Chapter 55: The Son of Frost and Fla
The wind howled outside like a choir of wolves, dragging sleet across the sodden rooftops of Ullrsfjörðr. Inside the ad hall, the hearth blazed, flas snapping in rhythm with the woman’s breathing.
Róisín clutched the edge of the woven bedding, slick with sweat, her hair clinging to her brow. Her teeth were grit, her gaze burning. She did not scream. She refused. The wives of her line were not known for weakness.
But gods, it hurt.
Brynhildr knelt at her side; not as war-leader, not as matron of the house, but as seiðkona. Her hair was unbound, her cloak cast aside. Painted runes adorned her hands and brow, glowing faintly from ash and salt.
“Steady,” she murmured. “Breathe. He is nearly here.”
Not it. He. She had seen it in her bones weeks ago. The old ways still whispered when she dread; and the child growing in Róisín’s belly was no ordinary bairn.
“Ullr’s blood flows in him,” she whispered beneath her breath, “but Brigid’s fire kindles his soul. May they not war within him.”
Another contraction tore through the room like a gale. Róisín hissed.
“This — this child,” she growled, voice shaking, “will not take … not even if he is born of gods.”
Brynhildr almost smiled. Almost. She saw it now; the spark that had drawn her son to this strange woman from the west. Not just beauty. Iron.
She pressed a damp cloth to Róisín’s brow and whispered in the tongue of her ancestors, not Norse but the speech of seid, lost now to all but a dying few. The spirits of the hearth stirred. The embers danced.
Outside, the storm broke. Thunder cracked.
And then — silence.
A cry pierced the stillness. Sharp. Strong.
Not wailing. Roaring.
Brynhildr lifted the infant with reverence, as though the gods themselves might strike her if she dropped him. Blood and amnion still clung to his skin, but his eyes were open; open, pale and piercing as his father’s had once been.
“A son,” she whispered, voice full of awe. “A warrior-born.”
She looked to Róisín; who had collapsed back, exhausted but alive, her eyes glassy with tears.
“Is he…?”
Brynhildr nodded. “He is here. And he is whole.”
The child reached for nothing, but his hand closed around the air as though grasping an unseen hilt.
Róisín gave a hollow laugh. “He’s already trying to seize his fate.”
Brynhildr placed him on the mother’s chest, and for a mont, all was still. The storm, the fire, the world itself paused.
“I’ll need to scribe his birth in both scripts,” Brynhildr said, eyes distant. “The runes of the north, and the ogham of your line. The child will be heir to two pantheons and yet kneel to none. That is a rare and dangerous thing.”
“And his na?” Róisín asked, fingers tracing the boy’s pale hair.
“That is for Vetrúlfr to speak. A father’s right.”
“But he will not na him as a mortal,” Brynhildr added. “He will na him as a king nas a blade; knowing it might one day cut the hand that forged it.”
The baby stirred, but did not cry. The embers flared, and for a mont, just a mont, a faint scent of salt and snow filled the longhouse.
Brynhildr’s gaze shot to the shadows of the rafters.
She said nothing.
But she felt it.
The gods were watching.
And they were not yet done with this house.
Brynhildr’s hands were steady as she laid the newborn upon Róisín’s chest. The fire’s glow wrapped them in warmth, and for a mont, all was still.
A door opened behind them, not the main gates, but the inner chamber.
Vetrúlfr stepped inside, his expression grave, boots marked with frost. He had not been far, only in the adjacent hall, commanding from silence.
He had waited through the screams and the blood, unable to watch, unable to leave.
Brynhildr glanced up, but said nothing. She had seen it before; n of war who could charge into the jaws of death, but trembled before the cries of a woman bearing their child.
“You may co closer,” she said softly. “It’s done.”
He hesitated. Just for a mont.
Then he crossed the floor, slow, deliberate. His eyes fell on the child lying on Róisín’s breast; red-cheeked, wriggling, alive.
Róisín looked up with tired eyes and offered him a faint smile. “We’re both still here.”
His throat tightened. “You should have sent for .”
“I did,” she whispered. “You just couldn’t bring yourself to enter.”
He dropped to one knee beside her. His calloused hand brushed her hair from her forehead. “I feared the gods would take you. Both of you.”
“They didn’t,” she said, voice rasped but firm.
Brynhildr rose quietly, placing a firm hand on his shoulder before slipping away, leaving them in peace.
Vetrúlfr looked at the child.
“He’s small.”
“He’s yours,” Róisín replied.
He reached out, and the boy clutched his thumb with startling force.
He let out a breath; not a warrior’s exhale, but sothing older, more human. More afraid.
“I stood at the gates of death and spoke no prayer,” he murmured. “But when I heard your scream… I begged.”
A silence passed. The fire popped.
Then Róisín asked, “What shall we call him?”
Vetrúlfr looked at her. Then at the child. “Let him breathe a few days first. The gods may whisper a na when they’re ready.”
—
Snow clung to the stone arches of Rouen like white moss. Inside the ducal palace, the hearth burned low, and the hall slled of pine, wax, and ink.
Richard III of Normandy sat at the high table, but his posture was not one of triumph. He leaned forward with a furrowed brow, a wax seal broken in his fingers.
The papal crest stared up at him like an open eye.
His steward stood across from him, silent as a stone gargoyle.
“He wants in Ro,” Richard murmured. “Not a letter of condemnation, not a warning… a summons.”
The steward shifted uneasily. “It is an invitation, my lord. Not a demand.”
Richard looked up. “We both know what it ans. Popes do not invite with soft hands. Especially not when the words ‘pagan resurgence’ and ‘wolf-skin raiders’ are penned in the sa breath.”
He let the parchnt drop to the table.
“They think the North is rising again.”
The steward crossed himself. “God protect us.”
Richard didn’t answer. He stood and paced to the window. Rouen’s rooftops were dusted white, peaceful. But peace was a fragile thing; a thin crust of snow atop boiling water.
“The old blood never died,” he muttered. “It just put on robes and learned to say its prayers in Latin. Now so beast from the ice wakes and everyone forgets their sermons.”
He turned sharply.
“Where is Cnut?”
“In Winchester, Your Grace. English envoys said he prepares for pilgrimage co spring.”
Richard laughed bitterly. “Pilgrimage? That bastard wouldn’t kneel unless the Pope himself drew a sword on him.”
He returned to the table, poured a goblet of wine with trembling fingers.
“I’m surrounded by old lions waiting to see if the cub bleeds or bites. If I go to Ro, they’ll call a puppet. If I stay… the Pope may crown soone else.”
He looked down at the letter again.
“‘The White Wolf,’ they call him.”
“A myth, surely,” said the steward. “A story to frighten court clerks.”
Richard narrowed his eyes.
“Tell that to the monks in Connacht. Or the nuns of Kilmacduagh. They say he took no gold. Just the young. Left the chapel burning behind him.”
The steward fell silent.
Richard drank.
“Send a reply to His Holiness. Tell him I will co. But I will bring more than words. If the wolves are at the gates again, then Normandy will et them steel in hand.”
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