When he redirected his attention to Elfi, another shiver rippled up her spine.
“Your wisdom honors the gods,La Louve Blanche. And your courage gives us hope that this realm may yet be ruled by worthy men.” The Duke of Normandy lifted his drinking horn high, his resolute voice filled with pride as he offered a toast to Elfi.
“ToLa Louve Blanche. Shieldmaiden of Étretat.”
Guests leapt to their feet, horns and mugs of mead clinking in a storm of jubilant shouts.“Skál!”
White wolf fur draped around her proud shoulders, silver torc on her right arm glinting in the firelight, Elfi embraced an elated Sif as guttural growls rumbled from theÚlfhéðnar.
Úlf approached Bodo, the great grey wolfskin cloak glinting silver beneath the howling moon. In stoic silence, he extended a scarred hand to his wolf brother.
Bodo took it, head bowed, as the alpha clasped his forearms in kinship and respect.
One by one, the remainingÚlfhéðnarformed a circle around Bodo.
Njáll, the golden eyes of his black wolfskin aglow in the firelight.
Hrólf Redbeard, his thick russet pelt the same burnished hue as the braided beard which bore his name.
And Flóki—the brown, white, and grey of his wolf pelt reminding Elfi of the peregrine feathers in Haldor’s falcon form.
Together, they lifted their lupine faces to the full moon and howled.
Not in rage or mourning, but in welcome.
To accept Bodo back into the pack.
Like wolves greeting a brother who had strayed and returned, they closed in with fierce affection.
Cuffing him on the shoulder, slamming fists into his back, they shoved, grabbed, and pulled him into the middle of their knot.
Njáll tousled the brown fur of Bodo’s wolfskin, Úlf cracked a fist into his ribs with a lupine grin, while Hrólf Redbeard and Flóki nipped at his neck with mock teeth and grizzled growls.
Bodo stumbled, laughing through tears, the weight of their rough love knocking him to his knees.
“Don't ever stray again,” Úlf muttered. “Or we’ll gut you and feed you to the fjord.”
As the music and revelry resumed, Bodo took Sif’s hand and, despite his limp, danced with her around the bonfire to the pounding of drums and the strumming of lyres. They spun, swayed, and laughed, the weight of pain sloughed off like melting snow in spring.
Njáll held Luna close, swirling her in his protective embrace while around them, theÚlfhéðnarstomped and whirled — more beasts than men — wild and grinning, horns sloshingmead onto the leaf-strewn earth.
Elfi missed Njörd.
She remembered the first time they’d danced here. He’d taken her to the edge of the forest, where he’d promised to train her in the sacred grove as Dag had always done. While tears of longing welled in Elfi’s eyes, Thorfinn took her hand and kissed it gently. “I’m not Njörd,” he said, a wry grin spreading across his beloved face. “But I would be honored to dance withla Louve Blanche. Come,dóttir—the music beckons.”
As herfaðir’sloving arms wrapped around her, Elfi rested her head on his broad chest, her heart filled with joy. He was home again, hale and whole. He’d honored her skills as a warrior.
And he’d called herLa Louve Blanche.
The lyres, lutes, rebecs, and flutes played a lively melody. Elfi smiled up at her father as they circled the fire, her spirit soaring at the realization that her childhood dreams had come true.
She had wielded Dag’s sword to avenge his death as theShieldmaiden of Château Blanc. She trulywasa mermaid, as she’d used to pretend, for she was the daughter ofDúva, with thesjóvættirmagic of Rán. She’d wielded the white wolf weapons—theÚlfbladdagger, to slay the troll in Ísland. And theúlftiriwhistle to summon the wolves and save Étretat.
And now, here she was, at a triumphant feast in her honor. Given the prestigious title ofLa Louve Blancheby Jarl Rikard himself. And Egil had named herThe She-Wolf of the Seain a skaldic poem worthy of legend.
Her heart soared like sparks from the bonfire into the starry night sky.
Nearby, Jarl Rikard danced with Oda, her wrinkled cheeks crinkled with joy to be dancing with the handsome Duke of Normandy alongside Thorfinn and Elfi.
