Hrafn – Age 11
The sweat from Hrafn's forehead mixed with his tears as they were racing down his face. The smell of ash and burning meat filled his nostrils. Sod made his auburn hair greasy.
'Mother! Father!' Hrafn called out to his parents, but they did not seem to have escaped the inferno.
Hrafn was only able to escape because his father had told him to hide in the pigpen. And from there, he could see how his father tried to climb out from beneath the heavy, burning pieces of wood.
He wanted nothing more than to run to his parents' aid, but he couldn't move – frozen in place, his muscles not wanting to do, what his brain told them to.
Hrafn's father had now managed to remove some of the burning wooden poles. He was out, free from the fire – lying on his back on the cold ground. Suddenly Hrafn came to his senses and he ran out from the pigpen, towards his father. But he almost couldn't recognize him. The fire had damaged his body, almost beyond recognition. But he still maintained consciousness.
'He's over here! The boy!' A man shouted from within the darkness of the night. Two other men soon joined him. Hrafn could not see their faces, whether it was because of the dark, the distance or the water in his eyes he didn't know. Maybe it was a combination of it all.
The men drew closer and again, Hrafn was frozen in place – knowing all too well, that these were the men responsible for the fire, and the death of his mother.
'Look… He's still alive,' said the man who had called for the others, 'take care of this problem' – he said as he gestured for one of his men to move forward. And he did. His companion, a man with a big scar from his right ear to the corner of his mouth, around the same age as Hrafn's father, drew his sword from its scabbard. An old iron sword, not a sharp-looking one either – but it was still very deadly. He then spoke to the burned man on the ground:
'Arni Biornsson… Finally you're at the pointy end of the blade – as you should be, old friend.'
Even though Arni's body had been destroyed by the fire and he knew that his end was nigh, he still had the courage to look The Scarred Man in the eye.
'I am no friend of yours. Do what you think is right.' Arni barely had time to finish his sentence before the Scarred Man had lifted his sword, and plunged it deep into his victim's chest, piercing the breastbone, with a stomach-turning crunch.
Hrafn collapsed over his father's body, a stream of tears flowing from his eyes, and his screams flying from his lungs.
'I am sorry for your loss, child' the Man in charge said, before the three men turn around and started to walk away.
Out of the corner of his eye, Hrafn saw his father's axe, lying in the ashes of the house. Untouched by the fire. Hrafn saw it as a sign; he scrambled over and picked it up. He then charged at the three men, screaming, not only in pain but also with anger. The men turned to see the young boy charging them with the battleaxe, but they didn't see a threat. The Scarred Man simply stepped to the side. Hrafn missed his strike and lost his balance, which he would have regained had it not been for the Scarred Man's fist hitting his face.
As Hrafn was looking up at the Man from the ground, who had now drawn his sword once more, he was certain that this was also his time. Too die with his mother and father by their farmhouse.
The third man, who had not said a word until now, then spoke:
'No, don't! He's just a boy, he has not done any harm too the Order…'
'No, not yet Frode – But he will' the Scarred Man replied.
'Æskil please, stop him from doing this. This isn't right!' the Quiet Man said. It was as if Frode had planted a seed of doubt in the Scarred Man's head, for he looked toward the Leader "Æskil".
'Let him live – We've scared him enough to keep him away from their Order.' The Leader said.
Hrafn sat by his father's side the rest of the night. He had given up looking for his mother's charred remains, as he figured that they would be nothing more than ash. The house had stopped burning and Hrafn was starting to feel the cold grasp of the night. But he couldn't care less. He kept sitting there by the soulless body. All he could think about was the three men.
Æskil was their leader.
Frode was the quiet one.
And then there was the man with the scarred face. He did not know his name. Not yet.
The sun was now rising again. Hrafn could have sworn the sun was redder than usual.
'Hrafn!'
A man came running towards him and his father. The man wore a light brown leather coat over white tunic, a fur hoodie, brown trousers, leather boots and had a long "broken-back seax" strapped to his leather belt. He had blonde hair that reached the tip of his ears as well a moustache that reached down to his jaw. He was 21 years of age. 'My name is Laurentius, but you can call me Lalli'
Hrafn remembered that name. His father had mentioned him once to during a conversation with his mother. Lalli was supposed to be skilled, in what he hadn't heard, and a good man.
'Come with me Hrafn. I knew your father, you can trust me!'