Welcome back to another chapter of Bad Moon Rising, in which we get Scáthach's thoughts on everything that happened in the last chapter.
But before we get to the story, a few announcements!
First off, yes. This chapter is late and I'm sorry, I am at the mercy of my editor on this. But on another note of bad news, there won't be a new chapter next week for my life is a bit busy and I won't be able to write it up.
But, the next chapter is all about Atalanta and what she's been doing between September and December, so it should be fun.
Chapter edited by Politically Problematic Prose Pundit
Editor's Note: Fuck y'all, I'm playing Baldur's Gate 3 on my day off.
On with the show.
Harry Potter, Defense Tower.
Harry arrived at the door to Scáthach's classroom soaked to the bone and shivering. The bone-deep chill from the cold Scottish rain seeped into his body along with a truth Harry had learned not too long ago from Cait-Sith, and somehow that bloody cat somehow knew just the right way to put Harry off-kilter. Harry first tried the door handle only to find the door locked tight, and he didn't doubt that Scáthach wanted time alone and locked everyone out of her classroom. Too bad that Harry could not care less about that.
Harry raised his hand and began to pound on the door as hard as he could. "Scáthach!" Harry yells, fighting his chattering teeth to do so. "Open the door, we need to talk!" he calls out as he continues to beat on the door. But Scáthach doesn't answer him. "Scáthach! Teacher! Open the door!"
"I can't do that, Greaca," Scáthach finally calls back her voice hard and her tone like steel. "I am far too busy with something, namely, ignoring you," she says as Harry grinds his teeth before taking a step back from the door before his wand finds his hand and he points it at the door. "So help me, Greaca, if you blast my door open, you will be going back into the chasms!" Harry falters just for a moment before his arm falls to his side.
"I know…" Harry says, pausing for a moment to swallow the lump in his throat, "about Connla, about what happened to him, and-and about me." Harry pauses once more as he hears the click, click, click of Scáthach's shoes on the stone floor. The door is pulled open to show Scáthach's face, stormy with anger, and her blood-red eyes aglow.
Scáthach didn't speak for a moment as her lips were set in a scowl but Harry could see the old pain pass through her eyes as she looked at him. "Who told you?" she asked, but Harry didn't speak, for as much as a pain in the ass Cait-Sith was, it had gone out of its way to tell him the story knowing Scáthach would be furious about it. That alone earned Harry silence on this. But Scáthach apparently did not need Harry to voice anything as her eyes narrowed before looking off to the left for a moment before snapping back to him. "That fucking cat, I swear, I will drown him in the Black Lake for this," she snaps angrily before turning on her heel and walking back into the classroom.
Harry quickly follows her into the room as she makes her way across the room and towards her office. "Why didn't you tell me?" Harry asks, his anger seeping into his voice, but his question doesn't even slow Scáthach down.
"Tell you what, Greaca?" she asks, with the same amount of anger in her voice as she walks up the steps to her office before the door opens as she gets close to it without even touching it.
"Don't play this stupid game with me, Scáthach," Harry snaps at her as he follows her up the short flight of stairs to her office. "Why didn't you tell me I'm the reincarnation of Connla, your nephew," he asks as he steps into her office. Scáthach's office was both spartan and warmly decorated, it only had a small writing desk pushed into the corner next to the closed windows that were being pelted by the storm outside. Two bookcases were on the left-hand side of the room filled with books and scrolls of defensive magic and other subjects that encompassed the subject she taught. On the right side sat a closed door that led to her sleeping quarters, though Harry didn't know if she used them at all. Closest to Harry was the fireplace with two large high-back dark leather chairs with scrolled arms, sitting on the mantelpiece weren't pictures of family or friends, just two pieces of parchment that announced her as both High Master and Scáthanna of the Circle of the Fianna and her Defensive Mastery from them. Other than the two pieces of parchments in frames, there was a small jewelry box of black wood.
The fire crackled in the hearth as Scáthach stopped halfway through the room before sighing. She turns and walks over to the writing desk as Harry waits for her to answer. He watches as she opens the bottom drawer of the writing desk and pulls out a crystal bottle full of amber liquid before turning to look back at Harry with sad eyes. She raises her hand and waves it at him and Harry feels a warmth spread from his core to across his body and down his limbs as his clothes dry out. "Because it didn't and still doesn't matter, Greaca," she admits softly before walking over to the two chairs and sitting in one.
Before Harry could ask why it didn't matter, she spoke again. "Dobby, two cups if you please, one empty and one with hot chocolate," Scáthach spoke to the empty air as Harry blinked in surprise at the name. With a soft pop, a small table with what Scáthach asked for appears between the two seats. She quickly picks up the empty one, begins to fill it, and sets the crystal bottle down. Scáthach looks back over at Harry before motioning to the empty seat next to her. He walks over and takes the seat, feeling the warmth of the hearth wash over him on the chilly November night.
"Why doesn't it matter?" Harry asks, his voice hard and angry but Scáthach still doesn't look at him, too busy looking into the flickering flames.
"It doesn't matter because you're not Connla, Greaca," Scáthach says softly before taking a sip of her drink.
"What do you mean? I'm Connla's reincarnation, I'm-" Harry starts to say, pointing at himself and his voice rising in anger.
"Exactly, you're his reincarnation but you are not Connla," Scáthach cuts him off in a soft but firm tone. She turns to look at Harry and sees the anger and confusion on his face before she shakes her head. "Can you name Connla's favorite color? How about his favorite meal?" She asks Harry, who opens his mouth but stops himself from speaking and closes his mouth and shakes his head. "That's because you are not him. When a soul passes through the waters of the Otherworld the waters wash away all memories and experiences of the past life, creating a blank slate to be reborn new in the world. You may have the original soul of Connla, but you aren't him," Scáthach explains before looking away from Harry and back into the flames.
Harry looks at his teacher, her face etched in deep pain as her past came flooding back to her in the flames. "So you're saying that I might have his soul but that doesn't make me him, because he's dead?" Harry asks and watches as Scáthach nods her head. "Why didn't you stop her? Was it because she was your sister?" he asks.
"I had only got to know him for a year, but even in that short amount of time, even with him so young, I still loved him. Even with all the power of godhood and the foresight of my clairvoyance, I couldn't see what would happen once I did. Aoífe was always more skilled when it came to the sight, able to play around my visions to confuse them and never showing me too much," Scáthach spoke with a voice thick with melancholy, of pain and hurt of a broken heart. "If I had known what she was planning, I would have never gone back to Lethra, or perhaps I would have just to take Connla with me back to Dún Scaith in the middle of the night. But I didn't, I didn't even question why Aoífe wanted me to spend so much time with him when I was there, chalking it up to her age and old wounds taking their toll on her mortal body and she couldn't keep up with a young child," Scáthach says as she takes another sip of her drink. "I thought I was being a good sister," she says sadly.
"But the fact remains that I didn't know, and in that ignorance, my sister capitalized on my love for Connla and his father," Scáthach says before she leans back in her chair, her eyes never leaving the fire. "When Sétanta walked up to the stairs of Dún Scaith with the body of Connla in his arms and tears in his eyes, all I felt was rage. Rage and heartbreak. I never once stopped and considered what it must have felt like for Sétanta," she says, shaking her head with grief in her eyes.
"It wasn't broken oaths or The Morrígan's forked tongue; or even the spear that killed Sétanta. It was grief, it was sorrow, and it was a shame. Aoífe's plan was for Connla to kill his father and wound me, and if he failed in that, Connla would die and wound both Sétanta and I deeply. And wound it did. After I had banished Sétanta from Dún Scaith, he left the body of Connla with me and returned to his war. A few weeks later, he would be forced to kill his shield-brother, Ferdiad, in single combat. And only two years later Sétanta would die when his stomach was torn open by a spear." Scáthach explains before taking a sip of her drink with the flames dancing in her eyes as she speaks.
"What happened to him after death? I heard you bound him to Dún Scaith to be the guard or something like that," Harry asks, not touching his drink to listen to his teacher.
Scáthach nods her head. "I still hadn't forgiven him for the death of Connla at the time of his death. So when his spirit came to rest here in the catacombs of Dún Scaith, in an act I now see as cruel, I bound his spirit to the wards of the school so he could never move on to Tír Tairngire. It was only when I was released from the Land of Shadows did I come to regret that," Scáthach says sadly.
"Why?" Harry asks, curious.
"Because he was still here," Scáthach says and Harry could see the tears begin together in her eyes. "That stupid hound never left, even as the Romans sacked and burned my school, he fought to make sure as many of the children escaped as he could. Even after they tore down my school he still stayed because he knew that Dún Scaith must always have a guard," she says before turning to Harry.
"Cait-Sith said something like that too, that Dún Scaith must always have a guard, but why?" Harry asks, not understanding why Sétanta freed from the bounds of his curse didn't leave.
"It's part of the mysticism that I built into Dún Scaith when I first created the school. The Castle, Myself, and the Gate, the castle acts as a sort of information storage system. All things that happen, are spoken of, and written down within the bounds of the wards I can call upon and learn of. Acting as the heart of the school, so long as I reside in Dún Scaith, my place of power, I can not be challenged or defeated, and I can manipulate the school however I want," Scáthach explains, her voice and tone shifting to the one she uses to teach as she does. "But the guard is also the gate. Without the guard, the gate would be closed until a new guard could be chosen, and without me here-" She says just before Harry catches on.
"Then a new guard couldn't be chosen, and the gate would remain shut," Harry says, his eyes widening a bit as Scáthach nods.
"Exactly," Scáthach says with a small smile. "Sétanta knew this because he was a guard for a short while after he injured my daughter and took over for her as she recovered. He also knew if two of the three parts of the system known as Dún Scaith vanished, the wards would fall and never rise again. So, in an act he saw as penance for killing his only son and my nephew, he stood vigil over the bones of my school for hundreds of years until Rowena Ravenclaw had her vision of the valley. Though, if she was led here by a warty hog or a worthy dog, I can not say," Scáthach says with a shrug.
"But after the founders had rebuilt my school, something I will have to pay Fand back for in full, and named the first headmaster before passing into legend, Sétanta could have left to Tír Tairngire. For the Headmaster could serve in the function of the guard, but he didn't and continued to serve as the guard," she says before taking another sip of her drink. "He was waiting for my return, waiting for the day I would be released, in the hope that his vigil was enough to earn my forgiveness and to feel as if he had paid for the death of his son in some way," Scáthach says with a shake of her head. "The poor fool, so wracked with guilt and self-hatred, stayed for over a thousand years protecting the school for a crime I should have never punished him for, and even now, he stays to help guard the school after I offered him release," she says with a small proud smile.
"The dog, Cú, that's Sétanta," Harry says, finally understanding. Scáthach nods once before Harry looks away from her and into the flames of the hearth. He felt sad over Sétanta and his fate, killing his son, and enduring all that heartache and sadness until his death before Scáthach, in her anger lashing out at him before he ultimately stayed loyal to her as the guard of Dún Scaith. "Why won't he move on?" Harry asks, looking back to Scáthach.
"Because he's as stubborn as he is stupid," Scáthach says with a roll of her eyes. "He's been waiting for over a thousand years for me to walk free, refusing to give up his post as the guard of Dún Scaith until his successor was ready," she says before looking over at Harry with a soft smile. "He's waiting till you're ready,"
Harry blinks as he feels a punch to his guts, "But-I, does he-does he know?" Harry asks and watches as Scáthach shakes her head.
"No, he doesn't," She says softly with a small frown on her face, "I don't know how he would take it, for such a long time he stood over the school and protected it from all threats the best he could. Searching, waiting, and hoping that he would find someone worthy enough to take his place and free me. Of all the Magicians that had passed through Hogwarts over that time, he found none that held a warrior's heart, all too focused on their studies of the magical arts. Then, over a thousand years later, this black haired green-eyed boy slays a troll in one of the girls' lavatories, and he knew he had found the boy who would free me. For him to find out you are the reincarnation of the son he killed due to his idiocy, well, I don't know how well he would take it."
"He saw me hunt down the troll?" Harry asks, his face scrunching up in confusion. "Was he following me or something? On second thought, why didn't he help with the Basilisk?" Harry asks with a scowl.
Scáthach looks back over at Harry with a sly smile. "Don't you find it odd, Greaca, that both times the Chamber of Secrets was opened and the Basilisk released, only one student died?" she asks, causing Harry to pause.
"Er, because Tom Riddle was incompetent?" Harry asks, because from what he saw that's how it came off.
But Scáthach shakes her head, "No, Tom Riddle is many things, but sadly, incompetent isn't one of them," she says as something like worry flashes in her eyes before vanishing like shadows in the light. "No, it was because of Sétanta fulfilling his oath as best as he could, keeping as many of the children alive without revealing himself to those in the castle. It was only when you found the Gate of Skye that he finally made his move and delivered you to me, ignorant of the fact of who you are reincarnated from," she tells Harry with another sad look.
"When I first saw you," Scáthach says in a whisper, "I had first thought that it was just another form of punishment because all I could see was Connla's soul burning so brightly in you. But as you fought off the shadows I found myself taking in all of you, noticing differences, your hair and eyes were the biggest. Then I felt the touch of foreign divine flowing through you and knew who you had to be. I decided then and there that I would treat you like any other student and keep you at an arm's length away from my heart. Admittedly, I failed on that last part because much like Connla, I found myself-" she stops herself, her lips pinched shut in thin angry lines at herself for following into the trap of a mortal heart once more.
But Harry finishes for her, "loving me like you did Connla." He watches as Scáthach stays silent for a long moment before nodding her head once before reaching up to wipe the tears from her eyes.
"As much blame as I could cast on you, Greaca, for being so damn loveable, this was my fault. I know you are not Connla, but I couldn't help but want you to be, to think that if I had taken Connla with me that he would have grown up to be like you. The brave, loveable, and noble man that you are becoming," Scáthach says quietly, not daring to look at Harry. "Someone that Sétanta would be proud of, the man that I am proud of. I've been so scared of looking at you and calling you by Connla's name, to admitting to myself how I saw you, and with your own complicated feelings for your aunt, I did not wish to impose that upon you," Scáthach says tilting her head back to look at the ceiling. "Even if you look nothing alike, I still find it hard to separate you from Connla, even when I know you are not him,"
Harry swallows the lump in his throat as he looks away from his teacher and back into the flames of the hearth. Feeling the warmth of it spread up his legs and over his chest, it was like sitting in front of the hearth at Grimmauld Place with Sirius and Lupin. Harry frowned at the feeling, finding it odd, but soon another thought entered his mind; something Scáthach had told him not a week ago. Harry reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out Serpent-Hunter, turning it over in his hands for a moment before turning back to his teacher to see her now glaring at the fireplace for some reason before Harry spoke.
"Do you know this can turn into a sword and a bow?" Harry asks, holding up the Swiss army knife and showing it to Scáthach. She turns to look at it before shrugging.
"No, I was never interested in what else it could become beyond the spear," Scáthach admits with a slight frown.
"Yeah, kinda figured that," Harry says before looking back at his weapon. "Mom made it for me like this because she didn't know what blessings I would get and wanted all the bases covered just in case," He tells his teacher who nods her head in agreement with the practicality of the Swiss army knife. "I'm pants with a sword, apart from the first time using one, I can't wield one to save my life, but I am a pretty good shot with a bow. Though if I wasn't, I think Mom would have disowned me by now," Harry says with a slight smile at the thought of Artemis finding out he couldn't fire an arrow in a straight line.
"It was when I was training with Atalanta that I figured out that it could also turn into a spear. And-and, it-it just felt right, how I held it, how I could swing it around, how it felt in my hand," Harry says, his voice growing in conviction as he spoke. "You said it yourself, that feelings were harder to wash away than memories and experiences, and I felt like the spear was right for me," Harry says before quickly standing and beginning to pace as he pieced things together.
"What are you getting at, Greaca?" Scáthach asks as she puts her empty glass down on the small table.
"I was terrified of going back to Dún Scaith, I had nightmares of it and you for weeks after leaving. It wasn't until I thought I had no one left and no one to turn to that I finally walked through the gate again," Harry says, running his hands through his hair as Scáthach watched him pace. "And when I got there I was still scared of you, but then, in a week I started to like you. I got comfortable with you. Do you have any idea how weird that is for me?" Harry asks, stopping and turning to look at Scáthach. "It took going after the philosopher's stone for me to actually start to consider Ron and Hermione friends. It took Atalanta months, and Artemis almost a full year for me to consider her anything more than what I did when we left Dún Scaith. But you? It took a week." Harry rants as he looks at Scáthach who sighs after he is done.
"You think it's Connla's feelings bleeding over, like with Miss Lovegood," Scáthach says, and Harry, with his face set in a determined look, nods. He watches as Scáthach's lips twitch before she shakes her head. "That may be so, but it doesn't change the fact that you're not Connla, Greaca, you are Harry Potter," she tells him, causing Harry to shake his head.
"No, I get that. We-we just had a similar childhood, I know. What I'm trying to say is that maybe, just maybe, he liked you more than Aoife because I can feel that," Harry says with a sigh before moving to sit down again as Scáthach looks at him her face etched with no little melancholy as she recalls how similar her students and Nephew's lives have been. "What happened to her anyway? Did you kill her or something?" Harry asks after a moment of silence with only the hearth crackling away.
"You mean Aoife, I'm guessing?" Scáthach asks and watches as Harry nods once. "No, I didn't kill her. While enraged and distraught, I took my anger out on the wrong person nor could I bring myself to kill my twin. No, the one that killed Aoife was Lugh," she says much to Harry's shock.
"Lugh?" Harry asks, confused at first before the answer smacks him in the face. "Sétanta was his kid, that would make Connla-" Harry says before stopping as he watches Scáthach nod her head.
"Connla's Grandfather," she says quietly. "Lugh had shown up at Dún Scaith a week after I banished Sétanta with tears in his eyes looking to take his body back to Connacht to be buried with those who called him a shield brother at the end. I allowed it as I traveled to Lethra and told my sister of the tragedy. The only thing she had said about it was that her weapon had at least wounded me," Scáthach says with venom as she remembers her own sister's words. "As I was doing that, Lugh had entombed Connla with the remains of the second Gaé Bolg before carrying his soul to Tír Tairngire himself. But as soon as he touched Connla's soul he learned of the cruelty of Aoife and what his grandson had suffered under her care. It enraged him, and after going to Manannán and begging his foster father to ensure that Connla would rest in peaceful dreams for all time, he went to confront Aoife for her crimes," Scáthach explains before sighing deeply before falling quiet for a moment.
"Lugh, in all his righteous fury, ripped Aoife limb from limb before collapsing her tower on top of her. Nothing was left but a crater and the scorched earth around it from his rage," Scáthach says with a faraway look. "I still don't know what happened to her soul for it never showed up in Tír Tairngire, though it is possible that Lugh burned it to nothing in his rage," she says before sinking deeper into her chair and looking back into the flames of the hearth. Harry looks back into the flames of the hearth as well, unsure of what to say or do as the hour grows late. He and his teacher fell into a comfortable silence as Harry turned everything over in his head before coming to a decision. Even if he didn't know how he felt about it all yet, one fact remained.
That, in the end, it didn't matter if she told him or not.
Because he wasn't Connla.
Scáthach, Hogwarts dungeons, November 17th.
Scáthach will never get over just how stubborn some mortals could be. It was like pulling teeth to convince any of them about anything, especially in the case of one Cyrus Greengrass. It had taken no less than three weeks, eighteen letters, and one demonstration to convince the stubborn bastard that she knew what she was doing and wasn't some charlatan trying to cheat him out of his gold. The look on his face when she activated the curse in his magic core just to turn it inert the next moment was almost worth the trouble she had to go through to get the mortal to agree.
His wife, Amy Greengrass, was easier to convince after the woman had run a whole host of diagnostic spells on Astoria only to find that the little girl's core was improving rather than degrading as it should have been under the curse. So with both parents' approval, Scáthach had informed the house elves to clean out the ritual room hidden in the depths of the school by hand. Any foreign magic during the process could contaminate the ritual and cause a backlash that Scáthach didn't wish to deal with. She had, of course, rewarded the little Aos sí with more milk and honey than they knew what to do with for their hard work.
She had just turned the corner to see the two parents with their children plus one uninvited guest hidden away from them. She ignores the hidden one as she walks up to Cyrus Greengrass with a calm but blank face. He was dressed unusually at the moment, in a plain cotton dress that extended down to his knees that was the opposite of the dark muggle suit with green and silver robes over them the first time she had met the man. His hair was platinum blond with some white, cut short before being combed back stylishly, dark blue eyes set in a full face with laugh lines around him, and lips hidden beneath a mustache and goatee of whitening blond.
He was kneeling in front of his oldest, giving her a speech of the love and pride he had in her, something he had always done before imparting upon a possible cure for his youngest because no matter his riches, no matter his success, it was his children that was his greatest pride in life.
Scáthach liked that about the mortal.
"Mister Greengrass," Scáthach says after the man stands from talking to his daughter, "are you prepared?" She watches as Cyrus gives her one solemn nod before turning and kissing his wife softly. Scáthach walks over to the framed portrait of five witches gathered under the moon as they dance and jump over a bonfire filled with bones and pushes it into the wall to reveal the entry to the ritual room. Cyrus walks in before her, shoeless, as Scáthach slips from her own shoes and follows in behind him. The large stone door shuts with a condemning boom as Scáthach seals it behind her. She turns to see Cyrus walking over to the stone altar in the middle of the room by a large iron cauldron before letting a shaking hand caress it softly. The man was afraid, fear laced his bones and heart so thickly that Scáthach could almost taste it in the air.
"Can you believe that after almost three centuries of searching for a cure for the curse on my family, when I stand at the precipice of accomplishing just that I feel… fear?" Cyrus admits, his voice echoing around the empty room of slate stone as he turns to Scáthach with a fearful smile.
Scáthach doesn't answer him at first. She walks across the room to place her hand on his shoulder, returning his small fearful smile with a soft one of her own. "Courage is not defined as a lack of fear, Mister Greengrass. It is to act knowing you are afraid, and what you are doing here, for your daughter, is one of the single bravest things that a father can do," Scáthach tells him in a soft, encouraging voice before watching the man swallow his fear and nod his head.
"What must I do?" Cyrus asks, standing straighter in light of Scáthach's words. Scáthach pulls back her hand to reach into the small sash around her waist to pull out a small vial of a bright blue potion and hands it to the man.
"Drink this and then lay down on the altar," Scáthach informs him, her soft encouraging smile never leaving her face as Cyrus does what she asks.
"What was the potion for?" Cyrus asks as he makes himself comfortable on the hard stone as Scáthach comes to stand over him.
"It was a numbing draft, a powerful one at that. You should feel its effects here in a moment," Scáthach tells the man as he lets out a low sigh and nods his head. "As I've told you before, Mister Greengrass, this ritual will not be pleasant for either you or Astoria. The numbing draft will not take away all of the pain, but it will stop you from thrashing about while I work. But I need you to listen closely, what I'm about to do is very dangerous for you more so than Astoria. The curse will fight to stay with you, as it was bonded to you and your family's blood, when it realizes what I am doing it will try and take you with it. So as I get ready, I need you to focus on a reason to live. When you find that reason, you must cling to it with all you have," Scáthach tells the man in a firm and serious tone of voice, she could see the confusion and questions dancing in the mortal eyes but she ignores them.
"The curse will whisper to you, it will promise you an end to your pain and suffering, but you must not give in to it. You must ignore it and cling to your reason to live with all you have, do you understand me?" She asks and watches as Cyrus slowly nods his head in understanding. Scáthach turns from him and walks over to the large cauldron before pushing the lead back far enough to look into it. The pearly white potion lay still in the iron cauldron as Scáthach fought the instinctive revulsion she felt for the brew made from unicorn blood.
"I'm ready," Cyrus says from behind Scáthach before she turns back to him and conjures a simple wooden dowel. "What's that for?" he asks, seeing the stick in Scáthach's hand.
"For you to bite down on so you won't bite off your tongue," She answers simply as a look of fear crosses Cyrus' face. But still, he bites down on the wood before closing his eyes and leaning his head back. Scáthach walks back over to the large cauldron before taking a deep breath while closing her eyes, just before plunging her arms into the draft up to her biceps. She lets out a slow hissing breath as the two natures, one within her and the one in the cauldron, war against one another as they have always done. As she pulls her arms out, blistered and burning but coated in the draught, she opens her eyes of endless black and turns back to Cyrus.
Once she is standing over Cyrus again, the draught dripping down her arms, she gives no word of warning before driving her arms into the elderly mortal's chest. His eyes shoot open as he begins to scream and thrash as Scáthach buries her arms up to her elbows inside of his chest. She digs through his body looking for the man's soul, his magical core, and finds it just above his heart. A fitting place to be for a man who would give his life for the ones he loved.
Scáthach could feel it as soon as she touched Cyrus' soul, slippery and tainted like oil in ocean water with roots as thick and strong as an old oak tree. She grabs it with her hands covered in the draught of life before she begins to pull it out of Cyrus, root and stem. "I've got it, Cyrus, now fight it. Cling on to your reason, don't let it go!" she yells at the thrashing man as his blood pours and pools from his chest around the altar. Scáthach yanks and tugs at the deep roots planted in the man's body, they were as black as ink and lashed out to try and bury themselves back into the still-living body to do what all things born from terminus try to do.
The mortal had a strong will as he fought through the pain, the torment of having a piece of his soul ripped from him. Scáthach didn't know how they found out or where they found the information, but whoever had sacrificed lives in the name of Terminus for its blessing paid in blood for something half-completed. So, in pain did their descendants need to pay to remove the cancerous growth on their souls in return.
Scáthach, after a few more moments of struggling, finally removes the malignant blessing from Cyrus with a final yank. The tendrils of the blessing whip and lash out, seeking out all life to try to end it as Scáthach drags it to the cauldron before forcing it in. If it could make a sound, Scáthach had no doubt it would be screeching like an animal in pain as the draught of life reduces the rubber-like blessing to a thin oil. Scáthach watches as it breaks down, the core of the blessing floating on the surface of the draft for a few moments. Carved in the very core of the blessing was a symbol, simple in design, but most things are when dealing with what it belongs to. The lightning bolt-shaped rune burns and bubbles before sinking away and below the surface of the pearly white potion; vanishing completely.
The same symbol carved above her heart where her sire had struck her so long ago.
The same symbol that was carved on the forehead of her student who was hiding below an invisibility cloak just outside.
As Scáthach closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths of exertion, she is drawn back to the past to the final battle of Mug Tuired. Where she had lay dying on the ground and looking up to the sky, begging and pleading for anything to help her. So she could save her sister and avenge her mother, she wouldn't know until many years later that she would regret that prayer. But as the form of her mother stood over her with a smile and {Fathomless Black Eyes}, she offered her the power to do just that but in return, Scáthach had to do something for her.
She felt her eyes shift back to their normal blood-red color with the thought of how she was going to pay back that damnable cat for telling Harry about his status Connla's reincarnation over what the Morrígan truly meant with her words. Both she and her student were marked in the same way by the same domain. It was, after all, why he could use the Gaé Bolg with such proficiency.
Scáthach cleans off her arms and heals the burnt and bubbling flesh before turning to Cyrus lying on the altar. Exhausted and twitching from the strain on his mortal form, she lays her hand on his chest with a soft smile. "It is done," she tells him as she watches tears of joy cascade down his face.
Scáthach will make sure to deny terminus at least one of her students if nothing else.
Chapter done!
So, I've seen the question of what Harry being the reincarnation of Connla means for his powers a few times. And to answer that, it means nothing, for demi-god powers aren't based on his soul, but Harry's blood.
To the one guy who asked about the dursleys, but Petunia and Vernon's soul is in Hades while Dudley has gone to the celtic otherworld.
Yes, Astoria, after her father, is now completely curse-free.
Or, should I say "blessing" free?
You see, the reason that Astoria could see the spooky horses was because hundreds of years ago her ancestors did something very bad and made a sacrifice in the name of a god of death to receive a blessing. Well, sadly they didn't understand that the only blessing a god of death can hand out is death. Those formed the "blessing" in the form of a slowly killing cancer of the soul.
Wild shit right?
Oh, you thought Scáthach was hiding only one thing from Harry? Oh no. While it is true that Harry is the reincarnation of Connla, he is also like her.
Death-Touched.
What does that mean? Well, sadly, we won't be finding out until the next book sadly. But by the end of this book, everyone should have a very good idea of who {Fathomless Black Eyes} truly is, if you didn't figure it out from this chapter.
Kingsaxcul, out!