Tales Of Wothor.
It was daybreak. The light was gently landing on the misty haze that encompassed the trees. Song birds were singing softly, calling out to each other, saying hello, and greeting them. It was a slow sunrise, it was the kind that when you saw it, all you wanted to do was sit and watch some more. You did not care that the light was seven minutes behind the sun, or that your long house was cold, you were just happy. Inside the Long House, its doorway marked with Runes saying: “All Who See This Dwelling Are Welcome to Stay and Rest”, a man was starting a fire, dressed in deerskins, beaver skins, and various others. Inside were, a bow, arrows, skins of deer hung with pictures of various scenes of the hunt, runes saying what to do, how it almost got away and so on, the skins over the door were plain. Within the small adobe next to it, a woman was waking up. The house was sparsely decorated, a few skins with runes telling of the hunts were hung, a battle axe in the corner with runes of protection, and a few skulls of deer. Two wooden beds were built into the walls. In the center was a small pit for a fire, and over the open door was a deer skin, with runes of welcome, and protection and the names of the people who live in it, Wothor the husband, and Rothal, the wife. The haze started to fade away and Wothor stepped out side, sipping his now cold water which he just finished boiling. The sun was higher in the sky now, but still a sight to see in a small clearing in the woods. No other humans for miles. It was just them, and it was bliss. They did not need others, they had each other, and that was all they needed, with the occasional deer. He stood there, looking at the land before him. It was his land; he knew exactly what to do to it for it to be good farming land. He saw his Oxen in their pen, the Cows as well, the Pigs in theirs, everything was as it should be, everything was…right. He was Norse yes, but he was not an Odin worshiper, he worshiped Thor, god of Thunder, Rain, and the Harvest. He sat down on a large stone that was near the house. He could hear his wife waking up, the rustling of the deerskin cloth that covered the beds was a sign that she had already been up for a few minutes, but was readying the house for the day. He had cooked breakfast, beaver and clean cool water. Rothal emerged from the door, also dressed in deerskins, the curtain fell back into place over the door. Upon seeing her husband she sat down next to him, kissed his somewhat bearded cheek and rested her head on his shoulder as she yawned.
“Breakfast is in the long house, like always, it is beaver today; I thought we could use a change.” Wothor kissed the top of her head and looked around at the forest.
The mist was almost all gone. Rothal got up and picked up her breakfast, and drink. When she returned Wothor was looking off in the distance past the Oxen. Looking at what would be the closest town, a good 4-5 hour walk.
“Do we need anything?” he asked softly, “I think we need some grain.” She thought for a moment and responded with a yes, they did need more grain, and the mead was gone as well.
This was a normal day, nothing much happened, he was happy about that. He liked peace and quiet. Just then he heard the all too familiar beeping, and opened his eyes, he was no longer Wothor, he was Himself. He longed to go back there again, to his place that did not exist. He sighed, and continued talking to his friend on his computer.
Click here to email your thoughts on this story to the author.
