I have finally reached the end of Odyssey of a Mage (Chapter 99 - arc 3 chapter 35). The wait between chapters will be a lot more structured now - every two weeks, I will post another chapter.
Without further adieu, please enjoy the post!
Note: If you would like to read ahead, the next chapter is available on discord whilst the rest of the chapters are available on
September 1937 – Paris
Yasha Augustan POV
He stared at his mother, who stared right back.
"Why?" Yasha he finally asked, his tone half demanding, his fists clenched so tightly that he was on the verge of breaking skin "Why would you stop me from going to Beauxbatons?!" he demanded as he stood up from his seat, upset and angry.
His mother stared at him with soulful blue eyes, regret and guilt swirling together into blue twin pools yet he saw that she had no intentions of reversing her decision.
He'd seen that look before, when they had to leave Luxembourg a few years ago.
"You know why" she said tiredly as she folded her hands in her lap, her back straightening, the air of regal and motherly authority surrounding her.
A loud crack rang around them, one that was followed by the frightened cry of his little sister. He looked at his sister and saw Maria, his six year old, sister upset.
"Yasha." The reprimand in his mother's tone was there as was the note of pleading, of warning.
He reigned in his magic as much as he could but as he looked at his mother, he was still deeply angry and upset and knew he was on the verge of another accident. He couldn't help it. He didn't know why.
He really knew why his mother did all that she did.
He didn't know why they had to leave their home time and again, running from something or another, because his mother said it wasn't safe, that there were people after him, people whom mother never explained to him about.
His mother sighed and looked at him with a strange expression.
"If you go to Beauxbatons…they'll want to know who you are." His mother smiled sadly at him, yet pride and love shone through her kind face.
"I'm no one." Yasha protested. That was true. They were merely a hedge family, peasants with no notable history or talent.
Honestly! His mother couldn't even use a wand for her magic was weak and they lived amongst the muggles longer than he could remember! Magical Paris was the first time he'd even seen a magical community.
"Oh Yasha…" his mother looked on the verge of tears as she stood up, her brown hair swaying. She got to her knees in front of him and took his face into her tender hands, warm to the touch, gentle and loving.
"My boy…my special, special beautiful boy…you are anything but no one" she said with tears in her eyes. "You are an exceptional boy, more than you presently know, and others will have no trouble seeing it."
"But why…" Yasha whispered, deeply upset as he stared at his sad mother. He didn't like it. "Why is that such a bad thing?" His mother choked back a wet laugh.
"It's not" she said with a wet smile before it turned into a horrible sad smile as her eyes turned hazy and lost for a brief moment, as if she was in waking sleep, sleep in which nightmares haunted her.
Moments passed before she refocused and met his gaze, the horrible sad smile turning into a wistful smile. "It shouldn't be. And perhaps…in another life…it would not have been."
"I don't understand."
"Yasha…what you can do with magic…the way you understand it…it is not what most wizards can do. Only a few can. People will see this and it would bring attention to you. To your sister. To myself." His mother said regretfully and fearfully.
"I can hide it, I promise!" Yasha tried. If his mother was so concerned about not wanting to have attention on their family, then he'd do that, even if he didn't want to. It would be hard but he could do it!
There was nothing he couldn't do if he put his mind to it.
"Oh Yasha…you won't be able to" his mother said saddened though proudly.
"Magic sings around you" she said with beauty in her tone as she lovingly caressed his cheek. "It always has and it always will."
His mother sighed but he could see the decisiveness in her eyes and in her smile and it sunk him to the bottom of the ocean. "And that is why you cannot learn magic there" she smiled at him, less sad and less guilty but still firm "I have saved enough for books for your first few years of magical schooling. Before we leave Paris for Corsica, I'll also get you a wand to practice with."
Yasha staggered and he peeled himself out of her hands.
"What?" he asked breathlessly and devastated and betrayed. "We're leaving again?" he asked despairingly, struck worse than the denial of magical school.
A complicated expression flashed across his mother's face.
"It isn't safe anymore" she said firmly as she got up from her feet and towered over Yasha. "Corsica will be. It's far enough and the wizarding community is very small there."
It was too much and before he knew it, he was running.
"Yasha!" his mother called after him repeatedly but he raced down the hall and the door flew open seemingly by its own volition before he passed down the flats and down the stairs and before he knew it, he was out on the Parisian streets.
Angry and terribly upset.
He wasn't sure how long he was in the streets, walking in betwixt of the hordes of faceless, nameless muggles, walking on streets surrounded by rows of monoliths of stone homes, their sights and their beauty cooling the anger and betrayal in his heart.
He loved Paris.
There was so much here.
Magicals and their crazy markets and crazy circus acts that played with fire dragons and fantastic beasts that moved in strange but amazing ways like how the mimes and artists would play and perform in the busy muggle street corners.
Muggles and their automobiles and their cafes with their amazing foods that they'd sit at for hours at a time.
Amazing buildings that his mother said was hundreds of years old, huge towers like the Eiffel tower that his mother had laughingly said that muggles had built it without magic.
It was so different from the dull towns of Austria and the uppity muggle nobles and their children who sneered at them. From the villages of Luxembourg and their villagers who looked upon them distrustfully.
Here…
In Paris…
He was just another person. Someone like everyone in the big city.
In the city of Europe.
He loved it.
It was his home.
And his mother loved it too, he saw it in her eyes. When she took him and Maria to see all the different places in Paris, when she bought bread and savoury and sweets - he LOVED hazel nut croissants! – for them, when she spoke French like she was a French person and teased them and laughed at him when he begged her to teach him how to speak like her.
He was only ten but he wasn't blind, no, he saw that his mother loved Paris as much as he did. Okay, maybe not as much but she did love it.
There was a happiness about her that he hadn't seen before.
So he didn't understand why she wanted to leave all of a sudden.
Was it because of him? Because of Beauxbatons? Was she upset that she wasn't magical enough to go to magical school but that he was?
No, he denied as he walked across the road and stepped into the narrow market street.
His mother wasn't jealous. She wasn't like that. He bit his lip as he thought deeply. Everything she did was for him and later, when Maria came, for her too.
He came to a stop as he realised it. Was she really that afraid? So afraid of whoever was chasing them, that she would easily give up all of this?
All of his life, his mother had never said what they were running from. His mother never even said that they were running but he figured it out years ago.
Once, he thought that maybe mother was running from his father but he didn't think so, not any more. Not after she told him the truth about who his father was, a muggle didn't want to marry mother and disappeared.
He startled as he almost fell to the ground "Move, boy!" a man growled at him as he looked over his shoulder before raising his head and huffed and continued on.
He narrowed his eyes and after glancing around to make sure no one was looking, he flicked his hand, causing the man to trip. The rude man cried out as he fell and Yasha felt smug satisfaction before he shook his head and walked away, leaving the man flustered and embarrassed.
He sighed before he huffed as he walked. He kicked a stone in frustration and resignation. "Fine" he muttered to himself.
"Corsica it is then" he muttered petulantly.
He'd vowed that he'd never leave mother alone like that stupid father of his and grudgingly he admitted he could learn magic fine anywhere. Mother was right about that at least. Magic was easy for him. He didn't need a stupid wand or go to a stupid school to learn about it.
Even if he'd be learning in the living room in some stupid place in stupid Corsica.
He didn't even know anything about Corsica.
Or where it was.
"Fine" he muttered once more as he sighed more heavily.
He glanced around and looked at the buildings.
"When I'm older…" he muttered to himself, a silent promise to himself.
He arrived at the front of his home many hours later and walked up the stairs. He winced to himself. He hoped mother wasn't upset anymore. He didn't like seeing her upset. At all. Hopefully she'll be okay once he tells her that he's fine with it.
He put the lock into the door though he realised that it was unlocked. Strange, he thought to himself. Mother never left it unlocked. Even for him since she knew that he had keys. He shrugged and thought nothing further on it as he took out the key and opened the door.
"MOTHER! I'M BACK! I'M FINE WITH LEAVING!" he shouted out as he walked down the hallway of their apartment, hoping that him saying it out loud would make her happy and change her face instead of looking sad when he saw her again. "MOTH-" his voice died, his body seizing into absolute stillness that only statues and inanimate objects should have any right to be.
His mother was a-seat, her shoulder looked to be tightly gripped, painfully, her face wracked in horror and fear and glazy, her body kept still by the meaty hands that bore a strange ring, one with some kind of animal, of a black robed dark-haired man who held a dangerous air about him and even more threatening expression that anyone could interpret that he meant to harm them.
The whimpers of his sister struck him out of this ill trance, his eyes latching onto the source of distress and saw that she was being held tightly against another man's chest with his hand over her mouth and the tip of his wand against her throat, lightly tapping against her throat with an ugly grin on his face.
There were three others in the room, all of them with their wands out and all of them wore chains with a circle and a line inside a triangle
Yasha never felt this afraid in his life.
Fear that made his knees weak, fear that made him tremble.
And his magic felt like a lead stone, sinking away from his grasp when it had always felt so easy to grasp and guide. As if his magic knew that if he did anything, he'd lose his only family and reacted on his behalf.
"Ah, the boy of the hour." Yasha turned towards the source of the voice that spoke in Russian and saw that it was the man who was holding mother tightly.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Yasha managed to say though his voice trembled. It caused the men to laugh.
"We're old friends of your mother." The man said with a smug grin before he looked down at his mother. "Isn't that right, Your Majesty?"
"Please…let them go…they're no one…they're bastards." Life returned to his mother's eyes and the vulnerability and desperation in his mother's voice was breaking Yasha and he mov-
With lightning speed, the man placed a wand on his mother's neck
"Ah, ah, ah." The man said with warning in his voice. "Move and I'll cut your whore mother's head off." Menace riddled the man's tone and if the act of promised violence wasn't enough, then the eager tone which almost taunted him did.
The dark-haired man smiled thinly "Good" the man relaxed slightly and moved his wand away from his mother's neck only for him to point it to her head and he saw her eyes return to glazy blue beads again.
Yasha stiffened but didn't move having been able to resist the urge. Barely.
"Now" the man began as he levelled a cold look at Yasha before he eyed one of the henchmen who began to move towards Yasha. "Be a good boy and swear you will obey all of our orders."
Yasha gritted his teeth in frustration and he was on the verge of tears at his helplessness "…I swear." The putain laughed mockingly.
"No." the man said with a terrifying grin. "Swear upon your magic that you will obey every order we" the man signalled towards the men present "And our leaders give you." Yasha startled at that but broke out of it as one of the other men approached him.
"Do it now and do it willingly or your fucking whore mother and sister will die!" The roar was shocking, sharp and gruesome as a whip and the tip of the putain's wand was aglow with menacing poisonous green magic that Yasha could just feel was awful. He let off a whimper before he opened his mouth.
The men who arrived next to him gripped his wrist, tightly, and said "You better mean, boy, otherwise we'll know." Yasha winced and swallowed before he spoke.
"I-I…I swear to obey your every orders and the orders of your leaders." A golden glow surrounded him and he despaired as he felt cords begin to strangle his magic.
"Call your mother a whore." Yasha's nostrils flared at the words before his eyes widened in shock as he felt his magic fight against him, fight to comply with the demand and Yasha resisted, oh he so resisted but the cords tightened and he felt like it was shrinking, straining under the stress of the cords.
"Mother is a whore" escaped his lips without his consent, against all of his might and it made the putain grin wider…and so did everyone else's.
The man began to drop down the wand and the glaze in mother's eyes began to disappear and the horror was infinitely greater now on her face.
"All of that running…all of that luck." The man laughed cruelly.
"And all it ended up with is you spawning the wrong kind of boy, the kind of boy that he has been searching for." A sneer formed on his face before he turned his evil eyes onto Yasha, evil eyes that gleamed with awful promise.
"You should have died with your filthy parents, Romanov. It would have been a kinder mercy than the existence you now have placed your children into."
Those words had been haunting then.
And in the end…
They were prophetic.
? 1938 – Camps ?
Wails and moans rang distantly.
Of men. Of women. Of other children.
Indiscriminate.
As was pain.
In all of its forms.
His mother sung a lullaby, her voice weak but carried warm melody, and she rocked him and a whimpering Maria in her arms as she rested against the back of the cold walls, a lullaby that brought warmth just as her cold vice like arms brought warmth to him and his sister, his mind slowly settling back to a vague sense of normality.
Warmth that soothed his broken body and melodic voice that worked him forget.
But it was hard. The sharp pain in his body, the biting hunger he felt and the dark stirrings of his magic that seemed to want to burst out of him made it hard. So hard.
As did the haunted screams and cries that rang around this Hell.
He wrenched his eyes closed tighter, trying to help him forget where he was, where he'd gotten mother and Maria because he didn't fight back. He wished he had. Every day and every time he woke up.
His mother stopped her lullaby when the sounds of the screams died away to a pittance and he opened his eyes, faint light of moonlight crept through the barred opening in the stone walls.
He saw Maria asleep, exhaustion and hunger having taking its due from her. Yet even in her sleep, she looked in pain. She was so pale now. So sickly pale. Skin latched onto her skin like old socks to feet. Tight yet worn.
Her words were the same, worn and tight and bare. Almost gone was the happy sister that he loved so dearly.
Rage and hate spiked within him and his once comforting magic now turned a tempestuous cloud of magic, stirred with his emotions. A sharp pain struck him in his head, like needle like daggers piercing through his skull, and he whimpered as rage and hate left him in haste.
He felt the shaking hand of his mother on his head, a soft hush escaping from her lips with soothing intent. "Yasha…" his mother only said yet he understood the meaning in her utterance.
He looked up as the pain from the chains that bound him dissipated yet he never looked at her face for he knew that that rage would never go away until he passed out from the pain. 'I hate those damn eyes. Ezkridis' damned Royal Blue eyes.' The words of their tormentors echoed into his mind.
"I know" Yasha whispered "I can't help it…I…" he felt his mother wrap him closer and tighter yet it did not settle him nor did it melt the cold iciness that was sinking into him.
"I know, I know." He heard her say, the tone of heart break threaded her voice. Yasha knew that as the days passed, as the torment continued to build, even his mother was slowly losing herself like Maria almost already was.
"You just have to remember Yasha, that one day we'll be free."
"How?" Yasha asked with begging in his voice, starting the same old conversation again. They had little words for anything else. "I can't do anything and neither can you." Yasha began to tear up and his body began to tremble.
Trembling that made the pain so much worse but he didn't care right now.
They kept them like chickens in a cage, and instead of being fattened, they were being starved and slowly trimmed until they were ready. Ready for something he or mother did not understand.
All the torture he was going through, all of the warping of his mind and his magic, he knew not what the purpose was, why they were doing what they were doing.
At times he wondered if there was no purpose, that they simply wanted to see them hurt, to see them break. His mother taken sometimes for hours at a time and hurt, his sister made to watch unspeakable things to the point she had to be forced to eat.
"They even stop us from killing ourselves and I can't even think of hurting myself before my magic stops me." Yasha said with immense bitterness before the bitterness in his voice broke much like he was breaking when he continued.
"And mother…I want to die." He choked out, his tremble now akin to when it when it had been during the height of winter, the shiver travelling along the length of his body. "I don't care anymore, it's too much."
His mother began to tremble as well though no noise escaped her lips.
"Oh Yasha…" his mother soothed brokenly though she said nothing else. There was nothing more to say, nothing that hadn't been said
'I'm sorry…we should have left sooner…'
He wished he tried to fight back then. He wished he died trying.
It would have been so much better than what they were living through…
He'd fallen asleep not long after, to the sounds of his mother's lullaby, though heavy boots began to wake him slowly and realisation crept into his waking mind.
His ears peaked and he startled still in horror and he whimpered and clung onto mother, begging desperately, hopelessly, to Mother Magic, to God, that it wasn't for him, that it was going to be for some other person.
It was too soon, it was only yesterday that he'd been warped.
Yet, once more, his hopes fell onto dear ears.
Abandoned as he and his mother and his sister were to monsters.
"Stand up and remain still!" the dark robed guard.
His body moved against his will, against the weakness that should make it impossible for him to stand up but he stood up nonetheless, buoyed by his magic which continued to betray him.
"Please…he's too weak…he'll die" his mother begged as she moved to shield him and Maria from the guard. The guard laughed and a cruel look showed on his face.
"And we're making him strong, don't worry. He'll live. We wouldn't want to disappoint our special guest tonight." He said before flicking out his wand and slashed across and his mother smashed against the back of the walls, rage and hatred burst the dam within as it knocked her out, the dark pool of magic that once upon a time felt like the touch of lukewarm water on a cold autumn's day now felt like the hungry depths of ocean waters on a tumultuous storm night.
And when the wand was levied towards Maria who cried awake, time had stilled.
Like a tear, he felt like something had ripped inside of him, through the pain, through the debilitating pain that sought to rip his mind like the centre of his being was being ripped apart, and a dark ashy, dusty, almost shadowy tendril of magic spewed forward in the path of the spell that stood to harm his sister.
Another tendril ripped from his chest but it was too late "Stop! I COMMAND YOU! STOP!" the frantic angry yet fearful demand worked and his ashy magic faded away like dust.
A thrill shook him to the core, at the sight of fear on the face of one of those who had cast them into the depths of hell and depravity.
But sooner than he wished, that look of fear turned into fury and the man snarled as he commanded Yasha to step out of the prison and after he did so, he took a fistful of his hair and yanked painfully on it "You little bastard. I'm going to enjoy seeing you squirm in that chair."
Cold satisfaction gave way for icy dread and it must have shown on his face as the guard's face twisted into a gleeful sneer before he led Yasha through the gloomy hallways that seemed endless with cells.
He caught a look of a young boy whose face was in between the cells that was only opposite and a few cells to the right of his and his family's cell, with fresh and deep cuts zigzagging across his face.
The boy silently stared at him with dead eyes, odd eyes that were lilac in colour, like the some of the flowers he'd seen before in the flower shop but these were not nice…nor did were they pretty. These eyes were shrivelling and dying.
It was only a few weeks ago, Yasha thought, that the boy couldn't stop screaming that he'd kill them all, that he'd tear their flesh from their skins for what they did to his family.
He turned his gaze away from the boy, memories of the boy's screams of vengeance turning into cries of pain and screams of mercy flashing by, as he continued to be yanked forward, through the inky, tarry black walls of their Hell, the sounds of rats within its halls faintly heard.
He bit back the whimper that threatened to escape his lips as they arrived to the 'Pighouse', the term he'd heard the other, older boys that once had been in the next cell talk to each other about, the sight of the white walled room with the lone chair at the middle of the room roused the kind of dread with the strength of furious dragons rising to full height, overwhelming, foreboding, terrifying.
Yet it compared nothing to the voice of the man he hated more than anything in the world…and a man he feared like nothing else. "Ah, Prince Romanov"
The man had a sickly pale complexion, tight facial skin and unblinking eyes that sunk into his skull like marbles in quicksand. He showed no emotion, not even after he'd tortured Yasha into paralysis, not even when his magic was twisted in the way he wanted.
He terrified Yasha in the way he was, in the way he felt to Yasha. Blank. Nothingness. Yet at the same it was a kind of nothingness that seemed to be unfiltered malice, a malice that was uncaring, unfeeling.
And he thought this man was the very Devil the muggle churches warned against.
"So this is the Romanov boy. The most promising candidate"
Yasha swivelled around and was startled as he realised who this was.
Pale long fingers with prominent joints that reminded Yasha of his sister's bony legs and ankles, stroked the angular face though that is not what caught his attentions, no, it was the silvery white eye that accompanied the pale blue one.
He knew this face. He knew this man. Any time he'd picked up the papers, he seemed to be on the front of the pages. Grindelwald.
"He doesn't take much after his ancestors, does he?" Grindelwald looked away from him in a dismissive way and turned towards the Healer, the Devil who he never learnt what his name.
"The father is some son of the muggle Von Trotha family." The Devil answered.
"Hmm." Grindelwald turned his gaze back towards Yasha, an odd look on his face before he walked towards him. Yasha stiffened as he felt the bony elongated finger flick aside some of his hair as he stared directly into Yasha's eyes.
"To think two of my dreams would link across time in such a way…"
Yasha faltered and looked away from the gaze, unable to hold it any longer.
"It seems it is fate, young Romanov, that your mother lived when so many of your family did not. I suppose it likes binding me to my actions."
It was only moments later that Grindelwald walked away and he felt himself being pushed towards the chair and he wanted to beg, to plead for them to stop but he stopped himself, half because he knew it was pointless and the other half because he didn't want to break.
"Do not resist in any way." The Devil's words forced his body to relax and he felt in agony at his helplessness as his arms and feet were being tied against the chair.
He didn't know why they were doing this, why they wanted him to hurt like this an-
"Stop thinking."
He stopped thinking.
"Remember Orphanage Seventeen."
Memories of his time at the orphanage played across the forefront of his mind, memories of cruel matrons and sadistic priests.
"You're no longer in the Camps. Forget that you are Yasha. You are now Corvus and all you've known is the Orphanage and you remember everything." He was Corvus and he was in his shared dorm that he shared with five other boys, boys who hated him and tormented for his freakish nature, who called him a Satan worshipper.
"And presently, Matron Beatrice is wroth with you."
Agony struck him, darts of fierce pain travelling up his arms, pain that came from the knife that was being put into his hand and dragged to his left whilst it was in his hand.
"The matron tells you are a product of abomination. You believe her. You hate the unnaturalness that you have."
He hated himself. He hated the unnaturalness that was inside of him. He was evil and he deserved his suffering. He deserved to be hurt. It was the only way to be free of the Devil's gift.
For hours, he suffered at the hands of the Matrons, at the hands of the Father, agonising pain as he was tortured for his salvation, and had he been able to perceive anything outside of the web of illusions his tormentors had built in his mindscape, he would have seen and ashy hue of magic around him that darkened with every hour that passed. Corvus wasn't sure when he lost consciousness.
By the time he flittered in and out of consciousness he was somehow afloat in a strange place, the sight of darky inky moaning walls dominating his senses beyond the sensations of agony and exhaustion that paralysed him.
'This must be hell…Father has failed to save my soul…' he thought to himself as he drifted out of consciousness.
Corvus felt cold hands on his face as he awoke, sounds of a quiet lullaby sung to him. It was oddly…familiar…?
A pained gasp exhaled through his pained body, weak as it was to conjure anything other than the horror of what he was seeing.
An eyeless pale woman with sunken in cheeks and ratty hair stared down at him, singing that strangely familiar lullaby. "Demon…." Corvus rasped out fearfully as he tried to get out of her grasp with little success.
A saddened smile came across the woman as she continued to sing the lullaby, a lullaby he knew the words to, as her hands moved towards the side of his head.
She kept on singing, she kept on stroking his face gently and he stopped fighting but he didn't know why, he didn't know why he didn't feel like this the demon it so clearly was.
He wasn't sure how long the lullaby went by but a moment after she stopped she whispered with a kind and hopeful smile "Remember Yasha...remember your mother…remember your sister…remember Paris…remember us."
"I'm not Yasha" he denied. The pain he felt began to be overwhelmed by the pain in his head and he felt himself spiral into a numbing paralysis, his very mind on fire.
"You are Yasha Augustan, Yasha Romanov. You are my son, my beautiful son. Remember." At first, there was nothing and then the demon began to repeat it, again and again until…like a light at the end of a tunnel…they came.
Memories flashed across the mind of Corvus, no Yasha, memories of Austria, of Luxembourg, of Paris. Of his mother who sung to him and taught him and loved him, his sweet sister he adored and looked out for.
He remembers the Cell, he remembers the hunger, the torment placed upon his baby sister and his mother, he remembers the way their tormentors are destroying his family like all the other families they destroyed already.
"Shushhh, my sweet, sweet boy" his mother said chokingly as excruciating pain still pierced every fibre of his being, his face contorted in a silent mask of a scream for no words, no sounds could escape from his breaking body.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl as his mind reordered itself, his mind pushing away the false memories his tormentors implanted into his mind, and by the time the pain that overwhelmed any physical pain ceased, he was delirious, as he always was after it.
He didn't know why they did this.
His mother had said that there were other ways, other more permanent ways to warp the mind, yet this is what they chose, to create two sets of memories that frayed at who he was, who they wanted him to be.
Why, the orphanage, why make the muggles so evil, he didn't know. He didn't care to know. Neither did his mother though sometimes, he thought he could see the fear in her face when he spoke like emotionless Corvus.
He hated everything in this cursed place. And most of all, he hated himself. It was clear that it was Yasha they wanted and he felt so much guilt about it. And he feared that his mother and sister were only being kept alive to torment him.
It was his fault, he thought despairingly to himself and had he not been born, his mother could have escaped and never caught and his mother and sister would have lived happily and safe.
And he feared the day that he no longer remembered.
When he was Corvus forever and never again Yasha.
And he knew that it was working…it was getting harder to separate Corvus and Yasha and to make it worse, his magic had been changing ever since that first day, that first time, and he could feel the parasite growing inside of him.
He'd kept it from his mother, keeping her unaware of his fears of what was happening inside of him but she'd known something was wrong, that what was happening was dangerous and awful but she couldn't remember why.
"It's alright…it's alright…" and his mother began to sing to him again and he felt his sister curl up to him and he drifted off to sleep once more
? Spring 1940 – Camps ?
Squeaks and pattering of tiny feet accompanied the deathly smell of rot and decaying food.
Cold floors, cold air, freezing heart.
"Eat." Yasha insisted as he weakly pushed the gamely meat to his sister with broken hands. She was unresponsive, staring at the cold grey wet stones that made for walls.
Hollowing cheeks. Dead blue eyes.
"Maria."
Still now, days later, her hands still clung on tightly onto the bloodied knife with days' old blood caking it. Last time he tried to take it from her, she tried to use on him. That was two sleeps ago.
He silently brought the gamely raw meat to her lips and with his other, worse off hand, loosened her jaw. After he set the meat onto her tongue, she came into life once more. If it could be called life.
"Psst" rang across from the hallway.
Yasha ignored the irritating boy and focused on his sister. It disturbed him, to think that once he'd felt such rage at his sister's condition and that now all that he felt was but a shadow of such emotion.
Fierce became mild. Yearning became distant interest. Love became…
He tore of another strip of meat of one of the cooked rat and fed it to his sister.
"I'll tell you a secret if you throw me a rat."
Yasha didn't respond as he continued to feed his sister.
An air of frustration sifted through the irritating boy's mouth.
With almost everyone else around them dead, the boy has gotten more bold in his insanity, even laughing at the guards when they tried to silence him brutally.
To the point that they simply stopped caring.
He must be important to them if they weren't going to push to make him comply to every bit of their whims. He noticed that. That some had greater protection than others. Like prized cattle who had to be perfect before they were slaughtered.
And it would be slaughter.
Slaughter of the person, slaughter of everything they used to be, until all that was left was the person whom they spliced together the pieces of his mind.
The drive of Yasha. The emotionless Corvus and his history and his hatred of muggles.
The death of his mother was timed to shatter the links that held the dam that separated the bodies of water that was Yasha and Corvus. And Maria…Maria was to be the quake that destroyed any chance of rebuilding that bridge.
A broken vessel, a perfect weapon.
"Fine, fine, I'll tell you anyway!" the irritating boy said in frustration, lowly but audibly still muttering to himself that he'd better get a meal out of it.
"The magical world is at war!" the irritating boy said gleefully.
Hmm.
He spoke next and it was low, fraught with conspiratorial intent "And we might actually be used soon."
That was another reason for why he found the boy irritating.
There was a bloodlust in the boy that he found boring.
Oh and the hatred. It was common. Pointless.
Still…
It was useful to know at least. If it was true. If it'll matter.
A strand of darkness formed form his back and sharpened before with lightning speed it pierced through a rat that ventured a little too closely to the iron bars.
With a flick of the strand of magic, he'd thrown the rat towards the irritating boy who caught it readily. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes" the irritating boy repeated before he saw the silhouette of flames.
The boy could levitate but lacked the accuracy to bring something to himself. Destructive magic however? That came more easily to the irritating boy.
The days trickled on by, rat after rat was caught, sometimes mixed with the slop of food they were fed, sometimes they were eaten on their own or stewed in the filthy water that poured out of the pipes, and soon enough it was time again for his therapy.
He no longer feared the 'Pighouse'.
Fear…fear didn't matter. Survival did not matter.
'Was there anything that mattered…?'
As he was led out of his cell, he glanced back at his sister, who didn't even notice that he was leaving, and icy waters dripped down from his freezing heart.
Yes…
She still mattered.
Something still mattered.
Winter 1941 - Camps
He leaned his head against the wall, his arms hanging loose as he perched his elbows on his knees, his gaze fixed onto his scarred hands as Cullaica's whistles rang around the empty hallways, eerie whistles that bounced off against the black walls.
He'd been here a few days now. Being healed.
He turned his hand around, his gaze following the scars that travelled across his hand, scars inflicted on him by Father Al- no…
That isn't right…
Or was it…?
He seemed to remember it was so…
But he also thought there was something else…
Someone else…
He looked up and turned his gaze towards the iron bars.
Ah…yes…they were here to get healing…they were damaged – eyeless kind woman smiled at him – …dangerous – the muggles did so much damage, my boy – …they wanted to heal them – cold sunken eyes that he instantly didn't like –…before they hurt other magicals – screams and wails as he remembered being held –…yes…that was bad…
That's what they said…
…Why was it bad…?
To hurt…others…?
He doesn't know why…but does it matter?
Why…?
Why does it matter…?
He looks down on his hands. They want him to heal so that he can help others from hurting like he was hurt. That muggles were the danger to everything…
…he doesn't feel it.
It was…
Odd…
His memories feel like flakes – image of a strange baked bread, a croissant, how do I know that…? – falling to pieces as he tries to remember.
Was that why he doesn't feel the hate they said he felt…?
Hmm…
He leaned his head against the wall, Cullaica's whistles were not horrible. He liked it. Hmm…has he liked anything before…? Corvus doesn't remember.
He only remembers what he didn't like. The boys in his dorm. The Matrons. The Father. Muggles. His memories say that he didn't like them.
Maybe he doesn't feel it because it was so long ago.
Or maybe he stopped feeling much of anything.
When did that happen…?
He isn't sure…
His memories show only the orphanage…nothing else…is that normal…? Maybe he stopped remembering things that he had once liked…is that possible…?
"Corrrrrrvus" Cullaica called out in a jaunty note. He liked doing that. It was strange. It felt familiar too. Why…? He only met the boy a few days ago.
He got up in one swell motion, his bare feet pattered against the cobbled black stone floor. They'd given him shoes. He found he liked no shoes better.
He wasn't sure why…at the orphanage he had shoes.
He got to the iron bars and he stuck his head in between them and looked to towards the direction where Cullaica was.
He was looking directly at Corvus with a large grin. His face was ugly. There were many scars on his face. He wondered if it would be like touching his own scars.
Suddenly, the skin on his face began to vibrate like when one dropped a stone in a calm pool of water – coins were thrown in a wide river atop a bridge – and the scars disappeared. Cullaica's grin grew wider. Manic. Pleased.
Cullaica seemed good at magic.
"Ah, there you ah-are!" Cullaica said manically as he poked out his hand and waved towards him with only his fingertips. Cullaica was weird. But a good weird…
Could weird be good…?
"What do you want…?" he asked of Cullaica.
Cullaica guffawed "nothing! Can't friends just talk?! It's not like we have anything else to do!"
"…friends?" - a terrible whistle to accompany a good whistle to a faceless girl – friends. Were they friends…? He seemed familiar. And he didn't not not feel anything towards Cullaica. Maybe he was right…
"Yes friends." Cullaica levied a dark wild eyes towards him. It looked dangerous. But it didn't feel dangerous. "Only a few days and I know you. We have to be friends."
Corvus mulled it over before he nodded slowly. Friends made sense.
Cullaica looked happy with that. He seemed to feel a lot. Is that how Corvus was meant to be…? He considered it. No…the way he was felt right.
Like nothing mattered…
"Good. Good, good, good." Cullaica said as he stared at Corvus.
There was a silence after that outburst. It went on for a bit. So did the staring.
He stared back.
Is this what friends did…?
Cullaica guffawed. "You're strange." Cullaica said with a manic grin.
"You're strange." Corvus responded. It was true. He was very different. Like a muggle. Cullaica guffawed, almost sounded like he was giggling – a tiny girl giggled as she run behind a sofa – and grinned at Corvus.
"I think I'll have to make the bulk of the conversation, my bestest friend!"
The days and weeks fell into a routine.
He was brought to the Healer every day – scream, agony, scream, agony – who would check and his magic and his memories and ask questions like 'How do you feel about muggles' or 'Do you want to hurt anyone' or 'Are you feeling better'.
He answered how he was expected to answer.
'I hate them', 'Only muggles and the matrons and the Father', 'I feel the same'.
Words that felt like he should say. He did not know why but he trusted it.
Cullaica talked. For the both of them. He didn't dislike it. It was nice to stop the strange images sometimes. He often whistled. Always the same tune.
Sometimes he'd talk about the war with the muggles. So too would the healer Like today, he thought to himself as he was walked back to his Cell.
That it would be time soon for them to help to destroy them. Saying soon they'll get wands and books and tutoring to help the cause. Said that Corvus would be important. His magic was special. More special than Cullaica's.
He wasn't so sure. His magic seemed dangerous. It wanted to hurt. To destroy.
But maybe that was why he was more special.
He thought about it a lot. What they wanted from him. To hurt. To destroy.
They seemed to want it a lot from him.
He considered it. Their wants. Turns out it didn't matter to him.
Nothing matters really mattered to him…why…?
"Ah, friend, all good?" Cullaica asked the same question he would ask every day. Sometimes he would different words to ask the same thing. Those were better days.
Corvus nodded. Cullaica looked pleased. "That's good. Well, I've got a new whistle, it's strange and I think I might have done it before. Anyway, listen, listen, listen!" Cullaica began to whistle and Corvus stilled.
"Move it boy." The guard behind him growled out and Corvus felt the urge to obey but he couldn't. Cullaica continued to whistle and then…it happened.
A roar of a cry ripped out of his mouth as he clutched his head, the air in the room turned heavy, thunderous with magic, wisps of dark tusks of magic seeping out of his body as memories played out like a reel, storming through the forefront of his mind.
Austria, Luxembourg, Paris. He began to feel, pain, pain, PAIN, yet he felt more and more and more. He remembered his mother, he remembered his sister. And he felt it all.
Joy, sadness, hope, disappointment, happiness, anger.
And he remembered everything since. The pain. The torment. The agony. His withering sister. His murdered mother. He remembered their deaths.
HATE, HATE, HATE, he felt so strongly.
He felt what he lost, he felt it so keenly, he felt the guilt, the overwhelming guilt 'It's YOUR FAULT YASHA!' oh, mother, I'm so, so sorry.
An agonised scream ripped from his mouth, yearning grasped towards the heavens – grasps that were finding purchase – and magic shattered around him, bulking, tempestuous magic of black and ash and uncaged magic twisted together in an unholy mixture and his form disappeared into a storm of swirling mass of ashy black.
All of the hate, all of the pain and the suffering culminated in the bulking mass of hungry destruction and he was aware, no he knew of the chaos his transformation has caused.
They had caged Yasha. In oaths. In bonds. In fear.
He was Yasha no more.
He was more.
He was less.
He hunted.
Walls were putty under his power. As putty as flesh as he ripped through a horde of guards, their spells only causing the dullest of aches.
He continued to follow the hallways. Killing and devouring.
His hunger wasn't satiated. It would never be satiated.
Not until there was nothing left to devour.
As he changed back, in front of the half torn body of his chief tormentor, black wisps of his magic swirled around him, like tentacles made out of shadows.
A ghostly form came into view, a ghostly form of someone that he – Yasha – had once loved. Another ghostly form arrived. Another that the boy once named Yasha loved.
He looked at them.
They looked sad.
"I am not him." He said quietly to them.
They looked sadder.
Yasha had died many years ago.
He…he was less.
He was nothing.
Footsteps approached.
"Phew." He heard, recognising the familiar voice of Cullaica. The raging beast within fell back down to the ground, content enough to spare him.
"I knew my whistling is good but my bestest friend, I didn't think you had to go crazy about it."
He turned around and faced Cullaica, his mauve eyes bright with bloodlust and awe.
"I remembered." He said to Cullaica, Pierre.
"Remembered what?" Cullaica said dumbfounded.
"You'll remember too." He said to Cullaica before he turned around and faced the corpse of the healer, his eyes gazing down emotionlessly at the mangled corpse.
One day we are born. One day we die.
Life has no meaning.
Suffering has no meaning.
Death has no meaning.
There is no meaning.
There is no value.
There is nothing that is more and there is nothing that is less.
Nothing mattered…
And the world would come to understand that.
Just as Yasha did.
Yes…
One day…we are born.
And one day we will die.
And the world would come to understand that.
Present day
The memory-illusions faded away into dust, fresh anguish and pain and hate coursed through him in ways that he had not felt for many decades.
The emptiness, the half-soul that he possessed was being torn apart, ripped into shreds as memories long forgotten but always present in his actions left their lingering touch on his mind.
The dark lance of his obscurus was extended out of him but it had stopped half way, and did not respond to his Will. His body was as still a statue, and so too was his magic, helpless against whatever magic held him so.
The ghosts of his mother and sister appeared beside him and began to envelop him.
Sayre stood there with his arms behind his back, pity and sadness and empathy shines through Sayre's face, fleshy human emotions directed towards him not since he was but a boy.
"…I'm sorry."
"Why?" he asks, still unable to move, no matter his attempts. His very body and magic was fighting against his will.
"Our world destroyed you." Sayre says.
His sister stepped in front of him and Sayre directed his gaze towards her, complex emotions played out on his face.
For a man known to be a master of the mind arts, he was emotive.
Given that he managed to unleash memories locked up into the dark depths of his mind, he expected that it was not genuine.
His tragedy was irrelevant.
The tragedies he created were irrelevant too but not to Sayre or others.
"Your hate for it is justified. I'd do no less in your position." Sayre says
"I feel no hate."
Sayre looks at him pityingly.
"Perhaps not any more but you are driven by hate. I understand."
"You'd do more." He questions.
"…Yes." Sayre says.
He believed Sayre. He was the type.
Atticus POV
"…Yes." Atticus admits.
Had he experienced what Yasha experienced, had lived through the horrors of watching your mother murdered in front of you by your own imperioused sister, and then see your sister starve herself to death, he'd hate everything that allowed that to happen.
He'd see the entire world burn for that.
Atticus was not a forgiving man.
And Yasha wasn't one either yet within him there was still something that prevented his rage to transcend beyond the magical world up until this point.
Burning down human cities were all that they planned, all that they tried to do, when they could have tried so much more. They cared nothing about either world yet no grand plans to destroy either world beyond what Cullaica and Yasha planned to do with the muggle cities.
Something prevented his rage to transcend beyond the magical world up until this point and it was the love for a city, the memory of it, and a love of a mother.
A city that he would have destroyed to rid himself of the last earthly bounds, forever dead but still alive in the memories of the world.
Much like his mother and sister were.
Atticus glanced at the ghost of Yasha's mother.
"Princess Elisa." Atticus respectfully bowed his head towards the ghost, an act that surprised both of the ghosts.
They were not normal ghosts…they were something in between, anchored to the material world not through 'unfinished' work but through the might and will of Yasha, who cannot let go, who will not let go.
They, his mother and sister, are his anchor, the reason why he acted, and he'd reached out to the Domain itself, somehow, to remember who he is…why he exists.
They are the stones that keep together The Raven, the Consequence to an indifferent world, to a world that could allow and facilitate the horrors that were inflicted to the innocent.
And they were also the anchors that allowed Yasha to return those same horrors to the world, first to the nobility and government systems that supported Grindelwald and his world views about worthiness and deservedness and then later to the common people, those same people who are blind to what was in front of them.
Pureblood doctrine was heightened to insane proportions for years, murder and cruelty was a standard way of life, the kind of life desired by those same peoples who tormented Yasha and his family, the same kinds of people who also supported Grindelwald and have a familial history of backing other Dark Lords that championed pureblood dogma.
Minds were ensnared as his mind was ensnared. Hurt was spread from family to family. Death was granted, at first discriminatory and then with blanket order.
Much of it done with the tacit agreement of those who supported The Raven and Cullaica.
And it was a game, Atticus thought grimly, a horror game that allowed them to fulfil their true purpose, to wade into the channels of the magical world and infect it from the inside until it was time to tear away almost everything good or bad indiscriminately until all that remained was a world of husks.
To bring it to as close to nothingness as possible.
Like what The Raven was. Like what Cullaica had been.
"I am sorry that our world has failed you and your family." Atticus said, meaning every word of it as his eyes darted to the pre-teen girl.
It was a travesty what Grindelwald facilitated, only matched by the horror show of Belgium at the hands of De Gaulle and of course at the hands of the Ravenites.
He knew not the exact reasons what Grindelwald had planned for Yasha, his only true successful stable Obscurus beyond Credence, but he suspected it was to unleash him onto the muggle world, his own version of a WMD, after likely assessed Credence unable to be the kind of monster he wanted.
Implanting memories and destabilising the mind was an odd choice but an effective choice and had Yasha remained, he did not doubt that there would have been a next step, a final step, that would have crushed what once made Yasha, the boy who'd loved Paris.
Yasha's mother did not respond, and neither did the sister. It was alright, they were past the point of apologies. Past the point that words can be used to express things.
Atticus turned his gaze back towards Yasha, hardness creeping into his expression.
"But I am not sorry for killing you." At this, the ghosts silently hissed, their visages akin to banshees and floated in front of Yasha.
He pitied them, the essences that did not belong here.
He could see that they were being harmed by their far too long presence on this plane of existence, in ways that normal ghosts were not.
Yasha turns his gaze upward, only his head and neck could move.
His soulless eyes gazing towards the heavens.
"Mars." Atticus explained, curiosity etched on his face. If Yasha was interested, he didn't show when he levelled those soulless eyes back onto him.
"How are you stopping me?" Yasha questioned, his quiet tone bereft of emotion, ignoring the comment Atticus made about killing him.
"A combination of things." Atticus answered, and would speak no more of it.
Out of all the archmages alive, excepting Emily, Yasha was by far the third closest Archmage with an uncanny ability to negate. He couldn't risk giving clues.
His magic, magic that once would have been a marvel to behold in the way he could understand magic through his own magic, turned into a polar opposite in a way, turning into a kind of magic that destroyed and countered anything and everything.
It would be a marvel to see him grow with a second chance.
He wondered if his ability to bring Essences were built on something, an exploitation of an already extant link between Yasha and the Domain.
Atticus exerted a force of Will, and blades of pure magic formed in front of him before they destroyed the obscurus lance in totality.
The blades of magic began to circle around him as he begun to step closer to Yasha who was still rooted to the spot.
Magical dampening fields were en-runed underneath the red sands of Mars and grey nanites surrounded everywhere around them.
Nanites that Yasha had breathed in, and nanites that were stuck on his skin. Nanites that were affecting his mind and affecting his body and magic.
Connections between Yasha's Will was disrupted, control centres of the mind were suborned, and his magic was tightly subdued.
There would be no battle today.
Atticus had enough of battles amongst his own kind.
When Atticus was only a few feet away from Yasha, he came to a stop and inspected the man before him. Coal black hair, coal black eyes.
Once upon a time, those had been dusty brown hair and light brown eyes.
"It doesn't matter." Atticus said as he waved his hand and a light glow emanated.
The ghosts were pushed aside and it was the first reaction he'd seen from Yasha.
Atticus turned towards Elisa who stared at him with hatred in her eyes.
How strange to see such a look of hate from a woman who was brimful of love.
"You have a choice." Atticus said to Elisa whose hateful visage turned to a suspicious glare. He continued "The Raven…Yasha…both of them will die today. But his soul does not have to leave this plane of existence."
He'd discussed it with Emily. She hadn't been happy with what he was saying to her, to offer a choice to The Raven who ironically took away the choices of many others.
But he'd Seen this moment so many times. So many different instances, slightly different than the other. It was a sobering experience and it is a sobering experience, to learn the kinds of evil that inspired that same evil onto the world.
Sobering and sickening and pitiful.
Yet…
There was something that resonated with him…the way the ghosts protected Yasha. Despite their corruption. Despite the horrible things Yasha had done.
He knew that letting go of Yasha, letting him pass on would waste an incredible resource, one that potentially could lead him to understand other forms of interaction with the Domain, much like how the Stone had interacted with the Domain, but…
Elisa had looked murderous for a moment before she blinked in surprise, not understanding what he meant.
Atticus expanded as he shot Yasha a short glance, and he saw Yasha's coal black eyes seem less lifeless though whether or not it was positive or negative, he couldn't quite say. He met Elisa's gaze. "I have the ability to effectively reincarnate living people. Yasha would die but his soul would be reborn into another body. He would live a good life, a safe life with family that will love him."
Elisa was shocked at that.
"Living people?"
Atticus turned back toward Yasha who'd asked. He gave a grim nod. "Only living people. When your Time is due, it is final." This was interference enough, Atticus thought. This was perhaps already treading the line when it came to interference with the matters of Life and Death.
Maybe he could figure out a way to bring the dead back but he wouldn't even try.
He had too much respect for both Aspects.
Elisa looked ponderous when she looked at him, until that look turned into one of question. 'Why'. Atticus nodded silently, conveying his understanding.
Atticus turned to Yasha. "I will not lie. Your soul, your essence is powerful. No matter what blood will course your veins, you will be an Archmage."
"You seek to use me."
Atticus smiled faintly. "Of your own free will."
"A rat in a maze is still a rat in maze."
Atticus' smile grew larger "is anyone anything other than a rat in a maze? We all have walls and boundaries that keep us to a path. Even myself."
"Some have wider walls."
Atticus nodded as his smile fell. "That is true. And you would have such wide walls too. I'm not interested in automatons with warped minds." Atticus said calmly though hardness etched his face and coldness shone through his eyes.
"Your warping is more subtle."
Atticus downturned his lips in a 'Eh' way. "So is the warping of good parents." Atticus said dismissively. All of society, whether magical or muggle were warping society to one way or another. It was a fact of life. His and Emily's way was drastic, to be sure, but drastic measures were needed to tilt the magical world to a better future.
Atticus turned his gaze to Elisa who was watching their interplay. "As for why give him a second chance…it is not for him" Atticus said with a nod towards Yasha before returning his attentions to Elisa.
"It is for you." Atticus said honestly before he turned towards Maria. "And for you, Princess Maria." Atticus said earnestly before continuing.
"If I do this, there is no guarantee when whomever Yasha turns into will remember you upon death. This will be total cleansing of his soul. Of his crimes. Of his experiences. All of his experiences. He'll be a newborn."
They were victims, innocent victims who Atticus had great empathy for.
The choice would be theirs.
Elisa turned his gaze towards Yasha whose expression twitched as he stared at his mother. "No." the denial was sharp, cutting, actual emotion seemed to riddle it.
Elisa looked saddened as she floated towards Yasha with an outstretched hand. She seemed to emote so many different messages in her expressions alone.
"No." Yasha said again, forcefully, his expression breaking as anger took hold. "I will not forget you…never. Do not make it happen."
Maria then floated in front of Yasha and placed her hands onto Yasha's face and the anger broke. Maria's child face was only a foot away from Yasha's face, a face belonging to a soul, an essence, that will never know live again.
"Please." Yasha said quieter this time, his coal black eyes lightening. "I cannot."
Elisa stared at Yasha for a long while, sadness and consideration on her face.
"It has always been just us. Only us. Do not take that away from me."
Atticus knew then that Elisa would not deny Yasha the certainty of being with her and his sister again. It was a certainty whenever he added those three sentences.
Elisa's expression broke and turned to him. She shook her head sadly.
He wasn't disappointed.
It was a choice that was difficult to quantify. A selfish choice. A selfless choice.
Atticus smiled faintly at Elisa before he smiled to Maria and the blades of magic sped forward and sunk into Yasha's chest, tearing through the dragon hide robes and a quiet gasp escaping his lips.
Atticus silently watched as Yasha chokingly breathed his last few breaths until there were no more and the light of his coal black eyes went out.
He turned towards Maria and Elisa, the cords of magic that bound them to Yasha fading away and Elisa only stared at Yasha's corpse for a moment before her eyes widened and smiled to herself, a smile that Maria shared.
Maria faded away, a column of off-white light flashed for a second, a column of off-white light that seemed to stretch on endlessly into the skies.
Elisa began to fade away but not before glaring at him though…just as she was on the cusp of disappearing into the Domain, she gave Atticus a shadow of a smile.
Atticus stared at where Elisa had once been.
He hadn't bothered to tell her of their familial connection, of his mother having been second cousins to Elisa's mother. He wondered if she'd known and if she'd decided against searching mother out. For fear of being betrayed like her family had been betrayed by their vassals.
Yasha's body relaxed as it began to levitate.
With another exertion of Will, the ground began to open up, seven feet by two feet, six feet deep. He levitated the body into the ground with care and for a moment he only looked at the man's face.
In the end, cruelty had begotten cruelty, a cycle of death and evil that had left unbroken since Grindelwald.
He found it fitting to make his death quick on the very planet that inspired tales and mythology of the God of War. A symbolic meaning to an end of meaningless death and mindless cruelty. An end of war amongst their own kind.
And also, perhaps there was a measure of guilt in his choice of leniency.
Guilt of allowing Yasha to exact his suffering onto the world as long as he did. Guilt of the tens of thousands of other magicals he'd allowed to die or be tormented to suit his final plans to end such occurrences, once and for all.
Yasha's purpose was to be a pawn for Grindelwald and in the end Atticus had turned him into a Queen for his own plans.
An object flew out of his pocket and into Yasha's grave.
Atticus waved his hand and red sand began to pile onto Yasha's body and soon the ground was level again. The top layer of sand began to pile up before it turned into red stone and with a flick of his finger, words in Latin began to form.
'In Death, We Are Never Alone. Prince Yasha of the Most Ancient and Most Noble House of Romanov. Loving Brother. Loving Son.' The words spelled out.
A slow humming vibration was emitted from within the grave, a vibration a consequence of the field of energy that would ensure that the grave would remain unburied.
Atticus looked around. This was not an interesting place on Mars. It lacked the features that he knew would interest the likes of NASA or ESA.
But, in a couple of centuries, perhaps they would come across the grave.
A faint smile cut across his face as a portal opened. He wondered how much it would freak out the mundane scientists and officials out.
It'll be a fun conversation point many, many years from now.