By Clorinda
Rated: PG
Category: Drama
Summary: The centaurs have seen and foreseen a great many things, the passage of time, the destruction of worlds and races. What they have not been able to prophesy, however, was their reactions to the death of a human being. One-shot.
Author's Note: I'm writing this after I got down to reading the HBP to the bitter end for the second time. I couldn't make myself do it for months, I just read 'til that last bit where Dumbledore says that he's not worried because he's got Harry, and then I get cold and frozen ... and that's the end of that. I've never read a book that's this sad ... well, maybe except Prisoner of Zenda and Rupert of Hentzau.
Btw, there's something about the grammatical aspect of my story. "Prophecy" is a noun, like "prediction," but "prophesy" is a verb, like "predict."
And many thanks to CurlyAndLuvinIt for pointing out I'd rather stupidly written the same thing twice.
It is a grand funeral, a fitting one for someone so great as the deceased. His name aches upon the souls of the silent row of beating hearts that stand in the shadows, on the brink of their Forest.
At least, Magorian thinks so. He thinks a great many things that he will not tell the other centaurs, and although he will not say this aloud to them now or ever, he knows that all of them have been touched deep in the core of their hearts by this alien, yet raw human emotion that men are made fools out of time and again.
Even Bane, the black embodiment of brute force and savage power, feels it. He paws at the ground with his hoof, and his tail swishes behind him. He fidgets, and his face twitches and contorts. He is warring against his own tears.
Thank the heavens that this is not love, Magorian thinks another of those private clandestine thoughts. For the sake of Bane, and for the sake of the world.
A wizard has risen to address them all, and yet, it is the Merpeople from the depths of their throats, and an orphan phoenix who make the truest, wordless yet the most sincere, most heart-felt speeches. Magorian observes with bemused, detached interest how the word "heart" rolls so smoothly upon his tongue when he thought his race was incapable of all that was entitled "feeling."
The centaurs raise their bows to the air, muscles tensed and strings taut. They let their arrows fly, searing through the vast expanse of the summer sky. They pause to watch the arrows fall, and they turn, a single being altogether now, and with heavy silence, return to the dark depths of their forest.
Night falls faster than it usually does, and perhaps the gaping absence of another good soul makes it seem that way. The centaurs do not know, and neither do they care. They gather in their moonlit circle, their faces inclined towards Magorian, their eyes transfixed upon his handsome face with his hard, high cheekbones.
Magorian looks at each of them, he looks deep into each of their inhuman faces. He knows that because they have elected him as their leader, their light in the darkness, they are willing to follow him to the corners of the earth. It is not called telepathy, but he knows what each one of them are thinking.
They wonder if the funeral is a mistake on their part, for seeing so many gather under the same sky to pay tribute to one man, to see such a overwhelmingly brutal pageant of engulfing sadness that they ignore on the battlefield ... Well, it has touched them in the raw. It has made them remember they are half-man too.
And it scares them.
"To feel is not traitorous," a voice speaks out softly, like the ripples on the surface of a lake.
Heads turn, eyebrows rise, and scowls mar impassive features. Bane snarls, and kicks the ground with venom. They are all forced to face the one creature against whom their hate has intensified over the hours. For this being is a betrayer to the deepest end, and yet, he speaks the truth.
"Hello, Magorian," he greets calmly, although wariness stirs within him.
"Firenze." He is acknowledged with a nod.
"Does the fact that you have not yet drawn your weapon betray some flicker of hospitality you feel for me?" he asks, bemusedly, watching the darker centaur. He stands there in the clearing, the pale body glistening, and white-blond mane glowing like a halo, as it flares out in the wind.
Bane lets out a derisive snort of undisguised contempt. "Oh, you're in the right to say betray in our presence, aren't you?"
Firenze says nothing, disallowing himself to be baited so easily like a weak canine. He merely looks on.
It is at a time like this, that Magorian feels lost. He finds it impossible to think right, and sadness swallows him whole. He wants to gallop to the water's edge, watch his reflection by moonlight, and brood and dwell upon these new sensations that erupt in his chest. And yet, he is not allowed to. He knows that none of these people will believe him if he says life will surely sidle back to its old route.
They have wept for a human, and they have betrayed their clan, their ancestors. Now they weep for themselves, and for the path that they have lost.
— End —