I don’t remember a time when I did not follow my elder brother as close as his shadow, wanting the same things, fighting and playing and learning with him. My brother had the spirit of a warrior, the heart of a poet and the broken nose of a born troublemaker. It was a wonder that Master Slytherin was able to get him to sit still for two minutes together, but once he did, ah then! For Gareth did love a wizarding duel, and with what he learned from our tutor, why, there was no stopping him.
Not that it distracted him from the serious work of training for battle; nothing could turn him aside from that. Nothing, that is, until his bride arrived one fine summer day.
Outriders from the party that accompanied her from Stathclyde interrupted our duel in the courtyard, and one, as I pointed out, that I was almost winning at that! We put our wands away and rushed to make ourselves presentable, rinsing the dust out of our hair and donning suitable robes. I was afire with curiosity, and how much more was Gareth, for was this not the maiden that would be his life’s mate?
We stood with the household to formally welcome her, my father bearing the guest cup with my mother by his side and my brother looking almost dignified. I, who knew him well, could tell that his excitement was tempered with apprehension. His life’s partner had been chosen for him, and when I had teased that a troll was coming to be his bride, his laughter had been worried.
And then there she was, astride a white palfrey. As she made a formal obeisance to my parents, I could hear Gareth’s sharp intake of breath. Later he told me, with great seriousness, that that was the moment he fell in love with her. She was not beautiful in the way that maids are usually thought beautiful, but the intelligence and wit that informed her every expression was fascinating in a way that many a maid would cast a spell to achieve. And my brother was ready to be fascinated.
Gareth played every game to win, fought every battle for victory, and the same was true of his wooing of Rowena. Nothing less than winning her whole heart was his goal, and he was persistent, romantic and . . . successful. Of course, being contracted in marriage was something of an advantage, but still, by the time of their wedding at mid-winter, Rowena looked at Gareth with eyes that were just as enthralled as his.
Gareth asked that I be their Promise Keeper when they made the Unbreakable Vow that is a part of every wizarding marriage. I was honoured, of course, and yet I couldn’t help being a little jealous, although whether of him or her, I still can’t tell you.
I must have grown more silent than was my wont, for Mistress Hufflepuff sat me down in her rooms, the smell of mint and tansy, lavender and musk around us, and bid me tell her just what cat had taken possession of my tongue.
Her sharp eyes made me squirm. It was every bit as uncomfortable as being interrogated by Master Slytherin, who I swear can read minds, he is so canny. I fiddled with my wand, accidently shooting off some sparks into her dried herbs, but she was not distracted.
When I told her how I felt, all betwixt and between, and ashamed to be feeling so, she laughed.
“M’dear boy! Don’t you know that it happens to us all as we grow older and grow apart? Aye, I know that your brother and you are two sides of the same coin, but no more so than my Harold and I. Come, it is time that you shook off your reserve with the lady, for she will be your sister soon enough, and you should treat her with the warmth she deserves, poor lass.”
She beamed at me, and I had to smile, thinking of her brother, the smith, who had finished his long apprenticeship at the forges of the goblins and had been asked by my father to settle in Godric’s Hollow, for a goblin-trained smith is a prize indeed, and added greatly to the our standing amongst the nobles of the realm, Muggle and Magical alike!
It is a proud burden to be a Gryffindor, and especially to bear the name of Godric. There were times as a boy when I wondered if my father chose right in naming me so. Family history has it that our village of Godric’s Hollow was named for the founder of our house, Godric ap Gwyddno, who fought at the side of King Arthur at the Battle of Badon Hill, when at last the Saxon invaders were put to flight. Not since the triumph of the Kings of Wessex over the Summer Country two hundred years ago has our family enjoyed the honour we had under the Dumnonii, and though my father was a theign of King Edgar the Peaceful, it was uncertain if his son Ethelred wanted our loyalty, or just our lands.
The next day I joined Rowena and Gareth as they listened to Master Slytherin lecture on proper wand work. He was closely attended by his audience, which included wizarding children of the village whose parents used their magic for everyday trades as wheel wrights, coopers and potters. Gareth maintained that no matter their station in life the children of wizards should be educated and taught magic, and my father, looking to the uncertain future, had agreed.
Master Slytherin described how wands helped focus magic and how they were a quarter-way alive, bonding to the wizard of their choice. He had learned much of the mysteries of wand crafting, he told us, in his year with the famous Ollivander in London, though not enough to make a wand himself. When the lesson ended, my brother was summoned to my father’s council, leaving me alone, for the first time, with my future sister.
“Gareth tells me that you are a fine dueler, and that you are better than he at Transfiguration. Would you show me? It is not something that my parents were able to teach me, for it was not part of our family tradition.”
I could feel my face warm, feeling equal parts of shyness and pride. But, remembering Mistress Hufflepuff’s injunction, I nodded. And so began my friendship with one of the greatest intellects of my generation.
The ceremony at midwinter was splendid, and the happiness between Gareth and his lady-wife was of such a contagious nature that even Master Slytherin could be seen to smile at Lind, one of Mistress Hufflepuff’s young apprentice Healers, a softening most unusual for that grim monk of a man.
That spring we began to hear reports of Danish raids on Thanet, Cheshire and Dorset, and although the rumour stirred our interest, it was too far away to suppose my father would allow Gareth and me to take a troop and taste our first battle.
Our impatience was rewarded the next year, for the Danish slaughter-wolves were seen from the shores of our fair country, and my father and his trained troops rode to its defence. We were deployed along the banks of the River Camel, and as the longships came aground and their cargo of fierce warriors disembarked, I could feel my pulse quicken, and the hand gripping my sword become slippery with sweat.
My father drew up his men in battle order, riding up and down the lines extorting us and steadying our nerve. As the first arrows flew, I could feel my gorge rise in my throat, and for a moment I felt that fear would overcome me. But then I heard my brother’s voice.
“Steady, little brother, steady. Remember what we are fighting for.”
I gripped my sword anew, and felt my resolve harden as the first Danes threw themselves at our lines. Sharp spears whispered death and drank blood, swords flashed and bit, and I flung myself, shouting, at the adversary. The sounds of the battlefield faded and my vision narrowed to just the man before me, just the task at hand. My shield arm ached from the impact of blows as I screamed and thrust, dodged and danced and lunged in for the kill. It was nothing like the swordplay I had practiced every day of my youth, and yet it seemed to be as natural as breathing.
I heard Gareth yell beside me, and I turned in time to parry and thrust at his opponent, taking the man’s life with my blade, as my brother stumbled, his arm bleeding. I turned, ready to take on the next enemy, but a hush had fallen over the battlefield. The invaders were retreating, defeated, for now. My lungs hurt within me; my breath was harsh in my throat as I watched the receding longships and the dark shadows of circling carrion crows. Elation died as I looked around at the fallen. There was nothing noble about the bodies with their life spilled out on the sand. There was no glory in the charnel house smells that rose from the beach.
I embraced my brother and wept a few tears in relief. And then we turned to tend to the dead and wounded. That evening Gareth and I watched the flames as we sent the enemy dead to their own gods, in their own tradition. As the funeral pyre consumed its fuel, I thought of how different, how much less glorious the reality of battle had been from my expectation.
That raid remains in my memory not for its significance, or because it was a decisive victory, for it was not, but because it was my first experience of the truth of war. All that long summer men looked to their swords and wizards to their protective spells. There were many more raids, many more opportunities to taste the dust and heat and fear of battle. We fared well, driving off the invaders and losing but a few men.
It has now been seven years that the coasts have been empty of longships. Seven years that the arts of peace and magic have flourished. Seven years since my spirit rose to the task of defending our land and people, and my soul mourned at the aftermath of battle.
I do not miss it.