"Persistent lot, aren't you?" Oleandra trilled as she pirouetted, evading a sword slash by a hair's breadth. "Honestly, don't you have any hobbies? Knitting? Fishing? Anything at all, besides chasing around girls with swords?"
Even though Oleandra was putting on a brave face, she felt as though fire was coursing through her arms.
It was a sensation she had very nearly forgotten— for the first time since gaining the unnatural strength of a Dusk-Elf, she was tiring. Her muscles trembled with each parry, and her bones creaked under the strain of absorbing endless sword strikes that chained together like flowing water. She could no longer afford to weave her spells with her left hand; it was taking all of her strength just to hold her sword aloft with both hands.
"Bah! Will you not stay quiet, monster?" barked a tall, broad-shouldered Muggle, lunging forward to press his advantage, courtesy of the opening his comrade had just created. "The Druid Merwydd warned us not to let you beguile us with your silver tongue, Faerie. No more will you make fools of the brave men of Carahaix's elite guard, now that we know what you truly are!"
"Bah? Have you spent so much time with your sheep that you've forgotten human language?" said Oleandra breathlessly— masking the shock of having her true nature so easily seen through, by insinuating her opponent was Welsh. "I suppose we all need hobbies…"
"How… how dare you!!"
Gripping his weapon with both hands, the enraged Muggle swung his iron greatsword overhead and brought it crashing down, leaving Oleandra no room to dodge. Left with no other choice, she crossed her arms, raising her blade and tilting it downwards parallel to her body in a single motion— and with a sharp ringing sound, the iron greatsword slid off Oleandra's enchanted steel in a spray of sparks, whereupon it ended up embedded deeply in the mud, dangerously close to her toes.
The Muggle's comrades surged forwards, instantly taking his place in the offensive to prevent Oleandra from catching her breath. She staggered back, eyes darting, constantly angling her sword to guard against as many attacks as she could track. She couldn't let them encircle her— if they did, she'd be finished.
Guard.
Seven enemies left— still too many enemies. Oleandra could only bark out her runes' names to aid her in combat, but without the opportunity to perform hand signs or stances, the effects were far too weak to be of any meaningful help. Even if her magic could create openings, she had no way to exploit them with such numerical disadvantage.
Sidestep, twirl and cut.
She was losing ground; they were trying to get behind her. If she could only get to the river, she'd be able to summon a riptide and sweep them all into the water… or she could just escape with her life.
Parry, disarm and thrust. Crack!
Six enemies left. Unless the seventh could fight with only one good knee.
Parade, pirouette and strike…
Wait, was that a feint, just now? Oh, bollocks!
Oleandra hissed in pain as a line of ice-cold fire tore across her skin, and her left arm dropped limply to her side, blood flowing profusely from the deep cut. Her forearms were armoured with Basilisk skin, but everything up to her shoulders was left bare, so as to let her freely access the runic tattoos painted on her skin.
"Ingwaz!" gasped Oleandra.
The three Muggles closest to Oleandra sagged, their knees buckling slightly as her magic tried pinning them to the ground, but they quickly shook off the spell's effects. With a swing of his sword, the first Muggle disarmed her. A wide grin on his face, the second Muggle backhanded her across the face, causing her to see stars. And the third…
…
Lightning forked across the night sky, briefly illuminating the darkness. The world was eerily silent, save for the distant rumbling of thunder and the pitter-patter of her bare feet against the earth. In the distance, a tall shadow rose to the heavens, its many arms stretching upwards as if to hold up the sky itself.
The rune carver's poem.
It was a nightmare Oleandra must have seen a thousand times by now— and if she was dreaming, then she had to have been knocked unconscious. She already knew what would happen next in the dream, and yet, she could not stop herself from retracing her steps, like she did almost every night.
As the girl approached the towering shadow, stars began appearing in the dark sky. The starlight seemed to bend around the shadow, revealing the outline of an enormous tree. It was a tree, but at the same time, it wasn't— it was Yggdrasil, the World Tree, the Tree of Terror.
The girl looked up. There was a hanged corpse swinging from its lowest branch, its side pierced by a spear.
Having heard it a thousand times, Oleandra could recite the hanged man's poem by heart.
…
Do you know how to carve? Do you know how to read?
Do you know how to tint runes? Do you know how to suffer?
Do you know how to ask? Do you know how to offer?
Do you know how to sacrifice? Do you know how to slaughter?
Better not to ask than to sacrifice too much,
For a gift is always rewarded,
And a boon always demands a return
Better not to offer than have to slay too many.
…
It was a warning to those who would seek power at all costs: turn back and protect the things one cherished; or push ahead, sacrificing everything in the pursuit of greatness. Whichever path one chose, there could be no regrets.
The corpse eerily turned its head towards the girl.
Oleandra already knew what would happen next, having seen this dream play out so many times: dawn would break, and the first ray of sunshine would hit the corpse's face, revealing it to be her own.
The girl peered into the darkness. She couldn't see the corpse's face clearly yet, but somehow, it felt familiar. And that spear, it felt familiar too…
"GAH!"
Oleandra awoke with a start in her bed in the Slytherin dormitories, the dream rapidly fading from her mind. However, the burning sensation on her arm and the pungent smell of blood hanging about her were stark reminders that her injuries were no mere dreams.
"Vials," muttered Oleandra, as she flopped out of her bed and ransacked her wardrobe. "Where did I put my emergency Wiggenweld potion… found you…!"
Oleandra shivered unconsciously— she was drenched in cold sweat. Fingers trembling, she unstoppered a phial of green potion and downed its contents… and then the small glass bottle slipped through her fingers and shattered against the cold stone tiles of the floor.
That smell on her cut… she'd… been… poisoned… damned… Druid…
Oleandra staggered out of her room and into the darkness of the corridor leading to the common room. Judging from the faint green light coming from the end of the corridor, it was still early in the morning. Most people would still be sound asleep, but she needed to find help as soon as possible.
If she fainted, she'd go back to the past.
And then, she would die.