Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Singing makes me feel better. 

“You’re just too good to be true,” 

Not by much, but it’s always been a small comfort. Courtesy of mum. 

“Can't take my eyes off of you,”

My voice sounds small against the vastness of the woods—of the forest. My song is quiet, swallowed by trees older and taller than anything I’ve ever seen. 

The air is thick with the sharp tang of pine and woodsmoke, layered over the earth’s green, mossy breath. There’s something wilder threaded through it all: animal musk, wet bark, the faint copper bite of soil turned over by rain. Small animals are slinking away into the brush, the skittering making me look over my shoulder several times over. Dried leaves crinkle under my Sketchers, cold pulpy mud sticking to the undersoles and making my nose turn up in distaste at the squelching.  

My fingers won’t stay still, picking at the frayed strings of my hoodie like they’re the only tether I’ve got to the world I came from. And maybe they are. I’ve been walking for hours and haven’t seen a single sign of civilisation. No road, no smoke trail, no cottages tucked between trees. No street signs. No power lines. No airplanes or cars. Not even the faint hum of life. 

“You'd be like Heaven to touch, I wanna hold you so much,”

The song wavers out of me, thin and shaky.

I’m teetering on the edge of denial, trying to convince myself that no, my curse has never done this before. Sure, it’s pulled me through time, but always in the same place. The furthest I’ve ever gone was an hour back, once. When I landed in a marketplace before dawn, the stalls still bare and people setting up. 

It’s never moved me.

The thought curls cold and ugly in my stomach. Because if I didn’t teleport—

“At long last, love has arrived,” the words sound hollow in the trees, my own voice mocking me. “and I thank God I'm alive,” 

What if this is before the town was ever built? Before people ever lived here at all? What if I rewound far back?

“You're just too good to be true,”

The lyric fractures, my voice cracking as dread bleeds through. 

“Can't take my eyes off of you…”

My steps quicken, sharp rocks stabbing through the soles of my shoes, branches clawing at my legs. Pain sparks with every step, but it only drives me faster, like I can somehow outrun the realisation gnawing at me. 

And maybe the rain too, which is starting to shower down. 

There’s no shelter in sight, nothing but goddamn trees. I should’ve learned camping skills. How to build a fire, a shelter, maybe some makeshift shoes. Should have learned how to tell which way was north. The most I can remember from my uncle's ramblings is that it had something to do with the sun.

I’m starting to really wish I didn’t zone out. 

The rain sprinkles harder until I feel like a drowned rat. 

“Fuck,” I curse, ducking my head underneath my hoodie. 

The rain keeps falling, sharp and cold through my clothes. My hair sticks to my face, my shoes squelch in the mud, and I glare at the ground, trying to ignore the ache in my feet.

I push through a clearing, boots sinking into the soft earth, until a large body of water stretches out beside me. I follow its edge, scanning for anything that might offer shelter. And then—just ahead—a dark shape, jagged and low, pressed against the shoreline. 

A cave! 

Its mouth is narrow, framed with jagged rock and slick moss. Roots hang down like green fingers, dripping with rainwater, and the ground slopes steeply into shadow. As I grow closer, the sound of water dripping echoes from inside, and I can smell it. Damp, earthy and tinged with the metallic bite of wet stone. Pine needles litter the ground around it, sticking to the mud and making every one of my fucking steps slippery. 

Inside, it looks just big enough to crouch. I shiver from the rain, grab the edge, and tentatively shuffle inside, hoping to God that there aren’t any stray bears. 

I crawl through the narrow entrance, and the space suddenly opens up into something bigger.

No animals, to my relief—but as I pause mid-crawl, a flicker of movement stops me cold. 

A figure. Hunched against one of the jagged walls. Small. Human. Male. Barefoot, mud streaked up to his knees. His tunic is rough-woven, patched and thin, and his hair matted from rain. He stares at me like a cornered animal—half ready to flee, half ready to fight.

He can’t be older than… eight? Maybe ten.

What the fuck is he wearing? 

That’s what I want to ask, but for fear of scaring the boy, instead I slowly push myself up on my aching knees, pressing against the cold, hard floor.

“Uh…” I say, voice awkward and soft. “Hi.”

He flinches, like my greeting is a weapon aimed straight at him. His hands grip the wall behind him as he slowly rises, every muscle coiled, ready to bolt, reminding me of a skittish doe when a human gets too close.  His eyes dart between me and the cave entrance behind me. I think he’s calculating, weighing his chances of escape before I can make a move.

My brow furrows slightly. 

His voice is rough, croaky and cautious and he has an odd accent to his words. Nothing I’ve heard before. “Did…did my father send you?”

I give the child a confused, half-hearted shrug. “I don’t know who your dad is.”

He blinks at me. 

I blink back.

We sit—well, I sit, he stands—in silence, until I break it again. 

“Are you lost?” I ask.

The boy shakes his head, almost fiercely. Blond hair, tangled and matted, flops with every motion, partially hiding his wide, wary eyes.

“I am, I think,” I say honestly, and look around again. “Neat cave. Is it yours?”

“W-what?”

“The cave,” I repeat. “Is it your cave?”

“I…yes,” he seems to change his mind halfway through the reply. His shoulders are a little more stiff and his features shift into something determined. His arms cross his chest. “I found it. So it is mine.”

“Would you mind if I stayed in here for a little while, then?” I ask with a friendly smile, and bring my hair around my shoulder so I can wring it out. “It’s a bit wet outside.”

The burning in my legs is starting to scream at me, but I still don’t get up yet. 

“Pretty please?” I ask again, to draw his attention back. 

“I…” he swallows, and nods.

“Thank you.” 

I sigh and shift my legs out from under me, trying to get comfortable, groaning and stretching them out. Sitting up straighter, I peel off my hoodie, because it’s sticking to me and soaked through a lot worse than my shirt. It’s only a cheap one, after all. 

I realise he seems to take me in over the silence, then, his gaze slowly turning baffled as his eyes run over my clothes. Like I’m the weird one. 

“Why do you wear such strange clothes?” he blurts, brows furrowed, as though the words escape before he can think better of them.

I can’t help the small laugh that slips past me.

Ah. Kids. They don’t give a shit about social rules. 

“Me? What about you?” I give a gesture toward him, not missing the way he gently jolts in his own skin at the fast movement. “What are you trying to be? A pirate?”

“A… what?” He looks so confused, tilting his head like a puppy. 

“A pirate? Y’know, yar har fiddle dee..?” I give him another once over. “Well, it’s more like a medieval urchin, actually. My bad.”

“You are…very strange, lady.”

I smirk slightly. “So I’ve been told.”

The rain continues outside, drumming against the cave roof in a rhythmic hiss that almost lulls me into sleep. Almost, but not quite. I’m nowhere familiar, and the thought of wild animals—rabid or otherwise—lurking just beyond the shadows keeps my muscles tense. 

And then there’s the nagging, impossible thought at the back of my mind.

Where and when am I, really? 

The uncertainty coils cold in my stomach, making it impossible to fully relax.

My eyes drift over his clothes again, and I push down the growing unease, telling myself it can’t be anything more than a few days back. But the thought keeps creeping in. Just hours ago, I’d been standing in the middle of a familiar café, surrounded by people and chairs and the comforting hum of normal life. Now, I’m taking refuge in the middle of a cave, sitting next to a boy in Middle Ages garb.

No way. 

He seems to be dealing with his own turmoil, because he’s just as comfortable to sit in the quiet as I am. Slowly though, he seems to relax, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. His hands drop from the jagged wall, and he shifts his weight from foot to foot, watching me with wary curiosity rather than outright fear. 

I lean back against the damp rock, stretching my legs out and listening to the water patter. 

Bored, cold, and soaked through, I decide to break the silence. 

“So… what’s your name?”

He freezes at the question, blinking up at me. His wide eyes glimmer with uncertainty, and I’m about to ask again before he mutters his answer. “Niklaus.”

“Niklaus,” I repeat. “Odd name. But I like it. Pretty.”

“It is not odd, nor is it pretty,” he argues, a little heat to his words that startles me. He glares at me, like I’m being unfair or rude. “It is a man’s name!”

“Oh, no, sorry,” I hold up my hands in surrender. “It is. It is very manly. Very strong. A good name. I think I have a cousin with that name, actually. I think Nikki is the other name. I got confused.”

He slumps against the wall, in a bit of a tantrum. He pouts slightly, and it’s obvious that I upset him, so I decide to extend an olive branch. 

“I’m Marilyn,” I tell him. “But my friends call me Mari.”

He thinks on it for a while, a gentle frown playing on his forehead. “What manner of name is that?”

“A pretty, feminine name,” I defend right back. “It’s Wel—” I pause, not sure if I should say Welsh, when I’m not sure when I am. “It’s very well regarded, where I’m from.”

“From where do you come?” He doesn’t waste time jumping on that. 

“Where are you from?” I grin. 

He scowls, probably finding the ‘uni reverse’ very annoying. 

“This might seem like a strange question, Niklaus,” I say, distracting him. “But I was telling the truth earlier, I am lost. Can you tell me where we are?”

“How have you been led so far from home?”

Don’t get lost in the small questions, kid, I want to sigh, but I do my best to remain patient. 

“How do people usually get lost?” I ask. 

“I… I know not,” he mumbles, voice low, eyes flicking up with a shadow of fear, as if wary of my reply.

I have my suspicions. He’s awfully skittish, after all. Maybe he’s a runaway. Judging by the way he flinches whenever something moves too fast in front of him or by the way he seems a little rejection sensitive, I can’t help but wonder if his parents are the reason. Namely… his father. The one he asked if I’d come on behalf of. 

A small flare of anger, sharp and protective, sparks inside me for this boy. 

I really hope that isn’t the case.

“It’s okay,” I assure him gently. “People get lost for all kinds of reasons. But could you answer my question, please? Where are we, Niklaus?”

He fidgets with his hands. 

“I won’t get mad, I promise,” I tell him, trying to soothe whatever anxieties are still flitting across his face. “Actually… you know what? Pinkie swear.”

He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind as I sit up and extend my pinkie.

“This is a sacred oath,” I say, dead serious. “Where I come from, if you link your pinkie with someone else’s and solemnly swear that you super promise, it means I can never, ever lie about that promise.”

“Do your folk commonly lie?”

“I would never!” I gasp dramatically. “This is super deadly serious. It’s sacrilege if I break that promise!” 

Eyeing me sceptically, and convinced I’m conning him, he slowly approaches me and sits down in front of me, before wrapping his pinkie finger around mine.

“I solemnly swear that I super promise,” I begin. “That I won’t get mad at you.”

He seems a little uncertain, but slowly nods and takes his hand back. 

“So?” 

I naturally brace my expression, schooling it to remain unaffected by his answer, like I promised. 

“We are near my village,” he answers, very unhelpfully. 

Village? I don’t remember there being any village near Mystic Falls…

Instinctively, my lips twitch downward, but I don’t let it show too much. 

“Your village,” I repeat, albeit a little dryly. “And where is your village?”

“It is not far. If you follow the lake and keep heading west for a while, you’ll reach it.”

My jaw clenches slightly in annoyance, but I breathe in and out. “Okay, new question. What is the uh, date?”

“The date?” He looks at me like I’m stupid, or like I have two heads. Those expressions are interchangeable at this point. 

“Yes,” I say. “What is the date, please?” 

“Spring,” he says quietly. “The river’s high, and the birds are back.”

Oh my fucking God—

Nope, stay calm. You promised. 

I sigh. I lean back, press my head against the wall, then clear my throat. 

“Have you had any festivals or annual celebrations, holidays or anything like that lately?”

I have a feeling I’m not going to get any answers out of him. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s being difficult, not understanding what I want, or just—Maybe if I want more answers, I should go to his village. I could ask him to take me—

“Sigrblót,” he blurts happily.

I sit up a little. 

Oh. A festival? The word itself sounds Norwegian? Is it like Yule, or something? Though Yule is more around winter, I know that for sure. I’m not familiar with what the fuck Sigrblót is. If anything, I’m not sure I heard him right, his accent is a little thick around the word. 

“What is… Sig—b—what festival is that? Tell me about it.”

I can’t even hope to pronounce it without butchering it. My mouth isn’t made for it. I can’t even roll my R’s—

He pauses, frowning slightly, noticing my blank expression. “You… you do not know of Sigrblót?”

“I’m not from around here,” I offer vaguely. “But I’d be very happy to learn about it.”

“It is… we—my mother and I, we give thanks to the gods,” he stammers, words spilling fast. “We offer—” his eyes dart, hesitant, “—sacrifices. Animals, sometimes. Though not always. Sometimes just bread, or… other food. So the gods are pleased. And… the village gathers for a feast. Fires burn high. All come together. And… and we sing songs!”

No. Fucking. Way. 

“Um…Which God did you sacrifice to this year?”

He blinks at me like I’ve just asked the dumbest question in the world. “It hasn’t happened yet. And why would we do it for only one god? We celebrate all the gods.”

I hum, the noise taking a little bit of a nervous twinge at the end of it. 

“What Gods? Again, I’m not from here.”

“Odin! And Thor! And Frey… and Frigg… and… many more,” he says quickly, counting off on his fingers. “We thank them for—uh—food, the sun, the trees, the river…”

I… 

No. 

My eyes flicker over his clothes again, taking in the rough-woven tunic, the patches, the way the fabric clings damply to him. His bare feet, the mud streaked up to his knees. The way his hair hangs in matted strands around his face.

The revelation slowly sinks into me like poison. The panic that had been simmering in my stomach starts to flare, coiling tight and icy. I swallow hard, trying to force my brain to work, to find a loophole, a rational explanation. There isn’t one.

This isn’t just some forest outside Mystic Falls. This isn’t some random backwater village in the present day.

I’m not… I’m not in my time.

I’m really not in my time. 

It’s one thing to theorize it in denial-fuelled hysteria; it’s another to realise I’m barely a step away from the truth.

A memory strikes me sharply. My friend from Virginia, a history major, had been rambling about Mystic Falls while I sipped my coffee in that cute little café, half-listening as I considered flirting with a hot guy in line. They talked about how not a lot of people know Mystic Falls had started as a small settlement, a tiny village carved from the wilds of the New World, long before any of the modern streets and cafés existed. 

Holy shit.

Holy. Fucking. Shit. 

I didn’t go back an hour. A few days. Even a few years.

I went back a millennia. 

I think I sit there for an hour, catatonic. 

Niklaus stops trying to get my attention at some point, and I think he’s calling my name. All of the weight of this strangeness pins me to the damp rock floor. I distantly tell him I need some air. It confuses him, but he doesn’t stop me when I crawl out of the cave, letting the wet mud smear along my hands and knees. The rain outside has eased, now just a gentle patter on the leaves above, but I barely notice. I stand up and breathe. The sharp tang of pine and damp earth fills my lungs, and for a fleeting moment, the tight coil of panic in my stomach loosens.

Before swivelling right back. 

I crouch low to the ground with my hands tightening in my hair and stay there, for how long, I don’t know—until the static fades and my brain starts working again. 

Okay. Fuck. Okay. 

My mind races, spinning in circles. I can feel my pulse hammering in my ears, my hands twitching at my sides, my legs itching to move even though there’s nowhere safe to run. 

Breathe. Breathe.

I need a plan.

Some kind of… plan.

I can’t go to the village. Not now. Not ever.

Shit. What the hell do I even know about Vikings? Almost nothing. Their language, their customs… And my accent, my voice, my very presence—will give me away. My name is Welsh. That alone makes me an outsider—

Worse than that. I’m a woman.

Men aren’t known for being… pleasant to outsider women, in the past.

Dread slithers through me. I grit my teeth and force my hands to stop shaking. Logic. Observation. Patience. That’s all I’ve got.

I need to figure out how to stay alive long enough to make a fucking plan. How not to get caught. How not to ruin everything. I need to figure out if I can trust anyone—

Niklaus, I realise. I need to make sure he doesn’t run around telling everyone about the strange woman in his cave. He’s just a kid, he’d mean no harm, but…he can do a lot of harm by blabbering. Best case scenario they might think he’s made an imaginary friend, worst case…

I shudder.

It stops raining entirely by the time I manage not to fall apart, and I exhale slowly. 

I put a hand on my heart, and breathe again for ten minutes, for good measure, before turning back around and crawling through the cave. 

When I stand up, and look around, I’m flabbergasted. 

Niklaus is gone, and…

The cave is…

It’s changed.

In the span of an hour—maybe more, but definitely not enough time to transform so drastically. 

The walls are no longer bare stone. They’re covered in crude markings, scratched into the rock. A small pile of sticks and dry leaves sits neatly in one corner, fashioned into a makeshift bed. Nearby, a crudely built table holds a palette smeared with colours, a scattering of mushy berries pressed in a—a mortar and pestle. Animal pelts, feathers, and scraps of fabric are tucked around the area,

I stare half in awe, half in disbelief. This isn’t just a cave anymore—this—it’s a den, a hideout, a secret world someone has built. Somewhere between survival and art, between need and imagination.

"You…”

I freeze. Slowly, hesitantly, I turn around.

Standing there is a boy—slightly gangly, all limbs that seem too long for his frame. His shoulders have broadened. There’s a sharpness in his eyes, a bright intensity, but layered with a wary caution. His hair falls in damp strands around his face, darker at the roots, streaked with sun-bleached tips. A few pimples dot his forehead and chin, betraying the awkward beginnings of adolescence. He’s no longer barefoot, no longer has mud streaked up his legs, his clothes are patchy, but less torn than before.

“I thought I imagined you, I thought I was going mad.”

“What…?”

His eyes seem disheartened. “You do not remember me?”

It hits me.

With a start, my heart lurches

“Niklaus?!” I squawk. 

A/N:

So, I think Sigrblót technically happened before the 900s.

But hey—first, we’re handwaving that a bit, and second, we can just roll with it. Esther’s one of the ancient Norse people, a witch, probably still wants to keep some of her people’s traditions alive, right? I don’t know, I’m not exactly a history buff, and it’s TVD, so… we’re sticking with what the Almighty Julie Plec gave us, meaning there will be historical inaccuracies.

We will suspending our disbelief for this story. Hopefully. Love you all. 

Also, Mari is also not a history expert. She's going to generalise until she manages to do some research (if she manages to get back home).

Anyway, that’s it—hope you enjoy what I’ve written so far!

Chapter Text

When I crawled out of that cave, time skipped. 

So when I crawled back in…

For him, I’ve been gone for...years?

For me, it’s been hours.

It’s dizzying. Overwhelming. My mind can’t keep up, can’t stretch enough to cover the gulf between us. I feel like I’ve tripped into a story that’s been told without me, scrambling to catch up on chapters that don’t exist in my memory. I’m still trying to process that when his voice cuts through my thoughts.

“Are you a witch?”

The words jolt me, sharp and unexpected. My mouth goes dry. I blink, and stare blankly at the preteen in front of me. 

“What?” 

I stare at him, baffled, heart stuttering. But then I remember—this era, this time, whatever it is. To him, strange clothes, strange speech, strange disappearances… what else could I be? Panic flickers through me at the thought of him telling someone, of a village full of suspicious stares and accusations, of burning punishments or drowning or hanging. 

If he hasn’t already. 

If I don’t handle this carefully, delicately, I could be in serious trouble.

He doesn’t back down. His gaze is suspicious, but undercut with a child’s curiosity. That’s when I notice the wicker basket he’s holding, the one dangling easily from his hands. Inside, a scatter of berries and a few wildflowers, their stems bundled together with grass.

“My mother is a witch,” he says, almost casually. The matter-of-fact tone makes me double take. “I know all about witchcraft.”

“…Uh… huh?”

I can’t think of anything better. My brain is still tangled between disbelief and rising nerves.

Witches. His mother is a witch. He said it so easily, like it’s a simple fact, like he’s telling me she bakes bread or weaves cloth. My mind scrambles. Did witches even exist in the Viking era? Or is it something like a shaman? Were they feared? Respected? Both? Maybe this isn’t Viking times after all. Maybe this is something else entirely.

I wish I listened to Cass more often. 

I wish I could ask her questions, because I have many. 

“Have you…” I swallow the frog in my throat and ask the main question swimming in my head, screaming at me. “Have you told anyone about me?”

He frowns. “No. I wanted no trouble. Not for me, not for you. None know—my brothers, my sister, none.”

That’s… a relief. 

Or at least, it should be.

I don’t know if I should take him at his word. Witch could mean a hundred different things here, anything from healer to heretic, but there’s something so unguarded in the way he says it. So certain. So honest. And when I meet his eyes, wide and earnest, it’s hard not to believe him. He seems like a good kid. Sweet, even.  

“Thank you,” I tell him, genuinely, and feel a bit of weight fade from my chest. 

“So, are you?” He immediately asks afterward, and I’m temporarily lost, until he repeats his question. “Are you a witch?”

“No,” I say flatly, and leave it at that.

“Oh.”

His fingers twitch against the wicker basket handle, tightening just enough to betray the nerves he’s trying to hide. And that’s when it really hits me—of course he’s nervous. How could he not be? To him, I must look like something out of a nightmare: a strange woman in soaked, foreign clothes who wandered into his secret hideout, vanished without a trace for how many years, and then reappeared in the same spot wearing the same dripping outfit, like not a day had passed.

I can’t blame him for being wary. Hell, if I were him, I’d be terrified of me.

Hell. I am terrified of me. 

“How old are you now?” I ask, hoping to change the subject. 

“Thirteen,” he says proudly, straightening. “I am grown. A man.”

A little laugh slips through my lips and I quickly stifle it down, coughing over it. Luckily he’s distracted by my next question to be too offended. “And you’ve—you haven’t moved into this cave forever, have you?”

“No,” he replies, his own eyes drifting around the cave. “This is my…it is just a special place.”

“I used to have a special place,” I nod, understandably. “My uncle, he built me a little treehouse. I used to sit in it and read all the time.”

His eyes squint at me. “You said you are not a witch.”

Right, maybe they don’t read here, or at least commonly. 

“I’m not a witch.” 

I sigh, letting the breath rattle out of me as I sink down onto the boulder that juts out just enough to serve as a chair. The stone is cold, damp, but it offers a small comfort. 

I drag my hands down my face, pushing back wet strands of hair. 

He makes a small, doubtful grunt in his throat, not bothering to argue but clearly not convinced either. Then, without another word, he strides past me. I twist slightly where I’m seated, watching his lanky figure as he crosses the cave. He goes straight to the crude little table in the corner—his table, I realise—and sets the wicker basket down with care. The berries wobble in their bundle, a few stems of wildflowers poking out at odd angles. 

He shifts aside a scatter of tools I can’t even begin to recognise, all rough-hewn wood and bone, some stained with berry juice, others with something darker.

I push myself up again, restless energy gnawing at me, and wander a few steps closer. Curiosity wins out over caution. The closer I get, the more I can smell the faint tang of crushed berries and damp hide clinging to his little corner of the cave. 

I can feel him watching me from the corner of his eye, quick and wary, before darting back to what he’s doing, shuffling through his supplies, moving bits of wood and stone with practiced hands, like this is his own private ritual and I’m the intruder.

“So what are you, if not a witch?” He asks, finally. 

“I honestly don’t know,” I tell him. 

He turns slightly, narrowing his eyes at me. 

I hold out a pinkie. “Solemnly super serious pinkie swear. I genuinely don’t know.”

His gaze darts to my hand, something softening in his features for a moment. “You performed this ritual last time.”

“And I kept it,” my whisper conspirative. “I didn’t get mad at you.”

“You lied to me, though...” He says stiffly, quietly. He still isn’t confident, a shadow of that fear in his face from before, as though bracing himself for something. 

“I did not,” I frown.

“You did,” he wrangles his fingers in his tunic. “It does not exist. It is made up. My father said so.”

Ah. 

“It doesn’t exist here,” I clarify. “I did say that. It’s something where I am from.”

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. Realisation lights across his face. He has very expressive features. It’s very easy to read him. 

“Niklaus,” I say softly, and open my mouth to ask my question, but he interrupts me. 

“Nik,” he says, and it makes me look at him. He’s tense, his hands twitching. “My…friends and most of my family call me Nik.”

“Oh,” I say, nodding. “Okay then, Nik.”

“Okay?” he echoes, brows knitting together. “Your words… they twist strangely, then and now. What is this word you speak?”

I blink, caught off guard. “Uh—” My hand goes to the back of my neck, rubbing sheepishly as I scramble for an explanation. How do I even begin to explain my speech patterns to a kid from… whatever century this is?

That’s when it really hits me. He’s speaking English. He has an accent, sure, it’s a little stilted, but it’s clear English. I hadn’t questioned it before—too much chaos, too much panic—but now it slams into me like a punch. He shouldn’t be speaking English. He shouldn’t even understand me.

How the hell does that work?

Maybe… maybe that’s a question for another time.

One thing at a time. 

“I know you have questions,” I say. “I do too.”

“That, too. How do you not know the answers to them?” He crosses his arms, squaring his little shoulders as if trying to look taller, more grown. There’s a small pout tugging at his lips, and despite everything, I almost smile. He hasn’t changed that much, then.

“Nik,” I clear my throat, forcing seriousness back into my voice. “I promise.” I hold out my pinkie. “I promise you, I’m not lying. I don’t know what’s going on either. To quote myself—two years ago—I am lost.”

“Lost…” he echoes softly, the word sitting heavy on his tongue. “Again?”

“I get lost a lot,” I admit, sheepish.

He considers that, frowning in thought, before finally nodding. Acceptance flickers across his face, and then his eyes brighten with sudden hope. “Oh! My mother—she could aid you! She is a witch,”

Dread sinks its claws into me. “Ah—no—”

“She helps everyone in the village,” he rushes on, “with sickness, with troubles, with things people cannot explain.”

“Nik—”

“She will help you if I ask—”

He starts to walk toward the cave exit, and I panic , shouting his name and grabbing onto him. He flinches the second my hands close around his shoulders, his whole body locking tight. He hisses through his teeth like a startled animal. I let go instantly, my palms hovering helplessly in the air, heart in my throat.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, guilt flooding me. 

My gaze flickers to the thin fabric of his tunic, to the way he holds himself—too stiff, too cautious for a boy his age. A sick suspicion curls in my gut. I don’t want to assume, but… it makes sense. The cave. The secrecy. The way he tenses at touch. The older century and their older ways of discipline. 

It isn’t hard to imagine what he might be hiding.

“I am so sorry,” I apologise again, swallowing a lump. “I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

“You did not hurt me,” he mutters. 

I press my lips together in a frown. 

“I panicked,” I admit, forcing the words out. “No one—and I mean no one —can know I’m here. No one can know I exist. Do you understand? It’s… it’s very dangerous for me.”

His gaze snaps up to mine, wide and searching. The silence stretches, each second heavier than the last. My stomach knots. I’ve never liked silence—it’s treacherous. It leaves space for thoughts I can’t control, for possibilities my mind always fills with the worst-case scenarios.

“Please?” The word slips out softer than I intend, nearly a plea. I take a breath and try again, steadier. “Can we keep this between us? Just you and me?”

My heart races, and I swallow when it takes him a decade to answer. Before finally, he slowly moves his hand, and offers me a pinkie. 

“I solemnly super promise,” he repeats my words at me, “that I will not tell anyone about you.”

I feel like I could collapse right there, let it all out in tears of relief—but I don’t. I cling to myself, fighting to stay upright, to keep my balance. My chest heaves, throat tight, and every nerve feels raw, but somehow I manage to stay just above breaking.

“You’re the best,” I tell him avidly, wrapping my pinkie around his.  

He gives me such an earnest smile, and my heart melts.

I’m stuck.

The thought settles in like a boulder on my chest, and a frog in my throat. 

I haven’t managed to activate my ability. I haven’t gone home. 

Nik gave me my hoodie back—apparently he’d stashed it in a crate for safekeeping, a way to prove to himself that I hadn’t been a figment of his imagination. 

It’s dry now, though speckled with dirt and sporting a few holes. Two years of neglect—and possibly the work of moths, or maybe rats—have done their damage to the cheap fabric. The thought skeeves me out, but I push it aside and gratefully accept it when he offers it to me as a blanket. It’s not much, but in this cave, it’s comfort enough.

I hole up in the cave for days, too wary to risk wandering outside—except for bathroom breaks, of course—not trusting myself, not trusting the woods, not trusting anything that might be out there to leave me unscathed. I swear I heard a howl the first night—it cut through the forest and straight into my bones. It was a stark reminder that I was utterly alone in the wilderness with no hospitals nearby or guns—utterly exposed. 

Well, not completely alone. 

Nik has been a sweetheart. 

Both days, he made the trek out to see me, building a fire to keep me warm, and on top of that, he brought some dried mystery meat, and it’s not too bad, steeped in flavour. A little cold since it’s left overs, but I don’t think about it too much, my hunger is tearing my stomach apart. It’s probably stolen from his family’s stores, I’m sure of it, so I scolded him gently, careful not to sound harsh. It’s a kind thought, a gesture that means the world, but I can’t bear the idea of him getting into trouble.  

Outside of trying not to die—and wishing, over and over, that I were back home—the boredom is the worst. Because when boredom takes hold, there’s nothing left to distract me from the panic. From the restlessness twisting through my limbs. From the infinite, gnawing questions I can’t answer, the constant wondering about how I got here, why I’m like this, how long I’ll be stuck, and what could go wrong at any moment. I also hadn’t realised just how much I rely on modern comforts, on the constant stream of entertainment and distractions at my fingertips. No screens, no music blaring in the background, no quick snacks when hunger strikes. I mostly spend the time sleeping, trying to nap it all away. 

I think most of all… the thing I miss the most—

Toilets. Showers. Hot water. Soap.

God, I would kill a squirrel for soap. 

I’m fairly certain that with the lack of hygiene products, I’m one step away from a waterborne infection. And yet, I’ve been cooped up in this cave, with Nik being generous enough—or brave enough—to pretend he can’t smell me by the fifth day.

As soon as I’m sure he’s gone back to his family, I slip out of the cave, careful not to make a sound. The river is fucking cold, and the mud clings to my soaked clothes, but I don’t care. I scrub at my hair and arms and lower regions, hoping against hope that there aren’t any parasites lurking in the water… or any peeping villagers waiting to catch me. 

It’s a precarious freedom, but right now, it feels like the closest thing to relief I can get.

When Nik doesn’t show up the next night, a knot of worry tightens in my chest.

Especially since I can’t feed myself, and he’s only been able to bring me small scraps and left overs from his own dinners. I do have a granola bar stashed in my pocket, it’s squashed and probably expired, but I’m hungry, so I stuff it in my mouth, grimacing at the flavor and texture, but swallowing anyway.

Being this dependent on a 13-year-old for survival is… humbling. 

And terrifying. 

So when I wake up the next day, home, I almost cry. 

“Excuse me, miss? Can you hear me?”

I squint through groggy eyes, trying to focus. My head feels thick, my body heavy, like I’ve been underwater. Slowly, I tilt my head up—and then freeze.

The hot barista. Looking down at me. Concern etched across his face. His hair falls perfectly into place, his eyes sharp and bright. 

And I’m on the floor, the linoleum floor.

On the café, linoleum floor.

The smell of coffee and warm pastries hits me like a wave, the worrying chatter of other customers buzzing faintly in my ears. My body stiffens, my stomach flips. I can’t process it at first. 

Then, somewhere between panic and relief, a strangled, half-laughing, half-gasping noise escapes me. The barista jumps, eyes wide, hands lifting slightly as if to protect himself. I press my palms to my face, taking shaky breaths, willing the images to leave my mind. 

It was a dream. Right? Just a stupid, awful nightmare. A vivid one, sure, but nothing more. 

At least… I think so.

Then my eyes flick down.

My clothes.

Dirty. Streaked with mud. Damp in patches. Stinky. 

My stomach twists.

Oh god.

It wasn’t a dream.

It was real.

Every awful, horrifying, impossible second of it.

“Ma’am?!”

The barista panics as I shoot up from the floor, the sudden rush of blood making my head spin. He grimaces, hands hovering over me, ready to catch me if I fall—but I shove past him, barely aware of his presence. I’m looking for Cass, the friend I came with.

But she’s not here.

She’s not here.

My pulse spikes. I whirl toward the barista like a woman possessed. 

“Time! Date!” I demand.

“W-what—” he stammers, frozen in place.

I ignore him and scan the café over his shoulder, catching sight of a woman holding a newspaper. A few other patrons glance in their startled confusion, but I barely notice. I rush toward the woman. She stiffens immediately, rising from her chair and dropping the newspaper, the bell over the door jingling sharply as she hurries out.  

I snatch up the newspaper she left behind, rifling through it with shaking hands. My eyes search frantically for the time, the date, anything to confirm that… that I really am back.

It’s two days after Cass and I came here. 

It’s been two days, I’ve been gone for two days. 

I need to talk to Cass—

Fuck, where’s my phone—

I think I left it on the counter before I went to the café. Maybe I dropped it, maybe Cass picked it up… 

My eyes close. 

Fuck.

No. I can’t have left it there.

History would be completely fucked if I did that. And from what I can tell, nothing seems… different. No paradoxes. No butterfly effects. I think. Movies are my only point of reference, who knows how it actually works but nothing is on fire and nazi’s don’t rule the world. No robots. No aliens or…anything weird.

That kid is the only one who saw me, who met me, and somehow, that didn’t… change anything. 

I hope to God I’m right. 

“Excuse me?” I step closer to the poor barista, who’s mid-conversation with a co-worker and shooting me wary side-eyes. He stiffens as I approach. “Did I leave my phone here? Did you see it? It’s a Samsung , with a little frog sticker on the back—”

“Uh—yeah,” he says cautiously, glancing at his coworker, a middle aged woman. “Barb, can you go to the back and grab it?”

“Yeah,” she says, narrowing her eyes at me for a brief second, then vanishes quickly to the back.

“Are you sure you’re… okay, ma’am? I turned around and you were on the floor—”

“I’m—” I cut myself off mid-word when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the wall-length mirror near the countertop.

Holy. Shit.

No wonder he’s terrified. 

I look like a wild-eyed lunatic who’s been dragged through a hedge, waded through a river, and rolled in mud for good measure. My hair is plastered to my face in damp, tangled strands. My clothes are streaked with dirt, holes in the fabric from… something. 

I swallow hard.

“It’s been a…week.” 

After I get my phone from the lady—Barbara—I leave. 

And I go home. 

It’s not easy to research a historical figure based on one forename. 

Especially during the viking era, which, I learn, is around 800-1050 CE. It’s fucking nuts to think I went there. I still don’t associate it. 

I type in multiple variations. Nik. Nyk. Niklas. Nikolaus. But there must be a hundred thousand different boys with those names. Mostly, the results I get are a mess of TV shows, metal bands, dubious baby naming blogs and sites. None of it translates into clean, searchable data. Not unless I want to dig through entire archives of Norse history, hunting scraps and footnotes that may or may not exist. 

I groan and flop backwards into my chair, staring at the ceiling. My hoodie—still damp, still dirty—sits in a heap on the floor like an accusation.

It was real.

I was there.

And if I was there once, it could happen again.

The thought makes my pulse spike.

Because what if, next time, I don’t land in a cave with a half-decent kid looking out for me? What if I end up somewhere else? Somewhere worse? What if I can’t get back at all?

I drag a hand down my face, muttering, “Cass is going to kill me.”

And that’s when I remember—Cass doesn’t even know I’m missing.

She thinks I was gone for two days.

She probably thinks I ditched her.

I shoot upright, fumbling for my phone, plugged into the wall. The battery’s at 17%, but it turns on. Messages flood the screen—five from Cass, increasingly frantic.

Cass:
Where are you?

Cass:
Not funny.

Cass:
Are you mad at me??

Cass:
Hello??

Cass:
Dude, I’m seriously worried, pick up your goddamn phone.

Guilt twists in my gut, sharp as glass. I hover over the keyboard, unsure what excuse I could possibly give. “Sorry, I fell through time and spent a couple days eating weird jerky in a cave with a thirteen-year-old Viking kid ” probably won’t cut it.

My thumb hesitates. Then I type:

Me:
I’m okay. I’m sorry, I had to ditch, there was an emergency.

The typing dots appear instantly, blink in and out like Cass is fighting with what to say. Then they vanish.

A second later, my phone lights up with her name.

She’s calling me.

Fucking fuckity fuck—

I answer, reluctantly. 

“Where the fuck have you been?”

Chapter Text

I’m fucked.

I’m so fucked.

The hum of the fluorescent lights is louder than it should be. Too loud. It drills into the back of my skull until I want to claw my ears off. Police stations always look the same in movies—grey walls, buzzing lights, a couple of bored officers shuffling paperwork. Boring. But being in one doesn't feel boring. It's nerve wracking. Especially when I've been officially missing for two days.

It feels like I'm in deep shit. 

I sit in the plastic chair, hunched over, my crappy hoodie pulled tight around me even though it still smells faintly of river water and mildew. Every so often I catch an officer glancing at me, then glancing away just as quickly, probably wondering which crime I crawled out of the swamp to commit, or if I’m a victim of kidnapping. 

I don’t know how I got here.

Okay, that’s a lie—I do. Cass. She’d been pissed, scared, relentless. She’d called the police because in her mind, I’d vanished for two days straight. Which means now I’m here, waiting for an “informal interview” with Sheriff Liz Forbes herself to explain my abrupt disappearance.

Liz Forbes. Sheriff of Mystic Falls. 

I press my palms to my knees, forcing them to stop bouncing. My throat is dry, my stomach is a mess of knots.

Because how the hell am I supposed to explain myself to Liz Forbes, when I could barely explain myself to Cass?

“I don’t remember,” I tell her. My voice sounds thin, even to me.

There’s a pause. A sharp inhale. Then Cass spits back: “Bullshit.”

I flinch, holding the phone tighter. “Cass—”

“No. Don’t Cass me. You vanish for two days. Two days. No texts, no calls, nothing. You think you can just waltz back in and say you don’t remember? What the fuck, Mari?”

“I’m telling the truth,” I try, though my throat feels tight. “I can’t explain it, I just—”

“You’re lying.” Her voice cracks on the word, low and furious. “If you don’t want to tell me, fine. But don’t feed me this memory-loss crap. I’m not stupid.”

My stomach twists. “Cass, please—”

“No. Not until you go to the cops. You were missing. People are asking questions. Do you get that? Your name’s probably already in a report somewhere. I’m not covering for you. You want to play dumb, go play dumb with them.”

I hear her breathing hard, shaky under the anger. Then: “Call me when you’ve told them you’re not dead in a ditch.”

The line clicks dead.

“Miss Davis?”

My head snaps up. 

A woman in uniform stands in the doorway, blonde hair tucked neatly back, badge gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. Sheriff Liz Forbes.

My stomach drops.

“Yes?” My voice comes out hoarse.

She gives me a soft smile, and it isn’t unkind, but there’s a terseness to her eyes I don’t miss. 

“Why don’t you come with me?”

I push myself up from the hard plastic chair, legs stiff from sitting too long, and follow her down a short hall. The soles of my Sketchers squeak faintly on the tile, the sound far too loud in the silence. She leads me into a small interview room. Just like in the movies—square table, two chairs, a little metal grate in the ceiling that hums with the air vent.

I want to skip ahead in time.

For one reckless second, I wish my ability worked that way—that I could just fast-forward and be done with this. But I know better. That’s not how it works. I can’t skip ahead. I can only rewind.

“Alright, Miss Davis,” she says behind me. “Why don’t you stay here for a moment? I’ll get you some water.”

I nod, relief washing over me in a small, cautious wave. My throat feels like sandpaper, every word I might have to say later stuck somewhere between panic and nausea.

The sheriff leaves me to it, and I sink into the uncomfortable chair, the hard plastic pressing into my thighs. A moment later, she returns, setting a glass of water in front of me and sliding into the chair opposite with a notepad in hand. I pick up the glass, grateful for the small gesture. The first sip hits my tongue—and something’s… off. Just a faint, floral taste lingering behind the water, like a delicate perfume or crushed herbs. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s strange enough to make me pause mid-sip. I don’t expect the police station to hand out fancy water.

She seems to still, her hands tightening slightly on the notepad.

“Is this… floral water or something?” I ask, twisting the glass nervously between my fingers. “Tastes a bit herbal. Like uh… tea.”

My throat is parched, and nerves make it worse. I take another sip, swallowing a healthy amount. 

The sheriff watches me, and there’s a hint of surprise on her face, but it’s quickly schooled into something stoic. 

“Miss Davis,” she starts. “I would like to ask some questions, if that’s alright with you.”

It’s not. 

“It is. Go ahead.”

If I refuse to talk to the cops, it’ll look bad. Worse, even. If I ask for a lawyer, it might make me look guilty of something I haven’t done. And… when am I allowed to ask for one? I don’t know the law. I don’t fully know my rights.

No. I didn’t do anything wrong. She has nothing on me.

Well… except maybe wasting police time—but I’m not the one who called them. Cass is.

If I cooperate, everything should wrap up neatly.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

“Your friend,” she says, eyes flicking down to her notepad, “Cassandra Beckley, reported that you went missing around 2 PM yesterday at Mystic Café. Could you explain that?”

“I…” My throat tightens, words catching halfway. My hands fidget on the table, twisting the glass nervously. “I… I don’t remember,” I finally manage, voice small and shaky. 

Panic coils in my stomach like a live thing. My chest feels tight. My mind races, searching for something—anything—to explain myself, but there’s nothing. Only the blank, impossible gap where those two days should be.

Her eyes sharpen on me. “You don’t remember?”

“N-No,” I splutter, and curse inwardly. 

“Alright,” she continues after a short pause, her eyes fixed on me, “then can you explain why you didn’t respond to your friend’s texts or calls, and why no one has seen you for the past two days?”

“I-I…” I swallow. “No.”

“No?” She raises an eyebrow. 

“No, I mean—sorry, I mean I don’t… I can’t.”

Smooth, Mari. 

Liz leans back slightly, pen hovering over her notepad. Her expression is neutral, but there’s a subtle tightening around her eyes—she’s trying to read me without showing frustration.

“Are you in any kind of danger, Mari?” she asks, direct. “Is someone coercing you? Do you feel threatened in any way? Did someone forcibly take you?”

“No—” I stammer. “I mean, I don’t—think so.”

“You don’t think so?” She repeats suspiciously. 

Fuck. It looks bad. 

My chest tightens, and my stomach twists into a knot that refuses to loosen. Every instinct in me screams don’t say too much, don’t let her think you’re lying, but my words keep tripping over themselves anyway. 

I can feel my pulse hammering in my temples. Heat rises to my face, and I suddenly want nothing more than to vanish into the floor. Shame, fear, and helplessness all mash together into a buzzing weight that makes it hard to think straight. I can practically feel Liz’s eyes on me, sharp and calculating, and every second stretches out, making my mistakes feel bigger than they are.

“I don’t remember,” I backtrack, affirming the lie. Affirm the lie. Affirm the fucking lie. 

She closes her notepad with a soft snap, glancing briefly at the—what I know is a one way mirror— before linking her fingers atop the notepad and fixing her gaze on me. I remove my clammy hands from the glass and wipe them on my legs.

“Miss Davis, I believe you’re the victim here, but I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.” She tells me gently. “Please, can you think of anything? Anything that might help?”

I affix my stare to the table. 

“No, I’m…I’m sorry.” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry if this is a waste of time. I didn’t mean to…make anyone worry.”

She stays silent for a long, long moment, and the quiet is worse than any direct questioning could be. My stomach twists tighter with every second, every tick of the clock echoing in my ears.

My heart jumps when the door opens, and a man steps in, walking over to hand something to Liz. Liz accepts what he gives her—a tablet—and sets it on the table. The man lingers nearby behind Liz, arms crossed, watching me like I might bolt. I feel his gaze burn into me. Then Liz slides the tablet around so the screen faces me. My chest drops, the weight in my stomach doubling. 

It’s the café. The inside. A CCTV view of the counter area. I freeze, my throat suddenly dry. There we are: Cass and I, waiting in line, chatting. Everything looks normal.

Liz presses the play button. 

The footage rolls slowly, mundane at first—the line inching forward, the murmur of customers, the occasional laugh. Cass turns around to place her order, and then…

I vanish.

Just like that. Poof. Gone. Like a glitch in the recording, like I was never there at all. 

The empty space where I stood makes my stomach lurch. My hands clench into fists in my lap. Words catch in my throat, fail to form. My heart is hammering so hard I can feel it in my ears.

Liz leans forward slightly, voice almost clinical. “Can you explain this, Miss Davis?”

Silence stretches between us, thick and heavy.

My stomach twists, my head swims. Dizziness rolls through me in relentless waves. I feel like I might actually vomit. My throat tightens, thick with the promise of tears I can’t stop. I open my mouth, then close it again. Words won’t come. 

I shake my head, helpless, because even if I could speak, nothing I said would make sense.

She pauses the video, and sets the tablet aside.

“Did you see anyone…unusual?” She pivots. 

That part confuses me enough to halt my panic. Does she think someone else was involved?

“I…” I shake my head. “No.”

She checks her notes. "You are twenty three, correct?"

"Yes."

“Have you had any memory lapses or blackouts before?” she presses. “It’s not normal for someone that age unless you have a head injury, to lose track of forty-eight hours, Miss Davis." 

“No,” I say, quick and flat.

Her jaw tightens, a flicker of frustration crossing her otherwise composed features.

“Are you certain you didn’t see anyone? Perhaps someone was following you?”

“I don’t—” I cut myself off before I snap at a police officer, sniffle, and brush a damp strand of hair from my face. “I don’t… think so. Not that I’m aware of.”

“Not that you’re aware of?”

Her tone lingers on the words, like she’s pressing for something just beneath the surface. I can’t tell if she suspects me—or something else entirely. 

Maybe there was someone. Maybe that would explain why this curse activates randomly, why I vanish at the worst possible moments. Maybe… I’m being haunted. 

My chest tightens as my mind races.

The man behind Liz narrows his eyes, fixed on me like a predator sizing up prey. I shift slightly in my seat, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel, like I’m being interrogated for something that isn’t even the point of this interview.  

“I’m sorry…” I say quietly. “No.”

The sheriff’s questions grow sharper, more clipped, her patience thinning with each pause, each unhelpful response I give. There’s a subtle edge of exasperation beneath her calm professionalism, but ultimately, she doesn’t have anything else—no evidence, no leads, no reason to detain me further.

So she has to let me go. 

“You’re free to go, Miss Davis,” she says finally. “If you remember anything, or anything unusual happens, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”

She leans forward and slides a card across the table, her gaze meeting mine with an unmistakable seriousness. I pick it up with trembling fingers. I tuck the card safely into my pocket, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. 

Then I get the fuck out of there. 

No missed calls.

I let out a long, shaky sigh, staring down at my phone like it might suddenly offer answers if I just willing it hard enough.

I want to call Cass, to hear her voice, to explain—or at least try to—but the thought twists my stomach. Opening that line of conversation feels like prying open a can of worms I have no idea how to handle. She doesn’t believe the amnesia excuse, and honestly… I don’t blame her. How could she? Even I don’t fully understand what happened, and any attempt at explanation would sound like nonsense.

My thumb hovers over her name in my contacts. I stare. Hesitate. Then I turn my phone on standby and gently drop it on my desk with a light thud. 

I’ll talk to her when I know for sure I’m not going to vanish again. 

Though, that might be never. 

My entire life, I’ve never gotten a straight answer about why I’m cursed. Why it happens. Why it doesn’t. My parents never believed me. Every time I tried to explain the… the way time sometimes froze for me, they waved it off. They said I was imagining things, making it up. I can’t blame them. When I was younger, they even sent me to therapy. Not because I was hurting anyone, not because anyone thought I was dangerous—they just wanted to “fix” me, wanted me to stop having crazy delusions. I can still remember sitting in that bland office, little hands gripping the sides of the chair, trying to make the therapist understand that what I was saying was real, that it was happening, that I wasn’t crazy.

But they never listened. No one ever listened. I was left to puzzle it out alone, the burden of something I couldn’t control tucked into the quiet corners of my life. 

I eventually pretended to be normal, that it never happened. 

But it did. 

It did, and it is still fucking happening. 

Fuck my life. 

I look down at the go-bag, the one I never want to let out of my sight. My fingers brush over the worn straps as if the fabric itself could somehow keep me safe, keep the impossible from happening again. 

I hesitate, frozen in place. Maybe traveling a thousand years into the past was a fluke, a one-time glitch in reality. Maybe I’m overreacting, letting fear twist every thought into something bigger than it is. 

I tighten my grip on the bag. Better to be prepared, though. 

Inside: tinned food, non-perishables—stuff that doesn’t expire for years. A few protein bars shoved in the side pocket. A canteen of water, plus purification tablets tucked in a zipper pouch. A flashlight with extra batteries, a lighter, and a bundle of waterproof matches. A basic first-aid kit with bandages, antiseptic wipes, painkillers, and a tiny bottle of iodine. Toilet paper, which I’m going to ration, even though my only option for disposal is to bury it like I did before. A multi-tool, a roll of duct tape, a thin emergency blanket, and a notepad with a pen—just in case I need to leave notes or track something important.

I double-check the bag, making sure nothing has shifted or fallen out, and trying to desperately figure out if there’s anything I’ve missed . 

If I end up there again, the kid is going to think I’m a witch. 

Maybe I should pack a book or two.

There’s nothing to do out there, after all. It could be practical, too—a survival guide, something that might actually come in handy if things go sideways.

I eye the bag, squinting at it and wondering if there’s even room for more. I’ve packed it pretty tightly already. Every inch accounted for. Still… a little mental escape might be worth squeezing in. So, I shift some items, make a tiny bit of extra space, and slide in a thin paperback and the survival book, wedging them between the cans. 

But it’s heavy, and utterly impractical for living everyday life. I have a job to go to. Responsibilities. A life that doesn’t wait for curses or vanishing spells. It’s pure luck I’m on my week off—the Mystic Falls gallery—otherwise I’d be juggling my pissed off boss, or just pure out of a job. 

Maybe I don’t need the full bag all the time. Maybe I can pack a smaller emergency kit instead. A fanny pack, or a purse—something I can carry without it dragging me down, something that fits just the essentials: a few protein bars, water, a flashlight, maybe a first-aid kit. Lightweight, manageable, enough to survive if the world goes sideways again.

I sigh and get to work, rifling through the apartment for a fanny pack I’m pretty sure my uncle gifted the last time he visited. Practical man, my uncle, he doesn’t waste time on trinkets or fancy things. Everything he gives has a purpose, a use.  

I peek under the couch cushions, dig through drawers, lift the edges of tables, muttering to myself as I search. Finally, tucked behind a stack of old magazines, I find it. Compact, sturdy, with enough compartments to stash the essentials without weighing me down. I hold it up, testing the straps, before I put it on.

“Okay.”

I exhale a breath, standing in the middle of my living room with my heavy backpack and my fanny pack strapped across my body. I feel ridiculous, but ready . 

Except, it doesn’t happen. 

I’m here, ready, and it doesn’t fucking happen. 

I shift my weight from one foot to the other, scanning the empty apartment like the curse is hiding behind the couch, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Nothing.

No dizziness. No tug in my chest. No slipping of reality beneath me. Just… me. Standing in my living room, ridiculous, hyper-prepared. 

A bitter laugh escapes me. Of course. Of course it doesn’t happen when I’m ready. That’s always how it works.

I sink onto the edge of the couch, and the leather squeaks underneath my weight. I take off the backpack and sit it beside me. My hands fidget with the straps of the fanny pack across my stomach, tightening and loosening them again and again.

Maybe that’s the curse. Not just disappearing, but the waiting, the not knowing.

I glance at the clock. Another hour passes. Still nothing.

And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that it’s only a matter of time.

Chapter Text

I’m pissed.

Not just pissed—fucking enraged.

The rest of the week passes. Nothing happens. I’m fine. In fact, the lull is almost worse, because it’s making me let my guard down.

Showers are quick, barely more than five minutes, because I can’t exactly take my backpack in with me. Sure, I could, but then it’d be wet for hours, pressing against me, and it would get in the way of washing. So I act fast, soap and rinse, in and out. It would be too much of a nightmare if I end up back in that cave naked, very inappropriate and awkward for me to explain to the kid. 

I doubt he has spare clothes laying around. 

I sleep with my bags. I eat with my bags. I even go to the bathroom with the bags on. I get odd looks when I do grocery shopping with the bags on too, but tend to ignore them. It’s worth it, I tell myself. It’ll be worth it, when I’m stranded in the middle of Viking-land with nothing but a shitty hoodie—one that I threw in the trash and replaced with a much better one. 

Then there’s work. The gallery. The one place I have to leave the backpack behind. I have my fanny pack, but my boss is adamant it doesn’t look professional—it clashes with the uniform. Which isn’t even a uniform! It’s just a neat and tidy all black aesthetic. I help artists set up, photographers and painters, and yes, the fanny pack actually works for carrying tools, brushes, little things. But apparently practicality doesn’t count for style.

So I smile tightly, tuck the fanny pack under my arm and put it in the staff room. 

As soon as I exit the staff room, as soon as the bags are out of my possession—

I’m back. 

I’m fucking back. 

The familiar cave walls press in around me. Damp stone under my fingertips, the faint smell of moss and earth in my nose. 

My jaw clenches until my teeth ache, until I’m certain I’ve ground them down to nothing. My hands shake, curling into fists at my sides. Panic shoots through me, sharp and unrelenting. I spin, looking for… anything. Anything to hold onto, anything to explain why this happened now.

The cave mocks me. 

No one is here. 

I wonder if Nik has left it, forgotten his hideout, got caught out by his dad for trying to sneak away again. I wonder how long I skipped this time, if he’s even alive. Maybe he’s old now, has his own kids, grandkids. 

I drop to my knees, chest heaving, the weight of the curse pressing down on me like a living thing. It’s not fair. It’s never fair. 

“FUCK!” I scream until my throat is raw, my voice bouncing off the stone walls and echoing back at me, mocking me.

I curl into myself, fists digging into the cold floor, heart hammering. Anger, fear, helplessness—they all mix into a roaring chaos inside me. Nothing I do matters. Nothing I prepare for, nothing I plan, changes the fact that I’m at the mercy of whatever this curse is.

The cave is silent, save for my ragged breathing, and I hate it. I hate the emptiness, the stillness, the way it reminds me that I am utterly, terrifyingly alone. I am a prisoner to this fucking—

“Oh! Witch friend!”

I snap up, hurrying to sit up, eyes darting around. 

The boy. He’s still a boy. Standing there with another wicker basket full of supplies. He’s staring at me. I’m staring at him. 

A breathless laugh escapes me, sharp and frantic.  

“Not a witch,” I manage, voice tight.

He blinks at me, expression unreadable, but there’s a small, knowing tilt to his head—like he’s already half-figured it out. I grab a handful of my hair and tug it behind my ears, still trembling, still hyper-aware that I’m here again.

“Hi, Nik,” I say, my voice small, almost defeated.

“Lost again?” he asks, tilting his head, eyes sharp but gentle.

“I am,” I admit, swallowing hard.

He looks me up and down. Then he moves closer and sits down beside me, setting his basket carefully on the cave floor. The small scrape of stone against stone echoes faintly. For a moment, we just sit there, the silence between us heavier than any words. 

I pull my knees up, pressing my back against the wall and hugging my legs.

“How long has it been?” I ask with a heavy sigh. “This time?”

He frowns, tilting his head. “Since the last full moon, maybe two.”

Moon cycles, great. But he’s not noticeably older. Months then? 

 “Mm,” I murmur, pressing my lips together. Then, trying to push past the knot in my chest, I try to distract myself by asking, “how have you been?”

Nik shrugs, shifting on the cave floor. “It is… alright. Mostly dull. Waiting, as always.”

“Waiting for what?”

He fiddles with the thread at his tunic, eyes downcast. “I thought… maybe you’d return,” he mutters.

I’m not sure how to feel about that. On one hand, it’s sweet. On the other, I don’t want to be back.

“Don’t you have friends?” I ask, then immediately cringe—maybe too blunt.

But he’s a kid. He doesn’t seem to care.

“I… lied,” he admits, gaze falling. “I have kin—brothers and a sister. But… no, I do not have friends.”

My chest tightens. My heart breaks a little.

I know that feeling. I was a lonely kid too. No one wanted to hang out with—or even speak to—the weirdo who insisted she could freeze time. The kid in therapy. The nutjob. They were worried the crazy was contagious. And now here’s Nik, sitting beside me, carrying that same quiet weight of solitude. 

A strange ache blooms in my chest.

“I’m sorry, Nik.” I tell him. 

He shrugs. “I need none of them. I have my kin. I have you.”

I huff softly. Even if it’s sweet, he’s just a kid. He doesn’t deserve false hope—he shouldn’t be waiting around for his messy, unpredictable adult friend. “You should have friends your own age, Nik. There’s no guarantee I’ll stay. I don’t have control over that.” 

And I don’t want to stay, either. 

He glances down at his hands, silent for a long while. The slight quiver in his voice strikes me sharply. “You do not wish to be my friend as well?”

Of course that’s the only thing he hears.

Is he my friend? No. I am an adult, and adults do not befriend children unless they work with them, or they are relatives or friends of the family. But am I going to tell him that? No. He deserves to have some hope. Is he my only hope to survive? Maybe. Is that depressing? Yes.

“That is not what I said,” I rush to clarify, keeping my voice soft but firm. “We are friends. I only let my friends call me Mari, remember?”

He looks up at me then, just for a moment, and I can see a fragile hope flicker in his eyes.

I roll my eyes, trying to hide the lump in my throat, and pat his head, ruffling his hair gently. He flinches slightly at first, then relaxes, letting me mess it up. A small, almost shy smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

“What were you doing anyway?” I ask, nodding toward the basket. “You did this last time too, foraging?”

He leans forward and brings the basket closer, between us. “I am creating colours, so I can…capture the world around us.”

“Painting?” I clarify. 

“What is painting?”

“It’s…” 

I pause, glancing at the rough little table he’d built to the side. On it, wooden planks are stacked haphazardly, scraps of cloth, and what I think are animal hides. The cave itself is brighter than before, decorated with symbols and crude drawings scrawled across the walls. 

“Well. It’s that,” I finally say, pointing, trying to take it all in. 

“Do you like to… painting?”

I tilt my head, smiling softly. 

“When you mean the act, it’s ‘paint.’ ‘Painting’ is the thing you make with it—the picture itself.” I place my palms on the floor and push myself up, stepping over to the table. My lips curl at the corners at the rough shape of a bird, but I can tell it’s a bird. “You’re talented, aren’t you?”

When I glance back at him, his face is already turning red, and I almost let out an ‘awww’ but stop myself. Male egos, especially in adolescence, are fragile. He didn’t like it when I called his name pretty; if I called him adorable here, he might think I’m patronising—or worse, insulting him.

He shuffles closer, nervously rearranging items on the table, hiding some of his work. “They are not finished yet,” he mutters.

“I do, by the way,” I say, returning to his earlier question. His eyes widen for a moment, confusion flickering across his face. “I like painting.”

“You do?” He blurts excitedly, and then shuffles his feet sheepishly. 

“Would you like me to show you?” 

He nods eagerly, his hair flopping into his eyes. 

I snort. “You really need a haircut, buddy.”

His eyes widen in horror, and a faint frown tugs at his lips. He viciously shook his head. 

“Okay, okay,” I put my hands up. “Painting then. Straight to painting.”

By the next few days, I decide I need to start learning for real.

Over the week, Nik does his best to help. He swings by, leaving scraps of his dinner, and then we paint together, side by side. But it’s obvious I have a lot to figure out if I want to survive here. I don’t want to rely on a thirteen-year-old to keep me alive.

“What are you doing?”

Nik stumbles upon me one morning, squinting at the sticks in my hands and rubbing them together far harder than seems reasonable.

“Trying to build a fire,” I mutter absentmindedly, and rub my tired eye. 

“How have you survived this long?” he wonders aloud, eyebrows raised.

“Oi,” I jab the stick lightly in his direction. “Don’t be mean to your elders, brat.”

He grins, completely unbothered, and I can tell he’s grown much more comfortable around me. Beneath the cautious exterior—and after realising I won’t hurt him, even when I’m really mad—he’s just a sassy little boy.

“I will teach you,” he says, dumping his basket to the side.

“How to be a brat, or how to build a fire?”

He pokes his tongue out at me, then crouches by my side to correct all the wrongs I’m doing. I watch and learn: how to pick the right wood, how to angle and press the sticks, how to coax sparks without smothering them. 

I’m pleased, and feel a little less useless, with mental notes in the back of my head on the process.

Nik crouches by my side that evening, the fire reduced to a few stubborn embers.

“Tomorrow,” he begins, “I will show you how to make snares—to catch rabbits, squirrels, whatever you can find. Then I can teach you how to use a bow, and how to fish.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I mutter, brushing at my hands. They’re raw and rough from hours of rubbing sticks together, the skin stubbornly rebelling against this prehistoric lesson. Damn my modern, soft hands.

He rises, shoulders tense, as if he’s about to leave. Then he pauses, turning back toward me.

“… are you alright, Nik?” I ask, feeling a pang of worry I didn’t expect.

He fidgets, kicking at the dirt, his eyes avoiding mine. His usual boldness falters. “Can you… can you pinkie promise that you’ll try to stay?”

My chest tightens, a sinking weight pressing in my stomach. 

“I… can promise I’ll try to say goodbye.” Is what I end up saying. I don’t want to lie to him. 

His eyes snap up to me, a little watery and intense. His mouth tightens and he goes to leave. I sigh, hanging my head for a moment. This isn’t a conversation I want to have. 

“Nik, wait, come sit,” I say, patting the place next to me. 

“I must go home…” he mutters. “Father will be angry if I am late and upset mother.”

I tense, my stomach twisting. The bruise—it’s fresh, angry red beneath the faded brown of his sleeve. I want to ask, to demand answers, but the words stick in my throat.

“Nik…” I start, my voice quieter now, cautious. “Does he—”

He flinches, eyes darting away, and I can feel the tension coil tighter around us.

“I am fine,” he mutters quickly, a little too quickly, voice stiff. “It is nothing. I can handle it.”

But I know better. I’ve seen enough in my life to know when someone’s lying about pain, especially when they’re trying to be strong for someone else. This all but confirms my suspicions.

His father beats him.

I swallow hard, debating whether to push or give him space. Every instinct screams at me not to let him go like this, not when he’s trying so hard to act grown-up, to shoulder it all alone.

“I’m here, if you need me.” I say to him. 

“You are not, though, are you?” He mumbles, and it feels like a slap. His gaze lifts to look at me, a little more daring than usual. “You will leave. Again.”

“I can’t control that, Nik.”

“That is what you keep saying.”

“Because it’s the truth. I would help you, if I could.”

His lips press together, hands curling into fists at his sides, shoulders slumping like he’s carrying a weight too heavy for his age. He reminds me so much of my little brother that I can’t help myself—I step forward with a sigh and wrap him in a small hug, patting his back gently. He doesn’t hug me back, but he doesn’t push me away either.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, voice soft. “I wish things were different.”

I don’t wish I could stay. That’s ridiculous. I don’t want to take him from his home, either. One, that could mess up my present time in ways I can’t even imagine, and two, I’m not parent material—not yet, at least. I’m too young. I’m in my early twenties, nearly my mid twenties. I have my own life ahead of me.

But I do wish I’d never met him, that things were different. That way, he wouldn’t have to feel the sting of my leaving every single time.

“So do I,” he mumbles into my chest.

Something presses uncomfortably against my chest, and I grunt, gently easing him back a little. My eyes fall on the necklace around his neck, still warm from his skin. I lift it into my palm, turning the small charm over carefully. It’s a silver bird.

“This is…” I pause, choosing my words. I don’t say ‘pretty’ like last time. “Beautiful craftsmanship. Where did you get it?”

“My mother,” he says quietly, his voice almost a whisper.

“Is she…good to you?” I ask cautiously. I don’t know what I’ll do if she beats him too. Maybe beat up the parents. 

“Yes,” he says, almost fiercely. “She is not like father. She is loving.”

Ah. Powerless, then. I doubt she’s an enabler. There’s not much she can do against someone that’s bigger than her in a society that’s probably sexist and would take his side.

Poor woman. 

“Well,” I mumble, reaching for my own necklace tucked beneath my shirt.

I select one of the charms—something small, simple, that wouldn’t draw unwanted attention in this era. I carefully thread the hoop onto the string of his necklace. 

“In case I’m not here when you get back… consider this my goodbye, for now.”

He looks down at the shell fragment. It’s small—no bigger than a fingernail—its edges smoothed from the ocean’s waves. In the dim light of the cave, it looks pale and muted, the ivory streaked faintly with sandy beige. Even without sunlight, it has a quiet memory of a distant beach and a warmth that feels almost impossible here in the cold, shadowed cave.

“It’s special to me,” I add softly. “Look after it. And… hopefully, I’ll be back for it.”

He keeps his stare on it for a while, before he lifts his pinkie finger.

I gently smile, and wrap my pinkie around his. 

“Get home safe, alright?” I tell him sternly. “Don’t run into any, uh, bears.”

“There are no bears in the area,” he tells me off, like I should know better. “But there are wolves.”

“Then,” I shoo him. “Stay away from the feral puppies, alright?”

He gives me a very baffled look, and it’s replaced by concern, like some serious worry that doesn’t belong on the expression of a thirteen year old. “Do not go outside at night, Mari.”

“Hm?”

“It is dangerous,” he warns, voice low but firm. “Wolves are not to be fought and are not puppies …and they are not the only monsters out there.”

I blink, shadows from the dim cave light stretching across his young face. “Noted,” I mutter, feeling a chill run down my spine.

I didn’t feel like going outside, anyway. 

I bid him goodbye, watching his small frame squeeze into the crevice. Part of me wonders if I should insist he stay put—but this is his world, not mine. Teenagers here—kids, really—are far more capable than I am at this age. He’s considered a man here. He hunts. Probably all by himself. 

It’s fucked, really, but y’know. 

I curl up beside the fire, trying to get a good night’s sleep.

Tomorrow, if I’m going to survive, I’ll need to be up all day—hunting, foraging, staying alert. My mind keeps looping over one question: can I even bring myself to kill an animal? Eating is one thing; taking a life is another entirely.

The cave is cold, shadows stretching long in the flickering firelight. I tug the hide of what I think is stag closer, as if its weight could somehow make me feel safer, warmer. Every sound outside makes me flinch. A branch snapping. The rustle of leaves. I imagine wolves, eyes glowing, teeth bared. My heart rate picks up, chest tightening with a combination of dread and anticipation.

Several times, I peek from under the hide, squinting toward the cave mouth.

Eventually, though, I’m so tired my eyes droop. 

When I hear birds singing outside, I groan and roll over, frowning, trying to vanish underneath the stag. The morning light leaks through the cave’s jagged entrance, painting stripes across the floor in pale gold. I pull the hide tighter, letting it drape over my shoulders, my nose buried in its coarse hair.

I stir, eyelids heavy with sleep, the chill of the cave nipping at my skin. My muscles ache and the hide I’d dragged closer feels damp with night’s condensation. I groan and push myself upright, stretching out the stiffness in my back.

Before I can fully wake, I realise the grime of yesterday’s fire, sweat, and travel has settled into my skin. I need water—cold, fresh water. My feet slap against the cave floor as I make my way toward the river, the morning light filtering faintly through the entrance.

The morning chill hits me first, sharper than last night. I groan, stretching, joints popping and stiff from sleep. Dragging myself toward the river, I kneel at the edge, the cold biting at my knees.

I scoop up the water with cupped hands and splash it over my face again and again, shivering as it drips down my neck and soaks my hair. Dirt, sweat, and the remnants of yesterday’s fire swirl away downstream, carried off by the current.

“Fucking—” I mutter, shivering. “Cold.”

I jerk my hands, shaking off the water as best I can, then turn, squinting into the sunlight.

I wonder what month it is.

Flowers carpet the edges of the clearing, bright against the still-bare trees. A chill lingers in the air, sharp enough to suggest early spring, but Nik had said it’d been a few moons since he last saw me. A few moons… or maybe more. Maybe I skipped another year entirely—it wouldn’t surprise me at this point.

Time is an illusion, for me. 

At least I got to say goodbye to him, this time. But I hope it’s not been years if I have skipped. 

The cave, I realise. The cave is a good indication of time going by. If there’s more drawings and paintings on the walls, if it’s dusty and abandoned, if there’s a lot more shit in there—

I let out a heavy sigh, trudging back. 

Is it every time I cross through the cave? Is there something fucky there? Some timey wimey wormhole bullshit? 

It makes me want to find a new cave, because I’m not staying outside of it. Not with wolves and vikings and god knows what else. 

“Nik?” I call as I get to the cave. I kneel. “Nik?”

I crawl through the entrance, squinting into the dim interior, heart hammering.

Oh . 

I stand in a daze, looking around at the cave, and how much more… lived in it seems. A cauldron is on top of a much bigger firepit than the one Nik and I made last night. The cruddy table is bigger and—it’s a different table, I realise—bigger, sturdier, with carved designs running along the legs, intricate patterns that speak of a practiced, patient hand. There’s rugs to make everything more homey, a lot more designs on the walls…

My gaze drifts to the surface, and my steps slow. Hesitant. My hand hovers, then brushes against the piles of cloth and bundles of wooden planks that are more than mine and Nik’s.

Underneath them…is me.

I swallow hard, fingertips tracing the lines of a charcoal sketch, so precise it almost feels alive. It’s a picture of me, smiling, the details captured in a way that makes my chest ache. The style is so soft, and the artist drew with care. 

This can’t be… Nik’s work? It’s only been…

I step back, heart hammering, and notice the rest of the cave—the piles of supplies, the neat stacks of wood.. 

I turn around—

And there’s a man there. Standing there, staring at me like I’m a ghost. 

I freeze, for a few seconds, staring right back at him. 

Then I scream. 

Chapter Text

I grab the nearest thing—a plank with a painting Nik probably poured hours into—and swing it with all the adrenaline pulsing through me.

I’ll apologise later. 

“Stop—!”

WHACK! THUNK!

“Stop it—!”

The words cut through the cave, but I don’t hear them properly. My ears are ringing, my pulse drumming in my skull. I swing again, frantically, arms trembling from exertion, vision locked on the figure in front of me. 

Then—his hand shoots out like lightning, clamping over my wrist. Panic explodes. I yank, twist, flail, trying to break free. 

My foot catches a jagged rock.

The plank slips from my hands. I crash backward, hitting the ground hard. Dirt and pebbles dig into my clothes and skin. Pain shoots up my back, sharp and biting, stealing my breath in a hiss. I gasp, winded, trying to scramble up, but before I can, he’s there. He looms over me, his hands on both my wrists, pinning me flat. Strong and terrifying and much bigger than I am—

Fuck fuck fuck—

“Mari!” he shouts, voice raw with urgency.

I freeze. 

He—knows my name?

My chest heaves, eyes wide, heart hammering. Something glints in the dim light, swinging gently between us. My eyes dart. His necklace—sliding from beneath his shirt—hangs between us. It catches the flicker of the fire. A bird. And…a shell fragment. My chest tightens, my stomach dropping.

And then my gaze rises. His eyes meet mine. Nik’s eyes.

They’re flickering between mine. Wide, alert, almost incredulous, but unmistakable.

“It’s me,” he says—his voice deeper now, resonant, heavier, but if I strain, I can catch the faint echo of the boy I knew, buried beneath the man’s tones. 

My chest tightens, eyes wide, as the recognition slices through the panic. 

It’s…

“Nik…?” I breathe. 

When he sees I’ve stopped, no longer swinging or thrashing, his hands slowly lift, hovering uncertainly above me—just like I had when I first grabbed him all those years ago, back when he was a child. How his small body had stiffened when I unintentionally reached for his bruises in my panic. Now it’s reversed. Now he’s the bigger one.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to hurt you or… scare you.”

The cave is silent except for the crackle of the fire and our uneven breathing. 

I move slowly, cautiously. Midway, he extends a hand, careful, almost tentative. I glance at it, half-expecting some trick or misstep, but then my fingers curl around his. His warm hand grips gently, and with minimal effort, he pulls me to my feet. It’s startling how much strength he has now.

“Thanks,” I mumble, my mind whirling. 

He nods, and there’s a discomfort there—something constrained and unspoken between us. We both watch each other, both take each other in. 

What the fuck. 

He’s a man now. Like, an actual man. Broad shoulders, taller than any Viking boy I’ve ever seen, the set of his jaw sharp, his eyes carrying a depth that wasn’t there before. His hair’s longer—shoulder-length, wavy, half tied back the way warriors do. He’s dressed in a belted white tunic and wool trousers, sturdy boots laced to his calves, leather bracers strapped around his forearms. A knife hangs from his belt, catching the firelight.

My eyes flick over him, looking him up and down, finding it hard to believe he was the kid I knew.

“You’ve…um,” I swallow, my hand making a useless little gesture in his direction. “Grown.”

A flicker crosses his gaze, a faint flush creeping into his cheeks. He glances down, almost bashful, before looking back up with a smile. One that’s boyish, disarming, the kind of smile that flashes dimples so unfair it should be illegal. It startles me how… well, he’s grown into his features. He's handsome now.

It's weird.

I clear my throat. 

“So uh…” I rub the back of my neck. “What are you, now? How long as it been?”

“Nineteen,” he says easily, and straightens slightly, putting his hands on his hips. “You have not aged a day.”

“Flatterer.” 

The word slips out with a slight teasing lilt. His blush only deepens, spreading to the tips of his ears, and I can’t help the mirthful grin tugging at my lips. I step past him, letting my fingers trail briefly over the carved table as I take in the space again, slower this time, trying to map the changes with my eyes. 

“So,” I murmur, doing the math out loud, “six years.” My gaze flicks back to him, just for a moment, still taking in the changes, still trying to process and catch up. “I’m surprised you’re still coming here.”

“I was… waiting.”

I look at him over my shoulder, cocking a brow. “For?”

“When you left,” he shifts his weight, restless, then falls into step beside me as I circle the cave. “I thought perhaps you had gone back to your own home. But still, I came here. Again and again. Some part of me hoped you would return, but I also could not turn my back on this place—it has become… more than a cave, to me, it has become…”

“Special,” I finish for him. 

He looks up at me with a slightly breathless smile. 

“Yes,” he confirms. “Special.”

I smile back, glad he has his own little place he’s kept for years. That was my treehouse. Until I moved to Mystic Falls, of course. 

My gaze drops to the floor, where the plank I’d been flailing like a madwoman lies abandoned. The sight of it makes something twist in my chest. Guilt. I step over, crouch, and lift it from the dirt, brushing off dust with my sleeve as if that could erase what I’d done. When I stand, he’s watching me. I cross the space between us and extend the plank toward him, awkwardly holding it out like some pitiful peace offering.

“I’m…” The word sticks, and I cough, forcing it out with a crooked smile. “Sorry. For, uh… hitting you. And—” my eyes flick to the sketch of me on the table, throat tightening, “for wrecking your painting.”

He doesn’t take the plank at first. His gaze lingers on it, then on me, before he finally lets out a short breath, almost like a laugh he’s holding back.

“I have taken harder blows,” he says finally, lips twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. Slowly, he accepts the plank from my hands, setting it aside with care.

“Is your… father still—”

“I would not like to talk about him,” he softly interrupts. “If that is…good, with you.”

He never does, but I don’t blame him for it. 

Instead, I nod, and fidget with my jean loop holes. 

“Well,” I start, turning around to face him. “I don’t know if you remember, since it was six years ago. But for me it has been… maybe a few hours.” I rub the back of my neck. “But um…if the offer to teach me basic survival skills is still on the table, I’d… well, I’d appreciate it.”

His eyes flicker to the table, as if looking for the said offer. He seems to quickly realise it’s one of my strange colloquialisms, and there’s a small smile playing on his lips. 

“Well,” he says, his tone taking on something a little playful. “If I do not, you will burn the cave down trying.”

I laugh and give his chest a playful slap with the back of my hand—only to jolt at the unexpected firmness beneath my touch. My smile falters, surprise stealing over my face.

Damn. What is he made of, brick?

His eyes catch mine, a flicker of amusement dancing in them, and his lips tug upward into a small, knowing smile, clearly entertained by my reaction. He straightens up a little taller, as if proud of his new noticeable strength. 

“Have you been hunting bears?” I joke. 

“Have you been casting more spells?”

I roll my eyes. “For the love of—I’m not a witch.”

He grins, and I realise he’s pulling my leg. I slowly smile in return, unable to hold my pretend glare. Strange as it feels that he’s no longer a kid, the familiar spark of sass in his expression confirms to me that it’s still Nik.

“Are you sure?” I ask, hesitating at the cave mouth.

He rolls his eyes, though there’s a faint curve to his lips. “I will protect you, Mari.”

I accept his hand as I crawl out, brushing dirt from my clothes and crossing my arms, facing him.

“That’s what everyone says,” I mutter, frowning. “Before something bad happens. What if a wild animal attacks? What if it kills you? Then I’m left alone, screaming like a headless chicken. Or—what if someone spots me? Yells bloody murder for the entire village?”

“Mari,” he interrupts, hands hesitating before they press firm on my shoulders, forcing me to pause and meet his gaze. “You are fine. I will protect you. I have felled hundreds of animals.” Something flickers in his gaze, shame, perhaps. “Maybe not a man… yet, but—”

“A—a man—?” I echo, brows furrowing.

I don’t know much about Viking culture, I know a very shallow amount. Probably a stereotype: horned helmets, raiding, killing for glory and honour. Probably a gross oversimplification—but the thought that taking lives is probably a part of his world gnaws at me. The only reason he hasn’t struck me down… might be because he chose to hide me from his people, with no one around to poison his view of his childhood “witch” friend who speaks weirdly.

The realisation tightens my chest, and a cold shiver snakes down my spine.

If I manage to get back to the present, I’m doing research. I might need to call Cass and mend the bridge just so she can help me—and because I miss her.

He notices the change in me. “Is something wrong, Mari?”

I glance around, shifting my weight, searching for a plausible excuse. “I’m… a little cold,” I murmur.

He studies me for a long moment before giving a small nod. “No wonder you are cold—you wear the strangest garb.” His gaze drifts down, taking in my clothes with a faint crease of his brow. “Thin clothes, cut for men. My sister would kill for such freedom.”

Ah, sexism. 

I really don’t want to start that fight now—not here, and not while he could storm off to leave me to figure things out on my own. Survival comes first. Maybe I can argue about it later, once I’m actually safe, and I know what his stance on things are. Most likely, it’s the same as every man here. 

Then again, I heard women had a bit more rights in the Viking culture. 

Then again, I could be wrong. Could be misremembering from watching a tv show or movie. Truth is, I know jack shit about history. That’s Cass’s territory. 

Yeah, I need to fucking do my homework. 

Or…

Well, I can ask Nik about some of it. 

The safe topics, such as—

“Do you read or write?”

He blinks at the change in topic, before giving a very light smirk. A cheeky one that resembles the boy. “I am not a merchant, or a jarl’s son… or a witch.”

“You’re never going to let this go.” I say, my tone still light.

“Well,” he says, releasing my shoulders and gesturing toward me. “I have only ever seen witches perform magic. You have appeared in my life three times now, not aged a day and always wearing the same clothes. What would you call what you do?”

I open and close my mouth. 

I’d call it a curse, but he might take it literally. 

Really, he’s not wrong. It is some kind of magic, but I’m not the one casting it. At least not on purpose. 

He looks smug at my silence. 

“To answer your question, I can,” he says. “I wrote my name on the wall. My mother taught all of my siblings, and me.” 

“So,” I pause. “You’re a witch, then?”

He scoffs. “No.”

“But you just said—”

“I do not perform magic. I can just read and write because my mother taught me.”

I shake my head. “Sounds like witch behaviour to me.”

He scowls slightly, mouth in that petulant pout of his. “Kol is the witch, if anything. He spends countless time with mother and her grimoires.”

I’m starting to wonder if his mother is genuinely a witch, and entertain the thought that she might be able to help me with my curse—for a split second. 

Just a second. 

I mentally swat the idea. It’s a terrible one. 

“Tell me about your siblings,” I press. “You never talk about them.”

His eyes light up, and he gestures for me to walk with him. “You haven't asked,” he says, a little teasing.

“Well, I’m asking now, smartarse,” he just looks baffled at my affectionate insult, so I continue, “Go on… what are they like?”

He hums, walking beside me through the chill of the forest. “Finn,” he begins, “the eldest. Mother’s shadow, always at her side, always proper and responsible. Elijah is the second oldest—he thinks he knows the world, so he bosses the rest of us around. But this is the way he shows his love,” He purses his lips. “I’m next in line, but… father doesn’t concern himself much with me. I’ve… earned his distance, I suppose.”

“I know the feeling,” I murmur.

His eyes soften briefly before he clears his throat, continuing. “Kol. I mentioned him earlier. Mischief incarnate. Also follows mother around to learn her…craft, but mostly he’s clever enough to get under everyone’s skin. Once, he put rotting vegetables in my shoes. He found it hilarious.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Ugh. Ew.”

“The stench lingered and haunted me for days,” he mutters, a ghost of a laugh in his voice.

I can’t help a small smile.

“My sister… she’s fiery. You’d like her. Smart, sharp-tongued, challenges everyone.”

“Sounds like a force to be reckoned with,” I say.

He smirks, just slightly softer now. “And Henrick… the youngest. Loves exploring. Climbing things he is not supposed to. Trouble follows him.”

“That is a lot of siblings,” I mumble.

I wonder if their mother is exhausted. My own was and that was just with me and my brother. And maybe I could be a handful, what with my…eccentricities. 

“Is that… normal, no?” He tilts his head. “How big is your family?”

I cough. “There’s me. My mother. My father. My uncle. And my brother.”

I don’t mention my sister. The memories are too painful. 

“Is that all?” His eyebrows shoot up like he’s genuinely shocked.

A modern family. Not exactly bred for ancient time attrition rates because our healthcare is much better. Not exactly a brood of backups because it's very likely to have infant fatalities. 

But I don’t say that aloud.

“That is all,” I reply simply. 

“No more children? That seems… wasteful. A family should be strong. Many hands, many heirs.” He blinks. “Did your mother struggle to produce more children?”

“No,” I say with a shrug. “She just didn’t want anymore after… after me. Neither did my dad. I think they found me too exhausting.”

It’s an uncomfortable statement that makes silence grow between us. But not untrue. 

He stops walking, and my steps halt too. 

“I am… sorry.” He says, his features softening with a hint of something else in his gaze. “That must be difficult.”

“It was,” I sigh. “But I am independent now. I’m still close to my uncle, and my brother. My mother calls—I mean, sends letters, sometimes to check on me. But my father and I are…” I wipe my hands on the back of my jeans. “Not on speaking terms.”

“Has he disowned you?” He asks quietly. 

“I disowned him.” I say flatly.  

Shock flashes across his face, eyes widening, jaw tightening for a brief moment. “And your… your people allow this?” His voice is incredulous, bordering on disbelief.

“Other people do not dictate what I can do with my life,” I say flatly, then clarify, thinking he might not understand. “Sometimes, you have to sever the poisonous parts of your family—like a gangrenous limb. Better to cut it off than let it rot the whole body.”

“That…” he mutters, voice low, almost in disbelief, “that is impossible.”

I hesitate, weighing my words, and coming up blank. For him, for his time, it probably is. People didn’t get the luxury to pick and choose their family—blood was everything. You obeyed, or you were punished, disowned, or worse. 

Survival demanded it.

Poor dude. 

“Sometimes,” I murmur, tentatively. “You have to make hard choices. But this choice is yours alone. I am not here to judge you, or tell you how to live your life, Nik. You do what is best for you and your family.”

Only he knows his own circumstances, after all. I know jack shit about surviving here. 

He goes quiet, jaw tight, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I appreciate the wise words,” he says. “But perhaps this is something I must ponder deeply about.”

“Of course,” I reply. “A sword is not forged in a single strike.”

His eyebrows jut up. “ You know how to forge a sword?”

“Not really, but you get the point.” I grin at him. “Anyway,” I clap my hands, looking around. “Snares. Teach me.”

He shakes his head with a small smile, but he begins with his lessons. 

He pulls out some cord and a few simple tools, and we crouch by the trees, using the bark as leaning posts. He guides my hands, and I notice both our nails are filthy. I grimace, but ignore it, listening to him as he instructs how to loop the cord just right, anchor it to a tree, and adjust the tension so it will catch an animal without breaking.

I nod, trying to follow, though my hair keeps falling into my eyes. I brush it away over and over, kicking myself for not bringing a clip. One thing about this visit—I didn’t bother putting my hair up for work. Small annoyance, but enough to make concentrating on the snare a pain.

“…are you paying attention, Mari?”

“I am,” I defensively reply, and make efforts to make my voice less sharp. “I’m sorry, it’s my hair. I forgot my tie, and it’s a pain to braid it without one, especially without a mirror.”

Do vikings even have mirrors?

He hesitates, then leans a little closer. “Would… you like some help? I could… braid it for you. I help my sister, sometimes.” 

I blink, startled, and look up at him. His expression isn’t teasing or cocky—it’s earnest, completely genuine.

After a moment, I nod, a little tense. 

It feels… oddly intimate, a twist in my stomach that I can’t quite ignore—but I shrug it off and ignore it, telling myself he’s just being helpful.

I hear the leaves crunch beneath him as he shifts behind me, and I flinch slightly when his fingers brush my neck while gathering my hair. Despite the initial surprise, he’s gentle, careful, and having my hair played with like this is oddly comforting. 

Pleasant. 

My shoulders loosen, my muscles ease, and I can feel the tension in me melting away.

The forest is quiet around us, save for the distant rustle of leaves and animals. The soft pressure of his fingers threading my hair into a braid calms me in a way I don’t expect. It’s soothing, almost grounding.

“Thank you,” I say to him when he releases my hair and sits in front of me. His eyes flicker over to me as I offer him a smile, and I swear his cheeks are pink, but it can also be the chill in the air. 

Once he is satisfied with my snare, he shows me how to choose the right spot for one—somewhere animals are likely to pass, near tracks or water sources. He teaches me how to anchor it securely to a tree or rock, loop the cord just so, and hide it under leaves and dirt without disturbing the tension.  

We practice resetting the snares over and over, him pointing out what works and what doesn’t. He also stresses patience—checking too soon or too late can ruin everything. 

By the end, I can set a few decent traps, though I still fumble the fine details.

 “We’ll keep this here, in the meantime…” he puts his hands on his hips. “How about some spear fishing?”

“Spear fishing?” I’m intimidated, and a little weak from my hunger since he didn’t bring breakfast—I don’t blame him, it’s been six years and he probably stopped bringing extra food as a habit. “I’m down.”

He frowns in confusion at my speech, looking at the floor. 

“Sorry,” I laugh. “I mean I’m ready for the challenge.” 

He grins, shaking his head and huffing with a mix of amusement and exasperation. “You speak in riddles, Mari.”

“My bad,” I press a hand over my heart, and offer him a grin. “Now show me how to stab some fish.”

Chapter Text

“This should be a good spot.”

I turn to agree, only for the words to die in my throat as Nik starts tugging off the padded leather vest he’s wearing. My mouth hangs open before I throw up a hand.

“Woah—hold on. What are you doing?”

“Freedom of movement,” he says simply as he turns around, though there’s the faintest curl at the corner of his lips. “One must be quick to spear fish. And—” he pulls his shirt over his head without hesitation, revealing more skin than I’m prepared to process, “—I’d rather not ruin the only clean one I have.”

My eyes flicker over the muscles in his back when he turns around to place the tunic down next to his vest, startled with how well shaped he’s become, and wondering what the hell he’s been up to for him to get this toned. Fighting, perhaps? Just the survival skills?

“That makes sense.” 

I wrench my gaze to my feet. I awkwardly plant my hands on my hips for a moment, then crouch to roll up the legs of my trousers, focusing on saving my best pair of work pants from disaster. 

When he begins the lesson, he makes it look far too easy.

His posture is straight, movements sharp, the spear cutting through the water with precision. I shift my stance to mimic him, but I feel clumsy, awkward, every splash betraying me. The sound of water draws my gaze back up. He’s wading into the shallows, spear in hand, the river curling around his legs. When he turns to face me, there’s a sly grin tugging at his mouth. It's cocky, playful.

“You must move with the water, not against it,” he calls out, amusement threading his voice. 

“The fish are conspiring against me,” I call back, and glower at the water. 

He laughs. 

I huff, trying to copy the way he shifts his weight—knees bent, shoulders loose—but my balance feels all wrong. The spear dips too late, slicing the water with a loud splash instead of skewering anything.

I miss. 

“Fuck!” 

I snap, smacking the surface in frustration. Water arcs up and splatters directly into my face. I splutter and cough, blind myself with water.

Should’ve seen that coming. 

Behind me, laughter bursts out. Low and unrestrained. I whip around, glaring daggers at him, and sure enough, he’s grinning ear to ear. When I narrow my eyes, he coughs into his fist, trying and failing to school his expression, before trudging through the water toward me with exaggerated seriousness.

“Let me watch you again,” he says, crossing his arms across his chest. “Perhaps you are doing something wrong.”

“I know I’m doing something wrong,” I sweep my hand over my hair, some strands have gotten loose from the braid from the effort, but I tuck them back in. 

“Then I will observe. Try again.”

His tone is maddeningly calm, like a teacher humouring a very slow student. I roll my eyes but grip the spear again, adjusting my stance the way he showed me. Knees bent. Weight forward. The water ripples and I lunge, thrusting the spear down with all the focus I can muster—only to come up empty. 

I groan, shoulders slumping. 

“You hold the spear like it is a sword. It must be an extension of your hand.”

Before I can protest, he’s right behind me, his chest brushing my shoulder as he reaches around to adjust my grip. His hands are steady over mine, guiding my fingers into place. 

“Here,” he murmurs, lowering his voice as if the fish might overhear. “Now wait. Do not chase. Let the river bring them to you.”

His breath grazes the side of my cheek, the heat of him bleeding through the thin space between us, and his skin brushing against mine. Suddenly it clicks. My pulse spikes, a sharp jolt in my chest. 

Oh. 

Oh no.

My stomach plummets through the riverbed.

Shit. Shit. Abort.

Nope.

I yank back, almost tripping over the water in my rush, and force out a sheepish laugh that sounds far too high-pitched. 

“Maybe I should, uh—maybe I should take a break instead.” I’m already backing away, hands up, pretending it’s casual. “You can—uh—you can catch us dinner. I’m starving, that must be why I’m so—so completely not prepared for this.” 

I gesture vaguely at the water, at the fish, at anything but him, refusing to look at his face in case it confirms what I’m suddenly, terrifyingly aware of. I turn around so I’m facing away from him, mouthing to myself ‘what the fuck’ and allowing myself to freak out just a little. 

I need to nip this in the bud. Gently. Carefully. I still want us to be friends. But it’s tricky. Different era, different rules. For all I know, I could be creating the first incel. And I still need his help. He’s teaching me snares, spear fishing, everything—but if he’s truly hurt by my rejection, there’s no guarantee he’d keep that childhood promise. The one about never telling anyone about me. 

I want to trust him. I do. But realistically? I haven’t known him that long. Maybe a few weeks at most. And that was as a child. Six years have passed—he could be anyone now.

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

I take a seat on the side, making sure to manage my expression when I see him staring after me.

Fuck.

I am an adult woman. 

I can communicate. 

I have the ability to communicate my emotions.

The walk back is quiet. I keep my gaze fixed on the dirt, the trees, anything that isn’t him. The soft crunch of leaves under his boots reaches me with every step, and every now and then I risk a glance over my shoulder—sure enough, he’s watching, and when he catches my gaze he smiles shyly.

God, dammit.

When we finally reach the clearing by the cave, he sets down the basket of fish. Calm, composed—though the tension in his shoulders betrays him.

“So,” I say, cutting him off before he can speak. “How do I prepare freshly caught fish?”

His head tilts, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Are you…of noble stock, Mari?”

“I—Excuse me?”

He frowns, scrutinizing me. “You have no experience in basic survival. You are…” His gaze flickers over me, slow, assessing, and his cheeks tint pink. “Plump. Like you have never known hunger—”

“Did you just call me fat?” 

“—and your skin is flawless—”

“Well, thank you. I take skincare seriously,”

“But you cannot cook. You cannot build a fire. You cannot catch fish—”

“In my defence those things are slippery—” 

“Your accent is strange—”

“You have an accent too—”

“Mari.” His voice sharpens, frustration threading through it at my interruptions. I clamp my mouth shut, feeling caught. “Are you nobility?”

“No,” I answer quickly, almost laughing at the absurdity, but stop myself when I see the tight frustration in his face. “No, I’m not.”

He takes a step closer, gaze intense, like he’s trying to peer into my very thoughts. My heart beats a little faster.

“Then what of your background?” His tone softens, curiosity laced with urgency. “Where do you come from? You never answered me as a boy. You insist you are not a witch, and yet—” His fingers twitch slightly, as if he wants to gesture but restrains himself. “You are still a mystery to me, even after all these years.”

He tilts his head, eyes searching mine, almost pleading. “Tell me, Mari. What manner of creature are you? Who…are you?”

A tightening coils in my chest. I take a steadying breath, trying to quiet the flutter of panic in my stomach, and finally meet his gaze.

“I…” I swallow. “I’m not nobility. That much I can tell you for certain. But what I am? I—” My voice falters slightly. “I’m telling the truth when I say I don’t know, Nik.”

He’s quiet, observing me, like he isn’t sure if he believes me. He doesn’t speak his thoughts, so I can only speculate if he does. 

“Then where…you are from?” He asks instead.

I exhale sharply. “That one,” I say, voice low, “I cannot tell you.”

His eyes harden, just a little. “You do not trust me?”

I’ve known you for a few weeks, as a kid. So, no.

“There are…rules that we should talk about.” I explain evenly, forcing calm over the jitter of adrenaline still pulsing through me. Even this conversation feels dangerous.

He blinks. “Rules?”

Unspoken rules. Technically, I can do whatever I want, but I can’t risk breaking too much. Don’t interact with anyone—already failed that one. Don’t touch anything—failed, but at least limited to the cave. Failing at a few snares and a slippery fish probably won’t unravel time and space, hopefully. He would’ve done these things anyway, since the cave is his second home, and he chose those spots. Hell, maybe I was always supposed to be here, for some crazy reason.

I’m sure it’s fine—I tell myself in panic, for the hundredth time. 

“Let’s discuss the rest in the cave,” I say, trying to sound casual. “I can tell you while you teach me how to prepare the fish. I’m very hungry.”

After a moment, he silently nods, and I feel a small relief. 

I follow him into the cave, where he sets the fish down by the cauldron and takes a seat on the carved bench—a roughly halved log with some legs. I settle on the opposite side of the fire as he starts it.

Then he picks up one of the fish, holding it firmly by the tail. I flinch slightly at the dead, glassy eyes, and he notices immediately, letting out a small snort. I throw him a mock glare, and he grins, unbothered, before turning his attention back to the fish. With a smooth, practiced motion, he unsheathes the knife at his hip, steel gleaming in the firelight. My stomach flips a little at the sudden motion. He lifts the knife, pointing it to the areas he plans to cut and leaning forward to show me.

“First,” he starts, “we remove the scales. Watch carefully. You will do yours after I am finished. Observe my movements.”

There’s a competence in the way his hands move, confident in the way that he cuts the fish. His hands move with practiced ease, every cut sure and clean. Scales catch the firelight, flashing like glass before falling away.

“You were going to explain,” he says in the middle of his task, and I glance up sheepishly. “What are these rules?”

I adjust on the log, clearing my throat nervously, and wiping my clammy hands on my trousers—unrolled now that I’m not wading in water. 

“There are certain things I can talk about, and there are certain things that are impossible for me to answer.” I say. “These rules are for our friendship. If you want us to remain friends, then you must accept them without arguing.”

His jaw clenches, but he nods for me to continue.

“Just two rules. Rule number one, no one can know about me. You have kept this so far, and I am very grateful to you for it. It would hurt me a lot if you did.”

The annoyed crease in his brow softens. “I would never do anything that would hurt you, Mari.”

Let’s hope so. I swallow, the words sticking in my throat. 

“Rule two,” I continue, fidgeting with my hands, “accept when I cannot answer a question.”

His brow furrows, lips pressing downward into a disapproving line.

“I know it isn’t fair,” I rush out before he can voice his complaints. “But this is how it has to be—for our friendship, and for my safety. That’s all I ask. Two simple rules.” 

He exhales slowly, a hint of tension in the way his shoulders shift. His conflicted expression lingers, and my chest tightens as I wait, the fire crackling softly between us like a metronome marking the silence.

“Very well,” he finally speaks. 

I breathe. 

“Thank you.”

He deftly twirls the knife in his hands, until he’s offering me the handle. I stare a little dumbly, mostly because I’m impressed with the motion—until I realise it’s my time to descale my own fish. 

I grimace and reluctantly take the knife, feeling a little queasy. He catches my hesitation and smirks, clearly amused by my squeamishness. 

This is gonna be so gross.

“I brought you some things,” 

I glance over my shoulder, curious, and see Nik stepping into the cave, a wicker basket cradled in his arms.

It’s been a couple days since I arrived here.

He’s been taking me fishing, teaching me how to be better. I’m starting to get the hang of it, but not of other things. I still need his help with the fire, and our snares have not caught anything yet. 

I’m hunched over a piece of cloth he gave me to practice on, using a plank as a makeshift writing surface, carefully tracing the strange script from the wall. The quiet scratching of my quillpen (made of goosefeather) is interrupted by the soft thud of the basket landing on the stone floor, and Nik’s slightly smug—or proud expression. 

“What is this?”

He grins, arms crossed, and makes a small gesture toward the basket, as if daring me to look. I set the plank and cloth down and shuffle closer, rifling through it. I take each item out of the basket, taking one moment to examine them before I go to the next. A comb. Wooden, with thin bristles. Small metal tweezers, I think, and a small tool. Made of metal, intricately designed with a spiral and something that looks like a tiny spoon at the end. One of the other items looks like a godsend, but it can’t possibly be— 

I peel it from the basket, eyeing it. It feels waxy, about the size of my fist. 

Soap. 

He brought me soap. 

Another woman might be offended, might think he’s telling me I reek. I, on the other hand, want to smooch his cheeks. But that’d send the wrong image, and I’m fairly certain he’s already formed something of a crush on me, so I hold back. 

I continue to look through the basket, unfurling two dresses. One is a deep green, and the other is brown. Both with decorated hemlines and patterns on the neckline. I let out a breathless laugh. 

“I don’t know what to say, Nik,” 

“You could thank me,” he suggests with a slightly cheeky smile. 

I caress a thumb over the material of one dress, and then I stand, folding the dress delicately. I would ordinarily give a hug. I’m a very touchy feel-y person with those in my close circle. But I’m trying not to give him mixed signals. So instead, I put my hands on my hips and turn to him with a smile. 

“Thank you,” I say earnestly. “You are my saviour.”

His cheeks tint, and he offers a smile that’s almost painfully genuine. But then, slowly, his gaze sharpens—warms—and I feel it settle on me in a way that makes my stomach twist.

I cough, awkwardly. Shit. Did I just say the wrong thing?

He takes a hesitant step forward, lips parting as if to say something heartfelt, and I instinctively clap my hands, breaking the moment. He blinks at me, caught off guard, and I use the pause to move over to the table.

“Ah! By the way, I noticed your drawings,” I say, trying to sound casual, though my pulse is still racing. He blinks, curious. “You’ve grown a lot, but… could I give you some advice? To um, well, improve.”

With a faint, mirthful smile, he steps closer, easing to stand beside me. His shoulder brushes lightly against mine as he leans slightly to look down at the drawings. His hands press down on the table as he leans.

“Very well,” he says. “What do you think I should do?”

“Your strokes should be more confident,” I tell him, diving into critique mode. Now I’m diving into my special interest. “The shapes are a little stiff and rough because of it. My own work used to be a bit like that, but now a lot of my lines are loose and have more fluidity.”

His eyes, previously slinking over me, actually drift over to the cloth with interest at what I’m saying. 

“Also—” I tap a finger on one of the lines. “See how all your lines are the same thickness? If you make some lines a little thicker and some thinner, it helps show which parts are in shadow and which are catching the light. That way, when you go to shade, you’ll already have a guide for where the darker areas should go. It also adds more depth.”

“I see.” His eyes follow my fingers. 

“Have you ever seen a human skull before?” I cut myself off before I finish that sentence. “Ah, well, I suppose you haven’t—actually, maybe you could focus on your animal drawings for now for examples. Use a small animal skull for practice to see the structure before you draw it. A…” hesitate, the truth sticking in my throat. I can’t exactly say I use Google images or buy resin replicas online. “I have a friend that collects the animal skulls for me.”

He narrows his eyes slightly, shoulders tensing.

“A friend,” he repeats, flatly.

Of course he doesn’t focus on the skulls.

“Yes. A friend,” I confirm, forcing a smile. 

“Mm,” he hums, nonchalant but sharp, like he’s weighing my words. “And this friend…” His eyes lift to mine, and there’s something subtle in his tone—edge, maybe jealousy. “…is he promised to you?”

“Promised to me?” I blink. He can’t mean—no.

“Your…” He tilts his head, as if searching for the right words. “…future husband.”

I can’t help it. A loud, ugly laugh bursts out of me. Nik stumbles back, caught entirely off guard. I press my hands to my mouth sheepishly. 

“I’m… sorry, I’m sorry—” I wave him off, still giggling. “Luke? Luke? No! No! Ew! Never!”

He blinks at me, the tension in his shoulders relaxing slightly. I think relief flickers across his features, but there’s a trace of embarrassment, a faint heat in his cheeks. “Ah. Something like a brother to you, then?”

“Yes,” 

The tension around his eyes softens a little. “So…you are not married?”

It’s not an absurd thought. When I was freshly twenty, I almost did get married. No one in my close circle thought it was a good idea—too soon, both too young, how do you know he’s the one, all the usual things. And they were right. In the end, it never happened. Life had other plans.

Now? Marriage is the furthest thing from my mind.

“No,” I confess simply. 

“But you are…” he hesitates, as though stepping on fragile ground. “How old are you?”

I gasp, loud and dramatic, throwing a hand to my chest. “It’s rude to ask a lady such questions!”

He flushes instantly, words tripping over themselves. “I—I am sorry. I meant no disrespect, of course.”

“Really?” I arch my brow, biting back a smirk. “Because it sounds as though our friendship has an age stipulation. If I am an old shrew, will you abandon me? Cast me aside for someone younger?”

His eyes fly wide, horror written all over his face. “N-No! That is not—I did not mean—”

He inhales sharply, rubbing his palms against his tunic as though grounding himself, gathering scraps of dignity. Then, stiff-backed, he blurts, “A man would have to be blind. You are—” His words falter, and his voice lowers to almost a mumble. “No matter how old…”

I let out another gasp, this one even more scandalised than the last, clutching my pearls—or, well, my wolf pelts.

He nearly chokes on his own tongue, groaning as he drops his head into his hand, his ears and neck scarlet. “I am… Gods, forgive me. I never meant to imply—”

My composure cracks and I smile, wide and toothy. He lifts his head enough to see my smile, and realisation dawns.

“You…” he huffs, half-embarrassed, half-amused, “you witch.”

I slowly grin a wicked grin.

“Not a witch.”

Chapter Text

I’ve always been an animal lover.

I’ve had pets, I’ve worked in my friend’s animal shelter, I visited farms regularly to pet and feed the donkeys and goats. I’ve been to the zoo a lot as a child. I understand the cycle of life as natural, a thing of necessity and survival. 

But the first time I see Nik pick up a rabbit and snap its neck without a word—

A strained, horrified yelp escapes me. He blinks at me, confused and I’m in shock at the sight of the poor, fluffy creature, dead because we both need to eat. Because I can’t survive on berries alone, and neither can he. It’s so much easier not to think about where meat comes from when it comes neatly packaged in a freezer at the supermarket.

I grimace later, when he wants me to skin it. 

My hands tremble as I take the knife from him. Descaling and gutting the fish was easier, and I don’t know why. Maybe I don’t feel as much sympathy for the wriggling scaled animals than I do for the fluffy ones. 

I blame Disney.

“Oh god,” 

He’d just slit his one’s neck to hang it upside down, and I’d just brought the knife to do the same—

It spills over my arms.

I gag, the metallic scent of blood making my stomach twist. It drips from my hands onto the floor, warm and sticky, soaking into the stone. Nausea clenches tight in my gut, sharp and insistent, and I have to fight to keep from retching again. Every instinct in me screams to step back, to run, but my hands are still stained.

It’s already dead, I tell myself, and yet its eyes stare into me.

I’m a city girl. I can’t do this.

“Are…you well, Mari?” Nik leans his head into my view, eyes reflecting concern. 

I’ve never missed convenience stores more, never missed uber delivery as much as I do now. Restaurants who take this burden away from people like me.

“Nope,” I mutter.

I stumble back from the table, my stomach twisting, rushing outside the cave. 

I suck in ragged breaths, gripping my knees to steady myself. I hear footsteps behind me, following in haste, as I bend over and hurl into the dirt. Fingers move my hair from my face as I empty my breakfast, feeling my stomach clench painfully. I spit out the foul taste and my body is shaking.  

“Sorry,” I whisper, voice as wavery as I feel. 

My hair is gently adjusted, those fingers making sure to gently collect each strand. 

“You should have seen me the first time,” I hear his voice assure with a hint of mirth, before any source of amusement fades and there’s nothing except comfort. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” Nik assures. “There’s no shame in this. You simply have a kind heart.”

I’m trembling, weak from the force of retching, my palms pressed against the rough bark of the tree. I shudder at the sight of blood sprinkling my arms, splattered slightly across my new dress and shoes. 

It’s mostly on my damn hands. 

I try wiping it but it’s a feeble attempt. 

“Come with me,” Nik murmurs close to my ear, his hand sliding around my waist to steady me. 

He doesn’t rush, letting me set the pace, one step at a time, guiding me toward the riverbank. He helps me lower myself, before dipping my hands into the water. I gasp lightly as the water bites immediately, dragging the blood from my skin in swirling pink streaks. Nik hesitates before reaching forward and rubbing my hands for me, scrubbing the red from pink white skin. I don’t stop him. 

“I think I ruined your sister’s dress,” I chuckle weakly. 

His eyes flicker over the stains, and he shakes his head. “I will get you another one.”

“Your sister won’t notice?” 

“Not if I get her another one as well,” he smirks slightly. 

I huff. 

It’s…nice, to have someone care for you.

He finishes wiping my hands clean but stays kneeling beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him. I roll my sleeves up slowly, trying to still my shaky arms.

“If you like, I can finish skinning the rabbit,” he offers gently.

“No,” I say firmly. “I need to learn.”

He shakes his head, a small, almost exasperated smile tugging at his lips. “You do not have to do something that upsets you so,” then, with a boyish smile, one that has no business being as cute as it is, “I solemnly super promise to always look after you.”

I want to believe him. I really do.

But memories whisper in the back of my mind. The last time I trusted someone so wholly… they broke me. My mind urges caution. He’s just doing this because of his crush. He doesn’t even know you.

“No,” I say softly. “I will look after myself.”

For a heartbeat, his smile falters. There’s a flicker of hurt in his eyes, but it’s fleeting. Then he lets out a quiet sigh.

“We should get back inside.”

It’s disgusting. 

It’s disgusting, but I do it. 

Once the blood is drained, Nik and I prepare the rabbits.

My hands move without me, tugging, pulling, working the knife along seams. The knife snags on sinew before sliding loose, and the sound—wet, tearing—makes my stomach turn. Warmth seeps against my fingers as the pelt peels away, fur giving under my grip. I don’t look at its face or the judgemental eyes. I just keep working, because stopping and thinking too hard about it would be worse.

“You are doing great, Mari,” Nik praises. 

“I’m trying not to think too much about it,” 

He leans forward, resting his elbows onto his knees. “Well, for someone who is not thinking too much about it, you are doing well.”

I choose to recognise the compliment, even if it’s out of pity. 

“Thank you,” I give him a weak smile. 

“You will get used to it,” he assures me, even though I don’t want to get used to it. “It took me a while, but I am no longer as affected.” 

“How old were you when you started with…this?” The conversation helps.

“I believe I was…” he pauses as he thinks for a moment, as if trying to recall. “Eight. Maybe younger.”

“Jesus,” I mumble to myself. When I was eight, it was cartoons and video games. 

His head tilts, and I realise what I said. My body tenses slightly, and I focus on the motion of my hands like everything is normal. 

“You worship the White Christ?”

I keep my voice nonchalant. “Not really. I just…”

How do I even explain this? That blurting His name isn’t about faith, it’s just… reflex. Christianity has been ingrained into western culture for so long that its language stuck, even when the belief didn’t. People use those words without thinking—like “Oh my God!” or “For God’s sake!” It’s not worship. It’s just vocabulary.

But I can’t tell him that. 

Before I can stumble out some half-truth he asks me, “what do you believe in? You never talk about your Gods.”

Well. Shit. 

Saying I’m not religious isn’t an option. I don’t even know what year it is, and I’m terrible with history, but even I know generally in ye olden days, it’s sacrilege to admit such a thing. Then again, he called his mother a witch, and she isn’t dead yet. Not hanged or drowned or shunned away from their village. He praises his mother, like it’s a good thing instead.

No, better to not risk it. 

“I invoke rule two,”

His brows knit in irritation.

“I’m sorry, Nik,” I murmur, softer this time. “I promise, I’d tell you if I could. But this one… it falls under the rule.”

His jaw tightens, a faint tremor in the muscles betraying his frustration. He exhales sharply, and I notice the shadow that flickers over his brow, darkening his expression. The cave feels smaller all of a sudden, the silence stretching between us, thick enough to cut with a knife.

He’s annoyed. I can feel it.

I don’t blame him. 

He finishes the lesson stiffly, demonstrating each cut with exacting care, his hands controlled until mine. His voice is neutral, stripped of warmth, as he instructs me on how to gut the rabbit and prepare it for dinner. I follow along, until he eventually places them on the fire. 

Once they’re almost done cooking, he stands. 

“I will be back tomorrow,” he says finally, his tone almost brittle.

I don’t protest. I just nod, wishing the ground would swallow me whole.

As he turns toward the entrance, his movement pauses. He casts a glance back at me, one hand raised in a small gesture. “Tomorrow we will have much to do. Do not stay up too late. Get some rest.” 

I catch the flicker of warmth under the annoyance.

Then he’s gone, footsteps crunching over the dirt and stones, leaving me alone with the lingering quiet, the firelight flickering across my tense shoulders.

I exhale slowly, trying to release the tight knot in my chest.

Maybe he’s finally getting the hint, at least.

It’s been a couple days since he asked a question about my religion and I invoked rule two.

It’s been a little awkward and quiet between us. 

Which is why his sudden question startles me. 

“What is your family like?”

The fire spits and crackles, casting sparks up into the dark. Nik is laying across from me on the opposite side of the fire, charcoal smudging the tips of his fingers. His sketch is little more than rough lines right now. I look up from my own cloth, raising an eyebrow at him and taking a moment to stop from sketching.

“Pardon?”

He glances up, his pale eyes catching the firelight. “I’ve told you about mine, it seems only fair you tell me of yours.”

I fiddle with the charcoal stick in my hand, considering. He has told me a bit about his, mentions them occasionally when we’re in the middle of doing our lessons. I suppose I could tell him something that avoids too many modern details, more about their personalities…

“Well,” I say slowly, “my mother. She’s got her flaws, like every person does. But I love her.” I shrug. “She always had an uncanny talent for knowing when I was lying. It was infuriating, really.”

Nik’s mouth tugs into a faint smile.

“She and my uncle used to go to a—” I pause, and quickly correct myself, not knowing if he had schools. “They used to study and read books together. I think my uncle actually introduced my father to her.”

I twirl the charcoal stick slowly between my fingers, watching the faint smudges it leaves across my skin. My voice is thoughtful, almost distracted, as I spin the story aloud.

“They didn’t like each other at first. She thought he was a…” 

I pause, lips pressing together, hunting for a word that would make sense to him. Not cunt—he won’t understand that one. He might understand dickhead.

I glance at Nik, tilting my head. “What’s an insult your people use?”

Nik furrows his brow for a moment, then his face splits into a mischievous grin. “A shit-beard.”

The word is so sudden, so absurd, I choke on a laugh. I can’t stop the little hiccuping giggles that spill out of me as I point the charcoal at him like a dagger. “Ha! Yes, my father could absolutely be a shit-beard!”

A snort escapes me. Like a graceless, loud piggish snort. 

My hand slaps over my mouth, and we exchange glances in silence. Me, embarrassment, and him in disbelief.

That sets us both off. That’s all it takes. We both break. Our laughter ricochets off the stone walls, flooding the cave with something bright for once. His laugh fuels mine, mine fuels his, until my stomach aches from shaking. Nik nearly doubles over, clutching his stomach. His laughter comes ragged, unrestrained, like he hasn’t had a real reason for it in years.

I slap my palm against the cold floor, helpless, gasping for breath between wheezes.

“What—what was that noise?” he howls, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes.

I roll onto my side, pointing a trembling finger at him, my grin stretched wide and wild. “That—” I manage between gulps of air, “—was something that never happened! You hear me?”

“Oh, I heard you!” He chortles.

And just like that, we’re gone again, laughter tumbling back and forth until the awkward quiet that was pressing on us feels lighter, almost forgotten.

When we finally calm down, I lie there, ribs aching, cheeks sore. I can’t even explain why it was so funny—maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it’s just one of those stupid, harmless moments that slip past your guard, tickling some smooth, unprotected corner of the brain. The kind of laughter that’s contagious and just keeps going like a fucking feedback loop. 

I miss laughing like that. I haven’t in a while. 

My hand rests on my stomach, drawing forgotten and left to the side. I crane my head and move it carefully away from the fire, but don’t continue it, then go back to lying there. 

“Okay, where was I?” I mutter. 

“The shit-beard father,” Nik helpfully supplies from his side.

I close my eyes and smile, but continue. “Right, the shit-beard father. He’s a…he’s originally from another land to my mother, and uh—he came from a well off family, but he was the black sheep, and did not inherit the money when grandfather died because of it.”

“Were they merchants? Or nobles?” He asks. “Your father’s family?”

“It’s…hard to explain.”

A soft acknowledging hum from Nik tells me he’s still listening to the tale, just thinking on my words. 

“Anyway,” I say. “His sister paid for his—” no schools, “his voyage to my mother’s land, for opportunities. He met her there, and after some difficulty and conflict, he won her over. Sooner or later, my brother was born, and then me.”

And then Seren.

“How did he win her over?” He asks. “If he was a shit-beard.”

“I’m not sure, to be honest with you.” I tell him. “Both of them tell me something different.”

“What did they both say?”

“My father claims it's because he got her flowers.”

I glance over at him as I hear a disbelieving huff. He meets my gaze over the fire. “And your mother?”

“She claims that it wasn’t one grand thing, just a thousand little things that added up,” I reply. “Mainly, he showed her he’d always be there, no matter what. One of his other merits, he was always true to his word. Loyal.”

Nik tilts his head, considering that, his expression shifting. “You said…” he says quietly, his voice almost hesitant. “You said you disowned him. But you speak as though you still carry affection for him.”

I stare into the fire. “Two things can be true at once.” 

“That sounds… complicated.”

“Life’s complicated,” I shrug. “People are complicated. Especially family.”

We settle into an easy silence, the kind that feels rare and good, where words aren’t needed to fill the space. The fire crackles quietly, shadows flickering across our faces, and I notice the small details—the way the light catches in his eyes, the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

Then he speaks again. 

“And what of your other family?” He asks gently. “You mentioned a brother and an uncle that you have not spoken about.”

“Ah,” I smile now. “My brother used to be such a little shit.”

He barks out a laugh that echoes through the cave. “Ah, as someone with several brothers, that I can relate to.”

“When we were children, we fought constantly, like we were at war. But then the moment someone else messed with us, we were ready for blood.” 

I catch something in Nik’s expression before he quickly masks it behind something nonchalant. I hesitate for a heartbeat, wondering if I should continue. But when I see him waiting, genuinely listening, I do.

“The fighting stopped when we reached a more… mature age,” I say, careful not to mention Seren. “We still bicker sometimes, the way siblings do, but mostly we grew out of it. We became close and we protected each other. No one else could touch us without the other noticing.”

“That…sounds lovely.”

“I miss him.”

I think about him, about how we used to spend a lot of time together before he got engaged. Before I moved. How he still messages me every week to check in. How he’ll call me if I tell him I had a bad day. Sometimes when our schedules miraculously aligned, we skyped to watch a movie together. Not as often as we used to, but still. 

We used to watch a lot of movies together. Horror was our thing—we loved the thrill, the jump scares, the over-the-top gore. Eventually, we ran out of good ones, so we moved on to the bad—the hilariously terrible ones—and spent the whole time taking the piss out of them. Mocking the terrible acting, the absurd plots, the ridiculous special effects. It became less about being scared and more about laughing until our sides hurt.

My chest aches.

I fidget with the end of my sleeve. 

“There’s something comforting in knowing someone has your back no matter what. Someone who knows you—really knows you—even at your worst.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I can feel him thinking. I glance over, and finally, he lets a small, almost shy smile slip through. But he doesn’t look at me, he’s staring up at the ceiling in his thoughts. 

“My uncle,” I say affectionately. “He isn’t related to me by blood. But he is a close friend to the family,” I’m not sure if he knows what a godfather is, so I’ll leave it at that. “He has a hell—uh, sorry,” I pause at his confused expression and rephrase, “he has a great singing voice.”

“Oh?”

“He used to sing a lot,” I say. “And I used to join him, sometimes.”

I spy movement in the corner of my eye, and see him sitting up. He’s eyeing me, a hint of excitement on his face. “You sing?” 

“Oh no,” I groan, pressing my hands over my face. My voice comes out muffled. “You’re going to ask me to sing, aren’t you?”

“I would love to hear you sing,” he says without hesitation. 

My mind blanks. What could I even sing? None of these songs are mine, and if I’m not careful, I’ll end up bringing them into the world a thousand years too early.

I peer over my hands, and can see him looking at me with puppy eyes. My heart melts. 

Frick. 

“Fine,” I snap, but not harshly. He grins brightly. “Let me think for a moment for a song.”

I drum my fingers on my knee, before pulling myself up and straightening, turning to face him over the fire. He’s watching me patiently. 

What to sing. 

My mind flips through scraps of music—sea shanties, old Irish folk songs, and modern pieces with lyrics vague and obscure enough to pass unnoticed. Maybe I can make another rule. Do Not Mention This Thing To Anyone. It kinda goes into rule one, but not just about me, everything I bring with me from the future. 

“You can’t, um,” I cough, “you can’t repeat this song to anyone, okay? Yes? It’s important.”

He eyes me suspiciously. “Why not?”

“Just trust me, please?” I say to him.

He sighs, but dismissively swats his hand. “Yes, yes, I understand.”

“I mean it, Nik,” I give him a stern stare. 

He meets my eyes, the firelight flickering between us, and after a moment he leans over the glow, and extends a pinkie. My lips twitch, the warmth curling against my cheeks, and I lean forward too, letting the fire’s heat lick at my hands as I hook my pinkie around his.

“Alright,” 

I break away and sit up, uncapping my waterskin to wet my throat. I start quietly with a low hum, letting the sound ripple up like a siren, then follow with a few silly lip trills—brrr, brrr—letting the vibrations roll through my face. Next come some tongue trills, rolling my R’s until my cheeks twitch, and then I run through a few vowel scales: “ah, ee, oo,” letting the notes rise and fall.

“What…” Nik interrupts, giving me an absolutely bewildered look. 

“Uh, sorry, I should have explained,” I cough, a little embarrassed with the look he’s giving me. My face heats but I clear my throat. “I am warming up.”

“You are…cold?”

“It is… a common exercise for singers to ready themselves before they perform, where I’m from.”

His expression is so endearingly confused and concerned that I giggle and face away from him for a moment, so I don’t break down into laughter.

“You have very strange customs, Mari.”

“I know, you tell me this every day, now, observe,” I inhale, exhale, “how much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?”

“I… what?”

I laugh. 

“Fred fed Ted bread, and Ted fed Fred bread.” 

He blinks at me, utterly baffled. I keep going, diving into Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers—only to be cut off mid-phrase. “Are you casting a spell?” he asks. I can’t help giggling right in the middle of the tongue twister, my words stumbling over themselves as I barely manage to finish it.

“Are you ready?”

“Is your strange ritual done?”

“Yes,” I roll my eyes. 

“Are you actually going to sing?”

“Yes, Nik.”

“Go on, then,” he says impatiently. 

I hum to the song, only so much I can do without violins, trumpets, cellos, or pianos, but I keep the moderate tempo, and eventually release the first notes. Soft, bittersweet, and full of longing, they drift through the night, curling around the flames and settling into the quiet. 

“We’ll meet again…
Don’t know where,
Don’t know when…”

Nik leans forward, his eyes softening slightly. 

“But I know we’ll meet again, some sunny day.”

Song is We'll Meet Again by Vera Lynn, but it's also known to be sung by The Ink Blotts, I thought it was apt for them. Mari started singing it because she's thinking of her life and how she'll meet it again, but the song will eventually become about them :3 

Chapter Text

There’s something peaceful about foraging. 

I don’t know what it is. Maybe the repetition. The way my mind shutters other things off in concentration. Maybe it’s how the forest hums around me and lets my stress dissolve.

I crouch low, shifting a few leaves aside with the back of my hand.

My fingers brush past moss, lifting a stalk here, nudging aside a fern there. The soil smells rich, damp, alive. It’s… grounding, in a strange way. Almost enough to make me forget how out of place I am here. Takes me to old memories of granddad. We used to spend a lot of time looking through hedgerows in Pembrokeshire. The hills rolled on forever, green as a storybook, and he’d make a game of it. Whoever filled their bucket first got out of dish duty that night. I always lost, but I didn’t care. I just liked the little adventure, the exploration and spending time with my granddad.

That, and we cooked with what we found. 

He always led the charge, of course, I was ten. 

I helped chop, though. 

A tight ache squeezes my chest, nostalgia laced with something sharp. I breathe it out slowly, straighten, and plant my hands on my hips. Tilting my head, I glance over at Nik. He sorts through berries with a practiced hand, plucking the good from the bad without hesitation. He’s bent over a shrub, his wicker basket already half-filled. The craftsmanship alone of those things are impressive considering it’s all done by hand.

I might ask him if he can teach me how to make one. 

It’s been years since I’ve foraged properly or indulged in more quiet hobbies, too busy with work and other things.

It’s kind of nice. 

I start humming a random sea shanty stuck in my head as I wander to a new spot and search through some tall grass. I crouch, squinting at the ground, feeling for the telltale shapes Nik taught me to look for. 

I move slowly, carefully lifting mossy clumps and peering under ferns. A beetle scrambles across a patch of damp soil. I freeze, letting it crawl harmlessly to safety. My pulse slows, just enough to let me enjoy the rhythm of the search. I find a small patch of berries, round and bright, and tuck them into my basket. A twig snaps under my knee.

Nik made fun of me before, when he had shown me those snare spots he commented once on how noisy and clumsy I am. Teased me for it. Maybe he’s right. But, I mean, it’s not my fault. Typical people in modern society aren’t taught how to navigate the natural world quietly like a freaking predator sneaking up on prey. 

I crouch lower, brushing aside another layer of grass, and spot a tiny dark shape under a leaf. 

I pause.

Then it moves.

Eight hairy legs scuttle across my skin.

I screech. 

Pure horror rockets up my spine. I fling my hand like it’s on fire, stumble back into the rough bark of a tree, shaking myself like a dog fresh out of a river, trying desperately to fling the ghost of it off my skin. My heart hammers in my ears, my breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. Cold sweat prickles my scalp. Every twitch of a leaf makes my stomach lurch. My mind races with images I can’t unsee, and still the terror lingers, crawling under my skin, whispering that it’s still there.

It’s not on me. It’s not on me. It’s gone. It’s gone—it’sgoneit’sgone—

“Mari?! 

Nik crashes through the undergrowth, branches snapping, leaves rustling. His bow is drawn, eyes wide as if he’s seen a bear. My basket lies toppled; berries roll across the dirt with soft plinks.

“I—It—” I stammer, my voice trembling, slapping my own hand like it’s still there. My throat tightens, my voice breaks. “Spider.”

He freezes mid-step. Then he slowly lowers his bow, jaw tight, face carefully neutral, as if trying not to laugh at my panic.

“A… spider?”

“Yes!” I snap, prickled and defensive in the face of his derision. 

My chest tightens, old memories threatening and slinking in the shadows of my consciousness. Darkness presses in. Legs skitter across my skin. My pulse hammers, hot sweat drips down my temple, and I press my arms tight to my chest, trying to disappear.

My skin feels itchy. I want to bathe in hot water. I want to check every corner of my skin just to be sure it's gone.

His lips twitch, and then he laughs, low and incredulous. “I am—I am sorry… a spider—?”

“It’s not—” I shudder, scratching involuntarily. “It’s not funny, Nik.”

“Come now, a spider is a small little thing,” he brings his fingers an inch apart. “It will not harm you.”

“It—it’s not funny—it’s—I can’t—I—”

I press a hand to my mouth, trying to force the tears back, but they’re already slipping free. My chest tightens until it’s difficult to breathe, a cold dread crawling through my veins. I can’t think properly. The panic coils tighter, and the tears fall faster, I’m losing control.

His grin vanishes, his expression softens into awkward concern. “Mari—”

“Don’t.” 

He hesitates at the malice in my tone. I raise a hand and back up, taking a deep breath, despite the impossible pressure that hurts in my lungs. I don’t bother telling him I’ll see him later, I just turn around and storm away, my hands running through my hair until my sharp nails rake over my scalp. 

All I can think about is the shadows inside the cave, and what are hiding in them. 

I’m better now. I’m better. I can do this. They can’t hurt me. 

I can feel my hands, clammy and clenching. 

I stand in the cave mouth for a long time, forcing my feet to move forward. When I finally go inside I keep checking every corner. I’m sure spiders were always in the corners here, but I didn’t see them, so I didn’t think about it. And then one fucking spider crawled over me and forced me to reckon with the physical reality. It’s different when you see it, when you feel it.

Now I can’t stop thinking about it.

I try to distract myself with cleaning, readjusting clutter until it looks neat, using a stick to sweep away any faint cobwebs I spot. The motion is mechanical, almost soothing, but my eyes keep darting to the ceiling and the corners where shadows pool thickest. Every strand I clear feels like a small victory, though my skin still prickles as if something might drop at any moment. I shake out a blanket, fold it, refold it again, and set it down, only to check the stone floor beneath it twice. 

The cave is silent except for the scrape of the stick against rock and my own uneven breathing. It should be safe. It is safe. But the fear lingers, stubborn, like a stain that won’t wash out. When I finally pause, the cave looks tidy, almost orderly, but my chest is still a little tight and my mind obsessively cycles back to the image of the creepy crawly on my arm.  

I shudder, shaking out my arms a little more, trying to shake the ghost of crawling legs from my skin.

Fire. 

That’s the thought that cuts through the noise in my head. Bugs hate fire—well, except for moths, but I can live with moths, and I don’t think they frequent caves. I haven’t seen any. 

I kneel in front of the firepit and start working on the kindling. The motions are familiar, something I can focus on, and I don’t struggle with it as much as I used to. My hands still tremble, but soon the fire is crackling, offering its comforting warmth. 

A noise echoes at the mouth of the cave. My spine stiffens, breath caught tight in my chest—until I recognize the tread. Nik. Of course. I don’t turn. I’m still angry with him, for laughing at my fear, for not giving me sympathy instead of derision. I know, logically, it’s unfair. He has no idea why something so small terrifies me. But to me, it isn’t small, and his reaction hits too close to home—it plucks a sensitive nerve. 

Maybe I’ll tell him.

When I’m not mad.

For now, I need space, or I’ll just snap—and he doesn’t deserve that. Not really. 

But emotions are a fickle thing that don’t listen to the logical side of your brain. 

The silence between us is thick, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the soft sounds of him unloading whatever we foraged at his corner of the cave. I hug my legs tighter, chin pressed to my knees, listening to the shuffle of his hands and the uneven rhythm of my breathing.

Eventually, he settles beside me, taking a seat. 

I turn my head away, jaw clenched, mouth pulled tight.

After a long pause, his voice comes low, almost careful. “I am sorry. I did not… mean to laugh at you.”

I hesitate, but I say nothing.

I hear a small sigh in the background. Frustrated, confused. 

He sits with me for a while, and when he’s about to stand up, I take mercy on him. 

“When I was young,” I say softly, fidgeting with a loose thread at the end of my sleeve and staring into the fire. “I was…considered a strange child.”

Nik slowly settles back down beside me.

“No one liked me,” I continue. “I was too odd, for everyone.” Vikings don’t really have a concept of bullying but maybe he understands. “I was too different, too much of a…” freak, loner, weirdo, nutjob. “I was just too different, and I tried—” my voice breaks. “I tried so hard to fit in. But they were right, I wasn’t a normal child.”

I feel my vision blurring, and the flames blend together. 

Countless therapy. Child who kept crying wolf. The mental case. No one ever believed me. 

“I kept getting… lost,” I choke over a breath. “Like I do now. But no one believed me, they all—they all thought I was… weak—in the head. Not quite right. Crazy.”

He doesn’t dare say a word, doesn’t even move. I don’t dare look at him. If I do, I’ll start crying even harder and maybe even stop. The more I tell, the more it spills. 

“One day,” I whisper, twisting the thread tighter, “I made a friend. She was kind of like me. Another black sheep. We did everything together. Bickered sometimes, but… I didn’t feel so alone.” I swallow hard. “But that wasn’t enough for her. She wanted to be one of them. To be popular. So she…” 

How do I explain a closet to a viking?

“I think she wanted to be popular with them, because she—she’d been talking to them, told them I had a fear of spiders. “She lured me somewhere. Locked me inside. She told them about my fear of spiders, and they… they filled it. With so many of them.”

All over me. Crawling. Biting. I was screaming, shaking, crying.

“It was dark,” my voice breaks, trembling, “and I begged. I begged them to let me out. But all I heard was their fucking laughing.”

The thread snaps between my fingers.

I stare at the broken strand, limp and useless in my hand, before letting it fall. It drifts into the flames, curling in on itself as the fire devours it, a tiny ember swallowed by the crackle and hiss.

Nik sits very still beside me, his gaze fixed on the flames. For a long while, he says nothing, and the silence feels like it might crush me.

Then, slowly, he breathes out. “That is… cruel.” 

I risk a glance at him. His jaw is tight, his brow furrowed, eyes shadowed by something I can’t quite name. Anger, maybe. I still feel anger at it, too. Spite against the sadistic girls who thought a phobia was funny. 

“No one deserves such treatment,” he adds after a beat. “Least of all from those meant to be friend.”

I look back at the fire quickly, blinking hard. My throat aches, but his words slip into the cracks like balm.

He shifts, restless, and his hand twitches once against his knee, as though he wants to reach for me but doesn’t quite dare. Instead, he leans forward, elbows braced against his thighs, staring into the flames as if they’re the ones to blame.

“I am sorry, Mari,” he says again, voice low and urgent. “I would never do anything to hurt you. I give you my sincere oath: no one will ever do anything so cruel to you again, as long as you are my friend.”

My mind vehemently denies the sweet loyalty he promises me. It’s hard to believe. He’s only saying that because he has a puppy crush. I’ve been burned by fire a few too many times by people—

But that doesn’t mean I don’t desperately want to believe him. 

He takes me off guard, by holding out a pinkie. 

I choke on a wet laugh. 

His face scrunches up, like he’s affronted by my amusement. 

“I mean it. I swear it on my name and my word—while you are with me, no harm will touch you. You will be safe, and you will have no cause for sorrow.”

The words hit like honey—so sweet it almost hurts. Tooth-achingly, blindingly sweet. And still, I don’t believe him. But… it’s nice. Nice to pretend, just for a moment, that maybe someone really means it. That maybe, for once, someone really has my back.

If anything, Nik has been persistent. 

I tentatively hook my pinkie with his. It feels small and ridiculous, and somehow comforting. 

For just a small moment, I allow myself to imagine it might be true.

“I’m never going to leave the cave, you know that, right?”

Nik laughs, shaking his blond head. He’s already ahead of me, moving easily along the path I’m slowly learning to read. Past me would have gotten lost. Present me notices the signs because we’ve walked this path a few times now; the slight bend of a tree, the marks he’s carved into the bark, the way the path skirts the edge of the lake before cutting through a sunlit clearing.

“This is in case you have to,” he points out. “You need to know how to make shelter.”

I grumble, but concede his point. He’s right, of course. There’s always a chance I could “spawn” somewhere else, away from Nik, away from the cave. I didn’t expect to wake up in the 900s, far from the café, but here I am. Experience has been unpredictable. Realistically, I need to be ready for anything.

“Show me a good spot,” he says. “I want to see if you have the sense to pick well.”

I shrug and point haphazardly at a patch near the lake. “It looks good over there? It actually looked fine in a few areas but you didn’t stop so I didn’t say anything and just kept following you.”

He turns his head over his shoulder, eyeing where I gesture, and shakes his head. “The wind will sweep through here. Rain will collect against the rocks there,” he says, motioning toward a small rise further from the lake. “Better to build here. Dry, sheltered, easy to reinforce.”

“Okay,” I murmur. “Lead the way?”

He smirks, one corner of his mouth tugged up, and walks. “Follow me.”

As we move, I notice the ease of his steps, the confidence in how he reads the land. A far shout from the small boy I first met. 

I step up beside him, the earth soft and springy beneath my boots. From here, the lake gleams through a stand of pines, silver in the afternoon light. The air smells faintly of moss and wet stone. It’s quiet—just the hush of wind threading through branches, a bird calling somewhere out of sight.

Now that I’m not really struggling to survive, not panicking—I can admit it is gorgeous here. 

I softly smile. 

“This is a good sight,” I nod toward the scene. “You should draw this. Paint it.”

Nik glances at me, brow lifting slightly, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him.

“We could both do it?” I suggest, “after making this shelter, if you want?”

His lips curl up warmly, eyes flashing with something akin to excitement that I compare to a puppy. “I would love to.”

And so, we get to work. 

He kneels beside the patch of dry, flat ground, and I follow his lead. Nik selects a sturdy branch for the main support, testing its weight before pressing it firmly into the soil. I fumble at first, trying to mirror his movements, but he adjusts my hands gently. It doesn’t feel intimate—so I let him guide me, trusting that he’s genuinely trying to teach me.

Next come the smaller branches—the ribs of the lean-to. He shows me how to layer them along the main support, wedging each securely so the structure won’t collapse. I watch intently, absorbing every motion, determined to make the most perfect little shelter. There’s a part of me that wants to prove to him, and myself that I can do this.

He gives me patient guidance, continuing to correct my mistakes with a hand that just barely brushes mine. 

All the while, I hum softly, letting the sound drift into the quiet. Occasionally, he glances at me, a faint, warm smile tugging at his lips, and my chest tightens a little at the sight.

Finally, we cover the frame with pine boughs and leaves, thick and layered, trapping warmth and keeping rain at bay. Step back after step back, we adjust, smooth, tuck, and inspect. The lean-to takes shape into a small sanctuary carved out of the forest.

When we finally step back, I brush pine needles from my knees, hands on my hips, a stab of pride in my chest.

“Not bad!” 

Nik studies the shelter for a long, quiet moment, then looks at me, a soft grin spreading across his lips. My chest tightens with a flicker of pride as I meet his eyes, heart still racing a little from effort and satisfaction. He gives a small nod—simple and approving. We settle onto a fallen log for a break, the lean-to at our backs. Nik pulls out the bundle of our lunch, carefully wrapped in cloth. The scent of fish drifts up as he unwraps it. My stomach growls in response, and I don’t wait long before taking a big, eager bite.

I’m mid-chew, savouring the salty taste, when his voice breaks the comfortable silence. “Ah,” he says suddenly, almost as if he just remembered, “I forgot to mention… I have something for you.”

I blink up at him, cheeks full, a muffled “Hm?” escaping as I keep chewing.

He hesitates for a beat, then reaches into the pocket of his coat. From it, he draws a small bundle tied with twine, the gesture careful, almost shy. He extends it toward me without a word.

Curiosity prickling, I wipe my fingers on my skirt and take it. The bundle is small, soft beneath the rough wrapping. I tug at the knot, unfolding the cloth to reveal a delicate arrangement of dried flowers—lavender, wild rosemary, and tiny white blossoms—woven into a loop and fastened to a simple leather cord.

I stare, surprised, the colours bright faintly in the filtered sunlight.

“Women around the village wear them,” Nik says, his voice a little uneven, eyes flicking away for a moment. “For… scent. It’s, uh… popular.”

The faintest flush creeps along his cheekbones as he clears his throat. His fingers fidget at the edge of his sleeve, betraying a nervousness.

I bring it up to my nose. The flowers release a soft, herbal sweetness when I lift them closer, subtle but soothing. I can’t help but smile at the sweet gesture, a hint of alarm in the back of my head that he got me flowers, and another part touched at the gift. 

He’s just being nice, right?

Setting my food carefully in my lap, I slip the cord around my wrist, the leather cool against my skin. The flowers settle gently against my pulse. Nik’s gaze follows the movement, lingering there longer than he probably realizes. 

“This is… nice, Nik. Thank you.” 

I lift my arm slightly and give a small wriggle, watching the bracelet slide down my arm with a soft rustle. His eyes meet mine then, a faint smile flickering on his mouth. 

“Just to… just to check, this is um,” I feel my face warm a little, not daring to look him in the eye for this part. “This is a gift as a friend, yes?”

Nik stiffens, his hand pausing halfway through an absent motion.

“Ah—” 

He drags a palm over the back of his neck, eyes darting anywhere but mine. The tips of his ears flush red against the pale of his hair, and he busies himself with a stray twig, as though the smallest piece of forest suddenly requires all his attention.

“Y-yes,” he nods toward the bracelet. “A token. I thought it might… suit you, and, it was also to apologise for the other day... with the spider.” 

I bite my lip, and caress one of the flowers, before nodding at his explanation. 

I’ll accept it, for now. 

Chapter Text

“Nik.”

“Yes, Mari?”

“I’m booooored!”

The word comes out as a long, theatrical groan, echoing faintly off the cave walls. 

We’d finished our survival chores early—firewood stacked, spearfishing in the morning, traps checked, meat on the dry rack, water boiled and filled—and now there’s nothing left but the heavy quiet of late afternoon. I’m sprawled on the packed earth like a discarded rag doll, arms stretched above my head, legs bent at the knees. I’ve been huffing and puffing, restless for about thirty minutes.

Across from me, Nik sits cross-legged near the mouth of the cave, his sketch board balanced against one knee. The faint scrape of charcoal on wood is the only sound besides the distant hush of the wind outside and the crackling fire between us. His eyes flick up at my outburst, flashing with a quick spark of amusement. The corners of his mouth curl upward, just enough to betray his mirth.

“The woods are wide and the day is not yet done, and you find nothing?” Nik sounds genuinely doubtful, though the spark in his eyes betrays his amusement. He pats the ground beside him. “Here, come draw with me.”

“I’m not in the mood,” I whine, dragging out the words like a sulky child.

“Well,” he hums, and I can hear him continuing to draw through the scratches in his charcoal, “then find something to do.”

“Wow. Genius advice,” I deadpan, flopping backward. “My brain is going to eat itself alive.”

“Impressive,” he replies smoothly, not even looking up from his board.

“Nik,” I protest, sitting up sharply. “Come on. Teach me a game. Something.”

He taps the edge of the board, eyes narrowing in a show of mock seriousness. “You ask me to save you from this ailment, then? You know the magic word.”

Oh, this little—

I’ve pulled that exact trick on him before, teasing and dangling favours until he caved. Now he’s throwing it right back at me. Monkey see, monkey do.

Little bastard.

I swivel toward him, glaring at the smug half-smile I can just glimpse over the top of his sketch board.

“Pleeeeeeeeeease?” I draw the word out like a song, pitching it higher at the end for maximum effect.

Nik finally lowers the board, his grin widening into full mischief. “Better,” he says, voice warm with victory. “You want a game, then?”

“Yes.” I say, immediately intrigued. Like a Viking game? An ancient kid’s game? What rabbit is he gonna pull out of his hat, exactly? 

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming. “Hnefatafl.”

I blink. “…Neffle…taffle?”

That earns a short snort. “Try again.”

“Hen—hef…taffle?” I try again, slower this time, exaggerating every syllable.

He laughs, a sharp, warm sound that bounces off the cave walls. 

“Better,” he manages, though the sparkle in his eyes says not really. “But perhaps you should simply call it ‘the king’s game.’ It is a board game. Like chess, but better. A battle of kings and raiders. Strategy. Wits.”

“Oh, I know chess!” I played a bunch with my uncle. 

“You do? I am curious,” he grins. “Perhaps I will challenge you to it one day, but for now, we will play Hnefatafl.”

I narrow my eyes in mock offense. “Or maybe you just made that up to make me sound ridiculous when I try to repeat the name.”

“Perhaps,” he admits, still smiling. “But your attempt was worth hearing.”

“Okay, smartarse,” I swat my hand dismissively. “How do we play?”

“Well,” he sets his sketch board aside and rises in one easy motion, stretching as he crosses to the small table by the cave wall. He picks up a broader, flatter piece of bark and a nub of charcoal, then comes back to sit cross-legged across from me. “I have no true board with me, but this will serve well enough.”

He places the bark between us, its surface smooth and pale. With quick, practiced strokes, he begins to draw a grid of dark lines and dots. 

“This is Hnefatafl,” he explains. “Two players, two armies. The king, the hnefi, begins here.” He taps the center square, where he’s sketched a small diamond.

I lean forward, fascinated as he works.

“The king is guarded in the middle,” Nik continues, sketching a ring of tiny defenders around the center. “The raiders—my men—stand at the edges, ready to close in. Each piece moves in straight lines, like the rook in chess. To capture one of my raiders, you must trap him between two of your warriors. To capture the king, I must surround him on all four sides. But if your king reaches one of the four corners…” He marks the corners with a dark slash. “…he escapes, and you win.”

“So, we need pieces.” I say. “Otherwise it’ll get confusing with all the drawn lines.”

“Ah, but I have just the thing,” 

He hops to his feet and strides over to a small shelf at the side of the cave. Reaching inside, he pulls out a worn leather pouch and shakes it lightly. A few smooth, polished stones spill into his hand, some pale, some dark.

“Do you practice when I’m not here, or something?” I narrow my eyes at him. 

Nik chuckles, a low, warm sound that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Perhaps,” he admits, tilting his head with a sly grin. “Perhaps a little.”

“Just a little,” I hum, teasing, stretching the words out.

“Mm,”

He shrugs, letting the sound hang between us, and then settles down. He arranges the board carefully, placing the pale and dark stones. The quiet click of stone against bark fills the cave as he positions the pieces, and I lean forward, watching him work, already eager to start.

“There,” he says at last, stepping back slightly. “All in place. You may take the first move, little king.”

I pick up a pale stone, feeling its cool weight in my hand, and slide it into position on the grid, a spark of anticipation running through me. 

We play in silence at first, each of us leaning over the board, fingers hovering over stones, eyes tracking every move. I slide a pale piece forward, cutting a diagonal path through Nik’s raiders, and he counters quickly, dark stone clinking against bark. The cave is quiet except for the faint soft click of stone on board.

“Do you play naffle-taffle with your family?” I ask.

He chuckles.

“Yes,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Sometimes with Finn. But it is more Elijah’s game, really. Kol doesn’t sit still long enough to learn the rules, and Rebekah… she enjoys it, though she tends to cheat whenever she can.”

I smirk at that, leaning back slightly. “Sounds like my cousin—she’s brutal when it comes to—” I pause abruptly, realising I’ve nearly said too much, and sheepishly cough. “A game that we play,” I add quickly.

He notices my slip up, and raises a slight eyebrow. “Rule two, I assume?”

“Yes,” I wince. “Sorry.”

“I… understand,” he stiffly says. “Or I am trying to.”

“And I really appreciate it,” I add, the corners of my lips twitching into a small, grateful smile.

I turn back to the board, focusing again, and with a sudden flick of my wrist I make a sharp move—sliding my pale piece across the grid, breaking through the line of his raiders. Nik’s eyes widen for just a moment before he masks it with a wry grin.

“Ah,” he says, leaning closer, dark stone in hand. “A bold move.”

I grin. “Bold enough to win?”

His eyes meet mine, flashing with mischief. “We shall see.”

He wins the first game, of course. I’m a little rusty. But then I challenge him to a rematch. And again. And again. Then we’re playing for the rest of the night, game after game. I didn’t even realise how late it is, not until Nik glances up and mentions he should be heading home soon. I sit up, a subtle pang of disappointment tightening in my chest at the thought of him leaving, and the fun coming to an end. 

He seems to catch onto my mood, because he tells me, “not to worry, I can beat you again tomorrow.”

“Oh, you’re on, shit-beard.”

He splutters and laughs, the sound a comforting echo in the cave.

For the past couple of weeks, life keeps settling deeper into this strange, looping routine.

Morning means firewood and water, spearfishing or checking the traps. Nik still kills the animals for me, because my stomach can’t bear it, and I’m forever grateful—even though I know I shouldn’t let him keep doing it. I shouldn’t enable him. He shouldn’t enable me. I should force myself to get used to the sharp, ugly finality of survival. 

But for now, I let him shoulder that weight, and he never says a word about it.

And now, I can see the difference between the me who first stumbled into this life and the me I’m slowly becoming.

I can set a snare without fumbling the knot. I can gut a fish or slice meat for drying without gagging. I can tell safe berries from the ones that would send me sprinting for the nearest bush, or worse, poison me to a deathly degree. Day after day, lesson after lesson, it all folds together until my hands know things before my mind can even name them. I’m not perfect of course, I’m still clumsy and slow, but I’m no longer just a useless city girl tripping over every root.

When the day finally winds down, we slip into our evening ritual. 

Sometimes we sit shoulder to shoulder in the fading light, charcoal staining our fingers as we sketch whatever catches our eye: trees, firelight, each other’s profiles when one of us thinks the other isn’t looking. Other nights, we pull the board he stole from home. I’m a little worried he’ll get punished for it, but he just ‘zips’ his mouth with a cheeky smirk, and claims as long as he doesn’t mention it, he doesn’t need to worry.  

The quiet nights are my favourite. 

They give me something to hold onto when the homesickness creeps in. An errant ache for pizza dripping with grease, for the scald of a hot shower, for my phone buzzing with Jenna and Cass’s stupid group chat memes. I miss all of it more than I want to admit.

But sitting there with Nik, the longing dulls to a manageable hum.

It’s not home. But he makes it similar. He makes it bearable. 

Especially tonight.

“Ah—fuck nuggets!”

Nik glances back over his shoulder, the torchlight catching the quick flash of his grin. “Graceful as ever,” he says, the words warm with laughter. He shifts the torch to his left hand and extends the other toward me without hesitation.

I squint against the dim light, carefully manoeuvring around the root that tried to murder my ankle. My shoes—that he gifted me, and I’m pretty sure are his sister’s—scrape the uneven ground. I reach for him, fingers brushing his before he closes his hand firmly around mine. His palm is rough and warm, the sure grip stabling me as the hill continues its slow, treacherous climb.

“Remind me,” I huff, stepping over another hidden root, “why this lesson requires a death hike in the dark?”

“Because,” he says lightly, giving my hand the smallest tug to guide me up the slope, “the view is worth every stumble.”

I mutter something unflattering under my breath, but I don’t pull my hand back. 

Nik’s grip steadies me as we crest the last rise, and then the ground levels out beneath my boots. I glance at him uncertainly when I don’t see anything around, and he smothers the light. I squeak, and hear him chuckle at the noise.

“Wha—! Why did you do that for?” I whine. “It’s cold, Nik, and I can’t see as it—”

The words die in my throat, as he gently puts a finger on my forehead, and tilts it back. 

My mouth goes slack. The words die in my throat.

Above us, the sky is endless. Not the faint sprinkle of city stars I grew up with, but a staggering ocean of them. Thousands, millions, even. A river of white fire stretched across the darkness. It’s like the universe peeled back its skin to show its bones. The crescent moon hangs like a silver hook, and beyond it, a sweep of light so dense it looks like mist. A galaxy, naked and alive, spilling across the black.

The air feels thinner up here. Cooler. My chest tightens, not with fear but with the dizzying realisation of how small I am, how small we are, against something so impossibly vast.

Nik stands in front of me, silent. I can feel him watching my reaction, but I can’t tear my eyes from the sky.

“It’s…” I whisper. “It’s amazing.”

“Isn’t it?”

I feel the faint emptiness the moment his fingers slip from mine, a ghost of warmth fading against the cool night air. He steps away as my vision adjusts a little to the darkness, and I hear him unrolling the hide rug he brought under his arm with a quiet efficiency. The soft thud of it against the grass breaks the hush for just a heartbeat. 

He sits down. 

“Here,” he says, patting the spot beside him.

I shuffle over in an awkward little waddle, careful not to scuff the edge of the rug. I sink down beside him. The ground is cool beneath the hide, the night air crisp against my skin, but all I can do is tip my head back and stare. The sky swallows everything else, infinite and alive, until I can’t tell where I end and the universe begins.

It’s beautiful. 

“I…” I murmur, my voice barely louder than a whisper, “I thought this was a lesson.”

“It is,” he says, leaning back slightly. His arm brushes mine, and I feel the spark of heat where our skin meets. My stomach flips. 

“Tonight…” 

He shifts just a fraction closer, enough that I catch the faint scent of wood and leather and something else I can’t name. My heart hammers a little too fast. I glance at him, half-expecting him to do something bold, but he doesn’t—just holds the space close, deliberately patient. I swallow, and I swear he glances at my lips before tilting his head back to the stars. 

“Tonight is about reading the sky,” he says softly, “to know how to find your way home.”

“You can read the stars?” I ask, my voice catching slightly in awe. 

He can’t hide the boyish grin that creeps across his face at the tone, pride lighting his features. “I can.”

“How?”

He tilts his head back, letting his eyes wander over the dark expanse above. Then he lifts a hand, tracing a line from one faint cluster to another. “Here is Freyja’s Necklace. That one,” he points to a dim triangle near the horizon, “is Thor’s Hammer. When you travel, the night sky becomes a map. The sky speaks if you listen.”

I tilt my head, trying to follow the invisible lines he draws in the air. 

“How do you remember them all?” 

I’m impressed with everything he does, but maybe it’s because I’m a spoiled modern day city girl. 

He tilts his head. “Stories help,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to mine, and that boyish grin curls at the corners of his mouth, making my chest heat in a way I can’t quite name. “And practice. Lots of practice.”

He continues to point out the constellations—or, rather, his versions of them—tracing imaginary lines in the dark between the stars, weaving the sky into battles and journeys and tales I’ve never heard. I follow along, absorbing his words, the gentle rise and fall of his voice mixing with the hum of the night.

Eventually, the lesson drifts into quiet. We fall into a comfortable silence, just the two of us under the immense sky. My arms ache from holding myself upright, and with a soft, defeated sigh, I murmur a “fuck it” and shift, letting myself flop onto the cool grass. My head tilts back, eyes fixed on the stars, the vast expanse above me swallowing everything else.

He follows after a moment, hesitating slightly as his leg brushes against mine and apologising under his breath. I don’t say anything, letting the warmth linger where we touch. Nik’s arm rests just a fraction away from mine, close enough that I can feel the faint warmth without thinking about it too hard. The constellations twinkle like distant lanterns, and he’s quiet for a moment, just letting the night settle around us.

It’s kind of cold, but I don’t move. I don’t want to move. It’s a nice night, and Nik is good company. 

Weird, to think my first meeting with him was him as a kid, in that cave. 

“Mari?” 

“Mm?”

“Would you… would it be too much for me to ask you something?”

I cautiously glance over at him, tilting my head. My hair brushes his, since we’re not laying too far from each other. “What is it?”

“I know you can’t tell me exactly where you’re from,” he says softly, eyes tracing mine like he’s searching for something, “but… can you at least tell me if I’m right?” 

I pause, weighing my answer.

What harm would there truly be, to tell him I am from the future? He already thinks I’m some weird otherworldly creature. As long as I don’t tell him when I am from, or other things about the future, it should be fine, no?

“What is your guess?” I ask him gently. 

He tilts his head, searching, until his gaze locks on mine. There’s a faint thrill in the intensity of it, a quiet sort of daring.

“Are you… a Valkyrie?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper, like he’s afraid of my answer.

I bite back a laugh, the corner of my mouth twitching, and force myself into a straight face. “No, Nik. I’m not a Valkyrie—” before he can open his mouth, I interrupt, “and I’m not a witch, for the love of God.”

I expect him to chuckle along with me, to brush it off with that easy grin he always wears. But instead, his expression shifts. The boyish spark fades from his eyes, replaced by something softer, more serious.

“Then you are not from another world?” His voice is careful, almost tentative, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the moment.

I press my lips together. “No.”

He considers my answer. Silent. 

“I am…” I fidget, shifting my weight, sighing before sitting up and crossing my legs. He tilts his head, mirroring me, and sits up as well. I meet his gaze directly. “If I tell you—”

“I will not tell a soul,” he interrupts eagerly, earnestly. He suddenly takes my hands. “I swear you this on my life. On my family. I will never do something that will bring you harm.”

Wow, okay.

When a man in this era swears an oath on his life, on his family—

He means it, then.

“I’m—” I take a breath and swallow. “I cannot answer your questions afterwards, you know that, right? Just to remind you.”

“Yes.”

I look down at our hands, fingers tangled together, and notice the way he’s holding me. Secure, but careful, like he’s trying to be both strong and gentle at the same time. His palms are warm, roughened in all the right places from work and effort, evidence of someone always moving, always doing. It’s a strange feeling, holding his hand like this. Solid, grounding, and yet… intimate. 

For a second, my thumb hovers over the lines of his knuckles, almost unconsciously—like a nervous habit—and I force myself to pull back. 

“I’m from the future.”

Chapter Text

It’s relentless.

Ever since that night on the hill, Nik has been firing question after question at me, one right after the other, and I’m constantly forced to invoke rule two. On one hand, I’m relieved I don’t have to hide it anymore, and at least he understands why I can’t answer now…

On the other…

It doesn’t bloody stop him from asking.

The very next morning he was waiting at the cave entrance like some eager puppy, arms folded and eyes bright, and the second I stepped outside, the questions began. No greeting, no “good morning,” just—

“Is the future ruled by kings?”

“Rule two.”

“Do ships fly in the air?”

“Rule two.”

“Do men still fight with swords?”

“Nik!”

He only grinned, delighted by every refusal, like a child prodding at a locked chest just to hear the latch click.

Now, a full day later, it hasn’t let up. We’re waist-deep in the river, washing clothes and checking the fish traps, and he’s still at it.

“Do women in your era wear the same strange clothing as you?”  

I whirl on him, slapping the surface of the water hard enough to send a spray against his chest. “Nik!”

He flinches at the splash but only laughs, teeth flashing as he wades closer. “I am sorry,” he says, completely unrepentant, “but you cannot just make such a confession and expect no curiosity. You tell me you are from another time and then demand silence? Impossible!”

“That was the deal,” I sigh, trying for patience I don’t feel. “I told you the truth. You don’t get the details.”

“Yet the truth makes my mind burn,” he counters, spreading his hands as if the ache of it is a physical wound. “How can I not wonder? Do you have flying carts? Do you live in towers of silver? Do men still sing as we do?”

I slog through the river until I’m right in front of him, water curling around my waist. I’m half-tempted to strangle him and half-tempted to… well. I stop and huff to vent the hot frustration coiling in my chest, glaring up at him.

“Rule. Two,” I warn, stabbing a finger on his bare chest—his hard, wet chest. 

Nik stands over me, just enough to make me feel small, tilting his head as droplets slide from his hair down the sharp cut of his jaw. The grin he gives me is pure trouble, slow and wolfish, the kind of smile that feels like a promise and a threat all at once. Heat floods my cheeks, my pulse stuttering traitorously beneath the surface.

He steps closer, worrying subtle shift that feels like a hunt, and every instinct in me sparks like I’m suddenly prey.

Panic—or something that feels dangerously close to it—flares. I fling a handful of water at him, breaking the moment. 

Nik splutters, coughing as he slicks his hair back with both hands. My gaze betrays me, darting to the flex of his arms, the water tracing the hard lines of his chest. My breath hitches before I catch myself and whip around and start walking back to shore.

Too late.

A sharp splash follows, then strong arms hook around my waist, hauling me off my feet like I’m a goddamn paper doll.

How strong is this fucking guy?

“Ahh! Nik! No! No! No! Let me go—!” I squeal, thrashing my legs as the river rushes cold around my legs.

“As the lady commands!” he crows, laughter rough and bright against my ear.

And with a wicked flourish, he tosses me straight into the water.

The river swallows me in a shock of icy cold, stealing the breath from my lungs. I kick wildly, breaking the surface with a loud gasp, hair plastered to my face. I can hear him howling with laughter, as I’m coughing and spluttering indignantly.

 “You shit-beard!”

He’s doubled over now, laughing so hard he can barely breathe. 

I peel the hair from my face, shake my head and then scoff at him. “Oh, you think this is funny?” I advance, water dragging at my makeshift shorts—some I stole from his supply. “You’re dead.”

I lunge toward him, sending a wave splashing against his side. He barely flinches, grinning like the devil himself. Nik straightens, still smiling, but there’s a flicker of something sharper in his eyes as I stalk closer—something warm and challenging that makes my stomach twist.

“Am I?” he asks, voice low, teasing.

I splash him again, harder this time. “Yes!”

He steps forward, unbothered by the water cascading over his chest, and suddenly we’re only a breath apart. The playful grin lingers, but there’s a different kind of tension now, heavy and electric, thrumming through the narrow space between us.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” he murmurs, eyes locked on mine.

The world shrinks to the river’s rush, his warm breath brushing against my face, the taut line of his gaze making my chest constrict. My heart hammers so loud I swear he can hear it. My mouth goes suddenly dry, words lodged somewhere behind my teeth.

No, no, no… this can’t—happen—stop it—stop it—stop—

His eyes widen a fraction when I cough loudly, intentionally and stumble back a step, raking a hand through my soaked hair like it will somehow untangle the tension knotting my stomach. 

“We should—uh, get back—the fish need to… be dried… and shit,” I blurt, voice louder than intended, trembling at the edges. Panic prickles along my spine, and I can feel the heat of embarrassment, of being caught somewhere between wanting to run and wanting… something else entirely.

“Mari—” I hear him call after me, but I’m already splashing through the river, desperate to put distance between us.

This is bad. I should have stopped it the moment it started. This isn’t happening. Not now. Not ever. Did I… encourage it? I shouldn’t have. Fuck. Fuckity, fuck—

I’m not attracted to him. I’m not. 

He’s too young—nineteen, barely a man. Even though he has the body of an adult and definitely isn’t the scared kid I first met in the cave, I’m twenty-two, almost twenty-three. Viking people mature faster, necessity forces it, sure—but he’s still… innocent. Naïve. Probably just a puppy crush on his end anyway. Everyone has one. I did. 

Indulging in anything, even something fleeting or purely physical, isn’t fair to him. Nik seems like the kind of person who would get attached. I’m not sure I’m the type of person that can have something casual either. After my last relationship, I’m not sure I can also have something committed.

I need—I need space. 

If I let myself get close, even a little, I’m opening the door to nothing but heartbreak—for both of us.

I’m a coward.

We don’t talk about it.

I can tell he wants to. I catch the way his eyes flick toward me a fraction of a second longer than necessary, the way he hesitates before speaking, as if weighing every word. Every glance feels loaded, heavy with questions he isn’t daring to ask.

And every time I open my mouth to start… it dies in my throat. My chest tightens, my words falter, and suddenly everything I wanted to say feels wrong, dangerous, like it could shatter something fragile between us.

I’m a coward.

So I do the only thing I can think of: I act like it never happened.

He seems to take my lead. He jokes a little louder, nudges me a little more when we’re side by side, laughs with me like we always do, but there’s a tension there I can’t ignore, a pull under the surface that refuses to dissipate.

I’m a fucking coward. 

I can feel it in my bones, a dull ache that I can’t ignore, that refuses to let me fully enjoy his smile or the warmth of his hand near mine. Every day, it gnaws at me a little more. 

Other than that, things have been fine.

The start of the week slips by almost unnoticed. I keep telling myself it’s just an impromptu camping trip, forcing thoughts of home to the edge of my mind, trying to ignore the ache of longing for hot showers and familiar streets. I focus on the work, on the rhythm of survival, I try not to think too much on Nik’s sweet gestures. 

Like the time he carved me a new comb after I lost the first one he’d stolen from his sister, or mother. Like foraging for the berries I favour, even when he doesn’t need to. Like mending the tear in my skirt with surprisingly skilled, strong stitches.

I tell him he shouldn’t.

He does it anyway.

Eventually, I relent and ask him to teach me how to do it myself.

He hesitates, and for a moment I see a flicker of conflict cross his face. Almost like he’s grown accustomed to helping me—or perhaps he enjoys it, taking pride in being needed or having a purpose. I suspect it’s the latter. 

“I do not mind,” he says quietly.

“I do,” I reply stiffly. He looks taken aback, and I immediately feel the sting of my tone. I soften it a little. “I can look after myself. I don’t want to get used to it.”

“I do not mind spoiling you,” he counters with an easy, teasing smile.

I internally groan because I shouldn’t want him to spoil me. 

“Well, tough,” I say, crossing my arms and putting on my sternest expression. “We start today. Show me how to sew.”

“You are a strange woman, if you do not know how to sew.” He blurts. “Did your mother never teach you?”

“Let’s just say… the future doesn’t exactly… fuck it, rule two,” I mutter, cursing myself for almost slipping.

His mouth hangs open and spreads into a wide grin, mischievous and scandalised all at once. He wags a finger at me, playful but accusing. “You nearly told me!”

“I shouldn’t,” I grumble, huffing. “Just… show me how to sew without stabbing myself with a needle, would you?”

He chuckles softly, the sound warm and low, then rolls up his sleeves, exposing more of those lean, work-worn forearms. My gaze lingers a moment too long before I hastily jerk it away, pretending to adjust the fabric of my skirt.

Nik and I spend the entire afternoon outside, perched on a boulder in a quiet clearing, the lowering sun warming the earth and the gentle breeze teasing at our hair. The weather is perfect, and he’s decided it’s the ideal setting to teach me my first sewing lesson. It’s not nearly as brutal as spearfishing, but it has its own kind of patience-testing difficulty. Each stitch demands focus, and the moment I mess one up, I have to pull the thread and start over, the tiny frustration gnawing at me.

He leans over my shoulder, eyes scanning each stitch carefully. When I do something right, he offers a quiet, approving nod or a soft, “better”. When I go astray, he stops me gently, guiding my fingers and showing me where I went wrong, his hands brushing mine briefly. I focus on what I’m doing, even if his touch is maybe a little bit distracting sometimes. 

Only a little. 

The tiniest bit. 

It’s relaxing, otherwise, when things are going smoothly. 

In no time, I’ll fix up my own skirts.

I glance up at Nik, watching him do a much faster job than I’m doing, a little jealous. 

It takes time, I remind myself. 

“Mari?”

“Yeah?” I blink and look back at him. He’s regarding me curiously. 

“If your mother never taught you how to sew,” he muses aloud. “Does she know how to?”

“Uh,” I shake my head, cursing under my breath when I notice my crooked stitch. “No, she doesn’t.”

He hums, the sound low and contemplative.

“Why?” I ask, a little edge creeping into my voice.

“If your mother does not…” He tilts his head again. “…then how did you manage your clothes? You said your family isn’t rich, you’re neither merchant nor noble, yet the stitching on your old garments was flawless. Where did they come from?”

Ah crap. He’s catching on.

“Uhhhhhh,” I stop pushing the needle through the cloth, craning my head back as I stare at the sky. Why did I have to get the smart Viking? “Not something I can answer.”

He lets out a low huff, frustration threading through the sound. “This rule two… it’s becoming rather bothersome, Mari. You know I will not tell a soul. I have kept my promises. Just… trust me.”

“It’s… complicated, Nik,” I insist. “You’ve kept your promises, so keep the one you gave me about not pushing me. Please.” 

I can see it in the tense set of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens and his teeth grit. Frustration flickers across his features—but he doesn’t argue.

After a long, uneasy pause, I murmur, “I’m sorry.”

He lets the silence hang a moment longer before finally replying, soft but tense, “I know.”

Neither of us say anything further for a while. 

I let out a small breath, finishing my stitch. I brush my thumb over my work, knowing it’s not perfect, but it’s not bad, either. Not for a beginner. I’ve always had an interest in sewing, but I never had time to put into it. I suppose if there’s one thing

I look up, admiring the evening sky. The clouds have been there the entire day, but now I can see the early signs of stars.

“Huh…” I murmur. 

Nik’s eyes flick up to me as he threads another effortless stitch, humming a soft question, probably wondering why I’d made that inquisitive noise.

“Full moon tonight.” 

A loud clatter and the splash of water make me startle. In the corner of my eye, Nik is abruptly upright. His gaze is locked on the sky, fixated on the same full moon I was watching, and then—suddenly—he’s moving, packing his things with a speed that makes my head spin.

“The… the full moon,” he mutters under his breath, voice tight and sharp. “Tonight… it’s tonight.”

I frown, a prickle of unease running down my spine. The tension radiating off him is unmistakable, different from the calm, teasing Nik I know. He drops something, spins around, and his eyes find mine. Before I can process, he’s grabbing my wrist, yanking me to my feet.

“Woah—Nik, what—”

“We have to go—now,” he blurts, voice urgent. “This is all my fault—I should’ve… I got distracted—”

His grip is firm, unyielding, and the panic in his movements leaves no room for hesitation. My pulse races, thundering in my ears, matching the rapid rhythm of his steps.

“What’s—Nik—Calm the fuck down, talk to me. What’s happening?”

“No time,” he breathes, striding ahead with the kind of intensity that leaves no room for argument. His long legs cover ground fast, and I have to run just to keep up. 

“Nik, what the fuck—”

“We’re in danger,” he blurts, voice tight, eyes darting to the dark edges of the riverbank, scanning for something I can’t see.

Is this some celestial event Vikings are afraid of? Does he think some mythical creature is about to ambush us—werewolves, ents, feral elves?  

“We’re not that far from the cave, we’re fine,” I call, trying to inject some reason into his panic.

He doesn’t respond.

I yank my arm free from his grasp, and he stumbles to a sudden stop. I cross my arms, planting my feet in the muddy floor, glaring up at him. “Use your words.”

A little hypocritical, coming from me, but I’m starting to get irate—and a little worried. 

“Mari!” His voice cracks, sharp and urgent. He takes a step closer, eyes wide and—God—fearful. I’ve never seen him like this. Cold curls in my stomach, spreading through my chest. He glances wildly at the river, the trees, then the sky, and finally locks onto me again. “We don’t have time for this! I’ll explain in the cave!”

If something has him this spooked… I don’t even want to imagine it. On the off chance that boogeymen exist in this era—I mean, I exist. Whatever the hell I am. That could mean other… things exist too. I’ve thought about it before. Myths. Supernatural beasts. Folklore creatures. I can’t be the only unusual thing out there. But what’s real, and what’s just story?

Tonight isn’t the night I want to test that.

I nod, swallowing the knot of fear in my throat. Before I can object or ask another question, his hand shoots out and grabs mine. He yanks me behind him, moving so fast I almost stumble over my own feet, and I realise he doesn’t trust me to keep pace on my own. 

This time, instead of telling him to slow down, I push myself harder. I grit my teeth, forcing my legs to keep pace with his. He moves at a brisk jog, but I turn it into a sprint, matching his urgency with my own adrenaline-fueled pace. I just keep moving, eyes on him, trying not to fall behind.

By the time we reach the mouth of the cave, darkness has settled fully over the land. The night sky stretches above us, stars flickering faintly through the gaps in the trees, pale points of light against the velvet black. 

A loud, piercing howl slices through the air, reverberating through the forest and rattling my bones. My head snaps over my shoulder, eyes widening, and a cold shiver runs down my spine. The sound is wild, unrestrained, and loud. Like it’s close by. 

Wolves?

My mind immediately jumps to his people making stories about normal wolves as being bigger and more monstrous than they are, but that noise—it doesn’t sound normal. 

I don’t have time to contend with if werewolves exist or not. Nik reminds me of that. 

His hand lands firmly on my lower back, pressing me forward with quiet urgency. He murmurs in my ear, his voice low but tense. “Go,”

The entrance crouches before me, dark and narrow, but safety feels just beyond it. Nik stays close behind, his presence a shield as the howl echoes again, closer this time, and I move forward, heart hammering in my chest. I can barely stand up before he’s grabbing my forearm to gently move me out the way. 

He grabs something from the table and scatters it at the cave entrance behind us.

“What are you—”

He turns sharply, pressing a finger to his lips in a silent command. Once the sprinkling is done, he moves to the fire and smothers it, plunging us into near-total darkness. My chest tightens, breath coming in quick, shallow bursts as my eyes strain to adjust. I squeak when something brushes against my arm.

“It’s me,” he whispers to my ear, low and urgent. I feel his breath on my face. “Be quiet. Follow me.”

“How?” I hiss. “I can’t see a thing—”

Fingers curl around my arm, warm and firm and guiding me through the cave. I inch forward, carefully probing with my foot to avoid tripping. Slowly, my eyes begin to adjust, picking out his silhouette moving ahead in the dim light. He leads us to the back of the cave, the scrape of metal against stone announcing the repositioning of his fishing spear—the only weapon nearby.

He pulls me down into a crouch and then sits, drawing me close. 

It’s deafening in its silence; every faint step outside the cave makes my heart hammer against my ribs. I press my hands against my mouth, trying not to breathe too loudly. The darkness presses in around us, broken only by the faint shimmer of moonlight sneaking through the entrance.

Sensing my unease, he drapes an arm around my shoulders, his body warm and solid against mine. My pulse gradually slows, though the tension doesn’t leave entirely. Every creak of the cave, every rustle outside, sets my nerves on edge—but his presence offers a strange reassurance, like a tether holding me to something safe.

I grab onto his arm, digging my nails into his skin every time I hear something. 

I can feel the subtle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes, smell the earthy tang of his damp hair mixed with smoke from the earlier fire. It’s intimate, almost unbearably so, and I want to pull back—but I can’t. I’m caught somewhere between fear and the comfort of being near him.

It feels like hours before he finally lets out a breath, and his arm drops from me. 

“They’re further away,” he whispers, still at the volume of a breath. “Keep quiet, and they shouldn’t hear us.”

“Who?” I question. 

“I mentioned before, when I was a boy. I do not think you believed me,” He answers, turning his head to look at me, his nose brushes mine and I flinch slightly. If he notices, he doesn’t say. “But there are scary things out there, like men that turn into wolves.”

“Werewolves?” I whisper, the word tasting ridiculous on my tongue, more terrifying because saying it aloud makes it real.

“My people hide on the full moon,” he continues, voice tight with something like frustration—or disappointment. “There are caves closer to the village, a whole system. I lost track of time…”

“It’s been a full moon before,” I point out cautiously. “And you left me at night. What’s different now?”

“I never forgot,” he hisses under his breath. “I never had to worry before, because they usually stay in their territory. And I never had to worry about you… because I always sprinkled wolfsbane at the entrance of the cave.”

“That’s what that was?”

“Yes,” 

We freeze when a twig snaps outside. Every muscle in my body tenses. We shrink into our corner, silent, waiting. Whatever it was passes—or perhaps it wasn’t one of the wolves. After a long pause, I glance at him, I think. It’s still dark.

“We’re making a fucking calendar.”

Chapter Text

It’s the next morning.

I frown as I’m blinking awake, a strange, heavy warmth pulls at my side. My heart skips a beat, eyes widening slightly when they drop downwards to my waist. 

I freeze.

Nik’s arm is draped over me.

We must have fallen asleep while waiting out the… werewolves.

Werewolves.

I still don’t know if I believe him. I never actually saw them.

I’m not ready to dismiss it entirely. I’m more open-minded than most people—considering my condition—but even I need some proof. Plus, a little scepticism and critical thinking never hurt anyone. 

Last night, fear might have made me see shadows in the dark. Every rustle outside the cave made my stomach twist and terror grip my heart. The reality is, I had barely time to breathe, let alone properly analyse what was going on. My rational brain was shoved aside by adrenaline, flamed by Nik’s own reaction, so my nerves screamed run, hide, survive.

It’s entirely possible he’s telling the truth, and it’s entirely possible his people made up campfire stories. Maybe it was only wolves—or nothing at all. Either way, venturing outside wasn’t an option; feral animals don’t take kindly to curiosity.

For a moment, I entertain the idea of luring one and capturing one with a snare, and it quickly leaves my mind. Baaad idea. 

Still, it couldn’t hurt to make a full moon chart, right? I remember mentioning the idea to Nik last night. If what he’s saying is true, their appearance would correlate with the full moon. It’s not much, but it’s one step closer to digging out the truth. 

Nik makes a small noise in his sleep and tightens his grip on me, dragging me from my distracted thoughts and right back to the issue at hand.

Oh. Right. For fuck sake. 

I stiffen uncomfortably, body freezing and listening to the quiet sound of his even breathing. We’re both on our sides. His arm is tightly wrapping around my side. His mouth is right next to my ear, warm breath brushing up against my skin. My face feels a little warm as I chew the inside of my cheek, calculating how I can slip out from under his grasp without alerting him. 

Maybe I should just slap him awake.

A part of me wants to stay—the part of me that’s starved for affection and wants to melt into the warmth of the bedroll, to savour the almost addictive press of his arms around me, to let the flutter of butterflies in my stomach linger just a little longer and sink into the fuzzy feeling that I haven’t felt for a while.

But I tell that part of me to jump off a cliff. 

I’ve done this with male friends before—snuggling is a simple, comfortable pastime and perfect for sleepovers when we’re all watching anime or tv shows or movies—but none of them had feelings for me. Nik? I’m fairly certain. Pretty sure. Confident.

This is reckless.

More than friendly.

Dangerously intimate.

I turn my face, catching a glimpse of his. Something softens in my chest at the peaceful look on his face. Carefully, I tug my limbs free, moving with as much caution as I can muster, careful not to wake him. Eventually, I inch out from under him, careful not to jostle the bedroll. Every muscle is taut, like I’m trying to move through molasses. His arm falls away from my waist with a soft sigh.

Letting out a breath of my own, I get up and brush myself off. 

Fuck it’s cold. 

Or maybe because I was snuggling up to him and he stole all my body heat.

I rub my arms, tip toeing through the cave until I’m in front of the table against the far wall, next to the basin. I sweep the loose strands of my hair back, knowing I’ll have to redo the braid and briefly considering waiting for Nik to wake up to do it. Every time I try, it ends up lopsided and leans to my left shoulder. 

I wash my face at the basin, rinsing my mouth with herbs and the chew stick, spitting the dirty water into a separate basin. I miss my normal essentials—soap, toothpaste, a warm shower, a fucking toilet. The little comforts I never thought I’d notice. I miss my normal essentials. 

Urgh, speaking of my essentials. 

A dull, insistent pain blooms in my lower back like a cruel omen. I immediately start massaging the area, but the cramps throb low and mean at first, then sharpen until I have to hunch over just to breathe.

Without birth control, my cycles have gone back to being unpredictable—showing up whenever they please. And when they come, the flow is heavier, the cramps hurt more, the whole ordeal somehow more exhausting than it should be and I need more sleep like a hibernating bear.

I fucking hate being a woman sometimes. 

Dragging myself toward the supply bin Nik made for me that first month, the wicker basket creaks as I lift the lid. Still some leftover pads sit neatly inside, probably because he prepared two months’ worth “just in case.” 

I take one, knowing I’ll have to ask for more later, and my cheeks heat as I steal a quick glance at his sleeping form. Great. 

Carefully, I slip outside for a moment to change.

It drags me right back to the first month here. God it was so awkward to try to explain—but that evening he’d simply come back from the village with a bundle wrapped in linen. Soft wool, dried moss, carefully stitched together and shoved in their versions of undergarments. He said that it’s what the women in the village did, what his sister has to do. 

I’d never wanted to both disappear and hug someone so badly in my life.

As I shuffle back in, I groan and rub my stomach, the cramp biting deep. Normally, I’d reach for something sweet to distract myself, a little treat to help the ache feel a bit more bearable.

Urgh. 

I almost salivate at the thought of honey, chocolate, anything sugary—but scanning the shelves, my fingers close around the empty honey vial. A little whimper escapes me as I scoop a desperate fingerful and pop it in my mouth. Tiny consolation.

I don’t even have painkillers, or a hot water bottle. 

Knowing I’m shit out of luck on options, I try to refocus, grabbing the knife on the table and my board. 

With one hand, I grab the knife on the table next to the mortar and pestle, and my board with the other, counting the tally marks I’ve been using to keep track of the days. Absent-mindedly I think; it would be funny if my cycle syncs up with the full moon. 

But as I count, dread curls in my stomach like ice. I stare at the carved wooden board like it's holding a gun to my head.

I shakily run my thumb over the newest line, the groove rough against my skin. 

Sometimes, I told myself each one of those lines was a small victory, a fucking mark of endurance and another day survived. I’m a strong badass bitch, a tough cookie, nothing can get me down because I’ve been through worse. But other times, like now, they feel more like a countdown, a reminder that I’m trapped in this endless loop with no way out. 

The final mark brings the count to roughly three months. 

Three fucking months.

I’m frozen as my mind processes the information slowly, flicking back to the time I’ve spent here with Nik, and then to home. To everything I’m missing. Memories flicker in the foreground, attached to a bittersweet nostalgia that I can’t shake. 

Cass’s laugh, Glee marathons, melting ice cream on our couch. Jenna’s teasing grin, the way she could drink me under the table and still look gorgeous while I’m falling all over the place, the regular weekend hangouts. Jenna hasn’t been able to do much lately because of the adoption and selling of her late brother-in-law’s clinic, but I don’t really blame her for that. I’ve been busy because of the gallery and Cass is doing her masters. 

I doubt Jenna even knows that Cass is mad at me for mysteriously ghosting her for two days. They could easily have a private rant, but Cass isn’t that type. If she’s upset with someone, she keeps it between herself and the person who caused it.

I wonder how they’re both doing. If they’re okay. 

I tighten my grip over the wood and it creaks.

Something in me cracks, and hits me all at once.

Since I was thrown into the past, there have been good days and bad days.

Today, I think, is a bad day.

My chest tightens. I can feel something coil in my chest, a darkness thick as smoke, winding around my stomach, pulling at me with every breath. Something ugly gnaws through me like termites in old wood, hollowing me out from the inside until all that’s left is a fragile shell.

God. Are they looking for me? Do they think I’m dead? What if I never make it back? What if I do and months—years—have passed? What if rent’s overdue? What if I don’t have enough savings? What if my landlord’s already tossed my stuff into a dumpster? I’ll have to crawl back to the hotel. I’ll have to look pathetic in front of my brother when I inevitably ask for help—

Or worse, I’ll be forced to swallow my pride and ask dad.

Oh God. 

What if I fucking die here?

My vision blurs at the revelation. There’s heat behind my eyes that I try to blink away. But it spreads, coiling through my chest, pooling in my stomach, dragging the air from my lungs. For the first time in weeks, I feel like everything is too much. My heart starts to hammer, uneven and frantic, echoing in my ears. My hands shake. 

The makeshift calendar clatters to the floor. 

Thoughts knot together until I can’t breathe. My throat burns, I sink down to the cold stone floor and press my palms over my eyes, but the pressure doesn’t stop the tears. Hot, silent streaks slip between my fingers. 

A small, broken sound escapes before I can bite it back.

My head snaps toward Nik, heart hammering, panic flaring at the thought of waking him—or worse, him seeing me like this. 

To my relief, he’s still asleep. There’s a small twitch on his face, like he’s stirring, but he just rolls over. 

I slap a hand over my mouth, holding back another choked noise, and slip toward the cave entrance. Outside, I stumble forward and collapse in front of a tree, knees drawn to my chest. Sobs wrack my body, tearing from somewhere deep inside. Hands press to my mouth in a futile attempt to contain them, but it’s useless. 

It’s all coming out. 

I curl in on myself, rocking slightly, gasping for air I can’t seem to draw. My knees dig painfully into the dirt floor, rough and cold against my skin. I keel forward, folding over them, pressing my forehead to the ground.

I feel smaller than ever.

I feel alone. 

I feel trapped.

I want to stop crying. I want to stop feeling like this. But the tears don’t care. They come in shaking bursts, hot and unrelenting. My chest aches with every breath, every sob scraping raw against my throat. I clench my eyes shut, digging my nails into the dirt on either side, desperate to anchor myself.

The mud is soft, cold, but not enough. 

My body trembles.

Something suddenly brushes my arm. Gentle. Warm. 

I flinch, gasping through hiccups, my gaze snaps up. 

Nik crouches in front of me. Through my watery eyes, his features are just barely discernible.

I duck immediately, letting my hair fall across my face. Somewhere along the way, the braid has unravelled, now acting as a flimsy shield between him and the vulnerability tearing through me. I refuse to meet his eyes. It hurts too much to look, to see the heart-wrenching concern etched into his face. His warmth stings the ice wrapped around my chest. I can’t handle it. I can’t fucking handle it—

“Mari,” I hear him softly call me. 

I shake my head violently, bowing lower, making feeble, pitiful noises—more an injured animal than a crying woman.

He reaches for my face, trying to brush my hair aside, coax me to meet him. I fight against the strain, stubbornly keeping my head down. 

No, no, no, no, no. 

The primal part of me in a freeze huddles low, muscles coiled like a startled rabbit in the underbrush. Tail tucked, ears flat, every nerve straining, I will not tip upside down on my back and reveal my belly to him. 

“Look at me, Mari,”

I don’t want to. I can’t. 

I don’t want to be seen like this. 

I choke on a sob, silently shaking my head.

The touch returns, gentler this time, sliding from my sleeve to my other arm as though he’s afraid I might break, and shame sits atop me like an anvil. It crushes me and clings to my skin like damp wool, until every ragged breath feels like a personal admission of failure. I curl tighter, fingers digging into the floor as if the earth itself might hold me together while I quietly come undone.

It doesn’t. 

I can’t lift my head. 

I can’t look at him. 

Tears and snot still spill freely, slick and humiliating. I probably look disgusting.

Strong, sure hands wrap around me.

Warmth presses against my back, chest, and shoulders. He gathers me into his arms with a careful, unhurried strength, lifting me.

“Mari,” he murmurs gently. “Hold onto me.”

He moves my hair out of my face—my shield is gone, and his gaze—his caring, warm gaze that is trying to find mine, feels like shards of glass in my skin. 

So I shove my face into the only place I can hide. The warmth of his chest is almost suffocating, but somehow it feels safer than facing his eyes—the burning kindness in them makes my own self-hatred flare brighter.

Breathing is harder through the fabric of his shirt. Each inhale comes shallow and jagged, the air thick and hot. My nails dig in, half unconsciously, and I clutch at him as if he’s the only thing keeping me from slipping entirely under the weight pressing down inside me. My limbs tingle, edges going numb. My chest tightens, heart hammering in frantic, uneven beats. The world tilts, shrinks, and sharp little spikes of panic stab at me with every breath. 

He threads his fingers through my hair, lifting my chin and brushing it gently from my face. He doesn’t demand I meet his eyes, but he won’t let me shrink away, either.

“No,” he says, firm but calm, when I try to pull back. “Mari. You’re struggling to breathe. I need you to breathe.”

A distant awareness cuts through the fog of my breakdown. He’s right. I’m not breathing properly.

“Breathe,” he says again, softer this time, moving my hair from my face, fingers raking gently through it. “Come on. Just a little.”

I close my eyes and try. Gasping, shaky breaths finally start to come. Nik leans back against the tree, holding me like I might dissolve if he lets go. His chin rests atop my head, the rise and fall of his chest pressing comfortingly against my ear. He doesn’t speak again, doesn’t scold or prod.

He just holds me, slightly rocks me.

It’s soothing. 

Slowly, infinitesimally, the shattering in my chest eases. My sobs slow, hiccups punctuating the silence. I’m still crying, and still feel raw. And now, I feel even more ashamed for losing it like that, but my brain manages to slowly untangle all those despairing thoughts that were drowning me.

Even when my cries quieten, and exhaustion floods through me, he doesn’t say anything. 

I close my eyes, focusing on the sensation of his fingers through my hair. I know, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I shouldn’t let myself sink into this. That I shouldn’t lean on him like this. That there are lines we can’t cross. But my body doesn’t care. My heart doesn’t care. At this moment, all I care about is the comfort of being held.

Then finally, I speak. My voice is a croak, raw from the exertion. It’s also very quiet and small, but I don’t have the energy to be louder. “Sorry.”

His fingers pause, and his reply is so earnestly confused. “Why?”

But all I can say in response is a whispered, “‘m sorry.”

Sorry for the mess. Sorry for being so pathetic. Sorry for falling apart. Sorry he has to see me like this. Sorry—sorry—sorry—

Instead of questioning me again, he goes back to petting my hair. 

“When…” he hesitates. “One night on a full moon, when Rebekah was small and we had to hide from the werewolves in the cave systems—someone didn’t make it inside. We had to listen to their screams as they were torn apart. Alive.”

Guilt tightens so harshly inside me that I have to force myself to keep breathing. I’m having an anxiety attack, and he’s been through so much worse, I’m such a spoiled—

“She was panicking and crying so hard that she couldn’t breathe,” he says. “Mother and I had to help her, hold her, remind her how to breathe. Would you expect her to apologise for that?”

I swallow.

“She was a child,” I mutter, barely audible, my voice ragged.

“Me, then,” he retorts. “Would you want me to apologise for being so scared I cannot breathe?”

I flinch. I know my answer before it even leaves my lips. He knows my answer, it isn’t fair. 

“No.”

“Then you should not either.” He answers smartly, inflexible in the gentlest way possible.

My mouth opens, then closes, and I stare at the ground—or maybe at nothing at all. I don’t know what I want to say. He’s right. Of course he’s right. But giving kindness to others is easy. Giving it to myself is a different story. 

It doesn’t feel the same. I don’t feel like I’ve earned it. 

But if he was in this position, I’d tell him he has. 

So, instead of apologising.

I murmur a soft, “thank you.”

He rests his chin on top of my head, a small noise of acknowledgement humming out of his lips.

“I promised to take care of you, did I not?”

My heart squeezes, and I let him continue to stroke my hair.

I can feel guilty tomorrow.

Nik’s been missing for three days.

The first day, I tell myself he’s probably just checking on his family after the wolf thing. Maybe he’s off on a hunt for some tasty venison with his brothers, or helping his mother with some dull, tedious chores that won’t hurt him—just bore him to death. 

I keep busy, foraging, checking snares, tidying the cave.

I tell myself, he’s fine, he’s fine.

The second day, the worry settles into my chest, like a stubborn stone in my shoe. It pulses, dull at first, then sharp, gnawing. I try painting, sewing patches on the torn part of my clothes, even learning how to make the “pads” he brings from the village. 

My eyes keep flicking toward the cave entrance, counting every passing hour.

I’m sure he’s fine.

I force myself back to tasks, grinding herbs, lining up clay jars, labelling powders with a precision that borders on obsessive. The rhythm occupies my hands, but not my mind, which is busy spinning out scenarios I don’t want to imagine.

The third day, my thoughts take a turn for the absurd. 

Maybe he’s found another girl in the village.

I mean, of course he can. He can do whatever he wants. He’s not mine. He’s…A friend. A close friend with promises to never forget me, to be there when I need him, to never abandon me. I’d be happy if he found someone. He deserves happiness.

But a little part of me fears that if he did, he wouldn’t come back. That I wasn’t ever a friend, just a passing thought, a crush, a footnote in his life. Never actually important—that he always intended to ditch me if he grew bored.

Stop being dramatic, I scold myself.

By the afternoon, my worry mutates again. 

What if he fell in a ditch? 

My pulse quickens at the thought.

He could be dying. Starving. Calling out to someone.

I stamp at the fire until the embers gutter, then stand, muscles tense. My fingers brush the rough wood of the fishing spears mounted on the far wall, tracing the grooves before I snatch one up. I pivot and pull my light cloak from its hook, knowing I’ll need it for the bite of evening, even in the spring. 

The cave floor crunches unevenly beneath my shoes as I edge toward the entrance, dirt clinging to my knees from the hasty crawl. Outside, the wind carries the scent of damp earth and the faint tang of the lake. I move along the shore, careful not to trip over roots hidden in the shadowed grass, the spear held loosely but ready. My eyes scan every movement, every flicker in the trees, my pulse hammering.

Then—an unexpected motion. A figure flits between the trunks, half-hidden, silhouette blurred by distance and twilight. My breath catches.

“Nik?” My voice calls, uncertain.

His hand reaches up, waving. 

Thank God. 

I start toward him, and stop in my tracks when I get closer to him. 

He’s smiling—or at least I think he is—but up close, it’s more of a grimace. One eye is swollen dark, a fresh cut mars his lip and his cheek, and a bruise peeks from under his collar. It looks like someone beat him into the dirt—

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck—?!”

I stumble forward, nearly losing my footing. He reaches to steady me, but I shove my hands up instinctively, brushing his hair aside, hovering over him.

“Your father,” I blurt, fury igniting. I shake my head, taking my hands away. “I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

His eyes widen, uneven from swelling, and his hands clamp onto my arms. He’s frantic. “No! Mari—No. Please. Promise me—you swear you’ll never try to find him, meet him—I don’t want you within feet of my father—please, please—”

Desperation sharp in his voice, his fingers dig into my skin. Pain flares, I’m startled, but I know he doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t seem to realise—

“Nik—”

“Promise me—promise me!” His voice is wavery, breaking, terrified.

I freeze where I stand, unable to look away from the raw, unguarded panic in his gaze—the kind of fear that’s pure, naked, and completely unfeigned.

His father is worse than I thought.

“Y-yes, I promise, I promise, please, now let go, please? That hurts—”

Recognition flickers across his face when his eyes flicker over his hands, clutching over my arms with bruise-like intensity, and he releases me immediately, trembling. He steps back, his expression cracking into something horrified.

“I—” His voice croaks, fragile. “I am—I am so sorry, Mari. I’m so sorry, I never—”

I step forward, wrapping my arms around his shoulders and pulling him to me. He stiffens for a heartbeat, and then melts into the embrace, pressing against me as if clinging to something solid. His hands find my waist, holding on with careful gentleness, far from the defensive force I glimpsed earlier. Now, he clasps onto me like I’m a life preserver and it’s his turn to drown. 

This is more than fear. 

It’s survival. 

I’m furious. 

Not at him. Never at Nik. 

At his father.

At the thought that anyone could wield their power over their own child, that a person who should be safe with their family—is driven into such a small state. My chest tightens with anger, and my fingers dig a little harder into his hair as I pull him closer.

His father doesn’t deserve him.

“Shh,” I murmur softly, raking my fingers through his hair, brushing damp strands away from his forehead.

My thumb traces small, comforting circles along his scalp. His body shakes against mine, tiny tremors running from his shoulders down through his legs. I hug him tighter, letting him know he’s not alone. That he doesn’t have to bear this burden by himself. That it’s okay to let someone else hold him. 

That here, with me, the world—his father—can’t hurt him—at least, not right now.

Not in my arms.

I press my chin lightly against his shoulder, feeling the weight of his tremors beneath my cheek. His arms tighten around me instinctively. When a small grunt escapes me from the squeeze, he immediately lightens the grip and looks at me like a wounded puppy as I pull away slightly. 

“Come on,” I whisper warmly. “Let’s get you inside.”

Did I forget about her period? Yes I did. Did I quickly slip it in there as a mention? Yes I did. 

In case you didn't see, my message last chapter:

If y'all wanna chat about this fic, or fanfic in general, I'm starting a little friend server:
https://discord.gg/Mw5BaxTk

If the link doesn't work, add me and I'll add you to it, or if you just wanna chat - 0odlenoodle

I do also need some advice about Nik, so, if anyone could reach out :')