Owning Nothing. The Poem is Byron's 'When We Two Parted'.
*
They came for me a little after three in the morning. I don't know why, but I had been expecting them at midnight. The witching hour. It had seemed appropriate. But they had waited, and now I knew why.
It's dark at three am. So dark. Dark, and cold, and there is nothing in that coldness. Nothing speaks to you of life. It's a time for despair. When you wake in your own bed, with the glowing numbers of your alarm clock heralding how early the hour is, you only get the briefest sense of it. The darkness seems oppressing, but you reassure yourself it will soon be morning. Only a few hours until dawn, and so you roll over, burying yourself deeper into the thick softness of your quilt, turning your head so you sink deeper into the warmth of your pillow, and you drift away, back into your dreams. There is no pillow for me tonight, no quilt, and no warm, solid body to press against for reassurance. Instead there is that empty coldness, and a feeling of despair.
That was when they came for me. When I knew that there was nothing in the world that could comfort me, or drag me from this nightmare. A waking nightmare, one where I was huddled against cold, cruel stone, damp with moss and crawling with creatures I could only feel and not see. Somewhere in the furthest corner, water dripped. At first the gentle drops had been comforting, but then I began to understand each drip was just another moment of my life slipping away. They were the tears I could not, would not cry, and so I listened for each one, and mourned my life.
They had taken me then, as they took me now, brutal hands grabbing my arms, my body, my legs. One even tangled in the thick coarseness of my hair. Hair that had been mocked by my peers, loved by my friends for its familiarity. Now it was used against me, nothing more than another way of subduing me, the cold hand twisting deep into its waves and tugging firmly. I put up a struggle, as I had done the night before, but what use was there now? It would only delay the inevitable. I screamed, I know that much, I screamed until I thought my throat would tear, but no one tried to stop me, no one clamped a hand firmly over my mouth. Instead they let my screams rip through the night, a warning to all that opposed them. Not like last night. Then I had struggled for breath as hands pinched my mouth, my nose, and I had been taken far from the sanctuary that I had chosen, and into the night.
I don't know why I had chosen to sleep in his bed that night. Had I gone to seduce him? Had I hoped that he would return, and see me, young and pure in his bed, waiting for him? Had I thought that he would throw himself upon me, and demand entrance to my flesh, flesh which I saved solely for him? I don't know, and the realisation of that makes me want to weep. I need to know, but there won't be enough time to find out.
We had worked together for close to six months. Sometimes those months feel like an age, sometimes they feel like the briefest moment. Tonight, they feel like the moment. The final push had been coming, we all knew it, and the sense that battle was approaching had hung over the school like a storm cloud. No one knew when the first lightning bolt would strike, when we would first hear the roar of the thunder. So we could only prepare. Work and prepare. Those of us with faith prayed, hoping the chosen deities would listen and show mercy. Or guidance. We didn't know, and it scared us. So I made it my mission to learn, to find the way that we could defeat them. I had been insistent. I was young, I knew that, and my schooling was important to me, but there would be time for exams later. I finally found what could distract me from my learning, and it was the thought of death. Professor Dumbledore had shown little surprise at my request, perhaps he had expected it. When they had learnt what I planned to do, Harry and Ron had tried to follow me, but Dumbledore had refused. They were young, he told me gently, later, later when they had left angry and disappointed. Their power wasn't strong enough yet, they still had so much to learn. He didn't have to say what he was thinking. I could see it in those old blue eyes of his. IIf they have time to learn./I I was a special case. At that moment I had turned away from my childhood and reached out to protect my adult life. My seventh year of schooling wasn't to be, I turned down the offer of Head Girl, and quietly moved my belongings into the dungeons. Instead, to everyone's surprise, it had gone to Pansy Parkinson. I guessed what Dumbledore was thinking, that the position of responsibility would be enough to draw her to our cause. He knew what doubts she had about her family and their beliefs, and so he had offered her this chance to prove herself. It had worked. Now Pansy fought along side Dumbledore's Army, cast out from her family, but secure in the new friendships she found. Of course there had been outcry, but she had proved herself to be fair, and once away from the Slytherin influence she had shown her true, good nature.
I shouldn't say that. Slytherin influence. Not all from Slytherin serve the Dark Lord. They have the qualities he admires, but it doesn't make them evil. Blaise Zabini now fights along side us, as do many others. I'm glad. They make formidable opponents. All the houses have qualities that make them worthy, it's just that they are harder to find in a Slytherin.
He showed me that. Deep in the dungeons we worked together, trying to perfect potions. Healing potions - to be stocked up, just in case. Potions that could be used as weapons. Potions of our own devising. At first I was frightened of him. Who wouldn't be? Sarcastic, intimidating, almost lifeless. As if he was a caricature of a man. I was shy in his presence, aware of the insults, the snide comments, and the jibes that had come my way over the years from him. I worked hard, hoping that he wouldn't be able to find fault with me, but always expecting that he would.
He didn't. To my surprise, he was almost gentle with me, coaxing me through the more difficult aspects of our work. Slowly, we began to open up to each other, I saw him smile for the first time, and suddenly, painfully, I saw Ihim/I. I saw what he did for the Wizarding world, the risks he took, the burdens he carried. He did so much, I thought angrily, while others did so little. How much respect had we shown him? None. The thoughts had pounded in my head for days, until finally, clumsily, I had attempted to apologise to him. For a moment, he had stared at me, shocked, and I had blushed, tried to retract my words, but suddenly he had laughed. A rich, joyous laugh that had seemed out of place in the dark rooms we worked in.
We never spoke of it again. But I was glad he knew. Instead we shared our love of learning, treading gently on the common ground. He fascinated me, and I hoped that he shared that feeling. We were well matched, Slytherin cunning and Gryffindor stubbornness. Each problem became a challenge, and we would delight in overcoming it together. One night I even kissed him.
I blamed my Gryffindor nature. My forthrightness. My bravery. My foolhardiness. I hadn't meant to. Gently, clumsily I had pressed my lips to his, a tentative, hesitant kiss. He had kissed me back, I remember that, kissed me back with a tenderness I would never have imagined. I don't think I imagined it, I pray that I didn't imagine it, but his hands came up to my shoulders and pushed me away. I had felt tears prick my eyes at this rejection, and angrily had turned from him. He had tried to meet my eyes, but I refused, humiliation washing over me. I hadn't planned it, hadn't even realised the extent of my feelings. He had pulled me to him, soothing me, his strong, potion stained hand stroking the thick mane of my hair. I'm sorry, I had whispered it over and over into his buttoned chest, more buttons digging uncomfortably into my damp cheek. He had smelt of cedar, and cinnamon I remember, warm smells, rich smells that calmed me. I was too young, he told me, too young, he had whispered into my hair, not now, not with so much uncertainty in the world. And then he had whispered the words that had given me hope.
'Not yet.'
I had slipped away soon after, to the warmth of my bed. Dreamt of his touch, dreamt of his embrace. I had wanted him. Not yet. The words had been seared across my heart. I could wait.
Until last night.
I had been exhausted. I had read all day, working my ways through the large dusty tomes, and still I worked though the candles burnt low, and the moon rose high. The crash had scared me, and I had started. The noise came from his chambers.
I had stepped into the corridor, so dark, despite the brightly lit torches. His chambers were across from mine, gently I had tapped on the dark wood of the door. When there had been no answer, I had entered.
And stopped. I had never seen him in his robes before. Darker than the night, they embraced his body, the dark hood sleek over his head, the darkness of his hair indistinguishable from the fabric. The material seemed to live, to shine, to ripple over his body, and he seemed so tall. So tall I didn't recognise him at first. I opened my mouth to scream, but he crossed the room so quickly, snatching me into his arms, one hand gently across my mouth. Only when I smelt him, did I recognise him, and I had relaxed into his arms. He held me until my trembling stopped.
'I have been called,' he had murmured softly.
A wine glass had crashed onto the stone floor, wine, as dark as blood trickled into the cracks.
Shocked by my own boldness I had taken his wrist, seeing the dark mark for myself. It had twisted itself into his pale skin, a living entity seared onto the inside of his wrist. It had leered at me.
'I must go,' he had snatched his wrist away, and taken hold of his mask. A 'crack' of apparition and he had gone.
I don't know why I didn't return to my own chambers. Perhaps I wanted to know when he returned. Wanted to be there to comfort him, to hold him, to take away the horrors of the night.
Perhaps I had been tired of waiting.
When they had found me in his bed, asleep, exhausted, wrapped in green silk, comforted by the rich smell of cedar, perhaps they had mistaken me for his lover. Perhaps one of them had recognised me. Either way, I was a valuable commodity to them.
The hands woke me, gripping, grabbing, tearing away the sheets. As I opened my eyes in terror, the fist had connected with the side of my skull, knocking me senseless. I had collapsed to the side, then had been dragged from the bed. Too dazed to fight back. Too shocked to take anything in.
I'd never been hit before. Not physically. Not by a human. Hit by spells before, yes, but never had a hand taken to me in violence.
I always thought when they came I would fight. But I couldn't. I didn't know how they had got past the wards, how they had found his chamber, how they had managed to spirit me away. But they did. And helplessly I had let them, tasting blood in my mouth from where I had bitten my tongue.
Thrown into a dark, damp stone room, and left to wait. I couldn't sleep. I didn't know if it was night or day, only my watch told me the time.
So they came for me a little after three am.
It was cold outside. Frost crunched on the ground underneath their feet. They carried me. My feet would never touch the ground again. My breath came in frantic, steaming gasps, as the cold stars watched the procession from above.
There would be no rescue party. No Harry bravely facing death to rescue me, his best friend. No one. Because no one knew I was gone.
And when they discovered it, they would be too late.
I nearly screamed when I saw them. Evil. There is no other word for them. Evil. Black, and dark and evil. They took pleasure in death, took delight in horror, and revelled in torture. I should feel privileged, they mocked me as they held me. I would be the first casualty in the great war. The Great War. That's what they called it.
Fear was overtaking my body, the cold bit into me. I shook, but through the fear or cold, I do not know. I know I wept inside though. Wept for all that should have been.
What children would I bear now? Who would have been their father? Who would win the war? Would peace ever come to our world? My parents. I nearly lost it at the thought of them. I prayed. I prayed to a God I didn't know if I believed in. I wanted them to know I loved them. My friends.
Harry. Lovely, lovely Harry. So surrounded by those that love him, yet so alone in this world. Would Harry live? Would the Boy Who Lived survive a second time? He had been cursed, I realised now, marked by his scar as the one who lived, nothing more than a prophecy. What life was that for him? Survive, Harry, I wanted him to survive. Because he couldn't live with the prophecy hanging over him.
Ron. Ron who had known nothing but love. And now he would fight for those he loved, fight to keep the world as he knew it. Fight for honour, and for love.
I couldn't remember what they looked like. And it scared me.
I was taken to the centre of the circle.
But I wasn't alone.
He was crouched on the floor, swamped in the dark cloak. I knew then, he had been discovered.
He had lied too long. Deceiving, and lying he had found his way to the inner circle, had his master's ear, but all the while he returned to us, and whispered softly in the night, secrets, plans, and devious deeds. Tonight, he will pay for that deception with his life.
There is laughter among those present, and he drags his head upwards. Blood runs from his brow, from his lip, smearing across the pale skin grotesquely. His eyes are dull, such wonderful, deep dark eyes now deadened, and defeated.
He sees me. And in that moment, we are forced into bitter silence.
I wanted no man but him. If he had returned and wanted me, I would have let him take me, taken all that he offered me and more. I would have kissed him, touched him, found him, taken him within me. I would have given him what no other man has had. We would have been wrapped in cool silk, fused by white-hot passion, and I would have loved him.
I stare at him, willing him to know this.
There is so much I should have learnt. So much that you should have taught me. I wanted to learn, we didn't know how little time there was. You should have taught me!
The thoughts come angrily now, and I know he knows them. I can feel his delicate touch at the edge of my senses, probing, learning, understanding.
You should have taught me.
You should have.
I wanted to learn.
Why didn't you teach me?
His face is stricken. He fights against those that now hold him, he cries out my name.
They think we're lovers.
ILet them think it./I
I hold back a sob. There is chanting now, drowning out all thoughts. There is evil in the air. The knife is silver. I can see it now.
My eyes widen in surprise.
It hurts.
I choke on blood, choke on life, coppery in my mouth, I try to breathe, I can't.
I wanted to learn.
The thought beats in time to my slowing heart,
You were my professor. You should have taught me.
My eyes are closing. It's so cold.
I I should have taught you/I
I hear his voice as clearly as if he had whispered in my ear.
I I should have loved you./I
You should have. But there's so much to learn first.
They're holding him now. His end won't be as easy as mine. There will be pain. So much pain before he loses hold on his fragile grasp of life.
They will attack soon. More lives than ours will be lost. We will watch, and we will wait for the end, and for peace. They cannot win. They cannot.
And while we wait, you can teach me. Teach me all the things I wanted to know, all the things that only you could show me.
I'm ready, I'm ready to learn now. I always wanted to learn.
We have so much time to wait.
Fin.
*
They came for me a little after three in the morning. I don't know why, but I had been expecting them at midnight. The witching hour. It had seemed appropriate. But they had waited, and now I knew why.
It's dark at three am. So dark. Dark, and cold, and there is nothing in that coldness. Nothing speaks to you of life. It's a time for despair. When you wake in your own bed, with the glowing numbers of your alarm clock heralding how early the hour is, you only get the briefest sense of it. The darkness seems oppressing, but you reassure yourself it will soon be morning. Only a few hours until dawn, and so you roll over, burying yourself deeper into the thick softness of your quilt, turning your head so you sink deeper into the warmth of your pillow, and you drift away, back into your dreams. There is no pillow for me tonight, no quilt, and no warm, solid body to press against for reassurance. Instead there is that empty coldness, and a feeling of despair.
That was when they came for me. When I knew that there was nothing in the world that could comfort me, or drag me from this nightmare. A waking nightmare, one where I was huddled against cold, cruel stone, damp with moss and crawling with creatures I could only feel and not see. Somewhere in the furthest corner, water dripped. At first the gentle drops had been comforting, but then I began to understand each drip was just another moment of my life slipping away. They were the tears I could not, would not cry, and so I listened for each one, and mourned my life.
They had taken me then, as they took me now, brutal hands grabbing my arms, my body, my legs. One even tangled in the thick coarseness of my hair. Hair that had been mocked by my peers, loved by my friends for its familiarity. Now it was used against me, nothing more than another way of subduing me, the cold hand twisting deep into its waves and tugging firmly. I put up a struggle, as I had done the night before, but what use was there now? It would only delay the inevitable. I screamed, I know that much, I screamed until I thought my throat would tear, but no one tried to stop me, no one clamped a hand firmly over my mouth. Instead they let my screams rip through the night, a warning to all that opposed them. Not like last night. Then I had struggled for breath as hands pinched my mouth, my nose, and I had been taken far from the sanctuary that I had chosen, and into the night.
I don't know why I had chosen to sleep in his bed that night. Had I gone to seduce him? Had I hoped that he would return, and see me, young and pure in his bed, waiting for him? Had I thought that he would throw himself upon me, and demand entrance to my flesh, flesh which I saved solely for him? I don't know, and the realisation of that makes me want to weep. I need to know, but there won't be enough time to find out.
We had worked together for close to six months. Sometimes those months feel like an age, sometimes they feel like the briefest moment. Tonight, they feel like the moment. The final push had been coming, we all knew it, and the sense that battle was approaching had hung over the school like a storm cloud. No one knew when the first lightning bolt would strike, when we would first hear the roar of the thunder. So we could only prepare. Work and prepare. Those of us with faith prayed, hoping the chosen deities would listen and show mercy. Or guidance. We didn't know, and it scared us. So I made it my mission to learn, to find the way that we could defeat them. I had been insistent. I was young, I knew that, and my schooling was important to me, but there would be time for exams later. I finally found what could distract me from my learning, and it was the thought of death. Professor Dumbledore had shown little surprise at my request, perhaps he had expected it. When they had learnt what I planned to do, Harry and Ron had tried to follow me, but Dumbledore had refused. They were young, he told me gently, later, later when they had left angry and disappointed. Their power wasn't strong enough yet, they still had so much to learn. He didn't have to say what he was thinking. I could see it in those old blue eyes of his. IIf they have time to learn./I I was a special case. At that moment I had turned away from my childhood and reached out to protect my adult life. My seventh year of schooling wasn't to be, I turned down the offer of Head Girl, and quietly moved my belongings into the dungeons. Instead, to everyone's surprise, it had gone to Pansy Parkinson. I guessed what Dumbledore was thinking, that the position of responsibility would be enough to draw her to our cause. He knew what doubts she had about her family and their beliefs, and so he had offered her this chance to prove herself. It had worked. Now Pansy fought along side Dumbledore's Army, cast out from her family, but secure in the new friendships she found. Of course there had been outcry, but she had proved herself to be fair, and once away from the Slytherin influence she had shown her true, good nature.
I shouldn't say that. Slytherin influence. Not all from Slytherin serve the Dark Lord. They have the qualities he admires, but it doesn't make them evil. Blaise Zabini now fights along side us, as do many others. I'm glad. They make formidable opponents. All the houses have qualities that make them worthy, it's just that they are harder to find in a Slytherin.
He showed me that. Deep in the dungeons we worked together, trying to perfect potions. Healing potions - to be stocked up, just in case. Potions that could be used as weapons. Potions of our own devising. At first I was frightened of him. Who wouldn't be? Sarcastic, intimidating, almost lifeless. As if he was a caricature of a man. I was shy in his presence, aware of the insults, the snide comments, and the jibes that had come my way over the years from him. I worked hard, hoping that he wouldn't be able to find fault with me, but always expecting that he would.
He didn't. To my surprise, he was almost gentle with me, coaxing me through the more difficult aspects of our work. Slowly, we began to open up to each other, I saw him smile for the first time, and suddenly, painfully, I saw Ihim/I. I saw what he did for the Wizarding world, the risks he took, the burdens he carried. He did so much, I thought angrily, while others did so little. How much respect had we shown him? None. The thoughts had pounded in my head for days, until finally, clumsily, I had attempted to apologise to him. For a moment, he had stared at me, shocked, and I had blushed, tried to retract my words, but suddenly he had laughed. A rich, joyous laugh that had seemed out of place in the dark rooms we worked in.
We never spoke of it again. But I was glad he knew. Instead we shared our love of learning, treading gently on the common ground. He fascinated me, and I hoped that he shared that feeling. We were well matched, Slytherin cunning and Gryffindor stubbornness. Each problem became a challenge, and we would delight in overcoming it together. One night I even kissed him.
I blamed my Gryffindor nature. My forthrightness. My bravery. My foolhardiness. I hadn't meant to. Gently, clumsily I had pressed my lips to his, a tentative, hesitant kiss. He had kissed me back, I remember that, kissed me back with a tenderness I would never have imagined. I don't think I imagined it, I pray that I didn't imagine it, but his hands came up to my shoulders and pushed me away. I had felt tears prick my eyes at this rejection, and angrily had turned from him. He had tried to meet my eyes, but I refused, humiliation washing over me. I hadn't planned it, hadn't even realised the extent of my feelings. He had pulled me to him, soothing me, his strong, potion stained hand stroking the thick mane of my hair. I'm sorry, I had whispered it over and over into his buttoned chest, more buttons digging uncomfortably into my damp cheek. He had smelt of cedar, and cinnamon I remember, warm smells, rich smells that calmed me. I was too young, he told me, too young, he had whispered into my hair, not now, not with so much uncertainty in the world. And then he had whispered the words that had given me hope.
'Not yet.'
I had slipped away soon after, to the warmth of my bed. Dreamt of his touch, dreamt of his embrace. I had wanted him. Not yet. The words had been seared across my heart. I could wait.
Until last night.
I had been exhausted. I had read all day, working my ways through the large dusty tomes, and still I worked though the candles burnt low, and the moon rose high. The crash had scared me, and I had started. The noise came from his chambers.
I had stepped into the corridor, so dark, despite the brightly lit torches. His chambers were across from mine, gently I had tapped on the dark wood of the door. When there had been no answer, I had entered.
And stopped. I had never seen him in his robes before. Darker than the night, they embraced his body, the dark hood sleek over his head, the darkness of his hair indistinguishable from the fabric. The material seemed to live, to shine, to ripple over his body, and he seemed so tall. So tall I didn't recognise him at first. I opened my mouth to scream, but he crossed the room so quickly, snatching me into his arms, one hand gently across my mouth. Only when I smelt him, did I recognise him, and I had relaxed into his arms. He held me until my trembling stopped.
'I have been called,' he had murmured softly.
A wine glass had crashed onto the stone floor, wine, as dark as blood trickled into the cracks.
Shocked by my own boldness I had taken his wrist, seeing the dark mark for myself. It had twisted itself into his pale skin, a living entity seared onto the inside of his wrist. It had leered at me.
'I must go,' he had snatched his wrist away, and taken hold of his mask. A 'crack' of apparition and he had gone.
I don't know why I didn't return to my own chambers. Perhaps I wanted to know when he returned. Wanted to be there to comfort him, to hold him, to take away the horrors of the night.
Perhaps I had been tired of waiting.
When they had found me in his bed, asleep, exhausted, wrapped in green silk, comforted by the rich smell of cedar, perhaps they had mistaken me for his lover. Perhaps one of them had recognised me. Either way, I was a valuable commodity to them.
The hands woke me, gripping, grabbing, tearing away the sheets. As I opened my eyes in terror, the fist had connected with the side of my skull, knocking me senseless. I had collapsed to the side, then had been dragged from the bed. Too dazed to fight back. Too shocked to take anything in.
I'd never been hit before. Not physically. Not by a human. Hit by spells before, yes, but never had a hand taken to me in violence.
I always thought when they came I would fight. But I couldn't. I didn't know how they had got past the wards, how they had found his chamber, how they had managed to spirit me away. But they did. And helplessly I had let them, tasting blood in my mouth from where I had bitten my tongue.
Thrown into a dark, damp stone room, and left to wait. I couldn't sleep. I didn't know if it was night or day, only my watch told me the time.
So they came for me a little after three am.
It was cold outside. Frost crunched on the ground underneath their feet. They carried me. My feet would never touch the ground again. My breath came in frantic, steaming gasps, as the cold stars watched the procession from above.
There would be no rescue party. No Harry bravely facing death to rescue me, his best friend. No one. Because no one knew I was gone.
And when they discovered it, they would be too late.
I nearly screamed when I saw them. Evil. There is no other word for them. Evil. Black, and dark and evil. They took pleasure in death, took delight in horror, and revelled in torture. I should feel privileged, they mocked me as they held me. I would be the first casualty in the great war. The Great War. That's what they called it.
Fear was overtaking my body, the cold bit into me. I shook, but through the fear or cold, I do not know. I know I wept inside though. Wept for all that should have been.
What children would I bear now? Who would have been their father? Who would win the war? Would peace ever come to our world? My parents. I nearly lost it at the thought of them. I prayed. I prayed to a God I didn't know if I believed in. I wanted them to know I loved them. My friends.
Harry. Lovely, lovely Harry. So surrounded by those that love him, yet so alone in this world. Would Harry live? Would the Boy Who Lived survive a second time? He had been cursed, I realised now, marked by his scar as the one who lived, nothing more than a prophecy. What life was that for him? Survive, Harry, I wanted him to survive. Because he couldn't live with the prophecy hanging over him.
Ron. Ron who had known nothing but love. And now he would fight for those he loved, fight to keep the world as he knew it. Fight for honour, and for love.
I couldn't remember what they looked like. And it scared me.
I was taken to the centre of the circle.
But I wasn't alone.
He was crouched on the floor, swamped in the dark cloak. I knew then, he had been discovered.
He had lied too long. Deceiving, and lying he had found his way to the inner circle, had his master's ear, but all the while he returned to us, and whispered softly in the night, secrets, plans, and devious deeds. Tonight, he will pay for that deception with his life.
There is laughter among those present, and he drags his head upwards. Blood runs from his brow, from his lip, smearing across the pale skin grotesquely. His eyes are dull, such wonderful, deep dark eyes now deadened, and defeated.
He sees me. And in that moment, we are forced into bitter silence.
I wanted no man but him. If he had returned and wanted me, I would have let him take me, taken all that he offered me and more. I would have kissed him, touched him, found him, taken him within me. I would have given him what no other man has had. We would have been wrapped in cool silk, fused by white-hot passion, and I would have loved him.
I stare at him, willing him to know this.
There is so much I should have learnt. So much that you should have taught me. I wanted to learn, we didn't know how little time there was. You should have taught me!
The thoughts come angrily now, and I know he knows them. I can feel his delicate touch at the edge of my senses, probing, learning, understanding.
You should have taught me.
You should have.
I wanted to learn.
Why didn't you teach me?
His face is stricken. He fights against those that now hold him, he cries out my name.
They think we're lovers.
ILet them think it./I
I hold back a sob. There is chanting now, drowning out all thoughts. There is evil in the air. The knife is silver. I can see it now.
My eyes widen in surprise.
It hurts.
I choke on blood, choke on life, coppery in my mouth, I try to breathe, I can't.
I wanted to learn.
The thought beats in time to my slowing heart,
You were my professor. You should have taught me.
My eyes are closing. It's so cold.
I I should have taught you/I
I hear his voice as clearly as if he had whispered in my ear.
I I should have loved you./I
You should have. But there's so much to learn first.
They're holding him now. His end won't be as easy as mine. There will be pain. So much pain before he loses hold on his fragile grasp of life.
They will attack soon. More lives than ours will be lost. We will watch, and we will wait for the end, and for peace. They cannot win. They cannot.
And while we wait, you can teach me. Teach me all the things I wanted to know, all the things that only you could show me.
I'm ready, I'm ready to learn now. I always wanted to learn.
We have so much time to wait.
Fin.