Candlelight Remembrance Open

Having awoken from a brief coma less than 24 hours previously, Valentin was a man of few words on the evening of November 1st. The somber atmosphere of the event was helpful that way, as he had already given enough speeches following the attack at Hogsmeade. Now was the time for people to take care of their personal needs, and so Val would provide support simply by being present and available. Entering the scene alongside Nikolai, Valentin carried a ritual sword and an armful of asphodels.

First attending the memorial for the late headmistress, Valentin laid the newly wrought sword below Shtriga’s portrait. Wordlessly standing for a moment, the champion sighed. From today on, he would take up the tradition that Matrishka once maintained of bestowing a weapon upon graduates of the Combat Magic class who passed with honors. Even after his eventual graduation, Valentin planned to attend the graduations of future students in order to continue the ritual until a day came when it was time to pass on the blacksmithing torch once more. Today's gilded-handle longsword had little shine to it under the emptiness of the new moon, but another day would surely come when its glittering intricacies would bring shine to the eyes of those viewing her memorial. Despite smithing it himself at the headmistress’s forge, his very first such weapon, the steel simply felt cold as it left his hands.

Turning his head to look at Nikolai, Valentin didn’t expect a word or action of any kind. He simply watched the other’s face for a while, and when it was time to move on, Valentin would always stay within arm’s reach. At least they were by the lake again, and the organizers had gone to the trouble of thawing out the entire thing. In some plane of reality this fact was satisfying to Val, but it wouldn’t appear on his face.

Moving to the writing tables, Valentin leafed through pages of what others had written, but he had no heart to write. Instead, he pulled a quill of his own from his coat’s breast pocket and placed it alongside the others. It was a blue jobberknoll feather like so many others he had at home. This type of feather had been his father’s favorite, and so Val continued the tradition after Hugo’s passing. Val might have had no words anymore after what he’d been through in the past month, but he could at least contribute to giving others a voice.

Moving along to the lantern area, Valentin took apart his bouquet of asphodels and placed its flowers around the portraits of the departed. Lighting a single candle and placing it in a lantern within one of the boats, Val then stood back to watch those around him. If anyone looked as if they wanted to be held, Valentin would be there for them. Otherwise he remained close to Nikolai at all times, ever ready.

Date: November 1st

Shattered, broken and grieving were the population of Durmstrang on the first day of November that year. A dreadful tragedy had occurred and many lives had been lost to such unnecessary, senseless violence. On this day they would stand heavy in heart but true in spirit with one another a mournful collective respecting those that couldn't be with us today. To say the air lay sombre would be a severe understatement but Nikolai still found himself basking in it as he hobbled down crutches laid under each arm. The last day had been torturous, the week before even more so but today wasn't about himself, it was far more than that and so with a borrowed hoodie from Hans he hid his face under the black fabric.

Still the feeling of being one stray strong wind's blow from utter destruction lay clearly in his brother's faces. Their worries that it might be too much too quickly were not unfounded but Nikolai had a right to mourn and it was a necessary step in recovery, a long process it may be but a first step was crucial. As fragile as he felt himself, every step a repeated agony, he refused to allow it to dominate any control over him for a second longer. An entire day bound to the hospital wing was torment enough, there where he had nothing to do but think and yet his mind remained fractured unable to piece together the broken puzzle. Wherever he went now though, it was clear he wasn't to be trusted, watchful eyes lay upon him from many sources just waiting for him to break. And yet the reality was that the distrust was entirely deserved.

Wincing under the strain he eventually made it to the table where parchment and ink lay ready for letters to be written. Taking two sheets he fought every sting and spasm to move towards the lake at a distance from the portraits of people he couldn't bare to face. Lives stolen so young, families who had truly loved and lost and tears, endless tears were all he could sense around him. People he hadn't known a single thing about too busy caught up in his own mess. Their loud pain was met by his complete silence, that morning when he woke he found himself unable to speak, physically his throat had been decimated by the elements and his own tattered screams but more so than that his mind simply couldn't find the words.

Finally reaching the lake knowing Valentin was hovering nearby yet unable to meet his empyreal eyes he lent on one crutch and lowered himself gently to its edge allowing his feet to plunge into what should have been icy depths. Slipping slightly on a mossy rock he fell the remaining inches but just enough to cause a few dots of blood to form hidden by his hoodie but present to himself. Likely a ripped stitch but in the moment he hardly cared, pain was so inconsequential to his necessity to write. When the soles of his feet found unnatural warmth in the Durmstrang shores he relaxed under a previously unknown tension. Nikolai's entire body held so much tension it threatened to snap taut but the water had always been his sanctuary and today was no different.

Unfurling the parchments he wrote seven names in total. One on the first with the grace and decorum that it deserved, Headmistress Marishka Shtriga elegantly formed, his hand reverent and controlled. The letter would be written and sealed ready to be sent off with the lanterns. The second, however, had the young Russian's hands trembling far more, the calligraphy ladened with hurt and boldened with pressured writing, he would write six names; Mikhail, Myrene, Casimir, Novislak, Brodny, Radamir. Whatever lay inside was muddled with tear stains and hastily scratched out segments but in truth only one thing about the letter mattered. Today was about the people they had lost and while many including himself had mourned the deaths of Hogsmeade, Nikolai also mourned the death of his family. A final straw had been broken and a line drawn.

Muffled and scratched the boy finally found himself able to speak as he in barely a whisper incanted "Wingardium Leviousa." As the letter began to drift steadily through the air out towards the lake he twisted his wand once more and in a strained but emotive casting released himself of familial ties once and for all. "Incendio." In truth such release offered him no peace, perhaps at this time he was incapable of such positivity but at the very least he wouldn't hurt his true family again with his naivety. Nikolai would never be free of the Volkov name but he assured himself he would be free of the family. Then stretching out he allowed the water to wash up and down his legs easing the once atrophied muscles with gentle bliss until the lanterns were to be lit. Aware of his surroundings but lost to anything but his own plagued mind.

Mentioning Valentin Schnell and Hans Jenssen
@Aida Mòrsgor-Ama Ellwood, @Archer Duncan

Nikolai walked to the edge of the lake with Valentin at his side. It was alright that the younger drake couldn’t meet his eyes, felt Val. Neither did the boy have to utter a word, voice box ruined or not. He was enough. Though broken down by the storm of life, as fallible and small as any mortal, Nikolai was home. Alive. Valentin’s inner war was over. The only thing he’d sacrifice anything to have, he had back. Any blessed glance thrown Valya’s way now was but a gift as light as grace.

All those hours spent staring at this lake from his gargoyle vigil atop Durmstrang’s gate, Valentin yearned for a moment he could be by his blood-brother here once more. To him, the waters were the very symbol of Nikolai’s heart – those whose hardened shell he thawed just so the boy could skip stones there once more.

Come to me always just as you are, and I will receive the true you with my open heart in return, Valya told him when they first met. Since that day at the banks of the great reservoir, it only grew clearer how right the platinum blonde was back then. It was in the very moment when Valentin gave up his searching that his greatest wish was granted. So was it in love, and so was it in finding Nikolai again despite all the distance in between. Now with the past year ground to sand at the bottom of life’s churning hourglass, Valentin asked himself if anyone else had ever asked him the question Nikolai did that day. Despite day after day of toiling to grant the wishes of others, hadn’t that been the first time the colddrake was asked what it desired most? Had it been, in fact, the only time? The seeker couldn’t think of a single other exception, and yet such a miracle had manifested only minutes after Nikolai walked into his life. Since then a great humbling began to unravel inside Valya like an awakening rose as he came to accept how little he’d understood love before. Now, here he was. This tattered Nikolai beside him was dearer than life itself.

Around the pair echoed the keening of those whose loved ones wouldn’t return. For all the hell they’d been through, Val knew he was one of the lucky ones. He’d gotten back what mattered most when so many others would never.

Nikolai leaned on one crutch as he lowered himself towards the water’s edge, immersing his feet in its shallows. Valentin turned his head, as not to add further pressure during such a vulnerable moment, but the telltale sound of a small slip and fall drew his eyes back to his blood-brother. With the boy in such a devastated state, such an otherwise minor collision could still easily prove disastrous. Nikolai would feel something, like the brush of wind through his heart, but it was only for a fleeting moment. The Russian remained quiet as pain blossomed in him again from the strain of reopening wounds. It would be easy for others not to notice. Valentin understood this, and so he would be quiet about it too, although he knew.

Like a moving marble statue, the captain made nary a sound as he sat down beside his counterpart. This was not the time to check his wounds, as Valentin would give Nikolai what he himself would have wanted. Clearly this was the time to write. The pain would further slicken the ink of his quill’s glide across the page. Sinking his feet into the water next to the Russian’s, Valya crossed his arms over his knees without looking over the other’s shoulder. It was only when Nikolai was done that Valentin turned his head and glimpsed the six calligraphed names held in his trembling hands.

The words of a spell slipped out of Vol’ka through a whisper, sending the letter drifting out to where it could meet its end in immolation. The names cut into Valentin’s mind like chiselled stone as he watched the embers of paper waft away at the fingertips of Stribog. Nikolai went on to stretch his legs out into the shallows, and his blood-brother followed suit.

The cry of an eagle on high clipped Valentin’s mind then like a sonic knife, and at last he felt the surge of emotion come rushing back into him. He’d been trying to be strong for so long, with inner levees holding him together well enough to reach that critical reunion. Now, though, he would have to admit that he needed someone for himself, too. Once the colddrake was asked his own question, he had to accept that he too bore an answer. Alongside the marvel that immersed his feet in the warmth of their thawed-out lake in winter, Valentin could no longer deny that he himself wished to receive love and comfort. After so long of being the good soldier-king, he would choose not only to give love, but also to ask for it.

Valentin reached out for Nikolai’s now empty right hand. The moment’s reversal echoed in even Valya's subtle choices, although he wouldn’t know it. When they’d held hands on the day of their first meeting, Schnell had favored his opposite hand, but the canvas of his left palm was blank no more. Tangling his fingers around his blood-brother’s and squeezing firmly, Valentin felt his throat choke up with the arrival of tears. Drops fell from his icicle-shocked violet eyes, followed by streaming like a quiet spring hidden to those who only knew by hearing. Pressing the back of Nikolai’s hand to his lips, Valentin tried not to look the other in his blue eyes. Even so, the seeker’s hand quivered subtly like a house sent rumbling by thunder.

Interacting with @Matthew Campbell (Nikolai Vol’ka)

Roleplaying as Hans Jenssen, open to interactions

There was no warmth in the brutal night. The stars were not bright enough to shine through the darkness. The melted lake could never stamp out the coldness in their hearts. Lanterns had already been lit in the distance, a mere excuse of illumination, while boats of saccharine flowers dotted the waters. Even still it was difficult to find peace as they grieved, the well-oiled machine of their student base breaking, piece by piece. The grounds could have been positively flooded with tears, but like always it was disturbingly fitting of Durmstrang, its harsh chill breaking through nature’s scenery their ever-constant reminder for the cruelty of the world.

Dark jacket drawn over his shoulders, the boy usually genial with the smiles he wore blended into the rest of the young mourners as an unacknowledged smudge of black. There was no calm in him as he trudged along. Hans Jenssen walked and strode, he capered and dashed, but he did not trudge. The Hans everyone knew would still be dancing in even his grave, but far too much had happened for him to be even remotely close to the person he was before. How could the matter of several short hours send everything he had built so mercilessly tumbling down.

How could he bear to look at their late headmistress placed in their centre without recalling the morbid, twitching dance in flames he had witnessed only three weeks ago? How could he bear to look at anyone? Among the thirteen dead had been friends. Briefly seeing their smiles dancing in the candlelight, he was quick to advert his eyes. He had never appreciated them enough and now he felt he would never get to know them as their true selves but knowing that the halls would never be graced by their youthful joy any longer a knife was stabbed into his heart. Almost cruelly ironic, how they put those lost to fire behind even more flames.

Letting out an exhausted breath Hans flipped through the pages of remembrance listlessly, fingers lingering over some more than others. Closing his eyes he could almost recall running together over frost-speckled fields, could almost smell the smuggled vodka they failed to hide, could almost see them happy, safe and sound in front of him, jesting, and he wouldn’t even mind if they were facetious jokes. They had been rowdy, almost all of them more cunning than they looked, but they had also been good, innocent children. When his own dormitory had been so suffocating the lost were three of the people who had opened their arms to him. One in particular had been so ecstatic having returned from the Spring ball, practically throwing the comic book into Hans’ hands as he jumped to talk about his experiences, only to perish six months later in acts of hollow violence. Hans could not even tolerate as much as thinking of how he always sat on the windowsill, one leg raised while the other dangled, hands gesticulating wildly as he talked - every small detail came back to him all too quickly. He reached for the quill, set it down, turned, turned back, reached for it again, and wrote, disregarding the tears that smudged his ink. He jotted down everything he could remember without care for how disorderly his handwriting had become, for if their bodies could not be immortalised, at least their souls deserved it. Hans knew he could not bear to leave nothing but tear stains on their empty pages.

When he was done he almost couldn’t believe himself as he forced his hand to steady, signing his name in a crisp finish. That… was it? All those memories had come to an end. And the end was where they would stay. Setting the quill down with shaky hands he stepped away from the table, from the lights that, all of a sudden, threatened to blind him. Feeling lukewarmly familiar presences behind him he murmured a soft “excuse me” and when he was stopped, a longer, though half-hearted, “It’s been a hard time for all of us. May they rest in peace, it’s the least they deserve.” Pushing past his friends Hans pushed back the hood of his jacket as he drawn his eyes towards the sky, wishing he could count those stars like he used to.

Lowering his head he embraced the wintry gales on his face, its brutal kiss chapping his lips. Climbing the hill that led to a cliff overlooking the lake he focused on only things as simple as putting one foot in front of the other, hardly in the correct state of mind to think of anything else. Reaching the top his gaze scanned over the scene below; from there he could see everything while he himself was wreathed in shadow. He could see Nikolai, oh the foolishly resilient boy had actually come, but soon his vision would tear away from him and while some part of him yearned to be by his side, Hans seemed to be rooted in the ground as moonlight reflected in his tears.

Stood wordlessly, Hans only watched as the winds drew ripples over the lake’s murky waters.