Sharp and Bright against a Golden Sky
SHARP AND BRIGHT AGAINST A GOLDEN SKY
Summary: Gellert was gilded, aureate, bedazzling, resplendent; he was aureolin pigment on a blinding canvas, rays of light through beads of amber, stalks of goldenrod against a sunlit sky. And Albus Dumbledore had never before thought he needed a thesaurus just to talk about the evidence of his own eyes.
Characters: Albus Dumbledore, Gellert Grindelwald
Words: ~750
Notes: I’d been thinking vaguely about these two characters anyway, and then huldrejenta specifically asked for stories about them, and I was happy to comply! I think this might eventually be part one out of three, but we’ll see.
Update! This is now the first of three in series called " Golden, Ripe and Rotten." Link to the second story at the end.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Sharp and Bright against a Golden Sky
Gellert was golden.
No, that word didn’t nearly suffice. Gellert was gilded, aureate, bedazzling, resplendent; he was aureolin pigment on a blinding canvas, rays of light through beads of amber, stalks of goldenrod against a sunlit sky.
And Albus Dumbledore had never before thought he needed a thesaurus just to talk about the evidence of his own eyes.
The first time Albus saw him, Gellert was standing in the lane outside Bathilda Bagshot’s house in Godric’s Hollow, the sun forming a halo behind his head as he stood in the middle of the road with his head raised high, surveying the sleepy village, with one eyebrow quirked and something of a smirk playing around his lips. He caught sight of Albus, coming up the lane to see Professor Bagshot, who’d invited him to meet her young nephew visiting from the continent.
“Oh, hallo,” Gellert said. A hint of something romantic and foreign clung to his vowels, a whiff of the night air along the banks of the Danube or the bite of a mountain breeze high in the Carpathians.
And Albus fell.
*
If Gellert’s physical beauty was dazzling to the eyes, it was nothing to match the dizzying sharpness of his mind.
Albus possessed a lofty intellect, if he did say so himself - and he did, though not in public, for that was unbecoming - but Gellert inhabited heights of which Albus had not yet dreamed.
“Come now, Albus,” he would tease, sunlight dancing through his golden curls. Gellert was always in motion, seeming to be everywhere at once, even when they were just lounging in the long grass of the back garden, Albus scratching notes on a length of parchment as Gellert’s hands created visions in the air and his melodious voice vanished the overgrown garden in favour of a better world. “Are you going to dream or will you be someone? Winning school prizes and corresponding with decrepit academics is all very well when you are a child, but the world could be ours for the taking.”
Albus’ quill had slowed and stuttered and finally gone still, as he forgot to write and simply watched his friend. Gellert’s voice dropped lower, impossibly warm, like sun-drenched velvet.
“Have you felt true power?” Gellert whispered, his bright gaze fixed on Albus, entirely on Albus. Even his eyes seemed flecked with gold. “Don’t you want to know what that feels like, to hold raw power in your hands?”
Albus felt it somewhere deep within himself, that it was a conscious choice, a letting go. That this was a fork in the road, and the path was his for the choosing.
“Yes,” he said.
*
“Albus the white,” Gellert laughed, as they sprawled in the garden on a warm afternoon at the height of summer. “Albus the bright. You are going to be your England’s white knight, I am sure of it. Rescue your people from ignominy, bring magic back to rule.”
“And you, Gellert the strong spear?” Albus teased back. It was a novel thing, a friend with whom he could laugh. Someone who understood him, and didn’t need everything painstakingly explained. “Where will your kingdom be?”
“My kingdom will be everywhere,” Gellert said solemnly, stretching up to pluck a still-green apple from a low branch of the tree above their heads. Then his eyes danced. “The question is, will you follow me, my white knight? Will England be enough for you, or will you help me make the whole world new?”
He held out the apple and Albus leaned in, bit it forcefully to break the unripe skin, and felt its sourness explode across his tongue. He coughed, and laughed, and Gellert moved closer to lift the fruit to his own mouth, his face just inches away. He kept his eyes on Albus’ as he bit down and swallowed the apple’s tartness without flinching.
Albus leaned in again, though Gellert’s hand still held the apple poised at his own lips. He held Gellert’s eyes, unafraid now, because Gellert had surely seen inside him, Gellert who saw everything, and he hadn’t run yet. Albus bit down, feeling golden sharpness burst across his senses until his eyes watered, and Gellert, still holding the apple between their nearly-touching lips, stretched out one finger to stroke Albus’ cheek.
“I’ll follow you,” Albus whispered. “To the ends of the Earth, to the breathless peaks, to the pits of Hell. You know I will.”
Gellert chuckled, and flung the apple across the garden, its half-eaten core already discarded and forgotten. He closed the distance and met Albus’ lips.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Second of the three stories: Ripe as Summer Quinces.
Summary: Gellert was gilded, aureate, bedazzling, resplendent; he was aureolin pigment on a blinding canvas, rays of light through beads of amber, stalks of goldenrod against a sunlit sky. And Albus Dumbledore had never before thought he needed a thesaurus just to talk about the evidence of his own eyes.
Characters: Albus Dumbledore, Gellert Grindelwald
Words: ~750
Notes: I’d been thinking vaguely about these two characters anyway, and then huldrejenta specifically asked for stories about them, and I was happy to comply! I think this might eventually be part one out of three, but we’ll see.
Update! This is now the first of three in series called " Golden, Ripe and Rotten." Link to the second story at the end.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Sharp and Bright against a Golden Sky
Gellert was golden.
No, that word didn’t nearly suffice. Gellert was gilded, aureate, bedazzling, resplendent; he was aureolin pigment on a blinding canvas, rays of light through beads of amber, stalks of goldenrod against a sunlit sky.
And Albus Dumbledore had never before thought he needed a thesaurus just to talk about the evidence of his own eyes.
The first time Albus saw him, Gellert was standing in the lane outside Bathilda Bagshot’s house in Godric’s Hollow, the sun forming a halo behind his head as he stood in the middle of the road with his head raised high, surveying the sleepy village, with one eyebrow quirked and something of a smirk playing around his lips. He caught sight of Albus, coming up the lane to see Professor Bagshot, who’d invited him to meet her young nephew visiting from the continent.
“Oh, hallo,” Gellert said. A hint of something romantic and foreign clung to his vowels, a whiff of the night air along the banks of the Danube or the bite of a mountain breeze high in the Carpathians.
And Albus fell.
*
If Gellert’s physical beauty was dazzling to the eyes, it was nothing to match the dizzying sharpness of his mind.
Albus possessed a lofty intellect, if he did say so himself - and he did, though not in public, for that was unbecoming - but Gellert inhabited heights of which Albus had not yet dreamed.
“Come now, Albus,” he would tease, sunlight dancing through his golden curls. Gellert was always in motion, seeming to be everywhere at once, even when they were just lounging in the long grass of the back garden, Albus scratching notes on a length of parchment as Gellert’s hands created visions in the air and his melodious voice vanished the overgrown garden in favour of a better world. “Are you going to dream or will you be someone? Winning school prizes and corresponding with decrepit academics is all very well when you are a child, but the world could be ours for the taking.”
Albus’ quill had slowed and stuttered and finally gone still, as he forgot to write and simply watched his friend. Gellert’s voice dropped lower, impossibly warm, like sun-drenched velvet.
“Have you felt true power?” Gellert whispered, his bright gaze fixed on Albus, entirely on Albus. Even his eyes seemed flecked with gold. “Don’t you want to know what that feels like, to hold raw power in your hands?”
Albus felt it somewhere deep within himself, that it was a conscious choice, a letting go. That this was a fork in the road, and the path was his for the choosing.
“Yes,” he said.
*
“Albus the white,” Gellert laughed, as they sprawled in the garden on a warm afternoon at the height of summer. “Albus the bright. You are going to be your England’s white knight, I am sure of it. Rescue your people from ignominy, bring magic back to rule.”
“And you, Gellert the strong spear?” Albus teased back. It was a novel thing, a friend with whom he could laugh. Someone who understood him, and didn’t need everything painstakingly explained. “Where will your kingdom be?”
“My kingdom will be everywhere,” Gellert said solemnly, stretching up to pluck a still-green apple from a low branch of the tree above their heads. Then his eyes danced. “The question is, will you follow me, my white knight? Will England be enough for you, or will you help me make the whole world new?”
He held out the apple and Albus leaned in, bit it forcefully to break the unripe skin, and felt its sourness explode across his tongue. He coughed, and laughed, and Gellert moved closer to lift the fruit to his own mouth, his face just inches away. He kept his eyes on Albus’ as he bit down and swallowed the apple’s tartness without flinching.
Albus leaned in again, though Gellert’s hand still held the apple poised at his own lips. He held Gellert’s eyes, unafraid now, because Gellert had surely seen inside him, Gellert who saw everything, and he hadn’t run yet. Albus bit down, feeling golden sharpness burst across his senses until his eyes watered, and Gellert, still holding the apple between their nearly-touching lips, stretched out one finger to stroke Albus’ cheek.
“I’ll follow you,” Albus whispered. “To the ends of the Earth, to the breathless peaks, to the pits of Hell. You know I will.”
Gellert chuckled, and flung the apple across the garden, its half-eaten core already discarded and forgotten. He closed the distance and met Albus’ lips.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Second of the three stories: Ripe as Summer Quinces.