1964-08-26 - By Blood
Summary: Lorna asks Wanda for helping finding her mother.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
wanda lorna 

The afternoon was still warm, but showing signs of cooling off rapidly as the sun started to dip below the horizon of the buildings. Traffic ambled on and people went about searching for dinner or headed home after a day out. Lorna, for her part, was stepping up the stoop to her sister's home. The Sanctum. She knocked once, politely, stepping back as she waited. After all, she didn't understand the magic hocus pocus but she did very much understand that her sister's home and Strange's, was protected by wards. She'd been told that much before.

So she waited, green hair tucked behind the charm Wanda had made her, turning her hair brown once more. She wore a simple pair of jeans and a loose fitting purple shirt, with little flowers decorating the hem and sleeves.

She exhaled a sigh as she waited, turning her gaze upwards and rocking her weight back on her heels.


Wanda. The Scarlet Witch. Mistress of the Mystic Arts. Among many other titles she might claim, there are few she truly embraces. But those are hers by right, and the Sanctum fuzzily wraps its wards around her in anticipation of a farewell. True, they excite more to feel their rightful master appear. The mantle lingers upon her for a long moment, and then flutters away to chase down dust-bunnies and tiny flies blown in through the window. There may also be two serpents hanging out, singing sultry jazz songs and warping minds, that they need to remind to behave.

Door shutting behind her, the Transian looks very much the same as she always does. Her dark burgundy coat may be impractical in leather given the stifling heat New York retains even into August, but she never shuns the garment. Her hands rest in her pockets while the portal seals into a secure, snug fit with the jamb. All looks well on Bleecker Street, the handsome Victorian mansion apart from the shops and apartments above pressed shoulder to shoulder.

There at first is nothing to say, other than giving a nod. Taciturn by nature around most, she wears that composed, frosty outward expression to all and sundry. Few break the veneer; fewer still not of her own creation.


Lorna beamed a smile at the sight of her sister as she stepped outside. Unlike most, Lorna had no qualms with embracing her otherwise stoic family. "Wanda!" She chirped, making to give her sister a quick hug. "How are you doing? Is all well?" She realized as she looked over her rather dour looking older sister, just how long it had been since the two had been around the other.

Green eyes flickered over her sister and Lorna paused before digging into her backpack and pulling out a small box. "Oh, before I forget. Vic said you liked the baklava from this one place in town, so I grabbed you some on my way over." She held it out toward the scarlet clad woman before her with a hopeful smile.


The smile earns little of the sort in return. Wanda doesn't smile often; laughter is next to unknown for her. The vicissitudes of a hard life in the wreckage of the Warsaw Pact countries probably leaves difficult scars on the psyche of any victim. The Third Reich and the Red Army cast long shadows even now.

In a hug, she knows to stand still rather than stiffen to the point of brittle shattering and push someone away reflexively with the telekinetic power that manifests from her spellwork. Still, it isn't quite returned; she is not that girl, not that kind of emotive person. The good Doctor ruling that household alone knows what she's like when finally relaxed, other than her speedster lunar twin wherever he is. It's enough to be observant and incline her head with all the world-weary patience of someone far, far older than her present two decades. The business of the box of baklava is a little easier, however. Honey is her primary food, a bit like a bee in a way. She needs dense energy with high caloric values, and honey does that. Still, no tearing into the box. "Thank you." It's politeness and harshness together, the rusty sound of her voice indicative of possibly not speaking for some time.


Lorna smiled, not at all dampened by her sister's chilly stance or expression. It was Wanda, after all. If the woman had started to laugh and smile, well, that might've been more cause for concern. "You're welcome. I hope it's good, I mean, it smelled really good.." She trailed off, and exhaled a breath. Her gaze drifting from the sky above and back to her sibling.

"Thanks for uhm.. agreeing to help me today. It.. it means a lot to me." She mumbled, her smile and good humor fading slightly as she dropped her gaze to her feet. She bit her lower lip, fidgeting for a moment. "Do you need anything from me? I brought the blanket from when I was a baby.. I mean, it came from over seas with me. I'm not sure if it helps or not.." She trailed off awkwardly. There was a tense line to her shoulder blades, and it was clear that doing whatever Wanda asked of her, for the moment, mattered a great deal.


Wanda is Wanda. Lorna is Lorna. How the two of them ever sprang from Erik Lensherr is an act of unknown provenance and proof the High Evolutionary, three gods, and a lot of bad Nazi magic were somehow involved. Well, with the elder. The younger just got a weird strain of DNA.

"The bakery is the same." Consistency is king for toddlers and pastries, in the scope of Wanda's worldview. At least one she knows about. Toting the box under her arm, she sets forth on a path as distinguished by Lorna and not the other way around. The serene brunette has no urgency in her pace and no obvious direction to her route. "You have no things of your mother's? Hair brush. Photograph of Erik and her. Letter with writing. How long since you were last with her?"

Basic questions, to a mystic.


Lorna grimaced, slowly shuffling down the steps and onto the sidwalk. She seemed to be walking without purpose, slow and measured steps, constantly glancing back toward Wanda as the two walked along the road. "I guess so.." She Lorna mumbled shrugging in regards to the baked goods. But at least this time she had gotten something right in terms of what Wanda liked to eat.

Questions about her mother had her glancing down and she shook her head. "No. I was a baby when I got adopted. I .. I guess she gave me up without much of anything. There aren't any pictures. Or a letter.. there's.. there's nothing." She bit her lower lip, shoving her hands into the pockets of her jeans.

"I don't know anything about her at all. Tata doesn't even know who could possibly be. He doesn't remember." She shuffled her feet, exhaling a breath. "I understand if that makes it impossible to find anything out.."


Long strides come easy with a woman of Wanda's height. She may yet need a few good seasons of real, regular food to round out properly but she seems healthier than she has on previous occasions. Maybe the sanctum stocks beehives on the roof.

Her dark hair bounces around her shoulders while she walks, the pinned garnets strung along her headband aglitter in the low light. "Always something." Her accent is harsh and musical, the merging of Slavic east with Romantic west. English never really is her language, not when she knows six others before it, but she can manage. "The best thing comes from her. Hair, blood. Not good but things I can use, they are like a letter, a photograph, the painting she makes — made. Something with a line to her. You know not even a name? Are there papers somewhere in Poland? Papers that were for the Danes?"


Another shake of her head, "I don't have them. My adoptive parents, the Danes didn't get anything from her. I was part of a program for adopting refugee children. There were too many kids without homes after the war. I don't even have a birth certificate. The paper work they have came out of the state department that set up the adoption." She shrugged weakly, "I.. I don't have anything."

Her throat tightened and she glanced back to Wanda. "Can't you do that spell that you used to find tata and me? The one that made that little floaty ball of light? I mean, you're not related to her, but I am. Can't you use my blood for that? Half me is her.." She turned hopeful eyes upon Wanda, her brows furrowed.


Paperwork absent, maps absent, everything short of the damn sink absent. A dwindling supply of options and a much wider array of drudgework land at the witch's feet. She ticks off her fingertips against the box, clicking and tapping in conjunction. "Your blood, yes. Your blood in a larger bit than maybe you like. It is not like mine, it is less powerful."

What every vampire around the Hellmouth in the past year knew, that blood of a Maximoff is apparently fucking tasty. But here nor there… She taps her fingers again, calculating, turning and twisting. "It would not be a night, Lorna Dane. I search by distance. This is very distant, like the stars." A gesture upwards. "My father, he is like the sun." She nods to the horizon. "My sons are my earth. From me to the stars, all the people alive now and those in places you cannot see. It might be faster that I talk to Father but he is not here to ask." Bloody inconvenient really.


Lorna rubbed her arms as a shiver ran up her spine at Wanda's words. She exhaled a short breath, stopping short as she looked over her half-sibling. Ever since Pietro had bitten her, she'd been wary about that whole shedding blood thing. She swallowed a lump that formed in the back of her throat. "Oh." She fidgeted, rocking her weight back on the balls of her feet. She didn't figure that would be the case at all. Magic was magic right?

"What if we went to Poland? I know I was boarded on a plane from That much my paper-work had. Would that help? I mean, they flew into Germany from there and was sent over Europe until they shipped me over to the US. There's that much paper." She bit her lower lip, and glanced back to Wanda.

"Or what about Doctor Strange? Does he have like a spell or something that might help?"


The exhalation brushes through the air, passing forth to anyone who might want to hear as a sigh, or a sound of relative frustration. Her fingers touch her brow. "I can start at the city. It is only twenty million people now to guess. Fifteen?" Guesswork made easy. Wanda crosses her arms around the box of the baklava, the calculations still mustering around in that skull of hers. "It is no different for him. We cannot find something without work when there is nothing to begin with. I can start in the city and go from there."


Lorna tilted her head to the side. "The city, here?" She blinked, "But why here? I was adopted from over seas..?" She blinked repeatedly in confusion as she watched the frustration flit over Wanda's expression, slight as it was.

"Or wait, do you mean starting over in a city in Poland?" She rocked her weight back on her feet, glancing around and back after a moment. Of course she had no idea how the magic worked, and was left standing there awkwardly. "If it's too much Wanda, please.. don't worry about it.. I understand.." She didn't, not in the least..


"The city in Poland." Wanda clicks back into the moment instead of treading the far reaches of the world. Those possibilities seething through her skull demand their right to be spoken and considered, but New York is merely a backdrop. She glances at a stray lock and pushes it away from her shoulder, back to Lorna. "No. The place where your story starts in Poland. Go there with the blood and start looking. It is not even possible for you to be sure the day you went for America?"

Stress there. It's important. "You know this day and I can look. But time is like a mirror. You look too much, it scratches. I will have harder effort trying that, and we do not scratch time. The Doctor is not happy when we abuse our view."


Lorna blinked and quickly as Wanda spoke, set her backpack down and started rifling through it. "No, I do know when I came to America. When I offically left Poland and Germany. It's all stamped on the documentation. I think the organization.. LOVE? Something like that paid my way. The Danes' neighbor worked through the UN and had served over there." She had a thick folder filled with various stamped and worn signatures. Papers faded with eighteen years of age held in a loosely bound manilla folder.

"I know that my adoptive parents have celebrated the day I finally made it to America as my birthday because I didn't exactly have one. So," She flipped through the papers excitedly, and at the bottom of her backpack was a tiny little baby blanket. One that looked mass produced, however there was a tiny run of stitches done by hand in green along the hem.

"December 21st, 1945.. transfered by boat.." She muttered, reading over the papers and flipping to the next one. "December 1st, 1945." She paused, her brows shooting upwards. A small 'huh' escaping her. "That took a lot longer than I thought it would…"


Wanda inclines her head slightly. "End of the war. Poland is free from German parts in '45. Mostly '44." Her fingers reflexively close around the box, though careful not to crush the honey pastry inside, as though that might be her also crushing the offering from Vic. It would be wrong to crush his source of quiet attempts to give happiness.

Her eyes shift in shade, the amber vanished under an infusion of red wine that settles something on the edge of plum. "The seas were still bad. No ports. Soviets." These are facts at least familiar. Her mouth clamps down on the facts she shares in short details, and then retreats back to the familiar, the required elements. The blanket can go atop the box. "Your blood. This will not be quick. Call Father. Or you give blood, I go, and call you when I have something."


Lorna blinked as Wanda supplied more information about what was going on in her place of birth around the time she was born. Her focus raptly held on her older sister with a sharp intent. A scrap, tiny and otherwise something she could learn from a book.. but it was the little details that she gathered up from family that Lorna held most dear.

She paused, "Wait, isn't Poland uhm.. communist now?" She frowned, "You'll be okay going over there, right?" Wanda would do better than Lorna, that was certain. The girl was clearly a product of her environment in America. And her Polish was choppy at best, and spoken with a glut of accents that would make it noticible that she was most assuredly not from there.

She rose slowly from her crouch over her backpack, her brows furrowed as she looked over Wanda. "Which ever one works best for you Wanda. You're already doing so much for me. I don't want to be a burden.."


Wanda delivers one of those flat, matte stares. "I lived on the streets in Poland by the time I was eight." These are the simplest of statements for her to make, a fact of a lifetime long ago rather than in arm's reach and close living memory for the great majority of people within the United States. They'd probably be shocked to think she treats those years as something in another glacial epoch, preserved only by indirect observation and incomplete artifacts stripped from their strata and any manner of context.

"Poland. Yugoslavia. Persia. India. Vietnam. All same for me." She's a Roma. They are the great travelers of the world, as much as the Polynesians. She is German, and by right ethnically suitable for vanishing into the living room to the east where Russia harbours paranoid dreams of empire, not so different from her own. "No place safe. No place greets me. Be glad you live in this place. America has a lamp to greet. There they break your bones with hammer, cut your skin with the sickle, and drink your blood as their tribute. It's what I know. Cut your hand."

She offers a dagger pulled from the top of her boot, and then a handkerchief pulled from inside of the coat. "Soak it in. I will take them and start. You would not like sitting in the cold for three days. I will."


Lorna hesitated as she listened to Wanda with wide eyes, her lips parting as she stood still. The breeze of the afternoon tangling in her hair as she soaked everything Wanda had to say. Then of course, her half-sister was pulling out a dagger that, to her senses existed but Lorna hadn't noticed was there in the least. She blinked, startled faintly as her sister held it out in offer and then passed over a handkerchief. Talking of sitting in the cold.

"W-wait, you have to sit in the cold? Wanda, I don't want you to have to do that for me." Funny, how that was the younger sibling's protest, and not over the fact she'd have to cut her hand open enough to soak a handkerchief through.


"Lorna, you do try but you do not know me so well. This," a nod from Wanda back down the street, "is the first house I live in. The first roof is mine. Now, the first time I eat food from a bake shop. Every day before New York I am living hard in very bad places and think nothing for it. It makes me better and harder. No one hurts me well when I am hard as metal, a good sword or a good shield. Like Captain America. My father made me this way. If I break then it all ends. I will not break. The cold?"

She shrugs her shoulders, accepting this to be as nonchalant as it really is. "One day I can die of being too cold. I could have too much pain. It is not a small bit. No less than what I think my enemies want to use on me, so I will be more than them. You stay and live the way your parents want you to. The Danes took you for happiness. Mine took me to stop the death of the world."


Lorna's features twisted at Wanda's words and she reached out a hand toward her half-sister's shoulder. "It still means a lot to me that you don't have to suffer those things anymore. Because I care about you and I want you to have a chance to enjoy those nice things that you have here. You deserve them just as much as anyone else. If not more so." She exhaled a breath.

"And being here hasn't stopped people from trying to hurt me. From becoming enemies to me and those I care about. But I'm not hard as metal. Not yet." She dropped her gaze to the dagger and pursed her lips. She wanted to know her past. She wanted to learn more about herself. This was on her, there was no backing out now.

"If I didn't think I'd slow you down, I' be demanding to come too." She murmured, and cut her palm open, quickly pressing the handkerchief against the slice. Her eyes watered faintly from the sting of it, but otherwise she'd managed to keep the hiss of pain from getting too loud. After it started to turn dark with her blood, she passed it off to Wanda, looking uneasily around for something else to wrap her hand up in.


"I do because it is done." Wanda-isms favour laconic truths, rather than lengthy explanations at the best of times. She's not much like Billy or Tommy in that sense, and certainly one can say it's very much in keeping with Pietro when he is at least feeling off-kilter. "You want to know. Your mother may be alive. Maybe you find her and be more like her with that."

She takes the folded handkerchief and puts it in her pocket. The knife will be cleaned off with the same, slid into the same sheath. There is an efficiency to the movements. Blood is power.


Lorna smiled weakly at Wanda's words, because curt and to the point simple and short of explanations was her sister. And she had accepted that. Lorna had been afforded the ability to grow up with wordy explanations and affection. Even as she dug into her backpack for something to wrap her sluggishly bleeding hand in. "Thank you Wanda. I.. this means a lot to me. Like you said. Maybe she's alive. I hope she is."

She bit her lower lip, finding a scarf she'd tucked in at the bottom of the bag that had gone forgotten for months. She shrugged, wrapping up her hand and awkwardly tying it off on the back of her hand as best as she could. It would have to do for now.

"Please be careful, I know you can take care of yourself.. but.. still." She ducked in to wrap her non-bloodied hand around her sister in a half hug. "Love you, Wanda."

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