The morning air at Ullrsfjörðr was crisp and biting, salted by the sea and heavy with the tang of tar and pitch.
Along the docks, ships bobbed restlessly, their dragon prows cutting fierce silhouettes against the pale dawn.
Ropes creaked, sails slapped in lazy gusts, and gulls wheeled overhead, their shrieks swallowed by the clamor of men preparing to sail.
Vetrúlfr stood at the water’s edge, boots planted on damp planks slick with brine. Around him moved a tide of warriors; men hauling crates of dried fish, barrels of fresh water, coils of rope and bundles of spare oars.
Spears rattled in their racks. Shields shone, fresh from the smithy’s oil.
At the far end of the quay, Ármóðr’s men loaded their own ships with grim efficiency. T
he Jomsvikings were fewer now, the long campaigns in Ériu and the pyres of Dún Ailline having thinned their ranks.
But those who remained stood taut and hungry-eyed, their voices clipped as they checked lines and stocked arms.
Ármóðr himself approached Vetrúlfr with a short nod. His long mail coat still bore the faint scorch marks of old battles, the steel rings blackened here and there by Surtr’s own touch.
A crooked grin ghosted his lips.
"With Olaf dead, Cnut will have grown bold. I’ve had word his ships already stalk the straits. My men and I must return to Jomsborg; if only to remind the Danes we’ve still claws enough to rip out their throats if they come nosing too close."
Vetrúlfr clasped his forearm in the old warrior’s grip. "And my thanks for standing by me all through Ériu. For the wolf’s share of blood and gold alike."
Ármóðr’s grin sharpened. "Aye, well. Your ’Surtr’s flames’ help make such loyalty burn brighter. That stockpile you granted us? Should keep any vermin at bay for a good long while."
They laughed, though low and brief. Then Ármóðr pulled Vetrúlfr in tight so that only he could hear his words.
"If I didn’t know already that you were a man who liked tempting the sisters’ norn, I would advise you to say off the sea so long as you draw breath. I have seen her stalking you, Rán... Her eyes linger beneath Fáfnirsfangr’s wake.... I do not know why she fancies you, but such unwanted affection will certainly be your undoing. Remember that brother, the waves are not safe for you, or the men who row beside you."
And then he turned, shouting an order to his men. The Jomsvikings moved as one, pushing off from the docks.
Their oars dipped with perfect rhythm, and soon the dragon-prows cut away east, sails swelling to catch the cold breath of the sea.
Vetrúlfr watched them go until only pale canvas showed against the horizon.
He let out a deep sigh and gazed into the murky mire of the sea. For a long while, he remained silent until he swore something gazed back at him. Causing the white wolf to turn and flee.
Further down the dock, Róisín stood waiting, Brynhildr at her shoulder. Róisín’s braid was bound up in gold rings, her green eyes bright despite the stiff set of her shoulders.
Their son wriggled in her arms, bundled in fine wool against the morning chill.
Brynhildr stood straight as an ash spear, though age had lined her face.
Her hands were clasped before her, rings flashing as she squeezed her own fingers.
Eithne stood a pace back, wrapped in a modest cloak.
She seemed smaller than when first dragged to these shores; her face less pinched, the haunted emptiness in her eyes replaced by cautious watchfulness.
When Vetrúlfr neared, she even managed a shallow nod.
Vetrúlfr’s palm landed lightly atop her head. The nun flinched, then stilled, drawing a long, unsteady breath.
"You’ve done well with my son," he said, voice little more than a rumble. "Keep your wits about you, and you’ll find worse fates than serving this hall."
Eithne swallowed hard. Then, haltingly: "It is... warmer here than I expected, my lord."
His mouth curved faintly. A Norseman’s smile; thin, edged, but honest. He left her then, stepping to Brynhildr.
His mother studied him a long moment, her sharp eyes drinking in the lines at the corners of his mouth, the small new scar on his jaw.
"You chase conquest like a wolf on the scent of blood," she murmured. "But remember the north wind can gnaw sharper than any Saxon or Frank. Greenland is not tame."
Vetrúlfr dipped his head. "It will be under our banner soon enough. I’ll see to that with my own hand."
Brynhildr reached up to catch his chin, forcing his eyes to hers. "See you do, boy. And return whole; or send word by raven, so I may carve your saga proper before I join the mound."
Only then did she release him, turning aside with a brisk huff as if to hide the gleam in her gaze.
At last, he stood before Róisín. Their son giggled, reaching out tiny fists toward the wolfskin draped at his father’s shoulders.
Vetrúlfr gathered the boy close, lifting him high, so the child squealed with startled delight.
"Grow strong," he told the boy, pressing his forehead to the small, downy one. "Strong enough that when the old gods call my name, you will take up my sword and teach the world to fear it anew."
Then he handed the boy back to Róisín, who cradled their child close, breathing deep of the infant’s sweet scent. Her eyes shimmered but she did not weep.
Instead, she caught Vetrúlfr by the collar, pulling him into a fierce, sudden kiss. When they parted, her breath ghosted warm over his lips.
"Do not let the sea have you, my love," she whispered. "If she takes you from me, I’ll march into Aegirheim and tear you from its gates by my own hands."
Vetrúlfr’s chuckle was dark, rough, fond. "I’d expect nothing less."
When he finally boarded his ship, its hull packed tight with seed grain, tools, barrels of iron nails and spare timber; his húskarlar roared their farewells across the water.
Sails snapped full, oars dipped, and Ullrsfjörðr began to slip behind them, its smoke rising gentle and gray into the morning sky.
Vetrúlfr stood at the prow, hand gripping the carved serpent that crowned the stem. Behind him, his men laughed, boasting of new lands, of the sweetmeat and broad fields waiting beyond the ice.
But his pale eyes were fixed ahead, beyond the rolling dark, beyond even Grænland’s hungry fjords.
In his mind, he saw not just farms and fortresses, but a chain of cold northern holds stretching like frost across stone.
Each one a fang in the mouth of a wolf that would one day snap shut on all who thought the north mere savage wilderness.
And as Ullrsfjörðr dwindled to a cluster of distant halls, he drew in a breath heavy with salt and promise.
The longships gathered around him, prows turned like a pack straining at the leash.
Then, with a guttural order, Vetrúlfr let them slip it.
The fleet surged forward, chasing gulls into the rising sun, toward new shores that would learn the weight of Norse steel and the quiet, inexorable hunger of the wolf.