Draugr

“Ahhhn~ Harder, Sig!” The wall thuds with the rhythmic banging that instantly puts to mind thickly muscled and jiggling flesh. Veikur closes his eyes, trying to wipe clear the mental image. What was it? The bed frame, or that thick round ass slamming into the wall? “Yes! Deeper! Fill me with your heroic seed!” It used to get him hard. How could it not when his older brother brought home such an angelic figure and pounded her senseless night after night in the room right next to his own, holding and groping her sluttish curves almost religiously.

But recently something within him had turned and now it just makes him sick. Something claustrophobic and entirely self-pitying.  Veikur gets out of bed, takes his sword and heads to the window, hesitating a moment before opening it. Really, it was a personal issue. He lifts the heavy oaken frame as silently as he could. Not that he really had to worry about making noise, there was enough of it filtering out of the house for the neighbours to hear. He drops into the soft grass below. The cold dew bites into his flesh almost soothingly, bare feet sinking into the earth. It’s almost enough to soothe the aching muscles that, to him, only serve as a reminder of his perpetual inhabitation of his brother’s shadow.

The slaying of a band of outlaws alone was already an inhuman feat that few warriors in the region could match. But then the slaying of a great and powerful Wyvern that had haunted the area for centuries was even greater. And that’s all it was. Greater.

Fate. Destiny. Skein. It was already written, already woven. Sig’s was simply greater than his. It was noble of a man to find his place with fate and greet it with open arms. That’s what he’d been taught anyway. But still, that doesn’t mean he had to stay and listen to the rapturous, moaning reminders from Valhalla’s handmaiden. The bitterness comes and goes in waves. His brother is the very picture of heroism. He can’t bring himself to hate Sig. His wife, every bit the beautiful woman she appears. Motherly, sisterly, she would lay her life down for Veikur without a thought, his brother too. And when the fang of the dragon turned towards him, he would just as unhesitatingly lay down his own life for them.

But there were still times where he needed some fresh air.

The village was built around a well-travelled road, going from south to north. To the west of it is grassy plains and to the east more grass, until it hits upon a lake nestled at the foot of a mountain range. Stretches of forest span from the north and to the south east. Veikur spent a lot of time alone, tracking across this land where very few villagers liked to go. In particular was one place that always soothed his spirit. Despite the deathly fear that most others seemed to have had of the area. A large glade with a majestic, solitary hill in the centre nestled in between the shore of the lake and the stretch of northern forest.

Veikur made a beeline for the area that even animals dared not to tread. That birds would sooner fly around the area than through it made it feel special. His sacred space, where there was no other. Nothing greater, nothing lesser. Only him.

The glade was hidden and one had to walk northwards along the shore of the lake to get there. The gentle lapping of the waters settled the unease in his stomach. As did the favourable breeze on his back, the smooth pace at which he walked and the heavy aroma of earth.

Stones click as he treads along the shore, the pebbles here smooth and soft, not at all jagged. The sands soft and damp. He loses sense of time and self, feet carrying him along what feels like some long-since forgotten ancestral path. Almost mindlessly he wanders to a barely perceived light. Veikur recalls, for a fleeing moment, that he doesn’t actually know how to get to the glade. He always just found himself there.

Much like all the other times, he blinks and the forest opens around him. Tonight the glade smelled particularly damp, like freshly turned soil mixed with blood. An ill-omened  smell he had grown used to and secretly, enjoyed.

Men had to deal with a myriad of lusts. One would invariable prove his vice. Blood lust. Lust for wealth. Just regular lust… perhaps his was wanderlust. He breathes out a sigh through his nose and voices a directionless utterance. “Perhaps it’s time for me to leave this place…” The swirling winds caress him as if in response. The moonlight casts long shadows across the glade that curiously seem to point towards the centre.

He breathes in through his nose until his lungs begin to protest. He holds the breath in until it burns, straightens his posture, and releases. With a lazy smile and a swimming head, he draws his sword in a smooth and practiced motion. The steel hisses against the lining of the scabbard, and frees itself with a keening hum. He drops the scabbard to the side. The frigid night air exhilarates him as his muscles tense and coil. He takes his poise then strikes out at a phantom foe, sword singing through the air.

It’s not enchanted. No master magician blacksmith crafted it, nor was it heavens bestowed. Good, honest steel that always sat right in his hands. Once again, he loses himself in the motions and loses track of time, quickly beginning to sweat, overused muscles groaning. He swings, slicing the air to strips, working out the latent frustrations and feeling the euphoric and painful after wash as the lactic acid floods his system. He swings and swings his sword, the keen blade sharing through the droplets of sweat that fly off his tightly muscled arms, until his arm grows fatigued. He falls on his back atop the hill.

It takes a moment for his mind to register the new star-spattered view, the vast and endless night sky. A shaky arm raises his sword, the tip cleaving through the cosmos. He sighs and squirms into the cold grass, making himself more comfortable. He reverses his grip on the hilt and brings the sword down to his chest. His eyes close and he smiles to himself, clutching the sword to his breast, not noticing the foxfire-tinged mist seeping out of the ground and beginning to pool about him.

This is comfortable. Do all warriors get to feel like this, as their last moments approach? Quietly, he wishes to himself that his time would come a little sooner rather than later. Maybe he could go in a blaze of glory that would make even his brother proud.

“Fufufu… that can be arranged, honoured kin.” A raspy, ancient curse utters from the earth and spreads out across the glade. His eyes flash open, but an oppressive and fetid black blocks the sky, the stars nowhere to be seen. The voice grates against his eardrums and the smell of battle grows cloyingly thick. “Rest here forever, my Treasure.” Icy claws grip his throat and cover his face, stifling his scream, as he slips through the earth and begins to fall.


***

Deathly warmth settles through Veikur as he rouses from unconsciousness. A frightful shiver sets in, as though he’d just spent some hours embracing pure ice. But rather than cold, all that tears through his overburdened muscles is a blazing heat that makes him instinctively want to tear his clothes off. Only a great force of will stops his hands from moving. Well, except for the shivering.

A soft, yet firm and almost nurturing embrace encompasses him, but rather than the comfort it should have brought, his primal mind, the quickest to react, kicks into overdrive like a rabbit ensnared.  He gasps, remembering the fall and he pushes himself up and away, coming to a crouch in the dark, hand hovering over where his sword should have been. Whatever was clutching at him had lost its grip. Or simply let go.

“Is that how you always wake up?” He freezes, the same rasp pinning him in place. His eyes search through the dark for his assailant, yet at the same time he dearly hopes he does not meet them. A pale blue, ghostly glow fills the room and instantly, he wishes it hadn’t. Sitting up before him was a corpse. The naked remnants of an armoured woman, deathly blue and immense. Her torso propped up by an elbow and her thick, mane-like white hair spills down her shoulder and back, creating a pale puddle on the floor.

What strikes him first is her armor. Ancient in style, heroic and grand. Guarding one shoulder is a horned pauldron, large with three protruding, steel-capped horns. The metal is a dark grey with knotwork carved into it. Of the horns, the frontmost one is broken off halfway, all sporting similar knotwork. It’s fixed to her shoulder with a single, thick blackened leather strap. It stretches across her metal breastplate, under her opposite arm and across her back to link back up with the piece of armor. Her breast plate is so tight as to push her bust up and together, giving a generous view of pale blue cleavage. But it ends where her abs start, leaving her chiselled midriff bare.  The plate has the same knotwork designs carved across it and an accompanying plate of less ornate metal on her back, the two strapped tightly together.

A solid looking metal fauld clings to her wide breeder’s hips with the tattered fur of some kind of beast protruding out from under it in a long tasset, rusted chainmail peeking out through the tears in the hide. Torn black leather trousers cling to her hefty and powerful thighs, disappearing under her armoured boots that reach up to the shin.

Veikur’s eyes drift from her armor to her body. Muscles to make a Jotunn shy. Immense breasts, each one assumed to be larger than her head by the way they struggle to erupt from her amour, giving the impression of a bounty greater than Adumbla herself. Which might have been the case were it not spoiled by death. Alluring as the half-corpse goddess herself, her face bore delicate features of perfection, marred only by a scar running across her left eye. Perhaps her left eye was discoloured in life but now both are a milky white, the irises a faintly glowing pale blue. But her body bears more than just the single scar across her eye. Countless markings score a patchwork across her otherwise smooth skin.

Finally, his mind gets around to processing the most disturbing thing about her, that which instilled in his mind the innate wrongness with the scene before him. Many arrows bury into her unarmoured flesh and a sword protrudes from her side, a spear jutting out from her back. These wounds are evidently ancient and yet they still bleed. Not the familiar crimson of blood, but a strange blue that glows with the same light of her undead eyes. This ‘blood’ seeps from the wounds and disintegrates into a strange wispy smoke soon after. It wreathes the giant warrior in an ethereal attribute that both unsettles and awes him.

She stands up slowly, hulking over him. With a heavy step she moves forward. The sickly sweet stench of death that he is oh so intimate with invades his senses. She grins eerily and reaches an arm out, seizing him as surely as the reaper herself. Adrenalin courses through him as his body recognises the plight for survival and Veikur moves on instinct. All his morbid pondering of only moments before forgotten under the struggle to survive, for surely to not do so would be to die ingloriously. He plants his left hand on her right shoulder and vaults over her immense height, his puny weight barely moving her. His hands come to her chin and the crown of her head.

She raises an eyebrow in surprise and her soft lips part. “Oh.”

He twists as the momentum carries him over her and her neck shatters, head hanging at a near hundred degree angle, bent as to face him even though her body hadn’t moved, her back still facing him. He lands in a crouch and spins, backing up a few steps, slipping and falling on his ass, scrabbling back yet. Her mouth lolls open and her lips twitch as she begins to leer at him. The multiple fatal wounds should have clued him in, but her defiance in the face of death still scared him stiff. No. Perhaps this was death.

“Mmm, that was a nice move. Brutal. Efficient. Bit too showy for the battlefield though… I would have thought that killing me once was enough for my kin.” She takes a step back, towards him, grinning madly. Strength leaves him at the same speed the blood drains from his face. As if there was any left to drain in the first place. By sheer dumb luck, his fingers fall upon the hilt of the sword that fell down into Hel with him, but it does little to rekindle his spirit. Sitting wide eyed, her unholy glare meets his and he shrinks under it. He holds her gaze for an impossibly long moment before he manages to gather the courage to tear his eyes from hers and squeeze his eyelids shut.

The revenant watches him from her mangled perch and slowly brings her hands up to her head. She twists gradually, the wet sound of muscle tearing and broken bone grinding against bone fills the room, loud enough to make Veikur flinch.  She sighs as she turns around to ‘face’ him.

He hears her step closer and flinches yet again, shaking so bad now that his jaw clatters, though from fear or cold, he couldn’t tell. He was no stranger to death. Having sent many a man there himself, having entered countless battles fully resolved to be sent to his own death. Never had he thought that death would rise and come to him. In over his head and all his mind could do was swirl incoherently and nauseatingly. She kneels down next to him and breathes another raspy sigh through her nose, the frigid air rolling over him. Her arms wrap around Veikur and she pulls him into her solid embrace, a hand running through his hair. “Shhh… be calm, child. It’s embarrassing to think we are kin. It was only an act.”

Her coldness sets into his bones as she sits with him and waits for his terror to subside. Somewhat insensitively ignoring the fact that she was the source of it. Softly, she begins to hum a hauntingly familiar tune. He begins to calm against his will and she notices his overall fret begin to slacken. “…So that was passed down, was it?” Her eyes move to his jittery hands, “If you’re calm now, why do you still shake?”

He opens his lips, throat cracked and dry and lets out a hoarse whisper, “Cold.”

“Ah.” With that sound, an intense flame sprouts into being, from a pile of wood in the centre of the barrow. Though it produced heat and light, the wood remains intact and the flame produces no smoke, no smell. Under its intense light, the small grave is lit. It is just tall enough for her to stand in, the walls made of stone and the entirety of the tomb dug into the earth like a pit, which explains how the mound looks so shallow from the surface.  Shallow enough to be mistaken for a hill at any rate.

Stairs lead up to a trapdoor, no doubt weighed down by more earth than he could personally lift. That was the only exit, the other walls lined with arms, armor and treasures, a bronze ring upon an illuminated pedestal. He drags his eyes back from the tomb to her corpse-pale skin and shudders even as the warmth begins to suffuse him, eyes wandering over her scars and the countless wounds scoring her. Against his will, his hand moves to stroke the handle of the sword buried in her side.

“Was this appearance that inappropriate?” Without giving him the chance to answer, the weapons buried in her, the armor and the wounds all began to vanish in the same misty smoke as her blood did, leaving her naked, his face now pressing into the soft flesh of her breast, a welcome change to the solid frozen metal of her breastplate, but troublesome for entirely different reasons.

She lets him go and sits back, smiling. He blushes at the sight of her naked form and turns away, calm now. Calm enough to scowl at the least. “If you can appear in different forms, why pick that ghastly one?” the rest comes in a barely heard murmur “I might not have freaked out so bad if you did.”

“Ghastly? How rude. That was just how I looked when your ancestors killed me, you know? You should pay more respect to your elders, Veikur.”

His eyes widen and hers sparkle in mirth. “How do you know my name?” She crawls up to him with an expression he would expect to find on a lynx who’d cornered a rabbit. “I know…” She sits in his lap, dwarfing him, his head eye level with her light death-blue nipples. She puts a finger to his chest, and traces it up his throat, feeling him swallow nervously as she brings the tip to his chin and tips his head back so his eyes can meet hers through the valley of cleavage.  “More about you than you would think.”

He turns his head away, “What do you want from me?”

She grin wickedly, her chest shuddering in mirth. She takes a moment before answering. “Everything.” He sighs and lies down, thinking back to his train of thought before being pulled into the earth.

“Am I… dead?” Straddling his hips she leans down, and licks from his cheek to his ear,

“You don’t taste very dead.” She whispers softly and he can’t help but notice he isn’t nearly as bothered about her scent of death as he was, or should be.

He frowns, confused. “Then… I’m alive?”

She reaches down behind her and he gasps as he feels her cool fingers cup his balls through his pants, “Do you feel alive?”

His voice comes heavy with irritation, “Then what is going on? How did I fall through the earth? Why is a corpse talking to me? This is mad!”

“Do you think that Sig should be here in your place, then?” He shoots her a sharp look and she laughs, “Your unconscious mind is atrociously unprotected, you know that? One mental attack on the battlefield and you’d melt like snow. So, what, does talking to the corpse of an ancient hero sound like the kind of fantastic experience only your brother could be fated to have?”

Veikur nods. “Well fuck fate.”

Veikur levels a sceptic eye at the light blue corpse and frowns. “In legends they say draugr exist for a purpose. So, again, what do you want with me?”

“Oh? You recover quickly. That’s a nice trait for a warrior. But your lack of attention could be the death of you. Didn’t I already say I wanted everything?”

“What?”

She grins and leans down, the scent of death growing stronger, clouding his mind and mixing with… something else entirely. Her frigid lips meet his, deceptively soft, and a blue flame licks his body. With a rapid voracity it sears through his clothes but rather than the heat of the flame, the icy sensation of her flesh against his own permeates. Veikur freezes, heart burning and shuddering at his throat as he locks up. His mouth surrenders, slack as her tongue pokes and prods around it. The muscle encircles his and entices it to play.

His hands locked in the air like an imitation of rigor mortis, she grips his wrists and wrenches them down towards her hips, placing them roughly against her until her frigid flesh melts his tension and his fingers sink in of their own accord. The skin has a feminine softness, but sturdy muscle rumbles beneath, twitching as his touch sends shards of anticipation through her. She wiggles her wide hips against his grip and his hands move lower, clutching and kneading at her large, muscled cheeks.

Her eyes widen and she break the kiss to let out a little moan as she leans forward, pressing more of her weight against him, a steady blush coming to her face. Caressed for the first time in unliving memory, she can’t help but grin. “Greed. Selfishness. An improper burial. These amongst many more are what give birth to the Draugr. Ambushed and dumped in this hole unceremoniously only for it to be filled with treasures and blessed after the fact…” Her eyes smoulder with hurt and regret. “I wasn’t ready to die. Still wanted to drink, to fight…” She closes them, smothering the embers, and rests her forehead against his, “To find the one that would be mine, I still wanted… Everything.”

Veikur spends a pregnant moment mulling over her words. “And that’s what I represent… do I get a say in it?”

She grins and reaches down, hands curling around the base of his rigid cock, “None. Not like I can’t imagine what you’d say at any rate.” She leans in to lick his cheek, her soft wet tongue tracing a frigid trail across his heat-sapped skin. If he were a little more used to outlandish situations he might have reacted. But as it is he stares past her, frozen like stone, letting her tease him how she likes. The musky earthen air laps his wet cheek as she draws her tongue back and rubs the bridge of her nose against his. Her hair falls all around him, its fruity fragrance lingering about in a cloud. The strands of white pool on his shoulders, pour down his back and snake down his chest. The silky locks entangle him almost deliberately.

Gently, she bites his ear. Her breath is erratic and inconsistent and at the random times she does exhale, her death-scent rolls out in a frosty mist. Veikur didn’t realise exactly when he had grown accustomed to it but soon the rot is no longer there, leaving the faint hint of fruit to stand alone. It’s sharp and in following with the ever-present motif of cold swirling about her. It reminds him of a tart alpine strawberry.

He hears the soft lips part and the pressure of her slight inhalation against his chest before her silky words spill from her throat “Don’t pretend that all this attention isn’t making you all weak and woozy.” That was the crux of it. Even if his resolve and courage was so quickly shattered by the revenant before him, a warrior of Veikur’s calibre wouldn’t take so long to collect the shards and rise again. That only meant that, “you want this.” Her words superpose upon his thoughts. How the two of them alone share this glade and the tomb below it, the way she so single-mindedly pulled him in. Ensnared him, petrified him, comforted him. How she crawled up to him and him alone, he knew she was right. He wanted it.

He leans back and twists his head towards her, his lips meeting hers. Her eyes go wide, then soften as she relaxes into the kiss, their tongues entwining again. His arms wrap around her and slowly he pushes. She makes a kind of muted squeak as she notices her centre of balance begin to tip and grips his hips with her thighs, her arms draping across his shoulders. His muscles flex as he lifts her and gently takes her weight. Veikur slowly lowers her down onto her back, kneeling between her split legs. She was quite heavy.

She smiles widely, almost boisterously as she lets go of him, “If you understand, then this all becomes much easier. But…” her eyes waver and a boiling blush spreads across her pale blue cheeks, “…This position… is a little embarrassing.” He casts an eye down to her faintly tufted mons pubis, her lips glistening with a heavy wetness. He grabs her hips and pulls her closer to him, his cock throbbing hotly upon her womanhood. An odd sense of security assails him as she hooks her ankles behind him, keeping him locked between her legs.

His head hangs down as his fingers curl around the shaft of his penis. His fringe hangs low over his eyes, but she could more or less make out how he was feeling by the strong heavy breathing and the blush to match hers spreading across his cheeks. Veikur presses the head of his cock against her entrance, her natural wetness and his own precum more than enough to ensure a slick if tight entry, but for seemingly long moments he hesitates, mind whirring.

“You don’t have to think so much.” Unable to see his eyes, she can’t gauge any kind of reaction other than the slight, almost imperceptible nod of his head. Yet despite her admonishment he still hesitates, making her sigh and roll her faintly glowing, pale blue eyes. She reaches up, hands just short of his neck. With a little wiggle, she coaxes him lower and links her fingers behind his neck, pulling him down to her chilled bosom. “You’ve put such a proud warrior on her back, don’t tease her as well.” Her thighs flex and with her legs she forces him to unite them.

He gasps, his eyes widening, and he hugs her reflexively, lifting her back just enough to slip his arms between her cool, solid flesh and the gossamer strands of white splayed out across the frozen stone. With his body flush against hers, he can feel every quiver and twitch of her abs as he penetrates her, her cool wetness evoking a piercing invigoration, her slick and soft walls coiling and tightening. A low moan rumbles about in the draugr’s chest and she squeezes him into her bosom tighter, breasts jiggling.

His hips sink in inexorably, his hot pulsing dick meeting her icy writhing pussy, the leaking wetness turning lukewarm and running down her thighs to glisten upon the witch-light lit stone. So close to her, it’s as if her very presence has become a tangible scent and Veikur vies with the surmounting pleasure feebly. In the next moment she gasps, a searing heat flooding her innermost, untouched depths. His balls clench as they rest against her ass and work to fill her, shaft twitching madly, the pulsing and writhing sending shards of intense ecstasy through her, sundering her consciousness and making her toes curl.

Her body tightens in response, muscles wringing the seed from him in their soft and fleshy vice. The sharp smell of fruit clouds his mind as it’s washed in a wave of white that begins to seep out from their union. The absolute lack of breath and beat as he rests his head against her bosom puts in mind images of a vast black lake that at the present time, he was all too happy to be devoured by.

Yet, even despite the intense satisfaction and satiation that overwhelms him, she can still feel the heat of the embarrassed blush coming to his cheeks.  She meets his sheepish, apologetic look with a cat-like grin and a foxfire flame dances in her eyes, spreading through her contact to him, engulfing him and inciting within an inferno of pent up lusts and frustrations. He gasps as he feels the weight of want begin to press down on him.

“What did you do?”

“Just gave a little encouragement.” With a cheeky smile she beckons him again, “If you want to quench that heat you better start moving.” He lets her chest go and braces himself with his hands, arms locked and rigid to either side of her torso. He searches for her eyes and offers a nervous smile, her own confident mask betraying a shared anticipation. He rolls his hips back, her tight depths clinging to him. Traction slips due to the cum still lining her walls, making pulling out easy, but thrusting back in even easier, his thickness stretching and fulfilling her in ways that make her back arch, her fingers unlacing from his neck to claw at the stone.

Her mythic breasts heave with the motion, tiny ripples spreading throughout her as he swings his hips back in to meet hers with a resounding wet squish, her brawny thighs squeezing with a jotunn’s grip, limiting his next thrust to a short and deep one, the swollen head of his cock pressing up against her cervix, the very tip of his length peeking through the portal. Her abs tighten as he begins to draw back, locking him in a juxtaposition of push and pull. He settles for the quick deep thrusts, eyes drawn to the bare and vulnerable shaking chest, drawn to the erotic-blue nipple as it bounces upon the ocean of flesh.

Leaning down, he catches it with his teeth, drawing a hiss of mixed pleasure and shock from the woman, the sensitive nerves toyed with by the hot and adventurous tongue, toyed with by teeth that pull it before releasing it, their owner watching in amusement as the breast wobbles. He traces kisses upwards, reaching as far as her prominent collar bone before a brief lamentation crosses his mind at her near-folkloric size. She is too big of a girl for him to reach her lips from this position. But before he could say anything she reaches up to him of her own accord, their tongues entwining as her soft lips press against his, the frigid cold refreshing like a mountain spring.

She makes soft, happy little noises as they kiss. Noises that make his heart flutter, his lips curve into a smile, and his cock rock solid. He wrests control of the kiss with a hotter passion than she could withstand, and shifts his weight to a single hand, using the other to knead and play at her tit, evoking more of the little sounds he’d quickly come to adore. The sudden discovery was almost enough for his mind to let slip the growing tightness of her passage and the growing tension in his balls, but it was all brought slamming back to him with a jarring strength as his actions spark a climax in her.

She moans keeningly into his kiss and his ministrations to her lips fall dead as her cunt coils and constricts crushingly in climax. Robbing him entirely of agency, her womanhood milks him with fervour, a tectonic tightening as her abs visibly clench and her thighs well and truly force him into place. Caught in her contractions and so teeteringly placed upon the precipice himself, he cums with her for the second time, his nuts working to pump the cum-vein distorting load deeper in than the first. He packs her womb fuller than capacity with an inhuman, foxfire tinged virility.

Her muscles go slack in the blissful aftermath, but the enchantment remains raging within him. He breaks his lips from hers, pulls out and grabs one of the pair of thick thighs. He turns her on her side and straddles her other leg. Hugging it to his chest, almost obscured bodily by it, he looks down to line his cock up and plunges back in, eliciting a crying moan from the oversensitive corpse.

Her back flexes, the muscles rippling and shifting as he spears her again, the splashing light painted across her belly revealing the faintest hint of what is going on deep inside.  Her leg droops over his shoulder, toes curling in time with the thrusts. One of her hands sink into a bountiful breast. The other on her lower abdomen, feeling the penetration. She tweaks and rubs her clit, lighting the embers to float about in the cloud of lust and want surrounding them.

Veikur rests his cheek against the leg and stares into the blushing cadaver’s eyes. Glassy and unfocused they stare at nothing in particular, half lidded and utterly absorbed in the sensations. Then a hint of clarity flickers beneath the surface and her eyes turn to his. Beyond the heaving tit-flesh, the tightening muscles, the slick clapping of hip against hip, the heavy scents of sex, their focuses hone upon this single point of contact.

He leans forward, pushing her leg back, plunging deeper, and he reaches for her hand. Their fingers intertwine as the thrusting picks up in pace, the rhythmic pulsing constrictions of her cock-milking cunt heralding, a bugle of sorts in the peeling tones of elation. She throws her head back, disturbing the pond of pale hair and lets out a very vocal cry as Veikur’s cock rams in up to the limits of her depth for the last, and the heat of life bursts into her time-forgotten womb.

It settles there for the most part, her belly growing to feel somewhat gravid, a particularly powerful, ball-clenchingly thick rope of cum or two displacing a portion to leak out her passage and make a mess of her thighs. The tension holding the two dissolves. As he flops down atop her and she lay flattened against the stone, the linking of their fingers remains the only shared solidarity between the two. For the first time in centuries, a modicum of restfulness washes over the Nordic spectre. Veikur himself, pushed and pulled bound and unwound in the nights tumultuous events, finds sanctuary in this eye that had swept over him in the wake of the vicious savaging.

Arms around him with her hand stroking his hair, his hips trapped between her thighs and held so closely to her, he feels his lids grow heavy. “Even if my say in it changes nothing, I can’t find myself opposed to the thought anymore.”

“You’re an easy one, aren’t you? Well… we’ll defy fate together, then.” She gives his hand a little squeeze, and he closes his eyes.


***

A cold wind blows, wicking away the perspiration on his skin and settling in a frightful cold far too unlike the welcoming one he remembers. Slowly, Veikur’s eyes open, to the vast and glade-encircled cosmos. The damp cool earth beneath him remains undisturbed and slowly, he picks himself and his sword up. The stars haven’t moved and everything is as it was. A tiny smile tugs at his lips, as he begins to walk away in a new direction. Everything points to a dream, but the residual fondness in his heart tells him otherwise, as does the crude band of copper now encircling his finger.