RP: The Wands' Lament

[shh_rita]

Date: 8 March, 2006
Characters: Rita Skeeter, Ollivander
Location: Ollivander's shop
Status: Private
Summary: A final goodbye.
Completion: Complete

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[shh_ollivander]

A wand-maker's last moments last as long as needed. The wands afford him that one concession. It isn't something that can be abused to extend one's life, but as long as the wand-maker is getting his things in order and preparing for death, he can take whatever time he needs to do so.

In Ollivander's case, there was only one piece of unfinished business. He had a gift to give before he left this world. Just as Rowena had given him a gift so many years ago. Just as Fawkes had brought him a gift, he has one more wand to make, and he had to ensure it ended up in the right hands.

The core was nothing like he'd worked before. One of the hairs had fallen out of his impossibly knotted bundle, offering itself up for this wand. Pieces of dragonheartstring still clung to it as he smoothed it out and prepared the wood vessel.

Camphor. Aromatic, healing, and beautiful in color and craft. When the core was laid out, the branch practically reached out to him. There would be no details on this wand. No engraving or carving on the handle. It was just a simple wand made of wood and a core.

And part of a man's soul.

Just as portraits capture the essence of the subject and are able to interact with the world, offering the knowledge and wisdom of the ages; and just as a pensive can hold memories that should not die with a person, storing moments that history ought not forget; a wand-maker can put a part of himself into a wand.

The flu hadn't killed him. He recovered from that, but his lungs were still weak with pneumonia, and he could feel the protections he'd enjoyed for centuries wearing off as he moved around the place. Always a realist, he accepted his own end with the same meticulous grace as with anything he did, and set to work on his final piece.

This particular wand didn't take nearly as long to make as most of his wands. He could feel the wood working with his arthritic hands, offering little force against him. The core was compliant and friendly, preparing itself so he didn't have to work any harder than necessary. And when it came time to cast the spell, there was very little preparation needed.

Casting would mean the end of him - he knew that. When he used up the last of his magic, he would wrap a copy of his soul and his memories in with the spell, intertwining it with the core.

The wand was for Rita. For the woman who had given him more than she could have ever understood. He'd grown accustomed to people over the years - good and bad - but she had been the only one who was genuinely interested in becoming a part of his life. That was something he could not ignore. Even at his age, with his quirks and solitary ways, she'd embraced him.

And now he had something for her, as well.

She would be allowed inside after he was gone. She would take care of him and his things and make sure they were not scavenged. She would find his will and act as executor. And she would be rewarded with a wand more unique than any other wand he'd ever made.

[shh_rita]

She felt him as acutely as if he were standing beside her - no, more. More than that. Her eyes closed, and she felt him within her - all around in the air, in the wands that had quieted but still hummed faintly, full of a knowing, primal sort of power, beating gently in her veins now, warm and comforting.

Memories that weren't hers were in her mind - a young boy wrapped in a blanket, sipping tea that smelled of ginger and spices; the same boy growing into a man, harvesting wood in a forest clearing. A unicorn, and a hand outstretched in greeting, then feet with toes pressed against a ridge on a rocky ecarpment, arms around knees and watching young dragons chase each other through the sky. Wars fought with wands and muggle bombs, and people in the street helping the injured. The fierce emotions of hope, fear, regret, tempered over years by understanding.

Tears were coursing down her face, because the world wouldn't realise, the world wouldn't understand just what it had lost. A man, a myth, a story. But they reached out - the wands, and whatever was left of him, and they filled her up with a sense of peace. Conclusion, the completion of a circle, returning. Acceptance.

Rita opened her eyes, still blurry with tears, and smiled down at him.

With the wand song quieted, the kitchen didn't feel nearly as sacred. Rita turned the lights on and set the kettle on the stove, then made a floo call for someone to come and collect Ollivander's body. It felt strange, the mechanical action, the feeling of what now? and knowing arrangements had to be made. It gave her direction, though; purpose, and she was grateful to have to use her reason for something. She made tea and sat at the kitchen table, ignoring the shake in her hands.

Did Ollivander have a will? She had no idea, but if the undertakers needed someone to take charge, she would be that person. She wouldn't let the Ministry comb through Ollivander's belongings and sell off his furniture piece by piece. She would visit Caradoc, and ask him for his help in dealing with these things - he, after all, had some experience in these matters - and she would write to that woman Ollivander had once mentioned, Marianne, who had been married to wandmakers, so the wands could be sold by someone who was bound by the proper code.

She didn't cry again. When the undertakers came, she watched them take Ollivander away in a thestral drawn carriage (strange, magestic creatures, thestrals were - she'd never seen one before), and then went back to the workroom. There, she collected the sawdust from his final wands.

Someone else would sell them, of course, but when the first day of Spring arrived, Rita would walk into the forest and strip naked before the trees. She'd light a candle in Ollivander's memory, and she'd give thanks to the trees and the creatures for all they had provided.