Green and Dying
Title: Green and Dying
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Sirius Black
Rating: G
Other: The quote, title, and cut-text are from Dylan Thomas's "Fern Hill," which I certainly recommend reading. Have wanted to write something based on those particular lines for a couple of weeks now. Used and perhaps partially written for the December 21st challenge (forget summer) for 30_hath.
“Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.”
-Dylan Thomas-
Isolated in the silent stronghold of Azkaban, Sirius Black understands at last that nothing has ever been quite right. Alone and undisturbed he sees clearly. The years that had passed were masked in their own way, truths hidden from his unknowing eyes. Everything seemed different, but was really quite the same. The walls around him, dirty and unyielding, affirm this fact. His own ever-roughening voice could speak testament to it. He-all of them-had viewed life as if through the depths of a river, rippled and distorted, though beautiful.
The childhood summers had been the most innocent of years. Years spent with his brother, with his cousins, all of them brought together by the close bonds of family and all that it entailed. For the children, family meant playmates and understanding. Years of this family understanding, well before the whispers of ominous words became concreted. Terms meant nothing, intruding as sounds without complications. What was the use of “pureblood” when there were games to be played? The word itself carried only the vaguest of connotations, a collection of impressions taken from the overwhelming adults. Trees and brambles were far more enticing than any abstract term; thorns and the occasional snake posed far graver threats.
Those had been the years of natural and complete companionship, years of sublimely shared undercurrents. They hadn’t needed the complications of words, preferring nuances of expressions and motions, gestures and even their intertwining thoughts. They had been united in the only world they knew. Their land was one of freedom and joy and experience. It was a land where hallways and forest paths alike gave way before them and spoke to them. Towering, delicate walls, invisible though they were, kept the truth of infected terms outside, holding back the world of pureblood and hatred and traitor and cursed. Life had been what they made of it, an adventure of eternal renewal.
Their eternity had broken. With the passage of years came another era, still innocent in its own way, but more exposed, more open to the world. The years of school and a new division had brought new friends and new alliances, a different turn on experience that came with a reconfiguring of loyalty and uncertain ideals. More importantly, these years had heralded a new understanding of words, giving new reality to smoky, shifting shapes. Suddenly, “pureblood” became a vile insult, associated with some strange of superiority that grew as divisions deepened. The word “traitor,” earlier overheard but cast aside, became uncomfortably familiar to his ears. Old faces had taken on something different. In what was once welcoming grew something distinctly unfriendly.
Unsettling, the divisions. Yet in the main, even those days had been bright, filled with potential and still with a certain naiveté, a belief that all could turn out very well. They sensed the possibilities of life and grasped what the good, seizing the sparkling opportunities, grasping what light they could. They had made a place for themselves in this new realm. There were new adventures, new paths to tread, new voices to learn well and adore. As a group close to kin, they settled a new world to rely on, and found that it served them well for years.
Yet everything shattered. Family passed and school passed and suddenly there was the world, a place of real words and actions. The real world was where the words suddenly flashed displays of their power, bringing death and vengeance, and solidity to those terms that had drifted free for so long. Reality struck the fragile freedom, made jagged edges of their smooth glass world.
Sirius understands all of this. As he sits, abandoned if not wholly forgotten, he orders these memories, looks upon them coldly. There is no cause for joy, no reason for fond memory if he is able to see the monstrous truths that have been ever-present. The happiest of times, days spent tumbling under the sun, had never been so glad as they had seemed. There was no escaping the restrains of time, no escaping the inevitability of a cold and very real tragedy. Nothing remained simple, nothing ever was simple. The ignorance of youth may have given him cause for joy when younger, but glancing again at the filthy cell, Sirius knows that ignorance did nothing to stave off the future.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Sirius Black
Rating: G
Other: The quote, title, and cut-text are from Dylan Thomas's "Fern Hill," which I certainly recommend reading. Have wanted to write something based on those particular lines for a couple of weeks now. Used and perhaps partially written for the December 21st challenge (forget summer) for 30_hath.
“Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.”
-Dylan Thomas-
Isolated in the silent stronghold of Azkaban, Sirius Black understands at last that nothing has ever been quite right. Alone and undisturbed he sees clearly. The years that had passed were masked in their own way, truths hidden from his unknowing eyes. Everything seemed different, but was really quite the same. The walls around him, dirty and unyielding, affirm this fact. His own ever-roughening voice could speak testament to it. He-all of them-had viewed life as if through the depths of a river, rippled and distorted, though beautiful.
The childhood summers had been the most innocent of years. Years spent with his brother, with his cousins, all of them brought together by the close bonds of family and all that it entailed. For the children, family meant playmates and understanding. Years of this family understanding, well before the whispers of ominous words became concreted. Terms meant nothing, intruding as sounds without complications. What was the use of “pureblood” when there were games to be played? The word itself carried only the vaguest of connotations, a collection of impressions taken from the overwhelming adults. Trees and brambles were far more enticing than any abstract term; thorns and the occasional snake posed far graver threats.
Those had been the years of natural and complete companionship, years of sublimely shared undercurrents. They hadn’t needed the complications of words, preferring nuances of expressions and motions, gestures and even their intertwining thoughts. They had been united in the only world they knew. Their land was one of freedom and joy and experience. It was a land where hallways and forest paths alike gave way before them and spoke to them. Towering, delicate walls, invisible though they were, kept the truth of infected terms outside, holding back the world of pureblood and hatred and traitor and cursed. Life had been what they made of it, an adventure of eternal renewal.
Their eternity had broken. With the passage of years came another era, still innocent in its own way, but more exposed, more open to the world. The years of school and a new division had brought new friends and new alliances, a different turn on experience that came with a reconfiguring of loyalty and uncertain ideals. More importantly, these years had heralded a new understanding of words, giving new reality to smoky, shifting shapes. Suddenly, “pureblood” became a vile insult, associated with some strange of superiority that grew as divisions deepened. The word “traitor,” earlier overheard but cast aside, became uncomfortably familiar to his ears. Old faces had taken on something different. In what was once welcoming grew something distinctly unfriendly.
Unsettling, the divisions. Yet in the main, even those days had been bright, filled with potential and still with a certain naiveté, a belief that all could turn out very well. They sensed the possibilities of life and grasped what the good, seizing the sparkling opportunities, grasping what light they could. They had made a place for themselves in this new realm. There were new adventures, new paths to tread, new voices to learn well and adore. As a group close to kin, they settled a new world to rely on, and found that it served them well for years.
Yet everything shattered. Family passed and school passed and suddenly there was the world, a place of real words and actions. The real world was where the words suddenly flashed displays of their power, bringing death and vengeance, and solidity to those terms that had drifted free for so long. Reality struck the fragile freedom, made jagged edges of their smooth glass world.
Sirius understands all of this. As he sits, abandoned if not wholly forgotten, he orders these memories, looks upon them coldly. There is no cause for joy, no reason for fond memory if he is able to see the monstrous truths that have been ever-present. The happiest of times, days spent tumbling under the sun, had never been so glad as they had seemed. There was no escaping the restrains of time, no escaping the inevitability of a cold and very real tragedy. Nothing remained simple, nothing ever was simple. The ignorance of youth may have given him cause for joy when younger, but glancing again at the filthy cell, Sirius knows that ignorance did nothing to stave off the future.