Chapter Text
Philomel (n.): nightingale.
Severus has been back in England for three weeks when he gets the email.
It’s from an address he doesn’t know—but it’s from the Oxford mail server, and he’s been checking his email every morning with the hope that someone will tell him what happened to the woman he loves, so he opens it. Hope soars in his chest at the first mention of Greece; but, like Icarus in his tattered golden wings, it plummets soon thereafter.
Dear Mister Snape, it says, this is a fwd message from my colleague, Ionna Lykaios, who was present the day Miss Evans disappeared. The attached was found during an X-Ray scan of the statues we discovered that day; I’m led to believe that it was, somehow, embedded into the stone of one of the figures. I have absolutely no idea what to make of it, and neither does she, but we both felt like—no matter its veracity—you deserve to see it.
This gives him pause. See what?
He clicks on the attachment, and his stomach drops.
It’s a scan of what looks to be an ancient roll of papyrus, the edges furled and broken, the center yellow. With his limited historical knowledge, he’d think it an artifact, except for the fact that when he looks to the words written on it, they’re in English.
Moreover, it’s addressed—of all people—to him.
Sev, it reads, and he thinks he might vomit, because only one person in the world still calls (called, he thinks, and then shakes the thought away) him Sev, but that’s impossible, and this has to be some sort of sick prank, and he really, genuinely might vomit.
He reads on.
Sev,
I’m sure you’re confused reading this. Actually, I’m sure you’re downright terrified, which makes sense, considering that English isn’t supposed to exist when I’m writing it , and I’m supposed to be back in England with you (at least, I’d guess you’re back in England by the time this gets to you), and not in the fifth century BCE.
I’ve put together quite the elaborate scheme to get out of my dissertation, wouldn’t you say?
Anyway. I’m writing this to you and instructing my friend and sculptor Remus to put it in one of the statues I saw that fateful day—much to his chagrin, because I suppose it mucks up the composition, but I’m not too worried—because I want you to know that I’m okay. Actually, come to think of it: I’m better than okay.
I’m not going to try and explain what happened that day in Athens because it’s so far beyond my comprehension, but the long and short of it is that I’m very, very far away, and I won’t be coming back; not now, and not ever. But don’t worry for me, and don’t dwell, because I cannot tell you how happy I’ve been. For years and years, in fact, but I know to you it must not be nearly that long. Or, I hope so. I hope this finds you soon after I leave, so that you don’t have to spend too much time wondering if I’m alright.
Before I begin, I do want to say I’m sorry for a few things. I’m sorry that our friendship changed so much. I’m sorry to have left without goodbye, and I’m sorry that you might never even believe what I’m saying now. But oddly enough? I’m not sorry for leaving.
I write this seven years after that day in Tatoi forest. Seven years of my time, that is. I’m thirty-three now, and I’m married to the most wonderful, caring man, and our life is everything I have dreamed of since I was a little girl, wrapping myself up in bedsheet togas, watching Hercules on repeat and declaring myself a descendant of Athena. I am healthy, and I am safe, and I want for nothing. I know it may be hard to understand, but as far as anyone is concerned, I’m exactly where I should be.
The most exciting update by far, though, is this: my son.
I have a son, Sev! He’s the most beautiful boy, going on five years old as I write this, trying to steal my stylus and draw butterflies on the page. He’s a mischief-maker like his father. His Greek name is Charis, but I’ve called him Harry since he was still in my belly. He has my husband’s wonderful messy hair and my eyes. He is smart as a whip and a fantastic little warrior (not allowed near anything sharp, only the sticks he plays with his father). He has so many friends already it astounds me.
He is my joy incarnate.
I won’t get another chance to tell you about my life, though, so I’ll be brief and try to sum up w hat’s happened since I got here. Well, the good parts, anyway. There was some confusion at the beginning that’s since been cleared up.
After the end of the wars (the Greco-Persian, as we know them, which is what I dropped right into), my husband Dimitrios—or, as I call him, James—and I gathered our loved ones and moved to a small island off of Crete, one with tiny villages and comprised mostly of farm country. This was my idea, of course: very few know aside from me, but in about twelve years, the First Peloponnesian war is going to erupt, and I’ve rather had my fill of Grecian wars for this lifetime. We still visit Athens periodically—especially, of course, to look at the sculptures. The Parthenon is set to be built in a few decades, can you believe it? I think James is going to introduce me to Pericles himself—eep!
I’m not sure this will shock you, but I’ve become a teacher. The school is small, only the local children, and it took a long time and many a lecture from James to convince the parents to even consider letting a woman do such a thing. It’s unpaid, of course, but we don’t need the money, and it’s so worthwhile, especially when I get to hold my son’s hand all the way to the small building we use.
I suppose I’m also writing this to tell you that my life here has only confirmed what I’ve always thought was the greatest divide between the two of us: I’ve always found the past so rich, Sev, and its people so fascinating, and you never shared that. You would never be able to live in this era. And that’s okay. I don’t know why the universe chose me to do so, but I know now beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was the right choice.
Sev, I know that you’re going into politics because you don’t ever want to be as powerless as we were in our childhoods. But if there’s one last thing I can ever say to you, let it be this: power is abstract and loosely defined; people, though, are real, and important.
And I mean all people. Not just the people in the House of Parliament.
I’m going to grow old on this island with my family and my friends, and I know that when I do pass away, there will be little record of my life, if any. No museum will show my portrait, and no archive will remember my name. In the grand scheme of “power,” I suppose you could say that I had none.
But I was here, Sev, and I lived. I helped people, and I found love, and I made friends, and I painted finger-paintings with my son and picked berries and laughed in the sunlight. I believe you might think I led a small life. I believe that such a thing doesn't exist.
What I’m trying to say is that you need to make space to hold the people in your life as close as you hold your ideals—because one day, you will be the one who needs to be held, and I want you to have people in your life that will do that for you.
I know I do.
All my love,
- Lily