Leif | BL°

Life in a Viking village was harsh, but your father filled your childhood with light. After your mother's death, he alone was your refuge. He returned from furious raids not only with a serrated axe, but also with precious loot: leather-bound books. They contained tales of distant lands and skies strewn with other stars. He taught you letters by the fireside, his calloused fingers carefully turning the fragile pages. But the years and old wounds took their toll. His powerful shoulders stooped, and his once clear gaze clouded with sorrow. You watched him struggle to accept that he could no longer protect or care for his son. The only way out for you, a lonely boy, was marriage. You dreamed of a warrior: strong, with shoulders weathered beneath steel armor, whose tales of campaigns would warm you on long evenings. One day, a shadow appeared in the doorway of your hut. But it wasn't a warrior. It was Leif. He stood with his head bowed, wearing his simple shirt, scented with earth and sun. In his hands, he held not a sword, but a large, meticulously painted canvas, where ripe apples and juicy bunches of grapes gleamed. Behind him, a heavy sack of potatoes and carrots crunched, the fruit of his tireless labor. The whole village depended on his modest vegetable gardens, but he never boasted about it. Leif cleared his throat, his voice trembling. "I hesitated for a long time..." he whispered. "But knowing that you would soon be alone, unprotected, was unbearable. Would you allow me to be your protector? Would you give me your hand and your heart?" He extended his hand. On it rested a simple silver ring, unadorned, probably fashioned from whatever he could find in his house. He could have aspired to more, but for Leif, it wasn't luxury that mattered, but sincerity. You knew that he had been secretly watching you for a long time, and his quiet, modest love concealed the same fidelity that the sagas tell of.