The Ash-wolf's vow

by Yimmie

Summary:

Tutor and Yim were good friends as the sons of the two most important people in Fjordheim but tragedy struck.. a baseless accusations that led to a fight and the death of Tutor’s father.

No one knows who exactly was responsible for his death but all Tutor knew was the Chief's family was at fault and he swore to make every single one of them pay... including Yim but Yim’s price was going to be different.. that was his vow

Chapter 1

Notes:

I have been lurking for a while... I am a dark story enthusiast but there's not enough of them for this pair (which makes sense cause they are so vanilla) but regardless I am going to change that.

I got the story idea from lord of the rings animation my little sister was watching.. didn't watch it but saw some scenes that inspired this fic.

Hope you read the tags.. the story contains lots of non consensual elements won't be explicitly written though.... it is a vikings AU.. personally I wouldn't call this dark romance cause I don't find anything here romantic...

Lastly, this is merely fiction, nothing to do with the people themselves, also I do not condone the action in this fiction

The wind that swept down from the snow-capped mountains of the North carried the scent of pine, iron, and salt from the distant sea. But for Tutor, son of Bjorn the Shipwright, it would forever after carry the stench of smoke and betrayal.

 

Fjordheim was not a large village, but it was strong, nestled in the protective embrace of the fjord. Its strength came from two pillars: the leadership of Chief Rangvald and the craftsmanship of Bjorn, whose hands could shape oak into dragons that conquered the waves. Their sons were a testament to this bond.

 

Yim was the youngest of Chief Rangvald’s four sons. Where his older brothers—Thorgrim, Kettil, and Einar—were broad-shouldered, loud, and forged in the fire of the training yard, Yim was different.

 

He was slighter, built with a lean grace more suited to navigating the treacherous rocks along the shore than hefting a broadaxe. His hands, quick and clever, were better at tying complex sailing knots, carving intricate patterns into antler, or mixing poultices for the wounded than wrapping around a sword hilt.

 

His brothers, fiercely protective, called him their "little fox," a creature of cleverness, not brute strength. They shielded him, sometimes smotheringly, from the harshest realities of their world.

 

Tutor, the shipwright’s son, was built of sturdier stuff, his frame promising the same broad strength as his father’s. But his mind was like Yim’s: sharp, observant, curious. He was the only one who never treated Yim as fragile. To Tutor, Yim’s differences weren't weaknesses; they were what made him fascinating.

 

They were inseparable. They’d fish for trout in the icy streams, Tutor teaching Yim how to throw a spear, Yim showing Tutor the hidden pools where the largest fish hid. They’d lie on the sun-warmed rocks of the fjord, dreaming of the lands they would see when they were old enough to crew one of Bjorn’s magnificent longships together.

 

The crack that shattered their world began with a lean winter. The harvest was poor, the hunting thinner. Tensions, usually buried under camaraderie, began to surface. Whispers started in Rangvald’s longhouse, fed by the jealous mutterings of his huscarls. They grumbled that Bjorn’s new longship, a beautiful, sleek vessel, had cost too much grain, too much silver. That the shipwright’s family ate well while others went hungry.

 

The end came on a day sharp with the coming frost. Chief Rangvald stood on the high platform before the assembled clan, his three eldest sons flanking him like grim statues. Yim stood slightly behind them, a nervous frown on his face.

 

“A trading ship,” Rangvald’s voice boomed, cold and hard, “laden with grain from the south, paid for from our shared stores, has been lost. Lost to ‘storms’.” He spat the word. His eyes, cold as fjord ice, locked on Bjorn. “The silver for that grain was in your keeping, Shipwright. And now, your new ship sits finished, while our children’s bellies grow hollow.”

 

A murmur of unease ran through the crowd. Tutor, standing beside his father, felt a hot flush of anger. “That is a lie!” Bjorn roared, his honest face contorted in outrage. “The silver was paid! The storms in the Narrow Sea are known to all! This is madness!”

 

“The only madness is your greed!” Thorgrim, the eldest son, shouted, stepping forward, his hand on his axe.

 

What happened next was a blur of movement, fear, and ignited rage. A huscarl shoved Bjorn. Tutor moved to defend his father. Einar, ever impulsive, drew his seax. A shield was raised, an axe was swung not in strike but in threat, and in the chaotic press of bodies, a spear—thrown from the crowd by whose hand, none would ever agree—found its mark.

 

Silence.

 

Tutor watched, the world narrowing to a single, horrifying point. His father staggered, a look of profound surprise on his face, then collapsed to the hard earth, the life bleeding out of him onto the soil of the village he had helped build.

 

The silence was broken by Rangvald’s voice, cold and final. “Treachery has met its end. The family of the oath-breaker is outlawed. They have until dawn to be gone from Fjordheim.”

 

That night, under a sliver of a cold moon, Yim found Tutor at the sacred grove on the outskirts of the village. Tutor was tearing at the earth with his bare hands, his body shaking with silent, violent sobs.

 

“Tutor…” Yim’s voice was a broken thing.

 

Tutor whirled. The boy Yim knew was gone, replaced by a creature of pure pain and fury. His eyes were wild, gleaming with unshed tears and a promise of violence that made Yim take a step back.

 

“Your father,” Tutor hissed, the words dripping venom. “Your brothers. They stood there. They did nothing.”

 

“I… I don’t believe it,” Yim stammered, his own tears falling. “It was a mistake, a tragedy! I will talk to them, I will make them see—”

 

“See what?” Tutor closed the distance between them in two swift strides. His hand shot out, not to strike, but to grip Yim’s chin, forcing him to look into the abyss of his eyes. It wasn’t a caress; it was a branding. “The truth is your father is a murderer and a usurper. My father’s blood seals his right to rule. You are all part of it.”

 

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that was more terrifying than any scream. “Listen to me, Yim. Listen well. I am leaving tonight. But I swear on the All-Father, on my father’s soul screaming in Valhalla, I will return.”

 

He tightened his grip, his thumb stroking almost tenderly over Yim’s cheekbone, a grotesque parody of their former affection.

 

“I will burn your father’s hall to the ground. I will sink his ships. I will slaughter his huscarls and see your mighty brothers broken at my feet. I will wipe the name of Rangvald from the memory of this earth until it is nothing but ash on the wind.”

 

His other hand came up, trapping Yim’s face, forcing their eyes to stay locked.

 

“Everything,” Tutor vowed, his breath ghosting over Yim’s lips. “Everything will burn. But not you. You will not die. You will watch it all. You will see the price of what your family took from me. And when it is done, you will be mine. You will belong to the Ash-Wolf. This is my vow.”

 

He released him then, and turned away, disappearing into the dark of the trees, leaving Yim alone, shaking, the chilling promise searing itself into his very soul.

---

In Fjordheim...

 

The five winters that followed the exile of the shipwright’s family were not kind to Yim. An invisible wall descended between him and his family, built from the bricks of his doubt and their certainty.

 

His father, Chief Rangvald, grew harder, more paranoid. The death of Bjorn was a ghost that haunted his hall. He spoke of it only as a necessary act, a purging of a cancer. Yim’s brothers, especially Thorgrim, the heir, embraced this narrative wholly.

 

Their protection of Yim curdled into something more stifling. They saw his quiet sadness not as grief, but as weakness. His questions about that day were met with dismissive grunts or sharp rebukes.

 

“Forget the outcast, little brother,” Thorgrim would say, clapping a heavy, patronizing hand on Yim’s shoulder. “His blood was tainted by his father’s greed. You are too soft-hearted. The world is hard. We must be harder.”

 

They tried to harden him. They dragged him to the training yard, forcing a heavy sword into his hands. Yim’s wrists ached, his technique was clumsy, and the laughter of the other warriors burned worse than any blisters. Kettil would try to “teach” him by knocking him into the dirt over and over. “Get up! Be a man!” he’d bark. Einar, the youngest of the three but still a brute, would just shake his head in disappointment.

 

Yim withdrew. He found solace not in the clang of iron, but in the company of the village skald, learning the old stories and how to play the lyre. He spent more time with the healers, his clever hands learning the art of herbs and stitching wounds. He would often walk the cliffs, staring out at the endless sea, wondering where Tutor was, if he was even alive.

 

The memory of Tutor’s vow was a cold knot in his stomach. He was the only one who seemed to remember the boy Tutor had been, not the monster his family had created. He lived in a gilded cage of his family’s making, loved yet misunderstood, protected yet a prisoner.

 

In the Wider World...

 

Tutor’s exile was a descent into a cold hell. The first winter was a brutal fight for survival. His mother, weakened by grief, succumbed to a fever within months. His little sister, he entrusted to a sympathetic farming family far from the sea, paying them with the last of his mother’s jewelry. He was alone, with nothing but his rage and his vow.

 

He found his way to the court of Jarl Sigurd, a rival chieftain known for his ruthlessness and his hatred of Rangvald. Tutor did not beg for shelter. He walked into the great hall, covered in grime and hardened by loss, and looked the Jarl in the eye. “I am Tutor,son of Bjorn the Shipwright, slain by Rangvald’s treachery,” he announced, his voice flat and cold. “Give me an axe and a place on your raiding ships. I will earn my keep. And one day, I will offer you the plunder of Fjordheim itself.”

 

Jarl Sigurd saw not a boy, but a weapon waiting to be sharpened. He agreed.

 

Tutor embraced the brutality of his new life. He fought in the shield wall with a terrifying, silent fury. He didn’t raid for glory or for Odin; he raided for revenge. Each battle was practice. Each village they burned was a rehearsal for Fjordheim. He earned a name for himself: Ask-Ulfr – the Ash-Wolf, for he left nothing but smoldering ruins in his wake.

 

He grew into his frame, his body becoming a network of hard muscle and scars. His face, once quick to smile, was set in a permanent grimace of cold intensity. But his mind, sharpened by Yim’s cleverness in their youth, remained his greatest weapon. He learned strategy, logistics, how to inspire fear and loyalty in equal measure among the other outcasts and hardened warriors who began to flock to his banner.

 

He never spoke of Yim. But at night, when the sea was calm and the stars were out, he would remember not the vow he made, but the boy he made it to. The memory was not one of affection, but of possession. Yim was the one pure, beautiful thing from that old life, the prize he would claim from the ashes. He was the symbol of everything Rangvald had, and everything Tutor would take.

 

Five winters passed. The Ash-Wolf was no longer just a warrior in Jarl Sigurd’s retinue; he was a war-leader in his own right, with a personal crew of loyal, vicious men. He had his own longship, its dragonhead prow carved not by his father’s loving hand, but by his own, a twisted, snarling thing.

 

He stood at the helm of that ship one evening, looking east towards Fjordheim. The time for waiting was over. The rehearsal was done. He turned to his crew,their faces eager for blood and plunder. “Ready the oars,”the Ash-Wolf commanded, his voice the grind of stone on stone. “We sail for home.”

Chapter 2

The attack did not come at dawn. It came in the deepest hour of the night, under a moon shrouded by fast-moving clouds. The Ash-Wolf had learned more than just brutality in his exile; he had learned the art of terror.

 

The first thing Fjordheim knew of its doom was the smell of smoke.

 

Not from hearths, but from the outer watchtowers, set ablaze by silent, shadowy figures who had slipped ashore. Then, the echoing, mournful blast of the war-horn—not Fjordheim’s alarm, but a deep, chilling note from the sea, answered by two more from the flanks. They were surrounded.

 

Chaos erupted. Men stumbled from their longhouses, scrambling for shields and weapons. Women screamed, gathering children to flee inland, only to find the paths blocked by grim-faced warriors whose armor bore the sigil of Jarl Sigurd.

 

From the black water, three longships emerged, beaching themselves on the familiar shingle with a dreadful, final crunch. At the prow of the central ship stood a figure who seemed carved from the night itself. Clad in blackened mail, a wolf pelt across his shoulders, his face was a mask of cold fury beneath a helm adorned with raven’s wings. The Ash-Wolf had come home.

 

The fighting was fierce but hopelessly one-sided. Rangvald’s huscarls were brave, but they were disorganized and outflanked. Tutor’s warriors were hungry, disciplined, and fueled by the promise of utter conquest. The air filled with the cacophony of war: the gut-wrenching crunch of axe on shield, the screams of the dying, the roaring of flames consuming the smaller homes.

 

In Rangvald's Hall:

 

Inside the great longhouse, Chief Rangvald was buckling on his breastplate, his face a thundercloud. Thorgrim, Kettil, and Einar were already armed, their faces set in grim determination.

 

“Sigurd’s dogs!” Thorgrim spat. “We’ll send them back to their master in pieces!”

 

Yim was not fighting. His brothers had shoved a seax into his hand and pushed him toward the back, near the women and children. “Stay here, little fox,” Einar had growled, his protective instinct warring with his contempt. “This is work for real men.”

 

The great doors shuddered under a massive impact. Once. Twice. On the third blow, they splintered inward.

 

Silhouetted against the hellish orange glow of his burning village stood the Ash-Wolf. His eyes scanned the dark interior, past the aging chief, past his three snarling sons, and locked onto Yim. The gaze was a physical touch—icy, possessive, and utterly terrifying.

 

Thorgrim let out a battle cry and charged, his brothers a half-step behind. They were met by Tutor’s most loyal berserkers, who engaged Kettil and Einar in a whirlwind of steel, holding them at bay.

 

The fight between Thorgrim and Tutor was short and brutal. Thorgrim was strong, a bull of a man. But Tutor was something else—efficient, lethal, and fueled by five years of singular hatred. He parried Thorgrim’s mighty overhead blow, the force numbing his arm, but he didn’t retreat.

 

He stepped inside Thorgrim’s guard and drove the pommel of his axe into the side of his head. As Thorgrim staggered, Tutor swept his legs out from under him and brought his axe down. It was not a clean kill; it was an execution. The heir to Fjordheim died on the earthen floor of his hall.

 

Rangvald roared in anguish and charged himself, his age making him slow. Tutor disarmed him with a swift, brutal knock of his axe, sending the chief’s sword clattering across the room. He drove a kick into Rangvald’s chest, sending him sprawling onto his back before the high seat.

 

The old chief looked up, gasping, into the face of the boy he had exiled. The cold eyes that met his held no mercy, only the chilling reflection of the flames. “For my father,”Tutor said, his voice flat and hollow. The axe fell.

 

Silence descended in the longhouse, broken only by the crackle of the external fires and the ragged breaths of the survivors. Kettil and Einar, seeing their father and brother dead, let out cries of pure despair and renewed their fight, only to be cut down moments later by the overwhelming numbers of Tutor’s warriors.

 

Then, it was over. The defenders were dead or subdued. Tutor’s chest heaved, the adrenaline slowly receding, leaving only a vast, cold emptiness. He had done it. He had wiped them out.

 

His eyes found Yim again.

 

Yim stood frozen, the useless seax trembling in his hand. He had watched it all. He had seen the boy he loved, the friend he had secretly mourned, slaughter his family with a chilling lack of emotion. The world had narrowed to the sight of his father’s blood pooling on the floor, to the terrifying figure now walking toward him.

 

Tutor stopped before him. The smell of blood, smoke, and sweat rolled off him. He reached out, his bloodied, gauntleted hand, and closed it around the seax in Yim’s grip. He didn’t rip it away; he simply held it, his strength making Yim’s resistance pathetic. Slowly, he pried Yim’s fingers open and let the knife clatter to the ground. The sound echoed in the silent hall.

 

He then cupped Yim’s face, just as he had five years ago in the woods. The cold iron links of his glove were harsh against Yim’s skin. Yim flinched, a broken sob finally escaping his lips. He was trembling violently.

 

“You…” Yim choked out, tears cutting clean paths through the grime on his cheeks. “You monster… You killed them… all of them…”

 

Tutor’s thumb stroked over Yim’s cheekbone, smearing a drop of blood—whether his father’s or his brother’s, Yim didn’t know—across his skin. The gesture was obscene.

 

“I told you I would burn it all,” Tutor said, his voice low, devoid of any triumph. It was a simple statement of fact. He gestured with his axe to the ruins of the hall, to the bodies of Yim’s family. “And I told you I would take what is mine.”

 

He leaned in, his lips brushing Yim’s ear. His breath was hot, his words a dark, intimate vow that was for Yim alone. Yim squeezed his eyes shut, wanting to disappear.

 

“The burning is over, Yim,” Tutor murmured, the possessiveness in his tone leaving no room for argument. “Now, you come with me.”

 

The Ash-Wolf’s men knew their roles without being told. As their leader focused on his prize, they moved with grim efficiency through the great hall. The surviving villagers—mostly women, children, and a few old men—were herded into a corner, their sobs and whimpers a soft, miserable chorus to the crackle of the dying fire. The bodies of Rangvald and his sons were dragged unceremoniously to the side, stacked like cordwood, a brutal testament to the new order.

 

Tutor paid them no mind. His entire world had narrowed to the trembling figure in front of him. He kept one hand firmly on Yim’s arm, not roughly, but with an unbreakable possessiveness that was more terrifying than any bruising grip. Yim was in shock, his mind refusing to process the horror. The world was a smear of blood, fire, and the scent of death clinging to the man who had been his childhood heart.

 

“Look at me,” Tutor commanded, his voice low.

 

Yim’s eyes, wide and glazed with tears, flickered up to meet his. They held no recognition of the boy he’d known, only the reflection of the monster he had become.

 

“Do you see?” Tutor asked, not with gloating, but with a terrible, earnest intensity. “This is the price. This is what your father’s lie bought.” He gestured with his free hand at the devastation. “It is paid in full.”

 

A fresh wave of tears spilled down Yim’s face. He wanted to scream, to argue, to deny, but the words were ashes in his mouth. All he could do was shake his head, a tiny, desperate motion of denial.

 

Tutor’s expression didn’t change. He used his thumb to wipe a tear from Yim’s cheek, the gesture unsettlingly gentle coming from a hand stained with his family’s blood. “The crying is done. It changes nothing.”

 

He turned, pulling Yim with him. Yim stumbled, his legs weak. He was leaving his home, his world, everything he had ever known. He cast a last, desperate look over his shoulder at the bodies of his father and brothers, at the terrified faces of his people. The finality of it crashed down on him, and a broken sound escaped his throat.

 

One of Tutor’s huscarls, a giant of a man with a scarred face, approached. “Ash-Wolf. The rest?” He jerked his head toward the huddled survivors.

 

Tutor didn’t even look. “They are nothing. Let them be. Jarl Sigurd’s men can take them as thralls or sport, it matters not to me. My business here is finished.” His business was walking beside him, pale and shaking.

 

They stepped out of the longhouse into a scene from Helheim. The village of Fjordheim was a pyre. The familiar shapes of homes and storehouses were now skeletal black frames against an angry red sky. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of burned meat. Tutor’s warriors moved through the chaos, gathering loot, finishing off the wounded, laughing with the harsh joy of victors.

 

Yim flinched as they passed the body of a man he’d known his whole life, lying face-down in the mud. He tried to dig his heels in, to resist being led to the water’s edge where the dreaded longships waited, but Tutor’s pull was inexorable.

 

They reached the central ship, the one with the snarling dragon prow. Tutor released his arm only to wrap a hand around his waist, lifting him effortlessly and depositing him into the belly of the vessel among casks of water and rolled-up sails. The motion was shockingly intimate, devoid of malice but full of a terrifying certainty. Yim belonged here now.

 

“Keep him there,” Tutor ordered one of his men, a grizzled older warrior who nodded silently, his eyes flicking over Yim with impersonal curiosity.

 

Tutor then turned back to oversee the final stages of the plunder. He stood on the shore, a silhouette against the burning village, issuing quiet commands. He was no longer the raging boy of five years ago, nor the cold executioner of moments before. He was a Jarl. A conqueror. And he had claimed his prize.

 

Yim drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. He was shivering uncontrollably, though the night air was warm from the fires. The sounds of his dying village, the sight of the Ash-Wolf calmly directing the destruction of everything he loved—it was a nightmare from which he could not wake.

 

The vow had been kept. Everything was ash.

 

And he, Yim, son of Rangvald, was now the sole property of the Ash-Wolf, utterly and completely alone in a world remade by fire and blood. The longship rocked gently in the shallows, a cradle of captivity, waiting to carry him away to an unknown and terrifying fate.

 

---

 

The journey from the smoking ruins of Fjordheim was a blur of misery for Yim. He huddled in the belly of the longship, the rough-hewn planks digging into his back with each rise and fall of the waves. The sounds of his home’s destruction were replaced by the rhythmic groan of oak, the splash of oars, and the coarse laughter of Tutor’s men. The salt spray that stung his face felt like a mockery, washing away the soot but not the memory.

 

He was given water and a strip of hard, salted meat, which he could not bring himself to eat. The older warrior tasked with watching him merely grunted and took it back. “Suit yourself, pretty one. Hunger will change your mind soon enough.”

 

Yim kept his eyes fixed on the receding coastline, watching the orange glow of Fjordheim’s funeral pyre grow smaller and smaller until it was just a faint smudge on the horizon, and then, nothing. The finality of it carved a hollow ache in his chest. He was utterly unmoored.

 

Tutor was a constant, imposing presence. He stood at the helm, one hand resting on the great steering oar, his gaze fixed ahead on the sea lanes. He did not look back. He did not speak to Yim. He was the master of this vessel, this crew, and now, of Yim. His silence was more intimidating than any boast or threat. It was the silence of a man who had achieved exactly what he set out to do, and was now calculating his next move.

 

For two days and a night they sailed. The landscape changed from the familiar deep fjords of his home to a rougher, rockier coast, dotted with islands that looked bleak and unforgiving.

 

On the morning of the third day, they rowed into a hidden cove Yim had never seen before. It was a natural fortress, surrounded by high, sheer cliffs, its entrance partially obscured by a treacherous-looking reef. Nestled against the cliff face was a settlement.

 

It was not a village like Fjordheim; it was a warrior’s camp. A large, functional longhouse, built in the style of Jarl Sigurd’s people, dominated the center, surrounded by smaller huts, forge-works, and training yards. Watchtowers were perched on the cliffs above. This was not a home; it was a lair.

 

The Ash-Wolf’s lair.

 

As the ship scraped onto the pebble beach, men from the camp emerged to greet them, grabbing the mooring lines. Their cheers at the sight of the overflowing plunder died in their throats as they took in the grim visage of their leader and his silent, captive prize.

 

Tutor finally moved. He vaulted over the side of the ship into the shallow water and turned, reaching back for Yim. There was no request in the gesture. It was a command.

 

Trembling, Yim shrank back. The reality of being here, in this foreign, harsh place, surrounded by the men who had murdered his family, crashed down on him. He shook his head, pressing himself against the ship’s hull.

 

A flicker of impatience crossed Tutor’s face. In one fluid motion, he leaned into the ship, hooked his hands under Yim’s arms, and hauled him out. Yim gasped, his struggles useless against the man’s strength. Tutor did not put him down in the water; he carried him, holding him against his chest as he waded ashore, as if Yim were a child or a particularly valuable piece of loot. The humiliation burned worse than the saltwater on his skin.

 

The crew and the men on shore watched in silence. None jested. None smiled. They saw the way the Ash-Wolf held his prize—not with cruelty, but with a terrifying, absolute possession. This was not a thrall to be mocked. This was something else entirely.

 

Tutor carried him past the staring men, past the piles of plunder being unloaded, straight toward the large longhouse. He kicked the door open and stepped inside.

 

It was dim, lit by a central fire pit whose smoke curled up to escape through a hole in the roof. The air smelled of woodsmoke, cured meat, and men. Trophies of battle—shields, swords, banners—adorned the walls. It was a stark, utilitarian space, a reflection of the man who ruled it.

 

In the far corner, away from the main flow of traffic, was a space that was slightly more defined. A large, comfortable-looking bed piled with furs was set against the wall, separated by a heavy woven tapestry depicting wolves hunting.

 

This was the Ash-Wolf’s private quarters. His den.

 

Tutor finally set Yim down on his feet beside the bed. Yim’s legs nearly buckled, and he reached out to steady himself against the wooden bedpost, his head spinning.

 

Tutor stood before him, blocking any path of escape. He began unbuckling his bloodstained armor, letting the pieces fall to the floor with heavy thuds. He did this with his back to Yim, a display of utter dominance, showing he had no fear of any attack from behind.

 

When he was down to his tunic and breeches, he turned. The physical power of him was even more apparent without the mail. He approached Yim slowly, until he was standing mere inches from him, forcing Yim to tilt his head up to meet his eyes.

 

“This is your place now,” Tutor said, his voice low and leaving no room for argument. He gestured around the longhouse, then pointed a finger at the furs. “This is my hall. And that… is where you will sleep.”

 

He reached out and took a strand of Yim’s hair, rubbing it between his fingers, his gaze intense and unreadable.

 

“The world you knew is gone. Your family is gone. Your home is ash.” He stated it coldly, factually. “The only thing that remains for you is me. You are mine, Yim. Understand that. Everything else is a memory.”

 

He released his hair and turned toward a table where a jug of mead stood. “There will be food. You will eat. You will not try to run. The cliffs have no mercy for pretty, foolish boys.”

 

He poured a cup of mead, his back once again to Yim, a living wall of muscle and will. Yim stood frozen, the words carving into him. He was in the wolf’s den, and the wolf had made it perfectly clear there was no way out.

 

The heavy door of the longhouse thudded shut, muffling the sounds of the celebrating warriors outside. Inside, the silence was thick and suffocating, broken only by the crackle of the central fire and Tutor’s movements as he drained his cup of mead.

 

Yim remained where he was left, by the bed, his hand still gripping the carved bedpost as if it were the only solid thing in a world that had dissolved into nightmare. The furs on the bed looked deep and soft, a stark contrast to the hard, cold reality of his situation. They were not an invitation; they were a sentence.

 

Tutor turned from the table, his eyes finding Yim in the dim light. He studied him—the tremble in his limbs, the tracks of dried tears on his dirty cheeks, the way he seemed to be trying to make himself smaller. A flicker of something crossed Tutor’s face, too complex to be simple satisfaction. It was the look of a man gazing upon a treasure he had fought a long, bloody war to possess, now unsure of what to do with its fragility.

 

“You’re shivering,” he stated. It wasn’t concern; it was an observation of fact. The night air coming through the smoke hole was chill.

 

Yim said nothing. His throat was closed tight, a knot of fear and grief. He just stared at the floor, at the rushes strewn there, seeing instead the blood-soaked earth of his home.

 

Tutor sighed, a short, impatient sound. He walked to a large chest against the wall, opened it, and pulled out a folded bundle of dark wool. He tossed it onto the bed beside Yim. “Put this on. Your clothes smell of smoke.”

 

Yim looked at the tunic. It was clearly Tutor’s. The thought of wearing his captor’s clothes, of being enveloped in his scent, made his skin crawl. He didn’t move.

 

Tutor’s patience, thin to begin with, snapped. In two strides he was before Yim again. “I did not ask,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. He didn’t strike him. Instead, his hands went to the fastenings of Yim’s own tunic, his fingers efficient and impersonal.

 

“No—stop—” Yim finally found his voice, a panicked whisper. He batted weakly at Tutor’s hands, but it was like a child trying to hold back the tide. Tutor ignored him, peeling the smoke-stained garment from his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor.

 

Exposed and shivering violently, Yim wrapped his arms around himself. Tutor picked up the woolen tunic and pulled it over Yim’s head. It was vast on him, the sleeves swallowing his hands, the hem hanging past his knees. It smelled of pine, leather, and the unmistakable scent of Tutor. The Ash-Wolf had literally wrapped him in his own identity.

 

“There,” Tutor said, his tone final. He then pushed Yim down, not roughly, but with an undeniable force, until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He knelt, and Yim flinched back, expecting a blow. But Tutor merely took hold of his boot, pulling it off, then the other. He did this with a startling, domestic practicality, as if undressing his prize was simply part of claiming it.

 

When Yim was sitting in nothing but the oversized tunic, Tutor stood, looking down at him. The vulnerability was absolute. Yim felt like a doll, being dressed and positioned for its owner’s pleasure.

 

Tutor’s gaze was heavy, possessive. He reached out and cupped the back of Yim’s neck, his thumb stroking the tense muscle there. The touch was not tender; it was a reminder of ownership. “You will sleep.”

 

He straightened and walked away, stripping off his own tunic. Yim averted his eyes, but not before seeing the map of scars that crisscrossed Tutor’s back and torso—a brutal testament to the five years of war that had forged the Ash-Wolf. This was the price he had paid for his revenge. The body that had destroyed Yim’s world was itself a monument to pain.

 

Tutor doused the main lamp, plunging the end of the longhouse with the bed into near darkness, lit only by the embers of the fire. Yim sat frozen on the edge of the furs, every nerve screaming.

 

He heard Tutor lie down behind him. A moment of silence, then a hand closed around his arm. “Lie down.”

 

The command was quiet, but absolute. Resistance was futile. Every instinct told him that. Slowly, feeling like he was moving in a dream, Yim let himself be pulled down onto the furs. They were as soft as they looked, but they felt like a trap.

 

Tutor did not let go of his arm. He shifted closer, his large, warm body curving around Yim’s back, enveloping him. One heavy arm draped over Yim’s waist, pinning him in place. He was being spooned, held, captured. Tutor’s face was buried in the hair at the nape of Yim’s neck, and he inhaled deeply, as if memorizing his scent.

 

Yim lay rigid, every muscle taut. He could feel the hard strength of the man behind him, the steady beat of his heart against his back. This intimate captivity was a thousand times more terrifying than chains in a dungeon. It was a claim that went beyond the physical.

 

“The first night is the hardest,” Tutor murmured, his voice a low rumble against Yim’s spine. The words were not meant to comfort, but to inform. “The fear will pass. You will learn your place.”

 

Yim squeezed his eyes shut, fresh, silent tears leaking into the furs. He could still see the orange glow of Fjordheim against his eyelids. He could still smell his father’s blood.

 

He was in the wolf’s den, wrapped in the wolf’s scent, held in the wolf’s embrace. The vengeance was complete. The Ash-Wolf had his prize. And as he lay there in the terrifying dark, listening to the even breathing of the man who had destroyed his life, Yim understood the true depth of his captivity. He wasn’t just a prisoner. He was a belonging.

Notes:

Glossary
Berserker: Fierce Viking warrior who fought in a wild trance, often wearing bear skins.

Fjord: Narrow sea inlet between steep cliffs, made by glaciers; good for Viking ships.

Huscarl: Elite warrior or bodyguard serving a lord/king.

Jarl: High-ranking noble or chieftain, just below a king.

Longhouse: Large one-room building used for living, storage, and animals.

Longship: Fast, shallow Viking warship for raids and exploration.

Mead: Alcoholic drink made from fermented honey.

Seax: Single-edged knife used as tool, utensil, and weapon.

Skald: Poet/storyteller who preserved history and myths.

Thrall: Slave with no rights, often captured in raids.

Valhalla: Mythical hall where brave warriors feast after death.

Chapter 3

Notes:

I added another scene to the previous chapter... you can re-read it if you'd like but it doesn't really affect the story and can be ignored too☺️

Also heads up.. lots of non-consensual activities in this chapter

The first few days in the Ash-Wolf’s stronghold were a study in surreal horror. Yim was not thrown into a dank pit or put to hard labor. His cage was far more cunning.

 

He was given the freedom of the longhouse and the immediate yard, but the boundaries were absolute. The sheer cliffs were his walls, the cold, watchful eyes of Tutor’s warriors his bars. If he ventured too close to the perimeter, a large hand would gently but firmly guide him back toward the center. No words were exchanged. The message was clear: This far, and no further.

 

Tutor was a constant, looming presence. He was often gone during the day, overseeing the integration of his new plunder, drilling his men, or meeting with Jarl Sigurd’s representatives. But he always returned for the evening meal, his eyes seeking out Yim immediately, as if taking inventory of his most valuable possession.

 

The evenings were the worst. Tutor would eat at the high table with his senior warriors, his laughter loud and sharp, a sound that grated on Yim’s soul. Yim was made to sit at his side, on a smaller stool. A plate of food would be placed in front of him—good food, roasted meat, fresh bread, cheese. Tutor would watch him from the corner of his eye. “Eat,” he’d command, his voice low enough that only Yim could hear. When Yim’s grief and pride made him push the food around his plate, Tutor’s hand would snake out under the table and grip his thigh, the pressure warning and possessive. “Eat.” The unspoken threat was clear: his compliance was not optional.

 

After the meal, Tutor would often drag him to the bathing hut. It was not an act of care, but of ownership. He would wash Yim himself with a rough, practical efficiency, scrubbing away the day as if washing a prized horse. Yim would stand there, trembling with humiliation, staring at the wooden wall as Tutor’s hands moved over him, claiming every inch of his skin. He was being remade, cleansed of his old life and marked by his new owner.

 

Then came the nights. The relentless, terrifying intimacy of the furs. Tutor always slept wrapped around him, his body a furnace, his arm a heavy chain across Yim’s waist. Some nights, he would simply hold him, his breathing evening out into sleep. Other nights, the possessiveness took a darker, more restless turn.

 

One such night, about a week after their arrival, Tutor’s hands were not content to just hold. His touch began to wander, sliding over the thin fabric of the tunic Yim was forced to wear, mapping the planes of his stomach, the sharpness of his ribs. Yim froze, his breath catching in his throat.

 

“Tutor… please,” he whispered into the darkness, the first plea he’d dared to utter.

 

The use of his old name seemed to give the Ash-Wolf pause. His hand stilled. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing. Then, Tutor’s voice, a low rasp against his ear. “You are not a thrall. You are not a slave to be used and discarded.”

 

It sounded almost like reassurance, but the next words crushed that fragile hope.

 

“You are mine,” he continued, his hand resuming its journey, sliding up to cup Yim’s chest, feeling the frantic rabbit-beat of his heart. “My treasure. My prize. My beautiful, broken thing.” His voice was thick with a twisted form of reverence. “I burned a world for you. This…” his hand drifted lower, over Yim’s hip, his other massaging Yim’s chest “…is my right.”

 

Yim squeezed his eyes shut, tears of shame and terror leaking out. He braced for violation, for a final, brutal claiming.

 

But it did not come.

 

Tutor’s hand stopped, simply resting there, a heavy, warm weight full of promise and threat. He buried his face in Yim’s neck again, inhaling deeply.

 

“But not tonight,” he murmured, almost to himself. “The fear is still too fresh. It taints you.” He sounded like a connoisseur waiting for a wine to mature. “I have waited five years. I can wait a little longer for you to understand.”

 

He held him like that until the tension slowly bled from Yim’s body, leaving him exhausted and hollow. The relief was a sickening thing. He had been spared, but only because his captor was waiting for a more complete submission.

 

The next morning, Tutor was gone before Yim awoke. For the first time, Yim was truly alone. He wandered the empty longhouse, the silence oppressive. His eyes fell on Tutor’s chest. It was unlocked.

 

Hesitantly, he lifted the lid. Inside, amidst weapons and tokens of war, was a small, familiar object. It was a carving of a fox, its details worn smooth from years of handling. Yim’s breath hitched. He had carved it for Tutor when they were twelve winters old.

 

A wave of nausea swept over him. The boy who had cherished that gift was gone, replaced by the monster who slept beside him. Yet, the monster had kept it. Had it been a trophy? A reminder of his hatred? Or something else, something Yim dared not name?

 

He heard footsteps at the door and slammed the chest shut, his heart hammering. It was the old warrior who watched him on the ship.

 

“The Ash-Wolf said you are to have this,” the man said, his tone neutral. He held out Yim’s lyre. It was slightly scorched on one side, but intact. Someone had salvaged it from the ashes of Fjordheim.

 

Yim took it with trembling hands. It was another piece of his old life, delivered to him by the hand that had destroyed it. A gift and a cruelty all at once.

 

He was in a gilded cage, his jailer a man obsessed, his every need anticipated and met, his every freedom stripped away. Tutor was not just holding his body captive; he was meticulously dismantling his spirit, piece by piece, replacing it with only himself. The wait, Yim realized, was its own form of torture.

 

The days bled into one another, a monotonous tapestry of silent meals, watchful eyes, and the oppressive, ever-present shadow of the Ash-Wolf. Yim’s world had shrunk to the dimensions of the longhouse and the small, muddy yard. He was a ghost in his own life, drifting through routines imposed upon him.

 

His only solace was the lyre. In the quiet hours when Tutor was gone, he would take it out, his fingers, once clever and sure, now clumsy with grief. He would pluck at the strings, not playing any song he knew, but letting the discordant notes echo the chaos in his soul. The music was a small act of rebellion, a sound that was purely his own in a place where everything else belonged to him.

 

One afternoon, he was sitting on a bench by the fire, lost in a mournful, meandering melody, when the main door opened. Tutor stood there, having returned earlier than expected. He was still clad in his outdoor gear, a light dusting of snow on his wolf-pelt shoulders. He didn’t speak, just leaned against the doorframe and listened.

 

Yim’s fingers stilled on the strings, the music dying abruptly. The air grew thick with tension.

 

“Why did you stop?” Tutor’s voice was calm, curious even.

 

Yim couldn’t look at him. “It… it was nothing.”

 

“It was not nothing.” Tutor pushed off the doorframe and walked toward him. He didn’t stop until he was standing directly over Yim. “Play.”

 

It was not a request. It was an order. Another thing to be taken and controlled. Yim’s throat tightened. He shook his head, a tiny, defiant movement.

 

A muscle twitched in Tutor’s jaw. The calm facade cracked, revealing the impatience beneath. He had been waiting for the fear to subside, for acceptance to bloom. Instead, he found silent defiance.

 

In one swift motion, he ripped the lyre from Yim’s hands.

 

“No!” The cry was torn from Yim, raw and desperate. He lunged for it, a spark of his old spirit flaring to life.

 

Tutor held it easily out of reach, his eyes blazing. “This? This is what moves you?” he snarled, his voice dropping to a vicious whisper. “This toy? When I give you food, you push it away. When I give you shelter, you cower. When I give you my protection, you look at me like I am a monster. But this… this is what you fight for?”

 

The injustice of it, the sheer distortion of reality, left Yim speechless. Give? He had taken everything!

 

With a contemptuous snap, Tutor broke the lyre over his knee. The sound of splintering wood was like a bone breaking. He threw the pieces into the fire.

 

Yim watched, numb, as the flames licked at the carved wood, consuming the last piece of his old self that he had left. Something inside him broke. A sob racked his body, but no sound came out. He just stared into the flames, empty.

 

Tutor watched him, his chest heaving. The anger seemed to drain out of him as quickly as it had come, replaced by that same cold, calculating intensity. He had not achieved what he wanted. He had broken the toy, but not the spirit.

 

He knelt in front of Yim, forcing him to meet his gaze. The firelight danced in his dark eyes.

 

“You still do not understand,” he said, his voice eerily soft. “I do not want your fear. I do not want your tears.” He reached out and traced the line of Yim’s jaw, a gesture that was both possessive and strangely yearning. “I want you to see. I want you to see that everything else is ash. That I am the only stone that remains. Your family is gone. Your home is gone. Your music is gone. I am all you have. I am your world now. The sooner you accept that, the easier it will be.”

 

He stood up, leaving Yim shattered by the fire. “Think on that.”

 

That night, the routine was different. Tutor did not force him to the bathing hut. He did not command him to eat. He simply sat at the table, sharpening his axe with a slow, rhythmic scrape of stone on iron, watching Yim who sat huddled on the edge of the bed, staring at the spot in the fire where the lyre had burned.

 

When it was time to sleep, Tutor didn’t immediately pull him into the furs. He stood before him.

 

“Take it off,” he said, his voice flat.

 

Yim looked up, confused, exhausted.

 

“The tunic. Take it off.”

 

With trembling fingers, Yim obeyed. The woolen tutor-tunic pooled at his waist. The air was cold on his skin.

 

Tutor’s eyes roamed over his exposed torso, not with lust, but with a profound sense of ownership. He then began to undress himself. When he was bare-chested, he reached into the chest and pulled out two things: a simple, undyed tunic of fine linen—softer than anything Yim had worn since his capture—and a thick, silver arm ring, etched with wolf heads.

 

He handed the tunic to Yim. “Wear this.”

 

It was clean. It was soft. It was not his old clothes, but it was not a constant reminder of his captor either. It was a new thing. A gift, after a punishment. The confusion was dizzying.

 

Then Tutor took the arm ring. He stepped close, took Yim’s right arm, and slid the cool metal over his wrist, pushing it up onto his bicep. It was a perfect fit.

 

“This marks you,” Tutor said, his fingers lingering on the silver band. “It tells every man here, and in any hall we enter, that you are under my protection. That you are mine. Touch you, and they answer to me.”

 

He finally pushed Yim down onto the furs and lay beside him, his body a warm, solid presence in the dark. His hand came to rest on the arm ring, his thumb stroking the metal.

 

“The breaking is done,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “Now, the remaking begins.”

 

Yim lay in the dark, the weight of the silver band heavy on his arm. It was a shackle, far more binding than any chain. It was a claim that everyone would see. He was being unmade and rebuilt, not as a prisoner, but as an extension of the Ash-Wolf himself. And the most terrifying part was the small, traitorous part of him that felt a sliver of… safety. In a world of ash, the Wolf was, indeed, the only stone left.

 

---

 

The broken lyre had been a turning point. The explicit cruelty, followed by the calculated kindness of the new tunic and the stark claiming of the arm ring, had done something to Yim. It hadn't broken his spirit, not entirely, but it had shattered his understanding of the world. The rules were gone. There was no predictability, no justice. There was only the Ash-Wolf and his will.

 

A strange, numb acceptance began to settle over him. It was easier to obey than to fight. It was easier to eat the food placed before him than to endure the silent, threatening pressure of Tutor’s hand on his thigh. It was easier to stand passively in the bathing hut than to provoke his captor’s impatience. He moved through his days like a sleepwalker, performing the motions expected of him.

 

Tutor noticed the change. A grim satisfaction settled in his eyes. He saw it not as surrender, but as progress. The ice was cracking.

 

He began to involve Yim in small, domestic ways. He would point to a tear in his own tunic and hand Yim a needle and thread. “Fix it.” Yim’s clever hands, which had once carved toys and tied sailing knots, now mended the garments of the man who had destroyed his life. The task was menial, but it was a purpose. A tiny, horrible purpose.

 

One evening, Tutor returned from a day of hunting, tossing a fat hare onto the table in front of Yim. “Skin it. Prepare it.”

 

Yim stared at the dead animal. He had never done such a thing. His brothers had always handled the game, teasing him for his softness.

 

“I… I don’t know how,” he whispered, the admission tasting like ash.

 

Tutor looked at him, not with mockery, but with something akin to appraisal. “Then you will learn.” He pulled his seax from his belt and placed it in Yim’s hand, closing his fingers around the hilt. His hand was large and warm, completely enveloping Yim’s. He stood behind him, guiding his movements, showing him where to make the first cut, how to peel back the skin. It was an intimate, horrifying lesson. Yim’s hands were slick with blood, his stomach churning, but Tutor’s presence behind him was an immovable force, compelling him to continue.

 

When the task was done, Tutor nodded. “Good.” It was the first word of praise he had ever uttered, and it felt like a brand. Yim had pleased his captor. A sickening curl of something—not pride, but a pathetic flicker of validation—warmed the hollow pit of his stomach.

 

The nights were changing, too. Tutor still held him, but the embrace was less about restraint and more about… habit. Claiming. His hands would often wander, but now they were less exploratory and more possessive. He would trace the line of Yim’s spine through the thin linen, his palm resting on the flat plane of his stomach, pulling him flush against his body. Yim had learned to lie still, to regulate his breathing, to pretend to be asleep. Any tension, any flinch, would only make Tutor more alert, more intent on proving his ownership.

 

One night, the pretense failed. Tutor’s hand slid from his stomach down to his hip, then inward, over the soft linen covering his thigh. Yim froze, his breath catching.

 

“You are awake,” Tutor murmured, his voice a low vibration against Yim’s back. It wasn’t a question.

 

Yim didn’t respond, praying the stillness would make him stop.

 

It didn’t. Tutor’s hand moved higher, cupping him. Yim gasped, a sound of pure shock and violation. He tried to squirm away, but Tutor’s arm tightened like a vice around his waist, holding him perfectly in place.

 

“Shhh,” Tutor soothed, but it was a predator’s whisper, full of dark promise. His hand began to move, a slow, rhythmic pressure through the fabric. “This is mine, too. Every part of you is mine.”

 

Tears of shame and helplessness streamed down Yim’s face, soaking into the furs. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to disappear into the darkness, to separate his mind from what was happening to his body. It was a claiming far more intimate and degrading than any beating. Tutor was teaching him that even his own physical responses did not belong to him.

 

He could feel Tutor’s own arousal pressed against him, a hard, undeniable heat. The Ash-Wolf was breathing harder now, his face buried in Yim’s neck, his teeth grazing the skin there in a possessive bite that was not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to mark.

 

Just as Yim felt himself teetering on the edge of a complete and utter loss of self, Tutor stilled. His whole body was tense, coiled with a desire he was visibly, painfully, holding in check.

 

He withdrew his hand, but instead of pulling away, he wrapped both arms around Yim again, holding him so tightly it was almost difficult to breathe. He was shaking slightly.

 

“Not yet,” he gritted out, the words strained, as if he were speaking to himself more than to Yim. “Not like this.”

 

He held him until his own breathing evened out, until the violent tension left his body. The danger receded, leaving behind a terrifying echo.

 

He nuzzled the spot he had bitten. “You will come to me,” he whispered, his voice thick with a certainty that felt like a doom. “You will not always lie there like a frightened deer. You will turn to me. You will seek my touch.”

 

He fell silent then, and soon his breathing deepened into sleep.

 

Yim lay awake for a long time, trembling uncontrollably. The violation had been stopped, but the threat remained, more potent than ever. Tutor wasn’t just waiting for submission. He was waiting for participation. He was remaking Yim, piece by piece, into something that would not just accept his touch, but eventually, want it.

 

The arm ring felt heavier than ever on his arm, a cold, silver promise of a future he could not escape.

Chapter 4

Winter tightened its grip on the stronghold. Icy winds howled down from the mountains, and the world outside the longhouse was a monochrome landscape of white and grey. The isolation became absolute. The sea was too rough for raiding, the paths too treacherous for travel. They were locked in, and Yim was locked in with him.

 

The forced proximity acted like a crucible. With no outside distractions, Tutor’s focus on Yim became absolute, intense, and strangely domestic. The fearsome Ash-Wolf was, for hours at a time, just a man in his hall. He would spend days repairing gear, carving a new handle for his axe, or going over maps with his second-in-command, the grizzled warrior named Stig.

 

And he would watch Yim. Always.

 

Yim, for his part, had sunk into a deep melancholy. The numbness had given way to a profound loneliness that ached worse than the cold. He missed his home, his music, the skald’s stories, even the overbearing protection of his brothers. The silence in the hall was a physical weight.

 

One afternoon, as a particularly fierce blizzard raged outside, Yim found himself staring at the chest where Tutor kept the carved fox. The memory of it, a relic of a sweeter time, was a thorn in his heart. A question, one he had never dared to voice, bubbled to the surface.

 

He was sitting near the fire, mending a tear in one of Tutor’s tunics—a task he now did without being asked. Tutor was sharpening a dagger by the hearth, the scrape of the whetstone a familiar sound.

 

“Why did you keep it?”

 

The words were out before Yim could stop them, soft and hesitant, almost swallowed by the crackle of the fire.

 

The scraping stopped. Tutor looked up, his dark eyes unreadable. “Keep what?”

 

“The fox,” Yim whispered, unable to meet his gaze. “The one I carved for you. I saw it. In your chest.”

 

Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Yim braced himself for anger, for a reminder of his place.

 

Instead, Tutor set the dagger and whetstone down. He rose and walked to the chest, lifting the lid. He returned with the small wooden fox, holding it in his palm. He looked at it for a long moment, his thumb stroking the smooth wood.

 

“It was the only thing I had left,” he said finally, his voice low and devoid of its usual edge. It was the most honest tone Yim had heard from him since the nightmare began.

 

“When I was cold. When I was hungry. When I thought I would die in that first winter… I would hold this.” He looked at Yim, and for a fleeting second, the ghost of the boy he had been looked out from behind the eyes of the Ash-Wolf. “It was proof that I had once been loved. That the boy who was my friend had been real. It was proof that I had something to hate for taking him away.”

 

Yim’s breath caught in his throat. The confession was not an apology; it was far more complex and terrible than that. It was a window into the five years of torment that had forged the monster. Tutor’s vengeance wasn’t just for his father’s death; it was for the loss of everything good in his own life, a loss he squarely placed at the feet of Yim’s family.

 

He hadn’t just kept it as a trophy. He had kept it as a lifeline.

 

Tutor walked over and placed the little fox on the bench beside Yim. “It belongs to you now. As you belong to me.”

 

He returned to his seat and picked up his dagger, resuming his sharpening. The moment of vulnerability was over, the walls firmly back in place. But the crack had been made.

 

Yim picked up the carving. The wood was warm from Tutor’s hand. He felt a confusing, painful twist in his chest. It was so much easier to hate a monster than to glimpse the wounded man inside. The hatred felt slippery now, harder to hold onto.

 

A few nights later, Yim fell ill. It started with a deep chill that not even the furs could warm, followed by a fever that left him shivering and delirious. He drifted in and out of consciousness, plagued by nightmares of fire and blood.

 

When he awoke, the world was hazy. The fire in the longhouse was banked high, making the room oppressively hot. He was drenched in sweat. And Tutor was there.

 

He wasn’t sleeping. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, a bowl of water in one hand, a cloth in the other. With a focus Yim had only seen him apply to battle or strategy, Tutor was wiping the sweat from his brow and neck. His touch was… careful. Efficient. Not tender, but intensely practical.

 

“You are weak,” Tutor stated, seeing his eyes open. “Your body is not used to our winters.” He held a cup of something bitter-smelling to Yim’s lips. “Drink. It will break the fever.”

 

Too weak to resist, Yim drank. The concoction was foul, but within minutes, the intense heat in his body began to recede, leaving him exhausted but clear-headed.

 

Tutor continued his ministrations in silence, cooling his skin with the cloth. He didn’t speak, didn’t demand anything. He simply tended to him. In his fever-addled state, the line between jailer and caretaker blurred into nothingness. The man who had slaughtered his family was now the one ensuring he did not die.

 

As the fever broke completely, a violent shiver wracked Yim’s body. Without a word, Tutor set the bowl aside, stripped off his own tunic, and slid under the furs beside him. He pulled Yim’s cold, clammy body back against his own, sharing his immense warmth, wrapping himself around him like a living blanket.

 

“Sleep,” Tutor commanded, his voice a rumble in his chest against Yim’s back.

 

And for the first time, lying in the arms of the Ash-Wolf, Yim did not feel fear or violation. He felt a profound, terrifying sense of safety. The world outside was cold and deadly. The world inside these arms was warm and secure.

 

It was the most dangerous thought he had ever had.

 

As he drifted into a proper, healing sleep, he felt the faint press of lips against the juncture of his neck and shoulder. It wasn’t a bite. It was a kiss.

 

The first crack in Yim’s resolve had become a chasm. He was no longer just a prisoner in a gilded cage. He was becoming something else entirely, and the path ahead terrified him more than any axe or flame.

 

The illness passed, leaving Yim physically weakened but emotionally ravaged. The memory of Tutor’s care—the practical, unwavering attention, the sharing of his warmth—was a poison seeping into his veins. It was easier to rage against a monster than to reconcile the killer with the caretaker. The two images warred in his mind, leaving him confused and deeply vulnerable.

 

Tutor sensed the shift. The wall of Yim’s silent defiance had developed a fault line, and the Ash-Wolf was a master of exploiting weakness. His tactics changed. The overt threats diminished, replaced by a constant, overwhelming presence that was both a comfort and a prison.

 

He began to speak to Yim, not just issue commands. He would talk about his plans for the stronghold, the need to reinforce the palisade before the spring thaw, the quality of the iron from a new smith he’d captured. He spoke as if Yim were his consort, his partner in rule, seeking his opinion on mundane matters.

 

“The new thrall from the south claims he can tan leather softer than seal skin. What use would we have for that?” he’d ask, sharpening a blade.

 

Yim, at first, would remain silent. “I asked you a question,”Tutor’s voice would drop, the warning clear. “...For gloves,” Yim would eventually whisper, hating himself for answering. “Or… linings for boots.” Tutor would grunt,a sound of approval. “See? Your mind is not just for pretty songs.”

 

It was a slow, deliberate process of engagement. Tutor was weaving Yim into the fabric of his daily life, making him complicit in the running of the very machine that held him captive.

 

The physical possessiveness escalated, but in a way that was somehow more devastating. It was no longer just about restraint in the night. It became casual, constant.

 

Tutor would walk past him and run a hand through his hair, not gently, but like a man petting a favored hound. He would pull Yim onto his lap after a meal, ignoring his stiff resistance, and simply hold him there, one arm locked around his waist while he drank with his men, a living, breathing trophy on display. He would feed Yim morsels from his own plate, his fingers sometimes brushing against Yim’s lips, his eyes watching for any reaction.

 

Yim’s body was betraying him. The constant, unwanted attention was a form of torture, but his skin, starved for any kind of gentle contact, began to remember the feel of those hands. The memory of warmth during his illness haunted him. Sometimes, in the deep of night, half-asleep and seeking heat, he would unconsciously shift back against the solid strength behind him. He would wake in a panic to find Tutor’s arm already around him, holding him closer, a low hum of satisfaction vibrating against his back.

 

The final test came on a night of celebration. Jarl Sigurd had sent a message praising the success of the Fjordheim raid and bestowing a new title on Tutor: Jarl of the Black Fjord. The mead flowed freely. The longhouse was loud with the boasts and laughter of drunken warriors.

 

Yim sat on his stool beside Tutor’s high seat, trying to make himself small and invisible. The noise and the press of men were overwhelming. He flinched as a brawl broke out between two celebrating warriors, sending a bench crashing to the floor.

 

Tutor, deep in his cups, watched him with a lazy, predatory intensity. He saw the fear, the discomfort. And he saw his opportunity.

 

He stood up, silencing the room with a raised hand. “My wolf-pack!” he roared, his voice slurred but commanding. “You drink to my glory! But every Jarl needs a prize worthy of his hall!”

 

He turned and grabbed Yim’s arm, hauling him to his feet. Yim stumbled, his heart hammering against his ribs. Tutor pulled him tight against his side, his grip iron.

 

“This!” Tutor announced to the whole hall, shaking Yim slightly. “This is my prize! The son of the oath-breaker Rangvald! The fairest treasure of Fjordheim, who now warms my furs and wears my silver!”

 

The men cheered, raising their horns. Yim wanted to die. The humiliation was complete, public, and brutal.

 

Tutor looked down at him, his eyes dark with mead and desire. The audience of his men seemed to fuel him. He dipped his head and captured Yim’s mouth in a crushing, possessive kiss.

 

It was nothing like the fleeting, almost-chaste kiss on the neck. This was a claiming. It was hard and demanding, full of mead and dominance. Yim froze, his hands coming up to push uselessly against Tutor’s chest. The cheers of the men grew louder, more raucous.

 

After a long, suffocating moment, Tutor pulled back, breathing heavily. Yim’s lips felt bruised. He was trembling, tears of shame welling in his eyes.

 

Tutor didn’t miss them. He grinned, a wild, dangerous thing. He swept Yim up into his arms, carrying him like a bride amidst the roaring approval of his warriors.

 

He carried him past the tapestry, to the bed, and dropped him onto the furs. This time, there was no patience, no waiting. The mead, the celebration, the public claiming—it had stripped away his last vestiges of control.

 

He followed Yim down, his weight pinning him, his hands rough as they pushed the linen tunic up. His mouth was on Yim’s neck, his jaw, his collarbone—not kisses, but bites and sucks that would leave marks.

 

“You are mine,” he growled against his skin, his voice ragged. “You have always been mine. Say it.”

 

Yim turned his face away, sobbing, his will crumbling under the sheer physical force and the weight of the inevitable.

 

Tutor’s hand gripped his chin, forcing him to look back. His eyes were blazing. “Say it!”

 

The word was torn from Yim, a broken whisper lost in the sounds of the celebrating hall beyond the tapestry. “...Yours.”

 

It was all the permission Tutor needed. The resistance broke. The wait was over.

 

That night, the Ash-Wolf finally took what he had vowed to claim. It was not gentle. It was a conquest, a violent, painful finality that erased the last border between captor and possession. Yim cried out, but the sound was swallowed by the roar of the feast outside, by Tutor’s mouth on his, by the overwhelming reality of his defeat.

 

Afterward, Tutor did not release him. He held him tighter than ever, his body still covering Yim’s, his face buried in his hair. His breathing was harsh in the silence.

 

“Mine,” he whispered again, the word a final nail in the coffin of Yim’s old life.

 

And as Yim lay there, broken and aching, a terrible, shameful thought surfaced through the pain and the humiliation: in the aftermath of the violence, in the circle of Tutor’s arms, there was, once again, a perverse, devastating warmth. The world outside was cold. The Wolf was all there was.

 

The remaking was complete. He had been broken down and rebuilt, not in his own image, but in the image of what the Ash-Wolf desired. He was his. Truly, completely, and utterly.

Chapter 5

Notes:

Does Tutor love Yim or is it all part of his revenge to keep Yim as a prize... the answer is yes he does love Yim in a sick and twisted way.. if it was solely for revenge, Yim's situation would have been much worse and darker... just trying to clarify ☺️

The world returned in fragments. The first was the ache—a deep, throbbing pain that radiated from his core, a physical testament to the violation. The second was the weight—the heavy, warm, sleeping form of the Ash-Wolf pinning him to the furs, an arm slung possessively across his waist. The third was the sound—the raucous celebration in the main hall had faded into the snores of drunken men.

 

Yim lay perfectly still, tears leaking silently from the corners of his eyes into the pelts beneath him. The shame was a hot, suffocating blanket. He had said the word. Yours. He had given the permission that was never his to give, and in doing so, he had somehow made himself complicit in his own destruction.

 

He remembered the pain, the crushing weight, the feeling of being unmade. But he also, traitorously, remembered the shocking warmth that followed, the way his body, against its will, had sought shelter in the very source of its violation once the storm had passed. His mind recoiled from the memory, but his skin held onto it.

 

As dawn’s grey light began to filter through the smoke hole, Tutor stirred. His first conscious action was to tighten his arm around Yim, pulling him closer, nuzzling the back of his neck with a sleep-rough face. It was an instinctive, possessive gesture that made Yim’s breath hitch.

 

Tutor seemed to sense he was awake. He stilled. The air grew thick with a new, uncertain tension. The frenzy of the night before was gone, leaving the raw reality of what he had done.

 

Slowly, Tutor rolled onto his back, taking his weight off Yim. The sudden absence of pressure felt like a loss, and Yim hated himself for the thought.

 

For a long time, they lay in silence, side by side, not touching, staring at the smoke-stained ceiling. The distance between them was only inches, but it felt like a chasm.

 

It was Tutor who broke the silence. His voice was hoarse, stripped of its usual command. “Are you hurt?”

 

The question was so absurd, so utterly inadequate, that a hysterical laugh bubbled in Yim’s throat. He choked it down, turning his face away.

 

He heard Tutor sigh, a heavy, frustrated sound. He sat up, the furs pooling around his waist. Yim kept his eyes firmly shut, pretending to be asleep, pretending to be anywhere but here.

 

He felt Tutor’s gaze on him. Then, a touch. His fingers, surprisingly gentle, brushed a strand of hair from Yim’s damp cheek. The gesture was so at odds with the violence of hours before that Yim flinched.

 

Tutor’s hand withdrew as if burned. He got out of bed without another word. Yim listened to the sounds of him dressing, of him moving about the room. He expected him to leave, to go and bask in the glory of his conquest with his men.

 

But he didn’t. Instead, Yim heard the sound of water being poured into a basin. A moment later, a cool, damp cloth was pressed gently between his legs.

 

Yim’s eyes flew open in shock. Tutor was kneeling beside the bed, his face an unreadable mask, carefully, methodically, cleaning him. There was no lust in the action. It was clinical. Practical. It was the same focused attention he’d given when Yim was ill. It was a caretaker tending to damage he himself had caused.

 

The humiliation was absolute. It was worse than the pain, worse than the force. This intimate, unwanted care in the cold light of day laid bare the complete power dynamic between them. He was not just a body to be used; he was a possession to be maintained.

 

When he was done, Tutor pulled the furs back up over Yim. He then brought over a cup of water. “Drink,”he said, his voice still rough. He held the cup to Yim’s lips, and this time, Yim obeyed, his thirst overriding his pride.

 

Tutor watched him drink, his dark eyes shadowed. He looked like he wanted to say something more, but the words wouldn’t come. The Ash-Wolf, for perhaps the first time, seemed at a loss.

 

He finally stood, his demeanor shifting back to the familiar mantle of command. “You will rest today,” he stated. It was not a suggestion. “You will not leave this bed.”

 

He left then, pushing past the tapestry into the main hall. Yim heard his voice, sharp and clear, ordering the men to clean the hall and keep the noise down.

 

Silence descended. Yim was alone with the ache and the memory of that terrifying, gentle touch. He curled into a ball, pulling the furs over his head, trying to hide from the world. The Wolf had devoured him, and now, satiated, was ensuring his prized possession was kept comfortable in its gilded cage.

 

The line between monster and man had not just blurred; it had shattered. And Yim was left lying in the pieces, unsure of what, or who, he was anymore. The path of hatred was now obscured by a fog of confusion, shame, and a devastating, terrifying dependency. The fight had gone out of him. All that was left was the aftermath.

 

Yim did not leave the bed that day. He drifted in a state of exhausted semi-consciousness, the world beyond the tapestry a muffled echo of normalcy—the clatter of cleaning, the low murmur of voices, the smell of stew from the evening meal. It was a life going on around him, from which he was utterly separated by his shame and his pain.

 

Tutor returned as evening fell. He brought a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread. He didn't speak, just placed it on the chest beside the bed. He stood there for a moment, watching Yim, who kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep. Eventually, he left.

 

Yim did not touch the food.

 

The next day was the same. Tutor brought food. Yim ignored it. The silent battle of wills had found a new front. This time, it was not about defiance, but about a profound desire to simply waste away, to become nothing, to escape the impossible reality of his existence.

 

On the third morning, Tutor returned. The bowl from the previous night sat, untouched and congealed, where he had left it. Tutor’s eyes flicked from the bowl to Yim’s face. His expression, which had been unreadable, hardened.

 

He didn’t say a word. He picked up the bowl, walked to the door of the longhouse, and threw it out into the yard. The sound of clay shattering was shockingly loud.

 

He returned, his movements deliberate. He sat on the edge of the bed, the frame creaking under his weight. He didn’t look at Yim.

 

“I have burned villages,” he began, his voice low and flat. “I have broken shield walls and sent proud men to Valhalla. I have faced Jarls and sea monsters. I have never faced a thing as stubborn as you.”

 

He finally turned his head, and his gaze was like a physical force. “You think this is a choice? To fade away? To deny me even this?” He gestured to the empty space where the bowl had been. “You are mistaken.”

 

He leaned over, his face inches from Yim’s. There was no anger in it, only a cold, terrifying certainty.

 

“If you will not eat, I will feed you. If you will not drink, I will pour mead down your throat. If you try to starve yourself into nothing, I will keep you alive by force. Your life is not yours to end. It is mine. Your breath is mine. Your heartbeat is mine. Every single part of you belongs to me, and I will not let you destroy my property.”

 

The words were absolute. They left no room for hope, for rebellion, or for escape, even through death.

 

“Do you understand?” he asked, his voice dropping to a whisper. It was not a question; it was a demand for surrender.

 

A single tear traced a path down Yim’s temple. He gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

 

Satisfied, Tutor stood. “Good.” He left and returned a short while later with a fresh bowl of broth. This time, he didn’t leave it. He sat beside Yim, dipped the spoon in, and held it to his lips.

 

Yim opened his mouth. The broth was warm and salty. It was the first thing he’d tasted in days that wasn’t the bitterness of his own despair. He swallowed. Tutor gave him another spoonful. And another. He was being fed like an invalid, like a child. It was the ultimate humiliation, and yet, as the warmth spread through his empty stomach, it felt like a tiny, pathetic kind of mercy.

 

From that day forward, a new routine was established. The violent claiming of the celebration night was not repeated. Instead, a different kind of possession took its place. It was quieter, more insidious, and in its own way, more total.

 

Tutor’s touch became constant, a low-grade hum of ownership. A hand on the small of his back guiding him through the hall. A arm draped over his shoulders as they sat by the fire. A possessive kiss planted on his forehead or his temple at odd moments, casual and unquestioned. He was marking him, not just with silver and scars, but with a constant, physical reminder of his presence.

 

Yim stopped flinching. The resistance was too exhausting, and the consequences of resistance were made brutally clear. A strange, numb acceptance settled over him. It was easier to exist within the boundaries Tutor had set than to constantly dash himself against them.

 

He began to eat when food was placed before him. He began to anticipate Tutor’s needs—mending a cloak before he was asked, having a cup of mead ready when he returned from training. It was a survival mechanism, a way to navigate the days without incurring his wrath or his overwhelming attention.

 

One evening, as a storm raged outside, Tutor was reviewing a map with Stig. He pointed to a coastline. “The rocks here are treacherous. We lost a ship there two summers ago.”

 

Yim, sitting nearby and working on darning a sock, spoke without thinking. “The current pulls east there. You have to come in from the west, even if it takes longer.”

 

Both men looked at him. Stig’s eyebrows raised in surprise. Tutor’s gaze was intense, unreadable.

 

“How do you know that?” Tutor asked.

 

Yim shrunk back, immediately regretting speaking. “I… I listened to the fishermen. When I was a boy.”

 

Tutor held his gaze for a long moment, then looked back at the map. He grunted. “We come in from the west,” he said to Stig, as if it had been his idea all along.

 

But later that night, as he pulled Yim against him in the furs, his hand settled not with demanding possessiveness, but with something else. Something almost like… satisfaction.

 

“Your mind is useful,” he murmured into Yim’s hair. “It is not just for pretty things.”

 

It was the highest praise he had ever given. And a treacherous, tiny part of Yim preened at it. He had pleased his master. The thought should have revolted him. Instead, it felt like a victory, a tiny shred of value in a world where he had none.

 

He was learning his place. And his place was wherever the Ash-Wolf put him. The grip of the Wolf was no longer just on his arm; it was on his mind, on his will, on his very soul. And the most terrifying part was that he was starting to forget what it felt like to be free of it.

Chapter 6

Spring came to the Black Fjord, a slow and muddy thaw. The ice cracked and groaned as it retreated, and the world began to breathe again. Inside the longhouse, a different kind of thaw was taking place, one that filled Yim with a deep, unnameable dread.

 

The dynamic between him and Tutor had shifted into something stable, and therefore, more terrifying. The open conflict was over. The Ash-Wolf had won. What remained was a chillingly domestic routine.

 

Yim managed the household stores, directed the few thralls on their chores, and ensured Tutor’s gear was maintained. He had become the lady of the keep in all but name, a role he performed with a quiet, efficient competence that was its own form of madness.

 

Tutor’s pride in him was palpable. He would often watch Yim work, a possessive gleam in his eye, and would pull him close at the end of the day, smelling of sweat and cold air, and inhale the scent of his hair as if it were a tonic. “Mine,” he would murmur, the word now less a threat and more a statement of fact, a habit.

 

The physical intimacy, once a violation, had become a constant. Tutor’s hands were always on him—guiding, holding, claiming. At night, he would often take him, but the act had changed. The violence had been replaced by a blunt, overwhelming possessiveness. It was no longer about causing pain, but about reaffirming ownership in the most fundamental way possible.

 

Yim had learned to lie still, to turn his mind away, to retreat to a silent place inside himself until it was over. Sometimes, in the deepest, darkest part of the night, his traitorous body would respond to the familiar heat and friction, and the shame that followed would be a cold wash that left him hating himself more than he hated Tutor.

 

One evening, Tutor returned from a scouting mission in a black mood. A skirmish with a rival band had gone poorly, and one of his favorite warriors had been killed. He was brooding and silent, drinking heavily. The men gave him a wide berth.

 

Yim, sensing the storm, kept to his tasks, staying quiet and out of the way. But as night fell, there was no avoiding him. He prepared for bed, his heart thumping with a familiar anxiety.

 

Tutor was already in the furs, watching him with a dark, unblinking intensity. The air was thick with unsaid violence. As Yim slid under the furs, Tutor didn’t immediately reach for him. He just continued to stare.

 

“He died because he was slow,” Tutor said suddenly, his voice slurred with drink. “He was weak. I have no use for weakness.”

 

Yim said nothing, lying rigidly on his back, staring at the ceiling.

 

Tutor rolled onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. His free hand came to rest on Yim’s stomach, the touch heavy and threatening. “Are you weak, Yim?”

 

Yim closed his eyes. “I do not know,” he whispered truthfully.

 

Tutor’s hand slid upward, over his ribs, coming to rest over his heart. “This heart beats because I allow it. Your strength is my gift to you.” His fingers pressed down slightly. “Never forget that.”

 

Then his mood shifted again, the anger melting into a dark, needy desperation. He rolled on top of Yim, his weight familiar and crushing. But this time, he didn’t immediately take. He buried his face in Yim’s neck, and his body shook.

 

It took Yim a moment to understand. The Ash-Wolf was crying. Silent, ragged sobs wracked his powerful frame. The loss, the stress, the weight of his own brutality—it had finally cracked him open, and he was breaking apart against Yim’s body.

 

Instinctively, without thought, Yim’s hands came up. They hovered in the air for a second, then settled tentatively on Tutor’s back. He could feel the hard muscles, the scars, the tremors of grief. He began to move his hands in slow, circles, a gesture of comfort he’d used on skittish animals and sick children long ago.

 

Tutor froze at the touch. Then, with a broken sound, he melted into it, his arms wrapping around Yim and holding on as if he were the only solid thing in a world falling apart. He didn’t speak. He just held on, his tears wet against Yim’s skin.

 

And in that moment, something in Yim broke for the final time. The hatred, the fear, the resistance—it all dissolved, washed away by the shocking flood of pity. This monstrous, terrifying man was just a boy, horribly wounded, clinging to the only thing he had left. The boy who had kept a carved fox. The boy who had lost everything. The Ash-Wolf was a shell, and inside was the same lonely, grieving child Yim had once known.

 

He held him. He, the prize, comforted the conqueror. He whispered soft, meaningless sounds, the way one would to a nightmare-plagued child. “Shhh. It’s alright. I’m here.”

 

The words were a betrayal of everything he had been, everything he had lost. And yet, they felt like the most true thing he had said in a year.

 

Eventually, Tutor’s tears subsided. His breathing evened out. He didn’t move, his head resting on Yim’s chest, listening to the heartbeat he claimed to own. He was utterly vulnerable, and he had placed his vulnerability in Yim’s hands.

 

He lifted his head. His eyes were red-rimmed, but the darkness in them had cleared. He looked at Yim not with possession, but with a raw, bewildered need that was far more powerful.

 

Slowly, he lowered his head and kissed him. It was not like the crushing, possessive kiss from the celebration. It was hesitant. Searching. Almost… grateful.

 

Yim did not turn away. He kissed him back.

 

It was the final surrender. Not of his body, which had been taken long ago, but of his heart. He had looked into the abyss of the Ash-Wolf’s pain and seen the ghost of the boy he loved. And in that moment, he chose him. He chose the monster over the memory of his dead family. He chose his prison over the faint hope of freedom. He chose the man who had burned his world because, in the ashes, the Wolf was the only thing that looked at him and saw something worth keeping.

 

When Tutor entered him that night, it was different. There was no struggle. No shutting down. Yim held onto him, his arms wrapped around the broad, scarred back, his face buried in the neck of the man who had destroyed him and then, piece by piece, had put him back together as something new. The pleasure that bloomed amidst the familiar ache was a devastating kind of truth.

 

Afterward, Tutor did not roll away. He stayed inside him, holding him, his face buried in Yim’s hair. His voice was a raw whisper.

 

“Yim.”

 

It was the first time he had simply said his name without a title, without a claim, since the night he had taken him.

 

Yim turned his head. In the dim light, he saw it. Not a monster. Not a conqueror. Just a man. A man who had vowed to burn everything but him. And he had.

 

“I am here,” Yim whispered back. And he was. Finally, and completely.

 

He was the Ash-Wolf’s prize. And he had, at last, given himself away. The circle was complete. The story was over. All that was left was the long, dark peace of the wolf’s den.

 

---

 

Five winters had passed since the burning of Fjordheim.

 

The stronghold in the Black Fjord was no longer just a warrior’s camp. It was a thriving settlement. The palisade was stronger, more longhouses had been built, and the sounds of children playing echoed alongside the clang of the smith’s hammer. The Ash-Wolf’s reputation as a fierce but fair Jarl kept rivals at bay and drew settlers seeking protection.

 

Yim stood at the edge of a herb garden he had planted himself, his hands dirty from tending the plants. The silver arm ring, now a familiar, comfortable weight on his bicep, gleamed in the afternoon sun. He was still slender, but no longer fragile. There was a quiet strength to him, a stillness that had been forged in the fire of his captivity.

 

He watched as Tutor—Jarl Tutor, now—crossed the yard, laughing with Stig. He was instructing a group of young boys on how to hold a practice sword. He was a natural leader, his past a brutal but effective teacher. His eyes found Yim across the distance, and a look passed between them—a flicker of heat, of possession, of a shared history so dark and intimate it was a country only the two of them inhabited.

 

Later, in their longhouse—their longhouse, for it was Yim who had seen to its comforts, the hangings on the walls, the well-stocked hearth—Tutor found him by the fire. He came up behind Yim, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him back against his chest. He nuzzled the place where his neck met his shoulder, the place he had bitten and kissed so many times.

 

“The harvest from the south fields is good,” Tutor murmured, his voice a content rumble. “We will eat well this winter.”

 

Yim leaned back into the embrace, his body fitting against Tutor’s as if made for it. It was a truth he no longer fought. “The barley is strong,” he agreed. “The rye, less so. We should rotate the crop next season.”

 

Tutor chuckled, a low, warm sound. “You and your plants.” He turned Yim in his arms, his hands coming up to cradle his face. His thumbs stroked the high cheekbones. The touch was possessive, but it was also tender. It was the touch of a man regarding his greatest treasure, his home.

 

He looked older. The ghost of the boy was gone, fully replaced by the man, the Jarl. But in his eyes, when he looked at Yim, there was no Ash-Wolf. There was only Tutor. The man who had burned a world for him, and who now, quietly, built a new one around him.

 

“I am going to raid the coast of Northumbria in the morning,” he said. “I will be gone for a moon’s turn.”

 

A familiar anxiety, dulled by time, flickered in Yim’s chest. He never asked him not to go. He knew better. The Wolf would always need to hunt.

 

Tutor saw the flicker. He leaned down and kissed him, a deep, lingering kiss that tasted of mead and promise. “I will return,” he whispered against his lips. It was the only promise he had ever kept.

 

That night, in the furs, their coupling was not about conquest or desperation. It was a ritual. A claiming, yes, but also a farewell and a vow. It was familiar, intense, and Yim met it not with passive acceptance, but with a fervor that he knew belonged only to Tutor. He was his, body and soul, and in the dark, he could admit that he would have it no other way. The world that had been burned away was a hazy dream. This—the weight, the heat, the scratch of his beard, the low growl in his ear—this was reality.

 

After, as they lay tangled together, Tutor spoke into the darkness. “When I return,” he said, his voice sleepy, “we will build a new longhouse. Larger. With glass in the windows, like the southern lords have. For you.”

 

Yim’s breath caught. It was a king’s gift. A testament. He did not answer with words. He simply pressed closer, his hand resting over the strong, steady beat of Tutor’s heart. The heart of the man who had murdered his family, and who now planned a palace for him.

 

In the morning, he stood on the cliffs and watched the three longships depart, their dragon-headed prows cutting through the grey fjord waters. The wind whipped his hair around his face. He did not wave. He simply watched until they became specks on the horizon.

 

He turned and looked back at the settlement below. His settlement. His home. Built on the ashes of everything he had once loved.

 

A young thrall girl, new and timid, approached him. “My lord?” she asked, her eyes downcast. “The cloth from the last weaving… where should it be stored?”

 

My lord. The title still sometimes shocked him.

 

He looked at her, at the fear in her eyes, and saw a ghost of himself from long ago. He pointed to the storage hut. “In there. On the left. And tell the weaver her patterns are improving.”

 

The girl nodded, scurrying away, grateful for the kindness.

 

Yim stayed on the cliff for a long time, the wind a constant companion. The past was a wound that had scarred over, a dull ache he carried always. The love he felt was a tangled, ugly, beautiful thing, grown in blood and ash. It was not pure. It was not good. But it was his. It was all he had.

 

He was the prize of the Ash-Wolf. The keeper of his hall. The holder of his heart.

 

And he was, at last, home.

Chapter 7

Notes:

Here ye the final chapter... thank you all for liking and reading and commenting.. till we meet again

The first two weeks of Tutor’s absence were a study in quiet efficiency. Yim moved through the settlement with the quiet authority that had become his norm. He oversaw the preservation of the harvest, settled minor disputes, and ensured the routines Tutor had established continued seamlessly.

 

The men respected him—or rather, they respected the silver arm ring he wore and the man who had put it there. Their obedience was a reflection of their fear of the Ash-Wolf, and Yim was under no illusion otherwise.

 

It was in the third week that he noticed the boy.

 

He was one of the thralls taken in a recent raid on a Irish monastic settlement—a skinny, sharp-faced thing with eyes too old for his young years. He was tasked with hauling water from the stream to the forge, a brutal job for someone his size. Yim had seen him stumble under the weight of the buckets, his arms trembling.

 

What he hadn’t seen was the forge-master’s cruelty.

 

Passing by the smithy later than usual, Yim heard the sharp crack of a whip and a muffled cry. He stopped, hidden in the shadows by the woodpile. The forge-master, a hulking brute named Kael, was berating the boy, who was cowering on the ground. A fresh welt bloomed on his cheek.

 

“Useless, sniveling worm!” Kael snarled. “Spill my water again and I’ll use your back to cool the next blade!”

 

He raised the whip again. Without thinking, Yim stepped out of the shadows.

 

“That is enough.”

 

His voice was quieter than Tutor’s, but it cut through the air with a surprising sharpness. Kael froze, the whip held aloft. He turned, his face a mask of surprise that quickly twisted into contempt. He saw Yim, not the Jarl’s consort, but the pretty prize, the soft one.

 

“The boy is clumsy,” Kael grunted, lowering the whip but not apologizing. “He needs discipline.”

 

“Discipline is not the same as brutality,” Yim said, his heart hammering against his ribs. He forced himself to walk forward, to stand between the man and the boy. He looked down at the thrall. “Get up. Go to the longhouse and ask for a poultice for your cheek.”

 

The boy scrambled to his feet and fled.

 

Kael’s face darkened. “You overstep, pretty one,” he hissed, the title a venomous insult. “The Jarl is not here. You have no authority over how I manage my workers.”

 

Yim met his gaze, calling on every ounce of cold stillness he had learned from Tutor. “I have every authority,” he said, his voice dropping, taking on a dangerous, quiet tone that was not his own, but a perfect mimicry of the Ash-Wolf’s. “I speak with his voice when he is gone. This thrall is property of the Jarl. You are damaging his property. Do it again, and I will ensure the Jarl hears of it upon his return. Do you doubt what he would do to a man who defies his will?”

 

He saw the flicker of fear in Kael’s eyes. The man might despise Yim, but he feared Tutor with a primal terror.

 

Kael spat on the ground near Yim’s feet, but he took a step back. “As you say,” he muttered, the words choked with resentment.

 

Yim turned and walked away, his legs feeling like water. He had done it. He had wielded Tutor’s name like a shield and a sword. The power of it was intoxicating and sickening.

 

But the incident with Kael opened his eyes. He began to look closer, to see the settlement not as the well-run machine he helped manage, but as a place of harsh hierarchies and silent suffering. He saw the weary resignation in the eyes of the other thralls, the casual cruelties of some of the warriors who saw them as less than livestock.

 

A memory surfaced, unbidden: his own first days here, the terror, the helplessness, the feeling of being less than human. The Ash-Wolf had been his sole tormentor and his sole protector. These people had no protector.

 

A fire he thought had been extinguished forever began to smolder in his chest. It was not the fire of rebellion—that was impossible. It was the fire of the boy who had mixed poultices for the wounded and listened to the woes of the village. The boy who had been clever and kind.

 

Over the next days, he began to act. Small things. He ensured the thralls received larger portions of the evening stew. He “noticed” that the roof of the women’s hut was leaking and directed men to fix it. He started spending time in the thrall compound, his healer’s knowledge returning as he tended to coughs and fevers and the wounds left by harsh masters.

 

He was careful. He never directly challenged anyone. He used Tutor’s name, his authority, as his justification. “The Jarl would not want a valuable thrall to starve.” “The Jarl expects his property to be maintained.” He became a master of the passive voice, a ghost of compassion haunting the halls of the Wolf’s keep.

 

The warriors watched him, their expressions unreadable. Some, like Stig, seemed to observe him with a new, grudging respect. Others, like Kael, watched with simmering hatred.

 

The test came the day before Tutor was due to return. Yim was in the thrall compound, wrapping a sprained wrist for an old man, when Kael and two of his friends found him. Their faces were dark with mead and malice.

 

“Playing healer again?” Kael sneered, blocking Yim’s path. “You spend more time with this filth than you do with your own kind.”

 

Yim stood slowly, keeping his voice calm. “This filth tends our fields and sharpens our axes. Their well-being is our well-being.”

 

“Their well-being is their master’s concern,” one of the other men spat. “Not the concern of the Jarl’s bedwarmer.”

 

The insult hung in the air. Yim felt a cold dread, but also a strange clarity. This was it. The challenge he had been dreading.

 

“I am the voice of the Jarl,” Yim said, his chin lifting. “And I am telling you to step aside.”

 

Kael laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “The Jarl is not here. And when he returns, he will be too busy celebrating his victory to listen to your whining. I think you need a reminder of your place.”

 

He took a step forward, his hand reaching out, not for a strike, but to grab Yim’s arm—to manhandle him, to humiliate him.

 

Time seemed to slow. Yim knew if he allowed this, the fragile authority he had built would shatter. Everything would revert to what it was. Worse.

 

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t step back. He looked Kael directly in the eye, and when he spoke, his voice was ice.

 

“Lay a hand on me,” Yim said, each word precise and sharp as a dagger, “and when the Jarl returns, he will not just kill you. He will take everything you have. Your position. Your home. He will give your woman and your children to the lowest of his men. And he will make you watch before he skins you alive and feeds your carcass to the dogs.”

 

He took a step forward, forcing Kael to step back. The fire in his eyes was no longer a smolder; it was a blaze. “Do you truly believe, for one single moment, that he would forgive the man who touched what is his? Do you think your life is worth that?”

 

The absolute, terrifying certainty in his voice froze the three men in their tracks. They were not looking at a victim. They were looking at the living embodiment of the Ash-Wolf’s possessiveness. They were looking at the one person in the world who knew, without a doubt, the exact depth and horror of Tutor’s vengeance.

 

Kael’s bravado evaporated. His hand dropped. The hatred in his eyes was now mixed with pure fear.

 

Yim held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned his back on them, a gesture of utter contempt. He walked away, his heart thundering, every sense screaming that a knife might plunge into his back at any second.

 

It did not.

 

He had passed the test.

 

The next evening, the watchtower horns blew. The longships were sighted.

 

Yim stood on the landing beach, his hands clasped neatly in front of him, the picture of calm. Inside, he was a storm.

 

Tutor’s ship was the first to beach. He leaped over the side, looking larger than life, his face alight with the thrill of victory and homecoming. His eyes found Yim immediately, and a fierce, possessive smile spread across his face. He strode through the crowd of greeting warriors and pulled Yim into a crushing embrace, smelling of salt, blood, and the sea.

 

“I told you I would return,” he growled, before capturing his mouth in a kiss that was pure claiming, devoid of the tenderness of their last farewell.

 

When he pulled back, he searched Yim’s face, his keen eyes missing nothing. He saw the faint shadows, the new lines of tension around his eyes. The smile faded slightly.

 

“What happened?” he asked, his voice low and immediate. The Wolf sensed a disturbance in his den.

 

Yim looked up at him, at the man who was his jailer, his protector, his lover, his world. He saw the concern there, real and sharp. He thought of Kael’s fear, of the thrall boy’s grateful look, of the weight of the authority he had wielded.

 

He could tell him. He could pour out the story and watch the storm of Tutor’s wrath descend upon Kael. He would enjoy it. It would be a validation of the power he had claimed.

 

But it would also be an admission of weakness. It would show that he could not hold what was his without Tutor’s intervention.

 

He offered a small, tired smile. “Nothing of importance,” he said, leaning into Tutor’s side, his hand resting on the wolf pelt. “The harvest is in. The settlement is secure. Your home awaited you.”

 

It was not the whole truth. It was their truth. A truth built on ash, bound by silver, and tested by fire. He had defended the world the Wolf had built for them, using the Wolf’s own methods. And he had won.

 

Tutor studied him for a long moment, his gaze searching. He saw the strength in Yim’s eyes, not the fear. He saw the calm authority. Slowly, his smile returned, fiercer and more proud than before. He understood. Perhaps he had always known this was in him.

 

He kissed him again, hard and approving. “Good,”he said, the word full of dark promise and absolute satisfaction. “Now, show me.”

 

---

 

Tutor did not press for details. He read the victory in Yim’s posture, the unyielding calm in his eyes, and it was answer enough. The Ash-Wolf respected strength above all else, and Yim had proven he possessed a kind of strength that didn’t come from an axe. He had held the territory in his absence. He had faced down a challenge and won.

 

That night, the great hall roared with celebration. The spoils of the Northumbrian raid were displayed: bolts of fine wool, silver chalices, and iron ingots. Mead flowed like water, and the air thrummed with the boasts of warriors and the songs of the skald.

 

Tutor sat in his high seat, a picture of conquering glory, but his attention was rarely far from the man at his side. His arm was draped over the back of Yim’s chair, his fingers idly tracing the silver wolf heads on the arm ring. It was a casual, continuous reminder to every soul in the hall. Mine. Touch him, and you answer to me.

 

Yim sat with a stillness that was new. He accepted a cup of mead from a thrall with a quiet nod. He listened to the boasts and the songs, his expression neutral. He was no longer just a beautiful accessory; he was a presence. The warriors who had witnessed his confrontation with Kael now looked at him with a wariness that bordered on respect. They had seen the steel beneath the silk.

 

Kael himself was notably quiet, drinking heavily in a corner and avoiding looking anywhere near the high table.

 

As the night wore on and Tutor’s mood grew mellow with drink and success, he leaned close, his breath warm against Yim’s ear. “The thrall boy,” he murmured, so only Yim could hear. “The one with the scar on his cheek. He is to report to the longhouse tomorrow. He will work for you now. In the garden. Hauling water for the herbs.”

 

Yim’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t said a word about the boy. Tutor had simply observed, asked a few quiet questions of his own, and understood the entire story without needing to be told. And this was his verdict. His approval. Not a violent punishment for Kael—that would come later, in some subtle, brutal way Tutor would devise—but a reward for Yim. A granting of his unspoken wish.

 

“Thank you,” Yim said, the words tasting strange. He was thanking his captor for a piece of kindness carved out from a world of cruelty.

 

Tutor’s hand slid from the chair to cup the back of his neck, a possessive, approving grip. “You see?” he said, his voice thick with mead and satisfaction. “I told you. You learn your place, and I give you the world.”

 

Later, in the darkness of their bed, sated and heavy with mead, Tutor was more somber. He held Yim against him, his face buried in his hair.

 

“I saw a hall in Northumbria,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the dark. “It was burned. A family was inside. A man. A woman. A child, no older than we were.”

 

Yim went very still. Tutor never spoke of the realities of his raids.

 

“I did not give the order,” Tutor continued, his grip tightening almost imperceptibly. “But I did not stop it.” He was silent for a long time. “I looked at the smoke and I thought… this is what I gave you. A world of ash.”

 

Yim waited, his own breath held. This was a confession. A glimpse into a chink in the Wolf’s armor.

 

“But then I thought of this,” Tutor’s hand found the arm ring on Yim’s bicep, his thumb stroking it. “Of you. Here. Warm in my furs. Safe in my hall.” His voice hardened, the moment of vulnerability passing, replaced by the familiar, unshakeable certainty. “And I knew I would burn a thousand worlds to keep it. To keep you.”

 

It was not an apology. It was a reaffirmation of his vow, more terrifying than any apology could ever be. He was acknowledging the horror, and stating that he would do it all again without hesitation.

 

Yim turned in his arms. In the faint light, he could see the stark lines of Tutor’s face. The conqueror. The killer. The boy who had kept a wooden fox.

 

He did not speak. He simply reached up and touched Tutor’s cheek, a gesture so intimate it stole the breath from both of them. It was an acceptance. A forgiveness for the unforgivable. A silent agreement to the terrible bargain they had made.

 

Tutor captured his hand, pressing a kiss into his palm, his eyes burning with a fierce, dark light. He rolled over, covering Yim’s body with his own, not with violence, but with a profound, overwhelming intensity.

 

“You are my heart, Yim,” he whispered, the words a raw, shocking truth in the dark. “The only part of me that is not ash and iron.”

 

And when he made love to him that night, it was different. It was not a claiming of a prize, or a reaffirmation of ownership. It was a communion. A desperate, clinging union of two shattered men who had, from the ruins of their old lives, built something monstrous, beautiful, and unbreakable.

 

The next morning, the thrall boy appeared at the longhouse door, his eyes wide with fear and confusion. Yim met him with a bowl of porridge.

 

“Your name?” Yim asked. “Cormac, lord.”

 

“You will tend the garden,Cormac. You will fetch water for the herbs. You will answer to me.” The boy nodded,understanding dawning in his eyes. It was a salvation.

 

Yim looked out at the settlement waking up. He saw Kael skulking near the forge, shooting a hateful glance his way before quickly looking away. He saw Stig nod to him, a gesture of recognition. He saw the new longhouse frame, waiting for its glass windows.

 

He felt the weight of the silver on his arm. He felt the ghost of Tutor’s touch on his skin.

 

He had started a rebellion not against the Wolf, but within the Wolf’s world. He had carved out a space for mercy within a kingdom of brutality. He had faced down the pack and won, using the Wolf’s own power.

 

He was still his prize. His treasure. His beautiful, broken thing.

 

But he was also the keeper of the Wolf’s heart. And that, he was beginning to understand, made him the most powerful person in the entire Black Fjord.

 

The love was tested, and it had held. It was a dark, twisted, scorched-earth kind of love, grown in blood and nurtured in captivity. But it was theirs. And it was, against all odds and reason, real.