Post by Amelia Kirby on Dec 19, 2005 16:03:20 GMT -5
Fallen
Various bright colors flashed everywhere. Bodies heaved and pushed against each other, some in support, some in opposition. Grunts and screams echoed throughout the large, cavernous room. Grey, stone walls chipped as spells flew and smacked against them, and clumps of rock whizzed from those chips in those walls. The Great War… it had been prophesized to be great, vigorous, and deadly, but who would have predicted this? A mess, is what one could call it. Perhaps an organized mess, but a mess nevertheless. So many wizards and witches – hundreds, probably – crowded in one room, fighting with all they had. There were pairs dueling, and sometimes groups. Dead and wounded bodies were strewn throughout the large wing of the Department of Mysteries, and though the piteous groans weren’t audible over the strenuous battling and screaming and grunting of the still-standing opponents, they were heart-wrenching and shattering all the same.
Heaven bend to take my hand
and lead me through the fire
and be the long awaited answer
to a long and painful fight.
A short, balding man held his right arm tightly to his side, wincing in pain and glaring at the man in front of him at the same time. His wounded arm was twisted at an odd angle and the cloth that made up the sleeves of his robe was drenched with blood. He was backed into a corner and quivering, but he held his ground. The man in front of him, tall and fair-haired and rather ragged besides, was shaking in fury. His arm was stretched out, straight as an iron pole, and in his hand he held a sturdy wooden wand, which was pointed directly and infallibly into his opponent’s face. “Don’t even think of pleading for your life,” he hissed venomously, “because it’s been longer already than you deserve.”
“What…,” the shorter man panted brazenly, “would be the point in pleading for my life when I know very well that you’d kill me anyway?”
The taller man tipped his head slightly in acknowledgement of the statement. “You know me… I’m normally so forgiving… But this is my vengeance, my right. You – need – to – die.”
The short man shrugged nonchalantly. “This is true.” He cocked his head at his old friend, his opponent, willing his fear not to show through, and raised a brow defiantly. “So kill me.”
The taller man clenched his jaw, gripped his wand tightly, hesitated for a second, and then, closing his eyes, whispered vehemently, “Punctumus.”
Truth be told, I’ve tried my best,
but somewhere along the way
I got caught up in all there was to offer…
and the cost was so much more than I could bear.
The choking, gasping sound wasn’t heard by anyone but his opponent. The black shroud of spell drove itself with a whooshing sound deep into Peter’s gut. The pain of the cutting and twisting was unbearable, but he didn’t utter a sound. The Puncturing Spell – who would have thought it? Such a spell was almost as forbidden as the killing curse. Pettigrew collapsed against the wall, his broken arm flopping against the wall painfully. He normally would have felt the pain and even cried out, but the world seemed suspended. The distance of the other battling bodies seemed so great, and they seemed to move in slow motion.
The blurred figure above him stood completely still and Peter managed a gurgled sardonic laugh. “B…brutal,” he said. “Wou-wouldn’t have… expected it from y…you.” His vision cleared a bit and Remus’s face was unyielding to emotion.
“’Desperate times call for desperate measures,’” he quoted in a monotone. Peter shook his head brokenly. James had said that with his classic grin more times than he could count. “You deserve this. I hope it hurts. Excruciatingly. I had hoped, known this day would come. Don’t expect a drop of mercy from me.”
Peter cast his eyes to the ground and his fingers twitched. “H-Harsh…” he mumbled. “I don’t… want mercy. You… have always been too mer… merciful, Remus… Perhaps I, too, knew this day would come but… for different r-reasons.”
The reality of this moment finally began to sink in.
Though I’ve tried, I’ve fallen,
I have sunk so low.
I have messed up.
Better I should know,
so don’t come ‘round here and tell me, “I told you so.”
In the dim light of the cavern, another shadow fell over him and stood next to Remus. “So it’s done,” a voice whispered. “He has finally fallen.”
“Finally,” Lupin said softly. Peter detected a hint of something in Lupin’s tone. Detest? Triumph? No… it sounded like… repentance… Repentance and… fear. Pettigrew’s eyes slid closed.
“You used the Puncturing Spell…”
“Yes.”
“But… Remus – “ The second voice was alarmed. Remus didn’t answer, only walked away.
Nymphadora Tonks gazed at the pitiable sight of the crumpled body of the ex-Marauder regretfully. “If only it were quick…,” she murmured. Shaking her head, she turned and walked away.
We all begin with good intent,
when love was raw and young.
We believe that we could change ourselves
and the past could be undone.
But we carry on our back the burden
time always reveals.
In the lonely light of morning,
and the wound that would not heal.
It’s the bitter taste of losing everything that I held so dear.
So he was finally dying. He’d dreamed of this day for so long. He’d wanted to die, but had been too afraid to just exterminate himself. He’d wished for this final battle, because he knew it would be his undoing. So what was the explanation for that dab of wetness on his cheek? Peter blinked back the pressure in his eyes and watched as more and more bodies fell to the floor, dead or wounded or unconscious. His hands shook as he tried to shift from his uncomfortable position in the corner. He drew a shaky breath and, as he looked back on his past, began to, not for the first time, regret all the horrible things he’d done. Now, perhaps he could finally get a reprieve from all the images that constantly flashed through his mind – James playing Quidditch, Lily doing homework, Lily and James playing with Harry… He’d destroyed such a good thing… because of cowardice. He had regretted it the whole time, even if nobody thought so. He’d already paid for his mistakes and treasons… but it never seemed to be enough. So now, for all his stupidity, he sat here, bleeding to death and wishing things were different.
I’ve fallen,
I have sunk so low.
I have messed up.
Better I should know,
so don’t come ‘round here and tell me, “I told you so.”
With a cry, a young woman, newly added to the line of death eaters, fell beside Pettigrew, clutching her ribs. Blood pooled around her and her breathing went from ragged, to fading, to gone. Peter shook his head mournfully, wishing he could have died that fast. His thoughts were haunting him still. How he wished he hadn’t done what he’d done! How he wished someone would see how he regretted his decisions. How he wished he could be whole once more. Not a slave to Voldemort, not a slave to his fear, and not a slave to his memories. For once, he wanted to be his own person. He wanted to take risks, risks set by himself and not by the Marauders. He wanted to live again, not as Wormtail but as Peter Pettigrew. Peter Pettigrew as he grew up, innocent, kind, and slightly clueless. But of course, the Puncturing Spell would finish this job and he would die. He had lost his only chance, and it was his own fault. Peter looked down at the gore in his stomach and let the tears fall.
Looking up and shaking, Peter watched as more people fell, close to him and not. He felt as though he should be sad for the deaths of his kin – or the people who were supposed to be his kin. But when death eaters died or were injured, he watched on blankly, feeling no emotion. He sighed and continued to look around, getting a feeling of impending doom. He figured it was because he would die soon. But the spell… He looked down. It still seemed to be working on him. When it stopped was when he would die. So far, it hadn’t really done anything but sit inside his chest, festering. But he began to feel it stir. It was readying itself for that final, fatal wrench, up into his heart. He sighed. It would be death soon. He noticed that an Order of the Phoenix member was shot down by Lucius Malfoy and cried out involuntarily. He trembled and looked at the figure on the ground. So it wasn’t death eaters he felt for. It was that “other side”, that side he used to be on… This had to mean something. His chin met his chest.
Heaven bend to take my hand,
nowhere left to turn.
I lost to those I thought were friends;
to everyone I know.
Oh, they turn their heads, embarrassed,
and pretend that they don’t see.
But it’s one missed step,
one slip, before you know it.
And there doesn’t seem a way to be redeemed.
His life meant nothing. He’d known that for a long time. But he always thought that if he’d die “evil”, he’d die thinking evil. Why did he want Remus to look at him with a smile, as he’d used to? Well… that was easy… He’d never wanted to be the hated “bad guy”. He’d always been forced. So was it fair that he was treated like the bad guy?
Yes.
Peter had let himself be seduced by evil. By power. But what good was power when it amounted to death? He had to admit it now. He’d wanted power. He hadn’t always been against doing bad. He’d been against doing bad to his friends, but not quite doing bad. But it was also true that evil, that power, that Voldemort would fall. In the end, the good, the Order, would win. Because that was how it was. They were the true force in the world. They were what held the world together, those good people. The evil was just a small sidestep, but the good would keep walking towards the light, while evil would be stuck in the dark, forever. And he was evil. He knew he was evil, whether he wanted to be or not. It was just how it was. He was a bad person, and wasn’t going to be redeemed. There was no redemption for evil, even if an evil person did something good at the last second. Because whether you’re good or evil all amounts to what you’ve done your whole life. Everything you’ve ever done will determine where you go after life – to the dark, or to the light. He had been evil longer than he’d been good, and he was going to the dark. It was just how it would be. He accepted, because he deserved it.
His thoughts were constricted and cut off at the same time as his heartbeat and breath. The spell, with one last, agonizing wrench, stabbed into Peter’s dark and sobbing heart, and with his last breath, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
Usually, a sorry was nothing if you merely said it for stealing a cookie, or for saying something mean to your best friend. But when someone gets everyone they love killed, and continues to do evil, a simple “sorry” means everything. A “sorry” could mend the ripped seams of that big crack in a broken heart. His “sorry” didn’t only cover everything he’d ever done, but it seemed to cover everything anyone else had ever done, and anything anyone would ever do. His sorry not only covered but repaired that great hurt he and the rest of the people he knew held, just a bit. It was a tragedy that no one was around to hear it.
Peter Pettigrew slumped against the wall and died.
Though I’ve tried, I’ve fallen,
I have sunk so low.
I have messed up.
Better I should know,
so don’t come around here and tell me, “I told you so.”
I have messed up.
Better I should know.
Don’t come ‘round here and tell me, “I told you so.”
