Hello there, again! Short and brief chapter here, hence why it's an interlude, to lay out the fourth and last chapter of this arc. Nothing else to say, so off I go.
Ah, the Hunter's Union…
Proud and arrogant folk, most of them. Up-jumped mercenaries and men of foul jobs who now enjoy a far better prestige than those of their past life. They stand in a funny and peculiar position. In between the foulness of a mercenary and the rightfulness of an Auror. In between a mercenary's freedom and an Auror's shackles of justice and order.
Those, who entered the Union in search of easy gold and the right to look down upon others, were quickly turned into somewhat stiff and decent soldiers. Somehow, a sense of duty and loyalty was instilled within them. If they were to survive the first few years, of course. I consider this the greatest feat ever accomplished by the Great House of Kovanen.
And those who excelled, who made an art of their profession, those were set to become rich and respected folks. Beasts slayers, whom the Ministries of each and every country contracted to get rid of pests out of control. Or, when in need of a bit of secrecy, to carry out dangerous and shadowy business. Because, just sometimes, criminals were no different from a rabid beast.
Among them, four individuals stood out. Guardians, they are called. The most elite beast slayers the world has to offer. They are who oversee the working of the Hunters all over the world. Who keep the peace—though I am not sure what kind of peace can be achieved by ruthless slaughter—between the Wizarding Kind and the Magical Creatures.
It was said within the Union that nothing would ever happen to our world were the Guardians to stand against the storm.
I find them quite amusing. They named themselves after an ancient order of brutes and warriors, whom are thought to have played an important role in the death of ancient speak of their duty in such a poetic and grandiose way, thinking of themselves as courageous and selfless knights whey they are but gold-fueled goons.
I am used to the lies of men, to their excuses when committing evil or violent deeds. I take delight in the poor way they try to justify their actions, watching them stutter when one confronts them. With the Hunters, however, I find myself doubting if just the slightest. Because when I look into their eyes, I see truthfulness and dedication, faith and dutifulness. Not a shadow of doubt, nor of ambition or foulness. Their conviction is not a lie.
And now I wonder, a bit scared, how veracious their stories really are…
Lawrence the Third, in 'History of the Wizarding World', chapter 73.
Interlude I - Protectors of oaths
A sombre whisper was spread through land and sea, carried by the wind, reaching to every man and woman and living being there was, both the oblivious and the suspicious. A whisper of old, it was. Of horrors, blood and death. But also of vengeance, purpose and belonging.
The wise prepared themselves for the storm, the fools simply allowed the drizzle to fall upon them. Centaurs raised their knowing gazes up to the stars, seeking wisdom in them, perhaps salvation. Firecats charged their furs, wary of the about-to-be shadowed sun. Nundus gathered around their cubs, for even the mightiest of the predators acknowledged a likely foe. And Dementors, they trembled, for they had never known such a feast of agony and despair as that which was about to befall.
Among men, however, there were a few who readied themselves to fight the storm away, to stand before it. As they had done for centuries since the world left behind those days of shadow.
Atop a tall tower of white stone which rose like a huge needle amidst the green and blue scenery, Lord Viljo Kovanen paced around his chambers, thoughtlessly, nervously, his heart grip by cold, unseen fingers. A troubled man, he was. Cursing his own existence, his role in the Written Fate.
A large, wide window acted as a wall before him, through which he glanced at the lake of cristaline water which rounded the castle in which his noble House had always resided. Come the winter, it would become a glassy surface in which the greyness of the overcast or the sun's and moon's purest light would be reflected upon the tower. In spring, however, it was surrounded by a veil of lively colours—green, pink, red and yellow tinged the plain which stretched beyond sight everywhere he glanced at, for trees and flowers alike enjoyed the brief respire cold offered them.
Viljo let out a deep sigh, dragging his feet across the grey carpet. Plenty of light seeped through the window, a gift from the very sun, though there wasn't much to see. His dormitory was simple and austere—furniture of dull woods and a simple bed of silken, white covers.
Close to the open entrance, a wide arc of polished grey marble, four shadows awaited patiently.
One was of his same blood—his niece, Lozen Kovanen, Guardian of the North for almost a decade by now. She was tall, blond and fair-eyed, as their blood decreeted. Of sharp and hardened features. Dressed in plain yet elegant white and gold. Too cold and fierce a woman for most men to consider her a beauty. And too powerful for most men to not feel intimidated around.
Viljo felt her eyes upon his relentless figure; saying nothing, thinking plenty. Because Lozen already knew. Of course she did.
Close to her stood the tallest man in the room. Of black skin and dark eyes. Of short hair and face full of faint scars. He was long-limbed, strong and muscled yet lean still. Dressed in full black, as if the reaper in flesh and bone. Many were left aghast when witnessing a strength within they had not assumed of him. Usman, the Guardian of the South.
Of him, Viljo felt nothing. Just a blind trust toward him, the leader of all Hunters. Eyes closed, breathing but a faint whisper, Usman awaited for him to begin the sombrest of the councils.
To his left, dressed in grey with touches of light-blue, there was a shorter man; the youngest of the four, barely past his teen years. All the same slim, yet far weaker in terms of physical prowess and a head shorter. Blue-eyed, with a mop of brown curls atop his head. There was a bit of roundness to his face which battle and death had yet to erase. Still, there was not a touch of innocence within his eyes anymore. One could not become Guardian of the West without losing every bit of it, simply enough.
One could hear the gears within Shane's mind just as well as tension could be read within his features. He had much to learn yet, that boy; showing so much of himself, like a wide open book for all to read.
To his left, standing right below a solitary torch, stood a short woman of pale skin and long, black hair which fell down in a river of loose, straight locks. Of brown, slanted eyes which stared longingly at the faraway shore of the lake. She was dressed in light green, a colour of hope and prosperity as she used to say.
Embraced by such airs of nonchalance and oddity, Sora, Guardian of the East, had always been the strangest of the Guardians. Hers was not a mind for battle as Lozen's or Usman's were. Nor a mind for thinking as Shane's was. It was, however, a mind for nature and life.
Viljo halted at last, drawing in a deep breath, shooing away those cold fingers of desperation. He glanced at his four Guardians; the seriousness within their faces, the pride and confidence within their bearings.
"It has come," Viljo mused with a faint voice which yet reached his Guardians. "For ages, my House has watched over the Frontier, respected the ancient oaths, led the Hunters in their eternal fight. But something has changed to never return as it was. The winds speak of such calamity, their touch far colder and more ominous. We have seen them more active than ever, pushing the boundaries of the oaths which bound us both. Blood has run more abundantly than it has since the Ancient Times. Since those days of shadow and grief."
Lozen blinked. "I have lost almost a hundred Hunters in Europe in the last three years, Uncle. Rookies and fools, most of them, but also good men and women, comrades of trust. Even some who had served the Union for long. Those predators, the Men's Bane, do not cease to appear. Large hordes of them. Too many for us to repel in silence. Word of such horrors has long run free, and Ministries have started to ask questions, and I have no answers for them."
"Same happens in the west," Shane cut in, gulping down. "I have powerful people after me, seeking answers I do not have. Sheppard and Lord Lessard, those two have been the loudest so far. The States and Canada, their power and influence is not to be ignored for so long, my lord. And Brazil… Its institutions are like a boiling pot above the incessant flames. They are bound to burst."
Viljo knew that already. The Ministers of many countries had sent their men of trust to swarm him like a pile of hungry locusts. And he'd said the same to all—that there was nothing wrong, that everything was under control. The Union's income had barely suffered any dents, but their prestige within the high spheres had been wounded beyond repair. Not because of their inability to fulfil their contracts lately, but because people could feel the storm coming.
Will I be the one to see the legacy of my House crumble? Viljo asked himself for the thousandth time. Such a question, it had taken sleep away from him. For centuries and centuries, since the Doom itself, House Kovanen had protected the world against the unknown and the forgotten. And they had done it efficiently and silently, leading the Hunters, fooling the world about the importance of their reason to exist.
Many thought a selfish business out of it, as gold flowed in uncountable amounts into Union's vaults. Truth was they had barely used for themselves a tiny bit of such endless fortune. What they had, their possessions, terrains and fortunes, came from an age of war and blood, as they were one of the very few survivors from those days of shadow. Many thought a trivial venture of it. Just a simple control of pests, a dealing of rabid beasts, a place for the violent to exert their so-loved violence.
If only they knew…
"Speak your mind, Viljo," Usman said, his voice a sharp knife cutting through his hesitation. "We've always known this day would come. All we could do was hope for it to come once we were long buried and forgotten. Yet fortune was not on our side, and so we must deal with it. It is our fate, cruel and sorrowful, and we must embrace it."
Viljo shook himself free of their piercing stares, instead glanced at the round lake below. What did they think of him, his dear Guardians? A weak man? A man troubled by responsibility? A man fated to fail and lead them into despair? Perhaps all of them. He was not a man to take action, that he knew. A thinker, a man to sink himself into a pit of patience and passiveness whenever hardship arose, wherever a firm hand was required.
Rough times ate those men alive.
"Give us the order, Uncle," Lozen said fiercely. "If we are to fall, we will fall standing before the storm. Darkness and death before us, lighting and raining above, our mighty responsibility behind."
Shane gave a trembling nod to those words, whereas Sora simply blinked as if the matter had nothing to do with her. Usman, however, did not seem to even hear them, as firmly as his eyes were set upon their lord.
Oh, the storm! Viljo lamented. It's here already. And I'm not prepared! Why me? Because I'm weak? Would my father have allowed this to get so out of control? Would he have put an end to it as soon as the first Hunters fell?
Past did not matter, nor did the future. A man was to live in the present, regardless of how cruel, cold and sorrowful it might be. A man was to carry upon his back the heavy burden of his responsibilities, proud and tall, unyielding despite the sombreness to them. Otherwise one was bound to crumble beneath them.
To send his men against the storm, it would be the same as sending ants against a lion. They would all die, and maybe, just maybe, if they were fortunate enough, they would take down the lion with them.
So many deaths, so many broken families, so many tears and shouts of sorrow and agony. The scale's tip tilted down heavily. But to see the world set aflame, to lose all there was… It made the opposite tip of the scale rise tall and mighty against its twin.
The golden scale was the blazon of House Kovanen—a scale for duty and responsibility. A heaviest burden to carry by its lords. Alas, who were they to state which tip was heaviest? Had there ever been a man wise enough to bear such excruciating responsibility? The choices danced around Viljo, pulling him down, sieging his weak resolution. Life or death? Strength or weakness? Duty or humanity? Journey or destination?
Viljo gathered what little courage was within him and judged which tip of the scale was heaviest.
And he came to a decision.
Viljo chose death, for it would be all his Hunters would know. Strength, for it took a fortitude of a different kind to send one's loved ones into slaughter, even when it was the right thing to do. Duty, for they were the only ones who could protect the defenceless, and their lives were nothing when compared to that. Journey, for the end was the same to every man or woman, and all which mattered was the way once lived his life.
"We march to battle. We will break the ancient oaths before they do it themselves. We will protect the world or die with it. Summon every Hunter, my dear Guardians. Regardless of how weak or young they are, how old or wounded they are, summon them all, for each and every one of them will be needed. It will be a battle as the world has not seen in centuries. Blood will run free, screams of agony will pierce through the night and day, families will be torn apart, children will be orphaned. Regardless of the outcome, the world will never be the same."
The four Guardians fell to one knee at once, heads bowed, breaths contained. None of them trembled the slightest, not even young Shane. This was the moment for which they had been born into this age. And they were brave enough to stand tall and proud as they stared down at the Written Fate.
Their lord, however, had to stand himself against the window to not miss his step, lamenting the cruelty of his fate.
What have I done?
All there was left to do was to pray.