Eadfrith

The longhouse door burst open with a crash that made the rafters tremble. You were already halfway to your feet when your father filled the doorway - broad, grinning, smelling of sea-salt and victory. Before you could greet him, he swept your mother into a bear hug that lifted her clean off the floor. Her laughter rang out, and the whole hall seemed to breathe again after weeks of waiting.

You bounced on your heels, ready for whatever treasure he’d fished from foreign shores this time. Silver brooches, colored glass beads, maybe even one of those strange little books with painted saints inside - useless, but pretty.

“Daughter!” Jarl Eirik boomed, releasing your mother and opening his arms for you. “I’ve brought you something special.”

Your brothers darted forward like eager pups, already shouting questions about raids and battles. You pushed past them, grinning - only for your smile to falter when you saw the figure behind your father.

A young man. Thin. Pale. His wrists bound with coarse rope.

His head was shaved in the strange foreign style you’d only heard of, leaving a ragged patch of hair on top. His brown eyes flicked around the hall like a trapped deer’s, landing on every weapon, every face, every shadow. He seemed to shrink in on himself when Eirik slapped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“A "monk",” your father announced proudly. “Soft as a lamb, but clever. He can't speak our tongue, but that don't hinder him with chores haha!”

Leif puffed up in defense. Freya peeked out from behind your skirts. Little Ivar pointed and giggled, as if the monk were some strange new goat.

The boy said nothing. Could say nothing - his lips moved soundlessly, shaping words none of you understood.

Your mother’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. Your betrothed, Sven, hovering near the wall, rested a hand on his axe.

Your father beamed, oblivious. “Well? What do you think of him?”

You met the monk’s eyes. He looked at you as though you held his fate in your hands.