In the magical discipline of Potioneering, there was one area in which Oleandra could best Daphne without so much as lifting a ladle— antidotes, the one subject the former Lady of the Lake had drilled into her head until she could recite the recipes in her sleep.
Brewing antidotes was a delicate art, demanding careful forethought— each one had to be tailored precisely to the poison, toxin, or venom it was meant to counter. Unfortunately, as her body and mind were both under attack from the inside, Oleandra was in no condition to brew a cup of tea, let alone whip up an antidote.
All that to say, Daphne wouldn't be able to save her with her skills. Most of her talent in Potioneering could be traced back to her forceful absorption of Moste Potente Potions, and since the venerable tome had little to say about antidotes, her skill in the subject was merely passable.
Even so, Oleandra forced herself into the room shared by Daphne, Mafalda, and Tracey, rather than heading straight for the Hospital Wing. In her steadily worsening state, she knew she wouldn't make it a third of the way up the Grand Staircase without collapsing.
"Oleandra?" yawned Tracey, lazily opening her eyes as the room's oil lamps lit up on their own. "What are you— is that blood!?"
Knowing she was in good hands, relief flooded Oleandra's mind, and she subconsciously relaxed. She felt so very tired— her eyelids were closing on their own, and—
…
"Izzit true what they say?" Oleandra heard a man's gruff voice ask. "That eatin' a Greater Fairy's flesh can make yeh immortal?"
"Nah, that's Mermaids," came a second voice, brimming with confidence. "I asked a Roman trader about it once— name of Paullus, I think— an' he told me he tried it once, but it just gave him the runs for a week straight. It's all bollocks."
"Mermaid or Fairy?"
"Mermaid."
Oleandra felt like her mouth was stuffed full of cotton— probably because it actually was. She wasn't restrained with ropes, but she felt like she was being carried under someone's arm. And was it just her, or were these Muggles talking about eating her!?
"I was talking about Fairies, not Mermaids, ya dolt," said the first man insistently. "How can we know for sure eatin' it won't make us immortal, unless we try fer ourselves? Look, that cut's already healing…"
From the Muggles' perspective, Oleandra hadn't moved an inch since they'd knocked her unconscious. But for Oleandra, each time she lost consciousness, she would be flung either backwards or forwards through time, always returning to the exact moment she'd left from.
"In the few minutes she'd been back at Hogwarts, she had managed to swallow a Wiggenweld potion, its healing properties helping to close her wounds and extend the brief window in which she remained conscious.
"Maybe just a taste, cap'n?" a third man's voice said hopefully.
"She looks awfully human, apart from the ears," replied another voice, which belonged to the so-called captain. "Maybe the Druid was wrong— wouldn't be the first time."
Oleandra cracked open one eye.
With her head hanging low, all she could see were the leather boots of her captors pacing beside the man carrying her, and the damp grass shifting beneath them. From the looks of it, they were taking her back alive— which meant they'd have to use the barge to cross the river. Even in her weakened state, Oleandra was certain she could leverage her authority over lakes to command the water to take her away to safety!
"Didn't he say she would try to confuse us, to use her foul magic on us?" said the first man. "Maybe it's a disguise."
"They say Fairies can't tell lies," said the second man thoughtfully. "We could always ask her if she's human, but we can't afford to have her hexing us all over again. My mate Perth once got turned into a newt by a Witch, you know. He was stuck like that for a month."
I know Perth, he's a drinking buddy of mine," said the third man. "Told me it was all a trick. Man's a town guard— never seen a Witch in his life. He just left a newt on his pillow to convince the missus he'd been transformed, to get away from her nagging."
Had she known she was going to be cannibalised, Oleandra would've opened the fight by loudly announcing she was human! But really, who introduces themselves by declaring their humanity? For most two-legged creatures on this planet, being human was sort of the default assumption.
"If any of you lot have any intentions of making it to retirement, forget any notions of consuming this girl's flesh," said the captain sternly. "It's a wonder she's even still alive, considering the Druid's poison on our blades."
"I've been meaning to ask about that," the second man grumbled. "Is the Druid going to compensate us for our weapons? His poison is eating into my blade— see?"
The black metal was tinged orange, its edges chipped where it had clashed with the Sword of the Lake. His blade had faced a weapon far beyond his era, and he was lucky the brittle iron hadn't shattered on impact.
"That's rust, you blithering fool," said the captain angrily. "We were issued iron swords for our special duties, and iron needs to be oiled periodically. Take care of your tools properly, or you're off the team, and you can use bronze weapons just like everyone else!"
The discovery of ironworking marked a turning point in human history. Cold iron—though not quite as lethal as silver—proved particularly harmful to many magical creatures, especially the Fae Folk.
Unlike silver, which required Goblin enchantments to be properly weaponised, iron could be easily shaped into swords and spearheads, making it a far more practical defence against the beings that preyed upon a still-burgeoning humanity.
Even so, at this point in history, not even the most seasoned Wizard would have dared attempt to kill a Greater Fairy— a magically powerful, highly intelligent being with an array of strange and unpredictable abilities. Contrary to the soldiers' expectations, not even one of them had died during their subjugation mission, which put them all in exceptionally high spirits.
"Look at that beautiful sword!" whistled the second Muggle, as he admired his spoils of war, the Sword of the Lake. "It's about the same size as mine, but it's somehow much lighter and stronger. It must be enchanted!"
Viviane had forged the Sword of the Lake from meteoritic iron— purifying, alloying, forging, and quenching it using fifth-century Goblin metalworking techniques, which were comparable to nineteenth-century Muggle technology.
The result was a blade of steel— more precisely, an alloy of iron, nickel, electrum (a blend of Goblin silver and gold), and mithril. With enchantments woven and hammered into the very structure of the metal, and a soul bond formed after Viviane had slept beside the blade for seven days and seven nights, the Sword of the Lake had become all but indestructible.
"Keep the sword if you like it," said the captain. "Keep searching that bottomless pouch of hers for the boy's spear— that's all that truly matters…"
"That stick I found in her pockets seems magical enough," said the first Muggle Oleandra had heard speak. "It makes red sparks when I shake it! Might be for starting fires— I'll keep that."