Nightmares are funny little things. Harriet Potter knew that. She had had her fair share of them. Some where mundane, the ones where you're trying to run, but no matter how much you push, it's like your trapped on the spot, a butterfly pinned to parchment paper, squirming, ready for inspection. Others, well, they where to be expected. Voldemort, the battle of Hogwarts, black screens of voids where she would only hear screaming. Yet, there where some that she could not remember, dreams but not dreams, the kind that you wake up from dazedly, not sweating or crying in fear, but with a lump in your throat and dread slugging through your limbs, feeling so heavy she couldn't move even if she wanted to. She never remembered those ones, could not glean a single image from them, but the feeling she was left with after one would forever haunt her. They didn't feel like dreams. They felt like memories.
Nightmares terrify you. Torment you. Warp and disease your mind. The worst? Sometimes these demented things are not of imaginations conjuring, sometimes they are birthed by memories, both fresh and suppressed. Yet, what no one wants to admit to, is that they tell you so much more about yourself than anything else. Then you awaken, the fear is over, and as daylight bathes your skin in golden yellow, so too does it fog and degrade the horrid dreams from your mind. People chose to forget what their nightmares had shown them. It was easier that way. Denial was pathed in golden bricks where the road to self-awareness and honesty was a craggy uphill scramble. Harry was no exception to that, blissful ignorance complemented her complexion, so she had never truly tried to recall those lost and dreadful nightmares. Nonetheless, faced with what Harry was now, that ignorance she had relished in previously unceremoniously turned its gaping muzzle to her and bit her right on the fucking arse.
The odd thing about repressed memories that masquerade as neglected nightmares is the funniest things can and will force you to face them. When the light is just right, in the throes of twilight, something you see, a glint, an object… A face can bring those nightmares crashing back into your mind like a bull raging against a stone wall. Bloody smashed horns and clouds of dust that clog your throat. Harry found her deeply buried night terrors frothing in her mouth from a quick glance to a blonde woman. Just a blonde woman. Nothing special. But that was the lie wasn't it? Special things always wear brass buttons, not gold and silver.
The bout of laughter that had torn itself free from Harry's throat as she looked skyward, damning herself, damning Luna, damning everything and anything she could pin blame on, had come to a spluttering stop as she saw the lanky man with war paint around his eyes take a confident step forward. It was just a flash really, a quick glint, but as he stepped forward, the decedent purple and pink light of dusk pilfering through the tree tops of the clearing she had found herself in, cast a beam of soft light upon his eyes. Harry froze. She. Knew. Those. Eyes.
She knew the constantly pinpricked pupil, giving the eye a constant look of alertness, cattish and hungry. She knew the almost yellow flecks, the emerald ring, the keen and vivid green shining back at her. She knew the sharp sweep of the lash line, thin and sleek. She knew the capricious heavy lid and upward twist to the outer corner. She had seen them squaring her up, gauging her, picking apart her faults and strengths like well cooked pork from bone because she had given herself the very same look each morn in the mirror. She knew those eyes because they were her eyes.
Harry blinked, fluttered and shuddered, Goosebumps prickling at the back of her neck and arms. It was an odd feeling, she would admit. Seeing your own eyes reflected back at you from another's skull. Many people had the same colour eyes, be it green, blue, grey, brown or any other myriad of shades, but to see the exact shape, colour, flecks and predatorial glint? No… Wait? She thought she remembered something, but as soon as the image came, it was gone again, like a leaf that had been blown free from a tall tree, spiralling away into the vast wind.
The man, all tall limbed and skinny strength, much like herself, took a sharp step forward again at her confused stare, her fingers automatically tightened on her wand. Stomping down on the confusion, mentally stopping at trying to grasp that image that had fled her, she snarled and within a single blink of both their eyes, she sent the man sailing back across the clearing he had wandered out from.
There was no time for mental gymnastics or lost thoughts, not when these natives seemed hostile. Merlin, she had literally fallen into a human sacrifice, had the bastards blood caking her face, what more evidence did she need to not let her guard down and to get the hell out of dodge? How about the pen of dead fucking animals in one corner of the clearing? Throats slit and heaped into a pile? What about the numerous axes she could see twinkling like stars on the belts of these people? Or, you know, how they started to unsheathe those weapons as the man became airborne. Yeah, that last one was a real good reason to begin running.
The was a whistle of wind as green-eyed man descended, a harsh thud as he jarringly landed on his side, a slush and chug as he skidded in the muck and sludge, doing a little spin Harry would have found hilarious if the circumstances were different. Then, only as his body came to a tittering stop, was there a sharp, high pitched cry from the crowd. Harry winced.
A small body disengaged from the mass of bodies congregated together, offering protection in numbers and density, a trail of curly, sunny blonde hair trailing behind her blundering and leaping body as she dashed for the man, skidding harshly on her knees as she huddled over him. The woman curved her body further around his limp form, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. Shit. Harry must have knocked him unconscious. The hit wasn't strong enough to equal death… Unless there had been a rock hiding in the mud that he had cracked his head on. Still, the woman carried on shaking him, speaking in a spiking, harsh and rolling language that gave Harry a poignant sense of Déjà vu, volume growing louder in what Harry would guess was alarm. Right, well, that would be her signal. Harry's thighs began to tense in preparation for her to bolt it into the treeline and away from the armed crowd of likely pissed ritual goers.
However, just as her foot began to lift, the blonde woman's head turned sharply, eyes wide, mouth agape as she came to stare at Harry. The world span and then sickeningly stopped, Harry's eyes zeroed in on the woman's face and the people, the man, the dead body behind her, the priest, it was all forgotten. No clearing. No blood. No mob of armed muggles. No heartbeat. Nothing but that face. The face that was looking at her so scared, shocked, confused, lonely in its glowing presence in a wave of confusion that struck Harry in the sternum.
Those dreams, the nightmares, the dusty, abandoned turns of unconscious mind clouded Harry's eyes like a rolling fog, seeping into her pores and very being. In so much clarity, she could recall them, live them again, be there when she never could before. She was no longer in the clearing, no longer Harry, but something… Other, nameless, shapeless, lost in dreams she had not ever known she had been having.
She saw that woman's face, smiling from ear to ear in front of her, dressed in a soft yellow dress. She was bent on her haunches, arms outstretched as if waiting for a hug, fingers flexing in a come-hither motion. Her words, they were too soft to distinguish, but Harry knew she was cheering her on. The image tilted to one side, then the other, as if it was rocking and it was only as Harry looked down that she realised she was waddling on baby legs to the woman's warm embrace. When she looked up, a toothless giggle erupted from her chest.
She saw that woman's face laughing, crinkled in such a good way, eyes twinkling as she… Helga, yes, Helga, bent down and picked her up from the forest floor, spinning her in arching circles. The stones that had previously fascinated her young mind were long forgotten as the wind rustled through her short, cropped hair, more giggles spewing forth. A shadow loomed behind Helga but then it took shape… The green eyed man she had sent flying was behind her, wrapping an arm around Helga's slender shoulders, huddling them both to his side as he peered down at Harry. He grinned, all sharp fang and curling lip, a smile Harry would later have, as he pushed forth one spindly finger and bopped her on the nose. He went to do it again, but Harry's own hand grasped his finger, her own too short to wrap around more than one of his, knuckles indented and chubby. She leant forward and bit the finger… The man only laughed louder.
She saw that woman's face, content and peaceful, leaning over her bed as Harry fidgeted in the layers of fur, itching to get up and cause havoc. There was so much to see, so much to do, so much to play, she couldn't sleep now! Still, Helga wrestled her into her clothe and fur prison, stroking her growing curls away from her face with gentle, motherly hands. Hands Harry had never felt before… But she had. Hadn't she? She felt them now. Green eyed man peeked out from over Helga's shoulder, pulling faces that bubbled more laughter within her chest. Helga took a swipe at him, but she couldn't hide her own laughter.
She saw that woman's face etched with worry, lines as harsh and cold as the craggy stones of the little beach they were standing at the edge of. Helga stood beside her, Harry barely pipping her kneecap in size. Helga was holding her hand, giant compared to her own, with the hint of callouses dampening the softness of the limp. They both stood staring out at the beach, to the man upon it… Green eyed-… No, Floki… That's right, she remembered, Floki, as he whittled and sliced great planks of wood. The chop, thunk, chop, thunk, chop, thunk, reminded Harry of her own heartbeat. The skeletons of half-formed ships were littering the beaches tide edge like a grand graveyard for a sunken amarda. Harry tugged on Helga's hand urgently.
"faðir play?"
Helga only looked more worried as she bent down to her, picking her up and beginning the arduous walk home. Floki was soon nothing but a spit of frantic colour and movement as they scaled the winding path back to the hut, and still, Harry stared and stared and stared.
"Not today elskan mín (my love). Perhaps tomorrow."
She saw that woman's face doused in absolute fear, sour and rancid, as it hovered above her bedroll near the window, bed furs and clothes stripped, bathed in pale silver light as she laid naked under the open window with the high moon bearing down upon her frail body. There were no stars that night, and for some strange reason, Harry remembered that most. The confusion. Where had all the stars gone? Something wet and cold slipped across her forehead, rivets of icy water trickling down her face, temples and gliding into her hairline as little Harry quaked and shook. Hot. Too hot. Harry… But not Harry, that was wrong… That wasn't her name… What was her name again? Alice? Anne? Angie? Ang…
She couldn't remember, but she knew she was ill. So very, very, very ill. Her blood was on fire, bones like hot glass, melting and twisting underneath her skin, eyes parched to dust, flesh crisping and drying like the fish that Helga pinned up above the smoke spit, cracking and blackening. There was a loud pop as Helga threw the clothe down into the bowl besides them, proceeding to bundle her up in thin clothe and then carried her from the woodland hut. Away from home. Where were all the stars? No, not the stars. They were in the sky, she knew that. She wasn't looking for the stars, she was looking for Floki and yet, he was nowhere to be found. Helga was cursing him as she began to pick up her speed as Harry but not Harry's breath began to faulter.
She remembered that woman's face, wrathful and resistant. Angr-… Harry but not Harry was laid down on a table… In the very clearing she had tumbled into when she was Harry. The same priest was splashing her with strange substances, all vermillion red and yellow ochre, chanting and croaking. Nothing was working, it was getting harder to breath. The cloying dark grey smoke he blew into her face from a bundle of herbs only made her cough up blood. The priest shook his head. Helga flooded with tears, scrambling to wrench her into her quaking arms, stroking her tangled and sweat dripping hair. Where was fa-… Floki? One breath, two breaths… No breaths. Gone. She was dead again. It's just like going to sleep.
She remembered that woman's face riddled with grief as Helga was dragged away from her body, the priest going to prepare her for burial. Only… She wasn't dead, not really. She came back, spluttering and wheezing. But the priest didn't care, didn't mind… There was another body beside her on the table now, as naked as she was. Dumbledore, he was there, in the shadows. He slithered out from the darkness like a great spider who had felt the pluck of thread on his web, picked her up, forced something foul down her throat, waved a stick in front of the priest's face, and began to take her into the woods, far away. Her bones felt funny, her skin too, shrinking and morphing and gaining the fat she had shaken off. Smaller and smaller she grew, less mobile, her head felt big and fat like the moon above them. De-aging potion.
She couldn't fight, she was still too weak, to hot, too tired. She did, however, get a glimpse of the priest again as they turned around a large oak tree, as he began to wrap the other body on the table where she had been. Her ashen, dead and open-eyed corpse stared back at her. But it wasn't her on that table, it was a fake, sticks and stones and mirages. A wizarding parody of her. There was a whisper on the wind, a sharp pull in her gut and she was gone.
Somehow, someway, she just knew somewhere here, a couple, a boy, somebody, had found Luna's own counterfeit body, floating along a stream, the real Luna tucked away with Dumbledore like Harry.
She didn't remember the next face, how could she? She was in another world... Another time. Stolen and mind overlapped with false memories. But she saw it. Resigned and melancholy as Helga and a man she did not know laid a wrapped body in a shallow grave. Harry but not Harry stood on the edge of the pit, staring down at the mockery. She screamed at the woman, at Helga, she screamed and cried and pulled and yanked at her hair, but they did not listen. They could not hear her. That body, it wasn't her. It was fake. Made by the flicks and twists of a wizard's hand. She was here. Right here! Look at her! She was here! She was alive! Just fucking look at her! Find her! They didn't and soon, the dirt was being draped over the forgery like a blanket, as if tucking it into eternal rest. But there was no rest, not for the real Angrb-… There had been war, blood, real death and insurmountable loss.
Harry, if she was even her now, stumbled. Her mind back in the clearing, staring dead straight at the woman… Helga, but not Helga, no, Helga held a different name to her. Something bright flickered in the depths of the woman's eyes, she shook violently as she stood, eyes never leaving Harry, oh how that name felt wrong now, head cocking to the side just a fraction as she stumbled towards her, one lone hand trembling as it rose as if to grab her. Harry felt something hot and slick leak down her cheeks. The tears mingled with the blood on her face, tinging them pink. All salt and iron, like the great sea. Helga spoke the name that Harry could not remember, and the nightmares… Dreams, no, memories came flooding back.
"Angrboða?"
Her voice, when she was finally able to speak, sounded rough, like the lapping of an evening tide on a giant rock pool.
"Mum… Móðir?"
Harry took a step forward, but that was all she was able to take as spindly fingers wrapped around her eyes, cold, clammy breath fluttering across the shell of her ear. She only got a glance at the man… Thing that had crept up behind her. Black cloak, pale white skin, blackened teeth and lips, with no eyes. Just skin, wrinkled and taunt laying over the sockets. Her magic screamed deafeningly inside of her. Run. Not human. Old. Run!
"Sleep Angrboða."
Harry fell to the floor unconscious like a puppet that had their strings cut. For once in her short life, there were no nightmares.
AN: Well, this has been a long time coming, hasn't it? I'm incredibly sorry for the long wait, university is a lot harder than I gave it credit for and the first year is nothing but a blur XD. However, I'm on summer break now, and what better way to relax than to update this fic?
I know a lot of you will have questions after this chapter, but the answers will come in time, I just wanted to start setting up things for future chapters, so please be patient!
I always hated what happened to little Angrboða and Siggy Jr in Vikings, as it would have been a brilliant chance to explore what female Vikings went through while growing up in such an environment, instead they got killed off (in quite stupid ways if you ask me) :/. Still, we have fanfiction! So, I've decided to meddle a little bit lol. Just hold of judgement for a little while, not everything is clear yet XD.
I know this chapter was short, but the next one should be out late this week, Sunday, or early next, Monday, Tuesday. So there shouldn't be too much of a wait!
THANK YOU ALL to those who followed, favourited and reviewed! Like, wow, I really wasn't expecting the reaction this fic got, especially seen as it was sprung by an errant plot bunny and the Viking fandom on FF is not that big. Still, you all have my huge gratitude and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! If anyone has any questions, don't hesitate to ask!
Please leave a review, you never know, the chapters may drop faster XD.
~carelessdodger.