𝟬𝟮. as above, so below
REPENTANCE STORIES:
HILDE BALKE
❛ AS ABOVE, SO BELOW ❜
WINTER WAS COMING TO ELLING, and there were preparations to be made. People around the town lugged piles upon piles of wood, prepped stores of animal fat, mended leather boots and fur coats.
Winter was coming to Elling. And while the city prepared, Hilde was knelt down within the confines of the convent, offering her prayers to the Wellspring.
The smell of wax candles and running water were comfort, a familiarity. A steady reminder of her routine. The months to come would be colder, nights would stretch longer, and the sun would not grace them again until mid-spring. Seasons would come and go at their godly pace— but her mornings in the convent would be a constant.
By the time Hilde stepped out, Soren was already waiting for her outside. He stood a few paces away, mindlessly throwing pebbles against the bark of a spruce tree. He didn't look nearly as put together as she did— no one really did. At least, not with her blonde hair pulled into a crown braid, her blue pinafore poking from underneath her wool coat.
Hilde said her goodbyes to the Wellmother, gingerly heading down the cobbled steps. She watched her footing, careful of any ice that could cause her to slip.
"I saved you this," Soren said as she reached the end of the steps, promptly handing her a small box. She didn't need to peek inside to know. Pickled mushrooms.
Once every week, without fail, Soren would bring her pickled mushrooms after prayer. And each time, Hilde would remind him she didn't like them. But the intention was there—and, eventually, Hilde learnt to simply appreciate the sentiment and accept them.
"Thank you." She tucked the box between her gloved hand and her heavy coat. Soren nodded, brushing tufts of dirty blond hair away from his line of sight.
The two of them fell in stride, heading down from the hills to the valley, where the rest of the town resided. They had always followed the same routine— rise before early dawn, trek up the hill to the convent, then head back down after lunch.
The cobbled path wouldn't be as safe during the following weeks— not with thicker ice setting over the stones. Hilde tried to appreciate the easiness of their journey while they still had it. Clouds of frost floated from her lips. Branches of spruce and oak creaked with icicles weighing them down. Elling always had the coldest winters, the coldest summers, the coldest everything. And while it was everything Hilde had ever known, a part of her couldn't help but miss the brown and orange leaves hanging from the trees.
But that was being greedy. She pushed the thought of golden leaves away.
"I joined the hunt today," Soren started. His bow and quiver were slung over his shoulder, a hunting knife tucked inside his belt.
Hilde made a humming noise. "How thrilling."
"It was!" Soren walked a little faster today, more upbeat. He bobbed his head excitedly. It wasn't particularly odd to see him like this, but Hilde expected he'd be sulkier with the coming winter. Harsher weather could translate into more snowstorms, and more snowstorms meant less quarry. "I was the youngest one to join the hunt— they don't usually let boys our age join. But I was the exception. Can you believe that?"
"I can." And she could. Despite understanding little about technique, Hilde had seen first hand how much Soren had improved over the past year. Every morning, while he waited for her to finish her prayers, he'd spend the morning canvassing the nearby woods— occasionally coming back with a rabbit or too. He'd given the Wellmother a fright the first time he offered her a dead rabbit, only for it to start twitching in her hands.
"Anyways, we found a small herd of stags not too far south," Soren continued, blue eyes bright. "The meat of a single one— that could feed my whole family. But we didn't go too far out— Jaral said that the river's been overflowing lately. There's risk of flooding, and there are a lot of trees with weak roots near it." Hilde remembered hearing about it from one of the Springmaidens from the convent. The Stelge River always grew unpredictable at this time of year. Thankfully, it was a rare occurrence for houses to suffer any damage from it— that with it being tucked away in the forest. "He kept warning about how a tree could fall over on someone. He said that's how Viggo broke his leg last winter— now he can't even stand properly. Crazy, right?"
Hilde shrugged her shoulders, nodding. "I can believe that. Winter's always been dangerous, we're just used to it."
Soren kept her entertained with details of the hunt as they reached the town. The slim cobbled path split into wide avenues, pale-colored boarding houses and shops standing on either side of the streets. Soren and Hilde walked past the first few establishments, before finally stepping inside a light yellow bakery with a small wooden sign standing behind the window.
Öppen.
It was considerably warmer inside, at least enough for Hilde to shed her coat and gloves. The smell of freshly baked food made her smile pleasantly. She hadn't eaten, not since morning. She wondered whether they had any sweet rolls left.
It wasn't until a few moments later that Hilde realized Soren had stopped talking. She turned away from the window, blonde brows furrowed. Soren was staring intently at her, the corner of his lips pulled down.
"What's wrong?"
"You haven't brought it up yet."
"What?" Hilde asked, but she knew.
Soren folded his arms over his chest, leaning back against the chair. "You're getting engaged." he said, voice souring.
"It wasn't really my choice, Soren."
"I know," he huffed. "But you could've mentioned it. I mean— we're friends, aren't we?" He seemed dejected, almost betrayed. "It would've been nicer to receive the news from you rather than Mikael's sister."
"I know. I've..." She toyed with her fingers under the table before stretching them out, forcing herself to stop. "I'm still coming to terms with it."
Gunnar Stenvall. There wasn't much to be said about him, other than his family was well-off. They always faired well throughout the winter— no shortages, no fevers, nothing. And, sure, Hilde was young. She had only recently turned sixteen, and if she stopped to think about it, she could feel the world moving too fast, barely giving her a moment to breathe and adjust to the new recent changes.
She didn't have any qualms against Gunnar. He was tall. He had darker hair— darker than hers, at least, which was not saying much. Gray eyes. She found that, if she unfocused her vision, he was rather pleasant to look at.
Soren did not share her opinion.
"Gunnar is such a prick," Soren muttered. His ears had begun to turn red. "He joined the hunt last year and hasn't stopped prattling about it since." His lip curled. "You don't want someone with such a big ego, Hilde. He goes around acting like he's of royal blood or something." He clicked his tongue in annoyance. "You should marry someone better than him."
Hilde picked at her newly-served sweet roll with her fork. She didn't feel quite as hungry anymore. "I'm sure it's not that bad."
"Oh, but it is. You're just lucky, 'cause you haven't seen him when we go down to the woods searching for quarry." He leaned his arms against the table, jaw ticking. "He thinks he's some big shot, only 'cause his older brother graduated as drüskelle last year."
Hilde stopped. "He did?"
"It's not even that big of a deal," Soren continued, undeterred. "He hasn't even gotten his own isenulf yet. It's like it doesn't even count."
Heavy boots sounded at the right of the table. "What are you rambling about, Erikssen?"
When she looked up, she saw Mikael and his sister Magda, the former with a mischievous smirk. They were among the few families of the village with dark brown hair. It made them stand out, though neither of them seemed to mind.
Soren rolled his eyes. "Nothing." He stood up from their table. "Is it time already?"
"No," Mikael shook his head, and Hilde realized the two of them had probably intended to go fishing before sundown. "No, drüskelle are passing through the town. Wanna join?"
Soren grinned. "Definitely." Blue met blue, and he tilted his head. "Are you coming?"
Hilde shouldn't have had to think about it. "Yeah," she said after a beat. "Yeah, I'm right behind you."
The bell chimed from the door as the four of them stepped outside. They headed towards the main avenue, where Hilde could see a few people had already gathered to watch. She squinted down the street, searching for any sign of the drüskelle.
"Soren totally has a crush on you."
She nearly jumped at the closeness of Magda's voice. It tickled her ear. "What?" She shook her head. "No, he doesn't."
"He does, trust me." Magda smiled sheepishly, as if she knew more than she was letting on.
Hilde shrugged her shoulders. "We're just friends."
Magda giggled, hiding her lips behind her gloved palm. She casted a glance over her shoulder, where her brother and Soren stood. Close enough to be within reach, but not enough to listen in.
Hilde heard them before she saw them. The echoing, steady march of boots against the beaten path. Turning around the corner from the docks, the first lines of drüskelle finally appeared in her line of sight. Pristine uniforms, all in formation, faces unreadable.
They used to frequent Elling more often, that with the order of the drüskelle originating from this very city. With time, they had migrated closer to the capital, to Djerholm.
A cold chill ran down Hilde's spine at the sight of them. Ice like thorns against her spine. She should be used to it— she should.
"That's not what he said to Mikael."
Hilde felt as her hands grew clammy as someone pushed against her back, leaving her and Magda with front row seats to the drüskelle march. Her body felt too warm, too itchy.
"I mean, you should have seen his face when I told him your family had arranged a marriage with the Stenvalls," Magda gushed. "He was livid." The first lines of the holy order started going past them, and Hilde felt her heart stuttering in its steady pace. "But if you ask me, I think he looked kind of heartsick."
Hilde heard the rattling of chains, and the realization hit her later than it should've. This wasn't just a march across the city.
The sound of iron dragging against iron drilled into her eardrums. There was a whole line of them at the center of their formation, chained to each other in a row.
Drüsje.
Her breath came to her with an unexpected sharpness. A frost, spreading into her lungs.
She couldn't be certain when it started. A blink— and the people around her, her neighbors, her classmates, were yelling. A group of boys across the street —two, maybe three years older than her— were shouting profanities she'd never heard of before. Sköka. Jäklar. Faen ta deg.
She didn't know what most of them meant. It didn't matter. Because, above all, she could hear one word tearing through throats and being spat onto the rocks.
Drüsje. Drüsje. Drüsje.
The ground beneath her started to feel unstable, a crack in frozen lake water. A witch with golden eyes met her gaze. Hilde felt like she was being pulled under. Claws that snatched at her ankles to try and drag her into a dark abyss.
She didn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. Her whole body was frozen. She knows, she thought. The witch could feel it— that same rot buried deep in Hilde's bones. Black rot spreading like darkening spiderwebs over her organs, swallowing them whole.
Hilde waited for it to come. She waited for the golden-eyed drüsje to point her out— would she cry out for help? Or would she accuse her? Would the drüskelle notice before the witch did? She wondered whether she should be running away. She wondered whether it was already too late.
"Abominations," she heard a woman mutter next to her.
The drüsje turned away, and Hilde could breathe again. Lungs burning and filled with water, she had made it to the surface. But there were plenty of more cracked lakes for her to stumble into.
"I think he wanted to propose, but was too late," Magda said, and Hilde had the distinct feeling of being an ocean away. "He despises Gunnar for beating him to it."
"It doesn't matter," Hilde said, and she could see the disappointment in Magda's face. Gunnar would turn eighteen soon— which meant he'd try out for the drüskelle again. She would barely have to see him.
But what will happen when he comes back? she thought. Would he return with an isenulf? Would he be able smell the rot burrowed inside of her?
The thought made her feel like she was drowning again.
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"THEY SHOULD JUST LET THEM BURN."
Night was falling earlier and earlier, and it was time for Magda and Hilde to get home. The change in temperature was growing more evident by the minute, and neither of them wanted to get caught outside by the time lights were out on the streets.
Mikael, however, seemed to be in no hurry. "I don't get why they waste time dragging them to the Ice Court."
"It's procedure," Soren responded.
"It's a waste of time, is what it is." Mikael stretched his arms above him, kicking a pebble against the wall of a shop. "I met this guy on the docks the other day. Said he was from Overüt. You wanna know what he told me?"
Soren rolled his eyes, with more annoyance than he intended to show. He stood between Hilde and Mikael, partly blocking her vision of him. "I don't think I do."
"He told me they don't waste drüskelle's time like that in Overüt." Mikael grinned, and Hilde felt nauseous. "They just tie them up and burn them at the stake."
"The law requires they face trial at the Ice Court," she said, voice tight. Her chest felt overloaded, overcrowded.
"Of course you'd say that." Mikael rolled his eyes with a chuckle. Hilde snapped her head in his direction, heart in her stomach. "You're always so... so correct."
"It's a compliment," Soren quickly amended, gently nudging her shoulder.
"Yeah, that's it." Mikael turned to his sister with a wolfish smirk. "Maybe you should learn something from Hilde."
Magda pushed him off her shoulder. Her face turned beet-red. "I do not!"
Mikael laughed loudly. It echoed through the quiet streets of Elling. "Please— she might as well be blessed by Djel himself with how much she goes to pray to him."
"Mikael!" Magda hissed. At some point, Hilde had found herself uncomfortable about how sacrilegious comments came so easily to him. Now, it wasn't the only thing that made her uncomfortable about Mikael.
"What? I'm being honest!" he leaned down to Magda's height. "It wouldn't hurt you to join Hilde every once in a while." He shrugged loosely. "Plus, you're always so loud— you should be more like her, you know? Quiet. Boys definitely appreciate a quieter girl— isn't that right, Erikssen?"
Magda opted to ignore his last comment. "She already has company for prayer," she hissed, nudging her head towards Soren not-so subtly.
Hilde looked away. The moon was bright. It wouldn't last long— not with the coming weather.
Mikael snorted. He slung his arm over Soren. "Right. Enjoy that while it lasts, Erikssen." He leaned closer to whisper, but Hilde could still hear when he added, "The Stenvalls are not patient folk."
Soren had finally had enough. He pushed the brunette boy off. "Whatever. Get off me."
Hilde had never been so thankful to finally get home. She could see an oil lamp left on behind the curtains. As per usual, her mother had been waiting for her.
She turned to the group. "Thank you for walking me home." She felt exhausted, but there was an odd sensation in her chest. A bone cut loose. Something rattling and jumping around her ribcage. She needed to get it under control— quickly. "Goodnight."
Magda waved. "Night!" Mikael also muttered something along those lines.
Soren smiled at her, blue eyes the color of dark ice underneath the moonlight. "Sleep well, Hilde."
She nodded. "You too."
She shut the door behind her. But even then, she could still hear Mikael's voice. "Sleep well, Hilde," He repeated mockingly. "You're pathetic, Erikssen. What— are you gonna tuck her into bed next time?"
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THE SKY WAS GRAY AND BLEAK, and Hilde was on her knees praying again.
Smell of wax. Running water. Timber wood. Oils. Scented offerings. Hilde kneeled on her usual spot, but the convent was noticeably vacant today.
Bad weather, one of the Springmaidens had told her upon arrival. Bad weather, but they were never surprised to see her.
Hilde wondered what would happen if she missed a day because of the weather. Even through fevers, through snowstorms and rainfall, she had never missed a day in years.
She interlaced her hands together, her forehead pressed against them. Her eyes were wound shut.
I will repent for all my wrongdoings, she vowed, as she always did. But there was a new urgency to her prayers. She didn't know when, but somewhere along the line, her praying had devolved into begging. She would beg until her knees felt raw, until her hands hurt, until her body pleaded for her to stand up.
For every misdeed I have made and will make. I will spread your word. I will live a pious life. I will dedicate my years in servitude to the Wellspring.
Wax candles. Running water. Timber wood. She didn't know when it was that they had stopped offering her comfort.
Please, she begged against her hands. They trembled. She interlaced them tighter. Fix me. Heal me. Save me.
The sky was gray outside, and the rot in her bones did not feel any different.
A bell chimed somewhere in the convent, and Hilde knew it was time for her to leave. One too many times she had considered spending her nights in here. One too many times she'd worried about what others might think. What rumors might spread.
There were tremors in her hands when she stood back up, like the winds inside her are fighting to get out. Hilde's breath trembled.
It was getting harder to keep it under control.
"Bring a scarf with you tomorrow," the Wellmother told her. "Days are only getting colder at this time of year."
Hilde forced a smile, shoving her hands into her coat pockets. Even tucked in wool, the aftershocks were still there. "Of course." She bowed her head. "See you tomorrow, Wellmother."
By the time she stepped out of the convent, Soren was already waiting for her. He was looking away from the steps, his back facing towards her. As always, he had his bow slung low over his shoulder as he tossed pebbles onto a pond.
"Good morning," Hilde greeted, making Soren stiffen.
He turned around briskly. "Morning."
"How was the hunt?"
"I didn't go today." Hilde furrowed her brow. Soren jutted his head towards the woods. "Come on, follow me."
Hilde wanted to ask, but the logical part of her knew it would be fruitless. Soren was like a mountain— stubborn, and unwilling to move.
But even as she followed him into a small clearing past the trees, she saw how fidgety he was. Jittery.
Finally, Hilde stopped. The sound of the Stelge river filled in the strangely heavy silence that loomed over Soren. The water was just steps shy from him, as if he were considering going for a swim.
She shivered, but something told her it wasn't because of the cold. An odd tingle ran up her spine.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"So many things," Soren responded. He ran a hand through tufts of blond hair. He worried his bottom lip, hunting bow clattering against the snow. Soren's shoulders sagged, and a breath escaped his lips. Desperation. Absolution. "You're in my head, Hilde."
Her response was instinctive. "I'm sorry."
But he shook his head vehemently. There was a new edge to his movements— a newfound determination Hilde hadn't noticed before. "Look— you, you shouldn't marry Gunnar, okay? He doesn't know you like I do. He doesn't care for you like I do." Soren turned his head up to the darkening sky. Grays, whites. Bleak colors. "If you're worried about the winter, I can help. I can hunt and bring food for your family."
Hilde's mouth felt dry. She had long since perfected the art of swallowing her words, of keeping her opinions at bay. She was an expert. But for the first time in a long while, she was actually speechless. No words to hold back— no words at all.
He's proposing to you. The mere thought made her dizzy.
"I love you," Soren declared as he brought his hand to his chest. "You love me. We shouldn't let someone else stand between that."
Hilde didn't answer, she couldn't find the an answer in her. She knew she didn't love Gunnar. But she wasn't quite so sure she loved Soren either.
She blinked, and the sound of water running through the riverbank felt louder, a thundering sound in her ears. The current was overflowing, eroding the earth underneath the surrounding trees. Soren cradled her hands against his, bringing her closer. "You're perfect for me," he murmured, and his eyes were clearer than ever. A moonlit sky. "I-I want to be the one to marry you."
"Soren—"
"I can talk with your father. He likes me— he knows me. I'm sure he will also see that Gunnar's not the better option."
Her hands trembled again, but Soren's grip felt steady against them. Hilde looked at him, then down at his hands. Steady. But Gunnar had the resources, the vested interest in getting a wife.
Yet he will become drüskelle, that ugly, morbid voice in her head reminded her. It reeked of rot— of that buried part of her that was permanently trying to stretch its blackened fingers towards the sunlight. She would have to bury it deeper, until it gave up trying.
Soren let go of her gloved hands. "We can head back now— I'll talk to your father, get all of this sorted out." He stepped closer towards the river's edge to pick up his since-discarded bow. There was a loud, creaking sigh from the woods. "You won't even have to worry about anything."
As Soren leaned down for his bow, Hilde heard it— louder this time, menacing. A creak with a new echo. The sound of branches snapping. Of roots giving away.
She looked up, and a tall oak tree began tilting, tilting, tilting—
Falling.
"Soren!" It was too late for him to move.
Weak roots, she remembered him saying yesterday morning. It was why hunters didn't stray further into the woods. Because of the river. Because of floods. Because of the rotting base hidden underneath the snow.
The boy with the blond hair looked up, and Hilde didn't waste time to think. The tremors in her hands were violent quakes, tendrils of decay clawing against her ribcage.
Hilde Balke shut her eyes tight, and in the darkness, she let go.
The aftershocks that had wracked her body for so long were stolen from her bones, swallowed by the snow beneath her boots. For the first time since she could remember, Hilde's limbs felt lighter, as if they were no longer weighing her down. No claws against her heart. No tremors in her hands. No rot in her organs.
And, for a brief moment, she thought she had been cured. Djel had finally answered to her prayers.
The tree collapsed against the Stelge river with a deafening splash. When Hilde opened her eyes again, a part of her expected to find Soren crushed underneath the bark. His blood on the snow, organs strewn across the ground. Instead, he stood just steps away, unharmed. And maybe that was worse— because he was staring at her with a look she'd never seen before.
Soren was pale. Paler than usual. His blue eyes were wide like a deer's, frozen on the spot. "You—" he stammered. "You saved me."
"You're wrong," Hilde said, but it was too late— they both knew that. Now they were at a standstill, glued to the ground, scared to make the first move. There was a lightness within her body that Hilde didn't recognize; like she could jump onto the ground and fall like a feather on her way down.
Fool, the voice reminded her, and that cold chill returned. Now he knows you're cursed.
That didn't stop Hilde from shaking her head. "I didn't," she vowed, moving closer to him. It was her voice that was shaking now— the tremors had found a new place to burrow into. "I couldn't. I—"
But Soren was holding his hand up. "You're... You're—" He took half a step back.
"I'll marry you," Hilde blurted, and something flickered in his gaze. There was a newfound desperation that felt foreign, but not quite. Some old thing that had been gathering dust, but had always been there, sitting quietly in a corner. "Please, Soren. You cannot tell anyone." She grabbed his hand gently, and when he didn't flinch, she took it as a good sign. "I'm— I'm working on it, I'm fixing it, I promise."
She expected to find conflict in his oh-so familiar blue eyes. Instead, there was certainty. Soren nodded once. "Okay." A solemn promise. "I won't tell."
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RAIN WAS BEATING DOWN ON THE COBBLED PATH, and the road uphill to the convent was empty. Frost was steadily spreading over the stones, ice settling between the cracks. It made the journey slippery, and it should've taken her longer to reach the top of the hill— but Hilde stronger than she did before. Her body was like light. It was a gentle breeze rather than the dead weight she'd always felt it to be. Today, despite the biting wind and the icy rain, Hilde reached the convent faster than she ever had before.
It did not make a dent in her routine. Like every morning, Hilde stepped behind those sturdy spruce doors, closing them to prevent the cold from creeping in. She unwrapped her blue scarf, pulled off her wool coat, her knitted sweater, her gloves. By the time she was done, Hilde might have passed as any of the Springmaidens— that with her blouse, blue pinafore and white-blonde hair neatly tied into a crown braid. It was something she took pride in. It had been at least three winters since the Wellmother had taught her to braid her hair properly. And now, years later, she had mastered it to perfection.
The convent was always empty at this hour. The Wellmother would come around in an hour, after the Springmaidens had finished their breakfast. Fjerda was always reliable like that— punctual to the minute.
Hilde stepped towards the altar, from which she could distantly hear the water running. She'd never been told where the sound came from— she'd never asked. She only knew that each church for the Wellspring required a stream in close proximity. Something to be closer to Djel.
She lit up a match, and brought it close to the wax candles that hung from iron chains tied to the ceiling. Slowly, the dim orange light began illuminating the chapel, granting it that familiar glow. As Hilde raised her head, her eyes caught sight of the ash tree sculpture standing behind the altar. She looked away in haste.
Hilde headed towards her usual spot by the pews, kneeling down and clasping her hands together. She inhaled deeply, exhaled.
The startled at the sound of the doors creaking open, followed by the thunder of a pair of heavy footsteps. But Hilde didn't turn around. She kept her eyes closed, her hands pressed together in prayer. She didn't turn around when the pair of footsteps became two, nor when those became four.
She didn't turn— not until the loud echo of hunting boots stopped in front of her. Hilde looked up, and above her, she saw a familiar face. A fisherman, if she wasn't mistaken— or a shop owner from the main street. It was jarring to see someone other than the Springmaidens inside the convent— and no matter how hard she tried, Hilde could not seem to place his face.
"Stand," he commanded. His jaw was clenched tight, his gray eyes narrowed.
Hilde unclasped her palms, confused. The man glanced behind her —yes, she was certain he was a fisherman— and two pairs of hands seized her, forcing her to stand upright.
Her breath trembled and her heart stuttered. "Let go," she said, and it echoed like a command. When had she ever commanded anything before? "This is a holy place. You have no right to—"
All it took was a single word from him. Accusation. Damnation.
"Drüsje."
Her whole body began shaking like a leaf. The decay in her body that had felt so inexplicably light before weighed like a ball and chain. She'd sink— the darkening rot would command it so.
The men besides her dragged her back, and her body was begging her to do something— anything. Her mouth felt like she'd swallowed dirt.
Drüsje. She didn't deny it— she couldn't. The tremors rattling her bones had been awakened, making her limbs convulse. They only seemed to grow stronger when she spotted the Wellmother standing by the corner. There were a few Springmaidens hiding behind her.
Freja. Alva. Ingrid. Sanna. She knew their names— they knew hers. They knew her.
"There's been a mistake!" she begged. Her braided hair was coming loose. How did she know? "Wellmother!"
Hilde was already being hauled out the door when she heard her cold, iron-forged voice.
"Djel djeren je töp."
Her head whipped around, struggling to look over the big shoulders of the two men dragging her outside. Her cheeks felt wet. The rattling in her chest was growing frantic. She could barely see the Wellmother's graying hair. Djel turns his back on you.
"Please," she cried out, but she couldn't even see them anymore. Please, what? Please let her live? Please give her time? Please let her fix it?
You've been living on borrowed time. Her heart had been cut loose, she was sure of it. If she opened her mouth, she'd throw it up. White snow bleeding red. Djel turns his back on you.
The rot had its roots too deep into her. It was too late. A part of her had always known that. She'd turned away from it, shied from it— but she knew.
It had always been too late for her.
Rain fell down on her face, skies growing dark. They were outside of the convent— entire families waiting for her.
"Is this her?" one of the boys asked.
They were not drüskelle— not yet, anyways. They were boys from school. Her neighbors. They knew her name. She was certain they did. But they were looking at her differently now— as if they'd never seen her before. Not until that day.
Abomination.
"That's her."
She shouldn't have been surprised. All these years, and her curse had been kept buried. Only one person ever found out.
"Witch," someone hissed.
She'd been keeping it a secret for eight years. He couldn't keep it to himself for one day.
"I saw it," said Soren. He was standing at the center of it all, but he wasn't looking at her. He was looking at the men holding her tightly. Her arms ached underneath the pressure. "She used her witchcraft on me. She tried to kill me."
Hilde had never been sure whether she had loved him before. She was certain of one thing now.
She should've let him die.
"Burn her!"
"Hang her!"
"Quiet!" bellowed the man from the chapel. He didn't look like a fisherman now. His beard was graying, his arms big with labor. His cold gaze zeroed on her, and Hilde couldn't breathe. "A drüskelle ship will be arriving today. They will handle the witch."
The loud shouts that erupted felt miles away from her. Hilde felt like her head had been shoved underwater. She couldn't hear, she could barely see.
Lie. The thought came to her like lightning in a storm. Deny it. Let that be her legacy. That once she died, they would live the rest of their lives with doubt. Was he lying, only because she denied to marry him? Because she was engaged to another? It would haunt the people of Elling. She knew it would.
But for what might have been the first time in her life, Hilde also had the irreparable urge to shout— to scream at him like she'd never done before. I saved your life, you ungrateful boy. I saved you.
Hilde would have preferred to speak either one. Truly, either would've been fine. Instead, what came out of her lips was something else.
"I never liked pickled mushrooms."
There was a quietness then, and Hilde didn't know whether it was because of her. There was no screaming, no more crying. Her voice was steady like a stream. Soren stared at her with a look she could not decipher. She didn't care to.
"I told you— but you didn't listen." She met his gaze, and there was disgust there— disgust, and something akin to embarrassment. You're a child, she wanted to say. Instead, she asked, "Did you ever listen?"
Hilde thought back to all those times. She knew Soren. She knew what food he liked to order at the bakery. She knew he was awful at stringing a bow. She knew his hunting knife belonged to a man from Gäfvalle who had left it behind, forgotten.
She wondered whether Soren knew her at all. Whether he simply had seen what he wanted to see.
"Take it away," one of the older men demanded.
The Wellmother's words were still spinning around her head, making her dizzy. Maybe that was why when she opened her mouth again, what came out was:
"Today Djel turns his back on you, Soren Erikssen."
In the end, it wasn't worth it. There was no satisfaction there— empty words that meant nothing coming from her.
It landed her a harsh blow against her cheek. Her body staggered with the sheer force of it, and suddenly, she was on the ground. The snow felt like needles against her palms. Blood was dripping onto the frost. It was then that she truly realized just how cold it was outside— just how much she missed her wool coat, her scarf.
She turned her head up, raindrops kissing her sore cheek. Above her, stood Mikael. He wasn't grinning anymore.
"Witch," he snarled, his fist still balled up at his side.
She'd never been hit before. It hurt. It hurt. When she opened her mouth, it came out red.
She didn't see Soren's face then. It would follow her for years— a morbid curiosity, a deep-seeded anger, a watery regret. Had it hurt him? Had he shrugged it off? Had she left a scar on him, a bleeding wound? Nights upon nights, Hilde would lay awake, wondering. Did she haunt his sleep, or had he found some new, quiet girl for him to pretend to care for?
But none of that mattered then. All that mattered was that her pinafore was wet, her braid was undone, her body was shivering— and the drüskelle would come to take her.
Hilde had been tied with some old rope to a pole at the docks. It burned her skin, made her wrists feel raw. There were men watching her— the same men that had dragged her from the chapel. Behind them, children looked on her, some with curiosity, others with disgust.
The men talked among them, congratulated themselves. Hilde wondered whether she was above begging for a coat. She'd never had to before. She doubted they would give one to her.
One of them —Albin, she remembered— jolted up with a start. He'd gone to eat to her father's house once. He hadn't seemed to recognize her.
"They're early," Albin said, with that deep, bellowing voice of his. One by one, the three men stood up, just as Hilde turned her head around. The mist was heavy, and she had to squint to see it. They were right— at the end of the wooden walkaway were the orange glow of lamplights. The towering silhouette of the ship was enough to shoot a bolt of terror into Hilde's system.
A single drüskelle stepped out, clad in animal pelts, leather garments and that all-too familiar silver emblem strapped crookedly across his chest.
"Sir," one of the fishermen greeted.
The drüskelle looked down at Hilde. She flinched, bur his look was dismissive, bored. His blond hair was wind-tussled, his freckles sun-kissed. She was hardly the most intimidating drüsje he'd seen before.
"One?" he asked them.
"Yes, sir," Albin nodded gruffly.
Footsteps came barreling down the opposite side of the walkaway— from Elling, from the town. Hilde turned, and her heart dropped.
His face was unreadable, stoic as ever. Hilde's body felt colder. "Gunnar," she called, but her voice was hoarse, dry. It was a far cry from the softness it had once carried. Gunnar Stenvall, her former betrothed, didn't so much as spare her a glance.
"Sir," Gunnar said, his attention focused solely on the drüskelle. His shoulders were pulled back, his spine straight. He would've become a soldier whether she married him or not. "My brother was scheduled to arrive today alongside you. I wanted to have a word with him."
The drüskelle's dark gray eyes flicked over Gunnar. "Yes."
"Einar Stenvall, sir," Gunnar responded, as if expecting the question that would follow.
The drüskelle narrowed his gaze. He glanced down at Hilde.
"Yes."
"Is he still inside, sir?"
"Yes."
Gunnar stepped forward, going past Hilde without so much as a blink. Before he could sidestep him, however, the drüskelle's hand latched around his wrist. Gunnar's brow twitched in confusion. The drüskelle's eyes flicked over to the gathering crowd, then back at Gunnar. Most of them were young, curious onlookers.
Hilde foolishly wondered whether if she stayed still enough, they would forget about her. It was naïve. Even if they could, her body had began trembling again. The fear, the cold, the rot— it was all indiscernible now.
"Scatter," Gunnar commanded, and his voice echoed with a severity that was natural to his family. The fishermen did as told without a fragment of hesitation. They mixed back with the onlookers— at arm's length, pretending not to listen to their interaction. He'd make it to drüskelle soon— she knew it for certain now.
Maybe they'd see each other at the Ice Court.
Wet tears started rolling down her cheeks at the thought. She hiccuped. Her vision grew glassy, blurry. She hiccuped again.
Both the drüskelle and Gunnar looked down at her, as if on cue. She couldn't help it now— the dam had cracked, it had broken. Her body was wracked with sobs again.
She was going to die. She would never see her home again. Her friends, her neighbors, the Springmaidens, her parents— Djel, her parents. She'd never see them again. Had they even cared to say goodbye to their only daughter?
The drüskelle appeared almost uncomfortable, but Gunnar was quick to dismiss her. He shook his head, as if he was shrugging off an unexpected wind. He turned towards the ship, heading further down the walkaway.
"Einar!" He called out to the ship. Something about the thick mist felt familiar to Hilde— a calling.
The drüskelle grabbed his arm. There was something in his closed fist.
"What—"
He shoved his hand into Gunnar's face, and Hilde saw a white burst of light. No, not light— an explosion.
Gunnar cried out. He stumbled into the ground, a black powder darkening his brow. Hilde's eyes widened with panic. He was writhing on the floor, screaming, screaming. She could smell something acrid, something burning.
Heavy boots stopped in front of her, and Hilde's head whipped up. The drüskelle had a knife in his hand now. She scrambled back until she hit the wooden pole, crying. She tried to call to the wind that had saved Soren before. But the blackened hand that had felt so eager to resurface before felt out of reach.
The drüskelle raised his knife. Hilde brought her hands in front of her. Please. Please. Who was she crying out to? Who would answer her prayer?
But the bite of steel never came, and the rope around her hands came loose. Shouts were coming from the town, but they felt too far away. She could feel the ground shaking.
Then the drüskelle shouted something— but whatever it was, it was not Fjerdan.
The docks shook as a mass of people hurried down— classmates, fishermen, shop owners. Hilde's feet were no longer touching the ground. The drüskelle —or whoever he was— threw her body over his shoulder as he ran down the walkaway, shouting words she didn't understand.
He ran past Gunnar's writhing frame. The boy was still screaming, scratching at his eyes. Hilde felt bile climbing up her throat. His flesh was bubbling, green and black powder smeared across his face.
Fear lurched inside her gut— a realization. If she got on that ship, there would be no turning back. If he'd done that to Gunnar, what would he do to her?
"Let go!" She balled up her fists and pounded at his shoulder. "Let go!"
The mass of people were gaining in on them, a few crouching besides Gunnar to help him. Hilde stretched out her arm towards them.
The man grunted something foreign to her, before hurrying up a plank of stairs. He gave a shout, and a wave washed over the walkaway, cracking the wood. Water splashed, and Hilde watched as four people fell into the freezing ocean.
The mist gave away, and the man threw her onto the deck. The ship began to move. Hilde's chest began to heave. Up-down. Up-down. Up-down. In-out. In-out. In-out.
She was going to pass out.
Hilde looked around frantically. A large, sleek deck. Flags she didn't recognize. Ropes upon ropes upon ropes. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Elling falling further and further into the distance.
The man stepped closer, and Hilde threw her hands out. He was thrown across the deck like a rag doll, before colliding against the mast with a loud groan.
Rain beat down on her. Her whole body shuddered. "Stay away from me," she heaved, bringing her hands up defensively. She wasn't sure whether the wind would answer again. But the not-drüskelle didn't need to know that.
He groaned loudly. "Ik hoop dat je hiervan genoten hebt," He stood up slowly, the phrase nothing but a meaningless jumble of sounds. "—omdat ik dat nooit meer doe, Kapitan."
That last word made her flinch. It was easy to place.
Captain.
She turned a moment too late. They weren't alone— far from it. With the fog gone, she could see men and women standing around the deck. A big Zemeni man. A Shu girl with a sword in her hand. A woman with dark hair and a disapproving expression. They were too many for her to stand against. Good Djel, she'd never even been in a fight before.
The woman took a careful step forward. Hilde stiffened, raising her hands again. Perhaps it was a mistake to turn her back on the not-drüskelle, but she didn't have much of a choice.
She raised her hand slowly. "It's okay," she whispered softly. Seeing Fjerdan words coming from her mouth felt jarring, wrong. "It's okay, we're not going to hurt you. You're safe."
"Safe?" Hilde repeated, dumbstruck. She could feel her breath growing uneven again. Who were these people? Where was she? Where were they taking her? Her mind was tangled up, and all she could manage was: "He blinded Gunnar! He threw— He—" Breathing was becoming difficult again. Why was she yelling? She shouldn't be yelling. It wasn't right.
The woman glared at the not-drüskelle. "Ze denkt dat je haar hebt ontvoerd," she said, voice severe.
Hilde watched as he stood up, coughing. He threw his arms up, as if asking, what else did you want me to do?
"Stand— Stand back," Hilde finally said, making the woman's attention snap back to her.
"Okay," she said gently. "Okay." She signaled at the others to stand back. "We're not going to hurt you."
"I don't believe you," Hilde responded, voice shaking.
She scoured Hilde's frame, pressing her lips together. "You're cold. I can get you—"
"I don't want your clothes." The sob tore through her throat against her will. "I want— I want—" What did she want? To go back home? A home that would never receive her again? That would turn away from her, send her to a certain death?
"You are Grisha," she started again, slowly, tentatively.
"No." Hilde shook her head with enough strength for it to come loose. "No. No, I am not. I am not. I am—"
"A Squaller," she answered for her, and there was an innate wrongness to it. "The winds listen to your call. You seem old enough to have known that for a while." Her voice grew quiet, a murmur. "It must've killed you, keeping it hidden for so long."
There was an understanding to her words, a sense of sympathy. Hilde took a step back. She looked around at the other pirates, watching them both from a distance. "Drüsje," she realized. "You're—"
The woman's jaw clenched. "Grisha," she repeated, louder this time. Firmer. Hilde swallowed. She'd offended her.
"This is not a prison," the pirate continued, "and I am no jailer. We will get you something to eat, something to wear."
She turned to another witch, ordered something in that unfamiliar tongue. It was as if they were all under a spell— a word from her, and they moved away, as if nothing had happened.
Witchcraft, Hilde thought. It felt silly, as if a single word would keep her tethered to her former life.
The pirate faltered. "And I believe I should apologize," that last word rolled off awkwardly, as if it were unused by her, "for the way my Second handled your situation. He shouldn't have caused a scene— it was meant to be a clean break."
Hilde didn't know why she felt inclined to believe that. There was a gentleness to her, a care. A warmth she hadn't felt in a long time. Hilde glanced back at the man— the Second in command. He didn't seem to understand a word of what they were saying.
"You'll have time to decide where you want to go." Hilde furrowed her brow, confusion swirling like a current in her chest. "You can go back, if that is what you truly want. You can choose a different city in Fjerda— or go somewhere else entirely."
"I don't know where I want to go." It was a moment of weakness. Hilde knew the moment she said it that she shouldn't have spoken. But the world seemed too wide, far too much for her to choose. She had only ever known Elling— anything beyond that seemed unfathomable.
The pirate smiled. "That's okay." Hilde didn't know when she had gotten closer, close enough to lay a hand on her shoulder. It felt... comforting. Oddly so. "A lot of people choose to go back. Some pick the farthest city imaginable. Others..." She looked up, and Hilde followed her line of sight towards the Second in command being helped up by a Zemeni man and a red-headed girl. "Others choose to stay."
"Stay here?" Hilde repeated.
"It's a good place to learn about your gift." Hilde stared at the floor, the reminder like a stone atop her heart. "To help prevent what would've happened to you from happening to other people." She dropped her hand from Hilde's shoulder. And, with a small smile, she added, "Let me know when you've made your decision."
The day blinked away, and night was upon them faster than before. Winter is coming, Hilde remembered. But there was no snow, no leafless trees, no frozen paths. The thought of winter in Elling felt a world away.
An boy with black hair and blue eyes guided the way belowdecks. He set up a hammock in a room filled with them, not sparing her a word. He looked a little older than her— four years, maybe five. It was only as he was finishing to tie up the orange-tinted hammock that she realized he probably didn't speak Fjerdan.
"Done," he said, and Hilde felt unreasonably embarrassed. She looked away and nodded, but not before noticing the tightness of his jaw, as if she had insulted him in some way.
"Maksim!" Someone called from behind him, and he left without another word.
Hilde struggled to get up on the hammock. It was unstable, twisting and turning away from her. Finally, she managed to jump on, but not without a pink embarrassment flushing her cheeks. She shifted uncomfortably.
Someone called out a word, before the light was snuffed out of the room. Hilde could hear conversations in languages she didn't understand, the soft snoring of someone from across the room. The girl resting on the hammock besides her was humming an unfamiliar tune.
Abomination. Witch. Grisha. Squaller. None of those words fit. There was a different wrongness to each of them— a weight she refused to carry.
Cursed. For some reason, that didn't feel quite right anymore either.
Hilde tossed and turned on her hammock. She'd leave tomorrow. She just needed to make her decision.
She closed her eyes. Far from her own bed, from her clothes, from the only town she'd ever known.
That night, Hilde fell asleep to dreams of home— dreams of home that slowly faded into a vast blue sea.
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A/N.
hilde's story was one of my favorites to write. idk why....... i just enjoyed it sm <3
also!!!! i wanna say that i was originally gonna post darius' story first but as i was writing the outline for it, it turned out to be so much longer than i originally expected, so it'll take a a while to get out. (mostly bc i can't find the motivation to sit down and write 8k+ words). + if you have any predictions for that.......
(^ also i wrote that bit before finishing this story so the fact that its over 8k......... so fuck me i guess)
also chances are hilde has had like a single line in seven devils thus far and here i am. writing a long ass backstory for her. to be fair tho you're here reading the backstory of a character who has spoken like once so....
that being said!!! the stories for crewmembers i'm currently considering/outlining are:
- darius riya (zemeni)
- jira tasi (zemeni, fabrikator)
- maksim kozlov (ravkan, squaller, deserter)
+ a possible chapter of ravi's life in novyi zem with karim. that one might be shorter than most because it would be through ravi's pov, and how many things may slip past him bc he's an unreliable narrator (and a child)!!
++ i've also been toying with the idea of either making a chapter featuring emerens as stand-in captain while marya's away (with ravi always close behind) && neyar's days in the palace (featuring interactions with the twins and stuff)
if u have any ideas you'd be interested in reading or have any of your own lmk!!!! ofc each of these chapters would have their own lore bits that would serve the main storyline (hopefully with the purpose of enhancing the experience!!!!)
can you tell i'm over-invested in the silly little characters i've created? yeah
[ Started: Apr 7th, 2024 ]
[ Posted: Apr 14th, 2024 ]
( word count: 8.7k )
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