Chapter Text
“Gaze upon the Master of Death, o’ foolish Thief,” she murmured, parting her white hair to reveal once more the dark stain of a fingerprint across her brow. “And know that mortality is the greatest gift he could grant you.”
The jar shattered against a rock.
“Oh, my,” Lord Voldemort murmured genially, smiling at the pale druid as red lightning exploded outward, enveloping the air between them in a violent arch of electricity. “My hands… are so very slippery, it seems.”
“You heretical deciever!” the druid screeched, eyes wide with panic as the eternal lightning of the Red Storm burst through the grove, striking against the ancient trees without an iota of hesitation. The whispers in the wind screamed with horror. “Do you have any idea what you have unleashed?!”
“Are you still so prideful that you deny your role in this tragedy?” he challenged casually, stepping around the crimson inferno with a relaxed gait as he pulled another enchanted jar from his robes. “Now, you have a chance to fix this, foolish druid. Tell me how I will achieve my immortality, and no more harm will befall your yews.”
As he spoke, a massive ball of red electricity flared from the quickly growing whirlwind, leaping past him on a straight shot to the druid. She screamed in alarm and scrambled out of the way mere moments before the crimson electricity shot through the yew, branding a dark stain across its trunk.
In an instant, the whispers vanished.
“You monster! What have you done?” Her blind eyes were wild with terror. Taking the opportunity, Lord Voldemort leapt forward and grabbed the distraught druid by her hair, dragging her up into the air. She screeched in pain, kicking at him with pale feet. “My sisters—! You have imprisoned them in the in-between, you wicked beast!”
“How do I become immortal?” he growled, unperturbed by her feeble attacks. “How? Tell me now, or you will join them.”
“I cannot join them, you demon,” she wept, grabbing for his fingers as he held her aloft. “Can’t you see…? They have been lost to the in-between. I have lost them.”
“And so, your hypocrisy is revealed, druid,” he replied coolly. Red lightning struck just above his head, causing the little child to scream in terror. Voldemort didn’t flinch. “Humans die every day. They leave behind lovers, they leave behind children and parents, and yet you and your sisters remain here, denying each other the human privilege to mourn those you have lost.”
She threw her pale hands over her face and wept into her palms. Lord Voldemort snarled, shaking her by her hair.
“Do you feel it?” he thundered. “The terror of living? The horror of mortality? How dare you chide me for my fear of death when you sit here and weep for those who are not even gone?”
“My sisters…” she bewailed. “My sisters! I have nothing else!”
“How!” He grabbed her wrists and ripped them away from her face. Her blind eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. He pressed his finger into the thumbprint on her brow. “This is it, isn’t it? The key?” he snarled, scratching his nails across the brand. “Tell me! Tell me what I want to know, you fool!”
She grabbed for his hands, trying and failing to bat him away. Scarlet lightning rained all around them like a monsoon, striking the ground, the trees, the sky. The tight ball of energy crackled, sucking in wind and water from the surrounding area. Voldemort glanced at it before returning his gaze to the druid.
“It will not be long before this enchanted jar is inadequate to contain the storm,” he warned one final time. “Tell me how to become immortal, or your home will be lost forever. The yew grove will be encased in the Red Storm forevermore.”
“May the fae queen scorch the marrow from your bones,” she whimpered, her hands falling to her sides in defeat. “The only way to achieve true immortality is through your antithesis. The only way to achieve true immortality is through the Ancient One, the Master of Death.”
“Lies!” Lord Voldemort snarled. “Do not play games with me, druid.”
“I do not lie!” she insisted. “It is the Master of Death’s brand across my brow, you wicked beast! The Master of Death granted me this terrible curse!”
“Where has he vanished to? I sought him out and found not a whisper of his presence anywhere. Where can I find him? Tell me!” he demanded. She tried to shake her head, but he jerked her around by her hair like a doll. She cried out in pain, tears welling in her cloudy eyes.
“Pimachiowin Aki!” she sobbed. “You will find him within Pimachiowin Aki!”
“What…? In America?” Voldemort’s brows furrowed. “Why would he be in the Forest of the Wen—”
“Do not speak of it, you animal!” she screeched in alarm. "Pimachiowin Aki is a sacred forest, you filth. Do you have no shame?”
The Dark Lord rolled his eyes and released the druid’s hair. She fell to the earth with a dull thump. Curling into a tight, pale ball, she pressed her brow to her knees and wept great, thundering sobs that shook her entire frame.
Unlidding the jar, Voldemort turned and approached the spinning cyclone of lightning. Muttering Latin under his breath, he wandlessly cast shield charms over and over as he approached the mother ball and reached out with the jar, encasing it like he might a bug. The moment it was sealed within the container, the wind dissipated. The growing storm began to reverse, quieting until it disappeared entirely.
Silence fell upon the yew grove.
Silence, save for the small druid’s unrelenting weeping.
He turned and gazed behind him. The trees were utter wreckage, but not all was lost. The roots remained, and so did many leaves.
“It will recover,” he intoned, returning the jar to his robes. “It may take decades, perhaps centuries, but it will recover. You will meet your sisters again, druid. You have your immortality to thank for that.”
She didn’t reply. Bending his head to her in respect, the Dark Lord Voldemort turned and walked out of the burnt woods, his heavy footfalls crunching across burnt earth. The second he stepped over the boundary of the grove, all sound within it ceased. The druid’s sobs were replaced with the gentle chirping of birds. Gazing around, he clicked his tongue.
“The Pimachiowin Aki….”
Withdrawing his wand from his robes, the Dark Lord apparated away silently, leaving the yew forest to lick its wounds. Within the grove, still sniffling, the blind eyes of Tam Lin stared unblinking at the wreckage of her home.
“O’ Master of Death,” she whispered to the winds. “Hear my call. A wicked beast awaits you in The Land That Gives Life. See to him, Master of Death. See to him, and rip his ego from his twisted heart.”
The wind echoed her words, and she nodded. Soft, light, the breeze lifted into the air and swam away, leaving the last druid alone to her smouldering ruins.