Ignoring the hissing of Nagini coiled at his feet, the mind of Voldemort strays to that night, a mere week ago. Soaked from the rain with garments covered in mud and grime, Gibbon and Quilliam Arnold had returned to Dommere on that stormy night. The dour-faced Gibbon bowed before the Dark Lord along with the arrogant Garrick Arnold.
"Did you acquire the rune?" Voldemort's crimson serpent eyes blazed in eagerness.
"Yes, Milord," Gibbon quietly answered and reached into the crevice of his cloak to remove a velvet pouch. "Might I approach, Dark Lord?"
Before Voldemort can speak, Quilliam Arnold eagerly says, " Milord, I would be honored to place the item in thine hands."
Voldemort curtly gestured to Quilliam Arnold to do so, who eagerly took the velvet pouch from Gibbon and hurried forward. Quilliam Arnold, with zealous, fervent eyes, placed the velvet pouch in the spider-like hands of Voldemort before returning to his post with a deep bow.
The velvet pouch is not as light as it seems. With care, Voldemort opens the pouch and pulls the gray stone out into the light. The gray stone hangs on a simple leather string. The stone pendant is carved with the rune of Algiz. At the center of the pendant, there is a large Algiz rune surrounded by smaller runes supporting the main Algiz rune.
Ever cautious, Voldemort casts various spells on the rune to ensure the rune held no curses or ill enchantments upon the stone. Feeling only benign magic, he put the pendant on. A sigh of relief escaped his thin lips as the second the pedant touched his chest; he felt the simmering rage begin to immediately cool.
"Both shall be properly rewarded," Voldemort said as he gazed down at the two wizards. "What boon may I grant my trustworthy Lieutenants?"
"The position is sufficient grace to be bestowed upon us," Gibbon quickly answered not daring to ask for more. The face of Gibson blanches at seeing that Quilliam Arnold has not done the same.
"What does your heart desire, Arnold?"
"Master," Quilliam Arnold knelt onto the floor, "when the time comes, please allow me to accompany you faithfully on your endeavor."
"Such a small thing is easily granted," Voldemort responded, "I shall permit thine accompaniment."
Quilliam Arnold gazes worshipfully at the Dark Lord. "I am honored beyond words by thine grace, Master."
Gibbon keeps his thoughts to himself and buries them quickly. But in the depths of his heart, he called Quilliam Arnold a fool. The Dark Lord was a moving target capable of withstanding any attack, but they? Well, there was no need to answer that question.
"Rise and rest, my loyal Death Eaters, you have more than earned a good night's rest," Voldemort graciously ordered.
"Thank you, Master!" Garrick Arnold happily said as he rose to his feet, but Gibbon remained silent and hesitant.
Noticing the hesitation upon Gibbon's face, the crimson serpent eyes of Voldemort narrow dangerously. "Have you kept something from me, Gibbon?"
"No, Milord!" Gibbon answered in aghast fluster and pale. "It is merely that the Völva warned that the pedant is only a temporary solution," he hesitated to speak out loud the old crone's warning.
"And what else?" Voldemort sharply inquired.
"Those touched by Death were never intended to walk the path of peace."
Irked, Voldemort arose to his feet, causing Gibbon to tremble and fall to his knees. Without care or any gentleness, Voldemort tore through the mind of Gibbon to find what he sought. The image of a warm cave appears in his mind as if in a dream. The inside of the cave is painted beautifully recounting the tales of the past and the future to come.
The sound of a brook running through a part of the cave is bubbly and cheery. The air smells of drying and scented herbs. The ground of the cave is stone, clean without nary a trace of dirt or mildew.
A breeze flutters the robes of Voldemort, who suddenly finds that the ground beneath his feet is firm. He whirls around in shock as his crimson serpent eyes widen in disbelief. He had never heard of such magic, yet here he was! He instinctively reaches for his wand, only to find he has none.
Feeling anger well up in his chest, a sickening tightening of his stomach, the stench of fear. Refusing to be weak, Voldemort storms further into the cave only to find a tall, slender crone with faded, curly strawberry blond hair. The crone, despite the lines upon her face is alluring and had been a great beauty in her youth.
"Sit," the Völva gestured to the seat directly opposite of her.
Voldemort slowly approached, studying every single inch of the crone before him. The Völva wore a blue dress with crimson embroidery. Her feet are bare, yet remain perfectly clean, with several silver toe rings on each foot. On her chest, there hangs a silver amulet with the sign of a chair to symbolize the seat where the Völva sit to deliver their prophecies. Her gloved hands hold an intricately carved staff. And at her waist hangs a belt with a leather purse containing herbs and poisonous henbane seeds.
Gingerly sitting down, Voldemort gazes at the Norse sorceress and seer before him. "I know no magic that can transport another through the mind. A vision, a dream, or is this something else?"
"Yes and no," the Völva patiently answered. There was no need to explain to him the realm of the dreamscape. The power of the dreamscape would only serve to become corrupted and twisted in his hands.
Voldemort waited for further explanation but never received one. The sounds of the brook in the background are soothing, but only serve to irk him that much more. Weary of waiting for a response, he finally says, "Why am I here?"
"I was curious," the Völva earnestly replied.
"Curious?"
"Yes, I wished to see with my own eyes, the one touched by Death."
At the mere mention of Death, a shiver runs down the back of Voldemort. He unwittingly recalled the shadow that had followed him in the home of the Gaunts. That shadow had disappeared, and yet at times he seemed to imagine the shadow of the corner of his eye.
"Touched by Death?" Voldemort sneered. "I have overcome Death."
A rueful chuckle escaped the lips of the Völva. "The Broken Serpent cannot escape his fate. The forsaken gather anew as Fate weaves her tapestry. Destiny is not yet written in the stars."
A dread of anger flashes across Voldemort's face, who sullenly says, "I fear no prophecy! I defy them!"
"A boy once came to me, who vowed to defy fate. He failed." A cold and terrible smile appeared on the Völva's face. "And now he rests, caged in the highest tower of Nurmengard."
The crimson serpent eyes of Voldemort widened at catching the reference to Gellert Grindelwald. His pale, thin lips press painfully together. He does not dare believe, yet he dares not to disbelieve the words of the Völva either.
"Sorceress," Voldemort dropped all pretense of civility, "what role do I have to play? Tell me," He demanded.
The Völva rejoined, "Three vessels touched by death were chosen, the broken serpent, the roused lion, and the three-faced runespoor chosen to vanquish the Forsaken." Yet she was far from merciful and had no reason to recount the entire prophecy to such a rude, boorish fellow. She broke no law by keeping her peace.
"The Forsaken-?" Voldemort opened his mouth to ask for details, before snapping it shut. His crimson serpent eyes raced upon recalling the abominable existence of THEM. The puppet master, who attempted to make him their puppet.
"The broken serpent already sees, no?" The Völva derided.
Voldemort glares fiercely at the old crone but does not retort. The sorceress had reminded him of the danger of the forsaken. They had already attempted to take him once. Without a doubt, they would only redouble their efforts.
"I thank thee for the reminder, Völva," Voldemort stiffly murmured and bowed his head rigidly to the old crone. He had vowed never to bow his head to anyone ever again, yet here he was doing so again.
"A word of caution to this tale," the Völva crooned, "the three-faced runespoor is needed."
The brow of Voldemort deeply furrows. He must have encountered the three-faced runespoor in person. The question was who?
"Broken serpent, you have overstayed your welcome," the Völva firmly declared and raised her magic staff into the air, before slamming the staff to the ground.
In a blaze of light, Voldemort was sent away without an opportunity to ask more. The dream ended, and he found himself exactly where he had stood previously without so much as a second seemly to have passed. He instantly dismissed Quilliam Arnold and Gibbon, who was unsteady on his feet and had to be carried out by Quilliam Arnold.
Once the two Death Eaters are gone, Voldemort quietly says, "Nagini, did you sense anything amiss while I gazed into the mind of Gibbon?"
"There was no foul scent of anything amiss," Nagini hissed and tasted the air again with her tongue.
Voldemort knew of no magic to describe what had just transpired but it had. It would appear he still had much to learn. Filled with a feverous purpose, that day Voldemort began to study magic again with renewed vigor. It did not bode well for his enemies.