Because I have now received 100 reviews for this story, I've decided not to indulge base cruelty and make you all wait god knows how long after that horrible cliffhanger. Thanks to everyone who reviewed. It means the world, even if it's just to say that you liked the story.
And onwards!
illr er dómr norna
grim is the doom of norns
~ Hlöðskviða (The Battle of the Goths and Huns)
Unnatural shadows consumed the circle, the mythical barriers that separated the worlds breached. The rosy-orange tint of the fires in the corner provided too little light. Dyre removed the cloth that bound his eye. He didn't have to wait for his vision to adjust. He saw them.
Black mist oozed from the center of the circle, coiling in sensual strokes. He watched a foot test the air like the tongue of a snake. It rested on the stone. Then, like a breath, a body pulled through the mist, chest first then neck.
Wyrd.
She was young, no older than Yrsa. Her limbs were svelte, pale as milk. Dyre's eyes were drawn to her ankles, beautiful slender things that reached on tiptoe to crawl out of the mist. She was naked, her body unmarked, rosy nipples just like a boy's. Her smooth sex and long waves of black hair were the only indications of gender. Freshly brushed and gleaming, it followed the line of an athletic back. She smiled as she landed, pausing in the action of removing her left foot with her arms extended, elbows bent like a ballerina. She had a cute face that Dyre was startled to realize, in some strange, indefinable way, resembled his own. Her eyes were hollow and empty, revealing not the back of her skull but blackness like the bottom of an inkwell, wet and cold.
She caught his stare with her own empty one and smiled.
A hand reached through the shadows and grabbed her shoulder. Her body tilted like a newborn colt. Using her collar for balance, the arm that followed, meatier and colored like soft brass, hosted a body from the between-verses. The others could see by now and watched as the second sister emerged from the fog.
Ver∂andi was older, caught somewhere in the years between 23 and 50. Her nipples were tinged a painful red, breasts swollen. The curves of her hips were deep, forming into the triangle that made a dark curtain of her gender. She too had something of Harry's face, morphed and perverted into lushness. Dark hair curled more roughly around her shoulders than her sister's, a wild thicket that rolled in tangles instead of soft waves. Like the mane of a wild mare. Her lips were fat, deep maroon, cheeks flushed a healthy rouge that emphasized the brownish-gold pallor of rich skin. Her eyes were blown, the pupils dilated far past the iris. She appeared to Dyre as a beast.
The first thing to appear of the crone was her head, which was bent painfully over a hunched back, the vertebrae exposed like teeth. Her eyes were blind, the rims stained with crust. Her skin sagged, making her face long. Her breasts drooped over her exposed belly like gutted sacks. Her knobby elbows were tucked into her side, her hands gnarled with long yellow fingernails that curled brokenly from knuckles fat with arthritis. She slunk into the room, shaking and wobbling. Lank, grey hair sparsely covered her scalp.
Skuld, possibly the most powerful of them.
"Dyre Harald Durmstrang," she said in a high-pitched croak that revealed the single tooth in her mouth. "Son of no one, house of nothing."
Dyre frowned.
"Dyre Harald Durmstrang, son of no one, house of nothing," she repeated.
Dyre bowed his head. "Skuld."
The virgin girl swung out her arms gracefully, her feet moving like they wanted to fly. She started humming softly, eying Dyre with a wistful smile. She danced across the circle, sneaking teasing glances at the wizards and two witches.
"I have questions," Dyre said, watching her.
"We have answers," she said in a quiet voice, regarding him with that eerily empty stare. "Three question you may ask.
"No more," Ver∂andi said.
"No less," the crone finished.
Dyre regarded the young girl, Wyrd. She lifted her brow and giggled, making a move to touch Draco's cloak.
"What happened?" he said quickly. "On the night of All Hallow's Eve, the night I died?"
She stared up at Draco. The blond was pale and looked very much like he longed to lean away, smart boy. Then, she gave another wistful smile and twirled around her sisters, ending on her right foot, stretching all the way to her toe. She regarded Dyre with a fond if eerie look.
"The night you died, you say," she hummed.
Her left leg remained extended, her hands following the line of his face but not touching.
"Tis a tale of betrayal," she said. "A tale of greed, little hero. Are you certain you can face my answer?"
Dyre regarded her with a sharp look.
The leg came down but she remained on her toes, her arms crossed. She twirled and her arm slashed the air. Her empty eyes regarded him like a spider, head moving in the way of animals with long necks. She turned to the rip, and the grey faded. In the shimmering gap, Lily Potter, younger and with hot copper in her hair, walked into a living room. She held a baby in her arms, asleep against her shoulder.
"Once upon a time," Wryd said, "in a kingdom far, far away, there lived a queen and her king."
James Potter joined the Lily, the tired lines around his eyes greatly diminished. He settled over her shoulder, regarding the babe in her arms. Dyre studied the picture they made, trying to imagine himself in their arms, but he could not. He dared not glance at the living two who made the image.
Wyrd made a small sound in her throat, like a phoenix. She touched the rim of the rift and like a shift in a ward, folded herself into the imaginary space. She took to Lily's other shoulder, watching the child while James continued to laugh.
"And all they ever wanted," she said, her fair skin glowing amongst the earthy warmth of the past, "was a child."
The Lily in the picture gave Wryd a smile and handed the child over. Wryd cradled it, fiddling with the edge of the blanket to reveal a sleeping face. James gave them both a grin and took his wife's hand, walking out of the living room. Wryd continued to hold the child.
"A gorgeous boy," she said. "As dark as he was fair. A child touched by Fate."
Wyrd took the blanket from him. The child was naked beneath. She held him up to the light, watching his face as he gummed his fingers and kicked. She tucked him back to her shoulder and leaped. The colors of the living room swirled in a strange mix of warmth and cold. She landed in a dark room in a spiral, a green fire blazing in an open hearth. She walked to a table barely lit by the flames. A man had been writing, but the quill stopped in his hand.
Dyre thought him to be in his fifties. The lines in his face had only just started to set in. He was clean-shaven and handsome in the way a boulder jutting jagged above a stream might be. His hair, just showing signs of steely grey, was combed back, lending clear view to astonished, dark eyes.
Wyrd handed the babe over to him. He stumbled out of his seat to hold out his arms. Harry squirmed in his unfamiliar grip, the man having no idea how to hold him.
"If you wish this world, you will need him," Wryd spoke to him.
"An infant," he said derisively, staring at the child in disgust.
"The key to all you desire."
Voldemort did not look like he believed her. She held back out her arms. Voldemort stared at the child, just starting to cry. His eyes became cynical, and he hesitated in giving him back. Gradually, Wyrd took the child.
"Know him well, Tom Riddle. One day, he will be yours," she said, cradling the child. "This child will be the key to the death of the world." She smiled. "Or the death of you."
Riddle's eyes were fastened on the child. He licked his lips, his pupils glossing. "What must I do to attain him?"
Wyrd smiled. "What you do best, Dark Lord."
He moved around his desk, though Wyrd had not moved to leave. "What if I want him back?"
She laughed and did not answer. He breathed through his nostrils, his gaze fixed on the infant.
"Where can I find him?" he asked at last.
She turned her gaze to the boy as well, and her expression could have been called sweet. "This child will be born under prophecy. Born as the seventh month dies, he will be touched by a son of Fenrir and by the hellhound Garmr. On the night of the last moon of the Samhein, his enemy will come to him. One to control and one to obey, one to die so the other may live. Born as the seventh month dies, a hero will walk through the nine worlds to the Isle of Mists."
"A son of Fenrir and a hellhound," he whispered.
Wyrd's empty gaze remained on him as she began to fade into shadow. The rip followed her entrance back into the living room of the Potter household. She walked up the stairs and laid Harry in his crib. Then, she spirited away again. The rip spun to watch a portly man begging beneath Voldemort's wand, a sadistic smirk on the Dark lord's gentlemanly face. Then, Lily and James were running out of the house to Sirius's bed. Peter Pettigrew was opening the door to Godric's Hollow. Peter was leaning over the child, shaking his head, snot and tears running down his face. A curse blasted Peter Pettigrew apart.
Lily released a mauled scream from the circle, covering her mouth with her hand. She remained on her feet, and no one noticed her.
In the rip, Voldemort smiled down at the child, his mouth moving against words that they could not hear. Dyre read his lips and his eyes narrowed. The tip of his wand glowed green. The curse fired and enveloped everything in light.
The rip faded. Wyrd watched them, a small smile on her hollow face. Dyre stared at her.
He could feel the others thinking, swarmed by what they had seen. He waited another moment before turning his attention to the middle sister. Her hooded eyes melted. Wyrd danced over to her, touching her belly with gentle fingers. She watched Dyre over her shoulder.
"What waits for me in the ley lines?"
Ver∂andi smiled at him, a coy thing that reminded him of pleasure-knives and deceit. Her breasts wept slightly with greenish-black ichor. Her gait was less like air and more like fluid. She tipped a bruised-tinted finger beneath his jaw. He followed the moment, not allowing it to touch him.
"You know who, lost warrior."
He stared into her irises, blown into the blackness of lust. Ver∂andi smiled again, her finger drawing a line in the air under the Eye of Odin. Dyre shivered and stepped back. Her lips broke out into a grin, but she backed away, her hair streaming behind her.
Dyre regained control of his heart, disturbed to find his palms sweaty. "What must I do? What must I do to stop him?"
The crone laughed him, the flakes of her skin making it hard to meet her gaze.
"To stop him? There is no stopping him. There is no escape for you, Dyre Durmstrang."
"I don't want to escape him," he argued. "I want to defeat him."
Skuld laughed louder. He glared at her before averting his eyes. Wyrd giggled, covering her mouth.
"You know what is to come," Skuld said, sucking soothingly on her tooth. "Can you say it is not writ in your bones?"
"No," Dyre hissed.
"Then you know," she said.
"There is always a choice," he said.
She smacked her crumbling lips, revealing a sickly pale tongue, and did not answer.
"This is the weave," Wyrd said.
"Choice is an illusion," Ver∂andi said, eying him with a knowing smolder.
"No," the crone said, puffing out her lip. "He only made the choice a lifetime ago."
Ver∂andi rolled her eyes.
Dyre was undaunted. "If you understand the choice, you can change it."
"Do you really believe that, Dyre?" Wyrd asked, staring with her nothing-eyes. "You are not human, Dyre." She looked down at his chest and came closer. "You are not real in this world. You've broken yourself, and they care for only a shadow. You know this."
Dyre didn't respond. His face darkened. Wyrd danced to him so softly her toes barely touched the floor. Fingers like silkworm webs soothed along his cheek.
"You were not meant to last. For as long as you remain in this life, you will be alone."
"Is this your prophecy?" Dyre asked with a cold stare.
She drew back, her face for a moment unbelievably young. Ver∂andi put a hand on her shoulder, pulling her into the line.
"What is payment?" Dyre said.
The three looked between each other.
"1,098 moons."
"Three years?"
"From them," Ver∂andi said, looking around the circle.
For a second, her face was sad, full of yearning, but it made her no less great. She lingered over James and Lily, and her eyes became black holes, swirling and pulling. Then, she was smoldering once more.
Dyre nodded. "And me?"
The crone moved. Her milky eyes, like a drowned rat's, rattled in her skull. She turned her head like a vulture to stare at him. She extended her hand, and suddenly she was in front of him, unbearably close and smelling of spoiled potatoes. Unnerved, Dyre recoiled, foot slightly sliding.
"To save the world," she rasped. "You will die."
His chest pulled tight, forcing a gasp. He opened his mouth and had his words stolen.
The crone grabbed his wrist. The grip was iron and sunless. She pulled him into the circle, making him stumble through the salt. He held his hand up, telling the others not to move. Thank Odin they obeyed.
The crone hunched over him, impossibly large and bat-like. Dyre flinched, impressed and intimidated despite himself. She smiled and bent to hiss in his ear.
"You will die, Dyre Harald Durmstrang, son of no one, house of nothing. You will die and no one will save you."
"Through the eye of god, we see no evil," the virgin said, circling him. "It is but a veil of truths. We seek the all-seeing."
"One with the tongue of Jörmungandr and the eye of Odin approaches," the mother chanted, playing with the tips of her breast. Her blown eyes swallowed him. "Born as the seventh month dies, he will be touched by a son of Fenrir and by the hellhound Garmr."
"He will cry and no one will hear him," the crone foretold, ragged nails biting his skin. "He will die and no will save him."
"On the night of the last moon of the Samhein, his enemy will come to him," they sang together, joining hands. "And Midgard will be drenched in his salts. A power the Dark Lord knows not resides in the heart of man. One to control and one to obey, one to die so the other may live. Born as the seventh month dies, a hero will walk through the nine worlds to the Isle of Mists. Retrieve the raven Munin. Seek the volva. Beware the trickster's lies and the cane of mistletoe."
"May Thor receive you," the maiden said.
"May Odin own you," the mother said.
"So mote it be," the crone finished.
They drew back to the center, standing in a neat triangle, the triple spiral between them. Dyre watched them, unable even to retreat outside to the safety beyond the circle.
"We will come for you, Dyre Durmstrang," the mother said, smiling. "At the last of your sundering, to pay the price."
He hung his head, shaking it back and forth as he fell to his knees. His fingers brushed salt. "You are false."
"You will die, Dyre Harald Durmstrang," the crone said, drifting into the mist behind her twining sisters. Her voice rang in stone. "You will know pain. You will know helplessness. You will know betrayal. And you will die. Alone."
The Norns faded, leaving the flames to flicker. No one moved, staring at the boy in the midst of the circle. Dyre lifted his head, and his mother's eye blazed.