Small wooden house with thatched roofs near the church of St. Cuthbert. My eyes capture, along with the striking morning haze, the meadows endlessly—stretching. Life, lately, had become full of always-es. It is always the same view. It is always only me and Mom who share that house. It is always "Dad was sent somewhere a long time ago" as an answer that I hear from my mom. 

But it was so long ago that we just happened to live by now and always-es seemed to bother me less now. One ordinary morning, I looked up in my closet, and my coat was gone. Not that I was particularly fond of it. It always had this strange smell I cannot recall, and the sleeves were too long for me. Yet, there was a bigger problem. I was hungry, and our stock had been empty for the past week. 

"Mom, does that mean I could go fishing with my friends!?" I exclaimed just as the lid of our warehouse slammed shut. 

"Yes, be careful, son," she said, almost weeping with my coat in her hands. Perhaps she was crying with happiness because I learned really fast, and fish came out so delicious every time. Unfortunately, I have not learned to cook yet, so all credit to my mom's ability to set up an open fire. In my defense, this trade is one of the few I have not mastered yet. 

After I got my coat back, I disappeared with my fishing stick in the blink of an eye. Arne and Ulf bore the same kind of always-es. It was evident when I looked at Arne's face; it was nothing but his twisted spirit saddening our way to the coast. Something was off. I knew what it was but made an effort as if I didn't know and told them to cheer up. 

"What's the reason for your smile?" Arne asked, almost dumbfounded by my energy.

"Because I am here with you all again," I responded without any hesitation. 

Ulf was concerned with something else. 

"Can you even remember the last time we all gathered in church and celebrated the Harvest Festival?" he said.

"You know, I believe our dads will return and we will soon gather as in the old days! Moreover, I don't want to talk any more because there are tons of fish waiting for us." I said it in the most energetic way possible, and it seemed like it worked. 

They all laughed at me. The trip continued without their frustrated faces. Our hunger and time started to seem irrelevant, now. It was not a long pleasure, though. 

After a few seconds, I already heard some screams... It started. They were so scary-looking, looting everything in their way, creating chaos. Library and church—they razed them to the ground. We ran as fast as we could. Arne and Ulf ran into the forest. I decided to grasp the last piece of hope and maybe find my dad fighting against the brutal warriors. No matter how hard I tried to erase certain memories, apparently they were all sent here to protect the little treasures left in our region. 

Suddenly, in all of this sound of blades meeting flesh and men angrily breathing, almost in unison, and fighting for their lives, I saw a small figure in the dust. I ran towards him.

"What are you doing here?" I shouted, while still trying to catch my breath.

"My father... look at him."

He pointed to the man with a beard. The man was lying down in blood. I was shocked even more. It was a warrior, an enemy's warrior. Before I could mumble a word, another horde of those men was coming now to take revenge for the blood of their man. 

I scooped him up as fast as possible and took him to my favorite place—or what seemed like my favorite place at the moment—the coast. He was fighting back, screaming, "I need to save my dad! I need to save my dad!" Luckily, the difference in our physical state helped me to save him from dying in the same pool of blood as his dad. We sat silently for an hour on the cliff overlooking the raging sea, which in itself seemed to be recovering from that battle. 

All of a sudden I saw him trying to set up a fire. Usually, I looked up to my mom to do that, but, here, was a 7-year-old trying to do something even a 12-year-old like me could not do? I think the ice broke the moment he looked at me as I would look at my mom.

Trying to set up a fire using a somewhat dry stick, I asked, "So, what do you like to do?"

"I like fishing and cooking!" he said. 

"Oh really, me too," I said. Somehow, in this exact moment the fire magically lit up. 

But he was only 7. Why would a 7-year-old learn to cook, light a fire, and go fishing? Before I could utter a word, he told me about the life on his side. At the age of 5 it was only him and his mom, sharing a house with thatched roofs. Surrounded by meadows, stretching east, west, south, and north. One evening a ruler of his village entered his room with an army of soldiers behind him. His father was asked to join the army or else his family would die. Of course, his father chose to fight for the fate of their nation against Englishmen—the cruel barbarians spreading chaos everywhere they set foot. 

"Aren't you?" the little guy asked.

"Maybe not so cruel," I answered, arranging the fire.

So, there was no alternative for him but to learn how to take care of his own mother, whose thoughts were so heavy that even a child still full of hope and dreams could take a role of an adult instead of her. 

I felt like all the tides paused for a moment. I now realized that there is another child on another side feeling the same as me. For years, I was told Vikings and anyone related to them were nothing but monsters. But now, I saw only a scared boy, just like me. A boy just like me! 

As if nothing happened at all,
As if the march of fate, and not only fate, 
Had never trampled their lives.

As if nothing happened,

Two is better than one.
Thought the, once again, happy mom.

Boys with coats fresh and new,

No longer long and stiff from their dad's youth,
Almost finished with their stew.
With one thing in common, they sat,

 

In a wooden house with thatched roof,
Where meadows endlessly stretch
All with a reason to be (live).