Lazarus, Come From the Dead
Title: Lazarus, Come From the Dead
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Sirius Black
Rating: PG... maybe PG-13?
Other: Written for the January 5th challenge (dangers of death) for 30_hath. That's right, all of y'all; Sirius is back. HO BOY! <.< This kind of exists because I apparently enjoy using quotes... Title, cut-text, and quote are from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Eliottttttttt. And, uh, note to Harry? No trying to fuck around with reincarnation. Victor'll tell you, it's not a happy thing. Oh. Realized only at the end that a giant eye sounds like summit else... I assure you, Sauron has nothing to do with this. >.<
“Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile…
To say, ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all.’”
-T.S. Eliot-
Eyes flash open horrified to suddenly unfamiliar familiarity, eyes stricken by this sick all-pervasive light that he might have once loved but now shudders against, nauseated. Gagging on this hideous light and the fermented air, the tongue feels heavy, too thick, caught in the rough constricted throat. He might rip it out but for the unyielding hands, limbs wagging then twitching but unheeding of desperate commands. Useless.
Blood curdles sluggishly, unwilling in limp veins, interrupted from desirable sleep and now rebellious. Ugly in its forced state, blackened, ruined wholly. Flowing slowly, unable to force the rest and uncaring, wishing only to sleep in peace. Reluctant.
Undesired state of being.
This is my… not my… cold and quiet… Body. Departed. But no longer, what is this? Familiar. Wrong.
Unnatural.
(It was the boy who did it, the boy who in life had been important. He had ceased to matter with the end, the velvet quiet. No more need to rebel, to fight. Futile squabbles of the raucous world laid bare before his eyes, stripped of perceived glamour and he knew them for what they were, for their hideousness. All of it, hideous. Truth with the velvet darkness had been easier to accept; no longer his truth. He had been laid away from it. Observed, understood, accepted, and likened to the quiet.
But the boy had done something, ventured twisting paths and something, curdled burnt pages. Dark words whispered, stalking and then ripping through the softness to pull him away, thrusting him once again into the sickness.)
And to the sight, the senses.
A world of terror. Faces contorted, an eye wide unblinking blood-filled and watching, overseeing and directing. Flesh on strings dancing required steps. Laughing along capping applauding destruction even as they scream all together and all apart removed yet as one, scream at the inescapable designs of this eye they cannot see. But, oh, Sirius sees this eye.
Sees it all too clearly.
(They are terrified.)
Eyes rolling, uncontrolled, one way, the other, separately now so that they wander of their own accord, and still the blood one watches, commands. Mouth opens and inside he realizes, sees that this hideous hatch must tell them, make them see. Share all lest that eyeball that despair attack them without warning. Tell them they need not worry and that it matters not, not in the end and not ever. Force the mouth to move, the words to form. Warn.
A dry voices rattles, quiet at first, swift to raise in volume. Dry, rough, a series of somehow comprehensible barks, and he tells them, makes use of this rotting shell and its burden on him.
“It is of no avail.”
Harsh laughter. Ragged, repeating. “No avail. Misunderstanding!”
He shouts the injustice. He cannot stop shouting. It is imperative. He must shout forever, must make them understand, let them know. They are deceived. Deceived, but not to fear. It is only useless while alive.
(They flee from him, laughing ranting image of death returned.)
Still he shouts injustice.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Sirius Black
Rating: PG... maybe PG-13?
Other: Written for the January 5th challenge (dangers of death) for 30_hath. That's right, all of y'all; Sirius is back. HO BOY! <.< This kind of exists because I apparently enjoy using quotes... Title, cut-text, and quote are from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Eliottttttttt. And, uh, note to Harry? No trying to fuck around with reincarnation. Victor'll tell you, it's not a happy thing. Oh. Realized only at the end that a giant eye sounds like summit else... I assure you, Sauron has nothing to do with this. >.<
“Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile…
To say, ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all.’”
-T.S. Eliot-
Eyes flash open horrified to suddenly unfamiliar familiarity, eyes stricken by this sick all-pervasive light that he might have once loved but now shudders against, nauseated. Gagging on this hideous light and the fermented air, the tongue feels heavy, too thick, caught in the rough constricted throat. He might rip it out but for the unyielding hands, limbs wagging then twitching but unheeding of desperate commands. Useless.
Blood curdles sluggishly, unwilling in limp veins, interrupted from desirable sleep and now rebellious. Ugly in its forced state, blackened, ruined wholly. Flowing slowly, unable to force the rest and uncaring, wishing only to sleep in peace. Reluctant.
Undesired state of being.
This is my… not my… cold and quiet… Body. Departed. But no longer, what is this? Familiar. Wrong.
Unnatural.
(It was the boy who did it, the boy who in life had been important. He had ceased to matter with the end, the velvet quiet. No more need to rebel, to fight. Futile squabbles of the raucous world laid bare before his eyes, stripped of perceived glamour and he knew them for what they were, for their hideousness. All of it, hideous. Truth with the velvet darkness had been easier to accept; no longer his truth. He had been laid away from it. Observed, understood, accepted, and likened to the quiet.
But the boy had done something, ventured twisting paths and something, curdled burnt pages. Dark words whispered, stalking and then ripping through the softness to pull him away, thrusting him once again into the sickness.)
And to the sight, the senses.
A world of terror. Faces contorted, an eye wide unblinking blood-filled and watching, overseeing and directing. Flesh on strings dancing required steps. Laughing along capping applauding destruction even as they scream all together and all apart removed yet as one, scream at the inescapable designs of this eye they cannot see. But, oh, Sirius sees this eye.
Sees it all too clearly.
(They are terrified.)
Eyes rolling, uncontrolled, one way, the other, separately now so that they wander of their own accord, and still the blood one watches, commands. Mouth opens and inside he realizes, sees that this hideous hatch must tell them, make them see. Share all lest that eyeball that despair attack them without warning. Tell them they need not worry and that it matters not, not in the end and not ever. Force the mouth to move, the words to form. Warn.
A dry voices rattles, quiet at first, swift to raise in volume. Dry, rough, a series of somehow comprehensible barks, and he tells them, makes use of this rotting shell and its burden on him.
“It is of no avail.”
Harsh laughter. Ragged, repeating. “No avail. Misunderstanding!”
He shouts the injustice. He cannot stop shouting. It is imperative. He must shout forever, must make them understand, let them know. They are deceived. Deceived, but not to fear. It is only useless while alive.
(They flee from him, laughing ranting image of death returned.)
Still he shouts injustice.