Prologue.

The forest was calm and dim.

Small rays of light from the moon bleed through the gargantuan tree branches. A man stands amid it, the hard snow growing stiff underneath his boots as small puffs of fog rose from his nostrils and escaped from underneath his hooded cloak.

He stood without motion, without fear. He listens to his surroundings. The winds. The rustling of trees. Wolves howling in the distance. He's never known a place with such towering forests, such stark and fragile beauty. Sometimes he's in awe of the untamed wildness of the place. In moments like this, it always seems to dull the sting of his exile.

And yet, there was something different about tonight. There was a chill that burned through him as the brutal stiff wind blew downward, and though his face was shadowed by his hood, there was a hard focus in his stare as he held a large axe in his grip. The weapon is worn and rough from age, marred from the timeless abuse. And yet, he still wields it well.

He's waiting.

This is what he does now. For every breath he takes, he waits. He waits because lives depend on it; it's his purpose. His purpose drives and owns him. It's a burden he carries everywhere he goes. What is the point of a human life that only waits? It is wasted and dominated by the very thing that makes it wait; a life that is not my own.

He inhales another ragged breath before he focused his senses. Shutting out the surrounding forest, silencing his mind of the hooting of owls and the whistling wind, he could catch the faintest warmth emanating from the earth.

They're coming.

He couldn't see nor hear his foes approaching, but he could feel their presence. It grew closer with every passing moment. He imagines the ebony plates of their armor brushing past the trees, their faces covered underneath the dark helms, blades hidden in the shadows as they followed the same hurried path he took.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

He knows he needs a place to sleep, but he's been warned away from the villages. He knows their hostility to outsiders and he is in no state for a fight.

"Aaah...aaah..."

His breath hitches as he glances down at the swaddling strapped to his chest, small limbs clinging to him as tussles of light brown and blonde hairs peek out. The coos that reach his ears make him clench his jaw in worry and he tightens the swaddling even more to secure the warmth.

Protect. He must protect.

Harsh memories flood through his mind of how he got here; words whisper to him that fell on deaf ears, a face he struggles to remember with strands of silver, burning a wheat gold.

Protect.

That's all he can remember now...

A twig snaps in the distance, his body radiating full alertness.

It is time.

With a silent quickness, his grip tightens around the hilt, clenching at full strength now. He waits again. Footsteps are approaching now, growing heavier and heavier. Voices reach him, echoing off the branches of the trees and into the night.

He takes one last breath as he slowly reveals his weapon; the metal gleaming in the moonlight once more. This axe has been good to him. It has been by his side through harsher times.

Everything slows. His breathing is calmer and his heart beats slower.

"Lo, there do I see my father.. Lo, there do I see my mother, and my sisters, and my brothers," he whispers, voice rough yet gentle as well. Shapes form in the darkness, looming closer. "Lo, there do I see the line of my people, back to the beginning. Lo, they do call to me. They bid me take my place among them, in the halls of Valhalla. Where the brave may live forever..."

Assailants with blades are among him, surrounding him on every side. They raise at him, sneers hidden underneath the shimmering darkness of their helms. He breathes again.

This is his prayer. This is his plea. Protect.

He steps forward and their weapons dance and sing into the crisp night air.