In the space of a single sennight, everything in Heriwulf's life had been turned upside down. They were all good changes, but they were exhausting, too, full of risks and challenges, demands and urgency, and the promise of things ending much better, soon. Or becoming the source of yet more regrets to hang about his neck.
First, there was Leohna. Heriwulf had been alone for two years, and before that for fifteen. He and a weapon-crafter called Gerulf, who had also been alone a long time, decided to be alone together, and for a while it was good. But then they'd decided to make it be more than it had been, more than just sharing company and a bed, and that had proved a disastrous mistake, ending badly and publicly. Heriwulf could now admit to himself, even to others, that that was a big part of why, when Radagast called for help, he had volunteered to leave the clan -- to get away from the places that reminded him of that painful ending, and the even more painful loss of his wife and daughter almost twenty years ago. (He was not yet ready to think about his own part in how that had happened, though.)
When he'd seen Leohna looking at him, or flirting, he'd dismissed it at first; she did that with nearly everyone. Others pointed out that she saved more of it for him than anyone else, but that might be just that he was the only male around, and she preferred men. But it continued, and he found himself thinking about whether he ought to say something, do something. Not being alone had a powerful appeal, but the hurt of it going wrong loomed in his thoughts. He liked to imagine he was just about ready, had summoned up just enough courage, to take the first step, when she took it for him. Decisively, which was itself a good sign. Had Gerulf been able to be decisive, to say what he wanted and own it, who knows how things might have gone? Heriwulf was still anxious about going too quickly, but the way Leohna made her decisions and spoke them without hesitation had a power to it that was irresistibly compelling.
Then there was the matter of his position as chieftain of their little clan. There had been a few moments where he almost felt like he was getting the hang of it. Spear training, for instance. Serving as captain of a strike team, much like his mother used to do, when Leohna needed help rescuing her beast. There was even a moment when he'd been asked to resolve some transgressions resulting from a conflict between Ljota and Gelvira, which he came away from feeling like he might have handled reasonably well. Though for every moment he thought he was discharging the duties satisfactorily, there was another that felt like a kick in the gut. Ljota's summary dismissal of both his clan's tradition of the Hall-Sun, and the respect he'd tried to offer her by comparing her to it, had been a particularly painful double-blow. In fact, every moment he'd felt all right about his leadership was followed by a moment that had undermined and erased it, making him feel all over again that he should not be a chieftain, and perhaps that they didn't need one.
And now, for all intents and purposes, the weight of leadership had been taken off his shoulders. Temporarily, and not officially, but in every way that mattered. Grimhild was now leading the clan, at least for the next fortnight or so, as war captain, as they were now essentially a war party. He didn't know her; he'd met her once or twice, long ago, before she went by the name The Widow, and he knew that she'd served under his mother, and now was a captain of warriors much like his mother had been. She was well-regarded as capable, particularly in rallying her forces under challenging circumstances. The tales of her victory against overwhelming numbers at Mirkmere Lake was often celebrated. She made no pretense of being a chieftain, but with preparations for battle dominating all that happened in the Chetwood, he deferred to her leadership, though he wondered if a better chieftain than him might have not done so as readily.
And of course Grimhild's presence was part of the largest change. A sennight ago, Heriwulf had been happy with the progress of preparations -- the stockade, traps, and archer platforms, the spear training, the forging of alliances with outsiders like Beastmother and Vandallan and Jessandra and of course Leohna, the scouting and harrying that Hildegund had been wearing herself out doing, even the training of the pups, now nearly complete as they were weaned. But he also couldn’t avoid thinking, especially when alone, about how they were still greatly outnumbered, still unlikely to triumph unless Radagast found some way to aid them; and they had heard no word from him.
And then, taking his breath away, a contingent from the Vales, led by Grimhild, swept into the stockade (interrupting the moot) and set up camp, numbering about two dozen, far more than he'd dared to hope for. Too many to live in the lodge, but enough to make it a bustling village (so much that he hadn't seen Hildegund near the lodge since then, nor would he; he was now visiting her camp every day in case she had news to report). A field full of shining spears and swords, axes and shields, ready to march. They told tales of surprisingly warm weather, the High Pass clear far earlier than expected, as if the way had been opened for them. A sign of fate smiling on them? Heriwulf secretly wondered if perhaps Radagast had somehow been responsible, clearing the way for Faron and Eira, then again for Faron's return alongside this cohort; but he didn't dare speak the idea, as it seemed mad. Grimhild was getting her people settled and prepared, while gathering reports, and formulating a plan, and Heriwulf was in frequent consultation with her, providing her the information she needed and helping her to choose the time and place of the battle. The orcs were still greater in number, and she was leaning towards a risky plan to draw them into the woods and bring the fight nearer to home, where the Woodmen are at their best while the orcs are out of their element, helping to make up for their numbers. Heriwulf knew it was the start of a good plan, and that if anyone could execute a plan like that, it was Grimhild; but it still made him anxious to think of bringing the fight so close to the home they'd worked so hard to build.
But what he found himself thinking the most about was how comfortable it was to not have to think like a chieftain all the time. There was no one leader; instead, whatever the question was, the person who knew that subject was the leader while that question was being discussed, and made the decisions. Just as Heriwulf wouldn't think of contravening Grimhild on matters of tactics or military leadership, he knew Grimhild would always expect Heriwulf to make decisions about the hounds, for instance.
Within a fortnight, it would all be over, one way or the other. If they triumphed, the new arrivals would return to their homes in the Vales, and things would be as they once were. No, not as they were. Even when the camp was gone and the clan again a handful of doughty men and women, even when the threat of orcs no longer hung over everything and pushed everything else aside, he knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
