A/N: Thank you all for your kind words, they truly mean the world to me. Here we are, slowly getting into the thick of things, their friendship blooming from their troubles. It was originally going to be a bit longer, but I believe we have figured out a good way to end it. Thank you so much to my beta LeMasquerade for their wonderful work in helping me assure that my chapters are the best quality they can be.


Chapter 7

I was looking for a breath of life

a little touch of heavenly light

May 24th, 912

A figure moves like the whispers of winds across the ground with eyes wide open for such an early morning. Their feet travel delicately across their known path with a destination and destiny both in mind, burning bright, eclipsing all truth but this. It wasn't long before all of the town had heard the commotion, the boys burnt and battered on the street, crying out incoherently about a demon with onyx eyes and a seductive voice. They had told tales of simply wanting to "speak", horrified when the stranger curled their hands and from them burst forth a halo of light so bright they were blinded, falling back when it hit their skin and chewed down to the bone. After that flash, they had spied the colour of the witch - deep and dark, touched by the sun and rubbed honey from years on the plains.

The new priestess.

People had been up in arms, nervously muttering to themselves and glancing over their shoulders, murmuring words of consolation when they moved the pitiful youths. They were currently laying in a small shack not too far from Eyja's home - the only other mystic in all of Kaupang - nursing their wounds and soaking up the attention and affection both. One was, anyway. The other has fallen into sleep after the shock and has not yet to wake.

It is for the better, thinks the figure as they float silently through the empty streets. I only need one.

Very few had decided to give the priestess the benefit of the doubt - namely Betar, having caught glimpses of the girl's inner self, and the two she had made friends with in Aarhus. They swore up and down there was no way she simply would strike them down for games, seeing directly the walls of blue that come from her palms when provoked. This light sits wrong upon her shoulders. Yet, none listen. They never do.

The door creaks quietly when pushed, the soft soles of the person's feet making no noise when they step upon the dirt surface. They will have to be quick; dawn rises and with it comes the other mystic to check on their blistering wounds and budding fevers. With any luck infection will set in and they will die a slow, miserable death.

A flash of teeth in the gloom betrays the twisted and guilty hope. With no effort they glide until they rest next to the cot of the less injured boy, studying the raw pink of his flesh and how it glistens grotesquely in the light. The person's gut churns uncomfortably at the sight but still reaches down with one graceful hand, clamping their long fingers around his tender throat and squeezing tight.

His eyes snap open, lids layered with sweat, gasping for air that he's been denied. The boy looks up into the shadowy mass of the cloaked man's hood, eyes obscured without the glare of the sun. For a second he almost spies a glimpse of the priestess coming back to finish the job - he merely imagines things; the skin is too light, stature too tall. He relaxes, if even minutely. This shift causes the hold on his windpipe to tighten and the fear coiled within his gut to immediately knot back together.

"What have you done?" It comes out as a hiss, both angered and indignant. He struggles in confusion but he receives no air for his troubles, simply pressed down further into the bed. The way the salt of the figure's flesh rubs into his wounds is agonizing in the worst of ways, pushing whimpers from his throat, hands clawing uselessly at a slim wrist.

He is shaken again, impatient. He has come looking for answers, and nothing else will matter until they are received. "You did something to scare her, troll-bait. Tell me."

But... he recognizes that voice. The figure shakes her head in irritation and from the hood tumbles forth long blonde locks, unraveling from the darkness of her cover. They brush against his face in ticklish waves, but he has no intention of laughing. "P-Pi... rs-on?" It seems to dawn on her that he cannot talk with no oxygen and lessens slightly her grip, and his gasp grates harsh in the stillness surrounding them.

From there her hood falls away and this time his breath catches for an entirely different reason. The whole town knows of Bretagne and her unorthodox ways, carried into the village on a tide of blood and a grieving chieftain. Perhaps from this violent beginning she was made docile and unwilling to wage conflict? He has heard how she avoids killing her foes, choosing instead to wound them and allow them to fight another day. Such cowardice is usually shunned and quickly rectified, but here, it simply lends another thing for the warriors to laugh about. Never has she worn the bloodthirsty, savage expression so common on some of the more violent of their ilk. Instead she decides to remain blank and open, betraying nothing.

But in this moment he sees a flash of the commander she could become. Her eyes are thick like thunderstorms, hosting vicious flashes of lightning, lips curled back in an angry snarl and her brow knotted together. He sees the shadows from a night of drinking and little sleep, but she cares little for that now; there are more important things to be tended.

Never has he seen her so furious. He has no qualms about the power in her grip nor what it entails. If she tried, his life could end here with nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

"What have you done?"

He turns his gaze from her tumultuous glare lest he wither and be turned to dust. "W-we were just talking, I-"

A harsh squeeze puts an end to his words. "I know you lie," she says angrily, fingers shaking from strain, "I am the only one who does. I dislike hurting people, but I believe I can make an exception for you."

Only now does he spy her spear strapped to her back and the axe stuffed hastily into her belt. The boy pales and sputters with fear. "Now, I will ask nicely, and you should answer. Me being angry at you will do nobody good." And he believes her truth, never more inclined to take someone's word.

"W-we were out around the stalls. All the masters had gone and left us f-free to do whatever we wished. It was late when we saw her..." A spasm around his neck and the way her expression darkens spurs him into continuing. "She was walking alone muttering to herself. Drink, probably. Women lack the ability to hold their mead." She growls and he wills himself not to flinch. Even now he remembers the priestess and her startled expression, thick hair flying about her in waves to shroud skin as smooth as silk. If only he could have had a taste...

"She t-tried to get away. She was yelling something, sounded like mad-reh... Sren put her d-down on the ground... t-ried to t...take off her r-ro-besss-"

He chokes as her grasp becomes crushing, almost shattering his airways, cutting him off with a hacking noise of discomfort. For the second time he fears for his life as her weight is suddenly everywhere, a knee bruising against his ribcage and her nails tearing the broken flesh of his throat. The boy tries to cry out but it appears as a gurgle. "Did he remove them?" His head flies awkwardly in a jerky no, gasping and wheezing when the pressure dissipates again. She looks at him with such disgust - so out of place on her complacent features - that it makes him tear between wiping it off and shrinking away.

"Then what?"

"There was this flash, so bright I was blinded. Sren was on the road like..." he gestures weakly to the bed opposite him where his companion lies with a bound chest and red skin. Fluid seeps through his wrappings. "She looked really confused, almost sick. Her eyes were going everywhere and she was swaying across the road - I tried to get away but she opened her hand and hit me with it." And the rest is eaten by light, only to be smothered in shadow.

Brittany watches him, the flickers in his expression, fearful and caught in memory. This part is true, that she knows. "It is strange," he mutters as if he has forgotten she stands above him, "that the blacksmith refused to help her. You'd think he would jump at the chance to play for Valhalla."

The blood in her veins turn to ice. "What?"

He startles, coming from a dream. "H-he was there. Watching. She yelled for help but he just looked away."


June 2nd, 912

Santana hisses in pain and retracts her hand from the blackberry bramble, sticking her thumb into her mouth to halt the bleeding. The sun has long begun its descent from the sky, but she refuses to leave the spoils of her find to some creature that will come along in the night to steal her glory, face set in determination as she pushes her scratched hands back into the bush.

It has been... how many days since she ran from town? Seven? She knows not, for time runs away when not kept to structure. She finds herself unwilling to be risen by the burning light of dawn, curled safely away in the cool earth that she has claimed as her own. It wrecks havoc on her mind, tricking her into believing the middle of the day is the morning, looking up in surprise when the Eye makes its way down mere hours after she has turned her face to the touch of the day. For hours does she sit, motionless, staring into the depths of the fire and willing herself into sleep that refuses to come.

When she perpetually has something to do, it is easy to ignore the fact that she is so very lost. It is her pride that stops her heart from connecting with her mind, unable to come to the eventual conclusion that perhaps this wasn't the best of ideas.

Better than staying there, she'd always grumble, glancing down at her healing palms, Goddess knows what awaits me.

Her thoughts often turn to Brittany. She finds herself thinking absently of her eyes or her smile, the way she has yet to trip over a tunic the warrior has laying around. It's not that she enjoys constantly catching glimpses of her bared torso - her face burns at the mere thought - but her company is sorely missed. Their easy silence was always fast to assuage her doubts, some that creep upon her the longer she stays hidden, robes sullied further and further until she is soon to be one with the earth in which she sleeps.

Not for lack of trying... even after dunking her garbs in a small fjord that is still cold as the grave, she finds she simply cannot rid herself of the stains. It is permanently a part of them as it is of her, the delicate ring of flesh around her hand scarred darker from the burn.

Santana irritably shakes away the thoughts of blonde hair and goes back to her task, carefully teasing out the ripe blackberries from their tricky prison. Her arms are scored and beading from over an hour at this tedious work, but her stomach outweighs her nerves. It has been difficult finding food in these wilds, so different from her native home that she knows not where to look. One day Sandalio had trotted back with a pleased glimmer to his eye and dropped some sort of wildfowl at her feet, twitching feebly and bleeding sacred blood into the earth. She had muttered a small prayer to the dying animal before turning to her companion and knocking her head with his, grinning, feeling the bond between them thicken and lengthen the longer they stay together.

When she dreams, she follows him at night. Within him she feels the strength of his body as he streaks through the forests, a shadow to the grasses as his eyes seek out something she does not yet understand. Sometimes she thinks they can speak, not with words, but with something else entirely.

(Like with Brittany.)

"Will you stop that?" she asks herself in exasperation, throwing her hands up angrily in the air and placing the last of her blackberries into her gathered cape. "It is getting on my last nerve."

Blue-eyes friend.

She looks curiously to her right, where Sandalio lays with his head on his paws. "Did you do that?" She gets no answer. They hold their stare for several moments before she gathers up her prize and wanders back to her shelter.

Upon exploring the surrounding area she had found the tree carved out almost entirely from the trunk, giving way to a perfect spot to create flame. Wary of the power now simmering in her chest she had gathered as much kindle as she could, branches dragged and broken with the moderate power of her legs, and held her raw palm nervously up to the grasses. Santana knew not what to expect, but it certainly wasn't the growing white glow and the resulting explosion that flashed from her hand and caught into brilliant light.

Once the glare settled and retracted from her eyes, she was left with the phantom of the desperate energy that she had summoned the previous dark that made itself known by thrumming deep in the quick of her being.

It resides there constantly now, a roiling river coursing alongside the steady flow of her link. They clash but never mix, each powerful and pure in their own ways. Ever since the attempt to spark her fire resulted in a bang so large she almost threw herself through the tree, she has been loathe to try again. Her own fears stop her from trying but her need requires her to adapt. She finds the irony stifling. (There is a chasm between the two streams, concealed and shadowed. If this white power makes her nervous, Santana does not even begin to dwell on this darkness that snares her with a sense of utter dread. It lingers, waiting but never touching.)

The priestess shakes herself and sits with legs folded in front of the fire, taking comfort from its noise. She shuffles her food until she can easily pop berries into her mouth, much to the approval of her grumbling stomach. Whatever meat she had managed to acquire in her two-month stay in Kaupang has been rapidly wasting away once more - already she can feel the sharpness of her cheekbones under her probing fingers and the hard curve of her ribs dangerously close to her palms. Her hips, never thick in the first place, are ridged bone and little swell. At times she misses the definition she had begun to acquire.

A hand runs through her tangled mane and she shakes her head to free herself of these trivial thoughts. There are many other things to worry of - one being the crackling she has heard previous nights, lingering outside her hovel. There have been glimpses of what she believes to be a bared human chest, muscular and tanned, but as she goes to check it vanishes. If he is not of her imagination the man stands taller than any man she has ever seen, easily passing seven feet. What manner of giant can walk the earth?

Brittany had once told her in pictures and halting words the tale of a troll who lived under a bridge and stole from all passers-by. This went on for many years and he had a great stash of gold to guard - so great that he was able to sleep on his wealth and did so nightly to remind himself of his treasures. She had laughed at the fat sketch Brittany had drawn in the dirt with his crude face pulled into an angry frown, sporting massive tusks and a protruding belly. In came another figure; human with long braided hair and a massive hammer in his fist. Brittany named that one Afi and pointed subtly to Grandfather who slumbered in the shade.

From what she could gather with Brittany's fractured wording and less-than-stellar drawing, Grandfather had heard of the complaints and crossed the bridge without armour, only a simple knife strapped to his thigh, hidden and out of sight. When the troll clambered up from the depths, he saw that Grandfather had no gold upon him and grew enraged, spitting and cursing up from the depths of his home. For the first time in years he heaved himself out of his lair and into the sun to take a puny life - unfortunately, in his fury, he had forgotten that in sunlight his kindred turned to stone. He had frozen, reaching for the then-younger man, mouth gaping open into a roar and beady eyes fixed somewhere on the horizon. Soon after his transformation, Grandfather rolled him off the bridge where he shattered into pieces.

Santana took it all with good-natured amusement but put no thought into Brittany's tales... until recently. Faced with unknown figures in the night and the uncertainty of a new land, she could not be so sure. They don't come from their bridges though, she had reassured herself shakily after a close brush with another assailant, not when it's nice and dark below.

Then again, Finngeirr was lumbering about in plain sunlight.

She snickers and pops a blackberry into her mouth, grimacing at the tart taste. Look at her, speculating on fairytales and folklore. She had always scoffed at the townspeople in Botaya that whispered of corpses come to life without reason, stringing garlic and sprinkling mustard seeds to keep the demons away. Why should things change? She doesn't believe in monsters.

That's what she tells herself until the branches rustle.

Santana freezes mid-chew and whips her head to the noise, eyes darting in the dark that yawns with ragged teeth and shivering leaves. Upon the broken horizon the sun sinks low, shielding its comfort, giving birth to the night and the deception that lies within. Her fingers clamp tightly onto her staff and she attempts to peer into the gloom for any glimpse at her latest opponent, seeing nothing but the swaying of brush as something pushes it from their path. Sandalio stands, hackles raised, lips bared into a feral snarl while the fire glints off his pointed teeth.

Mother, she murmurs and this time she swallows down her panic, fights to keep her chest open as the familiar warmth pours through and settles in her belly. It tingles to the tips of her fingers and soothes the irritation in her palms, stroking invisible digits down the curb of her jaw, sharpening her vision. She is tied into the Earth; the heartbeat of the land pulses through her even as ocean blue gathers into the cup of her hand. I am here, my child.

They will not find her cowering this time.

She waits until they are close enough, slipping almost silently - aren't trolls supposed to be noisy creatures? - across the grasses. The moan of a sapling and the part of its nubile branches pulls her looping energy to the pinpoint of her forehead. Though the marking has faded, the focus has not. Santana sucks in air until her lungs burst with it, holds it, feels her heart pound through her veins; a foot appears into the flickering firelight and the strength coiled within her releases, breath rushing from her at the same time the celestial bolt soars from her in a forceful rush to impact upon her target. There is a muffled hiss as the oxygen is knocked out of her assailant, sending it sprawling backwards into the awaiting shadow with a crack as their body hits a frail sapling.

For a moment she is rooted to the spot, thrumming and feeling the river turn into an ocean, eyes wide open in the dark. Her Mother smiles and urges her forward with a secret knowledge and the distinct feeling she is lacking a vital piece of information. She traces her way through the broken plants, ducking under a low-lying branch, treading upon the giving ground with light steps until she comes upon a body slumped against the trunk. It becomes rapidly apparent this is not the same person that has been stalking her for nights, chest far too narrow and clothed. Her eyes roam from sturdy boots to simple breeches, travelling up to a worn linen shirt with a large braided belt wrapped around a slim waist and finally to a tilted face and blonde hair spilling outwards.

Santana catches the sight of a slender, pale hand splayed over the wanderer's stomach and frowns, studying the scars. She knows those hands.

Blonde hair...

"Brittany?" She shrieks in a voice that would be embarrassing if she had the presence of mind to care, rushing to her form when the other girl mutters a greeting and raises her head heavily in discomfort. Santana kneels down and cups her milky cheeks, nervously checking for broken skin and broken bones, fingers fluttering and running down the length of her neck, unaware of the goosebumps she leaves in her wake. Brittany's face splits apart into a grin despite the pain in her back, waiting until Santana senses eyes on her to look up.

"Hello." The warrior says affectionately, arms looping around Santana's waist and pulling her in. She yelps and shoots one hand out to steady herself against the tree, but falls regardless into her lap with a heavy exhalation. Beneath her, Brittany practically vibrates with excitement that is shown when she nearly crushes her ribcage. A rapid stream of Norse is released into the crook of her neck where she has decided to rest her head, but she manages to make out the words worry and time in the babble.

Guilt simmers to a boil.

"Hello," Santana cautiously greets back when she's released, Brittany's hands hanging loosely on her hips and the priestess turned so that her feet face outwards but her torso is aligned with her friend's. For a moment she lets her gaze roam all over Brittany with no other intention than to take her in, fingering a few pieces of silk that have strayed from her singular braid. It has been a little over a week but it feels like a lifetime, taking in the near-purple shadows under her eyes and the darker tone of her skin. "Good?"

Brittany nods happily. "Good now," she says cheekily and squeezes Santana's sides with a blinding grin, simply content in finding the other girl. After ripping the information from the thrall she had taken up two of the best trackers she could find and stormed off into the brush. It was an arduous task simply to convince them to come, taking days; as with the others they were now wary of the priestess and her supposed power, three-clawing themselves when they passed Ejya's little shack. After much promise of a place at her father's table come the harvest-feast they had agreed, shouldering their packs and marching off into the broken grasses. It was simple at first, but as her path crossed streams it grew difficult and was the product of many dead ends. They were patient with the promise of glory, and she was determined to find her friend. In the end it was worth the hazards.

She had dismissed them the previous night, following upon an urge she could not name. Though there were branches splitting off into all parts of the forest it was almost like the priestess had weaved her life into the leaves that Brittany was then following, traces of her laid out as clear as the greatest signs. They had looked at her like she'd once again contracted illness; her confusion was renown throughout the village, and they left her in peace.

Better they not be there when they come across the volatile foreigner, in any case.

Not deterred from what she has heard whispered upon the winds of her town, the girl-warrior traces the length of Santana's arms until she comes to her palms. Her brows furrow when the darker girl hisses slightly and pulls away at the pressure of her thumbs against her skin. "Show." Brittany demands more than asks, eyebrows raising.

Santana shakes her head stubbornly, something that could be a decline coming from her mouth.

"Show." Brittany repeats, using her superior strength to dig her thumbs into her wrists and forcefully turn them over. The flesh along the raised contours is pink but blistering, beginning to heal over ever-so-slowly. Though the center of her hands are almost untouched, there is no question these marks will leave scars. The northerner uses the tips of her fingers to follow just under the wounds, smiling slightly when her hands twitch and attempt to trap slender digits with her own. Burn marks.

So it is true, then.

Perhaps she hadn't sustained grievous injury, but as she attempts to shift her back twangs, uncooperative in this position. Being attuned to the taller girl as she is, Santana immediately realizes the discomfort in her expression and clambers off from her, guiding hands shifting under her spine to help her into a sitting position. "Hurt?" she asks worriedly, guilt pooling in the cracks of her voice.

Brittany smiles but it comes out a little pained, mumbling a no before a stern glare has her turning it into a yes. Santana sucks one lip between her teeth and chews on it anxiously, eyes unknowingly sweeping over Brittany's form until pale flesh is dusted red, somewhat disconcerted by her intense stare. Santana reaches back and carefully unhooks her spear that hangs from her pack, handling the shaft with care. She gives it to the warrior to hold, slipping the pack from her shoulders and laying it against the tree. This is familiar - here she has no need to guess herself or why Brittany simply watches her with eyes so soft they could melt the snow that falls as winter turns its face. Together they worm her out of her tunic, Santana being the one that goes red as a winding expanse of smooth, creamy back is bared to her in greater intimacy than ever before. One palm delicately runs up the skin, taking in the thick muscle of her shoulder-blades and the shallow dip of her spine as she flexes with every breath.

Brittany curls into a ball and allows herself to arch back subtly into her touch, humming pleasantly when warm fingers trace the knots in her sides. Santana is so close she can feel her breath - heavy and rich from the berries - brush the wispy hairs from the back of her neck. She shudders and tucks her face into the crook of her neck, frowning at the sudden throb of her heart. It slams against her ribcage for no other reason than it can. It feels like dwarves are playing drums in my stomach, she muses as Santana's fingers touch the base of her hips and all breath leaves her body.

Something sparks between her legs and her pelvis jerks forward, rolling clumsily and catching nothing but air. The motion takes her completely by surprise and she nearly topples over, righting herself only to settle again with her limbs wider apart to now alleviate the ache that pulses softly in her abdomen and the apex of her thighs. She is hyper-aware of her skin rubbing against her clothes and Santana's dancing fingertips tracing patterns against the strong muscle of her ribs, weaving symbols into her flesh.

Instantly, the probing presence recedes. "Hurts?" The priestess frowns to herself when Brittany shakes her head from where it's nestled, ears crimson. Has she another fever?

Currently she's more worried with the long stripe of blue that is already rising viciously against the almost-blinding pallor of Brittany's back. It runs diagonally, a result from where her spear was forced into her flesh upon impact, undoubtedly causing her pain. One press upon it confirms her suspicions when a muffled groan rises from the girl in front of her.

"I apologize." She sighs. She is able to do very little for bruises lest she dunk her in the Oslofjord nearby, but the cold would be too great a shock - the North Sea is frigid at best, leaving one shivering in its icy hold within minutes. Instead she smooths her aching palms down the angry line once again and shuffles back on her heels, causing Brittany to look up curiously and elongate herself to remain in eye contact. From this distance she can differentiate between the contracted dark of her pupils and the endless brown of her iris, fanning outwards and tracing the tiny blood-vessels that litter the sclera like little roads. They are red and irritated from lack of sleep but still startlingly clear.

Santana does the same before averting her gaze - downwards. For a moment she is motionless and Brittany watches as red spills over her caramel cheeks and suddenly she lets out a long-suffering sigh, "Shirt, Brittany." and shoves the object over her breasts. Her companion smiles sheepishly and hastily redresses, mindful of her new injury.

By the time Brittany manages to wave off Santana's fussing it is the type of dark that closes in and blinds you with superstitious claws. Sandalio had appeared earlier and bounds happily around the warrior's feet, but it does not diminish the effect that the oppressive forest presents at night. The priestess mutters a prayer and the charms dangling from her staff burst into light; a beacon in the blackness. Brittany's skin absorbs the glow almost like moonlight - she is resplendent in its cold light and her eyes are pearls that glimmer in the shadow.

Together they trace back their steps, Santana blushing fiercely at how far she managed to blast the other girl until they reach the gently smouldering fire. The warrior is quick to bring it to life until the flames roar high and give them some form of comfort, a fragile shell of protection against whatever lurks beyond the barrier. Their tenuous quiet is often broken by the deep call of the owl or a trill of another unknown beast. Santana watches the brush constantly for another glimpse of the figure that has been haunting her thoughts.

Quietly, without fanfare, Brittany links her smallest finger into Santana's.

She turns inquisitively but Brittany stares straight ahead, face stoic but eyes darting. It is only now that Santana sees the rigid line of her muscles and the tense of her jaw, shallow breath inflating her chest sporadically. It's so obvious that it becomes worrying.

She is afraid.

But what has she to be afraid of? The calls of the animals or the whispers of the trees? There is nothing lurking beneath the canopy of the branches that can harm them more than themselves, caught in the boundary they are loathe to leave. Still, there is a distant clarity under that blue haze she finds disconcerting in ways she's never had to think about; taught from a young age that nature was nothing to fear, she has difficulties wrapping her head around whatever may lurk beyond. Brittany, however, seems to have no such problems. As time passes she does not relax to a degree that allows her to rest, senses alert, instincts thrumming on high and jumping at every crackle of the flames. It has turned so late that the moon casts her light until the area is bathed in it, soothing every rock and blade of grass.

"Come," Santana says softly. Brittany tilts her head and allows her eyes to connect with her friend's, squeezing her finger once in confusion. In return she is tugged until she wobbles upright, exhaustion clawing at her eyes, making her stumble as she is led into the unknown. She had denied herself rest in favour of trampling through the newly bared trails, spear ready and hopes high.

There are things that lurk here of which noone dares speak about. It is why solely the centaurs choose it as their home, capable of warding away the monstrosities that lumber into these woods.

The priestess squats and busies herself with something over the ground - Brittany is her sentinel, muscles shifting, scanning the same spots over. There is a strange, almost unwavering impulse to be Santana's guardian, to throw herself in the face of danger if she so benefits from it. It unnerves her but all at once fills her with a sense of deep peace.

A warmth on her hand. She looks down - Santana is half-swallowed in shadow, torso sticking out from the gloom. Brittany's tired mind cannot compute and she stares dumbly at where her legs should be. "What are you doing?" If Santana hears her she chooses not to acknowledge it, watching as the smaller girl slithers into the gloom.

It is too quiet up here without another body. The fire has wound down to nothing and sputters occasionally, giving off little but the weakest of light. Another thought comes from within - a hole, her mind supplies in confusion, has she been living in a hole? - and this time she wastes no time, shedding her weapons and hefting herself inside. Her body disappears and is swallowed by cool earth, muscles twanging - she becomes one with the core as it engulfs her head and something is dragged over them until they are sealed off to the outside world.

She expects this type of confinement to be smothering. Dirt presses in from all sides and some trickles into the back of her collar; her boots sink deep into the soil; the air she breathes is rich and heady. Yet in this scent she can taste Santana's sweat and the smell of her skin, unique even amongst the overpowering muck that seeps slowly into the creases behind her ears. As she feels around, muttering apologies as the walls lose some of their girth, she finds she can almost lay down - reclining until her legs are splayed out and her back is draped loosely over the angled wall.

A quiet shuffling - due to Brittany's height and long legs, Santana is unable to find a place to sleep with her taking up the space. Each touch brings her into contact with the warrior, flesh upon fabric, shooting tingles through her body until she hums everywhere with a nervous anticipation. Brittany seems to sense her discomfort even in the dark and reaches long fingers until she comes into contact with Santana's face. Perhaps she smears dirt along her cheekbones, but the shiver that rolls into her spine says she doesn't mind.

The warrior mistakes the movement. "Cold?" She says gently, voice loud in the small hesitates before nodding - it is not a complete lie, for the ground is cool with the receding light, but her truth is far greater than that. Never has she shared such a closed area with anyone. Her peers were all idiots; stocky farmhands with their heads lost somewhere during childhood, arrogant nobles who believed themselves to be gifts from their God. Her Mami always told her that she need not give herself to any man lest she want to, to have her hold their heart and in return take hers.

She still scoffs at that. How can one person hold so much sway over another? It's absurd. Irresponsible. And yet... perhaps a friendship can have as much influence as a romance? The way Brittany tugs her forward says as much. She stumbles, palms fumbling over the ground and later her prone body until she falls forward ungracefully into Brittany's chest, face smothered by her tunic. Her mumbles vibrate the skin around her breastbone and the warrior giggles slightly, squirming.

Santana freezes at the unbelievable softness under her skin. Though her breasts aren't as large as her own they are infinitely more comfortable than the floor - her temperature spikes as each shift of muscle beneath her provokes a different reaction. Friendship is foreign to her... is this what friends do? It seems slightly forward, uncomfortable at best.

Much like that night at the dance, she takes pity on the priestess who awkwardly flails with her hands and head. When Santana tries to get up, stuttering flustered apologies, blue eyes roll in the absolute dark and her arms worm around a robe-clad waist, tugging her down again until Santana's ear is squished against her breasts. Santana flushes in embarrassment but Brittany does not feel the heat of her cheeks, more attuned instead to the comforting weight over her. "Good," she says, gingerly running her fingers through Santana's hair and surprised when she isn't slapped away, "it is good."

Under her temple Brittany's heart pounds steadily like a war-drum. It reminds her, startlingly similar, of the pulse of the Earth; one hand buries itself in the cool soil and feels the answering call from the tips of her fingers to the roots of her teeth, the solid core to compliment the ocean she can hear within her lean body. As she counts the beats she finds herself relaxing, still sprawled mostly over her companion, face tilted up to nestle in the flat of her sternum. Brittany smiles to herself and slowly splays one hand against Santana's ribs, contentment only growing when she is not scolded. A month ago, this would simply be a distant dream.

Nothing tells her why, but she is her happiest when Santana is around. It is like the foreigner awakens something in her that is both frenzied and calm at once, measured in the deep throb of her heart that is anchored to Santana's ear and spreads through her body. They are a never-ending circuit as they huddle together for warmth and unspoken unity.

"Britt..." Santana hums sleepily, train of thought breaking off to fall into the waters of her mind. A vacant mumble meets her ears but she lacks the words she wishes to say - even in her own language, she draws nothing.

For the first time, she accepts being speechless.

Eyes heavy, Brittany slowly drifts off to the feeling of Santana utterly unwinding against her, feeling so small and delicate in her arms. Through this torturous week was something gained that she could not name, but is so much bigger than it appears to be.

They fall asleep in that position, tangled like spider-fine silk, reminded of the peace silence brings.


June 3rd, 912

For once Santana rises with the sun. She is warm, a wonderful contrast to the previous nights, limbs splayed and intertwined with another's, her mouth open and half-buried in coarse fabric.

I have not been this comfortable in months, she muses as she keeps her lazy eyes closed, languidly listening to the dull thump under her ear. It is of a sleeping giant - steady and grounding, she relishes the gentle hush as life-giving blood pushes its way through Brittany's veins.

That thought steals its way into the forefront of her mind, along with the sudden knowledge that her bed moves. Her fingers twitch and release the linen she had gathered into a loose fist, pressing down instead into the warmed earth, lifting herself up until she hovers quietly above a taller, sleeping form. Her body chills with the separation.

Being able to discern the vague nuances of Brittany's features brings back the night before; magic and flames and darkness. The remnants of the protection her embrace had offered her still lingers on her shoulders, coaxing her to lay back down through her resistance. She smiles despite herself at how Brittany's nose is scrunched in sleep, mouth moving soundlessly to speak to whatever phantoms lurk in the depths of her dreams. Through the fractured sunlight that filters down on them both she spies dirt smudged all over that porcelain skin - her fingers go to brush it away, causing a sleepy murmur to escape the girl under her and bleary eyes to crack open in confusion.

"San?" She mumbles and brings her fists up to her eyes. Santana bids her morning and they stare, unmoving, when Brittany's hands fall away and attempt to adjust to the early morning. Brittany's eyes flicker over her body for a moment before squinting and curling away, one arm flinging over her eyes to block out the early morning rays. "No," she grumbles, curling herself into warmer earth, "sleep. Það er enn of snemmt að komast upp."

Though the words are unclear, the meaning certainly isn't.

Santana laughs and struggles into a sitting position, reaching towards the ceiling. She yanks off the cover she had made on her third day here, flooding the hole with light and causing the girl under her to growl low in her throat at the intrusion. Despite the cover of her arm it is still too bright, orange under her lids, and she grudgingly pulls away her limb to squint upwards at her companion with glassy, confused eyes. "Okay, okay. Up."

Over the past few weeks Santana has begun to believe that she may truly have a friend. Her smile is genuine when she sees Brittany, lifting the almost constant scowl from her caramel features, allowing her to rest a comforting hand upon her shoulder or circle her larger hand around her dainty wrist. The thought is foreign but not entirely unwelcome, choosing to take things as they come rather than worrying about it to the point of pain. It seems to suit them - everything they do is fluid, natural. Analyzing movement and thought never seems to cooperate in the sense she wishes it to.

The day has already started to warm as the sun crawls its way into the sky; bright as the baubles on her staff and as deep as the ocean, not a cloud in sight. Summer heat will no doubt come and press on them in the coming weeks, sticky and hot, a blanket of matter they cannot touch that will drown Brittany in her own sweat during training. As she worms herself out of their hovel, skin brown and caked over with dirt, she groans internally at the thought of Kaupang.

So she didn't mention to her father she was going to find Santana. It's not like she has to answer to him. (Well, actually... she does.) She had to simply bat her eyelashes and request for a hunting trip - the village is running low on boar, the animal growing more savage and therefore difficult to kill - before he waved his hand in agreement, telling her to be back before next morn. That was four nights ago.

Sandalio greets them with an excited yip and affectionate nudge so hard she almost goes tumbling back into her bed. Her surprised grin becomes a true smile at the priestess and how she watches on, all crinkled eyes and dimples under her sharp cheekbones with her lips pulling back to reveal her teeth. It's something only Brittany usually sees - a sólarljós-bros, for the rays of the sun seem to pale in comparison. It's become one of her goals too see it more often where more people can appreciate the simple beauty that comes with Santana's bold presence.

(But another part wants her to be the only one that can coax it from her, a greedy part she tries to keep in shadow.)

Santana stands quietly by the tree, eyes narrowed into the jagged horizon. Her staff is planted by her side and her dirtied robes still give her a regal air despite their obvious disarray as she absently brushes back the glossy shroud around her shoulders. She is unmistakably deep in thought - Brittany can see her lips moving soundlessly to herself, almost like repeating a favourite song - and so she is left alone for the moment, instead wandering about with the hound at her heels to carefully stomp out the remaining embers of the fire that have survived the night. She absently spreads the ashes, cooling the heat, humming a low tune to herself as her mind wanders back home.

It would be a lie - and Brittany is very specific about lies and what should be said - to say that she wants to return. Her father will no doubt be furious, scouring the whole village until the timbers shake in their holds and his angered yells break the mountains that surround them. For a foolish moment she imagines staying here in the forest with Santana, learning of the plants and the ways of the animals, swimming through the rivers and climbing the grassy cliffs. It is a charmed idea, one than holds its own sort of allure. But, she thinks bitterly, kicking the ashes with more force, I have duties. They look to Betar more than the chieftain himself, and by default that weight falls upon her shoulders.

Brittany goes to scuff the remaining dirt but pauses, peering closely at a strange indentation in the earth. It is almost shaped like a crescent moon, as wide as her outstretched hand, the contours sinking deeply into the soft soil. She narrows her eyes and follows the trail, still crouched, moving silently on her hands and feet until she peers into the undergrowth and the looming trees overhead. While daylight, the shade it casts still feels wrong to her, unnatural.

Like the forest is hiding something.

She loses the tracks when the brush commences (she was never one for tracking, far too impatient in her youth) but sees the subtle waves where a larger body has brushed aside the grasses and cracked a few of the low-lying branches. There is a feeling in her stomach that grows the more she dwells on it, chewing at the ends of her consciousness with a vague sense of trepidation. Afi calls it her gut and warns to never discard it, for the heart usually knows what the mind does not. How does the stomach and the heart mix? She doesn't know and chooses not to dwell on it. At this moment, she has higher priorities.

Brittany straightens out and reaches Santana in a few lengthy strides, breaking her from whatever trance she was indulged in. Her hurricane eyes blink once, twice, letting light back in as she turns to the warrior with an inquisitive frown. "¿Qué pasó?"

She points out into the distance. "Home. We need to go home."

Santana has perhaps made some progress, but not nearly enough. The frustration looping along her features betrays her incomprehension. "We need to... Kaupang! Home to Kaupang!"

"H-home?" She tests the word like it's bitter on her tongue, face scrunching slightly. Brittany is ever the excited scholar and grins without giving much criticism, heels bouncing. "Yes, home!"

She looks hesitant - Brittany sees it in the part of her lips and the twist of her brow. They are tattoos so clear on her skin, speaking of all the things she's left behind, the power she has yet to control. Santana worries so much sometimes that Brittany fears it will drag her down into the core of the earth, drowning her under the reaching roots of Yggdrasil.

"No sé, Brittany..."

The taller girl understands her fears and the repercussions that follow, but she has a nagging suspicion: remaining in these forests for much longer will carry a higher price than either of them are willing to pay.

"Santana, we have to go," she says, planting herself in front of the priestess until her size, almost a half-foot larger, threatens to dwarf her, "they're all looking for us and we don't know how to live here. I know you're scared... I'm scared too. If you wish to stay I won't ever stop you, but... I'd follow you, if you asked. I'd follow you and never look back." Brittany bites her lip as Santana's eyes sweep over her face, calculating, trying to tease out the meaning behind her words. The syllables have grown heavy and rest wrong in her chest, for she knows her friend is trying to tell her something that her mind has yet to unravel. It irritates her, being left in shadow.

"Please, just let us go back. I don't like it here. It reeks of secrets."

Santana hears the desperation and deflating stance. She loathes to walk upon those streets again with the judging eyes she thought she left behind, south of here, in the land of sun and heat, but she has come to realize that it won't ever leave her. Santana is coming to the dawning conclusion that she will always be watched, always be scorned, no matter where she chooses to roam. People are different, but humanity is the same.

She can't keep running away. And recently, she's found it impossible to say no to Brittany.

"Okay," she acquiesces, biting back a smile at the blooming joy on her companion's face, bright and as warm as Iberia ever was, "okay. Home."

"Home to Kaupang!"


Their footsteps are the only indicators of their passing; laughter rings out, high and startlingly clear, free of burden. Brittany, used to the steep inclines and forests, often extends one dirt-caked hand for Santana to take, heaving her across chasms and rivers when she is too small to do so herself.

Their skin tingles where they touch.

Santana was a bird finally taking flight with the gloss of her feathers absorbing the fractured sunlight. It shimmers and catches under her jaw, lighting her eyes into glow. Sometimes Brittany finds herself simply watching her, caught between saying so and keeping silent. Though the priestess did not understand her words, she has always been crystalline with her expressions when she did not care enough to hide. Brittany is by definition open, the opposite to herself.

Little by little the sky is devoured in dark and they huddle together in their mutual embrace as they watch the cold grey of the evening sky flatten out into the oily pool of midnight. Brittany knew of the frigid nights from harsh experience and brought with her a tunic lined with wool; she wraps herself around Santana's shivering form, her breath warm against her hair as she wards away the chill. She sleeps only in snatches while her friend slumbers on, too wary to dream but too tired to wake. Brittany is her cover that keeps her safe from harm until the pink light of dawn blooms across the watery sky.

In return Santana makes sure she eats, sneaking extra berries into the cup of her hands, sacrificing from her own stash in order to feed the taller girl. Their system of give and take is not obvious at first glance, but as the third day passes under the same cycle they learn little things that matter more than others.

(One night Santana forces Brittany to lay with her, pulling her close and pressing her healing palms over her tired eyes. Her words were almost harsh, but with an underlying affection as she struggled to keep her down despite her protests. She sung what she knew of galdr until her throat was raw, and Brittany's dreams were the most vibrant they'd ever been - they painted her in blues and yellows and reds, swept her through violet oceans and into the heart of the hovering moon, sinking down to her bones and illuminating her ruby-red blood with all the patterns of summer. She woke to the earthen scent of Santana's ochre and the lingering orchids from her dreams that smeared sap all over her skin until she became one with the forest.

That day, Santana found a whole bird by her staff, neatly gutted and strung. Brittany sat a little ways away with a secret smile and feathered fingers.)

It is easy, simple. She learns it as she learned the spear: to always listen and adjust according to what it believes is right. By the fourth day they have grown in leaps in bounds, hands brushing nonchalantly without flinching and smiles given without shrouds. Brittany begins to think perhaps the Fates had given Santana this awakening for this reason alone, to show her the kindness humanity can bring.

A shame when it ends; these forests never stay silent for long.


On their final day the world explodes into sound.

A rumbling roar flows across the ground and disturbs all in its wake - animals blink into the noise, eyes deep and startled; rivers pause in their burbling; trees whisper to one another and sway precariously from their roots. The two companions raise their heads with white knuckles and dark eyes, carefree manner gone as they search out the shattering cry.

"Brittany, what?" Santana's face is tight with anxiety but her body is already beginning to hum, feeding off the fear in the earth and pulling it forcefully back to herself. She can feel the pain of the brush as it is trampled under some massive weight, ferns rejoicing as they gorge themselves upon thick blood that tumbles with vigour into their awaiting tendrils. Too much. It is heavy, cloying her nose with its invisible scent.

Brittany is frozen. She knows that cry, still hears it sometimes when the hunting parties fan outwards with long spears and grim faces. Half of them never return. They have to go, they can't stay here, they aren't equipped for something like this. All they have is two women, a spear, and a power that doesn't wish to be used. Sandalio whimpers and flattens his ears over his small head.

Another screech, just as enraged, biting down into the quick of them. It lacks intelligence but has too much meaning that sweeps over them in buffeting waves; Sandalio disappears into the undergrowth (to cower or to stalk, Santana does not know) and they are left alone. She turns to Brittany to ask again, but takes pause at the stricken expression that curls around her face.

She is in the dark. Again. Frustrated, she shakes the girl.

"What is it?" She asks, stressing the syllables until they warp out of their intended alignment.

Brittany begins shaking her head, continuously, a stream of babble leaving her lips as the urge to run overpowers her rational thought. (In her opinion, fleeing is pretty natural at this point.) "Tröll..." She says, almost in a whisper, casting fearful eyes in its general direction. Gone is the cornflower blue and in its place something as dark as the Nordic oceans, deep and easy to drown in.

"A what?"

"Tröll!" Louder this time, its cry sounds horrifyingly close. They duck into the shivering brush, offering sparse but needed protection. In the distance comes the whinny of an injured horse.

"Then what are we doing here?" Santana hisses, gripping Brittany's arm until she leaves vicious half-moons in her skin. "We need to be moving, and certainly not in the direction all those noises are coming from. I'm unaware of what a "troll" is, but it does not sound pleasant in the slightest."

Brittany reaches back thoughtfully to palm the shaft of her spear. Every muscle in her body is screaming at her to run and never look back, if only for a few more hours, until they step foot into the safety of Kaupang and the men can trample through and kill the beast. Its bulk is so close they can hear the moan of the trees as it crashes through and splits trunks under his weight; she hears Santana mutter a quiet prayer to the ruined saplings and flinches as another slam of something heavy upon the ground ripples through the air.

But what of the women and children it could kill in its wake? They are so close to the village it borders on dangerous. She can taste it upon the winds, the tang of blood and bile. It has already claimed a victim - Santana, too, can sense it, for she has grown pale and quiet, twisting her hands 'round and 'round in a complicated knot. Brittany is a warrior and is bound not only by duty but by honour to protect that which has been given unto her; by birth, she is required to give her life for the good of her people.

(You are no longer a child, Bretagne. You are a man now, but also a woman. Use these two worlds wisely.)

Her honour and her rationale wage wars in her mind. She is not ready to die - not now, not ever - nor is she willing to tuck tail and flee. Doing so will forever deny her the respect she so craves.

Brittany's jaw clenches nervously and by habit her eyes flicker over to Santana, watching anxiously, waiting almost on bated breath. The sunlight is generous in its pools of light and illuminates her hair, silk-soft, falling about in wild curls around her face. She gingerly takes one lock between slender fingers and attempts a smile. It comes out strange; shaky and lopsided.

Santana reads her before she even says anything.

"You cannot be serious. You honestly believe rushing in and playing the hero can attempt to fix this mess? It sounds like something foul has decided to eat horses for a meal, Brittany! This will be impossible to mend come morning with a smile like your stupid little games." The Spanish comes like quicksand, sliding through her fingers.

Even without the comfort of her language, Brittany understands her meaning. "Not stupid." She mutters with a frown, drawing away and rising to her feet. Santana's face softens minutely, a hissing sigh escaping from her nose.

"I know... I know. I apologize. But- Goddess, I've not finished with you!" Her cries go unheeded as the warrior begins to gingerly step towards the source of the commotion, eyes flickering to every shadow that the now foreboding light decides to cast. Santana hurries after her with whispered curses, backlit, a halo shrouded like a ring of fire around her form. Fitting, Brittany thinks, to burn at such a time. "Do you entertain a suicide wish? Let yourself pray to your gods before you throw yourself into harm's way with no regard to your well-being!"

Brittany silently pulls the spear from her pack and sets it down upon the shattered trunk of a weeping tree, eyes raking carefully over the damage. Splintered through the center by some great impact - it never stood a chance. She grips the shaft as Santana's ranting swells into a crescendo, pointedly ignoring her irate tongue. Let her be mad. Perhaps her anger will be of use. I will apologize if we live.

A pang goes through her at the thought of Santana lying dead in the earth because of her rashness. Her own death she can come to accept, given time and a fatal wound, but the mere image of Santana, crawling upon the dirt and clutching bloody robes sends a chill through her, born of doubts and second chances and vague premonitions that linger for days. Mayhaps she was wrong - how can she hope to kill a troll upon her own wit? She's not the most clever, that has well been known, nor does she possess the unfailing bravery these creatures require to best them. Fingers shaking now, she swallows thickly and notes how her throat has constricted to the point of imagined suffocation.

So used to Santana's rambling, she barely notes when she cuts herself off with a whispered oh.

Brittany turns in time to see a mass of something sailing through the air towards them, startlingly quick for its size. She yelps and tackles Santana to the ground, hitting hard and bouncing her jaw until it snaps back with a hard clack - blood already begins to seep into the cavity of her mouth as the adrenaline hits. A reflexive sucking inhale; Brittany spins on the spot in a crouch, gripping the spear so tight she threatens to break her bones. "Santana, go!"

"Britt-"

"Go!" Santana scrambles up and trips her way into the ruined bracken, muttering terrified curses and gathering courage the whole while.

Brittany lunges into a clumsy roll as the object comes down again - a club, she realizes with numbing suddenness, that thing is a club - and dents the earth behind her. Sticks jab into her ribs and the striped bruise howls with pain but she barely feels it, chest already heaving as she finally allows herself to take a look at her enemy.

She stares up at the tallest being she's ever seen.

There is hair everywhere. That is the first thought she processes beyond its daunting size, easily sailing through ten feet to top out with a head full of snared, tangled tresses that hang limply from its massive skull. Its eyes are barely visible through the folds in its skin, crushed closed under the overwhelming pressure of its hooked nose, as large as Brittany's forearm. Skin has erupted into sores, festering powerfully, soiled and filthy. Arms that could move mountains dangle down to ragged nails shaped into claws. In one hand it grips the crude bludgeon it has fashioned from the remains of a tree, roots snapping off with every blow.

Brittany swallows as they stare each other down - the troll has to bend in order to see her from its vantage. Her spear glints as precious jewels would but it is muted; daylight is scarce here through the thick foliage, the only thing stopping the monster from turning into stone. As if hearing her laments, clouds drift before the sun.

Broken, yellow teeth protrude from a gaping mouth in a grotesque smile when it spies its opponent. "Little lass think she kill Haakon?" Male, then. A belly laugh - fetid air blasts Brittany and almost makes her throw up her berries. "Pointy not even size of Haakon's arm!" To demonstrate he unfurls one massive fist, showing the dirt-smeared lines that run as deep as chasms into the flabby flesh.

"It takes little to kill something as slow as you!" Brittany growls back, reversing slowly to create distance and plan her attack. A kick from something that huge is a death wish, as is a direct blow from his weapon. If she could disable him... perhaps. It would give her a chance. She'd like to return to her father come the morn.

As it is with her fated clumsiness, her foot hits a massive rock and she tumbles backwards, landing in an awkward heap in the dust. The troll roars with laughter, planting its hands on its knees, spittle flying as the warrior fights to right herself again. When she kicks out for balance her heels lands solidly on the stone, causing it to let out a wheezing cough of agony. She freezes.

Before her is not a rock, but a horse. Its limbs mill feebly on the ground - from it she can see where two of the legs have snapped, twisted awkwardly with maggot-white bones popping out from the hide, ragged and sharp as flint. Blood seeps down the short hair and pools under the body while its flanks frantically work to draw in air she believes will never come. Hands already stained red, Brittany pushes herself up to her knees and continues her trace with a heavy weight in her gut - animals in suffering always drew both her sadness and her ire, and perhaps she could end its pain. A small act of kindness in its last minutes.

Yet, it has no neck for which she can cut.

In its place is a sleek human torso, muscles straining and painted with blood. The rivulets almost form tribal tattoos in which the swirls are whimsical, artistic, spiraling down to tell stories of the fated battle. A sucking chest wound gapes just below a handsome male face, pale and drawn with shock. An intricate bow lies near forgotten in its limp hand. It will not be long until the valkyrja come to take the being away.

Brittany has never once seen a centaur with her own eyes. Merely stories that were little more than myths, whispered by boys seeking excitement, speaking of a race that emerged from the south many years ago with strange languages that were half-human, half-animal. They knew of the forests and were the sole beings capable of surviving in their greatest depths; they took their weapons, their jewelry, their rituals, and vanished. Years passed without contact when a hunting party stumbled upon their enclave, they were awed by the complicated structures that housed the creatures. They were welcoming, if wary, and a bargain was struck, a treaty of peace to the two communities with no desire for bloodshed. The vikings knew the sight of a dangerous enemy, and while zealous, had no desire to wage war quite yet with such a powerful foe.

It has remained this way for centuries, always on the periphery of their minds. This one being so far out speaks of ill tidings. His death simply confirms what must have driven him forward.

"You will soon ride to Valhalla." She murmurs shakily, touching his cheek before rising from her knees. The troll has recovered and watches her curiously with barely-intelligent eyes, anticipating her next move, focused solely on Brittany and ignorant of the other girl, half-hidden in the cast shadows, pulsing and thrumming with the beginnings of her volatile, burning power.

Brittany moves before he anticipates it, ducking to his legs and sinking her spear down into the heel. It roars as the blade bites into the tendon but does not sever, the tough ligament as rigid as iron. She ducks under a wild swing and rolls away, yanking her weapon with her and feeling a small surge of satisfaction at the gush of blood. Her reach is her advantage as she repeats the attack, determined to break the connection and expose the kill.

She won't fail this time. This thing does not deserve her pity, nor her retribution.

His massive claws scrape down her face as she jerks away, not breaking the skin but leaving angry red lines. Everything is coming in startling clarity and she feels almost as if she moves while the world is still in a standstill, raking her slick spear across his flesh - from this bursts forth a rotten river that pours down and feeds the earth, both purifying and corrupting the surrounding area. If by chance his remains do so turn to stone, they will see nothing more than a broken body, feeding from his death as he had taken from life.

A block - the force of the blow ripples right down to her feet and she cries out in pain, shoulders protesting the vicious strike as she catches his fist against the shaft of her spear. Brittany is amazed when the wood does not break or bend, simply absorbing the blow and redirecting it to herself. She half-collapses and scrambles with it, wheezing to try and catch her breath. Sweat stings her eyes, but she clogs them with blood as she attempts to wipe it away.

All it seems to have been doing is make the monster more enraged; his eyes have completely disappeared though she assumes he can still see, taut lips spread over a mouthful of what could constitute broken knives. Her slices have cut deep into the muscles of his arms, but do not serve to cripple. Still, his heel surges with blood whenever he moves. Her only chance.

With a mighty yell she rushes him, ignoring the protesting of her limbs, lunging behind to plunge in her weapon. Behind it rears all the strength she can muster from her lean frame, listening to the loud squish of flesh parting before the rage of metal. He howls - the sound is shattering, traveling across mountains and through valleys, mouth wide open into a roar.

Her victory is short-lived even as the monster sinks to one knee. She tries to retreat but finds her spear stuck, lodged in so deep it wishes not to come out. Blind with fury the troll reaches back, massive hands grabbing her tight around the torso and crushing her close until all the air in her lungs forcefully expels in a choked, pained sound.

"Stupid little!" He screeches, shaking her until she fears her head will roll loose. "That hurt! Now you hurt!" When his hands tighten further she hears her bones grinding together, ribs groaning under strain they were never supposed to endure.

This is it. She'll die at the hands of an ugly brute, her body never found for he will undoubtedly eat what remains. Her arms are trapped at her sides and her breathing comes shallow and useless, searching for oxygen she cannot find.

"Die, little viking girl!"

Her vision greys, sound receding. Somewhere, her mind mumbles prayers to Odinn.

"Hey!" A flash of blinding light and a high-pitched squeal of pain - she hits the ground with a jarring thud and lays there, gasping and heaving and choking on her own tongue. Through the tears that have sprung forth comes the return of life. She spies a blurry figure almost gliding towards them, lit aflame with a cloud of sacred white that contrasts so vividly against her void-black hair. Her eyes are glowing, illuminated from within; an internal light that almost blinds Brittany as her hands curl into claws and from them shoots another bang - a clap of thunder, a scream of pain. Santana.

Brittany heaves herself to her hands and knees, fingers fumbling at her belt until she touches the weather-worn handle of her axe. Through the ache the smell of burning flesh assaults her nose - though the troll clutches at his face wildly, she can see Santana cradling her arms to herself and gritting her teeth against the power that threatens to spiral out of control or extinguish completely.

Time and time again, her father had driven into her head the power of opportunity. She cannot waste such a great one, not when so much is on the line.

She staggers forward and yanks the smaller weapon from her belt, it hanging limply at her side to tap heavily against her thigh. Her chest protests vividly but she ignores the burn, focused on only one thing. To her, the fact that Santana hurts is worse than her own wounds. He will pay for his transgressions.

One swing scores a deep gash along his hidden cheekbone. It opens simply a sliver, but the sight of red is all the incentive she requires to hone in on her real target. Time after time the axe flashes down, caught in the reflection of Santana's radiance, blade sliding through the flesh in his neck until his wounds open up into bloom, spraying foul blood everywhere. He gasps and gurgles, falling onto his back, bringing the enraged warrior with him. Brittany is soaked in blood, handle slippery and falling out of her fist, but she does not stop until her arm is aching and her ribs refuse to let her go on.

His limbs shudder for a few moments before he falls silent, fountains still spurting into the air.

The axe falls from her wet grasp; she feels his essence drip down her jaw, soak through her tunic, clump the strands of her hair. Her world has been reduced to copper and iron and death.

He was not human, but she has still taken a life so savagely. For some strange reason, it disappoints her more than it should scare.

All the light is sucked from the trees, their dancing flickers turning off as one would snuff out a candle. Brittany turns slowly to Santana. The priestess watches her unflinchingly despite the exhaustion in her eyes and the tremble of her fingers, not viewing her with the disgust she's sure she deserves. She feels tainted, his life staining her lips, reducing her to something less than she was before.

One of Santana's hands, newly burned and opened, tentatively reach out until her fingers rest on her damp, sweaty neck. She tugs gently at the wispy hairs there, shaking her head. "It good, Brittany." Her approval means more than she can ever know, and it starts a smile on Brittany's quivering mouth. For now, it is enough.

A hoarse whisper breaks them apart.

They stumble over to the broken body of the centaur. He watches them from glassy eyes, forehead smeared in a cold sweat, fingers turning blue. Death will not be long for him now.

"That was... impressive, Bretagne." He wheezes in halting Norse, blood bubbling from his mouth that Brittany attempts to wipe away with her coated sleeve. "You did what I could not."

"I only finished what you started, clan-man. Death was simply the result."

Santana's hands ghost over his twitching flanks, fluttering uselessly at all the damage presented to her. He smiles weakly at the sentiment but shifts his head into the vague approximation of a decline. "Tell her... not t-to bother. I will cross... in due time."

Silently, Brittany laces their smallest fingers away and tugs her back. Santana follows only to settle by his head, murmuring prayer and petting his matted hair from his forehead.

"How do you know my name?" She asks, lowering herself down with a wince. He should not talk, in order to make himself as comfortable as possible, but it would be awful lonely to die in a forest with noone around to accompany you into your last moments.

"W-we know of all... the vikings, Bretagne. A-and of-" he coughs, a horrible sucking sound. Blood spurts from his wounds. "their people. T-the priestess." His clouded eyes float upwards to Santana where she stares back curiously. "S-uch... power in one s-so young. Both o-of you. You... stay. Together. Promise me."

Her fist thumps over her heart and she dips her head to the dying creature, satisfied when he responds with a ghost of a smile. "Good. N-now... take my amulet."

"What?"

"T-the medallion. Take it."

She spies a beautiful chain, bloodied but still gleaming, slung around his neck. The pendant, a coiled snake crusted with gems, rests heavily on his stuttering chest.

"I-I don't..."

"No," he rasps, hand flailing until it rests on her knee, "y-you will. You have... avenged me. This was a gift... from m-my father. The chieftain." She swallows; this shattered creature could have been her, sacrificing her spear to the saviours of her honour. He knows of burden just as well as she. "If you see him... t-tell him that you have hon-oured my blood-oath and... show h-him this. He will aid you."

Brittany shifts from her spot on the ground, wary. Something does not sit right about what he weaves. "Why would I require aid?"

He smiles again - fainter, the light in his eyes almost gone. "No time. You will see... things come, Bretagne. I-it is inevitable."

Her fingers reach out and wrap around the flesh-warmed metal, yanking until it comes from his neck with a soft snap. The snake pools in her palm, eyes blindly upturned, curious scales taking on the returning glow of sunlight.

The warrior barely hears Santana invoke the Goddess to guide his soul to her domain, focused on the rattle of his lungs as he finally exhales his final breath, flanks heaving once before going still. The blood, once gushing from his wounds, has slowed to a trickle. Combined with the troll's corpse that still leaks, they have sat themselves in a sea of red. The tang of metal upon her tongue makes her dizzy with disgust.

What of this aid she requires? Is he really the chieftain's son? Will the kinsmen have to know of his death? Her mind spins with so many unanswered questions that they all tangle together and halt her thoughts, creating one large knot that sends spikes of pain behind her eyes. She closes them momentarily to take solace in darkness, only to open them once more as a different sound takes over the sudden suffocating silence.

Santana presses her emptied medicine horn to her lips - from it comes a low, clear note that sounds sorrowfully from the hollowed item. It stretches out into the very edges of the fjord and sails across the treetops, repeating its call when the previous fades off into the fabric of the skies. Its message is true, if stark, stripped clean and purified. Mourning.

When the last blast fades out and Brittany asks her why, she simply shrugs. It seemed like the right thing to do.