Title: The Echo of an Unforgiving Moon
Pairing: Salazar/Godric - Snape/?, implied Godric/Rowena
Rating: NC-17
Length: 4500 words
Summary: Salazar hatches an ingenious plan for a second chance at life and love.
Kinks: Shaving kink/knives, unrequited love, a bit o' blood, violence, plot
Disclaimer: Oh, so not mine. This market's been cornered.
A/N: See the end of the fic, please :-)
Betaed by
![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
amanuensis1, with read-throughs by
rexluscus and
midnitemaraud_r. Many heartfelt thanks go to
erastes as well.
The Echo of an Unforgiving MoonSalazar always thought Godric hung the moon.
They were like night and day, Salazar on his black steed and Godric on his snow-white palfrey, but Salazar never looked upon these differences with any amount of fear or foreboding. He only knew what his heart whispered.
And what Godric's did not.
Salazar knew that Godric loved him, but that this love would never mature past the point of brotherliness. They'd never even so much as embraced for all their years together. Not even when Salazar's sister had died.
Godric had been courting Rowena Ravenclaw despite his many mistresses and had sworn Salazar to secrecy. It was a terrible position to be in. Terrible and wonderful, really, and Salazar was dizzy with the power of it.
Salazar, however, did what any other duplicitous man would do, he spoke the language of serpents to his amphisbaena, and took pleasure in the knowledge that he both spilt the secret and kept his word.
Godric had been particularly cruel this night, regaling Salazar with tales of his bedroom heroics, but even as his breath steamed in the chill winter's air, Salazar looked upon Godric with something akin to longing. He'd braved the cold and the snow and the frozen moors to battle alongside Godric for Ásmundr's head.
Godric dismounted to survey the carnage: one hundred or so dying Inferi and one lifeless body that had been the Dark Lord Ásmundr's necromancer. Unsheathing his scramseaxe, Godric sliced off the necromancer's ring finger, cupping it in the palm of his hand. Salazar knew that Godric had a quicksilver temper and would have preferred to shove the severed digit up the dead man's arse, but the finger had a higher purpose to serve.
Salazar broke the cold silence. "Not the head of Ásmundr but a worthy prize all the same. We will send the finger to him as a warning. That we will not be driven from our lands and that his abominations shall be cursed with the same fate."
"On this we see eye to eye, brother Salazar," Godric said, mounting his horse.
Salazar's mount whinnied in warning at the glow of yellow eyes in the dark. "What of the necromancer's body? Shall we burn that too?"
"It is cold and the hour grows late. Let the wolves have at him. Come," Godric said, lying a hand on Salazar's shoulder, "there is warmth and wine in the Great Hall."
"Indeed," Salazar said with a gracious smile.
Salazar trailed behind Godric's mount, entranced by the
clopclopclop of his steed and watching as a cloud swallowed the moon whole.
Where it would stay for days.
The Great Hall was empty, dimly illuminated by fire and candlelight. Rowena and Helga were seated at the great oaken table and were chattering over goblets of elf-made wine. They rose when Godric and Salazar made their way to the table, but were immediately halted upon the wave of Godric's hand. Times were changing. Women were given their equal standing and wizardkind was slowly evolving from patriarchal rite.
The dining table was lush with feast. There were plums, cherries and sloes for sweet beginnings, followed by pottage and wild boar set amidst a garnish of parsnips and leeks. Accompaniments included newly plucked Taspir eggs - their unborn chicks still squirming inside - wheels of goat cheeses and loaves of crusty bread with freshly churned butter. The smell made Salazar momentarily forget his woes.
Godric took his place at the head of the table with Salazar on his immediate right. Both men were finely dressed in linen tunics and cloth-of-gold capes. Where Godric's crest had been ornamented with lion and lioness, Salazar's crest boasted a snake. Oftentimes, friendly arguments born of their pride would flood the hall, but even this was changing. Godric thought himself their leader and his house matchless of the four.
Conversation between the four commenced when Godric sipped from his goblet.
"I take it the hunt went well?" Rowena asked, raising her own goblet.
Salazar meant to answer her question but was distracted by the sight of ample bosom. Rowena had a celebration of her own in mind for afterwards.
Godric answered instead, smiling salaciously at the milk-white flesh, heaving and perfumed. "The Dark Lord was craven and did not show his face. Instead, he sent his necromancer. Which I would've sent back to him a piece at a time had it not been for a pack of wolves."
Rowena and Helga looked pleased.
"We have the conjurer's finger and with it his ring," Salazar added, sipping gently. "Suffice it to say, Ásmundr will have no more armies at his disposal. The last of his Inferi burns."
"Must you say the Dark Lord's name?" Helga asked with a shiver.
Salazar straightened in his chair. "I fear neither the Dark Lord nor death."
"Yes, but our dear brother scatters in the presence of fair maidens," Godric said with a hearty laugh. Already, he'd emptied a skin of wine and was speaking freely.
There was a titter of laughter around the table for Salazar was rumoured to favour male lovers.
Salazar's nostrils flared in irritation, and he quieted himself with wine of his own.
"We have matters to discuss, do we not?" Helga asked, frowning when Salazar cracked a second Taspir egg.
"Yes, of course," Godric said, setting down his goblet. "Most notably the matter of blood enrollment. As it stands, two are for, two stand against."
Salazar watched as Rowena's hand slipped underneath the table, undoubtedly resting in Godric's lap.
"I should wish to change my plea to against," she said with a wicked little smile. Godric jumped not a moment later.
"You seem to be outvoted three to one now, Salazar. What argument for the refusal of Muggleborns and half-bloods do you present?"
Salazar was not at all pleased with this development. "Must I pander to you all again and argue my case? Wizardkind was once a pure and patriarchal society. Now the blood of our kind is tainted with filth. Purebloods lying with whores; this can only weaken our magic and thin our lines."
Godric poured from a third skin. "Purebloods are no less diseased, brother Salazar. Does madness not run in the Black line? Or greed in the Womack line?"
Salazar hissed his disagreement. "Eadmund Womack has contributed a great deal to this, our home, Godric. What will he say when I send news of our decision to permit the lessers?"
"I leave that matter for you to smooth." There was a malevolent twinkle in Godric's eye. "Mayhap you could warm his bed? Isn't it true that serpents den together in winter?"
There was clatter of cutlery and a scuffling of chairs as the men stood in unison.
"You have mocked me for the last time, Godric," Salazar spat, waving a finger threateningly at him.
"I speak only the truth. Your dissent has been noted. Too often, I might add. Where we once enjoyed a peaceable co-existence, you have fought with us at every turn."
"Correction, Godric. You deal in drunken half-truths. As is your practice." Salazar took his leave, bowing only out of gentlemanly courtesy and not out of respect. Helga stood, intent on following him.
"Leave him, Helga. Once the serpent had made up his mind, he is loath to change it. Besides, there is room enough on my lap for the both of you."
Salazar paused a moment before exiting the double doors. He had more to say, but he could not bear the tangle of lion raven badger.
So he left with a curse on his tongue, a hunger in his belly and a fire between his legs.
It wasn't long after that Godric appeared to apologise.
Or, rather, give his version of an apology.
Salazar stood at the clay washbasin, neatening his goatee when Godric knocked on his door.
"Come," he said, cleaning the hairs from his steel blade.
Godric entered and stood at the back of the room, awaiting an opportunity.
Salazar would not afford him one.
Eager to be free of his burden, Godric finally spoke. "I owe you an apology, brother Salazar. I characteristically loose my tongue when drunk."
Salazar shook his hair free of the braid. "Apology accepted. Though, if you truly wish to be forgiven, you'll allow me to shave that unsightliness you call a beard. Have you sparrows nesting in that mess yet?"
"I'll have them for target practice," Godric said with a light-hearted laugh.
Salazar frowned and beckoned him closer. He gave Godric a mirror and smiled when Godric slumped his shoulders in agreement. He refused the mirror when Godric tried to give it back to him.
"Hold it steady," Salazar ordered, anointing Godric's beard with sweet smelling oil. From behind, he looked more a madman than a barber brandishing a sharp steel blade.
"Are you really so unflinching in your stance, Salazar?" Godric asked.
A dark smile eclipsed Salazar's good nature when the first lick of blade took Godric by surprise. "It is better if you don't speak. I've a steady hand, but--"
"Fine," Godric said. "Talk, and I shall listen."
Salazar tilted Godric's head and shaved a clean line from chin to cheek. "What more is there to say? This is no longer an oligarchy. You speak and neither Rowena nor Helga closes their lips in defiance of you."
"They don't always voice their agreement."
Salazar dug his nails into the hollows of Godric's cheeks, turning his head abruptly. "You infer the wrong set of lips, Godric."
Lip a-quiver with rage, Godric swore as Salazar shaved another line, cutting his cheek.
Salazar tutted in annoyance.
Godric gingerly dabbed at the cut. "Your blade has bitten me, Salazar. I suppose, it too, finds me disagreeable?"
Salazar removed Godric's fingers, catching the runaway spill in an amber phial. "Nobody finds you disagreeable, least of all me." He changed the subject to avoid Godric's vile temper. "Pity about your arming sword. Destroyed by the necromancer."
"Another will be forged." Godric flinched when Salazar came at him with a damp cloth. "What will you do with my blood?" he asked, avoiding Salazar's diversion. He ripped the cloth from Salazar's hands.
Salazar levelled the mirror in Godric's hand, winking at him. "You know how I require the blood of a virile man for a libidinous libation."
Godric looked smug. "Finish this infernal shave, and try not to cut me again."
Salazar bowed slightly, as a servant might. "As you wish." He oiled the blade again, and flicked it with a longish nail, removing the excess.
Salazar's blade licked and lifted, the cold kiss of steel revealing smooth flesh in the number of moves it would take to execute the swiftest of checkmates. When Salazar finished, Godric had forgotten all about the blade's bad temperament.
Pleased with his close shave, Godric bid Salazar goodnight.
"What's your hurry? Rowena and Helga have retired for the night."
Godric's cock stirred at the thought of doubling his delights. "It doesn't take an Arithmancer to merit the pleasures of two cunts to just one."
"Perhaps you misunderstood me, Godric," Salazar teased, mirth and merriment in his telling. "Rowena and Helga have retired. For the night. Together. It doesn't take an Arithmancer or even a simple mathematician to weigh the advantages of one cock to no cunts. Shall I demonstrate with the abacus?"
"You mock me," Godric growled, handing Salazar back his mirror.
"Do I?" Salazar said, nodding in the direction of Godric's crotch. "I seem to recall a fetish for blades. My shave alone has rendered your cock unforgiving." His lip curled into a most unpleasant sneer.
Godric grabbed Salazar by the arm roughly. "Tend to my sword, serpent."
Salazar nodded. "Come morn. Donal is probably fast asleep by now."
"Not that one, you lackwit," Godric laughed.
With a quick yank, Salazar was brought down hard to his knees.
Salazar woke before the light of dawn. Godric was snoring beside him, woollen hose caught about his ankles.
Godric's cock was slowly stiffening much to Salazar's delight. He took the crown in his mouth, licking and sucking until Godric was semi conscious and moaning.
The bastard was still dreaming, laughing and mumbling in his sleep. Godric's words were hard to make out at first, but as he continued, they became clearer.
Tits and cunnies and pleas for raven haired beauties to sit on his face. Salazar was sick with the thought of it. He dressed in disgust, hatching a beautiful plan in his mind as he slipped the necromancer's finger from Godric's leather pouch.
Donal, the smithy, was busy shoeing a thestral when Salazar entered the stables. He watched unobtrusively until the blacksmith was finished with the hoof.
"Donal, I would call upon you for a task greater than outfitting beasts."
The blacksmith straightened the patch that covered his empty eye socket. "What task would this be, milord?"
"I need you to forge a blade, an arming sword for Master Gryffindor. A blade beautiful and worthy of its wielder." Salazar gave Donal the phial of Godric's blood. "You must pour the contents of this phial into the molten metal and ask no questions. Is this understood?"
"Of course, milord." Donal bowed and then set to work, calling for his apprentice.
Salazar waited outside, wringing his hands and pacing expectantly. When the third hour drew nigh, there was one last breath of fire, one last hammer strike and one last hiss of cooling metal.
The double doors swung open and Donal emerged, face blackened with soot and brow dappled with sweat. He dropped to one knee and presented the blade to Salazar.
Salazar was so pleased with the sword that he dropped to both knees before the blacksmith and bowed his head in awe.
Salazar walked into the chamber he had chosen for the performance of this rite - it was an old mausoleum, once used to house the ashes of ancestors, back in pagan days. Now, it was still and silent; it had not been maintained since the time of the first Burning - when it was death to be discovered as witch or wizard. Magically, he covered his tracks; though the crypt was deep within the woods, he did not want anyone to be able to find him.
Especially not Godric.
Dismembered, reaching upward as though imploring a god gone blind and mad, four cadaverous hands stood in sconces, one at each wall of the room. Walking counterclockwise, he lit each of the Hands of Glory, not with wizardfire, but with a taper made from the fat of a bastard child, left to die by an uncaring mother. These were not placed merely for the sake of light; at least not light of a physical nature. Their lurid glow cast many-tendriled shadows around Salazar as he moved to the centre of the chamber.
There waited there a font; it was made much the same way as would be a baptismal font. This, however, was black; the plinth upon which it rested made from the headstone of one who died of a broken heart. The basin itself was formed from the concave vessel used to catch the blood of those slaughtered during the massacre on St Brice's day, seven years before. It, too, was black; it was crusted with the innocent blood of those who had fallen on that day. The despair of the slain and the rage of their kin mirrored well his feelings as he began the ritual.
Salazar lifted his hands. "Destructor, O Bleak One, O Bringer of Death's Despair! I conjure and call you to breathe forth the grave's foetid air!" As he chanted, he drew out a sprig of aconite that had grown from the grave of a wizard who had died alone and bitter, with none to mourn his passing. This, he placed within the font; it sizzled like blood dropped onto glowing charcoal. And, at the north wall of the chamber, there appeared a horrible apparition: a skeletal dragon, its tattered wings uplifted and its maw open, revealing the corruption of the carrion upon which it fed.
He then stepped to the west. "Nurturer, Kind One! O Bringer of Death's Relief! I conjure and call you to balance my anger and grief!" Into the font, he tipped the contents of a tiny phial; an emulsion of the tears of a phoenix and the willingly given blood of a unicorn flowed forth, turning the black and festered remains of the aconite a softly glowing silver. As the scent from the font grew sweet, there appeared a gentle-eyed creature that appeared almost to be a fusion of bird, lion and deer: the Qirin stood, watching silently, her gaze focused on Salazar as he paced to the south.
Standing in the south quarter, again he raised his hands. "Renewer, O Wise One, O Key to the Wheel of Life! I conjure and call you to end this life's trial and strife!" With these words, he placed a strange key into the basin; its head was in the form of a nine-spoked wheel, and its ornate shank was cut in a spiral. There were no teeth at its opposite end; only a loop of metal in the form of a stylised eye - the Udjati, the Eye of Horus. When this touched the other two elements, a sound emerged that was like the chime of a bell, though far purer. The sound did not fade, and standing at the south wall, there was now a new apparition: a dark woman from whose hands emitted a strange light. Yhi the Renewer, who had transformed demons into birds in the Dreamtime, was now attendant upon the rite.
Salazar's steps were weakening. With the three great beings bound to him, and their energies channeled through his body, Salazar knew he was pushing the limits - but it was far too late to undo the process. As he came to the East, he lifted his hands to see it through. "Renewer, O Just One! O Hand of the Justice of Death! I conjure and call you to vindicate my final breath!" He then placed within the font what appeared to be an odd cross between a feather and a tiny dagger - a leaf from Clytia, the princess turned into a magical plant by Apollo, for the betrayal of one he loved. A bluish incandescence rose from the font like a halo, and on the eastern quadrant there appeared a strange being; a woman-tree whose leaves appeared as tiny swords, Clytia herself.
All was in readiness. Salazar had but to finish this - the greatest spell he had ever cast, and the sealing of his own fate.
He drew the severed finger from a pouch that had held it over his heart; the ring still encircled its pallid, stiffened flesh. This, he held above the font, beginning yet another chant as he unsheathed the sword.
With my rage I form the edges
To rend a hardened heart
And my tears—they form the pommel
Of the sword that tears apart
Life from flesh, and soul from cycle
Returning once again
Not as ghosts or spirits
But living, breathing men!
The second life must mirror
The one that came before
Save, this time, bitter endings
Are ordained never more.
My life do I surrender
And his, I do bequeath
A second chance to live
And that hardened heart, beseech!He could feel his life-force draining from his body and into the font. The spiritual vapour began its cohesion with the sword. It shimmered, brilliant silver, as it drew from him, and also from the four Aspects of Death that stood at the walls of the mausoleum. Along the centre of the sword, the finger of the necromancer elongated, growing more slender, until it and the ring with which it had merged now formed a glittering fibre: a heartstring, though unlike that which had ever graced a wand.
Salazar's eyes were hollow, now; he seemed to have aged, his skin dry and his form even more gaunt. As he reached to the blade and plucked it from where it hovered above the font, the apparitions vanished; the Hands of Glory were extinguished. He fell to the floor at the foot of the plinth, insensate. The silver sword shed the only light within the dank, death-tainted room.
Salazar's steps next bore him back to Hogwarts castle and to Godric.
Godric was in his chamber penning owls when Salazar knocked for entrance. Not surprisingly, he noticed Godric's eyes travel the length of his emaciated form.
"Are you unwell?" Godric asked. "Why do you appear so aged?"
"I am fine," Salazar lied. He narrowed his eyes a bit in warning.
Godric did not press the issue, instead, changing the subject. "Your signature is required."
Salazar arched a brow. "For what?"
Godric gave Salazar a condescending pat on the shoulder. "The decree that specifies that we shall not discriminate on the basis of blood. As you may recall you were outvoted three to one."
Salazar took Godric's quill and pricked the tip of his finger. He signed his name in blood just under Godric's. "My memory serves me well enough."
Godric beamed but not out of cheerfulness. "Now, what did you wish to see me about?"
Salazar smiled. "Only this." He drew the sword from its scabbard, and he presented it to Godric. The gleam of metal was sun-bright, and the blade was strong, forged with iron and dipped in silver. The pommel was bejewelled with bloodstones and Godric's name was etched into the metal. Tiny flecks of crimson ran the length of the blade where Godric's blood had merged with the silver.
Godric took the blade from Salazar, speechless. It took him awhile to compose himself. "My God, Salazar, this is exquisite. A princely gift and for a pauper such as I?" Godric embraced Salazar and wept in his arms. "I do not deserve you, brother."
A twinge of guilt made Salazar's heart ache.
Godric kissed the blade where the 'G' met with the 'O'. "We should celebrate tonight at the Boar's Head. You and I shall bed twenty women between us!"
Salazar managed a weak smile.
"I must show this to Rowena at once," Godric said proudly. "Come with me!"
Salazar shook his head sadly. "I've something I must do."
"Then later!" Godric said as he left the chamber.
Salazar drew a scroll from within his robes, placing it on Godric's desk. "Much later, lion."
Godric,
It is with great sadness that I must leave you and my sisters behind. Ours ideals are vastly different, and I can no longer continue to give in to your demands. Too long I have strayed from tradition, and my heart now aches with the absence of everything I once held dear. Before long, the school will be in ruin, the houses divided, and I cannot bear that burden upon my shoulders.
My memory will fade with the passage of time, but my legacy shall not. Though I have signed your precious, damned decree, I have ensured that Hogwarts shall remain pure by erecting the Chamber of Secrets. This shall be lorded over by a great serpent that will victimise those whose blood runs tainted through their veins.
You may search for this chamber. You may even find it. But only an heir of Slytherin may open the chamber and influence the creature.
It did not have to be this way. You forced my hand.
Your brother no longer,
SalazarSalazar sat on a deadened log, passing the time carving bone. He was deep in the wilds, but nowhere so hidden that he would be unable to be found. In fact, he was counting on it.
Not two hours had passed since his departure and Salazar could hear the familiar gait of Godric's mount. Salazar remained seated at Godric's approach. "Why Godric, this is an unexpected pleasure."
Godric's temper was violent, and he took Salazar by the folds of his robes and yanked him to his feet. "Tell me where the chamber is, serpent."
"Never," Salazar said.
Godric tightened his hold. "This is folly, Salazar. Hundreds will die."
"More I'd imagine. If any blood is spilt, it will be on your hands, not mine. Only you have the power to see that the chamber never opens. Admit no inferiors into Hogwarts."
"I cannot do that. I will not do that. Tell me where the chamber is, and I shall tell Rowena and Helga you left for other reasons."
Salazar laughed, throwing his head back. "They already see me as a fiend. I believe I have you to thank for that."
Godric loosened his grip. "Come home, brother. Let us talk this over. I'm certain we can reach a compromise."
"No," Salazar said resolutely.
Godric unsheathed his sword. "If I kill you then I can stop this madness. How then shall your chamber open? You have no heir to speak of."
Salazar's smile darkened. "Don't I now? You presume to know my affairs? Why else would I bed a woman if not to fill her belly?"
Godric raised his sword. "You are a fiend and for that you will die."
Salazar drew his scramseaxe as if to attack. "I do not fear death."
Godric slashed with his sword, severing Salazar's head from his shoulders. It landed at Godric's feet with a soft thump.
Before the moment of impact, Salazar had uttered his final words;
In another life.
Sirius Black and Severus Snape stood at Headmaster Dumbledore's desk awaiting his return.
Always the impatient one, Sirius took down the sword on the wall for a closer look. "Cor, says here Godric Gryffindor. Have a look-see, Snivellus."
Severus shook his head. "Put that down, you imbecile. Before you cut yourself."
Sirius stuck his tongue out. "Make me, greaseball." He jabbed the air, fighting a make-believe foe.
"Fine. See if I care. It won't be me they rush to the hospital wing."
"I wonder if this sword's still sharp?" Sirius asked to no one in particular. He brought the blade down upon an apple given to the Headmaster by a student.
Both halves of the apple landed at his feet.
"Now see what you've gone and done, Black."
A chill washed over Severus and through the highest window, he watched as the moon emerged from the clouds.
Fin
Author's NotesYes, I'm pretty aware of the fact that Australia wasn't settled by the Europeans until the year 1788. Or that European witch burnings didn't take place until the 1600's. I took some liberties based upon the fact that we know very little of canon Founder era as it pertains to wizardkind.
The spell I wrote depicts a mish-mash of cultures. There was no possible way I could write a mere wand waving and have it convey the same message to the same degree. Magic is very personal for me, and this, dear readers, is the form it took.
I hope this does not colour your perception in any way.
--TMP