Private
Targa is dead.
I could not bring myself to even think, much less write, about the owl I received on August 1st. But now these thoughts are taking over my mind, and I feel I have to write them down and get them out before they eat me alive.
July 31st, in the darkest hours before dawn, a group of marauders attacked Cosmo Canyon intent on stealing the Black Materia, which myth claims is the antithesis of the Philosopher's Stone. Where the Philosopher's Stone gives power and life, the Black Materia grants only destruction and death. They were, of course, not interested in its purported destructive abilities, only in its market value. They were successfully kept away from the materia; however, the marauders killed two of our own, including a young pup whose corpse they made away with, and injured five others.
Now, the death toll is three. Targa, my human-brother, born on the same day and hour as myself, died from wounds received on the battlefield. Never again will he train under Elder Bugah or assist Elder Hargo with his book; never again will we discuss the differences between Cosmo Canyon sacred lore and the magical world according to Hogwarts. His wife is now a widow; his child, half-orphan.
The bitterest blow is that I was not there, nor can I be there now. While my people suffered and drove back a vicious, unwarranted attack, I sat here in London, in bored complacency. And, while my people grieve, I am stuck at Hogwarts, bound by the promise I made Grandfather. He tells me that I am a warrior on a different battlefield, that I defend Cosmo Canyon from the dangers that carry no spears. Those platitudes, such comfort to me before, now taste like ashes in my mouth. Targa is dead.
I could not bring myself to even think, much less write, about the owl I received on August 1st. But now these thoughts are taking over my mind, and I feel I have to write them down and get them out before they eat me alive.
July 31st, in the darkest hours before dawn, a group of marauders attacked Cosmo Canyon intent on stealing the Black Materia, which myth claims is the antithesis of the Philosopher's Stone. Where the Philosopher's Stone gives power and life, the Black Materia grants only destruction and death. They were, of course, not interested in its purported destructive abilities, only in its market value. They were successfully kept away from the materia; however, the marauders killed two of our own, including a young pup whose corpse they made away with, and injured five others.
Now, the death toll is three. Targa, my human-brother, born on the same day and hour as myself, died from wounds received on the battlefield. Never again will he train under Elder Bugah or assist Elder Hargo with his book; never again will we discuss the differences between Cosmo Canyon sacred lore and the magical world according to Hogwarts. His wife is now a widow; his child, half-orphan.
The bitterest blow is that I was not there, nor can I be there now. While my people suffered and drove back a vicious, unwarranted attack, I sat here in London, in bored complacency. And, while my people grieve, I am stuck at Hogwarts, bound by the promise I made Grandfather. He tells me that I am a warrior on a different battlefield, that I defend Cosmo Canyon from the dangers that carry no spears. Those platitudes, such comfort to me before, now taste like ashes in my mouth. Targa is dead.