black notes on white paper and black soul on white skin
/du-ende/ n. (Spanish)
¬the mysterious power of art to deeply move a person
¬the feeling of powerful awe experienced when viewing a piece of art, watching a performance or listening to music th...
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Since Nikita's found out Tom's secret, the world isn't the same anymore.
No, it isn't more colourful, now that Tom's blood-stained tones have found their way into Nikita's ears, carassing and stroking and scratching his soul until it bleeds in passion and appreciation, just like Tom's seems to do - but the oh so golden boy's soul isn't bleeding because of something so beautiful and pure as music but because of the most hideous, impure action one can perform: splitting the own soul, cutting it in thin slices with a knife out of vicious green light, waiting for the streaming blood to change its colour, being surprised when it doesn't turn into ichor but black liquid because Tom's a monster no god, at least not yet and maybe never.
After all, he's everything but pure and kind and don't have gods to be the good ones? Those who're kissing tear-stained cheeks with their rose-tinted lips when you've prayed enough with trembling lips and watering eyes? Those who're guarding you while travelling, ancient eyes following all of your steps, every breath a warm flurry in your back?
Well... in fact, they're not. To say it mildly: Gods are assholes, menacing and manipulative ones at that. Remember Hera, goddess of the fucking family, who's thrown her newborn son off Olympus because he hasn't looked like a supermodel or something - well, he's been really ugly to say it straightforwardly but still. Or what is with Poseidon, who's raped Demeter in the form of a stallion after she's turned herself into a horse to camouflage and get away from her stalker? Has her mourning for her daughter Persephone, who's been with Hades, the only reliable god how it seems, been so sexy or what?
Gods aren't always kind and good and Tom never is, so maybe the murkiness of his blood is just an intermediate stage, the cocoon of his metamorphosis.
So no, Nikita's world hasn't become more colourful, even though its hues have indeed changed. But nothing is suddenly showing more vivid colours, lively and full of joy, not at all. In fact, Nikita's world has grown darker, as if Tom's blood would have stained his vision, showing him hues of dark red and black and green he hasn't ever seen before, shades he's had to hear before he's been able to comprehend them.
But now Nikita isn't able to ignore them anymore.
Have you known that the night sky is darker than Tom Riddle's voice? It's so murky as if every wannabe god had bleeded onto it, Hercules' blood vicious with the Nemean lion's and Dionysus' as violett and red as the vine he's the god of, creating galaxies, colourful and dark and probably deadly.
Have you ever noticed that the Gryffindore emblem isn't exactly equalling rubies? Nikita hasn't until he's found out about Tom's secret (oh, he thinks, he's so clever now, Nikita, dear, if you'd know all secrets of the prince of snakes your knees'd tremble not your heart, trust me - or are you born without natural fear, just like you're born without a natural smile?). Now he can't but see the vibrant red as the colour of blood, resembling all crimson Gryffindore's sword has ever drawn, tinted in pain and death.
