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amberdreamsBack to Part 1
Sam raised his head and looked around him, feeling dizzy and confused.
The sun was warm and high in the east. A fly butted aimlessly against Sam’s cheek and he absently batted it away. The air was scented with the profusion of wild flowers that surrounded the young hunter, and apart from the buzz of insects and bird song, the world was silent. No rain no traffic, no distant airplanes overhead. No sign of Kali, or of Gabriel.
No Dean.
Where the hell was he, and where was his brother?
Panic fluttered in Sam’s chest as he stood up. Drawing himself up to his full height, he stared around him. He was in a wide, open, fragrant meadow, which at any other time he might have found beautiful. Now all he could think was that Dean wasn’t here, and he didn’t know what that meant, but knowing Winchester luck, it couldn’t bode well. He turned slowly, taking in the sweep of the shallow slope down to a small river to his right, the gentle rise of the meadow to his left. Across the river there was no sign of life as far as the eye could see, right up to the edge of a wooded area in the distance, so Sam turned left and west, with his back to the sun, and headed uphill. Maybe there would be a road or something over this hill, some way of getting his bearings.
Maybe Dean would be there.
He reached the crest of the ridge in minutes, but the vista that greeted him was very little different from the one behind him, save for the absence of a river. There was a broad expanse of lush grassland that led to a largely deciduous woodland that seemed to spread from north to south in an unbroken green darkness that appeared too pristine to be real. As far as Sam could see, there was no sign of a human touch – no pylons, no telegraph poles, no firebreaks in the forest, no buildings, nothing.
Then he saw two things that gave the lie to that. Firstly, off to the north Sam spotted smoke. Before he could get too excited about what that might signify, there was movement on the edge of the forest, and a figure stepped out into the light.
Sam squinted, puzzled. His eyesight was good, but the forest was about a mile away, and so he wasn’t certain of what he was seeing. Because the figure looked as though it had stepped out of Last of the Mohicans instead of a wood, dressed as she was in a buckskin tunic and tasselled boots, long straight black hair kept off her face by some sort of decorated head band. Instinct caused Sam to drop from where he was silhouetted against the bright sun, and he stayed still, observing.
The woman seemed to be collecting some sort of plant, placing the leaves into a leather pouch slung over her shoulder. Sam was just contemplating getting up to walk over and approach her when the woman paused in her work. She crouched down to investigate what looked from the distance to be a bundle of rags, then threw her head back and called out in a wailing warble that carried easily through the still air. Sam froze and waited. Within moments, two more figures, also dressed as Native Americans (what was this? Some kind of re-enactment society?) emerged from under the shadow of the trees. The newcomers were male, their torsos bare except for where they had reddened their skin with paint, and they were quickly at the woman’s side. The sound of their voices drifted towards Sam on the breeze, and though he couldn’t make out their words, it sounded as though they were arguing about something. After a few minutes of gesticulating, the two men bowed to the woman’s will and lifted up the bundle from the ground to hang limply between them.
Sam tensed and rose to his feet so quickly the rush of blood to his head made him dizzy. That was no bundle of rags. He could see clearly now, the dangling limbs, the glint of the sun catching on something silver that dropped to the ground from a slack hand and was quickly scooped up by the woman.
That was an unconscious man.
It was Dean.
Sam was on his feet and running before he had time for a single conscious thought. The little party was already slipping into the darkness under the forest canopy when Sam reached the bottom of the slope, and he was still some 500 yards away when they disappeared from view.
“No, wait! Stop!”
Sam yelled, and he thought he saw the pale flash of a face streaked with red like blood turning to look at him for a second, then it was gone. He speeded up and hit the forest edge at full pelt, crashing through thick undergrowth heedless of the damage he was causing to both the trees and to himself. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the green shadowed gloom, and a little while longer to realise he had lost the trail all together.
“Dean!” He shouted, but his voice seemed to die and be absorbed into the thick layer of dead leaves underfoot. He couldn’t hear anything over the rasping of his own panting breaths and the hammering of his heart.
He staggered to a halt, breathing heavily, bent over and leaned both hands on his thighs, trying to get his breath back.
“Fuck.”
Wide eyed, Kiim hid behind a tree, keeping as silent as the secret she was named after, watching the giant destroying the Beothuk’s forest home with his huge flailing limbs. When he finally stilled his thrashing about, and stood with his shaggy head hung low huffing through his nose like a wounded elk, she decided that he was just a man, after all. Albeit a very large, very loud and very clumsy one.
She rested an ochre stained hand against the rough bark of the tree and wondered about venturing out to greet the giant, but two things prevented her from taking that tentative step. First was the slight hiss from her brother Esiban from behind her. He and their cousin Ishkode were waiting impatiently behind her, holding the wounded outsider she had insisted they take home to tend. It was a timely reminder that her injured charge needed attention.
Second was the faint sound of loud voices approaching from the meadow, coupled with the knowledge that her people were not yet ready to approach the settlement of pale haired, pale skinned strangers who had recently set up camp on the northern promontory near the sea.
Best to stick to her original plan, half formed when she had discovered the unconscious man in the midst of her herb gathering. She nodded to herself. Yes. Heal the one who was hurt and put these new people in their debt, and the Beothuk would be on a strong footing from the start.
With the barest rustle of leaves, Kiim and her companions faded into the woods with their insensate burden, leaving the giant bear of a man to be reunited with his tribe.
Sam straightened up and started making his way back the way he’d come. At one point he whipped around, thinking he’d heard something moving behind him, but there was nothing there. He ran a hand through his hair, frowning when his fingers snagged on a twig caught there when he’d stormed after Dean like a headless chicken. He was somewhat disgusted with his lack of forethought, but was distracted from his self recriminations by the sound of approaching voices as he stepped out from under the canopy of the trees into the setting sunlight.
The last thing he was expecting to greet him was the point of a spear pressed up under his chin. He made a move to get his hand behind his back to pull out his Taurus, but his opponents had the advantage of numbers and had him surrounded before he could blink. There was a man either side of him, and both arms were gripped immediately. Sam tried his best to look harmless, though it was hard to see what was going on with the low sun blinding him.
“Hey, it’s ok, I’m just looking for my brother, see?” He said, smiling and using his most diplomatic tone. Which it soon became clear was totally wasted, as the men surrounding him began to speak.
He couldn’t understand a word.
As the men argued, presumably over what to do with him, Sam began to tune into to the flow of the language, and realised he recognised one or two words from his linguistics history classes at Stanford. One of them seemed to say something like bruðir, which might have been in response to him saying he was looking for his brother. It gradually dawned on him this was no bunch of over enthusiastic Renaissance Festival escapees - these hairy, fur wearing guys brandishing very sharp, very lethal looking swords, axes and spears (fucking spears!) were the real deal. And from the sound of it, they were speaking Old Norse, which meant they were Vikings.
Shitshitshit. What had Kali done? And where the hell was Gabriel?
Dean woke up confused.
He was fairly certain he’d been in the Impala with Sam; he thought he remembered getting a knock to the head when he’d had to pull off an emergency stop because some douchebag was standing in the road right in front of him, then everything was a muddled blank.
He’d learned a long time ago that if you came to unsure of your surroundings, it was a good idea to keep your eyes shut until you’d gleaned as much information as you possibly could, and hopefully had a chance to remember what your latest cover story was for the medics. Only this didn’t smell or feel much like a hospital, though his head ached like a motherfucker, which probably meant that was where he should have been, or would have been, if Sam had any say in the matter. Sam didn’t like to mess about with head injuries any more because, as he kept telling Dean (always overthinking, his Sammy), one hit too many and Dean could be scrambled for good.
And if Sam hadn’t had a say in where he was, that was something Dean should immediately get worried about because it might mean something bad had happened to Sam and – well. Big brother habits die hard and it’s his job to worry, right?
The thought of Sam in trouble got his heart rate up, and he struggled for a second to control his breathing, to keep it nice and even so he could listen and find out as much as he could before anyone realised he was awake.
He nearly started out of his skin at the touch of a small hand on his bare chest, followed the swipe of something cool and wet across his forehead. He hadn’t sensed anyone close, or heard anyone approach, and that rattled him, even if from the feel of it the hand belonged to a woman or a child and didn’t feel dangerous .
Fuck, Winchester, you’re losing your touch! Come on, pay attention…
He tried to focus, though it was difficult, with his thoughts all jumbled up worse than Bobby’s library, because at least that had a system, even if it was one known only to the old hunter, and now Dean was digressing, and liable to get lost in a maze of memories and irrelevancies.
He concentrated hard, trying to make sense of what he did know.
It felt as if he was lying on a floor, not a bed, though there was something soft between him and the floor and …was that fur under his fingers? He thought he was in an enclosed space, as smells were intensified – earth and leather and smoke, wet dog and something vaguely herbal he couldn’t quite identify, though no doubt Sam would have known instantly. The light was flickering and he could hear a fire crackle and pop somewhere to his left, and feel the warmth from its flames against his naked flesh. His lower half was covered, he could feel the weight of the blanket or coverlet over his legs and groin, but his torso was bared to the air.
As the girl washed him down, she hummed, nothing that Dean could recognise, just a pleasant, soothing, rhythmic tune that curled and swooped and went nowhere, like a swift hunting insects on a summer breeze.
So what could he conclude from all of this? That his brain was so addled he was waxing all poetical. That it was probably night time because the breeze coming through the open tent flap or whatever was cool and smelt like evening, and he was maybe in a campsite of some sort, because he could hear people moving about outside, as well as the faint rustle of movement from the girl or woman who was ministering to him. That none of this information told him where he was, how he’d got there, or most importantly, where Sam was.
All of which meant that it was probably time to find out what the hell was going on around here.
Dean opened his eyes.
Although he seems to be thoroughly trapped, Loki cannot resist the pull of Kali’s power, and moves forward eagerly to steal as much as he can before she realises what he is doing. He fathoms out too late as he steps within her aura that the Hindu goddess is all too aware of his weakness, his foolish overconfidence, and of his illicit designs on her power.
His skin crackles as she wraps the force more securely around him, and he feels rather than sees her satisfied smile as the awareness that there really is no escape sweeps over him.
Time contorts around him, but in spite of the agony that brings, Loki’s quick mind is searching for loopholes, exit strategies, any tiny thread that he can grasp to thwart Kali’s purpose. With relief he finally senses the thinnest, faintest undercurrent of belief in Asgard, and latches onto it like a lifeline.
He twists and strains and cries out at the sudden wrench in his gut as Kali’s will flexes then gives way, and he tumbles free. He lands, cat-like on all fours, feeling smugly triumphant at his cleverness. He had bent the fierce female goddess’ desires and made them his own, and had managed to steal some of her strength in the bargain. She had wanted to send him somewhere lost and lonely, but he had thwarted her plans and made it back to where he belonged.
His built in chronometer tells him perhaps this time is not perfect, it’s just before the first millennium, when the White Christ has already taken a strong hold in the homelands of the Asgardians, but he tells himself this is a vast improvement on the desolate times where Kali had intended to strand him.
Loki pulls himself up to his full height, which isn’t overly impressive compared to his foster brother, Thor, but he cares not at this moment, because he wants to savour the taste of his many worshippers. He sends out a tendril of thought, seeking his people and their longing for their gods and finds…something so weak and pathetic he is momentarily shocked out of his complacency.
“What trickery is this?” He demands, staring at the beautiful landscape that surrounds him. Loki is blind to its untouched loveliness, feeling only its virtual vacuum as a source of strength for him. Where are the believers, where are his Vikings? Where is the respect (the love) he deserves?
Scanning with all his senses, Loki can feel the faint thread that had brought him here, and follows it. For now, it seems he is stuck on this vast yet under-populated continent, still many leagues from the true source of his power. He is seething with frustration that in spite of the energy he stole from Kali, he is still too weak to range farther afield. Still, Loki is cunning and resourceful. All he needs is a foothold, and he can build from here.
All he needs are some gullible humans and he can mould them into whatever form he desires.
He finds what he is looking for behind a wooden palisade, in a small settlement facing north and east, looking out towards far distant Greenland as if it is trying to see where it came from. There are maybe a hundred and fifty faithful souls huddled there, enough for Loki to work with.
He smiles.
Dean didn’t know what he had expected after little session of blind detective work, but this beautiful child that was leaning over him wasn’t it. Surely she couldn’t have been more than fourteen, sloe-dark eyes huge in a perfect oval face, her straight black hair hanging loose in a shining curtain must have been long enough for her to sit on. Unfortunately his headache seemed to grow in strength as his bewildered gaze took in her buckskin dress, the red ochre body-paint liberally smeared across her smooth forehead and high cheekbones, bare upper arms and wrists. Behind her he could see firelight flickering over wooden tent supports that angled up into a central point where a hole allowed the smoke to escape into the night air. It had to be a frigging tepee.
“Fuck me, Sammy. I’ve woken up in Dances with Wolves.” He murmured, and let his heavy eyelids fall shut again to block out the throbbing pain. A slim arm slid behind his head to raise it off the ground, and he felt the rim of a wooden cup pressed against his lips. He opened his eyes again and let his sore neck take his own weight. He took a cautious sip of the liquid being offered. It was just water, but that first sip reminded Dean how thirsty he was and he gulped the rest down eagerly. It tasted wonderful. Cold, a little earthy and fresh.
He attempted to sit up but his head was swimming and his stomach clenched with a sudden nausea. Not wanting to throw up the water he’d just drunk, Dean allowed himself to be lowered back down.
“Th’nk you,” he told the girl, hating how his words were slurring but helpless to fight against the pull of the darkness that was beckoning him again. He gave up the struggle and allowed himself to slide back into a blessedly pain-free unconsciousness.
Kiim sat back for a moment and waited to see if the stranger would speak again, but he seemed to have sunk back into sleep. A night breeze tickled the bare soles of her feet where she knelt, as someone lifted the entrance flap of the tepee. Without looking round she smiled and greeted her brother. Anyone else would have requested permission before entering the siblings’ family home.
“Heya, Esiban.”
“Is he awake?” Esiban asked, walking round the fire to sit cross-legged on the opposite side of the stranger.
“He spoke a moment ago, but I couldn’t understand him. His head wounds are so bad, I’m surprised he woke at all, but I think his spirit is strong.”
Esiban nodded. He could certainly attest to the stranger’s well-muscled body, if not to the strength of his spirit. He was happy to defer to his clever sister when it came to the mysterious workings of the spirit world. He and Ishikode had struggled to carry the big man back to their camp, and manhandling him while they helped Kiim strip him of his strange clothing had been exhausting work. The Beothuk were considered lofty among the Folk, but for the most part, these bright-haired, pale-eyed strangers came from a taller and heavier stock, and this one was the tallest they had seen so far. Esiban was no holy man, but he saw no reason that the stranger’s spirit would not match his body. Probably, Esiban speculated, the stranger’s weyekin was a bear, or maybe a wolf. Something fierce and powerful, where his own racoon weyekin was all about being clever and dexterous.
Esiban picked up the knife they had found when they had stripped the stranger, and ran his fingers over the silver-grey coloured blade, wondering afresh at its cool hard surface. It looked as if it was made of cloudy moonlight or water, or maybe a mixture of both, and its edge was as sharp as a freshly broken flint. He and his fellow braves had observed the strangers’ settlement for many days, and had seen several of these weapons from a distance, but this was the first time any of the Beothuk had handled one.
The other item that had dropped from the stranger’s hand when they had first lifted him up was a larger mystery. Its strange squared off angular shape seemed to hold no purpose, but its shiny silver surface was very finely decorated with leaf-like patterns that Esiban’s craftsman’s fingers itched to try carving into the next bone awl he would make for his sister’s leather working. And the mother of pearl that adorned the part that appeared to be where one gripped the object was very beautiful. Esiban had never seen a shell large enough to provide such a large and perfectly flat piece that must have been required to make this thing.
Esiban concluded that all these things added up to this outsider being full of luck, something born out by the reddish tint to the man’s facial hair, and the darker red of the strange clothing he’d been wearing on his upper body, red being held sacred by the Beothuk.
There was a soft “heya” from the entrance and Nonosabawsut, the Beothuk’s holy man and their grandfather, lifted the flap and entered, interrupting the young man’s reverie. He nodded a greeting at Esiban, then Kiim. He circled the fire and squatted down next to Esiban, staring at the stranger’s sleeping form, taking in the unusually pale skin that was speckled with flecks of darker gold, like a thrush’s breast.
“You think this man is a warrior?” Nonosabawsut asked, not really expecting an answer. Kiim replied anyway, pointing to the visible jagged wound with its fresh stitches on the stranger’s temple, and the invisible lump at the back of his skull that she’d left untouched, just being careful to pad the stranger’s head so it wasn’t resting any weight on the contusion. She thought she might have to drain it later, if it showed no sign of reducing on its own. She was glad her grandfather had come; he could make sure her medicines were working. She was newly come to her position as the tribe’s medicine woman after the death of her mother, and still needed reassurance on occasion.
“Two heavy blows, front and back – I’d say whoever did this took him by surprise; this one a cowardly attack from behind, or perhaps delivered after the first blow took him down.”
Then she pointed to several other scars on the man’s chest and arms. “I think he is a fighter. A veteran of many battles. But this scar is very strange. I have never seen anything like this before.” She laid her palm over the raised pink scar tissue in the shape of a handprint on the man’s shoulder.
Nonosabawsut nodded. “The mark of the Great Spirit,” he said. He touched the stranger’s bare chest and felt the steady beat of the man’s heart with approval.
“When he regains his strength, we will test him. I wish to see a weyekin of these strangers before we talk to them about trade. This one can stand for his people.” The wise man rose to his feet easily for such an elderly man.
“Tend him well, child,” he instructed Kiim, “And bring him to me when he is ready for the spirit journey.”
When Sam was half dragged, half guided into the Viking settlement, the last person he expected to head the welcoming committee when he got there was Gabriel. Then again, he supposed he should have known the archangel would be here somewhere. He couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or just more worried by the archangel’s presence, but he supposed, correctly, that he wouldn’t have to wait long to find out.
Gabriel approached with an uncharacteristic sneer and a swagger that had Sam frowning again. Something about this didn’t feel right to the younger Winchester.
“Well, look who it is. So Kali threw a minnow back into the pond along with the pike, did she?”
Sam looked down at Gabriel’s vessel’s familiar features and saw no sign of recognition in those golden-brown eyes.
“You have don’t remember me or Dean, do you?” Sam asked slowly, his brain whirring through possibilities and coming up blank. He was now certain of one thing though.
“You are not Gabriel, are you,” He made his conclusion a statement rather than a question.
Not-Gabriel clapped his hands, very slowly, in derisory applause. The men ranged on either side of the diminutive figure were looking puzzled, but seemed content to wait patiently for the scene to play out. Sam wondered what had been said about him before his capture, if anything, because it had appeared that the men who had found him on the forest edge had been deliberately seeking him out.
“Well done, mortal, well played indeed. I would have been very insulted if you had thought I could have anything to do with that duplicitous, devious, treacherous bastard. Especially as I’ve just found out that he not only stole my life by leaving me to fester in the prison he fashioned for me, but that he also stole my favoured form. He’s been prancing around in my body for several hundred years, while I rotted, bound in the entrails of my own son.”
As Not-Gabriel was speaking, realisation was dawning on Sam. His last words confirmed Sam’s theory. The prison, the bindings, and knowing what Sam did about Gabriel’s trickster existence, there was only one story that fitted in this context.
“I know who you are,” he said. “You are Loki.”
Continued in Part 3