Given
By Armand Malfoy
His voice is full of blood. Pure and mud, spilt either way for any cause. His voice is full of violence. There is the over pronouncement of vowels, the deliberate lengthening of words, as if he draws strength from letters themselves. A man of words where I am a man of action. Which, I sometimes wonder, is of greater danger?
He has made a study of Latin and Greek. He can fake a wolf's howl, a bird's chirp, a hawk's forlorn cry. The hoot of an owl, the screech of an eagle, the purr of a kitten; all dwell dormant in his throat, as if the language of one species is not enough for him. He is given to imitation. He is given to lying in bed for hours, reciting monologues to the ceiling. He is given to nothing at all.
When the war ended our own private battle began. Love in the trenches does not, in any language, translate to domestic bliss. So I tidy up the house and work on the bike, go out to lunch and play Quidditch with my godson. He, with his brain an ivory carving, lies listless and useless. He cannot function without the fight, I fear. He cannot live without an enemy to outwit.
In the absence of a villain I become his rival, as it has been in the past. I had thought we had gotten past that, but I suppose we never really will. When he speaks to me it feels like tiny daggers digging in flesh, the tearing noises of his insults cutting up the air between us. His words tear apart the past, leave gaps in my mind where once whole memories dwelt.
I listen to him dissect the relationship, waiting till he'll let me sew us up again.
By Armand Malfoy
His voice is full of blood. Pure and mud, spilt either way for any cause. His voice is full of violence. There is the over pronouncement of vowels, the deliberate lengthening of words, as if he draws strength from letters themselves. A man of words where I am a man of action. Which, I sometimes wonder, is of greater danger?
He has made a study of Latin and Greek. He can fake a wolf's howl, a bird's chirp, a hawk's forlorn cry. The hoot of an owl, the screech of an eagle, the purr of a kitten; all dwell dormant in his throat, as if the language of one species is not enough for him. He is given to imitation. He is given to lying in bed for hours, reciting monologues to the ceiling. He is given to nothing at all.
When the war ended our own private battle began. Love in the trenches does not, in any language, translate to domestic bliss. So I tidy up the house and work on the bike, go out to lunch and play Quidditch with my godson. He, with his brain an ivory carving, lies listless and useless. He cannot function without the fight, I fear. He cannot live without an enemy to outwit.
In the absence of a villain I become his rival, as it has been in the past. I had thought we had gotten past that, but I suppose we never really will. When he speaks to me it feels like tiny daggers digging in flesh, the tearing noises of his insults cutting up the air between us. His words tear apart the past, leave gaps in my mind where once whole memories dwelt.
I listen to him dissect the relationship, waiting till he'll let me sew us up again.