Because I could not stop for Death (He kindly stopped for me)

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me –

The Carriage held but just Ourselves –

And Immortality.

-Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Their love is passionate. And they share it with the earth.

Their love bloomed like wildflowers, unexpected and vibrant. By the riverbank, their laughter mingled with the gurgling water. Beneath the branches of the oak, stolen moments of tenderness unfolded. In the golden expanse of the wheat fields, their hands brushed as they walked.

It was a love that snuck up on them. Neither had sought it, but like the changing seasons, it arrived. James yearned to show Regulus the world, even if their world was confined by the fences that surrounded his family's land. 

Regulus found himself drawn to James' boundless energy. James often steals the books out of Regulus’ hands and takes him over the hill to the tiny forest there. Regulus lets him, his gaze following James as he leads him on adventures, both big and small.

Regulus would listen. James would talk. 

The sun shone between the leaves of the oak tree onto the pages of Regulus’ book. James, sprawled on the grass beside him, couldn't help but be captivated by the sight.

He watched, mesmerised, as Regulus' lips moved silently, forming words James couldn't decipher. The way the sunlight glinted off his dark hair, the slight furrow in his brow. He noticed the way he chewed on his bottom lip. It was a sight James could never tire of. Finally, unable to contain himself any longer, James spoke. 

"What's it say?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

Regulus startled, tearing his gaze away from the book. "Oh, James," he said, a hint of a blush creeping up his neck. "You startled me."

"Sorry, I couldn't help but be curious. You look like you're wrestling with a dragon or something," James chuckled.

Regulus smiled, a rare sight that still made James' heart skip a beat. "Not quite a dragon," he said, "but a stubborn Cathrine Earnshaw and her heart."

James raised an eyebrow. "Stubborn, huh? Sounds like someone I know. Read me some?"

"Me? Read to you?"

When James just looked at him with pleading eyes, Regulus couldn't help but give in.

Regulus fidgeted with the book, "I… I suppose I could," he mumbled, hesitantly opening the book again. He cleared his throat and then began to read.

“So he shall never know how much I love him; and that, not because he is handsome, Nelly, but because he is more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same,”

Regulus kept reading, and as much as James was trying to pay attention. He noticed Regulus' trembling hands. He took them in his. The beauty of the man in front of him was very distracting.

“My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath – a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff – He’s always, always in my mind – not as a pleasure, any more than I am a pleasure to myself – but as my own being.”

When the sun had set and the tree on the hill was covered in shade, James got up, lifting Regulus with him and they began to walk home. 

“Maybe tomorrow you can read me a story of your own?” Regulus jokes, bumping his arm against the boy next to him.

“Sure, But I'm positive it won't be as good as the one you read me today.”

“Goodnight.” A kiss goodbye.

The goodbye from Regulus went unsaid. I love you. He had meant to tell him earlier. He had meant to say it. The words just found it difficult to get out. Reading lines from a book was way easier than saying goodbye to someone who turned out to be the love of your life.

—

Emily Dickinson wrote many poems and many letters in her time. One hundred and twenty years from now a book will be published, detailing how many of Emily's letters to her ‘friend’ Susan weren't at all platonic. When Regulus got home a nightmare shook his hand and led him to a carriage. Locked in a room with only parchment and a bed, Regulus Black did not have the foresight to think of what historians would think of his writing. The lock on the door is impenetrable and the room inescapable. He doesn't care about history. He only cares that these words might be the last he ever writes. Historians will call them friends, neighbours, acquaintances. But his words on the page yell how much with every fibre of his body he knows he will always love James. Even from the confines of this place.

My love, I have been taken

You took me, you held me

Our love has been forsaken

In this dark damp city

Do you remember?

Our city is love, you are sun

Our love started an ember

Embers burn, we are one

My love, I have been taken

When the attendant comes around that night to put him to sleep, she finds the room a mess. Pages strewn across the floor. Regulus is asleep in his bed. The red around his eyes is unmistakable. She picks up the pages and takes them away. His poems won’t resurface until the late 1980s. 

—

James notices that Regulus is gone the next day. James can't find him everywhere. Maybe he was held up by his family. Maybe duty calls. When he doesn't appear the next day… Maybe it's nothing. Regulus is gone for weeks. They’ve gone from summer to autumn by the time James has stopped counting. He barely spends time by the oak tree anymore. It is too cold outside to wait for Regulus. So James just watches out the window.

James’ nightmares have seemed to take a different form. He’s always watching out his window. Waiting for Regulus. He never realises when night falls. So when he sees someone come out of the trees and look up to the house he always has a hope that builds in his chest. He thinks he sees Regulus’ black hair. He thinks he sees him. But it's just the man. His dreams get worse. When he's on the ground outside he can barely look up at the man through the thick rain. It all hurts so much. He just wants it to end. Then when he’s had enough the pain lulls and his eyes close. He never wakes up screaming any more. He never wakes up at all. Because he is never asleep.