"Speak No Evil"

DISCLAIMER: I don't own them, JKR does. I bet they're pretty relieved about that.

SUMMARY: Sirius Black's POV. After he catches Severus engaging in a very private activity, Sirius joins him, in an effort to stave off the madness that still lingers around him since his imprisonment in Azkaban.

PAIRING: Severus/Sirius. Sorta. Possibly. In a twisted way.

RATING: Exceedingly strong R. Tread with caution.

SERIES: Second in "The Ceremony of Innocence". Sequel to "The Pied Piper".

ARCHIVE: No.

THANKS TO: My lovely, wonderful and un-squickable betas, who saved you from the first draft of this. :-)

The words bled into each other.

My vision is still blurred after twelve years of darkness, but despite that I could tell. I could feel it. My hand trembled as I braced myself against his bare back and blinked rapidly. All those beautiful words I had torturously carved pulsed beneath my fingers and bled into each other, mocking my efforts to keep them coherent.

There was one thing I hadn't tried yet; there was one binding I had not attempted. I pressed my mouth to his open back, almost falling, almost drowning, almost in control as I lapped hungrily at the slow throb of blood there.

Beneath me, Severus gave one choked sob, more of surprise than of pain, then shuddered and stilled.

Cold metal nestled in his flesh, bleeding ice into his veins. I felt him shudder as it seeped deep into the marrow of his bones.

My tongue found the torn flesh, the deep gash of rendered muscle and sinew, and probed deep. I sighed a little as I felt the flesh beneath me tense, wholly merciless in my enjoyment. I am not sorry for this.

He had been so silent, you see, so perfectly, gloriously still while my world froze in time and blood dripped down my fingers. I could have spent years like this, leaning in too far, breathing it all in, all that copper and fire and spilled, torn power. It was so intoxicating, and he was so still... he only cried out once, when my hands, slick and slippery with blood, slipped and drove the razor down to leave a long gash on one of his ribs. I froze instantly, of course, while he trembled and keened softly. Whether it was a sound of pleasure or pain I could not tell and did not care.

So delicious to savour that. So sweet. But there was finally too much blood spilling down his back, washing away all of my hard work, and there was only one way, really, of stopping it.

And, if I must be truthful, it was simply too much to resist.

Torn sinew and scraped bone and that sweet, spicy smell of copper, as I latched on to the wound as if I could devour him, as if his suffering was a feast.

Can you doubt that it was?

I hated him. I still do, maybe... maybe. Can anyone resist this? Can anyone not forgive after this? That he'd allow me to do such things to him... that he'd bare his back and throw back his head to expose a long column of vulnerable throat and not flinch, not at the first cut nor at the tracing of spidery words, deliquescing down his back in rivulets.

I would love him and loathe him if it was all for me. Thank Merlin that it was not. It was not. I owed him nothing.

I found him, you see. His wrists still bleed through the deep grooves I saw him cut, mouth thinned in pain and pupils dilated with pleasure. His robes were already stained with shed blood and unmentioned, unspoken tears. I did not start this. I cannot claim the credit for it. I am not responsible.

Artless to confess, really, the thoughts that sprung, unbidden. Artless and pitiless to confess listening to the harshly strung echoes of his rage plucking at him, ringing in the grotesque silence all around.

How can I show you what I saw? How can I confess desire for something so frightening and destructive?

There was silence in him then, as now, and a savage kind of beauty. There was elegance and shadows in that helpless, sneering rictus of despair. There was... oh, there was so much more. So much more to explain when I cannot explain at all, when I cannot even bear to think of it.

Such linear, pale and withered lives we lead that all thought and all speech must be heard. Such sheltered lives for such innocent children, all taught that magic centres on a wand, that darkness is born, not awakened, that good always wins and that talking is better than violence. I remember that being the way it was, years ago. I remember, later, curling my mouth and my thoughts around rasping, painful sounds, forcing pain into words of hope so that they would not be taken from me. Each memory, each splinter of joy, I tore to pieces and remade in the image of pain. It was truly a torment of my own devising. The laughter of the Yule Ball rung false for it to be remembered; Lily became dark and sharp, a sliver of night, so I could recall her face. Harry's infant laughter was gifted to a smiling Peter, all so I could remember that he did laugh, sometimes, even if it was not for me.

All these images of pain and darkness, just so I would not forget. Twelve years of self-centred, spiralling, helpless needless pain. I still wake up in the night, screaming at the sight of Remus in pieces, eyes staring at me accusingly. I did that... and all so I could remember his face.

How can I live in the light again? How can I form words of love without shredding my palms open? How can I protect the children under my care without imagining them dead by my hand, without summoning guilt and rage just so that I can remember their faces?

Language is a curious, sadistic thing. It doesn't matter if we try to shape it through our usage, as it is by far more powerful than anything we could hope to be. We do not shape it; it shapes us, in ways we cannot begin to comprehend. Once you have the thought, the word, the concept of something, is there really that far to fall in doing?

I was not going to stop him, you see. I hated him -- why-ever would I stop him? Maybe after he passed out from the loss of blood and I had committed the sight of him crumpled and so, so splintered to memory. One image of pain, at least, that I knew was true.

I would not help him until he could not see who it was that saved him. It would be such an appropriate punishment, so sweet and so slow and so unbearably dark...

He saw me. He saw me and said nothing and did not stop.

He knew.

It was there, in the hollow of his cheekbones, in the red of his blood. He knew what I wanted before I did and did not condemn me for it. Such a curious, curious gift to give, when you have nothing left to you but your pride, with even that bleeding out on the cold stone floor. Such a self-less thing to give, and what a fool I had been -- what a martyr I had imagined myself to be!

Well... perhaps I still am. Pride was one thing no one cared to take from me. I still feel unspeakable thoughts beating in me, still unspoken, screaming for release.

Twelve years of darkness, of nightmares of my own creation. Twelve years of silence, of talking to myself and screaming myself hoarse when even those thoughts were taken from me. Twelve years of clawing my thighs and my chest, of trying to remember something good amid all the pain. We are all creatures of habit, and it plagues us still.

I'm a free man, they tell me. But do free men dread things that aren't real? Do free men weep into the night for reasons they can't explain because these things did not happen, because they did not kill their best friends, despite what the mind insists?

It's such a little thing that I want. Such a small thing. I don't want an end to the pain... I just want to know which pain is mine and what I created from shadows and dust. What did I really do, amid all that I believe I've done?

Severus was so still, sitting there, his hand caressing the flow of blood from his forearm. So still, and so sure of himself... there was complete control in that small movement. He had done that to himself, he had done that, and nobody else.

And I knew, then, what I wanted to do. Who I wanted to talk to, what silent things I wanted to say. I knew who would understand... who would let me do things my mind says I've done already.

I think I sobbed, once, watching him, and he froze. Looked at me. And I picked up a razor and knelt behind him, stroking his back and his flanks. Talk to me. Talk with me. Let me do something real...

Silent and calm, he unclasped his robes and let them pool around his waist. I did nothing for a long moment, just watching the pale expanse of canvas that was his back.

I remember brushing his hair to one side to expose the back of his neck, to stroke him there with trembling fingers. I remember him shuddering and fighting to keep still, even as my hand moved higher to that sweet spot just below the skull, so delicate and vulnerable even in this angry, armoured man. I remember digging in scarred fingertips and having him thrust back against me; a gasp quickly stifled.

I remember the first cut, feather-light and stinging. I remember the first trickle of blood, one slow pulse after another, so blindingly real and red against his white skin.

Such beautiful words I spoke, carving pity and rage and something indefinable in him, uncaring of his reasons. What did I care why he had allowed me to do this, only that he had? There was such sweet, helpless sadism I discovered in myself, cherished now that I had an outlet that savoured pain as much as myself. There is so much terror in possibility, you see, far more so than in certainty. So much more terror in wondering what I might do here in this sanctuary, in this school, for Merlin's sake, if ever I let go. I found such sweet, delicious joy in the simple act of speaking, writing, cutting thoughts I had not dared voice before into someone... talking to someone I had hated for so many years.

I can still hate him, right? I can hate him and still be grateful for finding him here, a silent, strict, frightening saviour for these children even if he does not know it yet. I can thank him for being here and for letting me do this to him so I would not have to wonder what Harry's blood would look like as it cools in the evening air, so I would not have to dream such terrible possibilities anymore. He will live here, as broken and splintered as I, and my mark will be on him. My own brand of darkness, sealed into his flesh. I can love this gift of his, can I not? I can love the gift and maybe grow to not hate the giver; more should not be asked because that is all I can give in return.

We do such strange things out of desperation. It takes all that I am to trace forgiveness into his back, sweet, hopeful lies I hoped to bind in blood and make true. "Ramasses mer," I whispered to him, raising sticky fingers to his mouth and watching him lick at the drying blood. Such terrible, terrible lies to be found in such hope ... "Severus ankh djet."

He laughed at that, deep and throaty and despairing of the untruth and the hope in it. He laughed, but did not protest the gift, and that alone gave me hope. I could make it true. I could. I carved the glyphs into his flesh; licked the blood from his cuts. He shuddered at my touch, groaning as I whispered binding charms and wrote on him ownership that I dared not admit otherwise; hope that I dared not vocalise.

So pleasing dialogue is, after over a decade of solitude. So comforting companionship is, especially that of despairing kindred.

A column of hope carved torturously down his back, bled white and red, stained and sticky and pale after it was licked clean. Asclepio, once, twice, and the cuts vanished, leaving nothing behind except spidery white scars, glowing hot in recognition of ownership and shared pain.

Still bare to the waist, he turned to me, waiting. His face was blotchy, as if he had bled tears. I did not ask; it was none of my concern. He was none of my concern. I could leave now. I could leave him here; half wrapped in stained robes, leave him and deny this, despite my name and promise glowing hotly on his back. I could leave him here in a pool of his own blood and misery. I could ignore him. I could hurt him as deeply as I wanted.

There is such terror in possibilities, is there not?

I stayed, for I am not a coward and I am not merciful... with others or with myself.

In that sick moment of pure clarity I knew, then, that it wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

I had cut him open and bound him to me -- I would remember him as he truly is, not a twisted, tormented figment. No, Severus could always create his own torment; he did not need my hands and cold metal for that. And had this not been something beyond torment? Something so sweet, savoured, grasped and stroked and unexplained? I had bound him to me. I had cut my name into his flesh, watched it seep into his veins and bleed down his back, and I knew that it was all for nothing if he did not acknowledge me. It would mean nothing talking to him, speaking such terrible, beautiful words to him unless he gave some small sign that it made sense. That I wasn't crazy yet.

It could not be dialogue until --

I smiled and waited.

He paused for a long moment, then reached out and unclasped my robes, slipping a cool, long-fingered hand inside, tracing the edge of my collarbone. "What do you want in return?"

No 'thank you's, of course. He did not want to owe me anything; was willing to do whatever I asked so he would have no cause to regret this.

I, too, had one choice left.

I handed him a fresh razor and turned my back, thinking of dark walls and silence and breathless, choking screams during the night. Talk to me. Talk to me, oh please, make me believe you're real...

There was the briefest silence, the smallest moment of deep dark satisfaction, and then he traced his answer across my back with icy fingertips. I knew what he was going to say before he leaned in and nuzzled my neck. "Sic transit gloria deperationis," he mouthed, and pulled away.

A shudder of surprise, because there is that in me, yes, but I had not expected him to see it. I had not expected him to have no pity whatsoever, to banish it all, to try and purge the whole damn thing... I had not expected it, but I should have. He is so ruthless with himself; why should I think of him not being so to me? Why did I think that he would let me wallow in my own darkness?

Damn him for knowing what I wanted without me saying it. Damn him for saying all the right things... perfect, slick, smooth words, ordinary and beautiful and so, so cutting. Damn him for having no pity, for daring me to live.

Merlin damn him, because I cannot find it in myself to do so.

You know, Lily always used to say that talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity. It's funny how, as Severus scrapes me with a silent kiss and begins to carve a pitiless answer into my flesh, I feel better with each bruised word.

So many unspeakable thoughts, and still all unspoken to the waking world.

Outside it is still dark, and I am still not sure which of my nightmares is real. But at least I am not alone... not as long as I have someone to talk to.

fin

NOTES:

1. "Ramases mer, Severus ankh djet" is Egyptian - the phonetic of 11-12th Dynasty glyphs, which is what Sirius carved into Severus's back. It literally means: "Beloved of the Light, Severus living forever."

2. "Sic transit gloria desperationis" - this is Latin, as a few would undoubtedly have recognised. It means, "thus passes the glory of despair." It's a bit heartless, especially to someone who has good reason to wallow, but that's our Sev.

3. I'm reasonably sure that the Asclepio charm is some other author's invention, possibly J. L. Matthews, and not canon. Someone please correct me if I'm wrong.