A.N.: Hi everyone, thank you so much for the reviews! I really appreciate them. I hope everyone's keeping safe and healthy (and not too bored).
Resurgam
43
A Perfect Storm
It came without warning.
The worst storm Virginia had experienced in its recorded history.
It felt as if…Nature was at war. The news updated everyone on the flooding in other areas of the commonwealth caused by an unprecedented deluge of rain, and the wildfires, which started in the National Parks when trees were struck by the continuous volleys of awing lightning that illuminated everything like an LED light display. The winds howled, reaching speeds associated with tornadoes. The roads were impassable, with fallen trees and power-lines torn down, debris that would take days to clear. The riverbanks overflowed, and the falls became unrecognisable.
Watching the lake thrash and boil was…scary. Giulia had never seen it so tempestuous - it looked like the sea during a storm, almost black even at midday, choppy, with waves that reached ten feet high, soaking the deck, and thrashing against the house.
The animals were spooked, Simba prowling restlessly with his mouth wide open and fur on end while the dogs cowered and whined, Zita trying to coax them to cuddle with her, while Spencer gaped out the window, watching the lake boil, waves whipping in the furious winds that bent saplings almost double, even ancient trees protesting. The whole house creaked and groaned, making Giulia wonder whether it was just her superior hearing or if the storm really was so violent it sounded like the house might be ripped off its foundations at any moment.
"Hey, Spencer, I just heard from your dad," Giulia said, glancing over at the little boy. "He's been called into the Sheriff's Department to help out, so we get to keep you 'til the storm passes!"
"Is Dad gonna be okay?" Spencer asked, through his smile, and Giulia nodded.
"Yeah, he'll be fine, kiddo, your dad's tough," Giulia assured him, smiling as she cupped his face in her hands affectionately. Spencer smiled, but winced anxiously. "Hey…it's alright if you're afraid of the storm." Spencer glanced up at her almost guiltily, wringing his hands, and Giulia watched him carefully; he looked worried. "Spencer?"
"Do you think Mommy's okay?" he asked, wincing, as another wave thrashed across the deck. Enzo caught Giulia's eye, as he mixed fresh egg pasta dough at the island; on the long sectional sofa, Fabian reached for Simba, prowling along the back of the sofa, and cradled him in his arms like a baby, soothing the young cat. He shot Giulia a sombre look.
"I'm sure she'll be fine, Spencer," Giulia told him softly. "She won't be out in this storm. Why don't you go give Enzo a hand; he needs some muscle to knead his pasta dough." She stroked his cheek tenderly, and Enzo summoned him over with a wave of doughy fingers. Giulia didn't particularly care how Hayley Marshall weathered the storm, if she was even still in town; only that she was nowhere near Spencer. And it was a testament to Spencer's character that he still worried about his mother. But it worried Giulia that Hayley still had that hold over him: Was it his natural goodness, or Hayley's conditioning?
The lights flickered, and Zita sidled up to Giulia, reaching for her hand, as they were plunged into gloom. Giulia sighed, as every other electronic device turned off. The sudden quiet was startling; she had become so accustomed to the constant hum of power surging through the house.
"Well, that's the power out," Enzo sighed.
"Zita, Spencer, go around the house and unplug everything," Giulia said, and Spencer took Zita's hand to lead her around the house. "I'll go get the camping stove."
"I'll get the candles," Enzo murmured, but Fabian glanced up from Simba, purring deeply in his arms, and sighed softly; every candle in the room flickered to life at once. Giulia gazed around, and smiled.
"Witches," she murmured, as Fabian continued to stroke Simba's ears contentedly, and wandered into the garage. She laughed softly to herself as she reached for the light-switch on instinct: She sighed, and focused her senses, peeling the darkness away like a film, allowing her to see the garage. Zita's nearly-completed go-kart rested in a parking-bay beside Enzo's vintage Ferrari, on old newspaper leaves covered in paint and glitter: Purple, fuchsia and black glitters had been mixed together and dumped liberally over the freshly-painted dark-purple hood of the car. The Devil Dog cake cushions were ready to be slotted inside for the seat, a pretzel steering wheel fresh from the oven with a sparkling red gumdrop centre rested beside the kart, ready to be attached. The scent of freshly-baked clay drew her eye to the counter, where colourful, glazed sprinkles and stars were ready to be glued on. She had planned to do that this evening.
Instead, she found her tried-and-true Kadak camping-stove, candles and spare batteries for flashlights and carried everything back into the living-room, where the children were gathered looking a little lost.
Even though the storm raged around them, they made it fun. Giulia had the kids trying to build a blanket-fort, and they set themselves up inside - once they had a stable structure that wouldn't topple on them; it took a few attempts, and some hints from Giulia. With books and cards and the little dogs tucked inside with them, the children's giggles were muffled, their shadows flickering across the blankets as they played.
It was incredible how a few feet of cotton could hold back a storm. The flimsy material formed walls of protection no storm could penetrate; they were safe inside their fort.
By the time Giulia coaxed them out to help make lunch, they were settled, happy. The storm raged around them, but they didn't take any notice. They taught the kids how to make a hearty minestrone soup on the camping-stove, taking turns stirring, Spencer working carefully on his knife-skills with Enzo's supervision, both of them taking a turn to knead dough for fresh focaccia cooked on the camping-stove in a skillet. After lunch, Fabian lit a fire in the living-room hearth, and Giulia brought out her sewing-box, curling up to him as she sewed Zita's Halloween costume by hand; Enzo poured them a glass of red wine each, put on a long-playing opera record - Puccini's Tosca featuring Maria Callas - and he and Fabian played backgammon.
Though the storm raged, inside, it was peaceful. Everything slowed down, forced to enjoy each other's company. After dinner, they played card-games with the children, and Zita climbed onto the piano-bench; Fabian accompanied her on the cello. At bedtime, after Enzo wheedled Giulia on their behalf, the children brought their pillows and duvets downstairs, tucking themselves inside their fort. Enzo disappeared with a glass of Barolo Chinato; Giulia finished her port, and when Fabian had finished his Armagnac, they blew out the last of the candles, Giulia kissed the sleeping children, and they made their way up to bed.
They had had a good day.
"I don't like it."
"You have said so…repeatedly," Elijah said, neatening the cards in his hand.
"And it is becoming tedious," Lagertha added, pulling a face at Kol, as she gently tossed a cocktail shaker: Kol had been teaching her. "Have a drink."
"Come and play cards with us," Gyda coaxed, smiling brightly at Kol.
"The ritual sacrifices!" Kol exclaimed, turning away from the window being pelted with rain, the room illuminated with lightning. The storm had been sudden, and violent, and was lingering. "Our walk through the woods yesterday - the coven slaughtered at the exact same location where the white oak once stood? And now this storm."
"Yes, they happen, Kol. Particularly in autumn, I've heard," Elijah said tartly, though he himself was unsettled by the violence of this particular storm.
"Elijah, don't patronise me," Kol snapped, and Elijah glanced up at his cousin, raising an eyebrow. It took a lot to get Kol truly worked up, so it was significant when he was. "You feel it as I do! This is no mere storm!"
"Of course I feel it," Elijah admitted impatiently - he hated waiting for the hammer to fall - "but there is little I can do about it; so come and play cards."
"You're not worried?"
"Of course I am, but as I have said, there is little to be done," Elijah said reasonably, and that seemed to annoy Kol even more. "Not until we know what all of this is for. We know Mikael has orchestrated the sacrifices; whatever he is planning, he will not wait long before he reveals himself to us - but only when he believes he holds all the cards."
"Elijah…he does hold all the cards!" Kol blurted.
"You're wrong," Elijah said softly. "We have one advantage we have never before enjoyed."
"Powerful enough to stop Mikael?" Kol said exasperatedly.
"We know the truth," Elijah said softly. "We know why Mikael has hounded us - Niklaus - for centuries. Now that we know the truth, that Niklaus has tormented and abused us, used us for centuries to be the shield between him and Father - is there anything that will stop you having your vengeance on Niklaus? He murdered Ástríðr a thousand years ago; how fresh are the wounds Niklaus has inflicted upon us, how deep? Will you surrender him to Father's justice? I will not be content to know Niklaus was dealt a swift, merciful death. His suffering must be as enduring as our own has been. Sit. Play cards. Think of all the creative ways you will punish Niklaus."
"I really see it, you know, I do," Kol muttered, frowning as he sighed heavily, throwing himself into an armchair; he accepted the cocktail Lagertha had made for him. "You and Giulia… She asked me the very same thing a decade ago; you were daggered in a box, and she had a pint of Niklaus' blood. She wanted my opinion on how best to torment Niklaus without him realising it had anything to do with someone wreaking their own vengeance on him." He shook his hand, and Elijah smiled as he laid down his hand.
"I adore that woman," he said softly, as Gyda and Lagertha both groaned in annoyance at his winning hand.
"So why have you not pursued her?" Gyda asked curiously, dealing Kol into the next round.
"Her husband has returned," Elijah said softly, and Gyda and Lagertha exchanged a quick look.
"Husbands are not such an obstacle," Lagertha remarked, and Elijah made a noncommittal noise as he examined his cards.
"Especially not those who are dying," he said, and again, Lagertha and Gyda exchanged a speaking glance.
"He's…"
"Dying, yes," Elijah clarified. "Giulia's husband is dying. Apparently this is why he has returned to her. Fabian Seydoux has returned because he is dying."
"Fabian Seydoux is Giulia's husband?" Gyda gaped. "The Ever-Knowing - ?!"
"Indeed," Elijah said gruffly, motioning for another card as he slid one of his across the table.
"So…all you have to do is wait," Kol said, verbalising what neither of the others would, because - well, it was…a delicate subject.
"You have such a way with words, Kol," Gyda said, rolling her eyes.
"He is not wrong," Elijah admitted, sighing as he rearranged his cards. "Abhorrent as the comparison to a vulture anticipating a meal from a fresh carcass may be, there is some truth to the statement that I need only wait… And as you know, I am a very patient man."
"And then there is Giulia's daughter," Lagertha said, gazing at Elijah over her cards, her eyes glinting like sapphires. "A mother's love for her child comes before all else. You will always be second to Zita, as long as Giulia lives. You must be willing to adjust to the fact that you will not be first and foremost in Giulia's life."
"Little adjustment required. That is exactly as it should be," Elijah said softly, glancing at Gyda. In the candlelight, she looked so like Elijah it was eerie; it was all in the cheekbones, in her beautiful jawline. But her mother shone through, in the shape of her eyes and her luscious lips, her daintier nose.
As a young man, as a husband, Elijah had known there was nothing he would not do to protect Torvi, his wife. The moment he held newborn Gyda in his arms for the very first time, he knew he would throw Torvi onto any enemy's blade to protect their daughter. As Torvi would have him.
He knew how fiercely Giulia loved her friends. He wondered how many heartbeats Giulia would consider, before throwing Caroline into the line of fire to protect Zita.
There was nothing to compare to a parents' love for their children.
He had been disappointed before, by parents who did not place their children above all else. And he knew Giulia had, too: He had seen how fiercely she protected Spencer Lockwood, and knew she had severed all ties with Elena the moment she had chosen vampirism over her own flesh and blood.
It occurred to Elijah, as he climbed into bed, alone, that he was perfectly happy to place his siblings in danger to protect Giulia and her daughter.
He didn't sleep that night, and it had nothing to do with the storm raging outside.
"Why is this taking so damn long?"
The young woman sighed, biting her tongue; with her fiancé's life threatened, she would do her part…but those who were not witches could never truly appreciate the complexities of magic, and all it required.
"Silence," Mikael murmured, not looking at the blustering, impatient, arrogant human reeking of anger and intolerance. The large, watery-eyed male fell silent, bristling at taking orders from a vampire; but he uttered no other sound - too afraid of his mild manners, his reputation.
"I apologise for this…ill-mannered ape," Mikael murmured calmly, approaching the young woman with her sheet of shimmering blonde hair, so like Ástríðr when they had first met. The young woman was very beautiful - and incredibly talented. He saw a great deal of his sons in her, as she wove her spells. "There was a time when witches were revered as goddesses, when even the youngest were respected for their gifts… In this age of instant gratification, the virtue of patience has all but disappeared. There is no appreciation for the fine art that is the craft. Take your time, my dear; for this is an exquisitely convoluted spell, and I would have it done correctly."
"I have studied this spell for weeks now," Ashlyn murmured. "You are certain there can be no lasting repercussions?"
"My dear…I had it designed so specifically," Mikael assured her. She smelled like freshly baked pastries and ripe fruit, and Mikael sighed, breathing in the wholesome, homey scents he had never experienced in his human life, yet was thrown back to memories full of nostalgia. A brutal time when his family had been whole, his wife vibrant with power, his children strong, independent.
To see what the bastard's abuse had done to his fierce children over the centuries…deplorable. His ferocious daughters, his wise, patient, ruthless sons - they had all the makings of true leaders, of legends… He admitted his part in mis-creating them into vampires; but that they never lived up to their potential…that was the bastard, who feared anyone being superior to him in anything, though he was, and he knew it, the runt of the litter. He had not Ejnar's charisma, patience and leadership, his deeply nurturing nature, his decisiveness or ability to form enduring, earnest bonds of friendship; nor Finn's quiet strength and resilience; Lagertha's hard-earned wisdom and ferocity, her compassion or hard-working nature; Isak's talent and humour; Willem's goodness and decency; nor Ragnfrid's unfettered joy and ability to love; or Gyda's sense of responsibility toward her siblings, her deeply nurturing nature, her creativity, her delight and untiring wonder of the world around her.
The whelp was always striving, always starving - for attention, for love, for the respect he saw his siblings earn, their friendships he destroyed out of petty jealousy, brutally murdering their lovers out of pure vindictiveness. He would rather put daggers in his siblings' hearts and bury their bodies out of sight than face up to the reality that he did so because he knew, in whatever cold, shrivelled, black fragment of a heart he had left, that he was inadequate.
There was always a runt in every litter. But this one was clever, manipulative and vindictive - and he blamed Mikael, of course, for being so.
Mikael had raised the whelp no differently than he had every other child Ástríðr had blessed him with; even as a boy, he had been petulant, selfish and lazy, and it was that, not his paternity, that had always infuriated Mikael. They had been migrant settlers in a strange land where every man, woman and child contributed to their survival: Niklaus had shirked his responsibilities to the farm, flouted the laws laid down for their safety, and luxuriated in being needlessly nasty to everyone, tormenting Finn by bedding the girl he admired, wheedling and provoking Ragnfrid…leading Henrik to his death…
Henrik. His youngest, who might have grown to be the strongest of them, serious and dutiful even as a boy, wiser than his older brother, considerate and untiring in his duties, curious and diligent…dead, for a fuck. He had followed Niklaus out into the woods on the night of the full-moon, to drag him back to the Jarlshall, and safety - Niklaus had met the slave-girl they had taken during a skirmish with their neighbours. Henrik had died for lust.
And after Henrik, everything toppled, the life they had spent so long building, the peace the enjoyed so precarious… Ejnar's wife had died in childbed, her infant too, the baby already at her breast following swiftly…and then the war had started, the plague had struck…the survivors of the skirmishes had been struck down - Ejnar had nearly died, the only thing keeping him from Valhalla his only surviving child, Gyda… Lagertha's surviving children had died of the plague. Ástríðr had sacrificed slaves…they had fought…and then, they had fallen.
Niklaus had triggered it all, the destruction of their home, the deaths of their family. Ejnar, who lost his wife and six children. Lagertha, who had burned the children she had fought so hard to carry. And yet Niklaus would have them all believe he was the victim?
They had all suffered for Niklaus' selfishness, long before they became vampires. Turning their children into vampires had only served to give Niklaus a thousand years to abuse his siblings for his own shortcomings.
It would end, now.
"You can be assured," Mikael murmured to Ashlyn, his only living descendant, "Niklaus alone shall dread what is to come."
"I have your word?" Ashlyn asked, her eyes so blue, so guileless. It was not in her nature to be duplicitous, vengeful: She acted on his behalf out of dread for her fiancé's life, not the burning hatred that compelled the others in the room to pursue the deaths of the Originals to their own ends. "Elijah raised me: I won't let you use me to hurt him."
Mikael smiled softly. "Such loyalty to the monster of legends," he said, almost teasingly.
"Elijah's not a monster," Ashlyn said, her sparkling eyes sliding to the side to glance at the others gathered restlessly, the last of a zealous hate-group. "He raised me. He's a good man. And you want to kill him."
"I assure you, my dear, I have no wish to kill my firstborn son," Mikael said honestly. "You see…I owe it to my children to make things right."
"Can we get on with this?" the watery-eyed male asked, loudly and rudely.
Mikael glanced at his last living descendant, who sighed, dusting off her hands, and nodded, turning her eyes away as Mikael reached for his axe.
And made Bill Forbes the last sacrifice, strangling him with a garrotte, slicing open his throat, and puncturing the back of his skull with a single brutal hit of a short axe. Swift and efficient; the torches guttering and hissing in the torrential rains - yet never dousing, for they were fuelled by magic - flared brightly in defiance of the storm.
"And you can be assured, my dear…that no matter what is to occur, the life of your fiancé is protected," Mikael murmured, setting his axe down, as the torrential rain washed Bill Forbes' blood away, concealing the death-rattle and gurgle of blood. "And you…as my only living, natural descendant… It has been my honour."
Ashlyn looked startled, as if she wasn't quite sure what to do with this courteous, soft-spoken vampire who bowed his head to her in deference.
She cleared her throat. "Once the spell is complete, you will wake. I just need to channel your power long enough, as an anchor for all the rest," she told him, and Mikael nodded as he stripped out of his jacket and pressed shirt and tie, all sodden from the rain; he draped the jacket around Ashlyn's shoulders, noticing her shivering. No-one ever suspected a quiet, well-dressed man, as Ejnar well knew; it was Niklaus, swaggering about in his leather jackets and bad attitude that screamed danger. And therein lay the advantage: No-one suspected that Ejnar, his firstborn, and his strongest, was the greater threat. He was too often underestimated, and yet that was an advantage in itself, one Mikael utilised as a weapon: He was calm and considerate - until he wasn't.
He lay down amid the symbols and spells already prepared by Ashlyn, who approached with a wicked blade, and a grimace: He smiled, chuckling softly to himself, thinking that Ástríðr would be amused to see their great-granddaughter so squeamish about carving him up, even out of necessity. It gave her no pleasure to inflict pain, however temporary, however necessary - and that was the difference between Mikael's world and this one.
Better a swift, brutal lesson than a painful, lingering death.
Still, she did it. Carved the wicked symbols into his flesh, using his blood to bind the spell she wove so meticulously, following every line in the grimoire as if it was one of her recipes.
He had endured pain beyond pain; this was barely a tickle. Yet he found himself thinking of other things as the Order shifted restlessly, and Ashlyn hummed and murmured spells as if they were songs. Curious about his one living descendant, Mikael had made her café in town one of his frequent haunts, before all the nastiness with threats and blackmail and ancient spells: She had a gift for flavours, and a knack for making everyone feel welcomed in her presence, in what was essentially her home. People gathered to her, like bees to wildflowers; it was…disarming, to see what his last living descendant had made of her life, and had made him reflect, as he savoured decadent tarts and rich coffee and hearty savoury dishes, on what his children might have been. What they could have. Mikael remembered enough of Gyda to see in Ashlyn all of Ejnar's best qualities, handed down and nurtured. Charismatic, personable, strong-willed, considerate, wise, nurturing and warm, protective of those she loved - willing to endure anything for their safety.
His thoughts came sluggishly and incoherent as the spell snapped into place and darkness lulled him to rest, an unfamiliar exhaustion pulling him down.
The storm broke just before dawn.
The sudden calm was perhaps more unnerving than the wrathful storm, and it woke Kol, blistered from drink: He staggered to the window, parting the curtains, and blinked out at the bright, flawless silver-blue sky.
All was calm.
But the storm had happened; evidence of it was everywhere as they ventured into town. Power-lines were down, as were trees; gardens were waterlogged, houses damaged; and the river had flooded, tearing away an historic wooden bridge.
Whatever the sacrifices had been for, their power had been channelled during the storm.
The calm now meant the spells had been successful, whatever they were. It meant there was a balance, now; the vacuum he had dreaded was now gone. Everything was settled.
And he could not remain as calm as Elijah. Not when they knew Mikael had everything to do with this, and that…it had something to do with the white oak they had burned a millennium ago, the sacred triangle Ástríðr had channelled so often for her spells.
She woke to the quiet, and the scent of copper.
Blood soaked Fabian's pillowcase, dripping sluggishly from his eyes, nose, ears and mouth, his muscles seized so tightly she worried bones would break.
Of the seizures she had witnessed, this was the worst - by far.
And there was nothing to be done. Nothing but tuck towels under his head to absorb the blood, and resist the urge to call 9-1-1, when medicine could do nothing for Fabian.
It fell to her: She climbed out of bed, pulled on some clothes, and did her best to take care of Fabian. Did her utmost to resist the urge to dive into his head, and see what had provoked this, worst seizure - but she knew, standing at the window, watching the silver-steel sky, the calm lake shimmering in dawn light, that whatever the sacrifices had been for, the power had been channelled last night, during the storm. The storm had broken: And whatever that power had been channelled for, it was so significant that Fabian's visions had struck him like a freight-train, so violently he bled from the severity of his visions.
Something had occurred last night that had changed the course of the future.
A.N.: A bit choppy, but I think I'm a bit pooped after writing the last chapter!
