The Gloaming of the Gods

His hands worked steadily, rhythmically. He folded neatly the clothes to be packed in his travel bag. He needed his body to betray no weakness; no tremor or anguish quivering like a lodged arrow. He needed the outward calm, and so he willed it to be. This, perhaps, was the first test. For the very act of moving on was both a flag of surrender and a battle cry, inexplicably bound together with a thin steel band of pain.

The measured movements of his hands stilled when they touched the dusk-colored robes hanging by the bed. Albus brought the soft wool to his face and closed his eyes as he inhaled the faint citrus smell of her still clinging to the garment. He wondered how long the scent of lemons would cling to his clothing; to his skin and his beard. He mourned prematurely for the day when he would find no trace of it. Not the first test, then. Surely the first test had been the act of physically releasing her warm flesh from his grasp. His hands ached with their emptiness.

A throat was cld frd from the doorway, and he folded the robe and placed it in his bag as Nicholas entered the small bedroom. He watched the older man as he stood in front of the window and clasped his hands behind his back, studying an invisible point in the distance.

"I suppose it is fitting for you to go to Hogwarts. Well, I will miss you, you know…but of course you made the right decision."

Albus smiled.

"I won't beat about the bush, Albus. You know I was Grand Master of the Prieure de Sion during my natural life, and you must know I am still in the main Council, the Rose-Croix. They have charged me to present you with one of the keys. There is an open seat, and it is yours."

Nicholas turned to face him. "Are you ready to take your rightful place, Albus?"

"My rightful place. I don't know that I deserve that seat. I have, of course, always been cognizant of the society and it's watch…but induction into the inner Council is quite an honor."

"There is more reason to the invitation than your bloodline, Albus. The Prieure always seeks enlightened, powerful people. You are a great asset. And we know you are marked for a great role."

"Yes…but what if my path takes me in a path divergent from the Prieure?"

"I have a feeling, Albus, that you will need the Council when the time comes, and that the paths will merge as one."

The two men looked at each other in silence for a moment, then Albus straightened and said, "I thank the Rose-Croix for this honor."

Nicholas smiled and laid a hand on his shoulder. "May we walk together in the name of the Veil, and meet again on the other side of it."

He pressed a small triangular piece of gold into Albus's palm.

"Good luck, Albus Dumbledore."

The courtyard held ghosts of memories that were too near the current pain, and so Albus did not linger but made his way quickly to the gate.

Velutha stood there watching him, solemn and quiet. Albus stopped before him and stretched out his palm to touch the dark head.

"Take care, Velutha, and be happy."

The boy regarded him with his deep chocolate eyes, filled with a secret he could read somewhere deep in his belly.

"You have to wait 'til the evening to know how good the day's been. That's what Herself says."

Albus looked at the boy and realized that these were the first words he had ever spoken to him.

"I wonder if the same can be said about a life," he replied seriously.

Velutha opened the gate for him, and waited as the hinges creaked and groaned.

" I will let you know, " he said gravely, " when we meet again."

~~**~~**~~

Freya leaned over a bed, and pressed her lips to her father's cheek. The skin felt thin like paper, with death waiting in wrinkled lines of ink.

She stared at the reflection in the mirror, which did not look like her at all, but like a different woman. The hair was the same earthy brown as her own, and the eyes the same green. The individual features of the face and the length of each limb could be ascribed to her, and she could feel the weight of the cream fabric gown skimming over the curve of her hips in the mirror.

But Freya could feel warm paths etched into her skin where his hands had traveled, and burning patches where his lips had touched. The mirror woman was unmarked. This was how she knew that the reflected image was an imposter. Were the image to be true, it would show angry red lines and welts over her flesh.

She walked alone up the aisle hung with green, flowering things, and felt each movement of each muscle in her legs. She moved as if each footfall could create an earthquake beneath her weight, but felt strangely disconnected, as she could not feel the ground beneath the soles of her feet. The leather of her slippers separated them.

Her voice was clear and strong as she said her vows, and it carried through the chapel. She raised her arm to lift the veil on her own, and the guests were struck with the grace of the gesture. There was a certain fluidity in the movement of a talented witch's wand arm.

As she exited on the arm of her new husband, she glanced into the stained glass of the windows to see if the mirror woman remained, but her face was reflected back in a sliver of scarlet prism, so she could not distinguish between the real reflection and the imagined one.