Worthy / Faithful

If someone were to ask Sirius Black what the feeling he was most familiar with was, he would most probably grin that most disarming grin of his and jokingly reply, "Lust?"

And that was the truth, if you were somehow excluding a rather large and significant part of Sirius's life that (he thought) only one other person knew about.

-- She was lying on the bed nearby, at this moment.

In which case, he ruefully surmised, it would be an impossible question to answer because he himself didn't even know what it was. Sirius was pretty sure, though, that there was no one word that could describe it. He saw it as a gift, albeit a rather painful one a lot of the time, but there were others who were as likely to see it as a weakness.

After all, what was desire but the ultimate chink in the armour of a man, one that a knowledgeable woman could expose at will, with a mere glance or any of the hundred subtle gestures of feminine wile? Desire. A response most physical, most basic, one that some feel is synonymous with passion. The extent of emotion and feeling, longing and want intertwined.

Sirius thought, though, that desire was simply to await the fate the stars would eventually bring. He succumbed, because that was the only option available, and if others thought he was too, well, open, then to hell with them. They were too dumb to realise all their struggles, the much-documented clash and battle against desire, was futile.

He had learned a long time ago. It had been a matter of survival. Outward surrender.

He smiled again, a little sadly this time, as he carefully swivelled on the delicate chair to survey the stars suspended in the little patch of night sky visible through the closed window. Who knew what the stars planned for him? Tonight he had surrendered completely, and what had he gotten out of it? It was as if the heavens were mocking him...

~

She opens the door carefully, and he freezes, hand raised for a second knock. He lowers his hand, then, and openly allows his eyes to drink in the sight of her slender frame, the floor-length forest green gown she wears, patterned by intricately sinuous curves that seem to shimmer with every slight movement she makes.

He raises his burning gaze to her lips, parted slightly as if she is about to say something but decides not to at the last moment, and to her eyes. Even if she appears composed, he can see the embers of flame within otherwise unfathomable depths, a look which he feels must be intensified a hundred times in his own eyes.

He had caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror on the way here, and the heat, even then, was almost tangible. The air in the area just between the two of them crackles with suppressed emotion as they regard each other silently for a few moments. At last, he coughs a little and lowers his hand and intense gaze to the bouquet of black, red, and white roses he holds in his left hand.

She trails a finger of her free hand down the doorframe, then impulsively reaches out to just lightly touch his sleeve. There is a - different - quality in the melodic tones of her voice, one that he is unable to identify. "Cousin. You came."

He looks up, again, then, but this time there is something else in his eyes: hurt, and a pain bore because he hoped. A little hesitantly, he brushes a few tendrils of hair from her face. Hair dark as night, falling in elegant waves that reach the small of her back, he knows. He does not consider, only replies gently, simply.

"You called."

~

" 'You called', indeed." He laughed bitterly as he walked over to the window.

Why had he come? And why had he said what he had? He shook his head - somewhere, the gods were laughing at him, laughing at his previous expectations. She was so unlike him...

~

She opens the door a little wider, and he steps across the threshold, handing her the bouquet with a grin and flourish as he does so. Her only reply is to smile slightly and close the heavy oak doors while he proceeds on to the parlour as if he is as familiar with this house as he is of the back of his hand.

Which is, actually, true; even though he had not been here more than three times, he had relived the experience so many times the manor had been reconstructed in his head. He sprawls across the pristine white Victorian settee, surveying the room and noticing the dim illumination from three strategically placed lamps, the fire in the grate, and a fluted glass of what appears to be white wine, half-full and on the coffee table.

He looks up as she steps into his field of vision, and distractedly notes, now, the glass and bottle (of the same wine, he presumes) that dangles from her hands as she sashays to the table and puts them down. "Wine, Cousin?"

He nods, wordlessly, and is about to ask the reason for her call when she looks up. Something in her eyes tells him that this is not the time to talk, nor is it the time to discuss anything. Later, perhaps, but not now.

As she finishes pouring and hands him the wineglass, he stands up, surprising himself by taking it and, at the same time, reaching out with his free hand to pull her a little closer to him. He sips as he looks into her eyes, which become a little wider as she realises the promise in his regard.

He continues until the glass is almost half-empty, then, with a sudden motion, puts it gently down on the table and pulls her even closer. He lowers his lips to her, and groans as even that mere contact sends his senses reeling. In the feel of her lips, so soft and warm as he slants his mouth across hers, so yielding to his onslaught; the taste of her, of Bellatrix, and the wine he knows she has been drinking. Their tongues intertwine in a dance as old as passion, the sultry sweetness intermingling with a slight crispness.

He tries to deepen the kiss, but she pulls away, slightly reluctantly, and brushes past him to exit to the hall and ascend the spiral staircase. She pauses at the top, and as their gazes meet he is spurred into motion. He climbs the staircase, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he follows her.

The door to her room is open; she is waiting for him, legs crossed, one foot swinging lazily back and forth, leaning back on her hands at the edge of the large four-poster bed dominating the room...

He pauses for a moment at her door, then seems to decide something and saunters in. He halts, and gets down on a knee in one fluid motion in front of her. Yet his intent gaze is challenging, his head raised.

She does not smile, not quite, but he sees the amusement in her eyes. He places his hands on the bed, on either side of her. At the same time, she leans forward to reach, hesitantly, out and place one long-fingered hand, devoid of jewellery, on his cheek. She trails it down the planes of his face, high cheekbones to the smattering of stubble on his chin.

When her hand pauses, his right hand moves to hold it gently. Raising his head a little more, he places a kiss upon the cool, satiny back of her hand. Her only response is to raise an eyebrow, and she makes no move to extricate her captive hand from his firm grasp.

Instead, her right hand comes around to rest briefly on his throat, feeling his pulse, a quick staccato rhythm just beneath his skin. Then down his shirt, past the first two buttons already undone, to deftly release the rest. He unconsciously holds his breath as she pauses at the waistband of his trousers, only to tug the rest of the white shirt out and meticulously finish with all the buttons.

He lets go, then, and stands, shrugging the shirt to the floor. She looks up, and he sees, once again, the hunger and heat in her eyes. And he yields, bending down to kiss her, one hand on either side of her face. She reaches to link her hands at the back of his neck, tugging a little until the both of them fall backwards, onto the four-poster bed, still kissing. But now she is the one driving the kiss, relearning his mouth, revelling in the intimate knowledge of lips, tongue, teeth. In the way he lazily allows her to do so, cruising on the fires of desire.

When they separate, the both of them are breathing heavily. He looks into her eyes, and sees himself reflected within. Unable to control his yearnings, he presses his lips to hers again, urgency and desperation both evident in his force. But it is his hands, this time, which run from the gentle curve of her shoulders, down the satiny smooth silk, pausing a moment at her waist. He could make it all disappear with a word, but he chooses to take his time, savouring the purely tactile feeling.

Only when the two of them can bear it no longer, when the heat has escalated to too great a height, and they crave, want, the closeness of skin on skin, does he finally mutter the spell, divesting them of all but their undergarments. And they gasp at the initial contact, but come to want more, ever more.

He sees, almost absently, a beautifully crafted pendant of some black jewel on the chain of silver around her neck, and admires the sight of the slender chain resting on her collarbones. He places a kiss there, worshipping her silently, then he moves lower, inciting her to alternately beg him not to continue and entreat him for more.

They play at the brink of control, revelling the danger involved. At last, when they can no longer continue, they give in, and he gasps at the completion he feels. Their bodies move in a dance older than time, one that is arcane and archaic, yet so graceful, so natural. The curve of an arched back, the feral look in his eyes as they move ever closer to the moment, losing themselves.

She is his goddess, and she is finally his.

Just before he reaches the point, he groans, "I love you."

As he is engulfed by a blindingly white-hot glow, he sees her face; a calm, cool mask again as she replies, "Do you really, Cousin?"

But he has already passed out, with the force of his peaking, and she allows her masks to drop as she gently strokes his cheek with a hand. The look of tenderness and pain in her eyes is in direct contrast with the expression there scant moments ago.

"Blackout, " she whispers, remembering the nickname his friends had given to him at Hogwarts, and that she'd only ever heard about, then. Tears, like a broken necklace of perfectly strung pearls, run down her cheeks, and for one of the few times in her life she does not brush them away fiercely, but allows them free rein.

She cries and he doesn't realise, for she is doing it so very silently. When there is nothing left for her to give, she places a last kiss, light as an angel's wing, upon his cheek, leaving a slightly damp imprint there, and lies down beside him...

As you look, unwilling observer to the turn of events, he wakes, though now she is asleep. He stretches, cat-like, then freezes, and you can almost see him remembering her words.

He turns to view her sleeping figure, sheets pulled chastely up to just beneath her shoulders, face in serene repose. And he makes as if to touch her cheek, but stops himself, a frustrated sound escaping his lips. Then he gets up, somehow locates his clothes, and sits down heavily on the ornately carved dressing table stool...

~

The window was open, and he took a moment to let the night breeze play with the stray strands of his hair. But the spicy-sweet scent of some unidentifiable flower in the night air distracted him, so he paced the room, ending up sitting in front of the dressing table again.

There was a part of him that really did not want to think about tonight, though that was essentially like ignoring the blatantly obvious, and it was this part of him that noticed the half-open jewellery box, the lid of which was made of many pieces of iridescent green shells.

Sirius reached out to slide it closed, but a glint of red caught his eyes. He paused in mid-action - the jewellery box of a woman was, he knew from experience, very telling of her priorities and personality. In other words, it was not considered something men should be privy to. But he was drawn to that momentary glint of fire, so he carefully lifted the lid and placed it aside.

Over the years, Sirius Black had bought so many gems as baubles for girlfriends that he prided himself on how much he actually knew about rubies, sapphires, and, of course, diamonds. So he was a little surprised to realise he could not identify all the precious stones in the box readily.

There were few of the "usual" gems there...predominant colours included blue, black, green and red: the blue of sapphires, black of obsidian, green of jade, and red of the sun opal that had caught his eyes. Granted, not all the gems were rare, but all bore a lustre that could only come from a great care in maintaining each and every piece, separated into neat magical compartments in the box, the loose gems wrapped carefully in pieces of silk, spelled with moistening charms.

Sirius held the sun opal pendant in his hand carefully, the metal of its setting cool against his hand. This was truly an amazing opal - he was no expert on those particular jewels, but had once, quite long ago, done pretty extensive research on opals. This one was obviously of the "sunflower" variety; it was transparent and just very slight light blue, but that was not what was exceptional about the gem. The sparkle within the gem as he gently turned it this way and that was one unique to opals, caused by the reflections and imperfections in the layers of siliceous jelly that made up the gem.

Smiling slightly at the memories retained from research, Sirius replaced it, and started inspecting the rest of the jewels.

He sat there for a while, brow furrowed as he concentrated, then he sighed a little and smiled ruefully. For he had realised the significance of the eclectic mix of gems in the jewellery box. The mix and contrasts that were Bellatrix.

On one level, there were bracelets, chokers, set in obsidian, red jade, jet. Sirius's rudimentary gem studies told his these stones were used to blow steam, release tension and control mood swings, among other properties. Obsidian, in particular, was said to prevent emotional draining and allow one to let go of loves and old ways.

Most, if not all, the gems were infused with magic. One, in particular, an ancient topaz brooch decorated with a filigree pattern of poison ivy, emphasised the natural abilities of the topaz to protect against sorcery and negative magic, sacrificing its ability to control angry passions. Sirius nodded. Practical, that. The other gems in the collection would prove more than adequate for the latter.

On yet another layer, the quiet beauty of rose quartz and moonstones dominated. An elaborate necklace combining the beauty of these two made Sirius's eyes widen. The necklace itself was made up of three strands of bronze, silver and gold, delicately wound together. Increasing lengths of alternating quartz and moonstone made a dazzling triangular display that was elaborate in its simplicity. Sirius ran a finger over it, feeling faint stirrings of calm in his troubled soul. He quickly withdrew the finger and nodded. An amplifier of sensitivity and clairvoyance, just as he had thought.

The levels cycled again, to the one with the sun opal. Sirius smiled ruefully. It looked so innocuous, viewed from a single angle. Perhaps just slightly more interesting than another gem because of its slight bluish sheen. Yet when one just moved one's gaze a little - just so - the red iridescence fairly jumped out at the viewer.

It reminded him of...his relationship with Bellatrix, he realised. On the surface, cool, casual contact, cousin to cousin, yet inherently passionate. Sirius marvelled at how the fire had not diminished, even over the years. Oh, Bellatrix wasn't his only lover, just as he wasn't hers, but that didn't matter. Their relationship was a simple one - sexual.

Or was it? Lately, Sirius had not been hearing much from her, and he had been worried - it troubled him to think he viewed Bellatrix as anything other than a sexual partner, since she certainly wasn't. Tonight he had thought she was going to talk to him about something, but perhaps he had misread her. Perhaps all she had wanted was sex.

Perhaps he had never viewed her as just a sexual partner.

He shook his head as the level changed again, to one he hadn't seen before. It held a single wrapped gem. As he unwrapped it, he froze. It could not be - but -

He stared at the black opal...

~

"Happy 21^st Birthday," he says softly, debonair charm on at full blast as he presents the box and a single rose to her with a flourish. Even so, his heart is pounding as he searches her face for a reaction.

Puzzlement is still dominant there, no doubt over the mystery he has employed in bringing her out of the party in the mansion to the dimly -illuminated rose garden.

"This is - why couldn't you pass it..." The final words die before they pass her lips, as her eyes widen and she gasps. For she has realised the reason he had not passed it to her with the other well-wishers. In the box, nestled in velvet, rests an opal. A black opal, its iridescence astonishingly beautiful as she moves it this way and that, in wonderment.

Then she hesitates. "Sirius..."

"I saw it in passing once, and thought of you." He grins roguishly. "You said once that you lamented your lack of an "adequate" focus stone, and I thought this would be perfect. Besides, it also amplifies power and hey, it's said to bring luck too. " He winks.

She is silent, still gazing at the stone that now rests on her palm. Then, she speaks softly, not to ask him where he had gotten it, nor to reject the gift. "Thank you."

He smiles slightly, relief masked by charm as he sketches a bow. "'Tis my pleasure, M'lady. And now, could I have the honour of a dance...?" He holds out his arm gallantly, and she takes it.

In the semi-darkness, the silhouettes of two figures, arm in arm, move slowly towards the gaily-lit mansion...

~

The memory was startlingly clear in Sirius's mind. It was the first gem he had gotten for a woman. He had been young - they had been young. Yet unmasked by the experiences they had gone through. For her, the path to Darkness. And for him, Azkaban. The experiences that had left him a fallen man, a broken man.

He was not worthy of her.

He remembered how he had really found the opal by chance, a rare gem in the antique jewellery shop. It had immediately drawn him with its cool external beauty, and inner fire, the passion he saw reflected in every dazzling flash of gold, emerald, turquoise and crimson.

The black was a black of desperation, of darkness, yet it was one he could gladly lose himself in. He had always been attracted to mystery, and in ways this jewel was the very embodiment of that. He intimately knew how distant she could be, even when in the throes of passion. Bellatrix was not one to yield control easily.

Ruefully, he shook his head. How well he knew. He had not wondered about the fate of the opal, but felt an indefinable something when he fully exposed it. If possible, it looked even more beautiful than he remembered, its splendour not diminished by the ravages of time. Its lustre was high, and it seemed to glow as he slowly took it, mesmerised. It could have been a trick of the light, but Sirius was sure the gem's glow had intensified for just a moment when he had touched it...

He was unsure how long he sat, gazing at the unfathomable depths of the black opal. When next he looked up, the sky was starting to lighten with the impending dawn. He gently replaced the opal and the cover of the jewellery box...

~

When she woke, it was to an emptiness that temporarily disoriented her. He had already left - there was not even a hollow depression in the space beside her, on the bed. A brief search revealed a note:

Dear Bellatrix,

I'm sorry.

Yours,

Sirius Black

It was seven words more than what he usually left her with, and she knew the reason this time. She had done it on purpose, of course - she was not worthy of him.

In the beautiful room, the waking woman surrendered again, the second time in two days, to the despairing sanctuary of tears...

A/N:

[source unknown] "Traditionally, the black opal loses its lustre when touched by an
unfaithful lover."

Desire - [From the World Book Dictionary] < Latin desiderare long for; (originally) to await the fate which the stars bring < de- from + sidus, -eris constellation