Title: My God
Author: Reilly Tross
Summary: A letter is found.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J K Rowling and her affiliates.
Shaking hands full of tearful remembrance pause and pull out a parchment, yellowed with age and memories and maudlin thoughts. Fingers wet with tears of happy sorrow peel sheet from crumbling sheet, crackling whispers of better times, tainted hope. And lopsided cursive speaks of a hated traitor and a need to be. And it read.
To my dearest,
I used to watch you sleep. You were so still. And quiet. I can remember sometimes you would be twitchy in class, or act, I don't know, nervous almost, but you were never nervous. You said it was because you had a nightmare. I remember I watched you all night once, you never moved, never made a sound, and the next morning you informed us you had a nightmare.
You never were one to lie, oh you could paint the truth purple, red, yellow, and green, convince us the sky was the ground and vice versa, and would tap dance a hole through the floor avoiding the truth, but you never lied. So I guess if you did have a nightmare, you were quiet, private about it.
Anyway, I can still close my eyes and see you asleep. I'm sure in a thousand years; I could close my eyes to the vision of you sleeping. Your black hair finally, if not tame, at least calm, and spread on your pillow. Surrounded by crimson and ruby, you always looked so stark, distanced. Like you were better suited to solitary life, any adornments just detracting from you.
You looked like a god. The god of death. Your pale, pale moonlight skin and lithe, petite, small frame, doubled with the fact that you never moved, well…you fit my description of the grim reaper better than any skeleton with a cloak and scythe.
I always wanted to feel your neck for a pulse, but you were a light sleeper. So light. The rest of our dorm mates, well, you always were awake nearly before they tried to wake you. But you never woke until I touched you. I could stand near your bed all night, and you wouldn't wake until I touched you. Merlin knows why.
But you were so beautiful sleeping, not that you weren't awake, but at night, it was like you slipped into your realm and were untouchable. A god of nightmares, of death and fear and mysteries. Of monsters under the bed and in the closet. My god.
When you slept, it always made me think you were dead. Now that you're dead, I'm almost afraid to touch you, should you awake. You always were like that. Contrary. Your ebony hair and pale skin. Quidditch team captain and teacher's pet. Epitome of Gryffindor with a wild streak of Slytherin. Hidden of course, so well hidden. No one could see. I was the only one. The closest one.
I wanted to laugh when you and he boasted brotherhood. I knew you better. So so much better. Not that you and I did more together than you and he. Quite the opposite really. No, but what we did do, I treasured. I mulled over each moment as if it were a priceless gem to be handled with the utmost care, those nights by your bedside. As I watched you sleeping, I learned about you, my god.
You and I would retreat to the coffee shop owned by Marie Cutra. You would paint. I would write. Do you remember, my god of death, my grim reaper, my harbinger, do you remember how we used to sit, surrounded by coffee and tea and books and paint and parchment, and how I would tell you the tales I was writing, and you would give them life, give them shape and being when you painted them, and you would let your hyper façade slip, and I would see you.
I fell in love with you. I claimed you for mine, and scared off any who dared attempt the same. Many, a very many mistook my love for hero worship. It wasn't. Not really. You were never my hero. You were my god. My god of death, of retribution, of judgment. My god of justice.
One meeting, one experience and people were unworthy in your eyes. They crawled about attempting to regain what they never had, and you labeled them unworthy. If someone attacked you, discussed attacking you, thought about attacking someone near you, there was no chance for forgiveness.
People feared your "brother". They were wrong. They should have feared you. But you were so charismatic, so happy and approachable, so easy to…to not-fear, that they did not. Fools.
I'll have to leave soon. He's calling me. He wants me to kill you. You're already dead. Well, not in the literal sense. But you are. There is no chance of you living. You know it already. You just don't know when. You're getting restless. But fear not my love, my god, my harbinger, death will come soon. You'll have really come home. And I will join you. Someday. When you see fit to collect me.
My Love,
P.
Steady hands fold the letter, and a restless soul knows no forgiveness.