The warrior breathes quietly, hidden in the shadowy skirts of the willow pines. He stares intently into the camp upon his quarry. The man looks to be nothing more than a mere man, average height and lithe form; he does not look like a dangerous wizard, not that it matters to the warrior for within the hour the wizard shall be dead.
A large bonfire dominates the middle of the camp. A smattering of children and adults listen, as if beguiled, by some story the wizard is weaving. They laugh and generally seem unaware of the threat in their midst. As the story ends amongst laughter and merriment, the tribesmen begin to retire to the peat huts inured against the chill winter. The wizard sits quietly staring into the fire, and the warrior stalks as his loins begin to respond to imminent end of the hunt.
He slowly creeps forward until the light of the dire just barely begins to cast its glow upon him. The warrior blinks to clear the cold sweat from his eyes, only to find the wizard now staring back at him.
“Leave this place, warrior. You need not die this night in the lair of The Dragon,” The wizard says.
Shadowy faces begin to emerge from the darkness, it would seem that the tribesmen have been roused and weapons are drawn. The warrior glances around and tenses, but the warrior turns to the wizard and smiles for such paltry words will not save the wizard’s life tonight. The wizard raises his hand to halt the tribesmen while slightly shaking his head.
“As you desire, then,” the wizard says, shrugging off his heavy winter cloak while an axe is brought to him. It looks awkward in his hands, and the warrior cannot help but smile; it would appear that this will not be a battle remembered by the skalds.
They square off, both filled with calm confidence. Yet, by the second step, the warrior realizes his folly. The wizard’s auburn hair becomes golden blond, gently shimmering in the moonlight and fire-glow; the warrior watches the wizard transform from lithe, unsteady combatant, to a mass of muscle, agility with eyes belying a keen sense for battle. They crash together axe upon axe, but the warrior quickly finds the ‘wizard’s’ knee driving the air from his lungs.
“All is not what it will seem. Let that be your first lesson,” the wizard chides while waiting for the warrior to gather his breathe again. The warrior slowly rises and narrows his eyes; the battle dance begins.
It is over soon after it begins. The warrior is sprawled on the ground, the ‘wizard’ trapping his throat against the sharp edge of his axe. They both breathe heavily, the blond wizard’s breath blows against the warrior’s ear. The warrior tenses awaiting death.
“As fate intends, you will die tonight, Fyri,” the wizard whispers into his ear. “But I will let you choose how,” he continues. Fyri opens his eyes. “You may renounce your tribe and your father’s name and accept the oath and geas I shall place upon you, so that I might birth you anew, or, simply die forever forgotten.”
As Fyri’s struggles internally with his choice, he can feel the heat from the wizard. Subtle, strong and constant. He remembers truthfully for the first time how he hated the house of his father. The endless beatings when it was feared there was magic within him, but they beat that down until not even Fyri could remember what his nature was. No, Fyri hates his father and his tribe, but still…
Fyri can hear the wizard’s smile as he drops his axe. “Let us hear it,” the wizard says, as several tribesmen haul Fyri by his arms turn him to face the blond wizard.
Fyri can feel the innumerable eyes upon him as he speaks softly and slowly, shame bringing tears to his eyes. When he is done, he is met by silence while his head hangs in abject defeat. The wizard speaks gently to him, “You must cast all that you were into the fire, Fyri. You cannot bring what your tribe and father gave you with you.” Fyri nods and slowly his ax and armor go into the fire. He waits and continues to be meet in silence. He next casts his shirt, furs and pants into the fire, yet still he is met with silence. At last, he stands naked shivering before them his hands are all that preserve modesty.
The blonde wizard steps forth, while Fyri calls out his oath.
“I, Fyri, make this oath: that I shall be in the forefront of fierce battle, forging ahead with my Jarl and Friend, coming to the war-call carrying my weapons; and when no battle causes the war-horn to blow, I shall not forget your generosity, but will offer wise counsel as I may. And though I had better lay down my life than see harm come to you, still should the poisoned point or aged edge strike you down, then I shall not flee a single foot-length from the field, but rather shall advance into the enemy army, slaying as I might, to avenge the Protector of the people. And by Erik, and by Kirken, and the almighty gods, may you smite me, may my own edge twist and turn against me should I fail to keep this oath,” Fyri says.
The wizard steps forth taking Fyri chin and lift his head while placing a warm hand upon his heart. “I heard your Oath, as have the holy gods. Hear you then my vow to you: I shall I gift you with Fire, granting good gifts as you merit, round rings rolling from my hand to yours; among my warriors shall you sit in my hall, with sweet mead strong filling your horn; if to the lawcourt you are called, in legal tangles twisted and tied, then I and all of my warriors and kin shall stand as oath-helpers if you should need this; and finally, my might shall stand between you and your enemies, my strength and my war-band beside you boldly, for bare is a brotherless back. May Lirorn, god of oaths listen, may my people witness my words, let Holn hold me faithful, may the sagas keep this Oath in memory, and may Erik, the All-father and Kirken, the Thunder, hallow this vow!”
The wizard clutches Fyri chin and places his lips upon Fyri’s. Fyri feels his mouth and lungs grow hot, as his body is overtaken by an overwhelming hot flash. Fyri feels the wizard’s tongue beginning to pillaging his mouth and raping deep into him, but alarm quickly gives way to other sensations, as he feels something from deep within him rising up to respond. Fyri thinks that he can feel the world pulse beneath him. He closes his eyes suddenly swept away arousal and unfathomable awareness, even as the wizard’s hand upon his chest grow unbearably hot.
When he opens his eyes, the blond wizard stares down into his eyes. “I have seeded the fire within you and left my mark upon your body and soul. The magic within you has been awakened. You are now Us and We are now you. You do not walk alone,” the wizard steps back. Fyri looks down to see an image of a dragon seared into his flesh.
“Drekkin, I, The Dragon, Jarl of the Drekkinn, give you, our brother, Fyri Drekkinsson,” the tribesmen respond with great rousing clamor, reaching out to touch and embrace their newly found kin. Fyri quickly becomes lost amongst the endless introductions, and shamelessly hopes that he will finally be happy.
