In the Name of the Father

In the Name of the Father - Prologue

A. D. 960 November 21^st

A storm was gathering over the peaceful village of Dunaily and the castle nestled on the rock above.

It had been looming all day long over the few poor houses, if those huts with roofs of straw and patched wooden walls could be called houses, and now, as night neared more and more, it was about to rage.

The fishermen's boats had been sailed back into the bay, while women and children looked anxiously at the blackening, rough sea, waiting for their loved ones to come back.

A strong wind had been blowing since dawn, but now it became stronger and wilder, and shook the trees, the laundry hung upon the lines, and the thatched roofs of the houses.

The sky painfully closed like a clenched fist, covered by dark clouds that rumbled and growled angrily, ready to carry out what they had been threatening.

The people of the village were well accustomed to the harshness of the elements, as they earned their living fighting every day against treacherous waves which hid reefs and shallows.

Dunaily's people accepted that wrath resignedly, but did not surrender: they knew it was inevitable, but kept on fighting.

At the Castle on the rock another kind of storm was shaking the stone walls of the building, and the hearts of those who lived there, for the Lady had gone into labour that same day and hadn't delivered, yet.

Maids rushed up and down the corridors, bringing hot and cold water, dry towels and anything necessary.

The midwife had been in the Lady's chambers from time uncountable, and nobody was allowed to enter, with an exception made for the maids who were helping her.

Nothing must go wrong.

God only knew if the baby yet to be born was important.

While the clouds broke and heavy rain started to fall, the lightning struck once, then twice, its livid light bathing the Castle and filtering through the narrow windows.

Thunder followed, scary and threatening.

A bolt of lightning hit one of the huts of the village below, and the roof took fire immediately.

That was dangerous: the fire could propagate even too easily to the other huts.

Two young girls ran out of the burning hut.

From the distance, the man could barely distinguish them.

A woman walked out of another hut and, even from the castle's window from which he was looking at the village, the man could see that she was pregnant, and that her belly was very big and rounded.

A sign that she must be near to giving birth.

Just like his Lady.

The woman stretched a hand towards one of the girls who should have been scorched by the flames and muttered something under her breath, though the man could not see her face, as she was too far away.

But then a misty blue light consolidated around her outstretched hand and spread to the girl, encircling her with magical power.

The fire died down.

The man stopped looking, and went to sit on an armchair.

The room from which he had been looking outside was his study, a circular chamber with walls covered by shelves upon shelves of ancient and precious books, two armchairs near the fireplace and his huge desk, littered by scrolls of parchments and other writing instruments.

He spent most of his days in that room, and that's why the chamber felt like home, unlike most of the other rooms of the castle.

The man was in his late thirties, but something aggravated him to the point that he looked positively older.

His dark eyes were often half-closed, as he was tired, and on his forehead a horizontal wrinkle signalled his worst mood.

He could be seen smiling and sometimes even laughing only when he was with his Lady, and not even always then.

For he loved his Lady too much for his own good.

He had married Lady Violane Carlisle, from the Carlisle family of London, because he loved her, he loved her from the moment he had seen her.

Love at first sight, they call it.

He had seen her for the first time at a party, no more than five years before.

She was very young, back then, as she was ten years younger than him.

She must have been seventeen or eighteen and the whole hall seemed to draw light and warmth from her divine looks.

Her raven black hair fell wavy on her shoulders, braided with pearls and diamonds.

Her smile and her eyes' splendour could rival the twinkle of the gems.

Her dress was of the purest azure, which enhanced the colour of her eyes.

Beautiful, she was, and sweet like an angel.

He had danced with her all that night, and at the end of the party he had asked for her hand.

He remembered her biting her lip and looking back at him with eyes full of doubt and...yes, promise.

She elegantly rejected him, that evening, telling him that she was so young and inexperienced of the world that she did not know how to answer without making a fool of herself...and that if he was so kind as to excuse her, she would prefer to think about his offer for a while.

She took her time to answer, but in the end, she finally agreed to marry him.

He was so happy, in the beginning.

She was beautiful and sweet, a ray of light in that gloomy castle.

But she was fake.

He knew that she couldn't possibly love him.

Not because he was ugly or stupid or wicked, because he wasn't, but because all she loved and cared for was herself.

Ambitious, she was, and she couldn't grow fond of a man who had inherited a castle in ruins and an empty safe.

She soon lost interest in him, and began to look somewhere else for what she wanted.

He was devastated.

He couldn't stand the thought of his Lady, his wife - for goodness sake! - dallying with...with virtually everyone richer or more powerful than him.

This was his last revenge...his last glimpse of joy.

The child.

He hoped that his Lady wouldn't give birth to a blond or red-headed child, for this would be the last evidence of her continued betrayal.

No. This child must be his.

He dismissed the painful thought, and began thinking again of the woman, back at the village, who had cured the girl.

That woman was the village's healer.

What an improper name for a woman who knew a few neat tricks and some easy incantations.

The rest was just common sense and elementary medical knowledge.

A real Healer, with the capital 'h' would be another matter.

"Why is it taking so much time?" he worried, his thoughts back to his Lady's delivery.

She was young and healthy, after all. She should be able to have children.

What if the midwife...? What if something had gone wrong and nobody wanted to tell him, fearing his wrath?

The possibility that the child could be born dead scared him, even if it was not uncommon that children were born dead, or that they died in the first days of their life.

That was a common danger.

But he somehow knew that she wouldn't allow him to repeat the experiment, if this child was lost.

She couldn't waste her youth and her looks just for him.

Then a high-pitched scream broke the noise of the last thunder, followed by a wail.

The man stood and hurried towards his wife's chambers.

"She's very weak," murmured the midwife, meeting him on the threshold.

"I won't stay long," he said.

And he didn't know how much he was right.

He entered and soon his gaze came to rest on Violane and then on the newborn baby.

Lady Violane looked exhausted, and the man felt immediately guilty for having suspected her of all the vile things he had been thinking seconds before.

Her pale face was gleaming with sweat and her eyes stayed only half opened, and slightly unfocused.

Her black hair was spread on the cushion, and made a strange contrast with the paleness of her skin.

"He's a boy, my Lord," she whispered with difficulty.

The man looked at the baby, who still whimpered and emitted tired sounds.

The world was all new for him and he should be very scared.

The man picked up his only son, trying to see the colour of his eyes and whether he had hair the colour of his hair.

That very moment the child yawned and before he fell peacefully asleep, he opened his big eyes, so that the man could see they were just like his, of the darkest shade of green.

"He looks strong," the man said, handing the child back to the mother.

"He is, but I am not, my Lord," she said.

She looked so pale and weak, as if she didn't have the strength to breathe.

"...I feel so weak..." she muttered, "I don't know if I'll live..." she said, and he saw drops of sweat cover her forehead.

"Hush, my dear, don't talk like this. You'll recover soon."

"No Aleakin, no, I feel like I'm dying...just bend, so that I can kiss you one last time..."

He loved her and, as often happens, he was blinded by that love.

He wanted so desperately to believe that she was indeed suffering and that she wanted to kiss him for the last time that he immediately bent down, as she had requested.

A glint of malice lit the woman's eyes, but the man couldn't see it.

While they kissed, the man felt clearly that the woman had pushed something in his mouth.

Something that tasted bitter and felt like ice.

When the kiss broke, and Lady Violane leant on her cushion, the vicious light in the woman's eyes was gone.

"My Lord, are you well? It looks like you're ill..." she said, though her voice didn't have the same weak and somewhat affectionate tone of before.

Aleakin tried to stand but his strength failed him and he was forced to sit down on the bed, breathing heavily.

"I'll call someone..." Lady Violane said, stretching her hand to pick up the little silver bell on her bedside table, though she didn't seize it.

"You..." he muttered, "you..." but the words wouldn't come out.

His eyes lost focus.

He didn't move for a while, trembling violently, his face the very expression of horror and pain.

Then, he died.

When she was reasonably sure that he was dead, Lady Violane started laughing uncontrollably, because her plan had succeeded so far.

Uneasy, as if he had understood, the newborn heir of the Slytherin fortune, now officially fatherless, started to cry.

In the Name of the Father - Prologue - End