On a dark day before solstice, when a few snowflakes drifted down onto frozen earth, hounds barked outside the hall. Randwar took a spear at the doorway and stepped forth to see what this was. Two burly farmhands came after, likewise armed. But when he spied the tall form that strode into his courtyard, Randwar grounded his weapon and cried, “Hail! Welcome!”
Hearing that no danger threatened, Swanhild hurried out too. Her eyes and hair, beneath a wife’s kerchief, and the white gown that hugged her litheness were the only things bright, anywhere around. Joy lilted from her: “Oh, Wanderer, dear Wanderer, yes, welcome!”
He trod nigh until she could see beneath the shadowing hat. She raised hand to parted lips. “But you are full of woe,” she breathed. “Are you not? What’s wrong?”
“I am sorry,” he answered in words that fell like stones. “Some things must stay secret. I kept away from your wedding because I would not cast gloom over it. Now – Well, Randwar, I have traveled a troublous road. Let me rest before we speak of this. Let us drink something hot and remember earlier times.”
A little of his olden interest kindled that eventide, when a man chanted a lay about the last campaign into Hunland. In return he told new stories, though in less lively wise than of yore, as if he must flog himself to do it. Swanhild sighed happily. “I cannot wait till my children sit and hear you,” she said, albeit she did not yet have any on the way. She was the least bit frightened to see him flinch.
Next day he led Rand war off. They spent hours by themselves. Later the Greutung told his woman:
“He warned me over and over of what hatred Ermanaric bears us. Here we are in the king’s own tribal country, he said, our strength not firm while our wealth is a glittering lure. He wanted us to pull up stakes and move away – far away, clear to West Gothland – soon. Of course I would have none of that. Whatever the Wanderer is, right and honor are mightier. Then he said he knew I’d already been sounding men out about getting together against the king, to withstand his overbearingness and, if need be, fight. The Wanderer said I could not hope to keep this hidden, and it was madness.”
“What did you answer to that?” she asked half fearfully.
“Why, I said free Goths have the right to open their minds to each other. And I said my foster parents never have been avenged. If the gods will not do justice, men must.”
“You should hearken to him. He knows more than we ever will.”
“Well, I’m not about to try anything reckless. I’ll watch for my chance. More may not be needful. Men often die untimely; if good men like Tharasmund, why not evil ones like Ermanaric? No, my darling, never will we skulk off from these our lands, that belong to our unborn sons. Therefore we must make ready to defend them; true?” Randwar drew Swanhild to him. “Come,” he laughed, “let’s begin by doing something about those children.”
The Wanderer could not move him, and after a few more days said farewell. “When will we see you again?” Swanhild asked as they stood in the doorway.
“I think-” he faltered. “I can’t – Oh, girl who is like Jorith!” He embraced her, kissed her, let her go, and hurried off. Shocked, folk heard him weeping.
Yet back among the Teurings he was steely. Much was he there in the months that followed, both at Heorot and widely among yeomen, chapmen, or common fieldhands, workers, sailors.
Even coming from him, that which he urged upon them was naught they were quick to agree to. He wanted them to make closer ties with the West. They did not merely stand to gain from heightened trade. If woe came upon them here – carried, say, by the Huns – then they would have a place to go. Next summer, let them send men and goods to Frithigern, who would safeguard those; and let them keep ships, wagons, gear, food standing by; and let many of them learn about the lands in between and how to get through unharmed.