Fight, Flight, Freeze, Fawn

Post a bellyful of nausea rather than dinner, any person with a shred of sanity would have chosen to retire to their lodgings after a draining day of portkey travel. Archer, sane, however? Never.

Slipping away from the gathering of the crowds and venturing into the depths of the foreign forests, he slipped his hood over his head, with only tufts of deep brown peeking out. His boots crunched against the newly fallen snow of the Russian wilderness, and ever few steps, he brushed his hands together and breathed into them in a desperate attempt to heat their chilled flesh. He wandered until the lights of the yurts were lost in the distance behind him, and he settled uncomfortably within the confines of his own mind.

Undeniably, Archer was lost. The impeccable sense of direction failed him, as whichever corner he turned led him back to the same clearing, the same pattern of forestry, and the same unforgiving stars above. He was wondering in circles, and as his legs began to tire, he too was aware of his own predicament. Slowly, he came to a stop, relenting, and placed his palm to a tree, the rough bark hard against the meagre wool of his fingerless gloves, barely any protection from the cold that coloured their tips red. His breaths came heavy, his body battered, a trail of blood left on the inside of his arm where a stray bramble had scraped into skin.

What a life to forsake, he lamented, as he stared up at the moon that gave no answers. Her quietude, however, was oddly comforting, and soon, Archer found his eyes drooping dangerously to the emerging calls of the nocturnal birds, on the verge of rest as he leaned against the tree trunk.

Then, a rustle amongst the undergrowth, the unmistakable sound of clumsy footsteps. He jumped. A head of mopey brunette hair snapped up, a few stray strands falling into his eyes as he cast fervent glances around him. Shifting his gaze from one identical patch of wood to the other, his body tensed as vigilance overtook his instincts. Back straightening, limbs drawn on a taut string, sudden uncertainty grasped at his throat, and as claustrophobia settled in despite the open blackness of a sky the sun had never graced, he was forced to tug at his scarf in an attempt to seek respite. A myriad of possibilities flashed through Archer’s mind, from the absurdities of lurking creatures to the unpredictabilities of fate’s toys.

A tingle slipped down his back as the shadows in the forests elongated, the shine of the moon his own source of light. Hand manoeuvring through the folds of his heavy winter coat into his inside pocket, he grimaced at unzipping his own jacket to reach the pouch that held his wand. Yet as his hands clasped onto the familiar grooves of the only weapon other than his bare fists and poisonous words, it was worth the wintertime wind that slithered between his sweater and into his shirt as a sense of comforting safety settled into his veins once more, promises that he would be alright. Be it beast of killer, he had seen ghastlier things produced by the workings of his own mind.

The human condition produced four different responses in the face of fear: flight — the coward’s exit, the path he had sworn against; freeze — the coward’s inaction, the indecency he had vowed not to commit; fawn — the coward’s excuse, the weakness he had promised himself he would be above; and finally, fight — the exact choice he was prepared to make, hand resting on the hilt of his wand, fingers furling and unfurling around its weight. Yet there was one more, one splitting the board apart and redesigning the game entirely. It crumpled up the night sky above and used its shards to build a canvas of stars; it collected the waves of the sea below and used its drops to paint an ocean of shingle; it inverted the guts of humans and used their insides to build new sentiments. The fifth was forgotten, a crooked twisting of reality: to overcome.

He gathered himself.

Finally, he hissed into the dimming evening: “Show yourself.”

@Giovanni De'Luca | banner by Adeline Spinks