A.N.: So…this chapter is dedicated to anyone who wanted more Giulijah smut. And anyone who wanted to see into Elijah's past. People have asked for a breakdown of influences for Elijah's family: Isak – Garrett Hedlund, Lagertha – Katheryn Winnick, Willem – Chris Hemsworth, Gyda – a combo of Emma Watson and Alicia Vikander. And I never bought the actress who played Esther, there was no chemistry, and she doesn't look much like Claire Holt – someone like Gwyneth Paltrow, because, heck, she's an all-powerful witch, why wouldn't she use magic to slow the aging?!


Dangerous Beauty

29

Fractured


He inhaled sharply, swaying where he stood in an onslaught of emotion so powerful, it nearly knocked him over, his chest surely rendered in two. Heartbroken and delirious, elated, he nearly dropped to his knees and wept at the sight of her. Hesitantly, he reached out a hand, fingers trembling, and his entire body jolted at the feel of her warmth against his eternally-chill skin, stroking his thumb against her high cheekbone, gazing wondrously at that lovely oval face, porcelain skin immaculate, those exquisite lips he knew so intimately, the neat little nose, the expressive dark eyebrows and those eyes… Glowing bright-grey, mercurial, full of mirth and irony, ferocity, gentleness, and far too old for a woman who looked so young.

He blinked tears away, and staggered back a pace, shocked and dismayed. The memory of a messy, curling braid cascading down a slender back, pinned with delicate combs and threaded with silver silk bright against dark hair, loose curls drifting lazily across a face that haunted his dreams, drifted away as swiftly as it had crept up on him. He blinked away the image of Lucrezia beaming at him in the strong sunlight of southern France, as children's laughter echoed on the air laden with perfume from a flower-garden he'd never seen the like of. She was wearing that pale-lilac velvet gown with the low neckline in the shape of a V that showed tantalising glimpses of the generous swells of her breasts whenever she leaned across a blanket to help herself to food, laughing in genuine surprise as a little boy with golden curls draped with a flower-garland launched himself at her out of nowhere, knees green from the grass, tunic rumpled, plucked wildflowers clutched in his tiny fat little fingers, bowling her over; her laugh rang out as she hugged the little boy to him, flat on her back, the silver diadem she always wore, set with greyish-lavender tourmalines, flashing in the sun as it rolled away, dislodged; her eyes twinkled at him as she hugged the little boy to her, sprawled on the grass, raising a sticky lemon-lavender roasted chicken-leg to her lips, tearing at the flesh with her beautiful white teeth…

He blinked, the sunlight faded, and he swayed, confused. It was not…Lucrezia… But the face shadowed in the dark was so strikingly similar, and he frowned at her, blinking sweat out of his eyes as polished walls and dramatic lighting came into focus, the pale face shimmering, Lucrezia softening to Giulia's more youthful looks, a glimpse of Lucrezia's brilliant smile lingering, as if she was winking from Giulia's face.

"Elijah – oh my – what the hell did you do?" Giulia blurted, more tired than irate, her features morphing from fright to revulsion and curiosity to gentle compassion in a second. She sighed, and Elijah realised, blinking the hallucinations away, how exhausted she was; she looked like he felt, and he was sure he looked worse. "And there we were telling Tyler he hadn't hurt anyone." She sighed, rubbing her face tiredly, and took him gently by the hand after setting her backpack down on an occasional table in the hall. "Come on…"

He'd been on his own all day, and more relieved to be than in anyone else's company. It had been centuries since he had felt the effects of a werewolf-bite – New Orleans, just after he and his siblings had landed on the shores of the young French colony in the very early Eighteenth Century.

And he had forgotten how…debilitating it was. Not to mention inconvenient, and uncomfortable. The trembling in his limbs, the fever that made him feel like he was stuck in a furnace but didn't chase away the unnatural chill, the profuse sweating, the pain in his abdomen and lower-back, venom attacking his central nervous system, wiping out his organs, seething through his bones. Worse, the venom affected his mind. Made him do things he wouldn't ordinarily, made him forgetful, making him see things he was starting to forget were memories, they had started to come onto him so strongly, he was drawn into them. The hunger made his teeth ache, and it took everything in what little mental-clarity he had not to give in.

This was Giulia. Not Lucrezia, a thousand years lost. Lost, but not gone to him. He carried her with him, always, tucked just under the surface, too heart-sore and too sorrowful, wistful for her, to bury her completely in the deep chasm that was his heart, lined with pockets full of secrets; she was the first torture unfurling in his mind like a flower starting to blossom, petal by petal, turning his own mind against him with every memory that unfolded, every detail he remembered, every agony he relived.

He fell into a doze on the bed, fitful and uncomfortable – Giulia had stripped him of his shoes and clothing, his watch glinted on the bedside-table, and he gazed blearily at the delicate little ring on his finger, studded with an old blue stone, wondering where it had come from, how soft the sheets were, and who had so masterfully panelled the bedchamber walls, and he flinched when a sun-drenched memory of Gyda, her hair piled high, wearing a pale sage-green sacque, turning from the window, her smile so gentle, sad. It was time to say goodbye again. Their goodbyes came too swiftly, and he waited too long to see her again. But it was necessary, for them both to be their own people, to grow. And she had. Her Enlightenment literature had entranced him, and he turned to his journey back to New Orleans with a certain shame. While slaves built up the city, his daughter had opened a salon in her new Parisian home to entertain the free-thinkers of the time. He was reminded, with a smile, of the time Torvi had become angered at him for leaving her behind during the summer-raids; Gyda had been a small girl, no older than eight or nine, and run in, finding the pair brawling with their shields and fists – rather, Torvi taking out her frustrations on him, and Elijah teasing her. "Never argue like that again!" she had scolded. "You could have killed each other." Elijah remembered chuckling breathlessly, his lip split, Torvi fuming beside him, her belly gently swollen, and he grinned. "'Tis a strange thing, when the piglet must teach the sow and boar a lesson." He'd laughed richly when little Gyda had kicked his shin; he'd scooped her up, deposited her in her bed with Björn and little Alrik, and sidled back to his bed, coming up behind Torvi, wrapping his arms around her, rubbing his hands over her belly. Torvi's dark eyes flashed fiercely as she glanced over her shoulder, but he smiled gently, and she melted. She stripped his clothes, and they fought in bed, settling the dispute.

He slipped from the bed, swaying and disoriented, and a laugh echoed, rich and free, sending a shiver through him, and he followed the sound of raindrops.

There she was. Naked and glorious, riotously-curling dark wet hair pasted over one full breast, sending him a knowing smile full of promise over her shoulder. He blinked, and swallowed, his surroundings shifted in an instant, warm and coppery and glowing wood panelling, a sheet of gleaming glass sparkling with tiny droplets of water; it smelled like wildflowers and the sharp tang of pink-grapefruit, the humidity from the shower made it close, difficult to breathe on top of his fever, and he stumbled. She caught him, righting him, an arm around his waist, and Lucrezia gazed at him, relaxed and her tired, twinkling eyes so full of…love and irony, teasing him…his body came awake for her, as it always had since the first time he saw her in that terrifying dungeon, bound with his brothers. The baths had given him a feeling of unease the first time she had coaxed him down here, until the narrow passage had opened into a steaming cavern, a natural bath made beautiful centuries before by Romans who had painted the walls with their gods she told him stories about as they swam in the naturally warm water. She had tried to pin her long hair up with elaborate combs, dark tendrils that had escaped curling around her face, the rest draped over one breast, the other giving him a tantalising glimpse of a delicious little pink nipple, and she gave him that little smile, that private one he saw when they were alone, when they were…with his family, just them, or cooing over Alexandre. That was his smile. His Lucrezia. Not the Countess of Provence.

A woman like her had two faces; one she showed to the world, and one she wore only in private. With him, she was always Lucrezia. And she cradled his waist in her slim arms, nuzzling his nose before giving him a gentle kiss, taking one hand and guiding it over her breast, down the flat of her stomach, to the wet heat between her thighs. She gave a soft whimper, moaning, and he delved in, stealing a kiss, as she rocked on her tiptoes, clutching him to her, giving her hips a little roll. It was the baths, their baths, his favourite place, and her favourite place to have each other any way they wanted – and every way. She had brought a long chair down here for them, and he gave her luxuriating kisses, enthralled by her, his chest aching, gripping her thighs just under her backside, lifting her to his waist, and carried her over to it, gently setting her down on the embroidered cushion. Gazing up at him with those mercurial silver eyes, those exquisite lips, her breath caught, and he wondered why shock and wonder flitted across her face, replaced by a rich smile that made his knees weak, she gave a delicious, breathless laugh, reaching for him, giving him a searing kiss that took his breath away as she handled him so expertly.

"Elijah," she said softly, a laugh on her lips, her eyes sparkling, as she pulled him down onto the chair beside her, swiftly climbing into his lap; he choked on a breath, and she lost hers in a groan as she took him deep with one luxurious roll of her hips, threading her fingers with his, her eyes and her smile gentle and entrancing as she took him into her, making him shudder at the exquisite sensation he felt in every part of his body, overwhelming and exquisite and her lips were on his, warm and soft, her breasts swaying in front of his eyes, glorious pale swells tipped with upturned pretty little nipples she loved to have bitten and tugged with his teeth, cupping her breasts for him with their joined hands and whimpering, head falling back as her back arched to the sensation; she had reached that point, letting him know with her expression, drawn and almost pained, raking her fingernails over his chest, mewling, and Elijah panted, untangling their fingers, regretfully leaving her breasts, instead laving them with attention from his tongue, suckling her until she could barely breathe from the onslaught of sensation, and he frowned, only for a second considering the tiny hard little ring through one nipple, cold and tangy against his tongue, clasping her ass firmly in his splayed hands, and her smile of anticipation glowed, shifting ever so slightly in his lap as he adjusted himself on the chair, knees wide, and he thrust his hips up, hard, as he pushed her down, using the strength in his own body to take her as hard as she wanted him, fast and deep until he couldn't tell where he ended and she began. She reached back, hands on his knees for leverage, whimpering as she rolled her hips to match his thrusts, until she froze and shuddered, her expression gentling to the most delicate smile, her chest heaving, and he grunted, coming himself in a terrifying wave of blinding sensation that made his heart stop. He drew her to him, cradled against his chest, seated deep inside her, thrusting so gently the way she loved after she came, drawing her back into herself so delicately, he could feel her, and the tender kisses she dusted against his chest, taste her sweat and the delicate scent of lavender that always drifted from her long, curling hair that tickled against his chest-hair… He rolled her onto her back on the long chair, parting her thighs where she curled up, her expression content and faraway, kissing the insides of her knees, all the way up, and she sighed, his kisses and licks drawing her gently back. She curled her fingers in his long hair, drawing him closer, biting her swollen lip. She had never minded his beard, and he kissed and licked and sucked with abandon as she writhed on soft sheets. She gentled into an easy sleep, and he curled up beside her, the mattress perfect beneath him, something blowing a gentle breeze and the scent of wildflowers and pink grapefruit from her hair.

He shot up in bed, groaning in pain, hunched over, clutching his stomach, nausea building as the taste of copper taunted his senses, his insides seeming to shatter into thousands of tiny needles that pierced his bones in patterns like a tattoo-artist with a machine, so debilitating he couldn't help the tears that burned his eyes. A warm, soft body pressed lush curves against his bare back, slim arms threading around him, tucking him to her, drawing him close and giving him something to rest against; a tiny silver nipple-ring distracted him long enough from his pain that he'd forgotten it the moment it disappeared, and he panted, eyes drawn again and again to that tempting little pink nipple with that exquisite, fierce little ring that brought such unexpected pleasure.

Giulia, his mind whispered, and he echoed it, "Giulia."

"It's me," she murmured, half-asleep, making soothing noises one would make to gentle a fretful child, stroking his stomach gently, just the sensation of her warm, soft hands on his skin lulling him. She…was so warm, her skin so soft and so fragrant. He wanted to lick her all over, and give her exquisite breasts the reverence they deserved, and thread his fingers through her beautiful soft clean hair. He wanted to be inside her, he – he wanted to be over this self-inflicted influenza to talk with her – his two most favourite things in centuries. He reached up, gripping the arm she had draped around him, panting for breath and frustrated, swiping sweat from his eyes and groaning, swallowing a wave of nausea and fighting the instinct to curl into a ball – she guided him, so gently, back onto the mattress, and he sighed as his brutalised body sang with relief, stretched out on cool sheets. That tempting little ring drew his eye as Giulia leaned across him, bare-breasted, her hair smelling delicious, dried curls tumbling over her shoulders, and he tilted his head in confusion, drawn to her face, those enigmatic grey eyes…dark circles shadowed them like old bruises; she looked…exhausted. There was a flush to her cheeks, though, and to her chest, and he could smell…her. On him. Him all over her. Faint marks on her behind when she reached over him to draw a dish of water and a washcloth onto the bed beside him. He blinked, more of an extended droop of his eyelids that threatened sleep, never quite achieving it as his blood burned through his veins, and his vision shimmered; he panted, his breaths so shallow, something cool trickling on his brow, someone murmuring to him in a dead language, and he squinted, his vision pained, everything pained, and the timelessly handsome features of his brother swam into view.

"You must survive this, Elijah, for Gyda's sake. She needs you; we all need you," Willem told him, his voice heavy and laden with sorrow. Elijah gave a shuddering breath, shaking his head sharply, pushing the memory away as he started as if receiving a bad fright. Giulia gazed down at him, her expression gentle and exhausted.

He reached out, brushing his fingertips over the back of her thigh, scratching his nails lightly the way she liked, but speculatively – her eyes slid onto him for a moment, before she licked her lips and turned to her task, wringing out the washcloth to wipe him down, the water cool and surprising and delicious against his searing skin. He watched her, and touched her gently, tracing the curve of her ass with his fingertips, tickling the sole of her foot to make her start and swat playfully at his wrist; he reached up and pinched her pierced nipple, making her grin despite herself and writhe, eyes heavy-lidded for a moment before he splashed her chest with cool water from his fingertips, making her shiver and shuffle away. She tossed the washcloth at him, and he chuckled softly, wiping his face, and sighed, propping himself up against a mound of pillows, recognising that the sheets were rumpled, that flush to her face and chest could be from only one thing, that her hair was mussed and he tasted her on his tongue now that the nausea had receded.

Suddenly, he swallowed, alarmingly compos mentis and horrified. "G – Giulia, I…"

"What?" her smile was almost too sweet, the twinkle in her tired eyes too teasing. The smile turned into a smirk, as she whispered, "Did someone slip you a roofie?" He sighed, rolling his eyes, fiddling anxiously with the washcloth, aware suddenly that he was totally naked – even his ring was gone, and for a heartbeat his stomach lurched, and he panicked. Giulia made a gentling noise, resting a hand on his shoulder, pressing him back against the pillows as he made to sit up. He gave up the fight instantly, exhausted. "Go easy, I've got you."

"Perhaps you should not," Elijah mumbled, wiping sweat from his brow with the washcloth. He panted softly, glancing at Giulia, almost afraid to catch her eye. He had taken her…and not even…realised it was her? How…how mortifying.

"Why wouldn't I?" she asked, settling back, legs curled beside her.

Instead of saying what he was feeling – complete and utter embarrassment – he grasped at something that would put her in a foul mood and push her away. "I thought you were still angry with me."

"I'm not angry about Slater," Giulia murmured, sounding tired and defeated, combing her fingers through her dark hair and sending a wave of scent his way – wildflowers and pink grapefruit, and her, that indescribable scent unique to Giulia alone. "I'm just…disappointed." That was worse. But she wasn't moving, and Elijah was just even more uncomfortable. So, next obvious form of defence.

"I may hurt you," he warned, in all seriousness. The last time he'd been bitten by a werewolf, the ensuing madness had led him to tear through a slave village, thinking it was a battlefield outside the walled fortress-city of Marseille. Rebekah had found him after the madness had waned, inconsolable in a sea of bodies, aching for his brothers so deeply he couldn't move for hours until he managed to break the weight of depression and shame that had replaced the madness, the fever.

"You haven't," she said softly. She licked her lips, drawing Elijah's eye despite himself. She glanced at him. "And I… I want to enjoy what time I get to spend with you too much to stay annoyed at you about Slater. I…like being with you too much to…to let you push me away. So don't try…"

Elijah gazed at her, his chest aching. They had been playing a very dangerous game, and he had a feeling they were both losing. However much he had warned himself, he had…had let this extraordinary young-woman in, and he was…consumed entirely by her. Entranced, and delighted; her brilliance, and her kindness, the devious streak and her sense of humour, her creativity, and the unparalleled devotion to her Caroline, navigating the furore around her with such unyielding elegance, and her dangerous, selfless valour.

He had fallen in love with her long before they had tumbled into bed.

Three times in his life, Elijah knew he had fallen wholly, irreversibly in love. He knew, from the first moment he saw a woman, that he would be hers for eternity.

Torvi. Lucrezia. Giulia.

The first time he had seen Giulia in that red dress, devilish and clever and sweet, he had known. Infatuation had turned to admiration, to respect and…love.

Elijah did not fall in love easily, but like his father, when he did, it was fiercely, absolutely. And that love could not be broken. His heart had been broken, over and over, yet he had never fallen out of love.

He was over a millennium old and still afraid to let people in. Here Giulia was, seventeen years old and more courageous about admitting what she felt and what she wanted than he had ever dared be. Torvi had persisted; Lucrezia…had brought him to life again, entirely his; Giulia was extraordinary.

Here she was, embracing their inevitable end with grace, determined to enjoy what time they had together, rather than mourn what she understood they could never have. There was a serenity to her in that moment, in her acceptance of an uncomfortable truth he'd rather was never uttered, for as long as it remained an ambivalence, he could evade it. He had never been fatalistic, she wasn't either; but she was too clever not to see things from different perspectives, and logically, they would never work. It was just too dangerous – if she remained human, he'd lose her; if he failed, his brother would kill her as soon as look at her to punish him, or kill him without Klaus ever knowing he had left her behind. If he reunited with his family, she would lose him; if he did not, he would be utterly destroyed, and she would lose him.

She would rather enjoy him, them, now, rather than wish she had, and would never wish their time away, or waste it by worrying about what she perceived as the inevitable.

"Giulia…" he whispered, looping his arm around her waist and drawing her flush to him, her breasts soft against his chest, propped up on her forearms, her curling hair fragrant and soft, her skin so deliciously warm. Those mercurial silver eyes glowed in the lamplight, smudged with shadows of exhaustion. He reached up, tracing a finger over the soft bruises, sighing. He threaded his fingers through her hair, clasping her face gently, his throat close, his voice hoarse with emotion. "Giulia…the last thing I would ever want is to be a disappointment to you… I want you to have everything you deserve." She saw the sincerity…the love in his face, heard it in his voice, and leaned in to give him a tender kiss.

"Sleep, Elijah," she whispered softly against his lips, and he gazed up at her. Remembering, he shook his head slightly, physically exhausted but emotionally fired up, and he grew hard, leaning up to nip her lower-lip lightly between his teeth, drawing her tight against him.

"Not yet," he whispered back, drawing her close for a kiss. And another, and another, slow and luxuriating and powerful, consuming him, leaving her breathless, her warm, lush body draped over him. When he drew back, her eyes were heavy-lidded, her lips lush and bruised. He gave her a slow, tender kiss, gently rolling them onto their sides, Giulia tucked against him, and he hooked her knee under his hand. He heard her heartbeat, the delicious surge of blood and the accompanying scent of arousal that made his mouth water, and he dusted the tiniest kisses on her lips, nose, cheeks, jaw, murmuring, "First I shall give you the proper seeing-to you deserve." He had taken her, believing she was another woman; she'd have him again, now, blissfully and unequivocally hers.

He surged into her in one long, measured thrust that took her breath away, eyes clamping shut, lips parting on a breathless gasp, and he kept her knee raised to hit the angle he knew made her his in mere moments, panting and writhing, whimpering, scratching his chest with her fingernails and trying to roll the hips he kept immobile while he filled her with slow, powerful thrusts that surged to hit that one delicate little bud of nerves that made her toes curl and whimper, made her back arch, shoving her breasts up, and he pinned her in place as he dipped his head to lavish her breasts with licks and kisses, drawing her delicious little pierced nipple between his lips, suckling and nibbling, sometimes delicate, sometimes giving a sharp tug, measuring his sucks and tugs to the thrust of his hips, taking care to linger over that tiny bundle of nerves, tiny delicate thrusts that caught against that little bid, building up an inferno in so short a time her body couldn't handle the overload of sensation – she came violently, sinking her teeth into his shoulder as he chuckled against her breast, smoothing his hand down her thigh to roll his hips one last time, going deep and hard, moaning against her breast as he came, leaving him panting, his entire body relaxed but for the sting of her teeth still clamped into his flesh, stifling her whimpers as she contracted violently around him. He rolled to his back, bringing her with him, clamped tight to him where she sprawled, drained, over him. They fell blissfully, deeply, inescapably asleep, Giulia plastered to his side.

He gazed unseeingly into the fire, the life-giving warmth leaving him hollow, his mead untouched as he ruminated on the soft crackle of the flames, the hiss of the logs, the gentle snuffle of Gyda sleeping with her siblings, physically tired from the harvest and emotionally wrought. He felt…hollow. Esther had tried to give him herbs, drafts to take to ease the pain, but she didn't understand – he felt no pain. He felt…nothing. Just emptiness. Longing, and sorrow – and confusion. He didn't know what to do with himself.

He might never have heard the footsteps had he slept. But sleep did not come easy, not in that bed, and he frowned, setting his cup down on the table, a hand curling loosely around the handle of his axe, unbolting his door. The full-moon illuminated everything, he could see as clear as day through the sliver he allowed to see outside. It was not wolves; he frowned, mildly curious, threw the door open and collared his youngest brother by the scruff of the neck, flinging him to the safety of his hearth and closing the door – closing, not slamming; he was careful of waking the little ones, Gunnar and Annika, still fretful and confused, missing tiny, bubbling Olle with his broad smiles and cuddles.

If Björn and Alrik learned Henrik had been allowed this far from the village by himself on a full-moon night, he would never hear the end of it. As it was, he knew Father's laws, and was shocked to discover his youngest-brother had broken the greatest of them.

No-one left the jarlshall on the night of the full-moon. It was custom for the jarl to invite villagers in outlying farmhouses to the jarlshall on such nights, for the protection of the community, the best fighting-men – and Mother's spells. The wolves did not dare approach so close as the jarlshall when the formidable witches Esther and his brother Isak worked their magic to protect their people. When the wolves were men, their allies were glad Esther and Isak took such precautions – what had begun as an alliance for their own survival had over decades turned into friendship, and no-one wanted their friends' blood on their hands. Mikael always worried it was such a delicate peace; his men were not those of compromise, and though the wolves, as men, fought more viciously and punished with more cruelty than any the old warriors had ever fought in the shield-wall during raids in the old country…those old warriors had once been young men eager to greet their friends in Valhalla, chosen by Freya's own swan-maidens from the battlefield. There had not been a war in years, and the old men were getting anxious, itching for a fight that would send them to feast eternally with the gods and the great heroes of the songs.

Their life in the old country had been harsh, and it had made harsh men. Elijah could still remember it – cold. Breathlessly beautiful, and it was home, he could taste the salt sea of Kattegat and remembered the falls, the woods where he had apprenticed as carpenter and shipbuilder – before Mikael had killed the jarl, and become one himself. He remembered the great jarlshall, the celebrations, and he remembered… He remembered her. Dark-haired and wild, young and ferocious in the shield-wall – she had saved his life, once; her gentleness and – taking her to bed. He had thought her a fierce warrior in battle; in bed, she was more so. Gyda had not appeared until they had crossed the seas, but they had worked hard for her for several years. And following swiftly after her had come Björn and Alrik, Gunnar and Annika, little smiling Olle, no longer sleeping curled up with four-year-old Annika. His last child, a son, had been stillborn, and it was the effort to deliver him that finally defeated fierce, loving Torvi.

Elijah swallowed, stark emptiness shooting through him. He frowned at Henrik, cringing guiltily. Rebekah's influence over him was noticeable, still managing to look stubborn and annoyed despite having been caught. This was his thirteenth summer, and he had shot up half a foot in the last few months, wiry and awkward, not a boy anymore but still too gangly to be taken for a man.

"Father will have you flogged for disobeying him," Elijah said quietly, wandering over to the fire. Henrik sighed impatiently.

"Niklaus has snuck out again," he scowled, "to see that slave girl." Elijah made a quiet noise; he knew the girl Henrik meant, and wasn't surprised. She was one of the prettier slaves, daughter of a Native slave early after they had settled this land and made alliances with the local tribe, the people who turned into wolves every full-moon. Their shaman's story of their origins, their curse, made him shiver.

"Aren't you upset Niklaus has broken Father's law?" Henrik asked, with the indignation of youth.

"It will not be the first time Niklaus has snuck out to see this girl," Elijah said unconcernedly. If Niklaus wished to risk his own neck to bed this girl, so be it. Niklaus knew Father's laws just as everyone did, and would not be exempt to punishment were he caught. That he hadn't been so far made Elijah believe this was not Niklaus' first moonlit outing to see the slave-girl Tatia.

Henrik sat quietly for a while, frowning at Elijah. He blurted, "Why? Why does he risk Father's punishment to see her?" Elijah smiled softly to himself, watching his youngest-brother. In many ways he was still a boy, for all he was sprouting whiskers on his face to show he was becoming a man. Björn was very jealous of those whiskers, few and faint as they were. Elijah had promised his would come in thicker and darker than his young uncle's, taking after both his dark-haired parents. The hair on Henrik's head was dark, like Father's, and curling, like Mother's – he had their fair eyes, though, and the younger girls in the village liked to chase him.

"You will understand, one day," Elijah promised him. Niklaus believed himself in love – Elijah recognised it for what it was, lust. Tatia was considered prettier than Rebekah, even, a dangerous whisper if volatile Rebekah ever heard it, but she was a slave, still – any free man could take her whenever they wished, and they did. She had been passed around and offered herself to any man she took a fancy to, and all but Elijah himself and his brothers Finn and Willem had declined; Willem had no favourites, but Finn… Finn's love for that girl was true; Elijah knew this, because his brother felt pain every time he saw Niklaus flirting with the slave-girl. She dandled both brothers – one for the security she knew in being bedded, and one for the deep, honest, terrifying love she had never received before. Whether she felt any true feelings for either of them, that was another matter: she fucked Niklaus, and everyone knew it. But she could not understand why Finn would not bed her – Elijah believed Niklaus had little to do with Finn's hesitation; he wanted to marry her before he bedded her. They already knew she could bear him strong children; she had delivered other warriors several sons since she was old enough to be bedded.

Henrik exhaled a soft hiss. "You mean he likes to bed her," he said, and Elijah raised an eyebrow at his youngest brother.

"Yes," he answered simply, hiding a smile.

"Why risk a flogging to bed a slave?" Henrik frowned.

"Why, indeed," Elijah sighed. They both knew Father's laws. He was fairly certain Niklaus had been neglecting his duties around the fields to take her in the woods; surely it could wait until sunrise? In the bed, Alrik snorted and twitched, shifting beside Gunnar, reminding Elijah that his young brother ought to be in bed also. He stood, plucked Henrik from his stool by the shoulder of his tunic, gave him a sharp clip round the ear for disobedience and sent him to bed.

"To bed. Mother will know you are missing; I should rather have her find you tucked in bed here than chasing after shadows on the full-moon," Elijah said honestly; Mother would cast a spell to seek Henrik when she noticed him missing. She always noticed. One by one her children had grown, Elijah and Lagertha had started families of their own, he and Finn farmed the same land as partners, Isak and Willem lived together, and somehow Mother was left now with beautiful, stubborn young Rebekah and Henrik, her last-born. Drifting between all of them was enthusiastic but aimless Niklaus, not trusted by Father with any responsibility and therefore, acting without any whatsoever. He did what he wanted. Father disliked Niklaus at the jarlshall, concerned by his dependence on Rebekah, and their closeness.

Elijah and Finn had never told Father about finding Rebekah with her skirts around her waist with one of the village boys, or that Willem had heard whispers about Rebekah hiding a certain slave under her skirts… He sighed. Elijah had never told anyone he had discovered Rebekah with a different lover in the woods, legs shaking as she was pressed up against a tree, letting him take her – something about his disappointment in her had gotten through to Rebekah in a way none of Father's beatings or Mother's cold silence ever could. He had beaten the wolf-boy, though, for having her – he was known as a level-headed young warrior, grounded by his first full-moon; Rebekah was the tempestuous, the impulsive one, he had no trouble believing it had been Rebekah's idea. She saw too much of Isak, Willem and Niklaus' irresponsibility regarding their lovers. Elijah had had little to do with Rebekah being raised; Gyda had arrived mere months after her, and his and Torvi's world had become her.

He watched Henrik climb into bed with the other children, Gyda's beautiful features becoming drawn as she shifted and wriggled uncomfortably, and settled with a sigh that smoothed the frown away. Elijah wondered what she dreamed, and turned away, exhaustion pressing on his shoulders. They would continue gathering the crops, and he did not want to be out in the sun too long.

He rubbed his face, ready to curl up with Torvi, and was startled when he turned to the bed, finding it empty. He kept forgetting.

The memory of that bed, of glassy-eyed Torvi sprawled across it, her belly bulging, blood soaking her dress and the blankets, made him flinch, shivering, and he choked as another image flooded his mind, of another woman, with curling dark hair, propped up on bolsters and cushions, dazed, devastatingly pale, her wan cheeks tearstained, blood soaking her thighs, she looked…dead – he glanced down, his breaths coming sharp and short and panicked, taking a deep breath at the sight of the squashed, bruised little creature in his arms, bit his thumb and inserted the tip into the tiny baby's mouth, breathing a sigh of relief as the bruising to his shoulder and tiny chest faded. He squalled, finally, hiccoughed and opened tiny eyes, sticking out a tiny tongue. On the grand, carved bed with its frame draped with heavy jacquard, the bed in which this child had been conceived on a night Elijah would never forget despite the wine, Lucrezia stirred, her heartbeat getting stronger as she struggled to rise from the bolster, gasping, reaching for the tiny baby – a boy. Elijah cleaned him gently with warm water, smiling to himself as he noted the fine dark hair on the boy's head, how he quieted, blinking and writhing in Elijah's arms as his mother cooed for him, near-death as she was, eyes filled with tears, her expression devastated and entranced at once.

There was nothing to experiencing a mother seeing her child for the first time, and Elijah forced away tears of relief with a rough swipe of his hand, choking a shaky laugh, passing Lucrezia her son. She did not seem to notice how weak she was, how close to death – Elijah had almost forgotten the child as her heartbeat weakened and stopped for several breathless moments. The sound of his cries had roused her, glancing around, reaching out as if she was missing something, searching. Lucrezia took the tiny bundle, shocked and wholly, irrevocably in love, tears splashing down her cheeks, and she shifted on the bed, gazing down; she let out a shaky gasp, tore the neck of her dress and breathed a sigh of relief as the boy latched on, her face a mask of serenity for a moment as she glanced down, cradling her new son to her chest as he fed from delectably swollen breasts, until she grimaced, moaning softly, a hand going to her belly. The other.

She glanced up, catching Elijah's eye, and she allowed her utter terror to show. Gasping in pain, she clutched her son to her left breast, and Elijah pushed aside his feelings – she was allowed to be terrified; one of them had to keep calm. He swallowed his dread, but it showed on his face as she bit her lip, gasping her breaths, and he had to arrange her legs, feet propped at the edge of the bed, knees wide. He lifted his eyes to Lucrezia's, and she knew. She sniffed, dried her eyes, clutched her son to her, and breathed out in a slow, calming breath, before nodding. He had to manoeuvre the second child, born the same way as Gunnar, arse-first.

For a brief moment, sorrow at Esther's loss threatened to take over, devastated. She could handle this so elegantly, she had been known for it; mothers went to her when their instincts told them something was wrong. She had helped save every child but Lagertha's.

Lucrezia had only Elijah, refusing anyone else. And she had taken a vow from him, a dagger to his throat before he had to reach in and free the little boy. He would do whatever was necessary to bring these children into the world, because she knew, with that mother's instinct, that she would need his help.

This required his mother's delicate, deft touch, not his unnaturally-strong soldier's hands. But it was those Lucrezia trusted, and Elijah could no sooner break his word to her than die. She was consciously not pushing, as he delicately unhooked the tiny legs. Tenderly turned the dainty body, listening to but not allowing himself to be distracted by the sound of Lucrezia's pain; he draped a warm cloth over the tiny body, doing as Lucrezia had instructed him should this happen – she had taught him many things, including how to cut the child free, where and how deeply he had to cut, every scenario accounted for in the terror she hid so well from everyone else.

A father to seven children, pulling each into the world himself, Elijah had never experienced a more harrowing delivery.

"Push, my love," he whispered, and she did, her expression pained, breathless, clutching her son to her, now asleep, a tiny fist curled by his face. The child came free, and Lucrezia groaned in relief, swaying. She caught herself, retreating to the pillows, cuddling on her left side with the greatest love of her life, and he let her go, too concerned with the child in his arms; he had clamped and cut the cord, now gently massaging and washing the infant – a tiny girl – waiting. And waiting. Lucrezia's lips moved on a soundless moan, the afterbirth delivered, glazed eyes turned to Elijah, seeking.

The baby did not breathe. Neither did Lucrezia, her silver eyes sharp on the baby in his arms.

She reached out a bloody hand, and Elijah, grief-stricken, nestled the tiny girl against her chest, her eyes bright, sparkling with tears as she curled a hand around her. Beside the tiny girl, her twin squirmed and sneezed softly, eyes slitting open, and he yawned, before letting out his first wail. It seemed to frighten the tiny girl into life – her heartbeat surged and she let out an answering scream.

Elijah stumbled against the bed, relief sweeping through him, and Lucrezia choked on a grateful gasp, clutching the tiny girl to her as she wailed. Content that his sister was well, the tiny boy nuzzled his mother's breast, and was given a nipple gratefully; the little girl proved to possess strong lungs, crying out. Lucrezia gazed down at her, shifted her until she touched her brother, and suddenly she sighed, accepting a nipple, suckling contentedly.

Lucrezia gazed at him, exhausted, recovering from being delirious with terror, clutching her children to her, tears leaking slowly down her cheeks. He climbed onto the bed, ignoring the mess for a moment, to curl up with Lucrezia, who gazed at him with so much love, his chest ached, allowing everything he had squashed – because she needed him, needed him strong and able to do what she could not – and cradled her face, his hand shaking with emotion so strong it still terrified him, resting his forehead against hers.

"Now we are a family," she whispered, and Elijah moaned softly and stole a deep kiss, wrapping his arm around her – around them.


A.N.: You didn't expect this, did you?!