Author's notes:

Warning! The warnings written in the very first chapter apply to this chapter!

In case you have forgotten them, be sure to reread them. If you need to know the exact warnings that apply to this chapter, they are specified in the bottom author's notes. They are not written here because they, of course, are spoiler-material. However if you are sensitive to any of the material that you have already been warned about, scroll down to the bottom of the chapter and read the bottom author's notes to know exactly what you are about to read and decide whether you are willing to read it.

Chapter twenty-five

Whimsy

Chatter, debate, inquiries and answers barely withheld through mouthfuls of food (not always successfully) and (almost)-laughter – it had been a long time since Sigyn had last had that (so long ago that she didn't even remember). And certainly not since she had stepped foot into Jotunheim. She felt (almost) happy. The hours past had long since bled together and she could not even hope to untangle them (she didn't even want to try). But oh, the hour count was simply irrelevant, when they were so interesting, exciting, thrilling even.

And there was still so much left to discuss! No matter how long she had conversed with him – the topic was simply too inexhaustible to be exhausted. They had talked about the intricacies of healing Frost Jotunns and she was glad to find that her healing magic would need no altering to do its purpose. There were of course differences in the anatomies of Ice Giants and her former patients, however those weren't grand enough to make her knowledge inapplicable or useless.

The book that they had brought to dinner had also been part of the conversation. Sometimes used for cross-referencing when the Jotunn Prince's knowledge on a certain subject was insufficient or when he wasn't certain of his words on something. They had managed to pore over a good chunk of the heavy tome, with the King asking her opinion on the healing techniques offered for a certain ailment or injury and she – frequently suggesting improvements, which were seldom rebuffed for not being suitable. They had even played a game – where he would describe to her an illness and she would tell how she'd go about healing it; it was gladdening to know that she was often correct, despite the subject matter being the healing of Jotunns.

It was also important to establish a place of healing. However that topic had been approached lightly and abstractly, they hadn't delved into it deeply. There were, after all, much to be decided, learnt and done before building something like that could commence. However building something was relatively quick work and utterly pointless if that would be the first stepping stone. A place of healing would not serve its purpose if she would be the only healer there. In case an influx of patients would occur – it would only serve as a stockroom for corpses and the part of her mind that was nothing but healer did not shy away from that possibility.

Though his words on the matter – few, swift and seemingly offhanded – had described the issue quite differently. He'd said that a queen could not be on eternal on-call duty (no matter how noble), for she would have other responsibilities and duties to occupy her valuable time. The Vanir female had allowed those words to pass through her mind detected but purposefully left ignored (even if for tonight exclusively).

It was not something up for debate, no argument could be made – when both understood that there was no alternative (and neither found that unacceptable). Therefore to further the idea towards reality – healers were necessary. Alas, the ravaged lands had none. The Ruler had suggested that she could teach and train her future healing personnel. She found such a prospect, while daunting, to be immensely invigorating.

Finding staff for, so to speak, the 'manual labor of healing' – would be easy, but they needed proper healers – those who could quickly pick up on the healing arts. She had found out that practically the entirety of the Jotunn race were magic-users, alas one magic was not the same as another. The type of magic that was natural to the Giants of this world, one that they could master quickly – was the manipulation of ice and frost. However, if a certain Jotunn was phenomenal with said magic – that did not necessarily mean that they could perform even the simplest of healing spells. It had been a relief to find that the majority of the population had the capacity for wielding magic on the same principle that Aesir and Vanir did (of course she was thinking in the area of healing! She did not allow her mind to wander off with this information into the dark crevices of her imagination).

The Lady (truly, no longer just that) had also garnered knowledge unasked for. She had learned that there were also Frost Giants that were born with magic, who were natural sorcerers and their power was vastly greater than of those who had been trained into the world of magics. However these magicians were especially rare, singularities in their own right. And even if they would wish to find such for their purpose, he'd expressed doubt on whether that would even be possible. The Monarch of the Cold World believed such occurrence to be hereditary, however the gene had to be exceedingly recessive if the impressively rare manifestation was anything to go by. Apparently any sort of records in Jotunheim were more than scarce (which was kind of apparent to her now), therefore it was not possible to tell even the approximate origin of the magic-adept genes. He'd said that as much as he had found about these phenomenal occurrences of sorcerers, there had been nearly no reoccurrences in any family trees. However, he'd also mentioned, that that was not evidence enough to claim that there hadn't once been a singular primeval source.

Perhaps it had been because she'd had too much wine (and that wasn't true) or perhaps the ambience of the evening was at fault (that wasn't it either, for it was definitely a thing chosen, even if from a directive the origin of which was the subconscious), but she had dared to ask. Under normal circumstances she wouldn't have inquired something that could be less than an innocent inquiry and especially not if one was to be quite so personal. The lines had blurred though and she could not have helped that – it was healing for Norns' sake, it was healing! The topic always forced her thoughts to flow more freely (even if not by much) and be less restricted by her ever-thinking and double-thinking mind. The question had been simple, easy to misinterpret as a natural continuation of the subject at hand and child of benevolent curiosity – not that it was truly devious (she was not really capable of that). And if he had suspected something scheming underneath it (though there was hardly anything there of the sort) – he hadn't given any indication.

She had asked him whether the Jotunns with inborn magic were like him (a subtler inquiry than an outright question to get to know whether he was one – it would always be wrong to assume that how one phrased something would have no true difference). The answer itself had not been a surprise but the fact that she had gotten one – was. He had affirmed it. His magic had started manifesting from near infancy, had few limitations in what he could wield or master, and his power, compared to that of others, grew with ease.

It was a startling piece of information (which she hadn't lingered on, at least not while she was high on the pleasant mood of ignorance that reigned this evening), something that only made him (an already very real threat) even more dangerous. Of course it had crossed her mind that he could have been lying (after all, it was not against reason for a ruler to give reason for others to fear them), but she chose to believe his words – for overestimating was better than underestimating. Either way that changed nothing because she was already aware that the King was powerful. Whether his abilities were there in his blood or trained into him – he was still a Master of Magic.

And so the evening went on in that fashion, a conscious luxury on the girl's part. She earnestly believed in what they spoke but only for the early night, she would not believe it for the morrow. When the day would break anew – it would carry no expectations that its predecessor should have left behind. It was an indulgence on her side and very possible – on his as well, only that they differed (but perhaps not all that much – they were both play-pretending and deceiving, only that she was deceiving herself and he wasn't). She greedily stole the scrap of positivity (and it did not matter that it was an illusion because there would be no vestiges of any kind left tomorrow), a commodity she could not afford in the dreary forecast of her life. It was a small shard of happiness (but not hope, never hope) and she grasped it, even if it would make her hands bleed (they would bleed anyway).

There was no telling when and to which direction the axis that she precariously balanced on would swerve and throw her. But perhaps this was not as big an impossibility as it seemed. While everything else was shrouded by hazes that could not be pierced, it was not so illogical that he'd actually use her for this purpose. Because it would make little sense if he would ignore her true value as a healer and not abuse it for his gain. However she did not allow herself to dwell on that, it would be folly and it would be hope. She'd learnt long ago not to (truly) hope for anything.

The fact that she was even considering healing Ice Giants (even if just for tonight) made a part of her scream in a shrill, incessant voice. But there were too many imbedded directives in her that opposed one another and their squabbling was entirely unhelpful in any decision making (given if she could ever make a choice concerning anything, which seemed unlikely). Technically healing the enemy was betraying Asgard, but technically the Jotunn Prince was her husband, and technically she did not care at the moment. Because for the evening, just for the evening, everything had ceased to exist and had been buried, forgotten. They weren't talking as an Asgardian and a Jotunn, nor as King and Queen, and not even as husband and wife – all that was inexistent and hadn't ever existed as far as these hours were concerned. It was just a conversation between a healer and a party interested in her healing skills, nothing more – nothing less.

Alas bliss was never meant to last and it didn't wait for dawn to dissipate. A few words were enough to break the spell. He uttered them languidly but it seemed so quick and unexpected, as if she'd been physically struck. The illusion, built on tender faux-oblivion, shattered violently – enough so to cause the girl whiplash in the mental sense. His offhand, mundane phrase was all it took to bring her back to reality. The imaginary of healer and interested employer – was replaced by bitter truth. She returned back to the present, where he was King and she – his (captive) Queen, where the Ice Jotunn was her husband and she – his wife. Along with that, everything else returned – despair and fear, and everything else in-between.

It sounded like a mere suggestion but it truly wasn't that. Jotunheim's Ruler had noted that it was very late and that perhaps they should retire. But despite the phrasing, it was not up for debate. It was difficult to hide how distraught she was, her form was shaking slightly and the color had drained from her face. However the Vanir tried to keep her composure. The way the male had said it and the expression that he wore – was not contradicting the mood of just a few minutes ago. She did not know the motives underlying this evening (if there were any at all, it could have been just a fleeting fancy), however the fact remained that he had indulged her. It was something he did not have to do and with the evening's end – his demeanor did not take a drastic change.

Why this had happened and whether there was a solid reason beneath – was irrelevant. Sigyn still felt thankful and thought that she should not allow her treacherous mind to work in discord with that. Their true situation was not coddled by civil circumstances, however thus did not mean that she shouldn't answer his civility in kind.

With that in mind she answered with a nod and a shaky smile. It was a broken little thing, accompanied with barely-there shivers and tears in the corners of her eyes. If he noticed the lack of sincerity and the shakiness of her smile (of course he did) – he didn't mention it.

The trip was uneventful, accompanied only by mundane phrases and musings about the pleasant evening by the Monarch. It was merely a show of good manners, nothing truly relevant, which required only a nod here and there. It allowed her focus to scatter further, as she wasn't required to pay any honest attention to his words.

It was difficult to hold onto the slipping remnants of pleasantness, as every step brought only dread. Though her companion seemed to pay it no mind, continuing with the charade. Not that she disliked the upheld illusion (she hadn't the mind to have a preference), especially when any alternatives were too dark to consider.

And so they walked in what could be described as innocuous silence, which was only tense on the woman's side. And where their arms were interlinked, was the core of the cold paralysis that was quickly spreading to numb the rest of her limb.

It did not take them long to reach their destination. Soon they were standing in front of the entrance to the bedchamber (their bedchamber). And the image of the grand doors cast a foreboding feeling over her. He opened them without a word and led her inside.

They walked together deeper into the room, merely a half-dozen steps, before he came to halt. Only then did the Jotunn release her. As he separated their arms his hand briefly brushed hers. It was in demand, however soft, it was definitely that. It was a request of her attention (though the girl could not tell how she had deduced that), but with the disrupted interlacing of their limbs – her body seemed to have ceased to adhere to her will. It was as though the severing of a puppet's strings – and without her strings there was little she could do. The half-blood female turned her head slightly in his direction – an effort in its own right, forcing the Frost Giant male to take a half-step in order to catch her eyes.

The moment's duration escaped any viable means of measurement. She dared not look away and could not, that was somewhere beyond her abilities. But each time she blinked a strange lethargy would overtake her. As if keeping them closed would make him disappear, as if by doing so she would not have to look into those maliciously enigmatic red eyes. However her heart was what seemed to have vanished from existence, her heartbeat undetectable as seconds became eternities. She did not know whether it had stopped beating and she remained alive because of some inexplicable cruel folly of nature, or whether it was beating so fast that it had broken the sound barrier and that was the reason why she could no longer detect it.

He said not a word and kept on looking into her, creating a pressure inside her to answer questions unasked... She barely felt the pressure, the paralytic sensation that governed over her made her feel as though she was buried under cold waves, with the surface an immeasurable distance away. Whatever he was looking for he seemed to have found it. Without breaking the eye contact, the Master Magician waved his hand in an abrupt gesture and the doors shut themselves. The sound of them closing was neither loud nor startling, as it was more of an echo to her ears.

Whilst his quest to locate whatever it was that he sought remained a mystery, she found something which she had no wish to find. Somehow then she knew, a visceral knowledge, that her life would from now on belong to his whims. The fact was not new to her mind, it had simply been something she yearned not to comprehend. The realization forced active fear and dread back to her psyche, and disrupted the passivity that had her in thrall mere seconds prior. It was not something she thought that she'd miss, alas the depth of eternity was so much better than the harsh reality of the surface.

The Jotunn King moved away from her and walked from her line of sight. Sigyn felt him loom behind her, like cold oppressing darkness. Her body was petrified and her muscles became tense, they coiled and twisted so much that she thought that they were going to shrivel. He moved her hair, exposing her back. The very tips of his fingers played on her barely clothed shoulders, seemingly covering her skin in frost, raising gooseflesh along their traced paths. She felt minuscule, a doll he could manipulate with his little finger alone. The Vanir forgot how to breathe.

Then he shifted his attention, choosing to toy with the tiny buttons of her dress, tracing the velvety things. She couldn't tell whether it was only a whimsical game or whether he had undone any. The buttons were only on the lace overlay, not on the bodice of the gown itself – therefore their undoing could not loosen the whole garment. It took him never-ending minutes to get his fill of this pointless play and with its end he pressed a gruelingly long kiss to the juncture of her neck. It felt as though his kiss had managed to freeze the blood in her jugular vein, which then slowly infected the rest of her blood stream, causing agonizing cold to begin spreading languidly inside her.

He stood before her once more. The man moved on such silent feet that she could not even hear him. His fingers grasped her chin, to lift it so that he could meet her spring green eyes. And soon she was presented with that blood red gaze again, penetrating and unyielding. He pressed a deceitfully reverent kiss to her lips. Thankfully, it was relatively swift so her lack of response remained unnoticed.

His hand made a languid gesture and she felt the circlet disappear from her head. It was the second time the Sorcerer had removed the crown from her person, however this time a most vile association arose in her. In Asgard the husband always removed the wreath of flowers from his bride's head on the wedding night. That symbolized an important change in a female's life, the transition from girlhood to womanhood (though that was a more romanticized way of phrasing it, than the crude meaning it bore underneath). As she saw the silver circlet in his hands, the broken symbolism only intensified. Whether it was a mockery of tradition or not – mattered little, she was feeling ill for a different reason altogether.

The young Queen's mind was trying to flee far, far away. Between half-formed prayers to Norns that they spare her and attempts at maintaining a placid façade, she felt her psyche's desperate tries at distracting itself with details of no import. Like the hands of the Magician, whilst he made complex gestures of inhuman grace. And how his energy swirled about the floating headpiece, willing it to vanish from sight. Just like so, torn between ever-growing fright and a deliberately induced daze she observed as he did the same to his own crown.

That daze that fluctuated in her brain must have been potent, for she placed something that she had somehow not managed to before. The scent of his magic, which she had smelled always in his presence (whether she was consciously aware of that or not) and which was even present in the room with the green barriers (further testament that they were of his making). The herbal scent that she had noticed before was reminiscent of mint. However there was a second smell, which was probably to blame for her inability to discern the aforementioned. It was the scent of ice, no, not of fresh snow but of ice. Hard and unyielding – difficult to detect but so immensely powerful once it has been. Alas this revelation failed to soothe the frightened woman, it only gave reason for the cold that infested her body to strengthen.

In the span of a second she found herself in the arms of the royal Giant. The loss of gravity knocked the air out of her lungs, forcing a gasp to escape her throat. He held her as though she weighted nothing, making her feel as though she was transcendental – something unimportant to the physical world. She felt miniscule and had to bite back tears which threatened to spill just as her unwillingness to be in her skin grew a hundredfold. His slender physique and lean musculature belied the strength inherent to Jotunn blood. It was another reason she did not need – to fear her crimson-eyed husband.

He had to place his knee upon the gargantuan bed in order to lay her on the center as he did. She was lain down gingerly upon the monstrous mattress as the sheets separated themselves by his magic's bidding. The Ruler sat himself weightlessly beside her, seemingly so ethereal that his interference did not even disturb the physical plane. His body twisted in a snake-like manner (which appeared to cause him no difficulty) with the intention of facing her. His legs laid elegantly stretched in front of him, torso warped, with his sanguine orbs seeking hers like a vulture its dying prey.

As he bent down to kiss her, his hand found her jaw and took to cradling it. Every movement that he made from the moment they'd stepped into this darkened room was intentionally slow, bordering on lethargic. It was obvious even to her brain, which was drawing out seconds into hours. And despite her mind's dilemma, which was deliberating upon tearing itself and letting a large portion to fade away as to not be forced to live through this terror – lest it break her (though the psychological act itself would serve the very same purpose) she still noticed his delicate touch. Not that it mattered really, the theater of deceit that his whimsy played, especially when at any second the scene could change. His hand could tighten its hold at any moment, though she had the mind to consider it a fear-induced thought rather than something she knew for fact. Still, his tenderness would surely be forgotten as the night would progress.

The girl opened her mouth against the pressure of his, but whether she did it through reflex or conscious decision she could not discern. Regardless, she had to make at least the slightest of efforts, even as her hands twisted in the sheets in pure physical manifestation of hysteria. She attempted at kissing back (if it could be called that – the slight movement of her lips) as he pushed his tongue past her quivering lips. His slow pace hid well her pathetic attempts, though the effort required of her was grand – it proved insufficient against the mélange of inability and dread. The listlessly ravaging tongue was as cold as an ice cube placed in one's mouth, taken from icy tea on a hot summer's day. But it was not a hot summer's day and the ice cube was rather fleshy and quite alive.

Breaking the contact he still pressed a soft kiss to her bottom lip. And in a different place, at a different time, processed by a different, not a fear-living mind – it might have been reverent.

As he pulled away she became overwhelmed with the scent of his power. It grew so threateningly strong that an irrational fear overtook her. She believed the magic capable of scattering her into pieces; beyond skin and bone, beyond tissue and cell... And the ice-cold male's whim was enough to make her less than dust.

The hand left her jaw, it felt like it had frost-burned her skin where it touched but she did not think that a bruise had been left. Blue fingertips trailed down her neck, moving down ever-further. As they touched her dress, it rippled like water on her skin. The feeling of fabric turning into the sensation of metaphysical water as it parted around his digits and then transformed into heavy vapor. Light green eyes escaped the direct line of sight, unfocused and gazing somewhere over the far walls, physique shivering in sporadic and suppressed shivers, mind and psyche desperately needing distraction. The appendages stopped at her waist, where his hand sunk into the liquidized substance and came to rest there. His magic disintegrated her dress slowly and the languid wisps of smoke were but a reminder of what was recently solid and physical; her shoes and jewelry notwithstanding the enchantment induced law of decay.

The young woman's concentration pored into the smoke with its graceful and slow movement, she did not even notice when the man had come to loom over her. Her peripherals notified her of this, but they did not allow her the knowledge of whether his clothing had met the same fate as hers (and it was not something she needed to know). And the black shadow that shimmered somewhere on the edge of sight – was the black silken sheet that had come to cover him from lower-back down. The distraction of the smoky tendrils was great, if she had managed to miss his movement. She clung to it, as feeling the frosty ghosting of his fingertips on her ribcage more vividly was not a better alternative.

They were not dispersing; curious it would be if she were not as scared and plagued with subtle trembling occurring at irregular intervals. The bedchamber was dim but the shade-like silverine tendrils were easy to see. And there seemed to be a great deal more of the smoke than there should have been, it was beginning to fill the grand chamber as far as she could see. The wisps moving around in any direction they pleased, slower than possible – they refused to disperse. Along with their presence the scent of the Ice Giant's magic lingered. The smell of mint and ice was just as strong as before, even stronger than prior.

She recognized then what it was. It wasn't strange how long it took her to do so, as it was not something she'd seen countless times. Especially since Asgard was not brimming with magicians of high skill and the very nature of the Aesir was not elemental enough to cause such. The idling smoke was magic – that was an obvious truth, however it was not a conscious effort, it was not consciously cast.

It was not to be compared with how strong yet inexperienced individuals (such as children) with unstable magic often had it manifest unconsciously, instinctually. This only occurred with strong magicians, masters of a certain degree. The power that they emanated was like a compliment to their moods or something else; whatever the reason – it had to be intense. The Vanir female had seen it herself a bare few times, as her own grandfather's Lord Njord's anger had unconsciously forced deadly storms to rage over seas and twist flora into malicious and vindictive barbed vines.

The Jotunn Prince did the very same. His immense power was now leaking vast amounts of excess magic, enough so to be witnessed with bare eyes. Though whatever caused these wispy mists to actually manifest and refuse to disperse – she was not aware. All that she knew was that these tendrils of smoke were wreaking havoc in seemingly benevolent ways without the explicit bidding of their Frost Giant conjurer.

As his hands continued tracing her skin, she realized in horror that she was fully naked. Remembering her situation, she understood that she could not close her eyes and will herself to escape this. Sigyn met his eyes – they were calm and a slight smirk played on his lips. She kept his gaze, though she desperately wished not to, but she was not to displease him – and it was the most effort she could muster for that heinous endeavor. He forced his mouth upon hers once more, this time more forcefully though without using any wanton speed. The motion made his hair fall down and isolate them in dark cascades, as his tongue seemed to push itself down her throat. Sickness overtook her, even though in reality his tongue was nowhere near deep enough to trigger that reflex.

Though it was against everything she was taught, she could not possibly cease her anguished pleas. She pleaded in her mind to wake form this nightmare. Alas if there were any beings capable of bringing this divine intervention – they remained unhearing.

She felt him move, whilst pulling away from the terrifying kiss. Even though his body did not touch hers, his motions were obvious due to the temperature of his body brushing hers like wind. When her eyes opened she saw that he had placed his hair behind his shoulder, so that it would not act so waywardly again. His hand snaked behind her head but it felt as if he had squeezed her heart in his palm instead. Tilting it, he bared her throat. Fear trickled down her spine in cold perspiration – it appeared as though he was preparing to tear her throat out. However instead of jagged teeth she felt a cold and wet tongue scaling her neck, moving from the hollow of her throat towards her chin.

Slowly his hand retreated, allowing her head to rest on the pillow in a more natural position. His mouth however strayed back to her neck, kissing and licking as he saw fit. Icy palms found her torso and splayed themselves to frame her ribcage, their span nearly enough to clasp her. His tiny, Vanir doll – an alien voice mocked her. Please, she thought to herself and half-hoped to die.

The King's lips moved lower still. Travelling down between her small breasts, until his mouth took a swerve. He pressed soft and slow kisses on the underside of her breast, as he did so he raised his crimson orbs to find hers. He pulled away and his eyes met hers and then moved downwards. The embarrassment and terror were too much, she forgot how to breathe and had to repress tears, which were ever-threatening to run down her cheeks.

One of his hands, with its spidery digits, slithered beneath her back. He used it to manipulate her into and arc, forcing her torso to rise. Then his mouth descended onto the gooseflesh-ridden skin of her breast. It elicited a barely audible cry (more of a gasp intermixed with a squeak); the action and the shock were indescribable. It did not end there however, his cold mouth sucked on her breast slowly and torturously. At times with the variation of grazing with his teeth at the taunt areola.

She did not know how long that lasted; panic and fear – were ill suited aids for time comprehension. When it seemed that he had enough of the pointless, vile play, releasing her with a disgusting wet sound – he went on to do the same to the other. Teeth, tongue and lips resumed with the task, having already left the previous taunt, tender and bruised.

When he finally released her, she kept her gaze to the ceiling. Perhaps she did so because she wished to keep her vision trained on somewhere beyond, looking heavenward, through distances of cosmos too vast to image, in some vain hopes that it along with her incomprehensible prayers – strings of broken please, please, please, please would reach the Norns who were weaving the tapestries of fate. Or perhaps she did so because her countenance was shattering too much to retain even an illusion of equanimity. Whichever it was did not matter, as long as it saved her from incurring her husband's wrath.

The tremors that shook her naked and defenseless body had nearly ceased, however the tenseness was loath to abate. The Ice Jotunn appeared to have taken note of her rigidity. His touch startled the Vanir girl. He caressed her shoulders lightly, as though in an attempt to quell her. If that was his purpose – it fell flat, as her muscles became even further coiled, threatening to crush bones. He halted his feather-like touches and kissed her softly; not like he had before – this time it was a brief press of his lips to hers. The motion dissuaded her from that assumption – if he had noticed her state, he had not scrutinized it and therefore had no reason to take offence.

His hand grasped her thigh, its width nearly fully clasped. And the man had no need to be the size of a giant to make her miniscule. It had been difficult to comprehend the deficiency in strength her stature gave her – when one was almost invisible and mostly irrelevant. Neither had a battlefield made her so aware of thus; she'd never been a primary target there and stature had no relevancy where danger was universal. But this was less than a fleeting thought as his wandering hands and lips were within the spotlight of her mind. Not once did the male looming over her make a motion that spoke of haste, it was as though the concept of time was inexistent to him.

The female did not know when or how her legs had been moved. Whether he did that himself or she simply complied – was lost as far as her memory recalled. It seemed that the rules time had broken no longer applied to cognizance as well. She did not have a spare moment to be shocked by this – as something much more disturbing occurred. Ice touched her between her spread legs, and it might have been a finger – but it did not feel like living flesh. Sliding between the slit and pressing insistently. She did not know why and all that there was – was fear. It did not end there (though how long that lasted no one could tell), as his fingers slid lower and lower. Intent on penetrating her core with the same insistence and languidness.

That was all the young woman's psyche could take – time and memory existed no more. His kiss broke the spell, as though in a long-forgotten fairytale (but if this was a fairytale – then it was more twisted and sick than any sane imagination could conjure). She became aware that his hand had moved away. It was a blessing, but she despaired – it did not last long enough. Neither mind nor body could recall that unspeakable act, merciful emptiness had replaced those minutes. No, not quite replaced – as her mind had fled and returned only now, therefore what happened had never been experienced even though it had happened. The Vanir hadn't fainted, she knew she had not truly blacked out – it was an open-eyed loss of consciousness.

Each of his kisses seemed to punctuate the crippling anguish inside her. Sigyn choked, and her mouth opened soundlessly, she did not know whether it was from his heavy form blanketing hers or him pushing his way inside of her. Wanting to beg for the blackness to steal this as well – but having no true ability to string thought through fear and agony. Her body was being torn in two, ever so slowly. It felt as though she was being speared with an icicle. She didn't have an ounce of strength in her to school her features, and Norns, Norns... At least his face was hidden somewhere in the pillows beside her so the King could not see. Filling her ear with heavy, strained breathing that she did not register. But what the girl did not hear, he didn't either. Pitiful whimpers that held no more sound than her lungs seem to hold air. And if it wasn't his weight that was the thief, then it was her unbeating heart that had wedged itself in her throat.

And he kept pushing forward still. She could not see through the veil of tears gathering in her eyes and the world she saw seemed to have filled with thickened smoke that was his magic. And the inward movement did not seem to know an end, as he pushed his freezing flesh through tense and resisting muscle, seemingly intent on undoing every seam inside her body. Making the tiny Vanir aware of an orifice that hadn't existed before and forcing himself in it, much as the thought was forcing itself inside her head that her physique had not been created to accommodate anything like this.

Time went and went, alas it did not move at all. Her core tearing and him just cleaving it in half. Something snapped and her body twisted beneath him, yet there was no escape and she couldn't curl away from him. And the Jotunn did not appear to have noticed as he continued, as though he'd break any barrier and it wouldn't, couldn't be enough; as though he'd keep on shredding until he could crawl into her flesh. And each moment past the woman thought she could not take much more a-a-and something would burst – but each time she was wrong and that piece of ice just kept on moving deeper.

An eternity passed, lost forever, when it finally stopped. Her husband was still, but it did not feel like he was. The motion just kept on repeating in pain, over and over, nerves alit with quick-fire repeats – as her physical form could not forget. Her core was full, too full, of him, of agony, of ice.

Minutes disguised as hours went by. Long enough for the phantom motion to fade, not long enough to will the hurt into nothingness. The Vanir could not feel her heart beating nor hear her own breath – for all that she knew, the moment had stopped at a standstill. However now that her eyes were not filled with tears, threatening to spill, she could see more clearly. The movement of the manifested magic – of the smoke – was the only testament that time had not ceased to exist.

He shifted. Blood colored eyes met those of spring green leaves. She wanted to look away but couldn't. Her countenance was placid, more so from shock than effort. His lips and tongue plundered her mouth. She felt the Frost Giant Ruler begin pulling away from her core, so slowly that she felt every millimeter of the icy agony of purest torture. It seemed to be splitting her body once more, it was as though he was dragging himself along a fresh, bleeding wound – both inside and outside of her physical self. The pain would have made her form twist beneath him, whimpers pour from her throat into his greedy maw – but she was petrified. The newly crowned Queen was still and silent as the King's body laid hers to waste.

And when the backward motion finally stopped, it had been long enough to have disrupted his kiss many a time, for sharp intakes of breath. Yet even that was not lacking in grace, nothing seemed to be enough to make the Monarch function with any less than perfection.

Just as slowly, incomprehensibly slowly, he pushed his length back into her rigid flesh. The tautness only accentuating the frostbitten torment. Though her physique was paralytic, it retained all feeling and that was sharpened tenfold. The young woman realized that the architectural patterns that adorned the man's skin were not exempt from any part of his anatomy, and the ridges on his hardened flesh chafed her raw insides like broken glass. The pain-fueling sensation left her mouth agape, though her throat only bore silence.

As time passed transcending the name of eternity, his pace had not hastened by much. Each movement remaining languid, outdrawn and seemingly effortless. The monotony never knew a moment of sweet relief from pain, only aguish and fear. It was only ever disrupted by pointlessly, whimsically wandering male hand or mouth – and overall remained unchanging.

The girl remembered snippets of innocently overheard conversations, complaints from noblewomen of their forlorn love-lives. She'd heard woeful words about husbands that lasted bare minutes – and she'd never thought that intercourse lasted very long. Alas, as much as she may have wished it – this seemed not something to encompass Jotunheim's King, an abnormality many would have celebrated spoke only of dread to her. Even though right now to her time was a fragile concept, her ability to register it was not truly damaged. It was not mere minutes that have passed, the borderline into hour has long since been broken. It felt like millennia but it had been hours, though to determine exactly was beyond her capacity.

The hand that grasped her thigh, from when he had hoisted her leg on his hip (changing the angle to all new shades of suffering), left its vigil post to aid in holding his weight above. The Ice Jotunn's movement inside the Vanir remained unchanging and unrelentingly slow, but some kind of difference was beginning to bleed through. His hand began clenching the pillow, the crunching feathers within sounding like footsteps on snow. His breath brushed her cheek in powerful, broken gusts of winter.

A creaking sound was wrenched out of her throat as his pace broke, pushing in deeply and hitting the woman's cervix. She heard the pillowcase tear. He made several deep uncoordinated, shuddering thrusts and her core was overflown with liquid freezing cold. The fullness slowly receded but the shocking cold spilled within her remained.

The Frost Giant Leader remained unmoving for a long while, and she listened to his breathing evening out. His body slipped easily from the cradle of hers as he moved away with deep-rooted heaviness, to lie down beside her over-stressed form. It left her core feeling hollow and throbbing, yet obviously filled with his climax.

When he moved to take her into his arms, only then did the female's body respond. The female latched onto the male, settling herself firmly against him, her head pillowed on his chest. And she would not have moved so, would not have craved the contact so – only she did, and he was the only one who could give that. He had caused her that unspeakable hurt, he should have been the last one for her to turn to without effort or thought. Sigyn needed the comfort, needed to be held as though someone's arms could protect her. She had rarely ever had anyone to console her, someone to coddle her – and now that was all that her being wanted, more ardently than ever before. He was the aggressor, yet she took comfort from him with avarice unspoken. And he held her, and it was an illusion of safety, but she wanted it so badly it hurt. The lie was potent enough to make her forget every important fact.

Coverlets and furs appeared, blanketing her further; even the man whose arms were loosely wrapped around her seemed warmer than before. The lights went out on the Master Magician's whim, but she wasn't aware enough to notice. The newly found warmth began easing her shivers, alas the cold inside her remained, seeping out and staining her thighs. The throbbing echoes of pain began receding, numbed by the freezing seed spilled inside her core.

If any stray tears touched the Ruler's skin, he gave no sign. The Queen did not have the strength to think, much less to fight the upcoming oblivion of sleep.

A/N

This chapter contains dub-con, as in dubious consent in the context of sexual relations.

I wanted to get this posted as quickly as I can, therefore I have foregone any lengthy explanations concerning the material or the exact warning that applies. I hope that my readers are mature enough and understand the material that they are reading, so that any lengthy explanations are not necessary.

That being said, if any questions do arise – I welcome them fully. However, complaints and angry tantrums only show the incompetence of a reader, the warnings have been given in sufficient quantity, ignoring them is by no means the fault of the writer.