The moon was bright but no longer full when Wistan came to speak to Tohrwulf. The camp of the Geats stirred around them, restive with anticipation of a sea voyage, with beyond it battle and rich spoil: and for those most fortunate of all, feasting with the gods .
Yet quiet it was where atheling came to West Geat, and spoke him low, and the birch shade dappled and crossed in the moonlight.
“Hail Tohrwulf.”
“Hail to you Wistan, friend and brother. The wolves have chased the sun from the sky again, I see.”
“Autumn’s blast, the inescapable wyrd of midsummer,” was the atheling’s sigh. “Tohrwulf, friend. A brother is a gift from the gods. You are… less chancy than that. ”
The West Geat perceived a knot a wise man might not unravel, and kept his counsel.
“Free you are, and so remain. I don’t regret that. But I must ask you a favour. As a friend?”
Tohrwulf’s mouth was still a winter pool, yet ripples crossed his face; and so flowering hope and hunger brought forth the spring of the Wulfinga:
“I met my family. At the full of the moon. You understand what I am saying?” He saw that Tohrwulf did. “They took no interest in me before because I wasn’t like them. Now that a Grim wyrd is upon me, they have sniffed me out. ”
Wistan drew breath himself.
“They’re worried. That I’ll bring shame upon them. They’ve given this preventative… ”
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Tohrwulf turned to the wise man.
“So, I met this guy, he’s kind of impulsive. He loves someone but doesn’t know whether to trust her, and she’s given him a potion. He’d like to know what’s in it but he can’t be seen to be asking himself…”
“I see”, said the old man, who is sitting upon a carved seat outside an awned booth on the hillside above the moot-place. He holds out his hand.
Tohrwulf gives him the flask. The old man removes the seal from the flask and sniffs. He puts his second finger over the open end and gives his wrist a quick twist. Carefully setting down the flask he sniffs once more, this time at his finger. Then with a flick of his tongue he licks the wetness there.
Turning his sightless eyes up to Tohrwulf, he says, “It is neither love philtre nor poison. There may be other herbs in it, and some dryten, but it is mostly Wolfsbane. An unusal lover’s gift. Perhaps she feels your friend has a particular need that this can fulfil.” He recorks the bottle carefully and returns it to Tohrwulf.
Tohrwulf thanks the old man, depositing a mark of silver into the old man’s clawlike hand, outstretched in expectation. As Tohrwulf turns to leave, the ancient says, “I have not heard so many West Geatish voices here at the moot. It is good that at least some of your folk have answered the call of their kin.”
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‘Mostly Wolfbane?! And they expected me to drink it? Oh, you have done me a good deed here, Tohrwulf, friend.’
‘The old man did say it was not a potion with the poison.’ Tohrwulf responded mildly.
‘Hmm… I would not attempt to gainsay the wise, of course.’ Wistan scowled ferociously, perhaps giving the lie to his words.
He tossed the bottle in the air and caught it, a time or two, looking out across the lake where Tohrwulf had found him skimming stones in a lonely place. Then the young Wulfing sighed and loosened the drawstrings on his pouch. He burrowed his right hand in and came out with a fistful of sceattas. Counting ten out carefully, with hardly a hesitation over the numbers, onto a flat stone beside them, he said ‘Here’s for the wise man’s fee.’
Then he siezed Torwulf by the hand and turned it palm up, his silver-clenching fist over it, and dropped the rest of the sceattas. ‘And here’s to friendship, and my thanks for a favour well done.’
While Tohrwulf picked up the spillage Wistan carefully placed the small bottle in the pouch space he’d made, before tying the strings again.
‘You will give me the chance to win some of that back at Tafl I hope…?’
‘After last time? I fear that winning at Tafl is not your weird, Wistan.’
‘Heh. Come the full of the moon though? Well, we’ll see.’