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☲ I ☲
The wind whispers through the bare branches as if the trees are trying to share its secrets. The light of a furious fire flickers between the thick tree trunks of the ancient woodland, marking out a path through the centuries. The feet that fall on it now are following footsteps marked out by their ancestors through the ages, though tonight they are trodden by the feet of those still living.
As the sinewy boughs thin at the edge of the woods, the sound of voices in unison, chanting in an unrecognisable language, meets the ears of four girls, young enough to not be included in this rite, but old enough that their sneaking away from the village will not be noticed.
It had been a dare by one of the older girls, to sneak out and witness whatever this was; if they were caught, they were sworn to not mention her name. Creeping to watch from the cover of a low shrub, the girls huddle together, trying to make out the motion of the figures in the firelight, to parse the strange sounds echoing in their ears. Despite the towering bonfire, they are cold at this distance, their heavy dresses feeling thin against the summer’s midnight breeze.
The flames dance, faces are illuminated from a different angle, and one of the girls gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth before she can make a noise loud enough for them to be noticed.
“That’s my sister,” she mouths to the others, pointing at the willowy figure of a girl only a few years older than they are, her hair the same blonde, eyes the same blue, dress cut from the same cloth by the same mother.
The girl crouching beside her frowns, drawing back a lock of straight, dark hair which has fallen from its place behind her ear.
“Why would Freya be here, Bekah?” she whispers to the girl who still has her hand over her mouth, as if she’s afraid of what might come out of it next.
On her other side, she receives a sharp look. “Be quiet, Elena, or they’ll hear us.” Her stern expression darkens her hazel eyes until they appear as black as her curly hair in the moonlight. The frown melts into a look of shock when the fourth girl points out another figure moving beside the fire.
“Isn’t that your great-aunt Ayana, Bonnie?” she hisses, and all of them focus their gaze on the surprisingly nimble old lady, her dress billowing around her as she moves deftly in time with Freya in a strange but mesmerising dance.
Bonnie nods numbly in response.
“Who’s that other woman?” Elena whispers, and Rebekah’s hand finally drops from her mouth as she squints at the silhouette of a dark-haired figure.
“That’s my aunt Dahlia,” she murmurs, and only Elena hears; they all just go on staring as the dance plays out.
A few moments later, Dahlia peels off from the dance, reaching to pick something up from the ground. It takes a split-second before the four girls recognise it simultaneously, exchanging panicked glances as the flames glint off a wickedly sharp curved blade that she wields with confidence.
The four of them watch in horror as the chanting, which had faded into a quiet hum, grows suddenly louder, a crescendo of voices becoming discordant as the blade arcs through the air, graceful but deadly. Time seems to stand still as the blade glides perilously closely to Freya’s throat, before it deviates in its path and slices into the flesh of her palm; she barely flinches at the pain, just holding out her hand as Dahlia repeats the motion on her own hand, before doing the same to Ayana, and then the three of them let the blood drip slowly into the blazing firewood, the flames flashing green and blue and purple and white for a moment, brief enough that they might all have imagined it, if the colours weren’t seared into the backs of their eyelids.
Blinking away the shapes and colours is almost enough to distract them from the snaking movement of the blade, still in Dahlia’s hand, as it inches closer to Freya’s neck again, and this time it is Elena’s hand covering Rebekah’s mouth as the four girls look on in horror at the older girl collapsing to her knees, the neckline of her dress soaking up the blood which drips from her slit throat.
They don’t wait to watch the rest, the three of them dragging a frozen Rebekah with them as they rush back to the village, trying to stay hidden. The voices seem to chase them through the woods, and every shadow looks alive and menacing as they race through the trees in the descending darkness.
Elena sends Bonnie and Caroline home, but she refuses to let Rebekah go to bed alone, instead insisting that she sleeps over. This way, she can avoid waking her brothers, she reminds her, and Rebekah, still shell-shocked, agrees, curling against Elena’s side with a shiver that doesn’t quite settle, even as she drifts into sleep. The two of them both dream of towering flames, of chanting, and of blood.
☴ II ☴
After the initial shock of that night, none of the girls know how to talk to each other; their questions are ones that they know none of the four of them can answer. The first morning, when they wake up, they hope it was a dream, but the dirt on their feet, and Elena’s arms around Rebekah’s feverishly shivering form, tell them all they need to know, when Bonnie and Caroline enter her home and find them together, still shaken.
They sit in silence all morning, hardly daring to break the quiet between them, as if speaking about it will make it real. It isn’t until Esther ducks through the doorway to find Rebekah that a single word is shared between them.
“It’s Freya,” Rebekah tells her mother, when she won’t stop asking what is wrong with the four of them.
Esther’s face flickers with a strange emotion for a moment, but she soon recovers, an easy smile returning to her lips and not her eyes.
“Your sister is waiting for you at home,” she tells Rebekah, and the four girls exchange confused looks before obediently following Esther back to her home.
There, inside, sitting on a fur pelt, sits a young, dark-haired boy, and he leans against his sister, her blonde hair and blue eyes marking her as Esther’s eldest daughter. She looks up at the girls curiously when they all observe her with wide eyes, as if sitting beside Henrik is an act they have never seen her perform before; as if she doesn’t spend every morning telling the boy the stories of their ancestors across the sea.
Dahlia sits across the room, watching them all with eyes that are too knowing and a smile that is too sharp to make any of them comfortable. The other three girls leave Rebekah with her mother, and each retreats to their own home, puzzling over the mystery alone until sundown.
The weeks fly by, and the four of them have almost convinced themselves that they collectively imagined the whole incident, when one evening Rebekah rushes into Elena’s home, brandishing a pale bundle of fabric which she waves in her friend’s face. Once Elena calms her sufficiently, she examines the item, which turns out to be a dress; together they observe the rusted red colour which stains the neckline, and the point of damage beside the seam, as if the fabric has been sliced.
Elena’s hands begin to shake as she holds the frayed material up to her eyes, as if looking closer will provide some new explanation. When it doesn’t, she shakes her head, handing it back to Rebekah instead.
“What does it mean?”
The question hangs over both their heads long after the dress has turned to cinders in the hearth.
“You know,” Rebekah begins one evening, when the four of them have accidentally ended up alone, at a distance from the fire around which the rest of the village crowds, “my aunt Dahlia used to tell me stories about witches.”
Caroline’s eyes instantly grow wide and round, her head whipping around to look and see who might overhear them, flinging her blonde curls through the air as she scours the empty space.
“Don’t talk like that,” Bonnie scolds, and Elena and Rebekah share a look at her sharp tone. “Mother says it isn’t right to talk as if magic is real.”
“They’re just stories, right Bekah?” Elena intercedes, hoping to defuse the tension that has been building between them all ever since the night they all refuse to talk about.
Rebekah nods, for Elena’s sake; she knows that her friend hates conflict and feels guilty for bringing it up. Even so, when the two of them are alone later, and the other two have disappeared off to dance, she continues. “She really did tell me stories about it, you know. She told me all sorts of things; she said that I had magic in my blood, if only I could learn how to use it. She said that Freya would be strong like her, since they’re each the first of their generation, and that even though Henrik is the youngest, he’d be the strongest of all of us, because he’s the seventh child of a seventh child, and that makes him special. I didn’t even know that mother had left behind so much family when she and Dahlia crossed the sea, and Dahlia said that most of their siblings had died in a plague, but she loved mother too much to leave her, so she took a special potion to keep them both healthy when they came here with father. And then –”
Elena hushes her friend, only half-listening while she rambles excitedly on about her aunt’s fairytales and superstitions.
Despite their misgivings, something about the sight that they shared in witnessing doesn’t just haunt them; it calls to them. When Rebekah slips softly into Elena’s home one evening, her arms bundled with fabric that conceals herbs and vials, it doesn’t scare the other girl off; instead, the two of them work together to create an altar on the ground, arranged into four compass points. Neither of them is quite sure how they know what to do, just that it feels right to do it. It's as if a long forgotten memory has been awakened; so long as they don't think too hard on it, their own hands will guide them.
Caroline protests the most, but even she dutifully takes her position at the north point, clutching the handful of feathers which represent the element of air. Elena sits beside her, west for water; she has always loved going down past the waterfall to the river and watching the way the current rushes along the banks, seeing the seething power surging through the very thing she collects, which sustains and cleans and feeds them. Opposite Elena, at the east point, sits Bonnie, her fingers absently dragging through the bowl of earth. To the south, Rebekah sits, her stout candle of tallow firm and waxy against her fingers as she turns it in her hands.
The room is dim, only the last hints of the sunset and the tiny flickering light of Rebekah’s candle to see by, and the four of them look around at one another, a nervous thrill hanging in the air. It’s instinct, when they pass around handfuls of herbs between them; Elena lets the ground, dry powders fall softly onto the surface of the still water cupped in her hands; Bonnie stirs them into the earth, and Rebekah sprinkles them over the flame, making its colour flash from orange and yellow to blue, green, violet, and red. Caroline lets the powders fall from her hands, floating for a moment in the air as she eyes them dubiously.
The room is filled with a sweet scent that is not quite familiar, but not completely unknown. It is reminiscent of the smell when rain revives the dry ground, or the scent of the last dying flames at the end of a night of dancing. The fragrance of transition from one state to another.
The four of them form a tight circle when they join hands, a pulse of energy passing between them that none of them are certain is real, but that they can’t bring themselves to dismiss. There is a soft hum in the air, the atmosphere charged and raising the hair on their arms the way a thunderstorm might. They don’t dare whisper a single word, just waiting for something to happen.
The flame of Rebekah’s candle suddenly flares taller, and at the same time Elena notices small ripples moving across the still surface of the water. Bonnie wonders if she is imagining the way the light moves across the handful of earth, if the soil really is stirring itself. The three of them look up to find Caroline’s face full of shock, her eyes wide and her mouth agape as she looks down at her pile of feathers. In stunned silence, they watch as, one by one, the fluffy down drifts upwards, as if each one was attached to a piece of thread to suspend it in midair. They all know that no such threads are present.
As they meet each other’s eyes, they seem to share the same thought: If we can do this, then what else can we do?
The power between them surges, seemingly sensing their sudden rush of excitement, and the feathers whirl upwards, perfectly central between them as they spin, floating up and down as if they have a purpose to serve. Elena will later swear that she never touched the cup of water, but it thuds to the ground nonetheless, spilling neatly into a single stream which trickles towards the base of the twirling column of air. The cup of earth is the next to fall, soil tumbling inwards towards the centre of the altar. Caroline’s eyes are clenched shut in denial or fear, her lips a thin pale line.
When the candle flame flares again, Rebekah is the one to snatch her hands back, but even with the physical connection broken, power still surges between them. The candle teeters on its edge, and she grasps it, wincing at the sear against her skin, as if the tallow has somehow been heated to boiling while remaining solid. The flame licks outwards, as if it is trying to reach the feathers. Without thinking, she dips her fingers into the spilled water, and pinches out the wick of the candle, hissing through her teeth for a moment before the flame disappears, leaving the room in utter darkness.
The dim twilight illuminates the room just enough that they can see the feathers floating back to the ground, no hint of the desperate movement from just a moment ago.
The others leave Elena and Rebekah to tidy things away, and they avoid one another’s eyes as they do so. Later, when Elena asks Rebekah to stay for the night, neither one of them brings up the events of earlier; instead the conversation drifts to Rebekah’s brothers, and the fact that two of them are smitten with Elena’s cousin. Elena blushes and doesn’t reply right away when Rebekah tells her that she should try her luck with them, since that way they could be sisters instead of just friends. She looks similar enough to Tatia, after all, that they would be sure to pay her the same attention if she let them. Elena never quite gets around to explaining why Rebekah’s brothers don’t hold any interest to her.
By this point, they are lying together, shrouded in warm furs to shield them from the cool air. The night isn’t cold, but both of them have the lingering sense of a chill settling deep within, like the tiredness that only comes in the short winter days. Elena curls into Rebekah’s side, and the two of them share their warmth until the sunlight streams inside, and the previous night feels like nothing but a bad dream.
☵ III ☵
Every so often, Rebekah catches sight of a candle burning too high, or Elena watches a spilled rivulet of water for a few seconds too long, and they remember that night, but life goes on as normal around them, so they try to forget.
It isn’t until the two of them are walking together through the woods one evening, checking the nearby snares are laid correctly, that they actually talk about it. A smattering of white, downy feathers lays sprinkled across the path before them, just like the ones that had drifted upwards out of Caroline’s hands that night.
“Do you think it was us that made it happen?” Rebekah asks vaguely, but Elena understands immediately, her eyes fixed on the feathers.
She nods. “I felt it,” she tells Rebekah. And then, almost breathlessly, “I’d never felt so powerful before.”
They wander down a meandering path, following the feathers, and before either of them realise their direction, they’re emerging into that clearing, which they since had convinced themselves had just shown them a collective, awful dream, a false memory shared between them, concocted from the night’s clawing shadows and the sinister whisper of the trees.
Now, in the settling twilight, the leaping flames seem like they could never have belonged in this tranquil landscape, the branches of the trees gentle in their reach rather than the talons that threatened to snatch at them as they ran home.
It almost looks serene, until Elena walks into the centre of the circle that had been there, and spots, amid the leaf litter, the gilt handle of a knife, engraved painstakingly with unfamiliar runes. Unable to resist the object, she uncovers it from its half-buried position, having to fight the urge to drop it when she sees the rusty brown flakes that still adorn the sharp blade, the remnants of what must be Freya’s blood, intermingled with Ayana’s and Dahlia’s. She quickly abandons that thought when she feels the same rush of power jolting through her, pulsing through the palm of her hand and coursing through her whole body, until she feels giddy with it.
This is nothing like what the four of them had felt together, or perhaps it is, but the last time it had been divided between the four of them, while this time it’s only her that holds the power.
There are two warring voices in her head; one tells her to put the knife back, to hide it and never seek it out again. The other voice is enjoying the thrill of the power bristling in her veins, begging to be put to use.
Both of the voices are ignored, however, when Rebekah’s voice breaks through the quiet of the clearing, soft and yet heavy in the silence.
“Oh, Elena, oh no. Look, the poor thing,” she breathes, and Elena turns to find her friend leaning over the trembling form of a young fawn, its eyes wide as it looks back at them, and one of its legs sticking out at an unnatural angle as it lies, quivering.
“What should we do?” asks Elena, and Rebekah looks up at her with her beautiful blue eyes, sparkling with tears over the poor creature’s pain.
“I want to help it,” she confesses, at which Elena sighs; she has learnt to expect nothing less, but she wishes sometimes that Rebekah’s outlook didn’t give her such a proclivity for pity, especially when Elena will inevitably be the one to break the news of the unfortunate outcome in the end.
Nevertheless, Elena nods, always willing to try to make Rebekah happy. She realises, when she reaches to help Rebekah lift the animal, that the knife is still held firmly in the palm of her hand, the power still bubbling away beneath her skin. She had been sure that she meant to set it down.
“I have an idea,” she tells Rebekah, although she isn’t entirely sure yet what the idea is. She is certain that the power in her hand is enough, though.
Elena kneels, letting Rebekah cradle the fawn’s head so that she can get a closer look at the broken leg. She breathes deeply, letting the power direct her, and her hands move of their own accord, one running light fingers up and down the length of the injury, while the other caresses the ornate handle of the knife. It’s as if she can feel the power flowing through her and into the animal, although it stays motionless beneath her light touch.
Then, she gasps, hearing the sound of a single droplet hitting the ground as a warm trickling sensation runs across her chin. She ignores it for the moment, only stopping when Rebekah’s worried voice breaks her trance, and her eyes flutter open in response.
Her friend is watching her with equal parts horror and wonder. The fawn, too, is blinking up at her, calmly bending and stretching its hind knee as if testing the newly healed limb. The only sign that something isn’t right is the drop of blood just below its barrow, staining one of the white spots on its back.
Elena realises with a start, as the fawn leaps to its feet, that the blood on the deer has run from her nose, and she hastily wipes away the trail staining her face, letting Rebekah help her when her friend winces at the sight of the blood smearing across her cheek.
The fawn watches them for a moment longer, then darts off into the trees, leaving them alone again. Elena runs her hand over her bloody cheek for one last time, then picks up the knife from the spot on the ground where it must have fallen when the fawn startled her. When it makes contact with her skin, she feels an echo of the power from before, almost as if it has receded for the time being, but it still lies dormant beneath the surface. She doesn’t tell Rebekah; her friend is already looking shaken enough, although relieved by the injured animal’s recovery. Instead, she just tucks the knife away beneath some of the low shrubs, leaving it out of sight.
The moon is a pale sickle in a sky not yet dark enough to let it shine; the stars are almost ready to begin their nightly vigil in the cloudless heavens. Rebekah leads Elena, still somewhat dazed, past a gentle stream that flows from the rushing river, and helps her clean her face in the cool water. Her hands are soft and tender with each deliberate caress across Elena’s cheek, and neither of them mention the way the touch lingers even once her face is clean.
The two of them return to Elena’s home empty handed, the task they had set out to complete all but forgotten. This time, Elena isn’t avoiding the subject deliberately, but she doesn’t have the words to explain to Rebekah quite what happened, and Rebekah doesn’t ask.
“Thank you for helping him,” is all she says as they lie, side by side, Rebekah’s arm curling around Elena’s shoulders like an anchor for both of them.
In response Elena nods against Rebekah’s chest. “You asked me to,” she justifies it, although she can sense that Rebekah doesn’t yet think too hard about what that means. Another night passes; Rebekah’s full of thoughts of animals running free in the afternoon sunlight, while Elena dreams of the thrill she felt when the current of power flowed through her.
In the morning, when they awake, it is to cries that they recognise as Esther’s, and they hurry across the village to find Freya cradling a wound at her neck, her dress and hair matted in the same dark red blood that spills through her fingers. In the doorway lies a white dove, its wings spread so that every feather is stretched to its furthest point. A mark of bright red stains its side, but it is only when Elena notices the sickening angle of its broken leg that she excuses herself, hurrying around the corner to retch up the contents of her guts.
☷ IV ☷
Rebekah sits outside her own home, tracing fingers gingerly through the dry mud as she pretends not to listen to the hushed conversation within.
After Elena ran home, Esther sent Rebekah to fetch Dahlia, and now the two sisters exchange words inside, unaware of Rebekah’s listening ears. Occasionally, they’re interrupted by a soft groan from Freya, who lies between them while they try to stem the wound at her neck.
“You promised that she would be fine,” Esther hisses, and Dahlia scoffs.
“She should have been,” she retorts, “it has worked every time before. It’s simple, we offer blood, and power, and in return we are all strengthened, and our sacrifice revived by the spirits. She should have stayed healthy.”
“Then something else has upset the Balance.” Rebekah hears her mother’s words; they fall like stones dropping in her stomach, sinking heavily into her insides. She doesn’t want to hear any more, so she returns to Elena, and finds her shivering in her home, wrapped in furs that seem to be doing nothing to keep the cold away, even as the sun beats down outside. The only thing that seems to help is Rebekah’s firm arms encircling her where she sits on the floor, and finally the tremors begin to subside.
“Was it my fault?” Elena eventually asks, her voice unsteady in the quiet afternoon sun.
Rebekah doesn’t know how to answer; she is afraid that she has overheard the truth, and that Elena’s willingness to help her save a poor injured creature has harmed her family. She doesn’t know how to answer, and so she says nothing, instead tightening her grip around Elena’s middle, burrowing her face into the girl’s neck through her hair, pressing her chest against the soft rise and fall of Elena’s back under her.
“Would you do it again?” she finally asks Elena, startling the girl as if she’d forgotten whose arms she’s been resting in, although both of them know she would never lose herself in anyone else’s.
Elena’s hesitation tells them both all they need to know, and neither of them are surprised when, “If you asked me to, I would,” finally falls from her lips.
Rebekah can’t bring herself to judge Elena for it. Instead, she just nods against the other girl’s hair, whispering a soft, “I know.”
The girls had spent so long worrying about the arcane ritual that they had witnessed, that something as mundane as an animal attack comes as a shock.
Nonetheless, when Niklaus enters the village calling desperately for his family, that is what they find; Henrik cradled in his arms, bloodened and scarred from the snapping jaws and sharp claws of the wolves that prowl, ever-hungry, in the depths of the woods. Usually, they aren’t bold enough to come close enough to the village to do any harm, but recently Henrik’s insistences that he was old enough to explore the forests had been wearing down his siblings’ resolve, and Nikalus seems to be the unfortunate one of them who finally gave into the youngest brother’s persuasive demands.
Now, he sits, cradling his brother and sobbing, Elijah at his side, and Rebekah at the other, Kol and Finn joining them while Elena watches from a little distance away, uncertain of how welcome her comforts would be for her best friend. Her distance means that she can see Esther and Dahlia in the doorway, arguing with Freya, who has apparently recovered from her ordeal the day prior, and is back on her feet, a dark piece of cloth bandaging what remains of the wound at her neck.
Where Esther’s arguments are just as quiet as Dahlia’s, they are accompanied by violent hand gestures in the direction of her injured son, while Dahlia’s seem calmer, almost smug, in a way that sends chills down Elena’s spine. Freya’s hair whips around her face as she looks erratically between her mother and aunt, equally disbelieving at the pair of them.
Elena feels the sliver of a plan coming to her, and it feels desperate, but she is desperate, so she puts the pieces together in her mind, her confidence growing as she goes. Rebekah is still kneeling on the ground beside her brothers, and she approaches her, placing a soft hand on the blonde’s shoulder as she comes to a stop, crouching beside her.
“We could try to heal him,” she murmurs in her friend’s ear, anxious for the usual smile to return to her face.
“It’s too dangerous,” Rebekah tells her through a sob.
“We have to try,” insists Elena, and the glimmer of hope in her friend’s eyes only spurs her on; she is desperate for that hope to grow into something certain and alive. When Rebekah doesn’t try to dissuade her again, she nods, emboldened. “I’ll get the others.”
Henrik has assumed Freya’s spot, the stains of her blood indistinguishable from where he now bleeds on the softest furs Esther can think to bring him. Rebekah has been at his side all day long; for so long that the sun has risen, beamed down on the ground, and now leaves the world in twilight again as it slowly descends behind the horizon.
Dahlia left with Freya and Ayana hours ago, speaking in whispers and sharp looks, and with the firm instruction that they not be followed, which Rebekah had easily accepted. Esther is also absent, searching for rare herbs that might serve to heal her child’s wounds, so soon after the last has recovered. As for the rest of her family, Rebekah is unsure. Niklaus and Elijah are most likely vying for Tatia’s attention, despite the circumstances, and Kol and Finn could be anywhere, perhaps together, or perhaps not. They might even have told her where they were leaving for, but all of her focus has been on Henrik, watching each painful breath moving his ribs up and down beneath the furs; it hurts her to see him in pain like this, but at least if she sits here, she can keep watch of the evidence that he is still alive. It’s the only place she can look; his whole body is covered by the furs, except for his face, which is torn open grotesquely, and she can’t bear to look there. She breathes in time with him, willing him to heal, somehow.
At some point, Bonnie and Caroline must have entered her home, but she doesn’t remember hearing them, just slowly becoming aware of them as they talk softly into the silence about nothing important. Part of her wants to snap at them, to scold them for thinking of anything but the life that lies flickering before them. Another part of her is glad for the momentary distraction, and the chance to pretend that a little part of her soul isn’t cracking into pieces and leaving her as swiftly as Henrik seems to be.
She says nothing, letting her friends fill up the quiet with their meaningless chatter, but her eyes stay fixed on the slow rise and fall of her brother’s chest. She hopes that it is only her mind playing tricks on her, and that his breathing hasn’t really slowed as much as it seems to have done.
Thankfully, before she can linger on the thought for too long, Elena is crossing the threshold, and this is what finally pries her eyes away from the boy lying there. Elena’s silhouette seems to glow for a moment, the moon shining behind her giving her a slight silver halo before she steps through the door, into the orange firelight, and she is just a girl again.
It isn’t until they have rearranged themselves back into their elemental compass points that Rebekah notices the new central piece, between the scattered herbs, vials and icons; the curved knife that she and Elena had discovered in the woodland clearing sits equidistant between the four girls, its blade still rust brown where the remnants of blood stick dryly to the metal, in between which the silver glints in the firelight. The sight of it unnerves Rebekah, but she doesn’t dare complain about the lengths that Elena will go to for her and, by extension, for her brother.
Once the altar is set, the four of them move instinctively again, the herbs and powders mixing into the icons for each element, just as before. This time, it isn’t so surprising when a flurry of white feathers makes its way from Caroline's hands to the centre point between them, drifting in a column above the blade.
The feeling of power surges between them as before, only this time they are all willing it through them, and what had been a gentle current before is now like crashing waves, the feeling untamed and erratic and exhilarating. Elena looks around at the others, grinning, and even Rebekah is distracted enough to smile back at her as the feeling builds. The water and earth tip over in unison, both spilling into the rapid movement of the air at the centre, and this time Rebekah doesn’t stop the flare of her candle’s flame, letting it rage as the four elements come together. The fire jumps centrewards, and the light in the house flashes bright violet for a moment, leaving glowing imprints on the backs of their eyelids when they blink.
Then, the violet light condenses into a fixed point, which hovers for a moment, pulsing and uncertain, before descending into the hilt of the knife, as softly as the charred remains of the feathers as they drift back to the ground.
Elena is the one to break the circle, the power still moving back and forth between them as she reaches for the hilt of the blade, the weight of it already familiar in her hand. Rebekah notices her friend’s smile widening when she picks it up, a gasp of wonder escaping her lips subconsciously. She rights the cup of water, and just as quickly, she runs the sharp tip of the knife across her palm, letting her blood drip into what is left of the icon. When she looks up expectantly, each of the girls understands, and each in turn offers her hand to the blade, then lets a little blood fall into the cup.
The dark red liquid takes on a silver sheen, as if the moon outside is illuminating the room, rather than the blazing fire at the hearth. Rebekah knows in her gut what the next step will be, and she fights off a feeling of nausea as she watches Elena rise to her feet, wielding the cup and the blade, approaching Henrik. She notices how weak his breathing is now, and as much as it feels wrong to let Elena continue, she doesn’t dare to stop her, not when this could be her chance to save him.
She tries to hide her grimace as Elena offers the cup to his lips, but she can’t hold back the sick feeling when she watches the lustrous blood staining his tongue and chin as he swallows every drop.
The light from the cup has disappeared, and instead it seems to shroud her little brother, as if his skin is now glowing in the moonlight. His breathing gets quieter and quieter, until she isn’t sure she can hear it at all, and her stomach ties itself in knots at the prospect that they might have failed. She can hardly bear to look and see the proof of her brother’s death, until suddenly she hears him gasp, and she can’t look away any longer.
The wounds on his face are still red and raw, but they seem at least partially healed, enough that he can breathe again and smile up at them all, as if nothing had happened to him but a small tumble and scrape. For a moment she thinks she must be imagining things, but then Elena is squeezing her hand and she realises that her brother really is alive, and she laughs in disbelief.
The four of them sit back, relieved, and Rebekah can’t help but pull Elena into her arms, letting tears of her joy stain the other girl’s shoulder. Elena hugs her back just as fiercely, and when Rebekah looks into her eyes, there is a wildness and a fire there that is new; the ferocity of it scares her a little, but more than anything else it entices her, and before she can think about her actions, she finds herself pressing their lips together, just for a moment. There is a charge between them, making her hair stand on end the way it does when lightning has struck nearby, and the sensation only grows when Elena’s teeth sink into her bottom lip for a brief moment, their breath mingling together hotly when they pull back just an inch. Behind them, there is the sound of Caroline starting to speak, and Bonnie hushing her, but it is enough to break the spell of the moment, and the girls draw apart, the energy quieter now, but still crackling back and forth in the air between them.
Rebekah leaves Elena’s arms to sit beside Henrik, letting the other three clear away the altar, then entertain themselves while she watches over her little brother, watching for any sign that his recovery is temporary. Her teeth work at her bottom lip as she brushes a strand of hair from his peaceful, sleeping face, and she notices that Elena’s bite has split the soft skin there. She sucks on it until the bleeding stops, and the sweet tang of her own blood coats her tongue pleasantly.
When Esther returns, Finn and Kol on her heels, she barely has the thought to eye the four of them suspiciously before she is glued to Henrik’s side, promising him that she will make sure he never gets hurt again, no matter the cost.
Elena leaves with the knife tucked into her skirt, power still rushing through her joyously as she walks home, disguising exhaustion. She passes Freya, Dahlia, and Ayana on the way, the three of them locked in heated discussion while Freya looks close to tears. When she catches sight of Elena, she lets out a small huff, leaving the elder two behind as she marches towards Esther and Rebekah.
Elena takes care to hide the knife carefully, buried deep among her possessions, where no prying eye might think to look. When she dreams, it is a fitful sleep, full of flesh stitching itself together, and all the while the edges of her vision are consumed with the flow of rivers of red, that temptingly call out to her.
When she wakes, she wonders what flavour she is craving; something salty, sweet, and warm.
☰ V ☰
Summer fades into autumn, the sunlight shining shorter each day, and the chill of the colder months lopes ever closer. Shorter days mean longer nights, and the long nights call for taller fires, and the flames and the harvest celebrations keep the dancers warm as their hearts beat loudly in their chests, smiles wide and songs sweet as they fill the air.
Bonnie and Caroline sit on the other side of the bonfire, speaking softly to one another, and occasionally glancing to where Elena and Rebekah sit, side by side, between the other members of Rebekah’s family. Rebekah leans in and whispers something in Elena’s ear, and is rewarded with peals of her laughter that carry even over the sounds of singing. The pair of them watch as Niklaus invites Tatia to dance, mischief spelled out on Elena’s face, while Rebekah’s holds a soft sympathy for the brother that Tatia didn’t choose. Her frown only grows when Elijah huffs out a sigh before disappearing in the direction of the pigpen, but she shakes herself from worrying about her brothers when Elena’s hand reaches for hers, and their fingers interlock tightly, as if they were made to fit together. Elena’s attention is still on Tatia and Niklaus’ silhouettes as they dance by the fire, Henrik lively at their feet, but all of Rebekah’s focus is on Elena’s form beside her, and the feel of her steady breathing beneath the cheek that rests on her shoulder. She smiles fondly when Elena giggles at Tatia’s gentle rejection of Niklaus, and they share a knowing look when her cousin disappears in the same direction as Elijah, while Niklaus wanders back to them, oblivious.
When he asks Elena if she will dance with him, Rebekah refuses on her behalf, something cold and sharp and jealous rearing its head inside her chest. She sends him off in the direction of Caroline, who grimaces at them over his shoulder, across the bonfire, but graciously accepts at Henrik’s insistence, keeping Rebekah and Elena free for at least another few songs.
It is Rebekah that tugs on Elena’s hand, leading her away from the fire and towards her home. They pause, hand in hand, and stifle their giggles when they spot Tatia and Elijah kissing beside the pigpen, even if Rebekah quietly thinks that it’s just the slightest bit romantic. The evening is growing darker, but to avoid being spotted by the pair of them, they end up turning towards Elena’s home instead. There is a small fire in the hearth; it isn’t much when compared to the one that they have just left behind, but there are only two of them, and they sit closely side by side in its light and warmth.
It isn’t until much later, when the sounds of laughter and singing have faded into the quiet hum of a village falling asleep, that Rebekah, tangled in Elena’s sleep-heavy arms, runs her fingers over a strange lump, concealed in the otherwise smooth furs that they lie upon. She takes care not to disturb the sleeping girl, cautiously prying back layer after layer, until she finds an object that fills her with dread, the fear of its unknown power instinctual within her. Even so, she can’t help but to take it in her hand, the sharp tip of it glinting wickedly, mesmerising somehow. Her blood is on the blade already, along with the other girls’, not to mention her sister and aunt, and Ayana.
She is seized by the strange compulsion to see the blade work its magic again, the electric charge of power beginning to stir in her veins. Just something small, she thinks, and before she knows what she is doing, the very point of it has sliced through her fingertip, and blood is welling at the surface, dark red, thick, and sweet. She doesn’t give a second thought to the instinct she has to taste it, nor that it seems to simultaneously scratch an itch she didn’t realise she had, and leave her wanting, unsatisfied.
When she takes her finger out of her mouth again, the wound has completely disappeared, as if she had never touched the blade, except she can still see the shine of fresh blood on the knife she still holds. She turns to Elena, unsure if she should wake her friend, and finds a stray trickle of blood has begun to make a path from the girl’s nose, down to the corner of her mouth.
She is aware this time; aware of the way her mouth waters at the sight, and the way her tongue darts to wet her lips as the blood glistens enticingly in the low light. Her mind is still hesitant, but her body moves of its own accord, pressing her lips to the corner of Elena’s mouth, first just feeling the warm wetness of the blood pooled there, and then letting her lips part, tasting its salty and sweet tang, intermingled with the salt of Elena’s skin. She hovers over Elena, lapping gently at her like a kitten tasting cream for the first time, although there is a euphoria in this that she thinks no mere animal could possibly fathom.
Eventually, it seems that her ministrations begin to rouse Elena, the girl’s lips parting beneath her own in a soft sigh as her eyelids flutter, threatening to open. Rebekah quiets her with calming words, urging her back to sleep, in between planting more and more daring kisses across her lips, her cheeks, her exposed collarbone, her neck.
She settles there, Elena falling back into dreams beneath her, the pulse in her throat fluttering gently beneath her lips. When they wake with the sunrise, Rebekah’s lips are still pressed to that pulse point, although neither of them mention it as they dress for the day ahead.
Rebekah slips away, not embarrassed, but slightly unsure; although the events of the night before feel like a dream, the rich taste of Elena’s blood still sits at the back of her throat, a souvenir of her stolen kisses.
It must be a trick of the darkening days, but blood seems to be ever present in Rebekah’s mind. She watches, fascinated, as her brothers bring back the spoils of their hunt, their weapons dark and bloodied. The sight of the hunting knife paring pelt from flesh sets something growling inside her; there is a hunger that the meat cannot satisfy.
The same hunger rears its ugly head each time she sees blood running from Elena’s nose, which happens more and more frequently now. Sometimes, she even feels the hunger before catching sight of it, but it always follows quickly afterwards. With the hunger comes guilt and fear, and the ever-present knowledge that the autumn weather has not yet been sufficiently cold to chill Elena’s skin to its current pallor. The circles beneath her friend’s eyes are dark, and Rebekah disbelieves her when she claims to simply be worn out from the days’ work.
There are a few mornings that Elena doesn’t emerge, and Rebekah has to seek her out, waking her friend from a fitful and restless slumber, ever more concerned by the coolness that seems to have settled in the girl’s skin. Still, she always rests a soothing hand on her shoulder, pulling her gently from her dreams and into the land of the living. Elena always wakes violently, despite Rebekah’s efforts; her eyes snap open, crazed and wild until they focus on Rebekah’s form, and relax just the slightest amount.
Eventually, having exhausted every option she can think of, she turns to her elder sister for help. The confessions fall from her lips in broken fragments, painting parts of different pictures that Freya puzzles to piece together. Desperate, she shows Freya into Elena’s home, finding her lying as still as she ever does, her breath shallow and rasping in the silence. Freya takes a seat, her hand enclosing Elena’s wrist, and she looks up in surprise at Rebekah when she feels the chill in the girl; she is as cold as death itself.
She is about to speak, to offer some advice or perhaps a condolence to her younger sister, when she shifts, and her eyebrows draw together, her hands moving through the furs to unearth the gilded handle of the blade that Rebekah had tried to push out of her mind. Panic washes over her as she watches the emotions wash across Freya’s face, one after the other, and she whispers her pleas for forgiveness, her only focus on Elena and her wellbeing.
Freya mutters something about the disruption of the Balance, but Rebekah doesn’t quite understand the implication of it.
“Can you help her?” is all she manages to ask, hardly daring to meet her sister’s eyes.
Freya’s answering shrug is evasive. “The Balance needs to be restored,” she explains, as if it should make perfect sense. “That will help.”
Rebekah begins to regret involving Freya when her sister summons both Dahlia and Ayana to look over Elena. The feeling of worry only grows when they unceremoniously pull her from where she lies, dragging her weak body onto her swaying legs, before leading her out and into the trees. Helpless, she follows them, all the way to that same clearing where it all began.
The fire that they build is small, but there are only the five of them there, rather than the multitude that had gathered the first time, so it suffices. Freya, Dahlia and Ayana work to find herbs and powders and pastes in the mess of vials that they carried with them, so Rebekah supports Elena, who appears to be rapidly deteriorating. All of Elena’s weight rests against her, but the past weeks have stolen what little fat was left on her bones, so it’s no struggle to keep her upright.
This time, the chanting is in a language that Rebekah mostly understands, but it is the order of the words that are meaningless. She understands some of it – maiden, mother, crone, over and over– but the rest, talk of Balance and Sacrifice, she struggles to interpret. When Freya unveils the same curved knife, the pieces begin to fall into place.
Rebekah watches, frozen at Elena’s side, the familiar sight of her sister, her aunt, and Ayana each holding out their palms to be cut by the ever-sharp blade, then letting their blood drip into a chalice, held by Dahlia as she murmurs further incantations about the Balance. Ayana and Freya move almost rhythmically as they add pinches of powders that Rebekah doesn’t recognise, each one disappearing into the dark, swirling liquid as quickly as they settle on its surface. The final few additions are dramatic; a spark that quickly fizzles out, then a puff of smoke, and then a familiar lustre rises, as if the chalice were full of liquid silver.
Freya pries Elena from where she rests on Rebekah’s shoulder, offering her the chalice, ensuring that she takes a few long draughts from it before she turns and pours what is left over the flames. Rather than being extinguished, they flash every colour that a flame shouldn’t, leaving glowing imprints on the backs of Rebekah’s eyelids. Elena sways back into her side, and Rebekah’s attention is pulled away from the fire quickly, her arms encircling her waist and shoulders as Elena’s face burrows under her chin.
It is Dahlia who steps forward then, the knife still in her hand. “We have to complete the ritual, to restore the Balance,” she states, matter-of-factly, pulling Elena away from Rebekah again. “You may wish to look away for this part,” she informs Rebekah, who nods mutely, but cannot look away, only reaching for Elena’s hands instead. Neither are sure who the gesture is meant to comfort. “This will only hurt for a moment,” Dahlia murmurs in Elena’s ear, and before either girl has time to process it, the blade has snaked across the soft flesh of Elena’s throat, and all Rebekah can see is blood and blood and blood.
Elena stumbles forwards, collapsing into Rebekah's arms, and together they sink to the ground, Rebekah cradling her as the blood spills onto the dark fabric of her skirt. The hunger in her is wailing now, and Rebekah doesn’t even look up to see if she is being watched when she lowers her lips to the wound at Elena’s neck. The first kiss she plants there only lasts a second, and then she is licking at the wound, the flavour divine and increasingly intoxicating with every taste she gets. The girl in her arms is cold, but her blood is hot and thick and sweet and salty as it slips down her throat, the last sign of life in a body which is growing limp with every passing second.
The hunger begins to settle, but there is still a wrenching pain in Rebekah’s chest, and she realises that the salt on her lips is not only Elena’s blood, but also her own tears. Her sobs are stifled by the press of her face to Elena’s chest, which lies still, not even a hint of breath daring to enter her lungs. She can’t bring herself to look up at her sister, who promised to help, but instead has led her best friend to her death. She refuses to search for pity in their faces, just letting herself tremble as her tears soak into the coarse fabric of Elena’s dress, mingling with the blood that stains it.
The world seems to be filtered just wrong, each colour slightly off hue, each sound oddly muffled and yet achingly loud. The sounds of the forest are a distant hum, drowned out by the silence of Elena’s form in Rebekah’s arms, the evidence of her life all but faded now. She holds Elena, unable to acknowledge that what is in her arms now is not her friend, but a corpse in the shape of her.
On her tongue, mixed with the salt of Elena’s blood, she can taste bitter accusations; they fight to make their way into the air between her and the three other women in the clearing, clawing their way out of her chest. She knows that nothing she can say will bring back a girl whose throat has been slit, but it soothes her even so, to let the words flow free, her anger and fear and frustration colouring every consonant.
When she finally looks up, it is only Freya that remains standing before her, watching her with a look of defeat. Her apologies spill from her lips, but none of them are loud enough to distract Rebekah from her litany of sorrow, so their despondent voices harmonise discordantly through both of their tears.
Eventually, when Rebekah’s voice is too hoarse, and she resolves to shaking breaths, she hears Freya’s words. Her sister is sorry; she didn’t think that Elena would stay dead; it had worked before, making a sacrifice to restore the Balance, and in return, the life taken was restored. It still doesn’t make sense to Rebekah completely, until she turns the words over in her mind, and finally looks into Freya’s clear blue eyes that mirror her tears.
“The life was restored already,” she realises. “Henrik would have died –he did die, but I told myself I had imagined it– and our ritual brought back his life.”
Freya’s face crumples as she listens; her understanding is deeper than Rebekah’s, and the utter hopelessness on her older sister’s face tells her all she needs to know.
“That’s it, then. She’s not –” She can’t bring herself to state it aloud, that Elena’s death is permanent.
When Freya nods her head, she only wants to cover her eyes, to have not seen the confirmation of her worst fear. She doesn’t, though, even if her eyes do screw shut for a brief moment. She can’t lift her hands to cover her face, because if she lifts her hands, then Elena will fall from her lap, limp on the damp earth, and then she will be unable to deny the truth any longer.
“Please, leave me alone.” It’s all she can think to ask, now that it’s too late for anything else and the only person that she can think of to look to for comfort is lying cold in her arms.
Freya’s footfalls fade as she disappears into the tree line, leaving Rebekah and Elena alone.
It feels like hours pass, and time is frozen, not even the hint of a breeze to rustle the branches or stir the browning leaves at her feet. Elena is cold in her arms, still.
Rebekah wonders if she is losing her mind when she thinks she feels Elena’s chest moving against her cheek. She barely dares to loosen her hold to look up at her face, but when she does she is certain that she is going mad, because her hands can feel the chill of death in Elena’s skin, but there is Elena’s face, blinking down at her confusedly, as if they had only woken from a midday nap. Rebekah has the idle thought that the knife wound at Elena’s neck looks as if it has disappeared, only the staining red of the blood not tasted marking the delicate skin, but her attention is quickly drawn back to Elena’s face when her friend speaks.
“Bekah?” Her voice is soft, delicate, like a soft chime or water skipping over rocks in the creek. “Were you crying? Is something the matter, my love?”
Rebekah is certain now that she is dreaming, because it is only in her most secret dreams that Elena addresses her with that endearment. “You were dead,” she tells Elena, wondering why her throat is still so sore if this really is a dream.
“How strange.” Elena speaks stiltedly, something in her eyes shifted from the way she focused even just hours ago. “I don’t feel dead,” she explains, “I feel as if I could run and jump and dance with you forever. Won’t you dance with me, my love?”
Elena is right: it is strange. If it is a dream, there is no harm in indulging a dead girl, so Rebekah nods, and they both rise to their feet, and Elena begins twirling her around so that blonde and brown hair flies in the air, swaying with their stained skirts that swirl with their movements. Elena hums a lively tune, then another, and another, and as she finishes the third they collapse breathlessly to the ground, both panting for air and grinning despite themselves.
“Are you sure you feel alright?” Rebekah asks, because even in a dream she needs to know.
Elena nods, then hesitates, her head tilting to the side as she considers the question. “Now that you mention it,” she begins, “I do feel awfully hungry.”
The look in her eyes then has some of that wild savagery that Rebekah saw on the night that they saved Henrik, and equal measures of dread and anticipation chase shivers down her spine. She holds her breath as Elena’s gaze flickers over her lips, and watches her friend’s tongue dart out, wetting her own lip with the movement.
Then, Elena leans in towards her, and both of them are panting soft and hot, lips tingling as they hover just inches apart. The kiss is strange too; Elena’s breath is hot on her skin, but her lips are chilled, despite the way her heart has been pounding as they danced, heating her cheeks. Still, she concedes to the feeling of Elena’s tongue snaking into her mouth, then pressing wet kisses to her jaw, and lapping at her chin, whispering incoherent praises as she makes her way, messily yet methodically, across Rebekah’s face.
“Delicious,” Elena hums, once Rebekah’s face is clean of blood and tears. “I am still so terribly hungry,” she whispers, her tone conspiratorial, and Rebekah has barely a second to react before Elena’s teeth are clamping down on her lower lip, sharper than she remembered them being.
Elena pulls away just slightly, and Rebekah catches a glimpse of red smeared across Elena’s lips. It is Rebekah that pulls the other girl back towards her, tasting her own blood on her tongue while Elena sucks at her broken lip; the flavour is sinfully sweet and has her gasping against Elena, both of them letting their hands roam across the other, pulling them ever closer together.
When she pauses for long enough to take in Elena’s appearance again, she finds that her face is slightly different. Where pretty brown eyes should be, there is glossy black ringed with red; where smooth, unblemished skin should be, there run dark, raised veins of grey and black, rippling under her eyelids. Where a sweet smile should be, there are stained red lips, pulled back to reveal the fangs of a beast.
Somehow, Rebekah cannot find it within herself to be scared. Even when Elena takes in Rebekah’s assessment of her, that fierce fire is still in her eyes, and Rebekah thinks that she wouldn’t mind losing herself in those flames.
Elena leans in again, her kisses migrating from lips to cheeks to jaw, and then, ever so gently, Rebekah feels the sharp sting of the skin between her neck and shoulder being sliced. The pain only lasts for a moment, and she thinks a moan even slips from her lips, euphoria lapping at her mind just as surely as black laps at the edges of her vision.
“Thank you, Rebekah,” she hears, and she is grateful that it is Elena’s voice and arms and lips that hold her as the world fades into blackness. Her heart stutters, and now it is she who rests, lifeless, in Elena’s arms.
Rebekah wakes, and for a moment she thinks that everything was just an awful nightmare; that Elena had a nosebleed and the thought of it stuck in her head and twisted her dreams, and now she awakes and Elena’s arms are warm around her, between the furs that form her bed. The illusion is shattered the moment she opens her eyes.
Dahlia and Ayana sit, slumped, against the opposite wall, their eyes glassy and unseeing, and their necks savaged and red. Red is all around, in every part of Elena’s small home, pooled on the ground and smeared on the walls and the wooden stool beside the bed, and when she glances down, she finds it dried on her own skin, although it seems that someone has tried to clean it away.
The soft sound of sniffling meets her ear, and she turns to find Elena behind her, face red with blood and eyes full of tears as she clings to Rebekah. Her face is shocked, then relieved, and Rebekah can’t help but smile back when a grin plasters itself across her face.
“Elena?” she asks. “Is something the matter?”
“You were dead,” she hears Elena say, and she frowns in response. She does recall fading into darkness, but she doesn’t feel dead.
“Oh.”
“How do you feel?” asks Elena, when the silence hangs between them for a long moment.
Rebekah’s eyes flicker over Elena’s face, the blood staining her lips making them all the more enticing. As soon as the thought hits her, her mouth begins to water.
“I’m terribly hungry,” she admits.
Elena’s lips taste like the promise of eternity, drenched in blood.
☲ ☴ ☵ ☷ ☰