I Surrender

Disclaimer: The marvelous J.K. Rowling all characters and settings. I own only the plot and my own typed/written words.

Summary: War is something to lose to, no matter who wins.

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Like an eclipse of shock she wakes, lying in his arms in a sinful embrace, with his arms around her and she wants very much to settle into the warmth of him and try to make him not feel so cold but she knows its wrong to wake up with her nemesis so fresh so cold in her grasp like tugging at a whirlwind of the ocean and having it collapse it's splashing rampant onto her and let her melt in the icy cool air that sweeps through her afterwards.

She thought she slept in his arms at last night where the suffering had past but the pain hadn't bygone or begun to show but she realizes with fear that he is now in her arms, in his embrace, in her territory, and he is closing in the space between them, his head placed on her supple chest, and it feels like a pillow on her heart, something that holds her heart down and keeps it down with the tempting softness and fragrance in hovering in the air.

And when her falls over his face, tickling his chins and the sides of his nose, he doesn't make a sound. She believes that he is truly dead now, like a lifeless being trapped in her arms, like a baby that won't wake because it's drowning into a nightmare that's come true and is trying to crawl back into life but the nightmare's true, the baby's falling and falling and it can't escape because it falls like a thud, unmarked, it's eyes closed and they won't open again until heaven comes and calls at him.

Eyes closed and won't open again.

Nobody can appreciate the beauty, Ginny ponders, the beauty of him. His features are gone and he might not have the skin he used to but it doesn't matter because when her fingers brush against his face, it's like feeling the leaf of a tree, smooth and classically made just for her, and it doesn't matter if the ends of his hair are burned because at least his lips are soft when she touches them, and it doesn't matter that he's been neglected by the other side because his eyes are depths that she wants to suffocate into.

And nobody can appreciate his beauty because they never understand, she thinks, poised forward, cradling him as if he's light as the clouds but heavy inside like the thunderstorms. Nobody can acknowledge how beautiful he is because they can't see his wings and all they want to do is taunt at his sins and make his flaws more visible, but she, she doesn't see his flaws, nor his limits nor his restrictions. She sees his freedom, his will and his hope, even though he'll never survive, and she doesn't know if she will either. Because it feels like her heart is being painted black, like smooth curves of a paintbrush slathering over her heart, painting it dark, because she feels dark and she knows she has to cry sometimes but she can't let it out because the tears are refusing to come, and all emotions are mingled into each other like several different flowers that cling to each other with their many colors and their many different petals.

He's as delicate as a rose, and as fragile as a glass that will break and shatter, and can't be put back together again, and even if you use magic to put it back, it won't be the same as it used to be because there are some wounds and creases you can't heal and this is one of them. And he opens his eyes, and sees her watching him, and says not a word that comes from his lips. His eyes say more, they stay helpless in their gray orbs. They're pleading for something, something like forgiveness, or something like understanding.

Ginny understands him, even though she doesn't know how she's doing it. She talks with him with her eyes, and he replies. Her eyes are falling in love with his, because together they are gentle spirits that can never waver. Because he's the only one present, the only one to hold onto because she knows if she doesn't hold on, she'll fall over the edge and if she falls over the edge she'll land in the waterfalls, and go down, and down, drowning in the truth that stings her alive. They're alive, she tells him with her eyes. They have to be.

They're not, he replies silently, his eyes glowering like the sunrise. They're dead. And so are we. And she wants to say thank you because she knows she would never figure it out herself. And she wants to tell him something but if she opens her mouth vomit will spill over him, and she doesn't want to destroy his beauty, and she knows that if she blinks her eyes, tears will come pouring, and they will never stop, because tears have no limits, because tears have no limits.

Because tears have no limits.

Ginny is frightened and so is he at the emotions that are connecting with each other. He wants to ask her questions and listen to her answers, and she wants to hold him as long as she can, until they dissolve into nothingness, dead on the ground, more real than ever. And she wishes the feelings would stop because if they don't, she'll explode into shreds, fluttering into the ground and mixing into him. And she doesn't want to be inside of him because she knows his pain is even more insufferable than hers, because now he is clutching her so tightly, as if he can't live without her, as if - if he lets her go, she's going to splatter into something he can't distinguish or comprehend. And the sobs are catching now, the sobs are caught in her throat, waiting to get out, and her throat is burning like a million different ember flames licking her flesh.

Don't let go, his eyes tell her, wide and fearful.

Don't let me go, she repeats to him. Never, she says, and the tears are finally coming as her fingernails dig into his skin while he's digging into her own flesh, drawing blood. And if she didn't know better, she'd say their hearts were the same, because even if she's imagining it and even if it's not real, their blood was black.

Their blood was black.

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