The air was ruffling their hair, carrying a scent reminiscent of the aftermath of the Smiter’s wrath. The fowl, as if sensing a momentous occasion, fell silent, sitting on the green branches, observing the happenings with a keen eye.
With their backs to the entrance that was still crackling with the energy of the Boundary, a group of ragged travellers stood facing the Court’s inhabitants, their grey cloaks fluttering in the wind, standing behind and to the sides of their leader.
Opposite them stood those native to this Court, resplendent in brocade cloaks, the women’s gold-silver hair shimmering in the sunlight, while the men, mostly mail-clad, were clutching their spears, axes, and swords.
Three figures were facing the traveller’s leader, a father, with a silver circlet resting atop his brunette locks, a mother wrapped in a brocade more gold than crimson, a circlet and a golden net resting on glimmering hair, and a daughter, her hair in a braid, free in the wind, her decorated tunic revealing muscled arms, grasping a longax.
The leader of the pilgrims furrowed his scarred brow, hiding eyes whose colour reminded the locals of sacred groves.
“No, both my parents are dead.” He touched the ragged scar parting his brow. “Slain by fell sorcery.”
“And that is one of taints resting upon your soul, oh twice-tarnished.” The mother spoke up. “Make your intent plain to see then.” The leader’s fellows murmured, Neville, mighty as a bear, growled the loudest. The sounds stopped as the one they had followed, through tempests and battles, Harry the twice-tarnished, raised his hand.
“I shall speak plainly then. Under the Skyfather’s gaze, I seek cleansing of my growing taint.”
This time the local Veelas murmured, as their Clan Elder shuffled forward, gazing intently at Harry’s brow, her gaze darkening by the second. Leaning on her gnarled staff, she turned towards her children and grandchild, and gave a grim nod.
“I recognize the taint,” Elena spoke. “It is our old foe, the warlock most foul.”
Her daughter, Apolline, and son-in-law, accepted her judgement and looked towards Fleur, their daughter.
She rammed the handle of her ax into the ground and inspected the blade, brushing off a speck. “I am agreeable, as our Great Mothers dictate, I will follow tradition, and join you. Together we shall seek out and slay our common foe, once and for all.”
She threw her ax to one of the guardsmen and nodded to another. “But traditions must be followed, and such service cannot be done for free.” She received a pair of wooden swords, and offered one, handle first, to Harry. “And since you have none to negotiate for you, there is only one option.” She pointed at a circle of dirt in the grass. “Great Mother of Fire bless and guide my blade.”
Harry received the sword and bowed. “And Lord of Storms guide my blade true.”
He turned to receive the blessings of his companions.
Neville, even at rest, his figure hinted at hidden strength, touched the blade first. “In Thunder we hear His voice.”
Ron, his oldest friend went next. “In Lightning we feel His wrath.”
Hermione, the scholar and healer, moved third. “Part the clouds.”
And Seamus, his smile ever-present, moved to finish the blessing. “As Oak strong, stay always true.”
Harry smiled at his comrades and nodded. “Witness me, Sun’s Brother, and if I lie, may all the Gods turn their backs to me.”
Both groups moved towards the circle, each standing at the side of their champion.
The wooden blades clashed, sending the birds flying, and the opponents, radiant, lithe Fleur, rugged Harry, twice-tarnished, circled each other.
The dust kicked up whirls in the crisp air, two warriors circle each other, keen eyes looking for any weakness, an opening.
With a piercing yell, she strikes, he dodges, lashes back, each avoiding the other’s blade as if by sixth sense, she as wildcat fierce, he akin to a prowling wolf.
Splinters fly away as wood meets wood, two predators clash, making the spectators’ eyes widen.
Friends and family watch as the fight grows more intense, both fighters lashing out with ferocious might, yet neither lands a hit.
Breathing hard, their muscles aching, neither is willing to give an inch, a pair of iron wills clash. None of them will yield in their practice war.
The din of swords grows ever louder, brightest silver flame circling, facing the foreign host’s leader.
Wind blows and Sky’s Gem travels its road, and warriors weary exchange blows, bruises mar their face, sweat mingles with blood staining the dirt.
“Only one option,” Harry mutters. His next block is knocked aside, and Fleur winds up for the finishing blow.
But Harry steps in before the blow can land, letting her heavy arm fall, and knocks her forward, tripping her over his leg. He kneels on her back. “Yield.”
“I do, and well fought. You know what you must do now.”
“I do.”
Harry helps her up and takes her over his shoulders, while his comrades whoop in glee.
“RUN!”
As Harry bellows, swords leave their scabbards and axes are lifted.