Freshwater creatures despise the sea, and sea creatures despise freshwater.
That was what Fleur had said, if he was remembering correctly — James had been half-delirious, then. He supposed he'd find out soon enough. His immediate thought was that the task would therefore be held in or near the lake, but that didn't entirely make sense, because plenty of sea creatures lived in the supposedly freshwater lake without issue. And using the lake for two different tasks seemed very unlikely, especially with how bloated the coverage of the tournament had become.
The wizarding world was small, with a little over thirty thousand wizards scattered across the British Isles, including the estimated few thousand that were isolated from mainstream magical society and weren't interested in joining. Worldwide, they had only just recently broken two million witches and wizards. In such a small community, it was easy to become the subject of gossip, then a celebrity. Particularly if Dumbledore had engineered a greater spotlight on James, as he suspected (but who could say what went on in Dumbledore's mind). He was getting fanmail now, even including one written in Spanish and brought to him by a caracara.
James pushed the tangent aside. Point was, it wouldn't look good for the Ministry to recycle a location in the same competition. Where the river met the ocean then would be his guess, about four, five miles downstream of the Black Lake, sandwiched between a pair of towering hills, where maybe they could set up the stands for the audience.
He leaned against the parapet, fingering the deceptively heavy chain in his pocket. The locket it carried was cold against his thigh, drawing the warmth from his skin yet itself never seeming to hold it. Since this morning, when he had taken it from the trunk they kept in the Room of Requirement, he'd repeatedly found himself reaching for his pocket, only aborting the action at the last second. And more than once he had confused the faint chatter of others with the whispers he had heard within Azkaban, the words just out of reach to be certain; a wave of deathly temptation had gripped him — if he took just one more step, perhaps he'd be able to hear those words distinctly, to meet their owners, to unmask these secrets once and for all.
Doubtless Cadmus Peverell had thought the same thing.
He gazed toward the coastline, easily seen from the height of the Astronomy Tower where he leaned against the railing. The sun would be setting soon. The scenery was one that was etched into his mind from the countless visits up here, and it seemed to lighten and warm that chain in his pocket, and the weight on his shoulders seemed to have been lifted by the winds and scattered about the primordial land below.
"What are you thinking about?" said a familiar voice behind him. He turned his head, seeing Hermione in the doorframe leading down into the tower.
"Hey," he said softly, still unable to rid himself of that sliver of guilt he felt every time he saw her. "What brought you here?"
"I saw you go up," she said, stepping up beside him to lean over the battlements. "And I figured you'd be moping. You remind me of Harry sometimes." She let a moment of silence hang. "So… what are you thinking about?"
"About how long it'd take to hit the ground," said James. "How big of a blood splatter I could make. Do you think I'd have enough time to see my life flash before my eyes?"
Hermione gave him a look that was half alarm, and half exasperation. "Don't even joke about that, James."
"Sorry. If it helps, I wouldn't have you be the first on scene. I wouldn't traumatize you like that. That's reserved for Lyra."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, my god. What are we supposed to do with you?"
"Hose me off, I expect."
"Okay, that's enough," said Hermione, and though her tone was firm, the smallest of smiles tugged at her cheek. "No more about that. What were you actually thinking about?"
James looked out towards the coast again, tracing the horizon with his fingertip, the wine-dark sea shimmering like the scales of some undulating serpent. "My best guess is that the Third Task will be hosted there," he said, pointing at the valley.
"Oh, really?" Hermione squinted at the horizon, shading her eyes from the sun.
"Admittedly, I don't have much to go on, but I don't think it's unreasonable to assume that."
"So it's something to do with the sea," she said. "Otherwise they would just host it at Hogwarts. But what's so special about the sea?"
"Something to do with sea creatures. Or so I think." He tapped the fingers of his left hand on the masonry, producing rhythmical clicks. "It's frustrating that I only got the one hint. The picture is too incomplete." Hermione shifted uncomfortably, opened her mouth, and then closed it. James noticed, and tilted his head. "What?"
"It's just… no, never mind. It's not your fault."
He frowned. "You can tell me."
"Well…" Hermione cringed into herself even as she said it, "Could you stop, um, fidgeting like that?" She didn't quite look at his left hand. "Just the sound it makes… it's not normal."
Though he had been the one to prompt her, the words still stung. He raised his left hand, almost chalky in its appearance. He rubbed his thumb over his knuckle, which created a faint squeaking sound that Hermione cringed at. He couldn't feel anything there anymore. He was still aware of possessing a limb, aware of the position of his hand and fingers, but there was no sensation left to indicate hot or cold, smooth or rough, wet or dry. Nothing left, until about halfway up his forearm where the unnatural black of the basilisk's venom met the unnatural white.
"…I don't think I ever asked." Hermione's voice was quiet, suffused with some guilt. "Are you okay?"
James thought about it.
"Nah, not really."
Hermione gave a very fake, very uncomfortable-sounding laugh. "Yeah, I suppose I should've known."
"It's not too bad." James looked out over the battlements again, where the sun began to sink into the waves, the skies above brushed in strokes of orange and indigo. "I'll survive." He glanced at her. "Thanks for asking, Hermione."
Hermione didn't respond, shifting her feet a little before following his gaze out towards the horizon. In the midst of this valley, sheltered from the sight of muggle civilization by geography and magic both, lay a little slice of paradise. The Black Lake trickled down towards the sea in a lazy stream, pooling into marshes in the patches of plain that was flat enough, where snipes waded through the water in search of food. A pair of ospreys dived down from above, picking up immense speed, and crashed feet-first into the river; when they returned to the skies, James could spy wriggling fish in their talons. Deer routinely roamed the valley, and on clear days, it wasn't rare to encounter the occasional wildcat napping on a sun-warmed rock. The coast attracted whales and dolphins and porpoises during the summers, drawn to schools of fish immense enough to appear as leviathans from the surface.
"Have you ever seen nature like this?" he said. "In the muggle world?"
"No," said Hermione. "I suppose not."
"I think for all the opportunities that magic has given me," he said, "the best one is being able to see places like this. See the world as it was ten thousand years ago, and know that it'll be there ten thousand years in the future."
Hermione hummed softly.
"I can't remember what book it was from — I read it years ago — but it mentioned that, with how magic twists space and time, even urbanized places like central London can have pockets of untouched marshland from before even the Celts reached the shores. Did you know there's apparently a centaur tribe living in a forest on Manhattan Island?" Hermione snorted a bit. "What?"
"Nothing," she said slyly. "I just didn't take you for a fan of Gilderoy Lockhart.
"No." James gave her a look of disgust. "No way. Did he really write that?"
"It was in Voyages with Vampires."
"That's horrible!"
"I knew you'd come around about him eventually," said Hermione smugly, and James shook his head.
"No, he's still a pretentious little fake. Just because he has a ghost-writer worth the name —"
"Oh, please, now you're just being petulant."
"I'm not! Hermione, I'm telling you, he faked it all. We caught him!"
Hermione didn't have to say anything. The folded arms, the cocked hip, and crooked smile translated her thoughts perfectly well. James just flicked her forehead, and the smugness was gone as she cried out, slapping a hand to her injury.
"James! I should report you to Flitwick for that."
"You should, but you won't."
"I wouldn't be so sure. You're a prefect."
Anyone else, he'd assume they were joking, but he could never be sure with Hermione. With him and Lyra having ruined all of Harry Potter's adventures ahead of time, Hermione had never snuck out to fight Quirrell and curse Neville on her way, nor brewed Polyjuice Potion to sneak the boys into the Slytherin common room, nor had she illegally used the Time-Turner to save Buckbeak.
"Are you sure you want to leave Vicky to pick up even more of the slack?" he said. "Poor her. She barely gets time to write her thesis at this point —"
"You're such an arse."
James shook his head but couldn't help the smile tugging at his cheeks. "Look at you, swearing like a trooper. You might pretend the Hogwarts student handbook is your bible, but we both know that's only so you can beat people to death with it when they're not paying attention."
A cough sounded from the doorway. Hermione's mouth snapped shut when she saw who it was.
"Professor —!"
"Good evening," said Dumbledore pleasantly.
"Don't worry, he didn't hear you," said James to her, aloud. Hermione looked rather aghast.
Dumbledore only smiled. "No, I'm afraid I was lost in my thoughts. That staircase is quite long. I wished to speak with you, Mr. Stark. Miss Granger, would you mind terribly? It is about the tournament."
Hermione glanced at James, then back at Dumbledore. "Oh, of course," she said, pushing herself off the crenelations and hurrying past Dumbledore. She stumbled to a stop before the door, and glanced back.
They gave her a moment after she disappeared past the doorway. As Dumbledore approached, for a brief moment his thigh burned hot and something hummed near his ear, barely audible like an insect flying past, and James flinched away from it on instinct. But whatever those words were, James had a strange feeling that it wasn't meant for him — he glanced at Dumbledore, but he seemed unperturbed, seemingly hearing and feeling nothing. James was an eavesdropper in a conversation between two Hallows, which he should've never been able to hear.
"About the tournament, sir?"
"Actually, I came up here to think about things. The tournament is one of those things, and while you are here, James, I thought perhaps we could speak on it, a little." Dumbledore strolled to the edge of the tower to join James in looking over the valley. "You're likely wondering about the final task. There, I must disappoint you. You will not be receiving any clues from me." Then he winked. "Although, perhaps you have questions I might be able to answer."
James glanced back at the sea, rolling his thoughts around in his head. "Hmm… Do you think Viktor and Fleur — or Karkaroff and Madame Maxime — actually cheat, or is that just something people say?"
"It is true that Igor and Olympe can sometimes be overzealous in their mentorship, but I would not cast aspersions on your competitors by suggesting they cheat," said Dumbledore. "Do you have reason to believe that they are acting dishonorably towards you?"
"Viktor, no," said James. "I get the impression that he's too proud to get help, if anything. But if it gets shoved in his face, then he'd be an idiot to not use it. Fleur, though? Between you and me, well… she's very competitive."
"Perhaps," said Dumbledore. "Shall you ask me for help, then? To balance the scales?"
James sighed. "No." Though he'd be lying if he said he wasn't tempted.
"As I thought." Dumbledore patted his shoulder before he stepped back, and drew his wand from his sleeve. Two tall-backed chairs appeared beside them. "Forgive me, I am an old man, and I'd like to sit down after the climb here." They both took their seats, tall enough that James rested an elbow on the stone of the battlement.
"I'd like to say, sir, that I'm always impressed by how many ugly prints you've memorized solely to show off your repertoire of armchairs."
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Why, thank you. I was the Transfiguration Master before Minerva took my place, if you recall. It's good to keep your wandwork sharp — you never know when a spell might prove useful."
"I'll keep that in mind. Wait, is that a tip for the final task?"
"I daresay it's a tip for life as a whole."
There was silence as they both took in the view, content to sit here and just exist for a moment. A pair of merlins swooped down from the skies, startling a sparrow out of its nest and harrying it towards each other in an incredible display of aerial acrobatics. Even the Twins weren't so well-coordinated on their brooms hunting down chasers and seekers.
Then Dumbledore opened his lips, considered the words he wished to use, and said, "What is this school to you, James?"
James didn't have an immediate answer. But Dumbledore seemed content to wait, staring placidly towards the sea, his hands folded over his belt.
Hogwarts was the premier educational institute of Europe, outclassing schools of the continent, even those that had been founded long before Hogwarts had, in Rome, Mycenaean Athens, and Minoan Crete. In a way, the books he had read were biased; higher levels of magic were exceedingly difficult to learn, and more so to cast. The likes of McGonagall and Flitwick — hell, even Snape — weren't the norm in all magical schools. Beauxbatons might be pretty, and Castelobruxo exotic, but none other held the same breadth of knowledge that resided in the Hogwarts Library, or the same amount of secrets, or history on the walls (or floating through the corridors).
But the value of Hogwarts as an educational opportunity only scratched the surface.
"It's a sanctuary, I suppose," he said finally. It was a citadel guarding him from the nightmares, a shaded garden where his hopes and dreams slept under damp soil. It was where one could find solitude but never loneliness.
"It gladdens me to hear you say as much," said Dumbledore, his words trailing off. Only the calls of seabirds and the wind in the valley adorned their presence. "I owe you an apology, James."
James turned his head slowly. "Whatever for?"
Dumbledore gave a small, humorless smile. "I am touched by your faith in me, yet perhaps it is only more tragic that you do not view the incident in the Lake as the result of gross negligence on my part, but an occurrence not uncommon at this school. I failed you on that day, leaving you to the mercy of curses ancient and unfathomable."
Shifting in his chair, embarrassment eating away at his innards, like squirming parasites. It made sense on the surface, yet to see Dumbledore, possibly the wisest figure he'd ever encountered in any life, apologize to him — some no-name muggle-born — felt wrong. Lyra would smack him upside the head for that thought, he knew, but he couldn't help it.
"It was hardly under your control," said James finally, uncomfortably. "Not like you instructed the Merpeople to do that. I signed up knowing it was dangerous, and things got out of hand. It's sort of expected in the magical world."
"Danger is expected in all places, but we who lead and govern, magical or not, ought to protect the young from it at every turn we may," said Dumbledore. "You were never supposed to be in true danger, James." He sighed. "All the risks were accounted for before the Goblet was unveiled. Trained witches and wizards, some of whom I worked with personally, those who have earned my trust, were ready to intervene. If even that failed, there are few injuries that the combined wisdom and skill of Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape could not have reversed. The danger was all pretend." His eyes flickered towards James' hand. "Yet still you are scarred, possibly for life."
"I…"
James found himself staring blankly at Dumbledore, his mess of thoughts scrambling together into an incoherent tapestry of emotion.
"I appreciate your words, sir, but I think all this might have been beyond any of what we know." James hesitated, wondering if revealing the next part was appropriate. "This isn't the first encounter I've had with that sort of thing."
"Yes, the Chamber of Secrets," said Dumbledore. "Alastor mentioned that you had found something in there."
"And the Gaunt Shack."
Dumbledore's eyebrows moved up a fraction. He wasn't already aware, then. James had assumed Mad-Eye would have communicated with Dumbledore about it. It was a little surprising that he and Lyra had done things, knew things, that were still outside of Dumbledore's purview.
"The Gaunts?" He frowned, his hand reaching up to stroke his white beard as if he couldn't help it when thinking. "I suppose Lyra knew about it? May I ask for the reason of your visit?"
James pursed his lips. "Yeah, she did. That's where Riddle kept one of his Horcruxes. A Peverell ring."
Dumbledore opened his mouth in surprise, then closed it. "Ah." He hummed. "I admit, I had wondered if she — the both of you, really — knew about his Horcruxes. You are also aware, I presume, of the Diary's nature?"
"I am," said James.
Dumbledore bowed his head to look at him above his half-moon spectacles. "Were you aware before you wrote in it?"
James took a deep breath, the now-familiar pain constricting his throat, and only a touch of Occlumency allowed him to speak. "Yeah, I was. And I think I told you why, at one point."
"You wished to learn more about the afterlife," said Dumbledore. "Yet I suspect that was not the truth, or at least not in its entirety —"
"It was the truth." Dumbledore fell silent, then. "It was the truth because Lyra wasn't the only one who experienced another… Well... I don't know how much Lyra has told you, but it felt like another life. It's not really clear to me anymore — it's been so long, and the details keep slipping from me, no matter how much I advance in Occlumency — but it was still me, and not someone else. All I wanted was some sort of hint that it was still real, still out there, that so much time didn't just vanish."
For perhaps the first time that James had known him, Dumbledore seemed lost for words. He wasn't sure why he'd revealed all that, on a whim no less — he'd thought he'd advanced enough in Occlumency to keep those sorts of instincts and urges in check. He'd thought he was better than this. Or perhaps facing down Dumbledore's disappointment yet again was simply a reality he couldn't bear.
When Dumbledore spoke, his words were careful.
"I had thought, when we last spoke about this, that you had lost someone important to you," he said. "I know now that the words I offered then were not nearly enough." Dumbledore sighed a breath of something James couldn't place — a hint of incredulity, perhaps, or the weariness of life that must have been familiar to him after all these long years. "James, I am sorry that you were given this path. This is, as you said, beyond any of what we know, and it is a grim path to walk. But for who you have become, in spite of it all, I can say safely, I am proud of you, my dear boy."
James tried, and failed, to meet the old man's eyes. A bitter laugh escaped him, under his breath. "I don't think you should be."
"You did not have an easy life, I suspect, before that letter came to you." Dumbledore shifted to face him. "And while Lyra at least had the benefit of being surrounded by magic, you had not even that." He smiled sadly. "Hence why you are so adept with wandless spells."
James gave a non-committal shrug.
"So, in search of a way back, you went to the one person who was, above all else, obsessed with the afterlife and movement of souls," said Dumbledore. "I still cannot say it was advisable, but with the benefit of hindsight, it is much more understandable."
"Doesn't excuse me for what I did —"
"Do you truly believe I think so little of you?" Dumbledore gave a small smile. "You are too harsh on yourself. You have made mistakes, yes, but you have come out a better wizard for it. You have taken your responsibilities seriously since then, and I am certain that I am not the only one who has noticed your efforts. It is not an easy thing, to overcome loss. But you fought a man's fight, James."
James shook his head. If an apology from a man like Dumbledore felt surreal enough, then this was even stranger. Unfathomable, despite all the evidence presented before him.
"Horcruxes aside," said James, forging on without acknowledging Dumbledore's words, "this would be the third — no, fourth time now, that I've brushed up against this… unknown. The very first time in the Gaunt Shack, the second time in Azkaban, the third in the Chamber, and now in the Merpeople's village. Or underneath it, I suppose."
Dumbledore inclined his head. "I have visited Azkaban myself. Officially," he added, giving James a stern look. "I know just as well that it is, perhaps, the closest thing to Hell on Earth. It is why I have fought to abolish it as a corrective facility, and to make the teaching of the Patronus Charm part of the Hogwarts curriculum."
"Board doesn't allow it?"
"Alas, no. It is a difficult spell, yes, but I believe we should strive to challenge our students. That is where the true character in a person can show itself. Hm." He said something under his breath, then shook his head to himself.
"Sir… it knew my name. Whatever talks in there. In Azkaban." James felt the urge already to stand up and pace across the tower, but he stayed seated. "I can't stop thinking about it. What is it? I've found nothing on it in the Library — Lyra hasn't either in the books she has access to — nothing but vague hints. I feel like the answers would be sitting right there in that prison, waiting for me."
"Do you have the desire to return—?" began Dumbledore, but James shook his head.
"No. I'll never go there again." The thought of it sent a chill through him, as if the mere echo of that voice held power over him. James met Dumbledore's electric-blue eyes, then. "I don't feel any compulsion, not like the Diary. But I don't know if I can even trust my own judgment here — with what happened in the Lake, which is the fourth time in a few years, can I even dismiss these encounters as coincidence anymore? Could I even say that any of the actions that led up to me encountering these artifacts were mine?"
Dumbledore took a breath, and nodded his head. "That is the question… I spoke to the Merpeople, James. After I forced the issue, they confessed to me, in private, that one of their priests received a prophecy." Dumbledore turned away to gaze at the sea. "Even they fear to tread where you have gone. To them, that temple is as ancient as the Pyramids of Giza are to us. An extraordinary and terrible relic of a culture so distant that it might as well be alien. Even they do not know why they sent you there, only that it was crucial they did. Though, if anyone became directly controlled, then it was the Merprophet, not you."
James felt a laugh bubble past his lips. "I'm not so sure. I think if you asked me about it before it happened, I'd have wondered why I would do something so stupid."
"It is possible this magic we do not understand only lulled you into comfort, into the belief that such depths would reveal nothing interesting but for the task." He hummed, and thought. "Your first encounter was at the Gaunt home, during your search for a Horcrux. That, I suspect, was of your own will."
James nodded.
"Sirius also sent me a letter recently, complaining that he only received three knuts for all the trouble he went through — I would suppose, then, Lyra's official trip to Azkaban was to interrogate Bellatrix Lestrange about the whereabouts of another Horcrux."
"And of course Sirius unravels everything. That's exactly why he only got three knuts."
Dumbledore smirked a little, so briefly that James wondered if he'd imagined it. "He also mentioned that among Lyra's desires was a single golden cup. Hufflepuff's Cup, I guess. Am I correct?"
James gave a wry smile. "Yeah."
Dumbledore gave a satisfied nod. "Well, this all has saved me considerable time and effort. Though it is a shame such relics must be destroyed. It would have been a wonderful occasion for Hogwarts to be reunited with fragments of its history, were it not corrupted by Tom's greed. Nonetheless, Kreacher freely offered that Lyra had gained his everlasting loyalty in destroying 'Master Regulus' locket' — one consistent with histories about Salazar Slytherin. I assume, then, that Ravenclaw's diadem must also be a Horcrux?"
"Yeah," said James. "Lyra killed it." He didn't mention with fiendfyre.
"And the others?"
"There's the Diary. And… one other."
The Headmaster waited for him to finish, but James didn't know if he wanted to say it. He considered himself a Dumbledore fanboy, always had been, yet a moment of doubt flickered through his mind, followed by annoyance for letting himself be poisoned by fan-made concepts. In the end, his internal struggle didn't matter.
"Harry Potter," said Dumbledore quietly. "Yes, I suspected… A Parselmouth whose scar hurts him whenever Voldemort is near; but of course. How remarkable."
"That Horcrux will be destroyed when Harry dies, right?" said James, hurrying to speak before Dumbledore came to a different conclusion. "In bed, surrounded by family, and a dozen veela."
"Yes, it would," said Dumbledore, looking as though his mind was elsewhere. "Horcruxes are not inherently resilient. It is only the strength of its vessels that determine its longevity, and Voldemort was a gifted enchanter. The Founders' artifacts were indeed an excellent choice… but I will not have to do anything with Harry." Dumbledore sighed, his lips pursing. "Perhaps now I understand the hesitance in trusting me to do right. I recall something she said to me — that she's seen what war does to men, even men like myself."
James' mind flashed back to one of the many conversations he had had with Lyra about Dumbledore, about what kind of man he really was, and the nature of powerful men during crises. He had seen that same desperation in Lyra, as she had planned the Azkaban break-in. You're a much better person than me or Dumbledore, she had said.
"I couldn't say if you made the right choices," said James, slowly. "I haven't really lived through any war. I know some of your decisions weren't universally popular, but I also don't know what you were thinking when you made them, or the circumstances that led to those decisions. I think the most important thing is that people remembered you fondly, and that Harry still loved you even after everything."
Dumbledore didn't respond to that, simply folding his hands over his belt and staring out at the sea. Of course, Harry had also named one of his children after Snape of all people, the same child that was also called Albus, and despite Dumbledore's continued defense of Snape, James felt that bringing up that little tidbit might ruin the mood.
A flutter of wings alerted James to the arrival of Fawkes, who floated over the battlements and perched on the back of his chair. James reached up to stroke his feathers, coarser than one would expect from a creature so resplendent, and Fawkes enthusiastically butted his strangely warm, feathered face into his hand. He'd always wondered if Fawkes would be interested in flying with him, but had never managed to ask. He doubted it. James was probably to Fawkes like a dog was to humans.
"I'm afraid I have more work waiting for me," said Dumbledore finally, "but we must speak again soon. I do always enjoy our talks, and I would like to hear more about the Horcruxes, and anything else you wish to tell me about Tom Riddle. Lyra, I'm afraid, only trades information for information."
James snorted. He supposed her new Patronus was rather fitting that way: a raven, known for hoarding shiny things. And Lyra's currency was secrets.
"Do you agree with her that the Diary takes priority over Voldemort himself?" said Dumbledore.
James considered how to respond. Lyra would be a bit upset with him if he spent even more of her secrets without her permission. "Harry seems entirely unbothered, compared to how he was during his first year," he said carefully. "And Lyra's dad hasn't heard anything, despite being in Voldemort's inner circle. If Voldemort did regain a body, then he's behaving strangely out of character."
"I agree. There is also the matter of these coincidences that plague you — I will look into this myself, perhaps consult with Nicolas. Alastor has also expressed interest in seeing you again, as I recall. He is quite knowledgeable on the so-called liminal magic, so I am certain he'd be of aid."
"I'll do that." James stood, leaning his back against the wall. "Thank you for the talk, sir."
"There is no need. I apologize again, as I have doubtless stirred memories best left buried," he said, following James to his feet. "But I have learned much. For this and your trust in me, I must thank you, James." He smiled. "I look forward to seeing you win the tournament."
James gave a startled laugh, suddenly very aware of the expectations people held of him. Even as Dumbledore left, Fawkes remained, perched upon his chair — Dumbledore's chair had already vanished while he hadn't been paying attention. James stared at the bird, who stared back.
"Hey," he said, and Fawkes tilted his head, watching him with bright eyes. "Do you wanna fly with me?"
Fawkes stretched his radiant wings, feathers shimmering like amber waves of grain drifting in the wind, and dove over the battlements with swanlike grace. His lilting song might have very well been the most beautiful thing that James had ever heard. A laugh spilled forth from his lips, and he followed the phoenix like a sailor to a siren, planting one foot atop the stone and launching himself past the edge. For a moment, it was though gravity had forgotten about him, and his hair floated weightlessly, as did his heart. With his arms at his side, he stared up towards the winged sun and the halcyon skies that stretched away to infinity.
Even when the earth captured him once more and wind began to whistle past his face, his smile didn't fade. His body twisted, limbs shrinking, black feathers bursting forth from his skin, and his arms became wings. He urged himself higher, towards the firebird, and he flew.
Nothing felt out of his reach up here.
