Father had left early that morning.

Even after it grew dark, he still hadn’t returned.

“Father’s late.”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s just eat without him.”

A five-year-old body suffered terribly from hunger.

I wondered what Father was doing.

Was he drinking mead and getting caught up in a feast somewhere?

Mother had gone out of her way to prepare his favorite dinner tonight too—stone-grilled cod.

Stone-grilled cod was basically the local equivalent of a sizzling steak, except with fish.

A special stone slab was heated in the hearth until it glowed red-hot, then fresh cod fillets were placed skin-side down on top, where they sizzled in their own rendered fat.

The result was unbelievably delicious.

You could make the same dish with salmon or herring.

But cod was still the best.

Since the fish itself was much larger, the fillets were thicker and meatier, and the amount of rich fat that seeped out while grilling gave it an incredible aroma and flavor.

Four stone slabs, one for each member of the family—including Father—were heating until they glowed red in the hearth.

Apparently, the far-infrared heat from the stones cooked the fish all the way through.

The local feast consisted of eating those sizzling cod fillets together with slices of cold onion.

“Ugh…”

This was bad.

Erin couldn’t take her eyes off the stone slabs anymore.

If we left her alone, she looked ready to grab one with her bare hands just to steal a piece of cod.

At that moment, the front door burst open with a loud clatter, and an icy wind swept into the house.

“Father, you’re late!”

I started to complain, but the words caught in my throat.

Father’s clothes were covered in snow and mud.

Worse still, his left arm was soaked in blood.

“Dear!”

“Father!”

Mother and Erin cried out and rushed over to him.

What on earth had happened?

Had he been attacked by a bear or a wolf on the way home?

“W-We need to treat you right away.”

“It’s only a scratch.”

“It’ll heal on its own.”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

Once we managed to strip off his muddy furs and clothing, we found bruises and scrapes all over his body.

The worst injury was a deep gash across his left forearm.

“Um… first, hot water!”

“Boil some water!”

The first priority was washing every wound thoroughly with clean, boiled water.

There was no way I was letting medieval superstition medicine—like rubbing filth into wounds—into our house.

When it came to my family’s health, I wasn’t going to hold back my modern knowledge.

“Next, a needle!”

“The bronze embroidery needle!”

“And some reindeer tendon!”

“Boil those together with strips of clean cloth!”

“Erin, bring the jar of honey from the pantry!”

“And the dried yarrow too!”

“You’re making too much fuss.”

“You be quiet!”

Mother snapped at Father.

Exactly.

No one should argue with Mother once she entered this mode.

More firewood was added to the hearth, making the flames roar even higher.

The stone slabs meant for grilling cod were set aside.

Instead, a metal pot was filled with water, where the bronze needle, strips of reindeer tendon, and cloth bandages were boiled.

“Wow…”

“That’s a pretty nasty cut.”

After carefully washing the wound with hot water, I saw that it stretched roughly twenty centimeters long.

It was a clean cut.

Not the bite or claw wound of a wolf or bear.

At least rabies wasn’t something we had to worry about, so there was no need to cauterize it.

Fortunately, it wasn’t especially deep.

He’d actually skied all the way home with this injury.

As Father said, it was probably just another ordinary wound for a warrior.

Still, the real danger wasn’t the injury itself.

It was infection.

A winter house shared with livestock could hardly be called sanitary.

Mother wore a grim expression as she ground together honey and dried yarrow with a short wooden pestle on a wooden plate.

“I’m putting this on.”

“I hate this part…”

“It stings…”

Mother held Father’s arm firmly while she spread the homemade antiseptic over the wound.

Father…

The painful part was still coming.

“All right.”

“Now I’ll stitch it up.”

“Wait a minute!”

“Thor’s going to sew me up!?”

“Yes.”

“I’m the best at sewing in the family.”

Now then.

Do you remember how the traveling seer once prophesied that I was a “Child of the Thread of Fate?”

I didn’t know whether it had anything to do with that prophecy, but I’d been exceptionally skilled with a needle ever since I was born.

If this counted as some kind of reincarnation cheat, it was an absurdly specific one.

Still, it was incredibly useful in everyday life.

I could tie fishing lines, repair torn nets, sew clothes, embroider fabric…

And I also happened to be very good at stitching human skin back together.

People often joked that if I’d been born a girl, there would’ve been no shortage of marriage proposals.

“All right, Father.”

“Brace yourself and don’t move.”

“Ah… w-wait…”

“Owowowow…”

“Stop being such a baby!”

“Hold still!”

“Father, you’re embarrassing.”

Stitch.

Stitch.

Stitch.

Stitch.

In reality, it sounded more like the needle was driving straight through flesh, but it wasn’t that big a deal.

The needle and thread were thick, so it probably hurt.

Still, I only put in about ten stitches.

He was an adult warrior.

He could endure that much.

Finally, I applied another layer of the honey-and-herb antiseptic over the stitched wound before wrapping it with the boiled and dried bandage.

I’d washed my hands with hot water both before and after the procedure, so the risk of infection should be as low as possible.

Now I just needed to keep him from developing a fever.

Maybe I should make him a fever remedy by scraping the inner bark of a willow tree and boiling it.

If Father became too sick to work, our supply of firewood would disappear almost immediately.

During a northern winter, there was no room to spare a single worker.

At any rate, once the treatment was finished, the murderous tension surrounding Mother finally eased.

Now that everything had settled down…

There were countless things I wanted to ask.

Father…

What in the world happened to you?