ᴏᴍɴɪꜱᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ✵ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜꜱ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ✵

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈𝐈

☼ ꜰʀᴇʏᴀ ☼

»»-------≪ °❈° ≫-------««

Even from this cliff-top garden, ebbs and flows of the sea can be heard. Especially in late December, when waves sound louder and more constant; heavier winds howl like a beast while they intensify the smell of salt and sea grass. Freya grunts as she swings out with her fist again, which Ezra artfully dodges... again.

"Don't leave yourself open here," Ezra instructs, effortlessly swift as he swats her side.

Unlike Freya, who gnashes her teeth and curses in frustration, her brother seems to be having the time of his life. He blocks every single hit she throws at him and dances out of range everytime she tries to close the distance.

"Hm, you're getting sloppy," Ezra muses through a chuckle. His palm smacks her upside the head before he kicks her feet further apart. "You need to stay steady in your balance, otherwise you're easy to take down."

"I fucking know," Freya grits out.

When another fist tries to strike into his face, Ezra bursts out laughing as he easily leans to the side and she narrowly misses. Then his foot hooks around her ankle and sweeps. With a pained groan, Freya's body slams against powdery white ground. The snow should blanket the fall, but her lungs constrict as the impact knocks the wind out of her.

Face red from exertion and the biting cold air, every breath that she pants shows as a plume of steam. Freya glares up at Ezra through the tangled mess of her hair, and he stares back with a smug smirk and an arched eyebrow.

"Take it easy," she rasps.

"War isn't easy, dear sister." he shrugs, insouciant, and extends his arm to her.

Without hesitation, Freya accepts his hand, but once she is lifted just a little bit, he abruptly releases her and she falls back with a thump.

Ezra gives a big, wild roar of laughter. "And that'll end our lesson today; never trust the enemy."

"You're the worst, you know that?" Freya snaps. She scrambles to her feet and aggressively swipes the snow stuck to her jumpsuit. "Get driftwood, I'll make tea."

"Don't tell me what to do," Ezra jests, but begins to travel towards the surf anyway.

On the outskirts of Tinworth, Cornwall, there is a cottage that stands alone on a cliff, overlooking the shrine of sky and wide, empty sea. It belongs to a family called the Weasleys, who are members in the Order and lended it to the Montgomery siblings as a safehouse. Lonely as it is, the home is breathtakingly beautiful.

Once pinkish gold sand is blanketed by frost that shines like diamonds, and Freya's boots crunches through to the cottage. At the start of today's lesson, dawn was breaking over the horizon, faintly orange, and now all around the sun is sharp and glinting. When her brother first brought up this idea, Freya did not have a keen desire for these practices of combat without wands, but she is still underage and Ezra was adamant that it could prove useful as self defence in the future.

Inside, the whitewashed walls are embedded with shells. The front room is light-coloured, pretty like most of the interior, and there is a small fireplace where driftwood usually burns brightly. In the tiny kitchen, steam rises from the kettle and Freya watches as it fogs the cracked mirror that hangs askew above the sink.

Ezra soon walks in with a heavy sigh and throws his cap on the counter before running both hands through his sandy blond hair and collapsing into one of the chairs. Freya hums softly as she pours them tea, and the mugs bring a sweet heat to her frozen palms as they hug the ivory clay. After she hands one to her brother, she begins to move toward her bedroom, but he stops her.