“Dad? Do you think I’ll be a hunter?” A thin child asked. Though he had the frame of a prepubescent ten year old he was actually 14. A wonder filled his eyes. Wonder for the possibilities, a merriment brought only by the fanciful musings of a young child with their whole life ahead of them. Today fate would guide him into his profession.


    A tall burly man laughed deep and loud. “I don’t know, son. I suppose the options are wide open.”


    “What about..... a guard? Oh oh! Or even a warrior?” A frail looking boy grabs his hoe and swings it like a sword.


    “Well son, let’s look at your talents. You’re quick, clever and small framed. Oh I know! You’re going to be a law man!” The man said, straining to pull his hoe through the earth.


    “Ugh, Dad, I don''t want to be a law man. I want to be a fighter like you and Grandpa were!”


    His father scuffled the young man’s hair. “I believe you can be whatever you want Tor. But it’s up to the God’s, they choose our path. They alone know what’s in store for us. Have faith and they will deliver you into the role you were meant to fill.” He smiled a sincere, fatherly smiley. A full length beard hung below his shoulders, braided with bone, gold and silver beads. His hair was long and pulled back so it didn’t fall into his face from the long days of working the land. Scars lay bare on his muscular chest and arms, memories of a time when war was the norm for his tribe. A fate he did not wish upon his son, yet as all boys his son saw the fanciful side of battle and did not know the horrors that came with a feat such as reaping a soul from this world. He remembered being such a youngling, and now being a man he knew every young man felt an almost primal pull towards violence. Towards the glory it could bring.


    “Boys! Lunch is ready!” a red haired woman in a green dress called out, she was paler than the boy and his father and was readily viewed as the fairest woman in the tribe. She was once the princess of an enemy tribe, but when the fighting stopped she found love. Her belly was swollen with Tor’s soon to be brother or sister.


    Tor and his father gathered their tools and left the field, just a small boy trying to keep pace with his hulking veteran father.


    —----------------


    It was early afternoon, and the small family made their way to the tribe’s annual festival, celebrated when the sun was at it’s highest point in the sky. The festival was to celebrate all the boys and girls of the tribe coming of age and receiving a blessing from the chieftain and a boon from the gods, that would help them as they apprenticed and specialized in a trade or profession. Some would become warriors or smiths or tanners. Some unfortunate lot, as the boy saw it, would become farmers and cooks. He prayed to all the god’s to become a warrior but he knew his chances were slim. He had a small wiry frame more suited for farming, or gods forbid, law keeping.


    As the family entered the large village they were greeted with cheers and dancing and loud


    music with a fast rhythmic beat. The scent of tarts and warm hard cider filled the air enough to


    make father slink off to a nearby stand for a couple ciders.


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    “Now dear, remember what happens when you drink too much” Mother scolded in a loving


    manner, a slight smirk creeping across her pristine face. Her hair was bright in the sun. Curly red locks made even more bright by her fair complexion.


    “I know dearest, I know. I promise I won''t let things get out of hand.” He held her hips, a sincere love in his eyes, and a smoldering smirk on his lips. “Come mother, let Tor play and revel with the other children.”


    With that Tor’s mother and father left, bidding a sweet promise of safety and loving as they disappeared into the crowd.


    The boy looked around. Astounded by all the people and scents. Mesmerized by the sounds.


    Tonight he would become a man, accepted by the entire tribe, and with it he would know his fate. A jolt of excitement and fear sent a shiver down him as he made his way towards the tart stand.


    The small boy stood in line with the others. His face soured as he realized only a few other children were smaller than him. Before the group stood a tall portly man in flowing green robes, his head adorned by a goat horn headpiece. He spoke the old tongue, though Tor didn’t understand every word, he knew enough to understand the chieftain was blessing the festival and prayed the children would perform well and receive a boon blessed by the gods. He droned on about peace and prosperity until finally he spoke in the common tongue. A thick burly accent resounded in the courtyard.


    “Today we are in the presence of the future of this tribe. Long will they stand while our bodies fertilize the soil. Long may they reign and prosper in whatever trade the gods wish! Arnet, please step forward and place your hands on the altar.” A tall strong jawed girl stepped forward following the chief''s instruction, before her appeared a long thin blade. The blade of the kings


    guard! She had been chosen to protect the chief.


    The chief continued to call names, and the children continued to receive boons. Some received the axe of the berserker, some the branch of an ash tree, the symbol of a healer. And some unfortunate few received a scythe for farming or a chef''s knife. But now it was his turn. His heart pounded. He stepped forward, each step seemed to bring him further from the alter. All eyes on him. The chieftain smiled as Tor’s hands stretched towards the altar. this was it, no turning back now, what he received would write his entire future.


    Blood splattered on his face as he looked in a stupor at the chieftain, a viciously tipped spear protruding from his chest, gurgling blood as he coughed and waived at the crowd to run.


    “Protect yourselves! Protect the children!” He coughed again, falling to a knee grasping at the spear. The chieftain, seeing Tor and the look of utter terror in his eyes, stood entering a rage and turned to face the attackers. A strong man, a brave man. A warrior chief. The bloody green robes cascading to the ground, his arms and chest bulging, the chief pulled the spear from his torso knowing he would die either way and mounted a defense with one arm, pushing the boy back. A last, desperate attempt to protect his people. His life blood poured from the cavity left by the spear yet he fought on. It was said a tribesman in the berserk state could fight even after death.


    Still dazed, Tor started running. It seemed as though the world came to a stop, everything seemed slow, he could see the silver studs on one of the invaders glove just before blood scattered when his left hand, wielding a curved sword, fell on a guard. He could see the droplets wobble in the air, as they fell from the spear of a rider on a black horse. He could see the steam from the horse''s nostrils. He could see his father raging, lacerations and arrows covering his body. He saw the animalistic look in his eyes as he roared at a robed man who snapped his fingers, engulfing Tor’s father in blue flames. He heard a blood curdling scream close by. Wait, it was him. He felt the thrum of a horse galloping close by as he spun and saw the spear wielding warrior drawing near, no he was on top of him already. And before he could blink he was swept up by the man. Carried away, watching in horror as he saw the carnage behind him. His tribe was being slaughtered and he couldn’t do anything to stop it. He hadn’t even tried.