The Cruelest Month
Title: The Cruelest Month
Fandom: Harry Potter
Character: Gawain Robards
Rating: G
Other: Written as background for Robards whilst playing over at stoatshead_hill. Technically happened after the books, but as it seems likely to occur (and as a bit of Eliot always makes me grin), shall post it here, as well.
“April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.”
-T.S. Eliot-
Dark clouds had threatened rain all through the morning, though there had been only a brief drizzle, then nothing. Only cold, a numb feeling in the air where even the wind had died away, leaving only a stillness and smell of damp earth. Gray haze seemed to cover all, infusing even the struggling vegetation with a drab cover.
Earth has taken its rightful place, the domination it has always had and will have. Never mind the still coldness of the ones who had lived and laughed with them, for they had sealed the soil themselves, and they were not alone. Too many, these days. There were far too many beneath the surface, given to the earth. It scarcely seemed right to mourn.
Almost unmoving himself, he had only watched, mindful of bodies and actions, still more mindful of what had passed both here and in the tragic scene. This is only one, and even this he cannot entirely accept. Perhaps it has moved beyond him already, gone with the closing of the door, the empty house, and the coming of the darkness. Yet for a moment he thinks himself to hear an echo of their voices, of her voice as he had known it, a sensation and the brush of her hand. That, too, passes, and he allows it to pass in silence.
Though the faces around, hanging vaguely in the mist, haze from time to time, he can identify many, assign to them names that he understands. Most he has met only once or twice, or perhaps knows only by description. And there are faces missing, faces that he knows never to see again. Strange that those whom they have come for will never show themselves again.
Beside him, Gawain feels a slight tug on his sleeve and looks to catch the questioning glance of gray eyes. She cannot understand. The girl can only look at the earth, unable now to connect what was and is. It is a sliding sense of past and future and an overlapped present that Gawain has himself seen brief flickers of, one that he has never accepted but now finds in his daughter. She has been still, but stillness cannot last in living ones; there are too many questions, and there is too much unreality in this gray silence.
The girl moves to flit away, then pauses, utterly lost. Yet she does not cry out or even move. She only stands as if awaiting a promise, patient. Though she has turned from him and turned from the grave, he knows too well the gray eyes, wide and wondering. She has seen fresh flowers, misplaced and discolored by their purpose. This is not for her.
Moving toward the girl, he clasps her hand, drawing her close. As they leave behind from the smell of earth, he denies himself a final glance behind. It has been finished. There is nothing for them in that earth or the hovering crowd. Now there is only the mist, the sense of some crouching ruin, and a distant scent of vegetation.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Character: Gawain Robards
Rating: G
Other: Written as background for Robards whilst playing over at stoatshead_hill. Technically happened after the books, but as it seems likely to occur (and as a bit of Eliot always makes me grin), shall post it here, as well.
“April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.”
-T.S. Eliot-
Dark clouds had threatened rain all through the morning, though there had been only a brief drizzle, then nothing. Only cold, a numb feeling in the air where even the wind had died away, leaving only a stillness and smell of damp earth. Gray haze seemed to cover all, infusing even the struggling vegetation with a drab cover.
Earth has taken its rightful place, the domination it has always had and will have. Never mind the still coldness of the ones who had lived and laughed with them, for they had sealed the soil themselves, and they were not alone. Too many, these days. There were far too many beneath the surface, given to the earth. It scarcely seemed right to mourn.
Almost unmoving himself, he had only watched, mindful of bodies and actions, still more mindful of what had passed both here and in the tragic scene. This is only one, and even this he cannot entirely accept. Perhaps it has moved beyond him already, gone with the closing of the door, the empty house, and the coming of the darkness. Yet for a moment he thinks himself to hear an echo of their voices, of her voice as he had known it, a sensation and the brush of her hand. That, too, passes, and he allows it to pass in silence.
Though the faces around, hanging vaguely in the mist, haze from time to time, he can identify many, assign to them names that he understands. Most he has met only once or twice, or perhaps knows only by description. And there are faces missing, faces that he knows never to see again. Strange that those whom they have come for will never show themselves again.
Beside him, Gawain feels a slight tug on his sleeve and looks to catch the questioning glance of gray eyes. She cannot understand. The girl can only look at the earth, unable now to connect what was and is. It is a sliding sense of past and future and an overlapped present that Gawain has himself seen brief flickers of, one that he has never accepted but now finds in his daughter. She has been still, but stillness cannot last in living ones; there are too many questions, and there is too much unreality in this gray silence.
The girl moves to flit away, then pauses, utterly lost. Yet she does not cry out or even move. She only stands as if awaiting a promise, patient. Though she has turned from him and turned from the grave, he knows too well the gray eyes, wide and wondering. She has seen fresh flowers, misplaced and discolored by their purpose. This is not for her.
Moving toward the girl, he clasps her hand, drawing her close. As they leave behind from the smell of earth, he denies himself a final glance behind. It has been finished. There is nothing for them in that earth or the hovering crowd. Now there is only the mist, the sense of some crouching ruin, and a distant scent of vegetation.