The Veiled Throne
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Campione.
"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door...You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no telling where you might be swept off to." Bilbo Baggins to Frodo Baggins, Fellowship of the Ring.
Chapter 1: A King is Born
Harry Potter looked around the large park, grimacing to himself as he watched the other students of his class from St. Grogory's yell at and jostle each other, their smiles more dangerous than any knife and twice as deceitful. Public schools, and the students and staff therein, were not what the young boy would call 'nice'.
He ignored their loud cries and went back to eating the meagre packed lunch (a stale slice of bread, half a slice of cheese and a rather wrinkled apple) that his Aunt Petunia had lovingly made for him. His cousin, on the other hand, was free to gorge himself on whatever he could purchase from the small cafe in the park, compliments of a fifty pound note given by his Uncle Vernon to his 'eager little tyke'.
Harry could practically feel the love between himself and his relatives. Or rather the lack of it.
Harry wasn't really fond of this little outing, one that the school had organised. It was suppose to be a little treat for his class, an end of year, and end of primary education, celebration, paired with a little final slice of knowledge for the entirety of the Sixth Form grade.
The trip began with a one hour's bus ride to the Imperial War Museum in London.
It was a majestic place, making even Dudley quit his rambunctious behaviour for a moment, a true miracle if Harry had ever seen one, to look at the tall building, broad and old, as it seemed to fill the air with the gravity of the contents within it. It was like an old an weary soldier, face creased with lines of sorrow and laughter, eyes twinkling with pain and mirth, stood in front of them, inviting them to be seated at his hearth as he told his stories of wars and battles old.
Of course, the fact that the children's first sight of the building included staring down the barrel of two truly massive guns probably had something to do with it. Considering that most of the class was male, big guns were a quick way to awe them into submission.
Harry wasn't sure you could get much bigger than the fifteen inch wide barrel of naval guns.
They had then been directed into small groups and had each group assigned a teacher for them to explore the exhibits. Harry was personally gratified that his rotund cousin was not a part of his group.
Harry was moved by many of the exhibits that he saw, stirring emotions he had never really experienced before. Pride and respect for the Light Brigade and their touted bravery in the face of certain death. Sorrow and grief for the fallen. Horror at the workings on the German war machine in the Camps during the Holocaust. Awe at the machines his motherland had both faced and used in the Wars.
For a boy that had known little more than misery, pain and monotony in his short life so far, the feelings were powerful and not something he was used to at all. It made something in his chest beat stronger and louder, even as he felt the endless headache, one that never seemed to go away, pulse fiercely and powerfully behind his eyes, making him feel more than a little nauseous.
It was now lunch time though, a break for them to eat and relax before being taken to a presentation organised by the Museum and then straight back to school. It was a time for the students to rest their little minds.
"Oy! Potter!" An obnoxiously familiar voice to Harry called, making him still as he went to bite into the apple, his stomach growling hollowly at it's desire to eat even that meagre fare.
Sighing heavily, knowing that trying to ignore the owner of the voice would only cause problems, at school and elsewhere, the bespectacled boy turned his head toward the source.
"Yes, Dudley?" He inquired calmly to the speaker, his own cousin, who was also accompanied by the rest of his tour group, who were all, coincidentally, his friends.
Narrowed and beady light blue eyes glared at him through a shock of light blonde hair, as if Harry was the very bane of the owner's existence. Dudley's flushed cheeks, full of what Harry's Aunt, who was also Dudley's mother, insisted was simply 'baby fat', were creased what should have been a scowl but the sheer roundness of them made it look like it was more of a pout of an angry puppy than anything else.
Despite this, Harry flexed his legs slightly, readying them to move at a moments notice. His relationship, if it could even be called that, with his cousin was far from the best. He could still feel the bruises on his left shoulder from the 'rough-housing' he had been forced to endure from the immensely heavy son of Vernon and Petunia a few days ago. The fact that he couldn't even fight back unless he wanted to be unjustly punished by the elder Dursleys only worsened the feelings between him and his blonde whale of a cousin.
Monkey see and monkey do, Dudley saw how his parents treated him and thought it was only proper and right that he do the same to the smaller and leaner, bordering on scrawny, boy. This bullying behaviour had then passed on the rest of humanity as Dudley harassed and bullied anyone weaker than himself at St. Grogory's, his actions somehow never managing to make it to the attention of the teachers.
In essence, Dudley Dursley, in Harry's humble opinion, was an example of the saying 'spare the rod, spoil the child.'
He might have pitied the heavier boy, for the difficulties he would have later in life if he continued down the path he was travelling...if he wasn't the most frequent target of his rotund cousin's bullying and temper.
"Why the heck are you all the way over here, Titch?" growled his cousin, insulting Harry with the reference to his lack of height compared to the others in the class, "you think you're too good for the rest of us?"
Harry sighed inwardly and tensed his muscles, ready to move as fast as he could. His cousin was spoiling for a fight, for whatever reason was passing through his miniscule mind. There wouldn't be any possible way for Harry to talk his way out of the accompanying attempt to attack him, especially with his little 'gang' standing just behind, trying to look as menacing as eleven year old boys could.
Still, the motions would have be gone through, and it would give him a chance to figure out a way to escape all of them.
"I'm just enjoying some peace and quiet, Dudley," he sighed, rising to his feet wearily, as if burdened by the world by knowing that he still needed to move.
The pig in a wig snorted derisively, as did his sycophants.
"I'll give you some 'peace and quiet'," the blonde whale grinned, something sharp lurking in that smile that had Harry a little nervous, and cracked his knuckles loudly, echoed by his comrades. "Come here!" Dudley growled with a lunge.
It was on.
Harry swiftly rolled back, throwing his lunch into the face of his cousin as distraction, and leapt to his feet before sprinting away. The odds were not in his favour against his cousin and his four followers.
He smiled faintly as he heard the snarl of disgust from his cousin. For one so used to rich and strong foods, he obviously didn't like facing the paltry fare of Harry's.
"Get him!" He heard his cousin snarl loudly, followed by footsteps that sounded like thunder and rocked the earth. Almost immediately after that snarled command, Harry heard the faint stamps of the Dudley's little posse also move toward him, their own footsteps coming more rapidly than Dudley's own ponderous movements.
Harry didn't bother looking back, he just put his head down and ran.
His fringe whipped against the wind his passage kicked up, his breath came fast and shallow. He could keep this up for a while, longer than most through practice and ability to endure and push himself harder, but he knew he wasn't the fastest.
Over his own breaths, he heard the fast tapping of shoes on concrete as he hit one of the paths in the large park. He knew only one of the group that followed Dudley could have caught up with him so quickly.
A sudden instinct, a tingle up his spine, warned him of the incipent attack and side-stepped a swift lunge from the rodent-like scrawny Piers Polkiss. The crewcut boy missed catching him and lost a little ground, allowing Harry to get more of a lead.
This chase kept up for a time, Harry always staying a step ahead of the chasers, avoiding their grabs by the bare skin of his teeth, as they all sprinted down the empty path, heading away from the museum. Dudley's little group kept up a loud clamour, snarling and shouting threats and insults, trying to make the smaller boy turn around and face them.
Harry wasn't stupid enough to do so.
Harry couldn't help but wonder at one thing as he ran though, with the thoughts he could spare as he ran. Even if he wasn't the fastest, he almost was, and he had by far the most endurance, and was able to outrun this lot on a regular basis due to their 'Harry Hunting' activities.
So how on earth were they still on his tail? He normally would have lost them by now. Not to mention that Dudley was somehow managing to keep up with the group rather than fall behind like he usually did in the longer chases. His blonde cousin wasn't really built for running, after all.
He didn't spare much thought, couldn't spare much thought, and simply ran.
Posts whipped by as he sprinted down the path, his eyes only focused on what was before him. Thundering steps behind him spurred him on as much as the shouting.
The world began to blur, to twist, as his field of vision narrowed, focused only on the path ahead, blocking out everything else. Even the noise of his chasers slowly became insignificant to him. If he moved fast enough, lasted long enough, he would be safe.
His eyes, behind the broken and taped lenses of his glasses, which had surprisingly yet to fall off of his nose at the speed he was going, noticed the path fork, one going on and keeping to the open, the other way winding towards a small grove of trees. Without hesitation, he followed the path leading to the small forest, taking a chance that he may to be able to lose the lot of them and double back towards the museum before the end of the lunch break and avoid any punishment from the teachers. He really didn't want to chance them, they already weren't fond of him for one reason or another, reasons that often couldn't possibly be his fault but were blamed on him anyway.
Like turning his teacher's hair blue. How the heck was he supposed to have done that? He was at the back of the room, the only place he could keep away from his cousin in class, far from the teacher. He hadn't thrown anything or played any tricks before hand. The teacher had just upbraided him for something that wasn't his fault and he then felt a spurt of hot anger at the injustice at blaming him due to his reputed 'delinquent behaviour' and suddenly the teacher's curly brown hair was a deep aqua blue.
In either case, his teachers were out to get him and he didn't trust them an inch. The only person he could rely on was himself.
He quickly passed the first few trees, delving deeper in the grove. A small turn in the path, which would take him away from direct line of sight of his chasers, and a thick bush gave him the chance he needed.
Not stopping, he leapt from the path, his small skinny and scrawny body arcing high in the air, aiming for the thick, but soft looking, bush. Like a stone, he plunged into the depths of the bush...
And landed on a stone floor with a jarring thud, making his bones rattle, lose his glasses and fall on his backside, having not expected that to happen.
"What the-?" Harry said with a groan from where he lay on the stone floor, blinking slightly and trying to make sense of his situation.
He squinted as he tried to make out his surroundings, his eyesight terrible without the broken frames and lenses of his glasses. He felt a slight trickle of unease as, even without his glasses, he could see that he was no longer outside, or among the shades branches of a small copse or grove of trees.
He was inside a building, tall and crafted of stone, he could tell that much, and judging by the echoing resonance of his panting breaths, it was completely empty of anyone. That feeling of unease grew even greater. Lingering in this place, where ever the hell it was, was suddenly seeming to be the worst idea in history to young Harry.
He rolled to his knees, his eyes squinting and hands fumbling about for his glasses. Being actually able to see around him would be bloody brilliant at this point.
He just about leapt out of his skin when they were suddenly thrust into his face by a blurred hand of another person. He fell back on his backside in shock and, dare he say it, fear. He hadn't sensed or heard anyone. How the heck had this person gotten so close to him with him noticing?!
A soft mellow voice, rich and gentle, spoke then, "These are thine are they not?" The blurred figure said, extending a hand that offered Harry's glasses.
Still confused and more than a little wary, Harry didn't forget the manners that were literally beaten into him, "T-thank you," he said with a slight stutter, uncertain and a little bit off, as he gently took them from the offered grey blurred appendage, his delicate fingers brushing against cold metal.
"Tis of no moment, young one. This one was glad to have aided thee." The man chuckled softly and richly. A joyful mirth that seemed to calm the young boy, that wariness, while still there, being much reduced by the seeming homely and cheerful air that this man had about him, like a hot tea on a cold day that spread from the tip of one's toes to the crown of their head.
Harry managed to slide his glasses carefully over his eyes, trying no to break the worn and old frames further than they already were. The world came into sharp focus immediately.
"Do you know where I am, sir?" Harry said respectfully to the man, his mouth moving faster than his eyes. Shortly after those words had left his tongue, a faint look of surprise crossed his face as he actually took in the man for the first time.
"Thou art currently abiding in thine home upon this world," the man with long, wavy, dark-brown hair said, a smile on his handsome and noble features, his dark eyes gleaming with the light of humour, as he waved a mailed hand around him, stirring the white cloak and surcoat that he bore, creasing the fabric around the red cross emblazoned on the pristine white fabric. At his side, a sword was sheathed on his belt, the unused mailed hand resting on it.
To Harry, he looked like something out of a story, a knight on his crusade.
It was more than a little weird to him to see such garments on a man of this time.
Not to mention the archaic 'thees' and 'thous' he seemed to be fond of using.
It was more than a little strange for the youthful boy.
"My apologies for intruding then, Sir," Harry said as he got to his feet, his drooping and oversized clothes making him look like an opportunistic urchin of the streets, "it wasn't my intention to trespass." Harry bowed his head slightly sheepish and apologetic, even if he was still confused.
Soft chuckling was heard from the man's throat, warm and musical, of honest good humour rather than a derisive cackle at someone's misfortune, "Thy intrusion was not one at all, young lad," the man smiled, showing perfect and even white teeth as Harry raised his head at the chuckling, "'twas by this one's own design that thy feet have brought thee to me."
Harry was more confused, and much more cautious, now. What did the man mean by his 'own design'? Did the man somehow, despite the impossibility of it all, bring him here? Or was he just mad? That sense of wariness had come back with a vengeance, screaming at him that something was wrong. His eyes flickered around, looking for an exit, as he licked his lips nervously.
"...For what reason have you done so, sir?" Harry kept his voice and mannerly, playing along, even as his body tensed, for the second time that day, to run, even as he tried to get a feel on what was actually happening.
His eyes noted the high stone arches of the building and the dark wooden pews that lined up on both sides of him, identifying the place as a church of some description. To his annoyance, the only exit he could see was a large set of carved wooden double doors, closed of course, behind the strange armed man, which closed off that possible route of escape. He didn't think his scrawny body would be able to even shift the doors, let alone open them wide enough to admit him to freedom.
He didn't dare try to look behind him, towards what he believed would be the altar. Some primal instinct, the one that had been with him all his life, helping him to survive the Dursley's care, told him that to take his eyes of the man would be a grave mistake...one that he wouldn't live long to regret.
Those jovial dark eyes lost their light, becoming sadder and yet more resolute, as if steeling himself for a duty that gave him no joy.
Harry's blood turned cold. Those eyes were aimed at him.
"This one doth not know thy name," the man said, sorrowful and grim. The beaming light of the sun, shifting all through the spectrum as it pierced through the stained glass windows of the church, seemed to dim and blend into a dark green, the scent of grass and water filling the vast chamber.
"But thy nature is unmistakable," those eyes locked with Harry's own bespectacled emerald green, "Serpent."
That word made Harry stumble back, his body rocking with a force he couldn't perceive and his head screaming in pain, blinding him. That single word had carried such raw emotion, raw power. Hate and sadness, grim resolve and merciful sorrow, duty and pity. A morass of contradictions and complimentary feelings that was chaotic at best.
That single word had almost set him on his arse. What the hell was that?!
His ears heard booted feet approached him on the carpeted stone, slow and methodical.
"This one had felt your approach after the sun had risen, making it's way to the home of war honours, young one," the footsteps stopped as Harry felt a presence standing before his blinded eyes, making him want to retreat, to fall back.
But he did not. He was frozen to the spot, as if transfixed. His sightless and blinded eyes looking up at where he thought the head of the man would be.
"One first thought that thou were attempting to attack such a place, a place of steel and war, a place that no true serpent could abide," Harry heard soft scraping, similar to a grater on food. "This one was ready to ride out, to protect this fair town, with gleaming Steel and the force of my will. Imagine this one's shock when this one's sight, sharp and far, had laid upon thee." The man kept musing, "a young lad, not even a stripling, clad in rags and thin as a twig, yet carrying a force of power and the scent of a serpent." A wry laugh and bemusing chuckle was heard echoing in the chamber as Harry felt his sight slowly return, the pain in his skull slowly ebbing.
"Thou art a strange existence," the man -no, more than a man- continued as Harry's eyes became clear once more, emerald meeting the greenish-black, the colour of verdant earth and soil, of the not-man's, "pain and yet innocence, purity and yet soiled, living and yet touched by Death...Serpent and yet Hero." the strange being's head inclined softly, those sorrowful eyes deepening, "so like this one."
"Yet that is why thou should not exist. Why thou must be destroyed."
Harry felt fear shoot through him, shaking him from the befuddlement on his sight of the man, and leapt backwards.
Shing!
It was what had saved his life.
The sword that had been previously sheathed at the man's hip, was now drawn and live, it's edge having swept across where Harry had just been standing, carving a furrow in the worked stone floor and cutting through the red aisle rug like stick through water, parting it like Moses had done to the Red Sea.
Harry breathed harshly from where leant against one of the pews, his eyes wide. That could have killed him! The realisation was like a shock to his system, making him shiver and quiver. He had faced pain and agony from the Dursleys, the scars on his body, thin and scrawny as it was, showed that, but they had always pulled up short of possibly killing him. Probably only because they would lose their house slave, but still...
This guy didn't have that problem though. Death was the only thing he was interested in. Harry's own, that is.
"Impressive," the being sighed, looking at him with both pity and slight approval, "most would have been frozen in fear and would have been slain...thou art no normal mortal. You would have been a Hero of reknown, had you lived. A pity."
Again, Harry's senses flared, screaming at him, making him throw himself into a roll backward, a cold wind nipping at his momentarily bared throat. He hadn't even seen the man move! He didn't stop rolling back down the aisle, the sound of steel slashing through stone and wood echoing with each roll, splinters of stone and wood sent flying. Heavy steps sounded like thunder with each whistling swing, an oncoming storm that threatened to break over the young boy's head.
How he managed to keep his glasses on his face during the rigmarole he didn't know, but he counted his blessings and simply used his sight as well as he could.
He soon reached the end of the aisle and, this time, instead of rolling backward, away from the blade that threatened to take his life, he rolled to the side, making his would be killer have to move around the long wooden pew before he would have strike range with the blade, buying the boy precious moments.
"Why are you doing this?!" He yelled at the armoured form of his assailant, scrambling to his feet and retreating backward, making sure to never take his eyes off the swordsman. "I've done nothing to you! I am no snake!"
"Tis this one's duty," the weapon wielding being said with sorrow, his steps form and resolved, but also slow, as he moved around the front pew, "thou hold a serpent in thy breast, thy soul," the man's noble features wrinkled in disgust, "truly a foul thing, an aberration of nature, a blight upon the world, a true abomination. Tis a stain that must be removed, no matter the consequence."
"What are you talking about?!" Harry yelled fiercely, timing his steps to move back with every advancing step of the homicidal man before him, slowing the inevitable. He was confused and angry and scared. This mad man wanted to kill him for the nonsensical reason of 'holding a serpent in his breast'! How on earth did that work?! What did that even mean?!
The armed man's steps paused, just out of the man's sword length, making Harry also pause. The man's features were surprised and shocked, as if he couldn't believe his own ears or the words that Harry had said.
"Thou art truly so ignorant?" He said in slight wonderment, "hast thou not felt the desperate writhing of the serpent within thyself? Felt it's poison in your mind? Heard it's malicious whispers in thy ears, exhorting thee to strike and destroy and kill?" The man, for the first time in the encounter, looked more troubled, more confused.
"I've never felt anything like what your describing," Harry denied. "I'm just a kid."
The man shook his head in disagreement, "That is far from the truth, young one. Thou mayest not know it, but a insignificant boy thou art not," the man's strange eyes, an abyss of black and deep green, eyed him critically, those strange eyes resting on the boy's forehead and the marking there, "marked for power and victory, thou art," the armoured man said, lifting a hand to point at Harry's scar, "the Fates wish to weave thy destiny, that can be seen by all who choose to look with more than just their eyes," those pools of black green narrowed, became more focused, "you were chosen to be a Hero, whether thou wish to be or not, and thy Dragon, thy adversary, will seek thy blood at every turn, until thou choose to fell it, or it fells thou. While both of thee survive, neither can live."
Those words...
To Harry, they somehow rang true, felt familiar for some reason, as if he had heard them before, long ago. Those solemn words, those serious words, those truthful words, they were a call to battle and a death knell all at once. Harry was unsure, however, whether the death knell was his own or his purported enemy's.
"But thou know this not," the man continued, his comely brow furrowed, "an unknowing Hero? One tainted by the Serpent's grasp?" He smiled ruefully, "Truly this world is a confusing place."
"What do you mean by 'tainted'?" Harry asked slowly, his heart no longer beating furiously, an unvoiced armistice called between the two of them. Harry ignored the jabber about being a hero, he certainly wasn't one, and focused on the so-called 'serpent' aspect of the strange man's diatribe. That seemed to be the root of the problem. The delusional man seemed to dislike serpents and any that he thought were linked with them. If Harry could somehow show the man that he had no links to the cold blooded predators of the animal world...
"Thy soul is marked," the man said slowly, as if picking his words carefully, his eyes widening slowly as if he were voicing a revelation just as he came to know it, "despite the purity of thy spirit, one of burning Light and cold Steel and roaring Sky, a film of putrid Darkness, of foul Poison, despairing Death, dark Earth and icy Waters, all the hallmarks of a Serpent, cloaks it almost completely from this one's sight, masking thy own soul in it's coiling scaled embrace while leeching on thy own power, weakening thee in mind, body and soul, to strengthen itself, awaiting the day that it will be strong enough to devour thee whole." His face was now troubled, "despite that filth, thy soul is still pure, not untainted as this one originally believed."
Harry tried to parse out the meaning of the cryptic words. They made little sense to him, not having the context from which to interpret the man's words. But he could feel something in those words that rang true, a base truth that superseded any words and resounded in the soul.
Still, what the man had said had given him a possible out, and Harry grasped it with both hands.
"Then, by your own words, I am no Serpent and thus there is no need for you to attack me," Harry pointed out. If he followed the mad man's words correctly, then the man said that there was something in him, yet not part of him, that, supposedly, covered his true soul with one more harmonious with Serpents, whatever that meant, that the man was driven to destroy. Harry was skeptical on the whole thing. This sounded more like the fire and brimstone snake-oil mystical mumbo jumbo that the local vicar of the church that the Dursleys frequented spouted on about. Oddly enough, the vicar looked at him more often than not as he expounded his views on being a 'god-fearing' man and denouncing those who claimed to be witches, the vicar's brown eyes burning with fervour and fanaticism.
Come to think of it, Vernon and Petunia's eyes had shifted in his direction whenever the vicar had been practically frothing at the mouth in his fervour, their eyes filled with fires of rage and anger and, dare he say it, even hate.
It was like they knew something about himself that he didn't. Perhaps something to do with this supposed Serpent nonsense? Something he would try to weasel out of them at a later date.
...If he survived this madman, that is.
Harry slowly edged away and down the side aisle, careful to keep his shuffling quiet, as the man frowned heavily, his sword now resting at his side. If the man refused to understand and accept Harry's reasoning, the young boy wanted the room to sprint towards the solid double doors. If he was lucky, if he was fast enough, he may be able to get to them and then throw them open enough to escape. If not...well the space would give him a little more time to think of an alternative.
"Thy words make sense," he heard the man say, his head still bowed in earnest thought, making the youth freeze in place, listening hard, even as his heartbeat began to thunder in his ears once more, his body roaring with adrenaline. His eyes flickered swiftly between the madman and the great doors, judging the distance the between them and himself. Maybe he could make it? He licked his lips nervously.
"Thou art indeed no Serpent," the man acknowledged.
Harry wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, that the man had come to senses enough to let him go. But the back of his mind was niggling at him, urging him to move, as if it sensed something in the man's tone that wasn't quite right, that there was more that he wasn't saying, or hadn't yet said. Something that boded ill for the youthful boy.
He started edging away again, inch by inch, barely moving at all but still gaining precious distance, as the man continued speaking.
"But the Serpent still lives in thee," the man went on, the voice becoming laden in sorrow and remorse, but still resolved, or maybe just resigned. It chilled the scion of Potter. It was the voice of a man that hated his duty, but would carry it out nonetheless.
His senses blared again, screaming at him, and made him step back towards the knight. A rush of wind, sounding more like the whistle of hawk, was heard as a thin dark blur short past where his chest had just been.
Shunk!
Harry stared at the arrow that was sunk deep into the wood of the pew, missing him by mere fractions of an inch. A metal head on a body of ebony with white feathered fletchings, piercing completely through the side of the oaken pew, a show of how powerful it's launch had been. If he hadn't stepped back...
He looked at the man, whose surreal eyes looked at him sadly, the hand that was not occupied with a sword was extended, palm outward, pointing at him. Harry's eyes grew wide as he saw the palm, now devoid of chain, facing him. Instead of the fair skin he was expecting, an arrow head, identical to the one that had been fired in some manner, emerged from the skin, as if it was part of it. Harry tried to frantically reconcile this impossible sight with reality, and failed dismally.
"And so thus, this one must kill thee."
That metallic growth in the beings hand grew bigger in the boy's view, his pounding heart and blood flushed heavily with adrenaline making the world seem to slow. Able to see the flesh of the not-man's palm peel back even as the metallic arrow head extended out smoothly, the shaft and fletchings swiftly becoming visible as it was launched toward him, it's former whistle a harsh buzz.
He couldn't dodge it this time, his shock and surprise slowing him down, but he tried anyway.
He threw himself back, his arms coming up in a fruitless gesture to protect him. He almost avoided the missile. Almost.
He held in a yell of agony as pain exploded in his right forearm as he fell back. He felt his flesh tear and twist, his bones crack and break, as he was spun around from the sheer force behind the arrow, wheeling around like a wheel at the park, before the momentum took him off his feet and cast him to the ground, more pain exploding in his already injured arm.
"Aaaaaaaah!" He yelled, his voice bouncing of the cold stone wall of the house of the holies.
He couldn't supress the pain this time.
Awkwardly, he scrambled up as quickly as he could with only a single arm, his wounded and shattered right throbbing painfully and bleeding his precious lifeblood like a fountain around the missile lodged in the arm, soaking his bedraggled garments and the cold stones upon which the church was built. He pushed the pain to the back of his mind, his life was more important than mere simple pain.
He was on his knees when he froze, not moving any further, his head still facing the ground.
He had not desire for the cold steel now resting at his throat to cut it open.
He hadn't been fast enough. The man had already moved and he was now at this madman's mercy, which seemed to be non-existent.
Damn it.
"Raise thy head, young one," the man's soft voice said sorrowfully, "this one will not take thy life like a monster or beast, thy face in the dirt, the instrument of thy demise unseen. A hero's death is what this one will grant thee, looking thy executioner in the face, proud and undaunted, accepting thy fate."
Harry swallowed convulsively and slowly lifted his head, the sword point gently following, resting on the skin of his throat and yet never even breaking through that fragile barrier of flesh, trembling slightly but still managing to do so. The fear that had left for a moment was now back with a vengeance, knowing that his death was imminent and that there was nothing he could do to prevent it, much to his disgust and anger.
His emerald green eyes locked once more with that of the man clothed like a knight of the crusades, the man's own strange and alien eyes somehow conveying sorrow and what looked to be grief.
It stoked the flames of rage and anger, overriding his fear. How dare this...this...monster dare to show grief! He had done nothing to his would be killer! No matter what mumbo jumbo he spoke of regarding Serpents and taint. He felt his eyes harden, glaring up at his imminent death, wishing upon him all his rage and hate and pain. His shattered hand somehow managed to clench, the pain only making the flames soar higher in his soul.
The man seemed to notice the change in his stare. "Glare all thou want, young Hero," his slayer to be sighed, his sword never wavering from his throat and the lifeblood beneath it, "this one merely does one's duty."
"Bastard," Harry hissed, his anger burning hot but his body helpless. He could feel his anger, his hatred, surge and writhe inside him, a nest of serpents in a frenzy, his head and scar pulsing with pain. Wanting to either escape this foe or to destroy him.
Understandably, he was leaning toward destroying him.
He clenched his fist tighter, the pain giving him more clarity, his rage turning cold, vengeful.
Even if it killed himself in the process.
"Perhaps," the bastard agreed with a solemn nod, "but a bastard performing a necessary deed. For the Greater Good."
"Damn your 'Greater Good' to the pit it was spawned from!" Harry snarled, the words seeming to make something explode in his chest, making his body surge with power and strength, even as it wanted to lash, to strike down that which threatened it. But Harry managed to keep his cool, barely, saving the strength for a single moment, that sweet moment, when the blood of his enemy would flow out on the floor, his cold body laying in the pool it made.
The weapon wielding man's eyes hardened slightly, "Young Hero," he solemnly intoned. Harry started slightly at the tones in the voice, as if they carried a weight that was than a mere breath of air, making the atmosphere grow heavier, as if closing in around him, pressing down on his shoulders to make him submit. Like a subject before his King.
A man before his God.
Harry refused to kneel, anymore than he already was, and stubbornly held himself as upright as he could, glaring for all his worth at the bastard of a swordsman in front him.
"This one takes no joy in their duty," the man continued, "but it must be done, to quell the spread of the Serpent, to deliver all from their oily grasp." His voice was full of sincerity, of truth, of sorrow and resigned acceptance. The words seemed to hang in the great chamber, empowering the world around, making it come alive with power. Harry's burning eyes widened slightly as the man's armour began to glow a soft gold, each link of chain a small golden star.
As did the sword at Harry's neck, illuminating his soft flesh but not harming it.
"As a Hero, despite thy lack of acclaim," the man continued, his voice heavy, weighing on both speaker and audience alike, "this one is willing to grant a last boon to thee. A final request before the end," those alien eyes stared into his own, even as he stared into them. In those murky depths, Harry could see many things, images flowing into his mind.
A tall man, surrounded in an aura of crackling light, standing in the darkness, a dark void surrounding him, speaking words into it. And thus things appeared. The stars, the sky, the wind, the earth, the stones, the water. All of these came into existence because of the heart and words of that man.
The next image was of another man, hammering in a forge, the fires roaring as he hammered away and his lips moving, muttering spells to enhance his work. His hands were deft and clever, skillful and wise, as he forged away. Behind him, were many other projects of his. A wooden ship, magnificently crafted. An unfinished house, seeming made of gold and silver and wood. These and many more things filled this space.
A third image bloomed in his mind. A man dressed in robes of verdant green, where he stepped, life bloomed. A stout stave in his hand, he spoke eloquently and wisely, and those who heard him followed his words. In his other hand, he clutched a goblet, filled a water that sparkled more than any liquid should have, as his bare feet, worn and coated in the dust of the long roads he walks, stood upon a large fish, as if it were his mount, one that had seen both death and life.
Another image struck his mind, that of a warrior. Massive wings of White carried the warrior aloft, his silver steed bridled with gold. His face was exultant and desiring, full of pride. It was the look of an accomplished warrior seeking his just due, as he saw it. Towards a golden glow high atop a mountain he rode in the air, his eyes growing greedier, more avaricious, with every wingbeat of his flying steed. Suddenly, without warning, the steed reared, throwing the man distracted by his greed from the saddle, sending him tumbling to the plains below, an unheard cry of anguish and despair echoing from his lips as he tumbled aimlessly.
The vision flickered momentarily, as if flashing forward in time, and showed what seemed to be a new man, but Harry instinctively felt that this was the same man as before, the falling warrior. But he was a warrior no more. Blinded, bent and broken, the man who was a warrior but was now a cripple, skulked at the edges of humanity's realm, avoiding contact altogether, tasting the bitter fruit of his own making. A fallen hero, now shunned as a fool, all because of his hubris.
Yet another image forced it's way into his mind, displacing the previous. Another man, looking exactly like the one that had attacked him. Dressed in the same chain, though damaged and somewhat melted on one side, and surcoat, the red cross standing out vividly on the pristine white cloth. He was resting beneath a tree in the shade of it's branches, flowering with fruits, hanging over a small spring. A great white steed, baring a golden bridle, also stood next to him. Outside of the protection of that foliage, another beast lurked, scaled and angered, it's breath flowing from it's maw, making the grass beneath it wither and die, becoming as ash. Despite that, it seemed to not dare step within the circle of branches, it's slitted eyes fierce and angry, spurring it's hatred for knight due to the wicked wound in it's side.
The force of the images striking his mind, one after another, almost dazed the young boy. But his will was second to none. Whatever those images were, whatever they meant, they were unimportant to what was happening at this very moment.
He had questions that needed answering, questions that would buy him a small amount of time. Time that was needed for him to act. He could feel the strength, born of his rage, still filling his muscles. Intuitively, without any reason given, he knew that whatever force had come upon in his anger wasn't quite ready, that he wasn't quite strong enough to kill his foe as he killed him.
But he would be.
"As I think that the request to let me live would go unheard," he sneered, his green eyes flashing, a flicker of red in their depths for a moment, as his scar now felt like a brand pressed to his skull, a mere pittance before his own rage, "I won't bother requesting that. But I'm curious," he narrowed his eyes, "what is the name of my killer? To whom will I direct my ire and hatred after my death?"
He tensed his broken arm, the mangled muscle, snapped tendon and shattered bone somehow gripping the shaft of the arrow lodged in it, a painful grasp from a makeshift fist.
He would only need a single moment.
The golden glowing chainmail adorning the man, to Harry's meagre surprise, his mind too deep in his own anger to register more, slowly began to dissipate, fading from existence in a series of strobing flashes. At the same time, the man's sword, or rather it's golden glow, began to grow stronger, no longer a sword of cold steel but rather of light, power and justice.
It made Harry want to vomit, that his future killer would be associated with such high-minded ideals.
The metaphysical force that tried to make him bow strengthened, but Harry stubbornly held himself up, licking his lips lightly in anticipation.
The man sighed, an exhalation of resignation, "This one has had many names over the many turnings of the earth that this one has existed," the man said softly, wearily, his shoulders slumping slightly, even as they seemed to bulk up, growing stronger, as more of the armour dissipated, "He who listens, the Divine Craftsman, the Wise, the Verdant. Founder and King. Warrior and Smith. This one has played both the Slayer and the Beast, is of both Earth and Steel." The alien eyes looked in Harry's own again, conveying sorrow and remorse, sorry for what he had to do, "in this day and age, amongst the men of Albion, this one is known as Saint George."
Harry couldn't help but be faintly surprised. This madman, for all the inexplicable power he has, chose to take the name of the Dragon-Slaying Knight, the Patron Saint of England? Did he honestly expect him to believe such delusional drivel? The fool must be more whacked out than he had thought.
It was rather humiliating, to die at the hands of a delusional fool, believing he was on a crusade, that it was his duty to slay those of the dragon and serpent.
Harry ensured that the delusion would only last a moment.
"My thanks, o Saint," he answered sarcastically.
"This one gives his apologies child," the now identified Saint George said sadly, "for what it is worth, this one wishes thee well in thy next life."
The next moment was a blur to Harry, blood loss, pain, rage, hatred and fear clouding his perception.
The armour finally disappeared completely, the surcoat with it's cross also vanishing, leaving a muscular torso, broad but trim, a fighter's body rather than the showman of a bodybuilder's type, completely bare. Naked and vulnerable.
The sword, now a brilliant ray of light, was abruptly taken away from his throat, Harry's eyes just barely catching the movement, before being brought back for a simple slash, one that would no doubt take his head from his shoulders.
It was in that moment that Harry struck.
With all the speed and strength he could muster, he surged from his knees, his teeth bared like a wolves, his eyes glaring his hate into those green and black orbs. His injured arm, the arrow still firmly lodged within it, stabbed out, his other arm bracing the missile turned makeshift weapon and drove it towards where he instinctively knew the madman had his heart.
In slow motion, he could see the arrow bury into the flesh, digging deep, seeking to take his foe's life. Liquid, for it was not the scarlet water of life, spurted from the wound, getting around the shaft of the arrow, splashing on Harry's wildly grinning face.
He could feel the trembling of a heart through the shaft of the arrow, the pulsing interrupted by his attack. He had reached the heart, but Harry knew that, with these strange powers the man had, it might not be enough.
He tried to wrench his arm, pain exploding in it more, making him roar and rage, to twist the arrowhead in the man's heart, making it wider, more fatal.
The smash of a sword's cross-guard meeting his cheek ended that.
He had been hit in the face before by his relatives, either a meaty fist from his uncle of cousin, or a face turning slap from his aunt, all of them creating a large bruise that somehow vanished after a night's sleep.
They were nothing compared to the power of the sword guard's strike.
He felt his cheek give way, his upper jaw breaking and teeth shattering. His vision swam and twisted, whirling violently. He felt himself launched away, a brief and agonising pain shooting through his shattered arm for a moment before he lost all sensation of it, like it wasn't there anymore.
He felt himself soar, sent flying through the air. His mind thought that this might have been what flight felt like for a bird, weightless and unheeding of the imprisoning call of gravity.
Crunch!
Harry felt pain like never before.
Then he blacked out, knowing nothing more.
Saint George stared at the wound inflicted by the stripling boy, the arrow, his own, piercing his breast, the boy's arm attached to, dripping mortal blood from the torn end of it, as if unable to comprehend what he had done. Ichor, the blood of the gods, whether Heretic or True Lords, flowed from the wound like a river, unable to be stopped.
His divine mind scrambled at the impossibility of the wound. Hero though the boy may have been, powerful, though unpracticed, in mysticism the child may have been, tainted by the serpent though the lad may have been, he was still mortal, bound by the trappings and rules of the World.
And mortals cannot harm Gods.
But the boy had.
Better yet, he had struck a fatal blow, one that George would be unable to recover from.
He looked at his hand, seeing it slowly start to dissolve into golden lights, an indication that he had been killed. He could already feel his power, once so vast but had faded in the years but was still stronger than most of his brethren when they descended onto this world, begin to leave him, returning to the Realm he had escaped so many years ago in his eagerness to fight.
He began to chuckle to himself, [Ascalon] falling from his suddenly loose grip, fading into sparkling dust before it could even make a sound. It was a laugh of sadness and sorrow, of joy and grief.
Of pure relief.
"This one gives thee thanks, young Hero," he said softly, directing his words to the temporarily dead boy buried in the wall of the church from the Saint's reflexive counter attack. The Saint's smile was relieved, "'twas a mistake for this one to descend to the mortal world some time ago. Thou hast rectified this one's foolish mistake."
The Heretic God was now missing the lower half of his body and all of his arms, a cloud of golden dust filling the air, but his torso and head did not follow the laws of the physical, continuing to stay where they were, seeming to float in place.
"Take this one's strength and power with this one's blessing, Godslayer," the God intoned merrily, "forge thy path, go where thou please, let none in this world hold thee back. Thou art now a King in this world. Thy rule is unquestioned. This one looks forward to seeing the wheel of thy life turn and turn."
The Saint frowned suddenly, remembering the life of the child he had seen in his eyes, just as the boy had seen his. It had not been a pleasant one, by any stretch. The boy was also ignorant of what he is, what he was, what he would be.
A King and Hero he may be, but the boy did not know why, and would perhaps be easily lead astray, a young lion cub trained at a young age, allowing it's masters to command it when it grew older, more powerful. A King in name only.
That would not do. Not for this lad.
With the last vestige of his power on the mortal plain, the knight focused his power, surrounding the young boy in it, making the lad glow briefly, before he suddenly vanished, disappearing from the confines of the church, sent to somewhere else in the world, away from this isle and it's inhabitants.
George smiled softly, his power finally vanishing from the mortal realm.
A new gift, a new life, a new beginning. The Saint thought it rather suited the boy.
Excerpt from the Italian mage Alberto Ricardo's Book, Demon King, 19th Century
...To those who accomplished this formidable feat, I grant them the title of Campione – Godslayer – .
Among all virtuous readers, some will probably believe that I over-exaggerate with that title and frown, maybe others will think that I am making undue fuss over it.
However, I want to emphasize it, once again.
Campione – Godslayer – is a supreme ruler.
Since he can kill a celestial being, he can therefore call on the highly divine powers held by the gods.
Campione – Godslayer – is a lord.
Since the power to kill a deity is in their hands, they can therefore dominate the mortals on Earth.
Campione – Godslayer – is a devil.
Therefore of the entire humanity living on earth, those who have the power to oppose them do not exist!
Excerpt from British Reports Concerning the Verification of a new Campione, Beginning of the 21st Century
In the world of myths and legends, the god that is known in the modern era as Saint George was of a complex nature.
Common Christian belief had him as Georgius of Cappadocia, an officer in the Roman army under Emperor Diocletian. When the Emperor issued the edict to arrest all Christians within the army, and that every other soldier should offer a sacrifice to the Roman Pantheon, Georgius was one of those who refused, declaring himself Christian and denouncing the Roman Gods, never changing his mind in the face of his Emperor's pleas or bribery.
Diocletian, left with no choice, had no other recourse but sentence the son of his friend to death. Georgius was tortured, again and again, but after each ordeal, was purported to be fully healed and hearty the next day, some times even completely resurrecting, which he attributed to his faith in The Lord. He was finally beheaded before Nicomedia's city wall, resulting in a true death and becoming a matyr for the Christian Faith and a Protector of it and with the spread of this religion has syncretized and absorbed characteristics of other so called pagan deities. He is known as Tetri Giorgi (White George) in Georgia, a former part of the Soviet Union and a country supposedly named after him, and Uastyrdzhi, a patron of the male gender, travellers and oaths, with links to fertility and the forest, in Ossetia.
However, the most well known and attributed characteristic of Saint George, in later times, is that of a Dragon Slayer, purportedly saving the city of Sirene in Libya. This aspect of his myth, an attribute common to Steel Deities, is at odds with some of his other characteristics, notedly a link to the Harvest, a common link with Earth Deities.
This, thus, brings forth the fact that Saint George is merely the newest face of an already ancient god.
Further research into the true nature of this deity is ongoing, but we do know this...
It was the Heretic God Saint George who was killed, ironically, in St. George's Cathedral in Southwark in England. By a man of mortal blood.
It is unknown, at this time, who it was that killed this God, or where they are at this moment, but there is only one conclusion that this investigation team can reach.
The Seventh Campione has been born.
Well folks, how do you like this?
For those who don't know, this is the rewrite of my previous story, Wild Campione, that I have decided to take in a completely different direction, one where a Campione has no true base or land to claim their own, merely an anonymous wanderer. You will also see that my Saint George, one who was more likely to appear in England than my other one Dazbog, has had a quite a few incarnations over the years. Cyber cookies to those who can guess who they are.
For those who want to complain about how easy it was for Harry to kill the Heretic God, there were numerous factors in Harry's favour that allowed him to triumph, thus leading to the demise of Saint George. The lack of action can be attributed to me trying to make the circumstances more realistic and the fact that this is about the only way I can see an untutored mage of such a youthful age to even come close to being able to kill a Heretic God. A teen is one thing, a pre-teen? I hope you all can see my point.
Harry's Authorities, and he will have several due to achieving the Saint's blessing and because of compatibility, making him willing to offer up several of his abilities, will be listed in the next chapter.
Also, before you can all object, yes Harry will come to Hogwarts, but not to truly attend. I will leave you all to wonder when I will do this, though I expect many of you will have a decent idea.
As always, please leave a review. They are fuel from which the fire of ideas burn.
One last note: Wild Campione will be taken down upon the posting of this story's second chapter. You have been warned.