Chapter Text
Once upon a time, there was a boy named Fleur–and he was excited.
Not that there were a lot of reasons to be excited in Waerhaven. It was a small village where everyone either farmed or fished or hunted (unless you were the town baker or carpenter). They didn't even have a blacksmith (three villages away) or cobbler (two villages away)--and the traders that did have them on their route only came by once in a blue moon.
But today was different. Today, he was thirteen–finally old enough to be part of the village rite of The Choosing Days. Every Waerhavener looked forward to The Choosing Days, the three days a year where the hut on the outskirts of town opened its door for the children who had come of age and picked their destiny from the chest inside.
To say that the children picked out their destinies was perhaps a misnomer. Rather, they picked it out from the chest literally–a seemingly endless chest because though it was empty every other day of the year and no one ever filled it, young Waerhaveners could reach in and find the implement of their futures inside. This is how the villagers decided who became a fisherman, a farmer, a hunter. How Matthew became the town’s baker when he pulled out the wooden peel from the chest (even if they had all thought it to be a strange oar at first), and how Benson became the town carpenter when he pulled out his lathe (even if they had all thought it to be a strange wagon at first).
How the chest came to be or knew their destinies was something no one knew. Some said the chest was left by a traveller ages ago; some said it was a forgotten djinn treasure; others said it was a part of the very hut itself and how the hut came to be part of the village was another one of those things lost to time (just like whether or not the village’s origin began as two hermits in a hole in the side of the hill). All anyone knew was that it was a sad, sad day when The Storm, the largest in the village’s history, caved the hut in and forced the village to spend two years rebuilding it and furnishing it, for it was one of the only places for a traveller or a guest to sleep in the village if they did not wish to sleep in one of the few stables amongst the horses.
But rebuilt it was and the last two days had been filled with young teenagers in the town square milling about and showing off their hauls from the chest to their friends under the watchful eyes of the adults who looked on with nostalgia. They remembered their first shovel or pickaxe, bright and gleaming new under the warm, windy sun. The families were all proud, of course, happy to see tradition set right even as some of the young’uns groused at a life of doing nothing but digging parsnips and potatoes like the rest of their family. Few were lucky enough to be fishers, parading around swathed in their nets like capes careful not to trip; fewer still received other objects. His best friend George had pulled out a sword, broad and strong, just like his brother Derek had before him. Would he be able to get a sword too? Fleur wondered.
Not that he had to wonder for very long. All he needed to do was get out of bed and get ready.
He sprang out of the bed like lightning, changing out of his nightclothes into his best green tunic and dark trousers before splashing water from the table's basin onto his face. It was cold. He felt the green of his eyes buzz to life, quickly brushed his teeth with his twizzletwig, all the while imagining it as the hefty weight of a sword hilt in his hand, the feeling becoming heavier and more real as time passed by. He smoothed down his red hair as best as he could.
“Bye Pappy!”
“What about your breakfast?” Pappy asked loudly, gesturing towards the plate of bread and eggs on the table with his gnarled hands.
Fleur shook his head. “I’ll eat it later!” he called over his shoulder, already in his boots and out the door, ignoring the way Pappy grumbled under his breath about rebellious phases and the like. Fleur supposed that he could’ve been a little bit nicer to Pappy. After all, he was the only family Fleur had or knew. His parents had apparently died of some plague when he was 4. Pappy, their neighbor, had gone to check on them and found them all, told the head of the village what had happened, and took Fleur home, simple as that.
But the draw of a sword was a magnetic thing for a young boy, pulling him away from thoughts of familial duties and instead up hand over fist, slope after slope of the winding dirt path that creeped along the grassy knolls. If he kept following the path to the left through to its harsher, rockier end, he would end at the graveyard near the Waerhaven Cliff’s edge, but a soft right would lead him to the Hut on the Hill, to the place of The Choosing Days. To his sword.
Fleur opened the door with a gentle hand, his head cautiously peering into the hut. Despite his rush of bravado, the weight of the moment had suddenly turned him shy. After all, what if he was interrupting someone else’s choosing?--a thing that was known to happen from time to time–though he was sure no one would be here at this hour. The early-birds had already came and went with their choosings and the sun was still too high in the sky for the late-risers of the town. No, he would be perfectly fine. He was 13 now: older, mature—ready for whatever life and the chest were going to throw at him.
The interior of the hut was cozy. The smell of polishing oil still lingered in the air from the wood walls. Against the furthest wall was a bed modestly stuffed with straw topped with a fisherman’s blanket. In the right corner was a fireplace and chimney for the cold windy nights. Next to that was a window and chair prepped and ready to display the meandering slopes towards the village to its next guest. There was another window on the opposite wall, the glass barely rattling against the wind because it was a spring day–a particularly nice one with bees and gentle breezes. The perfect kind of weather for sword-getting–and just below the sill, tucked against the wall and out of the way, was the chest.
Closing the door behind him, he crept in front of the chest and stared. He had known nothing about it–the older kids never really spoke about their choosing day experiences beyond what they got–and the hut itself was off-limits to the children of the village. Even during the rebuilding of the hut, the chest had not been moved. Apparently couldn’t be moved, so the hut was simply rebuilt around the chest–but what he saw now was nothing like the ornate forgotten djinn treasure he’d imagined. Rather, it was a plain wooden chest with a tarnished latch on the front, tan in color, and just big enough to fit his small frame if he tucked his knees to his chest and laid down on his side.
Try as he might, Fleur couldn’t help but deflate a little. He knew that the size wasn’t everything–During the fishing captain years, entire boats were hauled out of the hut to signify the Choosing of a new future captain–but it was the plainness of the chest that seemed to pull him down back to earth a bit. There had to be something more to this moment. He had waited all this time for this day. It had to be life-changing, right?
Maybe it happened when he reached inside?
Throwing the latch, Fleur propped open the lid and reached inside with both hands. Whatever he had was significantly heavy for a twiggy boy such as himself, but it wasn't a sword. At least, it didn't feel like a sword with its broad flat sides…maybe it was a battle-axe instead? He could settle for an axe, he guessed.
So imagine his surprise when he pulled out not an axe, but a book. A big thick book with worn red leather binding and gold etched into the border that felt warm to the touch, as if someone else had just been holding it and handed him the book through the chest. Surreptitiously, Fleur peered over the edge of the chest and just so, there was nothing inside but the plain wooden interior.
He sank on his heels. He’d gotten what he’d asked for, at least. It wasn't a shovel. But a book. A book?!
“Of all the rotten–”
Whatever word was next died on Fleur’s lips, writhed and withered into nothingness as a pillar of light suddenly burst forth from the chest, as wide and long as the inside of the box itself. It shimmered and sparkled like the warm halo of a perfect summer’s day as it leapt into and through the ceiling, stretching towards the sky like a lost shooting star bounding its way home. Later reports would say it was visible from as far as six villages away. It was strange. It was peculiar. It was beautiful and magical and felt like a warm, familiar hug.
And then fast as it came, it disappeared, sucked back into the chest with nothing but a faint rattle as the chest snapped its latch shut.
For a moment, all he could do was open and close his mouth silently like the fish he saw pulled fresh upon the boats in the morning. He certainly felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him, thrown aboard the deck of some strange new world…
The sound of wood falling broke him from his reverie as he spied the crumbling outline of a hole big as a boulder punched straight through the ceiling.
Fleur groaned. He was going to be in so much trouble…