Chapter 6: The Offering
The first sliver of sun crested the jagged mountain peaks, setting the sky ablaze in hues of gold and rose. In the Valkyrie village square, the air was crisp, scented with pine smoke and the rich aroma of roasting boar. The day was beginning, and with it, the communal breakfast, a noisy, vibrant affair of clattering plates and deep, echoing laughter.
Caius, however, was only vaguely aware of the dawn. He was being dragged, naked and dazed, his feet stumbling over the cold, dew-kissed cobblestones. Astrid’s grip on his wrist was like iron, her stride purposeful and triumphant. She was equally naked, her skin glowing in the new light, her hair a wild, tangled mane. The evidence of their night was painted across her thighs.
“Gather round, sisters!” Astrid’s voice, rough with use and pride, cut through the morning chatter. “Come and see! Come and see what a true princely gift looks like!”
The Valkyries, a breathtaking assembly of muscular, curvaceous women with flowing hair and eyes the color of winter skies, turned as one. Their conversation died, replaced by a low, curious murmur. They saw their revered war-leader, Astrid, looking thoroughly, gloriously wrecked—her lips swollen, a fresh, dark love bite visible on her neck, her body still flushed.
With a theatrical flourish, Astrid spread her legs wide right there in the center of the square and bent over slightly, bracing her hands on her knees. “Behold!”
A collective, sharp intake of breath hissed through the crowd. Then, a thick, pearlescent river gushed from her, splattering onto the stones with an audible wet sound. It wasn't a trickle; it was a cascade, a testament to the impossible volume Caius’s body had produced. The smell of it, musky and intimate, mingled with the scent of breakfast.
“Gods below,” a pixie cutted Valkyrie whispered, her eyes wide.
“He filled me to the brim,” Astrid declared, straightening up and wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “Again and again. All night long. My longhouse is a swamp. My tub overflowed. This scrawny little book-prince has the load of a mountain giant!” She reached back and pulled a stunned Caius against her, her back to his front, her ample rear pressing into him. “Look at him! Doesn’t look like much, does he? But he’s a fucking fountain. I’m still leaking him.”
Caius wished the mountains would swallow him whole. The heat in his face was a furnace. He tried to cover himself, but Astrid slapped his hand away. “Let them look,” she purred. “Let them see what claimed me.”
The initial shock broke, and the square erupted in lewd, approving laughter and cheers. A towering blonde with arms thick as tree trunks clapped him on the shoulder, nearly sending him to his knees. “Well done, little man!”
They were herded toward the long feasting tables. Platters heaped with steaming meat, wheels of cheese, and loaves of dark bread were laid out. Astrid, refusing to let him go, sat on a bench and pulled him down, then promptly settled herself in his lap, her full weight a familiar and now very public anchor. Her bare skin was warm against his.
She reached for a haunch of meat, tearing off a strip with her teeth. “So,” she said around a mouthful, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble meant for the immediate circle of sisters leaning in. “He’s got this… rhythm. Like a war drum. And just when you think he’s spent, that cursed thing of his just… refills. It’s unnatural. It’s magnificent.”
A Valkyrie with a intricate braid cascading over one shoulder leaned forward, her gaze fixed on Caius with unnerving intensity. “Is it true you can go five times before sunrise?” she asked, her voice a low, direct challenge.
“I… I didn’t… count,” Caius stammered, his voice barely a whisper.
“I counted,” Astrid announced proudly. “Seven. And the seventh was as potent as the first.”
A murmur of awe and fierce curiosity rippled around them. Another, younger Valkyrie with a smattering of freckles across her nose and chest piped up, her tone blunt and practical. “My turn next, Astrid. I want to feel that for myself. I need to know if my shield arm is stronger after.”
“You’ll have to wrestle me for him, Ingrid,” a third woman chuckled, her eyes roaming over Caius with a hungry appreciation that was entirely new to him. “And I don’t plan on losing.”
The demands came thick and fast, a cacophony of graphic propositions and competitive boasts. “I bet I can make him last longer.” “Does the curse make him taste different, Astrid? Be specific.” “I want to see those wings of yours again, sister. Let’s see if we can make them both pop.”
Caius sat trapped in the whirlwind of it all, Astrid’s solid warmth in his lap, the taste of mead someone had pressed into his hand sharp on his tongue. The initial, crushing embarrassment began to slowly, subtly, transmute. It was still overwhelming, terrifying even. But beneath the fear, a strange, fragile ember of something else was glowing. It wasn't pride, not quite. It was a dawning, shocking realization that in this place of warriors and legends, his curse—the source of a lifetime of awkwardness and shame—was being celebrated as the highest form of prowess.
He looked at the faces around him, these formidable women who could snap him in two, all now looking at him with a mix of reverence and raw, unvarnished desire. Astrid shifted in his lap, grinding down deliberately, and whispered hotly in his ear, “See? They all want a taste of your problem, prince.”
And for the first time, Caius thought that maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t a problem at all. It was a solution. He took a slow, deep breath, the mountain air filling his lungs, and his hand, almost of its own volition, settled firmly on Astrid’s hip, holding her there.