Letting Go
Title: Letting Go
Prompt: Yearn
Character: Alastor Moody
Warnings: Spoilers for HP & the Deathly Hallows.
Pairings: Alastor Moody/Penelope Clearwater
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word count: 1,098
Rating: R
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns them. And I'm really not happy about that right now.
Looking down, it's as if the world has turned over. Darkness above, and city lights so far below him they seem no more than a scattering of stars. For a moment- one single frozen instant- he sees nothing else. A glance up, and the darkness is gone, brilliant flashes of green and red splitting the darkness. He sees the others then, brooms swerving, curses flying from their wands, their silhouettes growing smaller against the sky as he falls. Go, you fools! They know better to stay and fight, or they'd damned well better know, because there's no way they can win this. Tonight, winning isn't the objective. Getting away is, and he hopes to Gods they remember that. If they've forgotten, there's not a damned thing Alastor Moody can do about it- and not a damn thing he can do for them either. Truth be told, he has his own problems.
Like the way the brightness below him is resolving into its true form, the city lights of London rushing up to meet him. It's not going to be a friendly sort of greeting.
Gods damn you, Mundungus Fletcher. If I live through this, you sorry fuck, you're going to wish you were never born.
He refuses to think that he might not survive. Of all the things that might have killed him over the years- all the ones that should have- he'll be damned if this is the one that finally does it. He refuses to die here, like this, a splatter on the concrete for no better reason than Fletcher's cowardice.
He's always been aware on some level that he isn't likely to have an easy death, or a quiet one. In some ways he's grateful for this. A death for the cause would be a death with meaning. A death that at the least accomplished something. He doesn't look for death, not anymore. Not having outlived- thank Gods- the suicidal tendencies of his youth, when he thought he'd lost everything and there was nothing left to live for. He'd been wrong about that, though it had taken a few decades before that lesson really managed to sink in.
Excepting those years when death seemed like the easiest way to make the pain stop, he always would have fought this. Giving his life in this fight doesn't mean he'll offer it up in sacrifice, not if there is any other way. But when he pictures this moment- when he wakes, shaking, from nightmares of his own death- he has never seen it this way. He's thought of giving his life to save others. To hold a line that has to be held. He's thought of his death as his last great defiance against the ones who killed him, the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters who once destroyed everything he thought he'd ever love.
When he finally learned that he was wrong, it changed everything. It changed the idea of his death, of what it could or might mean. Now there is only one way he would make the sacrifice as easily as if he were drawing a breath. Only one way he would choose this.
He's trying hard not to think of her now as he's falling. Trying not to think... He feels the tears upon his cheek, colder than ice in the night air. Feels the strange frozen horror of this moment closing in around him...
Everything he's been through, everything he's seen and done and survived... Everything he has to live for, and it ends here, now, like this?
NO!
Murmur of a voice, soft, familiar, beloved. Feeling of hands on his skin, slender fingers tracing his scars.
"Come back to me," she whispers.
"Don't I always, lass? Don't I always?"
"Promise me."
He hesitates. "Lass, you know I can't-"
She laughs softly. "Gryffindors. Your word is everything to you, isn't it?"
"You are everything to me," he says, his voice husky.
Her kiss is so deep it bruises, and he can still feel it even now.
He realizes now it was the last time he was ever going to hold her.
NO!
Her slender hands settle his cloak over his shoulders, lingering just a moment. Fingers reaching up, stroking his cheeks. They have done this countless times. There is little left to say that hasn't already been said. She says most of it anyway, and he says the rest, because he has seen too much, and they never known, not really. All the promises he can't speak, because they never know. All of the times he's tried to leave with no more than some flippant remark. All the times he's turned back, pulled her into his arms and kissed her with everything he has. All the times he's said he loves her, that he will always love her, no matter what.
All of the things those kisses and those embraces have promised- not the things he can't say, but the ones he won't. The promises that he will give everything he has to come back to her. Always unspoken, the knowledge that if he doesn't return to her it is because he can't.
No...
Her smile, brighter than he's ever seen it. "Alastor..."
He holds her gently now, so gently. He kisses her forehead. "Penelope."
"I didn't want to say- not until I was sure-"
He feels himself grinning. "Don't have to, sweetheart. Your aura's never been so bright. Or so beautiful."
She shakes her head, laughing. "You know?"
He nods slowly, shyly. "I thought- I wasn't really sure, but I-"
He feels her hands slip into his. Gently draw them towards her, and bring them to rest over her stomach. He can't feel anything yet, not with touch alone. But if he closes his eyes, lets her aura wash over him, then he knows. "Gods, you're beautiful. The both of you."
She smiles. "Come back to me, Alastor Moody. To us."
"Don't I always?"
No, oh Gods, no...
The pain, when it comes, is unspeakable. Blinding, for a moment, an agony so sharp and so deep that he has never known its like.
There are voices, and there is movement. He feels something tearing loose. Feels the loss of something, but the shattering pain overwhelms any other senses. He can't see, or move, or fight. Or feel anything but the pain.
Can't do anything, except let go. Let go of the world around him, let go of the pain, of this last battle he cannot win.
Draw one last breath. Let it out.
"I love you. I will always love you."
Prompt: Yearn
Character: Alastor Moody
Warnings: Spoilers for HP & the Deathly Hallows.
Pairings: Alastor Moody/Penelope Clearwater
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word count: 1,098
Rating: R
Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns them. And I'm really not happy about that right now.
Looking down, it's as if the world has turned over. Darkness above, and city lights so far below him they seem no more than a scattering of stars. For a moment- one single frozen instant- he sees nothing else. A glance up, and the darkness is gone, brilliant flashes of green and red splitting the darkness. He sees the others then, brooms swerving, curses flying from their wands, their silhouettes growing smaller against the sky as he falls. Go, you fools! They know better to stay and fight, or they'd damned well better know, because there's no way they can win this. Tonight, winning isn't the objective. Getting away is, and he hopes to Gods they remember that. If they've forgotten, there's not a damned thing Alastor Moody can do about it- and not a damn thing he can do for them either. Truth be told, he has his own problems.
Like the way the brightness below him is resolving into its true form, the city lights of London rushing up to meet him. It's not going to be a friendly sort of greeting.
Gods damn you, Mundungus Fletcher. If I live through this, you sorry fuck, you're going to wish you were never born.
He refuses to think that he might not survive. Of all the things that might have killed him over the years- all the ones that should have- he'll be damned if this is the one that finally does it. He refuses to die here, like this, a splatter on the concrete for no better reason than Fletcher's cowardice.
He's always been aware on some level that he isn't likely to have an easy death, or a quiet one. In some ways he's grateful for this. A death for the cause would be a death with meaning. A death that at the least accomplished something. He doesn't look for death, not anymore. Not having outlived- thank Gods- the suicidal tendencies of his youth, when he thought he'd lost everything and there was nothing left to live for. He'd been wrong about that, though it had taken a few decades before that lesson really managed to sink in.
Excepting those years when death seemed like the easiest way to make the pain stop, he always would have fought this. Giving his life in this fight doesn't mean he'll offer it up in sacrifice, not if there is any other way. But when he pictures this moment- when he wakes, shaking, from nightmares of his own death- he has never seen it this way. He's thought of giving his life to save others. To hold a line that has to be held. He's thought of his death as his last great defiance against the ones who killed him, the Dark Lord and the Death Eaters who once destroyed everything he thought he'd ever love.
When he finally learned that he was wrong, it changed everything. It changed the idea of his death, of what it could or might mean. Now there is only one way he would make the sacrifice as easily as if he were drawing a breath. Only one way he would choose this.
He's trying hard not to think of her now as he's falling. Trying not to think... He feels the tears upon his cheek, colder than ice in the night air. Feels the strange frozen horror of this moment closing in around him...
Everything he's been through, everything he's seen and done and survived... Everything he has to live for, and it ends here, now, like this?
NO!
Murmur of a voice, soft, familiar, beloved. Feeling of hands on his skin, slender fingers tracing his scars.
"Come back to me," she whispers.
"Don't I always, lass? Don't I always?"
"Promise me."
He hesitates. "Lass, you know I can't-"
She laughs softly. "Gryffindors. Your word is everything to you, isn't it?"
"You are everything to me," he says, his voice husky.
Her kiss is so deep it bruises, and he can still feel it even now.
He realizes now it was the last time he was ever going to hold her.
NO!
Her slender hands settle his cloak over his shoulders, lingering just a moment. Fingers reaching up, stroking his cheeks. They have done this countless times. There is little left to say that hasn't already been said. She says most of it anyway, and he says the rest, because he has seen too much, and they never known, not really. All the promises he can't speak, because they never know. All of the times he's tried to leave with no more than some flippant remark. All the times he's turned back, pulled her into his arms and kissed her with everything he has. All the times he's said he loves her, that he will always love her, no matter what.
All of the things those kisses and those embraces have promised- not the things he can't say, but the ones he won't. The promises that he will give everything he has to come back to her. Always unspoken, the knowledge that if he doesn't return to her it is because he can't.
No...
Her smile, brighter than he's ever seen it. "Alastor..."
He holds her gently now, so gently. He kisses her forehead. "Penelope."
"I didn't want to say- not until I was sure-"
He feels himself grinning. "Don't have to, sweetheart. Your aura's never been so bright. Or so beautiful."
She shakes her head, laughing. "You know?"
He nods slowly, shyly. "I thought- I wasn't really sure, but I-"
He feels her hands slip into his. Gently draw them towards her, and bring them to rest over her stomach. He can't feel anything yet, not with touch alone. But if he closes his eyes, lets her aura wash over him, then he knows. "Gods, you're beautiful. The both of you."
She smiles. "Come back to me, Alastor Moody. To us."
"Don't I always?"
No, oh Gods, no...
The pain, when it comes, is unspeakable. Blinding, for a moment, an agony so sharp and so deep that he has never known its like.
There are voices, and there is movement. He feels something tearing loose. Feels the loss of something, but the shattering pain overwhelms any other senses. He can't see, or move, or fight. Or feel anything but the pain.
Can't do anything, except let go. Let go of the world around him, let go of the pain, of this last battle he cannot win.
Draw one last breath. Let it out.
"I love you. I will always love you."