Cut The Rope
Notes: This happened this morning on A4 narrow lined paper at about six a.m.. I woke up feeling rather miserable and sorry for myself, and all of a sudden this was sitting there in my head. Naturally I had to get it out. It is incredibly angsty . . . well, you'll see. And please bare in mind the circumstances of its creation.
Rating: Probably PG-13 for detailed death.
. . .
His back was against the wall now. His breath came in short, sharp gasps and he could taste the sharp smack of blood when his tongue flickered out to moisten his cracked lips. He felt his knees buckling beneath him, but he fought to keep himself on his feet, pushing his shoulder blades deep into the wall. As soon as he heard footsteps – familiar, oh so very familiar – heading towards him, he knew it was time to let go. But the wolf in him wasn't going anywhere without one last fight.
It wasn't fair. Any other time and he could have won this; any day but this, the very first after full moon. The wolf was still awake in him, pawing angrily at the inside of his skull, but his body was weak and bruised and human. His senses were dulled and his thoughts lost somewhere between the crystal clarity of lupine thoughts and the jumbled complexity of human ones, leaving him not with something sophisticated and clear but something simple and twisted. He knew he was biting his own lip – the blood trickled over his chin and dripped onto the floor – but he had little power over his own actions.
His eyes rolled back and he hunted desperately for the escape route he knew was not there. The footsteps slowed as they drew nearer, and he caught the tang of fear in the air, rising over the must and mould and blood, and thought to himself that maybe he had a chance. When the figure, dark- cloaked and low-set, appeared in his line of vision, his body told him no; give up. Let it come. There's nothing now you can do, no more adrenaline, no more precious energy.
The figure walked towards him anxiously, and he knew it was wondering if this was some kind of test. Wise but unnecessary. He could not have come up with any kind of test now if his life depended on it. Which, ironically, it did. The scent on the air was different now, and it was smoke and rust and something reptilian. The fear was still there, but it took a backseat to the hunter's personal odour.
The hunted werewolf felt his knees collapse and he sunk to the floor, a low whine escaping his torn lips. The hunter paused, then walked into the pool of dusty light.
"R-Remus! Old friend, let me help you."
A hand was thrust towards him. He could sense the twisted grin without looking. The appendage offered to him was pure silver, and he shrunk back, moaning.
"No, Remus, don't be ungrateful. It isn't often that I've had the opportunity to help you. All those times you gave me answers in class, lent me books I'd lost, reminded me where I should be, what I was doing, who I was. Now let me repay you."
The closeness of the silver was unbearable. His blood was growing cold and he tasted vomit in the back of his throat. All he had to do was stand there long enough and Remus would be dead, but they both knew that wasn't enough.
"Oh yes; there's something else I need to repay you for. A little incident involving you and your sick pet trying to kill me. Thanks to Harry Potter, I live. Thanks to him, I have the means to return the favour."
Something rose in Remus at the mention of his lost lover. "Sirius was not sick," he croaked, "that's you. It was always you. Stupid little tag-along, bathing in someone else's light your whole life only to turn on them and destroy them. That is sick."
Peter flinched visibly and stepped back as Remus made a bold attempt to lunge at his knees. He kicked out – the werewolf yelped and recoiled, clutching its stricken chin. The kick had caught him under the jaw and flicked his head back, spraining something in his neck, and he hunched close to the wall gagging like a dying animal.
"Isn't this funny?" said the voice from somewhere out there in a world which was blurred with agony. "Funny how I killed James. Funny how I helped in Sirius' death." Peter paused to snigger and there was a new, startling scent in the air; madness. "Soon I'll have killed all of you! You all thought you were so much better than me and you'll all be dead because of me!" He laughed again, a gleefully insane giggle, and wrung his hands in anticipation.
Remus tried to push himself up but his legs weren't cooperating. He snarled furiously and tried to drag himself forwards, but Peter's foot swung out again and he flinched back.
"Oh yes!" The servant of Lord Voldemort giggled ecstatically. "You're scared of me now, Remus! Now you're my tag-along friend." The shrivelled little man bared his rotting teeth at the werewolf, then his expression suddenly became serious. "Oh yes; he wants you to join him. I want to kill you of course, but he'll let me do that if you say no."
"No."
"Give up, Remus! Join the Dark Lord!"
"No."
"We could be friends again. Forget James, he was better than you as well. You would have done the same as me. You'd have killed him too,"
"No!"
Peter didn't seem bothered by his refusal. "Good. This is the way I wanted it to go! It's true you know, James was so much better than you. So was Sirius, but he was too blind to see he loved something as pathetic as you. And I, Remus, and better than you too, because I have won."
Remus could hardly shake his head in protest. Every breath he drew seared through his lungs as if he were breathing molten rock. Simply being near the silver was enough to do this to him. He thought he would die if he ever had to speak again, but deep down he knew he was dying anyway.
Peter knelt beside him and reached out with his flesh hand to move the hair which was plastered to Remus' throat. "I just want you to know, Remus, that out of all the fat-headed bullies I called my friends, you were the kindest to me. I will try to make this as . . . easy . . . for you as I can."
He could feel his heavy pulse throbbing in his throat; so could Peter, and his fingers pressed against it until Remus convulsed and jerked away, using the last of his energy to mover here useless inches. Peter was kneeling now and onlt had to shuffle forwards to place the cold metal of his silver hand around Remus' neck.
It was a gentle grip at first, almost a caress, but one which made Remus retch and gag. He jerked back, but Peter's fingers tightened around his throat. He was being pressed against the floor, and from a distance it must have looked like he was passively submitting, but it was taking all he had to draw breath; there was nothing left to fight with. The world was slowly turning black and this he noticed more than the pain ripping his soul from his body. He could smell the flesh of his throat starting to decay under the destructive silver, but he knew not to focus on it. The weight of the grip suffocated him but that was insignificant when his skin was searing and his heart was threatening to burst in his chest. Peter was saying something to him, and he tried to hear the words above the pounding of his own blood in his veins.
"I'm so . . . Sorry, Remus. Sorry. . . But I have to . . .I must . . .Can't defy him, must obey. Remus, I'm sorry."
The words kept on coming and Remus tried to cling to them. As death advances, hearing is the last of the senses to fade away. As long as he could hear those words, as long as Peter was apologising for what they both knew his must do, he was alive. Broken, but alive. He played them through his mind as the silver infested his blood stream and he longed to scream but could not. Sorry . . . My friend, you were my friend . . . but you have to die. Have to. Nothing I can . . .Nothing I can do . . .I'm sorry . . .
Retina-scorching white light flared somewhere behind him, and he was drawn towards it. But still he clung to Peter's voice, the only real thing left. And there was another sensation. Arms around his waist. It wasn't Peter, both his hands were clamped firmly around his throat. Arms which didn't pull him back nor push him forwards, simply held him. And as the words faded and the world blackened finally in one chilling jerk, there was warm breath on his neck and fingers gripping his hips, moving up to his stomach and then his chest and then his neck, touching the perfect, smooth skin of his throat. Hands moved to his face, and he knew as they stroked his cheek that the skin there was healed and scar-free.
He turned, and Sirius wrapped his arms around him, surrounding him in the warm scent of ash and leather and the faint hint of wet dog. He buried his face in the familiar curve of Sirius' neck and inhaled deeply, tears which didn't exist pricking his eyes. And Sirius ran his hands over his back, constantly trying to reassure himself that it was his Remus. The werewolf raised his head, gazing lovingly into Sirius' eyes, and Sirius leaned down to kiss him once on the mouth.
"I've been waiting for you," he whispered.
Notes: This happened this morning on A4 narrow lined paper at about six a.m.. I woke up feeling rather miserable and sorry for myself, and all of a sudden this was sitting there in my head. Naturally I had to get it out. It is incredibly angsty . . . well, you'll see. And please bare in mind the circumstances of its creation.
Rating: Probably PG-13 for detailed death.
. . .
His back was against the wall now. His breath came in short, sharp gasps and he could taste the sharp smack of blood when his tongue flickered out to moisten his cracked lips. He felt his knees buckling beneath him, but he fought to keep himself on his feet, pushing his shoulder blades deep into the wall. As soon as he heard footsteps – familiar, oh so very familiar – heading towards him, he knew it was time to let go. But the wolf in him wasn't going anywhere without one last fight.
It wasn't fair. Any other time and he could have won this; any day but this, the very first after full moon. The wolf was still awake in him, pawing angrily at the inside of his skull, but his body was weak and bruised and human. His senses were dulled and his thoughts lost somewhere between the crystal clarity of lupine thoughts and the jumbled complexity of human ones, leaving him not with something sophisticated and clear but something simple and twisted. He knew he was biting his own lip – the blood trickled over his chin and dripped onto the floor – but he had little power over his own actions.
His eyes rolled back and he hunted desperately for the escape route he knew was not there. The footsteps slowed as they drew nearer, and he caught the tang of fear in the air, rising over the must and mould and blood, and thought to himself that maybe he had a chance. When the figure, dark- cloaked and low-set, appeared in his line of vision, his body told him no; give up. Let it come. There's nothing now you can do, no more adrenaline, no more precious energy.
The figure walked towards him anxiously, and he knew it was wondering if this was some kind of test. Wise but unnecessary. He could not have come up with any kind of test now if his life depended on it. Which, ironically, it did. The scent on the air was different now, and it was smoke and rust and something reptilian. The fear was still there, but it took a backseat to the hunter's personal odour.
The hunted werewolf felt his knees collapse and he sunk to the floor, a low whine escaping his torn lips. The hunter paused, then walked into the pool of dusty light.
"R-Remus! Old friend, let me help you."
A hand was thrust towards him. He could sense the twisted grin without looking. The appendage offered to him was pure silver, and he shrunk back, moaning.
"No, Remus, don't be ungrateful. It isn't often that I've had the opportunity to help you. All those times you gave me answers in class, lent me books I'd lost, reminded me where I should be, what I was doing, who I was. Now let me repay you."
The closeness of the silver was unbearable. His blood was growing cold and he tasted vomit in the back of his throat. All he had to do was stand there long enough and Remus would be dead, but they both knew that wasn't enough.
"Oh yes; there's something else I need to repay you for. A little incident involving you and your sick pet trying to kill me. Thanks to Harry Potter, I live. Thanks to him, I have the means to return the favour."
Something rose in Remus at the mention of his lost lover. "Sirius was not sick," he croaked, "that's you. It was always you. Stupid little tag-along, bathing in someone else's light your whole life only to turn on them and destroy them. That is sick."
Peter flinched visibly and stepped back as Remus made a bold attempt to lunge at his knees. He kicked out – the werewolf yelped and recoiled, clutching its stricken chin. The kick had caught him under the jaw and flicked his head back, spraining something in his neck, and he hunched close to the wall gagging like a dying animal.
"Isn't this funny?" said the voice from somewhere out there in a world which was blurred with agony. "Funny how I killed James. Funny how I helped in Sirius' death." Peter paused to snigger and there was a new, startling scent in the air; madness. "Soon I'll have killed all of you! You all thought you were so much better than me and you'll all be dead because of me!" He laughed again, a gleefully insane giggle, and wrung his hands in anticipation.
Remus tried to push himself up but his legs weren't cooperating. He snarled furiously and tried to drag himself forwards, but Peter's foot swung out again and he flinched back.
"Oh yes!" The servant of Lord Voldemort giggled ecstatically. "You're scared of me now, Remus! Now you're my tag-along friend." The shrivelled little man bared his rotting teeth at the werewolf, then his expression suddenly became serious. "Oh yes; he wants you to join him. I want to kill you of course, but he'll let me do that if you say no."
"No."
"Give up, Remus! Join the Dark Lord!"
"No."
"We could be friends again. Forget James, he was better than you as well. You would have done the same as me. You'd have killed him too,"
"No!"
Peter didn't seem bothered by his refusal. "Good. This is the way I wanted it to go! It's true you know, James was so much better than you. So was Sirius, but he was too blind to see he loved something as pathetic as you. And I, Remus, and better than you too, because I have won."
Remus could hardly shake his head in protest. Every breath he drew seared through his lungs as if he were breathing molten rock. Simply being near the silver was enough to do this to him. He thought he would die if he ever had to speak again, but deep down he knew he was dying anyway.
Peter knelt beside him and reached out with his flesh hand to move the hair which was plastered to Remus' throat. "I just want you to know, Remus, that out of all the fat-headed bullies I called my friends, you were the kindest to me. I will try to make this as . . . easy . . . for you as I can."
He could feel his heavy pulse throbbing in his throat; so could Peter, and his fingers pressed against it until Remus convulsed and jerked away, using the last of his energy to mover here useless inches. Peter was kneeling now and onlt had to shuffle forwards to place the cold metal of his silver hand around Remus' neck.
It was a gentle grip at first, almost a caress, but one which made Remus retch and gag. He jerked back, but Peter's fingers tightened around his throat. He was being pressed against the floor, and from a distance it must have looked like he was passively submitting, but it was taking all he had to draw breath; there was nothing left to fight with. The world was slowly turning black and this he noticed more than the pain ripping his soul from his body. He could smell the flesh of his throat starting to decay under the destructive silver, but he knew not to focus on it. The weight of the grip suffocated him but that was insignificant when his skin was searing and his heart was threatening to burst in his chest. Peter was saying something to him, and he tried to hear the words above the pounding of his own blood in his veins.
"I'm so . . . Sorry, Remus. Sorry. . . But I have to . . .I must . . .Can't defy him, must obey. Remus, I'm sorry."
The words kept on coming and Remus tried to cling to them. As death advances, hearing is the last of the senses to fade away. As long as he could hear those words, as long as Peter was apologising for what they both knew his must do, he was alive. Broken, but alive. He played them through his mind as the silver infested his blood stream and he longed to scream but could not. Sorry . . . My friend, you were my friend . . . but you have to die. Have to. Nothing I can . . .Nothing I can do . . .I'm sorry . . .
Retina-scorching white light flared somewhere behind him, and he was drawn towards it. But still he clung to Peter's voice, the only real thing left. And there was another sensation. Arms around his waist. It wasn't Peter, both his hands were clamped firmly around his throat. Arms which didn't pull him back nor push him forwards, simply held him. And as the words faded and the world blackened finally in one chilling jerk, there was warm breath on his neck and fingers gripping his hips, moving up to his stomach and then his chest and then his neck, touching the perfect, smooth skin of his throat. Hands moved to his face, and he knew as they stroked his cheek that the skin there was healed and scar-free.
He turned, and Sirius wrapped his arms around him, surrounding him in the warm scent of ash and leather and the faint hint of wet dog. He buried his face in the familiar curve of Sirius' neck and inhaled deeply, tears which didn't exist pricking his eyes. And Sirius ran his hands over his back, constantly trying to reassure himself that it was his Remus. The werewolf raised his head, gazing lovingly into Sirius' eyes, and Sirius leaned down to kiss him once on the mouth.
"I've been waiting for you," he whispered.