Chapter 10 Preparations
ten
Preparations
Thori
“Shipbreaker?”
He’d seen him in his sleep. Njord of Nóatún riding his dragon into battle. Two creatures of sea and seier, glorious and terrifying.
Thori woke with a start. For a moment, he didn’t know where he was, his back aching and his mouth dry like he’d swallowed a handful of sand. He lay on a large bed, enveloped in rich furs.
The raiders’ camp.
Norrin’s tent.
Thori’s stomach clenched with nausea.
Norrin Stormtamer had bought him.
Hands shooting up to clutch at his neck, he found the collar still sitting snugly around his throat, warm and smooth under his fingertips. Gods, for a moment, he’d thought everything had been just a fever dream.
His nausea intensifying, Thori’s stomach churned violently, a wave of dizziness washing over him.
He curled into a ball, trying to push away the cloying memory of being ensnared by Svanhild’s blót seier.
He’d felt the terror and pain of the poor thrall she had butchered as if it were his own, and there had been absolutely nothing he could do about it.
But Norrin had countered her spell and now—
Thori frowned in confusion.
His thunder was still trapped, but Norrin’s seier felt almost soft around him as if it were made of silk ribbons that wrapped gently around Thori’s body.
He shuddered. Norrin wasn’t a god. He didn’t possess powers as Thori did, but he must be a strong vala if his seier could match Svanhild’s.
The priestess seemed to think he was more powerful than herself if she was so willing to leave her ritual to him.
The heat of embarrassment warmed Thori’s face. Male volur weren’t unfamiliar to him; Odin was the Lord of seier, after all, but still—
As King of the Gods, it was only natural that his father would seek power and wisdom wherever he could find it.
He was far above any question about his manliness.
Still, the art of seier was a woman’s affair, inextricably entwined with sexual indulgences too indecent for a warrior like Thori to even contemplate. At least in theory…
Although that one time he’d slept with Jarnsaxa and she’d shoved her fingers up his ass—unprompted, of course—had felt…
nice. Was it the same as sharing a bed with a warrior?
He hadn’t sought Jarnsaxa out later, too embarrassed by his reaction, and perhaps a little worried that he might acquire a taste for that sort of activity.
In any case, her longship had left for Jotunheim soon afterward, and he hadn’t seen the Jotunn shieldmaiden again. Not that it mattered now.
The faint rustling of fabric made Thori look up. Was Norrin coming back?
A nauseating odor filled the tent; the metallic smell of blood mixed with something sweet and disgusting: honey and decay. His stomach twisted as he recognized the strange perfume before even laying eyes on the woman who carried it.
Svanhild.
His fingers dug into the furs beneath him, the memory of her blót seier trapping him, and her clutching hands around his throat flooding his mind. He forced himself to sit up, ignoring the way his muscles protested.
“Well, well,” she purred. “Look who’s still alive.”
Svanhild grinned. She lingered at the entrance, framed by the faint light of the torches outside. Her long, fair hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her pale eyes gleamed with amusement as she took in Thori’s weakened state. But there was also something else: a flicker of insecurity.
“I don’t think Norrin welcomes you here,” Thori said, following a hunch.
Svanhild clicked her tongue, stepping into the tent as if she owned the place, as if she owned him. But Thori could sense her unease.
“Silly áss. Do you think he replaced my seier with his own out of sheer kindness?”
Her gaze slid to his neck, where the golden collar sat warm against his skin. Was he just imagining it, or did her already pale face lose even more color?
“The only thing he had in mind was marking you as his, as he’s going to mark you during the ritual.”
“He can certainly try,” Thori snarled, though Svanhild’s words sent a shiver down his spine. “I’ll never belong to anyone.”
“Still stubborn. I suppose that’s why Norrin finds you so entertaining.”
He lifted his chin defiantly, refusing to lower his gaze.
With the stealth of a nightmare creature, Svanhild crept closer, withdrawing a glass vial from her pouch.
She opened it with a smirk and poured a strange golden oil over her hands.
The sickly sweet aroma which he’d smelled before increased tenfold, clogging his nose.
Thori tensed, his whole body prepared to fight.
“Lie back down,” Svanhild ordered.
Thori didn’t move.
“No.”
Her grin grew even wider.
“That wasn’t a request.”
Before he could react, she leapt, her speed amplified by seier.
Thori was slammed into the furs, coils of magic wrapping around his limbs like iron bands.
His body was still weakened, his reflexes sluggish, and she took full advantage of it.
No matter how much Thori fought back, he couldn’t break free.
His vision shrank until all he saw was her predatory grin, his chest feeling tight as if she was choking him again.
“Save your strength for the ritual,” she cooed.
Her bell-bright laughter hurt his ears.
“I’ll kill you,” Thori growled.
Straddling his waist, Svanhild smeared her glittering oil all over his bare chest, rubbing it into his skin with slow, deliberate strokes.
As she worked, she chanted under her breath, and the moment the substance touched Thori’s wounds, a searing pain shot through him.
He gritted his teeth, refusing to give her the satisfaction of hearing him cry out, but his breath hitched nonetheless.
She may not weigh much more than a child, but her weight still felt smothering to him.
“Ah, there it is,” she murmured delightedly. “Can you feel that? That will help you with your…performance when the time comes. We don’t want you to be unprepared for the ritual, do we?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean, that you’re going to be fucked like a little whore in front of everyone. I’ll make good use of your power to bless Vanaheim.”
“Never!” Thori growled, although he knew very well that he didn’t have a say in this.
Svanhild only snorted in amusement. She trailed her fingers lower, spreading the oil along his ribs, over his stomach, a mocking imitation of a lover’s touch.
Thori wasn’t sure if he could ever enjoy a maiden riding him in a similar position again, or whether it would make him as sick as he felt now.
“I can’t wait to watch Lord Norrin use you for the ritual. I’ll make sure he drains your power so you’ll be only a shadow of yourself once he’s done with you. And everyone will know it was my seier bringing your ruin.”
“You can try. But I’ll curse your crops. I’ll let your barley rot in the fields and send thunder and lightning to destroy your oats and rye. The Vanir will starve!”
Svanhild simply ignored his threats. Pulling another vial from her pocket, she uncorked it with a practiced flick of her thumb.
Thori eyed the deep red liquid shimmering in it with growing trepidation.
“Watch your mouth, thrall,” she said sweetly. “Norrin may have been foolish enough to soften the collar’s enchantment, but this will help to keep you in line.”
Thori turned his head away, pressing his lips together. By Hel’s tits, he wouldn’t drink her poison.
“Now, don’t be difficult.”
Svanhild grabbed his jaw, pressing her thumb and forefinger into his cheeks. He fought her stubbornly, but it was useless. She forced him to open his mouth and pressed the vial to his lips, the syrupy liquid flooding his mouth. Thori had no choice but to swallow unless he wanted to choke.
He coughed, the strange liquid burning all the way down his throat.
The potion took effect immediately. His limbs grew heavy, and he was drowned by dizziness, caught in a strange place between waking and dreaming. He fought against it, blinking rapidly, but the tent blurred in front of his eyes.
“There now,” Svanhild said, stroking his cheek mockingly. “Much better. Don’t worry, you won’t be unconscious during the ritual. You’ll still be awake enough to feel exactly what’s happening. Now for the rest of the preparations…”
Svanhild slipped from her position atop him to kneel by his side, and Thori desperately wished for her to leave. Hadn’t she gotten what she wanted?
With more strength than he would have given her credit for, Svanhild flipped him over onto his stomach.
He couldn’t properly see what she was doing anymore, couldn’t move, the new position only adding to the panic expanding in his chest. The smell of her oil clogged his nose, making it hard to breathe.
Thori fought to break her seier, shake off her poison, but no matter how hard he tried, his thunder stayed out of reach.
“Stop squirming,” Svanhild said, annoyance bleeding into her voice. “It’s no use, anyway.”
She slid lower, settling between Thori’s legs.
Starting at the top of his shoulders, she dispersed the oil over his back.
Thori hissed, her cursed touch feeling like a brand against the whip marks.
His muscles clenched as wave after wave of searing heat burned his skin, and his vision turned fuzzy.
Still, he stubbornly clung to consciousness, refusing to pass out. He had endured worse.
Her fingers slid beneath the hem of his trousers, and Thori’s stomach clenched, his breath turning to uneven gasps.
No! She can’t—
She pulled down the flimsy fabric of his pants, exposing him. And somehow this was worse than washing up and changing in front of her. Her hands wandered over the globes of his ass, spreading the oil around, squeezing…
“I should prepare you thoroughly. What do you think? Some oil to ease the passage? You’ll thank me for it later.”
Her voice was like venom dripping into his ear, and Thori froze, his muscles locking up.
The tent flap opened, and a gust of cold air caressed Thori’s heated skin. He could sense Norrin’s presence, a breath of fresh, salty air chasing away the stench Svanhild had brought with her.
Thori struggled to tilt his head. Perched above him, Svanhild still lingered, but he could make out the silhouettes of two warriors at the tent’s entrance. Norrin and a tall woman he hadn’t seen before.
Shame and relief washed over him, battling for the upper hand.
“What are you doing here?”
Norrin’s voice sounded icy.
“Helping,” she purred. “He needs preparation for the ritual, doesn’t he?”
But despite her words, she recoiled her hands from Thori’s body.
“I don’t need your help,” Norrin growled. “Get. Out.”
Thori felt such overwhelming relief; it bordered on adoration.
With a few quick strides, Norrin’s shieldmaiden was on Svanhild, grabbing her arm and pulling her off and away from Thori.
“You heard him, priestess. Out with you.”
Svanhild let herself be pulled away, but not before casting Thori one last smirk.
“Sweet dreams, little thunder.”
The moment she was gone, Thori felt a tremble running through his body. He couldn’t stop it. His vision swam, the potion’s effects pulling at him like ghostly hands, dragging him toward unconsciousness.
Norrin stepped closer, and Thori’s heart fluttered like a trapped bird behind his ribs. He didn’t want anybody to see him like this. The thought of Norrin’s inevitable mockery made him sick. He would probably finish what Svanhild had started, and Thori couldn’t—
Not like this.
Kneeling down beside the bed, Norrin pulled Thori’s pants back in place, allowing him a shred of modesty. He brushed a few tangled strands from Thori’s forehead in an almost gentle gesture. A surge of frantic hope clawed its way into Thori’s chest. Maybe he could bargain with him?
“Stormtamer,” Thori rasped, clinging to the furs beneath him to center himself. “I—I’ll complete the ritual with you, but please—not like this.”
“I can’t promise you that,” Norrin said, his sharp features taking on a troubled expression.
Desperate, Thori tried to keep his eyes open for a moment longer. He needed to convince Norrin. If he waited just a few hours so Thori could recover a bit—
“Please,” Thori slurred. It was unworthy to beg, but he couldn’t bear the thought of being dragged to the ritual unconscious and without control over his body. Not after Svanhild had given him a bitter foretaste of what it would feel like. “I’ll serve you, but please—”
For a moment, Norrin hesitated. Then his hand settled against Thori’s cheek, the touch warm and grounding. His thumb brushed along Thori’s cheekbone, and Thori leaned into it instinctively.
“Hush now, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll make sure that Svanhild won’t hurt you again.”
Thori exhaled shakily. He had no reason to believe Norrin’s words, but a part of him did.
Betrayed by his body at last, his muscles loosened despite every instinct screaming caution.
Sleep beckoned, treacherous and sweet. Unable to resist any longer, he gave in to the exhaustion that overwhelmed him.
As his consciousness faded, warmth settled over his hand. Norrin's palm covered his own, solid and anchoring, a reassuring presence in the gathering dark.
“Rest now. Let me handle Svanhild,” Norrin said.