No birdsong.
No waves.
No footsteps.
Løvlund woke into silence so profound it rang like bells in their chests.
The fjord had stopped moving.
Not frozen — simply… still.As if it had inhaled during the Binding and forgotten how to exhale.
Astrid opened her eyes to golden light and an unfamiliar sensation:
Her tongue felt distant.Not numb. Not sore.
But disconnected.
When she tried to speak, nothing came.
Not even a whisper.
Ida noticed first.
She leaned over, kissed her shoulder.
"Astrid?"
Astrid smiled softly.
Gestured: I'm okay.
But inside, she wasn't sure.
The silence was not just outside her.
It was inside her mouth.
She rose from the shared bed, stepped barefoot into the morning, and walked toward the fjord.
Others were gathering.
Leif.Åse.Kari.Even the stranger who came with Åse — now weaving reeds into a shape no one recognized.
They all stared at the water.
Flat as glass.
And at its edge, a strange thing:
The red book.
Soaked.Heavy.Open to the middle.
But still… blank.
Åse knelt beside it.
"I buried this last night," she whispered.
Kari frowned. "I saw Astrid carry it."
"No," Ida said, slowly. "I saw her let it go."
They looked at Astrid, who could only place her hand to her throat.
No explanation.
Just breath.
Elinor arrived late.
Hair wet. Eyes wild.
She stormed through the crowd toward Astrid.
"You did something," she hissed. "The book was mine to finish. You let the Binding erase it."
Astrid met her gaze — soft, defiant.
Gestured: It was never yours.
Elinor laughed bitterly. "You're mute now? Is that your offering? Your punishment?"
Silence.
Astrid simply picked up the book.
Held it to her chest.
Turned.
And walked into the fjord.
The crowd gasped.
But she didn't sink.
The water held her — waist-deep, then chest, then shoulders.
She let the book float from her hands.
And as it touched the surface—
The fjord sighed.
A sound like wind through birch leaves, mixed with moans remembered from long-ago nights.The surface rippled.And the birds returned.
First one.
Then ten.
Then a skyful.
When Astrid turned back to shore, she found her voice.
Just three words:
"It is done."
Back on land, she faced Elinor.
"You wanted authorship," Astrid said quietly.
"But this place doesn't belong to authors.It belongs to the written."
Elinor's lips parted.
No rebuttal came.
She turned and walked away — not defeated.
Just… unnecessary.
That night, the villagers gathered at the sauna.
Not to speak.
But to touch.
To hum.
To let skin retell what stories never could.
And in the steam, Astrid whispered to Ida:
"I lost the book.But I found the language."
Ida smiled, fingers tracing the line of Astrid's jaw.
"Then write on me."