Rating: T

Warnings: None

Relationships: None

Note: Chapter 1, Part II was put up simultaneously as the next chapter. A friend of mine told me that she dislikes long chapters because she then feels obligated to finish them, and since this chapter was something like 8000 words, I decided to split it up. The cut is along the midway point not in terms of the plot, but in terms of the the approximate number of words, so the ending may seem abrupt.

Chapter 1: Halcyon

Part I

Tom had always been a troublemaker. He wasn't one in the conventional sense, in that he never pranked his classmates or disrupted class with a charming smile and an irritatingly witty quip. Rather, he was simply the wrong combination of prideful and wily.

He was bullied by some of the older children who didn't understand why Tom would prefer books over toys, and Tom wasn't the type to shrink away and hide like most other victims. Not when he knew he could hurt them back. So it became a constantly escalating war between Tom and his bullies in which Tom always came out triumphant. It seemed that they were well on their way to destroying the orphanage, if not the town itself, when the matron decided that she'd had enough and sent him away to a new orphanage in London. She seemed to think that the bigger the orphanage, the more people to put him in his proper place.

He had only been five years of age at the time, and he had cried himself to sleep under the cold blankets of this unfamiliar orphanage on his first night there. The orphanages had been equally unwelcoming, equally run down, but the little town his mother had abandoned him in had been his home to some extent.

So when Tom realized after his little adventure that he had to return to his orphanage, which would provide him with proper food and shelter, it was not London he returned to, but this tiny town in the middle of nowhere.

The matron recognized him, and was loath to take him in. Only the chance presence of a young lady from town saved him. She had an innocent air around her, having somehow managed to remain completely oblivious to England's plight, and smiled in a way far too genuine for someone living in a country at war. It only took a single look at him for her to start cooing over his smooth skin and his silky hair, though it was in disarray despite his multiple attempts at combing it with steady fingers. So that she wouldn't be seen rejecting the "poor thing" who'd shown up on the doorstep out of the blue, the matron had ordered him into the furthest room on the right on the second floor - "Yes, just up those stairs there."

Ultimately, of course, the girl left without him, but at least she didn't leave with another child either. She had been too young, anyway - nineteen, perhaps, at most, a sheltered, spoiled city girl with bright lipstick and neatly coifed hair.

For the next few months, he stayed quietly in his room, keeping to himself. Meals were stolen and brought back to his room. None of the caretakers spent enough time in the adult section of the orphanage's small library to notice the absence of several books. He entertained himself with memorizing each sentence the stolen books, sounding out each word quietly and repeating it until it sounded beautiful and enchanting, a single note in the music of the English language. In ancient Greece and Rome, he read, the bird, φοῖνιξ, was sometimes associated with the similar-sounding Phoenicia, a kingdom famous for its production of purple dye from conch shells. "Greece," he said aloud. "Greece and Rome."

No one dared bother him; where before, caretakers would drag him outside, insisting he interact with the other children then leaving him to be bullied, to be mocked, they now allowed him his solitude. When he did venture out of his room, the children ignored him. None of the children knew why they did, because they were children; the adults did, but they never put words to it.

When the fourth month arrived, the matron decided that they would be going on a short trip down to the local market and gave each child a bit of money so they could buy themselves a few trinkets to entertain themselves with. Tom received the same pittance everyone else did.

The walk was some fifteen minutes. The market was a bit out of the way for most residents of the neighborhood, yet when they arrived, the stalls were bustling with activity and the excited screams of children. A way to take the mind off of war, Tom supposed.

"Don't stray too far," one of the caretakers yelled, a futile attempt to overcome the noise of the market. "Meet us here at noon - and don't be late!"

The other children were already long gone, of course, wanting to see the wonders of the market.

Tom slipped off quietly, too, fiddling with the coins in his pocket, but he didn't want to look at the stalls' many-splendored glory. Rather, he listened in on conversations. Most were mundane - "Mary told me the other day, you know, when we had lunch together, Lettie's brat ran off with some girl from down the street. Good riddance, I tell you!" - and others downright bizarre - "I don't suppose you've got any cabbages on you? I'm in need of a good cabbage right now - just let me know if you see one, yeah?" - but the one he found himself drawn to was a quiet murmur at the edge of the market between two men dressed oddly in flowing robes.

It was one word that caught his ear, the one word he had been obsessing over - "phoenix." After the first time in the meadow, when he had flown free on streams of air, oxygen for his heart to burn, he had never managed to turn again. He'd woken up, delirious, in a creek bed not far from the nearest town, vulnerably human and undressed. Since then, he hadn't transformed again, though not for lack of effort.

He cast an interested eye over the stall closest to the men and moved closer as if for a better look. It was selling several large, colorful afghans, which he had no use for and couldn't afford to boot, but it served to disguise him as a simple customer. The two men were speaking quietly, hushed, but not fearful - it was something to be kept between them, but not a fatally dangerous secret.

"He'll be stopped before he even reaches France, then?"

Ah. They were talking about the war. That would explain why they spoke so quietly: they didn't wish to ruin the joyful mood. But no - France had already been taken, had long been taken, by the Nazis.

"We can't hope for that, Franz, you know that. Look - " Here, he reached into his voluminous clothing and pulled out a small slip of paper. "Get out of here. You're in more danger than I am from him, if the man with the phoenix can't stop him."

"You just said he could!"

"Yes, I said he can. But will he?"

"Why not?"

"Franz, if he has the power - and he does, yes, that's what I said - then why would he hesitate to confront him? This war has been going on for years. What's he waiting for?"

Franz was not deterred, and pushed on. "Well, what about the Society? They're English, and if England really is in danger, they'll make a move. And you know them - they won't be defeated by some madman killing things left and right. They're certainly powerful enough."

"Perhaps historically, yes. But they haven't faced a threat like this in ages; we don't know that the current Society is up for it."

"But the prophecy - the prophecy!"

The other man was sympathetic, understanding. "You know how prophecies are. Always working on technicalities, and half the time we don't realize they've been fulfilled until years later."

Franz was silent, but held a distinctly mutinous expression.

"Take this," and the slip of paper, probably a ticket of some sort, was thrust under Franz's nose again. This time, Franz took it, albeit reluctantly.

"That's all you wanted to talk about?" Franz asked, chilly.

"There's one more thing." The unnamed man leaned in even closer and lowered his voice further. "They're saying that Dumbledore - the man with the phoenix - they're saying that - "

But what "they" were saying about this "Dumbledore," Tom wouldn't know. From the corner of the eye, he saw the owner of the stall with the afghans making his way towards him, either to make a sale or to chase off the filthy little brat who was loitering suspiciously next to his stall.

He probably thinks I'm here to rob him blind, Tom thought uncharitably. Adults had a habit of looking at children unaccompanied by their parents and think the worst. In my case, at least, he's right. With a sudden, vicious anger, he set the afghans on fire.

The sound of the stallkeeper's panicked shouts as he tried to wave down the fire put him in a smug, satisfied mood for the rest of the day.

~*l*~

The next day, he showed for breakfast. The rowdy conversation didn't stop, and the cook handed him a bowl of porridge like he was anyone else. Another change, Tom noted. The bullies of the orphanage used to zero in on him as their primary target. After the first of Tom's counterattacks, they'd been a bit warier, but no less enthusiastic. The cook had looked at him with a mix of derision and fear.

His tormentors from four years ago were still there, picking on the younger children. But apparently, they had forgotten him, and though he found himself oddly hurt that they no longer paid him any attention, he knew he wouldn't miss the mocking laughter that accompanied their notice.

Today, he had a reason to be down here eating breakfast. Children above the age of eight could go out into the town as long as they were with someone fifteen years or older. Tom, now nine, had found the perfect target: Mark, a quiet sixteen-year-old from poor parents who had died in the last air bombing, and generally chose to avoid the other orphans. As usual, Mark was sitting by himself with a book next to him. It was well-worn, and, if Tom's observations were correct, a gift from his late parents. The book was a representation of Mark's love for reading as much as it was a reminder of his past.

Since it was a second-hand bookstore Tom wanted to go to, to purchase new reading material with the coins he'd saved from the market yesterday, Mark was the best choice.

Additionally, Mark had arrived at the orphanage after Tom's little... escapade. He wouldn't have heard about Tom's cruel, vindictive nature.

Before, Tom had been content with the books and newspapers available to anyone with the talent for thievery. But not only was he quickly running out of material, but he also wanted to look into that conversation he'd eavesdropped on yesterday - this "Dumbledore" must be somewhat famous. Although he'd have loved to read more on this "Society" instead, it really wasn't enough information to go off on, so he went for the second best option.

Tom slid onto the bench next to Mark, who looked up in undisguised surprise.

"Hello," Tom said plainly. Then he choked down a spoonful of porridge. He still hadn't gotten used to the cook's habit of abusing the salt, even though he'd been at the orphanage for five years.

"Can I help you?"

It seemed Mark already understood that unless someone wanted something from him, it was unlikely that anyone would interact with him. Something Tom had learned long ago, and something most children, even the older ones, didn't learn for a while. Children, and even some obnoxiously naïve adults, tended to be blindly optimistic.

There was no point in pretending any kind of friendship with Mark. They had a common goal - to go to the bookstore. Mark didn't know that the bookstore existed. Neither did most of the townspeople, since it was hidden away on the second floor above a pub behind an unassuming wooden door. Tom did, and that was what he had to offer. Tom, on the other hand, couldn't leave the orphanage without proper supervision. Mark could, and that was what he had to offer.

Tom's information was good for one trip - once Mark knew where it was, he didn't need Tom. But Mark, Tom knew, wouldn't mind the company if it was quiet and unobtrusive. Neither would Mark feel the need to hold any sort of power over Tom.

"I want to go out," Tom answered, leaning closer to Mark. "And you're old enough to go with me. You enjoy reading, and you saved enough money from the market the other day to buy a new book from... say... a second-hand bookstore."

Mark gave him a wary glance. "There are no second-hand bookstores around here. I've been out. The only bookstore is for the posh old people up the hill."

"It's there," Tom promised. "Besides, what could it hurt?"

Mark looked at him for a bit, then turned away and started reading again. It was neither an affirmative nor a negative response, but Tom was confident that Mark would agree.

In the meantime, Tom pulled a book out from under his robes and opened it on his lap and swallowed yet another spoonful of overly salted porridge.

The book was titled A Woman's History of Magic: Iconic Female Characters in Arthurian Legends. Its gold binding, unusually clean and bright compared to the other denizens of the orphanage library, had attracted his attention. He had read the legends before, of course, but it had been a long time ago and he barely remembered a word of them.

Morgan turns up throughout the High and Late Middle Ages in a variety of roles, generally in works related to the cycles of Arthur or Charlemagne. They often feature Morgan as a lover and benefactor of various heroes, sometimes also introducing her additional offspring or alternate siblings. At the end of the 14th-century Middle English romance Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, one of the best known Arthurian stories, it is revealed that the entire Green Knight plot has been instigated by Gawain's aunt the goddess Morgne, who takes and appearance of an elderly woman, as a test for Arthur and his knights and to frighten Guinevere to death.

Already bored, he flipped forward to the next chapter, "The Virgin Mary." Morgan, fascinating as she was with her magical power, had somehow been dull and lifeless by the author, but the next chapter seemed just as dry. He wondered if he could find a more interesting book on the same topic. Probably not, considering how few books the library held.

"We can go in the afternoon," Mark said, interrupting his thoughts. He was standing up, taking his bowl with him. "I have some things I want to do first."

Tom nodded his assent. Mark turned and left, and Tom noticed that the room seemed to be clearing out. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes since he came down, but he had been late, not wanting to attract attention. Arriving well after breakfast had begun, with the room already crowded, guaranteed that nobody would be paying too much attention to him.

Everyone else was bringing their bowls over to the cook, who tossed them into a soapy sink to be washed. Tom quickly followed suit, not wanting to be the last one left, and made his way up to his room as soon as he could.

Paper and graphite were commodities they weren't usually allowed, but he had stashed away a few stacks of paper and a ten or so sticks of graphite some time ago, stolen from the classroom. The teacher, who had never liked him, had immediately blamed him for it, but he had a solid alibi: during lunch, he had taken someone else's apple and been caught; the punishment was a ruler across his hand and time-out under the eagle eye of the teacher. Clearly, then, he could not have been in the classroom committing a far greater transgression.

Both thefts had been his fault, of course: the paper and graphite had been stolen during class, right out from under the teacher's inattentive and overlarge nose.

By some stroke of luck, he had been given his old room, which had remained untouched, and now, he took out a single leaf, kept clean and straight under his floorboards, and a half-used stick of graphite. He put the book next to him, open to the first page of Morgan's chapter, and wrote onto the paper: "Animal transformation - Morgan turns herself into a bird at will." He flipped to the next page, where there was a drawing of Morgan with her hands laid over a man's open wound: "Healing magic - magic not just for offense?"

The chapter hadn't given any more examples of her magical ability. His materials went back under the floorboards, along with the book - the caretakers never came into his room, but if they did, they'd throw a fit at the sight of a book in the grubby hands of a child.

He had kept a list of potential feats to be performed for when he felt particularly uninspired. Unfortunately, it had been left in London, but he could always start a new one.

By now, he could talk to snakes, coerce another person or animal into doing what he wished it to, and summon things to him with split-second timing that ensured that the victim didn't realize he was being pickpocketed.

Yet, he had yet to manage self-transformation again.

This - the mention of Morgan's ability to transform - was the first proof he had that it was possible. Of course, it wasn't actually proof, per se; it could very well have originated from the imagination of some ordinary writer from decades ago who amused himself by turning Morgan into a bird. But magic hadn't existed for centuries; Tom was the first of an advanced species of human to appear again after so many years. There were no books and no studies on the topic. So this was the best kind of proof he could get.

But what kind of a wizard was he if he couldn't even achieve a simple transformation which magicians of past ages had completed with such ease?

He gritted his teeth and, perhaps unwisely, threw a fist against his bedpost. The throb in his hand brought him back to himself, and he breathed in deeply, trying to calm down.

He would, of course, be the best. The best wizard the world had ever seen, any cost.

~*l*~

In the afternoon, Mark had come around to see if he still wanted to go out. Tom, frustrated by his failed attempts, decided that taking a break would be good for his mind.

The outing to the bookstore was a success. Tom had only ever been in there once when he had snuck out of the orphanage early in the morning. Of course, he'd been punished severely when he had returned, but it had definitely been worth it.

It became a semi-regular thing. Tom and Mark would go out to the bookstore every week. They didn't have money to buy anything after the first time, but the owner was a kind old lady living on the third floor of the same building who had been utterly charmed by Tom. She allowed them to borrow her books and gave them slices of cake whenever she was baking. Mark would sit in her kitchen upstairs and talk to her sometimes while Tom perused her collection, and Tom gave her the paltry sums of money and random knickknacks that he stole from the other children.

Mark and Tom were not friends - Mark saw too much darkness and ambition in Tom and preferred his own anonymity, and Tom thought Mark was too weak with his passive nature. Though Tom was avoiding attention now, he knew he couldn't do it forever, not the way Mark did.

If anything, Tom would say that what they had was an alliance, formed against the common enemy, the close-minded children and caretakers at the orphanage who saw little value in knowledge.

Books, as Tom saw them, were the closest things he had to friends. They gave him what he needed to know and he, in turn, treated them with careful respect, making sure that they were always returned to the bookshop in the best condition. In them were stories of faraway places, a chance to escape from the humdrum of each routine day at the orphanage. Some would feature his mythical friend, the phoenix.

But even in the books, never were there humans who found the phoenix to be their alternate form, not like Tom needed them to be. They were only ever enigmatic creatures to be discovered, or allies in a legendary fight against evil. These stories of clear-cut good versus evil he thought were overly simplistic, with outdated concepts like chivalry and nobility.

To him, those concepts were moot - why not take every advantage he could? To befriend and poison an enemy was not cowardice; it was the best way to murder someone with little personal risk. To flee a lost battle rather than die valiantly on the battlefield was merely common sense. These medieval tales would have him challenge the enemy to a duel, or remain to fight a hopeless battle. It made little sense to him.

Despite his desire to find out more about this elusive phoenix, he quickly discarded these books, unable to stand the stupidly valiant protagonists.

But as he would soon discover, the books he found himself drawn to were not stories, but rather textbooks and essays. The owner had been confounded to learn this, but nevertheless began readying stacks of them for Tom whenever he came.

Only one of them mentioned the phoenix. The book gave a history of its use in literature, and of its appearances in painting, sculpture, and architecture. It did not give him what he searched for: there were no further mentions of human transformation into a phoenix, or indeed into any other animal. Still, it was the most useful book Tom had found in the bookstore, and he wished he had saved his money for this book; he had spent it all on a less interesting one on the Industrial Revolution during his first visit.

As for "Dumbledore," the man with the phoenix, Tom had forgotten entirely about him. He was only a small note in the back of Tom's head, reading, "Dumbledore, man with phoenix - immensely powerful, perhaps somewhat well-known?" None of the books mentioned him, and so Tom let him slip his mind. He was not that famous, then, not if he was never mentioned, even in passing, in any of the books.

His comfortably stead routine was forcibly broken on a chilly summer morning. Though the weather declared it autumn, and had been declaring it autumn for the past few weeks, Tom knew that the equinox wouldn't be for another week yet, and so had stubbornly decided that it was, indeed, still summer; and therefore there would be no school, no classes, and most importantly, no teachers chastising him for his advanced knowledge.

It came as a bit of a shock when the tenth of September rolled around and Tom was unceremoniously shoved into a classroom by a caretaker sick of the children's reluctance to attend school.

Tom recognized some of the children in his class. He had never spoken with them, only seen them in passing. None of his former tormenters were here, which came as something of a relief to him. They had stopped bothering him, and Tom was confident he could easily avoid them, but they still gave him an uneasy feeling. Knowing that children who had once managed to physically hurt him were near him was unnerving.

Mark was there, on the other side of the room, with a book he'd recently received from the bookshop owner in return for his aid with her baking. Nothing interesting was happening, and nothing interesting would. Tom picked up a small piece of graphite off the ground and began copying memorized lists of various magical feats in literature, remembered more because of how many times he'd read them than because of any true attempt at memorization on his part.

Seeing what he could one day do reassured him that the boredom he endured now was worth it.

Notes:

1. I know that my Tom is very different from Dante's. For this, I'm sorry.

2. The italicized quote in the third paragraph is from the Wikipedia article for the phoenix as a mythological creature. For this, I'm not sorry.

3. The italicized quote about Morgan le Fay is from her wikipedia article. Morgan's abilities (healing, animagus transformation) are canon. Everything else about her is not.

4. I read something that said that schools in the 1900s included children from all grades, and the teachers were expected to just deal with that. I don't know whether this was applicable in this situation.