Will anyone miss him when he's gone, Regulus wonders.
Will anyone sit up straight in the middle of the night, wondering what happened to him?
Will anyone care that he's gone?
Bellatrix would, he thinks, Bellatrix of the flaming eyes and rosebramble hair, his cousin and his protector. But in the end, the only thing she cannot protect him from is himself.
Slipknots, shards of glass, and the hair of angels coil around his neck.
In this way, he's the hangman, the keeper of his own fate. He needs to let himself go.
Slide, slip and tumble. Will this be the end?
He moves over the rocks, locket clutched in hand. His house-elf follows behind.
Will Sirius miss him? Sirius wouldn't—he was too strong for that. His brother was the star that rose up from their constellation to achieve greater things. He is above them now, and he will not bring himself to care about his family below.
Numb fingers, iron chains and pure terror fall through his clenched fist.
Walking to your own death, face still and silent, is always horrifying. It is his own cold acceptance that will kill him.
The blood slips down the wall, iron red and viscous. He smiles a strange smile—that is what defines him, and he is glad to be rid of it.
A thrum, the flap of a butterfly's wing, disrupts his own quiet world.
There is his death-basin, filled with that murk of candied poison. He turns to Kreacher, hands him the fake, and tells him, Switch the locket with the fake one, when the potion is all gone. Then go home, and tell no one. I understand, Master Regulus.
The last echoes of that bullfrog voice fade to nothing, and Regulus conjures a cup.
He swoops it into the basin, crystal sails cutting through a poisonous green sea, and drinks.
It burns as it slides down his throat, irritating the pink, tender flesh. Oh gods. How is he going to do this? How will he resist the urge to drop the cup and run away from this place? How does he know he won't?
The cup shakes in his hand.
He takes another deep drink.
And another one.
Don't think about it. Just keep drinking.
Oh god oh god oh god.
Shaking hands, drops of poison and parched throat. Maybe.
The flames splatter across his throat, behind his eyes, lighting trails across his retinas.
It hurts so badly. Need water.
Just a little more. Please, oh god, kill me now.
His sweaty hands grip at the cave floor, flesh is punctured, and blood soaks through his sleeve. Make it stop.
It feels like his throat is being ripped open brutally, and nothing could have prepared him for the pain. Nothing. He is Regulus Black, coddled from birth, and to him, this is like a harsh, parched desert to a delicate little flower.
Poor, poor little wilted flower.
His throat is raw, and dry, with that burning heat shooting up into his head—he cannot think anymore, because he feels like his head will explode.
Scream, he thinks, past all the blinding pain. Scream if you must.
No one will hear you now. It's all gone now, that incandescent green poison, and with his last vestiges of strength, he reaches a hand into the empty basin, and gropes for the locket.
Sweaty metal, clutched in dead hands, and exchanged from friend to servant.
He can barely see anymore, the edges of his vision melting to black, but he manages to rasp, Put the fake in and take the real one. Go.
Kreacher, faithful to the last, starts to say something in that bullfrog croak, but, by some miracle, he is able to hold his hand up, silently stopping all his protests.
Then he stumbles down onto his knees, and crawls toward the edge of the island.
Water.
He scoops up a palmful of murky water from the depths, and drinks like it's the finest wine. He knows what's going to happen, and he doesn't hesitate, when the eerie white hands reach out from the lake.
Cold, clammy hands, the rush of blood in his veins, and the skyrocketing of his heart. Is this going to be his last breath?
The dark water engulfs him, black hair floating like seaweed as the pale, skinless arms drag him down, down into a watery grave.
Just breath, he tells himself. Don't struggle. You'll die anyway. Die with a smile on your face, and maybe that'll be enough.
Too young to die, as frail lungs exhale their final breath.
Final words are pointless, he thinks, as his mouth fills with water. I have no one to witness my death. I am alone, and I will die alone.
His last thought, before he loses consciousness, and that black silk ribbon that tties him to this world is snipped in half is—I tried to do what you did, Sirius.
I tried to be brave.
~~~~FIN~~~~
A/N: Review? Thanks.