Title: The Colors of the Mists
Author: DarkAngel
Summary: Because even made only by mists, you are more real than I'll ever be.
Shippers: Salazar Slytherin\Godric Gryffindor
G: Romance\Angst
Rating: Mature
Spoilers: none

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to JK Rowling. Only the insane plot is mine. XD
Hope you like it.

The Colors os the Mists

By DarkAngel

Of the colors of the mists your smile was made, which was dim, inconstant and ethereal. Unreal for it was always there, but I've never really seen it. Of the colors of the mists your features were made, a mask covering your true reactions, always at bay of really appearing. Of the colors of the mists your eyes were made, clouded and intense, but covered by layers of mystery I always wanted to unveil. Of the colors of the mists your feelings were made, for someone coming near was reason enough for them to become even more distant and untouchable, coming to the point of some to doubt they really existed.

Of the colors o the mists you were made, who just as your sire, has disappeared on the dawn, leaving the sun shining and birds singing on a clear and bright day, pretending its presence had never been there.

Of the colors of the mists...

The same constancy the fog possesses you did too, throughout the time you've been here. I won't say by my side, you've never been by my side, you'd been, simply, here. Just as the lightest breeze makes the mists change its direction, your kisses become scoff; as the pale sun makes the fog disappear, your promises become threats.

I've never understood you, but now I realize that understanding you would be loosing you. Just as capturing the mists is turning it into water, simple water, understanding you is turn you human, simple human, and that would have guaranteed your staying here, but not your will of staying.

I wonder you've never wanted to stay, once you've already had everything ready for your leave.

I miss you.

I've never thought it would come the day when I would admit it so easily, but I miss you.

Like a physical pain, a constancy you've never had, for being made of mists, your absence hurts, weights, oppresses, aches.

I miss you.

Sometimes I stare at the lake and the gardens of the castle, and find myself wondering that we only miss what hurts us and that, perhaps, our souls disposition is, by essence, to suffer. We do not miss what is here and, for this reason, we never appreciate the beloved presence as we should.

At the moment we lose it, we miss it completely, all its absence, all its lack, every gesture, every touch, and for that, we suffer. We find out we love when we are plainly conscious that such love is no longer possible, and, for that, the lost person becomes dearer to our souls and our hearts.

We plainly love only what we will never possess and we realize the perfection in each gesture only when we can no longer see it.

We love what makes us suffer. I end up convincing myself that, even more than just miss you, I also loved you. I still do.

And I am quite sure that, had you stayed here, Salazar, I would never had admitted this. Not for stubbornness, or pride, but simply because I wouldn't have seen how much your presence made me happy, how privileged I should have felt for having you by my side.

You never were someone I should have considered as constant, as guaranteed, I should have fought more to really be by your side and, for that, I cannot help but blame myself for your leave. Guilty, sorrow and love. Everything weights together and aches, more than your presence did, because your presence had the colors of the mists, light and inconstant, a little voluble, sometimes on the edge of the futile ordinary beauty, and, in the next moment, you would surprise me and rejuvenize me, and make me happy with something simple like your eyes. Their brightness, which almost gave me hope to, in the very next second, throw me down my ecstasy when you would mock my happy behavior, which in your words were childishly inappropriate.

I miss you, because you've always known how weak I am and you never cared to try to make me stronger. You understood my weakness, just like I understood your strength and both of us knew no-one beside ourselves would realize how much we completed each other. But our names, our beliefs, our lives wanted us in opposite sides.

Opposite ideals in twin souls, just as image and reflex on a silver mirror, destined to support our beliefs and fight for what we thought right, even if in such different ways.

I am a fool. I miss you because I fought for my ideals, I miss you because you weren't right and I couldn't stand to see injustice.

Please, explain to me, Salazar, how could I love you so much, if I've never understood the way you think? If I've never agreed with your main beliefs? How could I love you so much, how can I still love so strongly someone made of mists, whose beliefs are made of marble and whose soul is made of ice?

How can I love you, my dear love made of the colors of the mists, if you've never loved me back?

And how can I still feel everything I do, if you've left? Or perhaps this is just me being fool and not realizing that the base of my feelings resides exactly on the fact that you're gone. That becoming untouchable you've become, also, loved, because I would never hear your refusal, once you wouldn't be here to express it, or I will never have to face your acceptance, in case you return my feelings?

Irony that the founder of the House of the Brave is, by essence, a coward.

Coward for not seeing I loved, or for just allow me to love only what I can no longer have. Coward for wanting to see in the mists the constancy of the rocks, just for knowing I'd never have it.

Coward for seeing the love made of mists leaving, and let it leave, so that I could contemplate the love I've always felt, and would have never found out, if you had stayed here.

Coward and in love.

Because even made only by mists, you are more real than I will ever be.

That's it.

Now be a darling and review.

XD