A/N Don't own 'em. The whole idea behind this stems from reading too much Elliot. Great poetry, really.
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper. -T.S. Elliot
There was a serene silence that drenched the fields. It was surprisingly, shockingly quiet, as everyone turned to face the centre, to see what had happened. Time seemed to slow-stop even-giving all present a chance to turn to see what was happening. Giving everyone the chance to see the-boy-who-met-his-untimely-demise fall backwards, onto the ground.
And it was in this same serene silence that groups slowly dropped their wands, some of them lost in quiet, wracking sobs as they realized what had happened. As they realized that this was the end of what they knew. That the other side had won, that everything they had been fighting for was now for naught, that they were caught without a leader, that everything they had hoped for had been crushed out of existence as the boy that was supposed to be their saviour let out his final calm, quiet breath.
The one that they had all rallied against had won. The man who had not even life left for him, had won. The man who was barely a shell, who didn't breathe, didn't die, but rather lived somewhere in between life and death in a sort of hollow half-life was the victor. This hollow, horrible being, not quite even human, almost a scarecrow of a figurehead was now the one that was in charge, ruling over the land. And the people quietly, serenely, turned to him, without protest, without a word.
There was no sound as the Dark Lord rose, gathering himself to full height with a malicious grin on his face. Two red eyes raised themselves up to an impressive height, looking out at the valley, over the fields where all who had been entrenched in fighting had stopped, realizing that the fight was no more. If one looked quickly enough, they could almost mistake the red eyes for stars, or at the least planets, stars that it seemed that all that were there were wishing upon, wishing for mercy, for benevolence.
As everyone wished to be spared the journey into death's kingdom, to at least survive in whatever sort of hollow existence would be formed without a sense of hope to carry them through. After all, the only thing the human mind ever thinks about is saving itself. Occasionally that raw instinct can be set aside through willpower, given a good cause, but in the absence of that cause, self-preservation becomes the much more important cause. Even if it was a hollow not-quite-life, it was still life, of some sort, and everyone would rather that than death. Base instinct told them so, even if higher logic did not.
The sun was slowly peeking up behind the man, giving the entire field an awful reddish tinge. The only sounds coming from the wind slowly rustling tree branches and cloaks. Everyone slowly bowed to the new king of them all, they had no choice but to. To do otherwise would be to bring death upon themselves.
Years from now, months from now for some, they'd be wishing that they hadn't turned, for they will have found themselves the same sort of broken, hollow men as the ones that had won the fight. All of them, half alive in a waking nightmare, in a world cloaked in shadow. Caught somewhere between reality and illusion, not quite sure if they were alive or not, living, breathing, going through the motions while being soulless, empty, the same as their new lord and ruler.
And it was somewhere in between existence and despair, in between desire and descent that the population of the world found themselves preparing for the dawning of a new era. And it was in this calm, quiet, serene valley, that the world ended. It didn't collapse inwards on itself, it didn't fight, but merely gave in, silently, without a word, with nary even a whimper.