"They were hollow, yes. But inside that hollowness, something still burned." The sea had no mercy, and the sky had no answers.
Tala and Kofi sat on the Viking ship like forgotten spirits, their bodies thin as reeds, their eyes wide and watchful. The salt had crusted over their skin; their lips cracked like dry riverbeds. They didn't speak unless they had to. They didn't move unless it was necessary. Every breath was measured. Every blink was deliberate.
The Vikings had seen many things in their time—storms that split the sky, beasts that rose from the deep, and men who begged for mercy. But they had never seen children like these.
The wrecked boat had told its own story. Torn sail. Mud-smeared hull. A fishing net tangled like a spider's web. And inside, two boys, a wooden box wrapped in cloth, two puppies, and a chick that refused to die.
They were slime-covered and silent. But they had fought. And that mattered.
The captain, a tall man with braided hair and a scar that ran from brow to cheek, stood before them. His name was Bjorn, though the boys did not know it yet. He looked at them with the eyes of someone who had buried too many brothers.
"Where were you going?" he asked.
Tala looked up, slow-slow. His voice was quiet but steady. "North. Until we find land."
Bjorn raised an eyebrow. "There is no land for weeks."
Kofi nodded. "We know."
Bjorn studied them. "Then you will stay with us. Until you see land."
The boys didn't answer right away.
They had learned not to trust easily. The world had taught them that kindness often wore a mask. But they were tired. And the sea had no mercy.
Tala looked at Kofi. Kofi looked at Tala.
Then they both nodded.
"Yes," Tala said.
Bjorn didn't smile. He simply turned and walked away.
The boys were given a corner of the ship, near the barrels of dried fish and salted meat. A fur blanket. A small bowl of water. A place to rest.
They moved like ghosts—slow, deliberate, conserving every breath. The art of minimal movement was not something they had learned from books. It was born from necessity. From days of drifting, where even blinking too fast could cost you strength.
They sat with their backs against the hull, knees drawn up, eyes scanning everything.
The Vikings watched them with quiet respect.
"These boys," one muttered, "they move like hunters."
"No," said another. "They move like prey that refuses to die."
They didn't ask questions. Not about the box. Not about the war. Not about the blood that clung to the boys' memories like smoke.
They simply made space.
Bjorn came to them that evening.
He did not bring food. He did not bring questions.
He brought silence.
He sat across from them, legs crossed, arms resting on his knees. He looked at the box, then at the boys.
"You carry something heavy," he said.
Tala nodded. "It is not for now."
Bjorn nodded back. "Then it will wait."
He stood, turned, and walked away.
That was the first lesson the boys learned from him: not all strength needs words.
That night, the sea was calm. The stars blinked like old ancestors watching from above.
Tala lay awake, listening to the creak of the ship, the soft breathing of the crew, the distant splash of waves.
Kofi stirred beside him. "Do you think they'll throw us off?"
"No," Tala whispered. "They saw us fight."
Kofi smiled, just a little. "We were slime."
"We were fire."
The chick chirped softly from the box. The puppies snored, curled beside them.
They were hollow, yes. But inside that hollowness, something still burned.
The Vikings did not press them. They did not ask about Jabali, or the fall, or the names of the dead.
They taught them how to tie knots. How to clean fish. How to read the wind.
They watched how Tala moved only when needed. How Kofi saved his strength for moments that mattered.
They saw the hope in their eyes.
And they began to understand:
These were not just survivors.
They were seeds.
On the fifth day, the wind turned violent. The waves rose like angry spirits. The ship groaned under the weight of the storm.
Bjorn barked orders. The crew scrambled. And the boys stood still, watching.
Then Bjorn pointed. "You two. Help with the sail."
They moved.
Tala climbed first, nimble like a monkey. Kofi followed, steady and strong.
They worked together, one pulling, the other tying, their movements in perfect rhythm.
The crew watched in silence.
"They've done this before," someone whispered.
Bjorn nodded. "They've done harder."
When the storm passed, the ship was intact. And the boys were still standing.
That night, Bjorn sat with them again.
He handed them a piece of dried meat. A small cup of warm broth.
They ate slowly, respectfully.
Bjorn looked at them, his voice low but firm.
"As my father used to say…"
"The old ones taught us…"
"In the north, we say…"
"Only the hand that labors deserves the meat it touches."
Tala nodded. "We understand."
Bjorn studied them for a moment longer, then placed a hand on Tala's shoulder, then Kofi's.
Bjorn looked at them. "You are not like other children."
Tala shrugged. "We are Jabalian."
Bjorn nodded. "I have heard of your land. They say it bleeds warriors."
Kofi looked up. "It bleeds families."
Bjorn said nothing. But his eyes softened.
He stood, placed a hand on Tala's shoulder, then Kofi's.
"You are safe here. For now."
Later that night, Tala opened the cloth and touched the box.
It was warm.
Not from the sun. Not from the ship.
From something inside.
He didn't open it.
He simply whispered, "I'm not ready."
And the box pulsed once, like a heartbeat.