There are stories that tell of the world tree. A tree whose growth knows no bounds, whose body soars past the clouds, rumored to be home to gods and heroes alike, with roots that burrow across the land reaching the furthest points of mankind. Numerous of these stories say the tree was created long ago during the fallout of a battle between multiple sorcerer kingdoms, while others identify the tree as their god. These cultures hold the belief that all life, good and evil in nature, originates from the tree, and acts against the tree can bring about its wrath whether that be plague, famine, or an increased propagation of monsters in the area. In order to quell the anger of the tree a sacrifice is given.
Inside a small cabin atop the highest point in the village, The elders grumble amongst themselves exchanging dismayed looks across the table about their current situation. The oil lamp hanging above the center of the table sways back and forth as frigid winter winds creep in through the agape door. An old man wearing an oversized tunic, trousers, and a wolfskin tunic draped across his shoulders emerges through the door, with a solemn look hung on his face. The grumbling quiets as he finds his seat at the table. The table goes silent for a while, as all the elders understand the current situation they currently face. One elder starts up, “So…, how long do we have?”. The old man who just sat down shakes his head and replies, “The grain will last another week”. “What of the neighboring settlements?”, another elder added, already knowing the answer. Glumly he responds,“Our sister settlement to the north has fallen to the pack of frost wolves we drove off five nights ago, while the settlement to the east has barely enough grain for them to scrape through the winter”. The table falls back into silence. The oldest member at the table looks out the window at the mountainous root from the world tree, and a statement quietly creeps out of his mouth, “so, it’s another sacrifice”.
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I wake to find myself tied to a cross made of tree branches with my arms and feet bound completely immobilizing my movement. Upon further inspection I am being carried by two burley men with a group of around 15 other villagers, mainly consisting of the elders of the village. “Ahhh, I’m next…”, I tell myself as I’m carried down the road towards the prayer site. A cold blast of wind hits my face, but it’s fine. I’m fine. As an orphan that no longer has any family, it was only reasonable that I would be the one sacrificed.
I’ve always known that I wasn’t loved by this world. My father was a drunk that left before I was born, my mother died in her brother’s arms giving birth to her only child, and the only family I had was my uncle. After seeing the sight of my uncle being left behind by the other militia men to be torn to shreds by a group of a dozen frost wolves, I just couldn’t care about this world anymore.
After being carried down the road we finally reach the prayer site. Surrounding the prayer site was a luscious garden now reduced to wilted bushes, dead grass, and trees resembling the gaunt emaciated figures of those that now approach. Behind the foreground of the prayer site is where one of the mountainous roots of the world tree lies. In the center of the prayer site there is an opening through the decrepit trees that leads straight towards the root. The small entourage of villagers heads through the opening until they reach the root. Once we get to the root the oldest villager announces, “For the sake of the village, let the ritual begin”. The two men carrying me hold me up to the wall of the root while the village elders all begin to chant some unknown phrases in repetition. After the second repetition of the chant vines begin to grow out of the root and grab onto me seemingly hugging me into itself. The vines were oddly warming with their embrace which felt welcoming compared to the harsh freezing winds during the walk over. By the fifth repetition I had been completely wrapped in the vines and the warmth was stronger. My body had no memory of the cold from earlier, only the inviting warmth that I had always thought only a mother could give. By the seventh chant my consciousness started to dissipate, as the vines were slowly going back to being one with the root, smoothing out, and absorbing me into becoming one with the world tree. I thought to myself as the lights were about to go out, “I’m fine”.