Charming the heart of a man is a lot more difficult than it sounds. Especially when it's already bewitched by somebody else - literally!
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All that former witch-in-training Avalon wanted was a simple job to get her life back on track and forget abo...
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What happened next was... fuzzy, in Avalon's memory.
She remembered feeling inadequate, overwhelmed, too self-conscious and tired to meet Nina's power with her own. Looking back, it was no wonder at all that Fidelia hadn't stood a chance against her.
She vaguely remembered the sound of battle axes and drums in the air, the call of Lars' Viking magic working its special miracle. Subconsciously, she was aware of the Viking Prayer reaching her ears. A variant of the age-old prayer for the departed. The words echoed deep into the farthest corners of her mind.
Lo, Hear Freya's call Lo, Hear her want for her Priestess I bid you take your place among your Sisters I bid you take your place on the fields of Fólkvangr
Then she remembered feeling a loss of connection to her own body as she gave her magic, dormant for so long, free reign over herself, overpowering her senses. Every possible drop of power she let in, every drop needed to stand against Nina's might.
Time between one heartbeat and another felt endless.
And yet it felt like no time passed at all as the enduring magic of the Vikings wove a complex pattern. Fed by the aquellare ritual of the Vega coven, which Avalon's father Marcel had redirected to Lars, Avalon could sense more than see Nina faltering, her concentration about to break from the power play at the Viking ritual's constant attack.
Avalon had no idea how she managed to hold herself against the Völva, this ancient godlike being, for as long as she did. But when her sense of self at last returned to her, the power play was over – and Nina stood in front of her, wrapped from head to toe in the thickest iron chains Avalon had ever seen.
Lars' ritual of capture had taken a hold of her. Their plan had worked.
Their plan. Had. Worked!
Relief took away the last of Avalon's strength holding her on her feet. She fell to her knees, barely supporting herself on her hands. Her lungs ached with every rapid breath. Her skin felt too small for her frame, stretched to the fullest. Her muscles shook from seizures, as if the magic had short-circuited every nerve ending.
She felt like shit warmed over, but it worked! A disbelieving laugh escaped her.
The soft fur of Zelo stroked along her forearm. "Well done," her mentor whispered at her side, purring proudly.
Nina's manic screams tore through the night, and some part of Avalon wondered what the neighbours would think from all the ruckus, but then she saw Lars and her father walk up the soft hill toward where they were, and all considerations for Neymar's neighbours flew out of her mind.
Marcel held two ends of the iron chains in his hands. They led to Nina, who was held by yet more chains that spanned from the Völva to the swimming pool. Lars was gripping a ceremonial dagger in one hand, his other dripping with blood. Avalon shuddered. There was always a blood sacrifice when Viking magic was involved. Going by the wound on Lars' forearm, it was his own. Nothing made Viking magic more powerful than self-sacrifice.
