We woke at dawn.

With bleary eyes and tired limbs I slipped into my boots. Then I donned my shirt and leather gloves and stretched. 

I couldn’t see Father, but I could hear him rummaging around outside our small house, gathering supplies.

I spent a few quiet minutes lining my pack with tools, and finally, cinched my elk pelt cloak to the bolo at my collar and left the warmth of our home.

I met Father at the path leading into the wood. The sun was just coming up above the treeline. The wind picked up and I bristled and pulled my cloak tight to shield myself from the chill.

Father wore his usual attire: black pants stuffed into tall, leather boots, a wrinkled shirt and his work satchel, full to bursting, slung over his broad shoulders. 

He wasn’t a tall man, but he was stocky and well built with the muscles of a builder. He’d often tell me that I was like to get bigger than him by the end of the summer, but I did not think I’d ever have the presence he had. He was wearing a pinned hat, and it barely covered the graying hair that jutted out from beneath it. 

I nodded when I saw him, a length of rope in one hand. He nodded back, his eyes serious, and he reached up and slipped something over my head and ears. My favorite red cap. The wool felt warm against my wind whipped ears and I adjusted it carefully to make sure I still looked good.

Father turned toward the wood, our cart drawn to the side of the path, our horse hitched to it. Neither of us spoke for a moment, and I understood. The early morning always felt too sacred for wasted speech and when Father finally broke the silence, his voice was hardly louder than a whisper.

“Are you ready?”

I looked back at our wood-thatched cabin in the dim light of the early day. I wasn’t sure that we’d ever see it again. In my imagination, I could see Mother bringing a bucket of water from the well into the house to boil it. I could see my sister, Petra, practicing her forms in the grass, her long black hair gathered up in a loose bun. I could see my younger brother, Grenn, leaning against Father’s firewood wagon, dozing, while a piece of bread dangled from his hand, threatening to plummet to the dirt. All memories that Father and I would need to hold on to, because our family was gone. 

My heart hurt and tears filled my eyes, so I turned my head down so that Father wouldn’t see. I turned back toward the cart and the wood.

“Yes,” I said.

Father was still staring out at the path ahead of us, likely deciding if this was still a good idea. He was quiet again for longer, then finally.

“Alright,” he said, turning back to me, tears in his eyes as well, “let’s go kill that Giant.”