Echoes of Absence
2nd November 1981
Beyond the Mist, Ulthuan.
Noise could be heard from outside the door to the hall, a shouted command to stop followed by a short pause, the whispered sound of low voices conversing quickly.
The doors burst open, revealing a figure walking at pace into the hall, a tall and graceful physique with high cheekbones and sharp jawline dressed in a deep blue robe head covered with an elaborate matching wizards hat.
The dining hall is vast, with high vaulted ceilings supported by majestic carved pillars adorned with intricate carvings, embellished with frescoes and tapestries that depict scenes of mythology, history, and valour. Shields and banners bearing the symbols of noble houses and heraldic insignias are proudly displayed along the walls.
In the heart of the hall, a finely crafted, long rectangular table of oak dominates the space. Positioned at its head is a woman of remarkable beauty, seated in a majestic chair adorned with enchanting runes and symbols of power. Her hair, flowing as dark as midnight, frames a face with mesmerising brown eyes that exude an unmistakable air of authority. Draped in elegant, flowing robes and adorned with symbolic jewellery, her posture and demeanour convey an undeniable presence.
At his approach she looks up from cutting at the pheasant infront of her. “Loremaster, I do not normally allow such interruptions during meals. I hope for your sake the reason for this interruption is serious enough to justify it.”
“My Lady an owl has arrived through the Mare Caligo Gap bearing news from one of our operatives.”
“What news?"
“Our chosen champion has fallen. Reliable information on how this has occurred is sparse but we are confident this much is accurate.”
The Lady's fingers clenched tightly around an opulent goblet before in a fit of rage and a swift, forceful motion launching it across the room tracing a brief but chaotic arc, spraying garnet coloured liquid along its path.“It has been 328 years since the War of the Four Kingdoms, 328 years since our last attempt, 328 years of waiting, of biding our time, manipulating from the shadows. Not since the Glorious Revolution have we even come so close to the opportune moment to strike. Generations of this family have lived and perished without bringing our enemy to bear. We cannot sit idle for all of eternity!”
“We cannot move until the conditions are correct my lady, the second loss broke us a third would only diminish us further.”
“Then we shall endeavour quickly to create the correct conditions.”
“You believe we shall get the opportunity to manoeuvre someone to fill his role?
“It is fortunate master Teclis through our manipulations that failsafes were put in place. His ideals drew many sycophants and in time one will become disillusioned with the stalemate and seek to restore him.”
“Should we pause all subterfuge operations until such a time so we don’t expose ourselves?”
The Lady sets down her cutlery, her meal half finished, before excusing herself from the chair and beginning to move towards the window. The window itself is grand in scale, allowing light to cascade into the chamber while providing a strategic vantage point over the castle grounds. Adorned with ornate stone carvings that tell silent tales of the skilled craftsmen who shaped them.
“Pause all field activity involving magical operatives to retain manpower for future use. Continue Irish and foreign activities with our mundane forces, if they can strike at political targets outwith that area allow them to do so. It’s imperative we keep the muggles distracted, should they be allowed to discover us our plans will become untenable, the rate of their advance outstrips our own. Attempt to get as many subversive influences close to centres of power to stall legislation that could oppose our goals as possible.”
“It will be done my lady, however I believe our diversionary operation to create conflict in the Falklands may be too advanced to shelve.”
She sighed, the muggles having their gaze fixed half a world away and unable to influence any planned power grab was one of there more devious plans. “So be it” she whispered as he turned to leave.
She looks out gazing at a distant basilica that stands atop an acropolis—a part of the city long since abandoned, now partially collapsed and beginning to exhibit the ravages of time. It is an edifice she still cannot enter, its stone resilient against all thrown against it except entropy. Weathering and gravity gradually laying it low. From this distance, one can still discern the sun catching the inscription lettered in gold on the stone architrave directly over the entrance columns: 'HIC IACET SEPVLTVS ARTVRIVS IN INSVLA AVALONIA.'
Mon 21st December 1981
Godric's Hollow, Exmoor.
The night was auspicious even if the owl was unaware of its importance, its significance evident by the amount of names it had been given. 21st of December, the Winter Solstice, Yule, Saturnalia, Modranicht or Alban Arthan each rendition agreeing the day was sacred, a spiritually significant time. Celebrated as the longest night, the turning point with the promise of returning warmth, the triumph of light over darkness, the overturning of social norms and hierarchies.
The young owl had been drawing compliments from the postal workers for the last seven weeks, beautiful and majestic were regularly being bandied about. Its distinctive soft and pristine snowy-white plumage is a striking contrast from the dull brown and greys in the rest of the owlery. Large golden-yellow eyes that convey striking intelligence, some of the postmasters swore that she understood them.
She’d spent most of her life with a sense of wanderlust, unusual for such a young creature, usually the realm of jaded adults, a slight tug at the back of her mind telling her she needed to travel east was present from the moment she was born. She couldn’t do anything about it, when she hatched she was too small, incapable of flight. Her first attempt at flying had not gone well, at five weeks old she’d flung herself out of the nest where she flew like a brick and landed in a graceless heap on the ground.
It was while she was scrambling around to right herself, undignified on the floor and wondering just how she’d get back to her mothers nook that she decided that it would be best if she put in some more practice before travelling east. So she kept trying, a fear of falling unable to deter her from the joy of flight. Fortunately in the first week of failures a postmaster was always at hand to help her back to her nest, unable to help themselves cooing and whispering words of encouragement.
Now with two more weeks of practice as the sun dipped below the horizon on the shortest day and the owlery became covered in shadow she sat perched near the edge of her cosy nook, her heart a flutter with anticipation.
Her parents were perched across from her atop a large wooden beam in the building's rafters eagerly awaiting the landmark event with a degree of trepidation. The elder owls watched on with a sense of pride, their hoots now a symphony of encouragement, a rite of passage bearing the weight of generations awaiting the initiate flying the coop.
She took a deep breath and a tentative hop to the precipice of the nook and unfurling her wings. She began with a gentle flap before growing confidence, increasing her effort, wings moving at pace, beginning to feel resistance and lift. With a leap of faith she jumped into the unknown encouraged by the embrace of the air.
At first, her flight was uncertain, her wings awkward and unsure. But as the parliament's encouragement grew louder, she felt a surge of determination. With each beat of her wings, the young owl rose higher, her heart swelling with exhilaration and exertion in equal measure.
With relative ease she’d reached one of the owlery exits before landing to take in a newly discovered expanse beyond the safety of the home, the place she’d known all her life. With keen eyes showing the way she spread her wings, embracing the vastness of the night, soaring into the unknown. Her heart raced, and the wind whispered secrets in her ears. She navigated with newfound grace, weaving through moonlit clouds with relative ease, her winged silhouette streaking across the boundless expanse of the sky.
The landscape changed beneath her on a journey beyond the ability of other fledglings. The rugged landscapes of Exmoor give way to rolling fields and quaint market towns each with its own charm and history. As she approached the outskirts of London the scenery shifted dramatically, blinding city lights marking its approach, open expanses giving rise to a metropolis in action.
Wizarding postal owls were slightly faster than truly wild owls, imbued with magic that enhanced speed and endurance. It was a necessity for communication, bred into them after a particularly surly wizard in the 6th century was invited to dinner only to arrive after the last of the wine had been taken, an event he found utterly unacceptable. As such the young owl made good time arriving in Surrey not long before morning perching on top of a lamppost as she got her bearings.
As she neared her goal a peculiar disorientation gripped her, the tug at the back of her brain faltered at an unforeseen obstacle. Unknown to all but Dumbledore the blood wards enacted after placing Harry with his Aunt and Uncle provided a source of ancient and potent protective enchantments, woven into the very fabric of the air, masking the usually reliable connection between wizard and owl, a barrier to entry until given permission to pass.
Confused but undeterred, she flew in circles, gradually reducing in area, hooting softly as if calling out. Her efforts met only with an unsettling silence. The once familiar pull of her target seemed to have vanished as she bounced off the protective cocoon of the extensive blood wards, momentarily sent into a spiralling dive.
She sought a higher vantage point, hoping to pierce through the magical veil that concealed her target from her. The night sky bore witness to a determined owl, her snowy feathers illuminated by the glow of the moon, tirelessly attempting to breach the mystical barriers.
As the night wore on, her efforts persisted, embodying a sense of unwavering curiosity. Yet, the blood wards held firm, veiling her goal from her perception. The pull, while strong, became directionless, yielded to the formidable protections surrounding the child.
Dawn began to break, the lights of the city flicked off and she landed for rest; exhausted and disheartened, temporarily abandoning the search.