-An Empire Lost-
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Will be slash (HPLV). A few war scenes, blood and deaths in this chapter.
Disclaimer: Everything you recognise belongs to J.K. Rowling. And because I suck at names, the name of the Swiss soldier is actually the name of a German guy in the book 'The Runner' (which is awesome by the way)
Beta: Myself
Erich Seyss grabbed the stiff shirt collar of the man just in front of him, forcing him to the ground in one swift motion. With a splash, their combined weights hit the mud soaked ground, sinking them a further inch lower. Erich raised his dirt and blood splattered face to see a stream of green, what looked like laser beams, flash just past where he and his comrade had been standing mere moments before. Both now lay heaving with every strained intake of breath against a large mound of earth, the only thing protecting them from the barrage of curses hurled their way. With one hand still hanging onto the man's uniform collar beside him in an act to restrain him from any further movement that would give away their position, he ushered urgently in German,
"We need to warn the front line."
His partner austerely inclined his head in stern agreement and with an encouraging nod crawled away through the unruly undergrowth, venturing a crouched run when far enough out of view; knowing full well what this short statement meant and the implications it harnessed.
The knarled handle of his wand held tightly in his sweaty hand, Erich ventured a look over his make-shift rampart. A horde of wizards and possibly witches filled his line of sight across the horizon like a ghostly silhouette. This was his time to prove himself to be the soldier and son he knew he could be. To fight for his country, the notorious highlands of Switzerland.
Ducking back behind the earthwork he conjured the weapon with which he showed most skill and the sole reason why he was placed at this high vantage point. With another flick of his wand and the moulding motions of his left hand he fashioned himself what appeared to be a spindly looking arrow with three thin planes of wood protruding at the tail end. Setting it firmly in the similarly wooden contraption, he raised the vicious looking weapon to his shoulder, eyeing his 'prey' in the distance. And then with one fluid flick and tug of his index finger, he released the catch and fired the arrow into the air, catapulted from a thin wire. It flew through the air, higher and faster than any muggle medieval cross bow could have hoped to accomplish. With a resounding 'thud' and a wail, which echoed back to Erich's ears, he knew he had hit true and the air was soon filled with the whistling of arrows as more Swiss wizards and witches let loose their hail of artillery upon the approaching army. Though the silhouette en masse seemed to falter at points as the men reloaded for a second, third, fourth shot, it never once stopped and the rarely gaping holes in the group were quickly re-stocked with magical beings of all calibres, for-ever marching closer.
Some abandoned their posts on the high cliff face or mountainous hills, fleeing back down the other side in hasty, unordered retreat. Others, in a manic rage, caught up in war, launched themselves over their trench walls, scrambling and stumbling down the mountains, forgetting their specific training in an attempt to battle the oncoming soldiers, only to be slaughtered by fresh peals of green light.
But Erich did neither. He stuck steadfast to his position, upholding his rank of Major and ruthlessly encouraging his men to prevail in their blitz. One arrow after another he fired from his conjured bow, each pointed tip glowing vaguely with a sequential enchantment: estimating the range, aligning with the target, releasing the safety catch, and flicking the strong wood that held the bow in place, all a built in reaction, to watch the lean wood slide through the dusk skylight ending its journey to pin his enemy to the ground- killing almost instantly.
Erich was not stupid, and he too knew that his journey would also end soon as the throng of his enemies engulfed him, though, he thought with regret, with not quite the same glory as had his arrow. Fighting with tooth and claw, wand on wand, Erich used his last intrepid efforts to save the impending destruction of his country before it was taken under foreign leadership.
The cultural mix of Italian, German and French soldier's orders and screams filled the evening air in a final attempt of salvation on the provisional battle field, only to present a hindrance to the 'Roman Invasion'.
---
The 'Romans', as they were partial to referring to themselves, seeked an empire that far out shone any previous known to wizard kind, a path of destruction being left in their wake as they marched across Europe. Austria, among the legion's first targets, had surrendered readily, but what had once stood as a proud country, however small, was now left in ruins. Schönbrunn Palace home to the newly appointed leader, its gardens in tatters and cultural architecture toppled in the rush to gain control. Following, Switzerland had refused to let its country be taken over by people who had no right. But they too had contended in vain, their country now becoming one of the many to be over thrown by this new power.
---
"The operation was successful, sir."
A man flanked by two equally upright soldiers stood to attention in front of a dark wood, polished desk, their hands behind their backs and heads held high. They wear clad in deep red, verging on maroon, coloured robes, the hems tinted in black; the edges of their cloaks just sweeping the impeccable oak flooring as they stood tall. The cuffs of their stiff, buttoned jackets reached just above the wrist accompanied with black embroidery and their pressed trousers hovered less than an inch from the floor revealing large black boots, most likely dragon hide.
"Switzerland is now under Roman control," the man leading the trio continued in smooth Italian, lifting his head just that touch higher in smug triumph at his own words and looking expectantly at the one remaining man in the room that had yet to acknowledge him and his comrades' presence.
Slowly, the man to whom he spoke turned his head to confront the formation before him. His face was steeped in shadow, but if one looked close enough, they would be able to make out the remarkable yet infamous features of a man whom refers to himself as, 'Caesar'. The straight, nevertheless, slightly over large nose; the angular contours of his chin and cheekbones; and the dusting of dirty blonde hair atop his head. He too was dressed in maroon robes, though with elegant golds and blacks weaved intricately into the expensive cloth and he wore them with an informality and dignity the other men could not hope to posses while standing in his attendance.
"And the Ministry?" 'Caesar' sank back into his chair, observing his Commanding Officer.
The Lieutenant Colonel knew only too well what his leader had implied by this simple question. Austria had been a disaster. Their Ministry had been destroyed before being put to substantial use and all operations now had to be carried out through the resident Palace. Although he sensed his leader's displeasure, Christian Abele would not have commanded his men any different. He responded quickly,
"Safe and now, as we speak, under the leadership of RSM Donato, as requested, sir."
"Thank you." And with that the men were dismissed with a curt nod. Rotating on the balls of their feet, the three officers spun in turn and stepped from the room in sync. Once free from sight of the imposing mahogany doors, they relaxed into a brisk, even walk.
---
In the newly constructed, pristine barracks that were now scattered amongst Switzerland and the Alps the Roman soldiers congratulated themselves on their recent victories. Their progress across Europe was proceeding with all the might and vigour they could have hoped for. They felt privileged to be included in the likes of something the wizarding world had never yet before seen and proud to be part of the slow but sure rekindling of the Roman Empire.
With jovial shouts they downed their drinks as one slamming the empty glasses on the solid wood table. Sparks and fireworks constantly filled the smoky air above their heads as wizards shot random streams of light from their wands. Stiff jackets and cloaks ditched in corners and under tables the men and women let down the hair and rolled up their sleeves for a night of celebration.
That is, all except one.
A young boy side stepped his way through the throngs of people. Stumbling under the weight of hefty slaps on the back and jostled, drunken shouts of, "To Portugal"- though he wasn't sure whether this meant as an invasion or simply some confounded Private in an attempt at a toast- or, "Long live Caesar".
Shivering slightly as he finally escaped into the black night he hitched up his too big trousers and sprinted down the hill side towards the local owlery, muttering under his breath.
His tight jacket constricting his already laboured gasps he searched for the iron ring on the outside of the door to allow him entrance. Grasping the cold metal in his clammy hands he twisted it and cautiously pushed open the door, his palms flat on the splintered wood. Fumbling blindly for his wand within his cloak pocket he held it in front of his face, gingerly whispering, "Lumos."
The small, typically circular room appeared empty of human life, but the occasional rustling and clicking noises were what the man truly sought out. Using a thin rack of wood to his left, the youth guided himself round the edge of the room until he came to the source. He reached a tentative hand towards the stone coloured owl, drawing back quickly in a flinching movement when it turned its amber eyes to meet his. Calm down, he ordered himself, let's just get this over and done with.
Slipping an emaciated piece of parchment from the slim, diagonal pocket of his uniform jacket, he steadied his shaking hands enough to bind the letter securely to the leg of the owl as it watched him intently.
Helping the owl onto his right arm, the boy made his way over to the open hatch in the wall. Bending his head to repeat the destination inscribed on the envelope to the owl, he caught sight of the tiniest of movements out of the corner of his eye. Straightening up, all of his senses on edge he peered around the lowly room. His breathing hitched in his throat and he could hear the blood pumping in his ears as he set the large owl down on the ledge. Then, before he even had the chance to turn around, a flash of light erupted in the gloom and he felt a shove in his back followed by an excruciating stinging that seemed to worm it's way up his spine. Crumpling to the floor he grasped the ledge where the owl sat watching placidly. Barely having time for coherent thought before his head was wrenched up by the roots of his dark hair, he shoved the owl out of the hole in the brick work, stammering,
"D-Dumbledore…Hog…warts…"
Before all went black.