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A/N: Please be gentle with this one. I wrote this on a bus ride home like 10 mins, unedited. Supposed to fit after chapter 17 until 18 Gnossienne. Will edit tomorrow.
Hogwarts, September, 1st, 1978
Dearest Gammaliel,
Of all the lessons my mother taught me as a child, I wish she'd told me how to get the scent of blood off my skin.
Do you know, Gammaliel? How difficult it is to be rid of it. The first rinse got rid half of the damned thing, the second cleansed the colors, the third and fourth I had hoped to wash the scent but as I went for more it only made the bones in me tremble, still am, as I'm writing this.
It was not necessarily the scent that bothers me, but the feel of it. I am not used to it, ( quite frankly, I doubt that I would be able to do so ). There is something beastly in me that treasured it, tormented me so to admit that I am glad this blood isn't mine. I could still see it now, stretched red, like spider lilies strung between my fingers.
My skin reeks of blood and I have not slept. Not when I have no consolation of your safety, and in my lack of peace, I learned that nightmares are restless creatures. When not fed, they crept up the stem of my brain, and I promise you, being haunted with your eyes wide open is twice as worse. Never in my life had I envisaged a night this dreary. But what was I thinking? It was death that I entombed to my forearm, not honeycomb, not your name.
Perhaps, had it been the latter, there would be no necessary suffering such as this.
Lie to me, Love.
Tell me that this is all not real. That I did not witness you perish before my eyes. That you were a fingertip away and I was not too late. Tell me we had more time. So much more time, to dig out the lovelorn graves in my tongue. Tell me these lies or I'll go mad, because what is the point of my being then?
I'm just as alive as leaves in autumn, willing to join the earth that engulfed you first. ( And I wonder, if it is not too much to ask, can we blossom together in the next life? )
Lie to me, Gammaliel. Love me, drown and poison me with it, and kill me cruelly, rightfully so. If your lips were the instruments to carve my heart out, I would not flinch. I would welcome them with open arms. I'd give you my living and my dying. Anything, just do not leave me like this. Didn't you know? I am not meant to live in a world that no longer bear your steps.
If you wonder if I wept, I have not, because that would mean I surrender to my diseased thoughts. But do not ask me how many times I told the stars about you. They would know your name by now—don't worry, I taught them how to say it in the perfect syllables and whatnot, and I told them many, many tales about you and me.
Although, not everything, there are tales of you that I will bring to my grave, in a way, it is a part of you that I can keep as mine. I am still a selfish man who is not fond of parting with you. Every time I watched your back sinking away from sight, my soul is torn, like a wound, reknit then reaped, all the while, steadily and silently bleeding.
And if the whispers turn to be true, that your fire had reached its dim. I will envy the earth that wrapped your body, the casket that kissed your lids, and the weeds that sprouted on your grave for they could be with you no matter night or day. I envy the moon and the sun for being able to watch where you lay. At last, I envy death, because you took his hand and keep you to himself.
Gammaliel, it is dawn now and the stars are leaving. I am hoping for your return the next time I see them.
