Life Weaver (ASOIAF / WORM-OC SI)

[Hordac]

No problem, I was just pointing it out. Didn't mean it offensively.

But that creates an issue. The whole reason the north is divided at the wall is that the wildlings refuse to kneel and hate the customs of the southerners. By changing them so they're basically the same it creates a massive plot hole and sort of ruins the point of making the mc start up there. Its just a generic medieval village instead of a tribal village, those are two entirely different things. Even if they're not nomadic they should still have the same tribal culture and mindset. Uniting a bunch of savage tribals is a lot harder and requires a significantly different approach compared to your average medieval peasants.

Honestly, if you aren't even going to try to use the setting then why set it in the universe? At least mark it as au and explain the au when you have the mc combine with the other personalities.

Click to shrink...

You're right. I'll mark it au
I just felt there was a lot of details missing in the books and tv series like how do they make bronze if they're nomadic. And the thenns are definitely not nomadic.
In the wiki 2 clans are mentioned but I've not seen much tribal stuff mentioned in the books and tv. Let me know where is it the tribal influence you have seen?

 

[BoredKing98]

You're right. I'll mark it au
I just felt there was a lot of details missing in the books and tv series like how do they make bronze if they're nomadic. And the thenns are definitely not nomadic.
In the wiki 2 clans are mentioned but I've not seen much tribal stuff mentioned in the books and tv. Let me know where is it the tribal influence you have seen?

Click to shrink...

https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/Free_Folk

 

[Hordac]

hy set it in th

Click to shrink...

https://gameofthrones.fandom.com/wiki/Free_Folk

Click to shrink...

Alright alright. I get it. I didn't so a very deep and thorough redearch into the whole clan and nomadic thing. I thought there were missing elements that the author George R. Martin didn't elaborate on. So its an AU.
Thank you for guiding me, I'll shift a few things so the story become very minimal AU.
Please keep reading and commenting. It is very useful and encoriging

 

[Hordac]

Ch 7

Having received Chief Frode's and the elder's approval, Erik knew that before the first lesson could begin, he had problems to tackle.
I need a place of my own — somewhere to sleep, to think, to work, he thought. And I need a place to teach.

Even with the chief's roof over his head and bread always waiting at the table, unease settled in his chest. Guest right was sacred… until it wasn't. Stay too long, and generosity turned into obligation, and obligation into silent resentment.

Time to stand on my own feet again, he thought. I can't live on their generosity forever. Food's not an issue with by Warg beasts hunting better than any man, what I need is a place of my own – a home. A place where I can teach as well.

Every house in the village was tiny, cramped, and drafty — perfectly adequate for people used to them, but not for someone raised in a world of insulation, plumbing, and privacy. Erik wanted something different, and more importantly, he needed a workspace that would impress and inspire and a place with much needed privacy.

So he decided to build his own home using his enhanced memory and powers to the extreme.

'This way I get to practice and improve my bio tinkering while trying to build the near equivalent of a modern house here.' He thought as exciting crazy ideas started popping into his head.' Let's see if I can make the medieval world a little more… modern.'

The perfect location already waited: an old, massive chestnut tree near the outskirts of the village but still within the wooden palisade. Hardy, cold-resistant, but no longer bearing nuts.

Above the ground it looked like two separate tree that was at least 30 feet apart but he had discovered that it was actually a single tree with a single enormous root that spread wider than both trees combined. Both the trunks were thick and angled away from each other to get better sunlight. The crown's radius was around 60 feet each.

"Reminds me of the famous hundred horse chestnut in Sicily" he muttered "This is apparently a smaller version of it"

'It's not producing chestnuts to eat so I can do with it whatever I want with it' He thought as he walked around the tree planting a tree house in his mind.

Sitting down next to the tree he closed his eyes and put both palms on its trunk and concentrated.

The tree was slower to respond than flesh but it did start to shift. Slowly over the course of the day a tree house began to be formed made entirely from the tree's own branches.

Hours passed. Villagers gathered. Whispers spread.

By sunset, something extraordinary rose from the canopy.

The treehouse was mostly hidden in the canopy with a dozen windows visible among the leaves, each shaped from curved wooden ribs, poked through the foliage for light and ventilation. A broad terrace faced westward, catching the dying sun. The walls were a single living structure, two feet thick in places. Doors were latticed weaving of small branches, flexible but sturdy, swinging on hinges of living fibers.

The total covered area was around 3000 square feet. He's converted most of it into a large hall with a few rooms to one side along with a kitchen and washroom. The plumbing was made of hollow wood coated with resin to make them water resistant. A large hollowed area above the treehouse but still in the canopy was made into a water tank that was filled by the tree itself using modified xylem that transported purified water to the water tank. The sewage plumbing from the kitchen was hidden in one of the trunks which led down to the deepest roots to one side where he had used the roots to create a septic tank.

The tree's health was boosted as much as possible. He had poured energy into the tree as he worked, boosting its health and vitality to ensure the house would endure.

Its canopy was spread further outwards a few meters in all directions to provide more sunlight. Carbon fibers was woven into the trunk and main branches to make it tougher without adding weight.

Finally, a set of revolving stairs was made to come out of one the trunks which lead into his tree house

'I think I overdid it.' He thought at the end of the day. He was tired and feeling drained but very happy with his creation. His muscles had shrunk visibly and he got leaner as his fit body's limited fat stores were used up.

The villagers marveled at his house.

Old Gonir, the carpenter and boat builder, marched forward with an exaggerated pout, arms flapping.

"This—this—this is cheating!" he declared, voice climbing an octave. "I've been carving planks and beams my entire life, and you— you just grow a house out of thin air!"
He poked a branch wall accusingly. "Do you know how much work it takes to make a door that doesn't creak? And you— you whisper to a tree and it obeys you like an eager puppy!"

Some villagers laughed under their breath.

Gonir spun around dramatically, eyes wide and wild.
"Oh yes, laugh! Laugh! The poor carpenter has been replaced by magic roots and whispering madness!"
He leaned close to Erik, squinting. "You're going to drive me out of business, you know. Completely, utterly, spectacularly out!"

Erik smirked. "Or you could help me with the interior."

Gonir blinked. Then he blinked again.

"Oooooh. Interior." Gonir facial expression shifted quickly from angry to happy.

His head tilted like a curious raven. "Fine! But I'm charging you extra for being a tree-wizard."

"Fair." Erik agreed smiling at the old man's antics.

Gonir clapped sharply. "Good! Now let me see what insanity you've built in there."

He scampered up the spiral staircase like a child. His long legs, thin frame and swaying beard made him look like a ridiculous cartoon character as he skipped every other stair in his hurry.

The villagers marveled. Some whispered prayers. Others touched the trunk, unsure if it was a blessing or something far stranger. Erik gestured at them to come inside and have a look at the newest addition to their village.

Let them see for themselves. Curiosity will soften their fear — and I'll shape the rest with my explanations, Erik thought as a few brave souls approached the stairs, prompting the others to follow. He was about to follow behind when Helga's voice interrupted him.

Helga's voice drifted from behind them, dry as wind through leaves. "So the green man takes root. The Old Gods will be watching that."

Erik smiled faintly. "Then I'll give them something worth watching."

Helga chuckled, her eyes glinting like flint. "Careful, boy. The gods have a cruel sense of humor."

"They do indeed" Erik agreed as breathed deeply, feeling more grounded than he had since arriving.

He finally had a home.
And in a few days, he would begin building a school in it.

'For now I need to rest' he thought groaning 'But I have show the villagers around first to sate their curiosity. 'No rest for wicked I guess'

----

A few days later, Erik was bent over a half-finished frame of living wood, coaxing the branches to grow into the shape of school furniture under his hands. The living wood shifted slowly beneath his touch, responding to his will as the it curved and twisted to form a table.

To appease Gonir he'd commissioned some furniture from the eccentric builder who'd promptly dumped the workload on his lazy apprentices. Still, he needed the something done sooner like this school furniture which he was building by himself

He paused, wiping the sweat from his brow, when the sound of shouting drifted up from the village gate — raised voices, hurried footsteps followed by the shrill cry of a woman.

He frowned but kept working. Villagers shouted often enough — over fish, over wood, over pride. But then he heard his name being called out.

"Life-weaver! Master Erik!"

A young boy came sprinting up the path, breathless, eyes wide as saucers. "Master Erik — Helga says come quick! The hunters have returned — Henrik among them! They're hurt bad!"

Erik straightened at once, his pulse quickening. "How many?"

"Four! They just came through the gate. They looked in bad shape. Helga's trying to stop it, but she said— she said they won't last long!"

"Come with me," Erik said, already moving.

The boy turned and ran, Erik following in long strides.

When Erik reached Helga's hut, a small crowd had gathered. Gertrude stood near the doorway, white-faced, clutching her sons. Her voice broke when she saw him. "Erik— please— it's Henrik! They found him— gods, he's dying!"

Inside, the air stank of blood, sweat, and old herbs. Four men lay on the rushes, leather armor torn and dark with gore. One was missing an arm below the wrist while another had a bandaged headwound that smelled bad. Both were unconscious. The third and youngest among them had blood all over him but no visible injury apart from a shoulder wound. Henrik was among them — his skin gray, his breathing shallow. A wooden shaft jutted from his side, the wound pulsing sluggishly with dark blood and pus.

'Injuries are at least a day old if not more' he observed 'salvageable'

Helga knelt beside him, her hands red, muttering prayers to the old gods as she applied smelly poultices. She glanced up at Erik as he entered, her face lined with strain. "They were ambushed — Ice River men again. Two dead already before they made it back. If you can heal them green man, now's the time to do it."

Erik dropped to his knees beside Henrik, eyes scanning the wound. "Hold him steady."

Gertrude moved forward, trembling. "Please — please, don't let him die."

"I'll do what I can, don't worry" Erik said calmly. He rested a hand on Henrik's chest; the man's heartbeat was weak but still there.

He closed his eyes, letting his power flow. His powers spreading through Henrik's torn flesh.

"Two Broken ribs, torn muscles, severe blood loss, internal bleeding in chest cavity, Arrow nicked intestines. Infected wound" he reported. Gertrude gasped and her crying intensified

"He's strong to have this much injury and still be alive" he said "and lucky that I got to him in time"

Over the next few minutes Bone knit, muscle reformed, the arrow shaft pushed itself out as if rejected by the body. The bleeding stopped; some color returned to the man's cheeks. His muscles shrunk visibly and he got leaner as his fit body's limited fat stores were used up instantly.

Gasps filled the room.

One of the other hunters groaned, clutching his injured arm. "Gods... by the gods… he healed him…"

Helga's voice was low, reverent. "He weaves the flesh like thread through a loom…"

Erik opened his eyes, breathing heavily. "The worst is gone. He'll sleep for a day or two, but he'll live." He said turning to Gertrude "Give him lots to eat when he wakes up. I've used all the extra muscles and fat stores his body had to offer"

Gertrude fell to her knees beside her husband, tears streaking her face. "Thank you… oh gods, thank you."

Erik touched her shoulder gently. "He's strong. He just needed a chance."

He quickly turned to the others injured and over the next hour finished healing most of their injuries.

Erik turned to the man with the head wound, finding a skull fracture and a festering infection beneath the bandages. He was the oldest and most well equipped of this lot. His body also had many old scars so he theorized he was the leader and most experienced warrior. He used his power to wake him up from his unconscious state seeing he was out of danger.

"I'll fix the missing hand once he gets better and has had some food and rest" he told Helga gesturing to the only crippled patient. "His body can't handle this much healing in one go"

Helga stood slowly, wiping her hands. "Three of them saved — when I'd have buried them by nightfall. I've seen many healers in my years, boy, but none like you."

One of the older hunters stared at him in awe. "You are blessed by the gods, life-weaver. No man can do what I just saw. I'm Ullar. Captain of our militia"

"Well met Ullar. I'm just using what nature allows," Erik said softly. "The body knows how to mend itself — I just remind it and help it along."

Gonir burst in then, panting, covered in sawdust. "The whole village's talkin', lad! Said you pulled a man back from the door of death itself!"

Helga gave him a sharp look. "And maybe he did. So, mind your tongue — show respect when the gods' work is near."

"The gods had little to do with it," Erik muttered.

But the others were no longer listening. Outside, the crowd had begun to chant softly — a murmured prayer to the old gods. Their voice and face conveying genuine gratitude and awe.

"Green Man," Gonir whispered. "You're one of the Old Gods' chosen. Their messenger"

Erik looked around the small hut — the men breathing again, Gertrude weeping over her husband, Helga studying him as though he were some ancient riddle.

He sighed. This is how myths begin, he thought. And there's no stopping them now.

-------

The next day after healing the returning injured hunters was the first day of school for the children of the village.

He had decided to use the large empty hall of his newly built home as a temporary school. It wasn't much of a school yet — just long benches, rough-hewn tables, a black board and the echo of a space too large for its purpose — but to the little ones of the cliffside village, it might as well have been a hall of wonders. With a touch of his hand, he had shaped a section of the wall into a smooth, flat blackboard, the stone bending and darkening under his will like a living thing.

By dawn, Erik was already at work, crouched beside a bucket of sap and charcoal dust. His bio-tinker powers coaxed the mixture into smooth, uniform sticks — simple pencils, hardened just enough to keep tiny hands from snapping them. Next came the pages: thin shavings of treated bark pressed together into crude but durable books. Not perfect, but in a land where writing was a rarity, they were treasures.

He laid them neatly in rows on a long bench.
Good. If they have something to hold, something to claim as theirs, they'll come, he thought.

When the village bell tolled for midday, the first children trickled in. Some peeked around the doorway shyly, others marched straight inside, eyes bright. Word had spread fast: Anyone who came to Erik's class would get a sweet treat at the end.

Dan and Sven stood proudly near him now, as if they were his personal assistants. Sven kept repeating, far too loudly, "You did say you'll give us sweets after the lesson. Real ones. Not the bitter root-candies!"

This alone had apparently mobilized half the children in the village.

A boy no older than seven whispered to his friend, "Do you think he has honey cakes today?"
Another girl, barefoot and bold, replied, "I don't care. I want one of those writing sticks."

Erik smiled and clapped his hands. "All right, everyone. Find a seat — yes, anywhere. That's good."

The murmur quieted as he picked up a piece of chalk, he'd made using powdered bones and drew a single line on the board.

"Today," he began, "we start with something new. The common tongue spoken in the lands south of the Wall. Your old tongue is beautiful, but it is mostly spoken, not written. Its runes aren't made for long words or detailed records."

'I have reviewed the native runic script which unfortunately is pictographic and syllabic, ill-suited for the scientific and administrative revolution I plan to bring here, whereas the phonetic alphabet is more flexible and powerful.' Erik thought 'Switching is simply more strategically necessary rather than just convenient. And since no one here knows it's written form they can't complain I'm teaching their kids southern kneeler language'

He tapped the chalk against the board, drawing a neat A. Surprisingly the common tongue was mostly the same as English.

"This," he said, "is the first letter. There are twenty-six more."

Gasps rippled through the room.
"Twenty-six letters?"
"That's too many!"
"Shh! Let him talk!"

He wrote the numbers next — 1 through 10, each one crisp, each one foreign to their eyes.

"These symbols," he said, "allow you to write anything. Names. Stories. Even the things your elders fear to forget. They let you read of people's stories that are long gone or lived faraway"

Some of the children leaned forward, fascinated. Others glanced toward the basket of wrapped sweet rolls resting on the corner table, their motivation far more immediate.

Erik chuckled. "And if you try your best today…" — he lifted the basket in one hand — "you'll earn one of these."

Cheers erupted. Even the shy ones edged closer, determination sparked by sugary treats.

As class began, small hands clutched clumsy pencils, tongues poked out in concentration, and the first uneven letters scratched across the bark-paper pages.

For the first time, the village echoed not with shouts or chores — but with the soft, hopeful sound of children learning to write.

When the lesson ended, the children erupted into excited chatter—and that was when Erik pulled out the small cloth bundle from his satchel.

A collective gasp rippled through the group.

Inside were sugar drops—hard, amber-colored sweets he had made from sugar he had extracted from plants. Simple, but to these children, miraculous.

Erik held the bundle high. "One each. After you line up."

The children stampeded into a line so orderly even the chief would have been proud.

He watched as each little hand accepted a sweet with reverence, eyes wide, mouths already watering.

Days turned to a week and patterns emerged. A mousy orphan thirteen-year-old boy Einar, a quiet, sharp-eyed youth named Einar — grasped numbers faster than the rest. He even solved harder questions Erik gave as exercises after learning them only once.

Einar's mother had passed at birth and he had barely survived. As his father married another who had little interest in looking after a scrawny weak child who need constant attention, Helga had taken the boy in and raised him later making him one of her apprentices. He still had a thin weak frame that was usually hidden under extra layers of clothing and his eyesight was weak.

Erik simply fixed the eyesight and performed minor tweaks to his metabolism and growth hormones so that he would eat more and start growing taller.

Erik decided to teach him separately and began training him privately to ensure his genius level potential in math was fully realized.

"You see this?" Erik said one afternoon, pointing to a charcoal-marked journal. "This isn't just counting coin. It's the language of power as math is the language of the universe. Learn it, and no man can cheat you — or rule you."

"I will." Einar nodded; eyes gleaming. "Um .. what is coin?"

Erik groaned internally. One of the things he hated about this area was the utter lack of economy.

'Everything is bartered. It makes everything so much more difficult' he groused 'I guess I'll have to introduce currency as well'

"it is a better way than barter" he answered resisting the urge to simply upgrade his brain.

'I could enhance him and the other's with NZT upgrade that I did to myself' Erik thought 'But in the Limitless movie it was strongly implied that the smarter the original brain was, the better were the result of the enhancement. I will teach them and allow them to reach their natural potential then I'll give a select few the boost. This period will also increase their trust and loyalty towards me so in their enhanced state they don't betray me'

Another pupil stood out for entirely different reasons — Sven, Gertrude's eldest son. He could barely stay still during lessons staring out toward the paddocks where his horse and elks stayed but he endured for the promised treats he got.

Erik followed the boy's gaze to the paddocks. Restless energy, good with a slingshot... the pieces clicked together in his mind. This one wouldn't be a clerk; he would be a project of a different kind.

Erik knew that Sven was a good shot with his slingshot meaning he had good hand-eye co-ordination and he loved riding his horse or elks. Seeing this Erik decided to carve a new path for Sven and see what he could do.

One day after class, Erik did not hand him the usual treat. Instead, he presented a small bow and a target made of tightly bound straw. The boy's eyes lit up with a fierce excitement, and Erik knew without a doubt he had chosen well.

The very next day, Erik began teaching him to control a mount with nothing but his feet. He guided the boy's movements carefully, planting subtle muscle memories that would grow into instinct with every passing ride. Each day, Sven became more fluid, more attuned to the rhythm of horse and body as one.

From that day forward, Erik took on the task of shaping Sven into something this world had never seen: a cavalry archer. Not even the Dothraki—whose legends had yet to be born in this land—could claim such mastery. Here, in this quiet corner of the world, a new kind of warrior was taking shape.

The other children — not as gifted, perhaps — still learned to read and write, to track and to calculate. They too would become useful as they would become clerks, aides, assistants — pieces in a design only Erik could fully see.

If only they knew of the horror of the modern world I am bringing to their simple world, Erik thought, watching the children scratch letters on their notebooks. Here I am, quietly inventing red tape in a world untouched by paperwork. Gods help them the day they realize I've also created the job of "clerk." They'll think it's sorcery that turns simple tasks into week-long quests and infinite frustrations.
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[Hordac]

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[Hordac]

Ch 8

It had been two months since Erik had arrived in the village and things had settled into a routine and he had begun to feel restless.

Villagers were happy to have him around. He cured their wounds, helped them in numerous small ways, kept their kids busy in their school activity and his warg beasts continuously brought venison for them. Several of the parents of his students had asked to be taught to read, write and do simple maths and had joined his class. He'd encouraged this behavior by giving them more venison than others as he wanted a few villagers capable of running the class in his absence.

One evening, Erik sat outside the long hall, staring into the dying embers of the hearth fire. The horizon was painted in streaks of purple and gold, and the sea below whispered its eternal song. His fingers traced idly in the dirt, contemplating the invisible walls of his comfortable new life. Part of him knew that for all the blessings he should be happy and content but his mind just wouldn't sit still and be happy with the progress he's made here in the village.

He wanted to do more. On a much grander scale.

Helga approached silently, her apprentices including Gertrud trailing behind her.

"You've done so much good here," she said softly, settling beside him. "But I can see it in your eyes—you're restless."

He nodded, offering a faint smile. "I've healed the wounds, mended the tools, helped the village where I could. Even built a wonderful huge house and started a school. But I feel… like there's more I can do, I know it."

Gertrude studied him in the flickering firelight. "Perhaps it's time to seek out the truth of your powers, beyond what you've already learned. The world is vast, and your gifts are rare. You need to have a talk with the green seer. He will guide you"

Erik exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of her words. "You're right. I've been so focused on helping here, I forgot that my journey was never meant to end in comfort in a small village. I need to find why I was granted these powers to understand who I truly am and what I am meant to be"

He stood, stretching his limbs and feeling strength in his muscles. "Tomorrow, I will go to heart tree. And perhaps… I'll find some long-awaited answers that I too was uncomfortable knowing to answers to until now"

Helga nodded, a hint of pride and concern in her eyes.

"Be careful, Erik. The old gods..." She trailed off, as if the words themselves were dangerous. "But I believe you'll do what's right."

As darkness settled, Erik gazed out over the sea once more, the stars beginning to prick the night sky. His mind was already racing with possibilities—hidden groves, ancient ruins, creatures yet unseen.

the air within the Gods wood was different. It was not merely quiet, but listening. The rustle of the red leaves of the great weir wood was a language Erik was beginning to understand. He had been here for a moon's turn, a stranger in a familiar world, his modern mind housed in a local body gifted by forces he called the Old Gods for lack of a better term.

He was alive and living a fantasy that many dreamed of. He had powers. The village he'd settled in respected and revered him. But it was not enough. He was a tool without a wielder, a weapon without a war. He needed answers. He needed a purpose. And he knew only one entity in this world could provide it.

He had tried to listen before, to feel a presence, but had only found silence. Today, he would not ask. He would demand, with an offering of blood and a flare of will that could not be ignored.

He stood before the heart tree, its carved face weeping slow, scarlet tears. His offering was simple: his own Blood. He willed small gashes to open in his palms and as blood began coming out that he smeared on the heart tree.

"To the Gods who see," he began, his voice low but steady, cutting through the silence. "To the Singers in the earth and the Greenseer in the roots. I have heard your whispers in the wind. I have felt your power in the soil. You brought me here, a soul from another world, and you gave me these gifts."

He knelt, pressing his palms flat against the roots of the tree. He closed his eyes, not in prayer, but in focus. He pushed his consciousness down, through the roots, through the stone, following the ley lines of power that crisscrossed Westeros. He was a signal, flaring in the dark, seeking a receiver.

I am here. I am listening. Speak to me. He thought guide me

For a long time, there was only the vast, empty silence of the deep earth. Then, a presence. It was immense, ancient, and weary, like a mountain that had learned to think. It noticed his flicker of consciousness, not with surprise, but with a slow, tectonic curiosity.

"I seek the Greenseer. I seek the one who sees from the roots." Erik muttered

A voice, dry as autumn leaves and deep as a root-choked well, echoed not in his ears, but in the core of his being.

'You are a root that has broken through from another soil. A graft upon our ancient and vast web of trees. Why have you come to the deep grove?'

'I was planted here by a hand I cannot see. I have been given water and sun, but I do not know toward which sky I am to grow. I have power, but no purpose. I need to know what you want from me.' Erik replied

'Brace yourself' the voice intoned 'Behold'

Images flooded his mind, swift and brutal. A Wall of ice, bleeding cold. Blue eyes shining in a blizzard. A great winter, never ending, that would extinguish all song and memory. He felt the immense, crushing weight of the task to come.

The Cold breathes upon the world. The song of life is its enemy. You are a new verse, unwritten. Unbound by the old rhymes. You can see the pattern from outside the loom.

'So I am a weapon? To be used against the Cold ones?' Erik thought

'A weapon? No. A weapon is a dead thing, wielded by another. I offer you a choice. To be a champion. To be a vessel for the memory of the earth, a warden of the green and growing things. The power you hold is a sapling. It can become a forest… or it can wither and stagnate by living your peaceful life in this village and later dying naturally of old age'

A choice. It was more than he had hoped for.

'And if I choose this? If I pledge myself as your champion, as the champion of the Earth and the Old Gods of this land? What then?' Erik wondered.

The presence seemed to sharpen, to focus on him with the intensity of a thousand watching eyes.

Then the pact is sealed. Your sight will pierce the veils of dream and time. The strength of the stone and the endurance of the ironwood will be in your bones. But a champion must be bound to his purpose. A sigil of covenant, for the world to see and for you to remember.

Erik did not hesitate.

'I accept the pact. I will be your champion. I will shepherd these people to a better life. I will stand against the cold and the silence. Let my life be a verse in the great song' Erik declared

'So be it'

For a moment, there was nothing. Then, a surge of power, raw and green and ancient, flooded up from the earth through his kneeling form. It was painful and overwhelming, like becoming a river after being a stream. He felt his senses expand; he could hear the worms burrowing deep beneath him, feel the thirst of the trees for miles around.

And then, a sensation like cool, tracing ivy began to bloom on his skin. He felt it start at his fingertips and the soles of his feet—a faint, tingling energy that began to travel inward. Along his arms and legs, fine, intricate lines of powerful runes etched themselves into his flesh, a network of runic script too swift and complex for his eyes to follow. He felt a single, delicate line trace up the nape of his neck, branching subtly across his scalp beneath his hair, a hidden crown of power. All the lines, thin and shimmering with a faint emerald light, converged in a silent, focused rush towards the center of his chest, right over his heart. There was a final, soft pulse of warmth, and the sensation ceased.

The presence began to recede.

'Go then, Champion. The long night is far away but it is coming. Remember your vow. We are watching. We will be sending a few singers or as you call them children of the forest your way. They have help you many ways'

The connection snapped. Erik was back in the Godswood, on his knees, panting. The world seemed brighter, sharper, more alive. He looked at his hands. At first glance, his skin seemed unmarked. But as he turned his wrist to the dappled light, he saw them: thin, elegant lines like veins of emerald, tracing from his fingernails up his forearm. They were not raised like scars, but seemed to be within the skin, glowing with a subtle, inner light. He pulled open his tunic. On his chest, over his heart, the converging lines formed a complex, circular knot of runes, pulsing softly with a steady, verdant rhythm.

He stood, a new strength in his limbs. He no longer felt like he was a lost soul. He was Erik, the Rune marked, the Champion of the Weir wood. The paths of power were now written on his very flesh. And he had a near savage group people to uplift and eventually a war to prepare for.

New sensations were being felt by him. He flet as if he was connected to everything in nature, to the ear, to the sky, to the sea. He could feel more energy coursing through him. He could also sense all life around him for some distance like a radar.

The emerald runes on his chest were a cool, constant pressure against his skin, a reminder of the covenant that now bound him. The power that hummed within him felt deeper, more settled, like a river that had found its true bed. His purpose was no longer a question; it was a path laid out before him, and the first steps began here, in the familiar places.

'And I know just the perfect place to start' Erik thought

He found his way to the village paddock, the scent of hay, horse, and damp earth a welcome anchor after the dizzying heights of the godswood. His eyes went immediately to his trusty mare, Luna. Her coat, the color of a moonlit cloud, seemed to glow in the afternoon light. She whickered softly in greeting, trotting to the fence and nudging his chest with her velvety nose, right over the pulsing runes. He felt a thrum of connection, deeper than before—a thread of understanding that passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the change in him.

"That's right, girl," he murmured, running his hands along her neck. "It's still me."

It was then he saw the other horse. A tall, old stallion, his once-dark coat now heavily flecked with grey, his frame still proud but lean with age. He stood a respectful distance away, but his ears were pricked forward, watching Luna and Erik with a quiet, intelligent interest. There was no aggression, only a kind of weary companionship.

He was the reason Erik was here today after all. The chief's old stallion. The only other horse in the entire village.

"Who's your friend?" Erik asked Luna, scratching behind her ears. "Is he good?"

He opened his senses, not just with his eyes, but through the new, green-tinged awareness the weirwood had granted him. He felt the bond between the two horses—not the fiery passion of young mates, but a deep, settled affection. A companionship of two solitary souls who had found comfort in each other. Luna's emotional accent in his mind was one of contentment, of peaceful acceptance.

She likes him, he realized. She's not lonely anymore.

An idea, brilliant and fully formed, blossomed in his mind. It was more than a thought; it was a blueprint, delivered on a wave of instinctual understanding from his enhanced powers.

He looked at the old stallion, truly looked at him. He saw the ghost of the powerful warhorse he must have been, the strength in his bones, the dignity in his bearing, all shackled by the relentless decay of age.

Why stop at healing? the idea whispered. Why not renew?

He would not just heal this old stallion. He would rejuvenate him. He would scour the age from his cells, reverse the decay in his joints, stoke the dimmed fire of his vitality into a roaring blaze. He would craft him into a young, powerful stallion, a true match for Luna in spirit and body. A partner for her, and a sire for a new, stronger generation of horses for the Free Folk.

And he would do it here, in the open, for all to see.

This would be his first true miracle as the Runemarked. Not merely healing but a public act of creation. A show of power so profound it would shatter their understanding of what was possible. It was a message, not to the horses, but to every man and woman watching: The old gods have a new champion and I hold the power to defy the chaos and the long winters. Even the decay of age itself.

"Stay here, Luna," he said softly, his voice firm with newfound resolve.

He would not just heal this old stallion. He would rejuvenate him. He would scour the age from his cells, reverse the decay in his joints, stoke the dimmed fire of his vitality into a roaring blaze. He would craft him into a young, powerful stallion, a true match for Luna in spirit and body.

And he would do it here, in the open, for all to see.

He spotted a young stable boy, one of his older students, Torbjorn, gaping at him from the fence. "Torbjorn!" Erik called, his voice cutting through the quiet. Torbjorn jumped. "Run along now and go and fetch Chief Frode and the elders. Tell them to come quickly. What happens next, they must see for themselves."

The boy didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled away, his feet kicking up puffs of dust as he sprinted toward the longhouse.

Erik turned back to the old stallion. He would wait. Let the audience assemble. Let the anticipation build. He stood calmly, a hand on Luna's neck, feeling the buzz of confusion and excitement spread through the villagers who were already gathering. By the time Chief Frode, Helga, Gonir, one eye korb, Grumpy Agnar, the grizzled old Ullar and the other elders arrived, a small crowd had formed, their murmurs a low, anxious hum.

Frode's brow was furrowed. "Erik? What is it? The boy said it was urgent. Is my horse sick again? "

"It is urgent and Thor is fine. In fact, he's why I have gathered you all here" Erik said, his voice calm but carrying. "You have all seen me heal wounds. You have seen me grow a house from a tree. But the power granted to me goes deeper than that. The long harsh winter that consumes all life, that feeds on decay and weakness. To stand against it, we must be able to defy decay itself."

He gestured to the old stallion. "This loyal heart is shackled by time. Watch now, as I break those shackles."

The paddock fell completely silent.

Erik placed his hands on the stallion's flank, the runes on his own arms beginning to glow with a faint, pulsating green light. He closed his eyes.

He saw it all—the arthritic joints, the clouding eyes, the tired heart. It was a map of entropy. And Erik began to redraw it.

'It's easier to wield my powers now' Erik thought marveling at the ease 'and much more power efficient and smooth as well. I can do twice maybe three times more than before.'

"What is the Green Man doing with Old Thor?" Elder Agnar muttered angrily "That horse can barely pull a cart. Is he going to put him down?"

Erik ignored them. He placed his hands on the stallion's flank, the runes on his own arms seeming to pulse in sync with the animal's labored heartbeat. He closed his eyes and dove inward.

He saw it all—the arthritic joints, the clouding eyes, the tired heart, the muscles withered by time. It was a map of entropy. And Erik began to redraw it.

He didn't just accelerate the body's natural healing; he commanded it to remember. He found the pristine, youthful template encoded deep within the stallion's cells and, with a surge of power that made the runes on his chest flare with visible green light, he imposed that memory upon its present form.

Gasps erupted from the crowd as the visible transformation began...

Before their eyes, the grey hairs began to darken, melting away into a rich, glossy bay. The sagging flesh tightened, sculpting itself over suddenly swelling muscle. The stallion shuddered, a deep, full-body tremor, and let out a sharp, powerful snort. His spine straightened, his head lifted high, and a fiery light returned to his eyes. The knobbly joints in his legs smoothed out, the hooves that had been chipped and worn regrew strong and dark. The transformation was not silent; it was accompanied by the soft, wet sounds of reshaping tissue and the crackle of energy that made the air smell of ozone and fresh-turned earth.

In less than a minute, it was done.

Where Old Thor had stood, there was now a magnificent stallion in his prime. He tossed his magnificent head, his mane and tail flowing like black silk, his body a monument of equine power. He pranced in place, his energy boundless, before turning to nuzzle Erik's hand with a force that was entirely new.

The paddock was utterly silent, save for the stallion's excited breathing and Luna's soft, approving whicker.

Then Gonir's voice, cracked with awe, broke the silence. "By all the gods... he didn't just heal him. He... un-aged him."

Erik turned to face the stunned villagers. His gaze swept over them, but he specifically sought out the older faces—the grizzled hunters whose reflexes were slowing, the weavers whose eyesight was failing, the elders who sat by the fire waiting for the end. He saw the dawning, impossible hope in their eyes.

"This power," Erik announced, his voice carrying clearly, "is a gift from the earth, from the Old Gods who see that things must change and are willing to become part of the change. It is not just for mending wounds. It is for forging strength."

He patted the rejuvenated stallion's powerful neck. "Age is a cage. I have the key." He let his words hang in the air, watching the idea take root. "I am leaving this village soon. My path leads me to all the Free Folk, to unite them, heal them, to defend the weak, and bring them prosperity. It is a task too great for one man."

He looked directly at an old, one-eyed hunter named Korb, who had once been the village's finest tracker. He'd refused to get his eye healed "I need wisdom. I need skill. I need those who remember the old ways and have the strength to teach them again."

He saw the understanding flash in Korb's single, keen eye. The offer was unspoken but clear: I can give you back your youth, your strength, your purpose. In exchange, you leave this comfort and follow me on my adventure.

Erik turned and walked back to Luna, leaving the rejuvenated stallion—a living, breathing miracle—as his argument. The seed had been planted. He had shown them a future where the winter of their lives could be spring again. Now, he would see who was brave enough, or desperate enough, to reach for it.

He looked directly at the older faces in the crowd—the grizzled hunters whose reflexes were slowing, the weavers whose eyesight was failing. He let his gaze rest finally on the two most respected elders: Gonir and Helga.

He saw the understanding flash in their eyes. The offer was unspoken but clear. He decided to make it explicit, starting with the two he trusted most. He nodded to them and they nodded back.

He left the paddock and the villagers there.

'Let them think it over' Erik thought 'See who's interested'

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