Nothing but darkness. The faint sound of a horse neighing in pain and the stomping of hooves surrounded him, as he tried to open his eyes. The world was a blur of men, beasts and creatures. The clash of steel and the smell of blood and faeces were in the air. In the blur, he recognized his father's banner boasting a white, snarling wolf on a dark green ground high above him. Through the all encompassing grey came a familiar voice in the distance, yelling his name, and heavy metal hands grabbing him by his shoulders, suddenly pulling him up. He stood uneasily, being handed a sword he unconsciously grabbed with his right hand and moved his askew helmet into place with his left. "Melord Wulfthred, are you alright?", he was asked by Eadgar, his father's smith whose face now appeared in front of him.
He looked around and saw his horse kicking ferociously while lying on the ground with a spear in its chest. An orc axe immediately flicked down and was buried in its neck, stopping the kicking at once. With an angry scream the orc jumped over the now dead horse, whose twitching muscles meant no harm anymore, and charged at the two men. Eadgar, in a quick reflex parried the first blow and with a skilled strike to the orc's head cut open his throat, letting the dying body slip to the ground to the bubbling sound of the blood streaming down his chest. He turned back to Wulfthred, who slowly began to shake off his numbness and held his sword with new strength, looking around to understand the situation. He saw his men fighting, some on horseback, some on foot. His brother! Where was his brother? He looked around in panic, but could not see him. "Eadgar!", he yelled into the face of the man who stood only a step away from him, "Where is Wulfric? Where is my brother?" Eadgar looked startled and turned his head in search. Wulfthred pushed him aside and stumbled towards the other end of the battle line.
There he spotted his brother and two of his father's men surrounded by enemies. "Wulfric!", he yelled, and began to run towards the men, his heavy mail plates slowing him down. His brother turned is head for a split second as he heard his name. In this moment an orc shield bashed against his side, taking him off guard. He stumbled backwards, trying not to fall. As if the world suddenly slowed down its pace, Wulfthred watched the orc's face half smiling, half in surprise as his sword slowly pierced through Wulfric's chestguard, causing him to scream out in pain. Within seconds, Wulfthred was beside his fallen brother, decapitating the orc with a single blow of his greatsword. He knelt down beside, holding Wulfric in his arms. Only blood left his mouth as he took his last breath and stared empty at Wulfthred, whose eyes were filled with tears, staring back in disbelief and dismay, as he cried out his pain.
*
With a leap, he sat upright in his bed. He was sweating and breathing heavily. He looked around him and with relief ascertained himself that none of the men he was sharing the sleeping chamber with had woken up. A dream. Only a dream. But a dream of truth... He silently slipped out of bed, took his cloak and left the room. He stood on the stone terrace of the barracks of Grimslade, and looked into the starry night over the plains of the Westfold towards the place, where he was born. He was the oldest son of the wealthy ealdorman Wulfert, Son of Wulfdyr, who owned several acres of land close to the deeping-stream. He was a proud man, tracing his line back to his forefather Wulfhard, who was said to have fought with Eorl the Young in the battle at the Field of Celebrant. As Wulfthred’s mother had died giving birth to him, his father married a new wife, the mother of his younger brother Wulfric. While being overly protective over her son, she despised Wulfthred, for he was the reminder of the woman her husband had never stopped loving. Growing up together though being years apart, the two sons, however, were inseparable. As he was staring into the night, Wulfthred remembered all the things they did together, especially that one time when he bound Wulfric on the back of their dog so he could learn to ride when Wulfric was about four, and the beating that followed. A faint smile crossed Wulfthred's face as he lingered in his memories.
Being the heir to his father’s lands, Wulfthred was taught in writing, counting and fighting. As his father had become an old man, Wulfthred also was to command the fyrd if called upon by the Second Marshal. So he spent hours in the yard, hitting on sacks of grain, jousting on horseback and learning how to organize men in battle formation – in addition to his normal duties on his father's farm. After Wulfric had come of age, the two men pressured their father into agreeing to send them to Grimslade, to offer their service to the garrison and to serve under the Second Marshal Théodred, Son of Théoden, at least for a few months. To the disapproval of Wulfric’s mother, their father agreed and the two boys left together with ten men from his estate, as he said “The heirs of Wulfhard will always fulfil their duty in serving their king”. Wulfthred just stood there now, all in memory of the past. He did not return to his father after his brother’s death. He knew how Wulfric’s mother would wail and how his father would blame him, for in the end, he knew it was his fault. If only I hadn’t yelled. If only I hadn’t said anything. If only I would have been there quicker. If only I could have saved him. There was no emotion to be seen on his hardened face, as he made his final decision. Tomorrow, when they would ride out in small numbers to scout the Isen, he would not return.
The yard was filled with horses. Men were running around, grabbing their last gear, as boys were saddling the steeds and helping soldiers into their pieces of mail. Wulfthred was calm. His horse was ready, his food stored away, and his weapons at his side. Eadgar was already on horseback as he moved his horse next to him. “Me lord, you look better today.” Wulfthred looked up to his old friend and nodded with a slight smile. “Yes, I do feel better.” Without another word he got himself up in the saddle, took his spear from the page boy, as Eadgar did the same. All ten men Wulfthred set out with months ago were still alive – only his brother had fallen, and so two of his own guards would ride back to his father, to bring the dire news. As the men rode out of the city gate, Wulfthred looked back and wondered if he would ever see this place again. Probably not. It was a long ride from Grimslade to the Isen. Their captain was an old, sullen man, who had fought goblins and alike for as long as he could think. They were to meet with other scouts in two days, and so he made the men ride for hours, past Helms Deep, across the deeping-stream and the fields of the Westfold.
On the first night they camped a few miles before the Isen where they would meet with the rest at noon the next day, the captain told them. Wulfthred, did not listen, but was lost in his own thoughts. He was to be the second on guard, and after the exhaustion of the day, the night was filled with loud snoring as he was standing, leaning on his spear. He breathed in the cold air of the night and doubted his decision. He had done so for the whole ride; for he knew he would break his vows and lose all his honour by deserting his men in the middle of the night. But all he felt was emptiness and shame, where once honour and pride had been. So he harkened a last time to the snoring of men, went quietly to his horse and led it away from the group. In haste, he mounted after he walked far enough from the camp and started riding towards the gap of Rohan. If he was right, he would make it there before the break of dawn and would cross before the Eored would arrive there.
After hours he reached the shores of the river and crossed, as the first birds began their singing and the horizon turned grey from black. While he was riding, doubts in his mind became stronger and stronger. A last glimpse of pride finally broke through and reminded him of his duty and brought back some courage to confront his fate. He halted his horse, which was sweating of exhaustion and found a hiding place in the shadow of Dol Baran. He lay down, and before falling into an exhausted sleep, knew he would turn back and rejoin the group as soon as he could. He would find some lie to tell them why he disappeared in the middle of the night. But he would worry about that later.
He was woken by the sound of distant screams, grunts, hooves and the sounds of battle. In an instant he was standing, grabbing his sword. His horse was neighing in excitement as he bound it lose and swung himself into the saddle, not bothering about his spear, helmet or shield. As he was crushing through the woods towards the sound of battle, he encountered two orcs running towards him, fleeing from some unseen enemy. With two swift strokes, he cut them down as he rode past them and broke through the forest’s edge into what must have been the outer wing of the Eorlingas' battle line, deeply engaged with an orc war band. Unrecognized by the fighting soldiers he joined in, cutting down another orc as he passed. More and more of the creatures streamed from the woods and the horses drew closer together.
Suddenly he heard a horn from behind signalling a large group of wild men of Dunland had surrounded them. With few quick commands, the battle line began a desperate charge against the overwhelming force of enemies. He felt a sword pierce his right boot and a spear slide off the metal of his mail into the leather of his saddle. As he frenetically stroke to each side with his sword while driving his steed through the enemy lines he suddenly found himself behind the orcs, with the winding road towards Dunland in front of him. As he looked around he could see that many of the riders had broken through the lines and now scattered across the area. Some orcs and wild men were in pursuit. Suddenly he heard a deep growl to his right and saw a warg rider charging straight at him. In a reflex he put his heels into his horse’ sides and galloped down the path in front of him.
As he finally shook off his pursuer, he listened out for the sounds of the others. As he could hear nothing but the rustling of leaves, he led out a deep sigh. There he was, after all alone, ready to move on, and start anew – if he so wished. He turned his horse and looked back the way he came. There was a silence in him that had followed him since the day his brother had died in his arms. As he looked into the distance, he realised it was already close to dusk and in the twilight he saw shades coming down the hills. Men dressed in fur, on horses, with torches in their hands. It seemed he had not quite escaped the danger. With a curse he turned his horse and pressed on.
It had been days since the skirmish at the Isen and Wulfthred found himself somewhere in the Trollshaws he guessed. He had tried to return to the gap of Rohan multiple times but the enemy was scouting the area and there was no way for him to go back. So he carried on, rode hard at day, and hid at night. His uncertainty in future, after having turned his whole life around twice left him in a place of apathy and so when he got closer to Bree, he decided not to enter the city gates but instead ride further north. His travels led him to the Ered Luin where he found refugee with the dwarves. Helping out with the forging of armour, he stayed there for a time hiding from his destiny, and drowning his doubts and sorrow in ale.
When he had used up his coins and forging proved not sufficient to keep up with his costs, he began to work as a sellsword, as goblin heads paid well in times when more and more of the creatures marauded through the mountains. When word reached him that orcs had invaded Bree land, he moved south again in search for more jobs and more money. After one day of successful work, Wulfthred was sitting in the corner of the Prancing Pony with a few men of the same trade. While obviously having a good time, Wulfthred recognized a man in the corner of the room, who kept gazing over towards them. He was tall, not very broad in stature, beardless with long straight hair. Wulfthred didn’t think any of it and continued his drinks and joined in laughter again at an inappropriate joke that got the rest of the men cheering.
When he left the Pony later that night to walk home to his house in the nearby homesteads, the man from earlier was leaning against the adjacent house and looked at him with interest. Wulfthred ignored him and went on his way, as the man called out to him “Have we met before?” Wulfthred turned around and answered with a slur “Why would you think that?” The man now walked towards him “Because I recognize your face.” Wulfthred did not respond but only looked straight at the man. “You were there. At the Isen. You didn’t wear a helmet. You survived!”, the man noted. Wulfthred felt uncomfortable being confronted with his past “What of it”, he replied in a harsh tone. “Let me introduce myself”, the man said, “I am Awiergan, Captain among the Esquires of the Riddermark and I would like to speak with you...”
