The morning mist clung to the fjord like a shroud, curling through jagged pine trees and dissipating where the sea met the cliffs. The boy stood barefoot on the rocky shore, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The air smelled of brine and wet stone, sharp and grounding, as if the fjord itself demanded his attention. Each breath reminded him of the fjord's dual nature—a cradle for life and a harbinger of death.
This was the heart of his world: a place both ancient and alive, shaped by the rhythm of waves and the whispers of wind through the cliffs. The jagged walls above him seemed like the ribs of a long-dead beast, their crevices etched with the scars of time. To the boy, the fjord wasn't just a backdrop—it was alive, a keeper of secrets, where the gods' voices lingered in the rushing tide and the echoes of the cliffs.
On the far edge of the shore, his sister darted between rocks like a restless sandpiper. Her small hands darted toward a shell or a piece of driftwood, each treasure held up to the pale light with intense curiosity. The boy watched her out of the corner of his eye as he crouched near the water's edge, rinsing a small wooden sword his father had carved for him.
"You're too slow," she called, her voice rising above the soft lapping of waves. "By the time you're ready, the dragon will have already eaten you!"
The boy raised an eyebrow but didn't respond, letting her words drift into the mist. There was a glint of mischief in her eyes, a playful dare in the way she rocked on her heels. Instead, he focused on the blade, his movements deliberate, almost ritualistic.
"Fine," she huffed, planting her hands on her hips. "I'll slay it myself. You'll see!"
Her challenge hung in the air like a gull's cry, and a faint smile tugged at the corner of the boy's mouth.
The sword in his hands was one of the few things he had from his father. The man had carved it one summer evening, sitting by the fire with his axe in hand, the shavings of wood piling at his feet. "A warrior must know his weapon," his father had said, his voice low but steady. "Even one made of wood."
The boy had watched the process intently, as if it were some sacred rite. He had always admired the way his father's hands moved, steady and confident—hands that had shaped wood as easily as they wielded steel in countless battles. The sword was both a gift and a challenge. His father had left it unfinished, the edges rough, the grip imperfect. "Finish it," he had said, placing it in the boy's hands. "Make it yours."
Even now, the wooden blade bore the weight of its purpose. It wasn't perfect, but it was his.
Sliding the sword into the crude leather loop at his side, the boy stood. His sister was still darting across the rocks, her laughter sharp and carefree. He let her be. The fjord stretched before him, its surface smooth and reflecting the pale gray sky, but he knew how quickly that could change. The sea was unpredictable, a creature of moods. His father often spoke of it with a mix of defiance and reverence, calling it both adversary and ally.
His thoughts drifted to his father, as they often did. The boy wondered about his choices. He had traded the roar of battle and the call of the sea for a quieter existence as a fisherman, returning home with nets instead of plunder, seeking the warmth of hearth and family instead of the thrill of conquest. To the boy, this sacrifice made his father seem even greater—larger than life not for his strength in war, but for his decision to walk away from it.
Still, in his mind, the boy couldn't help but imagine his father as the villagers described him: standing at the prow of his ship, his cloak billowing in the wind, his voice carrying commands over the roar of the waves.
"Do you think Father ever fought giants?" his sister had asked once, her voice filled with wide-eyed curiosity as they sat by the fjord.
"No," the boy had replied with quiet certainty. "Father fought men."
"Men?" she had echoed, wrinkling her nose as if the answer disappointed her. "That's not as exciting as giants or trolls."
He had shrugged, his gaze fixed on the water. "The men he fought were worse than giants. Bigger, stronger, and just as dangerous."
She had considered this for a moment, her brow furrowed in thought. "Do you think he ever fought a king? Or maybe a warlord?"
"Probably," the boy had said after a pause. The stories the villagers told suggested as much, though his father never spoke of it.
"I think Father fought giants," she had insisted with a defiant grin. "And trolls. Maybe even Jörmungandr!"
Despite himself, the boy had smiled faintly. "Maybe he did," he had said at last, letting her imagination fill the spaces his father's silence left behind.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, their games had ended, and they began the walk back to the village. The narrow path wound along the edge of the fjord, flanked on one side by dense forest and on the other by the churning waters. His sister's energy had waned, and now she clung to his back, her small hands gripping his shoulders as she hummed a tune their mother often sang. Her weight was a comforting reminder of the bond they shared.
When the village came into view, its wooden houses huddled together against the chill, the boy felt a faint sense of relief. Smoke curled from their thatched roofs, mingling with the pale mist that still lingered over the water. The familiar bustle of daily life surrounded them—the clatter of tools, the bleating of goats, the rhythmic chopping of firewood.
Their mother waited for them near the communal fire pit, her apron dusted with flour, her hair pulled back into a neat braid. She smiled as they approached, her hands reaching out to take the small bundle of firewood the boy carried.
"Good work," she said warmly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You're just like your father."
The boy's chest swelled slightly at her words, though he kept his expression neutral. His gaze drifted to the horizon, where the fjord stretched out into the open sea. Somewhere out there, his father was fighting as he always fought—carving a path through the world with his axe and his will.
"Come," their mother said, her tone lightening. "There's still much to do before nightfall."
That evening, the boy sat alone at the edge of the fjord. Above him, the sky deepened to indigo, stars piercing the fabric of twilight. The wind carried the chill of the coming night, biting at his skin, but he didn't move. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, where the sea met the sky in an endless expanse.