Thunder

It was all she could do to keep from screaming out loud: hold it down; swallow it up like some wretched poison ingested by one's own will. Nausea swam like a whirlpool through her head. Still, she watched; watched the rain pour down and wash away what was left of the filthy sins committed by all who set foot upon those blackened hills.

There was death behind, and death beyond. Nothing could erase the memories of weak-willed fear that traced its way deceitfully into her mind. All she could think about was the imminence of relief. In all its glory, death was but a salvation for any who had faced the angry sickness of war. Death is a delightful hiding-place for weary men.

She prayed to the heavens; to the empty minds of gods she couldn't name, and didn't care to. If he had abandoned her, then so be it, but hope was like wicked flame that still burned within her heart. It was not enough to know that it would end, because to her the end was never close enough to reach.

She stood, muddy water dripping from her soiled dress, and felt the souls of thousands of the deceased stand with her; whether against her or in encouragement she did not know. She felt their listless hands grasp hold of her tightly; who knew the dead could be so relentless? Perhaps there's something more, she thought absently, than simply the end of all things? Maybe the dead are holding on to mock her; to mock her vacant eyes and ignorant mind. Yes, there's something the dead are keeping back.

Staggering exhaustedly she made her way back towards the cold stone castle that lay in the distance. It was a useless hope, she knew, to think that maybe it had not all been in vain. Her doubts were like strong whisky to self-imposed abstinence, deep and burning, reviving her senses. Still, she remembered all to well the words of her brother, who lay broken and bleeding in her helpless arms.

"I love you, Ginny, and Hermione, tell Hermione..."

"Shhh," she had whispered, "She knows."

He had smiled then, like daylight breaking through the fog, and then was gone. She had not cried, it would not have helped; it most certainly would not have brought him back. After that nothing more was said about the battle that still raged on. There were only orders and carrying them out. And for Ginny there were only Hermione's muffled sobs to fill the endless nights. It was all she did for weeks; lie in her bed, dreaming, most probably, of something better. Ginny couldn't blame her; they had all dreamed of that once.

After eight months had passed, and then eight more, they had begun to worry; Hermione had not shown any signs of wanting to wake from her blissful dreams. They had all tried to talk to her, but she still lay, lifeless as the dead themselves, oblivious to the insistent words that were spoken to her form. To weak to live, too strong to die.

Now, back in the confines of her simple, cell-like room, cold grey eyes haunted her dreams. Somehow they were no longer cold, but full of fear and defeat. She had killed herself with him, she felt. The sheer mockery of the understanding they shared in those last moments was enough to make her want to scream; scream bloody murder and cold-hearted killing. How was it possible that, in the very end, there was no light and dark, black and white? How was it that enemies at war could be, essentially, the only ones who finally understood the true nature of it? As men, we are all equal in the presence of death.