Waiting … To Fall

Warning: None whatsoever – it is so ambiguous that the pairings are for you to decide.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything.

To: This was written for S-star, because it is her birthday today. (9th March)

Sometime back, I think you made a promise to me. I don't remember how long it was – time seems to have lost its meaning as the hours with you shoot by like shimmering comets, while the seconds without your presence stretch for eternity. You told me you would be here, waiting for me; and all I had to do was whisper the spell that twisted our names together so that it was made to sound like a silent plea.

It has been eternity for very long.


I am waiting at the cliff's edge. The very same one we jumped off together, and landed on our brooms, before we took to the skies. You told me once, that the world belonged to everyone else, but the skies were ours, and ours alone.

Do you remember that day – with the wind blowing so savagely that it threw sand into our eyes? Do you recall how you challenged it, as you took my hand and leapt off the cliff with me? We won that day. The wind did not carry our bodies to the rocks below.

And today – the wind is blowing again. It cuts my face, like tiny scissors flying across my cheekbones. It feels nothing like the caresses we shared. I gaze downwards, at the sleeping city that ignored us before, as we cast our critical glances at them. I said it was beautiful, and you told me that it was an illusion.

My gaze flits over and I see my hands. I hate my hands, even though you took them in yours so many times. I hate them even though they have roamed your body so many countless times exploring the familiar territory. Somehow, I wish you were here to assure me that what my hands did was not my fault. I cannot really decipher the truth by myself, for I was never the prize student here.

For a split second as my heart jumped, I thought you were holding me again, for the wind was so gentle. I asked you once, what it was like to fly from here. Would we land on the wings of angels? Would we fall on iridescent feathers unblemished from sin? You laughed at my innocence. I remember clearly the answer you gave in reply– "We will land in each others arms, for the angels have forsaken us sinners."

I believed you with all of my heart then, and I wish that I had that much faith now.

You were always so beautiful; especially when your face was flushed above mine, sweat gliding down your chin, hands virtuously playing across my writhing body. I never could resist how gentle you were some nights, and how rough you were on others. It was always the same for me. No matter what you said, I would trust you – because you were too perfect to tell lies.

The wind howls in my ear and my robes flap loudly, like migrating birds, escaping the winter chill that is starting to ravish my skin and freeze my bones. Brazenly it blames me, for all the things my hands have done. I look down, and my hands are stained red, but I ignore them for now, because you said you would come when I called.


Where are you? It has already been an agonizing hour of eternity. You are never this late, especially on our appointments. You were never this late. My blood feels cold and piercing as it flows through me, like icicles shattering as the slightest bit of warmth grazes the surfaces. Numbly I move those ten fingers of mine that feel so far away, it seems as if they were never a part of me.

My wand presses against my leg, and even in the cold, it feels icier than everything around. The skies turn a darker shade of grey as I limply pull it out, and stupidly stare at the rod resting on my palms. It is still the same colour – that maple brown, with an indistinct tinge of red.

The stick in my hand reminds me of something.

What was it?

Oh yes, the word "power", and the word "pain". I want to hurl it down the cliff face, to see it splinter all over the rocks below like droplets of shed tears. You would be here if it was not for that wand. You would be right here, taking my hand in yours, keeping your promise – if not for that wand. So whose fault was it? Mine or the wand's?

Somebody, oh anybody, please tell me that the wand made me kill them, that the wand made me attack them, that the wand made me shoot that neon green light at you.

Say the fault is not mine, nor my hands', but the explicit doing of the wand.

I let go with a shudder, and watch it drop, far, far, far down; but I do not see it land – for I am way too high up, where the angels dare not tread.

I will wait for you.

I will wait.

I will.


But you are still not here.

The winds are whispering now, they are speaking with a subdued sense of urgency. They tell me that I should not be here, with hushed persuasions, and angry warnings. Gently they edge, like a mother hen would to her chicks, towards the narrow precipice.

Are you here yet? You said you would fly with me. The skies are ours; but I cannot handle it alone.

The wind takes me a tiny step further. It throws so much dust into my eyes I cannot even blink, much less open my eyes. The world hidden behind my eyelids is so dark, it looks the way the Earth had always been before the Heavens let the light in.


I let go.

And I hope you were right; and I will be falling into your arms, because they angels have forgotten us sinners.

: Honestly, this was written for S-star's birthday, and nothing much else. Don't review if it hurts, really, I'm not expecting anyone to bother, because it is quite bad, and largely rubbish. Edit: Art for this fic, by Graft, is currently found on my website, available through a link from my profile.


He who was living is now dead.
We who are living are now dying.