Thou Standest Afar Off

We were brothers, he and I. The two of us had been inseparable for five summers, and though that may not seem like much, it was enough. Enough for us to form a stronger bond than one based on blood could ever be. But now his father had come to fetch him home. We were now to begin our magical training - alone.

"Don't go," I told him, pulling him into my embrace. A foolish plea, I knew. It was not, after all, for him to make such decisions. He laughed at my childishness, yet betrayed his own emotion when he returned the hug with a ferocity that rivalled my own. Smiling, I pulled back. Studying him one last time, I remembered.

I had seen six winters pass before he entered my father's hall. Had he been nervous that first day, he hid it well. He strode boldly around the room, knocking experimentally on the stone walls and feeling the material of the tapestries as he studied the history of my family as depicted by the weaver.

His clothing marked him as Cymry; one of those tribesmen who cling to the Old Ways more stubbornly than do the rest of us. I wondered if he had ever seen such fine things as dwelled in our home. Had he seen such vaulted ceiling and rich tapestries? Or such banners, depicting our families crest -the gryphon- in bold shades of red and gold? Growing pride made me stand straighter as I tried to view my surroundings with fresh eyes.

His father called him back to his side, gracing him with a reproachful look. Unconcerned with his father's disapproval, he announced, "This is a fine keep. Though not so much as ours."

Hunching my shoulders, I scowled at his audacity.

Sharp words from his father elicited a blush and a hasty apology. With a wave of his hand and a few words, my father accepted and the two men turned back to their conversation.

I continued to frown at the boy, not so easily placated, and he warily watched me back. Neither of us wanted to be the first to look away.

I had never before participated in such a contest of wills, and it soon became apparent to both of us that he was much more skilled in such events. He smirked at me, smug and unblinking, while my eyes began to water.

I had resigned myself to looking away when he slowly and deliberately crossed his eyes, the smirk lightening into a grin. Despite myself I laughed, the tension broken, and he quickly joined me. Our fathers looked over at us.

"It is good to see that they are getting along," his father approved.

"Aye. It'll do Godric good to have someone his own age to bond with," my father agreed.

"It'll do them both good. I must be on my way."

The two men clasped hands as the stranger thanked my father.

"Nonsense, Steffan," came my father's response. "You'd do the same for me. Be well."

Steffan nodded, then knelt down to bid farewell to his son. A few words were spoken, an embrace was exchanged, and then the man Disapparated, leaving the boy with us.

"Father?" I asked. "Who is that?" I pointed at the other boy.

"The son of a friend, and the newest member of this household. These are difficult times and there have been far too many raids on their territory recently. He thought it a good time for his son to foster with us. Now find your manners and go welcome him."

I nodded and walked over to my new brother. "I am Godric, son of Geraint," I said proudly, standing up straighter. "I welcome you to Gryffindor Hall."

Surfacing from the memory, I liberated one of two practice swords I had tucked behind my belt, handing it over to him. "You forgot this. I thought you might want it."

The sword was accepted gratefully. There was a moment's pause before he lunged, rapping the 'blade' against my chest. "Victory," he announced with a broad grin.

I smiled back a little uncertainly. My father had instructed us from the age of eight in the use of swords, and it proved to be our greatest rivalry.

We both enjoyed winning, of course, but with him it was different. With Salazar, it was an obsession.

-crack-

The sound of wood clattering against wood echoed through the crisp morning air. Father called instructions as we fought with the swords he had fashioned for us out of lashed together sticks.

I had learned early that my greater size and reach gave me little advantage over my opponent.

We fought differently. I was bold, my father was fond of pointing out. I would go on the offensive immediately, attacking and gaining an early lead. Salazar was much more defensive. He would fall back steadily, and I would be sure that I had everything well in hand.

Then it would happen. I'd make some mistake.

I would stumble on a root. Or I would swing too high, leaving myself open. Whatever it was, Salazar was there, waiting to take advantage of the momentary lapse. He would dart forward, suddenly on the offensive, brutally on the offensive. It never failed to amaze me how efficient he was, or how quickly he would strike.

Salazar possessed a certain fervor that served him well in a fight. He was patient, he could keep that fire in control, but once he had the upper hand his eyes would burn with an intensity that made me certain that I about to lose.

It was a truly unnerving look to manifest itself in one so young. My father had made that comment once, and I agreed.

When he won, the fire would be extinguished, leaving him flushed and smiling, the light in his eyes shining childlike once more. He would talk excitedly then of how great we would become. He would speak of the legends, of Merlin and Morgana and King Arthur, and how one day our names would be as well known as theirs.

In time, I had learned how to hold my own against him. We soon were quite evenly matched.

And when he lost. . . .

When he lost, that inferno would rage in the depths of his hazel eyes, and he would rage along with it. I was left uncertain as to what to say or do, and so I would do nothing, and slowly the flames would die down. In the end he would smile and congratulate me on my victory.

And his sincerity then would stop me from worrying, and I would forget about his little quirk until the next round.

I mentally shook off the memories and hugged him once more. "We'll meet again?" I asked him. I was not usually so insecure, but sudden fears surfaced, and it occurred to me that the answer to that question might well be no.

He stepped back and nodded at me, his expression serious. "We're family. Of course."

He said those words with such confidence that it inspired those same feelings in me. And so it was that I watched him go, walking with his father across the moor. He knelt briefly, picking a bit of heather and slipping it into his pocket. They were almost out of sight when he turned and raised his hand.

I raised my own in return, waving, and then he was gone.