"And Nature Smiled"
~Soon the weeds did gather round the rose
"Share with us your beauty," they asked in coy repose
"Give us each one petal, for then we all be
Beautiful and worthy to stand with dignity."~
He sat motionless in the knee-high waving grass, staring dully out among his surroundings. Stormclouds gathered in the east as he watched in relentless attention; his gaze was lost, confused, old beyond their years. His once-vibrant eyes were grey, and seemingly cracked by the dark veins that spread crookedly in his sclera, like cracks in the broken windshield of a car. Months of being kept in the dark had robbed him of color, torture had turned his black hair a greyish-white, and shredded nerves had led to trembling limbs that had never completely recovered from their agony.
His mind had survived, however little he had wanted it to. He could remember those dark days while in the dungeons, hearing his own screams, listening to others' as they, too, were tortured at the hands at black-cloaked monsters who hid their own guilt behind superiority and a featureless mask, brainwashed by the society they had grown up in, and by the red-eyed demon they so willingly followed.
He had stopped hating them. He had stopped hating them all—the monsters, the demons, the traitors, even his own surrogate family. All those who had placed the weight of the world on his thin, starved shoulders, he had forgiven them because ("Father, forgive them, because they don't know what they're doing.") they had grown to believe that he was the Savior, their Beacon of Hope to follow out of the awful tyranny that had been their lot for so very many years. They were unaware of their faults, of the consequences that they unleashed by crying for the Boy Who Lived to save them.
And he had. He had. The demon had fallen at the hands of the thin white wisp of a weed. He was a weed, something that grew small and stunted and hardy, something that the demon had tried to pull up, but his roots had stayed firm, so even though his body had been torn and broken his soul was not. And he had forgiven the demon for its evil, for its heinous crimes, because he had seen that the demon was just as lost and alone and in pain as he was. His forgiveness had wiped the demon from existence, the magic wrought from those words ("Forgiveness, Love") its undoing until all that was left was a husk of a thing.
And he, the ultimate survivor, the weed growing where nothing else could, snuffing out life as it grew, had taken refuge where none could be harmed by him. He had lost everything, he was ugly and trampled underfoot by evil, and he felt ashamed to be in the company of others.
Hearing quiet footsteps approaching, he turned slightly and saw a familiar sight before him before turning away again. He could not stand to look at she who stood behind him, even if she came to talk with him every day. He was a weed, plainly stated, worthless to all except when it was time to be cast aside, and she was a flower, a stately beauty. A rose, he always thought, even if her hair was blonde and her eyes silver. She was a rose because she had an unwithered inner beauty and any who looked upon her thought her perfectly harmless—until they bloodied themselves by the hidden thorns she had to protect herself from those who would hurt her.
Pure. Dignified. Proud.
"Will you not give me the innocence that you keep?" he asked her now, just as he always did. "Will you not give me what I never had so that I can enjoy a life that does not want me?"
She was silent.
"May I not stand as I once did, as proudly as you, unafraid of the world and its cruelties? May I not stand in dignity once more?"
She did not answer, and he gazed out among his surroundings again, unwilling to let her see his weakness, his fear. He was always afraid, now, always, always, always terrified that his decisions may lead to another scapegoat masquerade of fame and fortune that hid the utter inadequacy that he was beneath a lightning scar and a famous story.
But she, the Rose, was blessed. Blessed because of her quiet, queer, and wise ways. Blessed because she had been faithful and kind and always, always, always there. Blessed because of her wisdom.
But now she stepped up beside him, taking in the sight of him—his slim, broken frame, the white hair and dead eyes bleached by darkness. She understood his weakness, his fear, and she did not cower away as all the others had when seeing the weed he had become. He asked her always for that which she knew he already had. He needed only to listen to his own heart to see the truth.
She stretched out a scarred hand and gripped his hand in her own. She could not deny him his question any longer. "Perhaps I do not need to give you these things you wish for," she answered softly. "To receive something means you have to lose it first."
"I have lost it. I have killed—"
"But only in defense. You gave new life for the world, you gave it a second chance. Do you suppose that that is not the most dignified thing you could ever do? You do not need to ask anymore—it has already been given you. You gave life to others—there can be no greater love."*
She fell silent, willing him to understand, knowing he would eventually. He did not need to be ashamed, did not need to forget all the good that he had done and could still do. Weed he may be, but he still had his dignity—and that was what mattered.
And seated there amidst the waving grass that had once shared the color of his eyes, he did understand.
And he smiled.
A/N: Sorry if this was really random. It was just something I thought of while I was bored. The story was based off of the song "And Nature Smiled", one of the most beautiful pieces of song I have ever heard. Please review—I'm curious to see what you think of it!
*Direct quote from the song. I own neither Harry Potter nor "And Nature Smiled".