A/N: I did this chapter a little differently than normal. Draco and (elder) Sylvia are invisible to the reader, but they are there, watching on. The chapter is from Swithulf's perspective, and the song lyrics are from Jump, Little Children's perspective (the song is "Mother's Eyes"). I hope you enjoy this little departure; I know I highly enjoyed writing it.
Chapter NineThere's a moon asking to stay
Long enough for the clouds to fly me away
Well, it's my time coming, I'm not afraid to die
My fading voice sings of love,
But she cries to the clicking of time…
And the rain is falling and I believe
My time has come
It reminds me of the pain
I might leave
Leave behind…
And I fell them drown my name
So east to know and forget with this kiss
I'm not afraid to go but it goes so slow.
-Jeff Buckley, Grace
It was night, and they were in a bedroom in Hogwarts, the bedroom right next to Sylvia's. They were sleeping as best as they could, under the circumstances.
…Sound asleep in an ocean of crashes…
Swithulf had tried to sleep, but he couldn't. He could still hear the cries in his head, the innocent voices crying for mercy. He turned fitfully in bed and awoke. Beside him, Helewis slept deeply, nor was there any sound from the cradle, in which their youngest, Sihtric, had been laid to bed. He heard rain pounding on the roof; unnatural, for this season, that is should rain. He wondered if he was the one who caused it, or if it was his mother.
…Sound asleep in pouring black rain…
His mother…He sat up and saw her staring at him, sitting in a chair by the cradle.
"Mother!" he gasped. "What are you doing?"
"Just watching over you," she replied, and by the dim lamplight from the hall he could see her face, unlined with years, as young as that of his eldest son. It still disconcerted him, that he was older than his mother. "Were you asleep, Swithul? Did I wake you?"
"I didn't think I was asleep. I was praying, and I must have dozed."
She smiled. "Then I am glad you God gave you some respite."
…Bedside voices praying with tears of ashes…
"Mother, what must I do?" he asked, wanting to get the words out, for he knew that she wanted something from him. "I'll do anything, anything to stop him." He felt his eyes prick with tears unshed. He was a father, a provider for his family. Surely he couldn't cry.
…Stung by the salt of weeping skies…
"I know. And you will need to do something. But I won't tell you about it tonight, dear. You need to sleep, and not worry."
"Not worry?" he asked, his voice cracking. "How can I not worry, after what he…he did?"
Helewis shifted in the bed, and the baby made a little sighing noise.
"Let's go to my room," Sylvia suggested. "We don't want to wake them."
"Yes, Mother," he said.
…All alone lying shoulder to shoulder…
They sat in her chairs, in her bright, cheerful room. Despite the late hour, she had the place well lit, hung all over with candles and oil lamps. Somehow the atmosphere seemed incongruous with th horrors that had happened so recently.
"I'm frightened, Mother," he admitted.
"So am I, Swithulf," she replied.
…All along with hot hand in hand…
"But…but you're not supposed to get frightened," he stammered. But then, he thought he wasn't supposed to get frightened, either, not as a father as a husband. "You're one of the Three. You are not supped to feel fear."
"Do you not think it makes me any less capable of human emotion than your father or Helewis?" she replied. "And remember, half of you is begotten from me."
"Do not compare Helewis with that—that monster!" he said vehemently, and then rubbed his eyes, cursing himself for his body's weakness, for his need for sleep. If he really was the son of such a hideous beast, surely he shouldn't need such things.
…Sleepy gestures of silent tongue and lashes…
"You're tired. You need to go to bed, dear," his mother commented, her golden brown hair unmussed, her eyes sleepless and clear. He wondered if she needed sleep.
"I can't help it, Mother. I can't help but think…all my friends, my neighbors...they're dead because of me. Me and that horrible man who begot me…I…I…"
…Cheek to cheek with last goodbyes…
He began to cry, even though he had told himself that he wouldn't. He was a husband, he was a father, and could not cry, for their sake. He had to be strong for them, and tell theme verythinig would be all right. But nothing could be all right anymore.
His mother did not speak—she merely held open her arms, and he fell into her embrace, becoming young again, with nothing more amiss than a skinned knee or a sly comment made to him in transfiguration class.
…Hold me, a child in your arms,
Hold me, please hold me…
"Please don't cry, Swithulf," she murmured. "It's not over yet, is it? It's not over yet."
They made quite a picture, the young, teenage girl holding the thirty-something man in her arms as if he was a babe at her breast. But everything was not as it seemed. She was not a young teenage girl, but a woman almost immeasurably old, with wisdom and benevolence in her eyes. And yet, as Swithulf looked up at her, he thought that he saw fear.
"Come now," she said. "You really must go to bed. And in the …in the morning, then we will begin the preparations." She had faltered a little bit; she was nervous, and he could tell. But why?
"Yes, Mother," he said, standing up and turning towards his room.
She caressed his face, and he wondered again at the strange expression her eyes held. "Goodnight, my son."
…I'm lost in your gaze, floating away…
***
They were in the field behind Hogwarts. His mother had said that any clear, flat space would do. They needed lots of room, she said. It was dusk, and the sun was fading. Sylvia, Sophia, and Rosamund made the preparations as Godric, Rowena, Helga, and Helewis looked on. Despite the warmth of the summer day, an eerie quiet reigned in the field where the barley was beginning to nod.
…Wide awake on an ocean of silence…
"Swithulf?" his mother said in a warm, quiet tone, and he looked up. "Are you ready? We should begin."
"Yes, Mother," he said. He kissed Helewis deeply, lovingly, and then rejoined Sylvia.
"I love you, Swithulf Slytherin," she said, running her hand through his hair. She seemed very sad, but he wasn't sure why. She had said that the ritual would tire him, but that he should be all right afterwards. Then again, they had never performed the ritual before.
"I love you too, Mother," he answered, thinking back to warm summer nights long ago, when she would sit by his bed, and tell him stories in that same warm, quiet tone. "And I am ready."
"Very well," she said, biting her lip, and suddenly looking as young as her face belied.
…Wide awake in soft lullabies…
Sylvia, Sophia, and Rosamund stood in a circle around him, touching one another palm to palm. He looked beyond them at Helewis, smiling weakly at him. He smiled back. Godric, Rowena, and Helga looked on in anticipation.
The Three began to chant. The language was old, a language before a language had ever been, and the words flowed smoothly off their tongues, like music, like something beyond music. Everyone there shuddered in spite of themselves.
As they chanted, a strangely colored light began to emanate from their palms. It was hard to describe the color of it; like the language, it seemed to be color beyond color, the color of all colors, color before color ever was. Swithulf found it both terrifying and comforting as it filled his eyes, reminding him of pleasant times in his past, and of horrible ones.
…Linen shadows floating through open sashes…
Suddenly, beyond his mother and her two companions (not Slyvia, Sophie, and Rosamund now, but Andromache, Artemis, and Axiotheia), he saw three more—older, graver faces, one immensely similar to Sylvia's. Her hair shone silver in the light, and her eyes were blue, not gray, but the resemblance was striking.
My grandmother, Rhodesia, he realized. She took her palce behind Sylvia, and her two companions (Rahab and Ruth, Swithulf though, having dug back deep into his memory) stood behind their daughters as well, mimicking their post: palms to palms. A fainter, but similar light shone from their hands.
And then, behind them, three more. He knew his great-grandmother was Inanna; his mother had passed this lore onto him. Besides that, he thought he remembered the names Ishtar and Irkalla, but he wasn't sure. These three also linked their palms, spreading out to give more room. He thought he saw two more circles of women behind them, but he wasn't sure if his eyes were playing tricks on him.
Now he stared up at the ancient Andromache, his mother, absorbed in the beauty and power of her gray gaze, her body suffused with the same light that emanated from her palms.
…All in the touch of a mother's eyes…
All of the women, a chorus of voices, rose in a chant that seemed almost like a wail, still sing-songing that most ancient of languages, and their light filled his eyes, his body, and the whole world, it seemed.
Just as suddenly, it was gone. Its presence had been comforting him, he realized, and holding him up; without it, he was empty, voided somehow, and he fell to the ground, unbalanced.
Andromache became Sylvia again, and knelt down before him. The nameless power in her eyes was gone, and they now held only worry and concern. She took him up in her arms again, as she had the night before, and he felt grateful for the embrace.
"Swithulf, can you hear me?" she asked. Her voice seemed far away, and touched with fear. He could tell by her eyes that something had gone wrong.
Of course I can, he wanted to say, but found that his voice had dried up. He had to be able to make himself speak.
…Hold me, a child in your arms
Hold me, please hold me…
"Mother," he finally croaked out, his voice raspy and harsh. He touched his throat weakly, surprised at the sound that it made. "Hedheue, Hyssmaye…Savaric, Hodierna…little Sihtric." He was amazed at the ordeal it was just to name his children.
"I will take care of them," she promised. She didn't try to comfort him, or tell him that he would be all right. They both knew the truth.
But he thought she could have waited until he was gone before she began to cry. She was supposed to be strong for him, but he felt the wetness of her tears on his face, dropping from those so recently powerful eyes.
…A water-marked sky of tears that I cry
Is floating so high…
"Mother…" he said, about to admonish her for crying, but then he though better of it. She was just a child, really. A woman in a child's body.
"Oh, Swithulf…" she answered, her warm tears almost scalding the coolness of his skin.
He locked his eyes with hers. He wanted that to be this last sight, those gray, bottomless eyes. What would they see after he was gone? How many centuries, how many songs, how many lovers? How many times would she perform this ritual?
He felt rain again on his face, and knew this time that it was his mother's doing. She was sobbing for him, and so were the heavens.
…All in the touch of a mother's eyes,
Stung by the salt of weeping skies…
"Light…light a candle for me, Mama," he said, and stared intently at her eyes, until he could stare no more.
"Swithulf!" she cried, pressing his cold body against hers. "No, my baby, my baby, no!" She looked up for her mother, longing for one embrace, but the shadowy Rhodesia had disappeared. She was alone, with her dead son. She drew him nearer, in his final embrace, and closed his black eyes, his father's eyes.
…Cheek to cheek with last goodbyes…
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Okay, I really hope the ending didn't have to much Pieta in it. I didn't realize how much it resembled that until I finished writing it, stepped back, and went "Damn." Oh well. If you liked it, review. Even if you didn't like it, review. I may kick your ass afterwards, but it will have been worth it.