Vilhjalmr
Legacy Name: Vilhjalmr

Our story begins with a proud jarl who dreamed of Valhalla.

That, in itself, is rather common. There is no such thing as a nord who does not dream of Valhalla. Death at old age, or at the hands of a disease, is a dishonor, and an eternity in the grips of diseased, gray Hel. The punishment of a life without bravery.

As such, the jarl of this story was as any other, young and strong and proud. He had led many a hunt and challenged many a monster, even winning the hand of a lovely wolf with fur the color of starlight. The gods had so fed his ego, it had developed a large apetite, and though his warriors respected him and his home was prosperous, the ravenousness in him desired more.

And so, when his wife announced her first pregnancy, he laughed deep, and bragged to all that would hear that he expected no less than six pups. Six brave, brawny little ones who'd one day wrench the head off a giant with the sole strength of their maws, and who would accompany him in his last battle, their might like that of an army. They'd make their own kills and become heroes, and as he fell, having slain the great monster but having been wounded fatally, he'd leave for Valhalla with pride fit to burst for them, secure in the knowledge of seeing them again there.

So great was his conviction that, for every night of the pregnancy, he dreamed of his six sons, rushing to him with cries of joy, the bulk of their muscles colliding with him, knocking him clean off his four feet as they greeted him.

But as the term ended, the mother-to-be became ever weaker. The proud jarl worried, but would lose himself in thoughts of how his wife's strength was flowing into the pups, for surely the effort of carrying beings with such glorious destinies was great. He then bragged of the blessing that was bestowed upon them, of his wife's sacrifice of her strength and well being for the sake of the pups.

Fractured Aspirations

The birth was very difficult. The day waned and finally died before the scent of blood permeating the air abated, and the great, brawny jarl shut himself up in his home, with strict orders to send away all well-wishers.

On the morning of the next day, the minutia on the much awaited birth was revealed, rathe quietly (almost timidly): the jarl's wife had birthed not six but four pups (two males, two females), and three had died seconds after their first breath of air. Only one of the males survived, and even then continued fighting for his fragile life.

The next news were that the wife, though she had survived the birth well, was so consumed by it that her strength would never return in full, and was expected to keep to her bed, and no more pups were to be had if her life were to be preserved. The jarl was not seen for many days after this was made known.

Eventually, the great, brave jarl ended his self-incarceration. He went on hunts and kept monsters at bay, drank great tankards of mead and had huge slices of boar. But he never bragged again, and the surviving pup he never mentioned but in passing, and under the excuse of his sickliness was never seen out of his home. When the time was due for the pup's eyes to open, a volva was called, and it was with great anxiety, the likes of which he had never experienced, that the father awaited her veredict.

"This pup will be grand," she said "but only if his strength is fed. His eyes are weak, and will be always, for the gods have said it be so. No power, not in Midgard nor in the realm of the gods, will ever heal his eyes. If he become strong, however, he will be one of our mighty blessed." And with that, the pup, its pale blue eyes blinking, was returned to its mother.

But the brawny jarl was not at peace. He was everything but. What had warranted the sudden disfavor of the gods? Had he not been diligent enough with his sacrifices? Gone to battle with not an iota of fear, destroying the evils of the land in their names? And still he was accursed with a half-blind, scrawny pup. One he feared he would not have the heart to raise.

Worn Thin

The jarl had a man of trust. He was more of a man of particular trust, as there weren't any in the settlement that he did not trust to some degree. This man was courageous and honorable, but enjoyed his low profile quite a good deal. His wife had departed the world many seasons before the birth of the unfortunate litter, and he had been left childless since then.

When out on a hunting trip, the jarl purposefully abandoned the rest of the party, insisting on wanting to bring down a particularly fine wild boar himself (and his strength was such that nobody doubted him being able to bring the boar back alone). He doubled back, leaping through snow banks, covering his tracks, and reached his trusted man's home. None saw him enter, none saw him leave, and when he returned to his hunting party without his boar, answered no questions and claimed it had escaped.

There was a relative peace amidst the settlers for a time after then. The warriors hunted and reveled as before, and save for a few unexplained absences from the jarl, and the grim set of the jaws of his trusted man when he'd had too much mead, all seemed normal.

Fair is Foul

One night, after the jarl had taken his place beside his weakened wife, the sickly pup well-covered, but alone, a little ways away from his parents' bedding, a piercing scream, followed by many howls of fear and terror, rent the night's silence. The jarl sprang to his feet, perhaps a little too nimbly, and rushed into the darkness despite his wife's desperation that he not leave the child and herself thus unprotected.

Left alone, she could do little else than light a candle and wait. Noticing her pup awake, she attempted to get up and reach him: she loved her little, sickly son and, if there were indeed fell creatures loose amidst them, she needed to protect him, even if only as a final scrap of flesh to shield him from the beast's claws. She had already thrown herself beside him when a heavy creaking of wood alerted her to a presence by the door.

With a gentleness that was almost uncanny, a great bear, bigger on all fours than the most overgrown of oxen, pushed the door aside and entered. Slowly, as if perhaps it thought its victims slept, it lumbered into the house: its fur was dark as the night sky, unnaturally so, as were its eyes. It looked more like darkness shaped into the form of an animal, rather than truly a living creature. It reached the center of the home and stopped, looking with seemingly blind eyes at the place where mother and son lay.

"You will give me the pup," it said, and the voice sounded like a gust of wind, soft and distant "and you will not fight. He is mine now, and you will no longer be his mother."

"But why!?" cried the wolf in despair, hiding her son behind her body "What have we done to warrant this!? I love my child, and I would die before having you take him!" She knew her body was too small and weak to even dream of battling the creature, but a mother's love was bigger than the thinnest, most gaunt of complexions.

"Your pup you will give to me," insisted the creature, its distant voice monotonous "or he will die here. His father's pride will claim his life as surely as the coming frost will take the elderly, and you will not be able to protect him. Give him to me, tell his father nothing of what I have told you: if you do, your pup will return to you a great warrior."

The young female was profoundly shocked. What was this being, that seemed to have looked into her life with a single glance, and who knew more of her family than her neighbors did? She had seen the grim set of her husbands jaw, the dread light in his eyes, but had had faith in the predictions of the volva, and of her husband's heart changing. She saw her husband's speedy departure in a new light, and her heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

When the jarl returned, ready to confront his mate's histeria over what should have been a traumatic situation, he found her lying across the bedding, eyes lost in the distance and eerily quiet. No sign of a struggle was apparent, and no trace of the last pup was to be found.

Foul is Fair
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