While Eric is back among the living and I am nothing less than ecstatic at that fact, I don''t exactly have a lot of time to express my joy with all the extra work I''m having to shoulder to pick up his slack.


    "Eric!" I draw out his name as I slump across the central room''s table, nose pressing against the wood as the cheery hearth-fire warms my weary bones. Exhaustion clings to every limb, days of labor adding up to a withering sentence. "Next time you go and get yourself killed," I mumble with a nasally tone, "you''d better keep your spine!"


    To call the noise Eric makes a ''snort'' would be a great insult to snorts across all Midgard. In fact, it may even be across all worlds! It is simultaneously wet and snotty while somehow managing to sound crunchier than fallen leaves. One could almost call it a nasally gurgle were it not for the lacking exhale that robs the noise of all staying power.


    "I will keep that in mind, Halla," Eric''s voice is a low, husky thing, a pale shadow of its true self. He has to speak slowly and take frequent breaths between each and every word—sometimes even syllables if the word is long enough! Were it not for the upward crook of his lips, I''d never be able to tell that he speaks in good humor.


    I can''t exactly hold it against him, either, what with the whole ''missing the lower half of his lungs thing'' he''s got going on. Only reason he''s not needing a bag or billows to speak is thanks to the wolf charring the breath-sacks closed with its lightning.


    And speaking of air...


    Even through weight-closed nostrils I can smell the day-meal cooking. Honey-drizzled mutton with plenty of butter-laden bread stuffed with cheese and garlic. If I''m remembering correctly, Asva found a bounty of sorrels while foraging the other day, so there''ll be some of those as well. It''ll be ready soon, which my empty stomach eagerly awaits.


    Cracking open an eye, I swivel it down to where Eric sits at my left. He''s currently slouching, which isn''t exactly a surprise given the lack of lower spine, but the armrests are keeping him from collapsing inwards. The chair''s backrest meets my gaze, peering out through the platter-sized hole encompassing most of Eric''s torso.


    Walking is very difficult and he can''t do any actual labor, so he''s forced to stay inside and warm his feet all day long. He''s healing, as told by the bits of fresh bone, organs, and flesh slowly growing from the limits of his wound, but it''s an agonizingly slow process.


    Normally, healing is a relatively speedy process. If you still have the missing part on hand, simply pressing the stumps together and stoking an Aspect does the trick. Even if you don''t, it doesn''t usually take that long for completely gone parts to grow back. A missing knuckle can return overnight if one is especially lucky, a couple weeks for a hand. Alas, to achieve such quick convalesce requires large quantities of food—food which Eric cannot eat thanks to his absent digestive system.


    If Asvir had a Shapecrafter, this wouldn''t be anything even close to an issue and Eric would be all fixed up and ready for work. But Asvir does not, and so Eric sits trapped in his chair, waiting for his body to fix itself at a glacial pace.


    Since he can''t eat, the Seeress prepared a special potion that contains all the things the body needs to heal itself. All he needs to do is rub it into his gums twice a day.


    It''s hard not to pity him, really, as I tuck into a warm, tasty meal and he''s stuck with the same nasty medicine day in and day out. Dipping a finger into the sticky mix, he sighs and rubs it into his gums.


    Still, even with all the extra work I''m having to do, at least I''m not being forced to learn Gods-damned weaving. When I’m spending my days with the sun in my face and the wind in my hair, I can''t exactly say I''m unhappy.


    Besides, Dad said he''d finally teach me how to use my ordstirr!


    The sword-hand door to the hearth room opens up, revealing the form of Dad. I go greet him, bouncing to my feet, only to pause with the weary looks on his face.


    “The hunt didn’t go well, I take it,” Mother says as she fills another bowl for Dad.


    “No,” Dad mutters as he tucks into his serving, “and I think that Einarr’s taken this most recent failure as a sign to give up. We’ve been chasing the bastards,” Asva’s brows lift at Dad swearing and I stick my tongue out at her weakling ears, “for weeks now and haven’t seen so much as a footprint.”


    Mother frowns, sliding down next to Dad as she rests her head on his shoulder, “You think they might have some kind of magic helping them?”


    “More likely they just left,” Dad grunts a noncommittal answer as he shovels food into his mouth. He does shift to give Mother a better resting spot, though, so he can’t be as hung up on this as he gives off.


    “Did Einarr say anything about me?” Salgrun eventually asks, his words hesitant, from a corner bench. It’s quite strange that he, a guest, has taken a seat of low honor like that. Maybe he feels it’s only right given that he’s living with us for the time being? I know how this story ends, though, and soon we’ll have a new farmhand helping around the house. Well, probably a shepherd first and if he proves himself then he’ll be promoted to farmhand, or even huskarl if he’s especially worthy.


    On the other hand, it would be quite difficult for him to earn enough wealth to acquire another weapon if he were only a shepherd. Shepherds and their families, after all, are paid in room and board in exchange for doing the less desirable tasks around a farm, like mucking out animals and the like. Farmhands receive a measure of money for their skills in addition to room and board and, as such, it would be insulting to demand they do such filthy thralls’ work. The most you can do is ask them if they can and while usually the answer is ‘yes’, you still can’t force them into it without making an enemy of them.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    Of course, if Salgrun were made a farmhand he would have a great deal more responsibility on his shoulders, but also a lot more status. He wouldn’t be able to slack or take much time off to practice his skills, as his aid would be needed on the farm. Still, he wouldn’t have to watch the sheep while it''s pouring rain, so he’d have that going for him. He’d also be a lot more worthy of respect as a farmhand than as a mere shepherd, for his wealth would be independent of the fortunes of the farm.


    Now, if Salgrun made it all the way to huskarl, then he’d have his weapon situation solved. In addition to room, board, and independent wealth, a huskarl is also paid in a weapon from the husbondi, the master of the house. They are expected to wield that weapon for the husbondi should trouble rear its head, while shepherds and farmhands have no such expectation placed upon them. When a feud results in a house-burning, women, children, and uninvolved men are allowed to leave unaccosted. Shepherds and farmhands are counted amongst those uninvolved men, while huskarls are not.


    “If you came with me,” Dad says over a wine-cup’s brim, “you’d be able to ask him yourself.”


    Salgrun grimaces and falls silent. Yeah… I don’t think he’s got it in him to be a huskarl, not right now anyways.


    Regardless, it’s almost time for Dad to teach me ordstirr!


    <hr>


    Around the back of the house is a nice flat bit of land. Normally, this is where we do our bathing, so it sees a lot of traffic, which has done numbers on the once-grassy ground. Today, though, the plank-bound bathtub is rolled to the side and the pressed-dirt floors are home to boot-clad feet.


    "Ordstirr," Dad begins as he stands opposite me. We left our cloaks in the house, so his battle-scarred forearms are bared for all to see. Each scar has a story attached to it, each a memory rarely spoken of, "is the culmination of a man''s life. All his deeds can be found in his ordstirr. Every victory, every defeat, every action, and every inaction. Any time a man makes a choice, any time he opens his mouth, his ordstirr suffers the result."


    "I know all that, Dad!" I grumble, resisting the urge to stomp my foot, "You said you were going to teach me how to use it!"


    Dad''s eyes glimmer, "Do you? Tell me, then, what are the three laws?"


    I roll my eyes and huff, but oblige him nonetheless, "All Men Die, Power Requires Sacrifice, and..." I pause, a flush rising to my cheeks as I stumble at the finish line, "um, victory is everything?"


    A snort billows, a grin cracks, "Not quite; you''re looking for Wisdom Brings Mastery."


    Sudden thunder rolls in the distance, an oddity in a cloud-free sky.


    "R-right," I mutter, rocking on my heels as Dad nods.


    "If I were to translate ordstirr into, say, English," he continues his lesson, "it''d be something like," he pauses for a moment, thinking it through, "''word-glory'', that''s about right."


    "Word-glory," I try out the unfamiliar words, cringing at the odd way it curls from my throat.


    "Words spoken about your glory," Dad shrugs, a slight frown sliding across his face. "That''s not nearly the true meaning, but it works to help get a rough understanding of how you get it."


    "Because you gain ordstirr from the respect and admiration of your peers, yeah, I know," I finish for him, failing to hold my tongue.


    "It''s more complicated than that, much more," Dad snorts and shakes his head, "but that''s enough speaking of vague concepts. I can see you''re getting sick and tired of that," he chuckles, "so how about we get to the practical, eh?"


    A sailor could navigate by the gleam of my smile.


    "Inside your soul is a loom," darkness creeps at the corners of my vision, forcing me to focus all attention on Dad lest I lose all sight, "and on that loom are threads," he holds out his hands, palms facing skywards, "these threads are ordstirr." Like snakes across the ground, crimson string slithers from each finger as they reach for the heavens. Light clings to every length, a glow rising deep within.


    "Prestige, respect, and renown all add to your ordstirr," more threads join their sky-crawling kin, "while wicked nid takes away," a chill passes through the air as fully half of the threads fall limp, breaking away from Dad''s fingers. They pile on the ground, fading with the wind. "Once nid takes hold, the ordstirr is gone forever. You can gather new ordstirr," new threads rise, replacing the missing lengths, "but this ordstirr is not what you lost. It cannot be."


    "When ordstirr is gained, half stays on the loom and half is woven into three bolts of cloth which we know as Aspects," Dad lifts a brow as he nods towards me, "You''ve heard of them, that much is true, but do you know them by name?"


    Swallowing, I fix him with my best look of determination and nod. This time, I will not be caught off-guard. "Frami, your fame," crimson flames erupt from around Dad''s body, "virthing, your worth," a cloak of curved swords unfurls from Dad''s shoulders, "and saemd, your honor," a crown of iron spikes sprouts from his brow, each length topped by a flickering candle-flame.


    "Good!" He smiles, as do I, "Now, to test your knowing."


    "Close your eyes," I do so, casting myself into a world of darkness, "and breathe." Crisp air fills my lungs and spreads the cold spring chill. "You can feel it, can''t you? That warmth in your chest, at the core of your being." I-I can! I can! I can feel it, humming and thumping away in time with my heart. "That is your soul."


    "Now grab it."


    ...what?


    "Don''t think, just do. Like you were speaking or drawing a sword."


    I... Okay. Don''t think, just do. Don''t think, just do.


    Grabbing hold of my soul, I immediately pause as I realize that I have no idea what to do now.


    "Did you do it?" Dad asks, pulling me from my thoughts. I nod, making sure to keep careful hold over my soul as I do, "Alright, now squeeze. Squeeze and knead and work it."


    ...I''m not really sure what I was expecting, but it wasn''t this.


    Shrugging internally, I do as asked—and a smile spreads across my face.


    With every squeeze, my soul grows warmer, less rigid. With every knead, it stretches out, limbering up and working out the sharp edges in its form. Lethargic inaction falls to the wayside as my soul spreads, separating into ample fibers upon the loom, its might awoken, and power fills my body.


    Bliss, utter bliss. My limbs hum with might, power plays at my fingertips. I could do anything, I could do everything. I could climb a mountain, swim through the depths, fight lions, dragons, trolls, and all the beasts of the land and sea. I could fly through the air like a bird or dig through the earth like a dwarf.


    With ordstirr, I am limitless.