A/N: So the Thing has passed, but the problems have just begun. I want to thank all of you for your kind words in trusting me with the fate of these two girls when all looks grim - your encouragement and compliments mean a lot to a writer who is just beginning to find her feet. This marks the end of the second "book", so to speak, and begins the final arc of this fic. I'm so excited to write it, and hope you'll enjoy it just as much as I will. Thank you to LeMasquerade, as per usual, who has stuck through our crazy changing plotlines and stayed up with me until ungodly hours of the morning to think them through.
This beginning scene was the very first thing I thought of for Battlesong all those months ago, and I hope I did it justice.
Chapter 25
hush, child, the darkness will rise from the deep
and carry you down into sleep
December 9th, 912
In the warm pool of blood, Santana touches Brittany's parted lips.
"Britt?" she whimpers uncertainly, her thumb wiping away the trickle of blood upon her cheek lest it fall into her open mouth. Her eyes, glassed over in death, stare hooded at the sky that has begun to snow, spiralling down little flakes that catch in her lashes and remain.
"Britt, stop it." Santana shakes her a little, her fingers twisting in the broken mail draped over her body. There is an emptiness in her chest and head that booms, echoes, gapes with the lack of another presence shrouding her mind—she is alone with her thoughts for the first time in months and the loneliness is overpowering, the other soul floated away on golden wings to leave her in the snow.
Santana chokes on a sob and shakes her harder until Brittany's whole body shudders, her armour clinking where it scrunches together, her hand still feebly wrapped around Santana's fingers falling away to land with a dull thump on the ground. The warmth from her is fake, her blood steaming where it still trickles out around them, and it soaks through her robe as she pulls her limp body up until her lover's cool forehead is pressed to the crook of her neck. She listens for a heartbeat, a gentle exhale skating across her skin, but there is nothing except the empty and the quiet and the blood.
"You promised to be careful," she sobs, rocking them, "you promised a-and you never break promises, remember? Never!" She brushes a damp strand of blonde hair from Brittany's drooping eyes, clutching her mail until she slumps into her lap. "Please don't make me do this without you... please, oh Goddess I can't, I can't do it—"
She breaks off and buries her face into Brittany's sweat-soaked hair, catching the barest glimpse of her staff and the ruby that has gone dull and black and dead.
Gone.
Her wail carries across the battlefield until all are witness to her sorrow; plumes of fire bloom in her anguish but she knows none of it, not the ring of flame bursting around them nor the way it reaches outwards and inwards and burns those foolish enough to encroach. Fire licks her hair and her fingers but it does not warm the cooling body in her arms.
A tragic end to a doomed tale.
"I-it wasn't s-supposed to be like this!" she chokes out, rocking Brittany's lifeless body. They rock back and forth, steadily, as if it is the only thing keeping her together—she feels its voice bound in the empty hollows Brittany has left behind, and she feels tainted, her memory corrupted by its foul presence. She attempts to push it from her mind but her grief is stronger, giving up to press her lips to Brittany's temple instead.
It never is.
"Are you ready?" Brittany laughs, the echo of it floating around them as she pulls on Santana's fingers. The priestess begrudgingly follows her through the trees, their leaves thick and broad with summer, her feet stumbling on the roots that her companion has learned by heart.
"For what?" Her question goes unanswered as they arrive at the familiar entryway of Brittany's home—the fire churns soft smoke into the air and the clouds have departed to leave a blue, blue sky that shines down upon them as they duck into her home.
It takes a moment for her eyes to adjust, but the grin stretched across Brittany's lips is painfully obvious.
"Do you like it?" Her tone is bursting with mirth, and it takes a moment for her gaze to find it; Sandalio lying morosely on the ground, his body draped in mismatched fabric. A little dress has been stitched over him in blues and greens by an obviously unpractised hand and a little shawl is tied about his ears, pinning them down. He looks so miserable that his pleading eyes just make Santana laugh harder.
"Beautiful, Brittany."
Men fall and children die and distantly she hears the blast of a horn—the stampede of hooves come from the forests with the whistling hum of arrows raining down upon the field. The centaur have arrived moments too late, and their war-cry bellows across the fields, Harald's men screaming and breaking line to flee. The horse-men will chase them down, but it is of no consolation. To her, they have already lost.
She wakes from another nightmare, gasping and crying, lashing out at the shadows only she can see. Arms are around her again and Brittany whispers quiet nothings into her hair as she slowly rocks them; back and forth, back and forth, bringing calm to her frenzied mind. Santana swallows harshly and grips the base of her lover's neck so hard it threatens to crush, counting every solid ridge in her spine.
"I remember," she chokes, "I remember this one, you died and you were gone and you left me alone, and I... I couldn't—"
Brittany hushes her again, pressing her lips to the crown of her head. "Never," she whispers in the dark of the night, "I'm right here. I promise. Not even Odin could take me away now."
I can return her to you.
Santana swallows her sob, glancing up at the sky. The fire around them smoulders, lapping at her feet and shoulders, the odd tongue shooting above her head—an odd darkening touches the base from which she feels its weight and presence, vast and unending, whispering from beyond.
"You... you lie," she rebukes, helplessly wiping at her eyes. Her hands are stained with blood that is not her own and every single attempt streaks it over her face, covering her in her own failure. "Nothing can do that."
I can.
"If you weren't a warrior, what would you be?"
They lie under a great oak, and Brittany's hair is smooth under her fingers, the strands slipping like silk. Her eyes are soft and sleepy and in this light she looks divine, the White Christ and all his angels come down to earth.
"A dancer," she sighs with her voice quiet and whimsical, her smile drooping as she fights sleep. "Like fighting but without the pain."
Santana's lips curl into a fond smirk as she smooths her thumb over one fine eyebrow, listening to the hum as Brittany rubs her cheek against her palm. Her body thrums with contentment and if she could lay here forever, away from the war and the world, she would take it.
"It looks like we have to win the war so you can do that, hm?"
"Do people dance in Iberia?" Brittany asks faintly, her voice trailing out into snores.
"Always."
In time, you will forget. Maybe not her face, but her smile and her voice and her eyes. She will become but a thought to you—a fleeting remnant of what used to be.
She looks at Brittany's face, traces her gaze over her cheekbones spattered with blood and her open lips parted into an eternal sigh.
"I could never forget," she whispers hoarsely. "It would hurt too much."
You are human, as is your memory. Time will come and erase her bones from this earth.
A flicker of shadow curls around her boot, but she refuses to take her eyes away from where they rest. "You... can change that?"
I am endless; undying. Give me what I desire, and I will bring her back to you.
Santana swallows, playing absently with Brittany's limp fingers. The digits have already gone cold and stiff, the winter seeping into her stilled blood and turning it to ice. "She will be human, yes? Not a draugr?"
One cannot escape from death unscathed, priestess... but she will breathe once again.
There is a voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like her lover, begging her not to give in, but all she knows is that soon the battle will end and they will take her body away to be burned, and she will lose the definition of her nose and the slope of her lips until nothing but a faded memory remains. There will be nothing but a pile of ashes to commemorate what was once a star that could outshine the universe.
Forgive me, my love.
"Take me."
The world ends and begins anew as the shadows surround them, crawling in through nose and mouth and ears until her arteries bloat and strain with it, twisting in the nuances of her lungs and seeping into her stomach. This is different than before—she still screams until her throat cracks and bleeds and her mind splits apart, but now the darkness is there to gather her back again, wrapping her in its smothering embrace to unwind and reset, breaking her bones only to mend them again. The flames around her soar and crackle; a great pillar, a spiralling tower, a burning beacon that dries the air and renders it a scorching vacuum. Santana howls and cries until a tendril snakes through her throat to silence the sound.
Give into me, priestess! We will bring her back together!
She lays Brittany on the ground and pushes her hands to her still heart, her fingers clawing and grasping at the bloody chain beneath her until it rips under her inhumane grip—a tendril snakes in and plunges its way through Brittany's chest, invading her, tainting her, curling through her nose and mouth and eyes. One of her hands finds a stone in Brittany's pouch, smooth and warm, but she dares not look at it lest it break her concentration. Everything is so hot, burning and dying, but Brittany is still cold.
Now, priestess, now!
With a sob, Santana opens her soul to the very core of the darkness.
She awakens to gold above her.
The woman splayed in the lush grass flexes her hands briefly, the softness tickling the pads of her fingers, her blonde hair splayed out like a pillow underneath her head. The world comes into focus slowly; hints of blue sky peeking through the gold foliage, the quiet whisper of a warm breeze, the scent of flowering plants. Brittany rubs wearily at her eyes and sits herself up, glancing around at the copse of trees she happens to have landed in.
"Hello?" she calls out cautiously, climbing to her feet. Her shining mail hangs proudly about her frame as she begins to walk in any random direction, brushing the foliage out of the way on her path forward. "Is anyone there?"
We have been waiting for you, brave warrior.
Her head snaps up and she spins around in a clumsy circle, struggling to find the source of the voice. "Who's there?" she demands, and yet feels no fear.
Follow where your feet wish to take you.
Forward, it seems; she continues her journey, traversing a rocky path upwards and downwards, eventually breaking free of the strange, golden leaves to emerge out into the open air where the sun nearly blinds her. As bright as it is, it does not eclipse the towering mountains nor the massive hall carved into the face of the greatest peak.
She gapes openly at the building that has seemingly been etched into the cliffs themselves, massive trees twining and spiralling outwards to fan the surroundings in a beautiful, green glow. A goat and an elk wander atop its roof, munching on those great leaves, and the distant sound of singing and laughing can be heard floating through its windows. Drawn like a moth to a flame Brittany breaks out into a sprint, a grin spreading over her face as she realizes she has no need to gasp for air as she runs.
Her feet stumble but she does not fall, her eyes narrowed in on those two great doors that herald her into the hall filled with light and laughter. Figures stand outside, waiting, and she recognizes the tallest one first.
"Afi!" she all but shrieks, throwing herself at him to where he stumbles backwards, his great arms wrapping around her in a crushing embrace. His body is strong and broad where it hadn't been in years, his wizened hands gripping her tightly until he shrugs her away with a wry smile. "You... you're here! Why? Where am I? What happened? I thought you died— no, I saw you die!"
"Aye," he agrees, "I did. But all is right now, my child, see? Do you know where you are?"
Brittany swallows as she looks up to the ornate carvings in the stone, the beautiful scenery around her. She doesn't wish to hope, but, is this...
"Valhalla," another voice interrupts, and she turns to see a woman smiling softly at her. "You made it, Bretagne."
Brittany frowns, stepping away from Yngvarr. "I know you."
"You do."
(If she'd turn, she'd see Grandfather with his eyes wet from tears.)
"You... I..." That face, that hair... that smile. "Mother?"
The woman—Mother—opens her arms with a laugh. "Welcome home, my love."
Brittany doesn't hesitate to step into her embrace, wrapping her arms tightly about her neck. She may be taller than her now, but she still remembers how she was cradled that night in Holland, the warm arms about her the same as they were. She buries her face in soft blonde hair so like her own, and allows herself to be rocked soothingly upon the steps of salvation. Grandfather places his strong hand upon her shoulder and all feels right with the world.
"You have travelled a long road to find this place, warrior."
She looks up tearily and blinks the moisture from her eyes to better focus on the new figure in front of her—an old man with a white beard that nearly reaches his waist, gripping a long ashwood staff and shrouded in a dark cloak. Two ravens perch upon his shoulders, their beady eyes familiar, and when they croak she inhales sharply.
"You made them bite me!" she accuses, coughing sheepishly when his single eye lightens in amusement. Huginn and Munnin croak indignantly and hop on their perch. "Sorry, I just... that hurt."
"I am sure," he replies thoughtfully, running one gnarled finger down Munnin's beak. "They do what they will, Bretagne. I am simply their keeper."
Brittany rubs nervously at her neck, ducking her head when the old man attempts to make eye-contact. "How long have you been watching us, my... um, my lord?" Her cheeks redden when he smirks slightly.
"Call me by my name, child."
"Odinn, then."
"Oh, the day of your birth. You were always most interesting to me... you still are, now that you are here. So much like Svala."
Her mother smiles bashfully and adjusts the sword strapped to her hip, brushing her hair behind her ear. "She has far outshone me, I believe."
The old god hums his agreement, his sole eye travelling over her frame for a wistful moment. "Yes, perhaps... what a pair of beautiful golden wings she would have worn..." She frowns when he turns from her, but it is washed away when he pushes upon the great wooden doors that bar her entry to Valhalla. They swing open with a groan, a blast of warm wind brushing against her skin, bringing with it the scent of ale and roasting meat.
Rows upon rows of benches follow great wooden tables laden with whole pigs and cows, cups of mead and ale and wine all mixed together, surrounded by men who drink and laugh and jostle each other, clinking cups and weapons as they gorge themselves. A man in bearskin turns, and Brittany gasps as Björk smirks and salutes her, he too taking his rightful place amongst the fallen.
"I... made it?" she asks in wonderment, hovering just at the threshold. All those years of being told Odinn would never accept a woman, that her mother rotted with Hel and the dank skeletons that make her kingdom... was it all for naught?
"Of course!" Grandfather laughs, clapping her over the back where she feels something staggering was at one point. "You are a great warrior, and all great warriors come to Valhalla when they fall."
Her mother snakes their fingers together, relishing the feel of her daughter's skin as something more than just a memory. "Do you remember what happened, Bretagne?"
Brittany frowns. She remembers the blood and the screaming and the pain, but it all crushes together into a blur of fury and grief. "I... died, right?" Svala nods, stroking soothingly at her lax knuckles. "William... the boy. The boy. Is he here?"
"The boy is with the White Christ, as he would have wanted," Odinn replies with a sigh, shaking his head. "So many wasted warriors."
She gingerly touches where she now remembers his sword tearing through her belly as easily as if it were water, the sickening crunch of her spine snapping and yielding to the rigidity of his blade. There is no pain, no wound, only a flat scar as a remnant. Her hands wrap around to her back, prodding at all the gouges the spears had made... nothing.
"You do not carry your wounds with you in death, my love," Svala smiles. "Everything begins anew."
Yes, yes, but there is something missing. A thought, a memory, a feeling. Brittany cannot place it now, nor the nagging conscious that screams at her to remember. Instead she is drawn to Valhalla's golden halls, the scent of food that calls to her rumbling stomach. "Can I... can I come in?" she asks excitedly, taking one step forward so her foot passes the threshold. Her body thrums with anticipation to take her seat amongst the fabled warriors, next to Grandfather and Mother, but there is a hand on her wrist that pulls her until she stands before them again. They wear different expressions now, and she frowns as she attempts to place them. "What? What's wrong? Everything is okay now, right? I earned my place?"
"Of course you did," Svala hushes, "you did much more than that. Never doubt that for a second."
"Then why are you looking at me like that? Why are you upset?"
Her mother smiles—a thin, watery thing—and steps up on her toes to kiss her forehead, her youthful face regretful but resigned. Long fingers stroke through her loose hair (yet another thing that makes them look like true kin) as she's pressed to her mother's bosom, her chin nestled upon her strong shoulder. "You have made me so proud," Svala chokes out, "never dare forget that."
Brittany swallows and nods, pulling back to wipe at the tears that have made their way down her mother's smooth skin. "Why are you crying?"
Svala shakes her head, instead rubbing at her arms comfortingly. "Be strong, my love, be brave. Be true."
Wait, those words...
The sky darkens and all heads tilt up to look at the clouds that have suddenly gathered, their bulk heavy and bloated with rain. Thunder rolls and lighting flashes to illuminate each of them simultaneously, the smile on her mother's face pained. Grandfather strokes his rough hand down her cheek before squeezing her hand, pulling away when she reaches for him.
"Wait, what is—"
"We will be watching for you, Bretagne. I promise you will never be alone."
Shadows creep in through the trees and curl around her ankles and wrists, dragging her back though she digs her feet into the dirt. She struggles, wrenching away only to be snared by two more, fighting to return to her family and the god who watches with a curious eye.
"I will never be far away," he vows, his voice distant, "if you desire my strength, you need simply ask."
"No!" she screams, staggering as they yank her backwards, "I was almost there! I was so close! I—" A mighty tug and she flies through the air, trees and sky rushing past until it all condenses into a whirling ball that has her tumbling through space and time and earth, shrieking as she hurtles through all nine worlds before tasting the familiar tang of blood. Brittany barely has time to see the ground rushing up towards her before the world goes dark.
The body beneath her jerks for a moment before taking a single heaving gasp, sputtering black filth where it spatters over her lips and down the sides of her mouth. Nearly forgotten, the ruby in Santana's staff clears to a crimson red once again, the thud of her heartbeat bringing life into its black depths. Santana presses her fingers to Brittany's neck, almost disbelieving at the pulse she finds there, booming strong and true.
"She... lives?" she whispers in disbelief, gently wiping some of the blackness from her mouth.
Of course. I kept my word, priestess, now you must keep yours.
Santana nods absently, reaching for her knife. "It is blood you want, no?"
More is required than you can give for such a rebirth.
Too occupied with watching Brittany's face regain colour once again, Santana simply mutters her distracted agreement. "Do what you will."
It catches her attention when her back splits open at the seam.
She screeches, pitching forward, her head dropping to Brittany's moving chest as she feels something roil and rupture from her, tearing her skin asunder and ripping her apart from the inside. Great tendrils burst from the exposed expanse of her back, writhing and whipping about, banishing her great flames so that they may claim their prize. The slime they ooze drips onto the earth and eats away at the snow, killing whatever it may touch and leaving nothing but desecration in its wake. She howls, and with her movements do they move, seeking out friend or foe alike, drilling through their chests and lifting them high into the sky where it feeds until their corpses, desiccated, litter the ground.
Moments later she feels their blood flow into her, filling her with warmth and comfort. Santana struggles to kneel upright, knocked off balance by the sheer power of these moving monstrosities.
"What have you done to me?" she gasps, pulling herself to one knee just before one finds its prize—his scream is drowned to a gurgle as he dies impaled on her new-found limb.
We are One, as was foretold.
Her robe, split and singed, falls from her body to leave her naked and trembling, the tendrils that come from her weeping back ripping through the battlefield. Those that attempt to cut them find them regenerated, wrapping around them to suffocate or simply worming down their throats where they choke on their acid. Amidst the chaos does Santana wrap her arm underneath Brittany's knees, her other cradling her strong back as she lifts them both to a standing position. To her, she weighs less than air.
"Time to go back to Kaupang, Britt," Santana says softly, beginning the long walk to the hill where the wounded lay.
She parts them like their prophet did his bloody sea, the black limbs slamming into the fray and forcing a path. Santana walks through unscathed, her eyes of night and voice of shadow, never taking her gaze from Brittany's sleeping features. She hardly notices the way her twisted wings suck the life from the battlefield, their sacrifice imbuing within her a power unseen. Is this what gods come to earth know during their days as false mortals?
A Norman runs screaming at them, spitting curses and prayers alike, but she watches impassively as one tendril catches the frothing man by the face, its sucking embrace clamping around his skull as he scrambles and claws at the thing that melts his skin from his bones. When he is released, nothing but a grinning skull remains.
Perhaps she will feel guilt when the dust settles, a pang for life lost, but all she knows is the borrowed blood thrumming through her and the answering echo of Brittany's returned heartbeat, bringing blessed noise to the silence in her head.
Santana steps onto the hill with a certain sigh of relief—men moan and cry about her but she pays them no mind, her bare feet crunching along the trodden snow without a care. At rest now, her tendrils hover about her, streaming in all directions. Their slime blackens the earth that she walks.
Before her is Styrr, prostrate with his head upon the ground, hands bent above himself in prayer. She smiles as a feeling that is not entirely her own curls through her chest, her foot nudging his cheek until he raises himself, shoulders hunched and eyes wide in reverence.
"It worked," he whispers in awe, resisting the urge to drop to his knees once again.
"Of course it did. Do you doubt me?" Santana frowns, clearing her throat. Who said that?
"No, never, never... what do you need from me, Master?"
She chooses not to correct him, instead handing Brittany's body into his care. The unconscious girl mumbles slightly as she's passed over, her hand gripping weakly at his robe. "Take her back to Kaupang. Make sure no harm comes to her, do you understand?"
"Yes, of course. She will be safe with me."
"Good. When you return, I have your reward."
His grin is foreign and foreboding, but he does as he's told, making his rapid way back to the town. Santana rubs at her temple and chooses to discard the strange things coming from her mouth and the way they sound akin to many speaking at once. There are more important things to worry about now.
She stands upon the peak of the hill and watches the factions fight and die below; the centaur come and cut wide swaths of men with their enchanted blades flashing gold in the sun, their bodies rearing and hooves slamming into faces and throats. Quinn leads the fray, her lips twisted into a feral snarl, her skin red as she cuts away at the enemy like an infected wound. Still, despite their timely reinforcements, they are still losing. The dead of Kaupang litter the ground, the very wounds she had healed re-opened at the mercy of the enemy's blade. Men and boys alike cry as they die; those found by her wrath lie still and silent amidst the fury, their faces white as newborn snow.
Her eyes move across the battlefield disdainfully, her full lips curling into a sneer. "Let us finish this."
Santana's tendrils anchor themselves into the ground and lift her high above the earth. Her feet leave the snow until she is suspended, pulled into the very throb of the world—all of their heartbeats pound disjointed, and she feels the quiet of those fallen, the breath no longer moving in their lungs. She coaxes their eyes to open again as her darkness leaks through their mouths and around their hearts until their bodies spasm; once, twice, the first lifting himself with a rattling groan to look around once more.
The others rise until all have come again to serve their master (mistress?), enemies united in death. She grins and sends them forward, their gnashing teeth and ironwood grip descending upon the foolish Normans who shriek and cry out as the dead return to walk amongst the living. The king's forces scramble away, confused and terrified, a few being caught by wayward hands and dragged flailing into open mouths. The screams of Harald's men as they die are the utmost victory and the greatest solace.
"Santana, stop it!" Her eyes snap open again she fixes her irritated stare upon Eyja, the elder priestess biting anxiously at her nails. "You defeated them, the battle is over. Call them away!"
"They will suffer for what they have done."
"You are killing our people as much as they! Look, even the centaurs are being eaten."
Her gaze floats to the horse-men that now fight off the undead with their enemies, kicking wildly and slashing with all their might. One draws Quinn's arm to its mouth, but she cleaves its skull wide open with a vicious chop of her sword.
"They tried to take her from me," she says softly, but pulls at the strings in her mind that connect them together. The draugar groan and stumble away from their allies.
"She is safe now, Santana. Alive. You have done all that you can."
With a quiet sigh she dissipates the draugar, their soulless bodies shuddering before dropping back to the earth with nothing more than a wheeze. The battlefield turns silent and calm, the moan of the dying the only sound that crosses the winds. Suddenly disgusted with bodies torn asunder, she lands on the ground with a thump and coils the tendrils clumsily within herself, her back healing save for the single black like that snakes down the length of her spine. A mouthful of dark that now runs liberally from her lips is spit upon the ground.
The stone from Brittany's pocket rubs against her hand—she had forgotten she had grasped it so tight, caught in the throes of temporary madness. Her thumb rubs over it but pauses, flipping it on its belly to read the rune hidden underneath.
"What is this?" she asks, deadly calm, snatching it away when Eyja makes to take it.
"A-a rune... Bretagne asked for it before the war."
"What does it say?"
"It... it is Algiz. Courage."
The rune of the valkyrja. Fitting.
Santana startles, looking around.
"What? Why?" she demands, ignoring Eyja's confused response.
It pushed her to madness. Warriors are not supposed to hold such magical things.
The priestess narrows her eyes suspiciously, her black gaze bottomless and foreboding. The elder woman takes a step backwards but finds her path blocked by the edge of the cliff.
Punish her. You are not to be crossed.
"Santana... what are you—"
As she watches, Santana crushes it in her fist with a hard crunch, her knuckles turning white before releasing the fine rubble that remains. Eyja swallows as it trickles down into the battlefield below. "If I were you, I would stop giving runes to those who do not need them."
With a final glare, she turns and makes her way back to Kaupang.
We may be linked, but you do not control me, Santana sneers, her bare feet traversing effortlessly over the jagged rocks. Despite the bitter wind, her skin is warmed by the glowing sun, bright and strong, casting a slick shine over her loose hair. All turn to watch her as she makes her steady journey back into town.
We are One, priestess. You cannot escape.
So long as I know myself, we will never be whole. You are not as strong as you wish.
A haunting laugh echoes in her head, bounding around the cavities where other gods used to lie.
Believe what you will.
Kaupang itself is a hive of activity—women rush about with baskets full of food or medicine, their scuttling children a nuisance underfoot as they dart between ruined houses like startled fish. Even from the mouth of the village, she can hear the cries of the wounded as her mother sets their bones and cleans their wounds, their blood running through the streets until it stains the bare soles of her feet. A few of the enemy have been captured; tied roughly to wooden stakes, their are eyes haunted and empty.
Santana leisurely approaches the small hut where she feels her lover's life-force pulsing through the air—with this new power everything is intense, saturated with magic. She can almost see the green wisps of her breath puff through the cracks of the wooden walls.
Styrr emerges from the depths, dipping his head instantly once he catches sight of her. "She is still resting. I do not think she will rise for some time."
She nods, opening the door enough to see Brittany's body swaddled in furs, the comforting rise and fall of her chest evident even in the gloom. Her tall frame looks unusually delicate and fragile, a reminder of how close she came to losing her.
"Very good," she murmurs, pleased as she shuts the door once again. A sudden fondness washes over her and she does not resist as her hand moves to stroke over his cheek, smiling as he leans into the touch like a dog. "You have been of great use to me, Styrr. It is time I give what I promised you all those years ago."
Strange words run in her head like water and she repeats them, their slippery syllables sliding from her tongue, her hands opening and blooming tendrils from her palms, spreading upwards and outwards like the branches of a gnarled tree. The world around them goes quiet and dark as she turns so they touch the earth, eating away the snow and mud until they are black with rot. She murmurs and allows this feeling to guide her, shaping these shapeless things into a tangible lump that grows and swells until it reaches her chin, widening and taking on a form that becomes real and knowable the more she concentrates.
Eventually it takes on the figure of a person; Styrr holds his breath as tendrils become legs become toes, hands and fingers and face and hair, spinning and weaving out of darkness until pale skin blossoms, nubile as new-fallen snow, emerging from the slime with an oddly slanted mouth and a squat torso but bright, expressive eyes.
She feels the moment this person starts to breathe, its shuddering inhale defying things like life and death and time. One has been returned from oblivion, removed from the threads of history, and now this walking paradox turns slowly and tests the air of the earth.
"Styrr?" it whispers, hoarse, and he chokes on what must be a sob.
"Jutta..." He runs and gathers her up in his arms, uncaring of the slime that rubs itself over his robes. Styrr buries his face into the sticky mop of hair and rocks them until it grows dizzy, its little hands clutching at his sides. "My sister, my sister... you are safe now, home, you are home."
The man looks over its head and the tears shining in his eyes are foreign and unwelcome; the human emotion upon his expression makes her shift in her spot, biting at her lips and clenching her fists. This... elation that he is experiencing sits wrong upon his shoulders—she feels it like she feels all things now, but it simply fills her with a strange disdain.
"Who... who is this?" Santana asks shakily, pulling the darkness back inside her body. It sits heavily in her veins until it crawls along inside her, flowing through her jaw and eyes and heart as effortlessly as magic does the same.
He looks at her strangely, still petting the abomination's hair. "My sister, sire. As you promised."
"I am not your sire!" Her head throbs and she clutches at it, biting back her own disagreeing words.
"Oh." She looks up to see him nodding wisely, a pensive expression twisted upon his lips. "You are resisting the change."
"What change?"
"You know what it is."
Snarling, she clenches her fist and feels the answering gasp in the thing she has created, her body crumpling over until she stands hunched at the waist. "Enlighten me or else I will take away your little reward."
Despite smoothing his hand over the suffering girl's back, coaxing her upright, he seems unfazed. "You feel it within you, do you not? Existing? Corrupting?"
Santana licks her lips and tastes the bitter tang of its influence, grudgingly spitting it into the snow.
"You may wish to pretend that you can control it, but your eyes betray you. Together you are One, but you are not Whole." He smirks. "That will come in time."
I have waited eons for your birth, priestess. I will wait longer for you to understand.
With an infuriated cry Santana spins, bolting away in an effort to put distance between his smirk and the thing that watches her with curious eyes. Her feet take her on the path they know well, ducking and weaving under low-lying branches, sometimes simply blasting large ones from her way. She stumbles into their home clumsily, sucking air, trembling more from the adrenaline than the cold.
Surely an infection of the mind is no different than one of the body... it can be cut out like all others, cured with prayer and medicine. She rubs her hand down her face in irritation and grimaces when it comes back black, going to wipe it on her robe before she remembers it lies abandoned on the battlefield. Sighing, she plops down heavily on a stool, glancing around in the gloom that her eyes pierce as easily as mid-morning's glow. Their bed still lies unmade, the vague impression of their sleeping bodies a faint outline from yesterday's embrace. How she longs for such a thing now...
A whimper catches her attention, and she flits her gaze over to the far corner of the room. There is a shadow cowering, trembling, the skittering of claws in the dirt and the flash of white bandage a hint as to the culprit. She grins and advances to the ball of fur, crouching down once she is able to see the reflected gleam of Sandalio's eyes.
"It's just me, sweetheart," she coos, putting her hand out. "The bad ones are gone, everything is okay now. You have no reason to be scared."
She sees the hint of teeth just in time for her to draw her fingers back, his jaws snapping at air a moment too late. Santana frowns and ducks down to his level, staring into his terrified eyes. "It's mistress, remember? Santana? Brittany's Santana?"
But listening to his erratic heartbeat, all she receives is a chain of nononobadthingbaddarkleavenobad that stabs like any knife, only twisted when he scuttles to the other corner and remains, whimpering at every attempt to come closer.
"Sandalio, please," she begs helplessly, "I am still me. I love you, remember?"
She receives a low growl in return, tail tucked between his legs and ears pinned back over his skull. Santana slumps back in her stool and miserably watches her beloved pet tremble and snarl at her every movement. Is this what sacrifice entails? Saving one love to lose another?
She grows weary of the way he whimpers and makes her slow, morose way back to Kaupang. Brittany has not yet awoken and she is caught in limbo, torn between the frightened looks given from passerby and the new strength that tells her they should mean nothing. These people whom have grown to accept her seem to take their friendship back so quickly; Gynna pulls a battle-weary Reinn into her side, her eyes sad and scared. He makes to go to her, but his mother shakes her head and they retreat into their temporary home.
Perhaps putting on clothes would make them a little less wary... but every vendor turns away, staring into her colourless eyes and the grime on her skin, darting away or pointedly turning to speak to another. Santana sighs, running her hands down her forearms, turning instead to retreat to the safety of Brittany's bedside.
A spike of heat upon her breastbone is the only warning she has before her head is spun about from an unseen slap.
She staggers momentarily, blinking the lights from her vision as her fire whirls about her feet on instinct—her stained teeth bare as she turns to face her attacker, only to falter at her mother's furious face glaring back. The sudden scorch upon her chest makes sense now, their necklace glowing bright and hot in the morning light.
"You!" Maria roars, and never has Santana heard her voice crack so. "You fool! You imbecile! Do you know what you have done?!"
"I seem to have done a lot of things recently," Santana spits the hint of blood away. "Do tell me what it is this time."
"This is no time for games, Santana! Bringing the dead back into this world? It is both unnatural and impossible—you know this!"
"Impossible?" She gestures towards Brittany's healing hut with a hint of pride teasing along the corners of her mouth. "I thought so too, but she breathes, Mami. Her heart beats again. I can do anything with this."
Maria pinches the bridge of her nose, brows furrowed into a hard line. "I should have seen the signs earlier... I knew I should have pursued it. Oh, Goddess, forgive me."
"The Goddess will not help you now."
Her head whips to her daughter, who swallows nervously, ridding the foreign words from her mouth.
"What did you say?"
"I... I didn't..." Santana growls in frustration, stomping her foot on the ground and ejecting a geyser of white flame. "I say things before I think sometimes, that is the way it has always been."
"Not like this. Goddess, how could you have been so stupid?"
Defensive, Santana crosses her arms over her naked chest. The things in her back writhe and coil with her discomfort but she resists, keeping them concealed. "I did what I had to do."
"You defied the cycle!"
"What was I supposed to do, let her die?"
"Yes!"
Santana chokes on her rebuttal. "I— what?"
"It was her time, mija," Maria hisses, "you knew that. But you were greedy, and returned something that did not belong to you in the first place."
"She... no! She is my everything! You cannot expect me to release the one thing that gives me joy!"
"So you keep her for your own gain?"
"I—" Santana snarls and more fire flows, coming dangerously close to the wooden posts of Kaupang's homes. "Nobody wants to die, Mami."
"Do they want to live as a monster?"
Her hand flies out, the dark tendril pushing from her palm before she has thought to name the impulse, deflected at the last second by a bolt of blue. "Never say that about her!" she cries, rearing back to strike again. "Take it back!"
Santana tumbles back as a wave of her mother's power strikes her in the chest, staggering upright a few feet away. She clutches her broken shoulder, twisted awkwardly out of its socket, its placement radiating pain down her side and across her chest. Maria looks to be remorseful until the darkness shifts it back into position with an audible crunch and knits her bones anew; her face hardens into a disgusted snarl, the calming blue vanishing into mist.
"Maybe I was wrong," she mutters lowly. "Brittany is not the monster here."
Santana rolls her healed shoulder once, stretching out the new joint until it falls limply back to her side.
"You hit me," she says dumbly.
"I would have done it sooner if it had made you listen."
"You hit me," she repeats angrily, clenching her fists tightly.
"I have warned you for so long about the darkness, but you ignore my teachings. Clearly, you know better than I." She shakes her head once, the sadness in the lines of her face evident only for the briefest moments before it dissipates. "Until you come to your senses, I will not be responsible for the abomination you have turned yourself into."
"An abomination is something that turns on their family!"
Yet Maria simply looks into Brittany's hut, her motionless body resting on the bed. "Then what does that make you?"
Her world is darkness before light.
It is a cacophony of screaming and crying and bleeding, floating through a body that does not want to be returned to existence. The oppressive weight on her chest smothers, and she drifts through one world and the next, visiting the elves and the dwarves in her sleep, climbing the branches of Yggdrasil only to tumble back to the ground. It is when her temporary home moans and howls under the weight of the snowstorm thrust upon them does she wake; a great sucking inhale that forces her upright, her wide eyes panicked in the dark.
"Where am—" Her hands roam all over her body, her palms running over her matted hair and tattered clothing, fingernails raking over scars both new and old. A creeping dread comes over her as she touches her stomach and her fingers feel the great cleave that had once taken her breath away, sewn up and shut tight but black as the dark, dark night.
"No," she moans, pressing her palm against her heart that thuds and her ribs that hurt, "no, why am I here? Not here, please—" A hand touches at her shoulder and she scrambles from her bed, her feet barely touching the floor before her knees buckle and she lands in a heap of furs and limbs.
She doesn't have to see her before she knows its Santana, her eyes blind in the dark, but tears run down her cheeks as she scrambles away and curls herself up tight, her back pressing against the freezing wooden walls as the other moves to aid her. "Don't touch me!" she screams, tugging at her limp hair, willing herself to unravel apart so she may return to the hall where she so rightfully belongs. "What did you do to me? Why did you bring me back?!"
Her lover swallows in the gloom, hands trembling. "I had to."
She cups her hand protectively, feeling the limp weight of fingers that should not have been returned. "No, you... I don't belong here anymore, oh gods, not here... not when I saw it."
The swish of bare feet, the hiss of folding joints. "Saw what?"
"Valhalla!" She sobs and bangs her head on the wall, burying her face in her hands. "I saw Grandfather and Odinn and— and Mother, I saw my Mother, Santana! I remember her face now, her voice! You took her from me!"
Brittany feels Santana's discomfort but it is a mere nuance, a tick easily swept away by the tide of her own despair. "You will go back one day," she encourages, "but with me by your side. Is that not what you wanted?"
"I would have always seen you again!" Brittany shouts, her voice cracking before turning into a whisper. "We are bound, you know this—we will always find each other, b-but—" she slams her head against the wall again, the pain flashing bright behind her eyes, "nobody returns to Valhalla! I was there, and now I am here in a place I shouldn't be, i-in a body I shouldn't have..."
A small flicker of light illuminates the space, and Brittany turns her tear-streaked gaze upwards, squinting against the glow. Santana's face comes to light for the first time and she does not hold back her gasp. "What... what have you done?"
"Everything I have done, I did for you," she says earnestly, going to cup her hands before Brittany flinches away. "The battle is over, we have won."
But Brittany's vision darts in too many places at once; her naked skin, her onyx eyes, her stained lips. "What did you do?" she screeches, attempting to get up on her knees but simply falling over again on her side, a pang of agony travelling up her spine. "You used that bad magic after promising to get rid of it! You- you lied to me! You brought me back and turned me into a monster, and then you lied to me!"
Santana's whole expression drops, the light in her hand flickering for a moment. "No, I... I had to, Britt, you were dead."
"I should have stayed dead! I was happy!"
"You were happier... without me?"
Brittany opens her mouth to rephrase but trails off as the tendrils erupt once again from Santana's back, heaving and pulsing with her lover's heartbeat, crawling along the walls and wrapping themselves around Santana's body. With the way her hair starts to float in the imagined wind she sees a demon in a person; a stranger in a girl. The face of another.
"What have you done to yourself?" she whispers softly. "I barely even recognize the girl I fell in love with."
Santana swallows thickly, almost deciding to shuffle forward if not for the way Brittany's whole body curls away from the movement. "You do not mean that. You are tired and hurt, I understand, but—"
"No, I do mean that. I have stood by you while you fought with the demons in your head, but this... I am one of your demons now. You went too far."
"But... I saved you. I gave you another chance. Who else can say that?"
The anger in her tone washes like the undertow of a vicious current but Brittany responds in kind, her teeth flashing in the gloom that Santana sees through all too well.
"Say what? There are no second chances, Santana, you should know that! We have a life and then we have a death... these things should not be able to be taken away!"
"You said you did not need to go to Valhalla anymore! You said! Does your word mean nothing now too?"
"Maybe I did not need to, but I was there regardless! You took away my eternity, my... my family! I have nothing now!"
"Nothing? Am I nothing to you?"
Brittany snarls and beats her temples with her curled palms, wishing away the taunting image of Valhalla and its golden trees lest it haunt her until her bones go to rot. "Stop saying things you know I don't mean!" she pauses as a tendril snakes over her foot, sticky and warm with her lover's heartbeat. "And what of your promises? Am I the only one not allowed to break trust?"
"It is not the same-"
"Why?!" she shrieks, wobbling to a crouch. In the darkness Santana sees her life force go red, a violent gale that swarms silently about her until, to her cursed gaze, it highlights the shadows underneath her cheekbones and makes her eyes burn. They take on the fleeting impression of wings and she knows the touch of a scorned valkyrja come to earth. "Why do you get to break the rules? Why do I have to be the one that suffers?"
"You think I do not suffer?" Santana sweeps out her arm and her new limbs bash a hole into the room, the howling blizzard outside creeping in and blowing soft flakes across her face. She barely notices the cold. "You think I enjoy this? That it is something I would choose if it was not the only choice? When I saw you there, dead and cold, this was the only way."
"You chose it over me. That is answer enough."
"You aren't listening! I chose you! I'll always choose you!"
"Listening?" Brittany roars, her cheeks pinking. "I listened when you started having the nightmares! I listened when it would whisper in your head! I listened, no, I held you as you'd stumble and fall and say things that would get you killed! I trusted you when you said you would rid yourself of it! You dare tell me that I am the one that isn't doing the right thing?"
"Then return if you are so desperate to go back," Santana hisses, "because I am obviously not keeping you here."
Brittany looks at her silently for a moment. "You... you have no idea, do you?" She laughs hollowly, shaking her head until she bangs it once again against the wooden walls. "I keep forgetting you were not raised by my people, that they do not love you as I do... Valhalla is so much more than a hall in another world, Santana, why do you not see that? It is something I have wanted my entire life, and you think I can simply return like I could hop on a horse and be there by dawn?"
"I have earned my place, just like you! What if it was me bleeding in your arms? What would you have done? Left me to rot like you wished to?"
"The Goddess brings you back. We are not so lucky. If we return, do you know what they call us?" Brittany leans in closer, eyes wide and crazed. "Damned."
The word triggers something in her and all that anger comes back like a tidal wave, washing over until she is the beserkr returned, the rage of the battlefield once again humming through her veins in a directionless fury that devours. "Damned! Look what you did! We're both monsters now!"
Brittany watches from the floor as black tears make their way down Santana's cheeks, splashing to the dirt where they hiss and bubble to eat away the earth. Their connection throbs with her heartbreak, but Brittany simply buries her face in the ground and clenches her eyes shut, refusing to open them even as her lover hiccups on a sob and stumbles out of the room. Everything inside her screams to go fix this, to call her back and whisper apologies into her slime-slicked hair, but the greater animal part of her is betrayed and anguished and exhausted, still laden with the knowledge that she will never return to the fabled hall of myth.
"I have found my Valhalla in you. I don't need another one."
She groans low in her chest and rolls over, weakly kicking at the wall. She was to convince Odinn to allow Santana entrance, to show her the glory of her heritage, the duty of her calling... but it is squandered now, and she rests on the cold earth of Midgard, wasting away in a body that wants her no more. Never will she see Grandfather again, or her Mother...
Brittany does not know how long she weeps into the dirt, only that her nose is clogged and her eyes red by the time another set of kind hands coax her from the floor. She goes sluggishly, her head leaning on the person's shoulder, her good hand grasping at the one that worms between her own.
Maria is not her mother, but she is close and it will be enough.
Together they manage to fall back onto the furs and Brittany immediately gravitates to Maria's smaller frame, curling around her the best she can and burying her face in her bosom. The older woman strokes at her matted hair silently, running her fingers down her spine in a manner she always used to do for Santana so long ago.
"S-she t-took me-e-e," Brittany gasps out and Maria cradles her close, hushing her panicked breathing.
"I know, my child. We will fix this."
"H-how?"
At a loss for words, Maria simply shrugs and presses her lips to Brittany's sweaty forehead, waiting until the hitch in her breathing long begins to fade. The blizzard howls outside, and she has a brief pang of worry for her child out in the foul, freezing weather, but shakes it off quickly. The darkness will not let its charge die from the snow, she thinks bitterly, and instead comforts her other child in the best way she knows.
"Are you ready to stand?" Maria asks softly after listening to the snowstorm rage for some time. Brittany swallows thickly and shakes her head.
"M' too weak."
"I will help you."
Together, they manage to get her upright, her right arm slung heavily over Maria's shoulders. The two of them make their slow, lumbering way through the town that has gone dark and silent with the storm save for the fires puffing thick smoke out through the holes in their rooves. Fires twinkle through the cracks and they are drawn to the greatest one, clumsily shouldering their way through the wooden door and into the relative warmth of Betar's temporary home.
Silence falls as soon as they enter. The men that were chatting quietly see the two dusting themselves off and wordlessly make to leave, keeping a wide berth between them and the pair. Brittany watches as the men that had always acknowledged her despite their doubts avoid her eyes as they leave.
Betar, thankfully, is not so stiff.
He rushes to take her weight in his arms, her whole body sagging with relief at his warm embrace. She clings to his shirt as he lowers her down to the long bench they all lay upon, her body small and fragile under his bulk.
"How are you, my love?" he whispers softly, as if the sound would shatter her.
"I saw Mother," she says instead, uncaring of the way he startles. "And Grandfather. You can tell they are kin."
"You saw her? Was she—"
"She was happy," she sighs tiredly, "but she cried when I had to go."
Betar smiles shakily, petting his daughter's hair. "That sounds much like her."
Brittany shivers and Betar draws them closer to the flame, enclosing her hands in his own so that they may be licked by the cheery orange glow. He spies the black lines that run through her, turning her palm over so that it may be touched by the light. Brittany looks away as he runs his thumb over the seam that connects her two fingers and palm to the rest of her hand, the numb flesh barely twitching at his touch.
"Harald's champion chopped it off," she mumbles at his unspoken question, "so Santana put it back together again."
"She what?"
"I don't wish to talk about it." Her body turns so that she stares at the wall instead, the flame heating her back. During the time of the Endless Night almost all hours are nothing but blackness... the thought of Santana wandering out there, hurt and alone, pains her no matter how angry she may be. Her eyes close as she attempts to search through their connection, but the volatile slight still burns bright in the night and it lashes out, searing. She flinches away from it, swallowing once and retreating, vowing to try again once the initial wound has passed.
(How long must that take? Days, months, years?)
"What do you think is going to happen to Harald's men?" Maria asks, blowing away some of the snow that attempts to land on their fire. Their shelters went up in flames, charred remnants of smoking animal skins the only indication that it was once fit for service.
"Many will perish from the cold or their wounds," Betar replies heavily. "We have won this battle, but I feel it is a hollow victory."
Brittany startles slightly. "The king," she urges, raising herself the best she can. "Does the king live?"
The two others look at each other for a moment before giving a hesitant nod, but their expressions are grim. "He lives, but not much else." As he had rode away another had slain his horse, falling on his injured arm enough to temporarily incapacitate him. During the time unaccounted for he had received grievous head trauma—possibly from the hooves of his fallen steed—and had yet to wake despite the attempts of the elders. "Eirik leads the army in his stead."
Brittany grimaces. "That troll commands armies?"
"Tired, hurt armies," Betar reminds her gingerly. "He will be leading no attacks any time soon, especially not with this blizzard going the way it is."
"One of the elders says it will continue for days," Maria agrees with a hum, her worried eyes looking beyond the physical world, her fingers grasping tight at the pendant that hangs heavily around her slender neck. It burns still, but the stone grows dim.
A shuffling scratch swings the door to the longhouse open, and Brittany manages a smile as a sodden, furry form limps into the room. She opens her arms and Sandalio frantically bounds into them, licking all over her face in rough, broad strokes that wicks away all the dried sweat and tears from her skin. His wet nose nuzzles into her jaw and she scratches at his wet ears, allowing his bulk to press up against her chest and plonk down protectively.
"I'm glad you were out of harm's way," she says quietly, stroking her trembling hands down his coat. "I would not be able to bear burning another friend at the pyres."
He whines and buries his face in her neck, his hot breath tickling at her skin.
(Santana does the same, and she forcibly pushes the thought from her mind.)
"We should look for her if she does not return," Maria sighs worriedly, scratching at Sandalio's hind. "She does not know this land as well as you."
"She is a traitor," Betar mutters darkly, "the things she has done are enough to have her burned."
Brittany shushes him with a hand at his knee. "Please, father. She may have done terrible wrong, but... do not harm her. I love her still."
Betar sighs, and the four of them watch the flame go dim.
Through wind and snow, Santana runs.
The icy gust that rips at her naked skin is an afterthought, the trembling of her body as much from grief as from cold. No matter how far she blunders she can't rid herself of Brittany's haunted eyes glaring through her, following her in every swirl of snow or wave of branch. The agony in her voice as she begged to go back—to die—echoes in her head and rebounds until it all folds in on itself, the words warping until all the mantra becomes is a loop of your fault your fault your fault.
Why doesn't she understand? A world without Brittany is not a world worth saving. She would sooner cast herself back into Ataecina's revolving embrace than live without her, damned to wander without one half of an eternal flame. Her foot catches on a hidden root and she goes sprawling into the snow, the pang of her flesh finally felt through the numbness. Still, she lays in the white and sighs, watching as her exhale scatters snowflakes around her head.
Get up, priestess.
"Why?" she mutters petulantly, rolling over on her side so she may curl up and rest. The day has been so long and the trials many, one defeat after another, only growing until she buckles under their weight. Surely she deserves this rest, this quiet rest in the cold...
Rise.
Those things snake from her back and pull her unwilling body upright, her whole frame drooping as gravity wins out once again. She looks up as they propel her forward, anchoring her to branches and rocks, crawling through the forest like a magnificent spider whose web has claimed the entire forest. Her toes brush against the new-fallen snow as it hoists her higher, her legs swinging faintly with the momentum.
"Where are we going?" she mumbles, glancing around for any markers. It should be time to go back now—night has long descended and the air grows colder than she has ever felt it, nipping at her numb ears and licking up her feet. The world is a sheet of white that obscures all but the faintest outline of that in front of her, its gale quickly filling in the tracks she would have long left behind. With a faint laugh, she realizes she's lost. Of all the things to go wrong... she toys with the idea of calling upon Brittany to be her guide, but the hurt rears up fast and scalding, bringing tears to her eyes, so she pushes it away.
She does not know where the darkness takes her, nor does she care. Together they traverse the forest in long gaits that have her swinging around in the air, leaping over a fjord or two whose bottoms vanish in the blizzard. Her teeth chatter a song as she feels herself slow, the tendrils tentatively searching in the distance for an object. With a start she realizes she can feel their touch skate along a rock face as surely as if it were her own hands that stroked the stone, the slick tentacles worming their way into an opening and pushing her through.
Santana slumps to the ground, the freezing rock almost warm under her numb body, her fingers curling upon the floor. She makes no move to rise, rolling on her back instead. Perhaps she could remain here as a hermit or a witch, selling her abilities to those in need. But who would want them after what she did? Even her lover, the very person who promised to stand by her side, cast her away like some sort of monster. The hammer pendant around her neck feels so very heavy, as if the weight of Brittany's sorrow rests within it.
She does not understand.
The priestess rolls about on the ground, crushing her hands to her ears in the foolish notion that it will erase the sound. It speaks in a million tongues, a thousand spirits coming from the grave to whisper into her head. "You will not turn me against her!"
She has turned against you.
"No!" A flash of light; the explosion from the flame impacting the wall sends shards of stone flying, slicing at her skin and letting her ruby-red blood stain the rock. The tendrils lap it up eagerly, spreading themselves over her wounds where the flesh returns instantly. Santana tries to rip them away and bear witness to the scars that make her human, but they are erased before she can pry them off. "What have you done to me?" she whimpers, curling up into a tiny ball.
I have made us One.
But there is a discrepancy, a rift. So long as she hurts and cries over her warrior, they will never be Whole. It knows this as it knows all things, but cannot will her heart to so give up on the person that brings light into her world—instead it strokes its tendrils along her cheek, wicking away the moisture from her shining eyes. Mortals are weak, flawed things, but it will make her strong.
Ever so gently do the tendrils wrap around her wrists, coaxing her upright until she kneels, head hung down. Her thoughts bounce in a chaotic motion that refracts into its own, cluttering the space where only emptiness should be. In almost every notion resides blue eyes or golden hair or even long fingers, stroking and caressing in a phantom touch. It sees their fate drawn out before them, their lines intertwining until it is one braid, forever bound tight and unyielding. Its shadows pick at those knots that hold them together until the very beginnings of slack form at the tip—too much and the Fates will know, but little by little...
Come, little one. My embrace heals all wounds.
She barely makes a sound as more tendrils curl over the jut of her hip and the underside of her chest, winding around and around until they join and she can feel their presence in every breath. Others lift her by the ankles until she is suspended above the ground, connected by a matrix of tendrils that pulse with her heartbeat. It snakes over her thighs, under the soles of her feet, crawling around her forehead and behind her ears.
Sleep, and let us be Whole.
The darkness spreads until the entirety of her is covered with it, expanding over her eyes until her world is hidden from her. Perhaps just a little while...
It courses down her throat and nose and ears until she is filled with the Old One, immobilized in its embrace, its senseless quiet lulling her into a dreamless sleep.