•❅─────────✧❅✦❅✧─────────❅•
51 - The Last Melody
•❅─────────✧❅✦❅✧─────────❅•
WARNING: This chapter will contain dark violence, readers discretion is advised!! Please tell me if this chapter is too dark or too much for you, and I'll gladly edit it. I split the last chapter into 2 because this is almost 10k, I'll upload the second one within 24 hours. So, enjoy. <3
Ichor slipped through his fingers, not the gilded and golden as he was used to, it was mortals. Crimson, coppery and pungent—it reeked of weakness, wrath, and greed. Between the Gods of Olympus court, it was not Thanatos who would feast over the mortals' death, watching the war like a theatrical show while fiddling a glass of mulled wine in his hand. Ares. It was Ares. He was tooling vengeance and hatred into a good-old-sweet barricade of frontline soldiers.
Foolish.
How easy war erupted between their fickle being when a heated debate remained unsettled. They raised their knives, plunged the aether with shiny swords, then rained catapults of fire upon meadowes before it bloomed into a sea of flames. They polished their seemingly impenetrable armor and sharp iron rods with pride—ignoring all the lives, all the souls, all the orphans and widowers back at home. All because of mankind's ego.
Stupid mortal feelings, and Morphine Avery's unending war begun with the same rationale.
The boy was birthed and warped in silk cloth and galleons pot awaited right after his first cry, his dear mother patched her love into his robes like a medal. With nobility on his attire, he was as blinding as the sun, yet, Ares was not Apollo—who would chase darkness from lonely souls. No, if Apollo was the sun, Ares was dusk. He was the ever-changing sky, saturated chroma from cotton candy, to golden urns, faltered to purple, before he bleaked and swallowed by darkness nettled in his being.
But what caused the dark to bead out of his pores, coursing such hatred, enough to harden his gentle heart? Words. Out of every weapon in the world, your tongue—that boneless muscle, was the deadliest weapon, it was traceless and precise—after all, it was a weapon made by the celestials. Young Avery's wrath was assembled out of words, a slip of his father's tongue, the strangers' phlegmatic gaze, and a golden Irish witch. It was akin to a dose of morphine shot to his marrow, the more he listened to his father's cutthroat words towards him, the more he became numb.
There was a short pause when the young boy questioned his mother before bed as to why his father behaved that way, but Theodora Avery would only purse her lips and diverted the topic. Though, the lady would glance at the empty bottles of fertility potions stuffed in her vanity drawer, with gloom lingered on her eyes. Often, she would be at their manor's backyard, under the oak tree, watering the blossoming daisy bushes—a memoir of their unborn heiress.
It was apparent that the head of House of Avery was not over the bitter reality that he couldn't raise his daughter. He was well-educated enough, that it was part of the risk of their nasty pureblood in-breeding tradition. For this reason too, Sir Avery. Snr was more than relieved that his sister was not taking the same path as he did, while he failed to acknowledge his son's soaring envy.
The Avery's heir recited the praises his father uttered to the Irish witch all the damn time; how she resembled an archangel, a well-behaved girl who carried tenderness in her eyes. He would visit the Merlins with a beam in his eyes while the young boy barely exchanged words with the said man. It was about her. Her. Her. Her.
All because every time he couldn't do a thing, his father would speak highly of how bejeweled the Irish princess was and he bet she could do what his son had failed to achieve. Every time he wanted to be proud of his little achievements, his father would shove the idea of seeing the Merlins yet again. All because he could not get the spotlight for once when Gammaliel would do the simplest thing and got celebrated on her little steps or words. Avery had forgotten how did it feel like to have his father's eyes on him when all he saw was him talking about the world wonder to the Irish witch.
The Merlins had always treated him with sugar and honey, the girl had always spoke so timid and polite to him. Yet he couldn't help resenting the girl for the crime she barely knew she committed—it was simply because Morphine craved attention and he couldn't let it go. Not when his father seemed to have forgotten about him, as if his blood—the liquid running through his veins was not identical to his father's. Morphine wanted nothing but to rake his nails down her face until she bled and cried every time he saw her. Deliberately, he wondered why his father liked her better than him, was it because he wasn't good enough, or was it simply because he despised the boy?
Yet he was the Avery's heir, young Morphine's tongue and lips was trained to offer dozens of vague pretense, sugar-coating his reality to gain other's trust and twisted a bitter truth into soothing sentences. He had seen his father did the same thing, offering half-lies and deceived the weaker for his benefit. It was purely logical, considering that underneath the corporate flag of the Avery's wine business—the said dynasty treasured the information they received and broaden connections during their wine-tasting day. They jar up every slip of tongue, foolproof receipts, whispers, and drunken thoughts, then sold the said information to the highest bidder. After all, a good mulled wine would help to reveal the truth, secrets others knew that we did not. Yet, he was not trained to be outspoken when it comes to a matter of the heart. Besides, his father simply would be too busy for the said matter.
After all, Avery. Jr might own a fully-loaded Gringgotts vault but he couldn't buy his father's attention and appreciation.
Gammaliel had stolen a father from a son. With that fact, the heir distracted himself with a peculiar hobby, hunting. For every click of his loaded muzzle, every snap of trigger, and splattered old-bullet inside a red fox flesh, the Avery's heir would curve his lips in full amusement. Serotonin pumped up his brain when he heard the faint whimper of animal he shot, because for once, bullets could damp the voices of how great Gammaliel was compared to him. These shots were his anger that he had let ricocheted away from his system. Smirking darkly, he watched the weaklings bled before his feet. Darkness grew inside his jet-black heart akin to grapevine, yearning of how wonderful would it be if his furry little problem that was the Irish girl—would be gone just as quick as the carcass before him.
If children were pristine canvas waiting to be painted with colors of goodwill and wickedness, then Avery was blindfolded with anger and envy. He could not recognize which was the devil's whisper and which was the angel's voice. He painted his canvas dark the day the Irish girl had stopped breathing for a few minutes and the flames flickering inside his father's azure eyes were indescribable. It was dark, his irises resembled hell's coal and reddening, as if he vesseled lava underneath his skin.
The aftermath of his attempt to gain his father's attention was a historical effect. He had brought hellfire upon himself, not only he didn't have his father's eyes on him. But the man hardly become the father that he was, the young boy's skin would be painted with bruises, the shades varied from peach to mashed blackberries on his ribs. His skin was too familiar with the pungent pain due to his father's anarchy, yet he remained silent—tears did not escape the late seven-year-old boy, it was trapped inside of him, metamorphed into a bonfire to fuel vengeance. His canvas had been painted black, so dark that he was numbed while his father yelled that he did not raise a murderer.
Correct, he did not raise a murderer but he failed to recognize that vengeance was derivative, it ran through DNA. Knowing the fact and the torture young Morphine endured from the scattered plum kisses and mashed-berries eye—a dose of traceless cyanide in Sir. Avery's cup of tea did the job when Theodora gave him a saccharine smile. While the rest of the world thought Sir. Avery died from heartache—Theodora knew better he died in the hand of a woman who was protecting her son. She had her sad facade placed carefully on her face when the man was buried six feet under her red-bottom shoes. Whereas, she had thought that young Morphine would be happy once her husband was gone, oh how wrong she was. The boy had loved his father, and took a patent that the Irish witch should feel exactly what he felt.
Why? Since the beginning of time, Ares had always preferred war to a peaceful life. From his perspective, justice meant equal, if he was hurt she should too, if he lost everything then so should she. Rage anchored in his heart like a bolt of crying lightning—it was apparent why he did the same thing to the girl when they met in Hogwarts. Only for her to hide behind Sirius Black's arrogant arse, often, the Rosier's heir would spare him a glare of warning with his satire pretense.
Albeit, out of all the pawns the queen had, the McKinnon boy was the troublesome one. He would pull muggles trick on the Slytherin if he spotted slight discomfort or any trace of fear in her eyes—the blond was guarding her like a hunting dog, yet he adored her like the sun to flowers—talking about the real knight in shining armor. Yet, Morphine did not see it coming, he had not only disrupted a girl but the whole lineage of Merlin—that included, Alphard.
Deranged torture was planned by the resilient heir of Merlin, who had lost everything but his sister. He did not touch Morphine, not even a fingertip he despised being in the same room as his cousin. The late Slytherin Head Boy would torment him with magic. There were nights he couldn't close his eyes because Alpha had ruined the nerves on his brain to replicate his fear in an infinite loop, trapped him like a bird in a flaming cage. It damaged Avery's soul, akin to a tiger's claw plunged over his chest, nettled inside of him as a memoir that the Merlin still had their power within their blood, despite their empire had been left into ruins.
Since then, Alphard Zygo was the only person he feared in his life, more than the grim reaper himself.
It was the reason as to why his hands would tremble nearby the Merlin's heir presence. The reason why he offered his life and family connections when the dark Lord offered him power, because people like Alphard had power and wouldn't hesitate to abuse it. To date, Morphine could never take out the tiger claw in his soul, he was cursed to have it for the rest of his life. It explained why the heir hid multiple bags of blueberry strains muggle grass in his bedside drawers—Alphard Eustacius Zygo had made himself clear that the Merlins knew no mercy, and hallucinogen was the only way to distract his brain—to coax his deranged fear.
Though, lately, Ares thanked the Gods that they had sent him a Goddess to soothe his mind. He stared at her now, as she fell in deep slumber by his side. A strand of her obsidian curl fell to her face, polishing her divine features. The sound of bat wings battered against the window glass made him furrowed his brow, disrupting his yonder to the woman beside him. His eyes caught the glimpse of moonlit poking through the pale velvet curtain, it juxtaposed against his emerald bedding covering his body. The air was chillier that evening, annoyed, he shifted to face the window, to find an ivory-colored creature knocking on his windowsill. Avery glowered, darting his eyes to the ticking clock; three in the morning.
"Damn you, Rosier." the curse slipped out of his lips like a routine, out of everything he loathed in this world, he could not tolerate being disturbed from his sleep. Yet, it was part of the risk these days, because, in the middle of a war, a good night's sleep was something equally fancy as vacations. He heard a low hiss by his window, another battered pair of wings—adamant to enter the room. Avery raised his hand to pull on his scalp in irritation. "Urgh—all right."
In his attempt to get out of the comfort of his king-sized bed, a hand grasped on his upper arm and pulled him back to dive in the mattress. The scent of Turkish rose invaded his senses as he peeled his gaze to his side. Her whisper was velvet smooth to his ear, peppering gentle kisses down his jaw. "Don't leave, it's cold outside."
"It's Rosier's message." Avery reasoned, eyes shut as she dragged her lips down to his neck, leaving a trace of lipstick imprints to paint his pale skin red. Her fingers were tipping across his bare chest, hearing a low sigh she grinned at him. He peeled his gaze to the witch. "Love, please, I have to get his letter."
"Why is it always so early in the morning?" The witch inquired, twisting her jaw to the window. Her heart-shaped face was exposed to the cold air after hidden under her obsidian curls, onyx irises gleamed into sunset shade when it caught the moonlit. Noticing Avery's raised brows, she rolled her eyes in defeat. "Oh, all right."
With a swift flick of her wrist, the window was pushed open from the inside. The albino bat was screeching at the sudden movement and the witch giggled at the hiss. The bat flew inside the room with her thin extended wings. Avery flicked her nose gently, a soft gesture that Ares only did to Aphrodite. He murmured, "That's cruel, love. Rosier would sue me over animal cruelty if he knew.."
"Eh, not a chance." spoke Aphrodite with a shrug, she tipped her head when the bat landed on the side table. The familiar extended her boney wings and screeched over the witch's attitude.
"She's rare." Avery lunged his hand to retrieve the parchment tied on her leg. A smile escaped his lips, peering to the witch's attentive eyes. "—and Rosier likes her a lot." remarked the man while he unrolled the parchment lazily. "If I know a thing or two, you don't want to mess around with Rosier's belonging or people he swore loyalty to."
"He's a prick." Aphrodite stated in a mocking tone, yawning as she stretched her arms. "—also, the dark lord only wants him because he's a naive killing machine."
"Travers."
"It's Avery, soon." The Indian witch shot him a mischievous grin as she raised her sunkissed hand, flashing a sapphire ring, the Avery's heirloom settled on her ring finger. He clicked his tongue before she went on with a smug smile. "Point me the lie."
Morphine shook his head at her demeanor before he skimmed at the note under the moonlit. The witch buried her nose to his shoulder, peering over Rosier's girl-like handwriting a quirk that she learned after she had taken a glimpse of Avery's desk. The french boy was a perfectionist and he certainly would be annoyed if he ever saw messy handwriting. The message was written in french to her distaste. A glint of satisfaction glossed in Avery's azure eyes, she raised an eyebrow.
"What is it?"
"I have to go." he announced, his tone was firm, a dark grin pulled from his lips. He shifted to the side as the witch grasped the bedding to cover her exposed skin, up to her chest.
"Now?"
"Yes, I have to pick up something at the Lestrange's." answered Avery as he swiftly made a move to buckle his belt. Pacing in his room before reaching his wand just above his desk, he heard a shuffle behind him followed by faint footsteps against the hardwood floor. He sighed, buttoning his black shirt before he muttered bitterly. "Today will be one hell of a family reunion."
"I'll go with you." her velvet voice came first, followed by a swift rustle as she helped herself into a nightgown. The witch gestured her hand to reach her wand right by Avery's side. A firm hand grasped her wrist, she lifted her gaze to find his hardened gaze. Her brows furrowed when the gentleness vanished from his eyes, then she spoke. "You will need me."
"I have Rosier as a backup." Morphine insisted, he shoved her wrist away before he trailed his eyes to her exposed arm. His lips curved upward once he noticed a scar carved to the skin, a line on her shoulder blade, and he swore to punish the culprit who did it to her. Morphine swallowed thickly in resentment while observing the scar. The witch shot her eyes up out of irritation, her irises narrowed akin to a cat. The denial was apparent on Aphrodite's enthralling features. He went on, "You can't go with me, it's my task."
"But she is—" the witch shut her eyes for a split second as Avery pivoted on his heels, pacing away to reach his coat hung by the dimmed fireplace. Her eyes twinkled with exasperation, waving her hand in the air. "She is a Merlin, do you know how hard it was to catch your other cousin?"
Morphine's muscles seemed to freeze on the thought of Alphard, the hair on his nape rose feeling chills coursed his bloodstreams. He cleared his throat, "That was your mission."
"Yes, and even I, needed my brother back then." She pointed out, her eyes trailed to follow Morphine's pacing steps. "And he's useless, I do not understand why the dark Lord kept him when he can't speak. Even veritaserum was futile to his tongue, he was babbling in an ancient language none knows since like what . . . the 8th century?"
Morphine tugged himself in his coat, palms dusting over the woolen material, a scowl decorated his face when he peered to her judging figure through his mirror. "The thing is, Alpha would sell his soul if we get her." he emphasized, jaw clenched as he contained his anger within his skin. "None is more suitable than me and Rosier to catch her."
The Indian witch chuckled as she slammed her back to the wall in defeat, folding her hands across her chest. "What is it with men and their fragile pride, they would never accept a woman's help even when they are nearing death." uttered the witch, shaking her head while Morphine twisted his body to face her. "Just because I don't have a dick between my legs doesn't mean I can't help."
Morphine sighed, his shoulders relaxed as he inhaled deeply. Aphrodite stood menacingly in her throne, a glint of red ruby clouding her irises to match her fury. Ares should have known, she was once a Goddess of war, too. "It's not that—this is important to me, it's my first task."
He pivoted on his heels and walked toward her then he crouched to cup her heart-shaped face. Their breath fused into one and her rose perfume invaded his nostrils. When his lips were over hers the fire in her eyes slowly sublimed. "I appreciate your concern, my love." his lips traveled to her chin, pecking her ever so gently. "but I have to do this one on my own—or with Rosier."
Aphrodite tilted her head to face him once her fury was buried within her gentle facade. Onyx irises met his marine pairs, a certain discomfort poisoned her gut that she spoke gently. "Promise, me." her fingertips traced his freshly-shaven jaw, studying Morphine's vicious features that she found alluring. "Come back to me as soon as possible, my love, we have a wedding vow to share in twenty-eight hours."
"Precisely." The smile on Avery's face was both devilish and sincere, yet it was pleasant for the witch. He went on, murmured to her lips. "Of course, I'll be back before you noticed . . . and then we can go wherever you want us to."
He captured Aphrodite's lips and just like the mythology, the goddess had always succeeded to have men wrapped around her fingers. But Ares was special to her, she could taste freedom that she craved for so long, lingered on his tongue, his lips had something much more saccharine than power. But she should have known better, Ares and Aphrodite were a case of greek tragedy—the gods were against them.
It was written in the stars, Aphrodite wouldn't have a happy ending with Ares.
***
It was supposed to be a good day. Gammaliel had planned it all, she had struggled to wrap a ribbon around Shadows' neck, satiny blue against her black lion-like fur. After a few claw scratches of her wrist the Norwegian cat finally gave up, the feline's eyes lit up whenever the name Marty was mentioned as if the familiar knew her master was about to return. Gemma had all the smile she could place on her peach face, she had been dreading to see him. The witch even asked her house elves down the kitchen, Monty and Pixie, for a bundle of sweets as an apology gesture. She had read Mrs. McKinnon's letter at least ten times that day, that her Apollo would return to Hogwarts that evening.
After a few stitches, healing potions, rest, and mediwizards care, the said blond was allowed to return to Hogwarts after his weeks and weeks of requests and she quoted from the letter; the first thing he asked when he was awake was 'Where is Gemma?'
She was supposed to be with Martin and had their real conversation, pouring details to him of how right he was about everything. She would be talking to him about how boring Hogwarts was without the blond, and he would be telling her 'I told you so.' with tons of sarcasm he could utter. After all, coldness warped her soul, all the pain and toxin inside her mind there was nothing more soothing and redeeming than unfurling herself under Apollo's warmest sunray.
Yet, the world had been pouring salts to Persephone's ground.
Air flooded her lungs in rapid waves, her conscience was divulged with images of a jet of red light flashing before her eyes and a faint murmur. A familiar nightmarish voice whispered. "Sleep well."
Now, Gammaliel's vision was torn between indigo sky, the darkened barricade of trees, and the gloom hooded above Scotland's High-Land. The brunette blinked her eyes rapidly, trying to clear the blurred line and colors before her irises. Her chest heaving and it ached every time she inhaled as if prickled by the cold air, her body pushed past the threshold before her. She dashed away as swift as she could, damming the fear and panic that swamped her soul so thickly.
Footsteps thumping behind her, mimicking her own between the dark, trespassing the bushes, the ancient trees, as they were clouded under the crying lightning sky. Hogwarts was supposed to be her haven, her holy ground, Dumbledore had promised her that. Yet, none in the Merlins ever taken a fond of the warlock, his unorthodox method was a turndown. All Gammaliel knew was, Avery, her cousin, was the person behind the skull mask, he had the same grotesque tattoo as Regulus had on his forearm.
Morphine Avery was a death eater. And he was trying to get her out of her safe zone, to wherever the hell he spawned from. It all finally made sense to her—Voldemort wanted her—the explanation to her series of unfortunate events. And yet, one thing still did not make sense, how did he could get inside the castle, how did he know about her and Regulus, certainly the Black's heir was not one to display affections in a crowded corridor—it did not make sense, but it would. If only Morphine wasn't alone in this game of plan.
"Come on, dear cousin." The grating voice boomed behind her, while his wicked grin spread across his lips. "Quit playing around!"
For all he knew the plan was supposed to be easy: kidnap the witch, apparate, bring her to the dark lord, and done. But Avery had never mastered the art of patience. Morphine's breath was series of gasps, trying to reinstate oxygen back to his lungs. His leather sole was pressed against the moistened ground. Hands lunged to push past the barricades of bushes before him. He cursed Rosier for his late arrival that evening while his beady eyes motioned to follow the familiar shade of brown hair, swaying between the greenery.
"Son of Banshee, Rosier." he drawled under his breath, timbre slicing the forest's silence. If only Evan didn't take too long to arrive Avery wouldn't have run out of patience, he wouldn't infiltrate the castle himself and jinxed the witch on his own.
Before him, the Irish was in her intoxicated state from the remains of Avery's bewitched-sleep jinx, she dragged her feet to sprint as swift as she could. Her whimpers of pain were faint and her mary-jane was stuck on the muddy ground that she had to abandon it. Sacrificing her comfort, her shoes sunk inside the quicksand, leaving her with her black stocking. Her movement was restricted by something tied her hands behind her back, she tried to flick her fingers and summon her fire to burn the rope.
At her trials, she had failed to notice that a curse was bound to the rope. It was trying to peel her skin of her bones as if sulfate acid poured over her satiny skin. Gammaliel couldn't help but wail, which made her attempt to flee from Morphine got caught in the first place. So she did the last thing she could do, run. Azure eyes were lacquered of pain, panic, and anger at once, tears were trying to bead off her tear duct.
"Where are you going, my dear cousin?" his yell boomed again, the witch sensed his spell and she twisted to dodge the attack. The jinx landed on a tree with a loud bang, the crack spread like a grapevine from the rooting ground then split the trunk into two. Gemma swerved to avoid the falling trunk as both halves fell with a loud thump, heaving the ground. Avery's laughter was manic that she was sure he found it fascinating to torture her. "Come on now, Gammaliel, stop playing around. We will have plenty of time for a family reunion."
Her stocking was wretched from thorns and twigs that scratched and dragged across her skin surface, still, she had to keep running with gasping breaths. She had to find a way back to the castle. A familiar feeling of cold metal caressed her left thigh, there was a glimpse of a metallic shine strapped to it. Her ruby dagger was still intact, she thanked The Goddesses that Avery did not know that—at least, not yet. He raised his wand while watching her hands was tied behind her.
A spell ricocheted to her way. A jet of light from his wand catapulted towards the witch, it hit straight to her spine. In a split second, the Irish witch's body propelled a few meters away before she was slammed against the tree with a loud bang. The tree trunk was vibrating due to the impact, she gritted her teeth and pain surged her vein as if thorns dragged along her flesh. Leaves trashed the aether, fell from the tree, and crows were swatted away from the broken branches that rained atop the damp ground. Dust splattered in the air causing her to cough, she could hear crows battered their wings, venturing the thundery night. The flock of murder was twirling in the sky—a sign, there would be bloodshed that evening.
Her muscles twitched subtly at the sensation of pain washed over her like hot-fired bullets. The scent of pinewood and freshwater lured her brain to keep her eyes open, then a familiar scent entered her nostril—something pungent and coppery coated her senses. She had been cursed to acknowledge the said smell—the Irish witch had stained her body with it before—blood.
It was supposed to be a good day.
Dripping from the side of her face, a crimson ribbon glided against her skin so smoothly, coloring half of her face red. Goosebumps painted all over her skin, when she tried to hurl over the twigs-covered ground.
Morphine tsk-ed, "Look at you, cousin." He strutted arrogantly towards the girl, grinning with a bemused look. Satisfaction danced in his eyes, glossed with devilry as he witnessed the witch bit her lips to dam her pain. He pressed his boot sole against her back, Gammaliel squirmed to run away but she could only do so much when the rope dammed her magic. "I told you to stop running away—" his wand pinned against her exposed forearm, he swore a glimpse of lava blue was running through her vein. He chuckled, "—you can't run away from me."
Gammaliel shot up with polished eyes, her blood was coating a wild-berry bush. She wanted nothing but trashed the brunet with her fire and burn his skin, deep until his marrows bubbling in his spine. There was a sound of rippling water within earshot when her blood was gliding to her mouth, lingered inside her saliva gland. The coppery taste remained in her palate before she spat out in distaste to the blackened ground.
Huffing through damaged body, she taunted. "Never thought that you would sink so low, Morfi." Gammaliel's anger was simmering in her blood, teeth gritted. "You are making a big mistake."
"Ah, is that so?" Avery cocked an eyebrow, his sole pressed to her back harsher and he heard her winced. He smirked before lifted his feet. He grabbed her by the collar and yanked her up to stand before him. "I'm trying to be nice, you see, don't you want to see your brother?"
"What?" she heard the disbelief slipped from her lips, at the mention of Alphard her azure eyes glossed with hope, there was a relief wave washed over her to know that her brother was alive.
"Yes, if you come with me you might see him again, you two might share the same cell—and rot inside there together."
Her back arched when he twisted the witch to face him, her peach face was tainted with blood and dirt. Her brunette hair was sprinkled with mud and dust, tangled and frizzy as it covered the other half of her face—although her eyes were bloodshot and sharp as if made from her savage flames. After so long, there was nothing more satisfactory to Avery than seeing her fail, than revenge. Inhaling her last trace of peony perfume, his lips twitched into a smirk, leaning to the witch's face.
"Be a good girl and come with me."
Gemma's eyes were icy cold, the disgust was tucked away from her features. There was a part of her to give up and see Alphard but she could have imagined his face if she was caught too—he would want anything than have her captured by a sadistic monkey ( Alphard used to call him that ). The Irish witch's exhale was harsh through her flared nostrils then her spit landed on his face. "Never."
With that word, her knee hit his groin in full force and Morphine leaned to her, ducked his head down in respond. The Merlin's heir hit his forehead with hers—one, the blood was running through the other side of her face, dripping down to the ground—again, a pang of pain hit her head. Gammaliel bit it away, she twisted her body to run as fast as she could. She bit her wince from her barefeet against the harsh ground, hearing the water streams was getting louder and louder in her ears. She finally paused when she reached the riverbank, with a gritted teeth Gemma struggled to lower her tied hands to reach the dagger. Just when she got a grasp of it—a spell ricocheted towards her from behind.
Her screams were dammed when her body was hurled over and sent to the creek. Cold pierced her skin morbidly and her eyes shut in reflex when her body was drenched by the quicksilver streams. Her vision was blurred when blood oozed out of her skin to immerse with the water. Her head was completely under the water, with the remaining of her energy she opened her eyes to spot a shiny metal between the stygian riverbed. Gammaliel felt her heart pounding against her rib-cage and there was a loud ring in her ears when she tried to twist her body and reach her dagger.
A hand yanked her by the throat out of the creek and she gasped loudly before her eyes met with familiar pair of azure. Avery's eyes glinted with fury that had consumed him thoroughly. "Maybe you should join your mother."
The death eater tightened his grip around the witch's throat and she choked for air, her pallid face was bloodless almost immediately. Gemma tried to squirm, muttering spell inside her head only to feel her hand was eaten by the rope—blood dripped from her back vigorously, staining the clear water red. She had tried to scream and her voice was inaudible and dampened by the thunder parting the sky. Marine pools polished with tears and her lungs felt squeezed flat from the inside, the only thing she could see was Avery's encapsulated fury through his eyes. Only when she thought her torture couldn't get any worse, the boy lobbed her down the creek and buried her head under the water.
Bubble forming, globbing before her mouth she continued to writhe feeling her heart pounding against the base of her tongue. Thumping faster and harder, that Gemma had sworn she would have her cardium exploded by the second. Water entered her mouth, seeped to her esophagus—her body felt like burning from the inside, while cold veiled her skin. Avery's wicked grin was dangling on his lips when he watched the brunette's face was covered with her hair swaying to the creek streams. Blood and water soaked his trousers, the bubbles before her face had finally stopped. The witch's retaliation was coming to an end, with furrowed brows raindrops began to grace the blasphemous ground. Ares had won the war.
Raindrops drumming atop his head when he loosened the grip on her throat. His eyes blurred, he had killed her and the ecstatic feeling coursed his bloodstreams rapaciously. He looked up to the sky, watching the thunder was tinged with blue, then a splash of water was heard. Avery twisted his jaw down to find the witch rose from the riverbed with a dagger on her hand, without waiting a second she swung the dagger at him. The sharp edge sliced through his robe then she dragged it across his chest with a groan. Blood seeped out of his split open robe, muscle and tendons were sweltered by her dagger power. His blood was washed out by the rain down the river.
"This is for every time you try to touch me." her voice was hoarse, eyes pupilless and lit in lava blue, her hair was consumed by tongues of fire. Avery had awakened the real she-devil, the lethal version of Persephone. Navy shadows dancing in her eyes when she jabbed her dagger to his arm, disarming him at once. His wand was drifted by the rushing streams. "Your—" stab "nasty." stab "fingers."
A cross was painted over his chest, and Avery was unable to move from her magic. She pranced back with gasping breath, fire engulfed her skin like flames to firewoods, eternal and daring against the rain. She settled her dagger on her left hand, crimson liquid dripped out of it. Ares had always fond of blood, not until he witnessed his ichor spilled out of iron rods. Gemma raised her hand and with a flick of her wrist, she tossed him to the river bank like a useless rag doll.
"Get out of my sight." Gammaliel's timbre was rough, grating and her eyes were as sharp as her dagger.
Her steps were staggering as her flames imbibed to her skin, she contained her monster back inside of her. It was chuckling in her ears, whispering praises for what she had done. The brunette dragged her bare feet to cross the creek, collecting the remaining of her sanity. She felt filthy, her skin, her palm, her soul had been painted with blood. Human's blood, and she had a body count more than a sixteen years old should be, or any sane witch should be. Gammaliel wanted to scream until her larynx hurts, she wanted to let go the loud paragraph and bold lines that were trapped in her head, yet she couldn't. Her gaze dropped to the water, watching her dagger dropping thick, solidify blood from its sharp edges.
Her knees weakened, pulled by gravity, and splashed of quicksilver streams hit her peach face along with drumming raindrops atop her skull. It felt as if it perforated her skin now, a reminder that her soul had been tainted. She placed her dagger on her lap, peering between blurry eyes. Voidness engulfed her soul, and the guilt was poured over her morale. Her breath hitched in her throat, wishing she was not born like this. She didn't want this. None of this.
The Irish witch lunged her hand to the water and washed her bloody palm, brushing them so harsh, hoping it could wash her sins, her soul, it would help her escape her fate. "I want it off." she brushed her palm harsher against the creek pebbles, teeth gritted with pain. "Please, I don't want to do this."
Her sleeve was torn apart from ropes that once bound her wrist and the gleaming scar of blue was glinting under her rage. Gammaliel resented the said scar for it whisked her into a catastrophe that she didn't create in the first place. Heart pounding in her ears and she lunged her forearm to the coarse pebbles, groaning. "Get it off."
It was cry out for help, desperations tumbling into one pile of problems. It was growing higher and bigger like flames inside her chest. Gammaliel had stained her skin with blood like she decorated her garden with roses. The witch had it then, she had it now, and she was sure she would be swamped with it later until she could no longer breathe.
Her sapphire irises finally gave up, tears drenched her cheeks while she had imagined all the things she wished she was. Gemma only wanted to not feel so alone, she just wanted her family, the plethoras of warm smile and hugs that used to encompass her day to return. She wanted to be by her mother's side, listening to her hours of piano jam. Nagging to sit on her father's lap while she barged in his working room. Or simply took care of Alphard's crup puppies when they were younger. She had asked why, why did she had to lose them all?
The fucking war had made her do this, the stupid magic, the egoistical power. The doctrine, the sickening social prejudice. It was ironic that the Gods had to end the war when it was humans who started it in the first place. Gemma begged with hoarse voice. "Please, please." The heel of her palm was brushing against the other forearm, hoping it could wipe the scar off her—it remained.
The witch dropped her gaze to her knees, then murmured. "...I don't want to kill people."
But she already did.
Her lungs felt heavier than it had ever been. She sobbed her heart out wishing it could be lighter by the time she finished crying. She thought she could find someone to lean on in her darkest night. A bright star to light her way out. But like any stars, there were nights when they scorched brighter than the other and there were nights when they did not appear in the sky. When she thought he would stay, Regulus left. He left her when she needed him the most.
In that creek, she was back to when she was five. Completely alone. Sinful. All her efforts to find friends, to find kin and to be in love was down the drain. The world had been torturing her, forced her to withhold stars above her fragile shoulders. She begged and begged for it to be lifted from her being, yet it remained. Why?
Because none of the Greek heroes were happy.
***
There are two motives for common murder. The first one was for a stepping-stone, necessary bloodshed for a goal as in paid assassination, kidnapping, or robbery. This type of murder would only leave a simple wound or scar. Oftentimes, the case would only involve a single weapon, for instance, gun, dagger, or sword. The execution for the said murder would be effective, fast, and clean sweep. A proper example would be Evan Rosier's first kill in Ireland. He had killed the inn's owner and her son with a swung of his dagger to protect his loyalty to Regulus.
There was no hesitation lingered in his eyes when he killed them in the name of loyalty, inside his head he was doing the right thing, he was his own hero in his court of justice. He trusted no one, he executed them with his hand and any sane people might think he wasn't right in the head for being that way. The ministry would put him in Azkaban, perhaps they would lock him up in St. Mungo's asylum. But he had his moral compass set on his own standard and this was his moral philosophy.
Rosier breathed through the shivery air that evening, his nostrils flared, eager for oxygen to flood his lungs. His feet were burning hot as if he was pacing through embers path. The boy was sure he had been touring the Scottish castle for the third time now, and yet his eyes did not spot the figure of an Irish witch. His heart was pacing loudly when the gloomy sky began to form choirs of thunder. Hiding under his father's cloak, the french wizard slid his dagger to his belt. His boots were thumping against the softened ground while he had been damming his racing heart out.
His hazel eyes met the similar shade of green before him. His irises rattled in frantic motion, in search of noise, a woman scream between the lining up ancient trees before his eyes. Yet, Rosier could not recognize any noise but a rhythm of Selkie's lament waiting for the rain to come. His soul was twisted sourly from worry that poisoned his mind.
Moral value, Evan. The familiar voice of his uncle's advice was echoing inside his head, almost deafening. Rosier had used this sentence far too many times to remain guiltless over every wrong-doing he committed. The boy bit his rosy lips warily, stepping from one stone to another in rapid motion. His feet were thrusting faster and faster while he felt his breath shortened over the arrays of possibilities ruling inside his head was growing like a grapevine; wild, chaotic, and unpredictable. This was not what he planned. His cloak began to reek of forest scent, caught leaves to cling on the sacred cloak.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Evan's timbre was rough, he yelled between his gasping breath to channel his rage. His throat was restricted feeling his soul was choked by pungent guilt. His hands lunged before him to push past the bushes blocking his view, they must be nearby. "Avery, you dipshit."
His plan was crumbling apart, slipping through his fingers like sands. The french boy had never been so furious that he felt his anger bubbling inside his stomach. His ears were tinged red with the thought of stabbing someone's heart over and over. His sunken face was bloodless when his thoughts were running rancid over what he feared would happen, and the acidic raindrops scattered on the sky above him did not help him at all.
Rosier's head was perforated with pain when he recalled his memories. There was a deep ache that he couldn't dam when he studied Regulus the past few weeks. Black had stupidly begged him for her safety, he had begged a devil for help. He thought he would feel a victory to finally tore the two of them apart. But when he had seen the said boy walked over him and said, his part of the deal was done. That he had left the witch for good, the french boy could sense beneath the cold tone he put on—his heart was crumbling apart. Of course, Rosier couldn't help but to savor the good news, that Black did not make himself a martyr for a girl, not anymore.
Yet, the longer his eyes lingered on his raven brows and stoic face, Rosier had never seen him so ruined and helpless. Regulus had always been the first one to wake up in the morning, then the boy suddenly missed class and arrived late for breakfast. The Slytherin's prefect had always raised his hand in Slughorn's class for a House point, these days he did not even bother to listen to the Professor. If that was not apparent when Rosier stayed up as he sutured through his dark arts spellbook. Black's four-poster bed would be showered with light past midnight.
The french's curiosity piqued, he peeked from his emerald curtains, through his best mate's hollowed curtains he watched him placed his wand between his lips, a shattered glass locket lair before him. Rosier raised an eyebrow, since it was easy for Black to buy a replacement over what looked like a piece of cheap jewelry. But when the boy had glued and fixed the emerald locket, careful and delicate, Evan noticed it was not just a locket. It had value, Black had always valued gifts people gave to him. Evan noticed the said locket used to settle around a witch's neck, shiny and bright to suit her smile. That was when Rosier knew, Regulus had never looked at her like a replaceable jewel.
The rainfall was merciless against his trembling body, drenching his cloak completely. His steps were heavier now that his boots were filled with rainwater and fear poisoned his gut when he caught a drip of blood pooling the ground. Rosier followed the blood trail as he reached his wand with one hand, his mind was clouded with worry—there was a scream of her in his muddled mind and Rosier's breath hitched at the thought of that. His footsteps were inconstant, he was rushing as he followed the bloodstains but slowed down as he did not want to witness what he feared.
"Please, no." Evan's timbre was faint, feeling the dimmed coal inside his chest began to soar out of anger—he cursed himself inside his mind. If only he arrived earlier his plan would have rolled as how it should be.
Images flushed back to Rosier's court of justice, proof of his last bit of mundanity. He could remember the taste of sweet caramel stroopwafel she gave to him back in his first year for his birthday that September, the two of them just had their first week in Hogwarts. Her feet swaying on the one of empty great hall bench that evening, they sat on the table, side by side, and chuckled over their curfew crime. Rosier did not get a letter or gifts from his uncles, but the witch had attempted to sneak into Slytherin's common room in her pajamas to give him his favorite sweets.
"You always sneaked out past curfew, so why not?" her timbre was the same saccharine, only much more innocent back then.
Gemma had always been the gentlest and the kindest person to exist in his life and Rosier felt his heart squeezed in pain at the memory. He kept asking why the world had to put her against him? Why she didn't stand on the same side as he was? Why did he have to drag his first friend to the Dark Lord? Why did he have to harm her? Why?
Rosier felt his head would explode due to his denial. Because he could never cross his promise to be her friend for life. Because the word 'always' meant so much to him as much as it was for her. A pang of pain hit his head whenever he stared at his lanky figure in the mirror these days, he barely recognized himself. All he noticed was how his face was much hollowed than before, more chiseled each time he raked soul with his hands. The more he painted red on his skin the more his soul was tainted with the dark. He had failed to realize that each time he killed someone, Rosier had killed a part of his humanity.
The fatigue was glossed across his pale skin, he began to notice that he might have been the one who made a wrong— no, fatal deal with the devil. That his uncle was right about the versatile war, that Gemma might be right about not defining justice by personal problem. That Alpha was right, the perfect world only existed in his mind. Evan Rosier was akin to a moth swallowed whole by savage flame. He had made a mistake he could never undo.
The price of vengeance for his parent's death was not an ideal exchange if he had to let the dark Lord marionette his mind from the inside—to loan his soul, to destroy himself. The dark Lord did nothing but drained Evan's morale, his youth, his innocence, and his perfectionist being out of him like the fucking cunning serpent that he was. He had manipulated the boy and perhaps, many of his followers into mere weapons or even shield, who would obey his order in a heartbeat. Just like the dark mark tattooed skin-deep on his forearm, the dark Lord would not stop to latch on Rosier's back until he remained nothing but a skull.
He remembered calling her on his birthday night, the witch hummed as she gazed up the starry ceiling above them. He studied her delicate features, long and careful, to witness the way her eyes were full of admiration to the stars. Thanatos could see he was not a pawn against her, he was her knight, her right hand—he always had been. While Gemma was the queen in a chess game, the strongest piece at once a soul so light with heart full of tenderness and beauty that only Persephone could offer. She was meant to ameliorate a saline land into Eden garden filled with budding roses, even in a place so dark like the underworld.
A smile decorated his lips as the french boy knew, the world was too ruined for a soul like her.
"Can I ask you something?"
"No." jeered the witch as she arched a teasing eyebrow at him. She elbowed him in the arm and gave him a nod. "Go on, Evs."
There was bitterness in his palate, coating the taste of caramel into medicine thrills at the question lingered on the tip of his tongue. He exhaled slowly, "If I'm not mistaken . . . you are related to Avery, are you not?" queried the french, her body stiffened at that. Her azure eyes motioned to him swiftly, she gave him a curt nod. "How come that I haven't seen you anywhere near him?"
Her nails nicking on her pajamas sleeves, her brows furrowed before she blurted out. "I don't . . . he - I think he hates me." muttered Gemma with a frown, gazing down to her hand. "I don't know why."
Evan's hazel eyes trailed on her wrist where she hurriedly hid it under her sleeve. But the french boy was swift, he grasped her hand and she winced in pain. Panic glossed his face when he peered to see plum-colored bruises scattered on her hands. "Did he do this to you?" queried the boy in final, his hazel eyes glinted with fury. "Girly."
The Irish girl shook her head in denial, but Evan had known her longer than a year that he had always spared Avery a cold glare ever since. Perhaps, it was the beginning as to why he was so keen on learning all the advanced spell, to read on his senior's book, to be the first-caster in charms until he ended up becoming the best dueller of Slytherin of the '70s. Rosier wanted to punch himself at that memory—he had wasted his effort to protect his friend—because of his haste, selfish wish. What had become of him now? Had he become the scary, monsters muggle told their children before bed? He wondered, the twinge in his marrow was aggravating. He couldn't let Avery took her to the dark lord. He simply couldn't.
The forbidden forest was trashed as if a tornado had hit the ground when he skimmed around with frantic gaze. A tree trunk was split into two, branches fell from height, a flock of crows cawing in the sky as thunders dancing in gloomy sky. Then through moistened eyelashes, he spotted Avery, recollecting himself through every last breath. Rage went agrestal in his bloodstream as he watched the said boy writhe in pain. Morphine was writhing on the river bank. The scent of wet soil and blood was roaming the air while his eyes gazed at the rainy sky. Avery's chest rose and fell, he breathed through his damaged bones as he felt ravaging pain recoiled through his system. He could do anything but to pray—pray to survive, to live, to be able to fulfill his promise—his vision was blurry from both rain and voidness.
"Ro . . . Rosier." Avery's voice was gravelly as he tried not to swallow the raindrops washing over his face. The scent of blood roamed the air as the river streams were getting as loud as the raindrops and thunder. His lips quivered as blood oozed out of his chest, with shivery tone he pleaded. "Help."
The french boy's jaw clenched when he peered down to Avery's dying body. Morphine watched the french boy's eyes were tinged darker, the shade of emerald green was swamped with a glint of fury. Then Rosier raised his wand with a blanched face, "Did you touch her?" queried the french wizard, his tone flat and sharp. His wand dug to Avery's bloodied chest, hazel eyes glossed with pain. "Did you touch her or not, you fucking bastard?!"
Avery's irises narrowed, feline-esque when he sensed the betrayal on Rosier's face. "You—"
"This is for her." Rosier's sultry lips muttered a dark spell from all the lesson and books he borrowed from Dolohov, a spell ricocheted from his wand.
The next thing Morphine knew was pain marinated his chest. Evan felt his head was perforated with a wracking scream. The guilt had been built and built inside his being that it took Avery as the final trigger for him to show his true color. He hit Avery with another spell, he cherished the sound of ribs cracked open like a victorious song. Perhaps, it would be the first and the last melody he would enjoy in his life. The french was channeling his frustration for his helplessness all these times that he should have been on Gemma's side without a doubt.
Evan hit the boy with another dark curse and Morphine's scream was so nerve-wracking that the forest beasts would have closed their ears and ran away from it. But the french boy swallowed his gut, for he was consumed by his anger. He had stabbed his own heart for not recognizing his feelings, and this was the least he could do. Morphine's organs were ruthlessly disemboweled inside out, crimson blood splattered to stain the french boy's adorning feature. With his last flick of wand, he dragged his intestines out to expose it to the rain. Unlike Rosier, Avery's morale had been decaying from within when hatred tainted his soul. Rosier, on the other hand, had people as his safety net to keep him sane; his uncle, Regulus, and Gammaliel to hold onto his morals, while Avery did not.
The second common motive for murder was vengeance. People who sought for their emotional satisfaction. This motive was scarier, darker, and ruthless. The wound or scar they left would be messy, and chaotic; limbs butchered, face skinned-off, eyes popped out of its sockets and the list goes on. Often, the culprit would play with the way they kill, obeying their suppressed anger, tortured them for what they did. The perfect example was the way Rosier killed Avery. Just like what he did to the fox he shot and the way he detached its organ after the hunt, Morphine's intestines were dragged out and butchered the same way.
Rosier's shoulder sagged when he stared at Morphine's lifeless body, the last puffed-out steams had left the cadaver. His chest had stopped moving and azure eyes were staring soullessly at the rainy sky, there was resentment and satisfaction in Evan's chest. The feeling was akin to a heavy load was lifted off his shoulders, liberating. "For Gemma," he breathed unlike he ever did before, heavy and relieving at the same time. Cold prickled his skin as he spoke with a rigid jaw, so faint that he was too afraid to admit it. "—and Regulus."
Rosier breathed slowly, inhaling the scent of the drenched soil and the sweet, metallic blood that invaded his nostrils. He peered down to his wand, watching his fingers trembled from both cold and fright. Once again, he tainted his father's cloak with blood, and yet he was sure he did the right thing.
•❅─────────✧❅✦❅✧─────────❅•
Author's note:
Thoughts?