Disclaimers apply. A/N: This chapter would make absolutely no sense if not for the efforts of my terrific BETA, Redvelvetcanopy, you have, as ever, my eternal thanks!
Finn Mac Cumhail sat beside a bed which cradled the infamous Sorcha, Sorceress of the Fianna. He chastised himself for his foolish reaction to her news that they had been followed on their return from their travels. As he watched her skin pale with each passing hour, he felt certain that death stalked her; and regret flooded him as painfully as if he had been run through. He had ridden day and night for two days, hoping that she could be treated at the High King’s hall. But he had been mistaken. She was dying swiftly.
“Forgive me, Sorcha. Forgive me.” The great Finn Mac Cumhail mourned her even as she still had breath. He did not eat or sleep, as if every moment were precious. He knew full well that her ears were beyond hearing, and her eyes beyond sight, yet he continued to speak to her.
But Sorcha Snape was closer to death than life.
The mood in the High King’s hall was greatly depressed. The brightly adorned windows were curtained, shutting out the happiness of the world “ it was as if the hall faded as did its dying guest. A day had passed since the Chieftain of the Fianna, Finn Mac Cumhail, had arrived with his Sorceress, and rumours had spread through the court like wildfire. That he had ridden day and night for the past two was generally accepted as a truth, but why he had done so was a mystery to all.
Many claimed that Finn had professed his love for the Witch “ he certainly hadn’t left her bedside. Others stated that he had cast her out of the army and that she had been attacked; upon finding her body Finn had realised his mistake and attempted to heal her, but failed, riding hard to the King’s Hall in hopes that she could be healed there. But the High King himself had afforded great efforts in her healing, but to no avail. Many accepted that the truth would unravel itself.
He had searched her packs to see if she had any potions that could help her, but the King’s own Wizard, who had attempted a great many healings on Sorcha, had said that those they found were too weak. Finn found his mind wandering to their past dealings, finally resting upon an instance in which she had given him a letter…
“Finn?” she had said, after a particularly exhausting battle against a band of mounted brigands. Both he and Sorcha had remained awake that night; Finn because he was wounded “ only a small gash on his leg “ but Sorcha because she was haunted by this, her first battle.
“Yes, Sorcha?” he replied warily, staring into the dancing flames of the campfire before him.
“How do you live like this?”
He thought for a moment what she meant. Did she mean how did he cope with killing others? Or how did he cope with the knowledge that he might not live to see another day? He surmised that the question was between one of the two, so he answered both.
“I live to serve, whether my King, or my Gods, and if the men who I fight are killed, it is by their will that destiny is fulfilled.”
“You do not feel guilty, or regret that you are taking them from the people they love?”
“I do not dwell on it; I trust that their commanders are as good as I try to be. If a man dies as a soldier of the Fianna, their families are well kept. I cannot thank the families enough for the service of those who have been lost.” Sorcha remained quiet, accepting his words. “And knowing that tomorrow I might be one of those lost makes me appreciate more the people I love, and the life that I lead. No, I would not change it for the world.”
“Have you ever… thought about preparing for the worst?”
“Forgive me, but I do not understand.”
“I mean- the people you leave behind “ do you not wish to reassure them during the grief they would feel at your passing?”
“I had never thought to, no.”
“Today, I thought I would die, Finn. I have never seen so much blood in my life. I could feel them as they died, Finn, I could hear each man scream as he fell “”
“Sorcha!” he whispered harshly, silencing her, but unable to purge the imagery from his mind. He watched as she wept and it seemed that the sky cried with her as a fine spray of rain fell sorrowfully from above. He staggered over to her, collapsing with an arm about her shoulders, pulling her close to his body. “See here, my Lady, death is natural,” he croaked.
“Not this death, Finn. It is a waste.” He could appreciate her words, but he did not believe them. “If I die, Finn, would you do something for me?”
“Sorcha, you won’t die, I won’t let you.
“I may yet, just do me this. Make sure that my body is buried beneath the trees, deep in the soils of a forest.” His heart thudded painfully in his chest as he fought back his own tears. She had been with the Fianna only a short time, but he could not imagine fighting without her. “I would ask one more thing from you,” she said soberly, “At the northern most reaches of the land of the Scots, across the sea, there is a great castle, Hogwarts. I would have you leave a letter there, to be kept there until it can be found by the man I love.”
“The man you love? You are married?” Finn choked, not quite sure why this news shocked him. He dug his fists into balls, containing any chance of irrational behavior.
“Yes, his name is Severus Snape, and perhaps I’m being ridiculous, but I would regret not saying goodbye.”
“If he loved you and you were on the brink of death, then perhaps he would risk the distance to find you himself.”
“That doesn’t sound like Severus to me. Perhaps you’d understand if you knew him. I would like it if you’d meet someday…”
That letter now sat in his lap. Finn had never met Sorcha’s mysterious husband, but he felt that if ever he would, it must be soon. When he had mentioned that this Severus had been in love with Sorcha, he knew that Sorcha believed that it was true, and she might have thought it uncharacteristic of her husband, but he would come for her. Perhaps he was already there. In his mind Finn was certain that this was the case.
“Will he come, Sorcha? Can he help you?” No response came from Sorcha’s nearly lifeless body.
Knowing that there was nothing he could do, he stood and left the room. The corridor was deserted and lit by torches to ward off the gloom, despite the early hour. Three men stood by the door to Sorcha’s chamber. “Taistellach!” he called to his soldier, who was talking to the King’s guards. “Have half the men ready to ride in an hour, there is someone we must find.”
Finn Mac Cumhail attended the King upon his request. He was fully garbed in his leather armour, and the sword at his belt swung furiously from side to side as he raced up the corridor. The great oak doors to the Golden Hall were shuttered, the squire standing to the side indicated only one thing; he was to be formally announced. This was, at the very least, inconvenient. He had to be swift! His men had already mounted their horses when the summons arrived, and Finn was anxious to depart. Impatience overcame him, and he strode forth and pushed the doors open, the old hinges groaning as the door slowly open. The court was already in session, and a great many people sat before King on the throne.
As if entering for the first time, Finn looked at the hall in detail. The extravagance angered him. He had seen the subdued nature of the corridors, curtained against the light, respective of the Elf who lay dying; but the Golden Hall appeared exactly as it was named. Sunlight poured through the great windows, whose sills were carved lovingly from the same honeyed oak as the hall itself. Great green and gold streamers of many shades fluttered down from the roof beams, swaying contentedly in the sunlight, to and fro in the light breeze that danced through the room. The room was divided by a centre walkway paved with green carpet. To each side were a number of tables, seating the great Lords and Ladies of the King’s court.
Finn traversed this miniature road, pacing his footsteps to abate his steadily rising anger. He approached the dais upon which the throne sat, the great ebony chair whose wood was twisted into the braids and weaves that were so popular in this part of the world, upon which snake like strands of gold leaf glinted, daring Finn onwards whilst the life of his friend dwindled.
“Finn, how do I find you?” The Great King stood and opened his arms to his most trusted chieftain. Finn glared at his Liege Lord.
“You find me,” Finn began, “You find me at a bad time, your Majesty, I must be brief, I am mounting a search for a man who might be of aid to Sorcha.”
“Another Wizard? But there are none!” he said, his tone now rocking in false humour. “They all serve me.”
“Forgive me, my Liege, but you are mistaken. I cannot stay. I meant only to come to inform you of my departure.” Finn turned on his heel and made towards the door.
“Finn!” the High King roared, “How dare you turn your back on me! Do not defy me! Your Witch is not worth this effort!”
Finn’s eyes widened for the shortest of moments, before he turned around and bowed. “You are not yourself, your Majesty, I must take my leave. Forgive me.” Excited whispers followed him out the towering doors and stayed in his ears as he rode south.
The sun was setting and still the Fianna had found nothing. Many of the Fianna still searched the plains, even more desolate than when they had first ridden out. One by one, riders returned to their camp at the eastern point of the forest, Finn himself arriving in the early hours of the morning. He paced the perimetre of the camp, looking frantically from the trees to right and the open stretches of land rolling out west. Never did the bleakness of the night engulf the fields in such a thick shroud of darkness as it did so this night. He could see nothing. Blind to the world and to Sorcha’s salvation, he returned to his campfire, broken. The flames taunted him, dancing seductively before his eyes, as if celebrating the demise of Sorcha. She hung thickly in his mind, indeed, he could think of little else.
“How many men are still out?” he asked absently, to whomever was nearest.
“Just one, Chief. Taistellach. He returned a little before sundown, saying something about the journey to the Golden Hall, and departed immediately. Should I send out a Quad after him?”
“Nay, he is able… I have failed her, Darragh. I told her that she would not die.” As his commander buried his face in his hands, the young soldier, Darragh, respectfully left him to grieve.
Finn had not realised that he had drifted into an uneasy sleep. It seemed that his face still remained in the dark curtains of his hands, but he leapt up as if there had been a call to arms. The entire camp was alive with shouts and eager activity. A horse galloped hastily towards him. Dashing to the side, its rider reined the beast in, causing it to draw back on its hind legs, screaming unappreciatively.
“Finn,” Taistellach breathed excitedly, “I’ve found your man; I’ve found Severus Snape.”
“Take me to him.”
The messenger nodded, slowing the horse and changing the route to the outskirts of the camp. The tents were being taken down, so that their frames stood like eerie skeletons; there was something entirely wrong to this scene. Finn spent a full minute surveying the surrounds; something was wrong. The trees to the east clawed higher than he remembered, swaying in a breeze he could not feel, and their green was darkening, as if they died with speed.
“Taistellach, a moment.” He looked the messenger squarely in the eyes, his facial expression flat. “I feel cold, my friend.” Taistellach dismounted immediately, not breaking eye contact.
“I will fetch you a cloak, my Liege.”
“One from our last battle, methinks.”
“Of course.”
As Taistellach vanished into the skeletal forest of tent frames, a groom rushed forward to take the horse, leading it away, whispering all the while to calm it. He knew the cause of the shift in feeling: Severus Snape. Though uncertain as to whether he would meet him, Finn’s mind cast about for past mentions of the mysterious man, and he recalled a fleeting description of the man who had captured Sorcha’s heart…
“If you must know, Diarmuid, he is not a man you would care to ‘do battle’ with.” Sorcha had joined the men in celebration around the campfire one night. Her face lit up with a surreal sense of joy and her words slurred; it was clear to all her companions that she was drunk. “In fact, he’s not much of a man you’d care to do very much with,” she said, laughing and causing the cup of ale, mostly full, to tumble from her hands and onto to the floor. “He may not be much to look upon, but his mind is sharp, and he’s fiercely loyal.”
“So how did he catch your eye, Sorcha? Does his hair shine like the sun?” Diarmuid roared merrily in reply.
“Hardly. His hair comes to about… here,” she said, slicing her flat hands at shoulder level. “Its black, and a bit greasy, if you ask me. His eyes are as black as the darkest night, and his nose is crooked - hooked, but endearingly so.” Her face fell at this point. “He’s grumpy and hard working, strict, and... and I’d have him no other way.” Her eyes at this point were distant, clouded over in the memory of him. Unable to stifle a yawn, she stretched out, falling on to the soldier next to her in a deep sleep.
It had been that night that he’d found that Elves couldn’t take their ale. A small smile played on his lips at the recollection when Taistellach returned with a young man jogging in his wake. Hastily stuffing a thick woollen cloak into Finn’s hand, he murmured, “This is Connor. He was in Sorcha’s file during the battle.” Finn nodded, indicting that he would manage from there on, and then gestured forward.
“Show us to Severus Snape, my old friend,” he said. Taistellach moved forward, whilst Connor and Finn fell in behind. “I haven’t time to explain, but if I am right, you will have met this Severus Snape before,” Finn said without looking at the young officer, who took Finn’s meaning.
“Things are not as they seem, Chief,” Connor remarked.
“Precisely.”
The walk to the outer regions of the camp was long, as if he were marching to his doom. Finn could appreciate the men who looked to him, only to turn away after a glance. The air was alive with nervous tension; it was precisely that he could sense the atmosphere so palpably that made him certain that he was right in his suspicions. The last tent standing was the one he would enter momentarily, and as approached he drank in his surrounds. The camp was nearly packed up and all that remained were the empty rings of stone and wooden logs that had served their purpose the night before. Horses were being led from one place to another in an anxious speed; it would never be soon enough that they left this place. Two soldiers stood guard at the entrance of the tent, pulling back its flaps to allow him entrance. The beige canvas rippling madly served as though warning the famed commander who passed through them.
“You are not Severus Snape!” The words escaped his lips as soon as he laid eyes on the imposter.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Connor,” Finn said, turning to the young soldier, “Have you seen this man before?”
“No, sir.”
Finn smiled; he would not be able to prove this point without Sorcha, her uses were becoming apparent even when she was not there. “You are Salazar Slytherin, sir. We have met before.”
The man smiled thinly, but widely. “I have only heard of you from Sorcha, my wife.”
“I’ve only ever seen him smile on one type of occasion, Finn. When he catches a student he dislikes doing something they shouldn’t be. As far as I remember, he didn’t even smile on our wedding “ it was more of a half smile “ that’ll be the most you get.”
“You insult Sorcha with this false claim of wedlock. You should know though, I am immune to magic of any kind,” Finn remarked shortly, watching the smile falter for a split second, then fix once more upon the man’s face. Finn locked gazes with him, for moments the pair stood, staring intensely at one another in a silence both bitter and expectant.
“I may not be her husband, but I know how to save her life.”
“You would as soon as kill her than save her! I’d be right in saying that you have hidden Severus Snape from our sights by magical means?”
“Well then, only you can save her now, Finn,” Slytherin laughed, a perverse pleasure shining on his pale features. “But your time is short, and you’ve tarried long,” he whispered. “Goodbye.” A crack erupted through the tent and Salazar Slytherin vanished. Furious with Slytherin’s escape, he spun on his heal and stormed from the tent. A plan formulated in his mind.
“Taistellach “ why did you ride out again, for the second time?”
The messenger looked down as he thought. “When we rode to the King’s Hall, we passed a couple “ a woman and a man. The man, there was something familiar and… different about him “ also he called out as you passed “ though in a tongue I could not understand.”
“Ride with me. We must retrace our path to find them. Bring us horses! Diarmuid, you have command, take the men back to Meath.”
“Yes, sir!”
“I don’t know whether or not I’m looking forward to meeting Severus Snape, Finn,” Taistellach joked, “I can’t imagine what the man who married Sorcha must be like.”
Finn smiled. “If it’s any consolation, neither can I. She says he doesn’t even smile.
The two men quickly rode east, two tiny specks of shadow against the rising sun, on a mission that was becoming quite desperate. Finn knew that if he did not find Severus Snape soon, it would all be for naught; Sorcha would be dead by sundown.