The Wild Hunt, The Furious Host

Civilization never suited me. I wasn't born for soft comforts and tranquil nights. I wasn't born for quiet, polite conversations with people who smile through their teeth, nor have I ever learned to speak in that strange language where one says what is pleasant rather than what is true. No, I am a Wolf born and bred for the battlefield. I was born to howl at the moon as I run amok, wreaking havoc amongst my enemies. I was born for the exciting scents of sweat and fire and blood in the air; born for the tumultuous crash of steel and the wild rush of blood in my veins. Ah, that wild rush where the soul thrives, where exists only the sublime dance of the sword; of strength pitted against strength; where the strong survive, the weak perish, and the truest essence of the soul is expressed without reserve.

I was never meant for civilized society. But the War ended -- was it really only a year ago? -- and I was forced to return to this soft place, forced into the fetters of civilized life, where the Wolf in me is forced into a muzzle and a too-small cage. Like sheltered dogs confronted with a wild animal for the first time, the people can smell it on me. I am from Out There: I have no place within walls and fences, around normal, civilised people.

A year now. A year since the Wolf was muzzled. It has not enjoyed its confinement, but there is no place for Wolves within cities. And without it, I have lived half a life. I have lived as half a person.

But I have felt a storm building on the horizon. I can smell it, and the Wolf pricks its ears, straining for the sound that will herald its freedom once more. As Yule approaches, the winter storm is ready to break.

At long last the first rumble of thunder rolls across the sky. From horizon to horizon, it rolls like the cadence of some titanic army. I leap to my feet and flee from the house that imprisons me, fleeing into the coming storm.

High in the air, I see Him: Woden, that frightfully old Wild Huntsman, riding at the head of an impossible Host. Upon eight-legged Slepnir He rides, His tattered grey cloak billowing out behind Him like frayed wings. Beneath a wide-brimmed hat His single eye blazes with brilliant silver fire.

Behind Woden ride the heroic dead: the Einherior, the chosen warriors of Valhalla. For miles uncountable the Host stretches, and behind them roars the storm.

There is no time for reason, only instinct. If I take time to reason, I will be left behind. I sprint across the ground as my blood begins to sing while above me the Host plunges across the sky. I throw my head back and loose a glorious howl, a Wolf's howl: a call to battle, a triumphant cry to accompany the roaring heart in my chest.

From His mount high above, He sees me. Woden sees my tiny, mortal form sprinting after Him and I swear He smiles a gallows smile for me. He points His mighty spear down at me, acknowledging me, accepting me this night into His Wild Hunt, His Furious Host. All the faster do I run, now, all the louder does my blood sing, all the more passionately does the Wolf howl.

Two riders break off from the Host and swoop down upon me. I recognize them: a brother warrior and a Shield Maiden who had fought many battles by my side and died on the battlefield years ago. They swoop down and scoop me up and the Wolf in me is suddenly free: the spirit becoming flesh, larger than my life has ever been, comparable to each of the riders in the Host.

Stretching behind me and all around me, far beyond seeing, are the Einherior, those glorious chosen ones who proved their worth in life and in death. My father is there, and his father before him. They acknowledge me, and we ride.

I've thrown off the shackles of civilization, been freed of the suffocating fetters that have restrained me. I have answered the call of my blood and the cry of my soul. The ecstasy of battle is mine once more; the wild rush and tumult of blood in my veins, the ferocious beating of my heart has become the thunder itself, my howl the furious wind. Wild and free at last, I ride.

Tonight, ahead of the winter storm we bless the earth with the ecstasy of our lives and the glory of our deaths. No meek peasants are the Einherior, each of us lived with a horn full to the brim and died with a defiant shout on our lips even as we welcomed our death.

The storm follows us, the thunderclaps and forks of lightning left in our wake taking our blessing to the land below us. Each raindrop that falls, each snowflake, is a drop of our blood. Where it falls the land is enriched with our wild abandon, our unconquerable sprits, our glorious ecstasy. Not in one place do we greedily hoard our blessings, but generously -- wildly! -- do we fling our blessings across the whole of the world. Where the winter storms rage, our blessing is there, a gift from Woden that we share with all who would partake.

If Woden does not see fit to take me with Him to Valhalla tonight, I will awaken in the morning in my bed, drenched with sweat and impossibly exhausted. I will be empty, spent to the last drop, but I will feel cleansed, my soul purified by the storm and the wild healing purge that comes with releasing all your cares and worries into the storm.

But that is tomorrow. Tonight there is only the Wild Hunt, the Furious Host.

Tonight the storm rages, and we ride.

Dedicated to Woden, in all His guises.