You know who this is. You know, we all know.

A little black notebook that he wrote in over the years, a little glance into his life, a little story. Come with me if you like.

I'll show you something.


we had no voice

we had no name

we had no choice

we had one face

one face the same

-The Penelopeiad, Margaret Atwood


He closed the small black notebook for the last time. It would never be opened again…there it would lie, the thin parchment dissolving in water…ink running, clouding around it like blood….

He didn't dare open it for one final glance at his own words, didn't dare remember what had passed him by… life had always passed him by, a younger son, just what society expected of him… and he'd had one grand chance to do something worth remembering, and he'd blown it all, walked a path that too many walked, too many walked without even knowing they walked it. They never knew, they never had known. They never realized what was at stake…by that time they'd sold their soul to the devil; they were too far in to ever turn back.

There wasn't even a reason he was here. No reason at all…if only he could turn around, forget what he knew, forget what the elf told him… Christ, how could he? He knew. He knew. And no one else would, in all probability. No one would ever find a cave by the sea, no one would ever look at the lake, no one would ever cross the Rubicon and keep on crossing rivers, because they wouldn't know.

They wouldn't know. No one. He had a life beyond this, yet as much as he hated this he knew it was more his life than anything. Rocella was there, somewhere out there, but she had to come second to this, because he couldn't tell anyone anything. He had forbidden the elf to tell. He would vanish like the wind, blow away in a gust of summer and die here. This was his life.

He had a Dark Mark on his arm, he had little blue numbers on his arm, he was one of a litany of numbers, and each number was another Marked man, waiting for the metaphorical crematorium. A green snake protruding from the skull overlaying a yellow star in his mind over a scrawled black spider-like shape over a single word.

Toujours.

It was even beyond the pur now, past anything but that one word that dictated most of his life.

Always.

Always, and never forget, because the moment we do the sky falls down and another fanatic has his moment and the world goes supernova and he was going supernova here too, he was dying and there wouldn't be anything left afterwards but a little black notebook and a Black hole.


A/N: Well, I realize this is a bit random but here it is, essentially Regulus's journal. This bit you just read isn't, that's just a last-moments sort of thing. The rest will be chapters of his actual life... and I have another story out there about his daughter Bellacine, and this is made to fit in with that, he marries the same person, etc.

Please review! See the nice box down there in the left-hand corner? Good. Click. On. The. Box. Thank you.