They Lie There

They're lying there, silently. Her ruby hair is spread around her angelic head like some form of fiery halo. Her skin glows and dulls in reflection of the fire which flames on this cold autumn night.

He lies beside her, body twisted around hers, limbs entwined. His messy raven hair spiked apart, his glasses askew on the bed. A book lies out flat, the pages rising and falling with each breath of night breeze.

The earth is the only thing breathing here this night: her chest does not heave with passion; his heart does not beat frantically with love. They lie there, together.

Dead.

Their house, built in the emerald flowing countryside of Britain, sits shattered and broken. Wooden timbers creak and groan under pressure, in time and eerie harmony with the living boughs of the willows that line the dainty brook outside their home.

Dust filters through cracks in mortar leaving a settling similar to the first winter snow. But, with an echo of hell, fire consumes the skeleton of their life.

The blood which lies glimmering about her parted lips runs the same as in the veins of the man who killed her, the same as the man lying beside her. The blood is red: red for anger, for fury, for hatred.

For love.

They'd had hope, once, a long time ago. They'd fought bravely; trusted like only proud Gryffindors could. They believed in good and evil, in darkness and in the shining light.

They never saw the hopelessness in their cause, believing their fight to be one of conscience. They could not win, and although they saw the days getting darker, the strength of their people failing and the new generations' children suffocated by the ways of war, they still grasped onto some faint fairytale of happy endings, and of sunlight breaking through thick, sullen clouds to light the rocky trail.

They blinkered their thoughts and refused to accept that maybe there's more to life than good and evil. They never saw survival as the reason for living.

Because of this, they took death instead.

Why? What is the point of life, if only to die? They found a love; invisible to many, but it wasn't enough to save them.

They fought for it, yet it let them die in return.

Their bodies are lying there, waiting. They will lie there for however long it takes for someone to guess, to realise that something is utterly wrong.

For someone to understand that it all must end.

For all blood still runs red.

Their eyes are deep, bottomless wells of darkness, speaking of hollow promises and terrifying truths.

Her eyes used to shimmer, emitting an illumination similar to that of the stars on the purest on nights. He used to laugh, his face breaking into a thousand smiles.

She used to sit there, rocking back and forth as her own body screamed for everything to end. He would take her shuddering form into his arms and make her believe.

Yes, there will be a tomorrow, and yes, it is worth seeing.

He lied to her. For now, there is no tomorrow. Not for those two bodies: lying, waiting, already dead.