Rebirth
If you do not come home with your sword in hand, then you do not deserve to come home.
Those are the words that had been drilled into him as a child. Your shield may be shattered by the blows of the enemy, and your armor torn and bloody from the fighting, but to return home without your sword was the ultimate act of cowardice. To leave the weapon of your fathers at the feet of an enemy to preserve your yellow belly was the worst shame imaginable, one that could never be overcome or forgiven.
And so he marched to war with his hand always tight on the hilt of his sword, never letting it fall from his grasp. Towering above his head, the mighty warriors of the North had nodded in approval, one of the few acts of recognition that the half-breed boy had ever received from the great men around him. The glow of acceptance lay kindled in the boy's heart as he marched in his rattling and oversized armor to bring glory to their family and clan. It should have been his father marching with the others, but that giant of a man was dead now, and so the duty had fallen upon his oldest son – the one he had forced upon a captured slave of the southern climes, the one who shared her dark-spun hair the colour of raven wings.
He was little more than a young boy, having never lead a hunt nor known the pleasures of a woman, but the hair on his chin proclaimed him to be a man – even if it was one who struggled daily to overcome his weakling blood. So to prove himself, he marched to the beat of the drums and his pounding heart in perfect step with the rest of the host, and lifted his strong voice in the battle songs with the others. He marched to glory.
He marched into an ambush.
The battle was brief and bloody. He saw nothing but the whirl of steel, and heard nothing but the singing of steel and the cries of the dying. Lunging forward as the body of a comrade fell to his feet, his blade sunk deep before it was unsheathed once again, now christened in violence and blood of the enemy. Raising his voice in triumph, he didn't see the axe until it bit deep into his stomach, filling his body with a burning fire that was soothed only when unconsciousness swept him away on its wings.
* * *
The heavy oppressive stench of the dead greeted him as he woke. Soon after followed the dull aching pain that radiated outwards from his stomach. His hand was still clenched around the hilt of his bloodied sword, and he pressed a hand to his stomach and raised it shakily to his eyes, seeing the crimson of his lifeblood before him. He breathed in deeply before swallowing a sharp curse of pain, tasting blood on his lips and smelling the stench of the dead man lying on top of him, pressing him into the muddy ground.
"Arise, Belias."
The young warrior froze at the thought that caressed his mind with the softness of a mother's hand, and his mouth twisted with pain. Shoving aside the carcass above him with the last strength in his arms, he flinched back with a groan in the frost-tinged air, falling to the ground and watching the ravens circle endlessly above.
"Arise!"
The blow of whirling blue surrounded him, leaving no sense of self, only that of the soft yet awesome voice that whispered loud enough to drown out the sound of his thundering heartbeat.
"The sacrifice of blood brings power and does not go unnoticed. Arise. You are chosen for more in this life."
Floating, suspended, cradled in the air by that powerful sibilant voice, he gasped in the void of nothingness, the only sensation coming from the tight grasp of his hand on his father's sword.
"Tasks you will be given to accomplish in the Architect's designs. Power you will be given to accomplish the tasks."
Strands of power made up every single colour that has ever crossed his eyes drew his arms and legs outstretched before crawling up his body, plunging into the gaping wound in his stomach with a sensation that was at once both burning pain and overwhelming pleasure. Filling him up, strengthening his body, it cannot be ignored, but he finds that he does not want to ignore, only wants more of that touch.
"The fire does not consume. It converts. The cunning warrior does not charge in. He schemes for all possibilities."
The pain burning in his belly was gone now, replaced by the coiling feeling of power that made him tremble in want of more. His eyes are wide open, seeing nothing in that emptiness but nevertheless trying to learn and understand what was happening to him.
"Hear now, Faithful one. We are the Great Scheme. We are the Changer of Ways. We are Tzeentch. Know that, and become what you were meant to be."
The boy smiled and let the fires inside kindle and burn bright, crowing in triumph as ebony wings enfolded him in their protective grasp.
* * *
The drums called out to him as he reached home.
Belias paused at the outskirts of the village until the guards came to escort him to the great hall, where the chief would be sitting on his throne of furs before the fire. He followed them without a word, ignoring the curious eyes, and carried through the door when the chief's protector held open the caribou hide flap for him.
Eyes wide in surprise, the chief stood at the sight, draping a fine wolf-pelt over his broad shoulders as he straightened to his towering height. When he spoke, his voice was gruff, though curiosity lay just beneath the surface. "You are Belias, and you have come home."
"I am Belias, and I have come home with my sword," he answered in the rote reply. Pausing for a moment, his hand stroking the raven's feather in his belt, the young man suddenly looked up into his chief's eyes, and the grin that split his face was suddenly wide and slightly mad. "And I have brought change with me."