This fictional story is the property of (2). Any resemblance it bears to any other person, (living or dead) character, incident or other known literary works*, screen play or Television programme World Wide is coincidental.
*Actually, this story is one not told in an Anglo-Saxon poem. The resemblance is quite deliberate; as the author(s) have been dead for 1000 years, I don't suppose they'll care.
She's not always that kind. Sometimes it's a kindness not to be kind to me; I don't always get to keep what I'm given, and sometimes having something snatched right out of my mouth hurts worse than being hungry. We're all fierce here. There again, though, there's something wrong with me. I'm supposed to be fiercer, or I used to be fiercer, or I'm not supposed to be fierce at all, and when I do fight back then that's all wrong, too. It makes me really tired, the never knowing. So I sit and watch, as if I'll figure it all out by slinking into shadows and reading motion.
Now, for instance, the men are going hunting. I can tell, not because they all have their spears and swords - they always have those - but because the way they're moving is different. Smoother. Quieter. Even thought they're still inside the burgh. They're looking differently, too. Not a single one is seeing the burgh around them; they're all out there in the fens. Wait, though. What would they be hunting out there, with spears and swords? I'm too far away to hear any words; I could step a bit closer, or I could play my game and figure it out for myself.
Oh, here's a surprise! My mother has come out. This means hearing, not playing guessing games. How close can I get? There's a barrel near the door; they haven't noticed me at all. But I'm wrong about that. Eadwacer notices me, and scowls. He turns back to mother; everything about her is rigid and intent. She wants something and he's disposed to listen. There's a gesture towards me - so I've been rumbled; not good - and then I can hear. A particular phrase; I hate it. I've heard it all my life and I hate it. "Take our earmne whelp." Strangely, it's not being called a whelp that bothers me. It's the other words, the 'our' which ties me to Eadwacer, and that word earmne. Eadwacer resents the way she keeps trying to join us, too. We have nothing to do with one another, he and I, and everyone knows it. Mother is either blind or blindly hopeful. I wouldn't call her hopeful, though. Not when she drags herself around as though every step were a penance.
That other thing means 'poor, wretched.' Like I proclaim my unhappiness aloud, wear my misery on my face, my heart on my coat. Like she does. I know I don't. I know I skulk around as invisible as I can be, safe in small spaces, elusive and untouchable.
I asked her once, when I was still small and brave about this sort of thing. I asked her why she always calls me this. Head high, she thought it over and I really thought she'd tell me. I really thought I'd get an answer. Then her eyes fell, and she explained that she was from west Mercia - like I don't know that - and sometimes she pronounced things differently. She always meant to say earne, swift. "Our swift whelp" she insisted is what she called me. It's a lie, of course. I hate that she lies about it. I hate it.
Some of this must show on my face. Eadwacer notices and I wipe my face blank. He's not fooled. But it's amazing; maybe I looked fierce enough for once, because he's nodding and then - a miracle! - summoning me to him. "He can come," he says.
Mother smiles at me; I'm still too wary to smile back. I hope I look pleased enough. I hope it's not just a joke. They lead me out, all the men. And I find out what we're hunting. There's a wolfshead, an outlaw. They're talking about him; I'm not listening. I'm looking, seeing. Smelling growth and decay just beyond us. In the fens, in the rain and mists. So soft, so subtle, so different from the straight edges and hard lines of the burgh behind us. I like it out here. I like it. I follow the men in the direction of another island and I hear one of them telling Ordulf about our quarry. He's gone to earth there, the man says; the wolf's seeking refuge out there like all outlaws do, because the fens have always sheltered monsters and outcasts. There are a few others with him. Not many; the man says this will be easy. Good sport. A good day with a dead wolfshead at the end of it. I'm just happy to be out.
The rain turns to mist, and I love this, too. This is my time, though I never knew that. I'm running ahead of them all, and I just know. I just know where to go, where the best paths are, where he is. I know how to look for signs; I'm reading the reeds - a bent one there, a fallen one there, a soft print just on the edge, just between earth and water. Nothing and no one can catch me out here; they're stumbling along, while I belong to the brown earth, the grey mist, the wolfen water. The island is just ahead, and I will catch him.
He's standing there, in the mist, turning to me. He's a warrior, grey and brown in his prime; I'm green and foolish. A single stroke would teach me, but he doesn't give it. He just stands there, lean and proud and armed and I wonder what I thought I could prove by getting here first. We stand there, waiting for the end of the world, and I feel as old as he is. But he makes no sound and I have finally found a source for my own silence. Those are my eyes, dark amber and ferrous. Those are my cheekbones, high and sharp; not my mother's, not Eadwacer's. That is my stillness, my silence, my seeking, my sight. His head goes up as I hear the hounds. They'll take us apart. He hasn't spoken, but he looks at me. Looks and says all.
And I know, suddenly, where I belong. I know who and what I am and what I am supposed to do. How to find our way through forest and fen. The wolf bears the whelp to the woods. Or is it the other way around? I wonder what they will tell my mother when I don't come back.