Puzzlement
the Black Lodge, unplottable mountain-side, Norway
3rd October 2003
Seeing Luna being scolded for giving out information before consulting me and my advisors by the collective contingent of milaðen is just as upsetting as seeing Andy fall into a dead faint after expending so much energy and time searching for us, and both happened, barely half an hour ago.
Well, but come to think of it again, it may not be the lack of rest and overabundance of stress that caused the poor woman – my poor, poor better-than-Aunt-Petunia aunt – to faint like that.
From the doorway, now also back in my comfiest – human – clothes, I stare at the people crowding the small kitchen of the lodge, now added with the milaðen who were gone checking the rooms and grounds. On the far left corner, a still-woozy Andy is seated, flanked by a concerned Neville and Luna, with a cup of hot, sweetened tea in each of their hands, but they are not my main focus right now.
No, they aren’t. I’m trying to… understand what made Andy faint, without asking the woman myself, which, in my admitedly limited social knowledge and graces, might be a crass thing to do.
It’s far easier to say or think than to do, nevertheless, because I see nothing wrong with those sent by Amma to guard, aid, educate, look after – and, I highly suspect, report on – me. The milaðen, in this “hot-weather form,” look pretty human, with almost uniform black hair but different density as well as shape, pale – sometimes pallid – skin, androgynous features and voices, tall and oftentimes thin built, and variously coloured eyes. Admitedly, I doubt any human would have lavender eye colour naturally, something that Eðlenstr possesses, but it can easily be explained with the increasingly popular invention of contact lenses among the non-magical population. To help them blend in among the humans, I had even been tasked to painstakingly sketch out outfits that were then reproduced by the palace’s tailor for everyone. (And how surprising is that, for a society that prefers to be either nude or garbed only in loincloths, the milaðen do hire tailors to sketch and sew scraps of fabric that they will wear and show off in big and/or important events, to accentuate the silvery markings on their bodies – their kinlines or family lines, their “jitya.”) This not-so-little band hasn’t been visibly, “properly” deferential to me, either, as soon as we have stepped upon Earth’s soil, so as not to attract unwanted attention, by prior arrangement with Amma. And each of them has brought only a pack with them – large, old-fashioned, clearly hand-made and made of leather, true, but still just a normal pack – and also an assortment of pouches tied to their belt, with no weapon in sight. So…?
I fidget with the hem of my baggy T-shirt, then immediately still and compose myself the best that I can, remembering Amma’s oft-repeated, gentle but long-suffering lecture about not giving out tells whenever I can, especially when I am in public.
Oddly and unexpectedly, it’s Andy who notices the no-doubt painfully visible safe and comments on it, in a thready but nonetheless audible voice in this new, strained, awkward silence: “Whatever you did, whatever caused you to behave while you were away, it did a good job in this aspect, at least; better than what I have managed to cram into your head and muscle memory all these years. You do look like a lord of an Ancient and Noble House, now, but for your clothing. If it is not dangerous, you might want to repeat that again, but now after you have informed me where you are going and what you will be doing.”
I must be ruining the image that I have allegedly been portraying, presently, as I gawk uncomprehendingly at her and mutter a quiet “Huh?” Before I can say anything – rectify the matter – to her, however, Elder Kelyari, the eldest milað in the contingent – at approximately ten millennia and five centuries old – and also the unofficial leader of the said contingent, politely grabs my attention and puts forward a request all in one: “Might I speak, Harry?” (Well if there’s a nearly tangible hesitation on the name – my name, still, regardless of anything and everything! – in their quiet, calm, cultured voice that always exudes an “old people” vibe to me, I’d better not comment on that, or this awkward, uncomfortable topic will drag out and even digress to various other things.)
“What would Elder like to speak about?” I carefully return. – Amma has also painstakingly instilled this in me, in addition to speaking in the third person way to an elder person one defers to and treating everyone politely: Never give permission to anybody – including oneself – or agree to go into any situation or contract without first of all knowing what the said permission or agreement entails, to the smallest, slightest detail possible, whenever time and chance permit it.
“The Queen,” they say simply, and I fight hard to conceal my flinch. A very, very weighty topic needing a very, very long time to discuss, that!
Making the situation even worse and more awkward, Andy might suspect that Elder Kelyari wishes to talk about Queen Elizabeth II, because she looks puzzled on hearing their declaration. But, truly, it’s not about her. How to tell her that “the Queen” here is my mother and the said mother is somehow, also, not Lily Potter neé Evans?
Not something I could delegate the telling to anyone else, the offer notwithstanding, I think; too delicate and important and private.
So, resignedly, I instruct the contingent to base themselves in the guest wing of the lodge with Neville’s and Luna’s help, while I face the music – so to say – here and now in the kitchen.
This is a very, very good moment for some divine intervention.
Especially when Elder Kelyari assigns a pair of milaðen to guard and attend me, while they graciously allow themself to be ushered away.
Awesome. Barely here and I am already assigned a couple of minders like a particularly errant child.
And Andy is looking at me with added suspicion.
Oh, God, Merlin, Ýmir, whatever… please!