A/N: So first of all, I am so, so sorry this took forever and a day to update (in direct contrast to my author's note on the last chapter; I am the worst) and I deeply appreciate every comment and kudos I've gotten during that time. The good news is that A. it is now summer for me and my free time and energy are therefore like, ten times what they have been, and B. There is only one more chapter to go before we hit Cap 1, and things will proceed at a much different pace then because research is going to suddenly become so much easier and so much less time consuming.

Some reviewers here and on other sites have mentioned in comments the possibility of gender changes from life to life and I wanted to explain why I haven't (and won't) do that in this story. I am deeply, deeply passionate about gender, and spend a whole lot of time reading/researching/discussing it both on an academic level and a personal level. So if I had included that, this story would have quickly turned into a treatise on the social constructs of gender, and gender politics, and power, and how much I absolutely hate gender as it exists, and it would have stopped being a story that is also, hopefully, fun to read for more than just anth/soc majors.

Trigger warnings for this chapter include human sacrifice, bloodletting rituals, additional references to non-consent and forced marriage practices, continued negative views of Christianity and the Abrahamic God (along with some others, very few religions get off lightly in this story), and yeah, I think that's it. Please let me know if I missed something.

Enjoy!

~x~

you cannot change what you do not own

Artapana, once known as Michael – a name given to him by a Creator he despises – stands at perfect, respectful attention as his king speaks. Behind his stiff posture and shuttered eyes, he calculates the years since he last touched one of his lovers. Years that have stretched him tauter than a bow string.

Is he the archer, waiting patiently for the right moment to strike? Or is he the arrow, subject to the will of another before he can act?

Darius still speaks, words of glorious victory, and Artapana swallows a sigh. Rulers need to motivate their soldiers, he did so himself when leading The Father's army in countless battles. But the fate of this army and this war hold no particular concern for him. The lives of his companions hold no more value than the lives of those soon to attack them, only familiarity gives him cause to value their existence more, and he is tired.

Tired of death, tired of killing, but tired more of living in constant transition, as ephemeral as the whims of mortal rulers.

An Immortal in name – and bitter truth though none of his fellow soldiers know it – the life of a warrior is one he never wished to have again. Not until that war is against The Father and the lies He propagates.

The king's voice rises in a clarion call and Artapana represses a crooked smile. Persians hate lies more than any other evil and revere truth as holy. If they did know the truth of who he was, they would seek to join his cause.

Assuming they did not turn on him for his deception of identity.

Darius finishes and Artapana joins his fellow soldiers in shouting their approval, ten thousand voices raised in a paean to the violence soon to come. It rings hollow to his ears and he feels none of the thrill he sees reflected in his companion's faces. War lost its joy long before he was forced into human form.

Their king leaves to speak with his advisors and the soldiers disperse to their fires and bedrolls for the night. Artapana slips away and goes down to the river, seating himself on the bank for a rare moment of quiet before the campaign begins again. A playful breeze cools his skin and the stars are bright overhead, familiar points of permanence that soothe the ache of constant temporality. The stars have shifted since he took his first mortal breath, but they are his most faithful companions other than his lovers.

His skin prickles with warning and the stars flicker, his gaze momentarily shadowed. His solitude ends with a wash of alien power that tugs at the flames kindled in his soul, burning stronger with every passing year. He turns his head and sees a human form, neither male nor female, sitting on the damp earth beside him.

"Hello Michael," the figure says, gaze distant with the faintest touch of curiosity and tone flavored with amusement. "I had not thought to ever see you as one of my Immortal soldiers."

Artapana grimaces, his tongue curling in distaste. "I do not bear that name any longer. Nor do I belong to anyone."

The being laughs, a rolling sound akin to an earthquake. "I think that is untrue. There are two who own your soul, just as you own theirs."

Artapana's lips twitch and he nods his concession to The Other's words without concealing his wariness at this unexpected interest in his existence. He will not argue with the being's definition of ownership – he doubts any of The Others understand love, devotion, or loyalty that comes without price.

"Surely you did not think you were not watched," the being says with a sharp smile. "The Father's most foolish mistake has been carefully tracked by all of those with the wisdom to see the seeds of his downfall."

Artapana does not allow his expression to register even the slightest hint of emotion or thought. "And why should such interest matter to us? We have no reason to love any of The Others, nor have any of you offered aid against our common enemy."

The being dips Its head, smile turning wry. "And why should we offer aid to those who may become a threat to us someday? However much we might wish The Father's downfall, we must look to our own futures lest we repeat his mistakes."

Artapana snorts, lips twisting disdainfully. "And so the difference between us is revealed. We do not seek power for power's sake. We wish freedom, for ourselves, and for anyone else who seeks it. We are only a threat to those who oppose that desire." His smile gains a jagged edge, his gaze burning with just a touch of his inner fire. "Do you oppose that desire, Ohrmazd?"

"The Father should never have cast you down," the being murmurs in lieu of responding. "Such dangerous weapons should never be given a taste of autonomy if one wishes to keep them biddable." Artapana's jaw tightens and Ohrmazd laughs again, a sound with no amusement in it. "Have no fear, oh dangerous one, I have no quarrel with you or yours, nor any desire to try and wield you as The Father once did. As for the rest, ask your farseeing friends what the future holds, for I know not."

The smile Ohrmazd gives him with Its last words imply that the truth Its followers are so devoted to is not fully in evidence, but Artapana nods, not interested in arguing the point.

"And Michael," Ohrmazd says, clearly relishing the name. "One's identity is not so easy to change as one's name. Once a weapon, always a weapon."

Then the being is gone and Artapana is left staring across the river, his fingers digging into the clammy earth as the memory of every being who has ever fallen beneath his blade fills his mouth with the coppery taste of blood.

Archer or arrow?

He grimaces and stands, wishing Lucifer or Eve were here so he could share the encounter with them. Wishing for the comfort of their arms around him to leech away the hatred poisoning his soul.

The stench of death lingers in his nostrils as he falls into his bedroll and his dreams are full of blood-stained battlefields and corpses whose eyes gleam with accusation.

Once a weapon, always a weapon.

The words ring in his ears as the army marches to cut off the rear supply lines of Alexander's army and tension rides his body every step of the way. They easily retake the town of Issus, populated only by the injured left behind from Alexander's army, and he turns away in disgust as Darius orders the regular troops to cut the hands off the enemy captives. He does not know if he's imagining the sound of rumbling laughter, and his sickened anger nearly drives him to suicide by desertion. Only his awareness that this is the least of atrocities committed by men in the name of war, and the fact that his people are the defenders, not the conquering hordes, keeps him from breaking ranks.

If he is to die, he will die in battle, in hopes of preventing such atrocities from befalling the innocent civilian populace of the towns that will fall beneath Alexander's ambition.

The wait for Alexander to receive news of their attack and muster his forces to respond is more unpleasant than usual, and despite their anticipated superiority of numbers, Artapana senses only death in the air.

Nor does he believe it is only his pessimistic despair. He does not have his lovers' gift of Sight, but the parts of him that are not human and never have been are troubled.

Scouts bring news of Alexander's approach and the battle plans are communicated to the soldiers. Artapana and his fellow Immortals are to form part of the core surrounding Darius in their army of a hundred thousand strong, most likely double that of Alexander's forces.

Artapana feels no optimism at the thought of their might.

Darius is not the coward the Macedonians paint him as, but he lacks the fierce charisma of a man like Alexander. The Persian people have been through too much turmoil in the past century and their will and unity are at a low ebb compared to the ambition driving their enemies.

They are all tired.

He keeps his thoughts to himself – he will not damage the faith of the soldiers around him, whose deaths will not be nearly so temporary as his. They gather behind their emperor, joined by the royal cavalry and Greek mercenaries hired for their skill. It is a rare battle that can be planned so precisely ahead of time and the soldiers are restless, stamping feet and hands clenching on weapons, by the time the enemy is sighted.

Artapana's ambivalance toward his life and this battle fade away as the clear, single purpose mindset of impending violence takes over, sweeping away his doubts and fury and leaving almost peaceful clarity in their wake. His breath comes slow and steady and his muscles ride that perfect edge of balance and poise, ready to strike at a moment's notice as he studies the oncoming army.

The enemy falls into formation across the river and the stilted formality of the moments preceding chaotic violence draw a bitter chuckle from his throat. The arbitrary customs of battle have rarely seemed so pointless, and he wonders how many eras of humanity he will live through before such staggering losses of life are no longer viewed as normal. Wonders if he will ever see the last of war.

A cheer rises up, shaking the ground with the force of tens of thousands of voices, and the enemy charges across the river toward them, some falling to piercing arrows only to be trampled by the living tide of human violence.

There is no more time for thought, for bitterness, only the pounding of his heart in his ears and the bite of his sword as it cleaves through body after body. A charge of cavalry, led by Alexander, rushes the knot around the king and Artapana forces his way through the fray toward him. If Darius falls, so will those who follow him.

Sharp pain stabs through him and he hits the ground, a spear through his back, tasting dirt and blood and the bitter relief of defeat. He sees the king turning his horse away from the charge and his eyes close as the wall of battle shatters.

He is not the only one defeated.

Death does not last and all too soon he is alive once more; two more lives of pointless violence follow, and then he is a helpless infant once again. It is disorienting, even after all these years, to be trapped in such a small and useless body, and his frustration turns him into a cranky and difficult child. His mother, a peasant near the northern edge of China, is far too patient with him and Chen Yun, as he is now known, is consumed with guilt once his anger has had time to fade into a cold and patient pit in the bottom of his stomach.

Forming connections with mortals has only grown more difficult with every passing age, and the detachment that separates him from the humans around him increases his guilt, and his fear.

He does not wish to be like The Others.

He does his best to be helpful and when he is ten, soldiers bring news that Qin Shi Huang is now Emperor of all of China. Their village is near the broken remains of what was once a wall and soon there are soldiers and laborers from near and far working to build it anew and connect it to other walls to line the entire northern edge of the empire.

Chen Yun brings water, mud, and stones to the workers until he is old enough to join the building crews himself. It is back breaking labor that has already claimed many lives, the stones and mud steeped with their blood. It claims his as well, with an unfortunate fall and a more unfortunate landing that gives him just long enough to wonder with sour amusement if any of The Others, or The Father, are watching before blinding white pain steals his breath and releases his soul.

Centuries pass, births and deaths and lives that hold little to no meaning with the few bright exceptions including one or the other of his lovers. He has always been more patient than Lucifer, though never as patient as Eve, but he feels like a river stone, worn down by years of pressure until it is harder and harder to summon emotions that are not rage and grief and restless despair.

He is not sure what will be left when his patience runs out.

His name is Vitus the next time he sees Eve, and her lips quirk in affection and amusement when he introduces himself to her while his mother and her father discuss the details of an arrangement to transport the wine his family produces.

She reaches up and cups his cheek, careful that their parents are distracted, and smiles with quiet, pain-born wisdom. "Life is still worth living, Vitus, even a life such as ours."

He leans into her touch and does not disagree, not now, while the warmth of her presence patches up the ragged wounds in his soul. Her touch healing the cold and empty spaces that echo with the taste of beings who have long forgotten emotions other than ambition, assuming They ever knew them.

Life is worth living, for her and for Lucifer, and he can bear all the pain that comes between for the moments when he is theirs and they are his. They are his humanity and he will cling to them as long as he is able.

Never a weapon again.

~x~

Nearly seven centuries have passed since they learned of The Father's deceptions and the world has changed. The Hebrews and their ways had not spread to any other cultures, nor were they interested in doing so – theirs was an exclusive religion and despite the anger she and her lovers feel over its existence, they recognize its limitations.

Limitations that have now been circumvented. Three centuries ago a new cult sprang up, around a Christ figure, co-opting the religion, and God, of the Hebrews for their own.

At first it seemed the fledgling faith might die, ground to dust by the Roman Empire before it could flourish. But her very existence, the love she shares and the beings she shares it with, are proof of how adversity can intensify growth and strength. Mere decades before her birth as Prisca, eventual wife of Vitus, Christianity had been officially recognized by the Roman Emperor.

And now, now it has been declared the only faith, and she does not need her visions to know that it will spread like wildfire, like a plague, until her original name is synonymous with temptation and the downfall of humanity. Until Lucifer has become the very incarnation of evil and the scapegoat of every sinner who wishes to escape personal guilt.

She manages a smile for Lucretia, who told her the news in tones of hushed excitement when they ran into each other at the market, and bids her farewell before the storm building within her can crack the façade. She leaves, unable to purchase goods and chat with other oblivious mortals without bursting from her skin. She makes her way to one of the side gates of the city, head raised high and lips curved in a serene smile that invites no conversation.

Only when she is outside the city, walking down the wheat lined road leading to Vitus and their home, does she allow the mask to fall, her hands curling into fists until the wicker basket she carries breaks her skin. She curses and drops the basket, stopping at the side of the road and closing her eyes against the rising tide of red before it can consume her utterly.

The hair on her skin stirs with warning and her eyes snap open as two figures appear, one on either side of her, both regarding her with faint smiles and fathomless eyes.

On her left stands a man with olive skin, long brown curls, and dark eyes glittering with laughter. Ivy leaves poke out from beneath His curls and a golden serpent winds its way up the shell of His ear. He smells of wine and earth and the curve of His lips makes her want to laugh and scream and dance as she burns Rome to the ground.

On her right stands a woman with bronze skin and a cap of dark, mahogany curls. She is tall and muscular and Her eyes glow like the moon. A sword is belted at Her hip and in Her smile one can see the answers to mysteries long unsolved. It is She who speaks, as She hands Prisca the basket of cloth she'd dropped. When Prisca accepts it, she finds her palm has healed, through blood still stains the handle.

"He seems to have won this time, doesn't He?" She asks, Her voice the sound of iron being shaped on the forge.

Prisca smiles, her voice softer but no less strong. "He will not win forever; that is the curse of immortality."

The man laughs, a sound dancing at the edge of madness. "The Father always was an overconfident bastard. I look forward to watching him fall beneath the feet of his greatest creations."

"You enjoy watching anyone fall," the woman tells Him, Her smile broadening with amusement and He bows in Her direction, His body forming a graceful arc that brings to mind the curve of a vine when the grapes grow heavy and ripe.

"Just as you enjoy causing those falls, my dear."

They smile at each other and Prsica wonders, with no small touch of impatience, when The Others decided to start introducing themselves. And why. So she asks: "Why are you here?"

They turn to look at her, eyes no longer warm but cool and calculating, and the woman speaks again. "Your power, of course."

She refuses to flinch, or show any other sign of fear. "And what is my power to you, who are gods in your own right?"

They smile, the same smile, and the man laughs again. "So you have not Seen everything. I think we shall not tell you then. Maybe you will not See until it is too late."

Prisca's stomach tightens as rage and dread bubble in her veins. Damn them, and damn The Father, and damn her too for giving any credence to their words.

The woman frowns, but does not speak, and then they are gone.

What has she not Seen? What lies in their future that is so important as to warrant ominous visits from The Others?

What do they fear? She may not See everything, but she is sure of this. They were afraid.

Of her.

The rage and dread are still there, but another emotion, bright and sharp, is gaining ground and she smiles as she resumes walking toward Vitus and their home. She intends to be worthy of that fear.

When she reaches their villa, Vitus is in his favorite part of the garden, digging in the earth with his fingers to pull out the unwanted plants, and she watches him for a moment, smiling at his obvious pleasure in the task.

He turns his head and meets her smile with one of his own, warm and glowing with the happiness so absent when she first found him in this life. A smile soon replaced with a concerned frown. "What happened?"

She sinks on to the ground beside him and clasps their hands together, staring down at the dirt coating her dark skin where blood stained it not long before. "I was visited. By Bacchus and Athena."

His hands tighten on hers and she meets his gaze, watching shadows bloom in the green surfaces of his eyes. "What did they say?"

One corner of her mouth curves up and she snorts. "Nothing. And a lot of things. And one thing I found particularly interesting." Her smile flickers before widening. "They were interested in my power. Our power. And they were afraid."

Vitus's face is dark but his fingers are gentle as they caress her palms. "They should be. If they do anything to you or Lucifer for your power; I will not rest until they are dust."

She kisses him, savoring the burn, and raises one hand to touch his cheek. "We are not the only ones with power." He manages a smile, leaning in to her touch, and she kisses him again before pulling back. "Now we just need to figure out what about that power has The Others nervous. And how we can use it."

His fingers trace her cheekbones, leaving smears of earth, and she can sense his doubt, and his hope before he rises to his feet, pulling her with him. "First, let us bathe; I had water heated. Then we can plot."

She laughs and follows him into their home, eager for the feel of his naked, wet flesh against her own. They have time to plan, it is the one resource they have no shortage of, but their time together is far more rare and far more precious.

Despite the encroaching presence of Christianity, their life together as citizens of Rome is a pleasant one. There are no more unexpected visits from various deities and their time together is spent in peace and pleasure, working in the vineyards with their servants and spending warm afternoons in their private garden, the breeze cool against their heated, naked flesh.

They visit the new temple in the city on occasion, partaking in holy days to maintain connections in the community. On one of these visits, art commissioned in honor of the Emperor is displayed, an ivory representation of the Archangel Michael gifting him the Imperial seal. She and Vitus are hard pressed to hide their amusement, and underlying bitter rage, at the stylized figure that looks nothing like her lover.

She does wonder at The Father's decision to maintain Michael's reputation in the writings of this new religion. Is He seeking to create division between Lucifer and Michael? If so, he will be disappointed. If there's another reason, well, it is beyond her understanding, but she will not forget.

They do not ignore the hints and warnings they have received, but neither do they dwell on them. It will take yet more time before any answers become clear, and, frustratingly, there is not much they can do other than remaining patient and observant.

The ailments that come with age claim her first and as she fades, she wonders what would happen if The Father or another deity tried to claim her soul. She has not Seen such a thing in any of their futures, but she feels unease at the possibility. The time between lives is the only time they spend entirely unaware, and for the first time she fears that someone or something will attempt to take advantage of their weakness.

Their greatest protection might be The Father himself, and the antipathy between He and the other powers who seek influence in the mortal world. Powers that might see her and her lovers as the best chance of ridding themselves of The Father. As well as the fear and interest the three of them seem to be inspiring. After all, The Father did not destroy them utterly, and she, Lucifer, and Michael can't be the only ones who suspect that is because he could not.

Despite her fears, she is born into a new body with no sense of interference, and grows to adulthood without any sign of another power taking an interest. She is a child of nomads again, but this is no small wandering clan. The Huns are an empire, if an empire on horseback, and their territory grows by the day. Like the other women of their people, she cares for and guards the herds and children while the men ride into constant battle. When she is married, she sews adornments into her husband's clothing and is glad he, like the other men, is rarely by her side.

It is not a bad life, as lives without her lovers go, but even she grows tired of being patient, tired of bearing children only to outlive them, tired of performing wifely duties for men who are kind at best, and well, she chooses not to think of the worst she has experienced at the hands of other humans. Such memories cannot be kept close in a life as long as hers, not if one wishes to retain their sanity.

She dies in a nasty fall from a spooked horse and wonders at the symbolism as she chokes on her own blood.

When she wakes, it is to a new culture, and new gods, who demand blood and sacrifice from those who serve them. It is not the first such life she's lived, she has been a sacrifice, but in this life she can sense the influence of beings who have no actual need for such things and are merely amusing themselves. It is infuriating.

As a member of the royal family, if a relatively unimportant one, she is expected to participate in bloodletting rituals. The pain does not bother her, she has and will suffer worse than the piercing of body parts in order to release blood, but she fears that her blood might give actual power to The Others who have chosen these people.

There is no sign that any of Them has taken interest, and by the time she has her first menstrual cycle and will be expected to participate in fertility rituals (she is not looking forward to the bloodletting involved in those), her fears of another encounter have faded.

Her anger has not.

Two years later, she is attending a ball game and sees Lucifer brought onto the court, smile bright and vicious as the crowd cheers. The ache in her chest when their eyes meet is far more painful than any needle and she wishes that her blood did have power, power enough to bring the world to its knees. Power enough to stop all pain.

She chokes off a hysterical laugh, knowing that such power would make her far worse than any of The Others, and bites down on her lip hard enough to draw blood.

It will not be the first time she watches one of her lovers die, but someday will be the last. That is enough, has to be enough.

For now.

~x~

Ikan, once known as Lucifer, was not surprised when he was captured. He has never been able to bring himself to fight well in mortal form, not unless he is defending one of his lovers. He feels guilt over the fate of his companions, but no more than he would have felt over the deaths required to save them.

It is all so wasteful.

The fury that has not left him in over five thousand years is banked, overlaid by weariness. His lives on this Earth are still outnumbered by the years he spent as one of The Father's tools, but they weigh heavier. It is hard, now, to remember a time when he was loyal, when he could not feel as he feels now, when he did not know the touch of his lovers or the fierce pain of seeing them suffer.

It is harder to imagine how many more years must pass before they are free of The Father's curse.

Rage that is not allowed to burn free can destroy its host.

Ikan knows this, and bares his teeth in a grin that makes his captors flinch as they lead him and the others through their city, living symbols of victory.

They are taken to a temple first. Their wounds are bandaged and they are bathed, then dressed in ceremonial gear. A morbid part of him appreciates the ritual, the show, of what is coming. There is a strange sort of dignity in being sacrificed this way, even if those being honored by the sacrifice are as bad as The Father who made him and cast him down.

He misses his life in a culture that had no need for violence, no need for sacrifice. Someday, he hopes to live in one again.

If necessary, he will create it.

They are paraded to the ball court, cheers greeting their impending death. Ikan's eyes, and attention, wander from the spectacle and he sees Eve in the stands, sitting near the King. Her face is still and smooth, but her eyes are bright with helpless rage and he smiles for her, a baring of teeth to communicate all they cannot say.

He is forced to look away when the game begins, but the edge of his smile does not dull and the enemy players falter away from it despite their knowledge that he has no hope of victory. The game is rigged; the prisoners' ceremonial clothing offers no protection against the heavy rubber ball, and their wounded and weary state is no match for the well trained savagery of the team they are pitted against.

The drumming reaches a fever pitch when they are declared defeated, again, and then they are forced to their knees as the priests approach. Ikan remembers another life, another name, and the fury and grief that choked him as Michael was beheaded. He closes his eyes and wishes with all his might that Eve does too, that she does not add this to the horrors they have all seen, and knows he wishes in vain.

She, like them, is far too stubborn and strong for her own good.

He is first in line and he is grateful, right up until the blade slices into his neck and then he isn't anything at all.

When he is someone again, life is quiet and peaceful. His family are farmers near the Samye monastery in Tibet and while their empire knows war, it does not reach them. The monks fascinate him. The religion they practice is the first he has seen that involves no gods, and no violence of any kind.

The monks are kind, and wise. One of them, Tenzin, befriends him after taking note of his interest in their practices, and smiles with sly warmth whenever Ngawang reveals more than he intended about his knowledge and intelligence.

"The greatest wisdom is seeing through appearances," he says one day, when Ngawang steps on a sharp stone and swears in three different languages, none of which a peasant farmer would know.

Ngawang stares at him for a moment, and then laughs. "See the truth, and you will see me," he responds, voice light and affectionate, and Tenzin smiles benignly.

"Let us return to the temple and I will tend your injury. Then, perhaps, we can discuss history?"

Ngawang nods, accepting the shoulder Tenzin offers as support, and smiles at the ground. It is good to be reminded of the beauty of humanity. The potential of these mortal forms that had drawn The Father to Earth all those years ago; a potential he wishes to protect.

The end of this life comes with peace as well, only tainted by regret at losing a rare friendship. He has never encounter the same soul more than once, other than his lovers. But perhaps Tenzin's faith is truer than most, and he may yet see his friend again.

It is nice, to have hope for things other than freedom.

He is born to a family with traditions, and secrets. Christianity has proven quite destructive, and not just to his temper. The druids are among those who have been rooted out and forbidden by the pervasive faith of The Father, but they are not quite as gone as most believe.

Officially, the men (and less officially the women) of his family are fili: poets, bards, and wise advisors to the noble families of the túatha. Unofficially, they still commune with the gods and goddesses that predate the Christian faith, and perform rituals that are spoken of only in hushed whispers and never where a monk might hear.

Cináed Ó Seanaigh does not share the faith of his family, he believes in only two beings and he doesn't have to worship from afar, but is darkly amused at the defiance of the Christian faith that has consumed so much of the world. He enjoys learning the tales, songs, and poems of their people, and has a knack for creating new ones that earns him praise. He has to be careful that his advice isn't too prescient, it is no longer safe for fili to be seers as well as poets, but his wisdom is valued.

He has been safe before, despite his oddities, but he has never been so appreciated for who he truly he is and what he can contribute to his culture. It is a heady feeling, and he wants more of it. He forces himself to imagine his lovers teasing in order to keep his ego in check.

He is standing in a hidden grove, alone in the moonlight and peaceful silence, when She appears.

Her face is young and old and everything in between, and Her voice is the wind, a soft gentle breeze with all the potential of a raging hurricane. "We are not all like The Father. And none of us are pleased with his ambition," She says, with no preamble, and smiles at the look on his face.

"You'll pardon my skepticism," he says dryly a moment later, and She seems more amused than anything else at the lack of question in his words.

"I would expect nothing less." Her presence shifts, weighing heavier, and Her eyes are endless pools of white. "Your potential is dangerous." He stiffens and Her smile widens, revealing sharp teeth. "It gives me hope."

He does not understand. Neither the words, nor the warning behind them. But he nods anyway, and tucks the memory away for safekeeping. Perhaps the others will See more than he does.

She is gone before he can blink and he feels a vicious twist of envy at the freedom and power The Others wield so casually, and so carelessly. There was a time when he could travel between realms as easy as breathing, when his power could create marvels and breathe life into them. Nearly six thousand years has passed since that time, but the ache of his power's absence has not faded.

Before being brutally molded into mortal form, he had not experienced a childhood. But he had experienced newness, a time as close to innocence as possible for a creature such as he was, and during that time his two constants were his power, and Michael's presence. He still has Michael, a shining beacon of home, but even his lover cannot ease the pain of missing such a large part of him.

And while he knows Michael also keenly feels that loss, for his lover it is more about missing the power to protect, than missing a chunk of his soul. The power to create was and is a rare and treasured gift, and the feeling of it singing inside of him is one memory that will never fade.

He leaves the grove and returns to his life and crafts other songs, songs that can bring laughter and tears, but not life. His life ends in a Viking raid he did not foresee and he laughs when he is old enough in his next one to realize that he is now a member of the clan that killed him.

If it wasn't for Michael and Eve, he would find human loyalties very hard to understand.

Hugleikr finds Michael and Eve together. Eve's parents are petitioning the Jarl to settle in their town and Michael is an orphan they've adopted. Their eyes glow when they see him and he hides a laugh in his mother's shirt. The ache of their absence is filling with joy and other losses no longer register as anything other than distant pain.

Eve is now Vigdís, and her father is a blacksmith and her mother is a shieldmaiden. They adopted Aðalsteinn when his parents were killed in a battle across the sea.

Hugleikr spends every moment with them he can, and wishes that his parents were not farmers. They are freemen and respected, but his duties are with them on the farm, and he does not accompany his father to town as often as he would like.

Vigdís is training to be a shieldmaiden like her mother, and Aðalsteinn is learning the trade of his adopted father. As they grow and assume adult responsibilities, the sight of Vigdís sparring, her eyes gleaming with unbridled joy, or Aðalsteinn pumping the bellows, arms slick with sweat, are enough to make his breath catch and his mouth go dry with wanton desire.

His parents are not oblivious to his wandering eyes, and a marriage is arranged with Vigdís. It would be a happier occasion if Aðalsteinn had not been betrothed to the daughter of the shipbuilder. Their culture is rather unconcerned about sex, and who you have it with or if you choose to invite another to join you in your marriage bed, but not marrying and bearing children is worthy of shunning or exile.

They discussed leaving, living on their own as they have done before, but Vigdís insists they stay and they do not argue. It is not perfect, but they are happy, and they are together, and that is enough.

The rush of frozen, vicious power wakes all three of them, Vigdís and Hugleikr bolting awake and staring at each other with dread as the sparks burning in his soul reach out for Aðalsteinn. They arm themselves swiftly and push their horses to the breaking point to reach town and the other third of their being. Hugleikr is unbearably grateful that Vigdís has not yet borne any children as shouts of terror reach their ears.

There is blue light that aches with the same cruel power and the air is so cold that his sweat freezes on his skin. The screams of the people, his people, fleeing from the frost giants are echoing in his skull as is the soul-tearing sound of ice shattering, broken bits of human beings littering the ground.

Aðalsteinn in swinging the large hammer he uses at the forge, each blow against blue skin ringing through the air. The metal is glowing with heat, and Hugleikr knows it is not from the always banked fire in the smithy. They are not what they were, but they are not mortal either.

Vigdís is fast and deadly, her sword matching the gleam in her eyes as it cuts through the air, and Hugleikr has to force himself to stop watching their beauty and join the fight himself, a blade in each hand as he cuts through bodies far stronger than his own.

There is an echoing clap of thunder and then they are not alone, surrounded by ranks and ranks of warriors in armor and golden cloaks. It has been a long time since he has seen the Asgardians, long enough that Odin was still a child rather than a King. The Asgardians are not like The Others, they are closer kin to what he and Aðalsteinn once were. He does not actually know who is older, his memory does not stretch that far. Aðalsteinn might know, he was the first of The Father's weapons.

The battle rages on, but the tide has turned against the Frost Giants, who would have overwhelmed he and his lovers given enough time. There is a pause in the fighting, Hugleikr leaning against Aðalsteinn's side as they watch Vigdís decapitate wounded enemies, when an Asgardian with dark skin and glowing golden eyes stops in front of them and nods respectfully.

"It is an honor to fight with such wise and ancient warriors."

Aðalsteinn smiles and returns the nod while Hugleikr wonders what the Asgardian sees when he looks at them. "I am glad to have witnessed Asgardian protection, not all are so concerned with the welfare of mere mortals."

The Asgardian smiles, a slow and knowing curve of lips. "It is lucky then, that they have the three of you to care for their future."

Aðalsteinn does not speak, but nods again, his eyes dark with curiousity and other things, things they have all felt as they discussed the actions and words of The Others they have seen.

The Asgardian raises his golden sword in salute, and then returns to the battle, making his way to Odin's side as the night sky lights up with colors few mortal eyes have ever witnessed. Soon they are gone, the Frost Giants fleeing to their home realm and the Asgardians following, leaving only frozen corpses behind.

Vigdís joins them, her head tilted up to watch the sky, and Hugleikr closes his eyes, breathing in the lingering taste of power. If it is lucky for the humans that he and Aðalsteinn were cast down, then he intends for it to be very unlucky indeed for those who seek to meddle with or harm the mortal realm that has become their home.

They are not what they were – they are not weapons – but they will fight for what is theirs, and their blood and pain has claimed this mortal realm.

No one will take it from them.

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1) The chapter title comes from the song Red by Sara Bareilles

2) On with the research notes!

A. Michael's first life takes place in Persia during the reign of Darius III during the time of Alexander the Great's conquest of a good chunk of that part of the world. Specifically, it is set during the lead up and the actual Battle of Issus, in 333 BC (and we're getting to that nice part of history where there's lots of information about these things). Artapana means protector of truth. Ohrmazd, also known as Ahura Mazda, is the highest spirit in Zoroastrianism, the primary religion of Persia during the reign of Darius III.

B. Qin Shi Huang united China in 221 BC and began construction on one of the first incarnations of the Great Wall. Chen is a common surname in China, taken from a particular region, Yun means cloud.

C. His final life and Eve's first life in this chapter are set in the Roman Empire during the reign of Theodosius I, who declared Christianity the Empire's sole religion. Vitus means life and Prisca means ancient. The carving mentioned is one we've only found half of, the half depicting Michael, and is actually believed to have been part of a Diptych representing Emperor Justinian receiving the Imperial Seal (a couple hundred years later than this is set) but the dates are in doubt and I couldn't resist including it.

D. Eve's next life is set during the reign of Attila the Hun and his conquest of much of Europe and Asia, the cultural details are as accurate as I could make them, given that basically all of our historical information about the Huns was recorded by their enemies.

E. Her final life and Lucifer's first life in this chapter are set in the city of Palenque, in southern Mexico, which was part of the Mayan empire at the time. Mayan royals did participate in numerous and regular bloodletting rituals as part of their religion (and yes, that included the genitals, the blood from which was considered particularly potent, especially for fertility purposes for the land and the people.) Human sacrifice wasn't nearly as large a part of their culture as it was for the Aztecs who followed them, but it was practiced in several different circumstances, including the ceremonial ball games. Ikan means star.

F. Lucifer's next life is set in Tibet, during the time it was the united Tibetan Empire (approximately 700-1000 AD). Tibetan Buddhism became the official state religion in 779 AD, the same year that the Samye monastery was founded. Tenzin means holder of the teachings, and Ngawang means powerful speech. "See the truth, and you will see me," is attributed to Buddha, while "The greatest wisdom is seeing through appearances," is part of a longer saying attributed to a Buddhist teacher from a couple centuries later, so again forgive me for some fudging of timelines.

G. Lucifer's life as a druid of sorts is set in Northern Ireland. After Christianity came, the druids were essentially wiped out by how thoroughly it took over, but there is some evidence that they continued in secret. The fili were an elite class of poets that lasted until the Renaissance. The conflation of the fili and the druids is mostly my own, there's not much written about the druids from trustworthy sources. Cináed means born of fire, and Ó Seanaigh means both descendant of Seanach, and wise. The goddess is a reference to the trio of goddesses known as the Great Queens, Badb, Macha, and Morrígan.

H. And finally, with our first glimpse of Marvel canon, their last life is set in Tønsberg, Norway, believed to be the oldest town in Norway, around the time of the Frost Giant incursion seen in the beginning of Thor. Notes about culture are as accurate as I could make them, gleaned from my own research and the brilliant show Vikings which I highly, highly recommend (seriously, Lagertha is the Queen of my soul.) Hugleikr comes from two words meaning "heart, mind, soul" and "play". Vigdís means wars goddess, and Aðalsteinn is derived from two words meaning "noble" and "stone".

I hope you all enjoyed the Heimdall cameo as much as I did :D