Chapter Forty : Song of Sorrow
Shadows recede through the Forbidden Forest, slinking through the brush, as the abrasion of the crow's screech cuts through the silence. Ghostly death follows the elder creatures of lore; these majestic beings journey to lands unscathed by black magicks and darkness. The murder of crows rise with the winds, carrion snapped between their beaks, as the wailing winds cut through the capes of seven wizards. The eyesight of the canine and elf guide their paths through the mystic and dark surroundings, and they approach a hollow that has been sacred since pointy-eared creatures freely walked upon these lands.
Eyes crimson with death pierce the fogs of Hades's realm and hound the trails of the wizards. They are restrained only by the dim lights emitted by the wands of the Slytherin rear guard and white-haired forward lead.
The descendant of the elf stops abruptly, forcing those behind him to a jerking halt.
"Oi! What's the hold-up!" a red-headed wizard bellows at Sirius Black, only to be severely reprimanded into silence by the silver-haired, veela woman.
"You reckon it's too late to reconsider?" Sirius mumbles under his breath, only loud enough for his best mate to hear.
Remus Lupin shakes his head, knowing that Sirius already knows the answer.
"The roads ahead are paved with the blood of the damned," the leader of the alliance snaps, his vibrant green eyes narrowing with exasperation. "We don't have time to hold your hand if you are afraid of monsters who bite under beds and hide in the dark, Black! I don't have time for cowardice!"
Sirius's face reddens and his violet eyes gaze over with brief contempt. "There is a difference between bravery and stupidity, son," Sirius barks. "We may not walk out of this forest under our own power! There are ancient animosities between the races; we've been fighting for so long that not even the mystical creatures are capable of remembering why! There are magicks at play here that we could only dream of. Pull your head out of your arse and take a look around! We cannot expect the minotaur and centaur to take up arms and fight alongside us. Not when they would be happy to slit our throats with our own daggers!"
"Then that is why we do not carry them, Black!"
Deathly stillness falls over the companions. Wars of the ancients are forgotten history, taught only by storytelling and recorded by those who care to record them. Fleur and Charlie stare at Sirius, their eyes vacant of comprehension. Severus lowers his wand, scowling into the darkness, and carefully watches the emotions jerk on their commander's face.
"There is no time for debate. We are not a democracy!" the dark-haired commander shouts, his brows furrowing in rage and eyes narrowing with spiteful thoughts.
Sirius abruptly exhales to calm his plummeting heart. "Are we really, mate?" he speaks softly, defeated. "Could we walk from this forest with the deaths of thousands burnt into our souls, knowing that if we sacrificed, maybe one of those thousands might live? Do you expect us to surrender our blood for Pucey's on the battlefield? For Lockhart's, Longbottom's or Snape's? For yours? Does that make us heroes? Does fleeing make us cowards?"
From the woods flanking the deer-path, twenty-six eyes reflect from within the fogs, approaching silently.
Remus flickers his amber eyes toward those of a minotaur in the darkness. "Uh . . ." He yanks on the sleeve of Sirius's robes, able to lock the outline of a large minotaur in his grey vision.
The blood of Merlin's last descendant courses through his veins as he flexes his tight muscles. "If there will be an arrow in your back, Sirius, then there is not a place for you at home," he says through gritted teeth, not fully understanding the magnetism of his words.
Sirius's jaw drops of its own accord. "There will be arrows in our backs if we fight alongside those bastards!"
"Silence, you fool!" Igor admonishes, brandishing his black wand against Sirius's chest. "Hold your tongue else there will be arrows in our fronts as well!"
"One act of friendship can never stand against eons of hatred!"
"Not all centaur and minotaur harbour abhorrence towards us."
"They do not stand in favour of those who do!"
"Uh, mates . . ?"
"I never thought you'd question my leadership, Black!"
"But not for good reason," Sirius pleads. "This is a fool's errand."
"Opinion received and duly noted."
"Uh, I think we have a problem here . . ."
The heir of Merlin spins angrily toward Remus. "What is it, Lupin?"
"Them."
Two gatherings of mythical beasts, half-obscured within the shadows, surround the wizards of the Last Alliance. Six centaur with bronzed hides form a protective half-circle around a majestic centaur, their arrows poised at the wizards. Silver strands of hair crusted with blackened blood cascades over his broad shoulders and his heavily dented shield rests on his forearm, covering many scarred memories of battle. The dulled, rusted blade of a long sword, strapped against his muscled back, flickered in the dark moonlight. Scars ran in beautiful patterns across his body, a constant reminder of battle's past. The dark eyes of the centaur sovereign, Ignis, narrow as the minotaur chief and his tribe advanced from the depths of the everglades, closer toward the Last Alliance. The minotaur's fist tightens over his battle-axe.
"Bloody hell," Charlie mutters, his eyes widening as Ignis emerges into the light.
The leader of the Last Alliance slowly advances, flourishing his slender wand in a circular motion and conjuring a black obsidian table that shined with a deadened light under the moon. He placed his wand gently onto the table, and spoke evenly with a careful tone. "My friends, this glade is sacred ground and no blood shall be spilt while we are here."
Ignis nods in approval and approaches the obsidian rock, placing his heavy shield and long sword across from the wand of the commander of the wizards.
A minotaur's eyes narrow on Remus, and he stepped forward to stand next to the minotaur chief. "We will not lay down our weapons in the presence of the wizards you choose to surround yourself with."
"Do not presume to speak on my behalf, you cow!" The chief balled his fist, and in a sudden savagery, he swung his arm and crushed the minotaur's jaw with an earth-shattering blow that echoes throughout the forest. He inspects the damage on his bloody knuckles before stepping forward to take his place among equals at the table. He rests his battle-axe against the table, its blade digging into the dirt of the forest.
"That was unnecessary, Sargon," the commander spoke to the minotaur.
He snorted. "It is no business of yours, wizard. What do you want?"
"He seeks an alliance between our races, Sargon," Ignis replies.
Sargon snorts, stopping his hoof into the ground. "An alliance between our races is hopeless. You request something which is not mine to provide. The trivialities of lesser beings do not concern us. When they pass into the next life, we will continue."
"The Death Eaters will not think twice about slaughtering your race. After they have purged their own race, who do you think they will purify next? Your race is not untouchable, if you thought otherwise you would not be here."
"But have the werewolf thought twice, young wizard?" another minotaur demands, his voice emerging from the folds of shadows between his clansmen.
Remus's eyes diffuse through the darkness, narrowing on the red creature with one horn. "But have the minotaur?" he remarks, remembering his werewolf cousin Oz, whose father was murdered at the end of a minotaur's battle-axe.
"You are a youngling, werewolf. You could not be expected to remember that it was the canine species who first brought blood against us minotaur. I remember loss as much as you do, cousin of my sister's murderer. Oz was killed by my weapon for a reason, do not presume that the werewolf are innocent in this war."
The commander of the alliance slams his hand against the smooth obsidian. "If we bring past violence to this table, we will never accomplish that which we came here to accomplish. If you have issues of war between your races, resolve them on your own time."
"Frienze was wise; he counselled that to create an alliance between our races for survival, we must find forgiveness for our fathers' sins. The stars inform us that tonight is not the time of alliances, we will lend you our aid when the stars give their approval." The centaur moves to stand beside the minotaur, his dark eyes wavering and reflecting the message of the skies.
The minotaur sovereign continues his eyes landing on Remus. "When you can walk within this hallowed forest without hatred clouding your heart, an alliance can then be discussed. "He turned to the black-haired leader of the alliance. "But not before then, for my people cannot look into those disgusting amber eyes of that werewolf and see our enemy."
Remus smirks, and he assures the minotaur, "Feeling's mutual."
"The fact that you ally yourself with that creature is insulting. The filth on his soul lingers on those who he loves and trusts, those he calls friends."
"That man you call a creature has proven himself in battle more times than I can count; I wouldn't be standing here if it wasn't for this man. If you are unwilling to let old prejudice die then it was a mistake to request your presence here tonight. It does not deter us from our mission, though."
"You are a fool to come here and think you will succeed," the centaur king informs him. "The Death Eaters are holding another match. Death awaits the heir of Ravenclaw on swift wings, in the guise of his best friend. How do you expect to fight the will of the gods?"
"Fate are not chiselled in stone. . . . What am I, if not proof of that?"
-
Terence Higgs wears blood-stained Quidditch robes.
"So, Adrian . . . did you hear the news?"
The Slytherin Chaser leans against the slippery wet linoleum of the shower wall, letting the water droplets pelt him against the forehead. He groans and fights a pain threatening at his temples as his cousin's detached voice floats into the showers. "What are you insinuating?" he inquires with a monotone voice as his shaking hand reaches to shut off the valve for cold water.
"You, my dear cousin, are a dead man!"
Adrian steps from the showers with nothing but a cotton towel around his neck. "I'd hate to repeat myself, but what, my dear cousin, are you talking about?"
"Flint."
A five-letter headache pulsates behind Adrian's ice-blue eyes. "As in trolls . . . Fireforge . . . or flint and steel?" he whispers in an uncontrolled shuddering voice as he massages the bridge of his nose. The Chaser heaves the white towel in his arms, and for a moment, contemplates its use. He tosses it into the pile in the corner.
"You should learn to chose the battles you can win, not the ones you can't fight."
Adrian grabs his Quidditch robes and pulls them over his wet body. The heavy material clings to his back, and small beads of water soak into the Slytherin-green fabric. Adrian's fingers fumble over the snake clasp at his neck as he clears his throat awkwardly, preparing to speak.
"Couldn't you just maul him for me? Get rid of all the idiots with one bite?" Adrian asks hesitantly, carefully gauging Terence's eyes for a reaction.
Terence offers his cousin a lopsided grin. "Should I start with you? Why would you do that in the first place?"
Adrian inwardly flinches as he hears Terence laugh at what his cousin thought was a jest. However, he takes only a second to recover. "Do what?" he asks with a wasteful amount of charm in his voice and the reflection of a grin that Terence offered him moments ago.
"Flint means to kill you. How can you joke about that?"
Adrian closely studies Terence's indignant expression, and the grin falls from his face. "Humour is the only emotion to keep me alive at the moment"--his voice is barely above a whisper, and he blinks away the water droplets that fall from his soaked hair and into his eyes--"Marcus is going to be the father of Emmett."
"Emmett? Who's Emmett?"
"My son!"
"No." Terence is readily apologetic. "Marcus is naming him Saturn."
"Rae's naming him Emmett," Adrian states, but his tone adopts a defensive manner.
"Do you think Flint will let her open her mouth after what happened?"
The cousins stare at each other, and Adrian slowly buckles his leather boots and gloves, his eyes never unlocking from those of Terence. The sound cracks through the silence as a steady reminder of the death waiting for them, and those of the other teams, on the Quidditch Pitch today.
"Are you ready for the massacre?" Adrian breaks the ghostly silence, expressing the thought occupying both of their minds.
The shock jolts Terence's soul, and he realises that not everyone who came from the locker rooms will be returning this night. "What do you want on your tombstone?"
"Beloved Idiot?" Adrian frowns.
"I'll make sure it's spelt right."
-
The Quidditch Pitch is decorated by the dull glistening of frost-bitten blood. The morning sun shines in the crisp blue sky, the sphere an obnoxious hue of yellow which offers little warmth and light. For one looking upon her from the camps, they would believe that she already mourns the loss of heroes. The unusually cold air blows in from the north, rustling the robes of the twenty-seven Quidditch players.
The Slytherin captain arrives after game time has idly elapsed thirty minutes. Blood trickles from his knuckles and coagulates around the lesions, but he stares past the pain, his gunmetal eyes transfixing on his black-haired rival with the Firebolt Air. Marcus Flint approaches his Quidditch team.
"Play dirty. D'yeah need a teachin'?" Marcus grunts abruptly as he snatches the bat from his new Beater, the Hufflepuff Death Eater Alexei Smirnov. Marcus's control shatters the instant he focuses on the black-haired Chaser. With a sneer crossing his cracked lips, Marcus winds up and unleashes his resentment with one good blow. Adrian comes up to block the attack, and the beater's bat viciously smashes his forearm.
Adrian reels back from the assault, too numb to feel the throbbing in his forearm and too deaf to hear the pulse echoing in his ears. He watches with glazed eyes as Marcus recovers and readies another strike, this one intended for Adrian's cranium.
Five players pounce on Marcus, struggling to restrain the livid quarter-troll.
"It'll take more than these five fuckers!" Marcus snarls, as he reaches back, seizing and twisting the neckline of the Keeper's robes. He yanks forward with a quick motion, momentarily choking his teammate before releasing his hold. The Slytherin falls to his knees and forward into the frost-tipped grass. With another effortless movement, Marcus drives his balled fist into Terence's jaw, and the werewolf staggers and falls into Alexander Montague. Those left standing to save Adrian from their captain ease their defence as Marcus stops resisting.
"I got a body bag for you, Pucey. Yer not walking off this Pitch alive!" he growls.
The fiery pain in Adrian's forearm steadily pulsates, but the phenomena known as shock has blessed Adrian and he ceases to be bothered with the pain. "You call yourself a man? You can barely satisfy a woman," Adrian snaps with a defying glare, but beads of sweat around his hairline betray his confidence.
The Slytherin team waits nervously for Marcus's reaction.
"I'll fucking--" Marcus wrenches forward from the collective grasps of those still restraining him.
"Flint!" Percy Weasley bellows, approaching from the eastern Hufflepuff goal posts. Behind the redheaded Death Eater, Lord Malfoy watches with interest. "Why are your arses still on the ground?" he demands. "Wait. What's wrong with Adrian's arm?" His forehead creases with concern, and he suddenly takes a quick glance towards the three other teams. The stand around awkwardly, attempting not to stare at the fascinating violence unfolding outside the Slytherin locker rooms.
Adrian holds up his arm, recoiling as it bends in an unnatural way. "Nothing," he replies through gritted teeth. "Really. I don't feel a thing."
A sharp breath of disapproval comes from Percy's lips, and he removes his glasses to clean them. "Without a seventh, you're disqualified," Percy informs the dumbfounded captain of the Slytherin team. His eyebrows knit together and eyes narrow, gauging the troll's response as he replaces his eyewear.
"Fuck. Couldn't you play with us?"
"No. Fix it."
The Chaser yelps and hides behind his cousin. "He is not pointing a wand at me!"
Near the eastern goal posts, Lucius Malfoy whispers words into the ear of a middle-aged woman with silver-grey hair tied tightly into a bun. Madam Greingrass nods slowly and leaves Lucius alone with himself. She approaches the Slytherin team with a disapproving look frozen upon her face.
"Why does Adrian posses a fourth joint?" Greingrass demands. "What happened?"
"Flint's stupidity happened," Percy replies bluntly.
Madam Greingrass's expression shows her displeasure at Marcus's actions. She presses the tip of her mahogany wand to Adrian's arm and mutters words of healing. "You should have the full range of motion back, Mister Pucey," she informs him in her business-like manner.
Adrian tests his movement. "Thank you," he murmurs.
The red-haired Death Eater feels Lucius's grey eyes burrow into his back. His Lord watches with interest as he manages authority over those Slytherins who are, in fact, above him in Death Eater affairs. Percy clears his throat. "If that is all, the game is late in starting. Slytherin will receive a penalty for this delay."
-
The crimson Quaffles are thrown high into the air, momentarily blotting out the sun. Cool winds become cooler in the North, bringing with them frozen rains that pelt against the player's cheeks and soak into their robes. High above the crowds, ice crystals form around the bristles of the broomsticks and fall to the earth in soft patterns as players crash into each other.
As Adrian Pucey intercepts a pass between two Hufflepuffs, Marcus Flint rams into Beater Alexei Smirnov, knocking him from the Firebolt Ice. The Hufflepuff in Slytherin clothing falls toward the corner of the Pitch that is decorated with razor-wire.
Marcus immediately stops in the air, wand in hand. "Accio Bat!" he yells, and the Beater's Bat that lapsed from Alexie's grasp propels toward Marcus's outstretched hand.
"And Adrian Pucey steals the Quaffle from Hufflepuff as Marcus Flint displays a new type of team effort," Gene Avery's voice bellows above the crowds, impairing the cheers and taunts that come from the stands.
The black, emotionless eyes of Marcus flicker towards Rae before he flies higher into the air, surveying those below him. Fred Weasley, Gryffindor's Beater, wails a screaming Bludger towards Roger Davies of Ravenclaw, but it's deflected by Su Li, who sends it towards Travis Nott. As Roger approaches the Slytherin goal posts, Marcus Flint spots his quarry flying around Charlie Weasley. He takes off toward the nearest bludger, smashing it in the direction of the black-haired Chaser.
And Rae surges through the group of Death Eaters watching from the grounds, as the Lord of Britain laughs in amusement, "Flint'll kill him!"
Adrian wills his Firebolt Air faster. The Bludger soars past his head.
The voice of Gene booms over the sounds of game. "Slytherin and Hufflepuff are in possession of the Quaffles, and Marcus Flint is going to murder his own Chaser!"
If a mere look would kill, Marcus could have flayed Adrian with innumerable manners. He takes flight towards another Bludger, and Adrian seeks refuge between fluttering red, orange and blue robes. As Marcus winds up . . . he hears the summoning spell leave Adrian's lips.
The bat of Fred Weasley fights against his freckled hand and flies toward the one who summoned it.
"Percy!" Rae shouts, emerging from the crowd. "Lord Malfoy, please!"
Lucius turns a cold eye at his Death Eater.
"Please, my Lord, you cannot allow this to continue. Marcus aims to kill Adrian!"
The silver snake-head cane glistens in the sun, and Lucius appears to consider her request. He looks up into the sky, watching as Marcus forgets about Bludgers and adopts a more hands-on approach. Lucius then straightens, his expression grim. "Your request is trivial, Landon. A Death Eater should not be ruled by their emotions."
Rae wrings her hands. "Have you examined your court, my Lord? Every Death Eater below your hand is ruled by affairs to the heart," she informs, forcing her voice to keep a tone of respect.
Lucius's eyebrows knit together with slight infuriation, and he draws back, regarding Rae with critical grey eyes. "That will be their deaths," he gravely states.
"Without a court, you cannot be Lord, Lucius," Percy speaks the words that falter at Rae's opened lips. Percy regards Lucius with azure eyes that Lucius will never realise hold pity; he confuses the emotion with defiance. Percy mock-bows.
Far above the ground, Travis Nott catches the ball, and the only Slytherin Chaser playing this game streaks toward the Gryffindor goal posts. Travis soars past the Gryffindor Chaser Ronald Weasley, his green robes merely a blur to the others as he approaches the tallest Gryffindor goal hoop. George Weasley attempts to knock a Bludger into Travis's path, but Travis's eyesight is keen. He ducks, scoring ten points.
Lucius continues the conversation, relentless. "Your request has been denied, Landon," he repeats distantly, turning his head back to the action in the sky.
Rae parallels the bow Percy gave Lucius moments earlier and disappears through the masses of Death Eaters. But through the black-robed maze, a red-headed Death Eater follows, calling her name before she vanishes from his vision. Rae spins around, her robes fluttering against the wind, waiting for Percy to speak.
No words could ever make sense if Percy spoke them to the brunette. What could he tell her? he thought. The Last Alliance, Adrian being the last heir they seek? No, none of it would make sense to her right now. Therefore, all Percy could do was stare at her like a dolt, mouth gaped and eyes wide.
Rae's lip curls, and she curses Percy's name.
He watches as she disappears into the throngs of Death Eaters, ignoring the echoing of cheers as Slytherin Travis Nott scores against Ravenclaw, as Marcus drops the Beater's bat only to take his wand from the inside pockets of his Quidditch robes.
But the Death Eaters and prisoners aren't the only ones watching in hushed anticipation as Marcus closes the distance between him and Adrian, whom is racing between the outer perimetre of the arena. All the Last Alliance appear to be to those flying in the skies are small white specks against a forest green background.
"Our Ravenclaw heir is about to be a victim of circumstance," Igor muses.
The leader of the Last Alliance blanches.
As Gryffindor scores ten points, and Hufflepuff gains possession of one of the Quaffles, Marcus closes in on the Chaser. Adrian can feel Death's skeletal hand resting on his shoulder, impressing white marks onto his skin, patiently waiting his last moments.
Marcus de-brooms the wizard who was once his best mate with a simple kick to the abdomen, and the doomed Chaser plunges towards the razor-wired ground below.
The ranks of the Last Alliance are broken as the heir of Merlin rushes forward, his wand poised in the direction of what he considers to be his last hope. And moments before Adrian's skull is destined to be cracked open, he comes to a jolting stop inches above the ground.
The Last Alliance appears to be their own Quidditch team. Seven players in sparkling white robes, a magnificent contrast against the velvety black robes of those they fight against. The emblem worn across their hearts is the gargoyle, phoenix and dragon, a brilliant contrast of Earth, flame and beauty, of reincarnation, vigour and perseverance.
The masses sitting in the stands rises to their feet, cranking their heads to get a better view of the white-robed wizards standing at the outer regions of the Forbidden Forest. The six heroes stride forward to stand next to their young leader, as he lets Adrian drift slowly and softly to the ground clear of razor wire. The Last Alliance forms a semi-triangle, and Lord Lucius Malfoy turns toward them with a blaze smouldering in his eyes, for he recognised them the moment they appeared.
The Quidditch players hang in the sky, staring at the faction with disbelieving eyes. An intense burst of wind sweeps across the grounds, blowing only the leader's hair from his eyes and forehead. In that moment, there was no way that Ronald Weasley could not possibly recognise his best mate.
And Lucius Malfoy stared at the boy he killed, at the boy who died.
/End Book I of Losing Faith; Book II coming… hopefully soon; Please consider a review
