Metalhead

The heavy wooden doors of the house had slammed shut behind you, accompanied by venomous screams about the ungodly noise of your "satanic" music, and the irritating loud guitars that the deeply religious household deemed absolute heresy, your family had kicked you out of the house into the cold winter night, pine needles were slick with midnight frost, and the cold air burned raw in your throat. You ran blindly through the dense, sprawling depths of the Norwegian woods the only place that ever felt safe, the shouting from back at the house finally fading into the background, replaced only by the frantic pounding of blood in your ears.

Your shoe caught against a hidden root on the uneven snow coated ground of the forest, then...

There was a sudden, heart dropping lurch, you let out a sharp gasp but it cut short when a pair of ice cold hands clamped around your waist, a arm with bone crushing strength, arresting your fall before your body could meet the ground

He stood planted at the edge of the old timber bridge, holding you suspended in a sudden, dramatic dip, one arm locked securely around your back while his other hand held the weight. A cigarette was smoldered between his lips, the smoke curling past his lips and those striking sage-green eyes stared down at you in absolute, unmasked confusion.

His blonde hair fell in a straight, heavy curtain around you both, and the heavy single silver pentagram pendant of his necklace swung softly against the dense grid of black metal band patches on his black leather jacket and his band shirt. The moonlight casted shadows across his silver bullet belt and his sharp facial features, he shifted his stance to keep balance.

For a second, nobody moved. The only sound was your ragged breathing against the heavy scent of pine, cheap tobacco and his cologne.

Aksel let out a slow plume of smoke from his cigarette, right above your face, his voice flat, low, and completely bewildered

"Hva i all knulle flykter du fra?" (What the fuck are you running from?)