Work Text:
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.
(Emily Brontë – Wuthering Heights)
"Meet me after dark again and I'll hold you,
I am nothing more than to see you there.
And maybe tonight we'll fly so far away.
We'll be lost before the dawn."
It had gone well, all things considered.
There was no spell that dared to rebel against my will, and yet even I could not consider myself exempt from the annoying side effects due to the dematerialization process: my stomach was in turmoil, and a slight dizziness forced me for a few seconds to take in and expel oxygen with greater vigor than usual.
I looked around circumspectly: I was quite sure I had not made any mistakes, however, I reflected, caution was never too much, especially on a night like that. The moon had long since risen, and it towered majestically in a dark, cloudless sky; it shone silvery, resembling a crystal ball suspended in the black sea of the celestial vault, and its suffused glow bathed in ivory the semicircular clearing that had discreetly welcomed the fulfillment of my magic. The wreath of hawthorns that enveloped it almost in its entirety prevented the wind from bursting in and lashing my face, though the bitter cold of late October still found no obstacle in creeping treacherously beneath my clothes. I clutched myself tightly in the layers of my heavy cloak, as I was finally able to let out a subdued – and liberating, but I wouldn't have thought of it as such – sigh of relief. No mistake. We were in the right place.
«God, Albus, is that what I think it is?»
Gellert's eyes shone brightly in the darkness, alight with flashes of sincere amazement. I had surprised him for a change, and his enthusiastic expression provoked a surge of pride in me so intense that it was almost impossible for me to hide it behind my usual irony.
«Of course that's what you think. Do you believe maybe it was chance that got us up here?»
His lips – smooth, plump, velvety and red as wild apples – rippled into a feral grin, but he did not retort, too engrossed in observing the spectacular landscape that was generously revealing itself to our excited gaze.
Before us, solitary at the exact center of an endless plain, towered in all its magnitude a hill with a peculiar conical shape; on its summit, at the precise point where the earth joined the firmament, sharp against the opal glint of the stars, stood the ancient and mysterious Tower of St. Michael[1].
«The Tor, the entrance to the Sacred Isle of Avalon. And you bring me here on Samhain. At the stroke of Midnight, to boot». He cast me an oblique look, amused and admiring in equal measure, and I, for the umpteenth time, felt something slowly liquefy right there, at chest level. «And then I would be the unscrupulous one!»
«On Samhain the doors between worlds open and the dead come back to feast with the living, so please, I beg you to keep your voice down if you don't want to draw all the ghosts of the Shire on us. You must know that there are plenty of them here in Somerset. Besides», and I turned toward the dim glow that meandered along the southern borders of the valley, «I would appreciate it if you would avoid waking the entire village with your cackling. There are only Muggles living in these parts, and not even among the most tolerant, so, I ask this as a personal favor, moderate yourself if you can».
Gellert huffed testily, doing nothing to suppress a noise of pure disgust. «You know very well that I don't care», he hissed inviperately, turning away from the side I indicated. «And it's the same for you too, so stop being such a good boy. Besides, eventually, a simple Confundus would be enough to distract them. Rather», he continued (and his voice was reduced to little less than a whisper: because, in the end, in spite of everything, he listened to me – he always listened to me), «I thought it really was an island».
«It was. In ancient times the Summerland Meadows were flooded, and the island turned into a peninsula at low tide. Sort of like Mont Saint Michel in Normandy, you know? That's why the Druids also called it Ynys Wydryn, the Isle of Glass. Anyway», I continued, secretly pleased to see him so interested in my words, «even now it’s a peninsula, since it’s surrounded on three sides by the Brue River. From here we cannot see it, because it lies beyond this patch of shrubs. In the summer it's a great place to come and fish and ... what?» I suddenly interrupted myself, caught by a slight embarrassment at the interminable monologue into which I had been unable to help but throw myself.
«Nothing, nothing», he taunted me, perfectly mimicking my know-it-all tone, «but is there anything you don't know?»
He seemed to be mocking me, but, in fact, I was aware that that was the only way he knew of to manifest to me the actual extent of his esteem for me. It had never occurred to him to meet someone who could stand up to his acumen and extraordinary intelligence; he had confessed this to me, with a directness that still moved me to my core, shortly after his arrival at Godric's Hollow. I had had no difficulty in believing him, since, for me too, the same was true.
Opposites and complementaries, that's what we were.
And it had only taken me a moment to realize it.
«Actually ... no».
He laughed with relish, and the sound that burst from his throat reminded me of the roar of waves crashing on the shoreline during a violent swell.
«Great, great, I never could stand false modesty».
«Gellert, this is one of the richest places in mythology not only in Britain, but also in the whole world. Everyone knows its history. Don't they teach you anything, at Durmstrang?» I let it slip away and immediately regretted it, for I knew well how... complicated it was for him to mention anything about his time at his old school; his reserve on the subject was unappealable, and I had long since stopped asking him uncomfortable questions on the subject.
«Certainly more than they teach you in that pantomime of a school that bears the ridiculous name of Hogwarts», he sentenced, turning his gaze, however, toward the toe of his boots.
I couldn't bear to see him so seething; ignoring the offense – since I was sure that, in his real intentions, it was not such at all – I gently laid a hand on his shoulder. He did not retreat. He never did.
«So, do you want to come up or are we just going to stand here bamboozled all night?»
He replied giving me a bright smile of understanding, one of those he kept in store just for the two of us; he grabbed my wrist firmly, already ready to dematerialize again with me.
«No no, no waving of wands. We walk up, otherwise what's the taste?»
«The taste of not feeling like a miserable Muggle», he spat out of his teeth, displeased, but recovered in a flash when I told him, «Think of it as an initiatory rite. Even the air is saturated with magic on this hill. You wouldn't want to deprive yourself of such an experience, would you?»
I had convinced him. He stepped to the side with a sensual and elegant movement, inviting me to go ahead of him; this was not the first time I had visited the Tor, and I knew exactly which direction to head in. We walked briskly and silently toward the slopes of the cliff, our steps in perfect synchrony, our breaths increasingly labored as the elevation gain increased in intensity. Thick, sticky condensation rose in wide swirls from the turf, clinging to our calves and blurring the contours of the steep path that, unraveling in a series of concentric circles, would lead us to the summit.
The ascent seemed to me for a vast stretch monotonous and endless, but once we had passed three-quarters of the way, the situation changed, and the atmosphere seemed to clotting around us: an icy chill penetrated my skin, and I did not need to turn around to realize that Gellert, too, was prey to the same tension as me. We drew closer, guided by the same impulse, and the energy sprung from that airy contiguity began to stir between us like the furious, unruly current of a raging mountain stream.
«Heck, Albus, this place is seriously a knot of power. I expect at any moment to see the Queen of Faerie or the Ruler of the Underworld appear. Do you know that if we end up in the hands of the Faerie People we will be forced to dance around a fire for I don't know how many years? I am obscene at dancing, I warn you».
He was joking, to mask an upset that I, too, sensed very clearly; it crawled deviously into my bones, and nothing seemed to be able to curb it except our closeness to each other. «Rest assured», I threw out at last, unable to restrain myself, «no one is coming to take you away tonight».
«And how can you be so sure? Let's hear it».
«Because you're with me», I replied intrepidly, lifting my chin and flaunting a swaggering confidence that, I admitted to my own benefit, I was far from feeling.
«Ah, right, how did I miss that?» his voice seemed slightly calmer, and I was heartened. There is nothing like a bunch of silly talk to chase away fear, and that very special circumstance was evidently no exception.
«On the other hand, even the Deer King, or Myrdinn Emrys[2] himself, would be obliged to give way in the presence of Albus Dumbledore». He uttered those words with such transport and conviction that it struck me right between the ribcage. There were very few things capable of arousing Gellert Grindelwald's admiration: knowing that my wit and dexterity, however unquestionably exceptional (and it was not pride on my part, but a trivial objective observation), had been able to win his complete confidence filled my soul with an immense pride, and, once more, I found myself thanking fate for allowing our destinies to bond in such a firm grip.
«Come on, stop talking nonsense, that we are almost there», I concluded, hoping to be able to conceal the uncontrolled emotion that was eroding me inwardly, reducing me to a bundle of tangled nerves.
I resumed walking with renewed momentum, although my lungs had begun to burn and the muscles in my legs begged for mercy. We conquered the summit ridge with a choked cry, slumping exhausted on the frozen earth and resting our backs against the stone walls of the Tower. Shoulder to shoulder, our breath still short, we contemplated in silence the moon sinking gracefully into the purplish glow of a night now close to turning into morning. It was but a few minutes before dawn.
I would have liked to have prolonged that moment of adamantine stillness as long as possible, but to the east the first glare of the sun already brushed the low, clear outline of the horizon with auburn gleams; I sighed resignedly, returning in spite of myself to the contingency of my daily duties.
«Gellert, we must go, it's almost daylight now».
«Oh, don't start, it still takes forever for the sun to rise».
«Yes, but I'd rather be home when Ariana wakes up. I don't want to leave Aberforth alone with her too long, you know».
«No, I don't know», he looked at me furiously, his eyes reduced to two tiny serpentine slits. He did not tolerate my brothers meddling in our affairs, and I, too, sometimes (and in the last period more and more often, in truth), felt a raw indolence toward them, especially when they forced me to separate from Gellert with their nagging demands. But they were my family, or, rather, what was left of it, and I had spent too much time away from home already. I had to return, or I was in real danger of never finding it, a home, when I returned.
«Gellert...»
He shushed me, lightning-fast. «No, listen to me, let's at least wait until we see the sunrise. Please, please, please. It must be a beautiful sight from up here».
His heartfelt prayer did not fall on deaf ears. I stood up and held out a hand to him, helping him to do the same.
«All right, but now stop snarling like a bilious old wolf. If we are lucky, we will soon be visited by Morgan le Fay[3] herself».
«Morgan le Fay? What the hell are you talking about?»
«Watch and be silent, boy of little faith. It’s Samhain after all, remember?»
I bent my head toward the base of the promontory, and was happy to see that my assumptions were proving correct.
«Once upon a time a traveler, if he had the will and knew some secret, could venture by boat into the Summer Sea and arrive not already at Glastonbury by the monks, but at the Sacred Isle of Avalon; then the gates between worlds floated with mist and opened at the traveler's will. For this is the great secret, known to all learned men of our time: by our thinking, we create day by day the world around us.»[4]
He puzzledly arched an eyebrow, peering at me as if he were making up his mind whether or not he thought I was hopelessly out of my mind.
«Shouldn't you keep quiet a little yourself once in a while, just to find out the effect?»
I tried to show indifference, but with little result. I could feel his gaze on me, and I didn't want him to look away.
And then, everything was light.
A dense, caliginous fog emanated from the damp ground at the foot of the rise, slowly rising beyond the treetops, obscuring the entire plateau from view, until, for miles and miles, nothing else was visible beyond its soft blanket. Caressed by the sun's auroral rays, the watery mass ignited the sky and earth with vermilion spirals of fire. The hill of the Tor, elevated a hundred meters above the surrounding lowlands, seemed almost to sway, enchanting and evanescent, above that boundless ocean of hot, pulsating blood.
Beside me, Gellert gasped, trembling like a thin rose stem lashed by the angry fury of the elements. He stifled a sob as glittering pearls of salt, escaping his iron control, took to gently line his cheeks. «It's like a memory...» he exhaled in a quiver «the memory of a dream...»
«Welcome to Avalon, bredhu. In this place Morgan laid Excalibur, having taken it from the Great King's bloodless hands, and it is said that it was Viviana, the Lady of the Lake, who in turn took it into her keeping. Here is Arthur's final resting place, lying asleep and watched over by the Four Queens, waiting to be awakened on the day when the world needs him again».
I chained my eyes to his, and for a wonderful, very brief, eternal instant, we were finally one.
«And you... and you would have wanted... you would have wanted to leave before... before you...» he mumbled, but I did not allow him to finish the sentence.
I pulled him to me, holding him in my arms, passionately gluing my lips to his. I met no resistance – we did not meet, since there was no distinction between him and me, lost as we were in the intoxication of a kiss longed for by both of us for so long, for too long. I molded like clay against his jaw, surrendered, subdued, hungry, eager to deepen the contact between our most authentic essences. It was his tongue that sought mine, pressing against my teeth to beg me to let him in, to allow him to explore, as calmly as I could, every smallest and most remote recess of my mouth. His taste invaded my palate as I pushed hard toward the buttress of the Tor to block him and engage our bodies in an even bolder and tighter struggle. His hands were everywhere, as were mine – in the hair, on the hips, between thighs – and his broken moans died languidly in the back of my throat; when our breath came short, we quickly recovered it within each other's breaths, without giving each other a single moment's respite, devoured by a wild lust, by an implacable eagerness that burned us from within but did not consume us, returning us intact to the fury of that fiery, desperate embrace from which neither of us was intent on dissolving.
Lost, vanquished, tortured – but a breath away from ecstasy – we danced obliviously on the edge of the abyss.
And yet, and yet, no doubt knocked at the threshold of my thoughts, no hesitation clouded the sublime and fierce beauty of that moment. He was mine and I was his. We marched together and I sensed, from the deepest and most secret recesses of my heart, that nothing would ever come between us, that nothing would ever dare to divide us. Nothing bad could happen, if only we faced the future and its challenges relying on each other's unconditional support.
We were together, that alone mattered.
How wrong I was.
"If only night could hold you
where I can see you, my love,
then let me never ever wake again.
And maybe tonight we'll fly so far away.
We'll be lost before the dawn.
Somehow I know that we can't
wake again from this dream.
It's not real, but it's ours."
[1] Glastonbury Tor;
[2] Real name of Merlin (Merlin Ambrose) in The Crystal Cave, Mary Stewart.
[3] The moist ground at the base of Tor Hill can produce a visual effect known as Morgan le Fay when the elevation appears to rise out of the mist. This optical phenomenon occurs when light rays are strongly curved by passing through layers of air of different temperatures under conditions of thermal inversion and with the presence of an atmospheric.
[4] M.Z.Bradley, The Mists of Avalon.
Soundtrack: Before the dawn, Evanescence.
You can find my original italian work – first published on October 12, 2018 – here.
Follow me on Instagram and Twitter!