And Eros Kissed Sweet Thanatos

By Pigwidgeon37

A lover’s scalpel... a torturer’s gentle touch.

The vivisection bed… the marriage table.

You used to writhe under my hands, Hermione, just as you are doing now. I had the power to make you scream. And if my fingertips had left their traces on your skin, maybe they, too, would have sowed red flowers on lily-white soil. Only your eyes… your eyes never stared at me in bestial horror. Never when I touched you did they open  so wide. Although my hands are careful now, more careful than ever, because you must not die. Not yet.

I cannot resist the Imperius Curse. I tried, believe me, my beloved. But only very few have this special power, and I am not one of them. I am the prey, the prey that weeps and knows, caught in a spider’s web of cold grey eyes, of hissing hatred, inescapable. The curse runs through my veins like a lifeline from hell, and only my life could buy its end. But my life will not be taken yet, nor can I take it. For the curse is also my lifeline, and I am forbidden to sever it.

And I am ordered to tickle yours, to tease it with strokes of a scalpel my hands took up, moved by another brain than mine. The brain that turns those grey eyes into deadly diamonds, the brain that commands a mellifluous voice, frozen honey, barbed silk. I can see in his eyes that he yearns to do it. His brain is itching with helpless longing to cause pain. But the Lord, the almighty, cruel spidersnake, desires me, the husband, the lover, to slowly shove your life towards its borders. Like Iphigenia on the sacrificial altar, you lie on your bed of black velvet, not yet dead…but the black bird’s icy wings have already touched you.

So perfect, my love… even now you look perfect. Snow-white, blood-red, ebony-black. That is how the childless king and queen prayed their child should be… You are not much more than a child. War is the father that gives away his infant daughters to those who will make them infant widows. War drove you into my arms, and Gods forgive me, I did not have the strength to push you away. I am only human—the excuse for our worst faults. I should have wounded you then, driven a metaphorical dagger through your heart. It is my weakness that has brought you here, that glued you onto this stage where a malignant spirit directs our movements that drag us towards death.

You will welcome death, my love, like you welcomed me so many times, with open arms and parted lips. Your body will be well-prepared, your skin that is no more will shiver under his touch of glass, and slowly, slowly, with infinite gentleness, he will come to rest upon you. He will be the better lover. And I am jealous.

My hands, a lover’s hands once, now an executioner's, are strong and firm as ever. My mind, wrapped tightly in a curse, is alienated from itself. But not my memories. My memories persist, and, like a multicoloured shroud of thousand images, fall slowly over you, so that my hands that operate your death seem to perform a loving minuet while piercing deep. Why don’t you close your eyes? I know, their look will never leave me, their horror will burn my brain when eternity is no more.

I cut too deep. The devil on his throne shrieks in fury, and his almighty helper points his wand at me. A sea of pain, so useless, for it cannot wash your agony away. I hear my own howl, wish it would leave its black shards in my ears, so I could not hear your screams anymore, my love. I pray to Pain to cripple me, to make my hands wither into burned, twisted roots, so I cannot hold the scalpel anymore. But pain is pain, and knows no mercy. It does not linger when the torture ends. It leaves me, as you will leave me soon. Death will offer you his arm, and you will gladly take it, waving goodbye to me with the hand from which the tendons are now dangling, artfully bared first and then cut.

For torture is an art, my love; not for the likes of us, but for the audience in this theatre of doom where we will fall before the curtain falls. The devil watches greedily as I take the instrument again. His helper wills me not to cut too deep. Your legs now. Your graceful legs are like jewels, the work of a craftsman's hands. And I, in a perverted Song of Solomon, have to destroy those jewels, to add poisonous gems of blood. You must die, my love, and die as quickly as you can, for what I do to you is far beyond a healer's art. Your hands would never move again. They would never again be hands. And your legs… They used to run after me, wrap around me while you clung to me, with hands that were still whole, and soft.

There is so little blood. The devil's artful helper knows how to prolong his victims’ life. Whenever I cut a blood vessel, he is there, vicious adder of Asclepios turned viper, and stops the blood flow. Were I myself, the scalpel would already quiver in your heart, and I would gladly have my body ripped by pain. They would not let me follow you immediately, but I would know you safe, and warm, and maybe you would wait for me, there, behind the corner, where the path of my life ends and I fall into darkness.

Madness refuses me, and Death has turned his back on me. Only you, you stare at me, out of those pools of horror. You know that I am not myself, don’t you, my love? I wish I could tell you that every bleeding mouth the scalpel opens screams my pain too, not only yours. So many mouths already… how long will you last? You are too strong, Hermione. Your heart should be crushed by the pain, succumb to it. And rest in peace.

Time is no more. It ceased to exist when I entered this prison and saw you, white on black. And now, it seems that it has ceased for you. Your skin has taken on a bluish hue, and when I cut, the blood blossoms no more. The red flowers are still-born. My love is dead. I rest in peace.

THE END