Ylgr

Torbjorn Olavson had returned home after so many years. Where by home we mean a semicircle of longhouses arranged around the tip of one of the many fjords opening onto the Baltic Sea.
At that time people traveled a lot, the living were always around for some reason, and he didn't even have parents anymore, so he doubted someone would recognize him.
But it didn't matter, he was an armed man, an Ulfberht sword hung by his side and on his chest he carried the insignia of the Varangian Guard, that was enough. He could have entered any house, sat at table without even a word, and they would have thanked him for honoring them with his presence, they would have tucked his blankets into bed, whatever he wanted.
But he had a definite destination: Terje's home. And the old Terje recognized him all right, he was sitting under the porch in the company of a barrel of vodka, when he saw Torbjorn coming from afar, he filled a second drinking horn, and placed it on the mossy stone table he had nearby. He did not say a word, however, in the North there is little talk, it was Olavson who broke the silence by throwing a letter of ownership on the table, for the load left on the ship with which he had arrived.

"This for Sigrid."

Terje glanced at the letter and whistled.
"Eight rolls of silk .. I would have asked for less .."

"I still consider it unworthy" - replied Torbjorn -

Without another word, Terje handed him one of the cups, "Skoll!" He said to toast, and with that it was all settled.

The bottom of the fjord, with the village and the marina, is a basin surrounded by high cliffs, a good road climbed along the less steep part, but Tor had preferred the secondary path, made of stones cut like steps, and flanked by bushes of heather and elderberry trees. The elder flowers had already been harvested, the berry season was about to begin. The summer was short in the North and precious for this reason, Tor had missed it and now he could see those plants again, as he climbed as a child.

Once past the fjord he walked along a wooded hill, to a clearing with no trees, but strewn with piles of wood, which the charcoal burners dried in the sun.
He sat down, leaning against one of the stacks, his sword in hand, contemplating the runes engraved on the blade, which he had nourished with blood.
He then closed his eyes to see the runes inside himself too.
Dagar: the light of day and therefore hope, clarity of mind
Tyr: war, martial art, the discipline that ignores fear.
Odal: the village fence, the family, the desire to no longer have to live only for himself.

As he concentrated, he heard the song of the cicadas around him more and more clear, and his heart was beating in time, but other sounds were added, something big and fast, snarling, even howling.
He stood up and turned his sword to the approaching figure, which slowed down, but still moved at him. The head was that of a wolf, but he walked on two legs, he had strong hands and cruel nails.
Torbjorn opened his hand, the sword, perfectly balanced, fell and went to plant himself in the ground, then stretched his right arm to the side, in a gesture of invitation.
The beast fell upon him with superhuman speed and fury.

He continued the movement of his arm backwards, also accompanying with his torso and leg, like opening a door in front of the wolf's momentum, which managed only to snap a bite at the air.
Bringing the left side forward he encircled the opponent's neck, with the right forearm under the long jaw and the hand closed on his other one, but that was not a mindless beast as one might have thought, he put a paw behind Tor's foot and bent his knees down below the center of gravity.
A moment later Torbjorn found himself flying over the shoulder of the wolf .. Glima .. the martial art of the north, children also practiced it, why not wolves?

Torbjorn fell face first on the dry soil, a muscle in his neck perhaps stretched, no time to worry, he had to roll in the direction of thrust to take speed and escape the claws of the snarling beast.
His sight caught kaleidoscope-like sights : grass, dark and rounded lumps of earth, the shadow of the wolf and its claw barely missing him, dazzling sun, purple flower, pile of wood, then again grass and earth. And that thing that pursued him alternating lunges with the right and the left, once, twice.
At the third Tor managed to find the position to raise his legs, feet on the werewolf's groin, and to push him back, while he exploited the residual force, like a pendulum, to get up on his knees and then stand up.
Even the furball was already back on its feet, his eyes were completely human, of a beautiful aquamarine color, but in a moment they changed into the yellow topaz of the beasts, threw a howl.

"Stauros Nikaaaaa!"

The Olavson, as a rooted custom, had replied with the Byzantine army's warcry, they came at it again, the wolf rushed with strength and Tor at the last moment bent his back to ninety degrees, performing a tackle, with his neck pressed against the opponent's side, where it could not be reached by the jaws. Without opposing the impact he let himself fall, dragging him down, Tor wanted the ground game, because that beast could not know Pankration. You got to have seen Constantinople for Pankration, to have spent in the gymnasiums, with the best teachers, the time other soldiers were spending with prostitutes.
He had also won a trophy.

He had won it by fighting against professionals, who took the field greased with olive oil to better escape from the grips, compared to that, keeping hold of that bristly fur, no matter how vigorously the wolf struggled, was so easy not to be fair. He ignored the pain, the scratches on his face, on the battlefields he had suffered worse, he worked concentrated to gain an inch at a time towards the shoulder.
Meanwhile the wolf was frantically scrabbling the ground, flying pieces of soil and grass, it was to get the thrust out of Tor's grip, which pressed to keep him from rising.
Until the moment he found the right position, he then released the wolf, which in turn could have rolled away, but, blinded by rage, raised his right hand to grab Torbjorn, who was waiting for nothing else. Thanks to that opening he slipped his left under his opponent's armpit and forced his shoulder and head into a single lock, then with a hip swing he made him fall again on the side to press the other arm to the ground.
The wolf no longer had a chance.

He did not give up, however, still tried to bite, and Tor with his hands busy bitten in turn, first on the nose, then the ear, the taste of a dog, old fur, whining, he was willing to tear off his ear before then the jugular, if he had not submitted.
But before he had to get to those extremes, the werewolf trembled and relaxed as though unconscious.
Suddenly what the Olavson had between his teeth was no longer living flesh, but an old wolf fur cap, and what he clutched was a cloak of the same material.
Under those garments, a woman a little younger than him lay inert in his arms, but soon those sea-colored eyes opened again.

"Sigrid Terjesdottìr. You are welcome."
Tor had loosened his grip, but still did not release it.

"Torbjorn Olavson. Welcome back."
She smiled, despite the rather uncomfortable position in which she was forced.

"Do you recognize that I won you in a fair fight?"

"You have bitten. It is against the rules!"

"Why! You instead? ..."

"Aw .. All right, I recognize that I am defeated and that I can concede myself."

Tor finally let her loose, and it was she who embraced him, they lay on their sides on the earth shattered by their battle.
"I've already been to your father. He accepted the bride price ..."

He saw her only with one eye, the other was obscured, probably blood dripping from a cut. He didn't care.

" Ah well.. "

Sigrid ran a finger over his lips. He traced the line of her nose.

"I mean, I want to know, Sigrid, are there any other formalities you didn't tell me, or can we get married, at last ?"