To be, or not to be- that is the question-
Regulus leaned against the bathroom sink, trying to calm his nerves, the porcelain was cool against his forehead.
Whether it is nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
I'm not ready to die.
But I'm not ready to live like this.
Or to take arms against a sea of trouble and by opposing, end them.
He'd already lost the contents of his stomach in sheer regret and nerves. His breath came in ragged waves and felt like thousands of tiny knives raking against the inside of his lungs.
He'd seen these words performed, somewhere. In the park. A Muggle in a ridiculous costume with a skull.
To die, to sleep-No more-and by a sleep to say we end. The heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.
Soon he wouldn't feel any of this. Soon enough.
He pulled himself on the sink and looked at his face in the mirror. He looked like...well...A Black. Dark hair worn short, dark eyes, classic strong features from carefully precise breeding from centuries of arranged marriages resulting in a designed pedigree.
'Tis a consummation, devoutly to be wished-
Not quite as handsome as Sirius.
He'd been told more than once.
Not quite as popular, not quite as talented. But Sirius was long gone, blasted from the family tree to be forgotten for all time
He was the last male Black, the name was about to die to out. It might only be a matter of hours, at longest days.
To die, to sleep, perchance to dream-
All that work on his ancestors part, for it all to come down to this. A madman recruiting and branding humans like animals to his bidding, and he'd fallen for it, all for the same blasted family name.
The thought actually made him laugh. A maniacal little chuckle.
Somewhere in his mind, Bellatrix's laughter echoed after him and he involuntarily shuddered. That should have been his first clue. The job he'd done on his cousin. She was always a little "over-passionate" but brilliant and a fierce witch in her own right, a staunch defender of the family and the few she deemed worthy. Now she crawled on bended knees before Lucifer himself.
Ay, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil.
He couldn't remember anymore, the actor faded from his mind like dust blown away by an unseen breath.
He had to go, he had to do the thing before his courage left him.
Sirius and Andromeda were the brave ones, not him.
Sirius the proud outspoken Gryffindor who wore it like a badge of honour.
He missed his older brother and wished he was here now.
Andromeda who had picked love above all things. Who'd been thrown bodily from his very house after having revealed she intended to marry a Muggle-born.
The paint was still chipped on the door where she had kicked and screamed to be heard. Begged to be reasoned with.
Regulus straighten his tie, like a good pureblood. He went to comb his hair but the mark that branded him slid into view, and he couldn't afford to be derailed again.
He grabbed a quill, ink and parchment from the desk in his room, and started down the stairs to the kitchen. Maybe he could find his thoughts in there.
The house was mercifully empty.
A portrait stopped him mid-step.
His mother, father, Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Druella stood tall and proper behind a row of children. Uncle Alphard less so. He was always kind of a loose cannon for a pureblood, he gave Sirius a small fortune and disappeared into the night.
He playfully harassed a little blonde girl in front of him. Narcissa in the portrait tried to keep a grown-up expression but often cracked a smile and swatted her uncle's hand away and he poked at the bow on her head.
Narcissa had married into the innermost circle of hell and spoke of nothing but having children. She wanted to bring a baby into this messed up world.
The thought made his stomach roll again. This had to be stopped.
Young Bellatrix studied him through heavy eyes in the portrait as if she knew what he was doing in the present time.
Andromeda bounced the baby version of himself on her hip.
Toddler Sirius wandered to the very front and smiled cheekily and waved a pudgy toddler fist.
The inscription below read " The Black family 1962."
Maybe, maybe in the afterlife, they could all forgive him.
For all my sins be remembered.
He finished his descent down the stairs, placed the parchment on the scarred and worn kitchen table.
( 5 magical children over 10 years frequently inhabiting one place took quite the toll on the furniture.)
The thought made him laugh, one last laugh.
Regulus took one deep steadying breath and wrote;
To the Dark Lord-