The Seven Brothers of Tongeren

Shortly after his birth, it happened. The mother lay in bed with her newborn son, happy and proud, when the child began to cry. Not from hunger, not from pain, but from something unseen. The boy’s back began to grow, to twist, to bend. What should have been a straight spine became a hump. What should have been strength became a burden.

The father called for doctors. The mother called for priests. No one could help. In their desperation, they heard whispers that a witch had done this, a woman the father had cursed days earlier because he would not allow her in his shop. “You will pay,” she had said. “You will see what a cursed body means.”

The youngest brother grew up with his hump. His six brothers were strong and straight, but they lacked one thing: anger. But they had that. Anger at the witch, anger at the injustice, anger at the power of evil that could strike so arbitrarily.

The seven brothers formed a unit. They worked together, drank together, laughed together, but beneath their smiles lay a determination. They would find the witch. They would force her to lift the curse.

Months passed. They moved through villages, asked questions, heard rumors. Until at last they found what they sought: an old woman who lived outside Tongeren, in a small cottage among the trees. They spoke her name in whispers, their mouths full of venom.

One night they rode to her house, seven against one. The witch did not expect them, but she knew of their coming. She stood in the doorway, her eyes burning, her voice sharp as a scythe. “You want me to lift the curse? First you must defeat me. First you must understand what power means.”

The struggle was not of the body, but of the will. The seven brothers spoke as one, their voices unified. They did not ask, they commanded. They did not say “please,” but “you shall.” They invoked the power of justice, of blood, of the bond between brothers that was stronger than all dark spells.

The witch felt their strength. She felt how seven hearts beat as one. She felt how the love between brothers was worse than all the hatred in the world. And slowly, like mist dissolving in the sun, she let go.

“The curse is ended,” she muttered. And it was true. The youngest brother felt it as they left—felt how the hump weakened, how his back began to straighten. Not completely, not entirely, but enough. The seven brothers had won. The power of blood was stronger than darkness.