Chapter 17

Theo POV

Everything hurts. His lungs, his brain, the atrophy of his muscles, his joints and bones. The cold would never leave him. It was part of him now: the cold, the silence, the pain. He was alone for eternity. Just him and his thoughts. Thought is everything. Pain is something. Hence where there is no thought, there can be no pain. Wherefore if you have a pain, it is evident that you have a thought. To be rid of the pain, stop thinking. He never wanted to think again. IF he thought then he would miss them, would miss being with them, miss the bond. If only his brain could stop. He might believe ten impossible things before breakfast, but he could never believe that they were real. They can't be real. Fuck his chest hurt. Breathing fucking hurt.

Can barely fucking see, everything is blurry. Probably from being starved to death. Some can gaze and not be sick, but I could never learn the trick. There's this to say for blood and breath, they give a man a taste for death. He wished the guards would just fucking kill him already. So fucking much for a more humane prison. He'd rather have the Dementors destroy his soul than this - dying in slow degrees.

Nothing made sense, he wasn't sure if he was asleep or awake. Everything felt painful. That must mean he was still alive unfortunately. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it. Never saw enough of the world to be dissatisfied. Wish they could have travelled the world. Would it have been everything they dreamt of? Sweet Circe, he missed them so fucking much. I cannot live without my life! I cannot live without my soul!

If all else perished, and they remained, then I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and they were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger. They might as well have been annihilated. They were as gone from him as Mother was. All ghosts whether they lived yet or no. No matter either way. Nothing mattered. He'd never leave this cold hunk of rock in the middle of the North Sea. His mind was conjuring the torture of soft sheets under his face. The delusion of Hermione's curls were inches from his face. Had he seen Draco earlier? It wouldn't be the first time he'd imagined his beloved partners in this cell with him. Amber eyes. Quicksilver glances.

Love. The reason I dislike that word is that it means too much for me, far more than you can understand.

He felt so fucking cold. Shivering uncontrollably, he hoped that he might finally die.

She cast one more lingering, half-fainting glance at the prince, and then threw herself from the ship into the sea, and thought her body was dissolving into foam. If he touched her, she'd dissolve into foam. He fantasised about the two of them so often.

This hallucination is the best one yet. So real he can smell them. He would give anything for this to be real. He'd feel them in the bond if it were though and the bond fluttered in his chest like a broken winged bird trying and failing to fly. Three years in his cell hadn't severed it, but it was so weak, so fragile. Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey. Perhaps his bond was prey to something not unlike dementors, to some other creature that fed on love and despair and the hopelessness of knowing that he would never see and touch and hold the two other pieces of his soul.

The bond was not the same as it was before. It had been much more… muchier. It's lost its muchness. Theo thought he'd lost his muchness as well. He felt thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread. If only he had a magical ring to throw into a volcano or elves to run away with. Does Azkaban have elves? Could he escape over the sea with them?

I only smile in the dark. My only comfort is the night gone black.

But be quick! And then, together entwined,

with love-broken mouths and frayed souls.

Time will find us utterly destroyed.

The great object of life is sensation- to feel that we exist, even though in pain.

Do they still exist? His dragon and his princess? Are they out there, still missing him? He wished that this delusion of warm amber eyes and the soft touch of Hermione was real and not some trick of his mind to push him fully into madness. If only he could speak to someone, anyone. It had been months since he'd spoken to someone. The guards didn't even speak when they beat him or brought him gruel or the dirty bucket of water.

Did his voice even still work after so long inside the silencing wards? He'd probably never learn the answer to that.

Hilarious.

Fuck. Is he throwing up? The burning from the stomach acid coming up his throat seems to indicate that he is. Has he eaten? He doesn't recall the last time he ate. He should get out of bed and be sick on the stones, but he can't seem to find the energy to move.

So cold, so tired. So ready for it all to stop.

Hopefully death will claim him soon.

He craved its sweet release.

End Notes: Theo is not entirely lucid and his thoughts are an amalgam of quotes and his own memories and fantasies. In this text are quotes from John Kendricks Bangs, A.E Housman, Anna Karenina, Wuthering Heights, the Little Mermaid, Jane Austen, Tolkien, Alice in Wonderland, Gabriel Garcia Lorca, Lord Byron, and the band, Garbage.