Brynhold Village, Norheim
The wind howled like a restless spirit, curling through the ancient trees of Brynhold's forests. Branches creaked and groaned under the weight of an approaching storm, their dark silhouettes clawing at a sky that threatened rain but held back, as if the heavens themselves were watching. The village, nestled in a narrow valley, seemed suspended in an uneasy calm, as though nature itself held its breath, waiting for something to unfold.
In the heart of Midgard's rugged landscape, Brynhold was one of four villages ruled by jarls under the konungr(king) Svein Forkbeard, each lord's authority derived from their gods. Brynhold was no exception, a settlement fortified by towering wooden walls lined with sharpened stakes, an impregnable stronghold against rival clans. And at its heart, casting long shadows over the village, stood the great longhouse of Erik Stormbringer, the jarl of Brynhold—a man whose name struck fear and respect into all who heard it.
But tonight, even Erik Stormbringer's iron will wavered as he awaited the birth of his fourth child. The weathered stones of the longhouse, blackened from years of hearth fires, whispered of age and endurance, a stark contrast to the new life that struggled to enter the world within its walls.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burning sage and sweat. Erik's warriors, tall and muscular men, stood like silent statues in the shadowed corners of the longhouse, exchanging nervous glances as they waited.
Their chief paced in front of the great hearth, his boots thudding heavily against the wooden floor.
Each step seemed louder than the last, resonating with the tension that filled the room.
Outside, thunder rumbled faintly across the mountains, its low growl like the warning of a beast lying in wait.
Erik Stormbringer was a man of imposing stature. His broad shoulders and square jaw marked him as a seasoned warrior, his skin weathered from years of battle under the harsh sun and freezing winters. His hair, once golden, now showed streaks of silver, pulled back into a long braid that fell past his shoulders. His beard was thick, and his blue eyes flickered with an unspoken fury that only warriors knew—the kind of rage that simmered beneath the surface, controlled but never extinguished.
He had fought in countless battles, taken the lives of more men than he could count, but now, as he paced before the hearth, his heart pounded in his chest with an unfamiliar anxiety. His wife, Astrid, lay in the adjoining chamber, her cries piercing the silence of the longhouse as the midwives tended to her. Erik's knuckles were white as his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, an unconscious display of his tension.
Torches lined the walls of the longhouse, casting flickering shadows that danced along the intricate carvings in the wooden beams above—carvings that depicted the great battles of the gods, stories passed down through generations. Among them was the image of Thor, god of thunder and strength, standing tall with his hammer raised high against a backdrop that has a sea of blood filled by the Jotun's(giant beasts).For the Mighty Thor was the patron God of Brynhold. It was a tale Erik had heard countless times as a child, but tonight, the thought of the gods did nothing to ease his mind.
He stopped his pacing for a moment and glanced toward the heavy wooden door that separated him from Astrid's chamber. The door creaked slightly, as though it too were burdened by the weight of the moment. His sharp gaze flicked to the midwives who had been rushing in and out of the room. Their faces were pale, and they avoided his eyes, their silence speaking volumes.
Erik's hand moved instinctively to the hilt of his sword, a massive blade that hung at his side, its pommel gleaming in the firelight. It was not a gesture of threat but of habit—a warrior's instinct when faced with uncertainty. Yet this was a battle Erik could not fight with steel. This was something beyond his control, and it made him uneasy.
The cries of childbirth echoed once more, sharp and pained, before fading into an eerie silence. Erik's heart lurched in his chest as the absence of sound pressed in on him. He had stood on the brink of death many times, felt the cold grip of fear in his bones during battle, but this—this waiting—was different. There were no enemies to cut down, no shields to raise, only the unbearable weight of anticipation.
He took a slow breath, trying to calm the rising storm within him, but his thoughts raced like the thunder that rolled across the distant sky. What if something had gone wrong? What if Astrid or the child…?
His fist clenched around the hilt of his sword, the leather wrapping creaking under the pressure. The warriors in the room remained silent, their eyes fixed on their chief, but even they could not disguise the unease in their expressions. Erik knew what they were thinking. This was supposed to be a moment of celebration, the birth of his son, strong and powerful, destined to carry on the Stormbringer name. And yet, the silence from the next room filled the air with dread.
Finally, the door creaked open, and one of the midwives emerged, her face pale but composed. She did not speak, only gave a small nod and gestured for Erik to enter.
Erik hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, before he strode into the room with long, purposeful steps. The warriors bowed their heads as he passed, but Erik barely noticed. His eyes were focused on the figure lying on the bed, his wife, Astrid.
Astrid lay exhausted on the bed, her face pale and drenched in sweat, but there was a softness in her eyes as she gazed down at the bundle swaddled in her arms. Her golden hair, usually so neatly braided, was now tangled and damp, clinging to her forehead. Despite the exhaustion that weighed down her body, there was a faint smile on her lips. She looked up as Erik entered, her blue eyes filled with warmth and relief.
"The child," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Erik's gaze fell on the bundle in her arms, and for a moment, all the tension that had gripped him seemed to fade. He stepped closer, his heart pounding with a mixture of anticipation and pride. This was his son—his heir, the future of his tribe.
But as he looked down at the child, his breath caught in his throat.
The baby was unlike any newborn he had ever seen. Hakon, as he would soon be named, had skin that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light of the chamber, an ethereal luminescence that was almost otherworldly. His hair, though still sparse, was as golden as the summer sun, and his eyes—already open—were a piercing shade of blue, deeper than the oceans Erik had sailed across in his youth.
The child radiated a presence, an aura of power that Erik could not explain. For a moment, he felt a strange sense of awe, as though he were standing in the presence of something far greater than himself.
But the awe quickly faded, replaced by something darker—something cold and sharp that twisted in Erik's gut. His eyes narrowed as he stared down at the child, the glow of his skin, the unnatural intensity of his gaze. This was no ordinary child. This was not what Erik had expected. And the thought that immediately sprang to his mind sent a surge of anger coursing through his veins.
Hórdómr(Infidelity.)
The word echoed in his mind like the tolling of a bell. The child looked nothing like him—nothing like any child of Midgard. Erik's pride as a warrior, as a jarl, demanded answers, demanded that this unnaturalness be explained. He turned sharply toward Astrid, his eyes cold and hard, the warmth that had filled him only moments ago now gone.
Astrid, pale and weak from the ordeal of childbirth, met his gaze with confusion. She opened her mouth to speak, but the words seemed to catch in her throat. She could see the anger in his eyes, the suspicion that clouded his expression.
"Erik…" she began, her voice trembling. "Please, this is our son."
But Erik was not listening. His mind had already latched onto the only explanation that made sense to him. His fists tightened at his sides, his nails digging into his palms as the anger boiled within him. How could this child—this glowing with aura, otherworldly creature—be his?
"This… this is no child of mine!" Erik's voice was sharp, laced with fury as he took a step toward the bed. His hand flew to the hilt of his knife, a small, wickedly sharp blade that he always carried with him. The metal glinted in the firelight as he drew it from its sheath, the edge gleaming dangerously.
Astrid gasped, her eyes widening in fear as she clutched the infant closer to her chest. "Erik, no!" she cried, but her voice was weak, her body too drained from the ordeal to stop him.
Erik's face twisted in rage, his muscles tensing as he raised the knife. "You would dare bring this into my house? You would dare dishonour me in this way?" His voice was a low growl, the fury barely contained as he towered over the bed.
The warriors who had followed Erik into the room stood frozen, their eyes wide as they watched the scene unfold. They had seen their chief angry before, but this was different. This was a man pushed to the edge, a man whose pride and honour had been wounded in the worst possible way.
As Erik brought the knife down toward the infant, something impossible happened.
The baby's tiny hand shot up with unnatural speed, faster than any child,and some adults could move. Hakon's fingers, no larger than a newborn's, gripped the blade of the knife as it descended, stopping it in mid-air.
For a moment, there was nothing but stunned silence.
Erik's eyes widened in disbelief as he felt the resistance. He pushed harder, but the child's grip held firm. The knife did not budge, as though it were caught in the grasp of a far greater force than any infant could possess. The warriors around them gasped, their expressions shifting from shock to fear.
Hakon's face was serene, unblinking, as though unaware of the incredible feat he had just performed. His small hand gripped the blade effortlessly, his blue eyes reflecting the firelight with an almost ethereal glow.
The tension in the room snapped like a bowstring as Hakon's tiny hand crushed the blade. The metal shattered into dust, scattering across the floor like ashes. Erik stumbled back, his mouth hanging open in shock, his hand trembling as he stared at the ruined knife in his grip.
The warriors exchanged uneasy glances; their fear now unmistakable. This was no ordinary child—this was something beyond their understanding, something that defied the laws of nature.
Erik could hardly believe what he had just seen. His heart pounded in his chest as he looked from the shattered blade to the infant in Astrid's arms. His mind raced, trying to make sense of the impossible. How could a newborn possess such strength? How could an infant, barely minutes old, perform a feat that would challenge even the mightiest of warriors?
Erik staggered backward; his legs unsteady beneath him. His anger, which had burned so fiercely only moments ago, had been doused by a wave of confusion and fear. This child—this creature—was no ordinary son of Midgard. Erik's mind raced, grappling with the implications of what he had just witnessed.
His gaze darted to Astrid, who was cradling Hakon protectively, her expression a mixture of fear and awe. Erik wanted to demand answers, to shout, to rage, but the words caught in his throat. For the first time in his life, he felt truly helpless, as though the ground had been ripped out from under him.
The warriors in the room stood frozen, their hands hovering over their weapons, unsure of what to do. They had followed Erik into countless battles, fought by his side in the blood-soaked fields of Midgard, but now, they stood paralyzed by the sight of the infant in Astrid's arms.
Erik's rage grew, his reddish-fiery aura swirling with deadly intent as he prepared to strike down both Astrid and the child. But just as he was about to unleash his fury, a powerful voice cut through the silence:
"STOP!"
The shout jolted Erik, his anger slipping into confusion. The door of the longhouse creaked open, filling the room with an eerie stillness as it swung wide. Slowly, a figure stepped into the firelight.
It was the Oracle.
She was an old woman, bent and frail, her face lined with deep wrinkles that spoke of centuries of wisdom and hardship. Her eyes were milky white, sightless, but her movements were deliberate, as though she could see far more than those with vision. She leaned heavily on a gnarled wooden staff, its surface etched with ancient runes that glowed faintly in the firelight.
The air in the room seemed to shift as the Oracle entered, the firelight dimming slightly in her presence. The crackling flames hissed, as though reacting to the weight of her power. The warriors immediately stepped aside, their expressions a mixture of reverence and fear as they bowed their heads.
"Fate has spoken," the Oracle rasped, her voice low and gravelly, yet filled with an undeniable authority.
"- And the gods have seen fit to bless this child."
Erik's heart pounded in his chest as he turned to face the Oracle. His fear warred with his pride, and for a moment, he hesitated. But then the rage that had been simmering within him flared once more. He was a Jarl—a warrior—and he would not be so easily swayed by the words of an old woman, no matter how powerful she might be.
"Blessed by the gods?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Or cursed?"
The Oracle did not flinch. She stepped closer to the bed, her sightless eyes focused on the infant in Astrid's arms. "This child carries the essence of a power far beyond what you can understand, Erik Stormbringer"
she said calmly. "To reject him is to reject the will of the gods."
Erik's fists clenched at his sides, his knuckles white. His pride as a leader, as a warrior, screamed at him to reject what the Oracle was saying. He could not allow this—a child so different, so unnatural
—to exist under his roof. But deep down, a part of him knew that what he had witnessed was beyond mortal explanation. He had seen the power in the child's eyes, felt the strength in his grip. And it terrified him.
Then Erik asked, so why the pointy ears, because he looks like a Elve?
Without answering Eriks question, the Oracle extended her withered hand and lightly pressed her fingertips to Hakon's forehead. Instantly, the air turned chill, and a faint, flickering light seemed to settle around the infant, almost too dim to see.
The sigil of Freyr!
The Longhouse was silent, save for the soft crackle of the fire at the center of the stone altar. Shadows danced along the walls, their shifting shapes almost seeming to breathe with the oracle's quiet murmurs. She knelt before the flame, her hands lifted, fingers trembling with the weight of her plea.
With a slow, steady breath, she called upon the goddess of healing and truth, her voice weaving through the still air in the sacred language of the gods.
"Eir, milda gyðja, heyr kall mitt,
ljós ok sannleikr, sýn oss þann veg,
hví ber sveinn þessi Freys mark,
gefa mér sjón, til leyndra sanninda."
"Eir, gentle goddess, hear my call," she whispered, her voice wavering but resolute. "Light and truth, show us the path… why does this boy bear Freyr's mark? Grant me vision, to hidden truths."
For a long, breathless moment, silence filled the room, thick and impenetrable, as though the very air itself was waiting. Then, gradually, a warmth settled over the Longhouse—a gentle, encompassing presence, like a soft cloak draped around her shoulders. It was Eir, the goddess of healing, and her presence was as soothing as spring sunlight breaking through the mist, yet beneath it lay a weight of ancient sorrow and wisdom.
A voice echoed in the oracle's mind, soft yet clear, like the distant murmur of a hidden spring.
"Sveinn ber mark Freys, goðanna," came Eir's answer, each word resonating with calm authority. "The boy bears the mark of the god Freyr."
The oracle's heart skipped, confusion rippling through her. Freyr? She had sensed something unusual, something powerful about the boy, but to think that he bore the mark of Freyr… it defied her understanding.
A name settled heavily within her, filling the room with a strange, haunted weight. Freyr—the Vanir god of fertility, prosperity, and the harvest. Freyr, who once sought peace but was twisted by war. Freyr, who had been struck down in the Vanir-Aesir conflict, condemned and accused of betraying the realms, of seeking to tear down the Nine Worlds in his rage. His name, tainted, had nearly faded into obscurity, his legacy almost lost to time.
And yet… here he was. Somehow, his essence had returned, bound to this child.
Taking a shaky breath, the oracle dared to speak again, struggling to reconcile what she knew with what she had just heard. Her voice, still in the language of the gods, was hesitant but filled with determination.
"En… er ekki Freyr illr goð? Var hann eigi sá, er Óðinn felldi í Vanastríðinu?"
"But… isn't Freyr an evil god?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. "Was he not the one struck down by Odin in the Vanir-Aesir war?"
The silence that followed was profound, laden with something she could not name. For a moment, she feared she had overstepped, that her question might be seen as disrespectful. But then, the warmth of Eir's presence grew stronger, comforting yet filled with an undertone of sorrow, as if the goddess carried a burden too great to speak aloud.
"Svá var eigi"("That is not what happened.")
Eir replied, her words layered with a sadness that seemed to span eons.
The oracle's breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding as her mind raced to understand. Not what happened? How could that be? Everything she had been taught, everything she believed about the gods and their ancient war, rested on that story.
She opened her mouth, her voice trembling as she struggled to ask the question that now burned within her.
"Hvat þá, milda Eir? Hvat hlaut til veruleika í staðinn?"
"Then what happened, gentle Eir? What truly took place instead?"
But the warmth around her began to fade, like a shadow retreating into the mist. Eir's presence slipped away, taking her answer with her, leaving only the soft glow of the flames and the heavy silence of the Longhouse.
The oracle was left alone, her question lingering unanswered. Eir had spoken, but she had revealed only fragments, a glimpse of a truth too vast and ancient to grasp.
Slowly, the oracle lowered her hands, her gaze distant, staring into the flickering fire. The boy bore Freyr's mark, but what did that truly mean? Why had the gods allowed such a story to be told—one that painted Freyr as a figure of betrayal and defeat? And why would Eir, the gentle goddess of healing, leave her question hanging, unanswered?
In her heart, a whisper of doubt began to grow. Had the gods themselves woven illusions, hiding the truth of their own pasts? And if Freyr was not the being she had believed him to be, then what secrets did he hold, secrets that even now lay hidden in shadows?
But now, his essence had found its way back into the world—within this child.
Until now.
Erik's face darkened as the Oracle's words sank in. He wanted to reject them, to dismiss the notion that his son carried the essence of a god. But deep down, he knew what he had seen—what he had felt. Hakon's strength, his power, was undeniable. This was not the child of a mortal man. This was something far greater.
But Erik was not a man who gave up his pride so easily. He had spent his entire life building his reputation as a warrior, a leader, a man who bowed to no one. The thought that his own son—his own flesh and blood—could be something beyond his control filled him with a cold, creeping dread.
His gaze flickered to the warriors who stood nearby, their eyes filled with the same fear and uncertainty that gnawed at his soul. They looked to him for guidance, for leadership, but Erik found himself at a loss.
He was a man of strength, of action, but this… this was something beyond him.
The Oracle's voice cut through Erik's thoughts like a knife. "Reject this child, and you reject the gods themselves, "The Vanir Gods to be specific" she warned, her voice low and ominous. "The essence of Freyr was placed in him for a reason. The fate of this world may one day rest on his shoulders."
Her words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. The fire crackled in the silence that followed, its light flickering eerily as though it too were reacting to the weight of her declaration.
Erik swallowed hard, his throat dry. The Oracle's warning echoed in his mind, each word sinking deeper into his soul. He wanted to reject it, to deny it, but he knew that doing so would mean defying forces far greater than himself. And that was a risk he could not take.
Erik's jaw tightened, his muscles tensing as he stood frozen in place. His pride screamed at him to reject the Oracle's words, to cast the child out and reclaim his honour. But deep down, he knew that he could not.
With a grunt of frustration, he dropped the shattered knife to the floor, the sound of the metal hitting the wooden boards ringing out like a death knell. He stepped toward the bed, his steps slow and deliberate, his shoulders slumping slightly under the weight of his decision.
He looked down at Hakon, his expression torn between fear, respect, and uncertainty. This was his son, but he was also something far more. Erik didn't understand what fate had in store for him, but he knew that there was no turning back now.
"Very well," he muttered, his voice low and begrudging. "The gods have spoken."
The Oracle stepped back, her hand trembling slightly as she withdrew it from Hakon's forehead. Her sightless eyes stared into the distance, as though she were seeing something far beyond the present moment.
"This child…" she whispered, her voice distant and filled with a strange, otherworldly power. "He will be great. But greatness comes with a price. Be prepared, Erik Stormbringer. The world will know his name, and with it, they will know fear."
Her words sent a chill down Erik's spine. The warriors around him exchanged uneasy glances, their fear now mingled with awe. Even Astrid, who had remained silent throughout the Oracle's revelation, could not hide the apprehension in her eyes as she looked down at her son.
Hakon, meanwhile, remained still, his bright blue eyes staring up at the ceiling as though unaware of the storm brewing around him.
Astrid, weak from the ordeal of childbirth but filled with a deep sense of relief, smiled faintly as she cradled Hakon closer to her chest. Her heart swelled with love for her son, despite the fear that lingered in the air.
She had been terrified when Erik had raised the knife, but now, as she held her child in her arms, she knew that he was not a curse, but a blessing. The gods had chosen him for something great, something far beyond her understanding.
She reached out with a trembling hand and gently brushed her fingers against Hakon's cheek. His skin was warm, soft, and as her fingers made contact, she felt a strange sense of peace wash over her. The fear, the uncertainty—it all seemed to fade away in that moment.
"My son," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "you will do great things."
Erik stood at the foot of the bed, his expression unreadable as he looked down at his wife and son. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, heavier than any burden he had ever carried into battle.
He placed a hand on his son's swaddled form, his touch light, almost reverent. "May the gods guide you, Sveinn(boy)," he muttered under his breath. There was no warmth in his words, no pride, only a resigned acceptance of the path that had been set before them.
The firelight flickered as his words hung in the air, casting long shadows on the walls of the longhouse. The warriors, still silent, bowed their heads in respect to their chief and his newborn son, though the tension in the room had yet to fully ease.
The Oracle, her task complete, turned to leave. Her frail form cast a long shadow in the dim firelight as she hobbled toward the door, her footsteps slow and deliberate. She paused at the threshold, her head tilted slightly as though listening to something beyond mortal hearing.
Without another word, she disappeared into the night, the door creaking shut behind her.
The longhouse was left in silence once again, the only sound the faint crackling of the fire and the distant roll of thunder.
The night ended with Hakon, lying peacefully in his mother's arms. His bright blue eyes, still wide and unblinking, glowed faintly in the firelight, as though aware of the destiny that awaited him.
The faint luminescence of his skin flickered in the dim light, a quiet reminder that this child was far from ordinary.