Heroes (Edit, Not Update)

Chapter 13 ~ In the ROR

When Artimus awoke curled around Dahlia the next morning, his attitude about sex had altered significantly, the adjustment in attitude probably having a lot to do with his usual morning hard-on. He snuggled against the sorceress, pressing his swollen organ into her large cushy buttocks.

Her eyelids fluttered.

Artimus pulled her long hair back, nuzzled then kissed her throat, rubbing himself against her sexily.

”Wakey, wakey,” he crooned as she shifted and sighed, turning her head, her sleepy hazel eyes opening, looking into his heated eyes as he kissed her lips gently.

”What time is it?” she asked him softly as one of his hands moved over her belly, pulling up her t-shirt and smoothing over her skin.

”Time to feed the animal,” he said with a smirk, poking her in the ass boldly now.

Poked fully awake, Dahlia suddenly sat up, pulling out of Artimus’ arms.

”Hey now,” the wizard scowled, “I need you lying down . . . unless . . . well I don’t mind playing buckaroo.”

Artimus obligingly rolled to his back and pulled down the front of his boxers, his large pink cock popping to attention, straight, throbbing and ready for action.

”Hop aboard,” the sorcerer grinned at Dahlia.

They had the easy banter of two people comfortable with each other and used to having a bit of fun between the sheets as well as passion.

Instead, Dahlia hopped out of bed.

”Hey,” Artimus protested, his dark eyes resting on her t-shirt and panty-clad bottom.

Cletus, those curves.

” . . .is for Steede. I’ve got to go do my morning workout, Artimus, plus I’m not in the mood. I’m not comfortable enough,” she said, looking over at the silent mirror.

It might not be saying anything, but Dahlia had a sneaking suspicion it could still see.

”I’ll cover up the mirror with a sheet,” Artimus offered, stroking his erection and looking at her longingly. Hell, maybe he could tackle her.

”No, I really want to go work out Artimus. Besides, you spent the whole day with Steede yesterday. Don’t you think I need a bit of quality time too before you climb all over me?” she asked him, her hands on her hips.

”I’m trying to give you quality time,” he replied, thrusting his hips up a little and making his organ sway . . . hopefully invitingly. “I’ve got one hundred percent beef right here for you Dahlia. Unprocessed and no fillers. You can’t get better quality than that.”

Dahlia chuckled despite herself. Artimus was so cute when he was horny. Still, she had things to do. Working out was just one of them.

”I said no, and I mean no, Artimus. Maybe tonight, all right?”

Dahlia walked into the bathroom, her luscious, shifting bottom rolling right behind.

Artimus lay in the bed scowling, wondering if he’d be able to overcome the sorceress if he went for her when she came out of the bathroom. The two lovers had an understanding of sorts, and liked their sex a bit on the rough, wild side, though there were tender moments too. Their sexual relationship could be summed up in six simple little words:

To the Victor goes the Spoils.

That worked both ways of course. Dahlia could throw Artimus on his ass quite easily, and often did when he decided to go Neanderthal on her, but it was a fun game . . . and she did “Horny, Demanding, Semi-Sadistic Cavewoman” quite well. Sometimes there was a bruise or two, but that was all part of the process.

”Don’t try it, Artimus. I can hear you plotting from here,” Dahlia said, unrolling some toilet paper as she sat on the loo.

“What do you mean you can ‘hear’ me? I’m not saying anything,” he groused, knowing her warning meant that most likely she’d wrestle him into submission and he still wouldn’t get anything. Sometimes when Dahlia beat him, she’d take sexual control, but it was easy to see she wasn’t having it today.

Damn it.

Artimus pulled his boxers back up with a scowl, letting the elastic snap loudly as Dahlia flushed the loo and gave herself a light wash-up. She’d shower after her workout.

”Bluebell?” she called hopefully.

Instantly, the elf winked in. She couldn’t see into Dahlia’s mind but she could listen for her diligently. She bowed.

”Good morning, Miss,” the house elf squeaked, carrying her clothing from yesterday, cleaned and folded.

”Good morning, Bluebell,” Dahlia greeted her as she started brushing her teeth.

In the bed, Artimus let out a groan. The house elf’s arrival was the final proof there’d be no snatch attack this morning. As Bluebell walked out of the bathroom and put away Dahlia’s clean clothes, Artimus rolled back over and bad-naturedly pulled the pillow over his head, not that pouting ever worked with Dahlia.

He could hear Dahlia talking in muffled tones to the elf, and the elf replying for several minutes. Then there was silence. Slowly he pulled the pillow off his head, and sat up, looking toward the open door of the bathroom. He didn’t see Dahlia.

He got out of bed, his boxers still tented and padded into the bathroom.

Both elf and sorceress were gone.

Artimus sighed and used the loo, lifting the seat, grasping the base of his swollen organ and aiming it so he’d hit a little chipped spot at the back of the bowl.

Bull’s eye.

”Well, I least I hit something this morning,” the sorcerer growled, shaking himself off, flushing the loo and removing his boxers.

He’d just take a shower and call Kreacher then. Maybe after breakfast, the elf could find him a bit of weed.

Of course, he’d have to find out if it were “allowed” first.

*********************************

Dahlia had a nice little workout in the Room of Requirement. It seemed to function fine for the sorceress, although all it needed to provide were mats as Dahlia went through her dance. Bluebell watched fascinated.

”I never sees anyone works out this way,” she said to Dahlia as she twisted and dipped her body rhythmically, slipping and locking up opponents in her mind as she did so. “It looks like you dances.”

Dahlia gave the elf a small smile, but didn’t answer, then frowned slightly as she remembered what Gregory called her workout, “The Dance of Death.”

Dahlia wished he were wrong, but he wasn’t. Whenever she met clerics she had to use her skills to kill them . . . to keep them from coming back. Her aikido skills were being used for more than self-defense, they were being used to purposely take lives. He sensei would be so disappointed in her.

But . . . this was war . . . and in this case, killing clerics was self-defense, because if they lived, they would just return. Any sorcerer they captured would be killed as well, so the violence was necessary, even if the use of it always left her feeling as if there were boulders in her belly. There had to be a way to end the madness. One day her dance wouldn’t be a dance of Death, but one of joy, freedom and simple skill.

Dahlia hair was twisted into a tight bun and she wore white trainers, white sweat pants and a white t-shirt that clung wetly to her body, a black sports bra visible underneath. Despite how fluid and easy her moves appeared to be, they were performed with intense focus and concentration and the sorceress perspired freely.

After about forty-five minutes, Dahlia completed her workout, a fluffy white towel appearing at her feet. She wiped herself off and the towel disappeared out of her hands the moment she was finished. The mats disappeared as well.

”This is quite a handy room,” she said to Bluebell, who nodded.

”Yes. It gives you what you needs,” the elf said.

”Really? Anything?” Dahlia asked her.

”Yes, but no people. Just places and objects,” the elf replied.

Dahlia’s brows furrowed.

”Places? What do you mean places?” Dahlia asked the elf.

Suddenly a door fuzzed into the far wall. It wasn’t a very exciting looking door. Just made of wood with an ordinary knob.

”What’s that?” Dahlia asked the elf, who shrugged.

”Bluebell doesn’t know. You musts looks,” the elf said.

Dahlia slowly walked over to the door and pulled it open, blinking as sunlight flooded the room. There were rolling green fields, a huge white . . .building, like a castle or citadel in the distance. People in medieval clothing walked about, leading horses drawing carts, carrying bundles.

”What in the world?” she said softly, then froze as several men in robes ran towards her, waving clubs.

”Holy shit! Clerics!” Dahlia yelled, slamming the door closed. It immediately disappeared.

She looked at Bluebell with wide, disbelieving eyes.

”That was Damar,” she breathed, “that was the city of the Antimage.”

”What is Damar?” the little elf inquired, looking up at the sorceress.

”Damar is the answer to ending this war,” she breathed, then grasped Bluebell’s hand.

”Take me to Artimus, quickly!” she commanded.

They winked out.

*****************************

Argus Filch happily finished polishing the last set of manacles, so they shined brightly. He added them to the pile on the counter. He was in his cramped quarters, preparing for his new role as Dungeon Master. He couldn’t wait to get his arthritic hands on a student and fling him or her into the cell.

”Oh, Headmaster Snape is a blessing, a blessing for sure,” the frazzled old caretaker breathed. “Finally old Filch is going to get some satisfaction, yes.”

He gathered up the manacles and departed, his scraggly hair swinging and chains clanking merrily as he hobbled along, Miss Norris, a descendent of the original Mrs. Norris, trailing behind him, her tail held high like a standard as they marched toward the subdungeons, passing students looking at what the old caretaker carried with horror as they headed for breakfast.

As soon as the door closed, Kreacher winked in, looking around carefully.

”The old squib is gone,” Kreacher said to himself, walking up to the small twin bed against the far wall and lifting the mattress. He pulled out a small cigar box and set it on the bed, opening it with one clawed hand and peering at the contents, his bat-like ears fluttering as the scent hit him.

”Yes, Sorcerer Rogue will likes this Happy Smoke,” the old elf said, nodding, then picking up one of the little baggies that rested in Filch’s personal stash.

He filled it with marijuana, carefully closed the bag and pocketed it, plucked out a couple of rolling papers, pocketed those as well, then returned the stash to its hiding place.

Grinning horrendously, the elf winked out, heading for Artimus . . . knowing he had provided very good service this time. Technically, marijuana wasn’t legal, but tolerated at Hogwarts provided it was used with discretion by adults past the age of consent.

Filch had his little stash of potent weed for purely medicinal purposes of course. He claimed it helped his arthritis.

Judging by how long Filch had been smoking pot, he must have come down with the malady around the age of sixteen, poor soul and suffered with it ever since.

One thing we could be sure of, however.

Old Kreacher knew many, many secrets.

********************************

Artimus was just rolling the last joint up when an exciting Dahlia winked in, running up to the seat sorcerer immediately, then stopping . . . her eyes narrowing as she looked at the three joints on the coffee table. Kreacher stood by, smiling proudly. Sorcerer Rogue had been very, very pleased with the Happy Smoke.

“Where did you get that?” she demanded, pointing at the weed.

Artimus nodded toward Kreacher.

”Excellent service provided by my house elf of many hats,” Artimus replied, grinning at creature. “They should call him a concierge rather than a servant. He can find anything.”

Kreacher visibly swelled at the praise.

Dahlia looked at the weed consideringly.

”Is it any good?” she asked him.

Artimus showed her his sticky fingertips and she blinked.

”Be sure to save one of those for tonight,’ she said, then got down to the business at hand.

“Artimus,” she said breathlessly, “I saw . . . Damar.”

Artimus looked at her, then down at the joints on the table, then at Bluebell.

”Are you sure you haven’t been smoking, Dahlia?” he asked her, pocketing the joints and studying her.

”No, I haven’t been smoking! I saw it. A door opened on it in the Room of Requirement. The holy city itself, Artimus! I could have walked through and been there,” she said, her voice full of excitement.

Artimus snorted.

”It had to be an illusion,” he said, “how could any door in this place open on Damar? They know nothing about the Antimage.”

”Maybe the wizards don’t, but this room, it’s . . . it’s special Artimus. It provides what’s needed, or possibly what you dearly want,” she said softly.

”But a whole city, Dahlia? I find that hard to believe. It doesn’t follow the laws of physics either. For a door to open up on Damar from here, when no one even knows the coordinates . . .”

Suddenly, Dahlia caught the sorcerer’s wrist and twisted Artimus’ arm behind his back, holding his shoulder as a brace. She didn’t hurt him, but she could if he didn’t listen.

”God damn it, Artimus . . . don’t question me on this. I know what I saw. There were even a couple of surprised and pissed off clerics present, as well as ordinary citizens. And I saw a big white palace of some kind . . .”

Artimus stiffened when she said this. He had been to the holy city on several occasions, and not by choice, but he had never described it to anyone because hardly anyone believe he’d been there.

No one escaped Damar even once and he had done it three times. He had the Bleeder marks to prove it.

But there was a white palace . . . or citadel, a huge place that housed the Antimage, his clerics and his offices and church. How would Dahlia know this if she hadn’t seen it?

”Let me go, Dahlia, and take me to this room,” he said, his eyes hard.

Access to Damar?

He had been waiting for this since he was eighteen years old and clerics slaughtered his parents right in front of their neighbors. He had been somewhere else, on a quest for knowledge concerning his biological father. His last name was Rogue, the name of his adopted father, but when he turned eighteen, his mother presented him with a ring and told him the name of his true sire, Rota Carr. She said he was a Lemurian.

Artimus had been hurt and angry, although his father Elijah loved him dearly. He told his mother she was making up stories and to tell him the truth, but she didn’t have anything more to tell him. When she met Rota Carr she had been a new addict on the streets of New York. She was eighteen and had ran away from her stepfather, who raped her after her mother died a few months before. She had slept with Rota to get money for drugs. Instead, he temporarily removed her addiction, gave her his entire billfold which contained quite a bit of money and gave her a new start in life. She moved to Quaker, Missouri where the “Friends” had a small facility for women in trouble. She met a young Quaker named Elijah Rogue and married him shortly before Artimus was born.

”There is no such place as Lemuria!” he raged at her

But he found that there was such a place, and that his relatives were less than overjoyed to see him, although they were quite happy to see his ring, which they tried to kill him for. He barely escaped with his life. When he returned, his house was encircled with police tape, his parents buried, his half-sister living with relatives a few towns over and his fellow Quakers apologized for not being able to save his parents.

They were pacifists after all.

And up to that day so was Artimus.

Now . . . despite how mellow and caring the sorcerer was perceived to be, when it came to clerics . . . he was a killer. Up to this point, they had all the advantage. No one could find Damar, but clerics could walk through puddles with the aid of prayers and carry off sorcerers at will in the magical realm as well as in the normal world. No one ever saw them coming until they were there.

But now . . . if there were a way to Damar . . .

everything could change.

************************************

A/N: Of course you all know, that I can’t let them take Damar in any fashion. But I can let everyone meet the bad guys. And, believe me . . . they’re bad. But it’s getting interesting. Lol about Filch’s stash. Heh heh. Anyw