RP: The End of Avoidance
Date: November 3, 2004
Characters: Roger Davies
Location: At the Otter River, in Devon
Status: public
Summary: Roger gets the news, and realizes he can't run anymore.
Completion: Complete
The afternoon sun beamed brightly onto the rocks embedded in the banks of the Otter River. It cast an otherworldly sparkle onto the clear and babbling surface of the water. On a day like this, in certain shallower spots, one could look straight through to the rocks submerged at the bottom.
As he walked along the river’s edge with no particular destination in mind, Roger Sebastian Davies remembered that not so long ago this river had run red with blood.
It was the beginning of November and it didn’t seem to Roger that it should be this warm, still. Although he wouldn’t feel warm if it were high noon in the middle of July.
Roger had apparated here from his parents’ sprawling estate just outside of Exeter. What had been left of his parents’ home, that is. His childhood home. A home, Roger mused, that he hadn’t seen in over two years. Those two years had changed him into a person he scarcely recognized himself. And any hope he had of touching ground with the parents that he had walked out on long ago was dashed in the few seconds it took for him to be told that they were both dead.
As he ambled along the bank of the river, he remembered the buzz that had filled his ears as the messenger had sympathetically given him the details, and remembered the last words he’d said to his parents. Words that it was now too late to retract.
Roger was suddenly, irrevocably, alone.
As grief began to creep in the likes of which he hadn’t felt since Bryna died, and the pastoral silence of the riverbed became much too oppressive, he wished for someone, anyone he could fight, rage at, strangle, hex into oblivion.
“ ‘ave you ‘eard? E’s done it again!”
Roger had been thinking more along the lines of “Death Eater” than the old whiskery bloke* that staggered up to him and shook his shoulders abruptly.
“What?” Rogers voice was gruff from disuse, and from the lump that had been forming in his throat.
“ ‘E’s dead!” the craggy old man shook Roger again. “ ‘Arry Potter’s killed him- You Know Who!”
“Father, leave the young man alone.” A fifty-ish woman* with mousy hair came up just then and led the old man off to the side. “Don’t mind my father, luv,” she explained. ‘E’s just excited, you know- but it is terribly good news - He’s finally dead!”
“That- that was true?” Roger looked at the woman directly now.
“Well, of course it is, luv. The war is over!” She sent him a sunny smile and headed off with her father in tow.
Turning slowly back to the river bank, Roger took deep breaths. If it was true, then there were no Death Eaters to fight; no battle that he could hurl himself into. An inexplicable heaviness lowered itself into his chest. No escape to be had. For the first time in over two years, Roger Davies would have to stop moving. To him, the concept was unbearable.
Tired, suddenly very tired, Roger sat on the ground against a tree. There was no one, and there was nothing. And now, there was no purpose. And so he was helpless against the storm of emotions welling inside him. A lover that he’d lost much too soon, a family that he’d rediscovered much too late, and pain that he’d put off feeling for much too long. His shoulders began to shake, and tears spilled hot down his face, running down his neck as he tilted his head upward against the tree trunk, screwing his face against sobs that threatened to choke the life out of him. They won out and he hugged his arms to his chest and struggled to catch his breath.
Much later, after the tears had stopped, Roger straightened and stood. He understood that as much as he wanted it, he couldn’t freeze up. The war was over, and he’d survived. Such as it was. He felt like dying, but at the same time, he knew he needed to live. He squinted and looked to the east. According to what he’d been told, Stoatshead Hill was very near here. If he could get there, he could start again. He began to walk, this time with a direction.
At the very least, he could try.
*NPCs
Characters: Roger Davies
Location: At the Otter River, in Devon
Status: public
Summary: Roger gets the news, and realizes he can't run anymore.
Completion: Complete
The afternoon sun beamed brightly onto the rocks embedded in the banks of the Otter River. It cast an otherworldly sparkle onto the clear and babbling surface of the water. On a day like this, in certain shallower spots, one could look straight through to the rocks submerged at the bottom.
As he walked along the river’s edge with no particular destination in mind, Roger Sebastian Davies remembered that not so long ago this river had run red with blood.
It was the beginning of November and it didn’t seem to Roger that it should be this warm, still. Although he wouldn’t feel warm if it were high noon in the middle of July.
Roger had apparated here from his parents’ sprawling estate just outside of Exeter. What had been left of his parents’ home, that is. His childhood home. A home, Roger mused, that he hadn’t seen in over two years. Those two years had changed him into a person he scarcely recognized himself. And any hope he had of touching ground with the parents that he had walked out on long ago was dashed in the few seconds it took for him to be told that they were both dead.
As he ambled along the bank of the river, he remembered the buzz that had filled his ears as the messenger had sympathetically given him the details, and remembered the last words he’d said to his parents. Words that it was now too late to retract.
Roger was suddenly, irrevocably, alone.
As grief began to creep in the likes of which he hadn’t felt since Bryna died, and the pastoral silence of the riverbed became much too oppressive, he wished for someone, anyone he could fight, rage at, strangle, hex into oblivion.
“ ‘ave you ‘eard? E’s done it again!”
Roger had been thinking more along the lines of “Death Eater” than the old whiskery bloke* that staggered up to him and shook his shoulders abruptly.
“What?” Rogers voice was gruff from disuse, and from the lump that had been forming in his throat.
“ ‘E’s dead!” the craggy old man shook Roger again. “ ‘Arry Potter’s killed him- You Know Who!”
“Father, leave the young man alone.” A fifty-ish woman* with mousy hair came up just then and led the old man off to the side. “Don’t mind my father, luv,” she explained. ‘E’s just excited, you know- but it is terribly good news - He’s finally dead!”
“That- that was true?” Roger looked at the woman directly now.
“Well, of course it is, luv. The war is over!” She sent him a sunny smile and headed off with her father in tow.
Turning slowly back to the river bank, Roger took deep breaths. If it was true, then there were no Death Eaters to fight; no battle that he could hurl himself into. An inexplicable heaviness lowered itself into his chest. No escape to be had. For the first time in over two years, Roger Davies would have to stop moving. To him, the concept was unbearable.
Tired, suddenly very tired, Roger sat on the ground against a tree. There was no one, and there was nothing. And now, there was no purpose. And so he was helpless against the storm of emotions welling inside him. A lover that he’d lost much too soon, a family that he’d rediscovered much too late, and pain that he’d put off feeling for much too long. His shoulders began to shake, and tears spilled hot down his face, running down his neck as he tilted his head upward against the tree trunk, screwing his face against sobs that threatened to choke the life out of him. They won out and he hugged his arms to his chest and struggled to catch his breath.
Much later, after the tears had stopped, Roger straightened and stood. He understood that as much as he wanted it, he couldn’t freeze up. The war was over, and he’d survived. Such as it was. He felt like dying, but at the same time, he knew he needed to live. He squinted and looked to the east. According to what he’d been told, Stoatshead Hill was very near here. If he could get there, he could start again. He began to walk, this time with a direction.
At the very least, he could try.
*NPCs