And the trap closes on the prey.
The rough thumb slides on the slender fingers holding the arm ring. Some over-confident hunter would call it victory; he is wiser. The fly is fluttering so close to the sticky web but the spider has not removed all the defences which protect the prey.
The thumb rubs the fingers of a hand which has been relentlessly escaping his grasp. From their wedding, he knows that it will take more than the lure of a shiny silver band. Yet it is his only weapon, a mere worthless bracelet to tempt she who was born with all the riches of a fabled empire.
It is his one weapon, his one given arrow to pierce the heart of the doe he has been hunting for so long. From the moment their eyes have crossed over the one the Gods have fated to be their mate, the black wolf has run, jumping over whatever obstacles this foreign land has thrown at him.
He runs fast but the doe of this realm does not give in. For all his strides, she outruns him, out-tricks him. Just as cruel as he is, her claws leave deep scars in his pride. She does not play by the rules of his people. Her world is old; it has seen so much, so many treasons. It has not got old by playing nice. He does not begrudge her this backstabbing way of life.
Gently, as if it means nothing, the thumb runs the fingers; as if an afterthought, his right arm remembers Jormungandr is Fenrir's brother. Just like the World Serpent who is as patient as his brother, the Giant Wolf Fenrir, sets his coils around Midgard unseen from all, his right arm has moved, coiling itself along her waist pulling her to him ever closer. Slowly, so slowly. Slow enough not to alarm her. This opportunity is his one chance.
She looks at him in silence. Her doe eyes know the trap, the young one recognizes it but she does not dare to move away as if like him, she knows it is her one chance. Their one chance.
They do not speak; why should they? Their bodies have started to speak for them.
The right arm pulls her to him and he has to speak. Now.
Wear it for my sake. For the salvation of my soul.
He does not say more as more words are needless. If she throws away the ring, she will have outrun him once again. But if she takes the bait, if she accepts his offer at its face value, victory may be his and hopefully hers. Because she must win; just like him she has to win. This war must end with two victors.
If she accepts; if his salvation means something to her, the wolf will make sure the doe is safe. The spider will bask in the joy of watching the fly dance for it for Eternity. Free yet his for ever and ever.
Her brown eyes bore into his soul; is it a trap? Another lie from these devil-incarnate Vikings or is it real? She looks at him seriously like she was appraising the goods from after a raid. Checking if bright gold is not gilded copper… Her eyes flutter; she hesitates. Against his chest, he feels her heart beating so fast. The doe is getting out of breath as the wolf draws nearer. But she still fights on.
I … I shall wear it and pray for you… For your soul. You have committed great crimes against my people.
He bows the head as if he accepts the accusation. As if it means something when really it is simply the rules of the raid. You attack, you rape; you steal, you kill. For her, it is an offence. He accepts this cultural difference. The trap starts slowly, silently to close on the prey.
I … I know you are not a Christian. Not a real one. But you have a soul and I think I can believe this bracelet means something for you. I shall wear it for your sake… I mean…
A slip. Just a slip. A world of differences it makes. The trap gets closer and she starts to try and push him away. This will not do. The wolf must remember the skills of the hunter. He must keep her in his embrace while not giving her cause of concern. He must keep her … free to go. Give her the belief she can run away when he wants to keep her forever prisoner. His arm resists her move, her thumb does not disengage. Her heart races faster.
Just a slip of words. Just a weakness, a moment of distraction. It means nothing. He must not notice.
Wear it for my sake. Around your wrist. Whoever owns it, owns my loyalty.
She looks at him like she cannot believe her ears.
Are you loyal? I mean… Your people…
Ragnar warriors. His warriors. Not mine.
She bows gently her head trying to understand the consequences of his admission. Ragnar warriors. Not his people. Who are his people, then? She ponders and his arm pulls her ever closer. Close enough to feel her hair rubbing his chin; near enough to smell the perfumed oils he knows imported from even more Southern lands.
Who are your people? Your … kin?
Don't you guess?
She gasps, tries to push him away. Tries and fails as it is too late. The prey is prisoner of the trap.
Let go of me!
I can't.
Let me go!
You own my soul; I cannot let it go.
Against his chest, the wolf holds the doe but he does not kill. Why should he? It is his mate which believes her-self weak when she has claws and fangs.
So this ring is personal…
He simply nods, No word needed. She will understand. She will come to understand by herself without prompting. And it does not matter if her speech is slightly unravelled.
You… I… I am a Frank… And a Christian!
Again he nods. At the end of wars, treaties are made; good treaties can turn defeats into alliances. Old enemies turning into friends when a Frank shield-maid accepts to trust a Norse berserker allowing her fingers into his rough paw. Naturally she is a Frank and Odin has never spoken to her. In this land of hers, Odin is mute.
And… and our children will be Christian like me!
Now he allows himself a smile. The bride who brought a dagger into her wedding bed dares to challenge the authority of the husband. The master of the hall is to be denied to choose the faith worshiped by his household; the Dark Gods must be offended. Who cares! He chuckles as if he was indeed expecting this outrageous demand.
As if they would have a choice!
Her head bends down now. All he can see is her hair and a new diadem. A fetching one. Idly, he wonders how many she does own. How many things does this bride from Frankia fated to be his by the Gods own?
He let down ever so slowly her hand curled around the silver arm-ring; now free his own hand seeks her. Seeks her chin to raise her head. To bore again into her eyes is his will when it seems all she wants to see is the floor to swallow her up.
She is so serious; so sad now. Her eyes are full of tears like on their wedding night and he is about to tell her not to be afraid, assured that now she understands him when she cuts him.
Are we cursed, Rollo? You are betraying your people and I am betraying mine.
As she pronounces the words, as she say we; she looks at him as he was Mimir. As if he knows all the wisdom of the world. She has his soul in custody, he has captured her trust and it is his heart who feels the steel of the arrow he has saved for this hunt.
Again his heart, she has put her head. And it is their hearts that race together at the same maddening pace.
Tilting upward her chin, he discovers his lover. His sweet lover. She has never loved before and he is the now lucky, formerly lone warrior who finds there is someone waiting for him on the pier when he returns from a long raid. He is no more alone; he has found his sweet mate.
We are not cursed. We are fated. Fated to be happy.
Now, he can kiss her. Her first kiss. A bit clumsy as all first kisses are. A chaste kiss. A seal on an alliance decided by the Gods. The wolf has found his mate. Woe to who threatens her.