Emerson. H - 1034 - Constantinople - Harold Hardrada.
The Aurora Archives: Day 15
ARCHIVE ENTRY: 1034-DEC-24 LOCATION: The Crypt of Saint Nicholas, Myra (Asia Minor) SIGNAL RESONANCE: High / Kinetic / Protocol Breach OPERATIVE: Guardian (The Red Watch).
TRANSCRIPT OF RECOVERED CORRESPONDENCE: (A vellum scroll discovered inside a sealed lead pipe during the excavation of the York Minster foundations in 1967. Written in Anglo-Saxon Runes.)
The Secret Saga of the Wolf-Feeder
I write this on Englandish earth, far from the sun of Constantinople, but my hand shakes still when I remember the cold of the crypt we discovered on our shipping raids. Both from fear, and from amusement, as you will soon see.
It was the year we sacked Myra. The Emperor paid us in wine, but Harald Sigurdsson paid us in promises of gold. He needed wealth to buy back his frozen throne in the North. We were Varangians; we took what we pleased.
We came to the white church of the famed gift-giver, Nicholas. The monks had fled. The boys smashed the icons for the silver leaf and looted as they pleased, but Harald wanted the deeper hoard hidden in the bowels of the church. He led us down to the crypts.
The air changed. The aromas of sweet incence faded, and were replaced by smells of mushrooms and deep earth.
Then, the room shouted like a creature of rock. A low, thrumming vibration shook the teeth in our skulls. Thump. Thump-thump. It came from the walls, from the floor. Shadows lengthened and snapped like whips. Breezes appeared where there should be none. Fragments of blood red cloth whipped in and out of view, faster than comprehension. The men, brave killers who had faced arab fire, broke. They screamed of draugr and ran for the stairs, back to the sun.
Only Harald and I remained. He is the Thunderbolt; he fears nothing that bleeds.
“Spirits guard gold, Wulf,” he grunted, lighting a torch. “That means the gold is good.”
We pushed to the inner sanctum. There, atop the marble tomb of the Saint, sat a reliquary box of beaten gold, studded with rubies. It seemed to glow with potential, the kind of wealth that could purchase a whole mercenary crew.
And atop the box sat a beast.
It was a rabbit, white as a blizzard, with scars on its flanks and a red woolen neck scarf. It did not run. It trembled, vibrating with that same intensity that had shaken the walls, but it stood its ground as Harald loomed large over its tiny frame.
Harald laughed. He reached out a hand the size of a ham and brushed the vermin aside. It slid over the top of the tomb without any resistance. I laughed at its feeble weight. But then, quick as a whip crack on the back of an oarsman, it was back on top of the gold box once more, still shaking.
Harolds smile faltered, and he went to strike it away. The beast moved.
It was not natural the speed at which it could duck. It moved faster than any warriors wit or wrist. Harald’s hand swiped empty air. The rabbit blurred, running up the vertical stone of the wall, pushing off the coving, and landing back on the box before Harald could blink.
Harald roared, swinging his axe handle. A blow that would have crippled a creature ten times its size. The rabbit ducked again, a blur of white motion, and wove between the giant’s arms. It was a dance of humiliating speed. The Thunderbolt of the North was fighting the wind, and his efforts were just as inconsequential.
Then, the rabbit leapt. It did not bite. It did not scratch. Instead it struck Harald across the cheek with its long ears, a sharp, stinging slap, and landed on his shoulder. The sound lapped against the walls of the crypt mockingly, like he had just been touched by a jilted lover.
But then the rabbit did something even more fearsome, something that we had only heard of in fables. It leaned into his ear and it spoke.
The voice was like grinding stones, clipped and broken, a language of clicks and hard vowels.
“Har-ald.”
My master froze. The axe lowered.
“Gold... is... heavy,” the beast clicked. “Empty... hands... hold... kingdom.”
Harald reached up and grabbed the rabbit by the scruff. The beast did not bite. It looked him in the eye with zealous intensity, fearless. It directed Harald towards the box with a flick of its eye. He lowered the creature down, still holding it firm. The rabbit reached into the reliquary box and pulled out a scrap of tattered, red wool. Rough. Worthless.
“Saint... gave... all,” the rabbit rasped, thrusting the rag at Harald. “True... King... leads... holding… emptiness.”
Harald looked at the gold box, then at the rabbit, then at the rag. He touched his cheek where the beast had struck him. He looked at me, his eyes wide with a terrible intelligence.
“He fought me,” Harald whispered. “He fought the Wolf for an argr rag.”
Harald dropped the rabbit back down on the tomb. He did not touch the gold. He took the red wool instead, grabbing it with a mixture of respect and frustration, and tucked it into his tunic, next to his heart.
“We go, Wulf,” he said.
“The gold, Lord?” I asked.
“Leave it,” he commanded. “It is guarded by a better warrior than you.”
As we walked away, the hare thumped its foot once. A salute. Harald didn’t turn as he walked away, but tapped the handle of his axe on the stone floor, THUMP, in return.
At the top of the stairs leading back into the church, Harald gripped my arm. His grip was iron. “You saw nothing in the dark, you saw only the Saint.”
I nodded then and held his secret lost battle.
But I write this now, old and safe. The king has passed, and so his law. I saw the Saint, yes. But the Saint has long ears, and a right hook faster than a Valkyrie.
Wulfstan
Varangian Guard, 4th Company
ARCHIVIST’S NOTE: The operative utilized kinetic evasion (High-Speed maneuvering) to disorient the hostile target. The slap was a calculated psychological tactic to assert dominance without causing lethal injury. This represents a rare Class-1 Protocol Breach at a time when human and rabbit relations were non-existent. The Rabbit spoke. This suggests the Order identified Harald Hardrada as a pivot point in history, someone who needed to be steered away from greed and towards his destiny, even if it required breaking the Great Silence. The rumbling described by the aide was likely an effort using resonation in the ventilation shafts, creating a low-frequency fear response (infrasound) to clear the room of weaker willed people.
To see the whole series. Click the link below. 👇
