Bonnie's heart slammed her sternum. Breathless doglike pants provoked her breasts to heave. A wall of sweltering heat bore down on her. Beads of sweat dripped from her scalp. A fast-approaching conclusion heralded of a fiery discharge. Right up ahead just past the finish line, she could sense a relief to her toe-curling torture. It was a soul decimating death she knew well. And before the eve was done, she planned to know even better. Pitching forward, she gripped the hills of Bjorn's chest. In languid counterclockwise circles, she rolled and bucked her hips. The hint of spasmodic goodness which flirted with her mons swelled. Her eyes crossed, and then rolled closed. Oh, blessed Goddess! A grunted groan burst from Bjorn's gaping mouth.

What was this man doing to her? She forced her eyes open to search his face. Drool trickled from the corners of his mouth, and he looked as dizzy as she felt. After several moments of stammering, dribbling, and babbling, he managed to gain control of their tilted situation. Grasping her waist in a firm grip with his bottom lip tucked between his teeth, he thrust upwards. Shooting stars, stripes, and lights exploded her sightline. Bjorn pounded into her like Vikings gone wild. He beat the good-good without remorse, without mercy, and one would think he was giving pressure without papers. For he'd knocked the bottom out of her golden goose and proceeded to dick whip the hell out of her heart. Oh, hell no!

"Hold on, Bjorn! Flag on the fucking field!" She plucked his face out of her breasts, and then searched his stare to be sure his screws didn't need tightening. "Got a little carried away back there, didn't you? Three inches deeper and Magic Mike would've popped out of my mouth."

"Apologies, Wife," he cradled the base of her skull in the palm of his hands, and then yanked her head back to take nipping bites at her neck, "but I assumed you'd be biddable if not welcoming to my lustiness this eve."

So, he wanted to play with his cards stuffed up his sleeves, noted. Gilded whips of mystical energy shot from her pores. The sorcery slithered around his wrists and snatched his hands over his head.

"Agreement was, Viking," She growled through the slits of her teeth. "No hands!"

"There are no agreements in the bed furs," he grunted back. "That is the only agreement."

He lifted his hips from the mattress and drove into her. In short jabbing plunges he fucked over her mental state. Seriously, she couldn't even remember her name. While she wrestled with silently singing her ABC's and jockeying a monster of massive proportions, Bjorn somehow liberated himself of his mystical bindings. Once freed, his hands returned to her waist. This time his fingers burrowed into her sides until they hit her pelvic bone. When assured of his hold, he slammed her down on him. Fissures of pain and a fuck ton of pleasure caved her chest and snatched her air supply.

Over and over, he rocked into her with more force than a sledgehammer wielding Paul Bunyan. She tried to scream but no sound was forthcoming. Not even a squeak. A powerful spasm shook her to the quaking quick, damn near knocking her backbone from her juddering frame.

"O-O-Oh...m-m-my...damn!" she sobbed, "why's it sooo fucking g-good...every t-t-time it's s-s-ooo...f-f-fucking good?"

In response, Bjorn captured her mouth with his. As his tongue lay claim to hers, his softening member twitched. Before she could say...again? The hefty slab of stiffness achieved monster proportions. In violent rapid jerks, the massive thickness slapped her hot spot in a series of mouthwatering blows. Once again, a firestorm ignited, then erupted at the sopping depths of her. Tiny orgasms tagged her womb one after the other. Unable to stand the breath snatching torture of it all, she attempted to dislodge him from her. Yet he held firm to her waist as challenge glinted his charged stare.

"You'll not flee from this, Mystical One," he murmured against her lips. His dick jerked twice, and then loads of his hot seed filled her until it seeped from the crevices of their joining. "You'll receive all of it, for it is yours, just as all of you belong to me."

Panting like a marathon running asthmatic, she moved to reach for the basin of water and scraps of linen. Bjorn, however, pulled her back onto his chest.

"Lay with me for mere grains longer," he murmured into her hair. "Displacing yourself from my side now could be deemed as an affront to the gods."

Bonnie chortled as she resettled herself in the curve at Bjorn's side. It was the special place upon his body the Goddess carved out just for her. He was her home. The rhythmic beat at his chest which compelled her heart to pound in concert proved as much. Her eyes slipped closed. Instead of peace pulling her near, however, unrest and ruin came for her. Crimson saturated her second sight. A mystical force with an undeniable mystical means tore her from her husband's embrace and stranded her in the center of a war-torn beach. The sky wept, wind slashed, and oddly enough Klaus' favorite scarlet hue tinted the morning fog.

No more than a hundred feet ahead of her Bjorn engaged in battle with one of the foreign invaders near the shore. After several swings and swipes of his blade Bjorn gutted the man. When he moved to cut down the next Ivar stepped from a throng of soldiers. Without regret or mercy, he drove his blade through Bjorn to the hilt.

Air! She needed some fucking air!

Bonnie coughed, wheezed, and gasped. No, it wasn't real! None of the fuckery was real!

Was it though?

A premonition from years ago slapped the ever-hating recollection into her second sight...

A horn blared. Battle drums sounded. Kattegat's shores bled red. Bjorn would fall never to rise in Midgard the same again. Her step froze mid-fall. Without being told, she knew she stood at the proverbial crossroads. If she left Ivar alive then Kattegat would not know peace for some time and her protector would die.

Guilt chopped, screwed, and fileted her ass. She could've saved Bjorn if she would've allowed Ivar to...no! She'd not trade one brother's life for the other. How could she? Who the hell would that make her? Katherine S. Pierce the Fierce...

Of course, she was prepared. She knew loss. Better than most.

Fuck no! She would save Bjorn and do so on her terms.

"Bjorn do you ever wonder how I came to be on your ship all those summers ago?" she asked with her gaze fixed upon the hearth.

His embrace tightened. "The gods placed you there."

"Yeah," The corners of her mouth sagged as her thoughts hurtled back to the night which changed everything, "she may have had a hand in my arrival, but who do you think forced her hand?" she balanced her chin on his chest to look up at him, "Bjorn, I did some-,"

Soft warm lips and a thorough tongue forced the words back down her throat. After several intoxicating seconds he pulled away. When her eyes slowly opened, his electrifying blues jolted her back to awareness.

"It matters not."

"But it does matter," she shook her head, attempting to shake away her lust and his certainty, "because-,"

He placed the pad of his thumb over her lips. "We've already defied Fate to belong to each other, why further provoke the matter with interrogation?"

She sucked in a shit ton of air to hang on to her ever dwindling cool, and then attempted to try again. "Bjorn, these shores will soon be at war, and if...you could..." Her mouth couldn't even utter the damn words. She tore her stare from his. Fix it Goddess! "I-I'd just rather there be nothing left unsaid between us."

He gripped her by the chin and lifted her face to his. Once more, their gazes collided. "Are your affections for me great, Mystical One?"

"My love for you sets my heart on fire," a scoff made a mocking masterpiece of her features, "it's burned bridges, started wars-,"

"It has gladdened me, contented me, and settled me here," He placed her palm to the center of his chest, "in ways you shall never understand, but of which you should always be minded."

"I love you, Bjorn Ironside," she whispered.

"And I you," he pressed a kiss to her lips, "So you see, now there are truly no more words lingering between you and I unspoken."

****

Oleg walked the drill grounds with Ganbaatar. He watched his warriors engage in a final warrior training gathering before they set sail in three risings time. From what he observed, he had no complaints. His captain had taught them well. Their skills would undoubtedly secure the spoils they sought in Scandinavia. That is if a battle against flesh and blood were the only battle to be waged. Ivar's earlier counsel, however, gave him pause.

"You've done well with our warriors, Ganbaatar," he said as they turned to make their way back to the palace.

"Your face and words are in conflict, My Prince." Ganbaatar kept his gaze on the path before them. "You claim to be pleased with the warriors. Yet your countenance is troubled."

"What do you perceive of our Scandinavian brethren's Supreme," his gaze narrowed as visions of a deity cloaked in shadows cavorted before his foresight, "and to what king Ivar alluded?"

Ganbaatar's breath hitched. For several moments the captain kept his own counsel before offering him an answer, "We should be wary. Though many among us may claim to be Christian, there are those who have yet to turn from the old ways."

"You, being among them?" Ganbaatar's steps faltered, and Oleg gave him a reassuring pat on the back. "Be at ease, old friend, it is nothing more than a passing observation. You and I are of the same mind in our beliefs." Their gazes met, and the captain attempted to measure the sincerity of his words by whatever truth may have crossed his face. After a length of silence, Oleg resumed, "Do you believe one woman can stand against the whole of our army?"

"A woman...no," Ganbaatar answered, before turning to continue his walk, "Yet they speak of her as being more than just a woman. For this we should take care."

"Indeed." Oleg laughed to himself as he fell into step alongside his captain.

When he'd thought to conquer Scandinavia, he did so with the belief of reclaiming the heritage loss to his people when they left the North Seas to settle the Eastern lands. After he conquered his ancestral shores, he planned to turn the land to Christianity. Assuredly, doing so would allot him immeasurable influence in the church. Not that he'd ever sought to warmonger for political gain. Such recompences in the past for likeminded efforts were unavoidable blessings. Upholding the grand tapestry of God's plan was...beneficial. And a service he'd committed himself to for Solstice Cycles since the summer he'd become a man. Now, however, something had altered. His aims no longer shone with a glow bright enough to ensnare his consideration. Not in comparison to her.

****

Ivar visited with Princess Katia in her personal quarters. They sat in a quiet corner as she drank her mid-rising tea. A custom he'd taken to joining her in more often as of late. In verity he anticipated those times. He relished pilfering away turns of the hourglass with her, deliberating over some of Midgard's most mundane matters. The way she regarded all which moved about her gripped his awareness. Her matchless humor and wit doused vivid pigmentation over the broad tedious strokes that had claimed his risings since he fled Kattegat.

"And it worked?" Katia asked, her question drenched in disbelief.

His brow cocked as he withdrew from his thoughts. A smirk took possession of his mouth, while he attempted to retrieve the fleeting threads of his saga. "Why wouldn't it? It was their Bishop after all whom prophesized as such." He shrugged. "I only meant to aide him along in his foretelling."

"If only I were like the shieldmaidens of your homeland." She laughed, slapping her hands together. "I'd be facing the horizon with you when Oleg's ships pull anchor," the solemness of her declaration weighed on her features as her stare challenged his. "More than prepared to fight at your side."

"You have the essence of a fighter. This I understand," he leaned forward to tuck a raven wisp behind her ear, "In verity, no one knows better than me, what it is to be a fierce warrior in thought alone. You and I are more alike than not."

She reached across the small table to clasp hands with his. "I shall weep for you when you depart and long for your unscathed return, King Ivar."

"And what of your husband, hm?" He searched her eyes to see if her face would betray her words. "Will you not long for his unharmed return to these shores? Does, Prince Oleg, not hold your affections?"

"Of course, he does! I'm quite fond of Oleg," she insisted.

"Hm," he tilted his head to the side, "I suppose fondness is...somewhat heartening."

"What of you, King Ivar," the pad of her thumb stroked the back of his hand, "Did you love your wife?"

"No." Thoughts of Freydis placed a bitter taste upon his tongue. "I loathed my wife."

"Why?" Her stare crept over his face as both of her hands held firm to his own, "Is it because you loved another?"

"I never loved my wife, and that was no fault of hers." He withdrew his hand from hers and rose. "My love belonged to another summers before I ever entered into matrimony with her. Yet, my loathing," his head dipped in a nod, "My Wife claimed utterly. For she travelled to grave lengths to earn my enmity, and there is no one more deserving of my ire than she. Not here on Midgard nor beyond the veil."

He snatched his iron crutch from where it rested near the table and settled his girth.

"King Ivar-," she began.

"May the vile bitch fester slow in whatever vat Hel saw fit to hoard her away," he bellowed, and then exhaled a gush of air.

They stared at each other. Both with wide eyes and even wider mouths. After a few grains of silence, he broke their gazes, to snatch his chalice from the table. Once he drained the tumbler of its contents, he replaced the empty vessel on the table.

"King Ivar, I'm-,"

"Have a care for yourself in my leave, Princess Katia." With that uttered, he limped from her quarters.

****

Harald sat upon his throne for turns of the hourglass after Bonnie and Bjorn sought their leave of the Great Hall. Though his kingdom celebrated the feast in their Supreme's honor, the revelry carried on long after her departure. All who remained were content to greet the first beams of morn from the depths of their cups and the bottom of the long house's tankards. Each of them determined to cling to the final grains of peace. Before war arrived, bled their shores dry, slaughtered their families, and conquered their lands.

And what of him? Harald Finehair...their king! The king of all Norway! What could he offer them? Not even an utterance of assurance. Only a few of the sentry kings responded to his call to arms, while others didn't bother replying at all. Bonnie had always claimed his crown would be hollow. He scoffed.

"Well, here's to the fork tongued ogress for having the right of it once again," He raised his curved horn high, and then chugged the contents.

The soured ale slid down his gullet. Flames licked his chest. The curdled swill dribbled from the corners of his mouth. Swaying from side to side, he wiped the frothy excess away with the back of his hand. Another tankard and he'd be fit for his crown. A frown twisted his face as he reached up to grab said crown. For the damn thing to be hollow it was rather girthy. As he fiddled with the circlet, golden strands bound together ensnared his sight from the cut of his eye. A buxom maiden. Strange to his hall, but familiar within his gaze.

He blinked once...twice...thrice. Yet, due to his cups, and other hindering concerns he couldn't justly discern when or where they'd become acquainted. Too well-oiled to continue to be minded, he settled back on his throne, prepared to return to his thoughts. The maiden who must've felt his stare upon her, angled her head about to gaze up at him.

"By Thor's hammer!" The curved horn slipped from his hand.

The maiden's thunderous pigmented stare forced him from his throne and beckoned him to follow her. Almost as if guided by the gods, Harald pushed his way through the throng of festers. While he took sips of air, hoping to ease the pummeling at his chest, or appease the pounding in his ears. Too soon, before he'd readied himself, they halted. When Midgard spun no more, he discovered himself standing next to her at the great table. Without attending him, she piled fare upon a platter. After grains of being unheeded by her, he opened his mouth to speak. Her words, however, came quicker than his own.

"What sort of man are you, King Harald?" She questioned.

Again, he opened his mouth to answer and again his words weren't forthcoming. What could she mean to discover by inquiring as such? Did she want to know if he was a good man? Such queries mattered not! He was king!

"Yes, you are king," she turned away from him to continue assessing the fare on the table, but he didn't miss the smile settling itself upon her lips as he did. "Yet do you deserve to have your name stir Midgard after you're life's journey has met its end," she then, turned to look at him full on, "or should your name and rule sail beyond the veil with you?" Her gaze roamed over him. "Hm, I ponder." With that said she placed an apple in is hand, and then walked away.

****

"I'm minded of giving you my son first, then my daughter," Ragnar's eldest son blustered, before dipping his head to slurp mead from Bonnie's belly button.

"Oh!" Her answering laughter wrecked Silas and rebuilt him all at once. "So that's what you're minded of doing, huh?"

Unable to witness the newly wed horror any longer, he stepped back and allowed the void to close. Spinning about on his heel, he began to walk. He hoped to burn thoughts of Bonnie and history's most underrated Viking from his mind. As he stomped deeper into the in between, a dim glow from the cut of his eye snagged his awareness. He glanced to the side. There mounted on the wall a murky blue light swathed a mirror. His glare narrowed. He knew like hell a bitch without filling hadn't violated his sanctuary by shimmering her cyanotic blue ass into his domain.

His hands fisted as his back teeth clenched. "You must got fucking bowling balls swanging and banging in those Bertha bloomers to show your busted essence in my afterlife. You're not welcomed here, Inadu."

"Verily?" The glowing reflection of himself folded its arms across its chest and smirked. Fucking creepy! "For it's a disgraceful rising when a girl isn't welcomed in the house of her father."

"Look, don't let Maury do it to you!" Disgust unhinged its jaw and made a sloppy meal of him, "Hollow be thy name, I am not your father!"

"Aren't you?" She lifted a brow, while drifting closer to the glass. "Was it not your hand by which I was created?"

"Fake fucking news!" He growled.