The Madness of the Fae
1. A World of Gods
The city has fallen.
Smoke hangs low over the buildings, a dark cloud casting black shadow pall. The streets are quiet and empty; it’s not the peaceful kind of silence that follows a heavy rain, or that fills a town while the residents are inside with loved ones, sharing a meal, but rather the kind of doomed silence that fills a forest as a predator stalks among the pines.
“What is a god to you?” The question isn’t entirely unexpected, but it surprises him all the same.
What does a ‘god’ mean to him? How can he ever answer something like that? How can he even think of an answer to that? His mind always rumbles along in a rough jumble, and pulling an answer together feels impossibly like yanking a rooted tooth out of his own mouth.
“I—” he begins with the hope that the words might just come, might just burst forth from his unconscious mind. Not at first, however, so he sits there quiet and silent and the scent of smoke burns in his lungs.
He remembers when the city falls: the sun simmers red, the entire sky scarlet, the crack of flames, the slow tumble of buildings, the whole world hanging in slow motion.
It is his final act of violence.
His promise to them, to The Rest.
“This is a world of gods, isn’t it? They linger rather everywhere. I think we all like to pretend we’re gods though, that we’re worshipped and valued. But, really, we’re just selfish, needy, and egotistical.”
Her voice is kind, soft and wrapped in cotton, “I’m glad you stayed.”
2. The Godsdamned Fae
It is strange, that thrust back into the ‘real’ world. It slides around him, wet-bodied: damp fur, claw and fin.
The rain feels like the ocean, icy, full of salt.
He frowns.
The walk out of the bog is slow and treacherous but necessary: apparation would be too easy.
Or maybe the Fae messes with his magic still... Maybe he just won’t admit it to himself.
◎◎◎
The office spell-light is harsh, too blue and too bright.
The room feels sterile. So far from the abundant nature of the Fae.
But it’s empty, surprisingly. No one is at their desk and the only noise comes from the clank of the alert board and soft winging of memos. He glances at the command centre, a cluster of red cloaks visible through the glass.
Shrugging, he makes his way over, picking between the desks in a winding path, avoiding the casual mess of life the Auror office is made of.
“—nd you, Jones, Purdue, set up Team B with a recon—” Robards cuts off abruptly as Harry opens the door.
The tactic board is filled with scribbles and marks, the command post packed full of every Auror. The map is familiar, the winding train tracks a steady tick mark from left to right.
“All this for me?” he asks.
In a rush, his unit, his calvary pushes aside everyone in their way to surround him, their voices clamouring over one another.
“—made it back—”
“—tried to follow you along the appari—”
“—sir! Thank god you’re safe—”
“—elcome back, Commander.”
He grins.
Robards pushes roughly through the excited crowd. “Potter, debrief. Now.” Right to the point Robards is, never one to mince words. He leads Harry from the situation room into an interrogation room.
“It’s been eightdays, Potter. Eight days since the disaster with the train. Eight godsdamn days since I had to tell Fawley’s family she’d been killed in action. Where the hell have you been?”
“The Fae, sir.”
Robards glares at him, scowling.
Harry has never really cared for the man. He’s been unpleasant ever since Harry first signed up with the Aurors right out of Hogwarts. After the whole ‘Voldemort thing,’ the Ministry had only been too willing to let Harry have his pick of jobs. And even after Harry has proved himself over and over, Robards still holds it against him. Rather childishly, if he’s honest.
“The Fae,” he mocks. “You and the godsdamn Fae.”
The anger that’s been roiling inside Harry ever since the confrontation with Him , prickles into life again, small purple flames rupturing around his head.
Robards eyes go quick and wild and he takes a small step back. A crude splotched flush creeps up his neck as his shock turns irate.
“Reign it the fuck in, Potter!” he barks. “I’ve made do with your freakishness for too fucking long. The least you can do is fucking control it. Now, sit!”
Harry’s jaw aches.
But he sits anyway, and with deep breaths he pulls back on his anger and tells Robards what happened.
If abridged, a bit…
3. Roving of Your Eyes
She wonders, often, of her own usefulness.
“Darling,” he’ll whisper in her ear late at night or early in the morning, breath stirring her hair. And maybe he can feel the agitate of her thoughts or maybe they’re louder than she expects but he pulls her close and he’s warm against her.
“Usefulness,” he likes to say, “is an abhorrent marker to rely upon.”
She laughs, the first time he says it. “What does that even mean?”
“Darling,” (a soft whisper, no room for placations), “rouse yourself from this dream.”
She wonders, often, of her own usefulness.
They come to pray at the feet of the altars, with small gifts and incense. But there’s nothing she can do, beyond stir the breeze, rustle their clothing, pull at their hair with a tender caress.
“You know, I’m glad you stayed,” she says, smiling. “I’m so glad you came back.”
He holds her tighter.
◎◎◎
When the city falls and the sky turns red and smoke settles low between the tall buildings, they march with The Rest through the streets. The gauze of their clothing turned indelicate and brittle.
It shouldn’t be surprising, really, that this is the outcome, that the city would come to be sacked at their feet, but she still finds herself slightly astonished to be here, almost numb, barely feeling the cobblestones beneath her feet.
Maybe a bit distressed, even.
Was it always supposed to be this way?
It’s not as if the violence shocks her, she was raised amongst it, mired in its depths, her hands stained ever since she was a child.
Rather, she ponders her own lack of care. She wonders why the world feels like cotton around her, like down pillows, smothering and thick.
Scarlet, the sun reflects dirty off of the river—debris filled and packed with the dead. Little glimpses of water flash the hanging eye of the sun back at her, and it stares on, baleful and dark, a wicked demon in the sky.
It just watches on as they slaughter and kill with The Rest of them, the largest Hunt of all.
There are no fetters here.
For, there will be no prisoners.
◎◎◎
It is a moonless night when He first gives the orders, voice a caliginous burl, the rough marl of steel.
“Our little human,” He says, snide and derisive, “has returned. And with him, we’ve found our way. It is time. The Harrowing shall finally begin.”
He turns black, ink dripping across the gauze as the shell of the doorway falls back, and they ( Him , The Rest) step out into the mortal world.
She looks for something on Harry’s face, anything really. A trace of devastation or loss, maybe even regret?
But there’s nothing there.
He catches her gaze and looks down, a terrible grin pulling wide and monstrous across his face.
And she can’t help but join in, wretched in her own glee. He reaches down and takes her hand in his.
Maybe it’s time to stop searching for things that have been lost for a long, long time.
4. Calamity
Each hard poke of Robards finger leaves a small bruise on Harry’s chest.
He’ll stare at it later in the mirror—under the crackling fluorescent light in his dingy flat’s bathroom—a splotchy purple mark, green at the edges, contrasting against his pale skin.
Veins are there as well, a mire of purple, blue, and green, a web twisted underneath skin.
The pain (as he presses hard against the bruise) is numbing and raw, and he feels a bit like a leaf in Autumn. Gone dry and crackly.
He should never have gone back. He should never have followed her.
The small splinter of the Fae has turned: tainting him, polluting his mind.
5. The Start
It isn’t one thing, really. But a whole lot of things that just build and build and build, one on top of the other…
Walking to work in the morning allows him some time to think. It seems lately that there’s more and more for him to mull about: the Calvary’s drive is drying up, and maybe it’s because Harry’s lost his edge, or, maybe he’s just lost the passion behind his mission.
The Fae, it festers.
It’s a gloomy day, with low clouds and the promise of rain. Each footstep sounds dull upon the pavement.
His boots feel too small.
But he walks on. And they walk beside him.
They first appear on one of his sleepless nights ( which night? Well, he doesn’t remember, they’ve all blended together at this point) gaunt faces in the corner of his eyes, staring with bruised and purpled eyes sunk deep. They just stare and stare and–
He shakes his head. It’s most likely just the lack of sleep, he tells himself, he just needs the sleep.
But, sleep doesn’t help. Neither do potions.
Slowly, the faces turn to shadowy figures, tall and unbearably thin, draped in murky cloaks. They’re always there, bogging his footsteps, lurking outside his office door, leering at anyone who walks by.
His eyes ache. His hand hurts from clenching the quill too hard.
The Fae, it festers, afterall.
He’s forgotten what he’s living for. All purpose leached away.
(And the food will turn sandy and dry in his mouth as he watches their long arms and long fingers creep around the edges of the doorway, and, trembling, he drops his fork with a clang, pushing the plate away.
Then, one morning he’ll walk into the situation room and the whole unit will go silent, as if their discontented mutterings weren’t audible from the hall, as if he hasn’t grown used to their side-eye looks and long stares).
He comes home from work, exhaustion crawling up his spine digging fingers into his brain, and collapses into one of the kitchen chairs, bag sprawling across the floor, spilling papers.
It’s been a long day.
He catches a glimpse of himself in the hallway mirror, on the way to a hot shower, and halts dead in his tracks.
He stops looking in mirrors after that.
Maybe this is all for the best.
It feels inevitable, afterall.
6. Dried and Cracking
When the trees begin crawling their way across his bedroom walls– When the shadows grow too tall and their faces crack in two– When their voices grow too loud–
He finds himself back on the moor.
◎◎◎
His dreams have been full lately, crammed to the brim with bloody arms, gauzy robes, dark moors and faerie doors.
And that last glimpse in the mirror pulses in his head, he can’t clear it away! The vision of himself—staring back out of his reflection, eyes hollow, the edges of his body gone gauzy, fuzzing away, smudged like a hand pulled over wet ink—it torments him.
But now, it’s nighttime. The sky is black and there’s not a single sound across the moor.
His socks are soaking wet. In the desperate rush, he’s forgotten shoes, only in pants, socks and a ragged old tee.
Shivering, he stumbles towards the hummock, the door seared like fire in his head.
It’s never a pleasant journey. Squelching and slimy, the floor drops out from beneath him and then, suddenly, he’s back. Back in the Fae.
The air is wet, mist and dew clinging to every leaf, the forest quiet.
And maybe he doesn’t expect it, but his heart stops racing, and he feels solid, real, like he exists once more.
And maybe that’s the worst of it all, that the Fae has come to feel like home, like he’s finally arrived where he belongs.
The splinter of it wormed fully into his heart, grown from small sliver to a full tree, tall limbs stretched through his veins, roots digging their way into his soul.
(The Fae, it festers and festers, until it takes you over, fully and completely).
7. Wet and Peeling
It’s like coming awake after a fever dream, when sleep sloughs away reluctantly, fingers dug into pink matter, grey matter, gripping and ferocious.
He shakes his head, trying to clear it from the remaining cobwebs clinging.
“Welcome back, Harry.” His voice resonates, deep, and echoing.
“I wish it wasn’t, but… it does feel good to be back.”
His smile is wretched and terrible.
The madness trembles along Harry’s edges, and he drifts—gauzy, wet and peeling—into the embrace of the Fae.
8. An Epilogue
They circle one another. Inevitable.
Right and real.
They share one another’s madness. It’s between them, in gauzy embrace, solid and real.
There’s delight in the burn of fire, in the heat of blood, and in the Hunt.
And in the Hunt.
“It’s a whole new world,” she says, smiling.
“It’s our new world,” he agrees and takes her hand.