Disclaimers Apply. A/N: Many thanks to RedVelvetCanopy, my fantabulous Beta!
Sorcha watched the flames dancing idly in the makeshift stone fire pit. She chewed on a piece of seaweed she’d found as they had returned on the Irish side of the sea. As she watched the flames, she attempted to do something her father had instructed her as a child; he had claimed that through fire, one could see through distances. Though he had been vague in his tutorage, Sorcha knew it to have purpose; distance could be applied to almost anything. Though in her youth she had never managed to grasp any of the Elven magics, it had often been placed on the fact that she was too young and far too inexperienced. Sorcha however, put it down to her laziness: she had no purpose for these magics at the time, and therefore could not gain the desired effect.
She turned to watch the sleeping Commander of the Fianna “ the legendary Irish Army, honoured with incredible feats “ and was struck by a blow of familiarity, followed by a prick of sadness, which sunk her heart in seconds. Here she felt a sense of belonging, yet she knew this was not her home, and she did not want it to be her home. The flame sprang to life and immediately Sorcha swung her gaze back to its flickering depths. She could see something in its centre, someone she knew very well…
“Cassi,” she whispered. But she didn’t move. Her daughter was motionless; she looked faint, as if she were disappearing. “Oh, Cassi, I am so sorry.” Her voice cracked. When she looked closer, Sorcha could see that her message shone on the back of Severus’ office door, but worse - she spied a gaping hole in her daughter’s centre.
“Cassi!” she cried aloud, startling Finn, who rolled up, long knife in hand, poised perfectly to strike.
“Peace, Finn. It’s just me,” she announced miserably. He raised an eyebrow, somewhat disgruntled by the unsavoury awakening, and indicated that she should explain herself.
“The future fades like fog on plains,” she confessed. “Please, sleep, you are in no danger.”
Finn MacCumhail looked at her shrewdly, and then returned to his bed roll, he was asleep within minutes, his soft snores drifting as far as Sorcha dared to let them. She hastily threw up a sound absorbing barrier and fell asleep herself, though dreams and nightmares alike were bitter.
She woke to the smell of tea the next day, and a rare smile played on her lips. She had only brought a small supply with her from the distant future, and used it sparingly. In this case, Finn’s intuition had proved spot on. If there was ever a time for a cup of tea, this was it. It was just a shame there was no milk, really…
“Morning,” she said softly, still a little broken from the image in the fire. “Sleep well?” she asked.
Finn merely shrugged and handed her a wooden cup full of the tea. She drank it down greedily, not wasting a drop. “We should reach the camp in three days,” he announced. “I know these trees well.”
In truth it was the best bit of news she had heard since leaving behind the alien Hogwarts from this time. At least back at the camp she would have plenty of things to occupy her time, and if Severus was coming and following the Fianna to find her, he would not have a difficult job.
This forest now whispered to Sorcha, and despite having been the same that they had passed through before, its voices whispered in her ears, though in a language she had never heard before. She suspected Finn could hear them too, though when she brought up the subject, dismissed it as “being a druid’s job to listen to trees.”
The days became hotter as the season went further into summer and travelling became most uncomfortable. The packs they carried, though significantly lighter than when they had first set out, sagged against their backs, the humidity lay thick upon them, the only solace being in the occasional stream and the prospect of their near return to the camp.
When they finally did rejoin with the camp it was a matter of hours before they were on the move again. Because his army had stayed in the same place for well over a month, Finn was anxious to be on his way and he laughed good heartedly and commented that he led a bunch of lazy men. Quietly, Sorcha agreed; the men sitting round the fires were markedly relaxed, and not the hard, frightening men she’d left behind. Sorcha had laughed herself silly when one man commented that the Fianna were as ferocious as ever, but a swift whack on the bottom with the flat of Finn’s sword had knocked him down, satiating the amusement of all nearby.
Sorcha saddled up and followed drowsily on her great mare; she sighed and snorted. Well, at least she didn’t have to walk…
Sorcha had taken up acting as scout; she had been ahead of the Fianna for many days, watching for beacon or any kind of alert for her Army’s attention; she also hoped to steal a glance should Severus come her way. She watched as a lone figure drew closer looking about aimlessly, as if lost. The man jumped from his horse and walked slowly away from it coming ever closer to her position, hidden in the branches of a tree. She imagined if he saw her she would look quite the fool. Without a second thought to it, she leapt down, landing only a few metres from the man.
“I seek Finn MacCumhail. I am close, if you greet me, witch,” he said suddenly.
“Your name, if you will?”
“Would you grant your name to a witch?” he spat.
“Most certainly,” Sorcha replied with a laugh. “It is good to see you, Taistellach. Finn awaits you not a day behind me,” she said calmly. Taistellach was Finn’s personal messenger, he and Sorcha had spent many a night in conversation, so as best to advise their Chief.
“I have news from the High King, have you eaten? I’m well provisioned for a journey that will end by nightfall,” he said.
“I will join you,” she said with a smile.
Indeed, the provisions would have lasted a normal soldier, let alone a messenger such as Taistellach, a month. They sat away from their horses and ate, watching the featureless land around them. Little conversation passed between them.
“You journeyed well?” she asked.
“The Kings court is ripe with rumours as ever, though I doubt an outlander such as yourself would care for the goings on there.”
“Enlighten me,” she goaded. Taistellach, messenger of Finn MacCumhail, surveyed his strange companion, not with distaste but uncertainty.
“The King’s daughter, Gráinne, is said to have refused the hand of many more suitors “ in truth that isn’t new. There is unusual weather along the coast, though I suppose Finn will consult with you regarding that. I have summons also, the High King wishes to see Finn.”
“He does?” Sorcha replied, curiosity piqued. “Do you know why?”
“Not a clue,” he replied. “I’m not in that circle, I should be on my way, Sorcha. When do you report back?”
“Sundown. I’ll ride back in a few hours, you go on ahead. I have a strange feeling about this place,” she surveyed aloud, in a tone of mystery. Taistellach looked over her a little unnerved; Sorcha had a habit of changing airs with deft subtlety.
He packed away what they had not shared and mounted up. He looked over at the Elf, whose gaze was now fixed upon the horizon. Before he could stop himself, he asked, “What do you see?”
She pointed at a distant spot on the empty horizon. “I doubt you can see it, there’s some kind of movement, and I’m sure there’s someone on horseback, the dust cloud suggests that they are moving quickly. They’re coming this way.” Sorcha was still fixated on this.
“I don’t see it,” Taistellach replied thickly. She placed a hand upon his thigh, he writhed a little under her touch, which he surmised was far too intimate.
“There,” she said, directing his eyes to the specified point. Indeed he was able to see the dust cloud, and the slight darkened out line of a rider.
“I’ll report it to Finn. Get back before it comes too close. This could be trouble.” He reined in and turned, galloping away speedily. Sorcha felt that same dreadful foreboding she had the night that she’d seen her fading daughter in the fire. Taistellach was entirely right - this would be trouble.
Sorcha raced into the camp at great speed, her glossy black mare, splattered with fresh mud, created by the down pour that had alarmingly began. Not that anyone was discouraged by the rain, men walked about on duty, swords unsheathed, peering menacingly at her as she sped by. Shivering slightly beneath her sodden cloak, she hastily leapt from her saddle, landing heavily in a puddle of thick sludge, pain shot up her right leg, but she continued urgently. Staggering forward, into the glowing Command Tent, she gasped in little more than a whisper, “Fachen. Coming straight for us.”
Finn who had watched her entrance, ran from the tent raising a warning. He announced that Fachen, monstrous beings often with murderous intent, were headed straight towards them, and that the word should be spread. No one wasted any time in arming themselves “ it appeared the whole of the Fianna were ready for the threat.
“How many, Sorcha?” Finn asked, re-entering the now busy tent.
“The horizon was thick with them, I surmise, somewhere between fifty and seventy.” She looked up darkly. “They are led by a man.”
Finn narrowed his eyes in confusion. “What man can command monsters?”
“Man? I don’t know. It’s a wizard, I am certain. We were followed back from Hogwarts,” she whispered.
He raised his hand in anger, a gesture to which Sorcha drew back from in fear. He looked away eyes clenched, jaw clamped fury etched into his face. It took minutes before his anger abated, yet he was still unable to look upon her. “Deal with the magician. Leave the Fachen to us,” he said as softly as he could, though he still trembled in rage.
“Of course, Chief,” she answered formally. Sorcha left almost in tears.
Sorcha sat atop her mount, in front of the army; she would lead them into battle it would seem, as Finn remained in the tent, talking with Taistellach regarding the King’s summons. The Fachen were vividly visible to Sorcha with her Elf eyes, but even so, the soldiers themselves could make out their dark blurs through the rain. Their feathers seemed to stick out at odd angles, and the hand that protruded from their chests unnerved her, its peculiarly angled leg made its movement almost humorous “ but if anyone sought to laugh at these creatures the third eyes in the centre of the beast’s forehead dissuaded them. For within the eyes depths, deaths mesmerising gaze was said to be found.
She only hoped that they had the advantage in numbers and skill. Whilst inside, Sorcha panicked desperately over the inevitable battle with the wizard. So preoccupied was Sorcha, that when hit by a solid wall of air, she, along with the front line of the Fianna, toppled from her horse, which trampled animatedly before her terrified eyes. She preferred her role as the witch of the Fianna, who worked behind the lines at disposing their enemy. Though undoubtedly skilled with a blade, which she hurriedly drew, the blood was not her scene. The Fachen and their master came. Liadan recognised the wizard instantly.
It was Salazar Slytherin.
She stood quickly, watching as he dismounted gracefully, brushing himself off with gloved hands. It was as if the world had gone still and she and Salazar were the only living beings. Yet behind her the battle flared, the screech of men and monster alike, weapons ringing deadly steps, and the stench of death. She watched horrified as a man was clawed to death, torn to shreds by the bloodied claws of the feathered Fachen.
“Elf, will you not look upon me?”
She swung her head back to her opponent; surveying him in all his terrifying majesty for any sign of weakness. There was none that she could ascertain, but steeled her resolve and faced him.
“I do not wish for a duel, sir,” she said. “I would treat with you if only you had asked it of me.”
“You would have, really?” he said, sneering openly. “You don’t trust me, and you have good reason for that. Would you care to explain?”
Sorcha thought quickly “ he wanted her to speak of the future. His future! She had never once practiced truly powerful offensive spells, and she hesitated as she spoke the curse, ‘Crucio,’ in her mind, it was a small voice, but she was so afraid, that it worked.
He shook with a strangled expression for seconds before he forcibly threw the curse off. She staggered backwards at his blast, though felt nothing of the spell.
“Tell me. Now,” he threatened. She could feel the air constrict about her throat, crushing her windpipe, slowly. “Elven magic, I find, works best when battling your own kind. I can’t imagine where you were raised though, if you cannot repel a simple air cluster. Filthy, disgusting “”
He looked at her strangely, before he realised what was happening. Loosening the air about her neck as she did when walking on the air above water, she had used a trick her father had used on her repeatedly. He had often made her sink into the ground, as a punishment, by using what moisture there was in the air to dampen the ground. For Salazar, she speeded up the process, his shoulders were beneath the ground in mere seconds.
“I can’t tell you your future, Salazar.” Her expression looked convincingly sorry. “You see, I’ve only ever studied the Fianna, for historical purposes. Hogwarts never… caught my fancy,” she trailed off.
He Apparated and appeared further back. “If you won’t talk, perhaps I can make you.”
She saw the flames materialise from his palms before they got far, throwing a barrier between the fire and her army, she had been so aware that the flames had only affected the Fachen it hit. She smiled smugly.
The soldiers, having over come the Fachen, now began to circle around the two magicians. Their eyes locked as the pair stood perfectly still, as if anticipating the others next move. Sorcha knew that at best this was guesswork; her father had found it highly amusing that she couldn’t even anticipate what his next move would be in a chess game. This she thought was quite different. But she was right. Lightening shot from the bulbous purple clouds overhead, and Sorcha merely drank in its power, which she hurled at the wizard before he realised what she was doing. In a pained scream, a blindingly bright, pulsating figure was swathed in light. She stepped back with the army, knowing that what he did next could be the end of her.
Salazar Slytherin was doubled over on the ground, head bent so that he couldn’t see the expectant faces around him. Of course, she was waiting for him to deliver his move, but he didn’t think he could do it. At least “ not with magic. He unsheathed a dagger from his belt, without anybody seeing, or else they would have cried out. She would be expecting magic, and was proven right when he stood and threw the perfectly aimed dagger at her chest. He mustered what strength he could and Apparated away from the scene.
Sorcha’s hands flew to her chest immediately, eyes wide in shock. Her lips trembled, as if recognising the coursing feeling of pain centralised in that one place. Utterly confused and not quite grasping what had happened, she fell to her knees. Blood seeped over the fingers she held fast over the wound before wrenching the blade out. She crumbled and dropped the dagger, a tear dropping from her eye. She was never going to see Severus again, nor Cassi. Her mind went blank, and she knew no more.