Forced To Kill The Prince

by Hollie Hutchins

  Sigurd seemed to levitate. He landed on the table and ran, scattering plates, glasses and decanters, roaring like a demented tiger. Emma screamed, but even as she screamed she did not know if it was with pleasure and excitement or sheer terror. Sigurd leapt and he and Vordr crashed to the floor in a heap, with Sigurd pummelling Vordr’s face and body with his fists.

  Next thing Vordr had hurled Sigurd off him. He crashed against the heavy table, sending chairs flying. Emma scrambled to her feet. Vodr and Sigurd leapt up. Sigurd roared, “I am going to kill you, Vordr! I am going eat your heart!”

  Vordr spat at his feet. “First you will have to become a Dreki!”

  Then all hell broke loose and Emma thought she was descending into total madness at last. Vordr’s face twisted into a horrible snarl. His hair stood on end as though he had received a terrible electric shock. His neck swelled and his chest seemed to expand until his suit ripped at the seems. Emma stepped back in horror and gasped as he opened his mouth in a horrible howl and revealed hideous, three inch long canine teeth. His skin, she saw, had turned a revolting yellow.

  But even as Vordr was transformed into that odious troll, so Sigurd was transformed also, but even more so. For Sigurd metamorphosed before her eyes into what was both the most beautiful and the most terrifying thing she had ever seen.

  His clothes were rent asunder. He threw back his head and a terrible sound issued from his throat. His skin glistened like a million precious stones, so bright that they blinded her as she looked upon them. He seemed to weave and swirl and sway, almost as though he were made of brilliant, coloured mist; and suddenly she was looking not upon a man but a serpent. A serpent that was at least fifteen or twenty feet in length. His body was muscular and covered in what looked like jewelled mail. His head was almost that of a horse, but from his neck a great crest rose, and where a serpent has no legs or arms, this dragon stood on powerful, muscular legs, and powerful arms with massive talons now reached out to grasp Vordr.

  The battle that ensued was brutal. Vordr’s strength, though he was smaller than Sigurd, was hideous. His fists were like stone hammers. Sigurd gripped him in his talons, as though he would rip him to pieces, or bite him in two, but Vordr pounded his head and body with his fists, sending Sigurd crashing through the great, mahogany table, smashing chairs and the sideboard as he went.

  Sigurd joined battle again, thundering at Vordr, lashing at him with his great tail, ripping at him with his talons, drawing blood from his wounds; but still Vordr seemed indestructible, his power inexhaustible, and he came back, driving his massive fists again and again into Sigurd’s body and head, until both stood eyeing each other, bloodied and panting at opposite ends of the great dining room.

  Emma flattened herself against the wall in the corner, trembling with a strange excitement. There was no room any longer, among her awe and fascination, for fear. She had, in some wyrd way, fallen in love with both of these bizarre creatures. But each was different, and if she hoped that Vordr would not be killed, she prayed in her heart that Sigurd would triumph.

  But it was Vordr who spoke first.

  “You know the destiny the Norn have woven for you, Sigurd. You cannot escape it. There can be no freedom or love for the likes of us. We belong to the people of the mist.”

  “Never! I choose to learn! I chose to learn to love, and to be free. I know this human can teach me!”

  “You are a dragon, Sigurd!”

  “But once I was a man! I can be a man again!”

  “You cannot! She must go! She must die! And you must kill her and eat her heart!”

  Emma gasped! Vordr took two strides toward Sigurd and pointed a massive finger at Emma. “She is your test, Sigurd! Conquer your weakness! Kill her!”

  Sigurd’s crest rustled. His eyes glowed red and a deep growl made the room vibrate.

  “I will not. And if you touch her, Vordr, there will be no pit deep enough in Hel for you to hide in.”

  Vordr shook his head. “If you choose this wench, you know the penalty. Are you prepared to make this sacrifice?”

  Sigurd let out a prolonged, deep groan.

  “I know the penalty.”

  Vordr’s voice became conciliatory. “You have been foolish, Sigurd. It is your age. That is the reason for the test, to make us mature. But now it is time to face the destiny the Norn have woven for you.”

  “Do not vex me, Vordr.”

  “Sleep then. Let us sleep. And in the morning we shall see things with more clarity, and make the right decision.”

  Sigurd stared at Vordr a long while, then said, “Leave us.”

  Vordr turned and gazed on Emma with contempt. He said, “You shall not have him. He is Fafnir. It is in the skein of his destiny.”

  So saying, he left the room.

  Six

  The door closed and she turned back to look at Sigurd. He stood among the wreckage of the dining room, a man. Naked, bruised and bloodied, his great mane of hair hanging about how powerful shoulders. He was watching her.

  “Emma, how can I ever, possibly apologise enough?”

  She moved towards him with faltering steps, still in the grip of her deep fascination, still stunned by the revelation that she desired so desperately for him to triumph and live.

  She reached out and touched his bare chest, took a trickle of his blood on her fingertip. She looked up into his eyes, not insolent now, but troubled at the thought of losing her.

  She said, “Who…what…are you?”

  “Who I am,” he said, “I can barely remember. What I am, I am a plaything of the gods.”

  She took his hand. “Come.”

  She led him up the stairs to her room. There she prepared him a bath with salts and oils that he had had his maids purchase for her. She made him climb in and gently she sponged him and cleaned his wounds.

  As she bathed him, he said, “I am Sigurd Olaffsen. I was once a great adventurer. I have travelled the whole world, Emma, from the Arctic to the Antarctic, from Norway to China and Russia, from Chile to the Congo. Always, I have been searching for the great treasure that would allow me to create my own kingdom, and be free.

  “My arrogance angered the gods, I think, and Odin, who is deceitful and wily as a fox, led me one night to a tavern in my own homeland of Norway. There, there were three men drinking at a table. They were laughing and singing and they seemed like good men, so I joined them, and they told me a story of a great treasure hidden in a cave up in the Jotunheimen mountains. Legend had it, the treasure was in a cave in the Nibeland Valley.

  “So, I took a horse and some supplies and I rode out towards that valley. It was spring and the ice and the snow were melting, but still it was cold as I climbed up into the mountains, through those dense pine forests.

  “Finally, after a week of climbing and searching, I found the valley, where a cold, crystal river tumbles down from old Galdhøpiggen, the tallest mountain in the North. This valley is called Nibeland, because it is the land of the mists, and here, the people of the mists live.”

  Emma froze and stared at him. She half-whispered, “The Nibelung…”

  He nodded, and while I was letting my horse rest and drink, and eat the grass, we were enfolded by a thick cloud of fog. My horse ran in a panic, with all of my supplies and my sword. Wandering through this cloud, calling for my horse, I came upon a cave, where I sought refuge for the night. But as I explored the cave, I found that it was the very cave I had been searching for. In it there was a great cavern full of gold and diamonds and rubies – more than you could possibly imagine.

  “But it was also guarded, by one dragon such as I am now. The guardian of the Nibelung’s treasure.”

  “Fafnir!”

  He nodded and she burst out laughing. He said, “You don’t believe me? After everything you have seen?”

  “Yes!” she cried. “I do! That’s just it! It is a wonder to me to discover that these legends…”

  “Most people live in the mist, Emma, without ever seei
ng the world as it truly is. I went on my quest, in search of my treasure, and I found it. But in finding it, I became a prisoner.”

  “How?”

  “Because it was woven in the skein of my destiny that I must do battle with Fafnir. And so I did, with a great jewelled sword that was there among the treasures. I fought him and, after a terrible struggle, I slew him, and, as is the custom, I ate his heart and his flesh.

  “This gave me great magical powers, but what I did not realise was that Fafnir is not his name but his title, and he who slays Fafnir, must then become Fafnir.”

  “So you are now Fafnir, tasked with the obligation of protecting the treasure of the Nibelung.”

  “But, because I was tricked by Odin, I am given a choice. I may choose to be free if I can find true love. That is, a woman whom I truly love, and a woman truly loves me back. And once, every thousand years, am I released to travel the world for seven years and seek that love.”

  “And your guardian accompanies you.”

  “That is so.”

  She stroked his face, aware that knowing his secret, knowing who he was inside, stirred a new and extraordinary feeling in her. Yet still she shied away from the word, fearful of what it might mean for her.

  He spoke, and his voice was tragic, she felt the ache of loneliness within it.

  “I wish to kiss you, Emma. I wish to make love to you, to caress your body, but not as the daemon I have become, as the man I am in truth.”

  She reached out and held his face.

  “Kiss me, Sigurd.”

  He leaned forward and caressed her lips with his. She slipped her hand down his neck to his powerful chest. She thought to herself that this man, this monster, was holding her prisoner, willing to sacrifice her to achieve his own freedom. Yet she could not deny the feelings that were growing inside her. She pulled his head towards her and bit his lips.

  He stood, cascading water from the bath onto the floor. He stepped out and picked her up in his arms as though she weighed no more than a spring lamb. Soaking and trailing water he carried her to the bed. There he laid her down and leaned over her, gently rubbing his face against hers, kissing the corner of her mouth. They nipped each other’s lips with their teeth, smiling and giving each other small kisses. She felt a burning excitement begin to stir inside her as he began to unbutton her dress and strip off her clothes.

  The task was laborious and they laughed and kissed, with every kiss growing deeper as more and more of her clothes were discarded. Soon she lay naked on the bed, gazing up at him. He lay on top of her. She ran her hands over his skin. They kissed again, deep and searching. She sucked on his tongue and as he bit into her neck she whispered, “It is so good to feel your skin.”

  She felt his breath, hot on her ear, “I am not changing. Is this…”

  She held his head in her hands. Her kisses were urgent. She hungered for him, for his animality, for his bestial secret. She said, “Do not ask. Do not question. Take me. I hunger for you.”

  His hips pushed into hers. She felt his member hard, sliding up and down her inside thigh. His breathing was tremulous, growing faster. She spread her legs, opening for him. Their kisses were deep and hungry. His hands cupped her breasts, playing with her pink, tender nipples. Then they moved down her, caressing the small, delicate curve of her waist. Then he gripped her hips and thrust against her. She cried out as he slid inside. His breathing was heavy and hot. He grunted like an animal in her ear, then growled. She felt his hands, huge and powerful gripping her buttocks and she that he was changing. If he was changing it meant their love was not real, but in that moment she didn’t care. In that moment she wanted the beast.

  She clawed his back, feeling the supple rippling of his muscles and the strange scales of his skin. She felt him swell under her hands, and she felt him swell inside her. She screamed a scream that was half roar. He rose above her, a horrific daemon, his wings outstretched, his skin glittering a million colours, his eyes burning a infernal red. He leaned forward on his great, powerful arms. Their eyes locked in diabolical lust and he began his slow, thrusting rhythm. She felt him, impossibly thick and deep, swelling , growing bigger and harder with every thrust. She felt the exquisite friction and sucked in the pain, felt it turn to a pleasure that was beyond understanding. She cried out and groaned, “I want you, oh, God, I want you…!”

  His rhythm grew faster. She felt his huge tail thrashing. She felt powerless and helpless beneath his power, gripped in his gigantic talons, with his huge, snake-like member piercing her, penetrating her, sliding and rubbing inside her. The pleasure was a madness, a craving and lust and she yielded to it, arching to him. She saw his huge, brutal, serpentine form rising over her and she longed for him.

  The, the friction of his sliding, thrusting member became unendurable and the orgasm welled up and overwhelmed her, searing through her skin in a spasms of ecstasy. She clenched, gritting her teeth, holding her breath, seizing his member, intensifying the rub and with it the pleasure. A second wave of orgasm hit her and then he was roaring, driving through her contractions, and they were thrashing together, tangled, grappling at each other’s bodies like two serpents fighting to the death, until they collapsed, exhausted, kissing each other’s skin, tasting the salt of each other’s perspiration.

  Seven

  When she awoke he was not there.

  She lay, stunned for a while, remembering the exquisite feelings of the night before, coupled with the horrific images and wondering if she had gone completely insane. Whether she was or not, the madness had to stop. That, at least, was clear.

  She rose, bathed and dressed, and then went down stairs. She found him in the library. He was standing, gazing out of the window at the street outside.

  She said, “Good morning.”

  He turned and smiled at her. His expression was sad. He had lost his boyish glee and enthusiasm. It was replaced by an odd expression she could not at first place. Then she thought it might be kindness, even compassion.

  He said, “Emma!” Almost as though he had been surprised to see her. “Have you broken your fast? Are you hungry?”

  “No, I am not hungry, thank you, Sigurd.”

  He gestured at a chair, “Will you sit? Did you sleep well?”

  She frowned, disconcerted by this change in his manner. She sat and said, “I slept as though I were exhausted after a great physical exertion.” He looked embarrassed. She said, “What is it, Sigured?”

  He returned to the window. Gazed out at the street, biting his lip. She repeated, “Sigurd…?”

  He gave a small shrug, spread his hands and looked at her. His expression was both frank and deeply sad.

  “I changed,” he said.

  She hesitated. “I… I wished you to.”

  He nodded. He took a couple of steps to a chair and sat opposite her.

  “You see, my lady, I know that I love you. There is no doubt in my heart about this.”

  His meaning dawned on her.

  “You deduce then, that if you changed this must mean that I do not love you.”

  He didn’t answer, but held her eye.

  “Sigurd, two days ago I had never heard of you. I am completely bewildered. I have been kidnapped – by a dragon!...I barely know who I am, let alone what I am feeling…”

  “I understand, Emma.” He smiled. “Believe me, I am confused myself by the feelings…” He seemed momentarily distracted by his own thoughts. “…by the changes which I myself have experienced in the last two days. The thing is,” he studied her face for a while and then repeated, “The thing is I would rather spend a thousand eternities as a prisoner of the people of the mist, than have you an unhappy prisoner for one day. You must go.”

  She gave a sharp intake of breath. “Sigurd! No…”

  He nodded. “Yes. I must return to…to the Nibeland Valley. You cannot come with me unless it is as a slave. And as long as I live, Emma, you shall never be a slave.”

  She rushed to him and dropped to
her knees in front of him.

  “But I do love you, Sigurd! I felt it last night. You must see that. There is something wrong, some mistake… Sigurd, I do love you!”

  He smiled kindly and stroked her face.

  “Are you sure, dear Emma? I believe you love the dragon, and not the man.”

  With a terrible sinking feeling she realized that there was some horrible truth in his words. She stood and looked down on him. His eyes were so sad. Was she then infatuated with the beast, and unable to love this good, noble man? Who then, in fact, was the beast? Who was the dragon, keeping the treasure hidden, imprisoned in the cave in the land of mists? Was it not, after all, her?

  She took a step back and tears flooded her eyes. She covered her mouth with her hand and ran from the house, stumbling down the steps into that bright, tragic spring day. She half ran, half stumbled, hardly knowing where she was going, until at last she came to Pardoner’s Square and rang on the bell.

  Smythe opened the door and his eyes went like saucers. He reached for her and cried out, “My Lady! Upon my word!”

  He summoned the maids and, like a clutch of mother hens, they fussed about her and took her to the morning room, where Smythe immediately provided her with a stiff glass of brandy. She refused to see a doctor, but accepted a pot of tea and spent the rest of the day weeping and haranguing herself for her weakness, her stupidity and her vileness as a person.

  She slept badly that night, sobbing and praying that Sigurd would visit her as a dragon and take her once again to those heights of insanity and passion that she had known with him. At almost four in the morning she finally collapsed into a profound, exhausted slumber.

  The next morning she arose as though she had been in the clutches of a fever. She was weak, drawn and pale. She ate little throughout the day, save some soup and chicken broth.

  By the third day her mood was one of desolation such as she had not known since the death of her father. Though in some ways this was worse, because she knew that she had lost the man she loved through her own blind stupidity, her own inability to see through the mist of her vanity and lust, to the man who loved her, and whom she loved, had she but known it.