It was night, and the small workshop hummed with the soft sound of scraping wood against polished surfaces. The air carried the faint scent of varnish mixed with the earthy smell of sawdust. Väino focused intently on the finishing touches of a doll he would sell to an Ottoman merchant. His hands moved deftly, polishing the doll’s porcelain body until it gleamed, but his mind felt heavy, clouded by exhaustion. Dark circles under his eyes betrayed the fact that sleep had become a luxury he could no longer afford.
As he worked, Marjatta peeked into the workshop, her silhouette framed by the dim light spilling from the interior. She watched him for a moment, noticing how his shoulders sagged with fatigue and how the usually vibrant spark in his eyes had dimmed. "I want to see the aurora with you," she said softly, her voice a gentle caress against the cool air.
"I can't," he replied, not looking up from his task. "I'm still busy." The words came out clipped, tinged with an edge of frustration he did not mean to direct at his wife.
Marjatta’s shoulders drooped as she lowered her head, her heart sinking with disappointment. She had prepared a quick bite for him: an egg sandwich and juice, which he barely touched, nibbling every twenty minutes as he lost himself in his work, so she busied herself with the chimney, fanning the flames and watching them crackle and dance.
Väino decided to take a short break and headed to the bathroom. As he splashed water on his face, the chill of the liquid jolted him back to reality. Suddenly, a violent knock echoed through the stillness of the night, rattling the door, and stirring a sense of foreboding in his gut.
When he opened the door, he found Ilmarinen standing there, his blue coat flapping in the frigid wind. Brown snow boots crunched against the frozen ground, but it was his eyes that struck Väino—the wide, hollow gaze spoke of fatigue that surpassed even his own. An unseen burden pressed heavily on his friend’s shoulders, an aura of deep sorrow enveloping him.
Marjatta, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, stepped closer, her brow furrowed with concern. The moment their eyes met, Väino noticed the glistening trails of tears streaming down Ilmarinen’s face.
"What happened?" they asked in unison, their voices filled with alarm.
Ilmarinen staggered forward, collapsing to his knees as if the weight of the world had suddenly become too much to bear. "I'm a dad," he uttered, his voice barely above a whisper, cracking under the strain of unspoken grief.
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Väino and Marjatta exchanged bewildered glances, confusion clouding their minds. "What happened to your wife?" Väino asked, his heart racing with dread. "What happened to Tytär?" He instinctively lifted Ilmarinen by the collar of his coat, desperation pushing him to seek answers.
"She's died during childbirth," Ilmarinen sobbed, each word spilling from his lips like a jagged shard of glass. "Tytär is dead."
Väino's heart shattered at the revelation. The anguish in Ilmarinen’s voice reverberated through him, a painful echo of loss that threatened to engulf them both. He released his friend, his own breath hitching in his throat as he turned and sprinted toward Ilmarinen's home, urgency propelling him forward.
Crossing the village of Pohjola. He reached the house where Louhi stood by the door, cradling a tiny newborn girl in her arms. The faint glow from the oil lamp at the house’s entrance flickered against her face, illuminating the worry etched into her features.
"How is the girl?" Väino asked, his voice trembling.
"Healthy," Louhi murmured, her voice thick with emotion, tears glistening in her eyes. "The baby is doing alright, thanks to my daughter, thanks to her mother." Her words broke like waves against the shore, crashing into Väino's heart as he stepped into the house, each footfall echoing the dread that settled deep in his bones.
Inside, the atmosphere hung heavy with sorrow. The village doctor and his attendant slowly collected their belongings, their faces pale, while a priest whispered prayers beside the bloody bed. The sight of Tytär lying still, her once vibrant spirit extinguished, struck Väino with a force that felt like a punch to the gut. It hurt him as much as it hurt Ilmarinen; the bond they had shared since childhood had forged an unbreakable connection between them.
Tytär had been the sister he never had, his confidant in countless misdeeds, the laughter that rang through his memory. He had loved her quietly, a one-sided affection that filled him with both joy and pain, even until now.
Väino approached Tytär, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum, each beat mourning the life that had been so cruelly snuffed out. He gently caressed her still-warm face. As he closed his eyes for a moment, he could almost imagine the warmth of her laughter filling the space.
Louhi stepped forward, cradling the baby girl in her arms. The child had stopped crying, her tiny fists curled into little balls, and as she gazed at Väino with wide, innocent eyes, he felt an unexpected surge of tenderness. "What is her name?" he asked as he reached out to grasp Tytär’s hand.
"Annikki," Louhi responded.
That moment transported Väino back in time, twenty-two years into the past, when he and Ilmarinen had just ceased their apprenticeship under Völundr. They had been young and full of ambition, dreaming of futures bright with promise.