Warrior.

Original artwork by Ryan Pearse

Restless horses in flickering torchlight, men even more so, hands on swords, eyes on the horizon.

“By the Gods, what keeps us here? When will he give the order? The fire burns, the villains flee, and we sit here counting heads.”

Words murmured under his breath; it isn’t in him to disrespect a proven leader. He looks at his friend Eadric, tense and ready beside him, all he can see is a child in armour, someone who might get hurt. He wishes there was a way to keep him here, in the village. Keep him away from the destruction they will find, make sure he never has to use his sword. Some men aren’t made to be warriors, he is one of them. He can wield the sword, he’s strong enough, but he won’t survive the death he inflicts. It will ruin him. No time now to stop it, they ride.

Hours on dark trails, through trees and across fields, the smoke unseen until it chokes them. It feels like forever, coughing, slowing down to find their way. Riding into hell and expecting to meet fiends. The sun comes up and saves them, they ride through a village where hell has been and left. Still smouldering in places, half burned skeletons of all kinds, it’s easy to find what remains of the great hall.

Even when you know you’ll be far too late you never believe it until you see it, when it seizes your guts with iron fists. You don’t see a man slaughtered like a sheep, with his throat cut, you see all the ways you could have saved him. Your armour and weapons hang on you like the weight of your soul. You’re useless, all that makes you what you are is the sickest, saddest joke. At someone else’s expense.

A warrior doesn’t cry. He won’t lose control of himself or his body. A warrior will, at some time, be expected to cause the same kind of carnage, when called upon. But not Eadric, this isn’t for him. Wulfgar knows this, but soon others will know, unless he can- grab his reins and tug his horse.

“Come this way, help me search the woods here, we can split up, you take the left side. I think we’ll have to leave the horses and go on foot. Be careful Eadric.”

It’s hard to leave him with his new ghosts and his heart three sizes too big. But Wulfgar does, turning right and walking carefully through the dense underbrush. He is his own kind of sensitive, he feels fear like a presence. Something is hiding, something’s heart is beating far too fast, breath is being held.

Man or animal, he means it no harm without seeing it, so he lifts his hands and says, “whoever, whatever you are, you’re safe now, I can help you”. Thinking, it hardly looks like it, I imagine, he unbuckles his helmet and pulls it over his head, his hair falls onto his forehead in golden shoals. He brushes it aside and when he looks up there is a girl standing in front of him. Dark, tangled hair framing a face made of stone. So white, hazel eyes huge and hollow, it’s the face of shock. The face of prey when it has no strength left to fight, trapped and helpless, eyes burning with useless defiance. He’s seen it a hundred times but on her it’s painful beyond measure. He can see she’s young, her clothing torn but of good quality. Her bearing, standing in the midst of moss and grasses, almost a challenge. His warrior heart feels for her.

There is a connection, after all, between the sword in his scabbard and the blood that was lost in the village. Savior and slayer, he has his share of sins. Eadric has called Hengest and the others, Wulfgar hears them coming through the woods. He looks at the girl, she stares back at him. His own voice, low and urgent.

“Never remember my face. Forget you see it now; it has nothing to do with what has gone on here. Do not, my lady, link it with whatever you are feeling.”

Then the others are there and gathering around her, all talking at once. He backs away slowly, finding Eadric and reading his face. It looks good my friend; you look ready to fight something.

They go back to their horses and ride around the village to meet the others. Time in a saddle is time to think. Eadric has long been a poet, will he find words for the torment inside him? Will they release him from all that has hurt him, that hurts him still? Wulfgar is a warrior through, a chivalrous knight, long before there is such a thing. The girl must forget his face, but he’ll keep hers. Everything he has seen on it, fear and flinch, fight and force, the ravages of loss, the will for revenge, newborn and powerful. When they ask him to take her up on his horse, he releases a breath he has held for too long. She hands him her bag; he ties it somewhere and reaches his hand down for hers.

The ride home is long, horses are weary from the hard ride out. She sits swaying before him, not new to the movements of a horse. He looks at her firm back and the riot of her hair, somewhere under it her nape. He thinks, she weighs less than my dog. She’s so young, what will this do to her? He has some idea. How can he help? Talk. Ramble on about anything, talk about nothing of consequence and don’t stop. When the day dwindles into dusk, she knows more about him than anyone other than Eadric. How sad that she will forget it all, just as she will forget him. He tells her about his village, not much since she has just lost hers, he talks about his dogs, his horse.

He feels her stiffening, he can guess why. He says, “tell me your name and I’ll be silent.” A long period of silence, Eadric looks over at them. She turns her head slightly, her voice is soft and toneless, “my name is Aela. I hope one day it might mean something to me, but it’s a cursed name so you won’t hear me say it again”.

He can’t help it; his arms tighten around her. “Sleep, Aela, and don’t forget your name, I won’t.”

He falls silent then, simply supporting her as she slowly succumbs to exhaustion. When the moon appears, they are almost home, soon she will leave him. He breathes in her smell, smoke and fear and something that was there before her world was destroyed. That’s what he’ll remember.

He hands her down into waiting arms, then finds Eadric. Horses to be cared for, sleep to be sought. No, it doesn’t happen. The moon is lush and taunting, he can’t keep indoors for all the world. He pulls his tunic on and finds his way out of the hall. He sees the fire across the grass, a huddle of women, a small form lying on furs. She’s in good hands, Gytha has long been a healer and wise woman, if anyone will know how to reach a much-disturbed mind it’s her.

He walks slowly over; drawn for reasons he doesn’t understand. Gytha looks up at him with her dark, inscrutable eyes, he looks down with his. Aela is asleep in her lap. A child, a wraith, he trembles with what she means to him, already. The hairs on his neck rise, part of him wants to run, he has no need for such things. No warrior willingly takes on a liability, not of this magnitude. He steps back, Gytha watches him, smiling grimly.

“A waste of time to run, it’s too late for you.”

His breath is short, his lungs tight. He squats and rubs his hand slowly across Aela’s foot. Lightly, never waken her, just touch her, and know that she lives. He thinks about his life, all that he must do, all that he’s already responsible for, it’s nothing for him to make a place for her. She’s already there, inside him. For a moment he’s dizzy, he will be sick. No. A warrior is never sick.

Gytha looks at him, the sorrow of a mother in her eyes. Her hand gently pulls the leaves and tangles from Aela’s hair, her daughter is home, a wounded bird.

“You know it will be a long time before she’ll even look upwards, she needs all the care I can give her, all the rest and peace. She can’t afford what I see in your eyes. Not yet, you’ll have to wait, and wait away from her.”

Impossible. He looks at her, already shaking his head, she holds him still with the truth in her eyes. He is silent. All the rage of a thousand unfought wars flooding through, the raw pain of needing to protect her from everything, of having already failed. He pulls his hand back as if it has been burned.

He knows this. He knew it as he held her on the long ride home, knew it as he supported her head in his hand, limp and trusting. His breath leaves him entirely and for a long moment he doesn’t care.

“Keep her safe Gytha. Keep her well, keep her free, I’ll come back for her one day. I’ll become what I’m meant to be and then I’ll offer my heart to her, my hand, myself. Help her, she’s seen what darkness looks like, help her to forget it.”

Gytha’s hand keeps stroking gently, light and sure. “While you go off and steep yourself in it. What would I be keeping her for, a different set of bloody hands?”

Wulfgar swears quietly. “I know this. If I didn’t know it before, I learned it when I saw her face, in the woods. Do you think any man could forget such a thing?”

“Most men will, and so will you when it is a different face. I tell you this, Wulfgar son of Oswi, I will price her dearly. You’ll have to be worthy of her, not just because she’s the daughter of a nobleman, but because she is my daughter now. She’s a daughter of the moon, she doesn’t know it yet. She’s already many things to many people, I have seen it in the stars this night.”

Wulfgar freezes for a moment, letting himself feel the touch on his neck, his hands held out before him to see what must be seen. He closes his eyes, fire snaps, the moon writes her will on his skin. He slowly frees his dagger then leans to cut a lock of Aela’s hair. The night spins around him, he is nothing in it, weightless, powerless in this light. This place, this moment.

He stands carefully, sheathing his knife and placing the lock of hair in his pocket, his movements smooth and assertive. The spell is broken, there is all the purpose of a man who knows himself. “I will come back for her, Gytha, tell her that, or not, you’ll know. It makes no difference.” A last look at her sleeping face, forming a new vision in his mind, one that will torment him less.

In the morning he is gone, with his dogs, his poet, his own life to craft.