“Why do you call him that?”
Ellie blinked. “What?”
“You call him ‘my wolf.’ Why?”
She looked down, almost shy for a second, then met his eyes again.
“My mother made me take French lessons. ‘Mon loup’ is a common French endearment women use for the men they love. ‘My wolf’ is just the direct English translation.”
“Ah.”
Ellie spread her hands, waiting.
Robert huffed softly, almost a laugh, then recited in a low, careful voice:
“Hlaðnir váru þeir hǫlða ok hvítra skjalda,
vigra vestrœnna ok valskra sverða.
Grenjuðu berserkir; guðr vas þeim á sinni;
emjuðu ulfheðnar ok ísǫrn dúðu.”Ellie blinked. “Well … that wasn’t French.”
Robert smiled, “That’s from the Hrafnsmál, a poem written in the ninth century about the Battle of Hafrsfjord.”
Ellie looked at him for a long moment, “… Okay?”
He translated, voice steady:
“They were loaded with men and white shields,
Western spears and Frankish swords.
The bear-shirts roared; a god was with them.
The wolf-coats howled, and the iron rang out.”Ellie shrugged, “Still not helping.”
Robert leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face completely earnest.
“What everybody has been gently tap-dancing around is right there in that poem -- and in a dozen others like it. Your husband is a berserker.”
Ellie stared, “I’m sorry… what?”
“Not just any berserker,” he continued. “The poem is careful. It names two different kinds. The berserkir -- the bear-shirts -- fought in the front ranks and were as dangerous to their own side as to the enemy. And then there were the others, the ones who wore wolf-coats. The úlfheðnar. They were trusted even in the height of their fury to protect the king.”
The low, careful voice again:“Wolf-skins they are called, who bear bloody shields in battle;
Their spears redden when they come to fight.
There they sit together.
The prince, in his wisdom, trusts under their shelter
The one who has the skill to strike through shields.”Ellie was very still. “Are you serious?”
“Oh, yes.” Robert’s voice was quiet but absolute. “This is not a surprise. Humans are vicious primates who tend -- as a whole -- to select for aggression when they breed, with the added evolutionary pressure of combat and war. It is inevitable that men like your husband will appear from time to time.”
Not sure about this part — I don’t know that the story actually needs to state what he is, but I wrote it, so here you go.
Ian
This is an excellent piece, Ian. It grounds the esoteric in history, and provides the additional back story of why Remy is not just some random werewolf there for the sake of the story.
It explains The Green to the reader, if not to Remy. Which makes *the reader* understand why this isn't urban fantasy.