Back to Ireland

Back to Ireland

If he could have, he would have shown her Ireland.

Together, they would have walked on the green hills and stood on the cliffs, surrounded by fog so thick they would have barely been able to see a foot in front of them.

He ran into the night, knowing that no one would notice his disappearance. He ran until the blood roaring in his ears almost blocked out the memories of her screams as she fell.

When he could run no more, he collapsed, drawing ragged breaths into his burning lungs.

Seamus clutched the wet grass with his fingers, almost crying out again at the feel of it. It was not soft enough, not green enough, and he could tell by instinct that it wouldn't be as rich and red and fertile as the land of his home.

Here, there were dark forests and dry plains and empty, open moors. Seamus felt an inarticulate cry escape his lips as he longed for the verdant fields and the peat bogs of Ireland. He missed it all, the smell of the fire, the gentle rain, the smoky taste of a cup of hot, strong tea. The bread, the land, the weather, the clouds...

He needed to go back.

Only in Ireland could he begin to heal. Only in Ireland could he forget the desolate, gloomy earth where she now lay.

Seamus would have read her poetry.

His lilting accent would have flown over the syllables, melting them in his mouth. He would have read her Yeats, Wilde, and then, hesitating a little in fear of showing something so personal, so resolutely him, he would have read her his own verses; sonnets and odes and ballads dedicated to the beauty he saw in her eyes.

Someday, he would put this pain into a poem. He had to.

But now, he could only clutch at the ground and try not to choke as waves of grief racked his body.

No one knew he was out here. At the funeral of a great hero, no one would have noticed the disappearance of a casual friend, not when there was a family and a lover and two best friends to do the crying.

He would have taken her to Tara, shown her the tombs of ancient kings. She would have loved that. He would have taken her to the islands, rocky, windy outcrops with good fishing and breath-taking views.

His mam would have loved her. After all, who could resist the charm in her brown eyes, sharp intelligence, and sparkling laugh? They all would have melted for her, would have accepted her with open arms and hearty hugs.

Would have. Would have.

Unbidden, the tears were slowing, and Seamus began to feel the bite of the frozen Scottish wind. The dampness from the ground soaked through his clothes and chilled his bones, limbs stiff as he clambered to his feet.

Seamus could see the twinkling lights of the castle in the distance. He had to go back soon, or someone would finally notice his absence.

He would go. He would go and mourn Hermione with the rest of them, then he would go and help them win the war for her.

Then, then he would go home. He would return to Ireland.

And there he would begin to live again.