A Sinner or A Saint
Chapter 5
A Sinner or a Saint
Emerald pools, reflecting skies of ash,
His soul, a garden where roses wilt and clash.
He offers hands, but lets them idly fall,
Is he a sinner, deaf to duty's call,
Or saint, who sees the world beyond the veil,
And finds no solace where the shadows fail?
6 Months Later
Paris, France
The sun splashed across the Parisian skyline, its golden embrace bathing the Eiffel Tower in a warm glow. Like ripples on a lake, laughter and chatter danced on the gentle breeze, weaving through the throngs of picnickers sprawled beneath the tower's shadow. Children, their faces aglow with excitement, chased pigeons along the Champs-de-Mars, their joyous shrieks weaving into the melody of street music carried on the air. A leisurely bike race snaked through the throngs, their colorful jerseys flashes of life against the emerald expanse of the lawn.
Amidst this symphony of life, a lone figure emerged from the shadows of the tower's legs. His steps were measured, each one punctuated by the soft rasp of worn leather against cobblestone. He reached a weathered bench bathed in the afternoon sun, its paint peeling like the pages of a well-worn book.
With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of a thousand stories, he lowered himself onto the bench, his posture a study in quiet contemplation. His eyes, the color of moss clinging to ancient ruins, surveyed the scene before him. He watched the carefree laughter of children, the whispered secrets shared between lovers, the vibrant tapestry of humanity unfurling beneath the watchful gaze of the Iron Lady.
"How peaceful," he murmured with a bitter chuckle as his gaze roamed around the place. He watched in silence, but his mind was filled with disdain for the people here. But then, his gaze drifted from the sun-dappled faces picnicking below, his mind slipping through a crack in time. The vibrant greens of the Champs-de-Mars morphed into a desolate wasteland, the laughter of children replaced by the hollow moans of the damned.
The Iron Lady, once a proud symbol of progress, now mocked the Parisian skyline with her rusted ribs jutting against a blood-red sky. Skeletons of his kind, stripped bare by them, dangled from her highest girders, their silhouettes dancing like marionettes against the crimson canvas.
Rosewater stench rotted into the cloying miasma of decay, the joyous chirps of sparrows strangled by the rasping croaks of crows. Where children once chased butterflies in sun-drenched fields, now skeletal hands clawed at the earth, dragging lifeless forms towards gallows sculpted from twisted iron. Its shadow, a gaping maw, drank the crimson twilight like a starving beast.
"Help us," echoed the desperate cries. "Save us, Savior," they pleaded, voices blending into a chorus of anguish.
‘HELP ME’
‘HELP US’
‘HELP ME’
‘PLEASE!’
‘PLEASE!’
‘Free us from this hell’
‘FREE US FROM THIS HELL! SAVIOR!’
Each rasping breath sounded like a rusty blade scraping bone. The cobblestones, slick with spilled magic, glistened like broken teeth under the dying sun. And above it all, the Iron Lady, a twisted crown of bone and iron, gleamed with the macabre amusement of a fallen god.
Then, a scream. A child’s scream, piercing the darkness, ripping through the fabric of his nightmare. It clawed at him, pulling him back from the abyss, anchoring him to the sun-drenched reality of the Parisian park.
The macabre visions dissipated like smoke, replaced by the familiar melody of Parisian life. Laughter danced on the breeze, the sun painting the Champs-de-Mars with golden brushstrokes. But Harry's gaze remained haunted, drawn to a fallen soldier on the gravel path – a little girl with scraped knees and tears that stained her face like raindrops on a rose.
As her parents rushed to soothe her, a shadow slipped beside Harry, a small hand holding out a vibrant blue flower.
"Hi! Here is a flower for you, mister," the boy announced, his voice chirping like a sparrow. He was no older than eight, his eyes wide and innocent, holding an ancient wisdom beyond his years. Harry took a longer moment to look at him properly. He looked like his son, but with a different hair color. But those eyes, those were the very same eyes his Albus used to have.
After a long moment, Harry took the flower, its color a stark contrast to the lingering gray in his heart. "Thank you, little one," he said, surprise softening his voice. "But surely your parents taught you not to talk to strangers, did they?"
The boy, unfazed, bobbed his head. "Yes, they did. But Grandma also said if I saw someone looking sad, a blue flower might do the trick."
Harry chuckled, the sound hollow even to his own ears. "I assure you, I'm not sad." He crouched down, meeting the boy's gaze, a pool of endless curiosity that pierced through the shadows clinging to Harry's soul.
"Oh! Then, are you angry, mister?" the boy asked, his voice filled with childish certainty.
The question snagged at Harry, unexpected and raw. Anger? Not exactly. But a storm of emotions churned within him, the echoes of his nightmare still clinging to the edges of his mind. He chuckled again, but this time, the sound cracked like a broken mirror.
"Me? Angry? No, little one," he said, the words feeling foreign on his tongue. "Just a bit lost in thought, that's all."
The boy continued to stare, his gaze unwavering. "You're angry," he declared, his voice small but firm. It wasn't an accusation, but a simple observation, and for some reason, it struck Harry hard.
He laughed again, but this time, the sound died in his throat. "Has anyone ever told you," he rasped, a newfound respect tinged with weariness, "you're a bit too wise for your own good?"
The boy grinned, a gap-toothed sunbeam lighting up his face. "Grandma always said I have her eyes," he confided, pushing a stray wisp of hair behind his ear. "She said they see straight through things."
Harry looked at the blue flower in his hand, its fragile beauty echoing the delicate hope the boy offered. ‘If I am who I was before…’ he thought.
"Lost?" The boy tilted his head, mimicking a curious puppy. "Is that why you're sitting alone? My grandma, who went to the sky, always said that sitting alone is like eating cake without frosting – something missing, you know?"
Harry slightly smiled at the child and said, "Your grandma sounds like a wise woman."
"She was!" the boy declared, his chest puffing out with pride. "She said that when you feel lost, you just follow the laughter. And I heard yours from over there."
“But I did not laugh, child”
“E-Eh, w-well, Let’s just say I heard you laugh!”
"So, why are you here, little adventurer?" Harry asked, gently teasing.
"Because you looked alone, mister," the boy said, his voice serious now. "And because grandma also said that loneliness is a big, hungry wolf, and it doesn't like company. So I came to keep it away!"
Harry's heart ached at the child's innocent wisdom. He was just a boy, yet he understood the weight of loneliness, the hunger of shadows.
"Thank you," Harry whispered, "You're a brave knight, chasing away wolves."
The boy grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I am! And I'm called Leo, like the strongest lion!"
Their conversation flowed easily, like a gentle stream meandering through a sunlit meadow. Leo, with his boundless curiosity, peppered Harry with questions. His next question, though innocent, hit a nerve.
"Do you believe in God, mister? My mama said he’s up there in the sky with grandma!" Leo asked, his eyes wide with wonder.
A bitter taste flooded Harry's mouth. He clenched his fists, the muscles in his jaw tightening uncomfortably. For years, this question had been a thorn in his side, a festering wound he couldn't heal. The memories of loss, of unanswered prayers, of an indifferent sky mocked him every time it surfaced.
He wanted to snap, to retort with a cynical quip or a dismissive shrug. But looking into the child's hopeful gaze, something within him faltered. Her naivete, her uncorrupted belief in something bigger than herself, was a stark contrast to his own jaded cynicism.
He took a deep breath, forcing the bile down. "Faith," he rasped, his voice rough with suppressed emotion, "is a luxury I can't afford anymore...." He trailed off, unable to articulate the darkness that clung to him like a shroud. He then looked at the child once more and sighs, "I don’t know, but if there is one…." Harry trailed off.
"Then do you fear dying?" the boy asked next, his voice a whisper now.
Harry paused, the question stirring the echoes of his nightmare, he looked at the distance and he seemed far away before he answered. "No, not anymore," he said finally.
Leo pondered his words, his brow furrowed in thought. Then, he looked up, a determined glint in his eyes.
“Well! I’m sure you believe in soulmates, Mister! We all have that! I’ve been waiting for mine! I’m sure they will be awesome! and! and! Mama always said that you would know at the very same moment when you met! Like it would just click! and-” the child continued to blabber words uninterrupted. Harry lets him be. He thought of the term ‘soulmates’ ; this is also one thing this universe has. The absurd thought of having a person who’s only for you, isn't it just a ploy of fate. They fucking tend to meddle with the lives of a mortal and now dictating who will they love? He read that article after he apparated from that hidden base to Italy. He then blinked as the child seemed waiting for his answer.
“No, I do not.” He tells the boy firmly. Straight to its intent and truth leaks into his voice. The child seems to be feeling down, Harry notices, he should’ve just sugar coated his words but he doesn't and that’s it, but then the child springs up again.
"Well then, mister, let's find those sparks together," he declared, holding out a handful of wildflowers. "Maybe they'll chase away the shadows and the wolves!”
And then a sudden tremor of unease ran down Harry's spine before the first bomb detonated. The air crackled, a static hum that prickled the hairs on his neck. He glanced around, a familiar cold clenching his gut. Death , he recognized the scent of it, metallic and acrid, a harbinger of endings.
Then, the world erupted. Harry shoved the boy to the ground, shielding him with his own body as the thunderous booms rolled over them. But then, a new threat emerged from the haze.
White gas, thick and choking, billowed through the shattered streets, obscuring the sun and casting everything in an eerie, milky glow.
"W-what's hap-ppening, Miste-r?" the boy mumbled, his voice thin and lost.
Harry met his eyes. Then he pressed a hand to the boy's forehead, infusing a whisper of magic into his touch, a soothing balm against the terror.
" Sleep ," he said, his voice low and steady, a counterpoint to the surrounding pandemonium. "Close your eyes and rest. You’ll be fine." His dance with death had begun again.