Temporary Eternity
By: Litt
Sum: There is no moon anymore, they are sure of that; hasn't been one for ages--and they feel so old
Dis: I don't own Harry Potter, but you all knew that already.
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Here they can be as loud as they want, anywhere they want, whenever they want it because there's no one who cares anymore, who hasn't walked in on a few carnal couplings, no one around who isn't dead. Yes.
Everyone is dead.
Or it seems that way. Because here, where stale air is welcome and precious and people think of death who might as well be dead themselves, here is twilight. They're both blinded by it now, so used to hiding in shadows and so used to rationing out candles and used to not using the library.
Here in this place which had been oh so grand, they are the only two alive. How sad. Pathetic really, because it hadn't always been that way. It had been the exact opposite at one point in time. It had.
They try to remember it sometimes, will think of the sun and familiar faces and candy, of rain that didn't sting or make you sick-- but that hurts and is futile so they stop themselves Every. Time. That is, after all, what killed everyone else.
The ones who walk around the halls or stay confined to a particular spot in the castle, who bustle about half awake, looking to Him for some sort of sign (which these two knew would never come) they died because they'd trusted it would get better. They'd clung to the rung of a rusty ladder, and when it fell, they were stubborn. Still holding on. Still bloody hoping.
Dreaming.
Remembering.
Sometimes, it's so much easier walking into the hall and pretending they never had feasts three times a day, that they'd always dug in the kitchens for scraps and loved stale bread. It's easier to pretend there had always been just one table, always rickety, and that the windows had always been boarded up, that the ceiling always showed a thick layer of smoke and the reflection of fire. They can eat in there then, can walk in there and be all right. Those people pretend this is how it's always been because they realize it's no use "what used to be" when you could make it easier by saying this is how it's always been. It's always been broken, so it's really never needed fixing.
And it's just putting the pieces back together now. Just jamming the ragged edges together past pain, past pleasure, to some enduring thing to be doing to pass the time--and that's all they have: time.
These two have stopped counting the days because they can no longer tell when is when and if that's the sun or some suspended bomb or a dying star. There is no moon anymore, they are sure of that; hasn't been one for ages--and they feel so old! Worn out and spread apart across too many places they've become acustom to.
This should be hell. This lag in anything normal, this suspension of time and reason. This is what you never thought should be a nightmare because it was so simple and not overtly cruel, but then, you never thought it'd happen to you, did you? This place where people are not dying but are dead anyway, the dying now so low they make Them seem lively when really they are just trying to make something work. Something to pass the time--murmurs, bruises, heartbeats, crescendos, a crushing cycle-- something to make it all worth it. But...
It's not working.
They don't fit.
"Please," one whispers against the dark of the abandoned classroom, a nearly subvocal request now, something they've spouted off so many times now it doesn't matter if the other hears. It's desperate, said only one time, alone one time, and the possibilities of what was to be said next are endless. They moan a little, holding on tighter, tasting the others sweat and kissing the temple were wet hair has curled up oh so nicely.
They know this war could go on forever, that they'll be stuck in this abandoned school and left to rot before it ends or set free, both know this is something they'll do either way. They are prepared for that. But if it does last until the end, oh, if it does, this endless dim hall they've walked will be what they'll remember. Even if it ends.
When they scream it echoes. Sometimes, however, it is muffled against the dust, a built in buffer that comes back from no where no matter how rough they get. They can be loud here and when they walk out tonight, tomorrow, a week later, no one will ask or say anything. They might not even know.
Old lables don't matter much here. There is not such a need to be asking certain things even if it is a big place, things get around anyway. It's in the silence, the starving connection they all have now.
What would they do if it were over tomorrow? Could they ever forget? What would they do or say to reporters or when would they get their health and color back? When would they get used to the sun if it ever rose again? They'd never be the same, never be able to smile, never ever would they be expected to be locked up again. And they could be as loud as they wanted then, because there would be people who would listen and care and not know.
They can't say that about here, in Hell. They can't say that about this pending eternity they've landed into. A temporary limbo.
They wonder where they're going, what they're in the middle of besides a useless seige and what battle they won't live to see.
They no longer know what they wish for.
After the kiss, the other obliges with what they've always done, not sure anymore if that's what they're being asked to do, not caring anymore because it always works.
They no longer know if they'd want it if it ever came true.
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AN: "Pulled it out of thin air" to placate a friend. Haven't the faintest who it really is. It's been a while hasn't it? This isn't what I'd thought I'd post first thing but it was lying around. What do you think?