Warnings ⚠️: Cussing, violence, injury/scars, arranged marriage, patriarchal society, cultural prejudice, harsh winter survival themes, plus sized female OC, fish out of water, eventual smut, angst, fluff, touch‑starved male OC, he fell first ... then he just kept falling, he's a yearner, slowburn.
Part 2 | Part 3 - Coming Soon
Of Silk & Snow - P.1 - The Choosing
The morning sun sliced through the gauze curtains in blades of amber and gold, painting the marble floor in geometric patterns that shifted with the breeze. Nerissa stirred beneath sheets so fine they whispered against her skin like secrets. The air that drifted through her chamber's open colonnade carried the salt-sweet scent of the distant sea and the heavy perfume of night-blooming jasmine that clung to the courtyard walls below.
She rose slowly, her bare feet finding the cool smoothness of polished stone. Nerissa's black hair tumbling past her shoulders in sleep-mussed tendrils, skin pale as moonstone, a mark of her family's wealth and status. Every generation of House Veymar had kept their daughters out of the sun, preserving that porcelain complexion that spoke of leisure and luxury. Her body, fuller than fashion favored, curved soft and generous beneath her sleeping shift—round hips, full breasts, a belly that showed it had never known hunger. She was small in stature but plush and rounded, built like something meant to be sheltered, protected from the world's harshness.
The room around her spoke of wealth in the language of restraint—no clutter, no excess, only the essential rendered perfect. A bronze mirror, its surface hammered to gleaming precision. An ivory comb resting on a low table inlaid with lapis lazuli. The bed itself, draped in linein the color of cream, stood on a dias carved with running deer and flowering vines.
Through the colonnade, she could see the city of Aurethia cascading down the hillside in tiers of white stone and terracotta, every building crowned with columns that caught the light like teeth. Beyond, the harbor glittered, crowded with merchant vessels whose painted sails snapped in the wind.
A servant girl appeared in the doorway, her eyes lowered, her chiton the undyed wool of her station. "My lady. Your lord father requests your presence in his study. After you have broken your fast."
Nerissa's stomach tightened, a knot pulling somewhere beneath her ribs. Her father did not request her presence. Ever. She existed at the periphery of his vision, the youngest of four daughters, yet also the one whose dowry remained untouched in the family coffers like fruit left too long on the branch.
"Of course," she murmured, her voice barely louder than the rustle of the curtains. "Thank you."
The morning meal was taken in the women's quarters where sunlight filtered through latticework screens and turned everything soft-edged and dreamlike. Nerissa sat on a low cushioned bench, her fingers selecting grapes from a silver bowl without truly seeing them. Figs split open to reveal their scarlet hearts. Honey pooled golden beside cheese the color of bone. She ate mechanically, tasting nothing.
Her eldest sister, Kallista, reclined on a couch nearby, one arm draped languidly over the cushions. She was examining her reflection in a hand mirror, turning her face to catch the light. "You're summoned, then? How extraordinary. I wonder what you've done."
"Nothing," Nerissa said softly. "I've done nothing."
"Precisely the problem, I imagine." Kallista's laugh was like wind chimes, pretty and empty. "So many summers old and still cluttering up the household. Even the merchant families have stopped inquiring."
The words stung because they were true. Nerissa was not ugly—her face was pleasant enough, her features soft and her eyes held a warmth to there sea blue depths—but she lacked her sisters' angular elegance, their lean-limbed grace. Where they moved like hounds on the hunt, she was all gentle curves, her body full in the hips and breast and belly. In Aurethia, where women were praised for looking like living sculpture, all marble smoothness and defined lines, she was simply too much softness, too much yielding flesh.
And worse than her body was her manner. She spoke in whispers when she should command. She blushed when she should banter. She preferred the quiet company of books to the glittering warfare of court gossip.
She was, her father had once remarked in her hearing, spectacularly unmarriageable.
His study occupied the north corner of the villa, where the sea breeze came strongest and the heat of midday could not penetrate. It was a room of scrolls and shadows, shelves climbing the walls in ordered ranks, a massive desk of dark wood dominating the center like an altar. Behind it sat Lord Phelan of House Veymar, his face all sharp angles and stern judgment, his gray-streaked hair oiled to perfection.
He did not look up when she entered.
Nerissa stopped at the required distance, her hands folded before her, her eyes fixed on the mosaic floor—a kraken devouring a ship, rendered in tiny tiles of blue and black and bone-white.
"Nerissa." Her name in his mouth was a formality, an item to be checked off a list. "Approach."
She stepped forward, heart hammering against her ribs like a bird against cage bars.
"You are aware," her father said, still not looking at her, his finger tracing a line across some parchment spread before him, "that your sisters have all been wed. Advantageously. Kallista to the magistrate's son. Damaris to the shipwright. Even Lyra, who we feared might prove as difficult as yourself, secured a match with the spice merchant's heir."
"Yes, Father."
"You are the last. The youngest. And the least..." He paused, his eyes traveling her in languid boredom, searching for a word that would wound precisely. "...requested."
Her throat tightened. She nodded, not trusting her voice.
"I have exhausted the suitable families of Aurethia. None will have you." He said it as one might report the weather—factual, dispassionate. "Therefore, you give me no choice but to accept an alternative arrangement."
The room seemed to tilt. Nerissa's fingers dug into her palms.
"There is a settlement," her father continued, rolling up the parchment with crisp efficiency. "In the southern highlands. Dunmarrow, I believe there calling it. A crude place. Cold. Isolated. They have sent word that they require brides—their population dwindles, and they need women to... replenish their numbers."
Horror crept up her spine like ice water. She had heard of such places. Remote villages in the harsh lands beyond the civilized coast, where winter came early and stayed late, where men lived like wolves.
"I have signed the contract on your behalf. You will leave in two days' time. A coach has been arranged. You should consider yourself fortunate—you will be traveling in more comfort than you've earned, certainly."
"Father, please—" The words escaped before she could stop them, thin and desperate.
"There is no discussion to be had." He finally looked at her again, holding up a hand to stop her words, his eyes were flat, already dismissing her. "You have been a drain on this household's resources. You will go to Dunmarrow, you will marry and you will produce children. That is the purpose you will serve. Am I understood, daughter ?"
Her vision blurred. She blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. "Yes, Father."
"Good. You are dismissed."
The following day passed in a haze of numb terror. Her sisters descended on her like crows on carrion, their voices bright with false sympathy and barely concealed delight.
"Dunmarrow!" Kallista gasped, her hand pressed to her breast in mock horror. "Oh, you poor creature. I've heard things about the men of the south."
"What things?" Nerissa whispered, though she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to know.
Damaris leaned in conspiratorially, her eyes gleaming. "They say the men of the highlands are enormous. And I don't just mean their height, sweet sister. Everything about them is oversized—their hands, their appetites, their..." She laughed at Nerissa's shocked expression.
"What?" Kallista said, with a laugh "Did you think marriage was all poetry and gentle touches? Their not like our civilized suitors—these are warriors. Brutes. They wrestle bears for sport and bathe once a season, They'll likely mount you like a stallion mounts a mare."
"They may not even wait for you to undress properly," Lyra closest to her age added, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "I heard that they take their wives on furs like animals, they prefer their women on hands and knees—like livestock."
Kallista circled Nerissa like a predator, her smile sharp. "And with your build, little sister, they'll be on you constantly. Those men prefer something they can grab onto, something soft for those long, cold nights. You'll be swollen with child before the first snow falls, mark my words."
"They won't know how to be gentle," Damaris said bluntly, reaching out to pat Nerissa's cheek with false tenderness. "—they probably don't even understand the concept. He'll split you open and grunt until he's finished. That's what you have to look forward to."
"Every night," Lyra added sweetly. "Sometimes multiple times a night. I hear they have tremendous stamina—all that warrior training, you know. While you're lying there, he'll likely be hardened again."
"Your poor little cunny," Kallista laughed, cruel and bright. "But at least you'll be warm, right? All that rutting does generate heat. You'll need it, in those frozen wastes."
Nerissa's face burned scarlet. "Stop. Please."
"Oh, we're just preparing you," Damaris cooed. "Would you rather go in ignorant? At least this way you know what's coming." She dissolved into laughter, and her sisters joined her.
Nerissa turned away, her face burning, her hands trembling as she folded a chiton and placed it in the trunk. Silk, all silk. She owned nothing else. Gowns that draped like water over her curves, sheer enough to catch the light, designed for a climate of endless summer.
They would be useless in the south.
But they were all she had.
"I hear tell," Lyra added, with less cruelty, perhaps the semblance of what was once warmth. "That you get to choose your brute ? At least there is one mercy Sister. But with no courtship, you should prepare yourself for a very different sort of life then you've known." She said the last part slowly, before patting her arm and turning to follow Nerissa's other sister's out of her chamber's.
The coach was silk-lined, as if luxury could somehow cushion the blow of exile. Nerissa climbed inside on the morning of her departure, her father already returned to his study, her sisters waving from the colonnade with barely concealed glee.
The door closed. The driver's whip cracked.
And Aurethia, with its white columns and glittering harbor and air of eternal sunshine, began to recede behind her.
The journey took twenty days.
At first, the road wound through country she recognized—olive groves and vineyards, stone farmhouses with red-tiled roofs, villages where children played in dusty squares and old men argued in the shade. The air stayed warm, the landscape bathed in golden light.
But slowly, imperceptibly, things changed.
The olive trees gave way to scrub oak. The neat farms became rough pastureland. The temperature dropped, degree by degree, until Nerissa found herself wrapping her silk shawl tighter around her shoulders.
On the tenth day, they climbed into the hills. The trees here were different—tall pines that whispered in the wind, their needles carpeting the ground in rust-colored drifts. Mist clung to the hollows. The sun, when it appeared at all, seemed pale and distant.
On the fifteenth day, it rained. Not the brief, warm showers of home, but a cold, relentless downpour that turned the road to mud and drummed against the coach roof like accusatory fingers. Nerissa huddled in the corner, her teeth chattering, her silk gown utterly inadequate against the chill that seeped through the walls.
By the twentieth day, she could see her breath in the air.
The landscape had transformed entirely. Gone were the gentle hills and cultivated fields. In their place rose dark moorland, broken by outcroppings of ancient stone and forests so thick the sunlight barely penetrated. The grass was coarse and colorless. The sky hung low and gray, heavy with the promise of snow.
And then, in the distance, she saw it, Dunmarrow.
It was nothing like Aurethia. No marble, no columns, no graceful terraces descending to the sea. Instead, a cluster of low buildings huddled together as if the buildings themselves needed warmth, smoke rising from their chimneys in thin gray threads. There wasn't even a palisade to surround the settlement, no sharpened stakes pointing skyward in defense. Beyond the small clutch of houses, the forest pressed close, dark and watchful.
The coach lurched to a halt in what passed for the village square—a cleared space of hard-packed earth surrounded by timber halls and workshops. Men in rough wool and leather stopped their work to stare. Women in heavy skirts and thick shawls peered from doorways.
Everyone looked at the silk-lined coach as if it had fallen from the sky itself.
The driver opened the door. Cold air rushed in, stealing Nerissa's breath. She gathered her skirts—a chiton of pale blue silk that left her arms bare and draped over one shoulder in the Aurethian style—and stepped out.
The cold hit her like a physical blow. She gasped, her skin erupting in gooseflesh, her nipples hardening painfully against the thin fabric. Around her, she heard murmurs, saw eyes tracking the way her gown clung to her body, the way it revealed rather than concealed.
She had never felt more exposed.
"This way, girl." A woman approached, older, her face weathered as tree bark, wrapped in layers of wool and fur. Her expression was not unkind, but neither was it welcoming. "You'll want to come inside. Get warm before the ceremony."
"Ceremony?" Nerissa's voice came out small, almost childlike.
"The choosing. Tonight. The men have been waiting." The woman looked her up and down, taking in the silk, the bare arms, the delicate sandals already caked with mud. "You'll need warmer clothes than that, my girl. But there's no time now. Come."
The hall where the choosing took place was low-ceilinged and dim, lit by a fire burning in a central pit and tallow candles that smoked and guttered in iron sconces. The walls were rough timber, hung with furs and weapons—axes and spears and round shields painted with unfamiliar symbols. The floor was packed earth covered in rushes that released a musty, herbal scent when stepped on.
It smelled of smoke and sweat and wet wool. Nothing like the perfumed air of home.
Nerissa stood with four other women, all of them strangers, all of them looking equally terrified. Two were from coastal towns, their accents similar to her own. One was from the river valleys, her skin darker, her hair in tight braids. The last was from somewhere Nerissa had never even heard of, and she spoke hardly at all.
They huddled together in their inadequate clothes—gowns meant for warmer climes, fine fabrics that served no purpose here except to mark them as foreign. As other.
"Remember," the older woman who had greeted Nerissa said, addressing all five brides, "you each choose one man. Choose wisely. This will be your husband, your home, and your life. There is no returning."
No returning. The words settled over Nerissa like a shroud.
"Bring them in," the woman called.
The hall's far door opened.
And the men of Dunmarrow entered.
There were perhaps thirty of them, ranging from boys barely old enough to shave to grizzled warriors whose beards were streaked with gray. They wore rough-spun tunics and leather, thick woolen trousers and—many of them—kilts in various patterns of dyed wool, pleated and belted at the waist. Their legs were bare below the knee, muscled and hairy, seemingly impervious to the cold.
They stared at the brides with expressions ranging from eager hunger to calculating assessment. Several smiled, displaying gaps where teeth had once been. Others looked the women up and down with slow, deliberate gazes that made Nerissa want to fold in on herself, to disappear.
One man, stocky and red-faced, elbowed his companion and said something that made both of them laugh—a rough, barking sound. His eyes were on Nerissa, specifically on the way her gown draped over her breasts and hips.
She wanted to die.
"You there," he called, pointing at her with a thick finger. "Aye, the soft one. You'd do well in my bed. Plenty of meat on you to keep a man warm through winter."
Laughter rippled through the hall. Nerissa's face burned. She dropped her gaze to the floor, to the rushes beneath her feet, anywhere but the faces of the men.
"Quiet," the older woman snapped. "Let the girls look you over. No touching, no grabbing. They'll make their choices when they're ready."
The men arranged themselves in a rough line, some puffing out their chests, others leaning casually against the wall as if this were all a great amusement. The brides began to move among them, hesitant, terrified.
Nerissa walked slowly, her arms wrapped around herself, trying to preserve some scrap of warmth. Her sandals made soft sounds against the floor. Every man she passed seemed enormous compared to the slender courtiers of Aurethia—thick-shouldered, broad-chested, their hands scarred and callused, their faces weathered by wind and cold.
The red-faced man who had called out to her stepped forward, blocking her path. Up close, he smelled of ale and onions. "What's your name, sweet thing?"
"N-Nerissa," she managed.
"Nerissa," he repeated, drawing it out, savoring it. "Pretty name for a pretty girl. I'm Muir. I've got a good house, warm hearth, thick walls. And I've got appetite enough for a wife with your shape. What do you say?"
His hand reached out, fingers grazing her arm.
She flinched back, her heart hammering. "I... I need to see all the men first. Before I choose."
His expression darkened, but he stepped aside. "Don't take too long. Good offers don't wait forever."
She hurried past him, her breath coming shallow and quick.
The next man was taller, leaner, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll give you strong sons," he said without preamble. "That's what you're here for, isn't it?"
Another laughed and grabbed his own crotch through his kilt. "I'll give you more than sons, lass. I'll give you something to remember every morning."
Nerissa's vision swam. This was a nightmare. This was hell dressed in wool, leather and leering grins.
She moved faster now, desperate to reach the end of the line, to finish this horrible parade and just... choose someone. Anyone. Get it over with.
And then she saw him.
At the very end of the hall, half-hidden in shadow, stood a man who was not pushing forward. Who was not calling out or leering or making crude jokes.
He was simply... standing. Waiting. His eyes on the floor.
Nerissa stopped.
He was massive—easily the largest man in the room, broad as a door and tall enough that he had to duck slightly beneath the low beams. His hair and beard was the color of flame, red-gold in the firelight, tied back from his face with a leather cord. He wore a kilt of green wool crossed with red lines, and a rough linen shirt beneath. His arms, bare below the elbow, were thick with muscle and marked with scars and ink—the scars where thin white lines, old burns, the puckered evidence of blades and battle.
But it was his face that made her breath catch.
A scar ran from his left eyebrow down across his cheek to his jaw—a thick, ropy line of pale tissue, intercepted by another line across his cheek, the line pulled at his eye slightly, giving him a permanent look of grim intensity. It must have been a terrible wound. The kind that should have killed him.
He looked... alone and unexpectant, even in this crowded room.
While every other man postured and preened, he stood with his shoulders slightly hunched, his big hands hanging at his sides, his gaze fixed on the rushes as if he could will himself invisible.
Nerissa found herself walking toward him.
The men she passed called after her—"Where you going, girl?" "Don't waste time with him, he's got nothing to offer!"—but she ignored them.
She stopped in front of the giant.
Up close, he was even larger. She had to tilt her head back to see his face, and even then, she was looking at his chest, at the broad expanse of him. He smelled of wood, smoke and something clean, like linen or maybe the bathhouse from home.
He didn't look at her. His jaw was clenched under the red-gold scratch of beard, his hands curled into loose fists. A muscle twitched in his scarred cheek.
"Excuse me," Nerissa said softly.
No response. He stared at the floor as if it contained the secrets of the gods.
"Excuse me," she tried again, a little louder. "I... may I ask you something?"
Finally, slowly, his gaze lifted. His eyes were the color of moss, green and gray and flecked with amber. They met hers for a fraction of a second—wary, confused—then darted away again, back to the safety of the floor.
"Me?" His voice was deep, rough as gravel, as if he didn't use it often.
"Yes. Uhh. I..." She swallowed, her heart still racing. "I wanted to ask... those scars." She gestured vaguely toward his face, his arms. "Do they... do they bring you much pain?"
He blinked. His brow furrowed, the scar pulling tight. He looked at her again, really looked this time, as if trying to determine whether she was mocking him.
"Pain?" he repeated.
"Yes. I know scars can ache when it's cold out, or when the weather changes. I just... I wanted to know if you still hurt."
For a long moment, he said nothing. Around them, the hall had gone strangely quiet. Nerissa was aware of eyes on them, of whispers starting up like wind through leaves.
"No," he said finally, his voice so low she had to lean closer to hear. "No, lass. They don't hurt. Not for a long time."
"Oh." She felt a strange relief, as if his pain would have been her burden too. "That's... that's good. I'm glad."
His eyes searched her face, utterly baffled. "That's what you wanted to know? If I hurt?"
"Yes." She wrapped her arms around herself again, shivering. "And... I suppose if your hearth is warm...Is it warm?"
Something shifted in his expression. The wariness didn't leave, but it was joined by something else—something that might have been wonder, or confusion, or the faintest flicker of hope.
"Aye," he said. "It's warm. I keep a good fire."
"Then..." Nerissa hesitated, her teeth catching her lower lip. "Could you... would you tell me about your home? What it's like?"
He blinked, clearly not expecting the question. Around them, other brides were making their choices, their voices carrying across the hall in uncertain proclamations. But Nerissa stood still, waiting, her sea-glass eyes fixed on him.
He shifted his weight, the floorboards creaking beneath him. He glanced toward the door, then back at her, as if the words were somewhere out there in the cold and he had to fetch them.
"It's... simple," he said finally, his deep voice halting, unpracticed. "Solid walls, thatch roof. She's strong, Keeps the wind out." He paused, his scarred brow furrowing as he tried to find the right words. "I keep the hearth going. Always. Even when I'm out hunting or working, I bank the coals so it's warm when I return. There's furs. On the bed and the floor. They're... soft. Clean."
He said the last word almost defensively, as if expecting her to doubt him.
Nerissa felt something loosen in her chest. She nodded, encouraging him to continue.
"It's a ways from the hamlet," he went on, his gaze drifting past her to some middle distance, seeing his home in his mind's eye. "Up the glen, where the forest thickens. Some say it's too far, too isolated, but..." He shrugged, those massive shoulders rising and falling. "I like the quiet. And the goats don't mind."
"Goats?" A small smile touched her lips despite everything. "You have goats ?"
"Aye." And there—just there, for a moment—something shifted in his expression. The grim wariness softened. His eyes, when they met hers again, held a flicker of something almost shy. "Six of them. Stubborn bastards, every feckin one. But they give good milk, and the cheese..." He stopped himself, as if suddenly aware he was talking about goats to a woman who'd probably never seen one outside of a painted vase.
But Nerissa's smile widened, just a fraction. "They sound lovely."
"They're loud," he huffed, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Especially the white one. She thinks she rules the glen."
For a moment, standing there in the smoky, crowded hall, Nerissa forgot the cold, forgot the leering men and the terrifying strangeness of this place. She saw something in this giant's eyes—something gentle and careful, something that spoke of a man who kept his hearth warm and his home clean, who cared for stubborn goats and lived in quiet solitude.
"It sounds—"
"Has this one made her choice, then?"
The voice cut through the moment like a blade. Nerissa startled, turning to find the older woman—the attendant who had greeted her—standing at her elbow, her weathered face impassive.
"I—" Nerissa's heart leapt into her throat. She looked back ar the scarred giant who had just told her about his goats with something that might have been hope in his eyes.
The attendant's gaze was sharp, assessing. "Well, girl? The others have chosen. We're waiting on you."
Panic fluttered in Nerissa's chest. This was it. The moment. Once she spoke, there would be no taking it back, no returning to Aurethia, no escape from whatever life waited for her here.
She looked at him shyly. He had gone very still, his jaw tight under the wire of his beard, his eyes back on the floor. Waiting for her to come to her senses. Waiting for her to choose one of the other men, the ones with larger homes and or land.
Waiting to be passed over for the eighth time.
"I'd like to choose him," Nerissa heard herself say. Her voice came out smaller than she intended, but clear. "If that's ok ?"
But the attendant held up one gnarled hand, and the protests died to mutters. She looked between Nerissa and Torvin, her expression unreadable, then gave a single sharp nod.
"So be it. Come with me, both of you."
Torvin's head snapped up, his eyes wide with something between shock and disbelief. He stared at Nerissa as if she might evaporate, as if this were some cruel joke that would reveal itself any moment.
"You're... you're certain?" His voice was barely audible.
Nerissa's hands were shaking, her whole body trembling with cold and fear. But she nodded. "Yes. I'm certain."
For a long moment, he simply looked at her. Then, slowly, carefully, he offered his hand—that massive, scarred hand, callused and rough and warm.
She placed her cold fingers in his palm, and his hand closed around hers with surprising gentleness.
The attendant turned and walked toward the door. Torvin followed, and Nerissa had no choice but to follow too, her hand still clasped in his, the whispers and stares of the hall following them like smoke.
Nerissa kept her eyes forward, trying very hard not to think about the size of the man beside her—the breadth of his shoulders, the way his hand nearly swallowed hers whole.
Her heart beat nervously in her chest. She wondered if he could feel it through her fingers.
At last, his voice broke the silence.
Low. Careful.
“…Torvin.”
She blinked and looked up at him.
He glanced down at her almost awkwardly, as though the act of speaking itself required effort.
“Torvin the Stonebak,” he clarified, his thumb shifted slightly against the back of her hand—not squeezing, just grounding himself.
“It was given to me after a battle,” he added gruffly, as if explaining the weight of it.
Nerissa swallowed. For a moment she seemed unsure whether she was meant to answer.
“Nerissa,” she said, her voice softer than the rustle of her skirts. “Nerissa of the House of Veymar.”
The name carried its own quiet weight—old northern house, marble halls, silk banners.
Torvin's brows rose before he schooled them and gave a small nod, accepting it.
“Nerissa,” he repeated, slower this time, as though committing the sound of it to memory.
Something in his voice made her glance up again. He wasn’t staring at her the way the others had been in the hall—not judging, not measuring. Just… looking.
After a moment, he shifted their joined hands slightly, adjusting his grip so her fingers rested more comfortably in his.
“Well,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “least we know our names.”
Outside, the cold was a living thing, biting and merciless. Nerissa gasped as the wind hit her bare arms, her thin silk offering no protection whatsoever. Before she could even process the pain of it, something heavy and warm settled over her shoulders.
Torvin's cloak. Thick wool, lined with fur, smelling of damp and smoke. It swallowed her, the hem dragging on the ground, but it was blissfully, wonderfully warm.
She looked up at him, startled.
He wasn't looking at her. His jaw was set, his gaze fixed ahead, his shoulders hunched slightly against the wind. Without the cloak, he wore only his linen shirt and kilt, but he didn't seem to feel the cold.
"Thank you," she whispered.
A muscle twitched in his cheek. He said nothing.
The attendant led them to the center of the square, where a large fire pit had been prepared. Flames leapt and crackled, sending sparks spiraling into the darkening sky. Around the pit, the villagers had gathered—men and women and children, all wrapped in wool and fur, all watching with expressions ranging from curiosity to judgment.
The other brides stood with their chosen men, looking equally terrified and resigned. The attendant moved to stand beside the fire, her face painted orange and gold by the flames.
"Marriage is a joining," she called out, her voice carrying across the square. "One hearth, one home, one fire that burns through the long winter." She gestured to a pile of logs stacked nearby. "Each couple will cast their log into the flame. Speak your vows as you do. Keep them simple. Keep them true."
She nodded to the first couple—a tall, broad man and a dark-haired girl who looked about to faint. They stepped forward together. The man lifted a log, heavy and rough-barked, and together they heaved it into the fire. Sparks exploded upward.
"I'll provide," the man said gruffly.
"I'll honor you," the girl whispered.
And it was done.
One by one, the couples came forward. Logs crashed into the flames. Vows were spoken—some eloquent, some stammered, some barely audible over the roar of the fire.
Then it was Torvin and Nerissa's turn.
Torvin moved to the log pile and selected one—not the largest, but substantial, the wood smooth and aged. He carried it easily, as if it weighed nothing, and stopped at the edge of the fire pit.
Nerissa stepped up beside him, her hands still lost inside his cloak.
"Together," the attendant said.
Torvin lowered the log so Nerissa could reach it. She placed her small hands on the rough bark beside his large ones. The wood was cold beneath her palms, but his hands radiated warmth.
"On three, aye?" he murmured, his voice so low only she could hear. "One... two... three."
They lifted. Or rather, he lifted, and she held on, and together they swung the log into the heart of the fire.
It crashed down in an explosion of sparks and embers, flames leaping up to consume it with eager crackles and pops.
"Your vows," the attendant prompted.
Nerissa's mind went blank. She looked up at Torvin, at his scarred face painted in firelight, at the way the flames reflected in his moss-green eyes.
What could she promise? What did she have to offer this stranger who would be her husband?
"I'll try," she said finally, the words small but sincere. "I'll try to be... to make your home mine."
Her voice cracked on the last word. She dropped her gaze, ashamed of how useless she sounded.
Torvin was quiet for a long moment. Then his hand—the one not holding hers—lifted slowly, hesitantly, before dropping to his side again.
"You'll be warm and you'll be safe," he said, and his voice was rough as stone but warm as the fire before them. "I vow it ... as your h-husband."
The attendant struck her staff against the ground. "It is done. Torvin the Stonebak, Nerissa of Aurethia—you are wed. May your hearth burn bright through all the winters to come."
A ragged cheer went up from the gathered villagers, more obligation than enthusiasm. The other couples began to drift away, the men leading their new brides toward homes scattered throughout the hamlet.
Torvin looked down at Nerissa, his expression uncertain, as if he still couldn't quite believe she was real.
"My home is—" He gestured vaguely toward the forest. "It's a walk. We should go before full dark."
Nerissa nodded, pulling his cloak tighter around herself.
He held out his hand again. She took it.
And together, they walked away from the firelight, away from the hamlet with its clustered buildings and watching eyes, toward the dark line of trees where the forest began.
The path was narrow and rough, winding upward through tall pines that whispered in the wind. The last light of day was fading fast, the sky above turning from gray to deep purple. Nerissa's sandals slipped on the uneven ground, and more than once Torvin's hand tightened on hers, steadying her.
He didn't speak. Neither did she. The only sounds were their footsteps, her labored breathing and the distant calls of night birds settling into the trees.
Her sisters' voices echoed in her mind with every step. She looked up at Torvin's broad back as he led her through the darkness, at the sheer size of him.
Ahead, somewhere in the forest, was his home. Their home. And she had no idea what would happen when they arrived.
I can’t stop thinking about torvin, but as a thing that only happens after Andred takes over torvalds life. Like you’ve just killed a guy and are now living his life and his personality got a little mixed up with yours and your confused and probably a bit scared, so of course the next logical step is to fuck his boss
Help! I (455M) engaged in carnal relations with my friend (57F)'s now deceased husband (612M) whilst he was in disguise as one of my workers (362M), whom he murdered. AITA?
Birthday: 21/01 (21th of January) idk if in the rebel spies timeline It follows the same counting mechanism of days, months and years heh T,v,T
Nationality: American & British? (He has American and British descendants)
Representative song: Counting Stars - OneRepublic
He's a big dreamer. He likes dreaming of a better future. Or, at least hoping for one. And he is a kind and merciful boy too. But at the same time, he's a bit pessimistic. After all, everything is going down. And not getting better. He really loves hearing or investigating about earth's past. He truly wished to live in the era where Earth was alive.
He's the type of friend to try to bring you up and give you hope. Even if he's in a worse state. He always is there for you. He's like a comfort friend. One that always hears and advices. Surprisingly, he smiles a lot when he's around those he loves. Very different from his pessimistic normal look.
He tries to smile and think positive but sometimes it's hard for him. Especially for everything that is happening. He doesn't smile often because he doesn't have that much friends too. He would smile more if he had company. But sadly he doesn't have anyone from the ocassional people that hang around him or his sister. And being honest... who would smile when the spaceship is literally falling apart?!
He's a chill guy. He prefers staying at his room. In his world dreaming or doing mini crafts stuff. And he likes staying there because is his safe and comfort place. Far away from the chaos outside the door. And because he can do anything he wants. Without someone annoying him or criticizing him.
He was so bored to the point he decided to go to one of those "Rebels reunions". Just by mere curiosity and boredom. He just wanted someting new. Out of rutine. Something adventurous. Bad idea- he got himself into a big problem full of chaos.... But still, he enjoys having something new. Something that makes him feel alive. But i wonder... what will be the price?
He likes Naveed because he thinks he's cool and a "bit" handsome. A lot- And he clearly wants to know more about him and get more close. But with the chaos surrounding them is difficult. He also thinks he's pretty brave. And smart. But he knows that is not an excellent list for falling in love. Yet. That's why he wants to know him more. But he hesitates a little. He doesn't know if he's ready to take those steps that you call "love".
His family is a bit messed up. His parents divorced. And his mother now is sick with an "unknown" sickness. He knows they're just liying to them in order to not help. But he can't prove it. And his father doesn't want to help them. His older sister always picks up in fights. And brings problems to him. And his uncle? Well, he's a bit apart from the family. But at least he tries to help in what he can do.
Fun facts:
His uncle tried offering him help with the work. And Alioth accepted. On one condition. His uncle wouldn't help him get promoted. He would do it all by himself. He hates being assited too much. To the point that "assistance" is literally gifted. And not won.
He loves his mother. An always goes to visit her. Chatting a lot with her. His sister sometimes accompanies him. And with her company, there's wayyyyy more chatting. Let's ignore the existence of his father to not bitter they day shall we? =3
He loves learning or investigating about Earth's past. In fact, he would loved to be born around the time where Earth was alive. Seeing the trees, plants, animals and everything. Living a normal live. Away from space and high technology.
He loves to do crafts. Especially about Earth. He tries to find the most similar materials to Earth's materials. And does stuff about it. Like doing a mini wooden cabin, a forest, a cat, a city, a mountain, etc.
He likes watching the windows that point to the space. Even if he wanted to live in Earth and see the beauty of it, it's still a nice view. Seeing the space. And all the stars and planets that are around.
He thinks it's funny to see Naveed and Sohail interact. It reminds him a bit of his sister and him. But they're wayyyy more peaceful than those two. And he likes seeing that side of Naveed. Something normal out of the chaos they're in.
He likes seeing how Naveed, Sohail and Torvin interact too. He sees them like a family. Caring for eachoter, scolding eachoter and annoying eachother. It's a nice "family" dinamic.
andred picking up on the possessive way narvin talks about him torvald and feeling some type of way about it. starting to lean into it as a way to manipulate narvin, get him closer, get him to reveal information. but he starts to actually like it after a while, not only because he misses being bonded to someone (leela) emotionally, but he like. actually likes it. narvin starts picking up on the way he goes quiet at being referred to as “my commander.” notices the intensity of torvald’s eye contact when he’s reminded who he belongs to. andred finds himself challenging narvin, practically daring him to put him in his place, yank on his leash, control him, take ownership of him. narvin would never admit that he likes it too, not for any reason, but he plays along. maybe he justifies it as observing torvald to take notes on his new incarnation’s personality but it becomes this inescapable little game of theirs. and they’ll never talk about it out loud. ever.
torvin is delightful and fucked up as a ship of course, but i feel like part of the reason people seem to accept it so universally is because of the extra layers it adds, especially to narvin. the idea that torvald is nothing more than a tool to narvin (a “blunt instrument”), but one that narvin can use in many ways. the time lord conditioning of every other person being a means to an end, and narvin doesnt start breaking from that conditioning until he realizes that torvald, *his* means to an end, was using him back in exactly the same way. and andred, not as conditioned as someone like narvin, dragged back into time lord relationships until there’s no way he can get back out of it to leela. it adds so many new layers of dysfunction and tragedy
