Fic: "The Moon Tells No Tales," R
Author: kethlenda
Title: The Moon Tells No Tales
Summary: Fenrir punishes Remus for his sins.
Rating: R for violence
Pairing: Remus/Tonks, Fenrir
Warnings: Character death, violence
Word Count: 543
Notes: Thanks to sionnain for the beta job. Note: This is dark!fic and has very little in common with my other R/T stories.
I.
Three days, he has waited. Stalking, prowling, quiet as only a wild beast can be, watching the traitor and his mate come and go. Soon.
He knows how he will break the faithless one. He runs his tongue over savagely sharpened teeth, savoring the anticipation of his vengeance. He prays silently, prays to the only power he has ever respected: the moon. She is silent. She does not answer. She never answers, but he is certain of her benediction. After all, is he not her chosen one?
The betrayer’s bitch: she is only female, and they say she has twenty-five summers. Too old for his taste, to be sure, but with her short hair and small-boned body, with the scent of her fear to season her flesh, he expects he’ll be able to pretend.
She is an abomination, this freak of nature who changes without pain, without blood. A gift given, no price paid: anathema.
It will break Lupin, and seeing him rent from within will be even sweeter than tearing his vile flesh himself.
II.
The time has come, and she is cuckolded again by the moon. Remus is gone; the house is too quiet.
She does not hear the intruder until she smells him: rank wet smell of beast’s breath a moment before his heavy body leaps, sends her tumbling to the kitchen floor, head hitting hard tile, breath knocked from her lungs.
Her next breath is a scream.
Teeth ripping, tearing: she struggles in vain, cries out, but no one is there to help: no witness but the moon’s skull-white face with empty crater eyes. Lips seem to part in mute horror as though to cry “Oh,” or “No,” but there is no sound.
III.
Remus runs, twigs cracking beneath his feet like bones. The moon watches, but speaks no word to warn him. When she sets, he curls up to sleep, and wakes a man, blood caked under his nails. Not unusual; on the night of his change he often takes beast or fowl for sustenance.
He returns home, tired, dirty, craving a bath and his own soft bed and her arms. “Nymphadora,” he calls, but she does not answer, will never again answer.
So much red-red against black and white tile, a grisly chess game, and the Queen fallen, and he looks at his hands, and crumples. This is how they find him: prostrate and bloodstained next to the broken body of his lover.
He does not fight the Aurors; when he opens his mouth to protest, a voice whispers within his mind: and how do you know you didn’t?
It’s an open-and-shut case, of course: what do you expect of a werewolf? This is what happens, simpers Dolores, when you allow Dark creatures to live among decent folk. Nymphadora Tonks’ fatal mistake is the talk of wizarding Britain.
Remus curls now in the cold stone corner of his cell. Love and hope and dreams are gone, plucked from his mind by the dementors like gems of red and blue and gold, leaving him with only the grey. And the moon, old companion, old adversary, passes silently across his cell window. She says nothing, only compels the tides that beat endlessly, relentlessly, against the prison walls.
xposted: kethlenda, darkones, hp_literotica
Title: The Moon Tells No Tales
Summary: Fenrir punishes Remus for his sins.
Rating: R for violence
Pairing: Remus/Tonks, Fenrir
Warnings: Character death, violence
Word Count: 543
Notes: Thanks to sionnain for the beta job. Note: This is dark!fic and has very little in common with my other R/T stories.
I.
Three days, he has waited. Stalking, prowling, quiet as only a wild beast can be, watching the traitor and his mate come and go. Soon.
He knows how he will break the faithless one. He runs his tongue over savagely sharpened teeth, savoring the anticipation of his vengeance. He prays silently, prays to the only power he has ever respected: the moon. She is silent. She does not answer. She never answers, but he is certain of her benediction. After all, is he not her chosen one?
The betrayer’s bitch: she is only female, and they say she has twenty-five summers. Too old for his taste, to be sure, but with her short hair and small-boned body, with the scent of her fear to season her flesh, he expects he’ll be able to pretend.
She is an abomination, this freak of nature who changes without pain, without blood. A gift given, no price paid: anathema.
It will break Lupin, and seeing him rent from within will be even sweeter than tearing his vile flesh himself.
II.
The time has come, and she is cuckolded again by the moon. Remus is gone; the house is too quiet.
She does not hear the intruder until she smells him: rank wet smell of beast’s breath a moment before his heavy body leaps, sends her tumbling to the kitchen floor, head hitting hard tile, breath knocked from her lungs.
Her next breath is a scream.
Teeth ripping, tearing: she struggles in vain, cries out, but no one is there to help: no witness but the moon’s skull-white face with empty crater eyes. Lips seem to part in mute horror as though to cry “Oh,” or “No,” but there is no sound.
III.
Remus runs, twigs cracking beneath his feet like bones. The moon watches, but speaks no word to warn him. When she sets, he curls up to sleep, and wakes a man, blood caked under his nails. Not unusual; on the night of his change he often takes beast or fowl for sustenance.
He returns home, tired, dirty, craving a bath and his own soft bed and her arms. “Nymphadora,” he calls, but she does not answer, will never again answer.
So much red-red against black and white tile, a grisly chess game, and the Queen fallen, and he looks at his hands, and crumples. This is how they find him: prostrate and bloodstained next to the broken body of his lover.
He does not fight the Aurors; when he opens his mouth to protest, a voice whispers within his mind: and how do you know you didn’t?
It’s an open-and-shut case, of course: what do you expect of a werewolf? This is what happens, simpers Dolores, when you allow Dark creatures to live among decent folk. Nymphadora Tonks’ fatal mistake is the talk of wizarding Britain.
Remus curls now in the cold stone corner of his cell. Love and hope and dreams are gone, plucked from his mind by the dementors like gems of red and blue and gold, leaving him with only the grey. And the moon, old companion, old adversary, passes silently across his cell window. She says nothing, only compels the tides that beat endlessly, relentlessly, against the prison walls.
xposted: kethlenda, darkones, hp_literotica