Phoenix Song
WARNING: This story contains strong language and strong situations. If you are under the legal age of consent for your state, province, territory, or country, or if scenes of violence and strong language offend you, turn back now!
LAWYERS NOTE: I do not own the Harry Potter characters, only my own. If one or all of the characters desire to return to J.K. Rowling's universe, they are welcome to do so at any time.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Incidentally, for those of you wondering, "Ciarán" is pronounced "Kee-Yair-AN" rather than "See-Yair-An". I could have spelled it "Kieran" but I liked the more traditional Anglicization of the Irish name. Most of my characters have Irish names.
EIGHT
There is a darkness so complete, so total that it defies the reality of light's existence. It is the night before time, before the universe took shape, before stars ignited and galaxies whirled into formation. It is hinted at in the mind at rest, in the space between dreams; it is the backdrop against which thought is projected, even the very thought that sparks a life to be, the primal awareness of selfhood, of existing as something other than the all-pervading blackness, a solitary light in the night. Aidan found himself surrounded by this darkness, and was not afraid. A pale orange radiance seemed to emanate outward from him, but it found no form on which to fall, no shape to illuminate save his own. He was alone in the void.
Something tickled the back of his mind, a memory, a sense of recognition, as if he had been here before. But he could not catch the fleeting thought, try as he might; his mind only seemed partially awake, and only on a very basic level, so that all he could comprehend or concern himself with was the ever-present now. The past and the future were nothing more than fuzzy concepts, at best, and there was nothing but the night now, and so he waited patiently for something to happen, now.
Something did. Gradually he began to perceive others in the darkness. They seemed to be formless, the light he cast did not reflect from them, but they cast light of their own—pale, sickly, feeble light, like dying coals. There was an aura of intense sorrow in that light, as if it was in mourning for glory lost, as if once the others had burned brightly, intensely, beautifully, but no more. There were thousands and thousands of them undulating gently in the silent darkness, looking like a sea of tiny stars, only stars were not so painful to look at, nor as dim as these.
Without knowing how he did it, as there was nothing to resist him, nothing to push off from, seemingly born on his will alone, he glided closer to the wan lights, curious, hesitant lest he should disturb them and cause them to lose even that luminosity which they possessed. As he drew closer to one, its pale radiance flared briefly in response to his own, like an ember fanned by a passing breeze, and in that brief flare, Aidan perceived a sense of familiarity. Tentatively, he reached out a hand toward the tiny spark, cupping it in his palm. At once, a welter of sights and sounds flooded his senses, a confusing jumble of people and places, of pain and heartache, triumph and elation, love and loss—memories, Aidan realized, the memories of a person, though he could not determine who. He released the spark, suddenly aware that he was intruding on the life of another, and the pale light bobbed free, gliding silently back to its previous position. Aidan stared at the rising and falling pinpricks of washed-out light stretching into the distance. They were all people; people with dreams and hopes that had once filled the night sky with brilliance and who had now, inexplicably, lost those hopes and dreams and had diminished as a result. The sadness emanating from them was palpable, the unutterable sorrow that springs from losing a part of oneself so vital, so close to one's being, to everything that a person is, that a person never recovers. A person might go on, despite the loss, but they would be forever changed, forever incomplete, forever alone in the night, though they be surrounded by a hundred thousand others. This was the grief that swept over Aidan as he gazed at the sea of failing light, and he wept silently, overcome.
This is the Third Darkness.
Aidan turned to see the firebird staring at him mournfully, its own light subdued, as if its own fire was in danger of going out.
"Why?" he choked. "How?"
A mistake.
Aidan wiped the tears from his face with the back of one hand. "You mean, it's not supposed to happen?"
No. That is the most sorrowful part of all. The one who brings this about intends it, but that person cannot foresee the consequences, only their own pain.
"Who is it? Tell me who it is," Aidan pleaded. "Maybe I can stop them, before it is too late."
The Second Darkness brings about the Third. Even now, it is moving toward that end. You must share your fire, else all will be forever lost.
"But who is it?" Aidan asked. The firebird looked sorrowfully at him, but did not reply. It seemed to Aidan that it was slipping slowly away, fading into the darkness, until he realized that he was the one moving; he was rising up, out of the darkness, into a blinding light, and abruptly he awoke, blinking in the sunlight that shone in his face. A soft bed was beneath him, a feathery pillow cushioned his neck, but the extent of his comfort ended there as several dull pains entered his awareness; different parts of his aching body clamoring for attention now that he was awake. The memory of the fall returned to him, and he groaned softly. That had been a particularly stupid thing to do, to approach the tree so closely, but he had been lost in the thrill of his first flight and had not expected a tree to actually reach out and swat at him, as if he was nothing more than an annoying flying insect.
"So you're awake, are you?" said the voice of an older woman. "About time, too. What did you think you were playing at, flying so close to the Whomping Willow?" A woman with curly gray hair, tied back into a tight bun, and what might have been a kindly expression, was she not looking sternly at him, appeared in his vision. "Move your arms," she instructed impatiently.
Obediently, Aidan did as he was told, raising first one arm, then the other. The older woman, who Aidan recognized as Madam Pomfrey, the school nurse, examined his arms and hands critically.
"Can you wiggle your fingers?" she asked.
Aidan did, wincing slightly as a mild pain shot up his arm.
"Well, your arms seem to have mended well enough," she said teresely. "There'll be some pain for a while, though; you don't mend sixty-six bones all at once without some pain." She eyed him reprovingly. "I can mend thick skulls easily, but unless you want to haunt Hogwarts with the other ghosts, I suggest you think twice if any more death-defying notions enter that head of yours."
"Sorry," Aidan mumbled, feeling suitably chastised. Madam Pomfrey stared hard at him for a moment, then turned away with a swish of her robes.
"You can see him now," she said to someone outside of Aidan's vision.
Aidan turned his head to see Ciarán and Headmistress McGonagall standing a few feet away.
"Wait here a moment," McGonagall said sharply to the older boy, striding over to the bed with a look on her face that was ten times worse than Madam Pomfrey's. Aidan grimaced, bracing himself for the worst.
"Well?"
Aidan looked up at McGonagall helplessly, unable to think of a response.
"I must admit, I expected better of you, Mr. Hayes," the Headmistress said after a moment. "Flying a broomstick without the proper instruction, with no regard for your own well-being or the rules, and over the Whomping Willow, no less! What were you thinking?"
Aidan shrugged, an act that sent another jolt of pain through his arms. What was he supposed to say?
"Do you realize how very fortunate you are to have survived that encounter? Do you know how much anxiety you have caused?"
Aidan glanced over at Ciarán, who looked pale and concerned, and suddenly felt guilty. "I'm sorry," he murmured.
"Are you?" the Headmistress snapped. "You very well should be. If you were assigned to a house, I would be docking points for your reckless behavior. As it is, I expect you to exhibit a good deal more intelligence in the future. Have I made myself understood?"
Aidan nodded, unable to look the Headmistress in the eyes. If it had been just her rebuke, Aidan could have withstood it, expected as it was, but Ciarán's worried look, something Aidan had not expected, struck him deeper than McGonagall's icy stare for reasons he did not want to admit to himself, and he was ashamed.
"Very well," McGonagall said, though she did not sound at all satisfied. "Madam Pomfrey informs me that you will be able to resume your lessons as usual on Monday, and I expect that you will pursue them diligently, Mr. Hayes." She gestured for Ciarán to approach. "I will leave you and Mr. Dwyer alone."
Ciarán walked up to the bed as McGonagall swept from it. Aidan forced himself to look at the older boy, into his blue eyes, which were filled with concern. "I'm sorry," he said again, pouring as much sincerity into the words as he could muster. He did not want the older boy to hate him or to be angry with him.
"For what?" Ciarán said softly.
"For…" Aidan faltered. What if Ciarán hadn't worried? What if he was just assuming he did, what if he was reading too much into the older boy's expression? "If—if I made you worry."
Ciarán shrugged. "Despite what McGonagall says, making a person worry is not a cardinal sin." He brushed the stray lock of hair out of his eyes, gazing down at Aidan with a strange expression in his eyes, one that made Aidan uncomfortable. "I'm just glad you're all right," he said quietly.
"It was pretty stupid, huh?" Aidan said, looking away lest he respond to the older boy's look, remembering the wild thrashing of the willow's limbs as it knocked him from the broom. The broom! Ciarán's broom had surely been destroyed by the tree's onslaught. "Did your broom…?" Aidan began, afraid to inquire after its fate.
"It's okay," Ciarán said. "It kept going, apparently, and it made it out all right."
Aidan breathed a sigh of relief. "That's good," he said. It was bad enough to cause Ciarán to worry without having also destroyed his property.
Ciarán nodded. "Yeah. Not even a scratch. I guess the willow was more interested in you."
Aidan pulled himself into a sitting position and grimaced as his ribs and arms protested loudly. "I guess so. How long was I out?"
"A few hours," Ciarán said. "I found you at the tree and brought you here."
"Thanks," Aidan said, not knowing what else to say. "Why does the school even have a tree like that?"
"It's always been here. I should've warned you about it, when I showed you around the grounds." Ciarán looked down. "I guess I forgot," he said apologetically.
"Don't," Aidan said, holding up a staying hand. He didn't want the other boy to berate himself for anything. "Don't worry about it. I'm the idiot who went flying into a tree. I probably would've done it even if I'd known. I got carried away. It's my fault." He lapsed into silence, staring intently at the older boy, who stared right back, that same expression in his eyes—he cares, Aidan realized, he actually cares—until Madam Pomfrey bustled over to them.
"That's enough time," she said briskly. "Mr. Hayes still needs his rest."
Ciarán nodded and reached out toward Aidan with one hand. Aidan flinched, afraid, uncertain, wondering—but the older boy merely laid the hand on his shoulder and patted it awkwardly. "Feel better," he said before allowing Madam Pomfrey to escort him to the door.
Aidan sat back, confused—what had he been expecting? But he knew the answer to that as the memory of Ciarán's body pressed against his rose unbidden in his mind, as he recalled the feel of his touch, and he shivered. It's not that! he told himself, shaking his head furiously. He can't feel that already! We've known each other all of two weeks, and I don't even know what I feel; how could he possibly know?
Even if he does know, nothing can happen. He sighed and lay back, willing the softness of the bed to lull him into relaxation as he stared up at the arched stone ceiling of the infirmary. Not until I know. And I don't even know where to begin. He sighed again. There would be no way for him to even consider a relationship with anyone until he came to terms with his past, with the things that Morgan had done to him and his own role in them. He did not relish the thought of having to do that; better that he was alone forever than experience the pain and humiliation all over again and possibly discover some things about himself he would sooner remained hidden. Yet he could not accept that outcome; he did not want to lead a solitary life. He wished there was another way, but no alternate paths opened up before him. He could either deal with it, or not; both paths led to their own destinations, and Aidan was stuck at the crossroads, unwilling to budge. Sooner or later, though, he would have to decide, and it might have to be sooner, judging from what he thought Ciarán was feeling. He doubted the older boy would wait forever.
It's not fair! he mentally shouted at the ceiling, and his thought seemed to echo from the stone and return, albeit modified so that it resembled a phrase he already knew well. Life is not fair. And no one said it would be. He grumbled about that for a while, as the sun sank low, eventually disappearing beneath the window. Finally, he felt his eyelids grow heavy, and his thoughts no longer seemed to follow a coherent pattern, tumbling aimlessly over themselves. I wonder if I'll have another strange dream, he thought drowsily…
He was laying in the darkness, but this darkness was not the same as before; it was brighter, as if illuminated by some source of light. He looked and saw the bright, pale disc of the moon peeking through the window of the boy's dormitory, looking larger than life. Someone else was in bed with him, someone familiar; Aidan looked over and saw Ciarán sitting on the edge of the bed, shrugging out of his shirt. His heart lurched in his chest, and he felt a sudden tingling in his extremities as the older boy crawled over to him, straddling his waist and leaning forward until he was right above him, supporting himself on his surprisingly-well-defined arms while gazing intently into Aidan's eyes.
"Do you want this?" the older boy whispered.
Aidan froze, his heart pounding in his head. God yes! said a part of him, but another part of him responded with fear and dread. No, I don't! He stared mutely at the older boy as he leaned in closer, until his lips were brushing Aidan's own. Aidan gasped as another electric thrill surged through his body, mingling with his desire and overwhelming his fear momentarily. He returned the kiss, pouring himself into it, losing himself in the moment, which stretched into an eternity without thought, and when Ciarán finally broke the kiss, it felt as if Aidan had lost a part of himself as well.
He had. He stared in confusion as a trail of fire burned brightly between their mouths, connecting them. Ciarán's eyes were closed, he was breathing heavily, seemingly inhaling the power streaming from Aidan's lips, and Aidan suddenly recalled the image of a succubus he had once seen enacted on a television screen, and he was afraid. This isn't right! He wanted to struggle, to break the connection, but he found his arms were bound tightly in heavy casts that felt like lead weights. Try as he might, he could not lift them.
"Shouldn't have flown into the tree," Ciarán said with a malevolent grin. He was glowing now, burning with the same fire Aidan recognized as his own. Flames seemed to lick at his bare skin without burning him, and he laughed maniacally, his features suddenly shifting into another's.
"You shouldn't have kissed me, either," Morgan said, pinning him to the bed by his shoulders. "Now you are powerless."
"NO!"
Aidan sat up, panting heavily, the images of the dream still emblazoned on his mind's eye. He blinked them away, trying to orient himself to his surroundings. The infirmary was dark, save for a patch of silver-white moonlight on the floor. His heart was pounding heavily in his head, his breath coming in short gasps. His arm throbbed painfully as he ran one clammy hand over his forehead. While all of his strange dreams had been disturbing, this last one was downright chilling. Ciarán is not Morgan, he reminded himself, but he could not shake the image of the older boy's metamorphosis from his mind.
Isn't he like Morgan? said the voice of his fear and doubt. An older guy who has some interest in you beyond the boundaries of friendship? And he already took advantage of you once, stealing that kiss. Who's to say he won't try it again, perhaps more forcefully next time?
Aidan shook his head. Not Ciarán. Ciarán is different.
Do you know that? Are you willing to take the risk? Are you willing to be hurt again, powerless to stop what will happen to you?
I'm not powerless.
Not yet. Give yourself over to Ciarán and see how long that lasts.
He lay back on the pillow, feeling sorrow and disappointment wash over him as he knew what he must do, and hating himself for coming so readily to the decision. I have no choice, he thought. Except to go through all of the fucking pain from my past all over again.
Somehow, he thought Ciarán would be worth it, but he pushed that notion aside. I can't do it. I have to tell him I can't. He lay awake the rest of the night, dreading the coming of the dawn.
"What?" Ciarán asked, staring at Aidan uncomprehendingly. He had come by to visit Aidan as soon as the sun was up, despite Madam Pomfrey's objections that Aidan should not be exerting himself so early in the morning.
Aidan repeated himself. "I said I can't do it."
"Do what?" Ciarán asked, looking thoroughly confused.
Don't make me say it, Aidan pleaded with the older boy in his mind. Don't make it more painful than it has to be. Out loud, he said, a touch of his discomfort sounding in his voice, "You know."
"No, actually, I don't."
Aidan sighed and closed his eyes. It's never easy, is it? He felt strangely detached from his feelings, as if, now that he had firmly decided on a course of action, they had ceased their dissent.
"I can't…get into a relationship with you," Aidan said, opening his eyes. "I know that's what you want, Ciarán. I can see it in your eyes."
Ciarán blinked and looked surprised. "Oh," was all he said.
"I'm sorry," Aidan pressed on. "I wish I could."
"Saw right through me, did you?" Ciarán asked, and his voice had an edge to it. He opened his mouth as if to say something more, then closed it and sighed, disappointment registering on his face. "I'm sorry," he murmured finally. "I guess I thought—or hoped—that maybe…that maybe you…"
Aidan shook his head. "I'm not." Even the guilt that rose up as he spoke the lie seemed remote, smothered by his inflexible will. I will not be.
"Are you sure?" Ciarán asked, then shook his head. "Sorry. That was a stupid thing to ask." He bit his lower lip, looking suddenly lost, sighing heavily. "Can we still be friends?"
No, said a voice, the same voice that had risen up the previous night inside Aidan's head. Don't give in. You must never see each other again, or else you risk losing yourself, even as you do now. But Aidan couldn't bring himself to say it. "Yes," he said with an effort.
Ciarán nodded. "Well, I guess I'd better…um, before Madam Pomfrey comes back."
"Right," Aidan said.
"I'll see you around, then," Ciarán said, retreating hastily.
Aidan watched him go, at once relieved and ashamed. He was relieved that he would not have to deal with his past, but he felt guilty for numerous reasons, all of them valid. He was taking the coward's way out, he felt, and he was disappointing Ciarán, who he really liked, and he was dodging the responsibility he felt his strange dreams with the firebird had placed upon him. He was not going to share any part of himself with anyone. He saw again the dying stars of the first dream, the fading embers of the second—the Third Darkness, which he might prevent, somehow, by sharing his fire with someone, in some way—and he saw the sorrowful look in the bird's eyes, reproaching him, and he wanted to scream with frustration. Instead, he buried his head underneath the pillow and wept bitterly. Unknown to him, just down the hall from the infirmary, Ciarán was doing the same.
