Sapphire waters lapped up and lashed out at the ship floating in her waters; her territory. The boat rode steadily onward.
She was a glorious ship, fit to hold her own. Her sturdy form made her look as though she had traveled some distance of time to reach the now and here; as if she would look more proper sailing the seas with a load of richly dressed Romans setting out to conquer the world on her back instead of hordes of men and women in all shapes and sizes, all donning the same, deep, blood-red robes and sour, but pleased, looks on their faces.
Only two people on the boat looked any different.
One of these was down in the cellar, the other not to be found although it was a sure thing that, was there need or desire, he would appear.
The young man in the cellar had hair a vibrant red in comparison to the light oak floors of the swaying ship, and his eyes (when capable of being opened) were a hazel color lightly tinted with a yellow sickness.
Ronald Weasley groaned from his place on the floor, uselessly trying to free his magically-tied hands from behind his back.
Shortly after he had been captured and thrown into the cellar of this old war ship, the Dream Keepers--such a peaceful name name for a far less than passive group--had tired of using magic to torture the youngest Weasley son, and, instead, decided to try the muggle way of doing things. His arms were bound with coarse rope that never ceased to rub at his skin, peeling bits off piece by painful piece; the strong, sturdy, and silky ties that shot out of one's wand were too much of an act of kindness for them to remain on Ron for too long. Soon after Ron was bound and tied (his legs and feet, as well), they moved on to contact torture, kneeing him in the gut here and punching him in the face there. The time when Ron could feel all his limbs seemed long gone, now.
From somewhere behind him, Ron heard footsteps. Fearful of another beating, the twenty-six-year-old boy attempted to curl into his own body, despite the pain the movement caused.
The laugh that resounded around this dark and sparsely-decorated cellar--aside from watchful paintings on the wall, a mounted eleven-inch holly wand, and the young man shaking on the floor, the below-deck room was empty--was not vicious, nor hollow, but amused, although it had a malicious ring to it. "You were always the scared one, Ron, but I never thought I would see you shaking so."
Ron grit his teeth and his body stiffened as two hands wrapped around his arms and hoisted him off the floor and into a chair that had not been there before; no wand was used. Soft and cold fingers pushed on the bottom of his chin to make him look upward into a looming darkness where nothing could truly be seen but two gleaming emerald eyes.
"I may be the wuss, and you may even call me a follower, but I was always strong in my beliefs."
"Stubborn was more like it," the voice drawled.
"Stubborn, strong; call it what you will. I never wavered."
He had been avoiding those eyes, preferring to gaze into the shadows. But, now, Ron's eyes shot up and met his glare. Only, Ron's eyes were glazed back and a ripple of rigidness swept through his body. He had not been unbound, but his arms were suddenly spread wide in a proclamation.
"Shadows hold the greatest appeal, for they're easier to make. Much easier is it to fall down than up. But, there comes a time when you either rise or lose. Friend or foe has been chosen, blood and purity have been divided. So now it is revive or kill; life or death."
Ron's eyes went back to normal, and his arms dropped to his sides. his breathing was heavy and labored, but he fought to keep his back straight and his focus on the new Dark Lord standing before him.
"Did you like what you heard? Or did it hit too close to home?"
Emerald eyes flared in fury, a thought passed through them and then Ron was sprawled on the floor once more, having landed with a hard "thump!"
"Don't speak to me like that. And it's funny that you think so highly of yourself, seer, when you used to be incapable of predicting the next day's weather when it had already been told to you."
Ron gave a hollow laugh. "Oh, I remember those days, too. When I was just a lackey for a poor, little boy who couldn't see straight and whose only strength--"
"SILENCE! I gave you a choice. Loyalty or defiance, and you chose defiance."
"You gave me the choice to follow or die, was what it was. I'm no longer a follower, Harry. No longer."
The figure showed the slightest indication of a flinch at the name. He knew it, but preferred to use it no longer. It reflected a past when all he looked on was a ruling future.
"As I said, you chose. And now you will pay."
"Goodbye, friend. You have chosen, and now you will fall. Best wishes."
All it took was one blink of those emerald eyes and Ron had blacked out, falling into a darkness of forever. The last think he saw in his mind before he died was an image of him and Hermione holding hands on their wedding day four years before, and Harry standing off in a corner, refusing to get too far into the picture. Even then, he had been falling away into the shadows.