Child Of The Northern Light

Chapter 1 - Child Of The Northern Light

Night fell without announcement.

Wind carried the scent of damp soil and old wood through the trees and into the village. Doors remained shut. The paths lay empty.

Greyhollow was rarely mentioned in conversation. From a distance, it looked like any other cluster of old wooden houses, weathered and quiet, resting at the edge of the forest.

At the outermost house, a single oil lamp burned low. Its light swayed gently, casting uneven shadows across cracked wooden walls. The shadows moved in slow rhythm, rising and falling with the labored breathing of someone enduring more than their body wished to bear.

Clara lay on the floor, her back pressed against a pile of folded cloth. Damp strands of hair clung to her temples, darkened by cold sweat. Her fingers tightened around the bedding beneath her, knuckles pale from strain.

Beside her, Martha knelt. A middle-aged elven woman, her hair tied back without care, several dark strands slipping loose and sticking to her forehead with sweat.

“Breathe slowly,” Martha said. Her voice was firm, but calm. “Follow my count. Let the pain pass through you.”

Clara tried. Her breath came partway in, then caught.

“I cannot,” she whispered. “This feels different.”

Martha frowned. She had heard those words before. Yet something in Clara’s voice made her chest tighten.

She placed her palm against Clara’s abdomen.

Heat pressed back against her hand, steady and unfamiliar.

“You have held on for too long,” Martha said more gently. “If you keep this up, your strength will give way before the moment passes.”

Clara let out a short, breathless laugh. “Perhaps my strength was never meant to last.”

Martha did not answer. She adjusted the cloth beneath Clara, making sure her position remained steady.

Another wave came. Clara’s body tensed, her breath breaking as the pain surged. She cried out, the sound raw but brief.

Martha steadied her shoulders, keeping her grounded.

“Now,” she said. “Now, Clara. Push.”

“I am,” Clara gasped, tears slipping down her face without her noticing. “Something feels wrong.”

Martha did not respond at once.

Her gaze caught a soft glint of silver on the small table nearby. A simple round pendant, plain and unadorned.

She turned away.

“Listen to me,” she said at last. “Whatever happens, you must stay with me. That child needs you here.”

Clara turned her head, meeting Martha’s eyes. “And if I cannot?”

Martha hesitated, only briefly. “If you cannot,” she said honestly, “I will see the child safely through.”

Clara nodded faintly. “That is enough.”

The next effort pulled a cry from her throat. Martha felt it then, a pressure that did not follow the familiar rhythm of birth, as if two unseen forces were meeting within Clara’s body.

The oil lamp flickered.

“What was that?” Martha murmured.

The air in the room grew thick. Breathing felt heavier, as though the space itself had grown still. Martha shook her head and forced her focus back.

“Just a little more,” she urged. “You are almost there.”

With one final push, Clara slumped forward, her breathing uneven. Martha caught the small body as it slipped into her hands.

Warm, but quiet.

She waited for the cry that should have followed. Seconds passed.

“No,” Martha whispered.

Clara lifted her head with what strength remained. “Why is he quiet?”

Martha brought the child closer to the light. His skin was pale, faintly tinged blue. His chest moved, though unevenly.

She pressed her fingers gently to his chest.

“He lives,” Martha said quickly, though uncertainty edged her voice. “But he needs help.”

Clara reached weakly for the silver pendant on the table. “Please,” she whispered, almost in prayer. “I do not know what else to do.”

Martha moved to stop her, instinct urging caution, but she was too late.

Clara pressed the pendant against her child’s chest.

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.

The oil lamp dimmed. The wooden walls creaked softly, not from wind, but from a pressure that passed as quickly as it came. Martha coughed, her chest tightening.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

Clara did not answer. She held the child close.

Then a sound rose, thin but real.

The cry was weak and hoarse, yet unmistakable.

Martha stepped back, her heart racing. She had never witnessed anything like it.

“He is alive,” Clara sobbed. “He is alive.”

She looked down at the child, a fragile smile forming as her breath grew shallow. “Zio,” she whispered. “Your name is Zio.”

Martha saw the color fade from Clara’s face.

“Clara,” she said urgently. “Stay with me.”

Clara shook her head gently. “It is all right.”

She moved the pendant away from the child, her hand trembling.

“Take care of him,” she whispered. “Please.”

Silence followed.

Martha knelt beside her and closed Clara’s eyes with care.

“I will,” she said softly. “I promise.”

Morning came quietly.

Martha sat outside the house as the sun rose higher. The child, wrapped in worn cloth, slept lightly in her arms.

Trod arrived later that day.

He paused at the doorway, his gaze moving from Martha to the child. He bowed his head, then stepped closer. As he lifted the boy, his expression shifted when his fingers brushed the silver pendant.

“You felt it too,” Martha said.

Trod nodded once. “I do not like that thing.”

Afterward, the house grew quiet. Not empty, but settled, as if holding something unspoken.

Zio grew without knowing who Martha was, though she watched him from a distance. She noticed how rarely he cried.

From that night on, Martha chose not to ask questions whose answers she was not ready to face.

Five years later.

There were no celebrations. Time in Greyhollow passed as it always had, days stacking upon days until few bothered to count them.

Zio grew slowly.

There was nothing remarkable about him at first glance. His body was that of an ordinary child, shaped by routine and restraint, enduring quietly without calling attention to itself.

Most days, he sat on a wooden beam outside the workshop, waiting for Trod to open it. His legs swung gently as his clear blue eyes followed the adults passing by.

“It is still early,” Martha said one morning, carrying a bucket of water. “Trod is not awake yet.”

Zio looked up, his black hair untidy. “I know.”

“Then why wait here?”

He thought for a moment. “So I will not be late.”

Martha laughed, surprised by the sound. It had been a long time.

The other children of Greyhollow ran and played in the dust. Zio rarely joined them, not from lack of interest, but because his body tired quickly. He would run briefly, then stop, bent over, breathing with care.

Martha often considered stopping him. Each time, she noticed the same thing.

Zio never complained.

When he fell, he brushed the dirt from his knees and stood again. No one heard him cry.

Trod began involving him in the workshop. Nothing heavy. Sweeping metal filings, gathering scraps, carrying small tools. Even so, Zio’s hands trembled by day’s end.

“Rest if you are tired,” Trod said once.

“Just a little more,” Zio replied.

Trod neither pressed him nor pulled him away.

In the workshop, Zio learned the scent of heated metal, the sound of hammer on anvil, and the steady rhythm of work.

At times, Trod noticed the boy’s breathing change. Slower. Deeper. Once, Zio paused mid-breath, as if measuring it carefully.

“Proper breathing,” Trod muttered.

Martha watched from afar.

Whenever Zio passed her house, there was bread or warm soup waiting.

“Take it,” she said. “It should not be wasted.”

Zio accepted with a small nod.

There were days when illness came. Fever rose and fell. Martha sat by his side through the night, cooling his brow. Trod waited nearby.

Each time, Zio recovered.

“Stubborn child,” Martha said, without displeasure.

On his fifth birthday, there was no cake, but Martha gave him a small wooden bird, carved by hand.

“I am not skilled at toys,” she said. “But it is yours.”

Zio held it carefully. “Thank you.”

That was enough.

The nights in Greyhollow remained calm. The forest wind still came and went. In Trod’s workshop, a child breathed steadily in sleep. And on his chest, the silver pendant rested, its meaning unspoken.

In Greyhollow, people learned early which questions were best left unanswered.