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Life has been nothing but one long, continuous scream, so it's only natural a woman's blood-curdling scream is the first thing I hear when I jolt awake.

My thumping heartbeat races wildly out of control as I reach for the knife I keep under my pillow, only for warm sand to sift through my fingers. Sand? I struggle to piece together my surroundings as I scoot myself into a sitting position. I was curled up on my tiny apartment bed when I dosed off not too long ago, and now I'm lying on a beach.

I sit in a confused stupor as the world around me carries on in complete chaos. Men and women run screaming in all directions, their words blurring together in disharmony.

The man nearest me bellows, "WALT!"

I'm suddenly more awake than I've ever been before in my life, and I push my aching body to my feet, stumbling half blind in the general direction of the screaming mob. Behind us a massive whirling plane engine belches out thick black smoke that causes bursts of air to fling sand around. I have to cover my eyes to keep from going blind.

A nightmare. I'm having a nightmare.

My foot gets caught on a chunk of debris, and I stumble forward onto my hands and knees.

A pair of strong arms hoist me up, and I can already feel the bruises forming from his grip. A man's gruff voice is in my ear, yelling, "Get up! Move!" I try to use my legs, but suddenly I'm flying, weightless, crashing down hard on my back as debris rains down around me.

I can't move. I can't breathe. I'm powerless to stop my vision from tunneling. It flashes back to the forefront in a bright blinding light that makes me squint. I can no longer hear the noise around me over the deafening ringing in my ears.

Am I dead?

Somehow I manage to roll my stiff neck to the right and lock eyes with a man staring right at me. Only, he's not. He's dead.

I roll my head to the left and see the ocean. I watch, transfixed, as it crashes against the shore over and over again with a frothy abandon. A young woman kneels in the sand beside me, sobbing.

When I wake up, the sun has disappeared. Someone built a roaring fire and dragged me near it. I scoot away from its heat.

I can move my arms. I can move my legs!

I could cry from relief. That's when I notice that multiple fires have been lit all along the beach. People sit hunched near the flames, talking quietly amongst themselves and checking each other for injuries.

"The princess has awoken." Sawyer stands next to my fire, a lazy smirk on his lips as he lights a cigarette and takes a long drag. "You're pretty busted up, Buttercup."

I have no idea what he's talking about. I have no idea where I am. I have no idea why a fictional character is talking to me.

Boone squats down and reaches towards me to offer what looks like gauze, but it might just be the remnants of someone's t-shirt. I stop mid-frown when a sharp pain bolts through my skull. I reach up and gently tap the spot that burns like a hot poker. When I pull my hand away, my fingers are covered in blood.

"May I be excused?" I raise my hand, finding my voice at last. "I need to go to the nurses office, please."

"Hey, guys, I don't think she's okay," Boone says to some random man sitting across the campfire.

"Yeah," Sawyer interjects, "well, last I checked, none of us were doing okay, bucko. What do you want me to do about it?"

"Here, honey." An elderly woman offers a bottle of water. "You'll be alright. Just need to make sure you hydrate."

I blink rapidly at them all, fighting a growing pain in my midsection. There's a question forming on my tongue, but it's quickly drowned out by another and another and another until my chest constricts my useless dry lungs and no amount of trying can help bring my brain the air it needs to think properly.

"Doctor, over here," I hear the old woman shout before it all fades to grey. I'm too hot, too cold, too tired to care.

I wake up the next morning fully expecting to find myself wrapped too tightly in my bedsheets, safe and sound in my apartment, surrounded by junk food and sweat. Instead, I wake up and find myself sleeping in sand, gauze wrapped tightly around my head, my clothes absolutely reeking of campfire smoke.

After asking Rose where we're supposed to use the bathroom, I grab one of the salvaged roles of toilet paper and head into the jungle, just beyond the treeline. Then, I trek a little deeper because the last thing I want is to be too close to the beach and have someone interrupt me while I pee.

I'm almost finished when a snapping of brush sounds from behind me, but when I spin around, there's nobody there. I'm a sitting duck. Don't panic. Just get back to the beach. I take a steading breath and break out into a sprint in the direction of the beach, bursting through the trees, and abruptly crashing into a man so hard my vision goes white.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm so sorry! Are you okay?"

I groan in pain and look up into the worried face of Charlie Pace. "Yeah," I mumble, already hurrying away towards the main crowd. "I'm fine."

As I sit in the sand and watch people dig through luggage, I pinch myself multiple times, and the pain feels real. The pulsing wound on my forehead feels real. I don't understand.

I can clearly see Sun and Jin just down the shore. Jin is digging around in the ocean for edible sea creatures. Wait, when did that happen? Episode 1? 2? 3? I can't remember…

The gash on my head begins to throb painfully, so I push my aching body to my feet and wobble my way through camp in search of Jack.

Instead, I find Sawyer. "Stop leaking blood all over my beach, Doublemint," he jabs playfully. "If you're looking for the Doc, he headed off that way."

"Doublemint?" I look up, confused, and notice that he's chewing gum.

He pulls out a pack and shakes it in the air. "Found this in your pocket last night."

Even through the dizziness I can feel embarrassment flaring up. I want to say something witty, but I'm too tired to think. I frown in his general direction before continuing my slow shuffle in search of Jack. “You pickpocketed an unconscious girl?”

I don't have time for this. Something is obviously wrong with my mind. Maybe I'm in a coma? Maybe I'm in a psych ward, and all these people are just patients that my mind has twisted to appease the fangirl within? Whatever the case may be, I'm tired of it.

I turn to head in the direction Sawyer pointed, hoping that Jack will know what to do to help clear the half-formed thoughts in my head, when I notice a figure standing in the trees. A woman. Only a sliver of her is visible, and only for a split second, before she disappears into the jungle.

If someone back home were to tell me that I would be spending the rest of my life trapped in some sort of parallel dimension with a group of fictional characters on an island that doesn't exist . . . I would have scheduled them an appointment with a psychiatrist.

But here I am—an unexplained anomaly existing within a fictional realm of incomprehensible implausibility.

“Please try to limit movement," Jack tells me as he finishes tying a fresh bandage around my skull. "Your forehead is healing remarkably well, but you may still feel dizzy for the next few days. Probably best if you take it easy for a while."

"Okay," I answer. "Has anyone found any–" It's hard to think again, and the question I wanted to ask is gone. “Any…” I pinch my fingers a few inches apart and shake, miming the word that’s on the tip of my tongue.

"Medicine?"

I nod, instantly regretting the movement and the pain it brings. Yes, medicine. That's what I was thinking of.

"Haven't found anything yet, but we're sifting through luggage as fast as we can." Jack takes a look around the makeshift tent I'm squeezed under. I can read pity in his eyes. "I need to attend to the other survivors. Have someone come find me if you feel especially nauseous. Or," he adds, "start to lose your vision."

"Lose my vision?" What little nausea had subsided comes rushing back until I feel so faint I worry I'm about to pass out.

"I wouldn't worry," Jack says, quick to placate my panic. "You seem to be healing just fine. Hey, excuse me–" I look over at the person he's addressing and air gets stuck in my throat. "This is Cora. Can you check in with her and let me know if she needs anything? I've got to make the rounds."

How does Jack know my name? When did I tell him my name?

"Yeah, no problem," Ethan replies happily, all smiles. "Anything to help. Hi," he says, addressing me with an outstretched hand, "name's Ethan."

"Cora." I reach for his hand on autopilot, struggling to smile over the sudden rush of memories. This man is Ethan, the Other who kidnaps Claire, hangs Charlie, and is eventually shot in the chest by one of the survivors. I remember.

It's this moment that brings me back to reality. I'm in danger. I don't know how, but I seem to be in the beginnings of my favorite TV show. A show notorious for random deaths. I begin to remember all the characters who will die in the coming days, weeks, months and blanche at the thought that I can so easily be one of them.

"You okay?" Ethan asks wearily. "You're shaking."

I'm still gripping his hand, having never let go of our handshake, so I quickly pull away. "Sorry."

"No worries. We're all a little out of sorts at the moment." I watch as Ethan's expression morphs from a casual smile to a brief pensive stare before his lips pull back up into a much less enthusiastic grin. "How's your head?"

"It hurts," I answer honestly. "But Jack seems to think I'll live."

He nods, his eyes traveling the length of my face. After what seems like forever, he asks, "You were on this plane?"

I'm struck by such an odd question. As I struggle to focus, my hairline breaks out in a sweat as I realize why he asked it.

My name is not in the manifest.

"No, I just fell out of the sky like rain," I say, huffing a nervous laugh. When Ethan glances up in confusion, like he's actually considering the possibility of my sarcasm, it takes all my concentration not to choke on my words. "Yes," I deadpan. "I was on this plane. Why do you ask?"

"Checking to make sure your mind isn't slipping away," he answers quickly. "Gotta keep the brain active, right? You remember where you're from?"

"Los Angeles," I answer truthfully. "Where are you from?"

"Canada," he replies automatically. “So, Cora from California, huh?"

He stares at me for an ungodly amount of time before I offer up an awkward, "Yep."

"Guess you're pretty familiar with beaches, then. So, that's good." Ethan keeps eyeing different parts of my body, but it's not like he's checking me out. It's more like he's looking for something. "You have any tattoos?"

Is it normal to ask someone that? The absurdity of his question makes me want to laugh. In fact, the urge to laugh hysterically is starting to overpower all other sensations. "No, I'm afraid of needles."

"What's Cora from California's last name?" He's smiling again, but I can tell he doesn't mean it.

I think about lying, but I honestly don't trust myself to remember my own lie. "Collins, officer. Am I being arrested?"

He doesn't laugh. "What year were you born?"

"You know what, I think I'll just wait for the real doctor to assess my memory, thanks." I glance around, taking note of the closest people in case I need to call for help.

"I'm a real doctor."

"Okay." I huff out a laugh, but I can feel the shaking in my chest summoning more. "I think I'm good, thanks."

It's bad enough my social awkwardness makes it near impossible to interact normally with other human beings. But to top it all off, I'm a nervous laugher, which basically means that nine out of ten times if something upsets me I'll start laughing instead of crying. It usually plagues me at the absolute worst, most inappropriate of times. Like right now.

Ethan regards me with an air of confusion. "What's so funny?"

Like a heaven-sent angel, Hugo approaches. "You dudes hungry?"

A relieved grin pulls at my lips. "Yes, thank you so much."

"Oh, hey! You're awake! How's your, uh," Hugo reaches up and taps his forehead.

"Hurts like the Dickens," I answer, desperate for him to see the plea for help in my eyes. "But Jack says I'll live, and I'm kinda holding him to that."

"Cool, cool. So, uh, do you want chicken or beef? They're day old airline enchiladas, so try not to be too disappointed."

I laugh and take a chicken tray. "Thanks."

"So I know you've been, like, kinda unconscious these past few days, but … I mean, the bright side is we're all equally screwed, right?"

"Thank you for the optimism." It dawns on me that Hugo hasn't offered Ethan any food. When I turn to check, he's nowhere to be found.

As the day drags on, I grow bored. Life in early Season 1 isn't exactly as exciting as I pictured it would be. Not without all the editing out of menial tasks the survivors must do. It also doesn't help that everyone is so wrapped up in their own problems that they can't be bothered with mine. I've maybe spoken to two survivors all day, none of them the core cast.

Luckily, before I go crazy enough to do something embarrassing, Jack seeks me out to check my bandage. He unwraps my forehead and I watch his face fill with surprise or confusion, I can't quite tell.

"Is it getting worse?"

"No, actually," he says slowly. "It's…you've completely scabbed."

"That's good though?" Of course I know it's good. But the look on his face makes me think I've developed gangrene.

"Good, yes. Just unusual." Jack leans away, resting his hands idly at his sides. "Two days ago, this laceration needed numerous stitches. Now it's completely sealed. Should have taken a week, at best." He leans back in, frowning in thought as he assesses the wound. "It doesn't even look like it will scar."

"So," I notice I'm shaking and tighten my fists. "You don't think I need antibiotics?"

"Not at the rate you're healing." He shakes his head, smiling. "I'm going to ask you a few questions to check your memory. It would be better if I could give you a PET Scan, just to be sure, but unfortunately I don't see that happening anytime soon."

"Okay."

"Do you know what year it is?"

I open my mouth to answer 2014, but I catch myself just in time. It's not 2014 in this reality. I can't remember when LOST takes place. It's the early 2000's, I just can't remember the exact year.

"Uh," I stammer, making a best guess. "I…uh, 2003?"

Jack blinks, his eyes looking down and away at something before looking back at me. "No, I'm afraid you're missing a year. It's 2004."

"Oh."

"Do you remember your birthday?"

"December 19, 1994."

He gives me another worried look. "Are you sure?"

I pause, realizing the math makes no sense from his perspective. I don't know how to make the math make sense, so I sit in silence.

"You're 10 years old?" he asks.

"No." I can feel my face reddening. "No, I'm not 10 years old."

"Hey," Jack says, reaching out to pat my shoulder. "Don't get discouraged. There's a high probability your amnesia will lift completely. Just give it some time. Don't force it. It'll only frustrate you."

"Sydney, Australia," I blurt out, desperate for him to not think I'm a damn fool. "Oceanic 815 was taking off from Sydney, Australia."

"See? You still have some short term working great. That's a start." He's all encouraging smiles, but it ends up making me feel like a patronized child. "Were you traveling alone?"

I look up at this. "What?"

"Did you have anyone with you on the flight? Family? A partner?"

My family. Are they here? Were they on the plane, too?

My mother. My sisters. My brother. If they're here, I haven't seen them. I try to push myself to my feet, but Jack rests a hand on my shoulder.

"Easy," he urges. "You need to take it easy."

"No, I need to find my family." Standing makes me nauseous beyond belief, and to my horror I bend forward and projectile vomit all over the front of Jack's shirt.

"I'm sorry," I groan.

"No, it's okay."

"I'm so sorry," I repeat, turning away to cough up another mouthful of bile.

"Don't worry about it. Just, please lay back down."

Everyone within earshot is staring at me. I hate it. I hate being the center of attention. I hate it more than anything I can think of. Too embarrassed to complain, I lie back down on my blanket in the sand.

Nobody talks to me for the rest of the day.

Hugo makes his rounds at night and distributes the last remaining pieces of food—some papayas and airline peanuts.

"Tonight we feast like kings," I tell him, holding up the pathetic portion of food.

He smiles, but doesn't stay to chat. He's probably afraid I'll vomit on him.

If Hugo doesn't even want to be around me, I'm in serious trouble. I search the wreckage for a reasonably sized sharp piece of metal and cling to it as I go to sleep with the goal of using tomorrow to make some friends.

I wake up right before sunrise to find Ethan sitting cross-legged beside me, one of his hands brushing lightly through my hair.

Chapter Text

I scream and scream and scream, terrified by Ethan’s closeness.

"Sorry," he says, wincing and holding out a hand in surrender. I watch as he tries to secretly pocket a few strands of my hair. "I've been waiting for you to wake up."

"Did you just take some of my hair? Did you seriously just take some of my hair?"

"No," he answers too quickly.

“Get away from me,” I lash out and slice his hand with the metal wreckage I fell asleep with. “Help! Somebody help!”

"Why did you do that?" he asks, glancing down at the bloody gash in his hand. Ethan's face morphs from confusion to annoyance as he scoots closer, desperately shushing me, telling me he has antibiotics, but I just keep screaming and trying to stab him with the metal.

When two people I’ve never seen before confront him, he dismisses them with an exhausted, “She’s being hysterical! She just stabbed me!”

I’m up and staggering through the sand in search of somewhere safe. Somewhere far away from the trees. Jack approaches, looking worried after all my screaming. I aggressively swipe at my nose and point a trembling hand behind me. “Keep him away from me!”

I make myself scarce, huddled inside the wreckage, still clinging to the metal now coated in Ethan's blood.

My stomach rumbles painfully. I’m not used to being hungry. My mother was always feeding anyone and everyone who came into our house. It was a big part of her Italian upbringing. I had a measly papaya for breakfast and it’s almost midday.

Despite my hunger, I remain hidden, listening for the familiar sounds of family.  Part of me hopes they aren’t here, so I won't have to worry about something bad happening to them. But another part of me, the selfish part, hopes I’m not here alone.

It's been over a year since I could afford a plane ticket home. I made the mistake of going to a graduate school as far away from Los Angeles as possible, in an attempt to distance myself from my parents. Unfortunately, staying away from my parents meant staying away from my siblings.

I never should have left them behind. I should have picked a state school so I'd always be nearby. I left home, and now I'll never see them again. What is wrong with me?

I grip the metal so tight, blood drips down my arm. For the first time in a very, very long time I don't laugh the pain away. I curl into myself and I begin to cry.

I wake up the next morning exhausted. My tears have glued sand all over my cheeks. I don't remember falling asleep. It must have been sometime during the night because it felt like I cried forever. I don't think there's a tear left in me to shed.

As I crawl out of the wreckage in search of food, Jack makes his rounds and checks my wound. He has the good grace not to question my red, puffy eyes.

I wait for him to talk to me about hurting Ethan, but Jack doesn't say anything. I ask, "Have the antibiotics helped anybody yet?"

"What?"

"Ethan," I explain. "He found some antibiotics."

"I never distributed them," Jack tells me in a hushed tone.

“No?” I suddenly surge with guilt. “Please don’t save them all for me. There’s plenty of people here with more than a cut on their head.”

“Have you met Steve? His wife is…she’s in critical condition and won’t make it without antibiotics. Steve heard what was happening yesterday. There was a fight. Had to wrestle the medicine bottle away from Ethan. I had a good look at them.” Jack pauses. “They weren't antibiotics."

Hair prickles up my neck as an icy chill runs through me. “Then what were they?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re an incredibly high dose of tranquilizer."

I squint, trying to keep my cool, but I feel the blood drain from my face.

Jack sits in the sand, studying me. "What did he do to make you stab him?"

I open my mouth to tell him the truth, but now the truth sounds silly. I stabbed him because he took some of my hair. As I consider lying, I realize my fear wasn't silly at all. "He scared me," I tell Jack. "I woke up and he was touching my head. Running his fingers though my hair." The memory makes my body involuntarily twitch in disgust. "Please keep him away from me."

"Don't spread the word," Jack orders softly. "Ethan has been missing since yesterday. Ran off into the jungle after Steve took the capsules from him. Keep this between us. I don't want to incite a panic."

I open my mouth to say something—thank you, will do, no problem, sure thing, uh-huh—but nothing comes out. Not a gasp or sigh or whimper. Not even air.

I thought moving closer to the ocean would offer protection, but now I don’t feel safe anywhere.

“This vacation just keeps getting better and better,” I say, the laughter building up from the past few days finally breaking through. Once I start laughing, I can’t stop. The woman kneeling in the sand a few feet away shoots me an annoyed look.

Ethan has gone missing. The pills he so adamantly wanted me to take were powerful tranquilizers. What does this solve, and what problems does this create?

What was his original mission? Help abduct Claire. Run tests on her. Help save her baby? Wasn’t he trying to help save her baby? I can’t remember.

That still doesn’t explain what the hell he wants with me. Unless he thinks I’m also pregnant? I’m not sure if I feel more insulted than furious.

“Are you okay?” I look up to find Claire. “I heard you scream yesterday.”

“Fine,” I answer quickly. “I’m fine.”

“Do you know what’s going on?” I watch as she absentmindedly runs a hand across her swollen belly. “Nobody will tell me anything, and I’m getting worried.”

I smile, pleased with this opportunity to finally establish a friendly relationship with someone. “Please, sit with me.” I scoot over and offer her a seat on my blanket. “I’m sorry to say I also have no idea what’s going on.” Reaching up to touch my bandaged forehead, I add, “Got my good sense knocked out on impact.”

She winces with sympathy pain, sits beside me, and looks around my living space. "Where's your suitcase?"

“I…” Caught off guard, I ponder what the easiest story to remember would be and settle for, "I couldn’t find it."

“I’m so sorry.” The sincerity of her sadness is heartwarming. "You know what? Feel free to borrow any of my clothes. I'm sure you're getting tired of having to wear the same thing over and over."

"Are you politely trying to tell me that I smell?"

She laughs.

I hold out a hand for her to shake. "I'm Cora, by the way."

"Claire. Nice to meet you."

I spend the next few hours talking to Claire and letting her read my horoscope. "Sagittarius?" she muses. "Very interesting."

I sit up straight in anticipation. "What can you tell me about myself?"

"You're a fire element, your ruling planet is Jupiter . . . oh, and your symbol is an archer."

"What exactly does all that mean?"

"Well," Claire continues, "you're a very passionate person who knows what they want out of life and out of love. But your friendliness will earn you a reputation of being overly flirtatious, so be careful."

I heave an amused laugh. "Yeah? Okay."

For a moment, I forget. Forget the fact that none of this should be happening, forget that Ethan has singled me out and tried to sedate me, forget that I have no idea where my family is. It is easy to forget because Claire is so easy to talk to. I spend less time worrying about what I should say, so the conversation flows without dozens of awkward silences or weird facial expressions from me. She speaks, and I listen. I speak, and she listens.

She even lets me feel her stomach when baby Aaron pushes out a foot. I close my eyes and swell with the best thoughts I can think of, mostly consisting of be healthy, be safe. But putting a hand against her stomach makes my eyelids droopy.

“You know,” I tell her, yawning. “I’ve never actually been able to nap before, but now all I can seem to do is sleep.”

“Please, go right ahead.” Claire pulls a magazine out of nowhere and smiles happily. “I’ll give you the scoop on the latest Hollywood gossip when you wake up.”

Cold fingers press hard against my mouth.

I blink awake in the dark. My first instinct is to scream, but the hand blocks my ability to draw a breath, and I panic, instinctively reaching for the sharp metal weapon in the sand beside me. As I reach up, another hand grips my wrist with such strength that I stop fighting out of fear.

“My lady,” a woman whispers close to my face. “Do not be afraid.”

I blink and blink and blink just to make sure I’m actually seeing this. I’m staring up at a woman, her face smeared black around the eyes, blonde hair tightly braided up one side of her head, her body covered in fur. It takes me a moment to process that she is, in fact, human.

“We are here to rescue you,” she continues urgently, easing up on her grip. “You must get up before we are seen. Follow us. Hurry.”

Where am I? My eyes shoot around, desperate to make sense of what’s happening. Am I being hazed? I don’t even belong to a sorority. I stare wide-eyed at the woman’s painted face in the moonlight. That’s when I hear the rush of what sounds like water. The ocean. I hear the ocean. Why do I hear the ocean? Moonlight. Why can I see the moon? Why am I outside? She removes her hand from my mouth and I immediately whisper, “Please don’t hurt me.”

“I would never hurt you.” She tilts her head, her eyebrows frowning with confusion. “Have you healed yourself recently?”

“Healed from what?” I whisper, paranoid to communicate any louder than she is. “What’s happening?”

“You’re very confused, aren’t you?” Her face softens when I nod. “I don’t have time to explain now, but please believe the last thing I would ever do is harm you. These people,” she nods in a random direction, “may want to harm you. We need to get you somewhere safe.”

We? She releases me and stands, beckoning me to follow. That’s when I notice I’m on a beach. Tents and blankets spread out all around me and down the shore. I try to see if I recognize anyone, but I don’t.

I take a split second to think this through. Do I believe this woman? Are these sleeping people my actual captors? If I scream and wake them all up, will this woman and her supposed people kill everyone at camp? This woman doesn’t seem to wish me dead. She knows my name. I’m pretty sure she just called me Lady Cora.

Well, shit. I guess this is happening.

I feel my body already breaking out in a cold sweat as I stand and quietly follow behind the cloaked woman, running purely on adrenaline. As we break the treeline, more people emerge as if from thin air. I count five in total, but I don’t doubt there are plenty of others hiding just out of sight.

It’s surreal how we’re suddenly moving as one unit, hurrying in an unknown direction, following the commands of a male voice speaking a language I only partially understand. I catch words I’m familiar with here and there, and over the course of a few conversations, I realize with bewilderment that they’re not speaking Swedish. They’re not even speaking Icelandic.

They’re speaking Old Norse.

“Hold on,” I pant desperately. We’ve been running long enough that I now have to stop and catch my breath every few minutes, hacking loudly into the open air. I’m so exhausted I genuinely don’t care if they kill me at this point.

“We stop here,” the leader announces, and I all but collapse on the jungle floor. “Get her water, Liv.”

The woman from the beach kneels beside me and offers a canteen. I don’t bother worrying if its poison. I twist off the top and chug it as fast as humanly possible, stopping only when some goes down the wrong pipe and I choke.

When I’ve had my fill of water and can breathe again, I look around at the men and women congregating near the stream. They talk freely, although I can only understand some words. Old Norse is a dead language, like Latin. There are plenty of languages that evolved from it, but no modern society speaks it fluently.

At least, that’s what my linguistics professors all claimed. But these people’s diction and pronunciation sounds an awful lot like the translation work I’ve been conducting for my thesis.

“I’m Erik.” I look up at a sizable man, his face painted with the same lines and dots as the others. Beneath a cloak of brown fur, he wears dark leather fastened with a belt holding at least two axes. He stands over me, bends forward in a quick bow, straightens, and turns to point out the people standing behind him, all similarly dressed in robes of animal hide. One by one, they bow as well. “This is Gorm, Liv, Inga, and Revna. We are the last of Clan Wolf.” He pauses, but I don’t know what he expects me to say. “You truly bless us with your return, my lady.”

I want to be polite so they don’t decapitate me, but when I try to say nice to meet you all, nothing comes out. Do something. Do something, you’re just staring at them. I at least have the wherewithal to close my gaping mouth, deciding instead to nod my introduction.

“How severe is your injury?” Liv asks, already reaching to unwrap my gauze. “I brought blessed moss if you require it. Oh, it’s healed.” I reach up and touch nothing but smooth skin, and she barks a musical laugh. “No wonder you’re so disoriented.”

I’ve felt this way a few times before in my life – usually during times of great stress. It feels like a sort of out of body experience. Like going to see a movie and suddenly looking around the theatre, fully aware you’re alive and you exist and wondering if everyone else knows they exist. That is what I feel now, staring up at these people armed to the teeth but seemingly friendly.

I exist. I’m alive. And I desperately want to stay that way.

“I am honored to meet you all.” They seem surprised to hear me speak, and it makes me swallow twice before I can continue. “I’m… I don’t know how to say this, but I have no memory of–” I look from one face to another. “Of any of you.”

“You wouldn’t.” Erik smiles at me. “I was only a child when we first met. You would have known my father, Sigurd. Or my grandfather, Torsten.”

“I think she means she has no memory of our clan,” Inga interjects. “She needs to rest.”

“I’m sorry.” Are they angry? Should I have pretended to know them? “I hit my head pretty hard. It's been difficult to think.”

Erik and Liv begin a conversation in Old Norse, a few of the others piping in randomly. I look away from them to keep my confusion hidden.

What the hell is going on? Are these people The Others? I thought they spoke Latin?

“We will rest when we reach the Temple,” says Erik. “And we will slow our pace for you, my lady. It is only an hours walk.”

“I’m afraid we cannot allow that.” Everyone turns towards the voice, and I follow their eyes to four figures standing across the stream. “Erik, my friend. We need to talk.”

A rush of relief and adrenaline courses through me at the sight of the man. Richard Alpert. A familiar face at last. At his left are two women I’ve never seen before, each of them flanked on either side by enormous grey wolves. It takes my brain a few seconds to process that the figure to Richard’s right is Benjamin Linus.

I’m filled with equal parts excitement and terror as my brain goes into overdrive remembering who these people are. Ben was without question my favorite character on the show, but it’s one thing to fangirl safely in the privacy of your own home and a completely different thing to come face-to-face with an emotionally void, manipulative murderer in real life. Especially because I’ve started to remember where I am.

I was just at the beach with the survivors of Oceanic 815. That’s who those sleeping people were. I think of Claire, and I pray she was left unharmed.

“It’s that trash from the Temple,” I hear one of the woman beside Richard sneer. “I can smell them from here.”

“Quiet, Jane,” Richard snaps. “Erik, I understand your excitement at Cora’s return, but we really need to talk.”

Erik raises his arms, palm out, bowing dramatically. “Then let us talk.”

Richard shoots a glance in my direction and then back to Erik. “In private.”

“If you’re here to convince me to let her stay with your people, then you’re wasting your breath.”

“He’s yelling,” one of the wolves says. “Do we subdue him?”

“Wait until you’re ordered,” the other responds. He shifts his weight from left paw to right paw and lowers his head. “They haven’t told us to do anything yet.”

I look around to see if anyone else finds it weird that those two giant dogs standing next to Richard’s group are talking to each other.

Jane steps forward with a rifle in one hand, pointed at the ground but still a warning. “Jacob demands an audience—”

“I don’t answer to your god,” Erik spits out. With a flick he’s unstrapped the axe at his hip, gripping the handle, looking eager to sink it into the woman. “I answer to mine.” Jane raises the rifle, but Erik only smiles. “You better have impeccable aim, little girl.”

“Eddard,” Jane calls sharply, and the bigger wolf trots forward.

I thought Erik was angry before, but this sets him off into an even deeper rage. “You dare threaten me with my birthright?” he screams, pointing at the wolf. “You filthy thieving whore!”

“Bite him,” the smaller wolf barks.

“No. You see how I hold, young one?” The larger wolf at Jane’s side growls. “She has not ordered me to attack anyone. You must wait for commands.”

Ben points at me and says something I do not understand to my group, his accent much less refined than the rest of them, but whatever he said seems to have gotten Erik’s attention. Erik turns around to face me and nods to one of his people.

“May I, my lady?” Liv takes hold of my arm and carefully pushes up the long-sleeve of the oversized pullover I borrowed from Claire. We both stare at the pale underside of my arm, and I wonder what it is she’s looking for. Nothing is wrong with my arm. I look up at her, expecting a smile.

Liv looks confused. She releases her grip and stands, stepping back towards Erik.

Richard steps forward and aggressively smacks down the barrel of Jane’s rifle, so it points at the ground and not at Erik. “Now can we talk?”

I was so sure these people weren’t going to kill me, but now the same group that were staunchly assuring me they mean no harm look at me with suspicious contempt. I don’t know what to say to make this situation better, so I blurt out the question I so desperately want the answer to.

“So,” I ask, pointing at the wolf standing next to Jane, “can anyone else understand what those dogs are saying?”

“No. Jane. Stop,” Ben says each word as a separate command, his voice rising with panic.

I watch, confused, as Jane rushes towards me practically frothing with rage. She raises the butt of her rifle and swings it down hard on my face.

I am unimaginably hungry.

Heavy with a weight I cannot explain, my head swings down, hanging limply. I’m sitting on a hard floor. I open my eyes with a sharp gasp as I wait for my vision to adjust to the light. I’m sitting next to a washer machine. A single bulb lights what looks to be someone’s basement. The small room leads to a flight of stairs and a closed door.

“Hello?” I call out into the silence. The door opens. All I can see is a white mass descending the stairs with slow, heavy steps. Halfway down I realize what this thing is and my stomach cramps so badly, I wince in pain.

Listening to the sounds of its massive claws scraping the floor as it walks closer, I back up as far as I can against the wall, staring up into the face of a polar bear.

Chapter Text

Hot air and water droplets blow against my face as the polar bear exhales heavily. It sniffs my hair, my face, my clothes. It pokes and prods with its wet nose. It sits and stares at me for what seems like hours.

Then, in perfect English, it asks, “Where have you been?”

I can barely see anything through the stinging rivulets of sweat pouring down my face and into my eyes. Being this close to a bear—a talking bear—has shut off my brain. All I can do is gape and wait for it to maul and eat me.

Just like I suspected, the bear opens its mouth full of sharp teeth and leans towards me. I close my eyes and wait for the pain, but all I feel is a rough tongue slide up my face. Instead of a scream, all I can muster is a disgusted, “Ugh.”

“Margo, come here.”

I finally regain control of my arms and swipe a shaking hand across my eyes until I can see who the new voice belongs to. A man stands at the bottom of the stairs holding what looks like a plate.

“She’s back,” the polar bear roars excitedly over and over. It’s massive body spins away from me and strides towards the man. In the bear’s excitement, it crashes a little too hard into his side, and he stumbles, barely righting himself.

“Yes,” the man says, sounding exhausted. “Yes, I know. Margo, no, the sandwich is not for you. Get down.” I watch as his mouth twitches in a battle not to smile. He pets the top of bear’s head as it continues to chant excitedly.

“Who are you?” I whisper, but my voice rattles so much I don’t think he heard me. “Did you drug me?”

He pauses so long I don’t think he’ll answer. “No, we didn’t drug you.”

“I don’t feel right.”

“This should help.” He places the plate and a cup of water on the ground in front of me before turning towards the stairs. “Come, Margo.”

“No,” the bear refutes. Its body sways as it saunters back over to me, plopping down next to the sandwich and resting its massive head on my lap. “I’m staying right here.”

His demand is more stern this time. “Margo, come here.”

I blink, thinking, remembering. I know this person. Only, I don’t. I know of this person.

Ben sighs, abandoning his demands that the bear follow him. I watch his facial movements to see if I can tell how dangerous the situation is, but there is no expression when his eyes meet mine. “Enjoy your sandwich,” he says before disappearing up the stairs, snapping the door shut behind him.

My stomach reminds me that I have not eaten in a while, and I’m much too weak to plan an escape right now. I reach for the sandwich and take a ravenous chunk, barely chewing before swallowing. I’m expecting something simple, like chicken-salad or ham. I look between the slices of bread and find only multiple thinly sliced vegetables pasted together with garlic mayo.

“I missed you,” the polar bear says, still relaxed against my lap. “Where have you been?”

I scarf down the sandwich before I can answer. I am talking to a bear. I’m locked in a basement. Ben Linus just gave me a sandwich. I’m still hungry. Oceanic 815 just crashed on The Island.

I am talking to a bear.

I reach for the cup of water and bring it up to my lips. My hands shake so much a good portion splashes down my chin and dots my sweatpants. I clear my throat and say the only thing I can think of. “How long have I been gone?”

“My whole life,” the bear answers. “I’m so happy you’re back. I was hoping I’d get to see you again before the end.”

I finish chugging the water and gasp air, waiting for this all to make sense. “The end of what?”

“I’m old,” the bear laughs. “Very old. I’m slower than I used to be, and I’m tired most days. I won’t be around much longer.”

Even though the bear seems happy, her words form a pit in my stomach. I don’t know this bear, but she seems to know me, and it makes me sad to think she won’t be alive much longer. I wasn’t allowed to have pets as a child, though I desperately wanted a dog. Now I have what seems like a very old, very excitable, very very large dog, and I won’t get to enjoy her company for long.

My hands stop shaking as I run my fingers through her thick fur. “Where am I?”

“Home,” she answers happily.

There’s a commotion upstairs behind the door. I’m not sure what to expect, but I also know staying trapped in this basement isn’t a smart alternative. Besides, I have a bear who seems to adore me. Odds are slightly more in my favor if it comes to fighting.

“Margo,” I say, “we should get out of here.”

“You want to go outside? I can take you for a walk, like old times.”

“Yes, that sounds wonderful,” I reply.

She mistakes my excitement to be free from this basement with excitement to go on a walk and all but lunges for the stairs. At the sound of her roar, the door opens. The man who opened it has no time to second guess his decision before Margo charges forward, knocking him down in the process. I stick to her like glue, squinting as I emerge into what looks to be a normal, average house.

I quickly try to count the amount of people sitting and standing in the room adjacent to the kitchen—some I recognize from the stand-off earlier, and others I don’t—as they fall silent and stare at me. Erik and Liv bow their heads, but the rest of them continue to stare. I look at the man Margo knocked over and recognize Richard.

I need to get out of here. I’m not sure what they’re talking about or what they’re planning, but I want no part in it. “We are going to go outside now,” I announce and follow closely behind Margo as she heads to the front door. She sits patiently, swaying slightly with excitement, as she waits for me to open the door.

My first step outside mushes against my foot. I look down in disgust to see I’ve stepped in a large bowl of what looks like macaroni salad. Next to this bowl is another crockpot of food, next to yet another offering of decorative cuts of fruit. There’s no space to walk amongst the dozens upon dozens of intricate flower bouquets wrapped with ribbon and fancy prepared meals stacked tightly together spanning from the door down to the grass of the front yard.

There’s no way to leave this house without stepping on flowers or food.

In my confusion, the only thing I can think to do is reach down and read a folded note that was taped to the macaroni salad. It looks to have been written by a very young child.

It reads: Hello Lady Cora, I helped make this macaroni salad with no animals in it. I have never eaten an animal before. Please don’t kill my family even though sometimes my parents eat fish. Thank you! Love, Indiana

PS. This is a drawing of me and my pet lizard Scales. He’s my best friend. Please talk to him when you are not busy and tell me if he’s happy.

There’s a hand on my shoulder, and I drop the note. ”Hey,” I stutter with cold, unrelenting fear, "what are you doing?” I’m pulled over the threshold and back into the house. An annoyed looking Richard closes the door and, thankfully, releases my shoulder.

“Margo seems satisfied it’s her,” says Ben. He’s standing next to a couch seating Jane and a woman I’ve never seen before. Erik and Liv stand together on the other side of the room. I’m acutely aware that they’re the only ones not glaring at me.

It takes me a second to register what Ben just said. “I’m who?” I try to ask, but I’m drowned out by Jane.

“Yes,” she says, “well, that settles it. Your senile bear is all the proof I need.”

“Are we going to ignore how she healed her head?” Erik interrupts loudly. “Or how she can understand your bear enough to win its trust? Your talks of tests are tedious and dull and a waste of my time. She should be returned to her rightful place at—”

I don’t know how to process anything that’s happening, so I stand perfectly still. Being invisible and ignored is an art I’ve all but mastered. Erik and Jane get into another shouting match, and I can feel my anxiety rising with every angry word. The disorientation from earlier has completely worn off, and now I’m excruciatingly aware of how afraid I am. Maybe I should take Margo and go back to the basement. At least they wouldn’t be able to stare at me there.

Richard speaks, and I jump. I had forgotten he was so close, so I reflexively move away from him further into the kitchen. I reach out for Margo, and I’m comforted when she taps her nose against my hand.

“She is free to do as she likes as soon as it can be verified she is who she claims she is,” says Richard.

I haven’t claimed to be anybody. I try to say this, but my voice won’t work, as usual.

“I’m taking her to the only person on this island old enough to know if this is her or not,” Richard continues. “We’re going to see Jacob.”

I cover my ears as both Erik and Liv burst into angry rebuttals.

Margo licks my arm. “It’s alright. You don’t have to be afraid. They yell a lot, but we’re not in danger. Sit with me.” Sitting helps. I wrap my arms around her neck and she starts grooming the side of my head.

“You have custody of our Goddess,” Erik rants, “but we’re not even allowed to know where your God resides?”

“One of you may come with me,” Richard says in a pacifying tone. “Will that settle this?”

I continue to sit on the kitchen floor of an unknown person’s house, being comforted by an elderly polar bear, and hating myself for allowing these people to talk over me and discuss my future without my consent.

Richard and Erik follow behind me. Richard aims a rifles at the ground, ready in case I try to run away.

Ha. Run away. I can't even keep up with them. What are they worried about?

Margo trots happily at my side. Ben seemed aggravated she was going with us, but there was no convincing Margo otherwise. Besides, I wasn’t about to give up the one sense of security I have. Margo is the only person—only living thing—that doesn’t seem to have some kind of ulterior motive and just wants to hang out with me. As much as I don’t want to get on Ben’s bad side, I also don’t want to play my cards wrong and put myself into even greater danger.

There’s a part of me that feels dead inside with embarrassment. I haven’t showered in days, and my clothes are in desperate need of a wash. Even though the sweatpants Claire let me borrow technically fit, I still had to roll up the too-long legs. I look pathetic. I’m covered in sticky perspiration, and it feels like I'm choking up a lung. I’m not sure what hurts more, my legs or my feet.

I legitimately think I’m going to die, but I’m too embarrassed to complain. When I look back to gage how Richard and Erik are doing, neither of them are red-faced or particularly sweaty. I think of all the comments my father would make if he could see me now. I’m too fat, too slow, too weak, too lazy. Of course I want to complain about the length of the walk because any length is too far for a worthless piece of shit like me.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Margo offers. “You’re upset.”

Without thinking, I give her my standard reflex. “I’m fine.”

By mid-afternoon, I finally see the foot statue over the tops of the palm trees. Little black specks dance behind my eyelids as I stumble across the beach. I'm thirsty and exhausted. Sand kicks up into my shoes and grinds against my feet. I can't help but roll my eyes.

“Cora will enter on her own,” Richard says when we stand before the foot. He motions towards a door hidden on the side. “Erik and I will wait for you out here.”

Margo inhales deeply and perks up. “Jacob! Come inside with me, Cora. He’s very nice.”

“I’m taking Margo,” I tell Richard. For some reason, he makes no argument. Erik seems pleased to let me proceed alone as long as Margo is with me.

With no other reason to stall, I push on the door enough to let Margo slip through, and then I follow her into the dark.

"I suppose you're looking for me."

I spin around and come face to face with the man of mystery himself. Jacob has always looked high to me. I think it's the heavy-lidded eyes and drowsy demeanor. His dirty blonde hair is a mess, as usual, and he's wearing his usual plain cotton pants and shirt while sitting on a chair by a fire-pit, carving a small token out of wood. Margo licks his face before walking back to stand by my side.

Before I can think of a response to meeting such a confusing character, Jacob spares me the trouble. “They don’t believe you are who you say you are, do they?”

For some reason, this doesn’t embarrass or otherwise leave me gaping and unsure. This statement makes me angry. I finally say the words I wanted to scream back at the house. “I haven’t claimed to be anyone.”

“So who are you?” he asks, sounding bored.

“I thought you’re supposed to have all the answers,” I snap. My exhaustion from this trip has made all social awkwardness seem less important. I just want to confirm whatever Richard wants to confirm so I can take a hot shower. “My name is Cora.”

“I know.” Without even looking up from the wood he’s whittling, Jacob gives a lazy smile. “Have a seat,” he offers, motioning to a split log near the pit. “No use in standing after walking the whole way here. You must be exhausted.”

I sit and worry I will never be able to stand again.

Jacob finally looks up from his whittling project. “What do you remember?”

“About what?”

“Anything. Yourself. This island. Me.”

I sigh. “Honestly? I don’t know. I thought I knew a lot about this place, but—” I wonder if there is any harm in confiding with Jacob. Nobody talks directly to him except Richard. He seems to know me like Erik and Liv seem to know me. Maybe if I’m honest, he can give me some answers to what the hell is going on. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be here.”

Jacob's eyebrows rise. "Ah," he says, returning his attention back to his token. It looks like some sort of wooden animal. “Why is that?”

“Because right before I woke up from a plane crash for a flight I wasn’t on, I was asleep in my apartment, watching this—” I wave my arms around for emphasis. “—on a TV. None of this is real.” I pause. “Does that mean somewhere someone is watching this on a TV? Did I get caught in some kind or wormhole? Am I in another dimension? Am I dead?”

“That’s why I like you. Always asking the hard questions.”

I frown at him, but then it dawns on me. Jacob has powers. “Can you send me back?” I surge with newfound energy, and somehow I stand. “Can you send me back to my dimension? Send me back to my family?”

“I can’t,” he answers. “Believe me, I would if I could.”

“Why?” I can already feel the hope leaching out of me, and I have to sit again. “Because you want me gone?”

“No,” he says, sounding amused. “Because we’re friends.”

We are? Could have fooled me by the way Erik talks. I was under the impression those who live at the Temple have some sort of beef with those who live in the DHARMA barracks. “We don’t have beef?”

“It was my understanding you’re vegetarian.”

I don’t want to laugh, but I do. “No, I mean, we’re not warring with each other?”

“No.” Jacob pulls a bottle of wine out of nowhere and takes a swig. “Not unless you’re hiding something.”

“If we’re not fighting, why are they?”

“Lack of communication.” He shrugs and takes another swig of wine. “Because that’s what people do. They argue. They fight. They die for what they think is important.”

That’s dumb.

Jacob smiles again and corks the wine. “I suppose we should get you back to your people before they riot. Tell Richard I’d like to speak to him, please.”

The late afternoon is graciously cooler, so it’s a slightly easier walk back to the barracks. I don’t know what Jacob said to Richard, but whatever it was seems to have worked. His rifle now hangs across one shoulder, not ready to point at me.

We don’t get very far into the jungle before Margo perks up, sniffing. “James!” In a rather lengthy stride, Margo takes off through the trees.

“No,” I yell. “Margo, come back! Stop!”

“It’s James, Cora,” I hear her explain while continuing her pace. “Come see! James has returned.”

I try to run after her, but my legs refuse to move. Margo scampers out of sight and I hang my head, taking in a deep breath and preparing to pursue. “Can one of you please follow her?” I ask Richard and Erik. “I honestly can’t take another step.”

A loud crack echoes through the jungle, and I look up in confusion. It’s not raining. It’s not even overcast. The second, third, forth and fifth cracks echo wildly in the distance, and Richard pulls me to the ground.

“Erik,” says Richard, already swinging the rifle off his shoulder. I watch Erik reach for his axe. “I’ll watch her. Confirm who’s shooting.”

That wasn’t lightning? That was a gunshot? Someone’s shooting at us?

No. Someone’s shooting at Margo.

“Margo,” I say aloud. “Margo?”

Richard shushes me.

Erik returns with Sawyer, kicking him to a kneel before us. “There was more, but this is the man who shot your bear.”

“Easy,” Sawyer grumbles, his hands raised over his head in surrender. “No need to break my damn legs.” At the sight of me, Sawyer’s angry expression turns to confusion.

“I need to help her,” I mumble. If I can heal myself, surely I can heal other people too. “I need to heal her wounds.”

“No, my lady,” Erik says sadly. “Do not trouble yourself with such a morbid sight. The bear is dead. I have confirmed it. You cannot help her now.”

My mouth opens, and I think I’m about to scream. Instead, I start laughing and wrap both arms around my middle. I laugh so hard my stomach cramps. I try to shake my head to let everyone know I’m not laughing because I think it’s funny, but this only makes me more hysterical.

I gasp in-between an especially breathy laugh, furiously blinking away tears, and rasp, “Get me out of here.”

Chapter Text

I have no idea how long it takes to arrive back at the Barracks, but I vaguely remember Erik carrying me on his back.

Erik and Liv have left to stay in a separate guest house. Liv was insistent they escort me to the Temple tonight, and I’m pretty sure I made some kind of screech in response. She also insisted we three stay together, and I honestly don’t remember what I said to convince her otherwise. I just want to be completely alone for a while. No conversations, no questions, no noise. Just me and dead silence.

I choose the biggest knife in the kitchen and slip it under my pillow.

I thankfully have enough strength to stand slumped under running water like a zombie, sloppily rubbing soap across my skin every once in a while. I only think to turn off the shower when the water starts to run cold. I wrap a too-small towel around myself and step out into the bedroom. Cool air prickles my skin as the moisture on my exposed shoulders begins to dry. I don’t bother exploring the room in the guesthouse I was given. I advance towards the neatly made bed and collapse onto the comforter, pulling just enough over me to keep me warm.

Just think of this as a fancy hotel.

As my fingers rub over the familiar wooden handle of a knife, I try to conjure good thoughts to fall asleep to, but it turns out there’s no need. I’m asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.

I’m aware something is wrong, but I also can’t move.

“Sincerest apologies for the intrusion,” Ben says from my doorway as I stir awake. “But I have an urgent request that could not wait until morning.”

You will not kill me. I'll kill you first. My fingers strangle the knife handle under my pillow, ready to spring into action if need be. As I slowly come-to, I realize I’m still wrapped in a towel and frantically use my free hand to make sure it hasn’t come loose. “What the hell are you—” I stop short when I see he’s not alone.

Alex stands close to my bed and awkwardly bows when I look at her. “I’m so sorry we didn’t knock, but this is an emergency and we didn’t want to get caught banging on your front door.”

Still gripping the hidden knife in one hand, I grope the comforter with my free hand and pull the edge closer to me so I can fully cover my entire body. Now that adrenaline is pumping through my veins, I’m awake enough to be angry. “Why are you in my house?”

“We brought you clean clothes,” Alex offers, looking embarrassed. She pats a neatly folded stack of clothing she’s placed beside me on the mattress.

You couldn’t have called to tell me that? You couldn’t have left them at my door? Even in my fury, I still find myself trying not to offend. “Please get out of my house.”

“We will let you dress,” says Ben, who at least has the decency not to look at me. “But then I will need you to come with us.”

My head is heavy with the need for sleep, and I can feel an exhausted rage forming deep inside. “Whatever you want can wait till morning. I’m going to sleep.”

“I’m afraid this can’t wait till morning,” he answers sharply. “And you’re the only one who can help.”

“Oh God,” I exhale in a defeated sigh. “What do you want?”

“We need to burn her,” says Alex.

“Burn who?"

“We need to burn Margo before your people find her,” answers Ben.

At the mention of her name, I look at him. “Why?”

Ben’s wandering eyes finally land on mine. “It’s customary that they. . . repurpose the remains of dead animals. They cannot kill, but they always find uses once an animal dies of other means. Erik knows where Margo’s body is.”

I nod, but I don’t see the issue. She’s already dead.

Ben stares silently at me, as if any of this is supposed to make sense enough for me to leap out of bed and enthusiastically follow them into the night. If this is some kind of weird mind-game, I’m way too tired to figure out what his motive is.

“I don’t. . . ” Ben looks away and blinks rapidly a few times. “I don’t want them to skin her.” When he looks back at me, his words are softer. “Please. We just want to give Margo—all of her—a proper funeral, but I don’t know where her body is. Richard is the only other person who knows where she died, but he’s gone.”

I groan and flop back against my pillow. “Where’d he go?”

“Who’s to say? He comes and goes often.”

I am so tired it feels as if my body has been buried under several layers of sand. In my stupor, I close my itching eyes to think. Is this worth it? Will this get me back on Ben’s good side? Or if not “good” side at least knock me down a few slots on the list of people he’d like to kill? Are my numb legs even capable of standing?

When I open my eyes, I see them both differently. I spot the jitteriness behind Ben’s calm facade. I note Alex’s red puffy eyes, which probably means she’s been crying. I may be sad Margo is dead, but I hardly knew her. Ben and Alex are mourning an old friend. I want to help if it will bring them closure.

It’s what my grandma would have told me to do.

Taking a deep breath, I say a silent prayer for strength and finally let go of the knife. “Ok. But I’m not walking.”

“Of course not.” It surprises me how Ben cannot hide the intense relief in his voice. “I will ride Coco and you and Alex will take Brego. I’ll go on ahead and bring the horses to the valley. Meet Alex outside once you're dressed. And please,” he adds, “be quiet.”

I stare up at Alex and instantly regret all of this. “I don’t know how to ride a horse.”

“That’s totally fine,” she assures me. “Just sit behind me and I’ll do the hard part.”

Brego hasn’t said anything, but I still feel weird not asking his permission before hopping on his spine. “Hi,” I say to the motionless brown horse. “Excuse me, Brego?”

“Yeah?” He sounds agitated. I wonder if he was asleep when Ben retrieved him.

“I’m so sorry, but I need to ask a favor. May I ride on your back?”

“Sure,” he says in a whinny-sigh. “Everyone else does.”

I feel terrible asking a creature as tired as I am to carry me deep into the jungle. I know there’s no other choice, but it still doesn’t feel good. “But…do you mind?”

“No.”

“Ok,” I tell him in my most cheerful tone. “Thank you so much.”

I reach for Alex’s hand so she can help pull me up onto the saddle just as I feel Ben’s hands from behind grab me under the arms and hoist. It’s over the second I notice it, and I have no energy to voice my discomfort with the contact anyway. I’m just happy to be sitting and not walking.

My relief at not having to walk doesn’t last long. There is absolutely nothing comfortable about riding a horse. With every clop of Brego’s hooves, the hard saddle digs into my aching glutes. It is no time at all before I lose all feeling in my butt.

I worry we will never find Margo. I try my best to retrace the path Richard took me to Jacob’s foot, but what would have been a difficult task in the light is near impossible in the dark. Everything looks the same.

It’s all made even worse by the incessant yelling of birds overhead. What would sound like nothing more than beautiful chirping to a regular person sounds like a combination of catcalls, complaints, and just a general TMI to me. It’s like being in a club full of loud people with no music playing.

“There it is,” I choke out and point at the foot in the distance. “We came back in that direction. She’s over there.”

At long last, we come to a halt. I yawn and try to process this whole situation by its positives. The only positive I can think of is how we’re halfway to being done with this mission and back home to my nice soft pillow.

“You can just stay on the saddle if you want,” says Alex. She’s smiling, but in the moonlight I can see her watering eyes. “Dad and I will start digging.”

“I thought you were burning her?”

“We have to dig around her first,” she explains, “like a campfire, so we don’t light the whole jungle ablaze.” Alex hops off Brego, hands me the reigns, and pulls a shovel from the saddle.

Ben and Alex approach Margo’s body with their shovels and what looks to be a canister of gasoline. I watch and wait for them to start digging, but they don’t. They just stand perfectly still, side-by-side, not touching, not physically consoling each other, just staring.

I wonder if I’m being disrespectful by just sitting here. I’m doing them a favor. They asked me to bring them to the body, and I did. My job is done. I don’t have to do anything but sit here and wait for them to conduct whatever ceremony it is they came here to do.

I can barely hear Ben talking, and it sounds like he said my name, so I ask Brego to take me closer. As I approach, Ben turns and glares at me—but not just any ordinary glare. No, this is one of those special calm glares that sends chills up your spine and brings to your attention that somebody is about to be murdered.

What is your problem? It isn’t until Alex turns around, startled, that I realize I’ve spoken aloud.

“This didn’t have to happen,” Ben seethes under his breath. “You could have told her to stay home. She would have listened to you.”

I look at Margo and see the blood streaks in her white fur. Flies buzz around her wounds, of which I count four. I could have sworn there were five shots fired. Then I notice what must have been the final blow right between her bloodied eyes.

My throat tears. Ben’s insinuation hits my chest like a physical punch because he’s right. I probably could have persuaded Margo to stay home if I’d tried. If she had just stayed home, she’d still be alive. I feel so sick I barely get out, “I didn’t kill Margo.”

“No, of course not,” he retorts dismissively. “You just watched.”

I can’t think of a response, so I frown, but only so I can cover my watering eyes with a squint. Only, no tears come. I’m literally too tired to cry.

What am I supposed to say? Erik told me she was dead, and he was right. There’s a bullet hole in her skull to prove that. But. . . I didn’t check for myself. What if Erik had been wrong? What if I could have saved her?

Ben exhales quietly through his nose, steadying himself. He sounds less angry when he says, “Please take Brego back to the Barracks. He knows the way.”

I look at Alex because I can no longer look at him. “What about you?”

“Alex and I want to stay here a while longer after we’ve lit the pyre,” Ben answers for her.

Alex looks seconds away from wailing, and now I cannot look at her either. I glance towards the jungle and my delirious brain invents all sorts of terrifying reasons why trusting a horse I don’t know to take me back to a compound I’m not familiar with is one of the dumbest ideas of the night. “I don’t mind waiting.”

I watch as Ben’s expression hardens again. “Intrude on our funeral if you must,” he snaps. “It’s not as if you haven’t ruined enough already.”

“Dad,” Alex whispers. Even though I can barely hear her, I still notice the crack in her voice.

Ben turns and begins shoveling without another word. I’ve been dismissed.

“Alex, are you sure you don’t mind if I take Brego back?” I close my itchy eyes in the hopes of re-moisturizing them, but it just feels like sand is chafing my inner eyelids. “I desperately need to sleep.”

She tries to smile but ends up swiping away at her now wet face. She waves me away with a hand before turning and digging into the ground with her shovel.

“Brego.” I grip the reigns and pray there isn’t anything complicated about this. “Take me home, please.” I almost fall off his back as he darts forward into a gallop.

To keep from falling asleep, I think of my grandma. Everything was good before she died. Our house had never been perfect, but it was at least less depressing with her in it. She was the most fearless woman I know. Not only did she move across the world to live with us after my grandfather died, but she learned English all on her own and worked as a maid on the weekends to help with household bills. Grandma was an old-school, no-nonsense Sicilian who took absolutely no shit from anyone, including my dad. When she passed, it was as if my dad had been given permission to evolve into his final abusive form. Being subjected to his constant threats of violence made the pain of her absence unbearable.

If Grandma could see me now—half-awake, riding aimlessly atop a horse who I can talk to—she would absolutely laugh her ass off. Then she’d make me something to eat.

I focus back on the road just in time to see the tree branch that smashes into my face and throws me off Brego. 

I’m surprised I don’t slip into unconsciousness as I hit the ground hard. A tight swelling has already started in my right eyelid, and it hurts to open. My forehead throbs from the impact and an annoying ringing echoes through both ears. I reach up to stop the pain in my eye.

No, don’t heal. You’ll pass out again and get eaten alive by wild animals in your sleep.

“You’re not very coordinated,” Brego laughs, doubling back and trotting circles around me.

I moan and roll onto my side. Everything hurts. Muscles in my arm shoot pain up into my neck. I think I landed on my wrist. It better not be broken.

“Brego,” I beg. “Please, I will literally get you anything you ask for. Just please get me back home in one piece.”

How many ibuprofen can you take before it becomes lethal? Three is apparently not enough to help with my aching. . . everything.

“We cannot leave you alone for one night without you being assaulted.” Liv paces the length of the kitchen as I attempt to cook myself pancakes. “Who was it, my lady? Point them out.”

“It wasn’t anybody,” I grumble. “I already told Ethan about it. He helped me find my guesthouse last night.” As I crack an egg to add to the mix, I wonder if this still means I’m vegetarian. I think so? As long as the egg wasn’t fertilized, I’m not actually eating a chicken.

“You expect me to believe that?” Liv asks.

“You don’t have to protect these stuffy assholes,” Erik cuts in. “We should have burned this place to the ground years ago. Please, give us a reason.”

Calm down, Erik. Is he being serious? I turn to give him a disapproving look. “You want the truth?” I need more sleep. I will never have enough sleep. “I went for a late-night ride on a horse named Brego. Wanted to clear my head. Wasn’t paying enough attention and ran into a low-hanging branch. Taa-daa. Lamest black eye in history. Here, eat your pancakes.”

I serve them both first, then I practically burn all my tastebuds shoveling the hotcakes into my mouth as fast as I can spear them on a fork. I scarf down three and return to the stove to make more.

“If we leave after breakfast, we should arrive at the Temple just before sundown—”

“No,” I cut Erik off in a panic, and I can feel my face instantly redden at my rudeness. “Please, no more travel. I barely got any sleep last night. I want one full day of rest.”

Erik opens his mouth to argue, but nods instead. “As you wish, Lady Cora. We will reconvene in the morning.”

I barely had time to sleep in this morning before Erik and Liv were pounding at my door to check on me. “Please, let me come to you tomorrow. I want to wake up naturally.”

“I tried to tell him that this morning,” Liv says, shooting Erik a playful smirk. “We will let you sleep as long as you need. Come find us when you wish to leave.”

With a deep bow, they turn and walk out the front door, and my guesthouse is blissfully silent again.

After I’ve eaten my fill, I wander around the house in search of answers. There’s nothing of real note in the living room or kitchen, so I check the hall closet. I end up in the bathroom, looking into a mirror. Of all things, I’m shocked. My skin looks amazing. Flawless. Freakishly flawless, except for the purple-black bruising around my right eye. Otherwise, it’s perfectly toned. I can’t see a single pore. Even my blonde hair looks healthier than it's ever been before. It almost looks like I’m actually glowing.

I snort a laugh. Do I look this way because I have powers, or because this is what characters on this show are supposed to look like?

After checking the bedroom and finding nothing but an empty closet, I sit on the ugly couch in the living room and listen to the steady ticking of a clock on the wall. I take the clock off its hook and stick it in the hall closet, but even the silence isn’t enough anymore.

This is insane. If I was going to wake up, surely I would have by now.

Now what?

Do I try to leave the island? Does my family even exist off-island? Somewhere in California, is there an alternate universe 10-year-old Cora?

I grip my ribs as my chest tightens, my breath creaking like a rusty hinge. It feels like the walls are closing in on me, and I need fresh air.

I’m surprised to find Liv sitting on my porch stairs, surrounded by a completely new batch of flower and food offerings. Liv has a bowl of something in her lap, and she’s in the middle of licking her fingers when she looks up at me. “Lady Cora,” she says, already standing. “Sorry, I hope you don’t mind. Whatever that was is delicious.”

I blink at the sheer amount of bowls and bouquets and wonder if I’m going to have to deal with this everyday. “Have you been sitting out here the whole time?”

“Yes, my lady. Where can I escort you?”

I glance across the lot, but I don’t see him. “Where’s Erik?”

“Back at the guesthouse. Do you need anything?”

I don’t want to tell her about my desire to wander aimlessly because I don’t want a chaperone, but I also don’t want to hurt her feelings. “No,” I lie. “Just checking on you.” I look around at the nearest offerings of food and contemplate bringing them inside. “Do you want to come in?”

“Oh, no,” she says. “It’s nice out. I’m fine here.”

I force a smile. “Ok, cool. I’m. . . ok, bye. Thank you.” I close the door to stop my awkward rambling and think up a Plan B.

There has to be a back window I can climb out without being seen.

Sure enough, at the back of the house, the bedroom has a large enough window for me to fit through. I get one foot over the ledge, but I misjudged the height and quickly lose my balance. With a painful thud, I slide out the window and crash to the ground.

I hear snickering and look up. Across the lot from my window, Jane and four other women all sit on the front porch of a house, watching me with amusement.

“That is tragic,” I hear one of the girls snicker, and the rest of them burst into stifled laughter.

My face burns as I push myself to my feet and brush the dirt off my hands.

Jane smiles at me. She’s slender, all muscle, with long back hair tied back in a loose ponytail. The most striking feature on her face are her dark eyebrows set in two bold straight lines that make her look like she's stuck in a perpetual frown. At her feet is a family of wolves, the largest of which sits close enough for her to pet him.

“I heard you lost a fight with a tree,” Jane taunts.

Ha, ha, ha. Hilarious. I keep my eyes locked on a house in the distance and walk past them, trying my best to ignore whatever it is they’re whispering now. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from public school, it’s that you cannot win in these situations. All you can do is leave with as much dignity as possible.

“Hello,” a voice calls from below. I look down to find a small red fox trotting along beside me. “Headed anywhere in particular?”

"Just out for a walk,” I answer. “Actually, you wouldn’t happen to know of a good shaded spot to sit, would you?”

“You should try the gazebo. It’s not far. Mind if I tag along?"

“Sure. What's your name?" I ask.

"Todd," he answers with a flick of his bushy tail. "And you are the illustrious Cora, are you not?"

"I suppose I am."

“You suppose? Dear me, how dreadful it must be not to know who you are."

“Or where I am,” I mumble. “My list of problems is rather long.”

The fox barks a laugh. “To be fair, I hear you go by quite a long list of names, so I wouldn’t feel too bad for not being entirely in the know. It's just nice to meet someone who understands me," Todd continues. "The humans here are nice. Bereft of intelligence, but nice all the same."

I laugh, finally releasing the tension from last night. "Why do you say that?"

"I can understand what they are saying, but they cannot understand what I am saying. You call this intelligence?"

"You can understand English?" I ask in amazement.

"When you've lived with humans your entire life, you learn their language one way or another. It shouldn't be that surprising. Oh, joy,” he mumbles sarcastically. “Child at 3 o’clock.”

I turn and watch a little girl, maybe five or six, hurry towards me. Both her hands are cupped. “Hi!” she exclaims, revealing a lizard delicately lounging against her palms. “Hi, Lady Cora. Are you in a good mood even though you got a black eye? My mom says I can’t talk to you until we know you’re in a good mood.”

“Hello.” I can’t help but laugh at her bluntness. “You must be Indiana.” My smile widens when she excitedly shakes her head. “I read your letter. And this must be Scales.”

The tiny green lizard lifts his head to look at me. “You got bug?”

“Please tell me if I’m a good lizard mom,” Indiana begs. “He sleeps a lot. Is he sick?” Without warning, she holds up the lizard and it climbs onto my shirt.

Scales clings to my stomach with his tiny talons and repeats, “You got bug?”

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

“Yes, she does not feed me enough bug.”

“Ah, I see.” Indiana looks at me expectantly, so I give her a reassuring smile. “He says you take good care of him.”

“No,” Scales cuts in. “I said I want more bug.”

“I take really good care of him,” Indiana assures me. “Scales is my best friend.”

“Tell you what,” I say. “How about you give him a few extra bugs everyday? It will make him less sleepy.”

“Yes, thank you,” says Scales.

Indiana reaches forward and gently plucks Scales off my shirt. “Feeding him more will make him happy?”

“He’s already happy, but feed him more and he’ll be the happiest lizard in the world.”

“Ok! I just didn’t want him to get fat.”

The statement pinches at the nerves in my face, like I’ve bitten into a lemon. I take a steadying breath and try to keep things in perspective. She’s a child. She didn’t mean anything by it. She was talking about Scales. She wasn’t even talking about you. What is wrong with you?

“INDIANA?” A panicked woman scrambles across the grass towards us, pulling Indiana to her side and then stepping forward to shield her. “I am so sorry, Lady Cora.” The woman presses her hands together and falls to her knees in the grass in front of me. “Please forgive me. I turned around for one second and my daughter’s out the door. I hope she has not disturbed your peace.”

I don’t know what I find more horrifying about all this: the intense wobble in her voice that trembles like she’s about to burst into tears, the way she’s shielding her child from me, or the fact that her face is already starting to sweat.

I can feel color flood my cheeks. It’s only when I look around to make sure nobody is gawking that I realize there’s nobody around to gawk. “No, no, that's really not necessary . . ."

She looks up, eyes wide and worried. “Our family prays to your altar every Friday without fail. And we’re very strict vegetarians.”

“But sometimes Mommy and Daddy eat fish,” says Indiana.

I watch all the color drain from the woman’s face. “No we don’t,” she refutes quickly, sounding even more panicked.

“Indiana was just asking about her lizard,” I say, but it comes out more like a question. “He needs a little more food at feeding time.” I say this in the hopes of putting this woman at ease, but she only ends up even more upset.

“An honest mistake,” she begs, curling inward like a shrimp. “We will ensure he’s properly fed from now on, I swear.”

“It’s not a problem,” I say, appalled and embarrassed. “Really, don’t worry about it.”

“Yes, we will fix this. I swear we will.” The woman uncurls, kisses her hands, and places them over my feet. “Thank you. We’ll. . . we’ll do that right now! Come, Indiana.” Before I can think of anything else to say, the woman has hoisted the girl into her arms and hurried back into her house.

“Close your mouth,” Todd chuckles. “You’ll catch flies.”

“What . . . what was that all about?”

Todd tilts his head, studying me. “I do find it rather dull how they’ve kept you in the dark for so long. Would you like to hear what I know? As long as you keep it between us, of course. I’d rather not be skinned alive and worn as a cape for divulging secrets.”

“I won’t say anything.”

“There was an incident here with the original owners of these houses—a purge, if you will—many years ago. If my sources are to be believed, you incited it. After most were killed, the island natives split in two. One group believed you should rule the island, the other believed you had been corrupted and could no longer be trusted. Those who still worshiped you stayed at the Temple a few miles inland. Those who chose to follow Jacob remained here.”

I’m hearing what he’s saying, it just doesn’t process. That’s not what happens. Ben purges Dharma as his initiation into the Others. I blink, thinking about the bizarre conversation I just had with a woman who acted like I was about to behead her. “I have an altar?”

“Your brain sure is bouncy, isn’t it?” Todd tilts his head. “It’s not far from here. Would you like to see it?”

I follow Todd around a bend into an entirely new set of houses. No one is walking around. No one is sitting on their porches. It is eerily abandoned. “Does anyone live here?”

“Oh yes,” Todd answers. “All of these houses are occupied.”

“Where is everyone?” I answer my own question when I catch someone peeking through their blinds. The slats quickly close when I stare too long.

“You cannot exactly blame them,” Todd says, sounding amused. “The last time you were here, a lot of people died.”

I'm not sure whether to believe him or not. It sounds so outside the realm of possibility, I wonder if this is some kind of trick. "How do you know all of this?"

“I make it my business to know,” says Todd. “Ah, here we are.”

Across a grassy plain, at the edge of the treeline, I see a tall wooden carving of a bear, a boar, a wolf, and a large bird perched on the bear’s back. A flat platform lies at the base of the statue, covered in orchid bouquets and folded pieces of paper.

As we get closer, I notice the grass in this area is brown and crunchy beneath my shoes. In fact, the nearest trees are nothing more than dead husks with skeletal branches blowing in the wind. Compared to the lush vibrancy of the rest of the grassy plain and surrounding jungle, this little plant graveyard gives me the creeps.

I stand in front of the altar and pick up one of the slips of paper. It reads: Please help my mom get better soon. Another says: Please keep Eugene safe during the negotiations. Another reads: Please bless me with a successful pregnancy.

“What is all this?”

“Prayers,” says Todd.

“What is that?” I point at the wooden statue, but what I mean is why is everything in this vicinity dead?

“A simple question, at last.” Todd trots over to the shrine and turns towards me, curling his tail around himself. “This, my dear, is where you were murdered.”

Chapter Text

The world seems to still. I don’t know what to do with myself. Sitting helps, but not much. I don’t even have it in me to read more prayers. I feel my full stomach grumble, wanting more.

Todd jumps off the altar, studying me with his cunning black eyes. “You’re not taking this very well.”

You just told me I was murdered, Todd. Yeah, I’m not taking this very well. I huff a laugh, but it quickly devolves into something unstable. Breathing in deep through my nose, I try to calm myself before I fly into the same panic that gripped me after Margo’s death. “How did I die?”

“I know a lot,” Todd tell me. “That is one of the few things I cannot confirm. Too much idle gossip, and nobody can keep their story straight.”

I instinctually reach out to pet him, hoping for the same comfort that Margo offered, but I pause halfway to his ears. "Um, I’m sorry, may I pet you?"

"I must admit I don't usually let people poke and prod me. But I will most definitely accept a good scratch behind the ears from you."

I scratch his ears and take in the nice weather. Sunshine, green grass in the distance, a floral scent on the wind. There were worse places for me to end up out of space and time.

“I promise I’m not stalking you.” I turn towards the voice and find Alex standing nearby in the dead grass, looking sheepish. “I saw you come out here and I just wanted to make sure you’re ok. Oh, hi Todd.”

Alex looks similar to my brother and sisters—thin and tall, brown eyes, dark hair, a well-defined jawline—the only main difference being my siblings were much tanner. Nothing like myself. I inherited the majority of my DNA from my father, unfortunately. I'm on the shorter, stockier side, with cheeks that bunch up when I smile. I at least received my mom’s long dark eyelashes instead of my dad’s invisible blonde ones. It’s something, at least. Sometimes it was all that kept me holding on in the wake of adoption jokes and general family alienation.

When she makes no move to sit next to me, I pat a patch of crispy grass and she decides to take a seat.

“So,” I start, motioning dramatically at the altar, “I apparently died here.”

Todd trots over and rests his head on his paws beside her. Alex smiles at the fox but doesn’t reach to pet him. “Yeah. This must be really weird for you. But you’re back now! So that’s good.”

No, no, no. That’s not how this works at all.

If these people think I’ve come back from the dead, it’s because I actually did die in the 70’s. The current me will become the past me when we time-travel.

Maybe if I find out what happened, I can stop it. From what I remember, island time travel runs on the“whatever happened, happened” logic. Theoretically, nothing can be changed about the past because whatever I’m going to do in the 70’s is what’s already happened. I am destined to die here.

I still want to know.

“Do you know what happened to me?”

Alex shakes her head no. “I guess it doesn’t really matter now that you're back, right?”

There must be someone on this island that knows how I died.

Alex clears her throat. “I’m shocked Erik and Liv let you come out here by yourself.”

“I kinda snuck out the window,” I admit with a shrug.

“Did you tell them about last night?”

“No,” I answer, frowning. “I figured it wasn’t a good idea to tell the people who hate you that you’ve already started bullying me.” Heat creeps up my face when her mouth presses into a hard, worried line. “Sorry, I was joking. Bad joke. I’m not mad at you.”

We sit in silence for so long, my face warms even more. I don’t know how to restart the conversation. I wipe my sweaty palms on the pants she gave me last night.

“Where did you get these clothes?” I ask when the silence becomes unbearable. Everything fit like a glove, even the bra, which is absolutely unheard of.

“They’re yours,” she says and falls silent again. I don’t even bother asking what she means. “Why didn’t you heal your eye?”

“Makes me tired. Wasn’t worth the trouble. Why? How bad does it look?”

“I’ve seen worse,” she assures me, smiling. “I’m really sorry about my dad.”

“That's ok.” I relax a little at her calmed state. It’s easier to talk to her if I pretend she’s one of my younger sisters. “I mean, I’m pretty sure picking fights at a family funeral is a coping mechanism.”

“Yeah, he’s not usually like that. He feels really bad. I could hear him moving around in the kitchen all night. He just. . . they were really close.” Alex grins at a memory and rips brown clumps from the ground. “Margo used to babysit me after my mom died. Mom never liked her much, though.”

I nod. Then I realize what she’s said. “You knew your mom?”

“Yeah.” She tilts her head in confusion and rips up more grass. “She came to live with me for a few years when I was a kid. I didn’t know her for very long before she got sick.”

Alex pauses, and I rack my brain to try and make sense of this, but it looks like a lot of what’s happened so far doesn’t make any sense. “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “That must have been hard.”

“I don’t miss her. I mean,” she adds quickly, “I kind of do, but not. . . I don’t know. Not the way I think I’m supposed to, you know?” She pauses, looking embarrassed. “That’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“No, I don’t think so.” And I don’t. It’s like all my distant relatives I never met in Sicily. I may feel sad if I hear they’ve gotten sick or passed away, but it's not the same as losing someone you’re close to. I wouldn’t be surprised if Alex was more torn up over Margo’s death than she was her mother’s. “If you didn’t really know her, that makes sense. Just to confirm,” I add, “your mom’s name was Danielle, right?”

“Mm-hm,” she hums confirmation.

Yay. Even more information I don’t understand. None of this is matching up to my knowledge of what’s supposed to happen. There are actual Vikings here, I apparently destroyed Dharma, Danielle Rousseau was welcomed into the Others, and I have bootlegged island powers that make me hibernate if I use them.

I don’t even know if I can use them on other people. Would it feel the same as when I heal myself?

I think about how nauseous I was while my forehead healed and suddenly remember how sleepy I was when I touched Claire’s stomach. “Alex, do you know what the plan is for the survivors?”

“They’re having a meeting about it now,” she says, wagging a thumb back towards the houses. “Your people want custody of them all. Ours want custody of a few.” She leans her head back in the sun. “They’re always fighting.”

“What about the man who shot Margo?”

Alex snaps her head up. “What about him?”

I need some semblance of normalcy or I’m going to spend the rest of my existence here flying from one anxiety attack to the other. I need to talk to someone who isn’t fundamentally different from the character I know from the show. I need to talk to Sawyer.

“I want to see him. Please, Alex.” Judging from her expression, she wants nothing to do with the man who just shot and killed her friend. I try guilt instead. “You owe me a favor. Please. I really need to talk to him. Can you show me where he’s being kept?”

The door leading into the recreational room has been barred with chains and a padlock.

“Great,” I huff sarcastically. “Now what?”

“Just break it,” Alex suggests. At my confused expression, she adds, “You’re freakishly strong. Just. . .” Alex mimes ripping the chains apart.

Huh. I get a good grip on the chain and pull. I change my grip, take a deep breath, and pull harder, but no matter the strain, no matter how hard I concentrate, it’s clear nothing’s happening. “Uh, Alex? I think you’ve been lied to.”

I watch her expression morph into wide-eyed worry at something behind me a split second before I hear a familiar voice ask, “What do you think you’re doing?”

I stumble forward, away from him, spinning around only when I’ve bumped into Alex.

Ben looks curiously from me to Alex, seemingly waiting for an explanation. I think about asking to speak with Sawyer, but I don’t get the chance. “Go home, Alexandria,” he says.

“I was just—”

“Home. Now.”

I expect her to fight, or at least whine a complaint. I don’t expect her to give me a small shrug of apology and listen to him.

Ben glances at Alex as she walks away, and then he turns to me, stepping closer and nodding with amusement at the chains. “Did you not think to just ask for the key?”

“Sorry.” I hate my face for betraying me and enflaming at his teasing tone. “May I please have the key?”

In a few steps, Ben’s standing in front of me. He’s taller than I am—most people are—and I have to look up at him. It leaves me feeling vulnerable in a way I cannot explain, and I suddenly wish I had brought that kitchen knife with me.

“No.” His eyebrows furrow slightly, as if he’s confused as to why I’d ask.

“Right.” I can’t figure out where to look. “Okay.”

“Wait. Wait, Miss Collins,” he calls as I try to sidestep him and get the hell out of here. “A word, please.”

I feel my heartbeat quicken even more at his much more friendly tone. “Please tell me you don’t need another favor.”

This time he snorts a brief laugh. “No. Actually, it dawned on me this morning that we’ve yet to be properly introduced.” He holds out a hand to shake. “Benjamin Linus. Pleasure to meet you.” His grip is firm, and his hands are warm and dry. He offers me a smile—one of the lopsided ones that are more smirk than smile.

“Cora,” I say. His lopsided smile grows into a grin, but his eyes are dark with lack of sleep. He looks as annoyed and tired as I feel, and I wonder how long it took to conclude Margo’s funeral. When he releases the shake, I cross my arms over my chest.

I expect him to nod and leave. Maybe make a sarcastic remark. Try and pry information out of me. The last thing I expect him to say is, “I believe I owe you an apology.”

I look up in surprise. “Huh?”

“I shouldn’t have pressured you into helping us last night, and for that I hope you can forgive me. I must confess, I’ve never been very good with grief.” He waits for me to respond, but I’m dumbstruck by his relaxed expression.

“Happy to help.” I wonder if Ben’s the only person who hates me because Margo is dead. Alex doesn’t seem to hate me. Did Margo have other friends? “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

I haven’t seen him smile once since I’ve been here, and now it just freaks me out. There’s something forced, something manic about it. I want to get back home so Liv and Erik can get me out of here. I glance behind him, but I don’t see either of them. I don’t see anyone.

“Liv is not going to be pleased when she realizes you’ve given her the slip,” Ben comments, sounding amused. “It took a lot for her to relinquish her spot at this morning’s meeting to that hothead Erik, but she insisted on being the one to watch over you while you’re here.”

“Nobody told me there was a meeting.”

“Sorry for the lack of invite. It was my understanding that you needed sleep.” He draws out the last two words in emphasis. “You must still be exhausted. Do you want to sit down? I know somewhere we can continue this conversation.” He pauses, waiting, but I make no move to walk in the direction he’s pointing—the direction Alex headed off in.

Continue this conversation? Great. What does he want this time? I rack my brain for memories of his character so I can keep myself in check. Selfish. Egotistical. Deceitful. Power-hungry. Charming.

Charming, yes. It’s almost all in the voice. His way of saying things so softly, yet so assuredly. It’s actually rather difficult to focus on what he’s saying when he speaks because everything he says sounds like he’s flirting with me, which just makes me more embarrassed.

He looks sincere—I’ll give him that much—but I don’t want this conversation to go on any longer. He’s talking to me for a reason. Ben doesn’t waste small talk. He got what he wanted. He got Margo. This must be pure damage control so I don’t get angry and tell Liv and Erik what really happened last night.

No, he does still need me.

Right. Spinal tumor. He needs me to help him recover from surgery once Jack operates on him.

Jack. The survivors. Claire.

Sawyer. Remember the entire reason you’re here?

“I want to talk to Sawyer,” I manage to say. “Please.”

Ben takes a few steps away, ignoring me, before glancing back to make sure I’m following. “You coming?”

If the meeting is over, where is Erik? Did Liv figure out I’m missing? Why the hell did I leave without telling her? What is wrong with me? Why didn't I at least grab a knife? Sweat dots the back of my neck, and it’s suddenly difficult to swallow. “The last time I followed you somewhere, I got this.” I point at my black eye. “I want to talk to Sawyer.”

“No harm will come to James,” he promises solemnly. “You have my word. Don’t you want a briefing about our negotiations? We’ve come to a consensus about what’s. . . what’s to be done with. . .” His speech slows to a stop as he stares, confused.

I look behind me, but we’re still the only two people in the area.

“Your eye,” he explains. “You just healed your eye.”

“No I didn’t.” I blink and realize he’s right. The tightness has lifted. My fingers probe the surrounding area, but it no longer feels bruised. A rush of lightheadedness hits. “Oh, great.” I heave an exasperated sigh. “I have no idea how this works.”

“You should probably sit down,” he suggests.

I follow him to the nearest house because I’m dizzy and don’t know what else to do. If I wasn’t this dizzy, I’d try my luck wandering around and finding my own house. How hard could it be? It’s the one covered in offerings.

But I am dizzy. And I don’t think I would make it.

I wish Todd was still here, but he wandered off while Alex and I walked to the rec room. A witness would be nice in case something happens to me while I’m passed out. I take a seat on someone’s porch and the shade instantly cools my feverish skin.

My one consolation is that now that I’m sitting, I don’t think I’m in immediate danger of blacking out. Instead of the tunneling vision and nausea I remember from the beach, I just feel lightheaded. I focus on breathing and staying conscious.

“Would you like to come in?”

I look over to find Ben half inside the doorway. Something about his stance seems awkward, but I can’t place it. All I know is this must be his house, and I am not going inside. “No, thank you,” I say. The fresh air is the only thing keeping me from vomiting on your porch. “The fresh air is nice.”

He nods in a curt jerk of his head and disappears.

This is giving me a migraine.

A slice of cake hovers in offering close to my nose. I smell the familiar scent of my favorite dessert, and my mouth instantly fills with saliva.

“I whipped up an apology cake last night,” Ben explains, handing me the plate, fork, and a glass of milk. “Apologies for getting off on the wrong foot.” He motions at the chair next to me. “Do you mind if I sit with you?”

I nod for him to sit because I don’t have any idea how to say go away.

“Thank you,” he says. Once he’s seated, he spears a corner of his own slice and waits, his fork hovering over the plate. It takes me a second to realize he’s waiting for me to eat first.

I expect it to be serviceable. It’s easy to make good tiramisu. A little more difficult to make great tiramisu. But what I put in my mouth reminds me of the cake my grandmother used to make. It’s such a shock to my tastebuds I stop chewing and just let it sit on my tongue for a second.

Ben sounds defeated when he asks, “Is it that bad?”

I look over to find Ben eyeing me intensely. I quickly finish chewing and shake my head. “No, this is excellent. Where did you learn to make tiramisu like this?”

Of all the things I’ve said today, for some reason this is what seems to throw him off. There’s a bewildered pause before he says, “Cookbook.”

I don’t laugh because I think it’s funny, I laugh because this has been the weirdest week of my entire life.

Ben clears his throat. “May I ask you a question?” I nod for him to continue, and he places his fork down against the plate with a clank. “How does it work? Is it a direct word-for-word translation, or is it more intuitive?”

"No idea." I shovel cake in my mouth and shrug. “It just sounds like they’re speaking English.” I think about Scales’ speech compared to Margo or Brego. “Some better than others.” Cold sweat creeps up my neck and down my back as a wave of nausea hits out of nowhere. I put the fork down.

Instead of prodding further, Ben sounds annoyed when he asks, “Can you please give me a warning if you’re going to fall unconscious?”

Instead of feeling nervous at his tone, it just pisses me off. Why am I still here if I don’t want to be? I need to go back to the guesthouse. Hopefully Liv won’t get in trouble. Hopefully I won’t get in trouble.

A plump raccoon pulls himself up the porch steps and waddles over to my chair, reaching up with two grasping hands. “Gimme.”

“Leave her alone, Rocket,” Ben chastises. The raccoon waddles closer to Ben’s chair and stands on two legs, this time pointing a claw at something behind Ben. “No,” says Ben, “I’m not looking behind me so you can steal my cake. That trick only works once.”

Rocket huffs with annoyance.

I cut a piece and bend down to hold it out for him. Instead of accepting the small portion in my hand, Rocket quickly reaches up and scoops the rest of my cake off the plate.

“You’re my new favorite,” Rocket tells me as he retreats down the steps on two feet, the cake cradled in his hands.

Did I just get played by a raccoon? I frown at his comedic figure in the distance. My slice is gone in only a few greedy mouthfuls, and I feel my stomach protest. Despite the wavering nausea, that cake was delicious, and I had all of maybe three bites.

Hey, wait a second. “I thought you were going to tell me about the meeting.”

Ben is already standing to take my plate. “Do you want another piece?”

No, I would like to know about the meeting. “No, thank you.”

“Would you like some lunch?” he offers. “I can make—”

I leap up out of my seat and stumble down the stairs in a mad dash to get in the grass. It feels like my body is desperately trying to purge itself of everything it’s eaten since the 3rd grade. Once I run out of food, my stomach keeps contracting until I end up sweaty and gagging on nothing.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and violently shrug it off.

“It’s me,” says Alex. “I’m putting your hair up. Here, I got you some water.”

I gag again, frustrated that I cannot stop heaving even though I’ve run out of everything including bile. Through the welling tears, I see someone approaching.

“I’m assuming this is going to be a no for the orange trees?”

“Tom,” I hear Ben warn, “do you honestly think now is the appropriate time?”

“Aw, come on,” Tom begs. “Those things haven’t produced fruit in like 2 years. I love oranges so much—”

“She’s not blessing the orange trees, Tom,” Ben snaps. “Go home.”

Alex holds a water cup in offering and I rinse my mouth out. I take a few gulps and immediately throw it back up.

I hear Alex whisper, “Are we in trouble?”

For a second I think she’s talking to me. Then I hear Ben answer, “No, she has to stop eventually.”

Another voice joins the conversation.

“While I have you all here at this disgusting impromptu assembly, just wanted to make it abundantly clear I’m not going with you to orgy island, Linus.” Jane holds up a hand when Ben tries to counter. “I’m not going to orgy island. Never again. Not happening.”

“I thought you’d be excited to join us? Erik mentioned they patched their masonry ovens. There will be plenty of bread. And jam,” he adds, giving her a knowing look, but this only makes her more hostile. “You’re going,” he concludes. “We need a female representative present.”

“I literally could not give less of a shit,” Jane sneers. “Take Veronica.”

“She’s on assignment.”

“Take Cole. Jessie. Beatrice?”

“They’re not equipped for this sort of thing.”

Jane shakes a thumb at the man standing beside her. “Put a wig on Tom.”

Tom makes a face. “Hard pass.”

“I’ll go,” Alex offers. “Please dad?”

“Yeah,” Jane adds excitedly. “She’s finally of age. Take Alex.”

Ben frowns. “You’re going, Jane.”

“You owe me so much vacation time.” Jane makes an exaggerated groan of annoyance and blinks at me, as if she’s just noticed I’m here. “And you better not have drank all my milk.”

Is she talking to me? She’s looking at me.

“Or messed up my bookshelf,” Jane continues. “They’re not organized by alphabetical order, so I hope you weren’t trying to be helpful.”

“I was staying in your house?” My stomach begins to churn again. “I’m sorry. I thought it was a guesthouse.”

“I had to stay with Daphne. She owns a damn peacock.” Jane narrows her angry eyes at me. "Do you have any idea how loud a peacock is?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Whatever,” she dismisses and looks at Ben. “I cannot wait to get this over with. When do they want to leave? Oh, look at that,” she huffs sarcastically. “I’ll just ask them myself.”

“Dad?” Alex asks nervously.

I follow her eyes and find a furious Erik and Liv storming towards us.

“It’s all right,” Ben tells her calmly. “Stay here. I’ll talk to them.”

Jane snorts. “I hope he gets clocked.”

“Erik or Ben?” Tom asks.

“Either would be fine by me,” she clarifies and cracks her neck. “It’s so boring around here.”

After the fiasco that was riding Brego wildly through the night, I never thought I’d miss riding horseback, but I have officially made up my mind.

Walking is worse.

The direction we’re headed is opposite the one I took to see Jacob, so the terrain is brand new, although not much different from the rest of the island. Fortunately, there are far less birds here. If I hear voices, they all belong to the excited norsemen who joined our travel party halfway through. Most laugh at what the other is saying, and there seems to be an overwhelmingly positive vibe.

I wish I could understand their language better.

“They are excited to return home,” Liv tells me. “Most have not seen their wives for a month.”

Unfortunately, Liv wasn’t quite as forgiving of my window escape as I’d hoped. Although she didn’t technically yell at me, her disappointment and worry were more than enough to shame me into silence. She didn’t even seem particularly upset that I healed my eye and got sick. Now she stays glued to my side.

“Why were they away so long?”

“In preparation for your return,” she says. “Last minute negotiations and such.”

Speaking of negotiations. . . “Liv, do you know what’s going to happen to the survivors from the beach?”

“I wasn’t at the meeting, as you know.” She gives me a look, and I regret asking. “But I spoke with Erik. They’ve been fed and sheltered,” she answers. “We have some of our best guards watching over them for now, until we can wrap up Jacob’s ridiculous demands.”

“What demands?”

Liv sighs, and I worry I’m annoying her. “His followers have a list of people they claim ownership of. It’s not how we have ever distributed followers. Erik will not allow it.”

I’m relieved to hear Claire and the rest of the people back at the beach at least have food and shelter for the time being. The people Liv is referring to must be Jacob’s candidate list. Jack. Kate. Sawyer. Hugo. Sun. Jin. Claire? I honestly can’t remember who else was on it.

I wonder how big the list is. Surely it can’t be massive. But then why would Erik so passionately shut down a conversation about distributing the survivors amongst the two communities?

Liv is the first person to give me a straight and informative answer as to what the hell is going on, but before I can ask her anything else, we break through the trees and enter a long stretch of sandy beach, headed towards a large longship.

“We’re taking a boat?” It comes bursting out of me without warning. “Wait, where are we going? I thought the temple was inland?” That’s what Todd said.

“Who told you that?” Liv holds out a hand to help me board a long plank leading up into the ship. “Your temple is across the water on a smaller island. Ah, we’re in luck. The winds are good today. We may not even need to row.”

Do not freak out. This obviously isn’t the first time they’ve sailed this ship. Just make sure you sit in a middle seat, and nothing will happen. Vikings are famous seafarers. We won’t sink. We definitely won’t sink.

“My Lady?”

I don’t know how to swim.

“Thanks.” I grab hold of Liv’s outstretched hand and try my best not to give away the levels of rising anxiety welling inside my chest as I walk up the narrow plank. Once inside, I stand awkwardly out of the way, trying to figure out where to sit.

“You three near the prow, in case we need to row,” a man points at me and then points at the bench seats closest to the front of the boat.

“Shotgun,” Jane yells, pushes past me, and plops down on the front seat, stretching out her long legs across the bench. She fishes around in a backpack for something, pulls out a walkman and a pair of sunglasses, and relaxes.

She’s taking up most of the bench, but I’m definitely not sitting on the edge, nearest the water. I take a seat next to her feet. I can hear the music in her headphones from here.

“Pardon me, Miss Collins.” Ben hoists a bag over the bench beside me, climbs over, looks at Jane, and frowns. “Really?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jane says. “I can’t hear you.” With a few taps on the side of the walkman, the music in her already loud earphones gets even louder.

Ben sits next to me in what little space is left, his posture tense and ridged. In fact, he’s pressed so hard against the side of the boat, he’s somehow managed not to touch me at all. I look at him out of the corner of my eyes, but he’s not looking at me. He’s focused on the men remaining on the island as they toss up the ropes securing the ship to the beach.

Suddenly, we’re moving, and I’m not ready. We lurch forward and start drifting right, and the momentum is strong enough for me to finally panic. I grab the nearest thing and cling for dear life, which just so happens to be Jane’s legs.

“Can you not?” she yells and shakes me off.

“Sorry,” I whisper, even though I know she can’t hear me.

A roaring whoosh sounds from behind me. I twist around to see what’s happening and watch as a few men pull at ropes to unfurl a massive painted sail that fills with the wind. With this newfound speed, the boat gains a steady push and pull of gravity as it slightly bobs up and down across the waves.

I can’t swim, and I think I may already be seasick.

One of the norsemen brought a lute and a few of them join together in song as he plucks away at the strings. I wish it was enough to distract me from what feels very much like intense carsickness.

“What’s that?” I ask, pointing at the plain sack at Ben’s feet, partly because the nausea is making me delirious, and partly because I’m nosy. I noticed when I looked back at the sail that he’s wearing a backpack, which I assume has his provisions. Jane only brought a backpack.

Ben glances at me for a moment, and then looks back out at the sea. “A gift for your seer.”

A seer? “What specifically does she see? Fortunes?”

“Prophecies. Glimpses into the future. Although,” he adds with exceptional dryness, “the current one is particularly cryptic.”

Finally! Answers at last. I relax a little and start forming a long list of things I want to ask, but it doesn’t last long. I am most definitely about to throw up.

I’m seated on the inner part of the ship, so I can’t just lean over and throw up in the ocean. I’m either getting sick all over Jane or all over Ben. I convulse slightly at the thought, my fist to my mouth, sending out a silent prayer to keep the food I ate before we left in my stomach a little longer. In one swift movement, Ben shakes open the bag and offers it, which I barely grab in time.

“Alright, you win,” Jane says in disgust and moves her legs off the bench, scooting away from me.

I spit the rest of my residual sick into the bag. Only after the nausea begins to subside do I start burning with embarrassment. “I’m so sorry,” I finally apologize when Ben doesn’t say anything.

“Apology not necessary.”

“I ruined your gift.”

“The gift is in this other bag.” Ben pulls another bag up off the floor and rests it on his knee. “That bag was always for you.”

“Don’t worry, Lady Cora,” Liv bellows from somewhere behind us. “You’ll get your sea-legs back in no time.”

I glance back at her only to find Todd wrapped comfortably around her shoulders. He waves at me with his tail.

I’m not sure what I expected. A crowd? At least a small crowd? We’ve docked on a shore where maybe five women await us. Honestly, it’s a relief. Crowds mean a higher chance of people touching me.

One of the men straight up jumped off the ship and swam to shore when he saw his wife. I heard her laugh and call him a dumbass in English. The rest of the men secure the oars, tie the sail, and walk down the plank like the rest of us.

It was windy at sea, but it’s somehow even more windy on the shore of Hydra Island. Enough to make me unsteady on the walk off the ship. A man sees me struggling and grabs me under the arms, setting me down firmly on the dock. I’ve never been so happy to be back on dry land.

Liv approaches, looking happier than I’ve ever seen her. Todd is gone again. “First line of business is to talk to my daughter. She’s in the Hall of Freyja. It’s this way.”

As we walk further into the trees, more women appear, although most are much older than I expected. They don’t say anything. They just stare at me, smiling. Everyone is dressed in something embroidered with flowers and bright colored necklaces. Im surprised nobody has their hair braided. Instead, they wear it long and flowing.

From out of the on-lookers, an elderly woman approaches. I expect her to delve into some sort of long-winded welcome, tell me she remembers me, or fall at my feet and make me feel guilty for her ailing knees.

I don’t expect her to hurry right by me and spit angrily in Ben’s face. Even more surprising is the fact that he doesn’t even flinch. He simply continues walking and reaches up to wipe the spittle off on his shirtsleeve.

“Yeesh,” Jane comments in disgust and hurries her pace so she’s no longer next to him. “Her aim’s getting better.”

“What was that about?” I ask her.

“Your people are famous for holding grudges,” Jane says cryptically. “No forgetting, no forgiving. Just lots of spitting.”

I want to ask her what kind of grudge that woman has against Ben, but now I cannot help but notice that lots of women are muttering something, spitting on him, at him, and in his general direction. The old woman must have broken some kind of emotional dam because someone throws a small rock.

Jane grabs my shoulder and strangles it in an effort to keep me from turning to tell them to stop. “Don’t,” she hisses. “You’ll only make it worse. Trust me, he’s used to it by now.”

Up a small hill, amongst a stretch of healthy green grass, an enormous longhouse covered in brightly colored flowers of every shade sits in the middle of what looks to be a bustling fish town.

Ben stops before we reach the door to the floral building and takes a seat on a bench. “Men aren’t allowed in,” he answers before I can ask.

Jane sighs heavily. “Well, let’s get this over with.”

Two women tug open one of the massive wooden doors and beckon us inside. We walk down a small hallway lined with candles, each wall painted with incredibly realistic images of naked women. It immediately makes me stifle a giggle out of pure shock.

“What is this place?” I whisper to Jane.

“What do you mean what is this place?” Jane snaps irritably. “Its your temple.”

We exit the hallway and enter what looks like a sizable greenhouse. Vines hang down from the high ceiling, interspersed with even more flowers and enormous candle-lit chandeliers. Crammed shoulder to shoulder, silent but obviously excited, are dozens upon dozens of young women of various ages. Some carry babies, some rest a protective hand on the top of their young children’s hair. They’ve made a narrow walkway for us, and it feels beyond claustrophobic.

I keep following Liv because I don’t know what to do with myself. “Liv said we were going to the Hall of Freyja.”

“Yeah,” Jane says, looking at me like I’m stupid. “Congratulations, we’re here.”

That’s when the first woman touches my hair. I shrink away, but this only gives access to the women standing on the other side of the walkway to run their fingers through. The women smile and tell me something, or ask me something, I have no idea. I just want them to stop touching me.

I’m so distracted by the unpleasant feeling of multiple strangers running their fingers over my scalp that I crash into the back of Liv. We’ve stopped at the far side of the longhouse, where an elevated throne of plants lies at the top of a platform.

On either side of the platform are two large painted statues carved of wood. The left is of a terrifying woman wearing a heavily layered outfit, long bulky cloak, and an intricate headpiece.

The right statue is dancing, arms raised gracefully above her head, hips slightly tilted, eyes heavy-lidded and sultry, clothed from the waist down in a slitted skirt, but completely and utterly topless. I double and triple-check the face to make absolutely sure this is supposed to be me, but there is no mistaking that face or that body for anyone else.

People are looking at this. Children are looking at this. Everyone can clearly see this naked statue of my breasts. Who carved this? Whose idea was this? Just. . . why? I am so beyond mortified, I burst into loud laughter, immediately bringing a hand up over my mouth and regretting the noise I make.

Jane nudges my side. “They just repainted those. Nice.”

I want a crack in the earth to swallow me whole and crush me to dust so I don’t have to be here anymore.

“Way to keep us waiting,” a sarcastic voice calls from atop the throne. “We were told you’d be here almost three days ago.”

Through the swirling smoke and candlelight, I focus on the face of the man and my nose slowly scrunches in confusion. “Miles?”

Miles Straume steps off the throne platform and approaches, looking at Jane. “Should I be worried or flattered that she already knows who I am?”

Liv gives a long, drawn out shout of joy before lifting Miles up off the floor in a bear hug, kissing the side of his head.

“Light of my life,” he wheezes, “you’re crushing me.”

“You’re the seer?” I ask aghast. I’m confused as to how he’s even here. He’s not supposed to be here until much later, shipped in on a freighter offshore. Yet here he stands, dressed in an embroidered tunic, belt, and pants, smiling at me with pity in his eyes.

“Ok good, you don’t actually know what’s going on.” Miles laughs and shakes his head. “Nah, I’m no seer. You’re here to talk to my beloved spawn. That’s the only reason I’m allowed access in here.” I was so thrown off by his presence that I didn’t even notice there’s a woman sitting on the throne. “Go on up,” says Miles, “she's waiting for you. She’s been waiting for three days.”

Chapter Text

Nonna is going to kill me. My nonna is going to come back from beyond the grave and kill me for being a part of this pagan nightmare.

I look up at the woman sitting atop the throne and contemplate how realistic it would be for me to turn around, leave this building, walk into the ocean, and drown.

Is that the key to getting back to life as normal? Does this place work on video game logic? If I die here, will I wake up back in my old life?

Jane gives me a small shove toward the platform, but I'm so lost in thought I can't hear what she's saying. I decide it's completely unrealistic to try and escape this room and even more unrealistic to try and drown because I'm never going to be left alone ever again. It was a blessing to only have to deal with Liv and Erik following me around, but now I'm crammed in a room of who knows how many women who don't look like they're going anywhere anytime soon.

Maybe I'm already dead and this is my version of Hell?

"What are you doing?" Jane hisses. "It's so hot in here. Hurry this up. I want to leave."

I start climbing the steps towards the woman. She's clothed in an enormous flowing cape made of brown feathers. A strip of light leather is wrapped around her forehead like a headband, the lower half cut into thin strips hanging over her eyes so she can see me but I cannot see her. As I get closer, something feels off. Her proportions make no sense. Although her height matches that of an average adult, her arms are too short and her head is too small. It isn't until she speaks that I realize she looks so odd because she's a small child.

The little girl opens her mouth and the tiniest, sweetest voice I've ever heard comes out. "How are you feeling, Lady Cora?"

Existential. "Good," I answer. "How are you feeling?"

"My shoulders are a little sore from holding up the community in your stead." She leans forward conspiratorially and whispers, "My dad said to say that."

"That ruins the joke, Aiko." Miles walks up behind me and stands next to her chair. "You going to tell her you're sitting on a stack of books, too?"

"I'm sitting on a stack of books, too," she says, smiling.

Todd appears, scampering up the steps and leaping into Aiko's lap, sending the girl into a fit of giggles as he licks her face. So far, the only thing that makes any sense to me is the fact that Todd would be friends with the island seer.

"Can I take this off now, dad? It's itchy." Aiko is suddenly lost in heaps upon heaps of brown feathers as she slips down over the edge of the throne and pops up at my feet, freed from the massive cloak. "You can have it back now, Lady Cora."

I'm honestly too confused to think of something to say, so I pull the cloak off the throne, move the books Aiko was sitting on, and take a seat.

Without warning, Aiko is climbing up onto my lap, and it takes all my willpower not to ask her to please get off. She finally settles her tiny form and then turns her head to look at me. Only, she's not looking at me. At this distance I can see her eyes peaking through the leather fringe. She's looking in my general direction, but her eyes are unfocused.

"How old are you?"

"Aiko," Miles scolds, but he doesn't sound even slightly angry. "You don't ask people that."

"I'm six." She raises the appropriate amount of fingers. "I want to see you, please."

"Okay," I say because what else am I supposed to say.

I've heard stories of the blind touching people's faces as a way of constructing a mental image of what they look like. She begins with my chin first and works her way upward, her little fingers tracing the length of my nose and curve of my cheeks. "You're really pretty for an old lady."

I try to offer a friendly smile, realize I'm a dumbass because she can't see me, and say, "Thank you."

When she's finished, she smiles and takes my hand, her eyes shifting around randomly.

"Anything?" Miles asks.

"No," Aiko replies and lets go of my hand. "Not right now." She brightens at a sudden thought and starts bouncing slightly in my lap. "Is Ben here? I hope he brought me more chocolate."

I wonder what my life would have been like if my dad had ever smiled at me with a fraction of the affection Miles smiles at Aiko. "Let's go check, little bug," he tells her. "We'll let you get settled in, Cora."

Let me get settled into what? Am I supposed to be doing something?

Miles scoops Aiko up and balances her on his hip as he carries her down the stairs and hands her to Liv. I can still hear her chanting "chocolate, chocolate, chocolate!" as they maneuver their way through the crowd and out the hall.

As if a hive-mind, every woman and child in the room dips down at the exact same time into a crouch, and leans forward onto their knees. Those without babies lean forward into a bow. Those holding small children lower their heads instead.

"May I be frank?" Todd asks with a flick of his red tail. I didn't realize he was still here. "Your return to this island is the most interesting thing to happen since the day I was born. And do you want to know what else I think?"

I look down at him, happy to avert my eyes from the large crowd of women. "I'm sure you're about to tell me anyway."

Todd looks up, and I don't like what I see in his mischievous eyes. "I think you're in for a world of trouble." And with that he hurries away after Aiko.

I haven't decided yet, but I think I might be able to survive in this role. All I have to do is what I always do when things reach a point of absolute overload—shut off my brain and substitute thoughts and anxiety with whatever random song comes to mind.

Currently, I'm listening to Believe by Cher.

If I'm supposed to be doing something, nobody informed me. I just sit atop the throne and space out. Time passes quickly in this state, which is both a blessing and a curse because now I'm hungry and my growling stomach snaps me out of my musical trance and brings back the anxiety. In order to eat, I have to talk to someone. But I don't want to talk to these women because Jane, Liv, Miles, and Aiko have left the Temple long ago and I'm not sure any of the remaining women speak English.

Thankfully, Jane returns at some point and starts yelling at me from the base of the stairs. "You're allowed to leave, you know? Hurry up and come down here. Your whack-ass followers are trying to convince me to wear a bunch of ceremonial crap for the engagement party."

Engagement party? "Who's getting married?"

Jane cups a hand to her ear. "What?"

I stand up and walk down the stairs, trying my best to ignore the eyes of the crowd who have done nothing for the past few hours except stare silently at me. Jane is so much taller than Ben, I have to tilt my head back to look up at her face. "Do you know who is getting married?"

Jane shrugs, already headed towards the hallway exit.

I whisper, "Do you know if any of these women speak English?"

"You didn't ask them yourself?"

I didn't ask because I thought it would be rude. "I've been sitting up there this whole time."

Jane sighs and glares down at me with contempt. "You really need to pull your head out of your ass," she sneers, "or we're all royally screwed."

An older woman named Gail leads me to an even larger longhouse than the Hall of Freyja. I assume this is where everyone eats because it's filled with banquet tables and benches. Near the back of the hall are two doors hidden in the wall, leading into a secret fully furnished bedroom. For a moment I stare in confusion at all the fur on the bed and the floor and the walls. Then I remember what Ben said before Margo's funeral. These all belonged to animals that died of natural causes.

I still haven't decided how all of this makes me feel.

"I hope you've settled in nicely so far?" Gail asks. "I had all of your clothes sent here as soon as word reached me you'd arrived. They've been recently washed. Should smell like lavender," she tells me excitedly.

The part of me that my mother raised—the part that struggles to tell an elder what to do—takes over, and I end up standing awkwardly near the bed while the woman chatters nonstop. Gail's tall with a regal nature to everything she does, like a retired Disney Princess. Or a lawyer.

I want her to leave, but she pulls different colored gowns from a wardrobe and starts laying them beside me on the bed for a vote. "I'm so sorry," I ask wearily, "but do I know you?"

Gail's eyes cloud with sadness for a moment while she debates how to answer. "You don't remember me?" She laughs, but I can tell she doesn't mean it. "Unlike you, I grew old."

"I already know your name is Gail, but. . ." I hold out an unsteady hand for her to shake. "It's nice to officially meet you."

She doesn't immediately take it. "So it's true?" Gail asks sadly. "You have no memory of your past life?"

"Yeah." I retract my hand. "Sorry."

"Well, that's . . ." She frowns, sighs heavily, and turns to sift through more gowns. "I suppose I should have realized something was amiss when you didn't call for me upon arrival. Oh, you can start undressing, dear. I'm almost done."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, and I end up gaping at her in a mixture of horror and confusion.

"I used to be your lady in waiting," Gail explains. "I was responsible for bathing you, dressing you, fixing your hair and makeup for parties, and suiting you up for battle. There is literally nothing you have that I haven't seen a dozen times before." She smiles and turns back to the wardrobe. "If there is, I'll be sure to throw a rock at it."

I itch at my arm for no reason other than to do something. "Sorry, it's just . . ." I don't know you.

But Gail isn't even listening to me. She continues to pull out dresses, judge them accordingly, and either put them back or place them on the bed, humming as she does it. Gail doesn't fit into the adorable grandmother stereotype, but I still feel a foreign sense of peace around her. I don't know her, but she feels safe. As I stand immobile, trying to figure out a way to get out of undressing, I feel almost as foolish as I do awkward. After all, she's an old woman. Even if she hadn't been my lady in waiting once upon a time, there still isn't anything I have that she doesn't.

But I detest the sensation of being naked. You're ultimately vulnerable to everything, and I have absolutely no interest in looking at my body and even less interest in letting someone else see it, even if that someone else is a woman who has apparently already seen me naked countless times.

"You don't have to do that," I tell her, my face already warming with embarrassment. "I'll just wear what I came here in. It's fine."

"Normally I wouldn't begrudge you," she says. I watch her eyes trail from my feet to my head, and I feel even worse about myself. "But not tonight. It would be an insult to the happy couple to show up in anything less than your best."

Wedding party. Right. "Who's the happy couple?"

"Bjorn and Poppy." Gail answers with a cheerful smile. "It was a long time coming. Those two have been head over heels since they were children." She lays one last dress down and nods at the pile. "Well, these are the ones I recommend. You have quite the selection. Just let me know which ones you'd like to try on first."

"Thank you." I pick up a long dress and immediately put it aside in the "no" pile. It's deep red with black detailing and has the lowest, most dramatic cut I've ever seen in my life down the front center. This slit would probably reach my bellybutton. How are my boobs even supposed to stay covered in this? Unless, that doesn't matter? I mean, there's literally a topless statue of me in the longhouse next-door.

I huff a sigh and keep looking. Absolutely everything is low cut, and one of the dresses is a single layer of completely sheer organza. Why even wear anything at that point?

Eventually, I settle on a gown that offers the most coverage, which still isn't saying all that much. The dress itself is white, but it's speckled with colorful fabric flowers of various sizes across the bodice. Instead of sleeves, a chain of fabric flowers hang down across each bicep. It's beautiful, but my worry is of being grossly overdressed. I want to wear a dress that matches the more plain ones I've seen on the other women here.

Gail will have none of it. "Alright," she tells me, shaking out the gown and holding it open, "step in."

I'm peer pressured to take off my shirt and pants and bra and stand shaking and upset in my underwear while she straps me into the gown. I stand perfectly still while her fingers work to lace the corseted back, stopping to ask if it's too tight along the way.

I take one look at myself in the mirror and feel sick. "I don't want to wear this."

"Oh?" Gail finishes tying the back and stands beside me. "Which one do you want to try on next?"

None of them. This was the only gown that had any chance of covering my chest in a meaningful way, but even this is ridiculous. The corset has pushed my boobs up and together in such a vulgar way I feel like a reject tavern wench from a renaissance faire. I feel like this dress is trying to pathetically accommodate for the fact that I don't have a thin waist, and my body is not supposed to be wearing a dress that belongs on someone like Claire or Kate or Juliet or—

"Cora?"

I jerk my head to look at her, surprised to hear someone call me by my name and nothing more. Not Lady Cora. Just Cora. My eyes find hers and all at once I realize I'm about to cry.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

Get ahold of yourself. Are you serious? I breathe in through my nose and try to swallow down the lump in my throat. "I don't want to wear this, Gail."

Instead of showing me more from the wardrobe, Gail takes a seat at the edge of the bed and clasps my hands in hers. "Why are you upset?"

I blink and she's my grandmother, comforting me after an especially terrible day at school. I had spent weeks building up the courage to break out of my standard look of sweatshirts and wore a tighter fitting t-shirt with a vintage graphic on the front. It barely took any time at all to regret it. Young people are cruel, but even more so if you're fat.

I want to talk to Gail as if she were my grandma, but she's not. She wouldn't understand why I'm the way that I am, and why it's useless to ask me questions like "why are you upset?" because it's never one thing. It's a million things.

"I must admit," she says kindly, "I haven't the slightest clue as to how your rebirthing process works, but you must be terribly confused having come back without any memories. This is a lot to take in for the uninitiated."

"I don't know what's going on." I decide to be honest. "I don't know what's going on at all, Gail."

She sits and talks to me. Talks about what to expect at the banquet being thrown in a few hours. Talks about what will be and what won't be expected of me during the specific engagement ceremonies throughout the night. She instructs me in how to say "approach me later" in Old Norse in case I get overwhelmed by someone who has gotten too drunk to speak English.

I calm down, except for the fact that I still don't know what to wear. "Can I please just wear what I came here in?" I whisper, crossing my arms self-consciously over my chest. "Please?"

Gail searches my face, thinking. "Stay here, I'll be right back."

"Whatever it is you're about to say, don't." Jane holds up a fork. "Or I'll stab you with this, and it's not even slightly sharp."

"You think you look ridiculous?" I motion to my hair, which has been braided with dozens of flowers to match the flower chains Gail offered me to cover my chest. I don't know where she got them, but I feel a lot better behind a protective layering of necklaces made of big blooming plants. "I'm a walking advertisement for the Home Depot gardening department."

Jane sighs, looking legitimately more miserable than me. She's been forced into a light blue dress with daisies embroidered all over it, and someone made her take her long dark hair out of its usual tight braid. Not surprisingly, no one was able to convince her to put actual flowers anywhere near her head.

I take a seat next to her at one of the long banquet tables because Liv is sitting next to Miles across the room with the men, and I don't know anyone else. For some reason, the stuffed hall has been segregated by sex, with a large opening in the middle separating each side of the room. The party is in full bloom, complete with music and happy chatter. Food has been piled high on each table, and I waste no time serving myself.

"This is so stupid." Jane rubs her eyes. "I'm not nearly drunk enough to deal with any of this."

"I made that bread, my lady," a woman across the table tells me, beaming.

I nod and take a bite, my eyes immediately widening. "This is really good."

"I made this soup," another woman announces. A bowl and spoon is placed in front of me.

Food comes out of nowhere: fish pies, clam soups, fried eel, breads, butters, jams, tarts, fruit, salads.

I lean towards Jane and whisper, "Is this actual seafood?"

"Feeling a little morally grey?" She takes a long gulp of whatever alcohol they're serving and laughs. "Apparently fish are too vapid for these people to feel sorry for killing. Which is incredibly convenient for me because I love clams." Jane reaches over and steals my soup.

Something tells me the people living at the barracks don't know about this.

A particularly loud group of men bark a laugh on the other side of the room, so I lean a little to the side so I can see past the woman sitting opposite me. That's when I notice him, seated near the end of a table. He's changed out of the blue button-down he came here in and is wearing a loose cotton shirt that matches the earth tones of the other men seated around him.

Ben finishes saying something and the man next to him bursts into loud laughter, while the others seated nearby pound their drinks on the table and all talk over each other. They go back and forth in some sort of heated but friendly debate until Ben cracks a smile at something they've said and they all start laughing again.

It's so weird being able to see him—to be able to get a good look while his attention is elsewhere. It's also weird to see him getting along so well with the same people threatening violence just a day ago. Maybe it's the lighting, but he looks especially attractive when he's smiling because he's enjoying himself and not because he has to. I'm particularly good at being able to tell the difference.

I continue to watch him talk to the people nearby and notice his ears stick out from under his neatly combed black hair. For some reason, this makes me smile just as his tired eyes lift up from his plate and find me. I immediately look down at my food, then over at the band, watch as one of the women goes absolutely nuts on a lute, then up at Jane, then grab whatever drink is in front of me and take an anxious gulp, immediately turning to spit it out on the floor behind me.

I try to cough the taste away. "What is this?"

"Mead." Jane gives me an amused look. "You apparently couldn't get enough of this stuff back in the day. They even started a cute little bee farm here to make fresh honey."

"I liked this?" This mead is so strong it burns my tongue and stings my nostrils. "This tastes terrible."

"More for me then." Jane grabs my cup and takes a long gulp. "Look alive. The happy couple is coming this way."

"Goddess," Bjorn announces, "words cannot describe our joy to have you attend our wedding. You honor us with your presence, and we humbly ask that you receive our gifts in exchange for your blessing." He turns to who I assume is Poppy and lifts a puppy out of her arms by its scruff. "I offer you the strongest of the litter."

I look from the tall bearded man to the small yapping wolf pup. "For me?" I ask in a state of shocked disbelief.

Poppy wrings her hands nervously, still smiling. "Do you like him?"

Despite the fact that the women nearby have fallen completely silent to hear what I have to say at the offering, I'm too giddy to care. I honestly couldn't care less if the entire room was watching me. Someone is offering me a dog. Someone is offering me an adorable fluffy little wolf puppy, and I surge with what feels like the rush you get when you miss a step walking down a flight of stairs.

I can't stop a big smile that pulls tight across my face as I reach out and grab hold of the dark grey wriggling furball. "Hello," I coo.

"Hello," he barks happily as I plop him in my lap. "Who are you? Are you my friend? You want to be my friend?"

"Yes, I'd like that very much," I answer. "What's your name?"

"His name is Fenrir," Bjorn tells me as the happy puppy jumps up and licks at my chin. "He will make a fine companion, my lady."

"Yes," I agree, laughing as I struggle to get a grip on Fenrir so I can pull him off my face. "Thank you so much."

Just like Gail warned, the night unfolds with the bride-to-be offering me a talent in return for blessing her with strong children. Poppy sits on a chair in the empty space between the women's and men's tables with an instrument I believe is called a tagelharpa. It looks like a bigger, boxier violin played seated on your lap instead of against your neck. The hall falls silent as she plays, singing in a language I don't understand. It feels too sad to be a wedding song.

Jane looks much more relaxed now that she's had a few cups of alcohol. In fact, when I lean towards her to ask a question, she smiles and pats the top of my head. "What's the song about?"

"Slaughter," she answers and chuckles quietly. "All their songs are about slaughter. Or sex. One or the other. Hey, pass me the barbecue sauce, will you?"

"Barbecue sauce?" Just down the table is a bottle of Dharma barbecue sauce. "How'd they get that?"

"Traded it," says Jane. "They love trading, and they lose their shit over sauces. I got a really nice pair of boots once for a bottle of honey mustard."

Poppy finishes another song, and I bounce Fenrir in my lap and applaud, everyone quickly following suit. Maybe these parties aren't so bad. Good food, good music. Fenrir makes it easier to talk to people when I need to. I can do this.

"Congratulations to the happy couple," a man bellows from across the room. I look over to find Erik walking into the center of the hall. "But I have my own announcement to make."

Jane mumbles, "You're sailing off into the sunset, never to be seen again?"

"I have chosen my own bride." Erik puffs out his chest, nodding at the men who begin cheering and smashing their cups against the table. There's a dramatic pause as he revels in the encouragement from the men, and then he raises a finger down the table from me and yells, "Charlotte!"

A choir of surprised oooh's and ahhh's echo up and down the table. I crane my neck to see who he's pointing at, and sure enough it's exactly who I think it is. Charlotte Lewis, looking as surprised as everyone else, forces a smile at the announcement.

"Come over here," he says, "my little—"

I look back at Erik just in time to watch a cup smash into his chest, splashing mead up onto his face and hair and clothes. It takes me a moment to realize Jane is standing, fixing Erik with the same frothy rage she had for me the first time we met, right before she knocked me unconscious.

All the hairs on my arms stand on end as the music stops and the entire hall falls silent.

Erik wipes a hand across his face and begins laughing. "I see this one still cannot handle her mead."

Jane steps away from the table and begins walking towards Erik, swaying slightly, but Ben intervenes before she can reach him. The height difference would be funny if the room wasn't quiet enough for me to hear Ben say, "You're drunk and he's goading you, that's all. Ignore it. We can't afford this right now."

Her shoulders relax slightly at his words, and she reluctantly turns to walk back to the table.

"You are fierce, Jane. I'll give credit where it is due," Erik yells into the silence. "But for all your talents in combat, I've decided I much prefer a beautiful wife."

Jane swings back around, her fist landing hard against his jaw. She becomes a flurry of punches and blocks, but what surprises me most of all is the sound. A punch to the face doesn't sound anything like what I thought it would. It's much quieter than in movies.

I cling to Fenrir as everyone stands at the same time, yelling encouragement for one side or the other and moving closer to the fight. The woman sitting next to me groans and puts her face in her hands.

"How much has she had to drink?"

Even Fenrir cannot stop the rush of anxiety when I look up at Ben. "A lot," I tell him. "What's happening?" He gives me a look and I gesture wildly at the fight, as if I could possibly mean something else.

"They were engaged once," Ben yells over the cheering, suddenly yanking me sharply out of the way of a cup that smashes into the wall behind me. "Sorry," he apologizes and releases my wrist, nodding towards the brawl. "As you've probably surmised, it didn't exactly work out."

"Should we do something?" I ask just as a man walks up to Jane, hands raised, calmly trying to talk sense into her. Without hesitation, Jane swivels towards him, smashes his mouth with her elbow, and then turns back to Erik to deliver another blow to his face. Eventually, she grabs him in a headlock, and the both of them swing around, smashing into tables.

"If you want to stop her," Ben offers, "be my guest."

Most of the men have started forming a circle around the fight, and I can't really see what's happening anymore. I want to get a better look at who's winning, so I take a step towards the circle, but Ben reaches out and grabs my wrist again.

"I didn't actually mean to go stop her," he says, looking panicked.

I turn sharply and frown at the contact. I'm so sick of people touching me. "Get your hand off me."

Fenrir twists around in my arms and bites him. "Friend says back off," he growls.

"Ow." Ben retracts his hand and flexes his fingers. Blood trails across his skin, and I stumble an apology and start to scold Fenrir. "No," Ben interrupts. "No, it's alright. He's technically just doing his job. It's just a scratch. You," he says to Fenrir, "have very sharp teeth."

I look back at the circle, but I still can't see much. "Does this happen often? With Jane?"

"Surprisingly no." Ben wipes his bloody hand on a cloth napkin and picks up the nearest loaf, ripping off a small bite and dipping it in jam. "Your people may make excellent bread, but we make superior ice cream."

I hug Fenrir tighter. "Ice cream?"

"And cheese," Ben adds. "We make much better cheese. Our cows are happier."

I don't know enough about cows to tell if that was supposed to be a joke or not. And besides, his representative is beating the living snot out of the island jarl. A jarl who already threatened to burn the barracks to the ground. Why the hell is he talking about ice cream and cheese?

A voice sounds from below, "Cora, I need to speak with you."

"Hello funny smelling dog," Fenrir barks.

I look down at a nearby bench and watch Todd wrap his tail around his body. "Oh," I say. "Hi, Todd. Did you watch the fight?"

"I'm not here to talk about the fight," he says quickly.

Ben's eyes shoot from me to Todd, watching as we talk.

"I've decided you amuse me," Todd says. "I'm ecstatic to finally be able to have a conversation with a human, and I'd hate for something to happen to you, so I'll say this. Benjamin is the cleverest human I've ever met. He's almost fox material, and I don't just hand out praise of that magnitude."

A whole slew of questions form, but I stop to think of something that won't give away the topic of our conversation to Ben, who is still very much listening to everything I'm saying. "The point, Todd?"

"I've heard things," Todd says ominously. "Strange things."

My stomach begins to ache. "Like what?"

"Inconsistent gossip, really. Nothing I can confirm. Just . . . be weary of who you talk to. Not everyone here is happy you've returned." Todd glances at Ben and then licks my hand. "I don't like the way he's looking at me. Farewell for now, Cora."

As soon as Todd has scampered off, Ben says, "Sounded like you had quite the conversation."

Particularly loud cheering sounds through the hall. I look back at the circle as Jane roughly shoves her way through and heads for the door. I can tell by her walk that she is either injured or very, very drunk. Possibly both. All I know for certain is Erik has been absolutely destroyed. One of the men pours a cup of something over his head to wake him up while the rest of them laugh.

"Please excuse me, Miss Collins." Ben bids me goodnight with a nod. "I need to ensure she doesn't light anything on fire. That, unfortunately, has happened with some frequency."

Now that the fight is over, and all of the people I'm acquainted with have left, I take a look at Erik. Most of his face is already swollen, and a steady stream of blood drips out his nose. "Is he going to be okay?" I ask the bearded man standing nearby.

"He's going to be very angry in the morning, my lady," he laughs. "But he'll live, if that's what you mean. Don't you trouble yourself with him. We'll get him out of here for you."

Erik stumbles in and out of consciousness—mumbling bitterly—as two men sling his arms over their shoulders and drag him out.

There's a hand on my arm. I turn, fully prepared to yell, but I stop when I realize who it is.

"Are you going after Jane?" Charlotte asks worriedly. She stands before me in a beautiful green dress that highlights her red hair and blue eyes. "Can you please tell her I didn't know he was going to propose? I didn't even know he was trying to court me, to be honest."

I had no plans to chase after Jane, but now I'm intrigued. "I'm sorry, should I congratulate you? I think you just got engaged. Charlotte, right?"

"Yes, Lady Cora. I. . . yes, thank you," she finishes softly.

"You don't seem very happy about the engagement." I shift Fenrir in my arms and scratch behind his ears. "Wait, did you say you didn't know he was. . . courting you?"

Charlotte looks miserable. "No, my lady."

"Do you want to marry him?"

She stumbles for an answer, eventually settling for, "It is an honor to be proposed to by our jarl."

Something is wrong, and I think I know what it is. I study her face, suddenly less anxious than I've ever been since I ended up on this island. "Are you afraid to reject him?"

The look in her eyes is all the answer I need. I think of my mother—trapped in a loveless abusive marriage and raised on the belief that divorce is the worst thing that could happen to a women—and it feels like I'm breathing in soup, but with each breath I feel more stable, more powerful. I could not protect my mother, but maybe I can protect this woman from being forced into the same circumstances.

"Nobody is going to force you to marry them," I assure her. "Not even Erik. I promise you that much. Look, would you like me to talk to him for you? Maybe tomorrow, after everyone has sobered up?"

"No, my lady, you don't have to—"

"Do you want me to talk to him?" I ask again. "I will gladly speak on your behalf if you don't feel comfortable."

Charlotte looks like she's going to cry. When she reaches out to squeeze my hand, I squeeze back in reassurance. "He did this to embarrass her," she whispers. "Jane's my best friend."

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Wow, what an asshole." I catch what I've just said and grimace. "Sorry."

Charlotte smiles sadly, but it doesn't last long. "I need to make sure she's okay."

I put Fenrir down and brush his fur off my dress. "Do you know where we can get her some water? She's gonna need a lot of it."

It takes no time at all to find them both. Ben's practically dragging her back up the hill leading to the village. Jane flops her long legs, but is otherwise limp. I stop walking when I hear she's crying hysterically.

"Let me go," Jane wails in-between sobs. "I want to die!"

"No, you don't." Ben struggles, so I hurry down to help, with Charlotte following close behind. "She's way past the point of reasoning, Charlotte," Ben warns when he sees us. "I think you'd better leave."

"Is she hurt?" Charlotte asks.

"Just her pride," he answers. "She's fine, Charlotte. Incredibly intoxicated, but otherwise fine." Ben stoops down and hoists Jane up onto his shoulders the way Locke carried boar in the first season. "I've got her. You really should go. I don't want her to get any worse."

Charlotte shoots me a worried look, and I mouth, "I'll watch her." She nods, hands me the bucket of water she pulled from the nearby well, and walks up the path to a collection of smaller houses.

"I cannot apologize enough for this," Ben huffs as he carries her back up the hill.

I follow him down a path, trying my best not to slosh the bucket of water. "It's fine. I don't drink, so I'm used to being the sober one in the group."

We approach a house off the main path, and I walk ahead to open the door for him. About a dozen cots line the room, a small fire already lit in the center. Ben carries Jane to the far corner of the room and shakes her off his back onto the cot. She flops with a groan, her left arm hanging off the side, and then immediately starts crying again.

"Here." I hold out the bucket in offering. "We should probably try and convince her to drink this."

"She's crazy," Fenrir says at my feet. "What's wrong with her?"

I look at him and get an idea. "No biting," I say and pick him up, plopping him on her chest.

Jane stops crying when Fenrir sniffs her face. "Hey Brandon," she coos and kisses his snout. "How's my good little boy?"

"Who's Brandon?" Fenrir asks me.

I look at Ben for an answer, but his eyes are closed as he pinches the bridge of his nose. His voice comes out low and flat. "I can't even say what I'd truly like to say to you, Jane, because I know you won't remember it in the morning. And you should go." It takes me a second to realize the last part was directed at me.

I stare at Jane—take in her slurred speech, her mood swings, the weird jellylike way her body moves—and a memory resurfaces. A memory I've pretended didn't happen. One that nobody in our family talks about because it could land mother in jail. For the first time since it happened, it assaults my mind full force, and it's like I'm experiencing it for the first time all over again.

My heart is pounding hard and sporadic. Blood screams in my ears. My eyes sting with sweat, but I don't dare blink.

I barely hear Ben ask, "Are you alright?"

"I want to stay with her." I suddenly feel like I'm going to throw up. "What if she stops breathing?"

"Why would she stop breathing?" I'm looking at Jane, but I can feel his eyes on me. Eventually, he relents with a quiet sigh. I hear the strain of a cot as he takes a seat. "Stay, then. I guess the damage has already been done."

"Is this a friend?" Fenrir asks me. "She smells like wolf, Cora." He sneezes in Jane's face, and she laughs, flopping a limp arm down in the dirt and reaches up with the other to scratch behind his ears.

"That was a good sneeze," Jane coos happily. "Such a good sneeze. Good boy."

"Can I ask you something?" I blurt out and look over at Ben. He doesn't look terribly interested in talking, but he nods for me to continue anyway. "Any idea why Jane hates me so much?"

"Mm," he hums. "I'm not so sure hate is the right word."

I reach up and swipe sweat off my forehead. "She knocked me unconscious before we even shook hands. Actually, we've never shook hands."

Ben nods slowly, thinking. "Yes, well, I think that had more to do with the fact that you brought her wolves into it. You can talk to them, and it frightened her. Even if she does hate you, I wouldn't take offense," he adds with a smirk. "She dislikes just about everyone."

"So. . . what happened?" I wait for him to explain more. "With her and Erik?"

"Bold of you to assume Jane would have told me. She's not exactly forthcoming with personal matters."

We fall into silence, and I pass the time by watching the flicker of light from the fire-pit. It causes shadows to dance across the floor and walls and ceiling in the same way the candles did in the Temple. Thinking of the Temple reminds me of Aiko. "Did Aiko talk to you today?"

"Yes," Ben says simply and falls silent again.

I won't lie. His intense disinterest in conversation stings, but I just can't seem to keep my mouth shut. "You didn't mention she was six."

"You didn't ask."

"How did it go? With Aiko?"

"It could have gone better," he answers flatly.

"What did she say?"

Ben closes his eyes. "With absolutely all the respect in the world, can we please condense the game of 20 questions? I haven't slept in two days."

"Sorry." I turn to look back at Jane and find her, mouth open, snoring. Fenrir looks at me with confused eyes, so I lift him up back in my arms and hold him tight against my chest.

"Thank you again," Ben says randomly. "For not telling any of them about Margo's funeral."

"You knew I wouldn't tell them."

"I suspected you wouldn't tell them," he corrects. "But that doesn't make me any less appreciative that you didn't."

"This morning, Erik—" I start, but I stop when I see the expression on Ben's face.

"Yes?"

I don't know how serious Erik was, but in case he was serious, I think I should give someone a warning. Alex is at the Barracks. Indiana and her mother are at the Barracks. There's a whole community of people living there that may be in danger if extra precautions are not taken. "He sort of. . . threatened to burn all your houses to the ground? But I don't know if he meant it," I add quickly. "He seems like someone who likes to threaten."

Ben's expression remains blank and unreadable. "I don't suspect that was an idle threat at all."

I don't realize I'm shaking until Fenrir reaches up and licks my chin. "Why is he so intent on killing you all?"

"Erik has been raised on the belief that the only way to get into the afterlife is by dying in glorious combat. In recent years he's become consumed with the idea of war, but the last major war between our people was almost thirty years ago. He was nothing more than a toddler then. Essentially," Ben sums up, "he's young and very bored."

"So. . . he's a dumb jock?"

Ben's too tired to laugh, so he exhales slowly instead, the corners of his mouth twitching up. "I will reluctantly give him a little more credit than that, but you're not terribly off base."

He makes it seem much more complicated than it is. Surely all I have to do is put on a serious face and tell these people to leave Ben's people alone. But maybe Ben already knows that? Maybe this little speech is just to make me feel guilty enough to settle this dispute all on my own without him actually having to ask me for help.

"You never did tell me about the meeting," I say. "I might be able to help."

Ben stands for some reason, looking at the fire-pit. "It was unnecessarily long for what can be summed up as a complete waste of time. We asked for a small handful of the survivors, and Erik refused."

"I'll talk to him," I say. I already have to talk to him about Charlotte. "I'll convince him this whole thing is. . . really, really stupid."

"If you can convince that man of anything, I will eat this shirt."

I smile. "Deal."

Ben locks eyes with me and smiles with what looks like pure, unadulterated warmth, like he did at the feast. It's pathetic how much power a simple smile has over me. I'm suddenly thankful the lighting in here is dull, so he can't see my embarrassed flush.

"I could slit your throat wide open," he says just above a whisper. "Immortality doesn't mean you can't bleed out."

My eyebrows pull down in a frown. It takes my foolish, infatuated brain a moment to realize he has a knife.

"Do you have the slightest idea how easy it would be to kill you right now? I have my back to the door," he continues, "and you have your back to a wall. The only available window is behind me. You don't have a weapon on you. All you're holding is a cute novelty that won't be of any real use for another six months when his adult teeth finish growing in." Ben steps closer and narrows his eyes. "Is Charlotte the only one who knows you're in here?"

I can't tell if he's bluffing, or what the point of bluffing would be, but I do know he has it in him to kill an island deity. Three years from now, he's going to stab Jacob the way he's threatening to stab me.

Despite the cool night air, its actually rather warm in this guesthouse, but I feel all the heat leave me at the realization that he's right. If I wanted to leave, I have next to no options that don't result in me getting stabbed, or at least cut. The inevitability of it all makes me slightly calmer, but I still feel my arms tremble against Fenrir.

I glance at the knife and huff a nervous laugh. "You're not going to kill me."

"That's a hell of an assumption to make," he snaps. "Tell me something. . . do you know how long it would take for me to carry Jane to one of the canoes down by the dock? Exactly two minutes. Do you know how long it would take for me to row us both back to the mainland?" he continues without pause. "Forty minutes if she were conscious enough to help. An hour and a half on my own. Most of your people are either asleep or too drunk to be of any help to you. I could kill you and be back home long before morning. I'd have quite the head-start."

I stop shaking as a calmness completely washes over me, and I think about how good that bread was for dinner. Crunchy exterior, soft and flavorful interior. Perfect with jam or honey or dunked in soup or just all on its own. I wish I knew how to make bread. I can make decent pizza crust, but that's about it. I wonder if these people know how to make pizza? Ben said they make their own cheese, right? I wonder what kind of cheese they make. . .

Ben lowers the knife and leans close to my face, looking both confused and intensely irritated. "Are you even listening to me?"

Wait a second.

I blink at him as a realization hits.

It doesn't make sense. He can't kill me. That's not how the space-time continuum works in this universe. If he kills me now, I won't live long enough to time travel back to the 70's, and none of this will exist. But it does exist. Which means he can't kill me. And besides, what he's saying is sounding less and less like a threat and more like a lecture.

If he's not trying to kill me, he must be trying to scare me.

It takes such a concentrated effort to clear my throat and look him in the eye, I worry I'll collapse from exhaustion right where I stand. "Okay," I say as clearly as I can muster, "you've made your point. So who is actually trying to kill me?"

Ben doesn't move. He doesn't blink. But something in his expression changes regardless. He leans away from my face, sheathing the knife. "I don't know," he finally answers. "So I would stop being so trusting if I were you. You're no good to any of us dead. Again." He takes a step to the side, freeing the narrow path to the door, and I walk past him. "Cora."

I can't tell from his tone if he's more angry than worried. When I turn to look at him, his expression also gives nothing away. "What?"

Ben studies me in silence before walking towards me, stopping closer than I'd like. The bags under his eyes are so dark with lack of sleep, it looks like he's been punched. He produces a hunting knife in a simple leather casing and holds it out for me to take. When I don't move, he grabs one of my hands and places it in my palm, curling my fingers closed over it.

"Until Aiko can tell us information of actual use," he says with an air of finality, "assume absolutely everyone is trying to kill you."

My bedroom behind the wall in the banquet hall seemed rustic and charming while Gail helped me get ready for the party. Now, as I settle into bed and try to get comfortable, it feels like a tomb.

I crawl to the edge of the bed and unsheathe the knife Ben gave me. It glistens and shines my reflection in the pale torchlight.

What little comfort I gained from finding out my door locks is contradicted by my newfound worry of other ways people could kill me. Although it's highly unlikely someone can break through the thick plank of wood wedged into built-in slats across both doors, they could light the longhouse on fire. They could have poisoned my food and drink. They could already be hiding in here, waiting for me to fall asleep.

Fenrir follows me around the room, sniffing everything, as I hold the knife steady and search the wardrobe against the wall and the trunk at the foot of the bed. Fenrir assures me we're the only two people in here, but I check every nook and cranny myself. Even this does not bring peace of mind.

I shake out the sheets, pound the pillow with my fists. Nothing works. "Fenrir," I ask, "can you please bark and wake me up if you hear anyone come near?"

"Yes, Cora," he replies, but it's not like it makes a difference.

I don't sleep for even a second.

Chapter Text

DHARMA, 1974

It won’t stop screaming.

A small green bird perched on top of the hospital continuously throws his head back and emits an ear-piercing screech. I watched LaFluer throw a shoe at it earlier, but the frightened bird merely dogged the footwear and landed back on the roof with yet another ungodly wail.

“That bird sure is loud.”

“Huh?” Annie looks over at me and then looks up at the roof. I’ve interrupted her thoughts. “Oh, yeah. Uh-huh.”

I strangle the small bouquet of flowers Annie and I spent all afternoon picking. She trembles with nerves beside me, but I don’t know how to comfort her. Especially because she’s right to be nervous. We messed up real bad.

“Do you think she’ll accept our apology?” Annie whispers.

I shrug and try not to think about what will happen if she doesn’t.

Unable to take the suspense any longer, Annie pulls open the hospital door and rushes inside. I follow closely behind, happy that the shrill bird is significantly quieter inside.

A nurse is quick to stop us. “I thought I told you two no visitors yet.”

“Let them in, Jules,” a tired voice comes from behind a curtain. “I need to talk to them."

The second I see Miss Collins, I regret coming here. Maybe we should have waited a few days before trying to make amends?

Miss Collins is awake, but just barely. Sweat drips down her pale forehead, and her eyelids are droopy and reddened. Her usually friendly expression is blank, but her eyes cut scathingly through both of us the second we step around the privacy curtain shielding her hospital bed.

We stand before her, watching as she glares at us without actually glaring at us.

“Miss Collins?” I don’t know what to say, so I hold out the flowers in offering. Honestly, I’m just incredibly happy she’s not dead. “How are you feeling?”

She doesn’t reach for the flowers. Her response is quiet and calm, but it’s just as bad as if she were screaming. “I was just stabbed in the ribs, Benjamin. How do you think I’m feeling?”

“Sorry.” I don’t bother trying to fight the heat that rushes into my cheeks and leaves my face red.

She inhales deeply, and I tense in preparation for her to actually start screaming, but her voice is still soft when she asks, “What were you two doing that close to a negotiation?”

“It was my idea,” Annie offers. “I wanted to get close enough to see Freyja’s face.” But Miss Collins won’t have any of it.

“I’m not interested in playing the blame game. You were there, too, Ben.” At the mention of my name, I look up at her, only to instantly fill with shame and look away. “Were my instructions not clear enough? Did something I say confuse you two?”

It takes Annie a second to answer because I cannot. “No.”

“Have I ever insinuated those people were anything but dangerous? Do you two think this is some kind of game?”

Even Annie is too upset to answer this time. We shake our heads no.

“Oh good,” Miss Collins huffs sarcastically. “I was beginning to worry this was all my fault.”

I have never felt this stupid in my entire life. Looking back on what we did makes me so embarrassed, my stomach churns.

Just this morning, Miss Collins was explaining the differences between a horse, a donkey, and a mule when the alarm sirens started blasting through the speakers. She ordered Annie and me to get inside the nearest house before following a group of security, but we didn’t listen.

Usually when the norsemen come to negotiate the terms of the treaty, it’s only Jarl Sigurd and two or three others. This time she was with them—their goddess—covered in heaps of brown feathers and beads and bones, riding atop an angry sounding elk with enormous painted horns.

Annie and I thought we were sneaky, hiding behind a house near the meet-up, when we were found by one of the norsemen who lifted me up by my shirt collar. I was so afraid I was going to die, the rest of what happened is a blur. All I remember for certain is suddenly my feet were back on the ground, and Miss Collins was screaming for us to run.

We’re her favorite students, her star students, and it’s our fault she was stabbed.

“We’re sorry,” Annie whispers.

Miss Collins sighs, her eyes flickering shut, and I can tell she’s not mad. She’s disappointed, and that’s much worse.“I don’t want your apologies. I want you both to listen to me when I tell you to do something. You could have died.” She extends both her hands, wincing, and we each grab one. “Promise me,” she proclaims, her sweaty face suddenly going serious. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

“We promise,” we answer in unison.

Miss Collins releases our hands and sinks back into her pillow, her face looking especially white against the hospital’s bleached sheets. “Thank you for the flowers, but I need to sleep now.”

The nurse is quick to usher us out, the hospital door slamming shut behind her with a click, and the screaming bird is suddenly ringing in my ears.

It is a relief when Annie finally speaks.“She looked like she was in a lot of pain.”

“Should we bake her a cake?” I suggest. Miss Collins always makes us dessert when we have a bad day. “We can write ‘sorry’ in icing?”

“No, I don’t feel good. I’m going home,” Annie answers. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Wait. . . do we have school tomorrow? Who’s going to teach us if Miss Collins is in the hospital?”

“I’ll ask my mom.” She sounds like she's going to cry. “Bye, Ben.”

I watch Annie’s slumped form cross the courtyard and disappear into her house. She’s always been the adventurous one. The one with her head held high no matter who bullies us. For a long time, I thought she wasn’t afraid of anything. It feels unnatural to see her so deflated.

I stand alone, long after Annie is gone, and worry that we’ve somehow done something unforgivable.

I worry things are never going to be the same again.

Time becomes meaningless.

I don’t know when it happens—as I lie awake, griping the knife for dear life—but I go from feeling panicked but overall well to feeling intensely sick. Each beat of my heart feels rushed but also irregular, bringing with it a thick dotting of sweat on my hairline and nose and neck. When my hand goes numb, I relax my grip on the knife, but I never regain sensation. I flex my fingers and realize both my hands have gone numb.

I jolt at the sudden sound of banging against the door.

“My lady,” a muffled voice yells. “Are you awake? It’s Gail. The sun has only just risen, but I’m afraid you’re needed at the beach. It’s urgent.”

It’s morning? In my sleep deprived state, I roll over and blink in a useless attempt to clear the heavy weight banging around in my skull. This is exactly why I always wrote my essays long before they were due. Freshman year taught me pulling all nighters destroys my sleep/wake cycle in ways that take a solid week to remedy. In my experience, procrastination has never been worth it.

What assignment did I forget to do?

I stand up and immediately fall to my knees. All feeling in both my feet has disappeared, but it feels just like my hands—no matter what I do, they won’t wake up.

Oh my God, I’ve been poisoned. I’m going to die. First my hands and feet, and then the rest of me. I feel Fenrir lap at my face in worry, so I pet him in a feeble attempt to calm down. I can still move, I just can’t feel anything.

Am I drunk? Is this what it’s like to be drunk? Did the small amount of mead I accidentally swallowed last night somehow give me a hangover?

Am I just hysterical? I feel hysterical. Breathe. Just breathe. Maybe staying up all night wasn’t a good idea.

Gail bangs on the door again, sounding much more anxious than before, and I scramble to remember what’s going on. I look down at the knife in my hand. Gail has been nothing but kind to me since I got here. She’s taken care of me and answered my questions and taken the time to explain my role. I don’t care that Ben said to assume everyone is trying to kill me because I don’t think it’s Gail.

I keep the knife though.

I pull up the wood plank and heave open the door. Gail starts to explain what’s going on at the beach but almost immediately stops. “Cora. . . what happened?” She doesn’t apologize when I frown. “You look. . . very unwell,” Gail continues. “Are you running a fever? Do you need a doctor?”

I can’t imagine what kind of treatment a norse doctor would give me, but you can bet it’s not FDA approved, so I think I’ll pass. “I’m fine, Gail.” I’m almost too tired to feel embarrassment at becoming paranoid from lack of sleep. That’s what this is, right? Paranoia? “Had terrible insomnia and stayed up all night. Although, I think I bent my arms at a weird angle. They fell asleep.”

She nods, but her eyes say she doesn’t believe me. “I won’t waste more time talking. Follow me. You’ll see for yourself.”

I find them standing in the middle of the hill leading down to the docks and the beach.

Jane rubs at her temples as I approach. She’s changed back into her pants and t-shirt but looks just as aggravated as she did in the dress from last night. “Oh, what the hell?” She turns to gauge Ben’s reaction. “Did you know about this?”

Ben, for once, looks equally as incensed as she does. “No,” he says slowly, “I did not.”

I squint in the early morning sun and finally see what they’re talking about. Why are the survivors here? I want to ask Jane or Ben what’s going on, but it turns out I don’t need to.

Jane spots me as I walk closer and her worried expression darkens. “You need to do something about this,” she hisses at me. “This wasn’t part of our negotiation. And you look terrible. Are you hungover, too?”

“Thanks,” I mumble.

“No, I mean you look really terrible.” Jane steps close enough to pull one of my eyelids open to look at my pupil. I yank my face away, but she doesn’t grab for me again. “Do you feel sick?”

I flex my fingers. I clap once. Nothing. Not even the prickly numbness that comes from waking a limb back up. Just to be safe, I tell her, “My hands and feet have been asleep for a while.”

Jane points at a young woman curiously standing nearby and orders, “Get Annie.” When she doesn’t move, Jane yells, “Now!” and the young woman breaks out in a run up into the main village.

Annie? I wonder if she means the Annie. The little girl from Dharma. Ben’s only childhood friend. Annie is a common name, but if Miles and Charlotte are here, it only makes sense Annie would be too.

I look back at the survivors and notice the group is far too small to be everyone. In fact, it’s definitely not everyone because the only survivors standing awkwardly on the docks are female.

“Miss Collins,” Ben starts, pausing when his eyes shift to something behind me.

“Negotiations are off the table,” Erik answers from behind us, flanked on either side by Gorm and Inga. All of his cuts and bruises look even worse in the bright sunshine. He steps closer and shoots Ben a look. “I’ve decided we’re no longer in need of your council. Feel free to return to your people in one of our smaller ships. Please follow me, Lady Cora,” he says more kindly. “We have much to discuss.”

To my immense shock, instead of yelling something snide or punching him in the face, Jane does nothing but watch Erik walk past her down the hill.

Jane sighs, but not dramatically. It comes out more like an anxious snort. “Well,” she says, glancing stoically at Ben. “Here we go.”

“Why’d you bring them here?” I ask Erik.

From what I can remember from the show, tensions were already high enough when the survivors were struggling to live together. Granted, Sawyer started a lot of the fights this early on—and he’s still locked in a room back at the barracks—but he wasn’t responsible for everything. Jin and Michael definitely had a fight over a watch. I can’t imagine how bad it’s become now that family and married couples have been separated.

I watch Fenrir trot through the survivors asking, Hi, are you a friend?

“The men don’t exactly get along great.” A pain starts in my back. I flinch a hand up to grip where my kidneys are, and I completely reconsider whatever norse medical care they have here. Something is definitely wrong. “They’re going to kill each other.”

“Saves us the trouble.”

“I’m sorry?” I turn and stare blankly at Erik. “What do you mean?”

“I mean they’re a waste of resources, my lady. We can always use them,” he explains, nodding at the confused female survivors standing farther away on the beach. “No need for the men.”

I feel all the blood rush from my head and I totter unstably. “Did you kill them?”

I have never felt so happy to hear a response. “No, not yet,” Erik tells me.

“Not ever,” I snap loudly, and the man standing to his right flinches. I can’t remember a time my body ached this much, and the pain makes it easier to voice my anger. “Nobody is killing anybody. Gorm, right?” The viking who flinched is quick to bow his head. “And Inga?” She looks surprised I remember her name. “Some of these women are already married. None of you are to kill anyone. Understand?”

“I insist you rest, my lady,” says Erik. “You have had an exhausting few days, and we can take it from here.”

No, you nut-job. I want you to tell me exactly what you plan to do. What the hell is going on? I reach up and swipe at the sweat trailing down my face. “What’s the plan? This isn’t even all of the women.”

This news dents Erik’s self-assured smile just a little. “What do you mean?”

I take one last look around just to make sure, but I don’t see her. “I mean this isn’t—” I look over at the tall bearded man standing beside me, but I can’t remember his name. His face is swollen and bruised, and I wonder who he pissed off to get that bad of an ass-whooping. “I mean . . . this isn’t everyone.” I find Claire amongst the crowd and hurry towards her in the sand, happy to find someone familiar. “What happened? Where’s Kate?”

“Don’t talk to her,” Shannon pipes in. At least, I think it’s Shannon?

Wait. Who’s Shannon?

I blink at the crowd and struggle to place who they are. A blonde pregnant woman stares at me, brows furrowed. I take a step back and look down at my shoes sinking into the sand. I’m wearing leather boots. I’m dressed in a ridiculous gown.

I try to remain calm and back away from them all. A group of women dressed in shades of pink and purple and light blue stare at me as I turn to gauge more of my surroundings, but I only become more confused. Did I fly home for Christmas break after all? We never take family trips to the beach. I don’t see mom.

I spot two people wearing regular clothes amongst a group cosplaying as vikings, and I feel a rush of relief. “Excuse me,” I ask a tall brunette. “I’m sorry to bother you, but what beach is this?”

She looks incredibly unfriendly when she says, “I knew there was something wrong with you. We need to get to the infirmary while you can still walk.”

“I’m sorry?” I struggle to remain calm as I fight against her vice-like grip of my wrist. “Who are you?”

“Ben,” the woman says, “get her other arm.”

I feel the pressure of her grip tighten even more, and I have the good sense to start causing a scene. I’m being abducted. I’m being abducted in broad daylight, and they’re probably trying to sell me into some kind of sex trafficking ring. Why isn’t anyone doing anything?

I scream at the top of my lungs and push against the woman. I don’t even push that hard but she ends up slamming into a tree a few feet away and landing in a heap with a surprised exhale.

It feels like I’m going to die. Everything hurts. And to make matters worse, I’ve reached a point of hysterical fight-or-flight that plugs me up like a bad case of allergies. I can feel tears trailing down my face and my nose runs a stream of snot over my lips. I reach up to swipe it and pull away red. My nose is bleeding? I’ve never had a nosebleed before.

I’m slowly surrounded by worried looking women with braided hair and identical dresses in varying shades of pastel. I cover my ears with the palms of my hands as they all ask me questions at the same time. How do they know my name?

“Everyone back the hell up,” an elderly woman bellows louder than I thought was possible for someone of her age, and the crowd closing in on me quickly parts. She strolls past them with an air of authority. I wonder if she’s a police officer, although I don’t know why a police officer would be dressed the way she is. “Hello, Miss. My name is Gail.”

I hold up my shaking hands. “I think I’m bleeding?”

“Yes,” she replies calmly. “There’s been an accident, and we need to take you to the hospital. What’s your name?”

“Cora.” I look down at my embroidered dress dotting with blood, at the flower chains around my neck, at the trees and numerous women dressed in a mix of historical and modern clothing, and then look back at Gail. “Where am I?”

“A renaissance festival,” she answers with a smile. “I’m with security. Let’s get you to the doctor, shall we?”

We walk through trees—Gail steadying me—until we reach a tall metal building covered in vines and foliage. This is the weirdest Renaissance Faire I’ve ever been to.

I see my reflection in the shiny metal door and stop, reaching up to swipe at my nose, but all I pull away is clear mucus. Fear pools in my stomach until the ache is unbearable. I stare at the blood covering my face and allow the situation to process. My nose isn’t bleeding.

I’m crying blood.

I stand on the same beach I started this nonsense adventure on, only this time the group of survivors is infinitely smaller and entirely male.

There’s an argument down the beach. Erik is yelling at a very distraught Jin, who I can only assume is furious they’ve taken Sun away from him. I don’t know who starts it, but the two men begin taking swings at each other.

It doesn’t last long. One of the bearded men hands Erik a long-handled axe, and all at once I realize how serious the situation is.

It doesn’t matter that I order them to stand down. I scream for him to stop, but he’s not listening.

The axe comes down heavy, severing Jin’s head from the rest of his body.

It’s as if I have breached the surface of water. Air hovers in my throat, uselessly stagnant. I can’t breathe.

Suddenly, I can.

“Easy,” a woman soothes as I gasp wildly. “You’re okay.” In a hushed whisper, I hear, “Flora, honey, go get your mother. Tell her she’s awake. What did you see,” she adds, louder than before.  “Cora? Cora, honey, what did you see?”

It takes me a second to realize the voice is talking to me. “Who are you?" I blink into the harsh overhead lighting and try to remember where I am. Unfocused beams of white and yellow scratch at my eyes like a wild animal. A door opens, shoes shuffle, and there’s a warm hand on my arm. I squint up into the kind face of a freckled redhead.

“Cora?” I blink more rapidly, confused as to how she knows my name. “Hi, I’m Dr. Freeman. Call me Annie.” When I don’t answer, she steps forward and checks a beeping monitor next to the table I’m on, and I notice she has a rifle strapped to her back. “I’m glad to see you’re awake. Are you in any pain?”

“No.” My panic lessens when I see Gail is standing beside me. She was the voice I heard upon awakening. I can’t stop blinking. “How long was I out?”

“About 24 hours.”

“What happened?”

“Let me up,” a tiny voice commands from the floor. “Let me up!” Gail bends down, and suddenly Fenrir is plopped on my chest, eagerly sniffing my face. Once he’s assured I’m okay, he makes a circle and gets comfortable on my chest.

“You were poisoned,” Annie says and checks the IV I didn’t notice was stuck in my arm. “You’re lucky to be alive. There was enough in your bloodstream to have killed eight people.” I hear a click and the beam of a flashlight blinds me as she checks my pupils. “If you’re not in any pain, that should mean it’s mostly left your system by now.”

It comes back to me, slowly. Feeling terrible all night. The insomnia. Paranoia. Confusion. Crying blood. I tried everything at the party. It could have been any of the foods that were shoved in front of me last night. Is anyone else sick? Or dead?

Dead. I remember my nightmare. Try as I might to clear my throat, my voice whinges out of me like a croaking bullfrog. “Where’s Erik?”

“His house is not far from here,” Annie answers curiously. “Why?”

“Stop him,” I beg. “Please, he can’t go back to the beach. He. . . the axe! He’s going to kill them—”

“Slow down,” Gail soothes as I stumble frantically over my words. “Who is going to kill who?”

I can’t get the words out. He’s going to behead Jin, and who knows how many others. “I had a nightmare—” My face flushes at how ridiculous this must sound. “It was just a nightmare.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Gail counters. “Aiko isn’t our only seer.”

What little relief came upon waking turns back into anxiety. “I had a dream Erik is going to kill people at the beach. On the mainland. I. . . I don’t know when.”

Gail’s jaw shifts slightly as she thinks. “Annie, is Christopher still watching Erik?” Annie nods. “And Benjamin?”

“Left to go find Loki.” Annie peals a layer of tape off my inner arm and pulls out my IV. I quickly look away and try not to throw up. “Needed to send a letter to Alex.”

Gail humphs. “He needs to bring that girl here. She’ll be safer here.”

Annie rests a hand on my back and helps me sit up. “You know why he won’t.”

A set of metal double doors at the end of the room swing open, and a slew of chattering young women enter, followed by Jane, Liv, Miles, and Aiko.

For a while, it’s as if I’m not even here anymore. The only one paying me any attention is Gail, and even then, she’s more of a silent comfort. Miles is angry with Jane over something, and Aiko clings tightly to him, looking very upset. Four young redheaded girls all attempt to talk over each other until Annie tells them to quiet down. I assume they’re her daughters, but nobody introduces themselves.

I lock eyes with Jane and scan her bruised eye, eventually trailing down to a sling holding her right arm tight against her chest. Did she get in another fight with Erik?

“You dislocated my arm yesterday,” she says from across the room. “Tossed me like the Hulk flicking a fly.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“No,” she cuts me off excitedly, “this is great. If you can just channel that energy again, it would solve a lot of our problems. If there’s one thing Erik will listen to, it’s blunt-force trauma. Please tell me you can channel it at will?”

I don’t have a chance to answer before Miles carries Aiko over to my bed and sets her down beside me. Now that she’s close, I can see just how frightened she looks. “Okay, little bug,” says Miles. “It is very important you tell us exactly what you see.”

“I don’t want to,” she whispers. “Not again, please.”

“Aw, you can do this,” Miles encourages and fidgets a strand of her black hair. “That’s why you’re my favorite daughter.”

“I’m your only daughter,” she says, smiling.

Liv approaches and rests a comforting hand on the top of Aiko’s head. “We’ll be right here, sweetheart.”

I feel her tiny fingers curl around my own, and Aiko’s eyes shift from side to side. She blinks out of her stupor and says, “Lady Cora's going to rip a big tree out of the ground.”

Miles hesitates before asking, “Is that all you saw?”

Aiko grabs my fingers again, and she’s quiet for a long time. Then, as if she were burned, she lets out a startled cry and backs away, her unseeing eyes wide, slowly devolving into frightened tears. Miles picks her up to comfort her, but whatever she saw has left her inconsolable.

The sound of slightly rusted metal squeaks as someone else enters the room. I don’t look at him—I cannot tear my eyes away from poor Aiko—but I recognize Ben’s hushed voice.

“She’s still upset?”

“Not about you,” Jane answers, and her uneven tone breaks the spell Aiko’s fear has over me. I turn to look at Jane, and my stomach rapidly sinks at her uncharacteristically worried expression. “You need me to go back to the mainland and get Alex?”

“No, Loki is flying her a message as we speak.”

“Ben. . .” Jane finally looks away from where Liv and Miles are desperately attempting to comfort Aiko. “You better hope Loki reaches her before whatever Aiko saw comes true.”

Dad used to order all of us around like slaves or cattle. He was always on a power trip, sober or drunk. There were times when I’d actually see red from the things he’d say to me or my sisters or my mom. Casper never really got the brunt of his tirades, and I suspect that’s because of some misogynistic bullshit that he was the son while we were the expendable daughters.

I have spent the majority of my life fantasizing about how amazing it will be when I grow up and move out and never have to take orders from anyone ever again. Now, as Gail helps me prepare to bluff my way through the violent and confusing politics of people who supposedly worship me, I wish more than ever that someone would just tell me what to do.

“Has Aiko said anything yet?” I haven’t been able to get her traumatized wails out of my head, and it makes it infinitely worse that I have no idea what she saw because no one will talk to me about it.

“Liv is attempting to coax it out of her,” Gail answers. “The poor girl’s only six, Cora. It will take a little time.”

“I know.” I feel embarrassed having asked. “Sorry.”

“Cora needs a weapon,” Jane offers, “or this meeting isn’t going to last long. The bigger the better. If we have to pretend she’s formidable, it might as well be an all-out attempt. You people ever find her axe?”

“No, but I think I still have her darts.” Gail finishes tying the back of the modest blue dress I requested and starts rummaging thorough one of the trunks in my room. “Ah-ha. Here’s something.”

“I still think she should wear the feather cloak.” Jane eyes my clothing with an air of annoyed disproval. “There’s nothing about this dress that screams listen to me asshole, or I’ll rip your head off.”

“You dress her like a warrior, Erik is going to expect a war. It's best we don’t give that boy any more encouragement.” Gail is in the middle of tying a long strip of leather with finely-sharpened knives holstered around my waist when one of the young redheads from the hospital sprints into my longhouse bedroom, panting and coughing a frantic plea.

I think her name is Flora?

“Fauna,” Gail exclaims, “what is it? Is it Erik?”

“Flint—” she tries to explain, but she sprinted her too fast and cannot catch her breath. I scoop her up a glass of water and wait for her drink. “Flint’s going to get himself killed, lady Cora. Please, you have to stop him.”

I glance at Gail and she says, “It’s her brother.”

“What happened?” I ask. “Where is he?”

Fauna’s eyes are practically bulging out of her skull with fear. “He’s challenged Thor to a Holmgang.”

The word is familiar. I remember it from one of the recent lectures I attended about Norse culture. It’s a sort of gentleman’s duel for Vikings to settle disputes that cannot or will not be settled with payment of money.

“Are they fighting right now?” I ask. “And. . . and Thor’s a . . . regular person, right?” I don’t think I can handle having to stop a fight between someone else with super powers.

“Ugh,” Jane complains loudly. “We don’t have time for this. The meeting’s starting soon.”

We haven’t even reached the rapidly forming circle before I hear Annie shouting.

I look over at a smiling young woman and ask, “What’s going on?”

“Oh! Freyja, hello! Isn’t this exciting?” Mashing her hands together, she brings them up under her chin, still smiling. “They both proposed, so I’m marrying the winner.”

“You foolish boy,” Annie seethes into the face of a teenager. “You would throw your life away for a girl who doesn’t even care which one of you wins?”

Flint tries to stand tall and look impressive, but he’s fairly young. I’m not even sure he’s hit puberty yet judging by the size of him. “That’s not true—”

“Oh really?” Annie interrupts even louder than before. “Go and ask her yourself. Right here, in front of Thor. Ask her which one of you she hopes wins.”

Flint’s jaw grinds from one side to the other as he stares silently at his mother. “Will you not watch me fight?”

“How dare you ask me that,” Annie exclaims, but her voice is less sharp. It’s dulled with fear. “I will not stand around and watch my only son die for such a worthless cause.”

I get a good look at the man Flint will be fighting and completely understand Annie’s panic. Thor is easily three times Flint’s size in both height and muscle mass. Thor grips his sword with ease, while it looks like Flint is struggling to keep his up off the ground.

I take a step forward towards Flint, as if my body is on autopilot. “How old are you?”

Much like he did with his mother, Flint puffs up with pride. “Thirteen, lady Cora.”

“I’m sorry. . . what?!” He’s my little brother Casper’s age. “Yeah, no.” I point at Thor and tell him to go home. “Congratulations, Thor. I have absolutely no doubt you would have won. You need me to bless the engagement? Consider it blessed. Holmgang’s over, everyone.”

“You do the boy a great disservice, my lady.” I didn’t know Erik was here, but his slightly condescending tone is enough to make both my hands ball into tight fists. “Flint is not a child.”

All I can think about is my own thirteen year old brother, who loves video-games and heavy metal and still asks mom to cut the crust off his sandwiches. “What planet are you from where a thirteen year old isn’t considered a child?”

“His fighting spirit is admirable for one so small. You dishonor him by calling off the Holmgang. Who knows? You may have tarnished his chances of reaching Valhalla.”

“Stop filling my boy’s head with lies,” Annie seethes lowly, shaking the strap of the rife off her shoulder to better grip the gun. “Stay away from my family. I don’t need an axe to kill you.”

Erik regards Annie with an air of amusement before dismissing her with a smirk and turning to wander back to the longhouse.

“Stop,” I say, but he keeps walking. I hope he didn’t hear me because we have a big problem if he did. “Stop,” I say louder, and Erik, thankfully, halts.

“Yes, my lady?”

“Erik,” I say, struggling to keep my eyes from flicking away to literally anything else within range. Remember what Gail said. Keep eye contact. This is important. This is more important than a decree to leave Charlotte alone, or to let the female survivors go back to the mainland. I have to convince him not to go to war and obliterate an entire society of people living in the barracks.

No pressue.

“I need to talk to you.”

Chapter Text

Dharma, 1974

LaFluer is good friends with Miss Collins, so he probably knows where she is. But when I enter the security hall to ask him, I hear him yelling at one of the other personnel. His usually friendly expression disappears completely as soon as he sees me.

“What the hell are you doing in here?”

I look behind me just in case, but he’s definitely talking to me.

“Ben, you need to go home. Right now,” Horace orders. “We’re in the middle of something.”

“Look, LaFluer, listen to me,” one of the new security recruits begs. “Listen. . . I’m telling you, I didn’t miss. I swear it was dead center. Right between the eyes.”

“You don’t get it, man,” Horace butts in, sounding more unnerved than usual. “It doesn’t matter if you got a clean headshot. Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

The new member looks wildly from LaFluer to Horace. “I cut off the head of the snake,” he splutters. “I finally killed their goddess. I even killed that elk of hers. I thought that’s what you’ve been trying to accomplish?”

“Hey guys?” Phil says from across the room. He points up at one of the security monitors. “They’re here.”

“How many?” Horace asks.

I move closer to see what he’s looking at. Freyja rides atop the same elk this man claims to have killed. Does that mean her animals are immortal too?

“It’s just her and Jarl Sigurd,” says Phil.

“That’s impossible,” the new recruit stutters. “I killed her.”

“You stupid son of a bitch.” LaFluer grabs him by his collar and shakes him violently. “You can’t kill a goddess!”

I jump at the blast of security alarm that blares through the outside speakers. The alarm suddenly fizzles out until I don’t hear a siren at all. All of the men in the room turn to look at the double-doors leading out into the courtyard.

LaFluer swears. “I say we toss this trigger-happy dumbass out to the wolves. I’m not dying because Ryan wanted to be Quick Draw McGraw.” Yanking the man behind him, LaFluer makes a break for the stairs just as a horrible crash echoes from outside and people start screaming.

I hurry around LaFluer and reach the doors first. If this new guy just tried to shoot Freyja, I want to be as far away from him as possible when the norsemen get here. I reach for the handle, but before I make contact, both double-doors are ripped from their hinges, and I find myself staring up into a seven foot tall looming figure with a pair of glowing white eyes.

Everyone has a specific rumor as to what the norsemen’s Goddess is like. Tony says she eats human hearts. Carol says she eats human souls. Jeromy says she has the head of an elk. Brian says she has the head of a wolf. Samantha thinks the feathers she’s covered in are actual wings she can use to fly.

Annie and I have wanted to know what she looks like since the moment we learned she existed. Now, as I stare at her painted face and eyes that blind me with angry light brighter than jeep headlights, I cannot even fully process what I’m looking at. I can’t move. I can’t blink. I can’t even close my mouth.

“He went rogue,” LaFluer yells and pushes me out of the way. “He acted alone. Please, by all means, take him.”

“What?” Ryan yells in protest, but LaFluer has already pushed him towards Freyja.

Without hesitation, she whips out a long arm from within mounds of brown feathers and grabs Ryan by the throat, lifting him up off the ground. He chokes so hard, it sounds like he’s throwing up. In a rush of bones and beads, she turns and walks out into the middle of the courtyard and drops him at her feet. Now that I’m not blinded by her eyes, I can see two antlers sticking out of her otherwise human head.

I can’t hear what Ryan is saying, but his body language suggests he’s trying to beg forgiveness. She reaches out again, this time slowly, with her hands gently resting on either side of his face, so it looks like she’s comforting him.

Ryan's head bursts open like a smashed pumpkin, spraying blood all over. Bits of his brain dangle in-between Freyja’s fingers like mango pulp. She lets his body drop with dead weight at her feet and shakes off the chunks from her hands.

“Jesus,” LaFluer whispers beside me.

“Consider this your final warning,” Jarl Sigurd announces over a woman’s frightened screams, his voice accented like the rest of his people’s.“You and your people will stay on your land while our animals stay on theres. We will not ask again.” He looks very much like he wants to kill us all. “You should all be on your knees, thanking our merciful Goddess. You attempt assassination and all she required as penance is the one who pulled the trigger. If it were up to me, I would gut you all in a heartbeat.”

And then they are gone.

As everyone around me begins nervously chattering, I feel the immediate fear leaving my body, and it’s easier to think. I’m not going to die. I’m not going to die, and I just met my chance to make sure Horace and Annie and Miss Collins don’t die either.

I finally met Freyja, and I think I know how to win her favor.

“I’m not sure I understand,” says Erik. “What exactly is it you’re asking?”

I have absolutely no idea. I don’t know what possessed me to think I could solve this by just talking to Erik. He’s been polite, never once interrupting, but I can tell he has zero interest in my attempts to argue for peace. At this point, I’m just babbling.

I take slow breaths through my nose and furrow my brow in a desperate attempt to look like I’m not struggling to conceal my anxiety. “Okay, look. . . do you think I’m stupid?”

Erik blinks, his head slowly tilting like a curious bird. “Of course not.”

“Good,” I respond with hearty relief. I half expected him to say yes. “Because I’m not. And I’m getting really sick of people treating me like I am. I may not know exactly what’s going on, but that’s because nobody feels inclined to explain anything. It’s not my fault my rebirth wiped my memory.”

Erik stares off into the trees, seemingly lost in thought. “I apologize on behalf of the clan, my lady. We were unsure if your memory would return by now. I see that it will not.” He nods. “I would be happy to share my knowledge with you. What exactly is it you would like to know?”

Uh-oh. My brain goes completely silent. There’s a dozen questions I want to ask, and now that someone is finally offering unlimited answers, I cannot think of a single one of them. To buy me some time, I simply say, “Thank you.” Think. Think. Think. Think. Think. “Why are you at war with the . . .” Others? Barrack-dwellers? What are they called in this universe? “People on the mainland?”

“They worship a false god,” he answers. “They should be making offerings to you or the other Aesir—”

Is that it? “That doesn’t offend me,” I interrupt happily. “Why should it offend you? I don’t care. Let them make offerings to whatever they want.”

Erik looks at me like I have bats flying out of my ears. “This. . . doesn’t offend you?”

I’m Catholic, so technically all of this is blasphemous anyway. “No.” Although Erik is calm and isn’t making any special attempt to seem domineering, my hands still shake with nerves. I squeeze them and fold them behind my back. “Besides, that’s not entirely true. They have a shrine for me back at the barracks that their people regularly make tribute to.” This is going good. He’s not yelling. I think he’s listening to me. I start to remember other reasons I needed to talk to him. “I know you brought the female survivors here for your people, but . . . did you know some of them are already married?”

He nods for me to continue, as if my point was not evident.

“That’s. . . bad,” I finish lamely. “I mean. . . if you want to assimilate the survivors into your clan, you have my support. They have to stay somewhere, and from what I can tell, you do a good job of protecting your people.” Like I’d hoped, Erik doesn’t take this as condescending and looks pleased with the praise. “I don’t have a problem with that. I have a problem with killing off a bunch of men because you don’t want genetic competition. It’s. . . honestly, it’s gross. People should be able to choose who they marry.”

I can’t believe it. He’s not yelling at me. In fact, he actually looks like he’s agreeing with me.

“And another thing. . . uh, I had a talk with Charlotte. I’m sorry, but she doesn’t want to marry you.”

Erik snorts a short burst of air. “I have no interest in Charlotte.”

I may have been single all my life, but that doesn’t mean I’m ignorant to the whims of the heart. I people watch. I’ve seen plenty of movies. I’ve shipped enough fictional couples to notice carefully concealed affection when I see it. “If you still love Jane, why’d you call off the engagement?”

“I did not end things with Jane,” he says, sounding surprised I would suggest it. “Is that what she told you? One day I was engaged, and the next moment she informed me I was not. She’s the one who proposed. Did she tell you that? Our marriage was to be the great uniting of our people.”

For once I feel lightheaded from intense excitement. This is amazing. Is it really this simple? I used to matchmake for my friends all the time. I’m a fantastic wing-woman, if I do say so myself.

I think I might actually be able to help these people.

Ben exhales sharply through his nose in what I suspect is a concealed laugh.

Jane shoots a confused look at him, and then stares back down at me. “Are you insane?”

I shrink away slightly at her tone, the adrenaline running out of me. “This is great news. I thought you’d be more excited.”

“I would rather boil myself alive in a vat of my own piss than marry that man,” she states flatly.

“Erik said you proposed to him.” I’m so confused. “Why'd you break the engagement?”

Jane rolls her eyes. “Irreconcilable differences.”

“You don’t think you can reconcile?” Unbelievable. This was such a simple solution, but of course she has to be difficult. “You have no interest in marrying Erik? None whatsoever?”

“Look at that,” Jane exclaims sarcastically, turning and shooting Ben another look. “She’s catching on.”

I’m so upset, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “I’m just trying to help.”

“You want to help? We don’t need a matchmaker, we need you to harness your powers so you can effectively babysit your people. We need you to prove you’re a god worth listening to. We need you to stop being such a disappointment.”

“Jane,” Ben warns.

“What, Ben?” She whirls around and yells, “We’re all thinking it. She’s our best chance at stopping the genocide of our people? Look at her. Tell me you were expecting someone so short and. . . docile. Oh, gee,” she says in a higher octave, “Why can’t we just all hold hands and roast marshmallows over the fire? Tee-hee!”

She’s mocking me. I come to her with a viable answer to her people’s problems, and she mocks me. She has the power to end this war by sucking it up and at least attempting to talk through whatever relationship drama happened between her and Erik, and instead she shoves all the blame back on me. How is any of this my fault?

“Oh, shut up,” I snarl.

It’s only after Jane cuts off mid-sentence and blinks at me with surprise that I realize I spoke aloud. Now that it’s out, I can’t seem to stop.

“You think this is funny?” I continue loudly. “You think this is funny? You people came to me for help. Everyone keeps telling me the worlds gonna end if I don’t do this or I don’t do that, and you people cart me around like some brainless ameba, and you leave me in the dark when telling me what’s going on would mean I could actually be of some help. And what do I get out of all this?” I jab a finger up at her. “You knocked me unconscious the first day I got here!”

“It was day four,” she mumbles.

“And their people,” I turn and jab my finger at the general direction of the door, “just tried to poison me! So please, Jane, explain why the hell I should care about what happens to any of you?!”

“Hm. You’re still short. But this,” Jane swirls a finger around, gesturing to my outburst. I watch as her slightly raised eyebrows flatline, her mouth slowly forming a smile. “I can work with this.”

I never could understand my dad’s problem. His controlling nature was so aggressive, my siblings and I had to learn Italian in secret because for some xenophobic reason, he only wanted us to speak English.

I grew up with the mentality that women are to stay home, breed, and keep their mouth shut because what on earth could we intellectually offer? Even though I obviously don't agree with any of that, it's been drilled into me all my life. Sometimes I can't help but relapse back into the days when I really would shut up and sit down when my father ordered me to.

Like right now.

On the bright side, I was able to convince them all not to kill the male survivors of Oceanic 815. Unfortunately, that re-opened the can of worms about equal distribution of survivors between Ben’s people and Erik’s people, of which Erik refuses to budge.

I try not to flinch as Erik continues to rant, but it’s proving more difficult than I’d hoped. Unlike when he was speaking to me directly, he is very angry and loud and reminds me a little too much of my father. It also doesn’t help that the majority of norsemen at the meeting—sorry, Thing, as Gail so often corrects—seem to agree with Erik’s argument.

“We are a people of war,” he explains. “We have always been a people of war who have prayed to a goddess of war. Long before my ancestors set foot on this island, our people valued strength and power. But with every new generation, our people grow soft. We are losing our culture, my lady. Your culture. I won’t let that happen.”

A few of the older men grumble in agreement. A few of the younger men look at me to see if I have anything to add.

Freyja’s not the goddess of war. Is she? I though she was the goddess of love and fertility? What was it my professors said? She was responsible for guiding people into the afterlife? Or was that the Valkyries?

How would risking the lives of both these societies be more beneficial than seeking a permanent truce? The less dead people, the better. Maybe I should bring that up? Make them feel guilty for wanting to give me more work by carrying more dead people to Valhalla or Hel or wherever?

Should I slam my palms against the table? Leave the Thing without another word? What am I supposed to do? I look at Jane, but she’s no help. Ben is busy writing something. Annie wasn’t allowed to attend the Thing. And the rest of the men in attendance are either ignoring me or staring blankly at my seat at the end of the long table.

“I guess. . .” I clear my throat and start again. “I don’t think we should. . .” I have no clue what I’m saying. I’m tired, I’m starving, and I’m one-hundred percent done with living this weird stressful version of the show. I just want to go home. Nobody’s listening to me anyway.

“Since when did you all decide to elevate the position of jarl to that above the Vanir?” I look up at the voice and lock eyes with Liv. “You want to talk of madness, Erik?” she continues. “That is madness. You are my dearest brother, and a strong leader, but you are mortal—nothing else. To claim otherwise is blasphemy.”

The grumbling returns, only this time, I think it’s in my favor.

“Lady Cora,” Liv continues, and I can’t help but feel elated at being rescued. “I for one would like to hear what you have to say.”

We set sail immediately back to the mainland, and now I stand in the same spot I stood in my nightmare, staring at the entirely male group of Oceanic 815 survivors. Some of them are characters never fully introduced in the show, but the ones I know—Jack, Charlie, Sayid, Jin, Hugo, Boone—stare at me with a mixture of everything from fascination to pure unadulterated hatred.

Like I did with the women, I double check my observation before clearing my throat and announcing, “Where are the rest of them?”

“This is everyone,” Erik answers.

“Michael Dawson and John Locke are missing. Not to mention Kate Austen is missing from the women’s group.” It feels good to be right—and yes, I mentioned the characters by first and last name just to spite Erik—but my voice still falters at the look on his face. “This isn’t everyone, Erik. And what have you done with the tail end survivors?” I give him a moment to answer before saying, “You do have the tail end survivors, don’t you?”

Erik turns and speaks old norse to one of his men, and they laugh.

I try my best to ignore him and ask the survivors where Michael, Locke, and Kate are. Much like when I asked the women back at Hydra, all these men do is glare at me. That is, until I ask Hugo.

“Hey, so like. . . I know you’re an animal god or whatever, but. . . just try not to freak out okay?” Hugo fidgets while he thinks of the best way to approach the subject. “Before we got, you know, surrounded by these Viking dudes. . . they may have gone into the jungle to. . . uh. . . to hunt boars and . . . stuff. Sorry about that.”

“These hunters should be punished, my lady.” Liv follows closely beside me, with Jane and a small group of guards not far behind, as we trek deeper into the jungle. “It is illegal to hunt the sacred island boar.”

Thankfully, Liv knows how to track because I’m completely turned around. Every tree looks the same to me. For all I know, we could be going in circles.

I don’t think we should punish someone who didn’t know the law before breaking it. We just need to find them and tell them not to hunt boar anymore. Why is everyone’s first reaction to inflict corporal punishment?

“Mom! Mom,” Fenrir barks excitedly at my feet. “I smell blood! Lots of blood!”

A child’s scream pierces through the trees and makes my hairs stand on end. “Did you hear that?”

A wailing little piglet comes bursting out of the tall grass. He halts abruptly when he sees us and turns to flee in the other direction. “Help!” he cries in perfect English. “Help! There are more of them!” In his mad dash to escape, the piglet gets his stubby little legs caught in a tangle of vines and he crashes down, screaming louder than ever. “Don’t eat me,” it begs as I get closer. “Don’t eat me! Mama! Help!”

“It’s okay,” I say in my most reassuring voice. “We’re not going to hurt you.”

“Liar! You hurt my brothers!”

“No, that wasn’t me,” I promise the frightened piglet. “I’m here to protect you.”

“You’re here to eat me and my family,” he refutes and thrashes in the tangled vines. When Fenrir trots closer to sniff him, the boar says, “Stay away from me! I’ll bite you!”

“Please don’t bite us,” I beg. “We just want to help you. See?” I hold out my empty hands. “I’m not eating you. Fenrir’s not eating you. None of us are eating you.”

The piglet finally stops thrashing and oinks, “You’re not going to eat me?”

“No, I’m not. Come here, it’s alright.” I gently untangle his legs and scoop up the little baby boar, cradling him in my arms and brushing a hand over his bristly black hair. His birth must have been recent because he’s no bigger than a loaf of bread. He looks up at me with big, frightened eyes. “Fenrir,” I say to the excited pup at my feet, “can you smell humans from here? Take us to them.”

We find Locke, Michael, and Kate in the middle of tying up a dead boar. Once they realize they’re surrounded, they surrender without a fight. But I barely notice.

I point at a fully grown boar stumbling towards me on unstable hooves. “That one’s hurt,” I say to no one in particular.

“Please,” the dying boar gurgles at me, “why is this happening? Make it stop.” It looks like they attempted to slash his throat, but they didn’t cut deep enough to make it quick. “I think I’m dying. . .”

“Brother!” The much smaller piglet in my arms thrashes wildly. “No!”

I reach for the larger injured boar as he coughs up blood and collapses, unmoving.

Liv pulls me back. “You cannot help him now. Look, he has already passed. You two, take the survivors back to the beach. We’ll discuss the terms of a trial later. Just get them out of here. Cora? Cora? Cora, we need to return to the beach.”

I stare up at the hanging boar, sliced open from its throat to its back legs, blood spilling out of it, organs already partially removed. I flinch away from a hand on my arm and turn to find Liv.

“My lady,” she says softly, "I’m sorry. You could not have helped him. Either of them. We will ensure their lives are celebrated tonight.”

I nod. Gag on the stench of blood in the air. Hold the wailing piglet tighter to my chest. Struggle not to gag again. Nod.

The norsemen waste no time lighting massive campfires on the beach and butchering the piglet’s dead brother and mother to use for meat and God knows what else. I didn’t stay to find out. I don’t want to smell it anymore.

I sit in the sand with Pumba’s warm little belly in my lap and Fenrir’s floppy limbs flinging sand in the air as he scouts out the surrounding area. Pumba stopped oinking a while ago, and now he sits perfectly still, taking a depression nap while my people cook his family just down the shoreline. I wait for laughter or tears, but I just feel irritated.

“It’s not wise to be out here alone, my lady.”

“I’m not alone, Gail.” I wave a hand behind me towards the trees, not bothering to look up. “Liv’s been watching me from behind that brush since we returned. I don’t think she knows I know.”

“Cora,” Gail pauses. “I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now, but just know they view this as a funeral of sorts. A remembrance for who those boar were as living things.”

“By cooking and eating them?” I snap.

Gail walks closer to where I sit watching the waves crash against sand as the sunset melts every shade of orange together. “I brought you some fruit instead,” she says. “You need to eat something.”

“No offense, Gail, but I don’t even know for certain you don’t want me dead.”

Gail retracts her offering and takes a seat next to me in the sand. “I never knew my parents. Grew up in foster-care. Nasty place with equally nasty caretakers who made it very clear they were taking me in for the money.” She shakes the bowl to mix up the cocktail of berries and chunks of assorted island fruits, picks a mango slice at random, and offers me the bowl again.

“No thanks. I know how this works,” I say as she takes a bite. “I’ve read The Princess Bride.”

Gail laughs and reaches for more fruit. “Long story short, I worked all my young life to be the best of the best. The brightest. The sharpest. I excelled in college and was set to start research projects that would change the world. There was only one problem.” She pauses, and I wonder if she expects me to make a guess. “I was a woman.”

Oh, right. She would have been attending college in the 60’s or 70’s judging by her age. I’m sure that was. . . lovely.

“There was always some bright-eyed-pea-for-brains young man who’d waltz into the lab and try to take credit for my work. I had a few projects completely stolen because the department always sided with the man. I was so disheartened, I almost dropped out of the science program all together. That’s when I was approached by the Dharma Initiative. They told me I was a highly sought after candidate.”

Gail offers me the bowl again and smiles when I relent and take a handful of blackberries. Poison me. I don’t care anymore. I’m starving.

"You can only imagine how flattered I was,” she says. “Of course I accepted their offer of employment. The Initiative was conducting new and exciting research, and I was eager to be a part of their next big scientific breakthrough."

“How did you end up with the norsemen?” I ask, already reaching for more fruit.

“You brought me to them,” she answers. “After I was finally approved to work on Hydra Island, I discovered the cruelty of their animal experimentation. I expressed my concern, but they threatened to imprison me if I didn't continue with the experiments. I didn’t take their threats lightly, as I had no family to inquire about my absence, and I was afraid they would have done worse than imprison me if I didn’t fall in line. You gave me another option. You took me from Hydra and brought me to your people on the mainland, and with them I have stayed for the past 30 years."

“But you don’t live on the mainland.”

Gail smiles. “Yes, well. All of the women and children moved to Hydra after the Great Liberation.”

“Why only the women?”

“It’s safer there,” she answers. “The monster cannot cross the ocean.”

“Oh.” I reach for more berries. “What’s the Great Liberation?”

“It goes by a few different names. The Great Liberation. The Incident. The Hydra Catastrophe. You stormed Hydra, freed the experiments, and. . . well, dear, you killed everyone else on that island.”

Gail hands me the bowl as I shovel mango and papaya and berries in my mouth as fast as I can. Maybe if I eat more, what she’s saying will make sense.

“Cora, when you saved me from the Initiative, you gave me more than a place to stay. You taught me not to take shit from anyone.” Gail gives me a knowing look and nods towards the fire down the beach. “Especially not some cocky bastard with delusions of grander.”

I don’t say anything, but she keeps talking.

“This is my home just as much as it is Erik’s and his men. I cannot imagine living anywhere else. I have taught more children than I could ever hope to count.” Gail smiles fondly. “Annie was my star pupil. She’s made a fine doctor.” Gail takes one of my hands and squeezes. “Cora, you are the closest thing I’ve ever had to a family,” she whispers with such sincerity, I have no choice but to believe her. “And I will personally disembowel anyone who tries to hurt you. Oh, you have some mango on your chin, dear.” Rubbing her sleeve over my skin, Gail cleans the mess and smiles.

“Miss Collins,” Ben’s voice is almost drowned out by the crashing waves. “I need to speak to you. No, you can stay Gail,” he adds when she starts to stand. “In fact, I’d prefer if you did. Christopher just delivered some. . . less than encouraging news. We have no other choice. It’s time we tell her.”

I reach for more fruit, but my fingers probe an empty bowl. “Tell me what?”

“Here?” Gail asks in surprise. “Are you sure you want to discuss this here?”

“At least I know we’re alone here,” he answers softly, and I get his reasoning. Ben's standing close, but the rough high tide drowns out his voice. If anyone wanted to eavesdrop, they’d have to be close enough for us to know they were near.

Instead of taking a seat on my left, Ben walks behind me and takes a seat on the opposite side of Gail. I notice he also has a bowl full of fruit and what looks like carrots.

I frown in confusion. “You’re not eating boar?”

“I don’t eat anything that once had a mother.” Ben pops a berry in his mouth and chews. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to be frank about this. Time is not our ally at the moment.” One, two, three berries. I watch him chew. Another berry. Chew. Another. Chew.

“Benjamin,” says Gail. “Do you want me to tell her?”

“No. Sorry. I. . . Miss Coll—” Ben pauses, puts the bowl down beside him in the sand, and finally looks over at me. “Cora, I’m afraid I need to ask for another favor.”

The laugh I’d been waiting for all afternoon comes bursting out of me. “Yeah," I tell Ben, "sorry, but I don’t think Erik will be interested in marrying you.”

“We don’t mean Erik,” Gail cuts in. “There is one position above him in the governing hierarchy.”

Who ranks a jarl? Liv? No, she’s already married. “There is?”

“Yes,” Gail says with a small nod. “A Goddess.”

I wait for them to explain more, but they both just stare at me.

There are only two things that can placate Erik’s insatiable need for tradition: war or a marriage between the two governing factions. A few years ago, that was slated to be Jane and Erik. Now, apparently everyone expects me to bite the biggest bullet of my life by marrying a complete stranger.

Gail speaks first. “What do you think?”

I find myself squinting instead of laughing. “I think you need to come up with another plan.”

Ben’s eyes dart away towards the water before looking back at me. “Did you not hear what I said? My contact just disclosed Erik's secret intent to kill my people tomorrow with or without your consent. Kill them. Take their children. I’m not even sure he’ll spare the women at this point.”

I know it makes me a horrible human being, but I don’t care. I’m not going to forsake a life’s worth of promises to myself because a group of grown adults want to act like the children from Lord of the Flies. “Yes, I heard you. You’re both going to duke it out tomorrow.”

“Duke it out?” he questions slowly. Ben looks from me to Gail and gives his head a small shake of disbelief. “This isn’t a schoolyard brawl, Cora. I just had to evacuate my daughter so she won’t have to watch the death of everyone she’s ever known.”

I know. I know, and I’m sorry. “My answer is no. Think of another plan.”

“There is no other plan,” Ben says snidely. “Just because I haven’t explained to you every failed idea we’ve attempted up to this point doesn’t mean I’m presenting this last resort lightly. You think I haven’t exhausted every alternative option before relying on marriage to you?”

In one swift motion, I lean over Gail and slosh my cup of water in his face. Pumba wakes up and hops off my lap, asking what’s going on. Ignoring whatever Gail is trying to say to me, I stand and walk toward the fires as Pumba and Fenrir follow so closely I almost trip on them.

A few people try to get my attention as I approach the collection of roaring fires, but I am filled with a single-minded determination. I find her sharpening a knife.

Jane raises an eyebrow when she sees me. “Not here,” she says and stands, motioning for me to follow her away from the chattering men. “Something tells me you weren’t a fan of the idea.”

“You can end this.”

“I like your optimism,” she says. “It’s cute.”

“You can stop all of this, right now. Why won’t you?”

“We can’t assassinate Erik.” Jane inspects her sharpened knife in the faint moonlight glow, not even looking at me. “There’s about ten norsemen ready to replace him and his ideological hangups. Ben was supposed to explain that to you.”

“I’m not talking about assassinating Erik,” I hiss. “Why won’t you marry—”

“He’s not my type,” she interrupts.

Jane's nonchalantness—the casual way in which she condemns her own people—enrages me. “You’re willing to risk everyone’s safety because he’s not your type? What is wrong with you? You proposed to him. He’s obviously still in love with you. Why won’t you at least try to talk to him? What’s so wrong with him?”

Jane sheathes the knife. “He’s a man.”

I frown at her in confusion. Yes? And? “Oh. Ohhh.” I sink into a crouch in the sand at the revelation, and poor Pumba takes the opportunity to try and climb back into my lap. Now that this plan is completely shot to hell, my head lulls as the adrenaline dies down. “Sorry,” I whisper, “it just . . . seemed like you were jealous. I mean, you beat Erik up pretty badly because he got engaged to someone else.”

“I wasn’t—” I watch as her angry expression instantly drops. She takes a seat next to me. “When I was leader,” she says more gently than I’ve ever heard her speak, “I thought I could fix everything myself. I was trying to do what’s right. I was trying to help my people. I thought I could. . . I thought I could get over it. But Erik is obsessed with tradition. You think he’d marry me without wanting children? Just the thought of that man’s—” Her entire face puckers. “In the end, I just couldn’t go through with it.”

“Well, I’m not getting married in your place.”

“Ugh,” she exhales up towards the moon. “I knew Ben would butcher this. Forget whatever he told you and listen to me. We are asking you to sign a contract and host a small party. That’s it. It would be the complete opposite of traditional. You two wouldn’t even be living on the same island. You can go back to Hydra and sit on your throne and bless newborn babies all day, and we can go back to the barracks and not die.”

What she’s saying makes complete sense, and at the same time, it makes me sick to my stomach—surprisingly more sick than the thought of an actual war. “I can’t.”

I wait for her to yell at me, but she lowers her voice and calmly says, “I’m listening.”

Where to begin? How am I supposed to explain the entire history of my intensely religious Italian family? The massive dysfunction of my parents marriage? The fact that not a single one of my Sicilian relatives have ever gotten a divorce? Years and years of crying myself to sleep at night and promising I would never get married so I could always be in control of every aspect of my life?

People lie. People change. People learn to hate each other after it’s too late.

How am I supposed to explain all of this in a way Jane would understand or care about?

“I’m sorry, but I’m not marrying anyone. It’s. . . an ethics issue.”

“Oh,” she scoffs, “and letting a few dozen people get slaughtered isn’t against your ethics? Got it. If you’ll excuse me, I need to get a head start back to my friends at home.” When I try to apologize, Jane spins back around. “Do you want to know what the shittiest thing about all of this is? I grew up with the norsemen. All those men sitting around the fire? They’re my friends just as much as my neighbors back at the Barracks. So no matter who dies, it isn’t about sides to me anymore. A lot of my friends are going to be dead tomorrow.”

I want to scream at her that what she’s asking of me isn’t fair. Marriage may not be that big of a deal to her, but it’s a sacred thing in my family. Marrying a complete stranger is out of the question. It’s insulting.

I stay seated in the sand and watch Jane walk away towards where Ben and Gail are standing near the shore. Pumba rubs his little wet snout against my arm, but I don’t pick him up. I run a hand over his bristly back to calm him down and watch as Jane tells Ben something, gesturing angrily in my direction. They go back and forth until he nods down at the sand and the two strap on their backpacks and disappear into the trees.

I’ve been knocked unconscious, poisoned, threatened, guilted, and pressured since the moment Ive gotten here. I haven’t even been able to eat a real meal without something happening to induce vomiting. No one here has my best interest at heart because they’re so preoccupied with their own. I’m being treated like a genie who grants unlimited wishes.

So what if these people war with each other? Who cares?

It’s not my problem.

Pumba continues to silently rub his snout against my arm. I look down and see him for what he is—a frightened child whose family was just killed in front of him.

It’s not my problem.

Like Ben said, the kids won’t be harmed.

Tomorrow, Indiana will probably share Pumba’s fate. How could I ever look at her again knowing I could have stopped it? How many other children live at the Barracks? How many other children are about to lose one or both of their parents?

Loud laughter echoes over from the where the largest group sit with Erik, talking cheerfully. I take note of their weapons. The rest of the norsemen guard the very confused looking survivors broken up into three smaller groups around three separate fires.

Erik brings up a chunk of Pumba’s—Mother? Brother? There’s no way to tell—roasted family member and takes a ravenous bite.

Tracking them down is near impossible in the darkness, especially since I only had Gail to point me in the general direction they left in. Fenrir would be more useful if he wasn’t so easily distracted. It takes a concentrated effort not to huff loudly as I snake my way through the beaten path of trees and brush and long blades of jungle grass. Jane raises her gun for half a second when I finally hurry up behind them.

“Would all of this stop?” I smack away bugs and thank all that is holy in this world that I don’t have the ability to understand insects. “Can you guarantee our marriage would stop the war?”

“Honestly?” Ben falls silent and closes his eyes. When he opens them, he’s looking very intently at a fern. “There’s honestly no guarantee of anything. All I know for certain is the only alternative they will respect is war.”

“We just sign a piece of paper?” I ask. My whole body is shaking, and not from the temperature. “And that’s it? You stay on this island and I go back to Hydra?”

They both stare at me like they cannot quite figure out if I’m agreeing to their demands or just being difficult.

“You can go wherever you’d like. They’re technically both your islands. But yes,” Ben answers quickly when I frown. “It’s essentially down to penning a comprehensive yet thorough treaty alongside the usual wedding license—”

I turn and start the walk back to the beach.

“Is that a yes?” Jane yells after me. “Hey? Hey! Cora, stop!”

“Yes, it’s a yes,” I answer. It’s difficult not to sound as angry as I feel, but even more so when Jane huffs a laugh.

“No,” she says, smirking, “I meant you’re going the wrong way. Beach is this way.”

“Okay.” I clear my throat, but the yelling continues. “Excuse me?”

One of the norsemen paces in the sand, jabbing the air with a finger and yelling in an indecipherable language. A few men push him and laugh. A few look at me and immediately lose interest.

I inhale a lungful of air and order as forcefully as I can, “Excuse me? I need to say something.” But it still isn’t enough to get everyone’s attention.

I can smell the roasted boar and it makes my stomach groan in protest. I can never have bacon again. Sausages. Pasta Carbonara. Prosciutto. I can never eat some of my favorite dishes ever again without hearing the confused gurgling pleas of Pumba’s dying brother. And here they all are, eating away at a creature I could hold a conversation with just a few hours ago.

A pain shoots through my eyes and my chest tightens with what I can only assume is panic, but for some reason it doesn’t feel like panic. It feel like I’m drowning. My chest hurts like I’m breathing water, but instead of losing consciousness, I feel like I could punch through a brick wall. A man sitting nearby looks over at me—his eyes quickly filling with fear—and he drops his helping of boar in the sand.

“Sit down,” I scream, and the entirety of the group practically collapses to the sand in a mad scramble to seat themselves. Even the survivors hurry to sit and scoot away from me.

This might be the angriest I’ve ever been. Looking around at all the frightened faces—who usually gossip about me behind my back or ignore me completely—somehow makes it easy for me to say exactly what I’m thinking. “Since some of you can’t seem to honor commitments, I find myself with no choice but to fulfill them for you.”

I pause, expecting pushback, but nobody so much as coughs.

“You want to go back to the old ways? Fine. You want me to lead by example? Fine. There will be no war because I’ve decided to end what you two started.” I point at both Jane and Erik. “There will be no war because I will be the one to unite our peoples through marriage.”

I watch as the northmen pause to process what I’ve said and then collectively lose their shit.

“No,” Erik begins, “my lady—”

“Do not speak,” I seethe through clenched teeth, and he sits back down. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Erik, but isn’t this entire mess your fault to begin with? You want the old ways, congratulations. Here they are.”

“He hasn’t told you?” Erik stays seated but smiles smugly in Ben’s direction. “Go on then. Tell her.”

I look over to see Ben’s uncomfortable expression flickering in the campfire’s blaze and immediately realize something is wrong. “Tell me what?”

“Tell her what you did,” Erik commands. “Remind everyone what you are.”

“I—” Ben opens his mouth to answer but changes his mind. It’s confusing to see him so shaken. He’s supposed to be the one person on this island who always has a plan, but it legitimately looks like he doesn’t know how to respond. For a second I find his eyes, but he cannot keep the contact.

“You coward,” Erik sneers. “Goddess, he is the reason you were reborn. He is the one who killed you.”

Chapter Text

DHARMA, 1975

Our classroom is my sanctuary. It's the one place I can go without fear of being bullied. I've been the target of Doug and his gang of brainless followers since I first moved here. Recently they've even started picking on Annie just because she's my friend. They knock books out of her hands and steal the homework out of her binder.

Annie is friends with the entire class—aside from the stupid bullies—but she’s the only classmate who doesn’t make me feel like an outsider. She’s off somewhere with Susan. I guess I can’t hog her attention all the time.

It's easiest to spend my time here, after the school day has ended. The classroom is peaceful and deserted. Best of all, I don't have to worry about my father. There are some things worse than school bullies.

Miss Collins noticed the bruises on my arms today during class, but she thankfully never asked where they came from. I don't think I'd be able to admit that I got them for accidentally dropping my dad's uniform on the floor while trying to hang it in the closet for him. I was sweaty with fear that Miss Collins would make a big deal about it, but she just gave me one of her sad smiles, ruffled my hair, and wandered off to chastise someone in the back of the room.

I like Miss Collins, and not just because she tells interesting stories or bakes the class cookies or gives us presents all the time. She takes special effort to know everything about us. She has a genuine interest in our hopes and dreams and aspirations for the future and gives good advice for how to achieve it. She protects all of us equally— even Doug—from whatever it is that's troubling us. Miss Collins is first adult I actually trust, and life doesn't seem so scary when I'm near her.

It also doesn't hurt that Annie and I are her favorite students.

Annie's crazy about Miss Collins, too. Especially because they both share a love of animals. She’s constantly lecturing the class on the importance of respecting the Goddess Freyja and her sacred island animals so we don’t start a war with the norsemen. Miss Collins is almost as protective of the island's wildlife as she is of us. She's constantly bringing in new animals for us to interact with. But with some of the bigger ones—like Shadowfax the horse —we have to hold class outside.

We were standing around outside, listening to a lecture about the history of horses, when I looked up at Miss Collins right when the sun hit the back of her head. Her hair burst with a shimmering golden glow that almost blinded me, but I couldn't close my eyes. She laughed at something I didn’t hear, and continued the lecture with a smile at the questions the class was asking. For some reason, it made me indescribably happy that she was happy.

About a year ago, when our old teacher Mrs. Goodspeed disappeared and was replaced with Miss Collins, she was practically bursting with chaotic happy energy that made school fun for the first time since I’ve been here. It was hard to be in a bad mood around someone so upbeat and cheerful.

But lately, that energy has dulled significantly. I feel like I see her looking more upset than happy most of the time, and it makes me sweaty with anxious worry that maybe Annie and I have something to do with it, even though we haven’t disobeyed her once since the incident with the norsemen.

The doorknob squeaks and jiggles. I jump up from my seat on the floor and panic. Where to hide? Where to hide? Nobody ever comes in here at this time of day!

I leap towards the little pushcart where we hang up our rain jackets for monsoon season. Nestling myself deep within them, I hold my breath as a janitor walks in, wheeling a mop bucket in front of him.

Dad.

"What the hell?" he mumbles, looking around the classroom in disgust. Miss Collins makes us move our desks to the outer rim of the classroom. She wants everyone to interact with each other, and it also makes it easier for her to bring animals in for us to play with. My favorite is Prince Humperdinck, our class pet rabbit. He shed a lot today, and now his pure white fur rolls around in little fluffy tumbleweeds.

My dad churns the mop in the sudsy bucket and prepares to clean the floor. I hunker down deeper into the cloaks and pray he doesn't move this pushcart to clean behind it.

The door opens again, and I hear a welcoming voice. "Oh, Roger," says Miss Collins. "I didn't know you were in here."

"Huh?" Dad turns to look at her, and that expression crosses over his features—the one he uses when he doesn't want to talk to someone but is trying very hard not to be rude. "Oh, hello, teach."

“You can call me Cora."

"Yeah," he says. "Okay."

"Your son is in my class," she says. "Actually, since you're here, I figure we can discuss him."

"Yeah?" he snaps at her. "What's he done now?"

"Done? Oh, no, no. Ben's one of my best students. Very curious. Very eager to learn. His brain is like a sponge. It's fascinating."

"Huh." Dad laughs. "You sure we're talking about the same kid?"

Even from my hiding spot I can see Miss Collins' lips twitch in a losing fight to keep smiling. It's as if her cheerful glow is slowly draining away, and in its place is something terrifying. She smiles silently at my dad for an uncomfortable amount of time.

"Do you need something?” he asks, sounding annoyed. “I’m kinda busy here.”

“Do you take your job seriously, Roger?”

My dad shrugs. “What’s so serious about mopping floors?”

“Mm,” she hums. “I take my job very seriously.”

“Good for you.”

"Do you know anything about dragons, Roger?”

"Do I know about what?"

“Dragons,” she repeats. "Mythical creatures of unparalleled power. They are most famous for hoarding and defending treasure." Miss Collins straightens up, and even though she's still shorter than my dad, she looks infinitely scarier than he does. “Think of me as a dragon. Which would make my students my priceless hoard."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Miss Collins sighs in annoyance. "Okay, if you can't wrap your head around dragons, think of me like a bear. Mother bears maul other animals to death to protect their cubs. My students are my cubs, and I am more than happy to maul anyone and everyone who threatens their safety."

“You've got a few screws loose, don't you?” Dad shakes his head and starts to mop the floor. “You sure you should be teaching kids?”

Miss Collins yanks his mop away, and I watch my dad’s hands raise up in surprise, like he doesn’t know whether to flinch away or fistfight.

"I don't think you understand me," she states in a low voice. “It's my job to make sure my students are safe. If they don't feel safe, they don't learn. So when students show up to class with bruises, I have cause for being concerned."

"What I do with my kid is none of your business. I can’t believe this,” he scoffs. “Who do you think you are? Olivia would never have spoken to me like this.”

“Olivia may have tolerated your shit, but I assure you I do not.”

Dad doesn't look afraid, but then again he's never been the brightest crayon in the box, as Miss Collins always says. "I'm sure Horace would love to hear about this."

“Oh, I’m sure he would!” Miss Collins smiles. "Think about that for a moment, Roger. Who do you think anyone is going to believe? The island drunk, or the poor little school teacher who enjoys knitting and baking and hosting class outdoors?”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No,” she exclaims, laughing as if he’s just said the funniest thing she’s ever heard. “A threat would be if I told you to stop abusing your son or I’m going to douse you in oil and light you on fire. See the difference?”

Dad finally has the sense to look afraid as she bursts into even harder laughter.

“I know what you’re thinking. She’s insane! I should go report this and get her fired!”

“Yeah,” my dad says. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“And who, exactly, will you report this to? Will they even know who you are? Because I guarantee they know who I am. You want to know the funny thing about community, Roger? Power is being liked. Power is having friends. And you don’t have any friends. You’re an unpleasant alcoholic who smells bad. So you have two options. You can either take my advice—” She pauses, smiling. “—or you can choose not to. But one thing is for certain.” Miss Collins leans in and whispers, “If I have to talk to you again, I will bury you alive in an unmarked grave, and no one will even notice you’re gone.”

Miss Collins stares up at him with such intense loathing that it makes me afraid she’s actually going to kill him. All the muscles in my body twitch with the desire to burst out of this coatrack and tell her to please stop. I don’t want my dad to die, I just want him to stop hitting me.

“I hope we have an understanding,” she says, dropping the mop down beside him. “And don’t bother reporting this parent-teacher conference, Roger. We both know there aren’t any cameras in this room, and you’ll only make a fool of yourself.” She walks back to the door and throws it wide open. "Now," she says with a cheerful smile, "get the hell out of my classroom. I'm quite capable of cleaning it."

The door clicks shut behind him, and the classroom falls dead silent.

Before I can decide whether or not to reveal myself, Miss Collins speaks. "It's alright, Ben. You can come out now."

“Shut up, Erik,” Jane screams from across the raging fire. “He did not kill Cora.”

I simply wait for all the attention to fall onto the arguing pair, and then I back away from the fire and disappear into the trees.

It’s difficult to see where I’m going, but honestly it’s a massive comfort that the shrill hiss and click of night bugs overpowers the random babble of birds overhead.

“Where are we going?” Fenrir asks.

“I don’t know. But you two stay close to me, okay?”

“Yes, mama,” Pumba answers.

I stop and kneel in front of the both of them. “You two are brothers now. Stay together. I’m going to look after you, but you need to stay close and listen to me. Understand?” When they agree with a bark and oink respectively, I place a kiss on the tops of their heads and continue on into the unknown.

“Why are we running away from the humans?” Fenrir asks.

“I don’t trust the humans.”

“Why not?”

“Because they can’t seem to make up their minds. We’re just going to find a nice cave somewhere where we can—” My feet are abruptly pulled out from under me. I'm yanked up into the sky, swinging in midair, trapped in some sort of net. Why is this even here? I thought Rousseau was adopted by the Others?

Without any warning, the skies open up wide, and it begins to pour. I dangle silently in the darkness for a good thirty seconds before I’ve mustered up the strength to be angry.

“WHY?” I twist my fingers in the rope net and shake them with all my might. “Why is this happening to me? I never skip Mass! I pray every night! Why, God? Tell me what I did wrong!” My legs have squeezed through two holes near the bottom of the net, and it's giving me a horrid wedgie. I feel a panic attack arising as my breath gets shallow and wheezes out of my lungs like a rusty hinge. “You want Hail Mary’s? Whatever I did to deserve this, I’ll make it right, I swear! I. . . I—” I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Am I having a heart attack?

“Mama! Are you okay?”

No, not a heart attack. I don’t think? Panic. It’s just panic. “Pumba, I need you to go get help. Both of you, stay together. No, no, no, no! Fenrir, stop! Listen to me. Listen to me! I need you to go get help. Stop chasing bugs!” I swing my hanging legs in the air like two angry piñatas as the rain soaks through my hair. “Boys, this is actually very painful up here. Can you please focus?”

“Okay! Wait. . .”

From out of the faint moonlight filtering in through the trees, I watch Fenrir lift his head and sniff the air. “What?” I ask. “Fenrir, what do you smell?”

“I smell help! I’ll go get them.” Fenrir trots off into the trees and returns excitedly barking, “I brought help!”

“Oh great,” I huff sarcastically and lean my head against the net. “It’s you.”

Ben slops through mud and vines until he’s standing in front of me, looking up at where I’m stuck. “Are you hurt?” he asks.

“Who, me? I’ve never been more comfortable.” I pull apart a particularly thick clump of rope so I can see him better through all the rain. “I love having all the circulation in my legs cut off. You should try it sometime.”

He says something I can’t quite hear over the torrential downpour, but it sounds suspiciously like, “Don’t move.”

“Yes, thank you,” I snap angrily. “I was just planning on running away, but now I guess I’ll stay put—” I suck in a lungful of air right as I freefall back to the ground and land hard on my buckling ankles. As a shriek of pain rips through my throat, I feel the net loosen around me until I’ve been entirely cut free. Ben sheathes his knife and holds out a hand to help me up.

“Stop screaming,” he orders. “You’re fine.”

I can’t believe I ever felt sorry for you. I can’t believe I almost just agreed to marry you.

Ignoring his outstretched hand, I scoop up a fistful of mud and fling it at him.

Ben frowns down at the splatter across his shirt. “Very mature. Thank you.”

I scoop up another handful and fling it at him. This time my aim was a little high and he gets a face-full of muddy sludge.

I immediately feel terrible. “Sorry! I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I didn’t mean to—”

Ben holds out a hand to keep me away as he swipes his eyes clean and spits as much as he can out of his mouth.

Wait, what am I apologizing for? He didn’t refute Erik when he said he killed me. Is that why nobody has been telling me the full story? Did he follow me out here to finish the job? Is that the master plan? What the hell is the master plan?

I shake off the rest of the net, grab Pumba under one arm and Fenrir under the other, and take off running in a random direction. Mud splashes up onto my dress and cakes my boots as I dodge in-between trees for what seems like a lifetime before heading into a long stretch of tall grass. I’ve stopped trying to navigate and just sprint as fast as I can until I reach a steep embankment and stop before I accidentally slide down it.

“Wait,” I hear Ben calling behind me. “Wait . . . would you please listen to me? I can explain.”

“I officially don’t care what you have to say. No, you know what? Tell me one thing. How are you still alive?” I ask, genuinely curious. “Why did they let you live if you killed me?” Ah, maybe this whole thing was a coup?

Ben takes an angry step forward. “Because I didn’t kill you.”

“Well, you sure weren’t in any hurry to deny Erik’s accusation.” There’s nowhere to run, but I find that—much like earlier on the beach—instead of feeling scared, I just feel intensely irritated. “Why is it whenever you show up, terrible things happen to me?”

Ben freezes, his dark hair plastered to his forehead from all the rain. “I can explain if you would just listen.”

Pumba and Fenrir are getting heavy, so I put them down in the mud. “Please, don’t let me stop you.”

Residual mud sloshes down his face as he blinks at the ground, thinking. “In 1977. . . you were found dead with—” Ben pauses to clear his throat. “—sixteen stab wounds in your back and abdomen.”

A thought occurs to me, and suddenly a lot of things make sense. “That’s why they spit on you. The women on Hydra. That’s why they hate you.”

“They hate me because I was there,” Ben finally answers. “I’m the only one who saw what happened.”

I look up at him, equal parts excited and terrified to finally learn how I’m going to die. “If it wasn’t you, who was it?”

Ben is still staring off into space when he answers, “I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember. Of course you don’t.” I can’t roll my eyes hard enough. “So what you’re saying is the person who killed me 30 years ago may still be on this island? Perfect. Fantastic. I'M ECSTATIC.” I’m aware I’m being juvenile, but I can’t seem to stop. Everything I usually scream in my head just keeps pouring forth in real time. “This is great news! Thank you for sharing, Ben. You’ve been so helpful. I guess we know who just tried to poison me. . . only, no! We don’t. Because you can’t remember!”

I have no real reason to believe him, especially considering who he is, but I start to feel bad at the intensely chastised look on his face. “I’ve tried to remember.”

“Evidently not hard enough.”

“I’ve tried everything,” he refutes sharply. “Therapy. Hypnosis. Some very strange new age techniques. The memory is just . . .” He waves a hand halfheartedly around. “It’s just gone.”

It’s like he’s bitterly deflating. Reluctantly retreating into himself. It’s so pitiful, so completely out of character, I find myself apologizing again. “I’m not . . . I’m really not doing well right now. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hit you in the face with mud.”

His lips press together in a hard line and he nods. “I suppose suspecting everyone of secretly plotting an assassination gives you license to be at least a little irritable.”

“Everyone excluding you, of course?”

“I didn’t kill you,” he answers so softly I almost can’t hear him over the rain. “But to your people, not remembering who stabbed you is the same as being the one with the knife.”

“Why did Erik say you killed me?”

“Probably guessed you’d react the way you did. He’s deflecting. Which is good, because that means our plan actually holds water. It means he’s scared.”

I nod, too tired to be angry anymore even if I wanted to be. And then I realize something else. I died in 1977. That means Ben was. . . 12? 13? “How did you know me?” I ask him. “In the 70’s. Why were you with me when I died?”

The rain cuts off so abruptly, the sudden silence is startling.

“You were my teacher,” he finally answers, still looking at the ground. “I don’t remember where we were going or why we were out there.”

I try not to sound angry, but it’s frustrating to be so close to closure. “What do you remember?”

His eyes dart around like Aiko’s as his face settles into something resembling blankness. He doesn’t answer for so long, I’m worried I broke him.

“Nevermind,” I say quickly. “Forget it. Let’s just get back to the—”

“Help me,” he answers in a strangled huff. “That was the last thing you said before you died. All I remember was you lied down in the grass, and you reached out your hand and asked me to help you.”

“Help me what? Live? Or something else?” But the question is completely useless. “I know, I know,” I say before he can answer. “You don’t remember. Got it. Okay, can we just go back to the beach? I want to at least dry off by the fire.”

“You were headed towards the barracks when you ran off.” Ben nods at the land behind me. “We’re much closer to that than we are the beach. Erik was heading there anyway. Might as well save us some time.”

I turn and peer down the muddy slope leading to a steep drop-off bedded with sharp rocks. “Is there another way down? I don’t think. . . we—”

Ben pulls a gun out of quite literally nowhere and spins around towards the two figures I’m staring at behind him. A teenager leaning hard against a makeshift crutch grabs hold of the small child at his side and pulls him behind his back.

“Stop!” I hurry over and push Ben’s handgun down towards the mud. “Don’t point that at them.”

"Who are you?" the teenage boy asks us. "Were you on the plane, too?"

I don't know who these children are—these brothers from the crash. The eldest introduces himself as Peter and the small child is named Darcy. They were sitting in the front of the plane, but that makes no sense. In the show, the only survivor from the front of the flight was the pilot, who almost immediately died after Jack, Kate, and Charlie found and questioned him.

I don't know who these children are, and I think that means they were never meant to survive.

Ben leads the way back to the barracks while I try and keep Peter's spirits up. Upon impact, most of the bones in his right ankle were shattered, and I can tell he's in great pain. I'd offer to help heal him, but without at least trying to reset the bone, all I'll accomplish—if I even accomplish anything at all—is to heal his ankle in its broken and deformed state. I need a doctor to set it before I can heal it. Maybe Ethan can. Or Jack? Peter's making good time using a walking stick to keep up with us, but I offer to support him if he needs it.

"It's okay." I smile at the inquisitive look on Darcy's face as Fenrir and Pumba trot alongside him, sniffing his clothes. "You can pet them."

"He can't hear you," says Peter. "He's deaf."

Although the norsemen have not yet arrived, all hell breaks loose when we finally make it back to the barracks.

Alex never left.

I sit on Ben's front porch and listen to them argue—genuinely argue—for the first time since I arrived. It was such a shock to see her defiantly standing in the doorway, I haven't even had the chance to take a shower or change my clothes. Peter sits on the chair beside me. Darcy sits at our feet, playing tug-of-war with Fenrir while Pumba cheers him on.

Peter stabs at the lasagna I stole from Ben's fridge, taking a tentative bite every once in a while. We sit in silence for a long time before he asks, "Cora, what's happening?"

Nobody ever told me what it was Aiko saw. Jane mentioned Alex was in danger, but that's what Aiko saw for Ben. Does it have anything to do with me? What was it Aiko saw about me? What was it that scared her into tears? "I have no idea." I take another big bite of lasagna and shake my head. "Are you sure he's not hungry?"

Peter signs to Darcy, who shakes his head and happily continues trying to wrestle the edge of his shirt out of Fenrir's growling mouth.

They arrive at the first glimpse of sunrise over the mountains.

"Inside," I tell Peter. "Take your brother inside. He can stay with Fenrir and Pumba." Peter glances nervously from me to the advancing norsemen who somehow got through the sonic fence. "It's okay. Go."

"My lady," Erik announces when he's close enough, "we were worried when we could not find you last night."

"Yeah, I'm sure you were."

"I assumed you may have been coerced into coming here. I'm glad to see I was correct."

I prepare myself for the inevitable mood-shift of this conversation. Erik is here for a war. These pleasantries can only last so long before he gets bored and starts. . . I don't know? Decapitating random people?

"I've had time to think over this arrangement you proposed," Erik continues. "And I have decided you're right."

"I'm right?" I try not to act excited in case this is some kind of trick. "About what, exactly? The marriage pact?"

"Yes," he answers. "I have decided I will allow it."

"Oh, you'll allow it." Screw you, pompous asshole. "Thank you for your permission, Erik."

"If he lives."

If he. . . what? "What are you talking about?"

Erik isn't paying me any attention. He's too focused on something behind me. "You want a peace treaty, Benjamin? Win it. Here. Now."

I watch as Jane flits around Ben's house and tests the weight of three different sharp swords.

Richard stands by a bookshelf, watching the entire ordeal with an oddly passive expression. I wonder if Richard is worried about the war? Is he somehow exempt from the slaughter? Does he actually care about what's going to happen? "You can't do this," he says.

"Sure I can," Jane answers happily. "This is, quite literally, a dream come true."

"He didn't challenge you to a holmgang," I argue. "He challenged Ben."

"You're allowed a stand-in warrior. It's their greatest loophole." Jane feels the weight of a particular sword and finally makes her selection. "Besides, have you forgotten I grew up with these people? I've been trained by the best. This won't last very long."

Ben stands next to his desk with an unreadable expression. As Jane continues rambling about the impending duel, Ben removes a syringe from his desk drawer. I watch in confusion as he taps the contents a few times with his index finger, presses the plunger until a tiny spray of fluid shoots out of the needle, and then he walks up behind Jane and stabs her in the neck.

Richard and Gail are already headed towards Jane's unconscious body. "What the hell—"

"Seer Helga told me to practice swordsmanship." Ben walks back across the room to one of the many bookshelves and lifts a long box hidden behind some framed displays of butterflies. "Me. Not Jane. Why do you think that is? For all her braggart bravado, if Jane goes out there, I don't think she'd be coming back."

"You didn't have to poison the girl."

"What would you suggest I have done, Gail?" Ben stares at the both of them with increasing agitation. "You think she would have sat idly by and taken no for an answer? At least now we know she's in no danger of being disemboweled. Jane won't wake up until long after this is all over."

Richard and Ben exchange a confusing glance before Richard asks, "Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Ben lifts a sword out of the box he took from the bookshelf. "I sincerely hope so."

"You're not serious." Alex gets up from her seat on the couch next to me. "Dad, you're not seriously going to do this. He's gonna kill you."

Ben shoots her a look and heads for the door. "Thank you, Alex."

Alex turns and looks at me for help, but I have no idea what to do. I've never even held a sword before, let alone fought with one. When she realizes I have nothing to say, she chases after Ben out into the courtyard.

Aiko saw something bad happen to Alex. That's why Ben told her to leave. And now here she is, running outside to try and stop a fight between her dad and a homicidal maniac. Is this the moment where something bad happens to her? Am I just going to sit here and let it happen?

Damnit. Damnit. Damnit.

I stand to follow Alex out the door and Gail yells, "Cora?" She's kneeling beside Jane's body on the floor where she's cushioned her head with a couch pillow. "Cora, you need to stay inside. You have to stay inside! Stop!"

I step down the stairs and onto the grass, headed in the direction of a rapidly forming circle. "Excuse me? Excuse me, I need through." When nobody moves out of my way, I push people until I've made it into the middle of the circle.

"Go back inside, Alex," Ben snaps forcefully, but neither of them are my focus.

"No, no, no," I tell Erik as I walk across the grass towards him. "No, we're not doing this."

"Of course we are," he answers cheerfully. "It's the most fair solution I can think of. If I kill him, our people will inherit a considerable amount of new villagers, and we can cut this Jacob worship in the bud once and for all. If Ben somehow manages to kill me, he gets his peace treaty and I die in glorious combat."

That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. "You have to listen to me. I'm your Goddess."

"I listen to the Goddess who led my father and grandfather into battle." He's no longer bothering with polite smiles or tone. "Talks of peace are an insult to their memory as much as it is an insult to yours."

I can do this. I can be angry. My eyes dart at the people standing nearest, but I don't recognize anyone. "I said no."

Erik takes a step closer, towering over me and reeking of campfire smoke and sweat. "And what," he mocks lowly, "are you going to do about it?"

I wait for my throat to close. I wait for all the hairs on my arms to stand on end. I wait for the overwhelming feeling of power to surge through my veins like it did last night.

I don't feel anything.

"Cora?" Gail muscles her way through the crowd. "You need to come back inside, right now."

"I couldn't agree more. Get her out of here," Erik orders. "All three of them."

"How dare you speak to me like that," Gail snarls. "I changed your diapers, young man."

Someone clamps their hand on my arm and suddenly I'm being pulled away from the circle. "Get your hands off me," I scream, but it's no use. They pull me to the recreational room, break the lock with an axe, and shove me inside. I turn around just in time to see them shove Alex and Gail inside behind me before they pull the doors shut.

I rush over to yank the door open, but it won't budge. They must have slid a long-handled weapon in-between the handles to jam it when pushed or pulled. "Open these doors!"

"Well, howdy, ladies." Sawyer sits reclined on a deck chair in the corner of the room. "What are you three in for? Let me guess. . . tax evasion?"

Alex begins to pace erratically. "They can't do this!"

"Help yourself to some lemonade," Sawyer continues, "but stay away from the cereal. That's all mine."

I ignore him and pick up the nearest thing I see—which happens to be a metal chair—and fling it at the window. "Alex, grab something and help me break this open."

"You're wasting your time, Buttercup," Sawyer scoffs. "You think I haven't already tried to escape this room? Every window is bolted shut."

I slam the chair against the window again and again until I'm out of breath, but Sawyer's right. All I've managed to do is pull a muscle in my arm. The metal bars blocking the window aren’t even dented.

I abandon the chair and look through the window. For some reason, the circle of people are sparse on this side facing the rec room, so I can actually see what's going on. Erik did this to spite me. He probably told people to move so I could have full view of the fight I forbade.

Alex squeezes in next to me. "What's going on? Have they started?"

"Started what?" Sawyer walks over to a window and peeks through the bars. "Are they fighting each other with swords? What, you people didn't have any bullets to reload the gun you stole from me?"

Each of the two have been given what looks like a wooden shield alongside their respective swords. They circle each other for a long while.

"Come on," Sawyer complains and munches on a handful of Dharma cereal. "Kill each other already."

Alex frowns at him. "That's my dad."

"Congratulations, sweetheart," he says snidely. "You're about to become an orphan."

Erik strikes first, and his blow lands hard against Ben's shield. Again and again, the sword swings down and cracks against wood until I start to worry it's about to break. In the span of a single miscalculated second, Ben's shield finds an opening and smashes against Erik's face.

"That's gotta hurt," Sawyer mumbles and absentmindedly pops more cereal in his mouth like popcorn. "So are either of you gonna tell me what the hell is going on here?"

Erik only becomes more angry as time goes on. It's apparent he was expecting this all to be over by now, and honestly so did I. But between Ben's much better timing and a steady series of solid parries, the fight is more evenly matched than Erik anticipated. A shield smashes into one of their faces, then the other, then a sword is dodged at the last second, and they spin around the circle again and again until both their faces are bloodied.

I try my luck at the doors again, but no matter how hard I pull or push or bang my fists against the metal, they remain locked. "This is so stupid!"

Alex gasps and turns away from the window.

"What?" I hurry back to where Sawyer is making low "Oooooo" sounds. Neither of them have shields anymore, and it looks like Erik's new strategy is to just swing hard and fast. I can hear the metallic clanking from here.

"Wait, wait, Alex look." Ben swings upwards and catches Erik off guard long enough to follow through with a kick straight to his gut. "I think he's winning." I smile at her to try and placate what looks very much like a panic attack. She starts nodding but doesn't come back to the window.

There's a part of me that dreads the final blow. It makes me nauseous to think I might see one of them fatally stabbed or beheaded at any second. But at the same time, I cannot seem to look away when Ben disarms Erik.

"He won," I yell. "Ha! Alex, come look. I'm not kidding. Look, it's over! Ben won!" I feel her trembling hands on my arm and put my own sweaty fingers over hers.

"He's still alive?"

"Yes," I say. "Look! He won!"

"No," Gail clarifies, "Erik. He's still alive. He's not supposed to be alive."

“What are they saying?” I ask. Ben’s the only one left with a sword, but he doesn't stab him. “I can't hear what they're saying."

"Foolish boy," Gail whispers. "What are you doing? End this."

Ben holds out a hand and helps Erik up. They each clasp the other's forearms in a gesture I've come to recognize as a norsemen handshake.

Sawyer sighs dramatically. "Would somebody tell me what the hell is going on?"

With his free hand, Erik removes a knife from his belt and sinks it into Ben's side.

It's suddenly freezing as I blink at the commotion in a shocked confusion. Alex panics all over again, spinning away from the window as Erik knocks Ben down onto his back and picks up his sword. Ben barely has a chance to grab hold of Erik's disarmed sword in the grass before the two are fighting again.

"That's cheating," I breathe in disbelief. "He can't do that, that's cheating."

Erik raises his sword over his head, rearing back to strike again. I watch him swing down hard, and although metal meets metal, the impact reverberates throughout Ben's body. It's evident he can't take anymore.

I turn to Alex, and she looks so much like my sisters. I never wanted them to see our parents fighting. I tried so hard to shield them from the truly terrible parts of our family. I watch her sobs grow more unsteady, but I cannot hear her crying anymore. All I hear is a steady ringing in my ears.

Although my vision never changes, my eyes sting as if I haven't blinked for a solid hour. Every inhale burns, filling me with something heavier than air. Breathing ignites a fire in my lungs that seeps out to every pore, every hair follicle, until I feel like my body is made of solid stone.

People part for me like the running of the bulls, but Erik is so focused on delivering the final fatal blow, he isn't aware I'm suddenly feet from him until it is too late. His expression fills with surprise and he takes a step back, but he has started something that I intend to finish. I've never hit someone before, so when I punch him in the stomach, I'm unsure how much force to use and accidentally hit him so hard he falls over, gasping. 

Words I've always wanted to say to my father pour out of me in a violent string of threats and swears that echo through the courtyard like screams in a cave. I'm aware of his fingers desperately clawing at my hands, I watch his mouth open and close as he chokes and turns a dark shade of red, he even kicks and swats at me violently, but I don't feel it, and I don't let go.

I strangle him—both hands around his neck—until I'm satisfied he's going to start listening to me. And then I grab him by the collar and the back of his pants, lift him up off the ground, and launch him.

I only meant to toss him, but my body is still humming with energy and I have no reference for this strength. Erik flies wildly across the courtyard, his legs clipping the side of a nearby house, sending him spinning through the air, stopping only when his body slams into the ground and eventually rolls to a stop. He doesn't immediately move.

All the hairs on my body are still buzzing when I turn around and walk over to Ben. His face is a crosshatch of bloody cuts and already swelling bruises. Alex presses a worried hand against the blood seeping through the side of his shirt, and she slowly flattens against him, eyes wide in terror as I approach. Ben rolls his eyes up at me, sighs deeply at the realization of what's happened, and relaxes completely against the ground.

I crouch down to pick up his sword and start back across the stretch of pavement to pick up Erik's sword. One in each hand, I walk up to where he lies sprawled out in the grass, trying his hardest to crawl away with one unbroken arm. By the look on his face, Erik must think I mean to kill him. I toss his sword at his side with a dull thunk.

"Pick it up," I order, but he only stares at me. I lift the sword in my hand and press its blade against his neck. "You want a personal escort to the afterlife?"

Yelling has made me dizzy with euphoria, but the fact that he's just gaping at me makes each word I say louder and louder until it feels like my voice is physically pressing him against the grass.

"You want to laugh at me behind my back? You want to lock me in a room and start a war so badly? You want to cheat your way to victory? Well, guess what? You don't get to be a coward." He's rolled over in an attempt to crawl away, so I use my foot to push him onto his back, so he has to look at me. "I hate cowards. So pick it up. Fight me." Erik darts his eyes to the glimmering metal tightly gripped in my hand, and his refusal to answer only makes me angrier. "Pick it up, you pathetic little prick," I scream into the silence.

From out of the fog, I hear Gail say, "Put him down. Cora, honey, it's over. Stop. Stop. Drop him. Cora, put him down."

All at once I snap back to reality.

Erik's pleading face is between my hands. I let him go, and he lands at my feet with a painful moan. I blink down at Erik and look over at Gail's hand on my arm and try to keep my expression from giving away my confusion.

"Forgive me," Erik begs, still looking frightened and confused. A long patch of bloody skin along his cheek has been scratched off from his impact with the sidewalk. "Forgive me, Freyja. Please." One of his arms must be broken because he struggles to position himself so he is practically flat against the earth at my feet.

I think I broke his arm. Is that. . . bone?!

"Please," Erik rasps. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Even though the breeze is cool, I feel myself sweating like I've just run a marathon. Whatever energy surge I conjured up is rapidly depleting. That's definitely bone sticking out of his arm.

"Please. I will never defy you again."

I would have thought this moment would be satisfying, but I just feel a complicated mixture of horror and resignation. I can't take back what I did, so I might as well make the best of it. "No," I agree, "you won't, because you're no longer jarl." He looks up, immediately changes his mind, and averts his eyes. "You will be able to vote on your replacement, and you may speak your mind at the Thing, but nothing more."

I definitely broke both of his legs, judging from the angle they're twisted. Now that I'm not as angry, I can hear the pain in his voice. "Yes, Freyja."

I'm all turned around and not really sure where to go. All I know for certain is my vision is tunneling, and if I don't get out of the public eye fast, all this exertion will be for naught.

"Holmgang's over," I announce with as much strength as I can muster. "Go home, everyone." It's only when I look up to glare at the onlookers and scare them into listening to me that I realize there isn't anyone here.

Richard carried Jane back to her house and put her on the sofa to sleep out the rest of her tranquilization. I sit at Jane's kitchen table because she's not awake yet, and I didn't know where else to go. Gail won't stop fussing with my hair. Ben sits silently across the table. I have no idea where Alex is. Judging by the way she was looking at me earlier, I wouldn't be surprised if she's too scared to talk to me ever again.

Gail keeps busy by unbraiding my hair and running a brush through it. Apparently, the silence is too much for her to handle. "Looks like it's almost time for a haircut."

I reach up and realize my hair doesn't fall right below my shoulders like it did when I first crashed here. In only a few days, it's grown down my back almost past my hips. I'm too tired to ask why.

Gail rests a hand on the top of my head, but instead of feeling angry or itchy, I find the contact comforting. "Would you two like some tea?" she asks. "I'm sure Jane won't mind if we make one pot." Without waiting for us to answer, she disappears into the kitchen and riffles through the cupboards.

Ben washed the blood off his cut face, but the remaining skin is already darkening with bruises. He taps a thumb against the table. "I suppose it's the understatement of the century to say thank you?"

All the confusing rush of emotions from earlier get lodged in my chest again, and I end up sounding more angry than I intend. "For what? Accidentally breaking Erik's entire body? Yeah, don't mention it." Don't be a bitch. This isn't even his fault. I feel bad even before the words have finished leaving my mouth.

"I didn't come here to patronize. I truly mean it. Thank you." Ben's expression softens for a second, like his eyebrows are relaxing for the first time in years. "I had nowhere else to take Alex."

"I should heal him," I think aloud. "Erik. I should at least try."

Ben tilts his head a little. "Why would you do that?"

Again, I cannot stop myself from lashing out. "I broke both his legs and one of his arms. He could have internal damage. His femur was sticking out of—"

Gail is suddenly soothing a hand up and down my arm, smiling tersely, and I realize I've stood up so forcefully, I've knocked my chair over. Embarrassed, I sit back down and cover my face with a hand.

I've never hurt someone before. I've never caused physical injury to another person. That was the way my father operated, and it has been my life's goal to be absolutely nothing like that monster.

"He's not going to die, if that's what you're worried about." Ben accepts a steaming teacup from Gail and adds a single sugar cube. "Ethan's resetting the bones as we speak. Erik should be good as new in a few months. And—one can only hope—much more open to following your orders."

I accept a teacup from Gail, but I honestly just want to attack the refrigerator with a reckless abandon. I don't even care what it is I eat anymore. Food is food is food, and I'm starving.

But I don't get up and pillage the fridge. I don't reach for casseroles and puddings and quiches and scrape them out of their containers with my bare hands. I would rather starve to death than gorge in front of Ben and Gail and make a complete fool out of myself. Instead, I sit at the table and try not to sulk. "Why didn't you kill him?" I ask. "That's how holmgangs work, right? I was watching you fight. You disarmed him. You could have killed him."

Ben fixes me with a completely blank, yet somehow intense expression. "Would you prefer I had killed him?"

That's not what I mean, and he knows it. I can tell.

"He conceded." Ben takes a sip. "Before he literally and metaphorically stabbed me in the back."

I forgot he was stabbed. My eyes trail from his battered face to a small patch of blood seeping through the backside of his shirt. "Let me heal that."

His eyebrows come together so fast you'd think I'd been the one to stab him. "No, thank you."

There's something condescending about his tone that pisses me off. I feel the need to defend myself. "I just went berserk and didn't even feel nauseous afterwards. I think I'm getting used to it."

"Thank you," he says without a detectable trace of sarcasm. "But I've already gotten eight stitches. No need to worry about me."

I don't know what to say, so I busy myself with stirring my cup. "It really would have come down to war?"

"Slaughter, more like," Ben answers solemnly. "There are more of your people than there are of mine. Honestly, they could have killed us all and taken this compound long ago."

"Why didn't they?" I quickly backpedal when he gives me a look. "Sorry, that came out wrong. I'm glad they didn't. I'm just curious as to why."

"That," he says, "I have never figured out."

Gail has finished with the tea, but I have no idea what she's still doing in the kitchen. "Did you know this would happen?" I ask Ben. "The holmgang?"

He shakes his head no. "The unfortunate thing about consulting with seers is they are often so vague their advice is rarely as helpful as it should be. Aiko wasn't even the one who helped me prepare for this."

"She wasn't?"

"No, credit for that goes to the previous seer. Even then, all she would tell me is to familiarize myself with swordsmanship."

"But you knew you would be okay?"

"No," he says, and the way he says it makes me believe him. "I was very much aware of the risk involved."

"You fought Erik without knowing you would win?" Now I feel even worse. "What would have happened if I hadn't been able to break through the doors?"

Ben glances out the window. "My head would be rolling around out there on the sidewalk." He looks back at me and smiles. "So thank you for stopping him. I'm rather attached to my head."

I aggressively stir my tea some more as I try to think of something to say. Hooray? We did it? Congrats on not being dead? "How does it feel?"

"I'm afraid you'll need to be more specific."

I wave my spoon around and try to ignore my aching stomach. "Finally achieving world peace."

"Ah," Ben says with a raise of his eyebrows, "but we haven't. Technically."

"What do you mean?"

"If there's one thing I know about people like Erik, it's that for every one of him, there are six very quiet Eriks. If we don't set an example in a way they respect, we're going to have to deal with this all over again in a year or two or three or ten. I don't know about you," he says and takes another sip, "but I'd prefer to never go through that again."

"Are you seriously suggesting we still get married?" I push my teacup away without having taken a single sip. "What's the point? Everyone's going to listen to me now."

"A treaty to your people is just a piece of paper." I don't know when Gail came back, but she offers me a plate of cookies she found in the pantry and takes a seat beside me. "A marriage is something completely different. Just look at the Initiative. They had multiple treaties with the norsemen, and none of them lasted very long. If you want this goodwill to last, I'm afraid Benjamin's correct."

I don't know if it's because I'm starving or not, but the idea doesn't bother me like it did yesterday. I just want people to stop threatening each other so I can sit on a beach all day and contemplate how everything I previously believed about the universe is a lie.

I sigh, give into the voice in my head, and shove a cookie in my mouth.

Ben finishes his tea, but Gail doesn't offer to pour him any more. I catch them having a non-verbal conversation—mostly consisting of Gail glaring at him—and my stomach begins to sour.

"What?" I ask, exhausted. "What's going on? What could it possibly be this time?"

"Oh, nothing too egregious." Ben smiles, but it's the same forced one from a few days ago, when he would spend the entire conversation evading my questions. "I just need to apologize up front for a. . . small piece of misinformation Jane gave you about the wedding ceremony."

Chapter Text

Dharma, 1975

I wait until the patrol makes their hourly rounds, and then I run towards the fence. It’s a ways away from the houses, and I have to hide a few times to keep from being seen, but I eventually break free of the trees and run across the route I know doesn’t have cameras.

It’s so dark tonight, I almost don’t see her.

Miss Collins is standing near one of the pylons, crouching down to type in the key code. After she’s shut off the fence, she walks through the pylons and disappears into the jungle.

What is she doing out here?

The key code I’d stolen from security crumples in my hand, no longer needed. I stay hidden behind some brush for a while, and then I follow her as quietly as I can. I have no idea where I am. For a long time I worry I’ve completely lost her in the darkness, and then I see her among the trees and breathe a small sigh of relief.

I trail behind her for what seems like forever. Then, in the blink of an eye, she steps behind a tree and completely disappears. I hurry towards where I last saw her, but she’s gone. All there is in the dark are bugs and birds.

“If you’re going to follow someone, you should at least have a general idea of where they’re going.”

I spin around and trip over my own feet in a mad dash to protect myself from the voice behind me.

“I’d ask what you’re doing out here,” Miss Collins whispers, “but I’ve honestly given up trying to lecture you. It’s obvious you have a reckless disregard for your own safety.” She looks around. “Is Annie with you?”

“No, it’s just me. I need to see Freyja,” I try to explain. “I brought her an offering. I . . . I—” I thought I could make peace with the norsemen if I bring their god an offering I rescued from the recent shipment of exotic animals. If I prove to her some of us are good, then maybe she won’t kill us. I struggle to explain myself to Miss Collins and end up unstrapping my satchel and showing her a family of ferrets. “I stole them from the shipment headed to Hydra.”

“I see,” Miss Collins whispers, nodding slowly. “Well, you’re never going to find the norsemen by wandering around out here alone. Come on. Rules,” she adds sharply and spins around to fix me with a serious expression. “Freyja is more dangerous than many of us could possibly hope to understand, and she’s not in a particularly good mood lately, so you need to be on your best behavior. Do not speak unless spoken to. Under no circumstances are you to interrupt. And do not ever look at her face. Understand?”

I shake my head so hard it feels like it’s going to flop right off my shoulders. We start walking again. “Miss Collins?” I whisper.

“Yes?”

“Why are you out here?”

“I’m a mediary,” she answers. “A go-between. I speak the norsemen’s language, so I think they inherently trust me more than the other hostiles.”

I stop walking. “You’re. . . a hostile?”

“I’m a lot of things.” She turns and smiles but doesn’t stop walking. “Why? Are you going to report me?” Before I can answer, she says,“Quiet, now. We’re almost there.”

Everything smells of campfire smoke and worn leather. A few kids my age stop playing and stare at me as we enter their camp. A family of wolves snarl and wrestle in the dirt. A bearded man sharpens a knife. A woman is singing in a language I don’t understand.

Miss Collins grabs my shoulder, and I snap back to attention. We’re standing in front of large canvas tent.

“You remember the rules?” she asks. “Let me do all the talking.”

Why did I come out here? Why did I think Freyja would be interested in listening to anything I have to say? What if she doesn’t understand my intent? What if she gets angry that I have ferrets in my satchel?

“Ben?” Miss Collins soothes a hand across my shoulder. “I won’t let anything happen to you. Just remember not to look at her.”

I duck under a thick tent flap and step into a smokey space lit only by a few candles. As much as I try to fight it, my eyes go straight to the other side of the tent where Freyja sits on an intricately carved wooden throne. Her hair is a tangle of waves and loose braids all wrapped around a pair of antlers. Even though her eyes aren’t glowing, I still can’t really tell much about her face because it’s entirely painted in lines and dots and patterns.

I shut my eyes tight and hope she didn’t notice me looking. It’s a cool night, but my entire body breaks out in a nervous sweat. Miss Collins whispers for me to kneel.

Freyja speaks first, but I don’t know what she’s saying. I don’t even know who she’s talking to because I’m so focused on looking at the dirt floor. Miss Collins replies and the two go back and forth. I wait for instructions.

“She wants to know why you’re here,” Miss Collins translates.

I freeze, still bowing, still sweating, still staring at the ground. I open my mouth to explain, but my voice gets stuck in my throat. I know why I’m here, but I can’t seem to formulate the words to explain myself. Would she even understand me if I did?

Miss Collins says something, and all the hairs on my arms stand on end as Freyja rises in a sudden whoosh of jewelry and bones and starts walking towards me. I shoot a panicked look at Miss Collins, and she mouths, “It’s okay.”

Her boots are right in front of me, and I don’t know what to do.

“Show her what you brought,” Miss Collins whispers.

The ferrets squeak and squawk when I open the satchel and hold them out for Freyja to take. I feel her grab the bag and lift it out of my hands. I hear the ferrets squeak some more. Then Freyja starts laughing. I almost blackout when she leans down and pats the top of my head.

“She accepts your offering and thanks you for your effort.” Miss Collins waits for Freyja to walk back to her throne—now throughly entertained by the playful ferrets—and then she pulls me up and hastily leads me out of the camp. “You did good, Ben.” I start to smile at the praise until I realize she’s being sarcastic. “I am eternally frustrated you can’t seem to listen to a word I say, but thank you for at least listening to my rules regarding Freyja so you don’t get us both killed.”

“I’m sorry. I just wanted to make sure she knows we’re—” I remember how easily Freyja popped Ryan’s head in the courtyard. “—not all like Ryan.”

“Ben,” she sounds tired. Miss Collins slows down to a complete stop and starts compulsively trying to flatten my cowlick. “Freyja is dangerous, but she has strict rules. Nothing is going to happen to anyone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“She killed Sammie’s dad.” I know she doesn’t know, because nobody knows. He died just a few hours ago, and I only know about it because I just happened to be near the vans when I overheard LaFluer and Phil arguing quietly over whether or not they should tell anyone.

But instead of looking shocked at the news that the father of one of her students was just murdered, Miss Collins sighs. “Then I guess he must have done something unforgivable.”

“But—”

“Ben, everything is under control,” she assures me. “Okay? I promise.”

As Ben finishes explaining, I feel my lips twitching with the beginnings of a nervous chuckle. I shove another cookie in my mouth. “It lasts how long?” It feels like my brain is turning into mush that will run out my ears. Breathy half-laughs shake out of me like an uncontrollable case of hiccups.

“Traditionally four days.”

“And everyone from both islands are attending?”

Ben nods as if this is all no big deal. “It’s incredibly rare,” he adds, “but sometimes my people fall in love with your people and we have to contend with separate wedding parties—one here and one on Hydra, of which none of my people are ever invited. Usually, weddings here are relatively low-key, but this is—as you can imagine—a special circumstance, and your people are sailing in to have a joint celebration.”

“They’re sailing here?” I only chew the next cookie twice before swallowing the dry, jagged chunks and reaching for another. “All of them?”

“And as far as I know, those currently at the Temple on the mainland are making the hike here as well.” Ben takes a cookie from the plate but doesn’t eat it. “This one is especially guaranteed to be a large party. Your people are very fond of feasts—”

“No.”

“Yes,” he refutes with a hint of confusion. “I’m very certain they are fond of—”

“No,” I interrupt and pause to fully let myself get a few good hardy chortles out of my system before taking a steading breath. “I’m done. With all of. . .” I wave my arms around. “This. I’m not marrying you. There’s not going to be a big wedding. If anyone causes you problems, come tell me and I’ll. . . scare them or something.” Ben looks taken aback by my outburst, but Gail doesn’t even flinch. “I want to go back to Hydra, Gail. When can we leave?”

“Cora,” she says calmly, “I think you need to—”

I interrupt her, too. “Am I being kept prisoner here?”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Then I’d like to go back to Hydra. Now.” Without waiting for her answer, I grab the last two cookies and push out of my chair.

Juliet lights up with surprise when I open the door. “Oh, excuse me,” she says.

I take a step back. She’d had one hand raised as if to knock, but I don’t know who is more surprised by the weird timing of things. As if just now remembering who I am, Juliet hastily starts to bend forward.

“Please don’t bow,” I order.

“I’m sorry, Cora. Lady Cora,” she apologizes and quickly rights herself, which only leaves me feeling more uncomfortable. “I’m still not entirely sure how to address you. Is this a good time?”

“A good time for what?” I cross my arms. “I’m about to leave for Hydra.”

“Would you mind if I took a quick blood sample before you go?”

A laugh huffs out of me. “No thanks.”

“It would be over before you know it. I just need one vial.”

Get out of my way! “I don’t need a blood-test,” I explain. “I just had a wellness check a month ago and I’m fine.”

Juliet opens her mouth to respond, realizes what I’ve said, and looks confused. “No, it’s for research. Ethan gave me some of your hair to test, but so far…” Her throat pulses as she swallows nervously. “We haven’t noted any anomalies. You have remarkably unremarkable hair.”

I start laughing again out of frustration, and she smiles, but she misunderstands. I’m not laughing at her stupid remark about my hair, I’m laughing in response to growing impatient that she’s not moving out of my way.

“If we can figure out what makes you. . . special,” Juliet continues, “and we can isolate it, you could advance patient care by hundreds of years. You could save countless lives without making yourself sick all the time.”

I’m in Hell. I’m in a nightmare I’ll never wake out of. This is my life now. Never a moments peace. Never a moment alone. People are going to follow me around from dawn till dusk and ask me for favors until the day I croak for good. We need you to stop a war. We need you to talk to our animals. We need you to marry a random person you just met. We need you to donate parts of your body to science so we can study it. We need. We need. We need.

Nope. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to anymore. And I definitely don’t want someone jamming a needle in my veins.

I look up at Juliet and smile widely. “Get out of my way, please.”

I don’t get very far before Liv approaches.

“What,” I whine as she and a horde of bodyguards walk towards me. What do you people want now?

Unlike most everyone else I’ve encountered since the holmgang, Liv doesn’t look afraid of me—just apologetic for interrupting my walk. “Apologies, my lady, but these men have been very vocal about requesting an audience. They say it’s vital.”

“You’re the healing god, right?” A survivor I’ve never seen before pulls down the collar of his shirt to show me his skin. “Hey,” he exclaims when one of the men guarding me presses a knife to his chest. “Easy there, fella. I’m just showing her my injury. Look, I’ve had this really bad rash since the crash and I’m worried it might be something serious. Can you heal this? It’s not infected, right?”

“Why do you get to see her first?” Another unknown survivor yells, “You’ve got a rash. My hand is practically split open! I deserve to see her first!”

Another chimes in, “Get in line. My leg’s been infected for like two days, man. I need to see her now!”

The only person I recognize is Jin, but I cannot understand a word he’s saying. Is he asking for Sun back? Have they not brought back the female survivors yet?

Someone sprained their ankle. Someone thinks they’ve sprained their ankle. Someone has a gash down the side of their face. Someone lost a fingernail. Someone has a bad case of acne. Someone has a cut here and there and everywhere—

I take a seat in the grass and chomp big bites of the last two cookies. I should have looked for the full bag in the cupboards. I should have pillaged the fridge. This is only making me more hungry.

A familiar calm flows through me, like I’m floating on a lake. All the yelling and bickering and passionate ranking of injuries fades away and is replaced with You Should Be Dancing but the Bee Gees.

“Cora? Can you tell me where you are?”

I blink. I’m sitting on a couch across from a woman sitting in a chair. All the noises from before have been cut short. We’re the only two people in here. My cookies are gone. Did I eat them? “What—” I look around the room for some sort of indication that I’ve been here before, but I have no idea whose house I’m in. “Uh. . . where am I?”

“Do you not remember walking through my front door?”

I recognize this woman as Goodwin’s wife, Harper. The more I remember about Goodwin's character, the more the very thought of him starts to agitate me. He had an affair with Juliet and just pretended like his wife didn't exist. Casted her aside the second someone else caught his eye, just like my own father did. I remember my friends would make jokes about Harper and laugh at the mole on her face, but I always pitied her. Personal bias, I guess.

“My name is Harper. I’m the resident therapist.” Harper fixes me with a tense smile, but I can see the pen shaking in her trembling hand. “Gail brought you here a few minutes ago.”

I’m trying so very hard not to stare at her mole. “She did? Where is she?”

“I’m right here.”

I look over and wonder how the hell I didn’t see Gail standing right next to the couch I’m sitting on. Thank goodness it's comfortable. Usually the seating in medical facilities are either rock hard or so plush you get swallowed alive by the fluff. This sofa is perfect. Not too soft, not too firm. If I were to own a couch, I would—

“This session will go smoothest if you are honest with me,” Harper says. “Try to relax and don't overthink anything. Just tell me whatever comes to mind. Now, it’s my understanding you just had a small altercation outside.”

She must be referring to Erik, and I want to scream, What the hell about me almost killing a man qualifies as a “small altercation” to you?

Holy shit. What the hell is wrong with me. I almost killed someone. I almost killed Erik.

If Gail hadn’t stopped me. . .

“You’re thinking hard about something over there," says Harper. "Would you like to share?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“What would you like to talk about?” Harper asks, smiling. Only, it's not really a smile. I can tell. My mother had mastered that art.

Immediately, my throat closes up at the memory of my mother. I wish I could see her right now. I just want to go home. “None of this is real,” I whisper.

“What was that?”

“I said none of this is real.”

Harper clicks her pen and begins writing. “What isn’t real?”

“All of this. You. Gail. The island. This is all in my head.”

“I’m not real? Hm.” Harper continues scribbling notes. “I certainly feel real to me. What makes you think this is all in your head?”

“Because I’ve never met you before, but I know who you are.” I can’t seem to stop talking. It feels so good for this not to be a secret anymore. I’m not from here. I don’t know how any of this works, but I know I’m from a place where this is all a fictitious world. The island is literally just Hawaii. “I know all about you and your cheating husband.”

Harper's pen freezes midsentence. I watch her eyelids flutter before she looks up, but she doesn’t interrupt me.

“I know Goodwin’s cheating on you with Juliet. And I know why Juliet was brought here and. . . actually, I know most everything about everyone on this island. I even know how this is all going to end.”

Instead of looking awestruck at my revelation, Harper simply nods. “Yes, I assume that’s the biggest perk of being a Goddess of foresight.”

I catch myself before saying I’m not a Goddess because I don’t want to have to deal with a million more questions or some kind of prescription for an anti-psychotic. Instead, I stay silent.

Harper flips through the papers on her clipboard. “How are you acclimating to being back on Midgard? I’m sure it’s been a difficult adjustment for you.”

I snort.

“Is there any part of this experience that is particularly frustrating?”

I snort again.

“I’m afraid we’re not going to make any progress unless you use your words.”

“You’re asking me if I’m frustrated?” I lean forward and feel Gail’s hand on my shoulder, but I shrug her off. Not even she can help calm me down. “Frustrated about what, Harper? Not knowing where I am? Not knowing where my family is? Being targeted by assassins? Being threatened with an arranged marriage? Never fully being alone? Not having showered in days? Look at my dress, Harper! I’M COMPLETELY COVERED IN MUD!”

Harper struggles to keep a blank expression, but her wavering voice gives away her fear. “All very valid points.”

“And now I have Juliet on my back? Asking for blood samples?! Like I’m some kind of science experiment? Telling me all this as if I don’t have the option to say get away from me? And the survivors—”

I’m standing. When did I stand?

I note Harper’s fearful wide-eyed expression as she melts against her seat until she’s practically the chair itself. It’s the same terror I saw in Alex after I threw Erik. But instead of feeding the rush of power from before, her fear drains my rage and makes it easier to calm down. In a single second, my chest tightens with tears.

“I’m sorry, Harper.” I sit back down as my face warms with shame. “I didn’t mean to yell. I’m. . . I’m being asked to accept a lot of things that just don’t make any sense to me and. . . this is all way too. . . overwhelming. I’m very sorry.”

“This is helpful for me to hear,” she practically whispers. I hear her pen click. She clears her throat. “Walk me through what you're experiencing.”

I lean back into the plush sofa and blink back tears. “I just feel. . . I don’t know? Like I can't process emotion anymore. It's like my brain’s malfunctioning or something. I'm in a constant battle not to snap at people. Honestly, I think that’s what’s most frustrating for me. It’s become impossible for me to be. . . I don’t know. . . nice?”

“And this makes you feel even worse,” Harper adds. “Makes you even more frustrated, so you’re more inclined to lash out?”

I nod.

“When did you first notice this had become an issue?”

“Well, I mean, I used to think really sarcastic things all the time in my head. That’s normal, right?”

“Very normal.”

“But the problem is I can't keep thoughts in my head anymore. They just blurt out before I can stop them, and then I end up feeling terrible but I don’t know how to apologize so then I feel even more terrible and I get more frustrated with myself and—” I’m talking way too fast, but Harper doesn’t ask me to slow down. “It feels like when I'm not consumed with anger, I'm fighting not to burst into tears. There’s no real in-between.”

"Don't worry," Harper assures me, scribbling something down. "These are all common symptoms of depression."

I frown. “I’m not depressed."

Harper clears her throat but doesn’t say anything. She just keeps writing until the silence starts driving me crazy. “You mentioned a list earlier,” she continues. “A list of things you find frustrating. Did I hear you mention assassination?”

I take in a deep breath and try to remain calm. “Someone from Hydra tried to poison me.”

Harper shoots Gail a panicked expression. “Were they found?”

“Yes,” Gail answers. “Benjamin is dealing with it.”

I spin around in my seat. “You know who it was?”

“Process of elimination,” she says. I start to ask more questions and Gail reaches out and strokes my cheek with her thumb. “I’ll explain it when you’re done here.”

“You also mentioned your family,” Harper continues, and I jerk back towards her.

“What about my family?”

“Tell me about them. You have any siblings?”

I ignore the question and ask my own. “Are they here?”

Instead of saying no, Harper shoots another look at Gail.

“What?” I surge with panicked hope. “Why are you looking at her? Gail?” I ask desperately. “Is my family on this island?”

“No, dear,” Gail answers softly. “I’m afraid your parents and siblings are not in our world.”

With absolutely no warning at all, the anger inside of me extinguishes completely. Fighting it is useless. Instead of laughing, I look from Gail to Harper as my face rapidly crumples up. Harper hands me a tissue box.

I blow my nose. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. You may find this shocking, but you’re not the first person to cry on my couch.”

I laugh and blow my nose again. This whole thing has me exhausted. I wonder how much longer they’re going to keep me here. Is this some kind of test? If I get up and leave right now of my own free will, will Harper make note and tell everyone I’m unstable and need to be committed? I wipe at my face and blow my nose until I’ve calmed down. I need to start acting normal.

Harper sits quietly while I gather myself. She’s nicer than I thought she’d be, but then again, you’d have to be pretty stupid to be openly rude to someone who just did what I did to Erik. “If you’re okay to continue,” she says, “there is one last thing I’d like to talk about today.”

I nod.

“I’d like to find out what your process is for dealing with stress.” She smiles when I look confused. “You’re about to inherit the most powerful position on either island. That comes with no shortage of responsibilities, but I think if we can arm you with the skills needed to handle pressure, you’ll do just fine. Now. . . think about a recent time you were immensely stressed about something. Walk me through your thought process.”

That’s a long list to choose from. I can’t even keep track anymore. I think about the survivors asking for me to heal them. I think about what it felt like to know I could help them but to not know how. I think about being disappointed in myself. I think about how that led to feeling— “I have this. . . thing I do when I’m scared. Really scared. I kinda just. . . it’s not really that I think of something else, it’s more like. . . it’s more like I. . .”

“Space out?” she finishes for me. “Block out the noise around you with other thoughts?”

“Yes,” I say with a rush of relief that someone finally understands. “Exactly. It’s mostly music for me. Whatever randomly pops in my head. Everything else just kind of disappears, and I can calm down. It’s almost like an out of body experience because it doesn’t feel like it’s happening to me.” As I watch her close her notebook and settle into her chair, my relief lessens. “If that makes any sense,” I add self-consciously.

Harper stares at her folded hands and thinks for a moment before finally looking at me. “Cora, what you’re describing is not a universal reaction to stress.”

“It’s not?”

“No, what you’re describing is called disassociation. It’s a trigger response to overwhelming stimuli in which you detach yourself from reality in order to feel calm and in control of the situation. If I’m being completely honest, it's a very dangerous response for someone with your. . . capabilities.”

“Oh.” It feels like I’m being chastised, so I sink a little lower in the couch. “How do I stop it?”

“I suggest you keep a journal. Whenever you start to feel anxious, focus on something tangible in the immediate area and write it down. Sketch it. Focus on it and let it ground you before your mind has a chance to wander off. Here, I’m sure I have an extra somewhere.” Harper hurries into another room and emerges with a simple spiral-bound notebook and a pencil. “How would you describe your mood right now?”

“Calm,” I say.

I know she’s been afraid of me this whole time, but I’m still surprised by the level of relief in her voice. “Good. Very good. Come talk to me whenever you’d like. Just send a raven if you’re on Hydra and I’ll come to you. And remember to use this notebook.”

My parents didn’t believe in therapy—they said it was a waste of money—but I feel a lot better already. It isn’t until we’ve walked all the way back to Jane’s house that I realize there was one thing she never asked me to talk about. One thing I noted in my long laundry list of frustrations.

Harper never asked me about the wedding.

“Sit down, young lady.” Gail raises an eyebrow in warning. “Do I need to put you on lockdown, or are you going to behave?”

Jane presses an icepack to the back of her head. “No,” she scoffs. “Linus isn’t worth the effort it would take to dig a grave. Plus, didn’t he get his ass handed to him?”

“Only because Erik cheated,” I snap.

“Right,” Jane says, drawing out the word. “I just can’t believe I missed it. You actually did it? You figured out how to fully berserkr?”

I don’t know whether to frown or laugh at the delighted expression on her face. “You mean berserk?”

Jane removes the ice pack and stares at me in bewilderment. “How does a Norse God not speak Norse?”

I roll my eyes and finish the quick to-do list I created. I’m trying to note all the loose ends I need to settle on this island before I can finally take a ship back to Hydra to spend the rest of my life sitting under palm trees and playing with Fenrir and Pumba.

1. Figure out what’s happening to the survivors and reunite family members
2. Heal any life-threatening injuries
3. Apologize to Juliet for acting like a psycho (maybe give blood?)
4. Visit Erik and see if he’s healing okay
5. Check on Peter and Darcy and make sure Peter’s ankle gets fixed
6. Order a scout team to scope out any potential wandering survivors
7. Talk to Richard—he may know something helpful
8. Talk to Jacob—he’s the oldest thing on this island, so he definitely knows something
9. Try the mainland’s famous cheese

Gail doesn’t put up a fight when I ask to go on a walk alone. I’m not sure if it’s because the person responsible for trying to kill me has been caught—I need to add that to my list of things to inquire about—or because “always being followed” was a major point of contention I mentioned to Harper. Either way, it instantly puts me in a better mood to walk outside alone and not have sixteen people vying for my attention.

I check my list again. I don’t know where the infirmary is, so I can’t check on Erik. I don’t know where the survivors are being kept. I don’t know which house is Juliet’s or Richard’s. I guess I could ask someone. Unlike when I first arrived, people are actually out and about. And by “out and about” I mean they’re siting immobile on their porches like mannequins, desperately pretending like everything is normal.

One man stands with a garden hose in hand, watering flowers in his yard. He forces what looks like a smile when I approach. “Hello, lady Cora. Nice weather we’re having.”

I smile to try and put him at ease. “Uh, yeah. It’s pretty nice.” Hose water sloshes over the garden bed in shaky streams, and his nose is already sweating. I guess my smile didn’t help. “Sorry to bother you but I—”

“Oh, no,” he quickly refutes, “you’re not bothering me at all. Is there something you need? Would you like an offering? I just made some lunch.”

I’d sigh, but I think that would only scare him more. “I’m just looking for Richard’s house.”

In a rushed attempt to answer me as quickly as possible, he uses the hand he’s holding the hose in to point and completely drenches the front of my dress. Instead of going wide-eyed and flying into an apology, he freezes, mouth agape. He isn’t even able to fully form the beginning of a word. I hear a door slam and turn to find the people at the nearest house have run inside.

I’m embarrassed by how frightened he is, so I start laughing. Oh, wonderful. Now it looks like he’s going to cry. But I can’t stop laughing. “Thank you. I was meaning to change out of this thing. I haven’t showered in like. . . I don’t know, three days?” I meant for the joke to show him I’m not angry, but he looks even more terrified.

No harm done! Please don’t cry! I’m so sorry I smashed a grown man’s body into little pieces this morning!

I can’t think of anything to say, so I just walk away.

I really don’t want to talk to Ben right now—not after my embarrassing mental break—but Ben’s house is the only one I know aside from Jane’s, and I have no desire to ask anymore panicked residents for directions.

I give three impatient knocks and wait for someone to answer. A few seconds later the door swings open to reveal Ben, his circular reading glasses perched precariously on the edge of his swollen nose. One of the deeper gashes on his forehead have been sealed with a neat little row of stitches.

“Hi,” he says, sounding surprised.

I stare at the small wobbly rodent perched on his shoulder. “Is that a ferret?”

“Haha, hey Noodles,” the ferret squeaks. “Come over here. This one speaks ferret!”

“Yooooo, no way.” Noodles scampers across the floor towards me like a piece of rubbery, overcooked pasta. His little claws dig into my dress as he climbs up and settles on my chest. “Say something funny.”

I look down at his little whiskered face. “Something funny.”

Both of them break out into raucous laughter, jump down to the floor, and disappear into the house at record speeds. Something glass breaks. Ben narrows his blackened eyes in annoyance but doesn’t turn around to see what they’ve broken.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m not interrupting something, am I?”

“Aside from those two breaking everything I own? No,” he refutes and immediately steps aside. “Please, come in. If you’re looking for Fenrir, Darcy took the lot of them to the swing-set. Fenrir and the little boar seem rather fond of him.”

We should be looking for anyone still out there in the jungle. There may be more kids I don’t know about. “What happened to Peter? Did Ethan set his ankle?” I walk past Ben into the living room and take a second to get a good look around. When I was here before the holmgang, snooping out his interior decorating was dead last on my list of priorities. Wall-to-wall bookcases span both the living and dining area, and there are multiple nordic paintings above and in-between shelving. I hear the door close and turn around.

“Yes.” Ben still has a hand on the door-handle. “Ethan saw to him before attending to Erik.”

Good, I can cross that off the list. “Is there a team I can send to look for survivors? I want to make sure there’s no more children wandering around alone.”

“Already ordered.”

The lamp on his desk is on. It shines down and illuminates all the masses of paperwork he has stacked into neat little piles. I point. “What’s all that?”

“I’m reviewing some of the old Initiative treaties to use as a template for the new, more thorough one.”

“Hey, new girl,” one of the ferrets yells. “Hey! Hey! Hey! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY! HEY!”

“Yes?” I snap. “What? I’m listening?”

He stands atop a particularly tall stack of papers on Ben’s desk and declares, “Want to see a trick? Hee-YAH!” In a messy flourish, the ferret twirls up into the air, sending the stack of papers flying all over the place.

“Alex,” Ben calls loudly and begins gathering the falling sheets. “Can you please take them out of here for a little while? I’m never going to get any work done.”

“Noodles! Jellybean! Come here!” Alex sulks into the living room from the hallway. Her eyes widen a little when she sees me. “Oh, hi Cora.” I don’t even have a chance to respond before she says, “Did my dad tell you I’m grounded for all eternity because I didn’t run away from home like a coward?”

“Not in front of guests, Alex, please.”

She ignores him and turns completely towards me. “Can I go back to Hydra with you? I’m sixteen now. I can legally go.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m honestly just glad she’s even talking to me.

“Alex,” Ben cuts in. “We can discuss this later.”

“That's not fair,” she complains, stomping her foot like a two year old. “You’re always telling me we’ll talk about it later, but we never do! You never let me do anything! I’m allowed to go, dad! Why won’t you let me go?”

I stand trapped in-between the two of them. I can't help but think of my sisters. If any of us had ever spoken to our father like this, we would have been pushing up daisies.

But Ben only turns away from her, rolling his eyes. “I will treat you like an adult when you start acting like one.”

It looks like Alex has a lot more she wants to say, but she’s so angry all she does is make a loud exacerbated noise and stomp down the hall with a ferret on each shoulder, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

Ben exhales and takes a seat at his desk in the corner of the living room. “This is not exactly riveting reading material, Miss Collins, so I’m happy you’re here. You can help keep me from falling asleep. Oh, I’m sorry. Can I get you something to drink—agh!” He’s stands too quickly, winces, and reaches for his stitches.

I shoot forward towards the desk. “Are you okay?”

Ben removes his hand from his side, and his face settles into annoyance when he realizes it’s dotted with red. “I must have ripped one of the stitches,” he grumbles.

“Let me heal it.” I walk closer to his desk, already reaching for the dark patch of blood at his side. “At least let me check to see if you really did rip one of the—”

Ben jerks away from me so violently, I wouldn’t be surprised if he just ripped all of his stitches. “Do not touch me,” he warns.

“Okay.” I back away. “Sorry.”

Ben silently stares at me long enough that I decide to sit across the room on the couch. Eventually, his expression settles into the recognizable mask of indifference. “Please, Miss Collins,” he says much more calmly. “I’m fine. I’ll get new stitches later.” He exhales slowly through his nose like this is all annoying him. “I haven’t even asked why you’re here. Do you need something?”

“I’m looking to talk to Richard.”

“He’s out again.” Ben lifts a piece of paper to inspect under the lamp. “I can let you know as soon as he comes back.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” Notebook. To-do list. What else was there? I take a peek. “Do you know where I can find Juliet?”

Ben is busy shuffling papers into different piles. “Probably helping Erik in the infirmary.”

“Where’s the infirmary?”

“What do you need to talk to Juliet about?” Ben looks up from the papers. “Have you decided to give blood?”

“I. . .” I don’t know yet. Maybe? I mean, she makes a great point. If they can figure out a way to make some kind of healing shot, I wouldn’t have to throw up every time someone needs medical care.

“Miss Collins—”

“Please stop calling me that.”

“Alright.” All the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end when he says, “What would you like me to call you?”

“Just Cora.”

“Hm,” he muses. “Personally, I’d go with Cora the Just, but it’s a matter of semantics at that point.”

It takes me a second to realize he’s joking. This is weird. I start flipping through my notebook just to have something to do, even though its entirely blank except for the first page.

“At the risk of sounding like a broken record,” Ben finally says when I remain silent, “is there any hope you can reconsider the marriage? I think we may be able to persuade your people to cut down the length of the festivities to just one day. Would that help?”

I stop flipping through my notebook. “What?”

“Apologies if I seem a little zealous at the idea. It’s just the thought of someday having to go through this again, or Alex being forced to endure it, or anyone else for that matter.” Ben stops circling things and throws his pen down. “I just want this done, Cora. Done in the most final and concrete of ways so their children and their children’s children will grow up knowing the severity of breaking this treaty. Breaking this marriage pact would be more than a betrayal of the contents of a piece of paper. It would be a betrayal of familial bonds. And family to your people is almost as sacred to them as you are.”

What would my grandma say about all this? On the one hand, I’d be going against my principles. . . but, actually, I’d be upholding my principles at the same time. Sure, I’d be marrying a stranger, but does that actually matter if we’re never around each other? Does it matter so long as we never get divorced? Am I really losing any personal freedoms if the person I’m marrying thinks I’m a god and is too scared to give me any pushback? Are the generations of lives I’d be saving be worth the pomp and circumstance of this ceremony? I already know the answer.

“Okay,” I answer with finality, and he straightens in his chair. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“You will?”

“What?” I ask as sarcastically as I can and repeat the words he said to me on the beach. “Don’t you think I haven’t exhausted every alternative option before relying on marriage to you?”

He opens his mouth to respond, thinks better of it, and nods instead.

I stop myself from saying It’s fine because it’s not fine. It hurts.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he continues, but he’s so disinterested he’s not even looking up at me. I watch him glance from one paper to another and violently underline something. “I hope you can forgive my insensitive outburst, considering the situation we were in.”

I don’t believe his apology, and I’m surprised as a sudden wave of sadness hits. I feel myself start to drift off into the music, and I remember Harper’s advice. I focus intently on the pen in his hand as it scribbles and circles and crosses and swirls. Being trapped in reality only serves to replay his empty words in my head again and again as he continues to ignore me. It’s all so familiar. I’m used to insincere apologies. I’m used to being ignored.

I lock onto his pen again and start sketching it. It’s not a fountain pen, but it’s no ordinary Bic, either. “What did Aiko see about me?”

“What?” He sounds thrown off by the question.

I keep sketching. “Aiko’s vision about me. It scared her. What was it?”

I don’t expect him to actually tell me, so it’s a shock when he answers, “She saw you—” Ben trails off, looking slightly uncomfortable. I watch him tap his thumb against the pen in his hand. When he answers, it comes out in a quiet rush. “She saw you crush Erik’s skull in your bare hands.”

I remember the confusion of snapping back to reality, only to find Erik’s whimpering face smushed against my fingers. I was about to crush his head? I don’t even remember picking him up. I feel sick at the thought of Aiko having to see that. I can’t help but state the obvious. “She’s six.”

“Yes, I imagine her parents are going to put her out of commission for quite a while to recover.”

That poor girl. I wonder if there’s ever going to be a way I can make it up to her. I wonder if she just got added to the list of people who are always going to fear me. “That’s why Gail wanted me to stay inside,” I think aloud.

“Your reluctance to listen is what kept me all in one piece, so thank you for that. At the very least, Erik would have kept me alive to watch me bleed out. On the brightside,” he adds softly, “at least you would have been nearby.”

It’s futile to fight the embarrassed, sweaty flush that rushes across my face. “How is that the brightside?”

“Ease of access.” Ben looks up from the paperwork like my question was a personal insult. “To guide me into the afterlife.”

Oh. Right. That’s what he means. Guiding souls has apparently been added to my list of island duties.

Ben scrutinizes me from behind his desk as I grow sweatier waiting for him to say something else. Without another word, he turns his attention back to the piles of paper and begins circling and underlining things again.

Am I supposed to leave?

Oh, no, I’m still covered in mud!

I shoot up off the couch as if I’d been burned. All at once, I'm struck with a sudden traumatic memory.

I'm 13 years old. My mother has just driven me to my first co-ed party at the house of one of the most popular girls at school. I begged her to just drop me off and pick me up at 10pm, but she only agreed to let me stay if she met the parents first and assessed the situation. After she finally leaves, I head into the living room, where the party is taking place. The lights are down low, giving me goosebumps as I look for a place to sit.

I was punctual, and apparently that's not cool because there are only a few people here, and none of them belong to the popular crowd. I don't see my best friend anywhere, so I take a seat on the sofa and play with my skirt. I don't know why I wore a skirt. I hate skirts. I hate the feeling of vulnerability. I hate that I can't bend over without worrying I'll flash everyone.

I've had a massive stomachache all day, and even though I've been craving nothing but salt and chocolate for the past week, I stay away from the snack table filled with bowls of chips, Heresy's kisses, and a platter of tiny triangle sandwiches. If I start to gorge myself now, I'll never be able to stop, and this whole show of dressing up in uncomfortable clothes and hanging out with people who don't even like me will all be for naught.

That's when my world stops.

Patrick Higgins—the boy I've had a fanatic crush on since the 1st grade—has arrived.

I start aggressively straightening my clothes.

Patrick makes his way around the room giving people high fives and munching on the chips I crave so badly. To my complete shock, he plops down on the seat next to me. "Hey," he says.

"Hi," I manage to squeak out. I can't move. I've been completely paralyzed. I'm sitting as ram- rod straight as my spine will allow, my fingernails digging into my sweaty palms. In fact, my whole body has broken out into a sweat, and I'm forced to yank an arm up to wipe away beads of perspiration gathering on my forehead.

"Karly, right?"

My face is on fire. "Um, actually it's Cora."

Patrick slaps his forehead and says, "Oh, Cora! Right. So, when did you get here?"

I'm in complete bliss that he's even talking to me. "Just now," I say. I want to say more, but my throat has closed up.

He scoots closer and places a hand on my leg. "You look really nice tonight. I like this skirt.”

"Thanks," I breathe. And then my guts explode.

I end up doubled over, gasping. The pain is unbearable. I'm going to die. I stand up and stumble in the direction of the front door. I need to call my mother. I need to call 911.

Somebody screams. I turn around, and the host of the party is pointing at me with a trembling finger. "Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew!" she screeches bloody murder, her face slowly reddening with fury.

One of her friends screams, "She got it on your couch!"

I stand there in the middle of the room, writhing in agony, and utterly confused with what's happening. Then I see the blood.

I'm dying.

Of course, I wasn't actually dying, I just didn't fully understand what a menstrual cycle was. Catholic school and a very Catholic mother probably didn't help.

I snap out of my memory only to notice that Ben has been silently watching my cringing face while I relive one of the worst moments of my life. He squints at me in the lamplight. “Something wrong?”

“Oh. . . uh, no. No. Just. . .” Please don’t let there be mud on the couch. I could cry from relief when I don’t see any. “Do you mind if I look at your books?” As soon as this wedding nightmare is over, I’m never coming back here, so I might as well make the most out of snooping through Benjamin Linus’s house. Maybe I’ll discover something interesting.

Ben gives approval with a sort of shooing motion before returning his attention to the stacks on his desk.

His vast collection seems to be organized by genre, with a fiction section separated from an entire shelf dedicated to Scandinavian languages and culture. A few particularly old looking books and scrolls are housed in a glass case. I start at the top shelf display first and make my way down through a list of titles I’ve never heard of until my eyes zero in on something off to the back.

“Oh my God,” I blurt out. At the sight of it my heart breaks out in sporadic beats. “Is this a first edition?”

“Why? Do you want it?” When I turn to look at him, he’s already halfway across the room. “It’s yours if you’d like it.”

“No?” I’m so confused. Is he afraid of me, too? “No, that’s okay.”

“It’s the least I can do to thank you for your help.” To my absolute horror, he opens the glass case, lifts a worn copy of The Hobbit off its stand, and holds it out in offering. “Please,” he says earnestly, “I insist.”

How did he guess correctly? I didn’t tell him which of the dozens of books I was excited about. “I’m not stealing from your rare book collection.”

“It’s not theft if it’s a gift.”

“I. . . I’m all muddy.” It would be just my luck to have it survive all these years just to decompose within my very hands, not to mention the oils and sweat and whatever else is coating my fingers. “I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Then go wash your hands,” he chides, smiling.

Even after I scrub my hands and arms in the kitchen sink until my skin is raw, my fingers hesitate to make contact.

“Just take it,” he laughs lowly. “It’s not that delicate.”

The edges have some slight wear, and the cover illustrations are a few shades lighter with age, but besides that, it's a perfectly intact copy. “This is a first British printing?”

“It’s the oldest surviving copy, as far as I know.” Ben’s eyes dart from one side of my face to the other. “Why? Does that have some kind of significance?”

“Are you kidding? This has the original conversation between Bilbo Baggins and Gollum. It was completely rewritten after Tolkien starting working in earnest on Lord of the Rings in order to better fit with world-building continuity and he practically ordered the old versions to be stripped from the shelves and he never gave permission to reprint it and now the only way to know what the original says is to buy a rare copy at auction and—” Stop talking. Look at the way he’s staring. You are boring him to death. I stop talking and take a seat on the couch.

This cannot be happening. I run my fingers over the stiff spine, caressing the cover and the sides of the yellowed pages, barely applying any pressure for fear of destroying it. I probably look insane, but I honestly don't care. In my lap I hold what was probably the only good thing to come out of my childhood. "Where did you get this?"

“I stole it from a museum.”

“Really?” I ask in amazement.

“No, I bought it at an auction on a trip to Europe.” Instead of taking a seat across the room at his desk, Ben sits down so close to me I feel his pressed kakis brush up against my thigh through the layers of my dress. The air around him smells faintly of expensive cologne. “It was a hell of a time bidding against some rich entrepreneur from Switzerland.”

“Why bother?” I turn to look at him, and our faces are suddenly very close. I wish I could move. I wish my pounding heartbeat would slow down a little so I could think. I wish Ben would stop staring at me, but I don't know a polite way to tell him to stop. And it's not just that he's staring at me, it's the way his eyes focus so sharply, so intensely that you start to feel indecent. Five minuets ago, Ben was tense with hasty apologies, but now I'm the one bumbling around like an idiot. I look back down at the book. “I didn’t take you for a fantasy fan.”

“Is that so?” Ben’s voice has regained its usual velvety calmness, and I struggle to focus on the content of his words instead of the smoothness of his speech. “What did you take me as?”

I stare holes into the cover illustration and shrug. “Historical nonfiction?”

“Ah,” he draws out. “So you think I’m boring. Good to know. I’ll have to work on that.”

I’m actually very used to people flirting with me. There’s something that seems to transcend age about using the least attractive person in a group as your “in” so you can hit on the hot friends. It happened in middle school. In high school. All throughout undergrad. Hell, it happened just two weeks before I woke up on this island. Pretend to be nice to the fat girl, and her skinny pretty friends will think you’re such a nice guy.

It happens so often, I’m usually entirely impervious to it all. But it’s difficult to dismiss what’s happening right now because I don’t understand Ben’s angle. The war’s over. I even agreed to the stupid wedding ceremony. What else is there?

A huge chunk of anxiety lessens as I realize the answer. Actually, now that I think of it, everything else makes sense as well. It’s the reason why he reacted so violently when I offered to heal his stab wound. He doesn’t want me to waste my powers on something non-life threatening because he needs me to save my energy for his spinal operation. It’s why he looks so intensely upset when I use my powers and get sick. The more often I get sick, the less likely I’ll be to willingly heal him post-surgery.

Wait. The Other’s have a submarine. As long as Locke doesn’t blow it up, we can use it to send the survivors back home! If I can get them out of here as quickly as possible, I can save a lot of people who are going to otherwise die in the coming months.

“What’s the long-term plan for the survivors?” I ask, already feeling the relief of a slowing heart-rate. “Is there a way you can send them home in your submarine?”

“Some of them, yes.” Ben abruptly stands and walks back across the room to his desk. “I’m always very surprised by the bits of information you know versus what you don’t. Did Gail tell you we have a submarine?”

“No.”

He nods slowly, squinting like he doesn’t believe me. “Well, it can’t fit everyone in one go, so the return process may take a few months. Or do you know all about that as well?”

I honestly can’t tell if he’s angry, or if he’s just teasing me. “Not really,” I say.

“We’ll have to think of a means of separating them into smaller groups,” Ben muses and returns his attention back to the papers on his desk. Pen in hand, he begins underlining again. “I’m sure that’s going to be a fun debate, considering they were tripping all over each other just to have you heal a rash.”

“You saw that?”

“Heard it, more like. They were very passionate in their triage disagreements.”

“And what about the people on your list?”

Ben doesn’t look up. “What about them?”

“Are you sending them home, too?”

“Not immediately.”

“Why not?”

Ben taps the pen against the papers and flits his eyes around. “Don’t you know?”

Oh, I see. He’s worried I’ve figured out why he’s being so nice to me. I stand up and turn to gather my notebook. “You don’t have to lie to me, you know.” I hear him laugh from behind the desk. When I turn around, he’s smiling down at the paperwork.

“Lie to you,” he says. “That’s funny. As if Gail wouldn’t rat me out in a heartbeat.”

“You can just ask if you need my help.”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to do that if something comes up.”

As I near his desk, Ben all but turns to stone. His eyes are the only thing that move as they roll up to look at me. “Listen,” I say, “I know you have a spinal tumor that needs immediate removal.” Ben lifts his head up slowly, eyes wide with fear. I watch as his face rapidly drains of color in the lamplight, and I wonder why he seems so shocked I know. “You need to keep Jack on the island because he’s a spinal surgeon. I already know all of that, so you don’t have to be secretive about it anymore. If you want my help post-surgery, you can just ask.”

“I. . .” His pen slips out of his hand, but he doesn’t seem to notice. It’s only after Ben finally gets the answer out that I realize why he looks so scared. “I have a . . . what?”

Chapter Text

“You might feel a little pinch .”

She gave me fair warning, but I still cry out when the needle pierces the tender inside of my arm.

"The worst is over," Juliet says softly as she tapes the needle against my skin to hold it in place. "Thank you for this. Whoops, you alright?"

"Not great with needles." I don't flinch away from Juliet's steady hand on my shoulder because I absolutely need it to keep from falling forward off my chair. I focus on breathing and berating myself for already feeling lightheaded enough to pass out. Keep talking. Stay conscious. "I don't want to give blood anymore after this. Take as much as you need while I'm here."

Ben's off somewhere getting an x-ray and a new set of stitches while I'm left to make small talk with Juliet, which hasn't exactly been invigorating. Neither of us have much to say to each other rather than awkward pleasantries. I haven't learned all that much that differs from who she is in the show: she has a sister named Rachel, she came to the island under false pretenses, and she's been here for three years.

Juliet leans against a countertop in the infirmary. “You have any siblings?"

"I'm the oldest of four," I answer. Her question brings me back from the brink. "Two sisters and a brother." In the show, Juliet was surprisingly ruthless in her attempts to return home. But she hasn't even asked me once if I will let her leave. "So. . . three years, huh?" I inquire nonchalantly, still locked in a battle not to give into the creeping tunnel vision. "That's a long time. You haven't been back to visit your sister since then?"

"I visited home for my nephew's birth, and I visited again for his second birthday." Juliet removes the first filled vial of blood. "You look surprised to hear this."

"And you came back?"

"I sort of. . . owe these people a debt," she finishes cryptically. "I haven't finished my research."

"Research?" An annoyed laugh shakes out of me at the thought. "If someone lied to me about a job offer and was holding me hostage on an island, and then they were dumb enough to let me go home. . ." I shake my head and instantly regret the dizziness that follows. "I wouldn't have come back, that's for sure. Screw the research."

"If I can figure out how to do what I've been sent here to do, it will all be worth it. For more than just your people." Juliet stares at me as we wait for the second vial to fill with blood. Even though her voice is just as soft as usual, I'm surprised by her insulted tone. "Why did you tell Harper I was sleeping with her husband?"

“I’m sorry. I thought she already knew." I thought everyone knew?

"Knew what? Goodwin and I are not together," she says. "We've never been. . . is that a vision you had? That we become a couple?"

Is she lying? But what would be the point in lying? Especially to me? "You aren't having an affair with Goodwin?"

"No," she proclaims more passionately than I would have expected.

"Oh." What are the chances that I could be wrong? I've been wrong before. Who's to say a string of coincidences led to them not having an affair? "Oh, wow. I am so sorry, Juliet. I must have gotten bad intel. I can talk to her if you need me to."

"I think the damage has already been done. Don't worry about it," she adds kindly at my panicked expression. "I think she's hated me since the moment I shipped in on the sub. Harper had some. . . strong opinions when she confronted me earlier about what you said. I could tell she'd been saving them for a while."

"Sorry." I look away as she removes the second filled vial and exchanges it for an empty one. I wonder how many she's going to take. Please don't pass out. Now that she claims not to be in a relationship with Goodwin, I cannot help but be nosy. "So does that mean you're single?"

"You must be very bored if you're asking about my love life. The only long-term relationship I've ever had was with my ex-husband."

I snort. "Yeah, he seemed like a real winner. I won't say I'm sorry he was hit by a bus, but I will say I'm sorry you had to see it." From the way she's staring, I begin to worry I got that detail wrong as well.

"It's one thing for people to prepare me for a seer, but another thing entirely to experience one firsthand." Juliet looks me up and down with a flick of her eyes and that annoying smirk that I hate. "May I be honest?"

"Sure."

"You're not at all what I was expecting."

"Yeah," I sigh. "I've been getting that a lot."

Juliet's small tense smile grows more relaxed. "I meant it as a compliment."

Juliet's fine, I guess. Very soft-spoken. Very polite. In the grand scheme of things, I have little patience for cheaters, so Juliet was always pretty low on my list of favorite characters. But apparently she hasn't cheated? I honestly don't know how to feel with all this conflicting information. She seems sadder than I expected. Much sadder. It must be because of the women she couldn't save—the ones who died in childbirth.

Wait.

"Why are you even here?" I ask suddenly, startling us both. "Sorry, I just mean you're a fertility doctor, right? I saw about a dozen newborn babies on Hydra. Not sure fertility is an issue."

I catch the hint of a pathetically fake smile, but it's not the arrogant smirk I'm used to receiving. This one is full of legitimate pain. "For some," she finally says.

"What do you mean?"

"I haven't been able to figure it out yet." I see a whole mess of answers and emotions in her wandering eyes. "At first we thought it had to do with the mainland, so we sent pregnant women to Hydra. When that didn't work, I thought maybe it was linked to your people specifically, but there are a few women who have given birth without being genetically linked to your people. I've taken blood samples, tested the water, studied their diet. There's no comprehensive answer to what is happening or even who it's going to happen to. Some women just. . ." She goes still, and I regret asking.

"I'm sorry," I whisper when she makes no attempts to talk again.

"I wouldn't consider myself a religious person," she says randomly. "So when Richard approached me about working here, I didn't see it as. . . what your people call fate. Richard told me these labs were located near Portland." I watch as Juliet removes the last of the blood-filled vials, begins pealing off the tape, and pulls out the needle from my arm. "I was supposed to be working on a challenge that would shoot me up the ranks into research stardom. Then I got here, and suddenly their story changed. Talked about a fertility goddess who could heal the wounded. Who could ensure pregnant women didn't die in childbirth." She pauses and wipes my incision with a cotton-swab. "But this special being was dead. And now they needed an alternative to stop whatever is killing their women."

She pauses and locks eyes with me, and I feel compelled, yet again, to defend my recent behavior. "This whole thing," I admit much more calmly than I did to Harper, "has been very confusing for me."

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I'm currently talking to their fairytale," she says softly, pressing a bandaid against the crook of my arm. "So I'd say I'm just about as confused as you are."

I stare at the group and try to keep calm under the myriad of expressions they throw my way. The survivors are being kept in a variety of places, so I start with the closest area first. In this group, Hugo, Artz, Jack, the guy with the rash, and two other men I've never met stare up at me from their seat in the grass. The norsemen tasked with guarding them are quick to bow when they see me approaching.

"I'd like to talk to them, please," I tell the nearest guard. "Your name is?"

"Christopher, my lady." He stares at me a little too long before inclining his head of long black hair. "Talk to them all you'd like."

I'm in the middle of trying to figure out what exactly to say when Hugo exclaims, "Dude, that was terrifying. So, are you like, an X-Men or something?"

"No, you idiot," Artz chimes in. "Haven't you been paying attention? Our prison guards are Nordic. She's a Norse Goddess. Do any of you know anything about the Vanir? The Vanir are—"

"What have you done with Kate?" Jack demands angrily.

Jack is glaring at me with a particularly amusing Jackface. I try not to be biased, but I honestly thought the least interesting aspect of Lost was the perpetual "will they won't they" between Jack, Kate, and Sawyer. At the end of the day, it felt tedious and was included in the show only because people seem to be obsessed with stupid love triangles.

Ugh, spare me the pointless drama. I turn to Christopher. "The woman who helped kill the boar. Do you know where she's being kept?"

"Apologies, my lady. I don't know where she's being held until the trial."

"Trial?"

"For the two dead boar," he explains. "Normally, our people would have beheaded all three of them for killing a sacred boar, let alone two. But the murders technically occurred under Jacob's jurisdiction. You'll have to take up the legalities with Ben."

Jack's head seems to be spinning as he slowly pieces together what's happening. "Trial? She's on trial for killing a pig? It's a pig."

Hugo not so subtly tries to shush him, whispering, "Dude, Cora talks to animals."

"I don't care what she does," Jack rants. "I want to see that Kate's okay, and I want to see her now—"

Christopher backhands him so hard Jack's head flops back. "Watch your tone in our lady's presence."

"Hey," I yell. "Take it easy! Jeez." Jack pulls a hand away from bloodied lips, and I frown up at Christopher. "Did you have to do that? He just wants to know she's not hurt. Jack, I won't let anything happen to Kate."

"What's going to happen to us?" the man with the rash interrupts. "Please, don't kill me. I've got kids back home!"

"Nobody is going to kill you," I assure him. "In fact, I'm in the middle of negotiating your ticket off this island."

"You're gonna get us off the island?" Hugo interrupts. "How?"

The conversation devolves into madness, and I stop talking. What have you done with the women from the crash? If you can leave the island, why are you here? Where is this island located? When can we leave? How can we leave? Are these actual Vikings? Where did they come from? What are the extent of your powers? What the hell is going on?

To keep myself from spiraling into a daze, I open my notebook and start crossing off the things I've completed. I add Inquire about who poisoned me to the list just as Christopher yells something in Old Norse. I turn to look at who he's talking to and see Ben stop mid step, turn curiously towards us, and walk over. Continuing the conversation in Norse, Christopher gestures every once in a while to the survivors and then nods at me.

"For future reference," says Ben, "I believe she's requesting to be called Just Cora now. Excuse us a moment, please." Ben nods at Christopher and the other guards as he pulls me a few steps away from the group. "You need to ask me something?"

"Can I ask a favor?"

"I don't know," he retorts. "Can you?"

"I'd like for you to call off the trial. For the people who killed the boars."

"No," Ben says with a small shake of his head. "I don't think I should."

"I think you should."

"A thoroughly convincing argument. How will I ever rebut it?"

This day has been completely exhausting and is putting me in a bad mood. "I just think it's unfair to expect people to know laws that don't exist out in the real world."

"You know what laws do exist out in the real world? Murder charges." Ben's eyes narrow into displeased little slits. "Why does it look like you disagree?"

"It's not murder," I say and instantly regret it because now Ben's looking at me like I'm insane. "They're animals. It's different."

"I'm sorry, did I hallucinate all your conversations with Margo?"

At the mention of Margo, I perk up. "What are you doing with Sawyer?"

"Have you been faking your relationship with Fenrir?" Ben continues, completely ignoring my question.

Stop talking over me and stop evading my questions! "Where's Sawyer?" I repeat loudly. "Is he on trial too?"

"Yes," Ben snaps, "of course he's on trial. He killed Margo." I try to argue, but Ben's not listening. "Cora," he says sharply, officially dropping the teasing tone. "Can you talk to animals?"

"Yes."

"You can hold coherent conversations with them?"

He knows all of this. Why is he asking? "Yes."

"Would you say these conversations prove an intelligence worthy of respect?"

I snort a frustrated breath through my nose. "Yes."

"Then why are we even having this conversation?"

"Because they didn't know that!" I point at the group of survivors, who are trying to act like they can't hear me. All except for Hugo, who is staring with wide-eyed curiosity from one of us to the other as we argue. "That's the whole point. I didn't tell any of them I could talk to animals."

Ben studies me, nodding slowly, as if I'm a small confused child he pities for not being able to fully grasp the situation. "You do understand if this had happened even a quarter-mile more inland, your people would be within their legal rights to decapitate all three of the prisoners? No trial needed? At least we will allow the prisoners to speak in court."

"Really? You'll let them speak at their own trial? Wow, thank you for going above and beyond, Ben. I feel so much better about this." Sweat breaks out on my neck at the thought of more executions. "If this had happened more inland, I'd just order my people to release them."

"Is that what you're doing now?" he asks lowly. "Ordering me to release them? With all due respect, you don't plan to live on this island, Cora." I finally see what Ben looks like when he's not trying to befriend me for some alternative purpose, and the dangerous warning in his eyes makes me fall silent. "So, unless you plan on stripping away the rights to our own jurisdiction, this situation is my problem."

I'm not going to let people die because they didn't know not to kill the boar. Especially not Locke, Kate, and Michael. Michael has a kid. What about Walt? No. No more threats to orphan children. I steel myself and look back up at him. "There has to be some other way of handling this."

"Oh, wise goddess, what would you have me do?" Ben's question is tinged with so much bite, I don't think he actually expects an answer. "This may surprise you, but we have rules here. I can't pardon them from our laws simply because they're ignorant."

Ben seems very comfortable mocking me in front of my own guards. I frown up at him, no longer nervous. "Are you a vegetarian?" I barely give him time to nod before saying, "Have you always been a vegetarian? You've never had a burger before? Or a hot dog? A chicken sandwich? Yes, you have. I know you have, because you only became a vegetarian for my sake after your father brought you to this island. Someone had to teach you the rules. All I'm asking for is the same grace that was extended to you."

"Which means?"

"You can have your trial, but I want final say for the verdict."

A small smile quirks up the corner of his lips as his words hiss from behind his teeth. "That undermines our entire court system."

"Am I allowed to do that, Ben?" I can tell I've massively pissed him off, but I still can't help but push my luck. “What exactly am I allowed to do?"

"You," he says dryly and gives a breathy, humorless laugh. "You can do whatever you'd like."

I don't know what else there is to say, so I turn and start walking back to Jane's house on autopilot.

I've rounded the corner of the courtyard, so her porch is in sight, when I feel someone fall in step beside me. I look over without stopping and see Ben side-eying me with a small smirk.

"That went even better than I expected," he says. "Thank you for cooperating."

"Excuse me?"

"Asshole," Jane yells before I can ask Ben to clarify what he means. She's leaning over the porch railing with a bag of ice still pressed to the back of her head.

"Jane," Ben greets.

"Drop the smile, Linus. Your days are numbered."

Ben doesn't seem particularly interested in her threats and turns to address Gail. "It's done," he confirms.

“Good,” says Gail. “All this anxiety is bad for my bones.”

"Wait," I question, already feeling a flare of anger as I realize what's going on. "Are you telling me that whole argument wasn't even real?"

"Do you have this under control, Gail?" Ben waves a hand in my direction, and my entire face scrunches up in a seething scowl at being referred to as this. "There's somewhere I need to be."

"Yes, thank you, Benjamin,” Gail answers. “That will be all for now."

"Ladies." Ben addresses Jane and Gail and then turns to me with a deep nod of his head. "Just Cora."

There are a million questions I want to ask, but instead I just watch him walk away. Then I fix my smoldering fury on Gail.

"Please forgive me for keeping you in the dark," she pleads, "but you're not a very convincing actress, Cora. Trust me, I know. We needed a genuine reaction from you or he was never going to buy it."

Who? Buy who? Who's buying what? "What are you talking about?"

"You've done a very good job of frightening everyone," says Gail. "Which will serve you well with your own people, but I'm afraid fear isn't the solution to gaining the survivors allegiance. Jack is their de facto leader. If you gain his trust and respect with a show of compassion and leniency, you practically run their group."

"Why would I need to run their group? They're going home soon."

"Didn't Benjamin tell you?" she questions curiously. "The submarine can only accommodate eight extra people after accounting for the crew. It's going to be a rather long transition back to the outside world for these people. It's best if you're in their good graces while they're here. Wouldn't want them to get any ideas."

Judging by her white hair and delicate skin, Gail has been on this island for quite a while. More than thirty years, if my math is correct. And the way she always seems to know what's going on is a little suspect. Come to think of it, Ben seems to report to her whenever something is about to happen. I wonder if she's the one running everything. I wonder what she's still not telling me. "You're right about my acting skills." I huff a laugh to try and seem unperturbed. "It was a good plan, I guess. So, thank you."

Gail's eyes wrinkle in the corners when she smiles. "This wasn't my idea, dear."

Freshly showered at long last, I sit in a chair like a good little show-dog as the survivors are carted out one at a time and their "crimes" are listed before an audience comprised solely of Ben's people. Sawyer, Kate, Michael, and Locke each have the same confused argument about not knowing the animals were sacred and promise they will never do it again.

Fenrir and Pumba fidget in my lap as I wait for the four of them to all be addressed and speak their peace before reciting the carefully crafted response Ben discussed with me about an hour ago. In an effort to appease us both, Ben decided the only way to ensure a fair yet balanced outcome was to limit the four of them to a house arrest and a month of manual labor on their respective islands—Kate on Hydra, and Sawyer, Locke, and Michael wherever they keep the men.

It wraps up rather nicely. I nod and smile and accept their thanks as they're escorted out to go serve their time. Guess that means those four aren't going home anytime soon.

It's not like I did much, but it feels good to have this over and done with. I stand up and suddenly the entire room is standing, and the suddenness of it all frightens me. I'm quick to cover my wide-eyed stare with a fake relaxed smile as I hurry across the room. Pumba's little hoofed feet clack against the cement floor in quick succession as he follows behind me.

I'm almost out the door and into the free air when someone grabs my sleeve.

"One moment, please," Ben says. "I need to talk to you."

I yank out of his grip and continue for the door. "Can you not walk and talk at the same time? All I had for breakfast was some kind of oatmeal mush. I'm getting a headache."

"I'm hungry, too," says Pumba.

"I'm not," says Fenrir. "Wimp."

"Don't call me a wimp!"

"You're a huge wimp," Fenrir taunts. "You ran away when your family needed you. I never would have let someone kill my parents."

I whirl around in shock. "What did you just say? Hey. Hey!"

Pumba blindsides the wolf by tackling him hard in the side, pinning him up against a wall. I have to lift Fenrir up by his scruff to keep him from being rolled over and stomped into oblivion by the angry piglet. Pumba screams and turns to me, hoofing at my shin in a useless attempt to reach the yelping pup in my hand.

Fenrir's ears flatten against his furry skull when I say, "Apologize to him right now!"

"I'm sorry," he whines quietly and licks my fingers.

"Don't apologize to me," I say.

Fenrir hangs pathetically limp in my hand, like a sack of potatoes. "I'm sorry your parents died, Pumba. You're not a wimp."

Pumba only responds with a single angry oink.

I put Fenrir down and he flattens completely against the floor. "Why would you say something like that?" I ask angrily. "What is wrong with you?"

"I'm sorry."

"I don't want to have this discussion again, boys. You hear me?" I look up in search of the door and realize the room is silently watching the altercation.

Ben falls in step beside me as we finally walk out into the bright sunshine. "I have more information about the wedding," he announces, and I have a sinking feeling whatever it is he needs to say can't be good. "Despite my attempts to persuade them otherwise, it looks like your people actually want to add a day."

I stop walking and stare up at him in disbelief. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't that. "A five day wedding? This is ridiculous. What do you even do during a five day wedding?"

"You're just as much a fertility goddess as you are a goddess of war. The elders are requesting your presence at both camps."

"Camps?"

"You're to spend one day on Hydra. One day at the mainland Temple. Two days with me. And, of course, the wedding day itself."

Two days with you? I throw a hand up and turn back towards Jane's house. "You know what? Nevermind. I don't want to talk about this until after lunch."

Jane eyes me with contempt as I pull another pot out of her fridge and place it in the oven to reheat. "Yes," she says, "please, help yourself to my food. Make yourself at home. Take a dump on my doormat while you're at it."

"I'm not stealing." I sit at the kitchen table with a plate of pineapple slices and a bowl of what I assume is potato salad. I don't even like potato salad, but my spoon sinks in deep anyway. "These were my offerings."

Jane sits next to me and spoons out a glob of the potato salad. "Ugh. Who made this? They should be exiled."

I shove another bite in my mouth and swallow it whole. "It's not that bad."

"You only say that because you're starving." She leans back in the chair, suddenly seeming amused. "I hear you're throwing a tantrum over the wedding."

"I am not throwing a tantrum." I shovel in more spoonfuls, but I've started to notice Jane was right about the quality. The more I eat, the more apparent it becomes that this person used way too much mayo. "I just don't see why Ben and I need to spend two days on a stupid scavenger hunt. It's a waste of time."

"Aw, come on," she nags, elbowing me in the ribs. "That's supposed to be the most exciting part of the wedding. All the young couples look forward to tromping around the island with their intended. It's a bonding experience."

"I don't want a bonding experience." I leave some in the bowl, throw in some pineapples, and place it on the floor for Pumba, who smacks it up happily. "I want all of this to be over with."

"Well, aren't you fun."

I drop my pen and give her a displeased look. "What do you do around here, anyway?"

"I'm a. . . what would you people call it? Sheriff? What a stupid name."

"You're the island police?"

"Trust me," she says, eyes widening. "I did not apply for this job."

When the oven timer beeps, I try my luck with what looks like curried cauliflower. It smells good, at least. I take a moment to write in my journal after every bite. I cannot keep track of the discrepancies from the actual show, so I'll need to log them. I start with a list of relationships. Jack still likes Kate. Juliet is not seeing Goodwin.

I glance up at Jane. "Are you dating anyone?"

"Aw, gross," she says. "Get the thought out of your head right now because you are definitely not my type."

"Yeah," I reply, frowning, "you're not my type either. I didn't mean me."

"I don't see how it's any of your business."

I scribble Jane = Stick Up Ass and read over my to-do list again. "Do you know who poisoned me? I heard they were arrested."

"It was Dolores."

Dolores? There's a viking named Dolores? Oh man, I wonder if there's a William. Bob the viking. Ha ha ha, that would be hilarious. Wait, focus. "How do you know it was her?"

"She very happily confessed."

I don't even remember meeting a Dolores. Why does she want to kill me? "What's going to happen to her?"

"She's holed up in a jail cell somewhere. Honestly, I'm shocked she hasn't been offed yet."

Offed? As in beheaded? Is that what's going to happen to her? Does she get a trial? "Does anyone know why she did it?"

"She's not talking, but I have a good theory." Jane starts cleaning her nails and ignores me. I clear my throat and she looks up in mock surprise. "What?"

"What's your theory?"

"I mean, it's pretty straight forward," she says and returns her attention back to her fingernails. "It's probably because you killed her parents."

I look up at the trees and wonder why I can't hear any birds. The branches are usually filled with endless chatter from a variety of them, both large and small. But from where I'm sitting in the grass, just outside the perimeter of the barracks housing, I don't hear a single voice.

Not that I'm complaining. It's a blessing to lean up against a tree and be lulled into a peaceful daze by nothing more than the soft rush of leaves caught in a breeze.

Jane's "theory" has left my brain uncomfortably scrambled for the time being. I didn't even ask her for more clarification before walking out here and getting comfortable so I can spend some time alone. I flip my notebook to a new page and start outlining Fenrir's head as he and Pumba run around in the grass.

I fill two entire pages with dozens of sketches of Fenrir and Pumba and the pretty patch of flowers a few yards away before I realize this isn't as therapeutic as it normally is. Filling my lungs up with crisp island air, I heave a sigh and make the walk back to the houses.

I'm halfway there when I pick up the faint shouts of an angry man. I follow the sound of his voice and stumble upon a crowd gathered around the cafeteria. Jin stands partially surrounded by people trying to convince him to give them back the handgun he's waving around with no real target in mind. He's beyond angry as he furiously makes demands in Korean.

How'd he get a gun? Who'd he steal it from? Hasn't anyone tried to explain to him that Sun is okay? How many days has it been since I asked them to bring Sun back? I think about how upset and scared he must be after strange people he can't understand up and stole his wife away from him and now hold him hostage in a strange facility on an unknown island. I add reunite Jin and Sun ASAP to my to-do list.

From somewhere in the crowd I hear Liv shout, "My lady?"

I look up from my notebook to find Jin pointing the handgun steadily at me. Don't panic. You can't die, remember? "For crying out loud, Jin." I know he can't understand what I'm saying, but the tired sarcasm comes out anyway. "What are you gonna do? Shoot me?"

Two bullets discharge his gun with thundering cracks.

Chapter Text

There's a sharp pain in my side as I'm tackled, and then my shoulder slams into the ground. All I register is the smell of grass. The heat of the sun. Someone is yelling. For a moment, I don't even know which way is up. Then, all at once, I remember and bring my hands up to my midsection.

Oh my God. He actually shot me. I've been shot.

I pull my hands away, but there isn't any blood. As I desperately probe my chest and stomach and sides, a nervous laugh bursts out of me. He missed. I'm not shot. Oh, thank God. I'm not shot.

Sloppy, sucking sounds pop and crinkle out of the woman lying next to me. Blood pumps from her chest as she grasps at both her wound and the air with a confused frown.

"Liv?" I push up onto my knees and assess the damage, as if I have any idea what to do.

"What happened?" I hear Jane before I see her. "Why are you all just standing around? Where the hell is Ethan?"

"No, no, no, no. . ." Gail kneels down beside me and brushes Liv's hair out of her face, evidently just as shocked and useless as I am. Suddenly, her head jerks up, as if she's just realized I'm here. "Were you shot, Cora?"

"No," I whisper.

"What happened?" Jane roars furiously. "Would somebody tell me what the hell happened?"

I stare at all the blood and whisper, "What do I do? Gail, help me. What do I do?"

"I don't. . ." Gail shakes her head and fixes me with watery eyes. "I don't know. I don't know how it works. I've never actually seen you do it."

I try to hold my hands steady as I press them over Liv's sopping leather chest-piece, but nothing happens. Closing my eyes, I breathe in deep and think about how much I don't want her to die. No changes in my temperature. No nausea. No headache. No discernible difference at all. She's dying, and I can't figure out how this works.

Jane is screaming in mostly incoherent swears. All I understand is, "Do I have to do everything around here?"

Ethan appears, but Jane has already hefted Liv up into her arms. Liv's being carried away, and I don't do anything but sit in the grass and watch her struggle to breathe. Jin's been knocked unconscious, but I think he's still alive. I can't tell from here.

My hands—coated in Liv's blood—grow sticky as they dry in the sun.

I can't tell if it's actually freezing in Jane's house or if my body is just in shock.

This is all my fault. I'm walking around with the attitude "nothing can kill me" without realizing that puts a target on all those around me. I can't die until I time travel back to the 70's, but everyone else on this island can die at any second, including in an attempt to save me from danger. I'm not being careful, and now Liv is bleeding out because Jin was pointing a gun at me and I didn't take him seriously.

I sit on Jane's sofa as Ben gives an update on Liv's condition. Ethan has removed the bullet, and even Jack stepped in to help operate, but no matter what Ben says, I know what isn't being said: she's not fixed. There's something wrong. Why else is he choosing his words so carefully? If she was patched up and expected to make a full recovery, he'd just say so.

"This is all your fault," Jane hisses, stabbing Ben's chest with a finger. "I told you we should have sent them all back to Hydra by now. What are we supposed to tell her family?"

Ben doesn't look particularly bothered. "That Liv died doing her job."

Jane leans in close to his face and whispers through her teeth, "Get out of my house."

Gail escorts him out, and the house is quiet.

I look down at my clammy hands. Even after scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing, there's still a tiny fleck of Liv's blood between my fingers. Gail was right about how terrible I am at acting, but I'm only half-faking my exhaustion when I ask, "Jane, would you mind if I took a shower?"

I'm surprised when she nods and waves me away towards the back of the house without a snarky comment or protest or warning as to what she'll do to me if I use all her shampoo. She just sits slightly slumped at the kitchen table. It's evident she's even more upset about this than Gail is.

As I stand up from the sofa and walk towards the long hallway leading to Jane's combined bedroom and bathroom, I watch Jane worry a thumb furiously between her eyebrows, and I know I'm doing the right thing.

I wait until the water in the shower has been running for about a minute, and then I carefully pull up Jane's bedroom window and climb out.

"Hi!" I rear back in surprise at the figure waiting for me just around the corner. "Gail! Hi. I was. . . I was just—"

"You don't think I know what you're doing?" She arches an eyebrow. "I know you better than you probably know yourself."

I open my mouth, but I cannot think up a lie. It wouldn't do me any good anyway. What else could I possibly be trying to do out here? "Gail, I'm sorry, but you can't stop me." Liv has a daughter. A daughter whose seer abilities have already traumatized her on my behalf. And now, also because of me, Aiko's mother is holed up somewhere, apparently dying. If I were ever going to push myself to figure out how these healing powers work, it would be now. I'm completely useless otherwise. "If I can't help Liv, what's the point?"

"The point of helping her?"

"The point of me?"

Gail opens her mouth, closes it, regards me. A few different emotions quickly flash through her eyes, and then her face settles into a soft smile. "You can quit worrying, Cora. I'm not here to stop you. I'm here to tell you she's not being kept in the infirmary."

"Why not?"

"Because a certain someone knew you wouldn't listen to reason and would try to do what you're doing right now. If you wait four more minutes, Juliet will take over for Ethan's shift. She'll be much more inclined to keep this between the two of you."

Sweet relief flows through me at this news. I follow behind Gail like a gosling, realizing I couldn't have saved Liv without her help anyway because I didn't even know where the infirmary is. If Ben had her moved somewhere else because he didn't want me helping, what's going to happen when he finds out Gail led me right to her? "I can go on my own if you tell me where she is. I don't want to get you in trouble."

"Trouble? With who? Benjamin?" This gets a soft but audible laugh out of her. "Honey, I don't answer to him," she says, waving me forward. "No self-respecting woman answers to anyone but you."

"Are you sure you don't mind if I watch?" Juliet stands off to the side, cloaked somewhat in the shadows of what looks like a library. She offers a timid smile, as if worried I need more convincing. "I won't bother you."

"Yes, please, stay," I beg. "It might be helpful for your research." Honestly, I could not care less about the research. I want Juliet here because she can offer her medical expertise if something goes wrong. Although, if something goes wrong, we're screwed anyway because—by her own admission—Juliet's not a surgeon, and neither is Gail. We'd have to call for help. Word would get out and everyone would know that Gail and Juliet were involved. Gail might not get in trouble, but maybe Juliet would. I should have told her to leave. I should tell both of them to leave so I—

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Gail's voice cuts through my panicked thoughts. "I don't know how it works, but you did tell me one thing. It's different than healing yourself. You said it's excruciatingly painful."

Liv is asleep. Or maybe she's just unconscious. Aren't those technically the same thing? I still have no idea what I'm doing, but I at least have the time to calm down and try. "Aiko's been through enough," I whisper. "I'm not sending her mother home with a hole in her lungs."

I first start by trying to slow my thumping heartbeat. Deep breath in. Slow breath out. Close your eyes. Think about how relaxing it'll be beneath a palm tree tomorrow when you go back to Hydra. It'll be a permanent vacation. Most people would kill for a permanent vacation.

Okay. Now, focus. Please, don't die, Liv. Please don't die. Heal. Whatever it is that needs healing, heal it. All of it. Is it working? Just. . . I can't move my hand.

Pins and needles rush up through where my palm makes contact with Liv's exposed skin. It branches off into microscopic veins of ice that burn a network of complicated trails up my arm. I gasp—partly from the pain but mostly out of fear—as the icy burn passes through my shoulder and settles on my chest.

"Agh," I exhale and bring a hand up between my breasts. "Ow."

"What happened?" Juliet walks closer from out of the shadows, sounding worried. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I lie. "It feels like heartburn. Bad heartburn."

Liv's eyes flicker open. She coughs, notices me, smiles. I watch her brows knit in confusion. A wandering hand probs where Ethan or Jack stitched the bullet wound closed, but the stitches are no longer needed. Even from here I can see it's healed.

Liv sucks in a few clear breaths, her eyes wide. "My lady, what did you do?"

"You can't die." I press my hand harder against my chest and cough a laugh. "You're my first pick for Jarl."

Gail flits around Liv in a flurry of gentle hands, brushing back hair and soothing against her arm. "Oh, blessed child. I'm so happy you're alright." Gail's wavering voice gives away just how serious Liv's injuries must have been. The two begin talking in Norse.

Every inch of my skin is unpleasantly damp. A pressure builds up between my spinal vertebrae, so I bend forward and snap back until I feel a nice crackle of relief. I wonder if Ben's x-rays have developed yet. Maybe in this reality he doesn't have a tumor? Oh, wow, this hurts. Holy Mother of God, I need to sit down.

"I'm so sorry to press the issue," Juliet says from right in front of me. When did she get so close? "Can you tell me about what you're experiencing? Maybe start with what it feels like. Is the heartburn sensation getting better or worse?"

"I don't know. Better? Agh! No, worse. Definitely worse." It feels like I've eaten an entire plate of ghost chili peppers and choked on one of them. Now a pressure is painfully building between my femur and hip bone. I swivel around to try and crack it. A familiar dramatic thumping forces me to jerk a hand over my heart, but the pain is only getting sharper. Now it feels like every joint in my body needs to crack. It feels like my actual bones are grinding against each other. Are my bones breaking? I want to explain this to Juliet, but when I try to, all I get out is a pitiful whimper.

Gail's hands are cool against my feverish face. She's saying something because her mouth is moving, but I can't hear what it is. Pain coils in my lungs like fire, burning up my throat until I have no choice but to try and cough it out of my system.

A spray of blood splatters across Gail's dress. For a second, I refuse to believe it belongs to me, then I take in a breath only to gurgle and choke. I don't even have the air to tell them I can't breathe.

"Freyja?"

I'm floating on air—only, I'm not. Once I get a good look around, I realize I'm standing at the bow of a ship gliding through a dense fog. Wooden boards creak and groan as we slowly bob across the waves.

"Frejya?"

A woman sitting near me smiles when I look over at her. There's a small child a few seats away, waving at me. Heavy booted steps thump across the ship as a red-headed man approaches, kneeling when he reaches me.

"Thank you for speaking with me, Freyja," he booms in a jovial tone. "I've been waiting a long time to meet you. My name is Ragnar. I have something important I'd like you to tell my daughter."

I wake to an invigoration that can only come with recovering from illness. Despite my pounding headache, general lethargy, painful need to crack my neck, and blurry vision, I feel amazing in comparison to what I went through last night. I force my eyes open and watch a woman drop the bowl of water she was carrying to my bedside.

She screams, dashing away with a flurry of excited Norse words.

Gail practically slams into the bedpost. I feel her fingers brush against my face. I feel her press her forehead down against my shoulder. My eyes swivel uselessly around in my head. I'm too weak to conjure the air needed to ask her to please stop rubbing her face all over me. I'm okay. You can stop crying.

"I'm so sorry," Gail sobs hoarsely into the bedsheets. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know it would take so much out of you. I never would have encouraged it."

When I'm able to move, I push up into a sitting position—in part to finally get Gail off me. I'm on a bed in the infirmary, and from the looks of it, Gail, Liv, Juliet, and Jack have all been in here long enough to have nodded off while they waited for me to wake up. Juliet's still blinking her way out of a dream.

Ethan walks into the room and yawns. "Oh, good. You decided not to die."

I'm the most surprised to see Jack. He smiles, but it looks like he hasn't quite figured out what he thinks of me yet. Jack gives a small nod. "Cora."

I nod in return. "Jack."

"Glad to see you're finally awake," he says, and there's a comfort in talking to him without him glaring at me. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine. I'm fine." Judging from the state of my headache, I imagine I've been unconscious all night. Possibly all day as well. "How long was I out?"

Jack listens to my lungs with a stethoscope and Ethan sticks a thermometer in my mouth. "You've been in a coma for almost four days."

I almost open my mouth and drop the thermometer. Four days?

"Follow my finger with just your eyes, please." Jack waves a finger from one side of my face to the other. "Good. At least until we can run some tests, it sounds like your lungs are clear."

"My lungs?"

"Filled with blood," he says and points to his own chest. "We had to drain them, and by then you were already healing."

Jack is in doctor mode at this point, and there's no stopping him. Even though I only understand a fraction of what he's saying, I furrow my eyebrows and nod like everything makes sense. He explains how he and Juliet and Ethan have come up with a theory about my power. Something to do with my white blood cell count dropping? They took blood samples while I was dying? Cool. Thanks guys.

I don't know what to say when he finishes. I simply settle on, "Thank you."

"It was touch and go there for a second," Ethan notes grimly. "When Juliet brought us here, you were already gone."

I understand him. I understand him perfectly clear, but I still need to hear him say it. "What do you mean?"

Jack blinks, presses his lips together, and nods. "He means for the five and a half minutes it took us to get here, you were legally dead."

Snapping the book shut, I fight the urge to fling it across the room. Tom has terrible taste in literature.

I have a suspicion the reason no one has visited me in the infirmary yet is because Gail won't allow it. For the first day, it was nice. Quiet. Peaceful. Easy to nap, eat, nap some more. Fenrir and Pumba have thankfully stopped fighting and find ways to entertain themselves while I read. But one day turned into two, and now that I feel mostly recovered, I'm getting a little stir-crazy.

I try to tell Gail this when she checks in on me, but all she does is offer another book to help me pass the time. She's convinced I need a few more days of doing absolutely nothing before we sail back to Hydra, while the rest of my people prepare for the wedding. It's supposedly such an undertaking, it'll be at least a week before I'll need to return for the ceremony.

I'm not even sure how many days it's been when I see Alex army crawling across the floor towards my bed.

I'm laughing before I can stop myself. "What are you doing?"

"Shh! Gail won't let any of us in," she whispers conspiratorially. "She says you need absolute silence to recuperate. Got the whole place on lockdown."

"How'd you get in?"

Alex crawls up to the side of my bed and sits on the floor. "Back window. Had to unscrew like 7 bolts, but I heard you wanted to try our cheese. Here." She hefts up a backpack, checking to make sure Gail isn't storming into the room. "It's as fresh as you can get."

I marvel at the delicious looking spread. "You made all this?"

"Dad and I did. I was milking animals for hours. I never want to make cheese again. Oh, here." Alex pulls out The Hobbit from her backpack and places on my bedside table. "Dad wanted me to give this to you. I hope I didn't get cheese on it."

"Is that my notebook?" I frown, pointing. "Did you read it? Is that how you knew I wanted to try the mainland's famous cheese?"

"Sorry." Alex smiles and shrugs with embarrassment. "I was just keeping it safe for you. I liked the sketches of Fenrir. They're funny."

They're not supposed to be funny. "Thanks."

We nibble at various homemade cheeses while Alex gives me the latest island news. She explains Jin's still alive because apparently my people will no longer kill anyone without my permission. I'm about to ask her for more info when suddenly she's gone—swiftly rolling under my bed, taking her backpack with her in one fluid motion.

"Do you need anything?"

I look up at Gail and smile despite myself. "Nope." Don't laugh. "I'm good." Stop smiling so hard. "Thanks, Gail."

"I brought you some lunch and another book." I watch her mouth curl upwards into a small amused smile of her own as she nods down towards the bed and soundlessly words, "Is she bothering you?"

I finally let myself laugh and shake my head. "No, I'm good, Gail. Thanks for the food."

"You're welcome." Looking especially amused, Gail nods, turns, and walks back towards the entrance, disappearing with a click.

"Whoo, that was close," Alex says as she rolls out from under the bed. "No offense, but Gail scares me."

"Why?"

"Liv is technically your body guard, but Gail's just. . . she's like, your number one follower. I mean, she went kinda ballistic when she found out you were poisoned."

That's right. That's a list item I haven't checked off yet. "Do you know what's going to happen to her? The woman who poisoned me?"

"Far as I know, she's going to rot in prison."

All at once I remember what Jane told me before I wandered off and got Liv shot: I killed this woman's parents. What was her name? Daisy? Daphne? "Do you know who she is?"

"Oh, I never met her," says Alex. "But Hazel has."

"Who's Hazel?"

"One of my friends on Hydra." Alex's demeanor saddens a little. "I haven't seen her in a while."

"She doesn't come visit?"

"She used to, but. . ." Alex takes a small nibble and shrugs with one shoulder. "I haven't seen her since her dad died."

That's why Alex wants to go to Hydra so badly. Wait, are there any children here at the barracks? The only child I've see so far is Indiana, and she's years younger than Alex. "Are there any girls your age here at the barracks?"

Alex's sadness slowly sours into annoyance. "No. I mean, Indiana's nice and all, but she's six. I can only play pretend ponies so many times a day before I want to scream."

What about Karl? "Are you saying you and Indiana are the only kids in all the barracks?"

Alex folds her arms over her chest. "I'm not a kid. I'm sixteen."

"Sorry. I meant are you and Indiana the only young people here?"

Alex shrugs again. "Yeah."

I know better than most what it's like not to have friends. Even when I did have friends it was like I didn't. One of the girls I regularly hung out with in college once invited me to a party, and when I showed up with the food she requested, she and the other girls in attendance made it abundantly clear I wasn't welcome. Bitch never even gave me my baking dish back. Why did I leave it there? Should have stormed out with the food when they—

"I'm legally allowed to go to Hydra if I wanted to," Alex grumbles. "It's totally unfair. I haven't been able to practice with the band in months."

I almost choke on cheese. "You're in a band? My brother was in a band! What do you play?"

"Electric guitar."

"You're in a rock band? That's so cool!" Alex looks surprised at my enthusiasm. "And that's so lame your dad won't let you hang out with your friends. What's his deal?"

Relaxing completely at the opportunity to complain, Alex says, "I don't know. He never gives me an answer. It's always I'll let you go next year. He's been saying that since I was fourteen."

I hate seeing Alex like this. "Maybe I can ask him for you. Come on, I'm sick of being in this stupid room." I take an excited bite of mozzarella and confirm this is quality enough cheese to constitute as famous. "He can't say no to a Goddess."

Ben doesn't even look up from his desk. "No."

"That's it? You're not even going to listen to my pitch?"

Ben's still hard at work rummaging through stacks of paperwork for the new treaty draft. He flips a page to reveal a mixture of English, runes, and something else. There's a pause as he reads, then he circles a cluster of runes. "I apologize that Alex put you up to this, especially so soon after your recovery. I'll have a talk to her about it later."

"She didn't put me up to anything," I explain. "I just think it would be good for her to visit her friends."

Ben takes off his glasses and finally looks up at me. "If I wanted your opinion, I'd have asked you for it."

I feel my body go through all the physiological reactions to being chastised, but although my face is burning, my thoughts remain surprisingly clear. Granted, he's not yelling at me, so that helps. "Does Alex have any friends here at the barracks?"

"Yes," he snaps, "of course she does. Everyone adores her." He's still not yelling, but his tone suggests he might as well be, and it makes my palms sweaty.

Still, what he's doing isn't fair. Alex is a good kid. Too good. I mean, honestly, he has no idea how easy he has it. Take my younger twin sisters, for example. They took any excuse they could get to cause trouble. If anything, our incredibly sheltered hell-hole of a household only perfected their art of never getting caught because the consequences were so high. Alex may argue with Ben every once in a while, but she still listens. If what she says is true about being legally allowed to visit Hydra, Alex could technically hop in a boat and visit whenever she wants. But she doesn't. Because Ben told her not to, and she listened.

"I meant does she have friends her own age. And no," I add, "Indiana does not count. They're ten years apart."

Ben leans back a little in his chair until it squeaks. According to the ticking clock in the distance, fifteen seconds pass before he leans forward and clasps his hands on the desk. "Are you at all interested in feudal Japan? I have a historic scroll you are more than welcome to have."

"Huh?"

"No? How about James Bond," he offers. "I have a signed first edition of Casino Royale. You want it?"

"Not particularly, no. Why?"

Ben leans closer, shadowing his face from the desk lamp so he looks even more annoyed than usual. "I'm trying to figure out what I can offer you to leave me in peace. You want a greek salad?"

What I want to say is Wow, you're an asshole. What's your plan here? Keep her away from Hydra. . . because? What are you worried about? Why don't you seem to have a problem keeping her here on the mainland where the men and older male teens live? Wouldn't you want her as far away from them as possible? Again, what's the plan here? She's eventually going to snap and do whatever she wants anyway. That's always how this ends. Can't you see being this inflexible is only widening the rift between you two? Don't you care that you're driving her away?

What I say is, "You're very unpleasant." Before he has a chance to respond, I'm speed-walking out the front door.

Oh no! I forgot to thank him for making me all that cheese! Nonna would have a fit right now if she knew someone had made me food—especially something as complicated and time consuming as homemade cheese—and I didn't thank them. Oops. I didn't even ask him about his x-rays.

"Sorry," I tell Alex when I find her sitting on a bench not far from the house. "It's a firm no."

"Yeah, I figured. Thanks anyway." Alex hops up and throws her arms around me in a tight hug. "Promise you'll come and visit soon? It's so boring here."

Stop it, stop it, please. I grit my teeth so hard I'm surprised I don't crack a molar. "Yeah," I say and shake her off. "Of course. Or," I suggest in a joking whisper, "you can always come visit me."

"I for one am glad to be going home." Gail puffs up and takes a seat next to me. "Sit up straight, Cora. Don't slouch."

I straighten my spine.

The last of the crew climb aboard. Ropes are unfastened from the shore. The plank we used to walk into the ship is pulled up. A man standing near the sails complains about the weak winds and the need for oars.

"Wait," I say. "Stop!" The crew immediately stops talking. I point at the trees in the distance. Someone is running full sprint towards us, their voice so faint I can barely hear it. It's a while before I recognize Alex.

A man lowers the plank for her, and she climbs aboard, gasping and choking on air. "Dad changed his mind," she huffs when I ask what's wrong. "He said I can stay with you for the week before the wedding." I watch her eyes dart to the trees in the distance before darting back to me. She smiles, seemingly unable to stop coughing. "We can shove off now."

"Alex." She tenses at the sound of her name, and I smile at her, knowing full well Ben didn't change his mind. It's only going to be a matter of time before he comes to bring her back home. Oh well. "You better get a weeks worth of fun out of the next few hours."

Chapter Text

Liv was wrong about one thing—it was not a "matter of time before I got my sea-legs back." After two close calls, I finally feel the glorious stability of land and swallow down the bile in my throat for good.

"Lady Cora," Gail announces, "it was an undertaking of sorts, but rest assured, Hydra is now the safest place on Earth. If you need anything, feel free to ask just about anyone. That being said, unless you need my immediate services, I'll be in the longhouse. I haven't had a good nap in weeks, and at my age, a good nap is crucial to my survival."

I laugh and tell her to enjoy.

"So…" I turn to address a very nervous Alex. "I guess it's time to find your friends."

We've barely gotten past the brush separating the beach from the jungle when a small child drops down from the trees and presses a knife's blade to my stomach. "Join my crew or perish where you stand!"

So much for Hydra being the safest place on Earth. I look down at the frowning child and conclude she can't be much older than seven or eight. "Okay."

"Excellent," she says and sheathes the knife. "I'm the captain and you're my first mate. Carry me on your back."

"Uh, no, I don't think…" I stop talking as the incredibly hyper child climbs on my back anyway. "Okay. Please don't do that. You're choking me."

"I need to make a pitstop at home," she continues. "Ouch! Hold my legs. Oh, hi Alex!"

"Hey, Peregrine." Alex gives a small wave. "Do you know where I can find your sisters?"

"Yeah, they're all at home. You can follow me. Onward, first mate!"

I'm at least somewhat familiar with the layout of Hydra. Or at least with the path that leads to the houses. Alex remains completely silent as I struggle to carry Peregrine up the hill towards the longhouse and the Hall of Freyja. Now that I have the time to do so, I look around more and admire just how colorful and vibrant this area is. Best of all, nobody approaches me. At most, a passing woman or two will nod their acknowledgement and smile at the squirming kid ordering me around.

"We're here," Peregrine yells triumphantly. "Take me inside, first mate. I have business to conduct."

A door flies open, and chaos tumbles out in the form of four excitable young women and Flint—Annie's young son I stopped from fighting a superhuman named Thor. Alex barely gets a greeting out before they knock her down in a dog-pile, lost in a fit of screams and laughter.

"I can't believe you're here," one of them screams.

"This is the best day ever," another girl chimes in. "What did you think about what I wrote you last? You never wrote back!"

"You'll have to tell me about it all over again," Alex says when she's finally released from the pile of bodies. "I ran out of raisins as payment, so Loki tried to eat your last letter. I could barely read it when I wrestled it out of his beak."

"Alex?" Annie wanders outside to see what all the commotion is about. "This is a surprise. Girls, get off her. Let her breathe. Lady Cora." Annie spots me and starts to bow but stops when she sees who has hitched a ride on my back. "Peregrine, you get off of lady Cora right this instant."

"You're Cora?" Peregrine asks. "Yippie! Lady Cora's my first mate! I didn't get to see when your eyes were bleeding, but now my crew will be the most revered in all the high seas. We shall pillage the word and take none alive—hey!"

Annie pulls Peregrine off me and restrains her tightly against her chest. "I apologize on behalf of this one, Cora. Takes too much after her father. I'm still attempting to civilize her. Speaking of which, it's time for your bath."

"What? No!" Peregrine struggles against her mother's grip, but Annie holds her up sideways off the floor, like a plank of wood, and starts walking deeper into the jungle. "Unhand me, woman! Help! First mate, save me!"

Poor Alex has finally been freed of the dog-pile, but she doesn't at all seem to mind being squished. The group stands huddled together, like if they don't hold tightly to some part of Alex, she's going to blow away at the first strong breeze. The sight of them makes me nostalgic for memories I don't have.

As if just now realizing I'm here, the once boisterous group of girls have quieted to barely above a whisper as they regard me shyly. Even though they're all smiling, they look like Jack did—unsure of what to think of me. All at one time, they say, "Hello, lady Cora."

The tallest girl—a brunette with a face full of freckles—steps forward and bows. "Lady Cora, would it be okay if we showed Alex around the island?"

Is that a tattoo? I'm taken aback by the sizable dragon snaking up this young girl's neck. I catch myself staring. Who is this? I never actually officially met any of Annie's daughters, so I have no idea who I'm talking to. Considering the rest of them are redheads, I can't even say for sure that this is one of Annie's children. "Yes," I tell her. "Of course. That's why she's here. You all go have fun."

I smile when their excitement seems to return in full force. Holding tightly to Alex's arms, the girls take off into the jungle in a cloud of laughter, leaving poor Flint struggling to keep up.

Now that I'm alone, I'm not entirely sure what I want to do. This is the first time I haven't been bombarded with requests or introductions. I eventually walk to the longhouse in search of my bedroom. I'm sick of this dress. Maybe I have pants in one of the clothing chests?

"Here." Gail holds out a small rolled paper when I step into the room. "Pris says this letter came for you about half an hour ago."

I unroll it and instantly frown.

I humbly request Alex's prompt return home. —Ben

Gail points to the corner of the room. "There's fresh paper on your desk, if you need it."

I shake my head and reach for a pencil. "No need to waste paper. I'll just write on the back." In big block letters I respond REQUEST DENIED and hand the newly-folded sheet to Gail.

I suddenly know what I want to do more than anything. I want to eat. More importantly, I want some more of that delicious bread and jam. "I'm going to check out the jam house. Can you point me in the right direction?"

"Welcome, my lady. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"

It's nice to see Charlotte again under more pleasant circumstances. This workroom is beautiful and filled with a decadent sugary smell that instantly makes my mouth water. Large vats of ripe fruit line one wall and an assortment of empty jars line another. I smile at her. "Just wanted to see how you're doing."

"Me?" Charlotte sets down a full jar of mango jam and wipes her hands on an apron. "I'm doing as well as everyone else, I guess. If you don't mind my asking, I'm curious as to how you're doing. Loki sent us word while you were healing."

How am I doing? About what part? Being poisoned? Agreeing to an arranged marriage so people stop trying to kill each other? Healing Liv and literally DYING in the process? "I've recovered," I answer and walk further into the room. "Honestly, I don't really want to talk about it. I'd much rather learn about what you're doing. Can I help? I've never made jam before."

Charlotte perks up. "Actually, I'd love some help. If you don't mind. My sister's are out sick this morning, and I need to finish canning this fruit before it rots."

She has sisters? "Are your sisters okay?"

"Yes," Charlotte laughs lightly and shakes her head. "They're not actually sick. Just very hungover. They've been partying since we got word you'd woken up from your coma."

I glance around and sigh internally. Not a bread roll in sight. "Are you not much of a drinker?"

"Nothing wrong with a little mead now and then," she explains with a wink. "It's the hangover after a binge that's never quite worth it to me. Is something wrong?"

"Oh. . . no, no. Just—" It's embarrassing to beg, but I'm just so hungry. "You wouldn't happen to have some of that bread from the party, would you? I'd love a snack. If you don't mind me taking some jam."

"Please, have as much as you'd like." Reaching down behind the table, Charlotte pulls up a nice soft loaf and offers it to me. "Enjoy yourself while I show you how the magic happens."

I rip off chunks of bread as she explains how to preserve the fruit by skinning, cutting, and mashing mangos, papayas, peaches, and berries. Next, she demonstrates the amount of gelatin and honey to add and what consistency it needs to be before scooping them into a jar. Since honey has no moisture, it doesn't spoil and helps to give the jam a longer shelf-life. Charlotte shows me how to fill the jars, how to close them properly, and where to store them when they're finished.

"We usually eat it as fast as my sisters and I can jar them. But ever since you've returned, our orchard has been running wild. We've been harvesting such an abundance, we have to freeze some fruit for later. That's not even counting what's in this store room." Charlotte laughs again and gently nudges me with her elbow. "So, thank you."

This is fun. I'm happy I decided to check this place out because I'm genuinely interested in how they make such delicious jam. It's practically all I ate the last time I was on Hydra, and it's one of the few foods I've never tried to make homemade. Thankfully, half the battle is something I excel at—chopping. Charlotte gave me a quality knife to work with, and it's no time at all before I've sliced up an entire barrel of peaches while lost in a methodical stupor.

Please say something, Charlotte.

I scoop thick globs of mashed peaches into a big bowl and mix in the appropriate amount of honey and gelatin. Charlotte hasn't said anything since we've begun working. "I'm gonna be honest," I tell her. "I have no idea what gelatin even is."

She smiles kindly and reaches across the table for a bowl of mangos. "We boil bones for ours. It's a very long process, but it keeps the jam firm."

"Oh." Come on. Think of something else to say. This is the first time—outside of conversations with Alex—that a person I'm working with hasn't gone on and on about the things they want or need me to do. In fact, Charlotte's silence is starting to make me anxious.

It's not that I'm quiet because I have nothing to say. I would never shut-up if I had the self-esteem to do so. I'm usually quiet because nobody listens to me, and it's exhausting to have things I want to share with others and a room full of people who don't want to hear it.

"Can I ask you something?" I instantly flinch with regret at the memory of Ben responding to my question with a snarky, I don't know. Can you?

But Charlotte only looks up from the mound of sliced mangos she's working on and fixes me with another kind smile. "Of course."

We talk about everything, switching from one subject to the next like we're old friends. I learn about the rock pool not far from here where they get their drinking water, and the orchards where they harvest crops, and the small farm where they raise cows and goats for milk, sheep for wool, and chickens for eggs.

I relax the longer the conversation goes until she asks me about the wedding. I skirt around the question and ask if she's seeing anyone. She skirts around the question and asks me about Asgard. I ask about her family. She's the oldest sister, and we bond over that shared commonality. As she divulges more about her family, it becomes clear why she still has a British accent. Both her parents raised her here on Hydra after the Dharma Initiative was disbanded and its people adopted by mine. I guess that explains why Miles is here.

It's as easy to talk to Charlotte as it is to talk to Claire. Claire. "Do you know where the female survivors are? I haven't seen them since I returned."

"They're settled in the guesthouses," she answers. "Pris put them to work in the gardens. I can take you there after we've finished canning, if you'd like."

I finish screwing on the top to a finished jar of papaya jam and walk over to the organized shelf. One jar lies away from the others. I pick it up and squint to confirm it's what I think it is. "Is this strawberry jam? I love strawberries."

"It's the last jar for a few weeks." Charlotte suddenly looks irritated. "We hardly ever make it because it takes so many strawberries, and the children are notorious for plucking the plants clean before we can even harvest them." She frowns down at the bowl she's working on. "The last time we canned strawberry jam, Jane sailed all the way here just to break poor Gunnar's nose. Didn't even offer him a trade. Just stormed in and took the last jar."

I raise my eyebrows, even though this isn't surprising news in the slightest. "Yeah, she's a little. . . abrasive."

"Yes, well, she wasn't always like that."

"No?" Now that is surprising news. "She told me she grew up here. On Hydra."

"Mm-hm," Charlotte hums as she works. "But she left as soon as she turned sixteen. You're allowed to leave your community at sixteen," she explains when she sees my confusion. "We call it The Great Wandering. It's a time in a young person's life when they get to choose whether or not they wish to stay with our people or join Jacob's followers." Charlotte spoons more honey into the jar, her eyebrows mashing together. "Nobody ever actually leaves, but Jane couldn't wait to get away from this island. Even started growing her hair out the moment she left. I think she's embarrassed of us."

Charlotte's red hair is relatively long, so I'm confused. "Is short hair tradition here?"

"No, sorry," Charlotte explains, motioning to the right side of her scalp. "Jane has a head tattoo, but you can't see it anymore."

Our conversation dies down. I glance at her while I mash fruit. She looks sad. "Does Jane not visit often?"

Charlotte huffs, looks up at me, and blushes a soft pink. "Basically makes a bi-weekly trip to trade some foolish young person a bottle of dipping sauce for something worth far more than that. I keep telling her to leave them alone. Children only ever think with their stomachs."

I'm not even canning anymore. Propping my elbow on the table, I rest my head in my hand. "Why don't you visit her on the mainland?"

"I have my sisters here. And plenty of friends." Charlotte regards me curiously. Whatever was holding her back from being truly forthcoming seems to no longer matter. "I don't need to beg for anyones attention. If she wanted to visit, she would."

"Jane strikes me as someone who appreciates bluntness." I return my attention to chopping the fruit. "But she also doesn't seem like the type to be very honest with her feelings."

Charlotte stops chopping. "What exactly is it you're trying to say, my lady?"

What am I doing? If I'm wrong about this, I could irrevocably screw up their friendship. And for what? Because I like shipping people? What the hell is wrong with me?

I piece together everything I know about the two of them. How enraged Jane was at the engagement dinner. How Ben told Charlotte to leave after Jane got drunk because he "didn't want her to get any worse." Jane herself admitted she wasn't fighting Erik because he announced his engagement. She was fighting him specifically because he'd chosen Charlotte. Hm. In the show, Charlotte was paired with Daniel Faraday. A character I have no idea even fits into whatever is happening in this universe. So, if he's not here, is there a chance Charlotte could be destined for someone else?

"At the engagement dinner," I continue, staring intently into my jam mixture, "you mentioned Erik proposed to you to embarrass Jane." I'm not entirely sure how to approach the subject, but I'm just too damn nosy not to try. "I don't think I've ever seen someone so angry. It was a lot, even for Jane. It makes me wonder."

"About what?"

I raise my eyebrows and shrug. "That maybe she cares about you as more than a friend."

Charlotte scoffs quietly. "Jane only truly cares about Jane."

"Mmm, I don't think that's true."

"Have you seen something?" she asks, looking up from her bowl. "A vision?"

"Uh…no," I admit. Now my face is the one reddening. "This is more of a theory."

Charlotte nods, and I'm afraid I've disappointed her. "In all our years of friendship, we've had many a falling out. Sometimes she's just so… aggravating."

It's almost like I'm back home, listening to my mother and grandmother talk shit about whatever family gossip is hot at the moment. I lean forward, encouragingly. "Mm-hm?"

"Is it really so difficult to be straightforward? I'm not difficult to talk to, am I? I swear I never know what she's thinking. Just when I believe I've figured her out, she goes and does something asinine."

"Like what?"

"Like propose to Erik," she says in a rush of prickly anger. Neither of them have actually admitted to me how they feel in any straightforward manner, but judging from the way Charlotte's gripping a dishrag while she rants, I think I can guess where she stands. "It was such a shock."

"Wait, Jane didn't tell you beforehand she was proposing to Erik?"

"No," Charlotte exclaims in insult. "I had to find out from Sabine. I thought she hated the man, but then the next thing I know, everyone is planing their wedding, and I'm left wondering what's going on."

"Maybe she was trying to do what she thought was right? Maybe she didn't know how to tell you?" I know why Jane proposed to Erik and then receded the offer, but it doesn't sound like any of this was discussed with Charlotte. "I mean, she just as quickly broke off the engagement."

Charlotte sets down the jar she's working on and turns to give me her full attention. "May I ask you a question? Please answer not as my friend, but as the Goddess of Love. Can you tell me, with absolute certainty, that what you're saying is true?"

"Uh. I can't exactly confirm that's how she feels. But if you give me a day, I can find out."

At the end of the day, Charlotte takes me to the survivors.

Like she mentioned earlier, they've been sent to work in the gardens, but I'd use the term "work" lightly. Most of them are sitting in the grass, talking to the women of Hydra and munching on various produce. Even Kate—who is supposed to be serving time—is lounging in the grass, deep in a conversation. Sun seems to be the only one truly interested in the actual gardening. I spot Claire just as she lets out a particularly mirthful laugh at something an equally pregnant Norse woman has said.

I take one look at them all—satisfied they are safe and at least relatively happy—and decide not to talk to them today.

There's a new letter sitting on my desk in the bedroom. I take a steadying breath before uncurling it.

This matter does not concern you. I would appreciate if you could respect the boundaries within a father-daughter relationship. I am requesting Alex's immediate return home. I will not ask again. —Ben

I snort, flip the note, and grab a pencil.

Get over yourself and  stop bothering me!

It's maybe fifteen minutes before a raven named Angrboda returns with a response strapped to her leg. "I require payment," she says.

"You don't want anymore raisins?"

"No." Angrboda hops across my desk and pecks at a ring. "May I have this shiny thing?"

What's a raven going to do with a ring? "Yeah, sure. It's all yours. Can I have the note now?"

I uncurl it, expecting another snide response, and immediately panic. Ben's written an angry cramped letter that takes up every inch of the paper. He's pressed so hard on some of the words that they leave deep indents that almost rip through. I fold it without reading beyond the first four words: I WILL NOT BE—

Breathe in. Breathe out. What's he going to do? Keep sending letters in all uppercase to drive home his point?

But what if he comes here? What if he catches me when Gail's not around? What if he yells at me? Maybe I should talk to Alex.

No. Wait. Calm down. I'm a grown ass adult. What's the worst he can do?

I keep the letter folded, walk over to my fireplace, and toss it in.

It feels weird to wake up naturally and not have anyone vying for my attention. Nobody knocks at my door and asks me to bless their children or heal their gaping wounds. The only person waiting patiently outside my bedroom is Gail, and all she wants is to present me with a breakfast platter. We eat together at one of the many tables in the longhouse and talk about nothing in particular. After breakfast, I let her know I'm going down to the beach to sunbathe, and she helps me pick out some pants, a t-shirt, and sunglasses.

"Not much point in sunbathing if you're in pants." Gail holds up the cotton garment in question. "Are you sure you don't want these shorts?"

No, because I don't want anyone to see my legs. If I don't see my legs, I don't have to think about jiggling or cellulite or—worst of all—the painful chub rub that's bound to happen the second my legs sweat even a little. I don't tell her this, and thankfully she doesn't fight me on the matter.

I'm halfway down the hill when I hear a familiar voice. "Morning, first mate. Where are we off to today?"

Oh, no. Please not right now. "I'm going to go sunbathe by myself for a while."

"Oh."

I just want peace and quiet, but I also instantly feel bad for Peregrine when her expression falls. "You should try and recruit more people into our crew," I say in an attempt to cheer her up. "A two person ship won't get very far."

Peregrine sniffs, looking dejected. "My sisters don't want to play with me. And Aiko's dad won't let her leave the temple anymore."

I stop myself from asking if there are any other children she can play with. If there were, she'd be playing with them. It's a familiar feeling to not have anyone to hang out with. Ultimately, I give in. "You can come with me if you want."

"Yeah?" Peregrine lights up for half a second before falling back into a comedically serious expression. "No need to carry me to the beach, first mate. I give you the day off."

A genuine laugh bursts out of me. "Thank you. I appreciate it."

"Lady Cora? Lady Cora!" Two young girls run towards me, frowning when they see Peregrine. "Ugh. Is she bossing you around too?"

It's not clear if these girls are bullies, or if Peregrine is the bully. I look from one little girl to the other and take note of Peregrine's slouching stature. "No," I answer. "Actually, I joined her crew. You wanna join?"

An angry response is forming on one of their lips before the other jabs her in the ribs and she catches herself. "No thank you, lady Cora." As quick as they arrived, the girls have disappeared into the trees.

I raise an eyebrow at Peregrine's uncomfortable expression. "I'm assuming they're not friends of yours?"

"They're all just jealous because I'm a luck god."

Huh? Honestly, I just want to relax in the sun for a little while, so I smile and nod and continue walking towards the ocean as she trails behind me. Eventually I find a nice palm to lie under and get comfortable in the sand while Fenrir and Pumba run along the shoreline. It's instantly relaxing to toast under a vibrant sun with a cool sea breeze blowing off the water.

This is what I've been waiting for since day one. If there's no way to get back to my actual reality—wherever that is—I might as well be existential in comfort.

I lie back in the sand and close my eyes, lulled into a calm by the sound of the ocean. Sunshine streaks lines of red behind my eyelids, and I watch them dance as a cloud passes over the sun and everything darkens. I open my eyes to find it's not a cloud.

Seeing him doesn't illicit intense fear or nervousness like I thought it would. My natural response to his murderous expression is to frown back up at him with equal loathing. "Do I have to sic Gail on you?" I sit up and rip off my sunglasses. "Because I will."

"We need to talk."

"No thanks. I'm on vacation."

"I wasn't asking for permission," he states flatly. "I'm telling you we're going to talk. I'll even let you choose the location."

"Well, I'm not moving, so I guess take a seat."

"No can do, Ben." Peregrine squares her shoulders and looks up at him. "I need my first mate rested so we can prepare for our next big raid."

"I'll make you a deal," he says, swiveling around to look at her. "You let me talk to Cora privately, and I won't tell your mother you're the one who stole fireworks and lit the pavilion on fire at the last Yuletide."

She squints up at him defiantly. "You have no proof."

"Try me."

Peregrine falls silent, deep in thought. Finally, she nods. "Deal." The two shake hands, and then she's running off back up the hill.

Ben's glare momentarily softens into a concerned frown as he watches her disappear. "You didn't bet her anything, did you?"

"No?"

He nods, his expression souring again. He glares at me a moment longer before sitting in the sand and glaring at me from eye level. "Why are you being difficult? I made a very simple request."

"You sailed all the way over here just to reiterate what you've already told me in your letters?" I pop my sunglasses back on and sigh. "Great use of your time, Ben."

"Do you even know where Alex is right now?"

"She's fine. I've been with her this whole time." Not exactly true, but I did see her walking around with a big group of girls last night.

Ben shifts his gaze from me to the windy shore. "The fact that you've already died in the few days you've been here doesn't exactly instill confidence in your ability to keep her safe."

"I don't know what you want me to say." Without knowing why, I'm suddenly so irrationally angry my throat is burning. "Alex is legally allowed to be here."

"This isn't about legalities."

"Then what is this about? Because right now it just sounds like you want her back home because you're empty nesting."

"This isn't about me," he retorts sharply. "This is entirely about Alex. It's. . . it's seer business."

"What do you mean?" Wait, is being here putting her in danger? "Did Aiko tell you something about Alex's future?"

Ben can't seem to stop blinking as he opens his mouth and changes his mind. "No."

"Then who did? The previous seer?"

"I know you're new to all this," he complains, "but it's incredibly taboo to ask someone about their prophecy."

"Alex is running around with about ten other young girls right now." I sit up on my knees and stare him down when he tries to argue. "If she's in trouble, they all are, and I need to know about it."

He shakes his head, like what I just said was ridiculous. "They're not all in trouble—"

"Tell me," I interrupt. "You want my help? I want you to tell me exactly what the seer said. Word for word."

Ben stills and falls silent for a long time. "She saw me mourning her." He pauses, looking down at the sand, then out at the water. "She saw her die very young."

Think, think, think. In the show, how does she die? Keamy. Martin Keamy shoots her in the back of the head. But does Keamy even exist in this universe? Will there be someone else on the freighter? Some other mercenary? Will there even be a freighter?

"How?" I ask.

"Childbirth."

I stare at him, unblinking. Although, he'd never know because I put the sunglasses back on. "You do realize this island is where they keep the women, right?"

Ben jerks his head over to glare at me. His mouth twitches downward with a handful of snide responses, but all he ends up saying is a curt, "Yes, I'm aware."

"Then you're going to have to do a better job of explaining yourself." Wait a second. I think back to everything Charlotte told me yesterday. "Have you been keeping her away from this island because you're afraid she's going to realize how much more fun my people are and decide to join them? What is it…Wandering Week?"

"That's not at all what it's called."

"But that's what this is about, isn't it?" He doesn't answer, and that's as good as a confirmation. "Wow, this is. . . not your finest work. I thought you were supposed to be good at planning?" At the look on his face, I add, "I get what you're doing, and I actually appreciate where you're coming from. But you greatly misunderstand teenage girls if you think this is a viable solution."

At this, he stops and looks down at the sand before looking side-long at me. "You sound like you have an idea."

"My younger twin sisters are more of a headache than Alex could ever dream to be. Honestly, you have no idea how well behaved Alex is in comparison to most other teenagers I've met in my life." I hold up an index finger. "But. . ."

"I'm listening."

"No matter how well-behaved, it's sort of a teenage right of passage to find ways to give authority the middle finger." I almost laugh at his prickly expression. "I understand why you want her under constant supervision, but I guarantee she thinks you're stifling her because you still think of her as a child."

"She is a child," he argues.

"See? This is what I'm talking about. If she could hear you right now, she wouldn't see your intentions as loving. She'd probably think this was some kind of punishment." Alex said she has no idea why Ben won't let her go to Hydra, which means he's never talked to her about her future. "You've. . ." All the uncharacteristic calmness I've been holding onto abandons me, and I feel a familiar flush burning my face. If she's supposed to die in labor. . . "Have you, I mean, or anyone else, I guess. . . um. Hm." I wave my hands around while he waits for me to finish. "She's. . . um. Okay, like, you know what I'm talking about."

"Your point was so eloquently argued, how could there be any room for confusion?"

I don't think I've ever consciously wanted to slap someone so badly. It's not my fault if you've never had "The Talk" with your kid! If you'd have just told her what her future entailed, she could be best equipped at not letting it happen. Does birth control not exist in this universe?!

Before I can think of something to say, Ben beats me to it. "I'm very busy back at the mainland, and I don't feel like we've made any real headway with this conversation. So, please," he finishes in an almost whisper. "I am asking you to tell my daughter to come home."

I'm surprised to find that the overwhelming emotion I'm feeling is jealousy. Dad would never have fought to keep me or my siblings safe. Dad would have sold us for a case of beers if he could have figured out a way to do so without the FBI finding out. Ben may be incredibly misguided in his execution of Plan: Keep Alex Safe, but his heart's in the right place. He just wants to protect his daughter the way all parents should.

Which makes it all the more difficult to give my answer. "No," I say and watch as his expression morphs into surprise. "Alex is free to go home whenever she'd like, but I'm not going to force her off an island she's within her legal rights to visit."

"Well alright then." Ben's expression is a resigned mask of indifference when he stands. "I guess I've wasted both our time."

"Wait, sit." But he's ignoring me, so I jump up and follow him. "Do you know if her mother talked to her before she got sick?"

Ben scoffs dismissively and keeps walking. "Her mother didn't get sick. She fell off a cliff."

"That's not what Alex told me."

"One of your scouts fished her out of the water." Ben looks over at me. "What? You think I should have told a five-year-old all the gruesome details? I'm sure Alex would have loved to hear all about how the backside of her mother's skull had been cracked wide open. How fish had already begun to eat her bloated flesh. How—"

"Okay, thanks. I get it."

He stops walking, exhales. "Did her mother ask her…what?"

"No," I correct, suddenly thankful for the sunglasses hiding my cringing eyes. "Do you know if—" I am a grown adult who cannot say the words, "Do you know if her mother talked to her about sex?" Which, now that I think of it, the answer is obviously no. Danielle died when Alex was almost too young to even remember her. So, has anyone stepped up to take her mother's place now that Alex is older?

If everything in life were left up to my mother and grandmother, I'd get married, have a bunch of kids, and die without ever even knowing what birth control is. You know, like a good Catholic. But I went to a secular college, and they literally made everyone in the dorms take a "care package" during orientation that consisted of a handful of condoms. I was originally going to try and befriend my roommate by joking around and making balloon animals out of mine, but when I opened the pack, the latex smelt so horrendous I just threw them all away. My roommate turned out to be an asshole anyway.

I can't seem to form the words I want to say, so instead, I cross my arms over my chest and huff indignantly. "Have you ever thought that maybe what you're doing is the exact reason Alex's future turns out the way it does?"

"Excuse me?" he asks in an insulted snarl.

No sex-ed, no friends, no real freedom to travel where she wants. Come on, Ben. That's. . . that's. . . well, shit. That's me. You don't want Alex to end up like me! It's a struggle not to yell. "I'm shocked you don't see how this is a recipe for disaster. First boy her age she comes across is going to give her the Tarzan effect. That's not even taking into consideration all the outwardly innocent but definitely not innocent activities kids are up to nowadays. . . like Netflix and Chill."

"I swear I only ever understand a fraction of what comes out of your mouth."

"Okay," I snap, "so here's a simple question. Do you want Alex to be happy?"

"I want her to be alive."

"Good," I say, smiling. "We can finally agree on something."

I find Alex headed my way towards the beach, dressed in the same pants and shirt from yesterday. I almost get distracted and forget my plan when I notice the young women linking arms on either side of her are also dressed in normal street clothes. All the pure joy in Alex's smile saps out of her at the sight of me running towards her.

"Girls," I hiss. "Girls! Come here, quick!"

Alex and her friends hurry over to meet me as I sprint up the hill out of breath. "Ben's here," I tell her in a sharp whisper. "Just landed at the docks. He'll be up here any minute, and we both know you'll get dragged back to the mainland if he sees you."

Alex's face quickly drains of color. "Dad's here?"

I look behind me to check, and then I fix her with wide eyes. "You girls need to head to the Hall of Freyja. Right now."

"Yeah, she's right," Hazel whispers. "Luna and Pris won't let any man inside. We'll be safe there. Come on, Alex. We'll show you. Thank you, lady Cora!"

"Yes," they all whisper in unison, "thank you, lady Cora."

"Go," I tell Alex. She's completely frozen in place at the thought of suffering the consequences for disobeying Ben's orders. "Go, Alex, I'll talk to him for you. Just go. Look, here he comes! Girls, get her out of here. I'll come get you when he leaves."

I watch as they tug Alex into the town center towards the hall. It isn't until after the group has disappeared into the building that I turn around to meet Ben.

"Ha," I whisper. "Gail doesn't know what she's talking about. They totally bought my act."

I watch his brows draw closer together, but he never ends up truly frowning as he stares off in the direction of my hall. "I have your word this will work?"

"Go home and be thankful she's listened to you this far." His brows crease together even more, and I backpedal. "Trust me, if there's one thing I'm good at, it's taking care of my—" I cut myself off before I say sisters. "Just trust me. I've got it from here." I thought my plan was infinitely better than his, but he still looks unsure. "Please, Ben. Who's she going to believe? Her dad? Or the literal Goddess of Love?"

It looks like his small nod is both reluctant and irritated. "I expect regular updates."

"Sure thing. No, wait," I add when he turns and starts heading back to the docks. "Actually, I have a delivery I need you to take back for me. One second." I turn and hurry down the path to the empty longhouse, past the long tables and benches and firepits, and step into my bedroom to grab the jar of strawberry jam off my desk. I didn't expect him to follow me, but he's there when I turn around. "Here," I say and hand him the jar. "Can you please give this to Jane?"

"Is this from you?"

No, and neither is the note I tied to the lid. "Yeah," I lie.

"Mm-hm." Ben turns the jar around in his hand. "Why do I have the suspicion I'm being roped into your meddling? I'm on Jane's bad side as it is."

"Ugh, fine. I'll give it to Jane." As soon as I extend my arm to snatch it back, Ben reaches up and holds it just out of my reach. It's comedic, in a way. This is something my much taller sisters used to do all the time, but thinking of my sisters just makes me homesick, so my voice comes out flat and irritated. "What are you, five?"

Even through the purplish-yellow bruises covering most of his face, I can tell he's pleased with himself. "I never said I wouldn't deliver it."

I reach for the jar again, but it's useless, and I can feel the frustration building up. "Would you just give it back?"

A sharp metallic clank echoes in the room, and Ben takes a quick step backwards. Someone just loaded a gun.

"Is he bothering you, my lady?" The voice isn't familiar, and neither are the faces of the two angry women casually holding rifles just barely pointed at the ground. "We saw him follow you in here. Everything alright?"

"Yes, everything's fine," I say quickly and hold up a hand in reflex. Please don't shoot him. Ben lowers his arm, and I glance at the jar still clutched tightly in his hand. "I asked him to deliver something to the mainland for me." My eyes travel up and lock with his. "He was just leaving."

Ben nods once in agreement and turns to address the women. "I'm docked at the south shore."

The angrier of the two smiles, still frowning with her brows. "Then we'll make sure he gets there safely." At the last minute, as Ben is passing through the doorway, I watch as the woman not so subtly thwack him hard in the back of the legs.

What a mess. I grab my notebook and scribble all of the plans I have to keep Alex safe from her current lethal future. Maybe I should let her stew a little. It'll make the impact of this situation even more unforgettable. I find a bowl of cashews and stay in my bedroom munching away until they're all gone. Then I start heading to the Hall, making sure not to stare too long at the naked art on the walls.

That should be enough time spent worrying. I'll look like a hero giving Alex the news she can stay on Hydra, and then she'll—

From out of a circle of women, Alex spots me in the flickering candlelight and waves excitedly.

"Oh. . . my. . . God. . .what, what, ahhh, uhhhh. . ." I can't seem to form a coherent sentence as I hurry towards her and reach out to brush my fingers against the side of her freshly shaved head. "You cut your hair?"

"Yeah, we all did." Alex looks around at the group who nod encouragly. Each of the young women she'd been hanging out with—including Annie's daughters—all have various shaved hairstyles. "Why?" I watch her entire expression drop as she reaches up to feel the large triangular undercut by her ear. "Does it look bad?"

All of the nearby women fall silent, waiting for me to assess their work. My already panicked smile widens until I can't feel my face anymore. "No, it. . . looks. . . awesome," I finally get out in a strangled high-pitched whine, which the girls mistake for excited praise. As they talk amongst each other, I sink into the closest seat. She shaved half her head. Half her head is bald. What the hell? She's been gone for, what? An hour? "Girls? I need to talk to Alex for a second. Can you wait outside, please? It's just hair," I muse aloud, trying to calm myself down. It's not permanent. It'll grow back. It's fine.

"It looks bad, doesn't it?" Alex's entire being deflates. "Does my tattoo at least look okay? I got your rune."

Every inch of my body prickles painfully with a debilitating rush of fear. "Your. . . tattoo?" Alex pulls up her sleeve to reveal a patch of reddened skin surrounding a dark black rune of some sort. I can't stop blinking. When I open my mouth, all that comes out is a pained groan. This is a joke. This has to be a joke. Someone is messing with me. Maybe it's a henna tattoo? "Is that real?"

"Mm-hm. I've wanted a tattoo for years now, but all the best artists were on Hydra." Alex covers the slightly bloody lines with her shirt sleeve and takes a seat next to me. "Are you okay? I thought the tattoo came out pretty good."

"No, it's not that. . ." My brain is scrambled. Ben is going to kill me. Alex hasn't even been in my care a full 24 hours and she's already made her way through several Norse initiations. I haven't even had the chance to talk to her yet. "I talked to Ben."

Alex immediately straightens in her seat. "What'd he say? Is he gone? Do I have to go back?"

"No," I answer and finally look her in the eye. "I told him you were safe here with me, and he legally can't take you back if you don't want to go. Just. . . can you promise me one thing?"

"Anything," she quickly answers.

"The next time you and the girls want to do something. . . awesome, can you invite me?"

I sit at my desk—franticly swiping away sweat from my forehead—and crumple a dozen papers before thinking of the perfect icebreaker.

I know you just left, but I'm checking in that the mainland isn't on fire or anything. Also, do you have any strong opinions about tattoos?

I crumple up the paper and fling it across the room into the fireplace.

Any mainland problems I should know about? Alex is doing well here. She seems happier than I've seen her yet. I'm working on the plan we discussed. Nothing really to report on that end, but I'll let you know when there is.

The paper smashes up into a tight little ball in my clenched fist as I start a new note. In the end, I'm too much of a coward to tell the truth.

I forgot to ask about your spinal x-rays. What were the results? Also, any opposition to tattoos? I'm considering getting one.—Cora

I ask a nice woman carrying a baby on her back where I can find the ravens used to send letters to the mainland, and she insists on taking me directly to the aviary. Inside, I find Loki.

"Good, it makes my life easier that you speak raven." Loki hops down off his perch and lands on my shoulder. "You want me to deliver it to who?"

"Ben, please."

"Figures. Most all the mail here goes to that house. Alright," he agrees with a click of his beak. "I require payment in full if you receive a response."

"Okay." I shrug. "What do you want?"

"What are you offering?"

We eventually settle on raisins. I roll up the message, tuck it into the cute little holster belted to his leg, and he whooshes into the sky in a flurry of black feathers.

"What on earth has you so fidgety?" Gail crosses my bedroom and starts unbraiding my hair. "You haven't been able to sit still since dinner."

As if on cue, Loki flaps into the room, calling, "Letter from Ben!"

Loki pecks happily at the raisins I piled on my desk for him while I unroll the message as quickly as I can.

I'm happy to report there is absolutely nothing wrong with my spine. You're either a faulty seer, or you saw so far into the future I won't have to worry about it until I'm too old to care. And as to your other question: I can't be opposed to tattoos, considering I have two. My only suggestion would be to get anything except your own rune. That would be tacky.—Ben

I haven't even finished reading before I start laughing with relief. He has a tattoo. Two tattoos. Even if he does get angry about Alex, I can at least call him a hypocrite. "Oh, thank God." I sink back into my seat at the desk and take a fresh slip of paper.

You have two tattoos? Where?

It's only a few minutes before Loki returns with the message: Not in any places you're allowed to see.

"Are you going to keep me in suspense, or are you going to tell me who you're talking to?"

In my paranoia to shield the message from Gail, I crumble it up in my fist and turn to fix her with a tense smile. "It's nothing." I know she knows I'm lying, but that doesn't stop me from saying, "Just checking in on the mainland."

At the end of the week, I'm left lamenting the fact that this hasn't felt like a vacation at all.

Not only have the female survivors taken every opportunity to complain to me about their living conditions and general confusion as to what's going on, but my plan to watch over Alex hasn't been quite the success I had originally hoped.

The plan was simple and straightforward. As the literal goddess of love, I was going to wheedle my way into Alex's friend group and, after securing myself as a formidable source of relationship advice, convince her to consult me in all romantic endeavors. But it's been almost six whole days of spying on her because I never got an invite to any of their activities. Good news is she hasn't gotten any more tattoos or attempted to get piercings or any other body modification. She and her friends have gone surfing, practiced some songs as a band, and gossiped. A lot.

But surprisingly not about boys. Not that girls should spend all their time talking about boys, but teenage girls who spend none of their time discussing the opposite sex? It's left me confused.

I'm headed back to my bedroom after yet another day of keeping my eye on Alex from far away on the sidelines. I got cheated out of a vacation. Instead of relaxing, I got stuck babysitting. I technically volunteered to babysit her. What a load of crock.

A thought occurs to me as I wade through a patch of tall grass. I haven't heard from Ben all day. He's usually sent an update request by now. I bet there's a letter waiting for me in my room.

A chill wind kisses my exposed arms and the back of my neck, and I shiver with goosebumps. Island days are hot and muggy, but the night air is cool and refreshing after sweating for hours and hours. Best of all, there doesn't seem to be any birds on Hydra because all I hear in the fading light are the various chirps and clicks of bugs. A small blessing.

All seems a little more peaceful in its simplicity until a canvas bag is tugged completely over my head.

Chapter Text

DHARMA, 1977

They don't think I can hear them, but that's not completely true. I hear bits and pieces through the ringing in my ears.

"It's no use," a man echoes in the fog. "Leave him alone. The boy's brain is busted."

"You do realize when they find out Cora's dead, his testimony won't matter anyway. She was the only thing stopping them from going postal on this compound."

"What are we supposed to do? He has to know something."

"Let me talk to him," a female voice offers.

Warm fingers touch my arm, and I immediately twitch away from them.

All at once I see her. She's standing in the moonlight, hunched, immobile. A chunk of red meat slides down her soaked hair and lands at her feet in the dead grass. All I want is to stand and run away, but my body won't move. She's screaming. Miss Collins is screaming with a sharp intensity of something inhuman as thick strings of blood dangle from her mouth, and all I can do is shut my eyes and pray these screams don't make my head explode. I don't want to die.

"See?" the man says, his voice muffled by the hands I've pressed tightly against my ears. "I told you. The lights are on but nobody's home. And that's not going to change anytime soon. Leave him be. We have other fish to fry."

I don't know how long I've been locked in this room when the Norsemen fling open the door. I close my eyes and focus on breathing. Beheading doesn't hurt, right?

Because that's what this is about. Everyone thinks I killed Miss Collins—everyone thinks I killed Freyja—and now her people are here to dispose of me.

"So. . . you're Ben, hm?"

I open my eyes, surprised to find the question has come from a female Norseman.

"Speak up," she snaps. "Are you Benjamin Linus?" I nod, and she narrows her eyes into angry little slits. "You need to come with me."

"Where are you taking him?" LaFluer asks as soon as we step out of the room. "Gail, where are you taking him?"

Gail's lip curls when LaFluer reaches for her arm, but he never has the chance to make contact. One of the Norsemen hits him hard in the stomach, and the rest of the people in the room—all members of the Initiative—shrink away from the enormous men.

I want to ask where we're going. I want to ask what they're going to do to me. I want to beg them to believe I didn't kill Miss Collins.

Instead, I press my lips tightly together as I follow the angry woman called Gail and a group of bodyguards out of the barracks and into the jungle. I keep waiting for the moment they force me to kneel so they can hack my body to pieces or whatever it is they plan to do to me, but the next time someone speaks, she sounds very, very old.

I'm in some kind of stone fortress, surrounded by men and women whose eyes never leave me as they lean into one another and whisper things I cannot understand. Gail grabs hold of my shirt and roughly pulls me alongside her down a stone hallway and into a high-ceilinged room.

An old woman sits on a wooden throne near a fireplace in the corner, her eyes obscured by a strip of cloth. When she speaks, those in the room immediately fall silent. "Do you know who I am, Benjamin?"

I take in her clothing and jewelry and the fact that she's seemingly blind. "A seer?"

She moves slow, bowing her head only a fraction to indicate I've guessed correctly. "And do you know what that means?"

I don't understand. Are they not going to behead me? Isn't that why they've marched me out here to their Temple?

I shake my head no in answer to her question, but when she doesn't respond, I assume this confirms she is, in fact, blind. "No," I say.

"It means we have much to discuss. Step forward." Slowly, the old woman extends her spindly fingers to me in offering. "Take my hands, child."

"ARE YOU INSANE?" I hear Alex scream at the top of her lungs. In one rough movement, the sack is yanked off my head almost as quickly as it was yanked on. "She could have accidentally killed you!"

I suck in lungfuls of night air and take an unsteady step back with a hand against my throat. A small group of girls stand sheepishly nearby as Alex continues scolding them. Normally, their fear would embarrass me into silence, but I'm running on dangerously high levels of adrenaline and can't seem to stop muttering hallelujahs at the fact that I'm not about to be asphyxiated to death.

"I told you we weren't doing the kidnapping," Alex continues, stopping only when one of Annie's daughters stumbles into view and asks what happened. "They put a bag over her head!" Alex holds up the offending square of cloth, and now Annie's older daughters have jumped into the outrage mob.

The group of much younger girls all stare, chastised, at the ground. To their credit, they do look beyond remorseful. But then again, remorse means nothing if you're dead. Throwing a bag over my head to fulfill some kind of bachelorette kidnapping ritual was about as close as you can get to suicide.

It's only a matter of time before fully grown women wander over to hear what all the screaming is about. A few of them storm forward to claim their shame-riddled daughters staring holes into the jungle dirt. When Annie emerges, asking what's wrong, I realize I'm trembling.

"What happened?" she demands, pushing through the crowd of onlookers. Her attention immediately focuses on her daughters. "What did you do?"

I thought I was going to die. I thought someone was trying to strangle me to death. "They threw a bag over my head," I finally answer.

For all the screaming Annie's daughters did, Annie is even more terrifying. I take a step back, both frightened and embarrassed on their behalf. I don't know exactly what she's saying in Norse, but from the look on their faces as they try to explain they weren't the ones who did it, I can make an educated guess. When all the young women have shuffled out of sight, Annie turns her attention to me. "Are you hurt, Cora?"

"No. I'm fine." That's not the problem. Pressure builds in my finger joints. I flex them out of their tight fists. Despite my efforts, my voice comes out breathy and unstable. "I could have accidentally hurt them. I didn't know what was happening, and I could have hurt them."

Annie looks and sounds beyond exhausted when she says, "I cannot apologize enough. I don't know what to say, my lady. They know better than this."

"What on earth is going on?" Gail emerges from out of the chattering crowd and makes a beeline for me.

"I'm fine," I answer before she can ask. "I'm not hurt."

"It was my four," Annie grumbles, heavy lidded and monotone. "For some reason they got it in their heads that the Idun Ritual was an appropriate use of the goddesses evening. Flint and Peregrine weren't with them, but I'm sure they also had something to do with it." Annie fills Gail in on what happened while I focus on breathing. Both my hands are still shaking from nerves. "I just can't believe your last day here ended on such a sour note," Annie concludes, and I snap back to attention to find her staring at me.

"Hm? Oh, no, that's okay." It's not like my week's stay here had been relaxing anyway. I shrug. "They're just kids. I remember what it was like to have—" I bend my fingers into air-quotes. "—'great ideas' when I was their age."

A woman steps up and says something to Annie, who brightens a little at the suggestion. "Cora, if your night hasn't been irrevocably ruined, we have a way to make it up to you."

It's not a cold night by any means, but the breeze is cooler than it was when the sun was out. Salty ocean air wafts over from the shoreline in the distance, mixing with the thicker air in this partial cave. I watch vibrant ripples sparkle against the rock wall at the far end of the pool and wonder why everyone was so excited to make the hike out here. “So,” I ask, “it's like a natural jacuzzi?"

The woman nearest me asks, "What's a jacuzzi?"

"Oh, uh, it's like. . . it makes the water really warm."

"Yes," she answers, "it's like a jacuzzi. The volcano heats up the water."

"Ugh," Annie groans, "what a day."

I turn to give her a sympathetic smile and immediately avert my eyes, my skin already blistering with embarrassment. Annie, Charlotte, Charlotte's three sisters, Poppy, and two older women I just met—Maya and Olivia—have undressed in a matter of seconds and stand completely naked in the faint moonlight. One by one, still chatting, they settle into the warm pool with little more than a splash. It's a second before they realize I'm not amongst them.

"Everything alright, lady Cora?"

I don't know who asked. All I know is I want to go to sleep.

"Sorry I took so long." It is a blessing to hear Gail's voice. "I figured you ladies would want a little something special after the week it's been."

"Gail to the rescue," one of Charlotte's sisters cheers. "To all our hard work almost being done!" Cheering in unison, the women pass around a canteen full of what I'm assuming is alcohol.

When the canister makes its round back to shore—where I've taken a seat at the rocks edge—I wave away the offer to take a swig. "No, thank you. I'm good."

"Don't force her," Maya says, stretching both arms up above her head in such a fashion that both of her massive breasts bob in and out of the water. "She'll have plenty of time to drink at the wedding."

Gail takes a seat next to me on the ledge. "Are you not getting in?"

How are they so comfortable being naked in front of each other? With nothing to hold their drooping breasts up? Nothing to hide their stomachs? I wouldn't get in that pool even if I had a swimsuit on. I shake my head, roll up my pant legs a little, and stick my feet in the warm water.

It's nice hearing stories from the eight of them. The older married women spend their time coaching Poppy, who is newly engaged and looks slightly terrified by their advice. But as the night carries on, their alcohol intake begins to show more and more prominently until their conversations leave me searching for a way to quietly leave.

"—not to mention I didn't have the best sex of my life until after I gave birth to our first child. It was like he turned into a beast."

I tune back into the conversation at this particular moment and wonder how I haven't succumbed to dehydration from the amount of water I'm losing through all my embarrassed sweat.

"The trick is to train him as soon as you're married, or he'll never learn," Olivia adds. "Poppy, dear, I'm going to let you in on a little secret. It's all in the hands." Olivia raises her hands and wiggles her fingers in emphasis. "Don't you let him try and convince you otherwise."

I make the mistake of locking eyes with Maya, who brightens up and swims closer to my sanctuary on the rock. "Quiet, you old fools! We're leaving out the real storyteller." Maya waves over the visibly drunk women to where she's made herself comfortable at my right side. "Tell us, goddess."

I must look insane with how wide my nervous smile is. "Tell you what?"

"Tell us about your best lover," Charlotte clarifies, promptly dissolving into a fit of laughter. "Out of all of them, surely there was one worthy of a story."

I'm surrounded by horny, naked middle-aged women who whole-heartedly believe that I'm the goddess of fertility and are patiently waiting for me to recount a life event in which I do not have experience. "Ohhhh," I exclaim, as if I just now understood what she's asking for. "You. . . you meant the best. Haha. Out of all of them? Ahhh, there's so many…" I choke a cough to stall for time. "Uh, okay, uh. . . let me see. . ." I am going to blackout from heat exhaustion. "Oh, I don't know? I, um—" I'm so mortified by this conversation I cannot even think up a fake name. "I can’t choose.”

"Boooooo," Charlotte complains and splashes me with a dainty kick of her foot, much to the others amusement.

"Oh, come on. I bet you have some wild stories, Cora." Maya laughs, nudging my arm. She's almost completely out of the water, and I can clearly see her exposed chest, but she doesn't seem to care. "Don't hold out on us. We've only been alive a few decades. Won't take much to surprise these old coots."

"Speak for yourself," Olivia snaps, and they all break out into laughter again.

I'm laughing along with them just to keep from blacking out. Sweat rolls down from my hairline and into my eyes as I try to furiously blink it away. I just want to go to sleep. They're going to keep asking, and then they're going to start getting suspicious as to why I'm so uncomfortable. Just make up a story. You've seen plenty of movies and shows with sex scenes. Use one of those!

"Wait," I exclaim randomly, suddenly remembering an unsolicited story my old roommate told me the morning after a wild night out. I didn't think it was an especially spicy retelling, but by the end of it, you'd have thought I'd just introduced Fifty Shades of Grey to an Amish parish.

"Well," Maya exclaims, breaking the bewildered silence, "that's certainly one way to get the job done."

Poppy looks like she's about to be sick. "I don't understand. What was all the bread for?"

"This lover of yours," asks Charlotte. "Was he from Earth or Asgard?"

This plan is massively backfiring. I just wanted them to stop asking me questions, but it's just emboldened them to ask more. "Earth," I answer and clap my hands together, smiling. "I'm so sorry everyone, but I'm exhausted. I think I'm going to call it a night."

One of Charlotte's sisters swims closer and grabs my ankle. "Oh, please stay! Tell us another story."

I desperately look at Gail for help.

Gail's lip curls up on one side in a reluctant grin. "You lot would spend all night gossiping about sex if you had it your way."

"Nothing wrong with that," says Maya.

"How do you think we have kids?" asks Olivia.

"How do you think we have fun?" Maya adds, and the women break out into more laughter.

One second they're all laughing, and then in the blink of an eye they've surrounded Annie, who randomly bursts into tears.

"Her husband died on the mainland a little over a year ago," Gail whispers as the drunken group continues to console Annie. "Poor thing. Widowed far too young."

"You have your girls," Maya soothes, moving tangled strands of Annie's hair out of her face and wailing mouth. "Those beautiful spirited girls. They remind me so much of Ragnar."

A memory snaps to the forefront, and I blurt out, "Your husband's name was Ragnar?"

And just like that, sixteen pairs of watery, slightly bloodshot eyes are staring at me.

Annie stops crying with one final sniffle, fixing me with what looks like desperation. "You've met him?"

I thought it was a dream. It felt very much like a dream. Maybe that's what dying is. "Tall man. Really hairy arms. Bright red hair. Long beard with silver beads in it." I recall all the details I remember from my conversation with the man on the boat—the man I spoke to when I was dead. "Wait. . . if you're his wife, then who is Hazel?"

Annie, drunk as she is, seems to have sobered up at record speeds. "My eldest." Breaking away from Maya's embrace, she floats up to where my legs dangle into the water and stares at me like I'm the answer to all her problems. "What did he say about Hazel? Did. . . did you talk to him recently? Was he well?"

"He wanted me to tell Hazel something." I try to remember exactly what he said. "He wanted me to tell her that he would have done it a thousand times over again."

It's as if she's been slapped. One look at her crumbling face, and I know there's nothing I can do or say to make this easier for her. I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Let's get you to bed," says Gail solemnly. "They'll take care of Annie. You need all the rest you can get, Cora. We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow."

I should have expected it, all things considered, but it still surprises me when a small crowd amasses outside the Dharma locker room. It was a huge relief to know that they use regular showers here and won't expect me to skinny dip every time I want to wash up.

There was nobody outside the locker room when I entered, but there's a small crowd now. Gossip passes unreasonably fast here.

The women are quiet but desperate. They ask me questions about their dead loved ones with so much hope in their eyes that I just start making things up. Yes, I spoke with your father and he's very proud of you. Yes, your mother thinks you're doing a great job with the kids. Your aunt—oh, great aunt? Yes, your great aunt says hello.

One woman emerges from the crowd, who graciously step aside to let her through to the front. Just like the other women, she bows. Unlike the other women, she grabs hold of my hand and holds tight. "Lady Cora, did you by chance meet with my daughter, Clover?

"What did she look like?"

I can't help but smile as the woman's face settles into blissful memory. "You would have remembered her. She was the most beautiful creature that ever breathed air."

There was a child on the ship with Ragnar and a handful of other adults. Maybe that was this woman's daughter? "How old was she when she passed?"

"Three months, my lady."

I suddenly can't swallow. Her answer makes all the hairs on my body stand on end. A baby. She lost a baby. There wasn't a baby on the ship. What does that mean? Do babies get a straight shot into the afterlife? Was she not on the ship because babies don't have unfinished business? Where is this woman's baby?

"I. . ." I don't know what to say. All I know is I have the power to lessen this woman's pain, and I therefore have a responsibility to do so. "I did see her," I lie. Squeezing her hand and forcing a smile, I tell her, "She's absolutely perfect."

It isn't until hours later—after I've locked my door and settled into bed, cradling Fenrir and Pumba to my chest—that I allow the tears to come.

Gail and I don't leave Hydra until well past sunrise, so it is midday when I first spot the camouflaged stonewall surrounding the Temple. The aged barrier is cloaked in layers of vine and overgrown trees. Tiny white blossoms sprout from the top of one of the plants hiding the sanctuary, and I have the strangest urge to pluck them and stick them in my hair. I think the women of Hydra are starting to rub off on me.

"Lady Cora!" A man appears out of thin air, waving me forward from an opening in the stone. "Please, come in. Thank you again for agreeing to this."

"Agreeing to what?" I whisper in Gail's direction.

"His son's coming-of-age ceremony," she answers under her breath.

"Oh," I say at full volume, "yes, you're very welcome. . . what's his name," I add in a whisper. My eyes widen when Gail whispers the answer. "Your name's Eomer?" He looks over his shoulder at me with a confused raise of his eyebrows, so I say, "That's fantastic!" As if that somehow clarifies why I would be fangirling over his name. I keep my mouth clamped shut to keep from rambling about how much I love Rohan. Poor guy looks confused enough.

After he's led us inside, the man turns, clasps my hands in his own, and bows his head until his forehead touches my rapidly sweating fingers. "As honored as my boy is, know that it pales in comparison to the pride I take in knowing you'll be here in person to witness his accession to manhood."

I nod and smile and try not to come across as confused as I am. Satisfied, he leaves with one final bow.

"It is tradition that the groom stays at the Temple before the wedding," Gail explains. With one hand on my shoulder, she ushers me further inside with a quick glance around. "Brides stay on Hydra. But I thought it best if you partake in both ceremonies. Get to know your people better. Refresh your memory, so to speak."

We duck under a low stone doorway, and then I stand, motionless, taking it all in. I marvel at how the Temple is like the Tardis; it is much, much bigger on the inside.

For as far as my eyes can see, the Temple grounds are crowded with high arched buildings— some without solid walls. Open air streams through what looks like giant gazebos made of rock. Inside the shelters, great walls of stone stand chiseled into elegant depictions of stories long past by. Everything curves and flows in a harmonious rhythm, like a stream of water down a hillside. Flowers and vines latch onto anything and everything they can grasp. All of the doorways are covered in runes.

I aimlessly wander further into the grounds without listening to whatever it is Gail's trying to tell me. A massive waterfall crashes down from the side of a mountain and pools into a glimmering pond. An elephant stands knee deep in the pool, spouting water out its trunk at a pair of swans, who bob around, swimming just out of reach of the water war. I listen to them honk threats in annoyance.

I sense Gail walk up beside me, but I can't look away from this mesmerizing place when I say, "Please tell me I had everything to do with this."

"Most," Ben answers, "but not everything."

It's not the fact that he's here that startles me. It's the fact that I was expecting Gail's voice that makes me cry out in alarm and flinch away at the sight of him.

"I'm flattered, truly." Ben quirks an eyebrow, but his amused expression quickly flatlines at the sight of Gail huffing her way over. Now it's Ben's turn to flinch away as she wags a finger in his face and chastises him not in Norse, but in French. "How is that my fault?" He sounds both insulted and confused as Gail continues her tirade. "I only just got here," he argues in English, but Gail has apparently made her point.

Abruptly, she spins and fixes me with a disapproving frown. "And how many times must I tell you to stop slouching!"

I've never snapped my spine to attention so fast in my life.

Without another word, Gail turns and hurries down a stone staircase leading into oblivion. I hesitate a second too long to follow her, and then she's gone, leaving the both of us standing around in the awkward silence that accompanies parental thrashings.

I hear Ben clear his throat. "How's Alex?"

"Good," I say. "Safe. Annie's keeping an eye on her while I'm away."

"Good." He nods in approval. "Good."

When it's obvious he's not going to speak again, I ask, "What's with the French?"

"For privacy. Your people don't speak French," he snaps as if it's obvious. "And neither do you."

"Hey, I'm not the one that just yelled at you in front of your friends. Don't take this out on me."

I prepare myself for a snide remark. Instead, he says, "You're right. I'm sorry."

He looks so tired, I feel bad for him. "That's okay. I think you need a vacation," I pause and lower my voice for dramatic effect, "from Gail."

Ben huffs a small laugh. "If only."

There's a weird energy around him that doesn't match his previous moods. It's as if he's losing the will to play pretend but hasn't quite given up yet. I take note of his exhaustion while his attention wanders elsewhere, and the question comes tumbling out. "Ben?"

He snaps his head up and plasters on a fake smile. "Hm?"

"Are you okay?"

By the amount of times he blinks at me, I seem to have caught him off guard. "Why would you think otherwise?"

"Do you want me to be nice or honest?"

"My day could not possibly get worse." Ben sighs heavily and motions with a hand for me to continue. "Give it to me straight."

"You look. . . slightly deranged."

"Please, don't hold back. I can take it."

I'd laugh if a thought didn't just hit me and suck all of the humor out of the situation. "What are you worried about?"

It is this question that finally gets him to look directly at me. "Pardon?"

"You're not sleeping. Your plan worked, but you're still worried about something. You being stressed out is stressing me out. Is it something I can help with?"

Whatever it is that's causing his insomnia, it's clear he has no interest in talking to me about it. He battles with a few responses before answering, "No, you can't help. Don't worry about me. I've never been very good at staying asleep." Before I can press him further, he nods at the bag I packed for tomorrows scavenger hunt. "I'll let you unpack."

"Oh." I shrug off the bag and then immediately put it back on and tug on the straps. I can't seem to figure out what to do with my hands. "Um. . . you wouldn't happen to know where I'm staying, do you? I have no idea where Gail went."

"I take it you have no memory of the Temple layout?"

"None whatsoever."

"Might as well give you the grand tour then," he says and turns to begin his descent down a flight of stairs. I follow, surprised that they snake back up into the light, then wind even higher up into a maze of hallways going who knows where. As confusing as it is, the pathways are all open to the warm air. Every inch of the doorways and archways and columns are carved into painstakingly intricate designs. Long painted murals stretch from one hallway to the next, depicting everything from parties to battles.

"I think I might have just changed my mind." I look over at Ben when he doesn't respond. "About staying on Hydra forever."

"Is the Temple not what you expected?"

"I didn't expect it to be beautiful. I mean, people like Erik don't exactly strike me as a lover of art or gardening. But this place. . ." I spin around to better see the detailing carved into the stone. "It gives Hydra a run for its money. Oh." A rush of blood warms my cheeks as I remember the horrifying statue in the Hall of Freyja. "Um. So, all of this art. . . I mean, just to confirm. Uh. There aren't any. . ."

"Any?"

Just say it. "There aren't any, uh, inappropriate paintings of me here, are there? Or statues? Or carvings? Or. . . anything?"

I can't tell for sure, but it looks like he's enjoying himself when he asks, "Can you please clarify what you mean by inappropriate?"

"Inappropriate," I repeat stupidly. "You know. . . indecent?"

"Are you asking me if your people have painted naked pictures of you on the walls? We haven't gotten to that wing yet. Don't worry, you won't be disappointed." Ben steps around me to continue down the hallway then stops to glance at me over his shoulder. "I'm kidding," he adds with a smirk.

It's so easy to get lost here—pun intended, I guess—so I trail closely behind Ben as he leads me down yet another gallery. He's thus far obliged my slower pace so I can marvel at all the art, but he also seems impatient to escort me to my room so he can be rid of me, presumably to take a well needed nap.

I take in the nearest mural a while longer, and then turn back to make sure Ben hasn't taken off without me. Not only has he not abandoned me, but he's standing so close I almost bump into him. His intense eyes flick from me to the mural behind me. "That was always my personal favorite. But I'm biased."

His proximity makes me stifle a nervous laugh. "Biased how?" It's a stunning piece of art. I'm sure if Charlotte had still grown up an anthropologist, she'd be drooling all over this. I point at a painting of a tiny mouse with a jagged tail. "Why does this look like Pikachu?" As soon as I say it, I realize he has no idea what Pokemon is.

"That is Pikachu," Ben answers. "This mural is nothing but Pokemon. Take a step back, you probably can't see from that close."

Standing behind me, with one gentle hand on either of my shoulders, he guides me backwards away from the wall until I see what he means about the mural. I try to measure my breathing to keep the fact that he's touching me from sending me down a spiral of anxiety, but it's like my entire body is suddenly aware of itself for the first time. I've never actually been this physically close to someone who wasn't my siblings.

I wait for him to let go of my shoulders or move from directly behind me, but his hands slowly slide down my arms until he has my right hand in his. Each motion drags on for an eternity. Deliberate. A caress. He folds all of my fingers into a loose fist, except for my pointer finger, which he guides up to aim at one of the drawings.

"I painted that one." Ben leans down close to my ear, cradling his face in the crook of my neck, his voice low as he says, "Do you like it?"

Before this moment, I would have thought being in this situation would have been exhilarating or hot. I've been waiting what feels like my whole life to have someone pay me attention like this. But here, now, actually experiencing what feels very much like seduction, I feel nothing but a deep, painful nausea.

"Lady Cora?"

At the sound of the man's voice, I break out of my panicked coma and step away from Ben. A small enough step to seem inconspicuous, but far enough away that his hands lose their grip on me and fall reluctantly to his sides.

"I'm sorry," the man says, "I didn't mean to intrude."

"You're not." I'm all smiles, coughing a few times into my arm to stave off the uncontrollable laughter that had been building up. "What do you need?"

He looks familiar—beyond the fact that he's the norseman who I spoke to while he was guarding the survivors. I've met him before, but that's not how he feels familiar. It's something more than that, I just don't know what. He's easily two shades darker than the other norsemen, with a thinner build and more angular face. While not all of the norsemen are blonde or redheaded, they tend to have lighter shades of brown hair. I haven't met any with black hair, but this man has thick black waves tied up tight in a ponytail. He is, quite literally, the odd one out in this community.

"I was hoping to speak to you," he asks. "Privately," he adds with a knowing look towards Ben.

Ben mutters something in Norse. "Really?" he adds snidely in English. "You're going to do this now? It can't wait a few more days?"

"I don't see why that's a problem," the norseman responds with resolve. "I cleared it with Gail."

I can't make myself look over at Ben, but I hear him exhale slowly through his nose. "Alright. Show her to her room when you're done."

I stare at the ground, face enflaming, and wait for the norseman to gesture for me to follow him down some stairs into a beautiful grassy hillside near the water.

Sitting in the grass calms me somewhat. Enough, apparently, to help me remember this man's name. I remember at the time I thought it was funny that there was a Viking named Chris. "Christopher, right?"

He nods—seeming sad and happy all at the same time—and takes a hesitant seat beside me. "I'm sorry for not reaching out sooner. I just. . . wasn't sure when the right time would be."

"Was it a parent? Grandparent?"

Christopher tilts his head in confusion. "What?"

"I'm assuming you want to know about someone in your family who died. I've probably spoken to them recently. Who was it?"

Judging by the look on his face, I've guessed his request correctly. "My mother."

"What was her name?"

"I'm not. . . that's not what I. . . sorry. I should have sought you out earlier." He lifts a hand to swipe at some hair that's escaped his hairband. "Forgive me. I'm a little nervous."

Well, great. Now I'm nervous. “That’s okay! What is it you need?"

"It's about my daughter," he answers after a long pause. "She's. . . she's been waiting to meet you since she was old enough to understand who you are. All she's been talking about since your rebirth is how much she wants to meet you. But," he continues with a small sigh, "for obvious reasons, your attentions have been occupied elsewhere. She's very shy. Even if there were moments where you were alone, she wouldn't have reached out without me there. And I've been detained here on official business for quite a while so—" He's rambling faster and faster with a growing sense of anxiety.

I smile with relief at his request. Why is he acting like this was a big deal? "You want me to talk to your daughter. Hang out for a while, just the two of us? Calm down, Chris. That's not a big ask. What's her name? I'll speak with her first thing when I return to Hydra."

"Freyja," he answers after what seems like a lifetime. "I named her after her grandmother. I. . ." His whole body trembles slightly as he fights to keep still. "I hoped you'd be proud I passed down your name in our family."

I try to joke and put him more at ease. "Your mother's name was Freyja? I'm flattered. Although I'm surprised her parents were allowed to name her after me. Do you not have rules about naming your children after deities?"

"Well, yes, but," he answers softly, "but there. . ." He has to pause to collect himself before he can continue. "There has only ever been one Freyja before my daughter. Her's was not a blasphemous naming because it was for a direct descendant of the deity."

I can physically feel all the blood drain from my face. My eyes dart over his facial features—his dark eyes, long lashes, thick eyebrows and beard that doesn't grow much beyond his mouth and chin— desperately trying to process what he's saying. And that's when it hits me. I know why he looks so familiar. It's because he doesn't look Norse. He looks like my Sicilian relatives.

I can see in his eyes the moment he realizes I've figured out who he is. Christopher smiles with the same tinge of sadness as the women I spent all night consoling. In a quiet, almost breathy sigh, he says, "Hi mom."

Chapter Text

DHARMA, 1977

“Shhh,” Annie’s mom soothes. “Listen to me. Dad is going to be okay. He’s hiding. We need to worry about staying hidden. That’s all we need to worry about right now.”

“What if it finds him?” Annie whispers, barely audible over the rush of blood pounding in my ears. “What if—”

“Annie,” her mother interrupts sharply. “We need to stay hidden and stay silent. This is not up for discussion. Do you understand me? If that thing finds us—” Mrs. Freeman cuts herself off with a gasp, reflexively bringing up both her hands to cover her daughter’s mouth.

A biting chill flows into the room, bringing with it a flurry of snowflakes. Even the cement floor becomes so cold it feels like it’s burning my legs.

It just opened the door to the security room we’ve hidden in. It’s in here with us.

I couldn’t scream even if I wanted to. It’s so cold it feels like my sweat is freezing. Annie shivers violently in her mother’s arms, crouched under a desk. Mrs. Freeman closes her eyes and silently mouths what I assume is a prayer, both her hands still pressed tightly against Annie’s face to keep her from screaming. All I hear is the furious and frantic beating of my heart.

And then I hear the grinding of metal against the concrete floor. A long scrape, then stop. Scrape, then stop. Scrape, then stop. Whatever it is, it’s getting closer. It passes by our hiding spot and keeps going.

At the far end of the room, the monster rips open a drawer and throws it across the floor. Blank papers and assorted security documents float down near us. It is a lifetime before I allow myself to take a shaking, silent breath, the air fogging up like dragon smoke. Mrs. Freeman still has her eyes closed. I don’t know what compels me, but I lean just enough behind the desk to see where exactly the monster is. If it’s not paying attention, maybe we can make a run for the door.

In all the many possibilities I prepare myself for, nothing comes close to the truth. The monster that triggered the emergency alarms, the monster that Annie’s mother brought us here to hide from, the monster that has caused nothing but terrified screams outside the walls of our hiding place, is Miss Collins drenched in dirt and blood.

With one final metallic scrape, she pulls a large silver axe next to her and leans it up against the wall. She seems to be looking for something. Drawer after drawer, she flings papers and file cabinets around, muttering nonsense, hissing and snapping her jaw as blood runs down her chin and speckles the concrete. Her hair is impossibly long. It’s so long, in fact, that it it takes me a second to realize she’s naked.

I don’t understand what’s going on, but I know we need to get out of here.

Mrs. Freeman yanks me back behind the table so hard I hit my head. It's just a small thud. Only a second long. Barely audible over all the noise Freyja is making. But it’s enough.

We’re all three running frantic, up the stairs, taking two at a time, pushing wildly with all our might against the stubborn doors that always need oiling. I can hear the scraping of the axe behind us, getting closer. And then we are free. Panting in the frigid open air. Stumbling out onto the snowy grass. Stumbling out onto a pile of corpses.

Annie’s screaming. I don’t do anything but stare at half of someone’s body lying next to a slew of half-frozen organs. I count five dead people before my brain goes fuzzy. Annie stops screaming, but it’s only because she’s fainted. Mrs. Freeman struggles to lift her up into her arms and stumbles off in the snow towards her house. I wish I knew where my dad was. I wish he was the type of parent that would carry me away from danger.

A polar bear and its cub rip and tear at a dead women’s stomach, pausing when they realize I’m nearby. The mother—thick strings of blood dripping from her muzzle—lets out a terrifying roar and stalks towards me, no longer interested in the cold corpse. Then it stops, hunkering down at the sight of something behind me. But the excited polar bear cub scampers past me. Its roar is nothing more than a high-pitched whine.

My brain screams to run, but my legs won’t move. Instead, I turn and look at the outline of Miss Collins slowly shambling out of the doorway, dragging the axe behind her as the polar bear cub circles her legs.

I think of everything she’s taught us about the norsemen and their deities. There’s Odin, Thor and Loki, Baldr, Hel, and the rest. But these norsemen worshiped none of them to the degree they worshiped Freyja—goddess of love and babies and food. Goddess of both life and death. War and peace.

Miss Collins—Frejya—is peaceful. She spends her free time negotiating with the norsemen to keep the peace between them and the Initiative. None of this makes sense. She’s told me time and time again that all life is sacred, and now she’s gone and killed most of the compound.

Was this always a matter of time? She’s spent so long as the goddess of life she’s unable to hold back the death and destruction she’s denied herself all these years?

Each of her slow inhales wheeze eerily and high pitched, like a teakettle. She’s close enough now for me to see that blood is gushing from more than just her mouth. It drips down her reddened eyes, pours out her nose and out of her ears, runs sticky red lines down her naked body. Her head rolls from side to side, like it’s too much of a struggle to keep it upright.

I want to say her name in a last ditch effort to remind her we’re on the same side, but I can tell by the angry dazed look on her face that she has no idea who I am. Even though it’s already snowing, the closer she gets, the colder I become.

Fear overwhelms me until suddenly I don’t feel afraid anymore. Isn’t that what the norsemen believe? You get a straight shot into the afterlife as long as you aren’t afraid of death?

So I stare, unblinking, up at the Goddess of Death, and I wait patiently to die.

"I'm going to be honest." Considering my voice is trembling almost as unsteadily as my hands, I'm probably going to slosh steaming hot tea all over my fingers, but I reach for the cup anyway. "I have absolutely no idea how I got here."

"Here as in my house?" Jacob asks. "Or in the broader sense of here as in Earth?"

"Both."

Jacob raises his teacup in a silent toast and takes an equally silent sip. "So," he asks with a slight rise of one eyebrow, "what exactly is it you're hoping I can help you with?"

It dawns on me that I've left the Temple, but I have no memory of leaving. How did I know how to get to Jacob's foot? I've never had to walk here from the Temple before.

Oh no. I can't stay here for long. I need to attend that coming of age ceremony. What's going to happen if I don't show up? Will they reschedule? Will I ruin this poor boys life by not attending? Will his father hold a grudge? He'll be furious. I just know it.

Oh, God, what time is it right now? Have I already missed it?

I'm trembling and sweaty and it's impossible to think straight. Squeezing my eyes tight, I say the one thing that pops back into my overcrowded thoughts. "I have a son."

Jacob's eyes wander around the dark inside of the foot statue. "That was a comment. Do you have a question?"

"Who is his father?"

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do," I snap defensively. "You know everything."

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of his mouth. "I'm flattered you think I'm powerful enough to be omnipresent."

I take a sip of tea to force myself to calm down before replying. "You honestly don't know?"

"As I've mentioned before, we're friends. I want to help you in any way I can. That just happens to be something I don't know. Ask me something else."

Chris is Ben's. He has to be Ben's. We're about to get married. Chris is the age he'd be if I gave birth after time-traveling. I must not have told anyone. That's why Jacob doesn't know. Why didn't I tell anyone? I guess it would be a little complicated to explain, but it's not impossible. Unless something happens after I travel back to the 70's? An issue of trust? How do I know I can trust Jacob? How do I know he's not lying to me?

Jacob places another split log on the fire. "Technically," he says, "you don't. Although, no, I'm not lying to you."

"Did you just—" I pause, teacup half raised to my lips. "Hold on. . . you can read minds?"

"Thankfully, no." Jacob laughs at the idea and shakes his head. "That would probably have driven me to madness by now. If anything, it's more like the world's weakest radio transmission. Never get more than maybe a word out of someone. You're the first person I've ever heard a full sentence from. So," he adds with a small shrug, "I suppose I can read yours. Not that I'm trying to. It happens without warning. Never know what I'm going to get. Sorry."

Interesting. I pause to see if Jacob has heard me think this word, but he doesn't respond.

Jacob was nobody's favorite character in the show, mostly because the writers didn't seem to know what to do with him. He was always more of an allegory than an actual character, which doesn't make for a very interesting life. I know about everyone else on this island—well, most of the survivors, anyway—but I cannot think of a single interesting fact about Jacob. All I know for certain is he accidentally killed his brother and he has intense mommy issues. Which, to be fair, who on this island doesn't?

I finish my cup in a final swig and place it on the smooth carved table beside me. "You've always had this power?"

"Long as I can remember. But like I said, I don't view it as a power per se. Nothing really useful in suddenly hearing someone think tuna or uh-oh."

"But you can hear me think in full sentences?"

"Not entirely, but this is definitely more than I've ever heard from anyone else."

"How close do you have to be to hear it?"

"Fairly close. Again, it works more like a worthless radio."

"Did this happen before?" He's so low energy, I honestly can't tell if he's surprised by this discovery or not. "Have you been able to hear my thoughts any of the other times we've met in the past?"

"Not like this," he admits. "I don't know what changed. Maybe you've become stronger after your rebirth?"

I'm so tired of being scared. I'm so tired of people speaking to me in half-truths and riddles. I just want to know the same amount as everyone around me. "Can I ask—I mean," I correct self-consciously. "May I ask you a question?"

"I assumed that's why you trekked all the way here."

I want to know. I need to know. But that doesn't make asking any easier. "Do you know how I died? I've been told I was murdered. Stabbed a bunch of times."

"Stabbed?" Jacob looks up with the most expressive look in his eyes and I startle, considering he's only ever had a completely blank expression until now. "You weren't stabbed. At least, that's not what Richard told me."

"Ben told me I was stabbed."

"Mmm," Jacob hums in thought. "That's what he remembers, but that's not what happened."

I lean forward so far I almost fall headfirst into the fire. "What do you mean?"

"It's my understanding that Ben's never been a reliable source of information as to the truth of your death. Memory is already such a fragile and unreliable thing, and that's without whatever horrors he saw before Richard got there."

Much like the spa night on Hydra, I'm overheating from anxiety. It was relatively cool in this foot when I first arrived, but now the air is stifling. "If I wasn't stabbed, then how did I die?"

Jacob takes a long sip, taking care to set the cup gently down on the saucer before setting it aside. "You were beaten."

"Beaten? Like, with a bat?" I frown when Jacob gives a slight shrug. "By who?"

Jacob stills, looking especially serious. "Is this you asking for answers?"

"I've literally been asking for answers this entire time."

He doesn't smile at my words. If anything, he only looks more serious. "Before you died, you visited me and said there would come a time when you would ask me for answers. But you were very specific about making sure you were ready for them. I'll only ask one final time. Is this you asking for answers?"

Without pause, I answer, "Yes."

Jacob stands, walks to a dark corner of the room, and opens a chest I hadn't noticed was pushed against the wall. In a sudden bright gleam of silver, he walks towards me and offers up a long metal axe the likes I've never seen before. "This is yours," he says, holding it out in offering.

I feel a snarl curl my lips up in angry disappointment. "The big secret I asked you to keep from me was an axe?"

"Your reasons are your own. Here, take it."

A biting cold digs into my fingers the second I touch the hilt, but as soon as I've wrapped both my hands around it, Jacob lets go. In an embarrassing blink of an eye, the full weight of the axe drops to the sand, bringing me down with it. I strain to at least pull it a little up off the ground. "Please tell me I'm not supposed to carry this around."

"You have a holster to carry it on your back. I'll show you how it works, but first," he says and holds up a worn journal that looks very similar to the one Harper gave me. "This is what I presume you wanted to keep secret."

I practically rip if out of his hand, flipping wildly through the pages at random. My mind is racing so quickly, filled with so much panic, that it takes a while to understand what I'm looking at.

I'm looking at nothing. I'm looking at absolute nonsense. Words strung together in some sort of crazy word soup. Letters so unintelligible, I'm not even sure what half of these words are supposed to be. I flip from one page to the next, stifling a horrified gasp at multiple papers warped and stained with dried blood.

"This was mine?" I manage to squeak out. "I wrote all this?"

Jacob just stares at me, so I start flipping through more incoherent ramblings. Long streaks of blue and black ink dip and swirl in manic lines from top to bottom of several pages, followed by sketches that prickle my skin with goosebumps. Horrible frantic sketches straight out of a nightmare—things that would always have frightened me, but now they paralyze me completely knowing this is what I have to look forward to in the future.

"To answer your question," says Jacob, "I don't know who killed you. I'm sorry. You seemed to think this journal would be of some help." He pauses, fixing me with a pitying softness in his eyes. "I see that's not the case."

This was it? This was my grand master plan to warn me of my impending doom? A journal filled with future-me's insane ramblings? How does this help me? How is this a warning worth telling me if it doesn't explain how to keep it from happening?

I try to suck in a lungful of air, but all I manage to do is bring a hand up to cover my mouth.

Two bodyguards wait for me outside the statue, but I don't know who they are and I definitely don't remember asking them to escort me here. Did I Berserk again? Or did I just disassociate? I hope I didn't hurt anyone.

We're deep into the jungle before I muster up the courage to speak to them. "I'm sorry for leaving so close to the ceremony. Are we going to make it back in time?"

The older of the two smiles. "Why would you apologize for such a thing? All that matters is that you attend. Eomer would reschedule to any day of the year if it would be more convenient to you. But," he adds, "I believe there will be no need for that. The sun has only just set. There is plenty of time tonight."

When we finally arrive back to the Temple, I'm relieved Gail seems to have calmed down from her earlier mood. But my relief doesn't last long as soon as she escorts me to my bedroom.

Pumba hops up from his bed next to the fireplace and rushes over to me. At first I think he wants comfort, so I lean down to pick him up, only to take a step back when he rams full-speed painfully into my shins.

"Ow, easy," I say, but he's quick to cut me off with a loud oink.

"You abandoned us!"

I look up at Gail as if she has any idea what Pumba's saying.

"You didn't tell us where you were going!" Pumba presses his wet snout against my leg, but he hops away when I try to pet him. "You said to stay near you, and then you left me without even saying goodbye!"

"I wasn't gone that long—"

I can hear it in his voice—the anger, the unfiltered fear. He's so upset, each honk lifts him up in a small bounce. "You're supposed to look after me! You said everything would be fine if I stayed close to you, and then you abandoned me!"

Again, I reach for him to no avail. If I could just calm him down, he'd realize he's safe here and this is all being blown out of proportion. "I'm sorry you were scared, but—"

"You're a liar!"

"Listen, please, I was just—"

"My real momma would never have lied to me!" Pumba emits an earsplitting scream and takes off for the partially opened door. With a final flail of his little body, he's squeezed through the opening and disappears.

Fenrir seems to be either afraid or embarrassed by Pumba's outburst. He doesn't move from his spot by the fire, melting against the stone floor like a puddle.

It isn't until I stand up that I realize my face is inflamed, though I'm not sure whether its from the realization that Pumba's anger is justified or from the shame of not being able to mitigate his fear. I have to clear my throat twice before I can ask, "Do you agree with him?"

"We were just worried," Fenrir says. "Since you always tell us where you'll be. You rushed away so quickly, and they wouldn't let us leave to follow you."

I want to comfort him, but I don't know how. Good job, asshole. Look what you did. Pumba hates you now, and Fenrir won't even look you in the eye. Do I pet him? Apologize? I don't even fully understand what I'm apologizing for. No, that's not true. I made a big deal about staying near me, and then I left to talk to Jacob without even thinking about bringing them with me. Pumba's right, I suck.

I am suddenly unbelievably tired.

Clearing my throat again does little to relieve the rapidly growing pain. "I'm sorry I worried you two. I hope you know I would never abandon you. I just. . . had to run a quick errand is all, and then I came right back. I should have told you. I'm sorry."

Fenrir slinks over and licks my hand, and it seems all is forgiven. At least with him.

"Can you please go find Pumba and convince him to come back? You have such a good nose," I praise, smiling as his tail begins to wag. "I know you can find him."

"You found your axe," Ben comments flatly. "Good for you."

I adjust the dead weight on my shoulder and wish Gail would come back. She's the one who told me to bring this stupid hunk of metal. After dressing me in a layering of dark cloth and fur, braiding my hair, painting my face with intricate thin black lines, and showing me where to stand for the ceremony, she disappeared, leaving me alone with a tired and irritable Ben.

Ben and I stand atop one of the open balconies overlooking a torch-lit courtyard where Eomer and his son Andor are preparing for the ritual. From here, I can see most of the crowd gathered on various levels below us and circled around the courtyard itself for the best view. Another uproar sounds from the crowd below as the younger teen boys hoot and holler and shove each other excitedly. Even though the party is outside, the voices of all these people combined rise to deafening levels. Everyone is talking to someone about something.

Gail has prepped me for every other social gathering I've attended on this island, but nobody prepared me for what this ceremony entails. I lean against the balcony railing and watch as a group of teenagers laugh raucously, pushing and shoving in an ever-increasing physical match.

When Eomer raises his arms to make an announcement, I expect the crowd to quiet down somewhat so I can hear what he's saying. Instead, the group explodes into ear-splitting chants of what sounds like an owl's hoot.

Ben stands directly beside me, but I don't turn towards him when I ask, "What is he saying? I can't hear anything over all this screaming."

"I think he's thanking you for being here. He's looking up here now. You should wave."

I'm trying to piece together what Ben's saying, but his words sound like an unintelligible hum next to the screams and cheers and whistles. "What?" I yell over the noise.

"Wave at them," he yells back.

"What?" I finally turn to look at him and point to one of my ears. "I can't hear you!"

Ben grabs my wrist and flings my arm up until it's fully extended above my head, holding it there until the impossible happens—the shouting somehow intensifies. I watch as a particularly boisterous group of boys all simultaneously blow me a kiss. It is only when someone tosses Eomer what looks like a bamboo pole that Ben releases my wrist and takes a seat.

What's with the bamboo? Are they going to play a round of father-son golf? Host a limbo competition? I smile, shaking my head at the absurdity of it all. How low can you go? Hope it's low enough, or we won't consider you a man!

Eomer twirls the pole around once in his hand before gripping it tightly like a baseball bat and swinging it full-force into his son's chest. Andor immediately buckles, dropping to his knees as the crowd cries out in sympathy pain.

I can't immediately move. I can't scream. I can't run. I can't even blink. My eyes dart to a group of young boys gathered near the edge of the onlookers and watch as they break out into laughter as Eomer brings the pole down hard on the back of his son's spine.

Sweat is already pooling in-between my fingers when I turn to Ben and try and ask, "Why is this happening?" and "What is the point of this?" at the same time and end up screaming, "What this?"

He yawns, evidently too tired to make fun of my misspeak. "Typically, a coming-of-age ceremony represents—"

"No," I try to clarify, panic rising in my voice, "what is the point of this? Eomer's just beating him!"

"Yes, that's the point."

"Why doesn't Andor fight back?"

Ben doesn't look shocked at the sight of the violence. He motions for me to take a seat next to him so he doesn't have to yell. "This ceremony is not about fighting back."

"Then what does this accomplish?"

"Fear of death is a mortal sin," Ben explains in a completely putout rush. "If you no longer fear pain, you've won half the battle. That's what this Temple is primarily used for."

"For beating children?"

A roar so loud it vibrates my ribs echoes throughout the darkness. I look back down just in time to watch Andor attempt to stand, only to receive a sharp crack of bamboo across his back, sending him sprawling out on the floor.

"For endurance training," Ben continues as soon as we can at least somewhat hear each other again. "You start as soon as your mother approves it. Usually no later than ten. That means Andor has been training for—" Ben pauses again to yawn. "About six years. I know it may look bad, but I guarantee this is nothing for him at this point."

My jaw hangs open in horror as I try to process what he's saying. "All these dads get together and beat their sons to prepare them for an even worse beating when they're older?"

Ben shrugs one shoulder half-heartedly. "It doesn't take very long to become desensitized. Well," he winces, pausing to tilt his head at the commotion down below. "That one probably hurt. He's not supposed to get that close to his skull. A concussion is not the end-goal." I don't notice I'm staring until Ben looks over at me and asks, "What?"

"They did this to you, too?"

"No one is exempt if they want to live among your people."

If Erik descended from a line of Jarls, that probably means he's been training his entire life. "Erik still seemed pretty terrified of death the last time I saw him."

Ben barks a laugh and rubs his tired eyes. "To be fair, fear of you is a little different than fear of death."

"You still seemed terrified at the prospect of a spinal tumor."

"That's because I—" He catches himself, even through his apparent exhaustion. "That's different."

"How?"

Ben brings up a hand to rub at his eyes. "Can't you please just watch the ceremony? It's almost over."

"This isn't right."

There's a moment's pause, and I think the conversation has ended. Without warning, Ben reaches over and punches my arm.

I've never been punched before. Not properly. Nothing beyond a girly smack in class to get my attention. It's so sudden and shocking and genuinely painful, I just stare at him in confusion.

"Did that hurt?"

"You just hit me," I whisper in disbelief, bringing up a hand to rub the throbbing pain away. "Yes, it hurt."

"Well," he says, already turning away to focus his attention back on the ceremony, "it wouldn't have hurt if you'd trained like the rest of us."

As if my self-defense instincts are delayed beyond reason, it's a few seconds of deliberation before I reach over and punch his arm as hard as I can.

"See?" He smiles smugly. "Barely even registered. Are you. . ." Ben's bloodshot eyes widen slightly as he turns fully in his seat to gawk at me. "Are you crying?"

I swipe at my face and sure enough my hand comes away wet, my cheeks already dampened with a silent stream of new tears. I'm so confused and scared and hurt that I can't speak. I can't ask why he's doing this. I can't tell him to leave me alone. All I can do is stare at him. His shape blurs more and more as the tears come quicker, waiting for his inevitable apology.

All he says is, "Can you please not mention this to Gail?"

From over the roar of the excitable crowd, one voice pierces the noise and makes Ben shoot up from his seat. "Benjamin Linus! What did you do this time?" Gail's blurred form hurries towards me, swiping away stray hair from my face and cradling me against her chest. Her worried expression turns to fury as it locks on Ben. "You absolute wretch. Why can't I leave you two alone without you upsetting her?"

"Of course I'm upset," I say, breaking away from Gail's smothering. Ben sinks in his seat just the tiniest bit, slumping under Gail's stare as he waits for me to tell her the details. I wipe my face and cough. "This ceremony is upsetting. You expect me to sit here and watch this and not be upset? Why didn't you tell me this was going to be applauded child abuse? Why did you think I would want to watch this?"

Gail attempts to regain her composure, but it's evident she's surprised I'm angry at her. "I understand this can be a little upsetting to watch the first time," she stumbles to explain, "but these boys have been—"

"Training their whole lives. I know and I don't care!" It's too loud, too hot, too claustrophobic. I'm hyperventilating and I don't know how to stop. "I don't want to be here," I scream with a crazed resolve only anxiety can bring. "I don't want to be here!"

"You can't leave," Ben interjects. "Do you have any idea how insulting that would be?" Gail tries to cut him off, but in a surprising show of defiance, he completely ignores her. "Cora, if you don't go down there and offer your congratulations, you are going to ruin that poor boy's life."

"How?" I refute stubbornly. "How will it ruin his life?"

"Because you're here," Ben answers. "The rest of us just had to contend with the thought of you watching and approving our ceremony from the great beyond. But you're physically here now. So if you don't at least make an appearance at his celebratory dinner, it's going to look like you—" Ben stops talking, looking away from me at the new sound coming from the arena.

And by new sound, I mean absolute silence. Even Gail looks spooked at the drastic change in audience atmosphere, so I walk over to the balcony to see what happened.

Andor lays sprawled out on the ground, motionless. His father stands off to the side, waiting, watching. He's not even holding the bamboo rod anymore. Nobody so much as coughs a noise.

It feels odd whispering when just seconds ago I had to scream to be heard over all of the noise. "Ben, what's going on?"

"It's over," Ben answers in an equally hushed tone. "If he can stand up unassisted, the ceremony is over."

"What happens if he can't stand?"

I watch Ben's throat bob as he nervously swallows. "He'll get up."

He just has to stand up? But by the looks of it, that's much easier said than done. Andor's entire upper body shakes like he's freezing, but he doesn't manage to push himself up very far from the dirt. His chest heaves once, twice, then he tries again, this time managing to push himself to his knees as we all watch in complete silence. It's a slow process, but he eventually manages to stand, swaying slightly, then righting himself.

He's barely had time to straighten his spine before the roaring returns and everyone is running to lift Andor up and body surf him through the audience.

"Gail," Ben yells over the noise and wipes a thumb under my eye. "Can you fix this paint in a hurry? It's all smeared."

"I'm not hungry," I blurt out. What I want to say is, I'm starving, but I'm also going to throw up from anxiety, and I would prefer to do that alone, thank you. "I don't want to go to the dinner."

"Then don't go to the dinner," Ben answers. "But you need to talk to Andor while there's still an audience. It won't count if nobody sees you do it."

"Okay." I can do that. Congratulate him and GTFO. "Okay."

Ben wipes off the paint I ruined with my tears and Gail proceeds to re-paint the lines under my eyes as quickly as she can.

"There," she says. "Just make sure not to touch it. Won't be dry for another few minutes, but we don't have that kind of time if you want to catch Andor before those boys carry him out of the courtyard."

I'm expecting to be pushed and shoved and melded into the excited crowd, but as soon as one man sees me and inclines his head, it starts a chain reaction until a path is formed for me to approach the center of the courtyard. Andor's friends don't seem to have noticed I'm here and continue to tease him about how hard he fell down for the first hit.

"I for one was impressed." I ignore the rowdy boys and walk right up to Andor as a hush falls over the group. "You took that like a true warrior." I wait for him to say something, but he just stares at me like I've reached into his brain and shut it off manually.

What am I supposed to do now? I congratulated him. Was that enough? Ben seemed genuinely worried I would mess this up. Better go all in just to make sure.

Much like most people are, Andor is taller than me, so I have to reach up and tilt his head down so I can kiss his forehead. I ignore how uncomfortable I am and smile at him as his face inflames the deepest shade of red I've ever seen. Nobody says anything. "Well, uh. Carry on, boys. And congratulations again, Andor. I hope you don't mind that I won't be at the dinner. I need to rest for the journey tomorrow."

Finally finding his voice, Andor stumbles over a few different sentences before giving up and offering a meek, "Thank you, my lady."

As I turn to make a break for my room, I smile when I hear one of the boys say, "Aw, come on, that's some bullshit. Lucky bastard! I had my ceremony just last month. Do you think she gives retroactive blessings?"

I hold tightly to Pumba and Fenrir, curled up on my lap, staring into the void. I'm overjoyed Pumba was willing to hear me out, but I'm still sick with anxiety over what I just saw at the ceremony. I'm so embarrassed Gail and Ben saw my breakdown that I haven't been able to eat, which is freaking me out. Usually, my anxiety lessens by gorging on some good food, but even the thought of the vegetarian stew Gail brought me makes bile rise up my throat.

They must think I'm pathetic. A worthless weakling. I cringe at the thought of crying so easily. As horrifying as this all is to my American sensibilities, it seems to work fine for the norsemen. Culture shock is absolutely kicking my ass.

Maybe I can do something about it? Talk to the right people to wean them off such barbaric and violent rituals? Would they be insulted at the idea? Or would they be open to the idea by virtue of me being the one to recommend it?

I have so many questions that I need to write down before I forget them, but when I reach for my notebook, I don't find it.

Great. Just great. Where did I leave it? Where do I remember last seeing it?

The mural. The Pokemon mural. I was holding it when Ben showed me the painting. And then. . . yes, that's when Christopher showed up and we went. . . down the stairs to the creekside to talk. I ran away after that, but I didn't have it at Jacob's. It must still be by the creek.

"Hey boys," I whisper to a drowsy Fenrir and Pumba, "I'm going to go down to the creek to get my notebook, okay? You can come if you want, but it honestly looks like you sleepyheads are ready to pass out." I tuck them into the foot of my bed and say, "I'll be right back. Promise. Okay?"

The night is cool and quiet now that the party has ended and the men have all retreated to their rooms. I try to retrace my steps using what I remember of the artwork on the walls to guide me back to the Pokemon mural, but I soon begin to worry that this temple is much bigger than I anticipated.

Just when I think about swallowing my pride and knocking on a random door to ask for help, I see him sitting on a bench. For a split second he looks frightened, but he immediately relaxes as I walk closer. His mouth twitches into a small grin. I frown in return.

"You can cut the act." I scan the area for my notebook, but I don't see it. "I know you're not happy to see me."

"Of course I'm happy to see you," he says. "I thought you were Gail at first, and that would have been much worse."

It's almost a disappointment that it didn't take very long to get used to the same old bullying I've put up with my whole life. His insults don't even hurt enough to cause physical pain anymore. I ignore him as I pass by his bench seat in search of the journal. I left it here. I know I did.

Ben's voice is so soft, I barely hear him over the distant crashing of the waterfall. "I'm a little out of sorts lately." It takes a second for him to roll his head over to look at me. "Sorry."

For as much as I'd like to flip him off and cancel this whole treaty plan—war be damned—I feel slightly less angry when I get a good look at him. "You look like you got hit by a truck."

"Thank you. For earlier today," he clarifies. "Not for the insult, although I'm sure it's warranted."

I lean down to check closer to the creek, but I'd need a lantern to get a real view. Sighing, I give up the search and resign myself to starting over with a new notebook as soon as tomorrows scavenger hunt is over.

"You're welcome, I guess." Walking up beside his seat on the bench, I cannot keep myself from frowning. "Although, you've racked up quite the list of favors you owe me. This is, what? The fifth time I've covered for you?"

"Please," he interjects, sounding insulted. "I owe you two favors, at most."

Even though he probably can't see me in the flickering of the nearest torch, I fix him with an unamused smirk. "Fine. I'm calling on one now." Ben shifts away from me when I take a seat next to him on the bench. "I want you to answer my questions to the fullest extent of your knowledge."

"Oh goodie," he mumbles.

"Do you trust Gail?"

He looks up at this, startled. "You left me under her care before you died. I don't really have a choice."

"Is there anyone you don't trust? Anyone I should know about?"

"Where is this coming from?"

"Why did it take so long to discover Dolores had tried to kill me? I killed her parents. That should have made her suspect number one."

I think Ben rolls his eyes, but it honestly might have just been a flickering attempt to keep his eyelids open. "There's absolutely nothing unique about her situation. You killed a lot of peoples parents." He twitches awake, as if paranoid he's said the wrong thing. "You have beautiful eyes."

"What?"

"Your eyes," he repeats. "They're very beautiful when they're not bleeding."

"Thank you?"

I honestly can't tell if the dark circles under his eyes are remnants of the beating he got from Erik or if they're from lack of sleep. Ben doesn't seem to notice me staring at him. More than once he twitches awake to swipe at something that isn't there.

"Ben, you should go get some sleep."

All of his movements are incredibly slow, as if to prove he's reached his limit. Ben blinks, his head unsteady on his shoulders. He gives no indication he's heard me. I think he just fell asleep.

"Hey," I call, but still no response. Despite the angry voice telling me to leave him out here to rot in the moonlight, I'm calm enough now to think about what my grandmother would want me to do. I lean closer to make sure he's breathing, and he looks worse the closer I get. "Are you drunk?"

By the tone of his voice, he wants to be intimidating, but it's hard to look threatening when your eyes are flickering in a losing battle to stay open. "I haven't slept in almost four days, Cora."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Great, is there some other threat he hasn't mentioned yet? Someone else that wants to kill me? Destroy his people? Is Widmore still a thing? Is Widmore still alive?

"Why not?" I repeat.

Ben brings a hand up and rubs at his eyes. "Because I'm trying to spare your feelings."

"Like that's ever stopped you before. Spare my feelings about what?"

He doesn't sigh—by the looks of it, he doesn't have the energy it would take—but his answer is so drawn out, it feels like a sigh. "About how all of this is your fault."

There's a cool breeze tonight that whips right through my dress. I cross my arms over my chest. "What's my fault?"

"I used to have nothing but nightmares the first year after you died. They spaced out after a few years, and it's been a while since I've had one at all. But ever since your rebirth, it's all I dream about." Ben stares straight ahead, although I'm not sure his vision is clear enough to actually see anything. "I hoped at first this was a good sign. Maybe seeing you in person again would spark a memory to prove my innocence, but all it's done is make it impossible to sleep throughout the night."

"You dream about my death? Have you remembered anything? Even the tiniest thing?"

Ben scrunches his eyebrows together in what looks like a mixture of confusion and anger. "No, Cora, as I've stated a thousand times before, I don't remember what happened that day, so I just dream about absolutely everything else." His eyes only grow more resentful when I stare back with my own confused expression. "Everything else you did. To us. To the Initiative. To. . . You're being serious," he says, still sounding slightly suspicious. "If this is some kind of game, I don't find it amusing."

He waits for me to answer, but I don't understand if he's asking a question or making a statement. It doesn't matter anyway. Without a word, he stands, grabs my sleeve, and tugs me back up the stairs.

"Where are we going?" I ask as we twist and weave through corridors. I only truly begin to worry when we descend a staircase into an underground passageway. "Ben, where are you taking me?"

"Behold," he shouts sarcastically, slingshotting me in front of him. "Your wondrous legacy."

It's the largest painting I've seen yet, spanning from floor to ceiling and stretching from left to right into the darkness not lit by our flickering torch. I'm standing atop a mountain—at least, I think it's me. It's difficult to tell because I've been painted to have a polar bear's head tilted back in a roar. Each hand is raised up, holding something. Heads. Disembodied heads. I'm holding disembodied heads up by their hair. And I'm not standing atop a mountain. I'm standing on a massive pile of random body parts.

I turn to look at him at the same time an offended laugh bursts out of my throat. "This is obviously not me."

"So you don't remember? Well, allow me to bring you up to speed. This is you," Ben clarifies. "And do you want to know how I can confirm that? Because I was there. I watched as this exact scene unfolded before my very eyes."

There's something missing. A mistake. Something he's not telling me. Surely there's something he's not telling me. "What do you remember of me before I died? Before," I don't have the courage to look at the mural again. "Before all this happened."

Ben squints at me in the dark. "What's the absolute worst thing you can think of?"

I'm not even insulted at the question, just horrified. "I'm the worst thing you can think of?"

"Did you grow up with fables? Cautionary tales? Monster stories?" he continues without apology. "You are our monster. You're without a doubt the worst thing that ever happened to those of us who lived with the Initiative. I for one can't sleep, and Annie has a perchance for. . . a bit too much wine. And Dolores," he adds with an amused huff. "Well, Dolores just tried to kill you."

"I. . ." Stumbling for a response, I think back on the times I've heard his people talk about the monster. "What about the smoke monster?"

"What about it?" Ben huffs again, shaking his head like I've just said the dumbest thing he's ever heard. "You honestly think we're afraid of whatever that thing is? We can hide behind our sonic fence and keep our families safe. But you? Nothing can keep you out. Nothing can protect us from you. But don't worry," he adds snidely, "my people have all done a thorough job of explaining death to our children, so when you inevitably turn on us again, at least our deaths won't come as a complete shock to them."

I have no time to think about what he's said before he begins another tirade.

"Those of us who survived were mostly children who either hid and were spared the carnage or have blissfully repressed the memory." Ben takes a step closer, and I can physically feel animosity wafting off of him. "But Annie and I were in the thick of things the day you destroyed our people. We saw everything. We were among the few lucky enough to remember exactly what you are."

Too many anxieties flood my head at once, and I scramble to think of something to say. "Why are you letting me look after Alex?"

"And what exactly was I supposed to say? No? So you could find a reason to unleash your anger on us all a second time?" Ben shakes his head again, looking even more enraged as he hisses out the rest of his speech. "Everything I've done has been to give Alex something I never had—a trauma-less childhood. And if that means I have to submit to your demands and pretend like everything you say is a good idea, then that is the price I am willing to pay for my daughters sake." It happens again—a shift in his eyes. Like he's waking from a dream and trying to piece together where he is. "I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm just so tired."

I point behind me at the art. "Is everything you just told me true?" There's a part of me that holds on to the hope that he'll tell me this is all an elaborate prank, so my stomach sinks with disappointment when he nods yes. "Then there's nothing you have to apologize for." If even half of what's painted on this wall is true, of course he has night terrors. "Do your people have any sleeping medicine?"

"Sedatives," he exclaims in an overly sarcastic whisper. "How have I never thought of sedatives?"

"I'm just trying to help."

Ben cuts me off, somehow finding the strength to raise his voice. "By not listening to me? I told you the problem is not falling asleep, it's staying asleep." He closes his eyes and sighs. "I'm sorry."

He's right, and I can feel my face burning with unwarranted indignation. "Look, I don't know what you want me to say. All I know is if you don't sleep soon, you're going to die."

"That's looking more and more appealing every day."

I know he's being hyperbolic, but there's a hint of truth in his statement that makes me sad. I don't know how to help him, but he's right. This is my fault. I owe it to him to think of something.

"Ben?" I'm going to help him. As soon as I think of something, I'm going to help him. But first, I want an answer to a question I've had since we first met. One I haven't been able to figure out myself. A question he would never answer if he was well rested and of sound mind. "Has Gail been telling you to flirt with me?"

"That's incredibly rude, you know." I don't get the chance to ask what he means before he smiles. "Asking me questions you wouldn't otherwise ask me if I wasn't impaired." I don't know what to say, so I just stand, shifting my weight from one foot to the other before he finally answers, "She ordered me to be amicable."

And just like that, I'm flooded with a rush of calm. It's comforting to get confirmation that this is nothing I don't have years of experience with. Men used to flirt with me to get to my friends. Ben has been flirting because he's just following orders. Being around him doesn't seem so scary anymore.

"Where's your room?" I tap his shoulder when he starts slumping forward. "Hey, where are you sleeping tonight?"

Of all things, he looks scared. "Why?"

"Lead the way. I have an idea."

Chapter Text

Crackles from the fireplace sound so loud in this otherwise silent room that each pop makes me flinch. I was surprised to find Ben had been given his own room. I've grown used to the idea of a mass guesthouse, like the one on Hydra.

I add more wood to the fire before taking a seat on the floor next to the bed and hold up the copy of The Hobbit he gave me. "When I was a child, I used to—"

He interrupts with a bewildered, "You were once a child?"

I pause, fighting the urge to smile. "Are you going to let me finish? When I was younger, I used to have bad nightmares about—" I used to have terrible nightmares about my parents getting into a car accident, but I'm not in the mood to talk about that right now. "They were. . . you know. Bad kid nightmares. The ones that feel real even after you initially wake up. The only thing I remember helping is when my grandma would read to me. Falling asleep to the sound of her voice made me feel safe enough to sleep soundly throughout the night. Maybe falling asleep to the sound of. . . not scary me will help keep the nightmares at bay."

Ben's eyes flicker open and closed, but he somehow musters the strength to quip, "You think reading me a fairytale is going to magically cure my condition?"

It takes a surprising amount of willpower not to say something especially snide in return. "Well, if it doesn't, at least you won't be any worse off."

"Fair enough," he mumbles into the pillow.

I clear my throat, suddenly self conscious, but it doesn't last long. I read until his face is relaxed into what I hope is a peaceful sleep, and then I flip to the chapter I've been putting off reading.

"Well, that was. . . underwhelming," I whisper when I finish reading. "I hope you didn't pay too much money for this."

I jolt awake in the darkness at the sound of someone pounding on the door. A book slips out of my hands and slaps against the ground.

Blinking fast, I can somewhat see where I am, but as I rush to push myself to my feet, I realize I'm not in my room. Standing immediately floods my stomach with nausea to the point where I resign myself to my fate, although I mercifully never end up vomiting. Sleep deprivation is the literal worst.

That's when I remember where I am. That's when I remember why I'm here. I look over at the bed and confirm Ben is still asleep. Thankfully, it looks like my plan worked.

I flinch at the sound of someone banging on the door again.

They're going to wake Ben up and all this will be for naught. I hurry over and fling it open mid-knock. "Shhhhh!"

I bet my life Ben would have given anything to be awake so he could see the look on Gail's face. Her eyes dart behind me, and her question comes out incredibly slow. "Is he here?"

"He's not up yet."

"What do you mean he's not up yet?" Gail frowns, seemingly snapping back into her usual angry disappointment. "The sun rose half an hour ago, and you're departing soon."

I don't know how much sleep I got last night, but I do know it wasn't nearly enough. My body and brain feel disconnected, like the night of Margo's funeral. "Don't wake him." The dreaded heavy-lidded dry eyes fight against me as I struggle to keep them open. "He needs extra sleep more than any of us."

"He's not a child," she scoffs. "It will make—"

"Gail," I command sharply, "leave him alone."

Of all things, it looks like I've hurt her feelings. "Of course, my lady," she huffs indignantly, yet somehow manages a smile. "I'll be in your room when he finally decides to grace us all with his presence."

I blanche at her tone, but what am I supposed to do? Gail was so kind and attentive when we first met, but she's been acting straight up childish recently. I'm tired of having to defend Ben from her mean spirited energy, but even more importantly, I'm tired of feeling compelled to defend him. They're both at least 20 years my senior, but it's mornings like this when it doesn't feel that way.

It's stressful enough that I have so many actual human children to look after. Not to mention animals like Fenrir and—

"Oh no," I whisper, already halfway back to the door. I forgot about Pumba! Fenrir seems to be a little less paranoid, but Pumba is rightfully concerned with losing another parental figure. I hope he slept throughout the night. I hope he isn't mad at me again for not coming back to my room.

"One hundred and eighty thousand dollars."

"What?" I spin around, surprised to hear the sound of Ben's voice. I didn't realize he was awake. Did he even sleep? How long has he been silently lying there? "What did you say?"

"The book you've so carelessly tossed on the floor," he clarifies, rolling over to look at me with eyes that reveal it's unlikely he slept at all. "To answer your earlier question, it cost one hundred and eighty thousand dollars."

Ben shifts his backpack and squints at me in the sunshine. "What are you doing?"

I turn and fix him with an enthusiastic smile. Or, at least I would if I could stop yawning for five seconds. "I'm cheating. Excuse me?" I yell up at the birds. "Hi! Could any of you tell me which way a group of humans went? Would have been around sunrise, and they would have been carrying a bag about this big?"

A brightly colored bird asks, "What does the human want?"

"I. . . I just told you what I want?" It comes out like a question, but it's only because a whole rainbow of small birds have congregated to gawk at me.

"Is that human talking? How cute!"

"Look," another bird joins in. "A talking human. I didn't know they could do that."

A bright green bird glides down from the safety of the trees and lands gracefully on my shoulder. Then he screams, "Do you have food?!"

"Uh, yeah. Sure." I shrug off my backpack and pull out a granola bar. "You want this?"

Each and every one of the birds breaks out in a frenzied screaming match of "She has food!" I contemplate abandoning my entire backpack, but luckily they switch from swarming me to swarming the granola bar I toss on the ground as Ben and I make a run for it.

"So," Ben says when we've finally outrun the flock, "do you have any other bright ideas you'd like to try, or may I finally have custody of the map?"

I don't know why he bothers to ask because he pulls it out of my hands before I can give an answer.

"Why were we going this way?" Ben squints at the map like a tired parent desperately trying to navigate Disneyland. "We should have been going this way."

"No," I snap in defense of myself and point. "That mountain is there, right? So, we need to go through the valley here."

"First of all," Ben clarifies with no shortage of annoyance, "the marker you just pointed to on the map is that mountain."

I watch him point at a range of mountains on the opposite side of where I thought the map indicated. "Are you sure?"

"Is that a serious inquiry?" he deadpans while rolling up the map. "Or are you just mad about the bird comment?"

I am mad about the bird comment.

I once stayed awake for 32 hours straight because I massively procrastinated a final term project. After many mournful tears of frustration and unsteady trembling, I felt myself pass over into the mysterious world of sleep deprivation. It felt like a mix of floating on a cloud and the ultimate existential crisis. You no longer feel human. You feel like death.

I'm thankfully not quite there yet, but I'm getting close.

There's no telling what time of day it is, but I'm hot and sweaty and, if I'm being honest, bored. Which comes as a surprise. A part of me was looking forward to this scavenger hunt because it would have allowed Ben the one thing he wants more than anything—a chance to be rid of Gail. I was hoping this newfound freedom would cause him to open up a little, or at least make polite conversation. But he hasn't said a word to me since the birds.

For the first time since I've woken up on this island, I'm truly thankful for Gail's braiding skills. Having my hair up and off of the back of my neck is literally saving my life in this humid heat. I watch as Ben trudges steadily ahead and wonder if we're silently being followed. I haven't been allowed go anywhere without a guard "secretly" hiding behind a bush. Are they watching? Are they laughing?

Everything around us suddenly feels like a threat. I take a quick look around at the thinning trees as we make our way closer to shore. "How much—" A yawn overtakes me. "How much longer do you think it'll be?"

Ben doesn't turn around to answer. "We're only a few minutes away."

"A few minutes?" I surge with adrenaline at the thought of this finally being over. "Wow, they really took it easy on us, huh? Two days seems like a rather excessive time allowance."

Ben finally stops and turns to glare at me with a look of contempt. "You do realize this map is leading us to another map?"

"Oh." That's right. Scavenger hunts require multiple stops, dumbass. Of course this map doesn't lead directly to our goal. "Right."

"And that map will lead us to yet another map," he continues. "Which, if you haven't already guessed, will lead to yet another map before we eventually find the canvas bag we're required to bring home. I wouldn't be surprised if they added more maps than usual just to make my life miserable."

"Ok, jeez." You can tone down the rude comments, thanks. "I'm sorry I asked. And I thought you said we were only a few minutes away?"

"We are," he says without further elaboration.

Being this tired is strange. I don't recoil at his anger because it feels disconnected from myself. All of this feels disconnected. Like I'm watching us traipse through the jungle instead of actively participating. I feel disoriented. I feel angry. "Let me see the map."

"I know what I'm talking about." Ben points in the direction of screaming gulls. "This clearing is the only one in this area, so if we can pinpoint the exact—"

I'm about to throw an exhausted tantrum like a toddler. He felt comfortable snatching the map out of my hands earlier. Let's see how he likes it. I don't know if my reflexes are especially slow or if his are especially fast, but Ben holds the map up out of my reach before I can even touch it.

With a loud rip, all but the corner of the paper Ben has gripped in his right hand detaches from the rest of the map, taken away on a random strong gust of wind. It would be the funniest thing I've ever seen if world peace wasn't hinging on our—now hopeless—success.

Ben stares blankly as the map flutters and loops on the breeze, unceremoniously drops into the ocean waves, and disappears forever. "And on that note," he says, "I'm going home."

"But what about the scavenger hunt?"

"What about it?" He's already turned away from the ocean, heading back into the jungle. "Without the finer details of the map, there's absolutely no chance of finding the next piece."

"But you've been staring at the map for hours," I say. "How do you not know where it's buried at this point?"

"Because," he seethes, "I was looking for the marker on the map so I could begin the separate compass navigation instructions. Did you not wonder what all those numbers were on the bottom? Steps, Cora. Steps in a variety of directions that would have led to the next map. Do what you want, but I for one am not going to waste the rest of the day digging countless holes in a wild goose chase."

This was supposed to be easy. This was supposed to be fun.

I honestly don't even care anymore. You're telling me no-one has ever failed this scavenger hunt before? No-one? I find that hard to believe.

As I walk closer to the sounds of water, I realize we're a lot higher up that I initially thought we were. Peeking over the edge, I look down at the waves crashing against the side of the cliff and shiver with a burst of fear.

Maybe he's right. We could spend hours combing this area only to come up empty handed at the end. Without some kind of specific guidance, it's a useless endeavor. Great. Just great. Now everyone's going to want to hear the story about how we couldn't work together long enough to win a stupid scavenger hunt.

Does this mean the truce is off? Was this some kind of test, and now that we've failed, the war is back on again?

I turn around to follow Ben down the cliffside and almost slam face-first into my dad.

Someone is screaming. It's dark and cold, and someone is screaming. I open my mouth to call out to them, and my lungs fill with water. All four of my limbs thrash, weightless.

I break the surface of the ocean and cough like I've never coughed before. I'm in the ocean. Why am I in the ocean? I kick as hard as I can to stay afloat, but a wave crashes over me and sends me back underwater. Back to the darkness. Back to the sounds of the ocean that sound a lot like screams.

Someone has my arm. I'm pulled up into the air and gasp wildly, clinging to my rescue, unsure when I'll get pulled under again.

"Let go of me! Swim that way. That way," Ben emphasizes and gives me a push. I immediately sink, and he has to pull me up again. "What are you doing?"

I don't get a chance to answer. Like some kind of river rapid, the current pulls us towards the rocky cliffside with alarming speed. We're either going to drown, or we're going to be smashed to bloody pulp against the rocks.

Ben lets go of my arm and disappears. It's only a few seconds before the current pulls me under, thrashing me against rocks and slicing open my upper arm. I'm spun upside down and lose all sense of direction as my body smashes against rock, like I'm stuck in a washing machine.

Unable to hold my breath any longer, I resign myself to my fate and gasp, only to be met with air. I'm choking. Why am I choking? Who's choking me?

Ben finishes pulling me by my cloak onto solid ground. Then, and only then—as I lay in a sopping heap of heavy wet fabric, coughing so hard I fear I'm going to vomit—does it sink in that I'm not going to die.

"What happened?" I splutter, wiping wet hair and salt water out of my eyes. I can hardly even see Ben in this darkness, and he's sitting right next to me. "Where are we? What is this? Are we in a cave? How are we in a cave? How are people going to find us? How long will it be until they even realize we're missing? Do you think they—"

"Cora," Ben snaps with a quiet but seething force. "Stop. Talking."

Cave water falls from the high ceiling and ripples the calmer waters nearby, but I don't hear anything over the roaring waves rushing in and out of a small crevice in the side of the cliff. That must have been where my wounds came from. What I thought was me being crushed against the cliffside was actually me being slapped around the narrow opening to this cave.

I'm so full of paranoia at seeing my father that I'm not as scared of Ben as I probably should be. "Stop yelling at me."

"I'm sorry," he yells even louder in disbelief, "but which of us just jumped off a cliff? I forgive you for almost drowning me, by the way."

All this salt water has left me dehydrated, but I don't have my backpack. I'm not sure if it fell over the side of the cliff with me, or if I shrugged out of it after landing in the ocean. All I know is I need water to help calm my erratic mind. "Where's your backpack?"

"I took it off before leaping after you. You're welcome." Ben pants in the darkness, quieting for only a moment before continuing his tirade. "What the hell were you thinking out there? You don't grab people by the neck when they're trying to help you! You almost—"

I tune Ben out as memories come flooding back. Horrible memories from my childhood. Seeing my father, standing behind me at the cliffside, unlocked a primal fear that no smoke monster or scary story about the homicidal maniac I grow up to become can match the feeling I had in my very bone marrow at the sight of him. What does this mean? Was that actually him? Is this some kind of smoke monster trick, or does my family actually exist in this universe?

"Answer me," Ben yells louder than ever.

I don't specifically know what he just asked me, so I tell him the root of my problem. "I can't swim," I whisper.

"What do you mean you can't swim?"

Crisp cave chill, the unfiltered rage in his echoing voice, the fear from seeing my father, and the fact that I almost just died again is too much to process. Without even the slightest warning, I cough a phlegmy sob.

Ben thrashes and fumbles to remove his cloak, flinging it into the water with a silence louder than if he'd just kept yelling. Without another word, he quickly turns away and sloshes through puddles in the grooves of the rock until he's far enough away for his liking.

He's angry. Of course he's angry. He has every right to be angry. I've ruined this. I ruin everything.

Ben is silent for so long, I almost forget he's there. "Do you have any idea what they'd do to me if you died again? Do you even care?" It sounds like he has more grievances to unleash, but instead he sighs in the echoing darkness and makes no moves to come closer. "Why did you jump after the map? Especially if you can't swim?"

"I didn't." He waits for me to elaborate, but it's difficult to speak. "I didn't jump. I fell."

"You fell," he repeats in the most unamused tone.

"I thought. . ." I'm trying to explain myself, but thinking about my father is bad enough. I don't have the strength to talk about him as well. "Did you see someone? Someone standing behind me?"

Ben's voice echoes in the darkness, just as flat and unamused as before. "What?"

"Was there someone standing near where I fell?"

"We were the only two people up there." Ben pauses. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. "Who do you think you saw?"

I swallow the burning lump in my throat, "My father."

"Oh, fantastic," he groans. "More gods. Thats just what we need."

Tears continue to well in both eyes, but I literally don't know what to do with myself, so I stay completely still.

"How does the daughter of a sea god not know how to swim?"

Despite the stress of the situation, I'm able to think back on my studies to recall the Norse deity family tree. Ben thinks I'm talking about Njord, Freyja's father and god of the wind and sea. He has no idea I'm actually talking about some alcoholic hick from the deep south who could barely hold down a job.

"I don't know who you're talking about. I was born into a human family." I'm too tired to think up a good backstory, so I just tell the truth. "I was raised human. Until I landed on this island, I had no idea about any of this. Never talked to animals. Never healed myself. Certainly never lifted grown men over my head. And I don't—"

"Cora," Ben interrupts. "You're going to explain this all to me in great detail as soon as we get out of here, but for now I need you to remain calm."

"About what?"

I hear him sloshing towards me. "You've decided to fall off a cliff at the most inopportune time." Fingers briefly touch the side of my face, pulling away almost immediately when they make contact. "The tides coming in, and this cave is filling with water."

We emerge from the ocean like a pair of cranky wet rats. Ben pulls out a knife and severs the makeshift fabric rope he tied connecting my wrist to himself in case I lost my grip on his belt as he swam us out of the cave and back to shore.

Without instruction, Ben leaves me sitting in the sand as he disappears into the trees. Despite my initial worry that he's fulfilling his original declaration of going home, he returns with his backpack and a bundle of firewood.

"You're more than welcome to walk all the way back to the Temple soaking wet," he says, reaching down to hand me his canteen. "I'm going to dry off a little."

It took the survivors a considerable amount of time to figure out how to light a fire, but Ben has one roaring in only a few minutes. Perks of growing up with Vikings, I guess.

I'm so lost in my own thoughts—so drowsy after the receding effects of adrenaline from our cave escape—that I jolt when I look over and see Ben pulling his shirt over his head. "What are you doing?"

"Auditioning for The Price is Right." He twirls the shirt in on itself and twists out excess water. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

As he bends to pull off his boots, I notice two thin lines curling up and over the very tops of his shoulders. Guess I know where at least one of his tattoos are. As nosy as I am, my eyes flick back to the fire, embarrassed at the sight of so much skin. In a paranoid attempt to ensure he's not going to take off all his clothes so he can dry them near the fire, I ask, "Just your shirt?" I realize too late that my question actually sounds suggestive.

"If you want me to take my pants off, you can just ask. No need to be coy."

I'm sure under different circumstances, I'd be mortified. Instead, I heave a sigh and rub my trembling fingers against the bridge of my nose. "We can't keep doing this."

"I wasn't aware we were doing anything."

"This." I flop an arm to motion between us. "The yelling and sarcastic retorts and. . . we have to be able to talk to each other if this is going to work. Yes, we'll have the treaty, and our marriage means you won't have to worry about random raids anymore, but if we can't talk to each other, we're still screwed. What if something happens? What if I have questions? Look, I—" Just to make sure we're alone, I take a quick look around, but even if there is someone spying on us, we're too close to the ocean for them to be able to hear. I lower my voice anyway. "To be completely honest with you, I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Nooo," he says slowly with an extended drawl. "I for one am thoroughly shocked at this news."

"You see? You're doing it again." We both fall silent and then yawn in unison. I've only been deprived one nights sleep. I can't imagine how horrible he must be feeling. The fact that he just swam us out of a cave and all the way back to shore on God knows how little sleep is suddenly exponentially more impressive. "Thank you." I look over at him for only a second before needing to look away at literally anything else. "For rescuing me."

"I had no choice." Of all things, he smiles. "Now I only owe you one favor."

"I'm going to be charitable and say you only owe me two."

"I panicked," he says after a long stretch of silence. "Up to this point I've been at least somewhat prepared, but this. . . Gail failed to mention this would be quite the disaster it's turned out to be."

"Can you make me a promise?" He doesn't nod, but he does narrow his eyes, intrigued. "Can you let me know when Gail has plans? I know she's just trying to help, but I don't see how keeping me in the dark is helping anyone. Case in point," I add, "you'd be dead if I listened to Gail at your Holmgang. She thought she was doing what's best for me, but—" What I want to say is, She thought she was doing what's best for me, but how is you being dead better for anyone? Maybe it is. How would I know what Gail's ever actually thinking?

"She likes the power it gives her," Ben says. I was starting to wonder that myself, so it's nice to know our theory is the same. "She likes playing at being a Seer."

It makes sense. Ben would have been too young—and too ostracized—to have been trusted with whatever information the Seer had about my arrival here. Or, as these people keep calling it, my rebirth. "The previous Seer…Olga?"

"Helga," he corrects.

"Seer Helga. You mentioned before the Holmgang that she told you to practice swordsmanship. Did she tell you that directly? Or did you hear it secondhand through Gail?"

"Firsthand," he answers slowly, remembering. His mouth twitches with displeasure. "I was forbidden from visiting with her alone though. There isn't anything I know that Gail doesn't, if that's what you're leading up to asking."

I stare at him in the dwindling afternoon sunshine until he looks at me. "You're actually afraid of her."

"You'd be too if you knew what she's capable of."

"Listen, we don't have to tell Gail everything, right?" I snort a laugh before he can answer. "What am I saying? We're grown adults. We don't have to tell Gail anything." I hold out a hand for him to shake. "Deal? No more games of telephone. Just open and upfront."

"Am I to assume this is a secret truce?"

"We can continue letting Gail think she's running the show, if you think that'll be easiest. Just. . ." I'm fighting extra hard to keep eye contact so my eyes don't wander down to his bare chest. "No more secrets. Between us, at least. It's not very productive."

Ben yawns again and shakes my hand. "I don't want to talk about Gail anymore. And speaking of secrets, I believe you were going to share some of your own before our impending doom cut you short."

As emotionally exhausting as it is, I try my best to explain to him what life was like before landing here. I explain being a god is like watching tv, acutely aware of the fact that it was—in my case—literally watching tv. I cheer for my favorite humans and boo the ones making poor decisions, but I can't interfere. I watch. I judge. I laugh. I cry. That's it. That's all. Then, one day, I wake up here, and that's why I know so much and so little all at the same time.

He has so many questions about my human life, but I only give him the brief overview of my family—partially because it's making me homesick to think about them, and partially because I don't want to be reminded of all the bad memories. I tell him about my grandmother, and my strict Catholic upbringing, and—

"Wait, wait, wait, wait. . . You were—" Ben leans forward, barely able to get the question out through a disruptive bout of laughter. "You were evangelized?" I don't see what's so funny, but Ben has to hold a hand pressed tight against his stitches as he winces and laughs at the same time.

“What’s wrong with you?”

"This is officially the most absurd thing I've ever heard in my life. You do realize you can't tell anyone?" Ben wheezes, still laughing. "Your people are absolutely not ready to learn you've been converted to the enemy." He calms down a little, only to lay back in the sand and break out in more laughter. "The Norse goddess of war. . . is Catholic."

I roll my eyes, but his laughter and my own lack of sleep is making me laugh. We sit in the sand, laughing like lunatics, absorbing the heat from the fire until our clothes have finally dried.

Ben happily tugs his shirt back on. "There's nothing quite like being dry. Ready to head back?" With a few kicks of sand, Ben extinguishes the fire at the precise time the skies open up wide and it begins to pour.

We look up at the sky in bewilderment, look at each other as we're immediately drenched all over again, and practically choke to death as the laughter hits us even harder than before.

I could handle the Norsemen's taunting questions when we returned to the Temple early and empty handed. I could handle Gail's disappointed expression as I refused to give her details about what happened. I could handle renegotiating the timetable of this wedding to allow Ben and me an entire day to just sleep.

What I can't seem to handle is Ben's constant snorting of air in a losing battle to keep from laughing at the obscene garish costume Gail forced me to wear for the wedding.

"A vacuum threw up on you?" His eyebrows are set seriously, but a small smile twitches at the corners of his mouth as he takes in the fact that Gail covered my hair in ash for some reason. "You've decided to become a professional chimneysweep?"

"One more word," I threaten, frowning with everything I've got. "One more word and I'll break your kneecaps."

"I'm only guessing," he defends. "Although, now that you mention it, you do look like an unhinged Vegas showgirl who barely escaped a fire. Can't be more uncomfortable than my collar though."

"I understand this ridiculous dress," I hiss from across the table. "It's the ash I don't understand. You're wearing, what? A suit? You poor thing. Remind me again why I'm supposed to feel sorry for you?"

"You make a valid point," he says.

"You're just jealous that I have a cape."

"Am I that transparent?" Ben turns from where I'm seated at his kitchen table, starts to review the final treaty, stops, knits his brows in a bewildered frown, and turns to look at me. "Break my kneecaps? What kind of Italian family raised you?"

Gail opens the door to Ben's house, momentarily flooding the entryway with the insane volume of chatter and traditional music coming from the courtyard. With a snap of the door, the noise quiets to a low yet constant hum.

"So sorry about that," she says. Dumping a pile of bobby pins on the table, she gets back to work pinning my hair up in the most complex mess of braids I've ever seen. "I thought for sure I'd brought enough. Luckily, I was able to borrow some from Juliet."

"Cora?" I catch Ben's eye, and he slides the final page of the treaty across the table. "Do you need to read it again?"

"For the love of Mímir," says Gail. "No, she doesn't need to read it again. Here, Cora. Here's a pen. Sign right here and let's get this over with. It's barely two in the afternoon and half the party's already drunk."

I'm not even entirely sure where one ceremony ends and another begins. One second I'm signing the treaty, then I'm blinking in the sharp sunshine and standing next to Gail as she chugs a mug of alcohol.

"What do we do now?" I ask her.

Gail raises her mug and smiles. "We try to enjoy ourselves."

A woman approaches Gail and the two begin a lively conversation I can't understand. Unsure of what to do with myself, I wander around and try to remain calm at the fact that everyone seems to be in such high spirits. Great, that means this worked. Just have to hold out for a few more hours, and then I can relax and try to figure out a game plan for how to keep myself from devolving into insanity.

Even though both Gail and Ben alluded to the amount of people who were attending the wedding, I am in no way prepared for the reality of it all. As I squeeze through yet another crowd of cheerful party-goers, I stop and watch as Jack finally gives into peer pressure and starts a drinking game with a man who already seems drunk.

Now that I think of it, where are the survivors? I scan the crowd and immediately find Sayid fighting in an arm wrestling match. A few other survivors have been recruited into a round of tug-of-war, with my people and their people dispersed equally on either side of the rope.

I make my way around the different pockets of festivities, sampling foods from various tables laden with bowls and plates. Taking a few fistfuls from a few different platters, I shove the food in my pockets and spare a shameful glance around to ensure nobody saw me. When the coast proves clear, I grab another handful of some kind of dish wrapped in a leaf.

I eventually run into Charlie and Hugo and try to make small talk about musical tastes. Charlie admits to enjoying the traditional wedding tunes while I dive into the one thing my family could actually agree on—a shared love of ABBA. I walk away only when Charlie tries to convince me that disco isn't music.

That's when I see him.

"Jacob?"

"There you are." All smiles, he hands me a bulbous decanter full of liquid. "Brought you the very best wine money can buy. But not as a wedding gift," he adds. "My wedding gift is forgiving you for not inviting me."

"What are you doing here?" Eric and Liv both claimed to never have met Jacob, so why is he out of hiding? I look around at the faces nearest me, but nobody seems to care that he's here. "I thought my people didn't like you?"

"So far most of them are convinced I'm your brother." It's weird seeing him happy. It's even weirder hearing him laugh. "They think my appearance is the ultimate show of peace. But I'm here for the food, of course."

"Of course," I parrot. "Any recommendations?"

"Don't eat anything with a blue ribbon tied around it," he answers and takes a bite of what looks like an empanada. "I was told they're made with repurposed animal meat."

"Lady Cora?"

I look over at the voice and smile a little too hard. "Annie, hi!" I can tell she's drunk, so I overcompensate by focusing all of my energy into seeming like I'm having a good time. I shoot a nervous glance at Jacob, but he's long gone in the ever rotating crowd of faces.

Her eyes immediately travel to the bottle in my hands. "Is that wine?"

"This? Yeah, it's a gift. I don't want it," I add quickly. "Do you want it? Here. You can have it. It's apparently top quality, but don't take my word for it. I don't know anything about wine." I start laughing, still smiling, until my face is in unbearable pain.

Annie happily accepts the wine, uncorks it, and takes a hearty gulp. "It's a nice wedding," she says randomly. "You look nice."

"Thanks."

Annie takes another swig. "Where's Ben?"

"Uh. . ." I look around seriously, as if I know where anyone is. "I'm not entirely sure."

Something dawns on her, and she closes her eyes and lets out a huff of a laugh. "Oh wait, he's probably hiding."

"From?"

"His rugby team. Retired, of course," she adds as if it's obvious. "Team captains have a habit of getting the groom to drink until they vomit before sunset. . . but that's not what I wanted to talk to you about."

Annie keeps getting closer, so I keep taking tiny steps away from her.

"Peregrine won't stop talking about you," she says. There's no real way to know for sure, but judging by how slow and deliberately she's speaking, she's had more than a few drinks before the wine. "I hope she's not bothering you too much. I can talk to her if you'd like. Is she bothering you? You can tell me. Please tell me."

"No, no, no," I plead, wringing my hands and smiling even harder. "She's great. No trouble at all. Don't worry about it."

"I didn't raise them to be afraid of you," Annie continues with a serious expression. "I made up my mind before I had children that I wouldn't tell them what you did. They're loyal to you. My girls and Flint. All of them."

"Oh? Okay. Thank you."

"If you need a sacrifice," she manages to get out before her voice wavers and she slumps against me. "If you ever need a sacrifice in the future, you can kill me."

I try to help support her weight, amazed at how quickly I feel like I'm going to throw up. "Annie, listen, I'm not going to kill anyone—"

"It's okay. You can kill me. Just—" Annie grabs a fistful of my dress, panting the rest of the words through a fresh batch of tears. "Please don't hurt my children. Don't hurt my children. I'll do anything. Just leave them alone."

Time slows. Noise dulls. All I hear and feel is my rapidly quickening heartbeat. I free myself from Annie's grip and hold a tight fist against my cramping stomach. Breathe. Just breathe. In through the mouth, out through the nose. Panic attacks don't last forever. You just have to—

It's not working.

I spin around, aimless, my mind blank. A man runs into me, or maybe I run into him. I can't understand what anyone is saying, and I need to get away from all these smiling faces. I need to get away from this stupid party.

Slumping against a tree bordering the barrack houses, I'm finally able to get my stuttering breaths under control. As more oxygen returns to my brain, I suddenly remember my pockets are full of food and take a bite of a fishy scented brittle. It tastes horrible, but I find myself mechanically reaching for another bite after bite after bite, when I finally force myself to stop.

What the hell am I doing with my life? I'm hiding from my own party, eating food that tastes disgusting in an attempt to feel better about something that can never be forgiven. How many people's lives did I ruin? How many adults on this island are completely dysfunctional because of me? I can't even blame Dolores for trying to kill me. In fact, good for her. Maybe that would be better for everyone—

"OW!" A sharp pain swells on the top of my head just as an apple tumbles into my lap. I reach up and rub at the pain, simultaneously craning my head back to look into the tree. "What are you doing up there?"

"I was here first." Ben sits on one of the highest branches, carefully concealed by the tree's abundance of leaves. "What are you doing down there? Please tell me you're not going to start crying again. I'm sorry for the apple. I was aiming for your lap."

A distant bout of laughter erupts from the party.

"Did I kill Annie's parents?" I struggle to fight against my quivering jaw just to spare me the embarrassment.

There's no fanfare in his immediate response. "You decapitated her mother.”

“And her dad?”

“You stuck both hands in his mouth and tore his jaw off." Ben takes a bite of his own apple, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "Why are you asking about the dead? Shouldn't you know where they are and how they died?"

I don't answer. I can't answer. All I can do is cover my ears with the palms of my hands and try to think of literally anything else.

"Here." Ben has silently climbed down the tree and holds out a croquette in offering. Without waiting for me to accept it, he grabs the seafood brittle out of my hand and chucks it into the distance. "Nobody actually eats those. They're just a wedding tradition. These are much better."

I laugh through the tears when I see the basket nestled in the crook of his arm. "Did you steal all of the croquettes?"

"They taste so much better when I don't have to make them."

"I'm sorry. I don't know what to do." I'm acutely aware of how close he's sitting, but he doesn't prod for answers and seems engrossed in the food. "I just had a mother beg me not to kill her children because I traumatized her in the past. How am I supposed to apologize for something like that?"

"Never put her children in danger, or give her a reason to worry about their safety. That's about as close to an apology as you're ever going to get."

"What happened to him?" Ben was right about these croquettes. I reach for another. "Ragnar?"

"Your people used to travel much more freely between islands," he answers, and I notice how much easier it seems for him to speak now that he's had a day to rest. "What happened to Ragnar was tantamount to a fluke. He was returning to Hydra when he was attacked by the. . . other monster. Hazel was with him. That was a year ago."

"That's why she doesn't come visit Alex anymore," I mumble to myself. I reach for another croquette and think about the message Ragnar gave me on the ship. "Oh, that's what he meant. He was trying to assuage her guilt."

Ben pushes the basket closer to me and takes more food for himself. "Does that happen often?"

"What? Communicating with the dead? Only since I died."

"You ever talk to my parents?"

I stop mid-bite and stare at him in horror. "I killed your parents?"

"No."

"I killed your dad?"

"No, he did that himself. Said some things about other people's wives that he shouldn't have," he clarifies. "Cora." I look up, but his eyes are focused off in the distance as he takes another bite. "You spell it different than Kore, but it's pronounced the same. Does that mean the Greek pantheon exists?"

"You ask too many questions when you've had decent sleep."

"There you are," a deep voice booms, and I turn to look up at one of the tallest, beefiest men I've ever seen in my entire life. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

Ben smiles at the man, but his words come out exhausted. "Well, you found me."

As if picking up a kitten, the man reaches down and lifts Ben up off his feet, tucking him under his armpit and tussling his hair. "How's my favorite bear boy?"

"Cora," Ben wheezes, still trapped in the massive man's grip, "this is Kyle. Team captain back in our rugby days."

"Kyle," I repeat, already smiling up at the drunk norseman. You have won the funniest viking name I've heard so far, my good sir. "Is that short for something?"

"Short for something?" Kyle lets out a booming laugh. "I'm the farthest thing there is from short, my lady. This one however," he shouts even louder, shaking Ben around like a rag doll. "This one was a good gamble! No one else would have him on their team, but I knew he'd be useful. Our ace in the hole! Ha ha! Darted right through enemy forces like a rat."

"You couldn't have picked any other animal comparison?" Ben asks, and Kyle breaks out into more laughter, finally setting him back down on his feet.

"Bear boy?" I whisper.

"Our team name," he explains.

I stare at the both of them in bewildered amusement. The most surprising thing is realizing Ben has friends after all. Are these the men he was laughing with at Poppy's engagement party?

"There's the bears," Ben continues, "boars, wolves, and falcons."

"The falcons! I hate the falcons! The falcons can suck my balls, ah—pardon me, my lady," Kyle apologizes, suddenly looking sheepish. "I'm a little drunk. Speaking of which, you look remarkably sober, Ben. Let's go fix that."

As night falls, I anticipate most of my people passing out and falling asleep in the grass, but unfortunately the party only seems to intensify. At one point I'm corralled into the middle of the courtyard, and I look around in the sky, expecting fireworks or some other nighttime entertainment. As more and more people gather near, I begin to worry. I lean closer to Ben and whisper, "What's going on? Why are they all just staring at us?"

"Now that you're back, they won't do much without your permission," he answers. "They're waiting for you to start the dance."

"I don't know how to start the dance."

"Here." Ben takes hold of my shaking hand, lacing his warm fingers through mine. "I'll show you."

It looks easy, and that's why it's so frustrating. Ben actually knows what he's doing—each step in time to the drums in what looks like simple footwork—but when I try to emulate him, it's like my feet and my brain disconnect. At least everyone else has started dancing, so I don't have an audience to snicker at my attempts.

"Don't be discouraged," says Ben, as if he could read my mind. "It is more difficult than it looks. Try closing your eyes for a second and get a sense of the beat before trying to copy me."

Just as I think I'm catching on to the rhythm and footwork, a new song starts and a completely different dance begins. I'm sweaty and embarrassed and covered in ash, but when all of the people nearest us grab their partners hands and start hopping in a circle formation, I rush to copy them. "This is a viking hoedown from hell," I tell an amused looking Ben. "The Christian one, too. Not the cool Norse one. Oh, wow. Don't look now." I nod my head conspiratorially towards one of the massive cases holding the mead. "You're officially off the hook for the night. Gail is absolutely wasted."

Ben leans in close to the side of my face, so he doesn't have to shout over the roaring crowd. “Why haven't you asked about the tattoo on my back?”

His breath tickles a loose strand of hair near my ear, but I don’t move away. “What are you talking about?”

“I know you saw it on the beach.”

“What about it? I’m more curious about where your other one is.” I pull away and narrow my eyes. "Is this Gail approved flirting?"

“Don't insult me,” he retorts, smiling. “If this were Gail approved, I'd never have clearance to ask to see your ankles.”

“Can’t see them anyway in these boots.”

“The night is young.”

“How are you not drunk, by the way?” We break apart, spin once, and rejoin. "I thought Kyle was supposed to make you vomit before nightfall?"

"Ah, well, fortunately he'd already gotten a head start before he found me. I simply waited for him to knock one back so I could toss my serving in the grass while he was distracted.” Ben raises his eyebrows in amusement. “He thinks I've had four horns full.”

"Genius." As the song ends, I take note of how the jumping and rushing around the courtyard has made my feet sore and swollen in my boots. "Well, not that this hasn't been fun, but I'm exhausted. Do you think Jane would mind if I crashed on her couch? I don't feel like sailing back to Hydra tonight."

Ben tilts his head ever so slightly in confusion, his eyes momentarily widening with understanding. "Oh. I'm. . . Cora, I'm sorry, I thought. . . I thought surely Gail would have told you."

I can feel my brows pulling themselves into an automatic frown. "Told me what?"

"The wedding ends at sunrise. You're not allowed to leave the circle until then."

"Circle?" I spin around just as a long loop of women lock arms together, chaining us within the parameter of the courtyard. "Wait. . . sunrise?"

Ben is suddenly swarmed by women, and it's then that I realize that the only people enclosed in the dance circle are women. I can't understand what they're saying to him, but he nods and responds in Norse and they leave him alone.

"It would seem I'm being expelled from the dance-floor," Ben tells me, not seeming particularly aggravated. As if to prove he was joking, Ben offers the most genuine smile I've ever seen on him. "Enjoy yourself."

"Whoa, wait." I reach out and grab hold of his hand as an unfamiliar surge rushes up from my stomach, filling my head with endorphins. "Where are you going?"

"Oh," he exhales. "I'll be around here somewhere. Puking an obscene amount of alcohol, if the rest of my team has anything to say about it."

A confusing feeling settles in the pit of my abdomen. "Do you have to go?"

"Afraid so."

"Do you think they'll let you stay if I ask?" I feel my face burn at his curious expression. "You're the only sober person I know here. What am I supposed to do for the next five or six hours?"

"What everyone else is doing," he answers. "Drink."

"I don't drink." Yes, well, I also said that I'd never get married, and I'm literally at my own wedding right now. "Ive never. . ." I don't know why, but I'm suddenly embarrassed. "I've never had alcohol before."

"You can drink or you can dance." Ben's expression suddenly softens when he realizes how uncomfortable I am. "You don't have to drink if you don't want to. Do what makes you happy." Another round of women begin yelling at him to leave the circle. He gives my shoulder a light squeeze before disappearing into the female mob.

I am so unbelievably bored. How long has it been? How much longer until I can leave this circle and take a nap? Would anyone object if I just took a nap right now in the grass?

All of the Norse women know each other and have broken off in their own specific cliques—drinking, laughing, gossiping, and dancing together. Nobody pays me any mind.

I am a literal god, and I still can't make friends.

When I finally see a familiar face, I make a beeline for her.

"Well, well, well, if it isn't little miss world peace." Jane holds up a wobbly arm in a toast and then downs the horn in a few gulps. "You need a refill?"

“I'm not drinking.”

“What do you mean you're not drinking?”

“Not a fan of alcohol. Not a fan of drunks,” I elaborate when she pushes the matter.

“That's bullshit. It's your wedding. One horn isn't going to get your drunk. Come on," she orders, holding out her horn. "Get me a refill while you're at it, your majesty."

I wander around in search of one of those tubs filled with mead when a women calls me to a table. "Enjoying the festivities, my lady?" She scoops Jane's horn full of mead and hands it back to me.

The realization hits me like a brick.

I just got married. I just broke the most important promise I ever made myself. I'm married and Jane's right. One horn isn't going to get me drunk. Isn't that the sinful part of drinking? You can drink if you want. Jesus used to drink wine. You just can't get drunk. One horn won't get me drunk.

I inhale and ask, "Can I have another, please?"

"Oh," the woman says in surprise. "Of course, my lady. Be careful!"

I don't bother explaining only one horn is for me.

Jane lights up when she sees I have two horns. "You got one for yourself? That's more like it! Come on, I'll do one if you do one. Skol, skol, skol," she chants, grabs her horn, clanks them together, and downs it in a few gulps.

I plug my nose and chug, expecting the burn of alcohol. All I taste when I unplug my nose is a terrible earthy aftertaste. "That didn't taste anything like alcohol."

"Who made this weak brew?" Jane sniffs her cup. “I swear, if they let Helga back into the brewery… ugh, that was actually pretty disgusting. Get me one from a different batch, will you?”

I return with two more horns, not intending to drink mine. Jane downs hers in a few gulps.

“Much better,” she gasps and wipes her mouth. “So, what do you think?”

“About what?”

“About what?” she mocks in a drunken singsong voice. “The wedding, Cora. What do you think about the wedding?”

I shrug. “It’s nice.”

“That’s not very specific.” Without me offering, Jane grabs my full horn and takes a sip. “Hey, can you do me a favor? Take it easy on him. Ben,” she clarifies. “He’s had a shit life.”

I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I tug some gold embroidery on my wedding dress.

“I mean, most of us have had a shit life,” she continues. “But he’s had. . . you know, a shit life. I kinda hate seeing the poor bastard so sad. He stays out of my way, so he’s automatically not on my shit list.”

“What was so. . . shit about it?” I stumble over the swear, having never actually said it aloud before.

Jane blows raspberries and coughs a laugh. “You should know,” she accuses. “It was entirely your fault. And. . . and. . . why is. . . why is the table purple?” Jane holds her hands up to inspect them. “What did you give me? I don’t think that was alcohol. What the hell is—Oh, shit. Oh, no."

"What?"

Jane looks down at me with wide eyes. "Was that the Beserkr Bride Tea?"

"The what?"

"Where did you get the cups from?"

I point behind me. "At that table."

"Which one?" She sounds panicked, so of course my stomach begins to cramp with worry. "That table? The one with the ribbon on it?"

"I. . . yes? Jane," I yell over the festivities, my heart sinking. "Jane, what was in that? Jane." I grab her by the wrists. "What's in the Beserkr Bride Tea?"

"Shrooms!" Jane shakes my shoulders in return, looking terrified. "You gave me shrooms, you crazy bitch! This is supposed to be an exclusive religious experience for the bride, not me!"

"I didn't know! It wasn't labeled! I thought it was mead!"

"Oh shit," Jane screams. "I think mines hitting!"

I turn and run, as if I can simply outrun this problem, and I find I am weightless. Should I stick a finger down my throat and throw it up? Is that how this works? Or is it too late? I need help, but all of these women are drunk. Each beat of my heart pulsates throughout my entire body until I can feel the individual blood vessels under the layers of skin.

Whatever was in that drink has already started to take effect because all the pain in my feet is gone. I walk past the core of dancing women and find we are surrounded. Enclosing us, an outer circle of sober women stand linked together.

"My lady," one of them asks, "do you need something?"

I smile and wave at her. "I need to find my husband." A whole new wave of endorphins flows up from my stomach and into the back of my head at the realization I have a husband. "Can I please get by?"

"Our chain will not break until sunrise," she answers proudly. "Your husband is at the other end of the circle. See if you can get his attention."

Despite my initial panic, I'm smiling when I finally spot Ben standing amongst a loud, rambunctious group. I jump, weightless, waving my arms so he'll see me over the women guarding the outer circle, but the sky is suddenly hanging much lower, and I get distracted by the stars.

"Goddess," the men cheer happily. One of them jumps onto a table to dance and immediately falls off.

"Cora," Ben addresses me with a small smile. As he walks closer to the wall of women, I notice he's holding a full horn and shows absolutely no signs of having drank alcohol, so I guess he's successfully tricked his rugby teammates. "Giving up already? We're quite a few hours from. . . are you all right?"

I only partially hear him because I'm so busy trying to catch a star. Are they supposed to be this close to Earth? I hope they don't burn my hand. I should put one in my pocket. Oh! Maybe Ben wants one?

"What are you doing?" Ben's question sounds especially suspicious, and when I look at him, he seems worried.

"Ben." Try as I might to fight it, my smile only gets stretched farther across my face until I physically cannot smile any wider. "I've made a horrible mistake."

A blast of feedback sounds through the PA system, and the band dies down as everyone looks up at the speakers in confusion. "I hope you can all hear this. DJ Pace is in the house tonight! This one goes out to the bride, despite my better judgement. Cheers!" There's a crackle, and then the familiar opening beats to Abba's Lay All Your Love On Me begin to play.

Charlie? I look up at the swirling vortex of night sky and definitely know I'm under the influence of something, but I no longer care. It doesn't matter anymore. Nothing matters anymore except dancing, and I'm missing out.

I squeal happily and turn to leave.

Ben reaches past the women and grabs my sleeve in a vice grip. "Please, let me through," he begs, but the guardian nearest Ben looks dangerously close to punching him.

"It's ok," I tell her. "He can come in."

"I'm sorry." She gives me a pained look. "Men are not permitted inside, my lady."

"It's fine," I reassure her, trying my best not to laugh. "Groom exception. Let him in. I command it."

After a brief exchange with the women on either side, they relent with a reluctant nod, and Ben slips through.

Pouring out his mead onto the grass, he quickly throws the strap over his shoulder so the horn hangs across his back and frees both his hands. I try to walk backwards into the fray of the party, but he's grabbed hold of my forearms to steady me. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"Have you ever wanted to know what it'd be like to be in an episode of Scooby-Doo?"

Ben narrows his eyes in confusion. "I'm not following."

"You're really attractive,” I say, taking a step closer and pressing up against him. Staring into someone's eyes has never been this easy. "Do you want to make out with me?"

I wait for an answer, but he just stares.

"Oh no. You don’t want to make out with me?” I look down at my damp palms and watch my multicolored sweat sparkle in the moonlight. Another quick rush of happiness gets complicated by a small burst of panic at the rate my heart is beating. I hold up my sweaty hands to show Ben the weird colors, and then I start screaming in horror.

Ben turns to the wall of women and yells, "What did you people give her?"

“What's going on? I don't . . . I don't like this.” I grit my teeth to keep from crying. "I think I'm dying. Am I dying?” I grab a fistful of Ben’s vest and tug him closer. “Please don't let me die again!”

"You're not dying." He sounds scared, and it makes me feel better knowing he cares. "What did they give you?"

I love the feeling of his hands on me. I don't ever want him to let go. I sigh and lean against his chest. "Dance with me."

"Cora, show me what you took."

In my attempts to stifle a laugh, it comes bursting out in one loud, slow motion honk. I step back, swinging his arms from side to side in time with the music as it speeds up and slows down and speeds back up again. I am an unstoppable dancing machine. I don’t think I’ve ever moved like this before. Suddenly, I cannot stop walking backwards.

Ben follows me, always staying close enough to catch me as I stumble around. He keeps me from falling yet again, and in thanks I lean up and wrap both arms around his neck, pulling him down for a kiss. But I never get it. He reaches up and pulls my arms halfway off him before I start fighting back. I’m not even trying, but Ben is giving it everything he’s got, straining to pull my arms down to my sides. He’s making very slow progress, but it impresses me all the same.

“Wow, you’re really strong.” I praise in a breathy huff against his face. “But not strong enough.” Then I hoist him high above my head.

"Put me down," he yells. "Cora, put me down, now!"

“I’m sorry. I drank one too many horns," I admit and place him back on his feet. "They keep my feet from hurting. Look, they don't even hurt anymore!"

"So," he says, straightening his suit and pausing to appraise me, "you're just drunk?"

"I think so?" I stare at my hand and then slice the air and watch as the movement lags so badly it looks like I have five separate hands. "I don't know what that feels like."

"Ah." It's almost too much to bear when his brow relaxes and he smiles. "I see."

"You're not dancing."

"I'm not supposed to be in here." He turns back towards the wall of women. "If you're okay, I have to leave—"

I don't mean to jerk him back around quite as hard as I do, but it's even more difficult to contain my strength surges in this state. His eyes fill with surprise as he stumbles into me. “I don't want you to leave,” I tell him. “I want you to dance with me.”

“I’m not supposed to—”

“Well, I say you are. Dance with me.”

I watch his eyes dart from one side of my face to the other before he relents. Ben twirls me out and back in again. I forget everything Ben taught me about dancing and start flapping my arms like a chicken. I've never danced with a man before, and the combination of his well-groomed appearance and the cool night air makes it impossible to focus on anything other than him. I want to tell him to wear a suit all the time. Instead, I grab his chin and move his head from one side to the other. "You have such a nice nose."

Ben opens his mouth to say something, but he ends up laughing instead.

"If I'm Freyja, and Freyja's a witch. . ." I release him and flap my arms like my life depends on it. "Why can't I fly?"

Hands grab me around the middle, and Ben makes a grasping attempt to keep me in his possession, but there are too many women vying for my attention. I'm suddenly flying through the night in a swirl of colorful cotton skirts. I spin with a woman only to be guided to another who kisses my forehead and twirls me into yet another smiling face. Everyone is so happy to see me.

Charlotte is trying to tell me something, all smiles, but I cannot hear what she's saying. It doesn't matter anyway because she is promptly sucked into the blob of a crowd and becomes nothing but another hopping body of joy.

I have so many friends here. It feels good to be liked.

Flashes of laughing faces, the brush of grass against my elbows as I fall, a woman's insistence I lean my head back, the rim of another horn against my lips as I close my eyes and chug the tea that no longer tastes rancid. Before I can finish the contents, someone rips it out of my hands.

From out of the chaotic happiness, I hear Ben asking, "What is this? What are you giving her?" I open my eyes and watch him sniff the horn in an effort to deduce what the tea is. "Where is your water?"

"This is our water," someone yells mid-twirl. "And you're not supposed to be in here."

Time slows and blurs out the whole world except for him. I take in his dress-shirt and vest, the dark colors highlighting everything I find attractive about his features. He's the most handsome man at this party. I push my way between two women and reach up to cup the sides of his face. "You're so beautiful."

This gets his attention, and he flinches slightly at the touch. "What?"

"Kiss me, Benjamin." I have never, in my entire life, felt this euphoric. "I think I'm in love with you."

Ben stares, unblinking, a million unreadable thoughts behind his eyes. "Are you high?" I try to kiss him again, but he leans away before I make contact. "Cora," he says firmly, "sit. Right here. Sit down. Don't move."

My mouth is unbelievably dry. It's getting harder to concentrate on one specific thing. I watch as Ben has a very angry conversation with the punch bowl woman. I stand up to tell him to leave her alone, but I'm stopped by an offering of more mead. I grab at it to quench my thirst, gulping as fast as I can.

"No!" Ben intercepts, rushing over to hold the horn out of my reach. "No more of that. Let's go find some water."

I'm so happy Ben's here, and he's mine, and he has a steady arm around me. The contact tingles with the slight pressure of each finger. His cologne swirls in a visible cloud of gold, enveloping me, perfectly in tune with the bass of my beloved Abba. It feels safe. It feels like love.

Ben spots another drink headed my way and glares at the holder to tell them to stop, so I take the opportunity to push up on my tiptoes and rest my head on his unsuspecting shoulder. My nose slides against his neck. I inhale and it all goes straight between my legs. "Mmm," I hum. My tongue darts out and licks where I feel his pulse.

Ben's grip on me tightens. "Jane," he says loudly. "Jane? I need you to—"

"Huuuuuh? Whaaaaaaat," Jane shouts happily. "Oh, Linus! Whatever you do, doooooo noooooot drink the tea." I'm not sure what she's doing with her shoulders, but it looks fun. She lunges forward and pulls me towards her, only to push me back out and back in again, both of us laughing as we accidentally knock over multiple women. Jane suddenly yanks me close as she leads us around in some sort of ballroom dance. "Listen," she yells over the fray, "I think I want to tell Charlotte I'm in love with her."

I gasp exaggeratedly, my cheeks aching from my smile. "That's a good idea!"

Jane's nod wobbles comically as her eyes widen at my excitement. "Yeah?"

"Yes, definitely! You should definitely go do that right now!"

"Yeah?"

"Yeah!"

"Yeah?"

"YEAH!" I grab her shirt to pull her down to my level so I can kiss her forehead. "You've been blessed! GO! GO! GO! GO!"

"Gail's drunk," Ben announces. "Annie's drunk. Jane's drunk. Who here isn't drunk?"

I raise my hand. "I'm drunk."

"Yes, we've established that." Ben adjusts his grip on me as we're jostled through the crowd. "Come on, we're getting water in you one way or another."

“No water," I moan, grabbing his swirling face. I just want him to kiss me, but I cannot keep track of his mouth as it becomes one, then two, then three, then one again. “I want something else inside me right now.”

"Why is this happening," I hear him mumble miserably under his breath. Instead of looking embarrassed, he just looks incredibly sad. "Cora, I need you to listen to me. Ok? Are you listening?"

"I'm listening."

"You see those women over there? Look, the outer circle? I need you to—what. . . what are you doing?"

Flinging myself down into the grass doesn't hurt at all. I roll to a stop and flop my arms at my sides. "I'm a bowling pin."

Ben closes his eyes for a second before continuing. "You see the women over there? I want you to tell them you're not feeling well and need to go home. They won't listen to me, but they'll listen to you." Our eyes lock and I want nothing more than for him to rip all my clothes off. "What are you going to tell them?"

I just want to impress him. I want him to know I listened to what he said. "I don't feel well and I need to go home."

"Yes, perfect." He looks relieved as he helps me stand and we maneuver our way through the dancing crowd to the very fringes of the circle. "What are you going to tell them?" he asks one final time.

I smile, happy that I know the answer. "I don't feel well and I need to go home."

"Pardon us," Ben says politely. "We need through. I know it's not sunrise, but I'm sure you can make an exception for the bride," he pleads. "She's not feeling well."

"I feel great," I say and wink dramatically. "He's just trying to get me home so we can. . ." One hand forms an O that I stick my pointer finger in. I look up at him, surprised that he looks comedically betrayed. Wait, that's not what I was supposed to say.

"That's not true," Ben tells the frowning woman nearest him. "She's dehydrated and delirious."

"Just try to enjoy yourself a little longer, my lady. Only a few hours more and we can let you pass," one of them tells me kindly before sternly looking back up at Ben, "after sunrise."

"Can somebody please just get her some water? That's all I'm asking for! Drag a hose over here for all I care! Hey!" Ben yells around the women, "Excuse me, Hugo? Hugo! Hugo! Are you drunk?"

"Uh, no?"

"Then you're a rare find. I would very much eternally be in your debt if you could please bring Cora some tap water. If I leave the circle now, they'll never let me back in."

All I can discern as truth is my legs have gone limp, I'm slumped against Ben, my head is flopped backwards and my mouth is wide open. Am I making any sound? I have no idea.

"Dude," I hear Hugo say. "Is she okay?"

I snap back to attention and cough. "Watch this." I bend my pinkie wildly.

"As soon as possible, Hugo?" Ben prompts.

"Yeah, dude. No problem. One sec."

"Cora," Ben's voice echoes like black silk in the dark. "Cora?"

"Ugh?" I peal one dry eye open and smile when I confirm it's him. "Hi."

"Hi." I feel his hands on either side of my body, steadying me while I sway in the silent sunrise. "Congratulations. You did it. Look," he says, nodding at the mounds of slumbering bodies nearby. "You're the last one conscious."

"Yay." I yawn. "What do I win?"

"You get to sleep in an actual bed instead of the grass." The pressure of his hands shifts to my hip, and suddenly my feet are moving. "There we go. This way. No, you don't have to dance anymore."

"I don't want to dance anymore. I'm tired and I don't feel good."

"I know," he soothes. "We're almost home. Excuse us, please."

Somehow, the women of the outer circle still look surprisingly alert as they move aside and offer me their congratulations.

"Ughhh." I want to go to sleep, but I cannot take another step. "Ben, I can't walk anymore."

One second I'm standing, and the next I'm cradled against his chest. Nobody has ever carried me before, unless you count Erik's piggyback ride to the barracks after first seeing Jacob. I like being held. The fact that he's able to carry me so easily just makes me love him even more.

There's the sound of pipes running water. A cup is against my lips, and I gulp.

I'm sitting. I'm finally sitting, and it makes me happier than anything else that's happened tonight. I'm on a bed. I want to sleep. "My feet hurt."

"I'm working on it." Ben keeps one hand on my calf as he unlaces the boots, and the touch brings my heartbeat back to my attention.

I hiss when he finally manages to pull one off.

"Don't heal yourself," he says gently, and my heart pounds harder. "I'm going to clean this up the good old-fashioned way." There's cotton balls and a bottle of something next to him on the floor. I watch as he shakes medicine onto a cotton fluff and very carefully cleans the bloody cuts where the boots rubbed me raw.

I did this for my mother when she was hurt.

A flash of memory resurfaces. My mother, bloody, skin ripped to shreds. Blood on the ground. Blood smeared across my hands. I swipe at her wounds to clean them, but there's so many. There's just so many. This is all my fault.

"Forgive me," Ben apologizes as the tears spill down my cheeks. "I should have warned you it might sting a little."

He's nothing but a fuzzy blur through my watery eyes, so I blink until I can see him more clearly. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"What's 13 plus 10?"

"Aghhh," I groan. "I can't think."

"Good." Ben doesn't look up. Instead, I watch his eyelids flutter a few times as he continues to swab medicine over my cuts. "I've been so worried about your return, I find myself unsure of how to behave around you. For years I've stressed over the details. Failsafes. Plan B's and C's and D's incase. . . incase another incident happened." Finally, he says, "But you're not the monster I was expecting."

"Aww, thanks."

His eyes quickly roll up to the ceiling before he caps the bottle and pushes up off the floor. "Let me wrap your feet, and then you can go to sleep. How does that sound?"

"My whole mystique is ruined." I pout. "You've seen my ankles." I smile when I hear him huff a tired laugh. I love making him laugh. I love the sound of his voice. I want him to keep talking to me. "Show me your ankles, handsome."

"You are going to be so embarrassed when you wake up." Ben looks like he's struggling not to smile as he blurs in and out of focus.

I smile and lie back against a pillow, my feet feeling even better as he ties a protective layer of gauze around each medicated foot. This is the kindest, most intimate thing someone has ever done for me. "Don't you want to kiss the disco dancing champion?" I sigh in an exhausted whine. “Please? I've never kissed someone before.”

“Tell you what,” he whispers. Ben leans down, and I flood with adrenaline, but he stops short and flits his eyes down to my mouth before returning my stare. “Ask me again when you sober up.”

I smile. “Ok.”

"Goodnight, Cora."

I'm asleep before I can complain.

Chapter Text

New York City, 2014

I don't even know why I'm here.

Another drunk body presses up against me, knocking me off balance as I try to make my way further onto the dance floor as shitty pop music blasts loud enough to deafen someone a mile away.

I don't even like my roommate, so as to why I agreed to go clubbing with her to ensure randos don't try and take her home is beyond me. As far as I'm concerned, clubbing is a hot, claustrophobic, dangerous waste of time. Who wants to be surrounded by sweaty strangers who may or may not drug your drink?

Besides, I don't even drink. So that means I get to follow my wasted roommate around the club as she sways into guy after guy after girl after guy so I can ensure none of them try to slip something into the glass in her hand. A dead roommate is not on my Christmas list, thank you very much.

I check the time and yawn. 2am may be early for some people, but I'm ready to go home.

"Excuse me?"

I turn towards the muffled voice and look up at a man in a suit. Who the hell wears a nice suit to a low end club like this? "What?" I yell at him.

He quickly flashes the contents of a tiny plastic bag, raising a single eyebrow in question. "You here alone?"

Ew. Not even a 'what's your name' or 'how's your night going?' We're skipping straight to the 'want to go to the bathroom and do some blow after you blow me?' What is it with guys and offering me drugs? Is it because I'm blonde and they think I'm stupid? Is it because I'm fat and they think I'm desperate?

"No," I yell back, annoyed. I don't have time for this. "I'm looking for my friend."

"Your boyfriend?"

"I'm not interested, thanks." I hurry to put some distance between me and the creep, pushing and shoving my way through disgusting sticky bodies—slipping a little in a mysterious puddle of either spilled drink or vomit—until I finally find her locked in a random man's embrace. "We need to go," I yell.

"She's not going anywhere," the man coos, "are you honey?"

I tug her arm, attempting to pull her away from the stranger holding her upright.

I've never been in a fist-fight before, but for a horrifying second, I brace myself for the very real possibility that I might have to fight this much taller, much stronger man who currently has an iron grip around my blackout drunk roommate.

His voice carries over the music as he glares down at me. "Who are you?"

I open my eyes as wide as I can and scream with absolutely everything I've got, "GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY SISTER! HELP! HELP!"

My screams have attracted some attention, and the man quickly decides it's not worth it and sets my roommate free. Then this grown ass man leans down close to my face, pushes the tip of his nose upwards with his index finger, and oinks.

It's a miracle in itself that I can support her enough to get us both outside and into a taxi. Only after I've buckled her seatbelt do I allow myself to close my eyes and decompress.

"He totally wanted to bang you." She slumps against my shoulder as we bounce over another manhole in the backseat of the taxi, her words so slurred I can barely understand her. "He totally wanted to bang both of us."

"Mm-hm."

"No, like, he totally did."

"Mm-hm."

"Cora. . . babe. . . you need to, like. . . believe in yourself. Ya know?"

"Mm-hm."

With a final sigh, she's fast asleep. A chill runs up my spine as I watch her chest rise and fall, counting the seconds in-between each rise and each fall, making sure she's still breathing. For a moment I shift my attention to the dark New York streets, but a choking fear forces me to double-check she is, in fact, still breathing.

What would her mother think? Doesn't she have any shame? Any self preservation? What if I hadn't gone out with her tonight? What would that man have done to her?

I continue to watch her breathe, comforted, at least, by the thought that I'll never have to know what she's going through right now. I'll never have to worry about waking up in a stranger's bed. I'll never have to suffer the fear of not remembering.

"I took the liberty of bandaging your feet last night." Ben holds out another cup of water, and I happily accept it. "I hope you don't mind," he continues. "It seemed a waste to use your abilities on such a small injury. I didn't want you to wake up tired and confused. Although," he adds with a twitch of his eyebrows, "I don't believe you'll remember much of last night regardless."

I feel the bandages around my feet from under the blanket, but I have no memory of receiving them. "I can't believe—" I bring a hand up to my tightly closed mouth in an attempt to keep my sick from spilling all over the bed. Taking in slow but heavy breaths, I focus all of my efforts on not throwing up. "I can't believe people do this for fun. It feels like I have the flu."

"You might find this hard to believe, but I've never been invited to one of their weddings before. I was unaware they would be serving. . . whatever it was you were drinking." Ben takes a seat on what I assume is a kitchen chair he dragged in here. "You're just dehydrated. Keep sipping water and you'll start to improve. Oh, by the way. Did your tattoo finally heal?"

"My what?"

"Kidding." I catch his smile as he turns to grab a pitcher of water so he can top off my glass. "Would you like some breakfast?"

The thought of food makes me bring a hand up to my mouth again. "No," I manage in-between a surprise dry heave. "No thank you." Breathe in. Hold. Breathe out. "I seriously cannot wrap my mind around how people do this recreationally." I pause to give myself a second to think up the last thing I remember, but I don't remember anything after drinking that tea. "Did I. . ." I blanche at all the possibilities and settle for asking the broadest question. "Did I embarrass myself last night?"

Ben brings an espresso cup to his lips and takes a small sip. "I suppose that's a matter of perspective."

"So, that's a yes." I cover my face with a hand. "Did I do anything I need to know about?"

"Need to know is a strong phrasing of things."

I can't help but think back on that night at the club with my roommate. I was so smug. I felt so superior. Look at me now. "I don't like this," I whisper. "This is. . ." Terrifying. Absolutely terrifying. "I don't remember anything. All my memories are of flashing colors, but I don't—" I sit up a little as it finally processes where I am. "Is this your bedroom?"

"It is," he answers, taking another sip. "I had to carry you here this morning."

This morning? It's not currently morning? What time is it? How long have I been here? Judging from the fact that my sleeves match those of my wedding dress, it's safe to say I'm still wearing my clothes from the party. But Ben carried me here, took my boots off, and wrapped my feet up, and I have no memory of any of that happening. None whatsoever. If I don't remember that, what else have I forgotten?

"You. . . you and I. . ." I trail off, not knowing how to ask, but more than that—I don't know if I want the answer. He wouldn't have. That goes against his character.

Then again, it's clear he's not the same Ben from the show. Not exactly. How do I know the fine details of my people's culture? I haven't bothered to ask why the norsemen don't just move to Hydra. Why do they separate the sexes? Even married couples don't live their daily lives on the same island. Is that for the women's benefit? Is this a culture of machismo and dominance that forces them apart for their own good?

If so, then where does that leave Ben? Ben, who grew up in that environment? Who still has a friendship with his old rugby team?

Was that who he was sitting with at Poppy's engagement party? The men who were laughing? Were they all in on it? Cheering for their friend as he weaseled his way into marriage to a deity, all so he could share the ultimate sex story in the locker room?

Or what if it was an accident? What if he got drunk at the party and we were both too out of it to realize what we were doing?

Oh my God, did I have sex for the first time last night and I don't even remember? I'm a statistic. I can't believe I'm a statistic.

All of the subdued nausea comes barreling back. "To—" I start, but I have to huff a few times, trying to catch my breath as my panic reaches a peak and I flush with extreme lightheadedness. "To confirm, last night. . ."

"Yes?"

"You and I. . . we didn't. . ."

"Didn't what?" Ben furrows his eyebrows in confusion, and then he understands my implication and sets his espresso cup and saucer down with a sharp clack that rings continuously in my ears. "I sincerely hope you're not insinuating what I think you are, because if you are, I'm going to be very, very angry."

The frankness in his voice instantly dissolves my fear but leaves me without a response.

"Are you serious?" His question comes out flat, but I can still hear the hurt buried in there somewhere. Without another word, he's up and heading for the exit.

I swell with the overwhelming fear of abandonment. I'm nauseous and confused, and the last thing I want is to be left alone with the uncertainty of not knowing what happened. "I'm sorry. Wait. Wait, Ben, I'm sorry. I just. . . can't remember anything from last night."

Ben spins around, but instead of a deeply furrowed brow or an expressive frown, his face is set in what I've come to realize is a much more frightening blank stare. "You don't seem to understand the severity of such an accusation, so let me explain it to you. Your people torture and hang offenders and don't burn their body afterwards. It is the highest insult they can give a corpse." He reaches the bedroom door and rests a trembling hand on the wall. "What have I ever done to make you think I should be associated with such filth?"

"I'm sorry," I plead, desperately trying to damage control, but I'm dizzy and don't know what to say to fix this. "It's just. . . I'm in your bed."

"And I slept on a chair, if you haven't noticed! You think that was comfortable?" Still standing in the doorway, Ben turns to face me, and this time his expression is furious. "I spent all night following you around to ensure you didn't die of dehydration, and this is the thanks I get? You almost broke my arm."

I'm grasping at straws, calming somewhat because I'm starting to believe him. "You changed out of your suit."

"Because you woke up and vomited on me. Twice. I don't have to listen to this," he huffs under his breath and turns back towards the door. "When you can stomach the thought of food, I'll be in the kitchen. And you got ash absolutely everywhere, by the way."

He closes the door with more force than necessary, and I'm left with only my paranoid thoughts and the gaping holes in my memory.

I'm not sure if the queasy stomachache is because I'm still recovering from last night's party or because I'm anxiously awaiting the perfect apology to magically form in my brain.

Ben sits silently on the couch across the room, seemingly engrossed in a book as he continues to ignore me. I stand in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, watching as water slides off my hair and collects in little droplets by the plate of breakfast Ben made me.

He was right about the ash. Thick streaks of it stained his sheets and both pillowcases. The whole thing just made me feel like more of an asshole, so after I took a shower to clean the ash off my hair and face, I stripped all the bedding and tossed it into the wash downstairs in the basement.

But being down there just escalated my feelings of guilt. Next to the washer, I noticed a single clump of white fur and remembered all over again what had happened to Margo. I remembered all over again that it was my fault.

Ben didn't comment on the fact that I never asked if I could use his shower, and he didn't so much as hum a thank you for doing the laundry unprompted. In fact, even though I've been standing in the kitchen, in full view of him, he hasn't acknowledged my presence at all. As delicious as it was, the omelette he made was perfectly timed to be plated, still hot, and waiting for me on the table by the time I got out of the shower, so he wouldn't have to talk to me.

Finally, the silence becomes too unbearable.

"Hey, I've been meaning to tell you." Little by little, I make my way into the living room. "I have some interesting intel, but I'm sworn to secrecy." Ben doesn't look up from his book. "Okay," I relent and take a seat next to him on the couch. "Listen to this. Jane and Charlotte are. . . a thing."

"Yes, I know," he replies, still reading.

I immediately deflate with disappointment. "She told you?"

"No, I just have functioning eyes." I'm surprised when his eyes finally leave the page and travel up to lock with mine. "The only people on either of these islands who don't know about Jane and Charlotte are Jane and Charlotte. And if you were sworn to secrecy, why are you telling me this?"

"I don't know." I shrink under the gaze of his disappointed stare. "I just thought. . . I don't know."

"Was that your version of an apology? Because I'm afraid it leaves something to be desired. Mainly the apology."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you apologizing for not apologizing? Or was that supposed to be the apology?"

An embarrassed flush heats every inch of my face and neck. "I don't know why you're so mad at me. I didn't accuse you of anything, I just asked a question."

"You shouldn't have had to ask," he snaps back.

"Yes," I agree, "I shouldn't have to ask, but I do. Because guess what? It's actually a very big problem off-island. A lot of people wouldn't have even considered it rape. That's great and all that my people take this seriously, but rapists don't get tortured and killed where I come from. They get a few months jail time, or sometimes just a slap on the wrist. So. . . so. . ." I'm so upset my whole body trembles like a chihuahua. "You don't get to be mad at me for being scared and confused. I don't even know you!"

He doesn't look at me.

I wish I hadn't come over here.

I wish I hadn't sat down next to him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and calm. "I understand now what you're saying." I feel his eyes on me and force myself to look over at him. "I was unaware that your people have an. . . unorthodox sense of justice."

"You're telling me you of all people were unaware of the state of the world?"

Ben's blank expression sours into a frown. "What is that supposed to mean?" His book is all but abandoned at this point. I have to push myself up and away from him on the couch to maintain a decent distance as he turns fully in his seat to face me. "What do you mean me of all people?"

"You've been off island before," I snap, still feeling defensive. "I don't know how many times, but I'm guessing it's been enough times to know how horrible—"

"Are we going to have a productive conversation, or are you going to continue lobbing accusations at me?" Ben checks his watch. "Because I have better things to—"

"Stop interrupting me!"

Neither of us are actually yelling, but it feels like we might as well be.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Bickering like our lives depend on it.

"—you have any idea how difficult it was to keep an eye on—?"

"—not a baby, I don't need—"

"—couldn't even stand on your own! What do you mean you—"

"Get your finger out of my face!"

We're standing. I don't know when it happened, and I don't know for how long, but we're standing. Immobile. Each too stubborn to admit defeat.

It takes a long while, but my frantic heartbeat eventually starts to slow, and I calm somewhat. "Can I suggest a compromise?"

Stone-faced as ever, Ben gives a curt nod.

"I will apologize for my misunderstanding, if you apologize for yours."

"I'm sorry you woke up so frightened," he says. "I had tried my best to mitigate that. Cora, I know we did all of this for a truce, but we're still technically married. It is…" Ben twitches his brows upwards, rolling his eyes as if the thought is overwhelmingly burdensome. "It is quite literally my life's purpose to make sure no one hurts you. That includes myself."

"Thanks for the omelette. I'm sorry I got ash everywhere." Even though he's not beaming, he's at least not furious anymore. "And I'm sorry if I insulted you. My reaction this morning wasn't because I think you're a bad person, it was just. . . I've never had memory loss like that before. I panicked. I would have panicked no matter whose bedroom I woke up in." Never again. Never, ever again. Mead and whatever that tea was is henceforth banned from my diet. "Has anyone ever been killed over. . . an accusation?"

"A few," he answers, solemn. "Only one in my lifetime, though. A woman," he clarifies. "It was one of the most chaotic ordeals I've ever seen. Her accuser was nine." Ben raises his eyebrows, his mouth flatlining in agreement with my shocked disgust. "Let's just say there wasn't much left of her body to hang once the other women of Hydra were done with her."

There is no excuse for such a heinous act, so all I can do is try to distract myself from thinking about it. I look away at the far wall and notice a framed childhood photo of Alex. "Where are all the children? I didn't see any at the wedding."

"On Hydra," he answers. "It's interesting, but your people fought over who would stay behind to protect them. I suppose it was more honorable in their minds to make that sacrifice than it was to actually attend the wedding. Cora, what's wrong?"

"I don't know." I take a seat on the couch again. "This is probably going to sound stupid."

"Well, now you've piqued my interest."

"All of this feels too. . . easy. Like, I'm just waiting for something bad to happen."

"What do you mean?" He's quick to sink into the couch next to me. "Did you have a vision?"

"No. That's the thing. I think it's just. . . anxiety." I raise my hands up and wiggle my fingers. "It's a specialty! No offense, but I'm glad this is all over." Embarrassed, I stand up and wish I had something to wear other than my sooty and sweat-stained wedding dress. Oh well. I'll be back on Hydra soon enough, in a fresh outfit, drinking delicious fruit juice under a palm tree. "I wonder if enough people have sobered up to take me back to Hydra."

It's a subtle change in his demeanor—one most people probably wouldn't notice—but I do.

"You've got to be kidding me," I whisper.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news." Ben fixes me with a pained squint. "But as of this morning, it was decided—in the interest of convenience—to host Poppy and Bjorn's wedding here today. You'll be expected to attend in about—" Ben checks his watch. "—an hour."

I plop down next to Ben at one of the many tables refilled with food. As the traditional band plays yet another song with head-splitting loud drums, I lay my temple down against the wood and mumble, "This is officially the worst migraine I've ever had."

As hard as everyone partied last night, I expected todays festivities to be at least somewhat subdued, but my people just seem to have been emboldened by their hangovers. Only the survivors look as miserable as I feel.

"Ugh," I groan. "I still feel like I'm going to puke. How long do hangovers last?"

"Depends," says Ben. "For alcohol it can vary from a few hours to most of the day. For whatever you had? I have no idea." I expect him to smirk at me, but he doesn't have the usual teasing bite when he asks, "Do you need me to get you anything?"

I let out a lungful of air and frown. "Can you knock me unconscious so I can sleep this off? I'm only half joking."

"I'll gladly knock you unconscious." Someone sits down heavily across the table. "Do you also feel like death?"

I raise my head up just enough to see who's asking. Jane sits, arms crossed, looking miserable and murderous. I cough. "Does it look like I'm enjoying myself?"

"Serves you right," she says. "I woke up on the roof of Beatrice's house with cotton mouth and no memory of how I got up there. You however," she adds with a sly grin, "seem to have had a worse time of it. I heard she threw you up in the air."

"Spun me around over her head," Ben corrects, "but it was equally unpleasant."

"Yeah, yeah." I flop a hand up to wave Jane away, and then I have my first flash of memory. "Oh, by the way, how did it go?"

"How did what go?"

"With Charlotte?"

"What about Charlotte?" Jane stares daggers at me as I realize she doesn't remember my pep talk last night. I must look as horrified as I feel because Jane repeats her question even louder than before. "What about Charlotte?"

"I think you should probably go talk to her."

"Why?" she seethes, although her eyes look more frightened than they do angry. "What happened?"

"Uhh," I start, but I have nothing. "I don't remember everything that was said."

Looking pale as a ghost, Jane stares down at the table and then stands and wanders off like she's just been told she has 3 days to live.

"Well," Ben says, turning to give me his full attention. "Now you have to tell me what happened."

I make a face on her behalf. "While we were all dancing, Jane came to me for a pep talk about Charlotte. Whatever was in that tea loosened her inhibitions to a point of crazed elation. I'm pretty sure she decided to confess—"

No.

Oh, no.

Oh, God, no.

All of my hopes and dreams are rendered meaningless. My world is being sucked into a cringe blackhole, never to be seen or heard from again. I'll never recover from this. This is the end.

I remember. I remember confessing some very embarrassing things to Ben. Not that I remember verbatim everything that I said, but I remember trying to kiss him. Multiple times. And I distinctly remember his horrified expression as he pulled away.

This cannot be happening. Think, think, think. It couldn't have actually been that bad, right? Maybe I was dreaming? Was it a dream?

"Hmm," Ben hums to himself, the ghost of a grin on his lips. "Something tells me you've remembered one of your many embarrassing moments from last night."

Oh no. It wasn't a dream. "I'm so. . ." I cough on a laugh as it quickly snowballs into something uncontrollable. "I am so sorry."

"Don't worry," he says in a teasing tone. I wonder if he fully understands that I'm laughing so hard because I'm mortified, and not because I find this funny. "I won't report you for incessant harassment."

No wonder he was so angry about my earlier questions. He spent all night trying to keep me off him, not the other way around. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. I didn't. . . I didn't. . . I never would have insinuated that you—I mean, if I had known that I—" I'm panicking again, finding any opportunity in-between laughter to try and explain myself, and I can't think straight enough to figure out how to make this situation bearable. Covering my burning face with my hands, I ask, "Can we please pretend like last night didn't happen?"

"Was that really your first time under the influence of anything?" I nod miserably and he snorts a laugh. "Apology accepted. Besides, it's not every day you have a goddess compliment your nose."

"Please stop talking." And then I see a ferret struggling to carry what looks suspiciously like a firework.

Ben looks at me. I stop laughing and look at him. We don't say anything because we don't have to. We simply shoot up from the table in unison and follow the ferret away from the party towards the field leading to my shrine.

"Peregrine!?" I shriek loud enough to scare a firework out of her hands. "How did you even get on this island? You're supposed to be on Hydra! And fireworks? Really?"

"It was the ferrets idea," she claims. "I've just been sitting here the whole time. I swear."

One of the two ferrets asks, "What's going on?"

"She's snitching!" the other yells. In a wild, unstable flop, the ferret jumps up high enough to bite the tip of Peregrine's pinkie.

"Ow!" Peregrine yanks her hand away from the squeaking ferrets and sucks on the bloody finger.

"Was one disaster not enough for you? You had to try for wildfire number two?" Ben steps forward and confiscates a handful of the contraband. "You cannot play with fireworks."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want you blowing all your fingers off."

"Impossible," she states matter-of-factly.

"Peregrine," Ben warns, "we've been through this a hundred times. You can't keep partaking in reckless behavior simply because you think you're a goddess of luck. That's not how it works."

"Sure it is," she refutes. "I can't blow all my fingers off because that would be unlucky, and luck gods are lucky all the time."

Ben pinches the bridge of his nose and leans his head back to sigh up at the stars.

Which turns out to be a foolish move on his part, because it allows Peregrine to snatch a single firework out of his hands. Before either of us can stop her, she's up a tree at the speed of a squirrel.

"I'll prove it," she declares and points the firework at her face. There's the sound of a match striking, and a bright bulb of match-light in the dark, and then the sharp sizzle of the fuse being lit. "I'll prove it once and for all, Uncle Ben."

But Ben's not listening to her. Instead, he drops the remaining fireworks in his arms and rushes to the tree, commanding she extinguish the fuse as I watch in immobilized horror. Even if he were as quick as Peregrine, he'd never be able to climb the tree in time. With a soft hiss, the fuse reaches the end of the ignition, and then fizzles into nothing.

I find my footing at last and hurry after Ben, both of us now yelling up at the child in the tree. "Peregrine," I shout, "come down from there, right now, or I'm unenlisting from your crew!"

"Ok, ok! I'm coming down—oops!"

I see the firework seconds before it can hit me on the head. Thankfully, I have enough reflexes to catch it.

Unfortunately, the second I catch it, it promptly reignites and explodes.

"It looked like you were blackout drunk and trying to fist-fight the air." Charlie laughs at the memory as he mimics the movement. "Honestly, I felt kinda bad. Near the end, you looked bloody miserable."

"Yes, thank you Charlie."

His laughter dies down as he takes in the charred state of my dress. "What happened to you, anyway? You catch fire?"

"Something like that." I frown down in Peregrine's direction.

"It was an accident," she yells. "I'm sorry, lady Cora, but you're not a goddess of luck."

"Goddess of luck?" Hugo perks up at this. "Can you give me some? I'm sorta. . . notoriously unlucky."

"Hear that Peregrine? You two should hang out sometime. Maybe you'll cancel each other out. Excuse me, please." I nod to Charlie and Hugo. "I've got to drop this one off for the night."

I don't know how Ben plans on keeping an eye on Peregrine until sunrise, but we both agreed it would be best not to let her mother know she's here. I'm supposed to stay with her at Ben's house until he returns. For now, he's busy extinguishing the small fire that ignited a patch of grass.

With an iron grip on Peregrine's tiny arm, I hold her tight to my side as we maneuver our way through the jovial crowd. As tired as I am, it does put me in a good mood knowing I haven't dampened someone else's wedding. I stop for a moment to watch Poppy and Bjorn flit from one clique to the next, happy and smiling as they receive congratulations.

Hey! Why doesn't Poppy have ash all over her hair? I thought that was a bridal tradition?

I hear nothing but happy Norse sentiments from every direction, so it sticks out like a screeching instrument to hear someone insult me in Portuguese. I halt immediately and turn to the offending speaker, unsure of how to respond.

"What did you just say?" Ben asks. I didn't realize he'd already returned, and I startle at the sound of his voice behind me.

"I said this is a magnificent party," Paulo lies.

I give Paulo a second to feel safe before turning around to look up at Ben. "Actually, he said—"

"I know what he said," Ben interrupts softly. I can tell he's furious because he doesn't look furious. "I'm trying to figure out if he's suicidal, or simply stupid. We have a therapist for the first option. I'm afraid I can't help him with the second."

A small part of me wants to smile at the look on Paulo's face as he turns slightly green. I'm not fluent in Portuguese, but you don't grow up in Southern California knowing one romance language without having exposure to several others, so I have a pretty good idea of what he said. Dumbass even has sauce from something all over his chin. Mustard? Looks like mustard. I give in and grin widely. "You probably shouldn't gossip in front of people before you know what languages they speak."

"Miscommunication," he offers weakly. I let him prattle on about how there must be a regional difference in our translation, and that he's only been remarking on this wonderful party the entire night, and blah blah blah.

"It's fine. Paulo? Okay. It's fine, Paulo," I tell him more sternly. "Just. . . go away."

"Wait," Ben calls at the last minute, and Paulo spins back around. Ben reaches up and taps at his own chin, mirroring the blot of sauce caught in Paulo's stubble. "You have something on your face. No, no. I'll get it for you." I don't even have time to consider telling him to stop before Ben's thrown a hard right hook, sending Paulo sprawling out on the grass.

Ben flexes his fingers and glances down at me, looking pleased with himself. "My debt is paid. I owe you nothing. And as for you," he says, picking up Peregrine and holding her like a plank of wood, the exact same way Annie does. "You're under house arrest until I can send you back home on the first ship tomorrow morning."

"Aww man," Peregrine complains, and the two disappear into the crowd.

I squat down next to the groaning man in the grass and say, "Hey, Paulo? How about a prophecy, free of charge? You need to pick better friends. And by friends, I mean girlfriends. Because your current one will literally be the death of you. And over what? Some diamonds? Are diamonds worth your life? Plus," I add, nodding across the courtyard at where Nikki is laughing loudly as she feels a grinning norseman's bicep. "It looks like what you had wasn't all that special if you've already been replaced."

Paulo nods miserably. Then, he says, "Hey, I think he broke my nose. Can you heal me?"

"You're kidding right?"

"Ha ha." He accepts a napkin I hold out and blots at the blood streaming down his chin. "Yes," he corrects nervously, "just joking. I'm okay."

As the night grows darker, I start counting down the rituals so I can keep track of what time it is. Everyone eats and drinks their fill, then they all start dancing, then a very drunk Poppy comes and finds me to bring me into the circle.

It's exhausting to smile this much, considering how tired and nauseous I still am, but I do it for the bride.

"I'm soooooooo happy you're here," Poppy slurs cheerfully, knocking into me for the third time. A woman served her a cup of the Berserkr Bride Tea a while ago, and I can already see the effects. "I was worried your rebirth wouldn't be for another few years, but here you are!"

"Here I am," I reply, all smiles.

"I love you so much, Freyja." Poppy bursts into tears, and it takes all my strength to keep her from collapsing to the ground. "You're my favorite god," she says in-between sobs. "I'm so happy you're here."

I literally don't know what to say. I do, however, feel a lot worse about how I treated poor Ben. Poppy doesn't have any of my extra strength, and it's still a lot of effort to keep her from flinging around and hurting herself. I really, really hope I didn't cry this much.

"We're going to sit down for a second, okay?" I struggle to help her down to the ground. "How're you hanging in there?"

"Huggh," she answers.

Thankfully, it isn't long until Poppy falls asleep against me in the grass.

I'm in the Swan. A man sits at a diner-style kitchen table, gun gripped tightly in his hand. He finishes reading a letter as I walk closer.

"Desmond?" I call out to him, but he doesn't look up. I must be dreaming. "Wow, I'm so sorry. I totally forgot you existed."

Without acknowledging me, Desmond raises the gun up into his mouth and pulls the trigger.

I mean, I guess I could have asked Hugo and Charlie to look after her, but I don’t think they’re equipped to handle Peregrine.

"We'll try and make this quick," I promise to the one party-goer whose religion forbids him from drinking. "Again, thank you so much."

Sayid nods and turns to look at where Peregrine is sitting, smiling innocently.

I'm not fooled. "This is Sayid," I say as sternly as I can. "You are to listen to Sayid while I'm gone. You cause trouble for my friend here, and I swear I will unenlist from your crew. You leave this house? Unenlist. You light anything on fire? Unenlist. You break anything, or steal anything, or cause any kind of damage to this house—or Sayid—and I unenlist. Do you understand me?"

Peregrine nods with enough fear that I choose to believe her. Then she hops up and approaches Sayid. "You look like you can hold your own in a fight. You ever kill a man?"

"Yes," he answers honestly.

"Excellent," says Peregrine. "Want to join my crew?"

Ben emerges from his bedroom with the last of the supplies and straps on his backpack. "Do not let her out of your sight," he tells an amused Sayid, and then we're off.

"How did you get out of the circle?" Ben asks as we ride Brego through the Barracks, past the sonic fence, and into the jungle. "That would have been helpful last night."

"I told them to move." I think back on the memory and cringe. "Let's just say I didn't have to ask twice."

I had woken from my nap next to Poppy, screaming so loud a small group of drunk women were knelling beside me, trying to calm me down. Once I was officially out of the circle, I made a break for Ben's house and told him what happened. He's the only one who both knows where the Swan is and is sober enough to take me there.

We're riding a lot faster than we did on our trip to burn Margo, so I'm forced to wrap both arms around Ben to keep from falling off the saddle. A few times Brego rears up to jump over obstacles in the path, and I stop apologizing for my death grip.

The second we arrive and Ben helps me off Brego, I run over and rip away vines until the Swan Station logo shines through. I start banging on the metal door with my fists. I tug at any piece of metal I can get a grip on. I scream for Desmond to open the door. Nothing.

Please don't be dead. Please don't be dead. Please don't be—

"Alright," says Ben, "now what?"

The door swings open and a man dressed all in bright yellow comes storming out, a rife loaded and pointed at me. Slowly his rife drifts down towards the ground. Muffled speech barely reaches me from behind his mask. As if burned, he tosses the gun away and sinks to his knees with his hands raised in surrender. He's trying to say something, but his mask is in the way.

"You don't have to wear that suit anymore, Desmond" I tell him. "We're not under quarantine."

Without a moment's hesitation, he rips the helmet off. "I surrender!"

"Yes," says Ben, "we can see that."

"Are you her?" he drawls in his thick Scottish accent. "The goddess from the movie?"

Ben and I exchange a quick confused glance before I ask, "What movie?"

A few crackles on screen, a few dips in the weathered sound, and the movie finally projects on the wall. It begins exactly how the Swan Station orientation is supposed to start. The obnoxious 70's music starts blaring over the loudspeakers while a Dharma logo flashes. Then Dr. Pierre Chang begins to speak.

"Welcome. My name is Doctor Pierre Chang, and this is the orientation film for Station 3 of the Dharma Initiative." I notice the stiffness in his posture. He's rigid as an ironing board, and his voice has a worried edge to it. "In a moment you will be given a simple set of instructions for how you and your partner will fulfill the responsibilities associated with this station." Chang then goes into a brief history of Dharma—why it was founded and by who—and a video of two polar bears fighting flashes on screen.

I think of Margo and sneak a glance at Ben, but his expression gives away nothing.

"You and your partner," Chang continues uncomfortably, "are currently located in Station 3, the Swan, and will be for the next 540 days. Now, Station 3 was originally constructed as a laboratory where scientists could work to understand the unique electro-magnetic fluctuations emanating from this sector of the island. Not long after the experiments began, however, there was . . ." His eyes dart off-screen for a fraction of a second. ". . . an incident. And since that time, proper protocol has been observed. Every 108 minutes, the button must be pushed. From the moment the alarm sounds, you will have 4 minutes to enter the code into the microcomputer processor. It is highly recommended that you and your partner take alternating shifts. In this manor you will stay fresh and alert as it is of the utmost importance that when the alarm sounds, you enter in the numbers correctly and in a timely fashion."

And then the script I know—the script I've had memorized since this episode first aired—deviates into a warning. A warning about me.

Dr. Chang instructs them not to go outside. Sketches flash on screen of what is supposed to be me, but it's a little comedic how inaccurate it all is. I'm 4'8, but this Freyja is described as 6 feet tall, almost always covered in feathers, face painted, sometimes veiled, with two antlers sprouting out of the top of her head.

"You are under no circumstance to engage with the goddess Freyja or her people," Dr. Chang continues. "If in the unforeseen emergency the norsemen breech this facility, we can only recommend you immediately lay down your weapons and hold your hands high over your head. The governing rules and regulations of their culture are far too complicated to be listed here. Please consult your Norse Manual and Guidebook for more specifics. Again, until your replacements arrive, the future of the project is in your hands. Congratulations, and good luck."

Norse Manual and Guidebook? There could be something of importance in there! Where is it? I hope Desmond knows where it is. That sounds like a great place to start my research.

Instead of inquiring about the video, or the manual, Ben turns to Desmond in the semi-darkness and asks, "Have you been down here alone this whole time?"

I immediately feel selfish for focusing on the manual and not focusing on the fact that the entire reason we're here is because Desmond is suicidal. "He's been down here for a little over a month," I answer for Desmond, and he startles at the fact that I know this. "It's way past time for him to get some fresh air. We'll need to find his replacement. Get a few people on a rotation."

Desmond stays silent as Ben turns to me and asks, "A rotation for what?"

"The. . . button? Were you not paying attention to the video?"

"I always knew this place existed, I just didn't know it was active." Ben glances around, an air of fascination in his eyes. "Your people are superstitious of all things Dharma. Nobody I know of would step foot near this place."

"Well, looks like they're going to have to get over their superstition," I say. "Because somebody needs to be alert enough to push a button every 108 minutes. Maybe you can get some of your people to volunteer?"

"I hate to interrupt," Desmond says at last, "but does this mean you're not going to kill me?"

1 Week Later

Most people are unaware of this, but you don't need to trick others into divulging their deepest darkest secrets. You simply have to smile and treat them with the most basic human decency. When people trust you, it's not long before they'll tell you anything—sometimes completely unprompted.

This is how I learn about my people. Which families hate who and why. Complaints about the young men most interested in their daughters. Who has the ugliest baby.

I've already half-filled my replacement notebook with everything from random to-do lists to mindless gossip. Most of the notebook is just frantic scribbling about who has a crush on who. It's now common knowledge that any and all romantic problems are now my problem to solve. The irony is not lost on me.

"Hello Goose," I say, waving at the aptly named swan. I greet the chickens, goats, a horse, two raccoons, and a very confused rat on my walk down to the beach. It feels like I should have met every animal on this island by now, but there's always a new name for me to memorize when I wake up in the morning. And that's just the animals.

For the past week, my schedule has consisted of enjoying a nice breakfast with Gail, then an excruciatingly long day of sitting on a throne, blessing babies, and listening as people tell me their problems. Adults. Children. Animals. Everyone needs something from me.

At first it was kinda fun. The problems were almost all things I could offer good advice on. For example, this one pair of bickering children literally needed me to explain that yes, taking things without asking is theft. Even if you really, really want that thing. But as nosy as I am, I'm also introverted, and being forced to talk to people from sunrise to sunset has worn me ragged.

It's been a long week, but today is the first day that I've woken up to an empty longhouse. No long line of people looking for answers. No more babies left to bless. I guess there are only so many people on this island, so there are only so many problems I can solve. You won't hear me complain. To the beach!

"Lady Cora? Oh, my lady, I apologize." A woman rushes towards me, and I recognize her face but can't remember her name. "I hate to interrupt your day, but my youngest has run off and I can't find him anywhere."

Oh well. Maybe one day I'll get the chance to actually relax on the beach. "Oh no," I exclaim and give the woman my full attention. "What happened?"

"One of our chickens passed last night. Sten was very fond of Henrietta, may she rest in peace." The woman presses her hands together and bows slightly. "My husband let slip that he was looking forward to chicken soup tonight, and now Sten has run off with her body."

"Ah," I exhale, smiling. "I see. Well, if I can find him, I'll talk to him." This unfortunately isn't the first time I've had to chat with the children of Hydra about death and the circle of life, and how it's ok if they want to eat animals after they die. Many a tearful little face has come crying to me about a dead pet rabbit or goat. This is my first dead chicken.