Fic: The Poetics of Betrayal
Title: The Poetics of Betrayal
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Salazar/Regulus
Notes: For the dialogue challenge, but slightly altered.
Things do not have to be vulgar to be true. All this vulgarity, in fact, no longer disturbs me or stirs me to morbid moody delusion. It merely wearies me. There are no worlds left to conquer but my own, and there are reasons I don't close my eyes. That scent still lingers in the breeze: corruption, the decay of animals mingled with long-blown blossoms. I awaken to it.
I have been thinking these thoughts for too long, when all action seems tied to conclusions opposite to what I had, or thought I had, decided. How long has my heart been nothing but the rotten fruit cocoon of the black walnut? A slippery and meaningless thing, tripping the feet. How long have my hands been endlessly busy but cold?
How long has the sweaty climax in the dark meant nothing? Under the tangle of pale hair or dark hair, taking revenge for the dearth of communion, of soul understanding in this cesspit world? The bed pumping with force as empty as the chilling husk of a heart- bruises and scratches- in un-eager tumbling disgusting like a battlefield in the aftermath, a feast for crows...
As if you made love to yourself.
How dare you? Sit here, playing these foolish games. As if you could then understand the lips here gasping to taste some solace in the unbreatheable fetid air of this mausoleum?
Undeniable the attraction, if it were human.
Were?
I should have been unbreakable, or able to be utterly broken. I would welcome either. But not this artificial immortality, as if I had broken and the pieces were reglued. I could stand anything but the unforgivable lie of it.
Was there a time when I believed the seductive promises of advancement? Was there a time I could have denied them even if I did not believe? And so we are so suddenly disposed to honesty let us admit that I do not know if I believe.
That is what disillusionment means. You are wearied, but you still resent the jackals hounding closer. You say, 'I do not choose to let you win. I do not choose to let you decide.'
It is curious that only five years ago I would have said that apathy could not exist in a spirit dominated by brooding, still possessing hatred and ambition if composed entirely of negatives.
Poor child. You came here for a story, did you not?
Yes.
Once upon a time there was a woman who swallowed a demon, and she was born the child of his womb.
That's no way to tell a story.
I have been destroying nations since the crown of my head first broke from my mother's body. You are naive or foolish if you think I won't destroy you.
There was a time when they cursed me, hurt me- when I would nurse these events inside me like a fine flower yet to bloom. And there was a time I dreamed of greatness, with the fierce burning burst of ambition: a fire that eats the hollowness that envelops it.
Yes, there was a time they hurt me, but now they only fear me.
And at first it was a beautiful, glimmering thing as elusive and fey as truth. It was something to the sun as moonlight is to the moon, yet illumining nothing. When grasped, it cooled the fever of my flayed spirit. Then it was a smug thing, self-satisfied, cream that must be lapped again and again for the briefest taste of that first ecstasy, as addictive as it was futile. Then it was habit, meaningless save for the few cold and cruel remnants of an old world which I kept crushed in my fist. I hated them. And a bit of that golden-red essence remained in the half-hearted contemplation of their destruction.
Regret, revenge, et cetera. Everything I never wanted. Lies, promises, trouble sleeping at night. The fire's dying...
This cannot be a beginning.
It's too old a story. So many days, wasting oneself, painting one's heart a thousand colors. Painting one's heart with black paint that kills the light. I know you well. Too often in my dreams you've stood aloof, under the dark halo of your hair. I have not been afraid till now.
This cannot be at all.
I have had the tutelage of ambition and electric pain, where all my eyes see drowns color in decay and darkness in longing. I remember winter. That was not a dream. A quest for truth under the cold moon, the evil elixir of your arms. I have been searching for you so long that I no longer know dream from nightmare or nightmare from reality.
You aren't listening.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Salazar/Regulus
Notes: For the dialogue challenge, but slightly altered.
Things do not have to be vulgar to be true. All this vulgarity, in fact, no longer disturbs me or stirs me to morbid moody delusion. It merely wearies me. There are no worlds left to conquer but my own, and there are reasons I don't close my eyes. That scent still lingers in the breeze: corruption, the decay of animals mingled with long-blown blossoms. I awaken to it.
I have been thinking these thoughts for too long, when all action seems tied to conclusions opposite to what I had, or thought I had, decided. How long has my heart been nothing but the rotten fruit cocoon of the black walnut? A slippery and meaningless thing, tripping the feet. How long have my hands been endlessly busy but cold?
How long has the sweaty climax in the dark meant nothing? Under the tangle of pale hair or dark hair, taking revenge for the dearth of communion, of soul understanding in this cesspit world? The bed pumping with force as empty as the chilling husk of a heart- bruises and scratches- in un-eager tumbling disgusting like a battlefield in the aftermath, a feast for crows...
As if you made love to yourself.
How dare you? Sit here, playing these foolish games. As if you could then understand the lips here gasping to taste some solace in the unbreatheable fetid air of this mausoleum?
Undeniable the attraction, if it were human.
Were?
I should have been unbreakable, or able to be utterly broken. I would welcome either. But not this artificial immortality, as if I had broken and the pieces were reglued. I could stand anything but the unforgivable lie of it.
Was there a time when I believed the seductive promises of advancement? Was there a time I could have denied them even if I did not believe? And so we are so suddenly disposed to honesty let us admit that I do not know if I believe.
That is what disillusionment means. You are wearied, but you still resent the jackals hounding closer. You say, 'I do not choose to let you win. I do not choose to let you decide.'
It is curious that only five years ago I would have said that apathy could not exist in a spirit dominated by brooding, still possessing hatred and ambition if composed entirely of negatives.
Poor child. You came here for a story, did you not?
Yes.
Once upon a time there was a woman who swallowed a demon, and she was born the child of his womb.
That's no way to tell a story.
I have been destroying nations since the crown of my head first broke from my mother's body. You are naive or foolish if you think I won't destroy you.
There was a time when they cursed me, hurt me- when I would nurse these events inside me like a fine flower yet to bloom. And there was a time I dreamed of greatness, with the fierce burning burst of ambition: a fire that eats the hollowness that envelops it.
Yes, there was a time they hurt me, but now they only fear me.
And at first it was a beautiful, glimmering thing as elusive and fey as truth. It was something to the sun as moonlight is to the moon, yet illumining nothing. When grasped, it cooled the fever of my flayed spirit. Then it was a smug thing, self-satisfied, cream that must be lapped again and again for the briefest taste of that first ecstasy, as addictive as it was futile. Then it was habit, meaningless save for the few cold and cruel remnants of an old world which I kept crushed in my fist. I hated them. And a bit of that golden-red essence remained in the half-hearted contemplation of their destruction.
Regret, revenge, et cetera. Everything I never wanted. Lies, promises, trouble sleeping at night. The fire's dying...
This cannot be a beginning.
It's too old a story. So many days, wasting oneself, painting one's heart a thousand colors. Painting one's heart with black paint that kills the light. I know you well. Too often in my dreams you've stood aloof, under the dark halo of your hair. I have not been afraid till now.
This cannot be at all.
I have had the tutelage of ambition and electric pain, where all my eyes see drowns color in decay and darkness in longing. I remember winter. That was not a dream. A quest for truth under the cold moon, the evil elixir of your arms. I have been searching for you so long that I no longer know dream from nightmare or nightmare from reality.
You aren't listening.