bTitle/b Blood Memory, Chapter 18/Epilogue
bTitle/b Blood Memory, Chapter 18/Epilogue
bRating/b PG-13 for some wicked harsh misery.
bSummary/b What do you do when the world ends? Get caught and go crazy, that's what.
bWord Count/b 1475
It is over.
Bellatrix rocked slowly on the cold floor.
Over over over.
The word whispered around her, brushed past her ears, smokelike, drifting through the air, through her mouth, her nose, sank into her body.
The girl, lying on the floor, her legs bent, her arm tucked under her. She could have been sleeping. Her face blank, open, white, beautiful. Bellatrix unable to touch her, kneeling over her, her fingers hovering over her mouth, drifting up and down her unmoving body, so still, so quiet. The Mark on her arm glowing red for a moment and fading, the blood that had made it dissolving back into the girl.
Bellatrix screaming, curled over the girl, screaming, screaming, wordless, anguish wracking her, screaming, the pain crashing over her, screaming without sound.
Whispering in the cold air, whispering in the girl's voice, poisoning Bellatrix, choking her.
The Dark Lord doubled over, collapsing, vanishing in a coiling whirlwind of black sand, black smoke. His wand cold, dead, dull on the ground.
Bellatrix standing, the boy staring at her, green eyes flashing, her eyes, the girl's eyes, still looking at her, looking through her, a jagged line running down his forehead. The boy still living, Bellatrix seeing him with immeasurable hate, jealousy, violence, rage, agony, he still living, the girl dead.
Stumbling out of the house, down the dark street, her face bloody, her body broken, her eyes opaque, frozen, her breath ragged, her throat raw, she ran numbly, she ran without direction, she ran, she ran, desperate to escape the swallowing blackness of the house, desperate to escape the seeping, racing, devouring cold that emanated from the girl's body and followed her as she ran, it pulled at her skirts, it tugged at her flesh, it froze the ground behind her, branches snapped as she ran, her breath white smoke before her.
Falling hard to the ground, feeling nothing, acute nothingness, emptiness, a great yawning chasm ripping her apart, sucking her down, pulling her to the ground, the rushing coldness catching her, sliding gently over her, wrapping itself around her, her consciousness ebbing, a soothing heaviness filling her, snow falling silently on her body, covering her, burying her.
Lifted gently out of the snow, carried an impossibly long distance, away, away, taking her far from her lover's body, taking her far from her Lord, Bellatrix knowing only cold, only bloodless, vacant ache, only the soft whisper of the girl's voice as it drifted, as it keened through her.
Featureless faces slipping across her blank landscape, hands reaching out, hands trying to touch her, yet Bellatrix felt no fingers on her flesh. Voices muttering, indistinguishable, playing low counterpoint to the word, to the voice so near her ear, so close she could almost feel the girl's breath, could almost feel.
More voices, louder, harsh, pressing in on the delicate vapor of the girl's, the voices pressing on her, the girl's body so fragile, so still, the boy alive, the boy breathing, her Lord vanished, everything gone, everything dust, everything empty.
Then the room, the same cold that had followed her, the same cold twisting around her, the same cold choking her, pulling at her, consuming her.
The girl's voice louder, screaming, the girl screaming for her, crying out her name, the girl with her, under her, in her, writhing against her and screaming her name, the girl's body so hot against her skin, the girl's blood trying to force its way out, to spill itself, the girl whimpering, moaning, the girl loving her, the girl's voice so keen in her ear, the girl's mouth on hers, but it was cold, it was so cold, as the girl leaned over her the rushing coldness stabbed at her, dug into her, the voice wavered, faded, the girl's fingers pulling away, the cold piercing, sucking the girl out of her.
Bellatrix's blood pounding through her body, the girl's blood still burning in her veins, the bond unbroken, the girl still tethered to her, still alive within her.
She would come, she would stand before her, she would reach out to her with slim white hands, she would sing through Bella's body, close, close, her blood flaring, the hands would brush over her face, smooth, cool, and vanish.
Bellatrix slamming her head against the walls of her cell, splitting her lip, her cheek, raising her chained hands to catch the blood, to let it fall on her tongue, to taste her, to remember.
The cold coming then, bearing down on her, freezing the ruby stains on her skin, the ferocious, living cold drawing the girl's warmth from her, swallowing it.
She was fracturing, she was fracturing, the pieces of the girl were splitting, were becoming lost. The aching absence growing, bleeding into her, pushing the girl's blood deeper and deeper into her, farther and farther from her reach. She was becoming absence, she was becoming nothing, was being replaced with sharp coldness, with insensible whispers, with deep, roiling insanity.
The girl still coming to her, still standing before her, still holding out her pale hand, she was beckoning her, was running her fingers over the bloodline binding them. Bellatrix desperate for the girl to pull, to rip it out of her, to pull her across the abyss that separated them, desperate for death, for the coldness to stop, for the girl's soft, echoing murmur to stop, for silence, for release.
Bellatrix slamming her head against the walls of her cell, splitting her lip, her cheek, raising her chained hands to her throat, twisting the chain around her neck, the girl's blood coursing down her skin, no coldness drawing her breath out of her, no frozen hand gripping at her core, no wordless whisper hissing in her ear. Bellatrix twisting her wrists behind her head, tightening the chain, the girl shimmering before her, flickering, fading, There was nothing. There was only blank despair, Bellatrix dropping her hands, blood still hot on her cheek, no longer aware of it, only the vastness of grief fracturing her, dividing her, making her into equal parts of loss and madness, the girl no longer appearing but her soft voice still humming in her ear, incessant, unchanging, one word.
Twisting now, mocking, victorious, sinister and vicious, the girl's voice a parody of itself, a parody of Bella's failure, hissing in her ear, swelling, cascading, reverberating off the walls, growing thin, high, cold, pitiless.
His voice now, the girl's voice nearly extinguished by His malicious rasp, Him sliding over her torn skin, His word low, then so impossibly loud, Bellatrix slamming her head against the walls of her cell, Bellatrix screaming to drown Him out, the cold forcing its way through her, His mutter sinking in through the cracks, filling the empty spaces with His presence, making her twist, making her writhe, making her scratch at her flesh, making her tear at herself, the voice roaring behind her pushing her down, pushing her deep, deep, drowning her in madness.
Failure crashing over her, failure like the girl's face, His face, they were spinning through the jagged parts of her mind, they were splintering, were piercing her, her blood spilling out of her, gathering on her chains, pooling on the floor, Bellatrix drawing her fingers through it, writing their names on the stone walls, distorted, violent, senseless.
His words shifting, changing, his voice rippling through the cold air, beginning to whisper to her, to punish her, to remind her of her loyalty, her duty, to hold her disappointment up to her, His voice whispering to her of retribution, of atonement, Bellatrix slamming her head against the walls of her cell, blood sacrifices staining her skin.
It was over. The girl fragmented, distorted, ugly in her mind, the girl's face, the girl's body the jutting shards of Bella's failure, His voice sinister in her ear, His power growing, His power beginning to overtake the cold, to become it, to suffuse her with malevolent longing, with feral desire, with the penetrating atmosphere of blood and emptiness.
She was nothing. She was Him again, she was His servant, the girl a shattered memory, the heavy, dull blade of disappointment, His voice the hissing promise of repentance. She would serve Him. She was waiting.