I Shall Rise Again
As the autumn began to spread its wings and reach for the leaves that crowded around her dainty feet, she looked up.
Everything was lost. The world that had been a raging inferno of hatred was lost to darkness. And yet, she could not despise the rising sun. She could not be envious of the innocent skies. She could not rue the twinkling stars their heavenly lights.
A week had passed since the enemy had conquered all who resisted. She had run with everyone. She had run just like everyone. And now, she was lost. Her wand lay broken someway… far behind, in the rich meadow that had sheltered her in the last stages of war. It was… gone.
They were gaining upon her… and all she could think of was the lovely crimson hue that spread across those wonderful skies. The leaves snapped at her feet and crumbled.
All she could see was the lovely light spreading its gentle stroking fingers across her palm…
It would rain.
They had come for her. He had been their leader. She had not cowered in their presence. She had stood bravely, a soft smile playing upon her lips as she contemplated the luscious flowers that had fallen at her feet. She could mourn for them. She would mourn their passing.
He had hit her. His skin had traced patterns of red across her pale cheek and she had stumbled. He had cursed at her. The gathered crowd had jeered at the spectacle. But he had stood over her, frowning as he pondered her expression of contentment. Or was it misplaced… distance? It did not matter, of course.
"Do you not fear me, Mudblood?" he had growled at her, intending to sound harsh and domineering but she knew… In her heart, she knew that he was as afraid as she was. In her heart, she knew that everyone was… afraid.
But perhaps she had not been afraid.
And perhaps, it had all been nothing but a dream.
He had struck her once more and she had fallen at his feet. His boots were ugly. Yes, definitely so. How curious that he must call her ugly and despicable when he wore boots with torn leather and stains of blood all over them.
How very curious indeed…
The darkness was growing on her. It covered her skin and lingered on the edge of her memory. She scratched the floor once for each day that she found a ray of sunshine peek through the cracks in her door. It had been… thirty days.
Numbers.
Odd things.
Time was no quantity.
No one could quantify time. It stretched like gum in moments of sorrow and leapt like a young colt in happier times… Numbers were funny things.
She heard the door creak and was dazzled by the soft light that invaded the soft sanctuary of her prison. She heard the heavy thuds of his boots against the floor. He was a strange man. He liked to stay in her cell, torturing her for hours to gain pleasure and left when she simply smiled in response.
After all, how could she not find humour in his huffing and puffing? True, sometimes she would be so bruised and broken that her body would not move for days. But it was alright. It was… nothing.
There was no pain as long as she remembered the meadow.
And the stars.
And the moonlight…
"Does nothing hurt you, mudblood?" he had asked quietly that day. She had turned her innocent eyes towards his troubled face and smiled in sympathy. He looked tired. And bruised. But bruises healed quickly. He would heal too.
Another day, though, her smile of fortitude had not lasted long.
He had had a plan.
"I would never lower myself… not with you kind…" he had muttered to himself while he held her pressed against the wall. His hands were imprinted on her soft flesh for the entire world to see. She called it the snow, her neck was soft snow and his hands the thorny tendrils of venom. She never struggled when he assaulted her. She thought of mother earth and her privations. She thought of numerous wars, unholy evils that lived and ravaged her daily.
She was mother earth.
But that day had been different.
He hadn't struck her.
His silver pools were much like the crystals she wore around her neck as a child.
But that day was different.
Her calm smile faltered as he rammed a knee between her legs and parted them.
Her lips trembled.
By the demonic sheen in his grey eyes, she knew that he had seen her fear.
He brought a callused hand to her shoulder and flicked off the dirty rag she wore for covers. Her hands went to her exposed breasts and he withdrew, the evil smirk on his face growing brighter and more meaningful with each passing moment.
She fought to smile.
But her hands trembled.
He left as he had come.
But something had changed.
He knew of her weakness.
And she knew his cruelty.
He was cruel.
She thought of flowers in the spring time. She silently prayed for a faint whiff of roses by her bedside. But for some reason, all she could see was his… pale face.
He came by every day and sat in a corner.
She closed her eyes and thought of the night sky.
He would flick his wand and tear apart the rags she wore for clothes. She would scurry into a corner to hide. But he never touched her.
She was still mother earth.
Rich.
Fragrant.
And Pure.
"The things I would do to you if you weren't so… filthy," he had muttered one day. She had cringed away from the expression on his face.
He was cruel. He slit open her rags and left for her to mend them in the best way she could.
Tulips would be lining the fields where her friends slumbered peacefully.
She thought she could hear the chirping birds in her sleep.
It had been three months. She could count the days.
Winter was settling in fast. She thought of Christmas and snow.
The pure white snow that enveloped her slight form and made her look like a queen.
He had slammed her door open that day.
He had dragged her by the hair that evening.
The pale shadows thrown about by the dying sun were mesmerising. She had peeped out of the thin cracks as he held her head against the door, muttering profanities in her ear, threatening to strangle her if she did not stop…
"Perhaps you will not smile after this…" he had whispered quietly, sweetly, into her unconcerned ears and slipped the belt out of his waist.
For the first time since… everything, she had been unnerved.
She was mother earth.
"Please," her shivering lips had broken out in despair.
He was the cold storm.
He had chuckled mirthlessly and slipped the dirty fabric off her flesh. He had smelled of blood.
The long drawn pinch of her innocence breaking had sent her over the edge.
She had screamed and cried.
For days.
The bruises had not healed.
The scars lingered uninvited on her flesh.
He was cruel.
Like the cold winter.
Like the dead sea.
He came everyday.
His flesh reeked of blood and sweat.
He had been right.
She had stopped smiling.
Why did he not stop then?
Was that not what he had wanted?
The flowers seemed withered. The valleys were dark. Only death slithered over unholy realms…
He pressed her head into the dirty mattress and thrust into her deeply.
She hated his grunts.
He sounded like a pig.
He kept her hands locked in his larger hand so that she wouldn't claw at him.
Perhaps he would grow tired soon and leave…
She was weary and the flowers lay dying in the fields.…
"Say my name." He had yanked at her hair when she had simply looked at his face in silence. "Say it."
She was weary. Her skin looked so fragile in the darkness. She hadn't slept in days…
He no longer beat her regularly.
But he never stopped.
He touched her.
Why would he not stop…?
"Say it, you filthy little…" He had struck her in the face. At the same time, he had withdrawn from her naked body. He reached to touch the blood on her lips and looked at her face in confusion…
Her blood….
It was red.
It looked pretty.
It reminded her of roses…
"No…" he had whispered before he had closed the door.
She had been sick on the floor that day. She had lain beside it for hours for she did not know how to clean it.
It made no difference.
The clear moonlight was shining in her face.
He had graced her cell with a window.
She could see the night.
The twinkling stars hallowed her skin every day.
She could count them to pass time.
Her hand went to the soft bulge on her stomach.
He had not visited her for days.
Death was no farther than his footsteps…
He had stood staring at her prone form in revulsion and loathing.
And she had smiled at him.
She was no longer afraid.
His jaw had tightened.
An abomination, he had called it before he disappeared.
But with his fading footsteps, death had left her doorstep.
He came by every day.
But this time, he sat in the corner and watched.
She no longer cared.
He never touched her. He simply stared.
And she thought of flowers in the spring time.
He didn't come for days.
Or had it been months?
It couldn't have been.
But she was disoriented and she had lost track of time.
When would he come?
"Get up!" he commanded viciously and dragged her to her feet. "We're leaving. Now."
It was the middle of night and she smelled weakness in the air.
How strange.
She did not protest as he clamped a hand over her mouth and threw a cloak around her.
Surreal.
She remembered Luna.
How very strange.
Perhaps the time had arrived for her to die.
She felt nothing. No regrets.
No pain.
She was, after all, mother earth and all those who ravaged her dug their own graves.
She caressed the swollen belly, her belly, and looked out of the window.
The cottage was small.
But she was free.
In a manner of speaking.
He was still around.
Around her.
He clung to her.
She would laugh internally at his despair every day but not to his face.
Never to his face.
He wished for a normal life.
How very silly indeed.
As if they could ever be anything other than enemies.
"I still loathe you," he had said one day.
She was in the last month of her confinement.
"But of course," she commented lightly.
His blonde was dirtier now, devoid of softness, and he had an almost manic look in his eyes.
He didn't love her.
No.
But he wanted to possess her.
In every way possible and she wasn't having any of that.
Really.
How idiotic could victors get at times.
"It—it's a girl," he had breathed out, a light sheen gracing his aristocratic features.
She had leaned against the headboard in pain, parting her lips.
"I want to name her Victoria."
He had nodded, carefully tucking in the newborn in his arms, and bent down to place her in the new crib.
A crib he had built with his own two hands.
Hermione had cried.
They'll know my name, when I rise again.
"Lucius..." she whispered quietly.
The green light erupting from his wand had been an unpleasant surprise.
For him.
She had watched, listless, as a lifeless form fell to the ground—his life ripped from his strong body with ridiculous ease.
Of course.
They'll know my name, when I shall rise... again and again.
"Send a message," she whispered to the golden brown otter and watched it hop away purposefully. "Tell them... to be ready."
She breathed deeply, the winter wind chilling her bones and she felt no fear.
Again and again.
So i wrote this story a long time back and just wanted to publish it I guess.
Let me know of your thoughts.
Please.
xoxo