The path through Black Rock was a rutted track of mud and melted snow, the last stubborn crusts lingering in the shadows of the longhouses. Fenris walked it with Albi beside him, their shoulders touching. He did not know how long that had been so, but his touch grounded the chaos of her nerves so he made sure to match his steps with hers and maintain it. They were human again, their clothes and cloaks damp from the creek where they’d left them before the hunt and dressed again in silence after they’d Changed back. The walk back from the meadow had been as wordless as it was thoughtless, the only sound the squelch of their boots and the distant ring of a hammer from the forge.
The village was stirring. A slave woman drawing water from the well paused, bucket in hand, and gave a slow, deliberate nod—not to Fenris, but to Albi. Erland and Erlend, sharpening spears by a smoking firepit, fell quiet as they passed, their eyes cautious but no longer hardened by old prejudice. “Alpha,” Erlend nodded at him, and then, after a heartbeat, Erland, “…Albi.”
“Erland.” Albi nodded back, which had greatly surprised the man, much to Fenris’s amusement. Not many could tell the twins apart.
She did not acknowledge it, but Fenris felt the faint shimmer of relief flood through Albi after the exchange was over and they’d put some distance behind them. The pack was adjusting; and Fenris could, finally, see that Albi desired its acceptance of her as part of it.
He watched her as they walked. The brittle, watchful tension that had held her frame for the past six months was gone, replaced by a profound and weary softness. It was in the way her shoulders slumped, not with defeat, but with a relinquished burden. It was in the unguarded set of her mouth. She hid nothing from him now. The walls were down, and the landscape within was one of exhaustion and a deep, aching vulnerability.
He could feel the echo of the silver-wound in her side, a dull, hot throb that was now his own ghost-pain. He felt the leaden weight in her limbs, the hollow hunger in her belly, the simple, overwhelming desire for the quiet dark of their chamber, for Isangrim’s warm weight, for the clean promise of the basin, and for restful sleep.
And beneath that, a quieter, more complex current: a gratitude so vast it had no shape. She wanted to thank him for saving her life, in a way she felt no words could. For his gentle care of her the past few months, even when it had been exhausting for him. For his patience. For his kindness, and for his forgiveness of her, for all the things that she could be forgiven for. That she was sorry, as deep as the small word alone could carry, for thinking him, and those in Black Rock, as monsters when the true beast had been her own grief all along.
They reached the longhouse door, the great carved oak dark with age and weather. Before she could reach for the iron latch, he turned, his large hand finding her thin neck, and pulled her to him. His mouth found hers, warm and firm, a kiss of possession and protection and a hard-won peace. He could feel the eyes of passing villagers on them. He did not care. Let them see.
She braced for a second, only from the surprise of it, then relaxed beneath his grip. When he broke the kiss, her honey-smoke eyes were heavy-lidded and playfully accusing.
You couldn’t wait to do that inside? her thought whispered, threaded with amusement and a faint, breathless shock. He smiled, a real smile that felt strange on his hard face, and kissed her again, softer this time.
I am the Alpha of Black Rock, he sent back, the thought brimming with the possessiveness he now knew made her pulse race, I will kiss you where I please.
She pushed at his chest then, a gentle, playful shove that had no real strength behind it. A faint rose color spread in her pale cheeks. He chuckled, a low sound in his throat, and reached past her to lift the heavy iron latch.
He pushed the door open, standing aside to let her enter first into the warmth within. As she passed over the threshold, her hand brushed his, a fleeting touch that he followed, closing the door on the staring villagers.
The warmth of the longhouse enveloped them, a stark contrast to the crisp spring air outside. The great hall was empty save for one figure. Jorik sat at the long trestle table, his back to the hearth where a low fire crackled. Set before him on the scarred oak was a small, chunked shape bundled in woolens that Albi had dyed blue with woad.
Isangrim sat without support, his back strong and straight, a head of silken dark hair—so like Fenris’s own—crowning a round, solemn face. The babe was fussing, turning his head away from the spoon of mashed berries Jorik patiently offered, his lower lip pushed out red in displeasure.
Jorik looked up as they entered, and Fenris saw the old warrior’s face soften with a bashful relief.
“Though I quite enjoy the company of young Alpha Isangrim, it is about time you two have returned,” and he grumbled, though there was no heat in it. “The lad’s decided my cooking’s not to his taste, and has also decided to be selective in his personal approval of anyone other than I and Alfric. And he has decided,” Jorik sighs, “that he will not nap, despite the clear exhaustion of his little body. He is quite a hard pup to manage now, with all of these rather unhelpful opinions.”
Albi was already moving, her weariness forgotten. She swept Isangrim up from the table, burying her face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in with joyful aggression. The babe’s fussing ceased instantly, replaced by a gurgling laugh as she kissed his fat cheeks, his nose, his lips, and all across his forehead. The sound was like sunlight breaking through clouds.
Fenris could feel the threat of tearful emotion in his face before the understanding that it was her strong emotion he was feeling, the fear of never getting to see him again left her like the release of a chronic, throbbing pain.
“Sit. Eat,” Jorik said, gesturing to the bowls the cooks had laid out before them. A rich venison stew dominated the board, steaming in heavy clay bowls. The broth was dark as old wine, glistening with a sheen of melted fat, and thick with chunks of meat so tender Fenris knew they would fall apart at the touch of his horn-spoon. Hunks of wild carrot, turnip, and onion had stewed down into sweetness, and the scent of garlic and crushed juniper berries rose in an earthy cloud. Beside it sat a loaf of coarse dark bread, its crust cracked and dusted with flour, the inside dense and chewy—good for sopping up the last of the gravy. In the small wooden bowl beside Isangrim, the first offerings of spring were offered: wild strawberries, no bigger than a thumbnail, their skins a deep, fragile red. They glistened beside a cluster of early cloudberries, pale orange and tart. Next to them rested a wedge of hard, white cheese, its rind speckled with herbs, the interior crumbly and sharp with age. It was simple fare, but there was a heaviness to it, a seriousness. This was food for a long night, for a hard talk—the kind of meal that sat in the belly and reminded a man that even in uncertainty, there was still venison to be had, and bread, and a taste of the coming summer in a handful of berries.
They sat, Fenris on the bench beside Jorik, Albi across from them, settling Isangrim in the crook of her arm. As she ate, Isangrim reached up, taking her white hair into his meaty palm, and began babbling angrily at her tunic. With a practiced, unthinking motion, she loosened the laces at her shoulder, guiding him to her heavy breast. She continued eating, her gaze fixed on the stew, as the child nursed with a steady, contented rhythm, the firelight glinting on the pale curve of her breast and the dark head of the babe.
Between spoonfuls, Fenris spoke, his voice low. “Jorik. I want this to stay between us for now, there is no need to panic the pack, at least not until Asger and the Hunters return.”
“What is it, Alpha?” Jorik replied, trying to find a hint of it in the careful study of Fenris’s face.
“Albi was shot by Wolf-hunters in the eastern valley.”
Jorik’s spoon clattered against his bowl. His pale eyes flicked to Albi, then back to Fenris, sharp with alarm. “Wolf-hunters? How do you know for sure, Alpha?”
“They used silver-infused bullets.”
“Silver?” Jorik’s eyes were as wide as his mouth.
Fenris gave a single, grim nod. “She nearly died, Jorik. She…well, I suppose she did die. The Great Mother brought her back to me.”
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“How did they get past Hroth?” Jorik muttered, the name tasting foul. “His patrols are numerous enough, and they watch those passes like hawks on the ground. Even if his loyalty to our pack and our peace together is thinner than spring ice, he wouldn’t be so foolish. To provoke us with wolf-hunters… it’s beneath even him. He’d send his own wolves. There is nothing hidden about his repulsion for the human kind. It does not sound like something Hroth would do.”
“I grow less certain of what Hroth would or wouldn’t do,” Fenris said, tearing a piece of bread. “But I know this: it is time I looked into his eyes and asked him myself.” He met Jorik’s gaze. “Asger and his hunters return in three days. We leave with the next dawn after.”
Jorik nodded slowly. “There’s been no word from them yet. But Asger’s never been one for sending runners with updates on his whereabouts.”
Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the fire and Isangrim’s soft, suckling sounds. Albi had finished her stew, listening privately to Fenris.
After a while, the babe falls contentedly into sleep at her breast, his mouth slackening. She gently disengaged him and covered herself. In her arms, her free hand traced the perfect, downy curve of his cheek and nose, her expression unreadable; though Fenris knew she was quietly thinking about all the ways the babe looked like him in sleep.
Jorik cleared his throat, his eyes on Albi. “The village,” he began, his tone careful. “They speak of you.”
Albi’s fingers stilled on Isangrim’s face, and she looked up with kindness in her eyes.
“Good things,” Jorik continued. “For what you are doing for their slaves. The salve you made for Minsa for her aging joints. The extra yarn you traded double for so Borga could make Elka’s babe a fine new swaddle. How you shared your milk when Wilma went dry nursing mid-feed.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “It is noticed. And it… softens things between the slaves and their Masters.”
Albi raised her eyes to his.
“I would advise you, though” Jorik said, holding her gaze, “to consider something. The human women here, the slaves… they do not need to find trouble through defiance. If they start to feel too… seen, they might start wanting to be heard as well.” He paused, the fire casting deep grooves in his weathered face. “I say this as one who was once a slave, same as you, sweet one. Though I may have been esteemed, a slave with privileges, as they say. I, too, was a slave nonetheless. It is not an easy fate. It is worsened by the burden of too much promise. It is lessened by the simplicity of knowing what is asked, and finding comfort where you can. I am not telling you to stop. Only to be… considerate.”
Fenris, through the bond, felt the cascade of Albi’s thoughts—she had already considered this before Jorik made its mention. He felt the shape of her own ideas, nascent but stubborn, about the fate of the slaves in Black Rock. Ideas of gradual change, of building trust with his pack, of making herself indispensable in quiet ways before making her demands from those in the pack loudly. It was a patience she had learned by a harder teacher than this village.
Making them equal to wolves will never happen, Albi, he sent to her, the thought firm, final, once he found the true intention of her cause.
She looked across the table at him, her honey-smoke eyes clear. To Jorik, she said aloud, her voice quiet but steady. “Thank you, Jorik.” Then, with her gaze on Fenris’s, her mind-voice brushed against his, dry and sharp as a blade of winter grass. You handle the wolf-hunters, Alpha Fenris. I will handle the slaves.
It was a challenge, a jest, and a promise, all wrapped in the faint, sarcastic echo that only he could hear. Fenris held her gaze across the table, a silent challenge passing in the shared intensity of their expressions. Albi’s did not waver; she merely arched a pale brow, and it was enough to make Fenris roll his eyes in defeat.
Jorik, watching them with the wizened eye of a man who knew when privacy was wished, slowly rose from the bench.
“My bones grow old and the babe has taken what is left of its youth,” he grumbled,“I’ll be at my hut if you’ve need of me.” He gave a curt nod to Fenris, and a softer smile to Albi, before he turned and shuffled out the longhouse and into the gathering dusk, leaving them alone in the firelit hall.
????
Fenris followed Albi through the tapestry and into their chamber, their shared silence one of heavy exhaustion. Albi went first to the cradle carved from the ancient oak root. She laid the sleeping Isangrim within it, her movements so fluid and practiced there was no doubt that the pup didn’t feel it. She tucked the furs around his sturdy little body, her fingers lingering for a moment on his dark, silken hair. Then she turned to Fenris and in full view of him began to undress, peeling the damp, forest-stained tunic over her head, unwinding the leggings from her long legs. The firelight painted her body in hues of gold and shadow—the lean muscle of her back, the swell of her hips, the pale curve of her flank where the new, pink scar of the silver wound stood out like a brand made from fire. She stood naked for a moment, looking from the great bed heaped with furs to the large wooden basin set near the hearth, still filled with the warmed water a slave had prepared.
“Do you want to join me, Fenris?” she asked, her voice quiet and her eyes impossibly soft.
Wordlessly, Fenris stripped off his own clothes—the leather jerkin, the woolen tunic, the breeches stiff with dirt and dried sweat. He felt her eyes on him now as he did. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and thick with the corded muscle of a life lived hard. Old scars mapped his torso and arms—the pale lines of claws, the pucker of an old spear-wound. His manhood hung soft and heavy between his thighs. There was no shame in his nakedness, only a weary acceptance of the body that carried his burdens.
Albi watched him, her thoughts only of the simple pleasure at the sight of him, the same as he had had for her, then turned and stepped into the basin. The water sloshed gently as she settled into its warmth. Fenris followed, the large tub easily containing them both. The water was a shock of heat against his skin, washing away the chill that had seeped into his bones.
For a time, there was just silence. He took the lump of lye soap and a rough cloth, working it across the tense muscles of her back, over the sharp wings of her shoulder blades, down the knobs of her spine. He washed away the grime of the forest floor, the sweat of fear, the last traces of caked blood from the silver wound—now just an aching memory in her flesh. She shuddered under his touch, a release of tension rather than chill. Then she took the cloth from him and returned the service, her strong, slender hands scrubbing the dirt from his arms, the matted blood from his chest where he had held her, the scent of the wolf-hunters from his skin.
When the water was grey and cooling, and they were both clean, he pulled her back against his chest. She came easily, settling between his thighs, the back of her head resting against his collarbone. He wrapped his arms around her, his chin resting on her damp, silver hair.
I’ve waited too long for this. Fenris smiled with the thought sent to her tentatively, shy.
It was painful for you, not to be able to touch me as you’d liked. I’m sorry, Fenris.
But it was painful for you, too.
Yes, but….I supposed I felt I should suffer. It is what I know how to do best. It is what I am good at. I am not good at loving another, or being loved.
I know, Albi. He pressed his lips gently to the top of her wet head, then exhaled, long and steady.
“You make me dream,” he said aloud, his voice a low rumble in the quiet chamber, “that I was not Alpha of Black Rock. That all I had to worry over was this. You. Him. A hut. A few chickens scratching in the yard. The braying of goats… the noise of our children fighting with play-swords and spears, the anticipation of more life in your womb with each warm summer.” He whispered the last of it softly into her ear before placing a gentle kiss on the cool tip of cartilage, “I sometimes wish I were just human.”
Albi lifted one of his hands from where it rested across her stomach. She brought it to her lips and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his knuckles, to the palm, to the wrist where his pulse beat steady against her mouth.
“You would still find worry,” she murmured, her breath warm against his skin. “You would fret over an illness in the henhouse, the blight on the barley, the rain that would come too late or the winter that would come too early. You would sleep out in the goat-shed while she labored for fear she may need of you. You would lie awake beside me listening for the smell of disaster on the wind, even if it were only in your head. It is your nature to carry the burden of protection, Fenris. Even in a quiet life. Even as a human.”
He had no answer for that. Instead, he buried his fingers in the cool silk of her hair, massaging her scalp. Then he gently turned her head, exposing the soft, vulnerable column of her throat; saw the bounding pulse in the large vein there. He bent and pressed his lips to it and inhaled deeply where her scent was strongest—a mix of woodsmoke, wild thyme, and the slightly sweet musk of her natural skin smell. He took the scent deep into his lungs, a man parched for this and nothing else.
The heavy thud of running boots in the outer hallway shattered this peace.
They froze. The footsteps were urgent, pounding closer. Before Fenris could move the heavy tapestry over their chamber door was thrown aside.
Alfric stood there, his face pale, his broad chest heaving. His hair had grown longer in these six moons and in his haste to reach them the ends had gotten stuck to the inside corner of his mouth.
“Alfric, what is it boy? Spit it out!” Fenris was already standing.
“Alpha—forgive the intrusion—but it’s—Asger!” Alfric managed to wipe the hair from his mouth and tried hard to get air into his lungs.
“What about Asger, boy?”
“He’s returned from the hunt!”
Water fell in heavy torrents from Fenris’s body as he stepped quickly from the basin, reaching for a cloak.
“Why have you felt the need to intrude upon us for this, Alfric? What is it–”.
“No, Alpha,” Alfric interrupted, his voice cracking. “It’s Vgar. He’s been killed. They’re bringing his body into the longhouse now.”
