AN: I really enjoy these little add-ons. I like the moments between the two and I hope you guys do, too. Let me know what you think. This chapter is a little sad, but it picks up a bit later on. Promise. :)

Part II

A day in infamy to be sure.

When the numbers had been counted, Tove lost over half of her sisters that morning. The Valkyrie had gone from twenty-eight warriors to eight in the span of hours.

There would be no returning for them. Their names were not known, not celebrated. Their stories vanished years ago, centuries upon centuries. They were ghosts before they had died, sustained only by the All Father's love for them, a love he turned into a fiery end.

Tove drank more than she could express, more than she could calculate and it did nothing to numb the pain.

Sweeney had been at her side since the ordeal and had attempted to help assuage the ache. For a moment, it might have worked. There had been therapy within those cylindrical, underwater tubes, within the screams and fear of the men they had killed, but that satisfaction faded.

She could think of only one thing that would truly help, that would honor the fallen appropriately and give them a chance to return some day in the distant future, if only in memory.

"Fuck we doin' here?" Sweeney asked as he remained a step behind.

Telling him that he needn't have bothered to stay fell on deaf ears. Once she had brought them both back to the continental states, she had told the man he was free to do as he wished, but he didn't go and Tove couldn't say if she was happy for it or not. She couldn't claim to feel anything, really.

"To see a friend," she replied. Tove lifted the bottle to her lips and drank freely from it, draining half the contents.

They continued through the winding halls that pulsed with energy beneath the mall above. Deep, deep underground would be where she could find him, the one who could help.

The pair reached a large wooden door, ancient in appearance and out of place within the service tunnels. The planks had been salvaged from a ship, the bolts and hinges from ancient weapons. It vibrated with life and tribute. She knocked.

A rustle came from the other side and a voice shouted at her in a foreign yet familiar tongue. Tove replied, telling them who she and her guest were in the old language, something she hadn't spoken since the beginning.

Multiple locks clicked as they were disengaged until the door opened. Through the crack stood a man no taller than her elbow, peering up at her through dark eyes. Recognition had been slow to follow.

"Shield Maiden," he said, opening the door fully. His gaze darted to Sweeney, though lingered for only a moment. The dwarf's real attention remained on their clothing, on the blood and viscera that they had yet to remove. "Why are you here?"

"To speak with your brother, Dvalin."

Sindri stepped aside, opening the door wide for the pair. Tove offered a gentle nod of acknowledgement.

When the door closed once again, the air vibrated from the force. Sindri scampered around them and cut the pair off, forcing Tove to halt or she would run him over. Her head fell forward with a lazy lilt.

"Why are you here, Shield Maiden?"

The blood made him nervous. It looked as though she and Sweeney had bathed in it. In some ways, perhaps they had, and the dwarves were never comfortable around the Valkyrie, be it the sheer size difference or because they served both Odin and Freya, and their history with the two gods was long.

Body warm with liquor, Tove knelt down, squatting before Sindri so that she could meet his eye. It was a disrespectful action, yet that knowledge didn't stop her.

"To speak with Dvalin," she said once again. "Where is he?"

Sindri looked her over for the third, perhaps fourth time since arrival. "And whose blood is it you've swam in?"

"No one of consequence, for the moment."

He tightened his jaw and understood the threat. "This way."

Tove rose to full height and followed Sindri into the depths of the hole he called home. Sweeney's scraping heels never fell far behind.

He brought them to a living area that consisted of little more than couches, a fire pit in the center and forges. Numerous forges lined the distant wall, each crackling with life, filling the dark place with heat and little light.

At a desk, bent over something small and intricate with a tool in hand sat Dvalin, the Rune Master.

"Brother," Sindri called, keeping his gaze on both Tove and Sweeney, his back to his brother. Dvalin glanced up. "The Valkyrie wishes to speak to you."

His brows furrowed curiously. Sliding from his seat, he walked toward them, displaying none of the unease and fear of his brother. He offered a brisk nod of the head and nothing more in the ways of conversation.

"I need your skill," she said.

"What would you have him etch, my lady?" Sindri asked on Dvalin's behalf.

Without looking away from the dwarf she'd come to see, Tove replied, "My skin." Dvalin tilted his head to the side. "I need a tribute, to my fallen kin."

The dwarves shared a glance and again looked over her clothing.

"I didn't fucking kill them," she snapped, startling the pair with her sharp tone. "They died this morning. They were in Hawaii."

The apprehension faded and remorse took hold. They offered a soft nod of respect, which Tove returned. She surprised herself with it.

"So, will you help me pay tribute to them?"

"What did you have in mind, my lady?" Sindri asked.

"Their names," she said, her gaze still fixed with the dwarf she'd come to see. "Can you do this for me?"

Dvalin placed his hand to his chest and bowed to her. "I will do this," he replied.

Sweeney sat on the couch, legs sprawled wide as he lingered in the background. He didn't like the dwarves' couch. It was small, low to the ground and hard. He'd rather sit on rocks, but there was nowhere else.

He drank from the bottle Tove had given him, paying passing attention to the little guys preparing for the work they would do.

One brought forth a table made of steel, the other what looked like kitchen utensils. They were quick on their feet and moved as though they'd done the same a thousand times before. Within minutes, it seemed the show would begin.

"Lay there," the one not called Dvalin said. Sweeney didn't know his name, nor did he care to learn it.

Lithe, crimson fingers undid her garment first, unbuttoning the ruined dress and letting it fall from her shoulders. She paid little to no attention to the gawks from the men in the room while she unfastened her stockings, stripped off her girdle, bra and then panties. Within minutes, she was naked as the day she was "born".

Sweeney leaned to the side, biting into the tip of his thumb as he ogled her. It'd been a long while since he'd witnessed such beauty. It stirred those little bits of him, and much bigger bits, that should remain dormant in such situations.

Tove retrieved her dress, sat on the table and laid down with her back to Dvalin, facing Sweeney. She clutched the dress to her chest, cradling it to her body. It appeared that Tove had chosen to lay on it, saving her skin from the bitter cold of the metal slab or simply held it for something steady, something comforting. She didn't strike him as one worried over what the Americans considered "decent".

She made herself comfortable on the table, curled forward so that her previous tattoos were visible.

"Join Mánagarmr and Jormungandr with their names," she said.

The talker stood nearby with a piece of paper and charcoal pencil. "Which sisters?"

She swallowed hard and spoke. "Herja," she said. The talker began to scribble. "Kára, Ölrún, Randgrid, Skalmöld." A lump formed in her throat, in her words, and the talker struggled to keep pace. "Þögn, Mist, Hrund, Hrist, Eir."

The talker's face twisted, his hand gliding across the paper that grew blacker and blacker by the second. Tove's eyes became glassy and pink. In spite of the distance, Sweeney could see the tears plainly.

"Brunhyldr, Geirahöð, Göl, Herfjötur."

Sweeney put his lips to the bottle, throwing his head back so that gravity could both drain the bottle of its contents and fill his gullet. As he finished it, praying to and worshiping the burn, Tove rattled off the last six names of her sisters.

The paper the talker had brought wasn't long enough for the names of twenty and he'd been forced to turn it over. He passed the paper to his brother, whose sad expression Sweeney could just see over the slope of Tove's bare waist.

Silence filled the cavern. Even the forges seemed to have silenced themselves in light of the weighted task set before Dvalin.

"I will do this," Dvalin said.

Tove didn't reply.

For hours Tove lay motionless on the metal slab, still clutching the soiled dress, the dress in which she murdered some of the men who murdered her sisters, while Dvalin clawed and cut symbols into her skin. She silently wept, tears trickling down her delicate cheeks and onto the table, but she remained still.

Dvalin pierced her skin with a delicate, dangerously sharp blade, then smeared blackish-blue ink into the marks, blocking off the blood and staining the wounds. He appeared to be delivering an ancient tattoo, though Sweeney could see no difference in quality. The dwarf had undeniable skill.

When he had finally finished, when Sweeney had been on the verge of passing out, Dvalin stood and with a silent declaration, claimed he'd completed the task. The talker brought a wet cloth and instead of allowing Dvalin to wipe the woman clean of blood and ink, he did it himself. Sweeney arched a brow at the way the talker glided the cloth across Tove's skin and how close he looked it over.

Tove rose when he'd finished. The entirety of her side had been covered in wispy, delicate banners of runic words, names, of the sisters who'd died.

The inch-thick banner started near the wolf's head. It curled and flowed as it followed the animal's lines around her shoulder and her back. It continued to glide down her side and curl around the existing chains and banners, followed the curve of her ass and thigh, and encircled the serpent. If it weren't for the redness, the few smears that had survived the cleaning and the slightly raised edge of the marks, they'd have looked no different than the rest. They appeared to have been laid by professional equipment, not in a dank cave with blade, needle and an inky paste.

The sheer number of names was immense and heartbreaking.

She took her dress and threaded her arms through it, not bothering with the undergarments. As she buttoned it closed, Sweeney noticed Dvalin's brother speaking to him in hushed, almost demanding tones. He arched a brow to the dwarf, the one who'd taken such "care" of Tove's finished tattoos.

Sweeney rose to join her and Talker and Dvalin weren't far behind.

"My lady," the talker said, drawing her attention. Lingering within the malaise that hadn't left since Pearl Harbor, she gave him her attention. "Our payment is due."

"Fuckin' payment?" Sweeney didn't hide his agitation. "After the work's been done?"

The dwarves paid him no attention. Talker stepped even closer to Tove, taking her hand in his. The difference in size was comical.

"For this favor, you must give my brother and I your hand."

Dvalin's mouth tightened into a hard line. He seemed irritated with his brother's demand.

"Sindri," Tove said, prying her hand from his muscular grip. "I'm already married."

Both seemed surprised. "To who?" Talker, Sindri, asked.

"To fuckin' me," Sweeney chimed in. Dvalin didn't appear surprised, but Sindri was downright livid, which the mad king found entertaining.

"Then we demand another form of payment." Sindri seemed on the verge of erupting with anger, angry that he had missed out on something.

"I will offer your brother compensation," Tove said, her voice tight. "Not you."

"How dare you," Sindri growled. "You Aenir are all the same. I spit on your—"

His words were brought to a halt with Tove's hand. It had found a home around his throat and judging by the way her fingertips sank within his double-chin, Sweeney assumed it hurt.

"Sindri," she said with a heavy sigh. "Why must you taunt me? Not twelve hours have passed since I lost twenty, twenty of my sisters." Her tone darkened and her grip tightened. "Were it not for my thanks to your brother I would tear you skeleton out through your gaping mouth and give the bones to my hound for a treat."

The growl that laced her threat caused even Sweeney's blood to chill.

She released the talker, offering a shove that sent him reeling back, though he didn't fall. Her attention fell to the silent one who'd spent the time and effort fulfilling her wish. She approached him and leaned down. Tove tenderly stroked his cheek, gliding the back of her curled fingers along his beard. She took his face in her hands and pressed her lips to his in a kiss.

Sweeney's brow furrowed. His feet carried him to their profile. His brain had difficulty accepting the sight of her kissing the dwarf. It wasn't jealousy, per se, but a strange sort of curiosity that swelled within him.

The kiss had been tender and deep. Sweeney could have sworn he saw her tongue, a glimpse of it before it had touched that of Dvalin's.

Seconds had passed until the parted. Dvalin lingered in the haze, his eyes slow to open and body swaying in place. He blinked many times, then peered up at the Viking woman. A pale rose touched his cheeks, half-hidden by his russet-colored beard. He glanced to Sweeney, but didn't keep the leprechaun's eye, instead turning from him and scratching the back of his neck as he returned to the work they had interrupted.

Tove headed for the door. Sweeney, slow to follow, couldn't help but grin at Sindri's beet-purple face. He'd become enraged in those few seconds and it brought the Irishman a surprising level of joy.

He closed the door behind them and joined Tove's side as they returned to the surface.

"What's tha' about?" he asked.

"What?"

Sweeney retrieved a cigarette from his pocket and clasped it between his lips.

"Tha' kiss," he said.

"Jealous?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him. She wasn't taunting or derisive, simply curious.

"Don't think so." It had been the only answer he could think of.

"Hmm," she muttered to herself. "Payment the dwarves tend to ask from females is always sexual." The ease at which she spoke surprised him. "That's how it's been since the beginning. They take favors from men, sex from the women."

"An' you knew this goin' in?" A slight agitation touched his words.

"Of course I did." They emerged through the workman's entrance and stepped into the open air of the outside. Darkness greeted them. "I also knew Dvalin would be the more reasonable amongst the pair. Sindri is a pervert. Has been since the incident with Freya."

Sweeney vaguely knew the name. He'd never met the woman, but was aware of her connection to Grimnir and Tove's people.

"Why's that?"

"She fucked Dvalin."

Sweeney grinned a little.

"There are no better crafters in any faith than the dwarves," Tove said. "And there is no one more beautiful than Freya."

He doubted that.

"A long time ago, Dvalin, Alfrik, Berling and Grer created a necklace, second to none. Freya wanted it and their price was sex. Each of them felt they were owed a night with her."

"She fucked 'em all?" He couldn't hide his surprise or his chuckle. She nodded. "For a fuckin' necklace?"

Tove nodded. "And ever since, Sindri's been jealous that his brother slept with one of the most beautiful goddesses in existence. The marriage proposal surprised me, though."

Shouldn't have, he thought.

Sweeney's luck prevented Tove and him from being arrested. Walking in the open covered in blood tended to draw attention regardless of whether or not the sun had set. While the majority of his mess could have been attributed to a number of things given the various shades of color he wore, the same couldn't be said for Tove. Red stood out in stark contrast to white.

A coin from the horde bought them a suite in a posh hotel for the week if they chose and another bought them a fair amount of clothes. It'd been such a long time since he'd used his money for anything beyond whoring and drink that the hotel's willingness to fawn over him had caught the leprechaun by surprise. He had a tendency to forget that gold was a luxury item to mortals, a thing they all craved and desired. He could use that.

A knock came at the door. He rose from his feet and answered it, brow arched at the three on the other side.

"What?" he barked.

The man in the lead, clothes pressed and hair slicked back tight, offered a nervous smile. The golden tag on his lapel stated that he was named Charles.

"Mr. Sweeney," he said. "The clothes you ordered, sir."

Charles motioned behind him to the two young women standing a few feet back. Each held a few bags and crisp white boxes.

"Hmm," Sweeney muttered. He stepped aside. "On the bed."

Charles motioned for the ladies to do as they were told, though he lingered in the hall a safe distance from the sour ginger giant.

The pair set the large amount of objects down and, feeling rather important, Sweeney flicked each of the trio a gold coin. They seemed rather happy about that and scampered off.

Closing the door, he locked it and glanced over the clothes. He had no idea what any of them were. When they'd asked the concierge if there were anywhere they could change, he told the two that, if they gave their measurements, the hotels very competent staff would be more than able to pick something out for them.

Sweeney approached the bathroom door and rapped against it with the back of his knuckles. Tove had been in there for a long time, much longer than normal.

"Come in," she replied.

He opened the door and found her sitting in the claw foot tub leaning against the slope, her knees up. She looked at him.

"Clothes're here," he said.

She blinked at him, stoic and silent. Tove's gaze drifted forward once more and he'd been prepared to leave until she spoke.

"Join me," she said. He paused. She looked at him again. "Please."

The request surprised him, but not so much that it clouded his mind. Sweeney might have been mad, might've been a drunk and a thousand other things as the years ticked by, but he wasn't an idiot in spite of evidence to the contrary.

He closed the door to help trap some of the steam that had yet to escape and proceeded to strip himself of cumbersome, ruined garments. They were out of date, anyway, decades old. While he didn't mind, he thought it only reasonable to replace clothing after twenty, maybe thirty years of hard use.

Sweeney kicked off his boots and pushed them aside. His shirt had been next, then suspenders and the white shirt underneath. Within seconds, he had removed any and every article of clothing that had clung to his skin. Some of it had to be peeled away, not from grime, but blood and sweat.

He padded across the bathroom and to her side. Tove leaned forward, gripping the lip of the tub on either side of the spigots and pulled herself out of the way. The water sloshed around her body. Sweeney took the silent invitation and stepped in behind her.

The water was hot, much hotter than a normal person should have been able to withstand. He doubted she'd used the cold tap at all while filling the tub.

He winced and did his best to keep from sucking in sharp breaths as he settled into the water. Every centimeter it climbed up his legs made the action harder and harder.

Sweeney came to settle just behind her, his back forming to the back of the tub. A bit of adjusting had been required. They were too big, too long to fit into a normal bathtub together, but the claw foot seemed able to manage the task.

When they finally stopped moving, Tove had come to sit in his lap. She formed against his chest, her body somehow cool regardless of the temperature of the water. Sweeney kept his arms on the lip of the tub, stretching far and wide around Tove.

Perverse thoughts danced through his mind. The moment may have been far from appropriate for such things, but he was a male, a hot-blooded male with a beautiful woman, naked, in his lap. She was a woman he'd been with before, been inside. He'd made her scream and shake and beg for more, and all of those thoughts plus more flashed in his head.

Blood pooled in his groin, stirring the "monster". There was no doubt she could feel it, no doubt that she knew what the situation was doing to him, but she didn't reply. Instead, Tove held her arms to her chest and shifted. She put her cheek to his shoulder, her forehead on his jaw. The instant she curled against him, those dirty little thoughts vanished.

In that moment, she had become small and weak, tiny in his arms. It washed away his perversions.

Sweeney's arms were slow to respond, but soon found their way around her body, encompassing her fully and holding her in place. Tove sank further on a breath.

Clasping her shoulder in one massive hand, her tattooed thigh in the other, Sweeney relaxed as well. He dragged his thumb up and down her shoulder, a tender and sweet action that surprised him, yet seemed natural given the context of the moment.

His beard must have scratched her face, pricked at it. Given the era, clean-shaven faces were the style. They were expected of the human men, but Mad Sweeney was not human and would never have a bare cheek. It wasn't his style, nor was it his preference.

She never protested.

They remained as they were for long enough that the water had become tepid. Sweeney had been lingering somewhere between awake and asleep, within that thin veil that was neither and both at the same time.

Tove moved. She rose up and reached for the tap. A jerk of the knob sent a torrent of water into the bathtub. He hissed at the bitterly cold water landing on his feet and shifted them out of the way just as it warmed. Tove tugged out the stopper and allowed the waterline to fall a few inches before she plugged it once again, relaxing against Sweeney once more.

Near-boiling water spewed into the bathtub from the spout. The heat of it blended with the tepid and spread up his legs. He hadn't realized just how cool it had become until she turned the hot tap.

Sweeney returned to stroking her shoulder while he cradled her thigh to his lap, Tove's head on his chest once again.

"How long you plannin' on stayin' in here?" he asked, his voice deeper than usual due to its lack of use.

"Until I can feel again," she replied.

She used her toes to turn the spout off when the water had reached the overfill valve. The bathroom filled with silence once again, punctuated by the random, hollow sound of water trickling down the valve whenever they moved or breathed too deeply.

Tove had unfurled herself, though remained curled against him. She no longer kept her arms to herself, but instead threaded one of them around Sweeney's torso. It slid easily beneath the gap created between the small of his back and the tub. Her fingernails scrapped against his skin. He flinched and grunted in surprise.

Her other arm had remained across her chest, but she shifted it as well. Her hand emerged above the water and sought his. Sweeney watched as her slender, now-clean fingers entwined with those he'd wrapped around her shoulder. He let them and then held them in place

The moment was tender and somber. It was a blink of what humans would consider normalcy, but he had decided was silence. It was a moment of silence and stillness, a time for his head to settle and the stories of grey monks, of birds and fairies and Mother Church to fade into nothingness.

Sweeney's head fell back and rested against the gentle curl of the bathtub's lip. He closed his eyes, a sigh leaving his lips. He was content, comfortable, and willing to allow the world to go on without him so long as he could remain in the claw foot with Tove and the scalding water.