Chapter I

Snow is so vivid it makes every sensation experienced, too. Cold creeps into my bones, familiar, close and subtle as a lover who won’t back down.

The Northern mountains are nothing like the sun-bathed marble of Byzantine. Of home. Why did I come here, again? Right – escape from the empire. From that mess and into the freezing mountains where no one’d dare follow me, for no one would be dumb enough to actually come here.

Except, well, me. But who ever thought I had any good ideas?

As I start lying to myself that hypothermia is definitely an honorable end, silence breaks. A rhythmic crunch in the snow behind me, heavy and sharp.

Footsteps.

“Ho there, little pup,” a voice calls out to me, guttural and low.

I draw my sword – my frost-welded fingers screaming in protest – and spin.

His voice is joyful despite the sword in his face. “Careful with that needle. You might hurt yourself.”

I find myself looking a bit more upwards than I thought I had to. The now in front of me man is massive, double my weight at minimum and a solid head-and-a-half taller, with a wild mane of red hair and a beard to match. His eyes, sharp blue, twinkle with curiosity and amusement.

“Stay back and hands up.” I demand, going for authoritative but the chattering teeth aren’t doing me favors. “Don’t try anything.”

He raises his hands, palms out, a grin across his face. He intertwines his fingers behind his head, more relaxed than threatened.

“Identify yourself.”

“Halfnir, son of the North. You’re quite the rare find out here, pup.”

“It’s Marcus, soldier of Bysantine. Not ‘pup’.”

He chuckles, a deep, hearty sound that seems to defy the storm's fury. “Well, pup, you’re quite far from home, so let me give you some friendly advice: out here, your fancy sword’s dead weight. Why not drop it and we can settle this like men?”

“Oh, and how do we do that?”

“We wrestle. Stripped of our shirts and shoes, to see who’s the better man. It’s the way we do things out here.”

“Wrestle in… a snowstorm?”

“Why not?” He pushes my blade down and away from his face with a finger. “You look like you could use the warm-up. If you need help survivin’ out here – and I see ye do – these are my terms.”

He’s kidding, right? I glance around at the endless expanse of white, the idea of stripping in this freezing cold utterly mad. No, he is serious. Of course he is. He’s a Viking. Cold is their domain, it’s probably what makes them engage in barbarism, too.

“You’re insane,” I mutter.

“Yeah, probably. I've lived these mountains for quite a long while now – solitude does that to a fella. And you’re the most interesting thing I've seen for a long time.”

Solitude? I figured his tribe must be nearby, but if he’s been striking it out on his own, does that make him an outcast like me? Are we more similar than I thought?

I ask, “Why me, though?”

He looks away, staring at nothing in particular. “Who can say? Maybe it's fun to see how you handle Northern wilds.” His eyes snap back to me, mischievous in a way they’ve never been before, a way that knocks the air out of me. “Maybe I just like the idea of taming a Roman pup.”

I blink at him, my mind racing. I hate the idea. I should hate it. But the fact I’m even processing it, seriously considering what that entails… yeah.

Something about Halfnir's sheer presence, his jovial yet daunting demeanor, makes me want to prove myself. All muscle and sinew, his bearish size dwarfs my frame, and imperial tagmata training made me pretty well-built myself. His broad chest, visible through the thick furs he wears, speaks of power and battle.

I wouldn’t mind testing that. Feeling it for myself, that is to say.

God, what am I thinking? It’s this exact behavior that forced me out of Byzantine.

“What’s wrong, pup? Nothing to say?” He strokes his beard, shaking off residual snow. “Scared you’ll enjoy it?”

“I could just walk away.” A nothing sentence to regain some composure.

“You could,” he agrees, the twinkle in his eyes never fading. “I give you a day before the wolves get you. Hope they leave enough to bury.”

He's right, is the worst part. I’ve been coaxing by on discipline and sheer will, but it takes more than that to survive. I need him. Not for survival. Not just survival. But the thrill of the unknown, the challenge.

And a spark, unsettling but undeniably there within me.

I sheathe my sword “Fine,” I say, and toss it aside. “But I’m not going easy on you.”

“Wouldn't have it any other way,” Halfnir replies, already pulling off his fur-lined coat.

I can’t help but notice the sheer bulk of his arms, barrel-shaped gut, the defined ridges of muscle across his torso, and the way his skin, burned red from the cold, brims with vitality. He is every part warrior, a living testament to the harsh life he’s endured and thrived in.

As I strip off my shirt and boots, the icy wind stings my skin, but a strange warmth spreads through me, fueled by adrenaline and something else. Something more. Halfnir watches me, genuinely excited for what’s to come.

I can’t help feeling strange, grudging respect in return.

Maybe this isn't such a bad idea after all.

We stand there, shirtless and barefoot in the snow, sizing each other up. Nature rages around, but it’s just us. The storm sounds so far away now, as if heard at the bottom of the sea through layers upon layers of water.

“Ready, pup?” Halfnir taunts, his voice challenge and invitation.

“Ready.”

The world narrows to two. He circles me.

With speed a man his size shouldn’t have, he strides. He’s soon upon me, my frostbitten fingers too clumsy to form a fist, let alone grapple. The dance is brief before it’s over. If it ever started.

He slides under my right arm and hooks his left leg around mine. I’m wrung out, torso exposed and twisted against his. An abdominal stretch. His body warmth radiates through contacting skin.

His breath is a cloud of steam in the cold air, mingling with mine, as he tightens his hold. “Consider this your welcome to the North, pup.”

Pain is fire and bite. My back arches, agony blossoms across my torso as pressure applies. A burning line across belly. Breaths come in sharp, staccato bursts, each a foggy plume in frosty air.

Halfnir's grip tightens. A stance shift, a weight shift, to increase the stretch. The pain in my arm sharpens as it’s pinched tight under his pit, static blood numbing my already failing extremities. He grips his bear paw on the side of my exposed abdomen. I wince. It dawns on me just how sensitive it is when thinned to its limits.

Like this, I’m revealed to nature. Revealed to Halfnir, to do with as he wants.

Ground offers little purchase; snow shifts, compacts under me. I plant my foot, finding a slightly firmer patch of ground, and push against his hold. It’s a minute shift, but it’s mine. My legs tremble, not just from the cold but from resisting.

Halfnir’s chuckle rolls over the wind, low and approving. “That’s it, soldier! Fight it!”

I realize, in this extended moment of tension and discomfort, how intimate the confrontation it is. The pain, the cold, the exertion — they strip away everything else, leaving unfiltered engagement.

He’s against me yet also rooting for me.

And I’ll make a good show of it.

There’s a crack in his defenses. A slight hobble as he maintains his balance. He’s strong – insanely so – but lacks the dexterity to balance on one foot.

With a grunt, I shift my weight, push back. Halfnir’s surprise registers too late. I leverage his momentary imbalance. Feet together, stance low, anchored to the earth. I push through Halfnir’s pinch and prepare my arm for the effort ahead.

Halfnir’s weight is of a boulder. But my training kicks in, muscle memory guiding my actions. I thrust my hips forward, leverage my lower body.

I hoist him up and over my shoulder. He arcs through the air.

And gravity always claims its due.

With a muffled thud, he lands, eyes wide as they lock with mine.

He says, “Ho-ho. Didn’t think you had the guts. Guess I underestimated the pup – no. Marcus, right? The soldier.”

He used my name and title. A token of respect. A fierce pride swells in my chest at the feat I’ve just accomplished. He’s taking me seriously.

“You're not the only one who knows how to fight,” I pant.

“So it seems.”

The high of the exertion is followed by the crash, an ache in my torn muscles. I’ve already been running on empty in this frozen wasteland for hours. Residual heat subsides, leaving me freezing once more. I catch breaths as pleasant as daggers to the lung, the storm's howl a constant companion.

Halfnir props himself up on his elbows, his face crinkling into a grimace as he shifts his weight onto his right leg. “Ah, damn it.”

“Here,” I say, reaching out a hand. Halfnir grasps it. With a collective grunt, I pull him up to stand, steadying him against the slippery ground. He towers me anew.

As we stand face to face, our hands still clasped, I'm struck by the intensity in his eyes — sharp and blue, warm fragments of ice, with unspoken acknowledgment.

I think the match is over.

“You're strong, soldier,” Halfnir murmurs. “But you're still a naive little pup. I haven't even gotten to the good part yet.”

“The wha–”

Before I can react, his arms are around me, locking behind the small of my back. The bearhug is intense, crushing, enveloping. The initial shock of closeness gives way to a raw awareness of every point where our bodies meet, every little milimeter of shared surface area. His chest against mine, the rough texture of his skin, the heat enveloping me. A cavalcade of sensation.

It's a raw, primal sensation, my back screaming for relief, but finds none from Halfnir's overwhelming power. The tormentor, yet also a warm sanctuary against the air outside, the snow beneath.

All too much. Yet all at once. Enough to make a man mad.

“Wh-what are you doing?” I gasp, struggling for both composure and breath.

Halfnir’s laughter rumbles like an earthquake through my flayed innards. “No one said anything about you winning, pup.”

“Let… let me go, Halfnir,” I manage to say, my voice flimsier than I feel, and my physical state is a mess already.

“And miss the good part?” His tone is playful, but there’s an edge to it—a challenge, a test. “Come now. You really think one good throw makes you a wolf? I’m not done playing.”

“I’m not… your toy,” I retort, my voice brinking. “Nor… a thing to be tamed.”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, pup.”

Halfnir says, his grip loosening slightly, not to release me, but to adjust his hold. The move is subtly dominant, a way to reassert control even as we speak.

The grip is not merely physical but invasive, a constant presence burrowing under the skin around my ribcage. His forearms press into my back, pushing me inexorably against his chest, a wall of muscle as hard and immovable as the mountain itself.

Snowflakes that touch our skin melt instantly, sweat evaporating and rising from where our bodies meet. The contrast is stark — outside this circle of embrace, the world is frigid and unyielding, but within Halfnir's arms, a microclimate of heat and sweat forms, an ecosystem untamed as the landscape around, but in a different way.

My arms, trapped, push against his sides in a futile attempt to create space. It only ever deepens the contact, pushes me deeper into his fatty bubble gut.

“Feel that, pup?” Halfnir’s voice is a husky whisper, his lips close to my ear, breath hot on my ear hairs. “This is how the north greets its challengers. You should be honored.”

Halfnir’s grip, while punishing, is controlled, calculated to bring me to the brink but not beyond. There’s an art to his hold, a deep understanding of human anatomy. Not outright cruelty but a lesson in resilience, in enduring the unendurable.

I hear only the sound of my heartbeat matching the tempo of his, thudding loud in my ears, and the harsh rasp of breaths that barely fill my lungs.

“I won't... yield…” I gasp out, the words barely a whisper, more for myself than for Halfnir.

But my body betrays my resolve. The strength drains from my limbs, the fight ebbs away with each unsuccessful breath. Darkness creeps into my vision, a gentle but inexorable tide. It all devolves into a sickening, sickening gray.

The last thing I see is that smile. Halfnir’s insufferable grin.

“Stubborness is a virtue out here. But even you have limits.” Halfnir's voice filters through the encroaching shadows, a note of respect underlying the gruff mockery. “Sleep for me, now.”

And I do. Not by choice, but by sheer impossibility of continuing.

~~~

When consciousness returns, it’s to the crackle of a fire. I’m on a bed of furs, plopped sideways, staring at a cabin wall, air warm and smelling of dried meat and pine.

I shift to my back and sit up. Big mistake, one my body won’t let me soon forget as my spine flares from the exertion. My arm, the one I’d been resting unconscious on, won’t budge. I lift it, and it plops back down like any inanimate object would.

I look around. It’s a small, one room little shack, with too few pieces of furniture to call it a living space. My tunic is splayed over the back of a chair, my sword and boots plopped against it. Halfnir is on the far side, squatted, stoking the flame in a hearth built of river stones.

I manage, “How…  how long was I out?”

Halfnir turns at my voice. “Nearly a whole day.” His voice lacks the earlier playful menace.” Had to check every once in a while if you were still breathing. Looks like you really needed the rest.”

“Did you bring me here?”

Halfnir arcs a cocky brow.

Okay, dumb question. “What I mean is why. Why help me?”

“You fought well, didn’t yield. That’s worth respect, even from a Roman dog.” He pauses, then adds, “It’s better to have a strong man owe you a life debt than to have his ghost haunt your conscience.”

There’s a wisdom in Halfnir's words, a rough philosophy born from a life amidst unforgiving peaks. It’s primitive and shallow, but logical. Halfnir didn’t strike me as one to act beyond forefront impulses.

Then again, he did coerce me into a wrestling match I was ill-fitted to win. And into helping him stand, which led me to waking up here.

I underestimate him too much. There’s a vicious cunning to him I need to take into account for the future.

Halfnir approaches and places a bowl of steaming broth on the bedside table. “Drink this. It’ll warm your insides better than any fire.”

I take it, hands steadying as the warmth seeps into his palms. I take a sip, the broth rich and surprisingly savory. The feeling of sustenance awakens a deep hunger, and I chug the whole thing down, not even caring that half the content’s spilling down my chin. There’s a grimy and rusty iron taste to it, but beyond that, it’s not bad at all.

“This is weirdly hospitable.” I set it down and wipe my chin with my forearm. “I've heard stories of Vikings before, but..."

“Vikings? Oh, you mean me.” Halfnir sweeps a wooden stool toward him and parks his butt on it, hunched with hands on his knees. We’re at about eye-level now. “Stories, eh? Good or bad ones?”

“Eh…”

“Ah. Those stories. Monsters in the woods, barbarians at the gates, pillagers and murderers?" His grin is wide, revealing a rugged honesty mixed with amusement. “Getting warmer?”

“You're not like what I’ve heard.”

Halfnir's laughter fills the cabin again. “I’m a bit of an exception. I live by the axe and the hunt alike, and for no one else. The stories can say what they want.”

A rather mature perspective, actually.

The fire's warmth fills the space, but it’s Halfnir’s presence that dominates the room, larger and somehow more imposing even when seated.

I ask, “What happens now?”

“Now, you stay put,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Stay? You can’t expect to just keep me here.”

“Expect? I’m countin’ on it.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it, just a raw edge. “But hey, I’m not a jailer, and this isn’t prison. Leave whenever you want.”

I pause at his words, considering their ramifications. I’m not trapped, not really, but the alternatives are bleak.

“See? Not so simple. Where will you go? Can you even tell me where north is?”

“I... don’t know,” I admit, and it’s more than just an admission of my situation.

He strokes his beard. “Well, glad that’s settled. But if you're staying, you're not just gonna sit around,” he declares, his tone shifting towards something resembling a plan. “I'll teach you to survive here. How to track, hunt, shelter... and yeah, we'll train, too.”

“Train?” I echo.

Halfnir's eyes light up, a spark of enthusiasm igniting within them. “Aye, wrestling, sparring... you know, the usual. Keeps the blood warm. And more bearhugs, of course.” The way he lingers on the word tells me he’s looking forward to it the most.

“You’re a bit too into this.”

“Don’t act prude on me now. I saw that glint in your eyes when I said it. Got a taste for my hugs now, have you?”

“Depends. Have you given up on plans of ‘taming’ me after all?” I recall his earlier words, the challenge and the playful threat in them.

“Not every day I get a pup from so far south. Can’t let you go to waste.” There’s a pause, a moment where his gaze holds mine a little longer than necessary, searching. “Tell me. Back in Byzantine... they chased you out, didn’t they?”

My hesitation gives me away. I’d ask him what gave him that idea, but the question is less inquisitive and more a segue into a confession. He knows.

And for once, I’m not scared to talk about it.

As our conversation dwindles into a contemplative silence, Halfnir pushes himself up and ambles over to where I'm seated on the bed. The floorboards creak under his weight, a testament to his imposing size.

He sits beside me, his massive, shirtless frame making the bed sag to his side and drawing me in with it. The proximity is startling; up close, he’s even larger, his presence engulfing the small space around us.

He looks at me. Really looks at me. Into my soul.

“Ever been with a man, Marcus?”

“... Yes,” I admit, my voice low. “That’s why I left. It isn’t accepted.”

“Same ‘ere. The North’s free in many ways, but not that. Got too dangerous for me.”

The shared revelation shifts something between us. The space is smaller, more intimate, filled with the recognition of similar pains and parallel lives.

“So, we’re both exiles,” I say, the words tasting of new understanding.

“Aye. But out here, what you are doesn’t matter as much as what you can endure. Nature kills you all the same.”

“You don’t deserve this, Halfnir. You shouldn’t be isolated for loving who you love. For being who you are.”

He huffs, clicks his tongue. The words die on his throat before he says them.

Flame light dances across his broad chest, highlights scars that map his skin — each a silent testament to battles fought and survived.

Maybe this unexpected chapter of my life, filled with bearhugs from a man whose jovial laugh shakes the peninsula, is about living, not just surviving. A new way to belong in a world that doesn’t want me. Want us.

Maybe…

“Bah!” With a swift movement, Halfnir’s arm snakes around my neck and he pulls me into a headlock. It's not painful, more brotherly, but firm enough to remind me of his strength. “Enough with the sappy gloom, pup. Past is the past.”

Trapped in this lock, a new detail becomes abruptly clear — Halfnir reeks. A tang of sweat with smoky ash residue, a wild scent of nights in wilderness’ filthy embrace.

The realization makes my nose turn inside out. I try to wriggle free, pushing against his gut for leverage.

But his grip only tightens. “Easy, that’s the smell of freedom. You’ll get used to it.”

I pop my mouth out to speak, “Freedom smells like it could use a bath.”