Author's Note: 

This section does contain spoilers for the ending of Book Three of Princess of the Highlands Trilogy. Read at your own risk. 

~~~

ULF awoke to a clattering by the hearth fire. His vision cleared to see Harothel preparing porridge for that morn's breakfast. He ran his tongue over his lips and swallowed, his mouth thick and dry.

He thrust back the sheepskin he used as a blanket and crawled out of the slave's place—though only he ever used it. Rising to his feet, he drew aside the hangings to the master's bed and was greeted by the sight of Bjarke fast asleep, snoring softly.

Ulf had a few moments, then.

Harothel did not spare him a glance as he passed her, slipping outside to a misty morning. Soft rain kissed his face, tasting of sweetness and new growth and calm. He tipped back his head, closing his eyes and relishing the gentle dampness. Then he set off towards the beach. Bjarke would want proof that no ships had arrived.

The wooded path was dark, the pale light of dawn yet to shine through. The mist thinly veiled the horizon, the dimness brightening as he passed the beached ships casting eerie shadows upon the sand. He gazed out, to where the sea and sky met, and his shoulders eased, tension slipping away.

No newly arrived boats greeted his vision. No Eluf then, not yet.

He turned, intending to go back, when he caught sight of a faint shadow appearing on the distant horizon. His heart sank, dragging him down with it. Was this their return—was Bjarke right after all?

A wave of falling rain hid the shadow from sight, and peer as he might, Ulf did not see it again.

Perhaps he had only imagined it.

But, deep down inside, he knew he had not dreamt it.

The dragon ships were coming home.

He spun around on his heel and headed back, walking swifter than was his wont. The rain, once tasting of the sweetness of a new morning and coming light now felt nothing but cold and oppressive.

Curse Eluf and all his like!

Ulf strode quickly through the wood and the village, not even pausing to call a greeting to Djal. Perhaps his friend noticed, but it could be discussed later. Ulf did not desire to bear news he loathed to speak. Better to leave that to someone else. If the ships were come home, he would not be the one to declare it. He thrust aside the heavy hangings of the door and made his way to Bjarke's resting place, passing the cooking fire, a flash of warmth against his skin and damp tunic.

He helped Bjarke to his chair in sullen silence. Before his master finished asking the question Ulf knew was coming, he answered, "Nay, the rain curtain was thick. I could scarcely see the sea beyond the shore." It was partly true.

Harothel muttered something under her breath about stubborn fools.

Ulf choked down his porridge, the second morning in a row he had done so. His heart thudded heavily in his chest, dreading someone to enter the longhouse with news of the dragon ships' arrival. He only hoped that Bjarke could not see it, how his eyes flicked nervously at every sound, how he struggled to keep his hands steady, dread and anger filling his heart, gnawing a hole of helplessness within him.

~~~

It was midway the morning when the news came.

Ulf sat by Bjarke's knee, occasionally rising up to fulfill some request or other of his. And every command was followed by some sort of complaint of Harothel's. Both of them were fickle to the extent that Ulf sometimes wondered how they had ever decided to wed in the first place. Surely, there had been others better suited; they had wed at an age beyond that of being an arranged union.

Harothel's sharp voice rang through the air as she burned an elbow on the cooking pot, turning too hastily to reprimand Bjarke's asking when the midday meal would be. Ulf winced, though the harshness was a welcome reprieve to his thoughts.

Scarcely had she finished speaking when a distant shout echoed throughout the village, and Ulf started, Bjarke's leather sword belt he was polishing falling out of his hands.

Bjarke looked at him curiously, his dark eyes seeming confused, but Ulf quickly looked away, his face burning even as his heart thudded in his chest.

Nae. Nae, they hae no' returned.

The shouts grew louder, being carried closer toward the longhouse like the waves rushing onto the beach, and like the morning tide, left Ulf cold and damp with a sudden sweat.

"Go see what it is," Bjarke said, nudging him with his foot, for Ulf would reach the door faster than he, and his patience wouldn't last long.

Ulf scrambled to his feet in a most ungainly fashion, unlike his usual, cat-like nimbleness, and hastened to the door though everything in him pulled away from it.

But the struggle was not worth it.

One of the Danes burst through the thick, curtained hanging, the words flying from his lips. "The dragon ships have come home!"

Ulf tried to turn, tried to see Bjarke's face, tried to think of anything but what that news meant, but he could not move. It was only Bjarke's quick cry for aid and Harothel's words of disgust that spurred him into action, rushing back to his master's place. He helped Bjarke to his feet, handing his master's staff to him, and giving him an arm to help him to the door.

The messenger was gone, no doubt to carry the news to the rest.

"I knew they would come this day, something in my bones knew it," Bjarke grunted as they stepped out into the grey light of midday.

"I tell the truth, I did not see them this morn; I could see little in the mist." Ulf gasped the words as though they were poison, desperation clinging to them as they fell from his mouth.

"I did not say you lied, my wolf. Perhaps it was too early in the day. Nonetheless, you spoke truth, and so did my bones. Mind no more on it." Bjarke let go of Ulf's arm and leaned against the forepost of the house, squinting against the daylight as men began to come up from the beach and wooded path.

Ulf drew away, waiting a pace behind his master, grateful for the man's huge form. He hated himself, hated how he was a coward, hiding behind the very one who owned his freedom and therefore his life, hated how he became worse than a child, dreading news of destruction in his homeland. Djal was right, it was better to not hope and therefore not care so much.

And yet...he could never stop hoping.

The warriors finally appeared in the village clearing, their hair and clothing damp with seaspray, and perhaps also the remnants of rain from that morning that only recently ceased.

"Why so few have returned?" one of the villager women cried out.

"Some we lost in storms that chased us the moment we set out—"

"I said we should have waited until the last of winter had left," one of the warriors interrupted, muttering loud enough that all heard him.

"—and a few left to plunder other shores," the first continued, casting a dark look at the young man who had cut him off.

"How went the war-faring in Scotland?" Bjarke called, and Ulf felt anger knot up inside at the very question.

However much he respected his master, he remembered in that moment, that Bjarke was still the enemy, and it was wrong for him to assume otherwise. The sleeping wolf was yet a wolf, and its teeth were no less sharp for lying still.

"Badly."

Ulf stiffened, the blood in his veins freezing as if a knife had plunged in his chest.

Eluf, Bjarke's son, spoke now, stepping out from the group, wrath hardly masked on his face. "We arrived and were faced with the remnants of Lord Erland's defeated host and forced to surrender e'er we drew our blades from their sheaths."

Ulf peered around Bjarke's form, joy rekindling within him, warmth flooding through his veins. Fear melted away into pride. Aye, he was still a captive, but his country—his people were finally free. And his own loss of such did not feel so heavy. But he did not let that joy spread to his face. He did not want to find himself at the end of Eluf's blade simply for his eyes lighting at the news.

Eluf's eyes met his, black glaring into twilight blue, and Ulf—for the first time in years—did not shrink away.

Murmurs spread around the village, a few cries of dismay filling the air, before the leader of the village raised his staff, calling all to a council that night to discuss what would become of the remaining summer months. But Ulf did not hear it. He would not be going; Bjarke's sea-faring days were long over.

Eluf approached them, his eyes never leaving Ulf's, though he spoke to his father only. "An ill faring, that. I was all for pushing on to Éire, or even robbing some of Scotland's northern islands before we were forced to withdraw from those as well, but Malthe said best we return home and replenish our supplies." He spat on the porch boards of the house, glaring at Ulf.

"He was right, perhaps. It is a good thing to listen to the wisdom of your elders," Bjarke replied softly, his voice edged with a growl. "I am sorry to hear that the hosting went ill; Lord Erland should have kept the war in his own lands, not spread it to ours."

Ulf glanced at his master in surprise but quickly turned away. Eluf must not see his weakness, not find a way to further torture him when his father was not looking.

"Perhaps another chance will come to prove your manhood," Bjarke continued, though Ulf noticed there was no sympathy in his tone; if anything, a light mockery.

Eluf ran his fingers through his young beard, his dark eyes—so like his father's—flashing in the daylight. "Come, Father, let me guide you into the house." Eluf likewise spoke flippantly, his words empty. He cast a warning look at Ulf before disappearing into the longhouse with Bjarke, greeting Harothel's jibe with a similar one, leaving Ulf to the sudden quiet of the empty clearing.

Ulf spun on his heel, setting across the village to where Djal was already waiting for him outside his own master's house.

"Sa, our people held their own at last."

Ulf said nothing, settling himself down on the floor and gazing at the smoke rising idly from the longhouses.

"Eluf didnae seem to be overjoyed at it," Djal continued dryly a moment later.

"Nae," Ulf grunted, closing his eyes a moment. He felt a twinge of annoyance and clasped his empty hands, wishing he had something to busy them with. "I wonder wha' will be discussed at the meeting, whether they will set out fer another place e'er another moon passes."

"Unless Bjarke keeps Eluf at home."

Ulf scoffed. "The gods forbid. Why would he do such a thing?"

Djal said nothing for a time.

Ulf opened his eyes and looked at his companion intently, at his white hair and unwrinkled skin, at his hands that clenched and unclenched like a man about to spar.

"Bjarke has changed over this winter. His wound has aged him faster than any of us expected. Methinks he will declare his heir before much more time passes, to secure his posterity before the autumn brings forth the winter and sickness."

"He would keep Eluf home because of that?" Ulf pressed, dread creeping back into his heart and destroying the remnants of relief.

Wind whispered through the village then, a warning that neither of them heard. Only Ulf remembered it, remembered it later, and knew then to always listen to the wind. For when it changes, a man had best be ready.

"I am merely thinking. I ken he is ashamed of his son—illgotten if the rumors be true—but he has nae other."

"I hadnae heard those rumors," Ulf murmured, understanding a bit more of the tension that always seemed to crackle in the air whenever Eluf was near. It was not merely between them, because Ulf had been a freeborn Scot and Eluf a Dane; perhaps it had always been something else entirely, something he had not fully known until now. Ulf would be considered a prince—almost—among his own people. Eluf could not even claim an inheritance, if Djal spoke truth, and Djal was not one to lie.

"Does he hae anyone else to name as heir?" Ulf continued a moment later.

Djal hitched a shoulder. "Maybe in another village, but nae in this one. 'Tis only... Bjarke is little less than the village leader. If Eluf would claim his inheritance..." He did not continue.

"He would want to claim that place as well," Ulf finished for him, stiffening as the thought sank in.

Djal's glance darted towards him, a knowing fear spreading between them.

For though he did not speak the words, they both knew...if Eluf commanded the village as well as Bjarke's household, it would not be only Ulf that suffered his tyranny.

His country might be free, but he still remained a captive in exile, and he would not be gaining his freedom any time soon.

If Eluf claimed his inheritance, Ulf would become his slave, and—oh, how he dread to even think that thought. Death would be more welcome than that.

If Eluf was his master, then Ulf would never have a chance to be free.

And Ulf had not realised until that moment how much he wished for it, had hoped for it, until it seemed more impossible than ever.

His fingers reached up and touched the wolf swirling across his arm. He would not be bound, not by Eluf, not while he drew breath. He would rather die trying to escape than be held against his will by that man.

"Whatever ye do"—Djal's voice broke into his swirling thoughts—"donnae be a fool."

"I willnae," Ulf snarled back, the words as good as an oath to him. "Wolves, even the fostered sons of them, arenae fools."