Wulf and Dark

by anja-chan

Daisuke and Dark have an odd reuninion several years after the Black Wings is sealed, but all things are not as they seem. Many years ago, when the world still believed in older gods, there was a poet named Deor... and something darker called Wulf.

2. Chapter 2

WULF AND DARK

II

-DARK-

"You should fix your hand." Dark's rich voice vaguely annoyed, but Daisuke was too excited and well beyond listening to what his other self actually had to say.

"How are you back?"

"You're still bleeding," Dark returned, his voice a little more impatient than before.

"I still can't believe you're back! This is so—"

"Daisuke!" the reflection interrupted, "Get a bandage already! What on earth happened to your common sense?"

"Tell me why you're here!"

There was a pause. Daisuke's shining eyes were fixed on Dark's glittering ones.

"…Fix your hand." There was a slow force behind the words.

Daisuke's voice came out in a low, challenging whine. "Dar—"

"And then I'll explain."

"It doesn't hurt," Daisuke retorted impatiently, ignoring the throbbing to pretend it was true.

Dark narrowed his eyes suddenly and dangerously. "Fuck you, Daisuke Niwa. We share a body. I know it hurts."

Daisuke's mouth dropped open. Dark had never used profanity before. The shock value was enough to make Daisuke turn on the faucet and open a drawer for bandages. He stuck his right hand under the cool water and winced as the force of the water hit it, before grabbing a box of bandages with his left.

When he glanced back up, a few dozen Darks were smirking at him through the shattered glass. Daisuke frowned back sullenly. "You swore."

Dark rolled his eyes. The broken reflection multiplied the effect like a synchronized team. "Can't you handle it? You're how old now?"

"Seventeen." Daisuke removed his hand from the water and patted it dry quickly before placing a bandage over his split knuckles.

"Then your mouth must be just as foul. And your manners worse."

"I can't believe you're judging me before you've even seen me do anything!" Daisuke retorted. "You're just going to assume things like everyone else, aren't you."

"Daisuke." Dark's tone was dangerously level with a hint of sinister pleasure. "I came to as you were punching a mirror. I drew my conclusions from that and past experiences."

Daisuke opened his mouth as if to argue, but then thought better of it. He looked sideways, avoiding eye contact with all the mini-Darks staring stonily at him. Something about Dark's manner seemed different—almost like he couldn't be contained within the mirror. The way the thief had first acted when he had awoken was too fresh in Daisuke's mind and the little hairs on the back of his neck wouldn't lie flat. "Why are you here anyway? Shouldn't you be in the Black Wings or something?"

He glanced back just in time to see a shadow shiver through Dark's expression. The smile that remained on his face seemed hollow and then faded into something more serious. His words turned inward to a place where even Daisuke wasn't allowed, even while his eyes studied Daisuke's face carefully. "Angry enough to…." But he trailed off before his thought was finished, and his expression grew shadily thoughtful. There was a slight pause. "Well, my would-be tamer and blossoming artist, I shall tell you something interesting. If you're capable of such wrath, you should be prepared for the consequences."

Something about Dark's voice seemed off, and Daisuke swallowed uncomfortably. It was too low, too slow, too… dark. With a slight drop to his stomach, Daisuke realized the speech reminded him of the white angel, Krad. Fear pooled into his throat, making it a little more difficult to breath. Something was off. He could feel it.

But, this was Dark. …Right? And if that were true, there shouldn't be any reason to be afraid of his old partner. His friend. His other self. And how could anyone besides the Phantom Thief share Daisuke's body?

"…Dark?"

"As I was saying, there are consequences for holding enough rage with an intent to inflict harm. One is that you call up something that reflects those intentions better than that mirror before you." The voice was almost cruel in its consistency. The reflections began to look like a small army, eyes shifting across the light spectrum towards a lower frequency. Lower… darker… redder.

"…Dark, you're not really making any sense…." Fear choked back any other reply as Daisuke's heart began pounding. He desperately wanted Dark's words to be a joke, even though—or perhaps precisely because—he didn't understand them. He felt drained already, exhaustion prodding the back of his skull. This had to be some kind of nightmare—his morning was too weird and awful for it to be anything else.

"And the darkness that you call up is me."

"That's just a pun," Daisuke said weakly. "Stop it, Dark."

"But Daisuke, it can't really be a pun, because I'm not really Dark…" Dark's mouth said, his red eyes gleaming like a hungry beast's.

"I am Wulf."

-WULF-

"Well then, friend Deor, give us your song as you are so eager to bring us cheer after your travels!" Heoden gestured affably to the straw-strewn area alongside the dining tables and benches. The king was not very old, but his hair and long beard were grey and streaked with white. His eyes crinkled at the corners, suggesting that he may smile at times despite the stern lines etched deeply around his mouth. The benches around him were full of warriors, perhaps twenty in all, their swords, helms, and shields all resting courteously near the doors. Weapons were not allowed inside—there was no need to defend against friends gathered here in good spirits.

Dispersed neatly among the warriors were the women and children. The older girls kept rushing back and forth with cups of drink and dishes of meat to their fathers and brothers, while the married women faithfully tended their husbands. Out another door, Deor saw a young boy and girl tending to the fire spit outside, while a pretty maiden sliced off the rich boar meat as it cooked. The girl alone was enough to make him hungry, but Deor's mouth watered as he saw the meat being deposited onto waiting plates. As soon as his task was done, he knew he would be getting one of the best cuts and maybe a secluded evening with a woman.

Turning his attention back to Heoden, Deor gave the older man his heartfelt thanks and stepped among the bits of straw covering the earthen floor. His eyes found Heorrenda's for a moment and he bit back a nasty smile. Let the other poet find his own meager song. Deor had the hael of a valkyrie within him and the power of his words could never be matched.

"Ring-giver and friends of the hall, I would put a challenge to the young Heorrenda, my rival in song," Deor began courteously. Several men stamped their ale mugs down on the heavy tables, and raised their voices in good faith. A contest of any sort was always good fun, whether it be feats of strength or of song. " I propose that both Heorrenda and I sing to all in company and then our lord—" and here he gestured to the august Heoden "—will say to the one whose song he likes best that that man is the winner."

Heoden smiled at the many faces gathered in his hall, raising his arms to quiet down the raucous din. He turned to the younger poet. "And what say you, Heorrenda, to this challenge?"

"I accept." His clear, melodic voice echoed off the sturdy walls before the crowd began to cheer again. Deor noticed at least one blushing maiden offer Heorrenda a shy smile.

"Please, as you are sincerely my elder, Deor," Heorrenda began and a few men laughed good-naturedly at Heorrenda's emphasis, "I insist that you go first."

"I never fear making the first strike," Deor replied easily, bringing a huzzah from the benches.

He stepped forward towards the king and a hush fell over the crowd of listeners.

"Hwaet.

A hunting hawk hovers above

Eagle-gold eyes eagerly await the fray;

watching the war-strong and waiting for the fallen.

Bright eyes belie the working wit, wild

For the slaughter swift; he soars above the field.

The blood beast of battles, he brings out the brave

Or derives despair and deals the strongest man

His piercing poison-song: half the twin cry of the valkyrie."

Deor could feel his body grow light, yet full, as if he were glowing. He could feel it—the burning fire of the valkyrie's spirit—pouring out through his song. Even if he had wanted to, Deor was dimly aware that he couldn't stop. Something strange was happening so that the words seemed to pull themselves from his throat, uncontainable and springing to a life of their own. And yet he continued, the perfect image of his imagination springing forth into waiting words.

"Cruel like claws, the fearsome talons plunge

grasping the gasping for life-blood and landing

amidst the arrow meadow. Stately in procession

like his kingly colors, the hunting hawk is

gold and copper coinage cut through by woody

Russets and bronzed by finely-formed feathers.

Sunlight streams straight through his plumes.

With wind-catching wings wide, even the wolf cannot capture

The high-flying hunter: he serves his master."

With Deor's last breath of song, the sensation that something unknown had left him swept over him and his body recoiled from the expelling. It was like coming out of a trance and feeling like he had missed something important during his dreaming. But there was no time for him to dwell on the moment because as the lingering notes of his poem faded, a hunting hawk's piercing cry tore through the rafters. The audience gave a startled jump, eyes wildly searching for the source of the sound. A few superstitious shouts echoed around the room before the men assembled realized it was the king's own bird. Like Deor's song had reminded them, the raptor had a distinctive colored pattern of feathers. Hearty laughs and cheers followed as the hawk circled once around the room before alighting on Deor's now-uplifted arm.

The hall was mightily impressed by Deor's words and the ensuing display of luck. Whispers of how Deor must be favored by the gods circulated among the awed men. If only they knew how favored, Deor thought smugly. Only Heorrenda did not have a smile on his face as he approached the ring-giving king.

Heoden was a shrewd man, however, and waved the grim-set poet away. "Do not make such a face, my dear Heorrenda. It will be difficult to win the contest when you are the only sour face among so many revelers. Perhaps it is best if you wait until tomorrow to treat us with your song."

Deor watched with a slight smirk as the younger poet's hand balled into a fist. But beginning a story with anger always made for a poor poem. The hawk flexed his talons on Deor's wrist and shuffled an inch up his arm. Forgetting Heorrenda for a moment, Deor studied the bird.

It was perfectly the image Deor had described—but of course, he thought, since it was the most familiar animal of its kind to him. In his mind, he had imagined this very hawk as he sang, and the remembrance of the cry he had heard before entering the hall. Deor decided it had been the valkyrie's power that had called the hawk to his arm for a finale. He had been chosen to perform such feats and the natural world worked in harmony with him. Pride flooded his system in a hot rush. His poetry would be recognized and his name would continue on down through history. A legacy! He would become immortal in his words and others would write songs about him. He glanced back to the silent sentinel on his arm. The bird's eyes shone with an instinctive intelligence, reflecting Deor's face in their gold-mirrored surface.

This was his destiny. Fate had indeed been kind to him.

"Deor! Come join us at the table!" hailed one of the multitude, a heavy beard covering his face. "You'll get the victory even if Heorrenda does will up his courage to do battle with you."

Deor smiled, his gaze leaving the hawk's penetrating stare and feeling victorious. "I shall in a moment, Calhoun. Let me first take care of this little beast."

"Yes, yes, and in the meantime, you'll have a pint waiting for you!" Calhoun returned vigorously. A huzzah arose from the men seated closest to the exchange.

Deor left the hall with a raise of his free arm, the hawk riding patiently on the other. It didn't stir even without the customary hood. How the animal had rid itself of its ornament, Deor didn't know, but since the whole occurrence was undoubtedly a supernatural one, he felt that it didn't need an explanation.

The stable was a freestanding building a short ways from the hall and almost as impressive, for the Heodenings were a rich people covering many other farms that paid tribute to the main hall. It boasted twenty horses, eight couple hounds, and three hawks within its boundaries. The single steer and accompanying cows possessed an adjacent cowshed where the women could tie the animals for milking. Pasture in the spring and summer months were plentiful and the animals were given free access during daylight hours. Deor entered the building without hesitation even though his eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness inside. He knew the layout of the barn well enough to find his way with little light. He entered the aviary, and paused.

Deor blinked, willing his eyes to warm to the darkness faster. Surely, he had seen wrong in the darkness….

But no, he could see fully well, and there were already three hooded hawks inside. The one on his arm made four.

A cold shiver passed over Deor. From where had this one appeared?

The answer was obvious to his perception of the events, yet for Deor to acknowledge it was almost blasphemous. That he could create a hawk merely by singing about it? The power was wildly intoxicating and hard to believe. Only the gods should be able to do that. Deor couldn't have dreamed of it himself—except the proof had its talons firmly around his forearm.

A laugh crept to his lips. What else was there to do? The whole situation was too absurd. An incredulous chuckle escaped from his mouth, and he shook his head unbelieving. The bird ruffled its feathers in response and looked questioningly at his master. He seemed to want instruction. Deor exhaled in a puff of air, a smile left lingering on his face. What else was there to do?The valkyrie had given him a power beyond his imagination. Whatever Deor wanted, he could have. All he needed to do was sing for it and it would appear when the words were complete.

"Rest here, Hafoc," he said gently to his new-born creation. He lifted his arm towards the nearest perch and the hawk complied, taking a few shuffling steps and spreading his wings. It swiveled and watched Deor retreat to the door.

"Tomorrow, we shall go hunting," he said, not sure why he was speaking to a hawk, but feeling as if it were appropriate. After all, it wasn't truly a hawk. Surely, surely, it must have part of the valkyrie's spirit in it.

He knew what his next song would be. If Deor had thought his story would be sung for many generations before, his influence would know no bounds now that he realized his full potential. The Heodenings would be forever remembered through Deor.

His heart full of satisfaction and his mind brimming with what was to come, Deor returned to the hall. His friends were waiting, after all.

-WULF-

Early the next morning while a majority of the revelers were sleeping off their drink, Deor took the worn path to the barn. He had barely slept for his excitement, and it was the same adrenaline that kept him from feeling tired now.

"Hafoc?" he whispered into the darkness. There was a flutter of wings as several of the birds rustled along perches, but only one short, low cry. A dark shape hovered in front of him and Deor obliged by putting out his arm. How easy it was to control this small being!

He left the building, venturing into the morning mist. The sun had risen not long before so the diffused light seemed to spread from all directions. Deor frowned. If the sun didn't burn through the clouds, Hafoc would have difficulty hunting.

It would be best to walk towards the top of the nearest hill, for the higher up he was, the sooner the fog would clear away. Deor stepped lightly up the trail, carrying the silent hawk with him.

Just as he was beginning to despair that he would have to wait another hour for the mist to dissipate, he broke through the top layer and found the sky. It was cool and crisp, without a cloud in the sky-blue field above him. Below the man and bird, white sheets sat in the low-lying fields, the fog like snow.

It was beautiful, but the hunting wouldn't be good yet.

"Hafoc," he said, turning to the sun-glinting feathers, "Return to me when the fog has parted."

The hawk gave a piercing cry in assent, and flapped powerful wings once, twice to leave Deor's arm. A few more beats and Hafoc was soaring aloft, his enjoyment clear in the flight. Deor watched, amazed. Spoken commands that were utterly understood by a bird! Why, he could make a whole flock of them to control if he wanted. Or another to serve a close friend—of course, only for people he respected for their good judgment. Even a fool would know that this kind of power in the wrong hands would be disastrous.

Hafoc wheeled above, circling higher and higher with the rising air. To Deor's eyes, he was barely more than a glint of dark gold. With a god's pride in his creation, Deor felt satisfied and in a certain kind of harmony with the earth. Even though his feet were firmly planted on the ground, it was as if his soul was flying with Hafoc as he spiraled higher and higher.

Suddenly, the bright speck dropped like a loosed arrow. The plummet was terrifying in its speed, awesome to behold. Deor could only watch in fascination, wondering when Hafoc would pull out of his spectacular dive. Surely it would be soon—

Hafoc dropped straight through the cloud bank like a swimmer entering the sea. With the hawk out of sight and so near the ground, apprehension filled Deor. He strained his eyes along the whiteness, but there was nothing for him to see except the graying expanse.

"Hafoc?" he whispered, unsure whether to call much louder. For if he did, and got no response… what sort of ill omen was that? That his first creation would so quickly leave him.

Deor swallowed. A growing sense of dread crept into his senses. He had been arrogant. He obviously still had more to learn—after all, Deor wasn't really a god. Just playing as one. And such a thing should bring serious consequences. He wet his lips, his mouth dry.

Just when Deor was about to give up all hope, a triumphant shriek filled the air, and Hafoc rose out of the mist. Something flopped limply in his talons as he beat his way back towards Deor.

The poet let out an exultant cry and rushed a few steps closer to the incoming hawk. He felt foolish for doubting himself and his Hafoc. Hadn't the valkyrie given him this power? If not to use it, then why would it have been given?

Deor would have thought himself arrogant if he didn't have the obvious means to back up his pride. He would be a great and powerful man only because he had the strength to prove it. He stroked Hafoc's silky feathers and murmured platitudes to it. What a fine animal, so swift, so smart….

The small hare that Hafoc had caught was cleanly dead—a broken spine, likely from the impact with strong talons and virtually no blood spilt. Deor plucked the warm dead thing from Hafoc and then smiled generously.

"The first spoils belong to you, Hafoc," he stated, "for a job well done." Deor held the hare out in front of the wickedly curved beak. A quick snapping motion brought the hare into the hawk's mouth and Deor watched, fascinated as Hafoc alighted to the ground and began tearing ferociously at the animal's hide and innards.

When Hafoc had finished, Deor held his arm out again, ready to return to the Heodening hall.

-WULF-

Deor eyed Heorrenda impatiently. The boy was trying too hard, which only made the effort obvious and the effect that of an unschooled screamer. It was distasteful all the more because it was the continuation of the contest in which Deor had summoned the hawk. As if any poem could compare to the Hafocleoth, the hawk song.

Tuning out, Deor tried not to yawn and made eye contact with Calhoun. The man seemed to sympathize with Deor's feelings by rolling his eyes at Heorrenda's attempts.

The poem thankfully came to a close and people clapped and thunked their mugs politely. Heoden gave his thanks to Heorrenda, who seemed pleased with his effort and shot a smug look at Deor. The older poet blinked, confused at the quick glance, but he barely had time to consider the occurrence before Heoden began speaking. The benches hushed in response.

"My kinsman and friends, we have now heard both sides to this contest. I have been greatly pleased by both my friends, Deor and Heorrenda, and thus the decision is difficult. To continue the joviality of all gathered and to make a better choice, I will ask both poets to give us another song. What say you, Deor? Heorrenda has already told me of his willingness to give as many songs as necessary for my peace of mind."

Deor was slightly incensed—after all, wasn't the outcome obvious from the start? But a careful look at his beloved king, and Deor realized it was a tactful maneuver to keep the young and hot-blooded Heorrenda from mischief and anger for the moment. With just one song, Heorrenda could say it wasn't fair, as Deor had proposed the challenge and could have been practicing longer. This way, Heorrenda had also had a head start on Deor, who was now caught unawares.

Deor let a smile return to his face. "Of course, my king. I would happily accept any challenge."

It wasn't as if he would lose any contests now that he had such a gift. He felt his smile grow into a self-satisfied smirk.

Heorrenda was watching him closely. "Well, Deor, as you are distinctly my senior, you may have the choice of going first again. Are you prepared? Or does your elderly mind need a few moments of rest?"

Deor turned just his head and let his words float back to Heorrenda carelessly. "I am always prepared to best you, Heorrenda. I hope you can suffer another defeat more easily than the first."

The poet stepped to the center of the hall and the room quieted instantly. He could tell all were listening on the edge of their seats, waiting for another sign from god, another miracle. Deor took a deep breath, feeling the hael spreading through his fingertips and zipping through his body like a sea-swept wind. He would give them what they wanted.

"Hweat!" Deor began, calling attention to himself and then letting himself plunge under and into the hael words that were clawing to get out.

"Seeking shadows and sliding in the air,

The wolf-father's whelp, the waelcurie is born.

What wondrous beauty belies cunning cleverness?"

The outside world was beyond Deor now, and although his green eyes were open, they registered nothing. The music of his words enveloped him completely. Dimly, Deor knew he was merely a vessel for something greater—but even if he had the ability to stop himself, he wouldn't have. Glory was waiting. He continued, the memory of the valkyrie floating before him like a phantom, dark and secret. He remembered and so he told.

"With hair dark and dire danger lurks in his wolfen ways,

Lying with lordly liberty until he descends

Upon those underneath who are unfulfilled by life."

The hael was pouring out of him again like it had with Hafoc, rushing past his open mouth like the current of a river. The words were springing all around him, caressing him and then moving before him in some kind of ecstatic dance. It seemed as if the world faded in and out of focus, sound coming and going like the sense of a crowded room ebbing and flowing with voices. The only thing that stayed constant in his mind was the sensations of the valkyrie—it consumed him.

"Forever bound to fate his freedom is lost

To human-kind's honor, anger, and revenge

On the site of slaughter. In silence he takes us

To pass the portal, the path of the dead,

With cursed cries he crosses the boundary…."

A fearsome echo reverberated across the hall, mixing the sounds of a hawk's cry and a wolf's howl.

"…Between birth and burial, careful with

Scarlet eyes to see the worthiness

In the hearts of humans hungry for their souls.

Darkened deathly wings…."

People were screaming in terror, overcoming the trance that Deor had fallen under. It took him only a moment to register what was happening; after all, it was what he had wanted.

Shadows glistened and curled before him, and for a moment, Deor could see they were the words he had spoken: there was 'black…' and there was 'wings….' Then they all disappeared into a strange swirling mass. It was incredible, but he was suddenly aware he was the only one who believed so. Several men had taken up their weapons from the entrance. Still, he couldn't exactly stop unfinished, could he?

" …to drum across the sky

In search of—"

A spear whizzed past Deor's shoulder to slip clean through the cloudy shape-shifting mass. It thudded against the floor to the other side, but the sound was quickly swallowed up by the shouts of fear and awe from the warriors. Chaos erupted and men rushed to hack with swords at the shadow in the center of the hall.

"No! I can control it!" Doer shouted, breaking from the poem. His concentration was gone and with it, the end of the song. The remaining words slipped through his mind unspoken, like water through open fingers and disappeared. Like pulling raindrops of water back from a pool, Deor knew instinctively that finding those lost words would be next to impossible. The hael-induced trance was completely over, and the suddenness of its departure made him stagger with exhaustion. He looked up through weary eyes with gasping breath.

Whatever it was now, the song was finished.

The maelstrom coalesced, shadows growing darker even in the well-lit hall. Voices of terror from men, women, and children echoed incoherently, until a single powerful voice rose above them all.

It screamed with the intensity of a hurricane. The shadows twisted formlessly, flashes of shining teeth and dark hair and crimson eyes visible for only moments. Like lightning made of ashy smoke, it sparked across the hall, but passed through everything it touched without slowing. It seemed to be quite distinctly of another world.

Heoden brandished his sword, and several retainers surrounded him, their weapons jerking back and forth as they tried to keep the points trained on the swift monster.

"Waelcurie!" Deor demanded imperiously, above the chaotic din. "Obey me!"

The smoke reversed in an instant and was in front of Deor before he could blink. For a moment, everything was perfectly silent and still. The shadow grew firmer and more distinct as the form of a man, but it was as if Deor couldn't focus on more than one aspect at once—when he saw the glittering eyes, the shape of the face became hazy.

"Kill it now!" Heoden shouted into the surreal lull, breaking the spell.

Deor only saw the waelcurie's smile and then something shoved him under and laughed with a pure and innocent cruelty.

Deor tried to scream. He tried to run away. He tried to look around—the waelcurie was gone!—but his body wouldn't move. He felt like he was suffocating, but he knew he was still standing, still breathing.

A great agony coursed through his veins. Something was inside him, he knew, and it was changing him from the inside out. He felt fever-hot—he was going to die!—and then a strange feeling like being pulled gently under deep water or going to sleep in the snow….

-WULF-

The world erupted into being around him, that he knew. Voices he heard and words he understood, but something wasn't right. People were all around, but indistinctly—their forms were vaguely visible, their hearts wild with fear. Everything was fiery with white-hot pain. He felt thick and clumsy, and knew this wasn't right. He searched for the missing parts, but what were they? Where were they? It was all so confusing and everything hurt. Instinct told him this wasn't right.

Then a voice. "Waelcurie!" it cried, "Obey me!"

Ah, he thought, that one is referring to me for that is what I am. It must know something about this not-rightness. He tried to see the man, but the vision kept slipping in and out of focus. The voice… so familiar. Like a dream, he thought, although he'd never had one.

The unfocused world began to crumble around him. This should not be, he thought. Why can I not touch the ground? Why do I not have my form?

And the suffocating. The pain. He was missing something vital that he didn't have.

But the man did.

He smiled with his solution and laughed. How simple to not have thought of that before!

He slipped into the body with an effortlessness that didn't surprise him and stretched his form into the man's. He realized it didn't fit very well as he flexed the fingertips and rolled his head around; he needed it to change more to his liking. More like him. He stretched his limbs longer with several cracks of shifting bones and pulled his short hair into a long gleaming pile of dark, almost purplish locks that cradled his inhumanly beautiful face. First one ashen wing curled out from his back in a rush of feathers, and then another completed his symmetrical figure. He opened his crimson eyes and fingered the long magnificent sword at his hip. Gripping the hilt, he let the flow of life well up inside him, surging with the power he possessed, and with the growing satisfaction of being himself. An intensity began to vibrate around him, clarity mounting with every moment.

He was glorious. This was right. This was what was meant to be.

But then a great burning sensation erupted in his chest as he lifted his wings. How strange, he thought passively, but then everything began to fall apart. His long hair shrank back into the human man's cut and lifeless style, and his height dropped several inches. He growled his frustration, the vibration rumbling through his chest and out through his pearly teeth. He changed them back, but it was like he couldn't fill himself full of enough strength without the body reversing, the body holding back, the body restricting, constricting, constraining, binding.

He let out a fierce howl of fury and was reminded of the men surrounding him as they took several long steps back. How dare they stare without helping him! His eyes burned scarlet and several men grew blood-red auras around their beating forms.

One moved forward, enveloped in a red haze and glowing with the death hue. The waelcurie moved by instinct and drew his sword in a flash of steely metal. The long sword was light in his grasp and easy to slide through the shocked man, his clear grey-blue eyes wide.

'Heoden!'

"You were chosen to seek the wide halls of the afterlife," he told the man, his voice low and melodic without comfort or malice. It was simply fact.

"As are you," he said, fixing his eyes on another man, shimmering with the death-haze.

'Stop this!'

The first man fell to the ground, dying as blood leaked from an open wound, but the waelcurie didn't look back and had already severed the head from the human he had spoken to second. He turned to another reddened human, who jabbed at him with a long spear. He dodged effortlessly—even without his completed power, he was still more than a match for mere mortals.

He struck without stopping, his sword cutting through bone, sinew, and flesh without hesitation. All around him was the chaos and anger of the battle fray, crying and dying men with hearts full of fire. Ah, this was right, he thought as another body fell, groaning out death pains, this was how it should be. Even though he could not tap into his full power yet, he could still complete his duty and send those warriors' immortal souls off to that many-halled palace beyond the clouds.

'I beg of you! You're killing them!'

He was laughing with pleasure as the numbers in the hall dwindled—some escaping on foot, others without their bodies. Of course, he never touched those who did not have the lustrous gleam of crimson encircling their bodies and the faces of those were deliciously bewildered and twisted into various emotions. Only those that were chosen with the blood haze would be slain, their souls swept away.

And then suddenly, the hall was empty except for the dead. An eerie quiet descended, but for a faint crackling from outside growing louder. Then he noticed the curls of thick smoke drifting lazily around the ceiling. The waelcurie whirled around and faced the now-barricaded iron doors. Each corner of the high-vaulted hall and now the roof was beginning to burn. He snarled at the smoky hall, the fire-heat beginning to seep into his body.

'Then at least death will save me from becoming such a monster….'

He strode to the door and cleared the way with several blows of his ringing sword. Stepping out, humans fled from him in all directions. He was a god before them, and this was as it should be. A wisp of reddish haze fled behind a hillock and the waelcurie's senses tuned in to the running man like a wolf and his prey.

Something struggled feebly inside him. 'I can't let this happen!'

Without calling up all his power—he was already wary of the consequences in this feeble body—he spread his wings and beat them several times. The force of the air against his wings felt delicious and he brought himself aloft to scan for the man that ran from his fate. With powerful strokes, he tore through the sky, his sharp eyes spotting the death-haze, and narrowing in. A euphoric thrill surged through him as he caught the chosen one. The man turned around, sword drawn, face tightened, and aware of the dark shadow only moments before the waelcurie struck. The larger, sleeker sword shattered the roughly hewn edges of the smaller one and continued, slicing the man's chest open from right shoulder to left hip. The warrior screamed in pain, falling to the ground and writhing there as he tried to cover his gaping wound with his arms. The blood soaked into the earth, staining the grasses and soil a dark red-black. How beautiful the scene looked under the cloud-studded sky with red blood glistening on pale flesh, the wind blowing across the low hills carrying the dying cries with it like a prayer. To smell the tangy scent of life force mixed with the cloying aroma of ocean-salt and burning wood—

'Enough!' The feeble thing inside the waelcurie suddenly grew larger into an overwhelming force. He was being attacked from the inside! A wing shrunk into his back painfully, but as he tried to force it back out, his left leg shorted several inches. The wing returned, but then his hair lost all length and lost its glossy sheen. With a roar of anger, the waelcurie pushed against the inner force that tried to take away his form and change the body into a normal man's.

What he needed was more strength to fight off this hostile takeover. He took a deep breath and pulled in more hael from the living world around him, like a violent sea-spout drawing ocean water up into its body of wind.

He realized it was a mistake just after he passed the threshold for human capacity. The body shook, and pain lanced though him with exquisite sharpness. His senses distorted and blurred—did he smell or hear the color of blood?—and he was falling, falling down into something dark and soothing in its lack of stimulation. He struggled vainly against a field of darkness pricked with lights like stars, trying to orient himself. Was he already crossing the boundary? A flash of blue sky burnt his eyes—was that the burning rainbow bridge?—, but then disappeared into the field of night again. It smelled like melting iron. He tried to pick out the dead on their path, their hael-lights winding along towards a bright shining afterlife.

Ah, it was there, just ahead, across the poison-flowing river. He was searching for….

But then the body gasped for air and he was snapped back into awareness of the mortal realm. He looked through eyes not his own and felt the grass under someone else's back. It moved without him thinking of it, struggling clumsily onto its knees and vomiting coarsely. It stood next, knees shaking weakly, and stumbled around distractedly, looking at various objects haphazardly. A small tree on the left. A mossy boulder on the right. Smoke rising up ahead. A path up a small hill to which the footsteps moved towards.

The experience was uncanny. He was himself, yet not himself. This was not right.

The body approached the top of the hill as another figure—a mortal man—appeared on top of it. His face showed traces of dark soot, as did his hands. Another man appeared next to the first one, this one's body tense and covered with a mail tunic and bronze helm. He would have looked the picture of a warrior if his eyes weren't stained white with fear

"Deor," the first man said, his voice heavy and filled with menace..

"He…Heorrenda," the body gasped feebly, before the eyes shifted to the other man. "Calhoun…" The feet wobbled and legs struggled to continue standing. "Please kill me, my friend."

The two men looked at each other in surprise before training their eyes back onto the body inhabited by the waelcurie.

"We dare not do that," muttered the one called Calhoun.

"You are an outlaw," Heorrenda pronounced, hatred burning through his words. "The Heodenings are no more, and you have no place among those of us left. We will spread word that anyone may hunt you down without having to pay the blood price or risk vendetta." His fiery eyes narrowed as he looked down on the human body. "I hope someone does hunt you, monster."

And with that, the two men turned away and vanished behind the hill.

The monster and Deor watched them go through human eyes, one unconcerned with strange human trivialities, the other realizing his world had been crushed.

-WULF-

Historical notes:

Please see Chapter I to refresh yourself on "Deor" if you wish. Hopefully, my interpretation of the last stanza will make sense now. The other two poems are entirely mine, but I was keeping the style roughly Old English as follows:

a-verse (2 lifts) b-verse (2 lifts) = a line

lifts are heavily stressed syllables where both lifts in a-verse and the first in b-verse alliterate.

Usually between the a-verse and b-verse, there is a "caesura" which is a break between the words of sorts. Because this is , the site doesn't support tabs or more than one space between words, so you, my poor readers, don't get the same effect that my word document allows. Sorry.

If you noticed any odd metaphors like "arrow meadow" for battlefield, those are called kennings and are very popular in many Scandinavian and Germanic literature traditions. (I have also learned recently that they are similar to Japanese 'pillow words' or makurakotoba from roughly the same time period. Interesting, right?) Heck, it also works for Homeric works (late 8th century BC though, so MUCH earlier time period). Think "grey-eyed Athena" or something.

Hafoc or heafoc is the Old English word for 'Hawk.' Basically, Deor just named him Hawk. Not very creative for a poet, actually, but he's a bit thunderstruck, I think. :P For a cool Old English site, check out: ". net / ~modean52 / index. htm" Again, take out the spaces.

The last historical note is that I'm drawing rather heavily on Norse mythology right now (I'm taking a class about Vikings, sooooooo...). A valkyrie (waelcurie) is a relatively well-known concept in Norse myths, but there are a couple of ideas I threw in here that people who know any Norse myths might squeal over (at least *I* did while I was writing), but if you don't know a thing, then it won't detract from the story I hope. Future chapters might go into more detail about the connections between this story and Norse mythology. In the meantime, go wiki it or something. They are extremely interesting stories in my opinion.

Author's notes:

A "couple" is the proper way to count hunting hounds (they are also never called dogs in my experience). I hope it is obvious that eight couple makes sixteen hounds total. I don't know how 'historical' that is, but without looking it up, I know the term has been in use for at least several hundred years.

Anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed the long chapter and will help encourage me to continue writing this. It's epic and exhaustive to research and write, but I'm having a lot of fun, so I hope you guys are too.

~anja-chan