#the Thin Dark Duke is so perfect on so many levels

[ingravinoveritas]

So, thus far, we know that Michael's nicknames for David are:

1. Dai (Welsh pet name for David that also means "beloved.")

2. The Thin Dark Duke

...I love that these nicknames are so personal and so uniquely Michael. I love how they speak perfectly to the way he sees David, and to the relationship between them. Intimate. Sensual. So full of thought and feeling (because of course Michael would have a Welsh nickname for David, since both are so close to his heart). Nicknames that show how everything about David--body and soul--has filled Michael's senses and utterly enchanted him.

Now if only we could find out what David's nickname is for Michael. Other than "emotional support pet," of course...

[luniellar]

The Union: Chapter One - Sebastian Stan X Chris Evans X Reader

Summary: This fictional story takes place between the three kingdoms that hold great power in the untouchable lands located in Europe. Despite the modern developments in the other countries, these three kingdoms, Callisto, Europa and Io, exist hidden from the rest of the world and embrace the cultural customs shared for centuries from the early human civilizations.

You are the daughter of the Europa Kingdom led by your father, King Jovian. This year you reached the fruitful age of 21, meaning that it’s finally time to fulfill your duty as the princess of Kingdom Europa. The arranged marriage between Kingdom Europa and Kingdom Callisto has been something that your father planned for a long time to finally bring peace between the three kingdoms. Whether you like it or not, you are the key piece to it all. King Stan of Callisto is who you will be sharing the honor of the arranged marriage. He is known by all as a man of savage fighting nature and very few words. You know there is no hope wishing for the passionate love your father and mother shared, but will you be able to bring peace to this land to fulfill your father’s last wishes?  

Link: Prologue | 1 | 

Warnings: Inappropriate languages & minor heated scenes 

Word Count: 2.6K

The dining table was filled to the brim with the fancy reception feast. High level nobles and knights sat around the table as they dug into the feast as if they had been starving for weeks. You and King Stan sat at the head of the table and your father sat by your right hand talking to the other noble men. When you glanced over by the King’s side, there was a handsome male with golden brown hair that reminded you of the warm autumn’s sun. He looked much too young to be the King’s father.

The Callisto’s family tree has been hidden under the table for a while after King Stan took over the land. One rumor said that his father died during one of the many battles, but no one ever heard about his mother. Some said that she passed away when he was young and others spoke of an illegitimate birth. You glanced over at the brown hair smiling lad by the King again. 

Hm…

“How bold,” the King’s velvet voice spoke calmly, startling you. “The queen dares to look at other mates in front of her king already.”

Your face turned red as you quickly darted your eyes from the blonde male and back to your plate. The food was untouched and starting to get cold.

He chuckled, sending shivers down your cold skin. “I can introduce you. He’s a close friend and my right-hand man, Duke Christopher Evans.”

You glanced up and made eye contact with the clear, crystal blue orbs that belonged to Duke Evans. He made a pleasant, genuine smile that lit up his entire face and tipped his head towards your direction.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Princess Euro- I mean Queen Callisto.”

You smiled back despite the awkwardness you felt when he spoke your new name. Any small amount of appetite you had left over was lost.

“The pleasure is mine, Duke Evans.”

“Please, call me Chris.”

You were taken back from the friendly nature of the Duke and didn’t know what to reply.

“Oh, uh-”

Before you could finish your sentence the king interrupted. “Aren’t you going to eat at all, my queen?”

You reached out for the brass fork beside the porcelain plate and stabbed a piece of salad through it. You felt the King and the Dukes’ eyes on you as you quietly chewed and placed the fork back down.

“The food must not be to your liking.” The King said out loud causing your father, who was engaged in another heated discussion with one of the nobles, to turn his head.

“My daughter loves all the food prepared at our castle, King Stan.” He replied disapprovingly. Your father took pride in the exceptional quality of food prepared in the Castle Europa kitchen. He even made sure to hand pick each and every staff member who was assigned to the kitchen.

“My apologies, King Jovian. I didn’t mean any harm in my comment. My queen looked like she was having a hard time finishing her meal.” King Stan replied with respect.

Your father cleared his throat which he did often when he disapproved of something. Ignoring the King’s comment, he turned to you. “Daughter, are you alright? Should I ask them to bring you something you would like to eat instead? What would you like?”

You smiled politely and shook your head. “No father, I appreciate your thoughts. My body is just exhausted from the long day, I’m looking forward to resting soon.”

King Stan’s smiling face and amused tone attracted the attention of the few sitting near us. “My queen, I didn’t know you were so eager to share beds.”

You glared up at him and saw a few unfamiliar eyes in your direction who caught his words. Your father’s pale fist around his steak knife caught your eyes. At this rate, there was only going to be one King standing after this dinner and King Stan was the one with a perfect track record. You looked over at Duke Evans who hung his head in shame at his friend’s embarrassing behavior. This dinner was already over.

You stood up from your seat and every pair of eyes around the room looked up including King Stan’s. “Please excuse me while I check on the preparations for my leave. Enjoy your dinner and thank you for coming.”

Whispers drowned behind you as you navigated yourself out of the dining hall. You walked over to the grand lobby and saw the helpers organize the boxes of your belongings for the move to Castle Callisto. You stood in the lobby and your chest felt heavy again.

“It looks like they are almost finished,” the velvet voice echoed behind her.

The tears teased around your eyes and you bit down on your lips hard to the point the taste of iron lingered around your mouth. You were going to make sure the King never saw your tears today. You were the Queen now. The last thing you needed him to think was that you were just another female body he could push around like a lifeless puppet.

He stopped next to you and your shoulder was touching his hard biceps through his commander uniform. You nodded in response without turning to look at him. “I am excited to see the beautiful Castle Callisto, King Stan. I should head back to say farewell to my Father.”

As you were about to head back, his strong grip grabbed your left wrist. His warm touch felt like needles against your cold skin.

“I’ll be waiting outside in the jet. Don’t make me wait too long.”

You wanted to rip your wrists out of his grip and shout profanities for asking you to cut your farewell to your own father short. You let out a soft exhale as you moved your free hand to move his warm hand. Despite the grip, it was fairly easy to move. Your hand felt tiny holding his large, masculine hand.

“Yes, I’ll be quick, my King.”

✧✧✧

You begged your father to continue the dinner instead of coming to say farewell. You knew that your goal of staying tear free this wedding was going to be ruined if you had to formally say goodbye. He then went on cursing about how he was going to kill that boy, but you had to quickly talk him out of that idea.

You looked at the massive Callisto Kingdom private jet that lit up the dark forest surroundings. A loud sigh escaped your lips as you looked behind the great Castle Europa. So many memories that made you into the woman you are today existed in this land. Biting your lips again, you closed your eyes to remember the air, soul, and people this land meant to you.

It was time to say goodbye.

“Goodbye Europa.”

✧✧✧

The jet trip was a little over two hours. Despite the empty seat next to the King, you sat in the row behind him. Surprisingly, he didn’t request you to sit next to him. Across from you was Duke Evans who fell asleep in the plush seat the moment the jet took off.

You stared out at the window the entire ride without a word. You couldn’t tell if the King also fell asleep, but you assumed he did since he also didn’t move a bit for the entire span of the ride like Duke Evans.

When the flight attendants came out from their space at the front of the jet, they announced that we landed in Callisto. You felt anxiety in your heart increase as you got up from your seat. As you were making your way to the aisle, a hot hand gently touched your arm. Unlike the prickly needle sensation from before, the touch was different, it was soft and caring.

The King quickly took off his jacket. In one motion, he wrapped your tiny frame inside the velvet material. You were still wearing your reception gown that was a toned down version of your white crystal wedding gown. It was sleeveless and made out of thin material. You didn’t realize how cold you were until the warmth encompassed your shoulders, arms, and bare back.

“It’s much colder in Callisto,” he said as continued down the aisle towards the exit.

“Thank you,” you managed to get out as you felt his warmth soothe your anxious feelings.

You followed the King and the Duke out of the jet. Like Europa, the landing field was located in the forest for privacy. When you got out, you couldn’t see anything but a large black SUV vehicle that was parked further out.

“Queen Callisto,” Duke Evans said as your feet touched the Callisto land. “Welcome to Callisto. I’ll be driving you and Sebastian back to the Castle.”

✧✧✧

Everything was a blur from the car ride to Castle. King Stan didn’t speak a word. You only captured a quick dark view of the castle as the car circled around through a private entrance and went underground. After what felt like five minutes in the tunnel, the car reached an empty parking garage.

Once the car parked, King Stan got out first and came over to your side to open the door. Half surprised that he still had manners after today, you hesitantly stepped out and looked around the space in curiosity.

“This is the private parking garage that gives you direct access to the King’s Suite.” Duke Evans spoke as if he could read your mind.

You knew that Castle Europa had similar security systems in place, but you never witnessed one in person.

Duke Evans led the way and you followed him and King Stan towards a glass door that led to the elevator. There was only one button that Duke Evans pressed and the elevator doors opened wide.

King Stan stepped inside and you followed. Duke Evans smiled as he waved back to us. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Queen Callisto and Seb. Have a good night.” Then the elevator doors closed.

✧✧✧

Each of the three kingdom’s castles had their own special charm. Castle Europa was unique from the others because it maintained the tradition and legacy of the old castle. They did make modern upgrades like jet landing sites and other security features, but the castle still maintained most of the original state. On the contrary, Castle Io was redesigned from the ground up with the latest security and highest quality materials. You never visited, but your father always made disappointed remarks about how the Io King was eager to tear down centuries of history for an iron fortress full of “useless” technological updates.

When the elevator dinged, the doors opened to a contemporary designed hallway. Black granite floors and gold accents in the wallpaper reminded you of what the penthouse floor of the royal hotel suite would look like. Dim circle warm lights lit the hallway as you quietly followed the King. As you shared the car and elevator ride before and now this hallway, you noticed a unique scent that lingered from him. He had a warm and spicy scent that was a mixture of rum, tobacco, and vanilla.

After a short walk down the hallway, the King stopped at the grandiose tar black wooden doors. There were elegant brass knobs as the handle. He biometrically scanned his hand on a glass panel next to the doors and there was a soft click signaling the doors were unlocked.

“We will make sure to add your biometrics tomorrow for access to my chambers.”

His intoxicating and addicting scent rushed towards you as he opened the doors. Unlike the modern and contemporary design of the hallway outside, most of his room still resembled the King’s chambers that was passed on for centuries. The dark stained wooden floors were covered in ornate deep purple carpets. The same deep purple color saturated the walls and the gold accents looked as if it was etched into the damask pattern like it was some precious fabric. The room was dimly lit with crystal chandeliers around the room.

His overly large four poster bed was stretched out in the middle of the room against the back wall. The rich gold and purple fabric hung from the bed frames.

His velvety whisper from the wedding ceremony played in your mind.

“I will be looking forward to tonight, my queen.”

You glanced around to the king who was starting to remove his formal wedding attire. He expertly removed his commander uniform and dropped it on the purple velvet couch. The numerous amount of medals on his uniform made a soft thud as it landed.

“Aren’t you going to undress?” He asked nonchalantly as he walked to the bathroom.

You froze in place not sure of what to do. You wanted to wash up and go to sleep after a long day like today, but you had no idea where your change of clothes were. Most importantly, the wedding night tradition was just as important as the wedding.

You were going to lose your virginity tonight.

You took off the king’s velvet jacket and placed it on the same couch he dropped his uniform. Unsure of what to do next, you started to make your way to the bathroom. Your heart was racing in your chest as you got closer.

At the same time, the King stepped out of the bathroom and your eyes widened in embarrassment. He was shirtless and was only wearing his black suit pants hanging from his hips. You had never seen a shirtless man before. Well, that wasn’t completely true, you studied Greek and Rome art enough to know what it looked like, but you never saw a live one in person. The only references you had was the Statue of David, but his body was so much more than that. His entire body was covered in muscle and each muscle was tight and hard. There were some faint scars around his body that you could catch in the dim light, but it was still a chiseled, marble perfection.

“Are you done staring?” He asked with an amused voice and you felt your face heat up.

“Oh- um-” You quickly diverted your glance to the carpet as you brought up your hands to the side of your face in embarrassment. “I’m sorry- I- I- didn’t mean to stare.”

You heard his footsteps move closer to you until you saw his shoes across from your feet. His hands moved over yours as he brought your face up to meet his. Your eyes searched for his familiar jade orbs and your heart was beating louder against your chest.

His rough lips collided with yours as he kissed you softly, biting at lips. The feeling caused little butterflies in your stomach as you reciprocated the kiss back tasting his lips with your tongue. His warm aroma saturated the air around you. When he felt your tongue, he immediately responded by erasing the space between your bodies and pushing his tongue into your needy mouth. His warm body felt comfortable against your body. He explored your mouth like he did at the wedding, but this time taking the measures to feel and learn every inch. You kissed him back, entering a piece of you into his unfamiliar and enticing territory.

By the time you both pulled away, you were both gasping for air. His forehead gently touched yours as your hands fell from your face. His right hand grabbed your left hand as he brought it up to his lips. He gently kissed your hand and held it in his. The warmth quickly traveled around your body like an infection.

“Damn it,” he cursed under his breath. “You have no idea how long I waited for you.”

---

Note: This chapter was getting too long and I had to cut it here. Next up is their first bed night, I promise. Thank you for the likes and comments on the prologue. Please share any feedback with me! Thank you for reading!

[screamingatanemptyroom]

I Can’t Eat Love pt 5

Here is part 5 everyone. This one is bit longer, trying to make some story progress! A few new characters introduced!

I’ve been so excited about this one guys, I’m having a lot of fun! I even was doodling my own fan art earlier today of Lenora! Thanks everyone for the support of the series. I’m going to try to keep up the momentum for this one for now!

Part 1, Part 2 Part 3 and Part 4 linked here. 

_______________________________________

Despite my wishes, the morning of etiquette training with the Queen arrived all too quickly. I departed in a carriage just shortly after sunrise, arriving at the palace without too much delay. As I followed a footman deeper into the building I had once known so well, I felt a cold wave of a memory swell over me. 

_______________________________________

“Just lift your feet, miss!” The dancing instructor clapped his hands, looking frustrated. “You act as if your shoes are weighted down!”

I stumbled, tripping on my shoes, wincing as I felt the skin tear on my elbow as it hit the floor.

The instructor chuckled, the Queen looked concerned, but my mother… she simply stared at me with a look of weary contempt.

A look I knew all too well.

_______________________________________

I gripped my elbow, almost feeling the sting of the scrape that had not happened yet in this lifetime. That fall had occurred six months before Ronan broke off the engagement, as I had been taught a newer dance, with a more intricate and delicate step, to celebrate his birthday. 

I had mastered it, after many brutal hours of training, and countless more falls. I was so determined to live up to the Queen’s expectations, to impress my future husband… to earn my mother’s love.  But I had never gotten to dance the steps. The Prince hadn’t even waited for the first dance to be start before he broke off the engagement.

But that had been the theme of my previous lifetime. Working so hard, striving with all my might, all for someone else’s sake… only to be thrown away in the end.

I couldn’t help but feel bitter and angry for a few moments, over the suffering I had been forced to bear.

It will not happen in this life… not this time. I promised myself, smiling grimly. Never again would I be used for another’s sake. 

No matter what.

 “Lenora?!” A voice called out, breaking me from my increasingly dark thoughts. I looked up, smiling as I caught sight of Queen Amerande, running towards me while waving her arms. 

“Your Majesty.” I started to curtsy, only to be picked up and squeezed tightly, barely able to breathe as she swung me around with a laugh.

“I’ve told you: No ‘Your Majesties’ until we’re in class!” She admonished me, setting me down and tucking my hair behind an ear with a bright grin. “I’ll be your mother one day, so why can’t you just call me that?!”

I tried to catch my breath. It had been so long since I had seen her last, I had forgotten what it was like to be caught up in her presence. Everything about her carried an energy, from her curly untamed hair to her bright green eyes that always seemed to be planning something, usually a surprise for someone else.  Even her steps were graceful and light, almost as if she danced instead of simply walked. Being by her side, the time was always filled with smiles and laughter. She was so bright, so caring, everything I had always imagined a real mother to be like.

But was that really the case?

In my last lifetime… once her son had broken our engagement, I had never heard of her protesting, not once, even though she had known better than anyone else that it would ruin me. Despite the years we had spent together, she had never reached out a hand to help me while I was struggling on the streets. Not even the day I had tried to break into the palace… right before…

A hand touched my face, startling me. “Dearest, you went to a very dark place just then.” Queen Amerande leaned forward, concerned. “Do you need to talk? We can skip lessons today.”

I forced a smile. “I’m fine. Just tired.” Which was the truth. I hadn’t had a full night’s rest since I was reborn, I was too scared to sleep deeply.

I was terrified I would wake up on the streets again, starving to death. And this second chance, this new life… all of it would be the dream.

The Queen did not look convinced at my answer. “Well… we’ll give it a shot, but don’t overdo it! These lessons are important to your future, but not nearly as important as you are. You know I love you as my own, I don’t want you working yourself to death!”

She hugged me again, and after a brief hesitation, I returned the gesture. She seemed so sincere, as if she really loved me. But how could that be true with what I knew from the previous life? I couldn’t trust in her.

I followed after her towards the etiquette room, making sure my steps were measured and graceful, and my smile perfect.

I may not have love, but I didn’t have that in my last lifetime either. This time I wouldn’t expect it. This time, I would have the resources I needed to protect myself, and my family. I wouldn’t have to depend on such a flimsy connection ever again.

_______________________________________

 I was worried that the two years I had spent away from the palace would make all my skills rusty. The night before I had spent part of the night devising excuses for the sudden drop in my skill levels, dreading the work I knew it might take to bring them up to an acceptable level.

Turns out, I was worried about the wrong thing.

“Miss, you’re like a completely different person!” Mrs. Rendler, the Etiquette teacher, applauded, obviously very impressed. “How have you managed to improve so much since your last lesson?”

I was stunned. I had nearly forgotten, as it had ended up being useless, how hard I had worked. Even if I was slightly rusty, there were still 3 years of practice I had gained. 3 years of working late into the night, practicing each movement and gesture until it was committed to muscle memory. Every greeting, every dance, every slight change in custom depending on rank… it was all still in my head, learned through my blood, sweat and tears.

 But to them… it was as if I had gained all this experience in the space of the week between lessons. An almost miraculous improvement.

“I- I…” Lost for words, I could only stutter. I had been prepared for the exact opposite scenario! How could I explain how I already knew everything they had planned to teach me? Fortunately before I could flounder too long, I was rescued by the Queen, who swooped in, grinning from ear to ear.

“Lenora’s so amazing!” She crowed, throwing an arm around my shoulders and puffing out her chest with pride. “She’s been working so hard and it’s definitely showing.”

“Why are you so proud?” Mrs. Rendler looked amused. “It was HER hard work.”

Queen Amerande was undeterred. “Yes, but she’s MY daughter!”

“Future daughter-in-law, Your Majesty.” The teacher corrected.

“Small difference.”

“This is ETTIQUETTE class, Your Majesty.” Her smile was slightly forced. “These differences mean everything here.”

The Queen pouted. “Fine. Have it your way. But even you have to admit, that my future daughter-in-law was amazing today!”

“Yes. Given your progress, we’ll definitely be able to move much faster through the lesson plan.” Mrs. Rendler laughed, a slightly ominous sound. “I’ll make a perfect lady of you, yet, Miss.”

I looked back and forth between the two of them, only now realizing the fate I had brought upon myself. “You mean the lessons are going to be…harder?”

“Oh yes!” She rubbed her hands together. “Much, much harder.”

“Don’t scare her!” Queen Amerande scolded.

“She can take it. The girl is a prodigy!”

I wanted to cry. I wasn’t a prodigy… I just had three extra years to practice in the week since they last saw “me.” Why didn’t I pretend to not know anything?!

But before I could think of any more excuses, the lessons were over, and I was escorted to the Royal Treasury, to meet Hallers’ brother.

_______________________________________

“Ah, you must be the young girl with wild dreams of performing miracles!” 

When I entered the treasury, I was immediately greeted by a large, muscular man with a broad smile. His clothing was slightly askew, a small stain along one sleeve. His hair was starting to grey at the temples, but was disheveled, as if he ran his finger through it frequently. He was the opposite of Hallers, who was always very proper and put together, if a little thin and reedy.

“Pardon?” I was taken aback at his words. Performing miracles? “Are you Mr. Hallers?” 

“Jim is fine.” He shook my hand heartily, shaking it back and forth, fortunately with a light grip. “I’m Tommy’s brother.”

“T-tommy?” It was too much, to try to imagine poor Hallers, who seemed to be born in a perfectly ironed suit, as being called anything as casual as ‘Tommy.”

Jim laughed at my confusion. “He hated me calling him that even then. Insisting that we came from a ‘proper butler family’ and should behave as such.” He rolled his eyes. “Such a waste of time and energy.”

“I assume you have more important things to worry about?” I grinned, liking the casual atmosphere. “That’s why you work in the Royal Treasury?”

“Not really. But I’m a genius with numbers and it’s easy to tuck me away from sight here so I don’t embarrass anyone.” He shrugged good naturedly. “And I don’t have to worry about using the wrong title on the wrong lord and getting hung.”

“A win-win situation.”

“Exactly.” He paused, looking me over with a critical eye. “No offense, young miss, but you seem… easier to talk to than I imagined you would be.”

I thought briefly of the life I had led for the last two years. “I’m... adaptable.”

THAT caught his attention. “Adaptable? That’s… unusual for someone in the nobility.”  Frowning, he stepped slightly closer, towering above me. The atmosphere grew tense. “Don’t bluff, dear. I’d rather you just be honest.”

_______________________________________

“I’m Lenora, the daughter of the Duke of Armeny.” I curtseyed as I introduced myself.

The shopkeeper glared. “If you’re nobility than why are you here, begging for work? Acting like you’re still high and mighty when you’ve got nothing. What nerve you lot have! ”

My shoulders slumped, my perfect posture breaking under the strain. “Please, we’re out on the street, and we’re starving.”

“Plenty of people used those same with tax collectors. Didn’t save them.”

“Please!” My nails broke as I tried to hold onto the doorframe, only to be pushed out.

The door slammed in my face. “And it won’t save you.”

_______________________________________

I looked him in the eye, refusing to back down,  to give even an inch. I wasn’t a sheltered young girl. I had changed. I had learned the hard way how. 

“Sometimes, I wish I WAS bluffing. I’ve learned to be whatever I have to be, to get the job done.”

I don’t know what he saw in my gaze. Whatever it was caused a look of deep sadness to pass over his features, a moment of shared anguish between us to terrible for words. He sat down at a desk, waving me to sit across from him.

“Tommy told me you are attempting to get the Duchy of Armeny to a place of financial stability?”

I sat down. “That’s correct.”

“And that you’ve been looking over the numbers for the past few days.”

“I have.”

He grinned humorlessly. “Then you know what kind of impossible task you have set for yourself.”

The statement hung in the air between us for a few moments, before I laughed, a bitter sound.

“Impossible? No. Extremely difficult, and I might have to play dirty before it’s done? Yes.”

I leaned forward keeping my eyes on his own, refusing to show any weakness.

 “I will do whatever it takes to get my family, and the people who depend on us, where we need to be. I WILL save us.” Sighing softly, I forced myself to relax and sit back in my chair.  “What I need to know is if YOU can help me learn what I need to know to get that done.”

There was silence.

Clap. Clap. Clap. He slowly applauded, seeming to truly lose the tension he had held since the moment I walked in.

“Very good. At least I know I won’t be wasting my time.” He stood up, rummaging through a bookshelf on the corner. “You want to know how to save your Duchy? Well, you’re going to have to understand how its SUPPOSED to be run. 

BAM! BAM!

Piles of thick books landed on the desk, a small coating of dust flying in the air at the impact. I gingerly picked one up, it was heavier than it looked.

“What are these?”

He grinned. “What you need. History. Government. Economics. Tax law.” He paused. “You know mathematics already right?”

“Yes.” I nodded, glad that I had learned years ago that to be able to oversee household expenses.

“Well that’s something.” He wrote furiously on a piece of paper, handing it to me. “Read the chapters I’ve written here, and come back in a week, we’ll discuss concepts and real world applications.”

I looked at the sheer amount of reading I had been assigned, would it even be possible?!

Likely reading the doubt on my face, Jim shrugged, “You don’t have to. But if you want to do it right, and be able to do it in the future without my help. This is what you need.” He held out his hand. “You work hard, and I promise you I’ll give you the knowledge you need to save your family. Deal?”

I reached out, shaking his hand. “Deal.”

He chuckled. “I have a bad feeling I might regret this.”

I shook my head. “That makes two of us.”

We arranged for the books to be taken to my carriage and set up the next week’s appointment to follow my etiquette lesson. 

As I prepared to leave, Jim hesitated, holding me back.

“Just so you know, I’m also teaching someone else. A young man from Tilendra.”

The neighboring country to our North? “Why is he here.”

Jim shrugged. “No idea, didn’t ask. He’s learning about taxation reform, so there might be some crossover between your lessons. Just warning you.  But don’t worry, he doesn’t seem like a terrible fellow.” 

I rolled my eyes. “Ah yes, what a glowing recommendation from such a trustworthy source.”

He laughed at that. “It’s not like I’m saying you have to marry him. Just sit in the same room as him while I talk about taxes.”

“Fine then.” 

Waving goodbye, I left for home, already overwhelmed by the sheer amount of work I had to do.

[tw6464sloreblog]

The traitor legions

*the canon traitor legions remain mostly unchanged, except a few characters being swapped out and their names are different, except the Black Legion. For example, Ahzek Ahriman is not the one who casts the Rubricae, his brother Ormuzd Ahriman is, so Ormuzd is the leader of the Brotherhood of Dust.

*The traitor Emperor’s Children are known as the The Glorious Symphony; the traitor Iron Warriors are the Steel Tyrants; the traitor Night Lords are the Raptor Legion (heh); the traitor World Eaters are the Blades of Wrath; the traitor Death Guard are the Reapers of Despair; the traitor Thousand Sons are the Brotherhood of Dust; the traitor Word Bearers are the Prophets of Chaos; and finally the traitor Alpha Legion is the Brotherhood of the Hydra

*one last thing before I describe each traitor legion: there are no legions dedicated to a specific God. You can have Slaaneshi world eater traitors, Khornates thousand sons traitors, etc  yeah I’m going to somewhat drop this idea, but I’’ll say that there are a few... “converts” to the other chaos gods, but they’re so rare that they’re practically none existent.

*The Azure Legions have already been detailed in my Chaos Ultramarines post, which is located here: https://tw6464sloreblog.tumblr.com/post/160804538767/chaos-ultramarines, so I’m gonna move on…

*The Dark Angels traitors form the Fallen Angels, except there aren’t any remorseful traitors amongst them; they’re cold, heartless and cruel crusaders of the Dark Gods, led by their Knight-Lord, Luther. They are crusaders of Chaos, striking with the precision of a broadsword and the power of a Claymore. They are masters of the sword, and of corrupting local populations into rebellion. They are often the least mutated marines, allowing them to easily pass as loyalists and wreak havoc upon their “allies”. None of the Fallen regret rebelling upon Caliban, rebelling against what they saw as a corrupt system of government; their only regret is that they failed in destroying the home of the Lion.

*The White Scars traitors form two Warbands: the Ronin, a band of disgraced White Scars who wield power nodachi and wander the Galaxy, selling their services to the highest bidder, as both a form of employment and as atonement; they’re made up of warriors of the Chondax campaign who instantly realized that they had damned their souls forever.

-The second, much larger group is known as the M'Andshu Hordes, led by Khan Khuu Tetsugai, who killed the Great Khan of their brotherhood and took over, using whatever bike squads, skimmer craft, fast moving tanks and flyers to strike swiftly and then move on to the next target of interest. They raid and pillage with incredible speed; almost all of their warriors are mounted, and if they’re not mounted they’re in transports ferrying them to battle.

*the Space Wolves traitors, many of whom  actually split into two separate Warbands: Skyrar’s Dark Wolves, who are made up of warriors who are pretty much the Warriors of Chaos if they had guns, chainswords and power armor. They’re less conquers and more just raiders, killing and burning worlds for the slightest provocation; this may lead some to think that this aggressive form of fighting makes the Dark Wolves predictable, but any thoughts of an easy victory against the Wolves are shot down when their leader, Skyrar, is leading from the front. Skyrar is utterly unpredictable, manic and insane; whether this is due to his ingestion of a herb that supposedly boosts his fighting prowess, his constant exposure to the warp, or because he’s always been crazy, enemies should think twice before underestimating (or overestimating) the Chaos Jarl. 

-The second warband is known as the Fangbound, led by Svane Wulfbad, who have given into the Canis Helix, transforming into something resembling the Wulfen (think the Wulfen models used in the 3rd Edition Eye of Terror campaign), before eventually transforming into a heavily corrupted form, known as the Fenrir.

*the Imperial fist traitors eventually form the Teutonic Lords, who are basically the Black Templar if instead of being zealots for the emperor, they were zealots for chaos. Also, some of them ride chaos steeds, because a horse is often times a better mount than a bike in certain terrains. They are still masters of siege warfare and defensive lines; however, they’re much more aggressive than their loyalist brethren, valuing counter-charges and shield walls rather than dug-in positions.

-Their bizarre form of martial honor has led many to assume that the Teutonic Lords are... to put it lightly, a bit thick. However, anyone who has fought against one of the high-ranking commanders of the legion, known as Barons, can attest that some Teutonic Lords are anything but honorable. While some of the Dukes and Their ultimate leader, Archduke Ferdinand of Charlemagne (the world upon which the Teutonic Lords have built their homes) value acts of bravery and valor, Barons will do anything to win, 

*the Blood Angels traitors form the the Angelis Mortalis aka the Angels of Death.  They struck their brethren during the Signus Prime campaign, where their leader, Apollyon, grew jealous and spiteful of their Primarch and begging for a real challenge, made a pact with the Chaos gods to grant himself and like-minded individuals the same abilities as a primarch. Of course, this pact didn’t come without a price; while they did gain almost Daemon Prince-like levels of strength, speed and agility and near-immortality, the Red Thirst present in these warriors went into overdrive. They stopped resisting the call of the Red Thirst, giving rise to cannibalistic tendencies and unparalleled savagery equivalent to the Black Rage; however, while the Black Rage only affects a small group of marines, the Angelis Mortalis are an entire legions worth of marines, all gorging on blood and flesh with reckless abandon. 

-Thankfully, unlike the mythical undead creatures of Old Terran myth, most warbands of the Angelis Mortalis are unable to spread their curse through the exchange of bodily fluids or a bite. However. some warbands dedicated to Nurgle have found a way to transfer their curse via a virus; this method is ineffective, as if the Angels of Death are close enough to bite someone, chances are they’ll probably be ripping them apart to get to the blood and flesh faster.

-They also still go down to bolter shells and blades the same as everything else, as they also lack the common weaknesses present in the Vampires of legend, such as sunlight, garlic, silver, etc.; however, A few members of the Ordo Malleus have noted a few observation in regards to their weaknesses:

A) The Angelis Mortalis rarely launches attacks against Shrine Worlds. Whether this is due to the fact that Shrine Worlds are heavily defended or if this is due to some other outside force is unknown, but what few records of operations upon Shrine Worlds carried out by the traitors of the Ninth Legion have noted that the moment that Drop Pods struck down upon the world, the Marines bodies had totally disintegrated, becoming dust.

B) they are noticeably weaker in sunlight. They’re still faster than most mortal warriors and their loyalist brethren, but direct exposure to solar radiation causes their metabolisms to expend more energy, meaning that they become more tired and sluggish as fights drag on. As such, the Angelis Mortalis prefer to strike upon days of either heavy cloud or rainfall, or at night, becoming bedfellows with the Raptor Legion.

-This casual consumption of the living means they now require an bi-monthly intake of blood and flesh (the amount required for consumption varies on the level of restraint a Marine may have), and if they don’t get it after several weeks, they start to look like addicts, willing to do anything for just a drop of blood and a quick bite of flesh; their skin becomes more pale, they become more sluggish, become thin and atrophied, start to become delirious and seeing hallucinations.

-Their legion is organized like an aristocracy, with Kings, Princes, etc., based upon the age of each of the lords, with their ultimate master being known as The Supreme Lord of Blood and Night. This positiion of authority has been held by Apollyon since the Signus Prime campaign. each of whom has command of an army of Marines, as well as an auxiliary force called “Thralls”, who are similar to the Renegades and Heretics in terms of capabilities and appearance, with a few key differences; Thralls, in addition to serving as an allied force and as cannon fodder, double as a food supply if freshly available blood and flesh is nowhere to be found. 

-They have become more and more vampire-like in their appearance, having grown giant, bat like wings, which protrude from their armor and wrap around them like a cloak; in addition, they have filed their fangs and claws to a monomolecular point, making them brutally vicious combatants even without their weapons. 

*the Iron Hands traitors form the Gauntlets of Morlock, who are made up of the criminals, murderers, sociopaths and madmen of the clans of Medusa, all united under the Iron Lords of Clan Morlock. They continually give up more and more of their flesh to the machine, embracing the philosophy of “The Flesh is Weak”. As such, they have become close allies to the Dark Mechanicus, and are rarely seen apart.

*They eventually split into the Gauntlets and the Warband of Perfected Flesh, who replace their internal organs with robotic replacements. Both of these bands of traitors serve as a reminder to the loyalist Iron Hands and their successor chapters as to why the flesh and the machine must remain always in balance.

*the Salamanders traitors split into two groups: the Dragon Warriors, led by Vai'tan Ushorak, an ex-chaplain from Nocturne, who taught a corrupted version of the Promethean Creed, preaching domination over those deemed too weak to defend themselves; Vai’tan was eventually usurped by the Sorceror Nihilan, who continues to lead this warband today.

-The Dragon Warriors’ main strategy is massed infantry assault with a heavy emphasis placed on flamer, melta and other heat-based weaponry. They are also consummate smiths, being one of the only non-Hashut aligned or Dark Mechanicum forces able to bind a Daemon to a physical weapon.

*The second group, the Children of Purgatos, led by Purgatos, a Salamander marine from Terra itself, who grew tired of Vulkan’s charity and selfless nature ruining the fighting prowess of the 18th Legion. He accepted the restructuring of his legion, but never inducted himself into the Promethean Cult. As the Great Crusade dragged on, Purgatos became more and more agitated and frustrated at the compassion of Vulkan and the Prometheans, who valued the lives of what Purgatos saw as the “weak, teeming masses” over his own sons. Eventually, it all came to a head during the Ambush at Istvaan V, where Purgatos and those loyal to him turned upon their brothers, slaughtering the Prometheans in their company before turning their attention to the Primarch.

*the Raven guard traitors form the Shadow Vultures, a band of stealthy raiders who often prey on weak targets and proceed to rip them apart, until all that is left are carcasses and ash. They are merciless and cruel, often targeting innocent civilians at random using sniper rifles with camo cloaks, to further hide themselves and to hurt morale by being ghostly assassins. They are one of the few Traitor Legions to keep the Moritats and destroyer formations, their casual use of Rad Weapons making them a boon in the eyes of the Vultures. Their honorless tactics are a far cry from their compassionate loyalist counters, a fact not lost on the Vultures, who often make use of human shields when confronted with their foes.

-Their eyes have become pitch black

Well, that’s pretty much all the ideas I have for the traitor legions at the Moment. Let me know what you all think of the ideas I’ve put forth! Thanks for reading!

Updates: changed the name of the traitor alpha legion, changed the entry for the Ronin

update 2: changed the name of the white scars traitor legion what use bikes and speeders and such.

update 3: changed the name and title of the main leader of the M'Andshu Hordes

update 4: massive changes all around, I felt like cleaning upon some stuff and adding more to others.

[athingofvikings]

Chapter 19: Liminals

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Chapter 19: Liminals

 The Norse temple and associated cult at Uppsala was one of the last major bastions of the Norse religion during the attempted Christianization of Scandinavia in the 10th and 11th centuries.  Razed in 1044 and rebuilt in 1056, the original temple featured statues of the gods Odin, Freyr and Thor on a triple throne, a sacred well and a sacred grove.  When the temple was first destroyed by Christian Crusaders, many of the priesthood managed to evacuate to Berk, where they formed the core of…

—The Second Flowering Of Yggdrasil: An Analysis Of The Norse Resurgence, 1710

 Head propped up on her arm, elbow on the table, Ruffnut watched Magnus with a happy smile on her face.  He and Hiccup were figuring out how to handle her marriage contract, and being quite honest, she was glad that it was Hiccup doing the work and not her brother.  

She was trying to pay attention to what they were saying, but… well…

"With hair of wheat, and hands a'fleet…" she thought in her head—as opposed to out loud, as that tended to irk the people around her—composing another little ditty about Magnus.   She had been accumulating a fair number of them over the last few days, since the proposal.  Odes to his swordsmanship, his eddas, his beauty… She considered the line she had just composed.  Wait. No.  That didn't work.  She wanted to imply that his hands were fast and skilled, not that his hands were a group of longboats.

"Lady Ruffnut?" a voice came from the side, and she blinked and turned.  

It was whatshisname, the priest.  She riffled through her little ditties that she'd been composing to herself over the last few days as memory aids for the members of Magnus' court.  Most of them were at the level of barely passable doggerel, but they helped her keep all of the new faces straight.  

Right.  

Son of Henrik, Michael,

Tied to a book called Bible,

Worships a god called Christ,

Who was some kind of sacrificed.

Always talking about sinners and sin,

Doesn't care that his hair has gone thin,

And his belly has gone all paunchy,

But gets angry at anything raunchy.

Putting her very best smile on her face, she asked sweetly, "Yes?"

"I again beseech you to please consider accepting Our Lord, Jesus Christ, as your Savior. Please."

She shook her head. "I'm a child of the All-Father, thank you."  And a devotee of Loki, but people tended to misunderstand that.  And she didn't expect this man, with his foreign god, to respect that.

"Milady, this is quite improper…!" he hissed.

She rolled her eyes. "I don't belong to your god, so I don't understand why it's any of your concern."

"Milady, this is a matter of the direst importance!"

Narrowing her eyes, she whispered harshly back, "Look here!  I am not abandoning my gods just because you make dire noises at me.  I am not giving up my place in Valhalla.  My mother is waiting there for me!" She sat back and folded her arms against her chest, her mood thoroughly ruined.

"Milady—!"

With a huff, she got up and marched to the door.  Before she reached it, though, Magnus spoke up, his voice etched with concern. "Ruff?  What's wrong?"

"Gythi Michael here is being a bit… pushy," she said crossly.  "I'm getting some air."

She marched out into the great hall, and leaned against the wall, her fists clenched, eyes closed.

Footsteps sounded near her after a moment; she opened her eyes just as Astrid was reaching out a hand to her shoulder.

Pulling back her unwounded arm, Astrid asked, "What happened in there?"

Ruffnut huffed. "That… that… priest, he keeps pestering me to convert to his gods! And he hasn't stopped!"

"Have you talked to Magnus about it?"

Ruffnut looked down. "Not really, no.  I… well, I have other things I want to do when I get to talk to him."

Astrid quirked an eyebrow, and Ruffnut rolled her eyes.  "Oh, I wish.  But, no, of the two of us, you're the lucky one there."

Her friend snorted. "Well, come on.  I'm taking Wulfhild out for a flight.  Want to join us?"

"Um…"

"Stormfly needs the exercise… and I really think that you could use the time to clear your head," Astrid said reasonably.  

Ruffnut nodded.  Yeah, a flight would be great.  She'd taken Magnus out for a few flights over the last few days, but he was busy talking with Hiccup right now. 

A little while later, they were airborne, skimming low across the fjord, her and Wulfhild on Barf and Belch, and Astrid on Stormfly.  A number of longboats were coming in, and they flew past and waved as the sailors stared in awe.

Astrid directed Stormfly back over the city and towards one of the mountain peaks south of it, which Wulfhild identified as the Vassfjellet.  The river valley ended quickly, and the mountain climbed below them.

Then Astrid called out, "Let's land!" and pointed to the small tarn near the top of the mountain.

Shrugging, Ruffnut did as Astrid said, and they landed by the small mountain lake; it was maybe a hundred paces wide, surrounded by pine trees.  Barf and Belch, as soon as she and Wulfhild had dismounted, sauntered over to one of the trees and proceeded to scratch an itch against the rough bark.

"Why'd we land?" Wulfhild asked.  "Is something wrong with Stormfly?"

Astrid shook her head. "No.  Sorry, Wulfhild, but I needed some privacy to talk with you, and I brought Ruffnut along because I think that she needs to hear the answers," she said firmly.

Wulfhild suddenly looked a bit trapped.  "Talk about what?"

Astrid gingerly folded her arms.  "Wulfhild.  You've been dodging this for days, and I understand why—especially given the talk that Einar had with Hiccup yesterday.  I think you're my friend and I've seen how you… fold up and quiet down around him, especially since the attack.  What happened?"

Ruffnut watched, concerned, as a wave of mixed emotions crossed Wulfhild's face.  Anger, sadness, fear, surprise, pain, understanding, worry, terror…

"Wulfhild?  Are you all right?" Ruffnut asked quietly.

The woman was hopefully going to be her sister-in-law… and Astrid was right.  For the last few days, she'd been very withdrawn at times. Maybe it was because she was older and still unwed?  She was already in her twenties, and Magnus was four years younger than her.  Maybe she was jealous?

As softly as she could, Astrid asked, "Wulfhild.  Are you frightened of the regent?"

There was a pause, and then, almost convulsively, Wulfhild nodded.  

Ruffnut blinked.  Of the regent?  Huh?  Why? He was just a jarl, while Magnus was a king.

Astrid moved her and Stormfly in a touch closer.  "Wulfhild.  Why are you afraid?"

"I…" Wulfhild began to speak, and then looked away.

"Wulfhild. Nobody is going to overhear.  The nearest people are hundreds—thousands—of yards away in the valley.  And Ruffnut needs to know what she's getting into.  For Thor's sake, we need to know what we're getting into!  Please, Wulfhild, don't let us stumble around in the dark!  Give us a light to see by!"

The princess sagged and said quietly and with a touch of resentment, "Easy for you to say. Your man is powerful and kind. Me, I've got nothing.  I'm a pawn.  Just a pawn."

"Einar said that to you?"

Wulfhild nodded.  

Ruffnut, confused, spoke up. "But how does he have any say? He's not the master of your House…"

Wulfhild laughed bitterly. "Oh?  That's news to me!  He's been the master of my house and my fate since I was fifteen!  And after Astrid and Hiccup were attacked, and Magnus made his oath, he spoke to me and reminded me of my place."  She slumped.  "To him, I'm just a playing piece, to be sold for an advantageous marriage alliance. He reminded me that I need to be proper and decorous—or at the very least decorative.  Because if word spreads that I'm somehow not a perfect princess, I'm not as valuable to him!"  Her tone turned even sharper and mocking, imitating the portly old jarl in cadence and accent, with a vicious nastiness that Ruffnut hadn't heard from him… yet. "'Bad enough that you're a barbarian Norse princess from the far north from their perspective.  Behave, and maybe we can find you a nice duke's heir. Maybe.  But endanger that, and I doubt anybody above a gutter baron would be at all interested.'"

Ruffnut jerked back in her saddle at the mocking vehemence in Wulfhild's voice, and then started to think about what Wulfhild said.

Astrid, however, simply nodded, as if this was exactly what she had been expecting to hear. "Well, that's not what you are to us.  But I needed to know if he was telling Hiccup the truth, or if he was just boasting and trying to make himself look more important."

Wulfhild looked at her, pain on the princess' face that Ruffnut could see plainly.  "And what am I to you?"

"A friend," Astrid said softly.  "Aren't you?"

"I…" Wulfhild looked at Ruffnut, uncertainty on her face.

Without even thinking on it, Ruffnut moved over, reached out, and pulled the older girl into an awkward hug.

Wulfhild sagged into the embrace, and shook for a moment, and a few tears soaked Ruffnut's shoulder.

For a long stretch, there was just the sound of the wind through the leaves and pine needles, the dragons rubbing up against the trees, and Wulfhild's quiet sobbing.

Then Wulfhild pulled back, sniffing slightly, and said, "I'm all right.  So… what did he tell your man?"  This last was addressed to Astrid.

Astrid gave a wry grimace. "That he's your brother's puppetmaster, essentially, and he's the real king around here.  Oh, and that he wasn't responsible for the attack."

Wulfhild, still holding onto one of Ruffnut's arms cautiously, nodded.  "More or less, although I can promise you that Magnus' oath wasn't his idea.  That really upset him; the next day, he came to me and…"  She slumped a bit.  "He reminded me of my place here, like I said."

"And that's why you were so withdrawn during dinner, before the musicians came out?" Astrid asked.

Wulfhild nodded, and gave a small sniff.  "And… well… he's right.  This is his home fief… we, our family, have holdings in the south, but not here… most of the thanes were picked by him, the staff is all his… and I'm pretty sure that he has blackmail or other strings on some of the men that he doesn't outright control.  But he doesn't control everybody; there are a few outside his sway, like Yngvarr."

Ruffnut made an encouraging noise, even as she thought about what Wulfhild was saying.  

So… her king was a puppet-king, controlled by his senior adviser, who was a corrupt and vicious old man. And here she was, coming into his kingdom, until now completely oblivious.  

She wondered when Einar would have tried to control her… or if, as a woman, he wouldn't see her as important enough to try to control.  Wait, no. He'd been trying to control Wulfhild. Then again, there was a difference between a married foreigner and a virgin princess.

Eh, well, it didn't make a difference to her; if he tried, she'd have Barf and Belch set him on fire.

Not knowing Ruffnut's thoughts, Wulfhild continued.  "But don't get your hopes up. Yngvarr has no power.  He lets his brother command their fief, while he runs around playing messenger for my brother."  She looked at Astrid.  "I don't know.  It doesn't fit him to be behind the attack, but…"

Astrid nodded, and so did Ruffnut.  

Sighing, Wulfhild looked at Ruffnut.  "I hope that I haven't just scared you off.  It would break my brother's heart."

Ruffnut snorted. "If Einar tries anything, I'll carry him up to the bottom of the clouds and let him drop."  She smiled at Wulfhild.  "I'm sorry, but you're stuck with me."

Astrid made a noise of deep approval, and Wulfhild cracked a wane smile.  

"Thanks for telling us," Ruffnut said to Wulfhild.

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say, as Wulfhild slumped a bit.  "What does it matter?  He still controls everything around here."

"Not everything," Astrid pointed out.  "Otherwise, he never would have allowed your brother to make that oath."

Wulfhild glanced up swiftly, her eyes widening in brief hope—and then seemed to deflate again, and nodded.  "…Right."

Astrid asked, concerned, "Everything all right?"

"I… I hadn't thought of it that way.  But it won't matter," Wulfhild said.  "I can… I can hope, but the fact of the matter is, he still got what he wanted—your people to protect him as allies—even if it wasn't in the way that he wanted.  He's still in control around here, and I shouldn't get my hopes up."

Astrid's eyes narrowed. "Well, we'll see about that."

Ruffnut smirked. "Ayep."  She crossed her arms.  "Stoick, my dad and my step-mom have been trying to control me for years.  And I'll have Tuffnut here as backup."

Astrid winced theatrically. Ruffnut considered giving her some pointers; she was really overselling it.  But Wulfhild seemed to buy it.  

"So, shall we have that flight?" Astrid asked carefully.  "We're out here, and I've been itching for a bit of flying for days!"

Wulfhild sniffed, rubbed at her eyes, and nodded.  Cautiously, Ruffnut helped her remount Barf and Belch, and they took flight again. As they flew, Ruffnut considered what Wulfhild had said.

So, the old fart thinks that he's in charge around here?

She grinned evilly.  

Try to get your hooks into me, you old bastard.  I bite back.

###

Snotlout bowed before the gods.  Thor, Freyr and Odin sat on their thrones before him as he prayed.  To Odin, he prayed for wisdom.  To Freyr, for prosperity.  And to Thor… for glory.

As he prayed, he heard the sacrifices behind him being offered up at the altar.  He'd dipped into the purse that Hiccup had given him in order to purchase a hearty and healthy ram, and he and several of the other future Varangians were joining together to offer the sacrifices to the gods. Those other young men knelt around him before the idols of the gods; they also were praying to the gods for their favor as their rams bleated their last behind him, and the priests chanted with each cut of the sacrificial knife.

The sacrifices given, he continued to kneel for some time, chanting in prayer, as  the priests then came with the bowls of collected blood and sprinkled it using bundles of branches from the holy grove outside, dipped the leaves into the hot liquid and sprayed the blood with a flick of the wrist across the kneeling young men and on the statues of the gods, chanting all the while.  Behind them, the cauldrons, each large enough for a whole ram, were holding the meat, just starting to simmer for the feast in a few hours, and the smell… brought back memories of his mother's kitchen.  

Regret and homesickness bubbled up for a moment, and a seductive thought came with them… that it was not too late to turn back… that he could go… home…

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he focused on his prayers with renewed fervency.  Go home?  To ridicule and an existence where the things that he did best he was forbidden from doing?  To be known as the boastful incompetent, standing self-condemned as the one who turned and fled back from the unknown as soon as the waters grew rough?

No thank you!

No, if… when he returned to Berk, it would be as a great and glorious war-leader, respected, honored, lauded, revered, with gold and jewels dripping from his fingers, arms and neck, with a loyal and devoted retinue, and a beauty on each arm that made As… hers look pallid!

Then leave!  And when you come back, I'll laugh in your face!

He scowled as that memory came to the fore again, and tried to banish it by focusing on the images of the gods—Odin in his armor, Thor with his hammer, and Freyr with his phallus.  

Well, if he wanted to be a respected man…  Men respected honor, they respected wealth, they respected prowess, they respected authority, they respected solemnity.  

And his name was not very solemn.  Karl had guffawed when he'd told the older man his name…  and other memories came bubbling up when he heard it.

He shook his head to clear it as he knelt before the gods.  Well, it wasn't as if tribal tradition didn't allow for someone to take a new name when they reached adulthood.  He was a man now, with a man's honor, and a man's glory to seize, and so he needed a man's name to go with all of that.  It had to be a proper name, one that would command respect, accrue honor, depict wealth, and be appropriately solemn.  

And he needed it sooner, rather than later, as the men around him would be his comrades  in Varangian service.  

He looked at the three gods honored here in this temple of Uppsala, one of the last bastions of the Aesir on Midgard according to the priests.

Thor.

Odin.  

Freyr.

He continued to pray to the gods.

And then his new name seemed to come to him, as if granted by the gods in answer to his prayers.

Sigurd Trondsson.

Yes…

Victory Guardian, Son of Prosperity.  

Rising from his prayers, he bowed to the priests politely.

As blessings went, that was a bountiful one.

###

Covered in rock dust, clipboard in hand, Fishlegs strode down the length of the mead hall, heading for the Broodery.  The hatchlings were growing fast, and he had preparations underway for getting ready to move them from the nursery out to the main Rookery.  The Rookery was likewise being expanded, with Hiccup's design plans mostly implemented.  

He was so focused on the clipboard that he almost missed the sounds coming from ahead of him in the short tunnel before the Broodery door.  

But a frustrated cry of "Argh!" caught his attention and he paused.

"How do we open this thing?" he heard Brogan's voice say, irritated.

"Well, there's a keyhole here…" Murchadh's voice came.  "Maybe I can get it open…"

Alarmed, Fishlegs turned the corner, and saw the pair of freemen standing in front of the metal-faced door to the Broodery; they'd originally made it entirely out of wood, until the Sharp-class hatchlings had started chopping their way through, leading Gobber to cover the lower half with metal plates.  The lock had been added when the Changewing hatchlings had figured out how to open the door handle.

"What's going on?" he asked the pair.

They spun around.

"How do you get this door open?" Brogan asked with exasperation.

"Why?" Fishlegs asked, trying to keep the suspicion from his face.  Had he just caught the spy… spies?

"Because Birchnut sent me to get potash and dried kelp from the village stores, and Gobber sent Murchadh here to get some barstock, too," Brogan said snidely.  "So can you let us in so that us outsiders can do our errands for our betters?"

Fishlegs crossed his arms in front of him and stared, unamused, at Brogan.  "I can let you in, but you won't find any potash or iron inside."

"Huh?" Murchadh said.

Fishlegs sighed. "You're in the wrong place. This is the Broodery, where we have the dragon eggs and hatchlings.  The stores are back in the main village.  Come on, I'll take you there."  He turned and motioned for them to follow.  Either they were genuinely lost and needed the information, or they were spies that already knew.

As he walked back up the length of the main hall, the pair of freemen in tow, he pondered if they were really lost… or if it was something else.  

Brogan strode up next to him.  "Why the lock, boy?  Don't you trust us?"

Fishlegs sighed. "Trust you?  Yes."  No.  "Trust every visitor?  No. And we don't trust the baby dragons not to get loose again.  That's why we have the lock.  Since we put it on there, we've gone from over two dozen escapee hatchlings per day to an average of one every other day."

The pair of freemen shared a look.  "Wait, there are little baby dragons back there?"  Murchadh asked.

"Yep." Fishlegs glanced at the smith. He'd been saying that he could get the door open… maybe he was the spy?  Or maybe it was from him being a smith…

Gah, he hated this suspicion business!  Why couldn't he just talk with them?  

Doing his best to keep his suspicion off of his face, he said, "About a hundred and fifty, and watching them try to walk and fly is adorable."

Murchadh chuckled. "I bet.  Like kittens with wings?"

Fishlegs nodded, and they stepped through the doors and down the stairs.  Leading the pair of them to the entrance to the village stores, he mused to himself.  

One thing was for sure; the pair of freemen had just shot to the top of his list of suspects.  While he wasn't going to make any accusations, he was going to tell the chief about this incident.

Reaching the doors down to the village stores, he turned and said, "Down here; we've got them sorted in side-tunnels labeled by type.  Food, timber, iron, cloth, and so forth.  I don't know where the dried kelp is exactly, but I think that you can find it near the weaving supplies."

Opening the doors and entering the tunnels, Brogan looked around, then glanced at Fishlegs, and then went for the door to the lumber.  

Fishlegs frowned. "Uh, Brogan?"

"Aye?"

"It's that way," he said, pointing to the door labeled Weaving Supplies in big runes on top and in Gaoidhealg underneath in smaller letters.  Murchadh vanished down the tunnel to the smithing supplies off to the side.

Brogan scowled and said, "I can't read your writings, Norseman."  But he turned and went the way that Fishlegs was pointing.

Before Fishlegs could turn and leave, though, he heard a grunt and a woman call "Help?"

"Hello?"

"Down by the food!" he heard.

Heading in that direction, he found Heather leaning up against the wall of the tunnel about halfway to the storage chamber, her arms filled with loose turnips, parsnips and leeks that had obviously started to slip from her grasp.  One of her feet was still on the floor, while her other knee had pinned a leek to the tunnel wall; her left arm was hugging around her midsection to hold the armfuls of roots against her belly, as she hunched over to try to keep them in place, while her right arm was awkwardly holding another half-dozen vegetables in-between splayed white-knuckles and the wall.  If she so much as twitched, much less tried to stand up straight, there would be a brief rain of root vegetables.  Even in the dim lamplight, it was pretty clear that she'd tried to carry them all at once, started dropping them, and had managed to catch them before they'd hit the floor of the dragon-dug cave.

She looked at him gratefully as he came into her sight, but didn't dare even nod her head, as that might dislodge the turnip held under her chin.

Fishlegs crossed his arms and tried to keep from laughing.  "Need a hand?"

"Ha ha, very funny. Help?  Please?"  

Smiling, he reached out and plucked the vegetables most vulnerable to falling free from her grasp.  As he worked, his arm brushed against her and he tried to keep from blushing. Hopefully she wouldn't notice in the dim reddish light.  

Having been divested of her precarious burdens, she straightened and sighed.  "I'd been like that for a few minutes. Thanks."

"Why not drop them?" Fishlegs asked.  

"And risk getting yelled at?"  She shuddered.  "No thank you."

"But… how would they know?"

She shivered. "They'd know.  They always seem to know."

"Are… are you all right?"

She shuddered all over, like a dog shaking water from its fur.  "Yeah.  Thanks. They were starting to slip free. You…"  she trailed off.

"I… what?"

"I was about to say that you saved me from getting yelled at, maybe even a beating, but that wouldn't happen here, would it?"

Fishlegs grimaced and shook his head.  "No way."

They started walking to the entrance.  "Settling in all right?" he asked.

She nodded, smiling. "I like it here.  I have a comfy bed, all the food I can eat… I'm even getting paid for cooking it!" She beamed at him.  "I even managed to buy a new kirtle already!  I can't believe how cheap the tailors said it would be!"

He grinned. "Glad to hear it."  

As they walked, Hákon clan Hofferson walked past them, carrying sacks of flour.  He nodded to the pair of them, but kept walking.

Heather turned and watched him go.  "So… why do we cart this all down there, only to have to carry it all back up?"

Fishlegs shrugged.  "Mostly it's saved for the winter.  I know that the mead hall kitchens have pantry space up in the mead hall itself. Why didn't you get these from there?"

"We're out," she said simply.  "But why not carve a tunnel down from the mead hall down here?"

"The Broodery is in the way," Fishlegs said.  "And letting in a constant stream of hot air into here wouldn't do the stores any good."

"That makes sense," she said, and with that, they reached the entrance. "Thanks for the assist!"

He shrugged. "I can help with the rest of the way."

"You sure?"

He smiled and said, "Well, if you want, I could stand back and watch you try to juggle them again."

Rolling her eyes, she said, "Well, come on then."

Smiling widely, he followed after her, and she described some of the dishes that she was looking forward to cooking as they walked up the hill to the mead hall.  

###

Snotlout hit the ground cheek-first with a grunt.  Before he could try to scramble away, a strong hand gripped his arm and twisted, and a foot swept out his own feet before he could get a toehold.  An arm pressed against the back of his neck and spots started to dance before his eyes.

With a cry, he tried to buck his back to either throw the grappler off of him, or wriggle free, but the hold was too expertly done and all he succeeded in doing was wrenching his arm against the grip.

He was toast.

"Victory to Gunnar Bræsisson!" he heard the judge call out, and he slumped into the grass as Gunnar let him go.  

Rolling to his feet, he flushed as everyone applauded the victor… which wasn't him. He'd come in second.  

After a long afternoon of kicking ass and taking names… he'd come in second.

Second.

He looked around the circle of young men; he was one of the shortest ones there, but he'd proven himself their better… except for Gunnar.  

Now they were all applauding him.

He looked at Gunnar and sighed.  At least he'd been beaten by a proper Viking.  Tall—at least a hands-length taller than Snotlout—with blond hair that was bound in a braid that Snotlout had tried to use as a grapple point, only to find that it was bait, and solid muscle underneath a layer of hard fat, with tattoos and scars all over his torso.  

Karl tossed Snotlout his shirt and, sighing, Snotlout pulled it back on.  They'd stripped down to trousers for the glima competition between the Varangian-hopefuls, and you put your shirt back on when you lost a bout.  He'd gone a dozen bouts, winning every one… until the very last one.  

He joined in on the clapping, so that he didn't stand out as a poor sport.  Glima had strict rules on sportsmanship, and he wanted the respect of the other young men, not their contempt.  

A call from the fire drew everyone's attention.  "Food's ready!"

With a rumble of excited chatter, the mass of young men moved off to the river to wash up from the bouts.  Dirt was scrubbed clean, hands were washed, and a few of them even jumped into the water for a nice dip with a splash.  Returning to the open pasture field where they had set up camp, Snotlout and the others went up to the giant cauldron and the cook that they had hired, getting portions of simmered pork and goat, and stewed grain.  Snotlout's stomach rumbled; taking a seat on one of the logs nearest Hookfang, who was digging into his own meal of a cauldron of fish with enthusiasm, he proceeded to chow down on the tender meat  with a happy sigh.

Next to him was one of the men that he'd beaten early in the day, Thorred Folkmarsson. He leaned over and held up his pork bone, some significant bits of meat still clinging to it.  Talking to Hookfang, he said in a loud whisper, "Hey, dragon!  Want my bone?"

Hookfang looked up, considered for a moment, and then huffed out a small wisp of fire before returning to his fish.

Snotlout scoffed.  "You'd have more luck with a herring."

"Huh?"

"He likes fish," Snotlout said with a smirk.  He'd settled into a comfortable state of affairs here in Uppsala while they waited for the trader to make sail; he'd talked with the city lord and paid a bribe to get hospitality, and started making allies among the other potential Varangians.  While some were determined not to be impressed by him—like Ketilbjorn, over on the other side of the fire, who was apparently the third son of some high lord to the north—others were in awe of him as a dragon rider.  A little talking had resulted in getting some allies that would watch his and Hookfang's backs.  

"Fish? Really?"

"Ayep. Isn't that right, Hookfang?"

Hookfang snorted, reached his snout into the cauldron, and then flung a mouthful of fish into the air.  Then he caught them on the way back down, dramatically swallowing them.

The others applauded.  Fridgeir and Hrafn, who were eating fish on the next log over, started to toss Hookfang theirs. Hookfang snatched them out of the air like a striking snake, to general approval, and then nuzzled up next to the two blond men with an anticipatory air, his eyes closed.  

"By the gods, he's like a giant cat!" Fridgeir said with a laugh.

Hookfang just started purring, which made them both laugh.  

A solid blow landed on Snotlout's shoulder, and he jumped.  Hookfang's eyes popped open and he made a warning noise.

Snotlout turned to see Gunnar standing there, having clapped him on the back and nearly knocking him off of the log.  "Sigurd. Well fought," he said, and extended a hand.  

Trying to keep his own face equally impassive, Snotlout nodded and shook the bigger man's hand, motioning Hookfang to calm down with his other.  

"Later, I wish to spar with you more.  I have not had such a bout in months," Gunnar said formally, smiling.

Snotlout blinked in surprise and nodded.  Before he could say anything more, however, a call came out from nearby.  "Hallo the fire!"

Everyone turned to look, seeing Vidkunn Guthhersson, the trader who would be taking them all south, and a trio of other men following him.

Snotlout looked them over with a critical eye, and then his eyes widened.  Vidkunn stood out among this crowd, as his hair was wavy and his skin brown, both of which his son, Balli, had inherited.  And Snotlout had seen some others in the city that had brown skin as well, including a few of Trader Johann's sailors, so that was nothing new to him.  But the third man…

For a moment, Snotlout thought that he was a dark elf; his skin was a deep dark brown color, darker than Snotlout's own hair, and looking even darker in the fading light of the day, and his hair was stark black.  The impression wasn't helped by his height or apparent youthfulness, nor the sword, ax or armor of Norse make that he had.  

Realizing that he was staring, Snotlout averted his eyes and back to his plate, and then glanced back up to the three newcomers as they approached the campfire.  

Carefully looking, he mentally scolded himself for potentially showing ignorance in front of the others; the boy—because if he was older than Snotlout, he'd eat his helmet, horns first—was clearly human, not elf.  A bit taller than Snotlout, the sword, ax and armor he was wearing all showed signs of age and wear, and the armor, consisting of small iron plates sewn onto a leather jerkin, was too big for him and looked old and battered, and he rather doubted that a dark elf would be dressed or outfitted so shabbily—although the sword looked awesome, to be sure.  His father's, maybe?

The other two young men following in Vidkunn's wake were much less odd.  A pair of twins, who looked identical, but they wore their brown hair differently—one was in a braid, while the other had pulled it into a club—and one was looking grouchy while the other was looking around curiously.  

Snotlout scanned around the circle and realized that, thankfully, he wasn't the only one staring at the dark-skinned newcomer, although it wasn't everybody.  Maybe half.  So the not-elf was new to not just him.  That was good…

Vidkunn entered the circle around the fire with the three in tow.  "All right, you lot!  You've been lazing about," they all laughed, "drinking and eating and carrying on!  But you've all paid your passage fees, and the signs are auspicious for us to leave on the morrow!  These here are Ondott Brandrsson, Kormak Brandrsson and Gudmund Hallvarsson," he pointed to the two pale-skinned men, who Snotlout could now see as being clearly brothers, and then to the dark-skinned man.  "They're also going to join the Varangians with the rest of you sorry lot!"  He waved to the field.  "So get a good night's sleep!  Tomorrow, you lazy lordlings will have to work!"

There was a cheer, and the cook filled plates with food for the newcomers.  

As Gudmund took his plate and sat, Snotlout realized that he was staring again, and glanced away.  

"A dragon," someone breathed nearby.  "A real dragon… by Odin.  I can hardly believe it."

Snotlout looked up to see Kormak staring at Hookfang from what he probably imagined was a safe distance.  Then Kormak turned to Gunnar.  "How did you manage to tame such a beast?"

Without thinking, Snotlout said harshly, "Gunnar isn't the rider.  I am."

Kormak literally looked down at him, sitting on the log.  "A pint-sized pipsqueak?  Right, sure."

Snotlout scowled at him.  "And you're so sure of that, how?"

Kormak scoffed. "Look at you!  Run along, short stuff, and don't tell lies that you can't back up!"

Snotlout surged to his feet and slugged Kormak in the belly, right below the ribs.  The bigger man fell to the ground, staggered and breathless, his mouth flapping like a landed fish, clutching at his gut.

A few of the others inhaled sharply, while Balli and Fridgeir applauded.  Hookfang snorted behind Snotlout and a brief lick of flame cast his dim shadow over Kormak.  

Reveling in being the one who got to stare down from up high, Snotlout said snidely, "Who's the short one now?  I just came in second in the glima matches, and Gunnar here said that he hasn't had a bout like that in months, isn't that right, Gunnar?"

Gunnar snorted and nodded.  "Aye. Well done, Sigurd.  And, oh, loud one, he is the rider.  I would be honored that you assumed that I am, but such an observation coming from one so lacking in wisdom is no compliment that I wish to have."  He turned, gave a slight bow of his head to Snotlout, and walked back to his spot on the logs.  

Ondott came over and hauled his brother to his feet, shaking his head.  Kormak was still trying to get air into his belly again.

Vidkunn rolled his eyes and collected a plate of food from the cook.  "Get that all out now, lads, because there'll be no room for fighting among yourselves when we're on the Dnieper.  And it won't reflect too kindly on you lot when it comes time for taking Varangian service, either.  They have a strict code of conduct."

"Aye, my father told me," Gudmund said, from where he sat gnawing at the pork bone in his hands.  He looked up at Snotlout.  "Fighting among the ranks is punished by lashes."

Snotlout crossed his arms.  "I'll keep that in mind.  So… your father was a Varangian?"

"Aye. I'm born off of one of his concubines that he brought back from Greece," he said, and motioned to his face and hair.  "Been twenty years, and Mother still complains about how cold it is this far north."

"Got any relatives down there?" Fridgeir asked.  

Gudmund tossed his cleaned pork bone into the fire.  "Not that I know of.  Mother and both of Father's other two concubines were slaves before he freed them and brought them with him when he got married up here."  He rolled his eyes.  "I have lots of siblings."

Ondott, his arm around his brother's back, said, "Want one more?  I'll give him to yeh cheap!"  Kormak looked offended but didn't say anything as everyone laughed.

Gudmund gave a short laugh.  "Not likely!  I'm glad I was able to get Father's old sword and ax away from my older brothers." He cocked his head at Snotlout. "So, what's your story?"

Snotlout smiled a bit sourly.  "My cousin is in line to inherit the chiefdom back home.  But he has no stomach to be a warrior.  So I'm going to show that I'm the better Norseman in the eyes of the gods."

"And… the dragon?" Kormak asked, wheezing slightly.

"What about him?" Snotlout asked disingenuously.

"Why is he here?  And where did he come from?" Kormak persisted.

"He's here because he's my friend, aren't you, Hookfang?"  He stepped back and gave his friend a nice scratch right around the base of his horns.  Hookfang purred.  "As for where he came from, well, we come from the Alban Isles.  Until last year, there was this great and terrible dragon ruling over a whole nest, and I helped free them.  Hookfang and I have been best friends ever since."

Kormak snorted. "Cute story.  But it seems like having a dragon should trump a blood claim on the chiefdom."

Snotlout scowled.  "Yeah, but he's still my blood."  And has an awesome dragon of his own.  "I'd rather show that I'm a better choice, rather than try to just take it."

Kormak looked thoughtful, and then Hookfang warbled, and everyone looked at him.

"What? What did he say?" Thorred asked, eyes wide and excited.  

Snotlout shrugged.  "He's probably bored."  Turning to Gunnar, he asked, "For winning the glima tournament, want to go for a flight?"

Gunnar grinned widely and gave a deep bow.  "I am honored, Sigurd, for your offer, and happily accept."

As he showed the bigger man how to get into the safety harness, Snotlout tried not to think on what Hookfang had said.  He wasn't quite sure… but the tone had been chiding, and he was pretty sure that his friend was reminding him about Toothless.  

Yeah, well, he'd admit that part before these men when Ragnarok arrived, thank you very much.

###

"And… there… we… go!" Horsefeathers said, and finished scribing with a flourish.  "Two clean copies of the betrothal contract, ready for seals and signatures."

Smiling to himself, Hiccup, as the seniormost member of the Hooligan tribe present, made his signature on the parchment.  It was technically only a contingent betrothal; her parents and her clan could still veto it, but the odds of that happening were so utterly, vanishingly small that he was spending more effort speculating with Astrid and Tuffnut on how Thicknut and Lena  would react to the proposed proposal—especially some of the more entertaining clauses that Hiccup had managed to suggest and get accepted for the bride price and dowry.  

As he stood up from the table, his signature on both pieces of parchment, Ruffnut squealed—honestly and sincerely squealed—in sheer excitement, and hugged him for a brief moment, making his wounds flash hot with pain, before releasing him and tackling Magnus, who was taking his own seat.  

"Ahh!  Let me sign it first!" Magnus said, half-heartedly trying to fend her off.  "I'll sign it and then I'm all yours!"

Ruffnut paused and a wide evil grin crossed her face.  "Yes… yes you are."

Hiccup, taking up position next to Astrid, said, "Well, that's over with."

Astrid nodded and waggled her eyebrows.  "Good job," she whispered, as Magnus finished signing and was promptly seized by his fiancee.  

Fishwings, rolling her eyes, sat and signed in turn as a witness.  

A sudden looming presence behind him made him turn.  Einar was standing there.  "Young Hiccup.  Congratulations to us both, I suppose.  I feel as if I got this treaty for a song, and that worries me."

Hiccup rolled his eyes. "And you didn't even have to write that song," he deadpanned.  "Magnus did.  Literally."

"…Aye, I suppose I didn't.  Now all I have to worry about is the risk of your father being upset at what you've sworn him to."

Astrid snorted and then said quietly and harshly, "Thambarskelfir, I know that you view 'trust' as this bizarre concept, but trust me, his dad will be happy about this."  

"Oh really? Well, I suppose that we'll have to just see.  But don't be surprised if him-as-chief is different than him-as-father.  I won't be."

Hiccup and Astrid shared a glance, with Astrid cocking her head towards Einar, her expression reading can you believe this guy?

Turning back to Einar, Hiccup said, "First, that's my problem.  Second, if you didn't think that what I agreed to is acceptable or binding, then why did you agree to it?"

Einar shrugged. "Why not?  Ah, lad, you're so young and untested.  You'll learn and grow more worldly."  He looked as if he was going to give a friendly pat on Hiccup's shoulder, but thought better of it.  

A thought occurred to Hiccup.  "Actually, I do have one thing to ask for."

Einar froze.  "…Yes?"

"Maps.  And the most well-traveled Norsemen you can find." Hiccup gave a lopsided smile. "Send them to Berk.  I have some ideas that they can help with."

"Maps.  And traders and explorers?"

Hiccup nodded.

"Hmm… I suppose that I can see why.  Well, consider it done.  I consider that to be a small price to pay."  He turned to leave, and then paused.  "Anything else?"

Hiccup shook his head.

Einar padded off, and Hiccup shared another look with Astrid, just as she was called over to sign as a witness.  

Well, that was done with. Now, he and Astrid had to finish healing up enough to risk an ocean voyage and then head back to Berk.  

Magnus was coming with them, and Einar was not.  And if that didn't say who was really in control around here, with Einar staying in the capital, while Magnus could roam…  He remembered Yngvarr's comment back in the map-room, about how a chief could not roam so far, and wondered if it had been the herald attempting to subtly direct him to this realization.

But it still came down to the fact that Magnus's presence at the center where the decisions were made… wasn't necessary.  

Well.  He had plans to mess with that.  Some of which would be going off sooner rather than later.

###

Wulfhild fiddled with the embroidery needle and sighed before setting it into the linen kirtle she was working on, and put both aside.

A summer thunderstorm was paying her home a visit, and she wondered what the towering clouds would look like from above…

Until a few weeks ago, she never would have been able to visualize it, but now, having had the chance to fly multiple times with Hiccup or Astrid, or a few of the other Hooligans, she could imagine what it looked like from a height greater than the peaks of mountains.  

And that beat embroidery any day as a way to pass the time.  

Well, that was unfair. Embroidery was useful, generally speaking.  And she had a dab hand at it—ironically, thanks to her archery callouses on her fingertips making it easier to hold the needles.  

But this…

She scowled at the linen kirtle where it was lying inoffensively on the side table in the dim afternoon light.  Bergljot, Einar's wife, had given her it, and a variety of dyed spools of embroidery thread, when she'd returned from southern Norway two days ago.  She'd been down near Wulfhild's childhood home of Borg… where, of course, Wulfhild couldn't go.  

And to top it off, the old woman had been nice about it.  She'd been sold into a political marriage in her youth too… and was doing her best to mentor Wulfhild in an absent, kindhearted fashion that regularly sent Wulfhild's spirits plummeting when she looked out ahead at her life.

Which was why she was working on embroidering yet another kirtle for her hope chest.  No, she couldn't work on something useful for the household, or as a gift for her brother.  Instead she had to have a fifth kirtle, embroidered with a pattern of blue, red and gold birds that Bergljot had picked for her!  

Anything to keep that marriage price up as high as possible!

But that had been Bergljot's advice, for exactly that reason.  She didn't love her husband, but, as she'd pointed out to Wulfhild multiple times, her sole power as a daughter of a major house was in having as many options as possible to say no to.  And hope that one of them was worth saying yes for.

She slumped in her chair, closed her eyes and groaned as the rain pounded at the roof.  If only the old woman weren't so dratted nice about the whole thing so that she could hate her properly!  She took her duties as hostess seriously, and that was her perspective on the whole thing—Wulfhild was her guest.  Long term guest… but still a guest.  Only a guest… and that just emphasized how this wasn't Wulfhild's home.  

And now she was going to be doing the same for Ruffnut.  She'd even come and asked Wulfhild about her brother's betrothed so as to be able to give her the support that the Hooligan girl would need.

And Wulfhild, feeling half-obstinate, and completely upset with herself for the emotion, had told her.

A knock at the door sounded, and she looked up.  "Come in!"  If it was Bergljot again, she could point to the poor daylight as her excuse for having stopped embroidering.  

Instead, Astrid poked her head in, spotted her, and grinned.  "You busy?"

Wulfhild shook her head mutely.  

"Then come on," the other woman said with a wide grin and a jerk of her head towards the hallway, motioning for Wulfhild to follow.  

Standing up, Wulfhild headed for the doorway.  "What's going on?"

"You'll see," Astrid said with a knowing grin.  

Wulfhild just gave her a level and unamused look.  "Astrid…"

"What?  It can't be a surprise?"

"Oh, fine," she said, rolling her eyes and giving the other woman a look.  Wulfhild only came up to her nose, and she imagined that it would get worse as the shieldmaiden got older; the princess was nearly five years older, and didn't exactly have much growth left to look forward to, if any.  It also made keeping up with her to be somewhat annoying, although Astrid was at least being polite enough to keep her pace moderated.

But, being honest with herself… if she was flirting with the cardinal sin of envy, it wasn't over the taller woman's height.  No, if she was vulnerable to envy of Astrid, it was from her friend's relationships.  

It was pretty much an open and winked-at secret in her brother's court that his two high-ranked heathen guests were sleeping together out of wedlock, and Wulfhild had been envious of their closeness and ease with each other since their arrival, even as they were engaged in carnal sin.  As Bergljot kept reminding her, love and mutual adoration like they possessed was probably not going to be in her future.  

And the envy was very hard to avoid, because she was seeing their closeness from up close.  Both of them, in the weeks that they'd been here, had been going out of their way to spend time with her and make friends.  In some surreal manner of convoluted thinking, she had found herself feeling irritated that she couldn't be indignant on the grounds that they were ignoring everyone else around them.  That had made for an interesting confessional, and she'd thought on the unfairness of her thoughts as she'd sat and prayed the rosary as her penance.  

So now she had two good friends that she would never get to see again as soon as they finished healing up, and it hurt, knowing that they would leave her soon, like every other friend she'd ever had in her life.  And yet… she kept letting herself get close to them, going on dragon-rides with them, playing board games as they healed up, taking them skating, having long chats and games of wordplay and riddles, and other such entertainments… and the occasional covert chat regarding the true state of her home.

And while she excused her socializing with them as her being a good hostess… she didn't kid herself. She liked them.  Hiccup had a wonderfully quick wit and was vastly knowledgeable, and Astrid was the dimmer light only by virtue of her boyfriend's brilliance—on her own, she shone.  

Wulfhild herself… felt like a brace of candles at best some days.

Speaking up as they walked, she asked, "So… Astrid.  How's the arm doing now?"  It felt wrong to wish her friend more pain… but the longer the arm and Hiccup's rib took to heal, the more time she would get to spend with her new friends.    

Astrid gave her a nod. "Better.  I can move it without it hurting, but it's still not very strong compared to before. I'll be working on it."

"And Hiccup?"

"Rib's getting better, and his back is healed up.  Infection's past as well for both of us, thank the gods."  

"Amen," Wulfhild said, addressing her own thanks to a specific God.  

Astrid shuddered. "But, wow, it hurt there for a while.  Worse than the wound in the first place, all burning and tender…"

Wulfhild grimaced. "I'm glad you're all right then, because it sounded like it was pretty bad there for a while." She'd been worried sick for that first week, actually, as memories of her mother's death had stalked her waking moments.  

"Well, we lived," Astrid said with a grimace.  "But we're both going to have scars to show for it."

"Proper Vikings, then, both of you," Wulfhild said lightly.  

"Ayep.  It's only fun if you get a scar out of it.  So, I've been meaning to ask you for a bit," Astrid said, as they reached the door to the courtyard, only to see torrential rain lashing the courtyard.  Pausing, she looked at Wulfhild, "Wait 'til the storm passes?"

Wulfhild nodded emphatically and they stood in the doorway looking out.  

"Well, as I was saying, so… your mother was from the Swedes?"

"Yeah.  My half-uncle is currently the king there. He and his wife fostered me after my father got overthrown by Cnut, and I came back here after Magnus took back the throne."  She shared a significant glance with Astrid, who nodded.  They'd spoken already on the state of affairs here.

"Tell me about her?" Astrid asked.

Wulfhild sighed. "…well, her name was Astrid, too, but you knew that already."  She looked back through her memories.  "She was a bastard too, from my grandfather's concubine, Edla, of the Obotritans, so I'm hardly 'pure' Swede by any measure."  A shrug.  "Her half-sister ended up marrying the Rus' prince, Yaroslav, which is why my brother was able to hide there…"

Astrid touched her shoulder. "Tell me about her, not the politics."

"Sorry," Wulfhild muttered.

"Nothing to apologize for.  I just… well, if you don't want to talk about it, it's okay.  But I was wondering.  I mean, my mom and I don't get along all of the time, and she can be a real hardass too, but… but I don't want to know what it would be like to grow up without her."

Wulfhild sighed. "She passed six years ago.  I was your age, actually.  An infection took her in a week.  Before that…" she gave another sigh.  "Well, she was beautiful.  Tall," she said, glancing up at Astrid's height, which made her give a friendly smirk.  "She had a good way with words, and spoke and wrote in three languages, and was well spoken."  Her eyes grew distant as she remembered.  "I used to braid her hair and she'd braid mine after we bathed, and she'd teach me songs and poems and stories…"

Astrid sighed wistfully. "Sounds nice."

"It was.  People liked her, and she was kind and generous. She knew the servants' names and would help them when they had problems."  Wulfhild smiled at the memory.  "One day, she freed this one house thrall and gave her some of her amber jewelry, just like that.  It was so she could get married to this thane that she was fond of.  When the chamberlain came and threw a fit at her, she just smiled at the man and said that, last time she checked, thralls could be freed, and that our Lord had helped the downtrodden and less fortunate, so why should she do any less?"  She grinned at the memory.  "His face was purple with rage, but he couldn't say anything, because she was the queen."

Astrid grinned. "I think I would have liked her. We don't keep thralls on Berk. Hel, if any of them manage to get to the island, we free them on principle."

Wulfhild blinked. "Then who does the work?"

"We all pitch in. Even Hiccup and his dad, although Hiccup's more valuable to all of us building stuff."

"And that works?"

Astrid grinned. "Yep.  You'll—" She cut herself off.  "Hey, it looks like the rain's slowing.  Come on."

Wulfhild looked at her in surprise and followed the other woman gamely across the courtyard and into the carpenter's shed.

The smell of fresh wood shavings hit her nose, and she looked around to find Hiccup's and her brother's distinctive backs hunched over a workbench.  A pair of thanes stood watch around the room, and acknowledged them as she and Astrid entered.  

"Boys… we're heeeere," Astrid called out with a gleeful grin.  

"What kept you?" Hiccup asked, still hunched over the workbench.

"The rain," Astrid said.

"Fair.  I guess it's a wash," Hiccup said, still working on something.

"Only a drop in the bucket, really," Astrid shot back.

"Well, I suppose there'll be hail to pay," Hiccup replied.  Magnus turned and gave Wulfhild a exasperated look.  

"There's snow way out from that, I agree," Astrid said.

Wulfhild rolled her eyes and waited for them to be done.  

"Either way, it's ice to be able to do this," Hiccup said in a deadpan tone.

Astrid paused in consideration, and Wulfhild seized the opportunity.  "Okay, that's enough you two."

Astrid gave her an innocent look before cracking up.  "Okay, okay!  So, I brought you here for a reason," she said, and patted Hiccup on the shoulder.

Hiccup stood and turned, holding a…

Wulfhild's eyes widened.

He held out the brand new instrument to her; it wasn't exactly the same as the lyra that Ketil had, but it had a fairly close shape.

Taking it gently, she looked up at him, and her brother was grinning at her.  

"Turns out he was able to make a copy of it," Magnus said, pointing his thumb at Hiccup.  "Or at least a close one."

"Yeah, and I ruined a bunch of wood blocks trying to do it," Hiccup groused.  "And it doesn't sound anywhere near as good—"

"Hiccup.  It's a first try," Astrid said.  "It's not going to be perfect on your first try, no matter how much you hope that it will be."  She turned to Wulfhild, who was still holding the instrument in her hands like it was made of glass.  "But we figured that you could have the first one."

Wulfhild looked up at her, a smile growing on her face.  "For… for me?"

All three of them nodded, and Magnus said in an innocent tone of voice, "Well, yes.  You'll need something to occupy your time when we're sailing to Berk."

For a moment, what he said failed to register.  

"Wait, why—"

"Because, dear sister, if you wish, you're coming with us, and you're getting a dragon," Magnus said, beaming at her.  

Her eyes widened. "How—why—what—"  Why was she getting a dragon, when there were so many men at court that wouldn't?

Hiccup shrugged, clearly enjoying her surprise.  "Magnus and I hammered it out in our agreement.  You get one, he gets one, as the royals.  Then five men from his court get one each."

"And I picked Yngvarr, Mark, Eindride, Roald, and Vlademar," Magnus said, grinning.

Wulfhild nodded, still numb. Oh, God.  Astrid had promised her help in getting out from under Einar's power, and Wulfhild hadn't believed her.  The idea that she'd be given a dragon… that was their solution?  

Oh, aye, she'd still be a bargaining chip under Einar's control of her house… but, with a dragon, that chip would have teeth.

Then the names Magnus had said penetrated.  

His herald, the steward, the marshal, and two of the thanes that had been with him the longest. While Einar's son, as the marshal, was a given, Yngvarr wasn't under Einar's control, and while Mark was, his brother was Roald, who had guarded her brother since he was a child.

And…  her.

Oh, God, her.

She was going to get a dragon of her own.  

She was going to get to fly!

To fly!

She looked at her two friends, who grinned at her.  Abandoning decorum for the moment—if Einar wanted to lecture her again, she'd take it, assuming that he even heard of this meeting—she cautiously put the lyra down and tackled both of them in a laughing embrace.  Letting go after a moment, she picked back up the instrument and set the lyra's bow to the strings, intending to bring forth glorious music.

A sound like a cat being tortured issued forth instead, and everyone cringed.  

Magnus said, deadpan, "I'll be on a different longboat."

They all laughed, and Wulfhild grinned at her brother.  "Talk like that, and I won't play for your wedding."

"A whole ship, all to yourself!" Magnus joked.

Wulfhild snorted and hefted the instrument. "I'll be taking this to Ketil, then.  I'll need some training while we wait."  She nodded towards Hiccup.  "Sir Hiccup… thank you again."

He grinned widely and spread his arms in a large gesticulation before putting them behind his back and stretching.

Looking him over, she marveled at the handsome young man in front of her.  A kind and friendly genius, who could look at an instrument and make a copy of it in a matter of weeks, and who desired peace and mutual accord.

Yeah… she was jealous of Astrid, while wishing both of her friends the best of luck with each other.

In the meantime, however, she had an instrument to learn to play!  And if Einar protested it as being unladylike, then she could easily ask if she was supposed to insult their dragon rider allies by ignoring the gift.

And that was a gift in its own right.

###

A few weeks later, Hiccup took a deep breath of the sea air as the fleet below him cleared the fjord that led to Nidaros. His rib twinged, but only lightly, more from remembered pain than anything else; it had healed to the point that Astrid could lay her head on it without causing him pain.  His back had healed with a ferocious scar, easily the length of both of his hands combined, and Astrid had a similar mark on her arm… as he knew from close inspection.  They'd taken advantage of their last bit of privacy last night with gusto, and he was still sore.

He heard the sailors cheer below, and the sound brought him back to the present.  The rope that went from Toothless's harness to the mast of the longboat was taut as his friend stuck his tongue out between his teeth in concentration as he pulled at the ship below; while the dragons couldn't help that much in helping them get clear of the fjord, the oarmen had appreciated the gesture tremendously.  With a call from below, the rope was loosed and the sails raised.  

They were heading south, to cross the North Sea and make way to Berk.  The height of summer had already passed, and the days were growing shorter.  Below him, ten ships rode the waves, carrying supplies and Magnus's court.  He and the other riders and dragons were airborne, helping the fleet claw free of the fjord and reducing the weight aboard ship. Yngvarr estimated that it would take two weeks to return to Berk, maybe three if they hit inhospitable weather.  

But they were underway.

Watching the wakes of the ships carve white arrowheads through the blue of the water, Hiccup smiled.

Yeah.  He'd come to make friends and allies.  He could definitely say that he had succeeded. And that wasn't all he had managed.

With a strange feeling of mixed sullenness and excitement, he looked to the south, seeing the mountains and the sea extending for miles.  According to the charts he had copied from the Nidaros archives with Einar's permission, following that line south would lead him to the land of the Danes, and from there to the lands of the massive Holy Roman Empire.  He had duplicated the charts to the best of his ability, taking advantage of his convalescence and, now, he had a broader picture of the world, and he wanted to see it all, which was an exciting thought. Names of distant, exotic places… and, most tantalizing of all, the blank spots at the edges of the maps.  Knowing what was out there, yes, by the gods, it was awesome, and almost without equal… but not knowing what lay over the next horizon was a thought that sent his blood to dancing in his veins in a way that almost nothing else could… with the exception of Astrid.

But he was also a bit low because his cousin was out there.  It was… odd.  He had resented and at times outright hated his kinsman for what he did with himself. And yet, he found himself missing Snotlout at times… and, being honest with himself, a bit jealous that Snotlout was getting to roam free in a way that he couldn't, not with his responsibilities.  And he was going to a place that was close to the edges of what Hiccup now knew…

Well, maybe they'd meet each other while they were out there.

A sudden splash of water hit him in the head, and he jerked up, surprised to say the least.  

Astrid and Stormfly blew past, with an empty waterskin in Astrid's hand and a mischievous grin on her face.  Stormfly chittered and waggled her wings at them as they dove down to the water's surface.

Hiccup, shook his head, sending water droplets flying, and bent down behind the crest of Toothless's head. "Our turn, bud?"

Toothless cackled, and they were off.

The future would attend to itself.  He had an alliance to cement, a friend to marry off to another friend, a scheming old man to deal with, and, most importantly, a love of his own to betroth.

Once he had enough to make Magnus's own bride price for Ruffnut look trifling in comparison, at the very least.  Because his own love was worth it, and he wouldn't cheat her by doing anything less.

Dancing through the small forest of masts and sails, he and Toothless gave chase to his girlfriend, their shouts echoing across the water from sheer exuberance.  The spray of the sea water, the distant calls of the sea birds, the ruffle of the sails in the wind, the fluffy white clouds, the blues of the sky and sea, and that haunting line in the distance where they met…

It was truly a day blessed by the gods.  

The horizon, and the future, beckoned.  

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A/N: Here we go!  I should have a chapter up next week, but the week after that (the 20th) is hazy; my buffer isn’t where I want it to be, and I’ll be on my honeymoon in Dublin at the time.  In the meantime, our wedding is this Friday!

[kimber-elise-monroe]

“Man, I see in fight club the strongest and smartest men who've ever lived. I see all this potential, and I see squandering. God damn it, an entire generation pumping gas, waiting tables; slaves with white collars. Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. no purpose or place. We have no great war. No great depression. Our great war's a spiritual war... our great depression is our lives. We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off.” --Tyler Durden, Fight Club

There is something pure, uncorrupted by fights such as the one taking place before Kimber Monroe eyes tonight and despite the illegality of it all.  It undoubtedly arouses her own primal urges and dark impulses. Brawls like these, in general, have the power to elicit man’s most basic predilections and feed savage cravings.  The desire to dominate. The desire to destroy. The desire to spill blood. The desire to maim. The desire to kill. It’s as innate as hunger and sex, and certainly, an unyielding element etched into man’s DNA. Centuries of cultivating humanity couldn’t deny a man his nature. Wars waged for sovereignty, in the name of God and religion or greed and power, and even the pathetically executed peace, only gave man faulty justification to ease the conscious and weary souls that indeed it’s not about feeding that ferocious appetite for destruction.

This is a truth that cannot be denied and Kimber knows it just as well as any of her counterparts in the dilapidated warehouse if not better.  It’s not something she learned out of a book or TV and any violence depicted, but rather a truth she has come to learn firsthand thru experience and even her profession.  One can’t live with a modicum of veracity after blood is spilled to these creatures comforts humanity provides and the falsehoods perpetuated. In all reality, if Kimber were to speak her mind, to push the horrors of what is entirely certain in her thoughts and heart of hearts to any of the men cheering and jeering alongside her, she is sure they would haphazardly scoff at her or brush her off with nervous laughter.  No matter just how violent or lewd they might be, when it is all said and done, she is still considered just a beautiful woman, a trophy to most and treasure to some, and no less in a world dominated by men and most men find themselves unnerved by strong and opinionated women--no matter how beautiful and intelligent.

Whether legal or illegal fighting, these battles sanction a person's need to witness brutality at it’s finest as well.  The raven-haired woman, appearing so fresh and deceivingly unchaste, is no exception to this fact. Kimber bounces on the heels of her dark red cowgirl boots as she watches the fight taking place.  Two men are having a showdown as the crowd cheers on--hungry for blood and ultraviolence. A blonde man, one known as the Swede, bouncing on the balls of his feet near the edge of the inner sanctum of the chain link ring, prepares to block yet another blow to the face.  The first one caught him off guard and he would be damned if he would let that happen again. That’s when this urban dual of brawn truly begins. All whilst to chorus of a roaring crowd surrounding the fence. The warehouse, potent in its aroma and muggy due to the horde, smells of blood, sweat, tears, liquor, and that good ole’ fashioned greenback called money.  In many ways, Kimber finds it intoxicating.

The warehouse itself has hosted many illegal fights and fight clubs for local criminal syndicates over the past few months, but more sinister activities often transpired in the back rooms--rooms in which only a few are permitted to enter.  People are throwing their arms up in the air all around, screaming obscenities and cheering on their favorite fighter in this round whilst demanding VICTORY. The Swede, a pale and blonde, grey-eyed man, large in stature but not so much in mass, doesn’t have much a following due to being new to the scene.  However, the regulars seem to like that he could hold his own, especially against his opponent--a man known as Mickey the Hook. Mickey the Hook, appropriately named for his powerful right hook, has a face that looks like it has been put through a meat grinder with his teeth lose in his mouth and stained with blood from a prior fight.

Mickey the Hook is lean and muscular, and the sweat glistens off of his bruised and bare torso like baby oil.  Dark eyes are matched by his long black, greasy locks that are slicked back on his head only to curl at the nape of his neck. He is the man the crowd loves to hate. He is the seasoned fighter most have placed their bets on. Mickey eyes The Swede, trying to anticipate his next move while spitting out venomous taunts.  In no way did he have any qualms about bludgeoning another and if anything, it’s a point of pride for him. He comes at The Swede with his right fist in his signature right hook, but The Swede bends backward just as rough, busted knuckles gaze his crooked nose.  Over-correcting, he stumbles forward slightly before swiftly taking a defensive stance. It’s these first few blows that he is able to get into a more accurate defense mode and let his muscles fall into a rhythm for battle. He does not hesitate and thrusts his fist forward going in for a quick jab at Mickey the Hook.  Mickey derails the hit with his fist, pummeling into the other’s forearm.

The hit itself is so hard that he loses his balance for a brief minute.  A minute is just enough to catch him off guard.and the other man automatically lowers his fist down on the back of The Swede’s head before he spinning around to deliver him an uppercut to the jaw. His head pops back and his jaw snaps, and a sly grin forms along Mickey the Hooks crooked, thin lips. “Aye. This ‘aught to be fun,” Mickey says in a thick Irish accent.  The tip of his tongue glides across his cracked pout and he tastes the blood at the corner of his mouth. His dark eyes gleam with wicked delight. He then backhands The Swede literally like a little bitch. Not holding back any of his strength, the other man falls back skidding across the dirty, blood and oil-stained concrete floor.  Immediately, he rolls back onto his shoulders and lunges up to his feet. “So we are actually gonna do this?” The Swede asks as he pops his neck. “Aye… I could use a good fight,” says Mickey.

In one calculated move The Swede balls a fist and delivers swift yet hard jab to Mickey’s nose.  Mickey ’s head is the one to now pop back. In turn, he responds with a direct blow to the face via his right fist.  Kimber, even over the cheers and jeers of the crowd, swears she hears the crack of his nose. Thick, maroon blood starts to gush over his mouth and chin to his bare torso.  The blood in his mouth, he angrily spits to the floor. Grey orbs of The Swede’s opponent flash with disdain and an injured ego. “Mother fvcker,” he says as he brings the back of his hand up to wipe his lips.  The look on Mickey’s face is that of pure satisfaction now--he revels in these brawls and the pain as well as the brutality. Dropping his hands he starts to laugh loudly. If anything, just to taunt The Swede. His hearty belly laugh only inspires uninhibited rage.  Without hesitating, The Swede spins on his heels and gives a cocky, Mickey the Hook, a roundhouse kick to the side of the temple. As his foot drops and his heel slices, the side of his opponents face and lip--a stunned look takes Mikey hostage.

Fat trails of crimson liquid fly through the air and some of the blood spatter shoots through the chain link fence and onto the lower level of the crowd.  A few droplets land on Kimber’s boots. A deep and guttural moan escapes his throat as he regains his balance and the crowd cheers! Mickey the Hook charges but does so in a clumsy manner. The blow to the temple obviously dazed him at the moment.  The Swede takes advantage and grabs Mickey by his greasy black hair only to bring his face down to meet his knee--HARD and FAST. Kimber watches with features entirely expressionless despite the thrill she is inwardly experiencing. Brutality is something she is very much used to and truth be told,  she placed a small bet of her own, but NOT on this fight. No. Her bet is on the next one and her champion, a man she has crossed paths with on occasion and that has undoubtedly inspired intrigue. Shaking her thoughts of the next fight, she continues to follow the one taking place and jumps in anticipation as The Swede pummels Mickey the Hook--ample breasts bouncing beneath her tight Misfits band-tee and perfectly round apple-bottom, sculpted to perfection in her fraying and worn daisy dukes.

Since she is going to have to stick around just to see the next fight, she might as well have a little fun. “What the hell, right?”  Precious baby blues fixated, she watches as The Swede continues to have the upper hand and lays waste to the legendary and infamous Mickey the Hook.  It had happened so fast. The Swede now gripping Mickey’s hair in a balled fist, he repeatedly slams his knee into his bloodied, swollen face. The fight is lost and Mickey’s body goes limp as a stream of blood explodes from his nose and The Swede releases his grip.   Time seemingly slows down as Mickey the Hook falls to the floor. The crowd, shocked into disbelief, goes silent and the sound of Mickey’s rippling mass hitting the concrete reverberates throughout the warehouse. Within seconds, the crowd is in an UPROAR. As the crowd rushes the chain link fence, pushing and shoving in a gruff manner, Kimber looks across the warehouse to the metal doors that the fighters often make their entrance, already anxious and eager to witness the next underground showdown in which her bet has been placed.  BRING ON THE BLOODSHED.