Greenland, early 15th Century

How can a place be so beautiful and yet so dangerous? I can't help but wonder this as I leave my family's home before anyone else starts to stir. The whole world bathes in lavender light. The sky, the sea, and the mountains shine in the magical light. The sun has already risen because it never set. It has hovered high in the sky for weeks now.

Having lived here all my life, I should be used to the bright light of summer. But yet, every year the constant illumination takes me by surprise. It brings with it long nights of awakedness, lost in dark thoughts. And those thoughts are even worse this year.

I see Gudrun leave the hall every night with my father, being led into their marital bed. I stuff my ears with white moss and cover my head with a bearskin pelt to not hear a sound. But nothing can keep my imagination from running wild.

The brisk air momentarily washes those thoughts away. I climb high on a cliff, standing atop and letting the salty winds cleanse my mind. Out here, I can think. Out here, I can briefly escape into hope. I can conjure elaborate ideas where I take Gudrun's hand and we escape on a longship into the night.

But longships need rowers and rowers need rations. Rations around here are sparse and all are controlled by the chief of the village. My father. Who is steadfast in his belief that we cannot leave. He believes we can ride this string of endless winters out.

My elaborate ideas are nothing but sagas. I know that. But that doesn't stop me from escaping into them. When life is nothing but hardship and disappointment, living in a saga sounds like a better option.

A movement down by the shoreline catches my attention. Perhaps an animal? Instinctually I reach for my bow, putting an arrow on the string. In these lands, you need to strike whenever you can, so I always carry my bow on my back and a dagger in my belt. Swords are reserved for combat and there's luckily little of those these days. The skrälings would probably overpower us anyway.

I shudder as I think of the last battle. My father forced me to fight, reasoning that a boy who'd slayed a bear could slay a man. He was wrong. I hid in a crevasse as my father and his men attacked a group of canoe-faring skrälings, venturing too close to the shorelines he considered ours. Once the battle was over, seal-skin-clad bodies floated in the waters.

Nowadays, the skrälings stay away from us. Perhaps they have wisely moved to warmer shores, as their canoes quickly cut through the harshest waves. They move as elegantly and swiftly as the seals they hunt. And they fight as relentlessly as the huge walruses with their jagged tusks.

I suggested to my father that we should hunt for seals and walrus as well, but he only shook his head. "We're not skrälings," he said. "We don't eat what they eat. We're proud Norsemen. If we take up their ways then what is the difference between them and us?"

Perhaps that their children don't die? But I didn't say that, as I know my father wouldn't listen. His disdain toward the skrälings is strong, as two of his brothers were clubbed to death for fishing too close to a skräling campsite. Neither of them was little more than a kid. I've only heard the story from my mother, as it happened long before I was born.

Sliding down the side of the cliff, I discover the source of the movement. With a sigh, I put down my bow, crouching down in the brush to not disturb.

I would recognize that unruly mop of hair anywhere, tangled and knotted like the brambles right below the mountains.

Ivar.

My brother must have snuck out right after me, as he still snoozed away--or at least pretended to--as I left.

Beside him sit a girl I can't mistake for anyone else either. I should have known it would come to this. Ivar was never discreet about his longings unless our father was around. But I never knew his feelings were reciprocated.

Her braids are smooth and so black that the strands shine in blue and purple when the morning sun hits. A survivor of that last battle, when I hid in a crevasse. Because as I crawled out, I saw her in the water. A girl about my age. I pulled her out of there, and into my father's claws.

Her name is Aakkulukatut but we call her Aakku. After the battle, she became a träl at my father's house, obeying his every order. She cooked our food and cleaned our dishes. She mended our clothes and swept our floors. She worked day and night.

I wonder sometimes why she doesn't just leave, now that she's of age and can take care of herself. Her people know the way of the lands. She could walk away forever across the ice to find her kind.

Aakku leans her head on Ivar's shoulder and I know why. My brother is why. He who tried to engage her in our games when our father didn't look. He who passed along food scraps into her bowl to increase her meager rations. He who once took a beating from our father for a bowl broken by her hand.

He was always braver than me. As the second son, he could get away with more, and he knew it.

I leave them alone, hand in hand. They deserve to have this time alone because I know it can't last. Our father would never allow their union.

It's not much he does allow. Keeping everyone around him under strict control seems to be his way of handling the hardships of our lives. He didn't use to be like this. Not before our mother died.

Making sure not to disturb the couple below, I duck into a shrubbery of blackberry bushes. I pick a few ripe berries, purple as the approaching morning light, and pop them into my mouth. The sweet juices energize my sleep-deprived mind.

As I feast on the summer berries, I see something else down by the water. A golden sheen, like the sun when it rises. But the sun can't rise without setting first, so it's another glimmer of red that illuminates this morning.

Gudrun walks with her skirts hoisted up to her knees in the shallow waters. Looking back and forth, she appears to search for something.

I know something that was lost in those waves. Because I threw it there myself.

Carefully, I approach, curious whether she will find what she's looking for. Perhaps I threw the symbol of our lost love too far into the cold waves.

It warms my heart that she still wants it, even as she tried to give it back to me.

"I can see you, Björn!" she calls out with glee in her voice.

It appears my approach wasn't as hidden as I thought.

Realizing it would be silly to keep hiding, I stumble out of the bushes, thorns getting stuck on my clothing on the way. I fight a losing battle with the bush for a few seconds, before admitting defeat and leaving with threads unraveling from my pants. I have to ask Aakku if she can mend them later. Not because she's obliged to do it, but because she's the only woman in our household except for Gudrun, who I refuse to treat as if she was my stepmother. Unfortunately, men aren't taught such skills, or I would do it myself.

"That bush getting the best of you?" Gudrun snickers. She always was so cheeky. It reminds me of the carefree days of our youth. Before the winters grew endless and hope froze to death.

"Damn thing won't let go!" I reply, realizing that my shirt is still stuck. I try to limit the damage by carefully guiding the thorns away from me. Thinking I've succeeded, I turn, only to get smacked in the face by a branch. I recoil from the impact of the prickly bush, trying to act brave in front of Gudrun even as my cheek stings.

Still nursing my wounded face, I walk down toward the shore. Gudrun giggles at me. "Will you survive?" she asks in feigned sympathy.

"Remains to be seen," I mutter, wiping some blood away. I sit down on a cliff right where the water breaks and observe her moving gracefully through the waves. Her feet are bare and her sleeves are pulled up to her elbows.

"I'm looking for-" she starts, nodding toward the dark waves.

"I know what you're looking for," I say. Of course, I know. The very rock I sit on is the same one I threw the damn thing from.

A silence builds between us. Because when there aren't prickly blackberry bushes left to talk about, what is left to say? So many things need to remain unspoken. I want to tell her everything but nothing can be divulged.

Soft waves splash against her forearms as she keeps searching relentlessly.

Why does she want the damn thing so bad? I want to ask but I cannot. Because the answer can't be uttered by her lips.

I know the answer, yet I want to hear it.

I want to hear her say she loves me.

Gudrun doesn't say those words. She probably never will. Instead, she calls out excitedly from the shallow waves. "I found... something!" she exclaims.

"What is it?" I ask.

She doesn't reply. Instead, she stares in front of her, as if someone's there. She holds out her hand toward nothing as if she's stuck in a dream.

Or a saga.

"Gudrun!" I call out, worried she's going mad from the exposure to the cold waters.

Still no response. However, I can hear her mumbling something.

Unable to hold myself back, I throw myself in the waves, without a care in the world about my clothes getting wet. They're already torn and stained with blood anyway.

"He's here," she calls out to no one, ignoring my hand that's shaking her shoulder. "He's right here."

Is she talking about me? I can't tell, as her gaze is still fastened in the distance.

"Gudrun, what's the matter?" I ask.

Still, she doesn't answer.

As if worshiping the sun itself, Gudrun reaches her hand out in front of her, revealing the item she found in the waves. It's not the pale surface of a beartooth that the morning sun hits, but a glimmering golden ring. It looks like she's trying to hand it to an invisible entity in the water.

Becoming scared she will fall into the sea face first, I place my hands around her waist. Red curls that smell of pine and salt tickle my face. Suddenly, she turns, facing me. Her eyes once again peer into this world. She sees me, like she's always seen him.

"Björn?" A wrinkle forms between her eyebrows. She appears confused to see me. "She asked for you."

"Who?" I ask, trying to not think too much about how close Gudrun's face is to mine. Tiny freckles dot the skin above her lips, each one unique like the stars in the night sky.

"The woman in the sea," she replies like it's obvious. "She called for you to hurry."

"I'm right here," I assure her, fastening the grip around her hips. "I'm not going anywhere."

All notions of mysterious women in the water are forgotten as Gudrun presses her lips to mine.

"Please, never do," she mumbles, parting her lips slightly into a deep embrace of my own. Tingles of warmth rush through my submerged limbs as our tongues nudge against one another.

Salt from the ocean mix with lingering blackberry juice into an alluring brew. We've kissed before, when we were young. Just kids playing around in the bluebell-covered fields. Innocent and pure as snow. But this is different. This is wild and dangerous as the dark sea itself.