(Anglo-Saxon Cycle – c. 430 AD)
The rain had softened to a whisper by the time they carried Thunorric back to Rægenwine’s Inn.
Mud clung to their boots, streaked dark with blood and ash. Behind them, the Chase lay heavy and silent, as if the forest itself were holding its breath.
Rægenwine threw open the door.
“Get him to the hearth,” he ordered. “And mind that floor it’s new.”
They laid Thunorric on a bench near the fire. The outlaw was pale beneath the soot, breath rasping shallow. His cloak was soaked through, half-torn, the linen beneath blackened where blood had seeped through the binding.
Leofric crouched beside him, his right hand bound where the Saxons had taken the quill fingers. He tried to help but winced when his wrist trembled.
“Hold still,” he said quietly, voice cracking.
“Always tellin’ me that,” Thunorric muttered, managing a faint smirk.
Dægan pressed a cloth to the wound, jaw tight.
“You should’ve let me handle it.”
“You’d have talked ’em to death,” the outlaw rasped.
“Better than bleeding for it.”
“Maybe,” Thunorric whispered, eyes flicking toward the fire, “but the world don’t change through words, brother. It changes when someone dares to move first.”
Leofric looked between them, the candlelight trembling in his hand.
“And yet without words, no one remembers why it mattered.”
The silence that followed was heavy thicker than smoke.
Rægenwine broke it with a sigh.
“Gods save me, you two’ll argue even when one of you’s dyin’.”
Thunorric laughed once a short, broken sound that still carried warmth.
“Not dyin’, just tired.”
Outside, the storm grumbled one last time before fading into the hills.
Eadric stood at the door, watching the mist roll through the trees.
“They’ll be back,” he said. “Saxons don’t like losin’.”
“Then they’ll find us waitin’,” Dægan said.
Leofric met his gaze.
“How many storms can we survive?”
“As many as it takes,” the lawman replied.
James sat by the wall, knees tucked to his chest, eyes wide in the flicker of the fire. He’d seen battles in stories, never in flesh.
His father looked smaller now, human, but somehow more powerful for it . Not because he couldn’t die, but because he refused to.
Leofric reached across the table with his left hand, placing a quill beside the parchment.
“Rest,” he said softly. “The story will keep till morning.”
Thunorric closed his eyes, and for a moment, it was quiet enough to believe him.
James stirred from his place by the hearth, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Will Da be well?” he asked, voice small but steady.
Thunorric’s eyes flickered open, a tired grin crossing his face.
“Ah’m awlroight,” he rasped. “Takes more’n a Saxon spear to stop your old man.”
James nodded, though his lip trembled. He reached for his father’s hand, small fingers curling around calloused ones.
For a moment, even the fire seemed to soften its crackle.
Rægenwine watched from behind the counter, muttering,
“Ain’t nothin’ that’ll kill a Storm-kin not till the world’s ready.”
The boy smiled at that, and the brothers exchanged a glance that said more than words ever.
Author’s Note
After the chaos of The Law and the Storm. This quiet chapter shows what comes after the fight. When strength gives way to silence and survival becomes its own courage. The Storm-kin endure not because they can’t die, but because they refuse to fade.
Copyright Note© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.
Thank you for reading.
Further Reading
The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
StormborneLore 