When the legions withdrew, law went with them.
Britain splintered into a hundred petty crowns, each clawing for the ruins of Rome.
Forts became keeps, temples turned to halls. The roads grew haunted by men who had once marched in order and now wandered for coin.
Among them rode one they called Stormwulf a hunter without master, born of lightning and exile.
His eyes still carried the reflection of fires older than the Empire, and wherever he went, the rain followed.
He took work others would not. Guarding merchants through the wild country, driving raiders from villages, hunting beasts the new priests called devils.
He never stayed long; gold burned his hands, and gratitude never lasted past sunrise. Those who hired him learned quickly the storm served no king, only itself.
When asked his name, he gave none.
When pressed, he said, “Names are for men. I am only what the thunder leaves behind.”
He rode the dead roads west, through forests where Roman stones still stood like broken teeth.
Sometimes, in the glint of his sword, he saw the ghost of his own reflection . Not the god he had been, nor the man he pretended to be, but something caught between both.
He wondered which would die first his memory of the divine, or the world’s memory of him.
At night, when the fire sank to coals, he spoke softly to the empty dark.
Not prayers he had no god left to pray to but old words, in a tongue the wind still understood.
The forest listened. The rain replied.
By dawn, the storm would be gone, and so would he.
Only the hoofprints remained, filling slowly with water as the day began again, lawless and unbroken.
The rain drove him south into the forests of Mercia, where no king’s banner reached.
For seven days he followed the scent of smoke and wet earth. Until he found a clearing rimmed with ancient ash trees.
There, beneath branches silvered by moonlight. Men and women waited deserters, thieves, freed slaves, and one witch whose eyes gleamed like stormlight on iron.
They had heard the stories of Stormwulf the mercenary who rode alone, the one lightning never struck.
They had lost homes and names, but not hunger.
When he asked why they waited for him, the witch said. “Because the world has forgotten justice, and you remember what it sounds like.”
That night, by firelight, he drew a blade across his palm and bled into the roots of the largest ash.
The others followed, one by one, their blood mingling with his in the cold soil.
They swore no oath to king or god, only to the storm itself. That they would strike against cruelty wherever it ruled, and share the spoils until the world ended or they did.
The ash grove became their hall, their altar, their hiding place.
They raided the tax caravans that bled the villages dry. He burned the grain stores of greedy thanes, and gave food to those who had nothing left but prayers.
To some they were outlaws; to others, saints.
Villagers said rain followed their path. That thunder rolled when they rode, and that the lightning spared any roof that had offered them bread.
In taverns, men cursed them.
At hearths, women whispered their names with hope.
Thunorric though few dared call him that. As they sat by the fire one night and watched the sparks rise into the branches.
For the first time in centuries, he thought the storm is more than destruction.
In this grove of ash and blood and ruin, it be reborn as mercy.
But storms are not made for peace.
And in the darkness beyond the grove, men with silver promises already waited to break what they did not understand.
It began with a rumour and ended with a corpse.
A messenger came to the Ash Grove at dusk, bearing word of a bounty.
A relic had been stolen from the Thane of Wednesbury. a silver cross, heirloom of his son, taken in a raid along the border road.
The thief was said to be dangerous, armed, and protected by outlaws.
The Thane’s men offered coin enough to feed the band for a season.
Stormwulf listened in silence.
Silver was always a warning, but hunger speaks louder than caution.
Rægenwine urged him to take it a simple job, he said, quick and clean.
Thunorric agreed, though the rain that night had an edge to it he did not like.
He tracked the thief for two nights through tangled wood and flooded fields. The trail led north, where the road curved past a fallen Roman wall and into the low marsh.
There he found the boy no older than fifteen. mud-streaked, clutching a silver cross so tightly the metal cut his palm.
“Give it to me,” Thunorric said, sword drawn but voice calm. The boy shook his head. “It was my father’s. He’ll kill me if I go back.”
Lightning cracked overhead.
For a heartbeat, the world turned white, and the storm spoke only in instinct.
When the light faded, the boy lay still, the cross gleaming in his open hand.
By dawn the Thane’s riders came.
They found the mercenary kneeling beside the body, soaked to the bone, blood running down his arm.
The silver lay on the ground between them like a sentence.
His companion the man who had brought the message was gone.
So was the promised coin.
The riders bound him in chains and dragged him through the mud toward Wednesbury.
The villagers hid behind their doors as thunder followed the procession.
Some swore the sky darkened as he passed. Others that the rain hissed like boiling water when it struck his skin.
At the gates, the Thane himself waited, eyes hollow from grief and pride.
He looked at the prisoner and said only, “The devil has many faces. Today it wears yours.”
They threw Thunorric into the stockade beneath the old Roman wall.
The guards whispered that the thunder outside matched the beating of his heart.
None dared sleep that night.
By morning, the storm had not moved.
And in the east, where the sky bruised toward dawn, lightning traced the shape of chains across the clouds.
The chains tasted of rust and rain.
They had bound him with iron cold enough to sting the bone. Nailed the ends to the stone floor, and left him beneath the abbey where the damp never slept.
Outside, thunder prowled the hills; inside, men whispered prayers to keep it from coming closer.
At dawn they brought him to the hall.
The abbot waited beneath a carving of the Crucifixion, the air thick with incense and candle smoke.
Around the edges of the room, monks muttered as if their breath smother a storm.
“You are to be tried by the Church,” said the abbot. “For murder and blasphemy. You will answer for the blood on your hands.”
Thunorric laughed, a low crack of thunder in his throat.
“You caught me, monk. When’s trial? Trial of my peers? Trial by ordeal? You going to make me eat blessed bread? Or make me hold hot iron? Because pray your prisons hold me.”
He leaned ahead, the chains grating like thunderheads shifting.
“I will see the fall of your Church like I saw the fall of Rome.”
A shiver passed through the monks.
The abbot’s face stayed stone, but his fingers trembled on the rosary.
“Then pray you are wrong, creature,” he said. “For even storms must break against the rock of faith.”
They dragged him back to the cell.
Light seeped in through a single slit, thin and grey as mercy.
He counted the hours by the sound of bells and the slow drip of water through the ceiling.
That night a young monk came with bread and a bowl of water.
He hesitated before sliding them through the bars.
“You should not mock the abbot,” he said. “God listens.”
Thunorric looked up, eyes catching what little light remained.
“Then let Him listen,” he said softly. “Let Him hear what men do in His name.”
The monk flinched but did not run. “You killed a child,” he whispered.
“I killed a thief,” Thunorric answered. “A thief my master set before me. The sin is his, not mine.”
“Sin can’t be passed like silver.”
“Then tell your god that mortals have made it currency.”
The monk said nothing more. He left the bread, untouched.
Days bled together. The storm outside circled but did not strike.
When the monks prayed, the sound reached him like waves breaking on distant rocks.
He slept little, dreaming of the ash grove. Of blood sinking into the roots, of brothers who had once shared his fire.
On the seventh night lightning struck the abbey’s bell tower.
The sound tore through stone and sleep alike.
Dust rained from the ceiling; iron shook against iron.
In the flash that followed, he saw his own shadow stretch enormous across the wall wolf-shaped, man-shaped, god-shaped.
When silence returned, he smiled.
“The storm remembers,” he said.
No one answered. Only the rain, steady and patient, tapping the bars like a drumbeat waiting to start.
The rain did not stop when they chained him below the abbey.
It hammered the roof as if trying to find a way in.
Every drop that slipped through the cracks struck stone with the sound of distant drums.
Thunorric lay on straw that smelled of salt and mould.
The chains pulled at his wrists and ankles, ringing faintly whenever he breathed.
They had been forged from iron scavenged out of a fallen star, the monks said.
Iron from the sky to hold a thing born of the sky.
The abbey above thrummed with activity bells, chanting, the scurry of fearful feet.
They prayed louder each time thunder rolled, as though voices out-shout the storm.
He listened to them and thought of armies he had seen crumble. Of kings who believed walls stand against weather.
By the second night, he knew every sound of the place.
The monk who snored near the stairs, the one who coughed through his prayers.
The drip of rain that found its way through the ceiling and landed exactly on the scar across his collarbone.
When the door finally opened, light spilled in thin and uncertain.
A young monk stepped inside carrying a jug of water and a bowl of barley.
His robe hung too big on him; his courage fit even worse.
“You should eat,” the monk said.
“I should be free,” Thunorric answered.
The monk hesitated. “You blaspheme without fear.”
“I fear nothing made by men,” Thunorric said.
He lifted his chains and let them fall again, the sound echoing through the stone like thunder’s laugh.
“What is your name?”
“Eadwine.”
“Then remember it, Eadwine. Names are the only thing that keep you whole when the world starts to drown.”
The boy swallowed. “They say the iron that binds you fell from the heavens.”
“It did,” Thunorric said. “Once I called such iron home.”
Eadwine’s eyes widened, but curiosity outweighed fear. “Are you a demon?”
“No. Just older than the words you use to name your demons.”
For a moment neither spoke. The rain filled the silence.
Eadwine set the bowl down, stepped back toward the door, and whispered,. “If you are not a demon, pray for forgiveness.”
Thunorric smiled, slow and sharp. “I do not pray. I remember.”
When the door closed, the cell grew dark again.
He flexed his hands; the iron hummed softly, as though recognising him.
Above, the bells began another hymn.
He mouthed the words he still knew from older tongues,
and somewhere far beyond the walls, thunder rolled an answer.
Days slid past like rain over stone.
The monks said nothing of trial or mercy, only came and went with bowls of barley and water. leaving prayers behind them like footprints in mud.
Thunorric counted time by thunder.
When none came, he marked it by the drips that fell from the ceiling. a rhythm that never stopped and never changed.
Sometimes he thought the walls breathed.
At night, when the chants above faded to murmurs, the stones seemed to whisper in languages long forgotten.
They spoke in the hiss of water, in the slow groan of the beams.
In the heartbeat of iron cooling after lightning. He almost hear his brothers’ names in the noise Dægan, Leofric, Eadric, Rægenwine. Spoken like fragments of an unfinished prayer.
The young monk, Eadwine, came often.
He brought bread now, softer than before, and a thin blanket that smelled of smoke.
He said it was charity; Thunorric said it was guilt.
They talked in low voices, wary of echoes.
“Why do you listen to the storm?” Eadwine asked one evening.
“Because it remembers,” Thunorric said. “Everything else forgets.”
The monk glanced at the ceiling, where the rain whispered against the roof. “What does it remember of me?”
“That you are small and afraid, but still you open the door. That is enough.”
Eadwine left quickly after that, though he bowed before closing the latch.
Thunorric watched his shadow vanish up the stairs and listened to the faint sound of bells above.
The iron around his wrists felt warm. The links hummed, soft as bees in a summer field.
That night lightning struck the bell tower.
The sound rolled through the stones, shaking dust from the ceiling and waking every soul in the abbey.
The bells screamed once, then went silent.
In the darkness after, the whispering returned clearer now, closer.
The walls no longer murmured in strange tongues. But in words he knew: old words of the storm, promises made under skies that no longer existed.
He closed his eyes and breathed the damp air, feeling the thunder build somewhere beyond the hills.
The storm was not done with him.
It waited, patient as the sea, outside his cage of stone.
“When will you let me out for air?” Thunorric asked.
The words rolled through the cell like a low growl.
Brother Eadwine stood on the other side of the bars, the torchlight painting his face in trembling gold.
“The abbot says the storm has not passed,” he answered. “Until it does, you stay below.”
Thunorric smiled without warmth. “Then I will die of your caution before I die of your judgment.”
“You still think yourself beyond it,” the monk said.
“I have outlived every law you worship,” Thunorric replied. “But the air here stinks of fear. Even gods choke on fear.”
Eadwine looked away. He had grown thinner since the first day pale from fasting and from the whispers that haunted the abbey halls.
Each night the brothers spoke of signs: candles that guttered without wind. Prayers lost mid-word, dreams of wolves pacing the cloister.
The young monk reached through the bars with the key. “I can take you to the cloister walk. Only a moment. You’ll be bound.”
Chains clinked; the iron groaned as if warning them both. Eadwine’s hands shook, but he fastened the cuffs and led the prisoner up the narrow stair.
Outside, dawn pressed pale and heavy through the mist. The cloister garden was all wet grass and gravestones.
Thunorric inhaled deeply, the scent of rain and ash thick in his lungs.
“This is mercy?” he asked.
“It is all we can give.”
He laughed softly. “Then your god is a miser.”
They stood in silence until the bells called the monks to Prime.
From the far end of the yard came the sound of hooves pack horses bringing supplies from the village.
Among the drivers was a man with a hood drawn low. Thunorric knew the gait, the way the man favoured one knee.
“Rægenwine,” he said, voice quiet but certain.
Eadwine turned. “You know him?”
“I knew him before he learned the price of betrayal.”
The hooded man looked up then, eyes meeting Thunorric’s across the wet garden.
For a heartbeat neither moved. Then Rægenwine tipped his head as if in apology and went inside with the brothers to deliver his goods.
Eadwine frowned. “A friend?”
“Once.” Thunorric tugged lightly at the chain between his wrists. “Now a man who carries guilt heavier than this iron.”
Rain began to fall again, slow and deliberate. The storm that had circled for days was gathering its breath.
Eadwine guided him back below. “If you would pray”
“I told you,” Thunorric said, descending into the dark. “I do not pray. I remember.”
The door closed, the bolts dropped, and the world shrank to the smell of rust and damp stone.
Thunorric looked up at the ceiling and added, his voice flat but not unkind.
“Tell your abbot I will not convert. The Romans tried and failed. I will not give him satisfaction.”
He glanced toward the untouched bowl on the floor. “And you, monk eat before the storm does.”
The abbey smelled of rain and fear.For three nights thunder had stalked the hills without striking, and sleep had fled every cell.When the door to Thunorric’s chamber burst open, the storm followed in behind it like breath drawn through broken teeth.
Two monks entered carrying rope and holy water . Their orders were to bind the prisoner for purification. The abbot had declared that only prayer and pain scourge the darkness from him.
Neither expected the darkness to strike back.Thunorric rose before they touched him.Even in chains he moved like a wolf shaking off a snare.
The first monk’s bowl shattered against the wall, scattering water that hissed where it landed on the iron. The second swung a cudgel. Thunorric caught it in both hands and wrenched it free, the links of his shackles screaming in protest.
“Orare potes,” he said, his voice steady and low, eyes bright as lightning.“Sed animas tuas non servabit cum tenebrae se explicabunt.” You pray, but your prayers will not save your souls when the darkness unfolds.
The monks froze, terror whitening their faces.The torches guttered. Shadows crawled up the walls as if the stone itself had learned to move.One monk fled; the other fell to his knees, clutching the crucifix at his throat.
Thunorric only smiled, slow and dangerous. “You brought chains to the storm,” he said. “Now you’ll learn what storms do to chains.”
Outside, the wind rose.The bells began to toll of their own accord, a wild, discordant peal that no hand guided.
Brother Eadwine appeared at the top of the stair, face pale, torch shaking.
“Enough!” he cried. “You’ll kill them!”
Thunorric turned his gaze upward. “No, little monk. The storm will.” Lightning struck somewhere above, shaking dust from the ceiling and splitting the air with light.
For an instant the cell burned white, and every shadow in the abbey seemed to reach toward him.
When the thunder rolled away, only silence remained deep, electric, waiting.The air in the corridor shimmered, alive with the scent of rain and iron.The storm had found its way inside, and it was listening.
“Secure him!” one of the monks shouted, his voice cracking over the storm’s roar.
Thunorric fought like something born of the tempest itself even in chains, he struck faster than they could move. A smirk cut across his face as two of them slammed him back against the wall. the iron biting deep into his wrists.
“Make the irons short,” another commanded. “No outside time. No food until he yields.”
The torches flickered, casting wild shadows that danced across the damp stone.
“Did you two come in for a specific reason?” a third monk muttered from the doorway, “or just to feed the devil’s pride?”
No one answered. The rain outside hit harder, drumming against the roof like distant hooves.
Thunorric looked up through the bars of light that fell across his face. “If I am the devil you fear,” he said quietly, “then you built his temple yourselves.”
The youngest monk hesitated Eadwine. He looked between his brothers and the man in chains, then down at the key trembling in his hand.
Lightning struck again, the sound rolling through the walls like the breath of a god. The oldest monk crossed himself. “He’s calling it down,” he whispered. “He’s calling it here!”
“Get back!” Eadwine shouted but the warning came too late. The bell tower exploded in white fire.
Stone screamed. The floor shuddered. The iron that bound Thunorric snapped with a sound like thunder tearing through bone.
He rose from the shattered floor as the storm poured in through the cracks. wind, rain, and lightning chasing one another in a single violent breath.
The monks fell to their knees, covering their heads. Some prayed. Some screamed.
Only Eadwine stood frozen, staring through the smoke as the prisoner walked past him unbound, eyes bright with stormlight.
“Run,” Thunorric said.
Eadwine did.
When the roof gave way, fire met rain in a clash that split the night. By dawn, only blackened stones remained.
Villagers who came to pray found the cross shaft split and scorched. The abbey gone as if it had never been.
They said a wolf’s shape was seen walking from the ruins, lightning dancing in its wake.
They said the storm that took Wednesbury never touched the same ground again.
Eadwine lived, though his hair turned white that night.
He wandered south for years, barefoot and silent, until he reached the ruins of the Roman road at Pennocrucium.
There he built a small chapel from the stones he carried. One for each brother who had died that night.
Some say when he prayed, the wind changed direction, as if listening.
And always, there were travellers on the road who spoke of a hooded man watching from the trees.
Sometimes he offered bread. Sometimes nothing but silence.
When asked his name, he gave none.
When pressed, he said.
“Names are for men. I am only what the thunder leaves behind.”
By then the story had changed no longer a prisoner, but a judgment.
Some called him Saint, others called him Stormwulf.
Both names fit the weather that followed him.
The monks rebuilt, but their new walls never stood for long.
Every year, on the night of the storm’s return. The bells rang without hands, and the rain whispered one name across the stones
Thunorric.
And so the legend endured, whispered between churches and barrows, carried by rain across the ages.
Not as a warning, but a reminder: that faith built on fear will always fall to the storm.
Copyright Note© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.
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