Title: Memento Mori
Author: El Juno
Notes: For the St. Dymphna's OTP challenge. 'Ana' and 'Kata' are the two directions in the fourth dimension.
Pairing: Cedric Diggory/The Grey Lady
Rating: PG
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It's very cold here.
If it's anything, that's what it is.
It's not much of anything, however. And it's all he's got.
He's been lying on his back for the longest time. He thinks, at least.
Or, more to the point, he thinks he thinks.
He thinks.
He thinks he remembers a lot of things. He thinks he remembers the fall of robes around his legs, the smell of perfume, the scratch of a quill, the feeling of sun on his face in summer, all the stupid things you are supposed to remember. But they're fragments. Nothing more. And he can't piece them into a whole.
It's very hard to keep together these days, he thinks. And maybe that's a problem. Or maybe that's the point.
Sometimes he sees her, above him or below him or whatever, in front of him or behind him, ana or kata or whatever. Sometimes he sees her, a step below, a step above, and sometimes he thinks he could almost touch her.
She's halfway to where he is, or he's halfway to her.
He remembers her. Not well, not constantly, but he does. He remembers being frightened by her, before, when he saw her. Frightened in a tiny way, a subtle way, but frightened nonetheless. She was distant, as well as being an ever present moving memento mori. She had no time for him or his kind...his House? His whatever...and she was just there. And she was distant.
She was bookish. She had no time for him, and he didn't have any more for her. That was the way it was, that was the way it should be, that was the way it worked.
Sometimes, now, he sees her. He grabs those moments, follows her, haunts her footsteps. She is here or there, and as distant now as she was before, but she's all he's got now, really. She's his anchor.
He looks at her and he remembers being a child, remembers the thrum of blood in his veins and the air below his feet, when he had feet, when he had veins. He remembers being on top of the world, and he remembers her going through it, not a part of it.
Everything else is as distant as the farthest star. But she's there. Just out of reach, as out of reach as ever, as out of reach as a dream in morning, but she's there.
And, sometimes, he reaches out to try to touch her. And, always, he falls short. It's as impossible as it always was.
And, sometimes, he wishes he could still cry. He never thought much of it before, but sometimes it's all he wants now.
And, sometimes, he holds on to what he's got. Which is not much of anything, except what he thinks is lying on his back, and what he thinks is cold, and, sometimes, her.
Author: El Juno
Notes: For the St. Dymphna's OTP challenge. 'Ana' and 'Kata' are the two directions in the fourth dimension.
Pairing: Cedric Diggory/The Grey Lady
Rating: PG
---------------------
It's very cold here.
If it's anything, that's what it is.
It's not much of anything, however. And it's all he's got.
He's been lying on his back for the longest time. He thinks, at least.
Or, more to the point, he thinks he thinks.
He thinks.
He thinks he remembers a lot of things. He thinks he remembers the fall of robes around his legs, the smell of perfume, the scratch of a quill, the feeling of sun on his face in summer, all the stupid things you are supposed to remember. But they're fragments. Nothing more. And he can't piece them into a whole.
It's very hard to keep together these days, he thinks. And maybe that's a problem. Or maybe that's the point.
Sometimes he sees her, above him or below him or whatever, in front of him or behind him, ana or kata or whatever. Sometimes he sees her, a step below, a step above, and sometimes he thinks he could almost touch her.
She's halfway to where he is, or he's halfway to her.
He remembers her. Not well, not constantly, but he does. He remembers being frightened by her, before, when he saw her. Frightened in a tiny way, a subtle way, but frightened nonetheless. She was distant, as well as being an ever present moving memento mori. She had no time for him or his kind...his House? His whatever...and she was just there. And she was distant.
She was bookish. She had no time for him, and he didn't have any more for her. That was the way it was, that was the way it should be, that was the way it worked.
Sometimes, now, he sees her. He grabs those moments, follows her, haunts her footsteps. She is here or there, and as distant now as she was before, but she's all he's got now, really. She's his anchor.
He looks at her and he remembers being a child, remembers the thrum of blood in his veins and the air below his feet, when he had feet, when he had veins. He remembers being on top of the world, and he remembers her going through it, not a part of it.
Everything else is as distant as the farthest star. But she's there. Just out of reach, as out of reach as ever, as out of reach as a dream in morning, but she's there.
And, sometimes, he reaches out to try to touch her. And, always, he falls short. It's as impossible as it always was.
And, sometimes, he wishes he could still cry. He never thought much of it before, but sometimes it's all he wants now.
And, sometimes, he holds on to what he's got. Which is not much of anything, except what he thinks is lying on his back, and what he thinks is cold, and, sometimes, her.