Avalon - Chapter 9 - Screams in the Night

Screams in the Night

Harry watched as Morgana brushed the mane of his horse whilst she seemed to be whispering gently in his ear. As ever, she proved to have quite the way with animals, and it seemed as though the large shire was truly listening to her.

Although he couldn’t hear what she was saying, he could catch the occasional sibilance as she spoke, and when Morgana was finished, she pat the horse gently before placing the brush in Harry’s hands.

“You need to brush him every day,” she instructed. “He likes it.”

“What did you say to him?”

“That is between me and the horse,” Morgana returned with a grin. “Do you have everything?”

“It’s all packed.”

Morgana nodded and she seemed lost at what she wanted to say.

“Don’t die, Harry,” she eventually implored with a gentle frown creasing her brow. “I know you’ll be with Godric, but, well, the world is an unpredictable place.”

“I know,” Harry snorted, “but If I didn’t know any better, I would think that you are worried about me.”

“Someone has to be,” Morgana sighed. “It won’t be the same without you here.”

“Is that your way of saying you’ll miss me.”

“Don’t push it.”

Harry chuckled as she stepped past him to head back towards the forest, though Morgana paused at the door to the stables.

“His name is Tempest,” she said. “For the storm that brought you, and for the storm that will take you where you need to go.”

“And for the storm that will bring me back?”

“Yes,” Morgana murmured quietly before she took her leave of the stables.

It had been around a week ago that they had departed from Hogwarts, and for the most part, they had headed south, taking a leisurely pace through the countryside.

Each morning, Godric would wake Harry to continue their training, would ensure that he did not neglect his studies, and then they would set off once more until the sunset in the evening.

With it being the summer, when they were not shaded by the groves of trees, it was stiflingly hot, and the two of them would sweat profusely.

They would pass the time with Godric regaling Harry tales of his adventures during his younger years, and the man spoke with such fondness of those days that Harry wondered if he too might like to see the world in such a way.

“I expect the world you came from is much different to what you have seen,” Godric commented thoughtfully.

“I don’t think you would believe it if I told you,” Harry chuckled. “Almost everything is different.”

“How so?”

It was a seemingly simple question, but one that didn’t have a simple answer.

Harry did not understand the intricacies of everything he’d grown up with, so explaining them, let alone recreating most of them would be quite impossible, but it wasn’t so much trouble for him speaking of them.

“Well, we didn’t use fire as light in the muggle world. We used lightbulbs which were powered by electricity.”

“Electricity?” Godric asked with a frown. “What is it?”

“I honestly have no idea,” Harry snorted, “but muggles used it for everything like light, for staying warm, and cooking food. It’s an energy, and if they didn’t use electricity, they used gas.”

“Gas?”

Harry laughed, but not at Godric’s confusion.

He laughed at his own ignorance of how everything around him had worked and just how much more convenient life had once been for him.

At the flick of a switch, the darkness no longer mattered, and if he was cold. He could always rely on his overly thin aunt to keep the house warm.

It was odd how different the world he found himself in was.

Everything took considerably more effort.

There were market stalls where food and other essentials could be purchased, but for the most part, people tended to farm and grow their own food, selling only the surplus of their crops and yield.

As magicals, such a thing was not problematic, and in truth, Harry realised just how far they had been left behind in the future through muggle innovation.

What was troubling, however, was that not all of the innovations would be to the benefit of the wizarding community.

He remembered Hermione once explaining why electricity and most muggle devices would not work in the presence of so many magical people, but the things that would were things that would only take away from them.

Guns and other mechanical implements were things that magicals should be distanced from and why the two worlds should be kept separated.

For now, such things would not pose much of a problem, but in the coming centuries and with the development of technology…

Harry dreaded to think of the fallout caused if magicals were discovered in the world he’d left behind.

He shook his head of that utterly terrifying thought.

“Do you miss it?”

It was an interesting question, but one that Harry didn’t take long to ponder.

“I miss my friends and my godfather,” he said honestly, “but I can’t say that life has been kind enough to me to miss much of it,” he finished with a shrug.

Godric nodded his understanding and clapped Harry on the shoulder.

“Come, let us pick up our pace. There is a nice town not so far from here and we might just make it before the market closes for the evening.”

Harry dug his heels into the side of Tempest to keep up with Godric, and he smiled as the horse broke into a canter.

He did miss his friends, and a few others, but if he were honest with himself, despite what may come, being here was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him since the night Hagrid had rescued him from the Dursleys.

(Break)

The village had been all but razed to the ground when he arrived, and the wounded numbered in the dozens. The Danes had already left hours prior, and Myrddin could only shake his head as he looked around at the devastation they had wrought.

As ever, all of the fighting men had been killed, and any riches the people here possessed had been taken by the invaders.

All that was left to do was repair the damage as best he could.

Drawing his wand, Myrddin cast a sleeping charm on the remaining men, women, and children before setting to work. Although it wouldn’t be perfect, he would be able to restore much of what had been lost.

It took several hours to do so and as he was finishing the repairs to their place of worship; he came upon a living man huddled beneath a section of the collapsed roof.

“What happened?” Myrddin asked.

The man groaned, grimacing as he attempted to move.

“Danes,” he choked, his voice hoarse from the smoke he’d ingested. “Water, please.”

Myrddin complied, helping the man sip from a hastily conjured cup.

“They came from the woods, screaming. Most of the men fled. They knew they wouldn’t kill the women and children, but…”

Myrddin frowned.

“But you didn’t.”

The man shook his head and laughed humourlessly.

“Call me foolish if you will, but I stayed to fight. I managed to kill a few but was quickly overwhelmed.”

“Foolishness is often mistaken for bravery,” Myrddin murmured.

“But bravery is mistaken for foolishness more often.”

Myrddin nodded his agreement.

“How many were there?”

“I don’t know,” the man answered. “In the heat of battle, ten can seem like hundreds, but I would say there were no more than fifty.”

“Only fifty,” Myrddin mused aloud. “Why so few?”

“They wouldn’t have needed many more than half their number. Most of the men are marching east to assist another village.”

Myrddin frowned thoughtfully as he offered the man another drink.

It appeared as if the Danes were moving around the country in smaller groups, though he suspected that would not separate themselves but too great a distance, just in case they happened upon a larger party they couldn’t fend off.

More groups meant that they could attack more places at once.

It was a most unpleasant realisation.

Already it was difficult to track and map the Dane’s movements, and now, it would only be all but impossible to do so.

Myrddin needed help, allies in his ongoing struggle to prevent what was happening across Arthur’s kingdoms. If he couldn’t, the young king would find that he only ruled over a land of the dead and ash.

No, Myrddin could not allow that.

He would need to recruit some more of his own kind to help him ensure that Arthur stood a fighting chance at taking a kingdom that was not too broken.

(Break)

Godric had chuckled as Harry went from stall to stall, marvelling at the wears on offer. The boy had been rather taken aback at the sight of the city they found themselves in.

It was not like the smaller villages dotted around the country with their smaller but charming wooden buildings. Here, the buildings were made of stone, wood, and slate and were able to withstand the often-turbulent weather that battered so far north.

Still, such places were not without their share of troubles.

Godric had noticed a few magicals amongst the muggles here. Plying their trade as tricksters, something that would only end terribly for them when word spread of what they had been doing in the name of entertainment.

If they were lucky, they would be unceremoniously ‘burned’ at the stake, but there were those among the muggles who had grown wise to their ability to arrive such treatment.

Instead, those particular people, usually men of the church, would behead those suspected of witchcraft, and not even a witch or wizard could survive the executioner’s axe.

Still, there were those willing to take that risk for a few gold coins.

Even so, this far north in the land was much safer than if one was to travel south.

The Romans may have been content with building a wall to keep the Picts from doing so, but the Danes had managed to make their mark north of Hadrian’s blockade in their own way.

Perhaps they were yet to become so wise to the presence of magicals, or if they had, they did not concern themselves with it as the Christians or Saxons did.

Godric was unsure.

It had been some years since he had taken to travelling and he’d settled in a place where magicals could thrive without persecution; one of the very reasons Hogwarts had been established.

“Not what you were expecting?” Godric asked as he took a sip of ale.

Having been on the road for a little over a week, he had decided they would take a break from hunting for their food and enjoy a meal prepared in the tavern.

“No,” Harry answered. “I don’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t this.”

Godric laughed heartily and offered him a fond smile.

“Well, this is one of the more peaceful parts of the country,” he explained. “Outside of the town walls, it is not so. The muggles are continuously at war with one another and have been for centuries. That is unlikely to change.”

“It doesn’t,” Harry murmured ait a frown. “Only forty years before I was born there was a world war. Well, the second one. There was another before that.”

“A world war?” Godric pressed curiously.

Harry nodded, grimacing as he took a sip of his own drink.

The water supply here was not the cleanest, and it was much safer to drink ale rather than risk contracting anything.

“Lots of countries were at war against one another,” Harry explained with a frown. “I don’t remember much about what I was taught, but millions died because of it.”

Godric choked on his drink as what Harry said resonated.

“Millions? Millions of people died?”

“Millions,” Harry reiterated. “The muggle population will grow significantly over the centuries. Just in Britain when I was taught geography at muggle school, there were around fifty-six million people.”

For a moment, Godric thought that Harry was joking, but when he realised the boy was serious, he could only shake his head in disbelief.

“I don’t know how many people are in Britain now, but I can assure you it is not even close to such a number.”

Harry could only shrug in response.

“I did say it was different.”

Godric nodded and released a deep breath.

The world would indeed change significantly and know just why Harry was sent here only made Godric realise just how important his task was.

The magical population could not hope to even come close to reaching those numbers and would be outnumbered by a considerable margin.

Clearing his throat, he readied himself for an answer he found himself dreading.

“What about the magical population?”

“I remember my friend Hermione telling me that, in Britain, there were between three and four thousand magicals.”

Godric swallowed deeply and leaned back in his chair.

He had no doubted that Harry’s task here was an important one.

Such magic was not something that could be used lightly by any, man, woman, or higher power.

No, from what he’d learned, Godric was left in no doubt that Harry’s task was indeed of the utmost importance.

Myrddin truly knew not what he was doing, and yet, Godric knew that even if he did, he would not be deterred.

It was a rather frightening revelation, and though it was not something that would truly become a threat until several generations had come and gone, just the muggles knowing of the existence of them would one day a threat that even Godric was struggling to comprehend.

How had the magicals managed to remain hidden?

For now, Godric merely wished to process what it was he’d just learned, but he would pick Harry’s brain little by little as they continued their journey.

He did not want to frighten the boy, after all, but from what Godric had already deduced, the very future of the magical population could well rest on the shoulders of the boy sitting in front of him.

(Break)

It always felt as though something was glaringly missing from the castle whenever the students left for an extended period, but this time, the castle somehow felt emptier than ever for Salazar.

He knew and understood the reason for such hollowness, but he’d not expected it to be so.

“You miss him.”

“Miss who?” he asked Rowena.

The woman quirked an eyebrow at him and Salazar shook his head.

“We have spent a lot of time together since he arrived,” he defended.

“You have, and he is growing quickly. He is already nearing the cusp of manhood…”

“And his fate will be decided when that times comes and he leaves,” Salazar sighed.

“But that won’t be for some time yet,” Rowena pointed out.

Salazar nodded and his gaze shifted towards the flames once more.

Harry had indeed grown in every way since he’d arrived at the castle. Physically, he was bigger and stronger and no looked the way a boy his age should.

He no longer appeared to be underfed, undernourished, and under-appreciated that no child should experience.

Magically, he continued to impress each of them with his improvement, but it was mentally that Salazar saw the most changes within Harry.

Although he did not always agree with Godric’s methods in building confidence, grit, and determination, Salazar would not deny the work he’d done with the boy was nothing short of brilliant, and even during their own sessions, Harry continued to shine, even if he still failed to see it.

In only a matter of a few moons and a handful of days, he’d developed considerable skill in the Mind Arts, which had left Salazar as excited as he was puzzled.

It was now as though he was building on an already-impressive foundation that had certainly not been there when he’d arrived, and as anticipatory as Salazar was to see just how much he would improve in the coming years, the speed of the progress gave him pause.

Yes, Harry had demonstrated the makings of a fine practitioner with his ability to ward off the effects of the Imperius Curse, but that alone did not explain the significant growth in such a short passing of time, no matter how dedicated the boy was proving himself to be.

Salazar had been pondering it, and only one thing he’d seen made any sense, even if his conclusion was as imperfect as it was improbable.

“Dumbledore said that the night he tried to kill me, a part of his magic was transported to me.”

Salazar had already gleaned that Tom Riddle was quite the fine practitioner of the Mind Arts, something Harry had revealed even before he’d known specifically what they entailed.

Riddle had known Harry was lying to him during their encounter at the end of his first year at Hogwarts, and more to the point, there was no evidence of a truly familial connection between Salazar and Harry.

It was indeed possible that there was a link between the boys’ mother and his line, but Salazar did not believe so.

A part of Harry’s magic felt much like his own, but there was nothing else to suggest any other connection.

It was indeed rather concerning, but Salazar had been following his thoughts, which had led him to only one possibility, and that in itself was positively alarming.

Well, it would’ve been if Harry remained where he had been before arriving here.

Until he had conclusive evidence of his thoughts, something he intended to explore in the coming days, Salazar would do his utmost to push them from his mind.

He would not worry about the possible conclusion he had drawn until it became absolutely necessary to do so.

“Is something troubling you?” Rowena asked with a frown.

“Not so much troubling,” Salazar murmured, “but I cannot deny it is occupying my thoughts. I may well be quite wrong in my assessment.”

“But you do not believe that you are?”

Salazar released a deep breath as he shook his head.

“No, I do not believe that I am, and in some ways I hope that I am, and in others, I hope that I am not. It is a rather complex and unprecedented set of circumstances, and yet, I can think of no other explanation.”

Rowena offered him an encouraging smile.

“If you have exhausted all possible options and are only left with one, then as ludicrous and as unlikely as that scenario may seem, it must be correct.”

Salazar chuckled a she nodded.

“For the most part, I would not disagree with you, old friend, but there are perhaps other avenues to explore. I merely find myself heading down this one as it is the most plausible path I have created. There are just so many uncertainties to account for.”

“Does this pertain to Harry?”

Salazar nodded.

“It does, and it would not be an ideal conclusion if I am correct, but I do not believe it will be so devastating that it will change much. Well, that is my hope. I remain as unsure as I am unconvinced.”

“Then what is it you intend to do?”

Salazar shrugged.

“I cannot be certain until I am,” he murmured. “Will you and Helga be fine if I take my leave for a few days?”

“Where to?”

“Greece,” Salazar answered. “At great expense, I purchased a book once belonging to a rather infamous man, and until I was perusing it recently, I had not considered such a possibility. I have a contact there, and unpleasant fellow, who may be able to shine some light on my own musings.”

Rowena seemed curious, but much to Salazar’s relief, she did not press the matter.

“I am sure we can survive without you for a few days, Salazar,” she chuckled. “When do you intend to leave?”

“Tonight,” Salazar answered, knowing his thoughts would continue to plague him if he delayed his pursuit.”

“Then I wish you a safe journey.”

Salazar nodded appreciatively, and Rowena took her leave of the room, likely to inform Helga of his departure.

He did not know what he expected to uncover from the journey, but there was something in his mind that he could no longer ignore that was urging him to return to Greece and follow the path he had set himself upon when he’d consulted the journal that had once even given him pause as to what magicks should be explored.

(Break)

“Leofric and his men seem to have settled in well,” Arthur commented.

Myrddin nodded his agreement.

“Indeed.”

“You don’t seem convinced.”

Myrddin’s blue eyes bore into his own and Arthur felt a sudden sense of concern wash over him.

“They have,” the man reiterated. “They have kept their word and have already begun working in the fields when they finish their morning training and prayers, but as much as he claims to be a Briton, he is not. His father was a Saxon.”

“But his mother wasn’t,” Arthur pointed out. “You taught me not to persecute any for the circumstances of their birth. You said that is one of the things that will separate me from the others who claim a crown.”

Myrddin offered him a smile and held up his hand.

“You are correct, Arthur,” he chuckled. “Forgive me. I allowed my own experiences and what I have seen to cloud my judgement. Leofric and his men a fine warriors and quite the boon to your own forces.”

“There is more than what you are saying to me.”

Myrddin released a deep breath.

“Your allies will continue to grow, Arthur, of that, I have no doubt, but there is a way that you can ensure that happens, a way that is unavoidable.”

“Is it such a terrible thing?” Arthur asked worriedly.

“No,” Myrddin assured him. “It will be another boon to yourself, and to your people. It will give them reassurance that you are not merely a passing man who fancies himself a king, but one he intends on creating a lasting legacy.”

Arthur pondered what Myrddin said and nodded in realisation.

“Marriage,” he whispered.

“Marriage,” Myrddin confirmed. “The sooner you are married, the better, for you and for the kingdom.”

“But I’m yet to reach manhood,” Arthur protested, feeling a sense of nervousness begin to overwhelm him.

“If you wear a crown, Arthur, you are a man in every sense of such. You cannot expect other men to follow a boy. No, you can no longer refer to yourself as such. You must carry yourself as a man would, and act as one. I am merely advising you on the correct course of action.”

Arthur swallowed deeply before nodding.

“You truly believe I should marry?”

“I do.”

“But I do not have any prospective brides.”

Myrddin chuckled.

“Arthur, you are the one true king. You can marry any woman you wish. I think it would be wise to invite some eligible women to visit Camelot. They will see your vision for the land, and if you are fortunate, you will find who comes from an influential family, perhaps even the daughter of another king who would be honoured to follow you.”

“I can think of none who would willingly give up their crown,” Arthur murmured.

“But there are those that may for their daughter to receive one. Would you like for me to handle this for you? I will choose only the finest of options that you have.”

Arthur remained uncertain, but as he met Myrddin’s gaze once more, he felt a wave of reassurance wash over him before he nodded.

“Thank you,” he said appreciatively.

The conversation had taken place shortly before Myrddin had left to attend to another matter that had come up, and Arthur felt the same nervousness creeping in once more.

“Marriage?” Lancelot chuckled. “Well, I suppose it makes sense.”

“Does it?”

Lancelot nodded as he placed his cup of ale on the table.

“Myrddin is right. Having a queen will show the people that you are considering the future. In case you haven’t noticed, Arthur, kings haven’t had the longest of lives in recent years. There’s too much war and not enough peace. I have seen it for myself. The day you step out of this keep, there will barely be a day that you are not drawing your sword. It’s a vicious place out there, and if you truly hope to unite the kingdoms, you are going to have to spill blood. No Dane or Saxon is going to just accept your rule. You will have to make them submit or kill them.”

“I know,” Arthur sighed, “but marriage?”

Lancelot offered him a grin.

“Did you think you would be sitting on your throne alone?”

Arthur shook his head.

“No, but I didn’t expect it so soon.”

“Well, now you can expect it imminently. I don’t know Myrddin the way you do, but he moves quickly. I would expect your prospective brides to arrive within the next few moons. Perhaps I will even find my own bride,” he added, straightening his tunic.

“Who is going to want to marry you?” Arthur asked. “You sneak off with that stable girl too often.”

“It’s just some harmless fun.”

“Until you begat her a child.”

Lancelot grimaced at the thought.

“I’d be a terrible father.”

“You would,” Arthur agreed, dodging the punch Lancelot aimed at his arm.

The man shook his head.

“You’re not wrong,” he huffed. “I’d make a terrible husband. I couldn’t imagine only ever being interested in one woman. What kind of madman could only have one woman on his mind?”

“That will have to be me soon enough.”

“I would offer my condolences, but it just leaves more women for me,” Lancelot snorted. “Besides, marriage would suit you. If you are to be king of all Britain, you must be virtuous and not a lowly peasant like me.”

“Peasant?”

Lancelot nodded.

“I do not have royal blood and was born into a family of poor. Everything I have is by the good grace of my king.”

Arthur shook his head.

“You earned your place is by fighting for your people,” he praised before frowning.

After a moment, Arthur stood and drew the sword Myrddin had so graciously given him.

“Take a knee, Lancelot.”

“Take a knee? Are you going to take my head?”

Arthur chuckled.

“No, I’m going to honour you the way I should’ve when you arrived and I heard your story. Now, shut up and take a knee.”

Lancelot did so and Arthur rested the flat of his blade on the man’s shoulder.

“I, Arthur Pendragon, King of Britain, name you Ser Lancelot Du Lac, a knight of my kingdom for your valour in battle and the defence of your people. May your virtue continue, and may God be with you. Rise, Ser Lancelot.”

“Why did you do that?”

“Because a king can only be as good as the men he surrounds himself with,” Arthur answered. “You are the first, and I intend for there to be others who prove themselves worthy of such a title, good, strong, and virtuous men like you who I hope to be able to rely on as much as they rely on me.”

“Like a brotherhood?”

Arthur nodded.

“Like a brotherhood.”

(Break)

He didn’t make the mistake of pursuing or snatching at the magic he could feel with himself. Instead, Harry allowed himself to merely be in its presence so that he could become more familiar with how it felt.

One side of it was fiery and warm, much like it had been the first time he’d held his wand.

The other, however, was almost mysterious, and shied away from Harry whenever he drew closer.

Not wanting to send it fleeing, he held back and observed how his magic interacted.

It was as though there were two different types, and yet, they seemed to be slowly coming together as one, like they were learning about each other as they melded.

It was a strange thing to witness within his own mind, but it was progress.

Instead of being hasty and trying to grasp them, Harry was content with his observations, understanding that patience would be the key to his success.

Indeed, it would seemingly take time, but Harry would keep coming back as much as he could and wait as long as he needed to.

He’d taken to not allowing a day to pass to hold his wand in one hand and the fang and venom in the other. He began to feel very much connected to both, as though they were two different parts of him being brought together.

When that would happen, he didn’t know, but Harry did not wish to provoke a volatile connection within himself, so, as he began to smell an unpleasant burning, he carefully withdrew, only for the smell to become more prominent as he opened his eyes.

Along with unpleasant aroma, he suddenly became aware of screaming in the distance, and he felt a sense of dread wash over him.

The burning smell had not been in his mind but was coming from where he could the blood-curdling screams.

“Bugger,” he muttered as he stood, quickly running into the clearing only a distance away.

He paused as he stood in the centre, his eyes widening at the sight of fire and smoke in the valley below.

“GODRIC!” he called, sprinting to the camp they had made for the evening.

“Godric, wake up!”

“What is it?” the man asked sleepily.

“I don’t know, but I think someone is attacking one of the villages. There’s a fire and screaming.”

Godric was immediately alert and all but jumped out of his makeshift bed.

Harry followed the man as he moved to get a better assessment of the situation before he nodded gravely.

“Danes,” he murmured, his jaw clenching as he seemed to ponder what to do.

“We have to help them,” Harry urged.

Godric eyed him for a moment before nodding.

“We do,” he agreed, “but you are to stay close, Harry. Do not let me out of your sight. Get ready.”

With a wave of his wand, Godric was dressed and his sword was buckled around his waist.

Harry followed suit as he ran to fetch his horse.

“Come on, Tempest,” he encouraged as he climbed atop. “Follow Godric, boy!”

By the time Harry made it back to the clearing, Godric was waiting for him, and took off into a gallop atop his own steed.

“Let’s go!”

Harry hung onto the reins of the horse for dear life as Tempest bolted through the trees, and he readied himself for what was to come.

The brighter option would’ve been to ignore what was happening entirely, but Harry couldn’t bring himself to do that.

He felt the need to help these people, and though he was gripped by fear, he did not question the decision he’d made.

Bracing himself, he drew his sword and gripped the handle tightly as the screams grew louder, but along with them came the sound of clashing steel.

Harry was deeply aware that he’d never been in such a fight, and yet, he pressed on, following Godric who had his own sword in hand.

He watched as Godric almost cleaved a bearded man in two before dismounting his horse, and Harry followed the man’s example once more, falling into step with the infamous Founder as he threw himself into the fray.

The village was by no stretch the biggest they had seen thus far on their journey, but it was big enough that they could be facing a few dozen enemies.

Harry was just grateful that the inhabitants here were also fighting, despite the ongoing screams, the fires, and bloodshed happening all around them.

For Harry, it was those a haze had washed over him as he did his utmost to stay alert to what was nearby.

Godric was once more engaged in another fight by a duo of Danes, and Harry felt a lump form in his throat as another wielding a large sword barrelled towards him.

For a moment, he could only look on as the man bore down on him, though he had the sense to avoid the cleaving blow that would’ve undoubtedly split his skull had he remained where he was.

Fortunately, the instincts that Godric had spent the past months drilling into him took over, and the Danes was far from being a finessed and polished fighter.

He seemed to rely on his brute force, and the speed with which he wielded his blade was rather lacking.

Nonetheless, the brutish Dane had more experience than Harry, and managed to defend himself well enough to prevent being bested.

Still, Harry fought on, ducking beneath another wild swing and managing to slice his foe on the back of the calf.

He released a guttural roar of fury and pain, but his rebuttal missed, the tip of his sword passing much closer to Harry’s throat than was comfortable.

What Harry had not anticipated was that another would come so quickly, and although he managed to deflect much of it, he felt the edge of the blade slice into his chest, and through the thin skin on his collar bone.

The wound wasn’t deep enough to disable him, but it quickly began to bleed rather freely, soiling one of the tunics Morgana had made for him.

Harry was familiar with the sight of his own blood but seeing what had happened to his tunic angered him.

It was his own guttural roar that rent the air, and he swung his blade with all of his might.

Steel clashed, and Harry felt the force travel up his arm, but it was the man he faced who wore the worst of the swords coming together.

His grip loosened, and he raised his hands in folly to block Harry’s next attack.

It was as though everything around him froze as Harry stared into the eyes of the Dane, and he looked down to see his sword sunk into the man’s chest.

Killing Quirrell during his first year had not been done with any true intent. He’d only wanted the man to stop attacking him, but this was different.

Harry had been in a fight for his life, and though he’d won, it didn’t not feel like a victory as he watched the colour drain from his foe’s face as he realised he’d met his end.

“My sword,” the man croaked in a heavy accent. “Place my sword in my hand so I may have my place at Odin’s table.”

Harry could only nod, daring not to open his mouth from fear that he would vomit, and as the Dane breathed his last, he found he couldn’t move.

For several moments, he remained where he was until he managed to come to his senses enough to retrieve the sword and place it in the empty hand of the man he’d killed, fulfilling his final request.

When it was done, he took a seat on the ground, his thoughts awash with what had just happened, what he’d done, and all he would have to do in the days to come.

“Your first kill.”

“My first intentional kill,” Harry murmured in response as he met Godric’s gaze.

The man nodded and offered his hand.

“Best not dwell on it, Harry,” he urged. “It was either you or him. Fortunately, it was decided that this would be your victory.”

Harry accepted the proffered limb and winced as he was pulled to his feet.

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“No, but it will leave quite the scar,” Godric declared as he inspected the wound. “Come, the Danes that lived have fled. Let’s get you cleaned up and then we can help the people here as best we can.”

“Is it always like this outside of the castle?” Harry asked.

Godric released a deep breath.

“I’m afraid it is much worse than what you saw tonight. This was just a mild skirmish of a few dozen men. The battles that you will undoubtedly see will consist of thousands.”

Harry swallowed deeply at the thought.

“You did well, Harry,” Godric praised, “but perhaps we should keep this to ourselves,” he added with a chuckle. “You may be one of Salazar’s, but you’ve got the courage I admire in you. I expect you’ll need that.”

Harry could only nod in response as he once more looked at his tunic and the resulting wound of the cut he’d received.

He really liked this tunic, and he found that he was more irked by what had happened to it than his still-leaking wound he’d been baptised with in his first fight with a sword in hand.