Disclaimer:Even though you can't tell, I don't own anyone.
Warning:Er...slash. Bizarre. Pairing is very squickish, I'm warning you. I tel lyou right off, cause I need opinions...but it is very, very disturbing.
Author's Note:Okay...I don't know about this. It's going to be a James/Harry, if I decide to actually write it. This is just a little piece of it, and I want to know what folks think. I'm calling it 'The Hollow Men', after the poem I use through out. I think it really fits...but I need to know if it's any good.
The Hollow Men
"Shape without form, shade without color,
Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;"
He had been having strange dreams. He wondered, sometimes, if dream was the right word. But it had to be. What else did one call visions that came while sleeping? And they were disturbing. Not disturbing in content, rather in the way he felt when he awoke. Disoriented, and haunted.
At first, he could not remember the content of the dreams. Only a vague sense that they had been. Sometimes when he woke he would be drenched in sweat, and at other times the sheets would be soiled, but always his heart would be racing and he would feel as though he hardly slept.
The dreams continued for months. They began in September, and ran on through fall and winter. It wasn't until the early mists of April fell that he began to remember.
At first it was simply clips and phrases, a word, an image, an imagined scent. He knew there was a man, a young man with black hair and blue eyes and an easy smile. And he thought he could remember a field. He didn't understand any of this, and for some reason could not bring these things to anyone. These strange dream-visions were-for some unfathomable reason-deeply personal and intimate to him. They were not to be shared. They were to be treasured and cherished, though why he did not know. But try as he might, he could glean no insight from or into them. He poured through dream dictionaries and texts on divination, searching for young men and fields, the only things he had to go by. But he found nothing.
He was near the point where he almost feared sleep, and yet he craved it. He *needed* these dreams. They had become a part of him, something he could not deny. He only wished more was clear. Who was this strange young man he felt so drawn to? He could picture him, in his waking minds eye. He was beautiful, he knew that much. Lithe and lean, with flashing eyes and careless hair and a free way. Had he created this young man, formed him from his own secret desires and longings? Or had he seen him somewhere, and he had lingered in his mind?
What caused these dreams, he did not know. There were sources, but they failed. No authorities on the subjects had been of any help. All had shaken their heads and splayed their hands in helplessness. But these were no ordinary dreams! They were visions of a sort. And they would not let him be. What had caused them? And why did they haunt him so?
As April melted into May, more of the dreams became clear. He could remember the opening. He was standing in a large brown field, the grasses trampled flat. The night sky stretched all around, full of starts no human eye had ever glimpsed, and faintly purple. A breeze passed over him, playfully tugging at his garments, urging towards the center of the field. There was the young man. He was turned away, hands in the pockets of his faded jeans. His hair was untrimmed and messy, but artful in it's tousled fall. His shoulders were angled forward, and he seemed to be humming or whistling.
He-the He who was dreaming-approached slowly, reverently. This young man was important. He was godlike in the mind of the dreamer. Perhaps he was some deity, personified. He was physical perfection, as far as the dreamer was concerned. And then, as he approached, the young man turned, confused, His pale brow was furroughed, and he tilted his head. But upon seeing the dreamer, he broke into a wide grin and held out his arms...
But that was all. It faded into obscurity after that. But from the state of his sheets upon waking, that the dreams progressed farther then an embrace. Were they simply his darker erotic desires making themselves known? He knew he was attracted to other men, though he was loathe to admit it aloud. His mind was all that mattered.
Still these dreams troubled him. His friends noted this, worrying over his distance and confusion. His thoughts were filled by a smiling blue eyed boy.
"Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us - if at all - not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men."
The dreams were becoming clearer. He could remember words. As he approached the young man, he spoke.
"I know you." He said, in a voice soft and awe filled. But how? From where? He searched the eyes and faces of his peers, and saw no young man from his dream. But the sense of familiarity lingered. "I know you."
But perhaps he of the dream knew the young man, only in the dreamtime. He knew him, because he-the young man-was a figment of his-the dreamer's-mind. Wouldn't he know his own mind?
"I know." The young man would respond. And then there was no more, at least that was left on waking. It was frustrating, to try desperately to remember, and to have nothing. To search and struggle and curse and still have only darkness and obscurity.
The dreams continued.
"I know you."
He knew him. And he knew him as well. How? That was the thought that plagued him. How was this? How had this come into being? Was it normal? Did this happen often? Did others suffer the same dementia? To dream of one he knew, but had never once seen? He knew no name, only the image. And the image was so hauntingly familiar...
He was close to going mad. He needed to remember. He needed to know. He turned to vials and caskets, searching for what would send him into the waking dream sleep. The liquid burnt his throat, searing it. He lay down and then he was there.
The field was familiar to him now. He walked quickly to the young man, frowning. What was this? It was the same as always, the young man turned away from him. They embraced and it was warm and right and so familiar. And then they began to speak...