Embers of fire help us get through the cold winter

That winter was exceptionally long.

The sun has risen, but the north wind still blows. The sunlight grows higher each day, its rays blindingly white on the snow, yet not an inch of ice melts. The snowdrifts should be collapsing under the sun, the eaves should be dripping, but this year, nothing has happened. The ice has been exposed to the sun all day, and remains as hard as ever as night falls.

Haral said it was time to go to the North Slope Hot Springs.

Ragnar didn't know what "should go" meant. He only saw his father take the dark blue robe he only wore during ceremonies down from the pillar, and saw his Uncle Brody take the birch branches that had been sitting on the beam all winter and soak them in the snow water.

Eric squatted by the door, sharpening a small knife; the blade gleamed in the dim light.

"You come too," Harald said to him.

Ragnar paused for a moment. In the past, only the men went to the north slope—his father, uncles, old oarsmen, and a few adult cousins. He, Tora, and Astrid had only spent a short time with the women, but they were so hot that they could hardly breathe, and their mother had dragged them out early.

"Me?" He pointed to himself.

Harald did not repeat himself. He had already pushed open the door and stepped into the snowstorm.

Ragnar quickly followed.

The path on the north slope was mostly buried in snow, and with each step, the snow reached up to the ankles. Brody walked in front, using a wooden pole to probe the way, snowflakes rising from the edges of his boots and being blown into Ragnar's eyes by the wind.

He didn't reach out to rub it. He was afraid that if he did, he would fall behind.

After walking for about the time it takes to eat a meal, the snow gradually stopped, and a low mound covered with grass and snow appeared ahead, which was a man-made mound.

Steam cabin.

Ragnar stood in the doorway, watching his father bend down and crawl through the low doorway, and then himself.

Darkness engulfed him first.

Then came the heat.

The heat wasn't like that of a hearth—a hearth is scorching in front and cool behind, something you can escape. This heat was all-pervasive, enveloping him from all sides, like a giant, damp palm holding him tightly. He took a breath, his lungs filling with scalding steam, almost making him cough.

"Crouch down," Eric's voice came from somewhere in the darkness. "The heat rises, the ground is cool."

Ragnar immediately squatted down, pressing his knees against the slippery stone slab, and it did feel a bit better.

My eyes gradually adjusted to the dimness. Only a small oil lamp on the rock wall cast its flame, which flickered in the air currents, illuminating the outline of the stone chamber in an indistinct way. The floor was made of rough pebbles, rounded by generations of footsteps, and the walls were made of dry-laid rubble, with dried moss filling the cracks, and moisture seeping down drop by drop from the edges of the moss.

In the center of the room was a pile of stones, burned to a dark red, like the entrails of a silent behemoth. Eric scooped up a ladle of water with a wooden spoon and poured it over them—

"hiss--"

White steam rose like an explosion, quickly filling the entire space, making it almost impossible for Ragnar to see his father's back, who was so close. He heard Brody sighing comfortably in some corner, and the rhythmic snapping of the old oarsman striking his back with a birch branch.

This is not the world he is familiar with.

But he's here.

Ragnar was seated near the door—farthest from the heat source and closest to the cold air. Leaning against the rough stone wall, he slowly unbuttoned his sheepskin coat, revealing his thin shoulders and delicate collarbones.

The heat seeped into his pores like countless fine needles. His skin turned from pale to light pink, and his forehead hair, damp with sweat, clung to his skin in thin strands.

He suddenly realized that this was the first time in eight years that he had seen these men's bodies without their armor, leather clothes, and the shell of dignity.

Brody's right rib was slightly sunken, as if the rib had been broken and not set properly; Eric had a large, whitish old scar on the outside of his knee, the skin as thin as wax paper, with blue veins meandering like a riverbed underneath; the old oarsman's back was bent, and his shoulder blades looked like two mountain ridges that could pierce the skin at any moment.

And my father.

Ragnar saw his father's back clearly for the first time.

There wasn't a single patch of intact skin on it. Three of the longest old scars ran diagonally from the right shoulder to the left waist, the deepest one with old, fine stitches along its edge—like the marks left by a mother mending a fur coat, only with much coarser stitches.

Nobody talks about these scars.

They simply exist there, like the rings of a tree. This is property owned by the family, never shown to strangers.

Eric poured another ladle of water. White steam rose again, blurring everything.

"That spring on the north slope," Brody's voice came from the white mist, muffled, "has been flowing continuously since winter began."

No one answered. He whipped his leg with a birch branch, *smack, smack*.

"In previous years, it would have been sealed off long ago by now."

The old oarsman snorted, "If we seal it off, we'll have to dig it up again. Annoying."

Eric squatted beside the pile of dark red stones, poking at the embers with a stick. His profile was illuminated by the flickering light, and the old scar from his missing front tooth tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"The steam is hotter than last year."

Brody didn't respond. Silence expanded in the steam.

Haral sat back in the spot closest to the heat source—the chieftain's seat, closest to the fire and farthest from the cold. His eyes were closed, one hand rested on his knee, and his forehead pressed against the rough stone wall, as if he were asleep.

But Ragnar knew he wasn't asleep.

When my father wasn't speaking, his shoulders remained slightly raised in a certain alertness. It was a habit that someone who had been at the helm for years couldn't let go of, even when on shore—always ready to turn, always ready to withstand the next wave.

Ragnar looked away.

He looked down and saw a small puddle of water seeping from a crack in the rock at his feet.

It was very shallow, barely covering the silver coin. The surface of the water trembled slightly from the dripping steam, like a crumpled mirror.

He saw the reflection.

That was his own face—a silhouette he had only glimpsed a few times in the past eight years when his mother combed her hair in her bronze mirror. His cheekbones were beginning to sharpen, and his brow bones were more prominent than those of boys his age. His hair was soaked with sweat, clinging damply to his forehead and the sides of his ears.

Brownish-brown.

Deeper than his father's, golder than his mother's, and more profound than Tora's fiery red hair. Like the color of fallen leaves in their final moments before decay, like ship timber soaked for too long.

He sometimes recalled the time when he was three years old, when Tora pointed to his hair and said, "Why is your hair a different color than ours?"

He couldn't answer.

His mother came to his rescue: "Ragnall looks like Grandfather's sister—you haven't seen her, she has the same hair color."

Tora believed it.

He squatted by the puddle, looking at the face that was both strange and familiar, fragmented by the water.

The person in the reflection is also looking at him.

The water rippled slightly as droplets fell. A fine ripple spread across the edge of the person's lips, as if they were speaking.

Ragnar held his breath.

He couldn't hear anything. The only sounds were the hissing of Eric poking at the embers, the cracking of Brody's leg, and the soft popping of someone's kneecap as they rolled over in the distance.

But the mouth was still moving.

Once, twice.

It's like calling a name.

It's not "Ragnar".

It's a different sound, softer and lighter, with the tip of the tongue touching the roof of the mouth and then releasing—

Ragnar's heart clenched suddenly.

He didn't know what the word was, but he could feel it calling to him.

He reached out, wanting to touch the puddle of water—

Another drop of water fell from the crack in the rock.

Ripples spread out, and the reflection shattered.

"...Ragnar."

It was his father's voice. So close, right next to him.

He turned his head abruptly. Harald had somehow left the hottest spot and was crouching half a step behind him. His light gray eyes were unreadable in the dim light.

"Tired?"

Ragnar shook his head. Then he nodded.

He didn't know if he was tired. His heart was pounding loudly, like someone was tapping on the keel of a ship inside his chest.

The steam gradually dissipated. The men got up and walked to the hot spring pool outside the cave.

The cold water splashed onto his scalding skin, and Ragnar shuddered, his toes curling up on the stones at the bottom of the pool.

Harald squatted down beside him and scooped water with his rough palms to pour on his shoulder.

The water was cool, but my father's hands were warm.

"Next time," Harald said, "I'll take you to see the bottom of the ship."

That was the closest thing to "praise" that Ragnar had ever heard from his father.

Ragnar lowered his head, letting the cool water flow down his back.

"Okay," he said.

The snow stopped when they left the steam hut.

As dawn approached, the outline of the southern mountain ridge became clearer than when he had arrived. Harald stood at the doorway, gazing upwards for a long time.

The wind blew through his beard, carrying away the remaining steam.

"Tomorrow," he said, "the snow should start to melt."

Brody tucked the birch branch under his arm and sniffed.

"You've been saying that every day for the past two days."

Harald did not refute. He turned and walked down the snow-covered path he had come from.

Ragnar followed at the back.

He glanced back at the low, snow-covered mound.

Steam drifted out from between the cracks in the grass, only to be torn apart by the cold wind in an instant.