I write the lines you want me to, with the words. I dare to use of all the ones that you have taught me, along the years
Years... Years, I have spent, confined to this room. It is hard to believe. After so long, it seems like the outside world is no more. All there is that remains is the plush red velvet that covers my bed; the oak that is the desk before me; and the metal stool that I sit upon. The outside world isn't really important anymore anyway. Why would it be? Everything is over. There is nothing left, I know that -- nothing but this room.
You cast a perfect shadow on the paper. Fade away with sunlight, I fear the way you know me, love can leave a stain...
I glance up – as I always do when the door opens. I always know who it will be, but it doesn't matter. When he enters, he is the only person besides myself that I know exists. After so long... I can't be certain that there is anyone else in existence, though I can't remember why that should matter. I can't bring myself to care. Not really, not anymore. This is the only man that I ever want to see. The grin that grows over my face when I see that man is always a telltale sign of that fact.Slowly, I rise from the stool at the desk, approaching the man that had entered. As soon as he is within arms reach, there are arms around me, embracing me, making me feel the rush of warmth that only this man can provide. When I look up I can see the love in Tom's eyes, my grin grows. We share a tender kiss before making our way towards the bed.
You steal my only hope and make me stay awake another night. I wish you bear with me, stay near me. When the autumn leaves have fallen. Solitude, my pain, the last thing left of me...
When morning comes, I wake to an empty bed. I know when I had fallen asleep that my bed would be empty come morning, but each and every morning it still hurts. Every night I drift to sleep in his arms, and every night the hope grows in me that I will wake with the man still next to me, holding me. Even though it never happens, that hope never leaves me.
Every night, as soft words of love were whispered in my ear, I cling all the more to the body next to me. The warmth of skin against mine is always intoxicating. The scent of sweat and sex and pleasure fills the air around us, and always lingers the next morning. By the time that he comes back the next evening, it will be gone. Every night, with that scent the strongest it could be, I hear the soft words whispered in my ear. Every night the same, though I know that if I did not hear them, my world would shatter around me.
If you fall I'll catch, if you love I'll love, and so it goes, my dear Don't be scared, you'll be safe, this I swear. If you only love me back.
Slowly, I stretch myself out across the bed, feeling the familiar ache that always lingers to tell me that the previous night had been real. I always need that sensation to know it. If not for it, I wouldn't really be able to tell that I am alive anymore.
I rise to my feet and return to the desk, opening the book filled with blank pages before me. A motion brings about the dip of quill to ink and I let a single droplet of the dark ink fall atop the pages. A black void gracing the page, staining it, making it imperfect. In a flash of anger, the page is ripped from the book and thrown into the corner of the room. Every time the corner is filled with a pile of balled up paper, it seems to burn itself into nothingness. The book replenishes itself as I rip and tear into it, eventually sitting and just staring at it. This battle continues for hours. By the time that the corner had been filled and emptied three times, a single tear makes its way down my cheek.
Seven lonely lies written on Deadwinter's night, open the only book with the only poem I can read... In blood I sign my name and seal the midnight with a tear. Burn the paper, every line for them I cried...
hen he arrives that night, the grin that fixes itself upon my face is forced. It is an unusual thing, and he grows concerned. Our embrace is shared more tightly than usual, and when we make their way to bed, there are tears in my eyes.
He asks of me what is wrong in not so many words. The look in his eyes tells me that he doesn't know why I'm crying. I don't really know either. Something doesn't feel right within me, and in my terror I cling to him. After a while, I relax, and we go through the motions that we go through every night. The slow removal of clothing, the kisses, the nuzzles, the tender bites that I sometimes wish would leave marks. But they don't. I am never marked after a night with him, and this night is no exception.
When I fall asleep, I hear the same words that I always hear and they reassure me. I fall asleep with the hope that he will be by my side tomorrow morning.
If you fall I'll catch, if you love I'll love, and so it goes, my dear Don't be scared, you'll be safe, this I swear. If you only love me back.
As always, I wake alone. Though today, the disappointment is more intense than I can ever remember it being. I needed him, and he had still left me. I don't understand why he constantly leaves me. The tears that normally do not form until the afternoon start to shine in my eyes. I start to wonder what is wrong with me. I'm not supposed to cry until the afternoon. The afternoon when I have already ripped half the pages from my book, spoilt so much of the perfect parchment with the blackness of ink.
When he comes to me, he wastes no time in his rush to gather me from where I lay on the bed. He knows that something is wrong when I am not on my stool.
When we lay down to sleep, he whispers in my ear. Expecting the usual words I relax in his arms. Though the usual words to not come. Instead he asks me if I love him. I tell him that of course I love him, and we fall into silence. The words that I have come to build my world around do not fill my ear in the soft baritone voice. Instead, silence surrounds me. I feel empty when I sleep at last.
I am the Playwrite and you are my Crown, make me cry for your love, like you've done many times, so I know. I can't write these storylines without you, lady pain, make me strong, can't we be together without them forever.
When I wake the next morning, there is a note upon his pillow. There had never been a note on his pillow in all the time that I can remember, so hope grows in my belly as I read it.
And then I remember.
Years ago, he had made a request of me. I can barely remember how long ago, or even why he would have to ask something from me without my immediate compliance, but I do remember that I never did what he asked of me. My mind buzzes almost painfully at the thought of it.
When I rise from the bed, I bring the blankets with me. They are wrapped around me as I dip the quill in the ink, but fall as I start to stain the parchment. I feel like I am going to be ill as I write the words, feeling them like they are flowing from my arm. I am defiling the perfection that is the paper. I am writing in an untidy scrawl that I didn't even realize I could create. Yet the words flow freely.
As I write them, I feel like they are draining something from me.
The words I write can only hurt you, sorry for the rain. Thank you, my only one, you gave me this pain... I leave you gently on the floor, take one step towards the door. Where's the letter never written, good night now...
When he comes to me that night, I am on my stool where I belong, though it is not in the way that things had been occurring for so many years. I am slouched over the desk; quill in hand, parchment filled with my untidy scrawl. My breathing is shallow and low, yet I'm not scared. When he gathers me up into my arms I simply nestle into his chest, closing my eyes.
He lays me upon the bed and lies by my side, smoothing back my hair. I can feel the soft brush of lips across the scar on my forehead, and a sigh makes its way from my body.
When he hears the final sigh, he slowly draws away, watching the boy lying peacefully on the bed, final breath having made its way through the young man's lips. Pity, really, that such a beautiful creature could be no more. But the time had come...
He makes his way towards the desk, picking up the piece of parchment. It had taken years to weave the spell around Harry well enough to assure his love was total. He had felt the spell finally take hold of the boy the night that the boy had started trembling in his arms, and had known it was time.
Tom Riddle reads the words slowly, eyes lingering over every letter, every word, knowing that the boy had meant them every second that he had written them. The boy likely had never even realized what they meant. After all, they were the words he had uttered so very many times to Harry. Words that were impossible for the boy to ever forget, words that he had built his life for the past four years around.
If you fall I'll catch, If you love I'll love, And so it goes, my dear, Don't be scared, You'll be safe, This I swear. If you only love me back.