InsaneJournal

WHO. Gideon Prewett & Madoc Dearborn
WHERE. Gideon's farm.
WHEN. We've been plugging away at this for a while, so let's just say it was set some time in the not-so-distant past. It happened before the party tonight, at least.
WHAT. Madoc takes his part.
RATING. PG

***

This is a bad idea and you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life. You are a stupid, maudlin boy and no matter what he’s sworn, he isn’t your father in anything but blood. These thoughts roiled within Madoc Dearborn, fluttering their violence and peppering his ribs with their fearful lack of surety. Thirty years of belief and abandonment, thirty good years of sweet and simple pissed-off rage, had fed a lot of drunken benders and more than a couple rants. He’d found ways to channel it, to be a Warren and a Dearborn, but never a Prewett. So knocking on the door to the quaint little cottage felt like his very own Rubicon. A full thirty seconds passed with his knuckles poised before he simply let them fall (once, heavy) against the door. For all the open-ended invitations and long shuddered hopes, Gideon never expected that presence to cross his wards. It caused him to still his hands, seeped deep into the cool, moist earth, half wondering if he had been mistaken, but even so, abandoning the task at hand to walk around the perimeter of the house, bearing all evidence of the day’s toils and seemingly forgetting all of them. Madoc was here. All at once, Gideon was conscious of how homely the cottage was, more shabby than rustic, his efforts, the farm, all-consuming and labour-intensive for how little there was to show for it. Just another weather beaten farmer struggling to make out an existence on this plot of earth. He had been proud of it, and yet here and now, it didn’t feel like enough. “You came,” he said, in spite of these thoughts. “Well, you said …” It was directed at the door he’d expected to swing inward, emitting his lanky fuck of a biological father and giving them another go at this meeting under more legitimate circumstances. But perhaps they seemed half-destined to varying degrees of loggerheads. He turned slowly, even allowing his shoulder to rest on the doorjamb as he took in the tableau. Behold, I will stand before thee there upon the rock in Horeb; and thou shalt smite the rock, and there shall come water out of it, that the people may drink. And Moses did so in the sight of the elders of Israel. How was it that his father could coax the life out of his moor, bringing not only the land to flower but every living thing on it? And how was it that he could make a home so inviting it was to this goddamn door he cleaved? He took a breath and caught his father’s crystalline gaze. “So I did.” As he tried to divine his son’s emotions and thoughts from a face that gave so very little away, his teeth sunk into his lower lip. He squinted as a bead of sweat drew over his brow, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of soil across his skin. He had devoted so much energy into what it would be like to have his son finally here, he didn’t quite know what to do now that it had transpired. “I was about to patch up some of the wards around the property. Would you come with me?” One black feline streaked out of a bush, its tail punishingly erect, to stalk behind Madoc as he took several steps forward to fall in line with his father. Perhaps it was some familiar whose keen senses detected a stranger on ground, or perhaps darkness called to darkness. Madoc didn’t know, though he guessed the entire plot would rise up to defend Gideon if given half the chance. He imagined himself dashed upon the rocks, choked out by the vines with their verdant loads … A smile. See me try, Mum. Don’t kill me, cat. “How d’you do that?” “Well, I’m not one hundred percent sure.” Gideon smiled crookedly, then bent low to scoop the cat up and cradle him along one arm like he were carrying a quaffle. “This one’s Medraut. One of the originals, and not the interlopers. Uh...until recently, I didn’t have to pay them much attention, but now I’ve a mind to try my hand at some reinforcements.” Which was to say, they had been in shambles since the DMLE’s latest visit, oozing their disrepair every time he or someone else passed through them like a seeping wound. “It’s said the strongest, most resilient wards are the ones created by the master of the land, but really that’s just translation for using the strongest magic there is -- love and by extension, blood. I figure I’ve put so much of myself into this place already, I ought to be able to make something halfway respectable.” “Some of the theoretical applications of that,” Madoc uttered, side-eyeing the cat who now purred in Gideon’s arm, before walking a step beyond his father to stoop and, removing a glove, to rake his fingers through the rocky clay which indicated the boundary of his property. “ … I’ve seen in Honduras, Costa Rica.” And he didn’t elaborate, didn’t want to mix too much of that Aztec magic here with this flourishing. “It’s a very archetypal foundation, isn’t it? Love exceeds darkness, therefore love binds and protects, heals and secures. I would like to believe that. You will have to let me know if it works.” “I’m sure, at its core, much of it is all the same. The most primal forces there are -- did you know we’ve a department in the Ministry devoted to studying all these things? Very English, that -- capture, contain, pin down and identify.” Gideon’s toe scuffed at the wet, tacky earth, feeling a thread of magic quake against him. Medraut flattened his ears in response and struggled to escape his hold, which he ceded lest he collect a reproachful swipe of claws. “How much time did you spend, down there?” From his pocket, he pulled out a pocket knife and held it between his teeth as he began to roll up the sleeve of one arm. “ -- I dunno, though. Primal forces, sure. But aren’t they borne on the winds of what we’re taught to value? It could be different for any one person,” came nearly a whisper as he watched his father prepare to strengthen the security of his land. Here was Moses, certainly. And this Bilius, perhaps his Aaron. But who was Joshua? “I remember learning about the Fisher King, who gave of his body so that his kingdom would flourish. And I remember being taught of the wild Celtic deities who required the lives of their rulers to ensure the crops wouldn’t flag or fail. Makes sense.” A neat crimson line was drawn down his pale forearm, immediately welling up like a spring. Gideon turned his arm and let the drops of blood fall from his veins to soak into the ground below, trying to imagine with them, the very essence of his heart and soul. Once upon a time, all of his fragile hopes had been woven into this land, and many a time, his sweat and tears too. Now, the last pieces of himself were given to forever bind this land unto him and he to the land. “I hope I won’t have to go that far.” When it felt like enough, he drew his wand and repaired the wound with a healing spell long since bound up in his memory through continuous use. He flexed his fingers and then his arm, quirking his head as if he could hear the interwoven threads of magic singing sweetly. With his blood soaked into the earth, there were no ward stones to break or dismantle, just continuous fusion and growth. He glanced at Madoc and then, after a moment, held out the knife as well. “Would you like to add yours?” Madoc watched his father repair the security of his land and as the blood soaked into the spongy turf, he finally smiled. And when Gideon offered his knife, Madoc took it knowing full well that the love he spoke of would not flow from his own veins. Instead, as he dug the knife hard across his palm, he balled his fist to let the blood first well between his fingers before he cast it in a wide arc. The words which tumbled forth from his lips were not for Gideon, but for the air as molecules knit together and wove into glittering factions before fading into the slate sky. Then, finally, as it finished, he wiped the blade on his sleeve. “Here.” He studied Madoc’s movements -- the way he seemed to little regard his own comfort (the palm, with its hundreds of nerve endings, would have been more painful), the almost jagged intent of the wound. The foreign syllables falling from his lips and the heavily laden magic that attended them -- he felt something heavy and thick settle over the land, somehow deeper, darker, and older than he could have ever described. It made him wonder, the experiences Madoc had, what the boy had been through in but a short 27 years with a foundation as flawed and challenging to have built it upon. Gideon took back the knife and slid it back into his pocket, squinting into the sunny horizon. “This was north...three more points to go.” “Lead the way.” But Madoc paused, leaning forward to press his palm against Gideon’s shoulder. “ … in other parts of the world, parts more familiar than this place that could be home, it isn’t love that binds but pain. And I suppose it’s whatever hurts the most in one person’s life, I suppose it’s whatever makes that person tick in their darkest spots. That’s what is meant to keep one safe. Whether in the heart or in soil …” And he leaned back, swallowing, before snapping his fingers to free himself of the dried blood. “Everybody’s got pain to spare.” “That sounds...wretched.” But, Gideon supposed, that was entirely the point, and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t enough of either in spades. He’d have returned the touch, wanted to, but even still, it was only ever cautious regards forward, swift retreats back and he had to respect those spaces, so he only took a breath and turned to guide them to their next location. “This magic you’ve learned...do you regret it?” A hard trudge brought him next to his father, climbing the countryside to their next locale. When he spoke, it was half breathless. He laughed. “No, I don’t regret it. Why would I?” Madoc recognized the worth of pain in the world and put it to his anvil. “But I wouldn’t mind learning your way.” “Some of it seems harrowing, and not everyone has that kind of constitution, I imagine.” But maybe to a boy who had been forced to live a thousand lives not his own, pain could focus and centre. Perhaps pain would have been preferable. There was little visible to demarcate the edges of his property save for the way the magic felt as they circumnavigated the fields, hills, moors, and forests. Yorkshire was not home to much of the neatly tames carpets of green to the south. But now, it was his turn to laugh, if only a little. “I never thought of it like that. My way. Put like that, I probably couldn’t recommend it to anyone.” “ … you have other ways? This is the Gideon I know,” he uttered, smiling crookedly before halting next to a tumble of stones. “You extend the hand again and again, not expecting anything. And I dance closer then pull back. This is probably frustrating for you but still, you persist. Still you extend the hand. If that is not leading by love, I do not know what it is.” “It’s not...it’s not frustrating, per se. Frustration implies I’ve any claim to your time or attention or fealty and I do not.” Gideon paused, eyed the eastern marker and felt the way the wards bended and warped around them, still frayed, though in better shape than they had been for many days still. He rolled up his sleeve and flicked out his knife. “It’s difficult, and it hurts if I think of the magnitude of it for too long, but I have accepted that too.” He drew a slow line down his arm once more, almost in the same exact spot as he had at the northern border. Blood welled up and fell upon the stones, starkly crimson against their soft moss-covered greenness. “I have had to learn how to accept many difficult things.” “Yes, I know you have. It’s etched in your face and the tone of your voice. You accept, you internalize, you move round where once you ploughed through.” Without blinking or wiping the blade, Madoc took it from his father’s grasp and let the ferrous material gather in his palm before it oozed between his fists once more. He waited, teeth caught in his lip. “You think, maybe, it’d be better if you let it out sometimes? Love only gets you so far.” Another porous membrane sealed, stronger and more resilient than before. It caused tension to slowly dissipate -- Gideon hadn't realised he had been rigid with it. Love, it seemed, wasn't just a vividly pulsing, pure thing: it churned with darker shades, some more painful than others. “The last time I ‘let it out’, I ended up in prison.” He started for the southern border, earth, stone...water next. Keeping hold of the blade, Madoc stepped harder to keep up with his father’s long-legged stride. Through pursed lips he spoke again -- “I know the stories. I know what you thought you had to do. And you make it sound like, here, it wasn’t worth it.” Gideon laughed, short and stopped almost as soon as it had begun. “Here we are, some eighteen years later, older and fatter and uglier, and what’s changed? So, you tell me. What was worth what?” “That isn’t mine to answer or quantify. If you can’t name it or figure it out, maybe your body left that prison but your mind …” he shrugged. Greyback’s story was a known factor, and not just from what he’d heard in the Dearborn clan’s telling. A part of him, small and quiet, was proud his father stood in the face of that monstrousness and cast it down. “And when you figure it out, will you let me know?” The look Gideon cast him was one of humoured disbelief. “If I ever figure that out, you’ll be the first to know.” The trek now, grew more rugged as the land began to climb upwards, rocks and tree roots serving as sturdy footholds among the wet slippery leaves and mud. “In truth, I’m almost afraid to find out. If the answer is that it wasn’t, what kind of man would I be? And if the answer is that it was, what kind of world do I live in?” Following his father, Madoc reached out a few times to steady his footfalls in the uneven ground. Before he could respond, however, he paused between two stone cairns and shook his head -- “Something tells me it’s somewhere in the middle. There’s nothing this world likes more than to give answers that are not entirely one way or another. Maybe what you did and the price you bore was mostly worth it, only to keep you until now, so that you can do whatever it is you need to do in the interim.” He swallowed, aware at once of the implication of his statement -- more to be done. But maybe Gideon already knew, maybe he just needed to hear it spoken aloud. “A little of both. Anyone living or dead will tell you that. You settle yourself on good enough and keep on fighting as hard as you can.” “Everyone keeps telling me to fight. It’s as if they see something inside me I don’t see for myself. And I don’t know.” As they ascended closer to the crest of the rise, the sounds of running water stirred the air, a steady, gentle rush of water slipping over the river bed, glutted with the melting winter snow. The afternoon sun broke in through the sparse tree canopy, glinting across the malleable, rippling surface. “This is the river that keeps the whole farm alive and also forms its southern border. Do you feel it? The barriers of the ward?” Madoc’s blood had intermingled within its threads of magic twice now -- it was becoming as much as part of him as he of it. “Yes --” was a little more breathless. With the river rushing beneath them, Madoc felt the magic web round him and bend agreeably. His fingertips dug into the wound in his palm to encourage greater bloodflow. He bent, falling to one knee before turning his gaze up toward his father. “This is the final place, is it not?” “Penultimate. But, you’re part of this land now too.” And it felt right for it to be so, this land which had healed him so much -- that he could hope to offer even a small part of that calm for a troubled son. “You’re going to be quite the landowner some day.” After he passed, and Bilius. “Not bad for a Yank.” The words which spilt from his lips, then, were not in response to his father’s jest but more of the same phrases learned at the forge of Chantico. Only this time, as the sluggish blood clotted in his palm, he plunged it into the rocky clay. Then, when his part was done, he rose and gave a laugh. “ -- really.” Sarcasm could hide the growingly overwhelming truth of Gideon’s statement. There was no longer anything which was just Madoc. He had now, knowingly, given himself to this land and to this family. He was in it. “I’m still trying to get used to not wanting to clock you.” “Progress, then.” Gideon took back the blood stained knife, drawing it across his arm quickly and without fanfare, crouching down to have his own blood join Madoc’s within the river’s bed.