Ascetic
To Ange, my dear friend. This is a truly horrific birthday present.
1
The door opens, and Bella's there, in all her furious beauty.
"My Lord," she says, flashing her tongue at me—rolling it through the air, as if it should captivate me. "My Lord."
"Leave me," I reply. I'm not interested in her body, now. There are greater things than pleasure. She knows that, of course, but she can have both in a breath; and so, she stands there, obstinate.
I reach for my wand, and she cackles a little. "Oh, my Lord isn't frustrated by his own inadequacies, is he? Surely not."
She's joking. You're not offended: you know the games she plays. But she must have the message: "Crucio," I murmur.
Sinking to the floor, screams drift amidst her laughter, but neither one dominates the other. She grins, and I keep her there; I'm not amused. Never.
Her arms flail around her, her muscles contracting randomly: it is a wonder that you can hear her say: "Bastard." And then I do laugh, though I am not amused. Never.
2
Tears of agony begin to streak down her face, and still she cackles away—this game of cat and mouse—and she removes her wand from her pocket. I laugh harder still. It feels like the thing to do. For a moment, I believe it.
"Crucio!" she shrieks.
A jolt of light pain catches me in the arm, and I jolt back in surprise. Bella's laugh is delighted for an eighth of a second, but then sense catches up with her aching flesh. She throws down her wand at once, and fear spreads through the faint lines of her skin. "My Lord. My Lord!"
Stepping forward, fury spasms through every angle of my body. I can see everything clearer, now. There's something there, an emotion, a direction, a compass. No longer am I acting on segments of a projected strategy: I have a guide and I am liberated. I know what I'm doing; everything is laid before me, in perfect definition. How dare she.
There is no affection in my liberation:
"CRUCIO! CRUCIO! CRUCIO!" I jolt her in and out of pain, letting her nerves touch the world for a second, tempting them with what they can't have. I'm standing over her now. "CRUCIO! CRUCIO!" I kick her in the face and blood pours from her lips, pooling as a pond of life. I kick her everywhere.
I thrust her wand towards her, and she clasps it in her hand. "My Lord shows mercy." Her voice is broken and blood spills out with each word. "I don't deserve it."
Calming, I point my wand at her heart, and I set my eyes on her wrist.
Slowly, pronouncing every syllable as fully as I can, I say, "Avada Kedavra." I see the terror of a thousand victims spread across her face; the anguish, the fear, the regrets, the inexplicable sorrow—but, in her, I see also an acceptance that she is fulfilling her role, taking her position. She would die at no other hand.
Her wrist did not flick one millimetre towards casting a spell, and neither did her mind.
3
Of course, I conjured no magic.
Bella caresses her burning skin, feeling around for a sign that she's dead; but her eyes stay on me, disbelieving, adoring—bemused at my wisdom. I put my hands under her arms, and pull her into the kneeling position.
"You are a good servant, Bellatrix. My best. My most loyal."
She doesn't bother to smile. Instead, she allows me into her mind, and I feel the happiness, the joy.
I pretend I am permeable.
4
Still kneeling, she removes her top, baring herself. Now she looks up at me, questioningly:
I nod, in an act of strange kindness.
She is beautiful: that soft, pale skin; the wicked black of her hair; the spasms of murder and the shadows of thought in her dark eyes. I almost respect her when I see her at her most crazed—light fading from a seemingly lightless being.
I don't dissapoint myself by delving into the depths of her mind. I allow myself a surface glimpse, to feel her adoration, but not understand it. I don't want to know why she loves me, just that she does—that it doesn't mitigate or slip away.
Her joy is evident, as if it exists in the walls of the room: she removes my trousers—and she serves me again.
5
It is strange to me—giving someone something they want for pleasure. I feel nothing but that which everyone feels, nothing more. There's no unique joy, no redeeming salvation, just pleasure.
And, and—
It is a favour. The anger always fades too soon with her: the raw emotion replaced with calm… calm and pleasure. The tunnel vision recedes, and I'm drifting along.
I prefer my victims: the anger substitutes for feeling. The red-hot fire makes it feel natural, almost. It seems to have a purpose.
I've never been able to fool myself that Bellatrix is anything more: but it's not compassion, certainly nothing absurd like affection. It's merely a master's urge; and that is as separate urge from any of the others, not a by-product, but a sensation in itself. And I tell her that. I tell her that she may serve me, because I am her master.
But I know she fantasises on something more, and I let it go idly, only confronting it when it becomes too obvious to ignore. I let it go, because—somewhere—sometime—some place—I wonder if there was a bit of me that didn't detest the possibility of understanding.
6
Later—
Through my window, I watch her standing over a victim: a small, muggle-born creature. We have asked that toad-like witch from the ministry to send a batch of them over from time to time: Nagini needs meat, the men need serving and—
Bellatrix pulls the head of the girl close to her, and punches her until her eyes open. She pinches the blonde girl's cheeks, rubbing the loose skin between her fingers, as if comforting the child. The girl is howling in pain, and through the glass, you see Bella mouth to her: "There, there." She places a small kiss on the girl's forehead, and then immediately spits in her face—in mock disgust at having touched her.
Walking away from the girl, Bella howls with laughter. She turns and tortures the girl once more: her laughter is so loud I can almost hear it through the glass.
On and on and on it goes. And I laugh, too, alone in my study, not even Nagini for comfort. I laugh with her, the volume growing and growing. I laugh for five long minutes, and eventually Bellatrix leaves the girl for another, and I am still laughing.
I laugh so long and so hard that even the glands in my eyes—withered and insensitive from inactivity—are jolted by the repetitive motion. Fooled and alarmed, they jump into life, and tears of joy are descending my cheeks
I'm not even remotely amused, and never in love.
Written in a short period of time for my friend's birthday. I wasn't originally going to post it, 'cause it creeps me out a little, but then... I like the things it does in my head. I've got a companion piece to this, which I might polish sometime soon.
Titled for irony. : )
Would love feedback, of course.