Ficlet: Patience
Title: Patience
Author: hydrogen2oxygen / above_a_whisper
Rating: PG
Summary: It is hard to have patience with people who say "There is no death" or "Death doesn't matter." There is death. And whatever is matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible. You might as well say that birth doesn't matter. -- C. S. Lewis
Author's Note: You won't believe this actually started out as a happy story. How it morphed into this, I haven't a clue, but it did break my writer's block. That's got to count for something.
It's the waiting that gets him. He knows it's going to come, like watching a train rolling steady down the tracks. It's practically inevitable. Unless you are a mad wizard, then perhaps it is simply unobtainable, he believes. In this time and age, it's around every corner, in every home, and behind every bush. He knows it's going to happen to him - it's happening to everyone else he knows. Caradoc has patience to wait for it; he's not one to rush things, especially this. Although he knows it is morbid, everything is in order just in case.
There are consequences, of course, should it ever happen to him. Plans will be undone - it's the thing he's most scared of. Missions and intelligence gathering will halt briefly as members scurry to readjust the plans because of his untimely absence. What he's working on could be completely destroyed, and the information could be lost. People will be worried, something that upsets him, but he figures by then he won't have any say in the matter. News reports and paper filling will be done. He can only hope the Prophet doesn't put him on the front page. No need to torture his family like that.
When it finally does happen, Caradoc isn't as surprised as he knows he should be. He doesn't turn his back like a coward, he doesn't scream or cry; he struggles and fights. All of the spells, charms, jinxes, and hexes he has ever learned come rushing back, and he tries every single one of them in an attempt to escape. Once his wand fails, he tries for the more brutal approach - tearing at cloaks and clawing at white masks. But it doesn't last any longer than his attempts with his wand. Soon his hands are pulled behind his back, a gag in his mouth, and then there is blackness bringing a brief relief from reality.
Awakening in a strange room, his vision is blurry, and people are questioning him. It's the same question over and over, yet no matter how many times they ask, his answer is the same: he doesn't know. There's pain - oh, yes, there is pain beyond imagination, and his throat is raw from screaming to let them know so - but it doesn't change the fact he still doesn't know. But he does know, in the moments pause between the spells, even if he did, he would never tell.
Someone gets in his face. Does he want to die, he's asked. Caradoc squints and doesn't say a word. No, he doesn't, but it's not really a choice. His words wouldn't mean a thing. The person sneers, and it's as if said out loud. This is it. He recognizes now his angel of death and stares them straight in the face during the last moments, trying to think of anything else other than this. He doesn't want it to be his last memory.
Summers in Leeds, winters at Hogwarts, friends, family, girls, guys. A quick snog in the darken corridor, a passing mark in Herbology; the day he was accepted into the Unspeakable Department. The photo the Order took months before, when everyone was still happy. His smile, her laugh - the warmth of a hug. His mind is racing, and it's a blessing because he's unable to see the wand point at his chest.
Now all he has to do is wait.
Author: hydrogen2oxygen / above_a_whisper
Rating: PG
Summary: It is hard to have patience with people who say "There is no death" or "Death doesn't matter." There is death. And whatever is matters. And whatever happens has consequences, and it and they are irrevocable and irreversible. You might as well say that birth doesn't matter. -- C. S. Lewis
Author's Note: You won't believe this actually started out as a happy story. How it morphed into this, I haven't a clue, but it did break my writer's block. That's got to count for something.
It's the waiting that gets him. He knows it's going to come, like watching a train rolling steady down the tracks. It's practically inevitable. Unless you are a mad wizard, then perhaps it is simply unobtainable, he believes. In this time and age, it's around every corner, in every home, and behind every bush. He knows it's going to happen to him - it's happening to everyone else he knows. Caradoc has patience to wait for it; he's not one to rush things, especially this. Although he knows it is morbid, everything is in order just in case.
There are consequences, of course, should it ever happen to him. Plans will be undone - it's the thing he's most scared of. Missions and intelligence gathering will halt briefly as members scurry to readjust the plans because of his untimely absence. What he's working on could be completely destroyed, and the information could be lost. People will be worried, something that upsets him, but he figures by then he won't have any say in the matter. News reports and paper filling will be done. He can only hope the Prophet doesn't put him on the front page. No need to torture his family like that.
When it finally does happen, Caradoc isn't as surprised as he knows he should be. He doesn't turn his back like a coward, he doesn't scream or cry; he struggles and fights. All of the spells, charms, jinxes, and hexes he has ever learned come rushing back, and he tries every single one of them in an attempt to escape. Once his wand fails, he tries for the more brutal approach - tearing at cloaks and clawing at white masks. But it doesn't last any longer than his attempts with his wand. Soon his hands are pulled behind his back, a gag in his mouth, and then there is blackness bringing a brief relief from reality.
Awakening in a strange room, his vision is blurry, and people are questioning him. It's the same question over and over, yet no matter how many times they ask, his answer is the same: he doesn't know. There's pain - oh, yes, there is pain beyond imagination, and his throat is raw from screaming to let them know so - but it doesn't change the fact he still doesn't know. But he does know, in the moments pause between the spells, even if he did, he would never tell.
Someone gets in his face. Does he want to die, he's asked. Caradoc squints and doesn't say a word. No, he doesn't, but it's not really a choice. His words wouldn't mean a thing. The person sneers, and it's as if said out loud. This is it. He recognizes now his angel of death and stares them straight in the face during the last moments, trying to think of anything else other than this. He doesn't want it to be his last memory.
Summers in Leeds, winters at Hogwarts, friends, family, girls, guys. A quick snog in the darken corridor, a passing mark in Herbology; the day he was accepted into the Unspeakable Department. The photo the Order took months before, when everyone was still happy. His smile, her laugh - the warmth of a hug. His mind is racing, and it's a blessing because he's unable to see the wand point at his chest.
Now all he has to do is wait.