WULF | MANN

In the hall of splendor, a voice rang: “Léof Wandrigar! Léof Wæcawulf! The ealdorman makes home. Thy father returns!”

The long hearth popped, then — crackled, spat sparks that died falling. Shadows danced on the dimly lit, gold-banded walls; and darkness straddle the vaulted timber. The high table sat empty — the twin chairs vacant. And all doors remained ajar. Outside, rain prattled.

“Thy father returns, children! Children!”

The boys laughed — played as wolves play, but with the announcement a second time coming, they set off. Obsessed. With all intent children could muster. They lopped down the low lying mound where the hall sat, made for the palisade’s west face. At the toe of the hill, a dirt shelf fell to flatness, and, there, they knelt. Wet. And shivering.

Small wooden homes rose from the flatland below. Roads and corrals made of them clusters of three and four — bisected, further, by a single arterial high-road. At the roadside, peoples huddled, shuffled amongst themselves already. Their angst was bare; and as the boys knew — even then, it was uncertainty that had all drinking of the cup, Dread.

Shadows had stretched a palm’s length when the train of horse and man broke the pastoral lands. Horns bellowed. Once. Then, twice. Thrice, as the company rode the pass and made through the wooden gate of the palisade.

The peoples watched, whispered. They spoke of the beasts. Of the steam off their hides. Of the slow, troubled trot they maintained. And of the riders, too. Of their look, and of the Evil that had visited their faces. Dead-heavy words followed, then; and these stayed many a night in the mind of both Wandrigar and Wæcawulf. Each carved in the flesh where eyes rest. Written in the matter of the father-dream. Such words were they these:

“They are no more. Dead. One and all. Butchered. Slaughtered. A father for a son; a nephew for the father; and so forth till naught but hate remained with the babes and wives. Even the tears creased. The tears. Run dry. And made red. Where now does good walk? Where?”

The ealdorman rode at the fore of the train. Armored. He wore his great warhelm, still, and showed only that dower iron face to his peoples. Runnels of rain made like tears down it’s reliefed cheeks — running onto its gold mustache, falling upon the saddle.

Wandrigar. Wæcawulf. Each wanted to find in that man now their father; to sack the word-treasure of his journey; to steal into his shadow, and so into his warmth where it rest. They wished all of this. And knew better. The boys of that fryd returned men endowed with many a time’s wounds; the men returned deadened, without life and it’s wants; and the ealdorman: he was not their father.

Wæcawulf turned to his brother. He said, “Let us never be the Wulfcyng of old, eldest brother. Never shall I harm you; nor you I. Let us swear it, and strike down he who breaks bonds of blood and fellowship. Kill me, Wandrigar — my dear brother, if I bring harm onto you. Swear it! Upon our name.”

Year of the Blood-Lamb,

At the hour of Wounding.

East _______. ______shire. Thanage of ______.

The sky bled. And by efen, the bodies piled high. Five fryds, butchered; their ghost-cries riding faceless and raving on the summer breeze. Black fly-clouds swarmed about the gold hillock range. And the lowland between hills shone, the lost arms and armaments casting lance-light in the shadow of coming dark.

Atop Úhtred’s Hill, an ealdorman loomed — varafeldur in hand. He’d come westward out the hillock range with his huscarl — set on a storm of black birds wheeling. Hills flattened, became a small, deluged plain, which rose, again, into the greater hill he held, now. And it was atop steps of flesh, there, that the battle’s deathbed had been found; and, with it, all that he’d sought.

Him.

A warrior laid in the piss, belly sap, thought and flesh tear of his fallen thegns. His bed-horde was a gathering of busted, copper-banded shields, bare seaxs, splintered spears, caved helms, and cleaved rings; severed arms and spilt innards and caved domes and white bone and red blood and dun and loose-made eyes, too.

Fell-birds feasted as chieftains about them all — undressing men of flesh, white-knuckled boys of their innocence.

He was alive. Dead. Lucid, but at the penumbra of sleep. When the ealdorman and his huscarl approached, he started, then spoke — his eyes firm upon the ealdorman:

“Wæcawulf. Brother.”

Silence.

“Wæcawulf,” he said, again.

The ealdorman drew nearer. He removed his awesome warhelm; and the man’s eyes drew wide, face twisted with terrible comprehension.

What he saw — the ealdorman reckoned, was doom before his life’s path. And knew he’d not escape. Not his blood’s seed. Not his wyrd. His life was forfeit. His fryds puddles in shadow. And all bled, pooled, thickened towards this.

Pink spittle foamed at the crook of his mouth. He wheezed, then spat some incomprehensible word bound in blood and wracked with cough: Nephew.

Wulfdrem spoke, “Usurper. Kin-Slayer. Coward. Your nephew is dead. And we know you by many a name; but I by three — ‘Uncle’ is not of them.”

“Eiludd!” the ealdorman continued.

The huscarl approached, he: a broken man, wearing by flesh the suit of a warrior.

“See to it that he lives, knows Misery… And you, Wandrigar: live, as I command. Make merry with your blood-crimes”

Then, he turned and stepped away — dawning his helm again.

He wore a byrnie, a blued and gold undergarment beneath, inhand a tear-dropped shield — each good, strong war-stuff; but possessed such as he was, it was by that helm of his that not landed soundly upon his breast. Shappened as a mustachioed warrior-man bedecked in fine gold and silver trim, that great iron warhelm was a second skin upon which such wounding landed. A skin of iron than of man-flesh. And not would harm him.

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