#they gave him a magic pouch out of pity later

[stx-ss]

The fact that the og art for Link in Zelda 1 has him carrying all his items including a whole raft and ladder will never not be funny lol

Also... the og art doesn't have straps for the items,,, are they stapled to his back???

[nillegible]

Mo Xuanyu notices someone following him on his way back to Mo manor one night. It's not a villager, they wouldn't walk so lightly. Mo Xuanyu would hazard a guess that it's not a cultivator, either, heaven knows they would have attacked him hours ago for harassing and frightening the villagers as he has been. Curious, he melts into the shadows.

"Ghost of the Yiling Patriarch?" asks a soft voice, closer than Mo Xuanyu had expected.

It's a familiar voice; and when he looks to where it came from he sees a young man he’d met often at Koi tower, crying to his broth Jin Guangyao, not knowing exactly how cruel his San-ge truly was.

"Sect Leader Nie," says Mo Xuanyu, approaching Nie Huaisang where he stands in the patchwork darkness beneath a tree.

Nie Huaisang stares for a long moment, then says, "Mo Xuanyu."

"Expecting the Yiling Patriarch?" asks Mo Xuanyu, not without some bitterness. It's all that his father had wanted out of him as well, he had ignored him in favor of Xue Yang who barely even tried to understand the Yiling Patriarch's incredible mind. Xue Yang had been more interested in re-animation and puppetry than the magic, the theory, and that was just pitiful.

But that kept him safe, and where was Mo Xuanyu now? Back with his mother’s brutish family, barely clinging to his sanity, and amusing himself by pretending to be the ghost of a demonic cultivator more than a decade gone.

"I could have used Wei-xiong's help, yes," says Nie Huaisang simply. It makes Mo Xuanyu look closer. Nie Huaisang is drawn, and pale, but he stands straighter than he ever has at Koi Tower. Some instinct tells him that this man, here, is dangerous. Mo Xuanyu, the 'mad village fool' understands.

Perhaps Nie Huaisang is no more a weak fool than he is. Hidden depths, Sect Leader Nie.

It's because of the way Nie Huaisang says Wei-xiong with more respect than anyone Mo Xuanyu has ever heard, it's because Mo Xuanyu has seen Nie Huaisang's beloved brother's head locked away like a curiosity among Jin Guangyao's other war prizes, it is because Mo Xuanyu is sick and tired of the world and wants to burn it all down, that he says, "I've studied some of his work. Would I do?"

[read on Ao3, or click below to read on tumblr]

Sect Leader Nie accepts his offer, tells him that he’ll get in touch, but does not explain himself or what he wants. He is really really good at giving non-answers, at batting those pretty eyes of his and pouting (he carries a fan. Every quirk of his lips that isn’t hidden is calculated, is intended to be seen).

He also keeps his promise and visits again in the dead of night, nearly a week later. He brings with him notes on different sorts of monsters. Some are generic and some are intriguing. None of them seem like the sort of thing that would require the help of the Yiling Patriarch, but Mo Xuanyu talks him through the techniques and banishment methods that would be required for each class of monsters or demons.

It feels like an assessment. He wonders what happens if he passes.

Just a few years ago Mo Xuanyu wouldn’t have noticed the details, but he’s been thinking about Jin Guangyao a lot, recently, and he’s worked out enough of how he had been played to see someone else using similar techniques.

Why hasn’t Jin Guangyao realized that you’re dangerous? he should ask, but instead he tells Nie Huaisang about the time WWX had written about redirecting yao into helping in a fight against a demon, and how he seemed never to have revisited that idea again.

“That would be dangerous,” says Nie Huaisang.

Mo Xuanyu smiles at him, “He was the Yiling Patriarch, I don’t think he minded.”

“No. Wei-xiong was never afraid of danger,” Nie Huaisang agrees. That again. “Thank you for the advice, Young Master Mo. Shall we meet here next week?”

“Isn’t this a little far out of your way, Sect Leader Nie?” asks Mo Xuanyu.

“Ah, for help of the sort that Young Master Mo can provide, it is not a bother.”

“Have the peerless Gusu Lan stopped supporting other sects in need? That Sect Leader Nie would cross Gusu to approach this humble one for help…” It’s a good lead in, Nie Huaisang can laugh it off or tell him what he really wants.

Then another thought strikes him, so he giggles, “Or can it be that Sect Leader Nie has need of a cutsleeve whore with no options, and thought to try his luck?” Mo Xuanyu bats his lashes, desperately missing the little fineries he’d grown used to at Koi Tower. He probably looks a mess and can’t quite pull it off, now.

Nie Huaisang’s eyes widen, round with surprise, “Ah, Young Master Mo, that’s not it! It really isn’t, I have. I have a specific problem but it will be a source of great shame if it comes out that Nie Sect couldn’t solve it without depending on Lan sect or Jin sect… they already do so much for my Sect.”

The bitterness is barely perceptible, but it is there. He wonders if Jin Guangyao is the reason for the distrust between GusuLan and QingheNie, too. It gives him a flicker of hope, “If I could be of more use to Sect Leader Nie in Qinghe I would be willing to–”

“No!” says Nie Huaisang. “We can’t show that we’ve met.”

Oh. “Is this because I said – I don’t actually want to sleep with you, Sect Leader, I’m not really an animal, whatever my brother has said.” Of course he hadn’t pulled off charmingly flirtatious, what had he been thinking? If he’d been prettied up it could have been enough to fluster Nie Huaisang, now he’d probably just been disgusted at the thought.

“I do not think that of you, Young Master Mo. But Jin Guangyao cannot know that we’ve met. I’m sorry that I cannot take you with me. But I can use your help. May I please meet with you a week from now?” asks Nie Huaisang.

It sounds more genuine this time.

It’s still a no. “My cousin beats me. I’m fed once a day, alongside the donkey, I sleep in the stables. Sect Leader Nie… please.”

“Mo Xuanyu, I –” he looks up into Nie Huaisang’s face, and sees only pity. No surprise or horror.

“But you knew that didn’t you?” asks Mo Xuanyu softly, and sees the truth in Nie Huaisang’s face. Of course he knew. Of course he’d come in the night to get what he needs from him, but not help him in return. Maybe he’ll give Mo Xuanyu a pouch of coins in the end. Coins that no-one in the village would take from him, would accuse him of stealing from his aunt and cousin. And once Mo Ziyuan heard, he’d be beaten for it and never see the money again.

Get lost, then, Mo Xuanyu should say, because he is tired of being used and cast away. But he truly has nothing, and another visit… someone to talk to who at least speaks to him like he’s human… Mo Xuanyu has so little that he can’t turn down even scraps like this.

“I will see Sect Leader Nie next week,” Mo Xuanyu says. “You can bring me the notes for the real problem. If I cannot solve it, I’ll tell you that, I won’t con you with some fake ritual.” He makes to leave, but Nie Huaisang stops him.

“Is there something else I could do for you?” asks Nie Huaisang. “I can pay you, in cash or weapons – I heard that your sword was taken from you before you left.”

“Sweet buns,” he says, before he can think it through. His stomach speaking before his pride could stop him. He prays that it sounded sarcastic and not desperate.

“What?” asks Nie Huaisang.

“Go away, Sect Leaser Nie,” he says. Mo Xuanyu isn’t going to repeat himself, isn’t going to beg for sweet buns, of all things.

A hand grasps his shoulder and Mo Xuanyu recoils, pushing him away so fast that he unbalances himself, stumbling and falling heavily to the ground. It sends a shock to his still healing ribs, making him gasp for a moment before he can regain his breath and look up at Nie Huaisang, who has his hands out, open to show he mans no harm.

“Mo-gongzi, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have grabbed you, I didn’t think.” He’s rummaging in his sleeve and Mo Xuanyu wonders if now is when he should run away to save his own life.

Maybe if he cared about his own life, he would.

Instead he just watches, until Nie Huaisang pulls a small paper parcel from his sleeve. He kneels down, and offers it to Mo Xuanyu.

He opens the paper, to find three sweet buns inside. They’re still warm. He takes one and returns the others, and takes a bite. He’s finished, it and resisting licking his dirty fingers to chase down the last of the sweetness – he hadn’t had anything sweet since the local temple gave out sticky buns during the last festival. The priests had turned him away – disgusting, aberrant, abomination, but some of the boys had made a game of tossing buns at him, and they’d tasted wonderful after he scraped the dust off.

“Keep them,” says Nie Huaisang, pushing the package back towards him. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just startled that you asked for the one thing I had up my sleeve.” The smile is hesitant and drops off quickly. He just looks sad. Tired.

“Thank you,” Mo Xuanyu whispers, because he still has manners. He’s not going to cry over just two sweet buns, but his eyes sting as if he might. “Is this about…” he swallows the words back. Don’t be stupid, A-Yu, but Nie Huaisang doesn’t look angry. “This is about Chifeng Zun, isn’t it?” he asks.

“What do you mean?” asks Nie Huaisang voice sharper.

“His head,” says Mo Xuanyu, and can’t hold the tears back. “His head is at Koi Tower. Why do you think I’m here? Why do you think that I… for a bun. Jin Guangyao tried to kill me because I found out and. Three buns.” He laughs while he cries. He’d never realized how cheap he would become. I am so sorry, Mother.

A pale green handkerchief is produced from the same sleeve, and Nie Huaisang holds it out to him. “I will speak to you next week, Mo-gongzi. I’ll bring you food. I’ll help. It’s late, I need to go now. But trust me, please.” When Mo Xuanyu doesn’t move to take it from him, Nie Huaisang takes his free hand and presses it into it. “Good bye, Mo-gongzi,” he says, and this time he gets up and walks away.

Mo Xuanyu doesn’t move until the footsteps are long gone. He traces the delicate embroidery on the handkerchief. Pine trees in deep greens, a stream nestled within it.

It’s too beautiful to cry on, so he wipes his face on his sleeve instead. Shortly before dawn he gets up and brushes some of the dirt from his robes, and rushes back to the manor. He needs to start on his chores or he’ll be in for a worse beating than usual.

*

In the light of day it feels surreal.

Was that really Sect Leader Nie?

Was that someone that Brother sent to see what I am up to? To see what I'd do?

If that was Jin Gunagyao, then Mo Xuanyu wouldn’t have long left to live. Not if he's leaking secrets the way he is.

(He wishes he'd come himself, that he'd have a chance to defend himself, a chance to live. But. He has never played fair, and wouldn't start now.)

Mo Xuanyu would give nearly anything to kill his brother first.

Three days later, Madam Mo hires a new kitchen-girl. She has friendly eyes and a green ribbon in her hair.

That night when Mo Xuanyu heads to the stables to sleep with the donkey, he finds a blanket, a portion of the food that his cousins and aunt had been served, and a small pot of medicine.

There is dinner every night after, he sees the new kitchen-servant sneak it out at dusk. She's terribly good at sneaking, and Mo Xuanyu is grateful to have food again. He's been eating stale vegetables and uncooked grain with the donkey for months.

Four night later, there's a person waiting for him siting cross legged on the floor of the stable, lit by a small lantern. Mo Xuanyu's dinner waits for him beside him on the hay.

"Now will you tell me what you really need?" asks Mo Xuanyu, lifting the lid off the bowl. Soup, still steaming hot. He'd found the talismans carved into the bowl to keep it that way yesterday.

"I was wondering," says Nie Huaisang. "Can Mo-gongzi play the flute?"

[johaerys-writes]

Chapter 14: Cobwebs and Oathstones

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Aran Trevelyan/Tristan Trevelyan

Summary:

Aran and Tristan are childhood friends. Best friends. Brothers, almost. They’ve been inseparable since the moment they met, one rainy autumn day underneath the maple tree in the school playground.

Best friends don’t fall in love with each other. Surely not.

The new chapter of my and @oftachancer​’s collaborative fic, featuring her OC Aran and my OC Tristan is up! Where the Terrible T’s venture into the ancient catacombs underneath the Trevelyan manor, and discover something... unexpected 👀

Read more on AO3,  or start from the beginning :)

****

“Oh, wow!” Tilly exclaimed, turning her head to look around the catacombs like a curious bird. “This place is huge!”

“It is!” Aran replied. “There’s loads of stuff down here. Last time, Tris and I found this massive set of armour that belonged to a great uncle of yours- was it Trevor Trevelyan?”

“Trenton Trevelyan the Third,” Tristan grumbled, illuminating the corridor before them with the torch.

“Aye, that’s the one! He had this huge sword, too, right, absolutely massive. Tris said he could wield it one handed, but Void knows how he did it because that thing was- Ah! What- Is that a spider?!” Aran spun in a circle, scrubbing his fingers through his hair. “Fuck, fuck, fuck- get it off, get it off!” Tilly gasped and ran to his side, patting down his hair and his back, while Aran’s cries echoed deafeningly down the corridor.

Tristan sighed, wondering whether people would notice it if he locked them both in the catacombs and then fled.

“I don’t see a spider, munchkin,” Tilly said worriedly, biting her lip as she searched through Aran’s hair. “Maybe it was just your imagination.”

“I hate them. I hate them.” Aran twisted to look back over his shoulder, aiming his light at himself. “So many feckin’ legs,” he shivered, tugging his hood up over his head and cinching it tight. He looked to Tristan, biting his lip, fingers flexing in that way they did at school or at parties right before he suggested they find somewhere to go that wasn’t people. Right before he reached for him and tucked his palm against Tristan’s and gave that quiet sigh that was the first of many as hand holding progressed to other things… Aran held his gaze in the dark and shoved his hands and his torch into the pouch of his sweatshirt. “It was a big sword,” he finished lamely.

Tristan swallowed thickly, looking away. He didn't like that he couldn't hold his hand, or kiss him. He didn't like hiding what they had from Tilly, of all people. But it was still so early. Tristan hadn't fully understood what was happening between them himself, and if he told Tilly, she would have questions. He wouldn't last a moment under her scrutiny. And she might tell Mother, or someone else and then...

"Right," he said abruptly, marching ahead. "The room is not too far from here. We can go there first and check the sword after we're done." He would think about it all later. Now was not the time.

"Oh, yes, we should!" Tilly said excitedly. "Swords are so fun. Remember when we went to the Ostwick History Museum with school, three years ago? All those sets of armour! All those swords! Those lances! They were so shiny. And I loved the engravings. Some of them were absolutely beautiful- they don't make them like that anymore. Well, they don't make them at all anymore, which is a pity if you ask me. Oh! Wouldn't it be fun if we had armour and swords made for the three of us? I bet we would all look smashing. The Terrible T's: Fourth Blight edition." She threaded her arm through Aran's, grinning.

“So long as it’s without the actual Blight.” Aran leaned into her, eyeing the webs they passed under with suspicion. “You should see the armor we found down here, too! When we found it, Tris said he’d wear it. You’re pretty tall. Might suit you better.”

“It looked heavy," Tristan said. “Even if both of you got in it, I don’t think you’d be able to lift it.”

“So you’d be able to lift it and the both of us wouldn’t?” Tilly sniffed. “Someone has a big idea of themselves.”

“No,” Tristan rolled his eyes, “I just call things how I see them.” He quickened his step, walking well ahead of them. The sooner they reached the blighted room, the sooner they’d leave. He hoped. “We’re close. Aran, is your torch working?”

“Hm?” Aran was walking with his chin perched on Tilly’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around her. “No hands. Don’t know.”

Tilly laughed, reaching into Aran’s sweatshirt pouch. “Here. I’ve got it.” She switched it on, illuminating the corridor before them. “You know, I learnt a spell last year that gives you light without using a torch. Some mages use it with a wand or a staff, but I can cast it without one! Although Mistress Anaan said it’s dangerous and that she would punish anyone who tried it. Oh, I wish I could show you! If only we were allowed to use magic outside the Circle. Think we’re deep enough into the earth now to not be detected? I’ve heard that when mages go into the Deep Roads, the magic detectors can’t sense them at all, so they can cast as many spells as they like. Regina, the new transfer from the Lake Callenhad Circle, was telling us that many mages from their Circle were sent to the Deep Roads in Orzammar to test out new spells that they didn’t want the government to know about. It was all very hush-hush, you understand. That is if she was telling the truth, which I’m not entirely sure she was. She told Gianna that Bastien asked her out, and Gianna told me, because she knows I know Bastien, and we sit next to each other in my Arcane magic class. So I asked Bastien-"

"Don't forget to breathe, Til," Tristan said teasingly.

"Oh, shush, you," his sister laughed. "Anyway- where was I?"

"What did Bastien say?" Aran asked, blinking up at her.

"Oh, yes! So. Bastien said he only texted her once, and that was to ask her to bring him back a pouch of crystal grace powder that he had lent her. So I’m not really sure what to make of her. Maybe she lies about some things, but not others." She tapped her chin with her finger, then made a vague gesture in the air, shaking her head. "Anyway. Top secret expeditions into the Deep Roads sound very, very interesting, if you ask me. I do hope they’re true. I do hope they send me there someday! I want to do all the research. All the spells! I might even come up with one that sends all the spiders running. I bet there’s loads of them in the Deep Roads. Then I’ll show you how to do it, Aran! Oh.” She paused, frowning. “It’s a pity you’re not a mage. We would have had so much fun together in the Circle. But that’s alright! When I go to the Deep Roads, I’ll take you with me. And I’ll keep you safe from all the spiders,” she grinned, pinching his chin.

“If you come up with a spell that scares spiders of all shapes and sizes, they’ll give you an award and a duchy,” Aran beamed at her. “I will. I’ll found a feckin’ kingdom and hand you the keys to it.” He nudged her with his shoulder, “Anyway, Miri’s there if you want a dose. She’s fun.”

"Oh, yes! Miranda's lovely. I see her from time to time, but she's usually busy. She's working really hard on her apprenticeship. Her blue robes suit her very nicely. I can't wait to get started on my own. Mistress Anaan said I might be able to start early if I pass all my exams with good marks next year. I'm thinking Arcane or Primal. Everyone says they're tough, but I think they're both fascinating. Oh! Is this the room?" She cast the light of her torch on the door that Tristan had stopped before.

Tristan took a hesitant step forward, let his gaze glide over the engravings on the door's surface. "Yes. That's the one."

"Oooh." Tilly's eyes widened. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's get in!"

Tristan reached for the doorknob, his heart thrumming in his chest. The door protested loudly as he pushed it open, raising a cloud of dust in its wake. "Okay," he said, standing aside. "On you go. Search to your heart's content."

“You’re really not coming in?” Aran asked quietly.

Tristan let out a slow exhale through his nose. "I am. In- in a minute." He watched as Tilly walked forward, swinging the light of the torch in a wide arc around the room, before stopping at the large stone in its center.

"Oh, my. Sweet Maker! Is that the stone? The oath stone? Quick, Aran, get your notebook out! I need to get a good look at those runes. We should take all of them down- but first, we must figure out what they mean. Some runes activate as soon as they're written in order. Wouldn't want to set something on fire before we've had a chance to study them. Although that would be fascinating in its own right. Do we have any water in case that happens…? Oh, well, we'll just need to be careful."

Tristan sighed, flexing and curling his hands at his sides. "I don't like this. I don't like it one bit. I told you we shouldn't have come down here."

“It’s okay,” Aran met his eyes. He shifted his backpack to his side and brushed his fingers down Tristan’s forearm behind the bulk of it. “We won’t do anything to start it up again. Just figure out what it actually is. You’ll feel better knowing, aye?”

"I don't know," Tristan mumbled, the knot in his stomach tightening. He caught Aran's pinky with his own, squeezing lightly. "Some things are better left on their own."

“But you don’t know what those do until you see what they are, eh? What if-“ Aran lifted his brows, squeezing back. “What if your great-grandad had to do something on this thing to be able to wear that armor or heft that sword? Even if you never want to do it, wouldn’t it be cool to know?”

Tristan nodded reluctantly, worrying his lip. "Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. Let's- let's just get this over with. This place is very… dusty." He scrunched his nose, looking away.

“Aye, it is. Just some notes. And then movies.” His eyes gleamed in the torchlight, the yellow making his soft blue eyes like a summer sky filled with sun. “If you want.”

Tristan swallowed thickly. Aran’s gaze on him and his fingers that threaded discreetly through his sent a rush of warmth through him. “I do,” he whispered. “You know I do. I-”

“Aran! Tris! Come, come over here! I think I know what most of these runes mean. There’s so many of them, oh, dear. Our ancestors worked really hard on this thing. Or whoever made it for them, anyway. I haven’t seen one quite like this before. And you said there was a sword, too? And a book?”

“Yes,” Tristan said, untangling his fingers from Aran’s, “there’s a sword. But I’m not touching it. And neither are you,” he glanced sharply at Aran.

“I brought gloves,” Aran smiled hopefully.

Tristan huffed and walked away from him, coming to stand over Tilly. “Right. What did you find?”

Read more on AO3!

[whatisthisidefk]

The River, the Sea, and the Stars Part 3 (SFW version)

***

Andros danced with him in a wooded glade, willow weeds flowing like curtains around them. It was a wild dance, with no real steps, but they laughed and whirled around each other, hands clasped, until Andros pulled him close and kissed him. They fell to their knees on the mossy ground, then tumbled to lie under the moon in each other's arms.

*

Andros fought the choppy waves alongside him; they both needed every ounce of strength to make headway in the icy water. They reached the black rocks at the edge of the shore and hauled each other up to shiver in the early morning air. Andros tucked a lock of hair behind Therien's ear and leaned in to kiss him, salty like the sea.

*

Andros held him, golden skin reflecting the red of the fire beside them. Therien held him back, his arms wrapped around Andros's waist.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you," said Andros.

"I'm going to find you," he said.

Andros laughed, and said, "I'm waiting."

*

Therien woke.

The little room was cold and still, muffled from the outside world. If he closed his eyes, Therien thought he truly could be back in Provence. He'd felt removed from the world there, too. In those days, there hadn't been an Andros, nor a Dra, nor an American scholarship. All he'd had were a doting set of adoptive parents and a joy of swimming.

Grey morning light filtered through the thin paper blind and turned everything into a muted palette of cool greys and washed-out reds and blues. It felt like the air before a snowstorm, though it was far too early in the season for that.

Dra hadn't been joking. The dreams had been vivid and so real; he had to shake his head to dispel them. He'd never danced with Andros or made love to him like that, but they felt less like fantasies and more like memories.

If only.

He swung his legs off the bed and stretched. A hunt through his suitcase found him a clean change of clothes, though he figured he'd need to do laundry soon. Jeans and a t-shirt, with a hoodie from an international competition made it onto his body before he felt alive enough to emerge from his room.

"I'm awake," he called into the apartment. "Bonjour, Dra."

"Bonjour," came her reply from behind the rightmost door in the hall. "Go freshen up and I'll meet you in the living room shortly."

"Merci." He found the bathroom behind the middle door, or what he supposed was the bathroom. It was hard to tell under the forest of houseplants that grew in pots from every corner. Even the freestanding iron tub was surrounded not by a shower curtain, but a literal curtain of broad-leafed vines.

Therien caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looked like hell, though better than he had the day before. He'd need a shave, but that could wait, as his kit was buried somewhere in his bag in the other room. He did manage to tame his unruly black curls into some semblance of fashionable and skimmed his hands over the short fade at the back and sides.

He scrubbed at his face with the washcloth. He hadn't properly washed since before the banquet, when he'd put on a hint of gold eyeliner to accentuate his eyes. Whatever brand it was, it lived up to its claims of staying power. He enjoyed the contrast against his dark olive skin and he'd wanted to feel as attractive as possible for whatever would happen with Andros.

That thought drove him to wash it off, as if that could wash away the fear and worry that still roiled in his gut. But once it was gone, he only felt more vulnerable, so he made a decision.

He dug through his suitcase to find the small toiletries bag and the eyeliner pen, then marched back to the bathroom to carefully apply the shimmering gold ink to his eyes again as if it was some kind of armor. When he finished, he stepped back.

Now he was ready.

***

Dra gave him an appraising look when she finally emerged from her own room. "Nice job on the eyes," was all she said, before she dumped an armload of things into the center of the living room floor. "Grab us each a cuppa, would you, love? Should be done steeping by now."

"What is all this for?" he asked, nudging a small hand axe with his foot as he went to the kitchen. "I thought we were going to find Andros. Are we camping?"

"In a way, yes. I hope you remember your time as an Éclaireur. You'll need it."

"I never told you about that, did I?" He handed her a teacup and sat on the ottoman to watch her sort through the pile.

"Oh, you most certainly did! 'Éclaireurs--Toujours Prêt!'" She laughed. "It was some college mixer where we had to tell things about ourselves. You were adorable, with your accent and your big eyes taking everything in."

"How you recall my scout motto after all this time is beyond me."

She shrugged a shoulder. "It was one of those phrases that stick in your mind. Once I learned it, it became a kind of chant. I liked how it sounded." She held up an old leather knapsack, the kind that would fetch hundreds of dollars at auction for its patina and excellent construction. Knowing Dra, she'd found it in some bargain bin at a thrift shop. "Here, you can have this one. We need to pack fairly light, but I don't want to be without a few comforts. You carry the firestarters, that little bag there."

Within an hour, the entire pile had been dispersed and neatly packed away between them. Therien had been given a belt--well, two belts, as one of Dra's was too small even for his narrow hips--and from it hung an array of bags and pouches of medical supplies, the hand axe, a multitool, and a wickedly sharp hunting knife that made Therien nervous. The satchel held the firestarters, a change of socks and underwear, and Therien's toiletries bag. Dra insisted that leaving a little space would be handy later, so he didn't argue.

Dra carried a similar set of tools, though she also added a variety of oilcloth bags of teas and herbs. Several vials of oils from the shop clinked in one of the square pouches on her own belt, and a coiled rope was fastened to her waist. Therien thought they rather looked like they were heading to a medieval faire rather than going to rescue his erstwhile boyfriend, and he told her so as they descended the stairs from her apartment into the empty shop below.

"That, my love, is because you don't know where we're going." They stood in the center of the shop, in a clear spot on the creaky wood floor. "I'm going to show you first, and then I can answer any of your questions. All right? Good. Now, stand back behind me. I need to concentrate."

Dra closed her eyes with a centering breath. She drew a large circle in the air and muttered something too softly for Therien to hear, then thrust both of her hands before her, crossing her arms straight out, fingers spread wide as she braced her legs as if against a strong wind. Her words came louder, more urgently, until she opened her eyes and flung her arms open.

With that motion, the air rippled and a faint sizzle of blue light scribed a circle before them.

Its edge rested on the floor like a tall oval mirror, but through it, instead of the opposite wall of the shop, Therien could see a wooded place, carpeted in yellow leaves. The scent of autumn came through and a breeze ruffled their hair. Therien felt weak in the knees. This shouldn't be real. It couldn't be real.

But then he remembered those golden chains stealing Andros away, and he decided that this was no less impossible.

"Step through," said Dra, her voice tight. "I can't hold this up for too long. I'm right behind you."

He wanted to hang back, but he made his feet start moving. Passing through the portal gave him a sense of vertigo, but once both feet were on the other side, it passed. He looked over his shoulder to see Dra stepping through after him. The image of the shop wavered as soon as she fully came through, then closed like an aperture and vanished.

Dra glanced around. "Not as close as I wanted to be, but it will do. This way." She strode in a seemingly random direction, though she moved with purpose. Even with his much longer legs, Therien had to hurry to catch up with her.

"Where...is this place?" he asked, looking around. "How did you do that? What was that??"

She laughed but kept walking. "That was a portal. It cuts down on travel time like you wouldn't believe." She paused, adjusted her direction, and continued along whatever path she perceived. "And we're in upstate New York."

He stopped in his tracks. "Wait--what?"

"You can't get to the Feywild directly," she called over her shoulder. "But there are places where you can pass through the veil, and this is the one I know best. Keep up, sweetheart!"

"The Fey...what?" None of it made sense, but he tried gamely to follow his friend. At least she seemed to know what she was doing.

The area they hiked through was hilly and cold, colder than Northampton had been. After an hour of endless trees and falling leaves, Dra called for a short break. They sat on a large, flat rock at the top of the hill they'd just climbed, and Dra handed him one of her homemade granola bars. "We're almost there. I should tell you about a few things before we cross over."

"That sounds ominous." As if Therien hadn't seen and experienced actual magic just that morning. But he was trying, so hard, to accept everything as it came.

Dra took pity on him. "I know this is hard to grasp, and we don't have a lot of time to go over everything. But I'm going to prepare you as much as I can." She shifted to face him. "Andros and I...we're Fey. We live human lives, but we weren't born here. We came from the Feywild, and that's where we need to go now."

"Both of you?"

"Yeah, what are the odds, right? Northampton is a hub for all sorts of weird and mystical things. That's why I settled there, and that's why Andros was drawn there to UMASS for the swim team. I mean, there are schools with better programs, but no others that promised him the shelter he needed."

Therien frowned. "You were both my best friends," he said. "How did I not know?"

"He and I figured it out not long after we met, and we promised to watch out for each other." She looked down at her hands, turning them over and flexing her fingers.  "We both cared for you, you know. He begged me not to tell you because it's never good for a mortal to get tangled up in Fey politics."

"And yet--"

She shrugged ruefully. "And yet, here we are. Now, I come and go as I please, though not often these days. Andros, though...he was always running from something. That's why he took the name he did. Andros Kaitos. It's Greek, for 'man who runs away'."

"That wasn't even his real name." Therien took a shaky breath. "How much else didn't I know about him?"

"Not much," she reassured him. "Everyone has secrets, even you. But he was usually an open book with you, bar the obvious. And," she put a hand on his arm, "he loved you. Loves, I mean. I wouldn't be doing this at all if I didn't think it was worth the risk to both of you."

He covered her hand with his. "I know. Go on. I want to be ready for whatever happens."

She leaned back on her elbows and looked up at the trees. Therien couldn't hear any traffic sounds, just the wind in the canopy above and the calls of songbirds, the rustle of dry leaves on the ground.

"Andros had an assigned place in the Feywild. He was created to be a river guardian. You see them in Greek myth a lot, and I suspect that's where his story began. River guardians come in many forms, depending on their origins, and some don't conform to any particular country's lore. In general, though, they manage a certain river or stream, and they're meant to be tied to that place at all times. Andros, though--he just couldn't sit still. And the Court to which he belonged was not known for kindness. He loved being in your world."

"So he ran away," Therien said, a question. Dra nodded.

"He escaped," she clarified. "Honestly, I'm surprised he avoided capture as long as he did. He never set down roots anywhere because he was terrified he'd be found."

Therien toyed with a leaf that blew across his foot. "It's my fault, then."

"No, no," Dra insisted, "Darling, it's not--"

"It is," he cut her off. "He said it himself that night. He'd let his guard down. That's because I caught him by surprise."

Dra studied him for a moment. "That might be," she said at length, "but it's still not on you. It was bound to happen one day. At least he's not alone, you know? Imagine if he'd been found before you could tell each other about your feelings. Imagine if he'd just disappeared without anyone around!" She glanced away. "If he'd just vanished, you might not have thought to call me. You wouldn't have learned about any of this."

He tried to imagine it, as she said. What if he hadn't been there? What if Andros had just not shown up for practice, or if they'd never spoken of their feelings? He probably wouldn't have been frantic enough to reach out to her in a moment of need. "You're right," he said aloud.

"Of course I am." She pushed herself off the rock and brushed her legs down. "Okay. Once we reach the top of the mountain, I'll need you to step only in my footsteps. That's how things work."

"Oui, mon amie."

She kept up her lecture as they resumed their walk up the hill. "The Feywild is a beautiful place, but it's called wild for a reason. Things can be as deadly as they are pleasing to the eye, and trickery abounds. There are strict rules in place that may not be broken, and that has caused the Fey folk to learn and exploit every loophole imaginable."

The hill steepened, and Dra slipped a little on the leaves. Therien helped her stand, and stayed by her in case it happened again. Even at his current peak fitness level, Therien found himself breathing hard over those last few yards to the top of the hill.

Or ravine, he realized, looking back at the way they had come. The disturbed leaves showed their passing, the path stretching down and out of sight between the trees.

But when he turned around, the scene ahead made him gasp. Aside from the slight marring of the countryside by a row of power lines and a distant cell phone tower, he could see for miles of rolling hills that turned into mountains at the horizon. The valley floor was carpeted with trees in hues of orange, yellow, brown, and occasionally red. A pair of eagles sailed above in great circles, and a flock of crows took flight and resettled not far off.

If the entrance to the fey realm was anywhere, surely this seemed as good a place as any.

Dra tugged at his arm. "This way. Remember, step in my footsteps exactly. Even if it seems silly or redundant. Got it?"

"Got it." His heart pounded. He trusted Dra. He trusted her. He had to.

She checked behind her with each step to be sure he was following her instructions. They walked toward an apparently random tree, but then circled around it to the right--counterclockwise--until they crossed their original path. Dra wove them between a series of saplings and hopped over a pointed stone that stuck out of the ground. The next tree they approached, they went around clockwise and continued toward a natural arch formed of a fallen tree caught in the crook of another.

"Through that," said Dra, startling him, "and we'll be in the Feywild." She glanced up at him and held out her hand. "Ready?"

"I trust you."

The corner of her mouth quirked up. "I'll take that as a yes. Let's go save your boyfriend."

They walked through.

***

[ipaintwithwords]

Inktober 2020 #1

The Tenth Tail

Nightfall came earlier than usual that day. Under the fiery oranges and deep blues of the autumn sky, the murmuring of the woods was beginning to turn silent. The birds of the canopy tucked their heads under their wings and the small rodents of the ground retreated to their burrows, as the crickets woke and reached for their violins right when the moon emerged from behind the clouds. Their song filled the crisp, earthy air of the forest, a soft, endless twitter of hundreds of tiny legs, peaceful and quiet, almost eerie as nothing else made a sound.

No owls hooted, no leaves rustled, no twigs snapped under the hoof of no lost fawn - nothing but the crickets, serenading the stars in neverending verses. At least that was the only thing the boy could hear, besides the ragged, painful breaths of his own.

He was laying on the ground, one hand full of luscious berries bleeding crimson poison on his fingers, the other one digging into the dirt, trying to hold onto it with all that was left inside him. The golden ocean of fallen leaves was warm around him, like the comforting embrace of a blanket, but somehow he still felt the cold creeping up his spine under his sweat-soaked, tattered clothes, digging its way deep into his bones - spreading everywhere, except for his throat and the bitter, scorching flames of hellfire raging under his tongue. 

It was way past the point where he was scared. He was scared twenty minutes ago when the berries first started burning his mouth, when the world started spinning and vertigo took over and his legs collapsed under him. He wasn’t scared anymore - he was petrified with fear, and he had no idea what to do.

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He could only stare at the night sky and blink, but he couldn’t bring himself to close his eyes, not even for a heartbeat. He couldn’t bring himself to blink, because he was terrified to get lost in the dark, so instead, he stared at the constellations floating right above him, following the playful dance of soft, flickering, yellow lights with his eyes, only to keep himself awake and alive, while he was waiting for a miracle. 

But the longer he waited, the more certain it became that no miracle was going to come his way. 

That it was only a matter of time until he couldn’t even grasp for air anymore, and that everything was in vain. All those months spent planning his great escape, all the troubles he faced along the way, from the moment he made his decision ‘til the day he bid farewell to the pointy iron gates of the orphanage for the last time; all the time he spent walking until his toes bled and his shoes fell apart, chasing a dream he borrowed from someone else… He suffered and fought and pushed himself through all this only to die from a handful of poisonous berries under the trees of an unfamiliar, cold, dark forest in the dead of night.

“Pathetic”, hissed a hateful voice in the depths of the chaos swarming inside his head. “A useless, homeless, pathetic wreck from no man’s land, that is what you are, boy” crackled the voice with a sour, pitiful laugh, and the boy felt his stomach shrink to the size of a pea. The voice of his cruel, gruesome orphanage matron was the last thing he wanted to hear on his deathbed of fallen leaves - but somehow, it was the only thing he could think of, as angry, miserable tears filled his foggy eyes.

If only he weren’t so restless. So desperate to find his way out of this vast forest, so committed to making it there… Wherever that place he always dreamed of reaching one day might be. If only he stayed put, only for one more night… If only he chose to stargaze at the small clearing instead of wandering off at dusk. If only he had some more of the cheese he stole from that old man with the crooked nose from the market a few days back...

If only he weren’t so lost, so tired, and so very, terribly hungry.

Suddenly, the glimmering starlight grew brighter around him, and the thorns in his throat started to wither. As if the Devil himself commanded them, the raging flames retreated behind the gates of hell, and for a magical moment, the pain almost completely disappeared, leaving nothing but lightweight relief in its place. 

Then a firefly brushed his tear-stained cheek, and the boy felt his entire chest harden.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

When the foxes found him, his heart was barely beating.

He was frozen to the marrow, his whole body trembling, poison berries staining his lips dark blue and the cold turning his sunkissed skin pale as porcelain. It was a miracle that he was still breathing. It was a miracle that he was still holding onto life, that his spirit refused to leave him; alone in the dark and in this weary, exhausted, fragile little body in which the boy was born barely ten years ago, in a land far, far away - the body which already ached enough for a lifetime, and yet, was strong enough to keep him alive. 

The boy didn’t even flinch when half a dozen jaws locked around his wrists and ankles, pointy fangs sinking into his cold skin to lift him up, onto the back of the biggest, oldest, wisest fox of the pack. The foxes moved without a sound, graceful and swift like the morning breeze, as they carried the boy across the valley, following wayfarer’s mushrooms and the signs of the fae folk along hidden trails and crystal-clear streams, crawling under moss-covered roots and dashing through bushes with an unrelenting, unstoppable, urgent force. 

After a while, the foxes reached a small, hidden clearing, illuminated by warm light coming from the windows of an old, cozy-looking cottage. Normally, they would’ve stopped at the door and waited until it opened for them, but this time, they didn’t. They rushed inside with the boy, a flood of orange fur filling up the cottage with alerting sounds and demanding sparks of danger - all of which was met with a pair of piercing, amber eyes of a slightly frightened, slightly confused, slightly furious woman, trying to enjoy her dinner in peace.

“What’s the meaning of this?!” snapped the woman with a disapproving frown that was gone the next moment when she spotted the small child amongst the foxes. Her eyes widened and she jumped to her feet, nearly tripping over them as she ran to the foxes, faster than a fired arrow. “Son...? Dear gods of Shangri-La, is that… Is that you, son…?”

“No, he is not” said the fox who carried the boy on his back, looking at the woman with sad, golden eyes. “But he is one of us, Mistress”, he added softly, as the woman wrapped her arms around the child and carefully turned his head towards her - and when she saw the boy’s face, she couldn’t swallow the hoarse, painful sigh crawling up her throat, filling her chest with disappointment, guilt and grief.

“That he is, my dear friend… He’s one of us indeed” she said after a moment of silence, gently pushing the boy’s ruffled hair back from his forehead, letting her eyes roam the sight and her heart thrive in the feeling of holding a child in her arms - a feeling she yearned so desperately for, ever since she was brutally stripped of it years ago, along with a part of her soul that nothing could replace, fix or heal. 

But for the first time since that fateful, nightmarish afternoon, she felt at peace, as she gazed upon the boy, this tiny stranger, someone she knew nothing and everything about at the same time; someone who lived through the same terrors in the same war in the same faraway land as she did, and somehow, years later, found his way to her cottage when she needed him the most. All the walls she built around herself crumbled to dust as she stared at the boy, and she couldn’t help but imagine him in another life, in the arms of another woman - someone who loved him more than anyone else, and who probably gave her own life to protect him. Her heart ached with sorrow as she imagined the mother of the boy, her endless love for this darling little child, the way her face must have lit up whenever she saw him. 

His kind face, his adorable, pointy nose, the long, curly lashes framing his eyes, his chubby cheeks and his pouty lips covered in dark stains…

All the color drained from her face as the realization hit her, and she immediately slid her fingers down the child’s neck, just below his ear. The moment she felt the boy’s slow, weak heartbeat, she picked herself up from the floor and stormed across the cottage, laying the child in her bed. Following the magic surging from a single, hasty wave of her hand, all the curtains shut themselves close, and with the next one, the embers in the fireplace ignited with a cloud of fiery sparks, as she grabbed a stool and sat next to the bed, hunching over the boy.

“Quick, there’s no time to waste, he’s fading!” she said, urging both herself and the foxes gathering around her with curious eyes. “You two, go back and get rid of his tracks before anyone notices” she instructed the foxes, two of whom immediately turned around and stormed out of the cottage. 

“You go to the garden and dig up some beetroot for me... You two, I need you to guard the door”, she continued as she began to unbutton the child’s shirt, ordering a flock of elixir bottles and herb pouches to her side by twisting her fingers in the air. “And you… I need you to stay by my side in case something goes wrong” she looked at the young vixen still waiting at her feet, digging her hand in the thick, coarse fur of the fox and closing her eyes for a long second. 

And when she opened them again, the celestial, ancient magic inside her awakened, pouring its bright, blue light into the world, as the facade of the witch of the woodlands disappeared with nine voluminous, opulent tails covered in golden fur.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Hey! Thank you for reading! ❤  This little snippet is from the book I’m currently working on. If you guys liked it, I might share some more in the future!

Inktober 2020 Writing Challenge #1. Character count: 9673 | Written on October 4th. You can find more of my 2020 Inktober works here.

[devsash]

Mind Games - Part 1

Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

Temple of Earth, Deepholm

Mehe started awake with a gasp. The whispering that had plagued his dreams persisted for a moment longer before gradually fading. The voices came more frequently now, lasting longer each time. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he peered blearily at the pouch nearby. The vial rested within it, untouched since the day he had removed it.

Sitting up, he grimaced at the aches and pains from sleeping on the uneven rocky floor. The Aqua Caverns were quiet at this time of night, devoid of the organised chaos as the Earthen Ring busied themselves clearing out the Temple.

Ever since the defeat of the Twilight's Hammer and the restoration of the World Pillar, the shamans were engaged in honouring their promise to the Stonemother and leaving the elemental plane of Deepholm for Azeroth. Mehe himself was scheduled to return to Orgrimmar later today.

The Sin'dorei's lips thinned as another stream of whispers wound its way into his consciousness.

It was just as he feared. The magic within the droplet from the Sunwell was too badly tainted from the ambient Void energy. There was no other choice; it had to be destroyed. Doing so would be a bloody dangerous feat though. He only dared attempt it away from Deepholm. Perhaps it was best if he left right now and saw to it before anything worse happened.

He stretched before climbing to his feet. Shaking his cloak out, he clasped it once more around his shoulders, sheathing his bow on his back. He briefly inspected his daggers before returning them up his sleeves and glanced at the various vials and elixirs in his pouch. Everything seemed pretty much in order.

Faerdrel, though, would be worried if he left without a word.

Glancing around, he stepped towards a draenei Earthen Ring shaman seated on the floor nearby. “Bal’a dash, shaman. Have you seen Miss Embershade?”

She glanced up at him, the dim light glinting off her curving horns. “No, I haven’t,” she said in halting Orcish. “She left earlier, but I can give her a message if you wish.”

“Hmm.” Mehe glanced towards the main chamber of the temple. “Tell her Ranger Meheaaris is returning to Durotar in advance. I’ve something to see to there.”

The draenei inclined her head. “I will inform her when she returns.”

“Thank you.” Mehe nodded curtly at her before striding towards the portal to Orgrimmar.

Pools of Arlithrien, Teldrassil

Carefully hefting the bundle in his arms, Reianas Starmane straightened, allowing the shadows cloaking him from sight to fall away. They streaked from him like black droplets, racing through the grass towards the darkened trees as he approached the lone moonwell.

He glanced regretfully at the motes of darkness still clinging to his form. Despite Mehe’s repeated reassurances, they discomfited him, like he had been permanently tainted somehow.

Setting down the bundle, he seated himself by the moonwell, brushing aside the stray blue strands of hair that fell into his eyes. He pulled out the rolls of felcoth stowed within the package and lowered it into the enchanted waters. Upon contact, the black corruption in the fabric leeched away into pristine silver. Lifting it back out, he meticulously inspected the newly cleansed mooncloth for lingering impurities before nodding in satisfaction. He set it aside and drew out more felcloth to repeat the process.

He was used to this, the precision and care required for the purification of the holy cloth. He had done this so many times during his days as a tailor while his sisters attended to their priestly duties. It seemed ironic that he had come full circle since. After all, what else was he supposed to do during this ‘leave of absence’? The clergy evidently did not want him in their ranks any longer.

Anas’s lips tightened. He shook his head, banishing these unpleasant thoughts as he lifted out the last of the mooncloth.

There. That should be enough for him to make a new set of robes befitting a priestess of Elune.

Folding the fabric neatly, he returned it to the bundle before glancing around. The tranquil lapping from the moonwell and the gentle sounds of the forest were soothing in their own way, a different serenity from the atmosphere of Darnassus. It probably would not hurt if he tarried awhile longer.

He reached into the bundle and withdrew his sketchbook. Flipping to an empty page, he plucked his pencil from behind his ear and began idly sketching Mehe, basking in the peace and allowing his thoughts to drift.

His beloved had not been at their usual meeting place two nights ago in the Barrens. Despite being deep in Horde territory, Anas had waited for him all night until dawn. The Kaldorei was finally forced to leave when the denizens of the savannah began to stir for the day. There was still no word from Mehe, which worried him.

He scrutinised the sketch, his brow furrowed. The Sin’dorei’s likeness was slowly emerging from the strokes of his pencil, but there was something a bit off with the shape of his jaw. He corrected it before beaming in satisfaction. Much better.

As he drew the scout’s ponytail, Anas wondered what had happened to Mehe. It was not like him to simply vanish without a word. If it were not for this ongoing faction war, he would try making contact with the Sin'dorei somehow. As it stood though, he simply had no idea how to get any news about Mehe without putting them both in danger.

“Ishnu-alah, brother,” a nearby voice murmured unexpectedly.

Anas started, glancing up at once. Recognition dawned upon him and he relaxed, smiling at the newcomer. “Oh, it’s you, Sae. What are you doing out here?”

Saeverean Shadowfang returned the smile, his amber eyes crinkling at the corners. “Oh, you know me. I like being out in nature. It’s peaceful.”

Anas chuckled. “For a moment there, I thought you were one of the furbolgs. You gave me such a start.”

“I was passing through and thought I’d stop and say hello.” The druid stepped closer, absently flicking his silver hair over his shoulder. “You’re drawing something new? What is it?”

“Oh, just sketching to pass the time really. I mostly came out here for those.” Anas pointed at the bundle of mooncloth with his pencil.

Saeverean glanced at the cloth before looking back at the book in Anas’s hands. “May I see?” he asked, holding a hand out.

“Of course. It’s not finished yet though,” Anas said, offering the book to the other Kaldorei.

The druid accepted it, his brow knitting as he peered down at the sketch of Mehe. “A Sin’dorei?” he asked mildly.

Anas nodded. “I haven’t seen him for some time now. I’m worried about him.”

“A friend of yours then?” Saeverean questioned, handing the book back.

“More than a friend,” Anas murmured, his cheeks growing warm. He bent over the sketchbook, resuming his work.

“Really? You and a Sin’dorei man?” Saeverean sighed as he stepped up to sit beside Anas. “What have you been getting yourself into, brother?”

“What’s wrong with liking a Sin’dorei man?” Anas peered at him reproachfully. “Mehe’s a wonderful person. He saved me from the Shadow more than once. He’s even teaching me how to contr--”

“The Shadow?” Saeverean interrupted, his frown deepening. “Is this why you’re out here in the middle of Gnarlpine territory instead of attending to your duties in the Temple?”

“The Priesthood has me on indefinite leave.” Anas glanced away, the corners of his lips tugging down in unhappiness. Taking a deep breath, he returned his gaze to the drawing. “They’re probably justified, seeing that I can’t heal anymore with Elune’s light. I was thinking of just going back to my tailoring instead. Hence the mooncloth,” he said, attempting to keep his voice light.

“Anas--” the druid began, a note of pity in his voice, but the erstwhile priest shook his head at once.

“I wanted some peace and quiet away from Darnassus as well,” he said, attempting to change the subject. “It’s nice out here, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Saeverean agreed, though his sympathetic expression remained. “I’m sorry. I know how much it meant to you.”

Anas’s pencil paused again. “I don’t want to talk about it, Sae,” he said in a quiet voice, studiously avoiding the druid’s gaze.

Saeverean nodded, glancing back at the sketchbook. “Tell me more about this Mehe. How did you meet him?”

“In Dragonblight, during the campaign in Northrend.” Anas grinned. “He’d been bitten by one of the local wildlife, so I healed him. He seemed rather upset about it at first when he woke up.” He chuckled at the memory.

Saeverean’s eyes followed Anas’s sweeping pencil across the page with interest. “I see. He’s a soldier then?”

“A Ranger for the Farstriders,” Anas said, detailing Mehe’s sweeping eyebrows.

“And you’re sure he can be trusted?” Saeverean asked doubtfully.

Anas glanced over the sketch with a critical eye. “I’ve met him many times now and he’s given me no cause to doubt him,” he said, carefully marking the Sin’dorei’s freckles on his nose and cheeks.

The druid was silent for awhile. "Sheronda doesn't know, does she?"

Anas shook his head. "Neither does Shuvi."

"Oh, Shuvi." Saeverean waved a hand dismissively. "When it comes to this, we both know she's nothing like Sheronda. I wouldn't put it past that one if she kicked you out of Darnassus for being involved with a man, let alone a Sin'dorei--"

"Sheronda wouldn't do that," Anas said, fidgeting uncomfortably.

The druid levelled a piercing gaze at the younger Kaldorei. "Anas," he said slowly, "You do remember what she did when you--"

"Maybe it'll be different this time," Anas said. He shook his head, trying to stifle the painful memories brought up by Saeverean’s words. "She's my sister, she wouldn't--"

A loud crack split the air before them, startling the duo. Saeverean was on his feet in an instant, a low growl emanating from the back of his throat.

A portal materialised and a familiar figure almost tumbled out. It was Fae, her eyes wild. “Anas, you have to come quick!” she cried. “It’s Mehe, he’s--”

“How dare you set foot in our lands, Sin’dorei?” Saeverean spat, silver fur rippling across his face.

“Wait,” Anas said, resting a hand on the druid’s shoulder. “She’s with me.”

Saeverean paused, throwing him a side-eyed glance. “Odd company you keep these days, brother,” he said in Common, the fur receding from his skin.

“She’s a friend of Mehe’s,” Anas replied firmly in the same language. “I’d prefer it if she came to no harm here.” He glanced at the Sin’dorei woman. “This is my friend, Saeverean Shadowfang,” he said in Darnassian. “Sae, this is Miss Faerdrel Embershade.”

Sae offered her a brief nod. “Pleased to meet you,” he said stiffly.

“Pleasure’s all mine.” Fae glanced at Anas. “You should come see this,” she said, gesturing at the portal behind her.

Anas closed his book, returning his pencil behind his ear. “I need to get this to the city first,” he said, gesturing at the bundle of mooncloth, but Fae shook her head.

“No time. You must come now.”

Anas paused, a wave of unease overtaking him. “Is Mehe in trouble? We were supposed to meet, but he never showed up.”

She nodded grimly. “I don’t think he’d have trusted anyone else for this.”

Anas nodded, stowing his sketchbook away with the mooncloth. He hefted the bundle, glancing at Saeverean. “Would you mind taking these ba--?”

“I’m coming with you, brother,” the druid said at once, placing a hand resolutely on Anas’s shoulder. “Besides, I’d like to see this Mehe for myself.”

Fae’s green eyes narrowed at once in suspicion at the other Kaldorei’s words.

“It’s okay, Miss Embershade,” Anas said reassuringly. “Sae’s a good person. I can vouch for him.”

The Sin’dorei nodded reluctantly. “Okay, love. Come on then,” she said, waving at the portal.

Balancing the bundle of cloth, Anas took a deep breath, attempting to calm his nerves before stepping through the portal, Saeverean close at his back.

@fae-of-the-people @saeverean

[algolrasalghul]

Caput Algol: The Medusa Myth By Elizabeth Hazel © 2001

Caput Algol is a star of intensely evil repute located at 25° Taurus. The Arabs called it Ras al-Ghul, the Head of the Demon, imagining the star as the face of the devil's wife, Lillith. The Chinese call this star Tseih She, which translated has the meaning "Piled-Up Corpses."

           The Greco-Roman tradition places this star in the constellation of the hero Perseus. Caput Algol has a variable magnitude because it is a binary star. The smaller star eclipses the brighter for ten hours every 3 days, a point at which the star is at its most evil.

           The story of Medusa is an ancient legend, and enjoyed great popularity with both the Greeks and the Romans. Possibly the earliest recorded version is in Hesiod's Theogeny (circa 970 B. C., although this is a speculative date). Pindar of Thebes included it in his Odes (circa 450 B. C.). A later, souped-up version was penned by the Roman author Ovid (circa 10 A. D.). The myth is more complex than one might expect, although the tale offered here has been cobbled together from multiple texts into a coherent rendition to facilitate a more holistic understanding of the star. The Medusa myth is not just another gruesome monster-of-the-week story. Since the story was originally Greek, Greek god and goddess names are used.

THE MEDUSA MYTH

           The story of Medusa is a pitiful tale. Medusa was the only mortal daughter of Phorcys and Ceto, who were the both the children of Oceanus and Terra. Phorcys was a sea deity about whom little is written. With his sister/wife Ceto, he fathered many monstrous children, including the Gorgons, the Graiae, and the one hundred-headed dragon Ladon who guarded the sacred tree of the Hesperides that bore the notorious golden apples.

           Alone of this horrible collection of siblings, Medusa was a beautiful mortal girl. She was renowned for her charm and loveliness, especially her pretty hair. Poseidon (Neptune) became enamored of Medusa. He pursued her, and finally had sex with her while she was worshipping at the temple of Pallas Athena, chaste goddess of war and wisdom. The tale is divergent at this point - some accounts indicate Medusa was raped, while others suggest the joining was consensual. In any event, Pallas Athena was infuriated by this impious act in her temple.

           Additionally, Pallas Athena and Poseidon had a long-standing animosity. Medusa was caught in the middle of their grudge. The goddess turned Medusa into a Gorgon, a creature with snakes instead of hair, tusks like a boar, impenetrable metallic scales, metal hands, and golden wings. Her glance was deadly, turning the one in her sights to stone.

           The formerly beautiful and desirable Medusa, now a hideous monster, joined her two immortal Gorgon sisters in exile on an island at the edge of the ocean. This island was drear and barren, covered with the petrified shapes of the sisters' victims, both man and beast.

           Perseus now enters the tale. He was the son of Danae by Zeus (Jupiter), who came to her in the form of a golden rain. Cast adrift in the ocean as a child with Danae in a great chest, they were rescued. The King of Seriphos, Polydectes, desired Danae. He wanted Perseus out of the way, so cleverly mentioned the dangerous Medusa. Stupidly taking the bait, Perseus proclaimed that he would undertake to slay Medusa at the wedding feast of Polydectes and his mother, since he had no other gift to offer.

           He left on his adventure, first seeking advice from the oracle at Delphi. He was told to journey to Dodona, land of the oak trees. Oaks are sacred to Zeus, and Perseus pleaded for his father's assistance. Two of Zeus’s divine children, Hermes and Pallas Athena, joined the quest. Hermes guided Perseus to the Graiae, three sisters who shared one eye and one tooth. As they were passing the eye between them, Perseus snatched it. He demanded the location of the Hyperboreans, the Nymphs of the North, in exchange for their eye. Hermes and Perseus then traveled there, and obtained three magical tools - a pair of winged sandals, a magic pouch, and a dog-hide cap that made the wearer invisible.

           Perseus was equipped with Hermes’s curved sword and the bronze aegis (or shield) of Athena. The three traveled to the Gorgon's isle. A plan of attack was devised by his fellow travelers. Wearing the cap of invisibility and the winged sandals, Perseus approached Medusa while she was sleeping. Instead of looking at her directly, he viewed her reflection in the shield. Pallas Athena guided the path of his sword to sever Medusa's head. This he took and placed in the magic pouch. He quickly flew away, his invisibility preventing the other two Gorgons from catching him.

           From the corpse of Medusa sprang the two sons she had conceived of Poseidon, the immortal winged horses, Pegasus and Chrysaor the golden warrior. As Perseus sped away from the island with Medusa's head, her blood dropped onto the sands of Libya, and turned into snakes and lizards. Perseus used Medusa's head on several occasions to defeat his enemies. After rescuing Andromeda, he laid the head on a bed of sea weed. The weed became brittle. Sea nymphs scattered the seeds, and thus coral was born - a living plant under water that becomes a rock-like substance when exposed to air. Eventually Medusa's head was given to Pallas Athena, who carried it upon her aegis to numb and petrify her enemies.

           There is a further reference to Medusa in the Labors of Herakles (Hercules), the great-grandson of Perseus and Andromeda. Herakles had been sent to get the hell-hound Cerberus. Guided to the underworld by Hermes, they encounter a multitude of shades at the gates to the realm. All of them fled in the face of life, except for the shade of Medusa. Her ghost remained steadfast at the gate, and Herakles had to be strongly discouraged by Mercury not to attack her.

THE MEDUSA MODEL

           The underlying nuts and bolts of Medusa's story bear scrutiny. Many charts reveal the influence of this star, and it is not always an experience of unadulterated evil. The two primary components of the myth are time and transformation. Medusa experienced three important phases: innocent maiden, Gorgon, and posthumous emergence of Pegasus and Chrysaor. The effects of this variable star can be seen in these phases, and the combination with a natal planet or axis point may require a lifetime to progress through these transitions.

           The Medusa model consists of the following event pattern. The phase of innocence ends abruptly through a painful and humiliating loss, possible through events and relationships that precede their personal involvement. This may be a rape or some form of harsh cruelty. Somehow the shape is changed, irrevocably altered. The Gorgon period is one of great bitterness and variable potency, during which wisdom, courage and tools must be acquired.

           The final phase begins with a decapitation: a loss of ego and reason. The old identity or persona mask retains its potency, but the native need no longer identify with the evil image. Instinctive, vibrant life forces emerge, fully formed, and effect a cathartic rebirth to a transcendent state of being.

           In enacting this pattern, the native of Medusa encounters forces and circumstances beyond their control, like the grudge between Neptune and Pallas Athena. There may be a nasty family daimon one has apparently escaped up to the point of phase two. Key individuals are involved in changing the Gorgon period to the posthumous phase. In this final phase, the native's life events may profoundly impact others long after their death (be this a literal or figurative death). They are the lynch pin of a dynamic fate for the group.

CAPUT ALGOL AND THE PLANETS

           The entire panoply of planetary energies is involved in a complex web of meaning around Medusa: her beauty (Venus) was horribly transformed (Neptune) through the capricious whims of the gods (Uranus). Her glance caused living bodies to morph into stone (Neptune/Saturn). Her evil potency (Mars/Pluto) was variable (Moon); she was capable of existing on land, sea and air (Moon). Her body became metallic (Mars). The instruments of her death have a double lunar symbolism - a reflection and a curved sword. Three half-siblings engage upon a quest (Mercury/Jupiter), using wisdom (Pallas Athena) and stealth (Mercury) to acquire needed tools and plan strategy. Medusa gave birth after death (Pluto) to fantastically beautiful twins (Venus/Neptune) and her head became a weapon (Mars).

           This amalgamation of the planetary pantheon in Medusa's myth serves to increase the multi-dimensional nature of the Medusa star. An evil fate, disfigurement, decapitation, and piles of corpses are possible meanings for the star, but blending this star's influence into the natal chart need not be limited to messages of doom.

NATAL INTERPRETATION

           Conjunctions are the only recognized aspect to fixed stars in natal charts. Orb for the conjunction should be about 1-2 degrees. Other stars and clusters are very near Caput Algol by zodiac degree. Detailed instructions for calculating parans are given in Bernadette Brady's book. In the event of a precise conjunction at 25° Taurus, the following delineations are offered.

           A conjunction with the Ascendant or Midheaven axis may bring about the full version of the three phases during the native's life. The potency of Algol imprinted on a primary axis point suggests that the Medusa model may form the key dynamic of the life pattern. Other stars and planetary combinations may mitigate the full impact of Algol. The chart of a client with Algol and Ascendant in a T-square with Chiron and Uranus tells the story of a difficult life, with tragic relationships, disastrous losses, painful scarring from surgeries, and endless frustrations. However, a trine from Saturn in the 9th seems to provide her with the determination to keep working toward a better life, and offers a stabilizing philosophical attitude about her troubles.

           With the Sun, Algol brings variable powers of success, a wavering identity, or possible scarring on the face. A forceful personality may greatly affect large groups of people, although they must learn to consider the possible consequences of their actions on others. These natives may be endangered in collective situations, with persistent hardships in trying to fulfill their inborn potential for great vision. An interest in metals and mining is possible, as evidence by a client with this placement who is a mining engineer.

           With the Moon, Algol gives a chameleon-like ability to thrive in diverse environments; piercing eyes, and emotions that partake of rage and fury. There may be a powerful shadow identity. Sorrows tend to focus on the family dynamic. A client with this placement experienced a devastating parental divorce. His father is a covert, possibly evil, shadow figure, who has caused his mother great pain and frustration. Their divorce took nearly 8 years, during which time the two sons struggled with their emotions about their largely-absent father, and the mysteries that surround this shadowy parent.

           With Mercury, Caput Algol indicates a brilliant capacity for creating stealthy strategies. This native will be opportunistic about joining forces with needed partners, who may be siblings. This star may also exacerbate Mercury's tendency toward amoral views and activities. There may also be an interest in morbid subjects like vampires, monsters, and the legions of horrid creatures invented in literature and film. The native may be involved in obtaining key information for important projects, and may not be too worried about the distinctions between acquisition and theft. Espionage and surveillance may be career choices.

           Venus faces a dilemma with Algol. Although she is in her own sign, contact with this star stirs her self-willed passions and insistence on adoration and adornment. Acquisition of valuable jewelry may verge on the tacky, as it reflects an inherent need to cover the body with metal. Desires may be powerfully instinctive, thus overwhelming the intellect. Much like Medusa, mirrors may be their downfall through over-reliance on appearances. Changes in looks from surgeries or illness could trigger an identity crisis, requiring much time to rebuild healthy ego values. Relationships with offspring may be plagued with absence or spotty contact, although children may be incredibly talented.

           Mars and Algol are connected with weapons and attacks. If badly placed or aspected, severe wounds to the head and eyes are possible. If the native strongly responds to this conjunction, they could be the instigators of attacks both cruel and clever. The Elspeth Ebertin indicates that this combination increases the risk of bad teeth. She also gave examples of this combination in the charts of serial murderers.

           Aspects to the combination are of the utmost importance. Easy aspects from 9th house planets reinforce moral rectitude. A client with a Mars-Algol conjunction in his 10th house, squared by Venus in Leo, has made unsuccessful attempts to run for political office. He abused his former wife, then abandoned her and their children, and continually involves his family and friends in his legal machinations. He has lost jobs because of sexual harassment charges. He has assumed the role of the Gorgon toward others, and suggestions for further professional counseling have been ignored.

           With Jupiter, there is a need to acquire knowledge and skills in order to fulfill personal vision. It will be important for these natives to choose partners with the wisdom and talents to assist them. There may be strong relationships between siblings and literature/film, as there is with Mercury. The ability to find spiritual meaning in hardships and tragedies gives these Algol natives a measure of inner peace. They may be a key figure for inspiring others to undertake important projects. A client with this combination leads a musical group that experiments with radical new sounds. His primary income is derived from welding - a connection with metallic scales of the Gorgon. He and his band-mates enjoy monster movies and grotesque images.

           Saturn with Algol is quite difficult. It implies paralysis of some form - of the will or body. Harsh fate may manifest through the family, or through other circumstances that create infuriating frustrations. Will and instinct may battle over boundaries in the inner landscape of the psyche. Continual struggles to achieve personal potential may be thwarted through the powers of unseen forces. It may take many years before equilibrium in life can be found. Aspects that support this combination in a positive way would be quite helpful in minimizing the potential for chronic depression and frustration.

           Neptune displays inscrutable complexity when interacting with this star. Neptune was conjunct Algol around 1885, and this entire birth group experienced their Saturn return at the onset of World War I. The massive loss of life through warfare and disease changed the face of Europe. This same group was in their mid 50's at the onset of World War II. Neptune is connected with several details of the Medusa myth. Shape-shifting, being victimized by a capricious events or persons, and emerging into a powerful vision may all play a part in those who have Neptune in tight aspect to this planet. The birth group of 1967-1969 has Neptune in opposition to this star.

           Pluto and Caput Algol are a terrifying combination, giving the potential for great evil. There may be no fear of death, or obsessions with morbid subjects and personal losses. Posthumous events continue to reflect the influence of the native's life. Pregnancies may be difficult or life-threatening. The potential for harsh fate is strong, and events may force the native into a struggle for survival. However, the power of Pluto can also be utilized to pursue a powerful vision of reality and healing transformations. Their visions may be at odds with contemporary mainstream thought, but may prove seminal in scientific and occult arenas. The 1993-94 birth group has the opposition between Pluto and Algol. Time will tell what roles they will play in the myth.

           The asteroid Pallas Athena may have both the best and most difficult relationship with this star. One may be capable of being greatly offended by other's actions, as the value for truth and wisdom are incredibly strong. The native may be compelled to work against evil circumstances in their lifetime. Finally, aspects with Pallas may also indicate a need to provide a practical means for manifesting a vision, like the golden bridle Pallas Athena devised to tame Pegasus.

CAPUT ALGOL AND THE MILLENIAL ALIGNMENT

           The Jupiter-Saturn conjunction in May 2000 was also conjunct Caput Algol. The Grand Stellium in Taurus fulfilled the requirements of the Medusa model by involving nearly all of the planetary energies in the unfolding events. Uranus squared the conjunction, and it is obvious that elements of the Medusa myth are already in motion. Hoof-and-mouth disease suffered by cattle in Britain and Europe caused a vivid incidence of piled-up corpses that will not soon be forgotten. There is collective frustration about disappointing delays in environmental preservation initiatives. Leaders are experiencing variable potency. Ancient religious sculptures have been defaced. Several concurrent ethnic wars are causing of senseless victimization between neighbors and nations, to which there is no defense.

           The current Jupiter-Saturn-Algol cycle portends a long series of shocks and deep socio-cultural bitterness. The fate of victims is entwined with the fates of those individuals who carry the roles of Neptune or the Gorgon. The final phase will be reached when underground streams of cultural thought burst forth into the mainstream of humanity, fully formed and potent. New value sets will surface through instinct, as the boundaries between life and death lose meaning. The events of the next 20 years are implacably entwined with the future of humanity.

           Pegasus carries the symbolic implication of space exploration. It is quite synchronous that Pallas Athena and the other asteroids have become infused into mainstream astrology in the past decade, as the Pallas Athena archetype plays a recurrent, pivotal role in the Medusa model. The movements of this asteroid are doubly important during throughout this Jupiter/Saturn cycle, starting with her notable participation in the retrogrades in Sagittarius during 2001.

           In the next two decades, the outer planets will form important aspects to Caput Algol. Neptune will square the star (and the Jupiter-Saturn conjunction degree) in April 2009. Jupiter returns to 25° Taurus in 2012. Uranus will make a conjunction with the star in June 2024, a mere 4 years after the next Jupiter-Saturn conjunction in Aquarius; something of a role reversal from the 2000 alignment.

           The imprint of Caput Algol on the final Great Mutation of Jupiter and Saturn in earth signs is an ominous portent for the future. The potential for violence, tragedy, destruction and horror from this conjunction suggest that this will be a bleak chapter in human history. The evil inherent in this star bring disasters to which there is no defense - humans, animals and the environment are all completely vulnerable. The visionary elements of the Medusa myth are a fragile thread of hope for the future. In the end, the destiny of Earth and her inhabitants are indistinguishable.

[dunmerofskyrim]

6

The hamlet was on none of Simra’s maps, nor any map he could remember seeing. Not the faded and fingermarked Imperial Cartographic Society print; proud on the front two pages of his Third Era almanac; showing Morrowind as it had been. Not the dog-eared bundle of smaller scale charts he’d gathered down the years. ‘Stonefalls…Southern Deshaan…Narsis & City Limits…Ascadian Isles & Azura’s Coast…Holdings of the Mainland & Zafirbel Telvanni.’ The maps and sketches that showed Morrowind, piece by piece, as it was now.

It was easy to reckon out any number of reasons. Harder was choosing between two whys. Was the hamlet missed off from the maps because it was too new, or still too much of a nothing? The same story and the same questions shaded over any number of villages and outposts in Morrowind.

Half a handful of buildings in packed earth and brick, raised up on platforms from the riverfork’s damp. A handful more of wooden trellis and stretched hide, roofs and lintels blue-black and green with moss. Snagged plots of shortbeans and leafy watergreens grew in the damplogged dirt. And that was all. The people here were fisherfolk, or people waiting for their chance to leave.

Old women in tarred leather coracles floated the river’s broad splay, barb-spears poised to snatch up fish, or whatever else lived in the water. Skinny children wrestled and fixed nets on the far muddy bank. All of them were swaddled against the cold, despite the pale afternoon sun.

The boatmer scowled and fixed his mouth like there was a smell to this place more foul by far than his boat and its baskets. To Simra there was no difference. He’d be glad to put both to his back. Upwind if his luck ran kind, but when did it ever?

The boat passed at a distance, then shunted against the southernmost bank.

“That piece?”

The boatmer cornered Noor as she came outside from the cabin. His dialect was thick, murky and rural. Hard to understand for any of them. For Simra it wasn’t so much the words he used that were difficult. In themselves Simra knew most if not all. It was how he put them together into sentences. Put across his meaning — or didn’t.

“This piece, that piece,” he said, slow to Noor, as if she were simple. “This piece is gift ago. That piece is no. That piece is where? We together an agree.”

Simra strapped into his bags. Satchel, book-bag, gathersack. Swordbelt and the pouch that hung from it. No matter that he was the one who’d treated with the boatmer all this while. Arranged payment. Haggled a discount when he told the older mer he’d be more protection than passenger, showing him the sword he carried. The boatmer always spoke to Noor first when he had something to say. The eldest of them, Simra supposed. Determined by tradition.

“Isn’t this were you step in, usually?” Simra turned to the boatmer’s daughter. Her Dunmeris had a broader catch to it, grown by necessity like thorns from a fern — a short lifetime of translating for her father must’ve done that.

She wrinkled her pug-nose and spat, past the boat’s side and into the water. “Please.” When she looked back to Simra, she wore a small grin. “Will rescue when they stop being funny.”

Simra gave a rattling sigh in the back of his throat and crossed to the boat’s far side. The boatmer fixed him with another scowl. An interruption; torn decorum. But what was the use in caring now? This was as far as their paths went together.

“This piece, I’ve given you,” Simra said, jutting a thumb over his shoulder and into the past. “That piece…” He rummaged in the pouch at his swordbelt and hooked out three jangling strings of shils. That had been the deal: four then and three now. “Happy?”

“Happy,” the boatmer nodded. A look of sheepish discomfort in his face as he took the last three yera of his pay.

Simra raised his brows at Noor, a lean cut of smile crossing his face. Satisfaction, but only shortlived. It’d be sweeter to know he held the pursestrings of their venture if it didn’t mean opening his own purse so often. He’d paid their passage – she and Tammunei – and provisioned them this far. Tammunei, he knew, carried no money at all. Noor had shown no signs of being any different. At another kind of time, with another kind of head on his shoulders, Simra might have asked her.

Instead they flopped from the boat’s beached prow and onto the bank. Tammunei first, who helped Noor down. Then Simra, alone, with a leap to get clear from the worst of the mud. A moment later he doubled back, remembering something, cursing as the bank sucked at his boots.

He filled his waterskin at the riverside. No regard for the dirt and scum afloat in what he gathered. Not these days. He had something for that. He reached into his satchel and brought out a leather cord, tied round a small tarnished bronze medallion, scratched with a single sigil. He slipped it into his waterskin’s mouth a moment. When he pulled it back, the medallion gleamed wet, though the tarnish had grown worse.

Noor stood a ways from the bank, long hair turned whiplike by wind. A covered basket was strapped to her back, hunching her. Every bit the crone, Simra thought, but there was no knowing how old or young she truly was. No polite way to find out — but when had politeness ever been a concern of hers? Only in her ashlander way. Gift and ritual; the right words, and the wit to improvise round them.

“Best to get on,” she called out over the breeze. “There’s daylight yet, but less than there might be.” Her voice had grown stronger of late. For better or worse was still to be seen.

Simra glanced behind them, over the wide river, across to the hamlet. “Supplies first?”

Noor gave him a pitying look. “More?” she said. “After so long wasted in Bodram? Getting and spending… Bread and grains…”

Wasted? Thanks to her it was time lost to them already. Time that Simra had put to as good a use as he could. Saving what’s wasted from going to waste — a necromancer ought to’ve understood that, he thought.

Something stormy and sour must have crossed his face. When Noor spoke again, she spoke softer:

“We’ll travel faster burdened by less. You want to travel fast, don’t you?”

Simra gave a reluctant nod.

“Good. Can you hunt? Trap?”

And there it was again. A moment’s kindness, and then the crush of a question: Are you enough, Simra Hishkari? “Not as such,” he said.

“No matter.” Noor’s voice was sunny, strange and bright. “Tammu and I will forage as we go.” She paused. Cocked her head at him, with a look like someone trying to tongue something from between their backmost teeth. “What are you, Simra Hishkari?”

Simra’s face stiffened. His cheeks hollowed. The same question again, given voice this time. The urge to deflect struck fast as instinct. “The proud owner of the longest legs among us,” he said. “Try to keep up.”

And all the rest was hard pacing. Cross-country, at least until Ouadabridge. On foot. There was no point disputing it now they’d set out. And he was no wisewoman. Hardly an ashlander. Couldn’t hunt, couldn’t herd, hated to ride except when he’d hate walking worse. What did he know, then? Only that this seemed a bad trade. He’d tell them. First one to cry footsore, he’d tell them, and next time they’d listen to him. Next time, he’d have will to form the words. But for now they’d follow Noor’s wisdom. Like playing at cards, Simra saved his hand.

The land as they travelled stretched open. First the mountains of Stonefalls faded behind them, then the foothills too. After there was only starkness, steppe, shreds of scrub or seams of wet black dirt. Long grey-green grass, occasional as cresting waves in a sea of shorter blue-green grazing.

They travelled a rough southing course. One league, two leagues, three, trusting in Noor’s memory to see them right. For all Simra walked fastest among them, she was the one that led.

He had journeyed through the Northern Deshaan before, but never this part, and never off-road. Here was a gape of emptiness, featured only on the oldest and most outdated of his maps. Even then it was only a stretch of empty paper, equated by a black writhe of river: the Dathan. And there was an itching fear in that. Like staring into pitch-blackness, sure you feel things staring back. Who’s to say what an emptiness might turn out to be full of? Or why it should ever be anything pleasant?

“We safe to have a fire?” Simra asked as the sun began setting.

“I can make us safe,” Noor answered.

Simra kissed his teeth. By sword and spell, he could make them safe too. Difference was, he’d rather not have cause. He remembered the Rift, and the risk of showing yourself on the steppe. Lighting a cookfire was good as lighting a beacon in the open. Light by night, or the lure of smoke by day.

Still, in the last hour of light they had, he gathered what brush he saw. Spindly windfalls and dry spreads of fern. Knotted bulbs, half-hidden by grass. A dusty tumble of weed and straw, blown along in the breeze. Whatever he reckoned would burn.

As they began they were nowhere at all. A river and mountains for placemarks. Since then they’d left them behind. Now, as night closed in, the world grew tight, and where they were seemed a deeper nowhere still.

“Here,” said Noor. “We stop here.” She was breathless as she called it.

Simra dropped his bundle of brush and fuel.

Tammunei took the arm-long shape of hides and struts they carried from their back, and planted one picket-pointed end in the ground. Leaning close, they murmured something to it. A strange and pitchy line of song. A spell. And the yurt began to unfold.

Simra had seen it before. Countless times on countless nights, and in reverse come morning. But the process was soothing, subtle but impressive. A great and everyday magic of the kind that came natural in Morrowind. In Skyrim it’d be just as natural to see it as some outlandish excess. Weakness, decadence, witchcraft. To Simra it seemed like common sense.

Like some uncanny tree, the yurt spread roots from its central stem. Spider’s legs of twitching creaking growing bone that spread out to form a floor. Between them, hide stretched itself, like the leather of a bat’s wings, going from lustrous dark to pale cream-brown as it warped and spread wider. Limbs of wood reached up and out to form eaves, then wall-frames. The bones arched up and met to make a door. And from the yurt’s domed apex, yet more skin unfurled and stretched, to cover its slow-grown skeleton.

It was small. Room enough for one to sit and shelter in comfort. For two, Simra knew it, was cramped. For three..?

He muddled his fuel into a shallow-sided pyramid, built round a heart of dry grass. With outheld hands, he lit the heap in a rise and spray of sparks.

Noor by then was pacing a circle round their camp. A warbling husky song flowed from her as she walked. Round and round, head down, then up-bucked to the sky.

Magic, Simra supposed. She’d said she could make them safe. He crouched by the growing light of his fire and brought out his almanac, untucking the right chart from its pages. Stonefalls. He found the fork of the river they’d left, marked it, and wrote in a careful hand: ‘Fisher’s Fork’. If the place had no name before, it did now.

He placed his kettle on the fire, filled with enough water to cook mountain millet.

Abrupt as a change in the breeze, Noor finished her song. Trying to keep a stumble from her step, she came into the firelight and slumped to sit.

Something had changed. The night was darker, more enclosed. Frowning, Simra cricked back his neck to look at the sky. The moons and stars were gone.

“Safe,” breathed Noor.

[hoshi-kawaii]

Shine On You Crazy Diamond CH 10. Perfect Blue Buildings

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to FF.net user Pingly187 who I would like to thank for the song recommendation: Perfect Blue Buildings by Counting Crows. You can find the whole story here.

Perfect Blue Buildings

Gray’s morning started out like any other. He awoke to the shrill beeping of his alarm in a mangled nest of fabrics: his comforter spilling off the bed and onto the floor and his sheets woven around his limbs, proof of the time he fought to get away from the coverage during the night. Why he still bothered to use blankets was a mystery. After untangling himself from his sheets, his bare legs instinctively found their way to the bathroom to do his business. Stop number two was the kitchen. One pale, callous hand found it’s grip on the preset, fresh-made coffee while the other landed on a clean mug drying by the sink. No time was wasted as he filled the ceramic vessel and downed the steaming contents, careful not to spill the dark liquid on his naked chest. Soon, his coffee was paired with a bowl of cereal to form the drummer’s breakfast.

Finally caffeinated, Gray returned to his bedroom to don a pair of shorts and sneakers, prepared to head out on a run. He enjoyed this activity daily as a way to reset his mind for things to come. His phone hung heavy in one pocket, keys in another, as his headphones trailed across his chest to his ears. Locking the door behind him, he set his soles to the pavement with abandon.

Just down the street from your hotel, baby,

I stay at home with my disease.

Today, this rejuvenation was especially needed. Sure, last night Gray had a nice time. He went out with his friends and won a contest. He enjoyed the ability to let go and focus on carrying a beat. Yet, in his chest grew blooming interest for a certain blonde-- well, interest and confusion. She was intriguing, and mysterious. She wasn’t like others who shared themselves freely, wearing their emotions and experiences like an open book. She kept to herself, but inside of her passion rage and fought to burst forth. He was able to witness a fraction of that passion last night and couldn’t deny, she reminded him of himself.

And ain't this position familiar, darling?

Well, all monkeys do what they see.

Help me stay awake, I'm falling...

However, that wasn’t the only thing on his mind this morning.

Down on Virginia and La Loma,

Where I got friends who'll care for me...

In just two short hours, Gray had a very important meeting. A meeting with Koriho Tsukamaki, an executive at one of the most well known publishing companies in Fiore. For years now he had been working on telling his own story, using manga as a vehicle to deliver just that. There are many out there who need to know life can get better. He would give them such a story. A story of determination, of a young boy thrown into the world after the death of his guardian and teacher. Of those he met along the way, and his path to Fairy Tail.

Ice Trail would tell that story-- with a magical twist.

You got an attitude of everything I ever wanted,

I got an attitude of need.

As Gray turned down another street he begged his mind not to play through the memories. Funny how our bodies only listen to us when they want to.

Help me stay awake, I'm falling...

Ur Milkovich was his aunt, his mother’s sister and his only living relative after his parents, Mika and Silver, succumbed to the fatal Deliora disease. Gray had only been six years old when he was forced to move up north to stay with Ur, her daughter Ultear, and her foster son Lyon. Although he had been unhappy with these circumstances at first, Gray’s feelings changed the longer he spent time with his aunt. Children were her passion. After almost losing her daughter in infancy, Ur decided she wanted to help other children in need. She began volunteering in her community and a few years later she came across Lyon, a poor young boy in need of a home. Her home and her heart were filled when Gray stepped in.

Asleep in perfect blue buildings,

Beside the green apple sea.

Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby.

Try to keep myself away from me.

Ur’s other passion had been music. In her youth she had played the drums, joining with friends and rocking in girlbands. To Ur, drumming represented freedom. The freedom of movement and sound, the creation of rhythm and the beat of life. This was a gift she shared with her boys, filling the house with discordant sound and driving Ultear mad. To Gray and Lyon, she taught all she knew.

Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby.

Try to keep myself away from me.

It was Ur who first encouraged Gray’s talent for drawing.  They started as childish doodles on construction paper with crayon, but Ur was always ready with a smile and a complement each day he returned after school with a new picture. Soon enough, his pictures found their way on every page he could find, filling the cracks of his homework assignments and distracting his mind from his surroundings. As the months went on, the children in his class turned on the kid who was always scribbling away. They made fun of his drawings, of his lack of parents, and of the strange stipping habit he seemed to pick up as a result of his drumming. He began to get in fights, and Lyon was no help. He had no pity for his unwanted, makeshift-brother.

It's 4:30 A.M. on a Tuesday.

It doesn't get much worse than this.

It was then that Gray’s drawings took on a dark side, turning violent and full of pain. He seemed obsessed with depicting the death of his parents. Their disease transformed with art into a monster, a demon too powerful to defeat.  This event represented the source of all his unhappiness. If they had not died, he would still be smiling and living with them, right? He wouldn’t have school bullies, he wouldn’t have a brother who hates him, and he wouldn’t randomly throw his clothes around.

In beds in little rooms in buildings in the middle of

these lives which are completely meaningless.

Ur’s smile twisted when a bloody-nosed Gray returned from school one day and handed her the image of himself standing victoriously over the frozen bodies of his schoolyard tormentors. Instead of getting angry, the kind woman knelt down to her nephew and prodded him gently, “Gray, you’re so talented. Why do you draw such dark things? I know you’ve had a rough life, and those bullies of yours aren’t helping, but you shouldn’t let the darkness gain control of you.” Her worried expression transformed into a soft smile, resting a hand on his shoulder, “I know you’re angry, but your art could be so beautiful if you just focused on the light.”

Help me stay awake, I'm falling...

She was right, but he didn’t have the sense to listen to her then. Another year went by, and school hours were still consumed by comments torturing the weirdo orphan who spent more time drawing than paying attention to his teacher. Recess only meant one thing: another fight. Of course, another fight meant another afternoon stuck in the principal’s office, a stuck up man who refused to believe the angry child was being victimized. It was times such as those that the boy wished he could join his parents as a resident of the afterlife.

Asleep in perfect blue buildings,

Beside the green apple sea.

Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby.

He gave up on his anger, he gave up on fighting back. His injuries got worse as the bullies used his apparent cowardice against him. They called him a chicken for not fighting back, but it didn’t stop them. Gray couldn’t find it in him to care. He gave up on drawing. It didn’t bring him joy or relief any longer. Ten years-old and he walked through each day as ghost, barely feeling. He simply laid down and took his beatings like a dog, with each one wishing they would just kill him instead.

Try to keep myself away from myself and me.

All of that changed one day when he, Lyon, and Ultear were helping Ur clear out the attic. He was pulling bric-a-brac out of a dusty corner when he found it, an old hand gun. Young, midnight-blue eyes widened as they traced the object in his hand. His mouth opened for a moment, about to announce his discovery when he suddenly realized this gun could solve all his problems. He simply hid it until he could discreetly stash the firearm under his bed.

I got bones beneath my skin, and mister...

There's a skeleton in every man's house.

The antique sat there for a month or so as he entertained his options of how to use it. He would turn it on himself and end all his suffering. No more bullies, no more stupid Lyon. He would be with his parents again. He just had to work up the nerve.

Beneath the dust and love and sweat that hangs on everybody,

There's a dead man trying to get out.

However, it was on a Friday, during one particularly brutal beating that his thoughts began to change. Almost like a reflex, as if that gun had given him power again, he sent a right hook smack into the face of the ginger-haired boy who had been hitting him like rapid fire. With his muscles flexed and a smirk on his face Gray came to realize that he was not the problem. It was these other kids, these bullies, who deserved to die. If they were gone, Gray could find happiness again, he could go back to drawing and make Ur smile.

Please help me stay awake, I'm falling...

His plan was hatched. After school he returned to the attic and tracked down some old bullets. He took them along with the gun far into the woods behind the house where he set up a few cans to practice his shot. Satisfied with himself after one day of practice, Gray stashed the weapon in his backpack.

Asleep in perfect blue buildings,

Beside the green apple sea.

The following Monday Gray overslept, leaving Ur to bring him into school an hour or so late. He sat in the passenger seat of her minivan in front of the school as she wrote up his tardy note. Ur instructed him him to put the note in his backpack so he would not lose it on his way into the school. He unzipped the large pouch and dropped the paper in as he swung his door open and made his way out.

Gonna get me a little oblivion, baby.

He didn’t notice the large rock his foot slipped on as he made to exit the vehicle, causing the contents of his backpack to spill out all over the front seat. Time moved in slow motion as he panicked, reaching to hide the gun back in the sack just as Ur laid her eyes on it. Two sets of hands landed on the firearm, Gray’s on the handle and Ur’s on the barrel.

Try to keep myself away from me.

It wasn’t meant to happen.

The gun was old and the safety was faulty.

Blood was pouring from her chest before the two could process what had occurred.

When the ambulance arrived Ur told them the gun had fallen from the glovebox when Gray tripped getting out of the car. That the gun was old, but it was all she had as a single mother to protect the ones she loved. Gray was too shocked for words and didn’t argue. It was in that ambulance that Ur shared her final words with him.

Perfect blue buildings...

“I just want all my children to be happy, to see the world and all it has to offer. I only regret that I couldn’t seal away your darkness. If you just focus on the light, Gray, I know you will shine.”

Gray would never forget the light touch of her cold hand as she spoke, or the way the pressure fell away with her last breath.

Beside the green apple sea.

That was when child services came. Ultear had been 18, legally an adult and able to take care of herself. Yet, for whatever reason, Lyon and Gray were separated. This suited young Fullbuster just fine. Lyon had never liked him, and even lashed out at Gray for causing Ur’s death. After all, if he hadn’t been late to school, the event never would have taken place. Gray cursed Lyon for not knowing just how right he was. The other boy would simply serve as a reminder of his sin. It’s better to be apart.

I wanna get me a little oblivion, baby.

So, Gray was sent to an orphanage in Mone run by Fiore State Council member Torch Endeavor. Most of the children there were kind, but their circumstances were not. Each friend he made soon left him. The was Nano, a kind girl a year or so younger than he was. She took to him right away, but not much time passed before she was adopted by a loving couple. Then, there was Mary and Amelie sisters rescued out of human trafficking who stayed at the orphanage briefly while their living relatives were tracked down. Each friend Gray made soon left, moved on to a new family, leaving Gray behind to be tormented by Unicol and that idiot Milk Boy.

Try to get myself away from myself and me.

When Gray entered middle school he was excited to learn that the school band offered drums. Finally, the universe had restored some solace to the boy, providing him with a distraction from his sorry lot. He stayed after school in the band room everyday and practiced. This, he would never regret.

At the end of the year, Mone Junior High hosted a benefit concert. The junior high’s band would be opening for one of the most popular musicians in all of Fiore: Guildarts Clive. Knowing this was his last chance to sit being the drums before summer came, Gray had played his heart out that night He fought his guilt to remember the words Ur had told him. Drumming represented freedom, so for that evening he let himself be free.

Oh, little perfect blue buildings.

When it was all over Gray sat outside the school, staring out across the river as he waited for Torch-sama to pick him up. It was then that he was unexpectedly approached by Gildarts himself. The older man lowered himself down on the curb beside the boy, lighting a cigarette as he did. Gray started in shock at the closeness of the famous musician, who simply kept his eyes on moonlight reflecting off the water. The boy was taken aback further when the man spoke.

“That was some drumming you did back there, kid.” Guildarts sent Gray a sideways glance, only to laugh when the kid continued to stare. Placing the cigarette in the crook of his lips, Guildarts offered his hand. “Name’s Guildarts. Nice to meet ya.”

Well I can’t keep myself away from me.

Gray simply stared at the rough grip thrust toward him. “You got a name, kid?”

“Gray.” The boy blurted.

Guildarts broke out in a large smile as he returned his hand to his cigarette. Blowing out a puff of smoke he asked, “Where’d you learn to drum like that, Gray? Surely they didn’t teach that in this dump.” He took another drag before looking back to inspect the school building.

Gray looked down at the worn sticks clutched in his hands before answering quietly, “My Aunt Ur taught me.”

“Ur?” Guildarts ran the syllable through his memory, coming across the image of the female drummer flanking another female guitarist and bassist in a club back in his twenties. “Ur Milkovich? You gotta be kidding me!”

The young drummer had thought he couldn’t be any more shocked, but he was wrong.

“Man, I begged her to be my drummer back in the day! What’s good ol’ Ur up to these days?” Guildarts’ grin reached his eyes as he expectantly waited for Ur’s pupil to answer.

Gray’s body shook at the question, his grip on the sticks tightened as a few tears flooded the night that lived in his eyes. “She... Uh...” But the words wouldn’t escape.

Oh, little perfect blue building.

Guildarts sobered at the boy’s response, stamping out his cigarette on the concrete before offering his condolences. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, kid.” A large, warm hand laid itself on the boy’s back, offering comfort. Guildarts thought back to Ur’s response the night he had asked her to join him on tour.

“I appreciate your interest in my talent, but tonight was my last show.” Ur instinctively held her stomach, a smile capturing her lips as her eyes fell to meet her hand, “It’s time for me to focus on raising the next generation.”

Here he was, a piece of Ur’s next generation, and at such a young age he played with a passion that rivaled her own.

“You had a marvelous teacher, kid. I think she would be proud of you.”

Gray looked up, catching the soft yet serious expression displayed on the older man’s face. It only lasted a moment before Guildarts was pushing himself off the pavement and onto his feet. He stood there for a moment, eyes fixed on the horizon across the river.

“Anyway, I came over here to tell you something. I think you got talent, kid. From what I can tell you got it pretty rough here, but across that river in the west, there’s a town called Magnolia. If you go there, you’ll find a place for people like us. It’s a guild called Fairy Tail.”

How am I gonna keep myself away?

Gray fixed his eyes into the darkness across that river, as if he would be able to see the town if he stared hard enough. A place for people like us. He turned to ask Guildarts what he meant, but the older man was gone. Torch-sama’s beat-up car was coming around the bend.

It only took Gray a few months to save up enough money for a boat and train ticket. He was sick of Unicol and Milk Boy. He was sick of Black Vox Orphanage. He was sick of Mone. Most of all, he was sick of staring out across the river. With a note left behind for Torch-sama, Gray took all he had and left. Only one thought stood fixed in his mind: Fairy Tail.

It didn’t take long for the art to return to him, for his drawing to return and set his mind free of the burden he carried. He would never forgive himself for the incident that took Ur away, but he vowed never to let the darkness take him again.

How am I gonna keep myself

Away from me?

This was the story who made Gray Fullbuster who he is. This was how he found Fairy Tail. The place that filled his life with friends who last for a lifetime. The place that housed his true family. A place to call home. Fairy Tail was his light. With his focus on it, he would tell his story.

Gray returned to the front door of his apartment, panting. With any luck, Koriho Tsukamaki would see the passion in Gray’s drawings. The passion he held for the young ice-make mage who set out to train after the death of his master, only to find his way to his true home: the wizard guild Fairy Tail.

It wasn’t long before his meeting now. Gray opened his door, removing his headphones and removing his phone from his pocket. He prodded over to the fridge, reaching for a bottle of water as he checked the time. He still had an hour and a half. As he made his way to the bathroom for a shower.

Keep myself away,

How am I gonna keep myself away from me?

After rinsing himself of his stressful run, Gray emerged anew. He would sell his story to Tsuamaki. He had to. He dried his hair, dressing in a button down and slacks before heading out the door. In the front seat of his Outback he checked his device one last time, opening his messages to find one unread.

Conversation: Erza, Flame Brain

Erza: Greetings, boys. After ending my tour I ran into an old friend who is getting married this weekend on Halloween. He expressed to me that he was having trouble finding a replacement band for the reception, as his previously booked band had an emergency arise. While I think it is simply inexcusable for anyone for break a commitment like that, I kindly offered our services. I figured this was a good time for the three of us to play just like we did in the old days. I will contact you later with further instructions.

Keep myself away,

How am I gonna keep myself

Away from me?

A/N: If any of you are wondering where I pulled out names like Mone (pronounced mo-nay), Nano, Torch Endeavor, Black Vox, Milk Boy, ect. you should read the real Ice Trail by Yuusuke Shirato. It’s a Fairy Tail spin-off manga. The manga Gray is writing is supposed to be based on that.

I plan to develop more side characters as I did with Gray. There will probably one or two chapters devoted to each along with some gradual development through the story. Lucy and Natsu aren’t the only crazy diamonds in this story who need to shine.

It looks like we’re moving on to the Lullaby Arc! Time to meet Erza! I wonder what kind of musician she will be?

You can read all ten chapters of Shine On You Crazy Diamond by zerOphelia on fanfiction.net.

[dhwty-writes]

Day 7 - Hurt/Comfort

Again, I am a few days late. I’m sorry. However, here is my entry for day 7.

We are back with Kylan and Vynan (remember them from Day 1?). Vynan is the crown prince and Kylan his chosen brother/lover. They are on a traditional journey to gain honour (in form of 10 copper earrings, each bestowed onto a young knight after a fight). They are attacked by bandits.

It was the cold that woke him. It was the empty space next to him the told him something was wrong. Vynan reached out, blindly searching for the warm body he had fallen asleep next to.

"Vynan," the anxious quiver in Kylan's voice startled him and he scrambled to his feet. His companion was wearing nought but his breeches and a determined look in his eyes, that spoke of a wildness within; a sight he would have normally welcomed at any time were it not for the sword in his hand and the pitch-black night that embraced them. "There's somebody here."

Vynan gritted his teeth and drew his own sword, alerted by the menacing sounds that did not belong to the forest. "How many?"

An absent look passed over his lover's face which he long knew to belong to the search of magical energies around them. "A dozen," he answered and Vynan cursed, "at least one mage. I think."

Of course, that couldn't have happened a day earlier when they had camped next to a nice river with water in abundance. Of course, it had to be in the dead of night when he wanted nothing more than pull Kylan close again. Of fucking course. "And I don't suppose they're here for a nice little midnight chat," Vynan sighed.

"No, we're not," a ragged voice answered. They turned to see a middle-aged woman dressed in rags with a nasty scar splitting her face in half. In her hand she held a sword dotted with rust and a shield that looked like it was about to fall apart. "Drop your weapons, lordlings," she ordered. "We have the clearing surrounded."

Vynan winced as he calculated their chances. Even without water, even with being ridiculously outnumbered, he and Kylan were knights equipped with castle-forged steel and castle-trained muscles and castle-taught magic. Their robbers had evidently none of that. "You don't want to do this," he pleaded.

"Quiet, lad," the woman snapped. "And drop the damned blade."

"What do you want?" he asked with the slim hope to be able to negotiate. "We have food and drink to share."

"We want nothing but that fancy steel and those horses of yours," the leader answered and twirled her blade, pulling a few laughed from the underbrush where the rest hid. "And your money, of course. You may keep your lives, though."

Vynan sighed. No negotiations, then.

"Sorry," Kylan answered, sarcasm dripping like poison, "but those are shit terms."

The air flickered with magic and suddenly the leader was thrown back against a tree. The violent crack of her skull breaking gave them a moment of stunned silence before all hell broke loose.

The bandits broke from the bushes screaming, all charging at once. Kylan nearly dropped his sword as he slammed his hands together in one swift motion and they all bumped into the magic shield that had formed around them. Vynan just gaped at him. He hadn't seen him resort to physical movement to cast magic in... ever.

"Just do your thing!" Kylan bellowed. "I'm having a different fight here!"

He understood - a mage, Kylan had said and they surely tried to block him from accessing the energies around them - and sprung into motion. He skirted around the edges of the shield, blocking off the attackers with his sword to let his lover work his magic - quite literally - without any disturbance.

He slashed and ducked, suddenly very aware of his vulnerability without any armour.

"It's going to drop!" Kylan warned and no moment too soon because the next he knew one sword came dangerously close to his abdomen.

Vynan winced and looked around for - something. It was futile, he well knew, no bandits brought barrels of water with them, but still- That left him only one other option. He danced out of the way of another attack. "Oh, how I loathe this...," he grumbled.

A man roared behind him and he spun, blocking the blow aimed at his neck. "That's not how sneak attacks work," he quipped before opening the attacker's throat with one swift stroke. Blood gushed out of the wound and Vynan quickly pressed his free hand across the deep cut. Blood painted his hand and his face and with a single flick of his wrist he pulled all of it out. The drained corpse fell like a sack of wheat and the liquid curled around Vynan's wrist, red and beautiful and deadly.

"Shadowless!" a cry echoed across the clearing and he grimaced.

"You're not too clever, are you?" he muttered as he wrapped his whip around the foot of a nearby man and pulled him closer, thrusting his sword through his back and pulling his blood out, too. "Light, Kylan!" he yelled and the clearing lit up a moment later, a bright sphere glowing above their heads.

He nodded at his lover and together they danced, spinning and twirling, bowing and embracing. The blood sang in Vynan's veins and it sang on the ground, too, begging him to summon it, to join in with the music and how could Vynan refuse the call of a beautiful lady?

It was over quickly. He almost pitied them. Almost. But then again, what other choice had they had?

The last man to fall looked up in horror as Vynan buried his swords deep in his guts. "Who are you?" he asked around a mouthful of blood.

His face twisted. "Your prince, asshole." He finished him quickly with a slash of watery claws across his throat. His sword was dripping with blood as was his hand when he released the grasp over the water within. He was sweaty and panting not at all in a glorious way as he'd imagined himself to be when he'd first get to test his swordplay outside of the tourney grounds. He felt awful, disgusted by his own actions. The dead man slumped to the ground, blood still pulsing from his throat and Vynan Au'eli straightened his back. "Fucking bastard idiots," he cursed hoarsely. "Why'd they do such a stupid fucking thing?"

A strangled cough was his only response and he knelt down to wipe his sullied weapon on the doublet of the poor fucker who'd been stupid enough to attack the crown prince and his brother-in-spirit. "Fu-fucking stupid," Kylan's frail voice agreed from behind him. "Oh. Oh, shit-!"

Vynan whirled around just in time to see his lover double over, leaning heavily on his sword staring at his hand. He was almost about to chide him for it - don't you know Rikaek Favi'koan will make us polish all swords in the armoury for that? - but then he saw the blood. And Siru, there was so much of it! "Kylan," he croaked, too stunned to do anything but stare.

Then, the knight collapsed with a strangled cry, the blood spilling freely. That was what finally startled Vynan from his paralysis. A moment later he was at his lover's side, blood soaking his breeches, carefully stroking sweaty strands of hair from his forehead. "Oh Siru, oh shit, oh Kylan," he murmured frantically. "What happened, what should I do, Kylan, tell me-"

Kylan's fingers grasped his wrist tightly - that relieved him, if he was still strong enough- "Calm down, Vynan," his knight ordered. "And shut the fuck up. Can't-" He gasped in pain. "-can't have you panicking." He shut his eyes tightly. "Focus, damned prince."

Vynan's hands were shaking like the earth under a shadowless' touch. "I don't know what to do!" he cried despairing. "I don't-" That was a part of a knight's training he had never received, instead replaced with politics and state visits. No crown prince ever had to know how to patch up a wound. There were healers for that. Only that now, there wasn't. Only that now, he needed to. "Shit, Kylan-"

"Bags," he gritted out. "Get the damn bags! There's-" He winced and Vynan did, too. "-bandages and stuff."

Vynan scrambled to his feet, glad to have something to do and searched through their luggage. Carelessly he spilled their content on the floor, not caring that he probably ruined all of their clothing but Kylan was hurt and possibly dying and- He found the pouch with the bandages, clinking with tinctures in glass bottles and raced back to his brother's side. "What now?"

Wincing he slowly pulled his hand away. "Y'gotta clean it," he slurred, his eyes rolling back into his head. "'n stitches. 'll hold it together. But- y'gotta do it-"

He stared for an embarrassing long time. With every blink he could feel Kylan's grasp on reality slipping more. "Alright," he said finally, "alright, I do it." He dug a clean cloth and the bottle saying alcohol from the bag - he knew that the healers used that on his injuries. As gently as he could he wiped the blood away from the wound, inhaling sharply as he saw the flickering film of magic over the deep cut. Normally, Kylan's magic was invisible.

"Stitches," he reminded him and he nodded, looking for needle and thread. Unsure what to do with it he just stared at the both items. "Jus' do it! Can' hol' it much longer."

"I- I don't know how!" he exclaimed helplessly.

Kylan huffed. "Thread in needle," he instructed. "There's a- a hole. Needle in flesh. In and out. Pull. Knot."

"Can't be that easy," he mumbled, trying to fit the thread through the tiny hole - fuck, why was it so small, this was not practical!

"Can't be worse than Kalia's embroidery..."

He huffed a relieved laugh - if he could joke how bad could it really be? - and finally pulled the thread through the eye of the needle, bracing himself for the task that lay before him. "This is gonna hurt like shit," he informed Kylan.

He nodded. "I know. Jus' do it."

He took a shaky breath and with trembling hand set about his task. 'You can do this,' he told himself as he made the first stitch. 'You are the bloody crown prince. You can sew a damned cut shut.' He quickly pushed the thought that he didn't know how to mend a torn seam away and got on with the sewing.

He was excruciatingly slow, his stitches crooked and uneven but at least he wasn't bleeding anymore. He coaxed Kylan to sit up to wrap bandages around his torso - that at least he knew how to do. Swaying he got to his feet, wiping his bloodied hands on his already soiled breeches. "Can you ride?" he asked anxiously. "The- the manse we passed yesterday. They are bound to have a healer. Or- or someone."

Kylan winced and weakly shook his head.

Vynan grunted in return. "We're still going," he decided and stumbled to their bags, pulling out two shirts and a cloak as well as their coin purse. That ought to be enough and even if not, he could always reveal himself.

He made quick work of saddling their horses and hiding their bags beneath a trunk - he would have to come back, but right now Kylan was more important. He knelt before his lover and dressed him with gentle hands. Then he pulled Kylan's arm over his shoulder and loping his arm around his waist to help him stand. "I've got you," he murmured quietly as they stumbled towards their horses. "I've got you, you're doing so well, just one step more, that's it, we're almost there..."

They were both panting when they reached their steeds and Kylan looked at them sceptically. "I don't think I can-" he began but Vynan interrupted him quickly.

"Of course, you can," he insisted. "Just get into the saddle, I'll take it from there- no, not your horse, paneg, idiot, as if I'll let you ride alone, there, that's it, just-" With an incredible display of willpower and strength Kylan pulled himself into the saddle, sweaty and panting and scooting forward that Vynan could get on behind him. Once they were both seated and Kylan's horse was tied to Vynan's saddle, the prince put his arms around his lover and reached for his reins.

"Just lean back," he whispered as he urged his horse into a quick trot, "and don't fall asleep. It will be better soon."

It seemed to him as if it took half an eternity for them to reach the gates of the estate, he had seen the previous day. To be fair, it was barely more than a slightly larger farm house, but still it belonged obviously to a noble. Vynan prayed that he was right and that it was part of a barony obligated to grant them shelter, food and medical aid as long as they were on their sirulelek. Under the mantle of anonymity with plain armour they were free to roam the lands, to hunt and camp wherever they pleased until no less than ten copper rings adorned their ears. What once had been common practice for every man and woman who had earned their spurs was now a tedious task reserved for younger children with no hopes for inheriting lands. With their travels they had to hope to find a charitable lord or lady to take them into their service.

This, naturally, was no way of life for the crown prince Vynan Au'eli and his brother in spirit Kylan Taxi'ren. They were not forced to wander aimlessly until they found an honourable warlord to lead them into battle. They could knock on any keep and demand admission and would probably leave with a filled purse and fresh horses the next day. Until now he had, however, preferred to not do so. But now, now with Kylan injured in front of him, everything had changed.

The sun had almost reached its zenith when he slid out of the saddle and stumbled to the main door, pounding on the heavy wood. A little girl dressed in breeches with a training sword in her hand opened up and looked at him quizzically. "Umm-" Vynan said as he tried to find his words. "Is the baek of this house home?"

The girl raised her chin defiantly and pointed the blunted sword at him. "What business do you have with my mother, scoundrel?"

He suppressed an annoyed sigh and raised his hands innocently. "Forgive my intrusion, ie velunikek. I assure you I am no scoundrel at all; I am a knight seeking glory as is my brother. Juiu xi siruekam liv'siruekamkir syvel zapo, bygauog fas'irzysaog s'ayuog musazys'aogkir. Sy lileki rika, niru' l'alirales'akir,” he said the ritualistic words. I swear before Siru and men it is true that I mean no harm and do no evil. I am a knight of the light and seek shelter.

“Syna rika sy rikakir, syvelog pitsir'uog gi miakir. Mael'eu kua i iey maelesa. Boxoniru kua icy'ru kuakir osin'iru kuakir. Pezi, ie leranik." A knight you are and a knight am I, and no quarrel is between us. I welcome you into my home where I will clothe and feed and heal you. Enter, brother.

"Loxlen of Nananar." He sighed in relief as he saw the baroness step into place and place a protective arm around her daughter. "Forgive my daughter, Narlen. She is very proud of her new sword and appears to take her duties to the house a little too seriously."

"Asas Ez'mor and my brother Naliv," he replied, giving the fake name Kylan and he had agreed upon when they began their journey, and bowed gracefully. "There is nothing to forgive, ie velunek."

She gasped softly. "He's injured."

"I'm afraid so. We were set upon by bandits not far from here, I- please, help him, I've got coin to pay, just-"

"Nonsense," she pushed past him, quickly striding over to their horses. "Narlen, get Master Ar'ika, now."

Vynan took no time to watch the girl hurry away, he was already at Kylan's side again, helping him out of the saddle with Loxlen who tutted quietly. "I can't believe that you come here with only the swords on your backs. You have to know how dangerous the roads can be!"

"Our armour-" he began, all his carefully upheld composure falling apart under the scolding gaze of the woman. "And our bags- they're- I left them- I- Siru, I was so scared, we never- I didn't know what to do!"

She nodded and clasped a hand on his shoulder. "I know, boy. It will be fine now. We have a healer with us and he will take care of your brother. We can go get your things later. Where's-"

"I'm already here, ie velunek," a new voice said and a surprisingly young man rushed past them in a flurry of grey robes of the Aviral Vigi. He spared only a passing glance at Vynan, instead examining Kylan. "He's lost a lot of blood," he declared. "Get him up to my room."

Vynan stood there dumbfounded.

"Are you deaf, boy?" the healer barked. "Now! Narlen can take care of your horses or whatever it is you're worried about."

"C-certainly," he stammered and simply went ahead to pick Kylan up, trailing behind the young scholar into the house and up a flight of stairs where he was led into a surprisingly well-lit room with glass windows and many bottles and papers strewn all over the place.

Carelessly Ar'ika shoved half a dozen tomes off a cot. "Put him down," he ordered and Vynan complied. He watched as the healer cut open shirt and bandages alike, staring in horror at Kylan's twisted face. "Jijik," his lover gasped and a moment later Vynan was at his side, clutching his hand tightly. "It will be alright," he promised. "You'll see, it'll be alright."

Meanwhile, the healer looked at the wound in disgust. "Who stitched this? A toddler?"

Heat crept up Vynan's cheeks. "I- I've never sown before," he admitted.

The scholar snorted. "Yes, I can see that. Though you might want to consider learning the craft if you plan to stay on your sirulelek for longer time, your Highness."

His chin dropped. "I- you-," he stammered, trying to regain his posture. "Why would you think me a prince?"

"You arrived at my master's manse on two of the noblest steeds I've ever seen, your barely conscious... brother in your arms with a purse heavy with coin and the promise of more, begging my lady to save him and yet with stiff knees that have never bowed in their entire life. Besides, the prince and his brother have been missing for quite some time now and yet the emperor and empress are calm as a summer lake. It is plain that he has set out to earn his rings." He looked him up and down. "Or am I mistaken? Are you not Vynan Au'eli and this is not Kylan Taxi'ren lying on my bed?"

He lowered his gaze. "You are not, baek," he admitted. "And I beg your pardon for offending you. If you'd rather have my knees bend, then I will do so. Just save him, please."

"And humble he is, too! Who might have taught an Au'eli that kind of virtue?" The healer laughed. "Do go on and kneel if you like, it hasn't yet hurt anyone. But don't worry, I'll save your brother regardless."

He swallowed. "He did," he said quietly as he watched perform the healer a quick magic that took the agony of Kylan's face. "Teach me humility, that is. He's my-"

"Oh, I know quite well what he is to you." He chuckled quietly when he saw the horror on Vynan's face. "Don't worry, ie tuaek. Your secret is safe with me. Both of them are. My lord will not learn of your true identity nor will the world of your love."

Vynan frowned. "And how do you expect me to repay these favours?"

"Humble and canny, it seems." He threaded a new needle and began stitching the wound anew, this time with precise and orderly sutures. "There is nought I ask of you but a few hours of your time. It would be my pleasure to sway you to have an ale or two with me tonight and listen to what I have to say." He held up his hand as if he wanted to silence any comment he might have. "I'll make it worth your while, and I am sure you'll make it worth mine."

"Why?" was all Vynan wanted to know.

The healer laughed as he tied off the thread. "Why, you're the crown prince of the realm. I am sure you have an interest in the talk that takes place behind the walls of your aviralem. And I have an interest in the improvements a future emperor might make."

"I might not sit the throne in the south for another twenty years!" he protested, "I might never sit it!"

"And you never will if you don't learn how to tend to basic wounds. But I can wait. Science has all the time it needs." He applied a pleasantly smelling salve to the cut.

Vynan considered the proposition for a short while. Then he bowed: "It would be my honour."

The healer smiled dreamily. "To think that the crown prince would bow before a peasant. Miracles truly do happen." He finished bandaging Kylan's torso and wiped his hands on a towel. "I'll leave you alone now. He should wake up soon. Find me when the sun sets."

Then he closed the door behind him and Vynan was alone with his brother-in-spirit.

The silence that followed allowed for Vynan's thoughts to scream even louder. When they had set out onto their journey nearly one year ago, they had never thought to stay away for that long. They had never even considered the possibility to finish their sirulelek until indeed ten rings adorned their ears. While no one knew when the knights would return when they set out to earn their honour - or if at all - that had never been a concern for them. It was simply that until now Vynan hadn't wanted to return. He enjoyed the freedom he was granted on his path; he enjoyed the anonymity but most of all he enjoyed having Kylan close, embracing him and kissing him and sleeping next to him, never worrying what the servants and nobles would say. If he could he would never abandon this life.

Now, however...

Vynan sighed and sat down on a stool next to the bed, burying his face in his hands. For them this was not about honour. Well, maybe it was a little. It was, first and foremost, about proving oneself. Kylan had often joked that his prince was coddled in his palace, knowing nothing of the world that awaited them outside of its sturdy walls. The surprise on his face when Vynan Au'eli finally had agreed with him followed moments later by the declaration he would right this wrong had been priceless.

No, for him this wasn't about honour, it was about being a good ruler for his people whom he loved so dearly but knew so little. It was about learning all those things his prestigious education had neglected. To be able to defend oneself in the face of true danger to one's life, to negotiate without the other party just agreeing because he was the embodiment of their sacred ancestors, to build a campfire and mend clothes, touch up his armour and sharpen his sword, cure a cold, a twisted ankle, a scratched ego.

But now that they had stared true danger in the face for the first time, without other people, without armour and with a deep wound instead, the safety of Cer'en's walls began looking like a dream. They could return home any time they wanted and go back to their comfortable lives in the palace. Surely, with their proven battle prowess the emperor would also bestow a tenure upon his eldest son, a nice castle or even a palace maybe to do whatever he pleased. And surely no-one would bat an eye when Kylan followed. And maybe they should.

"Vynan?" a faint voice asked and he was startled from his thoughts.

"Kylan!" he exclaimed happily and took his hand again. "You're awake!"

"Y' alright?" he slurred, the spell of Ar'ika surely still clouding his mind.

"Am- Am I alright?" He laughed hoarsely. "Yes, I am. I wasn't stabbed, though."

"'s fine. Thanks- for patchin' me up..."

"I didn't do most of the work. That was Ar'ika. He's a healer, we're in a house, Kylan. I brought you here and- shit, he recognised me!" Vynan sighed deeply. "Don't make me do that again. Ever," he said with a trembling voice.

"'m sorry," Kylan answered and smacked his hand in his prince's face, grabbing for something - 'Oh,' Vynan thought before he finally took it. "Hold me?" the question was scarcely more than a wisp of wind.

He choked on what were most definitely not tears, no, a prince didn't cry and lifted Kylan's body, squeezing into the narrow bed with him. He pulled his lover in his lap, gently cradling his injured body. "You're gonna be alright," he promised. "We'll just- sleep a bit. You're gonna be alright. I'll protect you."

He reached up and narrowed his eyes, apparently attempting to focus his gaze to try and fail cupping his cheek, instead slapping him again. "'s not right," he mumbled. "I've gotta protect you."

He patted his cheek gently. "Next time again, ie duamom, next time you will."

"Y' gonna leave me?" he asked with agony in his voice.

"No," Vynan breathed. "Never. Not now, not ever; not in this life, not in the next."

He scowled. "'nt say that... 'll fall in love with- pretty boy... no scars."

Vynan raised his eyebrows. "Is that your biggest concern?" He laughed quietly. "I assure you, ie duamom, a scar will not keep me from loving you. In fact, I find scarred men quite handsome."

Kylan smiled. "Good," he said. "Good. Tell me again. When... 'll remember it."

He smiled, too. "I will. Sleep now. I'll watch over you."

[readbookywooks]

Professor Umbridge

Seamus dressed at top speed next morning and left the dormitory before Harry had even put on his socks. 'Does he think he'll turn into a nutter if he stays in a room with me too long?' asked Harry loudly as the hem of Seamus's robes wnipped out of sight. 'Don't worry about it, Harry,' Dean muttered, hoisting his schoolbag on to his shoulder, 'he's just ...' But apparently he was unable to say exactly what Seamus was, and after a slightly awkward pause followed him out of the room. Neville and Ron both gave Harry an it's-his-problem-not-yours look, but Harry was not much consoled. How much more of this would he have to take? 'What's the matter?' asked Hermione five minutes later, catching up with Harry and Ron halfway across the common room as they all headed towards breakfast. 'You look absolutely--Oh for heavens sake.' She was staring at the common-room noticeboard, where a large new sign had been put up. GALLONS OF GALLEONS! Pocket money failing to keep pace with your outgoings? Like to earn a little extra gold? Contact Fred and George Weasley, Gryffindor common room, for simple, part-time, virtually painless jobs. (We regret that all work is undertaken at applicant's own risk.) 'They are the limit,' said Hermione grimly, taking down the sign, which Fred and George had pinned up ewer a poster giving the date of the first Hogsmeade weekend, which was to be in October. 'We'll have to talk to them, Ron.' Ron looked positively alarmed. 'Why?' 'Because we're prefects!' said Hermione, as they climbed out through the portrait hole. 'It's up to us to stop this kind of thing!' Ron said nothing; Harry could tell from his glum expression that the prospect of stopping Fred and George doing exactly what they liked was not one he found inviting. 'Anyway, what's up, Harry?' Hermione continued, as they walked down a flight of stairs lined with portraits of old witches and wizards, all of whom ignored them, being engrossed in their own conversation. 'You look really angry about something.' 'Seamus reckons Harry's lying about You-Know-Who,' said Ron succinctly, when Harry did not respond. Hermione, who Harry had expected to react angrily on his behalf, sighed. 'Yes, Lavender thinks so too,' she said gloomily. 'Been having a nice little chat with her about whether or not I'm a lying, attention-seeking prat, have you?' Harry said loudly. 'No,' said Hermione calmly. 'I told her to keep her big fat mouth shut about you, actually. And it would be quite nice if you stopped jumping down our throats, Harry, because in case you haven't noticed, Ron and I are on your side.' There was a short pause. 'Sorry,' said Harry in a low voice. 'That's quite all right,' said Hermione with dignity. Then she shook her head. 'Don't you remember what Dumbledore said at the last end-of-term feast?' Harry and Ron both looked at her blankly and Hermione sighed again. 'About You-Know-Who. He said his "gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust--" ' 'How do you remember stuff like that?' asked Ron, looking at her in admiration. 'I listen, Ron,' said Hermione, with a touch of asperity. 'So do I, but I still couldn't tell you exactly what--' 'The point,' Hermione pressed on loudly, 'is that this sort of thing is exactly what Dumbledore was talking about. You-Know-Who's only been back two months and we've already started fighting among ourselves. And the Sorting Hat's warning was the same: stand together, be united--' 'And Harry got it right last night,' retorted Ron. 'If that means we're supposed to get matey with the Slytherins--fat chance.' 'Well, I think it's a pity we're not trying for a bit of inter-house unity,' said Hermione crossly. They had reached the foot of the marble staircase. A line of fourth-year Ravenclaws was crossing the Entrance Hall; they caught sight of Harry and hurried to form a tighter group, as though frightened he might attack stragglers. 'Yeah, we really ought to be trying to make friends with people like that,' said Harry sarcastically. They followed the Ravenclaws into the Great Hall, all looking instinctively at the staff table as they entered. Professor Grubbly-Plank was chatting to Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, and Hagrid was once again conspicuous only by his absence. The enchanted ceiling above them echoed Harry's mood; it was a miserable rain-cloud grey. 'Dumbledore didn't even mention how long that Grubbly-Plank woman's staying,' he said, as they made their way across to the Gryffindor table. 'Maybe ...' said Hermione thoughtfully. 'What?' said both Harry and Ron together. 'Well ... maybe he didn't want to draw attention to Hagrid not being here.' 'What d'you mean, draw attention to it?' said Ron, half-laughing. 'How could we not notice?' Before Hermione could answer, a tall black girl with long braided hair had marched up to Harry. 'Hi, Angelina.' 'Hi,' she said briskly, 'good summer?' And without waiting for an answer, 'Listen, I've been made Gryffindor Quidditch Captain.' 'Nice one,' said Harry, grinning at her; he suspected Angelina's pep talks might not be as long-winded as Oliver Wood's had been, which could only be an improvement. 'Yeah, well, we need a new Keeper now Oliver's left. Tryouts are on Friday at five o'clock and I want the whole team there, all right? Then we can see how the new person'll fit in.' 'OK,' said Harry. Angelina smiled at him and departed. 'I'd forgotten Wood had left,' said Hermione vaguely as she sat down beside Ron and pulled a plate of toast towards her. 'I suppose that will make quite a difference to the team?' 'I s'pose,' said Harry, taking the bench opposite. 'He was a good Keeper ...' 'Still, it won't hurt to have some new blood, will it?' said Ron. With a whoosh and a clatter, hundreds of owls came soaring in through the upper windows. They descended all over the Hall, bringing letters and packages to their owners and showering the breakfasters with droplets of water; it was clearly raining hard outside. Hedwig was nowhere to be seen, but Harry was hardly surprised; his only correspondent was Sirius, and he doubted Sirius would have anything new to tell him after only twenty-four hours apart. Hermione, however, had to move her orange juice aside quickly to make way gor a large damp barn owl bearing a sodden Daily Prophet in its beak. 'What are you still getting that for?' said Harry irritably, thinking of Seamus as Hermione placed a Knut in the leather pouch on the owl's leg and it took off again. 'I'm not bothering ... load of rubbish.' 'It's best to know what the enemy is saying,' said Hermione darkly, and she unfurled the newspaper and disappeared behind it, not emerging until Harry and Ron had finished eating. 'Nothing,' she said simply, rolling up the newspaper and laying it down by her plate. 'Nothing about you or Dumbledore or anything.' Professor McGonagall was now moving along the table handing out timetables. 'Look at today!' groaned Ron. 'History of Magic, double Potions, Divination and double Defence Against the Dark Arts ... Binns, Snape, Trelawney and that Umbridge woman all in one day! I wish Fred and George'd hurry up and get those Skiving Snackboxes sorted ...' 'Do mine ears deceive me?' said Fred, arriving with George and squeezing on to the bench beside Harry. 'Hogwarts prefects surely don't wish to skive off lessons?' 'Look what we've got today,' said Ron grumpily, shoving his timetable under Fred's nose. 'That's the worst Monday I've ever seen.' 'Fair point, little bro,' said Fred, scanning the column. 'You can have a bit of Nosebleed Nougat cheap if you like.' 'Why's it cheap?' said Ron suspiciously. 'Because you'll keep bleeding till you shrivel up, we haven't got an antidote yet,' said George, helping himself to a kipper. 'Cheers,' said Ron moodily, pocketing his timetable, 'but I think I'll take the lessons.' 'And speaking of your Skiving Snackboxes,' said Hermione, eyeing Fred and George beadily, 'you can't advertise for testers on the Gryffindor noticeboard.' 'Says who?' said George, looking astonished. 'Says me,' said Hermione. 'And Ron.' 'Leave me out of it,' said Ron hastily. Hermione glared at him. Fred and George sniggered. 'You'll be singing a different tune soon enough, Hermione,' said Fred, thickly buttering a crumpet. 'You're starting your fifth year, you'll be begging us for a Snackbox before long.' 'And why would starting fifth year mean I want a Skiving Snackbox?' asked Hermione. 'Fifth year's OWL year,' said George. 'So?' 'So you've got your exams coming up, haven't you? They'll be keeping your noses so hard to that grindstone they'll be rubbed raw,' said Fred with satisfaction. 'Half our year had minor breakdowns coming up to OWLs,' said George happily. 'Tears and tantrums ... Patricia Stimpson kept coming over faint ...' 'Kenneth Towler came out in boils, d'you remember?' said Fred remmiscently. 'That's 'cause you put Bulbadox powder in his pyjamas,' said George. 'Oh yeah,' said Fred, grinning. 'I'd forgotten ... hard to keep track sometimes, isn't it?' 'Anyway, it's a nightmare of a year, the fifth,' said George. 'If you care about exam results, anyway. Fred and I managed to keep our peckers up somehow.' 'Yeah ... you got, what was it, three OWLs each?' said Ron. 'Yep,' said Fred unconcernedly. 'But we feel our futures lie outside the world of academic achievement.' 'We seriously debated whether we were going to bother coming back for our seventh year,' said George brightly, 'now that we've got--' He broke off at a warning look from Harry, who knew George had been about to mention the Triwizard winnings he had given them. '--now that we've got our OWLs,' George said hastily. 'I mean, do we really need NEWTs? But we didn't think Mum could take us leaving school early not on top of Percy turning out to be the world's biggest prat.' 'We're not going to waste our last year here, though,' said Fred, looking affectionately around at the Great Hall. 'We're going to use it to do a bit of market research, find out exactly what the average Hogwarts student requires from a joke shop, carefully evaluate the results of our research, then produce products to fit the demand.' 'But where are you going to get the gold to start a joke shop?' Hermione asked sceptically. 'You're going to need all the ingredients and materials--and premises too, I suppose ...' Harry did not look at the twins. His face felt hot; he deliberately dropped his fork and dived down to retrieve it. He heard Fred say overhead, 'Ask us no questions and we'll tell you no lies, Hermione. C'mon, George, if we get there early we might be able to sell a few Extendable Ears before Herbology.' Harry emerged from under the table to see Fred and George walking away, each carrying a stack of toast. 'What did that mean?' said Hermione, looking from Harry to Ron. '"Ask us no questions ..." Does that mean they've already got some gold to start a joke shop?' 'You know, I've been wondering about that,' said Ron, his brow furrowed. 'They bought me a new set of dress robes this summer and I couldn't understand where they got the Galleons ...' Harry decided it was time to steer the conversation out of these dangerous waters. 'D'you reckon it's true this year's going to be really tough? Because of the exams?' 'Oh, yeah,' said Ron. 'Bound to be, isn't it? OWLs are really important, affect the jobs you can apply for and everything. We get career advice, too, later this year, Bill told me. So you can choose what NEWTs you want to do next year.' 'D'you know what you want to do after Hogwarts?' Harry asked the other two, as they left the Great Hall shortly afterwards and set off towards their History of Magic classroom. 'Not really,' said Ron slowly. 'Except ... well ...' He looked slightly sheepish. 'What?' Harry urged him. 'Well, it'd be cool to be an Auror,' said Ron in an off-hand voice. 'Yeah, it would,' said Harry fervently. 'But they're, like, the elite,' said Ron. 'You've got to be really good. What about you, Hermione?' 'I don't know,' she said. 'I think I'd like to do something really worthwhile.' 'An Auror's worthwhile!' said Harry. 'Yes, it is, but it's not the only worthwhile thing,' said Hermione thoughtfully, 'I mean, if I could take SPEW further ...' Harry and Ron carefully avoided looking at each other. History of Magic was by common consent the most boring subject ever devised by wizardkind. Professor Binns, their ghost teacher, had a wheezy, droning voice that was almost guaranteed to cause severe drowsiness within ten minutes, five in warm weather. He never varied the form of their lessons, but lectured them without pausing while they took notes, or rather, gazed sleepily into space. Harry and Ron had so far managed to scrape passes in this subject only by copying Hermione's notes before exams; she alone seemed able to resist the soporific power of Binns's voice. Today, they suffered an hour and a half's droning on the subject of giant wars. Harry heard just enough within the first ten minutes to appreciate dimly that in another teacher's hands this subject might have been mildly interesting, but then his brain disengaged, and he spent the remaining hour and twenty minutes playing hangman on a corner of his parchment with Ron, while Hermione shot them filthy looks out of the corner of her eye. 'How would it be,' she asked them coldly, as they left the classroom for break (Binns drifting away through the blackboard), 'if I refused to lend you my notes this year?' 'We'd fail our OWL, said Ron. 'If you want that on your conscience, Hermione ...' 'Well, you'd deserve it,' she snapped. 'You don't even try to listen to him, do you?' 'We do try,' said Ron. 'We just haven't got your brains or your memory or your concentration-- you're just cleverer than we are--is it nice to rub it in?' 'Oh, don't give me that rubbish,' said Hermione, but she looked slightly mollified as she led the way out into the damp courtyard. A fine misty drizzle was falling, so that the people standing in huddles around the edges of the yard looked blurred at the edges. Harry, Ron and Hermione chose a secluded corner under a heavily dripping balcony, turning up the collars of their robes against the chilly September air and talking about what Snape was likely to set them in the first lesson of the year. They had got as far as agreeing that it was likely to be something extremely difficult, just to catch them off guard after a two-month holiday, when someone walked around the corner towards them. 'Hello, Harry!' It was Cho Chang and, what was more, she was on her own again. This was most unusual: Cho was almost always surrounded by a gang of giggling girls; Harry remembered the agony of trying to get her by herself to ask her to the Yule Ball. 'Hi,' said Harry, feeling his face grow hot. At least you're not covered in Stinksap this time, he told himself. Cho seemed to be thinking along the same lines. 'You got that stuff off, then?' 'Yeah,' said Harry, trying to grin as though the memory of their last meeting was funny as opposed to mortifying. 'So, did you ... er ... have a good summer?' The moment he had said this he wished he hadn't--Cedric had been Cho's boyfriend and the memory of his death must have affected her holiday almost as badly as it had affected Harry's. Something seemed to tauten in her face, but she said, 'Oh, it was all right, you know ...' 'Is that a Tornados badge?' Ron demanded suddenly, pointing to the front of Cho's robes, where a sky-blue badge emblazoned with a double gold 'T' was pinned. 'You don't support them, do you?' 'Yeah, I do,' said Cho. 'Have you always supported them, or just since they started winning the league?' said Ron, in what Harry considered an unnecessarily accusatory tone of voice. 'I've supported them since I was six,' said Cho coolly. 'Anyway ... see you, Harry.' She walked away. Hermione waited until Cho was halfway across the courtyard before rounding on Ron. 'You are so tactless!' 'What? I only asked her if--' 'Couldn't you tell she wanted to talk to Harry on her own?' 'So? She could've done, I wasn't stopping--' 'Why on earth were you attacking her about her Quidditch team?' 'Attacking? I wasn't attacking her, I was only--' 'Who cares if she supports the Tornados?' 'Oh, come on, half the people you see wearing those badges only bought them last season--' 'But what does it matter?' 'It means they're not real fans, they're just jumping on the bandwagon--' 'That's the bell,' said Harry dully, because Ron and Hermione were bickering too loudly to hear it. They did not stop arguing all the way down to Snapes dungeon, which gave Harry plenty of time to reflect that between Neville and Ron he would be lucky ever to have two minutes of conversation with Cho that he could look back on without wanting to leave the country. And yet, he thought, as they joined the queue lining up outside Snape's classroom door, she had chosen to come and talk to him, hadn't she? She had been Cedric's girlfriend; she could easily have hated Harry for coming out of the Triwizard maze alive when Cedric had died, yet she was talking to him in a perfectly friendly way, not as though she thought him mad, or a liar, or in some horrible way responsible for Cedric's death ... yes, she had definitely chosen to come and talk to him, and that made the second time in two days ... and at this thought, Harry's spirits rose. Even the ominous sound of Snape's dungeon door creaking open did not puncture the small, hopeful bubble that seemed to have swelled in his chest. He filed into the classroom behind Ron and Hermione and followed them to their usual table at the back, where he sat down between Ron and Hermione and ignored the huffy, irritable noises now issuing from both of them. 'Settle down,' said Snape coldly, shutting the door behind him. There was no real need for the call to order; the moment the class had heard the door close, quiet had fallen and all fidgeting stopped. Snape's mere presence was usually enough to ensure a class's silence. 'Before we begin today's lesson,' said Snape, sweeping over to his desk and staring around at them all, 'I think it appropriate to remind you that next June you will be sitting an important examination, during which you will prove how much you have learned about the composition and use of magical potions. Moronic though some of this class undoubtedly are, I expect you to scrape an "Acceptable" in your OWL, or suffer my ... displeasure.' His gaze lingered this time on Neville, who gulped. 'After this year, of course, many of you will cease studying with me,' Snape went on. 'I take only the very best into my NEWT Potions class, which means that some of us will certainly be saying goodbye.' His eyes rested on Harry and his lip curled. Harry glared back, feeling a grim pleasure at the idea that he would be able to give up Potions after fifth year. 'But we have another year to go before that happy moment of farewell,' said Snape softly, 'so, whether or not you are intending to attempt NEWT, I advise all of you to concentrate your efforts upon maintaining the high pass level I have come to expect from my OWL students. 'Today we will be mixing a potion that often comes up at Ordinary Wizarding Level: the Draught of Peace, a potion to calm anxiety and soothe agitation. Be warned: if you are too heavy-handed with the ingredients you will put the drinker into a heavy and sometimes irreversible sleep, so you will need to pay close attention to what you are doing.' On Harry's left, Hermione sat up a little straighter, her expression one of utmost attention. The ingredients and method--' Snape flicked his wand '--are on the blackboard--(they appeared there) '--you will find everything you need--' he flicked his wand again '--in the store cupboard--' (the door of the said cupboard sprang open) '--you have an hour and a half ... start.' Just as Harry, Ron and Hermione had predicted, Snape could hardly have set them a more difficult, fiddly potion. The ingredients had to be added to the cauldron in precisely the right order and quantities; the mixture had to be stirred exactly the right number of times, firstly in clockwise, then in anti-clockwise directions; the heat of the flames on which it was simmering had to be lowered to exactly the right level for a specific number of minutes before the final ingredient was added. 'A light silver vapour should now be rising from your potion,' called Snape, with ten minutes left to go. Harry, who was sweating profusely, looked desperately around the dungeon. His own cauldron was issuing copious amounts of dark grey steam; Ron's was spitting green sparks. Seamus was feverishly prodding the flames at the base of his cauldron with the tip of his wand, as they seemed to be going out. The surface of Hermione's potion, however, was a shimmering mist of silver vapour, and as Snape swept by he looked down his hooked nose at it without comment, which meant he could find nothing to criticise. At Harry's cauldron, however, Snape stopped, and looked down at it with a horrible smirk on his face. 'Potter, what is this supposed to be?' The Slytherins at the front of the class all looked up eagerly; they loved hearing Snape taunt Harry. 'The Draught of Peace,' said Harry tensely. 'Tell me, Potter,' said Snape softly, 'can you read?' Draco Malfoy laughed. 'Yes, I can,' said Harry, his fingers clenched tightly around his wand. 'Read the third line of the instructions for me, Potter.' Harry squinted at the blackboard; it was not easy to make out the instructions through the haze of multi-coloured steam now filling the dungeon. '"Add powdered moonstone, stir three times counter-clockwise, allow to simmer for seven minutes then add two drops of syrup of hellebore." ' His heart sank. He had not added syrup of hellebore, but had proceeded straight to the fourth line of the instructions after allowing his potion to simmer for seven minutes. 'Did you do everything on the third line, Potter?' 'No,' said Harry very quietly. 'I beg your pardon?' 'No,' said Harry, more loudly. 'I forgot the hellebore.' 'I know you did, Potter, which means that this mess is utterly worthless. Evanesce.' The contents of Harry's potion vanished; he was left standing foolishly beside an empty cauldron. 'Those of you who have managed to read the instructions, fill one flagon with a sample of your potion, label it clearly with your name and bring it up to my desk for testing,' said Snape. 'Homework: twelve inches of parchment on the properties of moonstone and its uses in potion-making, to be handed in on Thursday.' While everyone around him filled their flagons, Harry cleared away his things, seething. His potion had been no worse than Ron's, which was now giving off a foul odour of bad eggs; or Neville's, which had achieved the consistency of just-mixed cement and which Neville was now having to gouge out of his cauldron; yet it was he, Harry, who would be receiving zero marks for the day's work. He stuffed his wand back into his bag and slumped down on to his seat, watching everyone else march up to Snape's desk with filled and corked flagons. When at long last the bell rang, Harry was first out of the dungeon and had already started his lunch by the time Ron and Hermione joined him in the Great Hall. The ceiling had turned an even murkier grey during the morning. Rain was lashing the high windows. 'That was really unfair,' said Hermione consolingly, sitting down next to Harry and helping herself to shepherd's pie. 'Your potion wasn't nearly as bad as Goyle's; when he put it in his flagon the whole thing shattered and set his robes on fire.' 'Yeah, well,' said Harry, glowering at his plate, 'since when has Snape ever been fair to me?' Neither of the others answered; all three of them knew that Snape and Harry's mutual enmity had been absolute from the moment Harry had set foot in Hogwarts. 'I did think he might be a bit better this year,' said Hermione in a disappointed voice. 'I mean ... you know ...' she looked around carefully; there were half a dozen empty seats on either side of them and nobody was passing the table ' ... now he's in the Order and everything.' 'Poisonous toadstools don't change their spots,' said Ron sagely. 'Anyway, I've always thought Dumbledore was cracked to trust Snape. Where's the evidence he ever really stopped working for You-Know-Who?' 'I think Dumbledore's probably got plenty of evidence, even if he doesn't share it with you, Ron,' snapped Hermione. 'Oh, shut up, the pair of you,' said Harry heavily, as Ron opened his mouth to argue back. Hermione and Ron both froze, looking angry and offended. 'Can't you give it a rest?' said Harry. 'You're always having a go at each other, it's driving me mad.' And abandoning his shepherd's pie, he swung his schoolbag back over his shoulder and left them sitting there. He walked up the marble staircase two steps at a time, past the many students hurrying towards lunch. The anger that had just flared so unexpectedly still blazed inside him, and the vision of Ron and Hermione's shocked faces afforded him a sense of deep satisfaction. Serve them right, he thought, why can't they give it a rest ... bickering all the time ... it's enough to drive anyone up the wall ... He passed the large picture of Sir Cadogan the knight on a landing; Sir Cadogan drew his sword and brandished it fiercely at Harry, who ignored him. 'Come back, you scurvy dog! Stand fast and fight!' yelled Sir Cadogan in a muffled voice from behind his visor, but Harry merely walked on and when Sir Cadogan attempted to follow him by running into a neighbouring picture, he was rebuffed by its inhabitant, a large and angry-looking wolfhound. Harry spent the rest of the lunch hour sitting alone underneath the trapdoor at the top of North Tower. Consequently, he was the first to ascend the silver ladder that led to Sybill Trelawney's classroom when the bell rang. After Potions, Divination was Harry's least favourite class, which was due mainly to Professor Trelawney's habit of predicting his premature death every few lessons. A thin woman, heavily draped in shawls and glittering with strings of beads, she always reminded Harry of some kind of insect, with her glasses hugely magnifying her eyes. She was busy putting copies of battered leather-bound books on each of the spindly little tables with which her room was littered when Harry entered the room, but the light cast by the lamps covered by scarves and the low-burning, sickly-scented fire was so dim she appeared not to notice him as he took a seat in the shadows. The rest of the class arrived over the next five minutes. Ron emerged from the trapdoor, looked around carefully, spotted Harry and made directly for him, or as directly as he could while having to wend his way between tables, chairs and overstuffed pouffes. 'Hermione and me have stopped arguing,' he said, sitting down beside Harry. 'Good,' grunted Harry. 'But Hermione says she thinks it would be nice if you stopped taking out your temper on us,' said Ron. 'I 'm not--' 'I'm just passing on the message,' said Ron, talking over him. 'But I reckon she's right. It's not our fault how Seamus and Snape treat you.' 'I never said it --' 'Good-day,' said Professor Trelawney in her usual misty, dreamy voice, and Harry broke off, again feeling both annoyed and slightly ashamed of himself. 'And welcome back to Divination. I have, of course, been following your fortunes most carefully over the holidays, and am delighted to see that you have all returned to Hogwarts safely--as, of course, I knew you would. 'You will find on the tables before you copies of The Dream Oracle, by Inigo Imago. Dream interpretation is a most important means of divining the future and one that may very probably be tested in your OWL. Not, of course, that I believe examination passes or failures are of the remotest importance when it comes to the sacred art of divination. If you have the Seeing Eye, certificates and grades matter very little. However, the Headmaster likes you to sit the examination, so ...' Her voice trailed away delicately, leaving them all in no doubt that Professor Trelawney considered her subject above such sordid matters as examinations. 'Turn, please, to the introduction and read what Imago has to say on the matter of dream interpretation. Then, divide into pairs. Use The Dream Oracle to interpret each other's most recent dreams. Carry on.' The one good thing to be said for this lesson was that it was not a double period. By the time they had all finished reading the introduction of the book, they had barely ten minutes left for dream interpretation. At the table next to Harry and Ron, Dean had paired up with Neville, who immediately embarked on a long-winded explanation of a nightmare involving a pair of giant scissors wearing his grandmother's best hat; Harry and Ron merely looked at each other glumly. 'I never remember my dreams,' said Ron, 'you say one.' 'You must remember one of them,' said Harry impatiently. He was not going to share his dreams with anyone. He knew perfectly well what his regular nightmare about a graveyard meant, he did not need Ron or Proiessor Trelawney or the stupid Dream Oracle to tell him. 'Well, I dreamed I was playing Quidditch the other night,' said Ron, screwing up his face in an effort to remember. 'What d'you reckon that means?' 'Probably that you're going to be eaten by a giant marshmallow or something,' said Harry, turning the pages of The Dream Oracle without interest. It was very dull work looking up bits of dreams in the Oracle and Harry was not cheered up when Professor Trelawney set them the task of keeping a dream diary for a month as homework. When the bell went, he and Ron led the way back down the ladder, Ron grumbling loudly. 'D'you realise how much homework we've got already? Binns set us a foot-and-a-half-long essay on giant wars, Snape wants a foot on the use of moonstones, and now we've got a month's dream diary from Trelawney! Fred and George weren't wrong about OWL year, were they? That Umbridge woman had better not give us any ...' When they entered the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom they found Professor Umbridge already seated at the teachers desk, wearing the fluffy pink cardigan of the night before and the black velvet bow on top of her head. Harry was again reminded forcibly of a large fly perched unwisely on top of an even larger toad. The class was quiet as it entered the room; Professor Umbridge was, as yet, an unknown quantity and nobody knew how strict a disciplinarian she was likely to be. 'Well, good afternoon!' she said, when finally the whole class had sat down. A few people mumbled 'good afternoon' in reply. 'Tut, tut,' said Professor Umbridge. 'That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply "Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge". One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!' 'Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge,' they chanted back at her. 'There, now,' said Professor Umbridge sweetly. That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please.' Many of the class exchanged gloomy looks; the order 'wands away' had never yet been followed by a lesson they had found interesting. Harry shoved his wand back inside his bag and pulled cut quill, ink and parchment. Professor Umbridge opened her handbag, extracted her own wand, which was an unusually short one, and tapped the blackboard sharply with it; words appeared on the board at once: Defence Against the Dark Arts A Return to Basic Principles 'Well now, your teaching in this subject has been rather disrupted and fragmented, hasn't it?' stated Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. The constant changing of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your OWL year. 'You will be pleased to know, however, that these problems are now to be rectified. We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centred, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy down the following, please.' She rapped the blackboard again; the first message vanished and was replaced by: Course Aims: 1. Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic. 2. Learning to recognise situations in which defensive magic can legally be used 3. Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use. For a couple of minutes the room was full of the sound of scratching quills on parchment. When everyone had copied down Professor Umbridge's three course aims she asked, 'Has everybody got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?' There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the class. 'I think we'll try that again,' said Professor Umbridge. 'When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply, "Yes, Professor Umbridge", or "No, Professor Umbridge". So: has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?' 'Yes, Professor Umbridge,' rang through the room. 'Good,' said Professor Umbridge. 'I should like you to turn to page five and read "Chapter One, Basics for Beginners". There will be no need to talk.' Professor Umbridge left the blackboard and settled herself in the chair behind the teacher's desk, observing them all closely with those pouchy toad's eyes. Harry turned to page five of his copy of Defensive Magical Theory and started to read. It was desperately dull, quite as bad as listening to Professor Binns. He felt his concentration sliding away from him; he had soon read the same line half a dozen times without taking in more than the first few words. Several silent minutes passed. Next to him, Ron was absent-mindedly turning his quill over and over in his fingers, staring at the same spot on the page. Harry looked right and received a surprise to shake him out of his torpor. Hermione had not even opened her copy of Defensive Magical Theory.She was staring fixedly at Professor Umbridge with her hand in the air. Harry could not remember Hermione ever neglecting to read when instructed to, or indeed resisting the temptation to open any book that came under her nose. He looked at her enquiringly, but she merely shook her head slightly to indicate that she was not about to answer questions, and continued to stare at Professor Umbridge, who was looking just as resolutely in another direction. After several more minutes had passed, however, Harry was not the only one watching Hermione. The chapter they had been instructed to read was so tedious that more and more people were choosing to watch Hermione's mute attempt to catch Professor Umbridge's eye rather than struggle on with 'Basics for Beginners'. When more than half the class were staring at Hermione rather than at their books, Professor Umbridge seemed to decide that she could ignore the situation no longer. 'Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?' she asked Hermione, as though she had only just noticed her. 'Not about the chapter, no,' said Hermione. 'Well, we're reading just now,' said Professor Umbridge, showing her small pointed teeth. 'If you have other queries we can deal with them at the end of class.' 'I've got a query about your course aims,' said Hermione. Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows. 'And your name is?' 'Hermione Granger,' said Hermione. 'Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully,' said Professor Umbridge in a voice of determined sweetness. 'Well, I don't,' said Hermione bluntly. 'There's nothing written up there about using defensive spells.' There was a short silence in which many members of the class turned their heads to frown at the three course aims still written on the blackboard. 'Using defensive spells?' Professor Umbridge repeated with a little laugh. 'Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to use a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren't expecting to be attacked during class?' 'We're not going to use magic?' Ron exclaimed loudly. 'Students raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr.--?' 'Weasley,' said Ron, thrusting his hand into the air. Professor Umbridge, smiling still more widely, turned her back on him. Harry and Hermione immediately raised their hands too. Professor Umbridge's pouchy eyes lingered on Harry for a moment before she addressed Hermione. 'Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?' 'Yes,' said Hermione. 'Surely the whole point of Defence Against the Dark Arts is to practise defensive spells?' 'Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?' asked Professor Umbridge, in her falsely sweet voice. 'No, but--' 'Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the "whole point" of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new programme of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way--' 'What use is that?' said Harry loudly. 'If we're going to be attacked, it won't be in a--' 'Hand,Mr Potter!' sang Professor Umbridge. Harry thrust his fist in the air. Again, Professor Umbridge promptly turned away from him, but now several other people had their hands up, too. 'And your name is?' Professor Umbridge said to Dean. 'Dean Thomas.' 'Well, Mr Thomas?' 'Well, it's like Harry said, isn't it?' said Dean. 'If we're going to be attacked, it won't be risk free.' 'I repeat,' said Professor Umbridge, smiling in a very irritating fashion at Dean, 'do you expect to be attacked during my classes?' 'No, but--' Professor Umbridge talked over him. 'I do not wish to criticise the way things have been run in this school,' she said, an unconvincing smile stretching her wide mouth, 'but you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed--not to mention,' she gave a nasty little laugh, 'extremely dangerous half-breeds.' 'If you mean Professor Lupin,' piped up Dean angrily, 'he was the best we ever-- 'Hand,Mr Thomas! As I was saying--you have been introduced to spells that have been complex, inappropriate to your age group and potentially lethal. You have been frightened into believing that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day--' 'No we haven't,' Hermione said, 'we just--' 'Your hand is not up, Miss Granger!' Hermione put up her hand. Professor Umbridge turned away from her. 'It is my understanding that my predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you, he actually performed them on you.' 'Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn't he?' said Dean hotly. 'Mind you, we still learned loads.' 'Your hand is not up, Mr. Thomas!' trilled Professor Umbridge. 'Now, it is the view of the Ministry that a theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about. And your name is?' she added, staring at Parvati, whose hand had just shot up. 'Parvati Patil, and isn't there a practical bit in our Defence Against the Dark Arts OWL? Aren't we supposed to show that we can actually do the counter-curses and things?' 'As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions,' said Professor Umbridge dismissively. 'Without ever practising them beforehand?' said Parvati incredulously. 'Are you telling us that the first time we'll get to do the spells will be during our exam?' 'I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough--' 'And what good's theory going to be in the real world?' said Harry loudly, his fist in the air again. Professor Umbridge looked up. 'This is school, Mr. Potter, not the real world,' she said softly. 'So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting for us out there?' 'There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter.' 'Oh, yeah?' said Harry. His temper, which seemed to have been bubbling just beneath the surface all day, was reaching boiling point. 'Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?' enquired Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed voice. 'Hmm, let's think ...' said Harry in a mock thoughtful voice. 'Maybe ... Lord Voldemort?' Ron gasped; Lavender Brown uttered a little scream; Neville slipped sideways off his stool. Professor Umbridge, however, did not flinch. She was staring at Harry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face. 'Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter.' The classroom was silent and still. Everyone was staring at either Umbridge or Harry. 'Now, let me make a few things quite plain.' Professor Umbridge stood up and leaned towards them, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on her desk. 'You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead--' 'He wasn't dead,' said Harry angrily, 'but yeah, he's returned!' 'Mr-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-house-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself,' said Professor Umbridge in one breath without looking at him. 'As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again. This is a lie.' 'It is NOT a lie!' said Harry. 'I saw him, I fought him!' 'Detention, Mr Potter!' said Professor Umbridge triumphantly. 'Tomorrow evening. Five o'clock. My office. I repeat, this is a lie.The Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard. If you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it. I am here to help. I am your friend. And now, you will kindly continue your reading. Page five, "Basics for Beginners".' Professor Umbridge sat down behind her desk. Harry, however, stood up. Everyone was staring at him; Seamus looked half-scared, half-fascinated. 'Harry, no!' Hermione whispered in a warning voice, tugging at his sleeve, but Harry jerked his arm out of her reach. 'So, according to you, Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord, did he?' Harry asked, his voice shaking. There was a collective intake of breath from the class, for none of them, apart from Ron and Hermione, had ever heard Harry talk about what had happened on the night Cedric had died. They stared avidly from Harry to Professor Umbridge, who had raised her eyes and was staring at him without a trace of a fake smile on her face. 'Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident,' she said coldly. 'It was murder,' said Harry. He could feel himself shaking. He had hardly spoken to anyone about this, least of all thirty eagerly listening classmates. 'Voldemort killed him and you know it.' Professor Umbridge's face was quite blank. For a moment, Harry thought she was going to scream at him. Then she said, in her softest, most sweetly girlish voice, 'Come here, Mr. Potter, dear.' He kicked his chair aside, strode around Ron and Hermione and up to the teacher's desk. He could feel the rest of the class holding its breath. He felt so angry he did not care what happened next. Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag, stretched it out on the desk, dipped her quill into a bottle of ink and started scribbling, hunched over so that Harry could not see what she was writing. Nobody spoke. After a minute or so she rolled up the parchment and tapped it with her wand; it sealed itself seamlessly so that he could not open it. 'Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear,' said Professor Umbridge, holding out the note to him. He took it from her without saying a word, turned on his heel and left the room, not even looking back at Ron and Hermione, slamming the classroom door shut behind him. He walked very fast along the corridor, the note to McGonagall clutched tight in his hand, and turning a corner walked slap into Peeves the poltergeist, a wide-mouthed little man floating on his back in midair, juggling several inkwells. 'Why, it's Potty Wee Potter!' cackled Peeves, allowing two of the inkwells to fall to the ground where they smashed and spattered the walls with ink; Harry jumped backwards out of the way with a snarl. 'Get out of it, Peeves.' 'Oooh, Crackpot's feeling cranky,' said Peeves, pursuing Harry along the corridor, leering as he zoomed along above him. 'What is it this time, my fine Potty friend? Hearing voices? Seeing visions? Speaking in--' Peeves blew a gigantic raspberry '-- tongues?' 'I said, leave me ALONE!' Harry shouted, running down the nearest flight of stairs, but Peeves merely slid down the banister on his back beside him. 'Oh, most think he's barking, the potty wee lad, But some are more kindly and think he's just sad, But Peevesy knows better and says that he's mad--' 'SHUT UP!' A door to his left flew open and Professor McGonagall emerged from her office looking grim and slightly harassed. 'What on earth are you shouting about, Potter?' she snapped, as Peeves cackled gleefully and zoomed out of sight. 'Why aren't you in class?' 'I've been sent to see you,' said Harry stiffly. 'Sent? What do you mean, sent?' He held out the note from Professor Umbridge. Professor McGonagall took it from him, frowning, slit it open with a tap of her wand, stretched it out and began to read. Her eyes zoomed from side to side behind their square spectacles as she read what Umbridge had written, and with each line they became narrower. 'Come in here, Potter.' He followed her inside her study. The door closed automatically behind him. 'Well?' said Professor McGonagall, rounding on him. 'Is this true?' 'Is what true?' Harry asked, rather more aggressively than he had intended. 'Professor?' he added, in an attempt to sound more polite. 'Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge?' 'Yes,' said Harry. 'You called her a liar?' 'Yes.' 'You told her He Who Must Not Be Named is back?' 'Yes.' Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk, watching Harry closely. Then she said, 'Have a biscuit, Potter.' 'Have--what?' 'Have a biscuit,' she repeated impatiently, indicating a tartan tin lying on top of one of the piles of papers on her desk. 'And sit down.' There had been a previous occasion when Harry, expecting to be caned by Professor McGonagall, had instead been appointed by her to the Gryffindor Quidditch team. He sank into a chair opposite her and helped himself to a Ginger Newt, feeling just as confused and wrong-footed as he had done on that occasion. Professor McGonagall set down Professor Umbridge's note and looked very seriously at Harry. 'Potter, you need to be careful.' Harry swallowed his mouthful of Ginger Newt and stared at her. Her tone of voice was not at all what he was used to; it was not brisk, crisp and stern; it was low and anxious and somehow much more human than usual. 'Misbehaviour in Dolores Umbridge's class could cost you much more than house points and a detention.' 'What do you--?' 'Potter, use your common sense,' snapped Professor McGonagall, with an abrupt return to her usual manner. 'You know where she comes from, you must know to whom she is reporting.' The bell rang for the end of the lesson. Overhead and all around came the elephantine sounds of hundreds of students on the move. 'It says here she's given you detention every evening this week, starting tomorrow,' Professor McGonagall said, looking down at Umbridge's note again. 'Every evening this week!' Harry repeated, horrified. 'But, Professor, couldn't you--?' 'No, I couldn't,' said Professor McGonagall flatly. 'But--' 'She is your teacher and has every right to give you detention. You will go to her room at five o'clock tomorrow for the first one. Just remember: tread carefully around Dolores Umbridge.' 'But I was telling the truth!' said Harry, outraged. 'Voldemort is back, you know he is; Professor Dumbledore knows he is--' 'For heaven's sake, Potter!' said Professor McGonagall, straightening her glasses angrily (she had winced horribly when he had used Voldemort's name). 'Do you really think this is about truth or lies? It's about keeping your head down and your temper under control!' She stood up, nostrils wide and mouth very thin, and Harry stood up, too. 'Have another biscuit,' she said irritably, thrusting the tin at him. 'No, thanks,' said Harry coldly. 'Don't be ridiculous,' she snapped. He took one. 'Thanks,' he said grudgingly. 'Didn't you listen to Dolores Umbridge's speech at the start-of-term feast, Potter?' 'Yeah,' said Harry. 'Yeah ... she said ... progress will be prohibited or ... well, it meant that ... that the Ministry of Magic is trying to interfere at Hogwarts.' Professor McGonagall eyed him closely for a moment, then sniffed, walked around her desk and held open the door for him. 'Well, I'm glad you listen to Hermione Granger at any rate,' she said, pointing him out of her office.