Written for the QLFC Procrastination Thread Boot Camp.
Prompt: Candle (1)
Level: Hard
Character: Regulus Black
Words: 919
/
He can feel himself trembling behind his mask. He clenches his fists, unseen by everyone else in the room.
He stands in a circle of black-robed wizards, all wearing silver masks. The Mark on his arm burns slightly, but it isn't as noticeable anymore, as he's already responded to the Dark Lord's call. He sorely regrets it now, but he can't back out. He'd be killed.
The Death Eaters are in a line, forming a circle around a throne. A throne made out of black marble, engravings of snakes and people in pain etched around it.
And on the throne, he sits. The Dark Lord. His white face contrasts with the darkness of the throne he reclines on. His eyes are a brilliant scarlet - the colour of blood. There is still a lingering handsomeness in him, in his high cheekbones, his sharp features. He exudes a feeling of power - a feeling of power that convinces many to follow him, that ensures that his followers remain in line.
And when he speaks, his voice is a lazy drawl, dripping in pure power.
"Today, we have a guest, my Death Eaters."
There is an outbreak of murmuring in the circle. People bend their heads together to converse quietly. A few bounce on the balls of their feet. On the face of Bellatrix Black Lestrange, an expression of excitement appears.
Regulus himself does not say anything. He tries to calm his erratic heartbeat and hopes that it goes unnoticed.
The Dark Lord waves his hand for quiet, and instantly, no one is speaking. There is only silence.
"Dorcas Meadowes, welcome."
The Dark Lord is probably the only one who can say 'welcome' and make it sound like 'I'm going to kill you', which, Regulus supposes, is true.
A woman is dragged into the room, her limbs bound in thick chains. Regulus feels his stomach lurch unpleasantly as he looks at her.
"Who should have the honor of, ah, welcoming Miss Meadowes to the Dark?" the Dark Lord asks.
Regulus cannot process exactly what is happening. There is a shout of 'Crucio!', and horrible screams of pain. He shuts it out, Occlumency shields slamming down. Regulus retreats slightly into his own mind, careful to make sure that he is still aware of what is happening.
Then he has one, last, fleeting view of spattered blood and Dorcas Meadowes' eyes, glassy and unseeing, staring up at him.
/
Regulus wakes up, panting. Sweat drips down, rolling down his forehead. He throws off his heavy blanket (which was now nearly suffocating him), and lift the glass of water at his bedside to his lips.
He's been having that nightmare, over and over again. That had been right after he joined the Death Eaters on his parents' orders. The first time he'd seen who the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord truly were.
Murderers. Torturers. Spirits of hell.
Okay, maybe not the last one. But still. Regulus can just imagine winged creatures swooping from the eternal depths of Hell and alighting on the Earth, taking on new forms, deciding to conquer the world.
He opens the door in complete silence. There is nary a sound to be heard: not even the creaking of the stairs or his father's soft snores.
He slips out of his room, the floor cold and hard beneath his bare feet. He conjures flames that he holds in the palm of his hand, the heat strangely reassuring to him.
Regulus sneaks downstairs, like he's one of those 'ninjas' that Sirius once told him about. His heart ached in his chest. Sirius. It had been years since Regulus' big brother, his protector, who would take the blame for things that Regulus had done, had left them.
He hadn't seen Sirius ever since.
Well, he has seen the only Black ever sorted into Gryffindor in the hallways and corridors a few times. But those don't count. Sirius barely acknowledges him, and when he does, it's a sharp nod and a muttered 'hello'.
He walks quietly down the stairs, making sure the skip the creaking step. It's dark down here, just like the rest of the house. Regulus shivers in the cold, goosebumps prickling on his arms.
He walks around for a little while, before returning back to his room. The fire illuminates the shined black floor, the bed with its headboard bearing the words 'Toujours Pur' - the Black family motto - and the table.
He walks over to the table, glancing down at it. He can see quills, parchment and ink. He can also see the little house he'd made out of newspapers featuring the Dark Lord.
Before, his dearest ambition was to be a Death Eater. Now...he doesn't want to be one.
It's like a candle is lighting up his path, in his mind. He knows what he must do. The candle's fire illuminates the good and the bad - there are rocky ridges in his path, and at the end of it, a drop, leading to nothingness. It isn't smooth - it's filled with rocks that he must move, or jump over.
But he'll reach the end, and the candle shall light up his path, whether it is good or bad, whether it is bumpy or smooth, whether it's thin and easy to break or thick and strong. He'll trust the candle of his heart, of his mind, of his soul.
Even if it leads him off the rocky edges of death.