When Heroes Rise

Chapter 2

The Choices We Make

Choice has always been a privilege for those that could afford to pay for it.

Ellen Frankfort

Dolorin once a thriving fort with hundreds of healthy, happy denizens had been completely and utterly razed.

Along the stone road there must have once existed a bustling market place, made wealthy and prosperous through trade and devoted work, content in the quiet peace that had claimed much of Europe. All that remained of that peace was a line of burnt buildings, the debris spreading far and wide. Scorched by flame, they had been devoured by heat and left to collapse as wood cracked and stone crumbled. Blackened frames poked from the rubble like broken bones that had punctured the skin of a corpse. The path was cluttered with wreckage, for no structure, no house or inn or stable, had been left standing, many tipping forward to cover the road with their decimated innards. Tables, chairs, clothes lay strewn everywhere, some burning still, as though these simple articles were the last of city to abandon the fight. The smoke hung so heavily and so low that the sun's light barely pierced the oppressive veil. Blood covered the street like a ghastly river, corpses strewn about like worthless rag dolls. Most had been gutted. It reeked of blood and death and stale, violent sex.

And above it all the sky was blemished with what look like a skull and a serpent, green and foreboding.

All was still with disbelief. No one could direct his eyes elsewhere, each examining the wreckage in all of its gruesome, horrid detail. Aden could find no air to breathe, a vacuum of terror and disgust closing tightly about him. There was no sound, no feeling. This paralyzing shock struck him, and his heart held tight in his chest as his numbed mind fought to deny. So desperately he fought the terrible, pressing reality! Perhaps if he closed his eyes, perhaps if he wished vehemently enough, he would find himself back in his cool, soft bed, waking from troubled sleep. But there was no such easy escape. The destruction lay bare before him, and for all the want of his heart, he could do naught but stare.

For a long while no one had the audacity to speak. It seemed an eternity as the despair ate at all of them, as their souls shriveled in bearing witness to such brutal and violent destruction. Then came the sound of gagging; one of Nicholas's younger men had lost his composure and had stumbled from his horse to the ground, heaving. Aden's eyes slipped shut. "Dear Merlin…" he whimpered, imploring that this somehow not be true. All those innocent people… so many… He closed his eyes against the tears.

Who could have done such a thing? The rumors must be true…He has returned.

Troubled hearts pounded, straining for something more. Yet there was nothing but the suffocating silence and smoke and the remains of a people slaughtered.

It was Nicholas who finally regained himself enough to speak. His voice hardly wavered, though Aden could tell the young man was exerting himself to keep his fury and grief in check. "Fan out," he declared as resolutely as he could, "and search for survivors. There may be men alive… buried perhaps." Aden bowed his head, but found no hope in Nicholas' words. This vicious force had come to destroy, and it had done so completely and utterly. The warrior had seen and experienced much in his short life, but never something so… arrogantly cruel and atrocious. He shuddered. Evil. Evil has come to Europe once more.

They were sluggish in their task, and understandably so, for it was a terrible one. Their company was comprised of approximately thirty souls, and they had split up to encompass the entire city in their search. Dolorin was not overly large, but the task was strenuous and difficult as many of the buildings eaten through by fire had collapsed, leaving large heaps of smoking debris through which to dig. The day had worn to late afternoon, and they had nothing to show for their efforts but bloodied hands, worn bodies, and wearied hearts.

Aden sighed. Soot covered him, painting his ashen face with gray smudges, leaving his normally pristine appearance uncharacteristically filthy. His fingers were caked with the grime as he shoved a broken and scarred table from the wreckage of yet another ruined house. Flakes of charred wood fell from a smoking beam overhead, dropping into his hair like black snow. He wondered for a moment on the safety of venturing further inside. The flame set to this house had smashed through to the second floor, eating through the ceiling and reducing the eastern wall to a mound of fallen stone and split beams. Miraculously, the western side had been left relatively intact. However, the second story overhead, without support on one side, had begun to sag and sink. The whole structure whined and moaned precariously.

The man glanced inside, but it was very dark. The sun was sinking below the horizon, leaving shadows to skulk and grasp the world. He wrinkled his nose. How he longed for a cool breeze to blow the horrid smoke and release them from this smell! Yet the earth ignored his plea, and the wretched plume hung over them, relentlessly plaguing his nostrils and hindering his sight. He stood in the door, debating on the consequences of continuing. The grisly images from previous homes had burned into him, and he closed his eyes as again they assailed his senses. Many of the poor folk had been in bed when the attackers had struck. Most had not even made it outside their front doors before their houses were invaded. He saw men, stabbed and mutilated, holding still to swords and daggers in what was certainly a last, terrified defense of their families. He found women, naked and bleeding, clearly ravaged and beaten before their throats had been cut. And children… The young man clenched a fist. The disgust and sorrow was quickly melding together within him in a storm of fury. At first he had clung to some shred of hope that their search would not be in vain, that buried and trapped in this nightmare was somebody in need of their aid. But as the hours had worn away, despair had stomped out that faint wish, and he had slowed in his frantic efforts and taken time to pull some of the bodies from the wreckage into the street. He draped cloth on those he could, felt for those he could not, and whispered an old Japanese blessing for each soul that had passed. He did not know if Nicholas intended to bury the citizens, but even so, it seemed terribly wrong to leave them in the prison where they had been so viciously murdered.

Aden looked down, leaning tiredly against the door. The stoic mask he had worn all day for the benefit of these people and Nicholas' men was beginning to slip, but he was too tired and depressed to care much. No warning. No salvation. Inexplicably he felt guilty for these poor people and what they had endured. He wished he could have somehow done more. There is no cause for that, reminded the logical voice of his mind. You could not have known. His heart, however, accepted no such rationale, content to weep in grief. He was exhausted enough to let it.

He lingered there, breathing, trying hard to find the strength to keep looking. To keep fighting. He decided to move on; this house seemed empty, and he did not know if he could tolerate another gruesome death scene. But his weary feet would not carry him. A needling voice came from the back of his mind, a voice saturated in worry and shame. Fate would certainly turn against him if he should leave this one house unchecked. Here would be the one person left living, he just knew it in his gut. And he could not walk away from that small, nearly impossible chance.

So he walked inside, over fallen chairs and broken furniture. Gracefully he navigated through the maze of wreckage, pushing aside what he could and stepping over what he could not. The second floor whimpered in stress, dumping a load of soot on his already dirty body. He could not stifle a paroxysm of coughing, the foul tasting stuff invading his nose and mouth. When that passed, he drew in a deep breath of cleaner air and rubbed his eyes.

Someone was crying.

His heart jumped into his throat, a rush of excitement leaving his head spinning and his pulse thundering. For a moment he doubted his senses, waiting, holding his breath and praying that the sound would come again. Surely he had not imagined it! But it did come again, a muffled wail. Immediately he located it.

With renewed vigor spiking through his tired body like lightning, Aden bounded forth, shoving away anything and everything blocking his way. The high-pitched sobbing was coming from the kitchen, where a large, scratched oak table had been pushed up against the wall, obviously for protection. "Help has come!" he announced. "Please, hold on a bit longer!"

The screaming continued. It was obviously a child. Panic pulsed through Aden as he frantically scrambled to the small area, climbing over the counter. His feet struck the floorboards with a soft thud, and a terrified shriek followed. Aden felt the color drain from his face. He was standing in a puddle of blood. His eyes followed the gory trail under the overturned table.

Disgust barely had the time to register. With strong hands, he pulled it back.

His eyes pierced the shadows. Pale flesh stained red. A ripped and ruined dress. Red hair. The woman was laying on her stomach, her cheek pressed to the hard floor, her green, soulless eyes wide open yet unseeing. Aden felt nausea claim him, selfishly grateful that she was prone so that he could not see the substance of her demise. A great pool of red blood lay under her.

A piercing shriek broke the silence. In the corner sat a little girl. Though much of her form was covered by shadow, Aden's heightened sight could perceive her easily enough. She appeared to be no more than five or six years old. A mess of wild red hair adorned her small head, sticking up haphazardly. Her chubby face was streaked with tears, grime, and blood. Her knees were drawn up to her chest. Her little hands covered her eyes as she sobbed and wailed.

His heart broke. He dropped to a crouch. "Shh, little one. All is well. I will not hurt you," he declared softly, comfortingly. He dared not move, uncertain if any motion would startle her. He surely did not want to traumatize her further! "You are safe now."

The girl cried for a bit longer, but then stopped and peered through the cracks between her fingers. When her wide, teary eyes came upon him, he offered a gentle smile. They did not speak immediately, Legolas keeping his body perfectly still so as not to frighten her. Finally she murmured. "Are… are you a ghost?" Her english was sloppy and slurred with youth and fear.

The thought amused him slightly, and the corner of his mouth turned in a smile. "No." She had obviously never seen one of his kind before, and his natural glow baffled and amazed her. "I am an just here to help you," he said evenly.

She started to weep again. Aden could hardly stand to hear her wails of anguish and winced at their volume. He crept closer, extending one slender hand to her. Reaching over the woman's dead body. "Do not cry, little one," he pleaded, shaking his head helplessly. "Let me take you out of here. Surely you would like that?" The little girl only cried harder. In her gasping sobs Aden could make out the word "mother". The young man grimaced inwardly as he discovered the truth behind his fear. This was the dead woman's daughter. He could not even begin to imagine her pain.

There came a thunder of feet outside. Aden peered over the wreckage to see a few men standing at the door. "Lord Aden," one with deep, baritone voice called, "we heard crying! Are you well, sir?"

"Summon your captain," ordered the man firmly. "I have found a child."

The two men glanced between each other, clearly surprised. Then one murmured, "Aye, sir!" He disappeared from the door.

The other stepped inside, and the house groaned. Aden shook his head quickly. "Stay back. This house is unstable!" The man stopped in his tracks and watched helplessly. Then the man returned his attention to the girl. She had squirmed further into the corner. He obviously terrified her, and he frankly found no fault with that, given the situation. He calmed himself and turned his hand over, showing her his open fingers and palm. He forced a smile to his face. "What is your name, little one?" he asked, his mind racing to find a way to calm her.

She sniffled and turned her face into the wall. But she did speak. "Kyra."

His heart shuddered in relief. He smiled at her, trying desperately to appease her fears. "Kyra, my name is Aden."

She swallowed. "Addenn."

He gave a little laugh. "Good enough, little one. I promise I will do nothing to hurt you. You must trust me, Kyra. We are not safe here." He held her gaze, determined not to let her go now. "Just take my hand."

"Mummy won't wake up," the girl whispered. Tears welled in her bright, green eyes.

Aden ached inside, panic swirling within him as the second floor cracked and creaked. He said, "Your mother is in a wonderful place now, Kyra. She would want you to be safe, would she not?" The little child nodded fearfully, her face puckered up with a barely restrained sob. "Come with me. I will keep you safe."

A board snapped and the ceiling lurched down a few inches. Aden jerked, but did not look up, knowing that if he should frighten her now they would lose her. I will not lose her! He held his breath, praying that there would be time enough to escape this house, that she would trust him enough for him to save her.

Finally she reached out a trembling, little hand. This she slowly placed in his open palm. Nearly sagging in relief, he closed his long fingers about her tiny digits. Wide, fearful eyes regarded him. "I'm scared," she admitted, her voice shaking.

"Nothing will harm you," Aden assured. He reached out his other arm and moved closer, dipping his knee into the chilly puddle of blood on the floor. The girl hesitated a moment more, but it was clear that the promise of security his arms provided won over her fear of him. She launched her small, quaking form into his embrace. Burying her face into the warmth of his shoulder, she began to wail again.

The young man wasted no time. Wrapping his arms tightly around the precious burden, he propelled himself up with strong legs. Over the counter he flew, graceful and elegant despite his panic. The ceiling was crumbling, raining splinters of wood and dust upon him. It snapped. He bounded through the mess, flying faster than the observing soldier could detect, precariously stepping around the debris on feet swift and light. The supports gave away with a booming and horrific crack, and down came the second floor.

But Aden was already safely outside. He stood quite some distance from the door, watching as the house destroyed itself. The noise of the collapse was deafening, a great plume of soot, smoke, and debris spraying from the structure. A few rushed breaths of surprise and relief passed, and when it settled, there was nothing left to salvage.

The only thing of any worth was in his arms, at any rate.

Nicholas jogged up to him. The young captain appeared winded, breathing heavily. He had obviously run here when receiving word from his men of what had happened. Aden shared with him a pained look of jagged relief and despair. Kyra's cries were quieting, her tiny fists balled in Aden's hair, her face nuzzled into the nape of his neck.

"Send for the healer immediately," barked Nicholas to his men, who stood about watching in stupefaction. One broke from his daze and headed off in a run. Then the ranger stepped closer, clearly to get a better look at what Aden had found, but Kyra was too upset for that, and she buried her face deeper into Aden's shoulder, holding onto him with all her strength. "Are you well, Aden?" Nicholas inquired quietly. The young lord only nodded. The captain looked down and shook his head. "We found no one else."

The words struck hard. Shaken, Aden wrapped his hand around the little girl's back. He held to her tightly and wondered at the cruelty of fate. To leave an innocent child as the sole survivor of the massacre of her entire city…

He closed his eyes against the tears.

They would pay…Voldemort would pay.

It was time to pay a visit to a young boy whose destiny would be intertwined with his.

War had finally been unleashed.

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In his life he had taken certain things for granted, never challenging his belief in success and bothering little about means and roads. But now he was confronted with a thing of the moment. A choice. A choice in whether or not he was going to continue this path and be forever someone's puppet or carve his own path in this thing called life.

He was forced to admit to himself that as far a war was concerned he knew nothing of himself. He also new that if he was going to win this war, Dumbledore's orders would have to be defied.

If he was going to fight Voldemort then he was going to make sure he had all the tools to do it while at the same time making sure he survived. Or if he died he would make sure he took the bastard with him. But right now at this very moment he needed to find some way to get to Diagon Alley. He needed money and he was only going to get that at Gringotts.

He sat on his bed and thought about how he was going to get there. He couldn't apparate yet. And he certainly couldn't ask the Order to let him go. That would be too much of a hassle and they probably wouldn't let him purchase half the things he was thinking of buying today. The Knight Bus was traceable and he wasn't sure if the Order was watching that as well. So all the wizarding options were out.

So muggle taxi it was. He had about 100 quid on him at the moment and that should be more then enough to get him to London.

He had sent a letter to the order yesterday so he wouldn't really be checked on for two more days. He got up off the bed he was sitting down and placed the letters he had received on his beaten desk.

He jumped as he heard the front door slam, signaling the departure of his relatives from his life for two weeks. He only wished he could have a similar departure from the Order, but the was a limit to God's special favors. He walked over to his trunk and took out the essentials, his invisibility cloak, his money pouch and his little sneakascope. Harry picked up a hand me down backpack that a nice neighbor had given him when he had weeded her garden just a few days ago and put it around his shoulders. He picked up his invisibility cloak, pocketed his sneakascope and his wand and went downstairs.

He had been watching the order like clockwork this past week and it was just running around nine in the morning and this was when a first shift change was bound to happen. He looked out the window and sure enough there was "Dung" under a bush next to number six bouncing his foot to a beat only he could hear. The Order was getting really predictable and he new that being predictable would get you or someone else killed.

He walked towards the back door and went outside quietly. He had been in the garden recently and noticed that his aunt had put a fountain next to the back fence. Just the right thing that Harry need to climb. He walked quickly towards the fountain and put his foot on the rim and hauled himself over the fence into the neighbors yard. He was lucky that these people had just sold their house and moved out while he was still at school. He dropped skillfully to the ground on the other side of the fence and walked towards the gate, but not before putting on his invisibility cloak.

He walked out onto the street and towards his destiny. Whatever that may be.

Ginny Weasley was angry.

Very angry.

She was sitting in the kitchen of Number Twelve Grimmauld with her family minus the git Percy, Hermione and her parents, and various members of the order including Dumbledore. The reason for her anger was her mother. She loved her mother, but there were times her mother still thought that she was still that little girl that Harry had rescued from the chamber. And every since they came back for summer hols, her mother had constantly berated and lectured and yelled at her. Telling her that she was too young. That she was to innocent that she had no right to be there.

And her she was yelling at them again.

"Really how could the ministry just let children walk into the Department of Mysteries, how could they let six of them in there with no warning, Ron, Ginny you should have known better then to waltzing in there, you could have died!" Molly Weasley was practically yelling at the order and her children.

"Now, Now Molly calm down," Arthur Weasley attempted to soothe his irate wife.

"CALM DOWN! They almost died, and you're telling me to calm down!" Molly screamed.

"Mum, stop it, we went there and it was a trap, yes I know now that it was, but how could we not trust one of Harry's visions, especially when one saved Dad's life just this past Christmas?" Ginny sighed. This was defiantly getting old.

"Ginny you don't understand what its like to fight in a war, you don't understand how evil You-know-who really is…"

Ginny slammed her hands on the table.

"I don't know how evil he is mum? I don't understand how he can manipulate and how he can cause pain. I think out of everyone in this room I would know just how evil he is. I am the one who had his filth inside me for a year, a year mother. He took my innocence away from me, he stole my soul. Then he used me to send a fifty-foot basilisk on the muggle-borns in the school, and one of them happened to be my best friend. So please don't lecture me on not know how evil he is because I have first hand knowledge of just how evil the bastard is." Ginny was standing looking at every face in the room. Unbeknownst to her eyes were shimmering and glowing. Molly looked ashamed that she had forgotten what he daughter went through.

"I love you all. I do. But there is something that you need to realize this is my war too. That I want to see Tom dead just as much if not more then most of you. You all sit around thinking that we are children and that we can't handle ourselves, well news flash you can't protect us forever and there will come a time where Voldemort..." the room flinched. "Oh come off it its just a bloody name, where Voldemort will attack and you won't be there to protect us, you know that. You have always taught us that we have to fight for what's right no matter the cost. Did you lie to me? This is right, fighting for and defending the light is the right thing to do. Harry once told me that we have to choose between what is right and what is easy. It would be easy to bow down to Voldemort's demands and kiss his bloody robes, but the right thing to do is fight, fight for what we know to be the truth. And I choose to fight." Ginny gave one last look to her family and walked out of the kitchen.

Fred sighed, "That went well."