toujours_nigel: Greek, red-figure Rhea (SSJP)
[personal profile] toujours_nigel
Sometimes he thinks of telling her, if only for the vicious pleasure of watching her wilt like the flower she is. For wilt she would, his lovely fleur-de-lis, radiant symbol of all he wished to be, once. She’s purity personified—bright eyes, bright smile, bright hair, bright soul. Simple. Perfect. Her world is obvious, uncomplicated. So easy to know about, so impossible to accept. Divided into black and white, the lines bold and unblurred. Dumbledore is good, Voldemort unmitigated evil. The Order is fighting for right; the Death-Eaters are a force of darkness. It’s tempting, the idea of living in her world, where he is a Soldier of the Light, disowning heritage and ancestry in order to do what his morals demand. 

           

But he remembers grey eyes, calm affection and savage passion, veils of black and silver, cultured voices blending the world into shades of grey. Remembers and can feel the eyes on him in fights, criticising his posture and grip while dodging his curses. Leans into the touch of the long fingers, gripping his fingers in a lighted ballroom, his throat in a filthy alley. Rejoices in public and weeps in private when a boy dies too young, grey eyes triumphant, blue lips still twisted in a smirk.

           

She thinks him her Arthur and he cannot help mourning a life where he could have lain with his Lancelot and heeded his Merlin’s advice. He chose Guinevere instead and has never stopped regretting the choice. Hates her sometimes, with an intensity that scares even him.

           

Sees all three of them lost, at odds with each other and the rest of the world, and muses whether his mother would have found this as funny as he does or as heartbreaking as he knows it is.

           

Considers, briefly, rebellion, when ordered to go into hiding. Nearly stops the spell, unable to believe the absurdity of a rodent protecting him from his clan. Kisses the beloved lips, regret and memories heavy on his tongue, before bidding farewell to his past.

           

Cannot stop himself from thinking about telling her, nor from hating the idea. Lets fear and hope sink their twin claws into his heart when she hands him their son. Her son, whose world will be like hers, who must be the hero he never was. He wonders, fleetingly, whether the simplicity will be worth the lack of hues.

But his son shall never know the twilight of amorality; never know intrigue and conspiracies; subtle smiles and scultured lips that can bend the world to their whim, and cannot feel the loss.

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