Images
This is a fic based on a wonderful rp that I belong to. Thanks go especially to Lucius, wonderful Lucius, my rp best friend! :P. If you are unsure as to what the hell the fic is all about, please review or e-mail me and tell me why not. Alysun.
Images.
See them?
All around you, hovering, as though they were caught in spiders webs, floating, waving gently in the wind, pushed and pulled but never torn.
Images.
So grey, so dull. Urban city landscapes, tower blocks and littered streets.
Steel on the skyline
Images.
So bright, so beautiful. A swirling pool of colour, decorating the butterfly's wings.
Sky made of glass
Images of fields lit by moonlight infiltrate the mind, enchanting simple viewers, inspiring poets and artists.
A lone figure, tall and dark... standing proud but solitary, on a dark moor, face strained with some unnamed emotion. The wind howls around him, tormenting his dark clothing mercilessly, flapping it, and wrapping it round him.
Made for a real world
Still, he doesn't move. He stares up at the sky, so clear and innocent, calm in comparison to the wicked howling of the wind.
All things must pass.
He is waiting.
Waiting for something
Waiting and waiting, what for, only he knows. The moon is full, it's silvery rays unperturbed by the buffeting wind.
Looking for someone
The wind ruffles his long hair, picking it up and then dropping it in his face, getting into his eyes, whipping cruelly on his cheeks.
He feels it not; he feels nothing, no pain, and no love any longer.
Once, long ago…
There had been a boy.
He had been innocent and pure as the sky looked above the figure on the moor. He had changed the world by not dying, destroyed a dark lord at the age of one. Renewed the hope of mankind.
Where was he now, when the world needed him again?
Once, long ago...
There had been a man.
He had been cruel and bitter as the wind that howled round the figure on the moor. He had changed the world by turning his back on his dark lord, and turned spy instead. Given the information, kept information at the right times, to the right people, renewing the hope for mankind.
Where was he, when the world needed him again?
The wind howled more strongly.
Images.
So pure, so innocent, dew drop on a new leaf.
Images.
So cold, so cruel, a dog in a cage too small.
Where were the saviours? Where was the wise man, with his long beard and meaningful words?
Where was the spy? With his harsh words and shattered dreams?
Where was the hero? Fighting as only he knew, learning all the time, finding new ways to defeat the enemy.
Where was the tactician? The intelligence? The warriors? The unsure allies?
The sky rumbled it's innocent face betrayed by its growling voice.
Where was the hope for the people now?
Red eyes, pure crimson, like blood from a fresh wound.
Blue eyes, pure sapphire, like Mediterranean summer skies.
The wind whistled round him, mocking him.
He felt so small, so alone, the huge sky spread out in front of him. There had been people that wanted to take it over, to rule the skies, to rule the world. To cleanse it, design a new world, a new world order.
The saviours were lost. The wise man was dead. The spy was dead. The hero was cynical, spinning out of control. The tactician was gone. The intelligence was fooled. The unsure allies had fled.
One man. One dream. One world, in such need of cleansing.
Is there no reason? Have I stayed to long?
One moor. One sky. One man. One image, so desolate and alone.
You'll say you'll leave me
Was what he had dreamed of so wrong? Why had he gone so far? There had been no need for this.
He should have thought about it less.
And when the sun is low
He shouldn't have become as obsessed as he did.
And when the rays are high
He should have listened to his advisors.
He stared up at the sky still. The dark lord had achieved his aim, demolished everything any Muggle had ever touched. The cities were gone, the art galleries were gone, the music, the culture, the towns, the cars, the highways, the paths had all gone.
I can see it now.
The Mudbloods had gone. And with them, the rest of the wizarding population had come crashing down, economy destroyed, families interbred too much, until death had been the only thing left.
I can feel it die.
The earth's face was so scarred, so blackened by the wars and battles that had raged for decades. There were only ruins left now, ruins and corpses, the graveyards over flowing with the deceased.
The panic had bred to civil wars.
More death, more destruction.
The dark lord had had his way. Everything was dead and destroyed.
It was time for him to meet his creator.
How would be the victor this time? It was not a question he liked to think upon. He knew he had already lost.
Lightening flashed across the sky, thunder rolled, setting the dramatic backdrop for a dramatic scene.
The tall, dark haired man in black shivered, the first movement he had made all the years he had been waiting. The rain started, just a few drops to start off with, and then the clouds seemed to burst open water droplets falling from the sky like tiny bombs, exploding on the man, drenching him within minutes.
And then…
A pale figure appeared in front of him, apparently from nowhere. White skin, blood red eyes, and a stench of death.
"Voldemort," the man acknowledged coldly.
"Tom," the pale figure replied.
Lyrics were from Heathen, by David Bowie.
Characters are courtesy of JK Rowling