The tiny bed in Heriwulf's tiny room was actually full to and beyond its limits, but felt, somehow, empty. Three hounds, any of which could stretch to fill the whole bed, shared it with him. Brunan, the matriarch of the pack, now getting a bit of grey in her dark fur; Hundr, the youngest (at least until Brunan's last litter) and most playful of the pack; and Niht, the implacable and tireless husky. Most nights, one of the three might sleep at the foot of the bed, while the others stayed outside, with the pups, or helping to patrol the stockade; they never shared the bed. Today, though, they clung together atop the blankets, shifting and sometimes whining.
If they could speak, they would be able to tell you just why it felt empty to them. The three of them were imprinted to Heriwulf, and thus, like brothers and sisters to him and each other; the rest of the pack were the pack, but not as close. But two others, Brenn and Dalgo, were near cousins. They were not imprinted to any Woodman, but served the entire clan, guarding the house and yard, or aiding with specific needs. They patiently patrolled the borders and warned of threats, day and night.
But yesterday, in the Battle of the Chetwood, Dalgo had fallen. Bravely, like a true warrior, like a hound of the Woodmen, like a Woodman. He had saved their chieftain. Or so he might have said, if he could speak. The question of who was a chieftain, an alpha of the pack, was muddy to Men; they had captains and chieftains, and one might lead in one matter, another in another. Grimhild led the larger forces that sprung the ambush, and thus, to Dalgo's mind, she was the chieftain, or alpha, and it was as simple as that. So his last thoughts, when he leapt to catch an axe bearing down on her back, were that he was saving the chieftain. And so he did. Perhaps the whole clan; what might have happened if she had fallen, no one could say. Would the other captains rally, would someone step up, or would the Woodmen have fallen into chaos? Would the message, sent to her using one of Em's ravens by Eathwaru warning of orcs coming to the stockade, been lost, since Grimhild was not there to receive it, allowing the stockade to be overrun without warning by superior numbers, the healers and their defenders left to perish with the wounded?
Perhaps not. The Woodmen had fought together before, had lost captains, had adapted; no plan survives contact with the enemy, as the old saying went. Those at the stockade and the healer's tent numbered skillful and capable warriors amongst them, and the raven might have warned Em even if it could not find Grimhild. But even at the best, there would have been more blood and more deaths, had Dalgo not leapt for that axe.
Though Dalgo was only a cousin to Brunan, Niht, and Hundr, he was a close cousin, and they felt the loss. From time to time, one would whine for no apparent reason. They shifted on the bed to huddle closer to one another and to Heriwulf, as he tried to sleep, but only dreamed.
That Leohna was not there was perhaps the larger part of why Heriwulf felt the bed was empty, though it was overfull. He would wake, and start, and reach for her, and find her missing, and a chill would go through his heart. He would remind herself that the dirt under his fingernails, from a freshly-dug, humble grave, was not from her grave. She was simply still at the tent, working through the night, overseeing the healing of those hurt in the battle. In Heriwulf's exhausted, grief-filled half-sleep, Dalgo's death and Leohna's absence kept getting intermingled and confused with one another, and with his own deeply buried memories. He would dream of coming back to the stockade only to find Leohna had been killed by orcs who had come while he was away, taming a new wolf for the pack, Leohna and their young daughter, dead, in a pool of their own blood. No, that was his wife and daughter, that was nearly twenty years ago. Orcs that he and others had warned about, but their alarm had been dismissed, and that's why Faron had left, only he had been the chieftain, who had died of his wounds as well, despite the best efforts of the healers, healers like Leohna. He would sit up with a muffled cry, blink, and slowly pick apart the memories from the present, the deaths from those who yet lived. He would remind himself that he still had Hundr, had Niht, had Brunan, he could touch each of them, feel them lick his hand eager for comfort as they felt the loss. That he still had Leohna; though she was not there, her heart was still with his, beating in time even when apart.
There would be much to do tomorrow. Orc-bodies to burn, traps to disable and remove, gear to gather, injured to tend, supplies to collect, plans to be made, councils to be held, provisions to lay in for the soon-to-be-departing folk of the Vales. Stock to be taken of the state of his own clan, their hurts, both of the body and of the heart; some were not warriors, forced to take up the spear, and they would need comfort and attention, perhaps. The battle was always longer than the battle itself. He could not afford not to sleep. He turned over and closed his eyes, trying to find enough peace to rest again.
Outside, somewhere on the fringes of the stockaded yard, Brenn paced diligently along the fence, ever-watchful for the scent of threats; but she, too, knew that something was missing. She worked twice as hard to make up for her partner in this duty, and wondered when he would be returning. In the wee hours before dawn as she patrolled, she found a small patch of freshly-turned soil near the river, sniffed at it, and slowly, she understood. She stopped and laid silently beside the grave. Someone else would have to finish the patrol of the late watches tonight.
