A.N. This is the latest chapter of The Binding. Sort of an in between chapter as far as plot goes, but several obvious things that will be important later on.

RECAP:

“For you crime against time, and this world, and its souls I banish you Harry James Potter! May you rot for all eternity!”

Searing pain flared in his eyes and darkness took him.

When the sun rose, only a ghost of a small boy was found, playing pathetically with the bloody snow he could not touch. And by him sat an aged sorcerer, who had seen and borne the cost of twain ages of war. The depth of his knowledge and years of experience failed to construct the events that led to the disappearance of the boy he had hidden a near decade ago. So he sat, watching the little ghost play in the blood of the boy-who-lived.

Path of the Forsaken

Red sand in a dark desert screamed around him, keeping him blinded and bereft of any sense of where he was. The burning pain in the eyes gave way to reminder of wounds in his shoulders. The liquescent power was a realm or space too far to heal his body - he was on his own. So he stayed curled up on the ground, his head buried in his arms, hiding from the sand storm beating him.

Many, many hours later, through tormented sleep and fevered delirium he awoke to the storm having passed. It was a land of near pitch darkness with cracked and parched earth, and no sign of the sand that even now intruded on every inch of his body and clothing. On spot, he whirled and peered in every direction, fearing he would see the storm lying in wait for him to dare raise his head.

There was no sign bearing evidence of anything but the cracked earth rolling forever. His shoulders ached as did the massive healed over wound in his stomach. Through the hazy memory he recalled the yellow man banishing him, and wondered if he had been told where to. Searching his body he found the ash wand and drew comfort from its presence. Once again magic slaked his thirst and gave him the strength to stand to his feet. Without thought he began walking, ignoring the physical pain in favor of the memory of the man with burning avian eyes.

“Banished,” he said the word out loud, tasting it like the dirt in his mouth. His feet led him aimlessly, as he tried to comprehend the fact that he had been condemned for crimes Dumbledore committed. He had been sentenced despite McGonagall's defense of him. The truth did not matter to the light, it had abandoned him. Old buried doubts of self worth seeded by the Dursleys crept up like weeds. Where in the past he had covered them by the need his friends had of him, to save them, and in doing what was right, now there was nothing which propped his defenses.

At the same time determination forged lying in the cot in the cupboard to not give in, to not let them win surged. With that one thought and the agony in his recently torn and healed insides he trudged forwards looking for shelter.

Two days passed but no sun rose or light appeared to bear evidence of the time. Only the returning and disappearing storm of red sand marked the passage. The young wizard trapped in a child body crawled in his chosen direction, afflicted with hunger he did not know how to satiate. Not for the first time he wished he had had his last year of transfiguration and learned to conjure food.

It was time to set aside his desire for solitude. “Minerva,” he called her name tiredly. “Minerva,” he repeated, and tapped his wrist with the wand. The echo of his teacher appeared looking distraught.

“Oh! Dear,” she exclaimed quietly, seeing the vast land. “I promise you, Harry, they can not do this. There will be a reckoning, they will come for-”

“Minerva,” he interrupted, and she quieted hearing him use her familiar name. “Can you teach me how to conjure food?” he asked her calmly, looking towards the lighter part of the sky he had just found in the distance.

“Merlin! Can you not see what has happened?” she asked in a pitying manner.

“I'm hungry. Can you teach me how to conjure food?” he questioned in return in the same quiet distant voice.

“Yes, I can. You were wounded; I do not know if you know what happened.” She adopted an aloof tone copying his manner.

“I know what happened,” he muttered. “I fought for the light. And it banished me here. Now, I'm hungry!” He turned his defiant face to her. She stood uncertain for a moment then finding her ghostly wand she began teaching him.

Minerva McGonagall watched her pupil conjure a misshapen loaf of bread and a glass of juice. Her lessons were short and almost grudging for he never had enough focus or power to attempt the spell work; the storms took away much his physical and magical strength. Albeit hunger is a powerful motivator and he had advanced admirably given his limitations.

Once summoned, she stayed by his side providing the little light she could in the dreary unchanging land, and company in the silence. She had witnessed the terrible sand storms that came without warning and left without a sign, except the cost they drew from the small boy.

Conversation was sparse; he had refused any discussion of his banishment or what was to come next. When the storms would abate, he would simply begin walking towards the small bit of sky in the distance that was lighter than the rest.

It was as if he was clutching to the silence for strength. She had seen men break like this before; she had seen them harden inside themselves when their loss became too great. It was their last resistance before the wound left behind by other men or circumstance would bend them and break them.

The boy's skin was scratched and dry, he had lost even more weight in the time it had taken him to learn to conjure simple foods. So bravely he would stand against the storm when it came howling. Straight backed and wand held in front of himself, a clear green shield shimmering in between him and the elements. Some times he lasted longer than others, but the storm always won, blasting him off his feet, tearing through his magic and scraping his flesh with calloused fingers. Eventually he would have to cover his head and face in defeat and curl into himself waiting for it to pass.

The pain and insults on his body coupled with those on his soul slowly were undoing him, his resolve was worn. And she could only watch in the quiet, waiting for him to fall, hoping that once he did he would rise stronger. Not much longer, she thought, the next time the storm comes it will wear him away into dust.

The thin boy with hollow cheeks looked at her suddenly, as if having heard her mind. Then just as suddenly he looked away behind him from where the storm always appeared.

“Can you hear that?” he asked. McGonagall's specter began to say no when she heard it as well.

Out of the cracked earth smoke rose, permeating an oily smell and on its heels multitudes of three foot long centipedes crawled out. Their many legs clicked in a frightening cacophony as they rushed towards the wizard. He took a few hurried steps back, unsure if they were after him but soon it was undeniable, they were following him.

Quickly he apparated back but they seemed to swarm up through the earth wherever he touched. They were lying in wait under the crust, surging only when they felt the pressure of his weight. He fixed the furthest point he could see in his mind and apparated again. Looking back he saw a mass of beetle black boiling out of the earth. He had seen many wicked looking creatures in his schooling, and otherwise, so these did not alarm him individually but the sheer number of them was more than a threat. With certainty he knew these were flesh eaters, anything else would be too much good luck.

Hot sharp pain lanced through his leg. Screaming he shook the leg on which a two foot long centipede had latched itself. It was even now burying its purple pincers in his thigh.

“Inflamare!” he shouted. The flame spread much more than he had hoped and did not affect the fiend. More of the insects crept out running towards him and in sudden inspiration he apparated focusing singularly on only bringing his body with him. It worked! He appeared fifty yards away, naked and free of the attacking creature. Blood, however, flowed freely from the eye shaped wounds on his leg. The clothes he summoned and as soon as the bundle met his hand he apparated again, already feeling the earth underfoot begin to move.

Fire was always a sure weapon against dark creatures but these were not affected and he was tiring from apparating. Something else was happening to him, his eyesight was beginning to swim and his appendages felt disconnected yet strangely sensitive. The culprit was no doubt what was left behind in the row of eyelet wounds running symmetrically down his leg.

His vision turned cloudy and like a rock he fell heavily to the ground. No longer did he see the desert or his attackers but second after second of the times he had been cursed and tortured played out and he felt the pain as if it were fresh. His unbridled scream cut through the noise of the centipedes, and they circled around him immediately silenced. In opposing circles they moved swaying slightly in rhythm to his screams. From afar it would have seemed as if with every agony filled declaration a ripple went through the black lake of the creatures.

Locked by the poison of the creature, Harry experienced pain with blinding clarity and was unable to mount any resistance against the unrelenting and sharp memories. The child body flopped on the hard earth reacting to blows and hexes endured long past but the real injury this time was to the mind. Contorted fingers gouged the hard earth and the creatures swayed to the hiccupping screams and moans.

McGonagall appeared in midst of the strange concert and startled the creatures. To them she appeared to be something far more fearsome than what she truly was. They fled before her mistaking her for beings that fought within the damned cavern, and were not commonly in the desert.

“Harry! Can you hear me?” She fell on her knees and tried to steady him with her hands. They passed through him to her dismay and she could only call out to him. By her own reflected light she saw the purple venom mixed in blood trickling out of his leg. His eyes rolled and he thrashed violently and did not respond to her. She knelt by him helplessly, afraid for him.

His threshold for pain was high and he did not fall unconscious for an agonizingly long time. Alas, in this instance his strength turned into a curse, and his mind was unable to protect itself with its natural defense. The venom which would have killed any other creature failed to bring that end to its host yet crippled him to a degree anyway.

McGonagall's specter waited anxiously for the boy to wake up. He had fallen unconscious with his eyes open and if it were not for the steady rise and fall of his chest she would have thought him dead. There was mercy in that the sand storm did not come at its usual hour and she hoped they had finally distanced themselves from where it was wont to rage.

When he awoke he looked about himself dreamily, purple fluid hung in the corner of his eyes like tears ready to fall. The spectral memory sighed in relief at seeing him awake but soon had another worry to contend with.

“GHOST!” the boy exclaimed and scrambled back staring at her wide eyed. McGonagall was struck speechless by his reaction. He peered at her confused and repeated the word 'ghost' with much less alarm.

“Harry?” she began slowly but it made him back away from her while looking around nervously. The ash wand fell as he stumbled and he stared at it confused as well, but then quickly grabbed it with a jerk of recognition.

“Where are we?” he asked, then unsurely added “…Who are you?”

“Oh! Dear!” She sighed and began to answer when he spoke again.

“Professor?” he asked and then grabbed his head with a moan of pain. “What's happening?”

“I'm not sure; you were bitten and were in considerable pain. Do you remember me now?”

“Yes, but where are we? What happened?” he asked still holding his head.

“What do you remember last?” she asked urgently.

“I - I...legilimency, possessed,” he grunted out the last word doubling over. She called out to him and he took a few steadying breaths before regaining his feet. “Professor?” he asked again as if he hadn't realized she was there.

“What do you remember last Potter?” she firmly ordered. “You must focus!”

“Scrimgeour's men, on the cliff, they've caught up with us…Ron…oh! God! Professor, Ron's dead-” he chocked a sob before continuing. “The bastards, they petrified Hermione, she was going to fall off the edge, he saved her but they stunned him and he slipped…” Two purple droplets fell from his eyes, and he stared out sightlessly. McGonagall had heard the story from Pomfrey…it had been nearly a year ago it had happened.

“You remember nothing of what has happened since?” McGonagall was aghast at the idea. He shook his head 'no' confirming her fear.

“Listen carefully, you must concentrate and try to remember, try and remember what I will tell you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” He had one hand clamped on the eyelet wounds on his legs but was giving her his full concentration. She began the tale and asked him if he remembered anything at every important juncture but he recalled nothing and was increasingly skeptical.

Eventually she stopped asking and just told the story. It was not too long before she noticed the blank look on his face.

“Hello,” he greeted in a very small voice when she took notice of him. There was once again no recognition in his eyes, and his entire physiognomy showed that he was not the confident boy she knew.

“How old are you dear?” she asked, fearing his answer would prove her suspicion true.

“I'm ten Ma'm.” He looked a little scared. McGonagall wiped her face in worry.

“Just lie down, it will pass,” she said, giving up on the idea of him remembering anything for the moment. The boy obeyed lying down but kept his eyes on her, oddly with more curiosity than fear.

These moments of partial amnesia were interspersed with memories of torture and grief overwhelming his mind. When lucid the scepter would exhort him to continue moving, to distance him from the creatures and the storm that had not returned.

The banished wizard's plight became bleaker now that he could only remember how to cast magic and conjure food in short bursts. Slowly and surely the constant running and hunger was leading him to starvation.

The storms did not return, neither did the creatures but the barren land and the poison left behind in the body were enemies enough. On his hand now he wore the simple wedding ring that he had freed from his older body. It was the ring that had made him remember everything for the first time in weeks after he had been poisoned and now he kept it close in case he needed it again.

His childish fingers played with the ring while he contemplated it sadly. Not once had he looked at the band and thought of love, joy or happiness. It was always a shield against complete abandonment and desperation, a final surety, that in the end he would at least have her and she him. It had truly scared him how she had broken after Ron's death. Her secret insecurities and fears had poured from her in torrents of confession, and he had held her, his own pain overwhelmed by that of his best friend. For weeks her eyes had haunted his steps and she followed him like a wounded shadow, trembling when she would lose sight of him.

And then that fateful day, when he returned from a confrontation too late, needing her help, only to find her incapacitated by panic. He had coaxed her, while the curse tormented him, to cast the spells he was too injured to. It had been difficult to deceive both her and himself that he would never leave her, that he would return whenever he left her side. The prophecy marked him to be the bane of the most powerful wizard alive, no logic would accept the empty promises of his safety he whispered to her, and they both knew it. So in frustration he yelled at her to marry him, to be bound in that covenant that would give each an undeniable claim over the other. Before dusk they were husband and wife, and he saw her stand confidant for the first time in months.

Little did he know then that it would be this covenant that would become the buttress of his waning will to not leave the ungrateful magical world to its fate. So they had locked their lives with each other, in loyalty and affection, if not love. It was enough to have the other, when the night fell and ideas of greater good and righteous deeds were not enough to keep the fear, disappointment and uncertainty away.

The ring brought him no comfort now. The hope that used to course through him at its rough touch was shattered. Though, it was a symbol of at least one who had been truly loyal to him, so he kept it. Out of desperation and anger he finally opened the tome he had been carrying since his resurrection in hope of anything that could help him.

When he did remember everything of where he was and what had happened to him, his mind was filled with the memories invoked by the poison and any clear thought was lost. Desperately he would attempt to focus his mind elsewhere, outside of himself, trying to ignore his heart and body screaming at him that he was cursed, in pain, had lost another dear one…

At once he needed something that would dull the past like time and forgetfulness did, and yet restored the ability to retain memory that now kept slipping. Twice before he had taken to loudly reciting every shield spell, every potion ingredient he could think of, in an attempt to think of anything other than his past.

Memory was creeping away from him even as he snapped open the gilded cover of The Hidden and Forbidden and found nothing, only blank pages were bound in the tome. He went to the end of the book but as he turned pages he could not find the end of the book, magically more and more blank pages showed up.

Clawing pain in the corners of his eyes reminded him the poison was at work and soon his true consciousness would be lost - McGonagall had explained his situation in these rare moments of total recall. So with that sense of urgency he turned the blank pages with no end in sight.

“Quaint is it not for something so dangerous?” the spectral memory commented with no amusement he would expect if Dumbledore had said the same thing. “The first part of the book is on hidden knowledge.

You must put your hand or wand on a blank page to see its contents. Perhaps it judges you and reveals what it will. Perhaps it senses your knowledge and power and so shows you what you need next. At the time I possessed it I neither cared nor had the time to unravel the mystery,” she explained. He nodded in understanding and firmly placed his palm on an arbitrarily chosen page.

His hand sank into the page and he pulled it back in surprise, leaving behind an imprint. The fine imprinted lines of his hand squiggled and pages turned of their own accord, soon pages filled with writing and diagrams appeared.

Blearily he squinted at the legend on top of the page and read Rowena's Dilemma. Behind him the spectral memory drew a sharp breath.

“That discipline is legend, Harry, she lost her sanity to this…no good will come of it!”

“What is it? I can't…read,” he grunted out shutting his eyes against some memory of torture.

“Perfect memory of everything you have lived. Rowena lost her self to this discipline, she was unable to forget any of her trials and grief, yet no happy memory was dulled either, or so the legend is.”

“Good, then it is better than what I have right now, I can't keep forgetting who I am or what's happened.”

“Rowena Ravenclaw was a master of psychic magic and mental defense, you are wounded, and this is foolish!” the spirit spoke softly but with conviction. The boy was bent over the book with his hand thrust in it in perfect stillness. A low moan escaped his lips.

“I'm-losing-my-mind!” he grunted through his pain. “This is my chance!” he shouted over the memories in his mind. “When I forget, tell me to open this book!” he told her with difficulty.

“I will, now let go before you are hurt more,” she advised. His eyes dilated and his jaw slackened. For a while he was frozen that way and then he shook his head as if he was waking.

“Professor?!” he asked, and she simply nodded.

“Mr. Potter, you have suffered a very dark curse, the only counter to it is in that book. Please, read the pages under your hand.”

“What-“

“I know you are confused but there is no time for questions, Potter. Read that and learn it, your life depends on it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma'm.” The boy with the memory of only his fourteen year old self obeyed, spurred by an earnest need inside him. As was her duty she watched over and taught the boy best she was able and led him unrelentingly away from the lands of the storms and creatures.

The discipline had Ninety-nine spells, seven marks that could be taken on the body to aid and trigger the spells, several ways to make artifacts to put the user into a trance in which they could recall everything they needed to. But the highest form of the discipline was locked in the spells that when perfected and remembered required no body marks or artifacts and were more powerful than any other. It was these spells that Ravenclaw had lost her sanity to. It was also these spells that formed the basis for all the psychic magic she knew.

The ring had brought him back the first time and so McGonagall suggested it be used as an artifact. Harry carved four sigils in the ring for the four people loyal to him in his life and imbued them with spells from the tome. Each sigil summoned an important memory linking the one before it and covering everything that had happened in between. The memory always began with the face of the person it was dedicated to. Now whenever he lost his memory it would return to him if he touched the ring to his temple and saw the face of one of the four who sacrificed their lives for him.

Now when the venom surged he would still be in pain but when it withdrew it would not take memory of his self for long. The only side affect was that the memories summoned from the ring always seemed like someone else's and were hazy. As he learned the ninety-nine spells by rote, he was able to recall more, most of which he did not want to. Again he could be found reciting defense spells, or anything that had nothing to do with his past to keep his mind occupied. McGonagall took advantage of his need to distract his mind and continued teaching him and she never had had a more avid student.

For Harry, each waking moment was one form of agony or another. His mind felt like a battlefield of demons with sharp claws gouging deep crevices in his consciousness. He was either lost to memory of his physical tortures in absence of everything else or he would lose memory of near everything and was fighting to remember enough of himself to survive.

Having a memory-spirit that did not tire was his only relief, she would talk to him of anything that occurred to him, it did not matter to either how inane or mundane the subject, it was enough for him that it was something other than the conflicts within his body and mind. He counted days by the times he had slept, it had been a month since he opened the tome and it looked like he had made no progress towards the light in the distance. In fact both McGonagall and he knew they had not crossed even a foot of distance, for every day he would walk and every time he slept he would wake to find himself back where he had been a month ago. He knew the pattern of the cracks in the earth well enough to see them in his mind without having to look at them.

This morning, or the time of the day he had arbitrarily chosen to call morning, Harry Potter sat cross-legged staring out towards the faint light, repeating the spells under his breath. He had learned twelve so far, each one with tongue twisting inflections and magic cast consistently with unwavering intent. It was truly a discipline; the effort required was subtle and drawn out, something Harry was unfamiliar with. However, the fact that the gesture less magic when practiced correctly sent a hum through his thoughts that blanketed everything else kept him determined. In his peripheral vision the specter waited for him with her lessons readied. He was thankful to her, as everything would rush back as soon as he stopped practicing and her lessons and conversation were the only respite.

In the rare moments his mind was peaceful he was proud of his hard earned conjuring skill. In the last month he had learned to conjure food in greater quantity and variety. Enough so that when he would inevitably lose memory of this knowledge there was enough stored in his bag to keep him going. No longer was he close to starvation and if it were not for the harsh conditions he would have gained much more weight than he had on his bones. The tome had saved his life, and he had sworn that this place would not kill him. To that end he would do anything to escape his banishment.

As he ended the twelfth spell that took ten minutes to go through he spun the ring on his hand mentally recalling an image of each person the sigils on the ring were dedicated to. That alone had taken away his doubts of worth and sense of dejection, replaced by a vow to honor their love and sacrifice.

The spell ended in a whisper and he stood quickly hauling his bag on his aching wounded shoulders. Casting verbally he conjured breakfast, a sandwich, and bit into it hurrying as if he were late. In truth, he wanted to make as much headway before he was slowed by the venom's return or his memories slipping.

“Human transfiguration will be our next topic, it is very dangerous and you will have to be careful. I am not here to correct your mistakes if you turn yourself into a toilet seat,” the specter began without preamble.

“Ha-ha! Thank you, you are mistaking me for Weasley twins,” Harry answered with good humor.

“According to the record you have broken more rules than the Weasley twins, Potter. Though, I admit, your brand of trouble was always more deadly than theirs. How do you feel today?” she asked casually. Where he would never answer such a question honestly before, in their time in the desert he had opened up.

“Fine, I was able to sleep more than usual.” He gave a faint smile.

The spectral memory returned to the earlier subject happy with his response. “Shall we begin then? Self transfiguration is the most difficult aspect of human transfiguration, a delicate yet firm control is-”

“Wait,” Harry interrupted her. “Have you noticed we keep ending up in the same place?”

“Yes, I did not say anything, you were healing and this place has been relatively safe.” Her answer angered him but he knew he had been in no condition to think clearly before, even now it was small periods of time he had to himself.

“There has to be some kind of repelling or befuddling charm in that direction. Maybe a misdirection enchantment,” he mused out loud. “If that is then there is no way to get there, unless…” he smiled and turned, facing away from his chosen direction. “When I forget, remind me not to look at the light, and not to turn around, no matter what happens.”

And he began walking backwards towards the lit sky but facing away from it.

“I trust you know what you are doing?” McGonagall asked walking facing the right direction by him.

“Don't look!” Harry admonished, and then quickly added 'please' smiling apologetically for his tone. The specter turned and fell in back step with her charge with an audible sigh. “We did a lot research in wards and enchantments that keep people away, it might work.” He shrugged and pinched the bridge of his nose. McGonagall recognized the sign.

“You can't hold any longer, focus on my voice and repeat everything,” she instructed as she always did at the beginning of her lessons. Harry nodded jerkily, steeling himself for the inevitable and motioned her to begin. The spectral-memory lectured while he listened and attempted to keep the pain from overwhelming him.

For a fortnight he walked backwards hoping it was in the right direction. In that time more and more of his waking hours were spent in grasp of his memories than not and he could recall most of the journey. It was a lucky thing then that he was in control of his mind when his reverse journey came to an abrupt end.

At first he felt a soft resistance on his back which slowly became stronger as he moved backwards. Soon it was like walking through thick foliage. Excited by the possibility of having hit a barrier he rushed back trying to break through it. He fell through on his back with a whoop.

He turned on his stomach and looked up to see a cliff face rising out of the cracked earth hundreds of feet in the air with blackened cave faces carved in the likeness of screaming rictuses. The sight should have been visible from miles. After months of seeing only desert even the ominous cave mouths were welcome. This was before he heard a hissing rattle and felt a sharp point in his back.

The middle point of a trident was thrust at him. Following the point to the holder he saw a creature with the torso of a man, body of a snake below the waist and face of a snake with flared hood. Five others were arrayed in line all with the thin sharp tridents pointed at him. Same scaly skin covered the torso as it did the rest of the body. He stepped back his breath stuck in his throat at the sight of the monsters.

“Outsider!” The one nearest him hissed.

“Only one place this is heading…” Harry muttered to himself.

“Kill all outsiders!” The group behind the six feet tall snake hissed.

“Expelliarmus!” he shouted, prepared for the attack. The trident thrust at him went flying with the reptilian guard and disappeared into the invisible barrier. Two others lunged, slithering quick and powerful and would have made their mark if Harry had not fallen because of his injured leg.

From the ground he cursed and a colorful mess that looked like ink spatter hit one of the snakes on its arm and weapon. It writhed holding its arm and shoulder which shriveled leaving open bleeding sores. The remaining four grouped around him striking his shield in frenzy.

“INFLAMARE!” he harshly cast straight into the face of one of the snakes and rolled away from the other three. He got his feet under him and at once petrified another. The other two formed a ring around him and dodged spells sent at them with amazing speed, then with unspoken plan each attacked his wand hand. He shielded himself and they fell against his shield hissing angrily.

“Stop! I don't want to fight, I just want to know where I am,” Harry tried, knowing he could lose memory at any moment and in the middle of this fight that would cost him his life. The two remaining suddenly stopped and rose to their heights.

“You speak the tongue!” one hissed, cluing Harry that he was speaking parseltongue.

“Yeah, parseltongue, I speak it, where is this place?”

“Welcome to the gate to the Damned Cavern speaker, come with us,” the snake bowed laying its weapon on the ground followed by the other. Harry took this as a good sign and dropped his shield staying alert.

That was his mistake; the snake with the withered arm struck him from behind sinking its claws in his hamstrings. Harry screamed falling to his knees and shoved the point of his wand in the eye of his attacker. The snake's head burst from the silently cast spell.

Harry turned but not quick enough, like lightning the snake speaking to him was coiled around him, one other grabbed his wand arm and earned a spike through its middle for being foolish enough. Their leader returned from behind the barrier and brought down his thin trident like a baton and crushed Harry's child hand. The wand fell from his hand and he screamed in rage and pain.

The snake tightened the coils around the small boy flicking its black tongue out.

“Death to all outsiders,” it hissed.

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