A/N: Mhm mhm, I have nothing to say. Prompt: (Word) Indescribable


The shrine is just a pitiful pile of stone in the middle of the woods. But there is a lantern burning outside, warm and faintly gold.

Kingsley steps into it one rainy evening, shivering slightly. His coat is thick enough to keep the cold at bay, but it doesn't do much against the persistent drizzle. The shrine keeps most of the rain off, but a few drops slip through. It's surprisingly warm under the stone roof, and there's a bench along one wall.

He sits there. He's content to wait for the rain to stop, but then he looks away from the water pouring down outside and lays eyes on a thin, bright-eyed man leaning against the shrine wall. Kingsley stiffens. It's not a threatening presence, exactly, but one moment he wasn't there, and then he was.

"Hello," Kingsley says.

The man's eyebrows go up. "Hello. You're not like my usual visitors."

"You get many visitors out here?"

There is something indescribable about the man's face. Something vaguely like a warning, like a cautionary tale. He looks ordinary enough, in truth, but Kingsley still keeps himself still.

"Lost people," the man says, shrugging. "Boys who die in battle. Kids hiding from adults. That kind of thing. But you don't fit into those categories. So what are you doing here?"

Kingsley glances at the rain again, coming down in sheets, turning the earth to paste. He doesn't ask how the man knows whether or not he's lost.

"Just passing through, I suppose," he says. "Waiting for the rain to stop."

"Passing through," the man repeats slowly, as though it's the first time he's heard those words side-by-side before. "Is that so?"

It is so. There's a town two miles on the other side of the woods that might take a look at Kingsley's manuscript. It's not much, but he's done some of his best work. He plans to be there in three days' time, and spend a week at the tavern, making edits and bothering the popular bards for their time.

He tells the man this, proudly lifting the satchel at his side. The manuscript is inside, carefully wrapped in brown paper and fastened with twine made from nereid hair to keep it from getting wet.

"What's your name?" the man asks, staring at him avidly.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt. May I know your name?"

It's the customary question when faced with possible gods. Spirits, quiet ones, spriggans and the like; all of them are very protective of their names. Kingsley keeps eye contact, chin tipped down respectfully. It feels wrong to even ask. But he needn't have worried. The man smiles briefly, a little wryly.

"Just Harry works."

It's likely a lie. Names are usually something long and complicated and impossible to forget. But Kingsley smiles back anyway, soft and grateful for even that much.

"It's good to meet you, Harry."

Harry comes away from the wall and joins him on the bench. He isn't wearing a coat; his clothes are a little ragged, far too big for him, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He looks like a boy playing dress-up, but he's clearly a man. And there is that indescribable feeling again when he tries to guess his age, as though the answer isn't something he should poke or prod.

Kingsley has heard of gods. They lurk on the sidelines, watching men fall in the dirt, firing arrows and laughing when they strike true. Some people despise gods. Some people fall on their knees at shining shrines, emptying pockets of gold at the unmoved feet of holy statues. Some people have won the gods' favour, and travel the world healing people with a breath, granting wishes and casting magic.

But gods have never had much to do with Kingsley's day, so he's never given them much thought in turn.

Maybe he should have, though. He glances at Harry, who keeps his eyes on the rain.

"This is your shrine, isn't it?"

"It's probably best that you don't ask questions," Harry says. "That's not a threat, by the way. Just the way things work."

"I'm a writer," Kingsley says, with a slightly teasing lilt. "We like questions."

"That's what got me into this mess in the first place, so take it from me. Sometimes it's better not to ask."

Kingsley considers this. And then he disregards it, carefully, in order to ask: "Do you really believe that?"

Surprise flashes across Harry's face. Grief is close behind it, and then something strangely warm and bitter. He shakes his head, and the lantern outside sways with the motion, swinging its light across bracken and stone. His eyes are green, Kingsley realizes. The green of new leaves and rich jewels.

"I guess not," Harry says. "But you still shouldn't ask too many questions."

Kingsley bows his head in agreement, and turns back to the window. It doesn't look like the rain is stopping anytime soon. And it doesn't look as though either of them plan to move. Kingsley is comfortable with silence, but part of him wonders how much silence this man has had to endure, and he longs to break it.

The satchel feels heavier, all of a sudden, in his hand.

"How about a story?" Kingsley asks. "To pass the time."

Harry looks at him. There's a wary look in his eye, but beyond that is something hopeful and warm. Just like the lantern that flares brighter, spilling gold inside the shrine, as though to help him see the words.

"I'd like that," Harry says quietly.

And so Kingsley undoes the twine and peels away the paper one sheet at a time, folding it carefully at the bottom of the satchel. Harry presses his fingertips into the bound leather and breathes life into his manuscript, keeping it dry from the rain even without the twine. The silence thickens in the forest, but there in the shrine, dry and safe, they read until the rain stops, and then they read a little more.


[Word Count: 1,000]