Chapter 4

Breakfast at the Halliwell Manor on that particular Saturday morning was business as usual. Translated, that meant Chris was predictably late, Piper and Darmuid were arguing over something (yet again) and Wyatt and Leo were the only ones doing what they were supposed to be doing: eating breakfast.

"No Darmuid!" Piper admonished the umpteenth time, "You cannot get the Goetia from the bookstore, and neither will you be borrowing it from the Magick School Library! I am NOT going to tolerate Ceremonial Magick in my house, please understand that!

Any books or scrolls that involve summoning spirits and entities-" Her glance encompassed Wyatt as much as it did Darmuid, "- are strictly out of bounds within this house."

Fixing Leo with a plaintive glance, Darmuid whinnied, "But, but, ask Dad! He knows that Ceremonial Magick isn't really dangerous unless you don't know what you're doing! Daddy?"

In reality, the mortal tried to avoid situations such as these as much as possible: inevitably, he knew that Darmuid would end up enlisting his help in order to garner support for whatever hair-brained scheme that he'd brewed.

And Leo, being Leo, would inevitably give in and try to plead in favor for his sons. It usually ended with him sleeping on the couch that night, of course; and hence the aforementioned aversion to the said situations.

Today however, he'd been effectively cornered. So preparing himself for what he knew to be a long, uncomfortable night on the couch later that day, he cleared his throat and spoke, "You know, Piper, he's right. Ceremonial Magick has such a bad name mostly because of dabblers. There's nothing to be afraid of if you know what you're doing.

And besides," the mortal ended with an attempt at airiness, "those spells take a lot of power. Darmuid's powers probably haven't matured to the requisite levels anyway."

Piper threw a look at the man that made him want to dive under the nearest table and snorted. "Please. You should know your sons well enough to know that even magickal laws don't necessarily apply to this household.

Tell me Leo, what sane parent-", The Charmed One placed (un) due emphasis on the adjective, "-would condone their sons harnessing perfectly sentient and not necessarily benign third parties to magnify their magick?" The 48 year old paused histrionically, letting her point sink in.

She rounded on her sons- Wyatt steadfastly kept devouring his pancakes, while Darmuid stared at his plate- and spoke with an ominous ring of finality, "Whatever your arguments in favor of this, Darmuid, you will not be practicing any mode of magick which doesn't strictly fall within the purview of Witchcraft until you're at least 18…got it?"

"And where on Earth is Chris anyway," the witch continued after a brief glance at the clock, "his breakfast'll get cold if he doesn't hurry…" Her voice trailed off vaguely as her second son materialized from his usual cloud of sapphire orbs at the doorway.

Chris was dressed in a pair of tight, black jeans and a black skin hugging see-through shirt. A silver pentacle dangling on his throat completed the ensemble.

And for the first time in years, Piper Halliwell was struck dumb with shock. A good 30 seconds of utter silence passed

Opening and closing her mouth like a goldfish, the Charmed One finally managed to find her voice, "Um, just where do you think you're going dressed like that, young man?"

Her mind, of course, was already swimming with birds and bees. Truckloads of 'em.

Mischief sparkled in his emerald eyes as Chris answered, "Up there. I have a meeting with the Elders in an hour."

With an all mighty snort, Wyatt's orange juice suddenly found itself splattered all over the kitchen table.

"You're…going…to the…the Elders like that?" The 18 year old choked out amidst fits of laughter.

"What's not to like? I'm sure they'd like a change every now and then."

In the end, Piper decided not to be too difficult with her son's choice of clothes. (secretly, she agreed with him: a nice shock every now and then should be beneficial for the ever inertial Elders. And besides, she had other ways of venting her trepidation…)

A pleasant surprise awaited Darmuid as he entered his room after breakfast: a black leather bound book lay conspicuously on his bed.

Eagerly picking it up, he smiled: THE LESSER KEY OF SOLOMON, A TRANSLATION OF LEMEGETON. On the 1st page, he found an inscription in Wyatt's loopy handwriting, To the biggest geek I know. This is only for reading, mind you- start practicing from here, then forget Mom, I'm binding your magick myself. Be safe- Wyatt.

"Thanks, bro!" He whispered, and he knew that Wyatt would hear him, wherever he was.

"Blessed Be, Christopher." Zoya greeted, speaking as if he'd recently undergone a root canal surgery without the Novocain.

"I'd say 'how are you';" Chris replied acerbically, "but since your well being doesn't interest me particularly, let's just settle for a: 'why do you want me here?' shall we?"

"Certainly, my dear boy," Zoya replied, his voice implying that Chris was anything but for the Elder, "I'm sure you understand that I have several things to attend to. Edward, I'm sure, would love to do the honors instead. Edward?"

The name came out as a plaintive whimper for help; and Chris reined in his laughter with extreme difficulty.

A cloud of blue orbs answered Zoya, and as an (apparently) 18 year old emerged from it, the older Elder sagged with visible relief.

"Edward, please enlighten Christopher about the matters we've discussed." And with that, Zoya gratefully orbed out.

This suited Chris just fine, of course: Edward, thus far the youngest Elder around, was the only one of his kind that didn't make the willful 16 year old want to kick something. Hard.

The blonde standing before him wasn't quite as cautious as the rest of his kindred; the least willing to see every change as a threat. And most importantly, Edward happened to possess the rare genetic quirk (always assuming, of course, that Elders had a genetic makeup to begin with) that allowed an Elder to see a joke.

"Interesting style you have there. Chris? What inspired it?" The Elder in question asked, referring to the outlandish way the witch-elder had decided to dress himself.

"A morbid fascination to cause emotional trauma to your kind, of course. What else?"

"Ah, nice to know that we're one big happy family." Edward leaned closer conspiratorially, "Don't take this the wrong way or anything, but you're hot."

He guffawed (you have no idea how out of place that verb sounds when placed with an Elder) at the fleeting shock on Chris' face. "Touché, my friend." He said airily.

At that, the witch-elder laughed along with him: not for the first time, he pitied the fact that Edward was the exception and not the rule.

"I'd be seriously careful, if I were you," the teenage witch-elder advised sagely, "I wouldn't put it past the rest of your kindred to stick a knife into you when you're not looking. All for the Greater Good, of course."

Edward flinched subtly at Chris' choice of words, but thankfully, his reaction went unnoticed by the latter.

"Apart from hitting on me-which, by the way, I appreciate tremendously- is there anything else that you guys wanted me here for?"

Edward sighed, his face becoming more somber. "Ah yes. We called you here to talk about your charge."

That pronouncement in itself was sufficient to force a far more serious demeanor from Chris.

"What about Nathan?" The 16 year old asked warily, a ferociously protective edge creeping instinctively into his voice: Nathan Black was Chris' four year old charge; and the witch-elder felt that he was the boy's sole guardian. Which, in a way, he was; seeing that Nathan's mother had died during his birth and that his father blamed him for the incident.

"It's about his powers and his witch hood," Edward replied, with a wee bit more of caution thrown in; and hastily added, "these are just some things, a few facts that we've just confirmed a few days ago. Since you're his white lighter; I wanted to let you know."

Chris didn't miss the use of the first person pronoun and snarled under his breath: trust the Elders to find a threat in a 4 year old witch.

"What about them?" The teenager asked testily, "And for your information, I already know that Nathan's powers are abnormally well developed for a 4 year old."

Edward held up a hand to pacify the witch-elder; and started talking glibly, "What we've called here to tell you has more to do with the very nature of his power; although, I'm fully aware of the magnitude of his magick."

Hands on hips, Chris waited patiently for the Elder to continue.

"Have you ever come across the term, av'viri before, Chris?"

"Nope, never have; and I still can't see the connection between Nathan and obscure words, Edward. Humor me, will you?"

And at the Elder's expectantly raised eyebrows, Chris conceded, "Although I'd hazard the word sounds like it comes from Hebrew, or maybe even Yiddish, I can't tell."

"Perceptive," Edward commented, "you're right, it's Hebrew, and the word roughly translates to 'Spirit Witch'."

"And by 'spirit', you mean-"

"-The Fifth Element; yes, your surmise is correct. You're aware, I'm sure that every person; in fact, every living being can be attributed to one or more of the 5 fundamental elements; Earth, Air, Fire, Water and Spirit?"

Chris blew out a breath, gathering his (admittedly substantial) knowledge on the Elements and their bearing on magick.

"Well, yeah, that's definitely true: although, come to think of it, I've never heard of a person being attributed to Spirit. I mean, isn't it an amalgamation of the other four? The element that binds the rest together?"

Edward nodded thoughtfully in turn, "Yes, that's true. And the reason why you've heard of 'fire people' and 'air people' and 'earth-water people'; but never of a 'spirit person' would be because a Spirit person is very, very rare; and must invariably be magickal. Even so, a spirit witch is born once every few millennia. If I remember my history correctly, the last av'viri was born roughly 3600 years ago."

"And you're saying that Nathan maybe the next one?"

"Not maybe, Christopher," Edward corrected, "he is the next one, the next Spirit Witch; we only just established it yesterday; and imaginably, I thought that as his guardian, you should know this."

The 16 year old surveyed the older being with a glance, so uncannily piercing and shrewd that Edward instinctively took a step backwards. "You make it sound like being a Spirit Witch is apocalyptic in some way." Chris finally spoke, "What does it entail exactly?"

Predictably, the Elder took the more circuitous route in answering this relatively straight-forward question; "Well, you've observed him for 4 years now; what do you have to say about the nature of his power. What're his active powers?"

Edward was answered swiftly, "Based on what I've seen, I'd say that Nathan is a powerful psychic, maybe a bit too advanced given his age, but it's not that unusual."

The Elder interlocked his hands, supporting his chin above them; knowingly waiting for Chris to continue. The 16 year old in question contemplated the billowing wisps of white that passed for ground in the Upper Realms for one long moment, before looking back up.

"Now that you mention it," he said thoughtfully, "sometimes, I do feel that there's something different about him. I mean, I haven't shown myself to him so far (I intend to do it on his birthday, 2 days away); whenever I'm with him, I cloak myself. But sometimes, though, it's like, it's like he already knows that I'm there. And that he's not saying so merely for the sake of politeness."

Edward nodded thoughtfully, "I anticipated as much. You see, for most other witches, their magick can be, for all practical purposes; separated from the rest of their 'normal lives'. For example, if I were to discount the several odd homicidal demons, it would be quite possible for you to turn your back on your magick. All you'd have to do is stop using your power."

"I take it that it isn't the same for Nathan?"

"Absolutely. As far as he is concerned, Nathan the witch and Nathan the boy is one and the same thing. Every single one of his senses, from his sight to his sense of smell; everything is attuned to detect magick. He doesn't have just one 'sixth sense' that picks up on the supernatural. For him, the supernatural is natural.

I'd imagine, for example, he would be able to see (and I use that verb very loosely for he'd be using all his senses, not just his eyes) the complex energy changes accompanying a spell. Succinctly, while the rest of us detect magick's presence simply by its effects; Nathan is capable of knowing it directly: he doesn't need to resort to the circuitous route that we have to follow."

Edward's words were met with uncharacteristic silence on Chris' part. But finally, the witch elder spoke, slowly; laboriously, "But to be sensitive on that scale…wouldn't it drive anyone crazy?"

"Anyone but Nathan, someone who was born that way. Your aunt Phoebe is the most powerful empath in recent magickal history; if anyone else, even one of her sisters were to switch powers with her, it would drive them to the point of insanity: but I'm sure we can safely say that Phoebe herself is quite immune to that side-affect. Why is that?"

"Because she was born to handle that power." Chris replied as realization sank in. "So trying to switch powers with Nathan would not only be fool hardy, but dangerous as well?"

The Elder's obsidian eyes locked with Chris' emerald ones, "It would be nothing less than suicidal-", he paused for dramatic effect, "- if it were at all possible to do so."

"Sorry?"

"These are very important things that you must know about Nathan, Chris, since you'll be the one to guide him. This is why I called you here. There are a few things that distinguish av'viri from the rest of witch kind. Their magick is far more strongly bonded to them than others. Which means, on a practical level that spells on the lines of power transferals, power swapping, stripping spells simply do not work on them. Even binding spells aren't very effective, all they do is suppress their power, they can't-"

"Why does it sound to me like we're talking about some demon that I'm supposed to vanquish?" And behind the façade of polite curiosity lurked the wrath of a Warren witch.

"It sounds that way to you," Edward replied with anger of his own, "because you choose to interpret it in that manner. Did it ever occur to you, Christopher that I'm telling you all this so that you can tell him these things when you deem fit? Did it ever occur to you, that Nathan might someday want to rid himself of his powers: and you must be the one to tell him that he can't? Being a white lighter isn't just about telling witches what herb does what, it's about teaching them to appreciate magick. It's also about showing them everything there is to know about themselves, about their magick, about their potential.

You asked me whether being an av'viri was apocalyptic in some way: then yes, Christopher, yes it is. It is cataclysmic for no one but the witch himself: for he has to live with the fact that he wasn't given the right to choose. Nathan cannot choose not to be a witch unlike everyone else; the only other option for him is death. And as his guardian, it is your duty to help him in such a way that he doesn't even need to consider the second option. And for that, it is imperative that you know everything you can about him."

The steely edge of the Elder's anger dulled as he gently ended, "I'm only trying to help you. I would rather have Nathan become the Source of All Evil later in life, than hurt him now and risk losing a wonderful person and a witch."

Suitably abashed, Chris hung his head not only in shame, but also in sadness. "So, heaven forbid, if the time comes, I'll have to be the one to nail his coffin, is that it?"

Grabbing hold of his shoulders, Edward spiritedly urged him, "No, that's not the point. Don't you see? It won't ever come to that because you'll be there for him every step of the way."

Chris' lips turned up into a crooked smile, "You make it sound like it's a given that I'll be good at this. It's one thing to train a person in magickal principles; and another to actually…well, whatever it is that I'll have to do for Nathan. I'm not sure that I can do that."

No 'I'm-the-unbeatable-Christopher-who-can-do-anything attitude', he must be feeling particularly inadequate; Edward thought grimly, observing the teenager's demeanor.

"You can do this, Christopher, because magick chose you for this task. Out of all the hundreds of white-lighters, you were the only one who Nathan connected to."

"That's something I guess."

Chris had this habit he lapsed into whenever he was under severe stress: he paced. Up and down, round and round, figures of eight- you name it, he's done it.

So after 2 whole days of relentless pacing that drove his family to the brink of insanity (wouldn't you know it, the Manor had the poorest sound insulation possible in a house: so if one member decides to emulate a restless spirit; it's pretty much a problem for all concerned), Leo was elected (commanded) to tactfully ask what was the matter with his 16 year old son. Or, perhaps more realistically, simply demand what in the name of Hades was up with him (there's something about prolonged insomnia that tends to kick tact, or all similar emotions thereof, out the window).

So with no small amount of trepidation, Leo knocked and poked his head into his son's room, to find Chris sitting Indian style on the floor, surrounded by a veritable deluge of books: hardly the most unusual of occurrences so far as Chris went.

"How are you, son?"

Chris, on his part, curved one eyebrow into a perfect arch, "Fine. Why?"

Ignoring Chris' declarations utterly during times like these was a specialty of Leo's. So with a perfunctory 'hmm', the man crossed the room and sat down beside his son; turning his face expectantly towards Chris', waiting for a more truthful answer.

"You've got to be kidding me." The boy muttered before resolutely returning to his books.

Books on parenting, actually, Leo noted with acute surprise: 'How to be a Good Parent', '100 Tips on Parenting', 'Learning How to Say No', et cetera.

The older man jerked his head questioningly up at his son, the silent, "Well?" hovering in the air between them.

Typically, with an exaggerated sigh of exasperation (for all we know, it may well have been one of relief in reality), Chris turned towards his father and began to explain, "It's about Nathan, my charge."

"Nathan…weren't you supposed to show yourself to him soon?"

"Umm hmm, tomorrow, actually. And well, I guess, I…" Chris' voice trailed off into a worried sigh.

"I take it that's why you were called in 'Up There' yesterday?" At his son's nod, the man continued, "What did they have to say?"

"That Nathan's supposed to be an av'viri."

Chris carefully searched his Leo's face for surprise, shock, apprehension, maybe even fear: he got none. All he saw was the ever serene expression, that solidity which both he and his brothers had come to associate with their father.

Feeling compelled to elucidate further, he went on, "I guess, I've never really realized this before, but Nathan is so young, what I do or say has the power to mould him. I mean, just leaving off at teaching isn't going to do, is it?"

"A white lighter's job is always more than that of a teacher, Chris. Although, granted, this will be a bit different, with Nathan being only 4 years old. Is this the reason for all these books?"

Leo took the generic grunt from Chris to be a yes.

"And what have you gotten thus far?"

"A load of f-" Chris paused, and amended, "a load of nothing, actually. Or at least nothing that makes sense anyway. I mean, none of this is coherent; or concise, for that matter."

A mildly amused expression crossed Leo's face: "Well, that's probably because there really aren't any 8 Simple Rules for being a Good Parent, contrary to what you might think, Chris."

Why is that not a big surprise?

"Although…I guess I could come up with one such golden rule, the rest you have the freedom of making up."

"Yeah? And which one's that?"

"Never believe a brave face, Chris. Never believe that he doesn't need you, regardless of the number of times he tells you that. Above all, never, under no circumstances allow him to think that you have time for everyone else in the world except him: that's the only advice I have to offer you, son."

The most curious expression of unendurable agony flickered over the older man's face for a heart beat, gone even before his son could fully register it.

"Thanks, Dad." Chris replied, and he knew that this was advice far more useful that what any book could give him.

Dreary gray and stifling purple. Those were the first colors that Nathan registered when he woke up the next morning. The gray, of course, was easy enough to account for: sadness was something his house had in spades. In fact, he couldn't set his eyes on anything within the place without detecting some shade or the other of gray.

As for the purple: well, that was a bit harder to put into words. You and I would call it the quasi piety of a holier-than-thou attitude; Nathan, on the other hand found no word for it in his 4 year old dictionary.

But then, in Nathan's world, things like that abounded: things which he knew as intimately as breathing itself, but had no verbal word for. He had no term, for instance, for the delicate hum of the oak tree 3 blocks away soaking up the sun. No word came to him for the profoundly powerful thrum of the Earth when he walked on it; or for the brilliant shades of colors that spilled merrily from the neighbors: yellow and orange didn't even come close. And he could go on for days on end with examples such as these.

Looking around his room, his eyes came to rest on a spot roughly 3 feet away from his bed: there it (he?) was again. That something or someone who had been coming into his room for years now: it was there, but covered up, like someone covering themselves up with a blanket: Nathan's senses could pick up on the energy, but his eyes couldn't see him.

Deciding to let it be as always, he shimmied out of his cot and sedately made his way downstairs for the supremely dreaded task of meeting his father: and without even consciously thinking about it, he knew that the said man was currently in the kitchen, and for that matter, neither was he at his best of moods.

And as he left his room, he could tell that the disembodied presence followed him.

Downstairs he found his father, Reverend Joseph Black standing with his back to him at the kitchen counter: and boy, was Nathan in for trouble. Scarlet anger bled into the air around him like blood gushing from a gaping wound, and Nathan knew that all that scalding anger was aimed at him.

"Morning, father." He greeted tentatively.

"Today is the 5th of September, boy, what day is that?" Calm, so eerily calm was that voice.

Petrified with fear, Nathan felt himself freeze; unable to utter a single sound.

"I asked you a question! ANSWER ME!" Scarlet thunder flashed, and Nathan managed to make a stuttering weak reply, "My….birth…"He paused as acidic pain burned his throat, and then changed his reply, "the…day…I…I…killed…mom."

Maybe it was the way Nathan said it, like he believed it to be the gospel truth, or perhaps it could've been the white hot fury that sprang up inside him at the scene; but Chris's normally vice like grip on his powers flickered; and with it, so did his shield.

The four year old felt it the moment it happened; and he flicked his head to the right; only to find a flash of an aura disappear behind a shield again. But before he could make a sound, a strong hand grasped his; and a kind voice whispered into his ear, "Don't be afraid, I won't hurt you. Can we go back up to your room, buddy?"

Silently he nodded, and stole a glance at his father bent up over the table. Today, of all days, Nathan knew that he wouldn't be rebuked for staying locked up in his room- in fact, the less his father saw of him the better. Quite as a mouse he stole back up to his room.

The pure white of serenity, tempered with pink affection and yellow radiance lit up Nathan's entire room five minutes later as Chris finally dropped his shield.

The grays and the browns in his room fled and scattered at Chris's sun-like bright aura; and Nathan's own eyes lit up like a pair of Christmas lights.

"You're white…and, and yellow and pink." The four year old said in tones of utter adoration, his hands running through the air half an inch away from Chris's body.

"I'm white and yellow?" The teenager asked confusedly, looking himself over. I look the same as I always do. What's he going on ab- oh!

He sees my aura.

He flashed the child his best smile and gravely said, "Hey, guess what? You get yourself an angel all to yourself!"

Hi all! I know what a shmuck I've been with this story, so I won't even begin to apologize: I don't deserve to get even that.

I'd all but given up on this story. Sadly, while I don't regret starting this thing over (I've been reading the original, and I wanted to throw up in parts: that's how bad it was); I'm getting brand new ideas for the original Thrice Blessed, as in with teenaged Josh, Daniel and Gabriel. *sigh* I hate me.

The saddest part is that I don't want to rush this part of the story either; y'know, I'd really rather not go from baby triplets to adolescent triplets in the space of 3 chapters.

Anyhow, since Nathan will be a regular OC, I figured I might as well put him in as well. Also, I know that the ending isn't good: I'm not done with it. The next time I update- whenever that will be (I'm a commitment-phobic)- please do check out this chapter, it'll have additions.

Last, thank you Chrissy from Crazy DFF Gang for that PM- you're the one who galvanized me into posting this!