This is a story about Eric and an alternate future. This is not the opening chapter... merely an excerpt of the ending chapter. This is a test chapter to see if I should post up the story. I won't say anything about the story except that Regiken is a wolf demon joining Harry on a crusade -probably his last- to a damned quest that will lead him to the ends of the world and back...

The dark's patience is infinite.

Eventually, even stars burn out.

It seemed to take forever for them to come down the cliff. And the soft breeze flooded their faces and yet they did not feel it. They wanted to get out of the area, of the devious Outpost that took with it two of their friends.

This is what the Company feel right now:

They are numb and frozen, but not by the winds. It is because of the deaths of their loved ones. Again Voldemort has managed to implement his seeds of treachery and pain into their hearts.

So often in the War, they have witnessed deaths.

The deaths of children, men, women, even the elderly. Thousands have lost their children, their parents, and their siblings through the effects of Voldemort's insidious invasions. For his needless rebellion to win over the world.

Even at the darkest tides, the Republic has fought back, each blow. But now… when the Company parried the untimely darkness with a strike of their own, they lost.

It may have been because four essential members of the group were away on a different quest, or perhaps because they had just used their energy for the Earth battles, but no.

It was because of arrogance: Harry Potter's arrogance in desperate times.

So much has passed in the several months that the Company Strike Team was split: They attained the Wound of the Wind, and defeated several thousand Ecuru-kais with it, but apparently it is lost along with Ron into the furnace.

Along with the rest of Ardania.

This is how it feels to be Harry Potter now:

There is a haze… a cloud of lost that surrounds Harry's mind.

He can't remember what he was sorrowful about. He can't remember why there are stains of tears on his cheeks.

But it comes to you like a speeding car, and hits you and there is a moment when your mind floods with unwanted memories.

And so you remember it.

Remember all of it.

Ron Weasely was your friend. You loved your friend… he was closer to you then a best friend. He was your brother. You loved your family, and now Regiken, Hermione, Ron, and Sirius are your family.

But he's gone.

Forever.

A part of you that was Ron is torn from your heart and you feel the void that is incomplete, and it burns brightly. Your grimmer now, your reddish-brown hair overlaps your ears, and the back of your neck is blanketed with your long, tickling hair. You cannot stand glancing at your friends without looking grim, because they are part of your heart and it is like looking at yourself and when you see them. When you see yourself you don't see Ron anymore, because of what Voldemort did.

Sadly, the smoke that emits from the startling flame, but a blazing moment of truth, however not righteous truth is brought to your senses because of that strong smoke.

The truth that it wasn't Voldemort who killed Ron, there was no chance of killing Voldemort, and that the credit of his death, apparently belongs to you, Harry.

It was you all along that was the greatest threat to your friends.

If you had forced Ron to stay, if you had done everything in your power to save him he would have been alive right now. He wouldn't have died if… if it weren't for you.

Ignorance was your greatest flaw. Had it not been Setakaru that explained his immortality? And when you could have run away, and have all your friends alive you chose to stay. You chose to fight like a hero; you chose to face Voldemort when he was at his strongest.

Now you had to face the consequences.

But you didn't fight like a hero. When you fought, you utilized the Darkness because your Light was spent. You used the Darkness you swore not to. You are weak, and you fell, but you didn't die. You were too greedy, and now you lost something inside you.

In the end, you cannot touch the shadow.

In the end, you do not even want to.

In the end, it doesn't even matter.

Harry wondered what Ron would want to do when he grew up. There was so much he had never asked him, so much he should have said...

This is the damned anguish that fed on Harry's soul.

This is what it felt to be Harry Potter.

There was a black shadow in the sky that rumbled ominously. "Evestar," breathed Harry dryly. They were at the end of the forest, and the gray fallen leaves ended before them.

There were lush green fields and sparkling trees unlike the wet, gaunt, skinny trees at the woods. Hermione started to burst into tears, and tears fell from the corner of Sirius' eyes.

"I don't see any barrier," muttered Regiken brokenheartedly, but not from what was set before his sight, but rather the fact that out of six members of the Company, only four would be able to enter Evestar. "Do… any of you?"

Harry shook his head gravely. "I can go."

Sirius nodded his head simultaneously with Harry.

"Are you ready?" Sirius questioned in a strong tone, wiping his tears with his sleeves. "Once we cross, we won't be seeing much evil, but the terrain will be rigorous and rough…"

Harry looked down at his hands. He didn't think he would ever be prepared enough for what was going to come.

"We need to just go," Harry muttered plainly.

But Regiken didn't move. He was still –and his sight was expressionless. "Where are we even going?" he asked thoughtfully, but grimly.

Harry stood immobilized, his face transparent with bewilderment. Finally his face softened, and he sighed a deep sigh, one that was long in the waiting. "I don't know," he said softly. He sat down on the roots of the trees that was popping from the ground and served as a stool for him. "Voldemort –Voldemort can't be killed by any mortal weapons that I possess."

"Then what are we going to do?" Sirius questioned shortly.

Doubts arose amongst the Warriors because they all realized, sooner or later, that if they managed to even penetrate the walls of the Castle their next task would be to destroy Voldemort.

"He's immortal," remarked Regiken, breathless. "Everything we fought so hard t-to… it just doesn't seem right. Voldemort cannot be immortal!"

"I don't care what he is," shot Harry fiercely. "He may be Darkness or wizard, but I'll find a way to destroy him! He's not done with me. He may be able to keep alive from my spells and swords, but he must have a weakness that he's hiding. I'll find it. For Ron and Grand."
He reached into his pocket, taking out the crystal and grasping it before his palm. Dark Wizard's Bane… self proclaimed by Harry Potter, but his eyes was finally set on the one last Dark Wizard he challenged to slay.

Indeed this would be difficult.

"How are we going to defeat him?" wondered Hermione gravely, wiping tears from her sunken eyes.

"I dunno," muttered Harry casually. "But if it takes blowing up his entire castle, then well I'm up for it. My task on killing Voldemort may take another month, year, or even decade. I don't know. But we'll find a way."

They stood up then. There wasn't hope in their hearts, however a sense of determination: a cold ruthless vengeance lingering in Harry through the deaths of his friends.

Harry Potter erected his spine and hoisted himself from the ground. When he wheeled to gaze eastward, Hermione finally drew herself. They started walking.

They walked endless moments of time, until the wind picked up. Harry felt it was an unnatural wind that blew east. And in the sky, he saw a glitter –perhaps a shard of glass- floating with the mighty wind. The shard may have been the Would of the Wind's last whistle, or a signal to Harry, or perhaps the natural wind blowing shimmering glass into the sky. But in his heart, the gleaming light reminded Harry all the more of his fallen friend. Ron was with the wind now.

This is how Voldemort feels forever:

The world has closed in on this very moment where the two opposing forces clashed. Only one death would end this war.

It is that simple, and that complex.

And it is final.

The end already came and it came with astonishing quickness.

In the heart of his body, he feels intense excitement because this was the day the prophecy would be completed. To the others it may be a nightmare that no one can wake up from, but to him it's a glorious day.

They are in his hands. Clutched within the grasp of his long, white fingers. And in his grasp is the worst place they could be in.

For he isn't like the others: Supreme Commander Trak Nul is treacherous and analytical, but he's been dormant for thousands of years in slumber, it's naturally expected for him to be hungry for power. General Bain, the human governor of Zanro is venal and cruel, but he is human, and easily condemned by the Dark Mark. Sagrato is –or was­­­­­­­– the second in command of the forces of the Empire. He was deceitful, elusive, and scornful, however many found a drop of respect for his virtues ­even though they revolve around the Shadow Empire.

Lord Voldemort though-

Voldemort's a monster.

The Dark Lord of the Shadow Empire is an abomination of nature, a fusion of flesh and darkness. This wizard-hybrid is a slaughterer of millions; entire capitals and armies have burnt in his command.

He is the genius behind the veils of the shadow.

The architect of their many victories.

The author of their atrocities.

And his grip closes in on a remnant of the Company. They struggle to escape, and some moments their incredible actions slacken the grip of his hand, but always… he manages to tighten it around them.

And those wizards and witches and other beings that have vast powers around Ardania can sense in horror the grand battle that erupts in the Outpost.

And they shudder and quake, because they know-

-in their gut

-their flesh

-and their very bones that what they sense is the death of there last hope for defeating the Dark Lord.

They will die because the wrath of black power races through Voldemort's cold veins.

A black light shrouds around him. Against his cold, dry fingers see the hilt of a sword lined up against Prince Regiken of Baruken's house.

He raises the blade and cuts diagonally.

It's a ferocious blaze of power, forever used by the Dark Lord. It screams as a horrific, demented, and twisted fusion of Dark Mark aura and the Balance Point that produced this monstrous attack.

Regiken dives over to one side, and barely missing five black streams of fire course through the ground and into the gray wall.

Immortality is a bliss, Voldemort thinks slyly.

The rest is a blur.

A flick of the wand and Harry's own wand is driven out from his fingers with the Excelious spell.

It ends now! Voldemort thinks quickly to himself. The prophecy will be complete. My ultimate weapon is prepared to slay you, Potter. Too many months have I lingered in my solitude, but now all is going in accordance to plan. You've failed.

"Perfect," whispered the Dark Lord. "Harry Potter defenseless, Harry Potter weaponless, and soon to be dead. This is over, Potter. Prepare to meet your fate… Prepare to see your family once again," he raised his wand and bellowed loudly: "Avarios Redarvios!"

In that instant he felt both joy and astonishment.

He had assumed that his precise, calculated spell would destroy an Harry Potter that was too weak to vanish, he thought that no possible chance did Harry have to retrieving his wand that was lost somewhere in this atrium, but he did not calculate a certain variable that caused another one of his plots to destroy Harry to fail: Ron sacrificing himself for his friend.

Voldemort felt his heart boil in anger, as a green and white sparkle burn at Ron's chest where the Death Curse hit him. His body flung over to the ground, eyes shut.

He stared momentarily blank.

While beings hundreds to thousands of miles away reach out in anguish when they feel the lifeless body of Ron fall the ground.

It was mere love that let Harry escape. But even a foolish power as love is powerful. Ron's love for Harry saved him again. Voldemort hadn't counted on that.

And suddenly, unaware of the thoughts circling in Harry's head, he and Regiken began to run for their life.

"COME BACK POTTER!" roared Voldemort angrily. He raised his wand and pointed in at Harry. "Avarios Redarvios!"

Harry had taken his first step on the soil and the issuing jet of green light vanished at once as it got near the outside.

"AVARIOS REDARVIOS!" he roared. He shot another Death jet wildly into the air. It collided with the wall, causing a chuck of cement to fall heavily unto the ground.

In his mad anger, Voldemort sent more jets of light into the open wall. Then raising objects with his mind he started thrashing any object not attached to the wall.

Voldemort gazed out the fortress of his Outpost, watching the wretched boy escape from his clutches once again. He lost again this time, and realized that Harry had the power now to have killed a mortal Voldemort.

He was not mortal though.

By some he would be labeled dangerous, monstrous, even an abomination. Others may think of him as a horrid fusion of flesh and darkness, as ones would have thought of Mordia.

But…

By the eyes of himself, he thought of himself as a revolution of mankind. He meddled through science and ancient darkness and finally became who he was destined to be.

He was like a god…

He, Voldemort, who was more immortal now than any Dark Lord before him since the fall of Haru the Dark, was likened to a god of power, of darkness.

But from his strength he felt certain discomfort. Harry Potter at the age of fourteen was capable of challenging him to a duel and surviving… but barely.

At the age of sixteen, now he had more power then he was expected to have. He was powerful enough to slay him had he been mortal. And his strength grew deeper, his under-standing more fluent, and his Light brighter. And he feared that Harry might learn another truth about Voldemort:

Because in the heart of his strength lies his own weakness…

Harry finally got back up, sighing as he let out a hand to help Hermione. She took it and pulled herself up. Regiken clapped his hand on Harry's shoulder, and exchanged a look of calm serenity with Sirius, who now looked mildly calm beside him. And the four of them glanced deeply into the setting sun in the east.

Harry rallied all his thoughts against the warm heat that reverberated on his skin. His iron will sheath his impeccably perilous cause in a smoldering bind that was unbearably large for any man to handle.

He will defeat Voldemort.

He will save Ardania.

Before the might of his will and the will of those he loved, there is no contest.