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49 - Knight and Petals
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*please read the in-line comment
Mortality was no stranger to Thanatos. He peered at them from river Styx, through hollow irises made of gloom. Obsidian rake chafing against the ground, slicing a warning to the living. He was deity made of Nyx's best sky, ventured the realm in eerie. There are two kinds of mortals, he noted. One; would greet him as an old friend, a winged-daimon they waited by the door. Varied, from bodies made of wrinkles, tired, wretched and blistered flesh, to starry-eyed soul. He would guide them to the undergloom in peace. Two; those who tried to outrun him and Keres, arrogant mortal who would not be simply beheaded. They would be dragged through hell-fire, butchered limbs-by-limbs, daring them with malevolent eyes if they crawled back to their body.
Tom Riddle was the second, a supercilious mind, tooling his speck of magical intelligence to extend his existence like a raw rubber. Chopping his souls like pieces of ruined china, he spat on his mortality and the divine. But if you spat to the sky, it would return to your face. So, he morphed into a different entity that no longer resembled a human, only pieces. The more he denied, he had become an entity of darkness—consumed by it.
"Come, Regulus." His voice was nearly a hiss, a rattle of a deserted serpent. The boy shot his gaze up to view before him. Malicious—did not do justice to portray the cocooning aura wrapped the said human, though, after skimming the formidable being—skin painted from moonstone, thin and boney, a layer of serpent scale tattooed like age-line. The thinning lips, sharper than razors, stygian that each movement of his tongue spewed poison. Tom Riddle was an omen of mortality, punished by the divine for trying to outrun death. He was neither a wizard nor a complete soul. He was not a mortal—at least, he didn't resemble anything humane.
He was straight a plate of evil, then how come Regulus believed the candied reality he promised?
Riddle's words were compiled of Olympus premises and beyond that Hades longed for. He promised if he reigned the world, the underworld would no longer dark, he would paint it with aligned stars, that even Tartarus would have light and Persephone's garden would remain. So saccharine, well-crafted and adorning, that he failed to see what was beneath it: A poison drop lacquered of nectars, tongues of fire he defined as power. Regulus believed that, after all, you caught more flies with honey than with vinegar.
He stepped forward, swallowing the trace of fright off his face. Perhaps, the antidote worked, in the middle of thick inky air, her image resurfaced at the back of his eyes like sunrise conquered the dark sky. Darkened sapphire irises that could withhold the stars, yet bright enough to mingle with the sun. She had been clinging to his soul, though, like a peony between quicksand—she was soon drawn in the dark.
A mantra.
Power stays, she doesn't.
He predicted it, fear clouded his judgment. Fear of loss had been his Achilles heels, he had lost Sirius when he shut the front door, sooner or later, his dying father—who remained with a feeble smile every time he asked him if he was okay. Then what made him believed she would stay? At the end of the day, Black was well-taught in nobility and pride. Never taught or shown how to love. Hence, he portrayed himself as an aloof being. Alone.
Black stepped again. The Lestrange manor was the still-witness of his idiocy. Bellatrix grinned, eyes sinister and proud as he extended his hand. The dark lord's fingers were ice cold to his olive skin, a wand pressed to his forearm and Regulus bit his lips to dam his scream.
If Gammaliel's affections were temporary antidote, a plaster to a bullet wound, then the dark mark was gallons of arsenic poured to his veins. It slithered in, tainted his blood with flammables liquid to fuel his anger. Heat escalated through his nerves like wildfire when the grotesque skull appeared, at once so cold of sinister will. A magic so dark, planted like a time-bomb inside of him.
Wrong move, he exploded.
"Well done, Regulus." praised the Dark Lord, serpent irises glanced at his mark in amusement. "With this, you swore to serve me as long as you shall live. And you must forever obey me and fulfill every task I give to you."
His heart nearly stopped, every task. His mind had created a barrier, stronger as Regulus had made one rule: Anything, just not her.
"Do you, Regulus?"
Anything, just not her.
His breath hitched, something invisible was strangling him and the ground crumbled beneath him. His youthful side had been yelling to his sanity, yet the blackened nobility crowned to his head rooted deeper to his brain. This is the right thing to do. The only right thing there is.
It had taken over him when he answered. "Yes, my lord."
Regulus loaned his freedom to a breathing evil. He marked his mortality right there and then. A death eater sculpted from deceits, dogmatic notion, and familial doctrine. Just like Hades, he was a man-made villain that children would fear. When in reality, Black was merely a polluted system built of flesh, muscles, and bones, a boy with ocean of responsibility he had to fit in a jar of his mind. Thus, he had to be the ruler of hell, for an eternity.
Little did he know, working in hell would be a torture even for the king. Which led him to this . . .
"Why did you do that?" jabbered Hades to his right-hand, Thanatos.
Thanatos' drunken eyes gazed at him, his lips coated with gin and saliva. His bloodstream was both icicled cold and river of lava. The Black's heir rib-cage rose and fell rapidly, his system couldn't grasp the air as if he was swallowed by Kronos again. Frosted irises lacquered of saline beads, threatened to burst out of his being, to reveal his mundanity, that he was human—a boy.
Black felt his feet were imprinted of blood and every step he took, dragged by Rosier, were sizzling hot that his soles would burn the ground. His skin itched where his arm used to burn, the late-March wind perforated his core with guilt. Heart racing, pounding against the base of his tongue.
Thunder was rooting in the sky, cerulean bright between Nyx's darkness, its vibrato was akin to a soul cry-out. There was a serpent hiss reaching his core, a sinister signal. He wanted to shove his fingers to his cochleas so he could muffle the noise. There were fingers inside his throat: McKinnon's soil-covered claw. Flashed before his eyes, the corpse would dig himself out of the dirt, for revenge, before he buried him along in his sins.
His palm was clean but imaginary blood was sticking to his soul permanently, he tried to rub off the feeling, harshly. Yet he couldn't. The blood had tainted his soul as an aftermath of the sinister skull and serpents burnt to his forearm. He felt dirty - so sinful - wrong. His lungs were squeezed flat, and the world contained no air. Throbbing red flesh prickled with razors, flicked—cut—flicked—cut. Then thick, metallic liquid seeped out of his expanded pairs, Regulus could not breathe.
He hurt someone.
Rosier whispered a silencing spell when he shut an empty classroom door, resentment stilled in his system like gin on his lips, vigorous. Between the twinkle of jade irises, his hand waving a dismissive gesture. Silver eyes narrowed as he couldn't hear the french's voice, the terror was too thick for Regulus, he read his mouth.
"Calm down?!" spat the Black's heir when the night wind brought his anger at light-speed, pushed through his throat. The arsenic burned, he could feel purgatory's guardian must be glaring at them for their blasphemy. The wizard muted his agnostic thought, pushing all his wrong-doing; every drop of liquid evil and botched concoction he poured to his enemies' tea. He was one to harm, to strike ego down and paralyzed them but never, never to kill. He shoved Rosier to the nearest desk, the french boy's spine slammed against the angled edge, earning him a wince. Black didn't care, his tongue was on fire. "He could die!"
Rosier's eyes were darkened, murky green, they inked of satisfaction as he gazed at the furious Hades. Now, this was the Regulus he knew, between gritted teeth and panic, Evan was bedazzled. Perhaps, it was the Irish gin effect that he paid himself a giggle and sank himself in a prideful transcendency.
"And?"
Hades gripped at his assassin's collar, "What the hell do you mean, and?"
"He's a half-blood!" declared the assassin. There were seconds of silence but Regulus's heavy breaths. Evan exhaled, his lungs glossed in a brand new heat. He tore his gaze away and he could hear another thunderbolt, rain veiling each glasses with gloom and cold. There was an image of Persephone's agonic cry in his mind, it fuelled his chest with a storm of roses and hyacinth. Oh, so sweet he wanted to savor it.
He did it.
She lost her pawn: the queen's gambit worked. The monster that nested in his heart was devouring the wicked thought.
Now, her knight.
Evan raised his hand in the air with an assuring smile, whispering. "No one is going to know, I made it looked like he slipped and fell," he scoffed with smug, darting his irises back to Black's blanched expression. "—when you were busy freaking out."
The assassin had a trace of vintage gin running through his bloodstreams and yet, before their haste escape—Evan was able to cast scourgify Martin's blood off the stair, kicked the stairs railings broken. Their trace simply vanished. Thanatos was so used to raking souls off their spine that he could replicate an incidental, peaceful death on those who didn't.
"We could've killed him, Evan."
"Isn't that patented to our name now." he chided with breathy gasps, salivating mouth took the last bit of smooth taste of alcohol that remained in his palate. "We are death eaters."
Another thunder parted the sky, so powerful that Black felt the ground, the jars of serpents skull and onyx chandeliers hung on the wall vibrated. It was as if the earth was in terrible pain, perhaps, someone else. As Regulus gulped there was a slight pain on his palm, he hissed feeling gloom and a wave of hurt was roaring in Scotland's aether.
"We should savor it, Regulus. From now, death and us will be on the same side—we will be a partner of the grim reaper, we are doing what's right." Evan's hazel eyes gleamed vehemently, a speech of assurance that he mastered for years.
He knew, Regulus and himself, though they were a different side of a coin; their heart harbored the same dislike to muggles.
"We are the revolution we need. The ministry was causing all the monstrosity that is happening right now—the dark Lord, he did nothing but to put everything in the rightful hierarchy, where we should belong! All those mudbloods, half-breeds, and blood-traitors—they are the kin who do not deserve magic." declared Rosier in final, veins poking his temple as he motioned to follow Black's gaze. "They're the bottom of the barrel, the dirt—a fucking pest, a filthy trace in our kind."
Regulus wide-eyed, disgruntled clung to his being. This was the time he swallowed his words in whole and he stared at Rosier, deadpanned. This was the moment an impossible crusade sailed in his rainstorm of thoughts; that perhaps, Sirius was right.
His body was marinated by pain coming from the top of his head. The crown that settled throne on his head was digging its aurum claw deeper. It clung to his scalp, anchored itself until it disemboweled his brain. He was in pain, yet so numb and so used to the torment of his pride.
He wanted to yell and dug fingers to his throat so he could free his dampened vocal chord by his sinister self. The alchemist was in denial, tortured, and in pain. His mind recoiled the murmur of someone; Sirius. "It's going to be alright, Regulus." his coo veiled his mind. "Mum is yelling at Dad because he ate the last jaffa cakes."
He pranced back, his mind theatrically played his memories of himself and Sirius. Where he would sneak to his room and cured his blackberries-stained knuckles, or jamming frantic fingers to Satié in silent nights. He missed him, he always did.
Sirius, where are you?
Perhaps, all this mess happened because of the said heroic figure was his domino. Sirius was wavered out of bravery, freedom, and wilderness. Despite his betrayal, Regulus admired his courage—he wanted to prove to Sirius that he could be his version of hero and yet he was a diamond between zirconiums. Everyone around him was a marionette of power, toyed at heart. So they dragged him to the sea of despair so dark and dangerous akin to river styx's streams.
A ram of Regulus's fist hit the stone surface right by Evan's ears and with tedious, tipsy irises, Rosier gazed right to Regulus's quicksilver pairs between his wispy hair. His eyes were liquid titanium.
"He shouldn't die—"
"You are saying that because he's her friend." Rosier's laughter was sadistic, like torn pieces of glass to his eardrums. He gazed at Black sharply, studied his face long enough, between the flashes of golden torches that cast his face half light half dark—just like the person. There was a light inside the boy, so bright and pristine that Evan wanted to corrupt him. "You are weak, wasn't it you who told me that feelings are weakness?"
Regulus's anger avalanched inside of him, he launched his fist at Evan. "Do not call me weak!" he seethed in fury, mindlessly he hit him and marked the french's eye with his knuckles. "You are fucking sick, Rosier!"
Rosier clenched his fist as he looked away, biting on his lips so tight he bled to dam the pain. Coppery taste lingered on his mouth like one of his favorites delicacies. It didn't annoy him, instead, it fuelled his hatred to the queen, he wanted to tackle her knight. To destroy her. "And you are acting like this because of what?"
Regulus's fist trembled, his mind spun with adrenaline and he could hear his heart rocketing to his panic. He just punched his best mate, he might have killed someone. His heart sank and shrunk smaller and smaller as he was exposed to the dark he was begrudgingly trying to process. He was in the middle of the sea, the saline waves were drowning him.
The boy's feet tapped back, trying to ground himself his brain rolled and tried to search for her eyes. Regulus's heart beating steadier, slower, when he recalled her the innocence of her face, sculpted by the divine so perfectly when she read her book. The saccharine nectar that glossed his mouth when she kissed him or when time seemed to stop when she was in his embrace—everything had become useless ruins but her.
"Say it now in front of me!" Rosier yelled at him so loud, the veins in his neck popped paler. His hand grasped Black's collar, forcing him to face his anger. Evan's chest heaving, the swell and hatred invested his heart like a parasite had overgrown his chest, it was crawling vines through his eyes. "If you love her, then fucking shout it at me!"
Regulus's vision was blurry, Evan's face was nothing but a faint trace of lips, eyes, and flaring nose. Everything else was black and white, and his chest was crushed with logs, trying to open the sealed tight box of his feelings. Lord, he did, he wanted her so much that his feelings would fucking burn him alive. His muscle was stiffened when he parted his lips. His tongue was tied."I-"
"Say it!"
Evan's next yell resembled an angered phyton. Heart racing in his chest, Regulus tried to dock off the lock of his feelings, buried within him. But the poison had ruled him far too long, too much, too deep. The glass that veiled her peony was buried in the dark along with his fear. He might be a future Alchemist, brewing antidotes and poison while he breathed. But Black was an Alchemist who was poisoning himself, with fear of loss and crowned prejudice that settled atop of his head.
Nothing escaped Regulus's lips.
"This is not love, Regulus." Rosier pulled away as he breathed with a puffed chest. "Love has no place in life like ours."
Thunder stroke outside the window behind him, a fit of apparent hurt glossed Black's feature. His magic made him deaf and blind, Regulus was sure he wished to be with her, he wanted the Irish witch. Why he couldn't say it? Why?
"You didn't dare to speak it, if you love her you should have let her be with that fucking git. You wouldn't be with her and deny everything she said. This is you wanting and needing her like a parasite!" claimed Evan, agitated by Black's demeanor. "This is you torturing her and yourself to stay with her, this is your selfishness! You tossed everything that matters to you, just to bargain more time with her."
Rosier's sob echoed faintly, unsure was it from the pain or the intoxication—or to the fact that even if Regulus would poison him: he would still drink the toxin like a mulled wine. He did everything for the Black's heir. He lied to every single death eaters he met to protect him, had killed for him, had always been by his side for years.
And Regulus picked her without a doubt.
Pain bled in Evan's chest, pooling around his feet and he felt foreign. He asked himself, why did he still want to protect his loyalty to Regulus?
Perhaps, loyalty was indeed the closest thing to affection for Evan Rosier.
The french watched the twinkle in Black's eyes hollowed, like a corrosive acid sprayed over his irises. "This isn't some Shakespeare's play or melodramatic daydream!" he shouted with barred teeth and frustration latched on his face. Regulus, on the other hand, was breaking the plaster she tugged to his heart. "This is real life, this is war! The moment she sees the mark she will leave you."
Stop, Regulus wished to speak. Yet his tongue was freezing as he discerned how many times he had made her cry than made her laugh? How many times she had to restrain herself and suffice with him. He was a tainted soul, since the beginning of time, while she—Oh goodness, she was a fucking archangel in a disguise. Too good, too much—in any universe, a deity like her shouldn't be in hell with him.
Hades knew, it was time for Persephone to return to her mother.
He plucked her petals, gently the way sea waves carried sands away to the sea every time they kissed. Every story and promises, glances and touch, he gave her poison and thorns. She was not an antidote, just a pure vessel—and Regulus was never healed. He was a fucking parasite that polluted her innocence with his toxin, only then they both shared the same pain. He was hurting her all along, so they both rot in hell together.
He wanted the both of them to drown and die together in selfishness, sharing the serpent engulf and sipped the last essence of poison together as they relished every last breath. For a moment Regulus thought, Romeo and Juliet were not romantic—they were selfish and stupid teenagers just like him and her. Shakespeare was a damned person in his grave to kill them both. Fucking poets and woe.
"Power, Regulus." reprimanded the french boy, certainty glossed his eyes as Regulus dropped his gaze down the floor. He huffed between heavy breaths, "Power stays, she doesn't—So don't fucking tell me to fail my task for your stupid temporary obsession."
Regulus felt like his soul was slapped, his cup of tea was too full and Rosier kept pouring the liquid lava to his glass until it leaked and drenched his bowl before it inflamed his skin. "Please, don't hurt her." his timbre croaked, the guilt and confusion stuck in his throat, his eyes gazed at Rosier's with remaining dignity left in him. "Anything . . . Please, anything, just not her."
The Veritaserum effect had faded.
***
Remus Lupin gritted his teeth out of frustration, a sound of click noted he succeeded to part his half-freezing chocolate bar. His timber-tinted palm was extended to offer the candy to a witch by his side. Darting assuring eyes to the witch, she took it before gazing away to the Head Boy and Head Girl who were strolling in front of them. James's infamous strut had vanished since the cherry-haired witch had stopped calling him an arrogant toe-rag and snogged him past prefect patrol in a deserted corridor.
The displayed affection was too much for Gemma, she scrunched her nose every time Lily unconsciously addressed James with 'Snookum' in prefect meetings. Or the way their hand seemed to always entangled to one another. Often, Gemma envied how freely and openly they were in terms of being in love. No walls of awkwardness, war sides, idealism, or family stood between them—but again, Potter and Evans's name weren't written in a prophecy or a bittersweet tragedy—unlike hers.
Every morning, the merlin's heiress peered at the dagger plastered to her thigh as a self-reminder. She was closer to her destiny. She was closer to save Regulus from his own death. She was closer to die, again. Bitterness glossed her heart, she thought of how she would miss it the euphoria when Regulus dragged her away to the Black Lake, robes drenched in cold water, giggling away from Filch's scolding. Or the numerous times he would paint their names between scattered stars in the sky with his fingers.
Little dreams, Gemma thought, those were merely dreams that were too good to be true. Yet, a part of her was willing to bargain with the devil if it meant she could be with Regulus. Oh, what a mess.
Gammaliel's life in general was indeeed a mess. Even more after the blond's love declaration and their debates, the girl barely spoke a word each time their eyes met. Remus bit on his chocolate, "You are both wrong." he hummed, elbowing the witch on the arm as she took a bite of her chocolate. The Irish girl arched her brows in confusion as she twisted to the Gryffindor's prefect. "You and Martin, I mean."
"For one, you are wrong to keep secret from him and say that he doesn't love you. Two, you guilt-trip him—" Gemma parted her lips to protest, but Remus raised a warning as he went on. "—although, you were right that no one should take advantage of you when you were vulnerable."
"Duly noted—though, doesn't solve my problem, Remus." quipped the Ravenclaw, gazing away as they approached the Great hall for dinner. The four of them were off from the prefect meeting and were the last to leave the room. "It doesn't answer the question who was sending him the letter and told him where I was going last holiday."
The witch bit her lips apprehensively, a sliver of worry wrapped her being. Ever since Regulus's prefect pin incident, the witch had an inkling that someone inside the castle was purposely trying to harm her. Someone close enough to know her personal life, Gemma had lost count staying up-all-night, trying to solve who it was. "Marlene said something about an owl, but I didn't send him any letter. The only one who knows where I was going was Regulus."
He tugged his chocolate wrappers into his pocket as his eyes gazed away. "Perhaps, Gemma, just try to talk to him, properly," he warned. "Then, ask him who it was."
"I can't." The Merlin's heir rolled her eyes, biting on her lips as she pondered. "I mean, Remus, imagine, you have to talk to someone—a best friend, who has a crush on you or you have a crush on. It's not easy for both of us . . . It's uncomfortable."
Remus nodded at that, flashing a feeble smile as the scar on his face curved along his nose. "He doesn't expect you to love him back." he pinned, dropping his gaze to the floor with a bitter smile. "Unrequited love is hard to escape, Gemma." his russet eyes twinkled as his gaze caught three figures strolled out of the great hall in a hurry. Envy panged his gut as he shook his head. "Trust me, he won't expect you to love him back, feelings are funny like that—when the person we love had found their happiness with someone else . . . we will let them go."
The Irish motioned her eyes to follow Remus's gaze, caught the figures of Peter, Marlene, and Sirius. They were led to exit the great hall by McGonnagal. The professor's face was pale, almost translucent as she spoke to the blonde girl in a soft murmur. She beckoned the Head Boy and Head Girl to come closer and gave an instruction, then Remus tried to narrow his eyes—Marlene was crying.
Gammaliel's curiosity piqued, mindlessly she strode closer to James, Peter, Sirius, and Lily when Marlene was led to walk away with the Professor. McGonnagal soothingly caressed the blonde's back while the girl nodded with a stricken gesture. There was something invisible that strangled the Irish's throat as she observed the four pale-faced seventh year as she queried. "What is it? What happened?"
Lily's green eyes peered at James, he scratched on the bridge of his nose nervously. Potter turned to Pettigrew and the squeamish boy cowardly shook his head. Peter cued away and pulled at Sirius's robe with a blanched expression. Remus who stood by Gemma's side, tipped his head to Sirius curiously. "It's Martin, Gem." his voice faltered, the Irish witch felt a jolt of electricity coursed through her. Her mouth dried out of discomfort that poisoned her gut, he went on. "They found him on the Astronomy stair, he fell and—"
Sirius paused watching Gemma stepped back in respond. Her heart squeezed flat, the air seemed to be repulsive, escape from the grasp of her lungs. Heat vining through her muscles, there were numerous images of the blond at the back of her mind, scattered like exploding box of photographs. Her azure eyes lacquered of hopeless beads, feeling her heart rooted with worry. The Irish witch twisted, trying to pivot away but James and Remus grabbed the witch by the arm and pulled her right back.
"He's going to be fine!" yelled one of the boys, her vision was a blur and the corridor path and castle walls seemed to sublime into one, and spiraling akin to monochrome chart. "Gemma, stop!"
"You stop it!" urged the Ravenclaw, her head was panged with invisible hammer. A court of guilt was in her heart that twisted her soul. She clenched her fists and heat escalated through her veins like wildfire. "Let me go!"
James's grip was tighter when Gemma tried to escape. Her nose scrunched as she held back the tears she swore she had wasted too much the past months. The witch retaliated, sprinting away to an empty corridor, the chandelier gleam was dimmed when she strode in, accentuated the voidness in her chest. A yell was ravaging in her mind, a wrath entity that tried to escape its cage, telling her Martin McKinnon was not fine. A call from behind her was faint, the torches flames soared higher to her magic. A scent of papaya entered her nostril when a familiar embrace was trapping her from behind. Now Sirius's voice was clear. "He's going to be fine—they are taking him to St. Mungo!"
Gammaliel's anger peaked when the seventh year was trying to shove 'he's going to be fine.' in her ears and it echoed, repeated far too many times in her memory until it lost its meaning. It was a pretense she was tired to hear; when her father left, when Fidelya was in St.Mungo, a coo she told herself to go to sleep at the thought of Alpha. The wrath deity in her soul screamed louder that she had lost enough. Her heart was tossed and crushed so many times, it was the reason why she hid her frailing heart inside a maze full of traps and deceits.
Persephone had numerous strings of patience that puppeteered her emotions as the maiden Koré when she was under Demeter's scrutiny—these strings were her facades, plastered to her face like a plague. The reason she tossed enough mirror, for she saw herself as a hidden she-devil under peony's beauty. It glued her divine petals together, so she would always appear as a young Goddess. The strings were blood-red, strong enough to hold her back from revealing her pain.
Gammaliel was a marionette of the Gods since the beginning of time. Lining before her were rings of fire and mysery, but she was a mere witch. A mortal with a power no more than anyone. Even the demi-gods, the heroes and heroine of the Greeks rarely thought they would be able to handle their heroic path. As they said, no one of the Greeks heroes were truly happy. What made the fates tortured her this much, by taking every soul she ever loved and cared about in sequences?
What made them think she would be able to bottle the bubbling lava inside her flesh. Where hot air clashed with the cold, enraged into a whirlpool of razor-sharp tornado. She was a damnation, her power, her magic, was nothing compared to wicked trials. Her first soul-string was cut off when she was five, then the war bleaked and took her family away. At last, Martin McKinnon was the last soul-strings, the remaining pillar to her altar of sanity.
"Gemma, he's going to be okay." for the first time, Sirius, the prankster mastermind was speaking with such sincerity to her.
But Martin was her Apollo, and without him, Persephone's springs and colorful flowers would be vanquished to dust, a rain of white-hot meteorite. She was standing in the middle of burnt-out meadows, her creations were cremated to ashes and ceased to exist. So she screamed. "One more time I hear you telling me shits are all right I'll burn you, Sirius!"
Gemma's yell was followed by a great thunder, splitting the forbidden forest tree into two, ethereal fire soared audaciously between pouring rain. The lightning cast a shade of blue on her face, the holy ground seemed shattered outside. Her wrath and frustration was mirrored in her eyes. Fire devoured her skin, the nerves on her cheeks were neon blue along with her irises.
Sirius gazed at her with both fright and pity, the witch's limbs trembled and weakened. "You have Peter, Remus, James, Lily, and Marlene." her sob was heart-wrenching, echoed in the empty corridor. "I only have Martin. So don't fucking dare to tell me things are all right or I will fucking scream!"
Perhaps, when Sirius and Gemma were alike in terms of 'not a Slytherin'—Sirius was luckier than she was. He had Remus, James, Lily, Marlene, and Peter, while she solely had Martin. Her footsteps were weak when she left Sirius behind her, she marched to the Astronomy Tower's stairs. Lightning illuminated her peach features tenaciously when she stared dagger at the empty spot, but puddling blood.
Her azure tie was dipped in the coppery liquid that it saturated into midnight-sky dark, her knees dropped to the ground, allowing the black stocking drenched by the said substance. Persephone's ivory petals were dipped in her best friend's blood so it appeared carmine. There was a trace of McKinnon's peach cologne that fused with the metallic scent of ichor, the scent she used to call home.
The Goddess of Spring was gloomy. Evident from the shivery air that late march that could frost the fresh budding rose as if the spring was retracted back from the said high-land. Flocks of crows was flying spiral, stretching their dark wings between the curtains of raindrops in asphalt sky. Thunders parted the sky every time her tears stroke the ground.
Right now, her mind was spindling on 'what if''s : schemes of possibilities, series of conundrums, over and over again. If she listened to Remus to apologize to the blond sooner, that both of them were wrong and right. If only Sirius pestered her sooner, Martin wouldn't be like this. Her sultry lips were heated, covered with salty tears as she murmured his name to the void air like a gospel.
Guilt clouded her mind, the last time Regulus's badge was cursed, a strategy so the Irish witch could be weakened. What if Martin was just the same? She surveyed the spot where the boy laid, she shot up to find the damaged railings, yet no man would slip and create a hit that could bend steel, his pooling blood was on the floor. She narrowed her eyes as she noticed a piece of glass between his blood. Picking the object with scrutiny, her suspicion was correct—Martin did not fall, someone had pushed him.
Now, Martin was the targetted pawn they struck down, not only to weaken the witch—but set alight her anger. It was no doubt that Gemma would chase whoever did this to her Apollo and hunted them down. Darkness came to a view and the witch fell to overbearing gloom when she noticed an initial crafted on the shred of glass;
R. A. B
***
Her midnight wings were repulsive against the acidic raindrops, that seemed came to no end. But the raven did not care how the cold perforated her feathers deep to the bone. Her ribs were already glossed of wax and flames, burning her soul until the witch was damaged, unmended, only a few hours ago. The jewel blue eyes had drained all the tears she could comprehend, Koré had died—all left inside her was Persephone. Selkies' lament sliced the spring night's silence, singing so the rain to stop. But the Goddess had not yet finished her mourning, in fact, she just began to drain all emotions away.
How the Irish wished she wasn't a mortal with feelings. How she wished she hadn't allowed him to venture her maze and put her fragile heart onto his calloused palms. Because now, her magic, her soul, and emotion were entirely drained. She kept asking, why would he do that?
Why would he kill the last sun rays that kept her alive? Perhaps, had Hades only wanted herself for his own, was it because he wanted her to stay in the dark with him? Was it jealousy or selfishness? She pondered, digging through the tunnel of her heart, the witch had been blinded, revolted by her naivety in love. After all, Persephone was a young Goddess who lacked experience, while Hades was thousands of years older than her. Had he deceived her, and if he did why did she want it to be a lie?
Why does it hurt? Persephone wondered, the raven gazed up to the indigo sky. Between crowds of cirrus clouds in the stygian sky, the few of brightest stars were peering down to Gaia. Albeit, the galaxy was an ethereal canvas as if ripped out of a fairy-tale book, the night sky was mere voidness with petite suns. They were eager to peer at the charm earth offered. Still, Gemma wondered, if her story was written between them like Regulus said, why did something so divine and magical had allowed the globe perturbed by a wave of evil. A series of destruction from time to time, now, a small part of the globe was painted red from spewing liquid of life splattered on the ground. Did the stars heard their screams in chilling nights, did they notice the emerald mist of human skull and serpent? Did they mistake it as northern lights when in fact it was a mark of death?
She could only wonder what the stars wrote about her tomorrow or perhaps, future, if there would be any. Gemma pursed her lips, shaking her head at the bitter thoughts of the future. What she had was present, and she was trying to fix her falling dominoes. The Ravenclaw had dimmed her tenebrous flame of fear when her last string of wrath was cut off of her marrow. She was a free being, a wandering soul contented of flames and pallid heart. With that, she returned to where it all began.
Third floor, next to one-eyed witch statue. A grand piano was standing still with its jet-black glossy paint that appeared satiny under the chandelier gleam. Her heartbeat was slowing down when she approached the inanimate object that once held power over her, now, it no longer trembled her fingers. The brunette settled herself on a barren leather chair, fingers dancing along the keyboard. A melody tinkled in the room, a randomized melody of Satié with a myriad of means.
The courtyard clock boomed in the castle ground, notifying that it had reached the witching hour. Her heart was solemnly on her play, Gemma closed her eyes of how much she was alike to the said melody. Unlike Gymnopédie Trois, which was a series of tranquil notes that reminded her of Regulus—the Slytherin, who surrounded himself with order, honor, and calculation in his mind. While, she was the contrary, she was a deity crafted of mystery and wonder. She was not akin to the melody that reconnect her to the past, to her mother, and the perfection people perceived when they looked at the Irish witch.
Gammaliel was entirely a different person than two years ago. She did not find the perfect Sonata in her reflection. She saw impulsiveness, she saw chaos, and she saw freedom. When Regulus was her Gymnopédie, Gammaliel was the human form of Erik Satié's Gnossienne. A beauriful, chaotic mess.
"You play?" his voice came in an abrupt surprise, stopping her from playing. Gammaliel didn't turn to face the owner of the deep voice. The same timbre that soothed her slumber and brought her sweetest dream and chastise nightmares away. His footsteps echoed in the room, it used to be his sanctuary to hide his mundanity that even the pure-blood heir had a taste of music.
"I do," the witch's voice was faint, huffing as she discerned the pain panged her gut. "As you see, the fear and I finally become the best of friends." she murmured, flicking her wrist as the keyboard was charmed to play.
Only when his footsteps stopped, the Irish twisted from her seat and shot her gaze sharply at him. Her breath hitched when the platinum pairs came into a view, they were cold, full of dignity. The light of the chandelier illuminated half of his face, she narrowed her eyes to skim at his expression. But, as always, a facade of stoic cold boy without a heart was placed on his face. A sliver of worry glossed her heart when she spoke. "We need to talk, Regulus."
"Go on."
Regulus looked at her absentmindedly when he was taught to look both ways when crossing his path to his throne. He braced himself with heart drumming in his ears, he wouldn't care if something sliced his throat right there and then, because her gaze was the same sharp as a dagger she strapped to her thigh. The brunette girl rose from her seat with asphyxiating gaze, deadly.
Gammaliel scoffed, her demeanor was not the etheral spring Goddess, she was not a young maiden of Demeter they called Koré. Her marine pools were vivacious that wielded the power for any man to kneel before her as she raised her fist. A piece of glass was shown between her fingers, a familiar material that Black knew belonged to him. "Answer me, truthfully, Reg." she began with croaked tone, perhaps he knew her long enough to notice the desperation in her eyes. She had hoped for him to refuse whatever accusation that escaped her lips. "Did you, or did you not, involve in what happened to Marty?"
Her tone was strict around her throat, and yet pain glossed her eyes. Regulus's knees weakened at her gaze, something plunged his heart over and over again. He missed the way she gazed at him with such softness as if he was made of stardust and her favorite licorice. Because now, her azure eyes were polished with suppressed anger, a bonfire that laid within her skin.
"What if I do?" Regulus's adam apple bobbed to his nervousness, yet a whisper of light in his mind yelled a retaliation to tell her the truth. But fear and the darkness tainted to his skin won.
"You're lying."
The denial was accompanied by shiver, albeit, it was not from the chills that clothed her body. She stepped ahead to follow his gaze, "Tell me you are lying to me, Regulus . . . " she searched through his eyes a trace of pain, guilt, or resentment in his eyes. She found none but sincerity. Gammaliel had been preparing for this answer, to witness her heart she bested on his hand crushed by his serpent self. Yet it still fucking hurt."Why did you do that?"
She shook her head again. Gammaliel stood before the Slytherin like a blossoming peony. And his spine ached so badly when her eyes glossed of tears, he had made her cry yet again. He skimmed at her features, where stars scattered underneath her eyes, and her cheeks tainted carmine from cold and rage. The petals of her heart were on his calloused hand, a fragile thing she should have never trusted to him to hold and own.
Because now, he could see how his toxin had been bedding her conscience, so it sunk deep to her cortex and core. He feasted on her life essense that nested in her garden, sucked on it akin to a greedy leech to her saccharine blood. The bright-carmine tinted her petals was fading when she shared and adsorbed his toxin that he should suffice on his own. His heart wretched, yet he had to go on. Masking the pained expression he went on.
"Why are you denying this, Gammaliel?" he scoffed, his forearm itched so bad. A sign that his twelve-hour vanishing elixir had taken its toll.
"Why are you so fucking stupid? You could never see a monster even if it was standing in front of you—You care for everyone and blindly offered them the benefit of the doubt and you whined over why they all break your heart. You kept your hopes high, even when your father had told you he despised you." his voice seeping to her ears like viper's venom, a hiss, and her pallid petals was dripped by the poison of his words. He plucked the first petals, "You continuously loan your heart to those who don't deserve you, and that's what makes you weak."
Gammaliel stood still, shaking her head in denial. "What is wrong with you Regulus?"
"Nothing is wrong with me!" his voice boomed as his veins popped on his neck. His hand gripped her wrist tightly, digging the crescent moon to her skin. The witch bit back her wince while she stared at him. "If you asked me as to why I kicked that nasty half-blood out of my way. If you want to know why I did this, it's because this is what I do." he pulled his left sleeves with gritted teeth, revealing the grotesque skull and serpent that surrounded and suffocate it. "I am the monster that you can't fucking see!"
"I can't understand the way you wanted the world to work on your way. Your idealism is utterly unrealistic, Gammaliel. You waste your intelligence and failed to see that it was I, you are supposed to avoid. You should have listened to McKinnon while he could talk! And not bleeding to death where I intended to leave him." Black yelled at her face, mahogany fused with petrichor and peony.
Her second petal was plucked by his fangs and there was an invisible, gigantic serpent moving from his forearm to her body. It encompassed her, crushed her ribs until her heart poked and impaled by her own ribs. His toxin, his serpent, him, he had been draining her life essence from within. The peony was growing pale, plucked petals by petals, and it shrunk, dying from inside out because he had been a fucking parasite while she struggled to live.
Perhaps, Gemma was too blind to see, her ears were closed by her feelings she bested on him. While he continuously gave her thorns that cut her stem and dripped toxin on her rooting ground. The witch gave him nectars and stars in every of her kiss. She had given him every secret, tales, her everything to him—she continuously gave her best, with her naive mindset—that if she gave him her best, he would be able to return the effort. Even more, she could crack the chain of mindset he was drowned and birthed into.
Martin was right all along, she had expected him to change for her, no matter how dim the hope was inside her mind. She had hoped to save a snake who was eating itself out of nothingness. Instead, she was crushed by the angered phyton that he was, her bones crushed before she was swallowed whole by him. She had failed.
"I chose to be blind for you." Persephone finally spoke, the mark on his arm was hissing against her voice. The brunette tried to fight back when Regulus was plucking her petals, trying to take over her ground. "You think, I never noticed your demeanor? Your odd behavior?" she scoffed, shaking her head. "Regulus, I am a kin of pure magic. My magic had been bonded to yours in Isle of the Blessed and I know what dark magic felt like in my blood! But I said nothing!"
Regulus pulled back, silver irises narrowed in horror as he released his grip. The brunette curled her lips, courage fuelled her soul. "I chose to remain silent because I know this is not you." She declared with a puffed chest. Oxygen felt like waves of razors blade when it entered her lungs, she pointed at his forearm. "That mark does not define you, I know you all too well. You kept hiding it from me, because you didn't want it to define you."
His wand was drawn out, pinned harshly to her jaw. She swiftly pulled out her dagger plastered to her thigh, pressed it against his pulsating vein on his neck. "You have no idea what you are saying, Zygo."
Gammaliel's heart ached, feeling her last few petals were plucked. The once pink peony was dying under his parasitic presence, when she tried to heal him—she offered him an antidote. But little did they know they were exchanging substance. She, now contained the fear of losing him that once nested in his soul. She was a vial of his venom, and he, now, contained her antidote. They were killing each other; the way he could cast a curse to her, and the way she could slit his throat with her dagger.
Regulus's soul was twisted sourly, the way pain had sunk deep to his marrow. He tainted Persephone and no matter how he tried to retract his venom back, he could not do it. He had sucked her innocence out, because when she used to dress with the colors of springs and blossoming flowers that resembled her radiating soul. Now she stood before him in darkness and azure, akin to her flames that she feared. His venom had ruined her along with the war, and he was too blind to notice it. While she had accepted it, she did not deny that she and her cursed flames were non-separable. She had become her fear with a dagger on her hand.
Persephone was not merely a Goddess of spring, not anymore. She was the bringer of the death. A deity who punished soul in undergloom, held power to make man kneel before her, a world destruction vesseled in a soul.
Her shoulder shuddered as she gazed at him, silver eyes combatted her marine. Both were the same arrogant, unforgiving. The resemblance of Death and destruction. Persephone and Hades. Reigned and ruler of hell. She softened her gaze at him, trying to squeeze the last essence of her heart. "And I pity myself that even when you had me at wand-point, I still—"
"Don't!" Regulus pinned his hawthorn wand deeper to her jaw, there was a sliver of fright in what she would say next. "Don't fucking dare to say you care about me, Zygo!"
"I cared about you." she ignored his warning while her gaze taunted his being. It twisted his gut with guilt, "But care doesn't do justice for what I feel to you, even now, when you are a spell away from killing me—"
"I said don't—"
"I love you."
Silence pooled the room.
Regulus's finger froze as his gaze bore at her lacquered eyes. He pulled away as if the floor was made of lava and he gritted his teeth. Shaking his head, the boy denied her declaration. The world seemed to melt his brain away, overwhelmed by the foreign sensation she poured against him. The boy studied her face, breathed in her perfume the way she fuelled a bonfire in his heart every time she touched him. But with barred teeth, his wand raised to her face.
"And I want nothing of you."
Her world seemed to come into a pause, her mind was in free-fall. At that moment, Regulus had plucked her very last petals.
Gammaliel's dagger caressed his skin, sharp against his neck and he winced. "I chose to ignore the mark he tainted on your skin, because I thought you will never have the heart to hate, even more, to kill." her timbre was no longer summer breeze, but thunder between day. "Now you don't need to kill someone anymore to be a death eater, Regulus."
She pulled her dagger away, directing the tip to her chest, and pulled the chain of her locket. "You know why?" Gemma scoffed morbidly. "I am your first kill. You already killed me before I could stop breathing . . ."
"One day, we will see each other as enemies, we will be fighting on a different side. I hope that day you have the gut to hurt me as you do now. Because if you don't, you better pray, Black." she stated coldly, the chain of her locket was cut off with a swift motion of her dagger. The bond between them dropped to the ground, the windows of the emerald locket were split open. "Pray to have someone else rip your heart out, because if I do it to you. Your death will not be peaceful, the grim reaper will show mercy for the weak, but I don't have a heart to my enemies—especially not to one who puts me lower than power as if I am an option."
Regulus's feet rooted to the ground under her hurt gaze, she gave him one last glance, trying to see a trace of regret in his eyes but she found none. The witch twisted her jaw to face away, her footsteps, her perfumes, and her hair had swayed away to leave the room. When her steps echoed in the deserted room, he witnessed it happened for the first time. Gemma didn't cry, she did not look back and flashed him a smile like she always did.
The tinkle of Gymnopédie she brought to his life was growing faint as she walked away. Her dagger did not harm him or scratch his skin but it felt like a sword had stabbed through his heart.
Gammaliel was crafted out of chaotic tunes and chords for his well-sorted life to balance his being. A proof that even chaos could be a muse. But he realized it far too late, with every step she took the melody had arrived at its last verses after chorus. The symphony went fainter and fainter, and the last tune disappeared as she did too before his eyes. Only when the last sway of her hair vanished behind the door, his wand hit the ground.
Regulus felt his knees weakened that he couldn't sustain his body. He stepped forward and grasped the piano that started everything. The world seemed to blur before his eyes, a mere silence and a hiss. And there was a deep ache in his chest he tried to claw away with his fingers, but Black knew even if he plummeted a knife to his chest—it remained.
Fury escalated through his body, avalanched as he couldn't understand the pain he felt. And he did what he always did since he was younger. He chose to bleed it out instead of discerning his pain. His pale fist was swung to the leather chair and tossed it to the stone wall as the barren seat was split into fragments. This is a weakness. He breathed through damaged soul, he did not understand why did it hurt even if he already knew this was coming. This is a weakness. He reached his wand and launched a spell to the piano, and the beginning of an end was demolished when the piano was swallowed by the inferno.
He was in pain, severely. The kind he couldn't heal. He realized it far too late, that he was made of the same core and clay that made her psyche. Her soul and his were made by the same material what ever stardust the divine took. She was taken from his ribs and he had set her in flames. So when he hurt her, he hurt himself. But, Black wondered who was hurting who more? Was it him to burn her last petals, or was it her, who resurrected him from the death and stabbed him back to eternal pain?
But what would be more of pain than a perfect fitted soul, split brutally, they had become two halves—forever venturing the world and knew that no one would fit their furbished heart like they completed each other. Shakespeare was not only damned to kill Romeo and Juliet, to Regulus, he was a damn liar too. Goodbye was not beautiful, it felt like he burned himself alive.
Regulus had promised himself to never cry, but there when his eyes watched the fire that ate the very last piece of what brought her to him—he had let himself cry. He had longed for her as he crawled sobbed his heart out if there were remains of his cold heart, he had loved her but was too afraid to admit it.
Despite Regulus had learned to love her, he failed to allow the first step to sailing in seas of affection.
He hadn't learned to love himself.
Regulus had never loved himself enough to tell Sirius he loved him, that he wanted him to stay in Grimmauld Place with him. Regulus had never loved himself enough for every bruise he painted on his skin when things went raw and heavy to his head. He never loved himself enough to be happy. He never loved himself enough for believing she would stay with him
Regulus had never loved himself enough to allow Gammaliel to love him.
Perhaps, this was what Hades felt when he had to let his Persephone returned to the mortal realm. Painful. The kin of pain that set his marrow ached, far worse than cruciatus curse. Regulus could brew any poison and complicated concoction to wake the dead. But even his agile hands and mind wouldn't be able to heal the hollow in his heart.
No potion was able to mend a broken heart.
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Author's note:
its nearly 2 am so pardon the typo,
i'll edit it tomorrow. This is 9.4k to make up
for my absent been feeling unmotivated lately,
thank you for all the love, also,
How y'all doing rn?