Shades of Grey

Chapter Three: Slate

By Gemini



“The hounds have changed at last; and when we imagined we had a fox to deal with... it turns out to be a badger at last!”

-Henry Fielding, The History of Tom Jones (1917)


~ * ~

Autumn, 954 A.D.

It was a cold day in the north. It often was as the seasons changed to winter. The dark skies threatened to rain down torrents, and those gathered outside of the longhouse despondently watched their breaths turn into grey puffs of air.

Only a few months after the second Founder was born, the third Founder arrived. The midwives developed a makeshift bed for the mother to lay on as she went into a painful labour and someone had lit a fire earlier to keep the air inside warm.

The birth lasted a long time. The rest of the clan waited outside impatiently, hovering close together to keep warm. They were a mass of furs and hoods, waiting for that one sound to signify their welcome in the longhouse -- the sound of the baby's cry.

But it lasted a long time. The father's tall bear-like figure loomed by the door putting his ear to the wood and trying to listen to the midwives' voices. He could only hear muffled sounds and an occasional thump. They sounded panicked.

Inside, the mother lay panting and gasping. She had never been through anything remotely this painful. It was too painful. Her vision swirled in and out of blackness and beads of sweat rolled down her cheeks as she screamed herself hoarse. Her long dark hair clung tightly to her face, plastered and wet. She gripped the sides of the straw bed so tightly that there were indentations in her palms. She had small cuts where the straw had pierced her skin.

“Make it stop!” she cried. Through her blurred eyes she could see blotches of red on the midwives' arms. They stood at the end of the bed, bent over with their heads together, whispering worriedly. The mother caught a glimpse of them through her spread knees and began to call for her husband.

The door burst open and he had forcefully strolled in as soon as his name was called, but a sudden wave of elderly women acting as the mother's midwives approached him and gently pushed him back to the door. He stared worriedly as his wife screamed even louder.

There was more red, she noticed. But the pain was slowly fading. It had been a harsh and furious sensation in her abdomen earlier, but now she could only feel a dull ache. Someone began to mop her forehead with a wet cloth.

A soothing voice whispered, “It's alright now... It's fine...” A midwife had bent over and wiped away the sweat on the mother's forehead.

“My baby?” she asked. Her voice was frantic and she clutched at the other woman's arms desperately.

The midwife smiled comfortingly at the mother. “You will have to be careful. It is very weak. That was a difficult birth, was it not?” But the mother, relieved to hear that her baby was alive, fell out of consciousness and drifted into a resting sleep.


961 A.D. (Seven Years Later...)

Helga was going on her first raid. She was extremely nervous, and partly excited. Her mother and father had told her that children were usually never allowed to accompany the adults in pillaging the homes of non-magicals, but being the only daughter of a powerful Dark wizarding family had its advantages.

Her mother, Thora, often remarked how wonderful it would be if Helga was skilled in the Dark Arts at an early age. She'd give a proud smile to her daughter as Olaf laughed jovially with his wife and daughter. They seemed like any average family -- loving, close, content. The only factor that separated them from the rest was that they were quite a big player in the Dark Arts. They weren't 'evil' -- that was a term they preferred to reserve for wizards who used the Dark Arts only to profit for themselves. The Hufflepuff clan used the Dark Arts to profit the wizarding community. But there was a thin line in these days of who was Dark and who was not. Everything laid in politics, not morals or ethics. The line was between wizards of all sorts and non-magicals.

Instead of 'evil', they were simply ruthless.

Rutheless towards non-magicals anyway. Among wizards they were friendly. Helga didn't quite understand the workings of wizards versus non-magicals, but she knew that the non-magicals were dirty, stupid bastards and whores. That was according to her father, of course, but she knew he was right. He always was.

Non-magicals outnumbered wizards, but wizards had magic on their side, and magic was a most powerful advantage.

“Mama, is that the village?” She pointed to a small faraway village on the coast of the land. Thora wrapped her arms around Helga and pulled her away from the ship's rails.

“Yes, Helga, that is the village.” Thora turned her daughter to face her. “I know your father said you could come on this raid, but I want to set a few rules.”

Helga let out a small groan. “Mama, please.”

Thora continued on as if Helga had not said a word. “First, do not stray away anywhere by yourself. A non-magical could get ahold of you and who knows what would happen?” She shuddered. “Keep close to your cousins. Your father will be busy and I may not have time to look out for you. You'll be safe, I promise. Second, observe. You'll be in charge one day.” She brushed Helga's dark windblown hair away from her face and kissed her forehead.

Thora let Helga go and walked in the direction of the ship's stern. Helga turned around again and was instantly whipped in the face by her long hair. The wind was blowing hard and stung her eyes so that tears formed. She pulled her furs tighter and wrapped them around her head and neck like a shawl.

Around her on the ship's decks, she watched her cousins and aunts and uncles bustle back and forth in anticipation of the raid.

Olaf's youngest brother, Sigwulf, caught sight of Helga and merrily waved her over to where he stood with her cousins. Sigwulf was only one of her many uncles, but he was her favourite. He always teased her and laughed when she laughed. The elders often remarked that he was like a child himself. Helga didn't see anything wrong with that; being a child was fun.

“Hello Sigwulf,” cried Helga. She ran into his open arms and he tossed her into the air like a doll.

She screamed happily at the top of her lungs until Sigwulf set her down, laughing. “Helga, you'll get us into trouble,” he whispered to her conspiratorially. He ruffled her short hair dark hair that contrasted greatly with his white flaxen hair. “Besides, you're getting too old and heavy.” He made a face as if he was in pain, but Helga only laughed at him.

“Sigwulf!” A deckhand yelled down from the upper deck. “We've arrived! Come help!” He disappeared over the wooden railing as Sigwulf turned to Helga.

“Duty calls, my lady.” He bowed low to her and walked to where the rest of his brothers stood.

Helga clambered up to the top deck where Olaf and Thora stood at the head of the crowd. They had arrived and were fast approaching land. The non-magical village was bigger, and Helga could make out a few villagers as Olaf put a strong hand on her shoulder.

The sea sparkled in the sunlight and the sky was a clear brilliant blue. It seemed like a perfect day to laugh and play. Instead, it was going to be a day of bloodshed.

“There it is, Helga,” said Olaf. The hand on her shoulder clasped her tighter. “That is what a non-magical village looks like.” His voice carried disgust.

Helga wrinkled her nose. “It's ugly.”

“It's alright, darling,” said Thora absentmindedly as she patted Helga's other shoulder. “It will be gone soon.”

* * *

The raid was on.

The Norse travelers disembarked their ship with great bloodlust, shouting hoarse war cries. They were a flurry of wands and tightly fitted black hats. Cloaks billowed around Helga enveloping her in a cloud of bright shades and hues.

Another advantage to being a fighting wizard: Your colourful yellow and blue cloaks intimidate bland non-magicals.

Helga walked down the plank following her two older cousins, Astrid and Ragna. Olaf and Thora were naturally in the lead, and they had charged Astrid and Ragna with the task of keeping their daughter safe. The front flanks were in the most danger so Helga was to be kept near the back out of harm's way. Parents always assume that keeping their children at bay from the danger is always best. Strange, isn't it? Now their children aren't even in their line of sight.

Astrid and Ragna were not the right people to ask to look after Helga. They were young, on the cusp of becoming adults. They were more interested in watching (and joining) the young men in battle rather than looking after their young cousin. It didn't matter that Helga was almost royalty in the family; she was still just a baby to them.

“Helga, hurry,” said Astrid, exasperated. She and Ragna stood at the foot of the plank, dressed and perfected in similar ways. Long hair, long lashes, long legs. Magic, light and everything bright, that's what little witches are made of.

Helga quickened her pace to please her cousins, but still walked lazily along. When she reached Astrid and Ragna, they each grabbed her hands and pulled her to follow the raging throng of wizards.

“Ragna.” Helga tugged on Ragna's sleeve. “Mama and Papa don't want me in the battle.”

Ragna ignored her and continued pulling her toward the battle. Helga tried to stop, but she was weaker than her two cousins. They delved deeper into the pit of shrieks and attacks. The non-magicals were fighting as well, now. They had run straight into the Norse company, two races merging into one group full of killing and hatred of people not so unlike themselves. And that went for both the magicals and non.

Helga screamed as a battle-axe swung close to her head. “Astrid! Ragna!” Her cries went unanswered. Her clothing was becoming splattered with mud as the battle raged on. She tried to look for someone she knew; Astrid and Ragna had disappeared. Well, now she saw Astrid. She was lying on the ground with a bloody dagger embedded in her stomach.

Helga began to back away, bumping into a wizard who was running past -- her cousin Sigwulf. He was carrying a round shield and an ax. He was one of the wizards who preferred to use traditional methods of battle as opposed to wand magic. Beat the non-magicals at their own game. As he ran past, he slowed, then stopped, as if he just realized who he had bumped into. Turning around, he stared at Helga with wide, confused eyes. “Helga?” She stared back, afraid. His face was specked with blood. “Helga, get back!”

“Sigwulf!” she screamed. He jerked unnaturally, and fell as a corpse, bloody and broken. A non-magical stood over him, withdrawing his sword from Sigwulf's back. He looked in Helga's eyes for a brief moment, enough to send her running from the scene.

Her breath came in quick gasps. She wasn't supposed to be here. Astrid and Ragna, the latter of whose body Helga just tripped over, were supposed to look after her. She was supposed to be safe from harm; her mother had promised her.

Whether by fate or luck, she was unharmed as she moved closer and closer to the edge of the battleground. The battlers, magicals and non-magicals alike, ignored her. She was too small, too insignificant, to matter in the war.

The fighting was taking place on the clearing between the non-magical village and the sea. To the side, there was a forest. Helga ran for it.

The darkness and shadows enveloped her invitingly. Here, the fray of killing was softer, less frantic. She looked upon them now; she wasn't in their midst.

The sunlight sifted in through the treetops. If she had been a non-magical girl, she would have thought it seemed almost magical. There were rabbits, flowers, and soft fern bushes. Perfect for hiding. The forest looked safe and homely.

What was that saying? It had something to do with not judging by appearances. Or was it about better being safe than sorry?

Helga didn't have time to think. A hand clamped itself over her mouth and an arm folded around her stomach. She tried to scream again, but only a muffle squeal sounded out. She could hear harsh laughter behind her and her captives.

Whoever had her in their grip turned the two of them around so they faced a group of children, not much older than herself. They were the ones who had laughed. Their clothing was brown and bland, their hair stringy and limp. There were about ten of them, not including the one who held her. Whoever it was decided to throw her on the ground.

She hit the dirt floor hard and could vaguely hear the group of children surround her. She looked up into the face of her captor -- a boy, a few years older than her, sneering at her dirty upturned face.

“Magical.” He said it like it was a curse. He spat on the ground by her head and reached to grab her hair, hauling her up like an animal. “We hate your kind.”

“You've done nothing but cause trouble for us,” added a brown-haired girl.

“Killing and pillaging -- is that all you do to us?”

“Monster!”

Realizing she had tears running down her face, she reached up to brush them away.

“Look, she's crying.” The tone was not sympathetic.

She began to whimper. “Please, don't hurt me.” Even to her own ears, her voice sounded weak and pathetic. She only made the children laugh harder.

Helga winced as the boy's hands on her arms tightened.

“Hurt you? You're the one who hurts us,” he said.

“Yeah!”

“You're hurting us!” A little girl who looked close to Helga's age jabbed her finger in Helga's face. “You are hurting us!”

It was the war cry that the children needed. A flurry of movement broke out as Helga struggled to break free.

But she was held too tightly. Slowly, slowly, she dropped into blackness as fists rained down on her face and body.

* * *
“Helga...”

A wet cloth was held to her forehead.

“Helga...”

The voice drummed like a hammer in her head. She wanted to sleep.

“Helga? Are you awake?”

She tried to tell whoever it was to go away, to stop talking, but all that came out was a small groan.

“She's awake!”

The last thing she wanted to do was open her eyes, but she did so anyway. They were dry, and the bright sunlight made her wince. She thought she could feel a rough straw bedunderneath her, but her thoughts didn't let her focus on that.

“Helga, how do you feel?” Thora's concerned face peered down into Helga's. Surrounding her were a few servants. Cousins and uncles wandered around, but didn't dare to come closer. The wrath of a mother can be quite frightening.

She wanted to tell her mother that she hurt, that she was sore, but could only say, “Mama...”

“Here, drink this.” Thora handed her a small bowl filled with water. It tasted like heaven. Helga gulped down the water as fast as she could. “Tell us what happened.”

It was a few moments before Helga could explain what had happened. When she finally told her mother, Thora was appalled.

She didn't say anything, but simply rose from the deck and walked over to a rail. She leaned over and loudly yelled, “Olaf!” Then she returned to Helga.

Olaf came running up to the deck, frantic at his daughter's condition. Who says Dark wizards can't be good parents?

“What has happened?” His large form looked weak and small.

“Helga tells me that she was attacked. By non-magicals.” Thora's voice was stiff.

Olaf's eyes changed slowly from concern to confusion to anger to hate. “Non-magicals attacked my daughter? They attacked my daughter?” Hate to rage. “They will pay for this.” Rage to seething, murderous thunder.

Maybe a few wizards would say that Dark wizarding parents aren't good ones, but they were at least damn well skilled at revenge.

“Thorvald! Finn! Bjorn!” Two of his brothers and one cousin came running. “We will attack again.”

Thorvald, Olaf's close friend and cousin, looked at him confusingly. “I'm not sure that's such a good idea.”

“They attacked Helga,” said Olaf. It was the only explanation he needed.

His three comrades-in-arms only stared him. Finally, Finn sighed. “Alright. We will attack again. But we will have to be careful.” Olaf had already walked away after patting Helga's head determinedly.

Thora turned to Helga, smiling triumphantly. “See? Olaf will fix this.”

All Helga could think about was the children who had attacked her. They looked like her, though maybe a bit uglier. They spoke like her, though maybe with a horrid accent. They were children, like her.

964 A.D. (Three Years Later... Interlude)

“Mama? Are you leaving now?”

Thora was impatient, anxious to depart. “Yes Helga. Remember, you will see Olaf and I again a few weeks' time. And Freydis and Grimhild will be here to look after you.” Her voice took on a soothing tone. “They will cook for you and make sure you are safe.”

Helga turned around to where Freydis and Grimhild stood, waiting for Thora to put her daughter in their care. They were a bit elderly, but looked as if they could wring a man's neck with their bare meaty hands.

“Helga, we can't risk putting you in danger like last time,” said Thora. Helga understood, though she really didn't want to. Thora took Helga's silence as a confirmation. “Be careful. And be good!” she called as she walked down the hill to board the ship. As an afterthought she yelled out, “You can come again when you're older!”

Helga watched the ship sail away into the seas. Most of her family were aboard. The more elderly people stayed behind with a few younger ones to guard them. But otherwise, that ship was taking away her family.

She was secretly relieved. The nightmare of those non-magical children had haunted her for a year after the incident. She preferred never to speak of it, especially to her cousins. Olaf and Thora had been outraged, and a bit angry at Astrid and Ragna's parents to have raised such “irresponsible whores.”

“Come, Helga,” said Freydis. “It is time to return home.” She and Grimhild looked like butchers, but had all the sweetness of little old ladies who enjoyed doing nothing but sitting by the fire cooking for the children. They spoiled Helga and shielded her come hell or high waters.

Helga was the darling of the clan. She was protected by all things bad, and given all things good. Her nurses fed her, her cousins played with her, and her parents adored her in a way that everyone else obeyed. She was given everything, and lost nothing.

976 A.D. (Twelve Years Later...)

It was that time of year again. Were raids the only thing Vikings ever thought about?

Pretty much.

Helga had stayed home for the past fifteen years since she was attacked at the age of seven. Life had not been good to her. Year after year of boredom crawled by. Raids came and went, but she never went with them.

Adulthood had been good to her though. The tender age between child and adult are usually grueling for any normal person. (Don't deny it.) But for Helga, they had somehow managed to work themselves out in her favour. Her kin often commented on her smooth complexion, or her soft, unmarred hands.

Helga never did work; that was left to the rest of her clan. Olaf couldn't stand non-magicals doing work for them like they did for most other noble wizarding families. He always said that he didn't want his family to have to rely on useless, inferior animals.

Interestingly enough, Olaf didn't have a problem with other families using non-magicals as slaves. In fact, the raids were a common way to capture them.

Ah yes, the raid again.

Olaf was planning a new one.

The Hufflepuff clan often raided Scotland, or sometimes Ireland, but it was rare for them to go to southern England. This time, however, Olaf was interested in the Anglo wizards. They were more oppressed than any others in recent years. The non-magical forces against magic were building up, and the areas around London and Birmingham had a dense concentration of non-magical versus magical warfare.

The clan was tense, as they always were before leaving their home. They resided in a longhouse -- an interesting home for a noble, but one that the Hufflepuff clan liked. It drew less attention to their magical status to the non-magicals in the area. Also, with a little bit of magic, you could make anything seem cozy and rich.

“I have just sent an owl to carry the letter to Olivier,” informed Olaf. He stepped into the longhouse and sat by his wife and daughter who had both been eating their morning meals.

“Ah, we will be visiting the south this time?” Thora smiled as nostalgic memories glazed over her eyes. “I remember when we went last time. Myriam was a very lovely woman; we have much in common. Why, I believe their son is almost exactly your age, Helga,” she said, jostling her daughter to attention.

“Pardon me?”

“Olivier and Myriam's son,” Thora repeated. “He is almost exactly your age.” She furrowed her eyebrows, deep in thought. “You know, it is almost time for you to be finding a suitable husband. What if...?” Olaf nodded in approval.

“No, Mother,” said Helga firmly. “I am perfectly capable of finding one myself. I am not a child anymore; I am an adult.”

“I was just trying to say-“

“If you want me to marry someone that desperately, why don't you marry me to Cousin Hjalti?” She set her bowl down on the wooden table so that it thudded resiliently.

“Because your cousin Hjalti is from our family,” said Thora coldly. “We wouldn't gain anything.”

Helga looked into her mother's icy eyes. Her mouth made the actions to speak, but there was no voice.

Thora turned away from her daughter's stare, as if to brush Helga away carelessly like dirt on a dress. She proceeded to talk to Olaf as if they had never stopped their previous conversation.

“When will we leave?”

“In about a week's time.” Wizards took less time to prepare a journey, especially for raids. Swing an ax over your shoulder, stick on your helmet and away you go. And kill rabbits along the way for food. Preferably with your ax.

Thora frowned. “Are you sure that will be enough time? We have much to do.”

If wizards took less time to prepare for a journey, witches snapped up the extra time for themselves. Some characteristics of a woman's ways never changed, not even in hundreds of years.

“It will be sufficient,” replied Olaf. “Helga, why don't you join us this time?”

Helga raised her head to stare at her father. Thora did the same. One pair of eyes danced with delight while the other glared.

Olaf waved his hand at Thora, dismissing her look. “It's time you joined us again. You're old enough to look after yourself. And we've taught you incantations that will be of use to you if you ever get into trouble again. I'm sure they will come in handy one day, even if you are not in trouble.” He grinned at her.

She smiled back. “I am sure I will find some use for them.”

In a stiff voice, Thora spoke again. “You will do your father and I proud, Helga.”

Looking into Thora's eyes, Helga couldn't help but shiver at the prospect of coming across non-magicals once again.

“I asked them to recruit some wizards in the area and have them gather when we arrive. A big feast will be held in our honour, I'm assuming,” Olaf mused. He picked up an ax lying on the ground and hefted it in his hand. “I am sure everyone will participate.”

* * *

Helga sat with her cousin, Svala, on the straw bed. The two women often climbed into the overhanging loft to talk late at night, which was what they were doing presently. Helga eased herself into the soft straw and laid the back of her hand onto her forehead.

“Svala?” she whispered.

“Hmm?” Svala lay with her eyes closed, her pale hair shimmering in the firelight.

“I'm confused.”

Though Svala's eyes were closed, Helga could almost see her rolling her eyes. “What is it this time?”

Helga ignored the sarcastic tone. “I've been wanting to join my family since that last time I went on the raid. But now that I can, I'm not very excited about. Just... indifferent.”

Svala turned her head so she could see Helga. “You're older now. You're not a child anymore; you're a woman. People change, Helga.”

“I know.” Helga frowned. “But I thought I'd be more excited. I mean, here's my chance! I've lived with the consequences for so long now. This is my chance to take my revenge. And in about a week, I can finally do it. But why am I not feeling anything?” She waved about her hand in the air in frustration.

“You will,” mumbled Svala sleepily. “Trust me, you will.” Her tranquil face took on a slight smile as she thought of raids long past. Helga felt a small pang of envy at her cousin, who was able to join the rest of the family on their voyages.

Not only did Helga come from a wizarding family, she came from a warrior family; it was in her blood. Unknown to the actual Hufflepuff clan, there was rumour in the wizarding world that they were descendants of the Viðurr. It wasn't far from truth.

(One Week Later...)

“Helga, look!” Svala clutched her cousin's arm excitedly. “We have arrived!”

Britain's coast stretched before them, a vast landscape of opportunity and desire. The ocean glittered temptingly at them, waiting for the ship to land at the sea line. The green land was like nothing Helga had seen before. She was used to cold snow and stark landscape. This was inviting and playful, though what the wizards thought of as 'playful' might not have gone over entirely too well with the non-magicals.

Helga was reminded of her first raid, her only raid. The opportunity had turned into fear and hatred. She felt like the wind today.

Rough and strong, she was ready to fight.

Silent and invisible, she was ready to hide.

Helga protectively stroked the wand she had holstered into her robes. Those years ago, when she had been attacked, she had no protection. This time, she would be ready. She had learned the spells, and she knew how to throw off enemies. She wouldn't have to rely on little girls again this time, because she wasn't one anymore.

Wizard and warrior, she was ready to kill.

There was a slight thud as the massive ship docked at the wizarding harbour. Shouts and cries sounded out from the wizards on land and on the upper deck. The wooden plank was lowered for the Viking wizards to descend.

Olaf waved Helga over, who detached herself from Svala's excited grip. He bent down to whisper in her ear, “We must go first, my dear. We are the leaders.”

Olaf paused so that the talking died down, then walked down the plank, every bit of his body commanding and powerful. Trailing behind were Helga and Thora, then his right-hand man, Thorvald. Finally, the rest of the passengers and crew began to disembark.

“The castle is just beyond that hill,” said a wizard who worked at the port. He pointed to a small hill in the distance. “Just walk --“

Olaf waved a dismissive hand. “We've been here before.” He walked forward, ignoring the stammering apologies of the other wizard.

One of Helga's younger cousins came to the front of the line with three tame horses in tow. “Here you are, Uncle.”

Olaf seized the reins and handed over two of the horses to Helga and Thora. The three of them mounted with ease, then the traveling party set off toward the hill.

They rode slowly to the castle so the hikers could keep up with their carts and supplies. Finally, Nædrehus came into view. It was more exquisite than anything Helga had even seen.

The longhouses back home were large, but they were rather simple. They didn't compare to a castle. Nædrehus looked almost like a small fortress.

Still, the inhabitants of Nædrehus were inferior to the Hufflepuff clan. It was a matter of power, not wealth.

As they approached the gate, Helga saw wizards poke their heads out of the narrow windows, or extend their arms to wave their hats like flags. Norse wizards didn't have hats. They had helmets.

The riders dismounted their horses and handed them over to a stablehand who was waiting for them near the gate. He stammered a greeting as he took the reins from Olaf's rough hand.

Two soldier wizards stood aside at the gate as the clan made their way into Nædrehus. From the outdoors, it had looked overwhelmingly large. Indoors was much different. There was a looming hall of grey slate stone when they stepped inside, but small doorframes led off into dark corridors in every direction. Wizards and witches of all ages appeared from the hallways to see the traveling company.

A tall wizard with light hair and a light beard strode confidently into the hall. “Olaf! Thora!”

Olaf and Thora turned from the chattering crowd to see the man who had called them.

“Olivier!” Olaf clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You have met my wife already.” He gestured to Thora as a woman walked up to stand by Olivier. “But this is my daughter, Helga. Helga, this is Olivier and his wife, Myriam.”

“Helga, it is wonderful to finally meet you at last,” said Olivier. “We have heard much about you. I know my son is very eager to meet you as well. He was pleased when he heard the entire clan would be coming here.” Olivier winked at her slyly, making sure she caught his undertone about his son.

Helga tried to give a slight smile, but her nerves had overtook her bodily functions and all that showed was an eery uplift of her mouth. She hadn't had much experience with men.

Myriam gave her a concerned look. “Are you alright, dear? You seem ill.”

And she did look ill. Her face was pale and her hands shook slightly as she tried to brush a few strands of dark hair away from her face. She was unused to the sun and the walking, and the short journey had tired her out. But she was strong, for heaven's sake. A warrior! But even warriors have their shameful moments.

“Would you like to lie down? We can show you to your room right away. You must be rested for tonight.” If Helga didn't know that Myriam was so against non-magicals, she would have seemed almost like innocent mother.

“Yes,” answered Helga. “I would like to be taken to my room please.” When she looked at her father, he briefly glared at her and her request to excuse herself.

“Come with me then. I will have our servants bring up your belongings later.” Myriam's pretense at being a caring hostess was well put on. Helga could see that Myriam wanted to seem the superior one, so kindly offering her hospitality to those wizards in need.

“I will come as well,” said Thora. “I could use a bit of a rest myself.”

“We will see you later at the raid,” Myriam told Olivier and Olaf. She began to walk off, then held up her hand and beckoned someone to approach. Two non-magical servants arrived, and trailed quietly behind the three women.

Thora and Helga followed Myriam through a series of confusing and dizzying dark corridors. Helga was so used to the vastness and open space of the longhouse back home that she felt choked by the small spaces in Nædrehus.

Finally, they reached a small hall that branched off from a larger one. “Thora, we will place you and Olaf in here,” Myriam said as she gestured into a large room.

Helga caught a peek at the riches that lay within: the light pixies, the Doxy, the... Was that a statue of a Swedish Short-Snout? Yes, there was the silvery-blue skin and the classic snout. Helga had an almost unhealthy dragon obsession.

“It will do,” said Thora. Neither she nor Olaf liked to admit the simple life of their clan.

“And here is where you will be staying, Helga.” Myriam showed them a smaller room that was just as decorated.

Helga sat herself gently on the bed, then slowly laid down as if to test its strength. She was used to straw. Sometimes, she envied the wealth of those British wizards. Still, nothing compared to being a pure blooded noble. Power was more important than wealth.

Myriam gestured vaguely in the direction of the two servants. “You, get her a wet cloth.” One of them scurried out of the room for a few moments, then returned quickly with a damp cloth that Helga used to wipe her face.

The two older women chatted about unimportant things as Helga tried to rest and regain her strength. It was mostly talk about the wizarding world -- who's who, what's what, and who would be present that night. Just as Helga thought she couldn't stand it any longer, the door opened and Olaf walked in. Helga lifted her head slightly as she saw Olivier in the doorframe along with another man, but she couldn't catch a glimpse of his face. Olaf had closed the door behind him.

“Are you feeling better, daughter? I hope you will not be too tired for the raid later.” Olaf's voice had a light teasing tone for Myriam's sake, but Helga knew he would be extremely angry if she had come all this way for nothing.

One must keep up the family appearance.

“I will be fine, Father,” she replied. “It must have been the sun. I am not used to it.”

Olaf nodded. “Good. Olivier was just about to show me to our bedchambers and then we will go over the plans for later today.”

“Olaf, don't strain yourself before tonight,” said Thora worriedly.

Olaf simply rolled his eyes and left the room.

After a few moments, Myriam excused herself as well. “There is still some business to tend to before tonight,” she said. “Must make sure the servants are ready. Helga, I do hope you feel better. My son is looking forward to meeting you.”

Myriam left before Helga could say anything, with her servants trailing behind, which was lucky because Helga had desperately wanted to say something rude. Possibly about how she wanted nothing to do with her son.

When they were alone, Thora immediately began to berate her daughter. “How could you do that?”

“Do what?”

“You know perfectly well what I am referring to! Why didn't you stay behind to meet their son? It was the perfect opportunity.” Thora's dark eyes were like stormclouds over an empty valley, and she blazed with anger. “Make sure you don't upset your father later and do something stupid tonight. We are of pure wizard and warrior blood, Helga, and don't forget what that means. We are superior.”

Helga sat silent through her mother's tirade with a stony face. Pure blood, warrior, superiority... Well, she already knew about that.

“Mother, I just wanted to rest for tonight. Do you really think I would have impressed their son if I was pale-faced and shaking?”

Thora glared at her daughter for lack of a better retort. “Behave yourself tonight,” she said finally. She left the room, and Helga was alone.


* * *

Helga stood at the head of the crowd, watching her father seize control of attention. He was a commanding figure at the head of a crowd of followers, and any person within viewing distance could see that he was made to be a leader.

Personally, she had never thought of him as such a figure. He was her father. He couldn't command her, though he often tried. It was like that in many families. Helga's was no different. And, she enjoyed standing up for herself. Who shouldn't? It's the witty comments and the sarcastic retorts that make the world go round.

Finally, Olaf finished his speech for the crowd, which mostly consisted of yelling and waving his wand in the air. “For magicals everywhere!”

Helga felt herself being pushed forward with the crowd as they moved in one conglomeration. She wore a heavy brown cloak and immediately began to regret her decision to do so. It weighed down on her and she had to struggle to run. But this was her favourite robe. It had the secret pockets, the wand holster, and it was best of all warm.

It was a long walk to the village. The first time Helga had seen a non-magical village, it was dirty and ugly. But this time, she knew there would be wizards living within that village. Would the wizards join in on the raid? Or would they simply run away? And how they must feel to have their homes being burned by those like them.

Helga preferred not to think about things like that. Politics and trivial matters made her head hurt.

When the village came into sight, a massive roar arose from among the wizards. It was time to steal, capture, plunder and in some cases, kill. The excited crowd jostled past Helga and forward into the village, lighting their wands as they went. Some of the more exuberant Norsemen were carrying axes, while a few local wizards had sheathed swords. Nothing was more satisfying than the blood of a victim staining your hands. Some thought it was more personal than killing curses.

Helga stood, appalled, at the wizards who had rushed into the village. Right away, streams and jets of fire shot out from wands and lighted homes. The villagers had seen the wizards approaching and had tried to set up some form of defence in the means of silly townsmen with weak weapons. They went down easily.

Someone jostled her from behind. It was Svala.

“Helga?” Her voice was excited, and she was breathing heavily as she clutched her wand. “Why aren't you fighting? Are you scared?” The million galleon question.

Helga drew herself up to her full height, which was easily much taller than Svala. “I am not scared.”

“I'm sure you're not.” Svala grinned and ran forward in the throng of wizards and non-magicals.

Helga looked around in desperate measure, then finally plunged forward herself.

Chaos reigned in this swarm of fighters. The sleepy countryside village was torn, and Helga had helped the destroyers.

Wands and light and swords and axes clashed in a fury of unleashed anger. In the midst of them stood Helga, almost helpless. In an almost holy reverie, she waited, but for what, she didn't know. Then she slammed back into reality as she was hit from behind.

Expecting an axe to split her head, what she encountered was just a really big stick. A wooden lance had knocked her on the side of her head, and she was angry.

Helga's chest heaved in fury and she roared as she unleashed a hex upon her attacker.

“Incendia!” she cried, and she felt the rage of her power pour itself into the core of her wand and burst out in a jet of flames.

Flames licked and burned the man's body, and he stumbled back in surprise at being lit afire.

The screams he let loose were screams that Helga would remember for the rest of her life. It wasn't so much the shrieks of pain, it was that she had caused them.

Her heart raced as she watched the man die, but she was quickly torn away from him as she was being attacked again.

From that moment on, Helga had no time to think about consequences or moralities. She unleashed Hell's fire from her wand with no limits, and felt warrior's blood course through her veins as she killed again and again.

* * *

“Excellent job, Helga.” Olaf clapped a strong hand onto Helga's shoulder. She stood still, as if in a trance, staring at her hands. The looked cleaned, but felt stained with blood.

“I have never seen better from a young woman myself,” remarked Thorvald.

The crowd of wizards and witches stood, watching the burning village go up in flames. Helga had helped them set fire to the village. She had started it.

Non-magical prisoners who hadn't escaped or died were being carted off, back to Nædrehus.

“We still have much time before we need to return,” said Thora.

A local wizard spoke up; Helga remembered his name as being Hugh of the Ravenclaw. “There is a wizard's market not far from here. They sell all sorts of wizarding supplies. You may go have a look if you like, but I will return to Nædrehus.”

Olaf quirked an eyebrow at Thora and Helga. “Shall we?”

Thora nodded in affirmation, but Helga stayed silent. She could still hear the screams.

“Come,” cried Olaf. “We will go celebrate there and tell the others how we have done. Some of them have already left, I believe. We'll let the others take the non-magicals back to the Nædrehus.”

“We need to stock up on supplies anyway,” agreed Thora.

“There should be an empty stall in the regular market,” said Hugh. “Just go inside and the wizard's market will appear behind the non-magical one.”

Many of the company began to move toward the market in the valley that Hugh pointed out, and the rest began to head back to the castle, ready to rest after a day's fight.

Helga walked in a stiff manner, partly in shock. She still ignored the wizards around her. Svala jogged up to Helga and shook her shoulder. “Helga, are you alright? You seem worried.”

Helga lifted her head to look at Svala, who reeled away in surprise. Helga's normally strong dark eyes were dull and weak. She gave Svala a brief glance, then turned away again without saying a word.

Svala began to speak. “You know, during the raid, I was saved by a very handsome wizard. His name was Leon. He told me his two cousins were looking forward to meeting you.”

Helga either didn't hear her or chose to ignore her. Svala sighed.

They walked together in silence among the joyful wizards.

As they approached the non-magical market, Olaf stopped the walking company. “Shall we take these filth as well?”

“No,” said Helga, surprising herself and those around her. She hadn't meant to blurt it out. Olaf frowned at her, waiting for an explanation. “We mustn't destroy any more of their society than we have already. They will grow even more angry.”

Olaf gave her a disbelieving look.

“Also,” she continued, “the wizarding market is right by them. We may hurt those of our kind.”

Olaf nodded in consent. “That's a good point you bring up. Alright, we will enter quietly and calmly.” The rest of the wizards and witches nodded in consent, though some in particular looked disappointed.

The wizarding market was something new to Helga. There weren't any in her homeland. Where she came from, there were trader wizards, who travelled the cold lands with their goods and traded as they came upon small wizarding families and villages.

Helga and Svala particularly enjoyed looking at the hats and robes and cloaks. Typical women, always concerned about their appearances. Helga, however, had her own headstrong appearance to give her beauty.

A vendor with a bright yellow hat and yellow and black robes called the two women over. “May I interest you in some fine cloaks and hats, ladies? I see you are not from here. Perhaps you would like a reminder of your travels for when you go home?”

Svala smiled politely at him. “No thank you, sir. We would just like to take a look, if you don't mind.”

The vendor lost his interest in them as they fingered the fine garments carefully. Svala whispered in Helga's ear, “These are so bright. How can they wear these?”

Helga shrugged, still not speaking.

“Fine,” huffed Svala. “I am trying to make you feel better but you obviously do not want to.” She stormed off and another wizard intercepted her, taking her arm. It was probably Leon, the handsome wizard she had mentioned earlier.

Helga gently set down the bright purple cloak had she had been looking at, and walked behind some empty stalls. She leaned near the wall, letting out a breath, and slid down to the hard dirt. Then she did something she had not done since she was a little girl. She cried.

Was revenge supposed to be this painful?

Heavy sobs wracked her body and she shook helplessly. She had no idea how long she stayed there, but it wasn't too long before she was jolted abruptly.

“Helga, what in Viðurr's name are you doing?” Olaf's voice was like a mighty growl. “What are you doing?”

“Father, no, please.” She gulped air heavily as he grabbed her arm in a painful grip. He pulled her off the ground roughly.

“What's got you so upset, girl? I know there's something wrong. Tell me.” He towered above her like an eagle to a mouse.

“Please, Father,” she begged.

He tried to shove her to the wall, to make her spill the truth, but she broke away from his grasp and ran as fast as she could. The only person who could make her afraid was her father.

“HELGA!” he roared. But he did not chase her. He would hunt later.

She bumped into the people along the way out of the market, and crashed into the seller with the yellow hat. “Slow down there, are you alright?”

Tears stung her eyes again as she stood. “I'm so sorry.”

“It's alright, dear. Here, come this way.” He led her back to the stall and the hats she had been admiring earlier.

“Here you are,” he said, holding out a mug. She took a few sips of water, and handed it back to the man gratefully.

“Now, what has gotten you so upset?”

“Oh, nothing really.” Even to herself she sounded fake. But the man knew not to press further.

Helga stayed at his stall for a little while longer, but still looked over her shoulder often to check if Olaf was coming. To thank the man for his kindness, she bought a wizard's hat from him. It was large, and fitted a bit too big on her head, but she liked it nonetheless.

“A wizard sold it to me just now, you know. He claims it has been charmed to give the wearer good luck.”

“I sure hope so,” said Helga. She put it on her head and jauntily pushed it a bit to the side. “Thank you.”

“You're quite welcome.”

She set off again, away from the market, away from wherever her father was.

The sun was beginning to set, and the air stilled into quietness as she traveled back to Nædrehus. Her new hat kept her head warm, and she rubbed her hands together to keep them warm.

Someone crashed into her.

To top the day off, adding to the raiding, the killing, and the crying, she was attacked again. Would pain never cease?

She cried in surprise at the oncoming attacker, but with the sinking light it was hard to see. It was obvious though; they had seen her hat and knew what she was.

She pulled out her wand in reflex and hexed them with the first thing that came into her mind.

“Avrakedavra!” Oh, why must that spell be the first one to come to mind?

A jet of green light shot from her wand and hit her attacker with harsh force. He stumbled back and collapsed to the ground, limp and unconscious.

“No!” she cried. “No, no, no...” She fell to ground beside the man, and raised her wand. “Spirivo!” A white light spurted out and hovered above the man's chest. It glowed faintly; the man was still alive.

Relieved he was not dead, Helga pushed herself away and began to run again. Her hat fell over her eyes and she grabbed it in fury and threw it as hard as she could into the bushes.

She heard it hit a tree with a satisfying thump and she ran harder as Nædrehus came into view.

* * *

“Helga?”

Helga raised her head sleepily and looked into the doorway of her bedchambers. She was wrapped in blankets and had been napping; her dreams and nightmares had plagued her sleep endlessly.

“My name is Aline. May I come in?” Without waiting for an answer, the tall brown-haired witch came into the room and sat on a chair by Helga's bed.

“I have heard you were feeling ill earlier today and I simply wanted to make sure you are feeling better. Was the raid hard on you?”

Helga stared disbelievingly at this woman who had so rudely interrupted Helga's reverie.

“It was harder than you think,” she replied stiffly.

“I chose not to go,” said Aline carelessly. “I have done my fair share of pillaging the non-magicals. And I was tired today.”

“I'm sorry,” began Helga, “but do I know you?”

Aline gave Helga an amused glance, then burst out in a peal of laughter. “I am a niece to Olivier and Myriam,” she replied. “They asked me to check in on you and take you down to the feast.”

“Oh, I see. Yes, I am feeling fine.” That was far from the truth.

“Aline!” A young man poked his head into Helga's bedchambers. She considered charming the door so she could at least have a bit of privacy.

“What is it, David?” Aline asked irritably.

“We have a problem.” David glanced in Helga's direction nervously. “A woman has been captured. She's a non-magical, but she claims to be a witch. She has a letter, and it's signed by Hugh. She claims to be his daughter.”

“Hugh's daughter? But... she's dead.”

David shook his head. “Apparently not.”

“Well, what do you want me for? Go tell Salazar.”

“I already did, he wanted me to come get you. He thought it would be better if you helped her prepare for the feast instead of me.” David grinned ruefully. “Women's business, you know.”

Aline sighed with great annoyance. “Alright. I will help.” She turned to Helga, still laying on her bed. “I apologize, Helga. I trust you should be able to find your way. Just ask a servant if you are lost. I will see you soon.”

She rose from the bed and joined David at the door, and the two of them disappeared.

Helga sighed thankfully, and pulled her blanket tighter around her.

Not even a moment passed before the door crashed open and someone else strode in. Helga's eyes widened as Olaf made his way toward her, and she struggled to break free of the blankets.

“You are in serious trouble, naïve Helga.” His voice was deadly as she pulled herself out of bed.

She stood tall to face her father, knowing she could not run away this time.

“Why? I didn't do anything wrong.”

Olaf's face twisted into an ugly mirror of anger. “Do you think I can't see? I know you regret what you did today. But you cannot. It is in our blood, Helga. We are the destroyers of the non-magical race; we are meant to be.”

She bit her lip to keep herself from spitting out a retort. Her father had never tolerated her abrupt manner. She kept silent, knowing what came next.

He raised his hand and hit her. Hard. The sudden blow to her cheek knocked her to the ground.

She didn't cry. She had cried the first time Olaf had struck her, but never again. Helga learned from her mistakes.

“Prepare for the feast. Thora and I will take you down ourselves. Now.” He strode out of the room and didn't look back, but she heard him and Thora speaking softly in the hall.

She tenderly stroked her cheek, wincing at the sudden stinging.

She wished she could stop the pain and the anger that flowed through her every time her father hurt her. She was a woman, not a girl. She deserved better.

She took out a jewelled necklace from a wooden box on her bed table and clasped it around her neck. She took a comb of sharp fish teeth and ran it through her hair to take out the tangles that had appeared from that day's activities.

She stared into the small mirror that stood on the table and inspected her face carefully. A faint bruise was beginning to appear.

Helga's servants had made a dress especially for this feast. It was light yellow and white, and greatly contrasted her dark hair.

She slipped out of her dressing gown and pulled the silky dress over her head. Then she took the bangles and bracelets that she had brought with her and slipped them on her wrists.

There was one thing left -- her hair. She often put them into tight plaits, but she never actually learned how to braid her own hair.

Helga stepped over to the door and carefully peered out.

“Are you finished yet?” Olaf asked in annoyance.

“Almost. Mother, will you help me with my hair?”

Thora and Olaf shared a brief glance, and Thora walked into the room behind Helga.

She braided her daughter's hair quickly with the skill that only a mother had. It was only a matter of moments before she finished. “There.” Thora patted Helga's head affectionately, in a fashion that Helga didn't deem 'affectionate' at all.

Helga took one last look in the mirror. She had always prided herself on being able to look the way she did without charms. She knew it was a petty sort of pride, but she was glad she had it.

The two women exited the room, and Olaf led them to the feast hall. Like everything else she had experienced on this voyage, she was surprised by sheer intensity of those at the feast.

It was warm, and hard to breathe in an area with so many people.

The witches and wizards here dressed differently, Helga had noticed. They wore brighter colours and were bolder in their choice of attire. Helga's own yellow and white dress had seemed so grand once she had put it on, but she discovered that here, she did not stand out at all.

The dancing and singing wizards looked like they were having so much fun, making Helga even more withdrawn.

“Olaf, glad to see you are finally here,” said Olivier, stepping up to them with Myriam on his arm.

“Helga, I am so glad you could attend the feast. You can finally meet our son,” said Myriam kindly.

Helga tried to smile but she couldn't help but feel exasperated. Would they ever cease?

“Speaking of our son, Salazar isn't here yet.” Olivier scanned the crowd, his frown growing deeper as he tried to pick out his son.

“He will come soon,” said Myriam. “I was just talking to him recently...”

But Olivier had already walked off, spotting something that caught his attention.

When he returned, he had a light-haired wizard in tow.

“He is here at least,” Olivier said cheerfully. Finally, it was the moment all four elder wizards had been waiting for.

“Wonderful!” said Olivier. He and Thora exchanged a proud glance before he said, “Salazar, we would like you to meet our daughter, Helga.”

Helga had been staring at Salazar since he arrived with Olivier, and she looked away hastily as he turned his glance to her.

He had light hair and greyish eyes that made him seem playful and happy. He had a sprinkle of freckles and he looked so youthful that she couldn't help but admire him. Though he was tall, Helga noticed that she was taller still, but just slightly.

Salazar wore a dark green cloak and clothing that echoed the wealth of the Slytherin family. As his eyes grazed over her, she gave him a look that she hoped didn't show her newfound feelings of admiration.

He frowned a bit; Helga knew he was wondering about the bruise on her cheek. She began to grow pink with embarrassment, wishing she had charmed herself to look normal.

She nodded acknowledgement at her parents' introduction but otherwise didn't say a word.

His face took on a very faint grin as he quirked his eyebrow at her. “Enchanted to finally meet your acquaintance,” he said, exaggerating a low bow.

He took her hand and kissed it lightly, sending shivers up her spine. She couldn't help but smile, though she didn't feel as happy as she wished. Thora was staring at her, and Helga could almost see her trying to will Helga into an impressing speech about how wonderful it was to finally meet Salazar, how handsome he was, how she wished they would come to know each other well...

“It is... enchanting to meet you as well,” she replied. She dropped into a slight curtsey and hoped her parents would not catch the mischievous glint in her eye.

“Let us leave the young ones to talk, eh?” asked Olaf. Oh no. Alone? “I am sure they will not be interested in our political talk.”

The four elders walked away, each one secretly thrilled that Salazar and Helga were finally together. The Hufflepuffs wanted wealth; the Slytherins wanted status.

The two young adults stood in awkward silence for a moment. Helga desperately wished she could think of something to say. Yes, she was strong, but she wasn't too experienced in matters of... this.

“Well,” Salazar began. A slight pause. “Would you like to dance?”

Helga's dark eyes surveyed him critically. She looked around, trying to seek an answer to how she should act.

“Alright,” she replied hesitantly. She took his outstretched hand and he led her into the massive crowd of celebrating wizards. His hand felt rough in her own, and she felt a wave of heat as his arm circled her waist. Out of excitement or out of atmosphere, she didn't know.

She wished she knew of something to say, anything. An excuse for her cheek, a compliment on his robes, or even something about the wonderful weather they were having. But thoughts of Olaf, spells, and death were still sitting in her mind. And her horrid dress was so plain compared to all the other women's. The women who passed her by with their blue and purple and red robes frowned at her almost tasteless yellow one.

Salazar must have sensed her uneasiness, because he suddenly grinned at her as he twirled her on the floor.

“Don't worry,” he said, soothingly. He twirled her around again so her dress billowed out in waves of silk. “You're here with the best-looking man in the room.”
~ * ~