Thorfinn and Finn stood barely a meter apart, the tension between them heavy, crackling like a storm about to break. Finn was the only one of the Mikaelsons besides Mikael that Thorfinn hadn't seen fight, but the way he held himself, the sharpness in his eyes as they scanned every inch of Thorfinn, told him this man wasn't an amateur. Thorfinn wasn't eager to kill him. He didn't want to. Finn had done nothing to him before, but if Finn stood in his way, there was no avoiding it.
"For the sake of your sister, I'll give you one last chance to move," Thorfinn said in a low voice, his grip tightening on the leviathan's tooth. His eyes stayed locked on Finn's, searching for any sign of fear or hesitation.
But Finn's face remained as unreadable as stone. There was no flicker of emotion at the mention of Rebekah, no hint of worry or care. Several long moments passed, and finally, Finn spoke, his voice calm, unshaken. "I remain unmoved."
Thorfinn's eyes narrowed. So be it. Without another word, he thrust the leviathan's tooth forward, aiming to gut Finn cleanly and end this quickly. But to his surprise, Finn didn't flinch, didn't step aside. Instead, he dropped his shield, caught the tooth with his bare hand, and held it firm. A murmur of shock rippled through the crowd gathered around them. Thorfinn's frown deepened. Finn looked strong, sure, but no man should have been able to stop a blow like that so easily. Something about this wasn't natural.
"What are you?" Thorfinn growled, locking eyes with Finn. But all he saw was emptiness. Finn's gaze was hollow, his voice cold as he answered.
"Nothing."
With a sudden twist of his arm, Finn spun, pulling Thorfinn and the tooth with him. Before Thorfinn could react, Finn hurled him nearly twenty feet across the muddy clearing. Thorfinn hit the ground hard but managed to roll back to his feet, skidding along the wet earth, his teeth bared in frustration. Growling under his breath, Thorfinn charged forward, drawing his sword. This time, he didn't hesitate. He swung with deadly intent, meeting Finn's downward strike with a clash of steel that echoed through the clearing. The force of the blow rattled Thorfinn's arms, the strength behind Finn's attack far beyond what he'd expected. Who the hell was this man?
Thorfinn quickly disengaged, rolling to the side and striking at Finn's back. But Finn parried the blow with ease, spinning on his heel and aiming a low swing at Thorfinn's legs. Thorfinn jumped back, narrowly avoiding the strike, and thrust his sword forward again. Finn deflected it and followed up with an elbow to Thorfinn's face. The crack of bone was sickening as Thorfinn's nose broke, blood spilling down his lips. But he gritted his teeth, grabbed Finn's arm, and kicked at his knee, trying to drag him down. With a roll, he flipped Finn over his body and onto the ground, but before Thorfinn could land a killing blow, Finn was already on his feet, lunging forward with a wild overhead strike.
Thorfinn blocked the blow just in time, but the force of it sent him skidding back, his boots digging into the mud. Finn's strength was unreal, but it wasn't just brute power. He was fast—almost as fast as Thorfinn. They clashed again, swords swinging, ringing out through the camp. Thorfinn moved with speed, dodging and weaving between Finn's attacks, but every time he thought he had the upper hand, Finn would counter with something new. Thorfinn dodged another swing, grabbed Finn's wrist, and twisted, hoping to disarm him. But Finn simply caught the sword with his other hand and slammed his fist into Thorfinn's chest, sending him stumbling back with a grunt.
"What the hell are you?" Thorfinn muttered, barely catching his breath. He considered for a moment that Finn might be a werewolf, but it didn't seem right.
Finn slashed upward, and Thorfinn barely stepped back in time, however the blade grazed his shoulder and left a deep gash. Thorfinn gritted his teeth, the pain flaring through him. Finn didn't stop—he dropped his sword into his right hand and grabbed Thorfinn's wrist, stopping his counterattack cold before slashing his sword across Thorfinn's chest. Thorfinn roared in pain, blood soaking his tunic, but he didn't relent. Jumping off the ground, he sent both his feet into Finn's gut, knocking him back several feet and giving himself a brief moment to breathe.
"Elijah trained you well," Finn said, his voice calm. "But it seems he passed on a few of his bad habits."
Thorfinn spat blood onto the ground, his face twisted in pain. "What do you mean by that?"
"Who do you think trained Elijah?" Finn replied coldly, then thrusting his sword, putting his entire body into the motion. Thorfinn deflected the blow, but Finn's fist followed, slamming into his chest and launching him backward. Thorfinn's ribs creaked under the impact, his breath knocked from his lungs. As he stumbled to his feet, he sensed movement behind him. Without thinking, he spun his sword in a reverse grip and stabbed backward, impaling one of Finn's men before he could strike.
Another attacker came, but Thorfinn pulled his sword out of the first man and smashed his pommel into the second man's face, then slit his throat with a swift motion. He turned to Finn, his eyes blazing. "Not very honorable to let your men fight for you."
"I don't care," Finn replied, his voice as cold as ever.
Thorfinn grunted and charged again, their swords clashing with a series of loud metallic clangs. They moved through the camp, kicking up mud and dirt as their fight raged on. Thorfinn tried to taunt Finn, hoping to throw him off balance, but it was no use.
"You're wasting your time," Finn said as their swords locked again. "I won't get angry. I won't make a mistake. Call me a coward, dishonorable... it doesn't matter. There's nothing here." He pointed to his chest, his voice unnervingly calm.
Thorfinn snarled and deflected a vicious slash, but the force of the blow sent his sword wide, leaving him open. Finn moved in, aiming to crack his ribs with another punch, but Thorfinn met his fist with his own, his hand glowing with a pale blue light. When their fists connected, a shockwave of air burst from the impact.
For a moment, they stood frozen, fists locked together. Finn's hand cracked, bones splintering, blood oozing from the wounds. But Finn didn't flinch, didn't even blink. No pain, no reaction.
Thorfinn felt a cold chill crawl down his spine. As he looked into Finn's empty eyes, he realized with a sinking dread—Finn hadn't been lying.
There was nothing there. No anger, no fear, no life.
Nothing.
Thorfinn stared at Finn, eyes wide with disbelief as the man wrapped his shattered hand with a strip of fabric, completely indifferent to the bone jutting out and the blood seeping into the cloth.
"What in the gods has been done to you?" Thorfinn asked, his grip tightening around his sword.
Finn didn't flinch, didn't even glance up. He calmly stabbed his sword into the ground to steady himself as he tied the makeshift bandage. "I'm not sure."
Thorfinn's eyes narrowed. Whatever had been done to Finn had stripped him of all humanity. But there was no time for pondering. Finn grabbed his sword once more, The fight wasn't over yet. They clashed again, their swords ringing out as they moved swiftly across the muddy ground. Finn was only using one hand now, and it gave Thorfinn the advantage. He pressed forward, slashing at Finn's side, but Finn parried with surprising speed, even with his injuries. Thorfinn swung wide, aiming for Finn's legs, but the man blocked and retaliated with a sharp thrust aimed at Thorfinn's chest. Thorfinn sidestepped, his boots sinking into the thick mud as he dodged the blow.
With a growl, Finn slashed at Thorfinn's shoulder. Thorfinn blocked, but the force of the strike still jarred his arm. He countered with a swift kick to Finn's knee, sending him stumbling backward. Thorfinn advanced again, his sword slashing through the air as he aimed for Finn's side. Finn tried to parry, but the blow was too fast, too strong. The blade bit into Finn's arm, and blood sprayed across the ground.
Before Finn could recover, Thorfinn delivered a savage kick to his chest, knocking him flat into the mud. Finn's sword fell from his grasp, clattering onto the ground. Thorfinn stood over him, his chest heaving, eyes burning with both anger and confusion.
"Did Mikael do this to you?" Thorfinn demanded, lowering his sword but keeping a cautious distance. "We can fix this, whatever it is that's been done to you."
Finn, lying in the mud, looked up at him with the same blank expression, his voice flat as he replied. "My father didn't do this to me."
Thorfinn's grip tightened on his sword. "Then who turned you into this creature?"
Without a word, Finn pushed himself off the ground and lunged at Thorfinn, his body moving with unnatural speed. Thorfinn sidestepped, grabbing Finn around the neck in a chokehold and throwing him back to the ground with a thud. Finn coughed, mud splattering across his face, but his face remained emotionless as he struggled to stand.
"Who did this to you?" Thorfinn growled, staring down at the broken man before him.
"It doesn't matter," Finn muttered as he stood again. His hand, though he seemed to feel no pain from it, was still affecting his movements. His strikes were slower now, less precise. The toll on his body was clear.
"You're going to lose," Thorfinn said, leveling his sword at Finn's chest. "What's the point of continuing to fight? If you don't feel anything, why fight for your father?"
Finn's eyes flicked up to meet Thorfinn's, cold and empty. "Because they are in power. If I don't fight for them, when this is over, things will change for me. I'd prefer they not."
Thorfinn scoffed. "Then you should be loyal to me. I killed the Jarl's son. I killed Jarl Bjarni. I've taken over Kattegat, and I'll make it official when I kill the Jarl. Though Official or not, the Jarl will be coming back to a Kattegat that's heavily defended, and he'll lose most of his men."
Finn stood still, his face unreadable, but Thorfinn continued. "Even if I'm killed, the Jarl will likely be replaced. This isn't a fight he can win."
Finn didn't respond at first, just stood there, his sword hanging at his side, considering Thorfinn's words. A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind and the distant sounds of the forest.
Finally, Finn nodded. "You are right," he said quietly. "I see no deception in your words. I will not stop you any longer."
Without another word, Finn sheathed his sword and turned, walking toward his tent with the same emotionless expression as before.
Thorfinn stood there, stunned. He hadn't expected Finn to back down so easily, but then again, there was nothing normal about this man. Finn's loyalty was as hollow as his gaze. Shaking off the momentary surprise, Thorfinn glanced around. The remaining men, those who had been watching the fight from the edges of the camp, were either frozen in shock or cautiously backing away. Finn had been their strongest, and now he had stepped aside.
Thorfinn didn't waste time. He quickly treated his wounds, binding the gash on his shoulder as best he could before grabbing his horse. He couldn't linger here. Ragnar and the others were deep in Darkmoon Forest, and if he didn't reach them soon, it could be too late.
He went back to his horse and jumped on it and with a sharp kick, Thorfinn urged the horse forward, directing it toward the thick, dark woods. He had no time left to waste.
Meanwhile Finn sat down in the dim light of the tent, his fingers moving slowly as he tended to his shattered hand. The bones in his hand were a mess, but the pain didn't matter. Pain never mattered. His mother had taught him how to treat such wounds when he was younger, back when things still made sense. Back when he could feel something.
He took a few small planks of wood from around the tent and placed them against his hand, carefully wrapping the bandage around them. His movements were mechanical, his mind detached. He wasn't angry at losing to Thorfinn. In fact, he didn't feel anything about it at all. Whether he won or lost—it made no difference to him. That part of him had died long ago, or at least, it felt like it had. Ever since his aunt cursed him, Finn had lived in this empty shell. His memories were still there, clear as day, but they felt distant, like they belonged to another man. A man who was no longer here. He remembered his wife, remembered his son, but there was no warmth in those memories, no sorrow in their loss. Even the memory of when they died, he felt nothing.
As he tightened the last of the bandages, he wondered, for a fleeting moment, if the old Finn would be relieved. Relieved that he didn't have to carry the burden of killing his own son or standing by while his family was torn apart. He remembered how the old Finn wept as he watched his wife being killed by his Aunt. This version of him, however, didn't even care enough to ponder the thought for long.
His stomach grumbled, cutting through the silence of the tent. With a sigh, he stood up, casting away the fleeting thoughts. They were useless. Pointless. Just noise in the back of his head. Without another word, Finn grabbed some food from his pack and set about making something to eat, his movements as empty and lifeless as the thoughts that once plagued his mind.
————————————————————-
Deeper in the forest, panic engulfed Rollo's group. The thick trees cast dark shadows all around them, and the light was barely enough to see the path ahead. The group had started with twenty men, but six had been taken vanished without a trace, taken in the silence of the woods. Now, only fourteen remained, their nerves frayed, their breaths heavy with fear. Panic spread among the group like a plague.
"They're picking us off! One by one!" one man shouted, gripping his axe so tightly his knuckles had gone white. "We need to leave the forest now!"
"Aye, we should've never come here!" another added, voice trembling. "This place is cursed!"
Voices overlapped, growing louder, hysterical. Men argued about what to do next, some already turning back toward the direction they came from, ready to bolt at any moment. They spoke of fleeing, of abandoning the plan. Torsten and Arne, usually the first to jump into a fight, were quiet now, exchanging uneasy glances. Even they felt afraid of whatever was hunting them. Rollo stood in the middle of it, trying to rein in the madness, his voice raised to be heard over the clamor. "Enough!" he barked, slamming his axe into the ground. "We can't just run. If we leave, we'll be slaughtered by the Jarl's men before we even make it to the edge of the forest."
Floki spoke next. "Rollo speaks true. Running won't save us from this nightmare. We are already in it, and the way out is not by turning and sprinting blindly into the Jarl's trap."
"Ragnar had a plan," Rollo continued, glaring at the men who looked ready to run. "We stick to it. Whoever is hunting us cannot stay hidden forever. They'll make a mistake."
"And if they don't?" Torsten spoke up, his usual confidence shaken. "We've lost six already, and we've found nothing but shadows."
"Then we make them pay for every life they've taken," Rollo growled, eyes fierce. "You want to run into the Jarl's men and die like dogs? Or do you want to fight, where we still stand a chance?"
Arne stepped forward, looking uneasy but siding with Rollo. "He's right. The forest may be cursed, but turning back now means certain death. We stick to Ragnar's plan. We fight."
The others weren't so easily convinced, but they knew Rollo wasn't wrong. Running would likely end in an ambush. The argument died down, but the fear in their eyes did not. One of the younger men, still shaking, glanced around wildly. "What if they come for me next? What if I'm the next one to vanish?"
Floki sidled up next to him with a wide grin, unsettling even under the circumstances. "Then we'll make sure to slaughter the ones responsible and drink a cup to your name."
The young man didn't seem reassured, but Rollo's hard gaze silenced any further protests. "We'll move soon," Rollo said, gripping his axe. "No one strays from the group. Stay close, and keep your eyes sharp."
As the group began to move again, Arwyn stayed at the edge, her sharp senses on high alert. Every step forward was filled with unease, the silence of the forest feeling like it was closing in around them. Suddenly, her nose twitched. She caught a whiff of something unmistakable—blood, thick in the air. Without a word, Arwyn sprinted forward, her body moving instinctively. She darted past the others, her feet barely making a sound as she weaved through the dense underbrush. Rollo, noticing her sudden movement, called out, "Where are you going?"
"Blood. I smell blood," Arwyn replied without stopping. "This way."
Rollo's face darkened, and he exchanged a glance with Floki before chasing after her. The others, not wanting to be left behind, quickly followed, their fear of being alone far outweighing any hesitation. The forest was thick, branches clawing at their faces and arms as they pushed forward, but Arwyn was swift and agile, slipping through the trees like a shadow. She didn't stop, didn't hesitate. Her eyes locked on the direction of the scent, her heart pounding as she ran.
The rest of the group struggled to keep up. Rollo cursed under his breath as he hacked away at the vines and branches blocking his path, his axe cutting through the dense foliage. Floki laughed between ragged breaths, muttering something about always running toward death. The rest followed, panting and stumbling, but they pressed on, unwilling to be left behind in the cursed woods.
Finally, they broke through to a clearing, where the trees thinned out, the air thick with the stench of blood. Arwyn stopped abruptly, her chest heaving as she gazed ahead. The others caught up one by one, their expressions shifting from frustration to horror as they took in the scene before them.
Sigurd, the first man who had gone missing, lay there—what was left of him, at least. His body was a grotesque sight, torn apart and half-eaten. Flesh hung loosely from his bones, his ribs exposed where something had feasted on him. His face was twisted in agony, eyes wide open as though he had died in utter terror. Blood soaked the ground around him, pooling into the dirt, staining the forest floor a deep crimson.
A few of the men gagged at the sight, their faces turning pale. One of the younger men fell to his knees and retched, while others looked on in a mix of fear and disbelief.
"Gods..." one of them muttered under his breath, his hand shaking as he gripped his sword.
Rollo's eyes burned with fury as he stepped forward, his knuckles white around the handle of his axe. "Bastards," he growled, his voice low and filled with rage. "Animals, they did not even given him an honourable death."
Floki, had gone silent, his usual grin replaced by a grim expression. He nudged Sigurd's body with the tip of his boot, noting the deep bite marks across his chest and arms. "They tore him apart," Floki said quietly. "Whatever did this wasn't in a hurry. It took its time."
Arwyn crouched next to the mangled corpse, her sharp eyes scanning the ground. She could see the tracks—large, heavy paw prints embedded in the dirt. They led away from Sigurd's body, deeper into the forest. The smell of death lingered in the air, mixing with the stench of something feral. "They're close," she said, her voice steady, but her expression hardened. "Very close."
Rollo grunted, kneeling down beside Arwyn to inspect the tracks. "Look at these," he muttered. "They're not even trying to hide their trail anymore."
Floki stood beside him, his eyes narrowing as he too examined the ground. "That's the part that worries me, Rollo," he said, his usual mirth absent from his voice. "Why leave tracks for us to follow so easily?"
Rollo paused, his brow furrowing as he considered Floki's words. "You think it's a trap?"
"I think it smells like one," Floki replied. He glanced at Arwyn, then back to Rollo. "They've been toying with us, picking us off one by one. And now, when we're most desperate, they leave us a trail?"
Rollo clenched his jaw, his hands tightening on the handle of his axe. "They want us to follow. They're trying to draw us in."
Floki grinned, though there was no humor in it. "Exactly. They want to make us their prey. That's if we aren't already."
Rollo growled in frustration, his eyes scanning the forest around them. "What choice do we have? We can't run back to the Jarl; he'll slaughter us. We have to fight whatever enemy this is."
"We could set a trap of our own," Floki suggested, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes. "Turn the hunters into the hunted."
Arwyn stood, her eyes never leaving the direction of the tracks. "They're watching us," she muttered, her voice low and tense. "I can feel it."
Rollo glanced at her, then at the others, who were still pale and shaken by the sight of Sigurd's remains. "Get yourselves together!" he barked at them. "If you let fear overcome you then you will never dine in the halls of the gods!!! Hold your sword high so when the Valkyrie's come to take you they lead you to Valhalla!" The group, though rattled, nodded and began to gather their weapons. They knew Rollo was right.
"Lead the way, girl," Rollo said, turning to Arwyn. "Let's see where these cunts are hiding."
Arwyn nodded, her grip tightening on her spear as she moved forward, following the trail of tracks and blood. She moved cautiously, leading the group through the dense forest, her senses sharp, her body tense. The others followed closely behind, their nerves stretched thin after seeing what had been done to Sigurd. Each step forward seemed to heighten the tension in the air. Even the sound of their feet crunching the leaves felt too loud, as if it would draw the attention of whatever enemies were stalking them.
The trail of tracks led deeper into the heart of the forest, the prints becoming more distinct with every passing moment. They followed in near silence, but the unease was palpable, lingering over the group like a heavy shroud. Rollo was breathing hard, frustration building with every step. "How long does this go on?" he muttered under his breath, his knuckles white around the handle of his axe. Floki glanced at him but said nothing, his usual cheerfulness replaced by a sharp focus.
They reached a large tree, its bark gnarled and ancient, towering over them like a Vanir. The tracks stopped abruptly at its base. Arwyn crouched down, her brow furrowed as she inspected the ground.
"Where do they go?" Rollo demanded, anger edging into his voice.
"They stop here," Arwyn replied, frowning in confusion. She had expected the trail to lead somewhere, not end in the middle of the forest like this. Rollo's patience snapped. He slammed his axe into the tree with a loud grunt, the blade sinking deep into the wood with a satisfying crack. "What is this! Is this a game to them! I refuse to play any longer!" he shouted, glaring at the tree as if it were to blame.
Before anyone could respond, a sickening sound filled the air. From the branches above, five mutilated bodies fell onto the group, crashing into them like broken dolls. The sight was horrifying. Torn limbs, ripped flesh, and blood-soaked clothes landed on them with sickening thuds. The smell of blood and shit hit them full force. Blood spattered across the faces and arms of those unfortunate enough to be standing beneath the falling corpses. One of the younger men screamed, stumbling back in terror. Another man dropped to his knees, shaking violently as a half-eaten body collapsed onto him, its dead eyes staring into nothingness. Panic exploded through the group as they scrambled, shouting and tripping over themselves in their horror.
"What in the gods' name is happening?!" a voice screamed, followed by others shouting curses and prayers, the chaos spiraling out of control. Some men were trying to pull the corpses off themselves, others were backing away, terrified, unsure of what to do.
Rollo ripped his axe out of the tree and swung it wildly in frustration. "Get a hold of yourselves!" he bellowed. But the shouting continued, the men panicking as they flailed about, tripping over bodies and each other. Torsten and Arne tried to bring the others into order, but the hysteria had already gripped them. Arwyn, standing off to the side, was trying to shout over the noise, her eyes wide, her body tense.
"Be quiet!" she hissed, her voice sharp, but it was drowned out by the chaos around her. She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself and listen. Something... something was out there. She could hear it over the noise, the faint sound of something large moving in the forest.
"I said be quiet!" she shouted again, stepping forward, but one of the panicked men stumbled into her, knocking her to the ground. She hit the dirt hard, her hands splaying out to break her fall. Her spear rolled away from her as she struggled to get back up, pushing herself onto her knees.
Just as she regained her balance, her eyes caught movement in the distance. Her breath hitched, and she froze. Standing there, partially hidden in the shadows of the trees, was a hulking figure. It was enormous, much larger than any man she had ever seen, its body covered in thick, matted fur.
An Ulfhednar.
Its yellow eyes gleamed through the darkness, locking onto her with a predatory stare. Her blood turned cold, and she shouted, her voice breaking, "Ulfhednar!"
But no one heard her. The men were too busy arguing and shouting, too panicked to notice what she had seen. "Stop! Listen to me!" she cried, but her voice was lost in the storm of fear around her. Suddenly, one of the younger men, pale and shaking, couldn't take it anymore. His eyes darted around frantically before he broke into a run, sprinting away from the group as fast as his legs would carry him.
"No! Wait!" Arwyn screamed, scrambling to her feet, but he was already gone, crashing through the underbrush in blind terror. The others stopped and watched in stunned silence as he bolted.
For a brief moment, there was a stillness, a quiet that hung in the air like the calm before a storm. And then, without warning, the massive wolf-like creature lunged from the shadows, slamming into the young man with a terrifying speed. Its jaws snapped around his neck, the crunch of bone echoing through the trees as the werewolf lifted him off the ground like a ragdoll. The man was gone in less than a second, dragged into the forest with a speed that left everyone frozen in place, their breath catching in their throats.
A silence fell over the group, the horror of what they had just witnessed sinking in. The blood had drained from their faces, fear overtaking them as they realized the true nature of the enemy they were facing. Then, all at once, chaos erupted again.
"Creatures of Hel!" one of the men screamed, throwing down his weapon and turning to run.
"No! Stay together!" Rollo shouted, his voice filled with desperation, but it was no use. The men broke rank, scattering into the forest in different directions, their terror too great to overcome. Rollo, Floki, Arne, Torsten, Arwyn, and a few of the others were all that remained, standing together as the rest of the group fled into the woods. They formed a circle, weapons drawn, their eyes darting around wildly as they listened to the screams of the men being picked off one by one.
Each scream was worse than the last, the sound of bones snapping, flesh tearing, and desperate cries for help echoing through the forest. The werewolves were hunting them, and there was nothing they could do to stop it.
Floki's face was pale, his hands shaking as he gripped his dagger tightly. "By the gods..." he muttered, his voice trembling. "We're all going to die here."
(AN: So things are getting tense, the Ulfhednar in this forest are sadistic and like to play with their food. Btw I know historically speaking Ulfhednar were not how I'm portraying them, and that's because they aren't really Ulfhednar. But Vikings closest thing for a werewolf I could find was Ulfhednar. In the end it doesn't really matter, but just telling you guys so I don't get someone going. Actually ☝🏻🤓. Also Finn was cursed by Dahlia for reasons that will be revealed. His strength however was a gift from his mother, the same one Mikael received. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.)
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