Chapter Text
The first time that Natasha Romanoff met the White Druid, she was bleeding out from a gunshot to her abdomen – one she knew even her Red Room serum couldn’t save her from.
She was propped up against the concrete wall in the basement of a facility that officially didn’t exist and, in a matter of moments, wouldn’t exist in reality either. The charges she’d set to destroy lab, computer banks, and operating room had twelve minutes until detonation. She didn’t worry that they’d be discovered – she hadn’t left anyone alive to disable them. Twelve minutes should have given her plenty of time to escape the facility and achieve a safe distance.
Her last foe had managed not only to snatch her comm from her ear and cut her off from her handler, but he had gotten at least one – and she was honest enough with herself to think it was likely more than that – shot off. The stink of perforated intestines was all she really needed to know about her chances.
She spared a moment of regret for her handler – Agent Phil Coulson – and her partner, Clint Barton. Coulson would be frantic – though it would never show – that she was not reachable by comm. If Barton had been anywhere in the country, he’d have been strapping on quiver and armguards, determined to charge in and extract her single handedly. Unfortunately, he’d been called home to Iowa, where his brother’s wife was about to give birth to a second child – and that bastard Barney Barton had managed to be completely unavailable due to an FBI undercover operation. Clint hadn’t hesitated when Laura had contacted him – there may be no love lost between Clint and Barney, but Clint adored his sister-in-law, his nephew Cooper, and the niece to come with a fervor she envied.
She recognized her mind drifting as one of the symptoms of blood loss, and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t spend her last few moments – whether she died before or after the detonation – in envy or regret. Instead, she dredged up an old prayer, one she’d known as a child, and began praying to a God she wasn’t sure she believed in that Phil, and Clint, and Laura, and Cooper, and the baby to come, and even that bastard Barney, would live long, happy, and safe lives.
“Hush, alannah, don’t cry,” a voice said softly in her ear, and she felt a soft hand gently wipe away her tears.
Natasha opened her eyes to protest that she wasn’t crying because Widows do not cry when she realized that yes, there was another person beside her, and that she hadn’t heard a single sound to indicate her approach.
“Who the hell are you?” Natasha asked, voice weaker than she wanted to admit.
“My name is Catriona O’Clare,” the woman responded calmly, her hands already moving to the wounds in Natasha’s abdomen. “I am the White Druid. I have been dispatched by my Mistress to offer you a chance to live – and a chance to serve Her.”
Natasha would have struggled away from the touch if she’d had the strength. The last thing she wanted was an offer to serve anyone – even at the price of her life. The woman in front of her laughed, laying one hand gently on Natasha’s face and tilting her face to make eye contact.
Catriona was beautiful, the kind of wild beauty that Natasha had always secretly envied. Her hair was also red, but unlike Natasha’s, it was the bright copper and gold of fall foliage. The springy curls brought to mind dancers she’d seen in the past – Irish dancers, and that effect was magnified by the creamy porcelain of her skin, the light dusting of freckles. If Natasha had been asked to create an archetypical Irishwoman, she would have looked an awful lot like the person in front of her. She was dressed in a shapeless white robe which did much to disguise her figure – but Natasha could tell from her hands and forearms that she was slender and probably strong. Though crouched beside her, it was also easy to estimate that the woman was petite – shorter than her own height by several inches, and possible closer to four feet than five in height.
“Doubt is reasonable, achara,” Catriona told her calmly. Natasha felt a warmth where her hands touched, but wrote it off as effects of shock and blood loss. “I would expect nothing less, from a survivor of the Red Room.” Natasha kept the shock at that statement off her face, but the woman smiled anyway. “Yes, I know a great deal about you. Do not let it alarm you. The Great Mother has kept watch over you, and has passed that knowledge on to me. I have no intention of sharing it with others.”
Natasha began to feel a cessation of pain, and accepted it as the final step before death. She drew in a careful breath and spoke with more force than she had previously. “You can let me die, because I’ll serve no other master. Or mistress.”
“Shouldn’t you hear Her offer first?” Catriona asked, with an impish smile. “I’ve no intention of letting you die, whether you accept her offer or not. As I said, She has been interested in you for a number of years, and I would not anger Her by letting you die now.”
“We only have a few minutes before the building blows,” Natasha warned her. She wasn’t sure what prompted her to do that – she’d had no intention of giving the druid a chance to escape.
Although, given that she wasn’t certain how the druid had managed to get in, she wasn’t entirely sure she could keep her from getting out anyway.
“We have time enough.” Catriona drew her hands away from Natasha and to the agent’s shock, they were clean. No blood showed on those graceful fingers – there wasn’t a blotch on the white sleeve, which she clearly had felt wiping blood from her side. More surprised by that than anything, Natasha finally nodded. “I take it by your lack of reaction that you are not familiar with my name? Or my title as the White Druid?” Natasha shook her head. “Very well. I am one of less than a dozen druids who still serve the Great Mother – Gaia, my Goddess, the soul of your earth. It is through She that I have the power to heal your wounds – it is through She that I have walked this earth for two millennia, in Her service.” Natasha blinked, but didn’t respond otherwise. “There are those, too, who She chooses as Her warriors – those of exceptional ability and heart, who will protect not only Her interests, but others in Her service. Warriors like yourself.”
“I may have exceptional ability, but I’d argue about the heart,” Natasha murmured.
“I know that you would,” Catriona agreed, with a gentle hand to Natasha’s face. It really should bother her, Natasha thought, that this stranger kept touching her. She didn’t like to be touched. “But Gaia sees all, and She believes that you have the soul of a guardian – a protector. She wishes to offer you a place as one of Her Chosen Warriors. It would not conflict with any of your existing oaths – though there may come a time where you must choose whose interests you protect. It would mean increased healing, strength, and agility – it would also mean that you would be able to speak with Gaia, and to summon me in times of need. Though you may not meet others in Her service immediately, you would be part of a larger whole – a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and hope to protect Gaia and her children.”
“And if I say no?” Natasha asked.
Catriona shrugged. “Then I am gone, and you will likely never see me again. You will have time to escape this facility, to return to your handler and partner, to resume your life as an Agent of Shield. You will serve a master instead of a mistress.”
“What made you come?” Natasha asked, her mouth forming the question before she’d decided to speak.
“When death came for you, achara, you did not pray for deliverance – you prayed for the health and happiness of those you care for – and even one that you do not.” There was no inflection in her words, just the lilt of an accent that matched the curly red hair.
Natasha closed her eyes, searched what was left of her soul, and nodded. “I accept.”