Prince Erik, The Seafarer

The wind howled through the high cliffs of Hrafnnes, rattling the stone walls of the palace and carrying with it the bitter scent of frozen pine. Inside the great hall, King Akbar paced before the great fire, its orange tongues doing little to chase away the cold that had settled deep in his bones. Beside him, Queen Egrida stood, her silken robes a muted gray that mirrored the sky outside. For years they had stood together on the throne, their rule marked by prosperity and peace, but their joy was incomplete, hollowed by a single, aching absence.

He was fifteen winters old when the iron clad scent of salt first settled on the boy’s skin as he stepped onto the weather worn deck of the Fjordstride. The harbor of Hrafnnes was a maze of timbered piers and low hanging gulls, and at its heart stood Kjetil—king’s most trusted captain, a man whose jaw was as hard as the prow of a warship and whose eyes seemed to read the sea before the wind whispered it. Erik had been born a prince, but the crown that sat heavy in his family’s halls felt colder than any metal. He wanted a crown of rope and oars, a crown that would earn him the respect that titles alone could not buy.

The first day began with knots.
Kjetil’s voice cut through the clamor of laborers and the slap of waves. “A seaman without knots is a sailor without a soul. Tie, untie, feel the rope bend. If you cannot bind your own fate, the sea will bind it for you.”
Erik’s fingers, still soft from parchment and quill, fumbled over the thick hemp. The first knot—a simple overhand—came out crooked, the rope’s fibers fraying under his grip. He tried again, each attempt tighter, each slip a fresh sting. By mid morning the cords were a scarlet red where the rope bit into his palms. He could feel blood seeping into the fibers, but the ache only sharpened his focus. He tied a bowline, a clove hitch, a reef knot, a figure eight, and then a more complex double sheet bend that even the seasoned deckhands muttered about. The sun rose high, casting long shadows across his bruised hands, and Kjetil watched in silence, his expression unreadable.

When the last rope fell slack, Erik’s hands trembled, slick with his own blood. “Remember this,” Kjetil said, his tone a low rumble, “the sea knows no mercy for a sailor who cannot tie his own life to the ship.” The knot lesson ended, but its lesson lingered, a throbbing reminder that mastery demanded pain. The next week was spent at the oars.
Kjetil ordered Erik to sit in the middle of the Fjordstride’s long rowboat, a narrow vessel that cut water like a knife. Experienced rowers—sun browned men with calloused forearms—padded the benches, their rhythmic pulls a metronome that seemed to synchronize the heartbeat of the sea. Erik’s oars felt like wooden blunts, his arms a bundle of aching muscles. He pulled until his biceps screamed, until his lungs burned as though fire had taken residence in his ribs. He watched the old men’s faces, eyes closed, mouths moving in a whisper of prayer to the wind. Their bodies swayed with the tide, each stroke a promise that the ship would move forward.
“Don’t think,” Kjetil instructed, standing at the stern, “feel. The water will push back; you must give it the same force.”

Erik’s breath hitched, his chest tightening, the world narrowing to the smooth glide of his oars and the echo of his own heartbeat. He wanted to quit, to step back onto the dock and let the deckhands haul his weight, but the thought of a prince who could not row—a leader who could not stand in the same water as his people—gnawed at him. He kept pulling, hands slick with sweat, the muscles in his forearms trembling like cords of a harp. By sunset, his arms felt as if they would snap, his fingers numb, yet he never let go of the oar.
That night, while other lads dreamed of feasts and tournaments, Erik lay on a narrow cot in the ship’s hold, listening to the creak of timbers and the distant roll of waves against the hull. In the darkness, a faint luminescence filtered through a crack in the deck—stars. The night sky was a tapestry of points, each a compass for those who dared to roam the unknown. Kjetil had taught him the names of the constellations—Orion, the Hunter; the Big Dipper, the ladle of the heavens; and the Southern Cross, the guide for those sailing south of the fjords. He had shown Erik how to read the sky like a map, how to know when the wind would shift, when the fog would roll in.

“Every star is a promise,” Kjetil had said, his hand hovering over the brass sextant that rested on the captain’s table. “If you can read them, you can find your way home, even when the sea tries to swallow you whole.”
Erik spent his afternoons hunched over the captain’s chart table. The maps were a chaotic web of inked lines, reefs marked with tiny black X’s, shoals shaded in deep blue. He traced routes with his finger, noting the safest channels through the fjords, the hidden coves that could shelter a ship from a rogue wave. He learned to plot a course not just by distance, but by wind, tide, and the ever changing temperament of the sea. Each new line he drew felt like a thread tying him nearer to the world beyond the palace walls.

The culmination of his apprenticeships arrived with a storm that the old men called “the squall of the North.” It was a sudden fury that rolled over the fjords like a black tide, wind screaming through the rigging, rain lashing the deck with the force of a thousand hammers. The Fjordstride was out of the harbor, a massive wooden beast cutting through the churning water, and the crew, seasoned veterans, were already wrestling with the tempest. Kjetil barked orders, his voice a clarion that rose above the roar. “Secure the mainsail! Hold the helm! Every knot, every line—check them now!”

Erik’s knuckles were raw, his forearms still trembling from the endless rowing. He knelt beside the helm, his back pressed against the cold iron rail, the world reduced to the swirl of foam and the howl of wind. The ship pitched and rolled, each wave a towering wall that threatened to capsize them. Kjetil’s hands were steady, his eyes locked on the horizon where the storm’s eye briefly revealed a sliver of starlight. “Steer to the lee of the crag,” he shouted. “Use the rocks—let them break the wind, not the hull.”

The Fjordstride lurched, the rudder grinding against the swollen sea. Erik felt the wheel turn beneath his palm, the rope of the helm biting into his skin. He recalled the knots he had tied—how the bowline would hold even when the rope strained beyond its length. He pulled the sheets with a ferocity that matched the gale, feeling the rope’s fibers bite into his calloused fingers. Each movement was a prayer, each adjustment a battle against the indifferent ocean.
Lightning split the sky, illuminating a jagged cliff that rose like a stone sentinel. The crew’s shouts blended with the storm’s roar, but in the chaos, Erik saw a pattern: the wind was being channeled by the cliff, funneling into a narrower passage that could lead them out of the squall. He shouted to Kjetil, “The wind’s pushing us toward the narrow! We can use the crag to break it!”

Kjetil nodded, a flash of respect in his eyes. Together they angled the ship, steering toward the narrow gorge that cut through the cliffs. The waves thrashed against the hull, the deck slick with rain, but the ship held its course. As they entered the gorge, the walls seemed to swallow the gale, the wind dropping to a whisper. The storm’s fury abated, the sea’s surface calming, as if the cliffs themselves were guardians of safe passage.
When the squall finally loosened its grip, the crew slumped to the deck, exhausted, their faces lit by the dim glow of lanterns. Kjetil placed a rough hand on Erik’s shoulder, the callus of a captain’s palm meeting his boyish one. “You kept the helm when we thought we’d lose it,” he said, voice softened by the night’s quiet. “You learned not only to tie knots and row, but to read the sea’s language. That is why the sea will not swallow you.”

Erik stared out at the now calm water, the stars beginning to pierce the night once more. He saw the reflection of the ship’s prow in the gentle ripples—a mirror of his own face, younger, scarred, yet steadier than before. The sea, he realized, was not just a vast expanse of water; it was a living entity, demanding respect, rewarding those who listened, punishing the arrogant.