Eadric the Wild

In a distant age, when Angle fought Saxon, Woden and Thunor roamed the land and Eotens hid in the dark corners of Midengeard. The greatest of all the kingdoms was Mercia. A land of grassy dales, winding rivers, and ancient forests, where deep within the latter, it was whispered the realms of men and the otherworld overlapped....

In this ancient time, lived Eadric the Wild, a Thegn whose name was famed throughout the lands of Angles. Scops and gleemen sung songs of his heroism in the mead halls and taverns throughout England and beyond. Weary travellers would spins tales of his bravery, while huddled around campfires at night, to keep the wights at bay. His name became a word for inspiration for warriors as they charged into battle. Young thegns idolised him and dreamed of one being like him, earldormen sought his company at feasts and cynings craved him for their warbands. 

Yet, it is not any of his fights against mortal foes that forged his place in legend, it was his encounter with a magical denizen of the emerald forest which echoes down to us in the runes of history.

* * * *

One midsummer eve, as Sunna, the sun goddess, drove her fiery chariot below the the horizon, her golden light faded and the heavens were turning orange and red. Eadric the Wild rode  chestnut brown mare along a winding path through summer woodlands. Weary and hungry from days of distant travel, he geed up his horse once again, as with each passing mile twilight was fading and the forest growing darker. 

Eadric was making his way towards the hall of a distant kinsman in the western marches of Mercia, his mind preoccupied with the promise of feasting and mead when he reached his journey’s end. He had wanted to be clear of the woods before nightfall for fear of the what wights the night may bring. But looking up into the darkening sky, dashed that hope. He could see no end to sprawling canopy of trees above, there was no sign of the forest ending soon. Eadric unperturbed pressed on, a charm to Woden on his lips.

When suddenly, Eadric’s steed halted and froze rigid at the sound of cries of laughter breaking through the thicket. It did bot so laughter of men, but an angelic chorus that sounded ethereal. The song was enchanting the air around him. Eadric nudged his hesitant steed on, his sharp eyes scanning the gloom. He ploughed on for a few long minutes with the sense of drowning as with each step the sound surrounding him grew stronger, then he noticed a faint glow illuminating the trees far ahead. He halted his horse, half-mesmerised, half-unnerved by the flickering light. The light beams seems to dance to the echo of the enchanted song weaving through the woods. Eadric sensed magic, he wondered what spirit the woods concealed, he thought to move away from it but found himself unable, the song so beautiful, memorising. His will failed him and he felt drawn to whatever was calling him. Eadric dismounted his horse and cautiously headed into the tightly clustered trees.

He did not travel far before arriving at the edge of a small round glade of short grass and wild summer flowers. It was now twilight and he concealed himself in a surrounding bush bathed in tree shadow and spied into the clearing. There under the pale light of the freshly risen moon, he beheld beauty unlike any other. A dozen or more maidens danced and sang in a circle around a glowing fire, half gliding, half floating, their hair shimmered like the aurora, and their gowns were woven threads of moonlight and starlight. Eadric’s breath caught in his throat, for these were no mortal women, but the daughters of Ælfheim.

Eadric gazed and listened in a beguiled-like state, the elf maidens wove patterns of magic with their bodies as they danced and sang songs that were both sad and joyous, haunting and frantic at the same time. But his eyes were drawn to one among them, a maiden of such beauty she stood out even among her sisters. Her hair was translucent as ice, refracting the fading light into a rainbow of colours, her eyes were starlight and she wore a dress of a colour no man had seen before. Eadric was paralysed as he stared, his heart began to be consumed by an obsession he could neither control nor resist. Gathering himself Eadric stood up and stepped out of his cover into the glade demanding, “who are you?” his bewitchment controlling his thoughts and tongue.

The elf maidens froze, their song and laughter silenced and the spell of their dance halted. The ice-haired maiden of Eadric’s desire turned to him, her gaze like sunshine, she appeared to be their leader. “This is no place for men, mortal,” she spoke, her voice melodic and soothing, “turn and flee this place, and forget you were ever here, we offer you this kindness, lest you invite peril upon yourself.”

Eadric, who had never known defeat, knew not how to budge. “I have no quarrel with you, fǣ ones. Yet I cannot leave while my heart yearns for the beauty of the one who now speaks.”

The elf maidens exchanged glances, their serene faces now shadowed by unease at Eadric’s words. Unperturbed the ice-haired elfess stepped towards Eadric, moving across the grass as light as a breeze. “I am Eostreleoð, daughter of the forest. Know this mortal, to seek an elf-maid is to invite your own doom. Heed my words spoken with no malice, turn back warrior, before it is too late for you.”

Her gentle words made Eadric feel wary, something he had never felt before. He steadied himself, his thoughts turned to the many defeated foes of his past and himself standing over their bloodied bodies on a battlefield, refilling his confidence. “I will not turn back,” he said. “I come to prove myself, to claim you as my own, ask of me what you will, to show my worthiness. .”

At these words, the other elves hissed like serpents, their eyes filling with a pallid light. Eostreleoð raised a hand, silencing them. “Warrior, if you will not accept my mercy and leave with your life, then all that you will win this eve is the reward all mortals win for looking upon the children of Ælfheim, death!”

* * * *

The glade broke into pandemonium as the elf maidens fell upon Eadric from all sides. Their attacks were like wind blowing between the trees, elusive and impossible to foresee. Eadric's blade swang wildly and fruitlessly as he  tried to meet their strikes with his futile ferocity.

At first the elves toyed with him, their strikes glancing off his armour or raking his arms, then they danced around him, taunting him with laughter like the rustling of leaves. Eadric fought on, his body wearying, his focus shifting from the strikes of his sword, to the weight of his shield, and the raw need to survive.

In time his formidable strength began to falter. He blocked a clawed hand, only for another to rake across his side. He swung at a darting shadow and felt a blade graze the back of his leg. His breath came in ragged gasps as his foes seemed to multiply, their forms blending into the fauna before striking again.

“Is this all a mortal’s courage amounts to?” one elf sneered, stepping closer. “A flickering candle, soon to be snuffed out.”

Eadric growled, lunging with a roar, his sword cleaved the air, catching the elf’s arm and drawing an iridescent blood that glistened like moonlight on water. The elf hissed and withdrew, and for a moment, the others paused, their laughter dying.

But the reprieve was brief. Another wave came, faster and fiercer than before. Eadric’s parries slowed under the relentless assault and his armour grew slick with his blood. Was this it? Crossed his mind. Would he die at the hands of spirits with no-one to witness his final deed, no song of his journey to Wæhæll to be sung in any mead hall?

Then an elf maid darted in for the kill, Eadric in a final moment on desperation flung aside his sword and grabbed a fallen branch from within their campfire. He waived the burning branch around wildly, the flames forcing the attackers back.. He looked at the flame in his hand, and noticed the elfesses staring motionless at the flickering orange too, in fear.... Then, after a momentary realisation, Eadric with hurled the burning wood into the dry summer underbrush in the distance, which quickly burst into flame and began to spread fast through the forest.

The elves screamed, as terror filled their pallid faces that were staring into the raging fire.

“Fire, mortal?” one snarled. “You desecrate Ing himself?”

Eadric took the opportunity to recover his sword and grabbed another flaming branch from the fire. Holding both aloft, with defiance he screamed, “I’ll burn it all, every branch, every trunk, every bush and blade,” he looked at the elves with cold eyes, “slay me and the forest dies with me.”

The elf maidens hesitated, their delicate bodies now looked aged and waiflike as they stared with horror into fire now spreading around them.

“Enough!” Eostreleoð’s voice rang out, commanding and pleading. The daughters of Ælfheim slowly backed off to the treeline as their leader stepped forward. Her hair like icicles in Mona’s glow.

“Why do you persist, mortal?” she asked, her voice low but venomous. “You court your own doom.”

“I fight for what I claim,” Eadric spoke proudly. “And I claim you, lady of the wood.”

Her taunting laugh was a cold, bitter thing. “You claim me? Do you think me a trinket to be won in battle?”

“You stood by while your kin struck me,” he replied, stepping closer despite the pain in his limbs. “If you value your realm, take my offer. I leave with you, and the trees remain unharmed. Refuse, and I swear by the Thunor and Woden, I will burn this forest to ash and set every other forest in Mercia ablaze.”

A cry of anguish could be heard from the watching elfesses. Eostreleoð’s expression darkened. “You would murder our children, who we have planted and nurtured from seeds for aeons, who now stand tall and shelter us in their branches from the fell beasts of the night?”

Eadric met her gaze, unflinching. “I do what I will.”

Eostreleoð’s lips pressed into a thin line. Slowly, she glanced back at her sisters, their wide eyes pleading. Finally, with a sharp intake of breath, she turned back to Eadric.

“Very well,” she said, her a hiss like the north wind. “I will go with you, mortal, but know this, our union is cursed before it even begins. You have claimed me against my will, and for that, there will be a toll, not one of gold or blood, but far worse, one of wyrd. Mortal before you live to regret it, know who you are claiming, for I am a daughter of Queen Mab.”

Eadric stiffened at the sound of the cursed name, Queen Mab. “What price?”

Eostreleoð stepped closer, her face inches from his. Her silver eyes bore into his, and he felt the weight of ages in her gaze. “One day, you will break what fragile trust we forge. When that day comes, I will take my revenge. Your deeds will be forgotten, you victories will fade by time and all that will remain of you will be spoken as a warning by future generations.”

Eadric swallowed hard, but his pride held firm. “I have battled and defeated many kinds of enemy, I think fighting memories themselves will be among my weaker foes and I will triumph.”

She smiled, cold and cruel. “Foolish mortal, you play a game you do not understand.”

Eostreleoð turned to her kin, who watched with solemn expressions. “Go now,” she commanded, “leave this forest behind. Seek the safety of Ælfheim.”

One elf stepped forward, her eyes glowing with tears. “Sister, you cannot.”

“I can and must,” Eostreleoð interrupted, her voice soft with reassurance. “Our paths part here. But be strong, a mortal lifetime is but a moment in time, I shall return in what to us is no more than a blink in the eye.”

The elf maidens retreated into the darkness of the trees, their shining dresses fading one by one. Eostreleoð turned back to Eadric, her expression unreadable. “Lead on, mortal,” she said, “your victory is hollow, but it is yours...”

The night was clear night, the stars filled the sky above and the voice of the forest had changed. As the bright songs of birds had filled the day, now the fell screams of the creatures of the night filled the blackness. Side by side they walked from the glade, the scent of smoke and blood lingered in the air. As Eostreleoð and Eadric walked towards his mount, he felt a chill within.

When they reached the steed, Eadric placed his arms around Eostreleoð’s slender waist and gently lifted her atop the saddle noting how she weighed less than a child. He then grabbed the reins and walked in front leading the beast along the dark path. No longer did he intend to travel to his kinsman’s hall, but instead turned back to retrace his route through the deep forest and return to his own hall with the prize he had won.

* * * *

For two long days Eadric and Eostreleoð journeyed through the wilderness. Since her abduction Eostreleoð had said very little. She had eaten and slept but as if in deep contemplation. Now with her translucent hair tightly bound she seems to come alive for the first time. She scanned the green and gold leaves that burst around them, examined the summer flowers that littered the path, their colours bursting bright.

“Listen,” she said, directed at Eadric, “something about this place is wrong.” It was the first time she had been the first to speak in their interactions.

Eadric felt joy she had done so and listened but he could hear nothing, not a sound… He paused for a moment… there was no sound at all: no animal noises, no bird song, no rustling of the trees in the wind, just an eerie silence. She was right something with the forest felt awry.

Eostreleoð dismounted from the horse and walked over to a large oak tree, her dress changing colour as she glided. She placed a pale hand lovingly on the tree spoke to it softly in a language he knew not. The tree leaves then rustled, but there was no wind. Then she turned to him, staring him in the eye, her silvery whisper seeming like a shout the silence. “This land bears a shadow, it and anything that dwells within has been cursed.”

Eadric nodded, his warrior’s instincts now alert for danger lurking nearby, “the village of Æscwylm lays half a day away, there we will find shelter.” he said.

Warily for hours, Eadric and Eostreleoð journeyed, until trees parted into a lea and the path they were following lead towards a small cluster of wooden huts. In the distance they seemed no more than shacks with thatched roofs. Several of these cottages were smallholdings with a few crops or a small number of livestock. Surrounding the settlement were harvested farm fields.

As they rode, from the village of Æscwylm came a scent of ash, acrid and thick, a harbinger of bad omens. As they drew closer to the village, they could see the village lay was a ruin, many homes were reduced to smouldering husks, and the holdings were trampled and barren. A handful of weather worn survivors of whatever had befallen the curse village huddled near the remains of the central hall, their faces filled with fear.

Eadric and Eostreleoð rode straight so the people and when they reached them a man stumbled forward. His clothes were torn, and his face bore fresh scratches. He bowed humbly as a peasant to a noble.

“What happened here?” Eadric authoritatively demanded.

The man’s eyes darted to Eostreleoð, widening slightly as he took in her uncanny appearance. But he quickly averted his gaze and spoke. “A beast, my lord. A great wolf, larger than any man. It came in the night and tore through our village, killing and destroying all in its path.”

Eadric was about the speak but before he could get the words assembled in his mind, Eostreleoð spoke out with concise intent. “Does this wolf speak like a man?”

“Yes, we heard is speak as it attacked,” said the man taken aback by the poignancy of the question.

Eostreleoð, calmly under her breath muttered, “an Eoten!”

Eadric frowned at the forbidden word “Eoten”. However remembering how one of his status should act before peasants he gathered himself. “How long has this beast plagued you?” He ask in an authoritative voice to the villager.

“For two nights now, my lord” the man deferentially replied. “We tried to fight it, but our weapons were useless. It’s too strong, too fast. Many of us fled, but those who stayed…” His voice broke, and he looked away at a burning pyre of bodies.

Eostreleoð approached the man, her otherworldly serenity calming despite the chaos around them. “There is more to this tale, is there not?” she spoke soothingly. “Why would the Hel release such a creature from the stygian depths? What have you done to provoke her wrath?”

The man hesitated before answering, his head looking around at the other village for help or approval but he only got as sea of eyes shying away from his gaze.
“A few days ago a band of hunters from this village ventured the forbidden woods…” he paused lowering his voice, “a dark labyrinth far to the south that no man dare enter. They sought game for our midsummer feast. We warned them not to go, as the gods lay claim to the wood and all within, forbidding the place to us, but they wouldn’t heed our advice and hunted there anyway, they never returned. They must have angered the gods and the gods released the wolf, from Hel”

Eostreleoð glanced at Eadric’s sheathed sword, hanging from his side. “This beast is no ordinary wolf; it is a creature born of magic and rage. Welded steel will not pierce its hide.”

Eadric followed Eostreleoð’s eyes, he had never been so unsure in his life as he was in the presence of this elf. He usually boldly took control of situations, but here he felt like the retainer and Eostreleoð the battlelord. “Then we’ll need more than steel.” He spoke, he wasn’t sure what he meant by, more than steel, so glanced hopefully at the magical elf.

Eostreleoð took some of Eadric’s arrows from his quiver and placed them on the trunk of a fallen tree, beside them she placed flower petal, roots, and berries from her pouches. Then she weaved a magic charm on them by singing a song in an alien language so ancient and forgotten that a sense of the primordial entered Eadric’s soul.

As Eostreleoð worked her craft, Eadric looked upon her. To look at she was no older than any of the maidens at his hall, though much more beautiful. However, he knew she could be centuries or even thousands of years old, with wisdom, knowledge, and power beyond his comprehension. For the first time Eadric’s confidence faltered and he began to worry if he had made a mistake stealing her.

* * * *

Gradually the middle of the night had approached, Eadric and Eostreleoð who had walked together to the edge of the forest before midnight, now stood vigilant, awaiting the beast to appear. It was a clear night, the stars shone and Mona rode her silver chariot lighting the sky.

The first sign of the beasts approach was the sound of the creatures of the night screaching, followed by the rustling of bushes and branches and they fleed. Eadric and Eostreleoð scanned the treeline with their eyes trying to predict where the beast would appear. Then came the low growl and shortly after a gigantic wolf emerged from the shadows. Its fur was black as pitch and it teeth like tusks of ivory and drool.

Eadric stared into its burning red eyes and stepped forward. “Come, beast!” he bellowed. “Face me if you dare!”

Seeing the warrior, the wolf changed its direction, snarled at Eadric and charged, trampling all in its path. Eadric fixed his feet solidly on the ground and braced himself as the gigantic beast closed on him. At the last moment he raised his blade and swang it with all his might. His sword struck true but barely penetrated the creature’s thick fur. The wolf at first recoiled at the sudden blow but then retaliated with a swipe of its massive paw, sending Eadric sprawling.

The beast moved forward to bite the defenceless Eadric when an arrow whistled through the air and buried itself deep in its flank, the wolf to letting out an icy cold shrill of agony.

Eostreleoð stood a short distance away, another arrow already nocked. The wolf turned its furious gaze on her, its jaws open and began to gallop at her. However, she did not flinch and loosed another arrow...

Seeing this Eadric rose to his feet, scrambling for his sword, he charged towards the wolf as it howled in rage from the second arrow strike. Eadric threw his massive frame between it and Eostreleoð, who was drawing another arrow.

Seeing the beast so weakened, Eadric grabbed the arrow which had penetrated deep into its ribs, and pulled it out, the wolf gnashing and yelping as he did. Then through the hole left by the enchanted arrow, he inserted his sword and with all his strength, rammed it deep within the wolf.  The Eoten let out a howl before collapsing to the ground. As it died its black body faded to a shadow that drifted upward into the night sky.

* * * *

When the sun rose that morning, the villagers of Æscwylm left their hiding places, filled with wonder and gratitude at the news of the beast slaying. They fell to their knees in front of Eadric and Eostreleoð, pledging their feilty to the thegn. But Eostreleoð’s was solemn as she gazed at the spot where the wolf had fallen. The grass there grew no more, but had withered and died.

“The gods will not take kindly to this,” she said quietly to Eadric. “They will see it as an affront, and in their wrath, retribution will yet come again upon this village, only this time more terrible.”

Eadric placed a hand on her shoulder. “Then we will face it together, we always will.”

“Always!” She looked up at him, her eyes harsh. “You mortals have a strange definition of always, when in but a few short years you all wither and die”

* * * *

Later that morn as the sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky, Eostreleoð and Eadric made their way down a small ill-trodden cattle-path to a thicket at the rear of the village. The rickety old cottage they made their way to was the only house in the settlement untouched by the beast. Ducking through the low door they entered and saw before an unlit hearth, an old hag staring intently at bones scattered in front of her on the floor. She turned to face Eadric and smiled, her teeth yellow and black. I saw you coming and already have rolled your wyrd, come and see Thegn Eadric.

Eadric hesitated for a moment at her words and seeming knowledge of him. Then he slowly edged forward, trying not to let his trepidation filled burning curiosity become apparent. He arrived at the hearth and stood over the bones staring at the chaos of the pile. He tried in his mind to see patterns that weren’t there, so after a few moments he turned to the hag, “we seek the place where the Eoten came from, the tear between Midengeard and darkness. For if we do not close it, more terrors will befall this village.”

The old woman spoke, ”look into the bones, see how they speak....  you will face four great terrors. Three times you will triumph. For even the mightiest hero must one day meet his bane...  You are to journey south to the forbidden wood, and there within follow a track for two days and a night to the heart of the forest, then you will find… something… beyond the sight of the bones.”

At this point Eostreleoð spoke up, “and you have a charm to open the track?”

The old crone gestured to a small pouch of flora that rested on the kitchen table, “the herbs within belong not to me but the gods, they will open the door to their realm, but only to have those who have envoked their wrath, delivered to them.”

Eadric gathered the pouch, it was nothing but a small hessian bag no more than a single inch by two. Bound at the top by chord, a few stems stuck out the top. As Eadric examined it, Eostreleoð delicately eased it from his grasp. “This key is for a door so terrible even this daughter of Mab fears its opening.”

* * * *

After leaving the Wicce’s cottage, Eadric and Eostreleoð made their way south to the forbidden woods. They crossed fields and meadows, once fertile but now bereft of any life. Until they arrived at the outskirts of the forest. The forest looked no different to a hundred other, Eadric had seen, and he wondered why this one was so special. He began to examine the treeline for a break in the dense foliage to find a place to enter, but found none. Æscwylm held aloft the Wicce’s pouch and as she did, both of them immediately notice a small entrance between two great birch trees.

Shortly they passed between the two birch trees onto a small trodden trail which lead them deep into the woods, to where the trees grew so tall their tops seemed to touch the heavens, and the air was heavy with the scent of moss and earth. As they walked Eadric couldn’t get out of his mind the Wicce’s words. He would face four terrors and triumph over three. The wolf was surely one, then a horrific thought entered his mind, Eostreleoð was she another? Until another darker thought took route in his psyche. He wondered just as the gods had sent punishment to the village of Æscwylm for their trespass, they would most likely be angered by Eadric and Eostreleoð’s intrusion. Would they send beasts to his lands, so far away, too, as punishment for his trespass?

After long hours hiking, ahead, they saw the first break in the trees. Beside the path lay what appeared to be a shrine, carved from obsidian and veined with glowing runes, pulsing, as if alive. The surrounding clearing was eerily still, the usual chatter of birds and insects replaced by an oppressive paralyses. Eadric dismounted first and cautiously approached the shrine and when he assured himself there was no danger, he signalled for Eostreleoð to join him. The elfess strode through the undergrowth so lightly she left not even a hint of a trail. She walked into the shrine with caution and examined it showing more interest than she had in any other part of their journey. “This is a place of power,” Eostreleoð said, her voice reverent. “An alter to the gods.”

Eadric's instincts warned him of danger. “We should leave it be? Such magic is best avoided.”

“Perhaps,” Eostreleoð replied as she was carefully examining the runes. “But someone placed it in this wood for a reason, it may hold the answer to the riddle of what the gods want with this wood.”

She whispered an incantation in a melodic tongue. As she did, the runes lit up, and a shadow emerged  tall and shrouded in darkness. Its form was skeletal yet cloaked, with hollow eyes.

“Who disturbs my eternity?” a voice that seemed to echo from all around spoke out.

Eostreleoð took a step back. “An orcneas,” she wispered, her voice equal parts awe and dread.

The creature’s hollow eyes shifted to Eadric. “Warrior, you tread where you are not welcome. Where many of your people have stood before you and now they are just nameless and forgotten dead.”

Eadric moved between the orcneas and Eostreleoð, warily drawing his sword and as he did the blade seemed to be glow a Stygian black. “I come here seeking the gods of this forest, you would be unwise to stand in my way.”

The spirit chuckled, and raised up to its full size. It was taller and wider than Eadric, and was both vapour and solid at the same time. Its form drifting like black smoke. it spoke with a mocking voice “Then come, warrior. Let us see if today you have the god's’ favour.”

 “I need no god's favour to slay you,” he spat. Concealing a cold dread within.

The ensuing battle was unlike any Eadric had fought before. The spirit’s movements were liquid chaos, its attacks like icicles in a mist. Each time Eadric swung his sword, the spirit seemed to dissolve, reforming a step away to deliver a counterstrike. Just as Eadric’s black blade was missing at every swing, the orcneas was striking home true, Eadric was bleeding from several wounds, it wouldn’t be long before he tired and the beast to landed a mortal blow.

“Eadric!” Eostreleoð cried, her voice cutting through the clash. “The shrine’s runes, its power is tied to them. Strike there!”

Pivoting, Eadric looked at the shrine’s standing stones with glowing runes and lunged at them, his blade shattering the base of one, the obsidian shards scattering everywhere. As the menhir broke, the orcneas shrieked, its form flickering like a guttering flame. With renewed purpose, Eadric drove his sword against the another monolith relentlessly, each of his blows snuffing runes and diminishing the creature further.

Finally, with a mighty strike, he shattered the last pillar and the orcneas collapsed, its skeletal form crumbling to the ground. Yet from its chest came a pulsing light.

“You have proven your wisdom, warrior, for this was a test of mind not might” it rasped, its voice softer now, almost reverent. Reaching into its own shadowed form, the creature withdrew a talisman of amber, glowing like a sun encased stone.

“This light is no ordinary light, it is forged of darkness,” the orcneas said, placing it in Eostreleoð’s hands. “And for those who use it, life is the price, but for those who don’t the cost may be death.”

With that, the orcneas’ dark form dissolved into nothingness, and as it did the magic of the shrine went too.

As the orcneas vanished so the the light in the talisman in Eostreleoð’s palm.

* * * *

Eadric and Eostreleoð left the shrine and made their way the deeper into the ancient forest, and the deeper they ventured the more strange phenomena began to occur. Trees seemed to shift position, the paths twisting and looping back on themselves. At times a feint, eerie melody would drift from between the trees, always just out of reach.

That night, as they camped beside a small stream, as they did Eadric got the feeling of being watched, he slept uneasily and dreamt of something standing over them in the dark. He awoke suddenly at the break of day and jumped up to confront the terrors of his dreams, but thankfully found nothing was there. His gaze then turned to Eostreleoð sleeping soundly the amber talisman around her neck now glowing brightly.

As Eadric cooked breakfast, Eostreleoð awoke and sat a short distance away, her eyes now fixed on the glowing stone and spoke, “This talisman has began its work, it is binding me to this forest."

"The fiend said it came with a cost!" replied Eadric in a worried tone.

Eostreleoð turned to him, her gaze soft. “That remains to be seen.”

* * * *

After breakfast they began to make their way through the leafy realm. For Eadric every step was a step away from the his world of villages, towns and halls, full of men and women, full of speech and laughter, smells and noise. However Eostreleoð was a daughter of the forest, not this one, but she saw the trees as he saw people and spoke with them. He wondered if each step for her was full of blindness and trepidation like it felt to him.

At times Eadric could see animals watching them from the shadows with eyes reflecting the sunlight. That afternoon a sudden storm forced them to run for shelter into a cave. There on wall lit by the lightning they discovered strange and ancient paintings. Eostreleoð recognised them as depicting battles between eoten and gods from the dawn of time.

That afternoon as the wrath of Thunor subsided and they prepared to leave the cave when they noticed outside a band of more than a dozen redcaps gathered, holding wooden spears and rattan shields. Eadric‘s mind immediately turned to strategy, as he debated whether to take them unawares with a sudden charge or to defend the narrow entrance to the cave. But it was all in vain, as Eostreleoð stepped out of the cave holding the amber talisman in front of her. The mere sight of the now pulsing amber light caused their would-be attackers to turn and flee.

As the last of the redcaps ran out of sight the orange glow died and Eostreleoð stumbled then began to collapse, she would have hit the hard rock strewn ground if Eadric had not caught her.

Eostreleoð sallow and weak, turned her head to Eadric. Now we know the price the orcneas spoke of, the magic is draining my life force.

“We cannot use it then.” Eadric said, his voice filled with concern.

“It’s bound to me.” said Eostreleoð.

“Then hand it to me and I will smash it.” Eadric motioned to the stone enclose in her hand.

“No” Eostreleoð replied. “The talisman is both our guide and our key. It will lead us to the heart of this forest, without it, we will be trapped in here forever.”

“But it may kill you.”

“The gods always demand sacrifice.” Her finally words shook Eadric before she fell into a sleep.

Eadric made camp in the cave again that night.

* * * *
 

The next morning Eostreleoð awoke refreshed her strength returned and they continued their journey, Eostreleoð led the way the talisman now dark again. However after several hours the talisman developed a slight flicker and as they journeyed on the light grew stronger. When the talisman glowed at full brightness as it had done before, she halted. She looked around to see where the jewel had lead them, as did Eadric. They soon realised had halted at the base of a massive, ancient tree. A tree so vast and gnarled it seemed older than time itself. Its roots sprawled like a network of veins, gripping the earth in a silent, unyielding embrace, and its trunk bore deep runic carvings that pulsed with the same light as the talisman.

“This is the heart of the forest,” whispered Eostreleoð.

Eostreleoð then knelt before the ancient tree, her voice calm but resolute as she spoke in the ancestral tongue of the elves. Then suddenly a booming voice ancient and unyielding, reverberated through the forest. The tree replied.

“You dare to trespass upon the domain of the gods, mortal and elf,” it thundered. “Give the gods a reason not to crush you, as they have done to countless others who have defied them.”

Eostreleoð stood, her dress reflecting the orange light of the trees runes and her translucent hair flowing. “Great Irminsul, I am Eostreleoð, daughter of Mab I come to plead on behalf of the villagers of Æscwyl. They have walked where they are forbidded to by the old laws and I do not deny their guilt. It is true they have strayed far from the old ways. I ask not for their lives out of mercy, but because their destruction would defeat purpose itself.”

The tree’s vast branches creaked as if shifting under the weight of its own age. “Defeat purpose?” The voice was low now, dangerously quiet. “You presume to question the plans of the gods, child of the fǣ?”

“I presume nothing,” Eostreleoð replied, unflinching. “I only know that to destroy them would make their error eternal. Let them live, and let their children grow with the tales of this day, the day the forest spared them. Let them carry that fear, that reverence, onto the generations to come. A lesson that leaves no-one to remember dies. A lesson remembered becomes the roots of something greater.”

For a moment, the great Irminsul remained silent, it's branches motionless as if in deep comtemplation. Then the great tree spoke, its voice now softened.

“You speak wisely elf, we sometimes forget how short lived and forgetful mortals are. Fear lasts longer in the hearts of men than hope. Let them tell the tale of the reprieve granted this day, to their children and grandchildren, and let them fear of the gods once again.” But know this elf, you shall never see the fruit of this seed you plant.

Its tone darkened again as it addressed Eadric. “And you, mortal, you have earnt no favour from me by your actions this day. Know this, the union you have with this spirit is cursed and a mockery. Your wyrd will end in ruin, and that you have sown the seed of your destruction. The day will come when you lose all.”

Eadric’s frowned, but his voice did not waver. “If ruin comes, then I will face it and fight it, fighting is all I know. I will not turn from my wyrd.”

The tree spoke up, “Know this mortal, Woden himself has readied a seat for you in Wælhæl, but if you follow this wyrd you will never feast there.”

“I will build my own hall and feast there then.” said Eadric.

The voice laughed, deep and terrible. “So defiant, so proud… so lost.” As the final words came out, the stone in the talisman evaporated.

Eostreleoð’s solemn face met Eadric’s gaze. Without another word, they turned and began the long walk out of the ancient forest.

* * * *

They then journeyed back to Æscwylm and broke the news of their reprieve to the villagers, who wanted to hold a celebration in their honour, but they declined, instead Eadric and Eostreleoð took their leave and rode on. They travelled for another week until late one afternoon they stopped atop a small round hill and took in the view. In the distance the sun touched the horizon, casting long shadows across the fields and forests, and in amongst this Eadric’s settlement, Elderford, bathed in the early evening light. A winding made its way through harvested fields, now barren save for the stubble of cut grain. Beyond them, the dark shapes of trees swayed in the evening breeze, their branches clawing at the sky.

With fresh purpose they rode on, Eadric felt a sensation of relief he had managed to successfully bring his bride home. They approached the stockade, a wall of sharpened logs that surrounded the village, Eadric had imagined this moment for days now. The gates swinging open, his happy people, farmers and craftsmen looking with wonder at Eostreleoð as they laid eyes upon her, children running to greet him and his house thegns standing proudly by the hall. Eostreleoð, too, seemed to soften as her gaze lingered on the rustic charm of these mortal lands.

But as they drew closer, his expectations unravelled. The stockade stood as silent as a tomb; the gates closed but unguarded. No sentry called out, no sound of village life or voices broke the stillness. Instead, a silence broken only by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant caw of a lone raven.

Eostreleoð sat motionless on her mount, her hair like spun moonlight. “The land reeks of evil. Can you not feel it?”

The unease gnawed at Eadric. “Guards.” he cried, to no response.

Eadric dismounted from his horse and pushed at the gates. To his surprise the gates creaked opened, with Eadric wondering why they were not barred. He got his first look inside the stockade and what he saw did not please him. The village looked like a ghost town, doors shut tight, shutters drawn over windows, and not a soul was in sight...

Eadric walked onwards, his boots crunching on the cobbles. Approaching the first house in the village, he banged on the door with a heavy fist. “It is I, Thegn Eadric, open up, tell me what troubles the village!”

For a moment, there was no response. Then, a faint shuffle sounded from within, and a voice, riddled with fear, spoke quietly, from behind the closed door.“Leave us be, my lord. You should leave here, before it learns you have returned. You can escape, you can live.”

Eadric’s frustration was mounting. “What is this thing you talk of? What has happened here?”

There was a pause before another voice, softer and trembling, spoke. “The shadow watches us. It waits. Go, my lord, before it takes you too.”

Eadric felt a little hurt at their suggestion, ”I am thegn of this town, it is my duty to protect its people and face whatever nightmare that befalls it.”

Eostreleoð stepped up beside him and interrupted. “This is no natural fear they bare,” she murmured. “It’s been sown, cultivated by something... or someone. The answer lays not here but in the mead hall.”

Eadric turned toward the great hall that rose above the rest of the village, its tall wooden frame silhouetted against the darkening sky. “If the answers are to be found there, then there we must go.”

The two strode towards the centre of the village, their steps purposeful yet wary. Behind them, the villagers’ doors remained closed. The wind picked up, carrying with it the softest whisper of something Eadric could not quite discern, a sound like distant laughter, mocking and cold.

The journey to the hall was short but full of anticipation. The long shadows of the afternoon seemed to writhe as though alive, and feasting hall loomed ahead; its doors ajar as if inviting the foolish to dare enter.

As they stepped inside, they saw the fires of the hall were cold, their ashes scattered across the floor. The long tables were set for a feast, but the food had spoiled and was crawling with maggots. The hall filled with the stench of rotting meat.

“This decay is not the work of time,” Eostreleoð said, her voice low. “It’s the work of dark magic.”

They searched the hall methodically. Eadric found his warriors’ weapons left untouched, their mail coats still hanging on racks. At the high table, Eostreleoð’s sharp eyes caught a faint sheen on the surface of the carved oak. She traced her finger through the oily residue, then brought up her hand before her silver eyes, and spoke with contempt, “dreamer’s ichor.”

Eadric looked puzzle at the strange words and awaited explanation, which soon came.

”This hall is haunted by a terrible ghast,” Eostreleoð declared. “A Mære”.

“What is a Mære?” Eadric enquired with equal parts of confusion and misgiving.

“The most powerful of wights, she does not only haunt dreams,” Eostreleoð explained. “She feeds on them, leaving behind despair and madness.”

Eostreleoð looked at Eadric with trouble in her eyes. Through all their ordeals with the Eoten and Orcneas Eostreleoð had barely been fazed. That this foul spirit worried her, made him feel fear for the first time.

Eostreleoð turned to him, she hadn’t addressed him so curtly since their first meeting in the forest, “your villagers were correct, we should abandon this settlement while we are still free of the fiend evil.”

Eadric was at a loss to reply to the elf’s word, so unprepared they had taken him.

Sensing, Eadric’s troubled thoughts Eostreleoð answered the thoughts in his mind, “your people are dying, being drunk dry, sip by sip, each night. Your weapons cannot harm a Mære, your will cannot resist it, you will be no more than a meal to it, if you stay and fight.”

The words struck Eadric harder than any blow he had ever felt in battle. For a moment he was in half a mind to do as she said. But then the resolve came back to him. He was Eadric the Wild, he did not retreat before any man or fiend. He faced Eostreleoð looking her in her silver eyes and calmly spoke. “Then I free you from your oath to me, go back to the forest, I will stay here and die beside my people.”

Eostreleoð stood still for a moment, the daughter of Mab for the whole trip had been so aloof, so in control, for the first time doubt seem to enter her. She motioned to leave more than once but then spoke, “The fiend’s sorcery has no effect on me, it dare not enter my dreams, elven thoughts are as snake venom to a Mære, I will aid your fight, it amuses me that if i survive, I will be able to one day tell my kin of how I slew a Mære. But know this Mercian, you would be putting me in as grave as peril as any child of Ælfheim has ever been in.”

Knowledge that Eostreleoð would stay and fight in a battle that may kill her left Eadric not knowing how to feel. All he knew was to fall on his warrior identity so long cultivated. He gave a forced smile to Eostreleoð, “either way, win or lose, we will have an epic tale to tell in Wællhæll, the only difference is, whether it will it be tonight or in forty years time.”

Eadric lead Eostreleoð onwards, entering the hall’s sleeping quarters, where Eadric’s men should have been resting in beds. Instead, they found them scattered about the floor, lying as though in fitful sleeps. Their faces were pale, their expressions twisted in terror.

Eadric knelt by one of his house thegns, shaking him by the shoulders. “Wake up!” he commanded. The man’s eyes fluttered open, but his gaze was unfocused.

“She comes at night,” the man croaked. “She... she watches us. Crawls into our minds. We can’t fight her.”

Eostreleoð knelt beside him, placing her hands on his temples. She whispered a spell in her melodic tongue, and the man’s breathing eased.

“She traps them in their own fears,” Eostreleoð said. “The more they despair, the stronger she becomes.”

* * * *

As the evening drew to a close and night began to fall, Eadric and Eostreleoð started to make preparations for when the Mære came. Eostreleoð believed the creature would wait till after midnight, when dreams were strongest, to make her appearance, so they had plenty of time. They sprinkled salt across all entrances and exits to the hall, and Eostreleoð made charms which they places on the doors, the runes spelling a curse to ancient spirits. When they had finished, Eadric out of pig-headedness sharpened his sword on a wet-stone, even though Eostreleoð had told him it would have little effect against a wight.

“She will come between midnight and the dawn, when night is at it stillest and people have been completely taken by nightmares,” Eostreleoð said. “She will hunt by stealth so we must lure her into revealing herself.”

As the night passed, the cold hall unlit by fire got colder. The moon shone a it’s beams into the hall casting shadows across the floor. Eadric and Eostreleoð sat mid hall, to give themselves time to react, if she entered. The salt and charms on the entrances would not stop her coming in but cause enough stress to reveal her presence.

Around the second hour past midnight, a feint curse was heard from a shadow near the side of the hall, Eostreleoð’s trap had sprung. The shadow of a figure could be seen.

Eadric and Eostreleoð sprang to their feet, approaching but still keeping a safe distance.

Seeing her presence had been detected, the Mære revealed herself from the shadows. She was an old woman bent over, skinny and frail with black voids where he eyes should be, putrid skin and grey hair hanging limp.

“So tonight I will have fresh meat to feast upon,” the old woman, smiled and cackled.

Eadric faced her showing no fear and spoke, “you are in my hall, I rule here, and you are not an invited guest. For what you have done to my people, as thegn of this town, I sentence you to death.”

The Mære laughed, a hollow, mocking sound. “A lord and an unwise one too. However you are strong, I like that. You may dream many days before you die, I will not slay you bust instead, feast upon you too.”

The scrawny old lady moved toward the huge warrior, standing there in armour, sword in hand. Without fear and the look of a wild beast about to pounce on its prey.

Suddenly Eostreleoð stepped forward and the Mære halted. “You have no power over me fiend, I am of the elder race. My people have slain many of your kin.”

The Mære sneered. “A foul witch of the woods, you think I fear you, you think you will keep me from my quarry. You have slain many of my kin, but not so many as we have slain of your people, elf.”

Then suddenly chaos unleashed as the Mære summoned her power. Twisting shadows stretched and writhed, lashing out like living things. Eadric fought to keep his footing as the ground seemed to shift beneath him. His sword swung at the Mære, but her form shifted like mist, evading his blows and lashing out at Eadric, one blow striking him and catapulting him to the far side of the room.

Eostreleoð chanted, her voice a steady counterpoint to the chaos. Her eyes flared brighter, driving the shadows back. The Mære screamed in frustration and lunged for Eostreleoð but Eostreleoð’s entire body now shrouded in light, she began swinging and striking at Eostreleoð, but the fess’s dexterity was to great and she avoided all the blows.

One of the Mære’s strikes at Eostreleoð landed on a thick oaken table, which shattered. Eadric looked at the foul creature in the form of a frail old woman… and thought, she must have the strength of a giant. Eostreleoð was fast enough to dodge her blows, but eventually she would tire, and her own strikes were having no effect on the Mære.

Eadric leapt to his feet and rammed his sword at the Mære’s back with all his might, a blow that could cut a man in half. The sword just thudded into her back, and she didn’t even turn around, not even seeming to feel it.

Eadric fell back, at a loss of what action to take next. His eyes swept the hall. The shards of the shattered tables caught is gaze. Perhaps the solution lay in them, his eyes rose to the massive oak trunks stretched from wall to wall, supporting the weight of the roof above.

An idea came to him.
"Eostreleoð!" he shouted. As he caught her gaze he gestured to the great pillar at the centre of the hall.

She glanced upward, following his gaze. Understanding flashed across her face and the elf nodded once and sprang away, dodging yet another attacked of the Mære, her feet scarcely seeming to touch the floor.

The Mære snarled. "So the little witch flees." She bounded after her with terrifying speed.

Meanwhile Eadric cast aside his sword. Steel had failed. He seized a heavy axe from the arms rack and rushed to the great central post and began hacking at it. As he did, oak flew across the hall.

As Eadric hewed, Eostreleoð led the Mære in ever narrowing circles, carefully keeping her unaware of what Eadric was doing, until, little by little, the chase drew the Mære towards the centre of the mead hall.

The Mære finally looked away from her prey and noticed Eadric whose axe was delivering another blow to the trunk. As he did a crack echoed through the hall and the roof began to shudder. The Mære turned from Eostreleoð and rushed towards Eadric… But it was too late, the roof at the centre of the hall came crashing down. The huge supporting trunks smashed everything they fell on, followed by the lighter wooden shingles. Noise was as if a volcano had erupted.

A couple of minutes later, all that was left was silence and dust choking the air. Eadric lay on the ground, bloodied and bruised, but alive, he had positioned himself where he predicted the heavy beams would miss and was right, however he had still taken the brunt of the lighter wooden shingles. Eadric looked to the side of the hall and felt relief. The roof still held there supported by the other pillars. Standing completely unharmed was Eostreleoð. She had nimbly dodged through the falling timbers and made her way to safety. Then he remembered the Mære. A sudden panic overtook him for a moment when he couldn’t see her, fearing she was about to spring, but then he calmed himself down. He turned his eyes to the place she was standing when the roof fell. There lay a huge pile of heavy oaken ceiling beams and roof shingles. It was clear the area had taken the brunt of the roof collapse, tons of timber must have fallen on her and she lay at the bottom. She must be slain, we must have slain her, he thought.

Eadric raised is head and back up off the floor, resting on is arms now behind him. He would have stood but was unable. The pain throughout his body from this movement was discouragement enough.

He looked at Eostreleoð and called “She’s dead, we’ve killed her,” sounding more like a question than a statement.

Eostreleoð, was staring at the huge pile of rubble intently, “I think we may have.” she answered tentatively. “I saw her crushed by it and heard her screams.” She made her way over the Eadric and when she arrived examined his wounds, her faced looked grim.”

Eadric lightening the mood, joked, “buried but not dead.”

At that moment they heard a rumbling sound and looked towards the huge rubble pile, it was moving. Gradually beans of timber started to rolls to the floor and the centre of the pile began to rise. Gradually a pale hand emerged from the dusts, followed by a head and then a body. Shaking the beams and shingle off like they were nothing the Mære emerged from the pile, not crushed, not broken, shaking the dust and wooden splinter of like leaves.

She smiled. "Was that your plan?" The Mære smiled wider and began walking towards them.

Eostreleoð rose to her feet and placed herself between the Mære and Eadric, ready for combat. When from behind her she heard a faint cry. "Eostreleoð!" She turned and looked back at Eadric still on the ground, too wounded to stand. “Run,” he screamed. She hesitated and look at the Mære closing in on her. “Run.” Eadric screamed again. Eostreleoð turned and looked at the hall door, as the Mære sprang at her, she sidestepped the fiend and ran as fast as she could towards the hall door.

Eadric looked on, he pulled his seax from his belt, the last weapon he had. He would earn his seat in Wællhæll today. For a moment his thoughts turned to the Wicce he and Eostreleoð had visited in the old cottage at the village of Æscwylm. The old hag had told him he would defeat three great terrors but be defeated by a fourth. The great wolf was surely one and the Orcneas the second, and if the Mære was the fourth, where was the third? Eadric looked towards the hall door, it was now open, Eostreleoð had escaped and would soon be safe in Ælfheim. At that moment, the Mære arrived, stood beside him, and looked down on him. His blood turned cold.

The Mære reached out one withered hand. As she did with his last gasp of adrenaline he plunged his seax into her heart. He felt the tremor of the impact through his arm and into his body as the blade stopped dead, not even penetrating her skin.

The Mære completely ignored the blow, she laid her icy hand on his forehead and gently hissed, "...sleep."

The seax in his hand began to feel heavy and his grip loose, soon it slipped from his fingers. The hall began to fade and darkness flooded Eadric’s mind. His eyelids started to fell heavy and soon he felt himself falling, spinning, tumbling.

The Mære sat on the chest of the unconscious Eadric holding her face inches from his. "Such strong dreams," she whispered. "I shall feast off you for many nights."

As Eadric slept dark dreams entered his mind. He was on a battlefield again, this time a great bloody battle, but he was alone, facing an entire army. Hundreds were charging him, but he was fighting like he had never before, he was hacking, hewing, twisting, spinning, he was cleaving limbs, crushing skulls, slaying like he had never done before. Soon he was standing atop, a pile mutilated body amid a river of blood, but still the enemy kept coming. First men, then hobgoblins, now trolls. All the times Eadric was killing and butchering. This went on for what seemed hours as if not days until finally he was victorious. Thousands of corpses or men and fiends covered the battlefield so the ground could not even be seen in any direction, Eadric covered in their blood from head to foot.

As Ravens began feasting on the corpses Eadric looked again, the corpses were not monsters, they were his friends, his townsfolk, his family, he had butchered them all. Eadric began to scream...

… Then a the scent of spring woods wafted, across the battlefield and a beautiful golden sunlight broke through the cold mist. The corpses melted away and were replaced by blooms of flowers. In the woods birds began to sing. Eadric walked over to the clears water stream that ran towards the wood and looked at his reflection. There was no blood or armour, he was in his best clothes,hair neatly combed. At the end of his town he saw his settlement. The gates were open, it was no-longer a deserted, children laughed and play, the townsfolk smiled to see him. Eadric at first felt relief, which turned into gladness and eventually happiness…

An ear-piercing shriek awoke Eadric from his dream. The Mære was reeling back from in seeming agony. Then she began writhing and screaming. “Poisoned! Poisoned!”

Eadric then heard as song, the sweetest sound he had heard since the elf-maiden’s song in the wood. He looked around the hall, is was Eostreleoð. Standing at the hall door and singing a spell. When she saw he was awake, she stopped and walked towards him. He panicked when he saw her do this, but when he saw the state of the Mære he calmed down. She lay on the floor. Her screaming had stopped but she lay panting and looked almost feeble.

Eostreleoð's reached Eadric and smiled. Seeing his confusion, she was feeding on you, so I changed your dreams. They saved your life and poisoned her. She looked at the Mære with scorn.

The Mære sensing Eostreleoð’s gaze spat, ”Even now you don;t have the strength to slay me elf.”

Eostreleoð, with nonchalance, waved the Mære away saying, “begone fiend, I bore of you.”

Cursing the Mære muttered to herself, there are other halls, easier prey, no elf sorceresses. She smiled and with that she dissolved into wisps of smoke, slipping through the broken roof into the darkness beyond.

As the Mære vanished the men and women who had been trapped in nightmares stirred from their slumber, their faces weary but relieved.

Soon dawn broke over Elderford. The oppressive air lifted and people began to emerge from their homes into the streets.

Eadric stood before his people. “The shadow is gone,” he declared. “My hall is mine once more.”

The villagers cheered, but as they celebrated their gazes lingered on Eostreleoð, this strange woman of unearthly beauty Eadric had returned with. Where had he found her, of what English tribe was she?

* * * *

A week after the defeat of the Mære, smoke once again rose from chimneys of Elderford and the villagers, still wary from the recent haunting, were eager to throw themselves into work. Blacksmith shops rang with the clank hammer on iron, pedlars calls filled the streets as they tried to flog their wares, the markets were a bustle of colour and cries. Carpenters hung from rafters as they repaired the hall’s ceiling and women scrubbed the long tables clean, while children wove garlands of autumn leaves to decorate the beams. Tonight in the great hall would be the feast to end all feasts.

That morning Eadric had mustered his house thegns and ridden into the woods hunt game for the feast. While Eadric was absent, Eostreleoð roamed the village as if inspecting her new charge. She wore a simple cloak of deep green, her hair braided loosely, however despite dressing down wherever she went, heads turned and tongues wagged. But not in fear or malice, as it was her who saved the people from the Mære, but of gossip.

She had began her walk at the hall, a week ago so wretched but now approaching its former glory. mingling among the labourers as they cleaned and repaired. A blacksmith had paused his hammering as she passed, his gaze lingering on her eternal features. A serving girl curtsied so low she nearly toppled over.

“You honour us, my lady,” said an elder woman, bowing. “The hall will shine brighter with you in it.”

Eostreleoð inclined her head, “It is your work that brings the hall to life. I am but a guest in your craft.” Her words were gracious, but her eyes darted to the shadows in the corners of the hall, as though she searched for something unseen.

Later outside, she wandered among the cottages. A group of children playing by the well stopped their game, wide-eyed. “Are you a fairy?” one little girl asked.

Eostreleoð crouched, kindly in front of the child. “What do you think?” she asked gently looking deeply into the girl's green eyes.

The child giggled but ran and hid behind her brother, unsure whether to answer.

As Eostreleoð continued through the village, gossip began to spread.

“Did you see her hair?” murmured a farmer’s wife as she fetched water. “Like moonlight, it is. No mortal woman looks like that.”

“She moves like she’s gliding,” added another. “Not a sound from her step, even on the gravel.”

“Eadric is bold to bring her here,” said an older man, leaning on his staff. “The sagas speak of men who took brides from the otherworld. They always end in ruin.”

“Quiet, fool,” hissed his neighbour. “Would you curse us when we’ve only just found peace?”

Not all were wary. A group of young women gathered around Eostreleoð as she stopped at the weaving shed. They admired her cloak, her hair, and the fine stitching on her gown.

“Did you make this yourself?” one asked, tracing the embroidered vines on her sleeve.

Eostreleoð smiled faintly. “The patterns come from my homeland. Each stitch tells a story, though few could read it now.”

“Where are you from, my lady?” another asked.

“Far from here,” Eostreleoð replied, her tone light but distant. “A place where tree and leaf and stream are one.” The girls exchanged glances, baffled by her words.

Later that day, wearied from the questions of the townsfolk, Eostreleoð entered the woods. Beneath the trees she immediately she felt a calm and refreshed. The forest was alive, the trees where telling secrets to one another. She listened in for a while smirking at their words. She learnt how the Oak was angry with the Yew for claiming it’s wood was stronger, how a mulberry bush felt its berries superior to that of the raspberry and that another birch tree had died, the third this month… Then something spoke to her.

“You hide much from him,” came a voice, soft and low.

Eostreleoð turned sharply but saw no one. The voice came again, carried on the wind. “Will he see the truth in time, or will his pride blind him?”

Her hand went to the talisman she still wore beneath her cloak, a stoneless cold weight against her skin. She replied in a language, beyond the hearing of mortal ears. “Let him see what he will. My wyrd is bound, for now.”

The wind stilled, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

* * * *

Mid afternoon Eadric had returned with his house thegns from their hunt bearing laden with: deer, boar and fowl and delivered the haul to the kitchens, and then headed for the tavern.

Now as evening fell, villagers began to gather in the hall, now warm. The tables were piled high with roasted meats, bread, and mead. Eadric stood at the head of the hall, his broad smile lighting the room.

He raised a goblet high. “Tonight, we feast not only for our victory but for the future! To the bonds we forge, the strength we gather, and the gods who watch over us!”

The crowd roared in approval; their fears forgotten in the joy of the moment.

Shortly Eostreleoð entered the hall quietly, her presence commanding attention without effort. She wore a dress of winter’s frost, the candle flames of the hall bouncing of it with her every movement. She walked down the centre aloof and serene. When she reached the head table Eadric extended a hand to her, his pride evident. She took it with curtsey, her eyes scanning the room at the awed faced with their eyes all drawn upon her.

As they stood together, bathed in firelight and surrounded by the revelry of the feast, Eostreleoð’s thoughts turned inward. What she had heard in the forest still lingered in her mind. She new moments on peace and joy were fleeting and shadows were always gathering.

As the evening wore on the hall came alive. The villagers not long ago in a prison of fear and death, now sang and danced like it had never happened. Eadric sat beside Eostreleoð at the high table, his goblet overflowing. His face was flushed with drink, his laughter booming as he regaled his house thegns with tales of his deeds and bravery.

“And there we stood,” Eadric declared, raising his goblet high, “standing before Irminsul, the world tree itself! And slaying an eoten sent by the gods, we bested! Together!”

His house thegns exchanged glances, sceptical but unwilling to challenge their lord too directly. “Aye, lord,” one said cautiously, “but you’ve not told us how you defeated the Mære, village gossip differs.”

Eadric slammed his goblet on the table, the drink sloshing over its rim. “It was her,” he said, pointing at Eostreleoð, who sat silently beside him, her expression cool and unreadable. “Without her magic, the villagers would still be cowering like rabbits in our burrows!”

Across the hall, villagers whispered among themselves, their eyes often drifting to Eostreleoð.

“She’s too beautiful to be mortal,” muttered an old woman. “Look at her, hair like silver threads and eyes like a winter moon.”

“Where did he find her?” a young house thegn who had drunk too much unwisely asked.

Eadric, catching the question, leaned back in his chair and smirked. “Far from here,” he said cryptically, his words slurring slightly. “In a place no mortal has trod and returned.”

Another villager spoke up hesitantly. “I saw the battle with the Mære. I saw her surrounded by light, magic pouring from her like the old stories of elven witches.”

At this, a murmur of unease spread through the hall.

“An elf?” a farmer whispered to his neighbour. “They bring ruin to those who meddle with their kind.”

“She saved us,” another argued, though their voice was tinged with doubt. “Without her, we’d still be in shadow.”

Eadric overheard the exchange and slammed his fist on the table. “Enough!” he roared. “She saved your lives, your children’s lives. And this is how you speak of her? Have some respect!”

The room fell silent, though the whispers resumed as soon as Eadric turned back to his house thegns.

* * * *

As evening turned into night Eadric drank deeply. His house thegns, emboldened by their own cups, grew bolder in their jests.

“Ah, but did you hear,” one said, grinning, “that Lord Aldwyn of the south married a woman whose beauty is said to rival Frigg herself? They say she turns the heads of all who see her.”

Eadric’s jaw tightened. “Aldwyn is a fool. His wife’s beauty is but a shadow compared to mine.”

Another house thegn chuckled. “A bold claim, my lord. Are you sure you’ve not been outdone?”

Eadric slammed his goblet down, standing unsteadily. “Outdone? Outdone?” His voice thundered throughout the hall. “I have claimed the fairest of all the elves, the daughter of Queen Mab herself! No man, no goddess, could outshine my bride!”

As Eadric uttered the word, cursed name Queen Mab, the hall fell into stunned silence, the villagers’ murmurs turning to uneasy silence and their gaze to Eostreleoð, the elf!

Eostreleoð rose from her seat, her steps slow and deliberate. She crossed the room, her silver eyes fixed on Eadric. The firelight danced on her pale skin, casting an ethereal radiance.

“Very well,” she said, her voice like the crack of ice breaking on a frozen river. “I warned you once, mortal. I told you our union was cursed before it began. And now, you have broken your vow.”

Eadric blinked, sobering under her gaze. “What vow? What are you saying?”

Eostreleoð stepped closer, her voice cold and unyielding. “You swore never to betray the trust we forged. Yet you claim me in boasts, parade me as a prize, and diminish the sacred in a drunken roar. You would see me as nothing more than your conquest. Now your people learn I am the daughter of their greatest fear, the great and terrible elven queen herself, Mab.”

Eadric’s eyes filled with desperation. “You are my bride-to-be!”

Eostreleoð’s laughter was bitter. “Bride-to-be? I am your captive, stolen from my kin. In that hour you stole me you swore an oath you were never worthy of keeping.”

The hall seemed to grow colder, the firelight dimming as she spoke. Her voice rose, carrying an ancient weight. “Every encounter we had, every beast, every test, was my doing. I lead you to the orcneus, and at the heart of the forbidden forest it was I that asked great Irminsul to send the Mære here. I lead you, guided you, beguiled you to this moment where you would betray yourself. Learn now finally that no union between mortal and immortal can go unpunished by the gods.”

Eostreleoð’s form shimmered, her features becoming less solid. She stepped back, and her gaze burned into Eadric one last time.

“Know this: you will never find me again, not in this lifetime nor the next. I swore revenge for what you stole from me, my freedom, my kin, my place. And now it begins.”

With those words, she vanished, her form dissolving into a thousand silver lights that scattered into the air.

Eadric’s house thegns were left stunned in silence at her icy words. Eadric himself stood frozen, his hand outstretched to where she had been. In the hall the peasants began to mutter, overhearing she had brought the cursed Mære upon them. Quickly there surprise turned to animosity towards Eadric, as it was his kidnapping of the elfess that had made her release the creature.

* * * *

In the many winters that passed Eadric became a shadow of his former self. Once the mightiest warrior in England, his name sung in songs and poems. Now, those tales were told with pity, whispers of his fall and the cursed elf that had brought him low.

After Eostreleoð’s departure, Eadric had tried to find her with an unbalanced desperation. He search first his village and then others until he had ridden most of the roads and visited most towns in England. Meanwhile at his settlement the villagers had begun to shun him, their respect eroded by his erratic behaviour and his obsession with finding the elf he had so brazenly brought misfortune upon them.

Eventually his hall fell into disrepair, his house thegns drifted away and his village became silent. All Eadric had left in his life was wandering the land alone in search of Eostreleoð. Now little more than a wandering beggar, his once-bright armour rusting and his blade dulled, he crossed the land questioning Wyrd-Speakers, Rúnwitas and Spæwīfes, but none of the runes could tell him where Eostreleoð had gone.

Soon the years turned into decades, age caught up with Eadric, his ones bright gold hair now grey, his strength that had once bested a werewolf and an orcneas now was beginning to fail him.

At night in his dreams he sometimes saw her standing in a sunlit glade, her beauty undiminished by the years. She would smile, but it was a cruel, distant smile, a reminder of what he could never again possess.

One night, Eadric now withered and gaunt, stumbled through a misty forest, his legs weak, his breaths laboured and his remaining years few. With a singe minded resolve he ploughed on until he reached a silent lake. The dark waters of the lake stood so still it mirrored the stars in the cloudless sky. Eadric paused for a moment, listening, he could hear nothing, no wind, no denizens of the night, he was alone.

Eadric slowly drew his sword, a sword that was once gleaming and deadly, with which he had led armies and slain an eoten, was now rusty and beaten. With what little strength he had remaining in his arm, he raised the sword and threw it deep into the lake.

It was as he watched the waves race across the water, he saw her. She was standing at the edge of the lake, her reflection dancing in the ripples.

“Eostreleoð,” he croaked, his voice rasping with age and exhaustion.

She turned, her expression as cold and unyielding as it had been the night she left. “You have followed me far, mortal. Farther than I expected.”

“I... I had to find you,” Eadric said, falling to his knees. “Without you, there is nothing.”

Eostreleoð stepped closer, her piercing gaze gone and for the first time, he saw a gentler look on her face. She spoke softly. “And yet, with me, there is only ruin. Do you see now, Eadric, your folly? Your kind and mine are not meant to intertwine. It was never love that bound us, it was your pride and my revenge.”

Eadric bowed his head. “Then take my life, if that is what you desire. I cannot go on.”

Eostreleoð knelt before him, softly placing a hand on his withered cheek. For a moment, there was a flicker of something softer in her gaze, a ghost of pity. “I do not need to take your life Eadric, you have already given it to me.”

* * * *

When the dawn broke, Eostreleoð and Eadric was gone, the lake stood alone. Some say he died there by the lake, his body swallowed by the earth. Others say he wandered into the mists, fading into the forgotten corners of the world...

The villages of England who once sang his praises now speak his name only in hushed tones, a cautionary tale of hubris and the dangers of crossing into the realms of the gods.

And as for Eostreleoð, she was never seen again. But in the deep woods and leas many riders claim to hear laughter as Eadric once did, however they heeded the warnings from the scop’s songs of Eadric and rode away from the elfin melodies with great haste.