"No need to trouble your pretty little head," said Wanderer, reclining against the sprawling yew's trunk, his eyes tracking Oleandra as she paced in circles before him. "Today isn't the day we die."
"And how would you know?" Oleandra snapped. "Short of flying out, there's no way we're making it past that many enemies!"
The fort was encircled, with an army of mortal men, Warlocks, and Druids pressing in on all sides. Even if they somehow managed to break through, they'd be run down by horsemen before they could make it far.
As for using stealth…
The first spell to occur to Oleandra was the Disillusionment Charm, but that was out of the question. Oleandra had never been particularly skilled at it, and in broad daylight, the best she could manage was a kind of chameleonic shimmer— which would only make her stand out like a sore thumb and draw the enemy's attention, rather than deflect it.
As for the rune of secrecy, Perthro, its ability to let her walk among foes unnoticed wouldn't be of any help, either. Its magic only worked if the enemy wasn't already aware of her presence… and since Oleandra and Wanderer were actively being watched by a contingent of Druids through the eyes of owl familiars, it certainly wouldn't work.
Wanderer's ravens Huginn and Muninn were doing their best to drive away the owls circling overhead, but they were hopelessly outnumbered.
"The life and death of all things is already written in the stars," said Wanderer mysteriously. "Neither you nor I will die today."
Oleandra knew that all too well, having Divined her own future. Her own death was still a month or two away, after all. But even though her eyes told her Odin was telling her the truth, there existed fates worse than death, and she didn't relish the idea of getting captured again.
"Perhaps flying out of here's the only way," Oleandra muttered. "Accio broomstick!"
The Lord of Cameliard had built his home at the highest point of the fortified hill, next to the yew tree she'd found Wanderer swinging from mere minutes ago. There had to be a broom in there somewhere, right?
"What could you possibly need a broom for?" asked Wanderer, thoroughly mystified.
An old broom came flying out of the longhouse through the window, and Oleandra caught it by the handle. It was nothing more than a gnarled stick with mouldy thatch bound to one end with twine, but it would do at a pinch.
"Do you wish to fly?"
"Who said that?" said Oleandra, startled.
"Who said what?" asked Wanderer, tilting his head to the side in confusion.
Ignoring the strange voice, Oleandra plunged a hand into her pouch and drew out her trusty runecarving knife.
"Raidhu the Riding rune is a given," Oleandra muttered to herself, thinking out loud. "Now, what else would I need to make this bloody wreck float? Maybe Berkana the Tree, and Hagal the Storm… no, that one's too dangerous…"
Oleandra knew how to make objects float, levitate, and fly with wandwork, but she hadn't the knowledge to enchant a broomstick from scratch. She could tinker with a commercial model— etch a few additional runes here and there— but Broomlore was a complex business, which was precisely why flying broomsticks cost a small fortune.
For each broom, over a hundred enchantments would be woven into the wood: Charms to grant it limited cognition; Charms to let it respond to thought; spells for acceleration, braking, cushioning, among others— and naturally, spells of flight. And a plethora of spells of permanence and binding to keep the enchantments long-lasting on top of all that.
"Why limit yourself to flying sticks? You have contracted me. Use me."
There it was again, that voice, those pictures in her head. It reminded her a lot of—
"I am Suit, and you are my contractor, Faerie Oleandra Greengrass of Midgard," said the voice in her ears. "By the magic of the Vanir of Vanaheim and your offering of lifeblood, we are bound under the ancient covenant that governs the Dusk Elves of Svartalfheim and the Lethifolds of the Deep Chasm."
This Lethifold was a lot chattier than her previous one.
"Why didn't you speak up sooner?" Oleandra asked, quickening her pace and rounding the corner of the longhouse to avoid appearing a madwoman, talking to herself in front of Wanderer. "How long have you been with me? And how on earth did you not starve to death!? Cloak the Lethifold needed raw meat once a week!"
Months ago, the Lethifold had hatched from its egg, finding itself alone in the dark, damp shoebox beneath Oleandra's bed late one night. Hungering for food, it slipped out and attacked Millicent Bulstrode— the tastiest morsel in the room by far— before fleeing when Oleandra woke and attacked it.
It had since wandered Hogwarts' halls, sticking to pipes and shadows, hunting rats for weeks on end. Then, as Christmas drew near, it caught the scent of its half-sibling—the Dusk Elf's Lethifold-Manticore hybrid. Just as it glided along the corridor on its way to say hello, a bloodied Oleandra fell on top of it, smearing it with her blood and awakening the magical concord buried deep within its DNA.
Bound by the same magic that enslaved the House-Elves of Alfheim, it had immediately bonded with Oleandra, shielding her from a deadly blow. The next moment, the Dusk-Elf was dead, and they were no longer in the castle, let alone the year 1996— and the rest, as they say, was history.
"I still don't understand why you don't need to eat," said Oleandra, scratching her head in confusion. "And how you learned to speak— Cloak could only communicate through images."
Unbeknownst to Oleandra and Suit the Lethifold, it was not Flobberworm mucus that Oleandra had crossbred with the scrap of Lethifold tissue from Hagrid's icebox during her Bioalchemical experiment— it was some slime mould that the Flobberworm had ingested during Care of Magical Creatures lesson.
Basically, so long as it didn't have to fly or fight, Suit was perfectly content subsisting on Oleandra's bodily fluids and dead skin— which, as a bonus, kept her nice and clean and infection-free.
"That's disgusting," said Oleandra, wrinkling her nose when Suit told her what it ate.
"I learned your language when you went on your very long nap," Suit concluded. "When you fell asleep, your shiny stick started talking to you, so I listened and learned."
"…"
"So, it's your fault my Shadow didn't imprint back onto me!?" shouted Oleandra, grasping at straws to make sense of her failure. "Of all the bloody—!"
At any rate, it wasn't as if everything was lost— Oleandra's little nap hadn't consumed her soul's Shadow on her sword, so she could always try again when she had seven to nine business days to spare!
…
Meanwhile, the enemy's army was gathering at the hillfort's walls… but for some reason, the Muggles among them found they could not advance any closer, even under threat of death. Oleandra's Muggle-Repelling Charm was holding strong!