Secrets and Masks

75. Epilogue Two

Silence.

Nothing.

There wasn't a fucking sound.

Draco felt nothing. He could hear nothing. Smell nothing. Might as well have been floating on a cloud of nothingness for all the good his senses were. He had no idea where he was. He couldn't even feel his own body anymore, which - if he really thought about it - wasn't exactly the worst thing in the world, considering the pain he'd been in a few moments ago....

He was grateful that it hadn't, but he'd expected the pain to follow him when he'd died. After everything he'd done, it was what he deserved, wasn't it?

He'd spent the last twelve years committing the most atrocious acts. He was a war criminal and a murderer, wasn't he supposed to pay for all of that upon his death? Wasn't he supposed to be writhing and screaming and burning in agony for the rest of eternity as payment for his sins? Wasn't he supposed to pay for all the hearts that he'd stopped from beating the moment his own stilled? Wasn't that supposed to be the deal?

It's what he'd been preparing himself for. It's what he'd expected, not ... this. This nothingness. This lack of pain or sensation of any kind.

But then again, maybe being conscious but nothing at the same time was a punishment in itself. To feel nothing, taste nothing, see nothing, just be a ball of nothingness but completely aware and know that there was no end, that sounded horrible. Sounded enough to make anyone go mad.

And it sounded frighteningly real.

The thought made him panic. He gasped at the horror of what might likely be his new reality - and it was then that he realised he felt it. He felt the breath that he'd just taken. Felt his lungs expand and when he exhaled ... he felt them deflated.

So maybe he wasn't just nothing. Maybe there was more to him than that. He kept his eyes closed and started to do a mental checklist in his head.

His toes were there. So were his shoulders. And his legs.

And when he tried to make a fist -

Damp.

Was that ... grass that he could feel? Yes, he was sure of it. He could feel blades of grass between his fingers. Soft and thin and damp, freshly mowed, the way they felt in the spring, when all the dark and dreary nights had come to an end and everything was starting to grow afresh.

Hell wasn't supposed to feel like that, was it? All the books and scrolls described hell as hot. A burning hellfire. An awful, torture chamber with moats made of fire and the air so hot it boils the skin right off the bone. This place wasn't that, so what the fuck was it?

It was a trick. It had to be. After everything he'd done, there had to be more to it than this ...

Yes, there was more to come, he was sure of it. This was probably part of it. Lure him into a false sense of security, get him to let his guard down, lower his defences, make him feel hopeful, only for the pain and torment to start afterwards, made all the more agonising because it was so unexpected, because he'd dared to hope that their might be better for him.

For a long time, he didn't move. He waited for the fire. Waited for the legendary pain to find him and when nothing happened, he opened his eyes just a crack.

A gorgeous, clear blue sky was all he could see above him. There were even a few clouds. Since when did hell have clouds?!

Even though there was no fire or smoke or discomfort of any kind, Draco was still cautious. He stayed completely still and stared up ahead in silence, watching as one cloud rolled into the next. He watched and watched, and it was only when a gentle breeze drafted across his face that he moved at all, because he recognised the smell it carried.