Liv & Kuolema

I

There were only two major philosophies Berwald Oxenstierna had in life: don't form close connections and don't touch anyone. It wasn't hard; he was already seen as awkward by his fellow townsfolk and though he was known by name by most everyone in his neighbourhood, he didn't really have anyone he could call a close friend.

His life was a simple one. He would get up early in the morning and go out to cut wood for the people in the town. He also carved the wood that wasn't as good for burning, making useful everyday items as well as little toys for the children of his village.

While he generally had a good reputation since he kept to himself and didn't cause any trouble, he was fully aware of the rumours that followed him. Ones that called him the poor boy with no family, others that insisted that he was a harbinger of bad luck. If only the townsfolk knew how bad that luck really was.

It was true he'd never been much of a social butterfly, he couldn't deny that. But there was more to it than that. It was why he could never touch anyone, why he could never allow himself to get close to anyone.

He had killed everyone that he'd ever touched.

As long as he kept his distance and wore his long gloves and heavy coat when he was around others, he figured it couldn't be that harmful. It had worked for him for years so far, and all Berwald could do was hope things stayed that way.

Just as he was opening up his paints to finish a trinket that he'd been working on, the bell above the door to his workshop opened. With a sigh, Berwald closed the containers and looked up.

“Hello,” he muttered, looking the unfamiliar man over. While it wasn't unusual to see foreigners because of the size and the reputation of his town, they usually didn't come to the outskirts, and they definitely didn't come to him unless they had an extended stay.

The other man looked nervous, and he started backing away towards the door. “Are you not open? I'm sorry if I bothered you; I'm new here and I thought this place was open,” he said in rushed, but practiced Swedish.

“It's open,” Berwald replied simply, amused. It wasn't often he saw such characters.

With a sigh of relief, the foreign man went and looked over at the trinkets, picking up a small wooden horse that had been painted red with intricate designs.

“This little guy is cute,” he said with a grin, holding him out so that he could pay for the little horse.

Berwald rang him up and pushed up his glasses before writing down the transaction. “It's a Dala horse,” he explained. “Traditional thing for the kids.”

“I still think he's cute,” the other said decidedly as he handed over some coins, then he cleared his throat and looked up at the Swede. “Hey, I hope it's not a big inconvenience, but do you know any inns or hostels or anything around here? I just got here and I don't have anywhere to stay.”

“Mhm. Turn right when you leave and go three blocks down. Small place. Called Christiania I think,” Berwald replied, then he straightened up and tucked the coins away for safekeeping.

The other man, who was much smaller than Berwald, smiled and headed towards the door. “Thank you! If I come here again, would you be willing to show me around? I'll be here for a while, and you seem nice enough,” he said, biting his lip and rocking back and forth on his heels.

After thinking it over for a moment, the Swede gave a hesitant nod and he adjusted his gloves, then the sleeves of his coat. “Maybe so,” he decided. If he was just as careful as he'd always been, there couldn't be any harm in helping this man. There was something about him that he liked, and he was just overall pretty friendly.