It is one of those days when the sun fails to burst through the heavy blanket of clouds darkening the sky. Withal, countless tiny snowflakes, each barely bigger than a grain kernel, have begun to sail down on the ground. And they cover the village in a delicate veil, white and cold as ice.

It is not the time to go into battle. (Has there ever been such time?) But this war doesn’t care about the winter descending on the land, and for a certainty, it doesn’t care about the winter it leaves in the hearts of those who stay behind. 

And so you got up long before dawn this morning to prepare breakfast for your husband. While he sits at the table, digging in the fresh bread and last night’s leftover stew, you wrap bread and fruits for him to eat on the way, as much as you can spare. 

His bundle is already packed, leaning against the wall of your hut, next to his swords that gleam in the light of the fireplace. 

As you sat by the fire last night, he pulled up a chair to sit beside you, like he does so often when the day is done. And while you darned a snag in his cloak, he carefully cleaned and sharpened the blades. 

Your eyes flicked between the black woolen fabric in your lap and his form, trying to memorize every detail of his appearance, even though it has long been etched into your mind. However, you’ll probably never get enough of watching him maintain his weapons. There is something calm, something unbudgeable about him and that pensive expression on his face whenever his steady hands wander over steel and silver. And you saw him stare into the crackling fire while his fingers absentmindedly traced Renfri’s broach. 

“Promise not to get involved in affairs that aren’t yours,” you said softly.  

His fingers paused, and you saw the corner of his mouth twitch before his gaze lit on you, golden and glowing like the dancing flames in front of you. 

“It might not be my choice to be made,” he said slowly. “Will a promise that I’ll try suffice for you, Little Bird?” 

His deep, raspy voice resonated in the darkness for a few moments, and although there was a touch of irony in it, there was also truth. 

“Whatever increases the chance of having you come back home will suffice for me,” you replied firmly, locking eyes with him. 

The hint of a smile curled the corners of his mouth, a curt nod signaling his approval. And yet, he remained silent.

He can’t promise you to come back. You know that he can’t. Not this time. Not ever. The world is too dark, too uncertain for such grand promises these days where nothing ever lasts, neither the good nor the bad. 

Nevertheless, the threads of your destiny are irretrievably entangled with his, binding you to each other. In this life. And in the next. Until Ragnarök and beyond, as you promised each other countless times. 

There wasn’t much you could have done in the here and now, and so you made love all night, rough and desperate, then again so slow and gentle it made you want to die right there in his arms. 

Your love left its traces all over your bodies, dark and harsh, as you engraved yourselves into each other’s skin with teeth and lips and nails. Those marks are there for the time being. And yet, they’re fleeting, and they will fade someday soon. Contrary to the scars both of you have been carrying since the day your paths crossed. 

It was also the day both of you almost died, killed by a dread with no name he saved you from. The monster that still haunts you in your dreams once in a while caused him grievous injuries in the fight, and it took you the last of your strength to drag him to your hut.

You spent weeks trying to cure his wounds, and you needed a plethora of healing herbs, teas and ointments and dressing, and every bit of knowledge your foster mother had taught you. In the end, you saved each other, sealing what destiny had long planned for you, ever since the beginning of time. 

You carry the scars of that fateful day with you, and you carry the ink under your skin, intertwined lines that mark you as the White Wolf’s mate and him as yours. 

Those marks will last when he rides out of the village with the other men, traveling toward the unknown and a battle that shouldn’t be theirs to fight.  

You already see him in your mind's eye, on Roach’s back, his pale white hair and vigilant golden eyes concealed under the hood of his cloak. He’ll keep a bit aloof from the others, like he always does, from strangers and even from the villagers who are supposed to be his people. In truth, however, they will never accept him as one of them. They know they need him, and they tolerate him, albeit grudgingly. But they also fear him, and they trust him as little as he trusts them. 

The rumors are spoken in hushed voices, at hearthfires, and behind closed doors. And yet they are there. Rumors about that man, the witcher, who can be no other than the human shape of Fenrir - son of Loki and prisoner in Asgard until the day of Ragnarök, where he'll finally break free and devour Odin and the sun herself. There are rumors about that man, who appeared in the village out of nowhere on the day he saved you. Before they knew it, he had made you his wife - you, the late healer's foundling they had always been a bit suspicious of. He had insinuated himself into their midst, and they were certain that his presence adumbrates the end of all times. 

Once spoken, the rumors stuck, and nothing Geralt had done for this village could cleanse them away. No matter how many times he had set out, putting his life at risk.  

It’s moments like this, when you realize how truly alone he will be amidst a whole army, that your heart tenses and fear threatens to flood your veins. 

“Don’t.” Geralt’s low voice reaches your ears, and his arms embrace you from behind, pulling your back against his chest. 

You didn’t even notice he already finished his breakfast and stepped toward you. And you involuntarily let yourself sink back, allowing your eyes to flutter shut and your body to lean against him. 

He feels so warm, and the heat of his body slowly creeps up your spine. To your neck and your shoulders and your arms. Until it permeates your every limb. And you take deep breaths to your stomach, trying to relax your shoulders like he taught you to. 

“Good girl,” he mumbles, lowering his head until his lips ghost your ear. “Don’t freeze. Don’t let it take control. What will be, will be, and you can’t change what is destined. But you can control your actions at this moment.”

“I know,” you whisper, nuzzling closer to him. “It’s just so… hard sometimes. And sometimes, I don't know how I’m supposed to go on… if…”

“I know, Little Bird. Believe me, I know. But you have to go on. I want you to promise you’ll go on. In any case. Promise me!” he urges.

And as you carefully turn around in his arms, the concern, the pain in his golden eyes takes your breath away. 

You put one hand on his chest, your palm on the familiar wolf amulet, and your fingertips on his heart. Your other hand rests on the Web of Wyrd pendant between your breasts underneath your nightgown. What will be, will be. Just as the three sisters, the norns at the root of the world tree, decide.  

“I promise.” 

He nods. And he smiles.

He smiles his usual hint of a smile, but still, you marvel at how much warmth it can radiate. And then, he takes your hand and brings it to his lips, kissing your fingertips. One after the other. 

Your fingers brush his unusually clean-shaven cheek. And then, you run your hand through his hair. Your digits get tangled in his thatch, and as you withdraw your hand, a long strand falls into his face. 

“May I braid it for you?” you ask, brushing the curl behind his ear. 

“Mmhm.” His hum is almost a sigh, and he nuzzles his cheek against your hand before he steps to the bed, sitting down on its edge. 

His eyes follow you as you get a comb and a short leather cord, and they wander up and down your body, as you walk over to him. All of a sudden, you’re overly aware of the thin linen billowing around your legs under the warm shawl you wrapped around your form. And you're overly aware of the sweet, sore sensation between your legs. And your fingertips ghost his cheek as you climb onto the bed, kneeling behind him on the soft furskins. 

As you begin to comb his hair, carefully detangling the long snow-white strands, the faint scent of milk and honey from the soap you used last night for his bath floods your nostrils. And you recall how he felt under your fingers as you thoroughly lathered his hair and his body. Warm and slippery skin. His hair, sometimes coarse and sometimes soft. And countless scars, some hard, some raised, others smooth and soft. 

As you gather the hair from his temples, braiding them to an artful pattern at the back of his head, you silently beg the gods to protect him, to ward him from death and injuries and from any malice lurking on his way. To bring him back safely. 

You fix the braid with the black leather cord, smoothing down the silky strands falling freely onto his back. And then, you fail to pull away. Instead, you wrap your arms around him, nestling up to his back - too close the moment when he’ll walk out the door. 

You lean in, pressing your lips to his temple, and then you slowly kiss your way down his cheek to his mouth. One kiss after another while Geralt’s eyes close and his lips slightly part in response to your caress. 

He hums quietly, and as you arrive at the corner of his mouth, you pause right there, letting him, letting you hang in the air for the length of a few heartbeats while your blood begins to seethe with longing. 

As he casts up his eyes and his glowing gaze meets yours, you forget everything around you. You forget the noises from outside where the men are already assembling on the village square. You forget his departure and the imminent danger. You forget the oncoming winter and the cold and darkness it’ll bring. And you forget the loneliness you’ll have to endure. All that vanishes in that moment because he’s still here, right here with you. 

“Little Bird,” he whispers urgently.

And then he kisses you, kisses your lips that are still swollen from a thousand bygone kisses. Yet, he captures your mouth, still reckless in his yearning, and yet, you need this right now, need to feel that he hates to leave you as much as you hate letting him go. 

And he continues to kiss you as he turns in your embrace, pulling you closer, closer until your body is pressed flushed against him, and you lose your balance, clutching his shoulders. But he holds you tight, and then he carefully lets you sink down on the mattress, hovering over you without abandoning your mouth. His hand, however, rucks up your nightgown, and you moan quietly as he settles down between your legs, forcing them apart for him.   

“No!” he growls as your hands move to his pants, and then his teeth dig into your bottom lip, drawing a whimpering from your mouth. “I need to taste you first,” he mumbles, kissing his way down your throat. Down the valley of your breasts, running his tongue over your pebbled nipples showing underneath your nightgown. 

“Geralt,” you whisper as he plants more kisses on your belly, and “Geralt!” you squeak as his teeth grace the soft skin on your hip, and his hand hastily rucks up your gown further to expose your most sensitive spots for him. 

“Need to taste you,” he hums against your skin as his lips brush your thighs and your mound, his breath hot on your wet flesh. 

And your groan blends with his as he licks a long stripe from your dripping opening to your swollen pearl. 

“Mmmm, so sweet, Little Bird!” 

As you briefly raise your head, you see that his eyes are closed, a raptured expression on his features, as if you are the sweetest thing he has ever tasted. However, as he casts up his eyes, seeing you look at him, probably all flustered and breathless, his expression quickly changes to cocky. And he swirls his tongue around your pearl in a way that never fails to make your mind go blank.

The sound leaving your lips is something between a gasp and a moan, and you feel his hum, his smile against your wetness, before he repeats the movement, sending a wave of heat down your spine. 

“Oh gods,” you whimper, throwing your head back against the pillow, balling your fists around the bedding, not even trying to brace yourself for what’s to come.

Instead, you just let it happen, and you leave yourself to him, allowing him to carry you away. 

He is gentle with you this time, so damn gentle, and yet, he couldn’t burn you hotter.

The twilight of your hut becomes blurred and hazy as blistering heat washes over you, churning you, making you helplessly writhe and squirm on the bed. And the room fills with your moans and whimperings and his groans and grunts and the lewdest sounds of his mouth feasting on you.

As your hips begin to buck, eagerly rocking your burning core against his tongue, you feel his body picking up your movements. And his hoarse groan vibrates against your flesh as he humps the mattress, desperately longing for the friction. Desperate for you. And then, his tongue swipes around your pearl in the most perfect way, making you arch your back like a bow while an undefinable sound rises from your throat. 

And he continues what he started and what can no longer be stemmed as your arousal surges inside you like a wave making landfall. Your movements grow desperate, and so do your sounds as you move with him, so eager to break, so eager to get carried away. 

As the wave finally breaks, as you break, and liquid fire sloshes through your veins, his hands hold you in a firm grip that feels iron and oddly safe at the same time. And his lips and his tongue lap around your core while your climax ripples through you in gentle and oh-so-delicious waves. 

At some point, your body goes limp on the bed, and your chest heaves with shaky breaths as you gasp for air.  

“Breathe!” he reminds you, planting more open-mouthed kisses on your swollen flesh, humming with relish as he laps at your dripping opening.  

And then he lays a trace of kisses upward, dwelling on your breasts. 

“Geralt,” you whimper, hastily wrapping your arms around him as he closes his lips around the puffy buds, only a thin layer of damp fabric between his tongue and your soft skin.  

Then his mouth finds yours, and your kiss floods your tongue with the aroma of your lust and his barely suppressed greed, so alluring, so irresistible your heart doesn’t stand a chance to calm down. And you feel his contended hum against your lips as you moan into his mouth. 

“You sing the sweetest songs for me, Little Bird,” he mumbles. “Can you give me one more, hm?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and your hands fumble for his pants without missing a beat. 

You fail to fight back the smirk creeping upon your face as you yank the buttons open, and your teeth dig into your bottom lip as he hastily slips off his pants, freeing his throbbing cock. 

He looks more than ready; his thick, veiny shaft rock-hard, his tip colored a dark purplish red, shining with thick droplets of precum you long to taste on your tongue. A part of you still wonders how you’re even able to take him. Yet, your body opens up for him as if by itself, and you feel more heat pooling between your legs as you spread them wider and your hands reach out for him to pull him closer to you. 

As you feel his tip against your opening, too sensitive from last night, you inhale sharply, clinging to his arms.  

“I’ll be gentle,” he promises, and you nod, briefly squeezing your eyes shut. 

And he holds you, planting soft kisses on your forehead, your eyelids, your cheeks, as he enters you, slowly, bit by bit, pausing again and again while he works you open for him. And you welcome him, reveling in every sensation while the waves of fire that just drew back begin to rush back on you. 

Both of you breathe heavily as he bottoms out inside you, pausing for a moment, and you cast up your eyes to look at him, at his features, almost too beautiful for this world, and at his golden eyes that seem to see so much more than anyone you’ve ever met. Once again, they seem to see right through you, to your soul. And you writhe and squirm under his burning gaze. 

“Fuck!” he mutters. “Fuck! Oh gods…” And he grits his teeth, his muscles twitching as he fights a silent battle with himself. 

It’s a hopeless fight, and its hopelessness is partly to blame on you. 

However, you can’t help but roll your hips, whimpering as you try to get him to move, to feel more of him. 

“Fuck!” he growls through clenched teeth, and his fingers dig into your skin. “I can’t be gentle if you fuck yourself on my cock like that.”  

And then he pinches your nipples. The whining he elicits from you turns into a moan as he repeats the coarse caress. And your hips buck as if by themselves. 

“Then don’t be gentle,” you whisper. 

“Little Bird…,” he breathes, a faltering protest. 

“Please! Please, take me, Geralt!”

Your soft plea is all it takes for him to give in. And your unbridled moans drift through the room as he finally fucks you.  

You wrap your legs around him, urging him to amp up the force of his thrusts while he fucks you into the mattress. He is relentlessness and abandon, a force of nature, devouring your body and soul. And a sea of flames washes around you, rising higher and higher until it surrounds you from head to toe. 

He holds you, just as much as you hold him, and then he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot against your skin and his desperate groan reverberating through your body. And his need, the pure need in those final thrusts, makes your feet lose touch with the ground. 

And you whirl around, weightlessly, as he spills himself inside you, painting your walls with hot jets, and you clench and flutter around him. 

The end comes all too soon. And you haven’t even remotely stopped floating when you already perceive that the voices, the clopping of hooves, and the commands being barked outside have grown louder, announcing the approaching departure. 

As he pulls back from your heat, you can’t help that hot tears flood your eyes, and you briefly bury your face in his hair. So as not to let him see. 

But of course, he already knows, and he gently withdraws from your chokehold to look at you. 

He doesn’t say a word. Instead, his lips dance across your face, kissing away the stray tears in the corners of your eyes and the lines of worry on your forehead and around your lips. 

As he sees you looking back at him with calm, dark eyes, a soft smile curls the corners of his mouth. And then, he gets up. 

You roll over on your side, watching him clean himself up before he pulls his pants back on. Then, his boots. And his cloak. 

He steps to the stove, putting two more logs on the fire before he pours tea into a mug he sets down on the bedside table. 

Then, he gets two fresh cloths, wetting one with warm water. And he sits down on the edge of the bed, indicating you to spread your legs for him. 

Goosebumps bloom on your skin as he gently cleans you up and dries you off, and again, you see him smile. 

He adjusts your nightgown, and then he envelops you in a thick woolen blanket, pulling it up to your chin. 

“Stay here for a while, will you?” he says quietly. “So I know with certainty where you are. So I know it at least this one more time, before I can only wonder where you are, and what you’re doing, and if you are well.” 

“I’ll be here, Geralt,” you say, cradling his face in your hands. “I’ll be here, and I’ll be thinking about you by day and dreaming about you by night. I’ll be waiting for you to come back to me.” 

And his lips move, without a sound passing them, but the kiss he presses to your mouth tastes like the promise he can’t give. 

“Witcher!” a man yells from outside, banging at the door. “You’re late!”

“Gods,” Geralt growls, resignedly leaning his forehead against yours, not even bothering to give a reply. 

“Go now,” you whisper. 

“They won’t leave without me, anyway,” he shrugs, smirking as you chuckle quietly. 

“Still.”

A last kiss. And then, he gets up.  

At the door, he grabs his bundle and slings his swords over his shoulder. As his hand dwells on the door latch, he turns to you, a lugubrious smile playing on his lips. 

“I love you, Little Bird,” he says quietly. 

“And I love you,” you reply, swallowing hard around the aching lump in your throat. “Until Ragnarök and beyond.”

“Until Ragnarök and beyond.” 

And then, he walks out the door.

Whenever you’re among people, there’s a whiff of tension and danger surrounding him. Sometimes it seems to thicken the air, making it harder for you to breathe. Sometimes you imagine you can taste it on your tongue and feel it in your lungs. Like a plume of gunpowder after the bullet was fired from the barrel. Leaving a somewhat chemical and poignant taste. 

It was there tonight when you spent a soirée at an affiliate’s urban villa in the 16th arrondissement, not far from l’Arc de Triomphe. And it reminded everyone, including you, of the man he can be behind his carefully groomed appearance and flawless manners. 

Even now, in the elevator to your hotel suite, he’s still tense. And how could the tension ever subside with two bodyguards standing just a step away from you? They try to maintain a low profile, and still, their buff physique, sober suits, and see-through earpieces give them away. Let alone the armory they carefully hide underneath their jackets and that you’re still fully aware of - a constant reminder of the potential danger. They’ve turned their backs on you, but you’re also aware they can see your reflection in the brightly polished elevator doors. 

And so you just stand next to him in silence. Watching him from the corner of your eye. Breathing in the scent of his cologne. Overly aware of his presence. Of his every movement. And of the whisper-quiet sound of your evening gown brushing against his pants leg, almost fading away in the buzzing noise of the elevator. You involuntarily run your hand along the fabric, marveling at the sensation of handmade Chantilly Lace under your fingertips. And you remember his smile as you came out of the changing room in the small and exclusive boutique he had ushered you to.

Your gazes met in the mirror as you stepped onto the round pedestal. And you held his gaze, keeping still like a porcelain figurine while two assistants scurried around you, adjusting the dress until it perfectly flowed around your body, smoothing invisible wrinkles here and there.

“Do you like it?” he asked, and although his posture and expression seemed nonchalant, you could see the affection in his eyes and in the hint of a smile curving the corners of his mouth. 

A breathless laugh escaped your lips, considering the understatement his question implied. The dress was the prettiest one you had ever seen in your life, let alone worn. It looked like it was made for a princess, and it also made you feel like one. It flattered your figure. It matched your skin and your eyes, and your hair. And it seemed to make you glow. 

“I love it,” you finally said softly. “It’s stunningly beautiful, August. But it’s way too expensive, isn't it?"

“Leave us alone,” he curtly addressed the assistants, and they instantly flew from the room as if he had pointed a gun at them. 

You remained standing on the spot, your eyes fixed on the mirror as he got up from the armchair. You watched him walk over with measured steps until he was right in front of you, blocking your view.  

“What did I tell you about those two words, mon cœur [my heart]?” he asked you, and once more, his velvet voice conjured goosebumps on your nape. 

“Nothing’s too expensive,” you replied vaguely, keeping your gaze directed to the artful knot of his tie. A statement like this is still far out of your comfort zone.  

“Nothing's too expensive for you,” he clarified, lifting your chin with his index finger while his aquamarine eyes searched for your look. “Not if it makes you happy. I know being with me demands a great deal of you. And I won’t give rise to doubts about how precious you are to me.” 

“I don’t doubt, August,” you objected softly. “And you make me happy. I don’t need fancy presents.” 

“I know you don’t need them,” he said with a pensive smile. As if that still weren't a given to him. 

“I love you,” you whispered, leaning in to brush your lips along his. 

“Tu es ma vie [You’re my life],” he mumbled before your lips met in a very sweet kiss that was more of a lingering of your lips. “Now, will you do me the honor and accept my gift?” he asked after he had reluctantly withdrawn, tenderly dragging his thumb along your bottom lip. And all you could do was nod.

You remain standing in the entrance area, as always while the men inspect the hotel suite. 

"All's clear," grunts one of them as they return, composing themselves to leave. 

As August gives them his orders for the night and the next morning, you make your way to the bar in the middle of the Louis-quatorze-style suite. You carefully put your handbag onto the noble-looking wooden counter before you slip off your shoes, sighing with relief. Instead of putting your things away, you step to the window, brushing the delicate curtain aside. Once again, you revel in the sight of the atmospherically lit Eiffel tower against the background of this wonderful city and the starry night sky. 

The door of the suite closes with a dull sound. Finally! Finally, you're alone. And you instantly feel like you can breathe more freely.

The lighting gets dimmed to dusky, and you hear the soft rustling of fabric behind you. You turn around, and what you see now is another sight that will never cease to amaze you. 

August has dropped his jacket onto the couch. He loosens his bowtie before rolling up the sleeves of his immaculate white shirt. And you can tell that tension slowly begins to loosen its chokehold on him. His shoulders, his jaw, and his features - his whole posture - seems to relax.  

“So, did you enjoy yourself tonight?” he asks, sauntering to the bar. 

“It was a pleasant evening,” you reply with a coy smile, absentmindedly sliding the pearls of your necklace through your fingers as you gaze after him. And a small smile curls the corners of his mouth as he returns your look. Unlike earlier tonight, this smile reaches his eyes. And it makes a wave of longing wash over you. After keeping your distance during the previous hours, you now downright yearn for his kiss, for his touch. And he knows it. You can tell it from the smirk tugging at his lips. And you can see it in his eyes; dark blue swirls, sizing you up, sucking you in. 

“Pleasant is good,” he drawls before skimming the labels of the numerous bottles that are carefully arranged in the cabinet like a tin soldier army. “How about a nightcap, mon cœur?” 

“Might as well," you shrug. "I'll have a French connection, please.” 

He gives a quiet laugh. “How very suitable,” he smirks, raising his eyebrow. “French connection it is, then.”

You watch him pour Cognac and Amaretto into two crystal glasses, briefly stirring the drink. Yet, you’re aware that none of your movements escapes his gaze. He is watching you. One could be forgiven for thinking that he’s watching you like a predator watches its prey. But it’s so much more than that. It’s more like he thoroughly studies you. Like a chess player planning his moves. And you know this here is a game. A game he knows to play so well. Just like he knows how to play you. 

Sometimes you wonder if you shouldn’t be more mysterious and less foreseeable. If you shouldn’t bear up against him, strong and independent woman that you are. But then again, he’s like a storm you can’t withstand. A storm you don’t want to withstand. And at the same time, no one has ever made you feel so good. So safe. So understood. 

You avert your gaze, turning your back on him as you look outside without perceiving the beauty of the city any longer. All you perceive is him strolling toward you, his steps muffled by the thick carpet. And you feel his presence behind your back even before he touches you. Then, he slowly brushes his knuckles along your bare arm, leaving a little tingle wherever his skin meets yours. You turn around. Just as slowly. He is close, so temptingly close, and all you’d have to do is wrap your arms around him. His smile is tempting as well. It’s an invitation. Come play with me. And there’s no doubt that this is what you’ll do. 

You just stand there. Reveling in his closeness. Waiting for his next move with a tiny smile lingering on your lips. 

He offers you one of the glasses, and you coincidentally brush your fingers against his as you accept it with a bashful look. And his eyes instantly seem darker to you. 

“A la santé des amoureux [to lovers’ health],” he rasps, raising his glass to you. 

“A la santé des amoureux,” you reply, gently clinking your glasses. 

You hold his gaze as you take a sip, letting the flavors of fruit, almonds, and vanilla flood your mouth. And then you watch him run his tongue along his lips. And there’s nothing you could do against the breath catching in your throat. You gently put your glass down on the small sidetable next to the window. And he does the same before briefly dipping his fingertip into the auburn-colored liquid. He steps closer, leaning in, and just as you close your eyes, just as you expect to feel his mouth on yours, he drags his finger along your lips. Tracing the shape of your mouth. Spreading droplets of the sweet drink. A gasp leaves your lips, and then you let your tongue flash over the tip of his finger, briefly closing your lips around it. 

Now a breath catches in his throat. And his eyes flutter shut. It’s just a tiny moment, and still, the sight is so erotic it nearly makes you moan. Coarse stubble and his hardly softer mustache meet your skin as he brushes his lips along your upper lip. Along your bottom lip. Tracing your lips with his tongue. Savoring the taste of the drink. Savoring you. Then gentle sucks. Just to let you feel his teeth a heartbeat later. 

Maybe he finally has mercy on you. Maybe he can’t withstand any longer. You neither know nor care. Because finally, he parts your lips. Finally, he kisses you. Deep and consuming and so toe-curling good. He takes possession of your mouth. And still, it’s just a foretaste of him taking possession of your body. Which you will allow more than willingly because your heart is already his. Just like his heart is yours. 

The fabric of your dress rustles as you push yourself against him, the sound almost fading away in the sensual moan falling from your lips. His response is a low hum, reverberating in your kiss. You can hear, you can feel his desire in that sound, and he crushes you against him, holding you captive in his arms while his mouth does the same with yours. You bring your hands to the collar of his shirt, your fingers trembling with impatience as you hastily untie his bowtie and fling it on the floor. But before you can unbutton his shirt, he breaks the kiss, and a squeak leaves your lips as he spins you around. You would have lost your balance if he hadn’t held you in his firm grip - your back pressed flush against his chest. Still, you have to brace your hands against the cool window pane in front of you to steady yourself. Surprise and desire have sent your heart racing, and you briefly close your eyes, taking a shaky breath as he brushes his nose along your ear. 

“So needy tonight, aren’t you?” he mumbles, his beard and his lips ghosting your earlobe. His voice is low and deep. Alluring. And your body reacts in the blink of an eye, involuntarily arching toward him, melting against him, inviting him in.  

“Yeah, that you are,” he mumbles, running his hand up to your throat. And again, your body welcomes his touch as you tilt your head back with a soft moan. 

“So needy you don’t mind standing right here at the window, huh? You don’t even mind that someone might see you like this!” he hisses, and then he smashes his lips on your neck. His kisses are far from gentle, and neither is his touch. Both will leave their marks on you. Lips that decorate your neck with hickeys. Coarse hair and teeth scraping your skin. Hands that clutch you in an iron grip to keep you right there in place as you writhe and moan under his touch. 

“It’s rather exactly what you want, right?” he rasps, and without giving you time to answer, he shuffles you off a bit, unbuttoning your dress with surprisingly subtle fingers. “And it’s what you shall get,” he growls, stripping the gown off your body with impatient jerks. 

“August,” you breathe, a bit worried he could damage your pretty dress. But he doesn’t listen. And he probably doesn’t care either, as he could easily buy you a new one. And so you do your best to help him, quickly stepping out of the pile of fabric before he carelessly tosses it aside. 

“Look outside,” he snarls just when you make a move to face him. And you slowly turn around, facing the nightly city instead.  

“Closer to the window,” he drawls, shoving the curtain further aside.

And again, you obey, taking a small step toward the ceiling-high window. 

“I said closer.”

Another step. Until you feel the chill exuding from the glass on your skin. 

And there you stand. Like in a goldfish bowl. Dressed in nothing but delicate lingerie, almost as pretty as your dress. 

Your heart races as August steps behind you, and you can almost feel his gaze on your bare skin. And then you feel his warm hand running up your arm, ghosting your chest before he grabs your throat again. The pressure he applies is gentle yet apodictic, making you instantly arch your back and tilt your head back as his hand slides higher. You sink against him, against his body, as he drags his thumb along your jawline. From one ear to the other. And back. And he keeps you right there while his other hand slides up your belly. Tracing the seam of your panties that are more straps than fabric. Tracing the long pearl necklace that rests between your breasts. Up to your bra. He doesn’t bother opening the clasp at your back. He just pulls down the delicate fabric of the cups, revealing your breasts. 

“Hands on the window. Further apart, mon cœur. Let them see your tits,” he admonishes you, his voice dark and hoarse in your ear as his thumb begins to draw circles around your nipples. “Let them see how wanton you are.”

Contrary to his words, his caress is soft. It’s too soft. And you tremble in his hold, gently forcing your breasts against his hands. You feel him smile against your temple as his name tumbles from your lips, along with your plea for more. But instead, he slows down. Until his fingertip only ghosts the pebbled bud. Pausing for a second. Before he takes your nipple between two fingers, giving it a firm squeeze that makes you weak in the knees. And your moan ricochets from the glass pane as he keeps rolling your nipples by turns. 

His heavy breathing fills your ears, and his hard cock presses against your ass. There’s not much you can do with your hands braced against the cool glass and his hand wrapped around your throat. But your hips gyrate as if by themselves, rubbing your ass against his cock, and his reaction isn’t a long time coming. A groan he fails to suppress vibrates in his chest, and you can feel it against your back as he loosens his grip around your throat, running his hand down your spine. Down to your butt. He lands two vigorous smacks. Making you yelp. Making your cheeks burn. And his hand roughly squeezes your maltreated flesh before sliding between your legs from behind. You spread your legs, tilting your pelvis to grant him access as anticipation takes your breath away. 

His determined movement falters when he doesn’t feel the fabric of your panties under his fingertips like he expected. Instead, his fingers press against your delicate, slick flesh, revealed by the generous gap in your panties.  

“God!” he moans quietly, greedily stroking your swollen pussy. So unrestrained, you know you caught him off guard. “Seems like I’ve hit the nail on the head. So wanton…,” he growls, “and already dripping for me….” 

Then, he has himself under control again, and his movements grow languid. He traces your nether lips. Your clit. Your opening. So torturously slow, you’re certain that he had seen the secret, triumphant smile curving your lips a few moments ago. However, now, your smile is gone. Whisked off by desire as you yearn to feel him inside you. Replaced by gasps and moans as you spread your legs, flexing the muscles of your thighs in an attempt not to push yourself against him. Still, it remains an attempt. And he lowly hums as your hips jerk, so eager to slide your pussy on his fingers.  

“And yet, you were so sophisticated tonight. So well-mannered and erudite. The perfect woman of the world. And look at you now… Greedy little slut! Pushing back against my fingers already. How pathetic!” 

His words send your heart racing, making heat slosh through your veins. A pinch of embarrassment. And a wave of lust. 

“Just look at you! So desperate to have your pussy filled. Too desperate to be ashamed. Like a bitch in heat. Yeah, let them see it all.”

A mewl leaves your lips as he finally slips a finger into your heat, and your body moves as if by itself. You roll your hips back and forth, tentatively at first, uncertain if he’ll let you do as you like. But then he adds a second finger, stretching you further, and the delicious pressure makes you step up your efforts.  

“Yeah, ride my fingers, little slut,” he drawls in a hoarse voice, shoving his digits deeper into your pussy.  

“August,” you breathe, gently squirming in his hold as you long to speed up your movements. For the length of a few heartbeats, his fingers dig into the skin of your throat more firmly than before, letting you feel his strength, letting you feel his power, letting you feel that he could. Until you audibly gasp for air. He lets go. Letting his hand slide down your body, pinching your nipples while his other hand remains buried inside your heat. And your head sinks forward as you brace your hands against the glass more firmly than before, fucking yourself on his fingers. 

“Let them see your face,” he admonishes you sternly. And then, he closes his fingers around the pearl necklace. Wrapping it around his fist. Until it embraces your neck tightly like a collar. And he gives it a tug, gently forcing you to lift your head until you tilt it back with a moan. 

“Let them all see how much you get off on being treated like a bitch on the leash,” he growls, and once again, shame and lust blend into a delicious cocktail, making you abandon all restraint.

The window pane under your palms doesn’t feel cool to the touch anymore. Or maybe you just don’t perceive it anymore as his strong fingers glide in and out of your soaked pussy, subtly bent to brush against your sweet spot, the heel of his hand bumping against your ass, and his voice low and dark in your ear. And you breathe his name, calling on whatever god as your high comes into range, so close your walls tighten around his digits, almost there. And then, he pulls his fingers away. 

“No!” you involuntarily gasp out as your hips jerk once, twice more, and your pussy clenches around nothing. “No, August, please, I-”

“What was that?” he snarls, yanking your head back.

“P-please, I need to cum!” Your voice is more of a whimper. Pathetic is probably the right word to describe it. And he pitifully clicks his tongue. 

“But you know that this is not how it works, right? Or are you so fucked out already that you forgot when dirty little sluts like you get to cum?”  

“No. No, I didn’t forget.” 

“Then tell me, when do you get to cum?” he demands.  

“I only get to cum when you say so,” you gasp out, still barely able to form congruent words. 

“Such a smart little slut, aren’t you? Now, clean up the mess you’ve left!” he commands, shoving his fingers into your mouth, and your own flavor floods your mouth as you lick them clean, running your tongue along his fingers. And, of course, his silent groan doesn’t escape you as you languidly bob your head up and down.  

“Can’t wait to have my cock shoved down your throat, huh?” he growls, and once again, heat strikes you like lightning, making you moan around his digits. “Wouldn’t you know it! But not now. Now I’m going to fuck that pathetic ass of yours, just like you deserve it.” 

And he gives a quiet laugh as something between a moan and a whimpering escapes your lips. 

“You’re going to keep your hands on the window, t’as pigé [you got it]?” he admonishes you. 

And you breathe a silent yes, forcing yourself to brace your palms against the glass again, taking a few deep and shaky breaths as August briefly disappears towards the bedroom. A few moments later, he quietly puts a tube of lube on the table right next to the almost untouched drinks. And you gently dig your teeth into your bottom lip, trying to bite back a moan as anticipation makes you go light-headed. 

You hear him open his belt. Then the zipper of his pants. And then, his pants drop to the floor. He steps closer, and you involuntarily tremble as he puts his big hands on your hips, crouching down to slip your panties off. And you can’t help but stick your butt toward him, just to give a jump with a squeak a second later as he lets his teeth sink into your buttock. 

“Just you wait,” he mumbles as he stands up, and then his palm comes hurtling down on your ass, making you yelp. His warm hand presses down on your stinging flesh for a moment, rubbing lazy circles just before he lands the next smack. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Each followed by a brief and soothing touch that can’t even remotely stop the hot, burning sensation soaking your whole body. 

“Yeah, you love that, don’t you?” he growls as he slides his hand between your legs from behind. His fingers glide effortlessly along your slit to your engorged pearl and back, gathering and spreading your wetness down to your backdoor. 

“Look out the window,” he mumbles into your ear as he withdraws his fingers, reaching for the lube on the table, and the clicking sound of the tube being opened sounds overly loud in the room. “Look at them. Look at who might see you getting your ass pounded like a whore.” 

And you arduously turn your gaze to the numerous lighted windows of the opposing building. An elderly couple, sitting on the couch, watching tv. A woman, eating ice cream in the kitchen. Two guys, playing some video game in front of a giant screen. And then, it’s impossible to continue your watching.  

A generous amount of lube meets your sensitive skin, slowly warmed by the warmth of your body and August’s skillful fingers, tracing the puckers of your hole. As always, his hands work miracles, making you pliable, making you surrender yourself to him. And a hoarse moan falls from your lips as he eases a finger into your tight hole. 

“That’s my good little slut,” he rasps, giving you languid gentle thrusts, and you can hear how he clenches his teeth, how hard he tries to fight back a groan. His desire fuels your fire further. And you can't help but slowly push yourself against him.

"You really can't wait, huh? Need it so bad…," he mumbles, withdrawing his finger just to replace it with the tip of his cock, and you immediately keep still, involuntarily holding your breath. 

“Keep breathing,” he commands. “Deep breaths. You know how to do this, don’t you?” 

And all you can do is obey, spreading your fingers as if you tried to hold onto the window pane, focusing on keeping your breathing deep and steady. You feel how your muscles begin to relax. And he feels it, too, humming in approval as he affectionately runs his hand along your waist. 

“Yeah, just like that. Open up for me,” he groans as he eases further in. Inch by inch. Like in slow-motion. Pausing repeatedly to let you get used to him. 

And still, the intense pressure makes you tremble, and you’re more than grateful for his hands on your hips, holding you, supporting you.  

“God!” he curses as he’s finally buried deep inside you, pausing once again. And a shudder runs over you as your body half-heartedly rebels against him, just to suddenly give in a second later. 

“Taking me so good and deep… like the dirty whore you are for me,” he hisses, digging his fingers into the flesh of your ass and your hips as the muscles of his thighs quiver with impatience. And then, he gives in as well.  

He begins to move inside you. Slow, short thrusts at first. Building a steady rhythm. Growing faster. Growing more intense while you try not to drown in all those sensations as pressure turns into tingles - like thousands of bubbles whirling around in a glass of finely-beaded champagne. Spiraling out of control as you feel every inch of him sliding in and out of you. As his pelvis bumps against your ass and his balls against your pussy. As the alluring sounds of skin slapping against skin and your gasps and moans fill the room, along with his coarse words.

“Yeah, take it! Take it, slut,” he gasps out, and then his fingers slide to your pussy. You’re soaked and swollen and sensitive, and the sensation of his fingers running through your wetness, unerringly finding your clit, drawing circles, matching his thrusts, almost makes your knees buckle. And you arch your back and moan his name, begging him to fuck you harder. Begging him to let you cum. 

His response is a mix of a growl and a groan filling your ears. And a firm pull at your necklace.  

“Show them, little bitch! Let them see how you cum with my cock deep in your ass,” he urges through clenched teeth, and the pinch of shame rushing through your veins is just what you need. The moan falling from your lips is almost silent, but your body seems to scream inside, writhing and trembling as your high sends a wild tingle up and down your spine. 

“Fuck,” he drawls. “Fucking slut… so fucking good for me…” And his thrusts grow slow and shaky as he cums with a hoarse groan - a sound so goddamn hot you fail to suppress an eager moan - and that only slowly fades away as his hips keep jerking forward. 

“Fuck,” he breathes as he pauses at some point, buried inside you. He loosens his grip around your necklace. Both of you pause for a moment, briefly closing your eyes as you try to catch your breath. And then, he runs his hands to your hips, brushing his thumbs across your skin as he carefully withdraws from your narrowness.  

As soon as you begin to turn around, he gently pulls you against his body. And you sink against him, letting him hold you, and a weary and very satisfied sigh escapes you as he presses his lips against your temple. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” he mumbles after a moment of silence.

“I'm afraid I don’t remember,” you confess with a chuckle. “What was the question?” 

“What if someone saw you?”  

“What if someone saw me and they jerked themselves off?” you ask with a mischievous grin, and you feel him tense up in an instant.  

“Let me go get my rifle real quick,” he states resolutely, pretending to strike off, and you give a soft laugh as you clutch his shirt as if you wanted to stop him. You know full well that the windows are mirrored, and no one has seen you here. Both of you know. And he joins in your laughter before pulling the curtain close with a jerk.   

And your eyes roam his form, his features, and once more, you revel in the sight of him. His face looks a bit sweaty. His shirt is rumpled. His hair is tousled, with an unruly curl falling onto his forehead. And he smiles at you. Warm and loving. And then he leans in to kiss you.

This is him, you think to yourself as your lips melt against each other, and you tenderly run your fingers through his hair, disheveling it even more. This is the real him. And this is how only you get to see him. Behind the curtain.

He curses a little and your eyes widen as you take in the small woman at his feet. The lewd noises reach your ears and you glance around you, but the locals were far too relaxed to care about the wet noises coming from a dimming corner of a side street. They get louder the longer you linger and now you've noticed them in the bustle of life brushing by, you can’t look away. Maybe she likes to be watched, you think as you glance over the woman wrapped in a delicate dress, almost prostrated between his thick thighs. His eyes glaze over for a second before focusing back on yours. He slowly but surely reaches up to rest his thick forearms on the walls either side of the alley, muscles flexing obscenely against the threads of his shirt. Your breath catches in your throat, his eyebrow lifting as if to challenge you.

Like what you see Princess?

Somehow this feels more obscene than the literal dick sucking going on in front of you and you suppress the shiver waiting to ripple down your spine. 

There was no chance of leaving now, feet were well and truly stuck to the baking path at this point, unable to move on from the simple act of pleasure a few steps away from you. Your pussy clenches at the thought of that throat-wrecking dick pushing into you over and over. With no name to scream in your fantasy, your mind flickers over what this man would want to be called. A moniker for this man defied the darkest reaches of your thoughts, but you knew that's where he lurked. 

These unbidden thoughts only made you hotter, even hotter than the late evening sun had. The sunhat casting a shadow over your face wasn't enough to cool the heat creeping up your cheeks. Neither was the cool stone at your back anymore effective at quenching your ardour. And judging by the noises drifting over to you they didn't show any signs of stopping either. You were locked in a battle of wills you couldn't be sure you were winning. Has this overt man made you want to watch someone else fuck? Or is it just this haunting stranger, out of fucks to give and time to share his empty wealth, that had you entranced?

You're stuck debating your inner thoughts as you grow wetter by the second. His eyes never leave yours like he knows he's got you trapped. Like he can read the depraved thoughts circling through your mind. The woman drooling onto the stones of the ancient city street appears to be in control as she wrings every drop of pleasure out of the man. That is, until he grabs the back of the woman’s head forcing himself to the back of her throat. With the deep summer heat rippling off the pavement, it felt like you were in another world as he finally succumbed to ecstasy in front of you.  He looks so beautiful and serene as his head tilts back, eyes leaving his audience for a brief moment.

The way his eyelashes flutter and the sweat shines on his brow out of the shadows, makes him look otherworldly, almost innocently pure. But that depraved dark centre, oozes through the cracks of his chiselled frame, the same way the woman’s hair spills between his tightening hands around her skull. Her hands scrabble against the thick material of his trousers. You can hear the wet choking from your perch as he spends himself down her throat.  

The anger that boils through your gut surprises you. Hot and angry, millennia of instinct crashing into your thoughts, stirring primal urges to claim and conquer. You blink and the anger is gone, just one thought left in your head. Nobody touches what is yours. The woman at his feet is on borrowed time you think, as you slide your gun silently from its holster and take a step towards the pair. 

You took the photo of him smiling at the camera and lifting a barbell over his head and hung it above your desk in your home office so that whenever you looked up at your corkboard, you were smiling back at your man. You could tell that this picture was taken at the end of his workout as his chest hair was plastered to his pecs with sweat and a pinkish hue dusted across his nose and cheeks. You were always a fan of his hairy chest; tangling your fingers through the curly, dark hairs was a favorite pastime of yours.

Then there is the other photo he sent. This one is your favorite, and it stays in your nightstand’s bottom drawer along with your sex toys. Amongst your vibrators, dildos, butt plugs, nipple clamps, and various other erotic aids is a Polaroid that is pure pornography.

In this most sacred image, Sy managed to take a picture of his gorgeous, hairy chest and his groin. But not only is he shirtless, but he is also holding his fat cock in hand as it leaks. The evidence of his orgasm litters his abs and pecs like a goddamned Jackson Pollock painting. How he managed to take this selfie is a mystery to you. 

You just can’t get your mind off of the fact that he wrote the sweetest letter to go with it. All lovey-dovey and ‘I miss you’ and then this erotic art falls out from between the pages. You almost gasped when you saw it, but instead, you bit your lip and whimpered before taking the picture into the bedroom and promptly masturbating to it.

It had become a habit of yours to think about that specific photo non-stop when you thought about moments with Sy. The thought of his deep baritone would lull you into a headspace where all you could think about was the way he whimpered and gasped for air every time he came. It turns out that the more you missed him, the sluttier and more willing you became.

Until one afternoon...

You sit in your home office, checking your email on your day off when you are interrupted by the sound of Sy’s ringtone. Runnin’ Red Lights by The Cadillac Three starts to play, and you smile before picking up your phone and accepting the call.

“Hey, baby! I didn’t expect to hear from you today. How are you?” Your cheery, bright voice denotes your surprise at hearing from your man.

“Well, today was a helluva day, and I needed to talk with my woman,” he drawls, his accent coming through the phone thick and sexy.

“You sound exhausted. What time is it there? It’s a little before two in the afternoon here,” you share, concerned that Sy is not getting enough rest.

“It’s almost eleven here. I should probably be sleeping; everybody else is. I just can’t seem to calm my mind. I figured the best cure to relax me was talking to you,” he hums. “Plus, I haven’t talked to you since before I sent my last letter, and I gotta know how you liked the photos.”

Shameless flirt.

“You ain’t even gonna ask how I liked the letter? Just straight to the porn you sent me.” You chuckle as he ignores subtlety.

“I already know you liked the letter because I’m a great letter writer. What’s on my mind at this very second is the thought of where you put the pics,” he muses, the smile on his face evident in his voice.

“Of course. I see your priorities are right on track,” you reply, playing along. “Well, if you must know, I am looking at the workout photo right now. I’m sitting at my desk, and it is staring down at me from my corkboard.”

“Uh-huh, let’s call that the ‘safe for work’ pic. What did you do with the other one, girl?” His voice sounded so deep and dark as if he had moved his mouth closer to the phone.

“For that one, I have to go to the bedroom,” you purr.

“Go on to the bedroom and get it for me,” he presses, and you can only imagine the look on his face is probably one of smug satisfaction.

You get up from your desk chair and walk across the hall to the bedroom. You sit on your side of the bed and reach into the bottom drawer of your nightstand. “Alright, baby, I am in the bedroom. Just reached into the bottom drawer of my nightstand, and would you look at that? The ‘not safe for work’ pic is in there, along with all my favorite toys.” 

“Why don’t you go ahead and put me on speaker and then set your phone down in the charging stand?” he instructs, calmly yet strongly. You do as you’re told and tell him so. “Now I want you to take out a toy and play with that pretty pussy for me. And I wanna not only hear it but see it as well, so how ‘bout you accept my FaceTime request?”

You’re so busy trying to choose what toy to take out that your head whips up to see the incoming request. You momentarily wish you were wearing something a little more enticing, but then you remember this is the same man who can’t get enough of you, no matter if you are in your Sunday best or a big t-shirt and house slippers. You accept the FaceTime call and pick up your Big Boss vibrator and some lube, placing them next to you.

“There’s my girl, looking sweeter than Christmas morning,” he says, a big smile plastered on his face as he sits at a desk with one hand scratching his beard and the other out of view. He’s out of uniform, wearing a blue pullover and one of his favorite baseball caps.

You bite your lip, knowing that hand is probably wrapped around himself right now. “Christmas morning, huh? Well, how about I open your present for you, then?” You stand and turn your phone slightly on the charging stand so he can see you clearly as you undress for him.

You start with your old college sweatshirt, pulling it over your head so only your slinky camisole is left, hiding your upper torso from view. Hooking your thumbs in your sleep shorts, you slowly move them down your legs about halfway before turning around and bending over so he can see your cheeky undies barely covering your ass.

“You are teasing the hell outta me, but fuck if it ain’t the sexiest shit in the world,” he breathes, his arm visibly flexing as he appears to stroke himself.

You take pity on him and hold the bottom of your camisole, pulling it up your belly and letting it flop your tits out so he can see them bounce before tossing it to the ground. Next, you slide down your panties and kick them to the side before crawling back into bed. You adjust the phone again to make sure he can see you sitting with your legs spread as you pick up your vibrator. You turn it on the lowest setting and tease your nipples a bit, unable to keep quiet for long.

“That’s it, baby. Let me hear all those noises. Fuck, you look good enough to eat,” he purrs, so eager to see what more you have to show him.

“Fuck, it feels so good. Wanna play with my pussy for you, Daddy,” you offer, already feeling your eager hole leaking with arousal.

“Yes, baby girl. Play with your pussy for Daddy,” he insists, licking his lips as he watches you.

“Yes, Daddy,” you whimper. 

You apply some lube to the vibrator and begin to slide it between your folds, letting it catch on your clit a few times and holding it there for a few seconds before moving the tip down to your entrance. You breathe in deeply before pushing the tip inside of you, staying still for a beat, then pushing it in further up to the hilt. You groan, and your eyes cross as you turn up the vibration speed.

Once you get your bearings, you look back up at your phone. Sy has repositioned his phone so that you can see him leaning back in his desk chair as his cock sticks out of his pants, his hand almost a blur as it rubs up and down his length. His pullover is rucked up and over his head, but his arms are still in the sleeves.

"Fuck, are you gonna recreate the pic for me, Daddy? Wanna see you cum all over that hairy chest while you watch me.” You babble, fucking yourself with your vibrator with deep, slow strokes.

"Hmm, you're not very patient, are you?" He tsks at you and removes his hand from his cock. Crossing his arms, he lifts an eyebrow as he waits for an answer.

“I’m sorry, Daddy. I just miss you so much,” you whine, your sloppy pussy filling the room with a squelching sound. “I need you so bad.”

“Keep fuckin’ that pretty little pussy and cum for me first. After you cum, I’ll cum. You know how this works. Always make my girl cum first,” he warns, leaning back in his seat and lazily stroking himself as you watch. 

“Yes, Daddy,” you gasp, pressing the button to increase vibration speed again. You bask in the higher intensity for a moment before leaning back on your elbow and planting your feet with your legs wide open. This gives you a better angle with which to hit your g-spot every time you thrust the toy inside yourself.

You mumble nonsense as you fuck yourself silly, your slick coating the toy and making it easier to dive deeper inside your pussy. Sy is there to cheer you on as you start to make the familiar moans of ecstasy that he knows only come before you explode.

“That’s it, baby girl. I can tell how close you are. Let go and cum for Daddy so he can cum for you, baby. Don’tcha wanna be a good girl for me? Come on, baby. You sound so damn wet for me right now. I bet I could slide right inside you with how fuckin’ sloppy that pussy is,” he rambles on, playing with his balls as his hand flies over his length.

Your tongue practically hangs from your mouth as you piston the vibrator in and out of you, hitting your g-spot over and over until you can’t hold it in any longer. Your breath hitches, your hand freezes, and you let out a wail as your body convulses and your walls flutter around the thick, vibrating toy. 

You gasp for air as you ride out your high, slowly moving your toy in and out of yourself. Blinking yourself out of your stupor, you look up to see Sy transfixed on you. He sees you watching him, and his hand moves impossibly faster, focusing on the head of his cock.

“Oh, baby girl. You looked so perfect cumming for me. You ready for me to cum for you now? Ugh, fuck, I’m gonna cum... I’m gonna-fuck,” he blurts, his hand working his dick through his orgasm as rope after rope of thick, white cum spurts from his tip. 

Just like in the picture, his chest is soon covered in cum. It just keeps coming, leaking over his hand to drip on his balls. The sounds of his gruff moans are music to your ears. His chest heaves as he dips his head back before looking back at you and smiling his goofy grin.

“Damn, girl! What you do to me should be goddamn illegal,” he yawns, stretching his arms out to the side.

“Haha, yeah, I must be such a bad influence on you. Might I remind you that you are the one that got us into this predicament? I only do what I’m told,” you tease, moving your lube and toy to the side to clean in a bit.

“Oh really? You gonna play the innocent game? Alright then, on that note, I need to get cleaned up, and so do you, sweetness. I’m suddenly exhausted, and I’ve got a meeting at the crack of ass in the morning, so I’m gonna let you go, ok?” He yawns at the end of his sentence, his eyes already starting to droop.

“Alright, baby. I love you.” You dare to clip your usual goodbye to see what he does.

“Unt uh, girl. Say it again and say it right. Come on,” he prods, his hand making a ‘come hither’ gesture.

“I love you to the moon and back and twice around the sun,” you profess, smiling wide as you say it.

“There it is. I love you, baby. You are my other half, my special person, and my very best friend,” he drawls, his tiredness showing in how his accent sounds thicker than normal.

“Sleep well, baby. I’ll talk to you soon,” you hum, beaming at the love of your life.

“Enjoy the rest of your day, love. Buh-bye,” he breathes, waving at you.

“Bye, baby,” you say, waving back. 

He winks at you before ending the call, sending your phone back to the lock screen. The photo you took at the beach years ago is staring back at you. Sy is standing with his back to the ocean, arms crossed, with a smug grin on his face. It’s your favorite photo of him—well, at least it was until he sent that picture that sits in your nightstand drawer. 

But you can’t exactly put that photo on your lock screen, can you?

You see your fingers tremble ever-so-slightly as you stand in front of the large mirror in your chamber. Your heart drums against your ribcage. And you can feel its frantic beating against the tips of your fingers as you tug at the fabric of your dress to adjust the square-shaped neckline. 

The linen feels soft yet unfamiliar against your skin. It’s a loan, just like the artfully embroidered belt hugging your waist and the silver barrette in your hair. 

You eyed the clothes and gems with distrust at first, just like the woman who brought them to your chamber this afternoon.

It was the same woman who had sat next to Geralt at the feast last night. She introduced herself as Finna, and as she noticed your muted reaction, her gaze sought yours. 

“Their eyes will turn toward you tonight,” she said. “I thought you might want to dress up a little.” 

“I probably should, shouldn’t I?” you replied a little stiffly as you accepted the dress from her, still trying to decide whether her words or actions carried a thorn. 

“He never touched me, you know?” the other woman stated bluntly thereat. “And neither did he touch any of us.”

Of us whores. 

Again, you caught yourself looking for traces of condescension or pity in her eyes, but Finna seemed to return your inquiring look openly and free from spite. 

“He’s a good man,” you finally said with a faint smile, which Finna confirmed with a smile herself.  

“That he is.”

“I’m delighted,” Geralt declared dryly, making both of you turn around to him. 

He stood a few steps away, watching your exchange with crossed arms. And the mock bow he gave then did nothing to conceal his smirk. 

“Well, he is most of the time,” you qualified, and both of you joined Finna’s chuckling.

“Ready?” Geralt’s hoarse voice jolts you out of your musings, and then you see his broad form appear behind yours in the mirror. 

“I’m ready,” you confirm, and you watch the fingers of his reflection skim along your upper arm.

It’s a fleeting touch, almost incidental and still so natural that your heart leaps wildly in your chest. You know he can hear it; you know he can sense your reaction to him. And a tender smile plays on his lips as he pulls you closer, and you turn around in his arms. 

For a moment, you are speechless. Speechless at the sight of his beautiful features lit by the dancing flames in the fireplace. And speechless at the way he looks at you. As if you are the most precious treasure in the world. 

“Are you ready?” you finally manage to ask. 

“Not yet,” he hums, slowly shaking his head. And then his lips find yours, and his palm cups the back of your head. 

His touch is careful enough not to mess up your hairdo yet firm enough to keep you in place as he kisses you deeply, possessively, like a maelstrom suddenly surging up in calm water. And you let the whirl carry you away, cradling his face in your hands, feeling his jaw, tendons, and muscles move under your fingers. 

It’s only the sound of the tiny sigh tumbling from your lips that brings both of you back to your senses. And still, it takes you the length of a few heartbeats - hungry mouths and eyes glued to each other - to face the fact that you need to make your way downstairs to join the nightly feast in the hall.

The hallway seems endless and as dark as the night. And after rounding a corner, a glimmer of light outside attracts your attention. Your steps involuntarily falter, and you step to the window to get a glimpse of the figures lit by the light beam of a torch down there in the castle garden. 

The man holding the torch seems to be a servant, just like the man next to him, who holds a basket in his hands. Their gazes are fastened on a woman tampering on the trunk of a birch with a knife, maybe to carve something into the bark. Her scarlet-red cloak is unmistakable, and you notice how Geralt freezes in place as he steps to your side, his expression vigilant, his brows knitted with concentration. 

Both of you watch Hallveig extend her hand to the side, her eyes still solely directed to the tree in front of her. And the servant with the basket scrambles to pick out a horn and pour something into her palm. Then, she rubs her hands against each other, finally putting them on the birch, in the same spot where she placed the carving. 

“A spell,” you whisper as she devoutly lowers her head, probably muttering conjuring words against the tree. And you wonder if Geralt can hear her voice. 

His curt, silent nod lets you conjecture that he can. Which means Hallveig can probably hear your voices as well if her senses are as sharp as Geralt’s. And so you remain wordless and silent until Geralt puts his hand on the small of your back to guide you down the stairs. Toward the hall and toward the increasing noise.

The atmosphere in the hall has shifted significantly compared to last night. And you can’t help but agree with Geralt, who had referred to last night’s events as almost tame. 

Tonight, the hall is crowded with warriors, and they turn the place into a shambles. They eat and drink, laugh and argue, and they do it with a degree of rampancy that is quite strange to you. 

The amount of food, carelessly thrown on the tables and the floor, the met and ale and wine they guzzle or spill, could have fed the townspeople for a whole day. The words they hurl at each other, the anecdotes and jokes no one really listens to, the sneers and provocations that sometimes end in a brawl, are a waste of their own. And so are the efforts of the musicians who play against the noise. 

The loudness is so ear-deafening that you can barely hear your own voice, and so Geralt and you sit next to each other in silence. The touch of his leg pressing against yours under the table feels oddly comforting. And still, you have to force yourself to eat the admittedly delicious food he piled on your plate. All the time, you’re tempted to pause, slack-jawed, with the spoon in your hand frozen in the air. And you keep staring at the crowd a few feet away from you, trying to unravel the chaos into single happenings. 

A man on the table at the right side of the hall is so drunk he falls off his chair. A woman sitting at a table far back in the hall laughs out loud. A glass breaks somewhere. A couple shares a passionate kiss, apparently unfazed by the crowd around them. And you see Finna and one of the warriors standing at the wall in a heated embrace, barely hidden from the others’ looks. You hastily avert your gaze as the man rips the neckline of her dress with a firm jerk to expose her milk-white breasts while she ruffles her skirt and pulls him closer between her legs. 

As your gaze drifts toward the high table, you suddenly find yourself eye-in-eye with Jarl Erik. He returns your look with a raised eyebrow, raising a sumptuous-adorned drinking horn at you. And as you give him a stiff nod that is barely more than a lowering of your eyes, an amused smirk creeps upon his face. 

Even though you’re aware that you feel and look out of place, you can’t help but think he looks somehow out of place, too. But contrary to Geralt and you, the captives, there’s no doubt that Erik is the ruler over the hall and the people in it. The one who could finish or intensify the chaos with a sole snipping of his fingers. There’s no doubt that he is always at the ready to rule, and nothing and no one seems to escape his vigilant gaze wandering through the hall. For a certainty, not the woman sitting next to him. 

As Hallveig entered the hall earlier, all eyes turned toward her. She walked to the high table with measured steps, almost solemnly, returning the admiring gazes and gasps with obvious satisfaction. Or with haughtiness, as you couldn’t help but think to yourself. 

Yet her appearance is akin to a queen without doubt, even more so without the red cloak a servant had accepted deferentially. The dress she wears underneath is red as well, the shade darker, vaguely reminding you of the shed blood on slaughtering day before jul in your village. Golden adornments draw through the fabric, flowing together at the chest, where they form a pattern resembling a warrior’s armor. A golden necklace enlaces her swanlike neck, and an amulet that must be the size of a child’s fist rests between her ample breasts. Her eyes stand out, light as snow against the pitch-black stripe of coal running across her face transitioning into the tattooed runes on her forehead. 

She looks relaxed as she sits there at the jarl’s side, leaning back in her throne-like chair. She seems to bathe in the multiple worshipping gazes resting on her. And how could she not, given the attention of the young man on her right is solely directed to her?

It’s the same man who led the warriors into town earlier today. Ingmar, the jarl’s son, as Kári told you. He is a younger version of Erik, tall and heavily muscled, with lighter hair and a hint of chubbiness in his features. His sky-blue eyes seem to lack his father’s cruelty at a first glance. But then, he’s also the one who killed Jarl Harald, his own uncle, during the battle that changed your whole life. And he’s also the one who led the revenge campaign in the borderland. 

However, at that moment, he doesn’t seem to care much about death and destruction. His eyes are glued to Hallveig’s lips, occasionally drifting lower to her generous cleavage, while he continues to inch closer to her, letting his fingers skim along the bare skin of her arm. And Hallveig seems to revel in his attention, in his gazes, and in the words he mutters into her ear. An alluring smile plays on her lips as she leans in, undoubtedly to give him a better view. 

For a moment, you wonder what might hold her back, what might prevent her from allowing the young man to do what he craves so obviously. But then, you’re quick to notice it’s the jarl himself. 

Even as she teases and toys with his son, her eyes keep drifting back to Erik. And just as the young man takes her chin between his fingers, setting about to lower his mouth to hers, the jarl barks a brief command - enough to make her withdraw from the almost-kiss and turn to him. And now Hallveig is the one with fawning submission in her eyes. 

Her obedience is rewarded by a satisfied smirk. And as Erik leans in, capturing her chin between his fingers, it looks as if he wants to kiss her. But just a second later, he closes his fingers around her face like a bear trap.

The woman gasps with shock and pain, and there’s no doubt he could crush her delicate cheekbones like the skull of a baby bird if he wanted. Then, he mutters something into her agape mouth, pressing his lips to hers as she hastily tries to nod in reply. 

The kiss is brief and coarse, more of a punishment than a caress. Yet, Hallveig’s body reacts, and she seems to melt against him. Just as she reaches out to put her hand on his arm, he pushes her off with force, smirking as she staggers into his son’s arms with an entranced expression still lingering on her face.   

Ingmar’s expression, however, is far from entranced. He has watched his father’s actions with clear disapproval, and now, he puts his arm around Hallveig’s waist to steady her. Possessive. 

Erik’s barking laugh echoes through the hall despite all that noise, and the remark he utters next makes his son blush to the roots of his hair. The young man’s arm loosens its embrace. And as the jarl offers Hallveig his hand like a gallant, she steps toward him without so much as looking at Ingmar, accepting his father’s hand with a proud smile. 

As soon as they step down the platform where the high table is placed, the noise in the room begins to die down until the whole hall is silent. It’s a tense kind of silence, full of expectations, as Erik leads Hallveig to the middle of the hall. And their steps on the wooden floor seem to echo from the walls. 

“Warriors! We’ve come far in our fight to restore order and justice, and you deserve my thanks,” he declares with a powerful voice that carries his words to the farthest corner of the room. “Tonight, we will drink, and we will celebrate our victory over the traitor and those who held faith with him. And we will celebrate our brothers who have taken their seats next to our forefathers at Odin’s table in Valhalla. All hail to them!” he shouts, raising his fist in the air, and every man and every woman in the hall follows suit. 

“All hail to them!” echoes from the walls. 

Geralt and you, however, remain silent - two statues standing at the edge of the crowd. Just when your heart sinks at the thought of all the other souls no one pledges tonight, you feel Geralt’s hand on the small of your back and his warmth behind you. And you know that he, too, says a silent prayer for them to arrive safely. 

“But new days will come, my brothers,” Erik continues, making the crowd fall silent again. “And the gods will have new trials for us to stand.” 

Now, at the latest, it has become so quiet you could hear a pin drop. 

“The jarls from the North seem to be scared of our power. They’re so scared they want to stop us from getting what is due to us. They’re so scared they teamed up like a band of little kids, and they’re on their way here.”   

Once more, voices surge up, but they sound lower this time, and the murmur going through the room carries a touch of disapproval. Or fear? 

“What?!” Erik bellows, and the murmur fades away in an instant. “Are you as scared as they are?” he adds with a wicked grin and challenge oozing from his every pore.  

“How many of them are coming?” His son raises his voice. He has stayed in the background, but now he takes a step toward his father, returning his gaze with narrowed eyes and clenched teeth. 

Erik remains silent for a moment, lazily looking his offspring up and down. 

“All of them,” he says then. And whatever he wanted to say next is drowned out by the hubbub breaking out in the hall. 

“Silence!” he yells. “Shut up!” 

And the crowd as well as his son fall silent at the sight of their now-fuming leader. 

His weatherbeaten face has taken a dark shade of red, and his eyes look daggers at the men he just called his brothers. 

“Shut up before the gods hear your whining!” he growls, and then his voice rises until it’s already loud enough to lead his army onto the battlefield. “The gods are not the side of a bunch of wailing old women! They’re on the side of the brave! On the side of the dauntless! And they will be on our side when we greet the North the way they deserve to be greeted! We’re going to show them what they get from meddling in things that ought not to be meddled in! We’re going to show them with our axes! And with our swords, my brothers!” 

This time, shouts of approval are raised, and fists punch the air. 

“Above all, it is not for you to doubt the plans of the gods,” Hallveig rises to speak, slowly stepping to the jarl’s side. And even though her voice is quieter than Erik's, the crowd hangs on her every word.

“I consulted the gods, and they destined a great victory for us. However, it is up to all of us to fulfill their plans!”  

Geralt’s snort is barely audible. Yet, it is loud enough for Hallveig to hear and she wheels around almost at the exact moment.

The whirl of her dress creates a blast of air, louder and more violent than it should be possible, making you and everyone else gasp with shock as a gust of icy wind hits you in the face. That is, everyone but Geralt. 

Your White Wolf remains settled back in his chair, the familiar hint of a mocking smile playing on his lips, and even if he is surprised, he doesn’t let it show. 

“Do you have anything to say, Witcher?” Hallveig snarls at him, and her rage in the light of Geralt’s unimpressed demeanor elicits another snort from your husband. 

“It’s up to you, huh?” he raises his voice, letting his gaze wander through the hall, over the crowd of unfamiliar and stock-still faces. “And if you don’t win, it’s because you doubted too much? How convenient! Well, at least for those who get to keep their heads. Not for you poor fools, that’s for sure!” 

“You should rephrase that,” Erik interposes himself before anyone can react. “If we don’t win, we didn’t try hard enough. And we includes you, too. Witcher.” 

His relaxed pose resembles Geralt’s in an almost odd way, and his words make your face grow cold. Still Geralt, however, remains calm. 

“Is that so?” he simply asks. 

“Of course. Why else do you think you’re still alive?” Erik smiles. 

“And you think you can make me fight for you?” 

“Oh, you will fight for me,” the jarl declares with confidence. 

“If you’re not mistaken, that is,” Geralt smirks and the atmosphere between the two men would be cold enough to make fern frost bloom on glasses and drinking horns. 

“Don’t worry, Witcher. I’m never mistaken. Also, it’s not up to you to decide,” Erik shrugs, and as he sets about to turn away, signaling that this conversation is over, Geralt slowly gets up from his chair. 

“Do not!” Hallveig growls instantly, almost shielding Erik with her body. “Your poor signs have no power here. Not here, not anywhere, not anytime soon, unless you fulfill your duty.” 

Her voice is dark. Dark and gravelly. It seems to reverberate in the room, and it presages how powerful she really is. 

However, so is Geralt. 

For the length of two or three breaths, the witch and the witcher look daggers at each other.

Their postures are tense. Vigilant. Ready to fight. 

And then, things happen very fast. You see them move almost at the same time, and as Hallveig raises her hand ever-so-slightly, an invisible force comes hurtling in Geralt’s direction. 

However, it wasn’t aimed at him. 

It was aimed at you. 

Before you know it, it hits you like an avalanche. Overruns you. Digs into your eyes and into your skull. Creeps along your spine. Leaves nothing but searing, unprecedented pain that seems to tear you to shreds, burning you alive. 

Your mouth falls agape as if to let out an agonized cry, but not a sound leaves your lips. Your vision is blurred and you can’t move a single finger. You wonder how you can burn and freeze at the same time. And all you can hear is Geralt shouting your name. His strained growl. As if he tried to push something away. Something heavy. Too heavy. And yet, he tries and tries and tries. 

At some point, you feel the force raging inside you shift. Back and forth. Agonizingly slow. Until it loses its chokehold on you, suddenly slipping away, and the pain stops as if it was cut off with an ax. Finally! 

Your knees buckle, and you would have hit the floor if Geralt hadn’t wrapped his arms around you. Although he instantly spins you around, shielding you from Hallveig with his broad form, he briefly crushes you against his chest before. And you feel his heartbeat against your skin so fast it’s almost human. 

“Little Bird,” he whispers breathlessly, and you clutch the fabric of his shirt with both hands. 

“I’m okay,” you croak out, “I’m okay.” 

Blood still rushes in your ears and in your every limb, flowing through your body like a rapid stream in springtime when snow and ice melt. At first, you don’t trust your gut feeling, but with every breath you take, you realize more clearly that the pain is gone and that you are okay indeed. In contrast to the warrior on the ground a few steps away from you. 

He doesn’t seem to feel the same pain you felt, but apparently, something sent him flying, and he’s still on the ground. His head is bleeding, his eyes are wide with shock, and he clutches his wrist. However, no one in the knot of people around him makes a move to help him. 

As the man whimpers with pain, you set about to withdraw from your husband’s embrace. 

“No!” Geralt hisses, grabbing you tighter because, of course, he knows what you’re up to. 

“Please,” you just whisper, searching his gaze as you reassuringly squeeze his hand. And after a brief nod, he lets go of you. 

He has never stopped you from doing what you want, at least not as long as he’s there to protect you. And now, too, he doesn’t leave your side as you step toward the man and crouch down next to him with shaky legs like a newborn foal.

The warriors standing around the casualty back away, and you don’t even have to raise your gaze to know that it’s because Geralt looks like the wrath of the gods themselves. A berserk rage radiates from him, ready to crush anyone who dares to lay hands upon you - first and foremost Hallveig, who watches the scene with a dreamy smile. 

She takes a tiny step forward, making Geralt instantly bare his teeth as he readies himself. The smile on her face is now downright cheerful - a weird contrast to the warriors involuntarily backing off further. 

You force yourself to keep your attention on the floor where the warrior winces and clenches his teeth as you carefully examine his head and his wrist, trying to move it in different directions. 

However, you see from the corner of your eye how Hallveig shifts her weight. You hear Geralt’s growl. 

And then, Erik laughs - a somehow odd sound at that moment - turning to the crowd in the hall. 

“Brothers,” he declares with a booming voice. “We’re going to set off in two days. Be ready at dawn overmorrow. But enjoy the feast tonight! Enjoy the feast tomorrow! And be confident! For you have just witnessed the powers on our side. To our victory!” he roars, and the warriors follow suit. 

Ingmar signals the musicians to start playing again, and shortly afterward, people begin to scatter, returning to drinking and dancing as if nothing ever happened. 

As you raise your gaze, you only catch a glimpse of Hallveig’s back as Ingmar ushers her back to the high table. 

The jarl, however, remains standing next to you, watching you continue your examination of the warrior’s wrist.  

“It’s dislocated, but probably not broken,” you finally say to no one in particular after taking your time to be sure, just like your foster mother had taught you to. “But I have to bring the bones back into their proper position and bandage the wrist afterward. The procedure will be quite painful, and I need two, or better three men to hold him down. And I need water, soap, bandages, and a few branches, as straight as possible.” 

“The fuck you will!” the warrior on the ground growls at you, and the sharp smell of honey beer in his breath makes your stomach churn. “Go tinker with someone else!” 

“Fine,” you just shrug and get up. “You should start to practice how to wield your sword with your other hand. Because you won’t be able to use this one anymore.” And you couldn’t have cared less about the gasp falling from the man’s lips. 

“So, you’re a healer, huh?” Erik speaks up, blocking your way as you’re about to turn away. 

“Correct,” you confirm. 

His cold gaze holds yours for a moment. “Get him out of here,” he commands the two men who remained standing next to the casualty, apparently his friends. 

“You’re going to fix his wrist,” he continues, directed at you. “Just knock his brains out if he refuses. And tomorrow you’re going to pack your stuff. Both of you,” he smirks at Geralt and you. “You’re going to join us as our new healer. The old one managed to lose his head recently. Spare your backtalk, Witcher! It’s a done deal, anyway. And rest assured that I won’t hesitate to clap her in iron and tie her up on her horse if you raise trouble. I just guess you’re not keen on seeing your pretty little wife like that.” 

Geralt’s look speaks of blood and thunder. He remains silent, yet unyieldingly returns the jarl’s gaze, which demands an answer or some other kind of consent. 

As more moments tick away, Erik realizes that he’ll get neither out of your stubborn husband. 

“Well, it’s settled then,” he smirks - a last attempt to dare Geralt. 

And it’s only when Erik turns to you, locking his piercing gaze with yours in a silent threat, that Geralt stirs, protectively positioning himself closer to you. 

Erik’s smirk widens, and you can’t help but think that his eyes downright flash up, and the manic grin creeps back upon his face. 

“Healer,” he drawls with a mock bow. “Witcher.” And then, he turns away, strolling back to the high table. To carry on with the feast, without doubt. 

Geralt and you, however, have barely enough time to exchange a gaze before you follow the servant who guides you to the injured warrior. He was brought to a chamber by his comrades, who have meanwhile done their best to get him as drunk as possible. 

Telling by the grim look on his face, you suspect that Geralt wouldn't have minded knocking the man out. But the warrior is full to the gills, and Geralt’s service isn’t necessary while you reduce the bones in a long and exhausting procedure.

As you’re finally back in your chamber, your White Wolf begins to pace up and down the room. Restlessly. Like a wild animal looking for a way out of a pitfall. 

Both of you know it is a pitfall. One that might end deadly. And both of you know there is no way out. Not right now. And still…

“I’m going to talk to him tomorrow,” Geralt mutters at some point without interrupting his wandering. 

“Don’t,” you say quietly. “It will lead to nothing.” And you continue to carefully spread out your borrowed dress on the divan so the fabric won’t crease too much. 

“I know,” Geralt replies in a hoarse voice, and as you turn around, you see him watching you with pain writ large on his face. “I know, but I have to try. It’s too dangerous for you; you've experienced it firsthand tonight. I need you to be safe!”

“I can take care of myself and my safety,” you want to reassure him, but both of you hear the revolt resonating in your words. Revolt and determination. 

“I know,” he sighs, exhaling a long breath. “I know you can. It’s just…” And then, he falls silent, plunking down into an armchair covered in velvet - a piece of furniture that had probably belonged to a castle in a land far away and that had found its way here in one of Erik’s raids. 

He stares into the flames, and whatever he sees in his inner eye seems to feel like torture. And his teeth dig into the insides of his cheeks.

You stop fussing around with the dress to step to his side. As you stand in front of him, you extend your hand, carefully running it over his head. 

“You weren’t supposed to live in times like these,” he says slowly, pensively shaking his head. “You were supposed to live a calm and peaceful life. A beautiful hut. A garden with plants and flowers. A man who reads every wish from your eyes and who can give you children.” 

You can feel it, the pain in his words. The old pain. 

As you cradle his cheek in your hand, feeling stubble rub against your palm, his torpor melts away from him. 

He wraps his arms around you. And you feel the warmth of his breath through your chemise as he presses his face against your belly. 

“But I chose you,” you say quietly, stroking his silky white hair. “I love you, and I chose you. And I would love and choose you and this life again and again. Until Ragnarök and beyond, remember?” 

He raises his head, and his golden gaze finds yours. Interlocks with yours. Telling you things you can’t put into words. Things that don’t have to be put into words. And a gentle smile tugs at his lips.  

“Maybe this battle will be the end of it all. Who knows…,” you continue.” But maybe it won’t. I just know I want to be where you are. No matter what.”

“That you will, Little Bird,” he mumbles, nuzzling his cheek into your palm before he tightens his embrace around your smaller form. 

His forehead sinks against your belly while your fingers play gently with his longs strands. 

You stay like that for a whole long while. And despite all the uncertainty about what this path will bring you, you feel nothing but relief that you will walk it together.

After a date night with your sweet man, one thing had led to another and the two of you ended up back at his place. You’d been dripping for him all night. He hadn’t done anything particular, not that he had to. Sy was devilishly handsome, so strong and masculine, ever the gentleman. It always got you so hot for him. “Whatcha wanna do now darlin’?,” he’d asked when the two of you got back out to his truck. “You,” you’d said sultrily, which lead to right now.

He’d stripped you down before pulling you on top of him. “Ride my cock baby. Wanna see you,” he breathed against your lips. You were happy to oblige. You sunk down on him slowly, never quite getting used to how unbelievably thick he was. “Fuuuck,” you whined when you hit bottom. He rubbed your thighs soothingly, before thumbing at your clit. “Look at you. My perfect girl. Takin’ me so well like you always do. Swear you were made for my cock baby,” he rasps, making you moan.

You braced yourself, hands on his hairy chest while you began sliding up and down his length. “Mmm,” you whimpered. “Yes, fuck yes,” he encouraged, always getting off on your pleasure. You swore sometimes he only cared about making you feel good. His eyes glazed over at the sight of your tits bouncing with each movement. “Sy,” you pouted. “That’s it baby. Cum for me. Cum on my cock,” he said, and with one more stroke you did, thighs shaking around his body as you cried out.

“Good job baby. Deserve a reward for bein’ so good for me,” he says before gently maneuvering you to where he wants you, which is sitting on his face while you’re spun around facing his cock. You eagerly suck him into your mouth before his tongue darts out and starts lapping at you. “Mmmm,” you moan against him. Sy’s always been amazing at giving oral, but for some reason it feels particularly good tonight. You’re losing your rhythm and pretty much just have him sitting in your mouth. He’s holding your hips, keeping you in place and you’ve gone completely dumb under his ministrations.

Soft whimpers continue to vibrate against his cock, and the closer you get the more tense you feel. You think to pull back, the tip of his cock just within your lips. Finally you move your head to the side, not being able to hold back any longer. “Oooh. ‘M sorry. S— sorry,” you babble as your orgasm rips through you. “What are you sorry for darlin’? Didn’t you cum?,” he asks confusedly. “Y— yeah, but I was trying to suck you off and I— I just was scared I was going to bite you,” you stammer as you roll off him. “That good huh?,” he smirks before pulling you to the side of the bed and lining up with you. “Mmhmm,” you groan as he pushes back into you.

He runs his hands up the back of your thighs, opening you up for him. “Such a sweet little pussy, so pretty,” he murmurs as he begins pounding into you. “I… oh fuck,” you gasp as he pulls you closer. “That’s right. Been so good for me baby. Need one last thing though,” he says with a grunt. “I— harder. Please. Fuck me harder Sy,” you nearly squeal. He comes up onto the bed, pushing you upwards and bracing the headboard. He ruts into you hard and fast, letting go with one hand to palm at your breast before deciding he wants both hands on your hips.

“You drive me crazy, do you know that?,” he asks, running his thumb over your lips. You suck it into your mouth greedily, before he pulls it out with a pop. He takes the slick digit and begins rubbing it against your sensitive clit. “I can’t. Sy please,” you beg. “Yes you can. I know you can because you’re my good girl. This is my pussy ain’t it?,” he says. “It’s all yours,” you sob, tears running down your face. “Then let it gush for me baby. I want it,” he says.

He pushes in deep, letting his fat cock fill you. He thrusts his hips at rapid speed before removing his thumb and spitting on your clit. You gasp before looking up at him. He smirks and goes back to rubbing you. “I’m—,” you manage before you start squirting heavily around him. “Fuuuck yes,” he says as you moan nonsensically. He can tell how fucked out you’re getting so he leans down and wraps you up in his arms.

“With me baby?,” he murmurs against your ear. You wrap yourself around him and nod. “Naw. I need to hear it,” he tells you with a kiss. “I’m okay,” you say, tears still in your eyes. “You’re amazing darlin’, you know that? Do such a good job for me. I’m gettin’ close,” he groans. “I want it,” you breathe. “Yeah? Want me to cum deep in this perfect little pussy hmm?,” he asks. “Please,” you say softly. He kisses you as he starts to swell. After a moment you feel him pulsing inside you, making you feel all warm. “All for you baby,” he says against your lips.

You see your fingers tremble ever-so-slightly as you stand in front of the large mirror in your chamber. Your heart drums against your ribcage. And you can feel its frantic beating against the tips of your fingers as you tug at the fabric of your dress to adjust the square-shaped neckline. 

The linen feels soft yet unfamiliar against your skin. It’s a loan, just like the artfully embroidered belt hugging your waist and the silver barrette in your hair. 

You eyed the clothes and gems with distrust at first, just like the woman who brought them to your chamber this afternoon.

It was the same woman who had sat next to Geralt at the feast last night. She introduced herself as Finna, and as she noticed your muted reaction, her gaze sought yours. 

“Their eyes will turn toward you tonight,” she said. “I thought you might want to dress up a little.” 

“I probably should, shouldn’t I?” you replied a little stiffly as you accepted the dress from her, still trying to decide whether her words or actions carried a thorn. 

“He never touched me, you know?” the other woman stated bluntly thereat. “And neither did he touch any of us.”

Of us whores. 

Again, you caught yourself looking for traces of condescension or pity in her eyes, but Finna seemed to return your inquiring look openly and free from spite. 

“He’s a good man,” you finally said with a faint smile, which Finna confirmed with a smile herself.  

“That he is.”

“I’m delighted,” Geralt declared dryly, making both of you turn around to him. 

He stood a few steps away, watching your exchange with crossed arms. And the mock bow he gave then did nothing to conceal his smirk. 

“Well, he is most of the time,” you qualified, and both of you joined Finna’s chuckling.

“Ready?” Geralt’s hoarse voice jolts you out of your musings, and then you see his broad form appear behind yours in the mirror. 

“I’m ready,” you confirm, and you watch the fingers of his reflection skim along your upper arm.

It’s a fleeting touch, almost incidental and still so natural that your heart leaps wildly in your chest. You know he can hear it; you know he can sense your reaction to him. And a tender smile plays on his lips as he pulls you closer, and you turn around in his arms. 

For a moment, you are speechless. Speechless at the sight of his beautiful features lit by the dancing flames in the fireplace. And speechless at the way he looks at you. As if you are the most precious treasure in the world. 

“Are you ready?” you finally manage to ask. 

“Not yet,” he hums, slowly shaking his head. And then his lips find yours, and his palm cups the back of your head. 

His touch is careful enough not to mess up your hairdo yet firm enough to keep you in place as he kisses you deeply, possessively, like a maelstrom suddenly surging up in calm water. And you let the whirl carry you away, cradling his face in your hands, feeling his jaw, tendons, and muscles move under your fingers. 

It’s only the sound of the tiny sigh tumbling from your lips that brings both of you back to your senses. And still, it takes you the length of a few heartbeats - hungry mouths and eyes glued to each other - to face the fact that you need to make your way downstairs to join the nightly feast in the hall.

The hallway seems endless and as dark as the night. And after rounding a corner, a glimmer of light outside attracts your attention. Your steps involuntarily falter, and you step to the window to get a glimpse of the figures lit by the light beam of a torch down there in the castle garden. 

The man holding the torch seems to be a servant, just like the man next to him, who holds a basket in his hands. Their gazes are fastened on a woman tampering on the trunk of a birch with a knife, maybe to carve something into the bark. Her scarlet-red cloak is unmistakable, and you notice how Geralt freezes in place as he steps to your side, his expression vigilant, his brows knitted with concentration. 

Both of you watch Hallveig extend her hand to the side, her eyes still solely directed to the tree in front of her. And the servant with the basket scrambles to pick out a horn and pour something into her palm. Then, she rubs her hands against each other, finally putting them on the birch, in the same spot where she placed the carving. 

“A spell,” you whisper as she devoutly lowers her head, probably muttering conjuring words against the tree. And you wonder if Geralt can hear her voice. 

His curt, silent nod lets you conjecture that he can. Which means Hallveig can probably hear your voices as well if her senses are as sharp as Geralt’s. And so you remain wordless and silent until Geralt puts his hand on the small of your back to guide you down the stairs. Toward the hall and toward the increasing noise.

The atmosphere in the hall has shifted significantly compared to last night. And you can’t help but agree with Geralt, who had referred to last night’s events as almost tame. 

Tonight, the hall is crowded with warriors, and they turn the place into a shambles. They eat and drink, laugh and argue, and they do it with a degree of rampancy that is quite strange to you. 

The amount of food, carelessly thrown on the tables and the floor, the met and ale and wine they guzzle or spill, could have fed the townspeople for a whole day. The words they hurl at each other, the anecdotes and jokes no one really listens to, the sneers and provocations that sometimes end in a brawl, are a waste of their own. And so are the efforts of the musicians who play against the noise. 

The loudness is so ear-deafening that you can barely hear your own voice, and so Geralt and you sit next to each other in silence. The touch of his leg pressing against yours under the table feels oddly comforting. And still, you have to force yourself to eat the admittedly delicious food he piled on your plate. All the time, you’re tempted to pause, slack-jawed, with the spoon in your hand frozen in the air. And you keep staring at the crowd a few feet away from you, trying to unravel the chaos into single happenings. 

A man on the table at the right side of the hall is so drunk he falls off his chair. A woman sitting at a table far back in the hall laughs out loud. A glass breaks somewhere. A couple shares a passionate kiss, apparently unfazed by the crowd around them. And you see Finna and one of the warriors standing at the wall in a heated embrace, barely hidden from the others’ looks. You hastily avert your gaze as the man rips the neckline of her dress with a firm jerk to expose her milk-white breasts while she ruffles her skirt and pulls him closer between her legs. 

As your gaze drifts toward the high table, you suddenly find yourself eye-in-eye with Jarl Erik. He returns your look with a raised eyebrow, raising a sumptuous-adorned drinking horn at you. And as you give him a stiff nod that is barely more than a lowering of your eyes, an amused smirk creeps upon his face. 

Even though you’re aware that you feel and look out of place, you can’t help but think he looks somehow out of place, too. But contrary to Geralt and you, the captives, there’s no doubt that Erik is the ruler over the hall and the people in it. The one who could finish or intensify the chaos with a sole snipping of his fingers. There’s no doubt that he is always at the ready to rule, and nothing and no one seems to escape his vigilant gaze wandering through the hall. For a certainty, not the woman sitting next to him. 

As Hallveig entered the hall earlier, all eyes turned toward her. She walked to the high table with measured steps, almost solemnly, returning the admiring gazes and gasps with obvious satisfaction. Or with haughtiness, as you couldn’t help but think to yourself. 

Yet her appearance is akin to a queen without doubt, even more so without the red cloak a servant had accepted deferentially. The dress she wears underneath is red as well, the shade darker, vaguely reminding you of the shed blood on slaughtering day before jul in your village. Golden adornments draw through the fabric, flowing together at the chest, where they form a pattern resembling a warrior’s armor. A golden necklace enlaces her swanlike neck, and an amulet that must be the size of a child’s fist rests between her ample breasts. Her eyes stand out, light as snow against the pitch-black stripe of coal running across her face transitioning into the tattooed runes on her forehead. 

She looks relaxed as she sits there at the jarl’s side, leaning back in her throne-like chair. She seems to bathe in the multiple worshipping gazes resting on her. And how could she not, given the attention of the young man on her right is solely directed to her?

It’s the same man who led the warriors into town earlier today. Ingmar, the jarl’s son, as Kári told you. He is a younger version of Erik, tall and heavily muscled, with lighter hair and a hint of chubbiness in his features. His sky-blue eyes seem to lack his father’s cruelty at a first glance. But then, he’s also the one who killed Jarl Harald, his own uncle, during the battle that changed your whole life. And he’s also the one who led the revenge campaign in the borderland. 

However, at that moment, he doesn’t seem to care much about death and destruction. His eyes are glued to Hallveig’s lips, occasionally drifting lower to her generous cleavage, while he continues to inch closer to her, letting his fingers skim along the bare skin of her arm. And Hallveig seems to revel in his attention, in his gazes, and in the words he mutters into her ear. An alluring smile plays on her lips as she leans in, undoubtedly to give him a better view. 

For a moment, you wonder what might hold her back, what might prevent her from allowing the young man to do what he craves so obviously. But then, you’re quick to notice it’s the jarl himself. 

Even as she teases and toys with his son, her eyes keep drifting back to Erik. And just as the young man takes her chin between his fingers, setting about to lower his mouth to hers, the jarl barks a brief command - enough to make her withdraw from the almost-kiss and turn to him. And now Hallveig is the one with fawning submission in her eyes. 

Her obedience is rewarded by a satisfied smirk. And as Erik leans in, capturing her chin between his fingers, it looks as if he wants to kiss her. But just a second later, he closes his fingers around her face like a bear trap.

The woman gasps with shock and pain, and there’s no doubt he could crush her delicate cheekbones like the skull of a baby bird if he wanted. Then, he mutters something into her agape mouth, pressing his lips to hers as she hastily tries to nod in reply. 

The kiss is brief and coarse, more of a punishment than a caress. Yet, Hallveig’s body reacts, and she seems to melt against him. Just as she reaches out to put her hand on his arm, he pushes her off with force, smirking as she staggers into his son’s arms with an entranced expression still lingering on her face.   

Ingmar’s expression, however, is far from entranced. He has watched his father’s actions with clear disapproval, and now, he puts his arm around Hallveig’s waist to steady her. Possessive. 

Erik’s barking laugh echoes through the hall despite all that noise, and the remark he utters next makes his son blush to the roots of his hair. The young man’s arm loosens its embrace. And as the jarl offers Hallveig his hand like a gallant, she steps toward him without so much as looking at Ingmar, accepting his father’s hand with a proud smile. 

As soon as they step down the platform where the high table is placed, the noise in the room begins to die down until the whole hall is silent. It’s a tense kind of silence, full of expectations, as Erik leads Hallveig to the middle of the hall. And their steps on the wooden floor seem to echo from the walls. 

“Warriors! We’ve come far in our fight to restore order and justice, and you deserve my thanks,” he declares with a powerful voice that carries his words to the farthest corner of the room. “Tonight, we will drink, and we will celebrate our victory over the traitor and those who held faith with him. And we will celebrate our brothers who have taken their seats next to our forefathers at Odin’s table in Valhalla. All hail to them!” he shouts, raising his fist in the air, and every man and every woman in the hall follows suit. 

“All hail to them!” echoes from the walls. 

Geralt and you, however, remain silent - two statues standing at the edge of the crowd. Just when your heart sinks at the thought of all the other souls no one pledges tonight, you feel Geralt’s hand on the small of your back and his warmth behind you. And you know that he, too, says a silent prayer for them to arrive safely. 

“But new days will come, my brothers,” Erik continues, making the crowd fall silent again. “And the gods will have new trials for us to stand.” 

Now, at the latest, it has become so quiet you could hear a pin drop. 

“The jarls from the North seem to be scared of our power. They’re so scared they want to stop us from getting what is due to us. They’re so scared they teamed up like a band of little kids, and they’re on their way here.”   

Once more, voices surge up, but they sound lower this time, and the murmur going through the room carries a touch of disapproval. Or fear? 

“What?!” Erik bellows, and the murmur fades away in an instant. “Are you as scared as they are?” he adds with a wicked grin and challenge oozing from his every pore.  

“How many of them are coming?” His son raises his voice. He has stayed in the background, but now he takes a step toward his father, returning his gaze with narrowed eyes and clenched teeth. 

Erik remains silent for a moment, lazily looking his offspring up and down. 

“All of them,” he says then. And whatever he wanted to say next is drowned out by the hubbub breaking out in the hall. 

“Silence!” he yells. “Shut up!” 

And the crowd as well as his son fall silent at the sight of their now-fuming leader. 

His weatherbeaten face has taken a dark shade of red, and his eyes look daggers at the men he just called his brothers. 

“Shut up before the gods hear your whining!” he growls, and then his voice rises until it’s already loud enough to lead his army onto the battlefield. “The gods are not the side of a bunch of wailing old women! They’re on the side of the brave! On the side of the dauntless! And they will be on our side when we greet the North the way they deserve to be greeted! We’re going to show them what they get from meddling in things that ought not to be meddled in! We’re going to show them with our axes! And with our swords, my brothers!” 

This time, shouts of approval are raised, and fists punch the air. 

“Above all, it is not for you to doubt the plans of the gods,” Hallveig rises to speak, slowly stepping to the jarl’s side. And even though her voice is quieter than Erik's, the crowd hangs on her every word.

“I consulted the gods, and they destined a great victory for us. However, it is up to all of us to fulfill their plans!”  

Geralt’s snort is barely audible. Yet, it is loud enough for Hallveig to hear and she wheels around almost at the exact moment.

The whirl of her dress creates a blast of air, louder and more violent than it should be possible, making you and everyone else gasp with shock as a gust of icy wind hits you in the face. That is, everyone but Geralt. 

Your White Wolf remains settled back in his chair, the familiar hint of a mocking smile playing on his lips, and even if he is surprised, he doesn’t let it show. 

“Do you have anything to say, Witcher?” Hallveig snarls at him, and her rage in the light of Geralt’s unimpressed demeanor elicits another snort from your husband. 

“It’s up to you, huh?” he raises his voice, letting his gaze wander through the hall, over the crowd of unfamiliar and stock-still faces. “And if you don’t win, it’s because you doubted too much? How convenient! Well, at least for those who get to keep their heads. Not for you poor fools, that’s for sure!” 

“You should rephrase that,” Erik interposes himself before anyone can react. “If we don’t win, we didn’t try hard enough. And we includes you, too. Witcher.” 

His relaxed pose resembles Geralt’s in an almost odd way, and his words make your face grow cold. Still Geralt, however, remains calm. 

“Is that so?” he simply asks. 

“Of course. Why else do you think you’re still alive?” Erik smiles. 

“And you think you can make me fight for you?” 

“Oh, you will fight for me,” the jarl declares with confidence. 

“If you’re not mistaken, that is,” Geralt smirks and the atmosphere between the two men would be cold enough to make fern frost bloom on glasses and drinking horns. 

“Don’t worry, Witcher. I’m never mistaken. Also, it’s not up to you to decide,” Erik shrugs, and as he sets about to turn away, signaling that this conversation is over, Geralt slowly gets up from his chair. 

“Do not!” Hallveig growls instantly, almost shielding Erik with her body. “Your poor signs have no power here. Not here, not anywhere, not anytime soon, unless you fulfill your duty.” 

Her voice is dark. Dark and gravelly. It seems to reverberate in the room, and it presages how powerful she really is. 

However, so is Geralt. 

For the length of two or three breaths, the witch and the witcher look daggers at each other.

Their postures are tense. Vigilant. Ready to fight. 

And then, things happen very fast. You see them move almost at the same time, and as Hallveig raises her hand ever-so-slightly, an invisible force comes hurtling in Geralt’s direction. 

However, it wasn’t aimed at him. 

It was aimed at you. 

Before you know it, it hits you like an avalanche. Overruns you. Digs into your eyes and into your skull. Creeps along your spine. Leaves nothing but searing, unprecedented pain that seems to tear you to shreds, burning you alive. 

Your mouth falls agape as if to let out an agonized cry, but not a sound leaves your lips. Your vision is blurred and you can’t move a single finger. You wonder how you can burn and freeze at the same time. And all you can hear is Geralt shouting your name. His strained growl. As if he tried to push something away. Something heavy. Too heavy. And yet, he tries and tries and tries. 

At some point, you feel the force raging inside you shift. Back and forth. Agonizingly slow. Until it loses its chokehold on you, suddenly slipping away, and the pain stops as if it was cut off with an ax. Finally! 

Your knees buckle, and you would have hit the floor if Geralt hadn’t wrapped his arms around you. Although he instantly spins you around, shielding you from Hallveig with his broad form, he briefly crushes you against his chest before. And you feel his heartbeat against your skin so fast it’s almost human. 

“Little Bird,” he whispers breathlessly, and you clutch the fabric of his shirt with both hands. 

“I’m okay,” you croak out, “I’m okay.” 

Blood still rushes in your ears and in your every limb, flowing through your body like a rapid stream in springtime when snow and ice melt. At first, you don’t trust your gut feeling, but with every breath you take, you realize more clearly that the pain is gone and that you are okay indeed. In contrast to the warrior on the ground a few steps away from you. 

He doesn’t seem to feel the same pain you felt, but apparently, something sent him flying, and he’s still on the ground. His head is bleeding, his eyes are wide with shock, and he clutches his wrist. However, no one in the knot of people around him makes a move to help him. 

As the man whimpers with pain, you set about to withdraw from your husband’s embrace. 

“No!” Geralt hisses, grabbing you tighter because, of course, he knows what you’re up to. 

“Please,” you just whisper, searching his gaze as you reassuringly squeeze his hand. And after a brief nod, he lets go of you. 

He has never stopped you from doing what you want, at least not as long as he’s there to protect you. And now, too, he doesn’t leave your side as you step toward the man and crouch down next to him with shaky legs like a newborn foal.

The warriors standing around the casualty back away, and you don’t even have to raise your gaze to know that it’s because Geralt looks like the wrath of the gods themselves. A berserk rage radiates from him, ready to crush anyone who dares to lay hands upon you - first and foremost Hallveig, who watches the scene with a dreamy smile. 

She takes a tiny step forward, making Geralt instantly bare his teeth as he readies himself. The smile on her face is now downright cheerful - a weird contrast to the warriors involuntarily backing off further. 

You force yourself to keep your attention on the floor where the warrior winces and clenches his teeth as you carefully examine his head and his wrist, trying to move it in different directions. 

However, you see from the corner of your eye how Hallveig shifts her weight. You hear Geralt’s growl. 

And then, Erik laughs - a somehow odd sound at that moment - turning to the crowd in the hall. 

“Brothers,” he declares with a booming voice. “We’re going to set off in two days. Be ready at dawn overmorrow. But enjoy the feast tonight! Enjoy the feast tomorrow! And be confident! For you have just witnessed the powers on our side. To our victory!” he roars, and the warriors follow suit. 

Ingmar signals the musicians to start playing again, and shortly afterward, people begin to scatter, returning to drinking and dancing as if nothing ever happened. 

As you raise your gaze, you only catch a glimpse of Hallveig’s back as Ingmar ushers her back to the high table. 

The jarl, however, remains standing next to you, watching you continue your examination of the warrior’s wrist.  

“It’s dislocated, but probably not broken,” you finally say to no one in particular after taking your time to be sure, just like your foster mother had taught you to. “But I have to bring the bones back into their proper position and bandage the wrist afterward. The procedure will be quite painful, and I need two, or better three men to hold him down. And I need water, soap, bandages, and a few branches, as straight as possible.” 

“The fuck you will!” the warrior on the ground growls at you, and the sharp smell of honey beer in his breath makes your stomach churn. “Go tinker with someone else!” 

“Fine,” you just shrug and get up. “You should start to practice how to wield your sword with your other hand. Because you won’t be able to use this one anymore.” And you couldn’t have cared less about the gasp falling from the man’s lips. 

“So, you’re a healer, huh?” Erik speaks up, blocking your way as you’re about to turn away. 

“Correct,” you confirm. 

His cold gaze holds yours for a moment. “Get him out of here,” he commands the two men who remained standing next to the casualty, apparently his friends. 

“You’re going to fix his wrist,” he continues, directed at you. “Just knock his brains out if he refuses. And tomorrow you’re going to pack your stuff. Both of you,” he smirks at Geralt and you. “You’re going to join us as our new healer. The old one managed to lose his head recently. Spare your backtalk, Witcher! It’s a done deal, anyway. And rest assured that I won’t hesitate to clap her in iron and tie her up on her horse if you raise trouble. I just guess you’re not keen on seeing your pretty little wife like that.” 

Geralt’s look speaks of blood and thunder. He remains silent, yet unyieldingly returns the jarl’s gaze, which demands an answer or some other kind of consent. 

As more moments tick away, Erik realizes that he’ll get neither out of your stubborn husband. 

“Well, it’s settled then,” he smirks - a last attempt to dare Geralt. 

And it’s only when Erik turns to you, locking his piercing gaze with yours in a silent threat, that Geralt stirs, protectively positioning himself closer to you. 

Erik’s smirk widens, and you can’t help but think that his eyes downright flash up, and the manic grin creeps back upon his face. 

“Healer,” he drawls with a mock bow. “Witcher.” And then, he turns away, strolling back to the high table. To carry on with the feast, without doubt. 

Geralt and you, however, have barely enough time to exchange a gaze before you follow the servant who guides you to the injured warrior. He was brought to a chamber by his comrades, who have meanwhile done their best to get him as drunk as possible. 

Telling by the grim look on his face, you suspect that Geralt wouldn't have minded knocking the man out. But the warrior is full to the gills, and Geralt’s service isn’t necessary while you reduce the bones in a long and exhausting procedure.

As you’re finally back in your chamber, your White Wolf begins to pace up and down the room. Restlessly. Like a wild animal looking for a way out of a pitfall. 

Both of you know it is a pitfall. One that might end deadly. And both of you know there is no way out. Not right now. And still…

“I’m going to talk to him tomorrow,” Geralt mutters at some point without interrupting his wandering. 

“Don’t,” you say quietly. “It will lead to nothing.” And you continue to carefully spread out your borrowed dress on the divan so the fabric won’t crease too much. 

“I know,” Geralt replies in a hoarse voice, and as you turn around, you see him watching you with pain writ large on his face. “I know, but I have to try. It’s too dangerous for you; you've experienced it firsthand tonight. I need you to be safe!”

“I can take care of myself and my safety,” you want to reassure him, but both of you hear the revolt resonating in your words. Revolt and determination. 

“I know,” he sighs, exhaling a long breath. “I know you can. It’s just…” And then, he falls silent, plunking down into an armchair covered in velvet - a piece of furniture that had probably belonged to a castle in a land far away and that had found its way here in one of Erik’s raids. 

He stares into the flames, and whatever he sees in his inner eye seems to feel like torture. And his teeth dig into the insides of his cheeks.

You stop fussing around with the dress to step to his side. As you stand in front of him, you extend your hand, carefully running it over his head. 

“You weren’t supposed to live in times like these,” he says slowly, pensively shaking his head. “You were supposed to live a calm and peaceful life. A beautiful hut. A garden with plants and flowers. A man who reads every wish from your eyes and who can give you children.” 

You can feel it, the pain in his words. The old pain. 

As you cradle his cheek in your hand, feeling stubble rub against your palm, his torpor melts away from him. 

He wraps his arms around you. And you feel the warmth of his breath through your chemise as he presses his face against your belly. 

“But I chose you,” you say quietly, stroking his silky white hair. “I love you, and I chose you. And I would love and choose you and this life again and again. Until Ragnarök and beyond, remember?” 

He raises his head, and his golden gaze finds yours. Interlocks with yours. Telling you things you can’t put into words. Things that don’t have to be put into words. And a gentle smile tugs at his lips.  

“Maybe this battle will be the end of it all. Who knows…,” you continue.” But maybe it won’t. I just know I want to be where you are. No matter what.”

“That you will, Little Bird,” he mumbles, nuzzling his cheek into your palm before he tightens his embrace around your smaller form. 

His forehead sinks against your belly while your fingers play gently with his longs strands. 

You stay like that for a whole long while. And despite all the uncertainty about what this path will bring you, you feel nothing but relief that you will walk it together.

You see your fingers tremble ever-so-slightly as you stand in front of the large mirror in your chamber. Your heart drums against your ribcage. And you can feel its frantic beating against the tips of your fingers as you tug at the fabric of your dress to adjust the square-shaped neckline. 

The linen feels soft yet unfamiliar against your skin. It’s a loan, just like the artfully embroidered belt hugging your waist and the silver barrette in your hair. 

You eyed the clothes and gems with distrust at first, just like the woman who brought them to your chamber this afternoon.

It was the same woman who had sat next to Geralt at the feast last night. She introduced herself as Finna, and as she noticed your muted reaction, her gaze sought yours. 

“Their eyes will turn toward you tonight,” she said. “I thought you might want to dress up a little.” 

“I probably should, shouldn’t I?” you replied a little stiffly as you accepted the dress from her, still trying to decide whether her words or actions carried a thorn. 

“He never touched me, you know?” the other woman stated bluntly thereat. “And neither did he touch any of us.”

Of us whores. 

Again, you caught yourself looking for traces of condescension or pity in her eyes, but Finna seemed to return your inquiring look openly and free from spite. 

“He’s a good man,” you finally said with a faint smile, which Finna confirmed with a smile herself.  

“That he is.”

“I’m delighted,” Geralt declared dryly, making both of you turn around to him. 

He stood a few steps away, watching your exchange with crossed arms. And the mock bow he gave then did nothing to conceal his smirk. 

“Well, he is most of the time,” you qualified, and both of you joined Finna’s chuckling.

“Ready?” Geralt’s hoarse voice jolts you out of your musings, and then you see his broad form appear behind yours in the mirror. 

“I’m ready,” you confirm, and you watch the fingers of his reflection skim along your upper arm.

It’s a fleeting touch, almost incidental and still so natural that your heart leaps wildly in your chest. You know he can hear it; you know he can sense your reaction to him. And a tender smile plays on his lips as he pulls you closer, and you turn around in his arms. 

For a moment, you are speechless. Speechless at the sight of his beautiful features lit by the dancing flames in the fireplace. And speechless at the way he looks at you. As if you are the most precious treasure in the world. 

“Are you ready?” you finally manage to ask. 

“Not yet,” he hums, slowly shaking his head. And then his lips find yours, and his palm cups the back of your head. 

His touch is careful enough not to mess up your hairdo yet firm enough to keep you in place as he kisses you deeply, possessively, like a maelstrom suddenly surging up in calm water. And you let the whirl carry you away, cradling his face in your hands, feeling his jaw, tendons, and muscles move under your fingers. 

It’s only the sound of the tiny sigh tumbling from your lips that brings both of you back to your senses. And still, it takes you the length of a few heartbeats - hungry mouths and eyes glued to each other - to face the fact that you need to make your way downstairs to join the nightly feast in the hall.

The hallway seems endless and as dark as the night. And after rounding a corner, a glimmer of light outside attracts your attention. Your steps involuntarily falter, and you step to the window to get a glimpse of the figures lit by the light beam of a torch down there in the castle garden. 

The man holding the torch seems to be a servant, just like the man next to him, who holds a basket in his hands. Their gazes are fastened on a woman tampering on the trunk of a birch with a knife, maybe to carve something into the bark. Her scarlet-red cloak is unmistakable, and you notice how Geralt freezes in place as he steps to your side, his expression vigilant, his brows knitted with concentration. 

Both of you watch Hallveig extend her hand to the side, her eyes still solely directed to the tree in front of her. And the servant with the basket scrambles to pick out a horn and pour something into her palm. Then, she rubs her hands against each other, finally putting them on the birch, in the same spot where she placed the carving. 

“A spell,” you whisper as she devoutly lowers her head, probably muttering conjuring words against the tree. And you wonder if Geralt can hear her voice. 

His curt, silent nod lets you conjecture that he can. Which means Hallveig can probably hear your voices as well if her senses are as sharp as Geralt’s. And so you remain wordless and silent until Geralt puts his hand on the small of your back to guide you down the stairs. Toward the hall and toward the increasing noise.

The atmosphere in the hall has shifted significantly compared to last night. And you can’t help but agree with Geralt, who had referred to last night’s events as almost tame. 

Tonight, the hall is crowded with warriors, and they turn the place into a shambles. They eat and drink, laugh and argue, and they do it with a degree of rampancy that is quite strange to you. 

The amount of food, carelessly thrown on the tables and the floor, the met and ale and wine they guzzle or spill, could have fed the townspeople for a whole day. The words they hurl at each other, the anecdotes and jokes no one really listens to, the sneers and provocations that sometimes end in a brawl, are a waste of their own. And so are the efforts of the musicians who play against the noise. 

The loudness is so ear-deafening that you can barely hear your own voice, and so Geralt and you sit next to each other in silence. The touch of his leg pressing against yours under the table feels oddly comforting. And still, you have to force yourself to eat the admittedly delicious food he piled on your plate. All the time, you’re tempted to pause, slack-jawed, with the spoon in your hand frozen in the air. And you keep staring at the crowd a few feet away from you, trying to unravel the chaos into single happenings. 

A man on the table at the right side of the hall is so drunk he falls off his chair. A woman sitting at a table far back in the hall laughs out loud. A glass breaks somewhere. A couple shares a passionate kiss, apparently unfazed by the crowd around them. And you see Finna and one of the warriors standing at the wall in a heated embrace, barely hidden from the others’ looks. You hastily avert your gaze as the man rips the neckline of her dress with a firm jerk to expose her milk-white breasts while she ruffles her skirt and pulls him closer between her legs. 

As your gaze drifts toward the high table, you suddenly find yourself eye-in-eye with Jarl Erik. He returns your look with a raised eyebrow, raising a sumptuous-adorned drinking horn at you. And as you give him a stiff nod that is barely more than a lowering of your eyes, an amused smirk creeps upon his face. 

Even though you’re aware that you feel and look out of place, you can’t help but think he looks somehow out of place, too. But contrary to Geralt and you, the captives, there’s no doubt that Erik is the ruler over the hall and the people in it. The one who could finish or intensify the chaos with a sole snipping of his fingers. There’s no doubt that he is always at the ready to rule, and nothing and no one seems to escape his vigilant gaze wandering through the hall. For a certainty, not the woman sitting next to him. 

As Hallveig entered the hall earlier, all eyes turned toward her. She walked to the high table with measured steps, almost solemnly, returning the admiring gazes and gasps with obvious satisfaction. Or with haughtiness, as you couldn’t help but think to yourself. 

Yet her appearance is akin to a queen without doubt, even more so without the red cloak a servant had accepted deferentially. The dress she wears underneath is red as well, the shade darker, vaguely reminding you of the shed blood on slaughtering day before jul in your village. Golden adornments draw through the fabric, flowing together at the chest, where they form a pattern resembling a warrior’s armor. A golden necklace enlaces her swanlike neck, and an amulet that must be the size of a child’s fist rests between her ample breasts. Her eyes stand out, light as snow against the pitch-black stripe of coal running across her face transitioning into the tattooed runes on her forehead. 

She looks relaxed as she sits there at the jarl’s side, leaning back in her throne-like chair. She seems to bathe in the multiple worshipping gazes resting on her. And how could she not, given the attention of the young man on her right is solely directed to her?

It’s the same man who led the warriors into town earlier today. Ingmar, the jarl’s son, as Kári told you. He is a younger version of Erik, tall and heavily muscled, with lighter hair and a hint of chubbiness in his features. His sky-blue eyes seem to lack his father’s cruelty at a first glance. But then, he’s also the one who killed Jarl Harald, his own uncle, during the battle that changed your whole life. And he’s also the one who led the revenge campaign in the borderland. 

However, at that moment, he doesn’t seem to care much about death and destruction. His eyes are glued to Hallveig’s lips, occasionally drifting lower to her generous cleavage, while he continues to inch closer to her, letting his fingers skim along the bare skin of her arm. And Hallveig seems to revel in his attention, in his gazes, and in the words he mutters into her ear. An alluring smile plays on her lips as she leans in, undoubtedly to give him a better view. 

For a moment, you wonder what might hold her back, what might prevent her from allowing the young man to do what he craves so obviously. But then, you’re quick to notice it’s the jarl himself. 

Even as she teases and toys with his son, her eyes keep drifting back to Erik. And just as the young man takes her chin between his fingers, setting about to lower his mouth to hers, the jarl barks a brief command - enough to make her withdraw from the almost-kiss and turn to him. And now Hallveig is the one with fawning submission in her eyes. 

Her obedience is rewarded by a satisfied smirk. And as Erik leans in, capturing her chin between his fingers, it looks as if he wants to kiss her. But just a second later, he closes his fingers around her face like a bear trap.

The woman gasps with shock and pain, and there’s no doubt he could crush her delicate cheekbones like the skull of a baby bird if he wanted. Then, he mutters something into her agape mouth, pressing his lips to hers as she hastily tries to nod in reply. 

The kiss is brief and coarse, more of a punishment than a caress. Yet, Hallveig’s body reacts, and she seems to melt against him. Just as she reaches out to put her hand on his arm, he pushes her off with force, smirking as she staggers into his son’s arms with an entranced expression still lingering on her face.   

Ingmar’s expression, however, is far from entranced. He has watched his father’s actions with clear disapproval, and now, he puts his arm around Hallveig’s waist to steady her. Possessive. 

Erik’s barking laugh echoes through the hall despite all that noise, and the remark he utters next makes his son blush to the roots of his hair. The young man’s arm loosens its embrace. And as the jarl offers Hallveig his hand like a gallant, she steps toward him without so much as looking at Ingmar, accepting his father’s hand with a proud smile. 

As soon as they step down the platform where the high table is placed, the noise in the room begins to die down until the whole hall is silent. It’s a tense kind of silence, full of expectations, as Erik leads Hallveig to the middle of the hall. And their steps on the wooden floor seem to echo from the walls. 

“Warriors! We’ve come far in our fight to restore order and justice, and you deserve my thanks,” he declares with a powerful voice that carries his words to the farthest corner of the room. “Tonight, we will drink, and we will celebrate our victory over the traitor and those who held faith with him. And we will celebrate our brothers who have taken their seats next to our forefathers at Odin’s table in Valhalla. All hail to them!” he shouts, raising his fist in the air, and every man and every woman in the hall follows suit. 

“All hail to them!” echoes from the walls. 

Geralt and you, however, remain silent - two statues standing at the edge of the crowd. Just when your heart sinks at the thought of all the other souls no one pledges tonight, you feel Geralt’s hand on the small of your back and his warmth behind you. And you know that he, too, says a silent prayer for them to arrive safely. 

“But new days will come, my brothers,” Erik continues, making the crowd fall silent again. “And the gods will have new trials for us to stand.” 

Now, at the latest, it has become so quiet you could hear a pin drop. 

“The jarls from the North seem to be scared of our power. They’re so scared they want to stop us from getting what is due to us. They’re so scared they teamed up like a band of little kids, and they’re on their way here.”   

Once more, voices surge up, but they sound lower this time, and the murmur going through the room carries a touch of disapproval. Or fear? 

“What?!” Erik bellows, and the murmur fades away in an instant. “Are you as scared as they are?” he adds with a wicked grin and challenge oozing from his every pore.  

“How many of them are coming?” His son raises his voice. He has stayed in the background, but now he takes a step toward his father, returning his gaze with narrowed eyes and clenched teeth. 

Erik remains silent for a moment, lazily looking his offspring up and down. 

“All of them,” he says then. And whatever he wanted to say next is drowned out by the hubbub breaking out in the hall. 

“Silence!” he yells. “Shut up!” 

And the crowd as well as his son fall silent at the sight of their now-fuming leader. 

His weatherbeaten face has taken a dark shade of red, and his eyes look daggers at the men he just called his brothers. 

“Shut up before the gods hear your whining!” he growls, and then his voice rises until it’s already loud enough to lead his army onto the battlefield. “The gods are not the side of a bunch of wailing old women! They’re on the side of the brave! On the side of the dauntless! And they will be on our side when we greet the North the way they deserve to be greeted! We’re going to show them what they get from meddling in things that ought not to be meddled in! We’re going to show them with our axes! And with our swords, my brothers!” 

This time, shouts of approval are raised, and fists punch the air. 

“Above all, it is not for you to doubt the plans of the gods,” Hallveig rises to speak, slowly stepping to the jarl’s side. And even though her voice is quieter than Erik's, the crowd hangs on her every word.

“I consulted the gods, and they destined a great victory for us. However, it is up to all of us to fulfill their plans!”  

Geralt’s snort is barely audible. Yet, it is loud enough for Hallveig to hear and she wheels around almost at the exact moment.

The whirl of her dress creates a blast of air, louder and more violent than it should be possible, making you and everyone else gasp with shock as a gust of icy wind hits you in the face. That is, everyone but Geralt. 

Your White Wolf remains settled back in his chair, the familiar hint of a mocking smile playing on his lips, and even if he is surprised, he doesn’t let it show. 

“Do you have anything to say, Witcher?” Hallveig snarls at him, and her rage in the light of Geralt’s unimpressed demeanor elicits another snort from your husband. 

“It’s up to you, huh?” he raises his voice, letting his gaze wander through the hall, over the crowd of unfamiliar and stock-still faces. “And if you don’t win, it’s because you doubted too much? How convenient! Well, at least for those who get to keep their heads. Not for you poor fools, that’s for sure!” 

“You should rephrase that,” Erik interposes himself before anyone can react. “If we don’t win, we didn’t try hard enough. And we includes you, too. Witcher.” 

His relaxed pose resembles Geralt’s in an almost odd way, and his words make your face grow cold. Still Geralt, however, remains calm. 

“Is that so?” he simply asks. 

“Of course. Why else do you think you’re still alive?” Erik smiles. 

“And you think you can make me fight for you?” 

“Oh, you will fight for me,” the jarl declares with confidence. 

“If you’re not mistaken, that is,” Geralt smirks and the atmosphere between the two men would be cold enough to make fern frost bloom on glasses and drinking horns. 

“Don’t worry, Witcher. I’m never mistaken. Also, it’s not up to you to decide,” Erik shrugs, and as he sets about to turn away, signaling that this conversation is over, Geralt slowly gets up from his chair. 

“Do not!” Hallveig growls instantly, almost shielding Erik with her body. “Your poor signs have no power here. Not here, not anywhere, not anytime soon, unless you fulfill your duty.” 

Her voice is dark. Dark and gravelly. It seems to reverberate in the room, and it presages how powerful she really is. 

However, so is Geralt. 

For the length of two or three breaths, the witch and the witcher look daggers at each other.

Their postures are tense. Vigilant. Ready to fight. 

And then, things happen very fast. You see them move almost at the same time, and as Hallveig raises her hand ever-so-slightly, an invisible force comes hurtling in Geralt’s direction. 

However, it wasn’t aimed at him. 

It was aimed at you. 

Before you know it, it hits you like an avalanche. Overruns you. Digs into your eyes and into your skull. Creeps along your spine. Leaves nothing but searing, unprecedented pain that seems to tear you to shreds, burning you alive. 

Your mouth falls agape as if to let out an agonized cry, but not a sound leaves your lips. Your vision is blurred and you can’t move a single finger. You wonder how you can burn and freeze at the same time. And all you can hear is Geralt shouting your name. His strained growl. As if he tried to push something away. Something heavy. Too heavy. And yet, he tries and tries and tries. 

At some point, you feel the force raging inside you shift. Back and forth. Agonizingly slow. Until it loses its chokehold on you, suddenly slipping away, and the pain stops as if it was cut off with an ax. Finally! 

Your knees buckle, and you would have hit the floor if Geralt hadn’t wrapped his arms around you. Although he instantly spins you around, shielding you from Hallveig with his broad form, he briefly crushes you against his chest before. And you feel his heartbeat against your skin so fast it’s almost human. 

“Little Bird,” he whispers breathlessly, and you clutch the fabric of his shirt with both hands. 

“I’m okay,” you croak out, “I’m okay.” 

Blood still rushes in your ears and in your every limb, flowing through your body like a rapid stream in springtime when snow and ice melt. At first, you don’t trust your gut feeling, but with every breath you take, you realize more clearly that the pain is gone and that you are okay indeed. In contrast to the warrior on the ground a few steps away from you. 

He doesn’t seem to feel the same pain you felt, but apparently, something sent him flying, and he’s still on the ground. His head is bleeding, his eyes are wide with shock, and he clutches his wrist. However, no one in the knot of people around him makes a move to help him. 

As the man whimpers with pain, you set about to withdraw from your husband’s embrace. 

“No!” Geralt hisses, grabbing you tighter because, of course, he knows what you’re up to. 

“Please,” you just whisper, searching his gaze as you reassuringly squeeze his hand. And after a brief nod, he lets go of you. 

He has never stopped you from doing what you want, at least not as long as he’s there to protect you. And now, too, he doesn’t leave your side as you step toward the man and crouch down next to him with shaky legs like a newborn foal.

The warriors standing around the casualty back away, and you don’t even have to raise your gaze to know that it’s because Geralt looks like the wrath of the gods themselves. A berserk rage radiates from him, ready to crush anyone who dares to lay hands upon you - first and foremost Hallveig, who watches the scene with a dreamy smile. 

She takes a tiny step forward, making Geralt instantly bare his teeth as he readies himself. The smile on her face is now downright cheerful - a weird contrast to the warriors involuntarily backing off further. 

You force yourself to keep your attention on the floor where the warrior winces and clenches his teeth as you carefully examine his head and his wrist, trying to move it in different directions. 

However, you see from the corner of your eye how Hallveig shifts her weight. You hear Geralt’s growl. 

And then, Erik laughs - a somehow odd sound at that moment - turning to the crowd in the hall. 

“Brothers,” he declares with a booming voice. “We’re going to set off in two days. Be ready at dawn overmorrow. But enjoy the feast tonight! Enjoy the feast tomorrow! And be confident! For you have just witnessed the powers on our side. To our victory!” he roars, and the warriors follow suit. 

Ingmar signals the musicians to start playing again, and shortly afterward, people begin to scatter, returning to drinking and dancing as if nothing ever happened. 

As you raise your gaze, you only catch a glimpse of Hallveig’s back as Ingmar ushers her back to the high table. 

The jarl, however, remains standing next to you, watching you continue your examination of the warrior’s wrist.  

“It’s dislocated, but probably not broken,” you finally say to no one in particular after taking your time to be sure, just like your foster mother had taught you to. “But I have to bring the bones back into their proper position and bandage the wrist afterward. The procedure will be quite painful, and I need two, or better three men to hold him down. And I need water, soap, bandages, and a few branches, as straight as possible.” 

“The fuck you will!” the warrior on the ground growls at you, and the sharp smell of honey beer in his breath makes your stomach churn. “Go tinker with someone else!” 

“Fine,” you just shrug and get up. “You should start to practice how to wield your sword with your other hand. Because you won’t be able to use this one anymore.” And you couldn’t have cared less about the gasp falling from the man’s lips. 

“So, you’re a healer, huh?” Erik speaks up, blocking your way as you’re about to turn away. 

“Correct,” you confirm. 

His cold gaze holds yours for a moment. “Get him out of here,” he commands the two men who remained standing next to the casualty, apparently his friends. 

“You’re going to fix his wrist,” he continues, directed at you. “Just knock his brains out if he refuses. And tomorrow you’re going to pack your stuff. Both of you,” he smirks at Geralt and you. “You’re going to join us as our new healer. The old one managed to lose his head recently. Spare your backtalk, Witcher! It’s a done deal, anyway. And rest assured that I won’t hesitate to clap her in iron and tie her up on her horse if you raise trouble. I just guess you’re not keen on seeing your pretty little wife like that.” 

Geralt’s look speaks of blood and thunder. He remains silent, yet unyieldingly returns the jarl’s gaze, which demands an answer or some other kind of consent. 

As more moments tick away, Erik realizes that he’ll get neither out of your stubborn husband. 

“Well, it’s settled then,” he smirks - a last attempt to dare Geralt. 

And it’s only when Erik turns to you, locking his piercing gaze with yours in a silent threat, that Geralt stirs, protectively positioning himself closer to you. 

Erik’s smirk widens, and you can’t help but think that his eyes downright flash up, and the manic grin creeps back upon his face. 

“Healer,” he drawls with a mock bow. “Witcher.” And then, he turns away, strolling back to the high table. To carry on with the feast, without doubt. 

Geralt and you, however, have barely enough time to exchange a gaze before you follow the servant who guides you to the injured warrior. He was brought to a chamber by his comrades, who have meanwhile done their best to get him as drunk as possible. 

Telling by the grim look on his face, you suspect that Geralt wouldn't have minded knocking the man out. But the warrior is full to the gills, and Geralt’s service isn’t necessary while you reduce the bones in a long and exhausting procedure.

As you’re finally back in your chamber, your White Wolf begins to pace up and down the room. Restlessly. Like a wild animal looking for a way out of a pitfall. 

Both of you know it is a pitfall. One that might end deadly. And both of you know there is no way out. Not right now. And still…

“I’m going to talk to him tomorrow,” Geralt mutters at some point without interrupting his wandering. 

“Don’t,” you say quietly. “It will lead to nothing.” And you continue to carefully spread out your borrowed dress on the divan so the fabric won’t crease too much. 

“I know,” Geralt replies in a hoarse voice, and as you turn around, you see him watching you with pain writ large on his face. “I know, but I have to try. It’s too dangerous for you; you've experienced it firsthand tonight. I need you to be safe!”

“I can take care of myself and my safety,” you want to reassure him, but both of you hear the revolt resonating in your words. Revolt and determination. 

“I know,” he sighs, exhaling a long breath. “I know you can. It’s just…” And then, he falls silent, plunking down into an armchair covered in velvet - a piece of furniture that had probably belonged to a castle in a land far away and that had found its way here in one of Erik’s raids. 

He stares into the flames, and whatever he sees in his inner eye seems to feel like torture. And his teeth dig into the insides of his cheeks.

You stop fussing around with the dress to step to his side. As you stand in front of him, you extend your hand, carefully running it over his head. 

“You weren’t supposed to live in times like these,” he says slowly, pensively shaking his head. “You were supposed to live a calm and peaceful life. A beautiful hut. A garden with plants and flowers. A man who reads every wish from your eyes and who can give you children.” 

You can feel it, the pain in his words. The old pain. 

As you cradle his cheek in your hand, feeling stubble rub against your palm, his torpor melts away from him. 

He wraps his arms around you. And you feel the warmth of his breath through your chemise as he presses his face against your belly. 

“But I chose you,” you say quietly, stroking his silky white hair. “I love you, and I chose you. And I would love and choose you and this life again and again. Until Ragnarök and beyond, remember?” 

He raises his head, and his golden gaze finds yours. Interlocks with yours. Telling you things you can’t put into words. Things that don’t have to be put into words. And a gentle smile tugs at his lips.  

“Maybe this battle will be the end of it all. Who knows…,” you continue.” But maybe it won’t. I just know I want to be where you are. No matter what.”

“That you will, Little Bird,” he mumbles, nuzzling his cheek into your palm before he tightens his embrace around your smaller form. 

His forehead sinks against your belly while your fingers play gently with his longs strands. 

You stay like that for a whole long while. And despite all the uncertainty about what this path will bring you, you feel nothing but relief that you will walk it together.