Chapter 41: The Wolf and the Hare
It was a warm spring morning, and the last vestiges of frost had begun to retreat from Iceland’s green fjords and black volcanic ridges.
The glaciers loomed still in the distance, but summer whispered her promise across the land.
Before he stirred, Róisín had already lain awake.
This warmth… it’s not just the hearth. It’s breath and bone. It’s the quiet sound of safety.
For years, sleep had been lonely; a thing endured, not embraced. Even in dreams, she had wandered through halls that felt like tombs.
But here, beside the wolf, there was rhythm. His breath. His heartbeat. The heavy silence of contentment.
She had never dared to imagine something . And now she feared waking might end it.
Vetrúlfr rose from his bed, the morning light casting pale gold upon the timber walls of his hall. He yawned, stretched like a waking beast, and reached out instinctively across the furs.
For a fleeting moment, he forgot he no longer slept alone. His calloused hand stretched wide, and in doing so, lightly tapped the soft face beside him.
A startled gasp, then a muffled giggle stirred the hush of dawn.
“You hit me!” Róisín mumbled, blinking sleep from her eyes with theatrical shock.
Vetrúlfr chuckled as he rolled to his side, fingers curling around her face where his hand had landed. He rubbed the spot with mock concern.
“Struck by me, and yet no wound? Curious. Tell me, little hare… did you cut my hair in the night?”
The jesting reference to Samson caused Róisín’s eyes to widen first in surprise; and then narrow in playful indignation.
He knows scripture? Of course he does… He always knows more than he lets on.
She pouted and seized the hand that teased her, and gave it a playful bite, like a petulant kitten testing the patience of its master.
Vetrúlfr didn’t flinch. Instead, he let her bite linger a moment before whispering into her ear:
“If you wanted my attention, you only had to ask.”
She flushed, but clung tighter to him.
For the first time in years, she was safe.
In the year since Basil had departed this world, Constantinople had basked in a false sun. The outer trappings of empire still gleamed, but inside the great walls, rot had begun to take root.
Basil had made the mistake all great rulers fear most: he died without an heir of his own blood, leaving his brother, Constantine VIII, to ascend the throne.
A man of indulgence, not of statecraft. A man who preferred banquets to briefings, and flattery to foresight.
Within the marble halls of the Imperial Palace, the Varangian Guard endured—outwardly loyal, inwardly wary.
Among them was a Rus warrior named Rurik, whose graying beard and sharp eyes marked him as a veteran of many campaigns.
In a dark alcove behind a mosaic of the Archangel Michael, Rurik whispered to his companions in their northern tongue.
“Another letter from the west. King Cnut of London seeks word of one of our own.” He held up the vellum like it were some cursed talisman. “Reports of a man clad in the pelt of a white wolf. Leading no fewer than eighty brothers. Raiding abbeys. Gathering an army on the western coasts. They think it’s him.”
The silence that followed was heavy with memory.
“A man who could raise warriors, train them, arm them, and lead them to glory in less than a year?” one muttered. “There is only one name worthy of such a tale.”
And like a prayer, or a warning, they said it together:
“What are you dogs muttering about in that heathen snarl?”
The voice cut through the reverie like a blade. Constantine VIII, clad in silk and arrogance, stepped into the alcove, eyes narrowing.
Rurik quickly passed the letter back into unseen hands, vanishing it with the ease of men who had hidden worse.
“We speak of summer,” Rurik said evenly. “And of how your city is blessed. No snow. No biting winds. A fine change from the lands of our birth.”
Constantine preened, puffing himself up as though the compliment were a royal proclamation.
“Yes, yes. The Mediterranean is generous. Unlike the wretched cold of your godless frontiers. You’re fortunate to serve here. Fortunate to serve me.”
He smiled that thin-lipped smile of men who mistake compliance for loyalty.
“But I warn you, speak too often in that savage tongue, and others may wonder what secrets you keep. We would not want… misunderstandings.”
One of the Varangians shifted. A hand drifted toward his seax. Another stopped him with the smallest of gestures.
Constantine missed it entirely.
“Carry on, then. Enjoy the breeze. It will remind you why you chose civilization over savagery.”
“What was that one’s name? Basil’s pet wolf? The one with the cloak?”
Rurik’s voice was ice.
“Yes. That was it! Well, I’m glad he’s gone. One less animal in my court.”
When the Emperor vanished down the corridor, Rurik exhaled through his nose like a bull restraining a charge. He turned to the man still clutching the letter.
“Burn it. And any others like it. Let the west chase ghosts if they wish. The White Wolf has earned his silence.”
The vellum touched flame.
Back in Ullrsfjörðr, Vetrúlfr sat on the edge of the bed, brushing Róisín’s hair back behind her ear as she leaned against his shoulder.
It would be easy to forget what he was. Easy to let the quiet deceive him.
How dangerous it is to grow used to peace.
But as her arms wrapped around him, and her breath slowed with his, Vetrúlfr allowed himself a rare indulgence: to pretend, just for a while, that perhaps, in this cold and cruel world, a storm could find stillness.
And a wolf could learn to rest.
However, storms gathered on the horizon. And though Rurik and his men had bought him time.
It would not be long before the kingdom he had built was revealed to the Christian world.