Bill Weasley (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
thecoolone) wrote2005-06-23 12:26 am
thecoolone) wrote2005-06-23 12:26 am
(no subject)
His bones are knit back together, his bullet wound mended, but he realises he forgot all about his hand and so he sits on the edge of the bed
(our bed, am I really here?)
idly picking out shards of glass and setting them aside
(blood is such a fascinating shade of red)
before sweeping them into the bin so Fleur doesn't injure herself on them.
He has no wand; they took it from him and he lost the other one in the fall. He'll need a new one and imagines the letter he'll be writing to Ollivander: Dear Mr Ollivander, hullo and could you please send, with this owl, another one just like the other? 13", holly, core of dragon heartstring? It suited me so well. Thank you, and I'll pay you if I ever earn another Sickle. All my best to you, Bill Weasley, care of the End of the Universe.
It makes him laugh, although he's not certain that's wise: his chest aches. The bones may be mended but they're still sore where ribs were broken and his shoulder dislocated from the bullet's impact. And he's not slept for days and now, when all should be easy and restful, he can't sleep. He envies Fleur her rest; she fairly flew into bed as soon as they got here.
Brave, brave, brave, my love, swooping down like some angel of death. I love you. I loved you before this, I'll love you after: I love you right now and loving you kept me strong and alive.
He looks at the torn and bloody clothing he's still wearing and wonders.
Bill wonders about the reasons for war, and about the motivations for those following Voldemort, and about the people who came to their rescue and he knows there are stories -- hundreds of them -- and he wants to hear them all. He wants to know that Tonks is all right, that the baby's all right. That Faith is all right.
That everybody's all right.
"I don't even know who else was there."
It's an isolating feeling. He unbuttons what's left of his shirt and wipes his hand on it; the bleeding has slowed. On shaky feet he stands and heads to the bath. No magic to cleanse this wound: hot water and soap. Undoubtedly this will leave a visible scar. But he tests his fingers and they still work, although there is some small bit of pain.
A reminder, perhaps. A memento of battle. Curious, exhausted, he looks down at his hand before wrapping it in a towel, tying the knot with his left hand and teeth before heading back to their bed and, noiselessly as possible, discarding the rest of his clothing before climbing in next to Fleur. In her sleep she nestles into him, her breathing steady, and there, in the dark of their room, finally, a solitary tear escapes and rolls down his cheek before trickling past his ear and onto the pillow.
I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd never see you again. I thought...
(At long last, he sleeps.)
(our bed, am I really here?)
idly picking out shards of glass and setting them aside
(blood is such a fascinating shade of red)
before sweeping them into the bin so Fleur doesn't injure herself on them.
He has no wand; they took it from him and he lost the other one in the fall. He'll need a new one and imagines the letter he'll be writing to Ollivander: Dear Mr Ollivander, hullo and could you please send, with this owl, another one just like the other? 13", holly, core of dragon heartstring? It suited me so well. Thank you, and I'll pay you if I ever earn another Sickle. All my best to you, Bill Weasley, care of the End of the Universe.
It makes him laugh, although he's not certain that's wise: his chest aches. The bones may be mended but they're still sore where ribs were broken and his shoulder dislocated from the bullet's impact. And he's not slept for days and now, when all should be easy and restful, he can't sleep. He envies Fleur her rest; she fairly flew into bed as soon as they got here.
Brave, brave, brave, my love, swooping down like some angel of death. I love you. I loved you before this, I'll love you after: I love you right now and loving you kept me strong and alive.
He looks at the torn and bloody clothing he's still wearing and wonders.
Bill wonders about the reasons for war, and about the motivations for those following Voldemort, and about the people who came to their rescue and he knows there are stories -- hundreds of them -- and he wants to hear them all. He wants to know that Tonks is all right, that the baby's all right. That Faith is all right.
That everybody's all right.
"I don't even know who else was there."
It's an isolating feeling. He unbuttons what's left of his shirt and wipes his hand on it; the bleeding has slowed. On shaky feet he stands and heads to the bath. No magic to cleanse this wound: hot water and soap. Undoubtedly this will leave a visible scar. But he tests his fingers and they still work, although there is some small bit of pain.
A reminder, perhaps. A memento of battle. Curious, exhausted, he looks down at his hand before wrapping it in a towel, tying the knot with his left hand and teeth before heading back to their bed and, noiselessly as possible, discarding the rest of his clothing before climbing in next to Fleur. In her sleep she nestles into him, her breathing steady, and there, in the dark of their room, finally, a solitary tear escapes and rolls down his cheek before trickling past his ear and onto the pillow.
I thought I'd lost you. I thought I'd never see you again. I thought...
(At long last, he sleeps.)