The frost lay thick over the fields that morning, coating every blade of grass and bramble in a fragile white sheen. The sun had not yet crested the distant hills, and the air carried a bite that made lungs ache and fingers tingle. Ragnar crouched at the edge of the creek, black hair falling in messy strands over his forehead. His hands were buried in the icy water as he tried to scoop up a small trout, muscles straining with careful precision. He did not speak, did not flinch at the chill. Even at ten winters, he moved with a patience and quietness that set him apart from the other children of the village.
A sudden, sharp laugh broke the morning's quiet.
"Ragnar! You'll scare the fish if you frown like that!"
Eivor bounded up the bank, basket of berries swinging from her arm. Her darker ginger hair caught the pale light of the morning, and freckles splashed across her cheeks like a constellation of mischief. She crouched beside him, hands hovering over the water, eyes gleaming with delight at his concentration.
Ragnar didn't look at her. "Then you better catch them yourself," he said, voice low but steady, his hands still immersed in the freezing water.
Eivor snorted, dipping her fingers into the stream. "I don't need to. I have luck."
Ragnar lifted one dark brow, finally glancing at her. "Luck doesn't catch fish," he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the cold.
Her grin widened. "Then I'll just let skill take care of it. But only because I'm feeling generous today." She splashed him lightly, the cold water hitting his forearms.
Ragnar hissed and wiped the water away, but he couldn't hide the amusement in his eyes. "You're impossible," he muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
For a long moment, they crouched together by the stream. Eivor's hands darted into the water, her fingers snatching tiny fish before they slipped away. Ragnar, careful and methodical, lifted a trout slowly, holding it triumphantly between his hands.
"See?" he said. "Skill."
Eivor leaned closer, brushing her freckled cheek against his shoulder. "Maybe," she said softly, "but only because I let you win this time."
Ragnar narrowed his eyes, pretending offense. "I don't think you know what that means."
Her laughter rang out, clear and bright, echoing through the frosted morning. It carried with it the warmth of something neither fully understood—trust, familiarity, companionship. For now, they were just children playing in the cold, their world small and safe, full of laughter, arguments, and shared secrets.
By mid-morning, they had moved on from the creek. Eivor challenged Ragnar to a race across the frozen fields, and he accepted, crouching low at the starting line, fists clenched in anticipation. "First to the old oak wins," she declared, bouncing lightly on her feet.
"Fine," he muttered, and she could see the spark of determination in his dark eyes.
The two of them sprinted across the frost-covered ground, mud crunching beneath their boots, breath coming in harsh, visible bursts. Eivor darted ahead, giggling, and Ragnar followed silently, keeping pace, letting her think she was leading. A slip on a hidden patch of ice sent her sprawling, snow crunching under her palms, and Ragnar reached her side in a heartbeat, steadying her with a hand on her shoulder.
"You're lucky I didn't let you fall," he said, though he could not suppress the corner of his mouth lifting.
"You only caught me because I'm generous," she replied, sitting back on her heels and brushing frost from her hair.
They laughed, and for a moment, nothing existed outside their little world. No clans, no politics, no blood feud, no looming wars—just the warmth of friendship forged in the everyday struggles of farm life, mischief, and survival.
As the sun climbed higher, they wandered toward the woods at the edge of the village. Trees stretched tall, branches etched against the pale winter sky, and the children darted between them, pretending to hunt wolves, climb like hunters, and sneak past imagined enemies. Eivor's laugh rang through the forest as Ragnar stalked her carefully, hands raised like a predator. She would dodge, sprint, and then leap behind a tree, waiting for him to notice her, teasing him endlessly.
"Got you!" she shouted suddenly, tapping his shoulder and ducking behind a tree before he could react.
"You trickster," he muttered, catching his breath, but he allowed the faintest smile. She was clever, quick, and unrelenting—but he admired that more than he let her know.
By the afternoon, they returned to the village, red-cheeked and exhausted from running, climbing, and teasing. They helped with chores, hauling firewood and checking traps, their laughter carrying across the frost-bitten fields.
As the day drew toward evening, Ragnar paused at the edge of the forest, brushing frost from his hair, and glanced at Eivor. She looked back, freckles glowing in the soft light, and smiled. No words passed between them, but a subtle understanding formed between them—a quiet bond, as natural and familiar as the rhythm of the land itself.
The long shadows of winter stretched across the village as they returned to their homes, unaware that the years ahead would test every ounce of courage, loyalty, and the first hints of affection that had begun to grow between them.