Chapter Four | Aegis
When Thorfinn wakes, he is standing at the prow of a dragon ship. He looks down at his hands. In one hand is a double bladed battle axe, carved all over with runes (Aegishjalmur, Vegvisir, Valnott), in the other a wand made of ash. It is said that Thorfinn the Bold climbed the world tree itself to cut his wand from the branches of the upper realms, that he has battled the fiercest of the jötunn and survived with only a scar to mark his arm in the shape of a man's skull, and that he is descended from Odin himself. He is only twenty-six, but his reputation precedes him as though he is a hero of the Eddas already. Men speak his name in hushed tones, awed to drink at his table and battle beside him, women swoon over his dark gold hair and ice blue eyes, fighting over the honor to warm his bed at night, even if they are married to other men.
"Are you ready, wizard?" Thorfinn turns to the man standing next to him. He knows without knowing why that this man is known as Fenrir, and he is the leader of the Viking band Thorfinn raids with. He is a man whom Thorfinn has fought and fucked beside for many years, but they will never trust one another, not entirely.
Fenrir respects Thorfinn's methods, but he also fears his powers. The man has a long, braided black beard, and he wears a snarling wolf's head over his own. His face is scarred with decades of battle, he is called Úlfheðnar in the old tongue, for in battle he becomes like a raging wolf, with no regard for friend or foe.
"Ready?" Thorfinn asks, and his booming laugh fills the space. "I was born ready, Úlfheðnar! Those foolish Britons will learn what it means to bend the knee, and swear fealty to their new masters!"
"Our spies tell me their high chieftain has a witch in his retinue - one of your folk. There!" Fenrir sniffs the air, and his terrible smile is a wicked thing to behold. "She smells like cloves and fire, and the last of the autumn's wind. Leave some left for me, brother, and I promise I will devour her."
On the far distant cliffs, Thorfinn can just make out a figure with hair that glows like fire, arms raised, charming up a storm. The skies darken, and the waves rise, battering the ship like a cork. "I see her!" He takes the broom that Fenrir proffers him, sheathing the axe on his back, and rises in the wind, pointing his wand towards the witch on the cliff.
"Stǫðva!" Thorfinn roars, just as the arc of her spell slams into his, glowing silvery and blue. He flies like a dragon, swooping in and out of the currents of wind that slam into him from all sides. The wench is good. But he is better.
As soon as he nears the edge of the cliff, he swoops low, using the element of surprise to grab the witch by the waist and pull her into the air. "Stop this, or I will drop you into the ocean!"
She struggles in his grip, her eyes wild. She is a fierce little thing, copper haired, with blue woad dotted under her eyes and a necklace of sharp teeth around her neck. She fights him with tooth and claw, feral amber eyes never once leaving his face. "(Viking!)" Her wild language leaves a strange music in his ears.
"That's right, I am a Viking, witch!" Thorfinn growls. "Now, end your spell and let my men into the harbor!"
She seems to understand him, for all they do not speak the same language, and she raises her chin, clearly defying him.
An instant is all it takes. She fumbles with the driftwood wand in her hand at the same time Thorfinn adjusts his grip on her, and the wand slips from her hands, dropping towards the wine-dark sea below. She dives after it, plummeting in free fall, her long hair streaming out behind her like the tail of a comet. Down, down she goes toward the open water, her screams lost to the wind.
Thorfinn points the broom down, and follows her, blurring into a stream of gold and green light. From the ship and the shore, he can hear shouts and screams, but all has lost meaning. She hits the water with a sound like a thunderclap, ripples of white-blue magic reverberating across the surface of the ocean.
Without thinking, Thorfinn dives in after her, just in time to see an enormous dark shape open a maw filled with a thousand needle teeth.
He acts on reflex, pulling out his axe and slamming it into the head of the beast. Inky reddish-black liquid fills the water, clouding his vision. And the red-haired witch is still falling.
The monster flounders, thrashing in the water and creating a wake that slams into Thorfinn so hard that the axe is ripped from his hand. He points his wand at the monster, and it writhes madly, until its death throes consume it. Lungs straining, Thorfinn kicks after the body of the Briton witch, managing to catch her arm before the body of the beast hits the ocean floor. The seismic echo blasts a wave of such magnitude towards them that they hurtle out of the water and into the air, and he curls his body around hers, muttering charms of protection. They land in the shallows, between earth, sea and sky.
There is a loud scream from the shore, but Thorfinn ignores it to bend his lips to those of the Briton witch, breathing air into her lungs. Around him, the storm roars its displeasure. He could kill her now. It is what his king would expect, after all. But when the feared Viking wizard looks down on the freckled face of the Briton witch, he knows he will not harm her, and that from this moment on, he will defend her with his life, until Ragnorak or Valhalla - whichever comes first.
She flops onto her side, coughing up water. When she rolls back over, she catches his hand in hers, bringing it to her cheek. And she smiles. He realizes then that she is more than beautiful, she is enchantment itself, and he is dazzled, intoxicated. It is as though he has been struck by elf-shot.
She sits up, just as an older girl, one with wild golden-brown curls, comes running down the shore, throwing her arms around her and bursting into joyful tears. The older girl babbles excitedly, miming Thorfinn's rescue of her friend. Thorfinn, meanwhile, sits back on his haunches and watches them. They are not sisters, but the other girl has magical blood, he's certain of it. Has he stumbled upon some sort of magical enclave? What is going on?
A crowd of people converge on the beach, laughing and crying and hugging one another as the clouds break overhead and the sun shines bright and cold in the autumn sky. They all seem to want to touch Thorfinn and the little witch, to make sure that they aren't dreaming, that they are both real.
One man holds back, however - a tall man with dark hair and hard green eyes. He is their leader, Thorfinn thinks. He can be no other - they are all deferential to him, though not cringing. Though he is bare chested, he is painted with blue swirls across his bare skin, and around his neck, a necklace laced with antlers. He studies Thorfinn with his eyes narrowed, then turns to the hooded man at his side, gesturing at Thorfinn. Thorfinn's hand goes to his hip for his wand, but it is no longer there.
Suddenly, the Britons all freeze, like a herd of terrified deer. Their fear is palpable. They seem to shrink back, hiding behind their leader. His eyes soften as they flick towards the little witch, half in worship, half in fear.
"Brother." Fenrir's chuckle echoes throughout the little cove. Thorfinn turns, to find his Viking brethren have anchored their ship, and their number is strung across the waterline, waiting for Fenrir's signal. Fenrir sniffs the air. "She smells of ink and vellum," he announces, pointing at the curly-haired girl, who draws back in terror. "And she, of moonlight and shadow," pointing at another young woman, panic in her violet eyes. "And the little witch," he continues, striding forward. Thorfinn steps in front of Fenrir, and the Úlfheðnar turns an unreadable look back upon him. "She smells like you, brother," he says, curiosity in his tone. He tilts his head back, about to howl. That's the signal. The Vikings are drumming their swords and axes on their shields, and the people on shore have begun to yip, rattling their spears, arrows pointed at the Vikings.
The little witch looks steadily up at Thorfinn. The trust in her eyes nearly undoes him - Thorfinn the Bold, the hero of Eddas, who climbed Yggdrasil to steal a piece of Thor's warhammer, who battled jötunns on Bifrost and trolls beyond the lands under the earth. Yes, Thorfinn the great Viking wizard, sacker of cities and seducer of maidens from the Rus to the Rhine - undone utterly by a slip of a witch with amber eyes and copper hair.
"Do you trust me?" Thorfinn whispers, holding out his hand. She puts her hand in his in reply, meeting his gaze with a steely resolve of her own.
•••
When he wakes, it is to the sound of the rain. He smells ash and fertile earth, and his heart jumps when he realizes just whose pliant body is pressed up against his. Cinnamon lashes flutter against creamy skin, and with his thumb he brushes a lock of her hair back behind her ear. A small smile breaks out across her face, and he traces the line of her cheek, resting his thumb upon the rosy indent in her lower lip, groaning softly as she draws the tip of his thumb into her mouth, nipping it with her sharp teeth. He groans, not wanting reality, not wanting this to end.
That is when the Dark Mark burns, pain searing his left arm. The Dark Lord is calling him. "Of all the fucking times," Thorfinn growls, shaking himself out of the dream.
"Thorfinn." His name on her lips, half-sigh, half-moan, nearly undoes him.
•••
If there's one thing the man formerly known as Tom hates, it's gross incompetence from his followers, because that means he isn't in control. While human error accounts for some mistakes, sheer stupidity counts for others - and those cost more, whether in secrets or in the ever-shifting allegiance of the mob.
Gossip is the thief of reputation, after all. If there's anything Tom Marvolo Riddle deplores more than idiocy, it's appearing ridiculous - as opposed to feared.
"Are you ready to tell your Lord the truth?" He hisses in Parseltongue, maintaining the Crucio curse on the body of the hapless Gregory Goyle, who writhes on the parquet floor. "Or will you continue to give me your paltry excuses?"
"Let me have him, Lord," Bellatrix is at his elbow in an instant, dark eyes glowing with fervor. "He'll never speak a falsehood again when I'm through with him."
"My darling Bella." Sighing patiently, her master turns to her. Ever since he threw over his old, snake-faced body for this new one (to the victor the spoils, after all), she's been hanging onto him tighter than Devil's Snare. It is quite the lithe figure he now cuts, handsome too, the body of a young wizard in his prime. He can't help but smile at the delicious irony. If the boy had lived... but he died, and Voldemort took repossession of his only living horcrux. "Dismember him, decapitate him, do whatever dark things you like with him. But I beg you, first extract a confession out of this miserable excuse for a follower."
Bellatrix moistens her lips slowly and deliberately, her tongue slowly tracing her plump lower lip, and he feels his young body respond the way it's built to, almost instantaneously. The stiff erection takes hold of his consciousness, his skin crawling with the twin sensations of excruciating pleasure and pain. "Yes... Master." Her voice drops to a throaty whisper as she kneels before him on the floor, kissing his knuckles fervently. He bites back a groan, for she always did love the exquisite art of torture... perhaps too well.
He clasps her shoulders and pulls her to rise, and a most wicked smile flits across her face as she feels every straining inch of him beneath his robes. "Do your worst."
The scream that comes from Goyle is high and thin, almost feminine. He scrambles to get away, slipping and falling in his own blood, his pleading sobs incoherent. Bella laughs, thrusting her wand forward in gleeful excitement as she performs curse after curse on the miscreant before her.
When Goyle is hanging in the air, broken, blood dripping down his chin from where he's bitten his lip through, Voldemort touches Bella lightly on the shoulder. "Enough, my sweet. He will talk." Legilimancy has its perks, to an extent.
"They're dead, Sir- Master. Both of them - Alecto and Amycus."
"Dead?" Voldemort dissolves the Levitation charm and watches in grim satisfaction as the youth crashes back to earth. "Of course they are dead, you addlepated fool! Why wasn't I fucking informed? And where is -"
"What's all this bloody commotion?!" Lucius Malfoy strides into the hall, robes billowing around him and wand at the ready, then stops short when he sees the figures before him. His face flickers with a modicum of unease, and then his features become a pale mask again, smooth and blank as marble. He bows to his master, and inclines his head to his sister-in-law. "My Lord. I did not realize you had come."
"We were in the area, Lucius," Bella says with a giggle, tossing her hair. She sidles up to her sister's husband, gliding the tip of her wand in and out of her pursed lips with obscene delight. Were it not for Lucius' obvious unease, Voldemort might be jealous, but instead it fills him with a certain satisfaction. He has chosen his consort well.
Bella's voice is a sultry purr when at last she deigns to speak again, sliding her wand down between the white mounds of her breasts, fully aware of the effect she's having. She plucks at Lucius' sleeve, her pupils dilated. "You wouldn't make me leave now, would you, Lucius? Not when I am so...close."
Lucius swallows, nocking a finger under his collar, and Voldemort feels a growing smirk spread across his own features. "Of course not. But - permit my impertinence, Lord - surely Malfoy Manor is out of the way?"
"You of all people, Lucius, know how Malfoy Manor holds a special place in my... heart," Voldemort says. He enjoys watching Lucius squirm, especially since he's taken over the Potter boy's body. It must be hard to toady towards the image of the Boy Who Lived, whom the man has despised for so long, even though - especially though - his Lord now possesses it. "And after your betrayal of me at the last hour, you should be grateful - prostrating yourself to kiss the hem of my robe will only get you so far. No, Lucius, Malfoy Manor will be open to me for as long as I wish it to be - whether I am torturing incompetents, fucking Bella, or supplanting you as its master." He sends a Body Bind at Goyle, who has been trying to slither away. The boy is ugly crying, and a Silencio makes short work of it. "Now tell me, Lucius, before I send you to fetch your own incompetent heir - what do you know of the Carrows?"
There is a loud pop! as Thorfinn Rowle Apparates into the room, and they all turn to look at him.
"You look like hell, Rowle," Malfoy drawls. "What in Salazar's name happened to you?"
Voldemort has been wondering the same thing. Usually when the Dark Mark is activated, whichever minion has been called comes scurrying, but there's something about Thorfinn Rowle tonight, something different, though he can't put his finger on what exactly. Occulomency draws a blank - either the bastard has learned to mask his thoughts from his lord, or there's nothing worth hearing between those ears. Voldemort favors the latter prospect. "Yes, Rowle," he says with a particularly smooth tone that strikes fear into the hearts of lesser men, "where have you been?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Rowle says, wiping a hand across his face and looking stunned to see the soot smeared across it. "Pettifer accompanied me to Northern Ireland to take over for Avery in regards to capturing an Undesirable with the Resistance Army."
"Resistance Army?" Voldemort hisses. "Do you mean the traitors?" Those little bastards have been a thorn in his side ever since their escape, and capture thus far has proven futile - meanwhile, their continued existence in Britain has given hope for his ultimate defeat.
The sooner they are all captured and summarily executed, the better. Things cannot be allowed to continue as they are. This world won't stand long, and Voldemort refuses to let everything he's worked for to collapse on account of a handful of exiles. He narrows his eyes at Rowle, waiting for an explanation.
"That miserable sod Pettifer isn't back yet, I take it," Rowle says. "Well, to make a fucking long story short, when Muggles fight between themselves, the results aren't pretty." He shudders, as though shaking off a particularly nasty dream. "There was a bomb in the pub where we went to apprehend the Undesirables." He holds up a hand to forestall their questions. "Let me finish. The Undesirables were a half-blood bloke called Finnigan, and a blood traitor girl, who have been fighting as Muggle mercenaries according to the half-blood's cousin, who pleaded clemency..."
"Clemency?" Voldemort laughs, mockingly. "He will be given the Dementor's Kiss!" His eyes narrow, menacingly. "Well, Rowle? Where are they?"
"That's the thing about Muggle weapons of war, Lord Voldemort." Thorfinn rubs the back of his neck. "The Dementors will have to save their kisses for their sweethearts, for there's nothing left of the traitors to give kisses to."
"What does that mean?" Bella cries shrilly. "Have the Muggle beasts learned how to make their enemies turn invisible?"
"That's one way of putting it," Rowle says. He lights a cigarette, flicking it nonchalantly into the puddle of Goyle's blood, which has begun to spread across the floor. "Have you ever seen what a bomb can do to a human body, Bellatrix?" He laughs, humorless.
He's hiding something, Voldemort is certain of it. Frustratingly, however, he has bigger concerns to worry about. Rowle will come clean later, the safety of his eldest sister's mudblood brats depends on it. With that satisfying thought, the Dark Lord changes the subject.
"Well, Mr Rowle, as I was quizzing Lucius here, what do either of you know of the Carrows?"
Lucius swallows, obviously weighing his options. "They were in charge of torturing a pureblood prisoner of war for information regarding the whereabouts of the remaining Dumbledore's Army members, my Lord."
"Which took those damned fools over a twelvemonth, if I'm not mistaken."
"They were under the impression that you gave him to them to play with, not to extract information," Thorfinn says. He clears his throat. "Alecto and Amycus Carrow might just be two of the most twisted fuckers I can think of when it comes down to brass tacks, my Lord."
"Yes, if you had given the boy to one of your less sadistic followers..." Lucius lets his voice trail off meaningfully.
"How could I trust you, Lucius? You were one of my most loyal subjects - until you betrayed me. I let you live, and your pathetic heir too - when I could have ended your line." Voldemort smiles, condescendingly. "And how is dear Narcissa? I hope the healers at St Mungo's have been treating her well."
Pain flares in Lucius' expression, but his tone is flat. "Very well at my last visit, Lord. She will never regain her sanity, but she will have a 'quality of life' she might not enjoy at a lesser institution." He swallows, his knuckles white around his wand. Thorfinn, meanwhile, looks as though he's going to be sick - as well he should. Those half-blood brats will share Narcissa's fate if he dares to cross his master.
"Very good," Voldemort says. He traces a finger down Bella's cheek. "Why so glum, my little carrion crow? Are you sad for your sister? Don't be. She got what she deserved, the conniving whore."
"Oh, no," Bella sighs, leaning into his hand. "I'm only sad that I didn't get the chance to curse her myself. Perhaps I should pay her a visit...?"
"No!" The force of Lucius' shout echoes in the cavernous room. For such a small spot, it has excellent acoustics. They all turn to look at him. He is breathing heavily, gripping his wand as though about to curse Bella instead. "You'll stay away from her, you deranged bitch!"
"No need to get so high and mighty about it, Lucius. We all know what you got up to during the War with that halfblood you kept in your cellars. By all accounts you were insatiable." Voldemort smiles, inscrutable. "But please, go on and curse Bella, if it makes you feel better."
"Father? By Merlin's saggy ballsack, we can hear you all the way out in the atrium, so - Oh. Hello, Auntie Bellatrix. My Lord. ... And Lord Rowle. There are much more pleasant places in the Manor for social gatherings, you know." Draco's eyes widen when he sees Goyle on the floor, but he says nothing. "Father, why don't you take Tori for a walk around the grounds? She's been asking to see Mother's night garden. I told her that you'd be able to explain everything better, seeing as it was a garden you planted together."
Lucius' fury seems to drain from him all at once, and he sags into his son's hand on his shoulder, a broken man. It gives Voldemort a deep, vicarious pleasure, knowing that Lucius will be tortured for the rest of his life for his part in letting Potter's little friends slip away. The fact that he and his son were forced to watch in silence as Narcissa Black Malfoy was cursed to madness? Icing on the cake.
Draco turns to Voldemort, Rowle and Bella after his father has gone, peering at them inquisitively. "Is this about the matter of the Carrows, my lord?"
"See?" Voldemort crows. "He gets it! Yes, Draco. Your worthless crony here, Mr Goyle, has been trying to explain to me why I was not informed straightaway that their little pet had escaped."
"He did more than escape, my Lord," Draco says blandly. "They were just found. It has been over two months since they died, according to St Mungo's. From what I heard, it was a most revolting scene. And another thing, if I may... A body belonging to one of the Dumbledore's Resistance Army members has been found as well." Draco rocks back and forth on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back. "Why Muggleborns insist on hiding in plain sight... He was one of their aristocrats. A Mr Finch-Fletchley, Lord of someplace or the other."
"What does this have to do with the Carrows?" Voldemort sneers. The situation has gotten away from him, and he doesn't like it.
"Because of the way he died, Sir. While Alecto was found drowned in the bathtub – her ghost was most descriptive of what she'll do to the unlucky bugger when we find him – Amycus was stabbed, hung, and then dismembered. Justin Finch-Fletchley was also hung, his blood drained into a basin. The Muggle press were about to have a field day over it, until our people stepped in. But there's... Well, I'll show you."
Draco extracts a long silvery memory from his temple. "The Pensieve is in Father's study, if you'll allow me."
"Mmm. Soon." Bella is licking the shell of Voldemort's ear, rubbing on him. All this talk of killing has her wetter than a whistle, if he knows Bellatrix, and he does - intimately. "We'll meet you there. We have... business to take care of still."
"Yes, my lord." Draco is all polite obeisance. "Rowle and I will escort Greg to the dungeons on our way."
•••
Once Draco, Thorfinn and Goyle have turned the corner, the sounds of Bellatrix's unholy moans of pleasure and the slapping noise of flesh on flesh reaches them. Draco and Goyle share a look of revulsion. Couldn't the Dark Lord have shut the door?
•••
Ginny wakes with a mouth full of the taste of sulfur and eyes full of grit. Her whole body aches, and Granny's dress smells like fire and blood.
"Gods..." she turns her head, and dry retches onto the ground. There is no Peasy to help her now. She hopes beyond hope that the little elf made it out of that nightmare alive. The only thing she can think of is the last time she saw Thorfinn Rowle, tall and handsome as hell, looking every inch the Viking wizard. At the Battle of Hogwarts, how he'd saved her life in a dark corridor where evil flourished, haunting her still.
Star...
Finnigan's body, exploding in a red mist, the screams of people trying to make it to the exits, the roar of the fire, and through it all, Ginny's scream of Apparate! in a panicked howl, clinging to Thorfinn like a lifeline. And then, in a dream, hair whipping up a storm across a wine dark sea as a Viking warrior with eyes like ice and a voice to melt her heart takes her hand, and says, Do you trust me?
Weakly, Ginny has been crawling through the dark tunnel of the cavern towards daylight, and now she races down the path in the rising dawn, skidding to a stop just in front of Granny Mab's door. The place is crawling with Muggle police.
"Fuck my life," Ginny whispers, trying to make it away without being seen.
"Hey! Who's there?" Someone roars, and Ginny, recognizing the voice of Jackaroo's bomber friend, cuts and runs.
XxX
A/N:
The idea of Voldemort possessing Harry's body comes from a meme on tumblr. I'm not exactly sure where the idea for Narcissa being tortured came from, I can't claim it can from me organically, so if you think I stole it, well, it absolutely was not intentional.
Aegishjalmur, Vegvisir, Valnott – runes of protection.
The Aegishjalmur is the "helm of awe".
The Vegvisir is the runic compass.
The Valknott is the triple triangle, or "death knot", and followers of Odin wore it. They also tended to die violently.
Stǫðva means "stop" or "halt" in Old Norse.
Edited with the concrit/help of the wonderful StopTalkingAtMe.