Remember, Remember

Silence.

In the witching hour, there was always silence. Like the world was caught perfectly in a portrait of mist and moonlight, ambient magic sighing slow breaths in slumber but waiting, just waiting, for that first uttered bird song. That note to break stillness, and bring it all back to life.

It was an apt metaphor for most survivors, now he thought about it. Pawing for reminders of the past, scrabbling for any hope or control, to breath life into an existence where death could literally walk all over you.

People had some strange coping mechanisms, these days, himself included. And some downright sickening ones too.

He caught the knife he was spinning negligently, running his finger over the flat of the blade. If he concentrated enough, he could still see some of their blood from encountering them.

It hadn't been any different in Britain before the portkey: magic didn't immediately make the weilder morally pristine, never had. Civility fell to chaos, anything permitted in the name of survival. Of feeling whole.
Some found it in being nomads: some fortified, farmed, created sanctuaries. Others holed up, tried to ignore it. They died, quickly. Even magic couldn't stop bad luck or poor judgement.

Usually made it worse, actually.

He didn't want to think about the people that took it as a sign they could do as they damn well please, a paradise with no law and no enforcers.
Didn't feel right killing people. And, he thought mid toss, he hoped it never would.

Funny how he'd never wanted to be an Auror, ended up honourary Unspeakable, and yet he could pretty much say he was now. More guerilla fighter, rambo style, sure, but with his moral compass he may as well have the badge by now.

Not that he appreciated it these days. Being morally justifiable and right were usually mutually exclusive goals now. Not that it would change his stubborn, idiotic thinking processes at all. Give him a helpless damsel, and hey presto, knight in beaten up leather and camo to the rescue!

No matter what insults his logical, tactically trained mind threw at him for it, before coming up with a realistic way of acting on the impulse.

Damn his saving people thing.

Up, down, perfect catch. A swig that burned his mouth like fire, leaving tingling ice in its wake.

Funny how impending loss made him introspective. He looked down at his feet, swinging indolently, and caught sight of the half empty bottle with a snort.

Or maybe it was the firewhiskey.

Still it was rare he ever allowed himself to think too deeply about anything these days. He wasn't a masochist.

Home? Gone. He'd had only Teddy, what was left- rechristened Theobald at the toddlers insistence after some hero or other, the change of name prompted by a need to avoid tangling doppelganger's family trees at burial - and Mione to remind him of it. Here? Most of his time had been spent fighting a war, and then having some very accident prone research. Magic was the same, relatively, but he just couldn't bring himself to connect to... well, anything. He'd lost too much, and the magical world was just a reminder, a ghost of something brighter in his memories, that prompted old, ingrained loyalties. Fighting, he knew. But living? That had been a distant, strange thing beyond his reach.

Living meant more to lose. He'd already lost too much. He was broken, he knew that. If not for Mione, beyond repair.

But throw a helpless damsel at him... In this case, idiotic group with children...

Old instincts, parts of him yet to break. It seemed he would never be able to stop being that bloody idiotic bastard that couldn't leave well enough alone, even for the sake of his own survival.
That couldn't help caring.

"How many hits does it take to shatter?" He asked the silence, the ringing reply of nothing almost ignored.

"As many as you like."

His eyes shut of their own accord, a headache forming at his temples.

"Don't think we get to choose, Fae." Was his chuckled reply. "Not like you."

Three weeks of torture. Merlin and morgana bless and keep her in Avalon, she'd held out long enough through horrors he couldn't conceive, just to get the chance to curse Voldyshorts incurably. To stop his resurrection cycle entirely.

A light tinkle of a laugh sounded behind him, insubstantial arms wending through his own and hugging with a magical pressure that was almost physical.

"Of course you do, silly." A gentle hand fondly rustling his hair to spikes. "You just need a reason to keep going." Playfully whispered in his ear. "Like a cork for wrackspurts."

"What? I thought that drove them away?" He asked in bafflement.

"Away? Why would I want to do that." Was the reply. "It helped them stop being so sad, and then so hungry, so they stopped swarming."

A thoughtful silence fell.

"I wonder if it would work on the bright dead ones?"

Unbidden, a mental image of a chronically happy Shambler skipping around handing out daisies broke his concentration, and the insubstantial arms fell away as he nearly fell off his branch from laughter.

And if there was a couple of tears there... Well, no one had to know.

-line break-

Early morning saw him shouldering his bow and resisting the urge to spit out the aftertaste of a sobering potion.
The camp caper residents had seen him grumble his way to the river, and emerge with eyebrows raised. Probably back to thinking he was crazy.

Ah well. Wouldn't be the first time.

It was a relatively quiet morning, only Andrea up for watch - he avoided the cooking pot like a plague, memories of inedible stew only making the aftertaste worse - and Glenn hacking at a stick.

He raised his own eyebrow at the sight, drifting closer.

"...A rabbit?"

The massive flinch as a reaction was something he almost, almost couldn't stop smiling at.

"What the hell, man!" The Korean bleated. "What are you, some kind of ninja?"

"Oh yes, ninja of the Tea pot. I can see the teal sash now." He couldn't help replying.

"Strike of the boiling kettle." The man replied, mock seriously.

"Brings a whole new meaning to teabagging." He noted, ignoring the startled noise of amusement from the man.

Still he hesitated on bantering further, after all, easier to close a wound if it was a clean cut.

It took a second of digging but he pulled out the ziplock bag easy enough, throwing it in the startled man's direction.

"Here, medical kit."

"James..." Glenn looked up, almost comically stricken. It was a look thoroughly ignored.

"Instructions on what's in there, where to find them." And... he couldn't look more like a stunned puppy if he tried. Valiant effort, he had to give Glenn that. " And how to use them."

"You don't have to-"

"Glenn." He tried to hide the irritation. He'd never been good at goodbyes, and recent years hadn't made him any more skilled at it. "Just accept it and move on. One of you idiots is going to be stupid enough to get hurt. I suggest you learn how to use it."

And with that he turned with full intentions of getting out of the camp, only to see something happen that froze him to the spot and sent fiend-fyre through his blood.

Mind overrode instinctive urge to murder, however, even as the fire turned to cold, unfeeling ice.

He watched the shadows dance against the tent walls, backlit by the dawn, and knew with certainty that two days was the right timelimit, because someone needed a lesson in gentlemanly manners.

The Peletiers tent wasn't rocking with passion. And Sophie, crouched outside in a ball just small enough to be missed, looked like every Shambler in the world was bearing down on her at once.

It seemed he had some unfinished business.

-Line break -

There was a lot to be said for sharp senses.

Tracking and spatial awareness were definitely easier with it, and he'd surprised himself the first time he'd recognised Mione by smell, and then by step pattern. She'd never quite lost the habit of stepping heavily when relaxed. A habit born from grounding her weight and making sure she could carry all the books at speed, landing on the balls of her feet when in a hurry. She'd relearnt that with danger, but it'd been hard for her to do.

It was amazing what the small tells of every person revealed.

Shane marched, like he had to force his way through the very air to move. Expecting a fight every step, and striking it first. It reflected his approach to life surprisingly well.

Daryl loped. A carefully controlled, fluid motion that resulted in as little force between the ground and foot as possible. The man had been a hunter for longer than just the apocalypse. It resulted in quiet steps and surprisingly patient, even, confident ones. The woods were home.

His brother, by contrast, stalked. Same light step, but more rapid and purposeful. Stiffer control. If Daryl was the figurative wolf of the scenario, Merle was the male lion. Impatient.

Could be just as touchy as one too.

Small animals foraged warily, only just audible. The muted thuds and one squeal told him something was approaching before he even canted his head lazily to look.

He met Shanes dark stare unwaveringly, relaxed as a jungle cat up in the boughs of the tree.

"Ya gonna kill 'im, ain't ya?"

His own emotions rose in turn, but Shane didn't flinch from the cold look.

"Teach him a lesson, more likely." The smile he gave was sharp edged. "One he won't forget."

Shanes nostrils flared, fist flexing.

"Man needs to die."

He studied the man, a little curious. A step away from burying the body, indeed.

"He'll kill himself off." He mused. "Men like him always do, fuck up for themselves given the opportunity."

Murder? Not the answer here. He'd just give the guy enough rope to hang himself.

"My advice? Drag him on a run. Show him whats really out there. He'll turn tail and run straight into their teeth, if that's what you want to do."

"You don't?" Came the growled challenge.

He smiled slightly.

"No point but you're not going to have to worry about him hitting out. Believe me." He blinked at the canopy before meeting Shanes eyes again. "Ask a favour though? Send him hunting with me tonight."

Shane studied him intently, the stare far too neutral given the topic.

"He comin' back?"

"A changed man, I promise you."

A nod, an accord.

Ed wouldn't know what the hell hit him.