Master of All Fights (Ficlet-background)
((Note: Wrote this as a separate fic. As only the first two parts count as actual background, I've left the third out; full version can be found here, and is included because complete-version is all, er, complete. Yes, am articulate just now. But there 'tis. And a final note? So much credit and hearting to J.M. Synge and The Playboy of the Western World for the title. And that's enough.))
“Simple enough. I’d kill him.”
“Now, Willis. Would you really do that?”
“Of course. Are you calling me a liar?” His gaze, though controlled, is not without an edge of anger. He keeps it hidden, as instructed, but Willis can feel the irritation gnawing at his nerves, giving the hint of a twitch to his fingers.
“I’m only saying that out there, in an actual situation, you don’t know what you’ll do. Your words will get you nowhere when faced with an actual duel. And, you must excuse me, but you use awfully dramatic words for circumstances you cannot possibly begin to understand.” Ainsley Wilkes leans back at this, satisfied with himself and looking rather as if he should like a congratulating smoke.
It’s funny, thinking that he would ever place much stock in words. Willis knows very well the merits of actions and the eternal failings of speech. Action achieves; it is a simple fact. What’s more, Wilkes should realize this. He’s seen the sort of actions Willis is liable to take, has even complained of the behavior here and there.
“Dramatic?” Willis snickers, shaking his head. And Wilkes is the one lecturing on words? “I believe you’re quite mistaken.” The years of training have done their work; even now, he does not raise his voice, though instinct urges otherwise. “And, pardon my saying so, but you’re beginning to sound like a bleeding Ravenclaw.”
Wilkes rolls his eyes. “For speaking sense?”
“For trying to pass nonsense off as sense.”
“You’re one to talk. You propose murder as if it were a simple task.”
“It is.”
“As if you knew.”
Willis grins, drumming his fingers against the back of the couch. He could say more here, could speak beyond possibilities so that Wilkes would understand… But no, he has promised his father, and that means quite a lot. Everything, perhaps. His father’s word is law and, Willis has already admitted, the reasons made sense. Better to keep sensation quiet and leave the family’s name unstained. The deed had been for their blood, yes, but outsiders might not see it as such. Thank Merlin his father is a sensible man about such matters.
Settling with an exaggerated shrug, Willis leans back against the couch’s arm. “Ah, and you’ve got me there.”
“Did you expect anything different?” Wilkes smirks in that maddening way of his. Thus far, Willis has been fairly good about not reacting to this. There have been occasions, yes, instances in which he has quite effectively broken that smile, but Willis has trained himself to keep most aggression pointed toward Gryffindors. That’s what they’re for, after all. Much as he might not like to play nice, his father has taught him that some civility is necessary, especially among those lived with.
Even so, it is a nearly impossible question to respond without some anger, and a little bit of anger too easily leads to a lot of anger; hell, if this weren’t Wilkes, Willis might already have tossed all pretense aside. Happily enough, he is spared his trouble by the most welcome entrance of his awaited fellows. “Evan, girls, lovely to see you.” Willis pushes himself upright, half-springing to his feet.
“Where are you off to?” Wilkes’ eyes have turned to the ladies, and he waves his fingers in languid greeting. Morrigan Pucey giggles, elbowing Rosier and apparently enjoying the attention. Adella Harper is far less easily distracted, set entirely on the excursion to come with eyes directed pointedly at Willis. She’s a good-looking girl. He doesn’t know much at all about her; he knows her name, he knows she looks good, and he knows that she is willing to submit. Really, it’s all he needs to know.
“Taking the ladies out for a stroll,” Rosier reports easily, all smiles as he nips playfully at Morrigan’s neck. She continues to giggle, batting at him, twisting, as Adella stamps an impatient foot. “The forest is lovely this time of night.”
“That it is.” Wilkes laughs. “You kids have fun, then. And, Willis, I am sorry to end our so-stimulating conversation.”
There it is, that grin again. Willis isn’t going to take it this time, not in front of others, nor any longer to himself. It has become too much of an affront, and Wilkes really does need to remember who holds the greater strength in this situation.
Willis leans forward, glaring suddenly even as he grins. “I’ve half a mind to strangle you, Ainsley.” Sometimes it takes a push of a reminder, but that push is usually enough.
Beside him, Rosier laughs, and Wilkes flinches perceptibly. Willis is glad to see it. As he marches out of the common room, pulling the waist of Adella to his side, he finds himself to be in a very good mood.
---------------------------------------
“Hello, there.” Their cloaked ring is complete, seeming to materialize around the ill-fated, hard-hunted group. The fire-he no longer recalls which of them started this if, indeed, he ever really knew-blazes nearby, bringing a far too comfortable house to ruin. It is sufficient light to work by.
It has been days-two, three at least-since he has slept, yet Willis shows no sign of exhaustion. He knows that he has been hit, that he has left spatters of blood in his wake and that this blood has dried upon his clothing. There is no pain from this. He has hardly recognized any drifts of consciousness, felt no yearning for sleep and damned sure found no reason to stop. They had been doing so well. And so long as he gave their orders, soon madly and then barking, voice becoming harsher as they followed the trail.
Now they have their targets. There is no escape, no lucky route. They can keep their faces determined as they want, can shout whatever insults they like, but they’re quite simply finished. He knows this. His fellow Death Eaters know this. Damned if he remembers who these Death Eaters are; he can name them if required, and that’s all that matters. They are faces with wands and voices that have been quieter since the last fight and the last time of sleep. Still, they will last. They follow as he leads in this instance. Willis has earned this.
They’re trying to appear strong, but it’s an easy façade to break. One of their younger ones is crying. “’d you think they’d be safe here?” He laughs, wand raised against them.
“Shut up, shut you, you son of a-” Foolish for that boy to burst out, so, waving a wand as if he could do a damned thing. The elders in the encircled group are yelling, turning, but the boy is quieted before he can finish yelling, a spell shot from Willis’ own wand, from one of the others he had nodded to from beneath the mask.
The mask. He doesn’t like it, never has. He’s been good about it thus far, has worn it without complaint, but why should they bother? Why hide themselves from the world, when their deeds should be known? He’s past being a boy on his father’s estate, past being a schoolboy, and while he may work as their lord instructs, he’s damned if he’s going to be hidden. These are his actions. They must count for him, for his name.
In a single, sudden gesture, he tears the mask off and throws it aside, eyes glinting. “Let’s not have any more of that, shall we?” His grin is positively demonic, seen in shadows thrown against the red-orange glow. And though he has seen much, committed deeds beyond the daily and welcome, his face is still young, proud in an aristocratic sense and suffused with unquenchable life, strength. “We’ve all had a long run, and your time is finished. Simple as that.”
Around him, a few others have cast their masks aside, shaking their heads and hissing breaths. He begins to recognize faces here and there, to know identities, though not to care. When one of them speaks, venturing, “It is as our Lord commands-”
“Shut up,” Willis throws a glare at the still-masked Death Eater, tossing his head in the silence to follow. He dislikes interruptions, and this is his assignment. Damned if he’s going to let that one throw himself any more into it.
The woman-she’s not very attractive, but good-looking enough that he’d have had her, under different circumstances-hasn’t stopped watching all of them, her eyes working quickly, looking for a way out. Damned foolish woman. She should know better… But how the hell can he expect a woman to know anything? She sealed her own death the moment she joined that group of irritants, the ones that think they’ll win. They’re dead wrong.
What the hell is her name? He can’t quite recall, sees only a sort of haze and some words. McKinnon. First name? He doesn’t remember. Doesn’t matter, anyway. Marlene, that it. She’s going to be gone soon enough. Her and the rest of them, right along with that loud-mouthed boy.
She’s whispering to the others, he can see that, and Willis flares his nostrils at the sight of the man beside her, taking orders and appearing ready to faint. That one’s a weak-willed son of a bitch, and Willis laughs, derisive, before he recalls himself. A few of the others laugh now, uneasy, unsteady, and Willis is becoming annoyed with waiting. The ones ion the center have been shifting all this time, wands raised but useless, they know that; there are too many to fight off, and the McKinnons have been hiding, running. They are beaten already.
Even so, there is some room for entertainment remaining, and when Willis nods, he can see his own reappearing grin reflected in the faces of others. This is what they have waited for. He sends the first of the final shots, a strike directed at the woman. She seems hardly worth the effort, but then, she is the one who erred so gravely, and she must be taken care of. As soon as he has struck, the others begin, and the attacked return fire. Their mission is nearly complete.
As seconds pass in jagged succession, Willis ducks spells, catches one to the shoulder as he sends a crackling-green curse toward the woman, hardly notices and pushes on. His eyes widen further, breath coming quickly as he darts toward them, striking faster now, his fellows coming closer. Willis laughs at the contortions of the man, the screams of other men and of children, their wretched forced motions.
He draws silent only for a moment as he approaches the woman, the main target who has fallen but dares to aim another spell, strikes his chest to no avail. He has felt something, a vague sting perhaps, far away and inconsequential as the blood drawn. It is only his own wand that matters, the kick that he drives into her side once, again, and then the spell, efficient killing curse. Now he does laugh again, watching as she crumples against his foot, twitches cries and sparks away, eyes alight with dead horror.
Around him, the others are nearly done. The young men and women alone remain, struggling through the tail end of a losing battle that Willis adds his own wand against. Goodbye, and they fall one by one. A young man, his skin half-sloughed, is of particular interest as he falls in a screaming heap, tears at his face. Then he, too, is dead, screams cut short.
A silence hangs in the air. The Death Eaters pause, suspended.
Sniffing the destruction of the still-crackling flames, a scent now tinged with the iron of blood, Willis surveys the scene. It has been well done. The entire family gone, with injury here and there, but no more than one Death Eater on the ground, no more than two others looking ready to drop for want of sleep or care. These are acceptable terms. He is bleeding, himself, but scarcely notices, instead pushes back his hair and walks over and among the bodies. One here, one there… The number seems to be correct. Noticing the man, the poorly-willed husband, Willis stomps his heel onto the skull, pleased by the cracking sound and the blood. Bastard deserved as much, the way he’d cowered.
When he looks up again, he nods, still grinning. It is time for them to return. Return, report, and be rewarded. It has been a long day, and another and another, yet he feels nothing but pleasure and a heady, dangerous energy.
Willis has, he knows, done his family proud. And there’s none who can contest him.
“Simple enough. I’d kill him.”
“Now, Willis. Would you really do that?”
“Of course. Are you calling me a liar?” His gaze, though controlled, is not without an edge of anger. He keeps it hidden, as instructed, but Willis can feel the irritation gnawing at his nerves, giving the hint of a twitch to his fingers.
“I’m only saying that out there, in an actual situation, you don’t know what you’ll do. Your words will get you nowhere when faced with an actual duel. And, you must excuse me, but you use awfully dramatic words for circumstances you cannot possibly begin to understand.” Ainsley Wilkes leans back at this, satisfied with himself and looking rather as if he should like a congratulating smoke.
It’s funny, thinking that he would ever place much stock in words. Willis knows very well the merits of actions and the eternal failings of speech. Action achieves; it is a simple fact. What’s more, Wilkes should realize this. He’s seen the sort of actions Willis is liable to take, has even complained of the behavior here and there.
“Dramatic?” Willis snickers, shaking his head. And Wilkes is the one lecturing on words? “I believe you’re quite mistaken.” The years of training have done their work; even now, he does not raise his voice, though instinct urges otherwise. “And, pardon my saying so, but you’re beginning to sound like a bleeding Ravenclaw.”
Wilkes rolls his eyes. “For speaking sense?”
“For trying to pass nonsense off as sense.”
“You’re one to talk. You propose murder as if it were a simple task.”
“It is.”
“As if you knew.”
Willis grins, drumming his fingers against the back of the couch. He could say more here, could speak beyond possibilities so that Wilkes would understand… But no, he has promised his father, and that means quite a lot. Everything, perhaps. His father’s word is law and, Willis has already admitted, the reasons made sense. Better to keep sensation quiet and leave the family’s name unstained. The deed had been for their blood, yes, but outsiders might not see it as such. Thank Merlin his father is a sensible man about such matters.
Settling with an exaggerated shrug, Willis leans back against the couch’s arm. “Ah, and you’ve got me there.”
“Did you expect anything different?” Wilkes smirks in that maddening way of his. Thus far, Willis has been fairly good about not reacting to this. There have been occasions, yes, instances in which he has quite effectively broken that smile, but Willis has trained himself to keep most aggression pointed toward Gryffindors. That’s what they’re for, after all. Much as he might not like to play nice, his father has taught him that some civility is necessary, especially among those lived with.
Even so, it is a nearly impossible question to respond without some anger, and a little bit of anger too easily leads to a lot of anger; hell, if this weren’t Wilkes, Willis might already have tossed all pretense aside. Happily enough, he is spared his trouble by the most welcome entrance of his awaited fellows. “Evan, girls, lovely to see you.” Willis pushes himself upright, half-springing to his feet.
“Where are you off to?” Wilkes’ eyes have turned to the ladies, and he waves his fingers in languid greeting. Morrigan Pucey giggles, elbowing Rosier and apparently enjoying the attention. Adella Harper is far less easily distracted, set entirely on the excursion to come with eyes directed pointedly at Willis. She’s a good-looking girl. He doesn’t know much at all about her; he knows her name, he knows she looks good, and he knows that she is willing to submit. Really, it’s all he needs to know.
“Taking the ladies out for a stroll,” Rosier reports easily, all smiles as he nips playfully at Morrigan’s neck. She continues to giggle, batting at him, twisting, as Adella stamps an impatient foot. “The forest is lovely this time of night.”
“That it is.” Wilkes laughs. “You kids have fun, then. And, Willis, I am sorry to end our so-stimulating conversation.”
There it is, that grin again. Willis isn’t going to take it this time, not in front of others, nor any longer to himself. It has become too much of an affront, and Wilkes really does need to remember who holds the greater strength in this situation.
Willis leans forward, glaring suddenly even as he grins. “I’ve half a mind to strangle you, Ainsley.” Sometimes it takes a push of a reminder, but that push is usually enough.
Beside him, Rosier laughs, and Wilkes flinches perceptibly. Willis is glad to see it. As he marches out of the common room, pulling the waist of Adella to his side, he finds himself to be in a very good mood.
---------------------------------------
“Hello, there.” Their cloaked ring is complete, seeming to materialize around the ill-fated, hard-hunted group. The fire-he no longer recalls which of them started this if, indeed, he ever really knew-blazes nearby, bringing a far too comfortable house to ruin. It is sufficient light to work by.
It has been days-two, three at least-since he has slept, yet Willis shows no sign of exhaustion. He knows that he has been hit, that he has left spatters of blood in his wake and that this blood has dried upon his clothing. There is no pain from this. He has hardly recognized any drifts of consciousness, felt no yearning for sleep and damned sure found no reason to stop. They had been doing so well. And so long as he gave their orders, soon madly and then barking, voice becoming harsher as they followed the trail.
Now they have their targets. There is no escape, no lucky route. They can keep their faces determined as they want, can shout whatever insults they like, but they’re quite simply finished. He knows this. His fellow Death Eaters know this. Damned if he remembers who these Death Eaters are; he can name them if required, and that’s all that matters. They are faces with wands and voices that have been quieter since the last fight and the last time of sleep. Still, they will last. They follow as he leads in this instance. Willis has earned this.
They’re trying to appear strong, but it’s an easy façade to break. One of their younger ones is crying. “’d you think they’d be safe here?” He laughs, wand raised against them.
“Shut up, shut you, you son of a-” Foolish for that boy to burst out, so, waving a wand as if he could do a damned thing. The elders in the encircled group are yelling, turning, but the boy is quieted before he can finish yelling, a spell shot from Willis’ own wand, from one of the others he had nodded to from beneath the mask.
The mask. He doesn’t like it, never has. He’s been good about it thus far, has worn it without complaint, but why should they bother? Why hide themselves from the world, when their deeds should be known? He’s past being a boy on his father’s estate, past being a schoolboy, and while he may work as their lord instructs, he’s damned if he’s going to be hidden. These are his actions. They must count for him, for his name.
In a single, sudden gesture, he tears the mask off and throws it aside, eyes glinting. “Let’s not have any more of that, shall we?” His grin is positively demonic, seen in shadows thrown against the red-orange glow. And though he has seen much, committed deeds beyond the daily and welcome, his face is still young, proud in an aristocratic sense and suffused with unquenchable life, strength. “We’ve all had a long run, and your time is finished. Simple as that.”
Around him, a few others have cast their masks aside, shaking their heads and hissing breaths. He begins to recognize faces here and there, to know identities, though not to care. When one of them speaks, venturing, “It is as our Lord commands-”
“Shut up,” Willis throws a glare at the still-masked Death Eater, tossing his head in the silence to follow. He dislikes interruptions, and this is his assignment. Damned if he’s going to let that one throw himself any more into it.
The woman-she’s not very attractive, but good-looking enough that he’d have had her, under different circumstances-hasn’t stopped watching all of them, her eyes working quickly, looking for a way out. Damned foolish woman. She should know better… But how the hell can he expect a woman to know anything? She sealed her own death the moment she joined that group of irritants, the ones that think they’ll win. They’re dead wrong.
What the hell is her name? He can’t quite recall, sees only a sort of haze and some words. McKinnon. First name? He doesn’t remember. Doesn’t matter, anyway. Marlene, that it. She’s going to be gone soon enough. Her and the rest of them, right along with that loud-mouthed boy.
She’s whispering to the others, he can see that, and Willis flares his nostrils at the sight of the man beside her, taking orders and appearing ready to faint. That one’s a weak-willed son of a bitch, and Willis laughs, derisive, before he recalls himself. A few of the others laugh now, uneasy, unsteady, and Willis is becoming annoyed with waiting. The ones ion the center have been shifting all this time, wands raised but useless, they know that; there are too many to fight off, and the McKinnons have been hiding, running. They are beaten already.
Even so, there is some room for entertainment remaining, and when Willis nods, he can see his own reappearing grin reflected in the faces of others. This is what they have waited for. He sends the first of the final shots, a strike directed at the woman. She seems hardly worth the effort, but then, she is the one who erred so gravely, and she must be taken care of. As soon as he has struck, the others begin, and the attacked return fire. Their mission is nearly complete.
As seconds pass in jagged succession, Willis ducks spells, catches one to the shoulder as he sends a crackling-green curse toward the woman, hardly notices and pushes on. His eyes widen further, breath coming quickly as he darts toward them, striking faster now, his fellows coming closer. Willis laughs at the contortions of the man, the screams of other men and of children, their wretched forced motions.
He draws silent only for a moment as he approaches the woman, the main target who has fallen but dares to aim another spell, strikes his chest to no avail. He has felt something, a vague sting perhaps, far away and inconsequential as the blood drawn. It is only his own wand that matters, the kick that he drives into her side once, again, and then the spell, efficient killing curse. Now he does laugh again, watching as she crumples against his foot, twitches cries and sparks away, eyes alight with dead horror.
Around him, the others are nearly done. The young men and women alone remain, struggling through the tail end of a losing battle that Willis adds his own wand against. Goodbye, and they fall one by one. A young man, his skin half-sloughed, is of particular interest as he falls in a screaming heap, tears at his face. Then he, too, is dead, screams cut short.
A silence hangs in the air. The Death Eaters pause, suspended.
Sniffing the destruction of the still-crackling flames, a scent now tinged with the iron of blood, Willis surveys the scene. It has been well done. The entire family gone, with injury here and there, but no more than one Death Eater on the ground, no more than two others looking ready to drop for want of sleep or care. These are acceptable terms. He is bleeding, himself, but scarcely notices, instead pushes back his hair and walks over and among the bodies. One here, one there… The number seems to be correct. Noticing the man, the poorly-willed husband, Willis stomps his heel onto the skull, pleased by the cracking sound and the blood. Bastard deserved as much, the way he’d cowered.
When he looks up again, he nods, still grinning. It is time for them to return. Return, report, and be rewarded. It has been a long day, and another and another, yet he feels nothing but pleasure and a heady, dangerous energy.
Willis has, he knows, done his family proud. And there’s none who can contest him.