The Deeds of the Four
Chapter 1: The Stone Circle
Godric kept to himself when possible. He normally didn't have to deal with people much. When they saw his tall figure, rough facial features, and wild red hair like a lion's mane, they avoided eye contact and stepped out of his path. He was used to this and had come to expect it. For years he had been an outcast and had become comfortable with the role he was to play. Godric was unsure of his age, but what did it matter? No one ever asked or seemed to care. Why celebrate a birthday when it felt as if you were abandoned on earth rather than born on it?
He was in fact in his early twenties, though his face made him look years older. It was a rugged sort of handsome, but not at all what one would call "fair". His skin was like tan leather that had been left too long in the sun-taut, and yet riddled with lines and creases. There were small lines at the corners of his mouth that drooped slightly, as if he spent his free time perfecting his scowl (which wasn't far from the truth). Freckles dotted his long, straight nose and high cheekbones. Two large, bushy eyebrows like fiery caterpillars were shaped so that he always looked angry. Below them his dark green eyes-or were they blue?-shone with a light from within, possibly his only feature that could be described as warm or kind. They tended to change color as suited their fancy, but were normally a deep shade of blue or green.
Godric's most remarkable feature, and the one that drew the most attention, to his dismay, was his untamable mop of red-orange hair. It fell just above his shoulders and seemed to defy gravity, sticking out in every direction imaginable and giving the appearance that his scalp had burst into flame.
This is how Godric appeared on a chilly evening in mid-winter when he set foot in the small town of Fir-fyngrod Tor, named for the hill on which it sat. His nomadic lifestyle had left him accustomed to ever-changing scenery; with every day there was a new village, a new inn, and several new women. Today, however, was his twenty-fifth birthday, though he did not know it. He also did not know of, or even ever imagine, the strange things that would come to pass.
Godric's towering figure stood against the darkening horizon as he surveyed his surroundings. A small stone church stood about a furlong off directly in front of him. Crudely wrought stones formed a tired and old path through the village, and spaced out on either side were a couple shops, cottages, and a weary-looking inn. Plodding through the snow, he headed toward the rundown building on his right-brilliantly named "The Traveler's Inn".
There was the tinkling of a bell overhead as he swung open the door and stepped inside. A fire glowed in the hearth to the right, and a large black kettle was busy brewing what smelled like beef stew. The scent hit Godric like a ton of bricks and he suddenly realized how ravenous he was…and how very tired he was also. He had left a village earlier that day some thirty leagues to the south, stopping only to take food and drink. A small old man sitting at a plain wooden table stood up when he entered.
"Kin I be doin' anythin' fer ya?"
Godric continued examining the inn and did not look at the man when he replied, "A room".
The man muttered something under his breath as he hobbled over a to a chest of drawers against the far wall. Godric was so immersed in his observation of the inn that he did not notice the old man produce a curiously-fashioned length of wood from his tunic, mutter more things under his breath, and watch as a locked drawer slid open of its own accord. After a few moments of rifling through the drawer-accompanied by many a klink klink-the man withdrew a key and quickly pushed the drawer closed.
Godric had made his way over to the table and seated himself, his attention now on the old man. He hobbled over to Godric and tossed the heavy metal key on the table. He then turned toward the fire, and grabbing a rough wooden bowl off the floor, began to fill it with stew.
"Three gold fer th' nigh'", he said disinterestedly as he set the bowl of stew and a roll of bread before Godric.
Godric nodded and tossed three gold coins onto the table before he began to eat his dinner.
The man sneered as he picked up the gold and muttered "Curs'd muggle money…s'all gold anyway…" and shoved the coins into his tunic pocket. This statement caught Godric's attention for a second before he dismissed it as the senile ramblings of an old man.
"Room's upstairs, secon' door down on th' righ', said the old man as he hobbled toward a door next to the chest of drawers-this obviously led to his personal quarters. He had half opened the door before Godric stopped him.
"Wait"
The man paused and turned his head slightly in Godric's direction. Godric was finished with his meal and stood up, eyeing the old man.
"There a tavern in this village?"
The old man sniffed loudly, as if this were an offensive question. "Nay…no tavern 'ere. G'nigh', sir." And with that he closed the door loudly behind him.
Godric made his way up to his room, his heavy footsteps causing the floorboards to creak and buckle slightly. The room consisted of nothing more than a bed and a chamber pot. He fell down on the bed, finding little comfort as it was hardly softer than the floor. He lay there staring at the ceiling and asking himself the same question he asked himself almost every night:
How much longer can I live like this?
He fell asleep with his question, once again, unanswered.
Godric was awakened by a rattling sound against the window, and was surprised to see a majestic snowy owl flapping against the panes. He rubbed his eyes and rose lazily out of bed. It was very dark outside, probably just before midnight. No sooner had he opened the window than the owl swooped into the room and past him, headed for the door. Godric watched in stunned silence as the door swung open and the owl passed through it. It turned in midair and stared at Godric as if it expected him to follow.
In a daze, Godric followed the bird, unable to control his legs. They left the inn and headed in the direction of the church. The owl led him beyond the stone church and Godric could see, no more than two leagues off in the distance, another hill rising in the darkness. There on its top, illuminated by the moon, were set many large stones. It was clear that the owl meant to take him to the ring on the hill.
Time passed slowly as the hill grew ever nearer. It seemed to Godric he had been walking for hours. Every muscle and bone in his body cried out for rest, yet he could not bend his will to keep from moving. He felt he could go no more and collapsed on the ground. Forcing himself up, he rested sitting against a stone almost sixteen feet high. He was in the stone circle.
All of a sudden, his senses came back to him and he shivered in the cold. The clearing within the circle of stones was covered with a blanket of snow. The owl sat in the center, gazing at him intently with its large yellow eyes.
Godric stood up and began walking toward the owl when he stopped abruptly, eyes widening.
The owl began to change shape.
Two silvery tendrils rose from the snow and began to climb around the owl in a sort of double helix. A thick vapor was soon shrouding the bird so that it could only be seen as a shadow. However, that shadow grew to a height not much shorter than Godric himself. And then it split into three shadows.
When the mist had subsided, he found himself looking at a maiden of no more than sixteen; a woman heavy with child; and a crippled old crone. He stood there dumbstruck, not sure of what to say or do. After a moment, the three females spoke in unison.
"Art thou Godric Gryffindor, son of Garric Gryffindor?" Their voices were in total sync and harmony; the clear tones rang through the still night. They were now walking slowly around him, inspecting him from every angle.
"Godric is my name" he answered, "though I know not whose son I am." He felt uncomfortable being circled by them; he felt as though he had no chance for escape.
The young maiden laughed lightly, her voice like wind chimes in the breeze. "There is no need to think of flight, thou art in no danger."
The crone held up one gnarled hand and they ceased their movement around him. He looked at her ancient face and a feeling of helplessness rushed through him such that he had never known, so that he fell to his knees before her.
"Godric…thou hath been chosen among many to change the course of the future. If though taketh these charges upon thyself, thou must follow them to the end.
"Thou shalt become enlightened and so enlighten others. Three there are who shall come to thine aide. One shall be loyal and serve thee before all others. One shall ensnare thy heart. The nature of the last is shrouded in mystery, and shall not be known until thine own choices have been weighed.
"This much shall I tell thee, and discard my warning not: 'ware the daughter of eagles. Her kiss is folly.
"Dost thou accept?"
Godric nodded of his own will. He felt as if this were what he had been waiting for all his life.
The crone moved toward him and placed one skeletal finger upon his right temple and traced a line across his cheek to the corner of his mouth. He felt a searing, white-hot pain arise in the area where she had touched him.
As she stepped back, she continued to speak: "Thou hast made covenant with Fate, son of Garric. It cannot be undone." Her words grew in intensity and the pain in Godric's face became unbearable. He clutched his face in his hands and cried out.
"Thy thread has been laid bare. Let now thy journey take thee north."
He fell forward into the snow, drained of all energy. The pregnant woman smiled down at him, passing her hand over his eyelids, and he knew no more.
Godric awoke that morning in a cold sweat; his clothes were drenched and he was chilled to the bone. A slight breeze blew in from the open window. He jumped out of bed, ran to the window, slammed it shut…and saw in his reflection upon the glass a deep red welt along the right side of his face, running from his temple to the corner of his mouth.
"It was real" he gasped.