Soulweaver 53: To Be A Champion (Patreon)

The cheering crowds. The looks of fervor and adulation. As it ought to be. As it ought to have been.

Eskil, Favored Blade of Dagfinnr, gazed out at the crowds that filled Valhalla, greeting them with open arms and a beaming smile.

When the boar had gored Eskil, he knew his time on Midgard was over. He’d moved poorly, and the wound was too terrible, he knew. Yet, as the Aesir saw fit to end his life, so too did they grant him new purpose.

When Odin himself descended from the heavens, beckoning him to join the hallowed ranks of Einherjar in the hallowed halls of Valhalla, Eskil had thrown himself at his god’s feet. Without hesitation, he’d accepted, swearing his undying soul to the greatest of the gods.

And now, here he stood. Given new life, with a glorious form that put his old, well-muscled physique to shame. A form his god had so generously bestowed upon him. 

The procession, full of pomp and fanfare, turned onto a thoroughfare where yet more cheers awaited. Basecrest, the town was called.

Eskil had been large among his people, yes. Large and powerful.

But now? Now, he was a giant, towering over even the tallest beings. His body, while not yet laden with muscle, soon would be, and his greataxe begged to be sunk into the skull of an enemy.

It was proof of his worth. Proof that Odin smiled upon him, Proof of the trust and expectation the greatest of gods had placed upon Eskil’s shoulders.

And he would bear it gladly, ripping into the forces of Ragnarok with the fervor of the Berserkers of old.

Yet for all his might, he had yet to see combat. To slay even a single foe in Valhalla. What’s more—Valhalla was somewhat different from the image he’d had in his head. 

The hymns spoke of a great hall filled with warriors who fought and drank continuously, killing each other daily, only to be reborn again. All in preparation for Ragnarok.

Yet Valhalla was both more, and less, than he’d anticipated. It resembled Midgard in many ways—especially the towns and cities across the sea that Eskil had raided with his brothers. 

He wondered why the buildings resembled those swine instead of proud and sturdy Norse longhouses, but the differences hardly ended there. The pointy-eared smallfolk and the other giants served as constant reminder that he was no longer on Midgard.

Giants, Eskil scoffed. Giant in height only. The skinnymen lacked the big bones and massive physique Odin had sought fit to grant Eskil. Even now, lacking in muscle as he was, Eskil’s frame was far broader than these giants could ever dream.

Until now, he’d yet to see anyone fit to call themselves Heroes worthy of Odin.

Where were the Einherjar? Where was the divine drinking and revelry?

“What ails you, my Champion?”

The voice appeared out of nowhere, sudden and heavy. Eskil did not need to confirm to whom it belonged. 

He began to drop to a knee, but Odin stopped him. The great god stood even taller than Eskil, and wore his distinctive horned steel helm and fur armor, easily hefting a great bearded ax that would have taken two of Eskil to lift. He was the epitomal warrior in every sense.

“No, Eskil. Not here. Here, you must bow to no one. You must show your might to these people, as my messenger.”

“O Great Allfather, what of you? Do the people of Valhalla not deserve to witness your great form?”

The citizens of Valhalla began to stare, wondering with whom Eskil was conversing. He ignored them. These were not warriors. They were women, children, and skinnymen. Eskil worried not about them. Only the god who’d summoned him, who’d bestowed the power of the gods upon him, was deserving of that honor.

The deity smiled. “Oh, they will witness me, I assure you. Watch, and be awed. Now, come, my child. Speak your troubles and I shall hear them.”

“These people, Allfather. They are…” Eskil trailed off, even as he continued to wave, sparking renewed adulation.

“They love you, Eskil. They see in you their great hope.”

“And I shall rise to it. Yet…”

It wasn’t that he minded their attitude—far from it. What warrior didn’t appreciate the admiration of their victories in combat.

“Yet what have I achieved? What have I done to earn their praise? It feels empty. I am undeserving.”

Eskil couldn’t fathom how, or why, the Allfather devoted so much time and favor to him and him alone. True, in life, Eskil was a fierce warrior. One of the fiercest of his tribe, even. But to call him the strongest Norse warrior? Even Eskil’s ego was not so inflated that he believed that.

Odin cupped his chin for a moment, then nodded. “Your humility serves you well, Eskil, Son of Magnus, Favored Blade of Dagfinnr. Yet do not make the mistake of thinking you are their equal. You are above them, my Champion. You are destined for heights the likes of which they cannot fathom. Your mere existence is worthy of their adulation.”

“Of course, Allfather. I thank you for your words.”

“You are my Champion, Eskil. You need only perform the ritual to summon me whenever you wish. Now, accept the gift of the people of Basecrest with valor.”

“I shall. Though I fear it will be yet another ax,” Eskil said, glancing down at his empty fist. He’d left behind his weapon at Dominion’s instruction, to be able to accept the weapon the Blacksmiths of this city would bequeath him. It seemed it was tradition for each city to gift him weapons. Yet for some reason, most opted to give him axes. He had a small collection by now.

“An essential weapon in your fight, Eskil,” Dominion said. “You will no doubt benefit from the variety.”

Eskil was silent for a moment, turning his eyes beyond the crowd to the great Trial that loomed above them. A place of danger and combat. A place to prove himself.

“I’d rather kill with one weapon than collect a dozen,” Eskil muttered.

“Patience. The chance to prove your mettle will come, and soon. The signs are already here,” Dominion said, looking up at the sky. “For now, certain rituals must be followed. Old tradition, steeped in the history of this world. Surely, you understand?”

“Of course, Allfather,” Eskil replied, bowing his head deferentially. Eskil did know. He knew that soon, he would fight and fight until the rivers of Valhalla flowed with the blood of his enemies. And he knew. That soon, he would be the strongest warrior this plane had ever seen.

— — 

The procession of Dominion’s Champion seemed to absolutely consume Basecrest. Get a drink, and it was all I’d hear. Turn the corner on the way to the smithy, and it was ‘procession this, parade that’. 

And Aerion? Well, Aerion was a special case.

“Dominion’s Champion, Greg! His Champion!” Aerion said. I could almost see the stars in her eyes. “The procession only happens once a century! And he’s visiting Basecrest! Can you even imagine?”

Perhaps the best way to show just how enamored and obsessed Aerion was with this whole thing, she’d taken the trouble to apply makeup.

Normal makeup. Not the face paint she used to make herself pass as a boy. Makeup that emphasized her proud cheeks and made her look more… noble? Graceful? I wasn’t quite sure how to describe the transformation.

“Aren’t you trying to stay undercover?” I asked, scratching my nose. 

Aerion frowned. “There are several ways to disguise one’s self, Greg. Nobody would recognize me like this.”

That was true enough. She looked nothing like the Aerion I knew. Even her dress was something I’d never seen her wear. Not that it was especially lavish—it was a simple white one-piece with some frills on the skirt, but even with just that, it was like I was staring at a different person entirely.

“Well?” Aerion asked, twirling in front of me. “How do I look?”

“Stunning,” I said, thinking of the first thing that came to mind. “The dress really matches your hair and your eyes.”

It was actually the first time I’d really even bothered to look into her eyes and notice their color. Maybe because they were blue, which was pretty common on Earth, but now that I looked into them, half of her eyes were blue, and the other half blue-green. It was… unique.

“Am I really so different?” Aerion asked, looking away in embarrassment. “I’d dress like this more often if, you know… It’ll be fine this one time, but looking like a boy is a better disguise. Gets less attention.”

“Oh, no… I mean, yes,” I stammered. “You do look different. Just… um, your eyes. They’re pretty neat.”

“Neat?” Aerion asked, raising a brow. “And you never noticed because I change their color. The dyes are quite expensive.”

I did a double take. “Wait, you dye your eyes?”

Aerion nodded, holding up a bottle. “Magical dyes produced by Boonworthy. There are only a small handful who possess the ability, but they produce an immense quantity of these dyes. They’re said to be quite rich.”

“I can imagine. Never would’ve thought Boons could be used for stuff like that, though. That’s a pretty bizarre ability.”

Aerion shrugged. “Are we going to keep talking about eye dyes? Or are we going to visit the procession? The procession that only happens once in a hundred years?”

My eyes widened. “Y’know? I almost forgot. If only someone kept reminding me every 5 minutes or so—ow!”

Aerion had reached over and pinched me.

— — 

I decided that I hate processions. Never went to them as a kid—they always looked fun—but now, I knew.

It was the crowds. The absurd, shoulder-to-shoulder crowds. And don’t even get me started on etiquette. The people of this world pushed and shoved and even sometimes trampled others. All to get a better view. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few people died in this parade.

And of course, Aerion wasn’t content standing at the back of the crowd. With as short as she was, she needed to get to the very front to see anything, and my offer to boost her on my shoulders was met with a disapproving glare. 

I followed in her wake, pushing and shoving my own way through the crowd. I had to envy the giants here. As inconvenient as it was bumping your head against everything, they had a distinct advantage in situations like these.

As always, Aerion seemed to have a sense of grace that let her weave through the crowd. Her small frame helped, sure, but she was just so comfortable moving her body in tight spaces—like water, flowing around obstacles.

I tried to mimic her… for all of ten seconds, before I bumped into someone.

Even so, the exercise wasn’t entirely useless.

Congratulations! Grace has increased to 16.

The stat was now at my current limit.

We finally made it to the front of the crowd, and I realized Aerion had led us to the edge of a large plaza—an empty plaza that had been cordoned off, and was under heavy guard.

“Oh, thank Dominion!” Aerion said. “We haven’t missed them.”

In her hands was a yellow dandelion, though where she’d managed to grab that, I didn’t have the slightest idea.

As the crowd around me grew more and more excited, I had to admit, I found myself feeling much the same, if for different reasons.

This was my first encounter with another Champion, after all. I couldn’t wait to see what they looked like. And, more importantly, how our strengths compared.