The people of the old land set forth, a new world waiting, waves glistening; blood lay behind us, a world burning, a lord starving.
The ship stood ready in the gray before sunrise, its sea-wood creaking under rope and iron, as though it felt what lay ahead. We shoved from the strand without song or blessing. Behind us were hearths and hand-shakes, names spoken for the last time. Before us lay the whale-road, broad and cold beneath low cloud. No man asked of return. The sea gives no answer, and fate bends for no asking.
Days passed without count. Wind struck us as a foe strikes, sudden and hard. Wave-walls rose, and the ship groaned as the gripping flood took her ribs. Salt burned the eyes. Hunger gnawed. Sleep came thin. Each man learned the sound of his own breath and the weight of his thoughts, for there was little else to hold.
At night the sea grew cruel. Spray froze on beard and lash. The swan-road stretched empty, star-lit and wide. We were landless men, oar-bound and word-poor, held between water and sky. Some spoke of God’s keeping, some of wyrd’s net, but both felt far off on that dark water.
When land came, it came without joy. Forest rose from mist, dark and unwelcoming. No smoke lifted. We hauled the ship ashore and stood silent, knowing the crossing was done, but the judgment still waited.