Title: Toujours Pur This is a combination of my brotherfucking kink with my necrofelia islove kink. Complete with a craptastic title.
Words: 1,064
Feedback: Yes, please. Any sort. Even flames.
Pairing: Regulus/Sirius
Rating: R – for implied necrophilia and descriptions of death
Warning(s): One, this is slash. Two, this is incestuous slash. Three, this is necrophilia incestuous slash. Be forewarned.
Summary: He will join me here, in the dark, in the sanctity of Black. Time never chases its victims.
Notes: Though it be R, nothing is absolutely graphic. It is strangely told from first person Regulus, though it is never clarified in the story. Again, not beta'd; all mistakes are my own.
It is dark and I am dead.
I am dead and I am entombed.
I am entombed and I am in the Black Family mosque. The words "Toujours Pur" will always face me, carved into my mind as they are carved into the weight of the stone. Those who die honorable deaths are buried here. Those who die disgraceful deaths are buried here. What mine happened to be is relevant, and yet inconsequential for it does not change the final outcome.
I am dead and there is not but a body, white bone, decaying flesh, the name of history remaining. If there is a story it will be short, much like my life, and told with as few as words as possible. Those left to remember me do not do it without bitter grace, if they chose to even pass on the memory. So it is that I wonder, if I am allowed to wonder, the wait of time pressing upon me, the weight of consciousness lighter than that which allows for proper knowledge, why it is that you are here.
Have you come at last to visit your poor departed brother?
He stands in the corner, as if made from nothing but shadows and dust, yet still there. His breath echoes in this place of death, disturbing the air that has nothing natural to disturb it. He does not carry of presence of animosity, nor is it meant to be comforting, mournful, peaceful, or natural. He is here for his own reasons; selfish until the last dawn, never mindful of the one he seeks out from the darkness. It parallels his late night visits to my bedroom all those many years ago. He would stand in the corner, lost without the light, chasing and condemning and ravaging the Black from his soul. He would purge it into me.
Only now my body does not straighten when I notice him, does not harden from fear and desire. My breath cannot mingle with his own.
The years have not been kind to you, dear brother. They have not been kind to me either. Beneath this stone, so old and hard it makes my bones seem brittle in their youth, I am naught but what remains. Surely even you whose eyes have seen the devastation of war and Azkaban do not want to linger on my pretty face.
His skin is sallow, rough like worn leather, stretching in places awkward as he grinds his teeth from side to side. Hair, matted and sting like that of a stray dog, drops to his shoulders. It is still black, though faded, deficient of the sheen that represented life. It is if it longs to be gray, wilt from its once glory, if only it possessed the strength to continue to age. You always spoke through the way you kept your hair, long when you were depressed, shorter when you thrived.
With a sudden lurch, a decision made in haste one could mistake from gathered bravery, he emerges from the corner to walk to my tomb. His movement is stunted, hindered either by age or frailty or fear. He stops just above me, hand hovering over the stone, caressing the stale air that hangs above it. In the closer proximity I can see his composition in more detail.
Am I the corpse, brother, or are you?
As if hearing my question, the irony of which is unbecoming, because you never heard my answers, my cries, my pleas when I was living, Sirius, he sneers and his mouth folds into something vast and ugly. His teeth are yellow; some are broken.
"So this is what they did to you?" he asks into the oppressive air then pauses as if waiting for my reply. His voice is coarse but soft, like the shuffling of dried leaves. "This is what they did to you," he repeats, though it is not longer a question.
It is then that he does something unpredictable, so properly fitting to the son who rebelled against every sense of decency his family tried to install. He pushes the stone away from my face, the small shaft of light radiating from the opened door falling across my sunken features.
My nose has collapsed into the rotting hole of my skull; my eyelids all but erased by time, leaving my eyes missing, only staring black depths like my hair ought to be if any still existed. Pieces of skin are missing or decomposed, leaving the rest of my face a myriad of color, stench, and putrefaction. White bone glows eerily in the dim sunlight, framing that which was my eyes, that which was my nose and mouth. My teeth are the only part remaining pure, bared in the light, clenched against the onslaught of time that has destroyed the rest of my person.
It is them that he touches when he places his lips to me. Soft lips, chapped from ill care, the rough stubble of his chin flaking off skin from my chin. He presses his mouth to where mine must be, has always been, like when we were boys and I laid in wait in the shelter of my bed. Only it is not he this time, but time itself, that has ravaged my body.
Just as sudden as he choice was made, he finalizes it and pulls away. Eyelids guarded, the dark of his eyes stare at me, my no longer body, the cavities that creatures infester. He turns and goes, closing the door behind him slowly, abandoning me to the dark once more.
The Blackness that surrounds.
What he does not know, my brother, dear, dear Sirius is that he cannot escape it. His flesh already rots; his mind already haunts the places of his past. He will join me here, in the dark, in the sanctity of Black. Time never chases its victims.