{ Part Two??? I was kind of unsure of the direction of this story, but I kind of like where it ended up. What do you guys think?}
You felt like a fool.
This morning had begun with such promise, sky clear and sun high, with the light chatter of songbirds outside your window. Your father’s campaign to find any man to take you had been briefly halted by an extended visit to his old friend Ned Stark. After pleasant conversation and decent wine, you regarded Ned as a friend, and you suspected he felt the same, based on your continued tradition of speaking each night.
Somehow your shared sorrow had made you both feel hopeful, at least for a minute, that perhaps tragedy didn’t beget tragedy. Maybe there was something else in this world, something else that the Gods intended, renewed purpose.
And then you had gone and smashed that budding friendship to pieces.
War, yes, War suits Gryffindor well. Fighting and dying for beliefs; fighting and dying for nothing; drafted into bloodshed and fire by bravery or chivalry or neither. Some take joy in this; some are burdened beyond repair. There was a cause, somewhere; there was good, somewhere; there was a reason for all this, somewhere. Oh, you’d have to be brave to live through this. Red and gold. Gold like armor and glory; red like blood and reality.
But Famine and Hufflepuff? No. Famine is Ravenclaw, ever-hungry for knowledge, constantly starving for more and more and more, almost feral for fulfillment. Where is the wisdom in the world? The truth? Nothing is true; nothing is enough; all there is to devour is worthless scraps. Blue and bronze. Bronze like a set of scales tipping and found wanting; blue like the infinite that never satisfies… never gives the answers.
Thus Pestilence is not Ravenclaw. Pestilence is Slytherin, sick with clever plans and cunning potential and corrupting desire. Ambition spreads like a sickness, a plague of greed and an illness to the soul. Maybe some might call it cruel, but here among friends it’s simple cunning at work. Green and silver. Silver like the sheen of glazed eyes; green like the complexion of infection.
And so Death is not Slytherin. Death is Hufflepuff. It is a hard work; it is a work that is never done. But someone must do it, and do it fairly – do it justly – do it well… perhaps even kindly. Everyone is equal here – in the end – a bunch of duffers. Said Hufflepuff, “I’ll teach the lot… And treat them just the same.” Yellow and black. Black like loss of sight as the air leaves your lungs; yellow like the flowers that’ll grow over your grave.
andtheytoldustotellyouhello 