_______________
         ////////////////|\
        ////////////////|-|\
       ////////////////||-| \
       |              ||-|  |
       |     []       |-| | |
       |______________|-|___|

At night dreams wore down what sleep meant to restore. He found himself a day older in the morning. He tried to sort the scattered thoughts of the night but failed to grasp them tightly enough to keep them near. All that remained were images without a pattern. A rod with arrows lodged at either end, a woman with fair hair holding a child. The wind speaking through a tree with a man hanging from the branch. Wystan spoke soft in the dark and Godric followed with a prayer. His eyes were closed when the bell rang but he had been awake for at least an hour.

Brómber opened his eyes and sat up, resting his back against the wall of the church. He waited for the priest to arrive with breakfast, readying himself for the questions that would come and preparing a few of his own. Godric blessed the bread as ever. This morning was livelier than the previous, their meal prolonged by the exchange of stories and jokes.

"Right then," Brómber said after a laugh. "What is to be done?"

"About the pig? Nothing, it is just a story, my son." Godric smiled. "I should hope at least," he added with a laugh.

"You misunderstand me. What needs to be done for the church today?"

"Oh, yes. Of course." The priest recomposed himself. "The roof needs to be repaired. There are a few holes where the thatch is rotting. Could you see to it for me?"

"I will do as I am asked," Brómber replied. "I may need to be shown how to do this task though."

"There is little to it. Come, I will show you."

He led Brómber to the next room and pointed up. "See where the light comes through," he said, gesturing at flecks of light above them. "If light can come through now, water is sure to follow."

Outside the church the priest instructed Brómber on where to place a ladder. It lay flat up against the thatch. Godric ascended and came down holding rotted wads of straw, explaining to Brómber that he needed to remove the old before the new could take its place. He showed him how to secure the replacements with hazel spars twisted around twice and stabbed in at an angle, then left him with enough thatch to cover most of the roof. "Be not sparing, we need all the protection we can get," the priest said before going to work in the small strip of field on the church ground.

Brómber worked slowly. His feet sought in vain for stirrups in the air. His heart hung in his throat, rattling whenever the ladder shifted aneath him. He did his best not to rest his weight fully on the roof. The ladder was his only anchor to the solid earth below, even if it wasn't as steady as he liked. Quietly he bent the spars square, placing and replacing, trying to get them as tight as the priest had shown him. He could not get it quite right. Each time he returned to the ground for more thatch he considered making some excuse to stay off the roof and each time he climbed back up without complaints. A woman, the same one as the day prior, marched up the hill. She stood before the church and looked up at Brómber.

"You, Dane," she shouted just loud enough to make him jump. He gripped onto the thatch and looked over while she continued, "Is the father inside?"

He shook his head before replying, "In the field." His voice cracked a little.

She stood for a moment, considering the strange man on the roof. "Your face is ruddy. The sun burns it." Brómber looked back at the thatch but his hands were idle. Once she had her fill of him she moved on to the field and Brómber continued his work. A while later she left the way she came, this time saying nothing.

Brómber worked his way around the roof of his church patching every hole and removing all the rot. The final hole was further up than he would like. Filling it in with the last of the straw he looked around him. The holes were gone but the texture of the roof was much rougher than before, like a boy with uncombed hair. In the field he saw Godric laboring, cutting at the wheat with a sickle. The priest's body moved in jagged and unsure arcs. He was holding his left hand too near to where he was cutting and struggling to pull the blade through the grain.

Brómber crept down to the edge of the roof, his eyes locked on his host. He descended the ladder, his heart falling back into his chest as his feet touched the ground. He ran to the father with a smile, happy to no longer have his head so far into the heavens.

"Godric!" he shouted, slightly too loud. "Hold on. You are handling the blade wrong."

He showed the priest how to better cut the grain, pulling it taut from the top and cutting low so as to secure more straw for the roof. Even with better form the sickle was slightly dull. "Hold on," he said, "this will not take long." He ran back to the church taking the sickle with him and leaving Godric in the field, breathing too heavily to protest. The sun hardly moved in the sky before he was back.

"Here," Brómber said, holding out the sickle with his left arm. "I sharpened it for you."

"Thank you, son," said the priest, watching as Brómber pulled out the knife on his belt.

"I got my seax as well. This way will save time for us both."

The two men cut through what was left of the field in under an hour, the father leaving early to ring the church bell at noon. It seemed as if more time had passed, but the sun stood as high as it could, proof that the father was on time. Brómber stayed by the church when Godric left to go into town. When the priest returned he found Brómber sitting with the sickle and a whetstone, again sharpening the blade.

That night the dreams from the night before returned only to leave him in the morning just the same. The priest asked Brómber to clear the ditch around the church. Godric showed him what needed to be done and what path needed to be dug then left him to his task while he cleaned up Brómber's work on the roof. Brómber was happy to be working on the ground today. He drove the spade into the earth again and again, cutting through roots and branches as he went. Every load went up at the side of the ditch before being packed flat. The father descended from the roof and rang the bell then went into town. When he returned he found Brómber sitting by a day's work. It looked more a trench than a ditch, deeper than it needed to be and sloped enough to guide the water away from the church and toward the river.

"Have you done a lot of digging?" the priest asked.

"I have," said Brómber.

"I see," said Godric. "You do it well."

No one had come to visit today and Godric's blessing was nearly all that was said at supper. Company was offered with a look and accepted with a nod.

Again the day churned into evening and then the evening into the next day. The day's work had worn out the man enough to keep the dreams away. Matins came and went without him. The bell woke him the next day but he hardly noticed.

"Firewood," the priest told him; that would be the task of the day. Godric gave him an axe before he left. He said he needed to visit town early today. Brómber wanted to ask why but did not. Instead he sat and sharpened the blade of the axe as the priest walked down the hill and into town.

He took Smjor with him, it was time for her to earn her keep as well. They sauntered past the field and over to the forest at the other end of the hill. His seax hung at his belt and the axe lay on his shoulder. The air was still but not quiet. The day was warm but not hot.

The pair did not want for wood to cut. It took only a few moments for their first find, a dead ash tall and grey at the edge of a clearing. He felled the tree then cut the downed trunk into lengths, standing on them and notching either side before binding them with rope. Each swing hit its mark clean. He read the grain and let the iron fall. The wood came open singing down the line. Even when knotted wood argued back he convinced it to part and give way to his axe. Smjor patiently watched as he cut more wood than she could pull in a day, eating grass and listening to his cries of victory. The church bell rang but was unnoticed among the fallen trees. They stopped occasionally to pull the bundles of wood to the edge of the forest before diving back in to continue.

He came upon a half-dead elm. His arms were tired and the sun had begun to fall. He would fell it, then he would return to the church. His shoulders were tense and his hands burned. He raised the axe then swung it into the side of the elm. Thump. He coiled his body again then released. Thump. Again. Thump. Again. Thump. Sweat pooled on his back and in his palms. Thump. The gash in the tree grew. Thump. He brought the axe back again and pulled it forward. It slipped across his palms and hit the great tree at an odd angle. Thump. He brought it back again, this time missing his mark entirely. Thump. Salt and sun dripped down his back. His grip tightened. A drop of sweat fell into his left eye. It snapped closed as he swung. A grunt escaped his lips without his knowledge and the axe flew into the tree. The handle snapped and the blade bounced off the side of the tree. Smjor reared as he screamed. A splinter shot from the broken handle. It hit the closed eye, scratching the lid and the bridge of his nose.

He lay on the ground cursing without words and kicking his legs in anger. Heart pounded. Thump. He punched the tree. Thump. He stomped over to the blade. Thump. Thump. Thump. He picked it up and stared down his nose at Smjor, concern bleeding from her eye.

"I am sorry." He tried to calm her. "I am sorry."

The horse and her boy trudged back to the church, her with a final load of wood and him with the blade of an axe. Godric came out to meet them.

"Are you hurt? What happened?"

"Axe broke."

"I see. What happened to your eye?"

"Axe broke," he repeated, "splinter."

"Here, let me see." Godric inspected Brómber's face by the door of the church. "The cut is shallow. It has not touched the eye. Can you see?"

"I can see fine. It hurts." Brómber grimaced. "I'm sorry about the axe. I'll buy you a new one and then keep working."

"Will you now?" The priest's face was stuck between concern and amusement. "With what silver?" Brómber looked at him but couldn't find a response before he continued. "Rest now. Tomorrow you can go into town and have a new haft fitted. The blade wants nothing. Wulfric will see it done." Brómber groaned at the suggestion but he did not argue. "Come now, this way."

The two men and the mare went down to the river as a group. Godric offered to help Brómber wash his face but he refused, kneeling down by the river himself and dunking his head into the water. The salt and the heat left together. Wit returned to his head and he pulled himself back into the air. He looked at the priest with a sheepish expression and asked, "Must it be Wulfric?"

They had supper early, long before sunset, the blessing said while the light still held. Brómber drank more ale than he meant to with his bread, Godric quietly refilling his cup each time it was emptied.

"Brómber," Godric asked, "are you a soldier?"

"Not now."

"Before you came, though," he pressed. "Did you fight with an army?"

"No." Brómber waited before considering whether to continue. "Not with an army. I do not want to talk of it tonight."

The men sat quietly before Brómber responded with a question of his own. "Who is that woman who keeps coming to see you? Is she..." He trailed off with a smirk.

"Oh no, nothing like that," the priest chuckled. "No. That is Lady Hild, the thane's wife. Priests do best to avoid knowing women in that way."

"Would I know?" Brómber asked. "I am no priest. Why does she visit you so frequently? Why only her?"

"I cannot tell you," Godric replied.

"Fine!" Brómber threw his hands up. "I'll tell you who I fought for if you tell me why she sees you!"

The priest laughed again. Brómber's cup spilled over.

"Be easy, it is not for that reason. What is confessed to a priest is confessed to God. Her secrets are only for God to know. Well, God and I."

"Fine. Keep your secrets then. I will keep mine as well." Brómber rose as he spoke. He stumbled a bit after standing, pausing to find his balance. "I thought the thane was dead," he mumbled as he stumbled into his room. He fell upon his makeshift bed. Thump. He quickly drifted into sleep.

His feet dangled above the earth, blood pooling in his toes. The world turned with a breeze. A cool voice sang behind him but he could not understand the words. A soft light came from behind. Something was wrong.

He attempted to speak, to ask who was there. The words were stuck. Something held them in his throat. He reached up and grasped onto the rope above him. Realizing the betrayal he swung the seax in his hand up above his head and in one swift motion split the rope in two. The ground rushed up to meet his feet, forcing the blood into his head and a scream from his throat.

He spun on his heel and stepped back, holding his knife in front of him with his left hand and drawing his sword with his right. A tree stood before him, each branch hanging low with gilded leaves as thick as his blade. He swung. The blades cut the twisted branches down to naught and the great tree spoke out in protest. The words hit him but he did not care to listen. As the branches grew sparser its voice rang out deeper but still he pressed on. Each cut kept him standing. Each time he struck a beam it shattered into the night without resistance. His breath was heavy. Pant. Swing. Pant. Swing. Pant. Swing. An army came up behind him, slinging stones and arrows in outrage at the great oak. He could feel victory at his heels and moved quick to keep pace with it. He would not lose, he would not surrender.

A moment passed and the tree was bare, save for the arrows lodged in its sides. He held glee and fury in each hand as he stood before his victim. The voice boomed around him. He was alone. Desperately he swung again and again, his blades falling softly against the corpse before him. He screamed at it, begging it to stop, for mercy, for peace. It spoke one last time and he heard. "Listen,"

He bolted up and tore down at the cloth above him, grasping for his sword and then his seax. His room was black and his ears empty save for the drumming of his heart. The anger in his face drained into his chest before dissipating for lack of a target. It was the dead of night. He tried to fall back asleep.

 \|/
-(*)-
 /|\