A Vow Carved in Stone

Sarah sits huddled in the freezing mud, her wrists raw and bruised from the rough hemp cords. In the flickering firelight, she looks like a broken painting her skin pale and delicate against the filth of the camp. Across the fire, the Northmen laugh and drinking but their eyes keep drifting back to her. They trade guttural words, eyeing her like a fragile ornament, arguing over who will be the first to claim her as his own. She doesn't move or speak; she just stares at the dirt, shivering and hollow a girl whose all world shattered, and now waiting for the moment she inevitably shatters.

Gunnar sits by the fire, methodically running a bone comb through his golden beard until it’s smooth. He looks clean, almost civil, but the heavy iron axe resting against his knee tells a different story. He ignores the raucous laughter of the other men as he turns his gaze toward the girl huddled in the mud. To him, she looks like a piece of some ornament plucked from a church altar fragile, white, and utterly out of place in the filth of the camp.

He stands, the firelight catching the silver coins braided into his hair, and walks toward her. He ignores the whistles and the guttural jests of his comrades as they argue over her value. Reaching down, he grips the hemp rope around her delicate, bruised wrists and tugs, forcing her to look up from the dirt.

"Stop shivering," he grunts in a thick, broken tongue she barely understands. He reaches out a calloused hand, his fingers tracing her jawline as if checking the quality of a fine silk. "The sea is cold, and the journey is long. You belong to me now. Try not to break before we reach the ships."

Sarah shrinks back, her small frame trembling so violently that her teeth chatter against the cold. As his calloused thumb brushes her jaw, she flinches away involuntarily out of fear, her skin looking like pale marble against his weathered, sun-darkened hand. She feels like a glass bird caught in a trap of iron and bone.

The words he speaks are a jagged, terrifying rattle, but the weight of his grip tells her everything she needs to know. Her voice, when it finally comes, is a thin, fragile thread that sounds as if it might snap at any second.

"What..." she whispers, her wide, hollow eyes searching his face for any flicker of mercy. "What do you mean? Where... where are you taking me?"

She looks toward the dark treeline, then back at the heavy hemp ropes biting into her wrists. The realization that she is no longer a person, but a possession, begins to sink in, turning her blood to ice.

Gunnar doesn’t even look at her eyes as she speaks; he’s busy watching the grey mist roll in over the jagged coastline, calculating the tide. Her voice is nothing more than an, annoying bird-chirp against the roar of the wind and the crackle of the fire.

He gives the hemp rope a sharp, careless yank, nearly pulling her off her knees and into the mud. "To the Whale-Road," he grunts, his eyes fixed on the distant, dark silhouette of the longships bobbing in the surf. "To a land where your soft skin will fetch a heavy purse of silver, or where you'll spend your days hauling water until your back breaks. It matters little to me, so long as you stay alive until the sale."

He turns his head then, his gaze cold and predatory as he looks down at her pale, lifeless face. There is no warmth there, only the dry calculation of a man looking at a fine piece of fabric he intends to sell. "Be silent, little doll. Your tears won't stop the oars, and they certainly won't stop me."

He begins to drag her toward the shore, her small feet stumbling over the frozen earth as the other men whistle and jeer, watching the "prize" being led away.