Author's Note:
This was written for the 'Jigsaw Puzzle' Challenge.
Piece 45.
Word Count: 472 (Exactly.)
Word: Prophet
Word: Ink
Word: Phoenix
the world will die in fire and anguish.
an·guish
/aNGgwiSH/
Noun: severe mental or physical pain or suffering
Verb: to suffer or cause someone to suffer anguish
Synonyms:
Noun: agony - pain - torment - distress - torture - misery
Verb: agonise
Rowena Ravenclaw.
Snatches. She only caught a hold of snatches, the vision whirling too fast; her mind's eye swift to observe but not quick enough to truly comprehend.
Herself, in cobalt and bronze.
Words spoken in reassuring tones reminiscent of Helga's as she addressed the mere children peering with nervousness, yet undeniable excitement, up at her.
A dazzling illumination of fire.
Hands rising, to do what she couldn't say. Too weak, fingers too slender and long to do much to shield her eyes from the brilliance.
Splintered thoughts. Sheer intensity burning imprints onto her eyelids.
Squinting. Terror. Heart beating too fast.
A phoenix, emblazing in a most magnificent way into existence.
Wisps of smoke. Flickers of disastrous red, envious green, and outraged blue. Highlighs of copper, memories of violet.
Strands of resplendent radiance, making her hungry for more gloriousness.
And yet she was afraid and scared.
Most of all, she was completely turned insignificant.
A song, whispered at first. Dreamt, then in her head, then a haunting melody of strife and ancient pain, woven into a complexity that wrenched at her core.
A flash of white-hot wings; wild, gold-specked eyes.
Tears. It was too much.
Diamond-sharp silver talons, ripping at the very fabric keeping the world together.
A falling something.
Complete, terrifying darkness.
Stillness. Absence of breath.
Silence.
Light returning, as though it had never departed.
Blinking again. The stitching of a world back together.
Recovery. Motions to her left and right.
Faces, peering out from beneath tables of refuge.
Staring, staring at the unknown child, man, no, boy; doubled over and kneeling beneath the place the phoenix had disappeared.
A wand, slipping into her hand without permission.
Bloodstains. Bloodstains, darkening odd bits of cloth that adorned the man like robes would.
Dishevelment. Cuts. Bruises. Mud.
Dirt marked lines on the man's face. Rough stubble.
He had too many scars to name.
Unfocused, beautiful, emerald green eyes.
Ink-black windswept hair.
Grief. Shock. Loss. Emptiness.
Hollowness.
Cheeks gaunt. Mouth wide open. It hit her then.
A scream. An endless scream that resounded long and loudly in Rowena's ears and threatened to shred her to nothing.
A scream men subject to forever in the icy pit of Hell would have shuddered away from.
Black curling around the edges of the scene.
Dread. Hopelessness.
Relief.
The Prophet was thrust out of the vision of the very near-future, and back into her own reality.
Her fingers shaped into claws, Rowena swore she could still hear the trills of a dying phoenix, the laments of a damaged, deranged man, and the keening of her own physical anguish.
