Prince Erik, The Farmer
After the Ausa Vanti— the day when Prince Erik was accepted into the kingdom, he was taken from the palace and given to two simple farmers who lived on the very edge of the kingdom’s wilds.
Leifr and Gunnhildr were not a noble line. Their hands were callused from the earth, their faces weather worn by endless seasons of wind and rain. They owned a modest homestead, a low thatched hall, and two children— Ragna, a bright eyed girl of three summers, and Steinn, a lanky boy who could already lift a sack of barley over his shoulder. When the royal carriage rolled into their yard, the children stared at the boy in the noble’s cloak, his cheeks still flushed from the journey, his eyes darting from the strange, polished shoes to the mud splattered boots of the farmhands.
Erik’s first lesson began not with a sword or a crown, but with a wooden bucket. He was six when the bucket was placed in his trembling hands. The river that cut through the valley sang a steady, low hymn, and the water it bore was cold enough to bite the skin. “Bring it back without spilling a drop,” Gunnhildr instructed, her voice as steady as the hearth flame. Erik’s small arms trembled, his fingers slick with the froth of the river, but he learned to balance the weight, to feel the pull of the current, and to trust the rhythm of his own breath.
The mornings after that were filled with clucks and rustle. The chickens, a mottled flock of brown and white, pecked at the straw while the sunrise filtered through the open doors. Erik rose before the rooster’s first crow, his wooden bucket now a familiar companion. He fed the chickens grain, his palm sifting it out with a careful precision that surprised even him. Then he walked the rows of coops, gently cupping the warm eggs in his hands. One per bird, the farmer’s rule, and each egg was a promise—a small, fragile reminder that life could be nurtured even in the humblest of settings.
When the sun climbed high enough to scorch the thatch, Erik would follow Ragna and Steinn into the forest that bordered the farm. Their mother, Gunnhildr, taught them to read the land as a book. “The earth speaks,” she would say, “and you must learn its language.” They knelt by fern patches, pulling out roots whose white flesh pulsed with hidden sweetness. Erik learned to differentiate edible roots by their texture, their smell, and the way they released a faint, earthy perfume when crushed between his fingers.
Berries were a more delicate lesson. The forest held more than one kind of red; some glistened like rubies, others glowed with an ominous, waxy sheen. “Your eyes can deceive,” Leifr warned, holding a cluster of bright crimson berries. “Your nose must speak for you.” He instructed Erik to crush a leaf between thumb and forefinger, inhale, and judge. Sweet, honeyed scents meant safe fruit; pungent, sour, or metallic aromas warned of poison. The boy’s senses sharpened, his world narrowing to a kaleidoscope of smells and textures. He learned that survival was as much about listening as it was about seeing.
Fishing, too, became a ritual. The river, which had once been a test of balance, now offered another lesson in patience. Leifr would carve bone hooks, grinding them on a stone until they gleamed. The boys would sit on smooth river rocks, their legs dangling in the cold water, and cast the makeshift line with a flick of the wrist. When a fish— a silver trout that flashed like a living arrow— took the bait, they would pull it up with reverent haste, then, under Leifr’s watchful eye, slit its belly and lay it on a wooden rack to dry. The scent of smoked fish mingled with the pine sap, forming an aroma that would forever remind Erik of his purpose.
Night fell over the farm like a dark blanket, and the hearth crackled with stories. Leifr’s voice, low and resonant, carried the sagas of Odin, Thor, and the hidden goddesses of the woods. Gunnhildr whispered of the Norns weaving fate, of warriors who fell in battle only to be raised again in legend. Erik sat close, his eyes wide, absorbing every word. The stories did not glorify the throne; they glorified duty, honor, and the unbreakable bond between a man and the gods he served. He felt a strange stirring in his chest—a mixture of awe and an unfamiliar weight that seemed to press against his ribs, as if the tales were shaping a destiny he had not yet seen.
