Forlorn {A Tale of Germania} **25/7/14**
-PROLOGUE-
The forest was alive with the thrum of rain; the floor dank and steaming. The earthy odour was pungent and foretold the ensuing decay of autumn’s transition into the silent depths of winter. Gerulf stared out into the swirling mists that curled, as though serpents, through the myriad of flora. The marshy ground gave way to sand and pebble up ahead and a babbling creek wound a way through the undergrowth, driven ever faster by the persistent rainfall. Gerulf’s brow was furrowed and his eyes, narrowed and fixed, were straining in order to focus at the slender gap between two looming spruce trees, bare and stripped back by gatherers in the earlier weeks. He had tracked the deer since dawn and had pursued it with a vigour that belied his age, having negotiated the rolling hills and gullies and remaining sure-footed when wading through the foul-smelling, oozing mires of sucking mud. His breathing was ragged and it clouded in the bitter air, tumbling playfully before melting into nothingness. A slight breeze caused the trees around him to sway gently, their branches creaking ever so slightly in the heavy silence of the forest. The sharp evening air was beginning to bite and Gerulf gathered his cloak around his shoulders, allowing himself a momentary weakness. He grimaced disdainfully at this – old age was undoubtedly catching up with him.
At least he could still hunt. That was a gift that permeated his very body; an essence that rested in his heart and mind. His fingers grasped, almost in loving caress. The stained and chipped oak shaft of his spear was gripped tightly in his right hand; the cold iron of the spearhead throbbed against his cheek as he lay, belly pressed tightly to the thick layer of leaves that were strewn about the ground. He could feel the cold wreathing him; passing into his body and causing him to shudder. He stifled a grunt and clawed at the ground, dragging himself to the edge of the ridge.
The ears of the deer pricked and twitched and it jerked momentarily, achingly aware of a noise somewhere in the distance. From here, Gerulf could kill it, if only he could raise his arm sufficiently to draw the spear back without alerting the animal to his presence. The stillness of the forest was thick, almost suffocating. He would have to bide his time – allow an errant breeze to veil his movements or wait for the deer to wander towards him, unaware that death approached.
The gods had indeed been good to Gerulf. He had neither lost his guile nor his patience. His hunt thus far had been a remarkable indictment of the skills he possessed, even as he approached the sunset years of his life, and he allowed himself a wry smile as he steadied the palm of his hand in the slick blanket of leaves and felt the satisfying exertion of power in his shoulder. His pushed himself up and onto his knees, all the while keeping his head low and his spear straight and only allowing himself cursory glances over the ridge to where the deer now stood.
Taking a wavering breath, Gerulf adjusted his stance and continued to grip hard at the shaft of his spear, as though it grew impatient for the kill. The deer continued pulling and nibbling at the last remnants of grass that were scattered across the forest floor. A breeze, almost indistinguishable, ruffled the coat of the animal and Gerulf saw his opportunity emerge. His arm drew back as the sinews of the hunter began to tighten and his eyes burned with a visceral intensity. Teeth gritted, his breathing became shallow and the moment seemed an eternity of anticipation, lost in the rapture of raw instinct. He was alive; he was the dark forest.
The crack of a branch behind him brought him to the surface of his waking mind. He had always remained focused when hunting. Always. But the recent incursions by rival tribes into his land meant that he was uncharacteristically nervous. It was then that he glanced, only momentarily, over his shoulder, aware that the dark forest could hold many dangers beside him.
Nothing.
When Gerulf's attention returned to the deer, it was already careering towards him, kicking vulgar lumps of rotting dirt into the air...
-CHAPTER ONE-Adelheide stooped over the gathered tinder nestled at the bottom of the scorched pit where countless fires had burned before and countless stories had been shared. Embers had burned long into those heady nights, tumbling into star strewn skies alongside those magically woven words that had enraptured so many souls. Even in this task, a soft smile danced across Adelheide's lips as those memories burned brightly deep within her, just as the fires had on those long summer nights.
But autumn had come, those nights had grown sharper, shorter and less forgiving.
The rain was falling steadily now and she needed to set the fire going in preparation for supper - her mother was adamant that the tribe should enjoy the last of those autumn evenings and eat outside, together in the sight of the gods. Adelheide's flowing hair fell across her face, lightly caressing her rose hinted lips. Hooking locks of auburn behind her ear, her beautiful eyes, deep amber and filled with the radiance of the sun, peered into the beckoning gloom that lay ahead on the very edges of the camp grounds. The spruce trees grew denser up ahead and their thickening canopy shut out the last struggling streams of sunlight as the day dwindled away. Soon, these forests would be shrouded in pure darkness by this hour.
Winter approached.
Her father was in there, in that gloom, and she was painfully jealous. She had begged her mother, asking if she could join him on the hunt, but her requests had fallen upon deaf ears and her father had cast an apologetic glance in her direction before taking up his spear and trudging into the swirling mists. He knew better than to argue with her mother – Adelheide hadn’t yet learned that lesson and so, here she was, tending to the kindling. The young girl was skilled with a bow - immensely skilled. She had far surpassed the abilities of the males within her tribe and her father had rejoiced in this, eager to take her into the forest where she would become his equal, even his better at times. She would spring from boulder to boulder, clamber across shale and moss, lie prostrate in sodden grass and mud - all for that kill; that knowledge that the tribe would eat tonight because of her. Tonight, she supposed with an apathetic giggle, they would eat because of her as well...if she didn't light the fire, how else would they cook? Eydis emerged from the hut, her blonde hair gathered tightly around her forehead in knots and then flowing back, falling around her shoulders into rivers of gold that shimmered, even in this dying sunset. There was no denying the Adelheide’s mother was truly beautiful; blessed by the gods in both spirit and form. Many had long considered Eydis to be a prophetic 'soothsayer' and had treated her with an intense reverence. She had steered the tribe away from various failures and had been the voice of reason in the ear of her often stubborn husband. Some, keen to belittle the fragile hierarchy of the tribe, would argue that Gerulf listened too often to the whisperings of his wife; that no woman should have the ear of a real man to such an extent. Gerulf had thus far dismissed such talk and had been keen to install his love as an integral part of the tribe. It was to be one of his many insightful decisions during his reign.
Adelheide was snapped into action by the stern words of her mother, ever the matriarch. “You must make haste with the kindling, Adelheide. Your father won’t be much longer now; you know how he hates hunting during the sunset. He would much rather be at our side – and soon he shall,” Eydis nodded at the dense tangle of branches that Gerulf had pushed his way through hours before and gave her youngest daughter a cursory flash of maternal disapproval - it was playful and beautiful and intimate.
Adelheide gave her mother a grin and continued to prepare the fire, all the while gazing into the shadows of the looming forest and wondering where her father was. He was late now, that was for sure. As her mother said, he did not like to hutn during the sunset. He had often taught her that such times were laden with danger. The sun was low enough to blind; the animals of the forest alert; the intricacy of shadows and light enough to make a man suppose all kinds of illusions.
The sun had been setting for the last twenty minutes. Where was her father?
It was Adelheide who heard it first.
That guttural scream.
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Originally Posted by Stívarđr Rogn
