King of Swords [ Regulus Black ]

Chapter 37 - Regulus

I stare into the gold-plated mirror in my childhood bedroom and try to find the measure of a man.

A boy, raised on longing, contempt. Born into a family who wears pride like a coat of arms. Since the hour of my birth, there has been a dark cloud looming over this estate - Poised for breaking, for rolling waves and the dragging of cities into sea.
I try not give myself so much credit, but it's difficult not to. I have always known exactly what I am.

There is a child in the photograph on the mantle, it is not me, but sometimes I gaze into it with such longing that I believe I can shift the face to match my own. If I could turn back time, I would strangle myself with the umbilical cord that bled me life. Throw in the towel, say my goodbyes on a soft blanket and hope for better weather in my absence.
My mother would never believe it was for the best, but then, none of this would have happened in the first place. My life would be categorized by a singular, aching breath. A perfect existence, short and sweet.

Short and sweet are not the letters I write on the mahogany desk board. It seems a fallacy, almost embarrassing to compose, as if I will be missed in the first place. Mother will read them over and over, trying to pinpoint the exact moment that my soul went wrong. Father will read his once and toss it in the fire. He already knows exactly where the shift happened and it can be blamed on my own hubris alone.
Sirius will not read his, because I am not leaving it in a place he will find.

I write his, and write strong. My salvation is the pen, the only thing I can truly count on to get the words that choke me out of my throat. I write until it all rolls over me, half apology, half explanation. I cannot outwardly say I am sorry, because I have resolved not to lie. I hammer the parchment until I am finger worn to the second joint and my head starts to ache.

Dear mother, it has never been a fault of yours..

Dear father, I leave you with sorrow, to carve a better world that you will not see..

Sirius, do you remember the beach trip we took in my third year? When I called you a dirty fucking cunt for tripping me in the sand? Where I first learned that I could create pain through word choice and resolved to use it at any given opportunity?

To the dark lord, I know I will be dead long before you find this..

Some of it is want I want to say, a lot of it is what I think they will like to hear.

Sirius, there is a girl that does not cower at the flaming sword I wield before her soft eyes.
Sirius, she doesn't remember me and I wish you wouldn't either.
Sirius, I know you hate me and when the shallow light grows dim, you will be exonerated, and righteous. You will know that I have done something terrible and attempted to mend it.

Sirius, you will never know. You will never find this.

I take a long swig of the gin in my dresser drawer, letting the chemical sweetness drip down my throat and patch an aching chest. I tuck Sirius' letter behind the wall in the foyer and scratch out the photo of my face until blackness pours through the ripped paper.

I turn around in circles, another drop of gin. What is a drop anyway to fill a vessel void of warmth? I touch, and caress and feel everything. The cold stone beneath my feet, the planks of the dining table. I fall into the parlor lounge like a child searching for comfort.

Come years past! well over me and cloak my body in the fall of a dynasty! My father will sit in this very chair, the last man standing atop a burning pyre.

I am wretched and full of fear, of melancholy of lust. I want to taste it all one last time, to grasp at life in the face of death, to compose poetry that will outlive my existence.
Instead, I fall to the floor. I want for nothing; I am drunk.

"Master Regulus?" Kreacher asks, stepping into the room as if he wants to pull me from these depths but must remain in servitude. Servitude, yes, always at service.

"Will there be a service?" I ask, because the words are swimming in my head now, pushing me off balance, "will there be sonnets and eulogy?"

Kreacher offers me a puzzled glance. It is ok, I am confused too.

"We have a job to do," I tell him, "into the depths of a cave we go in search of another side."

Kreacher nods his head at me, "whatever you require, master."

"I require death," I say, "and lots of it. But not for you my dearest friend, you will run in the face of fear, it is my last command."

I pat my pocket for a letter and the remains of a locket.
I should have written that down, a truly shit last piece of poetry for a truly disastrous little boy.

The cave is cold and deep and I have far too many promises to keep. The measure of a man is lain out before me, in a pool of poison water. It is full and brimming.

I pull death to my lips, it tastes sweet and familiar.

Sirius, she doesn't cower at anything. I will not either.