Too Far Gone

I hate myself. I hate what my life has become. There's nothing left anymore except death. Everywhere there is death. It haunts my dreams, shadows my every step. Its stench lingers everywhere I go. There is no escaping it.

No; that is not true. Once there was one who could take me away from it all. One who could free me from it. She lies in my arms now; she is beautiful. She is covered in blood and sweat and my tears, but she is still so beautiful. Her hair, an unexpected burst of red and gold in the darkness of the battlefield, lies in such a way that you cannot see the gaping wound on her neck, but it is there. The stark image of blood on her white skin will forever be burned into my memory.

When I was young, I thought war was glorious. I laugh at myself now, at the foolish idealistic person I used to be, full of dreams of greatness. I have seen a man tortured to death; I have seen a mother fight her own son in a battlefield; I have seen the woman I loved killed. You think war would be cleaner, less savage, wouldn't you? We're wizards, aren't we? Shouldn't our killing be simple and easy?

It's not. We are wizards, yes, but we are above all else humans, and human instinct is to kill, to stab, to beat, to burn. We are animals, just as anyone else. I have killed my share; my hands are stained with blood that will never come off. I stare at them now, thinking. Absurdly, a single line comes to my mind, an old prayer from long ago. Forgive us of our sins. Forgive me. Forgive me, those who I have killed. Forgive me, their families. Forgive me for a life ended too soon, forgive me for long days and longer nights spent grieving. Forgive me.

I stare across the battlefield. We do not look so different when we are dead. Friend and foe, all look the same with a knife in their back, with a look of hopelessness in their eyes. All those who claim that war is the only solution, I will find them. I will bring them here, to sit where I sit, with the woman they love dead in their arms, looking across a bloody field strewn with the dying, waiting, hoping, for their own death to come swiftly. What will they say then, confronted with the truth? This is the truth. The truth lies in the blood on the white skin of the woman in my arms. The truth lies in the faces of all those I have killed. The truth lies in my soul, stained with unforgivable sins.

Someone is stumbling towards me. He has the face of a young boy, but his eyes have seen far more than his years should. There is a wand gripped tightly in one hand, between a child's small clumsy fingers. With his other hand he clutches his chest, blood pouring from between his fingers. His hair is dark and unruly, and he wears a pair of broken spectacles, the glass in them shattered. Across his forehead slashes a jagged lightning bolt scar. Once I knew him, I think, but it is so hard to remember.

He lurches towards me, collapsing at my side. I am no doctor, but I know the wound he has is fatal. He looks up at me, desperation in his eyes. "Draco?" I start. I know that name. My name? Perhaps. What does it matter now? Nothing matters now.

"I'm going to die," he says pleadingly, his breathing shallow and uneven. I do not know why he turns to me. Surely he knows that I can do nothing to help him. We are both too far gone.

I turn my face away, to look once more at the woman lying in my arms. He continues, speaking quietly, as though he were talking to himself. "I wasn't supposed to die like this," he says, laughing softly. He stops laughing quickly, as if it pains him. "I was supposed to defeat Him and save the world."

He sighs and rolls over, staring up at the sky. The clouds are dark and ominous; they will bring a storm soon. "It's hard to save the world when there's no one left to save," he remarks, sucking in air like he is drowning. "Why fight anymore if the only people I wanted to save are gone?"

"I don't know," I say. It is the only thing I can think to say. He looks at her.

"She's beautiful," he says, softly, trying so hard to ease my pain, when he's in enough of his own.

"I know," I say.

"You loved her, didn't you," he asks, looking up into my eyes, searching for answers to questions he does not know. Instead of responding, I trace my finger down her still face, so pale and cold, like sculpted marble. How is it possible for one to be so beautiful? He understands my silence.

"It hurts," he says suddenly, breaking the quiet, staring up at me. "It hurts."

"I can't help you," I say tenderly, as gently as I can, "or I would."

"I know you would," he says, a half-smile briefly flitting across his face. "No one can help me now."

I take his bloodied hand in mine, and we wait. I can only imagine the picture we create--two dying boys holding hands tightly and looking down at the body of a dead girl as the skies open up and blood pours down.