Whispers of the sea

CHAPTER: ONE

[Thorfinn x reader]

The air is thick with smoke and the sharp, metallic scent of blood, a grim reminder of the raid that has just swept through the village. The sun is dipping low, casting an eerie red light over the scattered ruins—homes burned to the ground, bodies left behind like discarded pieces of a game. The village is silent now, save for the warriors—some boasting of their kills, others counting their spoils. But most of them are eerily still, their eyes distant, as if the bloodshed no longer means anything to them.

You push forward, your arms sore from the weight of the basket filled with bread and salted meat. Your master had ordered you to deliver the food to the raiders. It doesn't matter that they've taken everything from you—your village, your family, your very freedom. It's all the same. They're nothing more than blood-hungry devils in your eyes, and you hate them for it.

As you make your way through the wreckage, you try to avoid the warriors' gaze. Their eyes are predatory, scanning you with a cold, appraising look that sends a shiver down your spine. You've learned long ago to keep your head down, to stay out of their way. There's no point in seeing them as anything but animals—dangerous ones, who only understand strength and fear. You hate them all. Every last one.

But there's one, just one, that stands out in a way you can't shake.

A young man, sitting alone.

He's apart from the others, his back against a stone wall, his arms folded tightly across his chest. His blonde hair is a mess, tangled by the wind and the chaos of the raid, and there's a bruise on his cheek that looks fresh. The sight of him stirs something in you, but it's not pity or sympathy—it's disgust. He's just like the rest of them, isn't he? Another bloodthirsty warrior who takes what he wants without remorse.

You want to turn away, to ignore him like you do with all the others. But there's something about him that makes it hard to look away. His eyes—those cold, dead eyes—are locked somewhere in the distance, filled with a sadness that seems to haunt him. It's a look you've seen before, in other warriors. But it doesn't matter. No matter the sorrow in his gaze, he's still one of them. He's still a killer. And killers don't deserve your sympathy.

Your fingers tighten around the basket, and you force yourself to keep walking.

But then, inexplicably, you stop.

You're not sure why you do it. Maybe it's the way he sits so still, like a wolf among sheep. Maybe it's because something in his gaze is different from the others—there's an emptiness in it, something that reminds you of your own suffering. Or maybe it's just pure curiosity. You don't pity him, and you certainly don't feel guilty for the carnage he's part of. But you can't help but wonder. Wonder what's behind that empty stare, what kind of man could wear such a look.

You stand there, torn for a moment. Your heart is hard—hardened by years of suffering, of watching people like him destroy everything you've known. But there's still that question, lingering in the back of your mind. What's it like, to be someone like him? Someone who causes pain without even flinching?

You take a breath, then slowly, carefully, you walk toward him. Every step feels heavy, as if your feet are dragging you against your will. But your curiosity pulls you forward, against your better judgment.

When you reach him, you stop just a few feet away. He doesn't look up at first, and you wonder if he even noticed you. But eventually, his eyes flicker in your direction—cold, dull eyes that seem to hold the weight of the world.

"Food," you say, your voice flat, without any warmth. You don't owe him anything. Not even the courtesy of a polite tone.

He doesn't say anything at first, just looks at you. His gaze seems to pierce through you, as though he's studying you in return, but there's no real interest in his expression. Just that same emptiness. Then, slowly, he reaches out and takes the bread and meat from your hands. His fingers brush yours, and you feel a jolt of something—a fleeting touch that makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. You immediately pull your hand back, as if to shield yourself from the contact.

He doesn't thank you. He doesn't ask your name. He just takes what he wants, like all the others. And that's what he is. A monster in human skin, no different from the rest.

But still, a small, nagging part of you watches him as he begins to eat. It's a fleeting curiosity, nothing more, but it lingers. What kind of person could sit in the middle of all this destruction and not even flinch? Could he even feel anything at all?

You shake your head, willing the thought away. It doesn't matter. You know who he is—a warrior, a killer, just like the others. He doesn't deserve your pity. He doesn't deserve your curiosity either, but you can't help it.

You turn away, your chest tight with a mixture of disdain and something you can't quite name. You force your feet to carry you back toward your duties, the basket still heavy in your hands.

But as you walk away, you can't stop your mind from wandering back to him, that strange, sad look in his eyes.

You hate yourself for it.

𝐄𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫