A chill north wind rattled the banners, bitter incense smoke scented the air, and the hollow thrumming of taut leather drums played a sober rhythm slowly as the priest spoke. 

"Hear his voice and see his motion!" the priest cried. "Close your eyes! Close them and see! Close them and know."

Bone rattles began to play and the scent changed. The drums sped in tempo before slowing back to where they were before. And then all was quiet, save for his voice.

"The Black Goat came down from the Mountain of the Wind and mounted the River Wolf. The wolf crawled beneath the skyward breeze and labored for seven years until the Godskin was born. The Godskin, father of the people! The Godskin, who made war on the sea! The giants of the forests and the owlmen of the marshes raised him, teaching him to hunt and to see, and to fight when the need was on. When he was still but a boy, he enamored the daughter of the river with his nakedness, and they lay in the fields and gave birth to the first of his endless children. The Godskin, who wrestled every bear! The Godskin, who sampled every fruit! Together they lay until the time came for the infant to be brought into the world, and they remained bare and made for the Mountain of the Wind with the newborn and named him Childaric. And there was the first prince, and the promise that was to be."

The drums stopped. She opened her eyes.

She was kneeling in a field of wet-green grass perched on the edge of a mountain. Around her the Ceorls and Retainers of her husband and family. Men with bronze helmets shaped like slouched hats, or simpler conical helms made from iron. Rusted chain mail, banded bronze, and boiled leather peaked from behind robes of fur and capes of colored wool that whipped in the wind. Some men leaned on spears or long axes, while others patted their belts where swords and maces hung, and their shields bore the devices that identified their clans. The Brown cross on blue meant Wetbreeches, and the pure white with curving grey lines meant Hardwinds. There was the goat balanced on a pebble that stood for the Suerfoots, and the burning tree that stood for the Greatfires. Some where circular, while others were shaped like eggs that thinned in the middle. They were hers and his, loyal to them. She felt safe among friends, but nervous for what happened next.

He stood next to her, a short man with greying black hair and the hint of a beard below his chin. A thick fur robe covered his body. She held his hand, and it felt like an invisible wall had been put up around the two of them, unassailable by any who would wish her harm. Even with the cold mountain wind prickling at her skin, she felt warm. 

They had married in a distant spring during their youth. She was a Firenight from the edge of the Skrael lands, and her blood had Skrael in it. She wore it in her bushy red hair, and her pale northern eyes. It seemed so long ago, when they first met, though in reality it had been little more then fifteen years. She was thirty now, and her husband and King thirty five. Yet somehow she felt older. Not physically - her youth was still on her, though her skin had darkened a shade and she had thickened at the hip. It was in her mind. She felt like a wise old woman who had seen more moons than could be counted. 

"Who comes before?" The priest cried out. He was covered in mottled thick furs from head to toe, with only a small opening for his face. 

"Bergen of the Stoencliff clan, King of Rock and Sea"

"[i]King of Rock and Sea[/i]. The rest said aloud. Some pounded their shields for emphasis, and that annoyed her. She wanted to get on with this. The time was coming, and she could feel a twisting knot in her stomach. Of course, she had stood here before, when she had named her first three children. Moli had remained silent, but Nenna and Horic had screamed the entire time. She had worried each time that the cold would hurt them, and Horic had came down with a flu the week after, but they had all survived. Even though she was a veteran in this, she could not help but to worry. 

"Bergen of the Stoencliff, King of Rock and Sea." the priest answered back. "You have brought three children here before. Molivia, who has reached her seventeenth year and is your heir. Horic, who has reached his twelfth year and is your first son. Nena, who has reached her eighth year and is your second daughter. Who now do you bring?"

"Six moons past my wife gave birth to a son." Bergen spoke. "He shall be my second son, and we have came to give him his name." He squeezed her hand. Her heart fluttered. It was time. 

"Wife of Bergen, you bring a son?" 

"I am Asla." she said. "Of the Firenights, and now of the Stoencliffs." Her throat felt hoarse, and numbness cooled her limbs. "I bring a son who shall be my second son, and we have came to give him a name."

"Very well." the priest said ritually. "It is time that this new son have a name." 

It was time. In her mind, Asla swallowed her fear and shrugged off her robe. She heard her cloth fall alongside her husbands, and the light of pale skin flashed at the edge of her vision. She felt the wind tease at her exposed femininity, and she felt their eyes. Her breath faltered. She was cold and open to all their friends. Grasping for comfort, she looked over at her husband. If he was uncomfortable, he did not let her see. Wiry black hair covered much of his body. He stood confident, and it made her feel brave enough. Naked, they both approached the priest. 

A young Ceorl leaned forward, putting her baby in her arms. It was pink from the wind and the cold, but it did not cry. He pushed his cheek into the palm of her hand and hiccuped contently. Seeing his face, she forgot where she was and all of her apprehension faded. 

"What name has been chosen?" the priest asked. 

"Beorl" Bergen said loudly. "Beorl shall be my second son's name,"

"Beorl!" The priest gently took the baby from her arms and lifted it above his head. "Hear it, Gods of Mountain and Rock! Hear it Gods of River and Rill! Hear it that this is Beorl Stoencliff!"

"[i]Beorl! Beorl[/i]" the gathered said in unison. She heard steel play against steel as they unsheathed their weapons and held them in the air. Calls for "Stoencliff", "Borgen", and "King of Rock and Salt." joined the cacophony. 

All at once it was over. Ceorls tossed their robes over their shoulders, and Asla wrapped hers tightly around her body, drinking in the warmth. A swaddle of fur was wrapped around the young infant as well, and it was placed in her arms. She tickled at Beorl's cheek and smiled.

"Beorl" she whispered. "Little Beorl."