Part Two: Casina
My name is Casina.
I'm nothing much. One of those people you meet then expect to always stay the same. I'm a healer at Camp Arrowflight, the camp for those that fight against Nyx and favor Voldemort more than Dumbledore.
Don't get me wrong - Dumbledore's a good man, but gentle kindness works on schoolboys and not enimies. I used to hate the Dark Lord, but now I support him. It's ironic - there's a time and place for his brutality and cruelty, and that's on the battlefield.
Besides, he has a brilliant military mind. When he can plan and direct his troops, he can beat Nyx's Gladiators easily. Ambushes, however... with no breath or true tread to give away thier position, the gladiators are upon you in an instant, and you are dead. That, all of that, is from my observation. Every time there is an ambush, he is one of the handful alive, and this last time it was worse than ever.
Kali, his horse, I spotted just as the sun fully rose over the pine trees on the hill. The black mare was coming at full gallop, almost wild - had she been spooked? No, she was too well trained for that, I knew. It was then I saw his slumped, ragged form, slumped forward in the saddle.
Rhia, my friend, says that the string of curses I half-yelled while I ran was enough to make a sailor cover his ears and beg for decency. I got an awful lot of shocked stares, but when everyone realized what had happened, there wasn't time to be offended by my language.
It isn't my fault that I'm responsible for him. I was blessed (cursed more like it) with a gift in the art of healing, and he offered to me a position of importance: his own healer. Like a dunce, I took it. And now I'm left to fret like the overprotective mother every time he goes to another battle...
The fire they keep in camp is good to collect my thoughts too, I mused. The whiplashes of flame, like ghosts of phoenixes, danced on a stage of burning wood. It was the next night over. With the coming of war, wands were useless except to the few, so I had done as best I could to the gash on his side and the numerous cuts that he had. A time of tense, fragile waiting... all of us were nervous. Without him, we were nothing - outcasts and rebels.
"I'm going to go check on him," I muttered to nobody in peculiar. It was time for him to come 'round, anyway.
As I walked to his tent, the what-ifs (egged on by my fear and the night) pounced in my mind. What if he is dying? What if there's nothing you can do? What if you weren't good enough? What if you made a mistake that cost him his life? What if, what if, what if - ?
I lifted the tent-flap. I shouldn't have worried.
"You!" I squawked, at a loss for words and honorary titles.
"Yes," he commented dryly, "Me."
He was more than awake. He was up, standing, dressed in a new set of clothes, as if nothing had happened. I gawked. He streightened the collar on his black tunic, and raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Yes, Casina?"
I boldly tried to match his dry, almost sarcastic tone. "You're the first man I've met who can regard a near-death experience nonchalantly," I retorted.
"And?" The smallest smirk tugged at a corner of his mouth.
I exploded. My haphazard anger is legendary in camp. "You! Just two hours ago you looked like Death himself!"
He said nothing. I couldn't see his face, he had turned away from me as he put on his cloak. I knew he didn't take pity, or people worrying about him, easily. I think I had startled him with my outburst. The smirk was gone from his face, that much I was sure of.
"Casina -" his voice was oddly moody - "Was Kali hurt?"
That man! He'd rather ask of his horse than of his flesh-and-blood troops. He cares more about that mare more than himself, which is a lot more than he'll let on. He won't let any of the grooms lay a finger on her, he does it himself. I stifled a sigh of aggravation and answered him. "She's fine, m'Lord. It's you who were hurt - " my voice became saccarine - "Remember?"
He sighed. "All right, Casina. I'll rest."
No soldier or warlord could've been more proud at that moment. Getting that man to at least stop from killing himself of exaustion is like swimming up a waterfall.
"-After a quick ride, of course."
More strings of sentences ran through my head. All would've made a sailor blush and worse.
He must've noticed my irked response. "It's nessisary, Casina. Dumbledore at least deserves to know." His voice was strangely heavy, almost tired.
"You're going, then?" I demanded gloomily.
"Yes." Suddenly the small smirk returned. "I still outrank you, remember?"
I would've exploded once again, but by then he was out of the tent, leaving me to burn of my steam in something else.
AN: Here we are again! With only one vote for Voldemort's death and the large majority wanting him to live, here comes Casina's observation/rant.
Now, my friends, I have a far tougher question for you to answer. As Voldemort rides into the other camp and tells of the battle, from who's POV should I do it from? McGongall is probably Dumbledore's second-in-command and would listen to the report; Kali the horse is always an interestingly fresh view; Hermione is probably floating around the camp, I'll bet... I'm prepared to write from either of those three's POV, or maybe a bit of two. (Harry is unavalible, being in hiding from Nyx.)