Wed to the Sea
You cannot swim those waters. The water is too cold; the sands too rough; the waves too high.
She stares at you. Her eyes, obsidian and steel and alabaster, they worry at the lively darkness. At you.
She wonders. You know that. She wonders if you take heed, caution, pace. You scorn her. You know what you do.
But it pains you. Those jeering faces.
She reaches out. You move away. She has no hold over you.
She frowns at you. She moves again; her silver ring gleams. You twist again.
So you breathe in; touch the hot grains with trembling fingers.
She weeps with you. Your Mark burns. You resent her.
She lies. Blood spills from her eyes. It must, with how she screams and stares at you. You swallow painfully; lower your eyes.
The heavy sand sucks at your tender feet. The tide rises with the sunset.
She is cold. Her eyes are of green, her voice of amber, her stance of glass. You trust her still.
She walks with a new glamour. She does not show weakness. She stares at you.
Darkness encroaches. Your feet begin to blister—you long for, instead of fear, those waves of mercury and blue.
She acts. You hear her wails, in the stillness of the empty tomb you reside in; at night. For no one here will truly live.
She grieves over your cowardice. She wonders. You know she thinks of a world without him.
You begin to run. The sands; they scar your feet. You move too quickly.
She sits in the boat. It floats over the ice-waters, but she does not touch the sands, the waters, the waves.
She looks aged. She blinks back tears as she watches you. Watches you flee towards the farcical safe haven. She tries to tell you.
The black waves lap hungrily at your ankles. They wait for you, eyes of scarlet, teeth of black, gleaming of death.
She screams your name, as you trip over the immovable black stone. The black stone, wall, line of Master.
She punishes herself. You are hurled, sucked, thrown into the liquid darkness. The light is eaten.
Your singular arm lifts above the devouring waves; it scratches and scrabbles at the red wood of the boat. You bleed.
She has not a tear upon her face. She has stopped sleeping, eating, walking. Her glamour is soiled.
She cannot feel for you; not anymore. She pities you. You resent her.
A thousand scabbed arms drag you down. Your lungs burn and tear. You scream and choke. You flail.
She notices. She wonders. She bathes, naked as a sword, in the sunlight, on her red boat of wood.
She breathes in the light, the warmth, the taste. For you. You resent her.
Your fight ebbs. You feel the brush of spiny rocks, twisted chains, plumes of blood. You dine with Master on the bottom of the sea.
She perches on that red boat of wood, gazing at the ocean. You resent her.
She dips in a finger; retreats with a hiss. Her silver ring gleams. You resent her.
You freeze. The waters are perilous. They do not burn, but they ache, sting—they taste of ripened vomit and congealed blood.
She is a fool. She dives off of her red boat of wood. Her freedom. You resent her.
She glows in the muddle of ink. She glows of the earthen sun: the one no ocean eye has seen for millennia. You resent her.
You are deaf. Deaf and blind. And tasteless and unfeeling. But you feel her touch. It is of moth's wings.
She takes your face. She breathes the light into your mouth. You expect else. It tastes of equality, of kindness, but not of happiness. It tastes of reality.
She whispers into your ear. She wipes, gently away, the plague of your eyes. She brushes life into you.
She smiles. Only a small one. Then she takes you; you feel small, and pushes you into higher water.
She watches you float away. She has given you her light—she is dim now. Not gone, but dim.
She disappears into the abyss. You claw for the surface, kicking and writhing. You break the wall. Master.
You haul and flail. You have been weak for too long. But you climb into the red wood boat.
He stares, mournfully, at the water. Her light fades.
He touches the silver ring, left to soak in the reality. He slips it on. He resents her.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o
This is a vague storyline about Draco becoming a Death Eater, and then becoming halfway decent in the end of the Battle of Hogwarts, when his parents come for him—although it's also somewhat related to the relationship between a mother and her child. 'She' is Narcissa, and Draco is in first-person except the last two lines, which are third person. The oceanic/water/sand/boat setting is with the general idea that evil is something you want because of it's power—and by the time you realize you want out, you've already drowned and sit at the bottom of the ocean. The only way you get out is if someone rescues you. The silver ring represents Narcissa's marriage to Lucius, and thus to evil; and when Draco puts on the ring, he is accepting responsibility, so that Narcissa, forever tempted by the black seas, as much as she knows of the evil, gets her taste of power. (Although to some extent, she is doing it to free her son.)
Morbid, eh? But hey, reality's not all rainbows and sunshine. Everyone's gotta take a swim once and a while.