A Kingdom of Fire & Ice
I wakened slowly, blinking in the half-light of the room, hazy events swimming progressively around my head like champagne bubbles bursting as they reached the surface. Gently touching the side of my temple, I wasn't entirely surprised to find blood glittering on the tips of my fingers. Looking around, I found myself in a dank cell; grey stone walls complete with rotting mortar encasing me, and the door - a heavily reinforced steel and oak affair - allowed a shadowy flickering light to illuminate the dungeon through a small barred aperture.
For a second, I failed to notice the foul stench of putrid air as it slowly enveloped me with its musty dew, infusing my finest garments which were dusty, scuffed and thick with congealed blood from my captors' questioning.
Forcing my broken body into movement, I clawed my way up the wall, using handholds where the mortar had worn away to pull myself into a standing position. I shuddered - never a weak man, I now felt myself powerless as a newborn, stumbling on unsteady legs to the door.
There were no guards that I could see from the limited field of view afforded by the window, and with a furtive glance backwards to assure myself of my complete solitude, I began to test the hinges, meditating on this recent ill luck all the while.
Lucius Malfoy had rendered me a thousand misfortunes over the years, and each one I patiently bore as the vagaries of business. This time, however, his malice ventured upon insult, and I vowed a sweet revenge.
I pledged not only to punish, but to destroy him, and it was imperative that neither by word nor deed would I give Lucius cause to doubt my good will. It was crucial that he did not suspect the façade was concealing a plot for his downfall.
Like all well respected and feared businessmen, Lucius Malfoy had a weak point: his arrogance in believing that he was a connoisseur of all renaissance art, classic literature, and fine wines. For the most part, his enthusiasm was adopted for business purposes and like many of his countrymen, he was skilful in concealing his inadequacies.
On the night in question, dusk had already begun to fall and the other guests, growing weary, took leave to depart. Perceiving that the moment was ripe, I sought my friend in the humid darkness of the streets. When he accosted me, it was with excessive warmth, for he had been indulging heavily.
Enticing him with the mere mention of a rare print I had acquired on my latest trip, we strolled down the boulevard towards my manor for a private viewing.
We came at length to my drawing room, wherein the scene was set. Two flaming sconces lit the whole parlour, glowing ruby as the reflected radiance from the heavy crimson drapes shed a bloody hue over the room.
I dispensed two glasses of wine from a flagon and set one down in front of Lucius, watching with anticipation as he emptied it in a breath. His eyes danced with unwary merriment which quickly turned to panic as the silver of my rapier glimmered in the light of the dying fire. For a brief moment I hesitated, then strengthening my resolve, thrust my blade between his ribs, steadying Lucius' convulsing body as his life faded in front of me.
It was almost the perfect murder. No servants remained in the manor that night, as I had allowed them to partake in the seasonal celebrations, and they would not return until the following morning. It was almost the perfect revenge. My only mistake was to keep a souvenir.
Time passed slowly in the perpetual darkness of my own making, with only the inconsequential visits of dour guards bearing rations to break the monotony of confinement. I drifted between sleep and wakefulness, my indefinite world spinning around me like a kaleidoscope of fragmented dreams, whilst events on the outside lost significance to me.
I was rewarded for my patience on what I imagined to be the fourth day of my imprisonment, when the cell door swung open to admit an old man, back bowed with years of service to his country. He was dressed in richly fashioned clothing, but plainly cut, as if the man deemed such ornamentation as foppish.
With a sweep of his penetrating gaze, he studied my pitiful state before extending a hand to me.
"I am Joren Greymarl, advisor to the King," Joren's voice hinted at an accent of uncertain decent, and his grip was steely despite his years.
"Severus Snape -" I rasped, attempting a bow to the man, my superior. He halted my action with an upraised hand, sympathy for my poor condition manifesting itself in his alert blue eyes.
"What is to become of me?" I asked abruptly, unable to contain my anxiety any longer.
Joren sighed wearily and pulled a sealed document from within his tunic. The sombre black seal was highlighted in glaring contrast against the yellowed parchment background.
"Am I not even entitled to a fair trial?" I whispered, reaching out to take the document from Joren with a trembling hand.
He shook his head sadly, "The nature of your crime, the overwhelming evidence against you," dangling the pendant I had taken from Lucius before me, he sighed again, "The King pronounced you guilty on circumstance alone."
Looking straight into my eyes, he rested a gnarled hand on my shoulder, "Your father was a close friend of mine, it was never my wish to see his son hang." with that, he turned and swept from the chamber, leaving me prey to the nightmares that had haunted me since my incarceration.
Heavy boots echoed down the stone corridor at dawn - guards come to lead me to the gallows. They were heavily armed against the possibility of my rebellion, and as icy fingers gripped my heart, forcing the breath from my lungs, panic overcame me. I kicked out at the first, sheer luck sending his sword clattering away across the floor of my cell. His comrades struggled to restrain me against the rising tide of my terror, and I flailed wildly, biting and scratching in a furious display. One of the guards, sickened by my lack of dignity, cuffed me about the head with the flat of his sword, knocking me momentarily senseless.
When my vision cleared, I found myself being held up by two soldiers and blinking in the bright sunlight, caught sight of Joren peering out at me from under his executioners hood. The gallows rose, tall and imposing behind him, a single noose hanging from the crossbar in a grotesque invitation…
AN: Flames welcome my dears, they will be used to toast those foolish enough to write stories in Netspeak. You heard me.