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The Saga of Harald the Unhurt

The sun was setting over the town of Pembroke, darkened by the smoke rising from still-smouldering buildings... and the piles of burning corpses on the fields beyond the city walls. Soon, it would be darkened still more, as the pyre-ships were pushed out to sea and set alight. The Priest of Odin stood at the shoreline, his bronze helmet with the great, curved horns shining as bright as any crown as he spoke to the assembled crowd, and his (entirely unnecessary) eyepatch and long, white beard turning him into a living image of the god he represented.

He spoke of the Valkyries, who descended - all invisible - from Asgard above, to collect the souls of the worthy warriors from each battlefield, and carried them aloft to join the army of the Chosen Dead - the Einhjerre. He spoke of mighty Valhalla, with its gates wide enough that a hundred men could walk abreast through them, and its roof made from golden shields! Of the vast tables within where the dead warriors feasted, and of Sæhrimner, the great boar, that stood in the midst of the kitchens as the cooks carved endlessly of his delicious, fatty pork - only for it to grow back as swiftly as their knives could remove it. Of the goat Heidrun, who walked upon Valhalla's golden roof and ate of the leaves of mighty Yggdrasil, the World Tree - leaking a stream of delicious mead constantly from her udder at all times, to be caught in vats and cauldrons beneath.

He spoke of foes felled, and how they would serve the worthy fallen in Valhalla. Of endless battles without pain or death, and endless feasts, and bountiful pleasures. Of great heroes and forgotten clan-members waiting to welcome their kinsmen to the tables. And through it all, Harald barely managed to stifle a yawn. His eyes - and attention - wandered from the priest, to look around at the crowd that surrounded him. The survivors of the battle, gathered to send off their fallen brothers, and celebrate their glorious future in the hereafter. The lucky ones - or not. He could see young men, filled with elation at having survived their first battle, looking up at the priest with rapt attention, and remembered being one of them. He could see veterans, who had heard that song just as many times as he had, jostling each other, grinning, and comparing scars... and he sighed.

After all, he had no scars to show for his long, illustrious career as a warrior... and no-one was in any hurry to jostle him. Indeed, there seemed to be a small circle around him that none dared intrude upon. It hadn't always been that way, of course. When he'd emerged from his first battle without a scratch, everyone had been impressed. Older warriors had tussled his hair and said that he had great promise. When he'd repeated the feat a couple more times, he'd earned his nickname - Harald the Unhurt - and some started saying that he was blessed by Tyr or otherwise protected by some great destiny.

But battle after battle had gone by, and as those who had so whispered emerged limping, bleeding, or not at all, to find him without a mark on his skin once more, the whispers had become grumbles... and the nicknames less kind. Now, they were saying he was cursed by Odin never to die in battle, but to suffer instead the ultimate shame - dying the straw-death, in bed, from old age or illness, and languish forever in the dull darkness of the netherworld, where the terrible Hel reigned. So the distance everyone seemed to keep from him was not one of respect - but rather, fear. They didn't want to catch whatever he had.

His dark musings were interrupted by a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he craned his neck to see who had intruded on his bored solitude. The ghost of a grin haunted his bountiful beard when he saw who it was - Sven Brightmood, an fellow of infinite jest who had never allowed any dark rumours to hold him back. Indeed, when people started speaking of curses, he'd usually just laugh and declare his intention to stick close to Harald for the next battle - "That way, maybe I'll come back without a scratch too, and wouldn't that be grand!"

Sadly, that particular joke had lost its teeth by now. Sven had, indeed, been standing close by Harald's side when the battle started, but during the chaos of bloodshed, screams and clashing metal, they'd lost track of one another. It was only afterwards, when the dead were counted and the wounded given treatment, that he'd found out what happened. "You don't mind if I use your shoulder, do you?" whispered Sven, grinning in his customary, roguish way. "The way they're sagging, you don't seem to be using them yourself." Harald grinned back, and tried not to look down. Other than his shoulder, Sven was also supporting himself on a roughly-made crutch, keeping his right leg - which was swathed in bandages - elevated and away from the muddy ground beneath.

He was far from the only walking wounded. The Celts had fought bravely and ferociously - far more so than the Britons further to the east had ever managed. They'd sent quite a number of brave warriors off to Valhalla, too... but in the end, they had been broken, the survivors fleeing north, into the mountains where the Kings of Wales still reigned. A wise move - after the fierce resistance they had mounted even down upon the green plains, close to the sea, where the advantage had been with the invaders, no-one felt particularly inclined to follow them up into their home turf. Still, they'd managed to carve a nice bit of fertile land out of these southern shores, complete with a variety of freshly-abandoned villages, farms and townships. Those amongst the survivors who weren't inclined to sail back home carrying wealth and tales of glory could thus elect to receive a different prize as their share of the plunder...

"Is it true you're going to settle down?" It was Sven whispering again, seemingly not very concerned about being overheard and glared at for chit-chatting during the funeral. Harald, who had no interest in attracting any more divine attention than he already had, just nodded. Sven flashed him a lopsided smile. "I hope you're not just letting those fools who like to spread nasty rumours get to you... still, no-one can say you haven't earned a rest. And hey, maybe we can get neighbouring farms - I'm going to be sticking around a while too. Don't feel like making any long journeys these days." Harald had to stifle a genuine laugh. Trust Sven to make jokes even about his own crippling.

Still, he'd certainly fit in amongst the 'settlers' more easily than Harald. Most of those who had chosen to take a parcel of arable land as their prize were wounded men who would not soon return to the battlefield, and who could claim far more land here than they ever could back home. Some of them would recover, in time, and sell their land to those who stayed, or to the second wave of settlers who'd soon arrive from the homeland, now that these fertile shores had been claimed for the Norsemen. Harald rather stood out in such company. But however unscarred he was, he felt every bit as weary as the limping, half-blind veterans who would be his neighbours. And it wasn't as if he was the only one who merely wanted to spend some peaceful years, farming the land and breathing air that wasn't tainted with pyre-smoke.

As if that thought had been a signal, flames roared upon the waters of the bay as the pyre-boats were lit. There were quite a few of them - roughly-built, not designed to stay afloat for more than an hour or so, but still a lot of effort had gone into this. The tribute paid by the survivors to those who had gone on ahead. The rising smoke was, as Harald had predicted, blotting out the sun altogether. It was a familiar sight, by now. Far too much so. As was the bowed heads of the crowd, each of them simultaneously grateful that they had not been chosen this time, and hopeful that they too might find such a glorious demise. But with any luck, he would not see it again. A nice plot of land, deeper in the Cartref Penfro, had been promised him. He'd live and work there, far from the strife... maybe see about finding himself a nice, local girl to settle down with. That would be nice...

Eluned was not having a good day. Indeed, it had been a while since that last happened. Come to think of it, she decided, good days had been in decidedly short supply for her entire life. Not to say that it had been an unhappy one, for the most part. Growing up alone with her father, helping with the farm's hard work pretty much as soon as she was able to stand, it had never been easy - but they had been happy together. Her mother had died when she was but an infant - never really recovered from the birth, she'd heard it said - but the upshot of that just was that she did not remember her, and therefore could not grieve her loss.

So she'd had her daddy, and the other folks of the village, a short hike from the farm. Other farms, too, within walking-distance if you moved your feet. And of course, dear old Amaethon, until advancing age claimed him last summer - he had taught her much, growing up. Which, granted, hadn't done her social life any favours. But all of it had been set against a background of back-breaking labour, and watching her daddy never quite recover from the grief of losing his wife, never quite find comfort in the well-meaning reassurances of the village pastor... and, of course, being halfway ostracised due to her relation with Amaethon. Just because she wanted to have something more potent than empty prayers on hand if someone she cared about fell ill! ...like her mother had. Maybe if Amaethon had been allowed to treat her... but her mother had apparently been quite religious, and had refused to cotton to the heathen ways of the old Druid. "If it is God's will that this be my time, then my time it is!" she had said. And soon after, died, leaving behind a daughter who could not even remember her face.

Eluned shook herself out of the reverie. This was no time for wool-gathering! Tightening her grip on the pitchfork, she scowled at the empty, peaceful-looking footpath that stretched out before her, from the front door of the small farm that had always been the centre of her world. They could come at any time, after all... the dieifyl du, the Llychlynwys... those black devils who came sailing from foreign shores in their dragon-headed boats, bringing fire and death. The Vikings. She'd heard of them before, of course - whispers in the village tavern, brought by travellers from Britannia, far to the east. There, apparently, they had been a regular terror for many years, their raids striking without warning or mercy up and down the coast.

If half the stories were true, they were as tall as trees, as broad as barn-doors, covered in curly hair, and had horns and tails. She'd chosen to take those stories with a grain of salt. Possibly two. But of course, that had been when they were a distant threat - monsters ravaging faraway lands, good for spooky stories. Now... now, they were here. Perhaps they'd tired of killing Britons, and sailed further west in search of fresh prey. Perhaps they had their covetous eyes on the fertile plains of Wales. Either way, they were here.

All of the men had gone off to the war. They'd rallied to push the invaders back out of Pembroke, which had been seized in the initial, lightning-fast strike. But they had failed. Few had returned - bleeding, broken, terrified, speaking of fearless monsters charging into their lines, covered in arrows like hedgehogs, driven seemingly by nothing more than the desire to kill. Men walking into battle, naked but for bearskin cloaks, carrying no shields but twin axes, and rampaging alone across the battlefield towards the most significant force concentrations - as if they deliberately sought death.

Her father had not been amongst those who returned. Though at least she had one small blessing - there was no need for her to worry and wonder if he had been crippled enough to slow his return, or perhaps captured by the invaders, who were known for keeping slaves. One of the village boys - a few years older than her - who had always been sweet on her, had made it back, though hardly in one piece. He had seen her father fall in the battle. Struck down by a dread foe, who laughed sadistically with every man he felled, bathing in their blood. She'd even managed to draw a halfway useful description of the enemy in question from the lad, as he tried to convince her to come with him.

She'd refused. Everyone else could flee if they wanted - up north, into the mountains, away from the coast and those devils who came from the sea. This had been her father's farm, and now that he was... gone, it was hers. She would protect it, alone if she had to, from even the most dread monsters. She was no weakling. Hard work had shaped her body and strengthened her limbs. Rage at all she had lost held the fear at bay. She would stand and fight, and though it would be improbable luck indeed to come across her father's killer, she could at least try to send a few of those foul creatures to Hell in his memory.

And now... it wouldn't be much longer. A few local folks had stayed behind 'till the last second, to harvest what they could of the spring crops and collect a few useful things left behind by those who hadn't bothered. Those final stragglers were gone, now, and she'd seen them pass by in the distance, running as quickly as they could manage, dragging carts loaded with what wealth they could carry. Which meant that they were coming. The Vikings who would seize this land of her ancestors, watering its fields with the blood of its rightful owners.

She stiffened as a sound reached her ears. Footsteps on the path. Raising the pitchfork before her like a spear, she gritted her teeth and waited. If only the recent coming of spring hadn't covered the nearby bushes and trees with so many bright, green leaves, she would be able to see her enemies already! But as it were, it would not be long before they appeared around the last bend in the path. Her breath was coming fast, now. The blood pumped in her veins. She was sweating. Well, it WAS hot, here in the springtime sun. Certainly, that would be the reason for the sweat beading on her forehead. Certainly.

Finally, he appeared before her... just one? Perhaps she might yet live to see another sunset. Certainly, there was no mistaking who - or what - she faced: One of the Ilu Du, the Black Host. He lacked most of the more exaggerated features she had been told of, but he was certainly taller than her, by a head and then some - and broad across the shoulders as well. No horns poked out of the mop of blond hair that covered his head, but he certainly WAS hairy - not only did he have an equally-blond beard that reached nearly to his belt (which seemed to have been carefully braided), and another long braid slung over his shoulder, his bare arms were also covered in curly, blond hair. And bulged with muscles, she couldn't help but notice, willing her own arms to stop shaking.

Well, it was not as if he seemed ready for a fight right now. He wore no helmet, and no mail, and carried no weapon that she could see. If it wasn't for his sheer size and the exotic colours of his hair and eyes (bright blue! How strange...), she would have taken him for just another farmer or traveller - wearing simple, light clothes, and walking the path with a heavy sack slung over his shoulder. When he saw her, however, he paused, and let the sack slide from his shoulder. She noticed, suddenly, the head of a broad-bladed axe poking out the top of it. Presumably, he was carrying his armour and weapons in them. What luck! Having caught him unprepared, she could strike while he was still defenceless!

...So why wouldn't her feet move? Surely, it was not fear that bound them. No... but honour, perhaps. She was no barbarian - how could she strike down an unarmed man who had raised no hand against her? Indeed, he was merely looking at her, with those piercing, blue eyes, crossing his thick arms across his chest. Then he said something, in a strange, indecipherable language. The black speech, perhaps? He seemed to catch himself at it, however, and shook his head before speaking again. "You. What is the meaning of this? A fine welcome."

So he spoke a human language as well. Surprising. Somehow, she had not expected to engage the invading Vikings in an argument, rather than a pitched battle. Fortunately, his final words provided her with an obvious reply. "You are not welcome," she sneered, stabbing in the air with her pitchfork. "This is my farm. Begone!" He scratched his beard as he looked her up and down thoughtfully. The way he looked her over made her strangely uncomfortable - she was well used to men staring at her body, but this one seemed to be looking at different things. Then he finally answered. "I am afraid you are mistaken. This is my farm. Won through right of conquest. You may not agree, but the land belongs to those who have the strength to defend it."

The anger roared inside of her again, chasing away the strange discomfort and her confusion. Finally, she found the strength to take a step forwards, pitchfork-first. "You are damn right I don't agree, you bloody murderer! My father fought and died for this land, and so did many other men of the village! I will not let you walk all over it with your blood-stained boots!" She was expecting the Viking to reach for his axe in the discarded sack, and had resolved to rush him the moment he was distracted by this task. But instead, he just lifted an eyebrow and nodded.

"Your countrymen fought bravely, aye. They were the strongest I have ever fought, and I have fought many. Worthy warriors, courageous and fierce. They died without shame, fighting to the end - as good a death as any of us can hope for, and more than many are accorded. But do you think you do them credit by following suit? Do you think to give your own life in battle, for a war that has already been lost, just so you can join them? It seems a futile thing to me, but it is your life... and if you are determined to seek death, I will not deny it to you."

He was walking towards her, now. Still empty-handed and unarmoured, with his hands hanging open by his sides. Those burly arms, however, were tensed. Somehow, he seemed to grow with every step towards her. The piercing blue eyes seemed shaded below bushy, blond eyebrows now, darker than before. Suddenly, it seemed arrogant to assume that he'd even need a weapon to fight her. What was she thinking, trying to stand against the rampaging hordes that had torn apart the armies of the land, wielding nothing but a pitchfork?

The anger no longer burned hotly enough to keep the cold grip of fear at bay. No wonder there were so many terrifying stories about these people, if they were all like that! She felt her legs move involuntarily, sliding back as the step forwards she'd taken before became void. Her palms were sweating. Her grip on the pitchfork suddenly weak. But then, the Viking stopped his inexorable advance again, and looked up - his eyes no longer shaded by his heavy brow-line, they seemed so pure and blue that they might pierce her soul. His voice was strangely gentle when he spoke up again. "You do not want to die. You just don't know what else to do. Am I wrong?"

The pitchfork was shaking in front of her now, weaving this way and that as her arms began to shake. In fact, everything seemed to be a bit blurry... and her voice sounded thick when she finally managed to reply. "I... I can't leave. This is my farm. I grew up here. My father farmed this land before me, and his father before him. I won't abandon it. I cannot." The Viking nodded, as if he understood. "You honour your ancestors. This is good." He was walking towards her again, now, but it no longer seemed a threatening advance. "So - you do not desire revenge? You have no wish to spill the blood of my kinsmen? You merely wish to remain on your ancestral farm?"

She paused as he asked that, and looked at him more closely than she had before, searching for... specific details. Remembering the description that boy had left with her, before he fled. There was one Viking whose blood she wished to spill in revenge, all right... but this was not the one. This wasn't the man who had slain her father. Nor did he seem the type to laugh amidst the bloodshed of battle, though she wasn't sure why she felt so certain of that. She'd barely talked to him for a handful of minutes, and that with a pitchfork between them. "No... I don't want to kill you. I just want to keep my farm." she said finally and lifted the pitchfork, planting it firmly in the dirt by her side.

Again, the Viking seemed to look her over, lifting one hand to stroke his long, blond beard - then he nodded, and grinned in a way that made her strangely uncomfortable. "Well, then, why don't you just... stay here with me? This farm seems big enough for two." The suggestion stunned her long enough for him to walk back to his sack, heft it up over his shoulder, and saunter right past her to get a better look at the buildings. When she finally finished processing the outrageous idea, she had to spin around just to face him again. "What - just let you stay here? Just like that?"

He paused his visual sweep of the farm's three buildings - the main house, the small stables and the even-smaller tool-shed - to give her a firm look in reply. "No. I already told you. This is my farm now. But I might let you stay. Share my roof, my table... my bed. If you become my woman, none of your new neighbours will bother you, either." She had thought his idea outrageous before, purely for its simplicity - the way it ignored the fundamental incompatibility of their respective positions. Now, it made sense - sparking a more literal sort of outrage.

With a sudden surge of anger, she lifted the pitchfork again, swinging it towards this foul intruder who seemed content to steal her body as well as her property - but this time, he reacted. He was standing quite close at this point - close enough that she could have hit him with a lunging blow. She hadn't planned to do more than wave the pointy object around threateningly, but he made sure she didn't have a choice. His free hand flew out, grabbing the middle of the pitchfork's business-end in a vice-like grip - holding it firmly in place as she tugged on the handle, feeling her sweaty palms slip across the work-smoothed wood. "None of that." he rumbled, giving her the kind of sternly disapproving look she'd once seen her father deliver when she tried to evade her chores.

"I am merely giving you a choice..." he explained, still holding her makeshift weapon unshakably in place. "An offer, if you will. Take it or leave it - the choice is yours. But perhaps you should carefully consider your alternatives, now that you have decided that you don't want to die." She shifted her hands, got a better grip, and put her heels down as she tugged mightily on the well-worn farming-tool, stubbornly trying to pull it from his grip. To her surprise, he responded by immediately releasing it - leaving her to stumble backwards and fall on her arse, barely maintaining her hold on the pitchfork.

He took a step towards her supine form, looking down at her as she lay there, sweating from the exertion and blushing at the humiliation. His eyes were as cold as ice as he dispassionately explained her alternatives. "You can try to kill me, yes. But even if you somehow succeeded, you'd still be stuck here, alone - and all of the neighbouring farms, as well as the village they were built around, have new residents as well. Soon, you'd have new visitors - ready, armed and armoured, with blood in their eyes. You would not survive that." Briefly, he glanced north, towards the mountains they both knew rose there, out of view behind gentle hills and tall trees. "Or you could run, despite everything. Head north, like your kinsfolk did. Of course, a lone, unarmed woman, with no money and no horse would find it a difficult journey indeed, now that there's no-one left to travel with. There'll be bandits out there, looking to pick off stragglers, make no mistake. They'll take whatever you've got, rape you 'till they tire of it, then slit your throat and leave you in a ditch."

The dispassionate - and frighteningly realistic - explanation of her likely fate sent chills down her spine, even as his ice-blue eyes looked into hers again. "Of course, you need not run that far. You could go to the village, or one of the other farms, and seek hire there. Without blood on your hands, they would have no reason to consider you an enemy. Mind, they'll all likely give you the same deal I'm offering, or worse." He shrugged, then turned and continued to walk towards the main house, delivering his last words over his shoulder. "Your choices have led your here. You chose not to flee with your kinsmen. You chose not to die a warrior's death. Now, you must choose once more, and if you feel that your options are overly narrow, well, you have only yourself to blame for that..."

She sat there for a minute, her face twitching - torn between screaming in rage and crying hopelessly - as he entered the house and left her alone, there in the farm-yard. Then, finally, she settled on a resigned sigh and jumped to her feet, before walking over to the tool-shed to return the pitchfork to its rightful place. Screaming or crying wouldn't work. Her situation had been summed up succinctly, and until something changed - or she thought of a new alternative - his 'deal' was the best she had available. And, well, it was not as if she had any 'virtue' to sacrifice - if he was hoping to despoil a virgin, he was a bit late to the party. Her generous curves had drawn the eyes of several village boys, and she'd decided that since the pastor already considered her damned, she might as well indulge in the forbidden fruit as well. It had been, in general, barely worth the hassle - but at least it hadn't been unpleasant as such. If she had to suffer through a few minutes of grunting and sweating every night, well, she'd manage.

Harald smiled as he looked around the small, neatly-kept farmhouse. It was homey and sturdily built, no larger than it needed to be but lacking nothing. And what with one of its previous residents falling in battle and the other refusing to flee, it hadn't been picked over by looters like most of the other farms, never mind the village itself... so he already had everything he'd need for a comfortable life, and wouldn't need to spend his savings buying basic necessities from the merchants who'd be right behind the first wave of settlers.

The smile grew broader yet when he heard soft footsteps approach from the yard. She had made the obvious choice, as he'd hoped. Quickly, he cast his face into a more severe expression - the smile was for later. For now, he had to present a suitably authoritarian mien. For now, she feared him on the primal level - a basic recognition of his superior physical strength and experience in combat - but what he desired was her respect, and he'd have to work for that.

And so, when he turned to face her, it was with his very best 'respected patriarch' mask - not just a matter of expression, but also stance and body-language. Still, she approached him with her head held high - for all that this put her eye-level with his beard - showing no trace of supplication or surrender. "I will stay." she declared, with a sharp hand-gesture. "And I'll warm your bed for you, if you're so desperate for company there... but I will also make one thing clear: I am no-one's woman but my own." He nodded - severely, of course. "As you say. But I would be wary of where you say it from now on. You understand, no?" She replied with a short nod.

"I will be in the fields. The year wears on, and there is sowing to be done, if we are not to starve by fall." It was a simple, but pointed declaration, and he nodded again. "I will join you as soon as I have stashed my gear and changed to my working attire. I will have questions, then, about the best crops for this area, and the seasonal weather. Indeed, I think I am quite fortunate to have someone like you on hand... what I know of farming is, after all, for a different land." Now, at last, he smiled - a lopsided sort of one. She saw it, glancing over her shoulder as she turned on her heel to leave the house again,, and her eyes narrowed. Once she had gone, he allowed himself to grin freely.

Oh, she was a treasure, this one... and not just because she'd help ensure an easy adaptation to local conditions. That was, of course, a major consideration - his less-fortunate kin would likely suffer a couple of seasons worth of sub-par harvests before they'd figured out all the little differences between this land and the place they'd left. But, ah, the fire in her soul, the crackle of lightning in her gaze, and the razor's edge of her tongue... those were the true gems. Gemstones that he'd have to handle very, very carefully if he didn't want to get burned or bled, of course, but all the more precious for it. Well... that, and she was quite attractive.

His broad grin transitioned into a more subtle smile as he dropped his sack of gear by the largest bed, thinking back to when he'd come around the corner and seen her standing there, feet evenly spaced and pitchfork raised, ready to take on anyone who dared defy her. Why, if it hadn't been for that exotic, black hair, she would have been the very image of a Valkyrie - or perhaps even Freya herself. Had she been born amongst his kin, she would undoubtedly have made a fine shield-maiden - it was a shame (though perhaps fortunate for him) that these people refused to teach their daughters how to fight.

Well, regardless, he'd have to proceed with a great deal of care if he wanted things to turn out for the best. The first night would be critical - and that meant that he had to make the most of the hours 'till nightfall, preparing the ground and chipping away at her reluctance. Which started with joining her in the fields - working side by side always brought people closer together, after all. Some times more than others, of course, depending on... circumstances. With a deep breath, he once again banished the smile and cast his face in a more sombre mood. It would not do to make her think he was making light of her, after all.

Her body stiffened involuntarily when she heard the approaching footsteps, but she quickly shook it off and continued her labour, pulling the rough, wooden rake through the loam to prepare it for sowing. It was hard work - the farm hadn't been doing terribly well for a long time. Not since her mother had been around to help, apparently. They'd never starved, but they also hadn't produced much surplus to sell... leaving little money for replacement tools. The pitchfork was about the only thing made of proper metal that remained in working order - beyond that, it was largely home-made wooden tools, and pulling those blunt instruments through the clay-rich earth was a chore and a half.

A large hand closed around the top of the rake as a looming shadow fell over her. "Let me do that. I'll open the ground, you can do the sowing." She looked up with half-feigned annoyance - but the sharp words died on her lips. He'd taken off his shirt, presumably to prepare for the hot, sweaty field-work, and the result was eye-catching. Ripples of hard muscle, from his belly to his arms, lightly rounded in a way that spoke of a rich diet... most of it further covered in a layer of thick, blond hair that nonetheless failed to conceal the fact that his skin was practically milky-white. And he was standing so close to her, she could see all the details, including the carpet of freckles that spread out across his shoulders, and the way his nipples stood out from the rug of chest-hair in the cool spring air. It took her a moment, however, to realize what was missing... scars. Even ordinary farmers tended to pick up a couple from various working accidents or disagreements with bad-tempered farm-animals. Her father had had a few, including a nasty one down his right arm from tangling with a particularly aggressive rooster. A warrior should be expected to carry far more, and yet, there was not a single line, angry-red or faded purple, visible between the blond hairs.

Managing to tear her eyes away from his physique, she finally saw his quizzically-raised eyebrow and released the rake as if it had burned her hand, taking a couple of steps backwards from him. She cursed the faint blush that was now rising unbidden to her cheeks and scowled at him, even as the ghost of a grin haunted his thick beard. Then he nodded and planted his feet solidly in the ground, buried the rake in the loam where she'd left off, and pulled it through the resisting soil with a mighty heave. The muscles stood out clearly on his upper arms and shoulders, and the wooden rake creaked dangerously as it dug a half-dozen deep furrows in half the time it would have taken her. Quickly, she grabbed the seed-bag and planted the precious little nubs in the furrows, closing the ground above them with her feet as she quickly followed behind the rake's progress.

It was a faster pace than she'd been used to when doing the same thing with her father, let alone the pace she could've set by herself, and by the time they reached the end of the field, she needed a moment to breathe. The Viking, too, took the opportunity to lean on the creaking rake for a moment, looking out across the available farmland and seeing all the work that remained undone. "I think I'll have to buy some proper tools..." he groused. "Hopefully, the blacksmith will soon be set up down in the village." She tried to ignore it. Of course the farming would be easier with metal tools. And of course he'd have the money to buy them. It felt almost like a personal attack - the way that casual statement reminded her of the fact that she and her father hadn't managed to produce enough of a harvest to replace their deteriorating tools over the past several years.

There was no accusations in the glance he then threw her way, however - just... interest. "By the way... since we are now working together, we should be properly introduced, don't you think?" He stood up straight, rake held out like a spear. "My name is Harald, called Harald the Unhurt. I'm sure you can figure out why." Her glance fell again on his unblemished chest and arms. She could indeed. "And you?" Her cheek-muscles tightened for a moment, but he was actually being polite now, and considering that they'd be stuck together for a while, there was little point in being rude in return. She just hoped that he wouldn't ask what her name meant. "I am Eluned, daughter of Rhodri, student of Amaethon." Fortunately, he just nodded and turned back towards the fields. "Well met, Eluned. And now that we have become properly acquainted, let us return to our work. There is much more to be done before... tonight." The implications in that last word briefly made her shiver, but she angrily shook it off and followed him out unto the fields. The last thing she wanted to do was indicate that the whole 'nightly company' arrangement was, in any way, a big deal for her.

Replacing the rake in the tool-shed, he grunted and stretched his weary muscles. Farm-work wasn't as hard as fighting... but then, battles rarely lasted that long. It wasn't as if that was news to him - he'd done plenty of farm-work growing up - but it had been quite a few years, and some of his youthful vitality seemed to have deserted him in the meantime. That, or he'd just blissfully forgotten how rough it was. Walking out of the tool-shed, he did a few more stretches, working his arms and torso to get out the last kinks. He could tell she was surreptitiously watching from the farmhouse, and did a few more stretches just to give her a good look at his muscular, if sweaty, upper body. He'd worked hard for those muscles - from his childhood's farm-labours to his later warrior's training - and while they'd done a fine job at their original purpose (keeping him alive on dozens of battlefields), he rather preferred using them this way.

Above the tree-crowns, the sun could be seen - just barely - sinking towards the horizon as it ended the day's journey. A golden-red glow had washed across the world, giving everything a vaguely unreal aspect - as if he was drunk on fine mead. He took it as a good omen for the coming night. The girl - Eluned - was clearly trying to act as if his demand was an unimportant detail at best, but she was not a great liar. She was probably no virgin, but from her attitude, he rather doubted that she had ever been with a real man. Someone who wasn't just looking to sate his pubescent desires and be done with it - someone who knew that the pleasures of the night were an art, and thus a goal in itself, rather than just the means to an end.

She didn't know that either, he gathered. But that was fine. He'd teach her - that, and more. He grinned openly as he walked towards the farmhouse, his nose tickled by the smell of the meal she was cooking for him. It would not be a meal cooked with love - not yet - but nonetheless, she would almost certainly do her best. She would not want to give him reason to cast aspersions on her skills as a cook, after all. Not after the way she had flinched when he brought up the state of the farm's tools earlier.

The dinner had proved to be just as tasty as expected... though a bit lacking in the meat-department for his liking. Not that he could blame her for that - obviously, there was little meat to go around, and she was doing the best she possibly could with what she had available. Now, however, the meal had been squared away, and darkness was rapidly gathering outside. Eluned looked a bit skittish, and more so every time he yawned, and she jumped a bit when he finally spoke up. "I think it is time for us to seek our beds. We must rise early on the morrow and make a trip to the village to purchase a few things."

She nodded, refusing to look directly at him, and got up to move over to the back of the farmhouse's main room, where a thick hanging curtain sectioned off the sleeping-area. She pulled the curtain closed behind her, and he chuckled quietly as he got up as well - though the curtained-off 'bedchamber' wasn't his immediate target. Instead, he quickly collected a candle and holder, lighting the wick in the embers of the cook-fire, before walking unannounced into the curtained area. He had hoped to catch her changing, but she'd been faster than that, and now she merely crossed her arms across her (quite generous) chest as he put down the candle on the small table between their beds.

"That is terribly wasteful, you know. Candles aren't free." She had a great lecturing-voice for one so young, he thought - she'd make an excellent, if painfully strict, mother some day. Outwards, though, he just smiled at her, no longer putting on a dour face. "I will buy more when we are in the village tomorrow. And it is no waste - rather, wax well spent. I want to see you properly." She blushed at this and quickly looked away again, fingers closing around the heavy, conservative night-gown she was wearing as she stood next to her bed, seemingly uncertain of what to do next.

"And speaking of which... why are you wearing that thick gown? This pleasant spring evening is hardly that cold... or do you have something to hide?" She almost growled at him, her eyes sparking like embers as she glared at him - only for her to quickly look away again as he began to pull off his own clothes. "I agreed to share your bed. I do not recall agreeing to put myself on display for your amusement." He paused to look at her, bushy eyebrows raised. Then he sighed and finished stashing his clothes, before turning to face her as naked as the day he was born. He could see her blush harder yet as she struggled not to look directly at him.

"I did not specify any exact details for our... agreement. Because there was no need to. Allow me to illustrate my point..." In a quick step, he covered the space between them - and before she could react, he had grabbed the neck of her nightgown with both hands. It was simple, sturdy linen fabric and - as he had said - quite a bit thicker and heavier than was really warranted for a warm night such as this. However, even as her hands reflexively rose to grab at his wrists, the muscles on his upper arms began to bulge, and with a grunt, he pulled the thick fabric apart - splitting the night-gown front and back with a tearing sound.

She gaped as the shattered fabric fell around her arms, and as he released his grip, it fluttered to the ground, leaving her quite naked before him. Her body was toned by hard labour, her chest and hips generous for her age, her skin milky-white and largely unblemished in the flickering candlelight. Pert nipples stiffened as they came into contact with the spring air, and between her thighs, a small bush of dark hair could be seen even as she reflexively crossed her legs. An arm rose to hug her breasts, even as the other hand fell to conceal the bush, and then she looked from the shattered night-gown to his broad smile with a fierce glare. "You cannot say that was not a waste! If nothing else, mending such a tear will be a load of work." He merely shrugged, waving a hand as if to chase the issue away. "Consider it the price of this lesson... but I am not an unreasonable man. I will buy you a new nightgown tomorrow. Perhaps something a bit lighter. Now, if I have made my point... my bed awaits."

She hesitated for a split second, then took a deep breath and let her arms fall to her side. Then she walked over to the larger of the two beds - simple straw mattresses raised above the cold floor on wooden pallets, and covered with thick blankets - and lay down on it on her back, eyes closed and legs slightly spread. Harald looked down at her with a raised eyebrow for a couple of seconds, then sighed and shook his head. As he had figured, her sexual experiences so far had been of a... decidedly basic nature. It would, apparently, be up to him to teach her that there was more to sex than lying back and waiting for the man to finish.

Squatting down at the foot of the bed, he let his eyes wander up the gentle curve of her thighs to the cavern of pleasure between them. Rose-coloured, neatly shaped... and quite, quite dry. Not unexpected, really, considering the circumstances. Well, if nothing else, that made it easy to decide how to begin her education. Leaning forwards, he rested his torso on the blanket between her legs, while grabbing her thighs with both hands and pulling them further apart. He could feel the continuing reluctance in her muscles, even as her legs followed his guiding hand - but that, he thought, would soon change.

Shifting his grip upwards, he held her hips firmly in place as he slid himself forwards and dipped his head. She flinched as his beard tickled her thighs, and gasped - clearly confused - as his tongue traced the rim of her labia. Clearly, oral sex had not been on the menu of whatever flat-headed village boys had previously managed to talk their way past her skirts. Her body jumped, but his large, strong hands kept the important bits nice and still so that his tongue could continue its work - tickling, prodding, sending unfamiliar signals to her still-inexperienced mind.

She gasped again as he moved his attention a bit further upwards, prodding at the folded skin of the clitoral hood. He could almost hear the conflict within her, expressed through those strained tones. Confusion, mixed with undeniable pleasure at his skilful manipulations, yet bound by a pride that refused to let her ask what he was doing and why. Certainly, his oral endeavours were making headway - that much, he could both feel, see, and for that matter, taste. The fleshy folds of the labia were becoming thicker and warmer as they were engorged with blood, shifting slightly in the process like gates opening to allow access to the guarded fortress beyond. The clitoris, which he had already started to tease, began to push forwards - as if begging for more stimulation. And the salty taste of hard-earned sweat that had initially greeted his tongue was now mixed with something else. A fresher, almost fruit-like tang.

Between the juices that were now beginning to flow and his own saliva, the bone-dry opening he'd first been greeted by - induced, obviously, by nervousness and reluctance - was now a thing of the past. Her breathing had also become more rapid, and her pale skin flushed with a full-body blush as she writhed on the mattress, he hands gripping the thick blanket like a drowning man clutching at a piece of driftwood. Her eyes were still closed, however - a shame. He liked the way the pupils grew large and the eyes unfocused as the pleasure rose. Hesitating for a moment, he pulled his head back just a little bit - maintaining his grip, not moving, just waiting. It took maybe ten seconds before she finally responded. "W... why are you stopping?"

"Why are your eyes closed?" His reply was more playful than sharp, but still his hands held her fast, and hers pulled at the blanket as the pleasure she had only just got to know began to fade again. She gave no answer. "Open your eyes and look at me - then I'll continue." It was a simple enough proposition - more of a proposed deal than an order, really. Certainly less forceful than the way he had stripped her before. But because of that, it was also all the more important. When - after hesitating long enough to take a deep breath - she finally opened her eyes and looked down at where he was peeking above her short, dark bush, one thick eyebrow raised, it represented an implicit surrender. Not only did she show him those big, brown eyes - with desire written just as clearly across them as it was across her vulva - but in doing so, she also admitted that she wanted him to continue.

His broad, victorious smile was fortunately hidden by her groin - he didn't want her to think too much about what she had just done... yet. So instead, he merely blew lightly on her wet pussy, sending shivers through her body - and then dug back in again. With the labia now parting before him, he could dig deeper, stimulating sensitive tissue and seeking weak points. Of course, pushing his face into her wet hole so fiercely also ensured that his moustache was thoroughly tickling the upper vulva and clitoral hood, making her body shudder in new and interesting ways.

He regularly looked up from his work to gaze up the canyon between her wobbling breasts - checking that her eyes were still open. They were - though they were also glazing over fast, as her pleasure rose and began to peak. Finally, her back arched, practically pushing her groin into his mouth, and a noise that was halfway between a shriek and a groan emerged from her mouth as her eyes rolled back in her head. Was this her first orgasm, he wondered? Wouldn't surprise him. He kept his tongue moving, lapping up the juices that were now flowing freely and maintaining the stimulation until her strained muscles began to relax again and her back returned to the blanket.

She was breathing hard as he rose from between her legs, her juices dripping from his beard - practically panting, really. Her legs made no move to close as he began to move up her body, his strong arms no longer holding them apart. He stopped to tend to her breasts for a moment - teasing the nipples with a few quick licks, only to then blow cold air on them, making them stand up like little pebbles on top of the soft mounds even as she shivered. Then he finished his journey, holding himself up on his elbows as he covered her body with his own, gazing down into her unfocused eyes. It had been her first climax, all right - and with nothing to compare it to, no way to know it was coming, it had thrown her for a loop and a half.

He lowered himself over her. His cock was throbbing hard between his legs, having grown more and more ready while his tongue got all the action. It had been well worth the wait, however - for now it found a well-lubricated, slightly-open hole between invitingly-spread thighs waiting for it. As he pushed himself forwards, the engorged labia parted easily, straining only slightly under the crown's girth. She moaned underneath him, even before he was all the way inside - still sensitive, no doubt, after her first orgasm. The level of stimulation, however, was only going up. His upper body, too, was being lowered, letting his coarse chest-hair rub across the nipples he had so thoughtfully made extra-hard and extra-sensitive before. And as this new source of strange stimulation made her mouth open for another moan, he quickly covered it with his own - silencing her with his lips even as his tongue darted inside to let her taste her own arousal upon it.

As he began to thrust, her body responded, rising to meet him. Hungry for more of the pleasure it had only just learned of, no doubt. He, too, was feeling his instincts rise to replace careful planning - she was warm and tight around him, squeezing, milking... and it had been a while for him. His hips were moving with a growing sense of urgency, but still he had enough control to add a few little twists here and there - moving a bit to one side or another, just so he'd rub over new areas of her sensitive insides, or slowing down for a thrust or two to make her push more insistently against him, silently begging for more.

He was rising towards his own climax, but it seemed clear that - carefully-primed as she was - she would beat him there again. Her arms were no longer just grabbing at the blanket, but instead were wrapped around his broad torso, nails digging into his back as she pulled him close. A set of wounds he could be proud of. Soon, her legs followed suit, reaching up to interlock behind his arse, providing her with better purchase to thrust herself against him. Certainly, if she had previously thought to just lie back and let him take his due, she had forgotten about it by now! Even her lips were coming to life, her tongue wrestling with his as she returned the long, insistent kiss he had pressed on her.

She hardened against him, subtle muscles suddenly showing their work-earned strength as she reflexively tightened her grip on him, caught up in the rising tides of her second orgasm. Her sex tightened its grip on him too, and he felt his own limits approaching - and passing. Groaning into her mouth, he flexed his hips again, driving his rock-hard rod inside of her to the root as it began to release its payload. For a long moment, they rutted against one another, both equally caught in the storm of instinct and pleasure, letting nature take its course. Then it passed, and his superior experience reasserted itself as he regained his self-control... while she seemed to be all the more carried away by the tides of pleasure.

He did not give his dick a chance to soften - indeed, after such a lengthy deprivation, he could easily go twice, maybe three times even. He simply began to thrust again, into an orifice which had to be getting more and more sensitive with every orgasm. Half a day's walking and half a day's farm-work had done little to diminish the stamina that had carried him through dozens of battlefields - so he would carry on, thrusting incessantly, continuing to move his body against hers even as his breathing grew deeper, forcing him to break the long kiss in order to get enough air. There were still lessons to teach her tonight - like how even the most pleasant sensation could become akin to pain if it became intense enough... and how even that pain could become desirable.

By the time his stamina and virility had been fully spent, her arms and legs were no longer gripping his body tightly. Rather, instead, they were lying lax on the blankets, not so different from when he had started... but out of exhaustion rather than faked disinterest this time around. Her body was still responding, little shocks and tremors going through her with every long, slow thrust. Her eyes, however, were half-closed - the gaze beneath the droopy eyelids vague and unfocused. He would have liked to imagine that it was solely his treatment that had reduced her to this state, but honesty compelled him to admit - at least to himself - that the long, stressful day that had gone before, and the lateness of the hour, were at least contributing factors as well. The candle he had set on the bedside table had nearly burned down, though in truth, it had not been so very long to begin with. Still, all in all, he felt quite satisfied with his own performance, and confident that he had left a lasting impression on the girl.

Climbing off her, he took a moment as he sat on the edge of the bed, to regain his breath, and work his arms and neck. Then he got up and stretched his legs, his back, his sides. There was no showmanship in it this time, for he lacked an audience - almost as soon as his lusty assault had ended, her eyes had fully closed, and her breathing begun to stabilize as she drifted off to sleep. However, there was things to do tomorrow, and it would not do to be stiff and sore from the night's exertions!

Once he felt confident that he had worked out all the cricks and knots, he turned around and easily lifted the sleeping woman in his arms. She was hardly a lightweight slip of a girl - though, certainly, the weight was in all the right places - but his arms were strong enough to carry her easily enough. Gently. He placed her on the smaller bed that had to be hers, and pulled the blanket over her sweaty skin - it would not do for her to catch a cold. The spring nights were getting warmer, but they weren't that warm yet. Then, with a yawn, he returned to the bed that had become his and quickly changed out the top blanket - which had become soaked with sweat and... other juices, during the lengthy session. (Having predicted as much, he had left a neatly-folded spare blanket by his bedside beforehand.) Only then, he could finally seek his own rest, and drifted off to slumber with a content smile on his lips. This girl - this Eluned - would work out just fine, he thought. He could be happy here, with her.

The next morning, however, he felt less sure of himself. She had mentioned nothing of the night before - in fact, she had gone through the morning routine and put breakfast on the table in a silence that seemed to hover halfway between 'surly' and 'awkward'. She was even refusing to meet his eyes, with her gaze glancing off his forehead or chest at best, and mostly just hovering somewhere off to his right. Practically the only time she spoke was when he had finished eating and stood up to declare that it was time to head to the village to pick up some things. "Will you be needing my help for the trip?" she asked frostily, and when he admitted that no, he could probably find his way there and carry his purchases back by himself just fine, she nodded. "Then I will continue with the sowing. No reason to waste time."

Thus, he found himself walking back towards the village the same way he had arrived - alone. What was up with that girl, he mused? She should've been all over him in the morning, eager to encourage him to supply her with more of the pleasure she had now tasted. Or at least been in a better mood! Had he not thoroughly demonstrated that the 'duty' he had demanded of her would be anything but onerous? With a sigh, he plodded along, only looking up when he reached the village sign. It had originally read 'Llanfair Cefncoed', which he knew to mean something about the 'Parish of St. Mary' and a 'Forested Ridge', but the original name had been burned away and replaced with runes that declared the village's new name to be Freya's Hall.

Certainly, it lived up to its new name, he thought as he walked past the first couple of simple houses. The surrounding forest was dressed in springtime green, and orchards blossomed around the periphery. Truly a place blessed by Freya's bounty! And besides, the original name most certainly didn't fit anymore, since the Christian church that had been the centrepiece of the village now stood empty, gutted and plundered. Still, it was a sturdy stone structure, and would not be left unused for long - when he reached the village square, he was unsurprised to see several of the new residents - good Norsemen like himself - regarding the building and chatting about how best to convert it into a fortification. Something like that could be useful if the Celts ever sought to retake this area.

He was met with rounds of pleasant greetings, and was gratified to see that merchants were already setting up shop - mainly in the abandoned stores left behind (if largely emptied) by the previous residents. But those who had elected to settle down as tradesmen here had expected as much, and as such had brought cartloads of supplies - mainly plundered from the sacking of Pembroke. He was just heading in the direction of the sound of hammer on metal, hoping to find the blacksmith already in business, when he was accosted in the streets.

"Well, as I live and breathe! And here I had thought the whispers of you settling down to be naught but vicious rumours - who would have ever thought that the mighty Harald the Unhurt would shy away from battle?" Recognizing the voice, Harald turned around with a sour smile. "Well, 'tis true, Niels Ninefinger. Of course, I can hardly claim to be surprised to see YOU settling down for a bit. You always seem to need an extended period of rest after every victorious battle." The other Viking let the implied insult slide off his back as he smiled sardonically back, reaching out his four-fingered right hand for the handshake that courtesy demanded.

It was returned, firmly, as the two of them glared at each other over smiles that could hardly be mistaken for pleasant. They were kinsfolk, men of the same clan, but had loathed one another for years. Niels seemed to take Harald's 'celebrity' as a personal affront - in fact, Harald suspected that Niels might have been the one who first started spreading some of his other nicknames. And Harald, meanwhile, found Niels' 'hobbies' distasteful and despicable.

Now, Harald had never owned a thrall - never needed one, really - but he could see the sense in the arrangement. Those who were too weak to defend themselves required the protection of someone stronger, and it was only right that they gave of their labour in return. There was nothing wrong, thus, with land-owners buying Thralls to work their fields - and he could certainly understand why some men (who were not yet ready to find a wife and settle down) preferred to keep a female thrall around to sate their desires, rather than spend time and energy on endless games of seduction. He could even accept that some married men had appetites beyond what their wife alone could sate, and thus obtained a servant to take care of the rest.

But the Gods and the Laws alike had decreed that thralls, while property, were still people - and should be treated decently. Whatever role they served in, thralls were fed, clothed and housed at their owner's expense, and it was also his responsibility to see them protected from harm. In theory, of course, it was also the owner's responsibility to see thralls disciplined if they were unruly, violent, or otherwise committed crimes - but in his experience, thralls did not misbehave if they were treated fairly and not overworked.

All of which added up to his dislike of Niels Ninefinger, who seemed to have quite different ideas. He had been warned - on numerous occasions - about 'overzealous punishment' of his thralls. Accusations of outright abuse had been levelled at him several times, but had never stuck - he had his thralls too cowed to give evidence, it seemed. Still, everyone knew what was really going on. That he abused and tormented his - mainly female - thralls for his own amusement. And Harald was not the only one to disapprove. Hence, his tendency to take up short-term residency in whatever lands they managed to seize - it gave him easy access to a fresh supply of thralls, and between low population density and everyone being busy setting up their own livelihoods in new lands, he could usually amuse himself for months before anyone had time to take notice. Once local suspicions rose too high - or too many of his thralls had 'accidentally' died - he would then return home and report himself ready for another expedition.

Truly, if it were not for the fact that Niels - despite his lost digit - was an extremely competent fighter, no-one would have been willing to take him along. But he was - perhaps because he enjoyed the bloodshed and slaughter a bit too much, for entirely the wrong reasons - and results mattered. And so, Harald found himself once again forced to share a courteous handshake with the man, while simultaneously sending thoughts of pity to whatever local girls had wound up in Niels' household. They made the requisite couple of minutes worth of small-talk about the idyllic location and fertile lands they had been given, before Harald excused himself with the need to go see the blacksmith about new tools for his farm and left in a hurry. Scowling in his beard, he found himself wondering - for the second time that day - whether this whole thing had been such a good idea after all...

Eluned bit her lip as she watched his broad back disappear down the footpath. She was glad that he'd decided to go to the village without her, even though she kind of wanted to see what had become of it now that it had been taken over by y llu du. She needed time to compose herself without him around. Last night had... not gone according to her expectations, but she refused to give him the victory of admitting as much. No matter how good he had made her feel, he was still an interloper - one of the murderous invaders who had seized this portion of her homeland by force. Her approval could not be so cheaply won.

But even so... what a night! She was still feeling a bit unsteady, and a strange tingling sensation persisted between her legs. As if her groin still resounded with the discovery that had been pressed on it. She had never imagined that sex could feel so good, though in a sense, it made things fit together better. Presumably, that was what it was always like to the men... no wonder they went to such lengths to get it, then. Still, based on past experiences, it was obviously not a given that it would feel so good. Which suggested that Harald had gone to special lengths to ensure that it did. And she could hazard a guess as to why. But she would not surrender so easily. She would not give in and become his woman. Let him take what he wanted - she would give him nothing for free.

Still, it was hard to forget the experience. Everything had been so different. Not just the things he did - but also he, himself. The smell of his hair. The taste of his lips. The feel of his skin. It had been different from any man she'd been with before, though she couldn't quite put her finger on how. Like something was missing that she hadn't realized was unpleasant because she'd never thought of it as optional. She needed to sort out her thoughts, her feelings, and get it all neatly put away before he returned. Oh, and get some work done while she was at it, so he could not return and call her lazy. With a sigh, she walked towards the tool-shed, her legs still slightly wobbly, wondering if he would truly bring back proper, forged-iron tools to replace the roughly-made wooden ones she was stuck using for now.

By the time he returned, she'd brought herself mostly under control - sweating out her frustrations on the fields - and had gained both a sincere hope that he'd bring new tools (pride be damned) and a new-found appreciation for just how much work his strong arms had spared her the day before. She was hardly a wilting flower, but up until then, her father had handled most of the farm's heavy lifting, and she was only just now learning just how heavy said lifting had actually been. She felt somewhat resentful about these dual realizations, uncomfortable at the feeling of being grateful for his return - but it was hard to work up a proper scowl when his mere appearance was a reminder of just how handy his vast strength could be. After all, he was carrying a bundle of items over one shoulder, and a huge, wooden tub over the other.

The bundle turned out to contain a couple of iron tools, including a rake - the gratitude for which she did her best to hide. "I've ordered more tools from the blacksmith. Should be ready within the week," informed Harald, before grunting and looking out over the fields. "We should get an ox and a proper plough, though. Eventually. At the moment, there's none to be had of either." She merely nodded and tried not to let it get to her. They'd had an ox, once - along with a well-made wooden plough. But during a harsh winter some years back, they had been forced to eat the ox (for all that it was stringy and tough) and burn the plough for firewood. There had been no money to buy a new ox the next year, and thus no reason to spend time and energy making a new plough. The limited lands they had were manageable without, anyway. But she vastly preferred that Harald simply believed that they'd always been without ox and plough...

Those dark thoughts were temporarily chased away - and replaced by violently-blushing embarrassment - when she saw what else was in the bundle. Harald had, apparently, remembered his promise from last night, and had bought her a new nightgown. A... thinner one. Much thinner. So thin that it would not be hard to see straight through it - not that it was covering that much anyway. The neck was cut deep enough to expose the top of the breasts, and the hem short enough to barely cover the buttocks. Clearly, it was not the product of any village tailor - but more likely plundered from the dresser of some hedonistic noblewoman in a larger town, and brought along by a raider-turned-merchant for resale. The fact that it thus was of finer quality than any article of clothing she'd worn before only added insult to injury - as did Harald's broad grin as he saw her reaction.

Finally, however, she had to ask the obvious question... "What do you intend to do with that huge tub?" She knew that some of the larger farms used tubs of that size for pickling large amounts of vegetables, but she couldn't imagine her farm producing anything in large enough quantity to necessitate such a large container. Heck, she could probably fit in there with ease. Harald, meanwhile, grinned and scratched his beard as he looked down at the tub. "Well, let me put it this way... when did you last bathe?" She was momentarily nonplussed, thought back for a bit, then shrugged. "Well... there's a pond not far from here that becomes pleasantly warm in the summer. I usually manage to find time to visit it a few times. So... last summer."

He nodded and sighed. "I figured as much. That's the way it usually works. But... would it surprise you to learn that I bathe every week?" She blinked in confusion, effectively answering his question. "What... where? You can't mean..." He just shrugged. "In the sea, last time. I'll probably look out for this pond you mentioned for my next bath. I also usually wash my face, beard and hair every morning, though I fear I forgot today in my rush to get to the village." She blinked again, trying to parse this outrageous idea. "But... in cold water? People get stick from that! People die from that!"

He laughed out loud at this. "And yet, having done that for most of my life, I'm still around! Perhaps we men of the north are just hardier than most. The cold seas are our blood, the endless ice-fields are our skin, the frozen forests are our beards! ...or something like that. Anyway, the point is that... well... if you are going to share my bed, you need to start cleaning yourself on a regular basis. But I do realize that you may not be as... hardy as the women back home. Hence, the tub. We can heat water over the fire, fill the tub, and you can bathe in there." He gestured at the tub, and she scowled at it in reply.

Still, she found it difficult to work up a proper head of outrage at that seemingly-ridiculous idea. Now that he'd said it, she was starting to make sense of the... differences she'd noticed during their night together. Hair that didn't smell like a wet dog. Skin that wasn't sticky with old sweat. And bathing in the pond during summer had always been a pleasant experience... "I suppose it's worth giving it a try." she said finally. Harald grinned as if her agreement had been some sort of great victory, and carried the tub inside along with most of his other purchases - before emerging, shirtless once more, to gesture towards the fields. "Well, now that that's aside, I believe it is time to break in the new tools! There's still more sowing to be done."

Hours later, as the sun began to sink towards the treeline, the idea of a 'bath' didn't seem like such an outrageous proposition. Indeed, even Harald's dangerous-seeming willingness to shower himself with cold water looked somehow refreshing - after work, he had caught up on the morning's missed 'hair-wash' by the simple expediency of emptying a couple of buckets of chilly well-water over his head, before straining it out of his beard and hair, rebraiding both carefully, and shaking himself dry like a huge, blond dog. Preparing her bath, however, was a lot more work - Harald was pulling up bucket after bucket of water, and she was feeding the fire underneath the biggest cauldron in the house with a vast stack of firewood left over from what had been a surprisingly mild winter.

It took four full cauldrons of near-boiling water to fill the tub... with the resulting time-expenditure ensuring that the overall temperature of the final bath was merely 'unnaturally hot' and not 'outright boiling'. Her initial reluctance to strip down in front of Harald - who was staunchly refusing to turn his back like a gentleman - was eventually overcome by his teasing questions about what, exactly, she thought she was hiding from him after last night... and slowly, gradually, she lowered herself into the steaming water.

Despite cooling over time, it was still far hotter than the pond had been, even at the height of summer. The heat seemed to soak into her tired muscles, easing the soreness she had earned through long hours of work, even as the water washed away sweat, grime and dust. Her initial misgivings melted like snow upon the water, and she could not suppress a satisfied groan as she sank fully into the water, luxuriating in its heated embrace. After several languid minutes of soaking, she busied herself rinsing her hair and scrubbing her limbs for a bit - after all, getting cleaned up was somewhat the purpose of the whole affair.

Thus occupied, she did not notice that Harald, too, had gotten undressed - until he suddenly stepped out in front of her, naked but for his copious, honey-blond body-hair. She nearly slipped under the water's surface in shock - partially because her current position put her at eye-level with his groin. His tool was fully erect, and its sheer size astounded her - it was bigger by far than any of her (admittedly rather young) previous lovers, and the fact that it had not merely fit between her legs last night, but actually felt good there, seemed ridiculous.

He leered down at her as he put one hand on the edge of the tub. "You look mighty comfortable for having been so reluctant before... the hot water must be nice. Mind if I join you, hmm?" She shook off her shock and began pulling herself up. "Don't be ridiculous!" She sputtered. "There's barely room for me in this thing, never mind both of us! Look, I'll get out and let you have it, if you want to try..." However, even as she started to climb out, he stepped in - and his large, powerful hands caught her hips, robbing her feet of any purchase on the tub's bottom. Stumbling, she found herself hanging over the edge of the tub right at the hip - with his hands still holding firm around her arse as he kneeled in the water behind her.

She started to struggle, but before she could really get started, he had shifted his hands - with one on the small of her back, holding her down, as the other slid between her legs. His fingers caressed her slit, which was already tingling from the sudden shift between hot water and cool air - and the protestations died on her lips, replaced by a half-stifled moan. The pleasures of last night were still fresh in her memory... and it was not as if she could really stop him from having his way with her, in bed or otherwise. So what shame was there in... indulging him?

His fingers dug into her, insistent yet subtle in their movements. More skilful than her own - presumably due to greater experience. She had entertained herself thusly in the past, now and then, in a private moment - the fact that the church considered such things sinful had only encouraged her to do it, as much for the act of defiance as for the pleasure of the experience. Instinctively, she spread her legs further - as she had during such past experimentation - and pushed slightly back against the fingers. It felt good, but... it wasn't as good as last night.

Suddenly, the fingers disappeared and the grip on her hips shifted back to a two-handed one, even as she felt something broad, smooth and hot poke at her stirred-up nethers. Now that she had seen his tool up close, the knowledge of where it was poised felt somewhat intimidating... but as they had before, her labia parted easily around his girth. The moisture from the bath must have provided extra lubrication - he certainly slid easily inside her, until his hips pushed firmly against her buttocks. He paused, then, for just a few seconds... relishing the feeling, perhaps? Or giving her time to adjust to his girth once more? Either way, it wasn't long before he began to thrust, sending shocks of pleasure up her spine as the internal friction stirred her nerves.

The position was perverse, of course - they were mating more like dogs than people! But it also seemed to enable him to hit... parts of her he hadn't touched last night. His ballsack swung forwards at the end of every stroke, slapping against her clit, its coating of coarse, yellow hair tickling her most sensitive spot. The steadily-increasing power of his thrusts was shaking her body and making her breasts rub against the earth floor - teasing her rock-hard nipples as well. And at least this way around, he couldn't insist that she looked at him - leaving her free to cross her arms and lean her head on it as she closed her eyes, letting the pleasure wash over her undisturbed.

He was bending over her now, his breathing deep and steady as his hips continued to pump. Kissing her neck, he whispered in her ear. "There is nothing more beautiful than a woman fresh from her bath, skin sparkling with droplets of water... it is enough to drive a man from his senses." She had no answer for him - the rising pleasure was making it hard to think. She could only shudder and groan as it rose higher yet, then crested in a potent climax that made her legs shake - sending rippling waves across the surface of the bathwater.

It was not long after that she felt him stiffen above her, his thrusts becoming more insistent for a second or two - then pausing. As a hot, slimy feeling spread inside her, she pushed the pleasure aside and forced herself to think for a moment. To remember her cycle, and where she was in it. It should still be safe... like last night had been. But not for much longer. She had to find a reason to slip away tomorrow, into the woods to gather herbs. If Harald was going to keep coming at her with such vigour, she had to take precautions - however pleasurable their liaisons had proven, she had no desire to wind up pregnant. Then, plans made, she allowed herself to slip back into the pleasure. His seed lay in her belly now, hot and heavy - and he had not softened yet. Rather, he had resumed his thrusting, the sound of their interlocking genitals now obscene. Another wave of pleasure was approaching, and she was eager to ride its foamy crest...

While they left the bath soon after - and adjoined for a quick, yet hearty supper - the evening was far from over. It seemed like Harald had, indeed, been quite aroused by her dripping-wet curves... or possibly he just found her more attractive now that she was freshly-cleaned. Either way, he kept at her - with fingers and tongue when his tool lost its strength. The constant pleasure and attention was addicting - and even more, it was... relaxing. There was no need to think, decide, or put up a front - she only had to let those big, strong hands and that firm, commanding voice guide her through the various positions, let him play her body like a musical instrument until she sang out with orgasmic screams. The light fades slowly on a spring evening - and yet, another candle was 'wasted' that night.

The next day, however, the pleasures of the night seemed distant indeed - another day of hard labour loomed, and she still had to come up with some way to get away from Harald for long enough to gather the herbs she needed. The herbal medicine that prevented pregnancy required a couple of fairly rare ones, too, so she couldn't just dart away - she needed some real time to work with. However, as she watched Harald shovel two fried eggs into his maw during breakfast, inspiration struck. As the remains of breakfast were cleared from the table, she gestured towards the small chicken-coop attached to the stables. "You'll have to get started on the fields without me, I'm afraid. One of the hens is broody, and has run off to hide her eggs somewhere in the forest. I need to find her before a fox does - at least, if you want to keep having eggs for breakfast."

Harald nodded in reply, glancing vaguely in the direction of her gesture. The stables, while small, were still only half-full. The chickens had their space, as had the ageing cow who provided them with a limited, but reliable, supply of milk and butter. There also were a couple of scraggly sheep who supplied wool and a bit of milk (which was hardly worth drinking, but made for fine cheese), along with mutton in an emergency. Used to be there were quite a few more of them - along with an ox - but numbers had steadily declined with each bad year. She could almost see the speculation in his eyes, as he planned how to fill it - a new ox, perhaps. Or even a pigsty, since he seemed so fond of bacon.

It still annoyed her somewhat that he had the resources to obtain those things... ill-gotten loot, no doubt. But for now, it kept him too distracted to question her plans for the morning - and when he left for the fields, rake in hand, she picked up a basket (for carrying home the broody hen and her eggs, of course!) and went into the woods. She didn't have to go far before she spotted one of the herbs she was looking for and, humming slightly, kneeled down to pull it up and throw it in her basket. Then she froze as a deep voice rumbled from behind her. "That looks little like an egg, much less a hen."

She spun around and saw Harald, in all his shirtless glory, leaning casually against a tree. How did someone so big move so quietly through the woods? More importantly, his lifted eyebrow demanded an answer, and she scowled bitterly at him. "Fine. There's no broody hen - not that the stupid creatures don't occasionally do that. I just need to collect some herbs for a... potion I need. Since you seem determined to take advantage of our agreement so often, I have to take precautions." She wasn't sure how she expected him to react, but it was not with a bright smile... which, as it happened, was exactly what he flashed her. "Ah! You know the sejd? I mean... hm. I suppose you call it 'witchcraft', yes? Good, very good!"

She blinked, confused. "...It is?" He scratched his beard thoughtfully, eyes panning back in the direction of the village. "Ah, yes. The ones who build all those churches and monasteries... they do not agree, I've heard. Fools, the lot of them. Such arts are useful! Indeed, amongst my people, all women are expected to learn at least the most basic arts - and those who have greater mastery are seen as good prospects for marriage. After all, having a witch for a wife can only help your farm succeed, no? Of course, I did not know that you had studied such things. Now that I do, there is no need to sneak off for this. Go collect as many herbs as you need! In fact, try to get some seedlings or sprouts too, if you can. You should establish a proper herb-garden - we have room. So much more convenient than searching the woods!"

With that, he nodded pleasantly at her and walked back towards the house - and the fields - whistling merrily. She could only stare after him, her mind wrestling with this new perspective. So the Vikings... they LIKED witchcraft? Even admired it? She would not be a social outcast amongst them just for practising the arts of her ancestors? Well. That was... that still didn't justify anything they'd done! She angrily shook her head to clear it of this sudden, unjustified elation. Well, it was a silver lining, that much she could not deny. And having herbs growing right by the kitchen window would certainly make life easier - she wouldn't have dared do that while the pastor was still around to see it.

As she continued into the forest, her head swirled with new possibilities. She didn't have to hurry, now - she could pick the herbs she needed for all kinds of mixtures, not just the ones she needed right now. Which ones might she be able to make grow back home? Some certainly wouldn't - like the ever-elusive Mistletoe. But many others would, if she could find them and recover them reasonable intact. Might need to take two trips. And she'd be able to brew openly, without having to hide it from anyone! The possibilities were suddenly many...

That evening, after spending half the day collecting herbs and planting the beginnings of a proper herb-garden - and the other half helping with the fieldwork - she brewed. It was strange, having someone watching with curiosity as she worked. No fear, no revulsion... nor, even, any particularly intense interest. Like what she was doing - the old arts taught to her by Amaetheon - were... normal. A useful, everyday skill. Well, certainly useful - she soon had the most important draught ready, and wasted no time in consuming it despite its bitter tang. As long as she continued to dose herself with it regularly, she would not need to worry about pregnancy. Feeling increasingly confident - and with the fire already burning under her cauldron - she went ahead and prepared a few wound-salves and curatives that she had the herbs for anyway. You never knew when those might come in handy - and when you needed them, you wouldn't want to first have to cook them up.

Whether it was because he now knew she had taken precautions against pregnancy, or if he'd just been working his way up to speed, Harald's claiming of her body started to become more and more frequent - and spontaneous - after that point. No longer satisfied with merely having her sharing his bed - though that still happened, most nights - he would surprise her with expressions of ardour at any time and place. It was just the two of them, after all, on a fairly isolated farm - so they did not lack for privacy, even when he finished a meal by bending her over the table and lifting up her skirt to have her pussy for dessert... which was a not-infrequent occurrence.

Soon, she was intimately familiar with the many places around the farm where a quick - or not-so-quick - encounter could conveniently take place... and the many, many positions beyond the basic that could be used. Flat against the wall of the tool-shed with her legs spread as he entered her from behind, pushing her into the rough boards. In the soft grass at the edge of the fields, between spring flowers and green bushes, rutting like beasts in the embrace of nature. In the stables, naked against a hay-bale, its prickly surface sending strange sensations through her as she clamped a hand over her mouth lest her moans disturb the animals. On one of the farmhouse's sturdy chairs, sitting astride his hips, bouncing and grinding as he directed, while his teeth and tongue taunted her hard nipples.

At any moment, he might sneak up behind her - practically silent when he wanted to be - and snake an arm around her waist, pulling her close. She would feel his erection pushing into her bum through his trousers and her skirt, even as his free hand began to fondle one of her breasts, or slipped between her legs to tease her most sensitive parts... and the moment she did, she was helpless. It wasn't so much that he didn't brook refusal, but rather that she could not bring herself to refuse him. The pleasure, the release... the spontaneity, and the constant thrill of not knowing when he'd next surprise her... it turned otherwise dreary days of farm-work into a constant adventure.

Once his hands were on her, her body bent to his whims, her mind happily discarding its usual concerns and worries in favour of listening attentively for any 'suggestions' he might give. He had much to teach her, and she was an apt and eager student. One of the first lessons was how to do what he had done to her on the first night - using her mouth for pleasure. Mere weeks ago, she would have found the very thought disgusting, and the idea of doing it to some foreign invader ridiculous. Now, though... she could not refuse him. Especially not since he so frequently put his own mouth to use, granting her pleasures untold with a deft tongue. And soon, she had learned to enjoy welcoming his thick cock into her mouth, feeling the heat of his body and the beating of his pulse through her tongue as it caressed the silk-smooth, yet veiny skin. The bitter-salty taste of his seed took more getting used to, but one did not survive as a peasant by being a picky eater, and she could hardly turn down such an easily-renewable protein-source. Eventually, she would grow to enjoy that too.

Of course, the rest of the time - whenever she was not in his hands, yearning for the pleasures he could bring - she found herself increasingly resentful at the hold he seemed to have over her. Where did he get off, turning her into... that kind of person?! She'd told him from the start that she wouldn't be 'his woman', but he was certainly acting like she was, expecting sexual services whenever it pleased him... and the fact that she couldn't seem to refuse him only made it worse. A vague feeling that she'd been tricked somehow - that he had known it would end this way from the start - dogged her daily. Of course, there still wasn't much she could do about it... and the stress this caused her only made the mindless release he offered all the more welcome, creating a vicious circle of growing annoyance.

She unloaded her bad temper on him in every way she could - wielding unspoken insults and barbed works with far more skill than she'd wielded the pitchfork during their first encounter. Slighting him in whatever little ways she could without giving him anything he could directly point to in complaint. Most of it seemed to roll off his back - which didn't exactly improve her temper - but some of them seemed to get to him, just a little bit, and she stuck by those. Chief amongst those was a refusal to look directly at him - something she'd started doing almost instinctively from the start. Whenever applicable, he'd always order her to look at him during their frequent lovemaking - and she could not refuse at those times. Any other time, though... well, the way he frowned every time she looked directly across his shoulder while talking to him never failed to give her a little shiver of victory.

However, her petulant behaviour was not without consequences, as she soon discovered. It shocked her the first time he grabbed her, turning her into putty in his hands as always, pulling up her skirt... and then, rather than mount her as he normally would, he pulled her over his knee and began to tan her rear end like she was a misbehaving child. His huge, strong hand made awful noises as it fell on her firm bottom, but she could tell that he wasn't using his full strength - which was not to say he didn't effectively redden her buttocks to a painful degree. "Girls who behave rudely must be taught a lesson!" He rumbled as the strokes fell on her increasingly tender rear.

But then he stopped... and, still holding her down firmly over his knees, his hand began to instead caress the tender, bruised buttocks, before sliding through the canyon between them and down between her legs... where she discovered, upon his touch, that she'd grown undeniably wet. Held in his unbreakable grip, she heard her earlier shrieks of surprise and pain turn to pleasure as his fingers explored her pussy with customary skill, forcing a humiliating climax from her before he let her go without another word.

It would not be the last time it happened. Indeed, it became something of a regular fixture - adding an additional thrill to the day, since she now also had to wonder if he'd next grab her for a spot of passionate lovemaking... or a round of rough handling of her her tender arse. Well, it was not as if she actually stopped needling him at every turn... to actually modify her behaviour would be a sign of surrender, after all! That was why she suffered through that treatment on nearly a daily basis... certainly not because she enjoyed it. Well, he did always give her at least one orgasm immediately afterwards. Usually with his fingers, but sometimes he'd instead lift her up, pull down his pants, and then pull her up on his chair with her back to him - seating her on his lap, bouncing her still-tender arse on his muscular thighs as she rode him, the rhythm set by his hands on her waist.

But still, he had more strings on his bow, as she discovered one day while churning butter. The work was hard, sweaty and made her arms ache, which tended to put her in a foul mood - and as usual, she dealt with that by delivering a few barbed comments to Harald, who was sitting nearby mending a tool. She was hardly surprised when she looked up to find that he'd put the tool aside and silently approached her - nor when he grabbed her, pressed a rough kiss to her lips to silence her protestations that she had work to do, and then proceeded to bend her over the stool she'd been sitting on as she laboured over the butter-churn.

However, when he pulled up her skirt, the spanking she was expecting remained curiously absent, and she heard him grumble from above as he held her down with a hand on the small of her back. "I think it is time for a new lesson... and this seems the perfect time for it." Glancing back over her shoulder, she saw him dip his free hand in the churn, scooping up a dollop of gooey, half-finished butter with two fingers. She shrieked with surprise at the cold, slimy feeling as he pushed it into her arse-crack, smearing it across her sphincter, which flexed and tightened at the unexpected sensation.

It was soon forced to loosen again, however, as the buttery fingers pushed insistently against it, prying it open, getting some of their slippery payload inside. "What are you doing?! That's dirty!" She complained, writhing in his grip. He tutted, grinning down at her. "Dirty? Hardly - you've been taking to bathing quite well, I've noticed. Now lie still and try to relax - being tense will only make this more painful." Her sphincter was already protesting the intrusion of his buttered-up fingers, and she could certainly see that trying to push them back out was futile - so she obeyed, relaxing her rear as best she could... and the pain abated.

She had no idea what he was doing. Some different sort of punishment, since he'd established that spanking her didn't work? It was certainly a bit uncomfortable, even now that she'd started relaxing her sphincter - not to mention humiliating and rather gross. Maybe having butter shoved up your rear was a common punishment amongst the Vikings? The thought nearly made her laugh out loud. No, that hardly seemed likely - something so bizarre would've made too good a story to keep silent. It would've got around. But what, then?

Actually, now that she wasn't tensing anymore, she realized that the sensation wasn't... entirely unpleasant. His fingers were digging deeper and deeper, smearing the butter - rapidly turning into runny goo from her body-heat - all over her insides. The feeling of being stretched open, penetrated... something warm and living forcing itself deep inside her... it wasn't hard to draw parallels to sex. Of course, his dick didn't usually squirm around the way his fingers were, rotating and rubbing and tickling... nor did it have knuckles or patches of rough skin providing additional friction. Indeed, as he pumped his fingers in and out, pushing the buttery goo deeper, her legs were unconsciously spreading in response - just like they always did when he mounted her.

She didn't quite manage to run that train of thought through to its destination before Harald handed her the explanation. The fingers were pulled back out and wiped off on her skirt (which she'd have to wash now - damn him!) Still kneeling over the stool, his hand on her back holding her firmly, she couldn't really see what was going on behind her - but she heard a rustling. Then something thick, hot and blunt poked at her buttered-up arsehole, and she finally had her answer... just as her sphincter, despite her best efforts to relax and its earlier butter-lubricated massage, began to protest at the girth it was now being forced to stretch around.

"What are you doing?! That can't possibly fit there!" she gasped out, genuinely struggling for the first time. He was stronger than her, to be sure, but he was trying to hold her down with just one hand, while she had both hands AND feet solidly planted on the ground. The legs of the wooden stool holding up her midriff shrieked as they were pulled across the hard earth floor, digging slightly into it. She had never heard of such a thing as using... that hole for sex, and couldn't imagine how it could be possible... but she could easily imagine that attempting it would be terribly painful. For that matter, she still wasn't sure how that thick tool of his could manage to fit in the hole it was MADE for!

"Ssshhh... none of that now..." His voice was little more than a whisper, but she heard it just fine - he had abandoned, for now, his one-handed grip, and now leaned heavily over her, covering her body with his own even as his powerful arms gripped her torso. Gritting her teeth, she continued to fight against his strength, but no longer with any great success. She could feel him, still, prodding at her behind, the very tip pushing against her arsehole, stretching it ever-so-slightly more than his fingers had. "Don't fight it - I already told you, that will only make it worse. I'm not surprised this is news to you, but I've got a bit more experience with these matters than you do... I've done this before, several times. So, be still, be quiet - and trust me. You'll come to enjoy it before you know it."

His voice was firm, confident, authoritative - and his grip on her was like iron. As ever, she couldn't fight him physically... and as his whispered words made her tensed muscles shiver and relax, she was forced to realize that she couldn't really fight him mentally, either. Or, perhaps rather, she didn't WANT to. He'd already surprised her so many times, taught her so much, shown her such pleasures... even if what he was doing now seemed crazy, well, what if he was right? In the end, it seemed like she truly had no choice but to trust in him... and entrust her body to his firm hands. Breathing out, she allowed herself to relax again, her feet no longer digging into the floor to escape. Taking long, calm breaths, she forced the tight ring of muscles between her buttocks to relax as well - and felt him begin to move in response.

He was going slowly - but there was a great deal of strength behind that rod. First the mushroom-shaped head popped inside, letting her sphincter contract slightly around his shaft, and she had to once again remind herself to relax and stay calm. It was a strange sensation, at once similar to and quite different from ordinary sex - and certainly, what with the buttery mess that had been rubbed all over the inside and outside of her arsehole, there was no more friction than he would usually find in the more common hole beneath it.

As the seconds ticked by, the initial spike of pain diminished, and her breathing - which had grown rather sharp when he entered her - softened again. That was, apparently, his cue. Powerful hips flexed, driving another inch or two of hot, rock-hard shaft inside her - stretching open more of her insides, and sending fresh shocks of pain to her mind. Then, again, he waited. Working at that pace, it took several long minutes before his first thrust ended, his blond pubes sticking to her buttery buttocks - but she had never been in pain for more than a couple of seconds at a time, and as she continued to force the protesting muscles in the area to remain lax, the same strangely-pleasant sensation she had first noticed when his fingers penetrated her began to return.

She was far more aware of the penetration than she had ever been when he used her pussy. She could feel herself wrapped ever-so-tightly around him, could feel how his length and girth challenged her body. Heck, she could practically count the veins on his shaft. She had never before felt so... penetrated. A strange heat seemed to radiate out from her overstuffed arse, making the neighbouring orifice run equally hot... and wet. His voice once again whispered in her ear, in that firm way that always made her shiver. "Go ahead and touch yourself. I know you want to."

She'd learned a thing or two about masturbation since he showed up - mostly from observation of how he expertly manipulated her pussy whenever he pleased. However, after he'd taught her how to use her mouth, he'd started giving her specific instructions and suggestions, too - often encouraging her to practice those skills while she busied herself sucking and licking his hard member. Now, she found herself putting those skills to use in a new position, as her right hand snuck down between her widely-spread thighs and began to explore the dripping-wet cavern between them. The first shudders of pleasure began to radiate from it, resonating strangely with her stretched-open arse - as if the two points of stimulation were somehow magnifying one another.

Apparently satisfied that she was no longer in any significant discomfort, he began to thrust properly - his buttered-up shaft easily sliding in and out of her arsehole despite the tightness, creating strange sensations of friction and stimulation... not to mention an obscene, slimy sound. As he gradually increased his pace, her fingers instinctively quickened to match - digging into her sopping-wet pussy, rubbing across her labia and clit, just the way he'd taught her. She could feel the orgasm begin to build inside her, and with every shuddering thrust that poured into her arse, the pressure seemed to rise.

Finally, the climax arrived, and it was overwhelming - it seemed to be radiating out from her pussy and arse at the same time, becoming not merely doubled but more than the sum of its parts. She wasn't even conscious of the fact that she was screaming out her pleasure - but Harald certainly seemed to notice, and took it as a sign that there was no need to hold back quite so much anymore. Even as her sphincter clamped down on him in orgasmic reflex, he settled into his normal pace of thrusting-speed and power - no different from the treatment he'd given her pussy dozens of times by now.

The tightness of this new orifice, however, ensured that it wasn't many more seconds before he reached his climax... but it also ensured that he failed to deflate at all afterwards, and he merrily continued to pump his hips, driving Eluned to two more orgasms before he reached his second one and finally relented. Neither was as great as the first one had been, though - the second had risen from her increasingly-sensitive pussy, not very different from the many others she'd inflicted on herself during less sordid affairs. The third, meanwhile, seemed to radiate out from her stretched-open arse, offering less of a peak and more of a plateau, keeping her in the throes of pleasure for long minutes. It appeared the first one had, indeed, been a case of the two syncing up, more by luck than by intent.

By the time Harald pulled out - wiping his buttery dick on her skirt, apparently feeling that since she'd have to wash it anyway, he might as well - the growing soreness of her arsehole was starting to poke through the pleasure, but she remained largely dazed by the pleasure of three closely-spaced orgasms. A friendly slap on the bum snapped her out of it as Harald - pants back on - bent over her to kiss her neck. "There... I hope you've learned your lesson. Now you'd best get back to work!" She wasn't sure exactly what lesson she was supposed to have learned, but shortly afterwards she found herself forced to admit that sitting down was a touch more uncomfortable than it had been after the spankings. At least when sitting on a hardwood stool.

Nonetheless, for a supposed 'punishment', the experience had been quite enjoyable, and Harald had clearly noticed as much. Her bum quickly became an increasingly frequent target for his cock, while the pretence of it being some form of correctional measure grew steadily more threadbare... much like the rag she'd taken to carrying with her at all times for dealing with the resulting mess, preserving the sanctity of her skirts. At first, butter was used to lubricate the process every time, but as she grew more accustomed to the thick intrusion in her rear - thus making for easier entry - Harald changed tactics, piously citing the need to avoid 'wasting' precious butter... an argument she'd frequently used against him with regards to other matters, such as candles, making it hard for her to counter it.

That was not to say that no lubrication was applied - merely that she was tasked with providing it herself. He would order her to 'prepare his tool', leaving her to open his pants and lavish attention on his rod with her mouth, sucking and licking it as she sought to cover it thoroughly in saliva while his fingers gently tangled in her hair, caressing her head. Needless to say, she was... enthusiastic at this, since failing to apply decent lubrication would only be a pain in the arse for her - so to speak. The whole thing reminded her of a stern father ordering a misbehaving child to fetch the instrument of her punishment, thoroughly maintaining the feeling that she was being dominated - even as she grew to enjoy the results more and more. Her increasingly well-trained sphincter hardly made any protest when intruded upon anymore, and the passion Harald displayed when mounting her in that manner was... arousing. And, of course, every now and then she managed to repeat the performance from the first time, bringing about an ear-ringing, eye-rolling double orgasm.

Harald blinked groggily as he went through his usual post-breakfast morning routine, washing his hair and beard, then braiding them afresh. By Thor, he was tired! It wasn't so much the farmwork, even - that, alone, he could've handled. But the strenuous farm-work, combined with his now extremely vigorous sex-life, was straining his endurance. Two or three sessions every day, usually including a nightly encounter that lasted well into the small hours! If it wasn't for that salve Eluned had started making for muscle-soreness, he'd be halfway crippled.

Of course, an outsider might argue that if he found it so strenuous, he could just take it down a notch. After all, it was obvious that he was the one instigating each encounter. But damn it all, he just couldn't keep his hands off that woman! Everything she did seemed to arouse him, including the steady stream of veiled insults. Especially the steady stream of veiled insults. They might have been genuine at first, but by now they always seemed to carry a lusty undertone, a challenge to 'punish' her. He was staring to suspect that her endless refusal to look him in the eye (other than, of course, when they were erotically entangled) was simply to hide the gleam of desire in them.

Well, at least today, their activities would be somewhat curtailed by circumstance. He was making another trip to the village - as he did regularly every week - but this time, Eluned was tagging along. By his suggestion, they would be trying to sell some of the salves and curatives she mixed up from herbs both home-grown and wild (the herb-garden was growing swiftly in the spring sun, as if touched by the hand of Freya herself) to one of the merchants who had settled there. Surely, there would be many others who suffered from sore muscles and strains, if not for quite the same reasons as him. So she had to come along, to explain the use and dosing of the various mixtures to the merchant.

She'd seemed strangely reluctant to make the trip. Perhaps treasuring the memories of how it had been, and not wanting to have them replaced by the sight of what it had become... but if so, she needed to get over it. Llanfair Cefncoed was no more - and she now lived by the Viking village of Freya's Hall. She had to get used to that - wouldn't do to let her turn herself into a hermit, especially if things continued to progress so promisingly. She'd need to get to know the new residents of the village, make connections and contacts - and they needed to get to know her, and recognise whose protection she enjoyed. With that in mind, he wiped his shoulders dry and pulled on his nicest shirt - it wouldn't do to leave a poor impression this time around.

An hour later, he leaned against a wall outside the blacksmith with a sigh, working his shoulder. Whatever had made Eluned reluctant to visit the village, it had certainly faded quickly once she actually got there and saw that it wasn't too different. The shops had new proprietors, and the houses new residents (including the church, which had by now been converted fully into a garrison) but otherwise, everything was as it had been. And once she'd seen that, she suddenly remembered a whole list of things they needed to buy, and since the merchant had eagerly bought up all the salves and draughts she'd brought along - with the promise to buy more if they worked as advertised - they could surely afford it!

He was already carrying a number of packages, and if her current negotiations with the blacksmith panned out, he'd be carrying more yet. Still, the way she threw herself into the shopping was... nice. It certainly dispelled what fears he had held about her ability to deal with her new neighbours. And if he had to work hard carrying home the bounty of those skills, well, so be it - there was more muscle-soothing salve back home.

He hummed merrily as he stood there, looking around at the villagers. There were far more than there had been when he first visited, right after arriving. Back then, the only folks there had been former warriors like himself, looking to settle down. But by now, the first wave of proper colonists had shown up, having sailed out from the homeland in search of space and opportunities that were lacking back there. Mixed amongst them were a fair number of thralls, mostly local with a smattering of others. Probably mostly from the rivers to the east - always a good source of thralls, there - brought along by their owners. All were decently-dressed and looked well-fed, which once again reminded him that Niels Ninefinger was an exception, not the rule. Maybe he should see about acquiring a thrall of his own to help with the farm? Or maybe not. He had a sneaking suspicion that Eluned would disapprove. Loudly.

A hand on his shoulder interrupted his thoughts and he jumped in surprise, spinning around - then freezing with a broad smile. "Sven! As I live and breathe! What are you doing here?" Sven Brightmood grinned back at him as the two shook hands and then quickly embraced and patted one another's backs. A gesture of deepest trust, reserved for only those you were completely certain wouldn't take the opportunity to stick a knife in your back. "Why, I live here, old friend!" he then declared. "I told you I'd see about getting a farm near yours, didn't I? Granted, it took me a while to get here. Couldn't walk very well. Still can't. I hitched a ride on a wagon when the colonists arrived, though - and called in a couple of old favours to acquire a stout thrall to help with the heavy lifting on my new farm."

Harald glanced automatically down at Sven's right leg. It wasn't swathed in bandages anymore, but he certainly seemed to be favouring the other one, and started leaning heavily against the wall as soon as the embrace had ended. "Still bothering you, huh?" he asked darkly. Sven shrugged. "Aye, can't say otherwise. It doesn't hurt, really, unless I put my weight on it, but it's rather... stiff. But that's why they invented canes, yes?" He grinned, waving a rather nicely-carved walking-stick in the air for a moment. "But enough about me - you seem to be much better off than when last I saw you! Why, if I did not know better, I could've sworn you were humming when I first saw you! Whatever have you been up to?"

Harald could not quite restrain a blush from creeping into his cheeks, but quickly shook it off as he gave Sven a short account of his new life... going rather light on the details where some parts of it were concerned. Sven's face steadily brightened as he listened, and he was soon nodding eagerly along with the story. "You've landed yourself not just a local girl, but a proper sejdkone, eh? Though I suppose they call them witches around here... either way, you're one lucky bastard! Heh. Well, your luck is legendary already, I suppose, but most probably wouldn't have guessed that it extends beyond the battlefield!"

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then, and glanced over his shoulder, in the direction of the marketplace. "And you say there's a merchant selling her medicines at the market, now? Maybe I'll amble on by later. Or perhaps sooner - I bet you it'll fly off the shelves!" But Harald quickly put a heavy hand on his shoulder, and shook his head with a broad grin. "Oh, I think I can do you one better than that, Sven Brightmood. What she sold was just some of the more commonly-useful concoctions she has, and I won't let a friend make do with just that. Come by my farm soon, and I'll have her look over your leg properly. See if she has something, or knows how to make something, that'll help for your specific problem. Besides, I want to show you the place! Small, but lovely and well cared-for."

Sven at first insisted that he didn't want to impose, but Harald was insistent, and soon an agreement was reached. The crippled Viking then staggered off, well-supported by his walking-stick, to meet some friends at the tavern - just as Eluned emerged from the smithy with a broad grin and a new kitchen-knife in her hand. Which she had, apparently, got at a steal. "The old blacksmith drove a much harder bargain than the new guy. Maybe it's just because he's struggling a lot more with the language than you do, Harald... but either way, I shan't question a good bargain. Now, stick this in one of the packs, and let's get moving - I still need to see what the new tailor has to offer." With a resigned sigh, he did as he was told and lifted the heavy packages up on his shoulder. He wondered, as he walked behind her, if he'd have enough energy upon their return home to... remind her who was really in charge. Hopefully. She was getting entirely too comfortable ordering him around. Still, if everything panned out, maybe that was for the best after all...

A few days later, Sven arrived at the farm, well-supported by his walking-stick and smiling brightly despite how unpleasant the walk had to have been. Fortuitously enough, he didn't catch the two of them in mid-coitus, which had been a real risk... though, admittedly the frequency of their trysts had dropped somewhat. The year wore on, summer approached, and most of the sowing had been done - leaving the two of them with more varied tasks to spend their hours on, such as seeing to the animals and doing general repairs and maintenance around the place. Harald mainly occupied himself with the latter, while also being in the process of building a pigsty adjoining the stables. Eluned, meanwhile, spent more time expanding her herb-garden and collecting wild specimens from the forest's bounty, as well as drying, boiling, smoking and generally preparing them into various useful concoctions - since that seemed like it would become a regular source of profit for them. And so, since Harald now spent less time watching her swaying hips and bouncing breasts, he found it easier to... restrain himself to a more sedate pace.

Sven's arrival quickly pulled them both from their individual tasks, however, and they adjoined to the cool shade of the main house with mugs of chilled mead as the two old friends exchanged greetings, and Harald told Eluned why he had invited Sven by. With a curt nod, she pulled up the leg of his pants and inspected his mangled shin, tutting in disapproval as she voiced her honest opinion of whoever had seen to it after the battle. Then, while the two men caught each other up on recent events in more detail than their brief meeting in town had allowed for - largely in their native tongue, leaving her rather out of the loop - she bustled around her kitchen, digging through the various pots and bottles of salves and potions.

Soon, she returned with a greasy ointment that she applied liberally to the area, while explaining that the wounds had been allowed to heal lopsided, causing the scar-tissue to pull against the underlying muscle. He'd need to rub a specific salve into it regularly over the next several weeks in order to soften the hardened tissue so that it could take on a less problematic shape... but she didn't have enough of that salve for the purpose, and would need to cook up a bigger batch of it first. "Guess you're staying for supper!" declared Harald with a smile that seemed downright proud. It gave Eluned a strange, fluttery feeling inside - she still wasn't used to being complimented on a skill she'd once had to keep largely secret.

While Eluned started getting the various ingredients she needed together, and blew life back into the embers of the cookfire, Harald declared that he would take care of the evening meal - she would be busy, after all, as would the kitchen. She had a fairly keen idea about what that meant, but held back the sharp retort about wastage she'd usually have delivered. Taking a few jabs at him in private was one thing, but she didn't want to do it in front of a visitor... the notion of being on your best behaviour around guests was too ingrained in her to easily ignore.

Sure enough, when she emerged from the house hours later - well and truly sweaty after labouring over her cauldron for so long - she found that Harald had built a bonfire in the middle of the farmyard, ringed with stones, with a solid chunk of salted pork (bought during their latest foray to the village) turning lazily above it on a spit. Sven was keeping the increasingly delicious-smelling chunk of pork-ribs spinning with one hand as he sat by it, trading stories and laughs with Harald who was continuing his work on the pigsty nearby.

Lumps of bread and roast pork, picked straight from the spit, wasn't her idea of a civilized dinner... and she could certainly do without Harald grinning naughtily at her every time he spread butter on his bread... but she couldn't deny that it made for a tasty combination. It had been a long time since she last got to eat a meal she hadn't had to prepare herself, and she found herself relaxing more and more as she watched the two men chatter and laugh in their native tongue. They hardly seemed like terrifying invaders at the moment - more like kids around a campfire, really.

Once they had eaten their fill, she explained that she'd finished making a healthy stock of the salve Sven needed - but it would need another hour or two to firm up before it could be transported. Sven's gratitude was obvious despite his somewhat poor command of the language, and he was asking her how he could possibly thank her... when Harald put a hand on his shoulder and proclaimed that he had an excellent idea on that count. The smiles they then exchanged seemed... worrying, and she suddenly wondered just what kind of stories they might have shared during the day.

Still, she had no reason to argue when Harald then suggested that they move the party inside the main house - an evening breeze was beginning to blow, and it had a chill touch to it... a reminder that despite the bright nights, the season still only barely qualified as early summer. But as soon as they were inside - where it was nice and toasty, with the embers still glowing merrily in the fire-pit - Harald was all over her. Grabbing her from behind, his strong arms encircled her, and his hands sought sensitive areas with practised ease. "No... stop it! We've got company!" she managed to gasp out, even as she felt her pulse quicken in an all-too familiar fashion.

"Indeed..." he whispered in her ear before planting a kiss on her neck. "That's the idea. Sven and I have a long history of working together... on the battlefield and elsewhere." His hands grew more insistent, and she looked up at him in alarm. She felt his rock-hard erection push into her arse-crack through the two layers of cloth separating them and panic warred with desire. Did he mean... both of them? Well, the Church would've probably damned her to Hell for even considering such a thing, but THAT was hardly news, and the Pastor wasn't around anymore. Still, it seemed an intimidating prospect, and... well, she'd only agreed to share Harald's bed in order to stay there on the farm. Why should she surrender her body to this 'Sven' too? There was no logical reason. But Harald's hands on her body, his lips on her neck, his breath stirring her hair, all combined to compete with the promptings of common sense. She looked over at Sven, her cheeks aflame.

Sven caught her glance and shook his head with mock sadness. "Indeed... and you always seem to rush ahead, Harald. Give the poor lass a chance to adjust before you push her in, eh? Well, don't worry... Eluned," the way he struggled to pronounce her name was rather charming "It'll be fun, I promise. The only thing better than a Viking in the sack, is two Vikings - and if that isn't a saying, well, it should be!"

He came to stand in front of her, and with Harald pushing from behind - mostly around hip-level - she found herself looking up into his laughing blue eyes. He was tall, and well made, and almost as good looking as he was good humoured, and Eluned felt herself weakening. As though he sensed it, Harald began to press his advantage, caressing her more insistently, making her mind swim.

Sven moved forward, and she was caught between two muscle-hard bodies. "Eluned... it's a beautiful name, I think. And from what I've learned of the local tongue, it means something, doesn't it? Remind me, if you will..." Already feeling strangely detached from her normal self, she murmured, 'It … it means 'much desired'..." "Ah, how well it suits you! Does it not, Harald?" Eluned looked back over her shoulder at her lover, and saw his eyes gleam with amusement. Had he known all along? "Oh, indeed. So it seems unfair to keep her all to myself." Harald bent his head close to Eluned's ear, and his voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. "I would have you do this for me, Eluned. Let him touch you."

She nodded, barely, almost imperceptibly, and a second set of hands began to caress her body, tracing her curves, making her shiver. It wasn't the same as Harald's touch, but... he said this was what he wanted. Something so outrageous, she'd never have dreamed of doing it ordinarily - being with two men at the same time. When he'd first claimed her arse, she'd fought him... but then she'd trusted him, and it had proved enjoyable in the end. Now, she didn't even really feel like fighting it. Her body was responding to the two pairs of caressing hands, and part of her wanted to convince Harald that she wasn't just some sheltered farm-girl. She wanted to please him. Impress him. Maybe he'd show her that proud little half-smile he always had when she demonstrated her druidic skills.

Sven, apparently satisfied that she wasn't resisting, seated himself on a chair with his trousers around his ankles, demonstrating that he was both nearly as hirsute and nearly as well-equipped as Harald. She only got a brief glimpse, however, before she was spun around, stumbling back towards him even as Harald groped her and planted hot kisses on her lips. Eager hands pulled up her skirt from behind, bunching it around her waist even as she was eased down on his lap. Sven's voice - smoother than Harald's, and sparkling with humour rather than heavy with authority - was in her ear as he guided her towards the mark with one hand on her hips and the other on his rod. "So, sweetheart – will you let us show you what two Norsemen can do?" Her only reply was an inarticulate moan as Sven began to enter her..

Lubrication was not a problem - her lower mouth had a tendency to start drooling the moment Harald made a grab for her, and the sheer pervertedness of this situation seemingly did little to deter it. A groan escaped her lips, silenced by Harald's mouth, as the familiar sensation of penetration made her shiver. Then she was sitting square on Sven's lap, with his manhood buried deep inside her. Her legs were spread and her back arched slightly away from him - it had all happened quite instinctively, no different from the many times she'd mounted Harald in a similar way. Except, of course, that Harald was still standing in front of her, guiding her head down towards his groin where his own rod was now emerging from his trousers - even as Sven's nimble hands started to undo her blouse.

Before she had time to finish reeling, she found herself awash in stimulating, reason-erasing sensations. Sven had quickly removed her blouse, and one of his hands was now busy squeezing and massaging her breasts, pinching and twisting her nipples - even as his other hand guided her hips to begin bouncing on his manhood, sending familiar surges of pleasure through her. At the same time, her lips were wrapped around Harald's familiar, sweat-scented shaft, licking and sucking as it plunged into the back of her throat, his strong hands wrapped around her head, entangled in her hair. "Make sure you do a thorough job..." he whispered down at her, pumping his hips gently. "You can probably guess where it's going afterwards."

She could, indeed, though with her mouth full, the only reply she could give was to glare up at him. Well, maybe it wasn't quite a glare, considering how hard it was for her to get her eyes to keep focusing. It was easy enough for her to lose herself in the regular lovemaking with Harald, and doubling the level of stimulation wasn't helping. And why fight it, really? All she had to do was just... let go, and let those big, strong hands guide her to new, unexplored vistas of pleasure and sensation.

And guide her they did. First to the bitter-yet-savoury taste of fresh, hot cum coating her taste-buds, even as a familiar warmth spread through her abdomen. Then, down to the floor, on top of Sven, her hips still pumping over his abiding erection, her moans now flowing unimpeded. A muscular body covered hers, while a blunt intrusion lubricated by her own saliva forced open her sphincter. The brief, stinging pain of the initial stretching was entirely lost in the feeling of being caught between two powerful bodies, both undulating against her, pushing into her, pleasuring her. Strong hands were caressing her entire body, massaging her full breasts, tickling her clit, pushing and pulling her against the two rock-hard intruders. She'd never felt so full, so penetrated, so totally enveloped in carnal pleasures...

Orgasms were not late in coming - for her or the two men now busily pouring their virile energy into her. The sound of the thrusts swiftly became slimy and obscene, even as she began to lose track of time. When she found herself standing again - bent sharply at the waist as Harald continued to pound her arse, pulling her back against his thrusts with a firm grip on her arms - she could not rightly say how she'd gotten into that position. Nor did she spend too much time wondering - she was too busy sucking and licking Sven's firm rod as it slid smoothly into her throat, taking advantage of her straightened neck. She relished the taste of the frothy mix covering his shaft - his bitter sperm and her own sweet juices - even as the orgasms continued to flow through her despite her now-empty pussy.

The air in the small, low-roofed building was soon thick with the smells of sex - sweat-dewed bodies and well-lubricated genitals. The two men seemed to be spurring each other on to ever-greater displays of virility and sexual agility - each shining in his own way. Sven was still hampered by his leg, limiting the positions he could use, but having clearly had less access to regular entertainment than Harald, he could compensate with greater endurance. Harald, meanwhile, had experience on his side, being already intimately familiar with all of her weak-spots, the words and touches that pushed her to higher levels of pleasure - and he seemed eager to show this knowledge off to his friend. As much as they competed, however, they both remained focused on the main task - pleasuring her in ever-more inventive ways, moving in unison or in an alternating rhythm.

The cleaning-cloth she always carried saw a great deal of use, as the two men frequently switched up orifices to keep things fresh. Mouth, pussy or arsehole - none of them got to rest for long, and before the end, both men had found time to visit each in turn... at least once. Double-layered orgasms, radiating from her clit, her arse, or somewhere deep inside her, were frequent. Each shuddering thrust, each hot load of thick cum making its way inside her by one avenue or another, each caressing stroke across her breasts, belly, thighs, ribs, face... lifting her higher, pushing her deeper into the sea of pleasure. She could have floated there for aeons, unconcerned by anything except the pleasurable sensations coursing through her, her body moving on instinct and grunted commands... but in the end, even Vikings have limited to their endurance.

By the time the pleasure receded and her self-awareness resurfaced, like the tides pulling back to show the once-hidden beach, it was fully dark in the room - lit only by the silvery moonlight streaming in through the windows. Hours had passed, she realised - which probably explained why the two bulky, war-hardened men flanking her on the floor were both panting loudly and bathed in sweat, still struggling to regain their breaths after the long exertion. She was tired herself, but not really exhausted - it was the men who'd been doing most of the movement, after all. Nonetheless, she didn't really feel like getting up - a sense of mellow contentment had come over her, aided by a many-layered orgasmic afterglow and a warm sensation that lingered in her abdomen like a low hum. She could feel various fluids leaking out of her, and knew that she'd have to scrub the floor tomorrow, but for the moment, she couldn't work up the energy to care.

Harald was the first to rise, followed by Sven, who got on his feet with a grunt and a helping hand from his friend. While Sven wiped himself down and started putting his clothes back on, Harald scooped Eluned up in his arms and carried her over to her bed, depositing her gently on the blanket with a tickling kiss on her cheek and the proud half-smile she had hoped for. He whispered something, but it wasn't in a language she could understand. She was tempted to ask him what it had meant, but she was too tired. She couldn't work up the energy to care about the stains she'd likely leave on the bedding, either, and just watched lazily from there as Harald helped Sven bundle up the by-now hardened jars of salve, exchanging incomprehensible questions and reassurances that probably centred around Sven's ability to walk home by himself in the light of the full moon.

Then, after seeing Sven off with a wave, he went to his own bed - stopping to tuck her in on the way, pulling the blanket over her still-sweaty skin. She was grateful for this - once the initial heat of the moment had worn off, the chill of the night had begun to settle in, but she just hadn't quite been able to gather herself together to pull up the blanket herself. She smiled sleepily up at him, noticing how his eyes still danced with desire as he looked down on her ivory-white skin in the pale moonlight - but however ready his spirit was, the flesh remained worn-out, and with another drawn-out yawn he went to bed.

A month later, the summer had got started for real, and they were taking another trip down to the village together. Her various curatives had sold well, to the point where the merchant couldn't manage to keep them in stock - so this time, they were both carrying baskets of tinctures and salves. With the profits, they would buy a couple of residents for the by-now finished pig-pen, and depending on how the negotiations with the merchant went, an ox and a plough as well. Harald had originally intended to save those expenses till next spring, so as not to have to feed such a large animal for nearly a year before it would be useful again - but she had reassured him that with the right crops, they could get a solid harvest even if they only started ploughing a new field now. This had made him praise her for her local knowledge and initiative, which had made her blush and momentarily forget that she wasn't supposed to like him.

Indeed, keeping up her usual campaign of sharp words was becoming increasingly difficult, and she found herself sometimes conversing pleasantly with him for long periods of time before catching herself at it. She wasn't even entirely certain why she was even keeping it up anymore... other than what she'd by now had to admit to herself was a certain illicit thrill at prompting his often-pleasurable 'punishments'. During the walk to the village, for example, she wound up listening attentively - and asking frequent questions - as Harald explained to her what marriage meant amongst the Norsemen.

"It is generally believed that a man should have a strong back and a firm hand, so that he might plough the fields - or pull in the heavy nets, as the case may be - and stand firm on the battlefield. Strength, courage and determination are male virtues." He made grand gestures as he explained - a habit of his that she had come to find increasingly amusing. "However, any task which instead requires insight, knowledge or forethought is best left to those more apt in such matters... that is, women. As such, in a Viking marriage, the husband owns his plough - or fishing-boat - and his armour and weapons, while the wife holds the keys to the house, the larder, and indeed the purse. Men, it is thought, are simply too frivolous, too driven by needs and desires, to make wise choices in matters such as money."

He shrugged off her disbelieving comments with a grin, continuing with a grand gesture in the general direction of the nearest shore. "Most of the men I fought beside when we sacked Pembroke are married. The gold and valuables they plundered? Once they get home, they'll turn it all over to their wives, who will do a far better job of administrating it and putting it to use than they ever could." It seemed ludicrous, but she'd already seen how many things her new neighbours had vastly different attitudes on - otherwise, she'd hardly be able to make a small fortune off of selling the products of her 'witchcraft'. "Does that mean that if I married you, the farm would be mine again?" she asked jokingly. The answer, however, was a broad grin, and a twinkling pair of bright-blue eyes that caught hers before she could look away. "Of course."

She was largely silent for the rest of the walk, chewing over that bit of information and trying to decide how she felt about it. Upon reaching the village, however, she shook it off, clearing her head so that she could focus on the upcoming bargaining. The merchant looked with hungry eyes on the bounty they had brought him, and she was quick to exploit that - arguing for a significant increase in pricing, with the justification that finding the right herbs was becoming increasingly difficult and time-demanding. The merchant, while foreign, had clearly spent a lot of time practising the local language - you can't rip off those you can't talk to, after all - and was just as competent at it as Harald, robbing her of the linguistic advantage she'd held against the blacksmith. Nonetheless, she threw herself into the fray with abandon, thankful that the negotiations required her full attention, thus preventing any further musings on the subject of marriage.

In the end, she stood victorious, though not without casualties. She'd been forced to promise the merchant regular shipments at the same price to get him to agree, but the purse of coins he handed her was delightfully heavy. Harald, who had watched the whole thing silently, had a smile on his face that was entirely too proud for her tastes, and she did her best to ignore it as they moved on, deciding unanimously that they would, indeed, buy an ox too. On the way to the tavern - where Harald seemed sure he'd run into some neighbours willing to part with an ox and maybe a few healthy pigs - they paused at the blacksmith, who had taken advantage of the fine weather to display many of his goods outside the smithy.

While Harald went inside to discuss the forging of a proper, iron-tipped plough with the blacksmith, she lingered outside to browse a selection of kitchen-knives. The one she'd bargained her way to a month earlier had served her well, and if she was going to turn this whole medicine-production deal into a regular thing, she'd need some small, fine knives for chopping up the herbs efficiently. She hummed slightly as she looked over each of the small, sharp knives in turn, weighing them in her hand, feeling the smoothness of the handles... until the sound of a woman's wail drew her attention away from them, and she glanced down the street to see where it came from.

A woman was lying in the street - a Celt, like herself, though not anyone she recognized. A sack of vegetables lay spilled at her feet, and she was covering her cheek with her hands even as tears rose in her eyes. Standing above her was a tall, broad-shouldered Viking with a scraggly, black beard and long, unkempt hair. His hand was lifted, as if ready to deliver another blow, and sadistic glee seemed to dance in his small, deep-set eyes. Others had stopped in the street as well, and were now scowling in his direction. Still, no-one seemed inclined to jump in as a powerful slap sent the girl's head sideways, her other cheek now just as red as its twin.

However, as he lifted his hand for one more strike, Eluned's eyes seemed to suddenly focus, and it felt like time was slowing down. The Viking's right hand was lifted for the blow, making it easy to see that the smallest of the fingers was missing, leaving a blunt scar at the bottom of the palm. In a sudden flash of memory, she recalled the words of a young man, trying to hide his limp as he desperately begged her to flee north, into the mountains, along with him. "Listen to me, Eluned... your da's dead. I saw it myself! He was in the thick of the fighting, as brave as any man could hope, but one of those damnable dub gint tore right into the lines, laughing like a madman! Cut down five men, smilin' all the time - your da amongst them! ...what he looked like? What's it matter! They're all monsters... fine, fine! I saw him, all right - bloody image's burned into my head, it is. Black beard, black hair, soaked in blood - eyes BURNING with glee, like he was enjoyin' the slaughter! Axe, rising and falling, in a four-fingered hand!"

Feeling her breathing speed up, her eyes panned sideways to the display-stands outside the smithy. Mostly tools of various stripes, but there also was a selection of stout boar-spears leaning against the wall. Dropping the simple kitchen-knife she was holding, she walked calmly forwards, grabbing one of the spears as she went. It was solid, like most of the things the new blacksmith produced, and the bright sunlight gleamed off of the razor-sharp edges of the triangular head. As she drew closer, more memories flashed through her head. Her father. His large, gentle hands. His rare smiles that only she saw. The mournful expression on his face when he told her about her mother. The pride that would not allow him to show how pained he was by the back-breaking labour, or the cold in the winter. The silent way he accepted the salves and potions she made for him, never asking what they were or where they had come from.

Daddy. She could have said many poor things of him, of the way he had managed the farm, or the easy way he knuckled under for the demands of the village pastor. She could even try to blame him for not standing up for her when villagers whispered that she was a witch, or for acceding to her mother's refusal to accept the herbal medicines of their Druidic ancestors and instead rely - futilely - on prayers to a silent God. But in the end, he was her dad - the man who had raised her mostly single-handed, and done all he could to shield her from the sharp corners of the world. And this man... this creature had killed him and laughed while he did it.

He had not noticed her yet, focused as he was on the girl kneeling on the ground before him, trying to shield her face with her thin, bony arms. As she took the last few steps into range and pulled back the spear for a deadly jab, however, the rage building up inside her could not be contained - and she released it in a scream of primal rage. He looked up at the sound, saw the gleaming weapon speeding towards him... and then moved faster than she would have thought it possible. His left hand flew up, sweeping the spear aside, sending her stumbling past him for several steps before she managed to regain her balance and spun around, still clinging tightly to the weapon. A drop of crimson clung to the bright iron tip.

Looking at her foe, however, she could see that she had barely scratched him. A long, narrow line across the back of his left hand was oozing blood, and his face was like a thundercloud, but it was clear that it would take a lot more than that to finish him. Worse, she had seen him only in profile as she'd attacked him from the left - and thus hadn't been able to see that a short-hafted but sharp-looking axe was hanging from a strap on his belt. This axe had now jumped into his four-fingered right hand as he glared at her. "What is the meaning of this?!" he roared, in a heavily-accented but understandable language.

"You killed my father. I will kill you." The words whistled out between her tightly-clenched teeth even as she gripped the spear in her hand more tightly, preparing for another charge. Armed though he might be, the spear she held boasted vastly greater range - for all that it was only a short boar-spear - than the one-handed axe he now held.

His eyes widened slightly, then he laughed at the sky. "Killed your father, did I? Perhaps so. I've killed many a maiden's father. And now you want revenge? Oh, this is rich..." He held out his left hand, showing off the shallow cut she had inflicted there. "I do not know, or care, who you belong to, woman. You have wounded me. By right of law, your life is forfeit. I think I will take off those nasty little hands of yours and drag you home, where I can take my time with it..." Even through the fires of rage, his words chilled her to the bone. Angrily, she shook it off and snarled a challenge, jumping forwards with the spear at the ready.

At the same moment, however, he too leaped forwards, once again deflecting the razor spearhead - this time with the bright metal of his axe. The distance between them disappeared in an instant, and suddenly his left hand was closing around her wrist, pulling her forwards and out of balance even as he lifted his axe with a triumphant laugh. His deep-set eyes were overflowing with a dreadful eagerness, as if he could barely wait to see her blood spring from severed stumps. As if seeing her writhing in pain was, for him, a goal in and of itself.

Then a huge, dark mass came out of nowhere, charging into the clinch at great speed, pushing them apart even as the dreadful axe fell. Both combatants stumbled backwards, momentarily shaken by the intrusion, and in that moment of confusion she felt the spear being wrested from her hands even as the ground seemed to slip out from under her. She fell heavily to the ground, her arse bouncing on the hard gravel, and momentarily she recalled something similar happening before. Then she looked up and saw two things: Firstly, her father's killer had retained his footing, and was standing firmly with axe in hand still. Secondly, Harald was now standing right in front of her, back turned, with a round, wooden shield strapped to his left arm and the boar-spear held in his right. He was gripping it tightly near the cross-guard, like a sword with an over-long hilt.

Niels Ninefinger's eyes narrowed dangerously as they exchanged glares. "Just what do you think you're doing, Harald?" he drawled. "Even if she's your woman, you have no right to interfere. She attacked me out of the blue. You know the law, I'm sure." Harald couldn't resist rolling his eyes at hearing Niels Ninefinger, of all people, quote the letter of the law at him. "I know, all right... and it certainly is a grievous wound she has inflicted upon your person..." he said drily. "But she is not 'my woman', as you put it. She is my wife, and as such, I do not merely have the right to take her place in this duel - it is, in fact, my duty."

Niels' obvious surprise quickly changed into a cynical sneer. "Wife, eh? I suppose I should not be surprised that you'd settle for a thrall-blooded wench. I'm disappointed I did not get an invitation to the wedding, though..." Harald merely raised an eyebrow. "You shouldn't be. I hate your guts, after all. Then again, everyone who knows you does." Niels set his jaw, and the glare intensified, even as he subtly shifted his weight and pulled back his right hand. His sharp eyes were scanning Harald's firm, defensive stance, looking for any gap he could ram his short-hafted axe through.

Then Harald laughed. "Is that how it's going to be, Niels Ninefinger? Will you truly challenge me in a duel? Me - Harald Helbound?! Do you truly think you have the strength to change the fate of one cursed by almighty Odin to die the straw-death?" He banged the borrowed spear against the iron dome at his shield's centre, creating a ringing sound that was entirely familiar to anyone who had ever faced the Viking Horde on the fields of battle. The other man flinched back, as the mean-spirited nickname he himself had coined - though, of course, never to his face - several years ago, was thrown back in his face. Doubt was now spreading across a face previously dominated by anger and blood-thirst. He had been the first to suggest that Harald's apparent invincibility was not a sign of divine favour, but rather a curse... and now he found himself contemplating just what it would mean to fight against either.

Then he snorted and lowered his axe, sticking it back in its belt-strap. "I think not, Harald Helbound. Perhaps I could send you to Valhalla, at that, but I would not do you that favour. I will find my own way to Valhalla, facing a less ill-fated foe, in due time." Then he threw a sharp glance at the pale, dark-haired woman sitting in the dirt behind him. "Let me give you some advice, though... keep your 'wife' on a short leash. If I meet her again... well. I can't promise not to finish what I started, should you fail to be around to play at being her guard-dog. And maybe next time, I'll have my own shield with me - and a proper weapon besides." With that final tirade, he turned on the heel and stalked away, glaring at any of the onlookers who came too close.... which was quite a few, since it seemed like most of the village had emerged from their homes to watch events unfold.

With a sigh of relief, he lowered the shield and the spear, before turning to face Eluned - who was even now climbing to her feet and glaring daggers at Niels Ninefinger's back. "We can talk, later, about why you attacked him. For now, we should probably go home... well, once we've paid the blacksmith for this shield and that spear. I suppose we won't be buying an ox soon after all..." For a moment, it seemed like she would ignore him and dash after Niels - then the man turned a corner and disappeared from view, and she relaxed a bit. A curt nod was all the reply he got, though, and once again she was refusing to meet his eyes... perhaps for a different reason than usual, he thought.

The blacksmith was remarkably even-tempered for someone who just had two of his items walk out the store without payment, and even gave them a very good price on the items - presumably, he knew Niels Ninefinger, and had enjoyed seeing the role his weapons had played in humiliating that thoroughly unlikeable man. Thanks to that, there was enough left over of the funds they had earned from the sale of Eluned's curatives to afford a couple of pigs, at least - but that would have to wait 'till another day. For now, he needed to go home.

Once they had left the village, Eluned - who had been quiet since he jumped into the middle of her unfolding duel with Niels - finally spoke up. "Harald... 'The Unhurt', that's what they call you, yes? Because you never get hurt in battle?" He nodded, keeping up a brisk walking-pace as she continued the line of inquiry. "Then why is there blood pooling under your shirt?" He paused and craned his neck to look over his shoulder. Sure enough, a red stain was seeping through the back of his shirt, now, and spreading downwards from his right shoulder. "Well, that would probably be because I blocked an axe-stroke with my back. It's fortunate that his swing had barely begun - seems like a shallow cut - and that this shirt is so thick. Stopped the blood from staining his blade. If he'd seen that I bleed just like any other man, he might not have backed down so readily... and I'm not sure I could have won that duel against him, even with shield and spear against hand-axe. The man fights like a bear with a sore tooth."

She did not reply to this, and they walked in silence for a bit before he felt the need to explain himself. "That whole... 'The Unhurt' thing... there's nothing mystical about it, really. I'm just careful in combat. Learned how to rely on my shield first and my weapon second. Figured out early on how to gauge an enemy, and strike when their defences were down, while keeping my own guard up. How to pick my fights, too. Later, when everyone started giving me nicknames, I learned how to use that too - using intimidation to make the enemy hesitate, making them doubt themselves. And, of course, how to wear proper armour, in multiple layers. Seem to have forgotten that last one today, mind."

There was no reply, and the rest of the trip took place in silence. However, as soon as they'd reached their farm, and he had dropped the boar-spear and the shield by the door, Eluned pulled off his blood-stained shirt and grabbed a jar of ointment from her medicine-shelf. As he sat sideways on one of the chairs, she began to clean out the wound and lathered on the salve, stopping the bleeding. Even when she'd finished, however, her hands remained on his back... then leaned against it face-first, pressing a soft cheek against the hardened muscles. "It'll leave a scar." she said quietly. "But that's fine. I think it'll look good on you. Any warrior ought to have a few scars, right?" He smiled and nodded.

"That man... he was the one who killed my father. I got a description from a village lad who'd fought alongside daddy and survived. I'm sure it was him." Harald glanced over his shoulder, looking down at Eluned. Her eyes were closed, and wrinkles on her brow spoke of internal conflict. "Niels Ninefinger, huh? Well, it wouldn't surprise me. He's killed many." The corners or her mouth creased. "I need to kill him. I don't care if it was a 'worthy death on the battlefield'. He was my daddy. I can't let the one who killed him walk around, laughing freely and beating up slaves."

Harald sighed, leaning back against her, feeling her body push against him. She was strong, but... "Look... if you want to be able to pick fights and survive, you need to learn how to fight. I will teach you, if you like. I actually felt, the day I first saw you, that you could make a great Shieldmaiden..." Her eyes opened, and she blinked up at him with those deep, brown eyes of hers. "Shield-maiden? What?" Shrugging - and feeling the skin on his shoulder pull painfully at the motion - he explained. "Women who wish to fight. Not many do, and it's probably better that way - someone has to mind the house. But amongst my kin, if a woman has the will, the inclination and the strength to fight, she will be taught - and may stand alongside the menfolk on the battlefield, shield in hand."

He could see sudden possibilities dancing in her eyes, and hurriedly cut her off. "...but there's no way you could beat Niels Ninefinger. Not starting this late in your life. I doubt I could beat him in a fair fight. Mind... if you simply want to see him brought low, and have no need to personally swing the blade? I think you might get your wish soon." She blinked in confusion, and his smile turned mischievous. "Heh. That thrall-girl he was beating on when you charged at him. Did you see what happened to her?" She shook her head, her hair tickling his back as she did so, and her brow furrowed again as she tried to remember. "Well, I did. One of the women of the village pulled her to safety during the struggle. Moving quite deftly, at that. I suspect Niels Ninefinger has finally failed to outrun his reputation... and when such things catch up with you, it tends to be messy."

"I'm not sure what you're talking about..." she admitted - then she sighed, and pushed herself to her feet, letting go of his back with some reluctance. He quickly spun around on the chair and caught her eye - she no longer seemed to be avoiding it, which made his heart sing - and cleared his throat. "Oh, incidentally, there's... one more thing. I might have told Niels that you are my wife, in front of several witnesses. I kind of had to - otherwise, I would have had no legal right to intervene in the duel." She froze, her eyes suddenly sharper... but the way they scanned across his shirtless torso was more assessing than angry. "Did you? Well... in that case, I suppose we'll have to keep up such appearances whenever we visit the village or have company... husband dearest." The tone was breezy, and the last bit was said quite playfully - but nonetheless, he could not restrain a broad grin. The pain in his shoulder suddenly seemed insignificant... and he wasn't sure if it was just the numbing effect of the salve.

Several days later, Sven Brightmood came around for another visit - walking far better, now, than he had. He bore news from the village that heartened Eluned enormously. The girl Niels Ninefinger had been beating on, in the middle of the village streets, had been taken as a thrall during the sacking of Pembroke, and subsequently beaten into submission. However, seeing Harald stand up for Eluned - who was, after all, of the same tribe - had convinced her that not all of the invaders shared Niels Ninefinger's sadistic temper... and watching him then back down from the duel against Harald had broken the hold of intimidation and fear he'd had on her. Thus, when the villagers pressed her about her treatment, she'd told them of the vast variety of abuse Niels had heaped on her, and other thralls in his keeping.

With her as a witness, the villagers thus had due cause - and the very next day, a mob of well-armed Vikings turned up at Niels' farm, dragging him out even as they questioned the rest of his thralls. All of them told the same story, once the first girl had reassured them, and with so many witnesses, the village council was swift in handing down judgement. The key difference between a thrall and a slave, after all, was that though he - or she - was property, a thrall still had rights. The thrall's owner had a legal duty to protect them, and to abuse thralls for your own amusement was a heinous crime. Normally, a warning might have been issued... but thanks in no small part to Sven, who had made many fast friends in the village and shared with them many hair-raising tales of Niels' past deeds, his reputation had preceded him.

Eluned, on reflection, declined to go to the village to watch the execution. Just knowing that he had been brought to justice - if not for the thing she hated him for - and would kill no more, was enough for her. Neither Harald nor Sven felt any need to go watch either. They all had better things to do, after all - better uses for their time. This time, however - by Eluned's insistence - they would stay outside, with the soft grass of the forest's edge replacing the hard, earthen floor of the house. "It was such a chore to clean up after last time!" she proclaimed, even as Harald started nuzzling her neck and Sven began to unbutton her shirt...

The End