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Thorfinn burst through the front door of his father's cabin, dragging a near-dead body with the winter chill clinging to his boots.
He had stumbled upon it near the stream by chance, a good distance away—stiff and pale as death itself. Fragmenting the snow with small trails of blood; beneath the shadows of old elms and the faint twilight darkness.
His sister passed by him with a stack of blankets, as his mother's pale hands pressed down on a chest and hurried to find a pulse. The warm light of a fireplace bounced off and across wooden walls, w̷͕̓ì̶̘t̴̢̍ẖ̸̋ ̶̺͌n̸̰͊ŏ̵̧ ̴̹̏ḧ̶̲́a̷̖̽y̷̿͜ ̴̈́͜i̵͎̇n̶̙͋ ̶̩̈́ṣ̴͝i̸͖͗ǧ̴̩h̷͔͑ẗ̵̝́.̵̩͐
For a moment, and for some reason, Thorfinn could hear his late father calling his name, with that strong voice that could pierce through eons. His heart pounded—not from the cold, but from something nameless and uneasy, and Thorfinn stood there, frozen solid in the middle of the living room under warm clothes of linen and weathered leather that now felt too heavy on his skin for some reason; watching his mother trying to revive a cold body.
His father kept calling for him, with knit brows and a strong voice that could hack through time like hatchets. 𝕰𝖝𝖈𝖊𝖕𝖙 𝖆 𝖑𝖔𝖙 𝖞𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖌𝖊𝖗, 𝖘𝖆𝖞𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝕿𝖍𝖔𝖗𝖋𝖎𝖓𝖓 𝖘𝖚𝖉𝖉𝖊𝖓𝖑𝖞 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖑𝖉𝖓’𝖙 𝖖𝖚𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖍𝖊𝖓𝖉.
What…?
𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔠𝔬𝔩𝔡 𝔴𝔦𝔫𝔱𝔢𝔯 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔢𝔷𝔢 𝔠𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔦𝔢𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔰𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔬𝔣 𝔞 𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤-𝔩𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔢.
He was brought back, both him and their half-dead guest, by a cough from a pale throat that 𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕖𝕕 𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕣𝕦𝕚𝕤𝕖𝕤 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 h̵̹̙̃̂e̴̮͌â̵̝̯̍v̸̝͒͜ỷ̸̻͙́ ̵̪͖̾i̶̢͙͛̆r̵͖̄o̶̯͐n̶͓̎ ̶͇̔͜c̶̖͉̊h̸͓̏a̴̩͗̓i̶̮͛n̵̳͒̏ș̴̭̚ ̵̠̩̇.̸̡̭̓͌.
And Thorfinn decided to go out to fetch more firewood then, turning his back to his sister's questioning eyes.
There were many things to do; many things about work tied to the seasons that made the days pass quickly. Busy cold mornings, rustic fare, agricultural calendars, and a resilience that flourished outdoors. Along the creek. Among silver birches and pieces of pine, within his father's old hunter cabin and within the stillness of the woods during a hunt.
There was something in those blue eyes that quickened his pulse. Sharp. Intense. Unsettling.
A polite, calm young man. Blond hair, youthful face, and cerulean gaze. Not much older than my son, then —he'd heard his mother chatting with him one day. His sweet, sweet mother. Kind and welcoming like his father. Not bothered by this blue-eyed ghost from the woods. Tending the wound of this polite stranger, this survivor of a viscerality Thorfinn hadn't had the misfortune of experiencing in his own flesh. Someone who had been lucky enough to cross his path and barely escape the embrace of a sinister and silent death.
Someone who didn't seem inclined to be a burden, helping out however he could while recovering—as if preventing a young man from dying in the cold snow was some debt to be paid.
But, by hell, his eyes quickened his heart sometimes. Thorfinn had felt them burning holes in the back of his head a couple of times.
They scratched something beneath the skin—roused something shapeless, inscrutable and deep within him. And, silently, he'd met them with a frown more than once; and held that piercing gaze like boiling water in his hands, exasperated and sick of them and sick of his own quiet frenzy for things he couldn't name or shape; until this stranger—ʙᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴀ ɴᴀᴍᴇ ᴀꜱ ꜰᴏʀᴇɪɢɴ ᴀꜱ ᴀɴ ꜱᴄʀɪᴘᴛ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴛ ᴛɪᴍᴇ, ｔｏｏｋ ｈｉｓ ｄａｍｎ ó̶̠̀w̵̙̉͂l̷̩̇í̵͉̔s̴̜̍͠ḧ̸̰̂ ̷̝͔̈́̉ẹ̶͓̔y̷̧̍́ē̸̫s̵͎̹̈́ ̸̊̃͜e̶͇̞͂̑l̶̰͇̿͊s̶͓͊ȇ̵̻̆w̷̖̋́h̷͇̩̎̓e̷̤̼͆r̷͎̠͒̽e̴̲̊̒. Calmly.
Towards the fireplace. Towards the white sky. Towards the piece of early moonlight on the creek. Towards the skinned hare dripping blood onto pine wood.
Thorfinn didn't care where, as long as they stopped whatever they did to his pulse.
"Nice swing."
The last time Thorfinn had heard praise like that, it had come from his father's lips. Long ago. Same words. "With how you speak, you better not be all hat and no cattle," he retorted, placing another log down for cutting.
A speck of a smile from his companion, apple in hand and sitting nearby, watching him swing the hatchet. Some bandages visible under layers of coarse fabric. "True that."
"Learned somewhere?" Thorfinn asked with disinterest, pushing aside the memory of his father's broad frame to focus on the task at hand.
The other young man shook his head. "Taught myself."
The sound of the hatchet striking the marked groove in the wood reverberated through the air, and the flying splinters drew vivid scenes in Thorfinn's mind’s eye. Scenes of galloping 𝔥𝔬𝔯𝔰𝔢𝔰 and a𝖓 𝖆𝖕𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖙𝖎𝖈 𝖈𝖗𝖔𝖜𝖉,̵̣͗͘ ̴̙̋̇ṕ̴̘̥̈ã̵̦̲s̶͈̺̈́s̸̟̕i̴̟̕n̵͉̽g̵̞̪͐ ̶̨̫̐̾b̶̦̅͋y̵͚̾̓ ̷̻̯̓͂h̷̳̍ḯ̷̮̤m̶̱̐ ̷͝ͅa̷̰̫͆͘s̶̞̮̓ ̸̦͈̏a̷̤͙̾ ̵̟̭͐͘t̴̰̄͝h̵̕ͅḯ̶̙̚ç̴̯͐͊k̴̳͑ ̶̝͔́͊a̸͖͍͘n̴͙̊̋d̵͑ͅ ̴̰͎̿̾h̴͚̾̍e̴̢̍á̶̭͕v̴̝͓͝ÿ̵͇͊ ̵̘̉r̷̡̄o̴̹̾̍p̴̮͑e̴̟̣͋̑ ̴̡̂́c̷̨̓ḣ̵̲ā̴͔̄f̴͙̂e̴̯͊͠d̵̡̋ ̶͇́̎ţ̸͔̿̆h̶̛̹̣̚ẽ̶͖ ̶̗͒s̶͖͔̓̕k̸͒͜͝i̶̲͒̄n̵̯͠ ̴̡̯̕ǫ̷͔̽̋f̶͓̤̀ ̷̜̻͒͠t̴̤͛h̴̠̣̓e̸̟̋͜ ̷̛̺̕b̷̤̂̔ạ̷͠c̴̮̺̋k̶̮͘ ̶̢̖̇̍o̷̩̬͌̋f̶̗̀ ̴̦͙̚̚h̶͋͜i̷̳͖͑s̴̝͌ ̶̹̰͝n̴̫̩̎̚è̶͕́c̷̱͊͜k̵̠̘̈̕ ̸̯̝̌̐ǎ̸̢̜n̴̺̑͝d̴͍̓̇ ̷̩̳͑ẅ̵̱́͘r̷̩̣̾í̴͇͊s̴̤͎̽t̵͑ͅś̶̢̤.̵̳̯̚
Thorfinn shook his head. Shook off the visions with eyes shut tight, bringing a hand to his forehead to wipe away the beads of sweat that had gathered under his bangs. He was more exhausted than he thought.
The hatchet felt heavier in his grip than it usually did, but It wasn’t until he noticed his breath fogging up, thickening with the dropping temperature, that he decided it was a good time to take a break.
He settled onto the worn, creaking floorboards of weathered timber beside his resting witness. Silence stretched between them for a moment, the fog draping the glade in a dull gray shroud. Thorfinn removed his gloves and massaged the calluses that dotted his palms, and when he found himself listening—half-aware—to idle musings about invasive tree species and silver maples, words drifting with the ease of a b҉o҉r҉e҉d҉ ҉o҉l҉d҉ ҉s҉o҉u҉l҉, he blamed the quiet, the stillness of thought, for finding himself once again reacting to something that lacked any form in the cadence of that voice.
It lingered, stubborn, refusing to fade.
"—the roots choke and kill other roots, and when the seeds get carried by the wind it spreads the plague further. See that old one over there? Shouldn't be there."
"Trees don't move on their own."
"People do. 𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔬𝔪𝔢 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔭𝔲𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔶 𝔡𝔬𝔫'𝔱 𝔟𝔢𝔩𝔬𝔫𝔤."
Thorfinn palmed the timber beside his thigh. "You're sitting on the corpse of a big ‘invader’, though."
"Never said they weren't useful. Ever tasted the leaves?"
"No."
"Horribly bitter. Good for coughs."
Thorfinn warmed his hands with his own breath. It had been snowing an awful lot. Nearly everything seemed incredibly irritating all of a sudden. The cold, the shapeless ghosts lurking in his mind's eye. The horrible, deep longing clawing at his insides.
Lips met in the dark, on his bed under the blankets, a mere huddling for warmth turned into something more desperate, hesitant at first, then urgent, ａｓ ｉｆ ｔｒｙｉｎｇ ｔｏ ｃｈａｓｅ ｓｏｍｅｔｈｉｎｇ ｌｏｓｔ ｔｏ ｔｉｍｅ．
𝔸𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕚𝕣 𝕓𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕝𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕡𝕒𝕔𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕥𝕨𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞—𝕨𝕒𝕣𝕞, 𝕗𝕝𝕖𝕖𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘, 𝕞𝕖𝕝𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕔𝕠𝕝𝕕, 𝕙𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕤 𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕝𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕗𝕒𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕔, 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕙𝕒𝕚𝕣, 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕖𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕠𝕗 𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕣 𝕓𝕠𝕕𝕪 𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕔𝕝𝕠𝕤𝕖, 𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕣𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕟 𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕕—𝕗𝕖𝕝𝕥 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕘𝕣𝕚𝕡 𝕠𝕟 𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕤𝕝𝕚𝕡 𝕒𝕤 𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕣𝕚𝕗𝕪𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕨𝕖𝕕 𝕒𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕖𝕕𝕘𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕕. 𝕊𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 ａｓ ｆａｍｉｌｉａｒ ａｓ ｉｔ ｗａｓ ｆｏｒｅｉｇｎ.
ℍ𝕚𝕤 𝕡𝕦𝕝𝕤𝕖 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕞𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝕒𝕤 𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕜𝕚𝕤𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕓𝕪 𝕠𝕔𝕖𝕒𝕟 𝕤𝕒𝕝𝕥 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕤𝕖𝕒 𝕓𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕫𝕖, 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕡𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕒 𝕡𝕒𝕝𝕞 𝕒𝕘𝕒𝕚𝕟𝕤𝕥 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕤𝕡𝕚𝕟𝕖, under his shirt, more calloused and rougher 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕚𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕞𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥𝕤 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖, 𝕙𝕠𝕝𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕙𝕚𝕞 steady against a tide. ℍ𝕖 𝕔𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕕 𝕒𝕝𝕞𝕠𝕤𝕥 𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕣 𝕚𝕥—a deep voice, coarse and rumbling and annoying right on his ear, 𝕒 𝕧𝕠𝕚𝕔𝕖 𝕨𝕙𝕚𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 his name and making him shiver, 𝕒 𝕧𝕠𝕚𝕔𝕖 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕤𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕠𝕟𝕖 he should have always known. And Thorfinn drowned, cried, and kissed the melancholia back on the lips fiercely, angry and desperate.
I knew you once, he thought with newfound certainty and wet lips, once the world stopped to a halt and he gazed back up into those eyes that stared down at him like a bird of prey.
Thorfinn wasn't a stranger to melancholy. He changed a lot after his father passed away. Loss had a way of reshaping a person. It wasn’t something difficult to mask—just another weight to carry, another quiet thing to endure.
He kissed his mother on the cheek one morning, while the absence of his father settled like a dull ache in his chest more than usual. Feeling the quiet, sharp sting of not being able to see his father 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕖𝕚𝕟𝕘.
The hallucinations faded, giving way to something calmer—the feeling of salt air and sun-bleached sails blending with the familiar scent of pine and smoke that filled their home. A memory, distant but lingering. Thorfinn accepted it, just as he accepted all the things he couldn’t change.
Lucius was still around, his wounds long healed, but it's not like Thorfinn was about to let him slip away as easily as he came. Because Thorfinn knew—he’d pieced together that the story Lucius told about the day Thorfinn found him in the woods was a lie, a fabrication to cover up something far more complicated. But Thorfinn wasn't about to open his mouth. He understood the need for discretion, the instinct to conceal the ugly truths of family. Especially in front of strangers with kind hearts—people who wouldn’t understand, who shouldn’t have to.
Plus, that feeling of complicity between the two felt good. Refreshing like ocean breeze on his face.