A.N.: Hi everyone, thank you so much for the reviews! Happy Friday!
Resurgam
48
Schisms In My Opinion Are Not Good
"What are you doing?"
"Writing a letter to Zara," Giulia said, glancing up at Enzo, who peered closer at Giulia's letter, which was handwritten and full of little drawings, doodles, Twitter-like snippets of conversations with Zita transcribed within decorative frames, and pressed flowers and recipes. Years ago, she and Zara had made a pact to write letters to each other - leaving treats, like the secret post-office in Little Women. Zara's letters always had such a delicious flourish; she should have been an entertainer, or a teacher. Showmanship was a big part of Zara's whacky, gorgeous, vibrant personality. "She likes to receive things in the mail…you know, except for bills."
Enzo's eyes scanned Giulia's letter. "To read it, Zara would never know what's actually going on here."
"I'd rather celebrate the positives," Giulia said delicately, gazing at her letter. No, she hadn't detailed the devastating decline in Fabian's mental acuity, or her own exhaustion. Only that Zita had broken up with one of her boyfriends because, to quote, "He wants babies: I just want to play music and eat dessert." Fair enough. Giulia had added some of the recipes she and Enzo were using for Friendsgiving this year; some new children's-book recommendations for Zara to share with Noah when she got to babysit; and detailed the saga that was Spencer's first appointment with an orthodontist; and a play-by-play of Zita's first ever soccer goal - an avid soccer-player herself, and one of the ways she had gained a full-ride to Tulane, Zara would appreciate Giulia's epic narrative and the accompanying little diagrams detailing the play - Zita had scored in spite of running off the field at one point to give Spencer a hug and a kiss when she spotted him waiting on the side-lines with Giulia. As was their custom, she shared her go-to lipstick, her favourite song or album of the moment and the books she was currently working her way through. And, for a Friendsgiving treat, Giulia had created a crossword just for Zara: She loved games and quizzes and activities, sports and words. She was a vibrant, athletic, girly-girl with a down-to-earth nature and unbreakable positivity that inspired Giulia. She was also a Disney fanatic, born with glitter in her veins: Giulia's crossword was Disney villain themed. They used to squabble over the newspaper crosswords: Tyler used to photocopy them so Giulia and Zara could each complete it at their own pace.
It was one of the many memories that Giulia kept going back to, the vibrant everyday of her life in New Orleans, wonderful and relaxed, creative and content, inspired and productive. The things she greatly missed from her life in Mystic Falls. The little things, and…some of the bigger things. The people she missed, the opportunities of a sprawling community, the culture of an ever-changing city so deeply rooted in rich tradition, a place unlike any other on the continent.
She had been her happiest in New Orleans. She had been at her most creative, her most content, her most relaxed, and yet the place that excited her the most, the place she knew she could have stayed and be fulfilled by her lifestyle there, surrounded by true friends.
True friends were dwindling around here. Mystic Falls seemed to be getting smaller and smaller, and Giulia, never known to be claustrophobic, was starting to struggle to catch her breath.
"Well, the ravioli's done," Enzo sighed, "want to come out and play for a little while?"
"I'll be out in a minute," she said quietly, and Enzo nodded: He had had the kids distracted, teaching them how to make pumpkin ravioli, one of the starters for their Friendsgiving feast tomorrow.
Replacing Thanksgiving, which to Giulia's mind promoted the celebration of imperialism, passive-aggressive biological genocide and rampant consumerism with Black Friday's prominence, not to mention the emphasis on the traditional family which, for an orphan, was just downright depressing. Caroline had thought up Friendsgiving, deciding that their November break from school would be the chance for them all to gather and celebrate their friendship - Christmas or Hanukkah or whatever was celebrated in December was a time for family, but Thanksgiving became Friendsgiving, and was devoted to their friendship.
It was Giulia and Enzo's turn to host this year, taking over from what should have been Matt and Elena's year: And going over her guest-list, the omissions she had chosen to make were significant.
She left her letter to finish after Friendsgiving, and went to join Enzo for a half-glass of red wine, watching the kids cuddle and enjoy a hot-chocolate while they read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in front of the fire before bedtime. It hadn't been a bad day, but even when Fabian suffered no seizures, Giulia was still exhausted by his confusion. It was getting worse: Most days he forgot who she was, except for a few glimmering heartbeats, and those were most devastating of all, because he remembered, and he knew how badly he was deteriorating, and could see the toll it was taking on her.
One of those times came that night, just before bed. She sighed, staring at herself in the mirror and the delicate purple bruises under her eyes from lack of sleep and constant worry that even the most stringent skincare routine wouldn't help. Her constant state of stress and upset, on the verge of tears most days recently, hungry, made sense as she found spotting in her underwear; she had gotten her period, as she always did just once, this time of the year.
She had gotten her period. And she didn't know how she felt about that. Before his rapid deterioration - thanks to resurrected witches and murdered Original vampires - they had been having sex regularly: She had missed her husband, she had missed having sex.
And she had decided that whatever happened would happen: She wasn't going to be upset…
She gave her reflection one last miserable glance, and exited the bathroom, traipsing toward the bed illuminated with soft golden lamplight, as she braided her hair away from her face. Fabian's dark eyes followed her solemnly, already resting against his pillows, Simba purring in his lap.
"Why do you look so sad?" he asked her gently, as she sat down on the bed, fiddling with things on her bedside cabinet.
Her voice hoarse, she said, "I got my period." Until it had happened, she hadn't realised how much she…hadn't wanted it to happen. She hadn't been trying to get pregnant, of course, their situation at the moment was far from ideal, but…she would've been thrilled if it had happened.
She heard Fabian sigh, as she took off her rings and put on some hand-cream, her eyes burning slightly, because she knew, she knew…she wouldn't get another chance. Not with Fabian. He would be dead before the time was right again for her to get pregnant. He reached out, gently kneading her shoulders, a gentle, comforting touch that made her eyes burn even more.
"What would you have named it?" he asked gently, reading her so well.
"Alexander," she admitted softly, her voice throaty, as she glanced over her shoulder to smile sadly at Fabian. "Thomas or Giovanni, for a boy. Something…timeless and elegant for a girl."
"I didn't know you were hoping for another child," Fabian murmured, his dark eyes tracing over her face lovingly, as if he worried he'd forget what she looked like…again. When he remembered her, he was aware that there were times he didn't.
"I wasn't," Giulia said quietly, shaking her head, but she worried her lower-lip. It would have been wonderful… "But I - I wouldn't have minded. I just… I don't want Zita to be alone."
Fabian's eyes glazed over subtly, but he gave Giulia a soft smile, "She won't be."
Giulia sighed miserably, and cuddled up to him, giving Simba a stroke. "I hate this time of year."
"It is an orphan's unhappiest time of year," Fabian murmured, and Giulia nodded against his chest, cramping and miserable, and aware that she was hosting Friendsgiving tomorrow, that her pool of invitees was getting smaller - and she wasn't unhappy about that, as much as she was unhappy in this place.
She was due another phone-call with Marcel: Fabian's arrival had put a hold on their plans, but if Marcel was truly serious about working with her he would wait. He wanted the thing done well, and to the best advantages of the people in his city he loved so much: He wanted Giulia, but he respected that some things were beyond her control. She had already told him that she couldn't make it down to the bayou before the summer at the earliest, and that was only to settle the business side of things in Mystic Falls, and find the best school for Zita in New Orleans. But that was before Fabian.
Marcel was a brave guy - a gorgeously non-toxic alpha-male who was gooey and soft to those who knew him well: Last time they had talked, Giulia had cried. Because she didn't know…she didn't know when it was going to happen, only that it would. That awful day was coming. Her husband's tragic life would be snuffed out. One day, soon, he would not recover from one of his seizures. She worried that one day she would wake to find him, not bleeding and seizing, but dead. And sometimes, a tiny part of her was angry that she would: It reminded her all too much of her dad.
And it wasn't fair that she had found him.
It wasn't fair that she had to watch Fabian die.
This wasn't what she had ever envisioned her life would be.
But she wouldn't take it back. She wouldn't change it. For all the pain Fabian was causing her now, he had given her Zita. And she would endure a lot to luxuriate in that tiny girl's smile, listen to her playing her compositions, picking up the cello just as intimately and exquisitely as she had the piano, watch her running around a field swarming a soccer-ball like a hive of bumblebees, breathless and grinning, her curls wild, grass-stains on her elbows from falling, and picking herself up every time, with a smile and a wave of reassurance to Giulia that she was okay, cuddling the little girl who had bloodied her lip during their last game when the ball smacked her in the face. That was the gorgeous child she was raising; and nothing, not even Fabian's health or Elijah's presence, was worth Zita's life.
She just wished Zita could share her life with someone.
Especially when she saw how happy Zita was the next day, with Spencer, playing with baby Grayson, who arrived with Matt, Rose and Finn. Mason arrived after his shift at the Sheriff's Department, and it was a rare treat soon to be often repeated to see Liz out of her Sheriff's uniform, badge and gun, arriving with Caroline, who carried a baking-sheet on which she had creatively combined eight different desserts into one bake, still warm from the oven. She had made S'mores pie, peanut-butter blondies, Rocky Road cookies, pumpkin pie, lemon bars, apple pie, praline brownies and spiced apple cake with caramel frosting - it was a masterpiece, and rested to the side, tempting the little ones, as Giulia and Enzo finished their Friendsgiving feast, Italian-style.
It was late-November: It was a cool but bright day, everything gleaming, the stubborn foliage along the lakeshore vibrant as flames, the waves on the lake choppy, the water steel-grey, but the sky was clear as blue-grey crystal, not a cloud to be seen. It was cold, though, even with the sun shining: and after a long walk with all the kids and all the dogs and even Fabian, tenderly holding Giulia's hand as they took their time meandering around the lake, they sat down to a feast spread out on the dining-table. Braised short-ribs, chicken cacciatore, butternut squash and spinach lasagne, pea and parmesan risotto arancini, and Giulia's favourite, mushroom ragu with cheesy polenta, her favourite simple, wintry evening meal, light but filling, vegetarian, savoury and utterly delicious. For dessert, there was Caroline's smorgasbord of desserts, but also a blueberry crisp, and pears baked with cranberries, honey and pecans.
It was raucous and joyful, and everything an orphan kid yearned for in the holiday-season: The laughter was irrepressible, the conversations vibrant, and Giulia's table was groaning with food, but the dishes quickly emptied, replaced by board-games, card-games, playing Categories; the kids started a jigsaw-puzzle in front of the fire while they listened to music, cuddling with the dogs - before long, Zita was fast-asleep in Enzo's lap as he drank red wine and played chess with Finn, chatting with Rose about the Renaissance, absinthe and Molière, as Rose and Finn held hands and sipped wine. Fabian had a quiet conversation with Caroline and Liz about travelling southern Africa by motorbike; and Giulia joined Spencer and Mason in the study where they had commandeered her laptop to Face-Time with Carol, who was enjoying a vibrant Friendsgiving in the Big Easy with Tyler and Zara - Tyler had adopted Caroline's Friendsgiving and continued it in the Crescent City, with his and Zara's friends and many of their neighbours, a lot of whom Giulia recognised and was friends with herself, especially Ellory and Owen, who lived in the next-but-one shotgun house beside Tyler and Zara's and brought the party wherever they were.
The old man who lived in the rundown shotgun-house between them had died recently; Giulia had discreetly purchased the house after it had gone through probate, already thinking ahead, and Marcel had taken that as a positive sign of Giulia's intent to commit to moving her family to Louisiana - though of course, she already had several properties in the city, as investments. She hadn't told anyone else, yet, about the possibility of moving, not even Caroline. Zara was already a few frozen banana daiquiris deep: She was either likely to spontaneously combust from excitement or burst into tears at the news. It was a holiday, after all. Nothing said family fun during the holidays like tears and tantrums!
They had none, that Friendsgiving: It was a deeply relaxed, cosy day, full of games and conversations - people talking to each other, having fun, laughing. The television didn't go on, nobody slinked off to watch the game: They lived in the moment, enjoying each other's company.
For this, Giulia thought, observing the people gathered in her home, celebrating their friendship, I am truly grateful.
Her phone pinged, but it wasn't until the last guest had left and she was getting ready for bed that she checked it: A photograph, a selfie, of Kol, Willem, Lagertha, Gyda, Rebekah and Elijah, sharing cocktails and beaming. From Elijah. The text that accompanied it simply read: Thank you for my family xx E.
She took the day as a win all around, and sank into one of her best night's sleep in weeks.
"You're certain about this?"
"Yes," Ástríðr nodded calmly, and Elijah flicked a glance at Kol for reassurance.
Thanksgiving was over; while the rest of the continent digested, or battled it out instore for Black Friday deals, they had three days until normality resumed and Elijah and the girls were due back in school. Sheila had enjoyed Thanksgiving traditions with her granddaughter and her children, and had agreed that the timing was right to help Ástríðr do what she needed: Neither had any real idea how long it might take.
And Elijah was by no means an expert in spells. He had some basic knowledge, and a genuine appreciation and respect for the craft that stemmed a great deal from self-preservation, but he could not look at the symbols and candles and salt lines and trinkets and talismans and specific combinations of herbs and read their meaning as Kol could. It was not that he distrusted Ástríðr; he just had a healthy sense of caution where magic was concerned. He was reliant on others to decipher its meanings and intent - and he had been bitten far too many times not to be cautious.
The air was thick with the scent of herbs, fragrant smoke, and the house seemed to be humming with power. This was, Elijah remembered, the location at which a hundred witches had been massacred centuries ago. That power had been returned to the earth when Giulia and Sheila had stripped Bonnie's magic from her: And he felt it, the fine hairs prickling at the back of his neck. They had lived in symbiosis with the witch-spirits for months, barely even noticing them, but for the thriving parterres, and throwing Isak around if he was violent toward the house. The spirits liked Giulia, seemed to know it was her house, and would suffer no damages to it.
Now, Elijah wondered if they were on-board with this plan, if, perhaps, the spirits might tell their friends beyond the veil about the Original witch looking to perfect what had gone wrong a thousand years ago…how long would it take for information of what they were doing to disseminate?
"Explain this for me, again," he said politely, and Ástríðr glanced over, candles igniting behind her with a thought.
"The only way to discover what truly happened the night you all became vampires is to go back, and relive it," Ástríðr said patiently. "As a witch, Professor Bennett can enter my memory, and she can scry within it for traces of magic not my own. I am certain there was interference of some kind, if not in my runes then in my potion, even the slightest change in one choice of herb would have had a devastating consequence… We will all slip into slumber: While Professor Bennett will enter my mind, she will draw upon you to channel the power she will need to investigate thoroughly every aspect of that night."
"And…Professor Bennett, you know what to look for?"
"Your mother an' I have discussed what she intended," Professor Bennett said, glancing at Ástríðr with something like respect glinting in her eyes. "Without everything written in a grimoire it'll take me some time to investigate every aspect of the spell your mother created, and pick apart where it all went wrong. But I'll find it."
"You are certain you can?" Kol asked, and Elijah glanced at Gyda and Lagertha and Willem, their gazes as glazed as he felt his was as the discussion between Kol, Ástríðr and Professor Bennett became magically technical. It was clear Kol knew what he was talking about; and Professor Bennett hid any surprise she might have felt that an Original vampire had such an intimate understanding of magic.
"Professor, you know you don't have to do this," Gyda remarked, watching the elderly woman carefully. Next to Professor Bennett, Gyda looked especially young.
"Oh, I want to," Professor Bennett said enthusiastically, which was news to Elijah: But then, his mother had been talking on the phone to Professor Bennett every day, for hours on end. Ástríðr's knowledge of magic was extraordinary, of course; but then, so was Professor Bennett's. She had ties to New Orleans through her daddy and one did not become a professor of the Occult without putting in a good deal of hard-work and research into the subject. Ástríðr had not had opportunity to talk to anyone for a thousand years; to be able to discuss magic so intimately with someone as knowledgeable and intuitive as Professor Bennett? An especial treat, on top of spending time with her children. "How many opportunities have I had in my life like this, to investigate the creation of a species?"
"Fair point," Gyda said.
"Besides, I warned your daddy; you're gon' be doin' all the hard work," Professor Bennett said gently, "so there's no need to be frettin' about me, baby." It was strange to hear Gyda referred to as 'baby' when she was exponentially older than the wizened Professor; but there was something so inherently youthful and good in Gyda, even Elijah sometimes forgot that she was as old as she was. She wasn't immature; she had just never lost her wonder of the world around her. And she genuinely cared about people; she would be concerned that this ritual might put too much strain on the older witch.
"Come," Ástríðr said gently, "we must begin. Neither of us can know how long Professor Bennett will need to explore my memories, and if you need to be prepared for school on Monday morning…"
"Who will speak the safe-word?" Kol asked, reading several runes painted on the thick muslin drop-cloths borrowed from Giulia, used to protect the floors when she painted the walls of her renovated homes.
"As soon as I figure out what's needed in your momma's memory, I'll speak the word and draw us all out of our slumber," Professor Bennett said calmly.
"And…if it takes longer than these three days?" Elijah asked. He was not keen on missing even a day of school; he enjoyed teaching, as much as he disliked the idea of being seen to be unreliable by his colleagues. Still, some things could not be helped: He had already alerted Alaric Saltzman to what was happening: He was just happy Ashlyn was no longer involved. She was engaged to his nephew by marriage, after all.
"Well, perhaps we should tell someone what we're doing," Kol said, glancing at Elijah, who was already pulling his phone out of his inside jacket-pocket, composing a text.
If I do not text you by Sunday evening, please could you come to the witch-house? Professor Bennett is helping my mother with a spell; they will be channelling myself, Kol, Willem, Lagertha and Gyda. To wake us, simply say the words -
"What is the safe-word?" Elijah asked, glancing up at Professor Bennett.
"Muddy Waters rocks," Professor Bennett said, and Elijah chuckled softly to himself as he finished his text, and Gyda grinned at the professor. He sent the text to Giulia, who alone he trusted to keep what she saw in the house to herself in the event she had to come and wake them.
"And how do we ensure no-one sabotages the spell while we are all unconscious?" Willem asked sensibly.
"I will create a boundary, preventing anyone from entering the house while the spell is in progress," Ástríðr said softly.
"Except for Giulia," Elijah said. "I have asked her to wake us if I do not send her a message before Sunday evening."
"Very well," Ástríðr nodded. "Finn will be staying at the Boarding House, with Rose; and Rebekah has decided to stay at your brother's house."
"Yes. Elena Gilbert is still having trouble settling in," Kol said, rolling his eyes impatiently.
"Whatever the case, it does provide opportunity for us," Ástríðr said. "Let us not linger. Come… You must be put into a mystical sleep first, so that we may channel your power unhindered; I shall go under next, after taking a draught we created earlier; and Professor Bennett, you know what you must do."
"I know," Professor Bennett nodded, and she settled herself comfortably in a squashy armchair that Willem had carried into the foyer for her, protected in her unconscious state within a circle of salt crushed with herbs. Ástríðr handed her a teacup filled with delicately blushing liquid, herbs floating in it, but Elijah's nose twitched at the scent, which was closer to sulphuric. "You know, putting it in a pretty teacup won't make it taste any sweeter."
"Sadly not," Ástríðr sighed, eyeing her own teacup grimly. "Now, each of you lie down…" Elijah grimaced, but just as suddenly as he felt the sting of pain above his heart where Ástríðr carved something with a slender blade, the pain stopped, blackness swallowing him up. Desiccating, but less painfully than he had ever experienced. He wondered briefly how his mother did it - marvelling that even now, she was doing her utmost to alleviate their pain…
She turned to Lagertha, at last, and carved the rune into her breast. The warmth and vitality of Lagertha's sun-bronzed skin disappeared as if washed away by sudden, violent rains; dark, empty veins stood out prominently against skin that had become brittle. Ástríðr straightened, casting her eye over them, Elijah and Kol, Willem and Lagertha and Gyda… She had watched them all for centuries, and even had her other children volunteered, been eager to participate, Ástríðr did not quite trust their patience, their restraint.
Finn was supportive of their endeavour here, but had already committed to spending the weekend with Rose, and Ástríðr, who had watched him for as little time as he had been allowed to walk the earth, was never going to abandon the one woman who had caught his eye, and who seemed genuinely to appreciate all that her quiet, understated son had to offer. Finn was unlike any of her other sons, and Rose appreciated who he was, from what Ástríðr could tell. Isak had yet to make contact; Rebekah was bordering on polite when she was not being unpleasant to Gyda, seeming to make Gyda's proximity to Ástríðr her excuse to stay away and be angry and wounded about it; and Niklaus…
She did not forget what he had done to her: Nor could she ever forgive him for the abuse he had inflicted on her children for a thousand years.
He had rewritten history to portray himself as the victim. Blamed Mikael, blamed her, for the way he was - for the way he was 'forced' to treat others - and that made her burn with quiet fury, as he wove lies, forgetting or ignoring the past, taking others' pain and suffering on as his own, weaving stories so convoluted and tragic that some had even been so gullible as to believe them - until it was too late, and they were his entirely, to do with what he pleased.
He had not learned that from them.
She had smiled as Giulia Salvatore flung herself into the fires all those years ago, knowing Giulia had realised what Ástríðr had known so long ago - that the spell she had placed on Niklaus had never been a punishment, but a reprieve from his own dual-nature. Willem did not suffer as his brother suffered, because Willem's core nature was so utterly different: They were polar opposites, with Willem embracing all that was great and admirable, enviable, in a werewolf, in a man, her spell merely amplifying everything that was extraordinary in him. Niklaus, in contrast, could no longer conceal his monstrous nature behind handsome looks: The wounded, rabid wolf long tethered was now actively fighting to be unleashed, at war with the psychological training of a millennium as Niklaus told himself over and over what it meant to be what he was - who he was. But he had no idea. Niklaus did not know what he was - he was a man of his own invention, and yet he had no clearer picture of who he was now than he had had a thousand years ago.
Isak…was furious: Rebekah, Elijah had warned, would be too eager, too impatient, too incautious: Niklaus… Elijah was in no doubt that, should their half-brother find out what Ástríðr was attempting, Niklaus would try to put a stop to it. Even in the state he was in, he still believed nothing had changed: He had liked being able to control them all as they were.
Giulia Salvatore had done what she could to ensure that the control Niklaus had over his siblings was destroyed.
Ástríðr was here to ensure it.
Her children would decide their own fates. If all went her way, she would be able to offer them all they had lost: But it would be their choice. She would never force it upon them. Not again. Their trust in her had shattered that day, though a thousand years of wondering, coupled with Niklaus' abuse, had softened their memories of her mistakes; cautious, they were at least willing to help her improve their own lives.
That was a staggering departure from the brutal control Klaus had over their every decision. It was their choice to help her. It would be their choice to accept her help.
And with it, Niklaus' hold over them would be shattered beyond repair.
He would have no influence over how they chose to live.
Ástríðr did not forget: And she would never forgive.
She turned to Professor Bennett, who waited patiently, watching her closely as Ástríðr stared down at her children.
"I apologise," Ástríðr said quietly. "I have…been too long trapped inside my own head."
"No need to apologise," Professor Bennett said. "Are you ready?"
Ástríðr sighed bracingly, and nodded, gathering up her teacup. She settled into her own chair, and together they completed the last few steps of the spell they needed the both of them for, and she downed the potion in one, wincing. Her shining blonde head slumped back as she sprawled in the armchair, achieving the kind of elegance they only wrote about in romance novels even in an induced magical coma; Sheila sighed, glancing around the room, and did her part, completing the last pieces of the puzzle that made up the ancient witch's exquisitely convoluted spell. It was pure artistry; and a privilege to watch her work. Sheila had a good many notes to write down in her own grimoire, uses she had never seen for herbs she had barely even heard of, ancient knowledge she had never come across in all her years of research, lost to history. Ástríðr blamed the advent of Christianity, the systematic eradication of pagan culture, and the oral traditions of passing down knowledge: If it was not passed down, in some way or another, it was lost.
She burned the last herbs, coughing slightly on the taste that coated her tongue, and downed her half of the potion, humming an incantation that sounded just like a lullaby to the untrained ear. With a sigh, she sank into the squashy armchair.
When she blinked, and opened her eyes, Sheila stood in what looked like a wooden barn; but a fire burned in the open central hearth, and a square hole in the roof let the worst of the smoke escape as it made her eyes water, choking on the edible smell of rancid body-odour mixed with herbs, the savoury scent of the meat hissing and bubbling on a spit over the fire. The high vaulted ceiling was hung with herbs and butchered meat, what must have been bison, Sheila thought, and to one side of the open room was a loom, where textiles were being woven meticulously by hand.
She glanced around, and sighed with relief as she saw Ástríðr, her preternaturally lovely, young face drawn into a troubled frown, her lips moving silently as she muttered to herself, and Sheila watched. She watched Ástríðr crafting the spell that created the very first vampires in the world.
There was no pen and paper with her, and nowhere Ástríðr had recorded her spells: Sheila had to watch, and very carefully, analysing every specific herb and spice, every word Ástríðr had chosen meticulously. Though she had no knowledge of whatever language it was Ástríðr spoke, Sheila understood it perfectly: She was in Ástríðr's memory, and knew everything she did. But she was in control of Ástríðr's memory - at least of exploring it; she watched Ástríðr mixing her potion five times, before what they had discussed earlier tallied with what she had seen.
Watching Ástríðr work was mesmerising: Even Sheila's own mother seemed ham-fisted and brazen in comparison with the exquisite craftsmanship Ástríðr demonstrated. It wasn't flashy and dramatic, the way modern magic tended to be, purely for show - to make others leery, wary of confronting witches: The showmanship saved their lives, more often than not. People thought better of picking a fight with those who could summon a wild-fire from thin-air using only their minds. But Ástríðr…oh, it was worth all this to watch her work, Sheila thought, learning more from watching her craft one spell than she had learned in years of combing through crumbling grimoires. Ástríðr's talent and ingenuity was extraordinary.
And Sheila was starting to see the details of Ástríðr's spell, and how they correlated to the werewolves' curse. Ástríðr had obviously spent many years exploring it: She showed an intimate knowledge of the curse as she crafted a spell meant to enhance her children, every strength corresponding to one the werewolves possessed, and which humans were vulnerable to.
It was purely by a fluke Sheila caught it. Ástríðr never could have, not stuck on the other side with no magic of her own, and no-one to help investigate her memories, not the way Sheila was able, with her own magic, amplified by the five Originals she was channelling.
A nondescript girl, a slave, Sheila knew from Ástríðr's memories. Just a slave, neither beautiful nor talented, born of Native neighbours, their enemies, taken as tribute after Mikael's defeat of them. Soon, she would bleed, able to bear children; she would be freed, and she would be married, and their village might once again thrive. They had to rebuild: But Ástríðr would ensure her children's safety before yet another skirmish occurred. They had lost too much already.
Sheila pulled herself from Ástríðr's mind, determined to continue watching, as an objective tourist: She saw more from further away. And it was the distance that had helped her spot what Ástríðr could never have seen. With her back turned, rummaging through herbs and charred bones, Ástríðr did not notice the slave-girl approaching her cooking-pot, where her precious potion simmered, delicate and temperamental.
She did not notice that before the slave-girl approached her, her hand bleeding from a wicked, jagged cut on her palm, the girl paused by the cauldron, her eyes glazed, and Sheila watched her veer to the side as if someone had jerked her off course.
A single drop of her blood fell into the cauldron.
The liquid spit and smoked, the colour shifting, churning dangerously.
Her eyes remained glazed until she had approached Ástríðr with her hand outstretched: The witch gave her a benign smile, taking the time, even then, with her potion simmering carefully, knowing the girl was a slave taken as a tribute, her people defeated, soon to be bred upon, to murmur a few gentle words, carefully holding the girl's hand, smearing herbal salve onto the wound that was starting to heal even as Sheila watched Ástríðr wrap a long leaf around her hand, tying a natural sea-sponge drenched with potion in place.
It was the cut, the distraction: By the time Ástríðr returned to her potion, it had settled, simmering away as before, with nothing noticeably different at all.
It was the single drop of blood.
It all came down to that one single drop.
At first Sheila wondered if the girl's enslavement had something to do with it - the blood of the enslaved, causing the drinker to be enslaved to blood… But the more she thought on it, it was the drop of blood itself that mattered to the spell, not the girl.
But to undoing the damage…the girl was the key. The way her eyes had glazed over, the way her body had jerked toward the cauldron as if her movements were not her own.
There were many ways to control others' movements, their thoughts and actions.
And Sheila recognised the look of a person non compos mentis.
If she hadn't known it was magic, she might suspect the girl had been compelled - but vampires hadn't been created yet. Hours away, but not yet.
She started working.
This was why Sheila had been brought in, not Ashlyn. Because Sheila, cranky and tipsy and stubborn as she was, was a tenacious researcher as much as she was a witch, and she pulled on the threads when her intuition told her to follow them.
They were witches, after all; and the world was fluid, if Sheila's mother had taught her nothing else. Time was not static. The way her mother had put it, all things were happening, everywhere, all at once. And that she had been able to dive into Ástríðr's memories meant that, as a witch, Sheila was just as much present in the past as she was in her own time, her own life. With their spell, she was intangible as smoke and yet just as present in that Viking settlement as any of Ástríðr's children. And in real time, Sheila could do what Ástríðr couldn't: She could follow the thread.
The slave-girl. It was all about her.
Sheila hated to do it, but knew it was a necessary evil, and slipped into the girl's mind, using the very same herbs and potions Ástríðr had given her to heal: Sheila's daddy had always warned that using magic was the time when witches were at their most vulnerable to another witch's spells. Even though the girl had no magic of her own, magic was at work on her, healing her; Sheila used that vulnerability, and slipped inside. She winced, and waded through the girl's life, taking her time, shrewd and suspicious, on her guard for whatever - or rather, whoever - had a hold over the girl.
She went back. And it was the jagged cut on her hand that had been the start of it all. Rather, the end, for Ástríðr's spell, but the beginning of a thousand years of hidden history, wars between species tucked safely into legend for their own survival.
Sheila went back in the girl's mind, and started to recognise the landscape - there were the falls, where she was collecting fresh, crystal-clear ice-cold water for the jarlshall…she carried the buckets through the woods, past the mouths of caves that had provided ample sources of amusement for the adolescents of Mystic Falls for generations, used until recently by the Viking settlers as protection from the savagery of the full-moon - protection from the werewolves, with whom they were now at war.
She felt it in the same heartbeat the girl did.
Ancient, truly malevolent magic, malice like she has never experienced before in her life, and she had come through some dark times indeed. No more than a whisper of it, a vapour, and it came out of nowhere…yet nothing was without its source, and Sheila frowned, and explored the memory over and over, and delicately tested the vapour with her magic.
There was a crack. A schism in the skin of the world, not geographical, like a tectonic plate, but magical. A wrinkle of time and space, where things overlapped, sometimes used as bridges to other times that could be used by witches, but only if one knew how to find them - and how to use them, one of the rare pockets of reality Sheila's mother had once told her about, so many years ago - as a warning not to dabble in them…during the 1950s, the Civil Rights movement - when their friends, witches, had been on the run from the Klan, and worse than the Klan. Her mother, Elsa, had found one such wrinkle, and created paradise: At least, she had intended to. None of the witches who ever entered the schism to hide out ever returned, and Elsa had died before she could give up trying to rescue her friends.
There was a crack, and it had sprung a leak. The vapour had somehow managed to seep out.
It was from the schism that Sheila got a magical aftertaste - a memory of the malevolence she had felt in the girl's mind.
There was a crack in the skin of the world, and someone on the other side of the rift had sent a whisper, a vapour of wickedness so profound, so purely evil Sheila could honestly say she had never felt anything like it.
And there was no way in hell she was going to provoke them by knocking on their front-door. Eventually, someone would answer.
She frowned between the trees, at the nothingness in mid-air, where even now she could still sense the presence of the schism, if not the evil, because she now knew it existed. If she had never followed the thread, Sheila would never have known the entrance to the schism was there. And as she frowned, everything went black. Her heart surged into her mouth, panic settling in - she blinked, and gasped with relief at the silvery eyes glowing above her face, mesmerising and concerned, pale face glimmering in the flickering candlelight.
"Giulia," she groaned, her entire body stiff as anything. She blinked, and slowly moved her limbs. She glanced at Giulia. If she was here, then…it was Sunday, already? The entire weekend, the full three days, had gone by?
"Slowly," Giulia said softly, but Sheila siphoned a little extra from the Originals as a thank-you, invigorating herself, loosening her muscles, settling the emptiness in her stomach. Magic had sustained her for those three days, but she felt empty - empty, and more than a little unsettled.
"Hi, Miss Sheila," Caroline said sweetly, stood with her little icebox full of bagged blood, ready to help the Originals as they awoke from desiccation.
"Hello, Caroline," Sheila sighed, smiling.
"Are you okay?" Giulia asked, her eyes intense as she searched Sheila's face.
"I'm fine," Sheila promised her. "Hungry, but I'm fine, baby, really, I'm alright."
Giulia sighed, looking disgruntled; she cast her eyes over the painted runes, the salt circle and herbs, the candles and tokens. "You were messing around with a memory spell?"
"Mm-hmm… Making me even more appreciative of my steam-shower and grocery-store," Sheila said, glancing covertly at Ástríðr, who was rousing in her own chair. She smiled warmly at Giulia, always delighted by her brilliance: Giulia was no witch but she had an acute understanding of magic as what she called the 'coding' of Nature. Giulia might have been a cryptologist in another life, breaking codes: As it was, she had chosen to focus on the Occult, altogether a more challenging and ever-changing field. Sheila had taught her everything she knew, and had been proud when Giulia published her first book: She had sat in on one of Giulia's guest-lectures and spent the entire hour beaming with pride, mesmerised. If anyone could understand what it was Ástríðr and Sheila were up to, at a single glance at the magical debris left behind, it was Giulia. "I wouldn't suppose there's any food in the kitchen?"
"I'll fix you an omelette," Giulia said softly, and Sheila nodded, smiling appreciatively, though she grimaced slightly as the Originals started to rouse, and Caroline handed Kol his first blood-bag. There wasn't a drop wasted. Sheila pushed herself from the armchair and followed Giulia into the kitchen; as she prepared a meal for Sheila - as she made enough for Sheila and Ástríðr - Giulia held herself back from questioning Sheila, who practiced her Tai chi around the island to stretch out her sore muscles, feeling the link with the Originals' power snap like severed threads.
Elijah looked surprised to find Giulia making omelettes when he followed Ástríðr into the kitchen, and Sheila sipped the glass of water she had poured herself, watching the two exchange an intense look, silently communicating; he approached, resting his hand on her lower-back, their eye-contact never breaking as Giulia seemed to ask him something, and Elijah glanced carefully at Sheila in answer. It was…very interesting, to watch those two together: Sheila remembered how they'd been, all those years ago, when Giulia was barely a young-woman. Sheila had worried about Giulia, then, but the way Elijah looked at her…
It made her swoon.
"Did you find out anything?" Elijah asked gently, something like hope and dread mingling in his expression.
"Yep," Sheila told him, glancing at Ástríðr, "And you're not gonna like it."
A.N.: I just love Sheila. Sheila, Liz, Jenna and Ric, take the top prizes for best parental figures on the show, with Carol losing out to Jenna purely because Jenna dropped literally everything to become a parent overnight.
