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Description
It was the night she was left in the infirmary. Hafsa had not yet returned, and she sat on the bed in the dark, sheets in a tangled nest about her knees. The hearthfire was banked, a dim warmth from across the room. The low rumble of distant noise from the main hall was an equal comfort, no louder than the crackling of the fire. She was not the only one still awake in Valhalla.

She laid back finally. She had stopped trying to contact Loki. Her fingers wrapped around the rune-stone at her neck. It was cold and the touch of magic on it felt familiar. She traced the shape of the carved runes with the pad of her thumb. The coldness of it stung her skin. But it was Hafsa’s magic, and that was a comfort in her absence.

She turned her face to the wall and stared. Sleep wouldn’t come. The voices from the main hall were too distant and indistinct for her to make out any voice that she recognized. Not that she would call out. None of them were keeping her here. But she knew why she had to stay the night, alone, under the layers of wards and bindings. If she could sleep, it would pass quickly, like any other night.

But she only stared at the wall in discontentment. Two days until Beltane. She would not be going. She was weak. Too weak. The concern in their faces had been painful. And Hafsa’s mood was darker even than it had been after the visitors from Jotenheim had left. They didn’t have to say it: she knew they had failed. They had failed to find an answer or a cure. She would die here.

Tears in the form of glinting sparks trailed down her cheeks. Better that she feel this misery now. Better that she admit it now, while she was alone, where no one else would have to see it. Tomorrow she would smile again. She would smile until Beltane, and hold Hafsa’s hand, and stay close to her as long as they could.

She was crying in earnest when she felt the touch of a hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t heard anyone enter. She started and twisted her head to look at the intruder. “Don’t -“ she started. Then she stammered, “what -?” She was caught off guard again by the face of the man standing there.

He lifted his hands and smiled apologetically, backing away. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle.”

She stared. She knew that face. She had seen it in the mirror for centuries. And she had worn it in dreams for longer than that. It was the face of a dead man, of the dead name that she had once borne. Tousled red-gold hair, a cupid’s bow quirk to the lips, shadows under the eyes, eyes burning a sulphuric blue, a straight nose, freckles sprayed over the sun-touched skin. All over a lanky frame, draped in a drab button down and dark trousers. Bare feet, gnarled, looking almost like talons. The thick nails of both hands and toes stained dark like a bird’s claws. And on the bare hands, a mess of twisting burn scars over long, neat fingers. Every detail she knew because it had once been her own. Even a shapeshifter could not have quite gotten it that close.

She breathed in the scent, her own scent, of rosemary, cinnamon and ashes. Her weak, stuttering heartbeat pulsed in her ears. “You’re not real,” she said. She sniffed and wiped her eyes, the sparks clustering around her fingers and jumping, shuddering into the air around her.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated softly, in that familiar soft tenor. “I just thought we should talk, El.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, and her voice was still thick from crying.

He nodded, sympathetic, and sat at the end of the bed. He offered her his hand. Hesitating for a moment, she took it wordlessly. He felt real enough. His skin felt burning hot. And it was her own fire. He didn’t resist when she automatically reached to take that heat into herself. She took a deep breath and exhaled as color rushed into her cheeks. Then she impulsively moved to embrace him tightly, the bedsheets falling off as she flung herself into his arms.

He automatically caught her and held her close. The gentleness was what she remembered. “Take what you need,” he told her reassuringly.

“What are you doing here?” El asked, curling her knees up against his lap, and pressing cheek against his shirt. He was so comfortably warm.

“It’s really just a memory,” he said. “Remembering when you were me. But I thought maybe we should talk this time.” He sounded sheepish. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.” He petted her hair. “I like being you. I didn’t really like being me that much.”

El leaned into his hand. “I didn’t want to be sad anymore,” she mumbled. “But it’s all happening again.”

He nodded. “I can braid it for you,” he offered. She nodded, and he began working to gather it section by section, and carefully twist and pass the strands over one another. The slight tugs on her scalp were gentle, the rhythm and practiced motions soothing. It was a care that she would not have thought to taken. “You want to look nice again when you see everyone tomorrow,” he suggested softly. “Like it isn’t happening.”

El swallowed back tears again. “I don’t know what to do,” she murmured. With her cheek against his chest, she could feel the heat in him flaring in time with his heart, a strong and regular rhythm. Her eyes dipped closed.

When his hands stilled, he spoke up again. “You have a promise to keep.” His tone was even quiet now. “El, you have to live. You have to take back your own power. I can’t give it to you. You know that. You already have all of my life.”

She looked up at his face, at those eyes that were hers, that held her own soul. “I know,” she said. “But I’m not enough. I’m weak now. I don’t know how it happened but it’s gone. Whatever I used to be. Maybe it went away when you died.” Her fingers curled into his shirt. She had worn it for years straight, the cloth growing soft and threadbare with age.

He shook his head. “No one can take that away. It’s yours,” he said. “Take it back and live. You promised to live.” And he smiled, that sad smile that had once been hers. “Please El.”

She watched him wonderingly. And she smiled back at him, almost surprised at herself for doing it. “Is this a dream? Sometimes I dream you’re me again. Makes it easier to remember sometimes.”

He shrugged and let his hands fall from her hair, and hooked around her back instead, gently supporting as she curled up against his side. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I dreamed of being you, too, before I died. Maybe it’s the same thing.”

“Everyone liked you,” El whispered. “I should have liked me too. I didn’t want you to be so sad.”

“It was my fate.” It was a simple answer. He did not try to justify it. “Now my fate is in you. Can you remember? For me? And for Hafsa? In two days, you have to take it back. You have to live.”

She nodded and closed her eyes again, burying her nose into the dip of his shoulder. The scent of smoke and ashes was lighter now, only like candle that had just been put out. “I’ll remember.” It was only a sleepy mumble now.

He reached behind her with one hand to pull a blanket over her as best as he could without too much jostling. “I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

El gave a drowsy smile into his shirt. She could hear him humming a familiar old hymn to the gods as she drifted back to sleep.

Description
It was the night she was left in the infirmary. Hafsa had not yet returned, and she sat on the bed in the dark, sheets in a tangled nest about her knees. The hearthfire was banked, a dim warmth from across the room. The low rumble of distant noise from the main hall was an equal comfort, no louder than the crackling of the fire. She was not the only one still awake in Valhalla.

She laid back finally. She had stopped trying to contact Loki. Her fingers wrapped around the rune-stone at her neck. It was cold and the touch of magic on it felt familiar. She traced the shape of the carved runes with the pad of her thumb. The coldness of it stung her skin. But it was Hafsa’s magic, and that was a comfort in her absence.

She turned her face to the wall and stared. Sleep wouldn’t come. The voices from the main hall were too distant and indistinct for her to make out any voice that she recognized. Not that she would call out. None of them were keeping her here. But she knew why she had to stay the night, alone, under the layers of wards and bindings. If she could sleep, it would pass quickly, like any other night.

But she only stared at the wall in discontentment. Two days until Beltane. She would not be going. She was weak. Too weak. The concern in their faces had been painful. And Hafsa’s mood was darker even than it had been after the visitors from Jotenheim had left. They didn’t have to say it: she knew they had failed. They had failed to find an answer or a cure. She would die here.

Tears in the form of glinting sparks trailed down her cheeks. Better that she feel this misery now. Better that she admit it now, while she was alone, where no one else would have to see it. Tomorrow she would smile again. She would smile until Beltane, and hold Hafsa’s hand, and stay close to her as long as they could.

She was crying in earnest when she felt the touch of a hand on her shoulder. She hadn’t heard anyone enter. She started and twisted her head to look at the intruder. “Don’t -“ she started. Then she stammered, “what -?” She was caught off guard again by the face of the man standing there.

He lifted his hands and smiled apologetically, backing away. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle.”

She stared. She knew that face. She had seen it in the mirror for centuries. And she had worn it in dreams for longer than that. It was the face of a dead man, of the dead name that she had once borne. Tousled red-gold hair, a cupid’s bow quirk to the lips, shadows under the eyes, eyes burning a sulphuric blue, a straight nose, freckles sprayed over the sun-touched skin. All over a lanky frame, draped in a drab button down and dark trousers. Bare feet, gnarled, looking almost like talons. The thick nails of both hands and toes stained dark like a bird’s claws. And on the bare hands, a mess of twisting burn scars over long, neat fingers. Every detail she knew because it had once been her own. Even a shapeshifter could not have quite gotten it that close.

She breathed in the scent, her own scent, of rosemary, cinnamon and ashes. Her weak, stuttering heartbeat pulsed in her ears. “You’re not real,” she said. She sniffed and wiped her eyes, the sparks clustering around her fingers and jumping, shuddering into the air around her.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated softly, in that familiar soft tenor. “I just thought we should talk, El.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, and her voice was still thick from crying.

He nodded, sympathetic, and sat at the end of the bed. He offered her his hand. Hesitating for a moment, she took it wordlessly. He felt real enough. His skin felt burning hot. And it was her own fire. He didn’t resist when she automatically reached to take that heat into herself. She took a deep breath and exhaled as color rushed into her cheeks. Then she impulsively moved to embrace him tightly, the bedsheets falling off as she flung herself into his arms.

He automatically caught her and held her close. The gentleness was what she remembered. “Take what you need,” he told her reassuringly.

“What are you doing here?” El asked, curling her knees up against his lap, and pressing cheek against his shirt. He was so comfortably warm.

“It’s really just a memory,” he said. “Remembering when you were me. But I thought maybe we should talk this time.” He sounded sheepish. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.” He petted her hair. “I like being you. I didn’t really like being me that much.”

El leaned into his hand. “I didn’t want to be sad anymore,” she mumbled. “But it’s all happening again.”

He nodded. “I can braid it for you,” he offered. She nodded, and he began working to gather it section by section, and carefully twist and pass the strands over one another. The slight tugs on her scalp were gentle, the rhythm and practiced motions soothing. It was a care that she would not have thought to taken. “You want to look nice again when you see everyone tomorrow,” he suggested softly. “Like it isn’t happening.”

El swallowed back tears again. “I don’t know what to do,” she murmured. With her cheek against his chest, she could feel the heat in him flaring in time with his heart, a strong and regular rhythm. Her eyes dipped closed.

When his hands stilled, he spoke up again. “You have a promise to keep.” His tone was even quiet now. “El, you have to live. You have to take back your own power. I can’t give it to you. You know that. You already have all of my life.”

She looked up at his face, at those eyes that were hers, that held her own soul. “I know,” she said. “But I’m not enough. I’m weak now. I don’t know how it happened but it’s gone. Whatever I used to be. Maybe it went away when you died.” Her fingers curled into his shirt. She had worn it for years straight, the cloth growing soft and threadbare with age.

He shook his head. “No one can take that away. It’s yours,” he said. “Take it back and live. You promised to live.” And he smiled, that sad smile that had once been hers. “Please El.”

She watched him wonderingly. And she smiled back at him, almost surprised at herself for doing it. “Is this a dream? Sometimes I dream you’re me again. Makes it easier to remember sometimes.”

He shrugged and let his hands fall from her hair, and hooked around her back instead, gently supporting as she curled up against his side. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I dreamed of being you, too, before I died. Maybe it’s the same thing.”

“Everyone liked you,” El whispered. “I should have liked me too. I didn’t want you to be so sad.”

“It was my fate.” It was a simple answer. He did not try to justify it. “Now my fate is in you. Can you remember? For me? And for Hafsa? In two days, you have to take it back. You have to live.”

She nodded and closed her eyes again, burying her nose into the dip of his shoulder. The scent of smoke and ashes was lighter now, only like candle that had just been put out. “I’ll remember.” It was only a sleepy mumble now.

He reached behind her with one hand to pull a blanket over her as best as he could without too much jostling. “I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

El gave a drowsy smile into his shirt. She could hear him humming a familiar old hymn to the gods as she drifted back to sleep.