By: ShadowkatÂ
A/N: What's this? Smells like...angst!
Two days later, Godric still hadn't broached the subject he'd originally come to discuss. It wasn't that he was putting it off, per se, just that there never seemed to be a good enough time to bring it up.
The red-headed wizard could be seen lying back lazily against a tree, his gaze resting thoughtfully on the small Slytherin cabin as he absentmindedly twirled a blade of grass between his fingers. Godric smiled, remembering the moment he'd walked in two nights earlier. It had been like stepping back in time, as if he were seven again, a young boy looking around as if the simple home had been a castle.
Godric had forgotten how good it felt to come in to the sight of Ingvar's lifelong collection of books, stacked haphazardly around the main room. He'd forgotten how peaceful the mixture of herbs and spices that Amara collected every morning smelled, wafting through the air as they hung down from the low ceiling rafters by the hearth. Yes, it seemed that he'd forgotten a lot of things. The cottage may not have been the one he'd shared with the small family ten years before, or even within miles of the same town, but it still felt the same. Comforting and familiar, like home. There was so much Godric never realized he'd missed.
"Daydreaming again? If you're not careful, you might very well find yourself caught by surprise one day. I imagine finding a dagger in your back wouldn't be all that pleasant."
Godric looked up and chuckled, watching as Ingvar strolled calmly across the grassy yard before coming to a stop in front of him. For a moment, the young man thought how strange it was to have to crane his neck up in this position. Normally he have to look down. Not that size mattered much dealing with a man like him.
"Just...remembering things, I suppose." He shrugged, shooting off a boyish grin. "Low you always used to knock me upside the head for example. Do you mind? You're blocking my view."
Shaking his head, the older man complied, groaning as he sank down to the grass next to his old student. "Half the time you deserved it, you do realize. It was your own fault."
"Maybe, but the other half I think you just liked smacking me around because you could," Godric shot back, and Ingvar gave him a wan smile.
"Point taken. I do admit, it was fun at times."
Locking his hands behind his head, Godric leaned back with a yawn and watched as a hawk circled rhythmically overhead, sunlight glistening off its tan feathers.
"Damn," he murmured, yawning again and half closing his eyelids. "It's days like this I wish there were more of. So, I've mean meaning to ask who that half-wit was raging about the other day? Seemed as friendly as a rampant troll, and just about as dumb as one, too."
Ingvar's lips pressed together in a thin line as he thought over his answer.
"A tax collector," he replied flatly, obviously choosing his words carefully. "Not to mention one of the biggest fools I've ever had the displeasure to meet."
Godric rolled his eyes, smirking as he remembered another small town tax collector he'd once met. The man had been a leech. Maybe, he mused, they simply came like that. He also highly doubted Ingvar's description matched what he really wanted to say, something that would likely be much more...colorful.
"I like the sound of him less and less."
"Indeed," Ingvar agreed. "For the past few years, Marcus has been threatening extra money out of the shopkeepers, and hardly anyone's tried to stop him. Let alone grow enough spine to stand up for themselves."
"Except for you, of course?"
His old mentor gave a single small nod. "Except for me, and I've been stuck cleaning up plenty of his "accidents" as a result." Ingvar sighed, rubbing his head as if he had a migraine. "Marcus is nothing but a power hungry fool, bribing and cheating to get what he wants. Now he's after me, all because I won't be cowed enough to run off and hide at the mere mention of his blasted name."
Godric snorted.
"A very unwise choice on his part. The last man I saw threatening Ingvar Slytherin ended up hanging upside down from a tree. If I recall, it was five hours before anyone cared enough to cut him down. Admittedly, you were younger in those days." Then his grin vanished and he shot a look at the older man, worry darkening his face. "Do you think he's onto you?"
"Perhaps," was the simple reply. "Only time will tell. I do know he's watching me, however."
"Yet you tried that little trick with the book back at the shop," Godric pointed out, and Ingvar waved his hands dismissively.
"I had a charm placed around the store. No one was within six meters."
Godric shook his head in disbelief and grinned. He should have known he'd pull something like that.
"Now, I think it's my turn to ask a question." Here the older man's eyes searched Godric's face, and the younger man's grin vanished. He shifted uncomfortably under the gaze. "Godric, why did you came back? If I remember correctly, didn't you leave so you could do more than 'sit on your backside' as you put it?"
"Always to the point." Godric sighed and sat back up. "I was really hoping for another day or two before bringing all this up."
Pursing his lips, Godric pulled out a crumpled letter from his pocket and wearily handed it over, waiting in tense silence as Ingvar's eyes scanned over the wrinkled parchment. Disappointment rose in his chest as the older man shook his head, folded up the letter, and sat it gently on the ground.
"I'm sorry, but you already know my answer. You knew it a long time ago. There's just too much to lose, too much to risk in going back to that life. Try to understand, Godric." He reached out a hand to put on Godric's shoulder and was halfheartedly shaken off.
A prick of guilt stabbed at Godric as he saw Ingvar's pained expression, but he shoved it down. He had known it wouldn't work, told everyone that himself, but it didn't make it any easier. Any hope he had was steadily dwindling. Gaze drifting to the discarded piece of parchment on the ground, he picked it up and stashed it back in his pocket, a spark of old bitterness rising again in his chest.
"There's no waiting this out, Ingvar," Godric said. "You know that just as well as I do. What's happening out there won't end without someone to stop it. It's coming. There are other people, others with families targeted just because they're different, children being killed. You could help us stop it."
Ingvar shook his head sadly. "Stay as long as you like, but my answer will not change. I've made my share of mistakes in the past, and I've watched some of my best friends die in front of me trying to play the hero. I can't do that anymore. I can't risk my family too."
Godric nodded solemnly, looking at the cottage with sad eyes and thinking of what brought him back, of the family that took him in so long ago. Then he lifted those same green eyes to his teacher, their normally humorous sparkle gone somewhere far away. All he saw was a man that was too tired, too worn down by time and hardship. When he was younger, that same man had always seemed so invincible. Yet now, Godric was realizing, he was only human, just like everyone else in the world.
"I'll stay until next week. That's when Salazar's fifteenth birthday is, right?" Ingvar nodded slowly, starting to speak, but stopped when Godric shook his head.
"You know, I remember something you told me once. I was only seven, but I still haven't forgotten. We all lose things, Ingvar, but when you give up you only lose more. So tell me, did you finally give up?" Shaking his head, Godric rose, but he stopped and looked back once more, another sad smile finding its way to his lips.
"Sometimes I wonder if you ever considered that boy you saved so many years ago worth the price paid that day. Maybe you have forgotten what you told me, but I was hoping..." He trailed off, biting his lip.
Leaves rustled overhead, casting shifting shadows on the ground. It was so peaceful in the little clearing, but how long could it stay that way? How long could they isolate themselves before they were pulled into the fight? However he tried, there wasn't any changing Ingvar's mind. It was too late for that.
"Whatever it was I was hoping, I guess it was wrong."
Before there was a chance to respond, Godric walked away, leaving Ingvar to watch his retreating form in silence.
With a soft click, Ingvar locked the shop door and looped the key and leather cord back around his neck, tucking it into place under his tunic where cold metal chilled skin.
By this time, night had fallen upon the small town, moonlight transforming the cobblestone streets and empty shops into a different world beneath its silvery glow. Above, stars dusted the sky with constellations and he spotted his favorite, Pegasus, soaring gracefully through the heavens. For as long as his memory went, the darker hours had always remained his favorite. Gone were the people, jostling each other about in their mad rush, and the hectic tangle of voices crashing over each other faded far away. It was a time of peace, of reflection, and a time he sorely needed. So, as he walked back through the dense forest and towards his home, he thought and he reflected.
He was far too proud to admit just how much the lad's words had affected him. Pride, after all, had always been his weakness, as it likely always would be. As much as he mocked Marcus and others like him for their faults, he'd always been stuck with plenty of his own. Yet unlike others, he kept his emotions safely hidden from those outside a small circle, locked behind an outwardly cold exterior. He wouldn't rage about, flaunting whatever superior feelings he may have. No, his was a different kind of pride, but just as dangerous. Perhaps that was another reason why he'd always felt an attraction to the night. It hid things for him, and even allowing his emotions to show, there was no one else who could see.
Grey streaks in black hair shone under moonlight as he walked beneath the trees, yet another sign of his nearly forty-seven years. He continued on, hardly noticing his surroundings as his feet were left to navigate the well-worn path by memory.
How could he possibly explain to the boy how much it had hurt, watching from a distance as Godric rode away, knowing the dangers and the possibility that, logically, he might never come back? Even after the previous day, there was still so much left unspoken. He'd wondered countless times throughout the following years about those odds, wondering if the boy was even still alive. How could he ever convey such a feeling?
Fifteen minutes later he walked up creaky front steps and reached the door to the cabin, its rusty hinges groaning quietly as he eased it open. Stepping inside, Ingvar began slowly navigating the clutter with a familiar ease, but midway across he hesitated.
On a bedroll near the fireplace lay Godric, sprawled out on his side as his stocky body rose and fell in the slow rhythm of sleep. The young man shifted, muttering something unintelligible, before rolling over. Memories sprang up in his mind, and Ingvar had to resist the temptation to walk over and brush back the hair that had fallen in his face. He wasn't a child. Not anymore. Godric could face his demons alone now. There was nothing left to give him. Godric was a man not a boy.
With a sad smile, Ingvar turned and walked into the larger of the two bedrooms, slipping quietly down to lay beside his sleeping wife and thinking of what was going to be. Just three weeks ago, Amara had come to him and voiced the suspicion that she might be pregnant, and the way she'd been getting sick lately only reinforced their wondering. Ingvar still wasn't sure if he should share the information with his former apprentice or not. After all, there wasn't anything to gain by it. If anything it would only cause more tension between them.
He looked at her soft face, peaceful in sleep, and wondered how he ever managed to be so fortunate. She was so different from himself, so full of life, and yet she chose him. How could he ever risk leaving that, knowing she, their unborn child, and Salazar would be left alone if something were to happen? Regardless of what many might have thought, there was still one small spot in his life he couldn't remain cold to. The boy couldn't fully understand that feeling, not just yet. There were still so many things he still needed to learn, things he had to find out for himself. No amount of teaching on his part, training or lessons, could help. Ingvar could only hope that Godric wouldn't need to learn the harsher parts anytime soon, for his own sake.
An hour later, he finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep.
"Are you sure you should be doing this?"
Amara breathed in the scent of wet earth as she walked through the dew covered underbrush, Salazar lagging a few paces behind. There was nothing like the smell of the forest after a summer night's rain.
The woman smiled and rolled her eyes. "You worry too much, Salazar. Really, I'm not that far along. If I need help I can always make you do the work." She stooped down to pluck a mint leaf, then suddenly recoiled, clutching her arm as she fell back with a startled cry.
Salazar's eyes widened and he called out, rushing forward, but then froze a few feet away from her. In the space between mother and son a snake was coiled, its dark green scales blending almost perfectly with the long grass and weeds that grew around it. It raised its head, fangs bared as it let out a long, low hiss.
Salazar walked forward slowly, cautiously, never letting his dark eyes leave the yellow ones that had quickly turned his way. His sharp face was blank as a low hissing sound slipped from his mouth. The snake responded, seemingly surprised, if it were possible for a snake to be surprised. Suddenly, the reptile tilted its head and backed down, slithering away into the shadows of a hollow log and disappearing from sight.
Salazar kneeled down beside his mother, calmly inspecting the wound. "She had eggs, and you were coming too close. That's why she struck out at you." Amara winced as she looked at the marks on her arm, a few drops of blood running down her hand and dripping to the forest floor, staining a patch of moss with crimson specks.
"Was she poisonous?"
Salazar shook his head, pushing back a strand of long, inky hair from his eyes. He ripped off a piece of his sleeve and wrapped it around his mother's arm, who gasped in pain as the cloth came in contact with her punctured skin.
"No," he reassured her. "She wasn't, which can be both good and bad. A non-poisonous snake's bite is more painful and violent than a poisonous one, and it's also more easily infected. We need this cleaned soon, and I can't do that here. We can-" Salazar cut off mid-sentence as he heard a rustle from a nearby clump of bushes, glancing up just in time to see a blurred dark shape dart quickly away. For a reason he couldn't explain, a cold feeling rose inside his chest at the sight.
"Did you-"
"Yes," she confirmed, nodding. His mother bit her lip but sent him a reassuring smile. "It was probably only a deer. Help me up, and we'll head back." Salazar complied, shooting one last glance over his shoulder before carefully pulling his mother to her feet, avoiding her wound, and walking back towards their home. Even with his mother's reassurance, Salazar couldn't believe whatever was in the bushes was a deer. He knew what that animal looked like.
And if it had been, it certainly wasn't any kind he'd ever seen.
The day of Salazar's birthday came and went quickly. It wasn't a big affair, just a slightly larger than normal dinner with two presents: a new book and the handing down of the Slytherin family locket. It was late into the night, crickets chirping softly outside and the last of the candles long since extinguished, when the first sign of trouble presented itself.
Salazar woke at the sound of a loud crash. Seconds later he let out a muffled scream, feeling large, callused hands clamp down roughly over his mouth, their filthy smell filling his nostrils and making him gag. He tried to struggle against the grip, but it only tightened, and he felt something hit him hard on the back of his head. A man's voice shouted something, but he was too disoriented to understand the words. Adrenaline coursed through him, and his heart beat wildly in his chest. Everything was a blur, and time seemed to be moving in slow motion.
Salazar felt himself being dragged through the house, pain shooting through him each time he bumped into books and objects he was carelessly run into. Then, after what felt like eternity, air hit him cold in the face as they burst out the front door and he was tossed on the ground, rolling as he hit the wet grass.
Through the haze, he registered someone pulling him close, and looked up to see his mother, her grey eyes panicked as he'd never seen them. Only once had he seen her anywhere close to this frightened, years ago when he was younger and very sick.
This was far worse.
A few feet away, Ingvar was out cold, a dark, purplish bruise already blossoming angrily across his temple. Feeling something hot and sticky running down his forehead, Salazar brought his hand up, and when he pulled it away, his fingers were coated crimson.
Something was thrown down in front of him, and his vision cleared just enough to realize what it was: three wands, each snapped cleanly in half. He heard laughing, shouts, felt pain as someone threw a rock at him. Everything rushed back into focus, his head spinning as his brain attempted to decipher what he was seeing. Salazar started shaking, everything falling into place. They'd seen him talk to the snake, that was how they knew, that was why they were here. It hadn't been an animal in the bushes. They must've seen everything. They were going to die, and it was all his fault.
All his usual control and rationality fell away, and for the first time since he was nine years old, he felt hot, silent tears begin to fall down his face.