Anders slept like stone.
Not the light, drifting sleep of a child exhausted by play, but sothing deeper—anchored, heavy, almost deliberate. His breathing was slow and even, chest rising and falling beneath layers of wool and linen. The fire nearby burned low, its glow barely touching his face, yet every so often the flas bent strangely toward him, as if curious.
Astrid noticed.
She had been sitting beside him for hours, long past the point when her body should have demanded rest. Mothers learned quickly that fear could hold the bones upright longer than any strength. She had watched his breathing, counted it, morized the cadence. She had checked his wounds again and again, even after logic told her there was nothing more to do.
Healed too fast.
That thought would not leave her.
Freydis sat across from her, knees drawn up, arms resting loosely atop them. She had not spoken for so ti. Her eyes followed the fire more than Anders, though she never strayed far from him for long.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"What he said," Freydis murmured.
Astrid stiffened slightly but did not look up. "He was in pain."
"Yes," Freydis agreed. "But Anders is always in pain. Training. Hunting. Pushing himself past what others think possible."
Astrid’s hands tightened in the cloth she was holding. "He nearly died."
"I know."
Freydis leaned forward a little, lowering her voice further, as if Anders might hear even through sleep. "But he said five years. He said he was an adult."
Astrid exhaled slowly. "Pain makes the mind wander."
"Does it?" Freydis asked gently. "Or does it loosen the tongue?"
That earned her a sharp look.
"He is a child," Astrid said, voice firm. "Whatever he said, whatever it sounded like—he is my son."
Freydis nodded. "I know that. I’m not saying otherwise."
She hesitated, then added, "But I don’t think he lies."
Astrid’s expression softened, just a little. "No," she said quietly. "Neither do I."
They sat with that between them.
Outside, the village had not yet returned to its usual rhythm. People moved more quietly now, voices lowered, glances lingering too long on the longhouse. Children were kept closer. Old n stared out toward the forest with expressions that were not quite fear, not quite reverence.
Proof had a way of unsettling belief.
The sound of footsteps approached—asured, deliberate, accompanied by the soft tapping of a staff.
Freydis looked up first.
Astrid felt it before she saw her.
The Seeress entered the longhouse without announcent, as if doors were a courtesy rather than a barrier. Her hair was long and pale, threaded with bone and beads that clicked softly as she moved. Her eyes were clouded—not blind, but turned inward, as though the world she watched was layered atop this one.
She paused just inside, inhaling slowly.
"This place has been marked," the Seeress said.
Astrid rose to her feet. "You weren’t sent for."
"No," the Seeress replied. "I ca because I was called."
Freydis frowned. "By whom?"
The Seeress’s lips twitched. "That depends on who is listening."
Her attention shifted—to the bed.
She approached Anders with unhurried steps, stopping just short of touching him. She crouched instead, studying him the way one might study a strange star—carefully, respectfully, without assumption.
"He sleeps deeply," she said.
"He’s healing," Astrid replied, unable to keep the edge from her voice.
"Yes," the Seeress agreed. "Too deeply for a child. Too steadily for a wound like his."
Freydis watched closely. "What do you think he is?"
The Seeress tilted her head. The fire bent toward her now too, caught between interests.
"I think," she said slowly, "that this one wears flesh the way gods do."
Astrid’s breath caught. "No."
The word ca out sharper than she intended.
The Seeress did not react. "I did not say which god," she said. "Nor that he knows it himself."
"He bled," Astrid said fiercely. "He scread. He broke bones."
"Yes," the Seeress said. "So do gods, when they choose to walk low."
Freydis did not flinch. "Or when sothing wears a god’s attention too long."
The Seeress smiled faintly. "You see more than you think, shield-maiden."
Astrid stepped between them and Anders without aning to. "You will not speak this aloud," she said. "Not in my ho."
The Seeress studied her for a long mont. "Belief does not require permission," she said gently. "But I will not press it here."
She rose. "He sleeps because sothing within him is still deciding what he will be allowed to beco."
With that, she turned and left as quietly as she had co.
The silence afterward was thick.
Freydis exhaled slowly. "She didn’t sound certain."
"No," Astrid said. "And that’s what frightens ."
Hours later—when the fire burned low again and the longhouse had settled into night—Anders stirred.
Pain returned first, dull and insistent. Then awareness. Then mory.
Bear.
Weight.
Blood.
He opened his eyes.
Freydis was there imdiately, leaning over him. "You’re awake."
"Still am," he said hoarsely.
She smiled, relieved. "Good. Because I have a question."
He sighed inwardly.
Here it cos.
"You said sothing before you slept," she said carefully. "About being an adult. About five years ago."
Anders closed his eyes for a heartbeat, cursing himself.
You were sloppy.
He opened them again, schooling his expression into confusion.
"I don’t really rember," he said. "Everything hurt. Still does."
That wasn’t entirely untrue.
Freydis studied him. "You don’t look like soone who doesn’t rember."
He shrugged carefully, wincing. "I say strange things when I’m in pain. Ask anyone who’s been injured badly."
Astrid hovered nearby, listening but not interrupting.
Freydis held his gaze for a long mont.
Then she nodded.
"Alright," she said. "But if you ever do rember... you tell first."
Before he could answer, she leaned down and pressed a brief kiss to his cheek.
It was innocent.
Grounding.
Human.
Anders froze.
The contact sent sothing sharp and aching through him—not desire exactly, but longing. mory layered atop absence. The knowledge of touch, of closeness, of things his mind rembered but his body was forbidden from pursuing.
She pulled back, entirely unaware of the storm she had stirred.
He swallowed.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Later—long after the fire dimd and Freydis had gone—Anders lay awake, staring at the beams above.
He missed touch.
Not just affection. Not just comfort. He missed the choice. The agency of reaching for soone and not having to weigh morality, ti, and consequence like weapons.
Thirteen more years, he thought bitterly. At least.
He would wait. He knew that. He was not reckless. He would not beco sothing twisted or predatory.
But knowing didn’t make the waiting easier.
It only made it heavier.
Outside, Erik and Sten sat with the Seeress beneath the open sky.
"She thinks he’s a god," Sten said flatly.
"She thinks many things," Erik replied.
"And yet," Sten continued, "you saw the bear."
Erik was silent.
"The healing," Sten pressed. "The way the village looks at him now."
"I know," Erik said quietly. "And I don’t like it."
The Seeress tapped her staff against the earth. "Belief is already moving," she said. "You cannot stop it. Only shape it."
Erik stared into the fire. "He’s my son."
"And possibly," the Seeress replied, "sothing far older wearing that truth."
Sten exhaled slowly. "If you’re wrong—"
"Then he will live as a remarkable boy," she said. "If I am right... then the gods have already decided."
She rose, pulling her cloak tighter. "Be careful what nas you allow others to give him. Nas beco cages."
She left them with that.
Inside the longhouse, Anders finally slept again—caught between healing flesh and guarded truth, between what he was and what others might decide he ant.
The most dangerous thing was no longer the forest.
It was belief.
Reviews
All reviews (0)