Viking Love Quotes

You're still... Declan?"-- --Voice hoarse, he said, "Aye, it's me. I will never be your perfect Viking, Regin! I've made unforgivable mistakes. I've no family or friends, and my men hold no love for me. I'm scarred inside and out. And I'm bloody askin' for you anyway!

Love can give you such happiness, then can break the very heart it filled, leaving a hole that can never be fixed or protected by any armour.

Some make their worlds without knowing it. Their universes are just sesame seeds and three-day weekends and dial tones and skinned knees and physics and driftwood and emerald earrings and books dropped in bathtubs and holes in guitars and plastic and empathy and hardwood and heavy water and high black stockings and the history of the Vikings and brass and obsolescence and burnt hair and collapsed souffles and the impossibility of not falling in love in an art museum with the person standing next to you looking at the same painting and all the other things that just happen and are.

Was I just curious about what the agenda might be at a vampire summit? Did I want the attention of more undead members of society? Did I want to be known as a fangbanger, one of those humans who simply adored the walking dead? Did some corner of me long for a chance to be near Bill without seeking him out, still trying to make some emotional sense of his betrayal? Or was this about Eric? Unbeknownst to myself, was I in love with the flamboyant Viking who was so handsome, so good at making love, and so political, all atthe same time? This sounded like a promising set of problems for a soap opera season.

I never needed a Man. I needed a Viking. I needed someone who wasn't afraid of my strengths, or of my needs. I chose wrong... in the past. I thought I had to find someone who could put up with my hunger for life. But I was so damn wrong. I needed a Viking. I needed someone who would admire all the things about me that tepid men were intimidated by.

He stared at her breasts incredulously, but not with lust. "For the love of Freya! You wear Ruby's strange undergarment. Lingerie, methinks she named it." "This is not my mother's bra." Rain clamped her jaw shut defiantly, then demanded to know, "How did you ever see my mother's underwear?

The black of the ocean waves was the color of the sorrow in my breast, a sorrow that was never far away and always visible.

I have a Viking heart. And with this heart, I can’t be afraid to love you bravely and boldly, Ella. I have fierce love for you, the kind that eats me up inside, the kind that influences everything I do. This fierce love might scare the both of us from time to time but it’s mine and it’s yours.

I was once a man, not a great man, not a saintly man, but a good man, and a man nonetheless.

My life was going exactly where I wanted it to until the Devil showed up.

God himself had sent me away. I was truly now among the damned.

Iona stared at me for a long time. “You are going to leave me a widow before I have a chance to become a bride.

Some are born to love, and some to fight. How can I ever succeed at both?

The powerlessness of people with pure intentions, in the long run, can sometimes be more powerful than power in the hands of those blinded or depraved by evil tempers.

My heart aches for you… for them in you For angels shaking in fright… on a dreadful night For them on site… for flames leaping on every height For blood rolling like thunder… o'er a fragile kite For souls so bright… like remnants of light For a desperate plight… for hands held tight My love, in my world… where no hope is in sight And no right is right… what words can I write? Our song went lost… with main and might I'll tell you tonight… in the hush of midnight Stay here and fight… for a mournful rite

In one way we think a great deal too much of the atomic bomb. ‘How are we to live in an atomic age?’ I am tempted to reply: Why, as you would have lived in the sixteenth century when the plague visited London almost every year, or as you would have lived in a Viking age when raiders from Scandinavia might land and cut your throat any night; or indeed, as you are already living in an age of cancer, an age of syphilis, an age of paralysis, an age of air raids, an age of railway accidents, an age of motor accidents.’ In other words, do not let us begin by exaggerating the novelty of our situation. Believe me, dear sir or madam, you and all whom you love were already sentenced to death before the atomic bomb was invented: and quite a high percentage of us were going to die in unpleasant ways. We had, indeed, one very great advantage over our ancestors—anesthetics; but we have that still. It is perfectly ridiculous to go about whimpering and drawing long faces because the scientists have added one more chance of painful and premature death to a world which already bristled with such chances… and in which death itself was not a chance at all, but a certainty. This is the first point to be made: and the first action to be taken is to pull ourselves together. If we are all going to be destroyed by an atomic bomb, let that bomb when it comes find us doing sensible and human things—praying, working, teaching, reading, listening to music, bathing the children, playing tennis, chatting to our friends over a pint and a game of darts—not huddled together like frightened sheep and thinking about bombs. They may break our bodies (a microbe can do that) but they need not dominate our minds.

I love you, Brynna. I will love you until the day I breathe my last. You belong to me, and I will make you the happiest of women. Now take off all your clothes, and pretend you are a Celtic princess about to be marauded by an incredibly virile Viking studmuffin." -Alrik to Brynna

In many chapels, reddened by the setting sun, the saints rest silently, waiting for someone to love them. (This quote was the inspiration for my series of books entitled "God's Forgotten Friends: Lives of Little-known Saints" of which my latest release is Saint Magnus The Last Viking. Hope you decide to become friends with him!)

Wow," said Samirah as we approached the dock. "You're right, Alex. That ship is really yellow." I sighed. "Not you, too." Alex grinned. "I vote we name it the Big Banana. All in favour?" "Don't you dare," I said. "I love it," Mallory said, throwing Alex a mooring line. Keen and Gunderson had emerged from belowdecks in an apparent truce, though both sported fresh black eyes. "It's decided, then!" bellowed Halfborn. "The good ship Mikillgulr!" T.J. scratched his head. "There's an Old Norse term for big banana?" "Well, not exactly," Halfborn admitted. "The Vikings never sailed far enough south to discover bananas. But Mikillgulr means big yellow. That's close enough!" I looked skyward with a silent prayer: Frey, god of summer, Dad, thanks for the boat. But could I suggest that forest green is also a great summery colour, and please stop embarrassing me in front of my friends? Amen.

Then it kissed me—not as a man would kiss a lover, not with tenderness or even passion. This was a kiss that stole the soul of men. Revulsion at this creature’s kiss was instantly replaced by the warmth stealing through my veins, as if my missing blood were being replenished and contrived to heal me. I craved to keep kissing the beast. My entire being awakened to that kiss feeding me ecstasy, feeding me life.

Here in the north each night is a whole winter long. Yet the place is fair enough, doubt it not! Thou shalt see sights here such as thou hast not seen in the halls of the English king. We shall be together as sisters whilst thou bidest with me; we shall go down to the sea when the storm begins once more; thou shalt see the billows rushing upon the land like wild, white-maned horses—and then the whales far out in the offing! They dash one against another like steel-clad knights! Ha, what joy to be a witching-wife and ride on the whale's back—to speed before the skiff, and wake the storm, and lure men to the deeps with lovely songs of sorcery!

Ella is complicated and passionate and fierce. Just like you. You have a fierce Viking heart, handed down from your ancestors. So love fiercely, Magnus. Love bravely. Lover her with everything you’ve got.

I have traveled around the world. I’ve walked the Great Wall of China, eaten dinner at the top of the Eiffel Tower, and ridden the bullet train from Tokyo to Osaka. That’s not all. I’ve led an army into battle on dragonback, seduced a vicious mafia boss, and journeyed back in time to fall in love with everyone from Vikings to the Knights of the Round Table. I’ve lived a thousand lives. Too bad the only real one fucking sucks.

Did you know that on one of the islands of Orkney, in the North of Scotland, there are some runes that when translated turned out to be Viking graffiti? Eight feet up a wall it says "A tall Viking wrote this." You gotta love that.

I did not choose to be a monster—a shell of a man—half-human, half-fiend. I am a tiefling. I am what I am.

And in answering that question he saw the inside of that bleak Viking world, the reality of love and compassion that all these hammer-throwing and skull-smashing gods concealed. That

In many chapels, reddened by the setting sun, the saints rest silently, waiting for someone to love them." These words, penned by an unknown priest, long dead,were the inspiration for my new series on the lives of saints who have fallen deep into the shadows of obscurity. My hope is that, in reading their heroic stories, you will make the acquaintance of some of God's Forgotten Friends. (From the Preface of "Saint Magnus The Last Viking")

They had to die. They were killing innocent people. (Wulf) They were surviving, Wulf. You never had to face the choice of being dead at twenty-seven. When most people’s lives are just beginning, we are looking at a death sentence. Have you any idea what it’s like to know you can never see your children grow up? Never see your own grandchildren? My mother used to say we were spring flowers who are only meant to bloom for one season. We bring our gifts to the world and then recede to dust so that others can come after us. When our loved ones die, we immortalize them like this. I have one for my mother and the other four are my sisters. No one will ever know the beauty of my sisters’ laughter. No one will remember the kindness of my mother’s smile. In eight months, my father won’t even have enough of me left to bury. I will become scattered dust. And for what? For something my great-great-great-whatever did? I’ve been alone the whole of my life because I dare not let anyone know me. I don’t want to love for fear of leaving someone like my father behind to mourn me. I will be a vague dream, and yet here you are, Wulf Tryggvason. Viking cur who once roamed the earth raiding villages. How many people did you kill in your human lifetime while you sought treasure and fame? Were you any better than the Daimons who kill so that they can live? What makes you better than us? (Cassandra) It’s not the same thing. (Wulf) Isn’t it? You know, I went to your Web site and saw the names listed there. Kyrian of Thrace, Julian of Macedon, Valerius Magnus, Jamie Gallagher, William Jess Brady. I’ve studied history all my life and know each of those names and the terror they wrought in their day. Why is it okay for the Dark-Hunters to have immortality even though most of you were killers as humans, while we are damned at birth for things we never did? Where is the justice in this? (Cassandra)

I would have so loved to learn about the Vikings.” Lillian snorted. “Since when have you been interested in warlike pagans with silly-looking headgear?” Daisy looked up from her book again. “Are we talking about Grandmother again?

There is such joy in a good ship, and a greater joy to have the ship's belly fat with other men's silver. It is the Viking joy, driving a dragon-headed hull through a wind-driven sea towards a future full of feasts and laughter. The Danes taught me that and I love them for it.

Her head fell back as she cried out. She reached for him, drawing him down to her, loving the weight of him, the heaviness of him inside her, driving away memory, making the taunting vision of his fall shatter into a thousand pieces even as she herself did, again and again. Firelight gleamed, revealing and concealing the ancient poetry of possession.Flame-burnishing limbs entwined, voices cried out together, and fierce driving strength and power yielded up their tribute, there in the dark heart of the earth's tomb.

Jill was young and untried, but she knew the fundamental truth about women—that love can torment them even as it gives them the moon and the stars to play with.

Freydis and Ref are in a world of their own, a world of love and pain, wrapped in marriage vows.

Amundsen slept with his window wide open at night even in the winter, claiming to his mother that he loved fresh air, but really “it was a part of my hardening process.” He organized small expeditions for himself and a few friends, such as overnight treks on skis under a star-studded sky, enlivened by the otherworldly swirling of the aurora borealis, into the winter wilds to improve his toughness.

So what to do? Rycca knew perfectly well. The problem lay in convincing Dragon. Every time she tried to bring up the subject, he cut her off, which made her suspect he already knew what was in her mind. That he did this by drawing her into his arms and dazzling her with his lovemaking was beside the point.Or at least it was after she recovered enough to think again. "Some place with no bed," she murmured to herself, "no pile of straw, no mossy riverbank, no chair, bench, or table, no field, or tree,or..." She sighed and tried hard not to smile, without success. Loving Dragon and being loved by him put all the world, even Wolscroft, in a different perspective.

The Loneliness of the Military Historian Confess: it's my profession that alarms you. This is why few people ask me to dinner, though Lord knows I don't go out of my way to be scary. I wear dresses of sensible cut and unalarming shades of beige, I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser's: no prophetess mane of mine, complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters. If I roll my eyes and mutter, if I clutch at my heart and scream in horror like a third-rate actress chewing up a mad scene, I do it in private and nobody sees but the bathroom mirror. In general I might agree with you: women should not contemplate war, should not weigh tactics impartially, or evade the word enemy, or view both sides and denounce nothing. Women should march for peace, or hand out white feathers to arouse bravery, spit themselves on bayonets to protect their babies, whose skulls will be split anyway, or,having been raped repeatedly, hang themselves with their own hair. There are the functions that inspire general comfort. That, and the knitting of socks for the troops and a sort of moral cheerleading. Also: mourning the dead. Sons,lovers and so forth. All the killed children. Instead of this, I tell what I hope will pass as truth. A blunt thing, not lovely. The truth is seldom welcome, especially at dinner, though I am good at what I do. My trade is courage and atrocities. I look at them and do not condemn. I write things down the way they happened, as near as can be remembered. I don't ask why, because it is mostly the same. Wars happen because the ones who start them think they can win. In my dreams there is glamour. The Vikings leave their fields each year for a few months of killing and plunder, much as the boys go hunting. In real life they were farmers. The come back loaded with splendour. The Arabs ride against Crusaders with scimitars that could sever silk in the air. A swift cut to the horse's neck and a hunk of armour crashes down like a tower. Fire against metal. A poet might say: romance against banality. When awake, I know better. Despite the propaganda, there are no monsters, or none that could be finally buried. Finish one off, and circumstances and the radio create another. Believe me: whole armies have prayed fervently to God all night and meant it, and been slaughtered anyway. Brutality wins frequently, and large outcomes have turned on the invention of a mechanical device, viz. radar. True, valour sometimes counts for something, as at Thermopylae. Sometimes being right - though ultimate virtue, by agreed tradition, is decided by the winner. Sometimes men throw themselves on grenades and burst like paper bags of guts to save their comrades. I can admire that. But rats and cholera have won many wars. Those, and potatoes, or the absence of them. It's no use pinning all those medals across the chests of the dead. Impressive, but I know too much. Grand exploits merely depress me. In the interests of research I have walked on many battlefields that once were liquid with pulped men's bodies and spangled with exploded shells and splayed bone. All of them have been green again by the time I got there. Each has inspired a few good quotes in its day. Sad marble angels brood like hens over the grassy nests where nothing hatches. (The angels could just as well be described as vulgar or pitiless, depending on camera angle.) The word glory figures a lot on gateways. Of course I pick a flower or two from each, and press it in the hotel Bible for a souvenir. I'm just as human as you. But it's no use asking me for a final statement. As I say, I deal in tactics. Also statistics: for every year of peace there have been four hundred years of war.

Capital-P Play was last year’s management theory, following multitasking, singletasking, grit, learning-from-failure, napping, cardioworking, saying no, saying yes, the wisdom of the crowd > trusting one’s gut, trusting one’s gut > the wisdom of the crowd, Viking management theory, Commissioner Gordon workflow theory, X-teams, B-teams, embracing simplicity, pursuing complexity, seeking zemblanity, creativity through radical individualism, creativity through groupthink, creativity through the rejection of groupthink, organizational mindfulness, organizational blindness, microwork, macrosloth, fear-based camaraderie, love-based terror, working while standing, working while ambulatory, learning while sleeping, and, most recently, limes.

She scarcely knew what to think except that she was in the presence of a woman who was as close to legendary as any being could get.What stories were told of her! That she had been sequestered in her own manor to prevent men from fighting over her, that she possessed strange powers, that the Wolf had kidnapped her for vengeance but married her for love, that her own brother, mistaking what had happened, had returned her to England by stealth and that Norse and Saxon had come perilously close to war over her.

When asked if he thought that the French Revolution had been a good thing, Zhou Enlai famously answered that it was too early to tell, which is trite about the Terror, but it would be true about America. It’s too early to tell. If you take a timeline from the first settlements in the 1600s to the present, and compare it with the foundation of modern Europe from the end of the Roman Empire, at the same point in our history the Vikings are attacking Orkney, and Alfred is the first king of bits of what will one day be England.

Tom felt his darkness. His father was beautiful and clever, his mother was short and mathematically sure. Each of his brothers and sisters had looks or gifts or fortune. Tom loved all of them passionately, but he felt heavy and earth-bound. He climbed ecstatic mountains and floundered in the rocky darkness between the peaks. He had spurts of bravery but they were bracketed in battens of cowardice. Samuel said that Tom was quavering over greatness, trying to decide whether he could take the cold responsibility. Samuel knew his son’s quality and felt the potential of violence, and it frightened him, for Samuel had no violence—even when he hit Adam Trask with his fist he had no violence. And the books that came into the house, some of them secretly—well, Samuel rode lightly on top of a book and he balanced happily among ideas the way a man rides white rapids in a canoe. But Tom got into a book, crawled and groveled between the covers, tunneled like a mole among the thoughts, and came up with the book all over his face and hands. John Steinbeck. East of Eden (Kindle Locations 4766-4770). Viking.

the people grew tired of this little gossip. Fathers looked at their children and thought: "They are not learning much. What will make them brave and wise? What will teach them to love their country and old Norway? Will not the stories of battles, of brave deeds, of mighty men, do this?

The beautiful dream of young love that ventures only on half-measures, that desires and dares not ask, promises and does not give. He was homeless in the noble sense of those who, like the Vikings and pirates of beauty, have collected in their intellectual raids all that is most precious in many great cities. He was close to all the arts in the manner of a dilettante, but stronger than his love for them was his sublime disdain to serve them. Destiny does not always need the powerful prelude of a sudden violent blow to shake a heart beyond recovery. Memory is always a bond and every loving memory is a bond twice over.

The Danes had a great love of sea stories and the old sagas. Snorri provided the former from personal experience and Kara the latter from her vast store of such trivia. I half-thought some of the duke’s men would volunteer to join the Undoreth and travel with the Vikings such was the level of worship on display...

His voice was reassuring and calm, his expression soft, his eyes brighter than ever. Oh Ahura Mazda, she’d never wanted any man so intently in all her life. She ached to have him touch her, kiss her, taste her. And Ivar did as she wished. He put her hand to his nose to smell her skin, kissed her inner wrist to taste her, his lips lingered over her racing pulse. Finally, it was confirmed in actions and direct words, spoken aloud and repeated seven times… She felt the rush of desire ripping through her body, an intense sensation of warmth upon her skin, the blissful waves of uneasiness swamped through her, tingling her nerves.

Make for yourself a world you can believe in. It sounds simple, I know. But it’s not. Listen, there are a million worlds you could make for yourself. Everyone you know has a completely different one—the woman in 5G, that cab driver over there, you. Sure, there are overlaps, but only in the details. Some people make their worlds around what they think reality is like. They convince themselves that they had nothing to do with their worlds’ creations or continuations. Some make their worlds without knowing it. Their universes are just sesame seeds and three-day weekends and dial tones and skinned knees and physics and driftwood and emerald earrings and books dropped in bathtubs and holes in guitars and plastic and empathy and hardwood and heavy water and high black stockings and the history of the Vikings and brass and obsolescence and burnt hair and collapsed souffles and the impossibility of not falling in love in an art museum with the person standing next to you looking at the same painting and all the other things that just happen and are. But you want to make for yourself a world that is deliberately and meticulously personalized. A theater for your life, if I could put it like that. Don’t live an accident. Don’t call a knife a knife. Live a life that has never been lived before, in which everything you experience is yours and only yours. Make accidents on purpose. Call a knife a name by which only you will recognize it. Now I’m not a very smart man, but I’m not a dumb one, either. So listen: If you can manage what I’ve told you, as I was never able to, you will give your life meaning.

He burned,his body drawn bow-taut. If he did not sheathe himself soon within his wife's silken depths... She looked at him directly, her eyes wide and candid. "All day I have wanted to...touch you." His dark brows rose. All day? Well that was certainly pleasing but it didn't make his condition any easier to bear. Harshly, he said, "You don't have to ask permission to touch me." She shrugged her lovely, almost bare shoulders. "I know,but under the circumstances..." Her gaze drifted down his body, rather pointedly, he thought. Which definitely did not help matters at all. "You can touch me later," he said and reached for her again. She pressed her palms against his chest, tossed back her gleaming hair, and laughed. Really,he was going to die from this. "Just a little now...please?" Dragon squeezed his eyes shut and reached deep down inside for the control that was so instrinsic a part of his warrior's nature.It had to be in there somewhere.Any moment now he'd stumble across it.

This is not mysticism, but identification; man, building this greatest and most personal of all tools, has in turn received a boat-shaped mind, and the boat, a man-shaped soul. His spirit and the tendrils of his feeling are so deep in a boat that the identification is complete. It is very easy to see why the Viking wished his body to sail away in an unmanned ship, for neither could exist without the other; or, failing that, how it was necessary that the things he loved most, his women and his ship, lie with him and thus keep closed the circle. In the great fire on the shore, all three started at least in the same direction, and in the gathered ashes who could say where man or woman stopped and ship began?

For soldiers serving in Afghanistan and Iraq, coming home is more lethal than being in combat. From the invasion of Afghanistan to the summer of 2009, the US military lost 761 soldiers in combat in that country. Compare that to the 817 who took their own lives over the same period, and this number does account for deaths related to violence, high-risk behaviors, and addiction.

I hate textbooks. I hate how they shoehorn even the most incongruous words – like 'cup' and 'bookcase,' or 'pencil' and 'ashtray' – onto the same page, and then call it 'vocabulary.' In a conversation, the language is always fluid, moving, and you have to move with it. You walk and talk and see where the words come from, and where they should go. It was in this way that I learned to count like a Viking.

In one way we think a great deal too much of the atomic bomb. ‘How are we to live in an atomic age?’ I am tempted to reply: ‘Why, as you would have lived in the sixteenth century when the plague visited London every year, or as you would have lived in a Viking age when raiders from Scandinavia might land and cut your throat any night…’ In other words, do not let us begin by exaggerating the novelty of our situation. Believe me, dear sir or madam, you and all whom you love were already sentenced to death before the atomic bomb was invented…It is perfectly ridiculous to go about whimpering and drawing long faces because the scientists have added one more chance of painful and premature death to a world which already bristled with such chances and in which death itself was not a chance at all, but a certainty…“If we are all going to be destroyed by an atomic bomb, let that bomb when it comes find us doing sensible and human things- praying, working, teaching, reading, listening to music, bathing the children, playing tennis, chatting to our friends…not huddled together like frightened sheep and thinking about bombs. They may break our bodies (any microbe can do that) but they need not dominate our minds.

Lord,I love you truly with all my heart. Every moment with you is precious to me but I would give up even that if it meant peace between our peoples. Nothing else can be allowed to matter so much as that." Dragon did not reply. He was staring at her very oddly. Of the others, she had no awareness at all. Only he existed for her just then.She felt as though there was no ground beneath her but this time instead of falling as she had off the cliff, she soared frantically, desperately,not knowing if at any moment gravity might reclaim her but soaring all the same. "What did you say?" he demanded. "Nothing else can be allowed to matter so much as the peace between our peoples! I understand full well how angry you are. The insult done you was profound,but I beg you,think of what you do.Do you go against my father,he wins!" Slowly,Dragon shook his head as though trying to clear it. His gaze locked on Rycca's like a man holding fast to the rudder in a mighty storm. A dull flush crept over his high-boned cheeks. "Insult? You think I want to kill your father because he insulted me? For pity's sake, woman, I damn near lost you! Don't you have any idea what that means to me?" Her eyes widened, never leaving him as he stalked across the stone floor of the Saxon's king's great hall and took firm hold of her by her shoulders. He dragged her up against him even as he near yelled, "Dammit to hell, woman, I love you! What care I for insults? Nothing matters to me save keeping you safe and-" "Love?" Rycca repeated in a daze. "Loki take you, lady, you are not the easiet woman in the world to get along with, you know! You are strong, spirited, stubborn, not a meek bone in your body! Your body...Never mind that, the point is you have stolen into my heart and I lack any will to get you out, so do not dare you think of dying! I absolutely forbid it! Did you say you love me?" Oh,my,Rycca thought, she truly did have wings after all.Strong, sturdy wings that would carry her as high as she wanted to climb. And that was very high indeed. A smile crept over her clear to her toes.She cupped her husband's face between her hands and took his mouth with hers.Well and thoroughly did she kiss him right there in front of everyone. That took some time, and when she was done she was rather breathless. Yet she managed to say, "I love you, lord.More than life,more even than freedom.You are dearest to me above all." And for just a moment, there in the hall of the king,Rycca of Landsende saw the sheen of tears in her Viking's eyes.

Rycca left her twin and went into Dragon's arms.From their safety, she watched as Wolf and Cymbra came into the hall.Wolf was carrying Lion and the three were laughing over something. Close behind came Hawk and Krysta, Falcon nestled in his father's arms. Smiling,they joined the others. The sun came out just then from behind a cloud and shining through the high windows filled the hall with a golden radiance.For just a moment,it seemed to Rycca that everything slowed down and very nearly stopped. A single mote of dust hung suspended before her eyes, whirling, dancing, revealing in its simplicity the miracle of a timeless moment made radiant by love and the peace it had wrought. Then Dragon lifted her hand and gently kissed it,and she felt his touch clear through to the very essence of her immortal self.Time moved on again, carrying them with it,yet she knew that for them there always would be the moment everlasting.Truly,blessed are the peacemakers. Darkness now descends but bright torches light the night just as love and the dream of peace will shine through all the years to come.Far into the future,the descendants of these three couples will themselves meet their own challenges,live their own adventures,and find their own enduring blessing in everlasting love.

Her soul! Her name! Her eyes! They seem to me like strange beautiful blue wild-flowers growing in some tangled, rain-drenched hedge. And I have felt her soul tremble beside mine, and have spoken her name softly to the night, and have wept to see the beauty of the world passing like a dream behind her eyes. — James Joyce, from a love letter to (of) Nora Barnacle, Selected Joyce Letters, ed. Richard Ellmann (Viking Press, 1975)

A moment later, Vesta became aware that her life was passing her by in that busy city, where no man could capture her heart… What if she married someone, who wasn’t mentally prepared to keep his Zoroastrian identity intact? Or what if her future husband was forced to convert to Islam? What if he tried to force her to convert as well? What if he suddenly decided to become an extremist and called for Sharia Laws in Kurdland? She shivered at the thought.

(We had one guy who killed a woman and made meatloaf out of her.) And they interviewed the guy, George, and he was like, ‘Yeah, she was a pain in the ass and I beat her and, you know, I finally cracked her over the head and she died. I didn’t know what the hell to do with her. Well, Christ, George, I mean… Couldn’t ya—give her a Viking burial or something? You didn’t have to cook the poor woman down like Martha Stewart, for God’s sake. For meatloaf. I love meatloaf. I do. But I was off it for a long time after that.

ALICE COOPER: Now, if you’re in Norway and you want to have any kind of authority or credibility in metal, you have to eat your lead singer. It’s like rap: if you don’t shoot somebody you can’t really be a rapper. I love these advertisements in metal magazines for all these bands that are trying to be more evil than the other band, or they’re trying to be more Celtic or more occult. It’s just hysterical. These guys are role-playing for a couple years, and then they turn into something else. They go, “We are Gothora, and we are Vikings!” No, you’re not. You’re not Vikings at all. Vikings don’t go to McDonald’s.

Leaving my empty goblet, I slide from the soft pile at his order. I can already feel the desire bursting from between my thighs as I fall to all fours and begin my crawl to where he has seated himself. “We will begin as before—you will be spanked over my knee—but this time there will be little pleasure in it for you, my captive. I intend to hurt you—to mark that pretty little behind—and make you unable to sit properly for some time.” I am back by his feet as he concludes and warily, I raise my eyes as he finishes the sentence. I know I am not hiding the terror in my face and yet still I am compelled to carry on—submitting myself to him in this way for our mutual need. He catches my hair in his left hand and pulls it into a rough ponytail, again drawing my head back. “When my hand is aching from tanning your backside, I will bind you to the bedpost and continue to thrash you with my strap. Do you understand?” He eyes me wildly and for a moment I am too afraid to even respond. I have to swallow hard again to find my voice. “Please, my Lofðungr,” I say shakily. “I do not know if I can bear such a punishment?” He never takes his eyes from me as he answers. “You can and you will, my sweeting,” he says. “You will submit to me in this way as a sign of your true desire to be mine.” I close my eyes at his words, understanding for the first time his real intention. He means not just to punish me, but to mark and possess me in some meaningful way. To make me his again in the way that our coupling had done before. As I open my eyes again and see him standing over me, there are tears but also a new acceptance. I nod my head as best I can whilst he is still holding my hair in his fist. “I will bear it,” I say, my voice breaking. He leans in toward me, his face just an inch from mine, those blue pools burning into me. “You will bear it,” he replies, his hot breath against my face, “and I will love you for it.

I think of things that weren't, but might have been. The treatise on Saxon myths Bede never wrote. The inconceivable work Dante might have had a glimpse of, As soon as he’d corrected the Comedy’s last verse. History without the afternoons of the Cross and the hemlock. History without the face of Helen. Man without the eyes that gave us the moon. On Gettysburg’s three days, victory for the South. The love we never shared. The wide empire the Vikings chose not to found. The world without the wheel or the rose. The view John Donne held of Shakespeare. The other horn of the Unicorn. The fabled Irish bird that lights on two trees at once. The child I never had.

Th-thurlow...?" His face,so very like her own, lit with pleasure. "Rycca,dear sister! I rejoice to find you well!" They hugged fiercely while Dragon looked on with as much contentment as he could have mustered had he personally arranged the reunion of the twins. "I don't understand," Rycca said when she could speak again.Her throat was very tight and tears gleamed in her eyes but she could not stop smiling. "Why are you here?" "I heard a wild rumor in Normandy, about you fleeing from the marriage arranged for you by the king himself," he said,with a chiding shake of his head. "Really,Rycca,what were you thinking? Dragon here an exemplary fellow.How could you have not wanted to marry him?" Over her brother's shoulder,Rycca sent the fine fellow in question a look that would have turned a lesser mann to ash. Dragon merely raised his eyebrows, the very image of wounded innocence. "It was a little more complicated than he may have explained to you." "Nonsense," Thurlow said with all the certainty of a very young man whose heart is nonetheless in the right place. "I love you dearly, sister,but we both know you can be a tad impulsive. Fortunately,I am assured Dragon will take excellent care of you." Rycca laughed then and reached out a hand to her husband,who took it with a grin.She she drew him to her,she said softly, "As I will care for him, brother.

For once in her life, the thought of being on the back of a magnificent horse did not command Rycca's attention. She was far too busy looking at her magnicifent husband as he removed his sword belt and blithely shucked off his trousers. Naked, he walked straight into the pool, submerged completely, and came up a few minutes later, tossing streams of water from the thick mane of his hair. "Hand me the soap,would you?" Such a simple task, yet to fulfill it he would have to come closer.Or she would. "That's a lovely gown," he said, smiling. "All my gowns are lovely thanks to the Lady Krysta and your own generosity." "It would be a shame to get it wet." She looked at him in alarm, wondering if he would actually do such a thing. His answer was a look of pure innocence, which immediately confirmed her suspicions. "Do you have any idea how any women must have labored so long to make this gown?" "No,do you?" "Well,no,not actually because I never had a gown like this before, but even so, surely you wouldn't do anything to damage it?" "Just to be safe,why don't you take it off?" Oh,yes,that would certainly be safe. Indeed,never was she any safer than when was she naked and in his arms. Except, of course, from the danger of her own emotions. "I bathed when I awoke." "The day is warm." "The pool looks deep.Recall, I cannot swim." "Recall I mean to teach you.

About two years ago," Cymbra went on, "Wolf conceived the idea of an alliance between Norse and Saxon to stand against the Danes.He thought such an alliance would be best confirmed by a marriage between himself and me.This did he propose in a letter to my brother. With the help of a traitorous house priest, Father Elbert, Daria intercepted that letter and stole Hawk's seal as well. She sent back to Wolf a refusal in Hawk's name and mine that not merely rejected the alliance but also insulted him deeply. His repsonse was all too predictable, although it is certain Daria herself never thought of it." "What did he do?" Rycca asked,trying very hard not to sound breathless. Cymbra smiled in fond memory. "Wolf came to Essex and took me by stealth. We were married as I told you and only then did he send word to Hawk as to where I could be found. Naturally, my brother was very angry and concerned. He came to Sciringesheal, where I did my utmost to convince him that I was happily wed,which certainly was true but unfortunately he did not believe. So are men ever stubborn. One thing led to another and Hawk spirited me back to Essex. Winter set in and it was months before Wolf could follow.During that time, Hawk realized his mistake. Once Wolf arrived, all was settled amicably, which was a good thing because this little one"-she smiled at her drowsy son-"had just been norn and I was in no mood to put up with any more foolishness on the part of bull-headed men. It was while we were at Hawkforte, waiting as I regained strength to return home, that Wolf suggested Hawk and Dragon should also make marriages for the alliance." "Such suggestion I am sure they both heartily welcomed," Rycca said sardonically. Cymbra laughed. "About as much as they would being boiled in oil.Hawk was especially bad. He had been married years ago when he was very young and had no good memories of the experience. But I must say, Krysta brought him round in far shorter time than I would have thought possible." "Do you have any idea how she did it?" Rycca ventured,hoping not to sound too desperately curious. "Oh,I know exactly how." Cymbra looked at her new sister-in-law and smiled. "She loved him." "Loved him? That was all it took?" "Well,to be fair,I think she also maddened, irked, frustrated, and bewildered him. All that certainly helped.But I will leave Krysta to tell her own story,as I am sure she will when opportunity arises.

I Won’t Write Your Obituary You asked if you could call to say goodbye if you were ever really gonna kill yourself. Sure, but I won’t write your obituary. I’ll commission it from some dead-end journalist who will say things like: “At peace… Better place… Fought the good fight…” Maybe reference the loving embrace of Capital-G-God at least 4 times. Maybe quote Charles fucking Bukowski. And I won’t stop them because I won’t write your obituary. But if you call me, I will write you a new sky, one you can taste. I will write you a D-I-Y cloud maker so on days when you can’t do anything you can still make clouds in whatever shape you want them. I will write you letters, messages in bottles, in cages, in orange peels, in the distance between here and the moon, in forests and rivers and bird songs. I will write you songs. I can’t write music, but I’ll find Rihanna, and I’ll get her to write you music if it will make you want to dance a little longer. I will write you a body whose veins are electricity because outlets are easier to find than good shrinks, but we will find you a good shrink. I will write you 1-800-273-8255, that’s the suicide hotline; we can call it together. And yeah, you can call me, but I won’t tell you it’s okay, that I forgive you. I won’t say “goodbye” or “I love you” one last time. You won’t leave on good terms with me, Because I will not forgive you. I won’t read you your last rights, absolve you of sin, watch you sail away on a flaming viking ship, my hand glued to my forehead. I will not hold your hand steady around a gun. And after, I won’t come by to pick up the package of body parts you will have left specifically for me. I’ll get a call like “Ma’am, what would you have us do with them?” And I’ll say, “Burn them. Feed them to stray cats. Throw them at school children. Hurl them at the sea. I don’t care. I don’t want them.” I don’t want your heart. It’s not yours anymore, it’s just a heart now and I already have one. I don’t want your lungs, just deflated birthday party balloons that can’t breathe anymore. I don’t want a jar of your teeth as a memento. I don’t want your ripped off skin, a blanket to wrap myself in when I need to feel like your still here. You won’t be there. There’s no blood there, there’s no life there, there’s no you there. I want you. And I will write you so many fucking dead friend poems, that people will confuse my tongue with your tombstone and try to plant daisies in my throat before I ever write you an obituary while you’re still fucking here. So the answer to your question is “yes”. If you’re ever really gonna kill yourself, yes, please, call me.

It was as she remembered, a haven of comfort and serenity. With a glad sigh, she kicked off her shoes and sat down on the side of the bed.Smiling, she patted the mattress beside her. Her husband scowled. It seemed to have become his habit. "We aren't here to relax." "Wolscroft may not even be in the area. It could take days for this to be settled." "He's here," Dragon said with certainty. "He will know what happened at Winchester, and he will be looking for a way to stop us before we can threaten him further." Privately, Rycca believed the same but she saw no reason to stress it. Nothing would happen until dark. Of that she was confident. Which meant... "We have hours to fill.Any ideas?" When he realized her meaning,he looked startled. With a laugh,she scrambled off the bed and went to him. "Oh,Dragon,for heaven's sake, do you really want to mope around here all day? I certainly don't. I still haven't gotten over being afraid Magnus was going to kill you,and I simply don't want to think about death anymore. I want to celebrate life." "There are three hundred men out there-" "Which is why we're in here." She raised herself on tiptoe, bit the lobe of his ear, and whispered, "I promise not to yell too loudly." A shudder ran through him. Even as his big hands stroked her back,he said, "Warriors don't mope." "No,of course they don't.It was a poor choice of words.But you'll be pacing back and forth, looking out the windows, or you'll go get that whetstone I noticed in the stable and sharpen your sword endlessly, or you'll be staring off into space with that dangerous look you get when you're contemplating mayhem. You'll be totally oblivious to me and-" He laughed despite himself and drew her closer. "Enough! Heaven forbid I behave so churlishly." "Speaking of heaven..." With the covers kicked back,the bed was smooth and cool.They undressed each other slowly, relishing the wonder of discovery that still came to them fresh and pure as their very first time. "Remember?" Rycca murmured as she trailed her lips along his broad, powerfully muscled shoulder and down the solid wall of his chest. "I was so nervous..." "Really?" Fooled me....Ah..." "I'd never seen anything so beautiful as you." "Not...beautiful...you are..." "I can't believe how strong you are. Why am I never afraid with you?" "Know I'd die 'fore hurting you? Sweetheart..." "Ohhh! Dragon...please..." His hands and lips moved over her, sweetly tormenting. She clutched his shoulders, her hips rising, and welcomed him deep within her. Still he tantalized her, making her writhe and laughing when she squeezed him hard with her powerful inner muscles. But the laughter turned quickly to a moan of delight. She looked up into his perfectly formed face,more handsome than any man had a right to be, and into his tawny eyes that were the windows of a soul more beautiful than any physical form. A piercing sense of blessedness filled her that she should be so fortunate as to love and be loved by such a man. Her cresting cry was caught by him, hismouth hard against hers, the spur to his own completion that went on and on,seemingly without end.

Take off your clothes. Better yet, I’ll do it.” “Oh, no!” She stepped back quickly in alarm, which prompted a swift frown from him. It vanished when Rycca said, “I saw how you manhandled that tunic. You aren’t about to do the same to this gown. Just wait a moment . . .” Even as she spoke, she deftly undid the laces down the side of the garment and lifted it carefully but quickly over her head. Her husband was in a mood, ridden by tension she could not understand. She wanted to placate him, yet she also wished to surrender to the urges he so effortlessly unleashed within her. Naked save for the gauzy chemise that hid nothing from his eyes, she stood before him, her head lifted proudly to conceal the quivering she felt within. She gloried in his gaze, hot and potent, raking over her. But when he reached for her, she stepped back again. “I ask a boon, lord.” She had never asked him for anything—save freedom and that he could not give. Caught, knowing he could hardly refuse, Dragon rasped, “What?” He had not meant to be so curt but speech was almost beyond him. He wanted her with a desperation he had never felt before save every time he lay with her, and even then he usually managed to maintain some semblance of control. Not now. He burned, his body drawn bow-taut. If he did not sheathe himself soon within his wife’s silken depths . . . She looked at him directly, her eyes wide and candid. “All day I have wanted to . . . touch you.” His dark brows rose. “All day?” Well, that was certainly pleasing but it didn’t make his condition any easier to bear. Harshly, he said, “You don’t have to ask permission to touch me.” She shrugged her lovely, almost bare shoulders. “I know, but under the circumstances . . .” Her gaze drifted down his body, rather pointedly, he thought. Which definitely did not help matters at all. “You can touch me later,” he said and reached for her again. She pressed her palms against his chest, tossed back her gleaming hair, and laughed. Really, he was going to die from this. “Just a little now . . . please?” Dragon squeezed his eyes shut and reached deep down inside himself for the control that was so intrinsic a part of his warrior’s nature. It had to be in there somewhere. Any moment now he’d stumble across it.

The bonds of family can be wonderful but there is a time to know when to stand apart." She held out a hand to Rycca on the nearby bench. "Besides, we are your family now, all of us, and we know your worth." Deeply touched, Rycca had to blink several times before she could respond. She knew both women spoke pure truth and loved them for it.After a lifetime of emotional solitude unbroken but for Thurlow, it was still difficult for her to comprehend that she was no longer alone. Yet was she beginning to understand it. Softly,she said, "I worry over Dragon. He refuses to talk of my father or of what will happen now that we are here, but I fear he is planning to take matters into his own hands." Cymbra and Krysta exchanged a glance. Quietly,Cymbra said, "Your instinct is not wrong. Dragon simmers with rage at the harm attempted to you. In Landsende I caught a mere glimpse of it,and it was like peering into one of those mountains that belch fire." Despite the heat of the sauna, Rycca shivered. "He came close to losing his life once because of me.I cannot bear for it to happen again." There was silence for a moment,broken only by the crackling of the fire and the hiss of steam.Finally, Cymbra said, "We are each of us married to an extraordinary man. There is something about them...even now I don't really know how to explain it." She looked at Krysta. "Have you told Rycca about Thorgold and Raven?" Krysta shook her head. "There was no time before." She turned on her side on the bench,facing the other two. "Thorgold and Raven are my...friends. They are somewhat unusual." Cymbra laughed at that,prompting a chiding look from Krysta,who went on to say, "I'm not sure how but I think somehow I called them to me when I was a child and needed them very much." "Krysta has the gift of calling," Cymbra said, "as I do of feeling and you do of truthsaying. Doesn't it strike you as odd that three very unusual women, all bearing special gifts, ccame to be married to three extraordinary men who are united by a common purpose,to bring peace to their peoples?" "I had not really thought about it," said Rycca, who also had not known of Krysta's gift and was looking at her with some surprise. All three of them? That was odd. "I believe," said Cymbra, who clearly had been thinking about it, "that there is a reason for it beyond mere coincidence. I think we are meant to be at their sides, to help them as best we can, the better to transform peace from dream to reality." "It is a good thought," Krysta said. Rycca nodded. Very quietly, she said, "Blessed are the peacemakers." Cymbra grinned. "And poor things, we appear to be their blessings. So worry not for Dragon, Rycca. He will prevail. We will all see to it." They laughed then,the trio of them, ancient and feminine laughter hidden in a chamber held in the palm of the earth. The steam rose around them, half obscuringm half revealing them. In time,when the heat had become too intense,they rose, wrapped themselves in billowing cloths,and ran through the gathering darkness to the river, where they frolicked in cool water and laughed again beneath the stars. The torches had been lit by the time they returned to the stronghold high on the hill. They dressed and hastened to the hall,where they greeted their husbands, who stood as one when they entered,silent and watchful men before beauty and strength, and took their seats at table. Wine was poured, food brought,music played. They lingered over the evening,taking it into night. The moon was high when they found the sweet,languid sanctuary of their beds. Day came too swiftly.

After wandering the world and living on the Continent I had long tired of well-behaved, fart-free gentlemen who opened the door and paid the bills but never had a story to tell and were either completely asexual or demanded skin-burning action until the morning light. Swiss watch salesmen who only knew of “sechs” as their wake-up hour, or hairy French apes who always required their twelve rounds of screwing after the six-course meal. I suppose I liked German men the best. They were a suitable mixture of belching northerner and cultivated southerner, of orderly westerner and crazy easterner, but in the post-war years they were of course broken men. There was little you could do with them except try to put them right first. And who had the time for that? Londoners are positive and jolly, but their famous irony struck me as mechanical and wearisome in the long run. As if that irony machine had eaten away their real essence. The French machine, on the other hand, is fuelled by seriousness alone, and the Frogs can drive you beyond the limit when they get going with their philosophical noun-dropping. The Italian worships every woman like a queen until he gets her home, when she suddenly turns into a slut. The Yank is one hell of a guy who thinks big: he always wants to take you the moon. At the same time, however, he is as smug and petty as the meanest seamstress, and has a fit if someone eats his peanut butter sandwich aboard the space shuttle. I found Russians interesting. In fact they were the most Icelandic of all: drank every glass to the bottom and threw themselves into any jollity, knew countless stories and never talked seriously unless at the bottom of the bottle, when they began to wail for their mother who lived a thousand miles away but came on foot to bring them their clean laundry once a month. They were completely crazy and were better athletes in bed than my dear countrymen, but in the end I had enough of all their pommel-horse routines. Nordic men are all as tactless as Icelanders. They get drunk over dinner, laugh loudly and fart, eventually start “singing” even in public restaurants where people have paid to escape the tumult of the world. But their wallets always waited cold sober in the cloakroom while the Icelandic purse lay open for all in the middle of the table. Our men were the greater Vikings in this regard. “Reputation is king, the rest is crap!” my Bæring from Bolungarvík used to say. Every evening had to be legendary, anything else was a defeat. But the morning after they turned into weak-willed doughboys. But all the same I did succeed in loving them, those Icelandic clodhoppers, at least down as far as their knees. Below there, things did not go as well. And when the feet of Jón Pre-Jón popped out of me in the maternity ward, it was enough. The resemblances were small and exact: Jón’s feet in bonsai form. I instantly acquired a physical intolerance for the father, and forbade him to come in and see the baby. All I heard was the note of surprise in the bass voice out in the corridor when the midwife told him she had ordered him a taxi. From that day on I made it a rule: I sacked my men by calling a car. ‘The taxi is here,’ became my favourite sentence.

Recipe for a Perfect Wife, the Novel INGREDIENTS 3 cups editors extraordinaire: Maya Ziv, Lara Hinchberger, Helen Smith 2 cups agent-I-couldn’t-do-this-without: Carolyn Forde (and the Transatlantic Literary Agency) 1½ cup highly skilled publishing teams: Dutton US, Penguin Random House Canada (Viking) 1 cup PR and marketing wizards: Kathleen Carter (Kathleen Carter Communications), Ruta Liormonas, Elina Vaysbeyn, Maria Whelan, Claire Zaya 1 cup women of writing coven: Marissa Stapley, Jennifer Robson, Kate Hilton, Chantel Guertin, Kerry Clare, Liz Renzetti ½ cup author-friends-who-keep-me-sane: Mary Kubica, Taylor Jenkins Reid, Amy E. Reichert, Colleen Oakley, Rachel Goodman, Hannah Mary McKinnon, Rosey Lim ½ cup friends-with-talents-I-do-not-have: Dr. Kendra Newell, Claire Tansey ¼ cup original creators of the Karma Brown Fan Club: my family and friends, including my late grandmother Miriam Christie, who inspired Miriam Claussen; my mom, who is a spectacular cook and mother; and my dad, for being the wonderful feminist he is 1 tablespoon of the inner circle: Adam and Addison, the loves of my life ½ tablespoon book bloggers, bookstagrammers, authors, and readers: including Andrea Katz, Jenny O’Regan, Pamela Klinger-Horn, Melissa Amster, Susan Peterson, Kristy Barrett, Lisa Steinke, Liz Fenton 1 teaspoon vintage cookbooks: particularly the Purity Cookbook, for the spark of inspiration 1 teaspoon loyal Labradoodle: Fred Licorice Brown, furry writing companion Dash of Google: so I could visit the 1950s without a time machine METHOD: Combine all ingredients into a Scrivener file, making sure to hit Save after each addition.

In one way we think a great deal too much of the atomic bomb. “How are we to live in an atomic age?” I am tempted to reply: “Why, as you would have lived in the sixteenth century when the plague visited London almost every year, or as you would have lived in a Viking age when raiders from Scandinavia might land and cut your throat any night; or indeed, as you are already living in an age of cancer, an age of syphilis, an age of paralysis, an age of air raids, an age of railway accidents, an age of motor accidents.” In other words, do not let us begin by exaggerating the novelty of our situation. Believe me, dear sir or madam, you and all whom you love were already sentenced to death before the atomic bomb was invented: and quite a high percentage of us were going to die in unpleasant ways. We had, indeed, one very great advantage over our ancestors — anesthetics; but we have that still. It is perfectly ridiculous to go about whimpering and drawing long faces because the scientists have added one more chance of painful and premature death to a world which already bristled with such chances and in which death itself was not a chance at all, but a certainty. This is the first point to be made: and the first action to be taken is to pull ourselves together. If we are all going to be destroyed by an atomic bomb, let that bomb when it comes find us doing sensible and human things praying, working, teaching, reading, listening to music, bathing the children, playing tennis, chatting to our friends over a pint and a game of darts—not huddled together like frightened sheep and thinking about bombs. They may break our bodies (a microbe can do that) but they need not dominate our minds.

For most of our history, walking wasn’t a choice. It was a given. Walking was our primary means of locomotion. But, today, you have to choose to walk. We ride to work. Office buildings and apartments have elevators. Department stores offer escalators. Airports use moving sidewalks. An afternoon of golf is spent riding in a cart. Even a ramble around your neighborhood can be done on a Segway. Why not just put one foot in front of the other? You don’t have to live in the country. It’s great to take a walk in the woods, but I love to roam city streets, too, especially in places like New York, London, or Rome, where you can’t go half a block without making some new discovery. A long stroll slows you down, puts things in perspective, brings you back to the present moment. In Wanderlust: A History of Walking (Viking, 2000), author Rebecca Solnit writes that, “Walking, ideally, is a state in which the mind, the body, and the world are aligned, as though they were three characters finally in conversation together, three notes suddenly making a chord.” Yet in our hectic, goal-oriented culture, taking a leisurely walk isn’t always easy. You have to plan for it. And perhaps you should. Walking is good exercise, but it is also a recreation, an aesthetic experience, an exploration, an investigation, a ritual, a meditation. It fosters health and joie de vivre. Cardiologist Paul Dudley White once said, “A vigorous five-mile walk will do more good for an unhappy but otherwise healthy adult than all the medicine and psychology in the world.” A good walk is anything but pedestrian. It lengthens your life. It clears, refreshes, provokes, and repairs the mind. So lace up those shoes and get outside. The most ancient exercise is still the best.

If you’d convinced Nancy to marry you, you might not have had to go off to be a Bow Street runner. You could have had an easier life, a better life in high society than you could have had with me if you’d married me. Without being able to access my fortune, I could only have dragged you down.” “You don’t really believe that I wanted to marry her for her money,” he gritted out. “It’s either that or assume that you fell madly in love with her in the few weeks we were apart.” They were nearly to the inn now, so she added a plaintive note to her voice. “Or perhaps it was her you wanted all along. You knew my uncle would never accept a second son as a husband for his rich heiress of a daughter, so you courted me to get close to her. Nancy was always so beautiful, so--” “Enough!” Without warning, he dragged her into one of the many alleyways that crisscrossed York. This one was deeply shadowed, the houses leaning into each other overhead, and as he pulled her around to face him, the brilliance of his eyes shone starkly in the dim light. “I never cared one whit about Nancy.” She tamped down her triumph--he hadn’t admitted the whole truth yet. “It certainly didn’t look that way to me. It looked like you had already forgotten me, forgotten what we meant to each--” “The hell I had.” He shoved his face close to hers. “I never forgot you for one day, one hour, one moment. It was you--always you. Everything I did was for you, damn it. No one else.” The passionate profession threw her off course. Dom had never been the sort to say such sweet things. But the fervent look in his eyes roused memories of how he used to look at her. And his hands gripping her arms, his body angling in closer, were so painfully familiar... “I don’t…believe you,” she lied, her blood running wild through her veins. His gleaming gaze impaled her. “Then believe this.” And suddenly his mouth was on hers. This was not what she’d set out to get from him. But oh, the joy of it. The heat of it. His mouth covered hers, seeking, coaxing. Without breaking the kiss, he pushed her back against the wall, and she grabbed for his shoulders, his surprisingly broad and muscular shoulders. As he sent her plummeting into unfamiliar territory, she held on for dear life. Time rewound to when they were in her uncle’s garden, sneaking a moment alone. But this time there was no hesitation, no fear of being caught. Glorying in that, she slid her hands about his neck to bring him closer. He groaned, and his kiss turned intimate. He used lips and tongue, delving inside her mouth in a tender exploration that stunned her. Enchanted her. Confused her. Something both sweet and alien pooled in her belly, a kind of yearning she’d never felt with Edwin. With any man but Dom. As if he sensed it, he pulled back to look at her, his eyes searching hers, full of surprise. “My God, Jane,” he said hoarsely, turning her name into a prayer. Or a curse? She had no time to figure out which before he clasped her head to hold her for another darkly ravishing kiss. Only this one was greedier, needier. His mouth consumed hers with all the boldness of Viking raiders of yore. His tongue drove repeatedly inside in a rhythm that made her feel all trembly and hot, and his thumbs caressed her throat, rousing the pulse there. Thank heaven there was a wall to hold her up, or she was quite sure she would dissolve into a puddle at his feet. Because after all these years apart, he was riding roughshod over her life again. And she was letting him. How could she not? His scent of leather and bergamot engulfed her, made her dizzy with the pleasure of it. He roused urges she’d never known she had, sparked fires in places she’d thought were frozen. Then his hands swept down her possessively as if to memorize her body…or mark it as belonging to him. Belonging to him.

She hadn't said a word about his comment concerning marrying her. If she was of the French nobility, she might not wish to marry him. But still, he was of the mind he would change her thoughts concerning the matter - despite that he had no title or lands to call his own. What Highlander could say that he had a wife who would fight a Highland warrior, wielding only a pitchfork, or that she would raise a Highlander's sword to fight a Viking warrior to protect him? Her stories fascinated him, and he was thinking that if he had a bairn with her, how she would tell the child her delightful tales. And he would settle down with them to listen, too. Most of all, he loved the way she worried about his health, snuggled with him as if it was for more than warmth, and even kissed him back when he weakly attempted to kiss her earlier.

You do not tell a woman you love her and then shimmy off up into the air.

There were things I never asked when picking up a stranger.  I didn't want to know what they did for a living.  I didn’t care what they drove, where they lived, or what their favorite color was.  I wanted to know how they liked their cock sucked.  I wanted to know if they made love or fucked.  Did they eat pussy?  Did they like rough sex?  He laughs.  “I thought those kinds of pickup lines weren’t allowed.”  He was cocky.  I liked that.  It was a cousin to arrogance and cruelty; I liked that even more.  Was this what it felt like to find your true north? He shook my hand and started a conversation like a gentleman.  But in my heart, I knew this man, the dark Viking, was dangerous.

You are my Treasure I hold deep in my heart

It was a love story, of course, which held the women in thrall, even though most of them had heard it many times before, but it was also a poignant story of the love two brothers had for each other.

All she loves is her people and power. He should have learned by now to forget about soft things. The world is harsh, and he is a leader of warriors.

I have traveled around the world. I've walked the Great Wall of China, eaten dinner at the top of the Eiffel Tower, and ridden the bullet train from Tokyo to Osaka. That's not all. I've led an army into battle on dragonback, seduced a vicious mafia boss, and journeyed back in time to fall in love with everyone from Vikings to the Knights of the Round Table. I've lived a thousand lives. Too bad the only real one fucking sucks.

I find myself wanting to lead the charge for justice, sword in hand and screaming a Viking battle cry.” She frowned. “You did have battle cries, didn’t you?” He laughed. “Some of the best. Remind me the next time we’re up on the mountain, and I’ll teach you a few. I’d do it now, but we’d probably upset the neighbors.” “Do I get my own horned helmet?” He looked a bit insulted. “My tribe never wore anything like that. But if you want to, you can borrow one of my knives to wave around and menace the local fauna.” He was making fun of her. She just knew it. “A knife? Why not a sword?” “Because you couldn’t lift one of my swords, much less swing it. One of my longer knives would be the perfect size for a little bit like you to brandish while you practice screaming oaths in old Norse.” From the way he chuckled, he obviously found the whole idea hilarious. She loved making her husband laugh. From Judith’s memories and her own, she knew that Ranulf had gone way too many years with no joy in his life. That didn’t mean she wouldn’t extract a little revenge. She tweaked a lock of his hair. “Well, I might not be able to lift your sword, my Viking love, but if you keep making fun of me, I’ll flatten you against the nearest wall and keep you there. How would you like that?” The blue flames were back. “I’d like it just fine, if you promise to take advantage of me while I’m at your mercy.” Now that was an image to be savored. “Are you sure I can’t play with your sword? Right now?” She basked in the warm approval in his eyes. “Only if you promise to take really good care of it.” She slid down to kneel between his legs. “Believe me, I plan to.

If he had really won Norway for a woman's love, it was the highest dowry Harald ever paid. Over the course of his fifty years he allegedly collected two hundred wives and had more sons than he knew what to do with. Even three generations later, nearly every jarl in Norway could credibly claim to be related to the first king.

If something was not done for love, then it was not worth doing.

Freya led Sartre to the first tent, near the water. Sartre pushed back the flap so that they could both enter. Two bushy-bearded gentlemen dressed as Vikings, one on top of the other, kissed hungrily at each other, making slurping spaghetti sounds.

I love the smell of you. Sea air, leather, and your skin...all of you." She sewed soft kisses over his chest, inching toward the hollow at the base of his neck. "You'll never be free of me." His arms tightened like manacles, squeezing her closer. "Never have I wanted to be free of you.

What?” “Have you met Thane?” “No, so?” Tina grinned. “I love my husband and my heart is only his, but holy crap, Thane Dreki is hot. He’s like one giant Viking you want pillaging and plundering you.” Lily almost choked on her wine. “Seriously?

With so many siblings to care for, rare were the times Catrina MacGreagor could climb the hill of a morning, look down on her small Scottish village, and spend the precious moments of solicitude needed to contemplate the silent passing from childhood into womanhood. At fourteen, she was as tall as she would be, or so everyone said. The daughter of a Viking who found himself stranded in Scotland years before, her long hair was the same light blonde as her father’s, and her soft blue eyes were normally filled with goodness and kindness. She wore the usual off-white, long wool dress tied at the waist with twine. Her sword and dagger strings were tied over the twine, and she wore a woven leather headband to keep the hair out of her eyes. Except for the normal fears of being attacked by a neighboring clan, or dying of a dreaded illness, hers was a good life filled with all the love a family and a close-knit clan had to give.

2)                 Allow Your True Place to Appear:  We must live according to providence. There are things that we are meant to do. We must dig deep into our souls to determine what our true purpose on earth is. Our being wants us to live and express our true talents and inner desires. You may have a dream to build hospitals, write poetry or create music. You may even have a calling to minister to the sick or poor. Whatever it is, be sure and express this before you leave this world. Many people find this true place in their labor. They call this a “labor of love or “right livelihood”.  This type of joyous work is easy and enjoyable regardless of how stressful it may be for others. This is because your purpose energizes your work and you are having fun.

I will never be your perfect Viking, Regin! I've made unforgivable mistakes. I've no family or friends, and my men hold no love for me. I'm scarred inside and out. And I'm bloody askin' for you anyway!

On that topic, how are things going with Jared?” Holly inquired. “I want to interfere horribly in my friends’ love lives and keep my own embarrassing and pathetic one private, is that so much to ask?” “Mmm,” said Holly, and gave Kami a grin that reminded Kami of when Holly had been the sunny confident school goddess she had barely known and envied a little. “Now that you know that I’m not at all interested in Jared, is it inappropriate to say that I did get the impression that he might channel all those simmering repressed emotions in a useful way. I mean being explosively good in bed.” “Viking tiger in the sack, I have no doubt,” Kami said lightly, and felt a blush stage a hostile takeover of her neck and march up to claim the territory of her face

Standing, she turned toward him, dropped into an exaggerated curtsy, and, smiling broadly, said, “Your Grace. I trust I pass inspection?” He chuckled at her use of the ducal address and offered her a hand to lift her from her position. Tilting his head, he answered in a voice rich with humor. “Far be it from me to answer that particular question. I wouldn’t dare risk removing that opinion from the purview of the duchess. You know that.” Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, he continued, “Suffice to say, my lady, that I believe you are the most beautiful of my offspring.” Alex burst into laughter and leaned up to kiss her father’s cheek. “Well said…ever the diplomat. Although I rather think it shouldn’t be that difficult to be the most beautiful when compared to the hulking brutes you call sons.” “Not diplomacy at all, daughter. You look lovely. And, sadly, very grown up. When did you get so tall?” Alex was just a few inches from her father’s height, and she smiled at the question. “Strong Stafford blood, of course, Father. Are you certain we’re not descended from the Vikings?” “Looking at the four of you, one does wonder. But then there is I, the diminutive duke…pathetically small and not at all Norse.

The norns are goddesses of fate, of love and hate; they are weaving on the loom of destiny. All the lives of people and gods, past and present, are woven on their loom. Your thread of life was long ago spun and placed in their great image.

It was better to be loved than hated, Nikolas reckoned, but a warrior couldn’t earn one without the other.

When I look at the statistics in more vulnerability-intolerant Viking-or-Victim professions, I see a dangerous pattern developing. And no place is this more evident than in the military. The statistics on post-traumatic-stress-related suicides, violence, addiction, and risk-taking all point to this haunting truth: For soldiers serving in Afghanistan and Iraq, coming home is more lethal than being in combat. From the invasion of Afghanistan to the summer of 2009, the US military lost 761 soldiers in combat in that country. Compare that to the 817 who took their own lives over the same period. And this number doesn’t account for deaths related to violence, high-risk behaviors, and addiction.

Ihave traveled around the world. I’ve walked the Great Wall of China, eaten dinner at the top of the Eiffel Tower, and ridden the bullet train from Tokyo to Osaka. That’s not all. I’ve led an army into battle on dragonback, seduced a vicious mafia boss, and journeyed back in time to fall in love with everyone from Vikings to the Knights of the Round Table. I’ve lived a thousand lives. Too bad the only real one fucking sucks.

So in Niall’s view, giving Eric this piece of knowledge was a test of Eric’s love for you.” I nodded. Bill contemplated the floor for a minute or two. “Far be it from me to speak in Eric’s defense,” he said at last, with a hint of a smile, “but in this instance, I will. I don’t know if Eric actually intended you to, say, wish Freyda had never been born or to wish that his maker had never met her . . . or some other wish that would have gotten him out of Freyda’s line of sight. Knowing the Viking, I’m certain he hoped you would be willing to use it on his behalf.” This was a conversation of significant pauses. I had to think over his words for a minute to be sure I understood what Bill was telling me. “So the cluviel dor was a test of Eric’s sincerity, in Niall’s eyes. And the cluviel dor was a test of my love for Eric, in Eric’s eyes,” I said. “And we both failed the test.

Ihave traveled around the world. I’ve walked the Great Wall of China, eaten dinner at the top of the Eiffel Tower, and ridden the bullet train from Tokyo to Osaka. That’s not all. I’ve led an army into battle on dragonback, seduced a vicious mafia boss, and journeyed back in time to fall in love with everyone from Vikings to the Knights of the Round Table. I’ve lived a thousand lives.

Searching again for the handle, I grab on to it and twist. My fight-or-flight mechanism is working and I feel the need to flee the scene—a virgin trying to escape a Viking. That sounds like a historical romance book I’d find in the local library, The Virgin and the Viking.

Under a spell, she agreed to the proposal and swore her love to Frey. Skirnir returned to Alfheim and told Frey that Gerd decided to marry him. However, the sword stayed with Skirnir, as a price that Frey gladly paid. Thus, Frey lost his protection when the end of the world would come to pay his debt and reward his servant. This decision, in the end, doomed him to death: a price that he paid for a life with Gerd.

Their uncommon size made them eat a lot, so often they were called the “great eaters,” among other names. The giants also loved to drink, and that’s why they were also called Thurses.

I have traveled around the world. I’ve walked the Great Wall of China, eaten dinner at the top of the Eiffel Tower, and ridden the bullet train from Tokyo to Osaka. That’s not all. I’ve led an army into battle on dragonback, seduced a vicious mafia boss, and journeyed back in time to fall in love with everyone from Vikings to the Knights of the Round Table. I’ve lived a thousand lives. Too bad the only real one fucking sucks. I sigh and close the book I’ve been reading. It’s a good one, about a ghost hunter who accidentally falls in love with the spirit she’s supposed to track down. Some people call these guilty pleasure reads, but why should I feel guilt for wanting to escape to somewhere else, even for a little while?

We serve the ones we love, the best we can.

I wish I wasn’t jealous that you’ve had time to fall in love when it was stolen from me.