A.N.: In celebration of this being the thirtieth chapter of Dangerous Beauty, I give to you Elijah.


Dangerous Beauty

Chapter 30

Creation


They were all exhausted, the yield from this summer's crops more than they dared hope for, but his back ached, sweat blinded him, and the sun had seared his skin. Even his armband was warm to touch, and more than anything he wished Torvi were there to click her tongue, smiling, and tie his hair up off the back of his neck. She would tease him, reminded of their youth, when he had kept his hair shorn. It had been a long time since he had fought in the shield-wall; his younger siblings had no concept of war, even Willem and Niklaus had never killed a man, not even in skirmishes.

The harvest would keep them through the winter, and Elijah was glad; Esther got the sense this was going to be a hard one. And when Esther got a feeling about something, they listened. Even she could not portend what the future held; she used to tell them, all they could do was prepare as best they were able.

"Elijah!" someone bellowed, and he heard a scream, Gyda's. Grip tightening on his sickle, he darted forward, lighter on his feet than anyone used to believe, and fast. Small bodies swarmed toward him as he ran toward the forest bordering one of his fields, his children fleeing a tall figure staggering out of the trees. Elijah stumbled a step when the trees shaded his eyes, and he realised who it was; Niklaus. It took a little while to realise what he was seeing; Niklaus carried something that had bloodied his tunic. But whatever – whoever it was, Elijah could not tell. Not immediately, not from such distance; but with a numbing dread, he knew….he knew… The embroidery on the cuffs of the tunic was Mother's work. The dark curls, drenched with blood. The narrow, wiry frame not yet reaching maturity. It was Henrik.

Or…what was left of him. His tunic was slashed, deep claw-marks rending the flesh beneath, white bone gleaming in the sun, shattered, and his stomach turned. Elijah had fought in the shield-wall alongside his father and eldest brothers, had witnessed carnage… He took a step back, swallowing bile as he realised something had…had eaten his brothers innards, savaged his face so he was unrecognisable.

Henrik was dead.

Niklaus' face was stricken, bloodless, his blonde hair matted with sweat and dirt and blood. He staggered, mindless with shock, tripping to his knees; Henrik dislodged onto the tall grasses, and Elijah stared.

Only the stir of the grasses brought him back to himself, and the noise Gyda made at the sight of Henrik, like a wounded animal. He blinked, gazing back at her as if just seeing her for the first time. He squinted at her in the sun, little and slim, wearing one of Torvi's dresses – they did not waste anything. Her expression…was not what it should have been. Not horrified, stricken, desolated – she looked bright-eyed, but there was a grim set to her mouth he realised she had learned from him, her features otherwise perfectly still, composed. He reached out, aware his fingers trembled, and touched her cheek.

"Mother will have felt it," he said softly. She used to say a mother always knows; Esther had felt it. Elijah knew she had. "We must get him into the house. Keep your brothers and sister outside – into the shade, when it becomes too hot. Keep them quiet; do not attract the jarl's attention." Gyda nodded, producing an old wool blanket, which she draped over Henrik. Elijah's voice had a bite to it he did not recognise when he said coldly, "Niklaus, pick up your brother. Carry him to the house. And you will explain to Father what you have done."

"I didn't – but I – I had no idea he was out there…" Niklaus pleaded breathlessly.

"He followed you to bring you back to the jarlshall," Elijah said sharply. He swallowed, glancing down at Henrik on the grass. The wolves had killed him; but he had snuck out of the jarlshall – had disappeared from Elijah's homestead before the dawn woke him – to bring his thoughtless older-brother back, rather than let him risk Father's punishment. He made Niklaus carry their youngest-brother to his home.

It was odd what memories death brought. He did not dwell on Torvi, strangely, but on Freyja. The sister they had lost in Kattegat. It was her funeral pyre, his mother's grief at her loss, that swept over him like a crushing wave. Beautiful, magical like their mother, on the cusp of womanhood, betrothed to marry…taken from them in a plague that had ravaged the town while the fighting men were away to the east. Freyja's death had prompted his parents to seek a new home for their other children, and more had come of it, Willem born first, then Niklaus and Father's beloved Rebekah, and lastly…Henrik.

This was the place where Mother's children were supposed to be safe.

Esther's grief was beyond words, stoic and devastating.


The funeral pyre still burned in the dusk, embers glowing in the gathering dark as Father's men dragged a young woman to the pillory, a scaffolding used mostly to punish slaves. But occasionally, to mete out the jarl's justice. A sheet of glossy dark hair rippled as the slim figure of a young woman thrashed, bucking and afraid. Niklaus barely stirred, lashed to the pillory, face and body bruised from the beating that had almost killed him – Elijah and Finn had had to pull Father off him, his rage so strong. One final kick to the face had sent Niklaus sprawling at Elijah's hearth, unconscious; he had woken bound, being dragged back to the village by one of Elijah's bison. Another had wheeled Henrik's body on a cart Elijah had built. Rebekah had been so distraught, Gyda had helped Esther prepare him for the funeral. She was getting too used to dressing her dead loved ones for their funeral pyres. Elijah could still picture her, lovingly washing and braiding Torvi's long hair, always so clever with her braids.

The jarl was meting out justice - all the villagers, and those from outlying farms, had come to the town to watch Henrik's funeral pyre burn. He had been loved. And in the uncertainty of Henrik's death – they all knew it was the wolves, but until Mikael strode out of the jarlshall, they did not know why Henrik had been out in the forest on the full-moon.

With each strike of the lash, they cried out in pain. Niklaus, and Tatia the slave-girl. Elijah's eyes were on his brother, beaten half to death already; he fell unconscious forty lashes in, sagging, upright only because of the bonds. Swollen, bruised, Mikael must have broken something, and blood seeped down his legs, pooling on the ground at his feet.

The girl lasted longer, stripped naked and flogged just as viciously, her hair parted over her shoulders covering her breasts, her face shining with tears and sweat, and her legs shook visibly; her back shone with blood, and somewhere young children stifled sobs.

The air was thick with the scent of ash and blood, cloying and unsettling. Elijah shifted, glancing first at Gyda, who watched stony-faced with her siblings clutching her hands until their knuckles shone white in the dusk, eyes wide. Annika had her face tucked against his leg, sucking her thumb and he reached down, stroking her curling brown hair gently to soothe her. He glanced to his other side, where his brothers crowded around, beautiful Lagertha's expression so grim, and he frowned subtly to himself as he glanced at Finn, and down at his clenched fist – Finn clutched the blade of one of his smaller daggers, blood dripping slowly to the ground.

Elijah sighed to himself, turning back to watch as Tatia's body sagged, released from the pain of her flogging by unconsciousness. Finn held the blade of his dagger rather than risk making things far worse by trying to interfere; they all knew better.

Mikael would not kill Niklaus, or the slave-girl. He would beat Niklaus, he would never forgive him, or forget, but the jarl would allow these two lawbreakers to live only because it was in his mercy to spare their lives – and their lives were worth everything, two strong, young bodies, one a fighting man and the other, a strong woman able to bear children. They were a small colony; they did not waste. Lives were precious. Mikael respected that, no matter how devastated he was.

What worried them all most was not Niklaus' recovery. Unforgiving of him for Henrik's death as she was, Esther would still provide him with salves and potions to ease his pain and aid his healing.


The night Niklaus and Tatia had been flogged, Elijah's greatest worry had been the fragile peace they had been nurturing for decades. His father the jarl shared the same dread – and his warriors were not men of compromise. They had demanded Henrik's death be answered with blood. The wolves'. Stoic in her grief, Esther had tried her utmost, Father had forbidden retaliation; but the men had been too long without a good fight, and too quickly, too easily, Henrik's death had escalated into a brutal, bitter war. Some of Father's men had slaughtered a family in a nearby village; their warriors retaliated; the Vikings had ambushed their neighbours. Blood demanded blood, and more and more of it flowed. It felt again like Elijah's youth, the first winters he and the other settlers had waged war against the native men. They were no longer at the same disadvantage, though, and they and the wolves had suffered equally heavy losses.

He had almost forgotten what it was like to be at war in his own home. The shield-wall was different, they went and raided others' homes; he and Torvi had fought side-by-side, shared equally the spoils, and memories of the bed-sport while the bloodlust still fired their veins kept him warm. They had not had their children, then. He had never known a parents' fear, until the first of the farmers had been discovered, mutilated in their neighbours' custom. Not all the Native men were wolves, but they were warriors still; and they were merciless. They had taken the children as slaves; Father's warriors had taken up arms, brutalising whoever crossed their paths, reclaiming them, taking slaves of their own, brutalising them. Elijah had not seen such behaviour since the Eastern raids of his youth. Mikael had always said he would not tolerate such behaviour in his own earldom. Most days Elijah had kept his children indoors; Isak had used magic to help with the harvest. It was the most important thing; they could not abandon the crops or none of them would survive the winter regardless of the fighting.

He shuddered, writhing in pain, breathless and utterly weak. The house smelled smoky and sweet, he was choked with warmth, the amber glow of a fire burning high, the scent of herbs and flowers strong and he coughed, writhing, rolling to his side to vomit feebly on the ground. A strong hand patted his back, helping him expel it all, and he groaned, collapsing where he had rolled.

"Elijah," a vaguely familiar voice murmured, gently rolling him to his back. Short dark hair falling into grey eyes, his brother's sharp features coming into focus as he groaned. "Elijah, you must fight this fever. Gyda needs you. She cannot be left utterly alone." Elijah moaned, eyes watering despite how thirsty his body seemed, working tirelessly with Gyda to tend to his children, the strongest failing first, brutally fast, horrifying illness that caused bleeding, vomiting, madness, little Gunnar and Annika crying feebly in his arms as they faded. Finn had helped, until he fell ill; tending to him had pushed Gyda too far, and she shivered and bled from her nose, curled on her side against the cramps in her stomach, beside Finn, on the verge of death. Delirious with hunger and pain, Elijah vaguely wondering how Willem had escaped the plague that had savaged their village as the leaves turned to amber and ferocious red, stunning. Torvi had always loved the changing leaves, the creeper that had grown up the walls of their homestead. He smelled something delicious – broth from one of his bison, fresh-butchered to cure for the winter, and clutched the blood-bag greedily to his mouth, humming with delight. He twitched, Willem's blonde shining hair replaced with Giulia's lustrous espresso waves, her pale face glowing in the dark, and he tossed the empty bag aside, grabbed her by her waist and heaved her against him like a child, shaking like a leaf, needing her.


He blinked sweat out of his eyes, and flinched as he dodged an arrow, smoke in his eyes and screams echoing on the winter air, wolves howling as the maddened beasts flung themselves again and again against the mystical boundary Esther, Isak and Kol had created, but the warriors who were not wolves had scaled the forest of wolfsbane plants Mother had drawn out of the earth, covering the jarlshall entirely as the villagers screamed and ran for its safety. Most of their best fighting-men were dead of the plague; Esther's sacrifice of several slaves had lifted the shaman's curse, but too late. All of his children but Gyda had gone to join their mother. Elijah himself was still weakened; but he would fight with a berserker's rage to protect the one joy he had left, his little girl, his Gyda.

Shield battered, soaked in blood, he and his brothers and Lagertha defended the food-stores to get them through the winter; Mother, Isak and Kol had made the jarlshall impenetrable. They were defending their territory, their home, their very right to survive the winter – Elijah had not fought so brutally since the very first months of their settlement, staggered by the brutality of their new enemies. The smoke in his eyes and chest, a wound to his leg, blood and sweat dripping into his eyes, the taste of it in his mouth, he growled and lodged his axe deep into the breastbone of a man he recognised, ducking an arrow and throwing another attacker off him with a precise swing of his shield, blood spattering his face. The clash of weapons rang through the village, one homestead engulfed in flames that illuminated everything, casting Loki's tricky shadows everywhere. He heard Lagertha screaming in rage, a bellow from Willem, glimpsed Lagertha sprawl backwards, blood spraying from torn leathers, heard her land heavily, wetly, on the muddy ground, slick beneath their feet. Willem groaned, rising to his feet, and it was the flames, or a trick of the light, or the true berserkrage of their ancestors, but Elijah saw his brother's brilliant blue eyes glow an unnatural amber in the firelight, huge and monstrous and pure Viking, muscled and ferocious, his blonde hair matted with others' blood, seething with rage as he hacked down the man who had injured Lagertha, and chased down another, slicing his head clean off as he advanced on Finn, his back turned as he fought another Native. Elijah glanced around, hoisted a spear from a fallen friend, and hurled it fifty feet easily, pinning Finn's attacker right through the heart. The axe and spear were Elijah's forte – no-one could out-throw him with either, with more strength or accuracy. Not even Willem, the strongest and most martial of them, who was savaging a dead corpse with more rage than Elijah had ever seen, even from Father.

He shouted, running over to Lagertha, who stirred and moaned softly, her eyes glinting in the firelight as a soft rain he had not noticed misted her face.

Hours later, Lagertha winced as Mother applied a salve of dried herbs and honey to the wound she had healed as best she could with magic. Healing magic was tricky, and exhausting; Mother rationed out spells to heal them, knowing they were stronger for the scars. Kol was less partisan; he had always disliked pain, the only one among them who truly embraced his heritage as a witch, rather than a Viking warrior, dark-eyed and with a wicked sense of humour, he claimed to be Loki's distant relative, he caused – and got away with – so much trouble. He said his strength was his spells, and Mikael agreed. There were more ways to protect their people than with a sword and shield.

Gyda sat cuddled up to Elijah, quiet and withdrawn, but affectionate. Elijah looped an arm around her, resting his cheek against the top of her head, the scent of her soft dark hair comforting.

"You did not pick up your shield, Gyda," Lagertha said wonderingly, glancing at her niece. Lagertha had been unlucky in her own children, too, had lost a daughter in childhood, her last child to miscarriage, and her son in an ambush. She would not remarry, no matter how bitterly she and Father fought on the matter; she would rather draw on Freyja's martial aspect now that her role as mother had forsaken her. When her own sweet, smiling girl had died, she had wandered over to Elijah's home with Torvi, handed little Gyda a plain shield, and started teaching her how to use it. Lagertha's helplessness in keeping her own daughter alive had compelled her to try and ensure Elijah's own had every means of survival at her disposal.

"There is no-one left to protect," Gyda murmured hollowly from beneath him. Elijah's jaw tightened, and he pressed a kiss to her fragrant hair, hiding how his eyes burned. Lagertha watched them, her beautiful blue eyes glittering in the firelight, tired and shadowed, her features splattered with blood, her blonde hair a riot of chain-threaded braids and her vibrant eyes flitted to Elijah's face. What was there to say to that?

Lagertha's sharp eyes found Rebekah, and Elijah stifled a sigh, knowing what would come next. Lagertha's voice, so gentle and coaxing with Gyda, sharpened like the edge of a blade, cool as steel. "I noticed you did not reach for a weapon, Rebekah."

Their sister and now last-surviving younger sibling glanced over, tending to Niklaus, whose eyebrow had split in a skirmish inside the jarlshall. He had been more belligerent and quick to lash out since his flogging, and in the shadows Tatia rested meekly with the other slaves, surrounded by her remaining children. Elijah saw Finn's eyes darting frequently to her; his feelings had changed toward her since Henrik's death, but Finn would not leave her – leave her innocent children – to be butchered, not when he had the strength to stop it. Niklaus, Rebekah – they had both hidden inside the safety of the jarlshall, the witches working within to protect their warriors outside. Mother had safeguarded their food but if they did not cut down their enemies now, they would only return, and scouts – Mother's eagles – had reported disturbing things; meetings between their neighbours and some of their ancestral enemies. Mikael, a farmer by blood as well as jarl, a title he had taken when he had killed the previous one, a greedy, frightened man, always said it was worth more effort to pluck the weed than let it spread, no matter how backbreaking the work.

"I don't need a weapon," Rebekah said, a stubborn tilt to her chin. "You protect us."

"And when we lie slain in the mud?" Lagertha asked, her voice like ice breaking. "What lies between your thighs will not save you." Father reached out, clipping Lagertha round the ear, but he gave Rebekah the kind of withering look they had all received at least once in their lives – that contempt. His open, aggressive disdain was usually reserved for Niklaus, but Lagertha had touched a sore spot: Rebekah had none of their mother's magic, and yet she refused to pick up a shield. But she was stubborn, and preferred fishing and picking Mother's herbs to anything else. Except handsome, inappropriate young men with a touch of danger.

That looked made Rebekah shrink, her stubborn chin dropping, her eyes lowering to the ground, a flush to her cheeks. Father was the only one who could put Rebekah in her place; she had grown up spoiled, never asked to do too much. She was the jarl's daughter; that was her role. She had never had to fight for anything the way he, Lagertha and Finn had. She had been given everything.

And that caused friction between the girls – between sisters Lagertha and much-younger Rebekah, and between aunt and niece, Rebekah and Gyda, two girls born months apart and yet so different. Their hearts were fashioned differently, Gyda strong and steady-minded, selfless, kind, Rebekah jealous, flighty and entitled, thoughtless, often petty. When they fought, which was not often, but remarkable, Elijah and Kol had had to pull them off each other – Kol would have been happy to watch, pelting them with stones to aggravate them further, but at Elijah's glower he had stepped in with a flick of his fingertips. Esther had healed Rebekah; Gyda had scoffed, striding off and wiping her bloody lip. What little vanity she had was made up for in Rebekah.

He glanced at Lagertha, pushing a lock of chain-braided hair over her shoulder, unconcerned by Father swatting her ear. She had survived worse injuries in the shield-wall, and paid no more attention to Father's slap than she would a fly.


They all watched the flames, quiet, exhausted. Isak jigged his knee, a sure sign his mind was racing. Elijah tried to ignore him; they had enjoyed a rare peace the last few days, he did not need to let Isak's impatience irritate him into spoiling the evening. The fire hissed and crackled peacefully, they shared mead, bread and cheese, Finn dozing gently, hands clasped loosely on his stomach, his legs outstretched and eyes closed.

"By the gods, Isak, what is the matter with you?" he sighed finally, frowning at his brother.

"Mother's behaviour concerns me," Isak admitted, scowling at the flames.

"More than usual?" Kol's eyebrows rose, taking a huge swallow of mead.

"Yes, more than usual. She does not use her herbs and spells," Isak frowned, and now the other brothers did, too, Willem's frown gentle, punting Finn with his foot to wake him. "To keep away old age."

"Perhaps she has forgotten to cast them," Finn said fairly, rubbing his face tiredly.

"Mother does not forget anything," Willem said quietly, gazing into his cup with a forlorn expression. Willem had never been close with either of their parents, though Niklaus was the least-liked of all their children. They loved Willem a great deal more than Niklaus, whom all of them but Rebekah tolerated rather than liked. Willem, they adored; he was a clever, generous man.

"She is saving her magic for some reason," Isak frowned. "I just wish I could learn what. She does not share with us." He indicated Kol, her favourite student. Intuitive, and creative, Esther said Kol had known more about magic by his tenth summer than she had by her fortieth. Though she looked young, Esther had lived longer than anyone in the village. Magic kept her strong, young, kept her able to help those who needed her. To watch over her family.

A knock on his door made Elijah rise; it could be Gyda back from the jarlshall. It wasn't; Father stood on his threshold.

"Father."

"Elijah."

"Father, come in," Finn said, rising from the table, leaving his seat vacant for their father, who nodded, ducking inside, and produced a skin of Mother's mead. He sat down with an exhausted sigh, leaving Willem to pour out measures of the special mead, and for a while they sat, and drank, relaxed and tired. They did not talk of the war, ongoing, or of their losses. The ghosts of Torvi, of Henrik and Gunnar and little Annika, of Björn and Alrik roughhousing outside, Olle gurgling from his cradle, grabbing his feet, drifted around Elijah's home, catching the firelight, glimpses of memory left to torment him. He felt their loss every waking moment, and dreamed of them. Only Gyda drew him from his sleep, when the cold tempted him to remain under his furs, rather than face another grim day without his family, a day of meetings in the jarlshall and squabbles between Rebekah and Gyda, whom he had found yesterday, buckling under the weight of her silent sobs. He had taken her in his arms and cried, stroking her hair.

Mother's mead was stronger than even he was used to; Kol dozed against his table, and Willem looked, for the first time in months, content. It was Isak who alerted him to something…being wrong. He had sipped his mead, eyes never leaving their father, who stared into the fire as if lulled by its heat, drawn to the flames, unusually for him, twitching, never still, as though distracted. The hoot of an owl, a coyote's shivering howl, the rustle of mice over the straw rushes. Isak's eyes were sharp, a slight frown on his face, never leaving their father's face. Without his lips moving, without looking at Elijah, he heard his brother's voice in his head, a whisper. Telling him to pick up his axe.

He woke, flinching, panic settling in, believing his home to be alight. Had the Natives attacked again? They had been drinking Mother's mead… Heat blazed from a fire that burned too bright, it pained his eyes, and…he felt…wrong, he…remembered.

Remembered the chaos, the confusion – Mikael's unnatural speed, his strength, swatting Willem aside, driving his sword through Kol's heart, and they had fought. Tried to fight – Elijah had thought Willem suffered berserkrage the night their village had been attacked; he was nothing to Mikael, awing and terrifying, nothing they had ever experienced, too strong, too fast, he seemed to anticipate their moves, fending off Elijah, Willem and Finn, only slowed down by Isak and his magic – he had sensed something was wrong the moment Father entered the house.

His hip throbbed where Mikael's sword had rend through him, he gazed around blearily, and his jaw ached. He flinched as a coyote howled mournfully, he could see the sound, he had to shield his eyes from the fire – burning normally in the hearth, Kol's lifeless form draped haphazardly where he had fallen, tunic soaked with blood where Mikael's sword had penetrated his heart so effortlessly. Elijah groaned, pushing himself off the blood-soaked ground, amazed he could even move – even if he felt wrong, Elijah knew his body, he knew he was healed. Everything was too much – the heat of the fire, his confusion, the rustle of tiny mice over the rushes – he staggered, awed that he could hear tiny frantic heartbeats, he pressed his hands over his ears, squinting his eyes in the brilliance from the fire, seeing his home with new eyes, vibrancy awing him, colours were stronger, the glow of the polished wood he had carved shone in hues he had never seen before, he could smell – blood. He could smell a strand of Torvi's hair caught on the woven headboard; a wild-cat marking its territory deep in the forest; the cornbread starting to moulder. Gyda's scent was overwhelming, her brothers' and sister's faint, but he could smell…their deaths. He flinched, sneezing, and lurched away from the bed his children had shared, and where they had died. Gyda.

He paused only to see that Willem and Finn's mortal injuries had healed. Willem's glassy blue eyes blazed in the light of the fire, stronger and deeper than Elijah had ever known them, Finn's dark hair shone with a hundred different colours, and their blood… His jaw ached, his teeth throbbing, and he stumbled out of the house. He gasped, a shuddering, heartbroken, awed sound; in the light of the moon he could see everything. Glancing up, he could have become lost in the sea of stars burning so brightly. He never knew the night had colour. A hunter, when necessity dictated, as much as farmer and warrior, Elijah was used to the night, prime hunting time. But he had never known it to be so alive in the heart of winter. The ice beneath his feet crackled like a sapling breaking in high wind as he stepped, making him jump; he panted, confused, overwhelmed, but entranced, as the scent of winter drifted up to him from that broken ice, reminding him inexplicably of Kattegat and the great snows, of his first home with Torvi – and his heart broke, leaving him utterly disconsolate as he stood in the glow of the moonlight and innumerable stars, remembering their bed with its wattle headboard and furs he had cured himself, hunting with Finn. They had killed a bear that winter, oh, his pelt had been beautiful. And warm.

He did not feel cold. He could see the ice forming on cobwebs, the scent of the winter was heavy on his tongue, and his teeth ached as he picked up the scent of…warmth. Bodies. His neighbours; he gave their farmhouse a startled look, and broke into a jog, running away from the confusion, no weapon on his person, heading for the village. Running headlong to the jarlshall, to Gyda. His only surviving child, his one joy. She always had been, and he stumbled, crippled by a wave of emotion that hit him like an anvil, sending him to his knees as grief and heartbreak paralysed him, choking on raw emotion.

Gyda's face flashed through his mind, and he latched onto it, pushed himself up from the ice-crusted ground, and ran. To the jarlshall, still protected with wolfsbane plants, beautifully carved, the largest building in the village, and a streak of annoyance shot through him like a spear. He had helped Father build it, and now he could see the flaws plain as day. His hands itched to correct them, but he stifled the urge to go back for his tools as one particular scent shot through him, obliterating everything else, every other sense. He homed in on that one scent. Gyda.

Her blood.

He barrelled into the jarlshall, illuminated with beeswax candles and the enormous hearth, and his world shattered. The firelight, near-blinding him, glowed strong and hot over Lagertha, her body broken, her eyes open and glassy as blood soaked the carpets beneath her, her sword shattered into pieces. Beyond the hearth, blonde hair glittered like gold in the firelight, Rebekah's finest dress glowing in the light, blood spattered down her throat, which had been slit to the bone, tears still glittering on her cheeks. He stumbled over Lagertha, crawling, unable to walk as grief and horror and heartbreak buried him, finally reaching her, finally touching a hand to Gyda, her body still and cold, blood congealed around her, her dress ripped where a sword had torn through her like soft cheese, collarbone to navel, through the shield strapped to her arm, shattered into pieces, the familiar aroma of sawdust sharp on the air with the heady tang of blood, the shield Elijah had carved for Lagertha as a gift obliterated. Gyda lay dead in a pool of her own blood, broken shield strapped to her arm, axe still gripped in her hand, her dark eyes unseeing as she gazed at the rafters.

But she had picked up her shield – her aunt's shield, when Lagertha had finally, for the first time, been defeated.

He sobbed, drawing Gyda's head into his lap.

"She fought like a Valkyrie," a voice said softly. There was no boasting in the voice, no sneer. Elijah choked, eyes blinded by tears, defensively clutching Gyda tighter to him, gazing horrified at his father, who was sat – had been sat? – at the table, watching him. His siblings', his daughter's blood splattered him, soaked his hands. When his pale eyes rested on Elijah, on Gyda dead in his arms, there was nothing in Mikael's lined face but pride. Pure, undiluted pride.

"When Lagertha fell, she did not hesitate for a moment," Mikael said softly. "Even seeing as great a warrior as Lagertha cut down, she picked up her axe. She was not afraid; she fought viciously. She defended Rebekah, who did not fight."

Elijah sat, cradling his daughter, his only surviving child, her mother's daughter, gentle and generous and wise, ferocious when provoked, playful and hard-working. Gone. She had kept him alive when Torvi had been taken from him; she had tried to keep baby Olle alive without his mother; she had worked tirelessly to keep her brothers and sister alive when the plague struck, and had almost died herself. Gyda was the one thing that had coaxed him not to give in to the plague. Their family had been brutalised, but together they were still a family. Now he had none. The gods had refused to let him follow.

Footsteps, and his brothers appeared; he did not see what they did, how they fought. Vaguely he was aware of Mother's voice, the stir of magic. All he could see, all he cared about, was Gyda. Her fine, black lashes casting shadows across her delicate cheekbones, dark eyes Torvi had always said were so like his, rich and warm, now hollow, no light, no goodness shining from them. She had Torvi's delicate lips, and he wept, stroking his thumb against her cheek, willing her to wake.

She did.

Those dark, gentle eyes blinked lazily, she inhaled a gasp, and stirred in his arms. She sighed, gazing up at him.

"Father?" she whispered, squirming, confusion colouring her face. He broke, as she struggled to sit, and clung to him.

A touch on his shoulder startled him, the warmth staggering. Holding Gyda tight to him, he glared as a sheet of rippling golden hair glittered in front of his eyes. Mother's beautiful face drifted into view, her scent of earthy smoke, herbs and honey overwhelming him, and he bristled away from her. She looked tired and white-faced, but colour had started to blossom in her cheeks.

"You must drink, my dearest," she said softly, holding out a carved horn cup. "Gyda, drink." She tipped the cup, and Elijah watched Gyda's eyes slide closed, lulled by whatever smelled so glorious, a little of the potion trickled from the corner of her lips down her throat, and she sighed. Elijah only heard her discomfort as he drank Mother's draft himself, clutching the horn-cup to his mouth, drinking deep.


Willem left, heading deep into the forests and falls, leaving no trace that even they could follow. He had always been an expert hunter. He had always won hide-and-seek. The villagers worshipped Lagertha as one of Freyja's Valkyrie, stronger, faster than any enemy, she protected the farmers who remained in outlying lands. Rebekah, they feared; she had killed her lover, a slave, in bed with him. Overwhelmed by the emotions that terrified him, Rebekah had become confused by her instincts, drawn to the hot rush of blood. They saw Lagertha's strength and her goodness, and adored her; they saw Rebekah's black eyes and fangs, and recoiled in fear. The winter gave way to spring, and the meagre sunlight had started to burn. Their desire for blood consumed them, the only thing that overrode their terrifying emotions, and it was blood that gave them strength. They gorged themselves during ambushes, feeding on their enemies rather than risk their friends. They all struggled. Whatever Mother had done to them, it had made them stronger in every conceivable way, and yet they had new weaknesses Mother had not predicted.


It was during another ambush that Niklaus killed his first man. His eyes glowed amber in the dark, and they watched in horror as every bone in his broke, reforming into a monstrous wolf. Crazed. He attacked Gyda, and Lagertha pinioned him to a cavern wall with sword and spears until he, howling, became a man again. He was different.

What Elijah and his elder siblings, their father, had suspected since Willem was a child, they now saw confirmed. Niklaus, at least, was not Mikael's son. Niklaus could not forgive this. He blamed Mikael's mistreatment of him all his life on his Mother's disloyalty to Mikael. That Mikael had known, all those years – Niklaus did not listen, when his elder siblings told him Mikael had beaten them, too. It made them strong. No, the irresponsible, selfish Niklaus would not hear it; he would be the victim. But that was only part of his problem.

Niklaus was becoming maddened. The moon held no sway over him; but yet he had no control over his own body, his gruelling transformation. Whatever instinct came from his werewolf nature warred with what Mother had done to them. And then again, those instincts warred with Niklaus' natural selfish thoughtlessness.

It was Finn who put an end to it, carrying a broken Tatia to Mother, his heart shattered. Drawn to her by emotions confused by instinct, Niklaus had not tempered his new strength; he had taken her so forcefully her body was broken. Finn had left Niklaus weeping over what he had done to Tatia, but Mother would not heal her. She did ask her children to help her; and Elijah did so gladly.

Niklaus had already savaged Gyda during one of his transformations. She had suffered a sickness more violent than any Mother had ever witnessed, bleeding and madness exacerbated by their new strength and instincts. Elijah had taken care of her, for days, doing nothing but sitting with her, keeping her from harming anyone, bringing her a slave to feed on, cleaning her up when she could not keep the blood down, stroking her hair as she screamed for her mother, weeping over her brothers and sister, raging at Rebekah's uselessness the night Mikael had slaughtered them.

Elijah would not risk Gyda again. Not for anyone.

"Mother! Please!" Niklaus roared, thrashing against the chains Mother had spelled to contain him. Half the slaves torn apart in one night on his last transformation, and Mikael's simmering rage as Niklaus' lack of control threatened all they had built, all they had left. In his agitation, the transformation was coming on again, and those chains prevented him from harming anyone while Mother prepared. The broken Tatia lay on her side, moonlight shining down on her, eyes alive, her mind sound, but broken. Something had happened to Finn when they were killed; whatever his feelings for Tatia had altered into after Henrik's death were magnified. He loved her, still, but he also could not bear her.

Mother released the broken Tatia in death, binding Niklaus' werewolf nature. The polished moonstone Father had gifted Mother after they had settled here, after Niklaus was born, bound the spell to contain what Niklaus could not control, what made him a danger to their very survival.


Willem told them about Rollo. Returning from his isolation, Willem had found a small child, recognised her as one of Rollo's daughters, wandering in the forests, smeared with blood and crying softly. Barely three summers she had lived, and she cuddled, exhausted, in the curve of Willem's arm as he told them what he had found in Rollo's home. Their friend, their uncle for all intents and purposes, Father's most trusted soldier, Mother's lover so many years ago. Dead. His wife, a Native woman, dead, slaughtered viciously, their children butchered.

They had not seen Mikael; he had gone, trying to track Willem, the village's best hunter and the peoples' best hope for surviving the rest of the winter. Nature had turned on them, and though Elijah and his siblings were safe from the sunlight, the pretty vervain flowers that had grown at the base of the ancient white-oak tree they had burned, with the rings Elijah had fashioned and Mother spelled, the villagers were starving. The water was fouled, their food-stores, so precious, had spoiled with infestations, and Elijah believed it was they who scared edible predators from the village, which otherwise they could have hunted for meat.

"Mikael has killed my father," Niklaus said quietly, his face contorting with rage, pacing. He glowered at Esther. "He has massacred your lover, the father of your bastard he loathes."

Esther watched him calmly. "My son," she sighed, "Mikael has always known you were not his son; how could you be, when he did not bed me for years after Freyja's death? And yet he raised you, loved you – protected you. You have grown up in a world we only ever dreamed of, you have not had to work, to fight for what you have, not even half so hard as we did, as your elder-brothers did. Mikael would no sooner kill Rollo as himself."

"Father already killed himself," Niklaus retorted spitefully, and Esther's smile was gentle and ironic.

"I assure you, Niklaus, the dagger thrust into his heart was held by my steady hand," Esther said softly. She had only killed Mikael herself; she could not physically harm her own children, even to save them. Elijah watched his mother. Of all her children, she had always liked Niklaus least. Even Rebekah, so stubborn, untalented in either magic or swordsmanship, entitled, with whom she often had screaming arguments, and her nephew Kol who managed to rub her the wrong way on a daily basis – them, she loved and liked, when they weren't arguing she and Rebekah were the best of friends, and there was no-one save perhaps Isak that Esther was closer to because of their shared magical ancestry. She was their mother, their teacher. She had been Elijah's friend for many years, long after he had become a father himself, with a family of his own. But in Niklaus, she recognised what they all did; that he was, at his core, a coward.


Elijah had returned from a hunt with his siblings and Gyda when Rebekah found her. It was early-spring, beautiful and warm, though they no longer felt discomfort in the intense heat, but everything was alive with scents and noise. It was the scent of blood that drew them from Elijah's home to the village, following their noses. Neither Mikael, Niklaus or Willem had joined them on the hunt that was necessary for their survival; without blood, they weakened, and it was painful.

Something had ripped through the village – not a wolf; one of them. Blood was splattered here and there but half the villagers and slaves were butchered, bloodless.

Rebekah found Esther.

In her finest dress, her hair beautifully braided as always, the scent of sage and smoke and honey in the air, her necklaces of polished stone and shells and acorns and tiny carved things Elijah gifted her on occasion, covered with blood. Her crystal-blue eyes were glassy, unseeing; her heart lay in her curled hand. Niklaus wept over her body; he said to Rebekah, Mikael had told her she'd broken his heart. So he ripped hers out.


He gazed back over the waves. It was a fine spring day, the tide gentle, the sun glittering down, and their ships were laden with whatever they could carry – goods, furs, slaves. Gyda sat curled beside him, resolutely not looking back. But Elijah did. Deep into the forests, he saw smoke, great pillars of it rising black and thick. Their home. Isak's daughter had sacrificed a slave to ensure safe passage across the seas.

They were fleeing one home, in the hopes to reach the other; Elijah had not seen Kattegat in decades, he wondered whether the little fishing town had survived in that sheltered bay, the mountains looming over them. The tang of the salt in the air reminded him, and he pressed his lips to Gyda's temple, remembering his first voyage across the great ocean with Torvi.

The smoke rose, and Elijah watched with burning eyes.


He settled into a gentler sleep, and Giulia jerked awake, upright, with such momentum she tumbled backwards off the bed, landing sprawled and gasping, her heart pounding, exhausted, trembling and deeply upset. She stumbled off the floor, surprised to find it glossy, polished, not the rough-hewn boards of Elijah's house or the carpet-covered floor of the carved jarlshall with Esther's herbs drying from the rafters, tapestries and blankets Rebekah had tearfully set alight as the others burned down the crofts, Isak putting slaves and villagers to the sword, Gyda glumly watching her blisters disappear as she helped Elijah rig the sails on the ship Finn had helped him build.

She panted, squashing down a churn of nausea as emotion threatened to choke her, tugging open a drawer in her dressing-table to hastily unscrew the cap of a bottle of clear nail-polish. Eyes burning, gasping sharply and sneezing at the acrid scent of polish, she painted each of her fingernails; the vervain would keep her out of Elijah's head. He had drawn her in, the vervain in her anklet disintegrated without her knowledge, and she had been powerless to escape his memories.

Giulia rested against the dressing-table, her entire body shaking, mind churning, deeply upset, her eyes burning. She had seen everything as if experiencing it for the first time through Elijah's eyes – the scents, the taste of the mead, the softness of Gyda's hair, the sound of Niklaus' back being flogged to ribbons, shaken by the strength of his emotions even before she had experienced him being turned into a vampire, murdered by his own father before Mikael had turned on the more vulnerable, cutting down fierce, beautiful Lagertha to get to Rebekah, and Elijah's stunning daughter Gyda. She had felt Elijah's love for Gyda, was swept up still in his grief at finding her butchered, his confusion at Mikael's pride in her.

She remembered Lucrezia's delivery, and the image of Elijah's wife Torvi dead in childbirth, and shuddered, wiping away hot tears, easily replacing their faces with that of her mother.

Feeling Elijah's love for his daughter burning in her chest, she sniffed, reminded only of how alone she was. How much she missed her father.

Letting her nail-polish dry, and with it the protection she needed from Elijah's all-consuming memories, she climbed back into bed, noticing that his fever had broken. He slept gently. She sighed with relief, and fell into a dreamless, exhausted sleep.


A.N.: I know.