I really need to stop starting fanfictions, but I couldn't resist. I have so made ideas for this story. I think it will be around 10 to 12 chapters long. I've set it in Scandanavia, so most of the creatures I use are from Scandinavian folklore.

Let me know whether you think this is worth continuing!

Chapter 1: For Your Sins

For the people of the village, life was peaceful. Quiet, idyllic. Everything had a slightly painted quality to it, like someone had smeared pain over the canvas of the heavens and created this town.

Life moved slowly here, as if everyone was walking in mud. The summer days were warm and humid, the winter ones frosty and angelic. No matter the weather or season, the baker still baked the same bread. The farmers still brought home the wheat. The tinkering of the blacksmith's hammer could be heard.

Safety from the perils of the forest and a tranquil life wasn't enough for some, however.

To a handful of young adults, with hearts full of dreams and pockets full of swiped biscuits, the tepid life that the village brought was numbingly boring. It brought no spark, no hint of the adventure they so desperately craved.

So these young people left. A few returned, tails between their legs. A couple returned in wagons, their bodies torn and tangled. The rest were never seen again.

The people of the village, pacified by horrifying tales of Nattmara and Huldra, never questioned whether their lost children had gone. It was a fact of life to them now, that people left and never returned. Death started to become second nature. Tears over lost loved ones were shed in private, with a fighting spirit pushing away any notions of such a thing as giving up.

But something started to get through to the teens. The warnings and shredded bodies started to speak to even the most foolhardy of them. And soon, even those with more pride than sense stopped leaving. The old ritual became absurd, and the handful that attempted to leave all returned as corpses.

The amount of dead bodies could at least be attributed to the troll, Lukas supposed. But then again, said troll was a useful border patrol guard and also served as Lukas's closest friend, so its good points far outweighed the bad ones. Even if his closest friend was actually his only friend. And said closest friend wasn't exactly human.

Did he feel regret for the lives, so tragically spilled in crimson over his front lawn? That was debatable. His thoughts ran like the blood. Closing his eyes and trying to forget the horror was becoming almost second nature, even though as the years went on less and less people arrived in Lukas's territory.

It had been so long, now. So long since he aged. The sorcerer turned his hands over in his gaze, looking at the palms. It seemed that even the wrinkles of well use and plain living couldn't reach his state of equilibrium. Never seeing the tolls of aging on his body. With each increasingly forgotten birthday, came another year on his mind, and nothing on his physical manifestation.

He didn't want eternal lonely existence. He hadn't wanted the supposed blessing to begin with – that had been all Vladmir's idea. And Arthur had decided to go along with it, leaving Lukas to blindly follow, knowing in his heart of hearts that is was the worst idea the trio had ever had.

So why had the boy that least wanted the curse been gifted it? A cruel trick of karma, deflecting the many blows that Lukas had dealt to people before the incident. Give him what he least wanted, with the painful memories of the deaths of his friends forever burned onto his conscience.

Vladmir had been insistent, that day. The concept of a never-ending life without aging appealed to him in the extreme, dragging him out from under the blankets each morning and pushing him to his feet. It was his main driving force. For a while, that driving force had been a good thing. Until Arthur began to be roped in.

Arthur was maybe the most level-headed of the three, which made it all the bigger shock. Opposed to Vladmir, who was happy and reckless to a fault, and Lukas's temperamental and destructive moodswings, Arthur was calm and collected. Always the voice of reason. Lukas always appreciated having him around to smooth things over with the teachers. He would have been dead many times over if Arthur hadn't been there.

Greed consumes even the most prideful and honest of people. It had consumed Vladmir, and it slowly began to consume Arthur as well. And it left Lukas in the dust, frantically scrabbling to keep his friends safe from their unwarranted lust for this obtainable 'gift'.

He hadn't tried hard enough. Not even his cold anger could get through to the minds of the two obsessors. Deaf to everything but the sound of their own voices making the plans. But still, Lukas hadn't given up trying to dissuade them, even as they climbed up the mountain that would eventually lead to death.

Why. Hadn't. He. Fought. Harder.

Lukas turned away from the window. It did no good to dwell on his previous misdeeds. They couldn't be amended. He couldn't do anything to stop the unending ache in his heart and the heavy weight on his mind. It was far, far too late to make amends now. How long had it been? Centuries, maybe even a millennia. Nothing remained of his old life, pre-curse. And he could do nothing now.

And, after all, dinner wasn't going to cook itself.

oOo

"Lukas! I swear," Arthur shouts, glancing down at their companion, who was a couple of hundred metres behind him and Vladmir. "We don't have a great deal of time, you know?"

Lukas looked up, fire in his normally icy eyes. "You're making a mistake!" he called, over the wind and the fog. "You can't do this!"

"But we've prepared for it," Vladmir joined in now. "And we need three people to do the charm, you know that Lukas! You can't abandon us now!"

"But this is madness!" Lukas yelled, becoming desperate. "You're killing yourselves with this insane goal! You'll never reach it, and it's eating you alive!"

Arthur took a step down the mountain, looking at Lukas with a rare display of worry. His voice lowered a little, whispering along with the gale, the words he spoke lost in the air but the meaning of them clear. The Englishman reached a hand out, silently pleading.

The Norwegian swallowed. His conscience pulled him back down the mountain; but his stupid, stupid heart was pulling him to his friends again. And he couldn't ignore the only two people that had ever bothered to befriend him in his short, sad life.

So he followed.