Months had passed since the Valerians had arrived in Runeheim, and Billy Bob was no closer to mastering the land. He’d been working alongside the Njordic farmers, their hands moving with ease as they planted oats in the farms. His were slower, his rows of grain uneven, occasional bare patches in his growing.

The other farmers didn’t speak much to him, their language was thick and foreign, the words slipping away before he could catch them. Their Gothic was rough at best, and they didn’t know any more Rogalt than he knew Njor. They worked alongside each other in silence, exchanging only brief grunts or gestures when needed. Billy Bob felt their eyes at times, but no one mocked him, they just kept moving quietly and with an efficiency he envied.

Digging into the soil and trying to match their pace, but his hands felt clumsy. Wiping sweat from his brow, an older man with a scar on his cheek caught his eye. He didn’t say anything but gestured toward Billy Bob’s hoe, taking his own in hand and showing him the proper angle. No words, just a small, silent correction.

Mimicking the movements, Billy Bob felt the difference. He kept moving until his arms were sore from the effort. The silence continued, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. He was still slow, still awkward, but he felt the rhythm of the work, even if he couldn’t keep up. It wasn’t about fitting in, he realized. It was about understanding the quiet flow of things, letting the earth guide him without words.

The others worked on, and slowly, Billy Bob did too.