In the Shadow of Eormensyl

An Alfredian fanfiction published under the pseudonym of Thora.

Alfred stood alone in the ancient wood, the mist thick and heavy, clinging like a cloak. Though he was a king, here he felt as a mere child before powers older and deeper than any throne. The trees whispered in a tongue not unlike his own, yet older—echoes of the Saxon past. Shadows moved beyond sight, forms of ancient druids weaving in and out of the mist like wraiths, their cloaks merging with the dusk itself.

An old druid, with eyes as grey as stone, emerged from the shadows and approached him. His long white beard swept over a tunic embroidered with twisting branches and creatures unknown to Alfred. In his hands, he held a stick of yew wood inscribed with Ogham marks—symbols he’d heard spoken of only in hushed whispers, meant for channeling the power of earth and spirit.

“King Ælfrēd,” the druid began in a rasping voice, speaking in a dialect of Old English, with sounds that rang as deep as iron. “Thine folk hath suffered under the fury of Norðmann blood.” The word he used, Norðmenn, struck Alfred’s heart like the clash of steel on iron. “Wouldst thou bear a weapon strengthened by ælfe and wyrd to fell these beasts?”

Alfred nodded, saying, “Aye, mine folc do bleed, torn asunder by these men-wolves who come upon us.” He paused, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Give me this power, and I shall hew them down like dead wood.”

The druid’s ancient lips twisted into a small smile. “The blade of iron dost need more than thy hand, Cyning. It must be bound in rune and wyrd, in spirit and wyrgan strength.” With that, the old man gestured, and Alfred’s sword was taken from him by another druid, whose hands moved deftly, whispering words in a tongue like the rushing of rivers.

The other druids surrounded the king, forming a circle. Each raised their hands and began chanting in their native tongue, weaving Ogham sounds into the air, casting invisible cords of protection and ferocity into the night. They moved in unison, inscribing Beith (birch) for beginnings, Duir (oak) for strength, Ailm (pine) for resilience, and finally, Fern (alder), the rune of courage in the face of death. Each rune was carved with delicate care into the sword’s iron hilt, each line echoing a note in their eerie song. The blade itself seemed to pulse under the etching, a faint green light glowing from within the steel.

As the final rune, Ohn (ash), was inscribed upon the edge, the old druid approached Alfred again, his voice a quiet rumble. “This sword doth carry now the strength of ælfe and wyrd; it shall cut not only flesh but the very rage and madness of the berserker.” He traced the newly inscribed Ohn with a gnarled finger. “For these Norse are not men alone—they call on beasts and fiends, powers that our land must resist.”

Alfred took the sword, feeling the chill yet fiery hum of its altered form. The weight had changed; it now felt bound to him as a living thing. Ælfscyne—the fairy-shining sword, they called it in whispers. And when he looked upon the blade, he saw faint reflections of trees and faces, as though the forest itself had taken residence in the iron.

The druids began chanting once more, invoking the name of Eormensyl, the sacred World Tree, the roots of wyrd that touched both Midgard and beyond. “Eormensyl, gif us mægen,” they intoned, calling for the strength to vanquish the horrors to come.

One of the druids placed a firm hand on Alfred’s shoulder, his eyes glinting. “They call themselves berserkers, those Norðmenn,” he murmured. “They believe themselves untouchable in their madness, that they are invincible whilst they wear the hide of the wolf and the bear. But thine sword, Ælfscyne, shall cut through their strength, through their frenzy and the feral wyrd that possesses them.”

The druids finished their incantation, and Alfred felt a rush of warmth, like a fire lit within his chest. As he departed the wood, sword in hand, the mist seemed to part for him, the Ogham runes glowing softly as if alive, and he could feel the spirits of the ancient forest watching, a silent army at his back.

The day after, Alfred led his men into battle. The Norsemen roared upon them, the berserkers clad in bearskin and wolves’ pelts, eyes wild with fury, their swords and axes rising with brutal strength. But as Alfred lifted Ælfscyne, his enchanted sword, a strange hush fell over the field. The berserkers’ snarls faded as their eyes widened, watching the runes glow with a light as wild as their own madness. Alfred felt the strength of the Ogham as he struck the first blow, a blow that seemed to cleave not only flesh but the very rage in their hearts.

One by one, the warriors fell, the light of frenzy leaving their eyes as the blade silenced the magic within them. The spirits bound within the Ogham symbols sang to him, guiding each stroke, lending a terrible, calm precision. The druids’ gift, their binding of ælfe and wyrd, had given Alfred and his men the edge against beasts that once thought themselves invincible.

As the sun set, Alfred stood victorious, his men rallying around him. Though bloodied and weary, he knew they had not won alone. The druids and the ancient spirits of Albion had fought beside them, in silent, shadowed union.