Author: Sulayman Dehlawi

After spending so long tending the soil, Billy Bob decided to spend some time seeing how the Njords tended their herds. He made his way to the ranching village of Haedepor. He was immediately struck by the similarities to the pasturelands he knew back home, but also immediately noticed the significant lack of fencing. He greeted the shepherd with the same grunt he used with the farmers, and received it in kind. A few simple gestures, some broken Gothic, and he was being introduced to the herd.

The sheep were smaller than the ones he knew, their coats coarse and dark. Different from what they had at home, but it should be good wool, if less of it. He wondered how Rowan would feel about working it, what she’d be able to turn it into. Given that cold biting arrival in winter, he wondered if this wool would have helped his hands, still remembering the bitterness of that wind. It was clear he’d missed the shearing by a month or two, but he saw some of the younger hands rooing, so there was still wool to recover.

He looked up to the foothills of Haedepor, leading up to the towering mountain in the distance – the Last Sentinel, he’d been told it was called. Síðasta Vörður. He looked back to the sheep calmly grazing as a gentle wind swept across the hillside.

He was really looking forward to not having to move any more rocks for a while.

The land before him was raw and unforgiving. Last season, Billy Bob had worked the existing fields near Runeheim, learning the rhythm of the soil. Now he was breaking new ground, rough, uneven, and untamed – forging new fields in Near Fjarhus.

The regulars were already at it – clearing rocks, digging into the hard earth. As always, they all worked in near silence. Billy Bob worked to match their pace, but he still felt sluggish and uncoordinated compared to them, still unfamiliar with this northern soil. As he dug with his shovel, he couldn’t help but feel like the rocky land resented being disturbed. He pushed on, trying to make headway, excavating the large stones barely hidden under the soon to be christened fields.

He wondered about what else they could grow in this soil, thinking of some of the rich turnips he’d grown in his family’s fields, or the simple herbs they had managed to add in around the edges of the plots to add a little something extra to the stew. Would those grow here? Should he ask the Porters to see if they can get some sent up? He picked up a handful of the dirt and stared at it, trying to see if he could tell just from looking at it which he could grow. He couldn’t. He went back to his shoveling while thinking about what herbs to try to get delivered.

As the morning wore into the afternoon, Billy Bob’s arms ached, but the land was starting to slowly feel less foreign. Even if the others didn’t speak much, he didn’t feel unwelcome. Though the earth still resisted every press of his shovel, he felt a little more connected to it. The land was rougher, harder to tame… but maybe that was the point. With time, he would learn how to make it his own.

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.

Billy Bob was working the fields as the morning fog lifted, drifting back out to the Kaltlina. He began the familiar rhythm of tending to his crop. His thoughts wandered to that night with the Vampires in the monastery. That night was so full of blood and death, he lost count of the arrows he loosed. While the vampire spawn had been dealt with, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was still some use for them. His hoe struck a large stone under the dirt and sent a shiver up his arms.

He wasn’t sure what had happened to their bodies… were they buried? Did they just turn to dust? He wondered… could they be good for the soil? There was so little to fertilize these rocky soils they farmed in, it seemed like anything they could get their hands on would be useful.

A grunt from behind him broke his reverie. One of the other farmers pointed to the stone he’d excavated from his patch, Billy Bob simply nodded to him and the man took the stone and added it to the small stone wall that was growing around the field as similar stones were found.

Billy Bob returned to his work, though the thought still lingered. Maybe he’ll ask Madam Leonora if she knows anything about if leftover spawn can be used to help the crops.

Standing on the rocky edge of the farmlands, a cold wind biting at his face, Billy Bob surveyed the land. The not-so distant mountains were jagged, with their snow capped peaks harsh against the sky. The fields around him were small, scattered terraces, stacked against the foothills. Nothing like his old farm.

Back home, the earth was forgiving, ready to be plowed and sowed, even if coaxing the crop was difficult. Here, this land didn’t offer itself easily. The soil was rocky, stubborn. The fields were narrow, some barely more than patches. Rye, oats, peas. He ran his fingers against the coarse earth – it was hard, no give.

Goats grazing near the fields seemed to blend into the land, nearly vanishing into the rocky slopes. They relied on their animals here too, though not like those in the county over. He missed the sheep.

Thinking of his family’s old farm, he recalled how he learned to bend the earth to his will, but he could already tell the land here didn’t work that way. It gives little, but maybe it gives enough. Maybe this wasn’t about taming the earth. Maybe it was about surviving with it.

The cold was so much worse than he thought it would be. The wind cutting through his cloak and biting his skin like a thousand arrows. Carefully, methodically, Billy Bob moved through the unfamiliar fields, pulling what he could from the frozen earth. It was a sparse harvest, the deep and sudden cold had already damaged much of the crop, but he salvaged everything he could.

There were no baskets, bags, or carts. Just his own two hands, raw and stiff from the cold, and his drive to gather everything he could save. Having arrived long after the sun had departed, he trudged through the biting wind and the oppressive darkness.

Twelve trips, he counted. Twelve trips back and forth with armfuls of root vegetables, meager grains, and simple hemp, painstakingly recovered even as it felt like his hands could grip no more. His body ached against the cold, but his purpose and experience drove him to take the next step, bringing the harvest back to his people.

As Billy Bob finally returned what he deemed the last of the harvest he felt he could save, his hands long past shivering. He moved to the warmth of the fire, and sank into an open chair, exhaustion settling into his bones. “Well done,” Gilbert called out, clapping Billy Bob on the back. “That’s some fine work. We’ll be able to use this immediately!”

Billy Bob didn’t reply, too tired to even respond. His hands, raw and stiff, still clutched the edge of his cloak as he stared into the flames. ‘I just want to rest’ he thought to himself.

The quartermaster’s cheer faded into the wind, but all Billy Bob could hear was the crackling of the fire, the warmth of it, the silence after the storm of work.