Thor charged down the road, towards the village. He braced himself as he rounded a bend, slowed his horse, and finally entered through the town, the small, sleepy farming village he remembered, without even a proper wall around it, or a gate to mark its entrance. Growing up, he had thought this was the greatest place in the world. But now, having been to so many places, seen so many things, this town seemed small, pathetic. It was just another poor village, with nothing special. It was a place for people who had not made it elsewhere, who had settled for this poor and forgotten region of the Ring.
Thor turned and rode down the main street of his village, bracing himself, expecting to find it bustling, as it usually was, with all of the faces he recognized. But what he saw surprised him: the streets were not as he expected, filled with people, animals, children—instead, they were completely empty. Desolate. His village had been abandoned.
Thor could not understand the sight before him. It was a typical, sunny morning, and it made no sense for these streets to be empty. As he looked more closely, he was surprised to see that many of the buildings were destroyed, reduced to piles of rubble. He looked down and could see residues of tracks in the streets, signs of a great army passing through here. He looked at the stone cottages, and saw stains of blood on some of them.
With his professional soldier’s eye, Thor knew right away what had happened here: the Empire. Their army had invaded this region of the Ring, and clearly they had passed through this poor village; the people here were unfortunate enough to be caught in his way, and this place had been decimated. Everything Thor had once known was gone—as if it had never been.
Thor dismounted and walked somberly through the streets, feeling awful as he walked past shells of structures he barely recognized. It was slowly dawning on him that everyone who had once lived here had either fled or was now dead.
It was an eerie feeling. This place he had known most his life as home, was abandoned. The oddest thing about it was that Thor had had no desire to return here and would have been glad to never lay eyes on this place again; and yet now that he saw it like this, he felt regret. Seeing it like this made Thor feel, strangely enough, as if he had no home left in the world, no trace of his origins at all.
Where was his true home in the world? Thor wondered. It should be a simple question to answer, and yet the more Thor lived, the more he was beginning to realize that that was the most difficult question of all.
Thor heard the rattle of a pot, and he turned and braced himself, on guard, to see a small cottage, still standing, one wall destroyed. The door was ajar, and Thor’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword, wondering if there was a wounded soldier inside, or perhaps a scavenger.
As he watched the entrance, an old, heavy woman came out, carry her pot, wobbling, dressed in rags. She carried her pot, overflowing with water, over to a pile of wood. She had just set it down when she looked up to see Thor.
She jumped back, startled.
“Who are you?” she asked. “No one has come through here since the war.”
Thor dimly recognized her; she was one of the old women perpetually hunched before their cottages, cooking.
“My name is Thorgrin,” he said. “I mean you no harm. I used to live here. I was raised here.”
She squinted up at him.
“I know you,” she said. “You are the youngest of the brothers,” she added derisively. “The shepherd’s boy.”
Thor reddened. He hated that people still thought of him this way, that no matter how much honor he achieved, it would never be any different.
“Well, don’t expect to find anyone here,” she added, scowling, setting to her fire. “I’m just about the only one left.”
Thor suddenly had a thought.
“In my father still here?”
Thor felt a lump in his throat at the idea of seeing him again. He hoped he would not have to. And yet at the same time, he hoped he was not dead. As much as he hated the man, for some reason, the thought bothered him.
The woman shrugged.
“Check for yourself,” she said, then ignored him, turning back to her stew.
Thor turned and continued to walk through the village, now a ghost town, Krohn at his heels. He meandered through the streets, until finally he reached his former home.
He turned the corner and expected to see it standing there, as it always had, and he was shocked to see it was a pile of rubble. There was nothing left. No house. He had expected to see his father, standing there, scowling back, waiting for him. But he was not there, either.
Thor walked slowly over to the pile of rubble, Krohn at his heels, whining, as if he could sense Thor’s sadness. Thor did not know why he was sad. He had hated this place; and yet still, for some reason, it bothered him.
Thor walked over to the pile of rocks and kicked them with his toe, rummaging, searching for something, he did not know what. Some clue, maybe. Some idea. Whatever it was that had led him back to this place. Maybe this had all been a mistake? Maybe he had been a fool to follow his intuition? Maybe this had all been wishful thinking? Perhaps there was no clue after all that could lead him to his mother?
After several minutes, Thor finished kicking over the rocks. He sighed, preparing to turn around and leave. This had all been a mistake. There was nothing left for him here. Just ghosts of what had once been.
As Thor turned and began to walk back, suddenly Krohn whined. Thor turned and spotted Krohn in the distance, on the far side of the yard, near the small structure where Thor had lived, away from the rest of the family. Krohn was whining, looking back and rummaging through rocks, as if urging Thor to come look.
Thor hurried over, knelt beside Krohn, and looked, wondering.
“What is it, boy?” Thor asked, stroking his head. “What do you see?”
Krohn whined as he pawed at a large rock, and Thor reached down and pulled back the heavy stone. He found more stones, and he kept extracting them until finally he saw something. Something was flashing, catching the sun.
Thor reached down, into the crevice in the rocks, and pulled it out. He held up something small, brushed off the dirt, and glanced at it in wonder. As he brushed off all the dirt he saw that it was shiny, yellow, round. He looked closer and finally realized it was a gold locket.
There was fine lettering on it, and Thor saw it was carved in inscriptions, in a language he could not understand. Thor ran his fingers along the edge of it, and he came across something, like a clasp. He pushed it, and the locket popped open.
To Thor’s surprise, he saw an inscription in gold on one side, and a golden arrow, swirling, on the other. It moved every time he turned it. It came to a rest, and kept pointing in one direction. Every time he moved, the arrow adjusted.
Thor rubbed off the dirt and read the inscription, this in a language he knew. As he read the words, his heart stopped.
Heart racing, Thor stood and turned and held up the locket, and he found the arrow pointing in a particular direction. He looked out at the sky, the horizon, and he knew this arrow would lead him to the Land of the Druids.
As Thor grasped it, he felt a tremendous coursing through his palm, through his entire body. He knew that it was real, that all of this was real, and he felt certain that the time had come to find his mother. The time had come to find out the truth about who he really was, who he was meant to be.
Thor looked out at the sky, and resolved that as soon as his child was born, as soon as the wedding was over, he would leave.
Thor looked out at the horizon, and felt his mother closer than she ever was.
“Be patient, mother,” he said. “I am coming for you.”
