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o.o.O.o.o
Darkness: pervasive, all-encompassing, and complete. It was only fitting that darkness would be his end, as it had been his beginning as well. Severus was in that blissful place where there was no longer any pain, his task finally ended. A part of his mind wondered what came next, some strange afterlife or just nothingness stretching on forever. It had been so long since he’d been without pain, a blessing in and of itself. Slowly, through the void, he became aware of a voice whispering to him. He couldn’t focus on its substance, only the comforting tone and soothing rhythm of the words.
Time ceased to have meaning for him in this place, and there was nothing but that voice. Slowly the words started to have form, making sense to his addled brain. It was a woman’s voice, achingly familiar but he wasn’t able to place it. He was still wrapped in the unyielding dark of unconsciousness, but he was starting to doubt that he was dead. In no version of the afterlife he could imagine would there be such a warm, caring presence waiting for him.
“As Arthur lay there, suspended in that place between life and death, his knights conveyed his body to a ship. Carried forth by the waves, the ship bore him forth, to the mystical Island of Avalon. Waiting there were nine great witches, the very greatest amongst them was Morgan La Faye. Morgan took to the air, sensing the approach of the mortally wounded king, her wings giving her a freedom others only dared to dream of. Death beckoned to the great king, but the steady beat of Morgan’s wings bade him remain amongst the living. She knew how close death was to claiming Arthur, but she refused to cede her dominion. As soon as the boat touched the shore of the island, Morgan returned to her human form. She laid her hands over the gaping wounds, and called the power of the Earth forth to heal him. The others came, lending their power and voice to her cause. Working in perfect harmony, they were able to spare the life of the High King.”
The voice wove the tale, and unbidden Severus was drawn into a dream. It was he who was laid out on the boat, stolen from death’s cruel grasp by some strange chance of fate. His mind supplied the image of a witch, with chestnut curls and eyes that a man could drown himself in. Waves of warmth carried him forth, heading to his own personal Avalon. ‘Pathetic…you are no king or hero…’ he derided himself cruelly, but that sweet, soft voice continued to sooth his hurts.
The next sensation to break through that unrelenting nothingness was touch. Feather-light and fleeting, like a songbird flitting to and fro. Again the imagery of Morgan La Faye prevailed, imbuing his savior with all the power of that great witch. A healer of men, a warrior, and great foil to the all-powerful Merlin. He could feel a hand smooth over his brow, her skin softer than silk. Her voice broke through the silence again, a soft melody wrapping through her words as she wove another tale.
“And moving through a mirror clear, that hangs before her all the year. Shadows of the world appear, and there she sees the highway near, winding down to Camelot. And sometimes thro' the mirror blue, the knights come riding two and two. She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady Of Shalott.”
Severus felt his heart clench as he listened to the slight falter in that voice, legend and myth hitting too close to his rescuer’s own soul. The never-ending grind of loneliness was an ache he knew well, and he could hear its taint in her voice. Pity was not an emotion he often felt, it was demeaning to the suffering of its recipient…but sympathy, that he could give her.
“But in her web she still delights to weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights a funeral, with plumes and with lights, and music, went to Camelot; Or when the Moon was overhead, came two young lovers lately wed. "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady Of Shalott.”
The sorrowful tale continued, weaving through his subconscious and colouring his dreams. He was standing on a riverbank, amongst fields of bearded barley, and gazing out over the wide expanse of a fast flowing river. He could see a lonely tower on a small island, the vague figure of a woman in a window, the details lost to the distance that separated them. The need to reach her was pressing, but the river’s current was too swift and promised to pull him under. Following her voice along the riverbank, he discovered a little boat. He took it across the water, eventually reaching the little island. Severus reached the tower, pressing his hands to the door. Light fairly blinded him as he yanked it open, and boldly stepped through.
o.o.O.o.o
Hermione nearly stopped breathing as Professor Snape’s eyes fluttered open, the song dying on her lips. Nearly a month had passed since the Battle of Hogwarts, and this was the first movement she’d seen out of him beyond the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“Professor Snape?” She hesitantly touched his shoulder.
“What happened?” His normally silky voice was coarse from disuse and the pervasive dryness of his mouth. “Water.”
“Of course.” In short order, Hermione had him sitting propped up against the pillows, and she held a glass of cool water up to his lips. She took care to prevent him choking on it. “As for what’s happened, it’s quite a long story, Professor. To be honest, I was starting to think you’d never wake up.”
“Morpheus himself would have difficulty sleeping through that horrid caterwauling, Miss Granger,” he said, but his remarks lacked their usual bite. “The Dark Lord…was Potter able to stop him?”
Tucking an errant curl behind her ear, Hermione ignored the burning in her cheeks. Surely her singing hadn’t been that bad. “He’s dead…for good this time. Harry survived and made sure that your name was cleared. After you gave him your memories in the Shrieking Shack, I stayed behind to try and save you. Professor Slughorn found me, and helped me stop the bleeding. He had a vial of Phoenix tears, and we managed to get it into you. Somehow, he knew the truth and told me that he refused to let Albus destroy another Slytherin on his watch.” She shook her head, still somewhat in awe of how greatly she’d misjudged Slughorn’s character. He’d been her only point of contact with the outside world since that night, determined to shelter them from the fallout.
“Never underestimate a Slytherin mind, Miss Granger. We have a way of seeing the various motivations at play,” Severus said quietly. Sitting on the bedside table was a book of Tennyson’s poetry, and he knew that was where she’d plucked the Lady of Shalott from. “I trust I do not need to worry about you emulating any more of Elaine of Astolat than her healing?” he asked, curious if she knew the origins of the myth she’d sung so sweetly to him.
“I think I’ll manage not to die of a broken heart over you, Professor,” she chuckled and stood. “I am no Elaine of Astolat.”
“And I am no Lancelot,” Severus said in turn.
~Fin~