The boy crouched beside his mother in the herb garden, sunlight catching the frost on the grass and making it gleam like tiny jewels. Around them, the village began to stir, faint voices rising with the warmth of the day.
The scent of damp soil and crushed pine needles filled the air as his mother carefully separated stalks of yarrow. "Hold it here," she instructed, guiding his smaller hands to the base of a stalk. "If you pull too high, the roots will stay in the ground, and the plant will grow back weaker next season."
The boy nodded, his movements precise. His mother had a way of making even the most mundane tasks feel important, as if each small action contributed to something larger.
"Why do we keep the roots?" he asked, brushing dirt from his fingers.
"They hold the strength of the plant," she replied. "The roots anchor it, keep it connected to the earth. Without them, it would wither and die."
Her words lingered in his mind, threading through his thoughts as they worked in silence. The boy's gaze drifted occasionally to the fjord beyond the cottage. It was calm today, the water shimmering under the morning sun. He wondered how far the fjord stretched, where it led, and what secrets lay beyond the horizon.
When the basket was full, his mother wiped her hands on her apron and motioned for him to follow her inside. "Come," she said. "We've done enough for today."
The warmth of the hearth enveloped them as they stepped into the cottage. His sister sat cross-legged near the fire, humming softly as she arranged small wooden figures into a battle formation. She glanced up as they entered, her eyes lighting up. "Are we going to the grove today?" she asked eagerly.
His mother smiled, her expression softening. "Yes, little one. After the midday meal."
The sun was high in the sky when they set out for the grove, the boy carrying the basket of herbs while his sister skipped ahead. The narrow path wound its way through dense forest, the canopy above casting dappled shadows on the ground. The air was filled with the scent of pine and damp moss, and the faint sound of the fjord lapping against the shore reached them even here, deep among the trees.
The grove was a sacred place, a clearing ringed by towering oaks that seemed to hum with ancient energy. Runes were carved into the bark of the largest tree, their shapes worn but still distinct. The boy traced one with his finger, feeling the grooves beneath his touch. "What do they say?" he asked.
His mother knelt beside him, her gaze following his hand. "They're prayers," she said softly. "Prayers for protection, for strength, for guidance."
"Do they work?" his sister asked, tilting her head.
His mother smiled, a touch of sadness in her eyes. "The gods listen, in their own way."
They spent the afternoon gathering water from a nearby stream and hanging the herbs to dry in the grove's sunlight. The boy watched his mother work, her movements fluid and sure. She had always seemed untouchable to him, a force as steady as the tide. But today, he noticed the lines of weariness around her eyes, the way her shoulders sagged when she thought no one was looking.
His sister's laughter broke the stillness, and he turned to see her chasing a dragonfly through the clearing. Her golden hair caught the light, making her seem almost ethereal. He couldn't help but smile, though the sight stirred a protective instinct deep within him. He didn't fully understand it yet, but he knew he would do anything to keep her safe.
After their work was done, the boy sat alone by the stream, watching the water flow over smooth stones. The light fractured on the surface, creating a dance of ripples and reflections. He picked up a flat stone and turned it over in his hand, the cool surface grounding him in the moment. He tried skipping it across the water, but it sank on the second bounce.
"Not enough flick in your wrist," his mother said from behind him, her voice soft and warm. She crouched beside him, her hands trailing in the water. "Your father used to say that. He could skip a stone clear to the other bank when he was your age."
The boy glanced at her, his brow furrowing. "Do you think I'll be like him someday?"
Her gaze softened, and she tilted her head as if considering the question. "You'll be like yourself," she said finally. "But you carry his strength in you, just as you carry mine. And your own besides."
Her words settled over him like a blanket, their warmth filling a place he hadn't known was empty. He didn't answer, but he held onto the stone a little longer before setting it gently back in the stream.
As the sun dipped lower, the family began their walk back to the village. The boy carried the basket again, his sister trailing behind as she gathered small flowers along the path. The forest felt different in the fading light—quieter, heavier, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath.
By the time they reached the edge of the village, the first stars were beginning to appear. The boy's mother paused, her gaze lingering on the horizon where the fjord stretched into the open sea. Her expression was unreadable, but the boy thought he caught a flicker of worry in her eyes.
"Go on ahead," she said, nudging him gently. "I'll be right behind you."
He hesitated but obeyed, leading his sister toward the warm glow of their cottage. When they reached the door, he glanced back and saw his mother still standing there, her silhouette framed by the fading light. The image stayed with him, a quiet weight he couldn't quite name.
That night, the boy lay awake on his cot, staring at the wooden beams above him. His sister slept soundly nearby, her small figure curled beneath a woven blanket. The steady crackle of the fire filled the room, a soothing rhythm that usually lulled him to sleep. But tonight, his thoughts were restless, circling back to the grove, to the runes, to the look on his mother's face.
He slipped out of bed and crept outside, the cool night air biting at his skin. The village was silent, the world wrapped in a hush that felt almost sacred. He walked to the edge of the fjord, the wet grass slick beneath his bare feet. Above him, the sky stretched vast and unyielding, its deep indigo depths pierced by countless stars.
The boy tilted his head back, his sharp blue eyes tracing the constellations his mother had taught him. There was Ursa Major, the great bear, and the North Star, a steady guide for those who wandered the seas. Somewhere beneath this same sky, his father sailed across distant waters, carving a path through the unknown. The boy wondered if his father looked at these same stars, if he whispered prayers to Njord or Thor for safe passage.
He felt small beneath the weight of the heavens, but not insignificant. His mother's words came to him then: "We are but a single leaf, part of something far greater than ourselves." He didn't fully understand them yet, but they brought a strange comfort, a sense of connection to the world around him.
The wooden Mjölnir carving hung heavy around his neck, a silent reminder of the gods' presence. He clutched it in his palm, its edges worn smooth from years of contact. It felt like an anchor, grounding him in the vastness of the night.
"I'll make my mark," he whispered to the stars, his voice barely louder than the wind. "One day."
The wind carried his words away, lost among the whispers of the trees and the gentle lapping of the fjord. But the boy didn't feel alone. Beneath the eternal sky, he felt the stirrings of something vast within him—a pull, a promise, a quiet fire that refused to be extinguished.
He stood there for a long time, his bare feet rooted to the earth, his gaze fixed on the horizon. When he finally turned back toward the cottage, the stars seemed brighter, the vastness less daunting. He slid the Mjölnir token into his pocket, its weight a steady reassurance.