[summary] KingsleyRosmerta [The Little Mermaid] "The middle of the story will always remain in the middle," she says. "And sometimes it may seem unimportant, but it is necessary for the story to finish."

A/N - Written for Assignment 8, Geology, Task 3: Write about a hidden or lost civilisation

This is actually called The Story Is Bigger Than Us (but we all have our part to play) but FFN said no :(

For Amber :)

And a massive thank-you to Bex for beta'ing!

Warnings: Descriptions of injury, character death


Agony laces up his legs with each step he takes, like a thousand metal splinters all pushing under his skin. He cannot help the gasp that escapes his lips, nor the involuntary shudder as he steps on a pebble and it feels like a knife to the sole of his foot.

There are no visible injuries, however, for which Kingsley is grateful. He need only school his expression, or feign an old injury that occasionally still bothers him, and the matter will be dropped. But that does not make his pain any less real. His bones feel as if they are splintering, his skin peeling off and exposing muscle and sinew.

"Are you alright?" a girl — no, a woman, asks. She is beautiful, Kingsley notes distantly through the haze of pain. Her skin a pure alabaster, her body shapely. But it is her eyes, the knowing intelligence behind them, as if she has seen a thousand pitiful creatures such as he and will see a thousand more. "This isn't a nudist beach, y'know."

His nudity is not something he has ever been ashamed of, it is not something to hide in his culture, but he cannot help but glance down at himself as her eyes skim slowly over his body, wondering what it is she sees. He paid a great price for his new body, but it is still strange to see. He has been changed much, and yet much of him still remains the same. The blending of what is and what was will take some getting used to, he fears. Even the seashell he wears on a string looped around his next is alien and unfamiliar, but he finds the reminder of home a comfort, even if it also serves as a reminder for something else.

"I can only apologise," he says, his tone sincere. "I was not expecting company."

The woman scoffs, and still somehow the gesture is beautiful even in its crudeness. "This is a public beach," she says with scorn lacing her tone. Kingsley has never been chided before, no one would dare, but he finds he does not particularly mind.

"My apologies, my lady," he says, dipping his head in subserviation. "I had intended no offense."

"You're a strange one," she says, her eyes still regarding him critically, but she gives a sharp nod, as if he has somehow answered a question she had not yet asked. "Come on, then."

Kingsley is taken aback, unused to such abrupt changes in demeanor. "Forgive me, my lady, but I do not quite follow."

She rolls her eyes and throws the towel that had been draped over her arm towards him. He does not catch it.

It lands at his feet, spreading agony up from his toes where even the touch of mere fabric is too much for him. He does not understand what she means him to do with it, and something of that must register on his face for she says, "C'mon, cover your bits, I don't have all day."

His eyes dart from her to the towel and back again, unsure what 'bits' he is supposed to be covering. But the woman is clothed in fabric, a floral patterned material that sits tightly across her breasts and flares out at her waist. Slowly, careful not to move his legs and feet too much, Kingsley reaches down and picks up the towel, wrapping the scratchy material over his shoulders.

The woman gives him a look he cannot interpret. "I can't tell if you're taking the piss or a little … strange," she says. He does not think 'strange' is the word she had originally planned to use.

"I am sorry —"

"You apologise an awful lot, you know that, right?" she asks, and he has to refrain from apologising once again. "You don't need to apologise for your existence, you know."

She steps closer to him, pulling the towel from his shoulders with surprising gentleness given how up until now, brisk would possibly be the nicest term for her demeanor. She slips the fabric around his waist, tucking it over itself so that it stays around his hips without assistance, and then she takes his arm.

"Are you hurt?" she asks, her voice softer now, her eyes gently inquisitive. "I saw you walking like you were in pain. Thought you might be drunk at first." She says this in an apologetic manner, yet gives no apology. Kingsley finds this woman to be quite strange. "How about we start with names, then?" she asks when he does not offer a response. "I'm Rosmerta."

It is a strange name, but he finds himself wanting to repeat it, to feel the syllables roll off his tongue. He refrains. "You may call me Kingsley," he says instead.

"Very regal."

He does not deign to respond. Primarily because he is in complete and utter agony, each step like blades digging into his skin. He wants to curl up on the ground and cry, but he would never allow himself to do so. Stll, the pain is almost unbearable. He has never felt anything like it, and he wishes never to again.

Rosmerta leads him up stone steps, and Kingsley cannot refrain from crying out softly in pain. She aims a concerned expression his way but she does not ask again how he is hurt, and for that Kingsley is grateful. He could not talk even if he wanted to, it would likely only result in incoherent screams.

"It's not far," Rosmerta says gently, patiently, and Kingsley is distantly aware that she is walking at a pace too slow for her own comfort, and that she is doing so for him. He does not have the capability to offer his thanks.

The concrete is agony on his cursed feet, his mouth filling with blood as he bites down on his tongue to prevent any further utterances of his pain. His vision is clouding over, foggy, the edges of the world turning a murky black, and his ears are ringing incessantly. His mouth fills with acidic saliva, mixing with the blood from his tongue and the combined taste causes him to gag when he swallows.

He does not know what these signs point to, but he thinks he should sit down. Before he can voice this thought, however, the ground is rushing up to meet him and Kingsley knows no more.

.oOo.

Kingsley is very proud of his role in the king's guard. He has worked incredibly hard to get to where he is, overcoming the obstacles his mother being of the fresh-water merfolk had caused. Kingsley is not ashamed of his mother, and, if he had any memory of her, he thinks he might have liked her. He imagines her to be a kind, caring woman. After all, she had fallen in love with a salt-water merman, and moved her entire life to be with him, to create a child with him.

Unfortunately, that left Kingsley with some rare … defects. He was not quite of the salt-water, and not quite of the fresh-water. He was something in between. Different. And that brought him a whole host of troubles. He had been a sickly child, and when his mother had been forced to return to her fresh-water clan due to ailing health, Kingsley had been too fragile to accompany her.

But still, Kingsley has managed to gain this most sought after post, despite every challenge and obstacle thrown his way. He likes to think his mother would have been proud. He hopes she would have been proud.

"Shacklebolt!" someone shouts, Kingsley does not know who, and the yell is followed by uproarious laughter. Shacklebolt is the name they had given him in the barracks. A joke, really. Although one that Kingsley does not find particularly funny, it is one he is prepared to live with. After all, he had needed a surname. Fresh-water merfolk took their name from their father's line, and salt-water from their mother's. Kingsley is already a rarity in that he lacks a mother, but his father hadn't wanted to give him to the barracks as a child.

Instead, Kingsley had joined of his own free will as soon as he hit the age of majority. His father had not been pleased, but he had supported his son nonetheless.

Kingsley swims through the gates, pulling his shoulders back and keeping his head high.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt reporting for duty, ma'am," he says once he is in front of his commanding officer. She merely nods, not even looking up from her notes, and sends him off to join the lines of soldiers outside the palace with a flick of her tail.

Kingsley can't say that he is surprised. The King's Guard, whilst an incredibly respected position, is largely for posterity. They are to protect the king in a time of peace, and to uphold tradition.

Or so the higher-ups say.

But Kingsley knows there has been rumors of a war brewing, one to rival the Great War of the Oceans. It is the war in which his parents had met, but otherwise very little had come of it. And now, there have been stirrings that the enemies of the merfolk, the deep-water dwellers, are once more on the rise.

This is why the King's Guard has doubled in size, why a soldier is stationed every ten meters around the palace walls. The King has claimed that there is no threat, but Kingsley knows he is scared.

And this is the reason Kingsley had signed up to the barracks, despite his father's wishes. Because this is his home. The only one he's ever known. And he will die before he sees it fall.

.oOo.

For a moment, Kingsley forgets himself and grasps at his throat, holding his breath, thinking he is going to suffocate without the comforting chill of the ocean providing oxygen through his gills. But his fingers find only smooth skin where his gills should be, not even a hint of scales, and a thin cord tied around his neck. His fingers follow the cord, finding the smooth surface of a shell. It is strangely warm. And then, Kingsley remembers where he is, what he has given up to be here.

Someone has draped a sheet over his form, and he pushes the fabric aside. He still has legs. That's good. Probably. It will be utter agony to walk, but that is a part of the price he'd had to pay, and Kingsley will gladly suffer it if he can achieve what he set out to do.

His one task could change everything, and Kingsley would gladly give his life for what he believed in and so the pain in his legs, no matter how all-encompassing, was nothing in the grand scheme of things. It was nothing compared to what he had already sacrificed. Nothing compared to what he was willing to sacrifice.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet already looked a little raw, a little bruised, but he isn't sure if that is the standard for human feet or if perhaps his are somehow faulty. And pushing himself to standing is absolute agony, but he had been expecting it, his jaw already clenched to trap his cry of pain.

There is a knock at the door. Kingsley is not quite sure what he should do. Doors are not something he is used to. Even the palace, the only true building his people have, does not have doors. Instead, there are grand archways, decorated with magnificent seashells and pearls.

"I am here," he says after some consideration, and the door swings open.

Rosmerta enters with a silver tray balanced atop one palm, and in her other hand she holds a pitcher of water. Her eyes are on her feet when she enters, making sure she does not trip.

"That's an interesting way to say —" she begins, but cuts herself off when her eyes finally meet his feet, and travel up his legs towards — "You're really not a fan of clothes, are you?" she asks, her lips twisting up into an amused smile.

"I do not have any," Kingsley says.

"I left you some on the dresser." Rosmerta places the tray on said dresser, setting the water pitcher down beside it, and hands Kingsley a pile of fabric. He does not know what to do with these items. None of them resemble the clothing Rosmerta wore the previous day, and none of them resemble the black fabric encircling her waist that falls to her knees, or the green fabric loosely encasing her arms and torso.

He releases the pile of fabric, and is surprised when it falls to the floor. He had forgotten that things do not float here, outside of the water.

"Not to your tastes?" Rosmerta asks. There is a biting edge to her tone, and Kingsley fears he may have done something wrong.

"I did not mean to offend, my lady," he begins, but he is unsure how to finish as he doesn't know quite what he is apologising for.

"It's the best I could do," Rosmerta says. "I run a pub, not a clothing store." She folds her arms beneath her breast and sends him a glare unrivaled by any Kingsley has seen before. The effect is terrifying. "Well?" she snaps. "Put them on. You're not running around starkers."

Kingsley hurries to comply.

.oOo.

"Shacklebolt!" his superior calls. Scrimgeour is an imposing merman. He's shorter than Kingsley in stature, and considerably older. He does not carry his age well — his face lined and scarred, his hair a scraggly mane about his head, floating in the current as he swims slowly towards Kingsley — but his skills lie more in intimidation than looks. It's a more useful attribute for the highest ranking officer in the King's Guard. "I have a job for you," he says once they are facing each other.

The mer on either side of Kingsley attempt to secretly listen in on their conversation — a special assignment, when one is so new to the ranks? Unheard of.

Scrimgeour does not look away from Kingsley, but he must sense prying ears for he says, "Come with me," and swims in the direction of the palace gates.

He moves slowly, his tail even more scarred than his face, and there are jagged edges to his fins where chunks have been removed. They do not look like surgical scars. Anyone else, Kingsley imagines, would have been removed from Service. Moody, the mer who had recommended Kingsley for the King's Guard and had personally overseen his training, had been removed due to injuries from the last war. Kingsley has not seen him since.

"If you don't mind me asking," he says, knowing that he is breaking protocol but too curious not to, "where are we going?"

Scrimgeour regards him critically. "That is not the question I thought you were going to ask," is all he says in response, and continues to lead Kingsley farther away from the palace.

"Sir —"

"All in good time, Shackelbolt," Scrimgeour says. Kingsley is far from reassured. Instead, he feels dread coiling in his stomach.

"Are we — Are we leaving the clan's territory?"

Scrimgeour's responding smile can only be described as grim.

.oOo.

Rosmerta graciously allows Kingsley to help her with 'her rounds' as she calls it, though Kingsley isn't entirely sure why a barmaid would have to traipse from door to door, in exchange for the price of his room and meals. The clothing, he assumes, is a gift. A scratchy gift that leaves his newly-smooth skin irritated and raw, but a gift nonetheless.

The basket Kingsley carries is full of small bread rolls wrapped in a shiny paper. He had been too afraid to ask why she was delivering bread, and now he was too exhausted to risk her ire, the pain from his feet lacing up his legs and sending glass-like shards of pain to his hips. His socks feel damp, and he dreads what he will find when he removes his shoes.

"Do you make the bread yourself?" he asks. It is an attempt to distract himself, to think of something other than the excruciating pain.

"We're nearly done," she says, her tone surprisingly gently. "I can run you a bath when we get back to the pub."

Kingsley is taken aback, first by her tone and secondly because he does not know what a bath is. "Thank you," he says, rather than admitting he is once again ignorant in an area that would be seen as common knowledge for a human child.

"You should have told me you were injured," she says. Her tone is sharper now, as though she's making up for her earlier gentleness, but her eyes are still filled with warmth. Eyes a dark shade of blue that remind Kingsley of the ocean he has forfeited, nothing like the cold eyes of his kind.

"There is nothing that can be done about it," he says, seeing no point in lying to her. She is incredibly shrewd, he imagines she would see through such an obvious lie in a heartbeat.

"Still," she says, "I'd have found some other way for you to pay for food and board had I known." She stops near a wooden bench, setting her own now-empty basket down. "We'll sit here for a moment," she says. "And then it's back to work."

He fingers the shell around his neck; a nervous habit he has recently picked up. A black speck mars the once pristine surface. He is running out of time.

"May I ask," he says, feeling suddenly bold, "why are you delivering bread?" She has staff working at her pub, surely one of them could have delivered the rolls. Unless they were somehow of importance? "Is there a message on this … paper?" he asks, the foreign word rolling strangely off his tongue.

She laughs at that, unwrapping a roll and handing him the paper. It is strange, thicker than he'd expected, and feels oddly greasy. But it is blank. She is still smiling when he looks back up at her, a silent apology written on his features. She is beautiful, he realises; warm and there in a way his kind never really are.

"Would you like to try it?" she asks, "I baked it myself." The roll in her hand has an image carved into it, a bird with long tail feathers caught mid-flight and surrounded by flames. She tears the roll in half, handing him a section and taking a large, ungraceful bite of her own. "It's very good," she says around her mouthful.

Kingsley hesitates only a moment before taking a delicate bite, savouring the small mouthful on his tongue. It is buttery and soft and strangely light, but it seems to thicken the longer he leaves it in his mouth. He swallows and finds himself coughing, choking, his eyes watering as Rosmerta frowns in concern.

"You are my first complaint," she says, her eyes narrowed in irritation.

"I do apologise." Kingsley has to force the words out past the painful lump in his throat, and when he finally manages to swallow he wishes he had some water. The ocean is so near, he could just —

"Come on," she says briskly, "we've dallied enough."

.oOo.

"Sir, I know it is not my place to ask," Kingsley begins hesitantly, gaining more confidence when Scrimgeour simple regards him with mild disapproval, "but where is it we're going?"

"To the Outer Reaches." Scrimgeour does not elaborate further, but it is enough information for Kingsley to form a somewhat educated guess.

The Outer Reaches are where most mer like Kingsley wind up. Those whose parents are from different lands, or who have simply wandered too far to return home. It had been both a kindness and a cruelty when Kingsley's father had chosen to keep his son, but one that Kingsley is grateful for. Because, whilst he holds great esteem for the mer of the Outer Reaches, it is not a place he would like to spend the entirety of his life.

The sea gets quieter the closer they swim towards the Outer Reaches, darker. The water murkier. It is a place where magic is performed freely. Not quite the dark magic of the Deep Sea, but magic is something most mer have learnt to fear long ago. All but the King's Guard, who must complete a year of study in the Outer Reaches.

Kingsley swallows thickly, hoping he is not being reassigned, retrained.

"Dumbledore wishes to speak with you," Scrimgeour says, unprompted. This is startling news, confusing. What would Dumbledore want with Kingsley? Dumbledore is the ruler — or sorts, for he does not like to be known as such — of the Outer Reaches. During Kingsley's year here he had not once seen the famed mer, and he had not once wanted to. "Through his advisors, of course," Scrimgeour adds. "You will, of course, keep me fully informed as to what they say and what they ask of you."

Kingsley nods. His mouth won't open, his muscles tensed. He wishes he had been sent to see Dumbledore himself. Because Kingsley has already met Dumbledore's advisors. And they are so much worse than any story could tell.

.oOo.

Skin peels from his feet. He hadn't known this would happen. He'd thought the pain would only be in his mind, not turn into a physical injury. His sheets are stained with blood, and he dreads putting on socks, let alone shoes, but Rosmerta will insist.

He knows that is an unfair thought. He feels he knows her well enough to be confident in the assumption that she will tell him to rest, that she will call a doctor. But Kingsley does not have time for either.

So he gets dressed. Slowly, carefully. Gritting his teeth to suppress his wimpers of pain as he slides on first his trousers and then his socks and shoes. He thinks he will have to search for bandages at some point. Soon. But without Rosmerta knowing what he is doing.

Carefully, he tucks the shell beneath his shirt. It is better to keep it from prying eyes, he thinks. To keep it closer is to keep it safer. He ignores that the black speck has grown, that it is large enough now to be truly noticeable.

He pushes the thought aside and hobbles down the hallway, trying to only walk on the sides of his feet. It makes the pain shooting up his legs as if his very bones are splintering so much worse, but it eases his weight off of the wounds on his feet.

He adjusts his walk when he hears the sounds of movement on the landing below, trying to mimic the way he has seen humans stepping. Trying to look as though he is not in excruciating agony.

"Are we doing the same again today?" he asks when he sees it is Rosmerta.

She looks at him with a frown maring her beautiful features, and after a while she says, "No, I don't think so." But before Kingsley can get too worried, before he can linger too long on the question of whether or not she knows, she adds, "I had thought I might show you around. You said you're new here, didn't you?"

The way she eyes him, it seems knowing in a way he finds both uncomfortable and appealing.

But time is running out. His feet are testament to that. But still … maybe this could help him. Maybe he might find what he needs …

He twists his mouth into a smile, trying to keep his pain from his face, and says, "That would be lovely."

.oOo.

Scrimgeour waits at the very edges of the Outer Reach; even he is unwilling to swim further in than he has to. Kingsley does not blame him.

The reeds reach up from the seabed, tangling around Kingsley's tail, his limbs, trying to trap him, to drag him down and pin him against the seafloor.

But Kingsley has been through these reeds before. Many times, when he was studying here. The first time, yes, he had wound up pinned to the floor and had to await help from a rather irritated mer by the name of Filch. Since that incident, he had made sure never to be trapped by the reeds again, if only to avoid another unpleasant encounter with Filch.

He swims into the cave that houses Dumbledore's advisors. It is more a network of caves, really, all interconnected beneath the rock face in ways that are seemingly impossible but in reality work quite well. Kingsley suspects magic is involved, but this is not a thought he would ever dare force. Magic is only tolerated in emergencies, and never to be used to alter the structure of nature.

Clearing his throat, Kingsley pushes aside the seaweed strung from the top of the rocky cave in the place of a curtain, blocking out the light.

Inside, two shadows move. Twining about each other, twisting and turning gracefully. Two sets of large, yellow eyes stare at him, both magnified impossibly by the darkness.

"Ah," says the first voice, "I had known you would come. Seen it in the sands, heard it in the waves."

"Of course you knew he would come," the second voice snaps. "He was asked for."

"Yes, yes, but all the same …" the first voice says airly, punctuating her words with a soft hiss.

"Some light would help," says the second, and at her words balls of light appear glowing softly. They are plants of some sort, growing from the exposed seabed, but not plants Kingsley is overly familiar with. He has never seen them outside this cave.

But the lights are helpful in that Kingsley can now see who he is talking to, though in all honesty he would rather not see Dumbledore's advisors. They are not overly pleasant to look at. They each have the face of aged women and the bodies of eels, with spindly arms and legs extending like those of a frog with webbed fingers and toes. The first, Trelawney, has decorated herself with shells and pearls and treasures sunk from the Dry Lands — bottle caps and bright shards of plastic and colourful glass. The second, McGonagall, remains unadorned.

Kingsley bows his head in supplication as a sign of respect for the two creatures. "I was told —"

"Yes, I see it now!" Trewlany says, spreading her arms wide and starring glassy-eyed at the roof of the cave. "You are to begin a quest —"

"Oh, for Trident's sake," McGonagall snaps, "you know precisely why he is here, because we sent for him, you blithering woman."

"Yes, yes," Trelawney simpers, "because of the signs in the sands, the call of the waves —"

"Because Dumbledore asked us to!"

This is why Kingsley does not care to visit Dumbledore's advisors. They are complete opposites, and he does not know how they have lived together for so long. Some say they are sisters, others that they are old friends. Kingsley just finds them incredibly hard to deal with, with their constant arguments and disagreements.

"Perhaps you could —" he begins.

"Do not interrupt!" they both snap, for once united in their irritation for him.

"As I was saying," Mcgonagall continues with a huff. "Dumbledore has an assignment for you, one of great importance —"

"As seen in the waves —"

"Will you stop that?" McGonagall snaps, turning her lamp-like eyes on Trelawney. "You were hearing the waves a minute ago, now you're seeing them?"

Trelawney sniffs derisively. "Things can be both seen and heard."

"Your assignment is of great importance," McGonagall continues as if she had never been interrupted. Kingsley feels the beginnings of a headache stirring at the base of his skull. "You are needed to —"

'To travel the lands! To walk with strange creatures! And there is a girl, such a beautiful girl, who —"

"He's going on a job, not a date," McGonagall snaps. "But yes, you may need to venture into strange lands." Here, she pauses, glancing at her companion as if waiting for her to interrupt. Trelawney, for once, remains silent. "We need you to deliver … an object. A treasure which might just change the outcome of the war. We're —"

"It all depends on you!" Trelawney yells ominously, having apparently been silent for longer than she could handle. "On the choices you make! On what you are willing to give up, to lose, and to never have had."

"That's quite enough of that," McGonagall says briskly. "Nonsense, really. Pay her no mind," she says to Kingsley. But there is something in the narrowing of her eyes, in the slight jerk of her head, that leads Kingsley to believe he should pay more attention to Trelawney's words than McGonagall is indicating.

But still, Kingsley has never refused Dumbledore, and he is not about to now.

"Where is it I need to go?"

.oOo.

Rosmerta leads Kingsley through the back of the pub, out through the fire exit. She says this is her pub, but Kingsley has never actually seen her with customers. In fact, she seems to spend most of her time outside of the pub. But, Kingsley supposes, he is not at all knowledgeable about such things. Perhaps that is simply how a pub is run in the Dry Lands.

Kingsley does like the rooms he has seen so far, though. They are all decorated in deep reds and oranges and golds. Lights hang from the ceilings, and plush carpet lines the floors. It is all very strange. They even have miniature rooms for fires — which Kingsley has learnt are not to be touched.

And Rosmerta seems to have a love for a particular bird. One made impossibly of fire. There are tapestries and statues and paintings and vases and books — so many books — all depicting the likeness of this strange creature. It is the same one Rosmerta had imprinted into her bread rolls. All with their wings spread in flight, their beaks raised towards the heavens.

He reaches to touch one of the objects, a statue made of coloured glass that reflects the light from the lamps and the fires and spreads it beautifully in a rainbow across the room.

A hiss, a scratch, the statue shatters on the floor.

The attack came from nowhere, and Kingsley is sorely missing his weapons, but he had only been able to take one thing with him. And it needed to be his necklace.

"Don't worry," Rosmerta says, laughter lacing her tone, "it's just the cat."

In her arms is something small and fluffy and impossibly angry. Its eyes remind him of Dumbledore's advisors, with their glowing yellow eyes too large for their heads. And when the creature catches him looking it growls low in its throat.

Kingsley mimics the noise, attempting to show dominance.

It earns him a strange look from Rosmerta, one he does not know how to interpret, but she cradles the cat closer to her chest, pulling it away from Kingsley. Good, he thinks. She is restraining it. Surely it will receive the correct repercussions at a later date. A fine, perhaps? Kingsley does not know how things are done here.

There is a deep scratch on Kingsley's arm, red beading to the surface of his skin.

"That was one of my favourites," Rosmerta says, and it takes Kingsley a moment to realise she is referring to the statue he had dropped.

"I am sorry," he says. "I shall replace it."

Rosmerta shakes her head, setting the cat gently to the floor. "Don't worry about it. I've loads more."

Kingsley hesitates, fingers once again finding the shell around his neck. The black spot had grown again, veins spreading out with the speck at its centre. Soon, Kingsley thinks, the shell will be entirely black.

But that is not the thing that worries him the most. Not anymore.

It has begun to beat, like a heart, but not quite in sync with his own. The thought alone makes him feel ill, for he is beginning to suspect what it might be.

"Do you know what it is?" Rosmerta asks, startling Kingsley.

He grips the shell tighter, his breath coming in short gasps. Does she know?

"Don't look so scared," Rosmerta says, her eyes crinkling with laughter. Eyes so blue, they make Kingsley miss the sea even though he can hear it from his window each night.

Kingsley licks his lips, his eyes darting about the room he already knows to be empty as if he fears someone is hidden in the walls, and whispers, "Do you know what it is?"

Rosmerta laughs, loud and joyful and carefree. It is the laugh of one much younger than she, or perhaps one who has not known war the way most mer Kingsley's age and younger have. Or perhaps she is simply very good at finding happiness even in the darkest of times. Kingsley does not know. He is finding there is a lot he doesn't know, and now he doesn't have much time at all to learn.

"It's a phoenix," she says, her lips still turned up in a smile. She has dimples, he notes, one in each cheek. And her nose crinkles when she smiles like this. And then, her words finally register, and Kingsley feels all the blood rush from his face.

.oOo.

"There will be a hall, a hall of caged birds. Trapped and —"

"You're looking for the Order of the Phoenix," McGonagall interrupts.

Trelawney makes an expression disturbingly similar to a pout, looking strange and alien on her wrinkled face. "I was getting to that," she whines, turning huge eyes on McGonagall. "You never let me have any fun. Always taking the good bits —"

"We'd be here all day if I left things up to you," McGonagall snaps. "And I, for one, have better things to be doing with my time."

Kingsley is not sure if he is supposed to speak, or if interrupting would turn their ire towards him. He slinks back into the shadows, hoping they might even forget he is still here.

"There's no use doing that," McGonagall says, "we can see in the dark."

Kingsley swallows, his tongue feeling too thick in his mouth. "And I am to take this ordered phoenix to —"

"No, no, do pay attention!" McGonagall says.

"A bird of fire, a bird of glass," Trelawney is chanting softly, spinning in circles and contorting her eel-like body into seemingly impossible positions. She points a wavering finger at Kingsley, leaning her face uncomfortably close to his. "It will all come shattering down around you!"

"Yes, doom and gloom, we've heard it all before," McGonagall says, though her tone doesn't have its usual bite to it. And is that genuine concern lacing her features, hidden underneath her constant look of disapproval? Kingsley does not get a chance to ask about it, even had he been brave enough to do so.

"You," McGonagall says, pointing one bony finger at Kingsley, "will take something to the Order of the Phoenix. But it will not be easy."

"Do I have a choice?" The words are out before Kingsley can stop them, and he regrets them instantly. That is not something you should ever ask of Dumbledore's advisors, or so he has been told.

But McGonagall's next words surprise him. "You always have a choice," she says, "though this is not an easy one."

Trelawny strokes a sharp nail down the side of his face, causing Kingsley to let out an involuntary shudder. "It all depends on what you are willing to give up —"

"To lose, and to never have had," Kingsley snaps, finally reaching the end of his patience. "Yes, you said."

"This one listens," Trelawney simpers, her finger taking a more gentle route down his throat until her hand is splayed flat against his chest. "But does he hear?"

"You will need to visit the Dry Lands," McGonagall says. "And do get off the boy," she says, prying Trelawney's hands from Kingsley. "We don't have time for nonsense."

"Yes, I hear it now, I see it, time is already slipping away from us. Fading towards darkness, and then there will be no more!"

Fear claws at Kingsley's chest, despite his best efforts to ignore most of what Trelawney is saying and doing. "No more what?" he asks in a hushed whisper.

"Time," snaps McGonagall. "Do pay attention."

Kingsley's headache is like a knife twisting in his skull, causing his eyes to water.

.oOo.

"You alright?" Rosmerta asks, her head tipped to one side and her blonde curls falling over her shoulder. Most mer do not have hair, and Kingsley longs to touch it, but he thinks that might be inappropriate.

"I — Yes, I —" He does not know quite what to say. This is it, his quest ended, but he is not yet ready for that. He thought he'd have longer, just a little more time. But time is always so fleeting …

Still, Kingsley thinks, it's best to make sure. His fingers catch the shell about his neck, tracing its smooth surface, the whorls on its surface. It would not do to act rashly, and he has grown rather used to having the necklace, the shell warming his skin rather than the other way around.

"Why do you have so many … phoenixes?" he asks, the word rolling strangely off his tongue. It fills him with an unusual anger that doesn't feel quite like his own.

Rosmerta laughs, but the sound is shrill, strained. Not at all her usual laugh. "A little joke, I suppose," she says with feigned airiness. "I told someone once I liked phoenixes, and people keep giving them to me!" She shrugs, as if the action is enough to brush the conversation aside, and gestures towards the door. "Shall we?"

The anger seems to dissipate the farther they get from the pub.

.oOo.

"Found long ago, and secreted away until the day shall come in which it will be destroyed!" Trelawney is uncomfortably close to Kingsley, once again. "One has already died for its secrets, and another may too."

"What is it?" Kingsley whispers. He is afraid, he's not too proud to admit that. Anyone would be, with Trelawney's rotten teeth filed into spikes inches from their face, her breath smelling strangely bitter.

"A necklace," McGonagall says. "We need you to deliver it to someone who understands its secrets."

Disappointment floods through Kingsley like a wave. He had been expecting something more … exciting. Nothing so mundane as a necklace. "Can't you just open it?"

"Open it!?" Kingsley has never seen anyone look quite so shocked and outraged as McGonagall does now. "You want to just open the most significant object in this war?"

Kingsley swallows. "Well," he mutters, "when you put it that way …"

"It is not for the opening," Trelawney says, drawing McGonagall's attention away from Kingsley, much to his relief. "It is not for the close," she continues. "The middle of the story will always remain in the middle," she says. "And sometimes it may seem unimportant, but it is necessary for the story to finish."

Kingsley does not understand how delivering a necklace to the Dry Lands can be important in any way, but he is not quite so rash as to say such a thing. The Advisors know what they are talking about, no matter how much they may seem like confused elderly women.

McGonagall pulls out an ornate box made of shell and inlaid with beautiful pearl, opening the clasp to reveal a surprisingly simple shell necklace laid on a bed of moss. The colouring on it is beautiful, a pure white the likes of which Kingsley has never seen before, seeming to glow in the dim cave, but it is otherwise unremarkable.

"So," he says, reaching for the necklace, "I deliver this to the Dry Lands, and —"

McGonagall snaps the box shut, nearly catching Kingsley's fingers. "Nothing comes without a price!" she says. A less cautious person might point out that Kingsley had been asked to come here, that he had been asked to complete this task, but Kingsley knows enough about them to hold his tongue. He has already tested their patience enough for one day. "All magic comes with a price," she continues, "and this is very strong magic indeed."

"A price must be paid!" Trelawney echos. "The price you need to pay, the price you choose, the price you do not yet know."

Kingsley nods slowly. That makes sense. The Advisors do not simply create magic from nothing, no one can do that. The price must always be equal to or more than the magic gained, or the consequences will be dire.

"And what price must I pay?"

"Well that is entirely up to you," McGonagall says. "What are you willing to part with?"

"Will it make a difference," he asks, "what I choose to pay?"

"Of course," they both answer, though it is an answer Kingsley had already known.

He does not wish to be hasty. He must think this through carefully.

.oOo.

Kingsley wakes in the darkest hours of the night to a burning in his chest. On his chest. The shell is heated so much that there is a red mark imprinted into his skin, and it does not want to part from his flesh. And there are … whispers. Voices, or perhaps just one voice overlapping itself, coming from the seam of the shell.

Is it open a little wider than it had been? The darkness is definitely spreading. This cannot be a good sign. Time is running out.

He pulls a robe about his shoulders, finding the loose fabric more comfortable than the trousers he is forced to wear during the day. It is still scratchy and irritating on his skin which is used to just the salt of the ocean, and even that from under a layer of protective scales, but it is preferable to the alternative.

Leaving his feet bare, even though he is likely to leave a trail of blood behind him, Kingsley slips quietly out of his room and into the hall.

He is hoping to sneak outside, towards the ocean, to listen to its soothing sounds, to smell the salt in the air. It will calm him, he thinks. Ease his ever present anger and self-doubt.

But he does not make it that far. In fact, he doesn't even manage to leave the pub.

It is on the landing below his that Kingsley hears voices. Lowered, muffled, but clearly not expecting anyone to be lurking in the hallways.

He creeps closer.

A door Kingsley has not entered is slightly ajar, yellow light seeping out into the hallway. The voices filter out through the gap; most are unfamiliar to him, but he recognises Rosmerta amongst them.

Words that Kingsley does not understand reach his ears — words like 'Death Eater', and 'Inferi' and 'Horcrux'. They are all said in hushed tones, not the kind you use when you do not want to be heard but the kind used when what you are talking about is so taboo that it can only be said in whispers.

Dread pools in Kingsley's stomach, and the shell around his neck burns fiercely.

It is almost entirely black now, and that alone makes Kingsley's decision.

He pushes open the door.

.oOo.

"I need to go to the Dry Lands, yes?" Kingsley asks.

"That is one option, yes," is McGonagall's response.

Shaking his head, Kingsley asks, "But that is where I need to take it. What else would I do?"

"There are always many options," Trelawney says, her voice sounding strangely far-off, "many choices to be made. Our paths are never confined to a straight line."

"She means," McGonagall says with a huff, "that you always have a choice. No matter what it may seem like."

"I would need to give up my tail," Kingsley says.

Neither McGonagall nor Trelawney have any response to that. Kingsley is glad, in a way. It is not a decision he has come to lightly, and he does not want their bickering to make this moment any harder.

"I cannot in good conscience pass this task onto someone else," he says slowly. "So that is the only choice I am left with, to walk upon the Dry Lands myself."

They both nod, their expressions grim.

"It is a good choice," McGonagall says, "but a tail for legs is not quite an even trade."

"One for two? No, no. More must be given. Two for two or none at all," Trelawney agrees in her strange way.

"I have nothing to give," Kingsley says. He is a member of the King's Guard, all his property is, by extension, property of the King and not so easily traded away.

"You will not be without a tail," McGonagall says, "and what is bargained away is not so easily regained."

Trelawney's fingers are once again trailing across Kingsley's face, her nails leaving deep red welts in their wake. "Sight, perhaps?" she says. "Or your voice?" Kingsley shakes his head at that; he cannot make the trade without his voice. He knows not how to write or draw and he will not reduce himself to gestures alone to tell his tale. "Your heart, or —"

"My heart!?" is Kingsley's incredulous response. "Surely I cannot live without my heart?"

"Not that silly thing beating in your chest," Trelawney says airly, "thumpthumpthumping blood through your body. No, we have no use for such a thing. And messy, too." She digs her nail into the centre of his chest, right above his beating heart. "No, no. The heart of you.The thing that makes you … you."

"How would I go on, if I weren't me?" Kingsley asks. It is not an option he likes, but it seems far better than giving away his sight or his voice; he will need both to pass his message across.

"You would still be you," McGonagall says as Trelawney draws away. "Just … missing a piece."

"Not entirely you," Trelawney says, "but not entirely not. You but halved, watered down. Sand filling in the cracks."

Kingsley nods slowly. "Then that is the option I choose," he says.

"Are you sure?" McGonagall asks. "Once you do this, there is no going back."

Kingsley nods once more.

McGonagall looks almost sad as she says, "I was afraid you might say that."

.oOo.

Several people in the room jump to their feet, pointing sticks at Kingsley. He does not know why they are pointing sticks at him, but he feels it's probably best not to question it.

An old man sits in a wooden wheelchair at the head of the table, seemingly unsurprised by Kingsley's entrance. "I was expecting you far sooner," he says. "You are almost too late."

"I — I'm sorry," Kingsley stutters. He does not know this man, nor does he know what it is he is late for, but the words slip from his lips nonetheless.

"Come," he says, gesturing to the empty seat at his left, "sit, sit!"

Not knowing what else to do, Kingsley sits.

"What have you done to my carpet!?" Rosmerta gasps, looking appalled at the bloodstains left in Kingsley's wake. "What have you done to your feet!?"

"It is a spell not made to last, I am afraid," the old man says sadly. "Sit," he repeats, and Kingsley does so, grateful to take the weight off of his feet.

They have bent grotesquely out of shape on his walk over, his toes curling up in a horrifying imitation of fins.

"How do you know of spells?" he asks, but the man only smiles, his eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles.

"That is a tale for another day," he says. "We haven't much time left, and you are really very late. How long have you been staying here?"

Kingsley does not know.

"He can't be the one we're looking for," Rosmerta says. "He recognised none of the symbols."

The man shakes his head, reaching a hand with blackened, withered fingers out towards Kingsley's chest. His fingers don't quite touch the fabric of Kingsley's robe, for which he is grateful. The man had come too close to the shell for Kingsley's liking. Much too close.

"It matters not," he says, "he is the one."

"Who are you!?" Kingsley asks incredulously. No one talks like this man, save the Advisors.

"I am inconsequential," the man says, "though I'd wager you know me by reputation if not by sight." He waves the thought away with his withered hand. "But this is your story, dear boy, and it has not quite come to its end."

"Speak plainly, please," Kingsley says, politeness be damned. "I am really rather tired."

The old man smiles, a knowing smile, but it is kind. "Yes, I'd imagine you are." He lays a hand gently upon Kingsley's shoulder. "But your part has nearly come to an end, and then you may rest." His expression is sad, and Kingsley does not know what to make of that.

A woman appears at Kingsley's side with a bowl filled with warm water, and gently sets his feet inside it. Still, for all her care, Kingsley cannot help but cry out in pain. His flesh peels away from his bones, red, stringy pieces floating in the water. He looks away, his stomach churning.

"I sent for you," the man says, "And for that I do apologise." It is with a sinking feeling that Kingsley begins to suspect just who this man might be. "There are others like you" he continues, "who have sacrificed much to end this war." He gestures towards the necklace hidden beneath Kingsley's robes, and Kingsley does not doubt this man knows exactly what's there. "The one who retrieved that talisman you wear, for example."

"What happened to him?" Kingsley finds himself whispering.

"The price was too great, I am afraid," the man says. "It always takes its toll. It has done a remarkable job with you." He sounds almost impressed, and Kingsley cannot suppress his shiver at that. This man is strange, seemingly both gentle and cold. Kingsley does not know what to make of him.

"I don't know what you mean," Kingsley says. "Who are you?"

The man chuckles at this, seeming quite amused. "Have you not already guessed?" he asks, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth. Kingsley has guessed, but he does not want to be correct. "I am Albus Dumbledore," he says, "Ruler of the Outer Reaches. And I sent for you a long time ago."

With his good hand, Dumbledore sets a box on the table. A long box made of wood and inlaid with gold and silver to form patterns of shells and seaweed.

"The necklace, if you please," he says, gesturing to the box.

.oOo.

Stars pop into Kingsley's vision, flashes of pain made visible, and he is screaming, he knows he is screaming, but he cannot stop.

A cold hand presses against his forehead, but it is more a restraint than any attempt to ease his pain, and something is pushed between his teeth that Kingsley bites down on. Hard.

Everything goes black for a moment, and when he comes to, McGonagall and Trelawney are both leaning over him, their faces far too close to his.

"A piece of your soul is no easy thing to give," McGonagall says, shaking her head in a slow, exaggerated movement.

Kingsley sits up.

Something heavy is tied around his neck, feeling as though it is dragging him down. It is hot, too hot for his skin, and he already feels like there is a circle burnt into his flesh.

The necklace from the box, its cord seeming to tighten around his neck as if it wants to strangle the life from him, sits innocuous upon his chest, right over his heart.

He reaches a shaking hand to touch it, and McGonagall says, "I wouldn't do that, if I were you. Cursed objects such as these … they have a way of trapping you. Tricking you. Anything to save their own existence."

McGonagall pauses, a grim smile on her face, and Trelawney continues where she had left off, "You must not destroy it," she says. "Do not even try, for death lies that way. But do not keep it too long, for that path also ends in death."

"Most of the paths you have left to follow lead straight to death," McGonagall says, and that coming from her scares him more than anything Trelawney has ever said. "It is what you do on the path that is important now."

"Yes, yes," Trelawney says. "A messenger you are, a courier. You will take this to the birds. That is your task, but you've already set yourself on the path. The wrong path, but it is not for us to sway your direction."

"What have you done to me?" Kingsley croaks.

"Nothing you have not asked for," McGonagall says. "Now, for your legs."

.oOo.

Kingsley finds himself shaking his head before he can even really process the question, his fingers curling protectively around the shell at his neck.

"It is what you were sent here for," Dumbledore says. His tone is calm, reassuring, but it ignites a rage in Kingsley nonetheless. That his anger does not feel like his own doesn't matter to him.

"I was given it," Kingsley says stubbornly. "I was tasked with protecting it."

"You were never meant to have it this long," Dumbledore says gently. "And for that I am sorry. But your time has come, the end is near, and you must pass your burden along."

Much to Kingsley's shame, tears prick his eyes. "They said I would die," he whispers. "And I do not even know what I am dying for."

"Leave us," Dumbledore says with a wave of his hand, and the room empties. Kingsley had quite forgotten there was anyone else there, apart from himself, Dumbledore, Rosmerta, and the woman still carefully removing the dying flesh from his feet. "You, too, Rosmerta," he says.

"But I want to stay," she protests. "I want to —"

"There is nothing more you can do," he says kindly, "and this is not for you to know."

She nods, though her chin wavers, and leaves the room without another word.

"Now, Kingsley," Dumbledore says. "The necklace, please. And I shall explain as much as I can."

Kingsley shakes his head. "Explain first," he says, adding a hasty, "Please," when he remembers just who it is he's talking to.

"Very well," Dumbledore says, giving a single slow nod. "Your story is but a single chapter in a much larger tale," he says, which does not make Kingsley feel any better at all. "That does not make it any less important, but it does mean that you missed out on the beginning, and that you will not see the end."

"Inside that necklace, woven into its being, is a piece of something that holds much value." he continues. "There are other objects like it, and some of them we have already acquired. More still are lost to the world, but we are looking for those as well."

"And what will you do with it?" Kingsley asks.

"Why, destroy it, of course," Dumbledore says, either not noticing or not caring that this news has completely shattered Kingsley.

"I am to die for nothing, then?"

"That is not what I said," Dumbledore says gently, laying his withered hand on the table where Kingsley can see. "We have all paid great prices to be where we are today. Not all of those prices will ever be recognised, or even known, outside of this room, but that does not diminish their value." He takes a deep breath, as if what he's about to say next is very hard.

"These objects were never meant to exist," he says slowly, quietly. "And the price to destroy them is often too high." His fingers curl into a fist, flakes of blackened skin falling to the table. "But the price to keep them in this world is even greater."

"You aren't explaining anything," Kingsley says. "Why is it so important that this necklace be destroyed?"

"Inside is the heart, soul, of one of my students, or a piece of it," he says. "And that student went on to take over the Deep Sea and turn it into what it is today. He takes a moment, seemingly overcome with emotion. "Things weren't always like this," Dumbledore continues softly, "there used to be peace amongst the seas. But there are always those looking to destroy peace for their own gain."

Kingsley feels bile rising in his throat, and swallows heavily. "I gave up a piece of my heart," he says. His face feels numb.

"I know," is Dumbledore's only response.

"Should I have given something else instead?" Kingsley asks, desperation lacing his tone.

"You could have," Dumbledore says, not acknowledging the whimper that escapes Kingsley's lips. "But you may not have reached this far. We cannot tell what would have happened if we had chosen different paths, only what is happening on this one. Now," he says, "the necklace. Please."

The woman at his feet has to help Kingsley pry it from his chest. It has burned its way through his skin, burrowed through bone, as if trying to fill in the missing piece of his heart.

"Are you sure?" the woman asks, her tone pleading, but she is speaking to Dumbledore.

"I'm afraid we must," he says.

"This is going to hurt," she whispers for only Kingsley to hear. "I'm so sorry."

And Kingsley knows no more.

.oOo.

McGonagall swims before a cracked mirror, the reflection showing not the inside of her dim cave but a large room painted in reds and golds.

"It is done," she says. "Sybill is taking him to the surface."

Dumbledore nods.

"But Albus," she says hesitantly, "did it really have to be this way? Could we not —"

"Everyone must make their own choices, Minerva," Dumbledore says. "We cannot decide their paths for them."

"But still," she says, "if he had had more information. If he had known how the boy who found it had died, or what had happened to you —"

"Enough!" Dumbledore says. "What's done is done."

Minerva is silent for a moment, tears that she does not bother to hide filling her large glassy eyes. Eventually, she says, "He gave away his heart."

"I know."