Kiss of the Kraken

A short story by Philip Webb Gregg

This story contains: historical, monster, tentacle, strangers, outdoors, firsts, non-human, anal

Year 1010 CE

Somewhere in the North Sea

I wake to the waves lapping my skin.

My clothes are ripped: my axe, my shield and boots have all been lost to the storm. The wreckage of our longship washes against my feet. I walk barefoot along the sand, searching for survivors. Yet I know I will find none. I saw them last night—my father and brothers, and all our clansmen—dashed to the rocks amid the swirling tempest, while I alone clung to the mast. I do not know why the Gods spared me, but I hate them for it.

My name is Ylva Lothbrok of the Kingdom of Denmark.

And I am alone here.

But where is here? This island is not on our charts. There should be nothing but cold grey water between our great kingdom and the rich fields of Ængland.

All day, I gather the ruined wood from the ship and all the bodies I can find. I place them gently in a great pile on the beach and construct a driftwood pyre.

Mercifully, my flint and tinder survived the storm.

I light the flame just as the first day comes to an end.

The pyre is for them, my father and brothers, and all our clansmen, but it is also for me. As the hungry flames lick at the salted wood, I mourn the life stolen by the waves. The night wind whips the fire, and I cannot tell the difference between the tears and the sea spray on my cheeks.

“Odin, you thief!”

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