Don't own it; don't own nothing but my begging bowl and the sweetness of my tongue. (Feh, yeah, whatever)
... 0o0o0o0o0o...
Tears poured from his eyes, why did it have to be this way? Why?
The cloying stench of blood clung to him like a nimbus, his own little atmosphere of despair.
Little good you could do, potter. The words stung, no, they tore.
It was him; it always had to be bloody fucking him, the golden boy, the savior of the light, the thrice damned boy who just couldn't take it anymore.
They blamed him for the death; they blamed him for the heartache,
The freaking blamed him for not killing the homicidal bastard sooner.
And what had they done for him?
Taunted him?
Criticized him?
Well how fucking easy do you think it is to be the worlds fucking savior?
So he stood stock still, like a sentinel of stone in the cold, cold rain. The rain washing away the blood, the gore. The raindrops fell like bloody marbles, cold and stinging. But he didn't realize that, he didn't realize his clothes clung to his skin and he was shivering, that his glasses were fractured and bent, and a fine trickle of blood was winding a languid path around his eye, where it had been cut by flying debris. His form was bone white amongst the backwash of grey, the forbidden forest reduced to nothing more than a forbidden tree cemetery, a place that had been a final sanctuary for the sentient magical beings, and a place that served to be their crypt. All within had died. As all within the lone boy, standing amidst the lonesome, sorrowful battle field- had died.
True, the battle had ended only moments ago, but he didn't need to wait to know the backlash. There would be uproar, yes, there would be chaos until everything could be sorted, rationalized, quieted and oversimplified for the history books. Ministry approved history books. The books filled with the tales that would probably be taught to the wizarding world's future generation, his tales. And taught to the generation that would grow and live in a time of peace, where they would not know the tyranny of a maniacal madman on a quest for genocide and racial supremacy, they would not know the need to hone their reflexes to razor blade accuracy, they would not know the need to learn the arts. The Dark Arts and the Arts of War. No, that they would never have to know, All they would know, all they would learn was that one wretched boy, the lone survivor of a lunatic's killing curse, had survived and eventually vanquished the nasty bad man that killed too many people to count, too many to remember.
But that was not his problem.
What would happen should the war end? Should a land no longer need its savior?
He wanted for course, more than anything for the hellish war to be over, but he knew of course, from what he knew of this magical world what it held for him. Nothing.
He would be forgotten, revered as nothing more than a legend in the books, a legend that still lived, breathed and desired a life to call his own.
But that would not be happening.
Standing amidst the carnage, the bodies strewn over the muddied ground, white masks shattered, bodies broken and those few open eyes glazed in death.
There would be criticism for the boy who just couldn't be killed, why he couldn't have saved them all from the heart ache and just killed the bastard. There had always been the criticism.
It would just seem too suspicious, one boy, barely out of his school years the only survivor of the bloodiest battle since the goblin rebellion. Hell, the bloodiest battle compared to all the goblin rebellions put together. But he was the light, some would reason, it only seemed fit that he live. Yet only him? Why not the great Dumbledore? The slayer of Gindlewald? No, he wouldn't live, cause that was jut not… not right. Only the light lives.
'Enough'. He thought. 'Enough of the melodrama.' Almost as an after thought, 'Enough of the tears' as he tasted a slight saltiness on his thinned lips, a saltiness that had nothing to do with the rain he was sure.
And so, was this to be his end? Standing amidst a mass graveyard? Bleeding from innumerable wounds and mourning for the people he couldn't save, the people he didn't save, and the people who had wished he could have saved them.
And then, just then, an odd thought came to mind, a thought so odd he couldn't help it. Laughter bubbled in his throat, working its way through his chest and bursting from his lips. In the empty battle field he clutched his sides, his laughter stealing his breath away, and mirth making his peals of laughter ring through the empty clearing, cutting clear, ringing notes through the rain. The rain, as though hearing the boy's outburst, only redoubled its efforts to drown him out, but failed in its task. The boy's joyful, almost maniacal laughter rang clear and lucid through the dismal clearing, but hindered and unheeded.
Throwing his arms wide, he chucked at the feel of the frigid English rain pored down his front, his torn and tattered school robes weighted by the tears wept from the heavens.
No, he would not meet his end old and decrepit, without relatives and people he could love, too old and slow to duel, to weak bladdered to reach the bathroom in time. He would not waste away in his guilt; he would go as he had come.
Like a whirlwind through the summer
He absently thought, the sensation of running his hands over a field of flowers, the feel of their velvet petals caressing his callused, toil hardened hands.
Like a blizzard in the desert
The smell of sun dried clothing soothing his nose and filtering through his mind, languid warmth chasing away the biting cold, beautifully exotic in the drear.
Like the apocalypse were on my heels.
He remembered the feel of flying, his broom ripping through the sky faster than any bullet or comet, or any other cliché metaphor. Slicing through the sky like he was born to fly, his very being thrumming with unspoken joys and unspoken happiness. His final thought was almost shouted in glee, directed to a dark and rainy heaven weeping for the dead.
Take me away.
And he was gone, a final rapturous smile crossing his features that had become sweet and boyish once again, the strife and adversity sculpted features melting away under the fall of heavy rain. Contentment curling his full lips and shutting his vibrant green eyes, vibrant once again.
He would go where he was bidden, and his final thought went with him.
I am the light. I was the savior that saved none…
But I will save myself.
..0o0o0o0o0o0o...
Well, end of this short shot! If you want more, please do tell, but when you do, if you could, could you tell me how to update?I have abso-positively no clue how to update these things!A cookie for who does!
Jeriko