BEGINNING
The man grunted and heaved with effort as he dragged his hoe across the soil. Making the soil ready for harvest after winter was always the hardest work, as the soil would be more frozen than usual due to the colder temperatures and constant snow.
However, the man persevered, ignoring the ache in his arms and the sweat flowing down his forehead and into his eyes. If he chose to slack off, then the village would have less food to eat, and there were many hungry mouths to feed.
In the distance, the man's fellow tribespeople moved about their usual business. Some struck up conversations with each other about their personal affairs or how the hunts and harvests have been bearing fruit or not. Others did their chores, be it cleaning the furs to be made into winter clothes, sharpening their weapons and tools, cooking the harvests or hunts, or helping the recently arrived hunting party to haul in whatever game they scored into the campgrounds.
However, regardless of whatever activity they were doing, there was no denying that there was a strong sense of unification and camaraderie among the villagers, as all of them knew they needed to be united against the cold and terrifying dangers of the Freljord.
The Freljord was a threat to them all, but it was also their home, and they could only prosper through union, for having dissension amongst themselves would only single themselves out as targets for nature to pick off one-by-one.
As the man paused to wipe the sweat off his brow, a woman stepped out of the little cottage beside the field he was working on and stared at him, smiling as she watched him take a breather. Her face was weathered and scarred from previous unfortunate run-ins with dangers such as wolves and her hair was brown and short. Her stomach was big and round, but only because there was someone resting inside it, waiting to be birthed. Round her finger was a ring, one that signified her marriage to someone else. And that someone else was the man standing in that field across her.
She stayed silent for a few more moments, then opened her mouth and called out, "Are you working hard, or hardly working, Harris?"
Harris turned to the woman, a smile breaking across his face when he saw her. "I'm sure it's the former, Dovey." He replied, walking over to her and giving her a peck on the cheek before putting a hand on her pregnant belly. "Shouldn't you be resting?"
Dovelyn laughed as she gave Harris a light punch on the arm, causing the man to wince a little due to the added pain to the already existing soreness. "I'll be fine, you big sap. Stop worrying your head off."
Harris smiled at his wife, now rubbing her belly. "I know you're the toughest woman in the whole of Runeterra, but you know you need to take more rests now that you're constantly carrying a heavy load with you."
Dovelyn gave Harris a mock-glare, her brown eyes seeming to pierce through the man's very soul. "Harris Axel Pedersen, don't you dare call our little darling a load."
Harris sighed. "Seriously, don't strain yourself so much. Sitting around and singing lullabies for our wee babe isn't going to kill you."
Dovelyn opened her mouth to retort, but one of the other tribesmen called for Harris, asking for his assistance with pulling a great bear's carcass into the camp. Harris responded that he would be there soon, then turned back to his wife to peck her on the cheek again. "I'll be back soon, dearest." He said as he went off to join the hunters in pulling the bear's great hide past the wooden barriers and into the campgrounds.
As he jogged off, however, he didn't notice his wife's sudden cry, and he didn't see her bend over in pain, placing a hand on her belly as she struggled to stay on her feet.
HARRIS
The bear certainly was great. Harris took one look at it and predicted that it would be able to keep the tribe fed for at least a week or two. As he helped the five other hunters carry it to the butcher's hut, they joked with him that while he was willing to get his hands dirty in work like this, he was far too soft-spoken to be a proper hunter. Harris ignored their attempts at belittling him and responded that he loved animals too much, and the very act of assisting them with carrying this bear's carcass was already making him sick.
"You really are a big sap." One of the hunters, his name being Gunnar, remarked. "How did a lass like Dovelyn end up with you?"
"Probably because he's the only one of you svaag men who actually cares to shower." Another hunter, this one being a female and going by the name of Sigrid, scoffed, wrinkling her nose at the stench that emanated from the three other hunters in her company.
The four men chuckled, with the hunters teasing Sigrid about her feminine standards. Harris had half a mind to join in when Freya, a mutual friend of his and Dovelyn's ran up, an urgent glint in her eyes as she took Harris' arm.
"Harris, it's Dovelyn." She spoke, her voice laced entirely with anxiety and excitement. "She's gone into labour."
DOVELYN
Dovelyn cried out in absolute anguish as she tightened her grip on the hand of Bjorn, the tribe's shaman. Bjorn did not wince nor try to pull his hand out of the woman's tight grasp. Instead, the elderly leaned in, whispering soothing and comforting words to the soon-to-be mother.
"Stay calm, child." He whispered sombrely, his voice slightly raspy, yet emitting a comforting effect. "Everything will be alright."
Dovelyn cried out again, the pain of labour causing her stubborn nature to rise up. "Don't tell me what to do!" She screamed, though she did begin to take deep breaths to try and cope with the near-unbearable pain she was currently experiencing.
The door burst open, and Harris hurried to his wife's side. "Dovelyn? Dovelyn? Oh, gods…"
Dovelyn's face was flushed and sweaty, and she screamed again as the pain spiked again. One of the healers rushed into the room with a purplish herb, presenting it to Bjorn with two hands. "Shaman, the requested herb."
Dovelyn caught a brief glimpse of the herb, and though her mind was hazy with pain, she recognised it as a Frostthrosh, a herb used to lull people into a comatose state of sleep. It was usually used whenever the healers of the tribe needed to perform complex operations or surgeries.
"Excellent." Bjorn signalled for Harris to take over his role as an outlet for Dovelyn to vent her pain on. Harris nodded, letting his wife squeeze his hand tightly. Bjorn got to work quickly, grinding the Frostthrosh into fine powder. He scooped up a handful, then placed it into a bowl, preparing the concoction for Dovelyn to consume.
After a few minutes, he calmly presented the bowl to Dovelyn, motioning to it with a wrinkled hand.
"If you would please, Dovelyn, drink it."
The pregnancy took minutes that felt like an eternity. But eventually, the shaman held a small, healthy baby in his arms, wrapping it in warm cloth and passing it to Dovelyn when she demanded to hold her child.
"Congratulations," he said quietly, watching as Dovelyn and Harris looked down at their child in awe and wonder. "It's a girl."
In her mother's arms, the baby's cries softened as she calmed down, her crying reducing to soft babbling as she began to open her eyes. Father and mother leaned in close to watch their little girl look up at them for the first time, and their brown eyes locked in with their baby's as the baby's eyelids slowly rose.
And then Dovelyn gasped.
The baby's eyes were orange, not brown like her mother's, nor was it black like her father's. When the baby softly babbled again, Dovelyn realised how warm the baby now felt in her arms. The baby began to whine, possibly due to the discomfort of the warmth she was experiencing, prompting Dovelyn to hastily remove the blankets that were wrapped around the infant's tiny body. Bjorn perked up at Dovelyn's action, and hurried over to her side.
"What are you doing?" He asked confusedly, bewildered of Dovelyn's apparent action of depriving her child of warmth, which was very essential for newborn children. "She needs to be warm."
Dovelyn looked over at the elderly man, her expression showing her desperation for an explanation as to why her child had an unnatural eye colour and was already extremely warm. "Shaman, this baby is already quite hot by her own. Covering her with blankets will suffocate her in heat."
Bjorn's brows knotted together, and he reached out for the child. "Give her to me." He made sure to keep his tone friendly and to make his statement sound more like a request rather than a demand, so as to not alarm the child's parents.
Dovelyn complied with the seer's hidden command, and Bjorn's keen eyes searched the baby's features, immediately taking ij the baby's orange eyes that seemed to almost glow in the light of the torches. Her temperature was indeed warmer than the typical and expected temperature of a newborn, and when he looked at the baby's innocent face again, he found brown marks etching themselves on the baby's face and spreading down her neck and arms. When Bjorn turned the baby around to check her back, he found the brown marks going down the baby's back, forming an elaborate symbol in the centre of the small area of soft flesh.
"Gods above," Bjorn said hoarsely when realisation struck him as to what the symbol on the baby's back meant. "She has been marked by the false firebringer."
Harris looked at Bjorn increduously while Dovelyn groaned with dread. "False firebringer?" The man said, not quite grasping the term due to not hearing that many tall tales and ancient Freljordian history during his childhood. "What's that?"
Bjorn sighed as he gently handed the baby back to Dovelyn's outstretched arms, the baby continuing to babble innocently as she remained oblivious to the tension around her. "Years ago, when the Three Sisters were still alive, they faced many great enemies who sought to dethrone them of their power, to take it all for themselves.
"After a millenia at least, the fighting seemed to never end, and the sisters sought help from the being known as Ornn. Ornn was a brilliant inventor, and he assisted the sisters by first building a hole for the enemies of the sisters to be trapped in, and later a bridge over the abyss. However, one of the sisters, Serylda, privately consulted Ornn, demanding a weapon that would bring total destruction to the foes she faced so that the fight would come to a permanent end. Perhaps enticed by the thought of eternal peace, or strongarmed by Serylda into complying, Ornn created a being forged of pure fire and molten lava. The creature of fire fulfilled its purpose so well to the point that its name was forgotten and it became known as the firebringer."
Bjorn paused for a moment to recall more of the myth before continuing, "Like I said before, the firebringer served its purpose well, almost too well. When Ornn saw the destruction and death it razed upon the Freljord's land, he knew he could not let it continue to roam about freely. So he lured it to the mountains that were too hot for even him to endure.
"He trapped the firebringer inside, hoping that his biggest regret would burn in the intense heat that nearly burned him. But even though his plan worked, and the flesh of the firebringer began melting to nothing in the heat, it swore a curse that it would return one day to raze the entire Freljord to the ground, for if it couldn't be free to roam the snowy land, it wouldn't let anyone else do so."
Harris looked at Bjorn with wide eyes, then looked down at his daughter, who was now cooing happily in her mother's arms, trying to grab one of Dovelyn's fingers with her little hands. "So the legends are true? The firebringer is real?"
Bjorn tried to keep a straight face, but some small features in his expression betrayed his unwillingness in what he was going to do. "There is only one way we can find out," he said, reaching out to once again retake the baby. "We have to consult the gods themselves."
[[[[[]]]]]
Dovelyn hated consulting the gods.
In all honesty, she thought that the whole soothsaying thing was nothing but old superstition that had no relevance to modern life in the Freljord. The gods, if there had ever been any, were already gone, and the mortals like her were left to fend for themselves. Since she herself was a child, Dovelyn never really believed in the tales about the Three Sisters and other mythical monsters, and as she grew up, she dismissed prophecies as nothing but a bunch of hogwash, and always avoided hearing any.
And since she unfortunately lived in a tribe who believed in superstitions, she often volunteered to go for hunting trips when she wasn't pregnant, or simply made sure she wasn't in close proximity with whatever supernatural shenanigans the tribe shamans were up to. Seeing was believing, after all.
However, this new development with her child was forcing her to believe what she had avoided for so long.
"This can't be real, there's no way this can be real." She whispered to herself as two healers by her side stroked her hand gently, trying to calm the distressed mother. Surely this was a dream, right? Her mind wondered as it desperately tried to deny the reality its owner was facing.
The healers looked worried, concerned that Dovelyn was going delirious from the aftereffect of childbirth and the stress of discovering that her baby could possibly be an avatar of an ancient being who was long dead.
"Easy, Dove, easy." One healer softly spoke, grabbing a moist rag from a nearby tub and gently dabbing the mother's sweaty and hot forehead. "There's no use in denying it, it is what it is."
Sure, the statement was not the best thing to say to a woman who was near hysterics, but at that point, the truth, no matter how cold and harsh it was, needed to be made clear.
Dovelyn let out another soft wail and covered her face in her hands, covering the tears that were beginning to well in her eyes. "What will they do?" She asked, though it was ambiguous as to whether she was addressing the healers or was just simply talking to herself in her state of hysteria. "What will they do to my child now?"
She would find out soon enough, for the ritual was about to begin. Due to having just given birth, she was too weak to watch the proceedings, but Dovelyn wasn't sure whether not seeing it was better or worse for her.
HARRIS
Harris watched in slight awe as the shamans of the tribe placed the infant, who was beginning to get fussy now that the presence of her mother was absent, in the middle of a large drawing that was drawn in some black chalk, hardly visible on the oak floor, especially given the rather dim lighting in the place, with the only sources of light being the torches that hung on the walls.
The ritual shack, also known as the temple, was rather spacious, for the tribe was rather traditional and strongly believed in everything the shamans said, thus dedicating a large plot of land to the building of the ritual and prayer grounds and installing two of their best men as its guards. Across the entrance, behind the chalk drawing, were three shrines, undoubtedly dedicated to the Three Sisters, Avarosa, Serylda, and Lissandra. Each shrine had lit fires, and offerings, mainly food, had been placed in the fire, being burnt to each of the sisters.
There was another shrine to the side, dedicated to Ornn, and it had similar offerings and design to the shrines of the Three Sisters. On the walls were where the lit torches were, and they were the only things providing light in the dark room. The building was made entirely out of wood, and didn't allow much light in save for the wide entrance.
The baby fussed as she was placed in the centre of the chalk. She had been wrapped up in blankets again, and given her already warm body temperature, she wasn't too happy about having to be made warmer than she already was.
An elderly woman stepped forward to the top of the chalk drawing. She was hunched over and needed a cane to walk, but the top of the cane contained a shard that shone a bright blue. The markings on her weathered and aged face made her recognisable as the head shaman. She tapped her cane on the ground twice, the object making a loud sound as it connected with the hard floor, instantly commanding the attention of everyone else in the room.
"Let us begin." She spoke, her voice was no louder than a raspy whisper, but it somehow seemed to be louder than every other sound around Harris.
The other shamans nodded, and stood around the edges of the chalk drawing. They lowered their heads, clasping their hands together in prayer as they began to chant in a dialect unfamiliar to Harris' ears.
As they chanted, the head shaman raised her cane in the air, saying some prayer of sorts in the same dialect that the others were using. As she continued to speak, her voice seemed to get more powerful, and the shard on her cane glowed brighter with each passing second. The chants also began to get louder, and the chalk drawing began to glow from black to white. The baby, sensing something about to happen, stopped fussing about the blankets and began to cry. The glowing light scared her, and she wanted her mother's and father's comforting embrace.
Harris stepped forward as if to take his daughter away from the chalk drawing, but one of the temple's guards placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it, silently telling the man that it was best to not intervene in the proceedings. Harris clenched his fists in worry, but forced himself to stay where he was. There was some clamour behind him as some tribespeople tried to step into the temple, interested in watching what was going on. More and more of the villagers arrived, forming a small crowd.
The head shaman, who had closed her eyes to focus on the prayers, suddenly straightened up, her eyes now wide open as words began to spill from her mouth.
The winds continue to blow across the snow land
The heat of the mountains have not cooled
Centuries ago, a creation condemned
Little did the creator know that he had been fooled
On the reincarnation's birth a new fire shall rise
And as long as she draws breath
The firebringer can unleash its cries
The lands will soon know great death
The head shaman gasped as she said the final verse, and stumbled backwards as if she was exhausted from exerting herself. She would have collapsed and hit the back of her head had another shaman not quickly ran up to her and caught her. As soon as the final verse was said, the glow of the chalk disappeared, fading to its usual black. Everyone was silent, shocked at the prophecy they had just uncovered.
Then one of them got over their shock and asked, "Great death upon the lands?"
Another said, "That infant wields the power of the firebringer?"
Most would expect the tribespeople to start revolting, to demand for the baby's death before she could do any real harm. After all, the first thing people would feel after hearing such a thing would be fear, and fear tended to bring the worst out in people.
However, the tribespeople simply remained where they stood, none moving up to do anything drastic. Nonetheless, Harris moved up to the centre of the drawing, where his baby lay, still crying, and scooped her up in his arms. He gently stroked her head and whispered soothing nothings to her as he tried to get his daughter to quieten down as the tribespeople continued to murmur amongst themselves.
"What's happening here?" A lone, feminine voice asked, cutting through the murmurs of the others. The crowd of tribespeople parted to make way for a woman to pass through. The woman had long, silver hair that was neatly braided, and her eyes were so blue that they seemed to pierce through the very soul of anyone who was within their field of vision. Her expression was one of stoicism, but also made it clear that she was not one for nonsense.
The leather armour she wore hugged her lithe figure, and despite her face displaying the scars of the many battles she partook in, she looked slightly less muscular than a typical warrior did, her body figure having a more quick and agile look. The one thing that stood out from her attire was the blue gauntlet she wore on her right arm. The gauntlet reached up to her elbow, and it shone the same with the same blue energy the head shaman's cane shard did.
"Warmother Gudrun," one of the shamans greeted, giving a slight bow to the stern-faced woman. "The child of Dovelyn and Harris, it's…" he faltered the moment Gudrun looked at him, feeling a coldness spread through his soul despite not having touched the True Ice gauntlet the woman wore.
"Please, continue." Gudrun spoke curtly, though she made sure to make her tone gentler so as to not intimidate the shaman into silence. Whenever she spoke to or made eye contact with someone who wasn't a hunter, they usually clammed up, as she gave off the impression that she would snap at them or beat them to a pulp at the slightest slight at her.
The shaman swallowed a lump in his throat and continued, "The child of Harris and Dovelyn, that child" —he pointed to the baby in Harris' arms, causing the man to hug the baby closer to his chest — "is an avatar of the firebringer."
Gudrun arched a eyebrow and looked at Harris, involuntarily giving the poor man the same cold feeling the shaman had felt just a few seconds earlier. Then, she took a step towards Harris and his daughter, prompting Harris to step back, afraid that the iceborn warmother meant harm on his child. Gudrun raised her hands in a placating gesture, and spoke with a gentleness that not many thought she was capable of.
"I'm not going to hurt the child, Harris." She said, keeping her arms out to show no harm. "I just want to see her."
Gudrun's voice was so gentle that Harris found himself trusting his warmother's words. Reluctantly, he slowly handed the baby to the iceborn, who carried her with her left arm, careful to not touch the child with the True Ice that covered her right arm. Gudrun stared down at the child she was carrying, observing as the baby looked up at her and cooed.
In that moment, blue eyes gazed into orange ones, and Gudrun found that in spite of what she was told about the dangers of the firebringer, she could not bring herself to believe that this newborn in her arms, having just been brought into the world of the living, was capable of harming a fly.
Then again, it was probably because most babies gave that impression to grownups, only to devastatingly disprove the belief when they grew older.
But there was a chance, perhaps a small one, that they could defy the fate set for this infant. Gudrun liked to believe that no prophecy was set in stone, and that there were more fates than one. The firebringer from the ancient tales only had an instinct to destroy and lay waste to its targets, it had no other purpose other than to destroy and kill. If they raised this infant right and taught it a sense of morality rather than just closing her away from society…
"Harris?" Gudrun spoke, her voice suddenly soft. "Yes?" Harris replied, his expression and own voice betraying the nervous tension and anticipation he felt as he awaited his warmother's verdict.
"I hope you'll let me have the honour and pleasure of giving your daughter her name, if she doesn't already have one."
"Go right ahead, warmother." Harris replied. Dovelyn might not like the fact that another woman was naming her child, but Harris would talk to her about that later.
"Very well." Gudrun wanted to stroke the baby's soft and innocent features with her other hand, but kept a conscious effort to make sure that it remained at her side. "From this day onward, this child will be known as Cyra, and she won't be confined to what the firebringer has in store for her, as she has her own path to blaze in this world."
The other tribespeople bowed their heads, not just in respect for their warmother's decision, but also in admiration at their leader's willingness to be open to other possibilities of fate. Their belief in their warmother overpowered their initial fear for their own safety as well as the Freljord's, and the tense murmurings turned into jovial cheers for the birth that graced their lives.
However, some weren't happy with this development. While the others surged forward to get a good look at the infant in their warmother's arms, they lingered at the back, muttering what was undoubtedly their sentiments of distrust and how the baby should be taken care of in the near future. If it couldn't be done today, it would be carried out one day.