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.

142. Then began I to thrive, | and wisdom to get,

I grew and well I was;

Each word led me on | to another word,

Each deed to another deed.

The Poetic Edda, Hovamol, The Ballad of the High One

by Henry Adams Bellows, [1936]

Asgard is a strange place: the landscape is intolerably perfect even in the dead of the night. The starlight rains down, illuminating everything perfectly such that it is never truly dark at night. The Rainbow Bridge - they call it the Asbrú - provides an easy point of reference when Harry takes secret walks about at night.

And even when the sun stretches its light across the skies, the light of the stars can still be seen. The sunrise has taken place hours ago, but the daylight hours here are impossibly long; so much so that the sun has barely cleared the horizon when he answers the knock at the door.

There is an army awaiting him at the door, armed with bolts of cloth and swathes of fabric. They claim themselves to be the Royal Clothiers, sent by the Queen of Asgard.

He relents to their flustering, and they push their way into the room while dragging him into the center of the room. His measurements are taken methodically, and they puzzle over the cut of his clothes and the evident lack of stitches on his transfigured clothes. There are no seams or stitches in his clothes, and they comment on the absence of decorative designs on the obviously fine fabric.

Everything is melded together,

nothing for the catching fingers of sharp branches and briars.

He does not say anything to their questions, and they soon catch on. They leave after doing a professional job; a hefty selection of pre-made linen garments with the closest fit to his stature. The layers are logical, and it is just as well that they have left behind a small mountain of fabric - he has grown weary of cleaning charms and transfigured clothing.

He recalls information from his mind walking from the soldier last night, and looks at the selection thoughtfully. The cloths used are in varied shades of vibrancy; red, blue, green, yellow, white, black, with embroidery for contrast and variety, sometimes including gold and silver threads. And all of these colours differ in meanings and station.

The gold and reds are out; neither of Asgard nor a warrior in their terms. Blue is representative of Odin, an allegiance that he would rather not enforce as an independent advisor. He has never looked good in yellow, and the white fabrics are nearly as white as his skin, a lingering aftereffect from the realm of Hel.

He smirks at the practical choices that he has left – he has never felt so Slytherin – let it not be remembered that he has failed to declare his alignment with the magic that they so condemn. The Elder Wand slips into his hand at the mere thought of magic, and he swishes his wand to change the colours of his garments. Dark greens and blacks, the colourful embroideries shifting to white, silver and gold. Charms to ensure their fit, more to ensure their integrity, protections to guard against sharpened metal and intent to harm – all standard practices he has honed over a long time.

A new beginning, hidden knowledge, all concealed from plain sight.

He has little else to guard his back.

The summons to a deliberative assembly of the Royal Court is something born from slyness and trickery - barely has a day passed since the announcement of his post as Odin's Advisor, and it is close to two hours before the stated start of the meeting. It is underhanded, this attempt to fluster him - too little time to prepare for what is to come and too much time to panic - but he has had more than plenty of experience in the dark side of politics to handle this.

So he takes his time, dresses in the finest of the clothes that Frigga has thought to leave him with. He keeps his mental shields up as an exercise in calm, even as he makes his way to an assembly of strangers that he has never seen before.

The members of the meeting have already been seated when he makes his entrance, which makes the search for his seat an easy affair. Odin is greeted the same way that he had greeted the Queen before the feast; deep bow with the hand to the heart, while the table watches silently.

He accords every single one of them with a solid second of eye contact, and finds himself somewhat impressed with their semblance of solidarity - this particular sort of camaraderie is rare in the line of murderers, cheats, thieves and soulless puppets. Already they have begun to plot his death.

The last one is the Allfather at the opposite end of the table, and Harry bares the slightest glimpse of his teeth in a parody of a smile, "Shall we begin this meet, gentlemen?"

Of course, it is an insult to a table of warriors. There is a brief moment of civility that follows, that Harry does not return in kind, and then the fangs are unveiled along with politely death threats when the thorough interrogations begin.

The barbed questions are nothing; it is the amusement that radiates from Odin that annoys him very much. Nevertheless, he has learnt and put into practice from the best. Deflecting questions and placing doubt in each other is an easy thing when everyone has something to conceal. He claims ignorance of their ways, and after they accept his explanation, the tilt of his head and the barest glimpse of a knowing smile serves to make them feel like the fool.

He is not here to make friends.

He continues to catch their eyes, skimming thoughts and reading physical gestures. He knows that the table is both jealous and envious of his appointed position in the courts, and thinly veiled with their seething thoughts, and the rest of the meeting quickly devolves into chaos when he finally loses his patience, and releases a mild fear-inducing hex in retaliation to the increasingly aggressive slights to his person and apparent age. The assembly of men start to turn on each other, and Harry shrugs before discreetly summoning an apple from the middle of the table.

The commotion carries on, only suddenly freezing when the crunch of the apple resounds through the room. Harry pauses to chew and swallow while they stare before speaking with a smirk, "Oh. Forgive me for disrupting. Do carry on with the entertainment."

The room settles down quickly, and the Allfather cannot quite keep a straight face when the next assembly is scheduled tentatively in a year's time– apparently there is nothing of import to discuss among such long-lived lives. It is as well; he has time to prepare for the courtly matters of Asgard the next time he sees them.

He doesn't get up when the meeting is adjourned; just watches them as they leave the hall, and he is quick to send them a placid smile when they glance back at him, skimming their thoughts through those milliseconds of eye contact.

He isn't surprised at the paranoia in their thoughts – very few are fearless of the unknown, and all of those few are fools – and he will not succumb to his untimely demise when it comes.

The doors close after the members of the Royal Court, the dull sound of metal resounding throughout the hall. Harry gets up from his seat, but he doesn't move closer to the seats on either side of the King - he bears neither honour of being the King's right or left-hand man.

He knows that the King sees him as a tool, bound and leashed by two Oaths reinforcing each other. This is a contract that stretches deep into his psyche, compelling him to keep to them regardless of the circumstances.

So he bows once again, right hand over heart, and does not straighten from his posture until he hears the words.

"Rise, Haraldr."

He does so, looking into those eyes without a word.

"Be at ease. Take a seat. You may speak freely," Harry resists the urge to bark – because he's such a good boy! – and acquiesces. He only plays these games of silence because he knows that all men here are used to the blustering of others bedecked in metal and hide, and fumble when faced with silence.

"What would you wish to hear, Allfather?"

Truths, half-truths, outright lies, nonsensical strings of words, he knows it all, enough times to replicate it without a single flaw.

He watches the King frown at the specifically worded sentence, "I will hear your thoughts on the members of the Royal Courts then."

"Very well," is all he says before launching into the details that he has gathered along the duration of the tedious meeting. He does not care whether the Allfather will take his words at face value - he is past that.

Night falls upon Asgard, and Harry has long escaped from the nightly dinner with his own plates of food. Outside, the wind is sharp and biting in its coldness, but it is an annoyance quietly resolved by a marriage of heating and shielding charms.

He sets the plates aside, turns his face upwards to watch the sheer brilliance of the stars suspended in the black velvet. There are billions upon billions upon them, and no matter how he looks at them, it feels odd.

Odd to see so many and yet not recognize any of the constellations that he had marked on star charts on nights like this. Odder still to see the stars while anchored to the ground, after his eternity-long jaunt through the universe.

And yet, they still blink tirelessly at him , scattered as they are across the heavens. He makes a vague resolution to look up constellations and astronomy in the library, and decides that maybe, just maybe, it is for the best that he cannot read ahead through the stars; somewhere in the vast universe of stars and galaxies, he cannot see if Mars burns bright on the nights of bloodshed.

He can imagine Hermione's excitement at the sheer number of texts that line just one bookshelf; merely 'a tiny leaf from the ancient knowledge and histories of the World Tree'. They hum with old magic, and there is the sharp tang of potent magic.

Were this Hogwarts' Library, these books would all have been locked in the Restricted Section. Every book that he has browsed through contain fascinating morsels of information, and the titbits nestled in them have given him several measures of inspiration in tinkering with what he knows and what else he does not.

There are footsteps then, not at all light, and Harry sighs inwardly at the interruption. If there is such a trend, then it is likely that he will never be able to peruse even a single manuscript in this Library without pause.

He maintains the façade of calmness and conduct when the stranger approaches, slipping in a newly-conjured bookmark made purely from his own magic before closing it. The bookmark will serve as an anchor as he Vanishes it into the ether right next to the Hallows.

"Haraldr Hjortrson?"

The man is a walking tower of shining metal, and none of it is for appearance. The armour is as well worn as it is well polished - there are deep scars gouged out from intent to kill and maim.

"Your search for him has ended. I am he. May I enquire the reasons for your quest…?" He trails off, and the statuesque stranger is quick to provide his name.

"Hallvarðr. I am the Weapons Master of the guards, and I have been tasked with your knowledge of defence." 'Rock defender', a fitting name if it ever was, Harry muses, even as he resigns himself to the 'wishes of the Allfather'.

If only their 'defence' consisted of shield charms and nothing more, he rues, because the last experience with a sword has left him too-real memories of poison from the King of Serpents running through his very veins.

The news spreads like Fiendfyre, sweeping the entirety of the castle. The chatter that follows is like a second wind - several members of the Royal Courts are under investigations. Hushed voices spread that the personal guard of the Allfather has stormed several houses in the city.

What they retrieve from those houses are a mystery - all wrapped in thick black clothes.

He does not tarry in the halls or the places where people flock to share their half-heard words. Instead, he splits his time between the Royal Library and the company of Frigga, of which both locations are filled with the lack of interest in the subject that sends tongues wagging.

What he does take interest in is the sentencing of the criminals. One is branded publicly as svikari and subsequently sentenced to execution by passage over the seemingly endless waterfalls of the edge of Asgard in a month. Two are scheduled for another hearing, but the wind carries whispers, that they will be banished for inflicting grievous hurt to innocent parties.

Three will walk free, but none escape without feeling haunted and humbled. Perhaps, he muses, that the Chinese proverb rings true, that 'the heart keeps track of all its deeds.

The permanent silencing charm has turned out well - Harry thinks that he could sprint down the hallways without a sound in these spelled boots. He leaves his magic to trail tendrils along the invisible nooks and crannies of the stone walls - a sixth sense to bolster his memory of the hallways. From time to time slight crumbs of magic he finds, but most of them stale from age and far too decomposed to make any sense of their original purpose.

He stops outside of Valaskjálf – the Shelf of the Slain, truly a morbid name for the hall for a King to rule his Kingdom from – where the great throne seats the Allfather. He has been told that the one who sits on the throne will be able to see all the events that happen on Yggdrasil, but Harry takes that statement with more than a grain of salt.

The walkway to Valaskjálf is strewn with crusts of dried blood, remnants of crushed healing stones, silvers of metals from great weapons. Death lingers here, and yet the people in the hall celebrate with meaningless cheer and feasting.

It holds no interest to him, so he moves past the doors, only to startle a young servant girl walking out one of the side doors. The din of large golden platters crashing to the ground follows after the foot-high jump and startled yelp, and the floor is wet with the remnant of food and drink.

The frightened look on her face comes into being when she realises his station from his attire, and she profusely apologises to him, addressing him as 'Milord'.

He interrupts her flurry of apologies, "Are you hurt?"

Her expression morphs to confusion when he forgoes all of her blubbering, and it reminds him of the blind servitude of House Elves. His glance reveals no injuries, and he takes a step back for a deep breath. She falls to her knees to gather the fallen items, but he wraps a hand around her upper arm to get her to stand.

The wandless magic comes to him easily now, and the repairing charms are a cinch, after decades of smashing and repairing. Her eyes go wide when a wave of his fingers bring the stack of platters to a float in front of her, the unfinished food nestled properly between the stems of the previously smashed goblets.

He walks off in favour of any other action - the levitating platter will stay in place until she has a firm grip on it - only to stop dead in the hallways no less than five minutes later with the sudden realisation that he has just broken what seems to be the equivalence of the Statute of Secrecy that Eir has warned him about.

There is something like a mental shrug; he cannot deny who he is.

The cat is out of the bag, the Asgardian's rumor mill is nothing short of lightning quick, so Harry might as well let it run loose. The Royal Library has had him eager to test out a few magical theories between spellwork and the fabric of the universe… though his quarters are a little too small and a definite no-magic-zone; he has to live somewhere.

It snows sparkling confetti for a week in one particular corridor – an interesting but completely bizarre outcome from one of his spell hybrids – but if the King and Queen suspect him of it, they don't show the slightest hint of it.

Except for Frigga offering the use of one of her rooms in her Hall. The price is affordable - a little of his time to chat with the Queen and her ladies in waiting.

The sneak blow has nothing on his senses – the sensitivities to changes in his surroundings from the business end of hostile spell work has been rightfully honed – but his reflexes are slowed by the slab of steel that passes for a blade that is in his hands.

He turns around, only to feel the rib-crushing blow to the side, sword too slow in meeting the bite of steel. He is winded by the force of the blow and the sheer pain even through the protective armour and spelled tunic, so much so that it's a good thing – because many choice curses come to mind, all in different languages, but none of them are gentle in meaning, and all of them are at least understandable as an insult, with all of the people in the training room fluent in the Immortal Language.

He nearly drops the sword, fingers already numb from countless parries, muscles burning with lactic acid. His ribs will be fine; strengthened by Iðunn's apples and fortified with magic, but his ego is not.

He will not be beaten.

He sends a rush of magic to his extremities, wrapping them in tendrils of sheer magic, operating his digits to move – much like a puppeteer.

He stares at Hallvarðr in the eye, "Again."

They continue until his lungs give out on him.

The hallways are straight without the slightest perceptible flaw, and the light of the enclosures are blindingly bright regardless of the time of day. There is a perverse sort of perfection in this place - no way to escape from sight and impossibly speckless.

He maps out the entirety of these dungeons with his magic, nerve ends tingling from the impeccable warding runes of containment and indestructibility. So much faith put into these dungeons that no guards prowl its depths even on the night before his execution date, and watches the man as he teeters on the edge of insanity in the cell, fetters of Asgardian and Dvergar steel clinking noisily as the man tries to dig his way out.

"Skári Ránnulfrson."

The man twitches from the sudden sound, clearly panicking when he sees nothing in front of his prison. Harry steps into the man's line of vision, and observes the manic light of in Skári's eyes when he sees the Independent Advisor: the only other one that now has the power to persuade the Allfather to rescind the sentence passed.

"Please, my Lord. I am innocent. Believe me. Trust me. I have had no hand in such matters. I was set up. Release me. I will owe you a life debt. All of my family will owe you a life debt." the words that come out of the death-row prisoner are forged from desperation; promises and bribes that serve no purpose other than to dig his grave deeper than the bottomless pit that it already is.

"Skári Ránnulfrson," he speaks softly this time, and Skári shuts up this time, "Do you know what your name means in my language? It means 'common seagull', who is son of 'the plundering wolf'. It is not a bad name on all accounts – both are creatures of intelligence, capable of communication and clarity. And yet, they are lacking in concern for other lives in the light of their own and immediate family. Scavengers, if you could put it kindly."

Ránnulfrson pushes forward with information on his binding oath, the one affording protection to the helpless and the frail – he is well and truly helpless, is he not? – and Harry belatedly recalls that there had been two Healers in the adjoining room that quiet morning, and the doors leading out to the hallways left ajar, and not even a silencing charm surrounding the conversation with the King.

There are eyes and ears everywhere, Harry! This is insurance, even in our own home.

He casts two dome-shaped Shield charms then and there, making sure to suck out all the air between the two spells. The airtight space goes silent, save for the sounds of breath and Skári's yelp of fear at the sensation of his magic casting.

The rage mounts, and Harry knows it shows in the stiffness of his movements when he steps closer to the transparent barrier,"Such pleas coming from your mouth, which once slung mud at my name. You… dare to utter such words pleading innocents after harming the truly frail and helpless? You killed them - killed their hopes and futures and souls."

Ránnulfrson stops breathing at the moment he realises that his misdeeds have been uncovered, "But… there were no witnesses."

"Au contraire, Ránnulfrson. You remain as a witness to your crimes. The remnants of destruction remain as witnesses to your crimes. And the dead… tell no lies," the Ring comes into existence on his index finger at the mere thought of it, and he returns it back into the ether.

"You claim innocence. You seek sanctuary from me… the only moment that I will deem you frail and helpless in this body… is the instance where your bones have been ground to pieces by the force of the Endless Falls, a hair's breadth away from Death's grasp. And that is the moment that it is too late to save you."

Ránnulfrson sinks to his knees on the floor.

"I bid you good morrow, Ránnulfrson. The day tomorrow will dawn fair and bright, and you will see an exceptional view that few have seen… and none live to tell the tale," he turns and walks out of the man's line of vision, before letting the Cloak fall into existence around his shoulders.

The morning dawns, clear and cloudless. A crowd has gathered, murmuring as Frigga looks on when the traitor steps into the small boat. He is limp, unresisting as the shackles are secured to the bulwarks of the boat. The boat is loosed of its moorings, and begins to drift to the pull of the boat makes it to the edge, and then the slips from her slight.

It is only at that moment, that his eyes lose their fixation on the Independent Advisor.

He does feel it - a lightning-quick blight in the depths of something that could be his soul - long moments after the boat ferrying the svikari has fallen over the edge. It leaves him weak-kneed for a moment, the burning of his senses.

Asgard is a place that does not see much death - always so quick, never so violent - so he has been made more sensitive to Death and her reapings.

Death has disappeared from the corners of his vision; Skári Ránnulfrson is dead.

It has been a while since she has visited this place.

Sometimes the healers are stationed at the training halls; to nurse the casualties of reckless moves made by soldiers in training. The injuries range from bruised ribs to grisly open wounds, and necessity has made all of them more proficient in their healing of wounds.

There is a crowd forming around the furthest section of the hall. She makes her way to the edges of the crowd, curious to see what has captured the attention of the soldiers. The men shuffle about, making way to let her move to the inner ring of spectators.

There is a fight going on - she cannot believe her eyes - between Hallvarðr and Haraldr. The former has a split lip, and the latter looks as if he is about to fall over in a heap of armour and blood. And despite his breathless condition, he manages to haul the oversized sword over his head to stop the blow that would have split his skull cleanly into two.

She steps forward, ready to put herself in front of the blades if she has to - Haraldr Hjortrson does not belong these ranks of warriors, and he will get killed - but a hand presses onto her shoulder, "Please step back, Healer Eir."

She has been his healer, and knows that his physique can hardly take such blows. Hjortrson's arms are not able to take such force - "But… but he-"

"- has been fighting in these Halls and shown incredible fortitude. Hallvarðr has been appointed his mentor, and we do not question his judgement," is all the guard says, even as Hjortrson takes a vicious blow to the ribs when the Weapons Master reverses the direction of his blade.

Hallvarðr calls for a break, and Harry knows that it is not because that the man is tired. It is because Harry himself is close to collapsing - his vision Is dominated with dancing spots of black and white. Despite the armour and the spells, Hallvarðr's ruthlessness has cut into leather and skin on his left arm. Still, the stabbing pain is better than having his arm lying motionless on the floor.

If he falls to the floor now he really will black out from the pain, and the sword serving as a crutch is the only thing preventing him from doing so. All in all, he has avoided breaking his ribs this time as well; broken ribs would warrant a visit to the Healer's chambers.

Gentle hands take the sword from him, and he dares not look up when long red hair enters the corners of his vision - she is dead and not in even in this world - and strong thin fingers grasp his forearm.

"Thank you," is all he says, as she leads him to the corner, and her grip tightens painfully on his arm.

"You must understand that I have to do this," Haraldr's words are stilted. It might have to do with the fact that she is prodding the battered bones in his arm, but Eir does not want to understand. She knows that he is different from the rest of the men in Asgard. The men here fight and kill and be killed. He dislikes death and suffering - his people frowned upon violence and wars.

They are forcing him to become something else than what he was.

The latest visitor to the gardens is lost in thought, wandering on the pathways without truly looking at the blooms.

"Have a seat, child," Frigga's voice startles the Healer, and all she can do is to offer a gentle twist of her lips to Eir while motioning to the empty space beside her on the stone bench.

Eir does not speak a word, only rubbing her fingers of the dried flaking blood. The bench is cool, and her thoughts are a flurry of confusion.

Tell me, Eir, can one truly belong by standing out?

It is a few weeks before she sees him again, after relenting to the Queen's request for company at one of the more extravagant feasts of the summer. There are no tables solely to be seated at today, and this arrangement makes it easy for all to mingle and chat.

The Queen has situated herself at one side of the room, and at Frigga's elbow Eir can see the rest of the room. His entrance is conspicuous, firstly because of the colours that he has chosen, and mostly because of the way that he carries himself.

He parts the crowds without doing nothing more than footstep after footstep; intensity and strength like a stalking feline. He catches the eyes of those who glance over at him. And she marvels at the transformation that he has gone through since the day she has laid eyes on him.

He makes his way over to the Queen, and there is an inherent seductiveness in his every movement and word as he kisses Frigga's knuckle, "My Queen."

Eir is next, and she shivers at the softness of his lips and the warmth of his fingers, "Healer Eir."

He captures her attention and everyone else's for the rest of the night, speaking with wit. His voice is deep and his knowledge vast, and he walks away with more than lingering glances from the men and women. More than a handful of women trail after him to the balcony, and it sets tongues wagging when they stay there for the duration of the feast.

Gold - The brilliance of the sun and spiritual light shining from Asgard.

Red - Magical might protective power, spiritual life and vigor, aggressive force.

Blue - The all-encompassing, all penetrating, and omnipresent mystical force of numen, a sign of restless motion, the color of Odin's cloak.

Green - Organic life, a sign of earth and nature, passage between worlds.

Yellow - Earthly power.

White - The total expression of light as the sum of all colors totality, purity, perfection, nobility.

Silver - The disk of the moon, striving for higher knowledge.

Black - New beginning ( as night and winter herald the birth of day and summer), all potential, the root of all things, knowledge of hidden things, concealment, the container of light.

Author's notes (21/10/13):

This two-month long hiatus for the rewrite will probably be the last, I hope. I've restructured quite a bit, after several comments about the first chapter being exceptionally hard to digest, and also mainly to allow leeway for future events. TDW is due in a month's time, so hopefully there will be enough room to play with movie-canon as well.

I will try to keep on track with my writing and updates (my tumblr's up again too, with the same pen-name), but as it is, I'm stuck picking up loads of slack from up and above me from work.

As always, your reviews are the ones that keep me going.

Cheers,

ikki.