It had begun, funnily enough, with a letter.
Not the sort of letter that begins with a cheery greeting, happily informs you of how the puppies are growing up, reminds you about the canned food drive next week and then cheerily goes on to tell you that your uncle is dead. It wasn't even the sort of letter that skips the mindless chit-chat and tells you that, once again, some distant relative has died and left you all his money. No, it was none of those. In fact, if you were thinking along those lines, you'd gotten the whole thing wrong.
It had begun with a letter. An innocent letter, carved into the back of an innocent chair on a train where innocence was handed out in nickels and dimes. The letter, so innocently carved with a knife that shouldn't have been there, was an "E". There was nothing Greek about it, nothing dark, mystical, arcane or unholy about it. It was just an innocent letter that had no meaning apart from to tell you that yes, it was an "E", and that it was carved into the back of a seat on a bright red steam train where it would've gone down better with some mysticism.
The hand that held the knife was rather interesting. The owner of the hand, faceless for now, had gone to the trouble of defacing such a beautiful object with a common pen, leaving the pale skin looking like it had been invaded by tribesmen who had taken the time to tattoo it (in blue ink, no less). The fact that he could contract ink poisoning from doing such a thing didn't seem to have deterred the artist, the same person who had taken the trouble to carve an "E" on his seat and had continued on with a "P", happily ensconced in his work.
Having gotten the hand over and done with, let's move up the arm – no, we don't care about the shirt – and onto the face, something which needs to be covered sometime. There were no markings on the artist's face, and we should probably be thankful for that; there are some things that are fine just the way they are, and this was one of them. It was not chiselled, nor was it the face of a rat – it was perfectly angled, giving the impression of both knowledge and looks; a valuable combination. The eyes, fixated on the two letters (which were rapidly becoming three), could have been taken out, solidified, and sold to a jeweller as sapphires, such was their colour.
Ignoring his nose and his lips (which, after all, do not bear close examination on any human), we shall now continue our journey upwards into that teeming mass of blonde which was commonly called his hair. He never bothered to try to tame it with gel or with holding charms, instead he was content to let it sit where it would and attack it with a brush for a few minutes. After all, it looked good no matter where it decided to fall, and that was the important thing. Why mess with perfection when it is so obviously perfect how it is?
The artist pulled his hand back from the chair, looking down at his work before twisting around to use it for its usual purpose – sitting. The "E" and "P" had now been joined by an "I", which must have been a labour of love for how long it took to complete. Epi, for that was indeed his name (or at least his nickname), shook his head to stun himself into consciousness, pocketing the knife somewhere in his jeans. The train had only been moving for fifteen minutes maximum, and it wasn't as if he didn't enjoy wearing civvies every once in a while.
Let's look at the whole body now, shall we? It is not tall for its age (no more than thirteen, no less than twelve), and nor is it particularly short. It occupies that rare middle ground for adolescent men, the middle ground that could be at any height but reminds you that it would be wise not to talk about it. Of course, it could be tall – there is just something about the way that it's built that makes you think otherwise. There is a certain stockiness about the boy (he is not fat, never fat) that suggests an underlying speed and strength that is disproportionate to his appearance. A hidden power, if you will.
It is clothed in what is affectionately called "civvies" by the boy, and "Muggle clothing" to his parents – jeans that have seen better days (and yet are the best they've ever been), and a shirt with some generic label on it. There is something about the boy that continues to remind you that it doesn't matter how he looks – he simply exudes an aura of confidence, of what the experts on the matter call "coolness". To put it another way, he could walk into the women's change-room wearing bright pink biker shorts and have them wondering where to get some. That is how "cool" this boy is.
So why is he alone in this carriage, letting the gentle rocking motion of the train keep him awake? Shouldn't he be laughing it up with friends, and making catcalls at girls walking past? (The girls, of course, would grin flirtatiously and twirl around for their spectators' pleasure.) The fact is that he is currently rather deficient in the friend department, not that it matters much. He is simply in a transition, that transition that we all take – between the lower grades and the senior schools, your friends seem to get lost in the mix and show up with different hairstyles. He doesn't mind, of course – why should he, when he is so cool by himself?
It is, of course, pure coincidence that a boy walks in, his luggage hovering behind him and trying to be inconspicuous (the luggage, not the boy – quite a feat). This boy is a rather fine counterpart to Epi – he is taller than he perhaps should be, but still carries himself with a certain elegance that suggests he knows how good life is when you don't do anything. There is something about the way that his slender frame moves, though, that suggests that he also understands this concept of "cool", this inner psyche that is a better grade than anything written on paper is. His brown hair, quite obviously used to being shaggy, has been brushed in a futile attempt to get it to stay down around his collar, giving him the rock-star look that so many others want.
This boy, as if noticing Epi for the first time (which he is, actually, but we shall ignore that), takes a turn from the corridor into the compartment of which Epi is the sole inhabitant and beckons his luggage in after him, which obediently floats up to one of the racks above both boys' heads. This boy is also wearing jeans, but a tighter shirt than Epi's – he belongs to that certain group of people that reminds us that when you do get it, you do flaunt it. As he sits, he gives a nod to his new companion and grins slightly. 'My name's Chris... Christian Alucard, really. Nice to meet you, mate.' His hand, completely devoid of any artwork, is pushed out into the no-man's-land between the two boys, hovering and waiting for a companion.
Epi nods, leaning forward in his seat to grasp Christian's hand and shake it. 'Hey. My name's Epi... Well, it's really Epicus Trepawn, but like hell anybody would stick with that, eh?' He laughs slightly, pushing the reply along with a gentle reminder of what anyone hearing it is supposed to do. As he lets go and sits back casually, he looks over his new acquaintance with an appraising eye; perhaps judging his worthiness? 'What do I call you, exactly? Chris? Christian? Alucard?'
Christian laughs, shrugging as he rests back into his seat as well; glad the preliminary stages of introduction are over. After a quick once-over of Epi, he finally nods and replies, 'Well, anything, really. I put up with my name,' he laughs, 'But generally, I'm called Alu. I find that it's more interesting than Chris or Christian, don't you?' The elegance is slowly fading, to be replaced by that sense of camaraderie that comes when teenage boys meet their equals. The only people who appear snobbish to their peers are those who wish to appear snobbish – everyone else is snobbish, but in the most jovial sense of the word.
'I have nothing against the name Chris, but yes, Alu is a nice name,' Epi replies, nodding and grinning slightly, perfect teeth shining through his lips. His parents have no qualms about mixing dentistry and magic. 'Me and my sister got stuck with Epicus and Lilius – our parents are a little odd like that, but they're alright really.' His fingers come up to the glass, nails tapping slowly on the speeding landscape. 'Lili – my sister – is going to come here next year. You'll know her when you see her. Everyone does.' He laughs (bitterly, almost?) as he turns to look out the window, leaving the next part of the conversation up to his companion.
Alu, however, has had his attention caught by another boy who has just stopped in the doorway of their compartment, forearms resting against the frame. This boy is almost the exact identical of Alu, except with one or two minor differences around the face and hair areas. Then again, most boys on this train are the same apart from their heads – individuality is grown into. 'Here, mate, take a seat,' he tells the newcomer, motioning to the seat in front of him (and beside Epi), and prodding his luggage as it tries to make a break for freedom.
'Thanks, lads,' the boy replies, happily sinking into the seat and glancing around the cabin. 'Everywhere else is full, and those that aren't, you don't wanna be in, if you understand me.' He grins, running a hand through his hair (shorter than Alucard's, but the same shade of brown and kept similarly loose) and looking around the cabin again. 'You know, an extra suitcase for the books and all that – well, that or they're sixth-years, and they're sodding violent bastards.' He grins again, opening his mouth to speak a third time, 'I'm Christian Zepho, good to meet you both.'
Epi, whose attention has by now been caught by Zepho, nods and grins as well as he offers a hand. 'Epi Trepawn, heading straight for Ravenclaw house,' he tells Zepho as they shake hands, appearing confident of what house he would end up in. He did, however, have license to be confident – his family had been in the house for generations, and blood had a tendency to run straight down one line. 'Good to meet you, mate.'
Alucard grins, not bothering to offer a hand. 'And I'm Christian Alucard – Alu for short. Nice to meet another Christian... Or would you rather be Zepho?' he asks, nodding by way of recognition and giving his luggage another sharp jab. Albeit charmed, it didn't have much in the way of obedience, and thus needed a hefty reminder every few minutes of what it was supposed to be doing.
'I think he'd better be Zepho,' floats in a voice from outside the compartment, 'Because I'm quite happy to be called Christian, and more than one could get a little confusing, don't you think?' A fourth boy walks into the compartment, casually taking up residence next to Alucard. 'Christian Cairbre-Pateus; now you know why I prefer to be called Chris.' In keeping with the general rule of appearances, this Christian is the same height as Epi but as slender as the other two boys in the compartment – that was on top of being the third boy so far with brown hair, and the second with short hair.
'Ah, right then, I'm Zepho. This one's Epi Trepawn,' he adds, jabbing a thumb towards the blonde, 'In case you didn't hear him from before. Good to meet you.' Zepho doesn't bother with a handshake either, instead nodding and looking out the window. 'Well, I guess we may as well stick together, eh lads?' he asks, looking around. There's something about the way he speaks that says that to say no wouldn't be rude, it just wouldn't happen – it would be going against nature, almost.
The three other people in the compartment reply in the affirmative, grinning around at each other before settling back in their seats and beginning to chat freely. It was one of those moments where everything just suddenly clicked, and you knew that something was being set up that was going to either last a thousand years or do something very large in a very short amount of time. Whatever it was, you knew it was going to end up being rather important.
If you thought that, this time you were dead right.
Not the sort of letter that begins with a cheery greeting, happily informs you of how the puppies are growing up, reminds you about the canned food drive next week and then cheerily goes on to tell you that your uncle is dead. It wasn't even the sort of letter that skips the mindless chit-chat and tells you that, once again, some distant relative has died and left you all his money. No, it was none of those. In fact, if you were thinking along those lines, you'd gotten the whole thing wrong.
It had begun with a letter. An innocent letter, carved into the back of an innocent chair on a train where innocence was handed out in nickels and dimes. The letter, so innocently carved with a knife that shouldn't have been there, was an "E". There was nothing Greek about it, nothing dark, mystical, arcane or unholy about it. It was just an innocent letter that had no meaning apart from to tell you that yes, it was an "E", and that it was carved into the back of a seat on a bright red steam train where it would've gone down better with some mysticism.
The hand that held the knife was rather interesting. The owner of the hand, faceless for now, had gone to the trouble of defacing such a beautiful object with a common pen, leaving the pale skin looking like it had been invaded by tribesmen who had taken the time to tattoo it (in blue ink, no less). The fact that he could contract ink poisoning from doing such a thing didn't seem to have deterred the artist, the same person who had taken the trouble to carve an "E" on his seat and had continued on with a "P", happily ensconced in his work.
Having gotten the hand over and done with, let's move up the arm – no, we don't care about the shirt – and onto the face, something which needs to be covered sometime. There were no markings on the artist's face, and we should probably be thankful for that; there are some things that are fine just the way they are, and this was one of them. It was not chiselled, nor was it the face of a rat – it was perfectly angled, giving the impression of both knowledge and looks; a valuable combination. The eyes, fixated on the two letters (which were rapidly becoming three), could have been taken out, solidified, and sold to a jeweller as sapphires, such was their colour.
Ignoring his nose and his lips (which, after all, do not bear close examination on any human), we shall now continue our journey upwards into that teeming mass of blonde which was commonly called his hair. He never bothered to try to tame it with gel or with holding charms, instead he was content to let it sit where it would and attack it with a brush for a few minutes. After all, it looked good no matter where it decided to fall, and that was the important thing. Why mess with perfection when it is so obviously perfect how it is?
The artist pulled his hand back from the chair, looking down at his work before twisting around to use it for its usual purpose – sitting. The "E" and "P" had now been joined by an "I", which must have been a labour of love for how long it took to complete. Epi, for that was indeed his name (or at least his nickname), shook his head to stun himself into consciousness, pocketing the knife somewhere in his jeans. The train had only been moving for fifteen minutes maximum, and it wasn't as if he didn't enjoy wearing civvies every once in a while.
Let's look at the whole body now, shall we? It is not tall for its age (no more than thirteen, no less than twelve), and nor is it particularly short. It occupies that rare middle ground for adolescent men, the middle ground that could be at any height but reminds you that it would be wise not to talk about it. Of course, it could be tall – there is just something about the way that it's built that makes you think otherwise. There is a certain stockiness about the boy (he is not fat, never fat) that suggests an underlying speed and strength that is disproportionate to his appearance. A hidden power, if you will.
It is clothed in what is affectionately called "civvies" by the boy, and "Muggle clothing" to his parents – jeans that have seen better days (and yet are the best they've ever been), and a shirt with some generic label on it. There is something about the boy that continues to remind you that it doesn't matter how he looks – he simply exudes an aura of confidence, of what the experts on the matter call "coolness". To put it another way, he could walk into the women's change-room wearing bright pink biker shorts and have them wondering where to get some. That is how "cool" this boy is.
So why is he alone in this carriage, letting the gentle rocking motion of the train keep him awake? Shouldn't he be laughing it up with friends, and making catcalls at girls walking past? (The girls, of course, would grin flirtatiously and twirl around for their spectators' pleasure.) The fact is that he is currently rather deficient in the friend department, not that it matters much. He is simply in a transition, that transition that we all take – between the lower grades and the senior schools, your friends seem to get lost in the mix and show up with different hairstyles. He doesn't mind, of course – why should he, when he is so cool by himself?
It is, of course, pure coincidence that a boy walks in, his luggage hovering behind him and trying to be inconspicuous (the luggage, not the boy – quite a feat). This boy is a rather fine counterpart to Epi – he is taller than he perhaps should be, but still carries himself with a certain elegance that suggests he knows how good life is when you don't do anything. There is something about the way that his slender frame moves, though, that suggests that he also understands this concept of "cool", this inner psyche that is a better grade than anything written on paper is. His brown hair, quite obviously used to being shaggy, has been brushed in a futile attempt to get it to stay down around his collar, giving him the rock-star look that so many others want.
This boy, as if noticing Epi for the first time (which he is, actually, but we shall ignore that), takes a turn from the corridor into the compartment of which Epi is the sole inhabitant and beckons his luggage in after him, which obediently floats up to one of the racks above both boys' heads. This boy is also wearing jeans, but a tighter shirt than Epi's – he belongs to that certain group of people that reminds us that when you do get it, you do flaunt it. As he sits, he gives a nod to his new companion and grins slightly. 'My name's Chris... Christian Alucard, really. Nice to meet you, mate.' His hand, completely devoid of any artwork, is pushed out into the no-man's-land between the two boys, hovering and waiting for a companion.
Epi nods, leaning forward in his seat to grasp Christian's hand and shake it. 'Hey. My name's Epi... Well, it's really Epicus Trepawn, but like hell anybody would stick with that, eh?' He laughs slightly, pushing the reply along with a gentle reminder of what anyone hearing it is supposed to do. As he lets go and sits back casually, he looks over his new acquaintance with an appraising eye; perhaps judging his worthiness? 'What do I call you, exactly? Chris? Christian? Alucard?'
Christian laughs, shrugging as he rests back into his seat as well; glad the preliminary stages of introduction are over. After a quick once-over of Epi, he finally nods and replies, 'Well, anything, really. I put up with my name,' he laughs, 'But generally, I'm called Alu. I find that it's more interesting than Chris or Christian, don't you?' The elegance is slowly fading, to be replaced by that sense of camaraderie that comes when teenage boys meet their equals. The only people who appear snobbish to their peers are those who wish to appear snobbish – everyone else is snobbish, but in the most jovial sense of the word.
'I have nothing against the name Chris, but yes, Alu is a nice name,' Epi replies, nodding and grinning slightly, perfect teeth shining through his lips. His parents have no qualms about mixing dentistry and magic. 'Me and my sister got stuck with Epicus and Lilius – our parents are a little odd like that, but they're alright really.' His fingers come up to the glass, nails tapping slowly on the speeding landscape. 'Lili – my sister – is going to come here next year. You'll know her when you see her. Everyone does.' He laughs (bitterly, almost?) as he turns to look out the window, leaving the next part of the conversation up to his companion.
Alu, however, has had his attention caught by another boy who has just stopped in the doorway of their compartment, forearms resting against the frame. This boy is almost the exact identical of Alu, except with one or two minor differences around the face and hair areas. Then again, most boys on this train are the same apart from their heads – individuality is grown into. 'Here, mate, take a seat,' he tells the newcomer, motioning to the seat in front of him (and beside Epi), and prodding his luggage as it tries to make a break for freedom.
'Thanks, lads,' the boy replies, happily sinking into the seat and glancing around the cabin. 'Everywhere else is full, and those that aren't, you don't wanna be in, if you understand me.' He grins, running a hand through his hair (shorter than Alucard's, but the same shade of brown and kept similarly loose) and looking around the cabin again. 'You know, an extra suitcase for the books and all that – well, that or they're sixth-years, and they're sodding violent bastards.' He grins again, opening his mouth to speak a third time, 'I'm Christian Zepho, good to meet you both.'
Epi, whose attention has by now been caught by Zepho, nods and grins as well as he offers a hand. 'Epi Trepawn, heading straight for Ravenclaw house,' he tells Zepho as they shake hands, appearing confident of what house he would end up in. He did, however, have license to be confident – his family had been in the house for generations, and blood had a tendency to run straight down one line. 'Good to meet you, mate.'
Alucard grins, not bothering to offer a hand. 'And I'm Christian Alucard – Alu for short. Nice to meet another Christian... Or would you rather be Zepho?' he asks, nodding by way of recognition and giving his luggage another sharp jab. Albeit charmed, it didn't have much in the way of obedience, and thus needed a hefty reminder every few minutes of what it was supposed to be doing.
'I think he'd better be Zepho,' floats in a voice from outside the compartment, 'Because I'm quite happy to be called Christian, and more than one could get a little confusing, don't you think?' A fourth boy walks into the compartment, casually taking up residence next to Alucard. 'Christian Cairbre-Pateus; now you know why I prefer to be called Chris.' In keeping with the general rule of appearances, this Christian is the same height as Epi but as slender as the other two boys in the compartment – that was on top of being the third boy so far with brown hair, and the second with short hair.
'Ah, right then, I'm Zepho. This one's Epi Trepawn,' he adds, jabbing a thumb towards the blonde, 'In case you didn't hear him from before. Good to meet you.' Zepho doesn't bother with a handshake either, instead nodding and looking out the window. 'Well, I guess we may as well stick together, eh lads?' he asks, looking around. There's something about the way he speaks that says that to say no wouldn't be rude, it just wouldn't happen – it would be going against nature, almost.
The three other people in the compartment reply in the affirmative, grinning around at each other before settling back in their seats and beginning to chat freely. It was one of those moments where everything just suddenly clicked, and you knew that something was being set up that was going to either last a thousand years or do something very large in a very short amount of time. Whatever it was, you knew it was going to end up being rather important.
If you thought that, this time you were dead right.