DHARMA, 1977

They don't think I can hear them, but that's not completely true. I hear bits and pieces through the ringing in my ears.

"It's no use," a man echoes in the fog. "Leave him alone. The boy's brain is busted."

"You do realize when they find out Cora's dead, his testimony won't matter anyway. She was the only thing stopping them from going postal on this compound."

"What are we supposed to do? He has to know something."

"Let me talk to him," a female voice offers.

Warm fingers touch my face, and I immediately twitch away from them.

All at once I see her. She's standing in the moonlight, hunched, immobile. A chunk of red meat slides down her soaked hair and lands at her feet in the dead grass. All I want is to stand and run away, but my body won't move. She's screaming. Miss Collins is screaming with a sharp intensity of something inhuman as thick strings of blood dangle from her mouth, and all I can do is shut my eyes and pray these screams don't make my head explode. I don't want to die.

"See?" the man says, his voice muffled by the hands I've pressed tightly against my ears. "I told you. The lights are on but nobody's home. And that's not going to change anytime soon. Leave him be, Maybelline. We have other fish to fry."

I don't know how long I've been locked in this room when the Norsemen fling open the door. I close my eyes and focus on breathing. Beheading doesn't hurt, right?

Because that's what this is about. Everyone thinks I killed Miss Collings—everyone thinks I killed Freyja—and now her people are here to dispose of me.

"So. . . you're Ben, hm?"

I open my eyes, surprised to find the question has come from a female Norseman.

"Speak up," she snaps. "Are you Benjamin Linus?" I nod, and she narrows her eyes into angry little slits. "You need to come with me."

"Where are you taking him?" LaFluer asks as soon as we step out of the room. "Gail, where are you taking him?"

Gail's lip curls when LaFluer reaches for her arm, but he never has the chance to make contact. One of the Norsemen hits him hard in the stomach, and the rest of the people in the room—all members of the Initiative—shrink away from the enormous men.

I want to ask where we're going. I want to ask what they're going to do to me. I want to beg them to believe I didn't kill Miss Collings.

Instead, I press my lips tightly together as I follow the angry woman called Gail and a group of bodyguards out of the barracks and into the jungle. I keep waiting for the moment they force me to kneel so they can hack my body to pieces or whatever it is they plan to do to me, but the next time someone speaks, she sounds very, very old.

I'm in some kind of stone fortress, surrounded by men and women whose eyes never leave me as they lean into one another and whisper things I cannot understand. Gail grabs hold of my shirt and roughly pulls me alongside her down a stone hallway and into a high-ceilinged room.

An old woman sits on a wooden throne near a fireplace in the corner, her eyes obscured by a strip of cloth. When she speaks, those in the room immediately falls silent. "Do you know who I am, Benjamin?"

I take in her clothing and jewelry and the fact that she's seemingly blind. "A seer?"

She moves slow, bowing her head only a fraction to indicate I've guessed correctly. "And do you know what that means?"

I don't understand. Are they not going to behead me? Isn't that why the've marched me out here to their Temple?

I shake my head no in answer to her question, but when she doesn't respond, I assume this confirms she is, in fact, blind. "No," I say.

"It means we have much to discuss. Step forward." Slowly, the old woman extends her spindly fingers to me in offering. "Take my hands, child."

"ARE YOU INSANE?" I hear Alex scream at the top of her lungs. In one rough movement, the sack is yanked off my head almost as quickly as it was yanked on. "She could have accidentally killed you!"

I suck in lungfuls of night air and take an unsteady step back with a hand against my throat. A small group of girls stand sheepishly nearby as Alex continues scolding them. Normally, their fear would embarrass me into silence, but I'm running on dangerously high levels of adrenaline and can't seem to stop muttering hallelujahs at the fact that I'm not about to be asphyxiated to death.

"I told you we weren't doing the kidnapping," Alex continues, stopping only when one of Annie's daughters stumbles into view and asks what happened. "They put a bag over her head!" Alex holds up the offending square of cloth, and now Annie's older daughters have jumped into the outrage mob.

The group of much younger girls all stare, chastised, at the ground. To their credit, they do look beyond remorseful. But then again, remorse means nothing if you're dead. Throwing a bag over my head to fulfill some kind of bachelorette kidnapping ritual was about as close as you can get to suicide.

It's only a matter of time before fully grown women wander over to hear what all the screaming is about. A few of them storm forward to claim their shame-riddled daughters staring holes into the jungle dirt. When Annie emerges, asking what's wrong, I realize I'm trembling.

"What happened?" she demands, pushing through the crowd of onlookers. Her attention immediately focuses on her daughters. "What did you do?"

I thought I was going to die. I thought someone was trying to strangle me to death. "They threw a bag over my head," I finally answer.

For all the screaming Annie's daughters did, Annie is even more terrifying. I take a step back, both frightened and embarrassed on their behalf. I don't know exactly what she's saying in Norse, but from the look on their faces as they try to explain they weren't the ones who did it, I can make an educated guess. When all the young women have shuffled out of sight, Annie turns her attention to me. "Are you hurt, Cora?"

"No. I'm fine." That's not the problem. Pressure builds in my finger joints. I flex them out of their tight fists. Despite my efforts, my voice comes out breathy and unstable. "I could have accidentally hurt them. I didn't know what was happening, and I could have hurt them."

Annie looks and sounds beyond exhausted when she says, "I cannot apologize enough. I don't know what to say, my lady. They know better than this."

"What on earth is going on?" Gail emerges from out of the chattering crowd and makes a beeline for me.

"I'm fine," I answer before she can ask. "I'm not hurt."

"It was my four," Annie grumbles, heavy lidded and monotone. "For some reason they got it in their heads that the Idun Ritual was an appropriate use of the goddesses evening. Flint and Peregrine weren't with them, but I'm sure they also had something to do with it." Annie fills Gail in on what happened while I focus on breathing. Both my hands are still shaking from nerves. "I just can't believe your last day here ended on such a sour note," Annie concludes, and I snap back to attention to find her staring at me.

"Hm? Oh, no, that's okay." It's not like my week's stay here had been relaxing anyway. I shrug. "They're just kids. I remember what it was like to have—" I bend my fingers into air-quotes. "—'great ideas' when I was their age."

A woman steps up and says something to Annie, who brightens a little at the suggestion. "Cora, if your night hasn't been irrevocably ruined, we have a way to make it up to you."

It's not a cold night by any means, but the breeze is cooler than it was when the sun was out. Salty ocean air wafts over from the shoreline in the distance, mixing with the thicker air in this partial cave. I watch vibrant ripples sparkle against the rock wall at the far end of the pool and wonder why everyone was so excited to make the hike out here. "So, it's like a natural jacuzzi?"

The woman nearest me asks, "What's a jacuzzi?"

"Oh, uh, it's like. . . it makes the water really warm."

"Yes," she answers, "it's like a jacuzzi. The volcano heats up the water."

"Ugh," Annie groans, "what a day."

I turn to give her a sympathetic smile and immediately avert my eyes, my skin already blistering with embarrassment. Annie, Charlotte, Charlotte's three sisters, Poppy, and two older women I just met—Maya and Olivia—have undressed in a matter of seconds and stand completely naked in the faint moonlight. One by one, still chatting, they settle into the warm pool with little more than a splash. It's a second before they realize I'm not amongst them.

"Everything alright, lady Cora?"

I don't know who asked. All I know is I want to go to sleep.

"Sorry I took so long." It is a blessing to hear Gail's voice. "I figured you ladies would want a little something special after the week it's been."

"Gail to the rescue," one of Charlotte's sisters cheers. "To all our hard work almost being done!" Cheering in unison, the women pass around a canteen full of what I'm assuming is alcohol.

When the canister makes its round back to shore—where I've taken a seat at the rocks edge—I wave away the offer to take a swig. "No, thank you. I'm good."

"Don't force her," Maya says, stretching both arms up above her head in such a fashion that both of her massive breasts bob in and out of the water. "She'll have plenty of time to drink at the wedding."

Gail takes a seat next to me on the ledge. "Are you not getting in?"

How are they so comfortable being naked in front of each other? With nothing to hold their drooping breasts up? Nothing to hide their stomachs? I wouldn't get in that pool even if I had a swimsuit on. I shake my head, roll up my pant legs a little, and stick my feet in the warm water.

It's nice hearing stories from the eight of them. The older married women spend their time coaching Poppy, who is newly engaged and looks slightly terrified by their advice. But as the night carries on, their alcohol intake begins to show more and more prominently until their conversations leave me searching for a way to quietly leave.

"—not to mention I didn't have the best sex of my life until after I gave birth. It was like he turned into a beast."

I tune back into the conversation at this particular moment and wonder how I haven't succumbed to dehydration from the amount of water I'm losing through all my embarrassed sweat.

"The trick is to train him as soon as you're married, or he'll never learn," Olivia adds. "Poppy, dear, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. It's all in the hands." Olivia raises her hands and wiggles her fingers in emphasis. "Don't you let him try and convince you otherwise."

I make the mistake of locking eyes with Maya, who brightens up and swims closer to my sanctuary on the rock. "Quiet, you old fools! We're leaving out the real storyteller." Maya waves over the visibly drunk women to where she's made herself comfortable at my right side. "Tell us, goddess."

I must look insane with how wide my nervous smile is. "Tell you what?"

"Tell us about your best lover," Charlotte clarifies, promptly dissolving into a fit of laughter. "Out of all of them, surely there was one worthy of a story."

I'm surrounded by horny, naked middle-aged women who whole-heartedly believe that I'm the goddess of fertility and are patiently waiting for me to recount a life event in which I do not have experience. "Ohhhh," I exclaim, as if I just now understood what she's asking for. "You. . . you meant the best. Haha. Out of all of them? Ah, there's so many…" I choke a cough to stall for time. "Uh, okay, uh. . . let me see. . ." I am going to blackout from heat exhaustion. "Oh, I don't know? I, um—" I'm so mortified by this conversation I cannot even think up a fake name. "I don't know."

"Boooooo," Charlotte complains and splashes me with a dainty kick of her foot, much to the others amusement.

"Oh, come on. I bet you have some wild stories, Cora." Annie laughs, nudging my arm. She's almost completely out of the water, and I can clearly see her exposed chest, but she doesn't seem to care. "Don't hold out on us. We've only been alive a few decades. Won't take much to surprise these old hags."

"Speak for yourself," Maya snaps, and they all break out into laughter again.

I'm laughing along with them just to keep from blacking out. Sweat rolls down from my hairline and into my eyes as I try to furiously blink it away. I just want to go to sleep. They're going to keep asking, and then they're going to start getting suspicious as to why I'm so uncomfortable. Just make up a story. You've seen plenty of movies and shows with sex scenes. Use one of those!

"Wait," I exclaim randomly, suddenly remembering an unsolicited story my old roommate told me the morning after a wild night out. I didn't think it was an especially spicy retelling, but by the end of it, you'd have thought I'd just introduced Fifty Shades of Grey to an Amish parish.

"Well," Maya exclaims, breaking the bewildered silence, "that's certainly one way to get the job done."

Poppy looks like she's about to be sick. "I don't understand. What was all the bread for?"

"This friend of yours," asks Charlotte. "Was she from Earth or Valhalla?"

This plan is massively backfiring. I just wanted them to stop asking me questions, but it's just emboldened them to ask more. "Earth," I answer and clap my hands together, smiling. "I'm so sorry everyone, but I'm exhausted. I think I'm going to call it a night."

One of Charlotte's sisters swims closer and grabs my ankle. "Oh, please stay! Tell us another story."

I desperately look at Gail for help.

Gail's lip curls up on one side in a reluctant grin. "You lot would spend all night gossiping about sex if you had it your way."

"Nothing wrong with that," says Maya. "It's the most fulfilling hobby we have."

"How do you think we have kids?" asks Olivia.

"How do you think we have fun?" Maya adds, and the women break out into more laughter.

One second they're all laughing, and then in the blink of an eye they've surrounded Annie, who randomly bursts into tears.

"Her husband died on the mainland a little over a year ago," Gail whispers as the drunken group continues to console Annie. "Poor thing. Widowed far too young."

"You have your girls," Maya soothes, moving tangled strands of Annie's hair out of her face and wailing mouth. "Those beautiful spirited girls. They remind me so much of Ragnar."

A memory snaps to the forefront, and I blurt out, "Your husband's name was Ragnar?"

And just like that, sixteen pairs of watery, slightly bloodshot eyes are staring at me.

Annie stops crying with one final sniffle, fixing me with what looks like desperation. "You've met him?"

I thought it was a dream. It felt very much like a dream. Maybe that's what dying is. "Tall man. Really hairy arms. Bright red hair. Long beard with silvers beads in it." I recall all the details I remember from my conversation with the man on the boat—the man I spoke to when I was dead. "Wait. . . if you're his wife, then who is Hazel?"

Annie, drunk as she is, seems to have sobered up at record speeds. "My eldest." Breaking away from Maya's embrace, she floats up to where my legs dangle into the water and stares at me like I'm the answer to all her problems. "What did he say about Hazel? Did. . . did you talk to him recently? Was he well?"

"He looked perfectly well. He wanted me to tell Hazel something." I try to remember exactly what he said. "He wanted me to tell her that he would have done it a thousand times over again."

It's as if she's been slapped. One look at her crumbling face, and I know there's nothing I can do or say to make this easier for her. I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Let's get you to bed," says Gail solemnly. "They'll take care of Annie. You need all the rest you can get, Cora. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

I should have expected it, all things considered, but it still surprises me when a small crowd amasses outside the DHARMA locker room. It was a huge relief to know that they use regular showers here and won't expect me to skinny dip every time I want to wash up.

There was nobody outside the locker room when I entered, but there's a small crowd now. Gossip passes unreasonably fast here.

The women are quiet but desperate. They ask me questions about their dead loved ones with so much hope in their eyes that I just start making things up. Yes, I spoke with your father and he's very proud of you. Yes, your mother thinks you're doing a great job with the kids. Your aunt—oh, great aunt? Yes, your great aunt says hello.

One woman emerges from the crowd, who graciously step aside to let her through to the front. Just like the other women, she bows. Unlike the other women, she grabs hold of my hand and holds tight. "Lady Cora, did you by chance meet with my daughter, Clover?

"What did she look like?"

I can't help but smile as the woman's face settles into blissful memory. "You would have remembered seeing her. She was the most beautiful creature that ever breathed air."

There was a child on the ship with Ragnar and a handful of other adults. Maybe that was this woman's daughter? "You said her name was Clover. How old was she when she passed?"

"Three months, my lady."

I suddenly can't swallow. Her answer makes all the hairs on my body stand on end. A baby. She lost a baby. There wasn't a baby on the ship. What does that mean? Do babies get a straight shot into the afterlife? Was she not on the ship because babies don't have unfinished business? Where is this woman's baby?

"I. . ." I don't know what to say. All I know is I have the power to lessen this woman's pain, and I therefore have a responsibility to do so. "I did see her," I lie. Squeezing her hand and forcing a smile, I tell her, "She's absolutely perfect."

It isn't until hours later—after I've locked my door and settled into bed, cradling Fenrir and Pumba to my chest—that I allow the tears to come.

Gail and I don't leave Hydra until well past sunrise, so it is midday when I first spot the camouflaged stonewall surrounding the Temple. The aged barrier is cloaked in layers of vine and overgrown trees. Tiny white blossoms sprout from the top of one of the plants hiding the sanctuary, and I have the strangest urge to pluck them and stick them in my hair. I think the women of Hydra are starting to rub off on me.

"Lady Cora!" A man appears out of thin air, waving me forward from an opening in the stone. "Please, come in. Thank you again for agreeing to this."

"Agreeing to what?" I whisper in Gail's direction.

"His son's coming-of-age ceremony," she answers under her breath.

"Oh," I say at full volume, "yes, you're very welcome. . . what's his name," I add in a whisper. My eyes widen when Gail whispers the answer. "Your name's Eomer?" He looks over his shoulder at me with a confused raise of his eyebrows, so I say, "That's fantastic!" As if that somehow clarifies why I would be fangirling over his name. I keep my mouth clamped shut to keep from rambling about how much I love Rohan. Poor guy looks confused enough.

After he's led us inside, the man turns, clasps my hands in his own, and bows his head until his forehead touches my rapidly sweating fingers. "As honored as my boy is, know that it pales in comparison to the pride I take in knowing you'll be here in person to witness his accession to manhood."

I nod and smile and try not to come across as confused as I am. Satisfied, he leaves with one final bow.

"It is tradition that the groom stays at the Temple before the wedding," Gail explains. With one hand on my shoulder, she ushers me further inside with a quick glance around. "Brides stay on Hydra. But I thought it best if you partake in both ceremonies. Get to know your people better. Refresh your memory, so to speak."

We duck under a low stone doorway, and then I stand, motionless, taking it all in. I marvel at how the Temple is like the Tardis; it is much, much bigger on the inside.

For as far as my eyes can see, the Temple grounds are crowded with high arched buildings— some without solid walls. Open air streams through what looks like giant gazebos made of rock. Inside the shelters, great walls of stone stand chiseled into elegant depictions of stories long past by. Everything curves and flows in a harmonious rhythm, like a stream of water down a hillside. Flowers and vines latch onto anything and everything they can grasp. All of the doorways are covered in runes.

I aimlessly wander further into the grounds without listening to whatever it is Gail's trying to tell me. A massive waterfall crashes down from the side of a mountain and pools into a glimmering pond. An elephant stands knee deep in the pool, spouting water out its trunk at a pair of swans, who bob around, swimming just out of reach of the water war. I listen to them honk threats in annoyance.

I sense Gail walk up beside me, but I can't look away from this mesmerizing place when I say, "Please tell me I had everything to do with this."

"Most," Ben answers, "but not everything."

It's not the fact that he's here that startles me. It's the fact that I was expecting Gail's voice that makes me cry out in alarm and flinch away at the sight of him.

"I'm flattered, truly." Ben quirks an eyebrow, but his amused expression quickly flatlines at the sight of Gail huffing her way over. Now it's Ben's turn to flinch away as she wags a finger in his face and chastises him not in Norse, but in French. "How is that my fault?" He sounds both insulted and confused as Gail continues her tirade. "I only just got here," he argues in English, but Gail has apparently made her point.

Abruptly, she spins and fixes me with a disapproving frown. "And how many times must I tell you to stop slouching!"

I've never snapped my spine to attention so fast in my life.

Without another word, Gail turns and hurries down a stone staircase leading into oblivion. I hesitate a second too long to follow her, and then she's gone, leaving the both of us standing around in the awkward silence that accompanies parental thrashings.

I hear Ben clear his throat. "How's Alex?"

"Good," I say. "Safe. Annie's keeping an eye on her while I'm away."

"Good." He nods in approval. "Good."

When it's obvious he's not going to speak again, I ask, "What's with the French?"

"For privacy. Your people don't speak French," he snaps as if it's obvious. "And neither do you."

"Hey, I'm not the one that just yelled at you in front of your friends. Don't take this out on me."

I prepare myself for a snide remark. Instead, he says, "You're right. I'm sorry."

He looks so tired, I feel bad for him. "That's okay. I think you need a vacation," I pause and lower my voice for dramatic effect, "from Gail."

Ben huffs a small laugh. "If only."

There's a weird energy around him that doesn't match his previous moods. It's as if he's losing the will to play pretend but hasn't quite given up yet. I take note of his exhaustion while his attention wanders elsewhere, and the question comes tumbling out. "Ben?"

He snaps his head up and plasters on a fake smile. "Hm?"

"Are you okay?"

By the amount of times he blinks at me, I seem to have caught him off guard. "Why would you think otherwise?"

"Do you want the nice answer or the honest answer?"

"My day could not possibly get worse." Ben sighs heavily and motions with a hand for me to continue. "Give it to me straight."

"You look. . . slightly deranged."

"Please, don't hold back. I can take it."

I'd laugh if a thought didn't just hit me and suck all of the humor out of the situation. "What are you worried about?"

It is this question that finally gets him to look directly at me. "Pardon?"

"You're not sleeping. Your plan worked, but you're still worried about something. You being stressed out is stressing me out. Is it something I can help with?"

Whatever it is that's causing his insomnia, it's clear he has no interest in talking to me about it. He battles with a few responses before answering, "No, you can't help. Don't worry about me. I've never been very good at staying asleep." Before I can press him further, he nods at the bag I packed for tomorrows scavenger hunt. "I'll let you unpack."

"Oh." I shrug off the bag and then immediately put it back on and tug on the straps. I can't seem to figure out what to do with my hands. "Um. . . you wouldn't happen to know where I'm staying, do you? I have no idea where Gail went."

"I take it you have no memory of the Temple layout?"

"None whatsoever."

"Might as well give you the grand tour then," he says flatly and turns to begin his descent down a flight of stairs. I follow, surprised that they snake back up into the light, then wind even higher up into a maze of hallways going who knows where. As confusing as it is, the pathways are all open to the warm air. Every inch of the doorways and archways and columns are carved into painstakingly intricate designs. Long painted murals stretch from one hallway to the next, depicting everything from parties to battles.

"I think I might have just changed my mind." I look over at Ben when he doesn't respond. "About staying on Hydra forever."

"Is the Temple not what you expected?"

"I didn't expect it to be beautiful. I mean, people like Erik don't exactly strike me as a lover of art or gardening. But this place. . ." I spin around to better see the detailing carved into the stone. "It gives Hydra a run for its money. Oh." A rush of blood warms my cheeks as I remember the horrifying statue in the Hall of Freyja. "Um. So, all of this art. . . I mean, just to confirm. Uh. There aren't any. . ."

"Any?"

Just say it. "There aren't any, uh, inappropriate paintings of me here, are there? Or statues? Or carvings? Or. . . anything?"

I can't tell for sure, but it looks like he's enjoying himself when he asks, "Can you please clarify what you mean by inappropriate?"

"Inappropriate," I repeat stupidly. "You know. . . indecent?"

"Are you asking me if your people have painted naked pictures of you on the walls? We haven't gotten to that wing yet. Don't worry, you won't be disappointed." Ben steps around me to continue down the hallway then stops to glance at me over his shoulder. "I'm kidding," he adds with a smirk. "We're sorely lacking in such artwork of you, but thankfully we have a fantastic nude mural of me. It's just up ahead." To confirm he's not serious, he immediately breaks out in low but unstable laughter.

What the hell? Wow. I guess his insomnia is even worse than I thought.

It's so easy to get lost here—pun intended, I guess—so I trail closely behind Ben as he leads me down yet another gallery. He's thus far obliged my slower pace so I can marvel at all the art, but he also seems impatient to escort me to my room so he can be rid of me, presumably to take a well needed nap.

I take in the nearest mural a while longer, and then turn back to make sure Ben hasn't taken off without me. Not only has he not abandoned me, but he's standing so close I almost bump into him. His intense eyes flick from me to the mural behind me. "That was always my personal favorite. But I'm biased."

His proximity makes me stifle a nervous laugh. "Biased how?" It's a stunning piece of art. I'm sure if Charlotte had still grown up an anthropologist, she'd be drooling all over this. I point at a painting of a tiny mouse with a jagged tail. "Why does this look like Pikachu?" As soon as I say it, I realize he has no idea what Pokemon is.

"That is Pikachu," Ben answers. "This mural is nothing but Pokemon. Take a step back, you probably can't see from that close."

Standing behind me, with one gentle hand on either of my shoulders, he guides me backwards away from the wall until I see what he means about the mural. I try to measure my breathing to keep the fact that he's touching me from sending me down a spiral of anxiety, but it's like my entire body is suddenly aware of itself for the first time. I've never actually been this physically close to someone who wasn't my siblings.

I wait for him to let go of my shoulders or move from directly behind me, but his hands slowly slide down my arms until he has my right hand in his. Each motion drags on for an eternity. Deliberate. A caress. He folds all of my fingers into a loose fist, except for my pointer finger, which he guides up to aim at one the drawings.

"I painted that one." Ben leans down close to my ear, cradling his face in the crook of my neck, his voice low as he says, "Do you like it?"

Before this moment, I would have thought being in this situation would have been exhilarating or hot. I've been waiting what feels like my whole life to have someone pay me attention like this. But here, now, actually experiencing what feels very much like seduction, I feel nothing but a deep, painful nausea.

"Lady Cora?"

At the sound of the man's voice, I break out of my panicked coma and step away from Ben. A small enough step to seem inconspicuous, but far enough away that his hands lose their grip on me and fall reluctantly to his sides.

"I'm sorry," the man says, "I didn't mean to intrude."

"You're not." I'm all smiles, coughing a few times into my arm to stave off the uncontrollable laughter that had been building up. "What do you need?"

He looks familiar—beyond the fact that he's the norseman who I spoke to while he was guarding the survivors. I've met him before, but that's not how he feels familiar. It's something more than that, I just don't know what. He's easily two shades darker than the other norsemen, with a thinner build and more angular face. While not all of the norsemen are blonde or redheaded, they tend to have lighter shades of brown hair. I haven't met any with black hair, but this man has thick black waves tied up tight in a ponytail. He is, quite literally, the odd one out in this community.

"I was hoping to speak to you," he asks. "Privately," he adds with a knowing look towards Ben.

Ben mutters something in Norse. "Really?" he adds snidely in English. "You're going to do this now? It can't wait a few more days?"

"I don't see why that's a problem," the norseman responds with resolve. "I cleared it with Gail."

I can't make myself look over at Ben, but I hear him exhale slowly through his nose. "Alright. Show her to her room when you're done."

I stare at the ground, face enflaming, and wait for the norseman to gesture for me to follow him down some stairs into a beautiful grassy hillside near the water.

Sitting in the grass calms me somewhat. Enough, apparently, to help me remember this man's name. I remember at the time I thought it was funny that there was a Viking named Chris. "Christopher, right?"

He nods, seeming sad and happy all at the same time. "May I sit?" I nod, and he takes a hesitant seat beside me. "I'm sorry for not reaching out sooner. I just. . . wasn't sure when the right time would be."

"Was it a parent? Grandparent?"

Christopher tilts his head in confusion. "What?"

"I'm assuming you want to know about someone in your family who died. I've probably spoken to them recently. Who was it?"

Judging by the look on his face, I've guessed his request correctly. "My mother."

"What was her name?"

"I'm not. . . that's not what I. . . sorry. I should have sought you out earlier." He lifts a hand to swipe at some hair that's escaped his hairband. "Forgive me. I'm a little nervous."

Well, great. Now I'm nervous. "What is it you need, Chris. Sorry, do you mind if I call you Chris?" He nods. "Ok then, Chris, what is it you want to ask me?"

"It's about my daughter," he answers after a long pause. "She's. . . she's been waiting to meet you since she was old enough to understand who you are. All she's been talking about since your rebirth is how much she wants to meet you. But," he continues with a small sigh, "for obvious reasons, your attentions have been occupied elsewhere. She's very shy. Even if there were moments where you were alone, she wouldn't have reached out without me there. And I've been detained here on official business for quite a while so—" He's rambling faster and faster with a growing sense of anxiety.

I smile with relief at his request. Why is he acting like this was a big deal? "You want me to talk to your daughter. Hang out for a while, just the two of us? Calm down, Chris. That's not a big ask. What's her name? I'll speak with her first thing when I return to Hydra."

"Freyja," he answers after what seems like a lifetime. "I named her after her grandmother. I. . ." His whole body trembles slightly as he fights to keep still. "I hoped you'd be proud I passed down your name in our family."

I try to joke and put him more at ease. "Your mother's name was Freyja? I'm flattered. Although I'm surprised her parents were allowed to name her after me. Do you not have rules about naming your children after deities?"

"Well, yes, but," he answers softly, " but there. . ." He has to pause to collect himself before he can continue. "There has only ever been one Freyja before my daughter. Her's was not a blasphemous naming because it was for a direct descendant of the deity."

I can physically feel all the blood drain from my face. My eyes dart all over his facial features—his dark eyes, long lashes, thick eyebrows and beard that doesn't grow much beyond his mouth and chin area— desperately trying to process what he's saying. And that's when it hits me. I know why he looks so familiar. It's because he doesn't look Norse. He looks like my Sicilian family.

I can see in his eyes the moment he realizes I've figured out who he is. Christopher smiles with the same tinge of sadness as the women I spent all night consoling. In a quiet, almost breathy sigh, he says, "Hi mom."