Author's Note: Again, the muse is refusing to leave me in peace. This piece, like everything I write, is Remus-centric; some of the story presented here will make a great deal more sense if you first read my story entitled Fall of Rain. I hope you enjoy this piece- I've been experimenting with style and presentation to create the feel I wanted for this piece. Please review - I'm experimenting, as I said, and need feedback to let me know if this is accomplishing its purpose. Thanks, and I hope you enjoy! ~ Lone One.
Night falls quickly in the winter; the sky changes from a bright, cloudless blue to a dark purple, tinged with red. As the sun's light fades, the last rays fall on a gentle hilltop. In the spring and summer, this hill is covered with lush, green grass, while the autumn sees it dappled with colour as bright leaves fall from the slender trees. It has been winter for some time now, though, and the hill finds itself covered with a light blanket of snow, covering the grass and fallen leaves, smoothing the edges of sticks and stones, and blending the angles and curves of the silent tombstones into the background of the scene.
For this is a graveyard, small and quiet, and utterly peaceful. No one comes to disturb the rest of the dead, and they sleep in peace. The graveyard lies near a small village where people live long, where they mourn for their dead, but are unwilling to visit the quiet cemetery. They are not concerned with any nonsense about ghosts, as they know well enough that the dead who lie in peace were too wise, too brave to choose the easy path. There is, however, a feel about the small plot of ground that keeps the curious away, a sense that these dead deserve their undisturbed rest.
But one man does not stay away, cannot keep himself from visiting. He has visited for many years now, each visit seeing him grow older and greyer and more tired. When he began to visit, there were but two stones, siting next to each other, bearing brave and hopeful legends. Now they have been joined by many others, silent witnesses to the brief and mortal nature of humanity.
The man is approaching now; he has indeed grown older since he was last here. He walks slowly, his head down, but his bearing strong. He leans on a cane now - he used to scorn their use, even when he found himself in enough pain to need one. His hair has gone almost entirely grey, and his face is lined with years of care, care enough for the entire world, taken by one man at his own choosing. He wanders through the graveyard as night falls - he no longer fears the night or the dark, or indeed, anything the world can throw at him. He has faced the worst of his fears, and they have come true; there is no terror left that holds any power over him. His pace slows further, and he stops in front of the oldest stones, the pair that have shared each other's company for so many years, only to be joined by a multitude of their younger kindred.
His face is calm and almost peaceful, if it were not for the burning sadness in his eyes. There is no one left who sees it anymore; those who live have their own lives to attend to, cannot spare the time to see the pain and sorrow hidden behind the calm exterior of the man who grows old so gracefully and so fast. With one hand, steadier than years of care and worry ought to have allowed it to remain, he reaches out to the old stones, gently wipes away the snow that had hidden their faces. Nicholas Lupin, Auror. Mabyn Lupin, Auror. The names have become a quiet legend again among the young people; they had not been remembered for many years, but their stories have become known, and the people have taken them as the names of heroes. The man could have told them that years ago. The stones share a common inscription: May You Always Struggle Against the Fall of Night. When the words were written, night was falling fast, and too many feared to fight it. They had fought; they had died. So had many others. The graveyard bears witness.
He does not speak, but smiles gently, as if in remembrance of something no one else knew; with a final brush of his fingers on the top of the stone, he moves on, walking slowly. Only a few steps away stands another pair of stones, close together. These stones are even simpler, reading only James Potter. Lily Potter. Nothing else was needed. These names had not been forgotten, would likely never be forgotten throughout history. The names tell a story now, one known to every wizard child, a story of courage and love, of power and sacrifice. The man who watches thinks that they would have liked it this way. It is simple and powerful, and they are together forever. He does not touch these stones, though the snow has partially masked their faces as well, but smiles fondly, sadly at them as well. Their deaths had not been mourned, but by a few; the rest of the world had been too busy celebrating the fall of evil, the end, they thought, to the threat of night. He had mourned. He had been here, so many years ago, when they lowered the coffins into the ground, when the earth magically moved to cover them from sight, to receive them into its arms. He had remained here when all the others had left, had sunk to his knees before the now-smooth mounds and had wept. He does not weep now.
Off to the side of this pair of tombstones sits another marker, this not a headstone. The marker is pure, jet black, with words engraved in white lettering that stands in sharp contrast to its background. The man walks to this one now, looking fondly at it. He knows that this stone, unlike the others, does not mark a grave, for there had been no body to bury. Padfoot, it reads, brother and friend. Nothing more is needed. The man had been alone when he set the marker in place, alone by his own request. He had not wept then, had not surrendered to the urge to scream his grief to the sky, had merely stood in silence and waited. He could not have said what he was waiting for. Eventually, he had been joined by others who silently persuaded him to leave; children whom he had taught. Their bright hair had shone in the sun, an unusual mark of color in the winter it had been then, four red heads, one black, one brown. They had forced him to remember that he had responsibilities, that he could not merely spend the rest of his life in the graveyard. Night had been falling again, the cause of Padfoot's death, and he was needed. One last, fond, smile at the stone, and the man moves on again.
It is completely dark now; the only light emanating from the tip of the man's wand. He does not need the light to find his way; he knows the graveyard too well for that. The last mound in the yard is terribly small, marked by a small and modest stone. This marker, too, says little; there had been little to say about this life, so short. Nicholas. Beloved son. The boy had not been his son, had been little more than a burden enforced on a broken man in a state of grief. The short life and death of the too-small child had changed his life, though, had brought him out of the grief that had held him captive since Padfoot had gone away, the last of his old friends. The baby, by rights, ought not to be buried in this yard, but Dumbledore had advised it, his wise eyes sad. The man knew he had been right; the child belonged here, as a member of a family that had been fast disappearing.
The quiet graveyard is intended to be the resting place and memorial of the members of the Order of the Phoenix who have fallen. No bodies, no stones have been added for several years now; there is no longer a need. The night has been beaten back at last, and no more have fallen. But now things are about to change, and the man knows it. This is why he has returned in the cold and the dark - but it is not so dark now. The moon has risen, lighting the quiet yard with a soft, cold glow that reflects off the snow, but is absorbed by the shadows. The man shudders slightly as he looks up at it, his face reflecting his unhappiness back up at the bright orb. It is not a perfect circle, but most observers would not see the tiny sliver that is missing. He looks back down again, towards the silent stones around him; in the silence, snow begins to fall softly, lightly, landing on his face, his head, melting into nothing.
"Hello." He says gently, his smile appearing again, making him look many years younger. "I wanted to come one last time to visit here; strange, after so many sad memories here, that this should be the place I am most at home." He pauses, staring out into the distance, barely blinking as the fat snowflakes flutter near his eyes, some catching on his eyelashes. "I'll be joining you soon, you know. I have lived my life; I am far older than I ever expected to grow. I never wanted to be an old man, and I will not be. If they had told me when I was bitten that I would live to be almost fifty, I would have laughed - it would have sounded ridiculous. If you were here, you would fuss and worry over me, I know, not wanting me to leave. But you all left first, and now I am coming to join you."
His gaze shifts again to the oldest stones. "My dear parents. I fought against the night, you know - fought until it was over and past. You need not fear now - there are younger and more capable wizards and witches now, ready and willing to fight against any sign of the darkness returning."
He turns to the Potter's graves, his voice still calm and steady. "Prongs, old friend, Lily... I have missed you for so very long. Do you remember? I used to come here every few months to visit, to talk, in hopes that you could somehow hear me. You were the only ones I could be honest with then, when we all thought that Padfoot had betrayed you. You would be so proud of Harry, I know; his success has not gone to his head, and he is brilliant. Now that we do not have to fear Voldemort, he is free to do what he wants - I've lost count of how many Quidditch teams have offered him a place. I think he will finally be able to be happy, in his own way. He's married now, you know - you're going to be grandparents soon!"
The man looks to the black marker, his proud smile fading somewhat. "He hasn't forgotten you, Sirius. He never will. He has missed you almost as much as I have. You should have seen him when he faced Bellatrix - you would have been proud. When he finally managed to defeat him, he just lowered his wand and looked at her, and said 'that was for Sirius.'" The man pauses for a moment, looking very tired. "I have missed you too, old friend. I will never forgive Wormtail for the years we were not allowed to spend together, for the years you spent in that hellhole, for putting you back in your parent's house. I killed him, Padfoot. It took years, but I finally killed him; he tried to beg for mercy, but I have none left. Not for traitors. And that was my gift to you."
As he looks to the last grave, the tiny mound, his face grows yet sadder. He attempts to speak, but can say nothing. He shakes his head sadly, and sinks carefully onto a small stone bench that has been waiting for him there. He does not seem to notice the snow that covers the seat as he leans forward, his hands on his knees for support.
"I have missed all of you more than you can imagine. I have lost more of the people I loved than anyone should ever have to lose. I have watched you all leave, and I have been left behind. No more. I am old now, if not in years than in experience and sorrow, and I am finished with life. They speak in whispers, behind my back, thinking I do not know, but I can feel it - I will not survive the next full moon. It's full tomorrow night, you know, and I can feel it pulling at me. All's well that ends well, they say; I'll be joining you afterwards."
The man straightens his back, and suddenly stands up, determined. "I may not know exactly what to expect, but I'm sure that whatever happens, I won't be alone anymore." He smiles, a light coming into his eyes that makes them gleam fiercely with a wild joy. "We'll be together again. All is well." And in the little village, the bells toll with the same solemn, fierce, wild joy that sweeps away the gloom and leaves something deeper. The man's face is finally truly free of sorrow and care. And indeed, all is well.