Chương 337: Day Three Hundred And Thirty-Five

Dear Diary, Once in a while life chooses to remind me that I'm not in Camden any more. I get how that sounds really fucked up, like I'm not paying attention. Back then, back there, I lived in a cheap assed apartment, and my best life was likely to wind up being a minimum wage job for fifty years, maybe popping out some kids along the way and letting them grow up with a mom. Here I'm not just a hero, I'm not just a rich and powerful superhero, I'm a literal fucking Goddess.

Shit, I'm a literal fucking Goddess who is fucking a Goddess of fucking on the regular, and she's not even my preferred bedroom toy. It shouldn't be difficult for me to remember that shit. Okay, I don't really have a preferred bedroom toy. I know this sounds totally trite and like I'm making shit up, but I adore Saffron and Marie, and anyone attempting to make me choose between them would get a Mana Blade shiv directly up Main Street.

I will fucking sear their asshole closed permanently, then leave them to die a bloated shit bag. I have strong opinions about my Wives... Shit. I have strong opinions about my Wife and Concubine, and apparently one of them is that the latter ought to join the former. I can't, I won't force her into that. It doesn't help that she seems to want it, but be terrified of it. So weird that despite being a literal immortal engine of fucking destruction, she's so shy, so tentative about some things.

Then again, most of the things she's seemed shy about aren't really fucking or destruction. At best you could call them fuck adjacent. Like the kid thing. She wants my kid. Like, mine specifically, enough to make it clear that she'd prefer my bun in her oven over Saffron's.

Which, part of me is going 'duh, that can't happen, we're both girls, silly' while the part of me that likes running around in a red Dress with only two of her three accessories is thinking 'shapeshifting shenanigans for the dev team generating win, motherfucker!' Of course, the way too logical neurospicy part of me immediately latches on that last word, because it wouldn't be true until after the deed was done. Not really. I mean, yes, technically I am a Mom now.

Okay, I'm a Mother to at least three kids, for a broad enough definition of 'kid'. But somehow my own brain can't label Saffron a motherfucker. Yet. Because holy fuck on a stick does the abstract concept of giving birth to a rug rat with my unholy gleeful chaos nature and her brains somehow light up green 'go' lights I wasn't even aware of. For anyone playing the home game and thinking, 'childbirth is painful, and pregnancy can be crippling', I respond, 'have you met me?'

Seriously, by this point I've smashed myself to shit so often, so badly, that if I didn't start out with some kind of fucked up fetish about it, I sure as shit ought to have one now. I'm actively trying to ignore the final impulse regarding Marie and pregnancy. Along with 'can't happen, silly', 'I shape how I like', and 'word nerd whoregasm', I've also got a not really voice somewhere deep inside telling me, 'she'll be pregnant when I say she's pregnant, for as long as I want her to be pregnant.'

So fuckin' weird having a part of me that's part of me, but like, dark as fuck. Then again, I was into some dark shit back in Camden. Too much time in ugly parts of the Internet. Last night my chibi chefs surrounded me with a hurricane of shrimp and sacrifice as was right and proper. I woke surrounded by sweaty Saffron and multiple Marie, with Menace nowhere in sight.

"Where's Isnomi?" Our pillow-Marie lay a gentle, comforting hand on my shoulder and half-whispered, "Bed." Matching her tone, laying my own hand gently on Saffron, I replied, "Our Saffie-kins got her worship on last night, huh?"

"Yes." I smiled and sighed.

"Let her sleep. I have to go to Norfolk today and review my fleet." I kept my voice low, and went silent when she wriggled closer to me, nestling into my chest and murmuring. When quiet snores started up again, I said, "don't know whether I'll be able to stay Co-Located and quiet, but if somebody tries to wake her? Tell them no, let them know that they can come to me with problems today, and let them know that if they wake her up, I will become a bigger problem than whatever they had before that." She nodded.

"Yes."

"Good." I ran one hand, feather light, across my Kitten's hair. She didn't stir, so I did it again. After a few minutes of slow, gently strokes a tiny rumble of a purr sounded through her snores.

"Marie?" Her hand ran, feather light, over my head and down my back.

"Yes?"

"This isn't a proposal. It's sure as fuck not a demand, because I will not demand this..." It took me a bit to take myself in hand, because for a moment I absolutely did want to demand. Needed to demand, felt like it would be right to demand, command, to consume her Agency as rapaciously as I'd consumed her Worship.

"It is not a demand or a command or even a request. Do you want to marry me?" Her hand froze.

"yes" I kept stroking Saffron's hair, waited until Marie's hand moved again.

"Do you want to marry Saffron?" Her hand paused.

"yes?" When her hand moved again, I asked, "if I weren't here, if it were just you and her, would you want to?" Her hand never stopped, but terrified wonder filled her voice when she said, "Yes? Yes." I lay there thinking about that for a while. I had no idea what terrified her about the idea of marriage, but really that didn't matter. The only things that mattered were it terrified her and she wanted it anyway.

I don't know how long I lay there stroking Saffron's hair, but my voice vibrated with a subsonic purr when I spoke again.

"There's no rush. None at all. You feel like it's too fast, we slow, we stop, we step back if that's what you need. There's no rush at all. Saffron and I rushed. Oh, god did we rush." You did things in your own time, Daughter. The results speak for themselves. Thanks, Dad. You're the best. I know.

"No regrets. But we won't rush. Every step of this she will plan and I will execute, and so long as you do not change your mind?" I waited, as patient as any predator, until my prey poked her neck into my jaws willingly.

"Yes?"

"In the fullness of time, you will be the most perfectly and completely married woman in this or any other world." The faintest threads of a purr rumbled through her thigh, and her hand trembled where it stroked my hair.

"After which I will absolutely get you as pregnant as you will be married." I knew I'd got her when a tiny giggle escaped her and her purr shook the bed until grumbly Saffron forced us both to silence and stillness. A while later I whispered.

"I've got to get to work now. You mind if I stay here?" Her hand stilled on my head, faint pressure signifying her desire for me to remain right in her lap. I couldn't not go to Norfolk today, but I sure as shit could stay in her lap while I did.

"Okay. I love you, Marie."

"Same." I leaned forward and brushed my lips across Saffron's hair.

"Love you, Kitten." Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work! My departure got delayed when both Marie and I had to spend like five minutes getting our need to laugh our asses off under control when my sweet toothed angel smiled, muttered, "cake!" and went back to snoring. I arrived at the longhouse to find the Court waiting for me, with the addition of Seneschal Swanson.

"So, we ready to go?" They all looked up, and Olga gave me their collective answer by pushing herself to her feet and helping Skasn up.

"After you, my Queen." I looked up, chuckled, and said, "nah." When they all looked a little confused, I laughed and said, "I have no idea where the docks are, guys." That got a laugh out of all of them. Olga let Swanson take the lead, and I followed right behind him as he set a pace that let the Jotnar stretch their legs a little. Weyson jogged along behind me, making sounds like he wanted to say something, but didn't have the breath to spare. Meanwhile Svart yelped.

"I am not an epaulette, woman!" I jogged backward half a pace, and very carefully did not laugh at the image of Svart standing on Olga's shoulder, one hand clutching her earlobe.

"Silence, Karl! Your Princess commands you to enjoy riding my shoulder!" She sounded so tweaked about it I couldn't even get mad. I'd fought that tough assed bastard, if he really wanted down he'd get down. When we got in sight of the water, a veritable forest of masts and hulls surrounded the docks, with more out in the wide bay beyond.

Swanson waved to the first ships, which had a kind of Viking aesthetic, right on down to one visible deck, no mounted weapons, and shields along the sides and a single big mast each.

"We've two hundred Longboats; with fifteen Karls in each, that leaves room for ten to twenty Thralls per Longboat."

"How many Thralls aboard the Longboats total?"

"Three thousand." Weyson wheezed something out.

"Does it have to do with the ships?" He shook his head.

"Then it can wait." I turned back to Swanson.

"What about the Jarls and the other two thousand Thralls?"

"The Jarls will be aboard our Battleships and our Loot Haulers." I shook my head as he waved his hand at a few bigger Longboat looking ships beyond the Longboats. They pretty clearly had a deck under the exposed one, and each had two masts.

"You have a class of ships called 'Loot Haulers'?" He grinned at me, utterly unrepentant. Hell, he probably didn't know why he'd be pentant, let alone repentant.

"How else would you haul loot?"

"Some people have better reasons for going to war than loot." He nodded sagely, "no matter how the world progresses, fools always abound." I shook my head.

"So, how many per Loot Hauler?"

"Our initial intention was to put our Karls aboard them and let the Thralls bear the brunt, but the Imperator suggested otherwise."

"Okay, so what's Imperator Sexypaws' Big Plan?" He paused with his mouth hanging open for a second, then shook his head and explained.

"Our twenty-five Loot Haulers will have a crew of eighty plus one Jarl each. The remaining Jarls will be dispersed between the Battleships, twenty one or twenty two each. That's a small crew for our Battleships, but as they're all Jarls they'll be more than capable of keeping them afloat and moving in the right direction. I'd worry were we sailing to Europa, but for a short jaunt into the Chesapeake we'll be fine."

"Twenty one people to man a Battleship? Dafuq?" He nodded.

"You've fought a few of our Jarls. They're faster, stronger, tougher than any normal sailor. They may occasionally need your Volunteers to lend a hand, but eighty of your Crossbows on each Battleship will significantly improve their firepower." I seriously wondered if he thought each and every Crossbow packed the same kind of power Vulcan did. Shit, if we had sixteen hundred Vulcans, I'd go with 'scour Calverton to bedrock and rebuild it better' or some shit.

We'd reached the end of the docks area, and Swanson waved at some big assed sailboats.

"Your Battleships, my Queen." I craned my neck, but couldn't see anything resembling steel or cannon. Then again, the sailboats were pretty big, at least the size of the one Gregor showed up with; all of them had the raised decks fore and aft, with a couple siege weapons on each, a mix of ballistae and catapults.

Worse, along with the half dozen lined up along the quay, another pair floated maybe a hundred feet out in the bay between us and where I'd seen ships that reminded me of the bigger ones I'd seen sailing up to the docks in Phileo.

"Queen Tabitha! I must insist!" shouted Weyson. A deeply disturbing suspicion creeping through my gut, I turned to face Weyson.

"What. Do. You. Want?" Man wasn't a coward. He blanched a little at my flat tone, but continued.

"My Lord Odin protests your release of the Backbiter!" I tilted my head.

"Really?" He straightened his spine and said, "yes. Your agreement was to keep him imprisoned and see to his torture."

"Is the one-eyed monster listening?" He nodded.

"My lord sees with my eyes, hears with my ears."

"Yeah. I subcontracted the torture out to somebody way better at it than me. Freaky bitch might even let the snake help, I dunno."

"But... but the Backbiter was here! Here, in Norfolk! We all saw him!" My temper, fraying under the weight of my impending, denied realization, neared the breaking point.

"God. Odin, you really need to call management and complain about that fuckin' Wish. com wisdom you got granted." Faster than he could flinch, I Co-Located to either side of Weyson and grabbed him by the upper arms, then Translocated us to the far rail of one of the sailboats. Alternating between mes, I barked at him.

"Look. At. Me." Weyson's gaze snapped back and forth with each word.

"Which of you?"

"Do you or your Special Needs Deity get the fuckin' point yet? About exactly how Loki has been chained up since Odin' and the bitch squad fuckin' chained him there?" Weyson stuttered out, "ah... Yes. Yes, My Lord understands, and apologizes sincerely for doubting you." I nodded, then remembered.

"Oh. I found your sons." He grabbed one of me by the shoulders.

"WHERE?" I grabbed his wrists from behind and pulled him away, maintaining eye contact from the front the whole time.

"Not gonna tell you quite yet, but I will tell you that they're both not dead, and each as safe as a Primordial can make them. That and this: when he gets an apology convincing him they're sincerely sorry for causing him offense? The Smith will see to it they are returned to you." Weyson choked out.

"Unharmed?"

"Don't. Push. It."

"This... this... My lord says this wasn't the original deal you made." I closed both sets of eyes. Weyson, not being an idiot, did nothing, what with my fists closing down on his forearms hard enough to make his bones creak. I looked out to the two biggest Norfolk ships, both floating at anchor. Gilded runes ran across the bow of each. I snorted as I read each, and turned Weyson to face them.

"Odin's Pride. Odin's Triumph." I looked Weyson right in the eye, reached up and lowered his eyepatch over one.

"You watching, One-Eye?"

"Yes." The timbre wasn't right to be Odin, but I sure as fuck knew that word had been faithfully repeated. The me not holding Weyson stepped to M-Space and scried on my old world. I wanted something. Needed something. Something small. I'd seen Mana create flesh in my own body. I floated on a sea of thick black tentacles suffused with Mana. I looked, saw what I needed, reached out, and grabbed at it. The comforting weight of a big assed can of brilliant crimson spray paint filled my hand.

So much for Loki saying I couldn't bring things across. You did not. You created a copy. Eh. Does it work the same? It should. Cool. I stepped back to the Mortal realm, dangling by one hand from the hull of the Odin's Pride. I popped the top on the spray paint, shook that shit up, and drew a big sloppy red line through the name of the boat. I refused to even think of this goddamned jumped up piece of wood as a ship, let alone the other thing. One letter at a time, I tagged that bitch with her new name.

When I had the new name sprayed on in letters as bright crimson as blood, I fell back to M-Space, scried, reached out and grabbed a forty of malt liquor. I stepped back to the Mortal Realm dangling from the bow.

"I hereby rename you Loki's Prize." I smashed that shit on the bow, and it might have been my imagination, but it looked like it soaked that shit up way faster than it would have wine. My rage still built. I had to let it out somehow, because I did not need that shit cluttering up my head when we hit Calverton. Fuck it. Kitten? Can we afford to lose the Odin's Triumph? Her reply came back with the muzziness of a barely woken Kitten. Wha? Why?

I need to get a fuckin' point across to One-Eye, and we don't have enough soap to wash off the reek if I have to taint punch him. Oh. They're your ships. We can certainly afford to lose one to such a good cause. Always nice to be reminded that for sheer heat, my rage was nothing next to the one Saffron felt at the Gods of here and now. I stepped to the bridge of the Odin's Triumph and looked at the dude holding on to the big pole connected to the rudder.

"Get everyone off this boat."

"But..."

"Now." I don't know what the fuck he saw in my eyes, but as I sucked in Mana as fast as I could, he screamed out, "abandon ship!" Then he ran for the nearest rail and dove overboard. I extended scintillating hair thin Mana Blades out of my knuckles. When they reached the deck I closed my eyes and worked by feel, working them into the wood, through every plank, every rope, every nail aboard. I screamed my rage at the uncaring sky as the boat beneath me was wreathed first in smoke, then flames.

The moment my Mana Blades ran through the whole ship, I poured Mana into them, turning them from hairs into dowels, into rods, into a single Blade in the shape of what used to be a ship. I stepped away from the ash falling to the surface of the water, right up in Weyson's face.

"One-Eye? Do I have your full attention?"

"Yes." Fuck it. I'm the Imperator's Fucking Attack Dog, but at least I get the fuckin' cool as shit lines.

"I am altering our deal. Pray I do not alter it further."