Log: Magic Wounds WHO: Barclay Grisholt, Ashton Hartley WHEN: 10/30/13 evening [backdated] WHERE: Barclay’s room, Hydra Dormitory - Out in the forest later
The witch of Hydra said he was good. It was something. Ashton was willing to try it, especially if it meant the discomfort from the Dragonslayer’s blade would be eased and he could transform without the pain in his side where the sword had pierced him. Ashton knew Blake’s weapon had some kind of magic with it. He’d seen it glow when it was unsheathed in his presence, like it knew him and what he was, and the talons of his parents that decorated the hilt had just added insult to injury. The sword, once the Slayer had used it on him and pierced his flesh, had forced him out of his human form and into his dragon form and Blake had been skilled enough to not allow the sword to kill, but only to debilitate. The ache it left behind prevented the black dragon from stretching his wing on that side to its full length, which made his flight more clumsy, awkward and tight. If the witch could help him remove whatever residue the magic weapon had left on him, then Ashton would be free to transform and fly without hindrance.
He arrived at the other student’s door and touched the panel with his fingertips once, curiously. There was a triangular sign, saying ‘Beware All Ye Who Enter’. He curled his fingers to rap against the wood with his knuckles.
---
“It’s open.”
The door opened, and the square room behind it was cast in muted colors: thin white curtains prevented the sunlight from peeking in. The first thing that hit you were the smells: in between posters of Kill Bill and Deathproof, small bundles of plants, flowers and herbs were fastened to the wall, bound together by ribbons. There was holly and lavender, rose and wolfsbane, nettles and lily of the valley, and many, many more... Together, they created a blend of scents that was too heady to be pleasant, but not wholly unpleasant either.
There were the things one would expect: a desk, a chair, a computer, a narrow wooden bed, a bookcase filled with novels and some arcane-looking tomes. However, there was no room for a wardrobe: Barclay kept his clothes in a small dresser and in a drawer under his bed. Instead, there was a large apothecary cabinet, filled with tiny drawers. There were a few open spaces: these were filled with precious stones and crystals. On his desk, next to the computer, was a hotplate, with on it a small cauldron. There was something bright and orange simmering inside it. The liquid smelled suspiciously sweet. The hotplate was decorated with ferocious-looking runes.
Barclay was on his bed, doing homework: memorizing the bones in the human body. The Script was playing from his speakers. The witch looked up, and simply said: “Ashton.”
---
At the words, Ashton pushed inside, already catching the scent of the boy's room through the panel as it cracked open. They were smells he could not identify and the dragon took a stride inside, eyes moving around the space to land on various things, particularly the simmering pot that caught his attention. Curiosity moved him further inside, letting the door ease shut in his wake as he came forward to examine the stones, not quite close enough to touch them, but he did extend his neck to smell the air in a discrete fashion, seeking gold. Giving a soft blow through his nostrils, the dragon stopped.
He didn't lay his eyes on the witch until the other student spoke his name, and then he did so with a slow look, scanning the other boy from head to foot where he sat on the bed. Ashton was a tall and dark figure, clothed in what it was Blake had acquired for him which was suitable for warmth. The only bright thing about his clothing was the accessory of three golden rings worn on long fingers, two stacked together, one adorning his thumb. His spiky hair only partially covered the starburst scars he wore behind his ears
"You are the witch?"
---
Barclay looked around the room, raising an eyebrow. “Obviously.”
He shut his book and got up from the bed, unfolding like a Concertino. Barclay was long and gangly, as if he had too many limbs. Pale and dark-haired, he was a dead ringer for a vampire, except for the flush on his cheeks. His skin just seemed to resist sunlight.
Barclay noticed that Ashton’s middle finger was longer than the index. Hm. Ashton could have been a vampire -- he had the fashion sense of one, at least -- but a vampire would’ve responded to the garlic hanging from the walls. Barclay liked guessing games.
He extended his hand. It had a cold iron ring on it, and a silver one. “Ashton Hartley, I presume.”
---
Ashton knew this human custom of shaking hands when you greeted someone, but he didn't play along, only regarded the lanky teen with a cool look. "Yes."
With Barclay standing, Ashton could get a better look at him, and he did so, noting his pale skin and the rings, but also the way he moved. Since encountering the Slayer, Celebrimbor was constantly on guard against another hunter of his kind. But this boy looked uncoordinated, clumsy, even. Not the coiled strength and sure moves that Blake had about him that kept Ashton in his place. The dragon relaxed a fraction and looked again over at the simmering cauldron, "What is that?"
---
Barclay raised an eyebrow. Either cold iron and/or silver messed up the kid, or he was just being arrogant. Or uneasy. Or both. Fine. Barclay would have to find a reason to touch him later.
Ashton was a customer, Barclay was aware of that. A potential customer. However, if Asthon was being neither welcoming nor forthcoming, Barclay had no reason to play the warm host either. He grinned. “That’s a cauldron.”
---
"A cauldron," Ashton repeated, "What is it for?" Leaving the human there, the dragon moved over to the place where the sweet smelling stuff was bubbling, glancing at it, then at the area around it. He reached out to pluck up one of the stones in a cubby, turning it over in his hand. "You have a very strange collection of... things, Barclay the Witch."
---
“These are my tools,” Barclay, “my weapons. It’s how I make my own magic.” He grinned toothily, following Ashton. He gave the other boy an appraising look, nodding at the cauldron. “That’s where I make my potions. You wanna try some? Go on, it’s not boiling hot.” There was a challenge in Barclay’s voice, an unspoken Unless you’re afraid to.
---
Green eyes shifted to the witch and narrowed slightly. A challenge was answerable to the dragon, who rose to it and reached out to take a swipe with a finger across the edge of the the bubbling mixture. Glancing at Barclay again, not bothering to ask what the potion was or what it might do, he brought his finger to his lips and tasted it.
Curiously, Ashton licked his finger clean and opened his mouth to inquire about the stone he was still holding when the potion began to take effect. His perspective shifted, turned, like he was moving but he knew he had not taken a step. The way the room looked changed, too, and he saw things more clearly, vibrantly, pulsing with energy of different colors he didn't understand and then, alarmingly, he saw himself.
He knew it was himself, and he knew beside him, it was Barclay the Witch of Hydra. "What have you done?" he tried to say, but saw that his lips didn't move. Growing more agitated, the dragon could feel and hear a breath of his body, separate, but before he could grow too frantic, he returned with a rush of sensation and found himself gripping the edge of the table with white knuckles.
Ashton's breath came in shorter pants as he recovered and he slid a dark look at Barclay, pupils faintly thinning into vertical slits. So, point proven, the witch was a witch. Ashton relinquished the stone he'd picked up, setting it calmly back where he'd picked it up.
"Well, then." Straightening, Ashton composed himself, letting out a huffed breath. "What can you do about my problem?"
---
Barclay smirked, noting how quick Ashton was to act. Unafraid. The boy probably not entirely mortal then, was he? He observed Ashton as the boy’s very being vacated his body. It stilled, as if the boy were asleep with his eyes open. Barclay resisted the urge to poke the boy, to see any reaction to that, because he knew Ashton was still around, seeing everything. It bothered Barclay that he couldn’t actually feel Ashton’s spirit soar around him. There were witches who could.
Barclay saw Ashton returning to his body, noting the odd change in the pupils. He also noted how quickly Ashton reinstated control. Good.
“It’ll be handy for tests,” Barclay said, offering up some gratuitous information. “If I can find a way to make the experience last longer. And I know some vain girls and boys who would love to use instead of a mirror.” He raised an eyebrow at Ashton. “And what can I do about your problem, indeed. First of, I’ll need to know more. Magic can be… wily.”
---
Ashton couldn't fathom what manner of tests the witch meant to use in concert with the potion he'd just tried. It wasn't his concern, anyway, and he focused on the reason he had come. "What more do you need to know?" His voice was lower, more guarded, and the dragon boy folded his arms across his chest, willing his heart to stop its racing from being reunited with his body. "As I said before, it was a magical weapon that struck me, and it left a scar. I don't..." he sighed and shook his head impatiently, "I know there is magic left behind in the wound. Do you not have a potion or a... something to remove magic? It's very simple."
Or it sounded very simple to him, anyway. He just wanted the witch to produce the solution and hand it over so he could leave.
---
“If it is that simple, why don’t you do it yourself?”
It was a rhetorical question. Ashton didn’t strike Barclay as the kind of boy who would ask for help if he could fix the problem himself. Barclay grinned, and continued: “There are ways to remove magic, but they’re all dependent on the situation. Wolfsbane, for example, is a good spell dissolver, but if I fed it to you and you turned out to be a were, it’d do more harm than good. It’s hard to enchant objects, so chances are it’s a powerful magic that’s hiding in your body. I’d need to know what kind to really resolve it. If you got the name of the sword that pierced you, it’d do a lot of good…”
While talking, Barclay went over to the large cabinet, opening one of the drawers. When he turned around, he held a slender chain between his fingers. On the end of the chain, a pointy sliver of quartz had been attached. “Show me the scar.”
---
Ashton's jaw tightened when Barclay made his initial remark. The boy would be correct in assuming he would not ask for help if he could fix it himself. It was difficult enough to ask, much less have it pointed out to him that he couldn't do it on his own. The grin Barclay gave was almost insufferable and Ashton could feel his shoulders tensing, muscles coiling. He did not do well with showing humility or temperance.
Fortunately for both of them, Ashton didn't have to go against the rules and bully the other boy, because Barclay moved to the cabinet and started talking about possible solutions. Ashton watched him, relaxing some more, growing curious once again as he tried to see what was in the cabinet beyond where Barclay was reaching. But the train of thought, the direction he was heading, was putting Ashton on edge. The name of the sword. That abomination had a name?
When Barclay turned around, Ashton's gaze swept to the chain and the quartz. He looked at the other student's face, standing a little straighter as his fingers moved to his shirt to begin undoing the buttons. "What is that?"
Curiosity unending, Ashton inclined his head at the chain and, when the buttons of his black shirt were undone, he pulled the fabric open to show his torso, lean and muscled and on his side was the jagged scar left by the Dragonslayer's weapon, just under his ribs.
---
“It’s a pendulum,” Barclay explained, “you use it to scry for things. Lay down on the bed.” He selected another stone from one of the cubbies, the one Ashton had been holding earlier. Funny how those things sometimes worked. It was a smooth round rock with stripes of black, brown and amber: a tiger’s eye.
Barclay pulled up a chair, sitting down besides the bed. “Keep still,” he instructed, “I’m just trying to see if I can find anything.” He put his hand on the boy’s chest, briefly testing him. Normal body temperature, no reaction to silver or iron. That ruled out a lot of things. Hmm… His fingers then slipped down, feeling the contours of the scar. Barclay whistled between his teeth. “Somebody got you good, didn’t they?”
He drew his hand away and reached for the pendulum. “Now,” he said, beginning to scry, his hand fondling the tiger’s eye for focus, “this might take a while. Scrying is a delicate thing, and it usually takes a little while before the stone responds to--” It was as if the chain was yanked from Barclay’s hand. The quartz nestled itself on Ashton’s skin, just below the scar, and the chain wrapped itself around it. Barclay frowned. “Huh.”
---
Ashton relaxed against the bed, leaving his shirt at the foot of it and he looked up at the ceiling as the witch spoke, glancing at him when he drew closer with the chair beside him. The dragon didn't flinch when the hand was laid on his chest, but he looked down curiously, then up at Barclay's face, wondering if he'd start some sort of spell. As instructed, he remained still, but it was just a touch, and nothing happened.
When Barclay's fingers moved down to the scar, Ashton's teeth bared slightly and he stopped a low predator's hiss, pressing his lips together and just giving a nod. Got him good. The scar was long and torn and where Blake had twisted the blade while it was in him could be seen at the most jagged areas. The edges were white, more white than Ashton's human form. The beast remained calm, not reacting beyond a tensing of his tendons that he forced to relax, smoothing his hands against the surface of the bed.
Barclay was speaking again and Ashton listened, watching closely with interest. When the chain and the quartz came to rest against his skin, he gave a small start and sat partway up, elbow propping behind him to look from the coiled links to Barclay.
"What does that mean?"
---
“Nothing good,” Barclay muttered, almost to himself. He got up, softly instructing Ashton to stay, and went to his bookcase. He pulled out an old book, bound in leather, with odd markings on the cover. Stripes and circles: Ogham runes. It was a book, collecting copies of old Gaelic manuscripts. Barclay flipped through the book, checking something.
“Okay,” he said, dropping the book on his desk and opening one of the lower drawers in the cabinet. He emerged with an old, rusty horse-shoe. He gave Ashton a curious look and pressed the cold iron of the horse-shoe against the scar-tissue. “Tell me if this--”
---
Waiting and watching, the resting dragon observed all that Barclay did, studying him as he flipped through the book and noting the markings on the cover of the book itself. He didn't recognize them, but that didn't surprise him. In many ways he envied the amount of knowledge the witch seemed to have. All of the things in his room that he knew how to use, all of the resources at his fingertips. He thought that Barclay might be a very useful ally to have, perhaps.
And then the boy was coming towards him with the curved piece of metal, and Ashton remained still, observing as he brought it closer to the scar. But when Barclay touched the metal to his torn skin, it was like hot fire lancing up his side and Ashton's animal-like snarl of surprise and pain interrupted his restful posture and caused him to react. He jerked away with a hand clamping around the witch's wrist like a vice, his eyes shifted to their draconic color and shape as he growled angrily.
"What are you doing?"
---
Barclay’s face flinched in pain. “Testing you,” he groaned, trying to wrench his wrist away, “I apologize. I should’ve been more delicate.” The reaction was interesting though. The amount of pain the iron caused -- that had to be powerful magic indeed. Fae. And then there were those eyes… Those odd, reptilian eyes, possessing an unearthly, powerful beauty.
Barclay was officially intrigued.
He discarded the horse-shoe, nursing his wrist with a petulant look on his face. “I know what it is, what’s causing you this pain. I think I can help you.” Barclay raised an eyebrow. “For a price.”
---
Ashton let his wrist go with another low growl and watched the horseshoe get set aside like it might be used against him again. He wrapped an arm around his side to try and ease the residual pain that had been awakened by the touch of the thing and sat up fully. The glare he leveled at the human was dark and mistrusting, not apologizing for the sore wrist he might have.
But when Barclay said he knew what it was, and that he thought he could help, Ashton's glare lessened some - until he said there would be a price. Damn the humans and their greed! "A price?"
The boy was smaller than him, Ashton surmised. It wouldn't take much to lift him off his feet and throw him into the nearest wall. But that might hurt him too much, and as much as Ashton was willing to make an exception and break the rules, he needed this boy if he said he could fix it. He needed him if he wanted to fly without the hindrance of the pain from the wound.
The growl was inhuman that Ashton gave as he came to the conclusion that no, he couldn't threaten Barclay, not like Blake had done to him in the beginning and not if Ashton didn't want the Headmistress to find out. It resonated from deep in his chest and Ashton cocked his head to one side as if considering. He had no gold to offer as payment. Nothing to give at all. He would have to resort to his own methods if this didn't work out.
"What is your price, witch?"
---
Ashton looked particularly angry, as if he wasn’t used to pain. Barclay had time to think that this had to be a particularly proud creature, something that wasn’t-- And then, a ferocious growl derailed Barclay’s train of thought, making him jump back.
Barclay could feel it in the pit of his stomach. Fear. He didn’t much care for it. He narrowed his eyes, tipping his head to the side as well. The time for guessing games was over. “What are you?”
---
When Barclay jumped back, a slow smile formed on Ashton's lips. He uncoiled from his seated posture on the bed, standing his full height to prowl towards the boy with slow steps. "What am I?"
Steps coming to a halt, Ashton regarded the witch with his chin held at an arrogant slant, his mind working quickly, "Is that your price, then? I tell you what I am and you get rid of the injury." His mouth curved again in a dark smile and he even gave a gruff laugh, "I will agree to that."
---
Barclay’s nostrils flared and something steely settled behind his eyes. He could tell Ashton was trying to intimidate him, which made him want to lash out in turn. He tried to keep his cool, though. “Of course you would agree to that,” Barclay said, crossing his arms, “because it’s hardly a fair deal.”
Barclay tried to seem resolved, in control of the situation. “Here is my bargain: you will tell me what you are and I will try. If I succeed, you owe me a favor. Deal?”
---
Ashton’s eyes narrowed, “And if you fail?” The dragon didn’t know what a favor entitled the witch to, but his only bargaining piece seemed to be his true identity. It was what Barclay wanted and it was something Ashton had to give. But once given, it couldn’t be taken back, and soon, everyone at the school would know. Slayers, if there were any at the school, would have to come out of the woodworks eventually. But he doubted Blake would send him to a place just to be killed by another dragonslayer. Still, he had been fooled once.
---
Barclay shrugged confidently. “How about I owe you a favor? Or, if you’d rather, you can pick something in this room.” Barclay briefly considered that. “Something that’s smaller than a breadbox.”
---
Ashton's instinct to leave this alone and walk away prickled beneath his skin, but his young reckless curiosity was stronger and his pride, such as it was, wouldn't let him back down at this stage. He leveled a look at the witch and flashed a row of teeth. While they were human in shape, it was still a predator's gesture of dominance and a threat. If he was double crossed somehow by this boy, he would make him bleed. But he still needed him if he could help.
Frustrated, but knowing the best options were already in place as far as he could tell, the taller boy inclined his head, "Very well, Witch. Agreed. A favor for you if you succeed. A favor for me if you fail."
Moving a hand to his side where the white scar still throbbed from being touched by the iron, though the pain was receding some, Ashton let out a breath like an animal might which was releasing stress, a burst of air from his lungs. He pressed his palm against the mark, hatred and loathing resentment for the one who had left it filling him.
When he looked at Barclay again, the emotions were still there in the silver of his eyes, and he flicked his tongue across his lip, back going straight and proud, despite the pain in his side, "I am a dragon." He stated. Ashton knew no other way of saying it but that. There were hundreds of languages to say the name of his kind, even his race's own tongue. But he stated it simply, surrendering that part of himself to the witch.
---
Barclay’s heart did a summersault. A dragon? That did explain the reptilian eyes, though a naga would’ve been likely too… A dragon? An actual, honest to fucking god dragon, right here in his room? Even if Barclay were to procure only a small vial of blood from Ashton, his most intricate spellsb could be given an enormous boost… Holy crap! Even Ashton’s snot could aid in Barclay’s spellwork…
The witch curbed his enthusiasm, doing his best not to show it on his face. “Ah,” he deadpanned. “Interesting. Well, let’s get to work, shall we?”
They were in the woods. Barclay had arranged four bloodstones in a square: North, East, South, West. In between, he’d lined out a powdery circle, made of wolfsbane, pixie dust and the ground antlers of a white hart. It’s funny, Barclay thought, how spellbooks always wanted harts and doves, never deer and pigeons.
The sun had already set.
“Sit down,” Barclay instructed. He sat down himself, legs crossed, hands outstretched. In front of him was a pure white feather. “Take my hands. Now, be patient, hold still and let me work. Understood?”
---
Following the instructions of the witch and having observed as he'd set up the bloodstones, Ashton sat down, mirroring Barclay's posture. His legs were folded and, as he reached for the boy's hands, he met his gaze. "I understand."
Patience, while not his strongest attribute, was something he was learning and he knew he needed to practice. Now would be a good opportunity. Fingers closing with Barclay's, Ashton let out a slow breath and settled in, watching him expectantly and with some tension coiled in his shoulders. If this was going to be like the horse-shoe, he was going to be better prepared.
---
Time seemed to slow down whenever Barclay was doing a spell. There was this focus, this sense of concentration that made you so much more aware of the world. It was like masturbating: right after he’d achieved orgasm, there’d be this peace to the world, like he was suspended in time. Doing a spell was like that, only there wasn’t that sense of happy, weary bliss lingering in your bones. Instead, there was anticipation.
Some witches liked to chant when they were doing magic. A mantra, words of power to help you focus. Barclay didn’t. He preferred silence.
Time passed. The bloodstones seemed to hum.
And then, it seemed as if as gust of wind picked up the feather, whipping it into the air. Slowly, it floated down, and then it stopped, a few feet above the ground. It seemed as if the feather had become paler than it had been, painful to look at, an intense white that seemed to glow.
Barclay opened his eyes, looking at Ashton without really seeing him. His eyes had turned green.
The feather waited, seemingly regarding Ashton. Then, it dipped forward, and brushed the other boy over the lips.
---
The utter stillness of the other boy and then, as time dragged on, to the air around them, had Ashton feeling uneasy. His skin prickled suddenly, though he could see no change in Barclay. Eyes narrowing, Ashton remained still and waiting, an energy building and quelling inside of him that made him feel the urge to transform and guard himself against... what, he didn't know. But he kept calm and waited.
When the feather picked up, fluttering into the air, Ashton gave a small start, head tipping up to follow its path as it floated back down. He blinked, glaring at the brightness of the feather, and looked at Barclay's face to find his eyes had opened, an intense green, but the boy didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular.
And then the feather touched his lips.
The reaction was visceral. Celebrimbor felt a tightening in his abdomen, a sharp tearing that caused him to give a growl that sounded pained. He pulled away from Barclay, doubling over, and dug his fingers into the grass as the barbs left behind by the Dragonslayer's enchanted weapon forced themselves up and out. He vomited blood and bile, shuddering as the shards fell from his mouth and into the grass.
A partial transformation had taken place in the process. The movement of the fae objects in his body had set off a rippled reaction in the dragon that forced his own magic to react and he was too young and inexperienced to control it. Horns were grown from his head, a crest that curved in graceful, yet not fully developed angles. His hands were clawed and dug into the ground, black shining scales showing where his clothes ended and his mouth was open, panting, with a row of teeth that had gone from flat human molars to sharp fangs.
He regained control soon after the fae bits were passed from him, the parts of the dragon anatomy that had started to transform from his human form melted away and once again he was the tall Icelandic boy, blunt fingernails dug into the earth where claws had once attached.
---
Barclay was panting: a lot of energy had been wrung from him when the spell took effect. The barbs hadn’t wanted to leave: fae metal had a will of its own. Thankfully, Barclay had used a very strong component -- the feather of a Caladrius bird -- to channel the spells, and it had worked. The witch watched with rapt attention as Ashton convulsed, vomiting up the shards, and then convulsing again, transforming, becoming something in-between.
Barclay’s eyes, blue again, widened in wonder. He’d caught a glimpse of something magnificent.
When Ashton’s body settled, Barclay smirked at him. “Told you…” He had to catch his breath. “Told you I was good.”
---
Ashton turned his head and scowled at Barclay, bringing a hand out of its death grip on the grass to wipe the blood from his lower lip. He cautiously sat up, sitting on his feet, knees bent, and tried to catch his own breath as a hand explored his side where the pain had been bothering him since the sword pierced him over a year ago. While the scar remained, the throbbing ache was gone.
Surprised, but still cautious and alert, Ashton stood and stretched his side, his expression going from a scowl to one of wonder. The biting ache was truly gone! He wanted to transform to his true form now and reach into the sky and finally stretch his wings without the sting of the barbs. But first...
Turning his regard to the witch, Ashton straightened his shoulders and nodded, "So you did. Now, what is this favor you require as payment?"
---
Barclay had gotten up, gathering his bloodstones. He grinned. “You’ll hear about the favor when I think of it.”
---
Ashton was starting to become accustomed to - and dislike - that grin of his. He glared and a rush of air pushed from his lungs in frustration, "You don't even know what it is? What if I don't like it?" He crossed his arms.
---
“Then you should’ve thought about that before you made the deal,” Barclay said, something of an edge to his voice. He remembered the small pouch in his pocket, the one filled with a powder that could stun even an adult rhino. If Ashton were to react to Barclay’s… impertinences, Barclay at least had a back up.
---
"You--" The angry outburst was stalled by the quick reminder that he had, in fact, agreed to the deal. Barclay had done his part and really, what could the witch possibly want from him that would be a hardship to give?
The dragon looked away to cool his temper for a moment, glancing down at the blood he'd left in the grass that contained the shards. It was worth it. He would keep his word. Barclay was a powerful witch, from what Ashton had seen, and if he could take the shards out, he could put them back in.
"Very well, witch." Ashton relaxed a fraction and unfolded his arms, settling both hands on his hips instead to return his gaze to the other boy, "Then I will await word. And we are finished for tonight, at least."
---
“Sure,” Barclay said, gathering the feather as well. He briefly hesitated, and then also pocketed the shards. He wiped his fingers on his jeans and then kicked against the powder, breaking the circle. He grinned at Ashton. “This was fun. I think I like you, Ashton.” He winked. “Be seeing you.”