Disclaimer: I do not own Hermione, Gryffindor, Slytherin, or the Sorting Hat. I'm not genius enough to come up with those! Nor do I own the idea that the Sorting Hat knows more than it's letting on, that's from sugarquill.net. I can't find the exact author at this moment, but…. Go visit them after April's Fool's Day. Aside from that, the story is MINE! You can use it, just give me credit, okay? My brain gears keep needing replacing from the hard work I put them through, so I want credit. Brain gears are expensive!
"Run! Run quickly, Godric." The voice was old and male. "The squire sends his soldiers, to try you for witch-craft and devil-worship."
"But I've done nothing wrong." Godric said, his boy's voice still young and piping.
"The whole monastery saw you treat with that wrinkled creature, to make it go away. I know you've done nothing wrong, but they think so."
"I'll miss you, Brother Marcus." Tears glimmered in his eyes.
"I'll miss you too, Godric. Go with God. Now, hurry! Go!" There was a catch in the old man's voice. "I'll pray for you, Gryffindor."
Godric scrambled through the branches of the tree, and with a quick leap, landed on the wall. He sneaked a glance back, and in the darkness, he could just see the shadow of the Brother, slipping in through a side door.
He crouched against a wall, over-whelmed with memories of fond friendships, and at times, cheerful voices. Of having found a place where he was family. He was young, but already, things much like miracles happened around him. Only when he was very excited, like when they'd entertained the Squire for dinner, or very frightened, like when he was sent out to watch the sheep, and was lost, alone, and in the dark. The sheep had scattered, and he was cold, in the freezing rain.
He smiled in memory of that. The sheep had all come to him, like he'd called them, and gathered close, in the deep dark. He'd been found the next morning, tucked between warm furry sheep bodies.
He'd only been nine, a gap-toothed child. Now he was eleven, Brother Marcus teaching him how to control his magic, and use it. He wiped away the tears, and sniffled slightly. The monastery was the only home he could truly recall. Now he was kicked out of that, with only the rumor of a family somewhere far away, and some food and a spare robe. All he owned in the world. No one to share it with, no one to talk to.
Brother Marcus, of course, had been wise, and had prepared him for this eventuality.
After morning service, as he helped Brother Marcus in the kitchens, the good brother had explained.
"You're a wizard, Godric. Just like your parents, and their parents. There aren't a lot of wizards in the world, and those who can't do magic hate them for it. I'm a wizard as well. I never was much of one, I've never been very strong, so I can hide my magic. You're young, and you're strong. You must be very careful to keep it hidden. If you can't, I'll sneak you out. Run, run to the marsh, there are wizards hiding in there."
"But I want to stay here!" Godric had blurted. "You're my family!"
"Indeed, we are. But if you have to leave, if you're being hunted for what you can do, our of human jealousy, you must run. God did not give you a powerful gift to die, son. God gave it to you to help others. So you must hide, or go far away, so you can help. So you can aid those who have not the advantages you do. Remember, always carry the true spirit of being a Christian within you."
Then, with a cryptic look, Marcus had spoken again. "You may have more family than you know, young Godric. Indeed, they may miss you very much, and wish for your safe return every day."
Godric sniffled back tears, and watched the scene playing out in front of the monastery. He should be running now. He should get a good head start on them. But he couldn't leave! This was his home! This was where he'd grown up! They'd taught him to read and write, in a scribe's neat hand. They'd taught him Latin, and even some Greek, for prayers. He knew as much as any of the older brothers, he knew he'd be a good member of the order!
The Squire gave angry shouts, moments later, as his bed turned up empty. Torches began to move, and spread out. They'd search outside the walls soon.
Godric dropped from the wall, and took a deep breath, settling the sack of food and goods that Brother Marcus had gathered for him over his shoulder. This was it. He had to leave home. If they found him, they'd kill him. This area wasn't safe for witches and wizards.
He kept to the edge of the wide and slow river, trying not to splash, and hoping they couldn't track him this way. Just a half day's travel down river, it turned into marshes. He could hide there, if nothing else.
The night was deep, and seemingly endless. He was lucky it was merely fall, and there was not the bitter cold of winter, which could kill him. As it was, the chill bite of the air was enough to make him shiver, as he walked carefully in the shallow water of the creek. Stones could turn beneath his feet, and he didn't want to fall, and make a noise. The bushes that grew tight about it, and reached over his head, protected him some from being seen, and thus caught.
He sniffed often, and the coarse sleeve of his itchy wool robe was damp, from wiping his eyes, and nose, often. He stayed out of sight, slipping out of the water long enough to detour around the one farmer's hut which was close to it's watery banks. It was all dark, but he would take no chance with getting caught, or seen. It was too risky, he'd been warned. At one point, the water lapped around his waist, as the land rose above his head, providing extra shelter from being seen.
While he had learned some small skills, he would hardly claim to be able to defend himself against grown men! Not yet. One day, however, he would defend not only himself, but everyone helpless against the angry mobs.
The sky was lightening, as he kept walking, and realized he was entering the soggy, salt-water marsh. Not far off, he could see the road, and he took a risk, stepping on the grass clumps to scramble up onto its rutted surface. It skirted the edge of the dangerous marsh, full of dark things, like demons.
His robes, good strong brown, were stained with mud, and grass, already. They dripped constantly, wet from his excursion. Good thing they were thick wool, else he might freeze despite the warm sun. He slid his sandals onto feet sticky with mud and things he'd rather not think of.
Then he began to walk. The rutted road was hard, and thus not as muddy as elsewhere, the dirt beaten into submission through long years. There were still puddles, but it wasn't as bad as walking through the marsh itself.
The marsh was large, and wide. People vanished in its watery depths, and lights could be seen moving within the shrubs that clung to land which often moved, quite frequently.
He was walking sedately when he heard the hoof beats, and turned.
The Squire!
I don't want to die! He scrambled off the road, and ran for the marsh, hoping they hadn't seen him. He scrambled through the thickly growing vegetation, leaving a trail a child could follow, splashing through pools where things moved. Dodging under branches, trying to move quickly, but the beat of the horses had increased, and then stilled.
Too late. They'd seen him. Shouts followed him, and he heard splashing, until he heard a single commanding bellow.
The whistle of an arrow made him try to dodge, but a fiery pain landed in his shoulder, and he splashed into the water, as he felt numbness spread through him, and blackness carry him away, unaware of the water he had fallen into. Unaware of his sheer luck, in floating face-upwards, before he was washed up on a muddy shore.
When he woke, he was warm, and listening to the drip of rain outside. His shoulder ached, and he felt a much duller ache all over. With especially bad pains if he took a deep breath. But he was wrapped in cloth, and he felt the give of branches beneath him. A peasant's hut.
"You're just lucky they decided you were mostly dead already." A rough deep voice said, and he opened his eyes.
The man who stood before him was old and wizened.
"Where am I?"
"The moors South of the marsh you fell in. South of the beach you landed on before you got swept out to sea! You've been asleep for days. I found you right after they left you, luckily, or you might have died. The poisons in the mud you'd landed on had already begun to work their way in through the wound. Plus that arrow." The old man sighed, deeply. "I am Herrick. Brother Marcus sent me to find you. They won't enter the moor, it's part of another lord's territory, and they are afraid of border skirmishes. Aside from that, it's too damned difficult to get to!"
Godric blinked.
"Brother Marcus was my younger brother, Godric. He was near enough a Squib, and he took Holy Orders because he felt he could do the most good there." Herrick said quietly. "Once you're well, we'll move on. I've found Gryffindor Tower, and they had asked me to beg the monastery to part with you. But perhaps, now that the monastery has thrown you out, you will find your home with your kith and kin."
Godric was weak, but he was able to follow the man through the lonely moors. The call of a beast echoed through it, and everywhere there was evidence of movement.
They camped that night in a hollow, eating roast rabbit, and some of the goods Marcus had given him. The sack had been good stout waxed cloth, and had repelled the swampy water. The bread, good travel bread, soaked up the juices of the coney, and already Godric felt better.
All this land to explore, and more!
"The Lord of the local land will send a knight, perhaps, to squire you while you stay in Gryffindor Tower. It was unfortunate, indeed, that your father, youngest son, had chosen to leave when he did. His older brothers, were killed in a border dispute, and the monastery had been looking forwards to being deeded your grandfather's lands."
"I have a home?"
"Mmhm. And a grandmother, and a grandfather, and a maiden aunt. You'll be out of that sack cloth before you know it, dressed in the clothes that be-fit your station." Herrick smiled. "And I've been promised a space to help tutor you in the duties of a wizard lord."
The morning came swiftly, too slowly for an eager boy, ready to find his home, and leave behind him the last of his shame and loneliness. The mist that spread over the moors was home for a lonely soul, and while Godric was weakened by his wounds, he found himself finding a peace and stillness he'd never known. Something more true than the hushed quiet of the chapel, something that settled into his heart, as the tight fearful stillness of the brothers never had. Their fear was greater than their love, and everything about them showed it.
Right now, he didn't much care for fear, not if it led to such horrible acts as the hunting of a child. Especially since that child was himself.
This is where I belong. This is my home. The wild lands, where life is free and wild, and not constrained by rules and strictures.
On the fourth day, they came into sight of Gryffindor Tower, a squat fortress structure, next to a manor home, all within a solid defensive curtain. Lights sparkled on a small tarn nearby, and he saw movement within.
That same light sparkled off armor, and off a road, which led to the coast.
Herrick led him from a small trail, under the great branches of a thick shrub, onto the road, paved here with broad stones. An old road, dating from the Romans.
Godric had come home.
********
Hermione sniffled back tears, and rubbed at her eyes, but quickly scribbled down the notes. 'Godric Gryffindor - trained as a scribe in a monastery until eleven, sent to live with grandparents, the lord of Gryffin Moors. Trained as a knight and wizard. First teacher Brother Marcus of the monastery, second teacher, Herrick of Clune, employee of Lord Gryffindor, and brother to Brother Marcus.'
"Amazing. What about the others?"
Slytherin was a young cold man, and his teacher raised him in fens that were fairly close to one of the reaches of the moors. His family had been killed, stoned to death when his mother was caught talking to snakes. Salazar had been lucky in his escape, he'd disobeyed his father and went exploring while they were at the inn. Of course, having a new student, the wizard of the fens, Isil, had paid a visit to the Gryffindor clan, and told them. The Sorting Hat sighed. When Godric met the young wizard in training, a full six years his elder, he struck up a friendship. They were good friends, until they split.
Hermione scribbled it down, hardly believing what the hat told her. "You have to be kidding me? Slytherin? A half-blood?"
No, not a half-blood at all. It is a long-winded explanation you've no need of, young Gryffindor. Suffice it to say, May Day celebrations and mead can lead to mistaken identities.
She snickered at that.
A/N:
Slef - Thank you. Sooner or later, I will force you to watch the movies, at the least, ne? It's delightful to know I'm liked enough that you read me despite using characters, etc, you're unfamiliar with… kinda like poor Shade, reading my Highlander stories…. *sigh*
Sailor Jewel - Comment noted, appreciated, and followed. Note, the little asterisk border thing… I'm not sure how I'll do in text commentary, like that flinch Hermione did in chapter one, but I'll figure it out. As commanded, I hurried.
Raistlinof Metallica - Strange crossover there, modern rock and Dragonlance, but, hey, it works. Raistlin is a mean drinker of camel piss, so it works… *grins at own edit. God, I love Ecolea's stories…* Hmm, well, it depends. While it was the educated thing to do, the lesser nobility, and those who had little to no interaction with the Court may not necessarily bother with reading and writing. If you think about it, a barely landed knight would not need to worry about that. That's what monks are for. Aside from that, consider England. At all times, it was far away from the center of life and culture in Europe. Rome. There were more educated folks in and around Charlemagne, and other great powerful figures like that. Peasants, or even the barely there middle class, and serfs, didn't read or write. Nor did Vikings.
Believe it or not, folks, I'm actually doing research for this. I'll even list a bibliography of sources at the end of the whole mess, eh? Trying to ensure I'm creating at least a vaguely similar to the 900s environment is a challenge. The Roman Empire has collapsed, moved to Byzantium, and I tended to specialize in Greco-Roman myth and history. Expanding my knowledge into the White Island is a stretch, since English Literature studies don't really come in until, say, at least a hundred or more years later. But, ah well, I can always rewrite if I get it wrong. Which would entail a trip to my college library. I love being an alum. I can still go in and look at the resource books!