You know, a part of me is sure I am going to get crucified for this, well if there is any rabid fan in the forums.
This idea came to me while I was sick, so you'll judge how delirious I was
But more seriously, I don't think anyone attempted this cross before, though if it is a matter of sanity or just common sence, I am at a loss.
Anyway, let's stop stalling.
This one is still somewhat rough, so don't expect a masterpiece, jsut a prologue (and perhaps even a partial one at that)
Now, timewhise, this would be after the game and after the fifth book (in a fashion) name is still temptative, though.
-insert one standard issue disclaimer-
Blood, steel and conflict. That was his fate, his sentence, to fight in this hell of a world in one of countless battlefields of the Blood War. A conflict of evil, chaos and order that had been raging though the Lower planes for eternity.
With no regrets, he had accepted it. He deserved this fate; there was no way around that, the nature of his crimes had been that large, that terrible. However, at the same time, he longed for freedom. Unlike the countless around him, he felt hope, he knew his friends and he believed in GraceÆs vow.
Yes, they would meet again; it was just a matter of time.
He allowed a slight smile on his face as he glared at the fiend before him.
It had been a grand adventure, truly epic. The memories, of his friends, of the events, good or ill, were treasures far more precious than any artifact, than any legendary item or any simple metal.
Even if the ending was not what he had envisioned, the journey had been, without a doubt, worth it.
If regret had made him change, it had not changed him enough. It had been that single minded ruthlessness of him that had lead him to his æsolutionÆ that had lead him to his attempt at redemption; at the one act that had well and truly damned him.
After all, the road to hell was paved with good intentions.
His had probably been a six-lane motorway and toll free to boot.
He swung his axe against the creature before him with all his might, burying the blade deep onto its head, killing the fiend instantly. Wasting no time, he removed the axe from the fell creatureÆs head, using his feet to provide leverage, and prepared himself to face the next one.
Yes, it had not been what he had expected, but at the same time he could not complain, the worst of his mistakes had been righted, the transcendent one was gone and, more importantly, no other would die in his stead.
The planes were now free of his mistake.
Deionarra was free as well. Free to go onto whatever fate awaited her, to what fate she deserved. His friends were alive and well, at least those that had been alive to begin with, he corrected with a half smile. And, finally, he knew himself once more.
He dodged as an AbishaiÆs claws tried to cleave his head off his shoulders. He quickly counterattacked, using the creatureÆs overextension to hit it in its stomach with the handle of his weapon.
It had been hardly a strong strike, but it had been enough to distract it, to break the creatureÆs balance and to allow him to bypass its guard and to strike at the demonÆs unprotected back, right by the point where the left wing met the body.
That knowledge offered him a comfort he really could not explain, a peace none of his selves had felt.
It really didnÆt matter, not anymore, Fate was done playing with him; he had reached the end of his road in the lower planes, as one of the countless grunts that fought in the meat grinder that was the Blood War.
He interrupted that trail of thought, seeing another human charging at him; this one wore heavy armor and carried a wide and thick blade.
With a practiced ease he turned to meet the new attacker, but in one moment of panic, he found his body unresponsive, as if frozen.
No, not frozen, burning. His body felt aflame, his bones as if molted metal.
And he watched, as his attacker neared, sword at the ready.
He watched the blade sail though the air, helplessly. The pain flared and, in that moment, it all changed.
One moment it had been the crimson skies of a dead world, the next... the next it was a dark and damp basement.
Instinctively he turned towards a noise, voices a part of his mind provided. There were people standing all around him, a circle? His eyes still couldnÆt focus in the dark and the pain was beginning to overwhelm him.
There was a metallic clatter, a part of him noticed he had let go of his axe, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was taking him all he had just to stay on his feet.
Slowly he seemed to focus in one of the figures, old, very old, with a long beard and n expression of unwelcome surprise.
There was something familiar about him, but before he could place the face, he lost control of his legs.
Oblivion followed suit.
-----------
Albus Dumbledore carefully looked at the activity around him. it was the culmination of months worth of research, their last, and best, attempt at a rescue of someone that had been snatched from them in a cruel twist of fate.
He was the one to blame for all this. It had been, after all, his mistakes that had lead them to this point. Mistakes he should have known to avoid, or at least that he should had spotted long before they reached the current situation.
He had committed them with the best of intentions, and he could accept making them, after all he was human, what he could not forgive himself was not correcting them when things started to go wrong, long before this idea had become a necessity.
Prophecy or no prophecy, it was a failure both in his role of Headmaster and of leader of the Order of the Phoenix; maybe even as an adult.
But, at the moment that was not as important. There would be plenty of time for that, afterwards, now it was a time to worry about the ritual and only about the ritual.
Most people would have consider it a foolÆs errand, those that went though the veil were dead, period.
But, the truth was few knew what the veil really was, who had made it or why it had been made.
He looked at the almost complete glyph that had been etched onto the floor. Filius Flitwick was the one in charge of the carving. The diminutive charms master was diligently working on the pattern, tirelessly even.
While it wasnÆt common knowledge, Filius was an authority in glyphs and runes. Few were aware that he had gotten his position as charms professor due to a twist of fate. The small master dueler had been seeking the position as the Ancient Runes professor at the time.
The odd looking glyph was something that Albus had found, by chance, during his time as FlamelÆs assistant. A note of recall or a summons that the old Druidic orders supposedly used to fetch æthose that had gone forthÆ.
It was too much of a coincidence, at least for Albus, that those words had been used, at times, in association with the archway. More noteworthy was the fact that the glyphs that covered it had a similar style than the one that was beginning to adorn the floor old storage room he had chosen for the ritual. Odds were they had been thought up by the same people, the old wizard almost certain of it.
Hopefully, his instincts were right on this one.
æSpeaking of instincts,Æ the headmaster thought as his gaze fell on the form of Alastor Moody. The former Auror was hard at work as well. But he, on the other hand, had no part in the carving. His task was to the walls of the room, to strengthen them, enhance them, prepare them for the worst.
He had been one of the firsts to point out the dangers of his endeavor, and the most vocal about it too, but had also been the first to volunteered his aid.
The scarred wizard had reasons for his concern; ritual magic was very dangerous, dangerous to the point it had fallen into disuse as soon as safer, if far less powerful, alternatives appeared.
It took too much power, to much coordination and control, that a single error, no matter how minor, was all it took to send the ritual out of control.
But life was risk, he had learn that lesson a long time ago.
ôAre you sure of this, Albus?ö
ôI am Minerva,ö he said turning towards the Hogwarts deputy headmistress, ôyou know we have to.ö
ôYes, but...ö
ôI know, but it is the only way. I wish it hadnÆt come to this, but I am afraid my wishes are just thatö
That gave the older witch a pause, the times Albus was serious, all businesslike, were rare and far between. However, as of late those moments were becoming more and more common, it was like an omen.
No, she shook her head, Albus understood the situation perfectly, perhaps even better than she did, there was no changing his mind now.
She had done her part; she had asked the question.
Now? Now it was out of her hands.
-------------
Consciousness returned slowly.
The first thing he noticed was the warmth and then the softness. Those were rare sensations, at least for him.
Slowly, he opened his eyes and found himself in a strange room. No, not strange, it was...
The memories overlapped with the reality, matching perfectly.
No, this was a familiar place; this was...
Impossible, he muttered.
This was a place he had all but given hope of ever seeing again, after all those years all those...
Memories returned, of the battlefield, the fire and the pain and of the old man in the damp room.
Idly, he took a glance at his right hand; gray skin covered by a legion of scars, interwoven with the designs of ink.
It had been naive of him to even consider that thought, childish even. Then again this was the place where he had spent the better years of his childhood.
He chuckled, The old man had been right; the planes had a will of their own, capricious and petty, even. The flow of time was not uniform thought out the planes; a person could be gone from a world for a few short minutes and return to an alien landscape or he could be gone millennia and return a few short minutes after leaving.
He removed the covers of his bed and jumped onto the cold floor. Cold, it was hardly a though, it had hardly been one since that day. Even if he had recovered his mortality, the ritual had not been undone. He still healed, he still failed to feel the pain, or perhaps he had just gotten used to it. He certainly did have all the chances to do so.
His loincloth was gone, and so was his bandoleer and weapons, but he expected that. Instead, he was now clad in a hospital gown, white fabric, somewhat crude and loose fitting.
With a smirk, ho wondered where they had gotten a piece of fabric big enough to be æloose fittingÆ
ôI had not expected to see you up and about so soon, mister Potter.ö
He turned towards the voice to find the old matron, a face both alien and familiar, Poppy Pomfrey. She had a somewhat sad expression on her face, a bitter smile on her mouth; like the one on his own.
These people, he had missed them, he had longed for them, while he had his memories.
ôI tend to go for the unexpected, Miss Pomfrey,ö he answered, with a tinge of sadness in his voice.
-------------
Ok, this is the part I beg for feedback and all that stuff we tend to do (probably justifiyng my mistakes or rationalizing errors in logic), anyway do tell me what you think, to see at least how disturbed I am.
This idea came to me while I was sick, so you'll judge how delirious I was
But more seriously, I don't think anyone attempted this cross before, though if it is a matter of sanity or just common sence, I am at a loss.
Anyway, let's stop stalling.
This one is still somewhat rough, so don't expect a masterpiece, jsut a prologue (and perhaps even a partial one at that)
Now, timewhise, this would be after the game and after the fifth book (in a fashion
) name is still temptative, though.-insert one standard issue disclaimer-
Blood, steel and conflict. That was his fate, his sentence, to fight in this hell of a world in one of countless battlefields of the Blood War. A conflict of evil, chaos and order that had been raging though the Lower planes for eternity.
With no regrets, he had accepted it. He deserved this fate; there was no way around that, the nature of his crimes had been that large, that terrible. However, at the same time, he longed for freedom. Unlike the countless around him, he felt hope, he knew his friends and he believed in GraceÆs vow.
Yes, they would meet again; it was just a matter of time.
He allowed a slight smile on his face as he glared at the fiend before him.
It had been a grand adventure, truly epic. The memories, of his friends, of the events, good or ill, were treasures far more precious than any artifact, than any legendary item or any simple metal.
Even if the ending was not what he had envisioned, the journey had been, without a doubt, worth it.
If regret had made him change, it had not changed him enough. It had been that single minded ruthlessness of him that had lead him to his æsolutionÆ that had lead him to his attempt at redemption; at the one act that had well and truly damned him.
After all, the road to hell was paved with good intentions.
His had probably been a six-lane motorway and toll free to boot.
He swung his axe against the creature before him with all his might, burying the blade deep onto its head, killing the fiend instantly. Wasting no time, he removed the axe from the fell creatureÆs head, using his feet to provide leverage, and prepared himself to face the next one.
Yes, it had not been what he had expected, but at the same time he could not complain, the worst of his mistakes had been righted, the transcendent one was gone and, more importantly, no other would die in his stead.
The planes were now free of his mistake.
Deionarra was free as well. Free to go onto whatever fate awaited her, to what fate she deserved. His friends were alive and well, at least those that had been alive to begin with, he corrected with a half smile. And, finally, he knew himself once more.
He dodged as an AbishaiÆs claws tried to cleave his head off his shoulders. He quickly counterattacked, using the creatureÆs overextension to hit it in its stomach with the handle of his weapon.
It had been hardly a strong strike, but it had been enough to distract it, to break the creatureÆs balance and to allow him to bypass its guard and to strike at the demonÆs unprotected back, right by the point where the left wing met the body.
That knowledge offered him a comfort he really could not explain, a peace none of his selves had felt.
It really didnÆt matter, not anymore, Fate was done playing with him; he had reached the end of his road in the lower planes, as one of the countless grunts that fought in the meat grinder that was the Blood War.
He interrupted that trail of thought, seeing another human charging at him; this one wore heavy armor and carried a wide and thick blade.
With a practiced ease he turned to meet the new attacker, but in one moment of panic, he found his body unresponsive, as if frozen.
No, not frozen, burning. His body felt aflame, his bones as if molted metal.
And he watched, as his attacker neared, sword at the ready.
He watched the blade sail though the air, helplessly. The pain flared and, in that moment, it all changed.
One moment it had been the crimson skies of a dead world, the next... the next it was a dark and damp basement.
Instinctively he turned towards a noise, voices a part of his mind provided. There were people standing all around him, a circle? His eyes still couldnÆt focus in the dark and the pain was beginning to overwhelm him.
There was a metallic clatter, a part of him noticed he had let go of his axe, but there was nothing he could do about it. It was taking him all he had just to stay on his feet.
Slowly he seemed to focus in one of the figures, old, very old, with a long beard and n expression of unwelcome surprise.
There was something familiar about him, but before he could place the face, he lost control of his legs.
Oblivion followed suit.
-----------
Albus Dumbledore carefully looked at the activity around him. it was the culmination of months worth of research, their last, and best, attempt at a rescue of someone that had been snatched from them in a cruel twist of fate.
He was the one to blame for all this. It had been, after all, his mistakes that had lead them to this point. Mistakes he should have known to avoid, or at least that he should had spotted long before they reached the current situation.
He had committed them with the best of intentions, and he could accept making them, after all he was human, what he could not forgive himself was not correcting them when things started to go wrong, long before this idea had become a necessity.
Prophecy or no prophecy, it was a failure both in his role of Headmaster and of leader of the Order of the Phoenix; maybe even as an adult.
But, at the moment that was not as important. There would be plenty of time for that, afterwards, now it was a time to worry about the ritual and only about the ritual.
Most people would have consider it a foolÆs errand, those that went though the veil were dead, period.
But, the truth was few knew what the veil really was, who had made it or why it had been made.
He looked at the almost complete glyph that had been etched onto the floor. Filius Flitwick was the one in charge of the carving. The diminutive charms master was diligently working on the pattern, tirelessly even.
While it wasnÆt common knowledge, Filius was an authority in glyphs and runes. Few were aware that he had gotten his position as charms professor due to a twist of fate. The small master dueler had been seeking the position as the Ancient Runes professor at the time.
The odd looking glyph was something that Albus had found, by chance, during his time as FlamelÆs assistant. A note of recall or a summons that the old Druidic orders supposedly used to fetch æthose that had gone forthÆ.
It was too much of a coincidence, at least for Albus, that those words had been used, at times, in association with the archway. More noteworthy was the fact that the glyphs that covered it had a similar style than the one that was beginning to adorn the floor old storage room he had chosen for the ritual. Odds were they had been thought up by the same people, the old wizard almost certain of it.
Hopefully, his instincts were right on this one.
æSpeaking of instincts,Æ the headmaster thought as his gaze fell on the form of Alastor Moody. The former Auror was hard at work as well. But he, on the other hand, had no part in the carving. His task was to the walls of the room, to strengthen them, enhance them, prepare them for the worst.
He had been one of the firsts to point out the dangers of his endeavor, and the most vocal about it too, but had also been the first to volunteered his aid.
The scarred wizard had reasons for his concern; ritual magic was very dangerous, dangerous to the point it had fallen into disuse as soon as safer, if far less powerful, alternatives appeared.
It took too much power, to much coordination and control, that a single error, no matter how minor, was all it took to send the ritual out of control.
But life was risk, he had learn that lesson a long time ago.
ôAre you sure of this, Albus?ö
ôI am Minerva,ö he said turning towards the Hogwarts deputy headmistress, ôyou know we have to.ö
ôYes, but...ö
ôI know, but it is the only way. I wish it hadnÆt come to this, but I am afraid my wishes are just thatö
That gave the older witch a pause, the times Albus was serious, all businesslike, were rare and far between. However, as of late those moments were becoming more and more common, it was like an omen.
No, she shook her head, Albus understood the situation perfectly, perhaps even better than she did, there was no changing his mind now.
She had done her part; she had asked the question.
Now? Now it was out of her hands.
-------------
Consciousness returned slowly.
The first thing he noticed was the warmth and then the softness. Those were rare sensations, at least for him.
Slowly, he opened his eyes and found himself in a strange room. No, not strange, it was...
The memories overlapped with the reality, matching perfectly.
No, this was a familiar place; this was...
Impossible, he muttered.
This was a place he had all but given hope of ever seeing again, after all those years all those...
Memories returned, of the battlefield, the fire and the pain and of the old man in the damp room.
Idly, he took a glance at his right hand; gray skin covered by a legion of scars, interwoven with the designs of ink.
It had been naive of him to even consider that thought, childish even. Then again this was the place where he had spent the better years of his childhood.
He chuckled, The old man had been right; the planes had a will of their own, capricious and petty, even. The flow of time was not uniform thought out the planes; a person could be gone from a world for a few short minutes and return to an alien landscape or he could be gone millennia and return a few short minutes after leaving.
He removed the covers of his bed and jumped onto the cold floor. Cold, it was hardly a though, it had hardly been one since that day. Even if he had recovered his mortality, the ritual had not been undone. He still healed, he still failed to feel the pain, or perhaps he had just gotten used to it. He certainly did have all the chances to do so.
His loincloth was gone, and so was his bandoleer and weapons, but he expected that. Instead, he was now clad in a hospital gown, white fabric, somewhat crude and loose fitting.
With a smirk, ho wondered where they had gotten a piece of fabric big enough to be æloose fittingÆ
ôI had not expected to see you up and about so soon, mister Potter.ö
He turned towards the voice to find the old matron, a face both alien and familiar, Poppy Pomfrey. She had a somewhat sad expression on her face, a bitter smile on her mouth; like the one on his own.
These people, he had missed them, he had longed for them, while he had his memories.
ôI tend to go for the unexpected, Miss Pomfrey,ö he answered, with a tinge of sadness in his voice.
-------------
Ok, this is the part I beg for feedback and all that stuff we tend to do (probably justifiyng my mistakes or rationalizing errors in logic
), anyway do tell me what you think, to see at least how disturbed I am.