Library of Dragons
Thanks again to Reviewees and Alertists. Just a quick point to clear up, i know i say Hermione's middle name is Jane, this is according to a quote from JKR in 2004 i think, though it changes in book 7. I have always used Jane so i apologise to readers who find it annoying etc. Thanks again.
The Crows Song
Akhim woke with a start to the not-quite-darkness before dawn. His spelled fire still flickered and dipped, all seemed as it had save for the position and clarity of the stars. From that he gauged he must have slept some three hours or so, much to his anger. He had lost precious time already and sleeping was not the way to gain the upper hand, despite having three pieces of the Torc. From a lofty perch, a crow creaked the dawn chorus, harsh as the forest that held it.
Hurriedly, he snatched up his make-shift pillow and doused his blue flames, brushing off the fresh layer of poisonous dust. He stretched only once and barely yawned. He was ready once again to embark.
Drawing his wand, he avoided debris and crumbling stonework and the badly lifting floor tiles. Coming to the end of that he passed onto a stretch of dry earth on which nothing grew. Here, Akhim could still feel the resonance of black sorcery though most would have mised it in the quagmire of sickly magic about them. It was understandable nothing should grow here, and nothing ever would, he noted, with the putrification of this place.
Soon he came to the strangled walls marking the boundary of what may have been a fine house, centuries past. He stepped over them with ease, his robes moving easily over the masonry and returned to the decaying woodland. His path was still traceable, thankfully, though it felt a little weaker than before. Akhim picked up his pace while around him, as if disturbed, crows shook coal black heads and joined in the hoarse serenade.
-
There. Akhim grinned, his breath coming quicker now, excited. He was close. Very close. His heart thundered, his eyes glittering, hungry. He had a stand of earth to pass over, little more than a bow-shot and then...
Yes, he was mouth-wateringly close to his prize and he could sense no others nearby. A gurgle of laughter escaped him which he supressed quickly. It would not do to be spotted here, nor to draw attention to himself. Though, he would be forced to be in the open for an uncomfortable length of time and some could move faster than he. It would be worth it, he was sure.
He swallowed, wetting his unusually dry throat. His hands gripped his wand tighter, his eyes darting about the clearing edges, though they strayed back to the location of his prize on more than one occaision. No, he had to take this cautiously.
The light was still sparse, the sun being but minutes from rising. If he was to go, he would have to go quickly and in the cover of darkness, the easier for him to remain unseen. It would be difficult and the magic in the clearing would be complicated. Focus was vital if he were to arrive at his prize in good order. Once he had obtained it, he had little to fear but until then, he was painfully aware of his mortality.
A fourth piece, from Bastet, daughter of Ra. It was a treasure too great to miss and too powerful to let it fall into any other hands but his own. The cat goddess and protector, whatever she had posessed would grant its owner unrivaled defences, though it was not infalliable. Akhim's excitement diminished at the memory of a story told to him years prior.
Bastet's amulet could turn, it could leave its wearer bereft if it so chose. It was defeatable, if there was a bigger prize to be found elsewhere. Akhim had to make sure that there wouldn't be a prize any greater than what he proposed- no, what he was destined to do.
Setting his mouth into a grim line, he concentrated once again on the chords of tainted power about him and set to manipulate them. He needed cover, he needed to blind eyes and deafen ears to his passage, confuse those who could waylay him in his task. Words in a tongue long since adultered tumbled from his consciousness, his left hand spread claw-like to guide the fonts to their duty.
At first he felt their resistance, how soe closest seemed to shy away from him almost as if fearing pain. A second incantation lured them close, a third bound them tightly. Sweat blossomed on his forehead, rolling down scarred cheeks and leaving grubby streaks on his dirty face. Still he persevered, knowing he could not stop now, so close to his prize. He could feel the energy seeping away from him, it was more complex than he had thought.
Now his breath came ragged, and it was not through the excitement of gain. He could feel his heartbeat battering at is ribs like a newly caged bird, he could feel the heaviness of his limbs. The magic here was greedy it seemed, to take and corrupt what had been pure. He realised his mistake too late for the words would not stop, leeching from his mind as though borne to legilimens for the first time. He tried to drop his arm, halt the spells but they moved of their own accord, his wand trembling in his grasp.
His eyes shot wide. From somewhere, an influx of power suffused his limbs, saturating every ounce of his being. He did not have time for confusion, the new magic, being stronger, truer than any he had sensed or felt before, burst forth. It pinioned the darker fonts to their appointed tasks and filled him with a new lease of life. He felt invigorated.
As his heart fluttered quieter, strong but steady, he felt a warmth within his robes, pressing against his ribs. Slipping his left hand with the black swathes of cloth, he drew forth the Crescent of Isis, the silver crescent he had taken from the woman the previous day. It was hot to the touch, though not scalding and even as he held it, he felt the heat dispersing, the metal cooling.
Surely, this was a sign of acceptance. The Torc piece had healed him and aided him, helped him command that which threatened him. Unable to stop his glee, he laughed, pocketing it. Around him, the spells held sway, shrouding every other creature, be it beast or bird, in silence. He was the chosen, then, it truely was his destiny.
-
At the half way point, Akhim felt the spells shiver around him. They were weakening and he had been dawdling. His second mistake, he realised with a flush of irritation. Throwing aside decorum, for there were none to see it, he broke into a jog and then to a sprint desperate now to reach his prize and depart, ready to find his next item. He would be one more step closer to reforming the Torc, one more step to achieving the previously unachieved.
His feet thundered on the dead earth, leaving imprints as he raced onward. His robes billowed behind him, his arms pumping to propell him, he was gaining ground swiftly. To his right, one of the restraining bonds snapped and a chord of dark magic lurched inwards. Akhim's eyes flicked over to better view the diaphonous cloud and a shiver of terror pass through him. The magic would follow him and would feed from him.
Through the stitch that was forming in his side, being unused to running, Akhim pushed himself faster, panic feeding his energy. The forest boundary apprached quickly to his relief but he did not stop his pace. Although he couldn't see it, he could sense the predatory magic behind him already feeling its weakening nature.
Despite the leaden quality to his limbs, Akhim forced himself on, desperate and so close to his destination. With a cry he burst into the forested protection in a shower of dust and cob-webbed leaves. His momentum carried him forwards, his eyes stinging with the clogged air, his lungs screaming for oxygen and into a wide archway of stone. His shoulder smacked painfully into the stone contruct and he tumbled in a heap between its stone feet.
The fall left him winded, clutching his ribs and choking. Akhim lay there for several minutes, sure he was dying. The blood vessels in his head and neck pulsed, his legs and arms in time making him twitch like some marionette on string too long to pull properly. His whole body ached both with exertion and fear. The black magic would be upon him soon, draining what little he had left. Thoughts flashed through his mind then, as to whether he had been found unworthy and Isis had simply used him. He knew the God's could be cruel but using him for their own entertinment was base. No, he chastised himself, do not think such herecy.
Having regained his breath somewhat, although still unable to properly move, Akhim looked about him. He was beneath and archway he knew. It looked out of place in the dead woodland. A single arch rearing from acrid dirt to serve a purpose long since decayed. A crow cawed.
But this is where it should have been, everything his dreams, his senses had told him, stated as much.
At the arch so too hangs another, gold and heavy, restraining bonds and supporting arms.
Where was it? He could see no golden arch, nothing to show it had ever been there save for the bare stone above him. Doubt tore at him, he had been so sure, so sure he did not understand he could have been wrong. He had failed so quickly. Staggering to his feet, his teeth grit, he looked around again, scouring every last twig for any sign he had been right. A flash of silver winked in the corner of his eye. His head snapped around and he saw it. At the top of the archway, wending its shimmering way closer too him, an influx of pure magic descended. It broadened with the stone but went no further than the solid boundaries. Akhim's mouth parted in wonder.
As the magic fell upon him like a length of softest silk, he sighed. A warm caress, welcoming arms, enveloping him and drowning out the crows. The deathly trees and poisonous dusts were shielded from his eyes. Fatigue was wiped away, the angry bruise forming on his shoulder, forgotten. He felt safer, comforted, and silently enraptured. His physical body became lighter, rising from the ground. The shimmering curtain of magic grew brighter still, swallowing him in its reasuring folds, washing away all doubts. It suffused his limbs speeding through them and tingling, enlivened at his fingertips, his toes and bubbling within his chest, riotous and hot. It drew him closer and closer, bearing him upwards, forwards, onwards.
This is, truly, the touch of the God's.
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Hermione sighed, a faraway look in her eyes, a hint of a smile on her face. It was easily the fourth time that day she had slipped into daydream and neglected her work. Her morning had definately been memorable. Alright, so he only walked around for a while his shirt off, showing her every muscle and scar and the very impressive tattoo on his back. Still, it was not something she, a very prim and proper witch, saw often.
Fantasising about Charlie Weasley's torso was far more interesting than the leigslation she had already re-done five times for the pernickity Goblin she negotiated with. Far more attractive, too. The only downside was the paperwork would be waiting for her when she returned to reality. That, and she wasn't scheduled to go for dinner at the Weasley's again until Tuesday.
Which reminded her it was Percy's birthday on Tuesday. It brought crashing back into the present, silently cursing. She hadn't had time to buy him a gift yet, or even a card. She was at her parents for the weekend and back at work again on Monday, unless she-
"Hermione?" It was Laura, the receptionist for the Department of Liasons, Magical Creutres Division. Hermione looked sharply up from her work, hoping it looked like she had been doing some, and focused on the other woman. Once Laura was sure she had Hermione's attention, she continued. "There's someone out front to see you, if you have a minute. No appointment." Laura shrugged.
"Oh," Mentally thanking whatever sentient being existed for the more than welcome distraction from her work, Hermione nodded. "Of course, tell them i'll be out in a moment," She smiled at the receptionist who had already acquiesced and was returning to her work station.
Miss Granger pushed a lock of curly brown hair away from her fact, straightened her shirt and slipped her shoes back on (having the bad habit of taking them off to feel more comfortable at work). Once she was satisfied she looked at least presentable, for in her line of work, appearances could be very important to an overall opinion, she left her pokey little office and began the short walk to the front desk.
"Charlie!" She grinned when she saw the stocky red-head waiting by Laura's desk. A winning smiled was flashed in her direction as she approached. "What are-"
"Just dropped by to see if you wanted to go grab some lunch, or something. We can have a proper chat then," Although Hermione knew he meant talking about finding Arthur and other such related things, Laura did not. The amused expresion the receptionit was sporting was visible in the corner of Hermione's eye and she could already feel a blush creeping across her cheeks. Why did Laura have to chose now to make assumptions?
"Sure, I'll just grab my bag-" She began, already turning to retrieve it.
