Once More

We could hear the sounds of battle from within our tent; the war cries and the crashing of swords and shields and axes. Battles have this pulsing quality to them like the ebb and flow of blood that can be felt through the veins; this pulsing thundered in my ears. The sounds flowed through me leaving a cold terror in their wake. I barely kept myself from shaking. Sitting opposite of me in our tent looking more bored than anything else was my charge, Harald. To my young eyes he was an old man and, since I was so young and inexperienced, I was told to ensure his safety if the battle outside went awry. Meaning that I was to stay out of the way as long as possible. Perhaps I would have if things had gone only a little differently that day.

We both wore our armor and had our swords close at hand but neither of us expected to use them. His eyes were closed and his hands were clasped in front of his aging paunch; he napped as if he couldn’t even hear the sounds outside. My eyes darted from him to the door and back again as the ringing noise of battle continued to push fear into my very soul. I tried to push it down and be strong like the man that I was supposed to be but I simply couldn’t put it aside and I felt it crushing me from the inside out; I could hardly breathe.

“Calm down boy,” I heard him say. He hadn’t even opened his eyes.

“W-what?” I stammered through a tightly clenched jaw that was trying to hold back the bile in my throat.

“I said, be calm,” he stated again, this time opening his eyes and fixing them on my own. “Fear does not make anything better, it can only make dying worse. Your body fears dying and it is your body that you must take under subjection as the Scriptures say. Your mind fears death because it is unknown but your soul knows the truth of its own immortality.” He could see that his philosophy, however true, was not making the great change he hoped; so with a grunt he slowly rose from his seat and moved his chair closer to my own.

“I know you might not believe it, but I was young once myself and afraid like you are now. How old are you seventeen, eighteen?” I nodded after the second number. He chuckled. “I am now in my sixtieth summer and I wish I could say it has flown by but it has not. You see, I have done my best to live each day for the sake of itself, to waste as little as possible, and I have been mostly successful in my endeavors. God has given us so many things to enjoy and it would be near blasphemy to only focus on those things which the enemy has corrupted.”

My breathing had slowed since he had begun to speak. I could feel my jaw relax and, though the noises still raged outside, the distraction of his voice with its gentle tone and the gruff quality that old men’s voices have began to soothe my spirit. He went on.

“The older I get the more often I find myself walking through the woods and listening to the sounds of the animals. It is not only for priests to appreciate God’s creation, the warrior must know what he fights for.” He paused and sat back in his chair.

“What do we fight for?” I asked tentatively. He looked at me with a ghost of a smile on his face.

“We fight for peace,” he said with a glint in his eye, “we fight to unify this land of squabbling kingdoms. Wessex, Mercia, Northumbria, and East Anglia will all one day be one: Aenglaland.” He sighed. “It was King Alfred’s dream when I was a young man and now that I am old and he is gone it is almost come true. And when it has come true, all of this island can rest.”

We were silent for a moment. I had heard all of those things before but no one believed them as much as he did. It was true Alfred (lately he has been called “the Great”) wished for a united land but we were still years away from that possibility. I ventured a question.

“You said you were afraid when you were my age, how did you overcome it?” He eyed me for several seconds before answering.

“Have you ever swam in a river before boy?” He asked. I nodded even though I knew his question was merely rhetorical. “When you are considering that first dive it seems almost impossible because you know how cold the water is. But you jump in anyway and it shocks you to your very bones. Though after a while you find that the water is not so cold as it was and it not only becomes tolerable, but enjoyable.”

“It’s the same way with battle?” I queried slowly.

“Yes,” he answered smiling. “When I stood in my first shield wall I was terrified but I jumped in anyway and I discovered a thrill unlike any other. In the midst of battle there is a joy that floods the heart and mind that I can hardly describe. That joy makes you feel invincible until a sword in your gut proves otherwise.” He laughed heartily at his last words but his eyes were looking at something far away in his memory. Even as his laughter subsided I could tell he was holding back tears for those who had fallen before.

“When I was young the battle joy would come upon me and I would be a terror to my foes and a fortress to my friends. No sword arm was stronger than my own and no shield stood steadier.” The light faded a bit in his eyes. “Now I’m an advisor,” he scoffed, “and my son wants me to be safe behind the lines as if there is some benefit to keeping me alive.” Staring at his feet I heard him mutter “useless” as a tear began to roll down his cheek into his snow white beard. My heart ached to see his pain and I resolved to appreciate the time of my life before it was gone. I resolved that fear, though it may remain in my heart, would not keep me from my duty. I would be courageous. I would be steadfast.

As these thoughts rushed through me, a man appeared at the entrance of the tent. He looked quizzically at the tear stained face of my companion then to me and back again before speaking.

“My lord,” he said addressing Harald, “it’s your son.” He began to stammer, unsure of the best way to present the message he was charged with. “He...well, I mean, he is or rather has--”

“Spit it out man!” Harald nearly bellowed rising from his seat. He knew.

“He’s fallen,” the messenger said almost cowering before the height of the once great warrior. Harald reached for his sword belt and drew the blade.

“Then why sit I here until I die?” he quoted as he started for the exit. The messenger attempted to stop him by placing a hand on his chest. He immediately regretted it. Harald took hold of his jerkin and threw him bodily through the tent entrance into the mud outside. I knew then that this old man still had fire in his bones and strength in his arm. And he was still my charge. Without a second thought I grabbed my own sword and shield and followed him out. The tears still flowed down a face twisted in emotional torment as he walked with unmistakable purpose toward the crashing noise of battle that had frightened me so much before.

Without breaking stride, he plucked a shield from a rack. I heard him muttering something under his breath; I realized it was a prayer. He was repeating something and I picked up my pace to hear what it was.

“One last time, one last time, one last…” he kept saying it over and over. His eyes were fixed on something an eternity away, his strides were long and sure, and his grip on the sword was so tight that his knuckles looked like pearls. I kept up beside him but I’m not sure that he even noticed me at first. I caught the messenger out of the corner of my eye. He was scurrying to whoever sent him, either to inform them of Harald’s reaction or to slink back quietly into formation. I didn’t care. My heart was beating faster and faster the further we went. Every step was a new thrill of fear and hope and insecurity and triumph over myself.

Then we were there. Harald shoved a couple of men aside and leapt like some sort of feral stag into the enemy lines. With no regard for his own safety he began to lay about him with a sword that would have been too long for any normal shield wall but was perfect for breaking the enemy. His eyes were balls of fire set in a winter forest of beard and scalp that fell over his face in disarray. An eerie smile split his features. I knew he was in the battle joy one last time. He blocked a blow with his shield and slashed a man’s throat open with one forehand motion before eviscerating another with his back hand. Another man began to raise his shield but Harald kicked the bottom of it adding to the momentum of the rising shield which resulted in the man hitting himself in the face with his own protection. He fell backwards and tripped another man and Harald was moving on.

Then I was in the fray. I let out a high pitched yell of completely unintelligible language and stabbed a man attempting to cut into Harald’s back. Another followed, my sword lunged into his eyes and he went down. We fought back to back like that for what felt like minutes but was probably only a few seconds. We were not unscathed, but the scum were falling one after another. I took a cut to my shoulder and Harald must have been slashed several times over the course of that small period of time; but we were winning. The other men in our shield wall had recovered in that few seconds and began to take advantage of the hole we carved in the enemy line. It was a bloody swathe we made there and it was glorious.

Suddenly, there was a great cry of triumph from somewhere in the back of the enemy lines. I craned my neck around to see why. I didn’t have to look long. It was a giant of a man come to put down the feral fool who had thought to reverse the very hands of time. This giant’s arms were covered in bands of iron made from the spear heads of his fallen foes. His beard was heavy with smaller rings that clashed together sounding like a battle in miniature as he walked. He had long dark hair pulled back and held in a tail behind his head by yet another iron ring. In his eyes I saw death, cold and implacable.

“Old one!” the champion shouted over the din, “you have had an admirable outing, but now it is your time. Hold fast to your sword.” I could see Harald chuckle, then laugh, then openly guffaw at the comment.

“I need not hold so fast, I will not meet you in Valhallah. I will only send you to hell unless God has mercy on your soul.” He reached into his jerkin, pulled back a hand wet with his own blood, and stared blankly at it for a moment before showing it to the enemy. “Today is my day to die it seems. Only now you will die with me.” Without another word he lunged like a wounded tiger at the larger man.

In size the two were almost equal. Harald, I later learned, had a Norse mother and any who have seen them know that they are a tall people. However this other man reminded me of the story of Saul for he was head and shoulders above all others. It was only Harald who could stand with him. But Harald could hardly stand at all.

The fight began with a parry from the champion and Harald followed it with one rage filled blow after another. Holding his ground, the giant parried and blocked with his shield apparently waiting for the old man’s flame to die down. It did. Rage cannot burn forever and the enemy knew it. As his strength began to wane Harald slowed and the giant finally saw his chance. He swiped another attack away and stabbed viciously into Harald’s belly. But my friend was smiling. He knew death was there for him that day and embraced it. Grabbing tightly to the wrist holding the sword in his gut, he brought his own sword high and stabbed down into the champion’s neck. It happened so fast the other man had no chance to block it.

The champion fell and pulled his sword free as he did. Harald groaned a terrible utterance. It was over. Surging forward, we forced the enemy back and they began to route. Breathless I watched them flee chased by the others. I smiled at our victory and looked over to Harald. He was already looking into the next life. His body slumped as blood flecked over his beard and I caught him as he fell. My tears mingled with the blood on his face as I surveyed the wounds on his body. He had been cut so many times I could not count.

On that day I fought in my first battle, killed my first foe, and lost my first friend. On that day I became the man they now call “the Fearless”; if they only knew.

The scribes tell me that they can write his story to keep it alive for the coming generations and I am paying them to write my words as I dictate this story one last time. May it never be forgotten that one old man turned the tide of a battle for Aenglaland. May his story ring on as those great ones who have gone before us. A man who is never forgotten is not truly gone.