Iris

Earth, Southwest England, Battle of Edington, Circa 878 A.D.

Bjorn lived for the thrill of battle. The constant sounds of weapons clashing, men screaming, lifeblood and viscera pouring out of torn flesh untreatable by any means.

And why would you?

As a Viking, Bjorn longed for the eventual end, when he would finally meet his match, his body taken by the Valkyrjur to Valhǫll.

His brothers in arms shrieked around him, some in rage as they dealt killing blows, others in pain as they were scythed down by the cascading waves of Anglo-Saxons. Bjorn’s eyes darted left and right, searching for his next victim while also looking out for immediate threats. Not five steps in front of him, a gap opened in the undulating rhythm of the bodies fighting against each other. With it, he found another warrior using the opportunity to rush through, trying to take advantage of Bjorn who was surprised by his bravery.

Hastily sidestepping the descending blade of the screaming Anglo-Saxon, Bjorn almost lost his footing from the blood of friend and foe coating the field in its slippery substance. His body covered in minor scrapes and bruises, he swung his two-handed axe in a beautiful overhead arc, screaming with the effort. Blood of his prior enemies he had slain flew off his axe head as the sharp end contacted the coif in the gap between the warrior’s chainmail and helmet. The axe sliced cleanly through with only a sliver of the fallen enemy’s neck keeping the head attached to the shoulders.

Not expecting such little resistance, Bjorn ended up overextending in his reach, his center of balance tipping him forward in an unceremonious fall. In his tumble, he caught the reflection off the helmet of the warrior he just killed of yet another sword coming down towards his unprotected neck.

This was it!

He knew there was no way he could save himself, not with the ever diminishing time left before the blade made contact. There was no footing to be had on this dense and slick battlefield. Bjorn closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable flash of pain. But the only pain he felt was his face impacting the hard floor—

Wait.

Why would the grass be so rigid and unmoving? Shouldn’t it have cushioned his fall even somewhat? Now that he thought about it, he could hear no sound of smashing steel or furious grunting. Instead, only a heavy silence descended upon his prone form.

He braved a peek, not exactly knowing what to expect. Yet all that met his bewildered gaze was a clean hall, filled with masked men and women, arms spread and heads inclined as if in prayer. Around him, glowing script was engraved in the floor, reminiscent of the Nordic script he was familiar with, but with a more elegant and flowing style.

Bjorn’s stunned brain finally caught up as he slowly stood from the cold floor.

“This… this can’t be Valhǫll. I see no other Vikings, and your garb does not match the legends we were told as children. Where am—”

Before he could finish inquiring about his surroundings, there was a sharp stinging near his nape as something clubbed him from behind, and then he saw only darkness. When he would wake in the days to come, the only thing Bjorn would know was that he had not entered Odin’s glorious halls of the slain, nor the dreary landscape of Hel’s Domain.

For him, it was what the Anglo-Saxon’s had described as Hell.

***

Kingdom of Elyria, Capital City Primlon, Cycle 7352, Present Day

To many young adults, waking up to the aroma of freshly baked bread was common, yet exciting. They would open their eyes, well rested from a blissful night of undisturbed sleep, and make their way to the hearth, where their father or mother had just brought back the local bakers most recent batch. And when they finally bit into that flaky exterior, with a soft and warm buttery interior, their mouth couldn’t help but break into a messy grin of satisfaction.

For Iris, it sucked.

With it came the unwelcome grumbling of her stomach, sending waves of discomfort throughout her near-emaciated body. As was her own tradition, she internally cursed whatever city planner that made the decision of allowing the bakery to be opened directly across from the run-down church she called home.

Iris knew Tarros would be waiting for her in their usual meetup spot in a few waves time. Almost on cue, she felt the telltale pulse of energy wash over her skin, permeating through the building without disturbing even the slightest bit of dust coating the room. Through the slits of the boarded-up window high above her, Rynor’s warm rays highlighted the particles floating through her small cobblestone room, giving Iris just enough light to see as she forced her body to stand.

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Even with the worn cloth she had laid down to act as a buffer from the cold hard ground, Iris still felt her back protest with the movement, almost as if it was incensed with her for putting it through such harsh conditions. Still, it was nothing new, as she had been doing it for the past 17 cycles. Already dressed, she made her way out of her otherwise barren room to go see what chores the priest had in store for her.

***

Coming down the stairs leading to the church’s only room of worship, she found Elder Verron lighting the candles strewn throughout the hall. Iris figured she would let him finish the set he was currently on, and she watched in the same fascination she always had as he would place his index and thumb on either side of the wick, and with only a slight crease of his brow as a sign of his concentration, the flame burst into being.

All it did was serve as another reminder that Iris wasn’t blessed with the talent of wielding Auris. Well, according to Elder Verron, everyone had the latent ability, including her—it was just a matter of sensitivity and feeling the energy that was present throughout Eldra. For each individual, their sensitivity varied all throughout the spectrum. Some of the greatest commanded the elements like an extension of their own limbs, others used Auris to strengthen their body, heightening their physicality to a superhuman degree. Even the least sensitive could still perform daily tasks of convenience such as Verron had done.

Except for Iris, who was considered a Blank—one of the scant few unable to utilize even the slightest of Auris contained in her soul.

How could she use something she couldn’t feel?

After a few more were lit, he finally turned to Iris with a tired smile and kind eyes and asked the same question he asked to everyone who found themselves in the drab hall.

“Come to ask the Mother for guidance, child?” Elder Verron’s voice was what you would expect from someone as aged as him. As though he contained endless wisdom and matching patience to boot.

“No thanks, I’m just here to help with whatever you need before I’m off.”

Hobbling over, Verron’s gray robes nearly touching the floor, he took in Iris’ appearance, and she could feel his gaze scrutinizing her up and down.

“You’re off to see that boy again, aren’t you? I keep telling you I don’t want you involved with that Hag’s orphans, they will only get you in trouble with the city’s watchguard!”

She could feel the disdain practically radiating off the old man whenever he brought up the city’s main orphanage caretaker and the orphans she looked after.

“You know Harrigan isn’t a hag, she just isn’t a follower of Ilea, much like the majority of this Kingdom. She also happens to be very vocal in saying the Goddess doesn’t do much for anyone these cycles. Also, don’t pretend you don’t know his name, especially since he’s one of the only people who doesn’t treat me like I’m a waste of space.”

As though the statement itself was an affront to Goddess, he quickly—whatever quick was when it came to his weathered body—turned to the statue that dominated the end of the hall with its sheer size and made the symbolic gesture of offering. The fingers of his left hand came to his forehead while his right palm touched his sternum, then simultaneously bringing both hands forwards and cupped as though offering water. After finishing the motion, he stated, “The mind—open, the soul—given.”

Turning back, Verron fixed her with a look.

“Iris, to say you’re a waste of space is to say the Goddess is misguided in Her judgement. And yet, here you stand, breathing the same air I do and any other noble does. Does that make you anything less? No one is a waste of space, even if they do spit in the face of the One who gave them life.

How those orphans act is not a fault of yours, but a soul tarnished by lack of proper guidance… and a good walloping.” He chuckled, eyes mirthful, yet Iris failed to see what was funny. He continued, “Regardless, I have nothing for you today, girl. I woke a couple waves ago and have already finished preparing for the day’s sermon.”

Sighing with relief, she turned to go, but Verron’s hand grasped her wrist before she could make her way down the aisle between the pews. Her momentum halted, she glanced down at her wrist, taken aback by the surprising amount of strength contained in Elder Verron’s grip. Meeting his dark eyes with her hazel own, she found they no longer contained their usual kindness, only a sense of stoic urgency.

“I mean it, child. Stay out of trouble. The last sermon, I could hear city folk gossiping about criminals and orphans being dragged away by the watchguard. To the guards, there is no differentiating the two, and I don’t want the same fate to befall you.”

Elder Verron released her, eyes retaking their usual demeanor, before he seemed to remember something. With a gentle smile, he shuffled to the altar and grabbed an item wrapped in unblemished white cloth. Handing it over, Iris immediately felt the warmth through the cloth, and with it, the pliability that could only belong to a fresh loaf of bread.

“We are nearing a new cycle, the least I could do is make sure your stomach is full leading up to it.”

The gift caused her to completely forget about the strange encounter, and she thanked him with heartfelt words.

Making her way to the entrance of the church, Elder Verron gave her one last parting sentence, “May the Mother protect you in Her Elegance.”

Without looking back, she gave one last farewell, then left to find Tarros.