Chapter 1 : Funeral
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A/N: I love poetry, and so decided to experiment with HP and metaphors. This isn’t meant to be read quickly. If it doesn’t make sense, you’re probably looking at the wrong one ;)
Heat is gone. Now there’s burning.
As the sun increasingly stings your skin, you feel it burning but don’t move; it won’t change anything, it never does. It reminds you of a sunny summer day, when you have to take ice cubes with your bare fingers, unprepared, and you’re stuck to its glacial pain, completely weak faced to its mirrored coldness. And you wait for the warmth to come back, but it doesn’t, and you wonder if it ever will.
You used to be a free bird, flying at your will, guided by passion and filled with colors. You used to feel the sun on your wings and appreciate the soft blue of the skies, smoothed by fuzzy white clouds. But now you feel blue, and know those white dreams can’t be reached. Now you’re trapped in these black heavy raven wings, and day is not your time; you’re a stranger to the flying, perched on your dead branch and looking up at them all. But you’re not really looking.
They look at you. They’re expecting you to do something. They want you to show any sign that it’s going to be okay. But it’s not. They’ve always needed you, but now you need them. And you stare, but don’t see. And you see, but don’t understand. Everyone is a black shadow, just silent shadows waiting for the light to come. But it doesn’t. He had been your light, you had been his. He had been your everything, and he had taken it all away with him. And for once in your life, you don’t know what to say, your thoughts are far away, hurricane swirling in the past. What is life, anyway?
Once upon a time, he had taken you. Almost as an instinct, he had gripped your heart tightly with his left hand, –but he was right handed. And he had taken it up the steepest hills and climbing cliffs, scraping against the sharp rocks and between the roses’ spines. It deliciously hurt, crimson enveloping your dreams day and night and pain keeping you alive; but this pain is now different. He had taken you with him, though never daring to look at his reflection, scared of finding the origin of his troubling. Then, climbing had made him tired, and he had stopped by the transparent lake, breathless, to try refreshing.
He had made your heart light, as though it had wings, but he was just giving you wings to swim and you had felt like drowning.
The calm sweet waters had eventually drawn him your tickling image, looking back at him, and suddenly, he didn’t care anymore of his time and direction as he woke up from the tiredness of reality.
It had been worth it. All the ups and downs, tears and bitter laughs, scratches meant nothing because not only you were his, but he was yours. And the wounds and scars were slowly being healed and softened by light sweet words and kisses. Other walls appeared, but he was with you and you were with him, and you went through them together. And you fought for love.
And finally, time had seemed to stop for you both, only acknowledging of its ticking existence by the movement of the clouds above you, and the stars leaving and coming back everyday. What was coldness when you had love? Draped in the hot flames of love’s sheets, you closed your eyes, because you’d imagine his figure out of the dark, and he’d wrap you in his arms forever. When you opened your eyes, you drifted into the absoluteness of his two windows of blue waves, and your lips slowly curved into a smile at the look of his. Your eyes could stay locked an eternity, because each silence meant more than words, nothing could have expressed the state of infinity you were in.
What was time then? A tangible abstractedness that suddenly ripped your wounds open, making them larger, and the bleeding drowning you again.
“I’m just saying you should stop working too. We have enough money to keep going, and we’ll have enough time to enjoy ourselves. Come on,” he had brushed your hand, fragile but reassuring, “we’re old, we have the right.”
“To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am.”*
His smile was marked with the white traces of time, like crumpled paper, but its strength and warmth were still the same, the words written on it hadn’t changed and wouldn’t fade.
You knew you were right, just as you knew you’d never know everything. Fifteen years seemed so unreachable now, it was surreal, but you still wanted to be right. In fifteen years, you’d probably be somewhere else, and you’d understand. But you wouldn’t live to it, he wouldn’t live to it, so he was probably not so wrong after all. Dilemma. The clock loudly ticking and his old familiar smile had made you follow him once more, and you were grateful for it. If only you had let him lead you before, you would have had more time together. But you had been scared, scared of creating new wounds. You were scared of realizing that there soon wouldn’t be enough time to heal them. Time is relative, muggle or not, want it or not, and he would control yours; make it peacefully endless as he smirked, and so passionately short when his smirk met yours.
Your vision is now focusing on two shadows. She has his hair, fiery red and soft, but it now seems to have burnt out, and you wonder if someone will ever be able to turn it on again. She’s resting her head over that only shadow that appears to still have a light. It’s not his silver blonde hair floating like a halo over him, nor his shining rings; but his strength and determination, clear eyes looking over everything making you want to grip to him, to come out to the surface. Those grey moons could be swimming into another world, yet they’re still imposing by their cold burning look. Next to him, another light struggles and frowns, his red is slightly more brown, but he’s not going to let go. If they don’t need your hold anymore, and it is you that need theirs, what has it come to be?
You’re wearing a watch. When you were little and naive, you used to wear it everyday as you wore clothes and breathe, indispensable to making the most of what you barely had. At that time, his color-changing firelight had wanted to burn your watch, the watch that controlled your life; he had wanted to destroy it for your sake. Then, its grave ticking had scared you too much and you had left it, much to his dismay, as he now wanted you to value time correctly.
Time is an inevitable force that rules over all, even when you’re hiding from it. Time changes you, time burns out lights, time brings new ones. And just when you think you start to understand it, use it on your advantage, you realize it’s ruling you too, and you’re weak and little again. Time had changed his opinion about time, and you don’t know what you think of it now. You don’t want to think anymore. Thinking consumes time and lights. Thinking defies the other three dimensions of space, –time being the fourth–, and brings you out of Earth as you drift into your tidal mind.
You’re thinking, and then time breaks you again.
Your worry for time had come really early on your life, but the discovery of magic had convinced you that it couldn’t be that hard. Because magic could do it all –you had read–, love being a special kind of magic. And he had both of those magics, with him you had had them too, and the fear for the torn calendar pages had started to dissolve into magic and love.
You never expected your old un-magical world to come out from lurking you when you finally had it all.
“Magic has been covering the symptoms. I’m sorry,” he wasn’t more than a shadow either, yet he wore white. He was used to wear grief.
With time comes realization, and it had finally been your turn to look at the mirror. He had shared your reflection. After all, he had pulled you out of the crimson thick surface he had created, your wings finally making you fly by his side. And your colors had melted together, and your lights had mixed into one, until either you were one together, or just one lonely half. And you had flown up those hills that had been so hard to try and climb before, and you had felt the clouds through your light wings. Fifteen years were now a dream you could only wish to have. What can you do know? Ticking never stops. Get more knowledge? Pass it on? Not enough time. Fifteen years means nothing now. Fifteen years would mean it all.
Your best friend, and the two little red fires you had given birth to, they all live for the love of their lives now. But yours, it is only ‘love’, ‘your life’ being an incomprehensible term now. He isn’t in this life anymore. What are you now then?
Your muscles still ache from being torn off and become only a half. Is an old half weakened by time worth being? You can’t tell, but not living would be an insult to him, just as not wearing your watch would be. Just as not saying anything and standing by is.
He had realized before you. Somehow, he had been old before you. And now that those fifteen years are reduced to fifteen seconds, he’s probably smiling his old smile, and his tiredness has probably left.
You used to be a hummingbird, flying up and down, your little shining eyes always looking forward. Except hummingbirds can fly backwards too.
“They say a picture is worth a thousand words. But I’m a terrible drawer Ron, so I’ve written you a thousand words. Probably more, but those have always been just numbers, anyway.”
A/N: *Quote credit: “To me, old age is always 15 years older than I am.”– Bernard M. Baruch
Please note that I don’t mean to glorify suffering in any form. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, feel free to ask any questions or simply tell me what you felt/thought :)