The Book of Folly
Title: The Book of Folly
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Salazar/Rowena
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Oral, parseltongue, first time
Notes: Written for cmwinters for hp_traditions
Summary: An old druidic rite, a potion, and like minds bring two lives that were running parallel together.
The first time she saw him, he didn't see her, but his eyes looked through her, as if, in the market, where she was following the married Helga, her hair demurely covered, he saw her soul. She had just bent to examine an imported resin from the east, and when she looked up again, her eyes met his, dark and searching, as if he could see inside her soul and read her like the scroll she had bought and hid in her saddlebag.
She could tell he was noble by the elegant but not arrogant tilt to his head, the way he carried himself, everything about him screamed nobility, and even as his eyes burned through her, her mind told her 'This is not for you.'. Still, she met his eyes until he moved on, unable to look away until he had broken the moment.
It was a trend. He always broke the moment before she would have wished it.
~*~
The second time she met was with a badly placed arrow that grazed her wing, forcing her to land in front of the two wizards. She was short with them, for all the fairer man's--the archer's apologies, intending to walk off strongly back until she had found Helga who had been riding her horse, when surprisingly the plump woman appeared in the clearing.
She lectured Rowena on propriety, and accepted Salazar's offer for Rowena to share his horse, as Helga's sidesaddle offered little room, even for the slight blonde.
Salazar had been amused and had respected the strength of the woman, and over flagons of ale he came to respect her obvious intelligence and lack of fear as well. Salazar was not the type who enjoyed frivolous conversations or fake laughter. He respected power, strength, and cunning. However, even he got drawn in as Rowena, and even Helga described their dreams of a school (After, said Rowena, she had learned quite enough that she could stay in one place). He was drawn to Rowena as well, she had a quality he was not accustomed to, and knowledge she did not seem afraid of using.
After that, his eyes sought her out, as he and Godric, over chilly nights and warm days, sat with the women and Helga's husband, the four discussing curricula, possibilities, until it became more than a dream--it became a possibility.
~*~
However, Salazar was too practical to work in dreams alone, and he had his own quest for knowledge. Since the death of his parents he had become obsessed with the Dark Arts--the risk, the danger, called to him like a lullaby he had heard long ago or some strange power that had belonged to him once--perhaps in a prior life. People had told him not to go into the glens that were high in the Scottish Highlands, but the stories did nothing to deter him. If anything, they intrigued him. The horror stories of druids and witches drinking the blood of their dead was intriguing in a sort of macabre and taboo way.
The boy he met first did not impress him, like a scared rabbit he tried to run. The language was something he had never heard, an amalgamation of some native language, Saxon, Latin, and another tongue that seemed as if they would be discordant, but instead sounded rather musical. The group was interesting, and when he went before the elders, he bowed low in the most respectful fashion--after all, they had knowledge he wanted and arrogance, even deserved, did not ingratiate him to people who could give him even more reason to be arrogant, after all--not that he was.
The terms was explained to him simply, as if as an outsider, he had to prove his worth--stay, join their order and devote seven years to even the minutest study, as their novitiates did, or undertake the challenge of defeating nine of their strongest and most skilled apprentices--who were protecting all their knowledge, in the form of one virgin, who had been trained since birth in everything they knew.
He smiled slightly as he heard this, far better than their barbaric kingmaking rituals at any rate, and left to prepare himself, for the battles started the next morning at dawn. After all, a woman was far more attractive than a horse.
~*~
Rowena reflected as she finished throwing the fragrant herbs into the fire, resting back on her bare arms on the bed of soft furs beneath her, remembering all that had led up to this moment. She had been staying, uncharacteristically, at her father's home --in the twilight of his life he had decided that he wanted to better know his eldest and only daughter--not that his latest young wife liked the idea. Helga had rather thought it a brilliant idea, thinking that as she put it, 'it was a mercy that a man so near death saw to right his wrongs and know the daughter of a set aside but good wife,' and Rowena let her live in this fiction. Her naive friend didn't need to know that her father had only married her mother in the truest sense, that he had been champion of an old rite and her mother the proxy for the land.
The same rite that Rowena now waited in the midst of, that would decide her immediate fate in a way. She had been surprised to hear of the ritual, but not overly shocked. The ritual was rare, but she had heard the rumours as well as anyone else of the dark foreigner who sought power and knowledge. The elders could not bring themselves to teach an outsider, so if he wanted knowledge that they held, dark and light alike, he would have to take it. He would have to defeat the nine wisest and strongest apprentices before coming here, where she waited in a cave lit only by the fire, a half-mask covering her eyes and resting on her nose, painted with herbs mixed with vittrim glass, the ancient spells that would give him everything in her mind--if he was so worthy, and wearing only a brief leather skirt that was there only for symbolic purposes more than modesty.
Her sisters had come early to the fortress and brought her here--they had wanted to do the preparations there, but Rowena understood well enough that this sort of magic, this sort of rite, belonged closer to the earth, not in the air and not in the places of the nobility she could slip on and walk among easily as breathe. This was darker, wilder, and far more natural to her. This she understood.
She had listened to her two half-sisters prattle on about how, if he spared her life, and even if he didn't, the pain of losing her maidenhead would be fleeting, but she paid them no mind. Instead, she contemplated what this meant. At first, she rebelled against the idea, but she knew her place and her station, and began to see the good in this. It meant that her standing among her people would rise exponentially, channeling the power of the land, touched by the powers as the ritual invoked, she became higher than even the most learned crone and no longer had to worry about the approaching bel-fires. Now that her mother Mortianna was dead she would have been expected to take someone to them, but now she had the choice not to and whom she would take if she did go. Of course, there was a certain measure of excitement as well, because this sort of magic was rare, powerful--hardly something everyone experienced. She had thought fleetingly of the childhood she had not been allowed, too busy being taught what she would now be giving away, as her sisters combed oils through her hair until it shown, and then left to her own thoughts when they left.
Rowena didn't want her mother's sedentary life, the old crone who everyone went to for answers. There was too much yet unknown, too many things left to explore. The sky went on and on, and for her part, Rowena wanted to explore it, breathe it, learn it all. It would be folly to think she could, but she could have her ambitions.
She was startled out of her contemplation, staring at the points on her palm that had been sliced gently with a stone knife to paint the final sigils on her breasts when she heard a sound from outside the cave, a tell-tale thump of a body, and stood, waiting to see if the final champion or the foreigner who would learn everything her people and the land had to offer had been victorious, taking a deep breath of the fragrant, smoke that hung in the air and perfumed it.
~*~
Salazar Slytherin was running on adrenaline when he had defeated the last apprentice. When he appeared in front of the cave he was tensed, as if suspecting perhaps some final ambush. When none came, he moved forward, cautiously, hand still curled around his wand. He didn't relax when he saw the maiden there, though he allowed himself to accept her presence. He did a few spells to make sure that no one else was there, before stepping toward her, and was surprised when she stood. He had expected--well, what he had known of maidens, some simpering, shaking thing.
Rowena was shaking, but only on the inside, it did not to to show weakness. She was representing more than herself here. "I see you have been victorious." She said softly. She tilted her head to the side in acquiescence. "Congratulations, Sir Champion." He took another step, and then her eyes met his, and it felt as if something inside of her had frozen and melted at the same time. "it is...a rare honour..." She had no idea what she was even saying any longer, all that she could think was that she knew him, even though he was as masked as fully as she was.
She told herself it was foolish, some vestige of innocence that wanted to know the man who would take something so carefully guarded as her mind. Still, though, she couldn't seem to shake the feeling, and when he spoke again, his voice warm, like honey, she was almost certain.
"An honour for me, most certainly." Salazar said, recognising something in that voice and the imperious and at the same time quizzical tilt of her head. "But I am gentleman enough to walk away if the thought of it, or my touch repulses you." It was courtly, but while he was a lot of things, he was no rapist.
"You are kind, good stranger." Rowena said softly. "But even if it did, I know my place and my duty." She met those eyes, dark, almost black, and took another step. "But I fear I cannot shake the feeling that we have met before and spoken at length. May I at least know your name, good sir?"
Salazar's smile widened at that, and he reached out, gently touching the edges of her mask. "I am Salazar Slytherin" He hissed in Parseltongue, knowing that that had always made Rowena's eyes widen and darken in fascination. "And unless I am greatly mistaken, thou art the Lady Rowena Ravenclaw." He gently removed the mask and put threw it to the corner.
Rowena shivered at the sound, and her eyes widened with a confirmation that was so obvious it didn't need to be in words she understood. "Don't call me Lady Rowena now." She asked softly, removing his mask as well, waiting to see revulsion or horror. "If you do, I shall half expect Helga or Godric to interrupt us, though I suspect neither of them would come close to something so...ancient."
"Carnal, you mean," Salazar said, running a finger along her lips, wanting to know her by more than sight and voice now. There was something different about her here, wilder, more unrestrained then he had ever seen before, even that first time where she demanded she could ride astride. "My offer still stands, we can still walk away if you wish not this rite."
"And you?" Rowena asked. "Does the thought of me disgust you, when you thought it would be some anonymous maiden you would never see again?"
Salazar was reserved at first, and then shook his head. "There is more to you than there could ever be to an anonymous maiden. While they are all well and good, I would rather have you at any point." He paused, and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Truly, I believe I have desired you since the first time we met."
With a strength of spirit Rowena felt, but had no idea where it came from, she moved away and came back with a shallow drinking bowl. "I remember seeing you before you ever saw me." She answered, and then lifted the bowl to her mouth, tilting it back, until she felt the potion like liquid fire run through her veins. She drank half of it and then offered it to Salazar silently, he met her eyes, and she shivered again, despite the heat in the cave as he drank the other half.
Then, suddenly, it was as if it was everything and nothing at once, because his hands were cupping her face as he kissed her, and the copper bowl dropped to the ground, clattering to the stones with a sound like a bell. She was cautious at first, but Salazar was sure, and it was easy to melt against him as his hands wandered, and then she came to herself, refusing to be some passive thing as she banished his clothing and drew him back to the bed of furs. How it had gotten here so fast she was unsure, but oh, she didn't care. The kiss was deep, and there was something almost dark and addictive about it. She gasped as his tongue traveled, tracing runes and patterns on her skin, her hands tangling in his hair as he traveled down her body. "Relax," he hissed softly as his hands massaged her thighs. She tried, she tried to obey, but it was as if he had struck a flint in her veins, and it was hard to remain still and quiet.
Salazar didn't want her to be still, he wanted her to enjoy it, which was more important than he had originally expected. he paused to look up at her, as her ran his tongue along her opening for a moment, watching her shudder and bite her lip. He stifled a bit of a worldly laugh, and let her become accustomed to his tongue's invasion, before running his tongue along her clit with a bit of a hiss, the Parseltongue variant of her name.
Rowena moaned and yanked in an unladylike way, on his hair. he laughed as he moved back up to kiss her, and despite the sound, she moaned softly against his mouth. She didn't care if it hurt, he could rip her heart out at this moment if it just kept feeling like this, as long as it was him, and not some fantasy her mind had created while she drowsed by the fire.
"Relax," Salazar said again, holding his breath and using all of his control to enter her slowly and not just thrust inside, which was considerably hard to do, with her kissing him like that, and her skin warm against his. He closed his eyes and when she cried out he slowed down, only to be surprised by her words.
"Go on," Rowena said softly. It had hurt, yes, but there was a palpable anticipation that seemed to thrum through her body, and she bit down on his shoulder as he hissed things in her ear that could have been insults or curse components for all she cared, it only seemed to make it more forbidden, darker--and then with a gasp, she was shaking like some wanton thing beneath him, her heels pressing against his arse as her mind opened completely, ever single feeling she had ever had every scrap of knowledge, every event in her life seemed to rush over her at once as her mind seemed to open and accept him, in a rush of pleasure she had never dreamed of before.
Salazar wouldn't have been able to even conceptualise all the things which seemed to wash over him, he groaned her name as his movements became faster and more erratic until the feeling of his orgasm seemed to entwine with everything he was seeing, and in that moment, he felt warmer than he had in ages.
"Mine." he hissed in Parseltongue without meaning too, little knowing Rowena was thinking something very similar.
Rowena was exhausted, her back warmed by the furs, and the rest of her warm and drowsy wrapped around him. She was known for her wisdom, but though she knew it was folly to wish it, she found herself wishing nonetheless. That time would cease and they could stay here, or that she could keep this.
But then, what was wisdom without a little bit of folly to let you know you still had things to learn, whether they were taught by texts or life itself.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Salazar/Rowena
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Oral, parseltongue, first time
Notes: Written for cmwinters for hp_traditions
Summary: An old druidic rite, a potion, and like minds bring two lives that were running parallel together.
The first time she saw him, he didn't see her, but his eyes looked through her, as if, in the market, where she was following the married Helga, her hair demurely covered, he saw her soul. She had just bent to examine an imported resin from the east, and when she looked up again, her eyes met his, dark and searching, as if he could see inside her soul and read her like the scroll she had bought and hid in her saddlebag.
She could tell he was noble by the elegant but not arrogant tilt to his head, the way he carried himself, everything about him screamed nobility, and even as his eyes burned through her, her mind told her 'This is not for you.'. Still, she met his eyes until he moved on, unable to look away until he had broken the moment.
It was a trend. He always broke the moment before she would have wished it.
~*~
The second time she met was with a badly placed arrow that grazed her wing, forcing her to land in front of the two wizards. She was short with them, for all the fairer man's--the archer's apologies, intending to walk off strongly back until she had found Helga who had been riding her horse, when surprisingly the plump woman appeared in the clearing.
She lectured Rowena on propriety, and accepted Salazar's offer for Rowena to share his horse, as Helga's sidesaddle offered little room, even for the slight blonde.
Salazar had been amused and had respected the strength of the woman, and over flagons of ale he came to respect her obvious intelligence and lack of fear as well. Salazar was not the type who enjoyed frivolous conversations or fake laughter. He respected power, strength, and cunning. However, even he got drawn in as Rowena, and even Helga described their dreams of a school (After, said Rowena, she had learned quite enough that she could stay in one place). He was drawn to Rowena as well, she had a quality he was not accustomed to, and knowledge she did not seem afraid of using.
After that, his eyes sought her out, as he and Godric, over chilly nights and warm days, sat with the women and Helga's husband, the four discussing curricula, possibilities, until it became more than a dream--it became a possibility.
~*~
However, Salazar was too practical to work in dreams alone, and he had his own quest for knowledge. Since the death of his parents he had become obsessed with the Dark Arts--the risk, the danger, called to him like a lullaby he had heard long ago or some strange power that had belonged to him once--perhaps in a prior life. People had told him not to go into the glens that were high in the Scottish Highlands, but the stories did nothing to deter him. If anything, they intrigued him. The horror stories of druids and witches drinking the blood of their dead was intriguing in a sort of macabre and taboo way.
The boy he met first did not impress him, like a scared rabbit he tried to run. The language was something he had never heard, an amalgamation of some native language, Saxon, Latin, and another tongue that seemed as if they would be discordant, but instead sounded rather musical. The group was interesting, and when he went before the elders, he bowed low in the most respectful fashion--after all, they had knowledge he wanted and arrogance, even deserved, did not ingratiate him to people who could give him even more reason to be arrogant, after all--not that he was.
The terms was explained to him simply, as if as an outsider, he had to prove his worth--stay, join their order and devote seven years to even the minutest study, as their novitiates did, or undertake the challenge of defeating nine of their strongest and most skilled apprentices--who were protecting all their knowledge, in the form of one virgin, who had been trained since birth in everything they knew.
He smiled slightly as he heard this, far better than their barbaric kingmaking rituals at any rate, and left to prepare himself, for the battles started the next morning at dawn. After all, a woman was far more attractive than a horse.
~*~
Rowena reflected as she finished throwing the fragrant herbs into the fire, resting back on her bare arms on the bed of soft furs beneath her, remembering all that had led up to this moment. She had been staying, uncharacteristically, at her father's home --in the twilight of his life he had decided that he wanted to better know his eldest and only daughter--not that his latest young wife liked the idea. Helga had rather thought it a brilliant idea, thinking that as she put it, 'it was a mercy that a man so near death saw to right his wrongs and know the daughter of a set aside but good wife,' and Rowena let her live in this fiction. Her naive friend didn't need to know that her father had only married her mother in the truest sense, that he had been champion of an old rite and her mother the proxy for the land.
The same rite that Rowena now waited in the midst of, that would decide her immediate fate in a way. She had been surprised to hear of the ritual, but not overly shocked. The ritual was rare, but she had heard the rumours as well as anyone else of the dark foreigner who sought power and knowledge. The elders could not bring themselves to teach an outsider, so if he wanted knowledge that they held, dark and light alike, he would have to take it. He would have to defeat the nine wisest and strongest apprentices before coming here, where she waited in a cave lit only by the fire, a half-mask covering her eyes and resting on her nose, painted with herbs mixed with vittrim glass, the ancient spells that would give him everything in her mind--if he was so worthy, and wearing only a brief leather skirt that was there only for symbolic purposes more than modesty.
Her sisters had come early to the fortress and brought her here--they had wanted to do the preparations there, but Rowena understood well enough that this sort of magic, this sort of rite, belonged closer to the earth, not in the air and not in the places of the nobility she could slip on and walk among easily as breathe. This was darker, wilder, and far more natural to her. This she understood.
She had listened to her two half-sisters prattle on about how, if he spared her life, and even if he didn't, the pain of losing her maidenhead would be fleeting, but she paid them no mind. Instead, she contemplated what this meant. At first, she rebelled against the idea, but she knew her place and her station, and began to see the good in this. It meant that her standing among her people would rise exponentially, channeling the power of the land, touched by the powers as the ritual invoked, she became higher than even the most learned crone and no longer had to worry about the approaching bel-fires. Now that her mother Mortianna was dead she would have been expected to take someone to them, but now she had the choice not to and whom she would take if she did go. Of course, there was a certain measure of excitement as well, because this sort of magic was rare, powerful--hardly something everyone experienced. She had thought fleetingly of the childhood she had not been allowed, too busy being taught what she would now be giving away, as her sisters combed oils through her hair until it shown, and then left to her own thoughts when they left.
Rowena didn't want her mother's sedentary life, the old crone who everyone went to for answers. There was too much yet unknown, too many things left to explore. The sky went on and on, and for her part, Rowena wanted to explore it, breathe it, learn it all. It would be folly to think she could, but she could have her ambitions.
She was startled out of her contemplation, staring at the points on her palm that had been sliced gently with a stone knife to paint the final sigils on her breasts when she heard a sound from outside the cave, a tell-tale thump of a body, and stood, waiting to see if the final champion or the foreigner who would learn everything her people and the land had to offer had been victorious, taking a deep breath of the fragrant, smoke that hung in the air and perfumed it.
~*~
Salazar Slytherin was running on adrenaline when he had defeated the last apprentice. When he appeared in front of the cave he was tensed, as if suspecting perhaps some final ambush. When none came, he moved forward, cautiously, hand still curled around his wand. He didn't relax when he saw the maiden there, though he allowed himself to accept her presence. He did a few spells to make sure that no one else was there, before stepping toward her, and was surprised when she stood. He had expected--well, what he had known of maidens, some simpering, shaking thing.
Rowena was shaking, but only on the inside, it did not to to show weakness. She was representing more than herself here. "I see you have been victorious." She said softly. She tilted her head to the side in acquiescence. "Congratulations, Sir Champion." He took another step, and then her eyes met his, and it felt as if something inside of her had frozen and melted at the same time. "it is...a rare honour..." She had no idea what she was even saying any longer, all that she could think was that she knew him, even though he was as masked as fully as she was.
She told herself it was foolish, some vestige of innocence that wanted to know the man who would take something so carefully guarded as her mind. Still, though, she couldn't seem to shake the feeling, and when he spoke again, his voice warm, like honey, she was almost certain.
"An honour for me, most certainly." Salazar said, recognising something in that voice and the imperious and at the same time quizzical tilt of her head. "But I am gentleman enough to walk away if the thought of it, or my touch repulses you." It was courtly, but while he was a lot of things, he was no rapist.
"You are kind, good stranger." Rowena said softly. "But even if it did, I know my place and my duty." She met those eyes, dark, almost black, and took another step. "But I fear I cannot shake the feeling that we have met before and spoken at length. May I at least know your name, good sir?"
Salazar's smile widened at that, and he reached out, gently touching the edges of her mask. "I am Salazar Slytherin" He hissed in Parseltongue, knowing that that had always made Rowena's eyes widen and darken in fascination. "And unless I am greatly mistaken, thou art the Lady Rowena Ravenclaw." He gently removed the mask and put threw it to the corner.
Rowena shivered at the sound, and her eyes widened with a confirmation that was so obvious it didn't need to be in words she understood. "Don't call me Lady Rowena now." She asked softly, removing his mask as well, waiting to see revulsion or horror. "If you do, I shall half expect Helga or Godric to interrupt us, though I suspect neither of them would come close to something so...ancient."
"Carnal, you mean," Salazar said, running a finger along her lips, wanting to know her by more than sight and voice now. There was something different about her here, wilder, more unrestrained then he had ever seen before, even that first time where she demanded she could ride astride. "My offer still stands, we can still walk away if you wish not this rite."
"And you?" Rowena asked. "Does the thought of me disgust you, when you thought it would be some anonymous maiden you would never see again?"
Salazar was reserved at first, and then shook his head. "There is more to you than there could ever be to an anonymous maiden. While they are all well and good, I would rather have you at any point." He paused, and wrapped an arm around her waist. "Truly, I believe I have desired you since the first time we met."
With a strength of spirit Rowena felt, but had no idea where it came from, she moved away and came back with a shallow drinking bowl. "I remember seeing you before you ever saw me." She answered, and then lifted the bowl to her mouth, tilting it back, until she felt the potion like liquid fire run through her veins. She drank half of it and then offered it to Salazar silently, he met her eyes, and she shivered again, despite the heat in the cave as he drank the other half.
Then, suddenly, it was as if it was everything and nothing at once, because his hands were cupping her face as he kissed her, and the copper bowl dropped to the ground, clattering to the stones with a sound like a bell. She was cautious at first, but Salazar was sure, and it was easy to melt against him as his hands wandered, and then she came to herself, refusing to be some passive thing as she banished his clothing and drew him back to the bed of furs. How it had gotten here so fast she was unsure, but oh, she didn't care. The kiss was deep, and there was something almost dark and addictive about it. She gasped as his tongue traveled, tracing runes and patterns on her skin, her hands tangling in his hair as he traveled down her body. "Relax," he hissed softly as his hands massaged her thighs. She tried, she tried to obey, but it was as if he had struck a flint in her veins, and it was hard to remain still and quiet.
Salazar didn't want her to be still, he wanted her to enjoy it, which was more important than he had originally expected. he paused to look up at her, as her ran his tongue along her opening for a moment, watching her shudder and bite her lip. He stifled a bit of a worldly laugh, and let her become accustomed to his tongue's invasion, before running his tongue along her clit with a bit of a hiss, the Parseltongue variant of her name.
Rowena moaned and yanked in an unladylike way, on his hair. he laughed as he moved back up to kiss her, and despite the sound, she moaned softly against his mouth. She didn't care if it hurt, he could rip her heart out at this moment if it just kept feeling like this, as long as it was him, and not some fantasy her mind had created while she drowsed by the fire.
"Relax," Salazar said again, holding his breath and using all of his control to enter her slowly and not just thrust inside, which was considerably hard to do, with her kissing him like that, and her skin warm against his. He closed his eyes and when she cried out he slowed down, only to be surprised by her words.
"Go on," Rowena said softly. It had hurt, yes, but there was a palpable anticipation that seemed to thrum through her body, and she bit down on his shoulder as he hissed things in her ear that could have been insults or curse components for all she cared, it only seemed to make it more forbidden, darker--and then with a gasp, she was shaking like some wanton thing beneath him, her heels pressing against his arse as her mind opened completely, ever single feeling she had ever had every scrap of knowledge, every event in her life seemed to rush over her at once as her mind seemed to open and accept him, in a rush of pleasure she had never dreamed of before.
Salazar wouldn't have been able to even conceptualise all the things which seemed to wash over him, he groaned her name as his movements became faster and more erratic until the feeling of his orgasm seemed to entwine with everything he was seeing, and in that moment, he felt warmer than he had in ages.
"Mine." he hissed in Parseltongue without meaning too, little knowing Rowena was thinking something very similar.
Rowena was exhausted, her back warmed by the furs, and the rest of her warm and drowsy wrapped around him. She was known for her wisdom, but though she knew it was folly to wish it, she found herself wishing nonetheless. That time would cease and they could stay here, or that she could keep this.
But then, what was wisdom without a little bit of folly to let you know you still had things to learn, whether they were taught by texts or life itself.