As expected, it was still there: the Sword of Promised Victory, embedded up to the hilt in the stone floor at the foot of the Grand Staircase in the dungeons, where it had fallen after she had exorcised Loki from Malfoy's body.
Oleandra waited for a group of Hufflepuffs, hurrying from their dormitories, to pass her and climb the spiral staircase before sweeping the Invisibility Cloak from her shoulders and revealing herself to the world. Even at this late hour, the castle was a flurry of activity, on account of the fact that it was about to be besieged.
"Excalibur…" she murmured, brushing the pommel with the back of her hand. "Will you lend me your strength… if only for this battle?"
Gently, almost as though she were stroking her lover's cheek, Oleandra slid her palm down the hilt to the grip. With a deep breath, she pulled, and the golden sword slid silently from the stone slab into which it had sunk. She brandished it in the air; it gleamed brilliantly in the candlelight, but almost instantly, the radiance of the starry runes engraved upon her soul began dimming.
But Oleandra was undeterred.
Unlike the Aesir, who now existed only as spirits preserved as constellations in the night sky, reduced to mere obsessions that paled beside their former selves, the humans of Midgard had continued to use the magic of the stars, despite the restrictions imposed upon them from above.
The Saxons might have invaded Britain and driven the Celts to the furthest, most inhospitable reaches of the land, even forcing some to return to the continent, to France, but they had also learned much of their ways.
In the hundreds of years that followed, they gradually became true inhabitants of Britain, steeping themselves in the land's magic and exchanging knowledge with those they had subjugated and interbred with. New runes emerged from this cultural clash, adding themselves to the original twenty-four; such as Ác and Æsc, the oak and ash tree runes, borrowed from their ogham equivalents, Duir and Nion.
At the end of the day, the stars remained neutral. Whether there were twenty-four, twenty-eight, thirty-three or even eight million runes, they simply watched from above, encompassing and accepting everything beneath the heavens.
"Cweorth, Ceirt, Yera," Oleandra said, holding the sword's hilt to her chest, her eye reflected back at her on the flat of the blade. "Funeral pyre of apple-bough. White-blossomed apple-branch. Amaranthine apple-orchard's harvest."
…
Emain Ablach.
Ynys Afallach.
Insula Avallonis.
The Isle of Apples.
Whether you were speaking Irish, Welsh, Latin or English, those names all referred to the same place: Paradise Island, the Fairyland of Avalon. It was there that, using their orchards as fuel to fire their crucibles, that the Great Fairies had forged the mighty Excalibur for the Once and Future King, the man who would have been their champion.
Using Cweorth, the funeral pyre, a rune that lay halfway between the magic of the stars and that of earth and moon, to bind Ceirt, the apple tree ogham rune, with Yera, the star rune of the passing of the seasons and the harvest, Oleandra had found a way to connect both magical disciplines and use them simultaneously, using Excalibur as the medium!
…
Golden light erupted from the sword's hilt, wreathing the blade in flames. Oleandra slid two fingers along the flat of the blade, intricate runes appearing along the spine in molten lines as she pronounced their names.
"Ingwaz, Elhaz, Dagaz, Gebu," Oleandra murmured. "Grant me now the sea god's divine protection."
Excalibur slipped from Oleandra's grasp and hovered before her, poised to parry any incoming attack. She reached into her pouch and drew out the Book of the Stars, tapping it lightly with her wand; it flipped open of its own accord and hung suspended a foot in front of her, ready to turn to any spell she might choose.
Oleandra strode into the gloom of the damp dungeons. Pair by pair, braziers flared into flame on either side as she passed, lighting her way as she descended deeper into the castle's depths, until at last the echo of voices ahead reached her ears, and she paused where she stood as indistinct figures emerged at the far end of the corridor.
Before long, Professor Slughorn's rotund silhouette appeared in the light of the sconces' flickering flames, followed by those of her fellow Slytherins, huddled together in fear. Upon noticing Oleandra's solitary figure blocking the path forwards, he froze.
"It's her!"
"That's Oleandra!"
Hushed voices rippled through the crowd of terrified Slytherins. By now, they had all heard at least snippets of Oleandra's victory over the Dark Lord, even though the Carrows had made it perfectly clear that anyone caught spreading such obviously false rumours would be granted an extended visit to the dungeons.
"Where is Daphne?" Oleandra asked coldly.
The crowd parted, and Daphne strode forth, eyes radiating with hatred.
"I'd suggest you make yourselves scarce," Oleandra called to the others, keeping her eyes fixed on her twin sister. "Unless you have a death wish."
As Slytherins were mostly motivated by self-interest, their survival being at the top of their list of priorities, they heeded Oleandra's advice, streaming past her without a second glance back, with Professor Slughorn shuffling hurriedly after them, pulling up his pyjamas legs as he ran.
"Oleandra," Daphne said coldly.
"Voldemort," Oleandra replied just as frostily.
Gaunt's ring gleamed coldly in the torchlight on Daphne's finger as she slowly drew her wand. She was not using the yew wand she had bought from Ollivander's all those years ago, Oleandra noted, and in that moment she realised that, in the split second before his death, Professor Dumbledore might have intended for her to win the wand's allegiance, thereby disqualifying her from becoming the Dark Lady, who was meant to wield a yew wand…
Of course, Loki had been the one to pick it up in the end and, against all expectations, given it to Oleandra so that he might pit her against her sister, just for a lark… but in the end, the Elder Wand had returned to the one to whom it truly owed its allegiance.
Oleandra couldn't help but laugh at the futility of it all. Plans within plans, Professor Dumbledore had already accounted for every eventuality, making arrangements to steer the Wizarding World towards the future he had calculated, ones that would last even months after his own death!
"In the end, that's all any of us amounted to; me, Harry, even you, Voldemort!" she said, laughing ruefully. "Pawns on a chessboard only Professor Dumbledore could see!"
"Lord Voldemort is no man's pawn," Daphne snarled. "The old man died by his machinations, and now, so shall you!"