A/N: Hello again! It's been a while, I know. I could weave tales of homework and wretched teachers and laptop-snatchers who deserve to get hit by large, moving objects, but instead I'm going to say that it hopefully won't happen again, and here's another chapter to make up for it. As usual, thanks to my magnificent beta LeMasquerade who fought through university homework and having everything stolen and still managed to get this back to me. So kudos to her, and enjoy!
A/N 2: People were telling me they couldn't see it, so here's a re-upload.
Chapter 11
abide in me and I vow to you
I will never forsake you
August 17th, 912
I write in unpractised hand, for I have not touched my fingers to paper since I arrived here in Kaupang. There are eyes everywhere in the world, watching, prying; for this I write in the most obscure calligraphy that I can muster in hopes that not even those that understand my mother tongue can decipher these secrets.
Are they secrets, or simply things hidden in shadow, lying in wait? I am not sure - for twelve years I knew not these things even existed, and the six years after that were shrouded in doubt and the comfort of Mami's protection. But now I see - only glimpses, but I do. The ritual I have performed to heal the ravaged flesh... Goddess, cleanse me of the memory. Let your benevolent hand strike this scroll from my grasp and the feeling of her skin from my thoughts. I wish not to write what transpired in that room, for recounting it will simply haunt me further, but know that I am changed. Perhaps not obviously, not in a way that will cause harm or help to others. I can overcome it, as I have many tragedies. But its voice... it follows me, stronger than in my dreams. The hiss as it drank from me and the things I saw-
No. I must stay away from such things. Here I put my thoughts to word in an effort to order my unruly ideals, sort fact from fiction and shadow from seen. Even now I sense Brittany's gaze on me while I write, and wonder if she can read the things I think upon my face.
It has been more than a week since Samuel's execution. I cannot think of it in any other way, for that is what it was. His life was taken from him so swiftly and without reason, and I know now they fear retaliation from the south. Perhaps their gods will answer and spare them that pain, but I see no reason to grant them even the mercy of a swift death. He certainly was not given one.
But those are simply my ruminations. Those, I can talk about to Noach, or even Brittany in my growing knowledge of her language - instead it is more simple to use this bond we have, defying all reason and time that allows us to be so interwoven we are One, to share breath and blood and brain. I can speak into her mind without words and glimpse the essence of her; her vitae, her marrow. In her, I see the conflict between her inherent nature and planted nurture, the white-hot river buried deep and forked by pathways that turn it into gentle flowing streams. She is a paradox of her creation and I am beginning to see this now, that things are never so simple as one would make it seem.
Some things, however... some I cannot give to others for they are not theirs to know. Not because I foolishly wish to keep this to myself. No, because I cannot bear to give them the burden that haunts the quiet of my thoughts in the dead of night.
There are whispers. Shadows that are too deep, nights that are too silent. Always on the edges of my vision, flitting in and out, taunting me with their snake-tongued words and their dark frost. It started mere hours after the ritual, after the scroll, after it... did what it did. I have only used it once, and have no intention of using it again, for the rush of madness that came with its power was enough to blind me. Perhaps it will remain the way it is, or perhaps it will fade away in time. I fear the things I see are simply the beginnings of something else that I cannot name, hovering just over the horizon. The only thing that banishes the shadow is Brittany's embrace.
For my sake as well as hers, forgiveness has been given. I refused to live any longer like I had, with but without her, caught in the twilight of my own mind. I know that her brutality is as much a hidden and unwanted part of her as is this darkness that I now sense; it is strange how we fit together though we are as different as two people could ever be.
I do not believe in circumstance, but I do believe in the Fates. And here, I feel their touch on everything we do.
August 13th, 912
It is strange how quickly things change, she thinks.
Santana stands upon the mountain that edges itself above Kaupang, its towering girth shielding it from the mainland and the other shear peaks Northvegia holds. From her perch she studies the town and its occupants below; they scurry about their daily tasks as easily as they did days ago, with a sort of grim determination and joyous distractions. The port teems with life - wooden ships carry their precious cargo to and from their destination, men hauling boxes up and down the ramps, waving off the ships that sail out into the great sea until they become but specks upon the wavering horizon.
Not one of them grieves.
She wipes away the sweat from her brow and sighs irritably, folding down to sit with crossed legs upon the dry grass. It shouldn't hurt as much as it does, to watch them go about their weeks while she remains stuck in a bitter stupor, but perhaps she had begun to grow attached to these people. The ones with the strange tongue and loud men and shameless women, who extend kindness as easily as brutality. Though they look another world from her, she sometimes finds companionship within them, a similarity once hidden. They are of the same heart as the people in Botaya. Kind, open. But if this moon has taught her anything, it is that demons can lurk in the clothing of saints.
Samuel's death (Santana has grown to loathe the word) has brought upon one positive change, no matter how much it pains her to admit. Laughter is now frequent in the slave's quarters - Brittany visits almost every day with a tentative smile and a small gift, may it be food, blankets, a spare needle and thread. Though the tension is visible along every coil of her muscle, the bedridden woman soothes her nervousness and coaxes her to sit until they talk animatedly with each other. Brittany regales her with tales of what Kaupang was like as a child; hiding amongst the woods, playing draugar with Anvindr, long hours of weapons training. She would listen intently to the viking as Santana quietly stretched out her arm, Brittany's words fading with guilt as pain would flicker across her features whenever dark hands pressed too close to the wound.
It has given them time to relearn each other, safe in the veil that a third party brings. Santana finds herself answering directly to Brittany now instead of simply ignoring her, smiling where before she would keep her face stoic. It feels good to trust again, even if it took an atrocity and a loss of faith.
Crashing through the brush. Santana tenses of her own accord and slides her eyes over to the rustling trees - nothing can be trusted with rapports of draugar shambling through the forests, carried upon heavy feet and unfeeling bodies as they steal into houses in the dead of night. There have been whispers, rumours; amongst those that turn to dust there is one that does not fall to the bite of blade, its limbs splitting open only to be sewn back together. A patchwork monstrosity that stalks in the light of the moon.
Dark fur darts through the low-lying bushes and moments later her lap is filled with squirming muscle, little claws scrabbling upon the cotton of her robes and a warm tongue lapping delightedly under her jaw. Santana laughs and winds her arms around Sandalio, scratching furiously behind his ears, feeling the strong thump of his tail hit against the barrel of her ribs. "Why hello there," she coos to him, sputtering when he licks against the open seal of her lips, "have you come all by yourself? You made quite the noise getting here." He yips and settles down firmly into her lap, leaning his side against her chest and contenting himself with the warmth of her body. Another crunch in the bracken and his brown eyes avert to where his other mistress stumbles her way through the forest.
Brittany curses again in a rather irate sounding tongue, brushing leaves from her hair and glaring around the mountain. "Where did you go?" Her cheeks are flushed red and strands of hair have escaped from her braid to frame her face - her fair brows have drawn into a scowl with down-turned lips. Santana frowns and clings tighter to Sandalio even as Brittany spots her and some of the thunder disappears from her eyes.
"You found him!" She exclaims with relief, moving over to sit beside the priestess with a respectable amount of distance between them. In truth she wishes to be so close as to feel the heat from her skin, but she knows not where they stand. Instead she reaches out and pets Sandalio's muzzle to distract herself and avoid the curious eyes drilling into the side of her head. "He ran off when Mikhail tried to give him a bath and it was impossible to find him. I tried to ask Lord Tubbi, but he has been reading my runes and I think he dislikes it when I misspell his name, so he refused to answer." Santana watches Brittany carefully school her face into the blank, expressionless mask she so often wears. Still, the ruddiness of her skin lingers with the brewing blizzard in her gaze.
She winds her fingers through thick fur before shifting over to watch her companion. "What wrong, Brittany?"
Brittany startles for a second, almost as if she didn't expect the question (sometimes she forgets that Santana can read her so well that it is pointless to hide) but still refuses to meet her stare. "Nothing."
Perhaps they have been disjointed as of late, but Santana feels almost disappointed that Brittany tries to conceal things from her. She scoots closer, mindful of Sandalio in her lap, until she can place a tentative hand on her strong bicep. Brittany's eyes flicker upwards in surprise. Are they... okay?
"Lie. What wrong?"
Brittany chews on her lip for a moment - those fingers curl around the strength of her arm and she is gone, deflating and hunching down like a sunken ship as she rakes her hand through her messy braid. "It... Father is the problem." An understatement; she has not forgiven him for Samuel's... end (she has been unable to even think the word, for thinking it makes it suddenly real) and the brief snatches of conversation they have shared always resulted in a larger rift between them both. He wants what she has no desire for, and all the things she requires are unable to be given. The Klintir family has been stealing into his ocean-swathed longhouse at all hours of the day to discuss things in hushed, plotting tones, and Fingeirr watches her almost constantly with the knowledge of something she does not yet know. Or, that which she didn't know until now. "I am seventeen summers... by this age, Father expects me to be betrothed to one of the men in the village. He listens to nothing I say - everybody my age are receiving proposals and marrying and- consummating that bond." Her breath chokes upon that word, a shiver of disgust rippling up over her spine.
Santana screws up her face in confusion. "Fullgera?"
Her companion's cheeks bloom into flame as she awkwardly scratches the back of her neck. "Yes... fullgera. To consummate." She makes hand gestures with her hands but receives only a blank stare. "To have sex?" Still nothing. Instead she places her hands on imaginary shoulders and gyrates her hips, miming her head thrown back as her fingers run through her already dishevelled hair. It clicks in Santana with an audible oh and she clears her throat, averting her eyes from Brittany's moving body until she settles back down in the grass. From the corner of her vision, she eyes the rounding curve of her hips hidden only partly in her breeches.
After a quiet second, Santana manages to regain her grasp on composure. "With who?"
Brittany doesn't even try to hide her disgust. "Finngeirr. He says it is for the best, but he cannot force me to touch him, even upon penalty of my honour." She had spoken to Grandfather about it over a shallow cup of wine and a heavy heart. He had stroked the hair from her face and offered nothing more than a sad smile. I will talk to him, he had whispered, but you know that he does what he believes is best for you. Sometimes she doubts his words, his actions contradicting his speech.
Santana scrunches her nose angrily - the thought of the big boy touching her friend spurs a hot kind of pain to spill out all over the inside of her sternum to the point where her fingers glow bright and white. Exempt from marriage as she is, it is impossible for her to grasp the urgency in which this matter seems to be spiralling towards disaster - everything from Brittany's unwound look suggests something entirely massive and equally unwanted. But the way she glares down at the general populace scurrying around speaks of something else entirely.
"More?"
She hums in question and turns curiously to Santana. "More what?"
"Problem. More problem?"
Brittany taps her hand nervously against her folded knee. "Maybe... I-I do not know what to believe yet."
An arch of an eyebrow and Brittany sighs, placing her elbows on her thighs. "Everybody says it was for the better, what happened last week." Santana stiffens upon her perch and Brittany grinds the heels of her palms into her eyes to erase the sting already building. "No matter who I talk to, they are pleased with how it turned out. They say Odinn would be cruel to neglect us now."
"Do... do you think?"
She sucks her lower lip into her mouth anxiously. Does she? Perhaps Odinn is pleased, but not even the might of the Father-God can stop the whispers she hears of the men on horseback stampeding through the countries. Everything has since bowed to their might and they sweep through with unprecedented swiftness, chanting and calling for salvation their God will unwaveringly grant. She remembers seeing Harald once as a child; he was magnificent upon a thick northern horse, armour glittering and weapons polished to perfection. She had compared his gaze to a hawk, taking in all he surveyed with a calculating, impassive eye. How had he gone so wrong? A north-man was never meant to turn on his brothers, no matter how far he would settle from his motherland.
Yet they allow themselves to be complacent in their faith, believing that Odinn's watchful protection will keep them safe from French blades and massive pyres. Brittany knows from experience (vague memories of a tiny little town, the distant sound of horns, bodies torn to pieces as she wandered the wreckage) that not everything can be fixed with prayer alone. How do they not see this?
"No," she says quietly, turning to face Santana defiantly, "not anymore. Samuel did not deserve to... to..." Her tongue stalls and she instead shakes her head, blindly seeking Santana's hand for comfort and smiling weakly when she does not pull away.
These people are her life. They accepted her, took her in, nurtured her into anything she wanted to be. Her world has been nothing but Kaupang and the riches it brings, safe within their niche by the sea. But now she sees a side to them that perhaps Santana first witnessed, of cruelty and baying for blood, how they are not the wonders she wanted them to always have been. This shift in perspective is startling, upsetting, and it is a comfort that she sees the same changes in her friend - though she wishes it would not be the case. Nobody is oblivious to the stiffness in Santana's shoulders or the cold anger in her gaze, words unusually clipped and quiet.
"I miss him." Brittany whispers softly, leaning into Santana's shoulder. The other girl sighs quietly and nods, tightening her hold of Brittany's hand.
"I know. Me too."
He is gone, but he left something important in his wake. The three lean together as if nothing else will hold them up and silently watch the sky dip into darkness.
August 13th, 912
"You will not disrespect me in my own hall!" Betar's voice rumbles through the rafters of the room, his massive body hiding the large chair up on the platform from view. Intricate jewels twined through his beard rattle and shake with his furious movements, the scabbard of his sword hitting his thigh, one hand clenching into an angry fist. Below him, Bretagne remains defiant, her own stance hostile as she vehemently shakes her head.
"Then you would do well not to disrespect me either!" She yells, her face turning red from the strain. All inside the longhouse duck discreetly from the clashing tempers. In this stubborn battle of wills there is no winner. "This is a blow to my honour, do you not see? I am one that will accept a mate, not have one forced upon me!"
Towards the back Finngeirr shifts nervously, his eyes darting from father to daughter. What if she refuses to accept him? He would look a fool in front of the whole village! He must convince Betar as soon as possible that it will be in Bretagne's finer interests.
"You are seventeen summers, girl! You show no desire for a husband, and yet, all the others in the village have already married. You know your duties."
"I was never like the others," she says quietly, her voice deadly, "and I never will be. If you excuse me, my Jarl, I believe Sandalio requires a bath." Without giving him chance to reply back, she storms from the hall - in her wake she leaves nothing but oppressive air and the scent of spearmint.
It is silent for what seems an eternity. Dragging one hand over his face, he throws himself in his chair and turns his attention to the man waiting respectfully in the shadows, nothing but the tips of his leather shoes peeking from the darkness.
"Report."
He is weary; his fur skins are ragged and hang loosely around his haggard frame. There are dark circles haunted under his eyes - within him is the knowledge of the kingdom and the recommended course of action. Betar notices how his fingers tremble when he stands and offers a chair, into which he sinks gratefully. A man of the north run down to his bones.
"They have pushed through most of Germania," he says in a wheezing growl, "and will undoubtedly come to Taunmark if not halted. Most of the towns give 'way under their power in an effort to avoid conflict, but you can see the smoke for miles around."
The new jarl squeezes his eyes shut and mentally maps out in his mind. If they encroach through Germania now, it's probable they've already taken Francia and much, if not all, of Iberia. Santana spoke of their armies that came through with little regard to the rules of the land, simply preaching their story and taking what needed to be taken. When he asked about Harald, however, she simply looked at him like he was speaking a foreign language. It means he is undoubtedly heading north with the bulk of his forces and his slippery nephew at his side. Where had it all gone wrong? Harald was a fine northman, of true icewater blood. "And Britannia?"
His scout scratches his bushy eyebrow thoughtfully and bites his heat-cracked lips. "They are still standing but most of the kingdom yielded to the White Christ before this ever started. There will be little problem from them."
Perhaps if he could...
"They would never join us, my jarl." He murmurs quietly in regret. "They believe us heathens. And after the sacrifice of their priest's son... they want our heads more than our hands."
Betar sighs heavily and nods once, dropping his head into his upturned palm. "I understand." It seems no good has come of that wretched boy and his secret worlds. Not only has Bretagne decided to remain as far from the longhouse as she possibly can, but it seems that Santana has been especially dark as late; her gaze brooding and unreachable when he deigns to speak with her. She barely has begun to let his daughter in once again... if she so decides to turn against them, he fears what her power can do. People have reported that the cold in the night has gotten sharper, crueler, often opening doors and windows long after they have been bolted shut. The constant twitching of her fingers and the whispered words she weaves under her breath have him on edge, to say the least.
To add to paranoia, Samuel's body has gone missing.
They scoured the edges of the village, searched through the forests and canvassed the seas. Nothing. He has simply vanished without a trace in the few hours he was left unattended while the priestess prepared his funeral pyre. People speak of draugar and there is little he can do to stop them.
"Sire?"
Betar blinks and looks around at all the eyes watching him. They await his orders to give; getting lost in his own head brings nothing but problems.
"Send warning to Sæheimr and Taunmark. I do not believe Harald foolish enough to try and invade here, but the puppet pulling his strings just might be. A caution to the town... if they so wish to pillage a city far from our coasts, they are not to engage with the enemy. We do not need additional grievances to add onto our problems."
He bows low and retreats off his chair, disappearing in a flurry of thick shawls. Betar watches him go for a moment before rising himself; his colourful garments shimmer with the light of the sun and catch on his flaming head of hair. One of his massive hands ghosts carefully over his new sword, presented to him in the wake of his new position, palming the pommel upon habit. A beautiful thing, engraved handle with a fine double-edged blade made of iron and edged with the sharpest steel. Upon the hilt, a bear snarls up at him. "I go to Yngvarr." He announces to the audience before him, shaking a few of his braids from his shoulders before moving out the door. The heavy echo of his boots bounce around his hallways.
The Hammer of the North is respected by all for various reasons. He is the first man that beat Betar in combat with his heavy-handed weapon almost a blur of movement. It is through him that he met his wife, and through his wife that he met his daughter. The jarl bites his tongue at the thought of his family - one dead, one angry. What has he done to merit such misfortune?
"Father?" He calls as he steps up to the smaller, modest longhouse where lives the fabled warrior. After the death of his own parents many years ago, it seemed only fitting that Yngvarr would fill the hole that loss left behind. Betar sidesteps the cougar frozen in the hallway with its sightless eyes glaring down upon intruders, past the kitchen that bubbles constantly, through the expansive main hallway that hosts all kinds of furs and fabrics. Stepping into his house is like emerging into another world - he spies scimitars of the sandy southern warriors, the strange wooden staves of the distant east, the heavy clinking armor pieced together from all different factions. The jarl runs his fingers along a beautiful piece of scalemail, adorned with the crimson scales of a ferocious dragon.
Sometimes Betar wonders if he cheated himself out of something, staying in Kaupang to raise his daughter on his own instead of exploring the world. But one look at Bretagne erases every single doubt he's ever had.
"Betar?" Comes the voice from behind him. The younger man whirls around and smiles once he sees the old, grizzled veteran decked in simple clothing and his forever constant hammer. Sometimes it amazes him how silent such a large man can be. "Come in, come in! Not too busy with your new position to visit me, hm?"
Betar laughs and ungracefully splays himself in a furred armchair, stretching out his muscled limbs to collapse inwards on himself with a satisfied huff. Almost immediately a servant whisks out and pours him wine into a nearby goblet, giving a little bow before vanishing into the corridor. Yngvarr sits down opposite him, throwing his legs over a table and fixing his soul-son with his signature piercing stare. "What seems to be the problem? You look as if a pack of wolves have done you over."
One large hands runs itself wearily over his face again. So many problems to fix, so little time. "Everything. The army comes in from below, the villagers grow restless above, other jarls in Vestfold are beginning to look down upon me for having an unwed daughter. I wish to marry her to Finngeirr, but I fear she would never forgive me if I went ahead without her blessings."
Two white eyebrows raise over a wrinkled forehead. "Finngeirr?" He scoffs, completely ignoring the other plaints for now. "Why? That boy is about as competent as my right foot... which has coincidentally been going lame."
"You should get Santana to look at that for you." Betar says absently before shaking his head. "Maybe he is incompetent, but his family is close to revered! Marrying Bretagne to him would be a sure way to gain favour and respect among the nobles. I am not allowed to instigate the marriage, but it is obvious that his family is interested in my daughter and will undoubtedly ask for her hand eventually. Who knows, perhaps they would end up liking each other."
Not likely. Earlier on in her life she had made him promise he would never do what he is trying to do at the moment. Her happiness means so much to him that there is little he places above it, but she knows marriage is a rite of passage for the girls world-over. Even one as wild and untamed as his daughter.
"Betar, you know as well as I do that Bretagne would never be happy with somebody like him. She needs somebody that can challenge her without belittling her, that can listen to her insane theories without trying to shoot them down. Is the word of your peers truly worth more than what she wants? Perhaps she will never become bethrothed... it could be for the best. It is doubtful she would ever want to settle down with another man." The emphasis he places on man causes Betar's eyebrow to arch, but the impassive expression on Yngvarr's face gives nothing away.
"Well, what do you propose I do, then? If you know her so deeply, what is best for her?"
The old man scowls. "You ask for my advice, I would advise you, then, not to become sharp with me."
A moment later, Betar relents. "Apologies, faðir. I simply want the best for her."
"Then let her be," he claps a hand on his companion's broad shoulder, "and allow her to work it out on her own. Bretagne was never meant to be reined in. She seems to be getting along for the better with Santana again, and that is enough for her."
A picture of Santana filters into his thoughts; sun-kissed skin and bottomless eyes. She is the polar opposite of everything his daughter is, yet they get along better than anybody else he's ever seen. It's unsettling. "I fear for her if Santana so chooses to use her. She is too kind, too trusting... she would do almost anything for that girl."
Yngvarr wears a secret smile. "Ah, that might be true, but it is also the same in reverse. Fear not for her, dear son. Things will turn out for the better."
Betar blows out a gust of air. "Perhaps." The wine in his cup is dishearteningly empty, and he swirls around the remaining drips thoughtfully. "I will leave her for now. But if the time comes, I will have to force my hand no matter how much she will despise me for it." In time, she will realize it to be for the better, joining the two families together to form one force in the heart of Kaupang.
If only he could believe that.
August 15th, 912
Breathe.
Fingers flicker, opening up into bloom to reveal scarred palms soaking in the dying light of the sun. From the rays that shine down the skin seems to absorb the glow, leeching into the being below and lending heat to the covered bones. All around is the unique noise of nature; sound in the silence as the air giving life is one in the same to that which howls across the frozen seas.
Breathe. Let go.
A shuddering exhale and upon the end floats with it the wisps of consciousness - all at once Santana knows nothing but the gentle beat of the earth underneath her feet. The heat on her skin is one in the same to the warmth of her blood, the touch of the wind the same as hands which pry her open and spread her apart. She is no longer anything of importance, simply another piece moved by an invisible force.
What do you know?
The taste of sun-ripened berries. The padding of grass. The press of warm fur against her shins.
Not feel, priestess. Know.
Her brow furrows though she does not physically sense the change. Concentration wavers and threatens to snap but the guiding presence lingers and remains to keep her far from the world. Why is she here? Yes, yes... that is the knowledge of her own. Focus upon the eve of the act that could fix her problems or simply become the catalyst for another unknown, of shadows and smothered light.
She will be with me always, Santana thinks, and receives an answering chime in her mind. Her lips part and the Goddess slips between her teeth and down her throat, much like the firewater drunk what seems a lifetime ago. Veins light and muscles hum and all of a sudden she's not there, she's somewhere else, the divide between living and beyond. She opens wondering eyes at the brush of gentle fingers against her face. Ataecina smiles back with her milky eyes filled to bursting with internal light and the gentle clink of charms hanging from her horns. Santana smiles in return and allows herself to be swept into an encompassing hug from which she has no desire to leave.
"It has been too long, my child." Has it been months? Time moves so quickly in this village of pale strangers whom have fast become her world. After what only seems a split second (but in other lifetimes are potential eternities), Santana reluctantly parts from her loving embrace to instead scan her surroundings. Little has changed from her previous visit, save from the ever-encroaching desert of dry, deserted land hosting the bones of the damned. More skeletons have since joined the dead.
The girl carefully edges to the barrier into the wasteland. One hand draws itself out from her side and stretches until the tips brush against the porous surface, skimming over the ink-black seams that race across the skull like roads. She gets a glimpse of a Frenchman with two daughters and a son, poor with rags but smiles upon their faces. The priestess draws away in sadness but reaches out to the next one, whispering a silent apology to the absent bones. This time a woman, Iberian... her face is obscured in a covering of black cloth and an immense weight, known only to her, makes her shoulders hunch like an old crone. So it goes as Santana touches one after another in the sprawling army of the dead, pictures of so many flashing; men, women, children; civilized, savage, somewhere in between. Her hand is almost frenzied as she reaches for the last and sees a face staring back that she knows - the man that warned her and her mother what seems like a lifetime ago that started her on this journey north. What was his name?
Ricardo, Ataecina whispers into her mind. Yes, Ricardo... the farmer. Always with a kind smile. He was the one that gave them their horse, Agate, when she was so very young. An almost forgotten pang of homesickness hits and almost sweeps her off her feet with its intensity, but the Mother's sturdy hand presses between her shoulderblades and keeps her upright.
"So much death..." Santana breathes, casting her eyes over the countless silenced by the blades of their conquerors. With a start she once more feels the throb of the misplaced heartbeat against her breastbone - it had become so much a part of her that she hardly noticed it anymore. Her mami was alive, then. A great relief filled her soul. "Are these all of the army and their crusades?"
Her Goddess pinches her lips to one side. "Not all, but most. Many have died of the indirect famine as they pay what it takes to feed a force like this one."
It's too quiet. Santana shudders and retreats back into the lush grasses that simply thrum with life, ducking into a small grove of trees and immersing herself in the fact that nothing has yet fallen in these parts. Here she can relish in the frenzy of life without the constant, creeping presence of death. Ataecina seats herself opposite her priestess and studies the sharp slope of her jaw carefully. "You have need of me."
Though it seems to be phrased as a question it holds as much power as a statement. Santana shifts her eyes away from her deity's beauty in shame, twining her fingers over and over into knots. Surrounded by such luminescence - the trees with flourishing fruit, the animals nursing their fearless young - her cause seems... unworthy. Evil, almost.
"Santana." She looks up. From this angle, the patient smile looks almost as Brittany's does in the dead of night, free from the chains of her dreams. "You have no need to hide from me."
Her hands float to the siren's song in the pockets of her robes, stroking gingerly along the pages before drawing it from the hidden depths of her clothing. Here, visible as its true self, she recoils at the shadow that seethes along the vellum - angry and cold, it worms into her mind and whispers things of utmost revulsion, of death and torture and debauchery. As her fingers stroke the pages, its song enters her mind and she fights its digust of Ataecina's eternal realm.
A hand covers her own that have begun to shake. The Goddess gently curls her slender fingers around the cursed material. "May I?" Though Santana nods it is difficult to pry it from her frozen grasp - the thing calls in her head when it is handled by the stronger force. Ataecina's brow furrows and she murmurs something quietly in a slurring tongue; almost instantly the distress plaguing her ceases and she can breathe again.
"Where did you find this?" The seal pops open as she unravels it, scanning over the undulating markings. Santana tries to see what it spells out for her Goddess, but she is unable to read the language.
"A seið-mann named Styrr. He came to Kaupang a few moons ago."
Slowly, a small smile blooms on Ataecina's lips.
"What?"
"You use their words."
Santana blushes and scratches the back of her neck. It has become easier and easier to communicate in their odd, harsh language; almost two seasons have passed since she first set foot upon their shores and she finds herself less jarred by their way of life. Her clothes have become worn in and comfortable - the grey of her robes is a welcome embrace around her body during the day. The boots she first bought in Aarhus are worn around the edges and dusty from their streets, the toggles frayed. Her tongue no longer skips along the syllables.
"Perhaps. Brittany has been helping me along." Another grin appears but this time it is secretive and mixed with a smirk, her monochrome eyes sparkling from under her lidded lashes. For the life of her, Santana cannot fathom what would be so amusing. She clears her throat, gesturing vaguely in her direction.
"Can... can you tell me what it is?"
Gentle fingers skim the ragged sides, mouthing along to words visible only to one. The Mother flips it in her hands until it settles closed again and she places it between them.
"You know what it is, my child."
That's what she had been afraid of. "An invitation?"
"Close. A bribe."
Santana frowns.
"When you desire, Santana, you do so deeply." Ataecina explains. As she talks her limbs flick through the air and paint wispy shapes that waver in and out of being; Reinn, Brittany, even Sandalio. Brittany's image burns brighter than the rest. "So deeply that you let little get in the way of what you want. Styrr has given you a gateway, a method to quench that insatiable longing for more." Gynna, the one crippled in the attack, appears before them. "With this knowledge you possess, he knows you will be forced to cure her through your own guilt and loyalty. In a sense, he has played you into a corner. Has he not?"
Even though she wishes not to, Santana feels the truth in her words. Frustration bubbles under the surface. "Why do I have to go through him, Mother?" She pleads. "Why can you not give me the strength I require to fix her injuries?"
The Goddess smiles sadly and shakes her head. "That is not of my ability. Though it is the realm of healing, it is... unnatural. I cannot deal in things that have no place being."
Cannot, or will not? Santana shakes the thought from her head. Being so long in Styrr's presence has played tricks with her mind.
They tilt their heads up to watch the birds of prey circle each other playfully in the blinding blue sky. Puffs of cloud float lazily on by and for a fleeting moment she entertains simply staying here, serving her Goddess to the best of her abilities and leaving these worldly pains behind. It seems so much simpler than what awaits her in the valley of the mountains upon the lip of the sea.
But Brittany's voice filters in through her mind, soft even after she loses her trust in the violent strangers she had begun to call her friends. You give them hope, Santana. Comfort. Let me do that for you. She sighs and rubs at her eyes - her own self wouldn't let her abandon those people, no matter how little they trust her.
"This scroll... it is of the dark. What you warned me about."
Ataecina nods.
One hand goes to burrow itself into a mess of onyx hair. "Tell me not to do it, Goddess, and I will never touch it again. I know of the things it does to us, how it turns us into phantoms. Please, just say it." Her wish to help is strong but her will to her deity is stronger. If Ataecina condemns it so, she will cast it into the ocean with a light heart.
"You know I would never do that, child." White silk whispers as the Mother raises to her full, sprawling height only to kneel and take Santana's face between her flawless palms. "Your will is entirely your own. You must decide whether this is something for you."
Santana drops her head onto her offered shoulder and presses her suddenly stinging eyes into the crook of her neck. "I want to help her so much that it overwrites the consequences."
"Then you have your answer, no?"
The girl swallows, fearful. She remembers the man that came into their home in the dead of night - how he dragged the shadows of dusk along with his tortured form and spoke like rattling chains. What if that is what becomes of her? The dark that rots her insides and warps her mind? It has not yet happened to Styrr, but what she has learned above all else is that he is a master of deceit. For all she knows he could be but a skeleton, and this skin simply a mask to hide behind.
"Fear and caution are two different things, my love. If you are to do this, do it with a focused mind and a steady heart. It will find no purchase if you are sure. It is in indecisiveness that it succeeds." Ataecina smiles. "You have a good soul, Santana. It might be a difficult path, but I believe everything will fall into place eventually."
Dark has begun to fall upon them. The ever broken sky wavers and tips more towards the night - it is an explosion of stars which swirl overhead, a plethora of constellations that dance and flicker in endless rotations. Santana sees further than she ever has before and wonders absently if another does the same thing on the other side of the universe. The beyond is a mysterious creature, forever cloaked in superstition and shadow but feared without reason. There is perhaps no joy in death, but there is solace.
One hand slides over her shoulder to curl gently around her bicep until she is being tugged upwards. They walk silently from the copse with the grasses crumpling under their feet until they stand where Santana first arrived, straddling the barrier between the two worlds. When she looks at her Mother in question, she simply receives a smile in return. "Your friend awaits you."
A shimmering picture of Brittany appears from thin air; facing her, she has clasped Santana's limp hands in her own and studies her vacant eyes with an intense scrutiny, resting her elbows on her crossed legs. Her braid is thick and shiny today, still damp from the basin Mikhail forced her into. Despite the almost solemn picture, a small smile plays on her lips. Sandalio leans against them both, his head sprawled into Brittany's lap and his tail lazily thumping against the soft ground. A warmth fills Santana's chest that causes her flesh to prickle - the imprint of Brittany's touch is felt along her skin.
"Be kind to her. She will be your greatest ally in the moons to come."
Santana nods and makes to go back to the material world but stops just as her connection starts to haze over.
"Ah... Goddess. I was hoping I could ask you something?"
"Of course."
"A friend of ours was taken from us and delivered to you suns ago. Samuel? How... how is he? We miss him dearly," her throat swells rebelliously though she tries to keep her voice from wavering, "and it would mean much to us if we knew he was at peace."
Something dark passes over her countenance for a moment before it simply settles into a troubled frown. The way her lips twist downwards doesn't bode well. "I took him upon his death, yes... but there was another."
What? "A-another?"
"Yes. He was safe with me, but upon arriving here... part of him became lost. The entirety of his soul does not yet reside in this realm."
Lost spirits are generally classified as ghosts - tortured things that walk the earth in search of satisfaction. Santana's stomach twists into uneasy knots at the thought of Samuel being one of those cursed things. "Is he-"
"Samuel craves his other half, my child, and he will return to me in due time. It will perhaps just take a little longer than originally planned."
She nods but it does little to ease the paranoia now brewing in her chest. The world mists over for a moment as she closes her eyes and submerges herself far below her consciousness - the connection to her Mother's realm wavers and finally snaps like a piece of twine. She leaves with the imprint of her smile and a whispered prayer in her mind.
The first thing she feels upon returning is warm air ghosting across her cheeks. Though her lids are open it takes a few moments for her vision to return to her body - almost immediately she settles in on strikingly oceanic eyes mere inches from her own. Santana freezes and so does Brittany; red blooms on her cheeks from being caught but she is now the one trapped in her gaze. One tanned hand raises itself carefully into the space between them. Testing the waters, Santana gently brushes her thumb against the center of Brittany's forehead and relishes the spike of shivers that rack her companion's frame.
"What you do here?" Santana says softly, eyes shifting down to Brittany's collarbone. Prolonged eye contact makes her uncomfortable with everybody she's ever known, but not Brittany. It is reflect that moves her gaze, not want. (Never want.)
Brittany swallows once (Santana watches the flutter of her throat in fascination) and stumbles for words. "I wanted to see you."
No other reason, no other need. Simply for her company. Is this what it feels like to have a friend? Santana smiles and it's so brilliant that it coaxes Brittany's lips to quirk up in return until they grin at each other like fools with their eyes crinkling around the edges and their noses scrunching. It is Santana's first sólarljós-bros in weeks and it fills Brittany with an indescribable sort of joy.
"Thank you."
"Of course."
Wind gusts by and Santana realizes she's now cradling Brittany's cheek, her thumb brushing gently across her parted lips. Without knowing entirely what she's doing her appendage travels across the pale, pink expanse, memorizing the cracked flesh underneath her touch, until the resistance gives away. Upon the first touch of the inside of Brittany's mouth it is like she's struck by a million bolts of lightning. Santana inhales sharply and crimson spills down Brittany's neck even as her tongue tentatively swipes against the gloss of her nail and slides underneath the spongy pad of her thumb. A deep throb starts itself up between her legs as Brittany moves her jaw and pearly teeth scrape gently against her bones; she feels helpless even if it is her that seeks, the one that touches the wet heat of her mouth and runs her thumb against the flat of her tongue.
Santana's eyes close of her own accord as she explores longer, further - the dragon within her chest that has since remained silent for so long stirs to life and it feels like an awakening of the deepest parts of her. Something is happening to them. It won't be long before she is unable to deny it. They are connected in a way different from before... though Santana cannot sense the very thoughts that give her life and how they form the basis of everything she is, Santana can undoubtedly feel an unknown a side of Brittany, one of silky damp as she feels a heartbeat flutter madly against her splayed fingers.
The unbearable silence breaks when a moan rumbles free from Brittany's chest, deep and guttural and seemingly torn from somewhere hidden away.
They lock eyes and Santana's face burns as she draws away - not for the first time she blesses her heritage as her complexion remains the same while Brittany's turns the shade of fire.
"I-"
"What-"
Both of them break off and look away together; Santana wipes her hand upon her robes while Brittany refrains the urge to lick her lips to search for another taste of her friend. Just hints of her have her craving more, the desire to know what the other parts of her taste - her lips, the hinge of her jaw, the valley of her chest. Her dreams are haunted by sandy skin and dark eyes.
Brittany clears her throat and scrambles to her pockets in an attempt to break the atmosphere. "I have something for you." Her tongue darts out and upon it is the salt of Santana's sweat, musky and deep with the a lingering bitter tang. Her clothes smell of wormwood and her lips carry the stain of juniper from some ritual unknown to the warrior, the vacant gaze in her eyes giving her Goddess away. She seems tense, troubled - even now her hand floats to the artifact concealed in her clothes.
Santana perks up despite her embarrassment and attempts an intrigued smile. When Brittany turns to rummage in her pack it becomes genuine, and she leans forward when she catches the glimpse of luster between her fingers.
"Close your eyes."
She wants to object but Brittany's smile is so easy and carefree that she sighs dramatically, clamping her lids shut and thrusting out her hands. When Brittany laughs at her pout she wiggles her fingers impatiently, tapping her feet on the grass, remembering the secret gleam hidden in her cupped palms.
Something cold places itself in her outstretched hands. Her brow furrows and she carefully cracks open her eyes to Brittany's nervous grin. She blindly rolls the object over in her fingers before looking down.
She spies the biggest ruby she's ever had the pleasure of seeing.
Easily the size of her curled fist, she sucks air between her teeth and twists it over and over, fingers skating over the impossibly smooth surface. A million reflections of herself stare back from its angles and she studies the twisting impressions within its heart with something close to awe. "Brittany... what..."
"Grandfather had it from one of his raids a long time ago when they destroyed a caravan of men that all look like Mikhail. He gave to me as a gift, but... you know I was never one for pretty things. I much prefer new weapons and the like. So I decided to give it to you." She knows Santana probably understood a third of what she said, but her voice is hopeful, fading at the end when all she receives is silence.
(It remains to be said that she begged Grandfather for it, for she knew Santana would cherish it like nothing else.)
"Do... do you like it?"
When Santana looks up her eyes are impossibly light but it has nothing to do with the sun.
"Of course..." She says something in Spanish, all suave whispering letters stringing together into the thanks she can't manage to express in these faltering verbalizations. It sounds like shadow in the best of ways and Brittany can't help but think men would die to have her lips against their ear. "It beautiful. Why me?"
"Beautiful people need beautiful things, Santana."
Her companion bashfully draws her eyes away and instead plays with the tip of her staff. Her fingers nervously trace the twining tendrils of wood that wind over and over on themselves to form a knotted mess, gnarled and springy, sharp upon the edges. The ruby flashes bright against the dull of the ash.
Until it moves.
Santana nearly drops her staff as the pieces unfurl slowly with the groaning of an old man, spreading out to the sun in all directions before curling around her fingers; she numbly allows it to drag the ruby from her grasp with greedy intent, winding itself through and around until the gemstone sets itself upon the crown of her weapon. They both stare as it settles again, grumbling and creaking before going still, as solid as if it had never moved. With the stone now comes the throb of a heady pulse that rushes its way through the base of the staff and into Santana's arm, flushing warmth into her system and filling her with something of a slow burn.
Brittany's heartbeat, she realizes with a start, this belongs to her.
"We connect now, see?" Santana takes Brittany's hand in her own and presses the lighter fingertips to the parts of the ruby that can be seen through the tendrils of wood that have made their home around it. "Piece of you here, with me."
Brittany looks at her; the sudden vulnerability of her eyes, the careful smile of her lips, the subtle way she leans into her, and thinks that she would never want to be anywhere else.
There is a cloud over her friend, dark and brooding, the longer goes the day. Brittany accompanies her down into the heart of town and watches her sweep through the stalls, touching the herbs, muttering to herself and tapping her forehead before shaking her head and moving on. With Brittany's aid she buys a robe of white cotton, soft and pliant to the touch, that makes her skin burn with a dark light. Herbs fill her basket as she looks and wonders and murmurs until it is filled with bursting and she is awash in all the scents that nature has to offer.
Something moves her from beyond; twice Brittany catches the imprint of ghostly arms settling like a shroud over Santana's own and twisting her limbs. She listens always, tilting her head and humming her agreement. The villagers eye her suspiciously but for the first time it bothers her little.
Eventually they arrive at Brittany's house. Santana hugs her and something feels strangely final about it - she nearly crushes Brittany's strong ribs and presses her face into the ridge of her collarbone, inhaling the familiar spearmint she constantly has upon her breath. It calms her as lanky arms wrap themselves hesitantly around her waist and whisper nonsensical comforts. Brittany wishes to take away her pain but knows not if it comes from another, or simply from within.
"Stay out?" Santana asks, glancing over at the earthen house. If Mikhail has done his job a steaming tub awaits her and the herbs she totes in the basket around her arm. The sun is setting - she dreads doing this with the embrace of the night. Brittany looks torn - something is wrong and she can't fix it - but a single finger laying itself along her lips pushes her to nothing more than a mute nod. Santana smiles but it is faint, whispering a thanks before disappearing inside and leaving her to stare after her with a feeling of growing dread.
Once the door shuts Santana exhales a heavy breath, leaning against the door. Despite all the precautions she takes, she can feel the excitement of the thing lingering within the scroll - it writhes and whispers and urges her forward, impatient and ready but willing to wait. Her hands tremble minutely when she folds her new robe and places it on the table before unbuckling her sash and laying it over top. Her boots slide off next - the toggles snapping off one by one as she neatly lays them below upon the ground. Santana's old robe comes off then, placed side by side, leaving her naked in the glow from the lanterns overhead. She shivers but sits upon a stool, drawing her herbs closer to herself and fishing for her mortar and pestle with the comforting thump of her necklace between her breasts.
Be still, priestess.
Santana closes her eyes and swallows to reorient herself. She had purposefully placed her scroll as far away from her body as possible in hopes it would soften its call. Within her cup she places elderberry, rosemary and tarragon - as she grinds she allows her mind to wander. Will this work? Somehow she believes it doubtful. Styrr is without a doubt more powerful than she, adept in the intricacies of death and its friends while she is the one who cherishes the living. One scroll, surely, cannot give her the power she requires to weave muscle back over bone like it is nothing but ivy twining over stone.
Fragrance rises around her and the familiar smell of nature allows her to finally relax, scraping the power now in her mortar into a small cloth pouch, tying it tightly before dropping it into the water. She allows it to steep, much like tea, before stepping over the lip of the basin and submerging herself.
Goosebumps curl over every available part of her skin as the water soaks up into her hair and around the bends of her fingers and between her toes. Santana shudders and sinks down further until only part of her face is visible. Her locks fan outwards like an oil-slick - heavy and dark, casting shadows over her hidden body. Inside she loses the contours of her form and becomes an extension of the water.
Goddess, she calls within her head, with fire I heat this water, that which makes air and eventually pours down to the earth. I ask for your protection this night to ward away the demons which will try to take residence within and around me. I ask for your blessing so that I might be successful and wash away the pains of her injuries. I ask for your guidance so that I do not fall into the corruption that this act will ultimately bring. Let fortune smile on me today, for with hope, tonight will bring the brightest of celebrations.
A slow light fills her chest as she lounges into the protective waters. The blessings of the herbs and of her Mother seep into her skin to wear like a shield, ever-present and powerful as she dunks her face into the basin and scrubs until her forehead feels raw. Without her mark she is naked, but it is a required sacrifice.
Thank you, Goddess. Thank you, elements. I take your blessing into my heart.
When she rises, some of her doubt has gone.
Still dripping, the priestess takes the linen hanging upon the side and wraps her sodden hair into it. Water pools along the wooden floor when she takes the lantern from its place upon the wall and opens the little door to coax the flame from its home. Though the bath is for protection, the pine she lights with care is for purification. Upon the air she tastes its burn and the resulting moan of discomfort from the dark presence that has taken to following her always. She waves the crushed remnants with an almost arrogance defiance, stalking clockwise around the room and even sprinkling some of its ash upon the scroll itself.
"Leave me, darkness!" She calls and adds more and more until it is so thick with smoke she can hardly breathe, the taste of pine thick along her tongue and lingering far inside her nose. "I will use you and leave you to your shadows. My will belongs to Ataecina!" When the cloying scent becomes too much she gently extinguishes the needles and places the rest in one of her pockets, shrugging on her angel-white robe until it settles properly around her shoulders. In the growing gloom of dusk, she glows.
Santana ties her belt upon her waist and takes a small crumble of ochre in her palm - she has grown to mix it with bear's blood; it is sticky upon her skin as she traces the now familiar symbol on her forehead, but it seems stronger than usual, swelling within until the white power roars inside her with fervour. The icy cold of the scroll seeps into her skin when she takes it but the warmth inside wards it away.
She walks briskly through the cooling August air to Betar's longhouse. People part for her and her new determination like the curious sea, whispering and pointing as she strides through the streets with a grim expression. Though Ataecina's presence gives her hope, she dares not reveal how nervous she truly is. Playing with things she is unable to control bodes ill for the village in its entirety.
Come to me, little one. Santana shakes her head brusquely and curls her lips into an irritated snarl. For a moment she contemplates shoving it in her pocket but thinks better of it with the way her fingers freeze closed over the pages. Be silent! I listen not to your songs.
Her burning eyes fill the whole room when she sweeps into the building. Betar looks up and his eyebrows raise at Santana - there is something different about her and the aura she basks within; her cloak floats away from her upon an invisible wind, something behind her eyes causes them to glow. He recognizes the ruby now twined within her staff and how it pulses with a gentle light and thinks only Brittany could orchestrate such a thing. "What are you doing, Santana?"
When she turns to him chills rack his spine. Her knuckles turn white over the strange scroll she holds and though her voice it is calm, it is unbelievably cold. "Heal. Stay from room." Her gaze scans over the collective mass. "All you. Away."
She leaves them speechless but shows them not how her confidence crumples into a shaky exhale when away from view.
Do not let my blessing make you arrogant, Santana.
With much more hesitant steps does she approach her friend's room. So close to her goal, she feels the influence of the thing she holds seep into her skin and turn her sluggish, calling her forward while all at once pulling her away. The paradox of its want causes her head to ache and she squeezes her eyes shut in pain. Maybe she should just return to Brittany's. Whatever this is, all the cold and the dark and the voices, it worms its way past her blessing and into the depths of her, the scared part she tries so desperately to hide from existence. She reaches for Ataecina but she is unbelievably far away. I should go back... this is a bad idea.
She makes to do just that but a voice makes her freeze. "Priestess?" Santana curses under her breath and turns to Reinn with a raised eyebrow.
"Yes?"
"What are you doing?"
I have no idea. "Leaving."
"Oh." His brow furrows. "Are you sure? Mother misses you recently."
She sighs. "Okay. Can... can you go, Reinn?"
"But-"
"Go, please!"
She sees the hurt upon his face and pinches the bridge of her nose. "Sorry, sorry. Do something different. Alone."
Something resembling excitement lights up his face, and she would smile if not for the growing knot of dread coiling icily in her stomach. "Will it help her?"
"Hopefully." Her hands reach his shoulders and she gives him a playful little push. "Now go! See later, yes?"
Reinn bounds off and she's left standing there in the hallway with her staff in one hand and the scroll in the other. The two opposites of the spectrum cradled in her collective grasp. "Oh Goddess, what did I get myself into?" She sighs heavily before inching her way inside the room. Abandoned... good. Santana approaches the figure upon the bed and offers a small smile along with her soft footsteps.
She looks up from her stitching with a surprised hum but smiles at seeing the priestess. "Ah, Santana! A bit late for a walk, no?"
The priestess shrugs and absently fiddles with the rawhide wrapping on her staff. So close to her goal, the cold has spread from her fingers up to her shoulder in a sort of creeping numbness she can only match with falling into the fjord early March. The lethargy had dulled her down to her very bones - this energy is misplaced and entirely wrong but fills her, none the less, with movement.
"Are you well?" The older woman frowns and makes to feel her forehead, but her arm cannot lift high enough. Santana catches it gently with one hand and places it back down in her lap.
"I... I want..." Her knowledge of her language fails her and she scowls, running her tongue along her teeth. "Help. Help you, Gynna. You let me?"
Gynna tilts her head curiously and runs her thumb along the top of Santana's palm. Her eyes run over the apparel, the newly done markings, the soft scent of pine needles clinging to her clothing. Over the months she has learned to take Santana at her word and doesn't even hesitate before nodding - they are bound with something deeper than mutual displacement. "I trust you, priestess. Do what you can."
Santana coaxes her to sit up and face the wall. A single lantern casts an eerie glow with soft shadows as she shuts the door firmly and with a final thump. Goosebumps prickle her skin.
She relights the pine needles, pacing clockwise until she grows dizzy, muttering over and over to herself as it burns low and eventually runs out. So thick is the smoke that Gynna's form is hazy from the other side of the room and she appears as some sort of monster from the depths of the darkness - no sun crawls in through the window now that she has pulled the thick hide over the hole and they are submerged in shadow. Santana gingerly lays her staff against the wall - the ruby throbs and the talismans glow to provide feeble light - and kneels down, cradling the weathered face in both hands.
"Close eyes, okay? Never open. Not once."
Blue eyes disappear and Santana lets out a huff of air, lighting a single red candle and places it beside the bed. Finally, finally, she shakily takes the scroll in both hands, fingers poised on each end, watching the aura seethe off from it in an angry black mist. Is this what I truly want? Her muscles tremble as she fights the urge to open it even as creeping tendrils prod at the beginnings of her mind, urging her to open and let in the forbidden knowledge hidden within the vellum. The priestess glances up once, eyes roaming over the now bared back - still ruined, still deformed - before bracing herself and unravelling the scroll.
With an almost lazy drift the nonsensical symbols float together to form words that pulse a much too slow heartbeat, deep and dark and endless. The ends lick at Santana's fingers and dance upon the edges of her skin; wherever it touches, she has to stifle the groan of pain.
Do it.
That voice. The one that follows her in sleep. The sentences pull together with more urgency now, filling the space, squirming at disjointed angles and almost lifting off the page. Santana licks her lips and opens her mouth to read.
The sacrifice first.
With one hand keeping the vellum open the other drifts down to the ceremonial knife at her belt, fingering the handle before pulling it out with the quiet whistle of sharp metal to place it between her teeth. Santana remembers what Styrr did mere weeks ago, how the blood bloomed and pooled in the creases of his palm, his face not even flickering in pain before the cursed thing drank from him and granted him his wish. She hesitates, exhaling, pressing her shin to the older woman's spine for faint comfort before drawing her palm across the blade in one deep incision.
Pain spears up to her elbow as she whimpers and lets the bloodied knife fall from her lips and clatter to the floor. Perhaps it was too deep... crimson pools in her hand and spills down her wrist, splattering upon the floor and staining her pristine garb a dark, rusted hue. The quiet presence within her skull grows louder with the appearance of her essence and she knows not how to deny it - instead she turns her eyes back to the scroll who has stilled its writing to make it legible.
"I allow you within to make her whole
The price I offer, a piece of my soul
So I give you my hand and you give me your kiss
And together we will stand on the brink of abyss."
A moment of stillness before it all splinters apart.
Santana howls in agony as something cold forces its way through the gash in her bleeding hand and burrows its way through her arm. Her flesh swells and bulges grotesquely with tendrils that travel underneath her skin, suckling greedily at the blood that pours, before wrapping like a weight around the bones of her forearm. Numb fingers drop the scroll as her other palm jerks, slapping onto the ravaged wound until her fingernails bite into the edges and her friend whimpers in pain. Their breath has begun to mist as frost crawls along the walls.
Yes, priestess!
It pulses inside of her once before dissolving into foul-running liquid, sinking its way further and further into the stream of her blood. It invades her brain and wraps its embrace around her skull. Santana feels like she's coming apart at the seams, this time for the worse; she feels infinite and tiny all at once as it feeds to her the extent of its power, twisting and tearing apart the center of her chest as it pulls her off balance and taints all it touches. She sees chaos in all parts of the world - war, savagery, rape, famine - all of its whim and knows that if she so tried it could be hers as well. The buzzing in her ears increases to a roar as she writhes and growls with saliva dribbling down the open seal of her lips, eyes open but unseeing, frantically searching through the madness of her mind for a cause to the end.
The cold within her flows from one side to another, searching an exit, whispering to her even as it freezes her muscles and ices over her blood. In the whirlwind of its power she hears the scream of a million voices, reaching for her, moaning in a thousand languages as the flesh of her unbroken palm opens into a jagged wound and pours forth rolling shadow.
Accept me!
No! Santana thinks even as it spreads itself out over the pale expanse of Gynna's back like rot. The body underneath her shivers but she gives a command to keep still - somewhere between a snarl and a plea, Gynna consents and as the darkness seeps into her broken muscles she can feel her bones, the ache of her injury and the heat of her core as it calls and booms with a nervous heartbeat. The darkness greedily centers itself onto that pulse, wrapping its endless presence around the organ and feeding from the life that keeps her here with Santana.
With herculean effort she draws the corruption back, reeling it in like rope until it twines itself visibly around her fingers and cuts into her skin. Heal her! It worms through and around until slime turns into fiber and fiber turns into muscle and it knits itself into her body, spreading and expanding in a hard swath that anchors itself and melts seamlessly together with the existing flesh. Bones rebuild themselves from nothing and she is godly - she snaps the flimsy vertebrae into place one by one, tugging back and around until tendons form from the tips of her fingers and she is creating life, something that not even Ataecina can do with such efficiency. Its power fills her to bursting and spills over until new skin blossoms, pristine and untouched. Beautiful.
See what you can do with me?
Yes, yes... she is more than human, more than herself, more than anything - endless and divine and invincible. The tendrils reform inside and she feels them stroke the inside of her throat, sticky and cold, testing their new home for resistance. There is a nagging feeling on the periphery of her thoughts that stops her from giving in completely, a soft warmth that pushes away the deepest dark and keeps her anchored in the waking world.
Come back to me, Santana.
Goddess?
Come back to the light.
The distraction allows her tenuous connection to the darkness to wobble and snap - the images in her head suddenly disgust her, of the eviscerated bodies and the screaming children and the chaos of a burning city. She cries out and pulls away as she throws herself from the bed, where she smacks her head on the ground and clutches it in pain, shivering as the frigid movement within her flows back from her damaged hand and spews out onto the dirt floor. The thing groans its discontent as it leaves the warmth of her body, dragging knives along the insides of her veins, whispering curses and promises of return when the shadows lessen and the lantern regains its light.
Nothing but the laboured sound of her breathing bounces against the walls. She closes her eyes, exhausted, and leans her temple against the dirt as she cradles her throbbing hand to her chest. It will be hours later before she notices the gash has simply disappeared.
"P-priestess?" Warm hands against her jaw and she rolls greedily into the touch, groaning low in her throat as she meets soft thighs. Her eyes flutter back open into wizened blue and she frowns in confusion at the tears glistening beneath Gynna's lids.
"What-"
"You healed me." Shaking hands stroke matted hair from her face. Gynna turns her still bared back slowly, exposing to Santana a neat, black line running where the crater of missing flesh should be. Captivated, Santana carefully traces the scar with almost reverence with the thought that she did that, she healed what was forever broken and unable to be changed. But... was it truly worth that madness?
Gynna's face says it was.
"Thank you," she whispers, brushing a kiss to Santana's sweaty forehead. The ochre of her mark rubs off on her lips when she then leans down to repeat the action on her cheekbone, "thank you, thank you, thank you."
Reinn inches in through the doorway, fearful of the sounds that had drifted from underneath the door. It is freezing in the small space - his flesh instantly prickles with bumps as he glances around, taking in the melted candle, the flickering lantern, and the heavy scent of pine musk. Blood splatters the ground as Santana shakes on earth, cradled by his mother and her two unhindered arms. Truly a miracle... he silently joins them and starts to carefully wipe the drying saliva off the hinge of her jaw with a betraying tenderness.
Caught in the aftermath, nobody notices the trail of thick, onyx slime oozing from Santana's right ear.
~.~.~.~.~
She dreams of demons that night.
After dragging her shaking, battered body up the hill and submerging herself in Brittany's underground home, she had thrown herself into bed and buried her face in the blankets, casting the now-silent scroll as far from her as she could manage. Even its silhouette in the shadow of the room made her sick. She barely registered Brittany creeping in long after dark, or the worried fingers that brushed across her brow.
It was only after her companion settled into her sheets did she drop off into troubled sleep.
Long fingers reaching through the foliage. Grey skin, glistening bones. A whisper of thought pushed aside for the burning in his lower belly that seemed to propel him forward despite the resounding laws of nature saying no.
God, he was so hungry.
It destroyed all semblance of rational thought until he did nothing but stumble blindly through the roots and the grass, ignoring the feelings that would once make him stop, rotting feet stepping in a rough, shuffling gait to places unknown. Though it was pitch black and his milked-over eyes saw little in the shadow of the forest, he knew where he was going. He could feel it. The pulse of life called him from far beyond what his chaotic thoughts allowed - he breathed into blackening lungs and scented the blood and the flesh so sweet, so close. Soon his hunger would quiet and he could think again.
He was the pride of his creation. Before, all the others were weak and useless, turning to dust at the first bite of a blade. Only he could withstand their fear; his curling skin hosted the ragged gashes of men taken with horror, split open to the muscle and sinew where he bled bountiful black and it stained the dirtied remnants of his clothing. Nothing could penetrate the haze of his hunger and make him hurt, and he would crush their fingers in his frost-giant grip when they failed to make him stumble. Vaguely he remembered what it was like to be pained, when he was like them, peach-pale flesh and tremulous heartbeat that went thu-thump, thu-thump, before the dark came and then no sound at all.
Master brought back his senses but not his noise and the beat of his chest was still, worthless as it rotted away in the cavity of his sternum. He lived for nothing but Master and the hunger now - if this existence could be called living, with reaching hands and open mouths and the wanting. Oh, the wanting. He could be content with everything else (if he remembered how to feel) but the wanting drew his scattered brain apart and turned him into little more than an animal.
Close, now. So close. From there he could feel the heat humming from the little house and the bodies that lay within, slumbering freely among their plants and dried meat and rusted weapons. It caused his skin to itch and his tongue to swell, his drool seeping in a thick stream down his chin, low rattling moan floating through the air and out into the night. In between his teeth was the remnants of his last kill, pieces of skin lodged into the holes, brushing teasingly against his lips whenever his jaw would care to move. The people inside shifted uneasily in their dreams - he stilled and they retreated back into silence.
His feet took him to their closed door. The wanting had turned into a needing, a white-hot requirement that eclipsed the cold in his blood and the shadow that writhed to move his body, and all thoughts of another life of comforts and people is wiped away as his broken nails touch the wooden frame.
But him? He's so much smarter than his brothers. Instead of clawing feebly against the surface and waking the occupants, his numb hands trailed down to the handle, wrapping his decaying fingers around the metal and tugging until it gave to him with little more than a weak moan.
All the smells and the heavy sound of their sleep-breaths overwhelmed his already feeble mind. The hunger rumbled up from his belly into the rest of him; poisoning his head and burning his limbs and spilling his groan from his ragged vocal chords. They stiffened and in the dark he saw their eyelids flutter, on the precipice of waking and asleep, somehow sensing his presence through the spider-silk veneer of dream. He contemplated staggering towards the man and his bulk of muscle resembling a bear, but once again his hunger triumphed over his reason and his fingers gripped upon the shoulders of the nearby woman.
Her eyes snapped open and she froze like an ancient glacier, heartbeat stuttering jack-rabbit fast, as his mouth gaped wide and strings of spittle dripped down, cold and slimy, onto her cheek. His breath smelled like rot and old blood and it finally gave her wind to scream just as his powerful teeth clamped down on the tender trunk of her neck.
His jaw muscles bulged as he sawed through tendons and vessels, scraping bone with his bottom teeth as his fingers left heliotrope bracelets around her joints. When he reared back her flesh followed him until it separated from her with a squishy snap and he swallowed the thick, salty substance greedily, groaning low and pleased in his throat as she sobbed and thrashed on the bed slowly staining black in the light of the moon. Behind him he felt a presence until a hard fist crashed into the side of his head and knocked him hard against the wall.
Wood met his cheek and he turned slowly to face his new opponent. An animal of a man with a dull sword and bared teeth, blessed red pumping fast close to the surface of his skin, tempting him though it still flowed freely from his wife. His hands went out, seeking, gore falling from the open seal of his lips as he stumbled towards the man.
The sword swung down and bit into the grey expanse of his forearm - he felt his flesh split for the metal but none of his nerves registered the pain and it allowed him to continue forward, shuffling over dead feet as he grabbed at the light beard and pulled forward.
Once, he had heard Master say that his grip resembled that of a lynx whose teeth had already sunk into its prey; he pulled and pulled and the man was helplessly reeled towards him, arms bared over his face at last second as his sword once again sliced into the cold flesh of his side. His mouth opened and bones snapped as his teeth worked through his forearm to mangle until his jaws clanked together and he drew back with the dribble of blood down his chin turned into a fountain. His prey roared and cursed but he simply tried to strike again. But he had learned and Master would be proud as he grabbed the incoming wrist and used his unholy strength to freeze its descent, halting the blow and simply using his grip to seal the man's fate. His body was heavy as it fell to the floor and leaked blood under the old boards.
In the silence that had descended, he swayed amongst the heavy smell of copper and taste of iron, taken by the retreat of the hunger that cleared his mind and let him think again. Some small, human part of him said to be disgusted - in everything, how he thoughtlessly took their lives and ate the flesh and felt joy in the feeling of their bodies succumbing to his power.
But as he turned, he caught a silhouette in the corner of the room. His eyes narrowed in on the small, huddled form that stifled soft whimpers, one hand buried in what he believed to be blond hair. A child. Smaller, fragile. They always tasted the sweetest, but really, he wasn't concerned with that. When the little one looked up into his inhuman face, with the falling skin and the blood smeared so thick it turned black, he blanched white with fear and scrambled back into the body of his dead father. He stumbled slowly after him. In the light of the moon he thought that the child looked like somebody he used to know - for a moment he tried for a smile that felt wrong on his dead lips. Again the human part of him whispered its revulsion, but he could see the butterfly pulse of the boy upon the hollow of his neck, and as he descended upon him he thought nothing at all.
"Stop it! Just breathe, vinur, just breathe... everything's okay, wake up for me..."
Santana gasps and snaps her eyes open with almost violent force, hands hooked into claws grasping at the flimsy material of Brittany's sleep-shirt. The dream that she knows was more than that runs through her - in her mouth she tastes blood and bone until bile churns in her stomach.
"Brittany..."
Her friend reads her expression and flails for a bucket just as Santana throws up, head hanging into the wooden container, warm fingers brushing her sweat-matted bangs back from her face with care. It feels almost like rejuvenation; Santana heaves all the remnants of the heavy dark from her body until she gags a few times but nothing comes out. All the while Brittany draws soothing circles on her back and whispers quiet things in Norse, letting her lean into the crook of her neck when she slumps, heavy with exhaustion.
It has been weeks since they have been this close. Brittany puts down the bucket and loosely wraps her arms around Santana's waist, cradling her tenderly as she feels the other girl's chest heave against her ribs. Santana lets Brittany worry about how much weight she's lost with seeking fingers silently, forehead pressed against her jaw, taking comfort in her sturdy warmth without the creeping stench of death.
"I saw..." It's impossible to put into words; the crunch of cartilage and the rattling moans and the fear, how she shuffled along with its limping gait and felt their life drain away under her hands. She knows it was the work of the shadow - it slipped along the surface of her brain, slick and out of sight, breathing its fetid breath on her thoughts. It lurks even now in the deepest corners of this room, watching, waiting for her fall once more into sleep so it can claim her dreams and turn her consciousness red with unknown blood.
"Saw what?" Brittany prods gently, never halting her gentle motions upon Santana's skin.
In return, Santana heaves herself sitting and crushes their foreheads together.
Brittany inhales sharply as the pictures filter in through her; they are one and what Santana feels she feels, the dream so real she can taste copper on her tongue, hear the gentle inhales of the prey it stalks. She simply doesn't witness it for she is a part of it, the thing that drags and moans and stalks. Her fingers spasm and curl around Santana's arms as the pictures get lost in the rushing sound of Santana's blood through her veins, how the taste of her heartbeat is infinitely more sweet than the ripping flesh. Brittany falls and falls until she wears Santana's skin; she sees the Goddess and her sad smile and Samuel, half-whole and searching; she sees Gynna's room and something that runs down her body like seaweed, wrapping around her limbs and paralysing her; she sees the draugr pulling itself through the forests, hunting for its next meal. Everything meshes together until it is Santana Santana Santana and it is her turn to be laid across the bed and begged to come back with apologetic intentions laced through the letters.
When the priestess lifts her body away Brittany can breathe again, taking in great gasps of air that is laden with Santana's scent, the bath she took earlier still lingering in the roots of her hair and the crooks of her elbows. Her hands touch Santana's shoulders, the falling halo of her hair, silently pulling the girl back into her body and feeling her soft curves match perfectly with her lean angles.
"We tell them tomorrow, okay? We will talk to Father about the vision and hunt it down and kill it, because it is supposed to be dead." A draugr wandering the night, as strong as this one, causes alarm bells to shoot off in her skull. Too many things are happening in such a short amount of time and she thinks of the golden snake, coiled and waiting by her bedside, still stained with blood. Brittany wonders if she has to use it, but too many things scramble for her attention and hurt her head.
So instead she strokes Santana's hair and waits until she relaxes against Brittany's warmth, both of them trembling with the force of their mutual disbelief. "Sleep now." Brittany whispers to her friend, turning them so that Santana can, in a quiet moment of defeat, curl into the larger body and hide her face under Brittany's jaw. She becomes her blanket to ward away the dark. "Sleep."
They don't dream.
