After the Fact

[Tristan Drage]

Tristan's disposition was as icy as the artic region that engulfed his childhood home as the pop that was unanimous with Apparation reverberated in his ears, landing precisely on the chilled stone floor of the dining room, blue eyes darting about as they found an emptiness that was exclusive to the giant fortress. His jaw was taut, his chiseled arms set at his sides as he began a brisk pace, feeling as if he were about to regurgitate his insides. He knew that it dangerous to be here, especially what had occured about a month before. But at the moment he would brave any risk, challenge anyone that stood in his way.

Guilt consumed him, knowing that had he been there for his previous love she would not be dead; it was as simple as that. However, things had not happened that way; and he was going to pay for it for the rest of eternity. She had been right; he couldn't raise Erik under the dark shroud that was the Death Eaters. He still did not have a definite destination in mind, but he very much planned on staying out of the public world for good.

All tear ridden moisture had disappeared from his eyes, set with a coldness that he had never before exhibited. He had not felt this way about someone before and he never would again. The one chance he had had for a fulfilling relationship he had blown, left with only his son, and distantly, his daughter. The only way he could begin to make things up was by bringing up Erik, himself and as a decent citizen, as he knew Morgase had always wanted.

But for now, he had one thing in mind- to face the man that had destroyed his life, and had robbed his son of a mother. The man he had lived with as a rivaling brother and now, a dead enemy that he could exact no true revenge upon. In most cases it would be impossible, but he had the Herrogard to thank for the few things that it allowed.

Swallowing hard, he strode out of the dining room, the large doors creaking as he stepped into the hallway, taking an immediate left and then a right, moving to the door which he knew to be of his father's office. His large hand curled around the ornate knob, finding it to be locked. To an underage witch or wizard this would probably have presented a problem, but as he was no longer under the trace he dismissed the lock as if it was not there with a flick of his wand. The room was dark as he stepped into it, engulfing the trinkets that Valcan's office possessed; he was quite glad that he could not glance at the tree, as he knew the extra bit of information that would now be added under Morgase and Sam's names, only solidifying the reality of their passing in his mind.

"Lumos," he intoned as he groped his way to the basement doorway, making his descent and holding his wand before him like a weapon, as if it would shield off any adversaries.

 

[Valcan Drage]

The aging man tossed in his sleep, waking with a quiet grunt as he turned to his side, his ice blue eyes flickering open as they found the ceiling. He registered the quiet breaths of Sarah beside him, sleeping peacefully. This night, he had found it difficult to let slumber ensnare him and had been tossing fitfully ever since. A feeling of foreboding was weighing down in his gut, and he sat up quietly, so as not to wake Sarah. Figuring that there would be no more sleep tonight he dressed quickly, scratching his bristly chin as he wondered what was causing him such distress. He now knew the worst; his son, or rather, his adopted nephew, was dead, but he had not cared to tell anyone about it. Rather, he was waiting for the information to come to him. A pity, he thought to himself. He had never voiced it openly, but the boy had always been his favorite. Now, the only thing left of his sister were her things, his memories, and of course, Sophia.

Harboring anger towards both of the girls, he had vowed to himself to make them pay dearly if they caused him a lick more of trouble. Not only had they stripped his abilities from him; they were beginning a rebellion, it seemed, that would have to be squashed like an insignificant bug.

His gait wide as he strode out of the bedroom, Valcan checked on both Sophia and Estrella. Their doors were both locked, and he heard no response from within. He suspected that both were still in their rooms; in any case, if they were out and about and trying to stir something up, he would catch them.

"Persephone," he intoned deeply as he reached the bottom of the rather grand staircase, now on the lower level, wondering if she had seen anyone about this night.

 

[Persephone]

What can he want at this hour? Persephone thought to herself, yawning minutely as she disapparated to her master's side, her hands held politely behind her back. "Yes, Master, what shall I do for you?" she intoned in her squeaky little voice.

 

[Valcan Drage]

"Scout out the Herrogard," Valcan started quietly, "I think someone might be here." He looked about, his suspicious blue eyes finding only dark corners. "If you run into any intruders, do not approach them or make them aware of your presence; return to me immediately and I shall deal with it."

"Yes, Master," the house elf replied with a tiny bow, disapparating with a pop.

The older man's eyes narrowed as he waited near the staircase, his hands held behind his back. He twiddled his thumbs, hoping that Persephone's search was not in vain; he wanted to kill the foreboding that was biting and stabbing at him in these ungodly hours.

 

[Tristan Drage]

Cold air sifted through Tristan's nostrils as he made his descent, his wand wielded like a weapon as Lumos illuminated the ever repetetive before him; stone, stone, and more stone. He knew that in certain parts of the lower levels it became rather damp and musty; as the Herrogard was situated on a lake there was bound to be some leakage over a thousand or so years. His jaw was taut as his ice blue eyes traced the paths before him, reflecting that the Hall of Portraits was off to the right. A lump set in his throat as he turned into the long passage, the entire area illuminated in a brilliant display of torches bursting to life. Groans and yawns met his ears, shades before the portraits swinging open to see the new intruder. He swallowed hard as he gazed to the end of the corridor; he did not know what he would do once he got to his destination.

 

[Brunhild Drage's Portrait]

Brunhild stifled a yawn as her blue eyes snapped open, narrowing them to find the son of the Master before her, the one she had heard rumors to be quite the black sheep. Another son of the Drage family had joined the likes of the portraits; although she did not know how it had hit the master himself, she had a feeling that this had something to do with it.

"Tristan," she addressed him with a rather tired voice, her pupils focusing on him, "By all means, what time is it? And what is your business here?" Sadly, she did not really even know what year it was. Squinting her eyes at him, she calculated that he had to be in his forties; sleeping all the time she found time to breeze by incredibly fast at the Herrogard. A thousand years, it seemed, had been nothing.

"And the others and I have noticed a disturbance as of late," she noted, wondering if he had any information.

 

[Valcan Drage]

Valcan's blue eyes flickered to his side as he heard the pop of disapparation, Persephone appearing before him. He listened to her avidly for any news.

"I do not know whether this is a matter of dire need, Master, but the door to the lower levels in your office was ajar. The main door was closed though," she reported meekly.

Valcan's eyes narrowed as he began at a brisk pace towards his office, his jaw taut with anger as he knew that he would catch the culprit; they had to be an adult, and most likely a part of his family to get into the office. He had his suspicions about who it was. Without replying to the little house elf his robes lapped at his ankles as he strolled down the corridor and to his office, opening the door and a growl erupting in his throat as he observed that the door to the basement was indeed ajar, keeping his steps as light as he could as he strolled fluidly down the staircase, attempting to catch the culprit red handed.

 

[Tristan Drage]

Tristan's blue eyes trailed to Brunhild, his despair and determination clouding the usual admiration that he possessed for the rather regal figure who had founded the Herrogard and was the oldest member of the family to date. "It is late enough. And I have some business that needs attending to."

His chuckle was raspy as he looked back to the portrait, a lopsided smirk edging its way onto his face and a bit of wildness present in his expression, "You could say that there have been several disturbances as of late. Actually, disturbance doesn't even begin to cover it. Hell freezing over is a mark closer to what you're aiming for, I think."

He lumbered down the corridor, the repetition of his breathing increasing rapidly as he moved for his destination, aware of the eyes and ears peeled all for him.

 

[Brunhild Drage's Portrait]

Brunhild's look of curiosity turned to haughtiness as she observed the man, standing up out of her portrait and moving into those of the other inhabitants, on the female side anyways. She knew that she at least had to be a voice of reason.

"Do not do anything rash, Tristan. There does not need to be more tragedy befalling the family. Not in your lifetime, anyways." Usually, she stayed out of personal matters, but even as an imprint of the self she had once been she still had ghosts of feelings, and she had a feeling of forboding that something terrible was going to go down. "You have your children to consider," she added, attempting to get his attention.

 

[Valcan Drage]

Valcan had swerved directly into the corridor, his eyes having naturally been attracted to the light filtering from it, meaning that someone was in there who shouldn't be. He waited around the corner for a moment, and knowing that there was no real exit out of there, it was a dead end. The aging man was patient, almost like a cat on the prowl who had full intent to string a confident mouse along and then ultimately, crush it.

"Yes, Tristan; you have your children to consider," he echoed in a growling, sickeningly sweet voice, demanding attention of the entire hallway with his fluent Norwegian. Rage boiled inside him upon looking upon his son; this boy, this obvious spawn reeking of mistake and tragedy should have died, not Sammael, not the son he had always dreamed of having and no longer had.

Taking a few tentative steps forward, smirking broadly and his expression reflecting amusement, although his eyes burned with a resentment much more frigid, he stated delicately, "It is rather late, do you not say?" The twisted smirk remained on his face as he waited for his son's retort; he was quite looking forward to a challenge. But he would not do anything just yet, not quick, anyways; he found it much more satisfying to let the tension linger in the air, smiting the end of his tongue like an acidic poison. His hands fell to his sides, not feeling the impulse to pull out his wand just yet. Having not been able to punish his granddaughters, however, had left him with a clinging urge to teach someone a lesson.

 

[Tristan Drage]

Tristan's full intent had been to get to Sammael, having already pulled his wand out. He had been ignoring the frantic pleas of Brunhild, the nagging lost on him just now. This was between him and his brother, not anyone else.

However, one thing had been enough to freeze him in his tracks, to bring his chiseled arms to his sides, the lump hardening in his throat as he swung around slowly, hatred flickering in his eyes as he looked upon his father. Oh, how he hated that smug hair of his, that sarcastic smirk, the glance of disapproval. He had gotten it all his life, and now, it came back with full force, making him feel like a child, an insubordinate who had been reluctantly raised under the roof of one who despised him.

Trembling where he stood, he intoned deeply in Norwegian, "Leave me be, Far. This is between Sam and I, and Sam and I alone." He was still a good distance away from his father, but he knew that when it came to magic he was dangerously in cursing distance. The lights of flickering torches danced upon the forms of the two large men, characterizing the harsh tones of their faces and seeming to reinforce the 40 year old mutual hatred.

 

[Valcan Drage]

A chuckle rasped past Valcan's lips as he listened intently to what Tristan had to say, his blue eyes flickering with amusement, the wrinkles on his face a deep contrast to the young air of casualty that he seemed to exhibit. "What is that I hear?" he murmured slowly, still speaking in fluent Norwegian. He stepped forward, the soles of his carefully polished shoes clacking against the stone floor, the demeanor of tension in the air intensified by the many pairs of eyes moving back and forth between the pair. "Is my eldest son- the one, I almost lost all hope for; taking some responsibility for his actions? Is he in fact, an adult?" He smirked, hissing, "I'm nearly proud."

His pace was laborious as he moved towards Tristan, the swagger of his long stride marked by an odd fluidness. "So nearly proud that, I almost regret the mere thought of wishing that you were the deceased one." A manic glint flickered in his eyes as he smirked back at his son, every word he spoke aimed to stab and prick like a tiny dagger. "Such a pity then, my son, that many of our worldly efforts are riddled with almosts, now isn't it?"

 

[Tristan Drage]

Glaring intensely at his father, Tristan swallowed hard as he took in the words that were spoken. No matter his rustiness with his home language, he knew enough of Norwegian to distinguish what his father was saying. Valcan's words resonated throughout the corridor, and despite the fact that they were spoken softly he knew that every half being in that Hall had heard it, something deliberate and concise that the old man was all too skilled at putting forth. He clenched his wand at his side, turning it absentmindedly in his fingers as a boiling hate roiled inside his innards and threatened to erupt out of him; though, they no longer had a channel which to erupt from, instead sifting in his throat and muddling his thoughts.

"Why bother telling me things that I already know of, Far?" he stated, oddly calm for how infuriated he was. "Almost is a step, but not all the way. Just like you would almost have been able to save your sister. How you almost would have been able to save Sam, too. But like you just said, you didn't put forth enough, didn't you?"

He knew that he was taking quite a risk with what he was saying, but at this point, he did not care anymore. Morgase's death had brought him to a breaking point in his life, almost drawing him to pure insanity. Pure insanity, he had a feeling, was what he was putting forth.

 

[Valcan Drage]

Valcan's jaw clenched as Tristan brought up Larkana and her son, whom he had raised like his own son. Despite the rage he was feeling at the comment, he had years of experience situated at his side; he could be patient. He could expel the anger in a much more articulate way than idle, stabbing words of contest. In a way that was, in its entirety, much more satisfying.

He chuckled as he stepped forward even further, his eyes glinting as they narrowed at Tristan; he was now merely ten feet away, an ominous threat now even physically. His eldest son had scraped his own height; and even now, he could see the lines of weariness beginning to etch in his son's face. But aging was not enough to prepare Tristan for what was to come; he was old enough to understand the harsh realities of life but not enough to deal with them in a proper way.

"You stand here, son, and speak of my own failures," he spat, his breathing level and controlled as his eyes were glued to Tristan's. "Merlin knows we could orchestrate a long list of those that define you. But is this what we are really here to talk about?" He brought out his own wand, holding it up to chest level and twirling it between his fingers. "Are you really here to have a ploy with words, or would you rather wish to settle this like real men? Providing you feel confident at that level of course." He flashed Tristan an amused smirk, the wand ever twirling in his hand and an ominous threat, despite the fact that his son was full grown.

 

[Tristan Drage]

Tristan's breaths filtered through his nostrils harshly and raggedly, his blue eyes seemingly cemented to his father's. He ceased to speak, his father's words jabbing and stinging at him as the old man pulled out his wand, his gaze becoming focused on the tip of it. Closing his eyes, he stated quietly, "No, Far, I simply wish to sort things out with my brother." He could not prevent the moisture clinging to his eyes; surely, Valcan knew about Morgase and Sammael's deaths. And he would know the torment it was causing him, the obvious pain. Despite being obvious rivals he had had a brotherly attachment to Sam, and much later had loved his wife. Now, both were gone, and there was nothing that he really could do as far as vengeance was concerned.

"I need to speak with Sam," he repeated, his blue eyes trailing back up to the figure that even in his later years intimidated him intensely. "Far, you can at least give me that. I don't want to deal with any of it anymore."

 

[Valcan Drage]

"He is dead," Valcan spat with a harsh finality, prowling just a bit closer, hot breath threatening to engulf his son. "There is nothing to be sorted out with the dead, Tristan; only with the living. Do you tell me," he hissed, bringing his wand to eye level, "That you would not debate this, if not man to man, Death Eater to Death Eater?"

His fist clenched and unclenched as he waited for his son's reply, radiating a patience that was sure to infuriate his son. He could play this game of cat and mouse all night; but he was itching for something more fulfilling. A lesson that he had wished to exercise for many years. Despite the fact that he exhibited that forced calmness, however, he had no intention of letting the man get past without a struggle.

 

[Tristan Drage]

A vast hopelessness engulfed the anger in Tristan's eyes; Valcan was not going to let him out of this. Not unscarred, at least. But, he figured, he would take the world's worst lashing to speak the words that lingered upon his tongue, the ones that rang with stark finality. His voice seemed meek, but what he said resonated with its intended force all the same.

"I want nothing to do with the Death Eaters, Far." He swallowed hard as he waited upon a reaction, forcing out, "I am done. And so are my children."

Valcan may not be the Death Eater head, but he had particular influence in the group. He knew that his father would not take it well. But, he felt that he owed it to Morgase to say so; he had to start over on a fresh page for Erik, even if it was too late for Estrella. He had to eradicate from his life the force which had utterly torn it into shreds, and hurt all of those that he loved. One might have thought such a compassion would be lost on one of his kind; but now that he had lived, it had returned full force, and Morgase's death had only solidified the need to leave. If he did not have to do it for himself, he had to do it for her. He owed it to her, especially where it concerned his son.

 

[Valcan Drage]

A spiteful bout of laughter broke past Valcan's lips, the amusement in his expression intensifying tenfold. "Do not bray about like a donkey, my dear son; you are very close to a duel with Death." While he had spoken lightly he knew that Tristan would mark the hint of warning in his voice; the punishment for abandonment was death, and the man knew that full well. He would have quite the handful on his plate which he was seriously considering.

"Put that toy away, it is far too dangerous for you to handle," he spat, observing his son's wand, "And quit your playing, Tristan. It is time for the real men to settle matters."

 

[Tristan Drage]

"I would much rather dance with Death," Tristan murmured, swallowing hard as he clenched his own wand, "Than spend another day through this hell, and to drag my children down with me." His gaze softened as he looked to his father, knowing that he would not be let out of here without something unpleasant as the result. He pointed the wand at his father, and after a moment's pause he lowered it, bringing it to his side. "Let us be real men and settle this peacefully, Far. Let me pass, if you shall not permit me to speak with my brother." He did not make a move, however, the chiseled man before him more than blocking his way.

 

[Brunhild Drage's Portrait]

Brunhild watched in anticipation as the scene unfolded between the two men, hoping that it would not lead to anywhere serious. Still holding some loyalty to the current Master of the Herrogard she kept her mouth shut. She peered out of the portrait of Kristanna, who had died as a young child.

"What is going to happen?" Kristanna asked meekly, her eyes beginning to tear up. Golden ringlets were curled delicately on her shoulders, an almost porcelain face contorted in unease.

The portrait of Brunhild placed a hand on the girls shoulder to comfort her, whispering, "We shall have to wait and see. I hope that it is just nothing." She sincerely did, not wishing to see more tragedy befall the family. Just nothing. She hoped that Valcan would do the right thing and let his son go.

 

[Valcan Drage]

"I would as soon permit you to leave without a scratch," Valcan hissed, "As I were to hand the Herrogard over to you as my heir." With a slight flick of his wand he cast Defodio silently, aiming his wand at his son's right eye. "Peace, Tristan?" he hissed afterwards, "There is no peace in this world, and I pity any fool in the world who believes it to be an actual thing."

 

[Tristan Drage]

A tiny bit of doubt had resonated in Tristan's mind that his father would permit him to pass after all, something for which he regretted infallibly. That little bit of doubt had engulfed his reasoning as Valcan spoke, the motor function to shield himself from the wand aimed at him to switched off temporarily. He could not turn, simply watch in befuddlement as the gouging curse aimed for his face, the stream of magic nicking his right eye.

Never before had he been racked with such pain; he was blind- blind!- crying out in agony as liquid oozed over the hand clutched to his face, never having felt so much pain in his life and knowing that he would never feel such again, at least, not impacted physically. His scream was inhuman, mingled with ange and agony. His heart pulsed quickly in his chest, bursting through his throat and moving up to his eye. The eye that, it felt, was no longer there. His large hand was engulfed with a sticky warmness, stained with red and congealed white as he staggered backward.

Before he knew it he was disapparating, his cry muffled as he exited the place with a pop, cursing his Father and his misfortune to all eternity.

 

[Brunhild Drage's Portrait]

Brunhild's hand moved over Kristanna's eyes, whom she could feel shuddering as she held the girl to her. "Valcan!" she hissed, her voice almost a shriek, "That- that was- unnecessary. He wanted to leave peacefully, he wouldn't have caused any more trouble." She felt an unease that she had not felt for years in all her time at the Herrogard, not since Valbrand, one of her descendants had gained control of the place, by murdering his siblings and all their children, including Kristanna, whom she was holding at the moment. Her face was stricken white, as much as a portrait's could be, anyway.

Harsh laughter rose throughout the corridor, bringing attention to a portrait across from Kristanna, his golden eyes reflecting a manic glint as he spoke. He was indeed the Valbrand that Brunhild had been thinking of, his voice chilling even the most brave in the room to the bone.

"Ha, unnecessary? The boy had it coming to him for a long, long time. He should have been slaughtered the moment he impregnated a muggle." He looked across the hall to his sister, whom he had indeed killed for just that reason, his eyes falling to Kristanna and Brunhild. "Will you never keep your opinions to yourself, Brunhild? I know you sense change- but it will be for the good." He grinned broadly, his expression frightening Kristanna all the further and sending a chill up Brunhild's spine.

"Hold your tongue, Valbrand," Brunhild stated waveringly but harshly, "You have no right to interject. No right at all. Your era is long over; so you might as well accept it." Her blue eyes fell back to Valcan, wondering what his retort was going to be.

"I agree," someone down the hall stated, his voice dripping with disdain, "Valcan, you go too far!" This was Lycan, the man's own father, whom he had murdered years ago.

 

[Valcan Drage]

A manic laugh erupted in Valcan's throat, throwing back his head as he chuckled, listening to the exchange in the hall before him, the portraits before him exploding into argument. "What you deem unnecessary is of absolutely no importance! I am the Master of the Herrogard." A silence befell the room as his eyes darted around, containing the same amount of hatred as they did even when they were an intimidating golden, "This is the beginning of a new era!" He dismissed his father's comment, even in death refusing to acknowledge him.

Turning out of the hall, his robes lapped at his ankles as he exited the area and the torches began to dim, leaving a formidable silence behind. He was quick to move up the stairs, the smirk remaining plastered to his face as he began to hum, locking the door of his office and strolling through the hall of the upper level. He seemed to have no care whatsoever for what he had done to his son; in fact, he was feeling quite positively chipper. He could go for a shot of vodka just now.

 

[Brunhild Drage's Portrait]

Brunhild sighed heavily as Valcan spoke, her eyes following him as he exited the hall. With a glance of resentment to Valbrand her hand trailed away from the girl she had been standing behind, who was now weeping uncontrollably, and walked back to her own painting, having shed her regal haughtiness for this unfortunate occurence, closing her eyes in a cold acceptance as the torches of the Hallway began to extinguish.