FIC: Sojourn (Poetry Challenge)
Title: Sojourn
Author: tarnationawaits
Pairing: Remus/Ron
Rating: PG (Warnings for pre-story non-graphic character death, angst)
Notes: Written for stellamaru’s Poetry Challenge.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
--Keats, "La Belle Dame Sans Merci."
And so it was that the war that defined an age came to an end, not with the expected dramatic explosions, but with a desperately willed whisper. Lord Voldemort lay dead, a broken form at the feet of Harry Potter, Savior of the wizarding world and herald to a new era.
There were some who lived to see this end, but many did not. With nothing left to consume him but his grief, Harry turned to the Veil, seeking to reclaim what he could of that which he’d lost. Remus never forgave himself for being one minute too late, and many nights he lay awake in a world of if-onlys, hoping that Harry had at last found what he sought.
After The Ascension, as it came to be called, the Veil was taken from the ruins of the Ministry and moved to stand as a sacred tribute, and Remus, on a mission of love and misplaced guilt, became its guardian. As Keeper of the Wards, Remus watched as each day well wishers came to lay flowers and mementos at the site. There were many at first; then fewer and fewer, until at last only one made the sojourn, arriving each morning and staying long into the night.
Time passed, and each morning Remus watched for the inevitable appearance of the distinctive red hair, a trait so rare in these late days. None of the other visitors had approached the gateway, always coming only as close as necessary, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe as they placed their offerings carefully upon the stone floor. But each day, the lone figure silently moved a step closer until one afternoon Remus came to stand behind the gaunt form, a firm but gentle hand on the shoulder preventing the next step that would undoubtedly set off the wards. That day was the first time the man spoke to Remus.
“I can see him.” The voice was broken, cracked from disuse and twisted with the crushing forces of despair and hope.
“I know, Ron,” Remus said softly. And he did. For sometimes, late at night through eyes half-blurred from sorrow, he too saw everything he wished to find beyond the Veil’s deceptive surface.
They stood there in silence, neither conceding an inch, until the sun had fallen below the spinning Earth and a cool breeze wrought subtle shivers down each man’s spine. As the crescent moon rose, Ron turned, unspeaking, and slowly made his way down the hill. Remus did not doubt he would return in the morning.
The cruelty of the Veil, Remus knew well, was its greed. Never content with what it had taken, it sought to consume the lives of all it touched. And consume it did. To the ones left behind, the missing loved one had not met a fate so simple as death. With nothing left to hold, the only thing to cling to was the burning spark of doubt, a wavering uncertainty which festered and grew until it became an obsession of maybes. The stone archway silently taunted, holding its ground as the survivors were inexorably drawn to it. Sometimes, when it had chosen correctly, the figure standing before it would have nothing left to lose and in a moment of blind purpose, the Veil’s desire would be fulfilled once more.
Ron had said his goodbyes to his family and friends, empty shells and a row of solemn stones serving as tangible reminders of the finality of death. But Harry had left behind no such proof, and for this reason Remus knew Ron would not - perhaps could not - believe him truly gone. When Ron approached the next morning, Remus vowed to break this bruising hold the only way he knew how.
“Do you remember,” Remus began quietly, taking his place behind Ron as had the day before, “the time the twins tested their new hiccupping powder by putting some in Harry’s tea at that Order meeting? Severus was furious,” Remus chuckled softly, “Shooting Harry nasty glances and muttering about insolence and disruptions. I’m quite certain that Harry continued his hiccupping long after the powder had worn off just to spite him.”
Ron said nothing and did not move, nor did his eyes leave the dreary scene before him. But when Remus cocked his head to look at Ron’s face, he caught the end of a faint smile, and for the moment it was enough.
“And the time,” Remus spoke again, stronger this time, “Harry tricked Hermione into going up on his Firebolt after Quidditch practice your 6th year? She shrieked like a banshee and clung to him for dear life. At least until she saw his look of utter bliss at being back in the air. I daresay it was contagious. He just loved to fly. She was never afraid after that.” He paused for a moment, before continuing, “And I’ll never forget when...”
Remus went on this way until dusk fell, beginning again the next morning, and the next. Ron arrived each day, and stood in the same place as Remus stood with him, holding him gently and weaving memories with words. His stories were scattered at first, snapshots and moments that sprang most easily to mind, but slowly his telling evolved into a rich and winding tale, beginning from the moment Remus had first laid eyes upon Harry as an infant, and then again as a young man on the Hogwart’s Express, continuing through his short but eventful life. It was no epic account of a hero, because to those who had known and loved him, it was not about the Boy-Who-Lived, not the hope of the wizarding world, but Harry. Just a boy turned man who unconsciously messed up his hair when he was thinking about something, and had an insistent and insatiable sweet tooth, and swore when he was angry.
After awhile, though Remus could not pinpoint just when it had happened, Ron stopped pulling away, seemingly less urgent to reach the Veil and more content to simply lean back against Remus and listen. Their days together became nearly comfortable, almost lazy, as Remus would sink to the ground and Ron would take his seat in front of him, resting against the older man and staring into the past as Remus’ soft voice washed over him. Though he never spoke or turned to meet Remus’ eyes, sometimes an unexpected laugh would escape Ron’s lips or an errant tear would make its way down a freckled cheek.
It was late one afternoon, as Remus spoke of the fierce determination with which Harry had left the others behind to face Voldemort alone, and afterwards his equally fierce insistence at going out for ice cream after “a hard day’s work”, that Ron finally broke. He turned his face to Remus’ chest, beating it ineffectually with balled fists as ragged sobs wracked his body. Remus did not try to quiet him, nor did he let his own anguish show until he was alone again under the unassuming night sky.
The next day, Ron came later than usual, and Remus was caught between sickening worry and the beginnings of hope until he saw the familiar face bobbing up the hill.
“Good morning, Ron,” Remus greeted him as he always did, and for the first time, Ron nodded in return. He did not approach the Veil this day, but instead waited for Remus to settle behind him before sitting down and curling back against him.
Remus ran his hand through Ron’s soft hair as he took a deep breath and thought of a way to begin the last story he had to tell. Closing his eyes, he spoke of something he had described fully to no one else, though it had played time and again in his own mind. He told Ron of finding Harry’s letter and Apparating to the Ministry. How he had rushed to the chamber just in time to see Harry step beyond the Veil. Of the gentle shake of his head and the soft smile that Harry had shot over his shoulder as he disappeared. And, finally, how his first thought before the realization of loss hit was that it was the first time in a long while that he could recall Harry looking truly happy.
They sat in silence for a long time, until Ron spoke at last. “I don’t...see him. Anymore. Not there, not in that...thing,” he gestured to the structure before them. “Only when I close my eyes. Then I see him laugh.”
When Ron finally turned from the Veil and looked into Remus’ face, his eyes were no longer filled with the sorrows of yesterday but instead held the promise of tomorrow.
Remus smiled.
That night they walked together down the hill. They did not return in the morning.
Author: tarnationawaits
Pairing: Remus/Ron
Rating: PG (Warnings for pre-story non-graphic character death, angst)
Notes: Written for stellamaru’s Poetry Challenge.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
--Keats, "La Belle Dame Sans Merci."
And so it was that the war that defined an age came to an end, not with the expected dramatic explosions, but with a desperately willed whisper. Lord Voldemort lay dead, a broken form at the feet of Harry Potter, Savior of the wizarding world and herald to a new era.
There were some who lived to see this end, but many did not. With nothing left to consume him but his grief, Harry turned to the Veil, seeking to reclaim what he could of that which he’d lost. Remus never forgave himself for being one minute too late, and many nights he lay awake in a world of if-onlys, hoping that Harry had at last found what he sought.
After The Ascension, as it came to be called, the Veil was taken from the ruins of the Ministry and moved to stand as a sacred tribute, and Remus, on a mission of love and misplaced guilt, became its guardian. As Keeper of the Wards, Remus watched as each day well wishers came to lay flowers and mementos at the site. There were many at first; then fewer and fewer, until at last only one made the sojourn, arriving each morning and staying long into the night.
Time passed, and each morning Remus watched for the inevitable appearance of the distinctive red hair, a trait so rare in these late days. None of the other visitors had approached the gateway, always coming only as close as necessary, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe as they placed their offerings carefully upon the stone floor. But each day, the lone figure silently moved a step closer until one afternoon Remus came to stand behind the gaunt form, a firm but gentle hand on the shoulder preventing the next step that would undoubtedly set off the wards. That day was the first time the man spoke to Remus.
“I can see him.” The voice was broken, cracked from disuse and twisted with the crushing forces of despair and hope.
“I know, Ron,” Remus said softly. And he did. For sometimes, late at night through eyes half-blurred from sorrow, he too saw everything he wished to find beyond the Veil’s deceptive surface.
They stood there in silence, neither conceding an inch, until the sun had fallen below the spinning Earth and a cool breeze wrought subtle shivers down each man’s spine. As the crescent moon rose, Ron turned, unspeaking, and slowly made his way down the hill. Remus did not doubt he would return in the morning.
The cruelty of the Veil, Remus knew well, was its greed. Never content with what it had taken, it sought to consume the lives of all it touched. And consume it did. To the ones left behind, the missing loved one had not met a fate so simple as death. With nothing left to hold, the only thing to cling to was the burning spark of doubt, a wavering uncertainty which festered and grew until it became an obsession of maybes. The stone archway silently taunted, holding its ground as the survivors were inexorably drawn to it. Sometimes, when it had chosen correctly, the figure standing before it would have nothing left to lose and in a moment of blind purpose, the Veil’s desire would be fulfilled once more.
Ron had said his goodbyes to his family and friends, empty shells and a row of solemn stones serving as tangible reminders of the finality of death. But Harry had left behind no such proof, and for this reason Remus knew Ron would not - perhaps could not - believe him truly gone. When Ron approached the next morning, Remus vowed to break this bruising hold the only way he knew how.
“Do you remember,” Remus began quietly, taking his place behind Ron as had the day before, “the time the twins tested their new hiccupping powder by putting some in Harry’s tea at that Order meeting? Severus was furious,” Remus chuckled softly, “Shooting Harry nasty glances and muttering about insolence and disruptions. I’m quite certain that Harry continued his hiccupping long after the powder had worn off just to spite him.”
Ron said nothing and did not move, nor did his eyes leave the dreary scene before him. But when Remus cocked his head to look at Ron’s face, he caught the end of a faint smile, and for the moment it was enough.
“And the time,” Remus spoke again, stronger this time, “Harry tricked Hermione into going up on his Firebolt after Quidditch practice your 6th year? She shrieked like a banshee and clung to him for dear life. At least until she saw his look of utter bliss at being back in the air. I daresay it was contagious. He just loved to fly. She was never afraid after that.” He paused for a moment, before continuing, “And I’ll never forget when...”
Remus went on this way until dusk fell, beginning again the next morning, and the next. Ron arrived each day, and stood in the same place as Remus stood with him, holding him gently and weaving memories with words. His stories were scattered at first, snapshots and moments that sprang most easily to mind, but slowly his telling evolved into a rich and winding tale, beginning from the moment Remus had first laid eyes upon Harry as an infant, and then again as a young man on the Hogwart’s Express, continuing through his short but eventful life. It was no epic account of a hero, because to those who had known and loved him, it was not about the Boy-Who-Lived, not the hope of the wizarding world, but Harry. Just a boy turned man who unconsciously messed up his hair when he was thinking about something, and had an insistent and insatiable sweet tooth, and swore when he was angry.
After awhile, though Remus could not pinpoint just when it had happened, Ron stopped pulling away, seemingly less urgent to reach the Veil and more content to simply lean back against Remus and listen. Their days together became nearly comfortable, almost lazy, as Remus would sink to the ground and Ron would take his seat in front of him, resting against the older man and staring into the past as Remus’ soft voice washed over him. Though he never spoke or turned to meet Remus’ eyes, sometimes an unexpected laugh would escape Ron’s lips or an errant tear would make its way down a freckled cheek.
It was late one afternoon, as Remus spoke of the fierce determination with which Harry had left the others behind to face Voldemort alone, and afterwards his equally fierce insistence at going out for ice cream after “a hard day’s work”, that Ron finally broke. He turned his face to Remus’ chest, beating it ineffectually with balled fists as ragged sobs wracked his body. Remus did not try to quiet him, nor did he let his own anguish show until he was alone again under the unassuming night sky.
The next day, Ron came later than usual, and Remus was caught between sickening worry and the beginnings of hope until he saw the familiar face bobbing up the hill.
“Good morning, Ron,” Remus greeted him as he always did, and for the first time, Ron nodded in return. He did not approach the Veil this day, but instead waited for Remus to settle behind him before sitting down and curling back against him.
Remus ran his hand through Ron’s soft hair as he took a deep breath and thought of a way to begin the last story he had to tell. Closing his eyes, he spoke of something he had described fully to no one else, though it had played time and again in his own mind. He told Ron of finding Harry’s letter and Apparating to the Ministry. How he had rushed to the chamber just in time to see Harry step beyond the Veil. Of the gentle shake of his head and the soft smile that Harry had shot over his shoulder as he disappeared. And, finally, how his first thought before the realization of loss hit was that it was the first time in a long while that he could recall Harry looking truly happy.
They sat in silence for a long time, until Ron spoke at last. “I don’t...see him. Anymore. Not there, not in that...thing,” he gestured to the structure before them. “Only when I close my eyes. Then I see him laugh.”
When Ron finally turned from the Veil and looked into Remus’ face, his eyes were no longer filled with the sorrows of yesterday but instead held the promise of tomorrow.
Remus smiled.
That night they walked together down the hill. They did not return in the morning.