Series - Elysium: The Retelling of Nielliun Morne

Chapter I - Welcome to the Ethereal Plane

This story is rated R for: Language, disturbing imagery and/or themes, mild sensuality, and some sexual and drug references. R is just playing it safe... and most of these issues won't be appearing until much later in the story.

Disclaimer - (*)s indicate that I have taken a direct quote from J.K. Rowling. I don't own the idea of Harry Potter or the world, all rights reserved to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Press, and Warner Bros. This is a work of fiction and any similarity between the characters and real persons is entirely coincidental.

A/N - My greatest love of the Harry Potter series has been tortured, tired, guilt-ridden, depressed, frustrated, oppressed, and ultimately fallen in the line of duty. But he has also been liberated, resolute, brave, carefree, invincible, and young in the course of his fascinating life. This is a tribute to Harry's godfather and James' right hand... and I have here attempted to immortalize him in the form of memories, the greatest way to keep a fallen comrade metaphorically alive. If I have the resolve to do so, this story will stretch from birth to a journey beyond the veil, or from a journey beyond the veil to birth... however you look at it.

I suppose that requires an explanation. The first chapter is really the last of Sirius' life. It takes place immediately during and after his death. Upon the second chapter, it will revert and (don't be confused) Sirius will again be alive and quite unaware of his own fate. Much of this story will be told through flashbacks. In having put it together this way, elements that appear and go unexplained in the first/last chapter will slowly be revealed in the course of the rest of the story. When it's all over, I suggest that you go back and read the first chapter. I really don't have an excuse for this strange plotline other than to say that life is cyclical.

Also, I suggest that you refer to the addendum of translations and name interpretations. Not many obscure allusions occur in this particular chapter, but just check it out. It will continually be added to with each subsequent chapter.

Welcome to the Ethereal Plane

"There are some things worth dying for!" - Sirius Black, Order of the Phoenix*

Cold enveloped Sirius Black like a mantle. He felt the whispering shreds of the black, shroud-like veil brush his back, grazing his skin through the robes which seemed a weak barrier against the touch of the curtain. His chest throbbed faintly, but the phantom of pain seemed to come from another dimension.

He must have been staggering backward quickly, but the movement felt like a drawn-out, dramatic one. It seemed as though he had a curious and remarkable amount of time with which to look at the faces of the others. They had all frozen and the expressions taking over their respective visages scared Sirius more than the knowledge that there was a forbidding, yawning portal just behind him gently pulling at his body and soul.

Inevitably, he first glanced to Harry. The son of his metaphorical other half. His godson. He looked stricken dumb. Sirius knew immediately that Harry did not understand, but would in a very few moments. He wanted desperately to save himself if only for Harry's sake and not for his own. Rivers of tears streamed down the boy's already bloodied and anguished face. Sirius felt deep regret and wondered only if he could somehow console him. There was not time.

His consciousness flickered momentarily to others. Remus. In all his years of suffering through family strife, a previous War, and destitution in prison, Sirius had never seen a look of such utter anguish. Remus Lupin was the only true link that Sirius had had to the blissful past and he knew that he had been that solitary link for Remus. He would be left alone more than anyone else. His friend had constrained Harry and wrested him to the stone steps, choking and faltering himself.

The ghosts of spells swam before his eyes as though they were detrimented by particularly thick air or impeded by walls of water. He knew without seeing it that his cousin Bellatrix, his own blood and yet so purely foreign to him, stood not far away. She must be elated. Sirius refused to spend his last moments contemplating or observing her.

And he was suddenly no longer shocked or angry or disbelieving. He was only terribly, terribly afraid when he looked into the pale eyes of Albus Dumbledore. Because, in the old man's eyes, there was a look that he had never seen pass there before. It was a look of complete powerlessness and defeat. When had this wizard ever not known what to do? If the situation was out of the omnipotent Dumbledore's hands, then it was out of everyone's.

Suddenly, as though with the movement of a wand, the scene would no longer hold itself still for his benefit. There was only a brief second in which he heard Harry's voice crying desperately for him, and then the veil opened up.

The cold grew and the threads of the silky fabric licked Sirius Black's face like ancient cobwebs. They embraced him physically, mentally, and spiritually. All was dark and quiet and unnaturally and frustratingly serene.

Sirius' backward fall ceased yet he had not felt his body collide with a solid surface. His eyes must have been screwed shut because he could see nothing. He must have been paralysed with the shock for his limbs were numb. However, he was no longer cold.

The veil had released him and abandoned him somewhere warm.

Without moving, Sirius hoped urgently that he was yet alive. But he did not immediately remember why it was so imperative that he not be dead. It seemed irrelevant at the moment. He also felt that he had and should now be frightened. Again, he knew not why. It was warm here and he could not recall the feeling of coldness any more than he could feel his feet. In fact, he could not seem to recall anything at all. He did not feel quite like himself here. But what was the 'self' anyway? Sirius couldn't grasp his mind around this missing identity.

It was not white. It was not black. But it was light.

Sirius had always revelled in the light. For so much of his life he had been forced into the dank, nightly gloom, literally and metaphorically, but he had been meant to live in the light. The golden sun was his source of energy and when he had had his few brief times to enjoy it he had felt as though he needn't any other nourishment.

He felt thus now.

He did not open his nonexistent eyes or climb up from the nonexistent ground, but he somehow observed his surroundings. There was a distinct lack of surroundings. Sirius could not describe it because his mind still seemed to depend upon natural conventions and logic. There was nothing other than the light which was completely colourless. It was disconcerting, but not terrifying.

Would it be like this forever? Sirius thought to call out and ask someone, but he could not sense the presence of any other being. Would he be alone for all eternity? Surely, this "place" was not the worst outcome but, still, he would not choose to be alone. Just as Sirius thrived on simple sunlight and contentment, he thrived on good company.

What should he do? Was he expected to do something?

He would go forward. It seemed the obvious solution and appeared, once thought, completely correct as though he had always known.

Directions meant nothing. Forward. It was a subconscious travel and Sirius was not even entirely sure that he moved at all, considering there was nothing to compare his progress with. He could not be positive, but Sirius did not think it took very long before it happened.

Something was different. A slight disturbance in the purity. Sirius felt something like a shadow of what he would have called fear in life but, just as he had forgotten cold, he had forgotten fear. There were two options. He could see them.

If he should choose the one path, it was over and definite. If he should choose the other path, it could continue in a warped form. "It" was life. He could see the choices floating before him in the nothingness.

Continue in a warped form. He had a single chance to return, he knew this. If he wanted, he could reach out and be wretched back into the physical world, a silvery wraith trapped between two extremes of existence. He also knew that he was privileged to have this choice at all. Not everyone had more than the one choice. A blinding flash of something erupted in his mind and he considered that there were many people who would want him to return. There was someone tugging at Sirius to go back and stay with him. But he could not. Sirius knew that it was not his road, that he would desperately regret it.

There was the other path. It was so final and Sirius could not imagine in his mortal brain or in his newly acquired paranormal one what it could hold. Just as with the other choice, Sirius felt that there were people waiting behind this one but, calmly not frantically, beckoning to him. As he dwelled upon this choice, the options before him were no longer equal. The option to go back shrunk and the option to take the risk grew steadily.

Without truly thinking it in words, Sirius moved toward the vast beyond which surely hid behind the latter option. With this resolution, Sirius had a vague remorse for the irreversible conclusion of his life. This was the end.

This was the beginning.

Was he falling downward or being thrown upward? Something like wind rushed past him and then there was the most intriguing element of all, something with which he had not before been confronted. He was certain that there was the fleeting presence of someone here, someone there. But they rushed past due to or in spite of this wind.

Upon the ceasing of this, the very first thing Sirius noticed was that everything was much more understandable, much more "real", and his identity began to slowly funnel back into him. He had rammed into something rather hard. If he had felt the impact he must therefore have a body or at last a simulated one. He did. And he was standing on something. His feet were firmly planted on it. It was comforting and very different from the previous feeling, which was already beginning to fade.

Was he alive? No. Was he in another life? No. This wasn't life, but Sirius could not have said what it was.

Sirius brought his hands to eye level. They were familiar and yet not quite right. They were smooth, unscarred, and moved fluidly when he flexed his fingers. His wrists were strong and the left one did not stiffen as it always had since it had broken when he had been tossed roughly into his Azkaban cell and gone unhealed. His shirt was grey, his robes rusty crimson, his dragon-hide boots black and un-scuffed. When had he owned this garb? His hair tickled his forehead and he moved to brush it away. It was short and glossy. For so long it had been coarse and unkempt. He tentatively brushed his hands over his face which he found without a trace of the careworn. He felt very young and vibrant. He checked his belt out of habit for his redwood wand. It was not there, but he did not feel very concerned about it.

Whereas the light earlier had been unearthly and indescribable, the light here was a distinct amber. It issued from the setting sun-- for it was the sun or something that resembled it. The twilight sky was a flawless bowl of oceanic indigo, meeting the land at the horizon with a slight glow of vermilion. The surface with which he had collided was a cobblestone lane, tender moss creeping in the cracks. On both sides of the road there were walls made out of similar stonework, draped in dark, waxy ivy. Beyond the walls were green and gold overgrown pastures. A knotty, heavy oak tree resided nearby. Not very far away there were clusters of old three-story village houses, candles being lit in the windows and the beginnings of fairy lights winking in their gardens. This was not Earth, but it was a damn good imitation of it, Sirius thought, for this was unmistakably Godric's Hollow, Wales.

Feeling very heavy with his newly acquired pseudo-body, Sirius sped off at a run. But, being young, he flowed along easily, his feet pounding against the ground, barely breathing, heart barely beating. He could not run fast enough for his racing mind, however. His mind was already yards and yards ahead, waiting impatiently for the rest of him to catch up on the stoop of a certain dwelling.

In his mind, it took too long to get there. But when he did, he was abruptly tentative.

A familiar weather-beaten green door faced him. The knocker was simple burnished silver. The rest of the house towered over him, the windows shining faintly gold against the darkening outdoors. Hanging gas lamps fashioned in the form of dragons burned irregularly on either side of the front entrance. Sirius could smell the scents of night jasmine blooming in the yard and the rich smell of wood-smoke drifting from the chimney. A tiny pewter plaque on the door read:

8 Chepstow Lane

Potter

Could this be possible? Even in his wildest dreams, Sirius could not have hoped that he would be dropped conveniently at the Potter's doorstep in the eternal afterlife. Feeling a cold film materialise on his forehead, Sirius took hold of the knocker and let it fall. He let it fall again.

Nothing happened.

No long-nosed, hazel-eyed, beaming, forgiving face appeared. Neither did a soft, emerald-eyed, melancholy face. Was this Hell, then? Was he to be tortured with these familiar surroundings devoid of the souls it was intended to hold?

But of course! When had Sirius ever bothered to come to the formal entrance of his best friends' home? Brightened and overjoyed, Sirius vaulted legs first over the wrought iron fence into the back garden. The door here was a squat archway of battered mahogany wood, a crystal window taking up most of the top half. Sirius' throat closed up and he felt blood rush to his head as he spied a blurred figure moving in the firelight beyond the frosted casement.

Without a second's hesitation, Sirius rapped the door with his fist. Muffled murmuring issued from within his paradise and the door creaked open, slowly at first but was then veritably flung wide.

A face that he had not lain sight upon for fifteen years confronted him. It was unchanged, not a day older than twenty-two. Her expression was startled at first, but eased into a very sad look. "Oh, Sirius..." she whispered, stepping forward, reaching up and taking his face in her pale hands. Her eyes shone wet. "You're here." She could not seem to speak further.

Sirius meant to say 'Lily', but found that a thick, unuttered sob had blocked his throat.

Lily Potter very gently took his arm and pulled him into the kitchen out of the balmy night. A scratchy phonograph played a slow, faintly merry tune in a far-off room. She continued to lead him through the house. Out into the foyer and into the tiny, tight study, full of books and squashy armchairs and lamps. A form was bent low, stoking the fire in the grate.

James did not move immediately, but finally stood in a measured manner. He turned his head and the firelight glinted off his wire spectacles. The two young men who had been more than brothers stared at each other for a long time. James looked neither shocked nor sad nor happy. But Sirius knew that his own face must betray his bittersweet emotions.

Lacking any sort of introduction, James' face split into a wavering grin. "Welcome to the Ethereal Plane, mate."

It was so ironic and so amusing and so entirely inappropriate that Sirius found himself laughing heartily even as salty tears spilled out of the corners of his eyes. The two embraced violently while Lily stood slightly apart, burying her face in the sleeve of her dusky blue robe. Those words and that voice was so familiar, relieving any doubts he had ever had that the afterlife would be in any way hellish. James knew just what to say.

Finally backing away from his friend, James looked at Sirius and said matter-of-factly, "So. What d'you reckon?"

"About...?"

"About... everything."

The words forced ten thousand things back into Sirius' head. Everything. All the events that had occurred just before his fall through the archway flooded back. Somehow, miraculously, he had pushed it out of mind while confronted with the astonishment of crossing over.

Gasping, Sirius looked at James horror-struck. "Harry! Harry, James! I have to go back! I'm his godfather and he needs me! He was screaming so! And Remus must be beside himself! Dumbledore! What if others were killed? Bellatrix Lestrange killed me! There was a battle! A terrible battle at the Ministry-- oh, the Order's been reformed-- at Grimmauld Place! Ah! Because Voldemort's returned! And Death Eaters! He's been back for a year! Harry's had to fight him a load of times! He's in so much danger! I've been on the lamb, scrounging in rubbish pails and hiding in caves-- because I escaped! From Azkaban! I went to Azkaban because they thought it was me killed all those Muggles! It wasn't me, James! You know it wasn't! Peter's still alive! He's with Voldemort! We-- Remus and me-- almost killed him but Harry stopped us! He's just like you! And I've left him! I'm so sorry! Forgive me for all of it!" Sirius spluttered all of this, frantic and almost sick with the overwhelming impact of it. "Forgive me..." he added miserably, fixing his gaze on the floor. "I don't deserve to be here." And then a sudden thought occurred to him. "Where am I?"

He found, to his confusion, that Lily had caught him up in a quick squeeze and James was looking unsurprised at this rush of news. "Don't worry anymore, Sirius," said Lily. "We know all about it."

"How? Is Harry safe?"

James shrugged casually at the first question and Lily replied to the second. "Harry and all the others are safe. The battle is over and Voldemort has fled. Harry is unharmed... he is very distraught."

"I didn't mean to leave him! And I didn't mean to kill you!" He stopped and looked at them like a startled animal, appalled with himself.

They smiled. "That was not your fault, Sirius. It was not your fault in the slightest. You have suffered more for it than anyone deserves. And you did not abandon Harry. You did everything you ever could for him. Thank you for being his father," James said earnestly, shaking Sirius' hand with both of his.

"I..." Sirius did not know what to say, but he knew that he wanted one more thing from James.

"You need no forgiveness, Sirius. But I know how much it means to you, mate, so... I forgive you for anything that you ever felt guilty about. I forgive you."

"Thank you." Sirius felt such a heavy weight lifted off of him, a pall that had been cast over his spirit for too many years had been washed away in three words. He felt weak and sank, exhausted, into a cushy leather wingchair.

Both James and Lily pulled up chairs and sat. Lily offered him a cup of peacefully steaming tea and Sirius accepted and sipped at it without bothering to think about from where it had come.

"So... so you know about everything?" Sirius inquired, studying his teacup.

"Yes. But if it makes you feel better, you can tell us all about it. Would it make you feel better?" Lily asked.

"I don't know-- where to begin," he said helplessly.

"I'd suggest chronological order, mate," said James with a funny twinkle in his eye.

Sirius laughed nervously. "All right, then."

He proceeded much more calmly than he had during his first panicked outburst, trying to make sense. He began with the night they died. He continually uttered apologies and they continually reassured him. He employed the use of Lily's handkerchief more than once. He progressed to his hunt for Peter and Wormtail's flight and wept no more after that. He told them of Harry having survived Voldemort and the fame that would come with it. He spent as little time as possible upon his conviction and time spent in Azkaban, though he told them the essentials and briefly tried to describe the wretchedness of it. He settled for saying that he would have known if he was in Hell when he died because he would have recognised it as the prison. He told them how he escaped, how he tried to catch glimpses of their son. How good he was at Quidditch. He told of the hardships of living on the run. He told them of his encounters in the Shrieking Shack and how Harry had rescued his soul. He told them how he left the country for the Mediterranean for a while and of his return. He spent some time on his long-distance correspondence with Remus. He had always tried to stay close to Harry during the Triwizard Tournament. He laboured over the details of Voldemort's return during the Third Task but remembered that they themselves had been present there. He explained all about Dumbledore convening the Order of the Phoenix and the Ministry's denial. How he despised Grimmauld Place and how frustrated he had been with his captivity. He told them of Harry's struggles against his growing connection with Voldemort. And finally concluded wearily with his arrival at the Department of Mysteries and his struggle with Bellatrix. The story was wrought with confessions and mumbling. Sirius had no idea how long it took to tell, but his tea was long gone by the end of it. James and Lily never interrupted or chastised him. They only ever encouraged him and answered questions as he posed them.

"I believe Remus and I had a running bet in Sixth Year that you would snuff it taking the mickey out of someone. He owes me seven Galleons," James said fondly. Second only to Harry they had spent the most time discussing Remus.

Sirius meant to laugh but didn't, still lost in the vastness of it all. If someone had told him while he sat in his mother's bedroom at Grimmauld Place two days ago that he would be engaged in avid conversation with James and Lily Potter in not 48 hours, he would have thought them Befuddled.

"Seriously, now," said Lily, wiping the smirk of her husband's face with a glance. "Are you going to be all right? It's not so terrible, truly-- being dead."

Sirius found that he jumped. Blimey, he was dead. And he had so many questions about it now that he had freed himself of the burdens of life that had been weighing on him.

"Where are we?"

"We're Here."

"Are there others around?"

"Sometimes. Is there anyone you want to see?

"You know, thinking about it... not really. Nothing that can't wait. Is this Heaven?"

"If you want it to be."

"Is there a God? Have you seen--"

"Does it matter? Considering that we haven't left existence entirely, shouldn't it be satisfactory that someone or something cared enough to let us continue on?"

"Does time pass normally here?"

"The sun rises every morning. It sets every evening. It's easy to lose track of time, but it's not as though ten years have passed back on Earth in what felt like five minutes here. In fact, I'd guess it's been nearly a day since you died."

"What do you do here?"

"We wait. And do a lot of the same things you'd do in life."

"Like...?"

"Walking. Thinking. Talking. Watching time pass. I was just now reading Quidditch Through the Ages for the four-hundred-and-eighty-second time. Lily was painting in the kitchen. You can even eat or sleep if you want, but it's very easy to forget to do so when you're not hungry or sleepy. Other things."

"What do you wait for?"

"For everyone to visit, of course. We've been waiting for you for a long time. Didn't expect you this soon, honestly."

"Isn't that depressing? Just waiting for everyone you've ever known to die?"

"No. We want the best for them, of course. In the meantime, we watch them."

"Watch? Have you been watching me all this time? Is that how you know everything?"

"Not all the time. We spent an inordinate amount of time seeing what Harry's up to. He'd be appalled. We've been checking up on everyone."

"How?"

"I dunno. You just... do. Sometimes we'll... intervene."

"What do you mean?"

"Lily occasionally does a good turn here and there for someone or other. I'm in Harry's Patronus every time he conjures it. It took quite a lot of energy appearing last year at the return of Voldemort. Things like that."

"Can we talk to the living?"

"Not exactly."

"I mean, there's a portrait of me somewhere in Grimmauld Place... could I communicate through that? I gave Harry your old Conversiglass... could I talk to him through that?"

"No, Sirius."

"But--"

"I promise that you'll become accustomed to it. There are other ways to... make your message known."

"Okay. Are there Muggles here?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't they be?"

"Er... I don't know. Why don't I have a wand?"

"Can you think of a reason you'd need magic?"

"I suppose not. So is this where I'll be for all eternity?"

"Not necessarily Godric's Hollow. You can go anywhere. Or you can invent something. We're not always haunting a mirage of Number 8 Chepstow Lane. Where do you want to be?"

"Can I stay here for a while? I won't be a squatter forever or anything... just for a while..."

"Anything you want, Sirius."

"Thanks."

Although James had said sleep was not necessary, Sirius felt remarkably fatigued. It was an awfully corporeal feeling considering that he was no longer alive. Lily explained that one's spirit can be worn out with too much emotion or effort. They suggested he go up to a large, comfortable bedchamber on the second floor and rest. He accepted gladly and James followed him quietly up the creaking stairs.

Sirius was still concerned about everyone in the living world. He had long since been stripped of his arrogance due to hardship and unrelenting attacks of reality, but he knew they must be mourning him very much. He wondered absently if his lifeless body had fallen on the other side of the archway... if it was buried somewhere now. Somehow he hoped that he had been taken body and soul through the portal, but wasn't sure why. Lily and James has assured him that he must not worry himself about anyone for a while and he certainly must not make himself angry with thoughts of vengeance or hate toward those that he had held grudges against in life. It was amazing how easy it was to let go of it.

Without changing, Sirius sank into the feather mattress and sighed. He peered out the window for a moment, looking at the stars winking against the crushed velvet ebony of the sky. It was very beautiful and very silent here.

James sat opposite him near a small table with a pewter basin. Sirius glanced at him and felt a jolt of affection for his friend and brother. James leaned his head on his hand and toyed with a thread of his brown robe. "Sirius, are you happy?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

A/N - So. What d'you reckon? Comments before I waste away! I've read a lot of these such stories of Sirius' experience after falling through the veil... some of them very, very laudable and others rather disgusting. I truly hope that my version paid some semblance of justice. It was very difficult to see the monitor through the tears, really.

Oh, and it occurred to me that maybe Sirius should have been a little more discontented with his afterlife considering that everyone's always been saying he wasn't the type to sit around peacefully while important things were going on. True. But, 1. I didn't feel like editing it and 2. I can brush it away by saying that you aren't exactly yourself after dying. Besides, what could he do besides take the Potters' advise and take it easy? He's had such a stressful life, I think he'd really welcome the rest.

I'm not sure what else I can say here. I didn't really include as many ambiguities as I'd planned in that dissertation, but that's all right. Didn't want to drive you insane. The upcoming chapter will revert to Sirius at Grimmauld Place and you'll see where things lead from there. I've not really kept a good chronological order, but I figure that we all know the life story of Sirius fairly well by now anyway.