Throne of the Dead

by Darkness' Embrace

Everyone has an angel, who watches from above. To make them feel safe, and always feel loved. But my angel is different. He lives amongst fire, and smells of grim stone; kisses and coos until I become his own.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series. All rights belong to J.K. Rowling

Throne of the Dead

My dark angel
Appears before me each night
When it's dark outside
And there is no trace of light

He whispers to me
While I lay in my bed
And lures me to him
To his Throne of the Dead

- My Dark Angel, umikaiba3173

~()~

"Of course, honey, anything you want. I'll be good to you. Always am,"

The soft curves of the pillow tighten beneath me. They feel like knives, sharp and cleaving, prying me open until I bleed out, my life force seeping away like the juice of a chopped pomegranate. The warm duvet becomes a sheet of ice.

"Does that feel good? Of course it does. Don't lie to me, you silly, silly girl. I know that you like it. They always like it,"

Coffee and iron. The sickly combination inhabits my very skin, soaking me with a thick blanket of liquidescent revulsion. I have cut, ripped, and torn until my eyes bleed crimson tears and the world spins and explodes and hits me so hard that I feel nothing but the empty sucking of nothingness; a siren call nearly impossible to resist.

"Oh, sweet pea, don't cry! I love you, really, I do. Don't you see that I'm doing this for you? You know that everything I do is to make you better. Don't you trust me?"

I relive that day over again every time I lie in this bed, every time the crystalline tears carve paths down my cheeks, each laboured breath, each stifled scream. Save me! God, please. Only now do I know that such prayers are fruitless.

"How lovely you are, my dear. As soon as I saw you, I knew that you would be mine. Now look at us! Oh, isn't this just the happiest day of your life?"

I cannot count the times that day, so desperate I was, that I screamed to the heavens, blood vessels exploding in my face, twisted in pain. I begged Him to save me, to help me, just to be there with me, with more desperation and pain and fear than I have ever felt. More than I thought it was possible for a person to feel.

Fingers cold as snow caress puckered skin, innocently broken, yet so viciously invaded. Winter fills me and I cannot breathe anymore. Pain more shocking than I've ever felt washes over me; large crashing tides soaking sun-warmed sand, making it just as cold and wet and angry as they are. The fiery torment breathes me in; making me one with the devil himself.

Heaving, and soaked with perspiration, I crawl out of bed. The star-lit window beckons me with a sweet alfalfa breeze and the promise of mint cool air. My tears turn to shards of ice on my wind-worn face as I lean as far out of the small window as gravity allows. I don't think I'm ready to die. Not yet, anyway.

The night sky is a beautiful medley of splattered ink and sprinkled glitter. Each point of light bursts and shines with such fierce energy that I envy them. I envy their easy existence; just one goal, to shine as brightly as they can to illuminate the lives of others. How I wish life were so easy.

The fresh air washes over me until the burnt coffee and rusted iron that crawl like parasites over my exposed flesh are nothing but a horrific nightmare. They are not real, simply figments of my wild imagination. Nothing is real anymore, not when I am here, when I can fly with the angels and dance with the stars.

He cannot find me here, in this barren land. Such is the reason I live this pathetic life, with no glory and no honour. I would rather die a hermit than see that face again. Be forced to caress the sharp planes and fine ridges of that hardened and sculpted visage. Such beauty, such terrible, terrible, beauty. He has the face of an angel and the black heart of the devil himself. An angel, fallen from grace. Beautiful in it's ferocity.

That is how I remember him, what I see in my mind with each touch, each frozen sweep of smooth fingertips. I see an angel.

An angel with obsidian wings.

Tongues of fire lick my skin. So pale and impressionable, I yield to its scorching heat. Cringing, I wait, I prepare for the searing, melting pain of a raging inferno. I feel naught but steam, creeping up my body, encasing me in a vaporised halo. It is thin and breathable, yet the grey cloud suffocates me, forcing me down, down, down, until there is no bottom to this bottomless pit. I am it.

It is at this moment that the cloying smoke, so playful and innocent, clamps down on my soft human flesh and bites into me, covering me in a sheet of blue ice. I cannot see. Cannot hear. Cannot smell anything but coffee and iron, tormenting me in my frozen cage. Scream! Scream! Let me out! No one comes. Not today, not ever.

Hardening, solidifying, the ice becomes stronger as I weaken beneath it. Breaking, liquefying, I begin the descent in to nothingness. No, no, no! I cry and cry and cry. I fight for the alfalfa breeze and that cool mint air. I fight for him, the beautiful boy that made me in to this disgusting excuse for a girl.

But more than anything, I fight for the angel; that beautiful, terrible, cruel angel.

I fight for my angel.

My

Angel with

Obsidian

Wings.

FIN

A/N This one-shot was written for Rhr4eva's 99 Love/Pain Quotes Challenge. The prompt was #13; I hate those moments right before you go to sleep where you are forced to think about all the things you try so hard to forget.