Images
Images
Images.
See them?
All around you, hovering, as though they were caught in spiders webs, floating,
waving gently in the wind, pushed and pulled but never torn.
Images.
So grey, so dull. Urban city landscapes, tower blocks and littered streets.
~Steel on the skyline~
Images.
So bright, so beautiful. A swirling pool of colour, decorating the butterfly’s
wings.
~Sky made of glass~
Images of fields lit by moonlight infiltrate the mind, enchanting simple
viewers, inspiring poets.
A lone figure, tall and dark... standing tall and solitary, on a dark moor,
face strained with some unnamed emotion. The wind howls around him, tormenting
his dark clothing mercilessly, flapping it, and wrapping it round him.
~Made for a real world~
Still, he doesn’t move. He stares up at the sky, so clear and innocent, calm in
comparison to the wicked howling of the wind.
~All things must pass~
He is waiting.
~Waiting for something~
Waiting and waiting, what for, only he knows. The moon is full, it’s silvery
rays unperturbed by the buffeting wind.
~Looking for someone~
The wind ruffles his long hair, picking it up and then dropping it in his face,
getting into his eyes, whipping cruelly on his cheeks.
He feels it not; he feels nothing, no pain, and no love any longer.
Once, long ago…
There had been a boy.
He had been innocent and pure as the sky looked above the figure on the moor.
He had changed the world by not dying, destroyed a dark lord at the age of one.
Renewed the hope of mankind.
Where was he now, when the world needed him again?
Once, long ago...
There had been a man.
He had been cruel and bitter as the wind that howled round the figure on the
moor. He had changed the changed the world by turning his back on his dark
lord, and turned spy instead. Given the information, kept information at the
right times, to the right people, renewing the hope for mankind.
Where was he, when the world needed him again?
The wind howled more strongly.
Images.
So pure, so innocent, dew drop on a new leaf.
Images.
So cold, so cruel, a dog in a cage too small.
Where were the saviours? Where was the wise man, with his long beard and
meaningful words?
Where was the spy? With his harsh words and shattered dreams?
Where was the hero? Fighting as only he knew, learning all the time, finding
new ways to defeat the enemy.
Where was the tactician? The intelligence? The warriors? The unsure allies?
The sky rumbled it’s innocent face betrayed by its growling voice.
Where was the hope for the people now?
Red eyes, pure crimson, like blood from a fresh wound.
Blue eyes, pure sapphire, like Mediterranean summer skies.
The wind whistled round him, mocking him.
He felt so small, so alone, the huge sky spread out in front of him. There had
been people that wanted to take it over, to rule the skies, to rule the world.
To cleanse it, design a new world, a new world order.
~Is there no reason?~
The saviours were lost. The wise man was dead. The spy was dead. The hero was
cynical, spinning out of control. The tactician was gone. The intelligence was
fooled. The unsure allies had fled.
One man. One dream. One world, in such need of cleansing.
~Have I stayed to long? ~
One moor. One sky. One man. One image, so desolate and alone.
~You’ll say you’ll leave me~
Was what he had done so wrong? Why had he gone so far? There had been no need
for this.
He should have thought about it less.
~When the sun is low~
He shouldn’t have become as obsessed as he did.
~When the rays are high~
He should have listened to his advisor.
He stared up at the sky still. The dark lord had achieved his aim, demolished
everything any Muggle had ever touched. The cities were gone, the art galleries
were gone, the music, the culture, the towns, the cars, the highways, the paths
had all gone.
~I can see it now. ~
The Mudbloods had gone. And with them, the rest of the wizarding population had
come crashing down, economy destroyed, families interbred too much, until death
had been the only thing left.
~I can feel it die.~
The earth’s face was so scarred, so blackened by the wars and battles that had
raged for decades. There were only ruins left, ruins and corpses, the
graveyards over flowing with the deceased.
The panic had bred to civil wars.
More death, more destruction.
The dark lord had had his way. Everything was dead and destroyed.
It was time for him to meet his creator.
Lightening flashed across the sky, thunder rolled, setting the dramatic
backdrop for a dramatic scene.
The tall man in black shivered, the first movement he had made all the time he
had been waiting. The rain started, just a few drops to start off with, and
then the clouds seemed to burst open water droplets falling from the sky like
tiny bombs, exploding on the man, drenching him within minutes.
And then…
A pale figure appeared in front of him, apparently from nowhere. White skin,
blood red eyes, and a stench of death.
“Voldemort,” the man acknowledged coldly.
“Tom,” the pale figure replied.
~*Fini*~