Long before the Hyborian Age, before cities clawed at the sky and kings wrote their names in blood and stone, the god Crom turned his face from mankind.
In those first ages, men were weak. The dark things of the world hunted them openly, and fear ruled more surely than any crown. Crom did not pity them. He was no gentle god, nor did he shelter his children from the cruelty of the world. Instead, he gave the Cimmerians one gift alone. Strength at birth. And from that moment withdrew his hand.
No prayers were answered upon his mountain.
To beg was to confess weakness. To kneel was to admit unworthiness. Glory was not given. It was taken, seized by steel and sinew, earned through pain and defiance. Such was the law of Crom.
Only those who answered the riddle of steel, those who met death with unbowed spine and unbroken will, were granted passage to Valhalla. That was his way.
~The Road of Kings ( not really)
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The Cimmerians were a hard people, shaped by cold stone and harsher winters. The mountains taught them endurance, the winds taught them silence, and hunger taught them honesty. Their bodies were heavier of bone and broader of shoulder than the soft folk of the southern lands, and their blood ran thick with Crom's gift.
Outlanders named them barbarians. Beasts. Savages who knew nothing of civilization or restraint. It was a lie born of hypocrisy and superstition.
The Cimmerians were brutal, yes. But never false. They spoke plainly of what they loved and what they hated, and when they killed, they did so without pretense or apology. Yet they were still men, and like all men, they bore their share of flaws. Pride chief among them.
Thunder broke across the Cimmerian hills as a storm rolled in from the high passes, violent and unrelenting. Wind screamed through the valleys, tearing at roofs of hide and timber, testing the worth of every beam and binding.
One secluded settlement bore the full wrath of the storm. Its huts shuddered beneath the gale, some already sagging with age and neglect. The Cimmerians were warriors, not builders. Other than their unique talent at forging, they had little skill in the crafts
Their dwellings were made to last four winters. No more, no less. Anything beyond that was Crom's concern.
In the largest of the huts, a man stood framed in the doorway, unmoving despite the wind that clawed at his furs.
Ciggard.
His clothing was stitched from the hides of beasts he had slain himself, thick with the scent of smoke and iron. Beneath it, muscle coiled upon muscle, hard and corded like drawn steel. He was a man who had survived battles that killed others stronger than him, and fought with both mind and brawn. A rarity among barbarians.
His gaze was fixed on the center of the hut. There, upon a bed of furs, lay his daughter Cig.
Her dark hair clung to her brow with sweat, her breath coming slow and heavy. Her belly was swollen, stretched taut with life. Full term, perhaps beyond. The child would come soon.
It should have been a moment of pride, and it still was to degree. Yet the feeling was conflicting.
While he had been away on a long raid, his only daughter had conceived a child and he did not know whose. And when pressed, she would not speak the man's name. None of the warriors of their tribe would dare touch her without his blessing. They feared him too greatly for that. An outlander, perhaps. A passing hunter, or worse.
It no longer mattered. The child was coming, and he was innocent. That much he knew at his heart.
When the storm reached its height, Cig screamed. The sound cut through the thunder like a blade. The fire burned low. The wind battered the hut without mercy.
And then, silence.
A cry followed, sharp and raw, not the thin wail of a newborn, but more so a declaration of defiance.
The midwife recoiled. With surprising strength for a newborn, the child was pushing against her grip.
Ciggard stepped forward as the woman placed the infant upon his daughter's chest. The child relaxed visibly at her touch.
The boy's eyes were open already. Pale and piercing. Aye, he was gifted with a grandson, the only good within the whole affair.
As the child's gaze drifted towards him,the storm outside faltered. The fire guttered.
Ciggard felt it then. A pressure in the air, heavy as the moment before the hammer struck the anvil. Crom's anvil, and rightfully so.
'Perhaps this could be a boon,' he thought as he approached his grandchild.
...
Ciggard held the boy close to his heart, a feeling both familiar and unfamiliar settling within his chest.
"Young one," he whispered, gently caressing the newborn's cheek with his calloused fingers.
He looked into the boy's deep intelligent eyes before continuing, "Grow strong and prosper, else you shame my blood."
He returned the child to his mother, with all the gentleness a barbarian could muster.
"Cig," he called, his voice somber. " I know not why you hide the boy's father from me, but as your father, I shall respect your decision." It pained him greatly. The same child that used to cling on his arms was now a parent herself, despite the circumstances.
'How fast the time flows...' He wondered. Though he kept the thought to himself.
"Thank you father," the young woman said, giving a tired smile. She did not add anything further, she already knew he was hurting because she was keeping much from him.
"Say, daughter. Have you found a name for the boy?" Ciggard questioned. Though it was mostly to ease the tension, women had little to do with naming young'uns.
To this, Cig nodded vigorously. "I have," she said, her eyes glowing with pride.
Cormac
"My son shall be named Cormac." She said with such finality that Ciggard could only nod in response.
The name revealed much to him. There was connection to the boy's father no doubt. But as was his way, he chose to remain silent about the subject of the boy's father.
"A fitting name, indeed," he said, giving his approval for the name chosen by his daughter.
"You may rest now, daughter. Plenty will have to be said and done now that you've given me a grandchild," he said as he turned to leave the hut. The man had to bend on his back to fit through the entrance, a rather comical deed for a man of his standing.
Cig gazed at the slowly fading figure of her father before drifting into sleep, the now calm newborn huddled next to her.
...
As much as he wanted to stay with his grandson, Ciggard was needed elsewhere.
The Cimmerians had no kings or queens but he, as the eldest and most experienced, served as the defacto leader of their settlement. A duty he gladly up held.
Still, his thoughts kept returning to the sudden pressure he felt moments before. His daughter naming her child Cormac, no doubt meaning raven son, made it all the more intriguing.
'All in due time,' he told himself as he stepped inside another hut, noticeably smaller than his. The forge attached to it however, was another story entirely.
"Ciggard!" A man with a scraggy beard called. He was well proportioned, though far below Ciggard himself in stature. His arms sported muscle thicker than his. From the many hours spent Smithing no doubt. While not the best in the looks department, he carried himself with a quiet confidence that gave him a certain charm.
"Corin," Ciggard returned the greeting with a nod. Greetings between them Cimmerians were short and on point. The mountains were far too baren for flatteries.
"I heard Cig gave birth to a boy," he said, patting the older man in the back.
Had it been anyone else, Ciggard would've swatted them away. But this man, Corin, was different. He was one of the few Cimmerians to have truly mastered steel. He had no doubt Corin was among the finest smiths of the age. He was someone he saw as an equal.
"Indeed. He was named Cormac," Ciggard huffed with obvious pride. "Brat was fighting the midwife the moment he was born."
The men spoke of family matters for good few minutes with Corin intuitively avoiding anything related to the boy's father.
"Ciggard, I expect you had other things to discuss as well in this visit?" Corin questioned, aware that the man before him wouldn't come without purpose beyond just making conversation.
"Aye," Ciggard nodded. "I am in need of your services."
"The last raid cost our men a few too many weapons than I'd like to admit." Ciggard let the words settle before continuing. "Damn shameful how the young'uns handle the sword." He spat, looking Corin once-over to see the man's expression.
With a sigh, he added,"I will have to trouble you with forging another batch of steel. The men need their weapons."
Corin nodded, staying silent on the matter of broken weapons and focusing on the topic of the new commission. " I'll have them ready in seven nights." He turned leaves for the forge when Ciggard's voice stopped him.
"Corin, if it's not too much, I'd like you forge one for Cormac as well. You can finish it whenever." He gave a toothy grin, letting out a low, gravelly laugh."Not like the boy will be swinging it anytime soon."
(End of chapter)
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A/N: Well, what do you think? Feel free to share your thoughts.
This fic won't have a set update schedule, so I will upload new chapters when I have time. Peace ✌️
Praise Dagoth!!!