Salazar/Godric fic
se_spotwood asked me to write something, and a weird idea hit me. I suppose that, after reading himilzungal's own wonderful SS/GG fic, Salazar and Godric were again in the front of my mind... And they were demanding to have their own space.
For the best founders ever:
The night has fallen, and Godric lies awake on his straw bed. His eyes are closed and his breath even; he is concentrating his whole being on hearing, and he is not disappointed.
There, like a bird’s sighs, soft sounds join the forest’s beat.
Salazar is crying again.
He lies near the window, almost under the sky, and Godric could stretch out an arm and touch him, and yet he cannot. He knows Salazar is far away, a sea away, where the world breaks and empties itself.
The next morning, Godric trusts there will be something of Salazar still here; something real, tangible. Salazar likes to warm up in the sun -snakelike, he jokes. And when the light plays with his still golden curls, and Salazar is relaxed, Godric can touch him without fear of touching only air.
Now, in the night, he can only hope, and listen.
In his old age, Salazar weeps like a child. Short, pitiful sounds that make Godric wonder if he is awake or asleep, and what his dreams are, that don’t enrage him but make him cry. Dreams, maybe, of him?
A long time ago, Salazar would be curling his body around him, damp with sweat, fighting to be on top and yet not trying hard enough, because he wanted to lose. Godric would want him to lose, too; and lose himself between Salazar’s long legs. He knows all those little dirty secrets, and what would Helga say, if she guessed how Salazar gets all those bruises. Sometimes, when Salazar was being hold down by Godric’s flesh, and around Godric’s flesh, he would weep, like now. Sweet sounds, ragged, born to be muffled by his mouth.
How sweet can a mouth taste?
But then, that time ago, Salazar was real, soft and real, and young. Even if he was old when he left, screaming and damning and saying, I told you so. Even if he was crying, but of rage; and breaking himself all in little pieces over the Hall… Tiny Slytherin’s pieces, that Helga and the students collected for weeks, and saved in an emerald vase, in case Salazar would come back for them.
But Salazar never returned, not even for that part of his soul he left to waste in Hogwarts.
Helga would not talk to him afterwards, and never forgave him for drawing Salazar away. What would Helga say, if she could hear now how his beloved cries, as if afraid of the dark? But Helga would not believe it, because darkness was never a stranger to Salazar, not even when he, Godric, forced it over Salazar’s bare limbs.
The time is gone for them, Godric muses. Salazar is only some hours here, anyway, lost weeping in every moment except midday.
But the little time Salazar has left on the earth, Godric wants to spend it at his side. If there is light, he won’t take off his eyes of Salazar’ old, beautiful form; and if there isn’t, he will listen…
If Helga comes and tell him he must get up, that his students are waiting for him; he will ignore her. If she talks about classes, and the life going on and about having breakfast in the Great Hall with Rowena; he will treat as if she were a dream. Yes, that is right, Helga is only a figment of his imagination… And he must stay here, with Salazar, in this forest where it’s always summer.
Maybe he will stretch out an arm, and touch him, as uncountable times before.
Yes, he will do that when the morning comes, and this long night of years reaches its end.
NOTES: This has not been beated. If you find some grievous mistake, please tell me and I'll correct it at once. Thanks :)
For the best founders ever:
The night has fallen, and Godric lies awake on his straw bed. His eyes are closed and his breath even; he is concentrating his whole being on hearing, and he is not disappointed.
There, like a bird’s sighs, soft sounds join the forest’s beat.
Salazar is crying again.
He lies near the window, almost under the sky, and Godric could stretch out an arm and touch him, and yet he cannot. He knows Salazar is far away, a sea away, where the world breaks and empties itself.
The next morning, Godric trusts there will be something of Salazar still here; something real, tangible. Salazar likes to warm up in the sun -snakelike, he jokes. And when the light plays with his still golden curls, and Salazar is relaxed, Godric can touch him without fear of touching only air.
Now, in the night, he can only hope, and listen.
In his old age, Salazar weeps like a child. Short, pitiful sounds that make Godric wonder if he is awake or asleep, and what his dreams are, that don’t enrage him but make him cry. Dreams, maybe, of him?
A long time ago, Salazar would be curling his body around him, damp with sweat, fighting to be on top and yet not trying hard enough, because he wanted to lose. Godric would want him to lose, too; and lose himself between Salazar’s long legs. He knows all those little dirty secrets, and what would Helga say, if she guessed how Salazar gets all those bruises. Sometimes, when Salazar was being hold down by Godric’s flesh, and around Godric’s flesh, he would weep, like now. Sweet sounds, ragged, born to be muffled by his mouth.
How sweet can a mouth taste?
But then, that time ago, Salazar was real, soft and real, and young. Even if he was old when he left, screaming and damning and saying, I told you so. Even if he was crying, but of rage; and breaking himself all in little pieces over the Hall… Tiny Slytherin’s pieces, that Helga and the students collected for weeks, and saved in an emerald vase, in case Salazar would come back for them.
But Salazar never returned, not even for that part of his soul he left to waste in Hogwarts.
Helga would not talk to him afterwards, and never forgave him for drawing Salazar away. What would Helga say, if she could hear now how his beloved cries, as if afraid of the dark? But Helga would not believe it, because darkness was never a stranger to Salazar, not even when he, Godric, forced it over Salazar’s bare limbs.
The time is gone for them, Godric muses. Salazar is only some hours here, anyway, lost weeping in every moment except midday.
But the little time Salazar has left on the earth, Godric wants to spend it at his side. If there is light, he won’t take off his eyes of Salazar’ old, beautiful form; and if there isn’t, he will listen…
If Helga comes and tell him he must get up, that his students are waiting for him; he will ignore her. If she talks about classes, and the life going on and about having breakfast in the Great Hall with Rowena; he will treat as if she were a dream. Yes, that is right, Helga is only a figment of his imagination… And he must stay here, with Salazar, in this forest where it’s always summer.
Maybe he will stretch out an arm, and touch him, as uncountable times before.
Yes, he will do that when the morning comes, and this long night of years reaches its end.
NOTES: This has not been beated. If you find some grievous mistake, please tell me and I'll correct it at once. Thanks :)