Gunnhild stood in King Ivar's throne room. Her surroundings served as a testament to the man's many successes in England. Like his father before him, he too had once known the gods favor. Whether that still held true remained to be sighted. His transgressions against their Most High called for more than an explanation on his and his wife's part. It called for a bloody turn about to balance the scales. For the offenses whispered of him turned her bowels.
Did King Ivar truly believe himself to be a god or his Saxon whore of a wife to be the rightful Supreme? She'd heard much spoken of Ivar the Boneless' cleverness. Yet what she'd learned of him from the spy contradicted all of the sagas she'd heard song in his name. Had King Ivar's perceived impressiveness set aside his intelligence? Was madness the wage one forfeited when they gained the affection of the divine?
Gunnhild's stare swung to the life size likeness of their Supreme. In verity the deity presented an unusual comeliness. With her verdant eyes and burnished-ochre hued skin she undoubtedly claimed the passions and hearts of a great many kings, jarls, and earls alike. Gunnhild had arrived in York after the Most High, King Ivar, and Lord Hvitserk sailed back to Norway. So she'd never had the opportunity to become acquainted with her. Yet her name crossed the lips of countless warriors and shieldmaidens. They song sagas dedicated to her uncommon beauty. Many boasted of the way she moved on the battlefield. While others alluded to her matchless prowess in the bed chambers. More times than not, she often pondered if such claims were exaggerated. She prayed to the gods her ponderings had the right of it. For how could she, a mere woman, ever compete?
Gunnhild never believed herself a jealous woman. This belief of herself still held true. Jealousy was a useless emotion which served no one well. Especially the one who thought to indulge in the art of envy. Asides, she'd never bear spite for any of her goddesses, gods, nor Supreme. And though she knew Bjorn's heart to be devoted to their Most High she still shouldered no resentment towards her. She was bred to love each one of her deities. Yet a small part of her. A sliver of herself she deigned not to acknowledge ached. For she knew her beloved's true motivations for wanting to wage war against King Ivar. He wanted to reclaim his Mystical One. Only a bit of his ambition aspired to be named king of Kattegat.
The opening of the door to the throne room wrenched her away from her ponderings. King Harald entered. If the sight of her there took him unawares his face offered her no evidence to such a verity. For he entered the grand room and joined her in front of the likeness. Silently, he gazed up at the rendering. The expression upon his face as he stared bespoke indifference. The burning in unflinching stare in which he beheld their Supreme, however, spoke of something else.
"Will you be entering into matrimony with Ironside before or after we sail for Norway?" He questioned without removing his eyes from the image who appeared to mock them with her verdant stare alone.
"This is something of which I know not." She studied the cut and structure of his face. He wasn't as striking as the one destined to belong to her, but Harald would indeed make a good husband to any woman fortunate enough to enter into marriage with him. "Bjorn has not asked me to join him in matrimony."
King Harald tore his stare from the Supreme's likeness to regard her. "Don't hold Ironside's oversight against him. He's not seen enough summers to be minded for anything other than seeking out greatness."
"And yet Midgard already recognizes him as one of the greatest men to ever thrive."
Condescension burst from his eyes and emboldened his taunting smile. "Midgard's thoughts of a man's greatness is never in balance with a man's thoughts of himself. If ever this was a verity, then all would know him as no more than just a man. For greatness rarely ever resides in the company of the unaspiring, and Ironside's gaze still holds the glint of the ambitious. Myself, however," His stare left hers once more to return to their Supreme. "have come to place value on other aims aside from my conquest to become king of all Norway."
"To what other aims do you refer, King Harald?" Curiosity tilted her head to the side as she attempted to discern his affections for their Most High. Her searching stare flitted from him to the likeness and back.
"My wife and child perished during the Great Civil Battles. My brother also met his end upon the same battlefield." His lips pressed together as if he meant to keep any further revelations locked within his mouth. After a few lingering moments, he released a breath, and then continued. "Anger and jealousy provoked me to murder my brother. The only family I had in Midgard." His head dipped in a nod. "Now I must make amends to his memory and honor his last request."
She attempted to hold firm to her emotions, while not thinking too harshly of the king for his actions. "Amends? What possible atonement do you believe would offer amends for such an offense?"
"When we dethrone Ivar I shall marry our Supreme," he said as his stare continued to caress the woman in question. "Being queen of all Norway will secure her impending risings. And although I find her…provoking, in time I'm more than certain I shall come to favor having her at my side."
Surprise snatched air from Gunnhild's lungs but hope breathed life back into her. If King Harald married the Supreme then such actions liberated her path to continue on as Fate predetermined.
"You must excuse me, King Harald," she said already backing away from him.
Barely acknowledging her he continued to gaze up at the smirking image of their Most High as he waved about a hand to grant her dismissal. She spun about and sought her leave of the throne room. As she hurried away a notion took root within her head. So she went to her quarters to enhance herself before seeking out Bjorn. There in her personal chambers she wiped the cracks and creases of her body. She scrubbed smudges of dirt from her face, breasts, and arms. Once clean, she dabbed rose water between the crevices of her bosom and behind her ears.
After donning her best silken garb she turned to righting her hair. With dedicated vigor she brushed her mane to a glossy shine, and then fashioned the tendrils into intricate braids. Her gaze then scoured the looking glass to inspect her appearance. When she deigned herself too handsome to be denied she hurried from the room. On the way to Bjorn's quarter's she visited the scullery to load a platter with the boar from the previous eve. She then resumed her trek to her destination.
When she arrived at Bjorn's chambers, she slammed her clenched hand against his door. Her heart lurched upwards to pound within the center of her gullet. Fear made a mockery of her boldness. What if he turned her away? What if he denied her in spite of their paths being fashioned together as one?
"Enter!" He growled from within the room.
Pausing for a moment, Gunnhild took several gulps of air. She then released one breath after the other in a slow steady stream. Once she reclaimed a semblance of calmness she then entered the room. Bjorn stood at the open window staring out at the countryside. He appeared too beautiful to be a mere mortal. Many believed him to be a demigod. She, however, knew him to be something more. A god of a man who belonged in Asgard at the right hand of the All-Father.
Unable to continue feigning indifference, her eyes slipped over him. Bjorn donned a silken robe which he left unbelted. His glorious chest tempted her sight with stimulating figments, while his taut sinewy gut incited the pads of her fingers. She wanted nothing more than to trace those tapering cut to perfection muscles down into the depths of his trousers. Just pondering the serpent which dwelled within the shadows of those loose fitting wears, filched the moisture from her mouth.
He turned to run his brilliant hued stare over the length of her. A frown gathered his brows as he crossed the chamber to close the distance between them. "Where have you been?"
She placed the platter on the dining table, and then cut him a piece of meat. Offering him the morsel, she answered. "With King Harald."
"Hmm, you resided within his company just as you are now?" He asked, before leaning forward to pluck the meat from the point of the blade with his mouth, never relinquishing her gaze from his. "Do you believe yourself in love with King Harald or him with you?"
Her shoulder rose, and then fell. "King Harald's interests lies elsewhere. Once you both reclaim Kattegat it is his mind to marry the Supreme." The half chewed piece of meat slipped from his gaping mouth. She placed the knife back in the platter to cross the room to the window. "Though he may think his ambitions are honor inspired, I believe his true aspirations are provoked by love."
"Ack!" Bjorn snatched another chunk of meat from the platter. "Those aspirations will never bear fruit."
Annoyance planted her knuckles on her hips. "What say do you have in what transpires between a King of Norway and our Most High?"
"As Bonnie's imminent husband I have much say. Asides, Harald's nonsensical desires regarding Bonnie is senseless and will never be returned," he blustered between bites and smacks. Bits of meat managed to escape his mouth, replacing themselves in his beard. "For mere men as Harald and Halfdan are not fashioned to withstand the affections or embrace of such a raging blaze as my Mystical One."
Her chin rose as her nostrils flared. "So if you're to marry our Most High then am I, a mere woman, meant to marry King Harald the mere man? Or, are you even minded of what becomes of me?"
Pity contorted his features into an unbecoming vision of remorse. He tossed the remaining meat in his hand back on the platter and wiped his hands clean on the silken material of his trousers.
"Gunnhild, I care for you. This is true," she spun away from him as his tone took a contrite turn, "but I've cared for many before you. Yet my heart has only ever belonged to one." Tears trickled from her eyes as she gazed out the window. An instant later she felt his breath disturb the hair at the nape of her neck. "I'm sorry, but in this you must trust me. I have loved that woman long before I ever knew her."
Though his words ravaged her from mind to essence, she remained faithful. Swallowing the agony his confession inflicted, she surged forward to conquer the man gifted to her by Fate. "I'm aware the Supreme holds possession of your heart." She turned about to gaze into his mind addling eyes. "Yet I'm also aware, whether you dare to admit or naught, I have your love." Leaning forward she grazed her lips over his. His breath caught as his arms slipped about her waist. "For I hear echoes of it in every utterance you whisper to me and I feel the force of it each time you place your hands upon me." She ripped down his trousers and took his twitching manstand in her hands. A groan tumbled from his lips as he gathered her skirts around her hips. "Now tell me," she whispered, while nipping at his bottom lip and awarding his prick a squeezing pull. "Tell me you love me, Ironside."
"Ugh! Why must you insist upon traveling down this path!" Another groan met her ears as he shoved the platter down the table to lift her upon the wooden platform. "Of course I love you. Something in me thunders for you, and it has since the moment we faced each other upon the battlefield. Yet loving you and professing it to be so is not the grievance you must overcome." He entered her, filling her in a way her first husband always failed at doing.
Gunnhild leaned back on the table to rest a leg on his shoulder and wrap her other around his waist. She used the grip she had around his waist to drag him closer. "Then what grievances must I—hmm…must I overcome?"
"I—ooohhh…by the gods woman!" He lurched forward to grip her hips and drag her hind quarters to the edge of the table in order to deepen his thrusts. "Your sheath should reside among the many halls of the Aesir."
She clenched the muscles of her kunta around his manstand. "Tell me you love me!"
"I love you!" He gasped, while lifting her from the table.
Clinging to him, she demanded of him once more. "Again."
"I love you, Gunnhild…I do," He rasped out. He laid her upon the bed, and then pressed open mouth caresses upon her bosom. "My only hope is that it will be enough."
Hvitserk entered the hall of King Olaf the stout with a few of the warriors from his forces. He'd managed to amass a modest army over the previous moon cycle since he departed from Kattegat. They'd rode through an ice storm to arrive there. Many among them nigh loss their fingers and the tips of their noses to the frigid bite of frost. Yet by the favor of the gods all of their bits managed to remain intact. Now the difficult task of convincing King Olaf to align with him instead of Ivar still loomed before him. For Ivar had become famous by means which his people respected and honored. Hence why half of Kattegat's citizens believed him to be a god. Though unlikely his endeavor may yet prove, Hvitserk still intended to sway the Stout to his side.
Inside a man who appeared to have been pilfered for a better part of his size greeted him with a sharpened edge of an ax and a glower perhaps more threatening than the blade. "Who are you and why have you come here?"
"I am Hvitserk Lothbrok, son of Ragnar Lothbrok." A collection of gasps and hissing whispers bandied about the hall. He cast a gaze over the many faces as he unbelted his cloak. "I've come to attend your king Olaf the Stout. Now go fetch him, it is of great import we speak."
"I care not for whom you claim yourself to be!" The man brandished his ax, while his voice soared with each word he spoke. "No one enters this hall and makes demands-,"
"Canute." The horde birthed forth a cloaked figure. The stranger placed a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "This is the warrior for whom I've waited."
Canute's doubting eyes stretched wide enough to misplace themselves from his head. "Him?"
The stranger's head bobbed, before turning to him. "Follow me."
Hvitserk gestured for his men to await him there, and then trailed the stranger from the hall. Outside the cloaked figure led them onto a pathway which trekked out of the city into the forest.
Hvitserk waited until they reached the cover of the overbrush. He then hauled the stranger into a tree and placed the sharpened edge of his ax to his gullet. "Why do you wait for me and who spoke to you of my arrival?"
"I'm here to aid you. I've already convinced King Olaf to join his army with yours to overthrow Ivar." The stranger's voice remained quiet and unconcerned. "And I knew you'd come because Ayana assured me you would."
"Ayana?" The name not only resonated power, but it also gave him pause. He snatched the cloak from the warrior's head. Bjorn's stepson's indifferent face greeted his sight. Returning his ax to the place at his waist, he backed away from Guthrum. "When last we met I nigh buried my blade in your chest. Not many warriors can boast of surviving the bite of my blade. So why place yourself in a fool's peril by seeking me out?" The boy's indifferent stare persisted without the benefit of an answer. Yet he didn't need one. "Hmm, your affections for Bonnie must have grown since the summers when I knew you best."
"Come, there's much to discuss with King Olaf this eve," Guthrum said, pulling himself from the tree and righting his cloak. "If we depart from here by the next rising we shall cross paths with King Harald's and Bjorn's army. Then we'll have all the forces we need to reclaim Kattegat and liberate the Supreme."
Hvitserk nodded and extended a hand for Guthrum to lead the way to Olaf. Though it wasn't lost on him his nephew by marriage neglected to acknowledge his question, he decided to horde away such talks for a later time.
Another scream tore from Freydis. Ivar cringed. His grip on his chalice tightened. He squeezed his eyes shut. Her cries throughout childbirth grated on him. Though he knew pain as no other, the agony which now engaged his wife spun far beyond his realm of perception. He doubted even the damned within the halls of the Christian hell could bear testament to such suffering. His stare crept to the bed as his cup replaced itself at his mouth. Blood stained the crevices of her gaping thighs, while her hair fell in tangles about her face and shoulders. He gulped down a great bit of the ale in his tumbler. Yet the ease he sought still eluded him.
Freydis' handmaidens fussed about her. The women had been forced into the roles of mid-wives, since the high priests and the high priestesses refused to attend them. They believed doing so would provoke the wrath of their Most High. Bonnie's show of force and clemency reinforced her claim as Supreme in his people's eyes. The offerings at the gates of her keep doubled each rising. In turn their city flourished. The marketplace bustled with trade once more. Structures which had been no more than piles of ash now loomed in a restored state. Meat filled the larders, while yield all but burst from the newly mended store houses. Once again Kattegat shone as a jewel to be coveted by all. If truth were to be touted, the city reminded him of the times when his mother reigned as queen.
The screeching wail of a babe tore him from his musings. The robust sound flooded him with so much pride he nigh missed the disturbed glances which passed between Freydis' handmaidens.
"What is it?" He demanded shifting his glare between the two. Brenna refused to meet his gaze, while Ingrid busied herself with cleaning the babe and swathing him in scraps of cloth.
Once Ingrid completed her task her unwavering stare met his. "You have a son, King Ivar."
"Baldur," Freydis cooed from her place on the birthing chair.
"Bring him to me." Doubt fled from his head as he held out his arms for his son. "Bring me my son."
Ingrid crossed the room with the babe clutched to her chest. Once before him, she placed the squirming bundle in his arms. He removed the coverings from his son's face and nigh dropped him. His boy had the head of a pig, and the body of a babe. He didn't understand! Your tongue claims to know the truth of the many untruths of your covenant mate, and yet it still lies. For it speaks without the full support of your mind and heart. However you may rest assured all three will soon reach an accord when you cast your gaze upon the babe she pushes into Midgard. Bonnie's forewarning filled his mind and convicted him.
"I want my baby!" Freydis purred.
Brenna had washed his wife and assisted her into bed. Furrows and creases overran the elder handmaiden's features as she fussed with Freydis' hair. "Qu—Freydis, I don't believe the babe will be able to take your breast."
"Give me my baby!" Freydis knocked the woman's fidgeting hands away.
With much haste he pushed the horrendous babe into Ingrid's arms. For a moment he believed a malicious amusement lit her normally submissive stare. However his addled mind must've misplaced his discerning. Upon a much closer glance she appeared as docile as ever and the babe, unfortunately, still donned the face of a beast.
He beckoned Ingrid closer. When the woman leaned forward to attend him, he whispered, "Place a sleeping drought in my wife's mead. She should rest after such a harrowing task."
Ingrid inclined her head before turning about to cross the room to Freydis. She placed the beast in his wife's arms and the foolish woman carried about as if Baldur were the most handsome babe in all of Midgard. Was her sight unseeing?
"Did I not tell you our son would be divine, My King?" Freydis questioned as she beamed down at the beast the gods had sent to mock him.
He lifted the chalice to his lips and guzzled down the contents. "You spoke to me of a great many things, Freydis queen no more or is it queen never were?"
"Why are you behaving as such?" She attempted to cut him with a glare which he barely noted. "Do you believe him to be the by-blow of another god? Although there was once a time Odin attempted to lift my skirts I assure you, Baldur is yours. Just look at him!" She lifted the beast to meet his sight. "He's your exact likeness."
A snort sounded from where her handmaidens lingered, but each appeared to be emersed in their tasks to the point of unawareness. Instead of endearing him, her words served as a taunt. The rebellious citizens of Kattegat had all but named him lord of the swine when they'd shoved the head of a pig onto the idol fashioned in his image. If any of those remaining agitators ever sighted the beast who Freydis insisted was his issue their beliefs of him would be more than confirmed in their small minds. The babe couldn't be allowed to thrive.
"Freydis!" He said with more force than he intended. Taking his breathing well in hand, he tried for a kinder tone. "Perhaps you should attempt to give yourself over to slumber. After birthing…our son into Midgard you deserve a respite."
She offered him a smile, and then her gaze returned to the beast. "I will in time."
His pointed stare hurtled to Ingrid who dipped her head before hurrying forth with a chalice. Freydis accepted the goblet without tearing her glance from her monstrous creation. A half turn of an hour glass after drinking the mead she surrendered to slumber. He dismissed her handmaidens and then took the babe from Freydis' embrace. After fashioning a sling, he strapped Baldur to his chest, and forewent his crutch in favor of slithering through his old secret pathways. Doing so brought him to the forest sooner than his two ever weakening legs could carry him.
Once in the forest he place the beast by a gnarled stump. He stared down at the be—babe, attempting to sense the connection he'd sensed with Faith. Yet not a single affection bloomed within him. Though the babe's essence felt familiar it wasn't familial. Perhaps a family of swine would come upon his unsightly form and decide to foster him. The babe's banishment did not have to mean certain death. With that final thought settling his mind, he departed.
Ingrid watched the boneless king place the babe next to a severed tree. He showed no remorse for such a callous act. No fare-the-wells crossed his lips. One would believe a man would have at least an utterance to speak to a babe he'd committed to seeing into Midgard without a ponderance to the wage. For Goddess sake, he'd plunged his blade through the chest of their Most High, his fated mate! Since a child she'd always knew the boneless one as cruel. Now she also knew him as the fleshy bag of shit who lacked a heart.
When Ivar slithered beyond her sight, she stepped from the shadows into the moonlit clearing. She crossed the expanse, pricking her thumb on the point of blade at her waist as she went. Once she towered over the squirming bundle she stooped down and scooped the babe into her arms. She then swiped her dripping digit across his forehead and whispered an incantation to reverse the wildling banal spell she'd placed upon him at birth. Within moments the illusion of a pig head faded into the enchanting sight he'd been before she'd placed the spell.
"Come, Wilbur," she whispered to the babe. "We mustn't keep our Supreme waiting."
The babe cooed his agreement.
Ubbe unbelted his tunic for his impending fight with King Frodo. His ponderings drifted over the previous Solstice Cycle. Much had changed for him since sailing for those shores. The gods of his father were no longer his. He no longer thought of the king of Wessex as his enemy. In verity he now believed Alfred to be a friend. Over the passing moons he'd grown to respect the young king and even accepted his religion as his own. Yet as settled as things should've been, Bjorn's departure from Winchester stirred doubts within his essence. His elder brother's leave taking had awakened a longing he couldn't seem to fulfill.
"What troubles your thoughts, Ubbe?" Torvi questioned as she assisted him out of the tunic.
He gazed at the many warriors who bustled about the camp from the open view of the covering. "Are you settled with our decision to forsake our gods and become Christians?"
"For now we've done what we must," she answered, moving to stand next to him. "But it's my belief in time Fate will have the right of it. No matter the roundabout way we travel our path shall greet her intended end just the same."
He turned to regard his wife. Torvi was wise far beyond her summers. "When I spoke with King Harald the rising before the battle, he attempted to convince me to join with him in retaking Kattegat from Ivar."
"What?" Her pale brows buckled.
He snatched his stare away unable to continue looking her in the eyes as he confessed more truth he'd withheld from them all. "He even went as far as to offer not to engage in battle with Wessex if we all chose to sail for Norway with him."
"Ubbe!"
"You do understand why I chose to remain silent?" He turned back to her and took her face in his hands. She gazed up at him with a wide stricken golden stare. "We gave our vow to King Alfred and he'd already poised his army for an attack. My talks with Harald was no more than a deception to lend our warriors time to surround him while he languished about in his camp unprepared and unawares."
"Did King Harald reveal what set him against King Ivar?" She reached up to cover one of his hands with hers.
"No," his eyes slipped closed. "Yet he now bears the mark of Bonnie's trusted. So I have my suspicions what may have provoked the conflict."
"Bonnie?" Confusion further wrinkled the skin between her brows. "You believe her to be the end to his means to retake Kattegat? But she despised King-,"
"Torvi I may stand upon the threshold of my final moments on Midgard. Yet I know not at which gates I linger!" He tore his hands from her face in favor of pacing the tent. "Is it Heaven…Valhalla, or neither. For I've betrayed one and haven't fully turned my heart to the other."
"You must halt in these ponderings, Ubbe!" She growled, stepping into his path to cease his pacing. "They will not serve you well before this fight and this is one fight in which you must triumph! For many lives, English and Viking alike, shall be lost if you fail to bring about the end of one."
"Ubbe," King Hemming said, halting at the edge of the covering. "It's time."
He nodded to the Danish king before turning to his wife. She placed a palm to the center of his chest. "It matters not the outcome, Ubbe. I shall always remain at your side."
Warmth radiated within his chest beneath the place her hand rested. He leaned down to plunder her mouth with his, and then turned to follow King Hemming from the covering. The king led him to the center of camp where a horde gathered. There his opposition waited in the middle of the fighting circle. When he entered, he dipped his head to King Frodo who in turn did the same.
"This fight shall be a fight to the death," King Hemming declared. The horde roared and beat their weapons against their shields in approval. "If Ubbe wins then King Angantyr and I along with King Frodo's people will settle upon the lands of East Anglia. Yet should King Frodo win, then we shall attack Wessex." His stone like stare drifted from him to King Frodo. "Are we all of one accord in this?"
"Yes," they agreed.
"May the gods favor the man whose path aligns with their plans," King Hemming said, before exchanging a pointed look with King Frodo and then turning to seek his leave of the circle.
After the high priest sprinkled sacred blood upon both their heads. The drums sounded for the fight to commence. From there the fight ensued. King Frodo showed he lacked fear for him by foregoing his right to claim his shield. Instead he wielded his sword as a berserker, while swinging his hands as mallets. The Danish king beat him into mindlessness with fists that could've been likened to boulders. Though outmatched, Ubbe refused to offer King Frodo a defeat drenched in ease. He exchanged the giant of a man, blade for blade and blow for blow.
By the time they both lay broken and bloody in the middle of the fighting circle, he knew each rattling breath he breathed to dwell within the company of his last. He'd soon greet his end. He knew this better than he knew himself to be the second eldest son of Ragnar. As his awareness drifted from this life to the next a spark of memories ignited the fading embers of his mind. Flashing memories of the woman he'd loved longer than any other flickered with brilliance in and out of his head. From the memory of the moment she'd pilfered his heart from his chest to the recollection of the time she'd torn it to bits before his sight. It all unfurled before him in a wonderous tapestry.
Images of her continued to assault his mind's eye. Even moments he'd never witnessed. Ubbe experienced every one of her triumphs on the battlefield with her. He watched her rise to Most High within the sights of his people by performing deeds beyond even the capability of the gods. Such visions enlightened and judged him all at once. For he knew for the first time since his mother uttered Supreme what his Valkyrie being the mother of all truly meant. Bonnie was the Most High! The revelation snatched his remaining air. Yet he'd readily forsake his final life line and the Christian god England had hoisted upon him to offer his fading essence to his Most High.
All of the anger, resentment, and jealousy which lingered within him for Bonnie fled until nothing remained but a love so sacred the affection torched his heart in flames of devoutness.
"Supreme," He wheezed as he gurgled on his blood. "M-mother of All, h-help me…please."
Bonnie stood at the balcony outside her bedroom transfixed by the northern lights. Change once again rode upon the wind. She embraced whatever came next. The last year came close to snatching the battery from her back. Any moment which didn't look like now had to make for a better tomorrow.
Supreme…Mother of All, h-help me…please.
A potent psychic force highjacked her awareness. She found herself naked within the enclosure behind the waterfall in the cove. Ubbe stood before her just as bare ass as she. Veneration lit his eyes as wonder flickered in his expression. He regarded her as if he stared into the face of the Goddess of all creation. Who in the cosmic ethers imbued him with enough mystical energy to do a mental snatch and grab on her? Was it the Ancient of Days…the Goddess?
"Supreme," his voice echoed off the walls of the small enclosure. He fell to one knee, lowering his face towards the ground in a vow. "I renounce my place in Valhalla to offer you my allegiance, my sword, and my love. Your path is ours."
In that instance she sensed the rapid dimming of his lifeforce. Her hammering heart came close to breaking her chest. Liquid heat flooded her eyes and distorted her gaze. Her head swung to convey the denial her stunned tongue couldn't manage. No not him! Not Ubbe! This wasn't a part of the script…he wasn't supposed to die! She hurried and closed the distance between them. Her ceremonial dagger materialized within her hand as she approached.
When she lingered close enough to prevent air from sliding between them, she grabbed his chin and angled his face upwards until his eyes held hers. She then placed the dagger in his palm. "Offer me the life which flows through your veins and in turn I shall die for you, so you may live an eternity for me…"