⋆𝐃𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠⋆ - 𝐓.𝐌.𝐑

𝟎𝟑𝟗 - 𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠'𝐬 𝐎𝐧 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐥

⋆

𝗠𝗮𝗿𝗰𝗵 𝟰, 𝟭𝟵𝟰𝟱

Fuck.

For a granule in the grand scheme of the hourglass, Elizabeth is vanished from the stifled storage room. Thomas' encompassing hands on her bony shoulders provide no anchor and she floats away like a dying breath.

She's Orpheus chancing a glance back on the precipice of hell.

She's Psyche taking a peek in the darkness.

Aeneas watching the walls of Carthage shrink in the distance.

Hero seeing the remorseless, turbulent currents.

Tristan, wounded and searching for Isolde's ship.

Patroclus following the blade's glint as it sinks into his flesh.

In all instances, love grins back at her seeking eyes - avaricious and blood lusting, sharp teeth and reaching hands. Eager to swallow, to devour; it greets her with malice and unknown intentions and she is terrified.

The stars have crossed them.

"Words, Lilibet."

"I'm fine." She grits.

"Are we telling lies now?" Thomas lilts lightly, but his eyes search her figure frantic - his hands press her into the stone wall as though should he use any less force, she would dissipate in his grip.

Haven't we always?

It evokes a laugh in her, something rattling and wheezy but still medicinal to her nerves - "it's rather irrational, I have a certain dislike for fire."

Except the one under your skin, in your touch and words-

"I could care less about rationale, when it comes to this, to us. Tell me why," Thomas bids her.

Us. What a fluttery, fairy-winged word.

"Couldn't tell you if I wanted, something left over from my childhood -" her voice that began steady veered off into lamented mumbling. Elizabeth had tried, upon developing her Occlumency, to dive in that well of memories and find the source of her distaste for Prometheus' gift and bane - but she could not find shite. "-can't remember myself without it."

"Interesting." His hold on her slackens minutely, and Elizabeth drinks in the familiar sight of him sinking deep in thought - it is nearly enchanting, a shred of something strictly human within him. "Do you suppose, it might have something to do with your ailment? Your parents-"

Her mind flashes to Jacques on instinct - her magic grows teeth and her tone gains bite.

"Warren is a painfully muggle name - it was not them."

Kind faces - calloused hands of an artisan and clever eyes set in a plain brow.

It was not them, she's sure of it.

"So is Riddle, and you've seen what that amounted to." There's an undercurrent of righteousness to the words that might otherwise sound bitter - as though he's gotten a sort of comeuppance.

Elizabeth's glad for him - an inner part of her in a visceral, worrying way - and her lips quirk upwards of their own will. "About that, gone to Gringotts yet? I've noticed you tonguing off at the portrait." She muses.

"Yes well, the wench deserved it." Fluidly, his firm hands drift down her body, pressing in and flaring out along the cotton's draping until they settled at her waist - his eyes do not stray from her face. "Seems my forefather had made the tongue a skeleton key around the castle, which I cannot say I don't enjoy-"