On the Cold Hillside

And I awoke, and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.

Hella’s icy tits, but it’s cold at dawn… why am I bare-buttock naked and where the fuck am I?

It’s all a blur. Did I actually manage to drink enough to lose my wits? No chance of that; none of that foul taste and the pain between the eyes that people say comes from too much ale… though my eyes feel odd, too far apart and my nose too short and feels dull, stuffed with feathers, despite the clear sharp pain of the cold air.

Got to move… Toes are turning numb. Why are they just numb after a night outside? Where are my clothes? Where’s the camp? The sun is rising over there so down and across, should get me out of the woods and show me where I am? Try to keep the the drifts of pine needle and forest loam rather step into snow patches and I can avoid that icy slush by just jumping across here…

Shit! Pukelfucking shit! I should have cleared that bush. That, that… What was I thinking? I’m lucky to have my balls, trying to clear leap those bushes. I‘m getting light-headed from the cold.

What do I remember.

A crow tumbling from the sky, transfixed by an arrow.

Yes, that happened. That’s Herewulf. Keep moving, keep remembering, keep thinking. It was the skop’s doing, some flyting of Herewulf’s at the Blot feasting a few days back.

Uh. We were supposed to be going out hunting with Herewulf this morning. Is it this morning? Maybe I hope it was longer ago.

There was only regular drinking in the hall. Lytelman didn’t even get rosy-cheeked.

We’d called it a night after just few ales because because we’d be leaving early in the morning. Fine for me, I’d thought, I wouldn’t have people complaining about their hangovers, falling over things, throwing up and scaring the game for miles around.

It had been so stuffy in the dark hall. I’d tossed and turned — and dreamed. Running, again. The forest flowing past me. The scent of prey ahead. Leaping — and tangling in rugs, half off the straw-stuffed ticking and sprawled on the floor.

The hall air now is thick and choking with the stench of meat, old blood, cooking, stale ale and man-people. Thunor’s brazen balls, but I feel my stomach heave and the hall walls close in about me, shuddering inwards with every heartbeat.

Out! Out! Grab my cloak and wrap it around me. Nobody stirs as I stagger past the sleepers, their flesh rosy-pale in the red gleam from the fire pit. Snores and snuffling and man-stench locating each and every one of them.

Fumbling with the door-bar, choking, gagging. Catch it before it clatters down. Pull the door open and out into the building’s shadow and the cool freshness. Catch my breath and pull the door closed to keep the fug inside, to stop it from tainting the crisp, clean, fresh bright night.

Glance up at the moon. I’m tangled in cloth and fumble it off with short fingers that don’t bend well and snag the cloak material. Fall and roll to and fro until the cloak unwinds and I’m free. A couple of bounds and up, over the palisade, away from the stench of people and curs and beasts, towards a welcoming call from distant kin that floats to me on the still night air.

Stumbling more now.

Maybe they’ll find me in the thaw. Before something eats me if weird be kind. Perhaps I’ll try to die face down, so they’ll know who I was, with my face still intact and the ravens frustrated of my eyeballs.

Winter hall-fever, they’ll say. He just walked out into the snow one night. I hope they find me before I rot. Probably the pigs will get my thawing corpse first. I don’t think anyone will recognise me from just my skull and some scattered bones. Except maybe Hrothgar.

Death speaker, battle rager or moon howler. Would it have been better to get a choice? The others could have chosen, maybe refused, but I just get the family blessing… and a sensitive nose.

Something has been rooting around here. I can smell pig dung. That’s what got me thinking of them.

It’s Aelfstane’s hut. Maybe I’m going to live.

“Hello the house! I am Wistan, Ætheling, and I ask shelter…”