Whitewater Gorge wyrd bið ful āræd

when hands return to his face, he stays still. breath hisses between his teeth as the salve burns, but he does not move. pain is a known thing. this, at least, does not try to kill him.
nē norðmann. iċ eom seaxe. he says, then looking to the man for any sort of recognition. trying to couple it with the shake of his head, but brows furrow in frustration when he comes to realize any attempt of verbal communication seems to be mute. they have only successfully shared names.
he catches one word in the ramble—forneskja. no meaning, but tone marks it as a place, maybe a people. and then the man says raedwulf again, speaks of him like he’s being offered a place.
his brow furrows. there is a long a beat of thought. then—quietly:
iċ gā. a decision made in a split second. the kind of decision made out of fear for connections, for becoming close to a body of people again. in fear of losing people again. so raedwulf rises then, suddenly, like a ship breaking lose of heavy storm waters and breaching.
looking back once to say: þū eart gōd wer. with a heavy dip of his head.