Waelden had asked for his sword to be brought to him. I had done so, carrying it in its scabbard from his weapon rack upstairs. I passed it into his hands as he sat on one of the two chairs, by the unlit fire.
“Thank you, dear.”
His movement had improved steadily over the last few days. He had adapted swiftly to the crutches, but could not safely manage stairs. It would take another month, at least, before he could walk unsupported.
Being a man used to action, he had not improved in manner while unable to walk or ride. He was still a bad patient, even if he hid most of his frustration from Ethel and I. We both did what we could to keep his mind active, and the few visits from others also helped.
Northgyth had come to speak with us, to see how Waelden was progressing but also to ask if we knew aught of Hild or Bronaa. It transpired that Hild’s husband, Paega, had returned to Bancross with news that both wife and daughter were to spend some months with his cousin in Gondor. That made little sense to Northgyth, as journeying so far unnecessarily in times like these was unwise, to say the least. Waelden, Ethel and I thought likewise. Something was just ‘wrong’ about the situation.
And the animals had continued to come to the door, and Waelden went out for short hobbles, and smokes, and did what little he could to aid in the running of our home. He spent many hours leaning against the fence of the yard, or sitting with Ealfin, and with Wynn, whose time was very close, and whose apple bucket was often empty.
But he was not himself. I could all but ‘see’ him riding out over the plains. In his element. An ‘old’ warrior, still with much of the flame of youth in his heart, but tempered now with experience. It was not good for one such as him to be so confined.
When he asked for his sword, I saw it as a move forward. Even if he could just feel its weight in his hand, swing it a few times. Ah, the memory would strengthen him, would speed his recovery. But bringing that sword was to do more than just that.
Now I knew Waelden’s sword was a good weapon, well forged, a soldier’s sword, strong and true. He had inherited it from his father, I believed, though it was not something I had ever asked him about. Neither had I laid a hand on it before (Though once I had taken up his spear in defence). Weapons can be a most personal possession, that I would not touch another’s unless bid to, or at great need. Yet as I carried that sword it felt… oh… almost part of the family. A strange thought to have about a sword I realise. But it was ‘home’ with Waelden, and seemed happy enough with me. It was far better than the sword I had inherited from my grandpapa.
I went back to the table, where I had been tying freshly picked herbs into bunches to dry. I would give Waelden space both physically and emotionally to… rebond. But I positioned myself so I could watch him.
He stood, with only a small struggle. His hand rested on the hilt, as he closed his eyes and was lost in memory for a moment.
‘Soon,’ I whispered to myself rather than to him. It hurt me to see him brought low, but he was fighting back now. He was almost there. But with a hand on a crutch, he struggled to draw the blade.
“Yllfa, will you come and help me here?” he half turned towards me. “If I can lean against you, and you hold the scabbard, I can manage.”
Another small wound in my own heart, but at least he would ask me, or Ethel for that matter, for help. I knew of many men back in Harwick who would do no such thing.
I moved over to stand before him, and as he asked, he rested against my shoulder. Still strong, still capable.
But drawing the sword from the scabbard took a little effort, even with me holding it fast, until finally he sat down in the chair again, the weapon across his lap.
I moved the scabbard to one side, lingering a moment longer just in case.
I watched him run a hand lightly over the blade, fondly, like greeting a valued old friend. Elfin and his sword and shield, aye, he missed them all. I moved behind the chair, leaning my chin and hand lightly on his shoulder now.
He traced the runes etched on the blade almost absent mindedly. I had not really noticed them before. Now I could read a little, they caught my interest.
“Heru…” I said aloud.
Walden tilted his head to look up at me. He grinned.
“Aye. Heruwargr. That’s the sword’s name. When were you going to tell me you could read, she-wolf?”
“Why tell you, Greybeard, when I knew you knew already.”
I leaned further forward. Something in the sword, now that name…
“Wolf slayer?” I questioned softly.
( Link to Heruwarger. Waelden's sword. )
