Chapter Text
Long ago, before the Earth was forged, there were four elder gods. The four gods forged the lands and the people who dwell within them. The earth was bountiful and plenty, war was unknown to man. Jealousy and rage were nothing more than a rarity. But on one summer’s evening, a drop of sunlight fell to the earth below. Many cycles passed, and the sundrop grew into a large and magnificent tree. The tree glowed in bright colors that the old folk had not seen before and grew fruit of which the old gods had not created. The old gods warned the old folk of such fruit for it was unknown, even to the all knowing gods. But the old folk did not listen and ate the fruit of the suntree. Soon the old folk who ate the fruits became addicted, and their appearance changed. They grew thin and sickly with pale faces and bones as thin as the sparrow. Those who ate too much of the sunfruit grew elongated ears. The old gods were outraged, for the old folk did not heed their warnings and thus punished all those who ate of the suntree. For the long eared elk folk, the gods stretched their lives as long as the ever flowing rivers, so that they may watch in silence as all those they loved grew old and entered Balham without them.
At this the child listening to his mother’s story shifted in his seat in her lap. “Møtni….why did the elk folk eat from the tree if the gods warned them not to?” The boy asked, looking up at this mother with curiosity shining in his eyes like the starry night sky.
The woman looked down to her son and began to card her fingers through his long blonde hair. “I do not know Tyrni….sometimes when we are told not to do something we are compelled to do them.” She said as a smile graced her lips, she knew her son would not be satisfied with the answer but she continued with her story. “The old folk who ate of the tree were cursed with weak limbs. But this did not bother the two folk clans as the tree had provided them with a blessing…”
The young boy gasped out, letting go of the sabre skin sash he had been playing with and whispered out a single word, “magic.”
The mother nodded, “Yes Tyrni...magic and knowledge is what the tree had blessed them with. They had no need for strength and survival when they were gifted with magic. But as their obsession grew, so too did their distrust. The two clans began to fight over the tree and soon war had engulfed the land.”
“Møtni how long did the war last?” the boy looked at his mother expectantly as she sat in silence. She stared into the flames in front of her, the fireplace glowing brightly in the autumn night. After a moment, she looked back down to her son and into his emerald green eyes. She began to braid his golden hair, sighing deeply, she continued. “It is said that the old war lasted 30 cycles.”
This made the boy gasp loudly, causing his mother to loosen her grip on the braid. She chuckled lightly as her son gaped at her like a fish pulled from the river. “30 cycles!? That’s like REALLY long!” he shrieked.
His mother giggled lightly at her son’s enthusiasm, “Yes Tyrni, it is a very long time.” Tyrka tilted his head ever so slightly, the flames creating a heavenly glow, “What made them stop Møtni?” His mother reached out and took a hold of the braid she had let go, she reached to her side and picked up a single silver clasp with the insignia of a bear and clasped it onto her son’s hair, holding the braid in place.
“Three sisters of mixed elk and old folk descent had begun to grow suspicious of the tree; war had not passed these lands in such ferocity. Because of this the three sisters destroyed the tree with their combined magic, leaving all but a single stick behind. The three sisters hid the stick and divided the clans into 3 kingdoms, The Kupa, The Shadow and The Elk.” She took another clasp and sealed the second braid she had made.
Tyrka stayed silent as his mother braided his hair, deep in thought. He stared at the dancing flames in the fireplace, watching as his imagination transformed the flames into the story his mother had told. “Is that why the 3 kingdoms are always at war Møtni? Because they are in search of the stick?”
His mother hummed as she clasped a fourth braid into place, she retreated her head in order to see her handiwork. Once she was satisfied she wrapped her arms around her son and rested her chin at the top of his head. “Yes, for they do not remember their own history.” Tyrka was confused by this, if the elk folk had such long lives, how could they not remember their heritage? “But they have such long lives Møtni, were they cursed with a bad memory as well?” His mother let out a hardy laugh that shook Tyrka, causing him to giggle. “Stories such as these tend to be told through many cycles, Tyrni. It is common for the stories to change over time.”
The pair sat in silence as the flames crackled, the dancing flames putting the young boy into a peaceful sleep. Soon all Tyrka’s mother could hear was the flames and her sons’ light snores. She held him tightly as tears began to well in her eyes, “Never forget who you are my son. You are Volknir, proud and true. You have been instilled with the spirit of the gods, they will guide and protect you.” She let the tears fall down her cheeks, the tears engraving themselves as they passed through her face marks. She kissed the top of her son’s head, reaching over and grabbing hold of the dagger her husband had left her. She held the dagger tight and her son tighter, for she did not know when the Dark Soldiers would come.