The wind came softer in the village of Eldhollow that year, brushing the wheat fields with a gentleness that Frido alone seemed to notice. Children played in the dirt lanes. Women hung linens on ropes stretched between mud-brick homes. Old men argued over chess in the corner of the square. But Frido? Frido watched the sky.
At ten years old, he already had the look of someone lost in thoughts far too large for his frame. Not that he understood them—Frido didn't understand much. He wasn't a clever boy. Words often tangled in his mouth. He confused east with west and was once found trying to milk a rooster. But what he lacked in wit, he made up for in something harder to name—something quiet, solid, and true.
He had straw in his hair most days, either from tumbling in haystacks or sleeping in the barn with the animals. His shirt was always a bit crooked, one sock pulled up, one down. Yet even the strict old tailor, Mister Curn, who barked at every child who passed, let Frido walk by with a soft grunt instead of a scolding.
"Peaceful lad," the villagers often called him.
"Stupid lad," others whispered.
Both were true.
Frido rarely spoke. He didn't need to. When a neighbor's ox went missing, he found it deep in the valley without being asked. When a thunderstorm broke the roof of the chapel, he patched it overnight with stolen barnwood and a bucket of nails. And when Miss Malen's cat climbed the tallest pine tree, it was Frido who returned it—scratched, bitten, and smiling like he'd just won a medal.
He was the kind of boy who helped without being noticed, left without saying goodbye, and stayed out of the way unless someone was hurting. Then, oddly enough, he didn't hesitate.
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The First Fire
It was midsummer when the fire came. The village bakery exploded in the night, flames swallowing the windows in angry tongues. Screaming cut through the dark as people raced to throw buckets of water, pull loved ones from smoke, and pray to gods they'd forgotten the names of.
Frido was already running toward the fire before anyone else.
Barefoot, shirtless, eyes wide but clear.
He didn't think.
He never did.
Inside the bakery, the heat was unbearable. Frido couldn't see, but he heard the whimper of the baker's daughter, Talla, trapped beneath a fallen beam. The world screamed at him to run. He moved forward.
He lifted the beam with everything he had, face burning, hands blistering. And when Talla was free, he pushed her toward the door—but stayed behind. There were still sacks of flour near the back, dangerously close to a second flame. If they exploded, the whole bakery might go, and the village with it.
He kicked the sacks, one by one, dragging them with singed arms and coughing lungs until someone outside pulled him out by the heel.
They say he collapsed with a smile.
And when he woke up in the healer's hut two days later, his first words were: "Is the bread okay?"
The whole village laughed. And cried.
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His Mother's Eyes
Frido's mother, Luma, was the only one who didn't laugh. She sat beside his bed with her hands clasped tight, her eyes red. She loved her son with a quiet fierceness, and feared the world would never love him back the same way.
"You'll break yourself in pieces, my boy," she whispered.
Frido looked at her. "If I break… and someone else is okay… then it's okay."
That's when she knew.
Frido wasn't meant for this village. Not forever.
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The Map and the Letter
It was a letter that changed everything. Three years later, when Frido was thirteen, an officer in a crisp blue uniform came riding into Eldhollow. The war had grown worse in the north. The king's army needed more hands—boys who could carry water, deliver messages, tend fires.
They didn't ask for permission. They just left scrolls and rode on.
The map on the letter had a red cross marking a camp on the cliffs beyond the river. Frido's mother hid the scroll in the pantry. That night, she cried into her sleeves.
Frido found it anyway.
He didn't understand the politics. He didn't know about borders or kings or rebellions. But he saw the red cross, and he knew someone might be hurting there.
He left the next morning without a word.
Only a note scratched in shaky letters:
"I will be careful. I will help. Don't cry, Mama. – Frido"
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Goodbyes Without Sound
The village woke to silence.
Frido's blanket was folded. His boots were gone. The animals were fed, and a small loaf of bread was left on every doorstep with a flower tucked in.
They called him stupid again. But this time, they said it with shaking voices.
"He's just a boy…"
"He won't last a week…"
But the old tailor, Mister Curn, only nodded.
"No," he said. "He'll last exactly as long as he's needed."
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