Death was surprisingly cold.
That was the first thought that came to Helena as she rested in what felt like a mountain's worth of snow.
This was also her first clue that something wasn't right.
See, it could be said that Helena and Death had an almost intimate relationship.
Since the moment of her birth, Death had dogged her every step, her every breath. Always just out of reach, brushing close enough to touch, but never enough to claim.
Like a game of eternal tag, Death had always been able to see her, reach her, but never claim her.
Helena had assumed that their game, the one they have played since the day that Voldemort failed to deliver her young soul into Death's waiting arms, had finally ended, that she could finally rest and find peace in the afterlife with her husband and family.
However, if the fact that her body was wrapped in what felt like a blanket of snow and ice accompanied by a hint of nauseating pain that was centered around her mouth and nose with, what she assumed was blood trickling out of her nose from where she fell into the snow, cushioning her body but sadly not her face which had landed roughly on a hidden branch buried beneath the snow.
Groaning Helena finally turned onto her back letting out several hiccuping coughs that made her sound like a habitual chain-smoker.
With effort she didn't realize she still had after such a steep fall, 'Lena opened her sea green eyes and dazedly gazed at the clear blue sky. Vision still blurry at the sides, Helena was able to tell that wherever she had fallen from, she had somehow landed under a tree, or, as she cautiously sat up and looked around, a grove of trees. Although they were different from what she was used to back in England or even in Wizarding Britian.
These trees looked more…enchanting, with their blood red leaves on snow white bark that seemed to almost blend in with the snow surrounding their bases, they were truly one of the most beautiful breeds she had ever seen even after having gone to Hogwarts and seen magical flora such as the Whomping Willow.
The only thing that gave her pause were the faces carved into their bark. With red sap that glowed like fresh blood running from the eye sockets and giving off the impression of tears many of the faces were posed in expressions of perpetual agony, sorrow, and/or neutrality.
And while Helena felt like she should have been ill at ease with trees like these, she felt calm instead, almost at peace.
The forest of human-faced trees seemed to call to her, pulling at her subconscious, assuring her of her acceptance and safety it was like their essence called to the magic that ran through her veins.
Suddenly Helena realized, in her distraction, that she felt something, something like a call or… a song, Helena thought wistfully, pushing her previous aches to the back of her mind while tentatively wiping her nose with the back of her cloak.
Although, to be honest, it wasn't that the trees were actually singing or something similar like she remembered seeing in a movie Dudley had watched as a child, Narnia, she remembered it being called; in actuality, Helena understood that it wasn't tangible music at all, it was more of a spiritual feeling of their song rather than a physical manifestation.
It was fascinating and intriguing, and Helena, caught up in the majesty of the moment, was tempted to turn to her right and ask Hermione what breed of magical trees these were as she was sure her know-it-all best friend would know what they were, since Helena hardly had a clue.
However mid-turn, Helena caught sight of another form buried underneath layers of frost.
From the way it was lying in the snow, Helena was able to tell that its back had spikes almost as tall as the trees around them, black as night, with a body mass spanning acres of land and, surprisingly, for such a large creature it had fallen right where the grove ends so that the truly massive being didn't crush any of the surrounding trees. Helena was confused at first, still not completely there until the creature's massive eyes opened.
Acid green met forest green and, suddenly, it all came back to her.
A trip to Hawaii gone horribly wrong, meeting a dragon of midnight scales and glowing eyes, getting a message from Sirius, learning about the fates of her friends and family, her precious children, slaughtered, her grandchildren in danger, grief so thick she felt like she would drown, then… Fred, her love, her life, fighting with her, dying with her, all of it, till the very end, and then… nothing.
No, Helena thought, despair and pain that had nothing to do with her aching nose, overpowering every other emotion, every other thought. Please, don't do this, please let me die, let me be with my children again, my husband, she pleaded in her head tears running freely from her eyes as if a dam had finally been broken. Horrified, Helena collapsed where she stood, her throat constricted, breathing becoming increasingly erratic, it felt as if her lungs couldn't gather enough oxygen and her surroundings were becoming blurry.
Just before she was about to pass out due to the lack of oxygen a feeling came over her. Reminiscent of her bond with Hedwig, she could feel the Cannibal's soul pressing against hers, not invading, not overpowering, merely encompassing like a hug from her children or a kiss on the forehead from Fred, Helena was able to feel the midnight-colored dragon's essence calling out to her, soothing her with feelings of comfort, understanding, and reassurance through the bond they shared.
Slowly, Helena began to inhale and exhale with her dragon, almost like they were one being until finally her panic attack had subsided. And while not completely okay she was finally able to think more clearly.
"Well one things for certain", Helena said, brushing away tears still rolling down her cheeks while looking around at the snow that definitely shouldn't be anywhere near Hawaii, especially not the middle of summer as it had been when Helena and Fred had visited, looking up at the fearsome dragon, Helena said helplessly, "we're definitely not in Kansas anymore". And if the 285-foot-tall dragon huffed in a way that Helena just knew was him laughing at her, she chose to ignore it, after all, she'd had enough mental breakdowns for one day.
"Is Kan-sa-s wh're ye from lass?" asked an unexpected rough, masculine voice. Surprised Helena let out a small shriek, just as her dragon released a threatening growl that would send lesser men running for the hills. Spinning around, Helena, fingers grazing her right thigh where she knew the elder wand was still in her possession, coming face-to-face with a tall, rugged looking man, he looked to be in his late thirties with a beard so shaggy it could rival Hagrid's on a good day. At about 6'7, he was covered in fur-lined dark black cloaks and shoes, and even with old-fashioned black tunics and trousers made of dark leathers and heavy wools, Helena was still able to see the outline of bulging muscles and a square hardy frame that indicated years' worth of hard labor and fighting. Strapped to his back he carried an axe almost as tall as himself and a knife strapped to his left side, however for all of his intimidating stance and appearance it was his eyes that put Helena more at ease and, subsequently, calming her dragon.
His dark blue eyes with the beginning of laugh lines and crow's feet at the edges of them were calm and while they were clearly assessing and calculating especially when they glanced between her dragon and herself, she could tell these weren't the eyes of a cruel man. Fighting against men like Voldemort and Dolohov had made her an expert on the subject.
He seemed more curious and cautious than hostile. Deciding to take a chance Helena replied warily, choosing to ignore the way he said Kansas as if it was a word he had never heard before, maybe he lived in a sheltered part of this cold country, that she was starting to assume may be Russia or Alaska.
"No, sir. I believe I may be…lost, see I'm visiting from England, but it appears I may have taken a few…wrong turns… either way I was wondering if you happen to know where we might be right now?"
"Oh!" Helena exclaimed bashfully, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly, "I'm so sorry that was so rude of me I completely forgot to introduce myself, a pleasure to meet you my name is Helena…"
Here she paused, see over the years Helena either went by Potter, Weasley, or Potter-Weasley and while she didn't care overly much how she was addressed, she was also keenly aware of the fact that though the man seemed nice enough, he also didn't appear to be overtly gawking or screaming at the intimidating sight of her dragon. If anything, the man seemed to be cautious and wary enough to keep away but not mystified, almost like he had seen or heard of such a magical creature before, and while surprised at seeing it, he didn't view it as an impossibility or a trick of the mind.
This registered to her as distinctly weird. Seeing as how she didn't see a wand on him, nor did she sense any form of magic in his presence, she was a little baffled, seeing as how normal, everyday muggles would be more than just wary in the face of a mythical magical creature especially one as notorious as an actual dragon.
For one there would have been a lot more panic or disbelief.
Now, while it could be said that Helena may not be the magical genius and walking dictionary that Hermione had always been, she was far from stupid or naïve, one of her best skills, in fact, was that she had always been better at reading a situation and following her instincts, especially after her year on the run looking for Horcruxes with her friends.
This survival skill had only grown better as she had progressed as an Auror and then Head Auror later on and had helped her survive some pretty dangerous situations. So, after taking in the fact that the man had found her in a what she knew to be a magical forest, covered head to toe in snow, with a literal dragon growling at him behind her back she decided to play it safe and answer with a different last name.
Since both Potter and Weasley, were too well-known names associated with her in the magical world, and she didn't feel like being hassled after just having a panic attack not even ten minutes ago, Helena decided to use a last name that while it may have died out almost 700 years ago, both the Weasleys and the Potters could lay claim to the last name along with the Guants and the Blacks.
"… Peverell, my name is Helena Peverell, nice to meet you Mister…?"
"Robard, lass, and we free folk don't typically carry last names but I'm the son of Calon, son of Mikken. To be honest with ye, we don't get a lot of Southerners here Beyond-the-Wall, especially not female southerners, I'm curious how ye found yeself in my village's Godswoods?" Robard said leadingly.
Southerners? Beyond-the-Wall? What's he talking about? Helena thought, completely baffled, as far as she knew Hawaii could be classified as being south of Alaska and England was south of Iceland so maybe he meant that? But she can't remember either of those places having a wall. Perhaps he and his village were even more isolated than she originally believed.
Perhaps they're a small, isolated magical society that made a home for themselves in this frost-covered wasteland? Like Sherpas but for Magical Europe, Helena reasoned, I mean it wouldn't be too surprising since even modern Magical Britain seemed to have paused somewhere in the early 1800s with the way its layout had looked compared to the more modernized muggle world, so maybe they just viewed all outsiders as these Southerners.
Either way England's been around for centuries and he's speaking to me in English so he must at least know where that is in relation to this place.
"Um… yeah sorry about that, I don't really know what this Godswood is your talking about, and I hate to take up your time, but I really need to know where we are right now or at least where you believe England to be in relation to this place? If Southerners are what you call foreigners here, then you can even tell me where you usually point them when they want to go back from where they came, and I'll walk in that direction."
"The Godswood is this grove of weirwood trees ye've found yeself in, it's the place where the Old Gods as ye southerners call them reside, where we come to pray. Right now, we're in the latter part of the Haunted Forest closest to Thenn lands, lass. Now, if ye looking for a way back South, I would head back towards the Fist of the First Men, past the Gorge R'ver, and then ye should make it to the Wall, it's a right hassle to pass over it with all the damn crows guarding it but if that's ye dragon ye shouldn't have as much trouble as me's s'sters and br'thers from there ye could pr'bably make it through to the Gift and then Last Hearth. Now about this Land of Eng place, lass, 'fraid I've never heard of it, that in Essos?"
"I—I'm sorry but I'm confused, Mister Calonson, you keep mentioning some wall and, and crows? I know you're trying to help but I've never heard of a place called the Gift, Last Hearth, or Essos before. I'm afraid you're going to need to be more specific, what, what land mass is this? South America, North America, Europe, Asia? If you could tell me what continent this is or even just the longitude or latitude, we're at, I can find my own way back home?" Helena stuttered anxiously.
"Well, if ye askin' 'bout land masses then this, Lady Peverell, is the North."
"…the north…of what?"
"Westeros, I suppose, although most Southerners know that much at least."
After a long awkward pause of silence where Helena and Robard just stared at each other trying to decide whether or not the other was a simpleton, Helena, finally feed up with the conversation that was clearly going nowhere but in circles and starting to feel Cannibal's patience waning considerably, she decided to end the conversation before her beloved, cannibalistic dragon got any ideas for his next meal and fly south until she spotted something familiar or a passing town for directions.
About to thank Robard for trying and excusing herself, Helena began to open her mouth but was interrupted by yet another person rushing into what she now knew to be the Godswood, calling out, almost hysterically, for the man in front of her.
"ROBARD, ROB! HELP!" a young feminine voice called out into the forest.
Alarmed and showing the first signs of panic she had seen on his face since meeting the strange man alone in the woods even with a dragon growling threateningly in his face not even 20 minutes prior. The sound of the young woman's panicked voice seemed to shake Robard more than anything else that happened during their conversation.
"Alys! What are ye doing 'ere! Ye should be with Artos, woman! He's but a babe yet!" Robard yelled angrily and worriedly at the nearly hysterical woman currently crying into his woolen tunic after having run from the other side of the forest.
From what Helena could tell she had had long brown hair twisted into Viking-like braids from her temple to her back. She wore a moss-colored thread-bare shawl with a plain brown hemp gown that brushed along the snow that blanketed the ground she ran over. But even wearing that, Helena could still tell that she was beautiful in a rustic, hardened kind of way. She didn't appear to be older than Robard, she would estimate between the ages of late twenties to early thirties.
And while she didn't appear to be outwardly harmed, her beautiful hazel eyes were overflowing with unshed tears and grief as she desperately grasped at Robard's thick fur cloak, making her seem almost desperate for help.
"I know, my love, that's why I've come! Our son, our sweet boy, he, he won't wake up, Rob!
I woke up this morning and after preparing breakfast went into our rooms to nurse him, but he wouldn't latch. I—I touched his fore'ead, but he was burnin' up, Robby! I think he's sick. What, oh gods, what if he doesn't make it Rob, I would never be able to live with meself if something happened to our babe." The woman sobbed throughout her explanation.
While remaining outwardly stoic, Helena could tell from his eyes and posture that he was deeply troubled by this but remained strong for his wife. Carefully wrapping his arms around the sobbing young woman, Rob hurriedly soothed Alys and after a couple minutes in which she seemed to calm down, Rob asked, almost resignedly,
"What about Healer Myla? Where's she? Did you search for her 'fore making it here, Al?"
"Aye, Sauron said the woodswitch hasn't been seen in a moon. Which isn't strange for that old crone, she likes her space but when I went to her hut, her grandson, the li'lest one, Norbert, said that she had died of the pox nigh a sennight ago. What are we gonna' do? Myla was the only healer 'round for miles and none of the other villages near ours got any neither.
"I don't know Al. Chieftain Arlan and I have decent enough relations between our peoples, mostly 'cause me mother was also his mother's sister 'fore she married my father and I know his camp has a healer but that might take weeks maybe a moon or two since last I heard he'd set up camp near the outskirts of the Frostfangs and by the time I would be able to make it there and then back, our son might already be—it might be too late." Robard said despairingly, sympathy and concern shining in his dark blue orbs, eyes only for his wife.
"So that's it then? Your solution is that we just sit around and wait for our son to die of chills. Robard please I can't—" Alys cut herself off, taking a deep breath as if she couldn't get enough air to finish her sentence in her despair that Helena knew, as a fellow mother who had lost her own children to forces outside of her control, had to be painful to even contemplate.
Reminded of her own children and the feeling of helplessness she had felt when Sirus told her of her daughter and son's final moments, Helena interrupted Alys before she could continue.
"I'm a healer, ma'am. I know you don't know me, but your husband was just giving me directions, and I would love to repay him for his kindness and patience. I believe I can heal your son, if that's okay with you?"
It was almost like the woman didn't even realize that another person was in the weirwood grove with her and her husband. In her panic, she hadn't realized that Helena and her dragon had been present before she even stepped foot into the forest. A truly impressive feat and proving the depths of her distress given the fact that the Cannibal was larger than most skyscrapers Helena had seen while living in London.
Startled, Alys spun around and instantly realized she had to be looking at a Southerner or at the very least not someone from north of the Wall. The woman or, now that she was looking more closely, young girl, perhaps no more than ten and six names day old, was beautiful. With glowing pale skin, brown freckles dotting the bridge of her nose so light that they would seem almost invisible if not for the glaring winter sun, hair the color of a warm, raging fire, eyes a rare emerald green that none of the free folk that roamed these lands of ice and snow could boast, and what looked like a unique scare in the shape of a lightning bolt so faded she barely noticed it beneath her bangs, she was a vision. But out of all these many features, what stood out the most had to be her choice of clothing.
Never had Alys seen such fine clothing this far from the Wall. Even the blasted crows of the Nights Watch couldn't boast of owning anything, even nearly as polished and high quality, even with a noble family such as the Starks of Winterfell funding their endeavors and resources.
From what Al's untrained eye could see, the woman wore a bright yellow cloak, which in and of itself is rare since almost no one she knew of beyond the wall or even past the neck of Westeros would be able to dye the cloak that specific shade of sunflower yellow. The material would have had to be imported from Essos at an extremely expensive cost, especially since the material was made of what she assumed was fine Myrish silks with warm white fox furs lining the inside of the cloak. The yellow over-cloak had what appeared to be real gold sewn into the lining of the cloth.
Underneath, the noble lady, as there was no way she could be anything else—although it did make Alys wonder what such a person was doing here, so far from the wall—wore a loose linen white pirate shirt with laces at the top paired with tight black leather pants and hardy brown boots also lined with the same white fox furred that lined her cloak.
But for all that she may have been covered in the kind of finery you only find in higher society, the young girl had kind, concerned eyes that seemed to understand her delicate state of mind and sympathized with it. There was no pity or the mere courtesy games that many of the Southerners she had met played around with.
No, this young lady seemed to genuinely want to help her and her son, whether it be out of the kindness of her heart or feelings of being indebted to her husband it didn't matter, Alys was desperate, and her boy's survival was all that mattered to her.
Sharing a glance with, Rob and seeing her own small, glimmer of hope shining in his eyes as well and with a slight inclination of his head, indicating his own acceptance and tentative trust that she wont do anything…untoward… to their son, Alys decided to cautiously place some of her trust in this stranger with a soft voice, gentle hands, and kind eyes.
Reassured in the knowledge that if something were to go wrong, the girl-child didn't appear to be stronger than her husband and that he would never let someone with ill intentions near her or Artos, Alys took both of the healers' soft hands, with a few odd callouses around her fingers indicating the life of a dedicated writer and perhaps use of a smaller weapon? But free from what she knew sword callouses to feel like, Alys and her husband thanked her for her generosity and agreed to let her heal their son.
Without further delay, Helena, realizing that bringing Cannibal with her would most likely only stir up more trouble, especially since, from what she could determine from Alys and Robard's reactions to her offer to help that the free-folk weren't the most open or trusting of people, decided to tell her dragon to stay behind as she also wasn't sure if there would even be room for him to fit in the outskirts of the couple's village.
However, while ordering him in Latin to stay behind, Helena had also managed to finally draw Alys's attention to what she assumed had been a large hill or small mountain of snow and dirt from her peripheral vision, actually turned out to be a nearly three-hundred-foot beast with a wingspan that could block out the very sun itself.
Terrified, Alys panicked and was about to scream, but as her husband placed a calming hand on her shoulder and explained that the dragon belonged to the little girl-child no older than six and ten, Alys recalled Mama Betty telling her and the others as younglings 'bout the wonders beyond the Wall, beyond even Westeros, of the dragons of Old Valyria, beings made of fire that had all been extinguished in The Doom except for the ones on Dragonstone with the last remaining dragon lords and ladies.
She also remembered rumors, hearsay really, of Ice Dragons that lived in the Lands of Always Winter, the White Waste, and the Shivering Sea, not that she had ever seen one in all her years alive, but the stories say that just as Valyrian dragons were made of fire, the North's dragons were made of ice.
Cautious and terrified Alys was able to calm down slightly after the maybe-Valyrian noble-lady-healer assured her that the dragon, Cannibal, was his name –and if that didn't send her into another fit she didn't know what else would—would be staying here and not in the village.
Pacified for now, the three of them decided that enough time had already been wasted as Alys had left little Artos with her elder sister, Zara, since dawn and it was, currently, almost noon.
Hurriedly the trio left north of the weirwood forest, towards the small village that the couple said most of the inhabitants chose to call The Woodsville.
Briefly, as Helena walked beside the whispering couple, she wondered if perhaps this village will have a proper map so she could finally find out where in the seven hells she had ended up.