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Very slowly, Remus reached into his pocket.
Keep its gaze. He gripped his wand with sweaty fingers. Don't look away.
He squinted into the late afternoon sunlight and tried to draw his wand without moving his arm or blinking. The creature huffed and stamped angrily.
Remus stumbled backward quickly.
Not so much stamped, he decided, taking another step, as plodded. Plodded angrily.
"Now, there," he said, in what he hoped was a non-threatening voice. "No need to be upset. I mean you no harm. I am perfectly willing--eager, even--to give you wide berth." He continued moving away, his feet sinking into the sandy ground. "It's just that this bit of land bears some resemblance to a road, and I suspect it is the road I am supposed to be following. I certainly don't mean to intrude upon your...whatever it was you were doing when I so rudely interrupted."
They had warned him about the roads: shear drops, rockslides, icy shrouds of fog, and overloaded lorries creeping along like drunken Erumpents. The hostile local wizards had also merited a few words of caution from Li's relatives in MacLeod Ganj; twelve centuries of strict isolationism are not easily breached, even by so bumbling and bloody-minded a western fool as Remus Lupin. The altitude, as well, they did go on and on about the altitude, moaning dramatically and grasping their heads to demonstrate, lest Remus misunderstand, the precise reaction expected of a lowlander travelling into the mountains. And Remus' final query, just one mention of the monks of the mysterious dark monastery--Nag Khung Dgon Pa--earned hushed whispers and dire predictions. Accepting their advice with gratitude and growing alarm, Remus had boarded the bus to Leh feeling quite well-counselled.
Nobody mentioned wild camels.
Quickening his backward pace, Remus wondered how much space was required to avoid challenging a camel. He tripped over an uneven patch of ground and froze, eyeing the animal warily. Nobody ever mentions the wild camels. The camel stared down at him, unmoving. Its expression wasn't quite threatening, he had to admit, but it was uncannily familiar. Muggle tourists, Ministry officials, scholars and camels, they all wore the same look of bemused arrogance, the look that said, "I have no idea what I'm doing here, but, by golly, it's my right to be doing it!"
Laughing to himself, Remus relaxed his hold on his wand and stood straighter, adjusting the straps of the rucksack on his shoulders. "I'm not laughing at you," he said reassuringly. The camel blinked. "I'm going to step around this way. You needn't move an inch."
Remus left the road and circled the camel at a distance of about fifteen feet. The animal turned its head to watch him but did not move. When he was sufficiently past, Remus returned to the narrow, sandy track. The road wound over low, rolling hills and through clumps of leafy trees at the edge of the dunes, not unlike the one in which he and the camel had surprised one another.
It was late afternoon, and the shadows were long. Soon the sun would fall behind the snow-covered peaks in the west, and doubt tugged at Remus' mind. He had no way of knowing if he was on the correct road. When the car had become mired in the sand a few hours ago, his Ladakhi driver had launched into a lengthy speech, quite possibly discussing the state of the tyres, the distance to the monastery, the difficulty of driving in so remote a region, the likelihood of being set upon by wild camels, or any number of topics pertinent to a traveller's survival in the Nubra Valley. Remus hadn't understood a single word.
After employing a series of elaborate gestures and exhausting the full extent of his very limited Tibetan vocabulary, Remus had managed to confirm that this was the road to the monastery and that he would be better off walking than waiting for men from Hundar to help with the car. He had set off toward the monastery, and the driver started walking toward the village.
His confidence in the chosen route had faded somewhat through the afternoon. The wizards in Leh had told him that the monastery was in the mountains, with no mention of the Sahara-like dunes that seemed so out of place surrounded by the peaks of the high Himalaya. But he stayed on the road, half-heartedly reasoning that even if he didn't reach the monastery by the time the full moon rose tomorrow night, there were no people within a day's journey for him to endanger.
A few miles down the road, Remus felt a shiver of magic and paused. The scenery before him rippled and shifted; he took another dozen steps, and the view snapped into sharp relief. The mountains were suddenly much closer than they had been, and he could see where the dunes ended against barren, rocky hills. It was a simple Muggle-repelling charm, basic misdirection and mirage designed to make the mountains seem farther away than they actually were. The road led into the mouth of a steep valley no more than three miles ahead. Remus smiled with relief and resumed walking, encouraged by the unmistakable sign of wizards in the region.
He reached the edge of the dunes just as the sun set. Remus glanced back over the barren terrain, and a flicker of movement caught his eye. A creature was galloping swiftly on the crest of a distant dune, silhouetted against the mountains that still glowed with evening sunlight. Wild camels, he thought, shaking his head. Then he frowned. It didn't move quite like a camel; it stepped too lightly and the curve of its back was even more misshapen than a camel's humps. But the animal vanished from sight, and Remus turned toward the mountains.
The road narrowed as it climbed into the valley, eventually fading to nothing more than a path etched into the hillside. The moon, nearly full, cast shadows among the stones and provided enough light for Remus to clearly see the rugged and alien landscape. Except for the trail, there was no sign of men in these mountains at all. The ground was not trampled by nomads' animal herds, and the trail looked as though it hadn't been walked in years. Ignoring his misgivings, Remus tried to enjoy the cool, peaceful night.
When another tingle of magic brushed his skin, Remus slowed uncertainly. It was different from the earlier protective charm, a faint fire rather than a refreshing breeze, prickly, warm and vaguely familiar. The hair on the back of his neck rose, but Remus continued and the charm did not impede him.
As he emerged from the magic flow, Remus remembered the sensation and understood what it was. The line in the dunes had been a Muggle-repelling charm, but this ward was more specific, a spell he had encountered only once before but doubted he would ever forget.
This was a human-repelling charm.
Remus stopped, his heart thudding rapidly in his chest. You will understand. That's what Matsyamohandra had said when he gave Remus the name of the monastery. You will be safe. Possibilities stampeded through Remus' mind, and he silently cursed Matsyamohandra for refusing to explain. It could be monastery of werewolves, though Remus had never heard of such a thing. Perhaps it was centaurs--they would certainly enjoy a place so remote and empty of humans as Ladakh--or perhaps it was something else entirely. He recalled snippets of stories, begrudgingly shared by the wizards in Leh, about creatures unique to Ladakh that had survived for centuries apart from the wizarding world.
After a few moments of fruitless internal debate, Remus started up the trail again. Whatever the species that had constructed the human-repelling charm, Matsyamohandra had been adamant that, with them, Remus would find a safe haven for the full moon. The old man was inscrutable and often infuriating, but he did not lie. The assurances spoken in the sunlit ashram in Haridwar, however, seemed weak beneath the bright Ladakhi moon; it had been years, after all, since Matsyamohandra had travelled to the land of the high peaks and passes.
But Remus followed the trail. If he was honest with himself, he knew that it wasn't merely the lack of a better option that propelled him forward. He was also immensely curious about who, or what, lived in this protected monastery, hidden so far from the wizarding world.
Another hour passed before the monastery came into view. A soaring, narrow spire rose above a ridge and, as the trail rounded the shoulder of the mountain, the monastery emerged--a dark, angular shape against the moonlit peaks. It looked nothing like any gompa he had seen in Ladakh. Taller than it was wide, the structure consisted almost entirely of mismatched towers leaning together asymmetrically, as if a child had piled his blocks at the edge of the valley. Yellow light glowed from scattered windows, warm and welcoming despite the imposing, almost sinister, shape of the building. The trail widened as it approached the massive gates, lined on both sides by even rows of gnarled, ancient trees that blocked the moonlight. Remus felt like a boy in a Muggle fairy tale, approaching the sorcerer's keep with trepidation, and he smiled in spite of his edginess. If there was a beautiful princess imprisoned in the highest tower, she was in for a disappointment, poor lass, with no hero to rescue her except a dishevelled, dead tired, rather less-than-dashing werewolf who would rather share a cuppa with the sorcerer than fight him, and would probably hurt himself embarrassingly if he tried to brandish a sword.
The dull metal gates were twice as high as a man and intricately decorated with scenes sharply illuminated by moonlight. Armies, kings, mages and beasts swarmed across the broad grey surface, encircled by strange letters that Remus didn't recognise. He searched but found no bell or knocker. His smile quickly fading, he raised a fist and pounded on the gate. A bone-rattling boom echoed within the keep and across the valley.
Remus jumped backward, staring at his hand in amazement as the sound reverberated and faded. He hadn't struck the gate that hard, but the Amplification Charm--or whatever it was--certainly eliminated the possibility that his arrival would go unnoticed. He waited, suddenly aware of the slight wind that had risen, rustling the leaves of the trees behind him.
A deafening metallic clang sounded from within, and Remus started again, then chided his jittery nerves. It was the sound of locks disengaging, a series of bolts and bars sliding free. The last ring faded, and Remus held his breath in the sudden silence. Then the gate began to swing open. Warm yellow light spilled out; he blinked against the unexpected brightness and resisted the urge to step back yet again.
The shadow of a man appeared the light, and he came forward, opening his arms in welcome. "Mr. Lupin! We've been expecting you."
Remus opened his mouth to return the greeting but instead blurted, "You have?"
"Yes, of course." The man motioned for Remus to enter, standing aside. No longer a silhouette, the man was tall and thin, dressed in the simple robes of a Buddhist monk, though his features were distinctly European. He spoke with a slight accent--Spanish, Remus thought. "Your friend in Haridwar wrote to us some weeks ago. We have not heard from him in years, but friends of Matsyamohandra are always welcome here."
"He did?" Remus asked, aware of how stupid he sounded. He was annoyed but not surprised; it was just the sort of thing Matsyamohandra would neglect to mention.
The man laughed, a rich sound that filled the large stone hall. He waved a narrow hand and the gate began to close; Remus watched the complicated array of locks slide into place and tried to ignore the feeling that he was now trapped inside. "Welcome to Nag Khung Dgon Pa, Mr. Lupin. I am Nicodemo Alejo Octavio Roque de Madrigal." The man extended his hand and smiled.
Remus reached to shake his hand, then froze.
It was a friendly smile, bright and open, lighting his dark eyes as well as his mouth.
His fanged mouth.
Nicodemo Alejo Octavio Roque de Madrigal was a vampire.
Remus hesitated a shade too long, and the smile began to fade. A mocking female voice rose in his memory: It is another game we play, the proliferation of names. We do love the games that the children cannot win. But he recovered quickly and shook the offered hand. "Thank you," he said quickly. "I didn't know you were expecting me." It took Remus only a second to decide that an admission of ignorance was preferable to a possible insult. He asked, "What shall I call you?"
Still smiling, the man replied, "Nicodemo will suffice." He led Remus through the torch-lit hall. Colourful tapestries hung on the walls; Nicodemo's bare feet padded softly on the exquisite Kashmiri carpet that lay over the dark grey stone. He slowed his pace to walk beside Remus and explained, "In this monastery we reserve our formality for study and meditation. We cling to our names because they are our oldest comfort, but when we step onto the Eight-Fold path we shed the traditions and laws that shackle our counterparts elsewhere in the world. You need not worry."
Of course not, Remus thought. What is there to worry about in a monastery full of Buddhist vampires? "Thank you," he said again, following Nicodemo through a pair of troll-sized wooden doors. "I appreciate--"
His voice faded as they entered the next chamber, and the carefully worded thanks flew from his mind. While the entrance hall had been simple and grand, the adjacent chamber was nothing short of magnificent. Smooth, cylindrical walls soared upward, presumably ending at the top of one of the high towers; Remus could not see the ceiling in the murky darkness. The walls were crowded with torches, windows, mosaics, tapestries, statues, paintings, alcoves, balconies and staircases, a lively chaos of colour and architectural whimsy. A sculpture of a winged angel menaced a portrait of a singing shepherdess; a crooked, winding and impossibly frail metal staircase twisted up one wall and vanished into a round portal more than one hundred feet overhead; an intricate red and black stone mosaic of archaic letters and runes, each as tall as a man, spiralled from the floor into the shadows overhead; a herd of winged horses, fashioned from an impossible quantity of silver metal, were inlaid in the dark stone of the tower; graceful balconies and delicate arches opened into rooms and corridors on higher levels. In the centre of the room, atop a pedestal of black stone laced with veins of white crystal, there was a massive statue of the Buddha, his beatific smiling face carved into the purest white stone Remus had ever seen; fresh flowers of every colour littered the base of the pedestal. Six tall doorways opened into the chamber, all but one glowing with golden light.
Remus realised that his mouth was hanging open.
"I--this is--Wow." He blinked, then glanced at Nicodemo, who was smiling with unmistakable pleasure.
"Splendid, is it not?"
"Who built this?" Remus asked, turning slowly to see the whole of the chamber. In one of the open corridors above, a line of robed monks passed by; their voices and laughter drifted down through the tower.
"We do not know," Nicodemo replied. Remus looked at him in surprise, and Nicodemo waved a hand upward. "The tower itself is far older than the monastery, far older than the wizarding history in Ladakh. This is the oldest part of the fortress. As you can see, it has been modified in every century, altered by every age. We assume it was built to protect the guhaa, but we do not know when, or by whom."
"Guhaa?" The word was unfamiliar to Remus.
"The cave." Nicodemo motioned toward the one dark doorway. "The guhaa, the andhakaara. It has many names. Matsyamohandra told you none of this?"
Remus smiled ruefully. "No, he didn't. He told me there was a safe place for the full moon, and nothing more." He stepped toward the dark doorway almost unconsciously, his fascination thoroughly burying any apprehension at finding himself in a fortress of vampires.
Nicodemo placed a restraining hand on Remus' shoulder. "I will show you tomorrow, if you wish," he said, his voice suddenly quiet. "But the andhakaara is best avoided when one is tired." Then his tone brightened, and he said, "You are either very brave or very foolish to have sought our monastery, knowing nothing of what you would find."
Remus had been thinking the same thing himself--he had decided upon "very foolish" at least an hour ago--and he smiled sheepishly.
Nicodemo added, "It is quite late, and you are hungry, no?"
With a wave of his hand, he sent Remus' rucksack to some unseen room. Remus recalled reading that, while vampiric wizards still needed wands to do magic, several hundred years of practice meant that they rarely needed to hold the wand and point it for the desired effect. Nicodemo led Remus through one of the tall doorways into another chamber, this one awash in the artwork of Renaissance humanists. From there, it was a dizzying series of corridors and staircases, ascending two levels then descending one, passing open rooms and dim chambers. Several monks greeted Nicodemo and welcomed Remus cheerfully; they were both men and women, their faces and accents from all over the world. Every one of them was a vampire.
Remus and Nicodemo arrived in a long, narrow dining chamber that had a single wooden table in the centre. The table was empty but for a handful of monks gathered near a fire that roared in a huge stone fireplace. Not afraid of fire, then, Remus noticed, following Nicodemo to a seat at the end. These monks greeted him as pleasantly as all the others had, and Nicodemo trotted out a series of lengthy introductions. The ridiculously long names flew through Remus' head, as he smiled politely and sat down next to a young girl--Clara, if he had heard correctly--with flowing golden hair and clear blue eyes. The Princess in the tower, he thought with amusement.
"It has been decades since a werewolf last travelled to this place," she said in greeting. Her accent was English, but the cadence reminded Remus of the oldest portraits at Hogwarts. He felt foolish for having seen her as a young girl; she was probably several hundred years old.
Across the table, a dark-skinned man with a lilting Arabic accent raised a stone goblet and added, "I do hope you find the meal satisfactory. Claude was once cook for Louis the Fourteenth, but now he has very few opportunities to exercise his skills." The man sipped from his goblet and licked his red lips clean.
The meal was good, though a bit stale, as though the food had been stored under a Preservation Charm for a very long time. Remus chewed the bread slowly, wondering what topics were appropriate for conversation whilst dining with Buddhist vampires. So, how long does it take for the undead to reach nirvana? And how does that 'respect for all life' bit work when you fill your goblets with blood? He decided, after a moment's contemplation, that he would be safest asking about the weather.
The monks had no trouble making conversation, however. They asked him polite questions about the world away from the monastery, and Remus answered as best he could. Unfortunately, he soon realised that the last rumours to reach the monastery had been of the growing power Grindelwald, and the monks had little interest in the politics of the modern world. They inquired about his purpose in travelling to Ladakh, and Remus shared with them his interest in magical landscapes and intention of studying the peculiar characteristics of the Nubra Valley.
Amused, Nicodemo observed, "The wizards of Ladakh do not share the secrets of their land easily. It is too easy for them to hide in the mountains, pretending that the world beyond does not exist." Something of Remus' unspoken question must have shown on his face, for Nicodemo continued, "Although it must seem to you that we do the same. Think, rather, that we dedicate ourselves to the acceptance of impermanence, while they focus their efforts on preventing change in a world that is designed to evolve. Tell me, have you had any luck obtaining their aid in your task?"
"Very little," Remus replied cheerfully. "But I can learn quite a bit without help, so it's not a wasted effort."
The conversation fell into a lull. Remus swallowed, then asked, "How long has the monastery been here?"
The blonde woman, Clara, answered, "Eight centuries, though the fortress is much older."
Remus tried to find a polite way to ask his next question. "And how--why--" He hesitated, quailing a bit under the unwavering gazes of the monks. "I've never heard of such a place," he began awkwardly.
"It is the only such place," one man replied, and the others laughed.
"How many monks are here?"
"Just over three hundred," Nicodemo replied.
Three hundred, Remus repeated silently. Three hundred vampires who have decided to become Buddhist monks in a monastery located as far from the civilised world as it is possible to be while still on earth. Remus had always known that the Dark Arts texts he studied in school were riddled with myths and outright mistakes; the information about werewolves was often faulty enough to make him laugh. But he was fairly certain that the description of vampires as accursed, undead Dark Creatures, who fed on blood and were quite difficult to kill, was accurate. It is all true, laughed a voice in his memory, as clear and close as if she were now whispering in his ear. We pass the centuries with bloodsport and nasty little games. Do not look so surprised, child. We all haven't the pleasure of being woefully misunderstood. Remus ran his finger along the edge of the wooden plate, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it and remained silent. The monks were watching him, their expressions serene and utterly unreadable.
"We choose to leave the world behind," Clara told him suddenly, answering a question he hadn't yet voiced. "For our own reasons, perhaps too complex to explain. I believe you have met vampires in the world, many who would not choose this path?"
"Not many," he replied. "Just one."
Looking around the table at the half-dozen openly curious faces, Remus suddenly felt very, very young and very far from home.
* * *
After supper, Nicodemo took Remus to a room high in one of the towers. The climb reminded Remus how far he had walked that day and how tired he was despite the whirling activity in his mind. The room was wedge-shaped and quite comfortable, with a colourful Kashmiri carpet on the stone floor and a simple wooden bed set against one of the straight walls. His rucksack was on a chair beside the bed.
He thanked Nicodemo, and then he was alone.
Remus walked over to the large window and pushed the casement open. Leaning out into the chill night, he looked down at the valley floor, hundreds of feet below. The landscape was eerie and silent. He still felt the familiar tension and pull of the moon, but it was dampened under pure physical exhaustion. Remus wondered why he hadn't before thought of lengthy treks through camel-infested sands and climbs in mysterious ancient monasteries as preparation for the full moon. He inhaled deeply and absently rubbed at his right wrist, trying to ignore the ghostly memory of thin fingers pressing bruises into his skin.
With a yawn, Remus turned away from the window. There was a large basin of warm water on a table against the wall. He washed his face and hands, then removed his shirt and folded it neatly over the back of the chair. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rummaged in his rucksack, not really sure what he was looking for but feeling too restless to sleep immediately. He found his research notes but had no interest in perusing them. When he set the notebook aside, a folded sheet of parchment fell out, and Remus smiled. He smoothed it open on the bed. It was a crude drawing, a swath of jagged peaks with the stick figure of a man perched on one summit and a shaggy yak balanced on another. Across the top were scrawled the words Have a safe journey Professor Lupin! Childish signatures decorated the bottom of the drawing. The boys from the ashram had given it to him just before he left for Ladakh and they went home for the summer. He had promised to teach them how to bring their drawings to life when they returned in the autumn, and he remembered that he needed to write to Mr. and Mrs. Pettigrew, to ask if they would mind parting with Peter's old books about magical sketches.
Remus tucked the parchment back into the journal and slid the book into the rucksack. His fingers brushed against a familiar curve of leather, and his breath caught in his throat. Forcing himself to breathe steadily again, he knew that it was high time he stopped pretending to be surprised. Pulling the leather collar from the pack, Remus fingered it gently, tracing over the single word inscribed in the leather. Padfoot. His Aunt Gwen had packed his things and sent them to Haridwar three years ago, and he still wondered if she had known what she was doing when she placed this collar in the box. At first Remus had struggled to ignore it, hiding it beneath the clean linens in the cupboard or under scraps of parchment in his desk drawer. Then he had carried it down to the Ganges every morning before dawn and tried to toss it into the swift current. Finally, he had started bringing it with him on his travels throughout India, telling himself that someday he would find a ravine deep enough, a bridge high enough, a desert vast enough, some wild and empty place where he could drop the collar and walk away.
Pushing the collar back into the rucksack, Remus set the bag aside and lay back on the bed. The window was still open, and he knew he would probably be cold later, but the blankets were thick and he was too tired to cross the room again. Remus closed his eyes and inhaled the clean night air. Through the open window, he heard a distant sound, voices chanting or simple music. As he drifted to sleep the music seemed to amplify and grow, echoing off the stone walls and surrounding him.
* * *
When Remus awoke, the sky was clear and tinted with gold over the shadowy peaks. Shocking cold air bit at his nose and face, and he snuggled down beneath the woollen blankets. His body was still tired from the trek, but his mind was alert, his nerves already anticipating the moon. He felt itchy despite the soft linens and vaguely nauseous, and he had no desire to rise just yet. Remus stayed in bed and watched the last of the stars fade from the sky.
And he thought about her.
He had spoken the truth the night before. There was, supposedly, a large community of vampires in England, but Remus had only ever met one. From the earliest days of the fight against Voldemort, there had been rumours that the Dark Wizard was convincing vampires to help him, although nobody knew what Voldemort could offer to those who survived for hundreds of years by simply taking whatever they wanted. There were more pressing rumours to investigate, more immediate dangers to face, and if a young couple was found with neat punctures in their throats, drained of blood and as pale as snow, there was never any reason to link the attack to the Death Eaters and their lord. With Muggle-born wizards vanishing nearly every week, Aurors violently attacked on straightforward raids, the Ministry struggling frantically for options and the list of trustworthy contacts growing shorter every day, everyone in the Order had assumed that vampires were the least of their problems.
They had been right, in the end. Remus rolled onto his side and closed his eyes. In the end, it hadn't mattered that Remus had accidentally stumbled through a human-repelling charm while searching an abandoned pub, that as he descended into the cellar he didn't notice Gideon's and Emmeline's voices growing fainter, that he didn't recognise the faint tingle of magic on his skin and didn't react quickly enough to dodge the flash of red light that burst from the darkness.
He had awoken, hours later, sprawled on the floor in a room of dull grey stone. She was sitting in a simple wooden chair, dressed in a pink Muggle sundress. Her long legs were crossed, her dark hair twisted in an elegant knot; she sipped a glass of red wine and fingered her necklace, a ruby teardrop on a silver chain. She watched him wake, her countenance a mask of amusement as he gaped stupidly about the room and slowly realised what had happened.
Good evening, wolf, she said. I have a proposition for you.
Then she smiled, and Remus had known that the goblet was not filled with wine.
In the cold early morning, Remus exhaled slowly and opened his eyes. He didn't want to think about her, though he supposed it was inevitable in this place. Through the window, the sky behind the Himalayan peaks was golden and nearly blinding; another minute or two and the sun would be up. He pushed himself upright and rolled his neck and shoulders to ease some of the tension. Standing, he winced slightly at the cold stone on his bare feet. The basin was again filled with warm, clean water. He washed his face, brushed his teeth and shaved. As he turned to dress in clean clothes, the sun rose; a glow of brilliant yellow light filled his tower room.
Remus stood at the window, buttoning his shirt. The landscape, though rugged and strange, seemed gentler in the early morning, brushed with pale green, endless and empty. He had half-expected to wake and find that the monastery had been a dream, so strange and unexpected was the place. After living for three years at the ashram in Haridwar and a few weeks in the simple huts and tents of Ladakh, the grandeur and power of the fortress felt unreal, even to a man who had attended school for seven years in one of the most magical places in Europe.
Running his hand through his hair to smooth it, Remus pulled open the door and stepped into the dim corridor. He didn't clearly remember the route Nicodemo had taken the night before, but he figured that going down was a good start. The tower was lined with closed doors and cold torches, the only light coming from narrow windows slit through the stone of the outer wall. He met no one while descending the long spiral staircase. The stairs ended in a broad corridor that opened into the central tower. Remus didn't know if he should go right or left--didn't know where he should go at all--so he stepped over to the iron railing and looked down.
Remus was relieved to see a few monks crossing the massive chamber. Sunlight filled the tower, though there didn't seem to be windows enough to account for it, and the frieze of silvery winged horses encircling the room glowed with an unnatural light. When Remus turned his gaze upward, he could see the spire narrowing into a slender stiletto of dark stone. He looked down again and watched the robed monks passing through the chamber, walking by the great Buddha unhurriedly. None of them entered or exited the dark doorway. Their pale robes stood out against the black and blue floor, a mosaic of large stones set in a geometrical pattern. Tracing the lines of the pattern with his eye, Remus realised that it was a single large symbol--an asymmetrical cross intersected by three scythe-like curves--familiar enough to nudge his memory, but he could not remember where he'd seen it before.
"What do you think of our humble monastery, Remus Lupin?"
Startled, Remus spun around. It was Clara, the blonde woman with the Botticelli face and sweet smile. "Humble?" Remus raised an eyebrow and returned the smile.
"We dare not take pride in the works of those who have gone before us," she replied, standing at the railing beside him. "We did not build this place. We merely...found it."
"And nobody knows who built it?"
She looked at him with wide blue eyes and shrugged. "There are stories, but the truth is long buried in time, in myth mingled with history."
"It reminds me of Hogwarts," Remus said suddenly, though he hadn't recognised the similarity before. He considered adding an explanation, but, as Clara's accent was English, he did not want to insult her by assuming he knew something she did not. And even if he weren't carefully avoiding the pitfalls of vampire etiquette, he didn't know if he could explain further. There was nothing outwardly similar about the two places; the fortress had a harsh, ancient edge quite unlike Hogwarts' reassuring Scottish strength. It was the magic, Remus decided, the feeling that witches and wizards--and vampires and werewolves--were but a small, insignificant component of a system that was tantalisingly close to magical chaos.
Clara seemed to be thinking about the comparison. "In a small way, perhaps," she conceded, "though it has been a very long time since I last saw Hogwarts. Have they changed the laws to allow those who are not human to attend?"
"Not exactly." Remus shook his head, half-smiling. Clara looked no more than fifteen or sixteen, and he wondered if she had been forced to leave Hogwarts when she became a vampire, centuries ago. "Well, there are no laws, but I was allowed at school only because the headmaster arranged to keep my condition hidden."
"I see." Clara sighed and stepped away from the railing. "Humans do cling to the most foolish of customs. Come, you would like some breakfast? And Nicodemo tells me that you wish to see the caves."
"I would," Remus agreed, though he wasn't very hungry. "Although I don't know what's in the caves. Are they through that door?" he asked, pointing to the dark doorway.
"Yes." Clara paused, biting her lower lip as if she were thinking of saying more. But then she simply added, "That is the entrance. But first, you will eat." She led him through the winding corridors to a room much smaller than the dining hall of the night before. A simple breakfast of bread and tea appeared before Remus, and while he ate, Clara told him little things about the monastery and herself, speaking, he knew, only to be polite. She had been at the monastery for four hundred years, but she said nothing about her life before that.
When Remus finished the last of his tea, she stood up. "To the andhakaara, then."
Remus stood as well. "What does that mean? The caves?"
"Andhakaara means darkness. But it is the same. Come, this way."
At the entrance to the caves, Clara selected a torch from a plain wooden stand and muttered an incantation under her breath to light it. She paused and turned to Remus; the blue flame made her pale skin seem almost translucent.
"Follow closely, and do not touch the walls," she said, then stepped through the doorway.
The chamber immediately beyond the doorway was long and barren, completely empty of decoration and barely illuminated by the light from the entrance. Remus could see his own shadow on the floor and a doorway at the far end, but the light seemed hesitant to follow Clara's blue torch as she walked quickly through the room. She did not pause at the second doorway. Remus hurried to follow.
There was no second chamber. The doorway led into a dark corridor, about ten feet high and just wide enough for three men to walk side by side, lined with huge blocks of stone. Worn, angular letters were carved into the walls, but in the flickering light, Remus could not read them or even recognise the alphabet. The air in the corridor was cold and stale, and neither Clara's bare feet nor Remus' shoes made more than a scrape of sound. He found himself straining to hear something more, listening for his own breath--and for Clara's before he remembered that she didn't breathe--but every sound was damped by the pressing mass of the stone.
Remus swallowed and hurried again; Clara moved remarkably quickly for someone with such short legs, almost as though she were gliding effortlessly rather than merely walking.
"Nicodemo said the fortress was built to protect the caves?" He was appalled to hear his voice tremble uncertainly.
Glancing over her shoulder, Clara nodded curtly. "So it is said. That is what the wizards who passed the fortress to the monks believed."
"Who were they?"
"They were men who guarded the caves," she replied.
"Why were they guarding the caves?"
"That is what they had always done."
There was a heavy iron gate ahead in the tunnel; Remus felt a slight breeze rising from beyond it. The corridor sloped gently downward. It occurred to him that perhaps he ought to have asked these questions before descending into the darkness. Men did not construct immense fortresses to protect mere geological curiosities.
As they approached the gate, he wondered whether the fortress had been built to keep people out--or to keep something else in.
"No other reason?" he asked, eyeing the gate warily.
Clara stopped before the iron gate and handed the torch to Remus. "None that they could remember," she said. She held both hands out, palms toward the gate, and pronounced, "Vyatta." A low rumbling filled the corridor, groaning through the stone, and the gate slowly lifted. Clara took the torch from Remus and added, "Whatever reasons they had were long forgotten, lost with the memory of the builders. I was not here then, but those who were say that the men, the guardians, knew only their task, and nothing more."
Following Clara through the gate, Remus tried to imagine a history so long and shadowed that even the minds of wizards and vampires could not grasp it. He pictured Hogwarts thousands of years in the future, overgrown with predatory vines and crumbling beneath the steel-grey Scottish sky, suits of armour rusting to dust, colourless portraits fading until only vague traces of shape and whispers of motion remain and the magical walls surrendering to a decay that could not be measured in months or years or lifetimes.
If you live long enough, she had said, you will watch everything disintegrate. Do you think you are so different, wolf? He remembered her low, dry laugh, the careless wave of her hand dismissing his reply as childish nonsense.
After the gate, the corridor changed; the sturdy blocks gave way to curved, rough-hewn walls of stone. Remus felt that he was walking down the throat of an ancient, sleeping beast. In the pale blue torchlight he saw, immersed in the dark grey stone, lumps and lines of pale grey and white scattered unevenly along the tunnel and jutting out in odd places, as if they had been melted into the stone.
Bones, Remus realised with a start.
He and Clara walked in silence, always descending. The tunnel never branched or turned; it crawled unerringly into the earth, lined with strange skeletons and caressed by a slight, almost imperceptible breeze from below.
After several minutes, Remus noticed rough, rust-coloured scenes painted onto the walls. He cleared his throat and asked, "What are these drawings?"
Clara slowed her pace and looked back at him, then turned her gaze to the faded paintings. Lanky figures stalked along stone, primitive but menacing, with elaborate headdresses and long spears. Huge, unrecognisable creatures with twisted horns followed the men. "Stories," she said, reaching out toward the wall but not touching it. "Created by the old guardians, tales of men and beasts that came from the cave."
Ah, Remus thought, I knew it.
"Things came...from the cave?"
A quick smile flashed across Clara's face. "They are only stories," she told him, in the tone of a mother reassuring a child. "Nothing has ever come from the cave."
"Then why did they paint these pictures?"
She considered for a moment, her expression unreadable. "When a man passes his entire life watching the darkness," she answered finally, "he will, eventually, imagine what might emerge." She started walking again, then said over her shoulder, "There is always more horror in the mind of a man than in the world that surrounds him."
"I don't know if that's true," Remus countered without thinking.
Clara laughed quietly. "Perhaps not, but you are very young."
You are so very young, wolf.
Remus tried to quash the memory and the surge of annoyance. He thought of his fourth-year Defence textbook, Silver, Stake, Salt and Slug: Characteristics and Weaknesses of Dark Creatures Throughout the World, and imagined scribbling notes in the margins of the vampire chapter: Pale. Undead. Likes old castles. Sunburns easily. Feeds on blood. Insufferably patronising.
That's not fair, he scolded himself. Twenty-five years is barely a flicker in the centuries she has lived. Regardless, he did not want to contemplate the thoughts that might surpass all the horror the world could provide.
Gradually, the tunnel levelled and widened. The current of air became both warmer and stronger. Remus had fallen several steps behind Clara and felt a moment of anxiety when the torchlight dimmed unexpectedly up ahead. The tunnel ended, and Clara had stepped into a much larger chamber. She looked back and waited for Remus to follow.
The torch cast a sphere of ghostly blue light around them. Remus could see walls jagged with innumerable nooks and shelves, solid rock and bone in a pattern of dark and light. He had the impression of a vast space extending above and before him, a great emptiness that dwarfed the meagre, wavering flame.
In that immense space, just discernable in the dim light, every shelf of stone, every alcove, every bone that jutted far enough from the wall was covered with chaotic, disordered piles of parchments, papers, envelopes and scrolls, painted boards and long cloth rolls, thin slabs of carved stone heaped on the floor, dry, brown clusters that looked as though they had once been leaves, leather-bound books, thick folios and neat stacks of cards tied up with ribbon. Scattered amongst the jumble of inscribed items were odd assortments of personal effects: a wide-eyed porcelain doll, a lacquered, red jewellery box, a handful of greenish bronze coins and a gilded mirror that looked as if its surface had been etched with acid. Jewellery--rosaries and pearls, signet rings and fine gold chains--hung from narrow protrusions of bone.
"What is this place?" Remus was aware that he was staring open-mouthed at an unexpected sight for the second time in as many days.
"This is the guhaa. It swallows what we discard."
"All of this--it came from the monks?" Remus asked incredulously.
"No," she said. "Many of these things are much older than the monastery. The guhaa has been collecting for longer than anybody knows. When the first monks took the fortress from the guardians, they agreed to allow the tradition to continue." She started walking slowly through the chamber. "Before, the pilgrims came to the fortress on foot, hundreds of them every season. But now, there are only a handful of letters each year, most sent by owl or charm. It is very rare for a person to make the journey."
Remus began to state that he had never heard of such a thing, but he stopped himself, knowing that Clara would reply by reminding him that he was very young and there were many things he had never heard of. Instead, he asked, "What do the letters say?" The ones he could see were written in dozens of different languages, ranging from elegant English script to ancient hieroglyphics.
"We do not read them."
"But--do you know why people write them?"
"It was an ancient rite," she explained, "a ritual that used words to capture what a man wished to be rid of--perhaps his enemies, perhaps his fear--and he would carry them to this place, cast them into the andhakaara. Such magic has been outlawed and forgotten in much of the wizarding world, but we do not discourage those who remember."
Remus nodded slowly; it sounded like a variation of the Soul-Severing Curses or Exuviating Rites that had long been considered Dark Magic in Europe. "Simply piling the letters in a cave, was that enough?" Remus wondered aloud, trying to recall what he learned of the practices in his N.E.W.T.-level Defence class. "Was it ever effective?"
Clara looked at him for a long moment, and Remus thought she wasn't going to answer. Then she said, "Come. This way."
They wound through the piles of letters and scrolls, stepping over a rusted sword and shield, following the gradual curve of the chamber. A small noise caught Remus' attention, so faint he thought at first it was only the blood in his ears. It was a slight rustling, like leaves in a distant forest or a solitary flame, and it grew steadily until he was almost certain he could hear individual voices whispering. The breeze was stronger, deeper in the chamber, and in it Remus could smell hints of life, a faintly organic scent that reminded him of summer days in dense Indian jungles. The whispering seemed to come from all around, and he eyed the haphazard piles of parchment nervously, telling himself that just because there were an awful lot of words, it didn't mean the writings had somehow learned to speak.
Remus nearly bumped into Clara when she halted abruptly. At first he didn't know why she had stopped, then he saw that they were standing before the entrance of a small tunnel. It was featureless and completely unremarkable, nothing more than a round hole in the wall.
"Andhakaara," Clara said.
As Remus stepped closer, he noticed two things. The light from the torch did not enter the tunnel at all, and both the whispers and the breeze seemed to be flowing from its impenetrable darkness. Remus took another step forward. The space was not perfectly empty; threads of the finest gossamer, as black as the darkness behind it, shifted in the breeze.
"What is it?"
Behind him, Clara replied, "It is the darkness. It swallows what we discard."
Remus stared for another few moments, then stepped back, disliking the sensation of whispers and warm air crawling over his skin. "But these things," he gestured toward the endless writings, "they haven't been discarded. Was that part of the spell--to throw the words in there?"
"That was the ritual, or so we understand. The guardians had decided, long before they gave the fortress to the monks, that nothing more would be cast into the andhakaara."
"Why did they stop?"
Clara shrugged. "They did not say. We do not know."
Remus stepped away from the darkness, moving backwards so as not to put his back to it. He looked over the collection of forgotten letters and scrolls, then said, "Why do you let the practice continue, if nobody performs the ritual anymore? It's a rather strange task for Buddhist monks to--"
A spot of colour caught his eye, and he stopped.
Clara began to answer, "It is not so strange, not at all. This practice of discarding what ails and frustrates, it is no different from what we aim to achieve."
A line of ribs--larger than a man's--protruded from the stone.
"It is the truth for every living thing," Clara was saying, "there is pain in life, and nothing is permanent, however we might cling."
Your devotion to them, your loyalty, your ideals, how far will you carry such nonsense, wolf?
"It is the same for all aspects of life: worldly goods, ideas and thoughts, pride and arrogance. Friends and enemies. To free ourselves from the pain of life, we must abandon our adherence to these things which are impermanent, recognise that no part of ourselves or the world is stable and unchanging."
Only a child believes that his life can remain unchanged, that his parents will keep him safe, his home will keep him warm, his games will never bore him, his friends will never be tired of him.
"Those who send their fears, their sadness, their loss to us are releasing a small part of themselves. These letters, these things, each of them is a release of pain, a step toward the simplicity, the emptiness in which there is no suffering."
Hanging from one of the ribs was a ruby teardrop on a silver chain.
But it will change. It will not last. Even the blood that flows through your veins--cold fingers--even that will fade--tightening grip--no matter what master you serve--rapid pulse beneath his skin--no matter what battles you win.
Clara's voice suddenly stopped. Whispering filled the chamber once again.
Pale fingers touched his arm, and Remus started, quickly pulling his hand away from the necklace.
"Come," she said sharply. "We have been in the guhaa for too long."
You have been amongst humans for too long.
* * *
They emerged from the cave, blinking in the light. Clara extinguished the torch and offered to show Remus the other parts of the fortress. He accepted eagerly; following her about the monastery, asking as many questions as he could think of, concentrating on Clara's antiquated accent and ignoring the murmurs of memory in the back of his mind. She took him through large chambers filled with artwork from all over the world, cosy studies where monks were translating ancient documents, sunlit meditation rooms high in the towers, and a vast armoury in the cellar that could provide swords for an entire army. Every blade was gleaming and sharp, without a trace of rust.
When Remus asked about the weapons, Clara merely shrugged and said, "They were here before the monastery. Would you like to see the library?"
The library occupied several stories in one of the round towers; curving staircases led between the levels, illuminated by sunlight through narrow windows in the stone. Remus spent a few minutes wandering the shelves. Most of the books were in languages other than English. That's one advantage to being a vampire, he thought. Plenty of time to become multilingual.
When he walked back to the centre of the library, he found Nicodemo speaking with Clara. Nicodemo smiled at Remus and asked, "Would you like to rest for the afternoon? Or perhaps you would like a midday meal?"
The thought of more preserved bread turned Remus' stomach, so he politely declined the meal and followed Nicodemo back through the labyrinthine monastery to his tower room. As they were ascending the staircase, Remus remembered that there was one question he hadn't yet asked.
"Could you tell me--where will I be staying tonight?"
Nicodemo stopped and turned to look at Remus in surprise. "Why, outside, of course."
Remus blinked. "Outside--is that safe?"
"We are quite isolated here and protected by our wards. It is a simple matter to modify the charms so they will keep your wolf-form contained in addition to keeping the humans out."
"Simple?" Remus repeated. In his experience, immune to most magic, the spells required to keep a werewolf contained were anything but simple. He had asked Professor Flitwick once, out of curiosity, and received a lengthy lecture about the charms surrounding the Shrieking Shack and why they had taken several months to construct. Remus continued, uncertainly, "I thought it was rather difficult."
"A permanent ward is far more complex, of course," Nicodemo agreed. "But for just one night, the spellwork requires nothing more than devoted concentration." Then he smiled and added, "It is a meditative task for us, one that we welcome eagerly. It has been some time since we had reason to focus our magic in such a way--indeed, we should be thanking you for the opportunity."
Though he was still wary, Remus did not protest further. "Have you done it before, then?" he wondered. "Clara mentioned something about other werewolves visiting the monastery."
"Yes, others have been here, in the past. There are stories and myths--perhaps you have heard them--that claim this land is beneficial to werewolves, even that there may be a cure lost amongst these peaks and valleys."
Remus nodded; his parents had investigated those rumours when he was a child, though they had never travelled to the Himalaya or Tibet. Nicodemo started up the stairs again. "It is nonsense, of course, but we are pleased to provide shelter and comfort to those who seek it." They arrived at Remus' room, and Nicodemo said, "The moon does not rise until late tonight. Come down at sunset. Until then, rest well."
Remus shut the door to his room and stepped over to the open window. It was just after noon and the sun was bright in a cloudless sky. So much space, he thought. Though it was ridiculous, he felt almost guilty for being pleased with the arrangement.
After staring for a few minutes over the empty landscape, Remus stepped over to the bed and lay down, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the tense, prickly, uneasy feeling in his muscles and skin. The room was too quiet, and he could not push from his mind the whispers in the cave or the mocking voice in his memory.
He had argued with her. Even at the time, he had known that it was foolish; a far wiser course of action would have been to listen to her proposal, pretend to consider it, and be along his merry way, armed with a possible new connection to Voldemort's followers. But he hadn't taken the sensible course. He had argued, debated, countered her claims while he grew increasingly frustrated and she merely laughed. You are so very young, wolf.
Remus lifted an arm and dropped it over his face, blocking the sunlight. Merlin, I was an idiot. He hadn't even learned anything useful. The many fascinating ways in which vampires hunted Muggles, the subtle difference in flavour between a man's blood and a woman's, the complex historical reasons that vampires had always resisted classification and legislation by wizards, why a meal drank through the wrist was often more satisfying than one taken through the neck--she spoke at great length about all of these things, but she was too careful to reveal anything about her supposed master. After a few hours, Remus had started to suspect that she didn't serve Voldemort at all, or if she did, it was a temporary arrangement, a convenient affiliation rather than a slavish devotion. When Remus voiced his suspicion, she had laughed scornfully and asked, What does it matter to you? Your side of the battle or mine, it makes no difference. The humans will never release you from your cage.
He had remembered the clank of a steel door and his father muttering an Imperturbable Charm while his mother wept, trembling in a dusty corner as the Shrieking Shack groaned and creaked around him, Madam Pomfrey's cool hand on his forehead, three faces grinning with excitement, the droning voice of the Registry official reading the Code of Conduct--and he hadn't said a word.
Her laughter had faded. You are so very young, wolf. To us, you may be a child, but to them you will always be a monster.
Remus turned onto his side and exhaled slowly. He could no longer remember the words he had used to argue, if he had argued at all.
* * *
At sunset, Remus met Nicodemo next to the white Buddha. The monk led him through one of the six great doors, through the fortress to a modest outer door. Just outside, there were several pens of tiny mountain goats.
"We do not kill them," Nicodemo explained.
The animals did not move as the men passed; their eyes were dull and disinterested. Remus watched them silently for a few moments, but the creatures did nothing more than breathe and blink.
Beyond the pens, the valley opened wide and empty, darkened by the long shadows of the mountains.
Nicodemo asked, "Do you wish for us to find you in the morning, to bring you back to the fortress?"
"No," Remus replied promptly. "I'll find my way back."
"It is a large area," Nicodemo persisted. "Are you certain?"
"Yes. I'll be fine. Thank you."
"Very well. Then I will leave you. Your clothing and wand will be quite safe inside." He motioned back toward the fortress and the wooden door that led inside. As he returned to the fortress, he said, "We will strengthen the wards now."
When Nicodemo was gone, Remus undressed and folded his clothes neatly on a stone bench just inside the door. Walking gingerly past the goat pens again, he wished he had brought a pair of sandals he wouldn't mind losing; the ground was uncomfortable for bare feet. The goats stared.
"You needn't be rude," Remus reprimanded them. "You act as though you've never seen a naked werewolf before."
The goats did not move, and they did not respond. Their empty eyes made Remus uneasy as he hurried away from the fortress. A faint chanting rose from within the monastery.
He walked for about twenty minutes, climbing a low hill near the monastery and finding a relatively smooth patch of ground on which to sit and wait. Leaning back on his elbows, Remus looked up at the sky, a canvas of breathtaking blue. He was in shadow, but the highest peaks were still illuminated by the sun. Except for the faint rustle of grasses and shrubs in a slight breeze, there was no sound at all; he was surrounded by the absolute silence of wilderness.
The humans will never release you from your cage, she had said again, toying with her ruby teardrop necklace. They were arguing in circles. Remus had no idea how long he'd been in the room, with no clock or windows to gauge the passage of time. It was uncomfortably hot, and he was thirsty and tired of her voice, tired of sitting on the stone and tired of her mocking laughter. They will not care whether you help them win this war. You will still be an animal.
He had replied resignedly, I know. I know that. But I'm fighting anyway.
After a long silence, she had waved her hand. The heavy wooden door swung open, and she said indifferently, Go, then. Go back to your keepers and your cage. She hadn't watched him leave.
Remus closed his eyes. The wind grew stronger; he shivered but did not move.
When the moon rose over Ladakh, there was no cage. And the wolf ran.
* * *
Remus woke to the warm touch of morning sun on his skin and the sharp pain of a stone jabbing into his thigh. He took a deep breath and rolled onto his back, immediately aware of his marked lack of injuries. His hands and feet were bruised and cut, but a quick survey revealed that he had no major gashes or bites. He remembered running, and the sudden impact of magic when he encountered the wards. He was utterly exhausted. The prospect of sitting up was daunting, so he shifted a bit to avoid the sharpest stones, hoping to gather some energy for the walk back to the fortress, however far that might be. Remus knew that he had probably been foolishly stubborn in refusing Nicodemo's offer to help him back to the fortress in the morning, but there were birds singing nearby, the air was fresh and cool, and he was content to rest on this rocky hillside.
Content to remember. The outer door had been a Portkey. When he strode past her, hurrying lest she change her mind, he was shocked by the sudden tug of magic as he touched the doorknob. He appeared on an empty street in the middle of a sultry summer night, wandless and alone, with no idea where he was, where he had come from or how long he had been gone. A few minutes of wandering revealed that he was in London. He found a familiar street, pictured a map in his mind and started walking. The sky was just brightening in the east when he reached the Muggle neighbourhood in which the Order headquarters were located. It occurred to him, as he neared nondescript old house, that somebody might have followed him--Moody's voice echoed in his mind: Eyes and ears in every direction! Eyes and ears!--so he circled, hid and waited for a while before approaching the house. There was no one behind him, no sign of magic or wizard, and he was not surprised. Walking up to the front door, he felt the shiver of magic as the protection charms recognised him. The door burst open before he took another step.
Remus! Remus, dragon's balls, Moony, where the fuck have you--
He was nearly knocked over by a crushing embrace.
A second low voice growled, Stand back, fool, you don't know that's him.
The angry retort--Hell, Moody, this is--was cut off by Lily's calm voice from the doorway, hurrying them inside. Remus allowed himself to be dragged into the house, his hand caught in a fierce grip. He sat down in a chair and was surrounded by questions: Where were you? What happened? Are you hurt? Who was it? Did you know them? Are you hurt? What happened?
A few words filtered through the flurry of excitement, and Remus looked up suddenly. Lily was leaning against the counter in the kitchen, baby Harry on her hip, and he repeated what she had just said. Two days? She nodded solemnly.
The grip on his hand tightened. He looked down and saw pale white fingers closing around his wrist, saw the four crescent wounds left by her fingernails, now covered by four small scabs. Extracting his hand from the grip, he tried to focus on the questions Moody was asking, but all he could say was, Can I have some water, please? He drank thirstily and provided non-answers to Moody's rapid-fire questions. He didn't know where he'd been, he didn't know her name, he didn't know if anyone else had been involved.
He did know that it had been a lost opportunity. He nodded in agreement when Moody said, You should've accepted her offer, pretended you were interested. We could use another spy--
A chair scraped along the floor, and a hand rested on Remus' shoulder. Enough, Moody. I'm taking him home.
Should've taken the chance--
Enough. Come on, Remus. Let's go home.
Taking in a deep breath, Remus sat upright and blinked at the sunlit mountains all around. The monastery was nowhere in sight, and he didn't know which way he should start walking to find it. Standing on shaky legs, he decided to climb the nearest low ridge for a better view. It took longer than he expected, and when he reached the top he saw the spire of the fortress over a distant hill in the opposite direction.
"Bollocks," Remus said, with feeling.
He started down the ridge, stubbing his toe on a stone and swearing that he would never remove his shoes, ever again.
* * *
After returning to the fortress, Remus slept through the remainder of the day, woke to find a meal of bread and tea beside his bed, ate and slept again. He awoke before sunrise the following day, grasping at the end of a dream in which a grey stone room expanded to a massive hall, filled with whispers and shadows, the only speck of colour a teardrop ruby that swayed on its chain in a soft, warm breeze. The breeze that brushed his face when he opened his eyes was cooler, and the whispers grew into words.
It doesn't make sense. Why would she just let you go?
I don't know.
What did she want? Did you tell her anything? Did she take anything?
She took my wand. I didn't tell her anything, nothing important. Look, I'm--
I don't like it. What did she say?
She said a lot of things, none of them useful. I'm going to--
Well, she's a vampire. You can't trust what she says anyway.
He had been so bloody tired, hot and sticky, wanting nothing more than to shower and collapse on the bed for several hours of oblivious sleep. The words rankled, and he snapped, Well, I'm a werewolf. You can't trust what I say, either.
Fuck, Moony, I didn't mean--
Okay. Fine. I'm going to shower, and I'm going to sleep.
I didn't mean that. Don't be stupid. Remus--
I'm going to shower. He brushed the hand from his arm, turned and walked away.
"Right," he whispered. "Don't be stupid."
Remus sat up and rested on the edge of the bed for a moment. He ran a hand over his face and yawned, then reached for his rucksack and searched for his clean clothes. His fingers brushed the leather collar, but instead of recoiling he pulled it out and studied it in the dim light. After a moment, he set it aside and dressed, then hesitated only a moment before slipping the collar into his pocket.
He left the room and descended the tower. Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, he heard a chanting from one of the towers. He leaned against the railing overlooking the central chamber, listening the haunting voices and watching the colours and shadows change as the tower slowly brightened. The metallic winged horses on the walls seemed almost liquid in the shifting light, and the portraits were waking slowly, bidding each other good morning in various languages. A single shaft of sunlight focused on the Buddha's smiling face.
"Are you rested, Mr. Lupin?"
Remus looked over his shoulder. Nicodemo was walking along the corridor, smiling pleasantly.
"Yes, thank you," he answered. He opened his mouth to say more, then changed his mind, and instead looked again at the Buddha statue. A matronly woman with plaited grey hair was spreading flowers along the pedestal.
"You wish to ask something?" Nicodemo encouraged gently.
"I would like to go into the cave again."
Nicodemo raised an eyebrow.
"There's something that I...want to leave there."
For a long moment, Nicodemo said nothing. Then he nodded.
Nicodemo lit a torch and led Remus through the empty chamber and stone corridor. He did not move as quickly as Clara had and seemed less perturbed by the dark tunnel, but he said nothing until they reached the chamber of letters. There, he handed the torch to Remus and said simply, "Go on. I will wait."
Remus hesitated--if he were the one waiting, he certainly wouldn't want to be left in the dark--but Nicodemo didn't seem to mind. Remus walked slowly through the chamber, winding around the piles of writings and stepping over the rusty sword. He stopped before the andhakaara and reached into his pocket, drawing out the collar and looking at it in the pale blue light. The whispers from the tunnel seemed to ebb and grow with the warm, gentle breeze, and for a long moment Remus stood there, running his thumb absently over the word Padfoot and remembering.
Go, then. Go back to your keepers and your cage.
He stepped away from the darkness and found the ruby teardrop, hanging by a silver chain from an ancient bone. He touched the jewel; it felt unaccountably warm, as if somebody had been holding it in his hand. Remus glanced at the darkness, looked back at the necklace, then reached out and hung the collar on the same narrow rib.
Turning quickly, Remus walked back to the entrance of the chamber where Nicodemo was waiting. Nicodemo took the torch from him and said, "The darkness will swallow many things, but the shedding of words and objects is only one step. You are welcome to stay here, Mr. Lupin. Our doors are open to all who find us."
Remus smiled to himself. A few years ago, he thought, before the ashram and its students, before his journeys through the magical lands and history of India, he might have found the offer appealing.
But now, he shook his head. "Thank you. You've been nothing but kind, but I have work to do."
Nicodemo smiled and started up the tunnel, out of the cave.