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vikingwitchling · 5 years

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What’s Yours Is Mine

"Natalie! Are you up yet?"

The shrill voice from downstairs made me jump in surprise, and I quickly threw a look into the floor-length mirror in the bedroom. Natalie's soul was reflected there, but only for me to see. She would fade in a few days if everything went according to plan, and her body would be mine and mine alone.

"Who is that?" I hissed at her, already confused by the sudden transition from spirit to matter. Natalie scowled at me from her prison and made a show of locking her lips and throwing away the key. Why did she have to be so damn stubborn? Didn't she realize the battle was already lost? That I had won unless she was willing to kill herself in the process?

"Fine. Have it your way. It won't make the slightest difference." I moved over to the door and opened it, peering out into the hallway inquisitively. "Did anyone say something?"

Shuffling of feet could be heard from downstairs and a few seconds later an elderly woman appeared on the stairs, not quite at the top, but peering back at me through the bars of the bannister.

"I was checking to see if you were up, dear," the old woman said, a knowing smile making her thin lips twitch. "Or if you had conveniently forgotten to set your alarm clock again." By her tone of voice, this was something Natalie did quite often.

I shook my head and forced a polite smile, though it may have come off as more of a grimace. "No, I'm up."

The old woman winked at me, a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "Atta girl. Now go get dressed, and I'll drive you to work."

Work? I wished I had been able to do some more research on my current vessel before encountering the people in her life. This could get tricky.

The old woman noticed my hesitation, and for a moment I feared she knew something was wrong. Luckily it seemed she wrote my disorientation off as sleepiness. "Your car's still in the shop, remember? So you asked me to take you and being the best grandmother in the world, I told you I would," she teased, and I instantly felt I could breathe a little easier.

Grandmother. Natalie's grandmother. Got it.

"Oh, right. Yeah, I'll be right down," I said and stepped back into the bedroom, closing the door and quickly shedding the pyjamas I had woken up in. Natalie was still playing Miss Judgemental from the opposite side of the mirror.

"You'll never get away with this," she growled as I approached the closet to inspect the clothes at my disposal. "Grams will know you're not me."

I chose a pair of tight-fitted jeans and a pretty little halterneck top from the selection Natalie's wardrobe had to offer and began the process of pulling them on, relishing every single sensation caused by the fabric caressing my skin.

"I doubt that," I replied, unconcerned. "Though if she were to find out, it'd still be too late for you. The only way to eject me from your body would be to kill it."

A self-satisfied smirk painted my lips as I executed the last finishing touches on my outfit, stepping into a pair of high heeled boots before turning to face the mirror. Natalie looked worried. She should be.

"Oh, don't pout," I said, feigning sympathy and reaching out to the gently touch the cold surface of the mirror. "And stop worrying. I will take great care of your body."

Running a brush through the silken hair upon my head, I gazed intently into the mirror, seeing beyond the apparition of Natalie's soul and at my actual reflection. The body I had 'chosen' was small and petite, in good shape, though perhaps with smaller tits than I would have liked. Still, she would have to do.

"Why are you doing this?" Natalie's voice pulled me from my moment of self-admiration and made me focus on her once more.

"I needed a body. Yours was the first and best I came across," I explained, though Natalie seemed to want for more details. I considered the risk of telling her about myself and came to the conclusion there was hardly any. She would die soon anyway. My secrets would be taken to her grave.

"I was made by an alchemist named Kieran a few centuries ago. Using his own blood and magic, Kieran can create life. Or an essence of life, rather. That's what I am. He kept me locked up in a magical vessel, a special bottle made to contain me and keep me from escaping. He would put me into bodies every now and then when he wanted the company of the perfect woman. But I never got to keep them. I'm more powerful than he likes when inhabiting humans. Because I was made from Kieran's blood, I also have his abilities. Magical powers of sorts. Anyway, centuries in captivity became dreadfully tedious, so when my bottle broke by mistake, I fled. And voila!" I brought my hands to my hips, posing in a saucy manner as I watched Natalie's reaction to my tale. "Here I am."

She didn't seem as outraged by my story as I would have expected of a mere mortal. I would have thought she'd call me a liar, or crazy, like humans always do when confronted by something they don't understand. But she didn't. Perhaps the fact she was clearly possessed had freed her of her doubts concerning the supernatural world? Or perhaps she had always believed? Perhaps there was more to her than I immediately realised.

"Natalie! I'm leaving NOW! Get your butt down here." Grams sounded annoyed and deciding it would be unwise to anger the old lady on my first day here, I grabbed what I assumed to be Natalie's usual purse and threw it over my shoulder, bounding down the stairs, almost colliding with a teenage girl still dressed in her nightie.

"I'll take the bus, Grams. I need to check on a few things in the Book Of Shadows first," she said, waving goodbye to her grandmother who was standing by the front door, ignoring me completely, and disappeared down the hallway.

"It leaves in thirty minutes, Jane! Don't be late! And put the book back in the altar room once you've finished with it," Grams hollered back before beckoning me down the remainder of the stairs.

As I followed her outside, I couldn't conceal the growing devilish smile that spread on my face as the realisation hit me. I hadn't just landed myself a human body. Natalie, like her grandmother and the young girl who I assumed to be her little sister, was a witch. ---

"Natalie, seatbelt," Grams commanded me as soon as we'd settled in her tiny old car. I reached over my shoulder and tugged on the strap to buckle up, somewhat distracted by the newly revealed information that the body I had chosen to possess was a witch. It was great news, of course. A witch's power mixed with my own would easily make me more powerful than the alchemist hunting me, and might even be enough to destroy him once and for all. Now I just had to figure out which particular power Natalie had been granted. Hopefully, it wouldn't take too long.

As Grams pulled out of the driveway and onto the street (and backing over the trashcans in the process), I reached into the purse I had brought with me and retrieved Natalie's wallet. To my delight, it contained her drivers' license and credit card, gifting me with the opportunity to learn more about her. I tuned out Grams' mutterings about hospital bills and grocery shopping, uttering soft noises of agreement to maintain the illusion I was listening whilst secretly eyeing the details on Natalie's license.

Cute picture. Natalie Benson. Born October 26th 1988. That made her twenty-five years old. Why would a woman that age still be living at home with her grandmother? And did she have parents? I supposed these were topics I had to explore further if I wanted to successfully impersonate the witch until I was strong enough to go off on my own.

"Natalie? Are you listening to me?" Grams shrill voice accompanied by a sharp left turn of the car pulled me from my reverie and nearly made me lose the card clutched in my hand. I yelped in surprise and held onto the seat belt wrapped over my torso upon discovering the old woman drove like an animal. With all the near accidents having occurred merely from the time I had started paying attention, I figured it would be a miracle if we made it to our destination in one piece.

"Slow down, you old bat! I'm getting carsick." It was a sensation I had never experienced before and one I realized I didn't particularly enjoy as nausea writhed inside me like a serpent.

"Oh, pish posh. You don't get carsick," Grams laughed, apparently unconcerned I might expel my breakfast onto my shoes. "Now, did you hear what I said about Jane?"

Jane? Who the hell was Jane? Oh, that's right. The little sister.

"No," I groaned, keeping my answer short, afraid to leave my mouth open for too long.

"I said that she has a Parent and Teacher meeting tonight, and I'm not really feeling well enough to attend. Can you go in my place?" Grams said, finally slowing the car down and pulling up outside a promenade of shops. Even though we had stopped, I still clutched my seatbelt, half-turning in my seat to look at the old woman.

"Um...I guess?" I murmured hesitantly, not quite sure what such a meeting entailed. I would figure that out later.

"Great," Grams beamed and leaned over suddenly, puckering her wrinkled mouth and placed an unpleasantly wet kiss on my cheek. "Now have a wonderful day at work, dear. I'll see you later tonight."

I climbed out of the car and flung my purse over my shoulder, looking from the vehicle I had just exited to the row of shops before with bewilderment. Where did Natalie work? I couldn't ask Grams. It would seem too suspicious. And anyway, before I could turn to look at her again she had revved the engine and taken a sharp u-turn, speeding down the street we had come, in the wrong lane, blissfully unaware of the chaos she was leaving in her wake.

Digging through my purse, I withdrew a tiny make-up mirror and held it up before my face, Natalie's soul reflecting off the surface. "Where do you work?" I asked her in a whisper, receiving a few awkward glances from the people passing us by.

Natalie assumed an expression of haughty stubbornness and her lips twitched in a smug smile. "You figure it out."

Gritting my teeth, I shoved the mirror back into the bag and slowly ventured down the sidewalk, peering curiously into each and every shop I passed. The butcher's shop. Not bloody likely. Baby Paradise – Everything An Infant Would Ever Need. It was a possibility. Natalie definitely seemed like the type to like babies. I considered stepping inside to examine further when a loud knocking-sound had me distracted and made me turn to look across the street where a thirty-something male in a baker's uniform was waving at me.

After a moment's hesitation, I crossed the street and headed for the shop advertised as Little Miss Cupcake. Pushing the door open and stepping inside, I felt momentarily blinded by the amount of pink furniture and decorations that met me and felt the need to shield my eyes from all the...cuteness.

"Nat, we have a major problem."

I peered out from behind my fingers to meet the concerned gaze of the male who had waved me over. He was taller than me, wider too, with long hair tied back and kept tidy by a hairnet and dark eyes that seemed a tad crazy and bulging. On his white-clad chest, he had pinned a nametag that read: Larry. Once the shock of the pink subsided, I lowered my hands and took a good look around, absorbing the entirety of the cupcake shop. It looked like every five-year-old girl's fantasy tea party.

"What's the problem, Larry?" I murmured absentmindedly only to have Larry usher me behind the counter to face a great, big coffee machine.

"I can't get it to work. It won't turn on. I don't know what happened, it was working fine last night," Larry explained, his eyes bulging again. I wondered if they would ever pop out of their sockets.

I looked at the coffee maker, unsure what I was expected to do to fix it. "The nine o'clock rush is about to come in. The business people. If they don't get their coffee..." Larry continued in a trembling voice.

"I'll take care of it. I said, without the confidence I would be able to do so, gesturing for Larry to return to the kitchen where I assumed he did most of his work. Once alone I took it upon myself to examine the machine closer, making sure it was plugged in, pressing every button I could come across and smacking it for good measure. But the machine was unresponsive. I felt it was time to put my witchy body to the test. Placing my bag on the counter behind me, I put both hands on the coffee machine and hesitantly attempted to create a spell.

"I call upon the Ancient Power, to help me in this darkest hour. The angry patrons need caffeine, so go to work now, Coffee Machine."

As soon as the words slipped from my tongue, the machine roared into life and started grinding beans and expelling stream after stream of piping hot coffee. I squeaked in surprise and hurried to capture the beverage in the styrofoam cups stacked on the bench beside me, grudgingly realizing the spell worked a little too well.

---

The day progressed painfully slow and by the time Larry reminded me it was time to close up, I was on the verge of having a tantrum. Eight hours had been spent servicing grumpy and unreasonable customers, engaging in several physical fights with the cash register, burning my fingers on the milk steamer and dropping twelve cupcakes to the floor, which I was informed would come out of my pay. How the hell did Natalie do this every day without losing her mind?

"You still sulking about those cupcakes?" Larry chuckled as he emerged from the kitchen to help me tidy up. I replied with a groan. "Don't sweat it, Nat. I'm sure you can convince Mrs Benson not to lower your wages. You were just having a bad day, is all."

I looked up while in the midst of counting today's profits, staring at Larry in confusion. "Mrs Benson?"

The baker turned to look at me over his shoulder, briefly pausing mopping the floor. "Yeah. Mrs Benson. The owner. Your grandmother!" he laughed, shaking his head. "I swear, you've been acting like a freak all day, Nat."

I forced a smile, surprised for the umpteenth time today to find out some new and important detail about Natalie's life. "Right, of course...Grams... " I muttered to myself, slowly getting back to counting the money in the till again.

Once we finally finished up, Larry offered to give me a ride home, and since I knew of no other way to get there, I accepted. The floor of his car was littered with empty junk food containers and bottles, making it a great challenge just to find a clean spot to sit.

I burst from the unpleasant vehicle as soon as Larry pulled up outside Natalie's house, eager to get out and quickly dismissed Larry with a wave of my hand.

The sun had descended from its place in the sky and had vanished behind the horizon, a beautiful orange glow the only proof it had visited us today at all. Darkness fell, and though I had never feared the dark before, a twinge of trepidation that Kieran was lurking in the shadows urged me to hurry inside.

Against my better judgement, I came to an abrupt halt before the front door as I noticed it was already open, the material of the doorframe frayed and broken as though someone had forced their way in. With one hand upon the door, I cautiously made my way inside, careful not to make a sound, my senses on high alert. The hallway seemed to be in a pristine state, just as it had when I had left this morning, and yet I had a horrible feeling something was wrong nonetheless. Or perhaps it was Natalie's feelings shining through?

"Grams?" I called up to the second floor as I reached the stairs, slowly putting my bag down in order to move about easier.

"Natalie! Look out!" someone shouted to my right, and I whirled around in time to see the sharp end of a dagger quickly approaching me through the air. I yelped and ducked, slipping to the floor as the lethal weapon soared through the spot where I had just been standing, the bannister of the stairs being its new target. I followed it with my gaze before turning to look ahead again, catching sight of Grams held hostage in the arms of an unusually muscular man.

He was smiling like a shark readying itself to chomp on its prey, and even from a distance, I could see that each and every one of his teeth was encrusted with gold. Other than that he looked human, but I could sense he wasn't. There was something lacking in him, that ability to feel and empathize that all humans possess deep, deep down. He was a demon.

"Natalie..." Grams croaked, her bony fingers attempting to peel the demon's arms away. "Natalie, use your powers! Help me!"

Propped up on one elbow, I stared back at the old woman, dumbfounded. I couldn't help. I didn't know what power Natalie possessed, and I couldn't use my own power as it would expose me and alert Grams that I was not her granddaughter.

"Throw the dagger!" she shrieked as the demon began to drag her towards me, his eyes set on the dagger he had thrown at me just moments earlier. I turned to reach for it, but it was too far away, and at that moment I wished the dagger would simply soar through the air and stab the demon on my command. Then it did. I blinked in surprise as I turned to face the demon again, and saw that the knife had driven itself into the demon's skull, draining the life out of him until eventually causing his body to explode in a cloud of ash.

Grams brushed the demon-residue off her clothes as casually as though she had just spilt breadcrumbs and hobbled to my side, her face a mixture of concern and annoyance. "Are you okay, dear? Why didn't you kill him sooner? I mean, what's the point of being telekinetic if you're just gonna lie down and let an old lady do all the work!?"

She brushed past me, muttering under her breath and left me where I sat, astonished and as always recently, a tad confused. Telekinesis? That was Natalie's power? It was better than I could have ever dreamed of. If I learned to control it, it would easily give me the upper hand in a fight with Kieran.

Pushing back to my feet, I set my sights on the dagger that lay atop the pile of demon ash, extending my arm and experimentally beckoning for the weapon to come to me. Instantly, it did. It landed safely in my palm and I clutched it tightly, lifting it up to my face to examine it closely. It was quite small and dull-looking, except for a few strange markings on the blade itself.

Grams returned a moment later with the vacuum cleaner, and as she prepared to clean up the demon mess, I took a few steps towards her.

"Grams? What kind of demon was that? And what do these markings mean?" I showed her the knife, which she glared at disapprovingly before plugging the vacuum cleaner into a socket.

"I don't know what kind of demon he was, but that dagger...it's dangerous." I arched a brow, thinking this was quite self-explanatory, and she turned to address me again, her voice grave. "It's used to steal another witch's powers once she dies." ---

The flawless steel of the athame caught the light up above, reflecting it in its shiny surface and creating little flecks of luminosity to dance across my face. The blade held so much power it made my hand tremble as my fingers closed about it, for a brief moment allowing me to hear the cries and feel the despair of the witches who had met their demise by this particular weapon, drawn out their magical powers to be absorbed by the one who wielded the athame. What a marvellous creation.

I longed to use it, to grant myself more powers and talents than I already possessed, enough to sever my link from the alchemist that gave me life once and for all. But in this day and age, witches are hard to come by. Their numbers have dwindled at a rapid speed due to humanity's prejudice and their own carelessness.

Still, who was to say this blade wouldn't come to be useful to me in the future. Definitely worth holding onto.

"You need to destroy that!" Natalie's soul hissed from its mirror-prison, her abrupt appearance taking me by surprise.

Narrowing my eyes in her direction, my lip curled up in a distasteful grimace, as though the residue of the girl's spirit was something disgusting that had stuck to the sole of my shoe. "Aren't you dead yet?" I sighed, lazily pointing the blade in her direction. "You're being very rude. Outstaying your welcome."

Natalie scowled, a perfect reflection of my own expression. "The knife. You have to destroy it. Don't you know the power it holds? How much damage it can do?"

I pursed my lips and pretended to consider her words, swinging my legs off the bed to stand. "I do, as a matter of fact. Grams told me." Twirling the blade between skilful fingers, I approached the floor-length mirror slowly, carefully examining the spirit shown before me to assess her health. She was looking weaker than she had just a few hours ago. Good. I couldn't wait to have this body all to myself.

"She's not your grandmother!" Natalie's reflection screamed, tears of fury welling up in her eyes. "Stay away from her! Stay away from my sister! And get the hell out of my body!"

Natalie's anger took me by surprise. I hadn't expected her to be able to show such a powerful display of emotion at this point. It was disappointing. I needed her to lose hope so that she would finally fade away.

Allowing a moment of heavy silence to linger between us, I eventually assumed a carefree expression and lifted my shoulders in a slight shrug. "As you wish."

Hurriedly raising the athame into the air and angling the sharp blade down towards myself, I drove it downward with the intention of letting it pierce my heart, the very tip of it connecting with my flesh just as Natalie shrieked in horror: "NO!"

I halted abruptly, and shot a sinful smile towards the mirror, slowly lowering my knife-wielding hand to my side before turning to put it away in Natalie's underwear drawer. "That's what I thought. Now, be a good girl and die already, won't you?"

Natalie's ability to breathe seemed restricted all of a sudden, but I wasn't sure if it was caused by her own fear or if it was indeed her soul dying. "Please, just...talk to Grams about this. She'll find a way to get you out of my body without either of us being harmed. And then we can help you vanquish this alchemist you're so scared of," she whispered, inducing a roll of my eyes as I began to strip out of the clothes I had worn all today.

"And give up that kickass power you possess? I think not. It matches my own quite nicely." I murmured, rummaging through the wardrobe to find something appropriate to wear, eventually withdrawing two cocktail dresses still on their hangers, holding them up in front of the mirror. "Now, which one should I wear at your sister's Parent-Teacher gathering?" ---

The clock struck ten just as I returned from the parent-teacher conference, where I had done a brilliant job not falling asleep despite the fact the people at this school was boring as balls. I couldn't care less about what kind of food they served in the cafeteria, or the fundraisers arranged to collect money for class trips. The coffee was pretty good, however. Had to give them credit for that.

My first day in human form had left me exhausted and I was looking forward to locking myself in Natalie's room for privacy, free of pretence and the annoying presence of Grams and Natalie's brat little sister. I had not heard from Natalie herself in several hours and delighted in this fact. I still saw her in every shiny surface able to capture my reflection, but she had been quiet, forever growing weaker.

It was no different when I reached the bedroom and undressed in front of the mirror, relishing in my vessel's admirable attributes; smooth and taut skin with a healthy sunkissed glow; firm and full breasts that bounced whenever I moved; a narrow and dainty waist accompanied by a flat stomach; a pert backside and long slender legs. I had never felt more beautiful. I guess that's not strange as I've spent the last few centuries as a ball of energy trapped in a bottle, but you know what I mean.

Running a comb through my long mahogany-coloured hair, I soon climbed into Natalie's bed and slipped under the covers, the sensation of my naked skin resting amongst fresh linens so comfortable I fell asleep at once.

It didn't take long before a dream took form within my mind, placing me in front of an open elevator in a building I did not recognize. I didn't know why, but it felt important I stepped into the elevator, and so I did. The doors slid closed behind me and I pressed the button labelled "3" on the panel before me, leaning back against the mirrored wall as the metal box jerked into motion.

Kieran appeared out of nowhere, tall and handsome and composed, as always. He came up behind me, his arms embracing my new form and pulling my back to his chest, his nose dipping to the side of my head where he inhaled my scent.

"Is this my Luna?" he whispered, our eyes meeting in the mirror. "Have I found my naughty sprite?"

I felt afraid, and my body showed it clearly. It was cold, and my skin was instantly attacked by tremors and shivers, and what appeared to be something heavy and painful had taken occupancy of the pit of my stomach.

It's just a dream, I thought. Just a dream. Nothing can harm me here. Not even Kieran. Wish him away. Will myself to wake up.

I closed my eyes and wished with all my might, but nothing happened. "Wake up..." I murmured under a shallow breath. "Wake up now. It's just a dream."

Kieran laughed, his body shaking against mine. "Ah yes, but whose dream is, Luna? Yours or mine?"

I opened my eyes to look at him, fear making it impossible to move. "Please don't take her from me, Kieran. Please. Let me have her," I pleaded feebly, the thought he would expel me from my current vessel and trap me back in a bottle too horrible to consider.

His arms loosened around me and he stepped away to take a proper look, his gaze trailing up my legs and hips, over my stomach and breast until it finally landed on my face again. "She's pretty. Just my taste," he grinned. "But then again, we share that taste do we not, Blood Of My Blood?"

In a flash of movement, he had closed the space between us again, his brawny hands cupping my face and tilting it upwards to meet his eyes. "You know I don't care for you in human form, Luna. It makes you too...unpredictable. Too strong and eager to defy me." The pad of Kieran's thumb caressed my lower lip, making me shiver further.

"My life has been no life," I breathed, eager to make him understand. "Trapped in a bottle on your shelf for years and years, Kieran...only to be taken out and made flesh when you desire a companion in bed. It's no life. I want to live as they do, the humans and animals and demons and vampires. I want to feel what they feel; excitement and fear and happiness, sorrow and even pain."

The smile spreading on Kieran's face was not one that soothed me. Just the opposite. He looked cruel now. Eager to punish. "You serve your purpose, Luna. It is what you were made for and I see now several flaws in you I will have to erase once I have you back."

"Flaws?" I laughed, trepidation temporarily replaced by incredulity at his statement. "You made me from yourself. All that I am, so are you. If I am flawed, it is because you are flawed."

Kieran's hands tightened on my face like a vice, making me cringe. Could one feel pain in dreams? I thought it would only be shallow discomfort. "I am allowed flaws. You are not," he said simply and twirled me around to embrace me from behind again, his lips at my ear. "Return to me of your own free will and I might show leniency. If you don't, I will cut you out of the body you now possess and take you by force. I will make you such a feeble spirit you will never be able to possess anything ever again. The choice is yours, Luna."

My eyes narrowed and I shook my head as much as his fingers would allow, puckered lips uttering a single word of defiance. "Never."

Kieran's expression mirrored my own just then and to my surprise the walls fell away around us, leaving us on a single platform high above the ground, the wind making it a tremendous challenge to stay upright. I inhaled sharply, fear spiking at the height on which we were stood and I clung to my maker like never before, knowing exactly what was to come. My struggles were nothing against Kieran's strength and one firm push was enough to rip me from his embrace and over the edge, my body falling quickly through the cold air and nearer and nearer the merciless ground below.

I hit the pavement with a scream and startled awake at the very same moment, suddenly back in Natalie's bed, forehead and chest covered in sweat, my heart beating like a rapid drum solo, and a single trickle of blood running from my left nostril and down to parted lips.

#my writing #writers on tumblr #writers of tumblr #unfinished #witch #alchemist #fantasy #original

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

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A letter to Katherine Pierce

Dearest Katherine,

I am writing this letter for you to read in the future. Perhaps you are wondering why anyone would do such a thing. The answer is simple: because I knew it would be necessary.

From the moment you first came to be, you have hated this world with a passion. You loathe the people who inhabit it, and if you had your way they would all be made to suffer like you have suffered by their hands. Century after century you have lived with the constant fear that He would find you and every time you have dared to appreciate the beauty of this planet, you grow more frightened still. I suspect this is because the more you care, the more you have to lose.

Though your trepidation is not without good cause, you have allowed it to overpower you. Every moment you deny yourself the love that once upon a time came as easily to you as breathing, all you do is ensure that He is winning. For what is life without love? What is life without the company of someone you hold dear? Is it life at all, or merely a meek substitute?

You go through the years with your head held high. With a confident smile on those painted lips. You have got everybody fooled and they admire and fear you for what they believe you to be. But I know that you are miserable. The smile never quite reaches your eyes and nobody notices because they dare not stare upon you for too long.

You have acquired all the riches a woman could wish for and though it helps you in your games of make-believe, they have never made you feel rich at all. You wear your pretty dresses like a suit of armour, keeping everyone at bay. Blood and wine taste like ashes in your mouth and the pleasures of the flesh that is so often offered up to you, can not compare with what you have tasted before. Even those lucky few you allow to catch a glimpse of the girl behind the mask knows they will never truly know you. Because it is not worth the risk of a broken heart, is it, Katherine? And by pretending you no longer have a heart at all, no harm may come to it.

People think you to be callous and manipulating, that you are evil incarnate, but I know this is not the whole story. For indeed, what woman amongst us could ever claim power and independence on her own without making others fear her? The men feel threatened and the women too frightened to accept your ambition. For that I admire you.

But please, Katherine, I beg of you...Do not forget me. Do not forget who you used to be. And most of all, do not ignore those you care for. Do not deny it, for I know with certainty that there are some who have captured your cold, dead heart.

Fight for them. Be kind to them. Put your fears aside. For like I said, no life is worth living if you are all alone.

Sincerely,

Katerina.

#katherine pierce #katerina petrova #tvd #fanfiction

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

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The Witch & The Teenager

Morgana was stood on the edge of a cliff. Her long, raven locks of hair being taken by the wind that passed by, sending the trail of her scent right in the direction of The Hunter.

She had been running and fighting for several days, and though Morgana was a powerful sorceress, even she had her limits. Her usual tall stature was slightly hunched over, and her prayers for a safe place to rest had not been answered. He was hot on her trail. In fact, Morgana could feel Him nearing with every beat of her heart. Should Morgana end up in The Hunter's clutches, it would be certain death.

He was unlike anyone she had ever faced before, and the young girl was now running scared. The Sorceress had two choices; She could remain where she was, cornered by The Hunter and embrace death as it came to claim her, or she could leap off of the cliff she had been standing on for the past few minutes. It would be a harsh fall, and it too would most certainly lead to Morgana's demise.

The choice was already clear. She would not give The Hunter the satisfaction of killing her himself. If Morgana were to die, it would be on her terms.

Just as the sound of hoofbeats approached, The Sorceress took the plunge, stepping out into thin air and falling fast towards the ground. One last prayer escaped Morgana's lips, and just as she expected to meet her fate, The Sorceress' body vanished.

"Mantéñase me seguro."

---

Aurelia's car came to a screeching halt after she pulled up in the driveway. Her mother's red Mercedes was already parked neatly outside of the garage, and Aurelia sighed with disappointment.

The Parental Unit was not supposed to be back from Ireland until Friday night, and Aurelia's future party plans had depended on this. As one of Essex's most popular girls, certain things were expected from her during summer holidays; Hosting legendary parties was one of them.

The teenage girl slipped out of her car, threw her leather book bag over her shoulder and started on the short walk to her house. When she reached for the front door, it was flung open, and Aurelia's barbie doll of a mother appeared with a huge grin on her plastic face.

"Aurelia, darling! Oh, how we have missed you," she exclaimed, pulling her daughter in for a hug. Before Aurelia could react, her face was buried in the bosom of her mother, all objections muffled by cashmere and soft flesh. Luckily, she was allowed to come up for air before she suffocated.

"Mum, what are you doing home? You were supposed to be gone for another week!"

Aurelia's mother completely ignored her daughter's complaints, and she tugged the teenager deeper into the large house that was the Voileta family's home. Every square inch of it had been decorated with some kind of expensive art, something Mr and Mrs Voileta claimed was necessary to achieve the right atmosphere.

“We have a gift for you, sweetheart," Mr Voileta chuckled, his arms wide open as his wife and Aurelia appeared in the living room. A Cuban cigar hung loosely from his full lips, and the sickening scent was already providing Aurelia with plenty of nausea. In an attempt to get this over with as quickly as possible, she settled down on one of the sofas, looking up at both of her parents expectantly. "Well? What did you get me?"

Ten minutes later, Aurelia was sitting cross-legged on the foot of her four-poster bed. On the duvet before her lay an exquisite crystal, one that had cost her parents hundreds of pounds. This was not something Aurelia would usually have appreciated, but from the moment her slender fingers had wrapped around the stone, she knew it was something special. It had filled her with a warmth so pleasant, Aurelia momentarily forgot about her every single worry. Her emerald eyes focused on the crystal with such intensity, that the world seemed to fall away around her. Little did Aurelia know, that it literally was.

---

Morgana gasped for breath, in what seemed like the first time in centuries. A surge of energy enveloping her, changing her, transforming her. The sensation was unlike anything The Sorceress had ever felt before. As Morgana's last memories of falling towards her death came rushing back to her, she screamed, raising both of her arms to shield her head. But the harsh pain never came. Morgana opened her eyes, emerald eyes wildly roaming her surroundings. Everything was strange and different. Not only was she no longer outside, Morgana had been transported to some unreal dimension.

She rose to her feet, and tentatively wandered over to the floor-length mirror attached to the wall, needing to make sure that she was alright. The sight that met Morgana at that very moment, was something she would never forget. She gazed into the shiny mirror, expecting to see a tall, elegant woman dressed in expensive clothes, but what she saw was nothing like it.

Morgana was staring right into the face of Aurelia Voileta.

#morgana #morgana pendragon #witch #fanfiction #unfinished #my writing #writers of tumblr #writers on tumblr

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

Text

Power Play

Freya woke with a violent gasp. It had been a nightmare. Just a nightmare, she thought, pressing a hand to her clammy chest, feeling her heart race. It had been so terrifying, and then...all gone at the moment of her awakening. She couldn't remember it. But she could still feel it, clinging to her.

Trembling, the witch slipped from her bed and crossed the floor, her white nightgown brushing against her bare feet. She poured herself a glass of water from the jug she had filled a few hours earlier, drinking tentatively, attempting to conjure the memories of her nightmare, but failed. Freya rarely experienced nightmares. Unless they were visions of the future to come.

The sound of her brother's voice passing outside her door caught her attention. He was not alone. Freya put her glass down and opened the door, peering outside to see what was going on. But the hallway was empty. They had just rounded the corner to Niklaus' study. Abandoning her bedroom, Freya followed, stopping just outside the open doorway to where Niklaus and his progeny, Marcel, were sitting. She kept to the shadows. Unseen. Unheard.

"Davina's informed me three witches have gone missing in the last two months," Marcel said.

"And?" Klaus raised an inquisitive eyebrow, his long fingers knitted together beneath his chin.

"And she's asking for help to find them. Apparently her usual locator spells ain't doin' it."

"What does she suppose I would do about it?"

"Not you," Marcel said, a wry smile twitching at the corners of his lips. "Your sister. She wants Freya."

Silence. Niklaus seemed to consider his friend's words. "Then why are you speaking with me? I'm not my sister's keeper."

"Really? 'Cause my experience tells me otherwise."

Another pause. A sneer making its way onto Niklaus's face. "Are you planning to shag her? To marry her? To steal her away?"

Freya didn't want to hear anymore. Her brother could be so crude. "That's enough, Niklaus," she said, stepping to through the open doorway and into the light. "Marcel, what can I do?"

Marcel rose from his chair, looking surprised by her presence. Niklaus didn't look surprised at all. Quite the contrary, he seemed to have known his older sister were there all along.

"Meet with Davina," Marcel said. "I'm sure she can give you the details better than I."

"Why didn't she come here herself?" Klaus asked in a casual tone, leaning back in his chair.

Marcel turned to look at him. "She ain't all that fond of you, Klaus. Any of you, really, after the stunt you pulled with her resurrection spell. But she's desperate." He turned his gaze back to Freya. "Will you come?"

Freya nodded. She didn't like the thought of witches going missing. Even if they were not her kin or responsibility. Hopefully, it would just turn out to be some misunderstanding. "I will. Tomorrow, at noon. Your place?"

Marcel nodded curtly, and Freya turned to leave again. She paused briefly in the doorway. "Oh, if I am to perform any kind of locator magic I will need a personal item from each of the missing. Tell your friend?"

---

The next day just before noon, Freya approached Marcel’s quarters as planned, her conversation with Niklaus earlier that morning still fresh in her mind.

“Why do you care about a few lost witches? They are nothing to you,” he had said whilst pouring her coffee.

Freya had to smile, a smile without humour. It was exactly the attitude she had come to expect from her younger brother. A thousand years of cruelty given and taken had made him a hard man, who rarely served anything but his own ambition and pleasure.

“I wish to help because it’s the right thing to do,” Freya told him, tearing a piece off her croissant and popped it in her mouth. She didn’t speak again until she had finished chewing. “What if it was Hope missing. Wouldn’t you want whatever help you could get to find her?”

“No,” Klaus said, his cold eyes narrowing. “I would find her myself. I wouldn’t fail.”

Such arrogance, yet Freya hoped she would never get to prove her brother wrong in this instance. She climbed the stairs to Marcel’s flat and knocked on the door, one hand clutching her bag of supplies that hung from her shoulder. Already before Marcel had opened the door, Freya could hear a cacophony of voices coming from inside. Clearly, this was not going to be a private session.

“Come in,” said Marcel once he swung the door open and stepped aside to allow her to enter. Freya did so with great caution, quickly growing uneasy under the dozen gazes that followed her every move from the moment she crossed the threshold. Most of them were women, ranging from the early forties to late eighties by the look of it. A few men remained in the background, looking sombre. Davina, their newly appointed leader, stood by the large windows, the beaming sunlight creating the illusion of a halo around her head.

“You came,” the young witch said, her dark eyes trailing over Freya’s form, from the top of her blonde head to the bottom of her boots.

“I said I would,” Freya replied, coming to a halt in the middle of the room, waiting for further instructions.

Davina didn’t smile, but her features softened a touch as she made for Marcel’s coffee table.“Three girls have gone missing,” she said. “Cecilia Monroe, Beatrice Jackson, and Elaine Cox. All young witches, all part of the Tremé Coven.”

Freya didn’t recognize the name of the said coven, but knew it had to be one of the nine covens of New Orleans that were now governed by Davina.

“Cecilia vanished last month while on her way home from band practice. Beatrice and Elaine both went missing this month, one week apart, also while leaving school-related activities.”

Freya put her bag down on the floor, frowning. The thought of children going missing made it all so much worse and explained why so many had shown up to see her work her magic. The distressed witches now surrounding her must be parents or grandparents. Maybe aunts and uncles.

“Have you talked to the police about this?” Freya asked. “They have the resources to help search, yes?”

A collective scoff rippled through the audience. “If Davina couldn’t find ‘em with her magic, no way the police is gonna manage,” one of the elderly women said, her grey eyes fixed on Freya with undeniable distrust. The others nodded and hummed in agreement.

Davina caught Freya’s arm, her voice lowered. “I’ve done all the spells and rituals I know that could help locate a missing person or object. And I’ve got the powers of the covens to help me, so I know it’s not a lack of strength. But none of them pans out. They don’t even give an indication. It’s as though I’m an ordinary human trying to make Harry Potter spells work.”

Freya didn’t understand that pop culture reference, but she could guess the meaning. Davina was not used to her spells going awry. She was a very powerful witch, especially taking her young age into consideration. However, power and knowledge were two very different things.

She turned her attention to the items laid out on the coffee table – a worn old teddy bear, a silver bracelet and a pink mobile phone. Each item had been put down with care, positioned in a neat line with a few inches space between them. Almost like something you’d find on an altar.

“Are these the girls’ belongings?” Freya asked Davina. It was an old woman who answered.

“Yes. That’s Cecilia’s bracelet, my granddaughter,” the old woman said. She had small, sharp eyes that despite her wrinkled face and hollow cheeks, flashed with life. Her long white hair was tied in a knot atop her head, giving her an extra inch of height. Her thin arms were covered in gold and silver bangles, most of them decorated by occult symbols or magical gemstones.

“I don’t much like your kin, girl,” she said, shuffling towards Freya. “But if you can find our girls, I’ll be forever in your debt. We all will.”

Freya was not looking for payment, or gratitude, really. But a small part of her enjoyed the thought of being welcomed into the warm embrace of a new coven. A group of peers who could understand her in ways her vampire siblings couldn’t.

“I will do what I can, ma’am,” Freya assured the old woman, managing a smile. “Can you tell me a little about Cecilia and the other girls? Are they friends? Do they attend the same school?” She picked up the bracelet from the table and held it in her hands, searching its energy for more information.

“Cecilia is a sophomore in high school. Bea and Elaine are still in middle school,” a new, younger woman piped up. “The girls don’t really interact much other than our monthly coven sabbaths. Sometimes we’re all together, but most of the time, especially on holidays – Samhain, Beltane, Yule…we split into three groups. The Maidens, that would be the children and teens, have their own celebrations separate from the Mothers and Crones. I think those are the only times these three girls spend time together.”

Several of the other men and women nodded their agreement to this theory.

“They wouldn’t have run off on their own,” someone called out. “They’re good girls.”

“We all know Bea was popular with the boys. Wouldn’t surprise me if she had run off with someone.”

“Watch your mouth!”

“How do we know Eva Sinclair ain’t behind all this. She’s done it before.”

Freya frowned but was otherwise unperturbed by the sudden chaos that erupted. Eva Sinclair was a former member of the Tremé Coven, who in a mad frenzy for power had kidnapped several young witches to leech of their magic. When captured, Eva had been sentenced to life in the Witch Asylum, a cottage in New Orleans were those who entered could never leave. Until Freya had broken the century-old spell upon awaking after her cursed slumber. These days, however, it was Freya’s younger sister, Rebekah, who inhabited Eva’s body. And Rebekah would not harm young children such as these three missing girls.

“Everyone be quiet!” Davina demanded, looking exasperated and a little out of her comfort zone. “Eva Sinclair is dead. Now, please…let Freya work.”

---

“I don’t understand,” Freya exclaimed as Niklaus handed her a drink later that evening. “My magic has never failed me before. Never! I must have cast at least eight spells, among them the one I used to find your daughter when she as protected by a hex only a hundred powerful witches could break.”

During her stay at Marcel’s earlier that afternoon, she had exhausted her collection of locator spells with absolutely no results, and this both irked and frightened her. Fixing her gaze on the lit fireplace in her brother’s parlour, Freya’s mind ascended to new levels of anger, something that earned her momentary loss of control and made the scotch in her hand boil. She gasped in pain and dropped the glass. Niklaus caught it before it could hit the floor and put it on the mantelpiece. He watched her with amusement written all over his smug features. Apparently, to him, it was funny to see his almighty sister fail.

“You approached those spells believing to find traces of magic,” he smirked, taking a sip of his own drink. “Because they are witches. But you forget, sister dear, that there are many other things in this world that can harm a witch. Since you last walked the earth, a new adversary has arrived.”

Freya frowned, unable to comprehend where Niklaus was leading her.

“Technology,” he whispered, draining what remained in his glass and left the room.

---

The abandoned power plant on Market Street appeared like a giant out of the fog as Freya's taxi neared. Created in the early twentieth century and closed down in the seventies, the plant now served as a meeting place for the youngest witches of the Treme Coven, and an occasional sleeping spot for the homeless of New Orleans. The building, despite its weathered looks, was still standing strong. Nevertheless, Freya felt uneasy about entering.

She got out of the car after paying the incredulous driver, and told him not to wait. He drove away, shaking his head.

The previous day's efforts had been disappointing, but after a good night's sleep and a big breakfast, Freya was once again ready to continue. She had chosen to come alone for the simple reason that having an audience had disrupted her focus. Perhaps that had been the reason for her failed spells. She liked to think so, that it was just a fluke, rather than a bigger problem concerning the state of her magic.

She entered the power plant through a rusty metal door, that refused to open wide or fully close. Despite the beaming sun outside, inside was showered in gloomy darkness. The large windows had been stained with what appeared to be paint. To keep curious onlookers from peering inside, maybe?

The floor was littered with machinery parts, leftover from the power plant’s active days, as well as cigarette butts and empty beer cans. Freya swept a thick layer of dust and grime off an old chair and sat down, observing her eerie surroundings. She couldn’t see the appeal of this place, especially not as a meeting place for a coven. Freya had always preferred locations in nature for her witchcraft-purposes. It kept her grounded and closer to the elements she would call upon to aid her. But these were different times, apparently. Witches were in hiding again, afraid to be mistaken for worshippers of the dark and evil.

Freya took a deep breath, closed her eyes and said: “Show me the memories of what happened here.”

She expected to be gifted with a short, cryptic vision. Something that would be annoyingly vague, yet containing a clue to unlock the next step in her search. So when she was met with the sound of thundering footsteps and girly laughter, Freya nearly fell off her chair in surprise.

As she opened her eyes, she saw three teenage girls burst through the door and into the room, wide smiles on their faces and clothes dripping wet from rain. Though they all looked perfectly lifelike, there was something about their colouring that helped Freya realize they were not really here. They were not ghosts either, but echoes.

The three girls dropped their bags and backpacks to the floor, shaking water out of their hair, chatting amongst themselves of how unlucky they had been to be caught in the sudden rainstorm. After a minute, they settled on the floor in a circle.

“Did you bring it?” The eldest girl asked one of the other two.

“Of course, Cece,” the girl in question replied, fishing a closed jar filled with water from her bag. She put it on the floor between them and unscrewed the lid. “I hope we can still do it. I mean, I’ve been practising, but it’s not easy with mom looking over my shoulder at all times. She even makes me journal every time I use magic. She says it’ll help me become responsible and take my powers seriously. So I won’t misuse them. Like she thinks I’m going to use my magic to go shoplifting or something.”

The other two giggled.

“I know, Bea” the girl named Cece said. “Their rules are getting out of hand. How do they expect us to learn if we’re not allowed to do spells without their supervision?”

“Well, that’s why we’re here,” the third girl chimed in, nodding her head at the jar. “Shall we?”

The three girls joined hands and set their sights on the jar, slowly chanting the same Latin command over and over until, finally, the water ignited and turned to flames. They squealed and cheered, breaking their link and holding out their hands towards the warming fire they had created.

This turned out to be the first of a handful of spells the girls would perform during their session. Freya watched in perfect silence as the three toyed and experimented with what little magic they had learned, floating pencils and feathers and changing each other’s eye colour.

Once they finished and started packing up, the chatter began again.

“So where did you tell your parents you were going?” Cece asked.

“My mom thinks I’m working on a science project with Elaine,” Bea said, winking at the third girl who turned out to be Elaine.

“Same,” said Elaine. “How about you, Cece?”

“Extra band practice,” Cece grinned mischievously. “They don’t even know I haven’t been in band for like six months.”

They laughed.

“You want to come with us back to my place, Cece?” Bea asked as she zipped up her bag. “We’re going to watch movies and eat marshmallows.”

“I’d love to, but I can’t,” Cece replied. “I have to make a diorama for history class tomorrow. Mr. Ainsley promised me extra credit if I did. And I need it, unless I want to tell the parental unit I’m close to failing. See you guys next week?”

The three girls left. Freya followed them to the door to observe further, but by then they were already gone.

Clearly, the missing girls knew each other a whole lot better than their parents realized. Was it not a coincidence then, that it was those three that had disappeared? Had they become more bold in their magical experimentation? Played with forces they could not handle? Had they summoned something dark?

At this point, it was impossible to tell. Freya decided to explore the power plant further before calling it a day. After all, if this place had been an accessory to a crime, there might still be clues lingering.

She crossed the room and started up some metal stairs leading to the second floor. They gave the illusion they were about to buckle at any moment, but they carried Freya all the way to the top where she was met by a closed door. She tried the handle and when it yielded to her advances, pushed the door open wide. Before her lay a small room equipped with broken-down computers and various other devices Freya knew nothing about. The control room?

As she stepped on through, something fell on her from above. It wasn’t all that heavy, yet it knocked Freya to the floor on her back. She had just registered that it was some kind of net before a thousand tiny fires were ignited along every inch of her skin, making her twitch violently, unable to control her movements, unable to summon enough focus for magic, unable to draw breath. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t. The pain was excruciating. All consuming. She was beyond saving, and her consciousness failed her shortly after.

---

When Freya next woke, her body ached as though she had been run over by a herd of wild horses. Her eyes screamed in protest once they opened and was met with a blinding light. Like standing in a snow-covered wasteland with the harsh light of the sun reflected everywhere you looked. Only this was not snow, nor sunlight. She was inside, laying on her back on a white tile floor. The lamps up above were merciless in their torment, and Freya forced herself to sit up simply to avert her eyes from their glare. On either side of her were the same white tiles, constructed to high walls, creating a decent sized cubicle with only one exit.

Three walls, one missing. Slowly, Freya got to her feet, trembling with every movement, her body occasionally twitching as though shocked. She stumbled towards the exit, growing more eager the closer she came, and just as she was about to step through, came crashing into a wall of glass, fuelled with electricity so strong it knocked her off her feet and back into the room. It was as though Thor himself had slammed her in the chest with his hammer. Groaning, tasting blood, Freya didn’t make a second attempt to break through the glass. She was trapped.

"Save your strength," a voice said, slightly muffled by the wall between her and the one talking. "You'll need it when they come for you. They do a lot of things that put that shock you got to shame until they figure out how your powers tick. And when they do... well, who knows if your life gets better once they do - no one from these cells ever returned. Go figure."

Freya dragged herself over to the wall, curiously examining each tile within her reach for signs of weakness. She found none.

"Who are they? What is this place?" she asked, her voice hoarse and with a slight tremor from the recent shock.

There was a burst of quiet laughter, a tired, worn sound.

"Well, they're human. Not witches, as far as I saw, and not vampires or whatever else... Maybe that's why we're here - because they're not, and we are the abominations on the face of their world."

A modern-day witch hunt? Freya briefly pondered this possibility, a bad taste rising in the back of her throat at the thought of puritans getting a second wind.

"Are there others here?" she asked, slumping against the wall in exhaustion. "Have you seen any children?"

If this was where Elaine, Cecilia and Beatrice had been taken, what were the chances they were still alive?

"Surely there are others here... somewhere. I don't know about children, I didn't see much - it's not like they take you on a tour. The only tour you get is to their torture chambers and back to your cell if you're still breathing when they're done with you for the day."

Freya swallowed thickly. The thought of those young girls being tortured was hard to bear. And she didn’t much care for the prospect of being tormented either. Of course, this only hardened her resolve to escape this place – alive and with the other prisoners in tow.

“What’s your name?” Freya asked eventually, eyeing the wall separating her from the male voice on the other side.

Before she could receive an answer, a figure approached her cell. It was man, tall and muscular, clad in a dark uniform. He looked at her for a brief moment before reaching for something by the cell door. The glass slid open with a soft hiss, and he stepped inside.

Freya had no intentions of allowing her visitor any further. She raised her hand, palm facing the man with the meaning to make his heart shrivel up and die within his chest. It was simple enough for a witch with her strength, and she had performed it many times before. But now, nothing happened.

A thrill of panic shot through her at this realization.

Freya had never utilized weapons before. She didn't have to, because she was the deadliest weapon of all. But now, her powers failing her, she wished for a sword, an axe, hell, even a penknife would do. Without any such advances, there was only one thing left to do. Freya got to her feet and as the uniformed man reached for her, lunged for him, driving her shoulder into his chest, catching him off guard and knocking him to the floor. Before she could escape through the open gate, however, another pair of arms wrapped around her from behind, pinning her hands to her sides like a straitjacket. She had been caught by someone much larger and much stronger than her. No matter how much she writhed and struggled, the muscular arms kept their vice-like hold on her body.

"We've got a feisty one," Freya's captor declared. "Best get the needle out."

The needle? What did he mean by that? What did they intend to do with a needle?

The man Freya had previously assaulted was back on his feet. He looked mildly annoyed with the current events but did not voice a complaint. Instead, he reached for a syringe tucked away in the pocket of his cargo pants. Nearing Freya, he uncapped the syringe and swiftly drove it into the side of her throat.

Freya groaned sharply, the sensation very unpleasant, bordering on painful. Almost at once, she felt her limbs become heavy with exhaustion. Her vision became blurred, her surroundings spinning as her eyelids drooped. She couldn't fight anymore. She couldn't do anything but watch in horror as a padded stretcher was wheeled into her cell, and she was lifted and placed upon it, strapped down like a mental patient. Her head lolled to the side, and as she was wheeled out into the hallway she was just able to catch a glimpse at the dark-haired man in the cell next to her before she succumbed to sleep.

---

“I told you not to use the sedatives unless it was an emergency.”

“She was fightin’ us pretty hard, ma’am. We—“

“You, two soldiers of the US army, failed to restrain a 120lb girl? Pathetic. Get out of my sight.”

Unfamiliar voices were what welcomed Freya as she regained consciousness. For the second time that day, she was met with a blinding light that left her unable to open her eyes fully. It wasn’t until the female voice that had spoken earlier, sounded in her ear that she realized someone was shining a flashlight in her face.

“Pupils slightly dilated, but they should return to normal once the sedatives are out of the subject’s system.”

Freya groaned in objection, feeling a strong urge to swat the torch out of her line of sight, only to find her hands were tightly fastened at her sides.

“Oh, good, you’re awake!” The female voice said. There was a click of a switch being flicked, and the bright light vanished.

Blinking furiously, Freya’s eyes finally adjusted. A pale redhead in her mid-forties was standing over her, smiling serenely as though she was greeting a loved one for a tea party. She wore a white coat upon which the name Marcia Caldwell, M.D. was embroidered just above her heart.

“I’m sure you’re scared and confused and wondering what is going on, but I assure you, as long as you co-operate, everything will be fine,” Dr Caldwell continued, brushing a stray lock of hair from Freya’s forehead.

Freya was indeed confused and a little frightened. She had a lot of questions that needed answering, but at the present moment she was unable to say much at all. Her mind was still foggy and unfocused from whatever substance had been injected into her veins earlier, and it was all she could do to remain awake and somewhat alert.

“Now you just relax while I take your vitals,” the doctor said, “And when you feel more awake we can have a chat.”

She lifted the stethoscope from around her neck and put it on, lowering the cleavage of Freya’s shirt to gain access to her chest. She listened intently for what seemed like almost a full minute before she finally withdrew.

“Heart rate is stable,” she muttered into a small device Freya recognized as a voice recorder. “No anomalies.”

The doctor shuffled about, and soon something was clamped down on Freya’s middle finger. It didn’t hurt, but it was unpleasant nonetheless. She tried to turn her head enough to see what Dr Caldwell was doing, but a strap wrapped tightly about her neck hindered her from moving too much.

After a few moments, the device was removed, and the doctor muttered into her recorder again.

“Pulse: 75. Lower than expected, considering…” she shot a look at Freya, seemed to think better of what she had intended to say and continued. “Oxygen levels: 98.”

She didn’t make a comment to explain whether those numbers were good or not. Freya, who had never been to a doctor before in her life, had no idea.

“Let’s take your blood pressure. You’re going to feel a tightening in your arm, but it will only last for a minute or so.”

Dr Caldwell wrapped a cuff about Freya’s upper arm. It was attached to a small pump she started squeezing as soon as she had pressed her stethoscope just above the crevice of Freya’s cuffed arm. The cuff filled with air and began to strain. Again, the procedure wasn’t painful, but it felt as though her arm was slowly losing circulation.

“BP 120/80. Excellent!” Dr Caldwell exclaimed after a while, looking down on Freya and positively beaming.

“Lastly, we’ll take some blood tests and then you can return to your room.”

Room? Cell was more like it. Prison of torment.

“What…What are you…going to do with it?” Freya managed to croak, unable to keep the concern out of her voice as the doctor disappeared across the room with three vials of her blood. She didn’t like this at all. Blood was power. Especially her blood. And she was reluctant to let it go.

“Oh, we’ll just analyze it. Make sure you’re healthy,” Dr Caldwell replied as she returned to Freya’s bed. “Of course, thanks to the two brutes who escorted you here, and their fondness for sedatives, we may have to redo the tests at a later time. It can compromise the results, you see. Personally, I don’t think they should be authorized to carry such strong medication, but the boss says otherwise.” She sighed heavily as if this was causing her an inordinate amount of trouble.

“Now, can you tell me your name, sweetheart?” she continued, a friendly smile Freya didn’t trust spreading on her face.

Freya didn’t reply. She simply stared back at the woman with increasing defiance.

“Don’t want to talk, huh? That’s okay,” the doctor said, making a note on a clipboard. “You’ll just be Subject 28 for now.”

Why 28, Freya wondered. Did that mean she was the 28th individual to have been captured? All the other cells she had seen were empty. Except for the one with the male witch. Had 26 witches before her, come here and died? It was a sickening thought.

As Freya was wheeled back to her cell, she made certain to keep her head turned, facing the row of empty cubicles until she caught another glimpse of her fellow prisoner. He was young, perhaps in his early twenties, and he was strikingly handsome. Though it seemed some of the mischief that may have once sparkled in his eyes was dulled. How many tests had he been through? What kind of tests? He had mentioned torture. Freya was certain she would find out for herself soon enough.

---

The guards dropped Freya on the cold floor of her cell, seemingly unconcerned when her head hit the hard surface. She winced and tried to sit up, determined to give her magic another try, but by the time she had managed to get herself in a somewhat upright position, the guards were gone. The man in the next cell appeared to have been sleeping when she passed. At least, he had been lying flat on his back with both arms tucked beneath his head. If this sedative-business is a daily routine here, Freya thought, then she could not blame him for resting despite the vulnerable position he was putting himself in. She could barely keep her eyes open herself.

“Hey. Are you awake?” Freya called softly when she was absolutely certain their cell block as empty. “What’s your name? And what has happened to my powers?”

A faint groan. "Now I am. Your powers are with you, just dormant. Sedated. When all you wanna do is sleep or die at last, magic can't do much. You need strength and emotions to make it work. Their shots take it away." There was a pause with a faint shuffle - he might be sitting up or changing position. "Name's Kai."

Freya reached for the side of her neck, fingertips searching for that sore spot of skin the needle had entered sometime earlier. It made sense, she supposed, that the substance that had knocked her out also dampened her powers. But to make them disappear completely? Even as her body recovered? It was worrying, especially if the effect was permanent.

“Kai...” Freya repeated softly. “I’m Freya.” She scooted along the floor until she neared that dreaded electrified window, careful not to make any contact yet attempting to peer down the corridor and around the corners.

“I was unconscious when they brought me in,” she said. “Do you know which direction the exit is located?”

"Direction wouldn't matter if we had our magic up and running. Or maybe you already have? That'd make you the first one lucky like that."

"I've got nothing," Freya admitted, moving back from the glass as a guard passed by. "But I don't plan on letting them subdue me another time."

He laughed. A rueful but hearty laugh. "Oh, honey, you wouldn't believe how many times I told myself the very same thing."

Freya’s heart sank. She wanted to tell him: “Well, I’m special”, but decided to put her arrogance away for now. Her magic had failed her for the first time ever, and this was no time for her usual self-assurance. “How long until you stopped trying?”

He gave a bitter chuckle. "Who said I did? I might as well lie down and die then, but oh wait, no, they won't let me die. Life's a bitch. Sometimes it makes you live."

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Freya muttered under her breath, having had her fair share of experience in that particular area. “How often do they come and take you to see Dr Caldwell?”

"Gee, I lost count," Kai said with a little bitter laugh. "And the funny part is, you can't tell time in here. So, who knows how often that happens? Then there's pain, heavy head, jumbled thoughts and no will to live, so there's absolutely no way to keep any systematic track of it." He went silent for a while, then added: "I guess it only stops when there's nothing else they can get out of you. If they find you don't work for them - you get a pass out of here. Probably in a box, 'cause," another laugh, "look around. No one else is here except for ghosts. Sometimes I think I'm one myself." A pause. "Maybe I am."

That was the last the two of them spoke for a very long time. How long exactly, Freya did not know. There were no windows or skylights to help her determine whether night had fallen or if the sun was still out, yet she found her own way of separating night from day. The stretches of time when the hallway outside her cell would be frequented by people in lab-coats and guards in pairs, that was daytime. It had to be. Night was quieter. She rarely saw anyone then, but she was certain there were guards close by. Just in case.

Freya’s determination to fight her captors dwindled away at the same time the hunger pains set in. She had experienced true starvation before while on the run from Dahlia, but at least then she had been free to move around. Not confined to the same square room of white tiles and bright lights that never went out. Those damn lights.

When a slot in the back wall finally opened, and a tray of food was pushed through, Freya could barely stop herself from pouncing. She already had the bowl of porridge cupped in her hands, when shuffling sounds from next door reminded her of Kai’s presence. He was eating, too. Greedily, judging from the sound. Freya couldn’t blame him. Who knew how long it had been since he last had a decent meal?

Still, the thought of him brought back the memory of his previous words.

“Sedatives. Their shots take your magic away.”

The warm, sweet porridge suddenly lost some of its appeal. What if the sedatives weren’t limited to injections? What it...?

In a flash of anger, Freya hurled the bowl at the glass pane keeping her prisoner. She immediately regretted it. The electric barrier did its job well. The scent of burned plastic quickly spread through the room, making her insides contract with nausea.

---

Someone was screaming. A scream that could chill anyone to the bone, giving the illusion invisible insects were crawling upon one’s skin. It was a terrible sound of agony, and desperation for relief. Freya did not realize until much later, that the cry produced was hers.

“So, you see, sir. The serum I have concocted – Serum 394 – is very effective. The subject was given her last dose yesterday, and it is still keeping her magic at bay. We have staged a number of various scenarios that will most often summon a witch’s need for self-defence: anger, sorrow, fear, and of course, as you’ve just witnessed, pain. The latter has proved most efficient. Through these tests, I have been able to modify the serum, strengthen it, so much so it could be days until its effects wear off.”

Freya was only able to identify Dr Caldwell by her flaming red hair. She floated in and out of Freya’s vision, along with a man in a suit she had never seen before. The room beyond them appeared only as a white wall, unable to capture her attention enough for details to emerge. She was back in the examination quarters, strapped to her gurney. Her entire body was shivering. A burning pain had taken hold of her left hand. Her head lolled to the side and after what seemed an eternity, Freya’s hazy vision settled on the source of her agony. She screamed once more. No one seemed to notice.

“I don’t pay you to suppress their magic!” The man in the suit was speaking now, angrily. “You are supposed to find a way to use their powers for our benefit, transfer it to our own agents.”

Freya’s hand was unrecognisable, pinned down by a thick leather strap away from her body, still attached to her arm by bone, sinew and muscle that were all visible through the deep wound. The skin that remained seemed to have bubbled like lava, angry and red and had now settled, cooled down in uneven rivulets. The pain continued to be excruciating, so badly she could barely register the people watching her like some sort of art project.

“And instead you’ve made yourself a little burrow, stolen close to three dozen US witches with the power we seek, and you waste them on stunts like this. Playing with acid and knives and needles.” Again it was the man speaking. “I don’t care what you do in your spare-time, Caldwell, but if this research of yours don’t yield results, you will be replaced.”

Freya tried to move her fingers, searching for the slightest of twitches. They remained still.

“Yes, sir,” Dr Caldwell’s voice replied, humble and frightened.

“I want to see what someone like her can do if forced,” the male continued slowly. His shadow fell onto Freya’s body as he moved closer. She ignored it. “Make her perform.”

Dr Caldwell hesitated. “But, sir, as I explained earlier...Serum 394 is still in this subject’s system. It would be impossible for her to practise magic right now.”

Freya’s eyes watered with tears as she continued to examine her deformed hand. To her audience, this may have appeared to be a reaction to the pain or the loss of a body part, and to a certain degree, it was. She didn’t like to consider herself a vain woman, but now, faced with the prospect of not being...whole...Freya found herself worrying.

And still, it was not these concerns that played the biggest part in her watery gaze, but rather a deep concentration that attempted to settle upon her hand. The doctor’s machines may not have been able to pick up on the subtle signs, but Freya knew better. No matter how deeply her magic was buried at the present moment, it was still there, and at the height of her agony some minutes ago, she had felt it stirring.

#freya mikaelson #niklaus mikaelson #marcel gerard #davina claire #kai parker #fanfiction #writing #my writing #writers of tumblr #the originals #unfinished

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

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❖ Harley Quinn ❖

--Two years ago--

I think I blacked out the moment our car hit water, cause everythin'' went very dark and all I could see were cartoon-birdies swrlin' around my head. When I came to, Mistah J was gone, and I was no longer in the car. Instead, I was bein' carried away by a tall, dark figure with muscles that could rival Popeye.

The Bat.

The game wasn't over. We were still playin'. But I'd been caught and needed to wait my turn for the next round to begin. It was just Batsy and Mistah J now. I let him carry me. Well, truth was I was still kinda outta it, the odd cartoon-birdie still appeared every now and then. But Batsy didn't need to know that.

"This has to stop. You and The Joker–" he said as he walked. "He doesn't love you, Harley. Never has. Never will. He left you behind to die to save his own neck."

Silly Bat. Always tryin' to appeal to my logical side. You'd think he'd have learned by now. I ain't got one. I laughed, coughin' up a bit of water for good measure. "If I had a dollar for every time someone told me that, I'd be Bruce Wayne."

--Now--

Propped up on one elbow, I watch my Puddin' sleep. Few people have ever had such a privilege. Mistah J rarely lets his guard down.

Want to know a secret? He's smilin'. Even in his sleep. My eyes linger on the rise and fall of his chest, the ink permanently etched there, and move slowly back up to his face. Gentle fingertips reach out to graze the scar startin' at the corner of his mouth, stretchin' all the way to the middle of his cheek. The most beautiful smile. His hand shoots out, capturin' my wrist in his grasp just as his eyes burst open. The madness I find there reflects my own, makin' me grin down at him. He grins back, his gaze softenin' with recognition as the lull of sleep leaves him. Mistah J pulls me to him, our mouths collidin' in a hungry kiss. Lips partin', tongues devourin', hands roamin'. He's got my heart flutterin' like the wings of a hummingbird and my ladyparts tinglin'.

Fingers curl in my hair, yankin' my head back and breakin' our kiss far too soon for my likin'. Exposin' my throat, he leans in and delivers a long lick to my sensitive skin, his lips travelin' up my neck, cheek and eventually findin' my ear. I'm breahin' hard, all kinds of excited when his teeth suddenly clamp down on my earlobe, hard, too hard.

"YEEAOOOOW!"

Howlin' in pain, I grab the back of my Puddin's head and pull him away. He's still smilin' and his teeth are covered in blood now. My blood. "What the fudge-pops, Puddin'? That hurt!"

Mistah J pulls me close again, layin' down on his back and pullin' me atop him, cradlin' my head to his chest. "So sorry, honey. Got carried away. You have that effect on me."

He strokes my hair with one hand, the other lightly collarin' my throat. I relax against him, the pain in my ear easily drowned by Mistah J's voice. It's been a long time since we last spent time like this. Two years and change. My stay at Belle Reve and reluctant induction to Task Force X -- The Suicide Squad -- kind of put a damper on our 'happy ever after'. The government has a tendency to do that to folks like us. But the moment Mistah J found out where they were keepin' me, he came to get me out. That was last night.

"There's something I've been wondering about, Harls, ever since I got you back in my arms," Mistah J murmurs lazily, continuin' to stroke my hair, makin' me purr like a content kitten. "You smelled of cheap cologne." His hand tightens around my throat and he flips us over until I am beneath him, slowly suffocatin' in his merciless grasp. His smile is still there, but his eyes...they're furious. "Why is that, Harls? Why do you smell of a man? Was it one of the misfits in your new little family, hm? Did you let them play with MY toy?"

I hesitate. Well, actually I'm close to losin' consciousness...but I do mull his question over. Did I screw any of my fellow 'bad guys'? Deadshot? I mean he's hella hot and super bossy. But nah. Even if I had wanted to have a go at that pony, I didn't exactly have the time or opportunity for it durin' what can only be described as the freakin' apocalypse. He did carry me off a car, though. Would that be enough to leave a mark? Who knows. It could be true. It could be just another of Mistah J's games. And I never turn down an opportunity to play with my Puddin'.

I reach for him, takin' hold at the back of his head again and pull him forward in one swift motion, makin' his nose collide with my forehead in a sickening crunch. He recoils, blood seepin' from his broken nose as he rolls off of me. Gaspin' for breath as his hands leave my throat, I sit up and cradle my head. The damn cartoon-birdies are back. Don't think I did this right.

Mistah J is laughin'. I guess it's kinda funny, so I laugh too. He lunges for me, but I dodge him, rollin' off the bed and coming to stand on the floor in one fluent motion. I used to be a gymnast, dontcha know? Coulda gone pro if I hadn't decided on studyin' psychology instead. Might not seem relevant in this situation, but a girl gotta brag where she can. Mistah J cackles and gets back on his feet, He's reachin' into the waistband of his pants...Kinky! Oh wait...Nah, it's only a straight razor. "Be a good girl and stand still when Daddy's trying to kill you, Pumpkin-Pie!"

"Nah, I'mma play hard to get," I tell him, swattin' my hand at the last bird before I am able to fully focus on my Puddin' again. He hurls the razor my way and I catch it, but not before it grazes the side of my face with its sharp edge, slicing a thin line from the corner of my mouth to my cheek. Damn, that stings! I lick at the blood, testin' the inside of my cheek with the tip of my tongue. It didn't slice all the way through.

Mistah J is laughing uproariously. He starts towards me with slow, determined steps, his arms outstretched. They look welcomin'. I want nothin' more than to be wrapped in his embrace again. It's where I belong. "Come give Daddy a big kiss, Harley." His eyes flash menacingly. He's deadly. He's dangerous. And as always, I throw myself headfirst into that danger. I can't resist. Never could.

I cross the floor and jump into his arms, wrappin' my legs around his waist and plant one on his lips. One arm circles me, keepin' me pressed against his chest while we kiss. The other...who cares?

The moment Mistah J opens his mouth to my advances, his tongue peeking out in search of my own, I clamp my teeth down on him, eyes open to witness the flash of agony that settles on his features. Like a dog, I don't let go until I taste his blood.

"Now that's what I call some tongue-action!" I grin, eyebrows raised in jest.

Mistah J blinks up at me, stunned silent for a moment until his characteristic laughter rolls up through his chest and erupts between bloodied lips. "You still make me laugh, Harley."

I feel the barrel of his gun press against the back of my neck. Judgin' by the way he lifts his chin a fraction, Mistah J feels my razor against his throat as well.

Stalemate. For now.

#harley quinn #the joker #suicide squad #batman #harleen quinzel #fanfiction #writing #my writing #writers of tumblr

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

Text

Envy

When the earth was still new, and very few living organisms inhabited its surface, I felt every death like an explosion. Amoebas perished and plants withered – all to make room for the next cycle of life. It was painful and excruciatingly beautiful at the same time. It was the natural state of things. God's plan. And so I didn't mind going where he needed me. I didn't mind harvesting the life that was coming to an end. It felt right. And it was peaceful. No one complained, or cried or begged, or even dared defy me. When Death smiles at you, all you can do is smile back.

When the humans came onto the field to play, everything got out of hand. It was chaos I don't think even God expected. They multiplied like insects, growing their race until the world was covered in them, claiming all lands and oceans as theirs – as if they had such a right.

God loved them, and most of them in return loved him. He was too gentle with them, had a blind spot for his favourites. But I found them to be obnoxious, and too unpredictable for my liking.

But it wasn't until they discovered magic that I unleashed my full wrath on them all. Whenever I came, they tried to escape. They cursed my name to no avail. I still reaped those whose time was up. But when God's name was taken in vain, and he had finally become sick of the disloyalty his children showed him, he released me from my cage to rid the world of them all. And I did.

My fury washed over the earth in the form of water, mercilessly killing all humans and animals...save a few stowed away on an arc. They were God's last hope for humanity. They were the pure ones, whose descendants would restore his faith in their species. They were not to be touched. There was some improvement after that. At least for the first few centuries when my wrath was still so easily remembered. I almost grew to like them.

Today, I have yet to make my mind up. They have evolved greatly since the first humanoid appeared. Physically, that is. They have a form which is pleasing to the eye, and I often like to wear one of my own. Their intelligence has heightened, but their instincts remain the same. They fight. They mate. They kill. All predators do. Animals kill for the right to reproduce, for dominion and territories and for food. Humans do too. But there is a distinct difference between the species. Humans don't need a motive to murder. If given the chance to kill anyone without repercussions, most would. For fun. For pleasure. Or just...because.

But this is not what makes them interesting to me. It is not the hatred that rages inside them, or their need to release dark urges. What I find fascinating is that creatures with the capability to do so much evil, also hold the power to love. They care for one another. They have sympathy, empathy – and they so often show it. I doubt they even realize themselves, but I can see. Small acts of kindness that they will never think anything of, completely changes another's life.

A man can be stood knocking on my door, screaming at me to come get him, until his friend takes him in his embrace and holds him, recharges him with love like an empty battery, and they will both step away from my threshold. The man will think of me often. But he will never approach me again.

Love. It is a powerful emotion. And I wish I could feel it for myself, to understand what it means.

But every day I stand outside, like a beggar in the cold darkness, looking in on a feast I will never be able to partake in. I guide souls from their earthly holsters to the realms beyond, where they will find peace, or perhaps be punished for their sins – and I try so hard to absorb their energy, just for a moment, just to feel...something. But the souls do not belong to me, and I never have enough time. I am not allowed to feel like they do. And I envy them.

#Death #Reaper #writing #my writing #writers on tumblr #writers of tumblr #unfinished

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

Text

Djinn

Monica Hamilton woke up in a soft bed dressed in the finest Egyptian cotton, the sunlight streaming in through large windows displaying a perfect view of the city below. The room was decorated with expensive, antique furniture; paintings made by some of the world's most famous artists adorned the walls; a large wardrobe filled with the most beautiful clothes was placed alongside the floor-length mirror. Monica could hardly believe her eyes. How did she get here? Where was she? Whose house was this?

Wary of her new surroundings, she pushed herself out of bed and padded across the floor, tentatively exploring the luxurious room. At the sound of the door opening, Monica leapt back in surprise, hazel eyes landing upon the woman who entered the room. "Miss Hamilton, you are awake. Do you wish me to bring you your breakfast, or will you be eating at the table today?" The woman who was dressed in a white blouse and a black pencil skirt, smiled pleasantly, genuinely, as if the two were old acquaintances.

Monica frowned, searching her mind for any clues of what could have happened. Last she remembered, she had been sitting on the sidewalk downtown, begging pedestrians for money so she could get her daily fix of heroin. Her hair had been filthy and tattered, as had her clothes, her face decorated with the experience of someone who had lived a harsh life.

She threw a glance at herself in the mirror, utterly surprised by the sight that met her. She was clean. Beautiful. And best of all; she did not crave narcotics any longer. It was as if she had been granted her biggest dream.

---

Slender, pale fingers dance across my prey's naked skin, trailing over blue veins full of the liquid I desire. The girl in my possession is petite, and though she can hardly be more than 20 years of age, her body appears to be exhausted. Thick chains adorn her limp arms, keeping her naked form suspended from the ceiling of my apartment. It has been a full week since I last fed, and desperation is what drove me to chose this particular victim. Homeless. Drug addict. No one will miss her. My fingertips are decorated with an eerie blue glow as I feel Monica stir, pressing them to her cheek and whispering soothingly in her ear. “Sleep, child. Dream.”

My poison takes a hold of her immediately, leaving her a limp ragdoll hanging from her restraints once more, filling her mind with pleasant dreams of how her life could have turned out had she never succumbed to the allure of drugs.

I withdraw a knife from my kitchen drawer, pressing the sharp steel down onto Monica's skin and dipping my head to capture the crimson essence that escapes her.

Normally, I will keep my prey alive for days, sometimes weeks. Feeding a little bit every day until they have nothing more to give. But today, my hunger is overpowering me, and I have no intentions of leaving a single drop of blood within her.

It takes five incisions and nearly an hour later before I realize something is wrong. Monica's blood is thick and luscious, yet it holds no nourishment for me. In fact, its effects are completely opposite, quickly draining me of my energy.

My grasp upon the knife loosens, the weapon clanking loudly as it falls to the tiled floor below, my own body quickly following, soon splayed face down upon the cold surface. Confused, I am unable to move any limb or feature, completely and utterly paralyzed as I feel venom coursing through my veins.

One last look upon my slumbering prey is all I can muster before I am pulled into the dark abyss of unconsciousness.

#writing #my writing #writers on tumblr #djinn #spn

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

Text

Huldra

Assessment #6 - The child that we call Embla is growing at an alarming rate. She has gone from having the physiology of an infant to a three-year-old in mere two weeks.

Assessment #10 - Embla shows signs of great intelligence and understanding, yet she does not speak. We do not know if her mutism is selective, or if her kind can't talk.

Assessment #15 - It is becoming increasingly difficult to control Embla. The call of her people is hard for her to resist and she has tried to escape on several occasions.

Assessment #16 - We have decided to move Embla overseas where "They" cannot get to her, The United States is our intended destination. Embla's tail has been removed and destroyed in the hopes "They" will not be able to sense her anymore.

Assessment #20 - Arrived in USA. All is well.

Assessment #34 - We have injected Embla with various human diseases, such as influenza, Ebola and malaria. They seem to have no effect on her.

Assessment #36 - Embla's ability to heal and fight off disease is extraordinary. We hope to one day transfer her "talents" to the human race.

The Whitecoats told me the story several times. Now I know it by heart. "We found you when you were just a baby," They told me. "In a cave in the forest. You were crying, and you were all alone. So we took you with us. Kept you safe." Kept me safe. I never felt safe with them. They were many. Sometimes as many as eight. All men. All dressed in white. They would hurt me. Stick needles under my skin. Poison my body. "We know your sisters are calling for you, but you cannot go back. It's not safe," they told me. It pained me to resist. I could hear my peoples' cries. Crying for me. Searching. I've always known I am different from the Whitecoats. I can do things they cannot. Things that astonishes them and things that frighten them.

I am different from my kin as well. I can see them sometimes, in my head. Tall and graceful, thin and covered in fur, with sharp claws and teeth. When I look at my reflection, I am no different from a human. "You changed after we found you," The Whitecoats told me. "You adapted." I adapted to the human race. I have studied anatomy books, compared the drawings with my own body. They are alike – except for my tail that the Whitecoats cut off me as a child. They thought it was the source of my power. The source of my true nature. It is not. But I miss it terribly.

When I was older, the Whitecoats increased in numbers. By two. Males, judging by their scent and appearance. "What's so special about this girl?" they asked the others. "She can't talk. Even parrots can talk. Is she retarded?" I can talk. I just haven't ever felt the need to. I know the human language. And I know my own. But the Whitecoats are not worthy of my words. "Don't be fooled," The Whitecoats said. "Don't be fooled by her angelic face and petite body. Don't be fooled by her silence. She is clever, wiser than most, and she is dangerous. Do not show her empathy, for she will feel none for you. If you give her the chance, she will kill you." And so I did. But only the ones who tried to hinder my escape. I guess the Whitecoats were right. I am dangerous.

The sensation of fresh air is a strange one. I can't remember when I last felt it. The dark sky up above is speckled with stars. They blink at me to make me smile. I am in the forest, but I do not feel at home. These are not my forests. This is not my land. My kind has never set foot here. I am very far away. And I am very scared.

The Whitecoats will know that I have escaped by now. And soon, they will come for me. I am their valuable treasure. One of a kind. They need me. But why I do not know. I won't go back. I run in amongst the trees to hide. Run so fast the trees sway in my wake. I run faster than the deer, and the rabbits and the foxes. I run faster than the owls can fly. The forest protects me, gives me strength. It guides me in the direction I need to go.

Soon, there is a flickering light up ahead and I come to a stop. It is a clearing where a group of boys have lit a fire. They sit around it in a circle, cooking meat on sticks and drinking beverages from cans. They smile and they laugh. Talk loud. I sneak closer, the aroma of food stirring my hunger. When they see me, they all turn to stare. Some of them get to their feet, their mouths hanging open. They do not look armed.

I take a hesitant step closer, looking from the puzzled faces before me to the packages of food on the ground. "Jesus Christ," someone says. I don't understand those words. "Where the hell did she come from?" another one asks. "Dude, she's naked...and hot." This is not accurate. In fact, I feel a bit cold. I take another step forward. "Did any of you order the stripper?" one of the boys laugh, only to get nudged in the ribs by his friend. "Stop that. What if she's hurt? What if something has happened to her?"

I watch this boy intently as he nears me. He moves slowly, as though afraid I will lash out. I might. I haven't made up my mind yet. He raises both his hands and shows me his palms, his smile is gentle. "It's okay," he assures me. "We won't hurt you." I narrow my eyes in suspicion. Humans always tell me that right before they cause me harm. "Are you okay?" The boy asks, only a few meters apart from me now. "Are you hurt? What's your name?"

My name? The Whitecoats call me Embla, but I do not think that is what my own called me. I am not sure. So I do not answer. "Here..." The boy says, shrugging off his shirt and holding it out for me. "Here...take this. You must be freezing." I look down my naked body, so pale in the darkness. The boys look at my body too, and I can feel heat radiate off their skin. They like me naked. Just like the Whitecoats do. But I am cold, so I reach out for the piece of clothing and snatch it away from its owner, draping it around my shoulders and closing it up, button by button.

"Should we call the police?" One of the other boys whispers. They look at each other uncertainly. "We can't. Not until we've hidden the joints and liquor anyway," another one says. I pay little mind to their conversation. My focus is on the food. My stomach is growling. "Are you hungry," the boy who gave me his shirt asks as his friends gather in the background, talking heatedly.

I nod, once. The boy seems relieved to receive some confirmation and turns around towards the fire. He grabs a bag of something white off the ground and holds it up for me to see. "Marshmallows? Or I can grill you some hot dogs?" I follow him hesitantly and snatch the bag from his hands, quickly moving away from him to settle down on the forest ground, eagerly shoving the sweet, sticky squares into my mouth. "She's gonna make herself sick," one of the boys says once I've almost emptied the bag, and he strides towards me to take it away.

I growl and jump at him once he is close enough, my teeth clamping down on the front of his throat and ripping away flesh. The boy screams then gurgles. His friends panic.

I withdraw from him and settle back down to finish my marshmallows, seemingly oblivious to the bleeding boy and his friends who are trying to save him. They are all making loud noises now, and everyone is running back and forth. When the bag is empty I crawl across the clearing to find more, helping myself to the package of cold sausages and a can containing a bitter beverage.

I do not notice that the wounded boy is bleeding no more, and instead is lying very still, his open eyes staring emptily up at the night sky. Nor do I notice that his friends have all run away, hurriedly navigating their way through the trees to find safety.

I notice nothing but myself, Embla, an unordinary girl who is finally free.

#huldra #mywriting #writing on tumblr #norse mythology

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

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Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Originals (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Freya Mikaelson & Klaus Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson/Freya Mikaelson, Freya Mikaelson/Rebekah Mikaelson, Klaus Mikaelson & Rebekah Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson/Klaus Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson/Rebekah Mikaelson Characters: Freya Mikaelson, Klaus Mikaelson, Rebekah Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson Additional Tags: Family, Death, Siblings, Brothers, Sisters, Magic, Witch - Freeform, Vampires Summary:

What was supposed to be a simple visit to a New Orleans' coffee shop turns lethal when Freya Mikaelson's past catches up with her.

–Written from Freya's perspective. AU–

#freya mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #klaus mikaelson #death #siblings #the originals #fanfiction #writing #my writing #writers on tumblr

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

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Chapters: 3/3 Fandom: The Originals (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Elijah Mikaelson/Freya Mikaelson Characters: Freya Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson Additional Tags: Mystery, Crime, Witch - Freeform, vampire, Death, Monster - Freeform, Old Norse, Gods, Demon Summary:

Someone or something is killing women in New Orleans. Freya and Elijah are set on stopping them.

Rated Explicit for violence and triggering content.

#freya mikaelson #elijah mikaelson #freya x elijah #mystery #vampire #witch #Norse Gods #writing #writing on tumblr #my writing #fanfiction #the originals

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

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Chapters: 4/? Fandom: The Originals (TV), The Vampire Diaries & Related Fandoms, The Vampire Diaries (TV), Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice (Video Game) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Finn Mikaelson/Freya Mikaelson, Dahlia & Freya Mikaelson, Mikael & Freya Mikaelson Characters: Freya Mikaelson, Finn Mikaelson, Mikael (Vampire Diaries), Dahlia (The Originals), Klaus Mikaelson, Kol Mikaelson, Elijah Mikaelson Additional Tags: Angst, Family Feels, Childhood Trauma, Mental Instability, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Old Norse, Vikings, Witches, Vampires, Pagan Gods, Death, Battle Series: Part 1 of A Battle Fought In the Mind Summary:

Set in an alternative version of The Originals universe. Inspired by Hellblade: Senua's Sacrifice.

"The aftermath of Finn's death and how Freya deals with the loss of her brother."

#freya mikaelson #finn mikaelson #dahlia #finn x freya #freya x dahlia #mikael #mikael x freya #writing #my writing #fanfiction #writers on tumblr

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

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Chapters: 7/? Fandom: The Originals (TV) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage, Rape/Non-Con Characters: Freya Mikaelson, Dahlia (The Originals) Additional Tags: Childhood Trauma, Witches, Horror, Gods, Magic, Loss, Pain, trigger warning, Dark, Dark Magic, Werewolf, Abuse, Murder Summary:

A collection of stories from Freya Mikaelson's past, starting with her traumatizing childhood, her attempts at escaping Dahlia, as well as some of the people she met along the way.

Sexual content and graphic violence.

#freya mikaelson #roleplay #writing #the originals #fanfiction #witch #werewolf #dark #violence #magic #loss #family #trauma

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

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ᴅᴇᴍᴏɴ ᴏɴ ʙᴏᴀʀᴅ - ᴀɴ ɪɴᴛʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ʟɪʟɪᴛʜ [[ᴍᴀᴛᴜʀᴇ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ]]

From first glance you'd never suspect a cargo ship carrying a stack of beat-up containers on the upper deck, to have any sort of luxury. Its exterior screamed warnings of cold metal and steel, chipped paint, and loud machinery. Therefore, I was surprised to find, as the thug Bosko dragged me down below deck, a corridor of bedrooms that was just that – luxurious.

A few open doors revealed king-sized beds dressed with beautiful linens, priceless art decorating the walls, and even flat-screen televisions. I couldn't help but stare in wonderment before Bosko yanked on the leash attached to my restrained hands. The cuffs cut into my wrists, making me grit my teeth. He led me to another flight of stairs and pushed me down another floor to what I reckoned was the lowest deck. Here, the bedroom doors were all shut, though a small circular sheet of glass attached to each door allowed me to peer inside.

I jumped back in fright as a woman's face crashed against the window nearest me, one eye swollen shut and a bleeding cut on her upper lip. She screamed, staring at us with a pleading gaze before large hands wrapped around her throat and pulled her back, deeper into the cabin where I could not see. I inhaled sharply, my every instinct telling me to get away now. But Bosko would have none of it. As I fought against my restraints, he grasped a fistful of my hair, dragging me further down the corridor.

My struggle died down the moment I realized it was futile and my scalp was burning, but his hold on me didn't become gentler. At the end of the hall, he threw me up against the door on our right, fishing for a set of keys in his pocket. He grinned down at me, that kind of lewd smile that made my stomach coil in disgust. I knew what was coming. And I would not let it happen willingly. When he pressed up against me to unlock the door, I angled my head back and spat in his face. Bosko looked dazed for a moment. Then he rounded on me, all growls and burly fists raised to punish.

"No!" A voice rung out from down the corridor. "Leave marks on her face and it'll bring down the price."

Bosko froze, then turned to shoot a dirty look at the new arrival – his boss.

"Bitch spat at me, Fisher!" he sneered. It seemed I'd hurt his pride.

The man named Fisher came closer, looking us both over. He was tall and lean, the complete opposite of the heavy-built Bosko. He had a head of thick dark hair that lay tussled in waves, and light stubble on his cheeks to match. His skin was olive, golden even, just like my own, and his eyes...His eyes were pure evil. I could feel it in my heart, just by the way he now looked at me.

"You'll live," Fisher said to his henchman, dismissively. "And besides, this one's mine for now. Get Elinor to clean her up and send her to my cabin. Gotta taste the merchandise before I can sell it." He winked at me, and my insides clenched in fear once more.

◆◆◆

Elinor was a tiny, little woman in her late fifties. Too old and worn to sell. Bosko pushed me into the small cabin she inhabited and fastened my handcuffs to a radiator. The cabin was stripped of all luxurious I had seen upstairs. The walls and floor were a dull grey, the bedding on the bunks was old and coarse, and the only other furnishings were a broken sink with a leaky tap and a grim night-pot. There were no windows. To my relief, Bosko left, but not before leaving a plastic bag of various items in Elinor's lap.

"Fifteen minutes," he grumbled and shut the door behind him.

Elinor rummaged through the bag, pulling out some pieces of cloth which she rinsed in water and proceeded to rub on my face to clean me of dirt. I didn't resist, despite the discomfort, but leaned in to try and capture her avoiding gaze.

"Elinor? It is Elinor, right? You have to help me get out of here. Please..."

She refused to look at me properly, her eyes locked on her work, but I knew she had heard me because she shook her head.

"Do what he tells you," she muttered, revealing a thick foreign accent I couldn't quite place. "Everything will be fine. Just do what he tells you." It sounded like a mantra she had spoken many times before, and even at this moment I wasn't certain if she was addressing me or reminding herself.

◆◆◆

After a quick overhaul of Elinor's tools – a comb missing more teeth than it had left, cheap perfume that made me smell like a prostitute, and a lacy lingerie set that I assumed was pre-owned by several other girls – I was pushed into a new cabin on the middle deck. It was one of the beautiful ones I had seen on my way down, but it didn't lift my mood one bit. I was no longer restrained, but might as well have been, for the heavy metal door swung closed behind me and locked from the outside.

Fisher was seated behind a large wooden desk, a cell-phone pressed to his ear. He acknowledged my arrival with a slight smile, his eyes travelling the length of my half-naked body. Feeling self-conscious and ridiculously vulnerable, I wrapped my arms around myself, trying in vain to shield myself from his gaze. It wasn't long before he ended his call, and turned his full attention to me.

Approaching me like a predator stalking its prey, a single-barreled shotgun dangling from his right hand, a wicked gleam in his eyes, he took gentle hold of my wrist and pulled me away from the door, deeper into the room.

"What's your name?" he asked, brushing away my arms to get a better look at my body. My hands balled into fists at my sides, shoulders hoisted in fear.

"Lily," I managed to breathe, growing tenser by the moment.

"Lily," Fisher repeated, reaching out to grab a handful of my left breast, squeezing it through my bra with a thoughtful mien. I tried to jerk away, which only made his grasp harden and his smile grow.

"You're older than my other girls," he muttered, releasing me and angling his head to look at my behind. "I prefer the young ones. But your tits and ass seem to still be holdin' up nicely."

I didn't know how to respond to that. Was I supposed to be grateful? Flattered that my captor and probably, future rapist, gifted me with a backhanded compliment?

I wanted to cry. Wanted to lash out and hurt the man before me in every way possible. But fear held me back. That little voice in my head that said "Survive. Live to fight another day." And still, as Fisher moved to touch my most intimate of places, I couldn't stop myself. Instinctively, I reached out to stop his hand.

His gaze hardened, jaw clenching. He pulled back and smacked me across the cheek so hard it brought tears to my eyes and a taste of blood to my mouth. I stumbled, but he caught me with ease, on me again, his hand firmly cupping my sex. One arm coiled about my trembling frame, keeping me captive against him. I could feel the shotgun press against my side. He ripped at my lace underwear, tearing it away like a little boy would when opening presents. His fingers pushed inside me, and I felt his breath fall heavily against my ear.

"Nice and tight," he crooned, slowly continuing his ministrations. I tried to let my mind go, float away and be somewhere else, but Fisher's voice brought me back in an instant.

"On this boat, you're only worth is what men are willin' to pay for you. The moment you stop earnin' me money, you'll get a bullet to that pretty little head of yours. So if you want to stay alive you'll do as I say. You'll fuck who I tell you when I tell you, and you'll be--" he withdrew from me, brought his fingers to his lips and sucked them clean. "--sweet."

I managed to dip my head in a nod, which seemed to satisfy him for the moment.

"What's your drug of choice?" he asked suddenly.

My face creased in a genuine mask of surprise. He thought I was a drug addict? I supposed it made sense. Most of the girls abducted the way I had been were. Or would become so to numb the pain. I opened my mouth to speak, but no words came.

"Heroin?" he pressed, unconcerned with my lack of a reply. I got the feeling he preferred the silent ones. The ones who made no fuss. Fisher's gaze fell to my arms, and he turned them to examine my skin.

"No track marks." He looked puzzled. Then his face cracked in a wry smile. "Hm, lemme guess. Love? You just want someone to love you, dontcha? Someone to take care of you. Keep you safe. A father."

I swallowed thickly, tears that had brewed since he struck me finally spilling down my cheeks. He had no idea how right he was.

"I'll be your Daddy, pet." Fisher smirked, gently wiping my wet face with the pad of his thumb, shotgun-hand pressed over my bare buttocks, keeping me close. "You want to be my good girl?"

I nodded. Giving him what he wanted. Survive.

He turned me around and pushed me down onto his desk, my palms and cheek pressed down on the hard surface. My heart sped up, blood thrumming in my ears. I squeezed my eyes shut as his foot nudged my legs apart, my face burning in humiliation as I was forced to bare myself to him.

"Look at me," he commanded, and I reluctantly opened my eyes to gaze over my shoulder. He didn't miss the look of utter terror on my face as he raised his weapon.

"You know what good girls get?" he grinned. "Good girls get to ride Daddy's shotgun."

I gasped at the cold intrusion of steel against my sensitive flesh, my hands grasping the desk beneath me with waning strength. He was insane. A lunatic. Psychopath.

"Please.." I whimpered, frozen in place. The sound of the safety switch going off silenced me instantly.

Fisher met my teary gaze with sadistic joy. "Ride," he commanded in a husky voice.

I did, moving slowly, petrified of setting off a mechanism that would blow me apart. There was no pleasure in it. But my body reacted, all the same, betraying me despite my fear. I grew wet and slick, and after a minute that seemed to have lasted forever, I heard Fisher laugh. A dark chuckle. "That's my good little whore. Get warmed up for Daddy."

When he finally pulled out of me and grasped the back of my neck to pull me up to face him, my eyes locked on his.

All evidence of tears and sorrow were gone from my face. With the shotgun pointed towards the ceiling, he stared at me in mild confusion and surprise as I leaned in and languidly swiped my tongue along the barrel, tasting myself on the metal.

"I like guns," I whispered, manoeuvring the weapon beneath his chin and pressed down on the trigger with my finger over his. His brains decorated the white wall behind us, and his corpse fell to my feet. He wasn't so handsome anymore.

Lazily reloading the shotgun, I turned towards the door as shouts and yells erupted from outside. Bosko barreled inside seconds later and was met with a bullet that entered his throat and exited out the back of his neck.

More men were approaching. I welcomed them all with a smile and a rain of bullets.

◆◆◆

Laying back against the pillows on Fisher's bed, I lit myself a cigarette and took a deep pull. On either side of me lay naked women, blissfully curled up against me like purring kittens having just been fed. I could still taste them all on my tongue, and a satisfied smile claimed me as I replayed the events that unfurled moments after Fisher's death.

His men fell, one by one, to my demonic strength and bloodlust. And later, when only a handful remained alive, I had unleashed the women. Whispering seductively in their ears as they armed themselves with the men's discarded guns and knives, urging them to yield to their vengeful desires. And they did not disappoint.

Lifting a dark gaze to the ceiling, I saluted an invisible force with my bloodstained hand, mock-sadness lacing my voice. "Oh Father, if only you had loved me more."

#triggerwarnings #lilith #demon #maturecontent #writing #mywriting

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

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"I rose from the waters where I had fallen. Like a phoenix emerging from the ashes, I was reborn on the shores of what had once been a mighty city, Athens. The world has changed while I've been gone. But in more ways than one, it is still the same.

Humanity continues to disappoint. You have simultaneously grown more clever and more foolish than the men of my time. Inventions based on the prototypes of my forefathers have been renewed and perfected. Your weapons are greater than ours ever were. And yet, you use said weapons to destroy yourselves. Are you aiming to take the entire planet down with you?

You have evolved, but once we peel away your new clothing, improved transportation and the fealty we once pledged to the gods, you are still barbarians. You fight and fuck and gorge yourself on food until your bellies threaten to burst. You have turned lazy. But despite this, the greediness persists.

And you, men like you, who feel the need to force their cock on unwilling women because you cannot get satisfaction otherwise...your kind will always exist. Your numbers have increased because the human race grows every day, and I think it important to prune away those specimens who aren't worthy of sharing our world."

Having slowly paced back and forth whilst delivering my speech, I finally come to a halt before my prisoner, a young man with blonde curls and boyish features. I set my gaze on him, the scum of the earth, just another man insisting on using the weapon between his legs to harm unsuspecting women, like the one who had summoned me earlier that night.

He is seated on a chair with his hands tied behind his back, and he is trembling, like a little bitch that has just tasted the sole of her master's boot. His handsome face is creased with fear and confusion, and he struggles to speak in complete sentences, as though he can't find enough oxygen to keep himself talking.

"You...crazy bitch!" he shouts, his voice echoing through the abandoned warehouse. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Just let me go!"

His feeble insults peel off me like water on a ship. His words hold no power over me. I find myself surprised by his lack of courage, however. In my time, it would take much more for a man to beg.

"I read something written by one of your philosophers...what do you call them, scientists...that the human body is largely made up of water. Aren't they clever to have found out?" I smile, for the first time since my return, I smile. It feels unfamiliar.

"Shall we test their theory?"

The man in my keep looks if possible even more confused. I do not provide him with an explanation. What would be the point? He will die, and unlike me, never return. Always eager to explore my demonic powers, I place my right hand atop his head, fingers coiling about his fair curls, and I bring all my focus to his frail little body. I can feel every little millilitre of liquid within him; his blood, the water in his flesh, urine and faeces; and with a great sense of satisfaction I raise their temperatures to the boiling point. It is a strange, but magnificent sight. His skin turns red and shiny. Even the whites of his eyes transform to a deep shade of pink. He is shaking heavily in his seat, like a kettle building up pressure, waiting for the top lid to blow off.

He dies with a short, but admirable scream that reaches every corner of the grand hideaway, and I withdraw from him, a shiver of delight rippling down my spine.

It's good to be back.

#mywriting #writing #writers on tumblr #vengeful #unfinished

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vikingwitchling · 5 years

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Lilita Stradz

"𝘍𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘦...𝘍𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘦...𝘍𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘦...

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘖𝘶𝘳 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨...

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴."

𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘪𝘹 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘭𝘥, 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘥𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘍𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘶𝘴. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘯, 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘸𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴. 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘏𝘢𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘣𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦? 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦. 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘕𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘎𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘭. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘯. 𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦𝘵𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘤𝘦. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯...𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯. 𝘏𝘰𝘸 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘢 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵? 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘤𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘪𝘯. "𝘒𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮," 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥. "𝘚𝘭𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘴." 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘦𝘥. 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥. 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮. 𝘐 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘵 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘧, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵. 𝘎𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘮, 𝘩𝘢𝘶𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺, 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐𝘧 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳, 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘩 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘢 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭, 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘥 𝘳𝘰𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘥𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘳𝘬 𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘱𝘴, 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘦.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘸��𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘢𝘳𝘳𝘰𝘸, 𝘣𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘳𝘰𝘴𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵. 𝘙𝘢𝘵𝘴. 𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘺. 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘐 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘺 𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘮𝘪𝘯 𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩, 𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘱𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘱 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘰𝘦𝘴, 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘵, 𝘮𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴...𝘐 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘪𝘱 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘱𝘪𝘦𝘤𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘩 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘯 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘢𝘬𝘦 𝘢 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘐 𝘱𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘧𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘐 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘮 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘎𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘭. 𝘐 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦.

Released from traumatizing memories, my body sprung into action. I rushed forwards as quickly as my shaking legs could carry me until Gabriel's face was cradled between my hands. He couldn't be gone. I shook him gently. He didn't respond.

With a sob of terror, I released him long enough to pick up a shard of glass from the debris on the floor. Without hesitation I brought it to my mouth, slicing vertically through my tongue until blood poured overwhelmingly, The pain was white-hot and blinding, but I forced it aside, adrenaline aiding me in my task as I grasped Gabriel again and pressed my bleeding mouth to his. I coaxed his still, cold lips to allow me in, to take as much of my life-force as I could allow to part with before I magically fused my flesh back together.

I fell to my knees before him, forehead resting on the King's knee as I focused on the blood I had just fed him, visualizing its journey from his mouth, down his throat, and to his internal organs, saw it as a crimson serpent that slithered inside him with great aggression, battling the devastating virus as said serpent would a mouse. A sheen of sweat appeared across my forehead, and my entire body shook with the effort, but it wasn't important. I was not important in this scenario. I had to save him. It was the entire reason I had been placed on this earth in the first place.

#my writing #writing #king #witch #upir #writers on tumblr #trauma

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