Mini Author's Note: Spin-off time! Beitris's POV of the incidents.
Obligatory Disclaimer: The Harry Potter series is not mine. This, however, is.
Requesting: Criticism (to stop me from being weird) and Challenges (to keep me from running out of ideas) Volunteers, anywhere?
Beitris--IaH--UMWizH--IaH--Beitris
SMWC 01: Beitris
The date was the third day of the second winter month, 980 AD.
Beings everywhere were hiding away from the frosty morning as the previous night's fall of rain merged with dawn's cold call, creating a day as damp and miserable as could be.
As such, no one in their right mind should be out, especially not so early, when they could wait until the sun reached its peak and the day got slightly warmer.
Yet someone was out, in the middle of nowhere, on a path that she did not recognize, going to a place she did not know. And, even stranger was, this someone did not feel the cold.
No, this someone was not protected by a heat-you-up spell.
The reason was something far more simple than that: this someone was in a rush. And therefore with energy burning and making her heated flesh perspire, she was now more clammy and stifled under her hangaroc and leines, than shivering.
Beitris--IaH--UMWizH--IaH--Beitris
Beitris the Weaver prayed as she fought through the semi-darkness of the bush and repressed her fear of vindictive goblins, and headed upwards of the highlands.
She was imploring to all the Viking gods her father had taught her, to all the Scottish deities that her mother had ever mentioned; promising them things and asking for favours, even as dread grew all the while behind her thoughts, and increased with every passing minute.
For her son G'nagal was sick; suddenly, desperately so; in all probability the victim of an evil curse by some haggled old witch who was jealous of his youth and vitality.
Her heart quailed at even the thought of this. Curses were notoriously hard to be rid of, and there was no healer skilled enough in the village to cast that malevolence away; she knew, as for long, worrying pulses of the waves had she called for help, and received only murmurs to lessen her coming grief.
She refused to accept the predicted fate.
Her son was her only one in a bevy of daughters, and she would do anything at all to save him.
And so here she was on a journey of faith, as there was only one hope in the distance for him—a fragile hope that might not even exist.
Beitris--IaH--UMWizH--IaH--Beitris
Soft leather boots squished through the last of forest compost, and then Beitris was past the unknown regions of the terrifying woods and entering a wide, open area.
Joy blazed in both tired eyes and soul as they alighted upon a welcome sight.
There was a fenced-off garden after the forest, just as her neighbours the McCorrs had said, as they drew her away in secrecy. An enclosed garden that roiled with colour; standing by itself, with no other glimpsable building near it. (see end-note)
Beitris blinked, partially in surprise, partially in relief. The others had not been jesting with her, then. The trip would probably be worth it.
She ran towards it, weary limbs given new hope, though her steps faltered when she saw fully the figure within the garden.
The woman was in the customary leine and brat, but Beitris found it strange that this Scottish garb seemed to be more influenced by that of their Irish neighbours. Of course, this was not uncommon, considering that the Scots maintained good relationships with their southern neighbours. It was just… finding an Irish-style dress this remote in the country was really rather surprising.
But she put that thought firmly away, along with her hesitation and apprehension, and walked towards the motherly figure in purple and yellow, noting with more surprise that the other had on a blue leine.
Her steps became uncertain.
Instinct told her that this was no servant or mere healer.
Was this really the person she was looking for?
And would she have the power to triumph over evil?
Beitris--IaH--UMWizH--IaH--Beitris
Thought for G'nagal brought her forward.
The other woman noticed her approach and frowned a little. Beitris's heart quailed; then she was set at rest as the other spoke in a polite tone. "You are…?"
The weaver swallowed, forced herself calm; tried not to let her words erupt in a flood. "The people told me that I could find a healer here. I am… my name is Beitris, and I come from the village." She gestured a little, helplessly. "My son is sick with the fever, has been since he woke up screaming in the middle of the night, and the neighbours said to head up past the forest. They said," and she looked hopefully at the other, "that if there is someone who can cast away the evil, it is the person who works the herbs here."
Stopping, she felt her heart thud slowly, frightening.
Ba-dump. Ba-dum. Ba-dump.
She thought that the other must hear it, so loud it sounded to her own ears.
But the woman in blue and yellow and purple just smiled, asking only for some specifics. Beitris, not knowing how best to phrase things, started with what she had seen and heard as she was rudely awakened from her slumber, and described all the other noticeable symptoms. She wondered whether to add on personal presumptions and fears, then decided against it. The healer might be offended by it.
An outstretched hand asked for Beitris's leather pouch, which had come from her mother and had one of the famously protective and lucky four-leaf clovers etched upon it. Hope bubbling in a fountain, and head almost giddy with relief as this meant that some cure had been found, she unhooked it, handing it over to the other willingly though the pouch was something that she highly treasured.
As the lady moved off to gather some herbs, Beitris let her eyes wander. The garden had the usual raised planting beds, wattle fences, and central wellhead, and many plants which she recognized from her cooking. The garden itself was obviously well tended, and everything had a systematic feel to it that the weaver very much appreciated.
Now and then she saw the other obeying certain ceremonies and speaking invocations, and she was awed by the great knowledge that this person must have. She thought that the other must have had priestess or druidess training, for no normal person would ever have been able to remember all the procedures for each different plant. She herself could not, and she was well known for an excellent memory.
It was strange, of course, that no thought that the other might intend harm would cross her mind. But this, she attributed to the obvious aura of serenity and kindness that the other radiated, that she could usually feel when communing with her inner self at Beltane and the festival of the Goddess. And Beitris prided herself on being able to sense these things very well.
The owner of the herb garden soon returned, and with instructions. "Take this and mix it with a cup of milk and three drops of ale, and some honey to sweeten it all. Your child should be well soon. The petals are for you and your son to consume, and they will boost sleep to replenish energy." Somehow all other necessary knowledge was formed in her mind, and as the white petals were held out Beitris accepted all, heart grateful and with many tumbled thanks.
"It is but my duty," was the murmured response, and "smooth sailing in your voyage through life, Beitris."
Beitris was surprised. To be Viking was to sail the seas, and her name indeed meant a voyage through life.
Yet just as quickly, the surprise faded. This woman was of the good, after all, and the gods had probably given her special knowledge. She smiled at the other, touched by the kind workings of fate, then sketched a curtsey before leaving.
Beitris--IaH--UMWizH--IaH--Beitris
She chewed on a petal as she went on. Worry gradually left her heart, and it was with a peaceful countenance that she arrived by G'nagal's bedside and stroked the side of his cheek.
Hours later, with the help of the concoction, her irrepressible lad was once more up and chasing the chickens, and the McCorrs were smiling knowingly at her as they passed by with their little flock.
She would always give them a special smile of thanks, and make her mind up to go through the forest once more with a little gift for the one who had saved her son.
But she would never actually remember to do so, though she would not know why.
There would be a niggling feeling about it at the strangest times, and the talk of evil spreading never affected her as strongly as it did others, as if she knew that somehow they would be protected.
Indeed, as a respected member of her community, with the miraculous healing of her son being attributed to special blessings from the gods, she was instead able to help allay fears of catastrophe and maintain the peace of her little village.
She never managed to actually form the thought that beyond the trees, there was one whom she knew was powerful enough to cast away the dark.
And she would never realize that she had not once heard the healer give her name, or wonder why it did not bother her.
Beitris--IaH--UMWizH--IaH--Beitris
Author's End Note: Regarding the description of the herb garden as standing alone, "with no other glimpsable building near it", is because Hogwarts is supposedly bewitched so that Muggles could not see it. Being an invention of Godric Gryffindor (here in my imagination, anyway) the "castle" would have really freaked out any normal person! This way it ties in with Helga's unconcern for Beitris's reaction to the strange building in IaH. The herb garden, I allowed to be seen, as it was relatively "normal". And that's about it…
Post Script: I haven't beta-ed this yet so if anyone picks up on any errors, please tell me!