When the North Men Came

I did not want to become an adventurer, a traveller, a sometimes soldier of fortune, but when the Northmen came they took away my life, my home, my world. All I had when the Northmen left, were the clothes I stood up in, the smouldering ashes of the village that had been my home and most of the world I’d known up until then, and the bodies of my family and neighbours to bury. They had taken the young women, my sisters and the girls from whom I would have chosen a wife. All I had was the spade I’d taken into the woods that morning, to dig a grave for my old dog in his favourite hunting place, and my father’s ash-covered sword that I sat and polished once all the bodies had been buried and I waited for my life to begin again.

For a time, I thought about going north, going against the Northmen, rescuing the women of our village and killing all the Northmen. I knew, of course, that would end in only my pointless death, but in those early days, I would have welcomed my death. I wanted to avoid having to make this new life, having to grow up before I was ready.

Eventual, some few uncounted days and sleepless nights later, I packed up what few useful things I had taken from the ashes of my old world and turned towards the south. I set off, without anything but memories, without wanting to look back, walking into this new life.