Oaken of Soul #1

Auhtor's note: here's one of the original tory ideas I've been pondering for a while. I won't write anything more than this first chapter for now, but the urge to write this first chapter had been too strong to simply ignore.

...

The icy wind howled through the narrow streets of the village, carrying with it the bite of a harsh winter that showed no signs of relenting. The huts, huddled together like sheep seeking warmth, creaked under the weight of snow and the relentless assault of the storm.

Inside one of these modest homes, a young boy sat hunched over a small fire, his frame shivering despite the heat.

Eirik drew his ragged cloak tighter around his shoulders, his breath visible in the frigid air. The old healer, known to everyone as Hilda, sat across from him, her milky white eyes staring into the flames. Though blind, her other senses were sharp, and she seemed to feel his unease.

"Eirik," Hilda said, her voice soft yet commanding, "stoke the fire a bit more. This cold is not fit for man nor beast."

Eirik nodded, though he knew she couldn't see him, and carefully added more wood to the flames. Sparks danced up the chimney as the fire roared to life, casting flickering shadows on the walls.

He glanced at Hilda, her weathered face illuminated by the firelight. She was a woman of few words but infinite wisdom, and he had come to respect her deeply in the years since he had been sold to her.

"Tell me, boy," Hilda continued, her tone probing, "what troubles you this night?"

Eirik hesitated. "It's the dreams," he finally admitted. "The same thing, every night. I see warriors, battles, and blood. I feel a pull, like the gods themselves are calling me to fight."

Hilda sighed, a sound full of sorrow and understanding. "The gods are fickle, Eirik. They call many to the path of bloodshed, but not all who follow are destined for greatness. Your place, for now, is here, learning the ways of healing. There is more strength in mending bones than breaking them."

Eirik looked down at his hands, rough and scarred from the work he had done under Hilda's guidance. He had learned much from her—how to set bones, mix herbs, and ease pain. Yet, the dreams of battle and glory haunted him, a constant reminder of the world outside the village.

"Can I ever be more than this?" he asked quietly. "More than just a healer?"

Hilda reached out, her hand finding his with surprising accuracy. "You are more than you know, Eirik. The gods have plans for you, but they are not always what we expect. Remember, healing is a gift, a way to touch the divine without spilling blood. Cherish it."

Eirik nodded, though doubt still gnawed at him. He longed for more than the quiet life of a healer's apprentice. The call of the warrior was strong, a siren song that promised glory and honor. Yet, he couldn't deny the wisdom in Hilda's words.

As the storm raged on outside, Eirik's thoughts drifted to the future. He wondered what the gods had in store for him and whether he would ever find his true path. For now, he would remain by Hilda's side, learning all he could about the art of healing. But deep in his heart, he knew that one day he would have to answer the call of the gods, whatever it might be.

The night wore on, the fire burning low as Eirik and Hilda sat in companionable silence. Outside, the wind continued to howl, carrying with it the promise of change and the whispers of fate. Eirik closed his eyes, letting the warmth of the fire and the sound of Hilda's steady breathing lull him to sleep.

In his dreams, the warriors awaited, their eyes full of challenge and expectation.

...

The dawn broke over the village, casting a pale light on the snow-covered landscape. Eirik awoke to the familiar creak of the hut as the wind howled outside. The embers in the hearth had burned low, and he quickly set about rekindling the fire. He could hear Hilda stirring in the next room, her movements slow and deliberate.

As he worked, his mind drifted to the dreams that had plagued him again through the night. Warriors clashing, the clash of steel, and the cries of the fallen. It all felt so real, as if he were living another life in his sleep. He shook his head, trying to dispel the lingering images.

"Eirik," Hilda called, her voice raspy with age. "Bring me the herbs from the shelf. We have much work to do today."

Eirik grabbed the woven basket and carefully selected the dried herbs, their scents mingling in the cool air. He carried them to Hilda, who sat at a small table, her hands deftly sorting through the various plants.

"We're running low on some of these," Eirik noted, glancing at the dwindling supplies. "Should I gather more today?"

Hilda nodded. "Aye, but be mindful of the storm. The gods are restless, and it's not wise to wander far."

Eirik's heart skipped a beat at the mention of the gods. Their presence was felt in every aspect of life, from the bountiful harvests to the violent storms. He had always revered them, but lately, he felt their gaze upon him more intensely.

"Do you think the gods truly care about us?" he asked, unable to keep the question to himself.

Hilda paused, her blind eyes seemingly staring into the distance. "The gods are as varied as the people who worship them. Some are benevolent, others capricious. They care in their own ways, but their designs are often beyond our understanding."

Eirik nodded, though her words did little to ease his mind. He finished helping Hilda prepare the remedies for the day, then donned his heavy cloak and stepped outside. The wind bit at his face, and he pulled the fur-lined hood tighter around him. He trudged through the snow, heading towards the forest where he knew the herbs grew in abundance.

The world was silent, save for the crunch of snow beneath his boots and the occasional rustle of branches. Eirik's thoughts wandered back to the village, to the people who relied on Hilda's healing touch. They were a hardy folk, but even they were not immune to the harshness of winter and the ravages of war.

As he approached the edge of the forest, a strange feeling washed over him. The air seemed to hum with energy, and he felt a presence—something or someone was watching him. He hesitated, scanning the trees for any sign of danger.

"Who's there?" he called out, his voice steady despite the unease creeping up his spine.

For a moment, there was no response. Then, from the shadows, a figure emerged. Clad in a dark cloak, the stranger moved with an otherworldly grace. Eirik's hand instinctively went to the knife at his belt.

"Do not fear, Eirik," the figure said, their voice a soothing melody. "I mean you no harm."

Eirik's eyes widened. "Who are you? How do you know my name?"

"I am a messenger of the gods," the figure replied. "I have come to guide you, for your destiny is intertwined with their will."

Eirik's heart raced. "What do the gods want with me?"

The figure continued with a hint of graveness in their tone. "The gods want you to wash, Eirik. The stench of pig shit clings to your body like vice and it has reached even Asgard, assaulting the Allfather's throne and offending his all-smelling nostrils..."

Eirik's mind went blank, not knowing how to respond. "W-what?!"

Before Eirik could process the situation, the figure laughed, the sound shifting from melodic to familiar. They pulled back their hood fully, revealing the face of Astrid, his childhood friend. She grinned, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Got you, didn't I?" Astrid said, her laughter echoing through the forest.

Eirik let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, relief flooding through him. "Astrid, you trickster! You nearly scared me to death. What are you doing out here?"

Astrid's grin faded, replaced by a look of concern. "I came to find you. The village is in trouble. The winter has been harsher than anyone expected, and we're running out of food. The Jarl has decided to gather a raiding party to attack the nearby village of Vigrund. I thought you might want to join..."

Eirik shook his head, his stomach twisting at the thought. "Me? But I'm a healer, you know what Hilda would do if I even considered—"

"Eirik," Astrid interrupted, stepping closer and placing a hand on his arm. "We need you. You're strong, and the people respect you. Your presence could inspire others to join the raid. We don't have a choice. If we don't get more supplies, people will starve."

Eirik felt a surge of hesitance. Although he did not choose the path of a healer himself, he knew he could find meaning in it. What's more, he had seen enough bloodshed in his dreams to last a lifetime.

"I don't think... I don't think Hilda would approve..." he said quietly. "And Franky, I'm not sure I want to fight either... in my dreams, and in Hilda's hutt, I've seen what war does to people. It destroys them in body and soul..."

Astrid's grip tightened. "I know, Eirik. But sometimes, we have to do things we don't want to do to protect the ones we love. Think of the children, the elders. They won't survive the winter without help."