December 2, 1944
The allies have kept up a steady bombing campaign, day and night, ever since the luftwaffe gave up control of the skies. Bombs thunder on the horizon, their incendiary fury tearing ugly smoking holes in the snowy countryside that Elsa used to call her home. She can't sleep. She tells herself that it's the ever present rumble of bombs in the distance, or the low growling drone of a thousand engines. Or maybe the voices of the wounded in the medical tent next door. Or the hard, uncomfortable military cots, or the thin tents that do nothing to keep out the wind and the cold. But Elsa doesn't feel the cold. Not anymore. Undead.
Her magic had rebuilt her body when Dachau had burned her but it didn't work quite perfectly. She had known, back when she had first found Nagash's ancient book, that she would die one day. All the magic in the world can't stop that, but the right spells can keep it from being permanent. Bind her soul to a physical object, and the magic would keep pumping faux life into her limbs as long as there were limbs to animate. Become a litch, and even if your body is destroyed, you will keep coming back. That had sounded so wonderful to a little Jewish girl hiding in an attic. She hadn't known about the terrible numbness that would come with death. Hadn't bothered to translate that part before working her spell.
When a new body coalesced from the dust and ash left by those terrible furnaces, that had been dead too. A condition of the soul, not the body, she supposes, though she hadn't known there was a difference. Her new body bears all of the horrible marks of her time in the death camp. That surprised Elsa; she had read that magic can heal anything. That magic can repair any blemish you want gone, but as much as she hates those black numbers on her wrist, she can't make them fade, and her new body shows them stark against her pale European skin.
It doesn't surprise her now. Now, she knows to read the terms and conditions. Now, she knows that magic can remove any blemish that you want gone, but that's a limit, not an infinite expression of power. Her magic can heal anything she wants to heal, can build a new body from ash and dust, but on some sick level those numbers are a part of her. Those scars are who she is. Elsa can tell herself every day, that she wants them gone but somewhere deep down, she knows she deserves them. Just a stupid little Jewish girl, playing with power she doesn't understand.
Someone dies next door. They don't make a sound when they do, but Elsa can feel it. She can always feel it. That had almost driven her mad in Dachau. Well, want not waste not.
Elsa drags her dead limbs from bed, straightens her dress, and pushes through the tent flaps. It's snowing again. A wall of white, whipping through the night and leaving parts of itself everywhere it goes. The chill cuts through Elsa's thin dress but she can't feel it. Barely even notices it.
The nurses look up briefly when she enters the medical tent. The soldiers who are going to make it do too. They're used to Elsa by now. Every time someone dies, there's the pale, shy, traumatized Jewish girl. The 'Angel of Dachau,' they call her. The 'Angel of Death,' when they think she can't hear. Who- a bomber pilot. Burned and broken. He had stayed with his plane, even after it had taken an eighty-eight flack round to the bomb bay. He had held it level while his crew bailed out, even as the fuel tanks ruptured, and the cockpit burned. Elsa wishes she could have saved him, but it isn't to be. Everything you do with magic carries a price. For every wounded soldier she wants to save, someone has to die. Oh, smaller spells can draw their power from the air around, from truncating the lives of the surrounding plants, from herself even as long as she's careful, but repairing a mangled body is no easy thing. The bomber pilot would have liked that his death will save one more soldier.
"Elsa," one of the nurses says. Amilia, the soldiers call her whenever they visit her tent, and they visit often. "Who is it?"
Elsa points numbly. Already, the power is boiling out of the bomber pilot's corpse- Elsa is always careful not to learn their names. She seizes the power, shapes it, who needs…
There, an infantryman who charged a machine gun nest to draw fire away from his squad. Elsa recognizes him, but barely; he was with the squad that pulled her out of the ditch and made sure she got here safely. Bandages cross his face, and his broad chest. His breathing is ragged and uneven, something rattles and rasps as his breath escapes through the perforations in his chest. It's a minor miracle that he's survived this long, and it's going to be another miracle when he wakes tomorrow. Elsa uses the power of the bomber pilot's death to knit the soldier's lungs back together, to heal the tears in his heart, to pull the bullet fragments out of his shredded bowels and fuse them back together. Everyone pretends that the ethereal, sourceless shrieking is coming from the wind.
"Thankyou," Amelia says. "Uh, danke."
"Bitte," Elsa replies, gaze fixed on her battered black flats. They were shiny and beautiful a few years ago, her most treasured possession; she had taken a job waiting tables at the local cafe, but even so, it had taken her four months to save up enough. Now, the soles are worn thin, and the buckles are tarnished. The blacking is rubbed away, and the heels are cracked. They're all that's left of her old life though, so she keeps them. Those shoes, and Nagash's ancient book that is. "You won't tell?"
"I won't tell," Amelia agrees, and pulls the bomber pilot's sheet over his ruined face.
"Elsa," one of the soldiers calls. His leg is a bloody stump, but he's awake and he will live. "We won't tell either."
"Thankyou," Elsa dips her head shyly, and turns to go.
"I have to know," the soldier props himself up with a pained grunt, and his comrades look on in morbid fascination. "What are you?"
"Ich bin ein jude," Elsa says bitterly, and rubs her wrist.
"He meant, how can you…" one of the other soldiers chimes in then trails off awkwardly.
"I…" Elsa looks around quickly. So many people, how will they judge her? Will they throw her out? Will they hurt her? Will they… she stumbles back towards the door.
"No no no," one of the soldiers says quickly. He tries to stand, but falls back into his bed with a grimace. "Don't go. Please. We didn't mean… please…"
Elsa frowns, but hesitates. "I…" she says again.
"It's ok," the first soldier says. "We won't ask if you don't want to tell us. Just, please stay."
"I can't…" Elsa looks around quickly. "Can't save everyone."
"We know," one of the soldiers says. "But you save as many as you can, and that's what matters to us."
"You an angel?" The first asks, and one of his comrades throws a tin of shoe polish at him. "You don't have to say if you don't want to," one of the other soldiers says quickly.
"Not an angel," Elsa says. She crosses her arms over herself. "I'm sorry."
"Why are you sorry?" Amelia puts her arm around Elsa's thin shoulders. Elsa flinches, and draws away, but she doesn't leave.
"We know you've been through some shit," the first soldier says. "Hell, you're just as wounded as the rest of us, just in a different way. Stay, play cards with us, have a little fun. It'll help."
"I…" Elsa looks around quickly. There's none of the judgement or hatred she expected. Just gratitude and pity and the kind of brotherly love and respect that soldiers have for each other. "Ok," she says, because it's easier to go along with them than it is to make up an excuse.
February 27, 1956
"I'm not a communist," Elsa crosses her arms over herself and presses back into the wall.
"You've got an accent like a commie," the woman waves her cane. "I'm calling the po-lice."
"It's a German accent," Elsa protests. "I'm from Germany. During the war. I…" She wilts under the hatred directed at her. "I…" why can't anyone ever leave her alone?
"Elsa?" A voice calls, deep and masculine. "Holy shit. Guys! Guys come quick!" Elsa dimly recognizes the man. He was part of the squad that found her, right? Back in Germany? A few more men hurry over. They all wear olive dress coats heavy with medals.
"Well I'll be damned," one says. "The Angel of Dachau. My god. I told you we didn't just imagine her."
"Elsa?" A third asks. "You remember us?" The woman who had been harassing Elsa steps back uncertainly.
"I do," Elsa nods.
"You saved my life," says the first. "I never got to thank you…"
"It's fine," Elsa replies quickly, and does her best to melt into the wall behind her.
"It's not fine," The man says. "You did so much, how can I ever…" he frowns, and reminds Elsa of a thundercloud bristling with rage and barely contained lightning. "Is this woman bothering you?"
Elsa shakes her head, but the woman speaks up. "She's a communist! I'm calling the…"
"She's not a communist," one of the soldiers steps in close. "She's a hero, and she saved my life. You have a problem with her, you have a problem with half the goddamn army. Get out of here, and if I ever hear that you're harassing her again, we'll have problems, you hear?"
The woman nods quickly and scurries off.
"Ho-lee-shee-it," the first enounciates. "It's fucking Elsa. You're her. Can I… can I get you a drink?"
"I don't drink," Elsa mutters.
"Well then a sandwich or something," the second soldier says.
"I don't eat either," Elsa straightens her dress. "I'm… a little bit dead. I'll come with you if you want though?"
July 16, 1969
Elsa looks on in awe. The rocket is a massive pillar of white and black stripes, a structure that dwarfs most buildings. It's wreathed in smoke, mysterious like some great titan from legend. It holds the same air of brooding power too, but hope also. A promise. We may have been born here, this little ball of mud spinning on through the endless void might be our home, but we don't have to die here. One day, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but one day we will set foot on another little ball of rock. And then another. And another, and on and on through the universe. One day, humanity will go to the stars, and Elsa will be there to see it.
The sea stretches out pristine and blue across the horizon like an endless stretch of priceless sapphires. The sky vaults overhead grey and brooding, but it doesn't feel like the impossible dome it does most days. It doesn't feel like a barrier. For all the people watching as history is made, the sky is just another frontier and today mankind will push back against it, just a little.
The launch tower's enormous metal arms retract slowly. The smoke swaddling the rocket rolls and boils like the breath of some fantastic beast.
"We are go for Apollo eleven," the voice says from the intercom. Elsa grins. She's not alone; everyone in the crowd has that same sort of elated energy as they wait for the behemoth rocket to lift off.
"Status board is a go," the voice says. "Pressure is good. Two minutes ten seconds and counting."
There's a girl next to Elsa. Bright, and full of energy like the the sun. She grins over at Elsa. Stupid dead thing, Elsa chides herself, no one could ever love you. She isn't interested the same way you are. Just someone sharing in the excitement of the launch. Elsa smiles back hesitantly.
"Oxidizer tanks on the second and third stages now have pressurized," the intercom says again. "Still showing go for launch across the board. Tee minus sixty seconds and counting."
The girl leans over, and says something that's lost in the roar of the crowd.
"Pardon?" Elsa frowns.
"My name is Ariel," the girl yells.
"Ariel," Elsa dips her head- don't make eye contact. "My name is Elsa."
"Thirty seconds and counting," that voice says. "We are still go for Apollo eleven launch."
"-beautiful," Ariel smiles.
Elsa shrugs. "It is," she says.
"I said YOU are beautiful," Ariel bites her lip shyly, and winds her fingers through her crimson hair.
"Tee minus fifteen seconds. Guidance is internal."
"Thanks," Elsa dips her head.
"Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, ignition sequence start." There's a sound like the end of the world. A roaring, bellowing sound that sets Elsa's teeth rattling, that even she can feel in her cold dead core. "Six," everything else is drowned out by the rocket's triumphant bellowing. The remaining fuel lines fall away. Fire billows from the base of the huge machine like a hundred crimson and orange sheets catching the wind. Slowly, ponderously, as if it were carrying the weight of the world's expectations, the rocket starts to climb into the sky.
"Some friends and I are gonna have a party," Ariel says. "You should come."
"Yeah," Elsa grins. "All right."
July 16, 1979
"Darling," Ariel smiles wearily as she joins Elsa at the table. Elsa can feel Ariel's joints protesting. It's Ariel's home, but Elsa has had a key for years.
"Happy anniversary," Elsa smiles back. Not quite shyly. Maybe demurely.
Ariel is starting to show some age. She's aging gracefully; her hair is still shiny and smooth though there are a few grey strands at the edges, her face is as bright as the day they first met though work has set a weariness just below the surface and there are the barest hint of wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Elsa looks the same as she has for the last thirty-five years.
They don't see each other now as much as they want to. At first, they spent every other night together. Then twice a week as the euphoria of a new relationship wore off. Then once a week, then...
Ariel works a punishing twelve hour a day, six day a week, textile job. Elsa tries to make ends meet playing violin on the street corner, and waiting tables; it's hard to get a high-paying job without an ID. At least she doesn't have to spend any of her measly income on food. These days they manage to meet once a month. Maybe. If their schedules are kind.
"You look good," Ariel says. She always says that, but these days it seems more like a question than a statement. Elsa had known that would happen eventually, but… "you…" Ariel frowns. "You're going to call me crazy, but…"
"But?" Elsa bites her lip.
"You look the same. Like you haven't changed," Ariel says. "At all." It's a statement, but the implied question is obvious.
"That's because I…" Elsa shrugs, and wishes she were anywhere else. "Um, I…"
"It's all right," Ariel says. "Take your time. I'm just… I thought I was going crazy these last few months."
"No," Elsa shakes her head. "No, I'm a litch." She sees Ariel's uncomprehending look, so she goes on, "I… this is hard to talk about, sorry."
"It's all right darling," Ariel says. "Take your time."
Elsa breathes deeply and necessarily. "I grew up in Germany, just before the Second World War. I was Jewish. Um, I found an old book that claimed to be filled with spells…"
"Oh, a witch?" Ariel says. "I thought you said 'litch.'"
"I did," Elsa dips her head and lets her hair cut her off from the world. "But I guess I'm also a witch?"
"What's the difference?" Ariel leans in. "What's a litch?"
"I," Elsa can't bring herself to meet Ariel's eyes- she's sure they're full of judgement and she can't… "A litch is someone who bound their soul to a physical object." It's easier to talk about the mechanics of her curse than she had thought it would be. Easier to talk about hard and fast facts… "As long as that object exists, I cannot die. Not permanently. This body can die, but I will just get another. And another. On and on forever."
"That's wonderful!" Ariel says. She reaches across the little table and gently lifts Elsa's chin. Her eyes are shining, and they don't hold any of the rejection Elsa had expected. "Is that." She thinks for a moment. "Does that have anything to do with the days that you get absent?"
"Yes," Elsa shrugs. "I guess. I'm dead. I don't have a heartbeat, I don't breathe, and I don't eat. The only thing keeping this body working is magic." She gestures at herself absently. There's a little of the revulsion she had expected, but it's gone quickly. Elsa barrels ahead. "I guess it's like there's a magical pipe, or wire, or however you want to imagine it, connecting my soul to my body, but I guess it can get backed up? The book said magic is like water, and if I don't use it for too long, it gets stagnant, and it doesn't flow right, and then my body starts to die- for real. The brain is the most fragile part of the body, and it starts to go first? Enough magic gets through that my body doesn't really fail, but there are problems with my brain, when it gets backed up like that?"
"Oh," Ariel nods slowly. She's taking the news remarkably calmly, Elsa thinks. "So," Ariel says, "why don't you use your magic more? Get rid of your off days?"
"Because it's horrible and terrifying," Elsa snaps, then quieter, she adds "And if you saw it, you would hate me forever."
"I wouldn't hate you," Ariel smiles and rubs her hand gently down Elsa's pale cheek. "Let's see some magic. You'll see, it won't bother me."
Elsa sighs. She leans away, then stands carefully. She raises her hands, and flexes her thin fingers. "What would you like to see?"
"Show me the worst," Ariel smiles encouragement.
"The worst," Elsa repeats numbly. "I can't. Not without… I can't. I'll just…"
"The worst that you can do then," Ariel says.
"I…" Elsa trails off. It's a bad idea. She knows it's a bad idea. But Ariel is the first to return her affections, the first to make her feel wanted. The soldiers she saved say they care for Elsa, of course, but they feel obligated to. Like there's a debt they owe her or something. Theirs is a false adoration; and Elsa knows that she can't refuse Ariel anything, bad idea or not. "All right," she says, and feels for the magic deep within herself. It's there, waiting, ready to GO, like an impatient stallion waiting for a race. She casts about for something to use.
Elsa flexes her fingers again, and lets go. Ariel had a dog when they first met. A huge, friendly golden retriever. Ariel had loved that dog. She had cried for days when it died. Elsa doesn't know how to reach out and seize the soul of something long dead, doesn't even know if it's possible, but she can do the next best thing.
There's a horrible sourceless wail, like a thousand tortured spirits crying out in unison. The flowers in the windowsill wilt, then droop, then turn brown and crumble to dust. The green leeches out of the lawn and a thousand insects drop dead. The house creaks like it's foundation is shifting, and though the light stays as bright as ever, it seems distant and weak and pathetic.
Elsa doesn't know how to bring back the dog's soul but it's body was buried out back. It's not so hard to animate it, give it some semblance of life. It won't live of course, not really, but Elsa is a necromancer, and what good would a necromancer be without an army of the dead. The old Egyptian kings that invented these rituals had planned to live on in another world; what good would that be without servants? The dog's corpse shudders and moves, claws its way up through the turf. It's just a zombie, but it doesn't take all that much agency to make it act like a dog ought to.
Make the thing pant, though it doesn't need to breathe. Make it rub up against Ariel like her dog used to. Make it come when it's called, and play fetch, and go on walks. Dog's aren't complicated. Humans are, and Elsa doesn't think she could make a zombie act convincingly human, but dogs aren't that complicated. The thing comes padding into the kitchen, panting and looking up at Ariel with something approaching adoration.
"F-Flounder?" Ariel stammers. It's eye sockets are sunken and lit with green fire- Elsa chides herself for forgetting to replace its eyes- it's skin is sagging loosely on its dessicated, reanimated bones. It's coat is patchy and grimy, but at least Elsa remembered to get rid of the worms and patch the holes…
The thing woofs and bounds over to Ariel, tail wagging enthusiastically. Ariel stands and stumbles back. "You…" there's fear in her eyes now. Terror. She looks at the thing in horror.
"I can make him go away," Elsa says quickly. "I can undo it."
Ariel looks at Elsa the same way she looked at what's left of her dog. "You," she says again. "You're a monster," she falls back against the wall, recoils when the undead dog comes closer to investigate. "You're a monster! Get out."
"I can make it go away," Elsa pleads. She can't feel anything. No tears in her eyes, no sinking crushing feeling in her chest, no lump in her throat, no heat in her cheeks. "I can get rid of it. We can forget about it. Pretend it never happened. Please." She's hugging herself, as if that could hold her together as her world shatters around her.
"Get out!" Ariel yells, and flails wildly. "Out! Just go!"
Stupid little dead thing, how could she have ever thought anyone could love her? How could she have ever thought Ariel could love her for who she is? How could anyone love a corpse? How could she have thought she deserved to be happy? Elsa rubs her wrist, and takes a few steps back. She makes the dog crawl back into its grave. "I'm sorry," Elsa whispers. "I should never have pretended to be worth anything." She places the key gingerly on the table and leaves; closes the door behind herself and walks down the sidewalk. All those happy houses up and down the street, blazing with happy electric light. All those white picket fences, and happy families with their one-and-a-half children. All that love and acceptance that no one will ever give to Elsa, because when you get right down do it, she's just a stupid little dead thing, playing with power she doesn't understand.
Elsa walks all the way down the street, though she doesn't quite know where she's going. When she hits the end, she turns, and keeps walking. Eventually- she doesn't know how long it takes- Elsa comes to her dilapidated little apartment. She had been so proud of it, so happy to show it off to Ariel. It's hers, she earned it, she can make her life work, can pretend to be human. Not anymore. The plaster is cracked- she had thought that gave the place charm, but now she sees. It's just a run down little place, that no one cares for. No one wants to put in the effort to fix it up. Forgotten and unloved, just like Elsa. It's bare inside; just a lumpy thrift store bed, and a battered clearance dresser. Her old indestructible book on the counter, and her beloved black flats. They remind Elsa of her mother; Iduna had been so proud when Elsa got her job, so proud when Elsa had managed to save up for these little black shoes. They had opened the box together, and Iduna had smiled so broadly when Elsa first put them on, had said "Du bist so hubsch," You are so beautiful.
Elsa takes her beloved shoes, and Nagash's indestructible book. Nothing else is worth carrying. A couple of tattered, faded shirts? She's wearing her favorite one. She always wears her nicest shirt when she visits Ariel. An extra skirt? The hem is torn anyway. More practical, less damaged, shoes? She's already wearing them. Elsa leaves, picks a direction, and walks. When the urban streets give way to interstates, she hugs the side and keeps going. When her shoes wear out, she takes them off and leaves them by the side of the road. When her feet get bloody and torn, she kills whole fields of corn to heal them. When truck drivers offer her a ride, she gives them a rude gesture and keeps walking.
AN: so, giga-chapter. Yay. I considered breaking it up into two installments, but that just didn't feel right for some reason? I wanted to flesh out some of Elsa's backstory, and people have been asking for more information on what Elsa is, so… killing two birds with one 4508 word stone. Hope you enjoyed. As always, reviews and follows and favorites make me happy.