#see? who who is the call of the owl. and in your truth-seeking frenzy you took not one second to look upon the noises of your own maw --

[zhongli-lover-69]

no pressure tags! @rabbitmotifs @corvids-corner @seafoamwolf @theautistichalflinghole

Not me having some kinda type... Who shall I tag? I think I wanna tagggggg... @mybugsmybugsmybugs @mexicangela @lunar-years @biscuitboxpink but no pressure!! I just thought it would be fun!

[atelier-bagur]

Silence and Blood

Hey guys! Me and @shiitaketissues (who deserves a BIG Thank You!) wrote a spoopy little story based on the world of Beyond the Western Deep. The story takes place during the years of the great war in the Four Kingdoms, in an alternate universe where monsters and magic exists as well as a human race called the Nadir. It deals with an Ermehn alchemist named Bagúr, a infamous witch who serves as Sratha, the Ermehn War Lord’s right hand man.

In this world, Dunians have the power to conjure magic, with each race catering to certain specific schools. The Nadir for example are the only ones within this world to use “spirit magic”. Bagúr however, is the only non-Nadir who learned how to wield this power....this tale explains how...

Kalik was too nosy for his own good. Even Rasha, his favorite cousin, thought so. “Listen,” she said, hefting her knife. “Stealing supplies from a Canid camp and cutting off Granduncle’s whiskers was one thing, but this is another. Nosy Ermehn end up dead.” But Kalik was the type of Ermehn who felt an itch in the bottom of his feet when he smelled a secret, an itch that crawled up his hide and pricked him every which way until he had weaseled into a truth, and no amount of advice would keep him from it. He had his teeth and his knife. No one needed anything else for secret-seeking.

It was on the cusp of autumn that Sratha’s army slaughtered a tribe of Halvs for helping some Canid. The group—all elders, parents, and children—was dead within in a day. Their bodies lay scattered around their tents and huts. Several of them slumped halfway out of their tents. None of them had been able to run. Kalik almost felt pity for their strange, smooth skin and their nonexistent muzzles. No wonder they wore so many clothes, he thought. They could never face the cold otherwise. He and Rasha hung back from the scattered bodies when their alchemist, Bagúr, approached an old chieftain: the last of the Nanza tribe left.

Bagúr studied the old man’s face. Kalik thought the old man looked ready to spit on him. The splotch of blood on his temple did nothing to hide his furrowed brows of disgust. He clutched his cane with gnarled hands, bent with the knowledge of being the last one left. Charms hung around his wrinkled neck. The circle of weapons pointed at the old man grew sharper in the fading light.

Bagúr smiled. It was a polite smile, almost. He leaned down, hands on his knees, to look the old man in the face. The amber clasp on his cloak and the beads on his necklace rattled against the hollow of his collar. His teeth were as polished as his jewelry.

“If those Canid hadn’t come here,” he said, “we probably would've left you Halvs all alone.”

The old man hunched lower. Kalik spotted a tremor in his veiny hands. Nadirians of any tribe hated being called Halvs. Still, he remained silent. Bagúr, being Bagúr, gave him a teasing look that could draw blood. His tail swished behind him.

“Still with the silent act?” Bagúr said. “It’s a shame it came to this. You know, your lot could have lived a little longer if you hadn’t stuck to old traditions and saved yourselves.” He straightened up, disgust tightening the corners of his mouth. “We’re done here. Kalik, Rasha: take him to the camp. He’s our mandatory guest. The rest of you, clean this mess up. Halvs are bad enough when they’re not cluttering our land.”

With that, the alchemist padded back towards the woods. The Ermehn murmured. As Kalik and Rasha escorted the old man out, the rest of the Ermehn warriors began piling bodies on the edge of the sticky glade. Kalik found himself watching Bagúr’s disappearing back as much as their prisoner. An evening breeze nipped at their faces. The old man shuddered. His bare brown skin was already breaking out in goosebumps. Rasha gave Kalik a look. Can you believe this? He’s already cold.

How strange Halvs were, with their crescent trimmed claws and too-long manes that only clung to their heads. In fascination, Kalik watched the chieftain—now a lone old man—shiver in the autumn twilight. The itch sparked in Kalik’s feet. He knew the rumors behind Bagúr’s powers. He knew the ones about their alchemist somehow using Halv magic, too. Bagúr did not need anything from anyone. What, Kalik thought, could he possibly want from an old man?

It was a stupid plan so Rasha refused to join the stakeout. She did not want to know what their commander was up to. Kalik didn’t begrudge her too much. It was not her fault that only one of them could be the bravest cousin. To spare himself a slap, he didn’t tell her that. Kalik settled down in one of the fortress’ many nooks. There was an armory beside the main hall that he was fond of. If he pressed his slinky back against its corner just right, he could smell spiderwebs and dried mud making the scent of home. He could also peer through a knothole into the small main hall. If anyone was going anywhere, he would see them. Night settled onto the fortress. It pressed its shadows into every crook and crack of the fort. A chill sunk into the stone floor. Kalik curled close to himself to stay warm. Outside, those in their tents were doing the same thing. Darkness swallowed the room around him.

It was in the middle of the night, when the floor was coldest and the dull moon was dullest, and no one but the restless were up, that Kalik heard footsteps. He peered through the knothole. Bagúr walked down the hall. His cloak gave the faintest swish against the floor. As Kalik watched, Bagúr passed the door to the dungeon. Kalik frowned. Where was he going? The main door creaked. Dusty moonlight spilled into the hall. In seconds, the alchemist slipped outside.

Kalik scrambled down the hall. He squeezed through the door without missing a breath. Outside the fort, the waning moon cast its light against the forest. Sheets of white broke against the fort’s rocks and the sides of tents. Bagúr was already entering the forest.

Was it a bad idea, to follow their alchemist commander into the woods? Probably. Kalik followed him anyway. Bad ideas were untested good ones until they drew blood. Kalik, uninjured, decided to continue moving forward. Bagúr was not too hard to track. His cloak outlined his shape in the broken moonlight. The shriveling conifers around them made a snug, sharp forest. Kalik wound around loop after twisty loop as he trailed his quarry into the woods. They lost the stars to clearer skies. Owls screamed in the murk.

Kalik’s belly scraped along some of the tight, low paths they snuck along. The forest floor smelled of glacier water. No ermehn had been here for a long time. Kalik sniffed. Had someone left a slain bird out here? The stench of rot was soft but present. It snuck beneath the glacier water smell like dirt beneath Kalik’s claws. The longer he walked, the stronger the rotten smell grew. It reminded Kalik of the maggoty grouse he had found as a child. Rasha had been with him, then. He wished she was here now.

Kalik stopped when a twig snapped beneath his foot. Bagur had vanished. Kalik swore. How had he lost track of him? One moment the alchemist had been there, the other he was gone. The empty path in front of him threaded deeper into the woods. Kalik restrained his panic. If he didn’t turn around he could only move forward. He did not know where he was going, or what turns to take when he found them. It was too late to go back now. Kalik forged forward. His footfalls sounded incredibly loud to himself. No matter how far he walked, lost and alone, he found no other sounds of life.

Wind hissed in his ear. Kalik found his teeth chattering. He bit his lip, stopping himself. What was wrong with him? It was too early in the season for this. He was no furless Halv. Still, the cold air raked his belly like so many claws. The wind tasted of winter. Kalik found himself hunching to avoid it. His whiskers quivered. The way the wind broke around the trees in hollow gasps made it shrill, almost melancholy. Kalik did not want to hear its whispering.

The forest thinned. Patches of the starless sky shone on them. An undercurrent of red tinged the night. It was not dawn’s blush. The red here was the red of a stomped-on egg that had been close to hatching. Kalik finally straightened up. He started when he saw the path ahead. It swept around the side of a familiar fallen log. This was the same road he and Rasha had stalked down for the camp ambush. The glade of fallen Halvs lay up ahead. Bunches of shimmery light, stars wrapped up in beetle shells, floated inside the glade. They drifted behind trees and the remains of tents, toying with Kalik’s eyes. If Bagúr was here, why? Kalik realized his heart was pounding. The smell of rotten flesh overpowered his nose.

Curiosity won out over fear. Kalik crept towards the glade. He hid behind the same hut where a family of three had died not a day ago. Arborglyphs oozed on the sides of trees. Kalik did not know their shapes. Crunching noises emitted from the center of the glade. If Kalik leaned over, he could spy an edge of the body pile, surrounded by what appears to be little rock effigies. Their shapes carved a border against the ugly sight. Kalik could not see anything else. The crunching noises continued. A hand landed among the stones. Its fingers reached at nothing. Kalik slowly walked around the hut’s side and into the glade.

The heap of dead Nanza tribe members stared at him. Their limbs stuck out from the pile at all angles. Blood soaked the ground around them. Strange rock effigies were scattered around the glade, and in the middle of the them danced Bagúr. Gore dyed his chin. With every swaying step he took, he tore a limb or hunk of meat from a fallen Halv, feasting on their corpses. Marrow and skin peeled beneath his teeth. Flesh tore; bones broke. Flickering blue orbs swayed around him in the reddened night sky. They hummed to his frenzied motions. Bagúr twirled and pranced to a horrible music that only he could hear; after he snatched one hand and devoured it, fingers breaking in his jaws, he was already lunging for another body, his cape twirling. He blended with the red sky before he twisted his waist, breaking into his own reality. No pupils marred his eyes. Death’s stench swallowed everything.

It was a monstrous display, but Kalik could not look away. His stomach heaved. Shock bound him to the place he stood, trembling, as all the while his body screamed run, run, run. He watched his commander cavort through the ritual like a hawk tearing into grouse nestlings. A dawning realization melded with his horror. This grotesque ritual was the price his alchemist—this witch—paid to wield the power of the halvs. No Ermehn, no Dunian, could hold the blessings of spirits in their bodies naturally. But were they to consume Halv flesh, drink their blood, and claim part of their being, then they stole magic from the very corpse that owned it.

Kalik was too transfixed to move. When he saw the madman reach towards a half-gutted chest, his claws sinking into a liver, it was enough. Kalik ripped himself away. His legs shook as he tried not to be sick. Every inch of his fur was on end. Kalik tore around the corner of the hut. With a thump, he slammed into the old man’s chest.

One eye was gone. A raw crater dented the old man’s face instead. His windpipe slumped out of his throat, scored with teeth marks. Deep scratches cleaved his collar. Glazed eyes gazed forward at nothing. A half-eaten hand grabbed at Kalik. Shattered bone scraped his arm. In the woods behind him stood countless more rotten, hollow-eyed corpses, balefully staring at Kalik from behind trees. They were silent and still even as the old man grasped Kalik’s arm.

Kalik swallowed a scream. He lashed out at the old man, kicking at him, tearing his face with his claws. The old man stumbled back. Kalik fled into the woods. The world blurred around him. A branch tore his kilt. The road spiraled into broken fragments that went nowhere. Kalik tripped, rolling down a short hill. In moments he was up again, ignoring the taste of copper on his tongue and the rip in his ear. He fled forward into nowhere. All the while, he heard the garbled sound of everyone in the Nanza village screaming at once, and pictured the flash of stained fangs.

The next morning, the alchemist was early to breakfast. He cheerily greeted everyone at the table before seating himself. Rasha could not find her cousin. She searched and searched until she found him curled in the corner of their armory.

“Kalik, what’s wrong?” she said. Rasha knelt next to him, her bracelets jangling. “What did you see?”

Kalik said nothing. He peered out a knothole in the wall before sinking back into his corner. Despite Rasha’s coaxing he would not go to breakfast. He only ate when she told him their alchemist was gone.

Over time, Kalik recovered. But from then on he was thin and quiet. His gaze was nervous, always focused on something in the corner of his eye, and his whiskers had gone white. He no longer adventured with his cousin. Whatever happened in the woods, Rasha said to their nieces, changed him for the rest of his life. And if they ever woke up one autumn night, and saw Bagúr the witch sneaking out into the woods, they would be wise not to follow him.

[cto10121]

The Riddle of Man

Fandom: Harry Potter Genre: Poetry Sites: ao3, ff.net Ships: Tom/OC, Tom/Bellatrix, Harry/Ginny Summary: An orphaned boy rises to become the most powerful and feared wizard of his age. But when he hears a prophecy about a boy destined to defeat him, his own deadly action spells his undoing. Or should we say, his inaction? The true story of the man who became Lord Voldemort. AU. OOC for good reason. 

A/N: This is the impostume of reading too much Shakespeare, which outward breaks and knows not why potential readership dies. But for those who don’t mind this weird marriage of poetry and fanfic, here it is. For anyone unused to verse, try reading aloud, softly, to yourself. It will make better sense that way.

The Riddle of Man

Though oft the sweet-sung tale of late renown Among our common laud, a troubled mind Did lead me once to quiet witness sound, Whose tale obscure too late did wisdom find, Ere he was laid on fruitless ground to rest: So this, in’s memory, I’ll tell to test. 

There lived a boy of raven hue, whose eyes All eyes did draw to praise, like midnight sheer On iv’ry marble smooth, that, realized, Did show to all his beauty’s moonlight clear. And groped to him describe in just compare, As dark Adonis of renownèd fair.   

His charms did charm, his pleasing wit bewitched, Enchanting craft which swiftly won the grace Of wondered wizard and of swooning witch, Which easy skill had shown the telling trace Of ancient Slytherin, his mother’s line, That all gave due to noble blood’s divine. 

His talent known, at school he rose to fame, For in all of curse and jinx and hex excelled, And there grew known his stranger’s Muggle name, Though in his vein coursed blood of Peverell. And soon him followed in a loving throng A motley court that sued for favor longed. 

A love had he, one Coralina Smith, Niece to old Hepzibah, Hufflepuff’s heir. Though Slytherin-sorted, of cunning pith, Her heart was golden gentleness’ fair. Her grace he wooed, courted, and present won, And with her went after schooling done. 

But lo, it cannot be that matchless form Can spotless match within; for violent birth Of need-imbibed desire, like the worm, Does seethe and chafe to prove its scanted worth In ancient world of magic’s right and might, Where strong seize all, and weakling fall from sight. 

So young Tom Riddle (hight) like fury strove At Borgin’s worked till morning’s shadow eye, His lover like a wife, balm to his behove, His confidante in every act and lie. This love like coin resembled, on each side, Where mirror twins of blackest fair resides.

“Master Burke for your advancement speaks,” Said she in whispered confidence of bed, “A vacancy, which falls on thee to seek! Lest some popinjay take it in thy stead; For even lowly Ministry hire May rise to fill his dark desire.” 

So up, our Tom preferred, like blooming rose, Or special magnet which success draws near, Or moon the ocean’s tide attracts it close, Did climb to ranks of rank ambition’s dear, Which seeks the earthly fruit of polis crown That grants immortal heights from humble ground. 

A politic career had made him well, And soon a loyal twelve, who called him lord, Of talent profit and in leisure dwell, With selfsame hungry want for power’s hoard. And in this pledge did swear to serve ‘a true At his command by wand of phoenix yew. 

What then, in spring success, could augur bring? His lover now his wife, his lordship’s queen; The Phoenix order fled on frighted wing, The Ministry at heel, his power seen; Why, then, this leaden flash, this dew of cold, That harrows up the bone to press him old? 

“A prophecy, my lord.” Thus plague begun. His man Severus, bone-white, spoke in few: “Your death’s proclaimed by newborn summer son, Whom you must end, or risk your state undo. This Sibyl Trelawney with rasping speech Spoke fearful fortune; hear it, I beseech. 

“The sons of these two enemies, both alike In dignity and danger they present: Fair Longbottom, and Potter in his spite, Which your success they bitter most resent: As families of ancient line and clout, Your hard-won right they scorn, your blood they doubt. 

“O, good my lord, do not this augur heed, The vague pronouncement of uncertain word, To mark each penny-filching doctor’s greed And loose your judgment to reason most absurd. For augurs are like rakehell oaths, all bawds, And this Trelawney shy of certain fraud. 

“O, yet while you’ve your strength, take care defend The triumph of your state through power’s just! For sudden acts precipitate their end, Like lover’s frenzy dead in passion’s dust. What need, therefore, to spur from glory’s sun, And plan a fell attack on Lily’s son? 

“Darling Lily’s son, and Longbottom’s too, Are nothing to your lordship’s grace compared; Say they’ll grow to do you wrong, say that’s true: ��Tis common known that common ends by rare. Your patience stay; but if you needs must act, On Longbottom fall your preventive tact. 

“Your mercy, lord, commends your mercy’s grace, In granting me your humble servant’s plea, To spare that love that love itself did lace With beauty’s rose and fortune’s starry lea. Then in your wisest censure judge Whether greater lord would lesser plea begrudge.” 

“I do conceive,” (this in reply), “thy plight, Severus; so I here confess me free From fond gain-giving or too-credent fright In piercing shallow mists of prophecy. For when I give consent to fear invest Pronounce me bankrupt in both wit and rest.” 

And yet it’s often seen that jealousy, When faced with Fortune’s accidents, Runs sweaty mind with sharp conspiracy, And nurtures compost seeds of false intent. So ‘twas the seeress proved her risky lie, When both that month his motion’s plans defied. 

To Dumbledore the fam’lies swore an oath, And joined his Phoenix order to prevent The fearful promise of his office troth: By courting the pureblood constituent, Prestige and power gain, in nation rule, And nevermore play fortune’s motley fool. 

But dark and queer, the dreams that haunt the life, Like swinging pendulum of nightmare trance! So deep his brood it did alarm his wife, Who stayed the loose-held reigns of augured chance To tell him this: “This seeress is but light; Stay, therefore, do not order judgment’s flight. 

“’Tis always been the truc of prophecy, Itself to realize its self’s belief With vague announcement garbed as certainty, Of which, for proof, their own self proof is chief. Thus builds a hollow case in iron proof, Like lawyer’s edifice’s absent roof. 

“To do this deed, your credit would undo, Which yet some eye of public favor holds, For trophies, trinkets, offices that honor you Their luster lost, their waste is present sold. Advancement by this act so would fly Your fortune forfeit, that hour’s honor dies. 

“I say this not to stay, oh, understand, Thy mounting name; but thou must yet fear With too-small pause to dye thy spotless hand, And easy fall in murder’s blackened smear. Oh, do not thee so: For all greatness must The jealous mass attract like scented lust. 

“This Sibyl is a punk, a drab, a pass, Who never spoke in life a word of truth: Cassandra’s blood, though not her See she has, And so she’s worked as pandlar-bawd since youth. To credit her a minute past her rate, Would soon reduce ye to a beggar’s state.”

“This advice of caution’s well” (so spoke he) “And therefore caution will I best employ: To crush the bud before it flowers me With pestilence, else spell my end in joy. For sickness left untendered deathly rage To leave one simple mark upon a page.” 

“Wilt thou aid me, Cora? Dost thou approve?” They clinging fast, a little world in room, And, silent, understood the force which moves The trembling thread through steady weaving loom, And weave the silky purse with icy will Which glory’s expectation helps keep still.

II.

The night of Hallows’ Eve drew velvet black. The moon, forewarned, had cloaked herself from see; In laden streets a masquerade was wracked Like glimm’ring jewels in solemn ebony.   But lo, how starless was this hallowed night, As if these loyal guards had quit in fright! 

And if some common portents there were seen, As owl’s daylight pass or talking horse; The dire thunderclap, the lone wolf’s keen, A ghost relating horror in blank verse, None bore the fruit of witness or of deed; But horror more than these did proceed. 

And, ghosting, cloaked through village festive’s streets, The riddle walked with slow, ungainly tread. A flask through gripless fingers, flavored sweet, Empty rang the streets as slipping courage fled. Each step proclaimed: Let fall life, usher death, For only fools dare barter precious breath. 

A child, no more, a life to say but one, Untested thought that grows in’s promise doubt. Then kind enough t’eclipse this flaming son, Lest fiery growth in danger scorch him out. What lacks he, then, but strength of chosen will, To banish evil life with goodly kill? 

Fair or dark, dark and fair, or darkly fair, To ravel future fall from stars divine; Which peril’s boy discern, which wizard’s heir Would one day claim, “This life were mine”? And then unbidden came the knowing spark – Fair and dark had fought; so won the dark. 

The hallowed Hollow in evening’s Hallow, Rose rosy vision of a mountain mist. Whiskey quickened blood and breathing shallow, The web of fogging doubt that must desist. Till in his memory’s abstract lived this creed: To never stay till ending of this deed. 

So banish doubt, sink feeling to the bone; And flaming mind abate with cooling patience. Make lily-livered heart to practice stone, Leave mother mercy off with temperance. And should in this endeavor triumph can, You’d prove yourself a more than mortal man. 

Within was dark without a sound. A chance Of pause him stayed: Was this a trap, a trick? Had the Potters warning of his advance? A furious stream of light replied, a lick Of smarting curse – the jealous father stood, Armed and ready to defend his brood. 

No discourse, all instinct, marked the first exchange, And silent house her secret soon disclosed. They fought as teething beasts, deranged, Where one opponent fell, the other rose. Till both in struggle had about the neck; A moment’s beat before the fatal wreck. 

The flash of jade this shattered mirror caught, The slash that chasm tore the living place – What eye would horror glimpse, received unsought, The cleanly break’s irrevocable case? The body fell, and so fell too marred youth, That bit of soul that so betrayed its truth. 

In silence rang, though never heard, the moan Whose mournful treble for her husband’s death Would have stole the general ear and sown In ev’ry sleeping conscience anguished breadth, And make the stones themselves on murder cry Which joined his racing blood where conscience lies. 

The lick of flame that vanished on the stair At his trespass and sequent wizard’s duel Now flashed in desp’rate quickness ‘round the fair It gilded, like porcelain of queenly rule, Now fleshly pale at horror’s hasty side Her tender hidden from the wicked hide. 

“Desist, depart,” she cried. “No more, I pray – Take me instead; I do throw my life of care, And your hand upon my head fear not stay. But not my boy, no, not my son, him spare, And I will do you any service, now, So changing mercy with a servant’s vow.” 

“I have no quarrel nor no use for thee,” Quoth he. “Stand aside. Mercy will I give If thou my business let unhindered free, ‘Less like thy husband thou wilt scorn to live. So quit thy begging – no, I cannot hear – Leave hanging from my sleeve, come not so near.” 

“Kind master, good lord,” she sobbed. “Don’t refuse; You cannot be so kindless, no, you must, Nor can you my frankness so abuse And kill for naught the simplest sense of just. Have pity, then, upon my state, have soul, Which you know I know you have, that yet is whole. 

“Or better still, take him alive; how great Your triumph then, to turn a dreaded foe To friend, to son, to chief of highest state; How can he turn, raised to love you so? For all the best do know for war to end You must a present foe turn future friend. 

“Oh, raise him, then, be father and mother To him, and use me as pleases your will: As your servant, woman, both, or other, At table, bed, or secretary’s quill, At hand to do whatever needs be done, So long as he may live your honored son.” 

“What mother mothered, what father fathered! When I was this boy’s age, a stranger filled My cup of need along with several others Orphaned by indifferent fortune, whose will Decreed the curse of life of endless want!” This spoke with maddened eye and favor gaunt. 

“Be grateful, then, thy son will never know The orphan plight of raising tear-flesh shame, That must surrender constant proof, or grow In banished self the cancer of his name. Such little lives in fettered darkness lead, That souls that leave are blinkered by their need. 

“Forbear! Thou silly wench, think’st thou me kind? This kindness lost, if ever had, is bar To acts of heightened pitch which will find A greater glory reaching farther star. Then come what fate and sorrow follow: Beyond them lies the hope of better morrow.” 

So shoved she aside, but no sooner done Than she with stinging hex attempted wide, Which, blocked, ended what had scarce begun: Avada Kedavra answered her pride. And struck her to the core of living life The light extinct with cut of fiery knife. 

And this exchange the child witnessed all, Unknowing eyes that nursed the wounded gash And humor mild at his mother’s fall, Consumed by eerie glow of em’rald lash, Which stole his loyal mother from his right Into the plunge of everlasting night.

The murderer, the infant in its crib, For a moment’s beat formed a painted scene, As if the sortilege of fate had dimmed And froze the famous pair in Avada-green. A frescoed Tom and Hal in rival’s sort: The Boy-Who-Lived with so-called Voldemort.

But as we know from ancient faded writ, That time-worn tales do lose their little truth, Traditions turning legend, legend myth, Till age gives faded fancy fancy’s youth, So too this tyrant-beast, so hight, did stay Like statue frozen: Nothing neither way. 

Nothing! Yes, nothing. Wracked in wonder, I Made question, disbelieved this calm report. But him I sounded, with a saddened eye, Knew I knew him true on Voldemort. He stayed his fell, and hidden world did see This Voldemort turn present Voldevie. 

Unseeing stared at the unheeding boy; The moments rolled and lengthened to a crawl. The child, smiling, proffered him his toy,  A furry griffin wrapped in crimson shawl. As if in friendly peace and gesture just, To stranger, if his liking tended thus. 

Decline your wand of yew; it’s over now. Do not with vainest show a falsehood keep. In war a soldier fights to hold his vow, But ever after never finds his sleep. For who would, kindless, innocence slaughter In guise of potential son or daughter? 

He thought on Cora, on himself, his state, The sibyl’s oracle, Snape’s petition. But as he anguished, there heard Apparate The Phoenix, which surrounded the partition. Which forced him to employ his plan’s escape, With friends to hide, join Cora, send for Snape. 

Round, like a circle in a spiraled wheel, The space constricted in an eyelash wink, Through coaxing whirl its spinning thread unreels His liquid essence pooling in a sink, Until the hearth of Riddle House appeared At Cora’s feet, demanding him her fear. 

“I heard rumors from the Hollow,” she said, Pale as ash. “Thou quakest with fear, thy favor’s wild. What happened? Are thou hurt, are they dead? The Phoenix is called; didst thou kill the child?” “No,” he groaned. “No, no. Cora, I am through. I’ve murdered sleep, and sleeping killed I you.” 

“What speech is this? My lord, you shake. Do bend Your discourse into some frame; what occurred? The night’s bleak horrors could no spell forfend; The elves did tremble at each trifle heard. Is the mission undone? Yet tell me so, So flee this place, to further safety go.” 

“Ay, ay, to flee,” he breathed. “We must, ‘tis true. But let us not, sweet wife, ourselves deceive. Forbear all counsel. Here’s my wand of yew: Perform Priori, then break it. Conceive, And let us haste, and there embrace our doom: A burdened life, which must in us assume.” 

Gone was the triumph that had come before, Gone were the fruits of warlike state enjoyed, Gone were safety, peace, the sanctum’s core, The undefiled piece of man and boy. Hope forsaken, vows forsworn, lives undone, They to shadows turned from midnight sun. 

III.

Alone, forsook, in tower languishing, Beneath a sky that held no hint of peace. What little hope that keeps from perishing In’s shrunken breast the fine of shortened lease, Did pace in fev’rish-ill round restless cage, While cold-eyed stars played witness to his rage. 

His orders foiled, his men in blind retreat; His Cora gone, and Severus long since fled; The Hogwarts siege a failure uncomplete, And on each side the living reckoned dead. Now warlike Harry, in his eager pride Flies to Riddle House with heated stride. 

Or so spake rumor; he no longer knew The diff’rence ‘tween a moonlit night and noon, Between autumnal’s chill and springtime dew, Between a loyal man and sycophant’s croon, But dealt each toy with jealous sputt’ring rant, Spurned good and ill alike in scornful cant. 

“What, Yaxley! Malfoy! Rosier! Are all fled? A pox ‘a fops and gulls that cannot stand! Fie, Bella, dost thou hear? Thy husband’s dead, And would his fellows proved so true a man! Go to and hang, ye lily-livered knaves! Is this to pay the graciousness I gave? 

“What, Nott defaulted too? Then traitors, hence! O shamed deceit, these yellow whoreson curs, That feel sans feeling, lose their common sense!” He beat his chest; his lover too did hers, And brought his person level to her eyes, Who comfort gave to ease his great despise.

“Have cheer, my good lord, all is not lost yet; The beasts are fresh, the battle scarce begun; But give me leave to seek out Marsenet – Prithee, lord, give me leave to seek our son, Whom honor pricks in mortal vengeful plan, Seeking young Potter’s death at thy command.” 

“Bella, do not stir from hence! Thee I told A thousand times remain, and so thou wilt; Let Marse his importunity strike bold; Fiori has too much his mother’s milk. For loving Cora’s favor lives in him, And tortures me with madness as its whim.” 

“Proud I am,” said she, fierce, “of Mars’ might, For son so mewed I’d scorn to breathe the name. My honor’s better served to join the fight, And change each Phoenix blow with fatal same. Then let my duty better show in this, Fair warrior die than live in coward’s bliss.” 

“Oh, coward’s bliss,” he sighed. “Would it were mine, And inner calm restore the balm of sleep! Revive the luscious spring of barren time, That left me drowned in crimson ageless deep, Until our self like factious jealous state Undoes itself in chaos rebel’s fate.” 

“Do not so speak,” she hissed. “Oh, fie, oh, fie! Are you a man? Is this proper bearing? Oh, once you could the wrathful gods defy, And now like timid beast thy hairs rise staring! Oh, good my lord, renounce this woman’s chatter; Thy power yet is more than mortal matter.” 

“Leave me, Bel. By Salazar, forbear! Go, then, with Marsenet, take up the cause, And seek Fiori’s stay. Content thee, fair: My years, a tangled scarf of torn-up gauze, Is skinlike stretched to ephemeral taut And seeks a knitted rest from weary lot.” 

But desperate thought, as Bella left, crept in, And colored gaping absence’ memory With too-fine fears that, heartened, slither in, The tempest clouding up his wat’ry see, Till bare and stony tower mirror turned To mock his face, his folly dearly earned. 

For oh, how vile the flesh in loathing steeps, Like poison-vat that thinking gives a cure! Dry lesions in his bony hands, which creeped And tried to tear proud body’s insecure! His beauty’s gone, a shadow coarse’d by years, And manly form weathered by kindly tears. 

Without the distracted lord’s chamber door, In base of winding stair a foot did rest. Gazing up the helix (oh, true Gryffindor!) Was Harry Potter, crown of Hogwarts’ best, Whose Godric’s sword did grip with master right, In churning lust for coming master fight. 

Blood did gild that form unmatched in breadth, That broad poitrine of sleek and wiry strength, Glistening with the salt of valiant breath, That amorous wet each sinew of his length. The dark-fair rose of youth, this golden boy; A wizard prince, Dumbledore’s pride and joy.

“Fiori,” he said, low, “You’re sure he’s there?” “Ay, sweet Harry,” the latter, grim, replied,  “With his own fears made drunk and mad with care, A beast who wallows in the filth he lies; To put him down would be a mercy’s act, And you yourself the sealer of that pact.” 

“Join hands with me, Fiori,” (so said he) “And pardon it, with all thy heart, that fell That ended thy brother’s life. Let, for thee, This cancel crime, foul words between us quell. And let grow fruit of golden amity Thy service honor banished enmity.” 

“Merlin be with thee!” Clasping him, ‘a cried, “Marse’s death fall not on thee. O thou great, O thou most good! An thou wert now to die, What feeling loss would pang the tott’ring state!” “Do not yet speak of death,” said Harry, bleak. “I hate the word, and do defy its weak. 

“Tell Ron of Fenrir, of poor Hagrid’s plight; Break gently news of Fred and George’s fall; Hunt Dolohov, for Remus’ death requite; Send brave Hermione to McGonagall. Bid them join the rest, not to stay for me; Riddle I must face alone, or ne’er be. 

“And one last thing –” He swallowed thickly here. “If by any chance thou see’st Ginny –” But love, which speaks through storm and silenced fear, Through god-ruled fate and mortal tyranny, Did tie his ready tongue with struggling pause: Love too great for words makes speechless cause. 

His friend regardless understood. “Ay, I shall. Never thee fear.” He gazed at him, And laden chest exhumed a pregnant sigh, As if regretting some old childhood whim. And sans another word the two did part, In silent gesture speaking heavy heart. 

The long and slow ascent, the torches’ shade, That led with clammy step to Riddle Tow’r, Took warlike Harry to each passing grade, His noble heart grow fierce with trembling pow’r. For dark his heated purpose, ice his breath, To pay the lord at last his parents’ death. 

He met the door; Alohomora made It yield. The dreaded sight appeared, appalled, The shrunken shadow’s shadow, merest shade. That stood near window with a darkened pall, And did not turn to greet him at the door; So went ignored the noble Gryffindor. 

Neither did silence break with needless speech, Nor flourished wand or blood-caked sword withdrew, Nor cleaved the other’s ear with verbal breach, Or faults with ringing condemnation spewed, Nor even gave with name avenger’s cry, As, “You killed my father. Prepare to die.” 

Instead he turned, and, startled, met his twin, As if in glass or master painter caught, No change without reflecting change within – Tom Riddle had appeared, unwilled, unsought! How could this be? But no, his eye had erred: His mind had hasty jumped to dream preferred. 

No, Harry was himself, his father’s spit, In form and bearing a dark and well-made youth; But in the fire of his almond pit, The emerald Lily lived to blaze her truth: And once again gazed in her killer’s eye, And once again his person she defied. 

“Is’t you at last?” he murmured low. “My foe, Or savior – I’ve long forgot the which. Have you then come to pitch my overthrow, My friends supplant, undo, restrain, bewitch? Or like a sheep in wolfish garb dost come To reckon up my debt to force a sum?” 

“Thy reckoner’s here,” said Harry coldly. “Stand, if you be man, and we our strength shall try. My parents’ loss my glory’s gain shall be, And prove those ancient words which prophesied The fate which knits us in her threaded gyves: ‘Neither can live while the other survives.’” 

“Thou wretched boy!” Rounding in a flashing break. “I’ll see thee ere I go with thy parents sent! Life’s a candle flame that, with slightest quake, The smallest breath may careless usher rent; So stint, thou seed. Take heed to tender light That youthful wick which soon is swallowed night.” 

“Thou thing! Thou paper-king of rags and patch, Thou serpent-prince of foul and ancient rot! The germ of evil and of fell dispatch, That knits disasters in its wedded knot! And now, thou shadow’s shadow, here must end The canker ill of ill’s allowed propend!” 

And not a word thereafter spoken, no, Nor slightest breath of air exchanged; When words do fail, the greater is the show, That follows fast with furious martial range; And so they to’t, wand to wand, man to man, To guard till final breath their person’s stand. 

The grim-eyed chamber lit with charging spell, Some dying splattered on unyielding stone, Exploding firecrackers that did quell On dusty ground extinct by ashy loam. Or else that mortal lash of hex that missed And brushed their robèd arms like streaking kiss. 

Which side more desp’rate and which more maddened, To deal the final blow? Their worth Were equal on both, and Fortune, saddened, Knew well the justice of their troubled birth. And quit her post, leaving weaving wheel, For mortals to decide their own fate’s seal. 

And oh, who did not hear the scream of Bellatrix, But heated blood did freeze in fearful vein? When she her Marse’s death found out the trick That stole his life and she her honor stained, Then sobbing tore through house with vengeful aim; Till stayed by Molly Weasley, grieving same. 

“Thou scorpion, thou scullion poison-well, Thou dram – no, don’t thee dare not walk away! My darling twins thy stainèd hand had felled And now thy debt is mine to make thee pay. Oh, I’ll assure my strike won’t be in vain, For thou wilt harm my children ne’er again.”

“Traitors! Murd’rous knaves and thieves! The fount of foulest, villainous evil! Oh sweet my brave, my darling son!” So grieved, Like tempest gales the heart’s upheaval, It stopped her speech; and blindly struck her wild, In vengeance ‘gainst the world for darling child. 

A clash of opposites, of vicious reach, Twin whirlwind furies of a crimson pitch. Each mother’s grief a circle feeding each, Which called one weasel whore, the other bitch; And fought till Molly caught her on the ground; Her wand like knife to neck did put her down. 

Did he feel, I wonder, his lieutenant,   Before her mortal strings of life were caught? Hope her house had quit, and left as tenant The want that craves its end in naught. And silent begs the mercy-giver act To kill the sullied flesh of shameful fact. 

As Bella went, her lover was disarmed, And slipping, with arm outstretched he fell; Quick Harry poised to execute that harm That soon would send him kicking heel to hell. And this advantage quickly moved to seize: Himself still armed, his rival on his knees. 

But as in life beyond a paper fame, Oft the things we mean to do miscarry Or never realized, or change in aim, Purpose, circumstance, or name. So Harry, Like a painted character dumbly stood And let his doubting “should” o’erwhelm his “would.” 

And in that space where silent counsel streams, Entire worlds of words conveyed through gaze, The time between did pass like sluggish dream   Like years and not some seconds passed in haze.   So youth and age, dark and dark, fame and fame, Like statues stared, dumb in unfinished game.   

The winds without had calmed, as eye of storm, Before a thunderclap the silence rent; The air did lose its biting frost and warmed, Which all of mercy’s hope in second spent. So to it went again the foes; but then Wands met in Priori Incantatem. 

A golden thread the several streams enjoined, The honeyed warmth that, streaming, intercourse; A rushing surge of pow’r in chaffing loins That meet with fervor in deep-throated force. Two wills in one, and one in that one will, In battle fought; but impasse kept them still. 

The spell forced memory; the wands confessed Each wrathful kill, each calculated hurt. Not one did stint in shame, but rather tressed In essence same, though meeting briefly curt. How loath the one to undo its brother! How warm they greeted, like open lover! 

And yet it could not be but their joy was brief: The phoenix of the holly trumped the yew, Though not without the pain of magic’s grief, That made its brother’s spell dissolve like dew. Oh sorrow’s cross, to bear that loving strife, To be the one to end beloved life! 

So Voldemort, then Voldevie, now naught, His riddle solved, but wants its puzzle piece, That in his raging sorrow desperate sought The pardon that would give his trial peace. Now dearly found, and dearer bought by youth, Who now stands heir to all his state and truth. 

The hush that fell, the fury’s storm’s recede, Though not a mite abated, made a pause To give a panting Harry back his need And room to bring the truth of triumphed cause, Before the joyful sight of living friend: The evil scarce begun has present end. 

But oh, what joy, what cheer did start And filled with lusty roar the bleak lacuna: For who did meet him, these loyal hearts, But Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna? His faithful warriors, and more, and more, Did come to throng him at the door. 

Exhausted, weary, words but breath and air, He made no sound except to say his deed, And thought on nothing but his ended care, That sixteen years of strife did lead. And soon looked forward to a life well fed, With fierce-proud Ginny by his side to wed.  

With ringing bell, the Hogwarts flag was hung And draped across old Riddle senior’s hall. Requiems for the lost and hymns were sung To victory dearly won by brother’s fall. And triumph over wicked wizard dead, Now gone to goblin’s hell below sans head. 

For Tom Marvolo Riddle, his body found, Was tossed and thrown in playful wizard’s game, And for a trophy, as from bear or hound, Off went the severed head of wicked fame, To join his fiendish wife and cobra lover As butcher king in markless tomb uncovered. 

His eldest son, Fiori, now his heir, Was guarded for a time without his room, His treason known, that made him present fair By Harry, who made him a courtly groom. Although his tyrant sire’s blood did make Suspicion’s odorless smoke trail his wake. 

Fior did not last, but fared much better Than oily Malfoy, now past all earthly care, Or kindless Crabbe with brutish Trevor, Both fiendish fire’s meat of Ron the Bear. With Dolohov through, cut by Ginny’s curse, The rest were carted off for fate much worse. 

Then wisdom blanched, his trickling tale he stayed. I, in puzzlement, inquired for his health. “Oh, fie,” he moaned. “I was a fool to say What none should dare for all his land and wealth! But enough. ‘Tis done, and I must perforce Vouchsafe my life in safety’s hidden course.” 

And so I wait, evading looming fate, My mystery hid deep in key-locked breast. This final thought that good with ill equates Confounds me so it’s loath to leave me rest: What laden price for soul to understand The story monsters made from riddled man! 

Finis.