A writer, I would fancy myself, if things could be. But take note, I do not write for others – I write for my own amusement, and my brand of storytelling is my own – I only share these worlds that I dream up.
6. A man shall not boast | of his keenness of mind,
But keep it close in his breast;
To the silent and wise | does ill come seldom
When he goes as guest to a house;
(For a faster friend | one never finds
Than wisdom tried and true.)
7. The knowing guest | who goes to the feast,
In silent attention sits;
With his ears he hears, | with his eyes he watches,
Thus wary are wise men all.
The Poetic Edda, Hovamol, The Ballad of the High One
by Henry Adams Bellows, [1936]
The second time that he manages to shrug of the lingering effects of the sedative happens just as dawn stretches gold sunbeams through the windows of the room. His magic is stirring uneasily to an unwelcome presence, and the Elder Wand materializes in his wand arm before he even rouses from sleep properly.
The pockmarked wood pulses with warmth, ready and begging to be unleashed, but Harry gently coaxes it back into the ether where the Cloak and Ring lie quietly with his holly wand. He cracks open an eye to survey his surroundings, only to see a raven at the foot of his bed, and another when he finally opens the other eye as well.
They are restless creatures; obsidian feathers glinting with their darting movements, snapping at each other and preening, though they keep at least an eye on him at all times.
Something shifts at the corner of his eye, and the ravens take off towards it in a flurry of King of Asgard stands at the window, and he mutters a few words at the two ravens perched on his arm before sending them out the window.
"You are awake and well, Hjortrson," the word is strange, niggling at his brain before he realises the term - son of the stag.
It is a statement that warrants a reply, and Harry speaks as the King tries to breach his mind again with brute force. Once is enough, and he fends off the attack while feigning a slight pain in his leg.
"With help from the efforts of your Healers, your Royal Highness."
"As you have deduced, I am the Sovereign of the Realm Eternal. I am Odin Allfather."
Harry keeps his face as relaxed as possible, but a frown still appears despite his best efforts. He has known it all along, but to have this confirmation that he is no longer on Earth makes him feel like there is nothing holding him fast to reality. The panic rises like a tidal wave, and he barely acknowledges Odin's statement.
"You would have enjoyed a better reception by my guard, but war rears its head on Yggdrasil once again."
War and peace. Like Life and Death, Harry. I don't think we can ever run from it.
"These are times of unrest and unease - the Realms whisper of war and each have rallied their weapons and defenses. The sharpening of weapons and weaving of spells in preparation for war on their lands."
He knows where this is going now; Odin wishes to have him on a leash - at least a pledge, if not an oath, and a binding one, now that he knows that Harry is capable of magical oaths. No doubt that Healer Eir has reported the details of his somewhat prominent involvement in the wars back in his time.
Refusal at best would earn him a stay in their dungeons, and the worst would get him cast out into the unknown. There is also the possibility of capital punishment for a refusal, and Harry does not wish to find out the extent of his immortality, because he has experimented, and has found that he is technically still alive with a body that is for all intents and purposes, human, in all its weaknesses.
There is a roiling unease in the King's magic, and Harry submits to the circumstances that he has found himself in.
"I vow to provide aid however I can, to the vulnerable and frail, outside of the battlefields," the vow takes before the King has any additional conditions. The oath is of his own interpretation, and Odin has little ground to demand another from Harry without portraying himself as a villain.
A war is a war if all sides answer its call.
Anything else is oppression… or a massacre.
It takes more than one party to escalate a war, and he does not even have a speck of an idea which side he is currently on.
Harry is granted leave to wander the palace by the King as soon as the oathe takes, but he makes no plans to venture beyond the confines of the healing chambers just yet. There is a certain sort of resonance between what lies beneath the Palace and the Hallows, and the Healing Chambers are shielded from the most of its effects. The guards are dismissed from their post at the entrance to the chambers, now that he is no longer regarded as a threat to Asgard. But it does not mean that the Healers are unable to defend themselves or take a life if need be.
The absence of the guards posted outside of the Healing Halls are instantly noticeable, and Eir feels a little lighter with the fact that there is no need for suspicion of Hjortrson. The rest seems to have done him well - the shadows have been chased from his eyes. Though she cannot explain how he has recovered from the effects of the sedative; the dosage would have put the strongest of Ӕsir warriors into a deep slumber for far longer than one night.
He regards her with as much of a bow as he can manage while bedridden, and she is glad to note that there is just lingering snatches of stiffness and pain in his posture. He is still in no condition to be going anywhere when she gets the opportunity to check him over, for his ribs are far from a full recovery, and the ugly splotches of bruised flesh marring his pale skin are everywhere.
She would sit and talk with him, but there is much to be done even in the lull. There are whispers of war looming over Yggdrasil, and so her fellow sisters and herself busy themselves with the stocking up of handmade salves, brews and draughts.
He is a silent thing, but even he opens up under the flood of cheerful chatter that her fellow sisters bring into the chamber. And with each question, Eir rethinks her label of him as a warrior - no Asgardian warrior has knowledge about the harvest of medicinal plants and the ways of their preparation.
All of the Healers have a blade in their possession, and though it seems to be used for no other purpose outside of the preparation of their craft, Harry has no doubts about their wicked-sharp edges. His suspicions are mostly confirmed when they acquiesce to his request to see the blades up close - heavy stylized runic inscriptions that seem somewhat familiar. He cannot read the script; the only Nordic runic set that he has ever used was 'protection' for the setting of wards, and even its use was restricted due to the prerequisite lei line intervals.
The blade edge seems thinner than a hair, and the nick on his finger remains bloodless and painful. There is a queer sort of hum that emanates from the entire blade, but the acquisition and application of knowledge has always been Hermione's forte. Harry has always been the one to take action on the immediate and relevant situations, and since he can do nothing but observe from the confines of his bed, he feels his own lack.
Still, he tries.
The Healers are happy to share their knowledge of the healing arts - though the details of the harvest of the ingredients is somewhat lost, he has no idea as to the locations - and gladly tutor him in the runic alphabet.
It is almost a full week before he is cleared to leave the watchful eyes of the Healers, and Eir leads him to one of the guest rooms in the lower levels of the castle. It is definitely a stretch to say the the chambers that are to be his for the moment is humble; the room rightly puts his previous 'VIP' accommodations to shame. The ceiling is high enough to make the room seem cavernous, with the light barely vanishing the shadows at the peak. The furnishings are made of handsome dark woods, and the fabric that lines the beds and the cushions are finely made.
Eir has already left during his discreet gawking at the room, but not before emphasizing Asgard's hospitality. All he has to do is ask for directions, be it the main dining halls, the Royal Library, the gardens, and even the duelling rooms.
The bed is about three times larger than what he has ever seen, and the fireplace brings a well of nostalgia that threatens to drown him. His wardrobes are bare but that does not stop him; he is no stranger to transfiguring even non-fabric items into clothes. The only thing that he mourns is the lack of sanitary facilities, but he has learnt to live without them for a period of time.
He walks, and then stops short.
There is a stranger staring at him from the other side of the mirrored surface - even with the near-hollow of his cheeks, the sum of his features have the effect of making him look unbearably young. His hair is far too long for his liking, with all of its familiar grey streaks gone. There is a terrible contrast between his hair and his skin, and he realises that he has not seen this version of himself except in yellowed photographs, and it brings back too many memories of regret and grief and guilt.
There are brief flickers of brilliance and smiles and adventure,
and they are made all the more precious in the scarcity.
The situation is far too late to change his appearance to his liking, not to mention that it will be impossible to source out suitable ingredients in this Realm that will have the same effect as the magical plants that he once used. All the more, layered glamours have always been tricky, and the fact that some of the Ӕsir have some grasp on magic means that his disguise might be rendered useless.
The castle is a sprawl of hallways and twists and turns, made asymmetrical and nearly unnavigable due to the fact that the entire place has been carved into the mountainous rock. He has it covered in a backtrack way; a trail of fairy lights that dot the ceiling in a barely noticeable glow. It is an inelegant solution, for the lights follow that exact path that he has taken, and this means that he has to follow the way back to his rooms turn for turn. The other way would be to secure a piece of parchment and charm it the Marauder's way, but he has to secure a parchment made the non-magical way for the magic to truly stick.
His first meal outside of the Healer's chambers is totally coincidental to his wandering and slightly awkward; the blatant staring and subdued conversation that goes on at the section of the table that he has randomly slotted himself in destroys his appetite for the food. It is a pity, because the food reminds him so much of Hogwarts' feasts.
The height disparity is negligible, but next to the well armoured muscle of the men, he feels like a scrawny child. The pride of Aurors lay in their speed, magical ability and instincts, but the diagnosis so far is that even average Asgardians are less susceptible to injuries, and a hell of a lot stronger than he could imagine. He leaves as soon as his hunger is sated, and excuses himself with an intelligible mutter. The table roars to life immediately after his departure, and so Harry makes the decision to dine at the Healer's chambers in the foreseeable future just to avoid that situation.
It takes no less than four patrols to lead him in the right direction from his rooms to the Royal Library. His map seems to work fine; the mechanism is simple in that it uses his magical signature to map the structure like a sonar, though he will have to enter each and every room to label them correctly.
There are improvements that he thinks up as he moves along, but he will have to brainstorm on his own to achieve his own ends. He spends several minutes outside the library waiting for a guard to run to who knows where to get the key released for the door, because apparently, the 'library does not get used often'.
It is a pity and a waste, for knowledge to go to waste..
He does not expect the vastness of the Royal Collections, for it makes him feel a crippling sense of longing for the library of his youth. The shelves tower well beyond his height many times over, holding tome after tome.
And he certainly does not expect the Queen of Asgard to find him nestled in an alcove trying to figure out the language beyond the individual runes and the rare word. He senses her tripping his wards, but he only recognises her after the mental run-through of the Healers' descriptions of their Esteemed Lady. She holds herself with infinite grace, tumbling curls of the softest brown settling onto the shimmering jewels of the Nine Realms and the resplendent tailored fabrics.
A part of him – he thinks of it as the part where the Sorting Hat had seen in him deep inside, the Slytherin side of him – moves to take control immediately. The book is placed soundlessly on the table, and he unfolds himself from the confines of the chair, all the while keeping eye contact with her.
More caution than courage,
tempered from failed negotiations
and observations of successful ones.
He bows deeply, right hand over heart, but he doesn't say anything, yet. He is British, and the customs have been drilled into him, by Petunia of all people, on how to greet royalty in the exceptional rare event – youspeak only when spoken to.
Her footsteps are light across the golden floor, and her fingers graze his shoulder, "Please rise."
He does as her request, and follows her motion. They seat themselves on either side of the table in the alcove, and the conversations start as most do. His state of health, her apologies on his treatment upon his arrival, the weather as of late… they reach a point where she requests him to dispense with the formalities. Of course, it merely means that he stops starting his sentences with the stiff formalities, her title as Queen remains.
His circumstances are already common knowledge to her, so he surrenders himself to a session of relentless prodding. He knows the game well enough; she seeks answers, and expects him to provide them to the best of his ability.
He has learnt from the best; she treads softly, but he sees how she responds to certain words. And all of those words pertain to actions that have yet to be taken, events that have yet to pass. He moves on to ancient stories about premonitions, prophecies, and watches her move just a fraction of a centimeter forward. Her hands pause in their fidgeting, and it is then that she knows that it is a topic close to her source of troubles.
The eye contact at that moment is the one trigger that causes her emotional despair to reach him; a burst of despair-hope-wariness that makes his stomach churn. This game of Slytherins is over, he knows, and it is in his best interests to calm her down.
It's almost as if she sees a kindred spirit in him.
So he speaks.
Speaks till the skies darken outside, matching the mood that he has talked the two of them into.
Green eyes are lost in a personal hell, and Frigga hears the muffled fanfare that echoes even in the vastness of the Great Library. Her husband has returned, and Haraldr mirrors her movement in exiting from the alcove.
"It appears that my husband has returned from his inspection of the artificers of Asgard. Join us for the feast - it is an appropriate time for you to be introduced into the courts as our guest."
There is something reluctant in his eyes, and yet there is a glimmer of something else. She cannot express how lonely he had looked in that instant.
He regrets his acceptance of the Queen's offer the moment the servants show him to his seat.
Closest to the Sovereign and his wife, Harry has been placed at the head of the table, where all the eyes are drawn to most of the time. He suffers by default, for he captures their interest once they spot him.
They hide their suspicion under well-meaning compliments; he is young by their judgement, and they assume that attention and attention is the best way to get into his good graces, having travelled from long and far without an escort.
They think him a refugee from somewhere else, and marvel at the unusual lustrous black of his hair, like the glint of the a raven's wing. They compare his eyes to the finest of the Dvergar emeralds, a colour yet to be seen in another's eyes. And deep in their hearts, they think him an abomination - too different from their own by far.
And then the bombshell is dropped.
Harry himself cannot believe it, let alone the entire hall of people when Odin Allfather proclaims him the newest addition to the Royal Court. He is to be an independent advisor to the King and his Queen, and the entire hall roars their protests.
Each and every protest is a permutation of the idea that he is untrustworthy, that he is an outsider, that he harbours ill will. That the King should think against it, in these times of war. They speak as if war is already on the horizon, and that they must gather to defeat it.
The chatter and protests are silenced by the thump of the King's hand against the table - like a variation of the sonorous Charm - and not one voice speaks up when the King reinforces his statement.
The food comes in then, and the mood seems to reset itself amidst the alcohol and and jeers are thrown up and down the table, boisterous camaraderie between warriors. Ladies of the court share glances, giggles and whispered words. The entire atmosphere is alien to him, even as he watches how they try to draw him into the fold, when he clearly knows nothing of the past wars and glorious battles.
There are still glances and gestures that he catches, all made towards him in suspicion.
He is loath to follow their customs when it comes to dining, choosing instead to use the cutlery provided over the warriors' choice – full-fingered grasping of the succulent roasted meats. It is a safety precaution; he would rather his wand to be in a firm grip if he needs it right away – perhaps to levitate one of these Norse Vikings should they fly his way in their bouts of drunken fighting – than do a flick and swish and end up impaling someone's eye.
He cannot bring himself to let go and enjoy himself - the food seems to taste like ash no matter how heavenly it smells, and the mead is far too weak for him to lose his inhibitions.
The lesson had been taught and learnt – to never stand out.
That lesson is useless now; he cannot conceive a way to remain inconspicuous, now that he has been forced into this position.
The feast concludes only after a nearly endless session of drunken toasts and veiled slurs at Harry, and he follows the royal couple to a more private setting. The guards have been dismissed from the room, but he feels like they've backed him into a corner with that one declaration. There is the biting urge to do only one thing - and he would do it - though the fact remains that he cannot quite figure out how to end things cleanly without inciting the whole of Asgard's wrath after a successful attempt at regicide.
He remains standing, waiting until they had seated themselves, and then some more until they invite him to take the seat across from them.
"I give you leave to speak, Hjortrson," it is more of an order than anything else, and so he speaks.
"With all due respect, Your Royal Highness, I find myself unable to articulate the situation you have put one such as myself in," the first part is an insult, but one that many do not get, unless they are British. It works just as well in calming himself down, a petty dig because they do not understand.
"As the Independent Advisor, you will be entitled to fortunes and benefit fitting to your station. And in terms of authority, you will answer to no one else except for us."
Harry feels the anger seething quietly at the collar that the Allfather has presented to him.
The apple is a heavy thing. It weighs down his hand just by holding it, and it does the same to his mind just by looking at it. It is the equivalent of an apple fashioned from goblins' gold, and beneath its skin lies the source of the Æsir's youthful visage, incredible density and enormous strength.
Eating the apples on a regular basis will help him to cope with living on Asgard if Odin is to be believed, but it will also make him one of them in terms of identity. He is already immortal, unlike their inherited longevity, but by eating it, he will be recognized as Asgardian.
There is little choice, anyway; if he does not eat this first apple, he will be cast out within the week, branded as a traitor to the Throne of the Allfather, forced to leave this Realm. Odin has already made the choice for him, and Harry finally sees the king for the shrewd man that he is.
He deliberates, but the decision can only be made with more information, and he is one against an entire realm, unless he eats the apple.
He finds his way to the healing chambers in search of Eir.
He appears like a wraith in the Healer's Chambers, and Eir's hand jumps to still her racing heart. The glitter of emeralds lock onto her, "My apologies for my unexpected appearance, Healer Eir. I… wished to consult with you."
She sees the apple in his hand and then there is the realisation that dawns on her face. She does not know then, he thinks. There is something like apology on her face, "I have an obligation to my King before you, Hjortrson," her voice is soft as always, and with that subtle note of calming.
Harry thanks her nonetheless, and makes to leave through the doors when he hears her last sentence, "But it would be wise to keep your knowledge of seiðr a secret for now."
It is a reminder, because there has been little else except sharp edges and polished metal outside of the Healers' Chambers. There is not a hint of magic in this realm, except for the Allfather and the Healers. The hour grows late, and Harry makes a tactical decision – magic is most likely not encouraged, but he can take a page from the Weaseley twins.
"Do whatever you want to… the only thing to be mindful of is to never get caught.
The only reason why we get caught is because of the recognition we get."
He summons his items from the ether – the Cloak falls onto his shoulders from thin air like an old friend in greeting, his holly wand grasped between his fingers – and spells his boots to be silent. The cloak and charms work, to his relief, as the armoured patrols pass him with nary a glance or twitch.
There is information to be found, somewhere in these halls.
He finally finds a suitable 'vessel' of information along the hallways - one of two sentries positioned beside a sizeable door – his line of vision somewhat coincides with Harry's across the hallway, and the man is clearly bored out of his mind. A few charms ensure that the man is relaxed with eyes open; a parody of sleep, albeit with eyes open.
He sends tendrils of legilimency through, carefully watching for any cause for alarm. The probe takes without any problems, and decides to investigate with Eir's caution as a starting point.
Seiðr.
Otherwise known to him as magic.
'The House of Odin is a great one - it serves directly under the Sovereign of the Realm Eternal. He is under the Banner of Ravens, and he and his brothers in arms bask in the glory of serving the King and Queen of Asgard. They will give their lives in the name of the Sovereign of Asgard.'
It goes beyond blind loyalty; this mindset has been carefully cultured - a distasteful name for it would be called brainwashing. He files away the titbit of information for further contemplation - it is useful, yes, but not immediately harmful.
'He will be able to bring his clan honor then – as a second son, he has been drafted into the King's army just like many others. His elder brother has inherited the clan's occupations, a tedious position, continually seeking traction between the textile markets of Asgard and Alfheim.'
Not useful at all.
'He is glad for the brother born after him, who has not the barest hint of seiðr, and has finally managed to apprentice himself to a tannery. It is hard labour, but it is an honest work. His family would have been put to shame had his brother showed an affinity for the womanly arts.'
There it is. He fixates on that bit of information, searching around for more. It is ingrained into the family dynamics of this guard whose mind he is in right now, and it is a common expectation of sons in the family, from what he gleans.
'Seiðr. Trickery, fraud, unmanly.'
The connotations are strong, and this guard himself does not know even the reasons why, but seiðr is a taboo. It is a forbidden thing for men to even talk about, much less wield. Harry watches as the guard's past childhood fascination with the fantastical conjurations of seiðr practitioners warp into ugly feelings of deceit and trickery. It is a lowly craft to these demi-gods, who have countless years in the pursuit of perfect physical craftsmanship.
And yet, the Allfather is King.
The first man in Asgard that Harry knows has at least a substantial grasp of magic in his mastery. He leaves the man's mind the way he came, casting memory charms and leaving the guard to startle out of his assumed daydreams.
His chambers have not been breached by anyone else, and Harry settles into the windowsill, watching the unfamiliar night sky as he contemplates his position. The Cloak and Wands are stowed away, and the golden burden makes its way back into his hand.
His hand has truly been forced. He is unwilling to take up the mantle of an 'independent advisor', but he balks at the idea being thrust into the threat of war between what seems to be several Realms with nothing but an entity that no one can see at his back. Death has lingered in his vision for a handful of times, but She has given no indication that he is to leave Asgard anytime soon.
He would play Odin's game, for now.
And he will give as good as he gets.
The taste of the apple explodes with a crunch, and the sweet tang of it is heavy. It seeps down his throat, and travels deep into his bones. Strengthening, reinforcing, refreshing. Mind, body, soul, magic. But something is missing , he knows.
And he doesn't expect to find it.
Her reflection stares back as her, as she brushes out her hair. The words from before the feast are still looping in her head, and she deliberates on her encounter with Haraldr Hjortrson. She would have mistaken him for a young Æsir boy, barely of age, but his graceful gestures and mannerisms had been that of a man who knew the subtleties of politeness and deference.
He had seen her for who she was.
"I do not see futures, your Majesty. But I know of those in my time, and those long before my time… throughout the histories of many Kingdoms of my world. Those who could speak of the future were oft thought to be mad. The prophecies were made, and many forgotten."
He had spoken of a world so vast that she could hardly fathom it - the Realm Eternal and most of the other Realms were under the rule of one king.
"There were stories of true prophets, cursed by their gifts until their kingdom fell into ruin, for no one would believe a single word. Others led kingdoms to their doom, for the gift of their sight was retracted following the corruption of their hearts. There were false prophets as well, proclaiming the end of the world, their words made believable only through their eloquence."
"But my people were different. The prophecies uttered were made secret, sealed away from all minds, even by the ones who had given voice to them. There were great Seers, who proved the accuracy of their gifts time and again, but their bloodlines faltered under expectations. To this day, I only know of two which came true in my lifetime."
"The first one was overheard by a man of knowledge seeking power, what he heard was incomplete in such that there were many ways to interpret it. The sacred practice was broken, and the information was passed on to a corrupted mind, a man who sought power through knowledge, and freedom from Death."
"He disliked the idea of Death, that it was an ugly thing. That it was weak to succumb to Death. But the root of kindness to others lies forevermore in mortality, and in his quest of never dying, he ceased to never live as well, forever caught in the boundaries of life and death, always subconsciously destroying lives to sustain his state of non-death."
"It was obsessed over, and the prophesied became the eventuality."
"The prophecy involved two, a man who sought destruction, and a child who had not yet known the evils of the world. He was vanquished no less than eight times in a span of eighteen years, and with each loss of his fractured soul, he took something from that child."
He had looked at her then, and then she understood.
"I was a martyr when I was a child, and I was forever so in their eyes."
"A prophecy is merely a destination in time. There is no context to it, until the actions of our own hands come into play. The actions of other beings, other minds, those who try to make it happen, those who try to prevent it…"
"So you see? A prophecy is a mere point on the path of fate."
She could tell no one of her prophetic dreams, only able to dream of them night after night. But now, she thinks that she could learn to forget them instead of spending sleepless hours wondering at the blurred faces of those that her dream-self sees.