Embers of fire help us get through the cold winter

After the initial voyage, the weather grew colder day by day. Thin ice began to appear at the edge of the fjord, like a layer of translucent gray glass, gently colliding with the tides and making a soft, clattering sound. Finally, on a late afternoon with low-hanging leaden clouds, the first snow fell.

At first, only a few scattered snowflakes landed tentatively on the black sea and brown earth, melting quickly. But as darkness fell, the snowflakes became denser and thicker, silently covering everything. Overnight, Leosvik donned its winter coat. The mountains, the coast, and the rooftops of the longhouses were all wrapped in a soft, cold white. The sea was not yet completely frozen, but no ships could be seen. The last few fishing boats had long since been towed ashore, propped up on thick logs, covered with straw mats and furs, like sleeping behemoths.

The sun slid lower and lower along the southern mountain ridge, its stay growing shorter each day, its light losing its strength, becoming a thin, cold, grayish-yellow. It could no longer warm our faces, only barely outlining the mountains and shipwrecks. "Daylight" gradually degenerated into a persistent but dying twilight on the horizon, like the last drops of blood on a sick person's lips. The clouds hung low all day, sucking away all vibrant colors from the world, leaving only black, white, and countless shades of somber gray.

After a certain unannounced dusk, dawn never returned.

The polar night has begun.

Except for a faint glimmer of light in the south at "noon," the world sank into a deep blue-black gloom—until even that glimmer of light disappeared. A cold wind howled through the fjord, whipping up snowflakes that lashed against the thick wooden walls and narrow, tightly closed windows of the longhouse. Inside and outside became two completely different worlds.

The hearth in the center of the longhouse became the sun of this tiny universe.

The flames burned day and night, consuming the dried birch and pine wood that had been stockpiled beforehand, dispelling the chill that seeped in through every crack, and illuminating the life gathered around. The air was filled with the smoky aroma of burning wood, the fragrance of stewed food, and the rich, warm scent of fur and wool fabrics.

For Ragnar, the world suddenly shrank inward and became incredibly intimate—a familiar and narrow environment that provides an unparalleled sense of security for a child.

In the days shrouded in long nights, the women's spinning area became the warmest and most vibrant corner. The hum of the spinning wheels and the clatter of the shuttles cutting through the warp threads formed a gentle yet resilient barrier against the deathly silence outside. This was the ritual of production.

Olaf sat in her usual spot, the fur cushion beneath her thicker and softer than usual. The spindle in her hand spun at a steady pace, twisting the fluffy wool into firm, even yarn—a motion she had repeated thousands of times, as steady as breathing. Occasionally, she would pause very briefly, as if listening to another rhythm within her body. Her gaze fell upon her still flat stomach, gently covered by her thick dress, and a faint ripple of emotion, known only to herself, appeared at the corner of her mouth.

The ripple was noticed by the perceptive Tora. The six-year-old girl, clumsily but earnestly practicing mending a small piece of leather with a bone needle, looked up and blinked. "Mother, what are you laughing at?"

Olaf looked up, the firelight dancing in her deep eyes. "I was thinking," her voice softer than the hum of the spinning wheel, "that when the ice melts and new grass grows next year, our Tora might have an extra 'job'."

"A job?" Tora tilted her head, her eyes lighting up. "Is it to teach me new throwing techniques? Or to look after the smaller lambs?"

Olaf didn't answer directly, but simply reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair from his daughter's cheek behind her ear. "It's a task that requires a lot of patience and tenderness. Just like how you protect Ragnall, but it might need even more... hugs, and songs."

Tora tilted her head and thought for a while. After a few breaths of silence, those abstract words couldn't find a place in her little head, which was filled with the sounds of oars, wind, and wooden swords cutting through the air. She let out a soft "hmm" through her nose, dragging on a soft, fuzzy frustration at not being able to understand, and suddenly her brows relaxed.

"We'll talk about it when it arrives!" she announced, her tone as decisive as cutting through a tangled mess.

As soon as she finished speaking, she turned around and ran to a corner of the longhouse to fumble for her little wooden sword.

Ragnar sat on the ground, leaning against a bundle of furs, watching his mother's hands. The trajectory of the spinning spindle, the wool fibers gleaming softly in the firelight… watching the rhythmic, steady movements, Ragnar gradually became lost in thought. These images seemed to overlap with something deep within his memory…

"Ragnar, don't get too close to the fire." Tora's voice pulled him back to reality. She saw that her brother had unknowingly moved very close to the edge of the fire pit, and could reach out and touch the flickering flames. She immediately ran over, grabbed his arm, and pulled him back a little.

"Fire, it's hot," Tora explained earnestly, pointing to an old mark on her arm. "I touched it when I was little, it hurts." Ragnar looked up at her; the six-year-old girl's eyes held a seriousness beyond her years. He nodded, obediently shifting back against the fur. Tora sat down beside him contentedly, picked up a small dagger, and began to mimic how men maintain their weapons, sharpening its blade with a soft stone.

As the long nights passed, the monotonous life indoors seemed somewhat dull.

Until one day, the longhouse welcomed a visitor.

He was an old man with one eye and graying beard, wrapped in a heavy reindeer hide and carrying a worn harp. He was "Scudder," a bard who traveled through the winter between powerful families, exchanging poetry and stories for food, lodging, and gifts.

Ragnar was held on his mother's lap. He understood most of the vocabulary, but the magnificent imagery of those myths couldn't yet form a concrete picture in his mind. Until…

Scudder's story came to an end. He took a sip of his wine, his gaze slowly sweeping across the focused faces in the firelight. The music became slow, distant, even tinged with a touch of desolation. He began to chant a different poem, a ballad about "fate" and "end," not the legend of a specific hero, but a grander, more obscure prophecy.

"...In the land of the gods, the Golden Palace will surely be tarnished."

The bugle sounded, and the ancient covenant collapsed.

The roots of the World Tree, Yggdrasil, trembled.

The venomous dragon Nidhogg gnaws and devours, never resting...

The offspring of fire and frost will eventually clash.

Stars fall, the sun dims, and waves engulf mountains…

Then, from the deep ashes and ice,

Perhaps, perhaps new greenery will sprout…

The verses were ancient and obscure, full of symbolism. The adults looked solemn; they had heard similar prophecies before, about the terror and end of Ragnarok, but also hinting at the hope of rebirth. The poem, sung during the winter's polar night, was particularly fitting and deeply moving.

Ragnar couldn't understand the complex metaphors. But the epic scenes seemed to subtly stir something deep within his soul.

He was quietly playing with a small piece of wood carving used for counting when suddenly, a tear silently slid down his cheek and landed on the piece of wood in his hand, followed by a second. He seemed to freeze, stopping his movements, his light gray eyes filled with confusion, simply letting the warm liquid stream down his cheek.

Scudder's singing stopped.

Ragnar looked down at the wooden carving in his palm, wet with tears.

Tora leaned closer: "Why are you crying?"

He thought about it for a long time.

"That world," he said, "they tried very hard too."

Tora couldn't understand. His mother looked down at him, the firelight flickering in her eyes. Scudder was silent for a moment, his single eye appearing particularly deep in the firelight. He spoke slowly, "Ancient syllables can sometimes resonate with particularly sensitive ears. This child... perhaps he's not hearing a story, but rather the wind of long ago carried within the sound itself."

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The winter solstice is the most important day in the culture of the fjord people.

The sky remained that all-encompassing inky blue, and the position of the stars became the sole criterion for Harald and the elders of his tribe to determine the "time." When the observer confirmed that the star trails had reached that "invisible turning point," the entire Leosvik Fjord awoke.

The ceremony began with a thorough cleansing. The floors inside and outside the longhouse were refurbished with dry meadow flooring, and all weapons and tools were polished to a gleaming shine. Olaf led the women in wiping the hands and faces of each family member with snowmelt and birch branches; the icy touch brought a chilling clarity. This was a moment to bid farewell to the dust of the old year and to greet the communion with the gods and ancestors with a clean body.

The true core unfolds outside the longhouse, in the boundless cold and darkness.

Harald led all the adult men into the night, a night that seemed to absorb all light. They did not head towards the sea, but instead came to a sheltered, rocky highland above the fjord. There, the massive oak log, prepared days before, requiring two men to encircle, was erected. Runes, inscribed with daggers, were carved into its surface, praying to Frey for abundance, to Odin for wisdom, and to Thor for protection.

"We cannot see your golden-maned horse, Frey," Harald's voice was as hard and clear as flint in the silence, "but our fathers, and our fathers' fathers, have marked your path for us with countless winters of observation! Today is the day your chariot turns its spear at the bottom of the abyss! This fire is our witness to your unseen return, the memory of light in our blood!"

He personally placed the oil-soaked kindling under the wood and lit it with flint. The flame, initially small, then surged forth like a monstrous beast awakening, greedily licking the rune-carved oak. The burst of intense light instantly tore through the veil of the polar night, casting the shadows of the gathered men long and projected onto the snowfield and rocks behind them. A wave of heat swept over them, battling against the biting wind, forming a vibrant barrier of light and heat. This fire would be carefully tended, burning continuously for the next twelve "days and nights," never to be extinguished, symbolizing the tenacious continuation of the family's life force.

Next came the most solemn part: the sacrifice. A boar, fattened exceptionally in autumn, was led to the fire—a sacred offering to Frey, the god of fertility. Harald finished reciting the prayer, swiftly ended its life, and caught the gushing, warm blood. He dipped his fingers in it and applied it to the foreheads, cheeks, and the center of each warrior's shield. The viscous liquid quickly cooled to icy cold in the low temperature.

"With this blood as our bond," Harald's gaze swept over each face illuminated by the firelight, "we will share God's blessings and bear the hardships of the future together. Our lives, like this fire and blood, are intertwined and burn for our family."

This was a ceremony with no spectators, only participants. Flames, blood, chill, and ancient prayers combined to create a soul-stirring impact. When the men returned to the longhouse, covered in smoke and reeking of blood, the atmosphere inside abruptly changed.

The grandest feast of the polar night began. The air was thick with the rich aroma of roasted pork—the meat of the sacrificial animal, roasted in large chunks, was the heart of the meal. There was also stewed, well-cooked cured lamb, dried berries stored from last summer, and mountains of hard, rock-hard rye bread that needed to be soaked in broth before swallowing. The real stars of the show were the drinks: large barrels of mead and strong beer were brought out.

Olaf, as the hostess, presided over the first round of toasts. She raised her silver-inlaid horn-shaped glass, her voice clear and rhythmic:

"The first cup is offered to the gods and ancestors! Thank you for your past protection, and we pray that you continue to watch over the lives under this roof!"

"The second cup is a toast to all the warriors and laborers present! It is your arms that protect and nourish Fjordela!"

"The third cup is offered to the departed spirits! May they drink this cup with us at the grand feast in Valhalla!"

Every cup had to be drunk in one gulp; it was both a responsibility and an honor. The atmosphere quickly became lively, with people laughing and talking loudly, competing in drinking contests, and recounting their ancestors' adventures and last year's voyages. The poet Scudder plucked the strings again, singing a stirring war song, which prompted the warriors to pound their fists on the table in response.

Amidst this fervor, a silent yet crucial moment arrived. Harald rose, and the room gradually quieted down. He walked to the hearth and placed his hand on the pillar where the family shrine had once stood.

"With the witness of the gods and the family," he said in a deep voice, "I, Harald Fjordela, swear that in the next solar cycle, I will lead our fleet to win new trade and respect for the family."

This was not merely a New Year's wish, but also the sacred and binding "Yur Oath," which, once sworn, must be fulfilled at all costs. Following this, the other warriors rose in turn, each making their own oath: some vowed to acquire vast wealth, others to forge a powerful sword, and still others to safeguard a particular voyage. The oaths, mingled with the aroma of alcohol and the flickering firelight, coalesced into a tangible force pointing towards the future.

Tora was allowed to stay late, sipping her diluted mead, her eyes sparkling with excitement and drowsiness. Ragnar, on the other hand, had become drowsy halfway through the banquet, overwhelmed by the abundance of food and the noise of the crowd, and eventually fell asleep in his mother's arms.

Ragnar could not yet comprehend that what he experienced on that winter night was a simple declaration by a civilization in the dark desert of time, a declaration used to anchor itself and ignite hope.