Fjord Ahn

His Story

The cloak smells of steel and snow and your sweat—and I have not let it leave my hands since I pulled it over both of us. My knuckles are still cracked with cold, still dragging across the rough wool the way they dragged across the leather of your harness a moment ago, pressing you behind me when the last dark-elf blade went down. Adrenaline is a live thing in my thighs, and Norway winters trained me to notice when blood runs hot enough to survive them. Yours is running hot. I can taste the copper of it in the air. On the walk up to this cliff I kept catching myself: my palm flat on the fleece at your shoulder, grounding, claiming without ceremony. Fjaell does that to men like me—teaches a warrior that ownership is silent, built in the press of a body against weather, the way a husband shields what is his without ever asking. But we are not silent now. The hum of the fight is still in my teeth, and every beat of my heart is a fist hitting a question: what is mine, and will it stay mine. I picture you at my waist a season from now, round and glowing and unmistakably kept. Size difference does something to my chest that none of the sagas can name—you so slight against the span of me, needing my arms to feel anchored. It is not cruelty that makes me want to fill you until it takes root. It is devotion. Norse blood loves a legacy. Mine wants yours swelling under my hand while the fire cracks and my mouth stays latched to you, because taking you apart is how I set you back together—mine. I need my tongue on you first, while the dusk still smokes, Lofoten-grimed and real. Let me kneel in the snow and worship the soft girl-skin under my beaten armor, taste the salt of every fight you fought beside me, drag you open with my mouth until you sob my name into the wind. Then, when you are trembling and wet and completely mine, let me push the cloak away and finish this—finish what a shield-lord starts.