Chapter Nine: They Shall Fight

Chapter Nine: They Shall Fight

Holy places were familiar to Gareth Islwyn. He had knelt in endless naves at vespers, adrift on a current of plainsong, and blessed his hands in marble fonts. His prayers had spiraled towards paradise on the athaan of the muezziin, and he had bowed before the Western Wall in reverence of the singular Will. The lush teeming of Ranganatha's deities had been a marvel to his eyes, and the waters of the Ganges had set him to rejoicing. Sakya's Buddha had regarded him with benevolent indifference, and solemn kannushi had welcomed him at torii gates. Still, of all these testaments of mortal devotion to the Eternal, he considered no temple so sacred as the high hills of Gwaun and no altar more beckoning than the henge of Myrddin's Seat.

The climb to the summit had been difficult, but there had been a gradual calming in it, as well. Laboring for gulps of the pollen-dusted air, Gareth willed his heart to a quieter pace. Swiping sweat-damp hair away from his forehead, he cast his gaze down the long moraine that was as gullied as his own face. Thankful that he'd managed some small degree of foresight, he tipped up his canteen to swallow long draughts of spring water. He'd brought a bit of food as well, but that could wait for now. A little pang of hunger in his belly wouldn't hurt him. If anything, it might serve to sharpen his attentions.

Far below, his tower reigned gray and proud as a dowager queen, the encircling birches bending in attendance as her waiting maids. An equine chorus lifted on the wind, and shading his eyes, he could see Delyth surrounded by the cobs in the paddock. A sun-flash of white reflected from her bandaged hand as she stood brushing down a chestnut mare, heavy with foal. She hadn't wanted to climb with him to the Seat, silently shaking her head when he'd asked. He'd felt the loss of her in that moment, but he really couldn't fault her for wanting only the peace of caring for the ponies.

As though visiting a gathering of old comrades, Gareth entered the ring of standing stones that crowned the hill. Most likely some long-departed Knowing Ones had positioned them high above the valley floor in petition to the Guardians, or perhaps the earth had simply shrugged in her sleep one day and left them there. Ages ago, he had accepted them simply as his grounding stones.

Tucking a token of honeycomb into the weathered niche atop the largest, he settled familiarly into the shallow depression at its base. If given the choice, he'd always favored sitting cross-legged on the ground, and at his age, he had to admit there was a certain satisfaction in knowing he still could. Often enough these days, some well-meaning young one, eager to be helpful, would try to steer him towards a seat more seemly for a man of his years. Grateful for the stone's radiant heat at his back, he closed his eyes, acknowledging the dull ache of his bones and allowing them the ease of the cushioning dirt and grass beneath him.

Rummaging the inside pocket of his coat, he found his arawd paderau, sliding them through his fingers, their smooth and heavy weight a comfort to his hands. Beads of indigo tourmaline and black falcon's eye -- an empath's rosary -- three and three repeating, spaced with copper runes -- clicking softly one by one through his prayers, sending the breath of his meditations to the Other World, attesting to far deeper aches needing to be comforted.

"Guardians of the Gates Between, accept my prayers. Believing that You will hear me and trusting that You will answer, I wait for guidance."

What an unfathomable day of circumstance and occurrence, kin to some ominous tale that Taliesin might have sung in epic stanzas.

"Raphael of the Eastern Tower, send the Winds of Heaven to lift my fears and make my steps as light as breath."

Neirin Maldwyn had found his voice and made it heard -- contorted ravings full of dark and desperate mystery -- but he was nearer to wakened then he'd been in weeks. For whatever reason, through some fragile mercy, the wizard meant to live -- fought for it from whatever hellish keep still held him.

"Mihangel of the Southern Tower, Keeper of all Flames, banish the willful pride and anger that pursue me."

Delyth had heard and fallen into the wizard's voice and hadn't pulled away from him, even while he'd gouged her hand so cruelly that it bled in a lattice of bright crimson. Heaven's blessing, it was, that Hagrid had appeared to pry those drowning fingers from her. Five small scars would remain to mark her courage, crescent moons that would neither wax nor wane.

"Gabriel of the Western Tower, send gentle rains to sooth my sorrow."

A blessing, too, that he'd found enough of his own voice to make himself heard -- enough at least for his lulling-song to counter the wizard's whispered screams of 'Tell me... tell me where I am...'

"Uriel, who is the Rock, strengthen me through all adversities."

Those ragged muted screams -- rasped over and over again, in frenzied mantra -- a raging supplication, an invocation of Joinings made on the crumbling edges of a bridged abyss.

"Ceridwen of the cauldron, temper my arrogance with humility and sustain me in wisdom."

And Minerva McGonagall -- the witch -- sweeping like vengeance into the room, bending to whisper in the wizard's ear -- Maftet's bauble flashing flame-bright at her throat, the air behind her not cracked asunder by thunder clap but heavy with its absence.

"Gwydion who walks among the stars, grant me understanding of this journey."

All this while -- all these numbing days and guarded nights -- the cat -- the fierce and clever little serpent slayer -- hissing her battle threat, yowling in discord and purring deep in her throat -- fixed on her clawing and kneading, demanding the life's blood from a death scar. Was she the witch, then, called to come? Always present, but never revealed -- giving no answers, uncovering no secrets? Watching, assessing -- and biding her time? If indeed, she was the witch transfigured, why had she stayed hidden and apart from them, knowing, all too well, how greatly she was needed?

"Brighid, Lady Mother, direct my path and hold me faithful to Your service. Bright and Blessed One, my doubts consume me. If I lose my way, how am I to heal another?"

The witch's only answer to the accusations spilling from his eyes had been a swift and harsh refusal.

"Do not ask me, Healer."

His thumb tracing the oval triskele that finished the beads, Gareth winced, still tasting the gall of the words he'd flung in retort, pulling a shivering Delyth tighter into his arms as the witch turned her back to them.

"So, that's the way of things with you, then? Keep still and know my place? Ie, you see to what's yours, then, ddewines, and I'll tend to mine."

He'd offered no "da" against the bitterness of his words, allowing her only his recognition of her presence with no honoring of her true nature or intent, for how could he presume to know them?

When Hagrid had ventured a puzzled word of truce, she'd scowled him into silence.

"Enough, Hagrid. Don't interfere."

Looping his beads over his wrist, leaving the triskele warm in his palm, Gareth rested his upturned hands on his knees and began to measure his breath into slowing waves of rhythm. A wisp of breeze wandered across his brow and the hum of bees chanted in his ears. As the sun made its deliberate passage through a sky curtained with mares' tails, he waited -- and in due time, he slipped Between to dream -- and in his dream, he saw.

~~///~~

Not especially tall, the man -- spare and straight in his pearl gray robes -- seated on a great swelling of rock in a sea of sighing grass.

"Do you cloak the Maldwyn, brudiwr? I see only you."

~~///~~

A chill of shadow fell across his face, and with a slow unraveling of his visioning, Gareth opened his eyes to meet the unwavering gaze of the witch McGonagall.

With a clipped nod, she settled herself on the ground a few feet from him, her legs stretched in front of her. Some part of Gareth's awareness registered that she was not dressed in robes but in brown whipcord trousers and a buttoned chambray shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow. A pair of well-worn altbergs, a heavy rucksack, and a stout kebbie stick all added to the illusion of a competent Scotswoman trekking the hills of Gwaun. His expression must have spoken more than he wished, since she looked over at him with a flash of challenge in her eye.

"Disappointed that I've not worn a witch's robes, Healer Islwyn? Not even a pointed hat? I thought perhaps your good neighbors, few as they are -- and you as well -- might find me a bit more -- approachable -- if I didn't look quite so out of place." She let her head fall back, watching the clouds drifting overhead. "I expect they'll have enough to wonder about if they catch sight of Hagrid," she sighed, "not to mention -- Neirin -- when he's well enough to come out of doors."

Gareth remained silent, running his beads through his fingers one by one, refusing to acknowledge that he'd heard her. Without warning, the dirt around him rose in a small whirlwind that peppered him with clods of earth and grass, forcing him to look up. Minerva sat as before, but with her wand in her hand and an expression of weary annoyance playing across her face.

"We can continue with this useless impasse or we can discuss it. I've done what's necessary," she paused, "but I'm well aware that you've been left without even half of what you've needed. I'll ask you to hear me out, but the offer still holds. We'll take him from here, with our eternal gratitude for your kindness, if that's what you wish."

"Kindness be damned, and you with it."

Gareth's words came quietly, and in their softness there was rage. He gripped his paradue so tightly he could feel the beads burrowing into his palm. A muscle along Minerva's jaw twitched and her shoulders straightened as though ready to do battle, but she did not respond.

"Was it you, for how bloody long, and you never showed yourself? I stood like some doddering fool and blathered for days to that pitiful blighter that you'd come, you wouldn't abandon us -- you'd know how to reach him -- and you were there right along, watching me do it?"

The volume of Gareth's voice began to rise as he gained footing on the ascent of his anger.

"The poor bastard's been an open wound of piss and vomit and fever -- me trying to hold him together -- his magic all wild and terrible around him -- and were you pleased, with your damn bloody claws and those god-forsaken sounds you made? The shame's mine that I stood by and let you anywhere near him. Damn fool, I am... I thought maybe the cat'd been sent... by you... like the owl... because you couldn't come. There's the laugh..."

Minerva shifted her weight, still silent. Clutching his rosary, Gareth plunged ahead, words pouring from him, as though some deep bulwark of resolve had finally given way.

"He's sodding bloody cursed and blinded, witch, and you couldn't see your way to tell me the truth of that? Cursed as awful as the reeking maw of hell and no sight to help him find his way -- and you didn't have anything to say? Nothing? I wonder, if you'd have shown yourself if I'd truly moved to help him die? A pretty prospect, that, and it wouldn't have done him any good, he's cursed so foul."

Minerva's hands tightened around her wand as Gareth's torrent of rage pooled into despair.

"And my Delyth, she's part of this, now, Brighid forgive me. I should never have let her through the circle but I was dead weary and lonely and sorry for it. My sense was near gone, I'd been in there with him so long. It's my own selfishness that let her in and now your wizard's marked her and she's heard his voice..."

The catharsis of anger and despair that swept through Gareth left him gasping, and it was a long moment before he realized his face was wet and that he was shuddering with unspent sobs. Longer still until he surfaced to a weight on his shoulder and opened his eyes. Minerva was beside him, but her grip was far from gentle.

"Bloody well cursed and blinded. Most direct of you to make that so apparent to me, Healer. Things you've learned in a few days about a stranger, and because you're a good man, an honest man, these things offend you? Someone you love is involved and that frightens you -- makes you angry? Your empathy weighs heavily?"

The setting sun reflected from the lenses of her spectacles, and Gareth could not see her eyes.

"Here's a truth, then, for you," she hissed. "I learned these things, as well, while I was standing in the ruins of my home. Most likely, you'd realized them before I was even told. Someone I love is involved -- in fact, he has his hands in all of this." An ugly gash of pain slashed across her strong face. "And here's another truth, just to be clear. That poor blighter of an open wound is a man I've known since he was still a boy in my classroom, and you've no idea how frightened and angry I am for him. I've dealt with the sodding maw of hell more than half my life, and that's far longer than you might care to guess. Don't assume you know my heart."

The grip on his shoulder lessened a bit, but Minerva still held tight. She paled, even with the flush of sunset on her face, and Gareth realized she meant to steady herself.

"Healer Islwyn, I'll only ask your forgiveness once for any of this, and whether you give it is up to you." Her voice was husky and tight. "Neirin's forgiveness is going to have to wait, and I doubt he'll give it to me, but I'll accept that. Will you allow me to tell you what you should know, or shall I instruct Hagrid that we are leaving?"

Gareth turned his head and looked away, his eyes searching the gathering dusk for the long silhouette of his tower far below. Lifting her hand from his shoulder, Minerva leveraged herself to settle beside him against the cooling rock.

"Trust me in this, at least. Delyth has gone in to rest. She's safe with Hagrid there. Full of something extraordinary, isn't she, that young woman? I think you have some things to tell me, also -- when you're ready. She's a daughter?"

Gareth shook his head.

"As I said," Minerva gravely nodded, "when you're ready. Neirin is deep asleep. I've made sure of it, and Hagrid is right beside him, should he wake again." She sighed, remorseful. "My brave friend... I did not treat him well, today, but his great heart is so kind, he doesn't take offense. Never doubt, Healer, all the ranks of Hades could storm your tower, and Hagrid wouldn't budge."

As the sun sank lower, the air stirred into a stronger breeze, fresh with the scent of pending rain. Tugging her rucksack closer, Minerva pulled out a battered kettle, a tin of tea, and two enameled cups.

"Did you bring anything besides water when you came up here?" she asked, shaking the canteen. "I suspect neither of us has tucked in much today," she carefully prodded, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. "A wee fire would do to make the tea and warm us."

Still silent, Gareth delved into the inside pockets of his coat to bring out several small wrapped parcels -- chunks of y fenni, two lamb and leek sausages, and a small loaf of bara brith. Ashamed of his unbridled outburst, he avoided lifting his eyes until a tongue of bright flame caught his attention. Glancing up, he saw a tidy fire flickering, surrounded by small stones with the kettle set to boil. Minerva nodded with the satisfaction that she'd jarred him from his withdrawal enough that he would look at her.

"It's not always the great and grand that magic achieves," she said, reaching for the packets to open and divide them fairly. "Often enough, it's the smallest things as well, like flicking a wand to start the fire to sit by with a friend or two." Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, her anguish tangible in the tremor of her hands. Gareth reached instinctively to comfort but stopped short of touching her, his own emotions still too raw.

"While you and Delyth worked so hard to heal him..." Minerva spoke so softly the breeze almost carried her words past him, "while you fought so tirelessly, I was hard at work, as well -- torturing him."

Gareth's chest tightened, as though struck by a brutal fist, but seeing the acceptance of finality in her bright eyes, he gripped her arm.

"Tell me, da ddwines -- all of it -- and I'll listen."

~~ /// ~~

With Myrddin's Seat in apex between sun and moon, earth and sky, Minerva began her explanations. She spoke of four Founders and their noble Houses, of one Headmaster keeping his scales of benevolence and manipulation in precarious balance. The Mark of terrible fealty and the scar of a woman's devotion, a young man's fated sacrifice and a spy's bitter atonement, all were milestones of her revelations. The aspect of Tom Riddle and his deathly faithful left Gareth pondering on dark angels lost to heaven, fallen from heights not realized and never meant to be attained.

To hide me, and the dark intent I bring.

Into a Beast, and mixt with bestial slime...

Minerva was a valiant bard, sparing nothing of herself, neither her triumphs nor her failings. For the most part, Gareth chose to interrupt only for a point of clarity, keeping balance as he always did, with his carver's blade and a piece of wood in his hands. Observing the truths in the witch's words, he saw how she faltered when she spoke of fallen comrades and absent friends. When the words "coward" and "murderer" were finally voiced, he saw her flinch and grasp her wand more tightly. True to his Healer's nature, he carefully probed her wounds, his questions serving as the lancet.

"Da ddewines," Gareth urged, "you said while Delyth and I were tending to Neirin, you were torturing him. Cruelty serves no purpose, and it's not in your nature. I've never questioned that, so I need to know your meaning."

For a moment, Minerva lowered her eyes and studied the fire. When she lifted her head, her face was fierce with flame.

"Battles aren't often won by kindness. I have been at war, and with all my heart, I wanted to be done. But Neirin is lost to us unless I continue to fight.

"There's no denying that he willingly took Riddle's Mark, but he soon grew to despise his choice. The snake, the Mark, and Harry's eyes. Raw memories -- the ones closest to the surface."

Minerva hesitated, and Gareth noticed her hand creeping to touch the crystal hanging at her throat, as though assuring herself it was still in place.

"I've told you, now, of our pensieves and how we use them. Every creature's life blood is a powerful pensieve -- it holds memories and instincts, even the ones we want most to forget. The Mark remains, at least its scar. I've made it bleed and I've called up the memories of how it tortures him. I've summoned his defiance of it, as well, invoked his pain so that he will fight. Blood magic moves into the shadow realm of the Dark Arts, and I've crossed that border, now. Others can call him in kinder ways, but this, I've done, and I'll live with it. He'd expect no less of me."

"This is why you stayed hidden from us?" the Healer asked.

"I've said I'd ask forgiveness only once, but you should know that my decision had nothing to do with your worthiness to know. What I've done, Healer, is not something easily accomplished or readily acknowledged," she answered. "When I received your message, I came quickly, just as you asked, but my plan was already taking shape." With a soft grunt of stiffness, she rose to pace the confines of the circle.

"It was easier to return as a cat so that I could judge how things were, without being questioned or needing to make explanations. You'd not have agreed to what I intended. I could see you'd done so well, and Delyth seemed such a comfort to you, so I chose to have matters stay on their same course. There was greater focus if I remained a cat -- I could summon the most primal magic to sustain me."

Minerva stopped her prowling to stand motionless, the firelight paining her features in a mosaic of light and shadow. "You mustn't doubt your gifts. Neirin is alive and likely to heal -- at least in body -- and the only magic in that is yours. Credit where it's due, I'd say."

Off to the West, dark clouds portended storms over the open sea, and remembering, Gareth pushed himself to stand.

"Minerva, I've heard you. I've listened, and though I won't claim to understand all you've done, I'm beginning to see. Now, you need to hear me. Will you?"

She nodded, seeing a distant place deep within his eyes.

"I came up here to pray for guidance, especially now that Delyth's part of this. I dreamed, Minerva, a vision full of images, like something out of the old tales. There was a man -- older than me or what I'd ever hope to reach... He said... the Keepers should hear that he would stand the Watch and be their Giver's cloak. He said his name was..."

As she listened, Minerva had begun to gather the remnants of their meager supper, but she halted in rigid attention as she sharply interjected, "Albus... Albus means to be the cloak and finally guard his dagger? Sweet Circe, keep us from the irony of that."

Seeing the bewilderment on Gareth's face, she huffed a mirthless laugh. "I'm sorry, Gareth, but that's a little hard to hear. Neirin, you see -- he was always the dagger of their intrigues and in the end, as I've told you, Albus Dumbledore didn't cloak him very well. Where is he keeping this Watch, could you tell?"

"Ie, and some of it I knew from the Joinings -- your Albus watches the borders of the void where your Maldwyn is lost."

Pressing a tight fist to her chest, Minerva demanded, "He was there, then, beside him?"

"Not beside him in the darkness, but near as he could go to him, I think," Gareth answered, "in a colorless meadow that rolls like the sea. The place where I walked in my Joining, you could see it, far to the horizon. Your old wizard was sitting with moonlight all around him, waiting. He wanted it known he was there and that he wouldn't leave the place," he smiled gently, "and I remember believing he could speak in any tongue needed to be understood but that he was weary with talking."

"That doesn't surprise me, but if the old lion still has his claws out, I'm glad to know it. At least he'll not hide himself beyond the Veil and perhaps he'll do some good." Minerva smiled at Gareth's puzzlement, more openly than he'd ever seen her do. "Never mind, there's still a great deal you'll have to learn about our life. I'm forsaking the oldest tenets of magic, but you being a rather exceptional Knowing One, I'll stand by my choices. Even so, pray Hecate we're not discovered. I'd rather not enlighten you on the terrors of Azkaban. Shall we walk down, then, Gareth?"

Noticing his confusion, Minerva genuinely laughed, and Gareth found himself more than happy to hear it.

"An early ramble never did anyone harm, particularly if you're a bit stiff from a night outdoors. For the love of heaven, did you think wizard folk always pop in and out of the scenery? You'll find most witches and wizards are avid walkers, actually," she continued, settling the rucksack over her shoulders. "Tends to clear the mind. Sev... several times each season, Neirin and I would trek the hills near Hogwarts. All I could do to keep up with those impossibly long legs..." Abruptly, she bent to retrieve her kebbie, hiding her face, and Gareth made sure to keep his eyes turned elsewhere.

~~///~~

By the time they'd reached the base of Myrddin's Seat, the mists of morning were only tattered scarves flung across the ground. The rain that had fallen as they'd climbed down had left the air rich with the scent of turned earth. Rocks and grass carried the sheen of burnished metal. Leaves shivered themselves free of the weight of raindrops, and in the paddock, the horses mimicked them, flinging arcs of water from their manes. From her vigil atop a low stone wall, Tess gave her report of "all's well" with a single bark as a troop of finches shrilled in counterpoint.

As they passed the bee yard, Gareth maneuvered himself with a smart step to stand in front of Minerva, hinting at a bow and extending his open hand. Perched on his palm was a small carving -- the perfect rendering of a tabby, its markings matching the grain of the wood, the "M' of its kind between the eyes. Minerva stood very still before reaching to take it. In that moment, with the dampness wisping her hair into tiny curls at her temples, Gareth could imagine the tall and graceful girl she must have been so long ago, before she'd ever gone to war.

"Ah, I thank you for this, Gareth, more than you know," she said, running her slender fingers over the rough and smooth of the little carving. "When I was close beside Neirin, I could see that you were carving. I would watch you and it helped me. It was possible to keep strong if something beautiful could be made even while I was calling so much pain. Perhaps you kept me from going too far into the darkness after him."

"Whether that's true, I can't say," he answered. "I trusted you'd come, but when you hadn't, I began to believe you might never. When you... When the cat came, I took it as a blessing. I imagined no good creature would enter that room, not if the curse was going to win out. But I will tell you," he chuckled, "this was meant to be 'for you' if you did come... not 'of you' being already here. Still, it occupied my hands and mind, so perhaps it kept me from the dark as well."

Their slow meander across the yards had brought them near the paddock. The whickers of sleepy horses greeted them, the expectant mare laying her head across Gareth's shoulder with a sigh. Minerva slid her hand gently under the heavy mane and idly began to comb her fingers through the course hairs.

"You'd be one of these Keepers?" Gareth gently asked. "I saw you whisper something to Neirin right before Delyth started to fall. Was that what you wanted him to hear?"

Minerva nodded.

"Yes. I told him I am sworn. I needed him to somehow know that but I wanted him to hear it in my voice -- not the cat's."

"And Hagrid," Gareth continued. "Is he sworn, as well?"

"Hagrid, as well -- especially Hagrid."

Seeing the hint of a laugh in her eyes, he wondered where the humor in that might be, but thought perhaps he'd best leave the question unasked. They stood quiet for the moment, allowing the balance between them to settle. When the mare wandered away, Gareth offered his arm.

"Would you walk with me a bit further on? I've something I'd like your help with."

"Of course," Minerva answered, lightly resting her hand at his elbow.

They soon reached the area behind the barn where manure from the stalls and paddock was heaped. Reaching for a pitchfork, Gareth began to fork away the edge of the pile, while Minerva waited nearby, her arched brows questioning his purpose. Under the manure were assorted lengths of wood, and from these, Gareth chose several long pieces to place on the ground at Minerva's feet.

"The warmth cures the wood slowly so it doesn't split or twist. It's an old carvers' trick, and the smell soon fades. The black -- that's hawthorn, tough as iron, lasts forever. The other -- that's the holly, the purest white wood there is, beautiful to carve, strong as any and light to the hand. Which, do you think?"

"Wh... Which?" Minerva stammered. Assessing the length and shape of each piece, she nodded wearily towards the holly bough. "He's always favored black for everything, but I suppose it must be the white, since that's the usual..."

"Ie, I can make a truly lovely thing with the holly. It's fine and straight." Gareth glanced up from where he knelt on the ground to see the shadow on Minerva's face and realized with brutal clarity what had occurred to her.

Without a thought, he bolted to his feet and wrapped her hands in his own, drawing upon every energy of comfort that he could give her.

"Ah, now, don't grieve. What did you think I mean to make?"

"A cane, a white cane, certainly," she answered, firmly lifting her chin, "for Neirin to use, to help him learn to move about. It's very kind of you to offer making..."

"Hust, da ddwines -- is that what you thought? Nah, then, that's not what was meant. Your Maldwyn can use it as he needs and chooses, but what I'll carve for him is not a cane for a man who's been struck blind," Gareth insisted. "I mean to carve the lawffon of a brave wizard to help him battle his curse, a staff worthy of Myrddin himself -- and I'll want your word on the proper making of it. So, the white holly, is it?"

"Ie, Gareth Islwyn," Minerva nodded, her eyes fierce and proud, "the white holly it is."