Work Text:
Tauromaquia
"About morals, I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after."
- Ernest Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon, Ch. 1.
“If two people love each other there can be no happy end to it."
- Ernest Hemingway, Death in the Afternoon, Ch. 11.
Marriage to her was living life in the arena—there was always an audience for every fight, always a crowd waiting with bated breath to see the spectacle. Perhaps it would have been different if it were a sports arena, or even a political one, even if everyone was cheering for Ginny. Even if there was not one single person there for him, that would have been fine. Anything but this, and they might have made it through it all together.
Anywhere but here.
But there was no use in hoping that, in wishing them elsewhere. In this arena, there were no referees, no points system. There was no sense of fair play here. His most valiant efforts made no difference, no score was kept, and the outcome was already known.
He would die in this arena.
And at the end, the very end, a hushed silence would fall when the tragedy of it all finally hit them. When the matador’s cape was no longer swinging, when prancing horses no longer filled the arena.
When blood streamed from his nose and mouth.
When the blade finally struck home and it seemed a mercy to him to have it all over with, at long last.
When his body, broken and bleeding, was dragged from the arena.
That was when silence would fall, when the blood lust would fade and they would finally see the tragedy. Would finally see what could have been, and what would never be now.
He hoped they were proud of themselves then.
Tercio de Varas
It had begun before he’d even stopped to think, and he found himself in the thick of it. It had begun when his reputation had been made, not as a killer, but as a failure. That he had been a desperate man, motivated to desperate ends, was of no consideration.
Were he a killer, it would not have been safe to taunt him. A failure, however, was another matter entirely.
And so they lodged the little taunts and barbs against him, and each hit slid under his skin and festered there. But he was thick-skinned, he could take that. Yes, he grew angry. Yes, he tossed his head and longed to pay them back in kind. And they loved it—the dramatic flair of his short-lived charges, the flare of his nostrils, the stamping, the bellowing bursts of anger. It was all a great show—and the audience loved it, greedily gobbled it up and clamored for more.
But the barbs took hold, deeper than he knew, and at a far greater cost. Already his neck grew weak under the insults piled upon his head, until he was no longer able to hold it upright against the weight of the accusations. Each little barb brought forth blood and each little bright red rivulet traced its way down his back, marking his weakness.
And all the while, she watched, taking his measure.
Tercio de Banderillas
And then, the little barbs stopped. It was only the mercy of a single moment, for his tormentors circled closet, having spotted his weakness. The little barbs were replaced by great spears that drove past the matters of pride and into somewhere deeper, somewhere closer to his heart. His flesh was rent under each new attack, but the spears stuck, each a flag of their victory planted on his body.
They had seen his weakness now, and gloried in it, in the great gouts of blood that streamed down his sides. His wounds left a trail, a mess of coagulated blood spattering the dirt of this battlefield. Each drop marked a little more life, a little more fight, gone out of him.
And now, when they had debased him, made him show each flaw and crack in his character, she entered the ring, armed with a fluttering cape of distractions and her shining silver sword of righteousness.
He stood there, watching as his flame-haired love finally enter the fray. He was already half-defeated by his love for her. He made a tragic picture, blood flowing down his flanks, his neck and back a bloody, mutilated mess. Half-defeated, but enraged that she would allow this, that they had her tacit approval to treat him so.
Tercio de Muerta
And so he struck out at her first, desperate and wounded. He charged and bellowed, blind with rage and terrible pain; she swept the cape over his head, deftly avoiding him. Oh, she had always been so skilled at that—distracting him from the heart of the matter, manipulating the situation. But it remained that he had lashed out first.
He had struck first—and she was vindicated.
And as the world spun around him, he felt her first blow—down through the shoulders, the flesh so harrowed up by her allies, and deep into the muscle, aiming for his heart. The crowd cheered, for wasn’t he a savage beast, so cruel, feral in his rage, and wasn’t she right to seek to end it? But she had miscalculated and he saw fear bloom in her pale white face as he began to cough blood. She knew that he was dangerous when mortally wounded. He had nothing left to lose and that knowledge was reflected clearly in her eyes.
She’d missed the heart, but hit the lung instead. This wouldn’t be a clean death.
He rallied again, because he hated her fear of him, for him, because he hated that she thought him weak enough to die in one blow, and charged again. Bloody foam sprayed from his nostrils, flecking her face. He was close, so close, and he could end it all for the both of them right here, in front of everyone. Then she would never be free of him, just as he would never be free of her.
But he couldn’t bring himself to do it—at the last moment, his weight shifted to the side and she brought the sword down. This time, she struck true. The steel felt terribly cold against his heart as his knees buckled below him and he fell in the dirt, chest heaving with his last breaths.
It barely registered with him that she had flung herself over limp body, grasping frantically at his face and murmuring words of contrition. Tears streamed down her face as she cradled his bloody head and his eyes grew dim.
He could only feel relief that it was finally, finally over.