drafty draft of draftishness
Jan. 18th, 2015 05:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lumenrelegandusThere at last: a fissure in the rocks.
A small concession to their human nature. In this weather, true wolves would simply rest outside. Not wholly immune after all.
Or perhaps they knew someone was coming.
It was gone five, at least. The sun would be rising soon. When proper twilight began it would be beautiful. The lead up, though, he found a bit grisly.
The timing was deliberate—all of it was appallingly deliberate. He'd reconnoitred in daylight when they were sure to be asleep, then apparated to a distance outside of probable hunting range and tried to sleep himself. (Outside. Appropriately.) At nightfall he'd resumed state of alert and was rewarded with the occasional prey-cry; yes, they were hunting. When the Big Dipper pointed 4am past the North Star, and he hadn't heard any such cries for half an hour, he started to hike (not apparate) back to the place.
If he was right, and they tried to follow the internal consistency not strictly required of them (by a certain line of argument), they were done hunting for the night and, by the time he reached them, done eating. They'd be as calm and satisfied as they got before settling in for a good day's sleep.
It seemed the best time to make introductions. Begin more precarious negotiations.
But as he actually faced the place, all he could think was,
I hate you. I hate you I hate you.
Not enough time to wait for the thoughts to pass. —They probably wouldn't. So he used the rhythm of them to get his feet moving toward the fissure.
I hate you. Every Order member who'd ardently recommended he play the mole. (Ha.) Not reveal his true identity or purpose but first try to assimilate as a disenfranchised wizard who'd given up the game and wanted to embrace his "true nature" after all.
I hate you. Dumbledore who, after hearing all the arguments, simply met his eyes with sharp steadiness and said, I believe we must not presume to know more about this than you. And you should trust to your own judgment.
I hate you. For agreeing—the very fact—that he was, inarguably, uniquely suited.
He wished he could be helping Harry.
He had to remind himself that, albeit indirectly, he was.
With which thought he was able to straighten himself for the final steps to the mouth of the cave. And, take up the branch he'd been using as a walking stick, and snap it in two.
(Not the "crack" of apparition. They'd know.)
The sound reverberated to heightened senses down the fissure.
They came.
They didn't show themselves, but they were watching. He dropped the stick, opened his hands, and, as if they couldn't already smell it, said: "My name is Remus. I'm a werewolf too."
* * *
[to be written: 'you've been living among HUMANS.' 'to be exact, i've been living among wizards.' hisses and growls. 'furthermore, i'm here because they sent me.' actual vocalisations of disbelief—not that it was true but that he'd say it. 'they didn't think i should tell you so outright, either. but i'm not going to lie to you. we shouldn't lie to one another.' could be said among any ambassadors… but in this case a concession itself.
their spokeswoman—for, unlike some of the others, she'd been a wizard too: 'you are a werewolf. it doesn't matter you haven't lived as one of us and cling to human or wizard habits. 'blood traitor' is a wizarding concept. we'd be hypocrites not to reject it with all others.'
he closed his eyes. it was just as he'd thought. yes, I do understand them. Damn you, Dumbledore
'but don't expect us to give the slightest credence to anything you say,' she said. 'we will not reject your nature. but neither will we ignore that you have. and that means you can not possibly speak to us honestly.'
well, that was a non-starter. though, also, exactly what he expected.
'may i stay with you nonetheless?' he said. 'i will continue to try to convince you of my reasoning. but i also accept the possibility that i may be… further convinced of… your ways. being mine.'
I hate you i hate you i hate you.
not them. But the Order for making him accept this. and himself for doing so. it felt like… defeat.
mostly because he was terrified that it would work.
they did not need to confer again. either they'd already discussed this, or there was nothing to discuss.
'you are a werewolf,' she repeated. 'so you can stay.'
* * *
[but he'll ultimately find that he is NOT one of them. they're too bloodthirsty and tribalistic and uncaring. and even if his comfort thresholds were different re: hunting and eating raw meat and sleeping with lack of personal boundaries—not of which he objected to but he found were not to his taste—there were some things he just would NOT consider acclimating to.
and was so relieved to discover that about himself.]
A small concession to their human nature. In this weather, true wolves would simply rest outside. Not wholly immune after all.
Or perhaps they knew someone was coming.
It was gone five, at least. The sun would be rising soon. When proper twilight began it would be beautiful. The lead up, though, he found a bit grisly.
The timing was deliberate—all of it was appallingly deliberate. He'd reconnoitred in daylight when they were sure to be asleep, then apparated to a distance outside of probable hunting range and tried to sleep himself. (Outside. Appropriately.) At nightfall he'd resumed state of alert and was rewarded with the occasional prey-cry; yes, they were hunting. When the Big Dipper pointed 4am past the North Star, and he hadn't heard any such cries for half an hour, he started to hike (not apparate) back to the place.
If he was right, and they tried to follow the internal consistency not strictly required of them (by a certain line of argument), they were done hunting for the night and, by the time he reached them, done eating. They'd be as calm and satisfied as they got before settling in for a good day's sleep.
It seemed the best time to make introductions. Begin more precarious negotiations.
But as he actually faced the place, all he could think was,
I hate you. I hate you I hate you.
Not enough time to wait for the thoughts to pass. —They probably wouldn't. So he used the rhythm of them to get his feet moving toward the fissure.
I hate you. Every Order member who'd ardently recommended he play the mole. (Ha.) Not reveal his true identity or purpose but first try to assimilate as a disenfranchised wizard who'd given up the game and wanted to embrace his "true nature" after all.
I hate you. Dumbledore who, after hearing all the arguments, simply met his eyes with sharp steadiness and said, I believe we must not presume to know more about this than you. And you should trust to your own judgment.
I hate you. For agreeing—the very fact—that he was, inarguably, uniquely suited.
He wished he could be helping Harry.
He had to remind himself that, albeit indirectly, he was.
With which thought he was able to straighten himself for the final steps to the mouth of the cave. And, take up the branch he'd been using as a walking stick, and snap it in two.
(Not the "crack" of apparition. They'd know.)
The sound reverberated to heightened senses down the fissure.
They came.
They didn't show themselves, but they were watching. He dropped the stick, opened his hands, and, as if they couldn't already smell it, said: "My name is Remus. I'm a werewolf too."
[to be written: 'you've been living among HUMANS.' 'to be exact, i've been living among wizards.' hisses and growls. 'furthermore, i'm here because they sent me.' actual vocalisations of disbelief—not that it was true but that he'd say it. 'they didn't think i should tell you so outright, either. but i'm not going to lie to you. we shouldn't lie to one another.' could be said among any ambassadors… but in this case a concession itself.
their spokeswoman—for, unlike some of the others, she'd been a wizard too: 'you are a werewolf. it doesn't matter you haven't lived as one of us and cling to human or wizard habits. 'blood traitor' is a wizarding concept. we'd be hypocrites not to reject it with all others.'
he closed his eyes. it was just as he'd thought. yes, I do understand them. Damn you, Dumbledore
'but don't expect us to give the slightest credence to anything you say,' she said. 'we will not reject your nature. but neither will we ignore that you have. and that means you can not possibly speak to us honestly.'
well, that was a non-starter. though, also, exactly what he expected.
'may i stay with you nonetheless?' he said. 'i will continue to try to convince you of my reasoning. but i also accept the possibility that i may be… further convinced of… your ways. being mine.'
I hate you i hate you i hate you.
not them. But the Order for making him accept this. and himself for doing so. it felt like… defeat.
mostly because he was terrified that it would work.
they did not need to confer again. either they'd already discussed this, or there was nothing to discuss.
'you are a werewolf,' she repeated. 'so you can stay.'
* * *
[but he'll ultimately find that he is NOT one of them. they're too bloodthirsty and tribalistic and uncaring. and even if his comfort thresholds were different re: hunting and eating raw meat and sleeping with lack of personal boundaries—not of which he objected to but he found were not to his taste—there were some things he just would NOT consider acclimating to.
and was so relieved to discover that about himself.]
