The Viking and His Wife

A Declaration

Sangard's hand lifted closer and closer for a feel of the woman's milky soft skin. He wanted very much to trace a finger over her full, dainty pink petals and to have his way with her however and in whatever fashion he liked.

In the corner of his eye, he espied movement but paid it no mind.

"Don't be scared. I won't hurt you," he cooed but that still was not enough to convince her.

The woman took a step back and her mouth formed into a frown in a manner resembling a wilted tulip with its head drooped low.

"Stay back."

Sangard flinched. His palms grew clammy with sweat and his eyes darted from left to right. It was difficult finding the right words to say.

"Why would I do that?"

He was not used to being refused. The ladies fawned over him, practically throwing themselves at his feet. Then again, it went without saying that the woman Lufner had taken for a wife would be different than most. Nevertheless, his resolve remained the same.

"I'm warning you."

Sangard gained closer. A tight smile dressed his face.

"Exquisite flowers like you are the hardest to find, Nami-jya."

Her mouth drew back in disgust.

"Don't call me that."

"It suits you."

To Sangard, women were soft, delicate flowers and there had not been a flower to this day he did not like. And what a flower this Namitha was.

With swift, careful movement, Sangard grabbed at her arm but alas, that was his second mistake.

For a moment he saw nothing. Earlier, he recalled a loud crack ringing in his ears. Behind his eyes, almost oneiric, were blotches of reds, blues and greens appearing and disappearing about him.

Sangard sat up from his place on the floor and held his head.

Recovering his senses, he glimpsed a small clay pot grasped in Namitha's right hand and Sangard was not sure if it was his skull or this same pot he heard earlier. The pain proved unbearable and a warm hot liquid poured down his face.

Sangard knew what it was. It was blood.

His blood.

He cursed under his breath having let his guard done. Maybe the shitty-green goblin was right. His death might come by the hands of a woman but Sangard did not care and thought the notion ideal. He would not have wanted it any other way.

The woman from where she stood watched him hard, cautious as a deer of what other tricks he had up his sleeve.

"That wasn't very lady-like of you, Nami-yja."

"Not very lady-like, you say? How about this?"

Her foot launched forward mercilessly between his legs and Sangard grabbed at his groin, folded into himself and groaned, holding back a scream. Finally, he was at death's door.