Bjorn stood in the churned farmyard beside Ragnar's barley field, spring rain was pelting his face and soaking his coarse wool tunic until it clung tightly to his body. The ground beneath was now ankle-deep mud that pulled at his small leather boots with each step. The air was filled with the rank smell of wet dung from the nearby pig sty and the faint tang of salt from the fjord.
At five, Bjorn was already much larger than other children his age, his shoulders broad, his arms thick with muscle that strained the seams of his tunic.
His blue eyes, focused and attentive, studied the wooden sword in his hands: a battered oak stick with a frayed leather grip, its surface covered with countless nicks. He noticed its faults immediately; poorly balanced and roughly made, but today, it would be his weapon to begin his path as a warrior.
The farmyard was small and enclosed by a split-rail fence that was weakened by years of harsh weather. A wooden post, old and splintered, stood in the mud at the center, its bottom part covered with clay, it was the target for Bjorn's first lesson. He'd known this day would come; Ragnar had been watching him for months, observing his strength and his differences.
Bjorn is sure that by twelve, he would be nearly as tall as a grown man, (as the average height in here was around 174-176 centimeters or around 5.8ft), with broad shoulders, ready to sail west with Ragnar and face difficult seas.
Ragnar approached through the downpour, his boots were making wet sounds in the mud, his linen tunic dark with rain and sticking to his thin frame. His beard dripped water, and the axe at his belt had spots of rust on its iron head; useful for both farming and fighting. His eyes were intent as they fixed on Bjorn.
"You're built for more than tending fields," he said, his voice rough but warm, barely audible over the rain. "That strength of yours isn't common among boys your age. Today, we start developing it into something useful; a fighting skill."
Bjorn met his father's gaze, thinking about what Ragnar truly wanted; a man who wished to do more than what Earl Haraldson allowed.
"I'm ready," he replied, his voice was high but calm. His small fingers tested the leather grip and his stance was shifting instinctively to brace against the treacherous mud.
Rollo walked up to join them with his heavy woolen cloak completely wet and his boots were covered with layers of clay. He shook the rain from his long hair with a loud laugh that was clearly heard through the drizzle.
"Five winters old, and you're already bigger than most boys twice your age," he said with a wide grin, looking at Bjorn with both warmth and challenge in his eyes. "Let's hope you can hit harder than it seems, nephew, or I'll be dragging you through this mud before the day's done."
Bjorn held his uncle's gaze, unflinching, showing none of a child's intimidation. "I hit hard enough for what needs hitting," he said, his tone flat and matter-of-fact, carrying no child's bravado, only a strange, unsettling certainty. He adjusted his grip, silently noting Rollo's loose posture; confident, perhaps too careless.
At the farmyard's edge, Lagertha came and sat on a rough wooden bench beneath a wet hide covering with rain dropping steadily from its edges. Little Gyda, barely three years old, sat contentedly in her mother's lap, wrapped in a damp wool cloak, her blonde hair wet against her head. Her small hands held a carved wooden horse, now wet with rain.
She watched her brother with obvious interest. Lagertha remained composed but watchful, her blonde braid coming undone in the wet and her hands were steady but tense; an experienced shieldmaiden watching her oldest child begin warrior training. She said nothing, but her intense gaze never left Bjorn.
Ragnar crouched down with a popping of knees and took Bjorn's hands in his, adjusting his fingers on the wooden sword.
"No, no, hold it lightly," he instructed, his breath visible in the cold air. "Like you're picking up a drinking cup, not squeezing it between your fingers." His rough hands moved against Bjorn's smooth skin as he adjusted the boy's grip until the sword was positioned better. "Now your stance; feet wider apart and front foot forward. And lower your body." He tapped Bjorn's knee gently pushing it down. "You're not just standing there waiting to be hit, you need to be ready to move quickly."
Bjorn shifted his weight, his boots slipping slightly in the mud as his knees bent until his thighs began to feel painful with the effort. The stance felt awkward, his young body struggling to maintain the position, but he understood why it worked; being lower made him more stable. Mud pushed between his toes through his wet leather boots, and rain got in his eyes, but he just blinked and raised the wooden sword, ready.
"Should I strike now?" he asked, his voice clear and direct, cutting through the rain's monotonous drone, seeking clear instruction rather than praise.
Ragnar pointed to the weathered post, where rain was pooling around its base. "Ten strikes, straight down from above. Hit the center each time, hard but steady. Don't rush through it and feel each blow."
Bjorn swung the wooden sword, moving it through the wet air before it hit the post with a wet, loud crack. The impact traveled through his wrists, making his small arms shake, as the leather grip pressed hard into his palms. He thought about how to improve, use more shoulder and move the wrist at the end, then he swung again with the second blow hitting harder, making the post creak as mud splashed onto his shins.
Rain soaked his hair completely, running down the back of his neck, and his wet tunic felt heavy on his shoulders. His muscles hurt from the new movements, his breath was coming in short visible puffs, but something inside him—those gifts he couldn't name—reduced the pain, letting him continue when other children would have stopped.
A blister opened on his thumb, blood mixing with rainwater, but it began to heal quickly, the unusual recovery happening without him noticing as he kept striking, each hit showing his unusual determination.
Ragnar watched closely, rain running down his weathered face, his eyes were serious and evaluating.
"You're leaning too far forward," he said critically, stepping through the mud to show the proper form. "Keep your back straight and use your hips more." He showed a proper swing, turning his body smoothly despite the wet conditions. "Like this, do you see how the power comes from the whole body? Try it again."
Bjorn nodded once and his mind locked onto the correct motion. He swung with renewed purpose, consciously twisting his hips this time, producing a sharper blow that made the post shudder visibly. Tiny splinters flew with some catching in his sleeve. The improved technique worked immediately, generating more power with less effort, and he repeated it, his strikes becoming louder and more consistent with his unusual strength impossible to ignore. Cold mud had caked halfway up his legs now and his boots were slipping occasionally, but he adjusted instinctively, planting his feet more firmly.
"Is this right now?" he asked, his voice remaining steady, and focused entirely on achieving precision rather than seeking approval.
Ragnar's jaw tightened and a brief flicker of approval crossed his features despite himself. "Closer. But your front foot's still too flat. Angle it outward more, or you'll trip yourself when you need to move quickly." He nudged Bjorn's boot with his own foot to demonstrate. "Five more strikes, just like that."
Rollo snorted loudly and wiped rainwater from his brow with a broad sweep of his hand. "By the gods, he's far too serious for his age, Ragnar. Look at his face, he's hitting that post like it's a real enemy and not just wood." He grinned broadly and leaned closer to Bjorn. "Come on nephew, hit it like you hit that fool Torvald last autumn. Make it sorry it ever stood in this yard!"
Bjorn's eyes flicked briefly toward his uncle with his mind dismissing the taunt.