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There are moments, Aesop believes, where one knows at their core—in their very heart—that to retreat bears a fate worse than death. Death may end you, but cowardice—even born of wisdom, meaning for you to survive another day—will curse you with its sordid blackness, with shame that sinks deep into your very bones, perhaps past the release of death itself.
Aesop knows it intimately. So many times he’s sidestepped, narrowly avoiding its clawed embrace. It waits just beyond the periphery of victory snatched from the jaws of defeat, lurking. It’s come so close already in Scarborough, beaten to its prey only by Aesop’s own hubris. One cannot run, after all, if one cannot stand. His hubris, determined and foolhardy, relieves his partner of their life, but so too does that stubborn drive save his own. Clutching the other’s stilled and cooling body, Aesop snarls, casting with the ferocity of a starved hound unchained. When the smoke clears, the objective shared by two will be confirmed by one. His superiors will see a loss, but a victory. All Aesop will remember is failure.
Bravery, however, real bravery is truly an act to behold. One does not seek bravery; they tremble, knowing they are needed, and answer their calling.
When Matilda summons him alongside the rest of the staff, as grim news of invasion and goblins descends, a division is drawn by her words:
“The students will need to be evacuated off castle grounds. All willing hands seek your House and see them to safety. The rest,” she says, resolute, “with me.”
Aesop knows better than all how poorly he fares on foot. He knows what she needs of him—the softer choice, the kinder choice: to care for himself. But bless her, she knows what he cannot abide: to bow his head when instead he can raise his wand.
When he hurries to her side, albeit several steps behind, she turns and nods without so much as a breath in opposition of him, he mouths a word of thanks. When, a half step behind him, Dinah appears, she offers her support in the form of biting commentary:
“And what exactly will you contribute as a cripple, Aesop?”
Hobbling as fast as he can manage and nearly out of breath, he gives her his finest smirk, “More than an old crone has, that’s for certain.”
Fiercely smug, she outpaces him, “Let’s see you prove that.”
A curse-breaker. An Auror. An Unspeakable. Their glory days lay dead in the cold earth, but they endure, willing and able.
More join as they descend into the caverns below the castle, and spurred on by the horror of stone crushed and crumbled beneath under treads of Goblin-forged machinery, they chain like shrews and hurl themselves forward, apparating blind through the dark. Mudiwa. Dinah. Ronen. Tethered loosely to him, Aesop rushes past the flicker of magic left in the other man’s wake and jettisons ahead, claiming higher ground. Mindful that all before her have gone, Matilda brings up the rear. Then the boy appears…
Small as he’s ever been, his worn-in coat several shades fairer than the rich brown of his skin, his boots covered in grime and dried mud—this is the Teodoro he knows. When the boy strikes—his wand thrust forward, teeth bared as he casts—Aesop knows this is the side he’s not been allowed to see, glimpsing slivers of the truth through news of detentions gained for curfew violated, and of local hamlets suddenly bereft of troubles where once they struggled beneath the weight of too many.
This Teodoro is the dark side of the moon, and he very nearly steals Aesop’s breath away.
At Teodoro’s side, Eleazar keeps pace with an ease that invokes Hermes’ flight. As Goblins swarm, Dinah is first to sweep their path clear. More surge forth to replace those lost. As the pair draw near, Aesop spies something in Teodoro—the clench of his grip, the dart of his eyes, a shout he stumbles through only to miscast: it’s fear.
Too long has Aesop stood by from a distance, hoping that when Teodoro tripped, another would stand poised and ready to catch him. But Aesop can’t catch him. For whatever reason Teodoro is here leading the charge, Aesop knows he’s going to push further, outpacing them all. What the boy needs is a hand at his back.
When he cannot hear his friend’s battlecry or the whip-crack of his spellcasting, Ronen twists on his feet, panic rising.
Aesop is gone.
True bravery is a thing so rare, so fleeting, one might never have the chance to help cultivate it. It is a cruel thing, sending a child into battle where adults cannot follow, but if one must go, the next best thing is to give them the soundest foundation for them to stand upon. He sees bravery in Teodoro. He will back it.
“Confringo!” Aesop burns hotter than he’s ever before, his fire scorching like the very hells.
In the chaos, Teodoro cannot hear him. Still, he fights understanding his very life depends on his performance.
“Diffindo!”
Arm extended, wand level with his gaze, elbow bent slightly, ready to retract and defend—Morgana’s breath. The boy’s adopted the stance Aesop taught him. However, focused on the swinging clubs from two separate Trolls, Teodoro misses one of Ranrok’s bastards scuttling into his blind spot. Eleazar faces another direction entirely. Aesop dives—
“Protego!”
A shimmering bubble encases them and the ax that strikes it shatters in twain against the glimmering purple surface, ricocheting back at its keeper. Off-balance from his lunge, Aesop seethes as the muscles in his thigh spasm, and stumbles sideways into Teodoro.
“Professor Sharp!”
The contact between them triggers the conditions of the blood pact. Linked to Aesop’s watch chain, searing heat flares in his pocket, and blinding pain races out from all points of contact. The Ministry will know, but he doesn’t care. Let them come. Let them come and see the destruction they refused to acknowledge.
Teodoro’s hands seek him—shoulder and arm, and immediately realizing his mistake, he recoils in horror. “Professor Sharp, are you—?”
Another Goblin charges then, only to go soaring as Eleazar intercepts it with an expertly thrown depulso.
The barrier fizzles and Aesop’s knees buckle. “I’m fine! Keep your head on, boy. We have you.”
And there it is. A light returns to darkened eyes. Teodoro nods.
Combat splits them, and when one of the Trolls stays his hands too long, Aesop lashes out and sends the lumbering monstrosity reeling straight into the open and jagged maw of the nearest chasm. It flails as it topples, and the landscape around them cracks and thunders in response. The base of an ancient time-hewn pillar shatters, and as it groans, slowly pitching downward, Matilda materializes at his side.
By the time she lays it out for Teodoro and Fig to cross—their final destination deeper still—Aesop is already engaged with a fresh wave of combatants. He never sees them go.
He doesn’t need to. His body aches and screams for rest, overtaxed beyond his means, but he’ll hold the line with the rest of his colleagues. So long as they’re needed, however long it takes, they will kindle that one spark of bravery. While Teodoro chases his foe, they will ensure a home stands for him to return to.