Notes: For the 12 Days of Christmas Style challenge. Founders' Era.
It's not fair. That's the first thought in Rowena's head, and it keeps throbbing there, beating like a poisoned heart, as she watches the retreating back of Salazar Slytherin, rigid with pride, as he walks down to the castle's gates. She wonders if Godric is watching, too, watching his handiwork, and the bitterness slips in before she realises it's there.
Always another fight, another argument, another blow-up, and now it's come to this. One of the Founders of his own bloody school, leaving before he either razes the castle or challenges Godric to a duel. Rowena doesn't know who would win in that, and frankly, isn't all that keen to find out. Hogwarts needs them. Needs all of them. With Sal gone, the foundations rock, and the air hangs in expectant silence.
She can't take it anymore and rushes from her office, clattering down heaps of staircases until the front doors spill her out into the frigid evening air. The wind cuts through her robes, as she's forgotten her cloak, but she doesn't care as she runs to catch up with the distant figure.
"I suppose you want me to return, don't you," Salazar says, almost conversationally, as she draws even with him. She can't breathe properly, her cheeks flushed with exertion, and she wheezes for a few moments, trying to regain her poise. He waits politely as she heaves for breath, his eyes dark with concern.
"I do, yes," she finally admits in a gasp. "Salazar, we need you. Hogwarts needs you. It's just another spat with Godric, can't you see?"
"It's not," Salazar disagrees flatly, though the line of his mouth is gentle. "He will never change his mind, Ro. To him, Muggle-borns are the future. I do not disagree. But to him, that future is bright and promising, while I can only see flames and tears and bloodshed." His eyes turn bitter, and Rowena bites her lip in despair.
"Then let me come with you," Rowena says, impulsive. "Perhaps I can-I can help you in some way." Her cheeks burn crimson as he looks at her, shivering in her thin work robes, her sleeves fluttering in the breeze.
"I can't let you do that," Salazar says softly. "And you know it. You are needed here, Rowena."
"So are you," she retorts, but her shoulders slump in defeat.
"Not as much as you are," Salazar says, raising one hand to cup her cheek. His fingers are warm against her chilled skin, and she drinks in the sensation with almost painful eagerness. "Stay, Rowena. Perhaps I will return. Perhaps I can come to grips with Godric's idealistic view of the world. Until then..." he shrugs, as his hand drops to his side. Rowena mourns the loss. "I am needed elsewhere."
"Come back," Rowena whispers, and the regret in his eyes stabs her heart in two.
"If I can," is all he says, as he turns on the spot and is gone.