Embers of fire help us get through the cold winter

Another year has passed.

When spring bid farewell to Tolmode, the snow in the fjord had just melted. Then summer came and went, autumn came and went, and now the polar night once again shrouds Leosvik. The wind howls outside the longhouse, patting snowflakes against the wooden walls with a soft rustling sound, like someone standing outside constantly scattering handfuls of fine sand.

The house is still the same house. The hearth is still the same hearth.

Tora had grown a little taller, but still couldn't reach the cured meat hanging on the beam. Ragnar was still sitting quietly in the corner, whittling wood. Astrid had already started crawling around, wrapped in thick sheepskin, looking like a whimpering ball of fluff.

The polar night has lasted for an unknown period of time.

Ragnar didn't count; Tora did. She carved marks on the pillars, one each day. Ragnar figured it was pointless; the sun wouldn't return any earlier just because someone counted the days.

He sat by the hearth, leaning against a bundle of dry grass, watching his mother spin thread.

The spindle spun in the mother's hand, buzzing softly. Wool slipped from her fingertips, turning into thread that spun around the spindle. The sound was soft and steady, like the breathing of a sleeping animal.

Tora squatted beside him, holding a wooden stick. Brody had carved it for her, saying it was "for her to practice," but she used it to poke the fire. She poked it, and sparks flew up, flashing briefly in the dim light before falling back down.

Poke it. Splash it up. Fall it down.

Poke it. Splash it up. Fall it down.

"Tora." Olaf's voice was soft, his eyes never leaving the spinning thread.

Tora paused for a moment. She moved the stick to a different spot and continued poking.

Olaf didn't speak again. She simply reached out and gently patted Tora's hand away. Gently, as if brushing off a speck of dust.

Tora's hand was slapped away and paused in mid-air for a moment. She switched the stick to her other hand, changed the angle, and continued poking.

Olaf didn't take any more pictures of her.

The spindle keeps spinning. Buzzing, buzzing.

Ragnar watched his mother's hands. He silently counted the beats in his mind. Sometimes three beats a breath, sometimes four; his mother's rhythm was not fixed—but every now and then, there would be a particularly stable period, with dozens of beats going in the same direction. He didn't know why there was this pattern, but every time he discovered that stable period, he would breathe a sigh of relief.

He didn't know what he was waiting for.

In the cradle, Astrid hummed.

Olaf stopped spinning, stood up, and went over. The cradle was made from an old ship plank, its edges still bearing traces of tar. She bent down and gently patted the little bundle wrapped in sheepskin.

Astrid stirred, then fell asleep again.

Olaf stood there for a moment, looking down at her.

The firelight cast a pale gold glow on Olaf's profile. Her shadow, large and motionless, was projected onto the wooden wall behind her.

Then she came back, sat down, and continued spinning.

Buzz, buzz.

Tora finally got tired of poking. She put the stick on her knees and stared blankly at the fire pit.

"Mother."

"Um."

Why are the nights so long?

"Because the sun is sleeping."

Tora thought for a moment: "How long does it sleep?"

"Sleep until it feels like it."

"What if it forgets?"

The spindle paused for a moment.

Then continue spinning.

"I won't forget," Olaf said.

Tora didn't ask any more questions. She stared at the fire pit, the flames in her eyes flickering.

Ragnar didn't say anything. He just watched the fire, listened to the sound of the spindle, and occasionally glanced at the small, motionless bundle of sheepskin in the cradle.

There was wind outside. It seeped in through the cracks in the door, howling like someone crying from afar. But it was warm inside. The fire kept burning, the spindle kept spinning, and Astrid kept sleeping.

He thought, this is the polar night.

After an unknown amount of time, Tora spoke again.

"Mother."

"Um."

"Will we live here forever?"

Olaf didn't answer immediately. The spindle continued to spin, buzzing and whirring.

After a long pause, she said, "Yes."

Tora nodded. She didn't know if what he said was true or false, but she believed it.

Ragnar believed it too.

Because the person who said those words was the mother.

Astrid groaned again. This time she woke up and began to whine and cry. Olaf put down his spinning thread, went over and picked her up.

"I'm hungry," she said, carrying Astrid to the fireside and sitting down next to Ragnar.

Astrid nestled in her arms, her little mouth searching for the place to nurse. Her eyes were not fully open yet, and her wrinkled little face bulged in the firelight.

Tora leaned closer to look at her.

"She's really ugly," she said.

Olaf ignored her.

Ragnar leaned closer to look. He didn't think she was ugly. He thought his sister looked... like she had just come from another world. Her eyes hadn't learned to see, her hands hadn't learned to use anything, she couldn't do anything, all she could do was eat, cry, and sleep.

But she came here.

He reached out and gently touched her hand. Her hand was clenched into a fist, much smaller than his, and so soft it seemed unreal.

Astrid suddenly opened her hand and grasped one of his fingers.

It was gripped very tightly.

Ragnar paused for a moment.

He looked down at the small hand that was gripping his fingers, unsure of what to do.

Tora scoffed from the side.

"She likes you," she said.

Ragnar looked at the clenched finger, at the five fingernails on that small hand, as small as grains of rice.

Astrid was still nursing, her eyes closed, but her hands were clenched tightly, refusing to let go.

Ragnar didn't get it back.

He just sat there, letting his sister hold his fingers, listening to the sound of the spindle, the wind, and the fire burning.

Tora picked up the stick and started poking at the fire pit again.

This time, Olaf ignored her.

Later, Astrid fell asleep. Her hand loosened.

Ragnar withdrew her hand and looked at the finger that had been gripped. It was still a little damp, from the sweat on her palm.

He placed his hands on his knees and continued watching the fire.

When Tora got tired of poking, he threw the stick into the woodpile, climbed onto his straw mat, and crawled into the sheepskin.

"Mother."

"Um."

Will the sun come back tomorrow?

"Not tomorrow."

"When?"

"When you break the stick."

Tora scoffed. She buried her face in the sheepskin and remained still.

Olaf continued spinning. Buzzing, buzzing.

Ragnar leaned against the bundle of hay, watching the fire.

He wondered if he would have to sit like this forever if the sun never came back.

It doesn't seem like there's anything wrong with it.

Astrid rolled over in the cradle, hummed, and went back to sleep.

The spindle is still spinning.

The fire is still burning.

The wind was still howling outside the door.

Ragnar closed his eyes.

The sun won't come back tomorrow. Nor the day after. But it will someday.

My mother said that.

He believes.