The Storm King

There was no recourse to the passage of time. The Primal Gods and Devils were subject to it, the strongest Divine Beasts were slaves to time, and even the strongest humans who’d achieved the pinnacle of power in the universe could no more reverse the course of time than a mortal could.

Such were the thoughts that ran through Leon’s head as he and his party entered Vale Town.

When he’d first laid his eyes upon it, despite its dramatic growth over the past century, it still appeared familiar. The sounds of the people, their specific ways of speaking and cursing, the way they dressed, the buildings they lived in, the scent of the vale, the fields, the forests, and the mountains; all made him feel right at home in a way that nowhere else could, save for the Forest of Black and White.

But as he drew close, he wasn’t recognized. People certainly saw him and his party and word was undoubtedly sent back to the longhouse, but as Leon entered the city and began making his way to Torfinn’s seat, he was struck at just how few people he could recognize.

Of course, he was never particularly close with anyone in Vale Town outside of Torfinn and his thanes, but there were plenty of people that Leon was passingly familiar with. The first and second-tier mages watching the south for merchant caravans coming from the Bull Kingdom were people that he felt like he should’ve recognized.

He almost stopped in the middle of the street when the reason why hit him. So powerful was the realization that had to fight the urge to immediately take flight and get to the longhouse as soon as he could.

It had been more than half a century since he’d last been in Vale Town. The first and second-tier mages that he knew as a kid more than likely feasted with their Ancestors, and most third-tier mages too, if they weren’t young when they ascended to the tier. As for the mortals… Once he started thinking about it, he doubted more and more that he might know anyone left in Vale Town save for Torfinn, Freyja, Asbjorn, and Harald.

Even then, now that Leon’s expectations were no longer being clouded by nostalgic yearning, he recalled that all four had been showing the signs of their age when last he was in Vale Town. Given their power, he judged that all four should still be around, but the more he looked around at the people on the street staring at him with suspicious eyes and closed-off demeanors, the more he doubted.

Fifty years was hardly that long for someone at his power level. He was pushing ninety, though, and those years represented more than half his life. That was a long time for him, a span of time that couldn’t be ignored. However, he was primarily surrounded by other powerful mages. Chiefs, elders, ministers, all sixth-tier and up. While fifty years was hardly a small amount of time, Leon’s environment had hardly changed in all that time.

His frame of reference for what the ravages of time were had shifted. He hadn’t forgotten that mortals and weaker mages had much shorter lives, but he’d simply failed to consider it.

Until now.

“We need to hurry,” he whispered to his party, and the leisurely pace he struck after entering Vale Town was left behind as he began to walk about as quickly as he thought he could without his intentions being assumed hostile.

Even that concern, however, vanished, as more and more doubts crept into his mind. He’d projected his magic senses ahead, but the defenses of Torfinn’s longhouse had been upgraded, with what appeared to be wards of Bullish origin decorating the low stone wall surrounding the longhouse, as well as the longhouse’s walls themselves. In short, he couldn’t perceive the inside of the longhouse.

Before Leon even made it a quarter of the way through Vale Town, his fears had grown so much that he simply stopped caring about appearances. He gave his party an order, then wrapped his body in his magic power. With his friends and family right beside and behind him, he took off, startling the crowds around them.

Shouting followed in his wake, and shortly after, warning bells. Leon, however, shot straight for the longhouse, hoping that these fifty years had not been as cruel to the Brown Bears as he feared. When he landed outside of the longhouse’s main doors, many warriors were already readying themselves for battle. None were stronger than the third-tier.

Leon, completely unconcerned with their killing intent, weapons, or armor, simply looked around at all of them, staring at their faces in turn. Most had helmets, but of those, the majority were open-faced. Some wore no armor at all, nor even shirts. None of them were familiar.

The doors of the longhouse burst open as Leon was scanning the warriors’ faces, and a pair of fourth-tier mages came striding out, their auras laced with killing intent and their axes brandished. However, they came to a hesitant stop as Leon’s gaze fell upon them.

With the eyes of both a warrior and a blacksmith, Leon examined their equipment. Their helmets were of fine make, though hardly up to his standards. Their axes, too, were long and well-made, if unenchanted. Their armor was more lamentable, the mail hauberks being clearly unenchanted and thrown on in haste. Still, of all the warriors that surrounded Leon and his party, these two were, rather fittingly, the most well-equipped.

Neither of them were familiar to Leon, though they had to be at least on the level of a thane if they were both fourth-tier and in Torfinn’s longhouse.

The bolder of the two croaked, “Who… who a-are you?!” Any satisfaction Leon might’ve felt at their obvious fear was dwarfed by his desire to find out what happened to the old Chief.

“Where is Torfinn Ice-Eyes?” Leon sternly, though rather quietly, demanded. To punctuate his inquiry, he projected his aura, submerging all of the warriors around him and his party in an ocean of his magic. So vast and thick was his aura that it was simplicity itself to freeze all of the warriors in place. Continuing, Leon asked, “Is he still the Chief in these parts?”

The two possible thanes were angled well enough that even though Leon’s aura had frozen them in place, they were still able to exchange a look of terror.

“We…” the more talkative of the two sputtered, “we a-are… O-Our Chief…”

“Is here!” came a booming roar from further within the dark longhouse. Powerful footsteps came rumbling from beyond the threshold as someone large came striding outside. The clinking of metal came with every footstep, indicating that he was well armored, and the additional footsteps with his showed that he wasn’t alone.

Four aged warriors came walking out of the longhouse led by a powerfully built man in polished mail, a tabard depicting a roaring brown bear on a green field covering his armor. From the face of his helmet came a veritable forest of gray beard hair, while shadowed above were a pair of cold gray eyes.

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Leon stared at the man, no small amount of relief flooding through him. He relaxed his aura, and all the warriors around them relaxed as well.

“Torfinn,” he said, “I feared you had gone to meet your Ancestors.”

The old Chief stared back at Leon in disbelief, his posture, so ready for a fight as he’d walked out of the longhouse, relaxed.

“Little Lion?!” he shouted as the three warriors at his side reacted.

“Nooo,” one said, her familiar voice more strained to Leon’s ears, but her surprise and joy couldn’t be understated. “Our Little Lion is back?”

“Relax, the lot of you!” another of the warriors shouted, his voice also familiar. He sheathed his sword and removed his helmet, revealing the aged, though still familiar face of Harald. “This is an old friend!”

The final thane joined his voice to Harald’s. “Return to your posts! There will be no violence today!” Asbjorn glared at the younger warriors, daring any of them to argue. None were so foolish, and the wall of warriors surrounding Leon’s party began to lose cohesion as warriors broke away.

“But!” Torfinn added, causing them all to halt in place. The old Chief’s eyes hadn’t left Leon, and that didn’t change even as he took off his helmet. When he spoke next, his voice boomed. It was weaker than Leon remembered, but more than vigorous and powerful enough to be heard over the din of dozens of warriors shuffling around as they returned to their posts. “There will be no fight, but there will be A FEAST! OUR OLD FRIEND HAS RETURNED!” The warriors roared in joy, their cries slowly spreading throughout the town as runners carried word that everything was fine and the alarm was just a misunderstanding.

Torfinn laughed as he stepped forward, pushing past the two younger fourth-tier mages. Leon grinned and stepped forward, clasping Torfinn’s offered arm and drawing the older man in for a quick embrace.

“Haha!” Torfinn beamed. “Gone to meet my Ancestors? Not yet, kid, not yet!”

Leon laughed. “Thoughts of a fearful mind. It’s damn good to see you, Torfinn. Damn good.”

“You too, Little Lion! Come on in! And your friends and family! Come on in! My house is your house!”

Leon, his family, and his friends filed into the longhouse after Torfinn. Once inside, he was subject to more greetings from Harald, Asbjorn, and Freyja, but unlike Torfinn, it seemed that age was far more debilitating for them.

On a brighter note, Torfinn also introduced him to the two new fourth-tier mages, Ullr and Ragnar, the former being his son and heir. Leon offered his congratulations, and before anyone else could speak, longhouse servants began carrying in plates of bread, cheese, and mead.

Torfinn and Leon sat at the head of the table as the thanes and Leon’s party began filling their bellies and chatting amongst themselves.

“I have to admit,” Leon said as he swallowed a bite of cheese, “I’ve missed the taste of good Valeman fare.”

“Ha! Of course you did, our food is the best in the world!” Torfinn boasted.

Leon might’ve argued that, but he chose not to. The Valemen could hardly compare against the best chefs in Heaven’s Eye, but when he bit into their simple foods, he was taken back in time to when he was just a kid in this very hall, enjoying Torfinn’s hospitality while he and Artorias caught up. That time had long since passed, but he couldn’t help but revel in the fact that the people he’d known in his childhood weren’t all gone.

Not yet.

When that short snack was over, Torfinn and Leon made their way to the back of the longhouse where they sat and looked out over Vale Town. Leon’s friends and family remained inside, chatting with the thanes and other warriors in the main hall. Naturally, most shared words took the form of boasts, and he quietly wondered if when he and Torfinn returned, the hall would even still be intact, for a few friendly fights seemed to be on the verge of breaking out.

“I have to say,” Leon began, “I feared a much more changed Vale Town than the one I found.”

“After fifty years, I can’t blame you,” Torfinn replied with a wide smile. However, that smile lasted but a moment before falling. “And you wouldn’t be wrong.” The old Chief sank in on himself, as if he simply didn’t have the energy to maintain good posture. “I don’t think anyone else in the vale, aside from me, Asbjorn, Freyja, and Harald, even remember you and or your father. When we go, none will remember you. When our children go, none will remember us, either. This is the way of the world, and we can only accept it, for it cannot be changed.”

Complicated feelings rose within Leon that put his cheer in grave danger, but before he could sort them out and give them voice, Torfinn continued.

“I am one hundred and seventy-two, Little Lion. I do not expect to reach one hundred and eighty. I can guarantee that I won’t reach one hundred and ninety. I expect to finally join my Ancestors within the next decade, and Freyja, Harald, and Asbjorn have separately confided to me that they expect the same.”

He sighed, fatigue and age evident in his every mannerism. Leon stared at him as Torfinn struggled to remain even as upright as he was, seeing the real him for the first time since arriving. Beneath his bushy gray beard, his cheeks were sunken and wrinkled. While he was still a large man, much of that bulk was fat instead of muscle. Most distressing, however, was the look in Torfinn’s icy eyes: he was tired.

Quietly, Torfinn said what Leon could see plain as day. “I am just as surprised that I am not with my Ancestors as you are, Little Lion. But I am ready to join them. My son is strong and ready to take on my responsibilities. Most of my friends have been borne by the thunderbirds to the Sky Mother already. My generation has come and gone. I’m just late. Don’t give me that look, boy. I have lived a life I’m proud of. I am ready to move on. I am ready.”

Leon’s expression fell the more Torfinn spoke. He guessed he looked quite awful if Torfinn was commenting on it.

“I don’t… What if that didn’t need to be?” he asked, locating one of several bottles of ambrosia he had in his soul realm. He was about to conjure it when Torfinn responded.

“It does. No southern magic of yours will change that. It would only delay the inevitable. I am weak, Little Lion, weak and tired. I would not delay my meeting with my Ancestors just to remain in the world as a weak old man.”

Leon followed Torfinn’s example and sank in his seat, quiet dread building up within him. “If you go,” he whispered, “I will be the only one who remembers what this place was. No one else will remember those days. Those people.”

A surprisingly booming laugh came as Torfinn’s response. “We are not alone in that, my boy! The last men of every generation must confront these feelings one day! Of my father’s generation, none remain. Of all generations that came before us, none remain. I do not fear death, for in death, I will see them all again.” He clapped Leon’s shoulder reassuringly, but Leon couldn’t sense too much of the strength he remembered in the old man’s grasp. “Do not mourn for us, Leon. If anything, I mourn for you, for you will continue without us. But remember, kid: nothing lasts forever, and when your time comes, meet it with dignity. And when you join your Ancestors, come and find me again. We’ll celebrate like the old days.”

Leon gave the old Chief a bitter smile. He didn’t believe in the Sky Mother, but he hoped to see his Ancestors after he died. What might they say to him? How would they welcome him? Would he come to them in glory, having restored their Clan to greatness? Or would he come in disgrace, failing when so much rode on his shoulders?

“I… will hold you to that, old man,” Leon quipped.

Torfinn laughed again. “Good! Good. Now, why don’t you tell me of your adventures down in the south? I’m sure that whatever you’ve been up to has your father smiling from the beyond.”

It took Leon a moment to get going, but he began telling Torfinn of all that he’d seen and done in the past fifty years—everything worth telling him about, at least, for he doubted the old Chief would care that much about bureaucracy and industrial development. Torfinn listened intently, but he rarely reacted with anything even approaching awe, not even when Leon told him about the Primal Gods and Devils.

“Children playing before the Mountain Father,” he’d said.

Leon ended his story by telling Torfinn more about his Kingdom, and Torfinn expressed no small amount of amusement at the fact that there was another Tribe of Brown Bears now sworn to Leon. When Leon finished, they sat there in amiable silence, staring out over Vale Town. When Leon was a kid, he would’ve been able to see distant fields and forests, but with the city’s expansion, now those sights were blocked by two and three-story buildings.

The silence was broken when a servant came out to tell them that not only was the feast about ready but that several warriors had been injured when they challenged Alcander to a fistfight.

Both Torfinn and Leon laughed, and together, they headed back inside. They shared nothing more than a look to acknowledge the more serious things they’d discussed. They both knew that this visit would be the last time they saw each other, and they came to a silent agreement to make the most of it.

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