When Leobald returned, he found the villagers gathered in the center of Riverwood, their voices rising and falling in a cacophony of whispers and worried murmurs. The crowd had assembled beneath the shadow of the old oak tree, their faces a mix of fear, confusion, and anger. Mothers clutched their children tightly, elders leaned on canes, and the men—some armed with farming tools—stood grim-faced, their eyes darting toward the distant woods where Harald's home lay.
"Magicks," one woman whispered, her voice trembling. "I saw it. Flames from his mouth, lightning from his hands. What else could that be but sorcery?"
"It was unnatural," muttered another, shaking her head. "Maybe that's why he was so good at healing."
An older man, his weathered face creased with thought, spoke up. "I remember the harvest last season. The soil was dry, and we feared famine. Harald came to the fields, and the rains followed. The crops grew taller than I've seen in all my years."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, but it was quickly drowned out by dissenting voices.
"He's dangerous!" someone shouted.
Leobald's heart sank as he took in the scene. His eyes landed on Willem, sitting near the edge of the gathering. His face was beaten and swollen. His son hovered nearby, tending to his father's injuries.
'I need to do something,' Leobald thought, quickening his pace. As he approached, he could feel their eyes on him, searching for guidance, for answers.
"Enough!" Leobald's voice rang out, cutting through the noise like a blade. The crowd turned to him, their murmurs fading into silence.
Leobald walked to the center of the gathering, his robes still damp from the rain and dirtied by the journey back. He raised his hands, commanding their attention.
"You all know Harald," Leobald began, his voice steady and firm. "For over a year, he has lived among us. He has healed your wounds, tended to your sick, and even shared in your labors. Have you ever seen him do harm? Have you ever seen him raise a hand against you?"
The villagers exchanged uncertain glances, some nodding reluctantly.
"But he used magicks," a man muttered, his voice wary. "It ain't… natural."
Leobald took a deep breath, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. "Yes, he did. And that is why you must listen to me now."
The villagers leaned in, their collective unease thick in the air.
"When the Ironborn attacked," Leobald began, his voice trembling with emotion, "I prayed. I prayed as I have never prayed before. I begged the Seven for salvation, for deliverance from the cruel hands of those monsters. And then… Harald appeared."
A hush fell over the square, the only sound the rustling of leaves in the breeze.
Leobald's voice grew stronger, filled with a fervor that surprised even him. "Harald is no ordinary man. He is no demon, no warlock. He is a gift—a divine answer to our prayers."
The crowd stirred, their murmurs shifting from fear to curiosity.
"Do you not see?" Leobald continued, his eyes alight with conviction. "The Seven themselves have sent him to us. He is their mortal incarnation in this world."
A collective gasp rippled through the villagers. Someone whispered, "The Seven… in mortal form?"
Leobald stepped forward, raising a hand as though invoking a sacred truth. "Think of it. The Father, in his justice, lives in Harald's unwavering resolve that protected us from evil. The Mother, in her mercy, is reflected in the way he healed our sick and mended our wounded."
He gestured to the sky. "The Warrior resides in his strength, his courage—you saw how he fought with the might of a hundred men. The Maiden is in his honor, his purity of heart that has guided him to protect the innocent."
Leobald's voice rose, carrying over the crowd like a sermon. "The Smith is in the way he has labored beside us, building and toiling for the good of this village. The Crone is in his wisdom, in the knowledge that I personally attest to."
The villagers were silent now, their gazes fixed on Leobald with rapt attention.
"And the Stranger," he said, his gaze sweeping the crowd, "is in the mystery of his arrival—a being beyond our understanding, one who walks between worlds yet comes to us in our hour of greatest need."
The villagers were enraptured, their fear giving way to awe. Someone near the front whispered, "The Seven… all in one man."
"Yes," Leobald said, nodding emphatically. "Harald is our salvation. He is here to guide us, to protect us. The Seven have not abandoned us—they have answered our prayers through him."
"No, they are him," he added, going one step further.
For a moment, the villagers stood in stunned silence, absorbing the weight of Leobald's words. Then, one by one, they began to nod, their fear dissolving into reverence.
"If the Septon says so…" an elder murmured. "Harald has only ever done good by us."
"Aye," another agreed, nodding slowly. "He's a good man. A godly man."
Leobald let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, his shoulders sagging with relief. But the moment was short-lived.
Willem's voice, hoarse and filled with pain, cut through the murmurs. "Will he save my Maise?… They took her, Septon." His words came with great effort, his battered face contorted in anguish.
Leobald hesitated, the weight of Willem's question bearing down on him. He had no answer. Would Harald come? Would he fight for them? He didn't know. His gaze lifted toward the sky, where the storm was retreating, the clouds giving way to faint streaks of light.
"Septon," Willem called again, his voice breaking. "Will he?"
Leobald opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. He had nothing to give but silence.
"Look!" Willem's son suddenly exclaimed, his small voice sharp and urgent. He pointed past Leobald, toward the edge of the village.
Leobald turned, his breath catching in his throat. From the treeline, a figure emerged. The man was clad in dark, gleaming armor unlike anything Leobald—or anyone in the village—had ever seen. Jagged and angular, it seemed to drink in the faint light of the retreating storm.
Fear rippled through the villagers.
"Who… who be that?" one of them asked, their voice trembling.
Wary murmurs erupted as the armored figure came closer, his silhouette cutting an imposing shape against the dimly lit sky.
As the figure stepped nearer, realization dawned on Leobald. "It's Harald," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
The figure stopped a few paces away. "Leobald," a deep, resonant voice came from within the fearsome dark helm.
Leobald took a hesitant step forward. "Harald?" he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"What did you expect me to fight in?" Harald said, his tone dry but laced with faint humor. "Those rags I wore?"
Leobald let out a sudden laugh, more relief than mirth.
Harald's gaze swept over the villagers, his eyes behind the helm scanning their wary faces. Leobald could see the tension in his friend's stance—Harald had perhaps expected them to cower in fear. He removed the helm, revealing his face, and walked toward Willem.
The injured man tried to rise, but Harald's hand gently pressed him back down. "Don't move," Harald said, his voice softer now.
As Harald's hands hovered over Willem, they lit up with a golden glow. The villagers gasped, their fear giving way to awe as the light grew brighter, illuminating Harald and Willem. The golden radiance seeped into Willem's battered face, the bruises fading as the light worked its healing magic. The purplish swelling gave way to healthy pink, his cuts knitting themselves closed as though by divine intervention.
Leobald watched in amazement, his earlier words about Harald being a gift from the Seven feeling truer than ever.
Harald withdrew his hands, the light fading. He held Willem's hand in his. "I, Harald Stormcrown, vow that I will bring your daughter back safe and secure to you," he said, his voice steady and resolute.
Willem, still recovering from the shock, stammered, "Thank… thank you. Oh, blessed one."
Harald simply nodded, his gaze shifting to the other villagers and then to Leobald. Without another word, he turned and began walking toward the edge of the village.
"Wait, Harald! Wait!" Leobald called out, hurrying after him.
Harald stopped, turning slightly. "No, my friend. This is—"
Leobald cut him off, his tone firm. "I'm coming with you. You don't even know your way past the old hills."
Harald stayed silent for a long moment. Finally, he sighed. "Fine. Come on."
Leobald smiled, relief washing over him, and fell into step beside Harald as they walked toward the edge of the village.
.
.
.
Harald and Leobald walked away from the villagers' view, stopping at the very edge of the village. Harald glanced over his shoulder, back toward the cluster of huts, then turned to Leobald.
"The villagers… they didn't seem afraid," Harald said, his deep voice tinged with curiosity.
Leobald laughed nervously, the sound uncharacteristically strained. "I… umm… told them you were sent by the gods."
Harald stopped mid-stride, turning his head to look at the Septon. His expression was a mix of confusion and incredulity. "You what?"
Leobald shrugged, a hint of a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I had to say something."
Harald sighed, running a hand through his hair; his gauntleted fingers clinked against the metal of the helm hanging at his side. "And you told them I was this champion of the gods?"
Leobald shook his head, his expression oddly calm. "No, I told them you were the Seven themselves."
Harald blinked, utterly bewildered. "You told them I'm what? Leobald, you could have just—"
Leobald interrupted, his voice firm but measured. "Because you told me the truth about where you came from. Were you lying to me, Harald? About being sent here by a god?"
For a moment, Harald said nothing, his piercing blue eyes scanning Leobald's face, searching for judgment or ridicule. He found neither. Then, with a slow shake of his head, his voice came out quiet. "No. I wasn't lying."
Leobald smiled faintly, resuming his walk and beckoning Harald to follow. "Then it's not a lie. You said yourself you were brought here by a god. Whether it's the Seven or some other power, they needed something to assuage their fears."
Harald sighed again, falling into step beside him. His tone turned dry as he muttered, "Oh, great. I'm a divine champion… again."
Leobald raised an eyebrow, his lips quirking in amusement. "Well, from what you told me, you already have experience being a champion of the gods."
Harald huffed, the faintest smirk curling his lips. "More like fighting gods."
Leobald's steps faltered for a moment as he processed the words. He turned his head toward Harald, brows furrowing in disbelief. "Fighting… gods?"
"Yeah," Harald said casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "And I was a champion to a couple of gods too, so I guess you aren't entirely wrong."
Leobald stopped walking, his eyes widening as he stared up at Harald. "What did you say?"
Harald glanced back at him, his expression calm. "What do you think the great evil I fought was?"
Leobald blinked, his mouth opening and closing as though trying to form a response. Finally, he managed, "You… killed a god?"
Harald exhaled, his voice quieter now. "I don't know if 'killed' is the right word. I think… I don't think you'd understand."
Leobald stood there, frozen in shock, his mind racing to comprehend the enormity of Harald's words. But before he could ask more, Harald spoke again.
"Now that we're far enough from the village…" Harald said, his voice trailing off as he came to a halt.
Leobald remained rooted to the spot, still trying to process everything. Then, to his astonishment, Harald extended his hand. A surge of mystical energy radiated outward, a deep hum resonating in the air as a horse materialized before him.
The horse shimmered with a violet glow, its translucent form otherworldly and majestic, its hooves leaving faint traces of light as they touched the ground.
Leobald's jaw dropped. "Where did that come from?"
Harald stepped closer to the steed, placing a hand on its neck as if greeting an old friend. "Aetherius," he said simply.
"What is… Aetherius?" Leobald asked, his voice rising in incredulity.
Harald gave him a faint smirk and, with a twist of his fingers, cast a subtle illusion over the horse. The spectral glow faded, and its appearance shifted to that of a normal, albeit striking, black steed. "Just so it doesn't scare anyone on the road," he said with a grin.
"Right," Leobald muttered, his gaze flicking from Harald to the horse and back again. He was clearly struggling to reconcile what he'd just witnessed.
Harald walked to the side of the horse, retrieving his battleaxe from where it had rested on his shoulder and securing it to the steed's side. Then he turned to Leobald, gesturing for him to come closer. "Let's get you up there."
Leobald blinked. "Me? On that… thing?"
"It's just a horse now," Harald said with a faint chuckle. "Come on, Septon. You're not going to walk the whole way, are you?"
With surprising ease, Harald gripped Leobald under his arms and lifted him as though he weighed no more than a sack of grain. The Septon sputtered in protest but didn't resist as Harald settled him gently onto the horse's back.
"There. Comfortable?" Harald asked.
Leobald adjusted his robes awkwardly, gripping the horse's sides. "As comfortable as I can be."
Harald smirked, mounted the horse in one fluid motion, and took the reins. "Which way?" he asked, turning his head back.
"South," Leobald replied.
"South it is," Harald said, giving the reins a subtle flick.
The horse surged forward, moving faster than any steed Leobald had ever ridden. The wind whipped past them, and the trees blurred as the horse's powerful strides devoured the distance. Leobald clung to Harald's back for dear life.