(Anglo-Saxon Cycle – c. 431 AD)
Thunorric looked to his youngest a tankard of ale in his hands.
“Da sees those things a lot and other things.” James said
Erik frowned. “What things?”
Harold leaned closer, uneasy. “What’s he mean?”
“Dad hunts them,” James whispered, eyes wide. “Those spirits and things with sharp teeth. As well as men who turn to wolves.”
From his chair by the fire, Thunorric let out a rough laugh that carried no humour.
“More like they hunt me, boy. A lot of those soldiers weren’t what you think.”
The room fell still. Even the fire seemed to shrink back from his tone.
Rægenwine set down his mug. “You’re speakin’ of the barrow again?”
“Aye,” Thunorric said quietly, gaze distant. “Some men die clean. Others… drag the dark with them. The ones from Pennocrucium never left the field. They still walk it, bound to what they swore.”
James crept closer, voice barely a whisper. “You mean ghosts?”
“Not ghosts,” Thunorric said. “Storm-bound souls. The kind that never found peace because the gods weren’t done with ’em.”
Leofric’s quill stilled above the parchment. “And if the gods aren’t done with you?”
Thunorric smiled, weary but defiant. “Then they can come find me. I’ll be waitin’, same as always.”
Outside, thunder rolled far off over the hills soft at first, then louder, echoing like a promise.
He leaned ahead, voice low.
“Every time I die, something in me dies with it. Another piece of the dark consumes me. I’ve fought beasts like us, monsters from the veil and shadows things most children only have nightmares of.”
His eyes flickered to the fire.
“Sure, I take what the rich can spare,” he said with a crooked grin. “But what I really steal is their peace the kind they never earned.”
Rægenwine shook his head. “And what peace do you earn, Thunorric? Drinkin’ and bleedin’ your way through every century since Rome fell?”
“Peace?” Thunorric laughed softly. “That’s for men who can die once and be done.”
The wind howled through the chimney. For a moment, the sound carried a voice low, distant, calling his name.
Leofric’s ink quivered on the page. “You heard it too,” he said.
Thunorric nodded slowly. “Aye. It’s them again. The ones I buried beneath the hill.”
Dægan stepped from the shadows, sword at his side, cloak heavy with rain. “You told me once the dead can’t follow you past the river.”
“They can if the storm’s strong enough,” Thunorric said. “And this one’s comin’ from the east.”
Rægenwine crossed himself. “The east wind’s cursed.”
Thunorric rose, wincing as the old wound in his side flared red. “So am I.”
The door rattled, the latch lifting though no hand touched it. The fire flared blue, shadows leaping high upon the walls.
Leofric whispered, “They’ve found you.”
Thunorric drew his blade, the runes along its spine faintly glowing. “No,” he said, voice steady. “They’ve come to remind me who I am.”
Outside, lightning split the heavens, and the storm roared in reply.
Harold hesitated, watching the flicker of firelight dance across his father’s scarred face.
“So… what are you, then?” he asked quietly.Thunorric’s grin faded. The room seemed to draw in around him, the wind whispering through the cracks in the shutters.
“Your father,” he said first, voice low. “The man who’d make deals with the dark to save everyone in this room.”He looked down into his cup, the ale trembling faintly.
“What am I?” he repeated softly. “A man, once. A son of a tribe long gone to dust. An exile. A gladiator. Lupus, they called me. A brother to the storm. Someone who belongs nowhere hunted by the storm, and by the law.” The fire popped, throwing gold across his eyes. He turned to his brothers Dægan, Leofric, and Rægenwine each silent. Each knowing pieces of what he said were true.
“You remember the early days of the Romans?” he asked, smirking faintly. “When none of you had food? The winters so cold you’d trade your boots for bread?”He leaned back, taking a slow drink.“The mysterious parcels of salt, meat, furs who do you think delivered those gifts?”
Rægenwine blinked. “That was you?”
Thunorric’s grin widened. “Aye. Even then, I was the ghost in the woods. The one they cursed by day and prayed for by night.”
Dægan’s jaw tightened. “And you wonder why the Empire called you outlaw.”
Thunorric shrugged, raising his cup in mock salute. “Better an outlaw with a conscience than a soldier with none.”
Outside, the thunder rumbled again closer now, almost beneath their feet.
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