Kathryne Emily Erlano Wilson

Fantasy Illustrator

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"PRAYING FOR THUNDER"

There is not much to catch today, just like the days before, and just like his mother had said before he left. Still, Hemming has never been one to give in, not even when the day is almost done—and glancing up to where the sky meets the snowy tree-tops of his surroundings he can see the sky mirror the water’s brisk, ice-blue.
This spot was always special. While the rest of the world could freeze over, Hemming knew that these waters would stay untouched. It was, and is, a place to be respected, and it’s for this reason that he holds his tongue. Whoever—or whatever—that had a claim to these woods would not take kindly to a child’s grievances. Instead, Hemming directs his attention from his fishing line to the world around him.
There was a legend in these parts, one that Hemming was trying his best not to doubt, that lurking beyond the depths of this very lake was a creature of incredible power and renown– the Lord of Lake. Forlorstad, his quaint homestead, had come into the protection of the Lord centuries ago, having spilled from another ring of Asgard out of the blue. It’s a tale Hemming knows well by now, and it’s one that he would see the truth in today. Yes, today is meant to be the day Hemming catches him… should his luck improve.
It had been a beautiful day out, and would likely be an even more beautiful night once the stars lit up the sky. The air carries the scent of pine and juniper, the distant scent of smoke from Forlorstad, and the slightest hint of mist and dew from the morning rain. It was likely to rain again the next morning, and Hemming began to hope that these were signs of a storm. He did not feel a tug at his fishing rod for some time, so he peered over the dock to scrutinize the water once more.
The ice-blue waters instead reflect the sky above, with clouds drifting around his fiery curls and pink face like fish. While the sky is teeming with milky clouds, there is no such luck to be found in the lake. Hemming gnaws at his lip and swallows down a growl, the air in his lungs leaving his teeth as mist. It filters up, up, up, and onwards into the sky and he thinks of his mother again. No luck again, I’m afraid, she said as he made his way out the door with that small smile she wore when she was thinking of things that were far away. She had been staring out towards the docks across from her kitchen window. You won’t be catching anything today, little fox.
With a quick exhale, he takes another long, deep breath of air. The cold fills his lungs and reminds him of what it is to breathe, a gift that his mother had grown fond of reminding him of in the past few weeks—all because of a letter.
If his father had been here, this would have been no problem. He had fished all of his life before founding Forlorstad. There was experience in those big hands, and he only used a fishing rod as a courtesy to the fish. If he wanted to, he could have pulled that beast out of the water with his bare hands—but those days were behind him. He campaigns now, expanding his claim further and honoring his family whenever he returns. He had very little time to spend with his mistress and bastard now.
But still, he had sat Hemming down on this dock and told him he would make something of himself.
"You’ll catch even bigger fish as you get older," his father had said. "First, you start in the pond, then you’ll get bigger and better, and real soon you’ll master these waters. You might even catch the Lord of the Lake one day. You’ll be a man, then."
If his father were to arrive today, would he recognize the man Hemming had become while he was away? Would he find joy in how his bastard child brought the Lord of the Lake down with his own creation? Would he be proud?
He tries not to concern himself with his misfortune and starts looking around once more. Rather than the flash of silver scales and the twisting of tails, Hemming sees himself.
He is growing—something adults loved to say when there was nothing else to comment about. They always say it like it’s a good thing, but all that means to him is that he hasn’t fully grown yet. He scowls at his boyish features—the chubby cheeks, the soft, round face, and his big, curious eyes. He wishes they were sharper, harsher. He wishes they were an ice blue compared to his mossy green. He wishes that his red hair would grow on his face, too—that would fix his round face. Instead, he looks like a kid up past his bedtime, and less like a boy who’s seen fourteen winters– surely that wasn’t worth remarking about!
“If you screw your face up like that, you’ll look even more like him.”
“Shh, Rune—” Hemming hisses, his eyes not leaving the reflection. “You’ll scare away the fish.”
It was the groan of the old, wooden dock first, then the creaking, and soon Rune’s face swam alongside Hemming’s in the water.
“Huh!” Rune scoffs. “You look like you haven’t slept all day.”
“Leave it alone, Rune.”
There were bags under his eyes, and just looking at them reminded him of how many knicks and cuts his fingers had from the night before. They don’t help his opinion of himself today, but to reveal that to Rune would wound his pride more. Instead, he looks over at Rune’s reflection, in hopes of finding something worth commenting on.
While Hemming’s face is scrunched up and impatient, Rune’s is calm and attentive. With skin like snow and flaxen hair like golden wheat that reaches his chin, he somehow looks both warm and refined without much effort. Rune was a strange kid. And there it gleams again, that occasional shimmer–a quality in his presentation and attitude that made the boy off-putting to all but oh so curious to Hemming. What was always the most peculiar trait about him, however, were his eyes.
Realizing that he was being watched, golden eyes flick from icy depths to mossy irises, and Rune glances over to Hemming, catching him off-guard.
“There are no fish today,” Rune says. “There won’t be any tomorrow, either. You should try again next week.”
“And how would you know?”
“I’ve never been wrong before. I doubt I’d be wrong this time.”
He’s a smaller kid than Hemming, but that’s to be expected—Hemming had sprouted a couple of inches in the summer to the surprise of everyone, while Rune and the other boys had yet to grow up. This never seemed to bother him, but few things ever did. For Rune, so long as he could sleep long hours with the cattle or wander into the woods with Hemming, nothing else matters. Considering his peaceful expression and relaxed jaw, it seems as though he got to do both.
“Whatever,” Hemming mutters, glaring past their reflections and searching the murky depths. “You can’t always be right. That’s not how life works.”
“It’s going to get dark soon. You don’t have much to pack, but you should hurry up anyway.”
Let there be one fish. Hemming prays. A catfish, maybe. Mama knows what to do with a catfish. Anything. But the Gods wouldn't take the bait. It was clear enough there was only one fish Hemming was hoping to catch today.
More clouds begin to gather around them, and the air grows damp—perhaps the rain would be coming sooner than expected. Rune looks expectantly at Hemming but stops. He frowns, noticing something. Hemming grips his fishing rod tighter and looks on, still hoping to spot something in the water.
“What are you using that stick for?”
Hemming frowns. It had been hastily made, true, but he trusted his craft enough. He didn’t have the best teacher around all the time, but he had put a lot of thought into its creation and carved a wish into that rod. If Rune cared enough to instead ask about that, Hemming knew how he would answer.
'It goes like this,' he would say. 'A boy sits at the base of the rod, sitting upon the ridges at the end— and you keep going up the base and see a whole school of fish raining down from the sky, and the base of it is at the tip of the pole. That boy is me, and I’m making this come true. This stick, Rune, has been made to be the luckiest rod in the world. It’s cool, isn’t it?'
That’s what he wants Rune to ask about. Instead, he sits there with an unimpressed look, prodding his stupid finger at it to see if it wobbles and breaks.
Hemming slaps his hand away with a huff, grumbling a small “leave it alone” and shifts a bit. He tries praying again to anyone listening. Perhaps none can hear him over what Rune is saying.
“That’s not what your father gave you, is it? There’s no way this will handle the weight of any fish here. It’ll snap!”
He ignores his reflection in the water, now. It becomes murky in his eyes just like the depths of the lake. He wishes that there were as many fish today as there were years ago. He wishes that he could bring one catch home with him, something to make the past few days worth it. He didn’t need a balm for his fingers, a good night’s rest, or even a belly full of a warm, cooked meal— he would even give up a treat of his mother’s honey cakes for a whole month if that’s what it took! All he really wants is to catch one fish.
“You’re annoying,” Hemming says, tossing a dirty look to Rune. “You love bringing me down—”
“I’m realistic,” Rune says, rolling his eyes. “Something that you aren’t familiar with—”
“You sound like a nagging mother. I’m trying to fish, please keep quiet.”
“I have been telling you that there are no fish today. Hemming, there weren't any fish the past few days you have been out here, and you won’t have any luck this whole week.”
“I’m trying to fish, Rune, I am trying to fish! You’re distracting me!”
“If you’re so serious about it, then why aren’t you using the fishing rod your father made you?”
Hemming huffs, glaring at the water, seeing nothing but his father looking back at him. He wasn’t frowning like Hemming was, but smiling. His father always smiled, those days. Back before life caught up to him, and he had to leave again. Hemming remembers all the times his mother cried whenever his father left, taking their home’s warmth with him all the way to the ship docks and out towards the sea.
“I can’t always depend on his pity,” Hemming mutters. “If I’m going to take care of anybody, I need to stand on my own two feet. What’s the point if I can’t do this much?”
“Are you joking?”
“You don’t get it!”
“You’re right! I don’t, because that’s stupid!”
“Just leave me alone, then!”
Seven summers ago, Hemming’s father sat him down on this very dock and taught him to fish. He had taught him when he was younger, of course, but the years flew by before he knew it. To Hemming, those years were like a crawl. He had been an antsy child, wriggling on that dock like the worm strapped to the hook. Just like that worm, he felt suspended in that moment, waiting for time to flash in silver scales and flickering fins. A man is meant to be patient, but even now Hemming is only growing.
A hand grips Hemming’s shoulder, squeezing gently. He glances to see Rune’s face, wracked with awkwardness and guilt.
“Hemming,” Rune says, softly this time. “Come on. You should try again next week. I’ll even come along with you. I won’t even complain at all, I promise—”
They both sit upright, eyes wide and staring at the bait in the water disappearing into the deep. Hemming lets out a yell as a sharp tug from the line nearly pulls him down into the water. He might have fallen in had it not been for Rune’s quick hands and surprisingly strong grip, but for a second it pulled him back to when he was only five. His father would have laughed and clapped him on the back by now, but Rune wasn’t strong like him.
Rune through gritted teeth hisses out a “pull!” and grips Hemming even tighter. But time was flashing through the mass lurking in the water, dancing on the ice-blue surface of the waters. Time had not yet reached Hemming.
His first catch had been a tiny thing— something so miniscule that he struggled to remember it now. It was nothing at all like the fish pulling at his wire, now. But Hemming had been happy then, and his father had been so proud.
“Hemming!”
Despite the situation, Hemming can’t help but grin. To think the Lord of the Lake had taken to his bait… There were many descriptions of this beast, but so many details did not match each other. For example, the last person to see the Lord of the Lake had described him as a long, writhing mass with tendrils that twirled and veins that pulsed a golden glow. But with a glimpse, Hemming couldn’t see the resemblance. The fish before him didn’t appear long or nearly as elegant—he could barely make out its shape in the water. It could be ugly for all he could tell.
“Hemming!” Rune says, his pale face growing red and panicked. “You have to let go!”
“Are you kidding?!” Hemming cries out, his eyes catching the brewing storm from the clouds. “Do you realize what this could mean if I catch this?”
“You idiot! Even if you try, that stupid twig in your hand will snap before you get it to land!”
“It’ll work! Just make sure I don’t fall in!”
“What do you think I’ve been doing?!”
“What are you doing, Rune?!”
Time finally catches up to Hemming, Rune snatching it from him along with his fishing rod that was bending, bending, bending—
“Wait, don’t let go!” Hemming scrambles for the rod, hardly recognizing it as it splinters and cracks all along its frame from its grooves and carves. He grabs for it before Rune can throw it, trying to pull it away while Rune pulls it another. He can still catch it. His first and last catch being the Lord of the Lake would be fitting. If Rune would just let go... “Rune, don’t—”
He pried Rune’s fingers from the handle, and just as he did crack went the wood. Rune howls, covering his face and stumbling backward. Hemming whips around to curse at Rune when snap! The cord breaks in two and deep, deep down Hemming’s chances plummet with the Lord of the Lake.
The two boys fell backward onto the dock, Rune reeling and Hemming watching in horror as the top bits of his craft hit the water. Tears prick his eyes, disappointment bitter in his mouth. He hisses, rubbing his eyes with a sleeve, and looks to Rune. He should be mad at him. Furious. But as he pulls Rune away from the edge and looks over his red face, contorted with pain and exhaustion the anger stills in him. And when blood trickles down Rune’s brow, that’s when the fury inside Hemming grows cold.
“Rune,” Hemming whispers, shaking him lightly. “Are you all right?”
“Urgh...”
“What’s wrong? Why are you bleeding?”
“Leave it alone,” Rune says, slapping clumsy fingers away from his face. “Just help me out of here.”
“... Yeah,” Hemming says, slow and guilty. “Here, I’ll help you up…”
The day is all but gone now. The fresh scent of pine and juniper crisps into smoke and cattle, the smell of supper cooking on the fire dancing through the boys and twisting into hunger at the pit of their stomachs. The air is heavy and damp, a current running through the top of Hemming’s mouth. There is a storm brewing out there, and from the distance, he can make out the shape of warships with a large man at the bow. Hemming’s heart sinks when he catches flashes of red flowing in the brisk air, familiar ice-blue eyes looking towards his home as big shoulders relax slightly at his mother by the window. His mother’s letter had been right, then.
“Hemming!” His mother calls from the house. “Come in before you catch a cold! You too, Rune! You both must be hungry.”
The boys glance at each other knowingly at first, then with uncertainty. Whatever frustration Rune had brewing in his eyes dissipates when Hemming looks at him. Relief hit Hemming in waves at that, as well as exhaustion from the day and the days to come. His father had returned.
“Say,” Hemming says, dull and slow. “My mother can tend your forehead after supper if you wanted to stay a while.”
“Hm,” Rune says after some time, waiting just long enough for Hemming to squirm. “I won’t get a scar anyway, but I can’t say no to that.”
“... Thank you.”
“Shut up.”

Rune’s hands are still white from how tightly he had held onto Hemming, but his palms are red from the blood running from his forehead. There are words on his friend’s tongue, but they never bubble out; perhaps they were better left unsaid after all was said and done. Hemming can’t help but be surprised by this, time catching up to him once again in this fraction of a moment.
Rune is stronger than Hemming expected, and more patient than he had been when they were younger. Maybe Hemming hadn’t been the only one growing. His eyes linger on Rune’s face out of concern for his friend, and despite the unfortunate end to their day, he considers that maybe staying young wouldn’t be so bad, so long as Rune was there. And as he walks arm-in-arm with an unsteady, bleeding Rune, Hemming prays for thunder.

TERMS OF SERVICE

I hold the right to refuse any commission. I will not draw any NSFW, gore, mecha, insects, offensive/hateful content, and I do not endorse NFT's or any of my art to be used in this way. Don't try to convince me or go behind my back on this. This also includes using my art for AI prompts or anything related to AI. NO AI.I require references of some kind when taking on your commissions. This can vary in form! I accept detailed written descriptions, inspiration boards, color palettes, picrews, previously commissioned art and personal art. As I pride myself on efficiency and customer satisfaction, if I feel like your description is not enough for me to finish the work I may ask you for more information to work with. You may be charged an additional fee for an insufficient amount of references.If you have any changes that you want made to your piece, please let me know as soon as possible. You will be charged extra for after 3 changes. I will not make any new changes to the piece after 3 days of finalizing.At the moment I only take payment through Paypal.By submitting your payment, you are agreeing to provide proper credit on your commission if posted on social media, you do not hold the right of distribution and you are NOT allowed to use it for personal gain by reselling it, tracing it, or claiming it to be your own.I usually do commissions in the order in which I receive the form, if I accept them. Depending on what you commission me for, as well as which slot you got, you can expect your commission to be finished days after you commission or weeks. If you give me an exact date that you want the commission done by, and you have given me enough time and enough notice I will do my best to accommodate. If you want a commission done by an exact date and I am not given enough time or notice I reserve the right to reject the commission or charge you an extra fee.I will let you know when I start your commission and require payment, and I will give an estimate on if I will be finished sooner or later than expected. Once I start your commission until the end I will send you progress photos and updates, but your patience is appreciated!If I am taken on into a project and it is cancelled after I have started work on it, I expect compensation for the time I've given. Depending on how far into the process this is, this could be 25-50% of the original rate would it have been completed.

thank you !!!