Death Eater
by Ishafel

In the morning you wake up next to her, and it is worth it, because what is duty, what is honor, next to skin like ivory and hair like flame. In the morning you wake up next to her and you know that any sacrifice is worth this. And in the morning the sun shines through the sheer gauze of the curtains she chose, and illuminates the Dark Mark, black on both your arms. And in the morning you make love to her, quick but not hurried, as if to say I love you. It is morning and you are not sorry.

In the afternoon she is almost your twin, a perfect complement; she matches you mentally and she matches you physically. In the afternoon you run errands for your dark prince, the small things on which a kingdom depends. In the afternoon you think of your family, your five dead brothers buried beneath the moors and now you and she are the last of your house. In the afternoon you wonder if the children that will be born to you will be as beautiful as she is, and in the afternoon you make love to her slowly and passionately hidden behind the velvet curtains of the throne room. In the afternoon you have no regrets.

In the evening you remember what it was like growing up side by side and how you never dreamed that it would be like this. In the evening there are long slow state banquets marked by the passing of platters brimming with food, a wine for every course and fingerbowls in between. In the evening you watch her eat, and you remember that until you went to school there was never food enough at any meal to feel full. In the evening you wonder where it is she learned the uses for the five forks and seven spoons, and which wine is served with fish. And in the evening you make love to her all in a rush, up against the wall in the tiny alcove off the kitchen, where anyone might see. And in the evening you do not doubt that you have done what is best.

In the night you lie awake in the great, canopied bed beneath the crossed wands of your two dearest friends, and she is a warm drowsy weight beside you. In the night sometimes you roll over and push yourself into her body while she sleeps, and she makes a small protesting sound and does not wake even when you come as quietly as you can. In the night, in the dark, she is not your sister or your lover or your wife but your oldest friend--your anchor. In the night you cannot see the red hair you share tangle on the pillow; you cannot see how alike you are. In the night her beauty means nothing and beauty is only a word like any other, and when you come in her it is without guilt.


Silverlake: Authors / Mediums / Titles / Links / List / About / Updates / Silverlake Remix