Many thanks to those who reviewed the prequels to this fic: snapespook, Eli-kun, Jubille and Rubicon.
Thanks to those who reviewed the original version of this fic: Ilona1, Werecat99, Lestatian, Rehanna, and Runespoor.
Warnings: slash, dark angst, acts of senseless cruelty. Don't like. Don't read
Disclaimer:
The characters of Tom Riddle and Lucius Malfoy are property of J.K.
Rowling, not me. I am not making any money off them or this piece of
writing. This is simply for my bizarre entertainment.
Having dispensed with my legal and moral responsibilities, enjoy!
Ashes, Saints of Villainy, Part 3 of 7
"I can feel you in my veins. You're a fever- scalding and then the arctic has taken refuge in my bones and I am shivering, lonely, miserable, dying inside. Fire consumes me a thousand times over and I seek to put it out in the arms of lanky blondes, but they are, in the end, not you, They don't cut me the same way you do and then lap at the wound in my heart until it heals. I lay staring vacant-eyed at the ceiling while you sort through my insides, discarding things on a whim.
But I had the patience for you and I could take the pain. Truth be told, I got off on some of it. I never would have loved you as much as I shouldhavecouldhave did and still do if had made things easy- if you had been there and open and willing from the start. You were flawed in just the right places- flawed enough to set your features aflame with vulnerability as the light flickered and wavered but never went out. I ache for you. I ache for your lips and arms and the noiseless scream you make when you're lost in sweet delirium and not outside yourself, watching, observing, testing.
But I will never hold you that way again. I will never again be content just to have you in the darkest hours of the night and listen to you breathe. Such simplicity, if it can even be called that, is beyond me. I am going back to my original calling- what I wanted before I met you, though it has taken me half a year to realize that there was a 'before I met you.'
You will not receive this letter. It matters not. By the time you read it, the writer of the letter will be gone, the weakness burnt away and dissolved like Ashes in the wind. But without weaknesses, what are we? I confess I am afraid to find out. I'm not sure if I will like myself without weaknesses. But is this not courage? Acknowledging your fears and carrying on in spite of them? Then again, what does courage matter to me or you? We are Slytherins to the core, both of us, and we'll never be anything more or less."
He stretched and winced. The pain from the transformation felt good, so he stretched again before picking up the parchment that graced his writing desk. He laughed when he reread the letter. So much pain. So much pain because he had dedicated himself to the wrong cause. He recalled the occasion that prompted him to write the letter:
The boy was gorgeous, soft,
and willing, but all he could think was "Not Lucius." No matter how
hard he tried, he couldn't fool himself for an instant, with or without
the aid of polyjuice. The boy didn't act like Lucius at all, wasn't
angelically and damningly beautiful with innocence bitterly remembered
and cool insolence dripping from his every word. He was too loud.
Lucius was so quiet, his past pains and current pleasures combining to
make him breathless and incapable of anything but total surrender to
Tom's hands, lips, and teeth. The whole thing was terribly wrong, a
poor counterfeit that mocked the twisted sanctity of the bed he had
shared with Lucius.
In a moment of violent desperation, he had killed the boy, snapping his neck. Strange that in death the boy reminded him more of Lucius than he had in life. Lucius. Tom shook his head. The man was poison. He was a poison to himself and everyone he touched died of the same wasting disease that was killing him-- that same anger and lack of hope and innocence. As the corpse cooled on the bed, Tom made a decision. He bled the poison out- metaphorically with a quill, his hand shaking from an emotional overload . Then literally with a kitchen knife. It made a mess, but it was strangely beautiful- the deep, warm crimson staining the white porcelain sink. He wanted to cry in relief. He had begun to wonder if he had died and no one had the courtesy to inform him. But the blood was a reminder, proof that he still lived. Of course, now he had a body to get rid of...
With a flick of his wand, the letter erupted into flames. The ashes made a neat little pile on his desk. Tom smiled. So nice and neat. Everything would be nice and neat from now on. Indulging in a moment of sentiment, he scooped up the ashes and took them to the open window, letting the wind carry them away to join the remains of the boy who disappointed him.
More will follow in good time. Meanwhile, feedback is adored.
Love,
J. Silver