Good morning, little ones!

Thank you to Mel and Jill.

.: Tíu :.

"Please, don't hurt me."

They are the only words I can think to say as Edvard yanks me outside. He doesn't look back at me or make any acknowledgement of my plea as he drags me from the house.

"No," I shout, twisting in his grasp. His hand is firm on my arm, and despite how large he is and how frail I'm realizing I am, I shift to kick him. He sees what I'm doing though, and he pauses, spinning me so that my feet aren't pointed at him.

"Stǫðva!" His voice is a growl, and I don't need to know what language he is speaking to know he is ordering me to stop. I try to reposition to kick him again and he mutters something that sounds like a swear as he curls his free hand around my other shoulder. He holds my back to him, and I can hear him murmuring in my ear. I don't know what he's saying, but his tone is soothing, as if he's urging me to calm down.

It goes against every instinct I have.

Eventually though, I do start to settle down. I don't trust him, my heart rate steadying very slowly as I become more sure he isn't trying to hurt me. His grip on me loosens and I turn to look at him. His mouth is twisted into a lopsided smirk under his beard, his eyebrows dipped in annoyance as he takes me in.

I wish we could just talk.

"Where am I?"

It's a pointless question. I know he doesn't understand me, and even if he did, I'm not sure he'd respond.

One of his thick brows dips in a furrow as he watches my mouth form unfamiliar words. His eyes flicker up to mine, and I wonder if he can see the hopelessness in them.

"Hverr eru þú?" he murmurs, his fingers flexing by his side as he speaks. I wish more than almost anything I could understand him.

"Will I ever go home?" I ask him.

He doesn't say anything in answer.

Eventually, he lets out a long breath, reaching out to take my hand in his. I'm surprised by the movement, surprised even more to find his hands are large and warm and dry. They are rough, clearly the hands of someone accustomed to hard work, but despite that, his touch is gentle. His fingers hesitate around my own before his grip slips up my arm, settling over my wrist. Somehow, it's less intimate, and I breathe out a slight breath of relief.

He guides me to a garden bed that Eydís showed me earlier. He speaks, pointing to a flower, I stare at him blankly. He grunts, bending to pluck one and bring it in front of me. "Blóm," he says slowly.

I frown.

"Bah-loo-m," I repeat and he shakes his head.

"Bl-umm," he stresses. I repeat this a few times before nodding very slowly. "Is that your word for flower?" I wonder. "Or is it the type of flower?"

He obviously looks confused by my question, so I bend over, pointing to another flower. "Blóm?" I ask. He smiles, and his face transforms becoming bright and warm and kind. It's disarming. "Blóm?" I ask, point to some grass. He shakes his head and I point to another flower. His grin tells me I understand the concept.

"Já," he says, nodding his head. "Knífr," he says, pulling a short blade from his belt. I take a step back, my eyes going wide. I take another step back, trying to put distance between us and he shakes his head. "Koma á," he commands, knowing I know that word. I stare at him warily, before I step closer again. He points to the knife. "Knífr."

I repeat the word, struggling with the first sounds. When I apparently get close enough, he nods. "Bita blóm," he instructs, handing me the knife. I stare at it for a long moment then look up at him wearily. I could stab him and make a run for it, but what good would it do me? He's the only one to show me even an ounce of patience so far, and I have no idea where I am still. "Bita," he encourages me. When I still don't move, he sighs and moves behind me, easily wrapping his arms around my small frame. My body starts to shake under him, but when his hands move around mine, I force my fingers to be steady. "Bita," he says, taking my hand with the knife in it and using it to cut the flowers.

"Oh." I sigh, understanding finally dawning. "Cut."

He probably doesn't know what I'm saying, but he nods beside my head. Letting go of my hands, he steps away from me. I turn to him and he speaks, motioning to the knife and to the garden. I hear Eydís' name, and I wonder if I'll be expected to harvest for her. I look up at him, nodding to tell him I understand.

It's nearly dark out, but there is just enough light still to see the green of his eyes, nearly the same color as the grassy fields around us.

There is no denying that he's terrifying. He's easily the biggest man I've ever come across. It's not just his size though that makes him so scary. It's his presence, his confidence in his stance, that tells me he could fight any fight and have reason to believe he'd win.

I've never known confidence like that.

"You scare me," I tell him because he can't understand me and because it feels good for once in my life to say what I'm feeling out loud. "But I think you're also kind," I continue, my head tilting slightly to the side. He stares at me, his brows furrowing ever so slightly. "I'm going to keep this though," I tell him, holding the knife up. "If you didn't want me armed, you shouldn't have given me a weapon."

He must be able to decipher what I'm saying based on my tone and body language because a large, wide smile breaks across his face. He chuckles, and the sound is deep and warm and makes the corners of my own mouth pull up into a smile as well. He says something, laughing as he does, but he never reaches for the knife again. I consider it his greatest kindness that he lets me keep it.