Just a little ficlet I thought of while listening to some Within Temptation. Enjoy!
She had served him for as long as she could remember. She killed for him, she killed with him. Blood of the enemy wet her hands and soul, staining them and corrupting them, never to be repaired or redeemed, for the Fallen Angel had fallen too far to be saved by Heaven's Light. She gave her youth, her looks, mind, body, heart, and soul. Fourteen long, agonizing years were spent in Azkaban for him, to be with him, in the name of him. And yet, and the end of it all, it was nothing to him. She was nothing to him. Everything, all of her efforts were in vain, for never would she be enough. Never would he be satisfied with her.
But never would she understand this, nor would she ever be free of him.
Bellatrix Lestrange always saw what she chose to see, no matter how twisted and distort it was. In her deep onyx orbs she saw not a tyrant who cared only for himself, or a hypocrite loathing all who he himself was. No... she saw a brilliant soul. She saw her savior. She saw a Dark Lord more powerful than any who ever graced this blood polluted world with his presence. She saw a wizard tormented by people who failed to understand him, who would abandon him in his solemn hours while she would stand with him, suffering by his side. She saw a man who she could love, not a monster who could never love her; her blessing and not her curse and ultimate downfall.
She thinks it's her, and not him at fault. She thinks it's him who is perfect, and herself who is the disappointment. She thinks she has a chance at making him happy. She thinks she can please him.
The years of residing with the Dementors is etched deeply along her face, much to her dismay, leaving her face thin, rather gaunt, her eyes glowing with madness rather than sparkling brightly and flirtatiously. Still though, she tries to return to her former appearance. Concealers mask the lines on her face, eyeliner attempts to bring back the onyx shine so that once again he will say she bears the eyes of the night, living up to her namesake. She tightens her corset, letting her robes cling to her figure to reveal the curves he had once ran his hands through in amorous caress, in the empty hope that she will be in his bed once more and will not have to face the ice of an empty bed in her solitary domain.
She fails. Every single time she tries, she gets nothing but the familiar agony of failure, followed by crimson orbs narrowed in disgust.
Every night, she sits in front of her vanity, critically surveying her appearance, almost willing herself to be beautiful once more, so just once more he will call her his Belle, his black rose, his most worthy follower. Just once... one whisper of affection,of satisfaction would be enough to quiet the longing in the shards of her long broken heart. She wills herself to be better, stronger. Every night, as all other occupants fall prey to traitorous sleep, Bellatrix Lestrange stands before her reflection, her imperfections brought to life right in front of her hollowed, longing orbs. She raises her hand to her heart where pain she never knew could exist feasts upon all that she is, and yells the curse for which she is known.
Crucio! Crucio! Crucio! she weeps as she writhes in the monstrous pain, basking in the self-induced flames of Hell. She burns herself into a cinder, wasting away in her grief, misery, and loneliness. For you master, for you... she breathes out, shaking as needles of pain caress her and seduce her, making her miss the long, passionate nights of when he needed and desired her, all those years ago.
This is her curse, the cross she must bear in her life. She knows she can't please him, knows she will never be his equal, knows that nothing she does will ever satisfy him, yet she still bears the hope that someday, maybe, he'll forgive her for not being enough.
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