Healer Lagetha tended to the young demon sear, Vachon. Out of no where, Barron appeared at the door way of the hut. He nodded to Healer Lagetha, dismissing her from tending Vachon's wounds. Barron looked at Vachon solemnly, remembering the day he took him in when his foul mother abandoned him, claiming Vachon was all too powerful. Barron, being two years older than he, was Vachon's mentor, despite Vachon being merely- tremendously stronger than him, though he would never let Vachon understand the wonders his abilities can express. Barron sat on the edge of Vachon's mat, looking at the young boy in which he felt like was his own blue blooded brother. He clamped a hand down on the shoulder that wasn't wounded.

"Get some rest," he sighed. "Tomorrow is your name day. You have much to learn, halfling. You will become a mighty demon sear . . .  trust me. And may the gods be with you. You'll need them. I am sure of it." And with that, Barron left the hut in a fast stride, ducking under the tent flap with a sight; a tired smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Vachon woke up groggily, looking around the small, tan hut as his eyes came into focus. All he could remember were those huge gold eyes, a gash to the shoulder and practically dragging himself back into the village.

He tried to sit up, but he ended up wincing and falling back on his back. As a reflex his left hand quickly went to his right, injured shoulder.

'Damn it,' he thought as he reached for his tan linen shirt with his left hand. He slid it on gingerly, trying not to cry out.

Vachon stood and sighed.

"Name day; age sixteen; the day of death," he muttered.

 Vachon thought of all his other name days. The days when people died, due to him. He always tried to keep his distance with people when this day came, but they just pushed harder and harder, until he exploded and... well, he could say all hell broke loose. It wasn't pretty.

But this day: this day would be the day his permanent title will be determined; the important day. The day when all will go right. The day he shows Barron what he's got.

Vachon walked out of the hut. Streams of morning sunlight shone in between the trees of the Red Forest. Village girls and boys cheered as the young demon Halfling showed himself. Now, these people were no demonic worshipers. They honored the gods Odin and Thor, while mildly intimidated by the trickster, Loki, hoping to one day to live peacefully in Helgafell. Though, they do have hopes -- secret hopes of one day having a demon seer that they could not fear, one that was not like Vachon's father.

Vachon clasped hands with many people, until his hand came in contact with a strong, stiff one. He looked up to see who owned this strong grasp and found that it was Barron's. Barron smiled thinly at Vachon and pulled him off to the side, out of ear shot, while the people who did not greet Vachon cocked their heads and hoped to do so soon.

"You are a boy no longer, Vachon," Barron cooed. "You are a man, though you will always fail to grow a beard."

"Yes," Vachon agreed, slightly annoyed. "But you will always fail to hold a woman."

Barron glared at Vachon as he smirked and laughed slightly. "Though it is your name day you mustn't take this lightly."

"What, my lack of facial hair?" He said, still, with a cocky smile.

"No, Halfling." Barron frowned. "Something much more. When you were born, you were-"

"Hai!" A young village girl shrieked, jumping out of the bush. She was a young one, maybe five or six. She had fiery red and light brown hair all at once with hazel eyes and many freckles. He knew at once he was Elder Entail's great granddaughter, Siggy.

"In high spirits and the gods to your name day," she said in her naturaly falsetto voice. She slid a flower armlet, lasted with berries and wild leaves around his wrist, smiling up at him. He smiled back, but as soon as he did, he wished he hadn't. A ring of fire spread along the green, purple, yellow, and red bracelet, thus, igniting it. He quickly slid the armlet off his wrist, letting it fall to the ground like a phoenix diving into his prey. Stomping on it, he set the inferno out. Siggy frowned, but quickly put on a false smile when he looked down at her. He knew she understood, her smile was so sad, he just knew from the jump. This young little one knew what happened each and every name day he had.

'So young and she already knows,' Vachon thought miserably. He would doom the village and all its people. Siggy's life would end short and drastic, and it would all be him. His mind reeled, cringing at all the guilt he'd had and all the trouble he would cause, just as he had in the past years.

Barron tugged on Vachon's shoulder. "Elder's lodge. Now!"

Vachon didn't move as he stared down at the burned armlet Siggy gave him. Barron's voice went low when he tugged Vachon's arm once more, "We must go before anything greater than this incident happens. The elders can prevent this and we will go on with your name day as if nothing this small has happened. Understood?"

Vachon then snapped back to Barron's attention and nodded, gulping. They trekked along the dirt paved trail and up the smallest of hills to the elders' lodge, paneled by logs and guarded by men and their wolves.

They veered up to the paneled gates and as soon as Vachon was within five feet of the canines, their goldish-silver eyes all reverted to him, and they began growling, barking, and pulling viciously on the piece of rope that kept them with their owners, as if they knew what was up. Barron muttered a few words under his breath and the dogs stopped abruptly as if Vachon was a million yards away.

Barron then leaned toward Vachon's way, whispering, "They do not like demons. Not even halflings."

Vachon nodded, slowly as he watched his mentor walk up to the guards and speak to them in tongues Vachon just couldn't get. Of course, he knew the common folk language, but not this ancient hymn Barron was reciting. When he was done, he looked back at the halfling and ushered him forward as the gates swung open and they strode up the pebbled path into the lodge. The double doors swished open as the young men were welcomed by deer skins and animal heads everywhere. Old men and women were seated at the corner of the room on a carpet of bear skins, muttering and chanting as a young boy choraled a goat with a stick. Vachon recognized this as a ritual into puberty.

A hunchback grey haired woman was accompanied by a slender, soft looking gray haired man. He held her up, walking to stand before the men

Barron smiled and bowed to her, looking at Vachon. "You may not know this, but this is the only remaining elite elder, Elza Lorethenting. There used to be three but..."

Elza's eyes turned down and Barron stopped, then started again. "Well, things happen."

The elite elder smiled at Vachon and took his hand, spitting in his palm. Vachon's pupils dilated, but soon returned back to their average size. He looked at Barron with a puzzling look, but he just shrugged as Elza, the elite elder, dragged him into a room, divided by deer skin hangings, leaving Barron behind.

Vachon looked back at the deer skin hanging that separated him from the rest of the lodge and looked at Elza, bowing his head in respect, but Elza's face remained the same, looking at him deeply with soft, worn auburn eyes. She had a deep nasolabial crease and wrinkles that seemed to embrace each other in an endless fold. 

Elza eased him down on a high mat. Vachon wondered what this old woman was doing, and began to feel very awkward. She then took his hand, rubbing his palm. "You have many problems child," she began.

Vachon looked left and started "Well, I-"

The woman cut him off, "You will never be the same." He blinked, confused as she went on. "I mustn't tarry with words. I will hurry."

Vachon noticed she had a satchel on the side of her hip. Digging through it, she pulled out a feathered charm and a thick, metal armlet with engravings on it. Neither appealed to him. The sight nearly revolted him. He eyed the thin, dull straps of leather that wrapped around the metal armlet. 

'Vile,' he growled inside his mind. Vachon was never a man of fashion, but the sight nearly made him feel like spewing; nearly enraged him.

Elza, the elite elder began muttering hymns, (similar to those in which Barron muttered) as she placed the armlet on his wrists and feathered charm around his neck. He flinched, frowning. He was confused. He was about to ask what in Odin's name was she doing but with her last word, all went black. He remembered only one thing. It was the last ancient word she muttered. That last word, was '​ástugr​'.

2: The Failure You Call A Childhood

Vachon’s eyes fluttered open and were introduced to a golden light. He shut them back quickly and re-opened them, finding himself seated on a throne of fire. Orange and red wisp of light sprung from it, as if it were the sun. Vachon tried to squirm out of it, but he couldn’t; it being almost as if he was glued down to it. His right ear then twitched, due to hearing a high pitched squeal. His head reverted to the direction of the sound, only to hear a beat of silence

He blinked vigorously, bewildered.

Vachon watched thin tendrils of fire spiral up his fingers, to his wrist, then to his shoulders, and up to his ears. A young boy with the same fiery-red-ish-brown hair as Siggy, the same dopey brown eyes, and the same soft looking face he has seen millions of times stood in front of him, his head slightly tilted. Vachon could have sworn Siggy was an only child.

“They’re coming,” the boy whispered, his eyes looking downward. He then once more said, “They’re coming…” with a heavy sigh.

 The boy dragged his feet toward the golden light and Vachon frowned, sitting there, in silence. He had never seen a child so sad. It almost made him want to comfort the boy. Vachon tried to get up from the fiery throne but he still couldn’t move. Not even a bit.

“Come on…” The child dragged on. “My suffering will end a lot quicker if you were actually a fast cambion… your pace is depressing…”

Vachon’s lip curled a bit in annoyance. ‘I’m depressing?... ‘  Vachon sat forward, eyeing the boy. He turned and slouched, then flicked his wrist.

The throne began moving and with each inch, it sped towards the golden light; with each inch, Vachon’s scream was swept away by the wind.

The throne finally stopped. All was still. All was quiet. All was dark.

 Vachon almost thought he’d lost his sight, until the sound of a baby crying hit his ears. Vachon had enough of sounds already. He clenched his teeth as his vision came to focus; blurry at first, but clear the next second.

A woman with dark hair was sitting there, cradling a young child with the tiniest of all scars on his bottom lip. They were seated on a fluffy cot. The boy had a couple of freckles on the right side of his neck, just as his mother did. She smiled at him as she tickled his stomach. Vachon knew instantly who that woman was.

“Mother,” he breathed, lunging out of the chair. Or at least trying to. He called out her name, “Halldóra!” over and over again.

Vachon began panting, feeling vulnerable and scared. She never answered. He’d always thought he’d never see his mother again. This was his only chance, and he would didn’t want to lose it.

“Please don’t let this be a dream, mum,” he called out. “It’s your son, Vachon. You’re little Steinn!”

 He was desperate. Hot tears began streaming down his face as he tried to tug away from the chair, forgetting the boy, who was seated criss-cross on the ground. The child whispered, “There is no use, halfling,”

 Vachon stopped, tears falling silently as he watched his mother tickled the boy…. the young boy that looked like him; that was him.

Halldóra pushed a strand of black hair behind her ears. “I’ve a question,” she asked the boy— Vachon, the little boy, Vachon. He looked at her knowingly as she smiled and continued, “Who needs less sleep than a bird?”

Young Vachon squinted, thinking, then, excitedly, said, “Heimdall!”

His mother laughed, shaking her head, in spite of love. “And who is so eagle-eyed that, by day and by night, he can see the least movement a hundred leagues away?”

“Heimdall!” the boy shrieked as his mother kissed him on one of his rosy cheeks and pushed back his dark hair. And once that happened, it felt as if Vachon’s heart shattered.

“Well,” Halldóra continued, “Heimdall and Heimdall and Heimdall. But who could tell it was Heimdall, that figure on the seashore? The guardian of the gods left his horn Gjall safe in Mirmir’s spring; and he left Gulltop, his golden-manned stallion, behind the stable door; and he strode alone across the flaming three-strand rainbow bridge from Asgard to Midgard.”

“It was spring and time for sowing. The god walked away from Bifrost over soft green ground and soon he came to the edge of the earth. All day, as the sun fled west from the wolf…” Halldóra went on and on about the Son of Rig, Vachon’s favorite legend. And with each word, he fell apart. But when his mother said, “I love you, little Steinn,” Vachon couldn’t take it. He burst tears, his face turning red. He began to get a headache. He began to get mad. He hated this woman entirely.

 

“H-how could this bitch love me so much if she LET. ME. GO?” His hands caught fire, blue fire. Fangs sprung from his canines, complaining to, yelling to the young boy beside him.

“WHY COULDN’T YOU JUST KILL ME THE MOMENT I WAS BORN?!” He yelled at his mother who was still smiling at little Vachon.

Finally, he was able to stand up and walk toward his mother who completely didn’t notice his rage at all. He threw balls of flames as shadows surrounded him and his mother and little Vachon, enclosing them in a wafting cloud of black. He threw hell fire toward them, feeling his horns sprouting. He tried to get closer, but it seemed as if a force field separated him from getting any closer. All of a sudden, a wave of water— salt water engulfed him, pulling him down. He snapped his eyes shut to keep the salt out, but he wanted to open then. Instinct led him to. So he did.

All he saw was water, and then he was going under. Deeper and deeper. He looked down, seeing a chain wrapped around his ankle and a block of concrete at the end. He struggled back to the surface, but was unable to. Vachon looked down; he could see the sea bed. Or, at least it wasn’t a sea bed. A sea of fire, rather.

The boy swamp past Vachon, gesturing him to follow him down to the inferno. A part of Vachon wanted to. The other didn’t.

A bellowing voice rang out, “Join me.” Or did he just imagine it?

Vachon looked up to the surface, his eyes squinting as he squirmed, still sinking. He only saw the sun, Barron, his mother, and little Vachon. He wanted to go to them. He wanted to apologize to his mother, to tell Barron he admired him, talk to little Vachon to fix his childhood. His oxygen levels dropped. He was drowning. He was fading away. Vachon was gone. Vachon was gone from this nightmare. Relief washed over him as his eyes fluttered open, staring into the wild gray eyes of a beast.