"Listen, I wrote about this to The Ministry ahead of time. You cannot take this from me, for your own safety."
There had been little time between his arrival by steamboat from Brazil to his appearance at the Ministry. Disheveled was putting it graciously, three weeks at sea was enough to make anyone look the way Emil Roan did at this moment. The smell of sea air followed him where he went, his mind focused on appearing in front of the Minister of Magic was blocking him from all other thoughts. Not once did he imagine that his seaworn looks would cause concern with the well-dressed officials at the Ministry or that carrying a mysterious package wouldn't go over well with the assistant to the Minister.
"Please," Emil insisted as the assistant refused to relent. "I have an appointment. Just let me go through."
The package would not leave the man's grasp. There was very little in the world that would make him do so. This was literally a piece of his soul in his hands. A dark artefact of whose knowledge had been never been made to the public. Magic who's existence was not available for research at any of the libraries of the world. The Ministry could have possibly have some knowledge of it in the Department of Mysteries, but that in itself was solely an educated guess.
For the first time in seven years, Emil did not hear the screams of his soul begging to come back. The crude but effective packaging in his hands had seen to that, taking more than half a decade's worth of effort between magical minds under the cover of the jungle.
But he had been slightly numbed to the screams. His sanity had slipped in and out more times than he could keep track of, despite his best efforts to journal everything in that time. The container had sealed the worst of it, but there was still residual. Nothing could block the energy completely. Something the assistant would find out for herself if Emil couldn't talk her down.
Wylder Merrow was not a man that thrived in this sort of environment. He was a man of action and very few words. So few in fact, that those in his immediate circles were often surprised if he had much to say beyond a sentence here or there when a conversation was had. He was often labeled as a 'good listener', and he was, but not because he genuinely had any sort of interest in this sort of thing.
Rather everything he did and performed came down to a sense of duty and obligation. Even this chair he sat in, as he stared out the ridiculously oversized window to the main lobby three floors below, was a calling for him, not something he sought for himself.
He had always been this way, from the time he was a small boy, willing to do things for others because it was necessary and they needed him. What he wanted, what he desired was irrelevant in the grand scheme of things. The whole was more important to him than the individual, and while he hated every moment of this, he set his ego aside for the betterment of the people he was called to serve.
"I have an appointment. Just let me go through."
Wylder turned from the window and rose from his chair at the sound of a man's voice harassing his assistant, flustered and insistent. A long-suffering groan emitted from the man's lips as he crossed the office to his door, swinging it open with little flourish. Gray eyes fell on the site of a disheveled man, the smell of familiar salt filling the reception lobby. Wylder recognized the look in the man's eyes - urgent and wild. A look he'd seen countless times before and had grown numb to over the years.
"Elizabeth," Wylder muttered, and nodded when she looked to him for permission. "Mister Roan?" Wylder said, holding his door open wide and gestured for the man to enter. "Sorry for the hassle," his voice was low and raspy, a result of gas and shouting for four years on end.
He closed the door behind them and resumed his place behind his desk, indicating for Emil to have a seat. He reached into his suit pocket, producing two cigarettes and passed one to the man before popping his own in between his lips. He said nothing else, instead training his eyes on the man as he lit his cigarette with a flick of his lighter.
The man bowed his head slightly to the assistant, Elizabeth, and followed the Minister into his office. The indication to take a seat was a welcome one. He hadn't sat down since an hour before landfall to the port in England. His legs and arms trembled slightly from exhaustion as his body tried to relax itself. His hands, however, refused to loosen up their grip on the package he carried with him. His right hand twitched, fighting to remove itself from the grasp it had on the cloth-bound item to reach over and take the cigarette offered.
The Minister lit his cigarette as his hand attempted to stave off the shaking.
He leaned back onto his chair and took a drag. Except for his left hand, his entire body seemed to melt onto the chair. It hard been the first time he'd been free to pry his hands off of the item. The first time he'd been able to take a breath. Even if it was one full of nicotine.
"Ahh, thank you Minister."
The another deep breath, then a few more shorter ones followed.
"It's the first time I've been able to somewhat relax since..." He stopped, not actually remembering when the last time he'd been able to relax was. Day after day, he lived deep in the consequence of steeping himself in dark magic. His intentions, academic and innocent as they had been, meant nothing. He had committed crimes abroad, although victimless. Again in customs, when he downplayed the darkness of what he'd brought with him.
It was his hope that the man before him, surrounded in navy blue, would reflect the color of his aura. Calm, disciplined, responsible. Order over chaos. It's one of two kinds of people he'd be willing to trust with his secret.
The other being the criminal type.
"My apologizes," he took another drag and began speaking once more, "for my appearance and my demeanor. I know you're a busy man, so I'll try to be succinct."
He clamped the cigarette between his lips, reuniting his hand with the package before moving it slowly across his lap. Whether it was the package or Emil, might have looked to others as if he was indecisive about placing it on the desk. But the truth was more fundamental. The contents of the package would fight with every fiber of their being to be torn from the man, even if it was to be placed in front of him. But with a final push, he managed to hover it over the wood of the desk before letting go and backing away out of breath. Removing the smoke from his lips and holding it once again, he spoke.
"I assume the professor from Edinburgh wrote to you about this. I would not open it, less every auror in this building burst in. Best just to examine from the outside. It's a..."
The words struggled to get out. He hadn't verbalized the contents in front of him to anyone other than one person before. But if he was going to have any sort of life in magical Britian, the man in front of him was going to be the one to give it to him.
"It's a piece of my soul."
It wasn't that Wylder didn't know how to appropriately converse. He certainly wouldn't be the Minister if he wasn't able to hold a conversation with dignitaries and important figures. It was more along the lines that small talk accomplished nothing. He was the sort that appreciated getting down to business quickly and getting to the point even quicker. He was a man of solutions, not hemming and hawing, and while he could appreciate that Mr. Roan was obviously flustered, it only proved to weigh on Wylder's already thin patience.
Elizabeth had already thrown away a file of important documents this morning, and while he'd tried to remain calm and impassive about it, her now refusal to simply look at the schedule and let Mr. Roan in had caused this entirely unnecessary introduction.
Women. The sooner Elizabeth found herself a husband, the sooner he could be rid of her and hire someone competent.
"My apologizes, for my appearance and my demeanor. I know you're a busy man, so I'll try to be succinct."
A slight wave of his hand of dismissal as he ashed his cigarette into the little bowl on his desk, pushing it slightly towards the middle for the other man to easily reach. It mattered little to Wylder how anyone appeared - outside of military colors, as long as they didn't waste his time. The man had once worn the same fatigues for two weeks straight in the trenches. The rashes and sores that had followed hadn't exactly made him for pleasant-smelling company.
What did he care if the man hadn't had time to dress in some fancy suit that impressed people that didn't matter?
"I assume the professor from Edinburgh wrote to you about this. I would not open it, less every auror in this building burst in. Best just to examine from the outside. It's a..."
He would have gladly asked Emil to just spit it out, but his eyes were drawn to the fabric-wrapped package that was unceremoniously placed on his desk. Tied with twine and a violet stone set in the middle. "He wrote. Didn't say why this meeting was necessary. Only that it was." Wylder took his cigarette between his lips, letting it dangle there as he puffed and he reached for the package, turning it over casually in his hand.
"It's a piece of my soul."
And just as quickly, the Minister set the package right back down and pushed it back across the desk with his index finger. His mind scrambled for a moment, before gray eyes narrowed as he sat back heavily in his chair. Wylder puffed, before pulling the cigarette from his lips again, blowing the smoke lightly across his desk.
"A horcrux." Dark magic. Some of the darkest there was. He'd seen a few in the camps - wizards who were afraid of dying and wanted to preserve whatever piece of themselves they could before battle. It wasn't common, but the things he'd seen arise from such darkness...he'd never thought it was worth it.
"Forgive me, Mr. Roan. But what exactly do you think I want with a piece of your soul?"
"A horcrux."
A name. And familiarity. This would work out in his favor. Although he could do with someone not dropping his soul.
"It's about what I can do with it. For you, for the Ministry." The war ravaged enough of the world, wizarding and muggle, for anyone who kept up with the times to know the real damage that occured. Although Emil wasn't the type to pick a side or involve himself in politics, there was a clear benfit in siding with the Ministry in this case. And in order to do research on his horcrux, he would need its backing.
Or at the very least, its permission.
"You know how hard these things are to kill, or even interact with. I've spent a lot of years working to make this," he ran his fingers over the vessel adorned with more enchanments than he could count, "so that it wouldn't affect anyone. It barely registers as a low-grade cursed item." An almost inperceptable pride leaked out of his tone, before quickly vanishing. He hadn't the time to appreciate the effort he and the sage in Brazil put into creating it. The vessel was almost as noteworthy as the item inside.
"I study magic of the soul, minister. Long before creating this item, I mean. Up until this, most of my research was quite esoteric, but this can change the game. Finding a way to apply this to save lives, to preserve lives, to..."
He cut himself off. The idea of creating life was taboo still, typically seen in the same light as necromancy. The act of messing with life in any way was a topic to be mentioned with care. Needless to say, until he knew if the Minister would be more amenable to the idea of that he'd stick to more palatable uses of magic.
He took a breath, his face returning to a neutral that came to him too easily.
"I need a place to study this. A place with ancient wards that can help protect me and the people around me while I fiddle with this. Where I can report to you or whomever you assign me to and no one else."
There was never a shortage of people eager to tell Wylder Merrow what they could do for him. Since taking this position back in May, Wylder had been surrounded and accosted with nothing but men who wanted to 'be of assistance' or offer up something they claimed to be wildly unusual, all under the guise of altruism. Never really wanting anything for themselves, they all claimed, until of course, they did.
While a more flippant man may have made some off-handed or sarcastic comment about the rogue package that now sat on his desk as though it were no more than a common parcel, Wylder remained silent, choosing instead to listen. Not because he truly thought Emil Roan had anything he was interested in - aside for which poor soul he had murdered to make this thing - but because he'd accepted the meeting and it was the decent thing to do.
"You know how hard these things are to kill, or even interact with. I've spent a lot of years working to make this, so that it wouldn't affect anyone. It barely registers as a low-grade cursed item."
Wylder's eyes trailed back down to the package before settling once again on the disheveled man.
"I study magic of the soul, minister. Long before creating this item, I mean. Up until this, most of my research was quite esoteric, but this can change the game. Finding a way to apply this to save lives, to preserve lives, to..."
Wylder grimaced slightly, the only tell he'd give to impress upon his distaste for what Emil was implying. He sat back in his chair, bringing his cigarette to his lips again. A long puff as the man cut himself off - wisely - and instead dove into some explanation of how he needed a safe place within Britain to study the damn thing.
He tilted his head back, blowing the smoke up and over the two of them while his mind ticked along, absorbing what this man - who he didn't even know - was asking of him. "Dark stuff, that," he said finally, motioning to the package. Really, he'd love it off his desk.
"Who'd you kill for it?" Gray eyes held Emil's. Before he agreed or disagreed to anything, it seemed an important bit of information he should be provided.
"Who'd you kill for it?"
A distasteful memory as could be.
Murder was a necessary evil for the creation of the cursed item. There was no denying, however, Emil wasn't a murderer. Not in the strictest sense, of course, since he had taken a human life in order to effectively rip his soul apart and stick it somewhere else. But before then, violence had never been the man's forte. The truth was, he had imagined that the life he'd taken would weigh heavier upon him. In fact, it probably would have had the horcrux not started tormenting him immediately after its creation.
"It was a man." He recalled the memory of the prisoner kneeling down in front of him, Emil's wand brandished. There had been a few hoops he had to jump through but nothing the power of money couldn't handle. 'A criminal condemned for death', he thought, would make the perfect sacrifice for the requirement. Unknown if the feeling of murder needed to accompany the act, he steeped himself in dark feelings the night before. Imagine the act, relishing in it. Feeling the anger and the vitrol for the poor girls the man had sequestered.
He refused to ask the villagers for more details after that.
"He was already condemned to death. I just paid to take the executioners place." He took another puff, laying back and taking a breath. He hadn't thought of the life he'd taken since being separated from the seering pain of the item. The sudden recalling of the memory as a response to the Ministers question didn't seem to stir up any emotions either. He shook off the momentary derailing and looked at the Minister once more. "The locals owed me the favor, and the galleons I offered didn't hurt either."
He moved his hands to the package on the desk. It had already spent too much time apart from him and could tell it was begging to be reunited once again. Another problem to fix later, then.
He stared at the man in front of him, a distrusting glaze around the sturdy navy backdrop. He couldn't tell how this was going to end. It looked like a coin flip that he'd end up in either a research station or the bowels of Azkaban.
A soft groan of acknowledgement rose from Wylder's throat as he nodded, his eyes finally drifting from Emil to nowhere in particular. He was silent for a moment, contemplating his next words carefully. There was nothing lighthearted or simple about taking a life, despite how many he knew tried to make it so. He understood to an extent; there were times, especially in the recent years that Wylder had found himself without any other choice. In life or death situations, there were decisions to be made within seconds and hesitation often meant elimination.
Following battles or conflicts, many of his comrades had laughed or joked about the lives they'd taken and how. Dark humor, he supposed, a way to reconcile themselves to the trauma of it all and what they had been forced to do. Aurors and Unspeakables or not, war was a great equalizer. Stripped of uniforms and titles, they were all just men who had seen too much, done too much, and now had to live with it. Wylder never found much comfort in the laughter. To him, every face lingered. Every choice clung to his conscience long after the smoke cleared.
The man before him wasn't a battle-hardened soldier, and had asked to take a life - for his own benefit, if a horcrux could be considered that. Moreso he seemed neither here or there about what he'd done. It was strange, what some men would do for power, for the faint mirage of immortality, while others wept and drowned in nightmares for the rest of their days.
Indifference was dangerous, compared to guilt, and war had taught him that men without conscience were the most lethal.
It was a strange first impression, for sure.
He leaned forward on his desk, ashing the smoke into his ashtray before training his eyes on Emil again. "It's one thing to want to save lives," he said finally, "that in itself always comes with its own price. It's another to want to play God." Wylder, though he was a wizard and wizards typically weren't overtly religious, was. "Splitting one's soul already teeters upon that line, wouldn't you agree?"
He waited another beat and then nodded, "If I offer you a place, how will I be assured that that thing won't affect the people you'd be around? My responsibility to them would outweigh any studying you intend to do."
"If I offer you a place, how will I be assured that that thing won't affect the people you'd be around? My responsibility to them would outweigh any studying you intend to do."
Emil straighted up, package solely in his possession, he felt his lungs expand for the first time since he'd let it go. There was no denying he had made much progress in putting distance between his horcrux and him, but there was still progress to be made.
But the Minister had asked him questions. Questions that anyone in his position should be asking..
"Minister, I know I haven't made the best of first impressions. I come to you splintered and battered with darkness in hand. But I am a man of the people. My intent has always been to study for the sake of people. It was for that reason that I spent much of my youth inventing the Wolfsbane potion, or developing runic seals to hold back such as this one. From the dea..."
He paused for a moment and stared at his hands, unconsciously gripping the box as if commanded to never let go.
Passion. It came like lightning, bright and quick.
It faded just as quick.
"... sorry." He shook his head as whatever light in his eyes appeared faded in to the background. "I'm still not feeling quite like myself yet." His stance became neutral once again, his body aware he'd slightly leaned forward in his earlier outburst. "What I mean, Minister, is that you can have confidence in my magical ability, as well as my intentions. I managed to get it all the way to here without it affecting anyone. Imagine what I could do to restrain it in a place full of magical power."
He continued looking into the eyes of the man in front of him, curious as to what one was supposed to feel in the face of this situation. Thoughts of his parents' death, as well as the others in the compound when he was a young boy flashed as his consciousness struggled to bring his feelings to the surface. Faith was clearly lacking, something he had decided he'd replace in his life with the intent to bring hope to those whose faith went unanswered.
"And haven't you heard, Minister? God is dead."
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