Page 59 of Valhalla is Full of Hunks
At first, I thought being back on Lyngvi was a nightmare—the same one I’d had countless times since waking up in this human form.
How wrong I was.
It had taken little coaxing from Jör for me to devour Iola. Her scent had been tormenting me since our first encounter in the library, and it was only through sheer willpower alone that I’d managed to not taste her before now.
And not even the Fates could keep me away from that temptation.
Departing Iola’s bed had left me unsettled, but I’d not only needed to give Surt a break at the wheel but get some air. He’d eyed me for a long moment when I appeared at the helm, but shockingly, kept his opinions to himself. Looking back, I wondered if this was because the giant knew it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to his desires as well.
Iola mistook his behavior toward her for hatred, but I’d watched him do this same dance with Jör centuries ago. Surt's loyalty to our mission had always been admirable, but his unwavering focus caused him to believe nothing in life was worth his attention—that personal relationships of any kind would only distract him from his true purpose.
Glory in death.
He’d allowed me in first, because I’d asked nothing of him aside from companionship in rage. Waking up in a newly reborn Midgard instead of Valhalla’s hallowed halls was a slight neither of us could forget, but this fury would have driven us to madness long ago if not for Jör. His natural sweetness thawed us both, and we each gave him what we could in return. Exactly how the World Serpent could turn such a devastating loss into a thirst for life still escaped me, but at leastI’dtried to understand.
As much as I was able to, at least.
My role in our triad was a precarious one. I provided the care and attention Jör needed and encouraged him to experience everything our rebirth offered. I also fully supported Surt’s plan to eventually snuff out the source of that joyful existence, and was even a willing participant in the plan.
This push and pull was exhausting, but it was the principle of the thing—even as I appreciated the love I’d developed for my companions on the way. I was the bridge between life and death, as steady as Bifrost before the weight of Muspelheim’s attack shattered it to dust. I’d assumed I could hold my position until we took our final breaths, but I hadn’t known just how delicate the balance truly was.
And I hadn’t anticipated Iola.
Now that I’d tasted her, there was no going back. My wolfknewshe was my mate, and I feared what might happen if I allowed myself to bite her, to knot her, to claim her as mine.
These concerns had circled my brain for hours as I mindlessly steered our yacht through nighttime waters. All the while, I ignored the almost overwhelming urge to return to Iola’s bed below deck, knowing what would happen if I did.
I’ll never want to leave.
Then I’d felt atugfrom elsewhere—a subconscious awareness that a solution was close at hand.
That was when I saw Lyngvi.
Even with only the light of the moon to illuminate its terrain, I recognized the island which had been my prison. A smart man would have steered in the opposite direction, but I was desperate to stop what felt inevitable. So, with nothing but a spark of intuition to guide me, I anchored the ship and swam for shore.
That I’d left evidence of my destination, and a way to follow me there, was purposeful. I trusted Surt and Jör implicitly—more than fate, and certainly more than I trusted my wolf and our foolish romantic notions. Most importantly, I needed to remind myself what my purpose here was, and there was no better place to do that than at the beginning.
The beginning of the end.
As soon as I set foot on the sands of Lyngvi, I began to shift. My bones rearranged as my body hunched into quadrupedal form—pale skin becoming overgrown with thick black fur as my claws and fangs lengthened. A partial version of this transformation had occurred earlier—while I tasted paradise between Iola’s thighs—but I’d quickly regained my humanity after she soaked my fur in her release.
As if my body wanted to forget.
On Lyngvi, however, my wolf remembered everything, and instinctively knew which form was needed for what lay ahead. When I padded into the clearing where Gjöll sat—unchanged and immovable since the dawn of time—every atom in my being screamed at me to turn and flee. But this had always been my destiny, and no matter how badly I wished to spend my nights wrapped around my mate, there was no outrunningthis.
Until the threads of fate are snipped for good.
A single figure awaited me—the god, Tyr. I knew it was a mirage, as Tyr had died in Ragnarok along with the brave warriors he was patron to. In his magically reattached right hand he held Gleipnir, the only rope that had ever successfully bound me. Even knowing what awaited, I approached, driven by forces greater than myself.
Falling for the gods’ tricks, yet again.
“Are you ready to prove your strength, Fenrisúlfr?” Tyr asked, addressing me in the old language. “Surely a beast of your legendary strength should be able to break free from such a delicate ribbon as this.”
Gleipnirwasdeceptively delicate, but the dwarves of Svartalfheim had crafted it from the sound of a cat’s footsteps, the roots of mountains, the breath of a fish, and the saliva of a bird. From impossible things, making it impossible to escape.
“As I suspect trickery, I require a pledge.” I bitterly played my role—the words like poison on my tongue. “Place your right hand in my mouth to show this shall be done in good faith.”
Without hesitation, Tyr calmly placed his hand in my gaping maw, knowing full well he was about to sacrifice a piece of himself for the greater good.
