Gunnhild stood in King Ivar's throne room. Her surroundings served as a testament to the man's many successes in England. Like his father before him, he too had once known the gods favor. Whether that still held true remained to be sighted. His transgressions against their Most High called for more than an explanation on his and his wife's part. It called for a bloody turn about to balance the scales. For the offenses whispered of him turned her bowels.

Did King Ivar truly believe himself to be a god or his Saxon whore of a wife to be the rightful Supreme? She'd heard much spoken of Ivar the Boneless' cleverness. Yet what she'd learned of him from the spy contradicted all of the sagas she'd heard song in his name. Had King Ivar's perceived impressiveness set aside his intelligence? Was madness the wage one forfeited when they gained the affection of the divine?

Gunnhild's stare swung to the life size likeness of their Supreme. In verity the deity presented an unusual comeliness. With her verdant eyes and burnished-ochre hued skin she undoubtedly claimed the passions and hearts of a great many kings, jarls, and earls alike. Gunnhild had arrived in York after the Most High, King Ivar, and Lord Hvitserk sailed back to Norway. So she'd never had the opportunity to become acquainted with her. Yet her name crossed the lips of countless warriors and shieldmaidens. They song sagas dedicated to her uncommon beauty. Many boasted of the way she moved on the battlefield. While others alluded to her matchless prowess in the bed chambers. More times than not, she often pondered if such claims were exaggerated. She prayed to the gods her ponderings had the right of it. For how could she, a mere woman, ever compete?

Gunnhild never believed herself a jealous woman. This belief of herself still held true. Jealousy was a useless emotion which served no one well. Especially the one who thought to indulge in the art of envy. Asides, she'd never bear spite for any of her goddesses, gods, nor Supreme. And though she knew Bjorn's heart to be devoted to their Most High she still shouldered no resentment towards her. She was bred to love each one of her deities. Yet a small part of her. A sliver of herself she deigned not to acknowledge ached. For she knew her beloved's true motivations for wanting to wage war against King Ivar. He wanted to reclaim his Mystical One. Only a bit of his ambition aspired to be named king of Kattegat.

The opening of the door to the throne room wrenched her away from her ponderings. King Harald entered. If the sight of her there took him unawares his face offered her no evidence to such a verity. For he entered the grand room and joined her in front of the likeness. Silently, he gazed up at the rendering. The expression upon his face as he stared bespoke indifference. The burning in unflinching stare in which he beheld their Supreme, however, spoke of something else.

"Will you be entering into matrimony with Ironside before or after we sail for Norway?" He questioned without removing his eyes from the image who appeared to mock them with her verdant stare alone.

"This is something of which I know not." She studied the cut and structure of his face. He wasn't as striking as the one destined to belong to her, but Harald would indeed make a good husband to any woman fortunate enough to enter into marriage with him. "Bjorn has not asked me to join him in matrimony."

King Harald tore his stare from the Supreme's likeness to regard her. "Don't hold Ironside's oversight against him. He's not seen enough summers to be minded for anything other than seeking out greatness."

"And yet Midgard already recognizes him as one of the greatest men to ever thrive."

Condescension burst from his eyes and emboldened his taunting smile. "Midgard's thoughts of a man's greatness is never in balance with a man's thoughts of himself. If ever this was a verity, then all would know him as no more than just a man. For greatness rarely ever resides in the company of the unaspiring, and Ironside's gaze still holds the glint of the ambitious. Myself, however," His stare left hers once more to return to their Supreme. "have come to place value on other aims aside from my conquest to become king of all Norway."

"To what other aims do you refer, King Harald?" Curiosity tilted her head to the side as she attempted to discern his affections for their Most High. Her searching stare flitted from him to the likeness and back.

"My wife and child perished during the Great Civil Battles. My brother also met his end upon the same battlefield." His lips pressed together as if he meant to keep any further revelations locked within his mouth. After a few lingering moments, he released a breath, and then continued. "Anger and jealousy provoked me to murder my brother. The only family I had in Midgard." His head dipped in a nod. "Now I must make amends to his memory and honor his last request."

She attempted to hold firm to her emotions, while not thinking too harshly of the king for his actions. "Amends? What possible atonement do you believe would offer amends for such an offense?"

"When we dethrone Ivar I shall marry our Supreme," he said as his stare continued to caress the woman in question. "Being queen of all Norway will secure her impending risings. And although I find her...provoking, in time I'm more than certain I shall come to favor having her at my side."

Surprise snatched air from Gunnhild's lungs but hope breathed life back into her. If King Harald married the Supreme then such actions liberated her path to continue on as Fate predetermined.

"You must excuse me, King Harald," she said already backing away from him.

Barely acknowledging her he continued to gaze up at the smirking image of their Most High as he waved about a hand to grant her dismissal. She spun about and sought her leave of the throne room. As she hurried away a notion took root within her head. So she went to her quarters to enhance herself before seeking out Bjorn. There in her personal chambers she wiped the cracks and creases of her body. She scrubbed smudges of dirt from her face, breasts, and arms. Once clean, she dabbed rose water between the crevices of her bosom and behind her ears.

After donning her best silken garb she turned to righting her hair. With dedicated vigor she brushed her mane to a glossy shine, and then fashioned the tendrils into intricate braids. Her gaze then scoured the looking glass to inspect her appearance. When she deigned herself too handsome to be denied she hurried from the room. On the way to Bjorn's quarter's she visited the scullery to load a platter with the boar from the previous eve. She then resumed her trek to her destination.

When she arrived at Bjorn's chambers, she slammed her clenched hand against his door. Her heart lurched upwards to pound within the center of her gullet. Fear made a mockery of her boldness. What if he turned her away? What if he denied her in spite of their paths being fashioned together as one?

"Enter!" He growled from within the room.

Pausing for a moment, Gunnhild took several gulps of air. She then released one breath after the other in a slow steady stream. Once she reclaimed a semblance of calmness she then entered the room. Bjorn stood at the open window staring out at the countryside. He appeared too beautiful to be a mere mortal. Many believed him to be a demigod. She, however, knew him to be something more. A god of a man who belonged in Asgard at the right hand of the All-Father.

Unable to continue feigning indifference, her eyes slipped over him. Bjorn donned a silken robe which he left unbelted. His glorious chest tempted her sight with stimulating figments, while his taut sinewy gut incited the pads of her fingers. She wanted nothing more than to trace those tapering cut to perfection muscles down into the depths of his trousers. Just pondering the serpent which dwelled within the shadows of those loose fitting wears, filched the moisture from her mouth.

He turned to run his brilliant hued stare over the length of her. A frown gathered his brows as he crossed the chamber to close the distance between them. "Where have you been?"

She placed the platter on the dining table, and then cut him a piece of meat. Offering him the morsel, she answered. "With King Harald."

"Hmm, you resided within his company just as you are now?" He asked, before leaning forward to pluck the meat from the point of the blade with his mouth, never relinquishing her gaze from his. "Do you believe yourself in love with King Harald or him with you?"

Her shoulder rose, and then fell. "King Harald's interests lies elsewhere. Once you both reclaim Kattegat it is his mind to marry the Supreme." The half chewed piece of meat slipped from his gaping mouth. She placed the knife back in the platter to cross the room to the window. "Though he may think his ambitions are honor inspired, I believe his true aspirations are provoked by love."

"Ack!" Bjorn snatched another chunk of meat from the platter. "Those aspirations will never bear fruit."

Annoyance planted her knuckles on her hips. "What say do you have in what transpires between a King of Norway and our Most High?"

"As Bonnie's imminent husband I have much say. Asides, Harald's nonsensical desires regarding Bonnie is senseless and will never be returned," he blustered between bites and smacks. Bits of meat managed to escape his mouth, replacing themselves in his beard. "For mere men as Harald and Halfdan are not fashioned to withstand the affections or embrace of such a raging blaze as my Mystical One."

Her chin rose as her nostrils flared. "So if you're to marry our Most High then am I, a mere woman, meant to marry King Harald the mere man? Or, are you even minded of what becomes of me?"

Pity contorted his features into an unbecoming vision of remorse. He tossed the remaining meat in his hand back on the platter and wiped his hands clean on the silken material of his trousers.

"Gunnhild, I care for you. This is true," she spun away from him as his tone took a contrite turn, "but I've cared for many before you. Yet my heart has only ever belonged to one." Tears trickled from her eyes as she gazed out the window. An instant later she felt his breath disturb the hair at the nape of her neck. "I'm sorry, but in this you must trust me. I have loved that woman long before I ever knew her."

Though his words ravaged her from mind to essence, she remained faithful. Swallowing the agony his confession inflicted, she surged forward to conquer the man gifted to her by Fate. "I'm aware the Supreme holds possession of your heart." She turned about to gaze into his mind addling eyes. "Yet I'm also aware, whether you dare to admit or naught, I have your love." Leaning forward she grazed her lips over his. His breath caught as his arms slipped about her waist. "For I hear echoes of it in every utterance you whisper to me and I feel the force of it each time you place your hands upon me." She ripped down his trousers and took his twitching manstand in her hands. A groan tumbled from his lips as he gathered her skirts around her hips. "Now tell me," she whispered, while nipping at his bottom lip and awarding his prick a squeezing pull. "Tell me you love me, Ironside."

"Ugh! Why must you insist upon traveling down this path!" Another groan met her ears as he shoved the platter down the table to lift her upon the wooden platform. "Of course I love you. Something in me thunders for you, and it has since the moment we faced each other upon the battlefield. Yet loving you and professing it to be so is not the grievance you must overcome." He entered her, filling her in a way her first husband always failed at doing.

Gunnhild leaned back on the table to rest a leg on his shoulder and wrap her other around his waist. She used the grip she had around his waist to drag him closer. "Then what grievances must I—hmm...must I overcome?"

"I—ooohhh...by the gods woman!" He lurched forward to grip her hips and drag her hind quarters to the edge of the table in order to deepen his thrusts. "Your sheath should reside among the many halls of the Aesir."

She clenched the muscles of her kunta around his manstand. "Tell me you love me!"

"I love you!" He gasped, while lifting her from the table.

Clinging to him, she demanded of him once more. "Again."

"I love you, Gunnhild...I do," He rasped out. He laid her upon the bed, and then pressed open mouth caresses upon her bosom. "My only hope is that it will be enough."

****

Hvitserk entered the hall of King Olaf the stout with a few of the warriors from his forces. He'd managed to amass a modest army over the previous moon cycle since he departed from Kattegat. They'd rode through an ice storm to arrive there. Many among them nigh loss their fingers and the tips of their noses to the frigid bite of frost. Yet by the favor of the gods all of their bits managed to remain intact. Now the difficult task of convincing King Olaf to align with him instead of Ivar still loomed before him. For Ivar had become famous by means which his people respected and honored. Hence why half of Kattegat's citizens believed him to be a god. Though unlikely his endeavor may yet prove, Hvitserk still intended to sway the Stout to his side.

Inside a man who appeared to have been pilfered for a better part of his size greeted him with a sharpened edge of an ax and a glower perhaps more threatening than the blade. "Who are you and why have you come here?"

"I am Hvitserk Lothbrok, son of Ragnar Lothbrok." A collection of gasps and hissing whispers bandied about the hall. He cast a gaze over the many faces as he unbelted his cloak. "I've come to attend your king Olaf the Stout. Now go fetch him, it is of great import we speak."

"I care not for whom you claim yourself to be!" The man brandished his ax, while his voice soared with each word he spoke. "No one enters this hall and makes demands-,"

"Canute." The horde birthed forth a cloaked figure. The stranger placed a hand on the smaller man's shoulder. "This is the warrior for whom I've waited."

Canute's doubting eyes stretched wide enough to misplace themselves from his head. "Him?"

The stranger's head bobbed, before turning to him. "Follow me."

Hvitserk gestured for his men to await him there, and then trailed the stranger from the hall. Outside the cloaked figure led them onto a pathway which trekked out of the city into the forest.

Hvitserk waited until they reached the cover of the overbrush. He then hauled the stranger into a tree and placed the sharpened edge of his ax to his gullet. "Why do you wait for me and who spoke to you of my arrival?"

"I'm here to aid you. I've already convinced King Olaf to join his army with yours to overthrow Ivar." The stranger's voice remained quiet and unconcerned. "And I knew you'd come because Ayana assured me you would."

"Ayana?" The name not only resonated power, but it also gave him pause. He snatched the cloak from the warrior's head. Bjorn's stepson's indifferent face greeted his sight. Returning his ax to the place at his waist, he backed away from Guthrum. "When last we met I nigh buried my blade in your chest. Not many warriors can boast of surviving the bite of my blade. So why place yourself in a fool's peril by seeking me out?" The boy's indifferent stare persisted without the benefit of an answer. Yet he didn't need one. "Hmm, your affections for Bonnie must have grown since the summers when I knew you best."

"Come, there's much to discuss with King Olaf this eve," Guthrum said, pulling himself from the tree and righting his cloak. "If we depart from here by the next rising we shall cross paths with King Harald's and Bjorn's army. Then we'll have all the forces we need to reclaim Kattegat and liberate the Supreme."

Hvitserk nodded and extended a hand for Guthrum to lead the way to Olaf. Though it wasn't lost on him his nephew by marriage neglected to acknowledge his question, he decided to horde away such talks for a later time.

****

Another scream tore from Freydis. Ivar cringed. His grip on his chalice tightened. He squeezed his eyes shut. Her cries throughout childbirth grated on him. Though he knew pain as no other, the agony which now engaged his wife spun far beyond his realm of perception. He doubted even the damned within the halls of the Christian hell could bear testament to such suffering. His stare crept to the bed as his cup replaced itself at his mouth. Blood stained the crevices of her gaping thighs, while her hair fell in tangles about her face and shoulders. He gulped down a great bit of the ale in his tumbler. Yet the ease he sought still eluded him.

Freydis' handmaidens fussed about her. The women had been forced into the roles of mid-wives, since the high priests and the high priestesses refused to attend them. They believed doing so would provoke the wrath of their Most High. Bonnie's show of force and clemency reinforced her claim as Supreme in his people's eyes. The offerings at the gates of her keep doubled each rising. In turn their city flourished. The marketplace bustled with trade once more. Structures which had been no more than piles of ash now loomed in a restored state. Meat filled the larders, while yield all but burst from the newly mended store houses. Once again Kattegat shone as a jewel to be coveted by all. If truth were to be touted, the city reminded him of the times when his mother reigned as queen.

The screeching wail of a babe tore him from his musings. The robust sound flooded him with so much pride he nigh missed the disturbed glances which passed between Freydis' handmaidens.

"What is it?" He demanded shifting his glare between the two. Brenna refused to meet his gaze, while Ingrid busied herself with cleaning the babe and swathing him in scraps of cloth.

Once Ingrid completed her task her unwavering stare met his. "You have a son, King Ivar."

"Baldur," Freydis cooed from her place on the birthing chair.

"Bring him to me." Doubt fled from his head as he held out his arms for his son. "Bring me my son."

Ingrid crossed the room with the babe clutched to her chest. Once before him, she placed the squirming bundle in his arms. He removed the coverings from his son's face and nigh dropped him. His boy had the head of a pig, and the body of a babe. He didn't understand! Your tongue claims to know the truth of the many untruths of your covenant mate, and yet it still lies. For it speaks without the full support of your mind and heart. However you may rest assured all three will soon reach an accord when you cast your gaze upon the babe she pushes into Midgard. Bonnie's forewarning filled his mind and convicted him.

"I want my baby!" Freydis purred.

Brenna had washed his wife and assisted her into bed. Furrows and creases overran the elder handmaiden's features as she fussed with Freydis' hair. "Qu—Freydis, I don't believe the babe will be able to take your breast."

"Give me my baby!" Freydis knocked the woman's fidgeting hands away.

With much haste he pushed the horrendous babe into Ingrid's arms. For a moment he believed a malicious amusement lit her normally submissive stare. However his addled mind must've misplaced his discerning. Upon a much closer glance she appeared as docile as ever and the babe, unfortunately, still donned the face of a beast.