A Hymn of Farewell
Disclaimers: Neither these characters nor this world are mine. They belong to J.K. Rowling. I intend no infringement of copyright, and am making no money by this.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: 'At the end, they … know dark is right'. Lucius/Narcissa ficlet. Broken and bloodied.
A/N: The quote is from Dylan Thomas. It belongs to him and his estate, not me.
Feedback: Oh, yes please.
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Blood on his cloak, on his robes, smeared through that immaculate mane. Blood, blood, until there is nothing in the world but endless red, rust red which she dare not name for fear that it will overwhelm her.
He smells of fine brandy, as she holds him close, and of ashes, and silence.
Yet still he does not demure as he grasps her hair, pulling her head back until he can kiss her, with all the fury of the ages. She does not pull back as she tastes blood on her tongue, for she knows it is not her own, and, for tonight, that is all there is. And he has bitten through his lip, severing flesh from flesh, as if in that he might tear past asunder from future, and future from past.
But there is no escape, and so she falls into him, knowing that his doom and hers are already sealed. She breathes in deeply, burying her head in his smooth chest, and, there, with his heart beating the insistent tattoo of dead passion beneath, she catches the acrid tang of the graveyard.
They are there with her, she knows as she submits to his ice – or does he submit to hers? But it does not matter, for they are there, their breath, colder even than his night-bitten skin, stings the back of her neck.
And she watches, impassively, as he arches in a fury of passion long spent, and the snow falls past the window, in an endless torrent of agony. As he falls, and she falls with him, as they all fall, at the end, to the merciless night.
He weeps, curled underneath the smooth covers, as she sits awake. She wonders if he really remembers how to cry, or if this is some mirage of her failing heart. And more – yes, oh so much more, if these tears are for his lost dreams – phantasms of blood and soil, shapes she dreads even to think of at this late hour – or for the other, the ruby flash in the night, the raised wand, the hurled curse, the green afterglow in the vaulted sky of his mind. She has no answer, for the questions sear her to the core.
She waits.
She already knows.
They come for him in the morning, their faces cheered by the dawn light, ebullient with the glare of victory in their eyes, the warmth of righteousness in their hearts, for victory is theirs, and the darkness is no more.
Fled, as she wishes she had the heart to. But she is no Gryffindor.
And she catches the platinum gleam, and the silver light, as one Fury turns to her and nods, for once he knew this place.
She knows, but does not say, for she has no words for this betrayal which is ultimate loyalty.
The snake curls round her, and its venom is in her veins, but she feels no sadness, no joy, only the sense of simply being, watching which overwhelms her.
They take him away, a sheet for swaddling clothes, blood raging in his hair and in his eyes, blood dappling his body.
And he tastes of the grave when she kisses him farewell.
FINIS
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A/N2: As you may have guessed, this is set after Voldemort's final defeat.