Lavender coloured liquid swirled in a small bottle, grey wisps occasionally wafting from its surface like spectres emerging from the depths beyond. Sitting at my desk, eyeballing a worn label on which crude handwriting spelt Magni’s Breath, Esja’s kind smile flashed past my mind. She told me that no matter what happened in the end, she would always be on my side, handing me this bottle wrapped in green twine that ended in a decorative bow, calling it an early gift.
Truth be told, I was mildly pleased with not needing to drop additional hints about what I wanted. This while ignoring the fact that she had surpassed my expectations and attained an actual elixir instead of the low quality dried variant that one had to smoke or drink after being steeped in water.
However, this doesn’t mean I immediately accepted everything at face value. It could have been poison for all I knew. Seeking to determine if it was harmful, I opted to soak some grain in a small amount before feeding it to the few chickens the Illugis kept for their eggs and let me tell you, it was truly a sight to behold. Watching the maids frantically chasing after turbo chickens was an amusing pastime if I do say so myself. They didn’t die or exhibit any odd symptoms other than the expected hyperactivity, so here I am, a day later, ogling this magical concoction while twirling it around.
Knowing when not to look a gift horse in the mouth, I decided against questioning her about its origins. I had plausible deniability as long as I didn’t know where it came from. Having never outrightly ordered her to get such an item for me, I could feign ignorance, washing my hands of all responsibility if such a time did come, though I hoped it wouldn’t. It would be a shame to lose access to such a high-quality item.
‘This will help me fast track the eroding of the essence ball immensely. Esja, you did good, keep being of use to me, and I won’t abandon you,’ I praised while carefully jiggling the cork wedged tightly in the mouth of the bottle. It dislodged with a pop, pale purple snakelike fumes slithering out over the lips of the bottle.
Inhaling just this sent a shiver down my spine, jolting me upright. Clearly, this stuff was highly potent, which explains why the chickens ran like a bat out of hell for hours on end. The maids looked like they had just returned from a harrowing expedition when all the chickens were finally back in their coop. I stilled my mind and body with long, drawn-out breaths before taking a small swig of the elixir, swiftly wedging the cork back on.
An electrifying sensation danced within my mouth as the liquid made contact, prompting me to nearly spit the elixir out on instinct. Knowing how valuable every drop was, I forced it down despite my hesitation; a trail of numbness left in its wake as it trickled through my innards before pooling in my belly. Searing pain erupted as soon as the liquid found rest, almost like someone had impaled me with a molten stake. Strangled by agony to suffer in silence, my chi devoured it all like a hungry beast, turning into something feral.
An infusion of strength ran through every fibre of my being, followed by ecstasy so potent it touched upon torment. I was entrapped between two conflicting entities, mind savaged as it served as their battlefield. My heart echoed like a war drum threatening to burst, chi transforming from a tranquil stream to a raging river, barely contained. It swelled and collided, forcing chi pathways beyond their limit, sending me into another round of torture, barely holding onto consciousness.
The chair cried out in protest as my fingers dug into its wooden frame as I tried to regain functional thought. The elixir was definitely not poisoned, courtesy of the chickens that would have undoubtedly succumbed to its effects by now. Due to this, I didn’t want to call for help and have the elixir confiscated, plus who knows what punishment the Illugis would administer. Therefore steeling my resolve and choosing to weather the storm, I endured a seesaw of pain and pleasure in quietude. A rock must remain unbreakable no matter the circumstances.
Time seemed to slow down to a crawl while enduring the unholy experience, my stuttered breaths escaping through clenched jaws. After an indeterminate amount of time, the pain had subsided to a point where I had some mental leeway to focus on something other than remaining cognizant. My chi had somewhat stabilised, phasing from a flooded river that threatened to tear me apart to something more akin to untamed rapids stuffing my entirety with so much energy it felt like I would burst at any moment. Between gasps of air, I focused with all my might and started gradually nudging the chi to erode the essence orb.
From a cursory observation, I could feel that my chi flowed quicker and with violence, forming a whirlpool in my network node, the orb at the centre. Seeing that my theory was correct and this would without question increase the rate at which the sphere was assimilated, I slipped into a trancelike state, maintaining the act to its conclusion. It was well into the night when I next opened my eyes. The elixir’s effects had finally worn off, leaving me with a pulsing ache that seeped from every inch of my body.
Rising from the chair, I stretched, trying to bring my muscles back from the brink, feeling like deadwood had replaced my limbs. ‘Seems that in exchange for increased strength and energy, my body will be hit with the corresponding price it took to stimulate such a reaction,’ I surmised while walking over to the window.
Propping my head up using my left hand that rested on the windowsill, I looked heavenward, a whisper-like breeze my only companion. The night sky was clear, a rare occurrence during summer. Numerous motes of light lay across the skies tapestry, illuminating, incomprehensible, untouchable, but even they were not absolute.
As my eyes reflected the night sky, I wondered how many of those lights were no more than figments of the past. Staring for a while longer, I noticed the position the pale moon carved for itself meant that it was around midnight, the day was over, and I had a big day tomorrow. Once all my nightly routines were completed, I got into bed, and slumber quickly overtook my mind and body.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
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The sun was just beginning to creep over the horizon, dying the sky in an orange hue, the heat of the day conceding to cooler temperatures. On the outskirts of the residential area, joyous laughter and singing could be heard coming from a house. It was of moderate size, not too small but not too big. A smithy was attached to the side, an indicator of its inhabitants’ primary profession.
The carvings that decorated the stone walls displayed various feats of smithery, from the forging of majestic weapons to impenetrable armour. Their numbers indicated that this residence had served as a home to a great number of master craftsmen, who all left their mark on history through their creations.
Inside, a boy sat at the head of a long table, a wide smile plastered on his face, surrounded by joyous partygoers. The candlelight overhead painted the room in a golden glow as everyone sang a merry tune. A grand feast laid before them—roasted meats, soups, bread, ale, mead, fruits, and berries filled the room with an amalgamation of aroma. When the singing ended, they all closed their eyes, thanking the Great Guardian for bestowing them with the gift of life and family before eagerly digging into the eclectic assortment of food. Men, women, and children from young to old revelled in each other’s company deep into the night.
Midway through the celebration, a dark blonde haired man seated near the boy stood up, calling for everyone’s attention. Lifting up a drinking horn with decorative carvings and metal accents, he toasted, “I want to thank everyone here for coming to celebrate my son, Sǫlmundr’s tenth naming anniversary. As most of you know, it hasn’t been easy for us, me without a wife and him without a mother. Its only thanks to the family and friends here today that we can smile and still find joy in life. Words cannot express how much you mean to us…” pausing as emotions clogged his eyes.
“BOOOO!!! Stop ruinin the mood, Smiðr; you’ve always been a tear sprayer. This is a time to celebrate!!! So bring out the mead and let’s get DRINKING!!!” The man’s declaration was met with a loud cheer as everyone beat their fists on the tables as women brought in various drinking vessels filled with the nectar of the gods.
Once the grog had taken its fair share of victims, the celebrators began trickling away, some to their rooms while others left the house for their own homes. But not before congratulating the boy one last time and giving him their best wishes.
In the end, only a few were left lounging around, half-empty jugs and dirtied plates with leftover tidbits blanketing the tables. An aging woman sat next to the boy, affectionately stroking his head. “Did you enjoy your tenth naming anniversary, Sǫl?” she asked in a warm tone.
Nodding his head enthusiastically, he replied, words slightly slurred, “Yeshhh, grama. Dizz was the best party evaarrr!!!”
Seeing her grandson rock back and forth caused her to slightly chuckle. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. We don’t usually celebrate naming anniversaries, just the significant ones, so this is a once in a lifetime special event for anyone,” oblivious to her words, the boy continued with his antics.
Noticing his wife’s unsuccessful attempts at conversing with their grandson, Skálpr could help but interrupt, “Menglǫð, the boy has had too much to drink. You won’t get a proper conversation outta him anytime soo—cough cough hakh.” The elderly man broke into a fit of coughs as those nearby gathered around him with worried expressions.
“I think the one who has had too much to drink is you, old bones. With your health the way it is, you still tried to keep up with the young ones in their drink. Your condition is only worsening with how you treat yourself,” the lady snapped back while the man took greedy gulps of air.
“Ah, I’ve only a few years left to live, may as well enjoy it instead of living like some lowly thrall in hopes of trying to buy more time,” he shook his head, ignoring his wife’s reprimand.
“Don’t say that father!!! We all love you and just want you to live as long as possible. Think about how we feel seeing you suffering like this,” a chubby blonde-haired woman uttered with a concerned look, trying to reason with a man that could sometimes be more stubborn than a donkey mule. Years of working the forges had taken their toll on his body, smoke and fumes poisoning his lungs, physical strain sapping away strength, all throughout his life.
The constant demands for equipment drove many smiths to suffer a similar fate in their later years. Still, they took pride in the fact that their creations were what kept death at bay and dutifully bore the consequences of their actions just as their ancestors have done since time immemorial. For this was home, where their families lived, and if anything, was there any worthier sacrifice than for one’s own blood? It is a sentiment that everyone shared because they were all one large clan at the end of the day.
Dismissing her words with a hand, he spat back, “Baahhh, if anything, the one who should be watchful of their lifestyle is you, Drumba. You’re looking more and more like a stuffed pig as the years roll by. There’s a reason why you still haven’t managed to snag yourself a man even though you’re more than thirty.”
“Father!!!” Drumba screamed, face red though only she knew if it was from anger or embarrassment.
“Kekekeke, grandpa called Auntie Drumba fat. Men don’t like fatties, kekekekeke,” the boy giggled while pointing at the lady, as the whole crowd burst into laughter. Unable to face the ridicule, the chubby woman stomped her foot and left with a harumph, retreating to her room to nurse her wounds… with a few stashed morsels as accompaniment.
“Ahahaha!!! No truer words have been spoken within these walls. Sǫl, come, it’s time to receive your gift,” he declared while beckoning the boy over. Squirming free from his grandmother’s iron grasp, he walked over and sat atop the man’s lap. A silence descended, the previous rowdy atmosphere pacified, oozing with anticipation.
On significant dates such as this, it was customary to gift the person in question something of value, not focused on monetary but sentimental value, something symbolic that represented the heart of the occasion. Of course, this only applied to wealthy families, the Karls. Those less fortunate had nothing of the sort and, at best, celebrated with a slightly more lavish meal than the usual meat and bread.
There was a satisfied smile as he looked at the dark-skinned boy. Though they were initially wary, blood was always thicker than water at the end of the day. This lad was one of their own and would be accepted into the family without prejudice. Some objected against this obviously, spewing the usual “bad omen, cursed child” spiel that everyone talked about, but he put his foot down, making it clear that no one was to go against his decision. Naturally, this wasn’t solely done out of the goodness of his heart but because the boy had Illugi blood flowing in him. Anyone would be a fool to let such an opportunity go, and he was no fool.
Before long, a maid placed a metallic case studded with jewels and decorative engravings on the table before the boy. However, what caught his attention was the depiction of what looked to be the Great Guardian, twisting and coiling over the container, head at the centre. Two glowing emerald studded eyes drew him in, and before he knew it, darkness engulfed him. As sight gradually returned, he found himself standing amidst a howling snowstorm.
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Yes, Sǫl did get drunk. Yes, he’s ten. Apparently, children consumed weak beer during the Viking age because water could be dangerous to drink.