Blood Dreams
Mar. 9th, 2005 01:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
valis2Character: SS/OFC (Sarah Tanner)
Rating: R
Warnings: References to past torture and past evil potion. Melodrama/angst.
Het, Slash or Gen: Het
Description: Poem from Sarah's viewpoint about Severus. I always told myself that I would limit my WiP to one story, and not simply write the same characters over and over, but I couldn't resist writing a poem after the line Blood only dreams of Blood popped in my head. (You needn't have read the Last Sanguimagus to read this, but it will make more sense if you have.)
Blood Dreams
Blood only dreams of blood.
The knife-blade is not cruel; it is indifferent. It thinks of nothing but sharp.
Sometimes she stands at the edge of her island of discarded things. Sometimes she stands in the middle. The view is the same.
She remembers the sound of his voice, cut, voice again. Pain, cut, voice. She might have been screaming. She might have been silenced. She only remembers the voice, dark, its edge unbearable.
He was too subtle to cut with a knife. The tiny bottle, its almond-colored honey...those were his weapons. His eyes, carved from some black material. She dreams of them, perfect and blank, utterly remote from her vulgar display of agony.
Blood sheds like another skin, there is the struggle to bandage, to stay abreast. So many days have passed that she is entirely new. No drop of blood remains that recalls the first touch of his poison. This blood has no memory. It flows mindlessly from her. It is calm.
Her old life is another country now, receding into haze. If she squints she can see a blue robe.
The bitter sun within her lets her walk barefoot in the snow.
Blood is a curse. Blood is a gift. Blood heat always pressing on her. No lake is cold enough to quench her fire.
He does not remember her at first. When he does she feels nothing, no satisfaction; he can do nothing to her, for her; he would be easily ignored, were he not possessed of the voice.
When he speaks she wants to strike at the sound. She wants to hide. Her hand curls around her wand.
He tells her of a cure, and this is the cruelest cut yet.
She dreams she is sinking, molten, her island no longer bears her weight, she has lost her knife.
Rating: R
Warnings: References to past torture and past evil potion. Melodrama/angst.
Het, Slash or Gen: Het
Description: Poem from Sarah's viewpoint about Severus. I always told myself that I would limit my WiP to one story, and not simply write the same characters over and over, but I couldn't resist writing a poem after the line Blood only dreams of Blood popped in my head. (You needn't have read the Last Sanguimagus to read this, but it will make more sense if you have.)
Blood Dreams
Blood only dreams of blood.
The knife-blade is not cruel; it is indifferent. It thinks of nothing but sharp.
Sometimes she stands at the edge of her island of discarded things. Sometimes she stands in the middle. The view is the same.
She remembers the sound of his voice, cut, voice again. Pain, cut, voice. She might have been screaming. She might have been silenced. She only remembers the voice, dark, its edge unbearable.
He was too subtle to cut with a knife. The tiny bottle, its almond-colored honey...those were his weapons. His eyes, carved from some black material. She dreams of them, perfect and blank, utterly remote from her vulgar display of agony.
Blood sheds like another skin, there is the struggle to bandage, to stay abreast. So many days have passed that she is entirely new. No drop of blood remains that recalls the first touch of his poison. This blood has no memory. It flows mindlessly from her. It is calm.
Her old life is another country now, receding into haze. If she squints she can see a blue robe.
The bitter sun within her lets her walk barefoot in the snow.
Blood is a curse. Blood is a gift. Blood heat always pressing on her. No lake is cold enough to quench her fire.
He does not remember her at first. When he does she feels nothing, no satisfaction; he can do nothing to her, for her; he would be easily ignored, were he not possessed of the voice.
When he speaks she wants to strike at the sound. She wants to hide. Her hand curls around her wand.
He tells her of a cure, and this is the cruelest cut yet.
She dreams she is sinking, molten, her island no longer bears her weight, she has lost her knife.