Chapter 8: A New Life of Worship
The transition from the steamy grotto to Astrid’s longhouse was a warm blur of muscle and murmured praise. Caius, wrapped in a thick fur, was half-carried, half-led by a retinue of chattering Valkyries whose hands seemed incapable of leaving his body for more than a moment. A palm would smooth over his shoulder, fingers would trail down his spine, a strong arm would curl possessively around his waist. He was a prize they were jointly bringing home.
The longhouse was a cavern of warmth and noise, the air thick with the scent of roasting boar, woodsmoke, and the distinct, musky perfume of powerful women. The great hearth roared, casting dancing shadows over walls carved with scenes of legendary battles and feasts. Valkyries lounged on heavy pelts and carved benches, their laughter a booming, joyous sound that echoed off the high, timbered ceiling.
“Make room! Make room for our little prince!” Astrid’s voice cut through the din, and a space was immediately cleared near the fire’s intense heat.
He was settled onto a mound of furs so soft they felt like clouded breath against his skin. Before he could even get his bearings, a Valkyrie with hair the color of flame and a smattering of freckles across her formidable chest was kneeling before him, holding a horn of mead to his lips.
“Drink,” she urged, her voice a warm, husky thing. “You need to keep your strength up.” Her eyes, a bright, mischievous green, dropped pointedly to his lap, where the fur tented once again despite his recent, explosive relief in the springs.
He drank. The mead was sweet and strong, honeyed fire sliding down his throat.
Another, a statuesque woman with dark braids coiled around her head like a crown, brought a platter of steaming meat. She didn’t offer it to him; instead, she tore off a strip with her fingers and held it to his mouth. “Eat, Prince. You are too thin. We must put some meat on those bones.” Her thumb brushed his lower lip as he accepted the food, and she smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips.
This was the pattern for the next hour. He was fed, he was drank, he was touched. A constant, rotating circle of women attended to him. A hand would land on his head, ruffling his hair affectionately. Another would massage the lingering soreness from his thighs. One, bolder than the rest, simply sat behind him, her immense, soft breasts pillowing his head while her fingers traced idle patterns on his chest.
He was the center of a storm of adoration. Their conversations swirled around him.
“Look at his eyes, so soft. Like a startled fawn.”
“A fawn with a battering ram between its legs, you mean.”
Riotous laughter.
“Do you think he’s truly real? I mean, all of him? It feels like a dream.”
“Pinch me, then. Or better yet, pinch him. I want to hear the sound he makes.”
He was no longer afraid. The initial, overwhelming shock had been burned away in the hot springs, replaced by a dawning, heady sense of power. This was nothing like the stifling court of his father, where his quiet nature was a weakness and his curse a source of shame. Here, his gentle demeanor was a novelty to be cherished, and his curse was… worshipped.
His earlier timidity began to feel like a discarded skin. Tentatively, he lifted a hand and placed it on the knee of the flame-haired Valkyrie who had fed him the mead. Her skin was warm and smooth over solid muscle. She glanced down, then back at his face, her grin widening. She covered his hand with her own, pressing it more firmly against her thigh.
“See?” Astrid’s voice came from his other side. She had been watching it all, a quiet, satisfied smirk on her face. She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. “They see what I see. A king needing only a kingdom to rule.”
As if her words were a signal, the flame-haired Valkyrie shifted. She moved to straddle his lap, her powerful thighs caging his hips. The fur fell away. The firelight danced over his renewed, rigid length, and then over her triumphant smile.
“My turn to pay tribute to the throne,” she purred, lowering herself onto him with a slow, deliberate roll of her hips that made his eyes roll back in his head.
The longhouse erupted in cheers and encouragement. Another Valkyrie, the one with the dark braids, came to kneel beside them, her hands roaming over his chest and stomach, her mouth finding his in a deep, mead-sweet kiss. He was surrounded, consumed. The world narrowed to the feel of hot, gripping pressure, the slide of tongues, the bite of calloused fingers, the roaring approval of the tribe.
He was no longer Prince Caius, the bookish disappointment. He was their fount. Their godling. Their scrawny, well-hung prince. And for the first time in his life, he felt utterly, completely at home.
Astrid watched, her own need a coiling warmth in her belly. She would have him again, soon. They all would. But for now, seeing him embraced, seeing him finally accept what he was… that was a feast in itself. She took a long swallow from her own horn, her eyes never leaving the beautiful, shocking sight of her little prince being loved into his new skin.