The Best Intentions
Disclaimer: Unless JK Rowling secretly had a fourth kid named Dana, I've got no legal rights to the Harry Potter universe. But whatever you've never heard of belongs to me.
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A/N: This is the second story in the Child of Phoenix series. If you haven't read it, you'll be lost. And thanks to Dimak for helping to clarify a few things with this chapter (even if it was nearly two years ago!). Cheers!
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Warning: Original Character point of view. This story is not Harry Potter-centered. Main canon characters will be mentioned, but rarely make an appearance in this piece.
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All too well. – Inward thoughts.
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Kill 'em. – Golradir thought-speech.
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"The greatest harm can result from the best intentions." – Terry Goodkind, author
ooooo
One: The Best Intentions, Part I
Seventy-six.
It was the number of times her heart drummed in her chest in the last minute.
Thump-thump, thump-thump, pulsing "seventy-six, seventy-six" as if her bosom were pressed to his ear, rather than four feet across the seat. Seventy-six, seventy-six.
He'd counted, he was sure, he'd counted.
Thump-thump.
We counted.
He could hear the roar of blood flooding her arteries and veins, red rivers coursing throughout her body, its stream singing out to him, calling his name as they pumped life to her organs and rosy color to her cheeks at seventy-six beats per minute.
Sweet blood gave her life: delicate, valuable, easy to destroy life.
Don't deny us its song, boy.
Her heart beat seventy-six times per minute, pumping blood to every part of her body: arms-legs-hands-feet-head-face-nose-mouth. Her mouth, her mouth that had been running nonstop for every seventy-six beats, spouting out fragrant puffs of past comings and goings of food, drink, and memory.
The faint scent of fruits and beverage off her rolling tongue and sweet lips suffused the air around him, grating his senses and making his hands twitch and the muscles beneath his skin spasm in impatience.
Beyond the sweet tune of her heart his olfaction flared to life, arousing his interest. Underneath her delicate flowery scent laid the raw earthen aroma of mingled citrus and soil, sweat and spice, half of which belonged to the block-headed buffoon she called beau. He jerked his head and rolled his neck as the familiar ropes of blood frenzy yanked his mind in several different directions.
Her high, flighty feminine pitch he once found both musical and consoling, violently jarred his thoughts and wrought havoc on his senses as it echoed from everywhere around him. He pressed a finger to his ear and sharply sighed, jiggling it viciously to unsuccessfully rid it of the bothersome ring of her voice. He loved her, once.
We don't do love.
We don't?
Not unless we're weak. I'm not weak; are you?
Hesitation, for the briefest of seconds before, No.
He thought he was imagining it, but felt a cold smile stretch across his mind's face. We're not weak. Embrace us, accept—
A sharp stab lanced through his head, momentarily blinding his vision golden before what felt like an invisible hand wrapped around his brain and squeezed, driving the whispers to the back of his mind. The blissful hollow feeling he associated with it did not come this time, nor did the impression of fickle peace.
His body still felt as if it were mechanical, locked somehow, as if he couldn't access it without a key, but his mind still worked, making sure his senses ran wild.
He tugged at the collar of his jumper as her shrill laughter filled the cab and flinched as a sharp nudge dug into his sides. Annoyance mounted, wracking with the tension in his body and he turned to unleash his wrath, faltering as his eyes caught sight of the vein pounding against the expanse of dimly lit, well-tanned neck, visibly playing beneath the skin. His sharp eyes narrowed, watching, waiting, his mind and emotions coiling into him like a serpent readying for a strike.
Eighty-one.
His heart thumped a strong eighty-one times in his broad chest, covered with layers upon layers of the poshest of cottons and doused in the undoubtedly masculine scents of musk and slightly sweet, woody, cedar.
Man-blood always was much sweeter.
The man's chest rumbled with talk and laughter, rattling around in his mind, and his hair, the same color of straw as she—the pitchy-pitchy one—smelled strongly of sweat and fragrance that was not his own, fragrance that was clearly female. His breath came out in short pants and he raised a clammy, unsteady hand to run through his hair, red, red like sweet blood. He trembled at the mere word in what—disgust? No. Pleasure?
Yesss.
Another quick jerk of the head, his vision momentarily shadowed by images of trees and lights and teeth and greenery and red, so much red...
Yes, that's right. We need blood, just a whiff, a feel, a taste—
He shook his head brusquely as the invisible grasp stemmed the rising wave of longing with a firm, brisk yank. One tug, and the haze of whispers blearing his sight and mind's tranquility, echoing through his body the scents and sounds and sights, cleared, jarring him from distorted gold whimsies into sharp, leaden reality.
This time, with the iron grip came the dull, delicate peace, and it was this time Kaltagonus Smythe opened his eyes, stunned, quickly realizing he was being driven into the belly of the beast.
ooooo
"Ohh," Kaltag started at Nikola's longing moan. "We're home! Gods, I can't wait to take a bath. Thanos practically slobbered all over me the entire trip to Olympos." She distastefully grumped.
"Hey, keep that shi—uh, stuff to yourself. The less I know about your sordid love life, the better." Starbuck deadpanned, and even if he couldn't see it in the darkness of the car, Kaltag could feel him scowling, for strange tendrils of wakefulness, like the long arms of night grasping at their speeding car, lurked on the edge of his mind's devious calm. It was bizarre, to say the least, adding to his mounting sense of dread as the Smythe Manor grew larger and larger ahead.
All too soon, they were circling the stone statue and were pulled up to the front steps. "Home!" Nikola's piercing wail of relief caused an unpleasant tingle to run up his spine, unsettling the cold whispers in his ear.
There came a throaty chuckle from the driver. "Your father missed you, too." His stomach churned slightly in discomfort and displeasure as the blonde Entity prattled on in excited tones, much to the amusement of the others. But Kaltag's eyes were glaring ahead, staring at the columns illuminated by the vehicle's headlights. The large manor seemed so foreign to view now that he knew the truth.
The car suddenly paused and the engine cut off. "Home at last." the passenger in front of him announced. The redhead's stomach turned at the statement. Home. He swallowed the barking retort reverberating within the walls of his mind.
He felt a sharp elbow in his ribs again jolting him from his thoughts and he whipped around to glower into darkened eyes. "Budge over, Tag. Nik's taking too long." Following a short pause, the eldest moved wordlessly against the door, pulling the latch and shuffling out. The blond heaved out quickly behind him and moved to help both the driver and the passenger unload their belongings.
Kaltag narrowed his eyes over the dim road behind him and the faint lights coming from the manor windows. He felt a cold stab spike through him as his eyes fell on a dimly lit window in the far corner. It was shrouded by drapes, which shifted closed as he caught sight of it, but there was something uncomfortably familiar about it. And he didn't like this feeling.
His stupor of discomfort was disrupted as the chatty Nikola took to the front steps, noisily describing how she could eat an ox, as she wielded a disenchanted tufty black cat. The fog of his mind shifted before it settled, and a familiar ache of yearning spread through him.
Forget the girl: we need something quick, something sustainable.
Kaltag froze. His breath quickened, and he quickly knew something terrible was about to happen. Every time that voice turned up, he felt heavy, his mind hazed over and he felt desperate cravings. It sometimes felt as if he hadn't eaten in weeks, and that he'd do anything to satisfy his urges.
The boy. Grab the boy.
Kaltag swallowed, his throat suddenly parched. He sniffed at the air, noting the fading scent of citrus and the overpowering aroma of cedar and musk, and wondering if it was just his imagination. He deemed he must have been getting sick already. But . . . he'd never heard voices when he was sick. And he'd remember that harsh voice if he'd heard it before.
Grab the boy!
Suddenly, there was a brief pang in his chest, and he felt his heart jolt slightly. Stifling a wince, Kaltag restrained his hand from shooting to his chest in reflex. Instead he clenched his fist, narrowing his eyes as another tone infiltrated his thoughts. "We'll get our things, Daedelus." Starbuck flashed him a tetchy look as he began unloading their belongings. "You gonna help me or not?"
He felt his lip curl slightly and could have sworn his skin flushed golden. Daedelus shot him a brief look of veiled concern, he noticed, and returned to the front of the car. As Starbuck turned his back on him, Kaltag felt his heart leap in his chest, not of his own accord.
Easy prey. Not even you could muck this up, boy.
Daedelus was rummaging around noisily, muttering to himself as the blond Being suddenly weighed him down with a trunk. "Wild year, eh?"
Beg to differ. Snap his neck.
Kaltag gave a subtle start, his moist hands letting the trunk slide to the ground with a heavy 'thunk' as he darted a glance over his shoulder. The voice was closer now, and louder than before. He struggled to keep his trembling hands still as he received another trunk with effort.
"Too bad we won't have another one," the blond continued to talk, chuckling as he hauled out the wiry owl cage. "I'd be surprised if Aripedes was able to pull that off."
Take him now!The redhead exhaled sharply, spinning on his heel and peering out into the darkness of the private lane, wide-eyed. What are you waiting for you idiot? Drag him to the bushes and take his life!
Kaltag swallowed, steadying the trunks he nearly toppled over. This couldn't be happening...
". . . But I guess I'm not giving them too much credit; our years usually are very exciting, what with our small number and all…"
Shut … him … up! We don't like it when they talk, remember?
Breathing was becoming quite a task as his chest started to hurt. Large blue eyes glanced up and down the road and between the trees lining the narrow way, but all he could see was the stretching darkness.
If they talk, it's harder to shut them up: shut him up now.
Kaltag sharply breathed, "No . . . "
The blond eyed him, confused. "No what? 'No' you're not going to let him out, or 'no' you don't sully yourself with menial labor?" He sneered, but Kaltag couldn't hear him, as his heart gave another painful jolt and the image of Starbuck holding out Argentum's cage was quickly being overcast by golden shadow.
Set his throat afire!
"Fine, you lazy sod. I'm letting your damned pigeon loose."
Boil his blood until his heart explodes!
A loud squawk momentarily split through the fog but the feeling of blood rushing past his ears and fueling his need overtook him. The musk and sweat was overpowering, washing over him, wrapping around him and pulling them toward their prey.
Carve that brazen tongue from his mouth!
"I . . . no, I—!" the redhead wavered, desperately trying to regain control of his thoughts. He didn't want this. He didn't want to kill Starbuck. He couldn't kill Starbuck, no, never. "We c—" His throat closed up and words died halfway there. " . . . I can't."
The blond Being paused from unlatching the door of the frantic owl's cage and eyed his companion warily. "You can't open the door and let him out for a poo? God, you're stuck up. You're such a... Hey, you don't look so hot." Starbuck didn't wait for an answer and turned to the silver-white bird with a scowl. "Can you shut him up? He's really starting to piss me off."
Kill him!
What was wrong with him? He didn't want to kill Starbuck! As if his body was disagreeing, another painful stab clutched his heart. This time, the boy let out a choked gasp and grabbed his chest.
Embrace it!
Heat suddenly began to gather in his palms at a rapid rate. Wait a minute . . . Kaltag's eyes fell suddenly to his hands. He'd felt this before. This heat; it was different from the times he'd used it during defense, for school. This heat was unique.
Burn him!
It was then Kaltag's memory flashed — he heard the yelps, the groans and cries of pain. He saw the masks, the faces, the anguish. They were in pain, they couldn't even struggle properly against the trees! He saw . . . he saw red hair, white skin, and black clothes. He saw red eyes, pointed teeth, and contorted faces. He felt their pain … and was exhilarated.
Stubborn jackass! What are you waiting for?
Kaltag's hands shook as his mind completely clouded over, blocking Starbuck and the now hysterical Argentum from view. He heard the dissonant gurgling cries of horror, saw the shocked expressions, the fear . . . and green eyes. Determined, green eyes.
Without warning the silver cuff on his wrist sent a jolt of electricity shooting up his arm and through his body. And quite suddenly, his mind cleared the haze and his tightened fists unclenched in his hair. The intangible hand of reprieve had returned, clawing at the snarling beast inside of his head. It definitely wasn't going to go without a fight, this time, wreaking havoc with Kaltag's senses as the world sharpened and reduced violently around him, leaving a massive headache to form in its wake.
"Watch it!" Kaltag hissed, caught unawares as he felt something sharp scrape at his hand, bringing him crashing back to reality, to Starbuck, who was staring at him with an odd look, holding an empty owl cage. "Vicious ball of feathers . . . where'd you get Cujo the owl from, anyway?"
The redhead only breathed throatily in response, his world taking on a slightly wooly quality as the weight of Argentum settled on his shoulder. Oddly enough, his presence seemed to drown out the hissing snarls of the monster rampaging in his head.
"Tag? Hey?" He blinked, cautiously finding his bearings. Large white building. Sweeping darkness all around. Lights in the far corner window. Right. He swallowed thickly. He was . . . home, according to the records at Aripedes. Not that he'd call this empty white castle home; not with him here.
At the thought of that man, the man who had the brazen audacity to call himself his father, he felt the sweat in his palms boil and sizzle along the burning flesh.
He wanted to kill something, and he wanted to kill it now. He felt the very sockets of his eyes flare.
That's right. Kill the boy.
The toxic voice wrapped around his brain, fogging it up again to one goal in mind. The world was lost in a fuzzy haze of crimson, he took a step closer to the unpacking boy, he was so close, he could draw the heat from the prey's body, he —
"Boys!" A voice barked from the doorway. "Quit dawdling and get inside. It's freezing out here."
That voice, coupled with the warning pinch of Argentum's talons and a warning shock from the silver band sent the venomous tone dissipating. The scarlet-hued world cleared from his vision and he was left, standing in the gravel driveway, hearing the blond grumbling, "Says the man whose office is below forty!" Kaltag sighed, his heart thrumming steadily in his chest with painful spikes.
It was gone. Gone, but its voice still twisted through his thoughts. Not as strongly, but just enough to remind him of its presence.
He shook back to reality, ignoring the constant undertone in his mind. Kaltag barely had time to beat the creature down again before a solid object was thumped into his chest, sending Argentum flapping into the skies with an indignant screech. "Thanks for all the help, Kaltagonus," Starbuck scathingly praised. "My hero. You can take your own junk inside, now."
The younger Being trudged up the stairway into the brightness of the foyer, leaving the redhead with the last trunk. Sighing shakily, Kaltag wiped the bleeding hand on his trouser leg and turned to follow. He had almost reached the top when a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
His flinch must have upset the hand, because it was gone a moment later. Instead, he locked gazes with the worried eyes of his father's aide and second-in-command, Daedelus Diomedes. The Vice Admiral smiled crookedly, effectively masking his apprehension. Kaltag resisted the urge to sigh: Daedelus was never one to show fear; even in the face of murderers. He resisted the urge to snort: he'd probably got a lot of experience from being around criminals like Spiridon for years . . . .
"Sorry. Here," Daedelus handed him a thick gray package. "If you need any references . . . " he trailed off with a nod. The boy eyed the packet in bemusement and finally shrugged, resolving to get a better look at it later.
"Thanks." He flatly replied, just wanting to get away from that questioning gaze and all the sickening concern. Honestly, what could that do for him?
"Are you all right?"
Oh, perfectly fine, he'd wanted to say. As fine as one can be when they're going psycho, of course.
"You okay, kiddo?" The redhead inwardly cursed. He was starting to feel a bit sick, really. The Being had hoped it'd escaped the militiaman's notice, but he was about as obvious as a wolf amongst a flock of sheep, nowadays. "You look ill."
Kaltag didn't entertain him with an answer, as he must have looked haunted, dazed and tired. In all honesty, that's how he felt. He made a noncommittal noise and suddenly found Daedelus' hand cupping his cheek, his long fingers curling around the nape of his neck and then the back of a palm pressed to his forehead. Kaltag automatically leaned into the warmth, faintly smelling the jasmine of his lotion. "Oh, Tago . . . " he murmured with a frown. "You might be coming down with something."
Temperature of 101, with possible violent urges to maim and murder, perhaps?
Again, he resisted the urge to snort. Right . . . how did one cure the possession of an ancient serial killer sickness? He doubted modern medicine had come up with a solution to that (other than execution).
His hands twisted in his pockets under the rapt scrutiny. Pushing the hand off his temple to get away from the warm, enticing feeling of rushing blood, he grumbled, "Whatever."
"Get some rest, Kaltag." Daedelus seemed disinclined to leave him here like this, but knew he had little choice in the matter.
The same voice, figure now shadowed in the doorway warned, "Kaltagonus! Don't make me repeat myself: inside, now."
And then Daedelus nodded, his eyes lingering on the younger Celestial's dull blue ones, the significant meaning there, right behind those dark, brooding eyes, but unspoken: 'If you need me ... don't hesitate.'
Swallowing thickly, the boy nodded. It seemed all he could do to communicate right now. Daedelus lingered for a moment before descending the stairs. Kaltag turned inside and left the door open so the men could continue their hauling.
He had barely cleared the threshold before he was assaulted by the feeling of old, familiar anger. It was as if it was waiting for him in the very air of the manor. Oddly enough, the whispering voice in his ear dampened considerably as he continued to step inside. The atmosphere felt strange, as if someone had sucked half the air out of the atrium. Out of the hundreds of times he'd entered this house, he had never felt that before.
Before Spiridon could properly tongue-lash him, the sound of slapping shoes could be heard thundering down the steps. "Papa!" Squealed Nikola, pouncing on the unsuspecting General. He found his arms full with his daughter as she rained kisses on his stubbly cheeks. "Oh, dad, seriously . . . I love you and all, but this bushman theme you're pulling off . . . not cute." She squeezed him tightly again, pulling back with a smirk.
After the blonde Entity's cynical greeting, Starbuck smiled awkwardly and gingerly hugged his father, baring his forehead for a kiss. "Dad." He quietly acknowledged, much less enthusiastic than his sister. Kaltag stood back to watch the mawkish display, seething.
If only they knew they were hugging and kissing a monster.
Spiridon tightly smiled at his youngest, patting him on the back. "To the kitchen with you." His voice was rough with exhaustion. "Erastus has prepared all day for your arrival." As soon as the words left his mouth, the two were gone, betting all the way to the kitchen on who could eat the most biscuits.
He was finally left alone with him. Kaltag hadn't realized he was scowling all through the displays of affection until his . . . until Spiridon spoke. "How are you feeling?"
Kaltagonus didn't answer, only bent slightly to grab his trunk to tow it up the steps. He stifled a grunt as he used his cut hand by habit, but smoothly switched to his other. Spiridon impatiently stated, "Do not exert yourself; Daedelus can take care of that. Come with me."
Kaltag didn't budge; he continued trying to pull his luggage as if he hadn't heard him. He heard the irritated huff. "I said Daedelus would take care of that."
"L-Leave me alone." He cursed his shaky voice and how weak he sounded. He shouldn't fear this man. He should be angry with him. He should hate him for what he had done. The halted voice in his head whispered that he did in fact hate him, but he ignored that as well. When he felt a heavy hand grip him out of his thoughts, Kaltag violently yanked his hand back with a glare. "Don't touch me!"
Spiridon barely reacted when he did this, and his hand moved to rub his thigh. His attention was glued to the mixture of red and gold on the young Being's fingers. His eyes swam with something unreadable as he unnecessarily stated, "You're bleeding."
"I'll live." Kaltag bitterly returned.
"Your blood is poisonous." The General forcefully asserted.
His lips thinned, and he was grateful for the return of his confidence. "Considering everything else, I've no doubt."
The magnate frowned. "If it is consumed or absorbed by the skin, wounded or not, the victim dies. I'm sure you know this."
All too well.
He sighed heavily, looking away as the memories of last week assaulted his mind. Forcing back the murmurs in his mind, Kaltag twitched his head sharply as if expecting the whispers to exit through his ear, and stared the dark-haired Being down. "How do you know all this?" He brusquely inquired.
"Never mind how I know it; all that matters is that it's a lethal poison. Clean the wound, dress it, and discard the towels posthaste." He seriously instructed. "Burn them if you must, but use the fireplace. Make sure you wrap them well and come to my office for salve. We don't want anyone getting infected."
"Infected by what?"
Spiridon's expression darkened and Kaltag swore he heard him growl. "Just do as I say for once, Kaltagonus! Please do not argue with me!"
The redhead opened his mouth to do just that, but closed it, looking away. The last thing he wanted was another death on account of him (even if he deserves it, he darkly thought). But, he silently mused to himself, it wasn't really his fault the first time.
Even so.
Sighing, he crossed his arms and looked away, the epitome of petulance. "Never mind then, you'll do that later. Come into my office." The teenager didn't move. "Kaltagonus." He could hear the underlying threat in that tone. Kaltagonus breathed through his nose, like a bull preparing to run a taunting idiot through with its horns. Spiridon tilted his head dangerously. "Don't think you are so grown to disobey me. I can still take you over my knee."
The boy's response garnered a furious scowl. Laughing mirthlessly, the redhead mocked, "Well! That would be the first time in years that you've ever shown any emotion. Bravo!" He narrowed his eyes, a derisive smile sliding across his face. "Shall I get a chair or should I just bend over the railing?"
The creature swelled slightly in distress, clearly not amenable to that notion. Angrily, Kaltagonus stuffed it back into the recesses of his mind, not noticing the ease with which he had done it.
Spiridon looked about ready to blow, his eyes narrowed into dangerous slits, his breath quickening through his flared nostrils with every second he stared into those impertinent blue eyes, his nails damn near drawing blood from his palms and his lips pressed in a thin line. Every moment that passed, he wanted to wipe that smirk off the monster's face.
But he couldn't. For it wasn't the beast baiting him.
It was Kaltagonus, his son.
Pursing his lips, the General released a heavy sigh and forced his tumult of emotions to calm. "Let's take this into my office." He calmly stated. The Being knew it was an order.
"Ha, ha, right." He shook his head, his face contorting in a snarl so fierce that Spiridon thought the beast had taken over. "Because we wouldn't want precious Nikola and faultless Starbuck catching wind of dear papa's indiscretions. Let's play Keep Away, shall we?"
"Kaltagonus!"
But the boy marched past the incensed businessman into the office without another word. Spiridon exhaled in frustration, and sending up a silent prayer of patience to his sister-in-law, Eirene, followed the redhead into his office.
ooooo
From first glance, Kaltagonus would have assumed the office was as imposing as it had always been: miles of books lining the shelves along the walls, and the misleadingly comfortable furniture bare and raging fire in the hearth. But the office never looked more . . . different.
There were scattered cups around the room, most stale and stained with coffee, he noticed. A half eaten bowl of soup and crackers lay on the coffee table, long and filmed over, as if it had been there for days. The desk, which was always prided on being neat as a pin, was littered with documents, papers, and even parchment that looked more than a decade old.
There was more firewood by the grate than was usual, and even the hard couch, which he had the displeasure of sitting on for many a reprimand, had a blanket half strewn over the back. The door slammed, and his ever-terrible tormentor came into view.
"Sit."
Kaltag folded his arms in defiance. "I don't plan on being here long, so I'll stand."
Spiridon looked very displeased. "You will soon be an ephebe in the eyes of the polis. You had better start acting like one." (1)
"I would if you'd let me." He countered angrily.
And suddenly, it was then the younger Being had realized the gravity of the situation. He wasn't sure if he'd enlightened himself, or if the sporadic whisperer had spurred his thoughts on. He gazed up at the stoic Celestial with widened eyes, his mouth gaping somewhat as the comprehension was wrung from him.
He stared at the haggard looking leader of the kingdom's armies, the dark shadows under his eyes, the shade of beard overtaking his face, the messy clumps of black hair, his tie — which was always choking him with formality — was slack, hung very loose around the yellowish collar of his shirt, which was un-tucked from his pants. His hard and tired eyes were bloodshot in the firelight. His face was rough and gaunt, with a distinctly pinched expression. Kaltag almost felt sorry for him. But that voice forced him to recall.
This. This was the same man who stared Lily Potter down and ripped the truth from her mind. And realization hit like a ton of bricks.
He was betrayed.
His anger flared and the fire wavered. Spiridon's gaze flicked to the fireplace before weighing down on him. "Peace, Kaltagonus. Do not let the beast consume you."
"Who says it's the beast?" He savagely stabbed. "My God," he breathlessly stated, "What have you done?"
"Kaltagonus — "
"I knew it," he went on. "Every time I wrote my name. Passed a picture of us. When I looked at Nikola, at Starbuck, at you . . . looking in the mirror. Every time I — " He cursed himself for choking on his next words. " — Every time I called you 'father'," Spiridon twitched. Kaltagonus shook his head. "I just knew it."
"Kaltagonus, I — " The boy threw up his hands and turned toward the door.
"I can't hear this."
"Kaltagonus just — "
"I don't want to hear it anymore!"
"Young one — "
"DON'T YOU DARE!" The young Being roared, facing the General, his expression livid. "Just — just shut up!"
"Kaltagonus!" The boy scowled when he reacted to that harsh tone naturally, falling into his submissive state. "Stop this nonsense at once. I'll not have you acting like a temperamental Cherub who's been denied a pleasure."
"Do you even hear yourself? Who are you to boss me around? My father?" He spat the word. It did the trick; the man's dark eyes hardened even more.
Spiridon dangerously whispered, "I am doing this for your own good."
"You did this for yourself! To cover your own ass!"
"I've warned you about that language before!" Immediately, the boy looked away, glaring at the lively flames. Considerably calmed, Spiridon continued, "Your safety and peace of mind are what's most important to me right now."
A dry laugh erupted from the boy, leaving the General quite annoyed. "Right now." He scorned. "Where were you when I needed you ten, thirteen years ago? Shut up in a boarding school thousands of miles away from home? No words of comfort, no scheduled visits; just a 'see you at Yule' or 'see you for summer break', or nothing at all. Where were you then?"
The magnate shifted uncomfortably. "I can only offer you my apologies for my aloof behavior."
"Your words do nothing but cut me, remind me of how much I really mean to you." Kaltag squeezed his shaking hands into fists, forcing an indifferent tone. "I don't know who you think you're fooling, Spiridon, but you can drop the act with me."
Said man pursed his lips and rubbed his eyes with a sigh, leaning against the back of the couch. "This is no act, Kaltagonus. I did what I had to do because I love you."
Memories of the flashbacks began to fill the boy's head and his fury increased. "You kidnapped me, and then have the barefaced audacity to look me in the eye and tell me you love me!" Kaltag calmed his raw nerves before he exploded; the fire was already dangerously high, licking the mantel now and blackening the frames of pictures of him and Starbuck and Nikola. Emptying his frenzied mind of emotion, he murmured in disgust, "You're sick. You're worse than Mystikos."
Sooner or later, they both knew the conversation would come to this. Harry's mother. His mother. He would've loved to think Spiridon looked ready to bolt, but quite the contrary; the man looked resigned, but prepared to face this head on. In fact, the General steeled himself with a deep breath. It only fueled the young Celestial's anger and he turned away from the dark-haired Being.
"I had to protect you."
"From what? Lily Potter?" Kaltag spat over his shoulder. "I doubt the word of a grieving mother could've done much damage."
"She knew too much." He firmly insisted.
"So rather than kill her — which would undoubtedly make your wife upset, not to mention strain your relationship," Kaltag spun around accusingly. Spiridon visibly fumed at the show of contempt, "You wiped her memory to save your marriage. You're a regular Cupid, aren't you?"
"Certain sacrifices must be made." The irate Being declared, as if that were a permissible answer. "I did what I had to do to keep you safe. And I'm not sorry for that."
Kaltag snorted. "I would be a fool to think so. But your words cannot justify what you did." Spiridon crossed his arms.
"And what did I do?"
"YOU," Kaltag compelled himself to lower his voice, "Took me away from my parents. You stole the truth from them just to steal the throne."
He was surprised then, thunderstruck, as the rough-faced man threw his head back and rumbled with laughter. "Silly boy," he chuckled disdainfully. "I didn't take you to capture the throne; Zeus can rot in the Underworld for all I care. And I didn't take you away from Lily Potter. Voldemort did."
"YOU'RE NO BETTER THAN HIM!"
"I kept you," Spiridon diligently ignored that gibe, "so you would be safer than the spells the most powerful magicks could've conjured. They would have done nothing but thwart Voldemort; but sooner or later, he would've found the Potters, and he did. And you know what happened.
"The only way you could've been protected was by blood. So whether you want to believe it or not, I am your father, Kaltagonus. I am the one who raised you, brought you up to be as relentless as you are now. I am the one who educated you with the best of both worlds money could buy. I paid for the clothes on your back and the roof over your head. I thwarted every suitor who dared lay eyes on you. I stayed every hour with you when you fell sick. I did the ritual dance with you hours after you were born — you know how powerful old rites are. Skin to skin, blood to blood, Kaltagonus — you are my son." The beast shifted restlessly as the words tore into him, making his heart betray him as it beat unnaturally faster.
"I danced with you longer than I did with Nikola and Starbuck, I admit that; I bathed the doorway in wreaths of olives for you, something Starbuck would never forgive me for if he ever found out. I did it only because you were my pride, my firstborn—don't you turn around! Eyes front, you look at me!" Kaltag frowned, reluctantly facing the General. "And I knew, when I looked into your eyes, you were the only one who would forever take the heart of me — my son. You can't tell me I feel nothing for you, because you're everything to me." Spiridon's raised voice ended in a sharp whisper that sliced through the warm air. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"
Kaltagonus was speechless, staring at the shiny-eyed man in a mixture of disbelief and apprehension. He had nothing to say to his fa — Spiridon's declaration, and he doubt he could form an adequate response. Yes, he did know how powerful the Celestial rites were; of course it meant something to him, too deeply to put into words. But he couldn't ignore the overwhelming feeling of fresh betrayal sweeping over him again and again and again, even with Spiridon's words, however true they were.
However strongly they affected him.
Stilling his trembling lips, the boy sucked in a breath. "I can't stay here." Spiridon tiredly sighed, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, a sign of disappointment that still appalled the young Being to no end when he felt himself become ashamed.
"You must."
"You can't keep me here forever. I'm old enough to make my own decisions. I've got to start sometime, somewhere, right?" He hated the desperate quality of his voice. Oh, God . . . I sound like Weasley! He suppressed the urge to shudder.
"Kaltagonus," Spiridon persevered, "You can't. In your fifth year, I performed the Blood Heir ritual with all of you." He paused, his eyes taking on a distant gleam. "That alone should tell you I consider you my heir, whether you think my blood runs through your veins or not. It still recognizes you as my successor; this ritual also marked you for tutelage until nineteen. You would do well to recall if you leave, you break tutelage."
Kaltag pursed his lips and crossly retorted, "Then I am no longer considered your heir."
"YOU WILL ALWAYS," Spiridon composed himself for a moment, needlessly adjusting his tie. His tone was bordering on frightful, and his dark eyes were too intense to hold a gaze. "Be my heir. Bear in mind this custom was not to be taken lightly. The Blood Heir ritual is the ultimate confirmation of love."
Kaltag rolled his eyes. "Save the pomp and circumstance for someone who gives a shit." His irritation rose once more, even in the exasperated face of the General. "Let it go, old man. Let me go. Come July 31st, I'll be of age by human law. So whether it's now or then, I am leaving your house."
"You are a target of both wars. Voldemort wants you for his side or dead—he doesn't particularly care which—now more than ever, and Mystikos still thinks you're his son. You'd be foolish to leave my protection."
The redhead narrowed his eyes, crossed his arms and sneered, "You don't really think you can stop me?"
He suddenly found himself nose to nose, staring into determined blue eyes. "I can, I am, or I will find a way." The man hissed sternly. "You do not understand how much danger you are in, not just from those men, but yourself: or do you forget what resides in your head?" Kaltag shifted uncomfortably at the reminder. "You don't have the tools — let alone the experience to prepare yourself for such a task. I don't think you quite comprehend the caliber of the situation. The struggles, the demands it calls for. The responsibilities. You're a kid: you're not ready for this."
Kaltagonus knew precisely to what he was referring to. It had nothing to do with him staying, but was an attack on his maturity, and furthermore, his stability. His prowess to be successful: to be king. Feeling rather petulant, he thinned his eyes into slits. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
Spiridon snorted derisively, glancing into a caked mug. "I doubt that. How can you win the battle of Olympos' future if you cannot win the battle within yourself? You are a child. What do you know about war?"
The impetuous prefect felt himself bristle. Before he could stop himself, he spat out, "A lot more than you know about fatherhood."
Ooh! That certainly struck a nerve.
As soon as the words were spoken, Kaltag realized he'd gone too far. Spiridon closed off completely, his eyes cold and his face severe. In a flash, the boy's arms were seized by his hands and his wide eyes sought his in their close proximity.
The startled expression turned into one of molten fury, and his eyes reflected as much as his mind was fogged and tugged in different directions. Spiridon stared hard, stared deep into those orbs, as violent as the ocean during a tempest. But they weren't his normal azure.
They were fierce golden orange.
The fire in the grate grew, dancing across the very ceiling, licking at the pictures propped on the mantel. They were suddenly in an inferno, both their lips pressed tightly, forcing the beads of sweat boil on their skin. Kaltag's eyes were violently gold, whitening with each second the man dared to lay a hand on him. If anyone were to enter, they would've feared to look upon his face, a sight so terrible to behold.
But Spiridon didn't flinch.
Years of practiced peace held him back from raising his hand to the boy. But he needn't have tried. The boy couldn't affect him, not that he knew that. Curbing the impulse to shudder in the furnace, Spiridon held his son's turbulent gaze. "Peace, Kaltagonus."
It took a few moments, but the thin haze began to clear, and the temperature slowly climbed down to normal. Released from his hold, Kaltag stumbled back into a table and didn't look at his father for quite a while. He hastily wiped the sweat from his eyes, the stinging in his hand reminding him of Argentum's wound and the gleaming silver cuff cutting into his wrist.
Dangerous. He was dangerous. Deadly, even. He couldn't — wouldn't stay here. Not with — not while... He swallowed, but his throat supplied nothing but dryness.
Several tense moments later, Spiridon broke the overwrought silence. "Kaltagonus, please. I cannot allow you to — " He broke off with a sigh, pulling the sticky shirt from his chest. "I must look after you. It's my duty."
The teenager grumpily shook his head, leaning on a side table, facing away. "I don't need your protection, and I certainly don't want it."
Anyone who knew Spiridon Smythe knew it took a lot to shock the General. Even more to scare him. And it was common knowledge there were only three things that could ever garner either response from him.
And one of those reasons was standing right in front of him.
Weary eyes now broadened in alarm, and the General froze. He knew what was coming next. He only had a small window of opportunity in which to stop it. "Kaltagonus," he whispered almost desperately, "You can't — but — please, you cannot — "
Spiridon Smythe never stuttered.
"Are you . . . are you refusing my protection? Your name? Your . . . your own blood?" He paused to collect himself, scratching his bristles anxiously.
Spiridon Smythe was never anxious.
"You know the consequence that carries with it?"
The teenager faced him angrily, opened his mouth to rashly reply, but clamped it shut. Did he know of the consequence? Yes, he did. Did he mind? Of course he did. He knew his proposal was a severe one, harsh, in fact. He was aware of what the implication could cause, and how much danger he could be in if he accepted.
Was he ready for all of that?
Was he ready at all, ready to defend himself if need be, to control himself when the time came? To be honest with himself, Kaltag knew he would be safer here. There was no doubting that. The Blood Heir ritual established a protection so great it rivaled that of even the magical world. It made the participants feel emotionally lighter, less burdened knowing no immediate harm could befall them. There were no worries, no doubts, no lingering qualms of treachery.
But the simple fact was he was lied to, hidden from the truth, wiped of his memories for what they say was their — his own good, but . . . Kaltag sighed. It stung. It really hurt him, knowing his father — who tortured him with paperwork every school year and summer, and shaped him into being a ruthless gentleman, betrayed him. Someone he trusted. Someone he, albeit grudgingly, looked up to. Someone he . . . he swallowed again, rewarded with dryness.
Someone he loved.
As he grew hot around the collar and the heat nipped at his eyes, Kaltagonus balled his fists and raised his chin. Spiridon's eyes widened fractionally, realizing what was coming and powerless to stop it. The creature stirred within the Being's mind, spurring him on.
One icy word was all it took. "Yes."
He felt the effects at once. An all around unpleasant tingle swept over his body, like ants crawling on his skin. He fought the urge to scratch and claw at himself, but the feeling soon disappeared. The light feeling was snatched viciously out from under him and all that was left was a heavy, permanent sensation. It was burdened and oppressing, making him distinctly aware that he was not welcome. When the weighty sensation didn't leave, he assumed he would feel like that for the rest of his stay here, which, he earnestly hoped, wasn't long.
Chancing a glance at Spiridon, he knew he'd see cold fury there. He wasn't disappointed. The man looked as though he were barely restraining himself from wringing his neck. With a profound sigh, he began to speak with a distantly cool indifference Kaltagonus only ever heard him use when calmly informed corporate contenders that he'd bought out their business.
"You, Kaltagonus Lucien Smythe, have relinquished my blood protection and all that it affords. This greatly dishonors me." Kaltag couldn't keep the doubt off of his features. "By all rights, as master of the wards, I would have you vacate the grounds on which you have trespassed to no further shame me with your presence." The younger Being bit his lip and forced his chin to stay in the air and not stare at his shoes as he so desperately wished to do.
"However," this caused the boy to sharply glance at his father, "Since you are still not of age by the Authority of Celestiality of Olympos, I, Spiridon Smythe, being your former guardian, will seek another guardian, the equivalent of me and nothing less, to resume your protection. I do this of my own accord." The beast bridled within him as Spiridon's daring gaze met his own. "Until such guardian is sought, you are to remain in the company of a Kept dweller outside of the premises until such a suitable protector can be found, as only mere proximity gives you a trace of protection as of now. Do you understand these terms?"
Kaltagonus scowled, startled when a flash of gold momentarily blurred his sight.
Spiridon brusquely nodded. "Very well." He paused after a moment, collecting himself and added as an afterthought, "That was a very stupid thing to do, Kaltagonus," in his best reprimanding tone.
The ginger-haired prefect merely shrugged, his stiff shoulders giving away his apprehension. "Call it what you will."
Spiridon's eyes narrowed. "You still don't get it, do you?"
"Oh, I get it just fine."
The black-haired Being opened his mouth to retort but was interrupted as a figure burst through the door. "Sir! Sir! I've just been alerted that the wards have—oh," Daedelus spotted the annoyed expressions on the pair's faces. "I see." He primly folded his hands and darted his eyes to the redhead.
With a cleared throat, Spiridon squared his jaw, biting out, "Was there something you needed, Daedelus?"
Glancing out of the corner of his eye to the piqued redhead, Daedelus reported, "My apologies, sir. I was just notified that the wards on Themys have been compromised. They've spread the protection farther over everyone in the house, except someone's missing." He eyed the put out expression of the youngest Being. "Three guesses as to whom. I'll just be..." He gestured to the door and backed away, cowed by the intensity of their glares.
"Don't bother, Daedelus." Kaltag spoke up. "I was just leaving."
"Kaltagonus — " But he had already strode out the door.
Daedelus stared after the boy for a split second before he turned his irritated gaze on his General. "What've you done to him now?" Spiridon only glowered and they both followed the redhead into the foyer.
"I hope you realize what you've done."
"Likewise." The boy growled over his shoulder as he began to climb the steps.
Scrubbing his face in frustration Spiridon's eyes gleamed at the young Celestial's back. "Kaltagonus." The boy paused, his back stiff and face turned away. Spiridon threw his hands in the air to slap loudly on his thighs. It was — amazingly — as close a sign of defeat he would ever acknowledge. "What—what do you want from me? An apology? I-I can't do that. I thought—"
"You thought what?" The boy furiously spun around and snarled. "You thought about how this would affect you? Your precious marriage? What, the monarchy and Olympos?"
The General was unable to keep the puzzlement off his face. "Young one—"
"Don't you understand," He loudly interrupted, "how much this hurts? How much pain you've caused me?"
Spiridon pursed his lips. "It was for the best."
Kaltag released a high, mirthless laugh, clenching his fingers into shaky fists. "It's always for the best, isn't it? Because it's never for what matters." At last, Spiridon seemed at a loss for words. Daedelus watched the exchange with interest and a great wave of sympathy rushed through him.
"I've thought of everything to make this better," the General quietly began, "but my mind keeps coming back to the same solution. If there were any other way—"
"Any other way would've been the right way!"
"I did everything I could!" Spiridon snarled.
The young Being harshly chuckled and shook his head, his eyes bright and distraught. "Thought of everything, have you?" He viciously spat. "Well, I can tell you what you didn't think about. Me."
Twisting on his heel, the young Being took the stairs two at a time. "Kaltagonus!" The boy stumbled, but continued upward until he reached the second level and turned out of sight. They briefly heard the slam of a door in the distance, followed by dead silence.
Daedelus immediately moved to climb the steps after the distraught teen, but was stopped cold by a frosty voice. "Stop at once, that's an order. If you coddle that boy," the elder Celestial's tone held deep threat, "I will not have qualms dismissing you from the Battalion. Too long have you pushed him against me, Diomedes, and you think I do not know, but I do."
The dark-eyed soldier turned half of his body to face the staid-faced General with a dark look. Pursing his lips, he turned again to start back up the stairs, orders be damned. "One more step and you're discharged, Vice Admiral. And I seriously mean that. He is not yours to deal with."
There was a long, taut pause before the second-in-command descended with an enraged glare. "What have you done to the boy?"
"Our business is no right of yours!" Spiridon stormed back to his office only to be zealously pursued by Daedelus.
"Well forgive me sir, but I made it my right when I swore an oath to take care of this family." He snapped the door shut as his superior strode to the bookshelf. He curiously watched as Spiridon plucked out a small book — fused with other books, which were curiously hollowed out. An alcove, Daedelus concluded with mild shock.
Spiridon pulled out a glass tumbler and a crystal decanter of deep tawny liquid — the sickly sweet scent revealed it to be Metaxa, sweet brandy — pouring it swiftly without offering any. Daedelus knew things had to have been worse than he imagined if the General was drinking spirits stronger than his usual Retsina or red wine . . . especially drinking brandy in the wrong glassware.
Fortifying himself from the sight, Daedelus eyed the man who avoided his gaze. "I've watched that boy, Spiridon, since he was a newborn, and I've seen what he's grown to become. Year after year, I see how he acts and how he feels about all of this. I daresay I can read him better than you. You ruined that boy with your callousness, and you only have yourself to blame." This earned him a snort and a deep gulp of brandy from the General.
"A boy should not be treated like some-some . . . object to be molded and shaped and bent to your will — a pawn in your quarrel with the High Being — forced to spend his only time of freedom in boring corporate offices discussing mergers and the endeavors of greedy humans with far too much money!"
Spiridon stared into his half empty tumbler, swirling the liquid with a quirked jaw. When he spoke, Daedelus had to strain to hear him. "Was it wrong of me? To . . . deny him a terrible fate? I . . . gave him a future. I am making him into the man he needs to be, complete with the discipline he lacks. I did what was right for him."
Daedelus scoffed, gritting his teeth. "'Right'? So, making him into another you — ruthless and heartless to practically everything that lives — that was right? Athena would hate you for what you've done to that child!"
The rage in Spiridon's eyes intensified. "Watch yourself, Vice Admiral." He gave his second a threatening glare. "Know this: You have no right to interfere with what I say to or do with Kaltagonus, oath-held guardian or no. Let it be."
The aide stood his ground, albeit anxiously. "I will not." Spiridon's face twisted into a scowl.
"I order you."
Daedelus barely hesitated. "And I refuse to comply."
"HE ISN'T YOUR SON!"
"NOR IS HE YOURS!"
If looks could kill, Daedelus Diomedes would've already joined his ancestors six feet under. As it was, the leader of the fiercest troop on Olympus held his glare for several moments until the younger acquiesced, looking away and acknowledging his submission. He heard the clinking of glass and a rich pouring sound.
"You try my patience today, Diomedes. And I have none left. You forget your place; you are not that troublemaking street urchin I rescued all those centuries ago." Daedelus fought the urge to flush in embarrassment. "You are a soldier of Zeus, a man of discipline. When emotions arise, soldiers never forget their place, Vice Admiral, or they will be found guilty and sentenced to death." Daedelus did not reply, and kept his eyes averted. "But I have no desire to charge and slay you tonight, my second. However, in no way will you ever disrespect me again or you may — or may not — live to regret it."
Properly chastised, Daedelus nodded but shook out of his stupor to tamely answer, "Yes, sir."
"See to it that you never challenge my authority again." The olive-skinned aide obeyed and averted his eyes to the elaborate carpet, baring his compliance. A few moments of deadly silence passed between the two, where the fire crackled and the glass of brandy clinked as it was topped off. He would give the General a few minutes of thought, if only to spare him the loss of his head. "Daedelus?"
His head quickly shot up. "Yes, sir?"
Spiridon's dark eyes glowed worryingly in the flame light. "Get me Gene right away."
It took a few seconds as the name passed through his inventory of thoughts. The second's eyes broadened. "Gene, sir? As in Commander Eugene Dyson?"
"Do you know of any other 'Gene', Vice Admiral?" Came the deadpanned response.
"As in . . . the Ministry of Health and Family Welfare of Greece? That Eugene Dyson?"
"Yes." Spiridon hissed, swallowing a fair amount of drink.
Daedelus' mouth worked in bemusement as his mind couldn't quite catch up. "Sir, what are you going to do? By all rights, it sounds as if you're . . . . " He trailed off, seriously hoping the brandy wasn't skewing the Being's mentality.
The elder man nodded. "Yes, it's just as you fear. I'm giving Kaltagonus what he wants."
"But sir! With all due respect, I do not think — "
"I didn't ask you for your opinion, Vice Admiral. Know your place!"
Daedelus yielded an "I apologize," but had Spiridon looked him in the eyes, he would've found the boldest defiance.
A distressing sigh brought his attention to the unkempt Being. "Forgive me."
"No, you're right, General. I went too far. I nosed where I shouldn't have."
"That's right. You did. I am a merciful leader, but boy," Daedelus inwardly balked at the offensive scolding, "You are pushing your luck. That's strike two, Diomedes." Said Being sealed his lips and frowned at the rug. "But I understand why. You love Kaltagonus as I love him." Daedelus looked away. "We both want what's best for him."
After holding his peace for so long, the Vice Admiral met his leader's steady gaze. "So you're just . . . giving him away? Letting him out for adoption or emancipation? Is that what's best for him, throwing him into another family?"
There was a secretive smirk etched on the General's face as he pressed the full tumbler to his lips. Sometime between the last argument and now he'd topped it off again. "I never said he was going to another family."
"Who then?" After a beat, he thought to add, "Sir?"
It was then Daedelus Diomedes witnessed the most bone-chilling gleam in Spiridon's eyes. One that made the casual observer realize he had taken a step over the line of sanity and rationality and was now beyond clinically insane. The aide's face dropped. He was quite sure his jaw was dragging on the ground.
"Oh. Oh, no." Daedelus' eyes widened in realization and he squared his shoulders. Exactly how much did he have to drink? "General, I believe I must protest."
"I don't give a damn what you believe you must do Daedelus, know … your … place!" the man snarled, squeezing the glass in his hand so hard Daedelus thought he heard it squeak in alarm. The General's eyes flashed in anger and annoyance before he exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. Daedelus knew Spiridon was trying to clear his mind and calm himself, ready to make a rational excuse; he'd been on the receiving end of that expression many a time since boyhood. "I must do what is right by him."
Though not entirely convinced, Daedelus settled somewhat at the brief excuse following the order. Rather warily, the younger Celestial quietly broached, "You really think he'll be able to help him?"
A single nod. "I do."
Daedelus tried to keep himself from throwing a fit and groaned aloud instead. "Kal-Kaltagonus hates him! They'll never get along! There won't be a house left after the week's up, 'cause they'll have blown it up! I'm telling you, they will not stand for it."
"They'll have to." Spiridon sipped leisurely as if this was all very amusing.
Daedelus ran a hand through his hair, incredulous. "But if he finds out…"
Spiridon grimaced and shrugged. "He'll be devastated, that's for sure."
Daedelus tossed him a wry look. "Which one?" Spiridon returned the look with a raised eyebrow.
"It's up to him whether he tells Kaltagonus or not."
They paused for a moment, thoughts wild and fleeting. "What will Kaltagonus think?"
The Smythe patriarch made a noise similar to a wince. "He'll get over it." When Daedelus made a sound of protest, Spiridon defended, "Kaltagonus will not find his way out of this. He must face this, and me, sooner or later."
"Hmph. What will the other Kaltagonus think?"
The triplets' father paused for a substantial amount of time. "I'm not so sure I would like to know."
Daedelus openly gawped. "You're willingly putting them in danger? Have you lost your mind?"
Spiridon snorted and sipped steadily from his glass. "The only danger there will be is to themselves. And that, I cannot control."
The second nodded at the logic. There would be one hell of a fireworks display when they found out. "And how will this benefit Kaltagonus, sir?"
Spiridon's eyes hardened from their amusement and he gripped the glass so tightly between his fingers, Daedelus was afraid it would break. "He will learn control. And he'll be in for a rude awakening." He glanced at his uncertain second-in-command. "I know what I'm doing, Daedelus. It needs to be done. It'll be better for both of them in the long run."
Daedelus' frown lessened, only slightly, but he nodded. "I don't doubt your decisions, sir."
"You had better not, soldier." Warned Spiridon, who again sighed and marched to his desk. "Contact Gene, Daedelus."
Instantly in assistant mode, Daedelus bowed slightly and made for the exit. "Right away, sir."
"And Daedelus?"
"Sir?" The Vice Admiral paused in the doorway.
Spiridon stared into his glass with a frown. "Have Gene get in touch with our emissary at the Ministry." Daedelus' eyebrows lowered slightly at the demand. He got the distinct impression they'd done this before.
"Which one, sir?"
Spiridon's eyes briefly rose from his tumbler in slight puzzlement. "We have more than one?"
The younger Being nodded slowly. "Phillips in Magical Creatures, Dram and Cohn in Law Enforcement, and Baptiste in the International Office of Law."
The dark-haired General pursed his lips in thought before answering, "Baptiste. And Daedelus?" The man in question looked over his shoulder as Spiridon called him back. "I shouldn't have to tell you that these requests must be fulfilled at the utmost discretion." The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with warning.
Daedelus swallowed thickly. "Of course, General."
Spiridon's dark gaze gleamed in the firelight. "Good. Dismissed."
Daedelus bowed again and crossed the threshold, murmuring, "And for your sake, I hope you know what you're doing."
As the doors clicked, Spiridon set down his tumbler and leaned on his desk. It had been a trying day. Really, a trying week. He wasn't sure when was the last time he ate a proper meal; he grunted at the sight of the sour bowl of soup on his table. He'd been surviving off of coffee all week, going over his reasons for what he had done all those years ago.
It had to be done. He knew it had to be done. Otherwise, Lily Potter would have told anyone who would listen the truth and there would have been an inquiry, and he didn't need that. No one could know his part in this. Not even Kaltagonus himself. He didn't need the boy to fear and hate him any more, especially with his new . . . concern (that was a mild way of describing a cold-blooded murderer). Emptying his glass in one gulp, Spiridon fought the urge to smash it against the wall. Yanking his chair out instead, the General sank like a rock into it, brow furrowed and fingers cupping his chin in thought.
Was he doing the right thing? Letting the boy go? Even he believed himself a bit demented to think this. He never indulged his children in what they wanted, but what they needed. He could still recall the pouts on their young, puffy faces when he'd turn them down for a toy, or a trip, or money, or a car, and how he'd remind them of those less fortunate than them that were perfectly happy with what they had, because they were thankful for life. That alone would straighten out their bitter moods and the yearned item was forgotten, replaced with something bigger and more modern as the years sped past. He remembered every request Nikola and Starbuck had made over the years.
But not Kaltag. Never Kaltag. He thought it was peculiar that the boy never asked for anything, never pouted at not getting a particular object. In fact, that only thing he remembered him ever asking him for repeatedly was...
Spiridon sighed, fingering the rim of his glass. It wouldn't do to dwell on memories passed; it was how he got into this mess in the first place. Shifting the tumbler aside, he reached over his desk, littered with ink-stained papers flat and balled, soiled cups of tea and coffee and grabbed the picture frame situated near the edge.
The firelight flickered over the silver and glass, illumining those beaming faces, rolling in the yard at the blithe age of eight. Easier times, he mused to himself.
But now was not the time to dwell on memories. He'd had enough of that last week.
Quickly flipping over the frame, he popped the hooks out and pulled the stand to reveal the picture's watermark and a discolored brass key.
With the key in hand, he moved it to the largest drawer at the bottom of his desk and hesitated for a moment before fumbling with the key in the lock. Another pause to collect himself, and Spiridon turned the lock until it clicked and pulled out the drawer.
The first thing that greeted his sight was a long, slender rod, the blackest of blacks, and he knew if touched, it would have been warm under his fingers. Having been inactive for over a decade, of course the wand was ecstatic to be used again. But this was no wand borne of wizard; rather thick at the base, and narrowed at the tip, much heavier and longer than wizards' wands at twenty or more inches. He thought he heard it purr and grow hotter as his fingers hovered over it.
It was made of a dark, heavy metal that could have caused massive destruction when waved. A Celestial wand in the hands of an ordinary person would cause unthinkable damage. Only three of these wands were known in circulation: Hermes, Circe the witch goddess, and his wife, Athena.
Only five other people knew of this particular possession; one was already dead. Spiridon took comfort in the fact of knowing he had nothing to do with her death, at least. The other, he hoped, would heed his warning and keep his mouth shut. Harry Potter was a nice boy, yes, but when rubbed the wrong way, the boy was a nuisance. Sighing heavily, Spiridon pushed thoughts of Potters dead and annoying out of his mind. Budging the pulsing weapon aside (it hissed in displeasure), his eyes caught something that had him choking back the sudden lump in his throat.
Spiridon's fingers wavered at the sight of the aged wood of the carved form, worn from its number of years in this place. The color had long since faded, leaving only the basal oak visible. He ran his fingers briefly over the chiseled mane, that one touch bringing a sharp pang of grief and pain if only for a second. He allowed himself a nostalgic chuckle at the rounded edge of the missing limb of the animal, broken in rough play so many years ago: centuries — rather, millennia ago, its dulled limb round from sleepless nights from nightmares were he caressed the toy in remembrance. He sighed, bypassing the broken goat in kind and swell of emotion only to pause.
A rush of hate flowed through him at the sight of the broken hilt, rusted over with years of disuse. Though the hilt was tarnished, its dreadful emblem still glared back at him, bright with wickedness. He almost reached for his tumbler of brandy again. Still, he did not know why he kept this—this stained weapon of sin, of murder and hatred and misunderstanding, especially when its mark was that of the man who killed his first wife and child. Saving his bitterness and anguish for a more fitting time, Spiridon finally seized what he'd come for.
It was nothing particularly impressive: naught but a simple graying, dusty sack. Truth be told, the pouch had more dust on it than Floo powder in it. Without allowing the chance to talk his pleasantly fogged mind out of his plans, the General abruptly stood and made it to the fireplace in four long strides. He scrabbled with the tie on the small bag, biting his lip to keep from cursing and changing his mind. His mind was made up, really, he kept telling himself. Really.
The magnate swallowed deeply, staring into the flames and ignoring the vying inward scolds of cowardice and self-indulgence. Glancing up at the ceiling, he closed his eyes and sent up a silent prayer for guidance. It has to be done, he inwardly chanted; it must be done.
Pinching the last bit of Floo powder left, he pitched it into the fire. As soon as the flames burst unnaturally green, Spiridon took a fortifying breath to dispense with all last-minute second thoughts. He'd spent nearly two minutes in front of the emerald flames, weighing his options. In the end, one voice was the loudest of them all.
"Thought of everything, have you? Well, I can tell you what you didn't think about. Me."
Nodding firmly to himself, Spiridon stood straight, neatly adjusted his tie, and shouted directly into the fire, "Hogwarts School, Severus Snape's Private Quarters!"
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A/N: HPDH is right around the corner! Excuse me while I do my little dance. (happy dances) Thanks for reading!
A/N 2: (1) is a quote from Chief Seattle. An ephebos/ephebos/ephebe (pl. epheboi) is a male youth in ancient Greece between the ages of 18 and 20: usually to undergo military training. Polis is a Greek city-state, for those of you who didn't know.