Disclaimer: I don't own HP :)
A/N: Hello everyone! I am FINALLY BACK to writing this!! College is hard. That is something I did not expect when I signed for this. Well, not so much hard as time-consuming. I guess this story really pays the price for stupid college. I truly am sorry for the wait - I had to wait until our Fall Break for a real chance to sit down and knock out some chapters. I went home and stayed up (really) late for a couple nights just figuring out where this was heading and how I should go about writing it. I think I had schedule now, but you know me...
Anyway, thank you to everyone who left comments. I apologize for the long wait and for the shortness of the last chapter... I admit, it was sort of a filler text in-between thoughts and chapters and transitioning ideas. I think this chapter is really very solid for my writing style, and the next chapter should be, too. I hope you all like it! There's Seamus. :)
As his head lay limp against his shoulder, Seamus could still hear the heavy footfalls of boots echoing somewhere beyond his cavernous cell. The promise Ulysses had made rang in his ears. His body tingled, on the edge of numbness brought on by too much pain, and he could no longer keep his neck straight in defiance. It didn't matter now. There was no one to piss off. A whimper escaped his lips and as he breathed in, a faint coppery smell tainted the air. Blood. It was everywhere – the floor, the walls, his clothes, his skin – if he had the ability to be fully conscious, Seamus would have marveled at the amount of the stuff he produced. How he had managed to stay alive for so long.
The cell was dank, but it was cool against his wounds. Scrapes dug inches into his knees and shins and feet. The stone floor kept the bruising down… not that it mattered. Seamus shivered and felt the parts of his body that still existed. The place where his right ear had been stopped hurting a few days ago, but in its place was a hollow thumping noise that occurred at random times. Infection, Seamus thought, would be the ultimate death of him if he managed to somehow miraculously escape.
Outside seemed a very distant thing. There were no windows and no door. There was no fresh air – not even brought in by his captors – and no food. There was nothing except the strangeness of stone and the clanking of his manacles when he bothered to move. Sometimes when Seamus tried to sleep (it did not come easy, no matter how exhausted he became), he would shut his eyes and see a vibrant blue that only the sky could create. The light expanse swirled into a multitude of other bright colors – the freshness of spring grass, the spark of glass in light, the warmness of red pear skin – and it was very romantic. As embarrassing as it could be, waxing poetic in captivity, it was all Seamus had to the outside. He knew in reality the frozen expanse held nothing but blacks and whites, but his life was nowhere near this place that housed him. It was miles away and that is where his mind resided in these times of silence.
However, none of these images could comfort him now. Having just endured another brutal encounter with Ulysses – Hidalgo had better things to do once he figured out that Seamus would give him nothing and sent another man in his place to simply 'play' with their new friend – Seamus could not move, could not think, could barely breathe. He remembered how to pull the air in and slowly let it out and that is what he concentrated on, his head bobbing against the aching flesh of his bare shoulder. They had kept him naked, as if that would humiliate him. It was more an inconvenience that an embarrassment, Seamus reckoned. It's not like it mattered in times like these.
He wanted to cough. The urge was sudden and violent and it took a surprising amount of effort to complete the rudimentary bodily function. The air was stale and gritty in his mouth and throat and gave him trouble from time to time. Blood pooled out of his lips slowly, congealing on his tongue. It was disgusting and Seamus had not spit to take away the sickness. Another whimper followed.
Ulysses had promised to come back. He had said it in a jovial sort of way, tapping the rocks in the wall with a long finger. It was his way of saying goodbye. He did not say when, but it was always soon. Long enough for Seamus to regain the strength to hold his head up and to grip the chains that bound him, but short enough that he could only whisper indignities and loll around while his torture was being pressed upon his body. It was system designed to keep him alive enough to wish he was dead. Seamus pretended it wasn't working, but the notion was slowly worming its way into his brain.
Suicide was something he considered at one point. Both of his arms had been broken and this time his captor had not bothered to fix them before leaving. As pain thudded fresh through his shoulders – they were still kept up, as the shackles on his wrists started from a point well above his head – the familiar blackness wove around his vision and stole it from him, but would not take his mind or dull his pain as it often did. Seamus was fully aware of every inch of injured skin crawling across his bones. Every burn seared, every cut screamed, every bruise grew and vomit would not come. His neck felt broken, too. Small, rare tears burned down his brown-crusted skin and dried quickly on his bare chest. He could not organize his thoughts enough to picture home, Ginny, or the Order. The notion of rescue was the furthest thing from him, something he could not remember. Hope was nothing. Seamus could not help it – he wanted to die. He would have committed suicide in that moment if he had the means of doing so.
Yet… here Seamus was, still alive. Ulysses had cut his feet so deeply Seamus could not feel his toes. His pinky toes were gone – as was his largest, sent as a gift - and he had a feeling that the rest were going to follow in the next few days. His gaze drifted loftily in the direction of his ankles and found the sight repulsive. How would he stand to leave this place when the time came? Is it really true that his balance came from the things taken from him? He had never really bothered to think about it before, because there had never been a reason. At least he was still thinking he would get out over here someday.
And in the next second, Seamus thought of how repulsive he must look now. His ear was gone, as well as some of his toes and a large chunk of his nose. His fingernails could grow back eventually, but for now they were crusted nubs on the tips of his digits. He could barely feel his hands anymore – no telling what color they were. The sides of his feet were black and blue trailed like rivers up the sides of his bare legs. Green plumes spotted his knees, tinged with brown crud. They were like tiny, secret flowers blooming beneath his skin. They grew larger up his thighs, until the centers turned bright yellow. At least something had life within him, thriving in the divots of his hips and the dip of his bellybutton. There were red lines in no particular order scrawled in the pallid flesh, like a map. This mash up of colors painted his body horrifically and Seamus knew they would never really vanish.
Who would want him in this broken state? Certainly not Ginny, Seamus thought morosely. Ginny didn't want him in the first place. She might have at one point, but she had chosen long ago. His appearance now would only reaffirm the correctness in her decision. Many times Seamus had tried to remember the feeling of her lips pressing against his, but each time the vividness weathered a bit more than the last. He thought more and more of her as the days passed, but nothing was clear anymore. Seamus could make out the lines of her face – the general contour of her cheekbones and sleekness of her lips – but he couldn't tell green eyes from brown freckles. Her face became mud, smeared and stained. Seamus tried remembering the faces of others – his friends, coworkers, superiors – and found the same result. He was forgetting.
Could he really let himself forget the faces of those who loved him? Seamus gritted his teeth as best he could – finding that pain often sharpened certain memories – and stirred the image of Ron's scowling face to the forefront of his imagination. It melted quickly away, but still… there was something. Again, Seamus bit his tongue and tried to not to cry aloud. Hermione came to him, sleeping on Ron's bed. He could see her eyelashes fluttering on a rosy cheek and then she vanished. This aggravated him – why couldn't he make these simple pictures last? These people came from his childhood, lasting with him through adulthood. He loved them. Weak rage filled his chest, burning worse than any tangible wound could. Again, Seamus tried gnashing his teeth together to bring about Ginny. Only her general silhouette flitted about coyly before returning to the recesses of his deteriorating mind.
No picture stood for long. He tried remembering the faces of his family, though long gone, and saw only a distant family portrait they had taken when he was twelve. His father stood next to his gawky teenage frame. Both of their hands rested firmly on his mother's shoulders as she sat delicately in front. They withered behind his lids, just as they had done in real life. His adolescence flickered in a disarray of sights. Dean Thomas, the Weasley twins, the freedom of the Quidditch pitch. His parents lying on the floor of their bedroom with wide, unseeing eyes, his acceptance letter to the Order, the pain of his first tattoo, the firmness of Viktor's handshake – all of these things were fleeting.
Seamus was just too weak. He swung his arms back and forth, clashing the chains against each other in a mourning song. As the movement rocked him like a soft tide, he felt strength in his anguish and rage. His despair morphed into something Seamus had never experienced before. A tangible thing grew in the pit of his stomach, growing with each frustration that his mind whirled through. His rage grew stronger, fresher, and as raw as the skin around his iron cuffs. This thing grew heavier in him and burned like fire. Seamus' jaw clenched as stiffness overtook him. With one last thrust of his body, Seamus arched his back involuntarily and let forth a howl that shook the very walls that surrounded him. The force of his magic was loud, vengeful, and unrelenting. Light spewed from his mouth and overtook the whole room, even as the stone began to morph and vanish in front of him.
Ulysses stepped forth at the exact moment the light hit its peak. It engulfed his body and tore it apart savagely. Limbs lay scattered across the damp scene. What was left of his mouth was still open, shocked. Seamus felt himself rise and then lost all concept of self. The shackles burst into shards just before the walls did the exact thing. This unnamed force was silent, even when the rocks tumbled to the ground, revealing a long corridor. It cradled Seamus' body as he dropped towards the floor. There he lay for several minutes as the brilliance that had come from him shrunk until its strength was ultraviolet. Then, it vanished and left Seamus to his own devices.
Even as Seamus woke, he knew no name for what had just happened. He felt lighter than before – like something had abandoned him – as he tried to pull himself into a sitting position. Rubble was everywhere, dusted with a coating of gleaming red blood. Seamus grimaced at the sight of a hand lying next to him and hunched his shoulders against the carnage. He was sickened with himself, but the wonder trounced all. His eyes drifted to the hallway that was hidden before. It was as dark as the cell, but there were shadows cast over the exposed wall. That meant light. Whether it was artificial or natural, it was light and that meant only progress.
Had Seamus just wished his escape into existence? He picked his way carefully over rock and rubble on his hands and knees towards this new hope. Seamus could barely mull over the event, as it had felt stupendous and strangely natural. Perhaps it was a certain protection that magic offered in times like these. Maybe he was special. Maybe there was something wrong with him – a mutation or imperfection that seemed to plague superheroes in his boyhood comics. Whatever it was, Seamus was alive.
The corridor was paved with smooth concrete. It slid easily under Seamus' palms and did not bother his knees much. Crawling felt childlike – a submission to his own weakness – but there was no other way about it. His legs refused to function. His ankles buckled even as he inched his way to supposed freedom. Spots dotted his vision as he squinted. His elbows buckled now, too. His body – once propelled by adrenaline and magic – was quickly shutting down. Could have using that animalistic force result in his death soon after? Was that the price he would have to pay to die a free man? Perhaps.
Seamus took on a machine-like mindset, performing a set of functions mechanically, for that was all he was capable of now. Right. Left. Break. Spit. Breathe. Repeat. Continue. Finish. Win. That was the ultimate goal – no matter how vague or intangible it was – Seamus was going to fight and win. Perhaps it was the Auror training, or maybe it was some innate stubbornness, but he would not stop. Neither would the concrete floor. It was never-ending in its smoothness and dull color. Seamus could barely lift his neck to squint into the corridor and instead let it rock with the movement of his weary shoulders.
And then, something changed. His curled knuckles scraped against something rough. He jerked back as best he could, fearing it was the tread of a boot, and took on a defiant look. It was brick. There was a brick staircase next to the end of the corridor, leading up a long ways and covered with a wooden door. Through the splints in the wood, tiny specks of grey light shone through and left pinpricks of color on the floor and all over Seamus. He lifted his hand as best he could to shield himself from the vibrant beams – being held so long in blackness had taken its toll on his eyes.
Thirty steps from freedom. Wetness appeared on the corners of his dirt-lined lids. With a grunt, Seamus got himself on all fours again. Tottering, he heaved his elbow from the dirt and gasped when his tender skin met the rough exterior of brick. Seamus had to bite his tongue to keep from crying aloud when he rested his weight on that elbow to bring the other to meet it. This is the price, he thought when he tasted the blood swimming around his teeth, and he would gladly pay it.
A/N: Did you like it? I really, sincerely hope that you did!! I'm actually very proud of myself - I hope you are, too. :) Have an enjoyable rest-of-the-week, everyone!
Oh, and please feel free to leave comments, questions, and suggestions!! I read every one of them, though I may not respond to all of them. I have this time-management problem that some of you may have noticed. OH! And who is super excited for the Twilight movie?? I am. :) Anyway, please leave a review! Have a great weekend, too! :)
Katie
