Disclaimer: Not mine.

The Chasm

Interlude

She had wished to die when the baby had slid out of her womb, never to draw a breath, never to see the sun come up over the land and touch the sea before dipping back to the other world. She had wanted to blame the gods and had raged in anger, wanting to shake her fist and strike out. Instead, she had knelt on the shore. Bathed in the icy water, and accepted his will, surrendering her own as she did each month in her cleansing ritual. It was hard, hard to accept that this place was not what the gods had promised to her people since the beginning. Harder still to accept His punishment without anger and to accept what had happened.

It confused her, the non-changing days, the temperate nights, each blending with those that had gone before. Her village had already salted the fish that would feed them through the harsh winter, that here never came. The elders had counted out the rations for each dwelling, fatty meats, and vegetables taken from the earth, to ensure their health until the wheat was harvested again and the wild berries that grew on the lower slopes once more ripened.

Here, she dug wild parsnip and learned to dry and twist the tall grasses into hard knots to feed into the fire to roast them year round. Drying more grass, she wove long ropes and twisted it back in loops, fashioning a net to dip into the creek to catch the speckled fish. She rose early each day to search the valley, wanting to find more of her people only to return each night, lonelier than she had been before. Each night she played her end of times over in her mind, seeking what must have been an error in her ways, an unknown slight she had given the gods, a sin she had unknowingly committed.

Bitter herbs grew east of the forest. Using twine, spun from the same coarse grasses, she took cuttings, tied them together with her twine and hung them to dry. When they were ready, she built a fire and threw in a handful of the fragrant bled, knelt, and pulled the heady smelling smoke into her face with her hands, offering to the gods and chanting the prayers she had learned as a child.

She had found it difficult and disconcerting to see the moon each night, always in the same stage, always waning. Unable to use it to tell the passing of time she had marked her cycles in the ground, counting off each until she realized the passage of time was her life slipping away, as empty and as unused as her womb. Scrubbing the evidence of her years away with her bare foot, she had turned and climbed the ridge, falling to her knees and letting the salt of her tears soak into the ground.

Each time she ventured away from her valley she would go farther, often spending the night laying in the sweet grass and waking to the same sun and same day as the one before. There was no need to draw a map, or to mark out paths to find her way. So well did she know her valley, that its very smell could lead her safely back.

One day she found a peat bog, where none had been before, and cut into the soft earth, pushing it onto the harder ground to dry. Her hands rough and coarse from working the grass into hard knots for the fire could finally rest. However, it was the day she had ventured over the southern slope that made her catch her breath and drop to her knees in awe, that she finally had hope.

She clamoured to her feet, steadied her breathing and began to run, not minding the pebbles that littered the ground and cut into her feet. She ran until she was breathless and then fell, not yet reaching the sixteen pillars that formed a circle at the base of the last mountain.

Sitting with her legs crossed she leaned down and watched as the cuts on her feet healed, the skin now smooth and brown as it had been in the morning. It always amazed her at how quickly it happened, how quickly and completely she healed with no need of potions or special dressings. She no longer worried when she climbed over rocky boulders to set her fishing nets in the sea. She no longer concerned herself about stepping from one moss covered stone to the next, knowing it did not matter if she slipped and fell.

She had fallen many times, and each time could feel the mending begin before she stood up to inspect for damage. Now, she looked out at the monoliths and knew it was because the gods had blessed this quiet valley, and her sin, was in not believing and becoming impatient with Him.

After each of her monthly cleansings, she started to offer prayers that she would not be forgotten, with no man and childless, seeing the circle at the base of the mountain as her salvation. She took bitter herbs mixed with yellow flowers, laid them at the base of the stone gods, offered her prayers and waited until the sun left, and the waning moon appeared.

She awoke one morning, startled to hear the sound of the bleating of a lamb. As she watched, a ewe joined it, stepping out of the dark stone in search of its babe. The lamb turned and pushed its nose into the ewe's soft underbelly, seeking a teat and sucking greedily. The ewe, lowered her head to nuzzle the soft coat of its young, then lifted its head and sniffed the air, crying shrilly at the danger she perceived, and turning, swiftly ran down the slope, the lamb following at her heels.

She clapped in delight, laughing at the once familiar sight, already thinking how she could fashion bobbin-weights for spinning and weave the cloth as she thanked the misshapen image of the new god for sending them to her. She searched the shores and found a round flat stone, and another one with a sharp edge. Night after night, she scratched until she had a hole through the centre of what she would use as a weight that would hold the fibbers, spinning them ever thinner as she allowed it to fall and take the wool with it.

Gathering the loose clumps of hair from the ground, she spun and wove the cloth. Passing her days, she forgot to be lonely, forgot how to use her voice, and forgot to miss the world that had been her's before.

After a time, a time she could no longer count, she stopped going to see the gods. She no longer pulled the grass from around their bases, and no longer sat and watched; imagining that more than the lamb would be sent to her. At times she could forget that her gods stood at the base of the mountain until she saw a bird that had not been there before, of heard its call as it flew overhead.

It was once again the smell of smoke that sent her running. The smell of smoke, not from the peat that heated her dwelling and cooked her food, but the smell of wood burning, carried on the wind and alerting her to the presence of another. She ran to the ridge and lay on her stomach, keeping her head low to the ground, searching the landscape until she found him.

Crawling backwards, deeper into the tall grass she watched the tall stranger kick at the embers, covering them with dirt and turn back to the circle of monoliths. He lifted his head and looked to the ridge, as if he knew she was watching, before calling out to someone behind him. She watched him walk into one of the stones and disappear with a dark haired woman following, and wondered when they would return and if this time her gods would be with her.

.

.

Nine Years Ago

September 20, 1999

Constance and Severus returned to the manor, neither one speaking as they made they way over the rocky pinnacle, Snape walking sure footed and quickly, leaving Constance to slowly make her way behind. Once they had closed the door behind them, he set up the wards and turned to the liquor cabinet where he poured each of them a drink.

"We should have stayed there," Constance said softly. "Now it's cut off and if we find out the other's don't lead anywhere we are stuck."

"It is already inhabited and I do not care to live as a Sheppard."

"And I don't care to live here and we didn't even see anyone, only an empty…hovel. Maybe whoever was there found a way out."

Severus handed her a glass of amber liquid before taking his normal place behind an over large desk, piled high with old texts and scrolls. "I am not repeating myself."

Constance nodded; knowing now was not the time to push. She walked to the window and stood looking out at the dark landscape of rocks and crevices that dropped into the foaming sea below. She had enjoyed the short time they had spent in the other world, with its cool grasses flowing as far as she could see and the sun over her head.

"I think I miss daylight the most," she sighed, sipping her drink. "You are right though. At least here we aren't in the open."

"Once we find a replacement for your wand's core it will be better for you," he said slowly.

"Ironic, isn't it? You, who are used to living as a Muggle can use your magic…wandless to be sure…and I, who have never lived without it, have none."

"You still have your magic." He leaned back in his chair, scowling at her from under his brows. "I told you we will find a core that works."

"Right," she sighed and turned back to him. "Have you taken your potion today?" Not hearing his response, she heard only the scratching of his quill as he lowered his head back to his desk. "I'll collect it. You know you have to take it until the last of the tremors are gone."

She left the room, went up two fights of stairs to his bedroom, and picked up one of the vials that sat on a small table next to his bed. Sitting on the edge of the matrices, she took a deep breath, not wanting to return to the library. At times like this, when her disappointment was almost palpable, she was afraid to face him, afraid that he would see her tears.

At first, he had seemed resigned to the fact that she had spirited him away to a place of safety. The discovery of Voldemort's secret stash of anti-venom had been a surprise, as had the mere fact that they found themselves outside of Wizarding- Brittan, or so she had thought. In the first two weeks, she had been too busy to pay much attention to more than the fact that she could not perform even the simplest spells, spending the better part of the day changing his bandages manually and bathing him in cool water to bring down his raging fever.

She had cursed Voldemort for setting the wards too tight, for choosing such a dark and dreary place, for the lack of fireplaces, and most of all for the lack of clocks or manual timepieces. It was hard to tell time and without it she was not sure where one day started and the next left off. In those first two weeks she woke at odd hours, not knowing if was as night or day. Only after time did she notice the subtle difference between dark days and darker nights.

At least here Severus had started to respond to potions, regaining his strength and soon able to take nourishment. Constance had been surprised and relieved to find vast storage rooms filled with tinned food and staples. Once a week she made a trip to the lower levels and brought up what she could carry to the kitchen. Confused by the lack of fireplaces and not able to turn on the burners, she fed Severus juices, tinned meats, broth and cold soft vegetables. It wasn't until the day he threw the tray across the room in disgust that she knew he would live.

Once she had realized the darkness was not from storms obscuring the sun, or waking in the middle of the night, she had pulled the heavy curtains closed, knowing she should wait before telling him they were in a magically hidden place and not in a safe house as she had assumed. The fist time she had heard the screams in the night and had run to his room, knowing that he could not protect her, but feeling safe just to hear his steady breathing, she had known this place was not of the earth. The next morning after she had fed him and waited until he had fallen back into a fitful sleep she had searched the manor for anything she could use as a weapon. Once Severus was able to stand and hold on to her, and able to make his way to a chair that sat in the corner of his room, she had opened the curtains and told him what she feared.

He had sat quietly, as he did now at his desk, and merely looked at her oddly. Then, struggling to stand had demanded that she take him to the library so he could figure out where they were. It took him only two hours to begin raging at her, throwing his ink pot and smashing the glass display cases that held hourglasses that ran backwards, not needing to be flipped over to mark the passage of time, and old magical lamps that had long ago lost their spells.

He had accused her of vile, venomous things, being in league with the Dark Lord, and not his own ally, cowardly running away, stopping short of wishing her dead. She had stood and taken his wrath, but was no longer sure if she had done so from fear of him or her secret joy that he had lived. She took him his potion, set it at his elbow and turned to leave.

"Constance," he said, leaning back and pinching the bridge of his nose. "We have over thirty more gates to check, seven alone right here. It is not yet a hopeless cause."

"I know," she sighed, perching on the windowsill to watch the unchanging sight in front of her. "I just get my hopes up each time we try. It's foolish that I would even want to get out of here. Azkaban is the only thing waiting for me and if I am lonesome for Dementors I only have to step outside."

"If I were not limited, as to research material, my work would go much faster," he replied, choosing to ignore her comment.

"If you were not limited we would not be here," she tried to joke, only to see him return to his tomes. "I think it's the boredom, that and you blame me."

"I have never said this was your fault," he muttered, not looking up.

"You mean after your first tantrum? " She smiled and leaned against the window frame. "Severus? What if we never get out?"

"I will find a way," he said evenly.

"How do you know?" She insisted. "How do you know we won't die here?"

"I don't. However, if there is a way I must take it," he said under his breath.

She turned back to the sight of the waves crashing far below and thought it odd that he had not said we, because we must. She felt the prickling of tears behind her eyes and stood up. "I think I will practice more defence moves today. We don't know if your magic will hold."

"Wait," he lifted his head from his parchment and slowly put down his quill. "If I am correct, and I find nothing to discount what I have found, it may be impossible for us to leave. Furthermore, with the dangers here I cannot say that in the foreseeable future you will not be alone. I will need to show you how to use the generator if I can not find you a suitable wand core."

Silence filled the air as she felt a leaden weight fall on her shoulders, her breath seemed to still in her lungs as she fought to clear her mind and respond to what he said. She looked up from her window seat and saw him crossing the room, his arms catching her before she fell to the floor. He lowered her gently, scowling at her reaction.

"You suspected this, did you not?" he said flatly.

"No," she said, pushing, his hands away, drawing deep breaths. "Don't be an arse. You wouldn't dare die on me."

"Fine," he spat, standing up and turning back to his desk.

"What to you think? Do you think I bought you here knowing that? You bloody idiot!" she yelled, pulling herself up to the feet. "Fuck off Snape!"

He spun on his heel and returned to her, yanked her by the arms and angrily shook her. "Who told you of this place?"

"I told you," she hissed.

"A likely story, you just happened to overhear something that the Lord never would have said if he thought anyone was near."

"I'm not lying, I told you…he was at the Malfoy's, I was waiting for Narcissa, he …"

"Do not lie to me."

"I'm not! I told you."

"Why did you not tell me then? Why did you wait until we were here? Didn't you think it was important? Didn't you think?"

"I…I don't know. It didn't mean anything, not really. I didn't think it mattered where Yaxley went, they were laughing…joking."

"You did not find that strange?" he asked her, his disgust evident on his face. "What else did you fail to tell me? What else did you overhear that could have save lives?"

"Let go of me," she twisted angrily. "You never trusted me…from the beginning you have always doubted what I said. What the fuck was I supposed to do? I told you he was there, who he was meeting with, who he…who disappeared. I risked everything for you."

"You had nothing to risk," he said evenly, pushing her away.

She saw him then, really saw him and the anger that had consumed him, the hatred that ate at his soul and would forever stop her from being truly honest with him. All the years of living on the edge of two worlds had embittered him, leaving him cold and unfeeling, unable to understand why she did what she had, and unwilling to accept someone that did not fall into his narrow concept of good or evil.

She had known he was unyielding the first time she had met him. She just out of sixth year, he already in the grasp of the Dark Lord, they had seen each other for the first time at her wedding reception. He had raised his eyebrow, properly bowed, smirking at the blush that had covered her face at the off colour jokes, and not too kind innuendoes a gathering of Death Eaters was sure to unleash. Gregory had thrown back his head and had laughed at her innocence and explained that he had taken the stupid bint in an arranged marriage at the insistence of his parents and to please his Lord. She had seen a flicker of concern, a momentary hesitation on Snape's face before his eyes came back to her's and his sneer had returned. A few months later when her world was thrown upside down. Snape had watched as he stood beside her husband as she went down on her knees and had her life branded into her arm.

He would always see her like that, on her knees in front of the Lord, him not truly understanding that she had no choice. Now she looked at him and wondered when she had been so stupid to think he could have cared for her as she did for him. So stupid to have thought he had the room in his heart for more then the anger and hatred that he carried like a badge of honour.

"No, I had already lost everything. Forgive me for thinking I had anything left."

"You should have let me die," he spat.

"I'll remember that for the next time you have your bloody throat ripped open," she seethed. "What is wrong with you? If I am…am…imprisoned here the same as you, why are you so angry? Leave! Figure it out and leave!"

"You used the mark to come here!" he raged at her. "You didn't enter through a gate you can not leave through one. It is a waste of time to travel between places. Even if we find the final gate it will be closed to us. Perhaps if you had paid attention to the conversation you overheard you would have been smart enough to stay away from here. You have no one to blame but yourself! The best you can hope for is to find a more inhabitable place."

After their argument, she had tried to stay to her rooms, leaving only to grab something from the kitchen or search the library for something to read, finding only texts and dusty tomes of dark magic or martial arts. Once a day, she would sneak pass the library door to the staircase that would take her down to the rooms underneath the manor, and to the room lined with mirrors and stocked with weapons. She leaned to strike targets with heavy knifes, burying their tips deep into soft wood. She learned how to wield the heavy and clumsy axe that she had found resting against the wall.

Strange, she had thought, that the most powerful wizard known would have taught his followers to fight hand to hand. Strange, that even without them having magic, the Dark Lord would have relied on ancient Muggle arms for his followers. Then, she had remembered the sound of the nightly shrieks, the haunting screams that filled her dreams, and began to practice.

In her self-imposed exile from Snape's company, she became more attuned to his movements. She would become angry when she knew he had foregone his potion, when she did not hear him enter the kitchen for a whole day, or when she knew from the lack of footfalls on the steps he had spent another sleepless night. Knowing that he would never knock on her door to talk or to seek her company, she spent the days, when not practicing in the lower room, staring out the window and dreaming of what could have been.

At night, when the already dark skies would take on a hint of inky clouds, she would stand at her bedroom window and watch him walk the perimeter of the grounds. He would check the fuel levels of the evenly spaced propane torches before lighting them, and then adjust the wick to a higher level. So far, he had managed to hold off the Inferi with simple fire, and had told her that they had several years of fuel.

Watching him flood the yard with light she knew he turned the flames higher than they had at the beginning. Each night the lifeless creatures came closer as they grew more accustom to the flame. She wondered, how many years worth of fuel they had left, and how many years she would be alone.