Retrovirus

Chapter 25

Retrovirus

A pair of hands clapped twice, and the music began to play. Domesticated brutes carried trays of food and placed them on the large revolving table lined with plush pillows. The guests were led in and seated around the table, each according to their station, with a special place reserved for the four guests of honor. Ozymandias came in last and reclined on the largest pillow. When the king took his first bite, the feast began.

Moody pulled his sleeves down, as they were starting to ride up into his armpits. His formal dress uniform was clearly not designed to be worn in a reclining position. He resigned himself to forsake any comfort and pretended he was enduring one of the maestro's torturous training exercises. He eyed the odd delicacies that passed by. The outer rim of the table was lined with foodstuffs that were readily reachable by the small hands of a human while the inner tiers were obviously prepared for giants. They've certainly thought of everything. He grabbed a blue sphere from the table and sniffed it.

The giantess, Titaiaja, watched the young wizard's trepidation with some amusement. "You don't want the blue ones, Alastor Moody. Trust me."

Dumbledore, who was seated between them, shrugged. He picked out one of the blue samples for himself and added, "They are an acquired taste, to be sure."

"Do you have any recommendations?" Moody said.

Dumbledore thought for moment. "Anything green will do." He popped the sample into his mouth and swallowed without chewing.

Titaiaja grimaced. "Unless it has splotches of yellow on it."

"Quite," Dumbledore said in agreement. "Those do make for an explosive combination."

Moody smiled. "Thanks for the tip... and the visual."

Moody relied on his usual trick of pretending to be sufficiently fascinated with his food so as to not invite idle conversation. Interestingly, Edgar Bones did enough talking for the four of them. Moody began to see why Dumbledore had brought Edgar along. Edgar seemed to be in his element once he warmed up to the idea of intelligent giants and engaged Ozymandias at every opportunity, although the king's attentions remained more focused on Shacklebolt. Between courses Rogg charmed the attendees with stories of old about mighty men of valor. Ysbaddaden, who sat diametrically from Moody, hardly seemed interested in eating at all...something he and Moody had in common.

After the fifth course the dinner party broke according to custom, and everyone left the dining tent to retire to more intimate venues. Moody ventured beyond the camp's perimeter to be alone with his thoughts. There wasn't a cloud in the sky, yet it was difficult to see any stars due to the bright lights of the spires that bordered the camp. Moody started to reach for the comfort of his hip flask when he was interrupted.

"What a clear night," Dumbledore said suddenly standing next to Moody.

"I had no idea that eating could be so exhausting, Professor."

"Quite. Though you only seemed mildly annoyed tonight."

"Only slightly," Moody said with a smirk; however, pretense was not in his skill set. "Why did you bring me here?"

"There isn't a 'single' overriding reason, my boy."

"Then pick one."

After some deliberation Dumbledore finally said, "History."

"You say that as if we're going to accomplish something here."

"Really, Alastor, you're far too young to be this jaded."

"Not jaded, just realistic. I admit that this is all a lovely distraction, but I fear that there will always be enmity between giants and wizards."

"All the more reason to let go of the indiscretions of the past. That's the only way the healing can begin."

"I wonder if the families of the missing Aurors from Wolf Squadron would share your optimism, Professor."

"I believe they would... in time."

"Time." Moody snorted quietly. "At the rate things are going, it's more likely that in time there will only be a handful of them left, clubbing each other to death over scraps of carrion." He snorted again and looked away from Dumbledore's reprimanding gaze. "Sorry, Professor. I guess that's an improper viewpoint to take along on a peace mission."

"Not at all," Dumbledore said in agreement. "But it is an understandable viewpoint."

The trees nearby swayed and parted. The two wizards were no longer alone as a familiar voice from the darkness said, "It is a viewpoint I wish to avert, gentlemen."

Ozymandias stepped out of the shadows and joined them. The rainbow-coloured gem on his finger glowed when he stretched his arm out. After a brilliant flash of light, the forest was gone.

Surrounded by darkness, Moody flailed about desperately trying to get his bearings. He stilled when Dumbledore put a calming hand on his shoulder. Though he perceived a firmament beneath his feet, when he looked down all he saw was a tiny blue planet amidst an ocean of space. Moody reached out, grasping at a trail of dust left from the wake of a passing comet; it merely passed through his hand undisturbed. An illusion. "What magic is this?"

Dumbledore winked at him. "It's not magic."

From the vastness aethereal beings of energy, riding on wings of mist, shot past them towards the Earth. With a wave of Ozymandias' hand, they gave chase, following them as unseen observers. At impossible speed they descended somewhere in ancient Africa where the beings of aether coalesced into human form.

Ozymandias spake:

In the time before your people discovered writing, the Sons of God walked the Earth. They took for themselves the fairest daughters of men and begot my ancestors, the Mighty Ones.

As if on cue the scene changed. Great cities of diamond and steel were erected. The inhabitants rode the airways in fantastic constructs of metal. They spoke the word, and bolts of lightning shot from the heavens, the energy dancing on their fingertips.

The Mighty Ones held dominion over the land. Their knowledge was vast, and with it they held the keys to the universe... and the microverse.

A being of physical perfection entered the scene and stood among them. A syringe injected the paragon with a glowing liquid that infused him with power. The paragon started to grow until he was as tall as Ozymandias. The multitudes of peons at his feet dropped to their knees and prostrated themselves.

Their arrogance grew along with their knowledge. They allowed themselves to receive worship without any regard to He who made us all. They even manipulated their blood in hopes of making themselves like the Creator...

Then came The Great Flood.

The scene segued into a large room with a meeting table that hosted various heads of state with each trying to talk over the other but, as a group, could only manage unintelligible clamor.

It was a flood of ideologies; it was a flood of conflicting beliefs. Everyone was right in their own eyes, and no quarter was given to opposition or competing creeds.

In the scene that followed, the great cities of the Mighty Ones lashed out at each other with beams of energy that made the earth tremble. Their violence scorched the skies. The polar ice melted.

Many died. Curiously, for all the damage that came about from the Flood, something far more sinister laid in wait.

The paragon returned. Ozymandias waved his hand again, and they were pulled inside the automaton's body the view zooming in through skin, muscles and vascular tissue down to the microscopic. In the bloodstream an intruder wandered unchallenged...something alive yet not alive. It seized a lone cell and impregnated it with something that caused the cell to twitch and eventually rupture, giving birth to more intruders.

The view panned back out. The paragon began to hunch. His skin turned calloused and pasty. Hair covered his body, and his features became more simian...more base...resembling that of a modern-day giant.

It turned out that we were too clever for our own good...our blood being corrupted by our own hands. We quibbled over how to save ourselves. The more we quibbled the sicker we got, and the sicker we got the more we quibbled until we were unrecognizable from our former glory.

In a flash, they were back in the forest. The jewel in Ozymandias' ring dimmed.

Moody was silent as he pondered the incredible revelation that Ozymandias had shared with him. "Who are you? Who were you?"

"We are the Last of the Last, born from the mighty who have fallen. My family line was believed to be immune from the Sickness, so we've kept our blood pure and passed our knowledge of the ancients from father to son in the hopes that one day we would reason a cure. But I fear our time has run out; it appears that the blood of the First Tribe, itself, is corrupt."

"Why? What's changed?" Moody said.

"Eight years ago in the English West Country, my heir, the one who was supposed to take my place and guide my people to a cure, was struck down. The Sickness overcame his reason, but before I could restrain him, he was killed by a young wizard." For the first time Ozymandias looked down to regard Moody.

"You mean me?" Moody averted his eyes under the giant's teary gaze. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"We are dying, Alastor Moody. I fear the only way to survive is with the help of your people."

"How can we possibly be of any help? By the looks of things, you're far more advanced than we are."

The wizards looked on as Ozymandias stretched his hand out again. The ring on his finger glowed, and images of curious writings scrolled before them, yielding esoteric chemical equations and complex mathematical models. The images slowed to showcase three effigies of increasing size: a human on one end, a giant at the other extreme and something that was neither in the center.

Ozymandias spake thus:

"The Sickness is manifest in patrilineal bloodlines...through the males; but, matrilineally the disease merely sleeps. Wizard blood is too far removed to be useful. However, hybrids are not only immune, but their blood can be used as a baseline to help extrapolate the factors that cause the Sickness. As a proof of concept, I have clandestinely authored a longitudinal study where, through the women of selected tribes, a sampling of wizards were... approached in order to sire suitable test subjects."

"You're talking about half-giants." Moody gave an exasperated chuckle when he came to a realization. "Hagrid." He looked to Dumbledore, saying, "When I was a kid, we always made fun of him because of his height, fed by rumors that his mother was a giant.... They weren't rumors, were they?"

Dumbledore simply shook his head.

"Is this why you brought me here, Professor? As some sort of political tactic to guilt wizardkind into going along with anything he has to say?"

"He doesn't understand," Ozymandias muttered to himself.

"What's not to understand?" Moody replied calmly. "I'm sorry that this is happening to your people, but you'll forgive me if I decline to play the part of your poster child."

Ozymandias shook his head and left.

Moody stood there alone with Dumbledore. Neither spoke, but as the seconds passed, the young wizard began to sense his mentor's disappointment like a great weight. "Ozymandias doesn't need me, besides," he offered unsure of who he was trying to convince. "By the looks of that light show, I figure a bit of that ancient lost knowledge will be a persuasive bargaining chip, eh?"

"Not everyone plays the game like you've seen the game played, young man."

"Just the same, next time I'll thank you to leave me in the cell."

Moody left Dumbledore and ventured further from camp, forestalling the urge to say something that he would later regret. In certain respects Dumbledore had proven to be just as overbearing as the maestro. However, at least with the maestro, he knew what to expect.

Beyond the periphery of the spires, the stars twinkled brilliantly in the night sky. Moody sought solace in their quiet beauty when, in the darkness, he heard a faint melody. It beckoned him closer.

The alluring voice drew Moody to a rocky ledge that overlooked a shallow ravine. He took out his wand and dissipated the mist, exposing a grassy clearing afore the foot of the ledge where he happened upon the source. Titaiaja? He stood there, enrapt, even though he didn't understand the words.

The giantess stopped singing to regard the wizard, whom she towered over. "I've disturbed you."

"Nonsense." Moody put his wand away and straightened. "What was that, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I was practicing the benediction for tomorrow's peace accords."

"It's a beautiful song."

"I wasn't singing. That's my speaking voice."

Moody arched an eyebrow. "No offense but I've never heard giant-speak that sounded like that."

"Understandable, considering you've probably never heard proper giant-speak in the first place."

He grinned. "Point taken. It's beautiful just the same."

"Thank you." Titaiaja started to blush, so she looked out over the ravine. The tops of the trees jutted out over the thick mist that covered the ground. "Is this what a cloud looks like up close?"

"We call it fog."

"Fog: a strong name." Titaiaja sighed. "Things are so very different here."

"You've never been to England before, I take it?"

"Not exactly," she answered timidly. "My father didn't let me leave the tent the last time. Even now he still thinks I'm a little girl."

Moody couldn't help looking up at her with a lopsided grin, saying, "'Little' is hardly a word I would use to describe you."

"Do you have something against being big?" Titaiaja said, pouting with her hands on her hips.

"On the contrary...." Moody paused when a sudden breeze of cool night wind blew in from the east. Titaiaja hugged her chest with her back to the wind, her silk dinner gown the only protection from the chilly air. Moody summoned a half-dead tree out of the rocky slope. It hovered magically in place and, with a wave of his hand, was reduced to kindling that ignited into a large campfire. "My people have a saying: The bigger, the better."

She knelt next to him to warm herself. "So, what's it like being little, anyway?"

"From my perspective I'm just right, but I take it that you've never met a wizard before either?"

"Only Dumbledore. So much so that, when I was young, I thought all wizards were old."

"A reasonable assumption in Dumbledore's case," Moody said, grinning. "He's certainly been old for all the time I've known him."

"You're funny," Titaiaja giggled. Without thinking she reached for Moody, and he retreated a few paces, taken aback. "Oh, I'm sorry." She withdrew her hand. "My people can convey information through touch. I forgot when they told me that little people are averse to that form of communication."

"We don't mind it so much. It's just that we... 'little people' usually state our intentions first."

"That's odd. How can one know their intentions without first touching?"

"Through social intercourse."

"How clumsy," she said with that same pout. "Doesn't that tend to lead to misunderstandings?"

"Oftentimes, yes."

"In that case, may I touch you in order to suss out my intentions for touching you?"

Moody chuckled. "You may."

Moody flinched at the sensation of her surprisingly soft fingertip against his forehead. In his mind's eye Titaiaja was standing before him, her height now proportional to that of a human female. They merged. Foreign images that felt strangely familiar flooded his psyche. They showcased a life of privilege and study...full of love and compassion...but weighted with obligation.

Moody opened his eyes, and the images were gone. They were now back to their disparate sizes. Titaiaja reclined on her side, propping herself on her arm. He wasn't aware, until now, that eyes could come in silver. Astonished, the only thing he could think to say was, "Hello."

"Hi." She blushed.

"I know you," he whispered, befuddled. "I mean, I feel like I've always known you."

"And I you."

"How is that possible?"

"I'm not sure. I've been told that it usually happens when two people are...." She searched inwardly for the correct word. "Compatible."

"You knew that was going to happen?"

"It's not so much a knowledge as an instinct. My people believe it's a skill that we've evolved out of a necessity to choose mates that will bear healthy offspring."

"Offspring immune to the Sickness, you mean?"

"Yes." Titaiaja sat up, hugged her knees to her chest and mused. The tips of her trussed, cerulean hair brushed against her ankles as they swayed in the breeze. "Your world... it's frightening. Does that beverage you drink make it any easier?"

"Not really," Moody replied. Her words prompted him to feel for the outline of the flask hidden under the lining of his jacket. "I'm afraid I have my own 'sickness' to contend with, one that I doubt you'd want any part of."

Grinning, Titaiaja rested her cheek on her knees and said, "We believe that all sentient beings live in an incomplete state; we're all broken. It's only when we come together that one heals the other." Her eyes twinkled.

Moody took off his jacket under the warmth of the fire. He concentrated and conjured a disembodied hand of energy proportional to that of a giant. "May I?"

She smiled in understanding. "You may."

Moody started with her hair, feeling by proxy the locks flowing between his fingers. Like the softest velvet. She giggled when the tingling energy from his fingertips tickled the skin on her shoulders, gliding over them. The smoothest silk. She sighed when his strong arms embraced her and shuddered as his hands followed her curves without restraint...beholden to her giant, tiny waist. She whipped her hair aside, exposing her slender neck – an invitation – and moaned when the tingles kissed the spot that pulsed rapidly just beneath her skin.

She made no objection to Moody leaving his mark. "Is this how you held her, the one with the purple hair?"

"Aye."

"A foolish woman." Titaiaja found his hand. Their fingers interlaced. The fire welled. "Would you... like to hear the rest of the benediction in my quarters?"

"That's kind of you, but it's late, and I've taken up enough of your time. I should let you get back to your work." Moody begrudgingly released her and promptly left fully aware that he was pushing the fortitude of his character to it's limits. He paused and swallowed hard when she called his name.

"Alastor Moody, it's been a pleasure to meet you." The giantess glanced over her shoulder and smiled weakly. "Did I say that right?"

The wizard nodded. "The pleasure and the honor have been mine, Princess Titaiaja."

Moody had a difficult time sorting his feelings as he walked back to his tent. The disturbingly familiar but alien memories swirled in his mind. He looked up; the stars were diffused behind the light given off by the spires. The solace that he sought eluded him once more.

He reached into his vest.

"You shouldn't be wandering about alone, especially at night."

Moody turned with a start, being snapped from his reverie by Shacklebolt's voice with her particular accent. "I'll take that under advisement, sir."

Shacklebolt leaned against the spire planted next to their guest tent. She was still wearing her evening gown with a solid gold necklace that hung prominently around her neck. "You may not be under my direct command, but on this mission, I expect you to act with the dignity accorded to your position."

Moody narrowed his eyes but stood at ease, replying, "If I am to infer that my behavior has been anything but, then by all means, point out the deficits therein so that I may not repeat them, sir."

Shacklebolt approached, standing extremely close. Moody resisted the urge to flinch as her hand explored him. When she found the hardness under his uniform, she reached into his lapel to retrieve the metal hip flask hidden underneath.

"I thought you said I was off-duty," was Moody's response.

She curled her finger, beckoning him to lean closer, and whispered, "An Auror is never off-duty. Not ever... ever... ever." She tried, unsuccessfully, to read his silent expression. "Do you have something to say, Mistah Moody?"

Standing so close to her, Moody finally took notice of the shiny gold necklace around her neck. "You look lovely this evening, sir."

"Thank you." Perceiving his downward gaze, her fingers grazed her neck. "It was a gift from Ozymandias. It would've been impolite to refuse."

"Indeed. I can see how it can make one uncomfortable, accepting such an overture." Moody grinned when Shacklebolt returned his flask.

She averted her eyes, and they separated, appeasing the etiquette of personal space. They were both startled when a siren blared. The camp came alive with activity. Edgar and Dumbledore came out from their tents.

"What's going on?" said Edgar.

"It's an alarm," Shacklebolt replied.

A flare shot into the sky the origin of which was disturbingly familiar.

"Ozymandias," Dumbledore said under his breath. He ran and was soon followed by Moody and Shacklebolt.

Edgar likewise followed in protest. "Let me get this straight: an alarm has been raised, and yet we're going toward the screams?"

The wizards arrived on the scene. Ozymandias lay on the ground; a gaping hole was burned into his chest. The women wailed. Ysbaddaden knelt over his father's still form and closed the eyelids with his fingers. Soon after Rogg and Titaiaja appeared, escorted by a security detail. When Titaiaja saw Ozymandias she threw herself on him in grief.

"What happened?" Rogg snapped.

Ysbaddaden rose slowly. "That's what I would like to know." He looked in the direction of the four wizards. "Explain your whereabouts!"

Titaiaja had the presence of mind to regain some semblance of her composure. "Surely, you don't think they had anything to do with this, brother?"

"The evidence speaks for itself!" Ysbaddaden held up a wand, it looked more like a toothpick between his fingers, and he cast it before the humans.

Moody picked up the wand. His eyes widened in recognition of its grainy texture.

Edgar was the first to respond. "I assure you our government did not authorize this attack."

"Listen to them, brother," Titaiaja said. "We've known Dumbledore all of our lives."

"Maybe. But we don't know the rest of them"...Ysbaddaden pointed to Moody..."and especially not that one!"

Titaiaja averted her eyes. "I know him."

Ysbaddaden's head snapped in his sister's direction. He regarded her briefly then slapped her. "Whore!" Ignoring her pleas, he raised his hand to her again, but his arm was stilled. He looked to see a hand of energy clamped mightily against his own...and beyond that to the wizard whom he hated.

Moody stood defiantly before Ysbaddaden. His wand arm shook, and he struggled with his words. "You will keep your hands off of her!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Edgar interjected quietly, "but wouldn't this fall under Shacklebolt's definition of 'provocative action'?"

Ysbaddaden snarled. "Worm." He crushed the energy hand in his grasp and sneered when Moody dropped to his knees, clutching his affected wrist.

Some of the giants standing around started to pant. Soon enough they all breathed in unison. Some snarled while others gnashed their teeth. Edgar and Shacklebolt drew their wands.

"Not again," Dumbledore uttered barely audible. He stepped up and commanded, "Put your wands away."

"Is that wise?" Shacklebolt said.

"Wands away, NOW!" When they obeyed, Dumbledore approached the son. "Ysbaddaden, let us help."

"How?"

"If you allow us to examine the body, we might be able to find out who is responsible for this crime."

"Why?"

"In order to bring them to justice..."

"Wizarding justice," Rogg interrupted. He clicked to the guards and said, "Kill them..."

"I am Gurg now, Rogg!" The slain king's son beat his chest. "Ysbaddaden is Gurg, NOT Rogg!"

The guards stood down, and Rogg bowed, saying, "Then, by all means, what are your orders, baby cousin?"

Titaiaja bravely rose to her feet. "Brother, remember: peace and reconciliation." She gently turned her brother's eyes into hers. "It's what Father wanted."

Ysbaddaden blinked, and for a brief moment, his features softened. He gently felt the red area on his sister's cheek that had already started to swell. "I-I struck you?"

Titaiaja smiled to reassure him. "It's all right."

Ysbaddaden kissed her on the cheek and turned to regard the wizards. "Out of respect for my father, the only 'peace' I offer is for you to leave in peace." The glower returned to his eyes. "But there will be NO reconciliation! If the stick-monkeys want war, WE WILL GIVE THEM A WAR!"

Roars of bloodlust and vengeance drowned the wails of those that mourned. At the Gurg's command, Rogg, along with two guards, escorted the wizards from the camp. No one spoke until they were beyond the spires.

Ever the optimist Dumbledore made one last entreaty. "Rogg, surely you know that the Sickness is affecting you all like a contagion."

Rogg smiled. "Yes, as I'm sure it was also the Sickness that burned a hole though Ozymandias' chest."

"We've been set up, Rogg," Moody said. "We are not your enemy."

Rogg gave his parting command to the guards. "If they're not gone in thirty seconds, kill them." He regarded the humans one last time, snorted and left.

Moody clenched his fist, ignoring the pain in his hand. "Professor, if we're to have any chance of finding out the truth, it is imperative we go back to that crime scene."

Edgar kept one nervous eye on the guards and the other on his pocket watch. "I don't think going back is an option, gents."

When Moody looked to her in appeal, Shacklebolt shook her head. "My orders are to see to it that we return safely."

"With all due respect, sir, that's trollshit!"

"Use your head, Auror," Shacklebolt scolded quietly. "We've been outmaneuvered. Now is not the time for blind heroics."

"I must agree with Auror Shacklebolt," Dumbledore said.

Moody continued in protest. "But he was your friend."

Dumbledore's reddened eyes glared at the young wizard. His voice was on the verge of cracking when he spoke. "A fact of which I am acutely aware, Alastor."

Shacklebolt motioned toward her bracelet.

BAM!