Tyaruth
A Harry Potter Alternate Universe
by Green-and-Silver
Disclaimer
Well, even though it's AU, the characters they're based on still belong to Rowling. If I owned them, I probably wouldn't be writing a fan fiction about them. All Harry Potter criteria and related crap is property of Scholastic and any other rightful owners. The poem around the third page doesn't belong to me, either. So don't sue me – I'm poor.
Genre
Adventure/Romance
Rating: PG-13
For explicit battle scenes and male/male romance.
Pairing: Slash
Harry/Draco
Summary
King Ithildin is the ruler of the kingdom of Coia. His late wife is the mother of the heir – Prince Haran. But when the village is under siege by an evil army, the Gurtha, a mysterious knight from another kingdom saves the lives of not only the people, but of the king and prince. The king's profound gratefulness soon turns to hatred when Knight Drauna falls in love with Haran and asks his hand in marriage.
Impossible Emotion
"I can still taste the blood of when we first met, but I can feel your lips on mine now. Flaming passion burns away the pain. Just don't let this moment end... ever."
"Late is the hour when my son finally decides to ride in," growled Ithildin, a hand rubbing his lightly bearded chin darkly, "tell me, Haran, what affair possibly could have kept you up to these minute hours of the early morn?" The boy flinched.
Truth be told, he had been out at the local tavern, enjoying a few drinks with the common folk, (in disguise, of course) but if his father knew that, he wouldn't live to see the next day. "I was out in the training field, practicing archery," Haran invented, striding down the stone floor towards the throne, with a façade of cool nonchalance. His father frowned.
"Since when have you enjoyed practicing archery?" he growled, rising.
Haran blinked, scolding himself inwardly for being stupid. "Since… yesterday, when I won the archery tournament in the Town Square." He said justly, and, with a last glance to his father, sauntered proudly to his quarters.
Ithildin moaned and seated himself again, gently massaging his temples. That son of his was nothing like him when he was a kid. Ithildin was always well behaved, why wasn't Haran? As his thoughts trailed on, the main door burst open, banging loudly against the stone walls. In ambled one of his knights, Sir Runya, bloody, battered, and hardly moving. "My Lord! The kingdom is under siege!" He cried, "It is the Gurtha, my highness, they have come!" With that, he toppled forward onto the floor, motionless.
Thunder boomed outside, shaking the enter castle, and perhaps more the heart of the king. "Tarran," he suddenly addressed his advisor at his right side, "Get our army organized! I want them suited and ready for battle by sun up, do you understand?"
Tarran, who was obviously asleep, jerked and awoke, catching the end of the command and stood, dashing out another door.
Outside, rain was pouring down in heavy sheet, and banging against the window that Prince Haran was gazing out absently. "Rain isn't supposed to fall this late at night," he murmured to whoever bothered to listen, "how is someone supposed to sleep?"
Then, suddenly, off in the distance, Haran could just make out a tiny red and yellow glow. His eyes narrowed as he leaned toward it, nose almost touching the glass. For a long while, he still couldn't make out what it was. But, whatever it was, it was growing, and growing fast. Haran brushed a few locks of raven black hair back, straining to see.
When the truth was finally revealed, Haran half wished he didn't look at all, because he was grabbing his chain mail coat and dropping it over his chest. "Fire!" He breathed the word like a curse, latching his sword, Miril, onto his waist and pulling the window open, crawling through with the nimbleness of a cat.
He didn't notice wind and water slapping his face; he was running too fast. But somehow, he kept his breath even as he sprinted through the rubble and debris surrounding the castle, driven by anger and confusion. Who dare cause havoc to his fair kingdom? As he flipped over a log and landing on one foot, using it to propel forward, he could have sworn he heard a rustle from the forests beside him. But he paid no heed to the noise.
Within a matter of seconds, Haran had stopped ten paces from the burning building, probably a farmhouse, judging by the shape and size. His face twisted into a frown as he looked about for a source of water.
But what happened next was so fast; he couldn't comprehend it for a few moments. A man, tall and shadowy leapt out from the woods, a sword gripped in his hands. The intruder let out a fierce battle cry, and as soon as Haran saw a silver mask glimmering in the moonlight just barely peaking through the thick layer of clouds, fear washed over him.
"QUERNA!" He roared, slicing down towards his shoulder.
If Haran's reaction time had been a fraction of a second slower, he would probably be dead. In the nick of time, he unsheathed Miril and parried the blow. The man flipped back and landed, crouching. Then, sparing no time, he flew toward him, sword still extended.
Metal clashed with the rolling thunder, and Haran found himself locked in a battle. His opponent's sword swung around and he attempted a jab at his side, which he dodged by ducking and kicking at his feet. But the man, calculating that blow, jumped into the air and struck down at Haran, who rolled to the side and leapt up, assuming fighting stance, just like he did in class.
'But this isn't class anymore,' Haran reminded himself painfully, 'this is life or death.'
And as the rest of the fight went by, it became obvious that there was no way he could win. With a mighty flip in the air and a war cry, the man fell down upon him, ready to use a finishing blow to his already battered body.
Haran closed his eyes in horror, ready to accept his fate.
… But it never came.
"ANASTA! TYARUTH!" A foreign voice rang out. His eyes snapped open to see the man battling another, not wearing a silver mask of Gurtha, but instead silver hair, wet and sticking to his cheeks. Haran watched in awe as the mysterious man spun to the side and kicking the side of his adversary's face. Then, twisting the other direction, he thrust the flat side of his sword into his head.
The man fell, blood mixing with rainwater, while his newfound ally fell to one knee, hair fanning over the side of his face, obscuring his profile. He was panting heavily as he stood and sheathed his sword.
But Haran never saw his face, because promptly after, he passed out.
And when he awoke, he felt something cold and moist draped over his brow, soothing him. Haran was itching to ask where he was, but he couldn't manage to say anything. His vision was blurry. He blinked a few times, and to his surprise, he saw a familiar face leaning over him, gently wiping blood off of his chin with caring warmth. "So, you're finally awake, are you?" The man said. It was with his voice that he realized the man was his savior; the one who had came from nowhere and saved his life.
"Where am I?" Was all he managed to ask, even with a million questions burning in his mind. The man smiled down at him.
"Why, you are in your own kingdom, Prince Haran. Dost you not recognize it?" He looked around for a few seconds, wondering if he could recognize it, when a more urgent question rose.
"How do you know my name?" Haran demanded, pushing himself up into a sitting position, the towel falling onto his lap with a soft noise. The man smiled again, laughing as gently as summer rain. It seemed to lift his spirits, but his face stayed composed.
The man reached toward his chest and gripped the Royal Crest dangling from his neck. "This. It is no normal Coat of Arms, my friend – the crown means royalty. And you are much too young to be a king, so it is obvious you are a prince. And, since I found you in Coia, you must be Prince Haran. Rather elementary, isn't it?"
Haran blinked, startled at his simple genius. "What is your name?" He dropped the necklace back onto his chest and arranged himself properly, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.
"I have many names," said he, "but you may call me Drauna. Drauna Mallen."
After the brief introduction, Haran took the time to gaze about. "We are not in the castle," Haran decided, noticing the furnishing was nothing like that of the palace. Drauna chuckled again.
"We aren't. I haven't the vaguest idea where it is, so I took you to the tavern until you woke and could guide us there."
"Us?" Repeated Haran incredulously, "What makes you think you're going with me?"
Drauna suddenly darkened. "Haran, your leg is broken. There is no way you can return to the castle in that form, no matter how close it may be. You need me right now."
"I don't need you!" Haran cried, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, and suddenly cringing in pain, in it's purest form. "Gah! Blast it!" He fell back again.
"Don't need me, hmm?" Drauna said, resting a hand on his hip. "You're staying in this bed until I can find you some kind of crutch. Don't move that leg now, I'll be back in a few minutes." With that, he walked out of the room, cloak trailing behind him.
Before, his leg seemed fine, but now that it had touched floor, there was a dull pain throbbing there as an aftershock. He mumbled a curse under his breath and looked lamely to the desk beside the bed, where a piece of parchment was lying, alone. Curiosity overruled dignity, and he grabbed it without further thought and began to read. It was a poem of some kind.
Shed no tear—O shed no tear
Dry your eyes—O dry your eyes
Overhead, look overhead!
To ease my breast of melodies
The flower will bloom another year!
Weep no more—O weep no more
For I was taught in paradise
Weep no more—O weep no more
Among the blossoms, white and red
Away, away, I flutter now
Landing on a thick Oak bow
Dry your eyes, shed no tear
Weep no more—O weep no more
Haran read the last line with a new hope to his heart. The poem flowed wonderfully, rolling from his tongue like water off a stone. He set it down and leaned against the soft goose feather pillow, suddenly comfortable in a foreign environment. Not two seconds had he just begun to take security, but the door opened, and in walked Drauna with a odd, Y-shaped stick in his grip.
"This will have to do for now." He announced, circling round to Haran's side of the bed and helping him sit up. "Put it under your arm – that's it – and grip below it. Lean on that instead of your bad leg." Haran, wobbling slightly, managed to stand. Soon, Drauna removed his hand ever slowly, and eventually settled it on his hip. "Very good! You catch on quickly, don't you? Let's try walking." So, cautiously, Haran put his good leg forward, still wavering. Then, with a hard prayer, he leaned on his foot and moved the stick straight ahead, finally taking a step. "You are one surprising prince, your highness."
It didn't take long for Haran to breeze down the streets like both his legs were intact. And, not much longer, he struck up a conversation. He felt surprisingly at ease, talking with Drauna. They could go on about anything; the weather, local gossip, and the kingdom's affairs tended to be their subjects of choice.
"I swear that's what he said to me!" Laughed Haran, "Right out of his mouth, 'Touch the Stone of Death and I'll kill you!'" Drauna chortled at this.
"And all this time I thought Lords were supposed to be intelligent!" More laughter ensued. "Glory, next time I see a smart-arse tax collector, I'll throw a bit of mathematics at him, see how he deals with it!" He suddenly went into a conversation between two. "'Time for your monthly fee – 30 shillings.' '30? Well that's quite unreasonable. Because, I'm sure you know how much that is a day!' 'Uuh…' 'You don't? Why would the king pick a mathematics flunkee as a tax collector?'"
(A/N: X_X That was so lame.)
They were both belly laughing as they reached the castle. Haran pulled the Crest from out of his shirt and pressed it into a oddly-shaped hole where the doorknob ought to be. With a turn of the necklace, the door swung open, and the two wandered in.
Down the hall, King Ithildin stood, shocked. "Haran! Do you know how long you've been gone?" He rushed down the steps and towards him, "What happened to your leg?" He suddenly looked to Drauna suspiciously, "Did this brute give it to you?" Ithildin growled. Drauna looked unfazed, even as Haran leapt to his defense.
"That is hardly the case, father. He is the one that saved my life!" Soon, anger turned to happiness. He clasped a hand on Drauna's shoulder.
"Then I owe you my apologies. And thanks, apparently! But," he rounded on Haran, "You still haven't explained to me what gave you that leg."
This wasn't good. If his father found out that he had gone out – again – after he already spent the entire night gone, he would be dead before he could finish his explanation! His mind raced, but all he managed to do was stammer. Drauna quickly cut in.
"Your highness, three men, the Gurtha, I expect, were waiting for him in his bed chambers and ambushed him. I was walking by his window, and I saw it. Luckily, he left his window open, so I climbed through to assist." He answered quickly, like it was the truth. Haran was inwardly impressed, but he couldn't show it. Instead, he nodded vigorously in agreement.
"If Drauna hadn't come along, I would probably be dead," he insisted, smiling.
"Drauna…" Ithildin murmured. "You wield a sword of a knight, yet you are not in my army. From what kingdom are you?"
The silver-haired man opened his mouth to begin, but said nothing for a few seconds. "I… have no country of origin, your highness. I follow the wind. I am a wanderer, if you will."
"A wanderer who carries a blade of knights?"
"I got this off the black market when I was a child. I've been training with it ever since."
Haran couldn't help but wonder if this was the truth. He already knew that Drauna was very good when it came to deception.
"Well, wherever you are from, you are forever welcome in the Halls of Coia. A maid will show you to your chambers and bathing quarters." Ithildin said aristocratically, but keeping a smile on. "I'm sure they will be most comfortable."
"I am much obliged, your highness." Drauna said, bowing deeply, hair drifting.
Not too soon after Ithildin had mentioned a maid, a small girl came scurrying over to his side. "Yes, my lord?" She asked earnestly.
"Show this man to the guest chambers, and tell the others to begin to draw a bath."
"Yes, my lord." She bowed her head and motioned Drauna to follow her. He took one last look to Haran, and gave him a brief smile, then trailed behind the maid and out of the main hall.
However, Ithildin couldn't help but notice the star-filled eyes his son looked upon the man with. Could it be raw admiration, or… something else? He shook himself mentally and respectfully requested that Haran take a bath as well, to get the dried blood off.
As soon as Drauna entered the room, he was taken aback. The walls were pearl white, crowned with glimmering gold. The large, king-size bed looked as soft as a cloud, and a huge wardrobe sit on the eastern wall, standing like a pillar. The unscathed white carpet was soft under his booted feet, and hung about the room were beautiful, elegant paintings of landscapes and night skies. He had little time to dwell on its beauty, however, as the maid soon addressed him.
"Would you care for some food, sir?" She squeaked.
Now that it occurred to him, Drauna was rather hungry. "That would be wonderful. Just bring me whatever is easy for the chef." He said humbly, smiling. The maid, again, nodded and hurried off.
He threw his bag onto the bed and reached inside it for a fresh pair of garments. He quickly pulled of the bloodstained cloak, tunic, and trousers and replaced them. He now had on a simple lavender poet's shirt with laces binding a small potion of the V-neck collar and white trousers, with brown boots pulled up to his knees. Not the most fashionable ensemble, but, then again, he was rarely fashionable.
Putting the pack neatly beside the bed, he then collapsed into a sprawl, staring up at the ceiling, which was painted to mimic the night sky. Beautiful, he thought dismally, admiring the elegance of his chamber. The stars seemed to form music in his mind somehow.
"Music," he murmured, realizing that it had been a while since he had played. He was alone, and it sounded like a good idea. He turned on his side and, once again, reached into his bag, pulling out a small ukulele, wondering what in the world he could play.
He didn't worry about this for long, because music flowed from his fingertips effortlessly. He began with a simple, slow tune, each note hanging in the air, lingering even after it died. Each note was a memory, telling a tale of sorrow and loss. His hand moved over its neck delicately, and the music mimicked it. It was reserved, but at the same time, so lonesome and scared. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to dive into the notes as if they were a pool of water.
It continued for a few more minutes, keeping the same mournful air as it did in the beginning, until his fingers became weary, and as it went retardo, a final chord marked the ending. His hand slowly lowered to his lap and he sighed vaguely.
When his eyes opened, he was startled to see a long, rectangular plate with a bowl of soup and a long piece of bread resting on the bed space in front of him. He could have kicked himself for not hearing the maid enter, he thought savagely as he bit into the bread angrily.
Haran wandered down the Hall of Memories, looking to each painting with little regard. His eyes wandered from portrait to portrait, each of his forefathers, and each looking exactly the same. He could never imagine sitting up so straight for hours while the artist painted. And the names! Boy, was he was ever glad that he wasn't Ithildin XVII.
From off in the distance, he could see a dark figure sitting upon the edge of the fountain. His head tilted as he approached it. When he reached fifty paces away, he realized that it was none other then Drauna. He looked up at the Prince and smiled as he drew nearer.
"Hello," he said, smirking.
"Hi," Haran replied, sitting down beside him. He had something itching at him. "I just wanted to say, about back there… uuh…" he paused, searching for the right words, "Thanks."
Drauna smiled warmly, putting a hand on his shoulder. "There is nothing to be thankful for."
"Nothing to be thankful for!" Echoed Haran, startled. "But there's so much! You covered for me when I was sure I was going to be killed! You helped me out when you didn't even have to…" he was slowing down in his speech as the forces themselves seemed to draw the two together, "You… saved me…"
Maybe it was something about the magic of the moment, or maybe it was something more, but before either could tell what was happening, they were inches apart. Haran could feel his hot breath upon his cheek. Drauna's eyes were half-open and closing steadily. And, with a gentle movement, his open mouth was pressed against Haran's. A silent explosion occurred when their lips met, that of flaming passion. He could feel Drauna's hands wrapping around his waist and drawing him closer.
This was not Haran's idea of a first kiss. He thought it would be more blundering, but this was soft, gentle, and loving, almost as if they had made love many times before. His hands wound up his chest and around his neck, moving to the rhythm of the kiss.
From across the way, Ithildin stormed off in a fit of anger.
Drauna's lips brushed against the other's lips a last time, and he gingerly whispered, "You're welcome."
End of Chapter One