The mead hall in Ullrsfjörðr sat atop a great mound, and the fortress wrapped around it.
Its interior was warm, and quiet; removed from the clangor of the forge courts and training grounds.
Warmth spread from the great hearth down below, and through the flue channels, which flooded every room with its blessing.
In one small chamber, Sister Eithne sat on a low stool.
Before her stood a simple wooden crib, its frame carved with curling beasts and tiny protective runes burned into the grain.
The babe within, Róisín’s child, Vetrúlfr’s heir, slept peacefully, chubby fists curled near his mouth. His breaths were small sighs, stirring the lambswool blanket.
Eithne’s hands were folded in her lap, but her nails dug red crescents into her palms. Her eyes, sunken and restless, traced every rise and fall of the infant’s chest.
Her lips moved with silent prayers, though whether for mercy or courage she could not have said.
In the corner, concealed by the shadows cast by the waning sun stood Brynhildr’s Skraelingr thrall.
The woman’s dark hair was braided close, her skin the deep, wind-creased brown of far western shores.
Until now, she had seemed mute; only nodding or pointing when Brynhildr’s household required it.
But today, she watched Eithne with unblinking calm, her hands busy spinning fine yarn from a bundle of wool. The spindle turned between her fingers like a lazy star.
Time stretched on. Eithne’s breath grew shallow. Her gaze darted to a small iron knife left forgotten atop a nearby chest; the sort of plain, domestic blade used for trimming rushes or slicing bread.
Her heart thundered. Her mind burned with tangled scripture. "He shall give His angels charge over thee—"
But what angel would come to strike down a wolf’s child? And if none would come... did it fall to her?
"Do it, and your God will never forgive you."
The words were soft, almost gentle.
Eithne startled, her eyes snapping to the Skraelingr woman. It was the first time she had heard her voice; low, husky with years of salt wind, and heavy with something older than pity.
She was so young, but her voice was ancient and foreboding.
The woman did not stop her spinning. The thread twisted calmly down from her fingers.
"Only the most monstrous of spirits would ever think to harm a sleeping child," she continued. Her accent was strange, rounding some syllables, clipping others. "Whatever torment you think you have suffered... trust me when I say there are those in this city who would give anything to trade places with you."
Eithne swallowed, throat dry as old parchment. "You... you speak the tongue of Ériu. How?"
The Skraelingr’s lips quirked, not quite a smile. "I have learned many tongues. Norse. Frankish. And especially the butchered cadence of that which your priest’s call Latin. I have lived as far north as the frost that bites the skin, and far west where the sea drowns itself in cliffs. In all those places, one thing remains true: a child does not carry the sins of its father."
Her eyes, dark and fathomless, held Eithne’s.
"I need not know the past which your sister suffered before she came here in your stead. Only that the gaze she holds now after marrying the master, and giving him an heir is far softer and joyful than that which she has ever shown before."
The thrall motioned towards the sleeping babe with a judge of her chin before carrying on.
"That boy is a product of love, not struggle. I have witnessed it with my own eyes how the wolf conquered your favored sister. So, put aside your ghosts, little crow,"
She said, using the quiet name some in the hall had given the shorn nun. "Tend this boy well. He may yet grow to spare your people more sorrow than his father ever brought them."
A single tear escaped down Eithne’s cheek. Her shoulders shook, hands clasping tightly at her own skirt.
She turned back to the crib, staring down at the tiny, peaceful face. The babe shifted, one small fist unfurling, palm open as though to catch a gift from the air.
Eithne let out a long, unsteady breath. Then, very gently, she reached to tuck the blanket closer around his chest.
The child sighed, content, and the ghost of a blessing stirred on Eithne’s lips; one not spoken since before the fires in Athenry.
Behind her, the Skraelingr woman’s spindle continued to dance, drawing a single long line of thread through the hush of the chamber.
It was a line neither woman could see the end of, weaving futures none of them yet understood.
And somewhere beyond the thick walls of Ullrsfjörðr, the wolves of the north sharpened their spears, preparing to write new sagas in blood and salt.
Later that night, far above the quiet quarters where Eithne tended to the child, the great hall of Ullrsfjörðr lay hushed under moonlight.
Only a few guttering torches burned low in their iron sconces, their flames stirring faintly in the draft.
Beyond them, in the shadowed loft of the lord’s private chambers, Róisín lay with her head upon Vetrúlfr’s chest.
The wolfskin furs spilled around them in heavy folds. His arm was draped over her waist, palm warm on the small of her back.
For a while, they said nothing. She listened to the deep, even rhythm of his breathing, felt the slow rise and fall that had so often lulled her fears to silence.
The scars beneath her cheek were old, the scent of salt and iron on his skin somehow reassuring.
At last, she broke the quiet voice no more than a playful murmur. "Tell me true, my love... why must it be you who leads the sails west? Is this not why jarls swear their oaths? Why thegns rise when you call?"
Vetrúlfr’s fingers drummed idly against her spine, then fell still. When he answered, it was with a low rasp threaded through with stubborn steel.
"They will lead ships, aye. But Grænland is no gentle conquest. Its fjords are treacherous, its people proud, and the land itself will test the worth of any man who dares claim it. If I would make them ours, I must show them the wolf that hunts not only kings, but ice and famine, too."
Róisín tipped her head back, studying the pale sharpness of his features by faint torch glow. Then her lips curved, and laughter bubbled up; soft, bright, warm.
"Ah, so that is it. Is it truly the conquest you hunger for... or to tempt Rán again, like a fool?"
His eyes narrowed, not quite a glare, but edged with dry suspicion. "What do you know of Rán, woman?"
She bit her lower lip, delight dancing in her green gaze.
"Your mother told me. All the tales you tried to keep from me; how you marched frozen through Grænland’s wastes and fought a bear with nothing but seax in hand. How you fetched a sword from the sea and found yourself...."
Róisín’s words caught in her throat as she pressed her palm flat to his chest, over the thunder of his heart.
"I nearly died of fright hearing what you had become. A draugr... And yet somehow you manged return to me whole."
Vetrúlfr went silent. And turned around, facing the wall rather than his wife. That day still haunted him.
The night he did not remember, the woman he met on the shores never to see again. The ancient sword he found in his ship’s chest whose pulse was the same as the rusted scrap heap he had fetched from the sea.
It was not a memory he could ever forget, no matter how hard he tried.
"I remember no such thing...." he said quietly.
Róisín only now realized as her brave wolf turned her back to her and sulked, how terrifying the experience must have been.
But she did not turn in disgust, rather she hugged him tightly from behind, pressing her hands over his heart.
"She holds no claim to you, love, for your heart, body, mind, and spirit are already mine....."
For a heartbeat he only studied her, that fierce, knowing look he gave warriors and captains alike when testing their mettle. Then his brow softened.
"I will come back to you," he promised. His thumb traced the edge of her jaw. "Just as I did before. With more than ice and hunger trailing at my heels this time; with all of Grænland bound to our banner."
She smiled as Vetrúlfr turned around once more to face her. His eyes as resolute as his oath. And that was all that Róisín needed.
Róisín laid her head against him once more, listening to the steady beat beneath scar and sinew.
Whatever ghosts haunted his memory, they could not breach the bond twined so tightly between them.
Even the darkest saga lost its teeth here, where his breath warmed her hair and her hand rested over the heart that had always, unfalteringly, chosen her.