Trilley, 998
The wind blew on the small Friberg house. The house was made from stone, it was perfectly symmetrical on either side. The roof tipped up, allowing for a small attic at the top. The roof was made from turf, greenery all around, with the stones, of course, going about.
The village it sat in was also small. There were only a few houses scattered about. The trees around it were scattered about it. The grass was short, but very green, as were the trees. This was the arrival of spring on the lands of the kingdom of Crista. The area was warm and breathable. The heaviness of the winter had passed, allowing for the growth of nature, animals, and plants.
Out of the Friberg house, smoke steamed out from the center of it - a chimney. It was small and barely showed from the roof. The house looked old like it had been around for generations. The stone was cracked and nearly falling apart. The turf roof was mudded and bright green. It brightened the world around it. The other houses in the village, looked exactly alike - all brightening the world around the village. A path ran through the village, made of small stones and pebbles.
Inside the house, Garth Friberg and his older brother Tate ran through the hallway of their small house while laughing. The two young children chased each other while their mother eagerly stood at the end frowning at the sight of her two sons causing chaos.
All three of them shared physical qualities. From the blonde hair, blue eyes, and large noses, to the pale freckled skin and large eyes.
“I told you two to stop running through the hallway!” Their mother, Gefion yelled.
She kneeled down infront of them as they came to a stop, going to their level. She shook her head. “You can play outside, not inside. You have to the whole village,” she said.
“But it’s cold outside,” Garth answered. Gefion frowned, as her only daughter, Gamela ran up behind her and hugged her. “Me want food,” she said, groaning.
Gefion sighed. “You know how it is with food,” she said. She pulled Gamela in front of her. “Remember, we can’t eat unless we have to,” she continued.
“You mean with the war?” Tate asked.
Gefion shook her head. “We don’t talk about that, you all are too young,” she answered while looking around at them.
“But father talks about it,” Tate replied.
Gefion chuckled. “You’re father is a twat, children,” she said, her eyes glowing as she laughed.
“That’s not nice, mummy,” Gamela replied to her mother’s insult. “I’m only joking,” their mother said, laughing once again, to her children’s dismay.
“Will the war come to us?” Tate asked. “I heard you and father talking about it a few days ago,” he continued.
Gefion frowned and thought silently, before she smiled once again. “No, darlings. We’ll all be safe, I promise.”
Later that day, Gefion sat knitting by their fireplace. She watched as she pulled thread and two tree sticks through the yarn. The Friberg’s could not afford the luxury of regular yarn sticks. They were people who made do with what they had. What they didn’t have, merely did not exist. In their small village, everyone lived this way. None more rich than others, nor none more poor than others. Everyone shared and helped in this village.
Gefion sat in a small cushioned chair. They only had one, which sat next to the fireplace. One the floor, they had a rug made from a bear, without the head of course, they didn’t want to scare their children. On one side of the house, their Refeogensto was - a sleeping space for all of them. There were separate beds of course, but no separate rooms for any. Instead, two rows of three beds, six in all, lined together along the house.
The inside of the house looked smaller than the outside. On one side, the Refeogensto, and on the other side, a storage and cooking area.
The door of their small house opened as Mimir and Garth walked inside.
“Mummy!” Garth said, running towards his mother. “I made a boat!” He stated, happily as he showed off his tiny ship.
The ship itself was small, made from wood, with hardly any detail. Made from a child, no doubt. “That’s lovely,” his mother said, taking her hands and eyes from her yarn. “You did well,” she continued, her eyes beaming with joy.
“It’s a ship, Garth,” Mimir said, smiling. The boy’s father looked nothing like him, but there were small signs. The long fingers told the story after all. Garth took almost entirely after his mother. The blonde hair and blue eyes showed it. As did Gamela, Tate, and Garth.
“I can call it a boat if I want!” Garth shouted, angrily, his eight years getting to him.
Gefion chuckled and tickled her son to make him laugh, getting rid of his anger. He giggled in response. “If you behave, your father promised to tell you all some stories,” she stated, through her son’s giggling.
Garth opened his mouth in excitement. “Yay!” He shouted, jumping about. He ran and hugged his father. His father’s hand, with a wheel-shaped brand burnt into his skin, rubbed his son’s back. “I want to hear now,” he said, looking up at his father, annoyance entering his head. “You always make us wait,” he continued, crossing his arms.
Mimir kneeled down in front of him as his wife continued her knitting. “I promise I’ll tell you later, after our evening meal,” he responded, smiling.
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