Brunehilde, the Winged

You egotistical megalomaniac!

You sit there absorbing the misdirected cheers of your people, their ignorant adulation at your false victory. Those wings on your shiny helmet came from your food source, not your enemy. And your victory came from your guile and subterfuge, not any heroics or genius.

I, your wife, cradled your drunken head in the tent outside the burning village, and listened to your inebriated confession that you don’t remember making. You thought you were extoling your own brilliance. I know you can discern between honourable triumph and the desperate wrong you have committed. I will watch for signs of your soul writhing.

It was not a brave warrior chieftain that you conquered and whose head you parade before your victory litter. The people want it to be that way and I will not disillusion them. I am bound to you by the laws of our people. If they find out how you cheated them, you die. If you die, I die, and I have enough lust for life left in me that I will keep your dirty secret.

How you puff yourself up in that fish armour, also gleaned from your food and not your enemy! What will you do when your second in command comes home with the head of the real chieftain? Or did you send Tomhilde off on a wild mouse chase to get rid of him too, because he knows the truth?

In front of that village, you dressed the younger cousin of the village chief, one with enough family resemblance to pass as the defeated on the end of a lance, in captured armour. Your soldiers bowed him bound at your feet and lopped his head off as a sign of surrender. You had the village. You had the plunder, but your ego required the show.

Wave, oh soul-blasted ruler. Nod to your adoring slaves who will eat the bird and fish with you. I will be here to hold your drunken head when you are finished. I will be here to parade your helmetless skull on a lance when Tomhilde returns. He will redeem me.