Fic: Mere Mortals
Title: Mere Mortals
Author: euphony_of_love
Pairing: Albus/Gellert
Rating: PG (maybe PG-13?)
Word Count: ~1 300
Summary: Albus and Gellert have a discussion of immortality, but some things have unexpected repercussions. Can be read as a Halloween fic if you like, even though it was originally not intended as such.
Notes: We know both Albus and Gellert planned to master death once upon a time, but did they always agree on that count? This fic explores one of the possibilities. First part set early in their relationship.
Warnings: The theme of death (in case that wasn't obvious), references to ancient Greeks and Romans (but nothing to distract from the Grindeldore!).
Disclaimer: JKR's the creator. I own nothing and make no profit.
Mere Mortals
Yet another evening hunched over books, whispering tentative incantations, Gellert’s hair falling together with his, the shadows on yellowed paper flickering. The atmosphere of invoking ancient spells could be sacred, but it is summer and the air is heavy with heat, making the mood the perfect opposite of solemn Muggle cathedrals. Gellert’s breath ghosts over Albus’s face every now and then-and every time their eyes meet, the world tilts off its proper axis. Then they both return to the page, muttering softly each to himself, muttering together.
Tonight, Gellert’s hands are especially restless as they crawl over the table, the scattered notes, smooth out Gellert’s shirt, or idly twirl strands of his hair around one finger after another. Albus is on edge from the constant motion (more so than usual, that is-for whatever reason Gellert makes him feel both uncomfortable and achingly exhilarated), but he would be loath to say he minds. Just like he will not complain that their chairs are bumping into each other every other minute, making him wonder when he might find himself on the floor. And, again, he does not mind.
“Albus,” his friend addresses him finally, breaking their shared murmur of contemplation. “Your mind is elsewhere, I can tell.”
Albus is so taken aback that he simply stares before he manages to say anything. “Of course not. I was just going to say we had better-”
“Oh, come off it,” Gellert waves his hand. “If you were really working, you would already be suggesting something. You’re not paying attention to the books. You are paying attention to me.”
That is bold. “Why would I-what do you mean?”
“Never mind.” And now Gellert is smirking, but Albus is too annoyed with him to notice. They remain silent for a while, before Albus speaks up once more.
“I was going to ask you, in fact. Why do we need to be immortal? Why don’t we simply establish our rule and see to it that it is passed on?”
As soon as the question leaves him, he can sense Gellert’s impatience-no, annoyance. They have gone through the plan before, but much as Albus covets the Resurrection Stone, he cannot imagine living forever. Would it be even worth the trouble? Would he want to hover around for eternity, without a hope of rest at the end of it? Although, he has to admit, there would hardly be any end.
“Listen,” Gellert starts, visibly cautious and prepared to press his point. “Being immortal makes our plan perfect. For as long as we can be disposed of, as long as everything we’ve worked to accomplish can decay without us, how can we say we truly succeeded? Albus, don’t you see? All the empires that came to flourish under one man, only to be ruined by the next. Time is the last enemy we will need to conquer,” (he breathes out the word, softly, greedily) “and we will.”
It is a good argument, but Albus is not convinced. Rationally, he is-but there is something else, something that baffles and upsets him. He is sure that Gellert knows as well as he himself.
“Well, consider this.” Gellert’s eyes are alight, and it’s the kind of illumination Albus has only seen when they come up with a theory of particular ingenuity. “Point out one situation,” Gellert continues, “one situation when it is more advantageous to be mortal.”
There is no hesitation on Albus’s part this time. He says, “When your loved ones are.”
Interestingly enough, Gellert smiles victoriously, and it is a smile of such magnitude that Albus cannot shake off its image long after Gellert has resumed speaking. “But this is precisely what we can set right! You will always be able to bring them back. Not only once as you’ve imagined,” (here, Albus instinctively stiffens, wondering how Gellert could have guessed something he had never outright mentioned) “but as many times as you want if the effect of the Stone turns out to be temporary. We only need to find out how often, if necessary, the process needs repeating. We can test it out on others if you prefer.”
“Others?”
“Criminals, prisoners, whoever,” Gellert replies promptly, but Albus flashes him such a look that he refrains from elaborating. “At any rate, my friend, giving up our well-earned immortality is something we should not be so concerned about.” He fixes Albus with his gaze again, unrelenting, challenging. “Not now, at the very least.”
As always in such situations, Albus sees it best not to argue. Nevertheless, he is almost persuaded. He will give the matter some independent thought, over and over in the years to come, and act on his own conscience first of all. Gellert does have a point, though; he must give him that. “We’re not there yet.”
“No.” Eye contact again, more intense each time it occurs. “But we need not dwell on death. Death is only fear,” he looks at Albus pensively, “and fear is ignorance.” He clasps Albus’s hand.
Albus has a hard time willing his body not to shake. The mere fact that he is so quiet this evening, more of a listener than a speaker of equal potential, is strange in itself. But once again, Gellert has a point.
“The ancient Greeks had a ritual of death,” Gellert whispers, inching closer, but not close enough for Albus to really feel him yet.
“Yes, the Eleusinian Mysteries. I know.” It is hard to resist the image, or at least his own interpretation of the ritual, seeing as whatever transpired there was traditionally kept private by its participants. All the same, Albus can see it, has read about it and has wondered-even emperors bowing before death, embracing it, ruling it. It is a pity not to know what exactly took place. Like so many remarkable people, the first-hand witnesses are history, as unfathomable as can be to his time. Who can bring clarity now that they are gone, and with them their entire world?
Gellert does indeed have a point.
But Albus is aware of another element: the fear. Or humility, come to think of it. He can tell Gellert is transfixed with him now; he uses that to raise the objection, although it pains him to do so, “Gellert, we’re no Greeks.”
“Isn’t that sad, though,” Gellert counters, not even bothering to make it an inquiry. “But our way will be different.”
A different way, the Hallows-yes, it would be. Will be, if only they try hard enough. For the moment, Albus is at a loss for words, and he kisses Gellert’s lips in pious concession. They both must have known it would come to this.
Gellert leans in and grips Albus’s hand tighter.
*
Albus is staring out the window, staring off into space. Every now and then the glass is hit by tumbling leaves-red, orange, yellow, all of them entirely too bright for his mood. He cracks the window open for good measure, although it is evening and the current temperature is barely tolerable. The house is just too quiet with only him and Aberforth in it.
There he was, flirting with the thought of mastering death, and look what a result it has led to. The coldness outside is too appropriate. He is alone, more so than he has ever been, and he is guilty. It matters none whose spell dealt the killing blow; it is enough that he had allowed the original argument to escalate into a duel that could only spin out of control. With Ariana joining his family’s dead, Aberforth not speaking to him, and Gellert gone-Albus physically winces at the summary-it is no wonder the chill becomes him.
When your loved ones are mortal. Or, perhaps, when love itself is.
The idea of living forever with such knowledge makes him shudder, something even the enshrouding cold has until now failed to do. At the end of the day, Albus decides, there really is something to be said for being mortal.
Author: euphony_of_love
Pairing: Albus/Gellert
Rating: PG (maybe PG-13?)
Word Count: ~1 300
Summary: Albus and Gellert have a discussion of immortality, but some things have unexpected repercussions. Can be read as a Halloween fic if you like, even though it was originally not intended as such.
Notes: We know both Albus and Gellert planned to master death once upon a time, but did they always agree on that count? This fic explores one of the possibilities. First part set early in their relationship.
Warnings: The theme of death (in case that wasn't obvious), references to ancient Greeks and Romans (but nothing to distract from the Grindeldore!).
Disclaimer: JKR's the creator. I own nothing and make no profit.
Mere Mortals
Yet another evening hunched over books, whispering tentative incantations, Gellert’s hair falling together with his, the shadows on yellowed paper flickering. The atmosphere of invoking ancient spells could be sacred, but it is summer and the air is heavy with heat, making the mood the perfect opposite of solemn Muggle cathedrals. Gellert’s breath ghosts over Albus’s face every now and then-and every time their eyes meet, the world tilts off its proper axis. Then they both return to the page, muttering softly each to himself, muttering together.
Tonight, Gellert’s hands are especially restless as they crawl over the table, the scattered notes, smooth out Gellert’s shirt, or idly twirl strands of his hair around one finger after another. Albus is on edge from the constant motion (more so than usual, that is-for whatever reason Gellert makes him feel both uncomfortable and achingly exhilarated), but he would be loath to say he minds. Just like he will not complain that their chairs are bumping into each other every other minute, making him wonder when he might find himself on the floor. And, again, he does not mind.
“Albus,” his friend addresses him finally, breaking their shared murmur of contemplation. “Your mind is elsewhere, I can tell.”
Albus is so taken aback that he simply stares before he manages to say anything. “Of course not. I was just going to say we had better-”
“Oh, come off it,” Gellert waves his hand. “If you were really working, you would already be suggesting something. You’re not paying attention to the books. You are paying attention to me.”
That is bold. “Why would I-what do you mean?”
“Never mind.” And now Gellert is smirking, but Albus is too annoyed with him to notice. They remain silent for a while, before Albus speaks up once more.
“I was going to ask you, in fact. Why do we need to be immortal? Why don’t we simply establish our rule and see to it that it is passed on?”
As soon as the question leaves him, he can sense Gellert’s impatience-no, annoyance. They have gone through the plan before, but much as Albus covets the Resurrection Stone, he cannot imagine living forever. Would it be even worth the trouble? Would he want to hover around for eternity, without a hope of rest at the end of it? Although, he has to admit, there would hardly be any end.
“Listen,” Gellert starts, visibly cautious and prepared to press his point. “Being immortal makes our plan perfect. For as long as we can be disposed of, as long as everything we’ve worked to accomplish can decay without us, how can we say we truly succeeded? Albus, don’t you see? All the empires that came to flourish under one man, only to be ruined by the next. Time is the last enemy we will need to conquer,” (he breathes out the word, softly, greedily) “and we will.”
It is a good argument, but Albus is not convinced. Rationally, he is-but there is something else, something that baffles and upsets him. He is sure that Gellert knows as well as he himself.
“Well, consider this.” Gellert’s eyes are alight, and it’s the kind of illumination Albus has only seen when they come up with a theory of particular ingenuity. “Point out one situation,” Gellert continues, “one situation when it is more advantageous to be mortal.”
There is no hesitation on Albus’s part this time. He says, “When your loved ones are.”
Interestingly enough, Gellert smiles victoriously, and it is a smile of such magnitude that Albus cannot shake off its image long after Gellert has resumed speaking. “But this is precisely what we can set right! You will always be able to bring them back. Not only once as you’ve imagined,” (here, Albus instinctively stiffens, wondering how Gellert could have guessed something he had never outright mentioned) “but as many times as you want if the effect of the Stone turns out to be temporary. We only need to find out how often, if necessary, the process needs repeating. We can test it out on others if you prefer.”
“Others?”
“Criminals, prisoners, whoever,” Gellert replies promptly, but Albus flashes him such a look that he refrains from elaborating. “At any rate, my friend, giving up our well-earned immortality is something we should not be so concerned about.” He fixes Albus with his gaze again, unrelenting, challenging. “Not now, at the very least.”
As always in such situations, Albus sees it best not to argue. Nevertheless, he is almost persuaded. He will give the matter some independent thought, over and over in the years to come, and act on his own conscience first of all. Gellert does have a point, though; he must give him that. “We’re not there yet.”
“No.” Eye contact again, more intense each time it occurs. “But we need not dwell on death. Death is only fear,” he looks at Albus pensively, “and fear is ignorance.” He clasps Albus’s hand.
Albus has a hard time willing his body not to shake. The mere fact that he is so quiet this evening, more of a listener than a speaker of equal potential, is strange in itself. But once again, Gellert has a point.
“The ancient Greeks had a ritual of death,” Gellert whispers, inching closer, but not close enough for Albus to really feel him yet.
“Yes, the Eleusinian Mysteries. I know.” It is hard to resist the image, or at least his own interpretation of the ritual, seeing as whatever transpired there was traditionally kept private by its participants. All the same, Albus can see it, has read about it and has wondered-even emperors bowing before death, embracing it, ruling it. It is a pity not to know what exactly took place. Like so many remarkable people, the first-hand witnesses are history, as unfathomable as can be to his time. Who can bring clarity now that they are gone, and with them their entire world?
Gellert does indeed have a point.
But Albus is aware of another element: the fear. Or humility, come to think of it. He can tell Gellert is transfixed with him now; he uses that to raise the objection, although it pains him to do so, “Gellert, we’re no Greeks.”
“Isn’t that sad, though,” Gellert counters, not even bothering to make it an inquiry. “But our way will be different.”
A different way, the Hallows-yes, it would be. Will be, if only they try hard enough. For the moment, Albus is at a loss for words, and he kisses Gellert’s lips in pious concession. They both must have known it would come to this.
Gellert leans in and grips Albus’s hand tighter.
*
Albus is staring out the window, staring off into space. Every now and then the glass is hit by tumbling leaves-red, orange, yellow, all of them entirely too bright for his mood. He cracks the window open for good measure, although it is evening and the current temperature is barely tolerable. The house is just too quiet with only him and Aberforth in it.
There he was, flirting with the thought of mastering death, and look what a result it has led to. The coldness outside is too appropriate. He is alone, more so than he has ever been, and he is guilty. It matters none whose spell dealt the killing blow; it is enough that he had allowed the original argument to escalate into a duel that could only spin out of control. With Ariana joining his family’s dead, Aberforth not speaking to him, and Gellert gone-Albus physically winces at the summary-it is no wonder the chill becomes him.
When your loved ones are mortal. Or, perhaps, when love itself is.
The idea of living forever with such knowledge makes him shudder, something even the enshrouding cold has until now failed to do. At the end of the day, Albus decides, there really is something to be said for being mortal.