Caerphilly Catapults - Beater 2 -
Prompts:
Beater 2: Cult
(character) Severus Snape
(word) Priority
(setting) Dusk
Word Count - 1075 (wordcounter .net)
Snape gazed at the sun slowly disappearing below the horizon. The sky was still lit up in an array of reds and oranges that would soon be extinguished by the darkness of the encroaching night.
The colour was poetic in a way, a mark of what was to come later.
He pulled his attention away from the scenery and to the more important matters at hand. The dais arranged so perfectly in the middle of the field. Arranged in perfect formation to allow for the dying sunlight to hit it as well as the new moonlight ebbing in now the darkness allowed for it.
He stared at the others around him. There were hundreds of them, all dressed in their finest robes for the sacred ritual they were about to perform.
The dais was raised to waist height. Made of smooth black marble, and carved into it were runic inscriptions. His simple runic knowledge was useless in trying to decipher this, the complex weaving and flowing runes too complex for him to ever imagine understanding.
But he had to believe, they had to believe, that this would work and that the true great one, Voldemort, would return to the mortal plane as was written.
He had been a mere student when he had first been shown the true order, he hadn't wanted to believe; he had called it a madhouse, a cult. But his new friends had been insistent, and hadn't let him stray into the unknown. They had repeated their studies and showed him the true way of life.
The true great one, Voldemort, was cast aside in the dark ages when people at the time feared the unknown, they were scared of what they couldn't ever have a hope of understanding.
Yet, during that time, all he created was greatness and wonder, feats of impossible magic that no mere man could ever wish to accomplish.
Even after all this greatness the people were foolish and scared, they waited until he was at his weakest. They waited all through the long night until at dawn they struck. They all came down upon him with sticks and stones and when he could no longer move they threw his body amongst the flames of the fire they built for him and waited until it burnt no longer. The ashes were spread far and wide, they wanted no part of this magician amongst them.
But though they had beat him, they had burnt him and they had torn him apart. There was a prophecy that foretold of his true greatness, that he would rise again.
Voldemort would rise again.
Snape had been dubious until he finally had access to read the hallowed words. He saw the truth in the order. That true greatness would rise once more and he wanted to be a part of something great. They promised him that he, too, could be great.
And he understood now, he understood what it took for true greatness to make a triumphant return.
The scriptures only spoke of Voldemort and his reign. What it didn't talk about: the devastation and devotion required to prepare for his return.
Days had turned into weeks, which had turned into months, which had turned into years. But it was time.
The stage was set.
In just ten more minutes it would be dusk, the moment in time when Voldemort's spirit would be most powerful and alive, the grey area between day and night where the true power lay.
Then he would be the one to lead Pettigrew to the Dais, he would lie upon it as a true follower to the cause and he would give up his mortal life in exchange for eternally walking the spirit plane in exchange for Voldemort's return.
Five more minutes.
Snape moved towards the dais, joined by Pettigrew and Lucius who would assist him with bringing true greatness back into the world. Bringing Voldemort back had been the priority for them for years, and soon, soon, it would be a reality.
Three minutes.
They stood silently at the dais. Around them echoed the ritualistic chanting of Voldemort's hundreds of followers as they called his spirit to them.
The unison of voices created a haunting melody that could be heard for miles, ensuring that they would not be bothered by anyone stumbling upon them mistakenly.
Snape took in a deep breath; soon.
One minute.
Pettigrew lay spread across the dais, his wrists and ankles bound to prevent him from moving and sabotaging the ritual.
Snape held the large knife above him, counting down the seconds until he would plunge it directly into Pettigrew's heart.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
Snape coughed wetly, his body shoved forward onto the dais where Pettigrew was still lying. His hand which had come up to cover his mouth was drenched in red.
He tried to stumble away as the pain hit but couldn't as Lucius pushed him forward on top of Pettigrew.
His chest burned with each inhalation, his hands scrambling for purchase that would never come. He barely noticed that Lucius had tied him down atop the dais.
He realised in that moment that it never had been Pettigrew that was the sacrifice.
It had all been a ploy to get him there. He never would have sacrificed himself for greatness, no matter what. Pettigrew was weak, a dullard. He was expendable.
But this? He was important, a dutiful follower who studied greatness and knew what it took to get there.
He tried to speak, but his words all came to a wet gurgle.
After a couple of painful seconds, Lucius finally whispered to him as the bonds were tied properly, "I'm truly sorry about this, but we needed strength in exchange for strength. I'm sure you can understand. The return of greatness was always the main priority, no matter what stood in the way."
Snape couldn't reply, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything in response. When did he become the collateral and not the priority? Wasn't he at the forefront of a new era? His own developments were renowned - but no.
He understood now as he gazed into the sunset, the world greying at the edges as the chanting of followers grew quieter and quieter. He should have remained firm at the start; this was a madhouse, a cult. None of them cared for him, greatness through new people was never their priority. They only cared for Voldemort.