For the second round of the Lightening Competition on the forums which had to be an angst fic. Sad thing is that is one category I write the most so there was no problems for this challenge.
This features something I should have written before but never have.
It was barely dusk and the winter chill was still setting over the land. The sparse area of grass' lush green colouring was dented by a layer of frost as it remained below the shadow of a simple country home that was covered by weeds and ageing stone.
There was only one sign of life.
Resting against the first of three stone steps that led to the Regency Era arched doorway, Bellatrix sat like a statue. Black robes coated her like the layers of darkness that were flittering away in the rising sun, as she stared straight down the pebbled pathway in a strange sort of demented fascination.
Nothing was there.
It had been the same for the past two days.
Bella had not moved from where she had begun her vigil. Masses of black hair were littered with frost and filled with tangles as it hung over most of her face
Still she did not move.
She could not.
It was not because her limbs were frozen, but emotion and duty left her bolted to the spot.
She had been inside once. When she had first apparated onto the grounds, desperation had led her to rush inside.
It was the first time she had entered without permission.
The elves had not told her what she had wanted to hear so she had searched furiously, room by room. The only thing she had found was emptiness and previous impenetrable magical locks that had fallen away without explanation.
It was all she could have tolerated before she had collapsed outside in a heap.
That had been two days ago.
No one else had seen her, but she had observed some kinds of life. Narcissa had sent her three panicked and worried letters by owl, though Bella had only glanced at them before she had thrown them away when it was apparent the handwriting was too loopy and feminine to be the one she sought.
Rodolphus had made similar attempts. He had sent her five owls, the last had even given away how panicked he was. It was a true rarity for him, but she had not paid them any attention. Surely he would know where she was. She suspected he just did not want to admit the truth.
Even the thought of mocking Rodolphus meant nothing.
Only one thing did.
She preferred it here. While she was here she did not need to glance at articles with laughable stories and, wearing thick black robes, she did not need to see the faded mark on her arm unless she was foolish enough to sink into temptation.
She had once.
Half way through the first day, she had slowly pulled up the sleeve of her left arm hoping that the design she loved might have flared back to life.
It had not.
All she saw was pale skin with only the faintest outline of a skull and snake.
It was the solitary time she had allowed herself to howl with grief. It had echoed over the grounds and scared away the few birds that had nestled in the willow trees.
It had not lasted long before she had drifted back into grief sodden thoughts.
However, she knew she should not think that way. Disintegrating in negative thoughts meant she doubted her Lord. Did he not tell them all he would live forever? He had assured them all of that fact multiple times. She could not doubt him nor could she believe the stories that a baby had killed him.
He would be back. She knew he would be.
She just had to wait.
Her mark would flare to life or he would stride up the pathway with his powerful stride and commanding presence. She would bow before him. She would beg to at least be allowed to kiss his robes or even clutch the hem just to be assured it was him. She would desire much more than that, but she would never allow herself to take such presumptions.
Further touching was only brought about when he wanted it. It was something she had eventually had to grasp, even if it was a lesson that was not preferable.
It did not matter what she wanted. He was the Dark Lord.
"He is alive. He is strong. He is powerful," she murmured in a soft voice in a mantra she had said many times before. "He is alive. He is strong. He is powerful."
She allowed her eyes to flutter closed as she pictured him before her.
"He is alive. He is strong. He is powerful."
It would be so easy to sleep. She had not slept in days, but she could not. She must be awake to welcome him.
"He is alive. He is strong. He is powerful."
She did not sleep and she did remain alert. However, when she eventually heard the noise of someone approaching, the man she saw was not the one she desired.
It was only Rodolphus.
Despite her protests, a stunner struck her and she was carried back to her manor in her husband's arms
Then, when she finally woke, her mantra continued.
"He is alive. He is strong. He is powerful."
She never ceased repeatingh it.
After fourteen years in Azkaban she still continued to say, "He is alive. He is strong. He is powerful."