Better at Digging Graves
Harry was annoyed. Not long after the Express had arrived at Kings Cross, and he had found a sufficiently forested area to slip through, he had made his way to a library in Cymru, intent on researching funerary rites amongst Christians. The only problem was that he had located information regarding the four segments of the full process, namely the Conveyance of the Body, the Ceremony in the Church, the Final Commendation and Farewell, and the Ceremony by the Graveside. Notable, however, and the cause of his annoyance, was the lack of information he had found when it came to the actual verbiage of the rites. The most he had managed to locate was the use of a series of prayers titled the Office of the Dead.
Thus, where the normal had failed, the paranormal might succeed. Which meant a trip to Diagon Alley. Which was how he had found himself in Flourish and Blotts.
Wandering through the aisles of the store, Harry finally found a small book in the History section titled “History of The Pellarastic Rite.” Picking it up, he began to skim read, not willing to purchase it unless it would be of use to him.
Chapter One: What?
Those Pellars raised within Pellaras’ settlements will doubtless know a small bit about the Pellarastic Church. Those raised within Pellaras’ borders, though not the settlements or by acclimated citizens, will doubtless be confused. The Church itself is a schismatic one, and the primary reason for Pellaras signing the International Statute of Secrecy. We differ in two ways, chiefly. In the effects of our Savior’s Precious Blood, and the funerary rites practiced by Pellarastic Christians.
Reading further, Harry learned of the initiatory nature of Pellarastic Christianity, insofar as one had to be baptized within the Basilica of the Arcane to become part of any Pellarastic congregation and, thus, be informed about the rites and ceremonies practiced by members of the faith.
“Mystery religion.” He muttered to himself before looking to Artorius. “Well, that certainly complicates things, doesn’t it?”
After paying for the book, Harry made his way to a small fountain in a courtyard off the main alley, pulled a bottle of strawberry juice (pulp-free, thank you very much), and turned his head slightly to look at Lenore after drinking some of the liquid.
“Mystery religions tend not to have records of their rites.” He whispered to the raven. “But that doesn’t mean there can’t be any records, even if they might be legally prohibited. Would you think Knockturn Alley to have them?”
A sharp, loud caw.
“Well, Knockturn it is then.”
As Harry walked through the dour alleyway, he looked at the people scattering out of the way as they caught sight of Artorius. They looked… destitute. A good deal of them were in one manner or another of the Folk, if their sound was to be believed, and the glimpse of what seemed to be a gwyll was any indication. Yet another reason Harry collected to dislike this society, this nation of Pellaras. Seeing the state that such a proud, free race of beings had been consigned to, had been imprisoned in, led to the beginning of a secondary goal, one no less important than that of freeing the elves, yet one that would have to happen afterward.
As he turned those thoughts over in his head, he finally found a store that seemed to sell books, based on the window front. Moribund’s, according to the sign. Greeted by a bell’s ring as he opened the door, Harry proceeded to meander through the shelving, eventually happening on a section simply titled “Mysteries.” Glancing over the shelves, he saw titles dedicated to the Cult at Eleusis, the Dionysian Mysteries, the Cult of Mithras, and a handful of others before alighting on what seemed a relevant title. “The Manifold Mysteries of the Pellarastic Rite.” Giving it a brief skim, Harry found it was, in fact, relevant to his research. After a quick exchange of galleons, Harry made his way out of the store, making his way to a wooded park he had heard about, curious if he would find an entrance to Annwn.
As he made his way through the alleyways, he sighed to himself. All of the people’s songs around him shifted and moved further away or came closer. Bar two. They maintained a consistent volume, as though the magicians from whom they emanated were following him. Giving Artorius a questioning look and receiving a mixture of a whuff and a growl, Harry decided to humor them. Finally finding the park, he made his way to the wooded area, wandering into the deeper thickets, all the while hearing the songs following him.
Coming to a standstill. Harry raised his lyre, struck a simple tune, and began to sing.
“I saw a fair maiden, sitting and sing,
She lulled a little child a sweet
lording
Lullay, mine Liking, my dear Son, mine
Sweeting,
Lullay, my dear heart, mine own dear
darling.”
As he sang, the steps approaching him began to slow down, each foot scraping across the ground as the words flowed from his mouth. By the time he had finished the refrain, the two beings had fallen to the floor, slight snoring noises emitting from their mouths. Wandering over, he saw two men. One was a muscular man, broad in the chest, with a thin, black-colored mustache bedecking his lip, matching his short-cropped hair. In contrast to the tall, bluntly featured man with long, white-blond hair who was wearing the traditional houppelande he had come to expect from magicians – if a significantly more regal looking one, jewel-encrusted as it was – the broad-chested man wore what looked to be a simple tunic, one with the sleeves removed and the raw edges hemmed in, an imitation of a houppelande over top, with buttons outside of their closures.
On his bare arms, Harry could see a patchwork of scars, though only one truly drew his attention. It was rather large, a shield with two keys behind it, and on the shield itself a figure eight, vaguely serpentine given the ellipse near the top, twirling around a capital letter T. Looking at it closer, Harry dug through his satchel, recovering a more recent history book, one covering the Blood Crusade, and paged through it, landing on a full page photograph. Looking at the page, then the scar, Harry hummed.
“Artorius, Lenore, do you suppose that scar resembles that which decorated convicted Knights of Walpurgis?”
Feeling Lenore shift on his shoulder, Harry knelt next to Artorius so they could both see the image. Receiving a caw and bark, respectively, Harry returned the book to his bag before turning to look at the men, humming as he leaned against his staff. Looking around and spying a cairn nearby, Harry alighted on an idea. Walking up to the stones, keeping his mind on the man he had examined, he began to beat a steady rhythm such that the bell attached to it rang in concert with the tune. As he maintained the tune, wisps of something that looked to be mist coalesced, gathering slowly – yet ever so surely – into the shape of a woman.
Her hair went down to the middle of her torso, pulled back to highlight her forehead – an effect accented by the gable hood – the color a light flaxen yellow that was complemented by the pale blue, high-neckline doublet and skirt – which was clearly being supported by a petticoat – both edged in a deep green. Adorning her neck was a necklace of twelve settings, each set with the precious stones adorning Aaron’s breastplate – and those said to form the arch to Heaven – ending with a small, sealed vial. Taking a breath, Harry thought he smelled a hint of frankincense.
“Greeting’s Spirit.”
“What business have you, summoning me as you have foul necromancer?” The woman demanded, giving Harry an imperious glare.
“I believe you’ve a relation with the muscular man who happens to be unconscious?”
Floating over, the woman’s face softened, now mournful in nature.
“Oh, my darling Walden.” She whispered. “You would forsake yourself upon the words of a Gnostic? My dear sweet son.”
“The mother, I presume?” Harry asked from her side, having followed.
“Yes…” Walden’s mother answered. “A mother to one who would cast away his own soul in the hopes of greater power.”
“And if he could be punished prior to Judgement?”
“Were he able to be led back to the path of our Savior, I would argue not. But to have been marked for a heresy… I fear there is no return for him.”
“Your… issue is with the heresy? Not the indiscriminate murder of magician’s not born to other magician’s? Or the murder of sapient non-human beings?”
“A non-issue.” She responded, waving her hand. “They come from those not born with innate grace, stealing the Disciples’ blood through profane, demonic rites.”
Sighing to himself, Harry politely dismissed the spirit before taking the men’s wands and spiriting them to Annwn, awakening them after ensuring they wouldn’t see him, then wandering off to find a place to read his new material. Hopefully the Huntsman would appreciate new human prey.