Chapter 18: Echoes of Shame and Stolen Sunshine
Shalltear sat hunched at the bar on the 9th Floor like a gargoyle carved from regret itself. The glass in her pale fingers might as well have been empty air—no burn, no buzz, no blessed oblivion to drown the shame that clung to her like a second skin.
"This barely touches me at all," she muttered, voice hollow as a tomb. Her reflection in the amber liquid mocked her with crimson eyes that had once burned with confidence, now dulled to the dying embers of a flame.
Clavu, the myconid bartender whose mushroom cap cast strange shadows in the low light, polished a glass with the patience of stone. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of earth and root. "Given your resistance to poisons, Lady Shalltear, this may be a futile endeavor. Your constitution renders such... escapes... rather impossible."
"Aaaah!" The sound ripped from her throat—not quite a scream, not quite a sob. Something worse. Something broken.
"But what do I know?" Clavu's tone remained gentle, measured. "You did chug it down quickly enough. Perhaps you should retire for the evening, my lady. Rest may serve you better than—"
"No." The word cracked like ice. "I don't want to go back yet. Can't. Won't."
Clavu inclined his head, wisdom in his silence. "Very well."
The door groaned open—a sound like fate clearing its throat. Shadows shifted as a figure entered: a butler wearing a penguin mask, cradling an actual penguin in his arms as though it were a noble's firstborn.
"Welcome," Clavu intoned.
"Yo, piki!" the penguin chirped, far too cheerful for this den of despair.
"What can I get for you?"
"The usual."
"Very good, Mr. Eclair."
Moments passed—measured in heartbeats and held breath—before Clavu produced a tall glass filled with something that looked like a rainbow had melted into liquid form, swirling with colors that had no business existing in the same drink. Eclair waddled forward, flippers extended toward the brooding vampire.
"For you, my lady, to perk you up... Eeeh—"
"Perhaps," Clavu interrupted smoothly, "you should keep your flippers to yourself, Mr. Eclair."
"Terribly sorry. It won't happen again." The penguin's embarrassment was almost palpable.
Shalltear's gaze dragged upward like it weighed a thousand pounds. "If it isn't Assistant Butler Eclair." Her voice carried all the enthusiasm of a funeral dirge.
"Something the matter?" Eclair shifted his weight—an awkward dance of concern. "Not to be rude, miss, but you look... unwell. Quite unwell, actually."
"Well, you know..." Shalltear's laugh was bitter glass grinding underfoot. "No, it's no big deal. I just managed to fail in the worst way possible—betrayed everything, everyone, him—so naturally I'm escaping into alcohol like any godforsaken Floor Guardian should when they've committed the unforgivable."
"Huh?" Eclair blinked, thoroughly lost.
Clavu's expression remained carefully neutral. "I... don't know what to say to that, my lady."
"Lord Ainz..." Shalltear's voice dropped to a whisper, each word a dagger she turned on herself. "How could I do that to you? How could I—" Her hands trembled. "I don't deserve to stand in your shadow. Don't deserve to breathe the same air. I'm nothing. Worse than nothing. I'm a stain."
Outside, pressed against the corridor wall like a spy in some tragic opera, Thor listened.
The Norse God of Thunder—the Silent Berserker, the Strongest Norse God—stood motionless as stone, his presence heavy enough to warp the air itself. Crimson hair fell across eyes that had witnessed the death of gods, and now witnessed something perhaps more painful: the death of pride, dignity, self-worth. The complete collapse of a warrior's soul.
Albedo had not been wrong about Shalltear's condition. The vampire was drowning in shame so deep it might as well be an ocean.
"Well," Thor rumbled to himself, voice like distant thunder on a clear day, "that is a problem for Momonga to navigate. Not my storm to weather."
He turned, each step measured, deliberate—the gait of someone who had walked battlefields where the ground itself screamed. Right now, he had other priorities. Namely: avoiding the absolute soul-crushing tedium of paperwork that Ainz was currently drowning in.
"This task ended swiftly. Too swiftly." Thor's eyes narrowed with the calculating look of a warrior planning his escape route. "If I return to Momonga now, he'll conscript me into administrative warfare. Death by document. No... I'd rather fight Jörmungandr again. At least the World Serpent was interesting."
His mind turned like gears, finding purchase. "Perhaps visiting Aura will waste sufficient time. The forest. Fresh air. No quills. No ink. No forms."
He raised one hand, power crackling around his fingers—not lightning, but the fundamental force of crossing—and opened a Gate. Reality split like stage curtains, revealing the Forest of Tob beyond: green, wild, wonderfully free of bureaucracy.
Thor stepped through, and the Gate sealed behind him with a sound like thunder swallowing itself.
Aura stood in a clearing where sunlight fell in golden shafts through the canopy, dust motes dancing like tiny spirits. A small red imp—all wings and worry—fluttered down to her level, barely avoiding a collision with her pointed ear.
"Okay, which team are you from?" Aura asked, hands on her hips in that commanding stance she'd perfected under Bukubukuchagama's tutelage.
"Lady Aura!" The imp snapped to attention midair. "I'm from Team U, Number 3, ma'am!"
"Team U..." Aura's mismatched eyes—one blue, one green—narrowed in thought. "Storage warehouse. Got it. What's the issue?"
"There's a problem with the diameter of wood, my lady. The measurements aren't matching the specifications for the—"
Before the imp could finish its engineering crisis, a voice rang out—sweet and feminine, achingly familiar, emerging from the silver bracelet clasped around Aura's left wrist like a benevolent haunting.
"It is time for lunch, Aura!"
The dark elf's face transformed. Gone was the stern supervisor; in her place stood a child hearing her mother's voice. "All right, Lady Bukubukuchagama!" She turned back to the imp, apologetic but firm. "I hate to do this, but since it's time to eat—and you never make Lady Bukubukuchagama wait—would you mind coming back in an hour? We'll sort it all out then, I promise."
"Very well, my lady." The imp zipped away, relieved to escape before getting caught between a dark elf and her lunch.
Aura bounded toward the cliff edge with the grace of someone who'd spent her entire existence in harmony with wilderness. She leaped—for a moment, suspended in air like a painting of freedom itself—then landed with cat-like precision beside a round table sheltered beneath a cheerful patio umbrella. The setup looked absurdly civilized against the wild backdrop: fine china, cloth napkins, silverware that gleamed like captured starlight.
There stood Pestonya Shortcake Wanko, Nazarick's Head Maid, a study in elegant contradictions. Her body possessed the refined grace of high nobility—perfect posture, measured movements, immaculate uniform—but her head was that of a Shetland Sheepdog, complete with soft fur and expressive eyes. A vertical scar ran down the center of her face, crude stitching visible like someone had assembled her from spare parts of beauty and horror.
As Aura settled into her chair, Pestonya placed a domed plate before her with the reverence usually reserved for holy relics.
"Pestonya, what's for lunch today?" Aura practically vibrated with anticipation, leaning forward like a puppy waiting for treats.
"I have prepared a hamburger, just as you requested, Lady Aura, woof!" Pestonya's tail wagged despite her professional demeanor. "With two pickles—exactly two, as specified—and French fries with the skin intact on the side. There is also a cola to drink, chilled to precisely forty degrees Fahrenheit, woof!"
"Time to eat! Time to eat!" Aura sang, lifting the dome with both hands like unveiling a masterpiece. The burger sat there in all its glory—perfectly assembled, cheese melted just so, pickles positioned with geometric precision.
"Thank you for the lunch!" Aura clasped her hands together, a moment of genuine gratitude before launching into the meal with the single-minded focus of someone who'd been managing forestry logistics all morning.
The first bite was transcendent. "Mm, it's good!" she mumbled around the mouthful, manners abandoned in favor of pure culinary joy. She chewed, swallowed, and considered. "Though this Grade A-7 beef is excellent—don't get me wrong, Pestonya—I think I prefer ground beef and pork mixed. That blend, you know? Could you make three patties like that next time? The texture is just... chef's kiss."
"All right, I will relay that preference to the Head Chef immediately, woof." Pestonya produced a small notebook from somewhere in her apron, jotting down notes with meticulous care.
"Mm-hmm, thanks." Aura took a long slurp of her cola—the sound decidedly undignified but satisfying—while Pestonya began tidying up the surrounding area with practiced efficiency.
Aura glanced down at her bracelet, touching it with gentle fingers. "I'd like to hear Lady Bukubukuchagama's voice some more." The words carried weight: longing, love, the particular ache of missing someone who was there but also impossibly far away.
Movement caught her attention. Pestonya was placing another domed plate across the table, in the empty seat.
"Pestonya?" Aura's head tilted, confusion written across her features. "What's that? I didn't order anything else."
"Oh, this is for a special guest who has been lounging on the grass over there, woof." Pestonya gestured with one elegant paw toward a spot some distance away.
Aura turned, following the gesture. There, sprawled across the ground like a fallen statue, basking in the sunshine with the contentment of a cat, was Thor. His crimson hair caught the light, turning it into something between blood and flame. His massive frame looked completely at ease—no tension, no guard, just pure relaxation.
"Lord Thor!" Aura's surprise made her voice jump an octave.
"Hmm?" Thor cracked open one eye, the crimson iris focusing on her with lazy awareness.
"Lord Thor, your dessert is ready, woof!" Pestonya called out, her tail wagging with renewed vigor.
"Fantastic!"
The transformation was immediate. Thor went from horizontal to vertical in one fluid motion—no struggle, no effort, just the sudden, violent grace of a predator spotting prey. He strode toward them with that particular walk of his: each step measured, purposeful, the ground itself seeming to acknowledge his passage.
Aura watched him approach, suddenly very aware of her half-eaten burger and the ketchup probably on her face. "What are you having, Lord Thor?"
Pestonya's chest puffed with visible pride as she grasped the dome's handle. "Your favorite—strawberry cheesecake, milord." She lifted the cover with a flourish worthy of a stage magician.
The dessert was a masterpiece: pale pink filling, graham cracker crust, fresh strawberries arranged in a pattern that suggested mathematical precision and artistic soul had engaged in beautiful warfare.
"I don't doubt your skill, Pestonya." Thor's voice carried the weight of absolute certainty. "Have more confidence in yourself. You possess talents that would make the goddesses of Asgard weep with envy."
"Lord Thor," Aura interjected, eyes wide, "are you saying Pestonya prepared that dessert? Not the Head Chef?"
"Why, yes, I did, Lady Aura, woof." Pestonya's ears flattened with embarrassment. "At Lord Thor's behest, I have been expanding my culinary skills beyond simple meal preparation. He suggested that true mastery requires exploration of all aspects of the craft, from appetizers to—"
"And it's quite delicious," Thor interrupted, taking his first bite. His expression—usually so stoic, so controlled—softened into something approaching bliss. "Exceptional work, Pestonya."
"I'm so glad to provide dessert worthy of your palate, milord, woof!" The dog-headed maid practically glowed.
"Would you like some, Pestonya?" Thor raised his fork, spearing another piece.
"Hmm?" Her ears perked straight up.
Thor held the fork toward her, the gesture casual yet intimate. "Say ahh, Pestonya. Please. For me."
The maid's face—or what visible skin existed beneath her fur—flushed crimson. Her mind raced: using her lord's fork, tasting food from his hand, this was almost like—like an indirect kiss! The intimacy of it, the implications, the—
"Okay, milord. Ahh." She opened her mouth, accepting the offering with the solemnity of communion.
The cheesecake hit her tongue, and her eyes went wide. She chewed slowly, reverently, experiencing her own creation as Thor experienced it. "Wow... I am amazed at how delicious I made it is, woof!" The surprise in her voice was genuine, tinged with pride and disbelief in equal measure.
Aura watched this exchange with growing displeasure. Her mismatched eyes narrowed, a pout forming on her lips. The universe's fundamental unfairness pressed down on her: Pestonya getting special attention, being fed personally, experiencing that casual intimacy while Aura sat here with her hamburger, feeling suddenly very much like a third wheel at her own lunch.
Thor noticed. Of course, he noticed—gods don't survive by missing important details, and Aura's emotions played across her face like storm clouds gathering.
"Would you like some too, Aura?" His voice carried amusement, warmth, the particular affection of someone who understood exactly what he was doing.
"W-What?" She startled, caught between surprise and hope.
"I asked if you'd like some as well." Thor's smile was small, but it transformed his usually stern features into something approachable, almost gentle.
"Yes, Lord Thor!" The words tumbled out in a rush of enthusiasm. All traces of the pout vanished, replaced by eager anticipation.
"All right. Say ahh."
"Ahhh..." Aura opened her mouth wide, leaning forward like a baby bird.
The fork slipped between her lips. The taste exploded across her tongue—creamy, sweet, perfect. "Mmm! Delicious! Fantastic dessert, Pestonya!" Her words emerged muffled around the cheesecake, but her joy needed no translation.
"Thank you for your kind words, Lady Aura, woof!" Pestonya's tail achieved what could only be described as maximum wag velocity.
Time passed in that pleasant haze that comes with good food and better company. Aura finished her fries one by one, savoring each crispy morsel. Thor polished off his cheesecake with the methodical appreciation of someone who understood that pleasure, like battle, should never be rushed. The cola disappeared in small sips between bites.
Finally, as Pestonya began clearing dishes with practiced efficiency, Aura spoke up. Her voice carried careful casualness—the tone of someone trying very hard to sound like they weren't prying. "Milord, I'm not trying to intrude, but... why are you here? I mean, not that I'm ungrateful! It's wonderful having lunch with you! I just... wasn't expecting it, is all."
Thor leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. "I wanted to enjoy lunch with you, Aura. And to check on you—make sure the forest management isn't overwhelming, that you're well." He paused, crimson eyes studying her with the intensity of someone who saw deeper than the surface. "And I'm satisfied. This lunchtime was well spent. Better than expected, actually."
Aura's face flushed darker than her tan allowed for. "I also enjoyed spending time with you, Lord Thor. Very much. Maybe we could do this again sometime? If you're not too busy, I mean. No pressure. But... yeah."
The smile that crossed Thor's face was answer enough. He stood with that particular grace of his—power constrained, violence domesticated—and walked around the table to where Aura sat. His large hand descended, settling atop her head with gentle weight. He ruffled her hair—not roughly, but with affection—the gesture of a warrior who'd learned tenderness was its own form of strength.
Aura practically melted, leaning into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.
Then Thor moved to Pestonya, who was stacking plates with meticulous care. She looked up at him, and he bent down, pressing his lips to the top of her head—right between her soft ears—with reverence usually reserved for blessing weapons before battle.
Pestonya froze. Her brain short-circuited, thoughts scattering like startled birds. A massive blush spread across her visible skin, creeping up her neck.
"A reward for the cheesecake," Thor rumbled, straightening. "I hope that in the future, you'll be the one to prepare all my desserts, Pestonya. I trust your skill. Your artistry. Don't let anyone—including yourself—convince you otherwise."
"Of course, milord, woof!" The words emerged as a squeak. "Anything for a Supreme Being. Anything at all. You need only ask. Or do not ask. I'll just—I'll prepare them anyway. All your desserts. Forever. Starting now. I mean—" She was babbling, awareness of this fact only making it worse.
Thor's chuckle was low thunder. "Anyway, I should return to Nazarick. Other duties await—hopefully ones that don't involve ledgers and requisition forms, but I suspect I won't be that fortunate. Good day, ladies."
He raised his hand and reality split open—the Gate appearing with that distinctive sound of space folding, thunder muted to a whisper. He stepped through, and the portal sealed behind him, leaving only the faint scent of ozone and the memory of his presence.
Pestonya gathered the remaining dishes, her movements mechanical, mind clearly elsewhere. She was preparing to open her own Gate back to Nazarick when Aura's voice drifted across the clearing—barely audible, more breath than sound.
"Lucky..."
Pestonya's ears twitched. She glanced back at Aura, but the dark elf was studiously examining her empty cola glass, expression carefully neutral.
The maid smiled to herself. "Indeed, Lady Aura. Lucky indeed, woof."
Thor emerged on the 9th Floor, specifically in Ainz's personal office—that monument to administrative responsibility and soul-crushing documentation. But instead of finding the Overlord hunched over paperwork like a medieval monk transcribing scripture, he found only Albedo.
The Overseer of the Guardians was curled on the couch in a position that looked decidedly uncomfortable, her wings tucked awkwardly, her head tilted at an angle that would cause neck pain in anyone less durable. She clutched a folder to her chest like a child hugging a stuffed animal, breathing deep and even in the rhythm of exhausted sleep.
Thor stood there for a moment, studying her. His expression softened—the hard edges smoothing, the eternal warrior recognizing a fellow soldier fallen in different trenches.
"Working hard as usual," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "Come. Let's take you to bed—an actual bed, not this torture device masquerading as furniture."
He moved with surprising delicacy for someone his size, scooping Albedo up bridal-style. She weighed nothing to him—a feather, a thought, barely there. Her head lolled against his chest, one horn poking uncomfortably into his shoulder, but he didn't adjust. Comfort was for her, not him.
A Gate opened with a thought. He stepped through, emerging on the 3rd Floor where the mansion sprawled in gothic splendor. Navigation was automatic—he'd walked these halls enough that his feet knew the way even if his mind wandered. Down the corridor, past the tapestries depicting battles both real and imagined, to his personal quarters.
His bedroom was sparse by Nazarick's standards: a massive bed that could accommodate his frame, a few pieces of functional furniture, weapons displayed on the walls like other people displayed art. No luxury for luxury's sake. Just necessity made comfortable.
Thor laid Albedo down with the care of someone handling something precious and breakable, which, despite her power, she somehow seemed to be in a sleep. Her wings spread naturally across the mattress, finding their comfortable position. The folder slipped from her grasp, and he caught it, setting it aside on the nightstand.
Then, with the efficiency of long practice, Thor transformed. The shift was subtle—not a dramatic explosion of power, just a gentle flowing from one state to another. His divine form compressed, condensed, reorganized into something more... human. Still tall, still powerfully built, but less overwhelming. The weight of divinity dialed back to something that wouldn't make mortals instinctively kneel or flee.
His clothing changed too—battle-ready armor becoming soft sleeping pants and a simple shirt, comfort prioritized over intimidation for once.
He settled onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight despite the transformation. And somehow—through some sixth sense that transcended consciousness—Albedo knew. Even deep in sleep, her body recognized his presence. She rolled toward him, latching onto his right side like a barnacle finding purchase, one arm draping across his chest, one leg hooking over his.
Thor glanced down at her, and despite himself, couldn't suppress the small smile. "You always love to cuddle, don't you, Albedo?"
"Thor..." Her voice emerged thick with sleep, slurred around the edges. "I love you... so much..."
The words hit differently than they might have once. Thor had lived millennia, heard countless declarations—worship, fear, desperate pleas, empty flattery. But this? This carried the weight of sincerity, the particular vulnerability that came from speaking truth while defenseless.
"I love you too, Albedo," he whispered, and meant it. Not in the way she perhaps hoped—not romantic love, not the consuming passion she felt for Momonga—but something real nonetheless. The love of a warrior for a comrade-in-arms, of a protector for someone under their shield, of a being who'd lived too long alone, finally finding others worth keeping close.
He kissed her forehead—gentle, chaste, a benediction more than romance. She smiled in her sleep, the expression transforming her features from severe beauty to something softer, younger, unburdened.
Thor wrapped his right arm around her waist, pulling her closer, and closed his eyes.
"Playing favorites, Master?"
The voice emerged from the shadows—feminine, teasing, carrying equal parts amusement and genuine accusation.
Thor's eyes opened, crimson gaze finding the source. "Hmm... Rossweisse?"
She stepped into the light spilling through the window—silver hair catching the glow, transforming it into liquid moonlight. Her Valkyrie heritage showed in every line: the perfect posture, the underlying strength, the way she moved with lethal grace despite the currently relaxed demeanor. She wore casual clothing—rare for her—that somehow managed to look both comfortable and elegant.
"I was hoping to have you all to myself, Master," Rossweisse continued, moving closer to the bed with measured steps. "But here you are being lovey-dovey with Albedo. That's not fair, you know. Not fair at all. I've been waiting, and then you just—" She gestured vaguely at the cuddling scene. "This."
"I just wanted to reward her for working hard today," Thor explained, his tone reasonable, patient. "She'd fallen asleep in the office again. Would you have had me leave her there? Her neck would hate me in the morning."
"Let me guess—she was already unconscious before you brought her here."
"Yes, actually."
"So she won't even remember being carried, or the forehead kiss, or any of it."
"Probably not."
Rossweisse crossed her arms, but her mock annoyance couldn't quite hide the smile tugging at her lips. "Convenient for you. Very convenient."
"Now," Thor said, ignoring her sarcasm, "how was your day, Rossweisse?"
The question shifted something in her demeanor. The playful facade cracked, revealing genuine frustration underneath. "Simple as usual. Too simple. Boring simple. Standing-around-waiting is simple." She paused, gathering courage, then plunged forward. "Master, when will I be able to be sent out into the New World? When do I get to actually do something instead of just... existing in the background?"
Thor's expression hardened. Not with anger—with something worse. Concern. "Rossweisse, we need to talk about this. Seriously talk about it."
"I know I'm not as capable as the others—not as powerful as the Floor Guardians, not as versatile as—"
"Stop." The word cut like a blade. "I don't doubt your skills. Not for a second. You're a Valkyrie—one of Odin's chosen. Your capabilities are beyond question."
"Then why—"
"Because you're what's left of my past." The words emerged raw, stripped of his usual control. "A reminder of a world that's gone, of things and people I've lost. I need you to be safe. Need you protected. I don't know what I'd do if you were hurt, Rossweisse. If someone took control of you like they did Shalltear, if you were used against me, against Nazarick, if I had to—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.
"But I wouldn't—"
"Shalltear wouldn't have either. None of us would choose it. That's not how mind control works."
"But Master—"
"I'd let this world burn," Thor said quietly, the words carrying absolute certainty. "If someone dared harm one of you—any of you, but especially you—I would reduce this entire reality to ash and cinders. I would become the thing mythology actually feared, instead of the sanitized version they tell children. And that?" He met her eyes. "That would be bad for everyone. Including us."
Rossweisse's face flushed. "Master..."
They stared at each other—a moment heavy with unspoken things, with implications neither was quite ready to address directly—when movement interrupted them.
Albedo stirred. Her golden eyes fluttered open slowly, consciousness returning in stages. She registered warmth first, then Thor's presence, his arm around her waist. Then she heard the voice: Rossweisse's distinctive tones floating through the bedroom.
Reality assembled itself piece by piece.
"Now," Thor was saying, "change quickly and join me in bed. Maybe you'll be rewarded—argh!"
The sound of impact echoed through the room.
"Master!" Rossweisse's concern spiked to alarm.
"What the—" Thor's words cut off as he processed the new weight on his torso.
His eyes focused. There, straddling his waist with all the territorial determination of a cat claiming a sunbeam, sat Albedo. Fully awake now, golden eyes blazing with possessive fire.
"Oh. Hey, Albedo." Thor's voice carried impressive casualness for someone who'd just been ambushed. "I didn't know you were awake."
"How could I sleep," Albedo countered, voice honey over steel, "if my beloved hasn't fallen asleep yet? How could I possibly rest knowing you're still conscious and I'm missing precious time with you?"
"Well, I was about to sleep, actually. I just needed to speak with Rossweisse first. But we've finished our conversation, so now it's time for rest—"
"But you were going to reward Rossweisse." Albedo's emphasis on 'reward' carried multiple layers of accusation. "That's not fair, milord. Not fair at all. I was here first. I'm in your bed. I've earned my reward through proximity and dedication and—"
"Albedo," Thor interrupted gently, "you were rewarded. I carried you here from the office. You cuddled into me. I kissed your forehead. You smiled in your sleep. It was very sweet."
"But I don't remember any of that!" The protest emerged almost as a wail.
"Because you were already unconscious."
"Now, now, Albedo." Rossweisse stepped closer, unable to hide her amusement entirely. "You know the rules. You can't monopolize Master. We all agreed—established protocols, boundaries, schedules. You signed the document."
"I know the rules," Albedo said, her voice dropping to something smaller, more vulnerable. "But I want to be awake to experience his affection. To remember it. To savor it. Is that so wrong? To want to actually participate in receiving love instead of just... sleeping through it?"
The raw honesty in her words cut through the situation's absurdity. Rossweisse's expression softened. Even Thor's stern features melted slightly.
He sighed—the sound of a warrior recognizing defeat not in battle, but in emotional logistics. "How about this: tomorrow, before we start our duties, before the world demands our attention, we all bathe together. Just us. Relaxation, intimacy, quality time. Is that fair, my dear succubus and my dear Valkyrie?"
"Yes!" The word emerged in perfect unison from both women.
"Then let's enjoy the night and dream of our desires. In the morning, you shall have your fun. But right now—" Thor's voice took on a note of command, "—everyone gets into bed properly. No more ambushes. No more dramatic pronouncements. Just sleep. Understood?"
"Yes, Master," Rossweisse said, already moving to change.
"Of course, my love," Albedo agreed, but didn't move from her perch on his waist.
"Albedo."
"Yes?"
"That means getting off me and lying down properly."
"Oh. Right. Yes. Obviously. I knew that."
She slid off with obvious reluctance, settling on his right side while Rossweisse claimed the left after changing into her nightclothes with record speed. Thor found himself thoroughly trapped between them—Albedo's wings half-draped over his torso, Rossweisse's leg hooked over his, both women radiating possessive contentment.
"This is going to make leaving bed tomorrow completely impossible," Thor muttered.
"That's the idea," both women said simultaneously, then giggled—the sound incongruous from creatures of such power, but somehow perfect in its humanity.
Thor closed his eyes, surrendering to the situation, and allowed himself a small smile.
Outside, the Tomb of Nazarick settled into its nocturnal rhythms: guardians patrolled, undead maintained their endless vigil, and in various corners, others dreamed their own dreams—some peaceful, some troubled, all part of the strange family they'd become.
Somewhere on another floor, Shalltear still sat at the bar, seeking oblivion she couldn't reach.
But here, in this room, in this moment, there was only warmth, and breath, and the particular contentment that comes from finding others willing to share your darkness.
To Be Continued