Winter. A perilous season filled with dread and boredom that forces you to sit in and watch the snowfall with all the glee of a weathered, elderly man watching paint dry… or, mayhaps, festive spirit. Accompanied by an air of cheer and togetherness that leaves you primed at the edge of your seat as you anticipate all the holiday hijinks you'd get up to with family members you haven't seen in what feels like centuries—in dog years.
It all depends on who you ask, really.
But the winter we speak of now is not the one we collectively know. This is winter in a foreign land.
A winter that has overstayed its welcome.
A winter in Avaricia.
This world does not operate on the same laws as the ones that govern ours. This world features mythical beasts and energies that, for lack of a better term, could best be described as "magic." There are more intelligent races than humanity in this world, though, whatever the reason may be, the world's technology remains stuck in our equivalent of the antediluvian age.
A world of such fantastical highs and depressing lows—it must be said that the denizens of the continent of Avaricia would surely be thriving had they not been plagued with a long winter. A winter so destructive and unrelenting that Mother Nature saw now as the best time to flex her dominance across dimensions.
The citizenry of the Kingdom of Avarice were haunted by this long, drawn-out winter. And through no fault of their own, the incompetence that sought to manage this lull from the capital only made things worse. A young king, much too young to lead a kingdom in my opinion, and so entrenched in his own fantasies that—bless his heart—he basically allowed his ministers free rein over his kingdom. Nobility and religious leaders who revelled in the freedom they were afforded and stuck their filthy, corrupt, dirtied paws deep into the water source of the everyday man. In turn, poisoning a wellspring that provided sustenance to not just one earnest farmer, but a whole continent of them—the size of two Chinas, to be specific.
But the internal strife and politics of the capital are not the focus of this tale. At least, not yet.
For in this moment of the long winter, our attention must be drawn to a humble hamlet in the south of Avaricia. Along the coast of the Riverian Sea sat the hamlet of Barley—minuscule and irreverent to the grand scheme of things, such that merely mentioning it feels like a waste of ink on an otherwise pristine piece of paper. One that could, for better or worse, provide more relevance to a preschooler's class on drawing lions in rural Europe.
Alas, however, there is something of import that ought to be noted of this otherwise forgettable place. For in the far reaches of the hamlet, much closer to the Dark Forest than the central hub of activity, lay a single cottage. Purposefully erected away from the rest of the otherwise tightly knit Barley community. Here lie the outcasts of the hamlet—a mother and son so far settled away that it wouldn't feel right to claim the two places as one.
Here lived Atreus Romani Nóthos and his mother, Hanna.
Banished to the outskirts, the pair lived in otherwise peaceful, ignorant bliss, minding only what crossed their snow-heaped lawn as they lived out their days with no real hope for a bountiful future. Unambitious? Yes, they were—but that did not matter to either of them. For just being allowed to live and be together in the current climate filled them with more joy than a noble's daughter receiving her tenth pony to celebrate a decade of unintentionally getting the castle staff beheaded.
A young man with sprawling locs like Solomon and caramel skin, Atreus laboured to clear the snow that gathered around their humble abode. And as the young man wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead, his unnaturally purple eyes sprung wide when Hanna called for him from the back of their home.
At seventeen years young, Atreus was, as we would say, the man of the house. So being called back to aid in lifting or moving something was not an uncommon occurrence for him. Atreus stuck the handcrafted shovel he had made himself into the thick fruit of his labour and walked towards the door of their shared home.
He called out as he entered, "Mother?" And Hanna, from the other side of the house—the backyard—instructed him to come through there.
Their abode was about what you'd expect from a mostly self-sufficient family of two on the outskirts of the hamlet. But let not the lack of fancy silver cutlery and polished ornaments warp your sense of peace and happiness. For compared to the greed of most nobles who battled against one another for the next big thing, the pair were happy.
"Are you done with the front?" Hanna asks.
"Just about."
"Good, 'cause I need help rearranging all of… this."
Hanna says, as she gestures to the mess she has made in the backyard. Transformed from your typical picket-fence backyard by not only the harsh winter but also the busybody that is Hanna, the backyard is a mess of herbs spread out everywhere, beakers, flasks, and weird bubbling liquids that present this as something of a lab for a mad scientist. Though I believe in this era the word would be "witch."
That, however, is far from the case, as Hanna of the humble abode outside of Barley is instead a herbologist.
"Alright, sure, where do you want this?"
And a darn good one at that.
—
Half an hour passes, and the backyard finally looks presentable. Not anything like your typical backyard because it's still weird as all hell with beakers and workbenches plastered all about the place like something akin to a blacksmith's workplace—or perhaps, in this case, a chemist obsessed with flora.
"Sigh…"
This is not the first time Atreus has had to wipe beads of sweat off his forehead today, but he can at least be proud of how the backyard looks now before it is ravaged by the evening snow.
"Much better," Hanna beams a bright smile at the cleaned space.
Atreus' mother does not look the part of the elderly woman you'd expect to have borne a whole seventeen-year-old. She's slender, porcelain-white pure skin with big dark eyes that give the impression you are staring into a void. Her warmth, however, shines through, with a kind face that, despite the ravages of sleepless nights, allows her to still look as young and full as the young women in the capital. Granted, though, she is but three and a couple decades old.
"With this done, my efficiency should go up by fifty percent!" Hanna giggles giddily to herself like a kid on Christmas morn.
"Right," Atreus says in what is his typical monotone manner, "If that's all, I'll go ahead and gather firewood for tonight."
"The sky doesn't look promising, but when does it ever."
Atreus picks up an axe amongst a horde of different paraphernalia and begins to head for the inside of the house when he hears his mother mumble her thoughts to no one in particular, "Now all I need to do is gather melt flower from Kendo's caves, and we can be set to help out everyone in the village!"
He pauses.
It isn't the first time his mother has shown affection and care for those who shun them, but having been with her all his life, he has long learned to make peace with her overbearing heart.
"I can get those for you," he says, pausing in the doorway and shooting her a reluctant but supportive glance.
"Oh, you don't have to."
"I want to."
A pregnant pause catches the serenity.
"…okay."
—
Walking away from the cottage with a satchel slung over his shoulder and a furry coat and boots to protect from the cold, Atreus waves goodbye to his mother, who stands in the doorway watching him leave like a proud parent.
As much as I would love to share that the scenery of mother and son exchanging a heartfelt goodbye was emotionally charged, I fail. For this interaction was nothing of any note whatsoever. It was an exchange you share every day when you go to work or school. No thoughts or emotions tied to it whatsoever, because there is simply no need to—they will, in fact, see each other later after all.
But,
Had the boy known the whirlwind of horror that would soon occupy this space in the next forty-eight hours, had Atreus known that this would be the last time he saw his mother—saw her with rosy-coloured cheeks in the snow because blood still flowed through her veins—then, perhaps, maybe this interaction, this scenery, would have been more emotionally charged. More thoughtful.
Those, however, are just the regretful ramblings of a depressed narrator who knows all too much…
For as Atreus said goodbye to his mother, for what would be the last time, a meeting of consequence, divinity, and power was being held at that exact moment to determine the fate of the mortal world beneath All-sky.
The fate, of the continent of Avaricia.