FIC: Babes in the Wood, Fenrir/Bellatrix, R
Title: Babes in the Wood
Pairing: Fenrir/Bellatrix
Rating: R for gore
Disclaimer: It all belongs to JKR
A.N. Written for spessartine, I meant to post this here ages ago. Apologies to those who are feeling a sense of deja vu.
Some of them were archetypes. They were figures so old and epic, they’d become abstract: the fallen angel, beautiful in his cruelty; the cornered rat who bit harder for having no choice; the Executioner.
Some of them were faceless villains. They swelled the ranks of the army and committed mundane atrocities that kept the war plodding on at the same rate but did nothing to raise morale on either side with their lack of imagination.
And then there were the nightmares that came when He called them.
The Dark Lord had two, an Adam and Eve from the grimmest fairytales: Fenrir and Bellatrix.
‘Our Lady of Pain’, they called Bellatrix. No doe-eyed, golden-haired maiden was ever faced with a more malevolent queen. The Muggle children fled into the woods, but their tears shone as clearly as a trail of breadcrumbs and Bellatrix crept after them like nightfall.
Bellatrix needed no magic mirrors or poisoned apples. Her magic came from deep within, twisting through her midnight hair and seeping from her cherry-red lips, sparkling in her eyes like the thrust of a knife. While those who went before her may have craved the taste of their stepdaughter’s heart, or watched the blood pump from virgin girls’ wrists and splash into cold enamel baths, Bellatrix killed not for vanity, but for a faith so strong it could shake mountains.
She chased the children deeper, until the branches of the ancient trees shut out the stars and they cowered together while her wicked laughter crackled through the undergrowth and snapped twigs around them.
And there she left them.
She left them for the Green Man turned savage. The Beast and his creatures came for them. The fat moon grinned overhead as the cries of the children became nothing more than the wet noise of rent flesh and splintered bone.
Fenrir was as much a force of nature as the waters that rise up over cities or the clinging ivy that tightens about old buildings and crumbles them to dust are. He reclaimed the children’s innocence, for they were much purer with their hearts exposed to the wheeling sky. They could be pleasing to God’s eye once more, stripped bare of all that worldly flesh.
He swallowed the screams from their pouting lips and plucked out their wide eyes. Speak no evil, see no evil and all they could hear as they died was the baying of the wolves.
When at last the moon sank and the sky was stained red by the coming sun, the nightmares had one last moment of dominion. Between them, they created a thicker shadow that stole into dreams and children miles away woke, not knowing why.
Fenrir returned to his human mind to find her lapping the blood from his skin. The stroke of her tongue over his lips gathered the last flakes of dried blood and then she smiled at him with all the sweetness of those silly slaughtered girls who never did find their Prince Charming.
He watched her move through the carnage, her skirts drifting over the carmine-and-cream bodies like clouds. He didn’t begrudge her the severed hands she slipped into the basket she carried. After all, his own belly was full and Bellatrix would grind their bones to make her bread.
*
Pairing: Fenrir/Bellatrix
Rating: R for gore
Disclaimer: It all belongs to JKR
A.N. Written for spessartine, I meant to post this here ages ago. Apologies to those who are feeling a sense of deja vu.
Some of them were archetypes. They were figures so old and epic, they’d become abstract: the fallen angel, beautiful in his cruelty; the cornered rat who bit harder for having no choice; the Executioner.
Some of them were faceless villains. They swelled the ranks of the army and committed mundane atrocities that kept the war plodding on at the same rate but did nothing to raise morale on either side with their lack of imagination.
And then there were the nightmares that came when He called them.
The Dark Lord had two, an Adam and Eve from the grimmest fairytales: Fenrir and Bellatrix.
‘Our Lady of Pain’, they called Bellatrix. No doe-eyed, golden-haired maiden was ever faced with a more malevolent queen. The Muggle children fled into the woods, but their tears shone as clearly as a trail of breadcrumbs and Bellatrix crept after them like nightfall.
Bellatrix needed no magic mirrors or poisoned apples. Her magic came from deep within, twisting through her midnight hair and seeping from her cherry-red lips, sparkling in her eyes like the thrust of a knife. While those who went before her may have craved the taste of their stepdaughter’s heart, or watched the blood pump from virgin girls’ wrists and splash into cold enamel baths, Bellatrix killed not for vanity, but for a faith so strong it could shake mountains.
She chased the children deeper, until the branches of the ancient trees shut out the stars and they cowered together while her wicked laughter crackled through the undergrowth and snapped twigs around them.
And there she left them.
She left them for the Green Man turned savage. The Beast and his creatures came for them. The fat moon grinned overhead as the cries of the children became nothing more than the wet noise of rent flesh and splintered bone.
Fenrir was as much a force of nature as the waters that rise up over cities or the clinging ivy that tightens about old buildings and crumbles them to dust are. He reclaimed the children’s innocence, for they were much purer with their hearts exposed to the wheeling sky. They could be pleasing to God’s eye once more, stripped bare of all that worldly flesh.
He swallowed the screams from their pouting lips and plucked out their wide eyes. Speak no evil, see no evil and all they could hear as they died was the baying of the wolves.
When at last the moon sank and the sky was stained red by the coming sun, the nightmares had one last moment of dominion. Between them, they created a thicker shadow that stole into dreams and children miles away woke, not knowing why.
Fenrir returned to his human mind to find her lapping the blood from his skin. The stroke of her tongue over his lips gathered the last flakes of dried blood and then she smiled at him with all the sweetness of those silly slaughtered girls who never did find their Prince Charming.
He watched her move through the carnage, her skirts drifting over the carmine-and-cream bodies like clouds. He didn’t begrudge her the severed hands she slipped into the basket she carried. After all, his own belly was full and Bellatrix would grind their bones to make her bread.
*