The bells of Saint Peter’s tolled as dusk fell over the Eternal City.
Within the Lateran Palace, Pope John XIX sat in the marble-clad chamber of his Curia, the papal letter returned to him,creased, smoke-stained, its seal broken by hands that had clearly not trembled with obedience.
He read the copied reports aloud to the cardinals gathered around the long cedar table:
"King Duncan of Alba marches still. King Cnut burns my words for fuel. Neither will yield."
The cardinals shifted uneasily. Some muttered prayers, others crossed themselves as though the very mention of defiance were a curse.
One finally spoke, a man old and sharp-eyed: "Holy Father, if Christendom’s kings do not heed Rome, then the precedent is set.
Pagans will be courted as allies, not scourged as foes. The White Wolf will not only burn England, but the faith itself."
Another countered: "Or is this not a sign, Holiness? That we must lead more boldly? If these kings drown in their pride, then Rome must gather the others, Capetians, Salian emperors, Aragon, and Hungary alike. Let them see the North as the common enemy."
The Pope sat back, the folds of his crimson robes pooling like blood at his feet. His face was pale in the candlelight, but his voice cut like a blade.
"They call me shepherd, yet the sheep trample the crook. England burns, and Alba marches with heathens. I warned them. I told them peace was the path. And now the North howls unchecked."
He rose suddenly, slamming his ringed fist onto the table. The candles shuddered.
"Then so be it. If they will not bend to Rome by reason, then they shall bend by necessity. I will make the North the terror of every sermon. I will paint the White Wolf as the herald of the Antichrist himself. And when they come crawling for aid, they will do so on their knees, begging for the very peace they scorned."
The Curia murmured agreement, though unease rippled beneath it. The Pope stared out toward the darkening city, bells still echoing.
"Send word to Paris. To Mainz. To León. Let the courts of Christendom know: a storm rises not just in England, but against the Cross itself. And it must be met."
The candles guttered in silence, but the resolve of Rome was clear.
The chamber emptied slowly after John XIX’s decree.
Robes shuffled, rings clicked against wooden chairs, and the murmur of Latin prayers drifted into the hall beyond.
When the last of the Curia bowed and withdrew, the Pope lingered alone in the glow of dwindling candles.
A cardinal, lean and austere, remained at the threshold. He glanced left and right, then crossed the chamber quietly, kneeling before the Holy Father. His voice was hushed, urgent.
"Sanctitas..." He hesitated, gathering words that he clearly did not wish to speak. "There is another matter. Whispers... rumors... that I dare not raise before the others."
The Pope’s eyes narrowed. "Speak, Father Rainerius."
The cardinal licked dry lips.
"Merchants returning from the Baltic. Pilgrims through Francia. Even friars on the Rhine. They say... that the White Wolf’s victories have emboldened shadows long thought banished. That in villages where the Cross once stood alone, men now leave offerings of bread beneath the oak. That in markets, traders mutter charms to Thor as readily as prayers to Christ. That some drink to the old gods openly, claiming the North has proven their strength."
John XIX went pale. His hand trembled on the arm of his chair.
"Paganism... resurfaces?"
The cardinal lowered his gaze.
"Not as it was. Not whole. But enough to trouble the weak-hearted. They whisper that perhaps the Lord of the North is favored. That Rome has grown rich and soft, while the old ways still give strength. They speak it not in cathedrals, but in fields, in taverns, in the mouths of peasants. And peasants, Holy Father, are the root of kingdoms."
The Pope rose slowly, his rings catching the candlelight like drops of blood.
"This is worse than heresy," he muttered. "This is contagion." He paced, robes dragging across the marble floor.
"If men believe the North is chosen, they will bend to its gods. Not because they love them... but because they fear them. And fear is the weapon of wolves."
He turned sharply back to the cardinal, eyes blazing.
"Send word to every bishop in Christendom. Let them preach not only against the Wolf, but against the lie that the old gods breathe again. Make his victories the work of Satan. Make his forges the bellows of Hell. And if any priest hears the name of Thor, Ullr, or Odin muttered in blessing, let him scourge it from the tongue before it spreads."
Rainerius bowed deeply, but his voice was still low, still afraid.
"And if the people refuse?"
The Pope’s jaw clenched.
"Then the people will learn that the shepherd’s rod strikes as surely as it guides. I will not see Christendom crumble into the ruins of idols. Not while I wear the keys of Saint Peter."
The cardinal withdrew, leaving John XIX once more in silence.
But the Pope did not pray. He stood by the window, staring northward, as though he could see beyond the Alps, beyond the seas, to where fire and frost marched together.
The bells tolled again, hollow in the Roman night. And the Pope whispered to himself, not a prayer, but a curse:
"White Wolf... you will not turn Christendom back to shadows."
The air along the Mercian coast carried the mingled scents of smoke and salt.
Behind the cliffs, villages still smoldered where war bands had stripped them bare, some by Saxon deserters, others by the wolves of the North.
But here at the strand where the tide lapped cold and restless, it was different.
Dozens of villagers stood together, clutching bundles of cloth and what little they had salvaged.
Mothers held children close, old men leaned on staves, and farmers shifted uneasily, watching the armed Norsemen who ringed them in a loose semicircle.
The Norse were quiet. No jeering, no drawn blades. Only watchful eyes beneath iron helms, shields at their sides, spears planted into the damp earth like stakes of resolve.
Vetrúlfr himself stood at the center, the great wolfskin draped across his shoulders stirring in the sea breeze.
His gaze swept the villagers, hungry faces, frightened faces, faces that had chosen.
"You renounce your king," he said in a voice that carried over the surf, calm but unyielding. "You renounce the cross that chained you."
A murmur rippled among them, but none denied it. One village elder, voice thin but steady, spoke for them all. "We do."
Vetrúlfr nodded once, as though sealing a covenant. He turned to one of his captains and pressed a folded sheet of parchment into his hand, inked with angular runes.
"This goes to Ullrsfjörðr. To Roisín. Tell her these people are to be settled on fertile land, near water, under protection. Not thralls, not beasts. Farmers. Craftsmen. Kin, once their oaths are spoken."
The captain bowed, tucking the message away, already knowing it would be guarded like treasure until it reached the queen’s hand.
"Send also a seiðkona," Vetrúlfr added, his eyes still on the villagers. "One who knows the old rites. Let her guide them back to the gods their forefathers knew, so their children do not forget."
Around him, his warriors remained silent, but the shift in their stance was unmistakable. This was not conquest. It was adoption.
The villagers, though trembling, began to ease. One boy peeked out from behind his mother’s skirts, eyes wide as he studied the Norse guards.
They looked less like raiders now and more like towering hounds at watch, armed, yes, but protecting, not hunting.
Vetrúlfr raised his hand. The guards parted, opening a path toward the waiting knarr, its sails furled, its deck already lined with supplies.
"Go," he told them. "Go and live."
The villagers shuffled forward, clutching their meager possessions, passing beneath the shadow of shields.
The Norse watched in silence, steel eyes following every step, ready to cut down any who threatened them, but otherwise immovable, patient, like wardens of a sacred charge.
When the last villager set foot on the plank, Vetrúlfr let the wolfskin hood fall over his brow. He turned back toward the inland smoke and muttered, more to himself than to his men:
"Let Rome call us monsters. Wolves. Devils. The truth is sharper than their words. We do not slaughter the flock. We guard it better than their shepherd ever did."
The sea wind carried the words away, but the message remained in the eyes of every man who heard him.
The Norse were wolves, yes. But in this moment, they were wolves who stood watch like sheepdogs, iron guardians, ferrying the willing into a new life.
In Norse lands, these village folk would find a life they never expected. Homes warmed by Roman foundations, baths filled with the same water that flowed through hot springs, fed to them by aqueducts.
And finally, grain in abundance to fill their bellies and grow with the new age. Compared to the lives they had lived so far, it would be as if they had entered paradise.