Post by PiER on Jan 14, 2009 9:05:03 GMT -5
Disclaimer: Belongs to the fabulous J.K. Rowling.
Twist of Fate
People are puppets held together with string; their fate resting in the hands of the unseen; powerless in shaping their future. The centaurs had informed her it was written in the stars. The battle came to pass as predicted, the outcome favourable…for most.
If Minerva had learnt anything, it was that when left to ponder, she ended up hunting for a potion; too much thought gave her a headache. It always began in the same way, she would hear the wheels in her head creak, slowing turning, chewing the thought. A nagging persistency, dilatory and dull at first but then growing in size; the thud would push its way forward to the forefront of her mind and often times the various shades of grey would blur. Inevitably, her body would respond, throat constricting and eyeballs burning in an effort to fight back tears. Emotional wreck!
If the future cannot be altered than neither can the past. At least it was not wise to meddle in such matters but how she longed to have been born inherently meddlesome. Unavoidably that would then lead to thoughts questioning life and existence. What was her purpose in life and why bother without the freedom of choice. With her path already set she could, apparently, do nothing to stray from it. Even in early death she would not know if that was part of a bigger plan or if, by perhaps taking his life, she had managed to outwit fate. When one’s time comes, one’s time comes…it’s but the next great adventure.
Fate, in many ways she was a fleeting mistress, elusive, evasive and evanescent yet all the while inflexible, unswerving and consistent. She could feel the pounding in her head. Concentration was quickly escaping her, in an ironic way she realised that by focusing upon this physical pain she could forget the aching memories for scant precious moments.
Sweat trickled down her neck and across her torso; it was to be another beastly hot day. It annoyed her that the sun did not pay heed to her dark mood and persisted to shine. There is a time and place for everything; evidently she was to bow to time yet again and give way to the coming of summer. Spring had been torturous, fresh and green, bursting with new life. The fragrance of flowers had contained the scent of him. In the still of the night, when little but the secrets in the leaves rustled, she would lay daintily upon her bed – their bed – her hand ghosting across his pillow, caressing the sheets he once slept in. Her mind would play agonising tricks on her and though the linen had been washed countless times since, she swore she inhaled his sweet scent.
“I wish to ride a donkey!”
“Then a donkey you shall ride!”
They had laughed that day at the seaside. She could still recall the imprint the hooves left behind, a wibbly-wobbly trail that followed them along the coast. She had not thought its knobbly knees could carry her but then she often forgot she weighed nought but a feather. So light she was, angular in her ways. Short cropped hair that needed to be long for no other purpose than that he wished to trail his fingers through those ebony locks, silk between his fingertips.
They had taken many pictures that blissfully hot summer’s day, words upon thousands of words. Crossing the beach hand in hand, laughter had rung in their ears and little crabs had scurried awkwardly past. Now when she was brave enough to wander close to the waves all that is left are delicate, intricate shells thrown up by the tide, complex nets of weed and the whisper of memories.
Where the bloody hell is that potion? Minerva was beginning to regret banishing the house-elves from her summer home – their summer home – for the holidays. No! She needed to be alone. Solitude was essential. Her hands shook as she searched the cupboards; beans, soup and spaghetti, plates, bowls and cups, matches, serviettes and potion. Tucked away in the corner cupboard, an excellent spot and the most obvious of places. To even entertain the notion that it could be with the Pepperup Potion and other draughts in the medicine cupboard was an absurd thought.
She could taste the salt upon her lips as she gulped down vile concoction. An infuriatingly hot day! Beads of perspiration lined her brow and sweat followed her spine, dripping down her back; her robes clung to her sticky body. The empty glass vial in her right hand could so easily slip though her fingers and shatter into a million pieces. Sunshine would sparkle off the broken shards, twinkle and dazzle before her eyes. She had difficulty envisioning the array of colours, which would glint in the light. She wished for colour.
But wishing was another headache inducing pastime. There was much she had wished for back then; indeed there is much she wished for now. With her path laid out for her there was nothing she could do. The grains of time continue to fall; she cannot put them back, cannot regain those precious moments nor can she forget. To forget would mean to let go of her bitterness, which would entail forgiveness. He had promised to never leave her.
Minerva drops the glass.
A/N: I know, yet another angsty one-shot but I couldn’t help myself. I hope it makes sense.
Twist of Fate
People are puppets held together with string; their fate resting in the hands of the unseen; powerless in shaping their future. The centaurs had informed her it was written in the stars. The battle came to pass as predicted, the outcome favourable…for most.
If Minerva had learnt anything, it was that when left to ponder, she ended up hunting for a potion; too much thought gave her a headache. It always began in the same way, she would hear the wheels in her head creak, slowing turning, chewing the thought. A nagging persistency, dilatory and dull at first but then growing in size; the thud would push its way forward to the forefront of her mind and often times the various shades of grey would blur. Inevitably, her body would respond, throat constricting and eyeballs burning in an effort to fight back tears. Emotional wreck!
If the future cannot be altered than neither can the past. At least it was not wise to meddle in such matters but how she longed to have been born inherently meddlesome. Unavoidably that would then lead to thoughts questioning life and existence. What was her purpose in life and why bother without the freedom of choice. With her path already set she could, apparently, do nothing to stray from it. Even in early death she would not know if that was part of a bigger plan or if, by perhaps taking his life, she had managed to outwit fate. When one’s time comes, one’s time comes…it’s but the next great adventure.
Fate, in many ways she was a fleeting mistress, elusive, evasive and evanescent yet all the while inflexible, unswerving and consistent. She could feel the pounding in her head. Concentration was quickly escaping her, in an ironic way she realised that by focusing upon this physical pain she could forget the aching memories for scant precious moments.
Sweat trickled down her neck and across her torso; it was to be another beastly hot day. It annoyed her that the sun did not pay heed to her dark mood and persisted to shine. There is a time and place for everything; evidently she was to bow to time yet again and give way to the coming of summer. Spring had been torturous, fresh and green, bursting with new life. The fragrance of flowers had contained the scent of him. In the still of the night, when little but the secrets in the leaves rustled, she would lay daintily upon her bed – their bed – her hand ghosting across his pillow, caressing the sheets he once slept in. Her mind would play agonising tricks on her and though the linen had been washed countless times since, she swore she inhaled his sweet scent.
“I wish to ride a donkey!”
“Then a donkey you shall ride!”
They had laughed that day at the seaside. She could still recall the imprint the hooves left behind, a wibbly-wobbly trail that followed them along the coast. She had not thought its knobbly knees could carry her but then she often forgot she weighed nought but a feather. So light she was, angular in her ways. Short cropped hair that needed to be long for no other purpose than that he wished to trail his fingers through those ebony locks, silk between his fingertips.
They had taken many pictures that blissfully hot summer’s day, words upon thousands of words. Crossing the beach hand in hand, laughter had rung in their ears and little crabs had scurried awkwardly past. Now when she was brave enough to wander close to the waves all that is left are delicate, intricate shells thrown up by the tide, complex nets of weed and the whisper of memories.
Where the bloody hell is that potion? Minerva was beginning to regret banishing the house-elves from her summer home – their summer home – for the holidays. No! She needed to be alone. Solitude was essential. Her hands shook as she searched the cupboards; beans, soup and spaghetti, plates, bowls and cups, matches, serviettes and potion. Tucked away in the corner cupboard, an excellent spot and the most obvious of places. To even entertain the notion that it could be with the Pepperup Potion and other draughts in the medicine cupboard was an absurd thought.
She could taste the salt upon her lips as she gulped down vile concoction. An infuriatingly hot day! Beads of perspiration lined her brow and sweat followed her spine, dripping down her back; her robes clung to her sticky body. The empty glass vial in her right hand could so easily slip though her fingers and shatter into a million pieces. Sunshine would sparkle off the broken shards, twinkle and dazzle before her eyes. She had difficulty envisioning the array of colours, which would glint in the light. She wished for colour.
But wishing was another headache inducing pastime. There was much she had wished for back then; indeed there is much she wished for now. With her path laid out for her there was nothing she could do. The grains of time continue to fall; she cannot put them back, cannot regain those precious moments nor can she forget. To forget would mean to let go of her bitterness, which would entail forgiveness. He had promised to never leave her.
Minerva drops the glass.
A/N: I know, yet another angsty one-shot but I couldn’t help myself. I hope it makes sense.
