Warnings: semi-graphic depictions of a dude dying; mentions of blood and other yucky stuff; very vague references to child abuse (if you squint); just heavy angst in general.
The basin is ice-cold and rough against Regulus's palms. It seems almost malevolent, as if it knows someone will die tonight. He swallows hard. He knows what he's getting into — he's fully aware of the fact that he will never leave this cave, at least not as he is now. But that doesn't make walking straight to his death any easier.
"Kreacher," he rasps before he can lose his nerve. "Take the locket. It's time."
"Yes, Master Regulus." As far as small comforts go, Kreacher's familiar croak is minuscule, but Regulus is grateful for it anyway. It's funny, really, how the little things are often the most potent during the worst times.
As he hands Kreacher the replacement locket, it glints dully in his palm — a relic of his elitist family, about to be used in a way they would never condone. Much like himself.
Regulus stares into the glassy, emerald-green surface of the potion. This is the color that has been his home all his life; how fitting that it now heralds his death. It represents who he should be, what's expected of him, and what he will now never get the chance to become. But this color has also stolen from him - fleetingly, half-embarrassed to even consider it, he thinks of a life he could have had: a life draped in red and gold, running alongside a brother who wasn't ashamed of him, turning his back on the heavy weights of assumptions and duties.
"Master Regulus?" prompts Kreacher, jolting Regulus out of his reverie. As quickly as the thought came, it dissipates, leaving him trembling, bracing himself on the basin that will soon be the death of him.
He realizes that he will never be able to live free of the yoke that has threatened to crush him all his life. As a Black, emerald green flows through his veins, and unlike Sirius, he has never carved his flesh away and allowed the emerald poison to spill out until his blood runs red again. Instead, he always allowed the green to rule his life, and as a result, he has been forced to constantly pay the price of pureblood perfection. But maybe now he can make it right. Maybe in his last moments, he can find it within himself to truly live before his life ends.
Maybe, when he bleeds his last, it will finally be scarlet.
Trembling, feverish despite the dank, chilly air, he ducks down and drinks deeply. The first scoop is slight electric currents that dance through his jaw, neck, and fingertips, setting his nerves alight. The second scoop is pain, yes, but not unbearable — not unfamiliar, either. The third has him gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. By the time the liquid from the fourth scoop makes its way into his system, he's screaming. It's tearing through him, burning him from the inside out, turning him into an empty, shriveled husk.
He falls through time and space and lands bone-crunchingly hard in an abyss comprised of all his darkest hours. He's aware of where his body is (still in that god-forsaken cave, now fallen to its knees, gripping the stone basin like a lifeline in one convulsing hand) and he can still feel everything in excruciating detail (the jagged stones pressing sharply into his shins; the basin under his fingers, now burning white-hot; Kreacher's hands on his cheeks, forcing that hellish potion into him; the liquid searing down his dry, dry throat, oh god he's so so thirsty) but his soul now lives in a land where everything is the slam of doors, screaming between mother and son, the sting of curses and hexes on his skin, covered bruises, retreating backs, friendship and brotherhood that doesn't include him.
Regulus bites the inside of his cheek, hard, before the memories have the chance to sweep him up in their clawed hands and sink their teeth into him forever and ever. The metallic taste of his own blood brings him back to reality and he spits onto the cave floor - it's a spattering of glorious crimson, thank fucking Merlin, tainted a vague, iridescent green around the edges.
The rest of the potion is drained in a blur of shaky vision, churning stomach, knife-blade throat, spasming muscles and thirstythirstythirsty. He vaguely registers the clink of switched lockets and the loud crack of Kreacher's Disapparation and then he's alone, even more alone than he's ever been in his short, miserable life. Despite being technically still alive, he feels already deceased - the very definition of a dead man walking, for it is only a matter of time before he succumbs to the rolling pain that has made his body its home. His mouth is a desert, his tongue made of chalk, and his voice is sandpaper — rough, ragged, and rubbing him raw.
Through red-stained eyes Regulus sees the dark waves lap gently at the shore, calling him. They smell of sweet, sweet relief, and although he knows that to answer the call spells certain death, his throat is on fire and his lungs are filled with sand and he's burning from the inside out and honestly he just wants to get it over with.
As soft as a butterfly, his eyelids flutter shut and he reaches down, expecting his fingers to meet cold, clear water, but they meet slimy, rotting flesh instead. Suddenly he's being dragged down down down and a hundred hands are ripping, shredding, scratching, tearing at his clothes, hair, and skin, and he can feel the flames engulf his throat but his screams sound so far away.
Regulus screams until his breath runs out and he begins to choke on the bitter, ice-cold water, at which point he surrenders to his apparent fate. No sense in fighting the inevitable. He isn't Sirius, for fuck's sake. And after all, isn't this what he came for?
As the light above fades to black, he idly wonders what his brother would think of him now. Would Sirius grin and throw an arm around Regulus's shoulders like he does with Potter? Or would he just stare from miles away, heart visible behind smoky grey eyes, full of equal amounts of love and loathing?
Regulus knows the answer. Blacks don't cry because crying is weakness, but his is deniable. As the tears leave his eyes, they mingle with the black water of his grave.
Inexplicably, Regulus wakes to foggy eyes, ringing ears, and a pounding head. His first thought is nearly incomprehensible, something along the lines of ohgodnopleasestop, repeated over and over in a pathetic, whimpering tone with additional expletives thrown in here and there. His second thought is water — in his ears, nose, mouth, eyes, lungs. And dead, rotten flesh; broken fingernails clawing deep gashes into his neck. It's only after a few seconds that he notices the absence of those things, and suddenly he finds it impossible to breathe because there's air in his lungs instead of water and there aren't any dead hands trying to squeeze the life out of his throat — to make him one of them.
He immediately sits up and retches, expecting thousands of gallons of pitch-black, bitter-tasting, ice-cold lake water to come flowing out of him like a broken dam, flooding the room and burying him under mountains of pale, bloated bodies. But nothing comes and now he's choking on the nothingness, suffocating as if there were slimy hands still around his throat —
Breathe.
The voice, it comes from the very edges of his conscience, a place Regulus didn't even know existed. He can't trace it anywhere in his memory, but it's so familiar, the sort of familiar that's smoldering embers in the back of your mind. It's soft and soothing and barely a whisper, but he knows it somehow.
Suddenly calm (or at least not currently in a state of absolute panic), he takes the advice — sits back on his heels, closes his blurry eyes, and sucks in a long, tremulous breath through his nose. Then he slowly opens his eyes. His hands rest in his lap and they're shaking so hard he could punch himself in the nose if he isn't careful — how did he not feel that?
His vision is clearing up, he notices, and he takes the opportunity to look at his surroundings. He's currently crumpled on a white-tiled floor between an ebony wall and a bed with a thick, snowy comforter. A small side table fills the corner space next to the bed.
He tries to stand and immediately regrets it; his legs are shaking violently, perhaps even more than his hands. In fact, it seems his entire body is shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm. And his breathing is quick, shallow, and uneven. How very peculiar. Regulus decides that sitting on the bed is an excellent idea, which is good because he blacks out almost the second his trembling form hits the downy sheets.