Something to do. That's all Tyr was really looking for at the end of the day, something to occupy his thoughts and hands. Unfortunately – or perhaps the inverse if he were to consider the well being of these people, the bandits never came. His people, Tyr understood it was his duty as primus and future sovereign to see them in that light, but it didn't come naturally to him. These people were strangers and Tyr did not trust them, finding himself always watching their hands. A woman had approached with an offer to brush his shaggy hair, a 'neighborly' sort of customs in these parts.
Men wore their hair long in Haran, and the women would care for it. Whether in the east or the west this was true, it wasn't universal but part of a northern custom that predated the empire itself. In any case, he'd nearly jumped out of his skin when she'd come too close. They didn't make those offers anymore... Thankfully his seemingly close relationship with Rorik ensured they remained amicable despite his odd behavior.
What if that throne was empty? What if it was nothing but an illusion? Would they even know? Or would they continue toiling away for the greater good of the empire regardless, because that's all they'd ever known? Death and taxes, this was the reality for all commoners no matter where they came from, and they didn't seem to mind.
Tyr pondered on it. Maybe they didn't care. Perhaps they didn't think in the way nobles expected them to. They lived simply, worked hard, and did their best to get by. It was the first time he'd spent so much time among the common folk. Here, where they saw him as no less than the knight he claimed to be – and a common person just like them. Tyr wore no signet ring, flew no standard, and had removed the brooch identifying him as a capital man.
It was difficult. Empathy. Tyr realized how incredibly out of his element he was when he thought about their way of life. He'd had preconceived notions about what life was like beyond the walls of the keep only to find himself thrust into a much larger world than he'd ever imagined. Millions of citizens existed in the empire... He wondered if it was like this elsewhere, each person existing in their own bubble and wholly ignorant to the grander machinations of an empire. Tyr envied them for their ignorance, or their peace – ignorance was a word with a negative connotation they didn't deserve.
I wonder what it would've been like to live like them?
Would he be happy? Fulfilled? Whole? They certainly seemed to be. The children who laughed and played, running through the streets and attending to all sorts of bizarre mischief. No goal to it, no 'game' being played for anything other than pure enjoyment. It was all... Pointless. But it made him think... Did there need to be a point at all? These people lived their lives and they were content with their lot. They were the salt of the earth type, their convictions and ambitions so small as to be possessive of a raw purity he couldn't understand.
He didn't look down on them or see them as an inferior breed. Jartor had seen to that. It was the consideration of their actions and lives that gave Tyr such a sense of... What was the opposite of 'belonging'? Like an alien world, that's what it felt like. There was a dissociative element to seeing life unfolding before his very eyes with no political motivation or custom dictating their actions. Even the women worked, alongside the men, oftentimes at the same task.
Logging was common here, and Tyr found the ale no balm for his weary spirit. He almost felt angry at them for their simply joys. As if it were a crime for them to take life by the horns and live it to the fullest within their capabilities. As if to say 'how dare you be so happy', but Samson slapped that out of him. Literally, the man had his honor and his oath but he'd acted in the way he felt best after seeing Tyr spend days or weeks in a drunken stupor.
Rorik had nearly drawn steel at that, before a fight had looked to break out. Armed or not, there were twenty hardened and well rested swords in the longhouse and not half that number at Rorik's back. Brothers, these men were – in their way. Samson seemed a stranger to their order, but the slapping of an arrogant prince concerned them very little. He was right, Samson, of course he was – and Tyr knew it. He'd left the capital with purpose, and while Rorik would never complain about his behavior, Tyr hated him for the pity the man wore openly on his face. No doubt wondering what had become of the 'darling' prince they'd heard so much about.
It didn't come without complaint. The process of sobering himself, that is. Tyr was wracked by night terrors the likes of which he hadn't seen since the months following the murder of his mother. Shadowy faces in the gloom that accused and reviled him. Upon waking, he felt aimless. Emptier than he ever had been. It was an odd thing, to live with no purpose – at least for him. Here he was, clothed and sheltered in beds with cotton sheets and he'd never felt so bereft of anything of substance in his entire life. Nothing to complain about, but he kept looking for excuses. If X had been Y, he would surely be Z. Coping with the void that gnawed at his gut, Tyr's worst fear might have been himself according to Thanatos – but idle hands would certainly make a list. When left with nothing to think about, all he had was the gray pal of staring at the roof and a wish for a rest that wouldn't end.
Some old proverb about revenge again. He'd found it, killed so many, and not mercifully – and what did he get? He only felt worse. Less. Come to the end of his four year journey and found that it had no meaning at all. In some ways, it had hurt the people around him. Commoners who had no real defense against the armed band of men that were ransacking their territory and could arrive at any moment looking for their pound of flesh. Perhaps some furs or honed timber, but bandits were rarely on the hunt for mercantile goods. There was a man who led them, Curtis was his name, and he had made that abundantly clear. Prepare yourselves he said, and these people were too proud to flee north, thinking the crowns justice would protect them. Eventually.
Their excuses of 'we can handle ourselves', other people must need it more. We can wait. They were too good, too much faith in an empire that didn't know they existed.
“...Is this okay?” Rorik asked, the day Tyr had grown tired of lazing about and decided to do something... Anything. “Forgive me, Tyr. I only asked because of your status. Would he allow such a thing? This is work for the commoners, if keeping busy is all you're after I'd serve as an adequate sparring companion. Something more suited to your position, no?”
The hewing of lumber. Chopping of trees. Few nobles, let alone royalty would participate in such labor. Around here, there wasn't much else to do. Tyr had no hand for hunting. Not on foot, where they didn't ride prey down with steeds and dogs. He held the unfamiliar weight of a lumbering axe on his shoulder, followed only by Samson. The others would remain, doing what they did. Some of them hunted, enough to feed the group and provide some simple labor for the village. As for the prince, he contributed nothing. He felt worthless. His attempts at fishing had been for naught, the old men in the village might feel content to sit for hours with nets and rods, but Tyr could sit still for ten minutes without getting twitchy. Not enough patience for it.
“It's fine.” He'd replied, marching off into the dense woods with the other men who'd gather and plane enough lumber to provide firewood for the village to last the winter and more export timber to large settlements. Lumber here sold at a premium, the backbone of their economy far eclipsing their modest fur trade. 'Black yew', 'ironoak', and 'snow spruce'. Wood that could only be found in the outer reaches of the black forest around the base of the mountain, about three hours march from Riverwood. Tyr didn't understand why, every morning, they'd walk so far just to chop down some damn trees.
“We're surrounded by trees.” He spoke, trying not to whine after twisting his ankle on a gnarled root. Not a paved path in sight, these woods were dark and thick. Doubly so in the waking hours of the morn where visibility was low through the fog. “Why not just cut those down?”
He pointed at a pine like any other.
“Fine for firewood, or for building. Not for much else. Riverwood's a lumbering town at heart, always had been – fur trades alright but too modest. Black yew and snow spruce are our bread and butter. Few ironoak but not so many as to rely on it, takes a long time to grow.” The man, Micah they called him, seemed well accustomed to the terrain. Young, no older than his mid twenties, his hands were calloused from years of grueling labor. Wide in the chest and stocky like the rest of the men who called themselves lumberjack, with powerful rounded shoulders and a neck that'd give any ox a run for its money. “You sure you're ready? We're not gonna slow down to wait for your soft knightly hands to loosen up.”
“It's swinging an axe at a tree.” Tyr chuckled mockingly. He was a trained knight, athletic, tall and well built. He was strong enough, certainly stronger than the gaggle of men nearer his own age who took the rear. If they could do it, it'd be easy for him. “How hard could it be?”
Someone snorted back at him. A black haired man a bit beyond his middle age that served as foreman for the lumbering team. Tyr wasn't sure why they'd mock him. Not yet, at least.
Whack. Whack. Whack.
Sweat beaded on his back, dropping down in rivulets that soaked his linen shirt and chilled him in the low temperature air rolling off the mountain. Tyr grit his teeth and began again, becoming frustrated at his lack of progress. His arms and chest had never been worked like this before. He hated them for it, but the men mocking him had been right. He was strong in the shoulders, core, and chest, but it was his back and hips that troubled him the most.
Two hours, and he'd barely made a dent in the pine, an irritatingly hard wood that seemed to laugh at the very concept of natural law. The ratio of hardness to flexibility didn't make any sense considering the fibrous nature of wood.
“No, no.” Micah laughed. “Like this. Watch.”
THWACK.
There was a momentum to it, a turn of the waist to carry the steel of the axe forward. A stamina to it that was necessary to swing many consecutive times without tiring. Precision, to ensure that every strike found the same notch to deepen the cut. Micah's notches were well centered and precise, whereas Tyr seemed to be striking the tree every which way leaving a stitching of shallow ridges across a stretch of six inches or so. Angrily smacking at the tree in contrast to Micah's well practiced motions.
He wanted to hit the man, feeling a competitiveness welling up in him.
“Snow spruce is stern stuff, that's why we have to come all the way out here. Only grows in rocky soil, and as you've seen – it's quite hard.” He was patient, Micah was, having felled two such trees already in the time it'd taken Tyr to... Well... “You've gotta speak to the tree, gotta want it to fall for you. It will, just give it time. Try again.”
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Tyr did, attempting to mimic the mans movements. A swordsman found himself ill suited for axe work. It started in the handle, rolling up his arms and stinging at his muscles, and ended with the raw webbing where his thumb met his index finger. A part of the hand that was not stressed overmuch when wielding a less blunt instrument. Everything about it was different from the heft to the balance, and the motion of it all.
He tried his best, only improving slightly. After several days, that is. As of yet, he hadn't managed to fell a single tree. Not even close.
“See!” Micah laughed. “You're getting it. A few years, and we'll make a master 'jack of you yet. Just gotta jack the tree until it spills its seed, if you fancy.”
“That's crude.”
“Oi, and you're such a prim princess what with your fucks and damns and dirty cunts, eh?”
“Fair enough... What's this stuff used for, anyways?” Tyr asked, heaving with breathlessness while the comparatively relaxed and energetic Micah took his turn at the trunk. “Who would need such a hard wood? Doesn't that defeat the purpose of using wood in the first place?”
“Eh, depends. Hafts, shields, ship masts, wagon chassis. You think this is hard – you should see the ironoak varieties out in Arendal. Thrice as tough, almost metallic. No carpenter, myself. Thomas might know more if you've a mind towards that, he's a woodworker. Me? I just chop, chop, chop. All day, savvy?” Micah had an equitable friendliness about him. Tyr still wanted to kick him in the back of the head, but he didn't dislike the man. He was hard working, a provider that cared for his children. He talked too much, though. Thought himself a jester at times, not much good at it either.
Tyr found that hard to believe though. Wood was meant to be flexible and easily shaped, but he'd heard of ironoak before. A famous product that could be found only in Haran as far as he knew. Hard enough to have earned its name, and very expensive. “What about that stuff?” He pointed to one of the night black trees with low hanging branches and unevenly shaped trunks. They were thick, but the wood parted evenly and easily under the swing of axes. “Why'd you make me go for these rather than doing that when I'm new?”
It seemed easier, the black yew.
“Not even your pal Micah is a master jacker enough to cut the yew. Expensive, fairly rare – at least rarer than the snow spruce. Magic they say, needs a touch of grace or you'll ruin the chords.” Micah replied, taking a rest and switching out with Tyr after making five times the progress of the later in a quarter of the time. “One of them trees is worth... Ahck, I'm not much for counting – lad. Leave the finances to me wife. Say a thousand crowns for a big one like that, easily. And that's on wholesale, suppose the baron probably makes a bit more off the chords. We don't plane black yew here, leave it all in thick rods for use by an artisan.”
“One thousand crowns...?” Tyr balked at the figure. It wasn't that the figure was impossible to understand, but it was no small number. A knight of the kingsguard earned a similar sum. Throughout their entire career, which typically involved a 6-8 year contract. “For a tree?”
“Aye. Best bows in Haran made of the stuff, spear shafts or ship parts. Nary a hunter this side of the empire that could afford it, I reckon. Baron's land though, so he takes most of the revenue. Gotta wait for 'em though, gotta be perfect to fetch a good price. We leave the small ones standing until the seasons pass by enough, and they only chop easy in the autumn.” Micah replied with a bit of wonderment to his voice. “Though I suppose since our baron's been remiss in his duties... You think we could keep it?”
Tyr chuckled. “Something tells me you'll be fine. Tell Rorik to use the profits to fix that leaky roof you've got on the inn.”
“Inn don't need no fixing.” Micah spoke matter-of-factly. “Rarely get visitors in these parts, always complainin' it's too cold or too wet. Me? I like it just fine, this Riverwood. Plan to die here with me wife and little ones huddled around me. Nice and chilly and soaked right through, smiling all the way.”
There was a pride in his voice. A pride that many of the citizens living in the forest shared. Tyr had to admit, it had its perks. A river as clear as glass full of fat and tasty trout, plentiful woodland and the mighty mountains in the east. He liked it. It was, at least, as good as any place he'd ever been. All things considered.
“Oi! Quit flapping those mouths and get to whackin' that tree. Sun will set soon!” Thomas, their 'foreman', called out with a grin. A kind sort as well, but he'd beat a man for not carrying his weight. Micah was plainly afraid of him, despite his superior size. That was enough for Tyr, throwing new effort against the tree in an attempt to fell it. Not for fear of the old man, but the inherent challenge in his tone.
A creaking. A unique and haunting sound. Enough to sting at the ears and alarm him that something was wrong. That is, until a heavy hand slapped against his back with a little too much force.
“Oi, lad! Ye did it! Yer first tree.”
“I...” Tyr stared at the tree as it cracked around the base and began to tilt slightly. “I did it!” He cried out in jubilation, struggling to lift his leaden arms into a cheer. “What do we do now?”
“Now?” Micah seemed puzzled. “Well first we gotta make sure it don't bonk no geezer on the head. Go and do the thing. You earned it.”
“Uh... Oh!” Tyr laughed, an honest laugh, mirth bubbling up ferociously inside of him. He felt a weight lifted from his spirit that he hadn't been aware of until that moment. A leaden weight that pressed against his spirit. Fresh with a vigor – he cried out. “Tiiiiimber!”
Moments later, the tree collapsed with a cacophonous booming that shook the forest floor. A heavy thing, with a trunk as wide as Tyr's waist and half again, it took several smaller trees with it. 'Lesser' trees, pines and spruce that didn't present the same interest, nor challenge. Micah and Tyr laughed, embracing and clapping one another on the backs as if they'd just made it through the hardest battle of their lives. Tyr had done a fair few 'fellings' in his time, but they'd never felt so satisfying. Not like this. There was an iron satisfaction hot in his breast to know that somewhere, eventually, this tree would be used to make something of substance.
A ship mast, a spear haft, the handle of a kitchen knife. Perhaps it'd even save someones life in the form of a round shield. Who knew? It was the first lesson of many that taught Tyr just how important every single person was in the grand machine that was the empire. Every part had a player behind it, in the drama that comprised a living and breathing nation. A simple satisfaction. It seemed so asinine, this act of simply cutting down a tree, but in reality... Everything had significance. Everything, everyone, everywhere.
The trees fed their families, a tree that would be sold by the noble, funds of which would be doled out to pay for demesne guards. Security, improvements to their land. To subsidize the farmers and keep the earth churned and bountiful. Food that would go to that same city the tree did, perhaps even eaten by the same artisan carving that snow spruce into something real. Everything was connected in this web of experiences so vast that it was hard to put to page.
He. Tyr, the prince and heir primus of the Harani empire... Had never felt so fulfilled in his entire life. Even the taciturn Samson who watched him from the rear found himself caught up in the childish giggles one might find more appropriate from a boy of ten rather than a man of seventeen. But nobody blamed him, even the grizzled old 'master jackers' were smiling, clapping him on the back and acting their part. Celebrating the modest achievement with open hearts.
“Satisfying, isn't it?” Thomas asked. A dark haired foreigner, and master lumberjack that led their party when the season was right for it. Every year, with streaks of gray through his hair and hands patterned with callouses to indicate him a veteran of the vocation.
“Yes. It was.” Tyr smiled softly at him. He liked this man, too. In fact, he liked all the men. Rough and quick to laughter, but without the darkness that pervaded his blackguard. Honest men who would balk at the concept of murder. Pure, in their way. Men who worked hard to carve their future through their own merit. One tree at a time. “I like it here.” He concluded.
“Me too, boy.” Thomas nodded in satisfaction. “Me too. But if you think one tree is enough to keep you from a good hiding, you're sorely mistaken. Either that, or I dock your pay. Maybe both.”
“Yes sir!” Tyr cried out, scrambling over the roots to find another target alongside Micah. Both of them laughing like school children with Thomas watching from the rear, an odd sort of pride reflected in his eyes.
–
“That's all well and good, but when are we gonna leave?”
“Why would you want to leave? This place is nice enough.” Mikhail leaned forward, hands over the campfire, his dark features dancing in the firelight. “The prince likes it here, so we stay.”
“But there's not a single whore in this village. No brothels? That's no way to live.” Tor whined, but he didn't seem overly disturbed. He was a raider by trade, at least before he'd been caught, and was well used to long periods of rest between landings.
“I dunno.” Doug grinned dumbly, mouth full of salmon. He had simpler tastes than some of the other men. “I like it.”
Fennic... Moaned – there was no way to describe the sound otherwise. He and Mikhail had a relationship that few could understand. Old friends at this point, though they had only met after finding one another in the princes service. They had a way about them that confused the men even more. Hand signals. 'Sign language', it was called. Not many among the brothers understood a lick of the symbols that Fennic made with his hands outside the brief commands they'd see during a mission – but Mikhail could read the signs just fine.
“Oi, you old fox. Don't go castin' no curses at me.” Tor made the warding symbol of the horns, index and little finger extended over his forehead. Northerners had their superstitions, especially sea men.
Snorting, Mikhail translated. “He said a real man earns his women through passion, and not with coin. Says you couldn't handle the honest women around these parts because you're too used to buying your way to their flesh.”
It was a little bit more descriptive for that, Mikhail finding it more appropriate to simply paraphrase before another fight broke out. Something about northerners having small tools.
“Can't catch a single break in this outfit.”
“He's right though. Far too ugly a scoundrel to fish an honest woman out of a place like this.”
“Oi, reckon you won't stand up and say that to my face!”
Mikhail laughed, watching them scuffle over the fire. They really were a rough lot, enough to ensure that these nightly suppers took part on the northern road, only returning for sleeping – for those that wanted for a bed. Some of the men camped out there, some ways from the village with their faces to the stars. “You're all getting paid for this, quite handsomely I might add. If you don't like following the prince, just leave.”
“And get cursed by the gods for abandoning our young primus again? Nary a chance at that.” Tor wagged his finger. “Stubbed my toe thrice the morning after, I'll be sticking around for now.”
“Aye, heard he dragged himself from his own funeral pyre and bit a mans head clean off. Wonder why he hid his powers from the others? Or from us? Guess it don't matter. Glad he's back. Glad I wasn't there for that, though. Way I hear it sounded something downright cursed.”
“Aye. Did the lad a bad turn when we fled that warehouse, can't believe he didn't have our heads right then and there. Even saved that old grump and his pet foreigner. No disrespect, but one should do a good turn when he's been done one himself. Honor among thieves and all, not like we're stealin' no more or anything but you get me.”
“He's a good boy, our little brother Tyr. We'll keep an eye out on him. He's earned that much at least.”
Nobody argued with that.
“Aye. Whores'll let me bed them for free when the prince all imperial highness as you like. Just you watch, lads. They'll be singing of Red Tor of the Sea Men in due time, all the brothels will be sending me personal invitations just to see the mighty load about my long ship.”
They laughed at the claim. Every man had their own motivation for the doing of things, and these men were no different. Common born through the lot, not a chance they'd earn a similar wage in a normal life. Some irony how it'd all worked out.