Inscribed in Air & Fire
~ An HP fanfic by Snape Ophelia ~
Chapter 5
The first month of the term had passed quickly.
After his meeting with Voldemort early in September, Snape had weighed his options and decided that the best immediate action regarding Annwyd Gwir was—for the moment—no action at all. Give the girl a chance to settle in.
During those first few days, she had been all taut nerves and fidgets. Whenever anyone but Dumbledore gave her more than a passing glance, she startled and froze like a deer poised to flee. He had, in fact, wondered whether she would make it through the first month at all. He never remembered seeing a new teacher with such a bad case of the first-term jitters.
He supposed it made a certain amount of sense. She had never taught before—had never been employed before—and the initial reception by her fellow faculty members had been mixed at best. He had also overheard her telling Lupin that she had spent her entire life, with the exception of her three years as a student, living with her grandfather on the outskirts of a rural village, population 100 if you counted the dogs.
Nevertheless, her edginess was irritating, all the more so when Dumbledore had announced that her office was to be located next to Snape's—not merely next to, but adjoining, with a connecting door between. Both Snape and Gwir had quickly pointed out that she had a perfectly good office attached to her own chambers.
Annwyd was welcome to use that office for private work and study, Dumbledore agreed, but her formal office hours and all business involving interactions with students was to be conducted under Snape's supervision, and that meant that Snape needed to be near at hand.
This was all part of the Ministry's new security requirements, and the sheer irrationality of it was enough to give him a headache. If the Glamour Casting Instructor wished harm to one of the students, it didn't matter where her bloody office was. She could simply glamour up a likeness of Dumbledore and take her victim wherever she wanted, if such was her intention. What student was going to refuse an order from the headmaster? And if she intended harm, was her promise that she wouldn't use the glamours outside the classroom going to stop her? Clearly not. It was typical Ministry thinking—all form and no sense.
Snape had tried to protest that he had no extra space to spare—his office and the connecting rooms were all in use, thank you—but Dumbledore had simply conjured an extra chamber between Snape's office and supply room.
Occasionally, magic was annoying.
At least Gwir was finally starting to adjust. She had stopped jumping every time he walked through her office, which, inconveniently enough, he had to do whenever he needed supplies. Students had started dropping in with questions, and her answers sounded comfortable and cheerful. She had even taken to humming little tunes while grading essays. Snape always found that grading essays made him want to claw his eyeballs out—or better yet, claw the offending student's eyeballs out—so he supposed the humming, though rather irritating in itself, was a sign that she was finding her job enjoyable.
And in fact, he had to admit, she taught well. His other primary supervisory duty was to spend at least two hours per week during the first term observing Instructor Gwir in the classroom. Snape couldn't help resenting these intrusions on his privacy and time, but he supposed the arrangement had its advantages. He had his own reasons for wanting to observe the new instructor, and his duties provided ample opportunities to do so.
Plus, there was a thoroughly delightful moment every week when he got to hand a stack of wretchedly written first year Potions essays over to his new assistant for grading. The assistant, a seventh year Ravenclaw by the name of Timothy Tibble, was a competent if unimaginative student of Potions. Tibble was possessed of no great brilliance, but he had a remarkable memory for facts, meticulously tidy habits, and enough fear of the Potions Master's temper to keep well out of his way. Snape had painted such a dire picture of his probable response to insufficiently stringent grading that Tibble was, if anything, awarding the struggling first years even fewer points for their efforts than Snape would have. All in all, it was quite satisfactory.
As to Miss Gwir's classes, they were…interesting. The first surprise had been the discovery that half the lecture material was delivered by the instructor's dead grandfather. He was not a ghost like Professor Binns (and thank the gods for that—Snape could still remember the near catatonia he had endured in Binns' classes when he was a student). No, not a ghost, but a glamoured likeness of the rustic old wizard that Annwyd seemed to produce and sustain with ease.
At first, the students had been taken aback by this additional "instructor," but they had quickly warmed up to the idea and now treated him very much as if he were actually present. They would sometimes ask a question of Instructor Gwir and then consult the old man for a "second opinion." Snape had given a derisive snort the first time Neville Longbottom had listened patiently to Annwyd's answer to his inquiry, then turned and said, perfectly seriously, What do you think, Mr. Gwir? Didn't the idiot boy understand that she was making up the wizard's answers? But it hadn't seemed quite so funny when Annwyd's glamoured grandfather had actually provided a second opinion. In fact, the elderly Mr. Gwir seemed to have his own views on a number of topics which were not entirely shared by his granddaughter.
Mind and memory were funny things, he supposed. Either that or our new instructor is a little schizophrenic.
In the midst of these musings, Snape noted the time and realized that Instructor Gwir's afternoon class had just started. Since he had not attended any of her sessions yet this week, he supposed he should go to this one. After locking and warding his office, he headed upstairs towards the classrooms.
~*~
When Snape arrived, the class was already in progress. As he settled himself in a seat at the back, Mr. Gwir, looking every bit as solid and real as anyone else in the room, was asking a question on the history of Glamour Casting, apparently from the reading assigned at the previous class. Hermione Granger's hand shot into the air.
Now there's a surprise, thought Snape.
"Ah, yes, our eager little gooseberry bush. You have an answer for us?" said Mr. Gwir.
Snape's lip curled slightly. He was quickly losing patience with the glamoured wizard's habit of referring to all students by plant and animal names, mundane and magical. He had been greatly put off by this childish eccentricity when Mr. Gwir had first started calling on "chipmunks" and "puffapods".
His opinion had improved somewhat upon the discovery that most of these…endearments, for lack of a better word…were not so cloyingly sweet. It was rather amusing to hear a few of his least favorite Gryffindors addressed as "my little wood louse" or "the toadstool in the back row."
Even this had lost its charm, however, once the students stopped being offended. They now seemed to take it as a badge of honor to receive the most exotic or repulsive appellation. At the end of the last class he had visited, he had overheard Seamus Finnigan and Dean Thomas arguing over who had gotten the day's best title—Finnigan with "green-horned sea slug" or Thomas with "three-toed tree sloth."
Lavender Brown had at least been obliging enough to wrinkle up her nose at "shrivelfig."
Snape's attention drifted back to the present discussion. Hermione Granger seemed intent on reciting the entire fourth chapter of Bathilda Bagshott's History of the Arcane Arts when Mr. Gwir chuckled and raised a hand to cut her off.
"Very good, bumblebee. Most admirably, um, thorough."
"Five points for Gryffindor," said Annwyd. She was sitting on the edge of the tall teachers' desk swinging her feet, while her grandfather—the illusion of her grandfather, Snape amended—paced to and fro in front of the blackboard. The elder Gwir never awarded or subtracted house points.
Granger's hand was waving in the air again. Mr. Gwir seemed inclined to move on to another student, but the girl blurted out her question before he could call on someone else.
"Mr. Gwir, sir, I know what happened, but it doesn't make any sense. Why would the Ministry outlaw Glamour Casting just because a Dark Wizard was running around using Imperio on everyone? That wasn't the Glamour Casters' fault, was it?"
"A fair question, muskrat. Yes indeed, a fair question." The old man scratched his grizzled grey beard. "People were scared. The Ministry's Aurors were failing to protect them. The Ministry felt it had to do something. And politics wasn't much different three hundred years ago than it is today. If something can't be fixed, someone can at least be blamed. So that's my answer, though it's not the one you'll find in Ms. Bagshott's book."
There was a pause while the class chewed on this.
"Sir," said Harry Potter, "you said the arts couldn't be learned from books. So if the Glamours were outlawed and the Glamour Casters arrested, how did they manage to pass their knowledge on?"
"Not very well, I'm afraid," said the old man sadly, not even remembering to call Potter a garden snake or an earwig. "That's why there are only a handful of Casters left today. For years, the arts could only be taught in secret, and even so there was always risk involved. The Ministry only lifted the ban on Casting years later because by then it was already a lost art. Or so they thought. But a few families, mine among them, had laid low through the bad years and handed the knowledge down as best they could."
"Thank you, Grandfather," said Annwyd, rising from the desk. "And now, class, please take out your history essays so I can collect them. We'll be moving on to a different topic for the second half of the lesson."
Snape watched with a critical eye as Annwyd moved among the desks, collecting scrolls. Yes, he decided after a moment, she seems to have finally landed on her feet. Her face was calm and smiling and the start-of-the-term worry lines had faded. Her dark auburn hair hung in a smooth curtain down her back and her large green eyes were clear and warm. She looked well. She looked…almost pretty.
He pushed the latter thought aside as irrelevant. He needed to form an alliance with this woman, and she finally looked as if that topic could be broached without her bolting or breaking into tears. It was time for Snape to make his first move. Voldemort would not wait forever.
Annwyd placed the essays in a neat pile on her desk. Her grandfather, Snape noted, had vanished.
"As you know," said the instructor to her students, "I have already demonstrated a range of the hand-cast glamours. These are the sorts that most people know of—when they know of the glamours at all. They are the ones used as tools, and the ones most useful for self-defense. But there is a second type of casting as well."
"Voice-cast glamours?" asked Granger.
"Yes," Annwyd smiled, "that's right, Hermione."
"The book only mentions them once, on page 87, and it really doesn't say what they are."
"The voice-cast glamours were irrelevant to the ban, and since then, history has largely forgotten them. They are not as practical as the hand-cast variety—less of a tool and more of an art in the strict sense of the word. Long ago, the voice-casting masters were called the 'Faerie Bards', though they were human witches and wizards, not faeries."
"I've heard of the Faerie Bards—" said Hermione with excitement.
"What haven't you heard of?" muttered Ron Weasley.
"—but I always thought," she continued, ignoring Weasley, "that they were only a legend. They really existed?"
"They really existed," confirmed Annwyd. "Though much of their art has been lost. For those of you who may not have heard of them, the Bards were wizard lore-keepers, preserving magical stories, poems, and ballads. They memorized hundreds of tales and verses, which they would sing or recite, accompanied by a Faerie Vision crafted for the song or story."
"Faerie Vision?" asked Weasley, curious in spite of himself.
"The visions were like…rather like paintings that went with the words, though they often included sounds and sensations as well as pictures. The Bards sought to create a glamour that captured the world of the poem or song, weaving the glamour into the sound and rhythm as they recited."
Annwyd scanned the faces in front of her. They apparently continued to show interest.
"It is a difficult art, more difficult than hand-casting. It aims, as I said, to create an entire world, an entire landscape of experience, rather than merely adding or changing an object or two. Because of that, the glamours are less substantial. The audience must concentrate—close their eyes and try to see the glamours—otherwise, they are very weak and pale. But perhaps a demonstration will do better than more talk."
The students nodded. Snape kept his expression neutral, but in fact he was rather interested as well. Like Granger, though he wouldn't have admitted it, he had always thought the Bards and their Faerie Visions were myths.
"The piece I will recite is called 'The Hosting of the Sidhe'. Sidhe is the Gaelic Muggle term for the faerie people of Ireland. This was written by an Irish poet named William Butler Yeats."
Hermione's hand rose once again. "I thought—well, I studied Muggle literature before I came to Hogwarts, and I thought Yeats didn't live very long ago. But you said the Faerie Bards were very old…."
"True," replied Annwyd. "But most of the original songs and ballads have been forgotten over the years. Only a few of the old tales survived. My grandfather created the Vision for this poem himself. He has a certain weakness for Muggle poets."
Granger nodded and no one else interrupted.
"Now, if you're ready, please close your eyes and take a deep breath. Allow your mind to relax. Focus on the sound of my voice."
As she spoke, her voice became slower and deeper, more melodious. "Breathe," she said softly. "Relax. Look into the darkness behind your eyelids."
At this point, she fixed her gaze on Snape, who was still watching her. He scowled, then closed his eyes. Why not? He was curious.
"Good," she murmured. "That's good…listen to your breath…look into the darkness…."
There was a pause and the room was filled only with the sound of quiet breathing. Then she began to recite.
The host is riding from Knocknarea
And over the grave of Clooth-na-bare;
Caolte tossing his burning hair
And Niamh calling Away, come away:
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,
Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,
Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are a-gleam,
Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;
And if any gaze on our rushing band,
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
The host is rushing 'twixt night and day,
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
Snape let out a gasp. With the sound of the first line, a landscape started forming in the darkness. At first it was indistinct and hazy, like a faded painting seen through dark glass. But as the words rolled on and on, the vision grew brighter and clearer, filling every corner of his mind.
First there was a wild country of dark woods and emerald hills, stone cairns and mist-filled hollows. And then there were sounds as well, the thunder of hoof beats and the tinkle of unearthly, beautiful laughter.
The faerie riders galloped out of the woods, their horses gleaming chestnut-gold, raven-black, and silver-white, heads high, nostrils flared, long manes tossing. And the riders themselves—their fair faces burned like candle flames in a dark room and their hair streamed in the wind like liquid light.
Empty your heart of its mortal dream.
A ribbon of music unfurled in his chest, achingly sad and unbearably poignant. His heart seemed to strain against his ribcage, trying to follow that fleeting thread of sound….
The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round
He could feel the wind brushing against his face like a living thing, and the leaves danced in the air in a pattern the eye could not quite follow…but that pattern seemed to hold some intoxicating secret, the secret he had looked for all his life, if only he could grasp it….
We come between him and the deed of his hand,
We come between him and the hope of his heart.
Yes, thought Snape, his mind lost to the vision.
And where is there hope or deed as fair?
Nowhere, his heart whispered in answer. There was nothing but this, nothing but this terrible beauty.
Caolte tossing his burning hair,
And Niamh calling Away, come away.
Tears pricked the back of his eyelids unheeded. His whole being was filled with a fierce and overwhelming longing, the yearning to follow those bright, unearthly riders, to answer their unanswerable call….
And then the voice stopped and the vision faded and he was sitting in the back row of a Hogwarts classroom, blinking at the backs of the students' heads and listening to them sniffling back tears.
Annwyd was standing at the front of the room as before, head bowed. When she looked up, Snape saw—thought he saw, just for an instant—an echo of that terrible brightness shining in her eyes. Then it was gone, if it had really been there at all, and she merely looked pale and thoughtful and a little sad.
"Well," she said, "I can't send you out of the class sniffling"—there were a few dismissive and embarrassed hmmphs from the boys—"so perhaps we will end on something a bit more cheerful. If you'll close your eyes and concentrate again, I will do a comic ballad for you. It's called 'The Merry Old Thief.'"
Snape kept his eyes firmly open and focused on counting the stones in the wall. He was not prepared to open his mind to another glamour—another intrusion—and he was, in any case, in no mood for a comic ballad.
When Gwir had explained how voice-casting worked, he wasn't sure what he had expected, but it wasn't…that. Whatever Instructor Gwir had just done, it had been...overwhelming.
Dangerous, said a voice in his mind.
He steeled himself against whatever lingering effects he felt. By the time the ballad of "The Merry Old Thief" had ended, he had counted the stones in the facing wall three times over—there were 88—and he was feeling like himself once again.
Whatever weakness had momentarily seized him seemed to have passed. He was able to produce a characteristic snort and grimace when Mr. Gwir popped up to take leave of the class in his typically annoying fashion ("Good-bye my little woodchucks! Study hard, huckleberries!")
Snape was on his feet and heading for the door when he remembered that he needed to talk to Annwyd. The distractions of the last hour aside, there were things he must accomplish. He strode to the front of the room.
"Instructor," he said rather stiffly, "there is something rather important I need to discuss with you. Perhaps we could have lunch brought to my office, if that is convenient." He knew that Instructor Gwir took her meals late in the day.
"Hello, Professor," she said. "I'm afraid that I've planned to have lunch with Professor Lupin." She paused. "But perhaps you would like to join us?"
"Thank you, no." A dose of the werewolf was the last thing he wanted at the moment. Nor was he pleased by the thought of Lupin and Annwyd becoming friendly. Whatever ideas Lupin might pass along regarding Snape, he doubted they would help to further his plans. "Perhaps tomorrow your social life will be less demanding. Good day."
He turned on his heel to leave. Directly behind him, however, was Mr. Gwir.
"Ah, hello," said the old wizard. "It's our black-crested—"
Snape raised a hand and cleared his throat loudly before he could find out what sort of black-crested creature he was meant to be.
"Mr. Gwir," he said, glaring into the old man's laughing eyes, "you may address me as 'Professor Snape.'"
No response.
"'Potions Master' is also acceptable, as is 'Sir.'. But not 'speckled trout' and not 'chestnut tree'. Not 'porcupine' or 'grindylow' or any other plant, bird, or beast. Is that clear?"
"'Dandelion'?" said the old man hopefully.
"Professor. Severus. Snape!" he growled through clenched teeth. "Nothing else. Nothing whatsoever."
"Not even 'sticky-footed mugwump'? Not even—"
Snape whirled around to face Annwyd. "Instructor Gwir, would you kindly inform him—"
It was only when he saw Annwyd suppressing a grin that he realized the true absurdity of the situation. He was being baited into an argument about sticky-footed mugwumps by a wizard who didn't actually exist.
He suddenly decided that maybe he had liked the instructor better when she was fidgeting and jumping at her own shadow. If she was still a student, he would have happily taken a round fifty points from Ravenclaw. Actually, make it hundred, he thought. Fifty for her and fifty for her bloody grandfather.
"Good day, Miss Gwir," he spat at her, then stalked out of the room.
Sticky-footed mugwump indeed.
He was just outside the door when he heard the old man chuckling in the room behind him.
"Not much of a sense of humor, that one."
"He's not so bad, Grandfather."
Good gods, he thought, she talks to the old man when no one's around. Doesn't she at least realize he doesn't exist?
"Hmmm. Like him, do you?" the wizard's voice followed him down the hall.
"I wouldn't go so far as that, no. I just said he isn't that awful."
"Hmmm."
Snape gritted his teeth and glared at a couple of passing Hufflepuffs, who scurried out of his path with some alarm.
Voldemort had set his eye on the Glamour Casting Instructor, and he, Snape, had to do something about it. And now it appeared that the woman was quite insane.
Worst of all, he feared the insanity might be catching.
By the time he reached his chambers in the dungeons, Snape was in a thoroughly foul mood.
~*~
Snape kept himself occupied until well after midnight. He had no desire to lay awake with his thoughts tonight. As a matter of fact, he never had such a desire. There were times—the night after his last meeting with Voldemort, for example—when he was too drained to keep his wandering thoughts firmly in check. For the most part, however, he avoided introspective late-night maundering. No good came of it. It was a weakness.
He inventoried the supply room and made lists of all the potions ingredients that needed to be procured from Professor Sprout, purchased in Diagon Alley, or ordered from abroad. He set up the lab for tomorrow's classes, neatly laying out all the tools and substances that would be required for each lesson.
He considered planning the conversation that he needed to have—and soon—with Annwyd Gwir.
"Instructor Gwir, there is a situation that you should be aware of…."
"Miss Gwir, how much do you know about Lord Voldemort and his followers?"
"Annwyd…"
He paused, considering the unfamiliar feel of her first name.
"Annwyd, you are in danger. You need to trust me."
And that's likely isn't it? You're so good at winning people's warm regard.
The fact was, he didn't really know her and therefore wasn't certain what would be most likely to achieve the results he needed. He wasn't inclined to entirely discount his first impressions. Despite her recent gains in confidence, he suspected there was a fair amount of self-doubt remaining beneath the surface. Was it best for his own purposes to capitalize on those insecurities or assuage them?
He ate a late dinner alone in his rooms, served by a silent and nervous house elf. During his solitary meal, he found himself reviewing the afternoon and, in particular, his own…odd response to the voice-cast glamour Miss Gwir had demonstrated.
'Odd' isn't quite the word for it, prompted a certain part of his mind.
He considered this thought and discarded it. It had been…yes, odd. That was sufficient.
If the experience warranted any further analysis, that was best undertaken during the sober hours of daylight when the mind was less inclined towards whimsy and distraction.
And really, did it merit any further thought at all? He had been taken by surprise by an unfamiliar form of magic, and he was no doubt feeling a bit strained from overwork and the impending task involving Instructor Gwir. To think it had been more than that was foolish.
A poem about faeries written by a Muggle poet? Pathetic really. This poet—Yales, Yates, whatever his name was—was obviously one of those sad Muggles who went around gawking at the moon and pining for magic they didn't really believe in. It was a laughable condition that seemed to infect some Muggles, this longing for magic. But he, Snape, was a wizard for gods' sake. He lived and worked with magic on a daily basis.
So what does a wizard long for when life seems tiresome and mundane?
Pushing aside the remains of the meal, he decided to tackle a stack of fourth year essays. If the horrors of student prose wouldn't keep his mind free from fanciful thoughts, then nothing would.
Finally, after scrawling a particularly vicious set of comments on the essays, he felt his eyes starting to grow heavy. He straightened his desk, extinguished the lights, and got ready for bed.
His efforts appeared to have served their purpose well. Moments after climbing into bed, he was asleep.
~*~
In the dream, Snape was walking through a forest. It was twilight and the air was cold. He pulled his cloak around him. There was something in this forest he needed to find, but he couldn't seem to remember what it was. It felt like he'd been walking for a long time.
From somewhere in the distance, he heard a noise. A few notes of music, a simple but haunting refrain. This was it, he remembered with sudden excitement. He was supposed to find out where the music was coming from. He strode forward more eagerly now, following the wisps of music.
Was it a flute? he wondered. An oboe? He couldn't be sure. There was something terribly sad but terribly sweet in that distant melody, and it seemed very important that he follow it.
Suddenly pain and heat erupted in his arm. He staggered under the sudden onslaught, frightened and confused. Was he injured? He didn't recall being injured—couldn't, at the moment, recall anything but walking through the trees. He looked at his arm. It appeared undamaged, the sleeve unripped, unbloodied.
The burning sensation intensified. It was growing excruciating. He clawed at his sleeve and pushed it up to the elbow. Then he saw the serpent and the skull and it all came back.
The Dark Mark. How could he have forgotten? He was a Death Eater and Voldemort was calling him.
Gods it hurts, he thought.
Answer it, said a high, cold voice behind his shoulder.
He whirled but there was no one behind him.
Answer it.
No. There was something he needed to do. Something he needed to find. Something important. He thought he heard a sound at the edge of his awareness, but he couldn't focus properly. The fire in his arm was eclipsing everything else.
The pain will stop if you answer the summons. You know what to do. The voice was coming from just behind his ear This time he didn't turn to look. He knew there would be nothing to see.
He realized he was holding a wand, though it hadn't been there a moment ago. If he spoke the words, the trees would vanish and the burning sensation would stop.
He hesitated, somehow reluctant to leave the forest. Why? he asked himself. There was nothing here. He was alone. It was cold and growing dark. There was nothing for him to find, no reason to stay.
He spoke the words.
He was standing in a bare stone chamber. There was a nude girl with raven-dark hair kneeling on the floor at his feet. She caressed his legs, rubbed her face and breasts against his thighs. The strong perfume of her body rose to his nostrils. He felt himself responding, felt her face nuzzling against his hip, felt her warm breath against his growing erection.
A little reward for your hard work, Severus.
"I don't want her," he whispered.
You do want her.
He did.
The pain in his arm had grown less, though it hadn't vanished.
Answer it. You know what to do.
He seized the girl's dark hair and pulled her to her feet. Her eyes were black and intense. Desire? Fear? It didn't matter. With his right hand still grasping her by the hair, he pressed his left arm to the side of her face. She screamed.
He felt—sweet rush of relief—the pain flowing out of him. He let his arm drop, saw the skull and snake burned onto the girl's tear-stained cheek.
You see? said the cold voice. She is marked. She is yours. There is no pain now, only power.
His body was suddenly filled with a different kind of fire, not painful but fierce and intoxicating. He pulled the girl towards him, crushed her body against his, and kissed her violently, his mouth devouring hers.
He forced her to the floor. His clothes had vanished and her body was smooth and hot against his own chilled skin. And he did want her, wanted to touch her everywhere and possess her and make her cry out with pleasure and desire.
Or pain, suggested the cold voice.
No. He brushed the voice aside.
He didn't want to harm her. He just desperately wanted to feel the softness and heat and living pulse of her, wanted to make her want him and cling to him and enfold him—
Then he looked into the girl's eyes and his chest filled with ice. Those beautiful dark eyes were as glassy as a doll's. There was no spirit in them, no warm flare of life. They were the eyes of something dead or broken. Only far back in their depths was a tiny spark of awareness, and it cowered back away from his gaze, terrified. Terrified of him.
"Oh gods," he whispered. He sat up and gathered the girl against his chest, holding her against his body, rocking her. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."
What was he doing here? He had vowed not to do this again.
A foolish vow, the voice said. You worry yourself for nothing. She is nothing.
Ignoring the voice, he bowed his head and buried his face in the girl's dark hair, still cradling her and rocking her. He closed his eyes and breathed in the warm soft scent of her. Oh gods I'm sorry. Never again, I promise.
After a long time, he felt the girl moving. Her arms reached up and circled around his shoulders. When he opened his eyes he was startled to see that her hair wasn't black, as he had thought. No, it was a rich red-brown. And when she tilted her head back to look up at him, her eyes were bright and alive, warm and green.
One of her hands slid under his hair to clasp the back of his neck. Her other hand stroked his face softly. The touch was light but he felt electric sparks in the brush of her fingertips. Those green eyes seemed to sparkle with invitation.
When he lowered his lips to hers, he wanted to be gentle, meant to touch her lightly as she was touching him, but the hunger was suddenly too great and he kissed her roughly, forcing her mouth open to his, tasting her tongue and claiming her lips with his teeth. Her fingers gripped the back of his neck and her other hand tangled in his hair, pulling him harder against her.
Oh gods she wanted it, wanted him, wanted the heat and violence of it.
He closed his eyes and a pattern of sparks danced behind his eyelids, sparks like leaves caught in a fierce wind. Her heartbeat thundered under his hands like hoof beats and when he pushed her down and her legs twined around him, he heard the quickening melody of distant, wild music.
~*~
When he woke—trembling, alone in his darkened room, the Dark Mark like a chunk of ice embedded in his arm—he began the grim process of pushing the dream away.
He certainly did not want to think of it the next time he faced Annwyd Gwir.