that steady, soft heartbeat finally coaxed their small body into surrender. Their eyes fluttered closed, breathing slowing.
Thorfinn watched them for a long moment, his scarred features softening into something almost unrecognizable compared to the man he once was. He lifted a broad hand and laid his palm gently over the pocket, forming a warm shield.
“Rest well, little one,” he murmured, voice low and steady. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he added, “Papa Thorfinn’s got ya.”
For the first time in nights, his own body gave in to weariness. With the child’s tiny warmth curled against his chest and the pocket snug under his protective hand, Thorfinn finally allowed his eyes to close. His dreams were quiet, his heart lighter, because for once his hands were not weapons—they were a shelter.
A/N : FIRST-EVER g/t writing I’ve published—aaa! I’m so happy but also veryyy nervous, ack. Sorry if I completely butchered Thorfinn’s character; I tried my best to stay accurate. Oh, and I think I might be the first person to ever publish Vinland Saga g/t content… maybe not, but I can’t find anything online! So It’s cool to potentially be the first person to do so. Also, please feel free to leave any comments! I’d absolutely love to get feedback.
