Warnings: disturbing imagery (loss of limbs, blood and so on), violence, probably grammatical mistakes since writer's first language is not English, writer loves Regulus Black way too much. Regulus Black is a bastard.

Note: I wanted to write a version of Regulus totally different from the one I've always had in mind: Regulus deserts Voldemort but not because he's a good person or a repentant Death Eater.

Pride

Regulus was many things, but most of all, he was prideful. Prideful to the bone. When he decided to march to his death, he didn't do it out of heroism or altruism. He wasn't thinking about the common good, really. What drove him were personal reasons: his damn pride, his honor, his dignity. Those traits his parents had injected into his nature since he was a child.

So proud he was, that his Animagus form was a lion. A young beast with razor-sharp claws and a soft mane. The first time he managed to change into his animal form (roaring so powerfully he was heard from miles away) he told himself that since he wasn't a foolish Gryffindor, the lion had nothing to do with braveness, but, obviously, with fierceness, regality. It was only suitable for the heir of the Noble and Ancient House of Black to be able to turn into the king of all animals.

Even so, he never told a single soul about his animal form.

It had been the lion inside him that had pushed him to the tragic decision of sacrificing his own life. He had sworn he'd make his master pay for what he'd done to his elf, his loyal servant, his propriety. The Dark Lord had dared to try and kill something that belonged to Regulus, and that could never be forgiven nor forgotten. Maybe it was the little push Regulus had been waiting for. The wake-up call he needed to finally stop lying to himself.

He had been played for a fool.

The Dark Lord didn't care about the freedom of witches and wizards. Nor about Regulus' hungry pureblood pride who needed to sit again on the throne of the world, be it muggle or magical. He never gave a damn, his master, that Regulus had given his own freedom for that dream. Made himself be marked like cattle, all for a utopia bloomed in his chest when he was only a wide-eyed sixteen-year-old. That dream had soon turned into an unsavory reality. The Dark Lord cared about one thing and one thing only: his own power.

But this time he'd crossed a line Regulus wasn't willing to overlook: he forced Kreacher to drink poison, he tortured him almost into madness. If Regulus hadn't order Kreacher to come back, he would be without his loyal servant now. But luckily he had, and then, he spent days brewing and sweating over a cauldron, trying to find a cure for a poison that had never been seen before.

He had succeeded in the end. Regulus was many things (prideful most of all) but he was not an idiot.

And while he watched Kreacher slowly recovering, he'd promised, under his breath, a thousand times that he would kill the Dark Lord for what he'd done. Whatever that took.
Regulus was a Black and a Black didn't play with words when it came to vowing revenge against someone. So he would set things right, no matter how high the cost.

But he hadn't known that said man was immortal. He found out only when his elf finally woke up, crying and retching and wailing as if he'd been snatched back from the bowels of hell itself.

Regulus listened to his elf's terrified tale. Then he made some research, consulted some dark books, consulted some old portraits of noble ancestors and discovered his master's secret.

Taking the Dark Lord most important treasure, his immortality was even more tempting than killing the man himself. It was the perfect payback for what the Dark Lord had done. Not to mention, a target more attainable for Regulus to strike at: he knew he had very little chance to take the man's life in a duel. But, this horcrux, half of the man soul and life could be destroyed somehow, Regulus was sure. And, if he succeeded, his pride would finally placate its anger.

He was running out of time, so he took his decision in a matter of days. Early in the morning, he went to collect Kreacher. His elf looked at him as if he'd gone mad, and maybe Regulus was. It didn't matter though, nothing could make him go back on his word and maybe it was better not to be too lucid when walking on your own legs towards an agonizing death.

Death. He wasn't even twenty yet, he was so full of life and energy. It's not fair, he thought for the first time, his voice in his mind sounded so childish. He knew it was a lie, he could blame no one but his own terrible choices: he'd damned himself since the moment he took that mark on his arm. So happy he'd been to join the ranks... such a fool he'd been. And that mark was as eternal as his master, as eternal as Regulus' shame. He would rather die than live with that indelible stain on his honor.

So, inside the cave, he went, and he crossed the black waters of the lake on the boat made by the Dark Lord. Kreacher on his side shaking like a leaf. He knew that if he got caught here his master would kill him most horrifically, for the Dark Lord had always been merciless towards his enemies, but it was backstabbing traitors he loathed more than anything. Regulus was, most likely, the worst traitor of all. The thought, instead of terrifying him, excited him.

The poison glimmered as green as a precious gem. The exact shade of green the Dark Lord liked to shoot at people's faces to make them stop breathing. But, it was also the same color spring painted on the grass of the Quidditch pitch, on the hills surrounding Hogwarts...That green was Regulus' favorite color. He let out a shaky breath. How cruel was his mind for reminding him of life just when he stood so close to death.

A sob escaped Kreacher, distracting Regulus from his nostalgic thoughts. He knew why his servant was crying.

"Calm yourself, Kreacher," he said, his voice reverberating through the cave. "I will not make you drink this poison. And I'm slightly offended you would think otherwise. "

Kreacher looked at him with big watery eyes. Regulus brought back his gaze on the potion and added:

"Why, after I spent days trying to save your life, you'd think I'd just threw it away like that? That doesn't make any sense now, does it? No, of course, not. I'll be the one to drink the potion. "

He explained his plan to Kreacher, who was growing more and more horrified by his words. When Regulus was done talking the elf just stood there, speechless for long seconds, almost as if expecting his master to tell him it was all just a bad joke. One stern look from Regulus made him realize it wasn't.

His elf exploded in an unprecedented show of rebellion and desperation that left Regulus agape. Never in his life, he'd seen Kreacher protesting so loudly and violently. His mother would have been shocked by such an undignified display. It was better not to think about his mother.

"You'll stop immediately with this ruckus and do as I say," he murmured, darkly.

"NO! I won't do it! I won't, I won't!" Kreacher shouted back between hiccups. Regulus' eyebrows rose in disbelief.

"Enough!" he said, his tone menacing. "I'm not asking you, I'm giving you an order."

"Make Kreacher drink the potion!" the elf protested, he was on his knees, his little fists clutching Regulus' clothes. "Kreacher would do it gladly. He would gladly die for Master Regulus. His Masters' life is worth a thousand times Kreacher's!"

Regulus smiled, sadly.

"You're wrong," he replied calmly, his voice almost a whisper. "There is no difference between my life and yours, Kreacher... except, that I was born free, while you weren't."

Kreacher stared at him in confusion.

"I've been a servant for years now. And I belong to a master which I can no longer bear to serve after what he's done to you."

"Kreacher... Kreacher doesn't care the Dark Lord almost killed him!" he wailed, desperate.

"Well, I do!" snapped back Regulus, eyes blazing. "I offered him your services, not your life. He betrayed my trust, he stomped on my generosity. Do you think I can just let that slide? I never will. If I was an honorless nobody I would, but I'm not, I am a Black!"

The ancient name of his family echoed through the cave. Something in the water stirred.

"You do not need to despair, Kreacher," he added after a while. "This is the most virtuous end I could ever hope to meet. I will not be killed by my master, put down like a dog that has gone rabid. And I won't die by the hands of Aurors, like some common criminal."

He shook his head, a bitter smile on his lips.

"No, I'll die on my own terms: repairing my honor and exacting my revenge," he added.

"Master Regulus doesn't need to die. He could run... run away..." he suggested Kreacher with a tremulous voice.

"Ah!" made Regulus, disgusted. "And live all my life hiding under a rock? Like some vile worm, always scared of the day the Dark Lord or my enemies will find me and kill me? I'd rather die now than live hundreds of years in such a cowardly way."

Kreacher was crying quietly, his head low. Sure now that Regulus would not be persuaded to change his mind.

"Do you understand what you need to do?" Regulus asked in a softer voice. His orders had been crystal clear: Kreacher had to force him to drink the potion till the very last drop, he'd have to take the Dark Lord's little treasure and replace it with Regulus' locket. Then he'd have to kick Regulus in the waters of the lake to erase every evidence of their little trip there. After that was taken care of, Kreacher would have to go home, never say a word to anyone about what had happened in the cave, never leave the house. And then, most importantly, he'd have to destroy the locket.

Regulus had no doubt Kreacher would succeed. He had seen what elven magic was capable of. There was a reason wizards had enslaved these innocuous creatures centuries ago: their magic was practically boundless... so wizards put the bounds on the elves instead. And the Dark Lord had been so strangely blind to this type of magic, such a naive mistake he'd made, it was embarrassing really. Another reason for Regulus to renounce his mark.

"I understand the orders, Master Regulus" answered Kreacher, miserably.

"Good. Let's proceed, then."

He stared down at the green liquid. He had to act now and do what needed to be done without thinking too much about it. Before the fear gripped him. Where would he go when he died? Surely not Heaven, if that even existed. He wasn't a cruel man, wasn't like Bella who loved to stick scorching knives in the flesh of muggles and see how long it would take for them to go mad. He didn't take pleasure in inflicting pain on others. But, he'd spilled blood before, many times, in battles, without a shadow of regret. He had learned how to cast a Killing Curse without breaking a sweat and he had promptly used it whenever he'd needed it.
It didn't matter though, he didn't believe in Heaven or Hell, damnation or salvation. He was a Black and he believed in the sweet water of Lethe, the underworld river, which would make him forget all this wretched life. He would drink from it, losing his memories and past... then, when the time was right, his soul would be born again inside the Black family. Maybe his name would still be Regulus.

(If there was still a Black family to be born into, considering he was dying without children, his parents were in their fifties and going crazier and crazier by the day and not likely to reproduce again, and Sirius... well Sirius had never been a real Black to begin with).

He didn't need to think about all this. He needed to drink the potion, needed to keep on his path. With a shaky hand, he conjured a goblet, dipped it in the potion and took it to his lips.

The first sip wasn't worst than a particularly strong firewhiskey. It burnt his mouth and throat but the discomfort disappeared as soon as it came. He drowned the goblet in one go. He refilled it again before he was even done swallowing, Kreacher at his side was still crying uncontrollably.

It didn't take much for the poison to start having effects on his mind and body. Kreacher had told him about its effects, but, bless his elf's simple mind, his description had barely scratched the surface of the potion's nature.

It was like drinking desperation in its purest form. Like having a dementor crawling down his throat until it reached the heart and started squeezing. And Regulus was viciously reminded that, despite what he thought, he did have a heart beating in his chest. Black as his name and hard as nails it was... but not everywhere and not all of it: some parts there were soft and tender like a ripe fruit. It was those parts the potion was brutally attacking.

"Mother... Father!", a cry for help ripped from his very soul. How much he needed them now, more than he ever did as a child. But they wouldn't answer. They wouldn't reach out to help him. A Black doesn't cry, they were saying, a Black doesn't beg. Don't make us ashamed of you.

Regulus wouldn't, couldn't, ever.

Who else would help him if not his parents? His insides and bones were burning with the fire of the potion, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the torment his mind was plummeting into.

"Bella, Cissy!" he cried, mad with fear and despair.

The proud faces of his cousins floated in front of his eyes. Traitor, they hissed, angrily, their eyes as dark as a starless night, their tongues long and black like vipers. Bloodtraitor, they called him. Andromeda was there as well, she barely looked at him with disdain before turning away. They soon disappeared, leaving him alone with his agony.

"Sirius!"

The name escaped his lips before he could stop it. A dagger to his heart, hurting more than he could ever imagine. There was a well-known laugh in his ear that sunk the dagger deeper in his chest. Idiot, you've always been an idiot... and you deserve this. His brother had never sounded this cold and unforgiving. Farewell, I won't miss you.

Who would help him? Who would save him? Who?!

Kreacher, he suddenly realized with a certainty that left him breathless with relief. Kreacher. His elf would help him, he would. When had he ever failed to answer his call? When had he ever denied him the support he needed? Hadn't he always been there to dry his tears as a child, with a tenderness and dedication not even his mother had ever shown him? Hadn't he always calmed him down after a nightmare? Hadn't he always fed him when he was hungry, warmed him up when he was cold, made him happy when he was sad? A tremendous wave of affection towards his elf suddenly overwhelmed him, numbing the pain.

Oh, Kreacher, I care so much about you, you're so important to me and I never realized, I never told you... But you always knew anyway.

"Kreacher!"

"Master Regulus, Kreacher is here!" answered his elf, just as Regulus knew he would. "Master... Master Regulus... has to drink... drink the potion!" he said with anguish.

Regulus didn't want to drink another single sip. But he trusted Kreacher to know better, he trusted him with his life. So he did as he was told.

"Drink, another goblet, Master! Just another one!"

"No... I can't. Please, make it stop"

"Master has to drink it! It's the last one!"

And Regulus obeyed his servant. Suddenly the desperation left him as if it's never been there in the first place. For a moment he felt at peace... how wonderous it was the absence of pain, how incredibly perfect. But, it was, in fact, just a moment, soon the distress overtook him once more.

"Water," he muttered, through dry lips.

Never in his life, he'd felt such thirst: water like a mirage in the desert. It was a discomfort that soon changed into an all-consuming mantra in his brain: water, water, water. He didn't even remember his name, all he knew was that he needed to drink.

Kind, tiny hands gripped his wrist and started pulling him. He felt his body being dragged on rocks. Something glimmered in the corner of his eyes: rippling water. If he had the strength he'd dive into it, but he couldn't even move a finger.

It didn't matter, though. Whoever was dragging him, dropped him inside the water like a sack of potatoes.

Lucidity came back to Regulus just as the lake's surface closed above his head, like the lid of a coffin. He remembered who he was then, he remembered where he was and why. He gaped for the shock and his mouth filled with cold water. Long, icy fingers were all over his body, gripping his limbs and torso. He could only see the complete darkness surrounding him, but he knew whom they belonged to.

Inferi.

When they started tearing through his flesh, Regulus let out the most agonizing scream of his life. It was swallowed by the water that was now mixing with his blood, becoming thicker and warmer around him.

Teeth were devouring his torso, claws were ripping off the flesh and bones from his legs and arms, breaking the skin of his shoulders, his face. There wasn't a single part of his body spared from the assault. He was being eaten alive while drowning, his lungs already filled with water.
His delirious mind let out a hysterical laugh that Regulus heard, ringing, loud and clear in his ears. Ah, if he'd known! If he'd known beforehand just how painful his end would be, he'd never set a foot inside this cave. He'd run away, the hell with his pride and honor!

A hand gripped his shoulder, or what was left of it. This hand felt different from the others, warmer, smaller, gentler, familiar.

He felt a pull on his navel, the well-known sensation of Apparition.

The world around him swirled and the blackness filled with a vortex of colors. He felt a floor crashing against his back sending a jolt of pain throughout his body. Regulus let out a strangled, watery rasp. He only had the time to notice Kreacher's sodden eyes and the red pulp below himself that was his body before blackness exploded in front of his eyes.

He disobeyed his orders, he disobeyed him. How dare he. Impudent, disloyal, unreliable, traitor...

Regulus glowered at his elf with his right eye, the only one still intact. The left one, along with most of his face, was covered by copious, blood-stained bandages and cruelly pulsing like a spike in his skull. He was lying on a bed in what seemed to be his room at the Mansion of the Black in Southern France.

"Once I can finally use my hands again," he rasped to his elf in a dangerous but bone-tired voice. If I still have hands, he added in his mind, "I'm gonna personally knit you a scarf, a hat, a pair of socks, gloves, a sweater, trousers, and shoes. Then I'm going to gift them to you and get rid of your presence!"

Kreacher recoiled as if struck and stopped in the act of bandaging his left arm to look at his Master's face. He stared at him with such a broken-hearted expression that hurt Regulus more than it had any right to. Then, as if Kreacher has somehow come to a personal conclusion in his own mind, he resumed his ministrations, a sorrowful but calm expression on his wrinkled face.

He doesn't believe me! Regulus realized, feeling the anger turning into ire. He thinks I'm lying!

Was he, lying? The cursed potion had shown him, as clear as day, just how widely his affection for the house elf extended. More than he ever believed his heart capable of. But that didn't mean Regulus didn't have any right to punish his elf. Especially after disobeying his Master so indecently.

"I gave you an order," he practically growled. "I ordered you to leave the cave without me"

"And Kreacher did!" answered in elf, raw desperation in his voice. "But then Kreacher came back..."

"How dare you twist my words like that!" he shouted, besides himself. A pang of pain made him clutch the sheets.

"Master!"

"You disobeyed me..." Regulus muttered, darkly. "Never thought you would..."

"K.. Kreacher... loves Master Regulus t... too much to let him d...die!" sobbed the elf, the shame evident on his expression. His cries shaking uncontrollably his frame. Big, fat tears rolled down his cheeks.

Love. It seemed that such sentiment was the core of the issue here. Regulus had treated Kreacher as more than just a servant, more than a mere possession. He'd viewed him as family, hold him as dear as his parents.

Was that the real reason he'd gone after the Dark Lord's soul? To avenge, not his pride, but the attempted murder on someone he loved?

Was it love that made Regulus forget about his role as a Master, and Kreacher's duty as a servant?

The elf had left the cave and (while Regulus was being devoured by the Inferi) he'd been torn between duty and affection. The latter had eventually won and Kreacher had come back after Regulus had spent not more than a couple of minutes inside the lake. A brief time, but enough to devastate his body. Regulus was sure of it, even if he couldn't see what was left of himself, so wrapped in bandages as he was. If Kreacher hadn't been drugging him with pain relief potions, Regulus was sure he'd been madded by pain by now. The blood and flesh he'd lost to the Inferi, the green potion that was still circulating in his system...

Regulus was alive, yes, but he wasn't sure he was going to survive all this.

No, he thought, desperate. I don't wanna die.

He'd been so closed to death, accepting it almost too readily... but now that he was here, still alive despite all he'd been through, miraculously spared somehow, he didn't want to lose it all. He didn't even want to think about it.

Kreacher, despite his incredible magic, wasn't a healer. He was mending his wounds as best as he could. Sewing him up the same way he'd always sewed up the old curtains and carpets in Grimmauld Place, with needle and thread. Regulus hadn't seen this with his own eyes, but he'd felt the pin puncturing his flesh again and again. Such a muggle way to cure a wizard.

If it worked, it didn't matter.

"I love you too" he replied, his tone flat as if stating a fact. He saw with the corner of his eye Kreacher going completely still, ceasing his sobbing. For long minutes there was only silence in the room, Regulus stared at the ceiling wondering if Kreacher, in his shock, had forgotten how to breathe.

"I need to ask you something, Kreacher" he murmured.

His elf finally inhaled some air, letting it out in a tremulous breath.

"Anything, Master," he replied.

So much emotion behind two words. They touched his heart with the same warm, gentle fingers that had snatched him from the Inferi. His good eye covered with a veil of tears. How could he have been so blind for so long? To still let Kreacher call him "master" was a damn travesty.

"Please, don't let me die" he breathed out.

He felt like when, as a child, he asked Kreacher to sit beside his bed him all night because he was too scared to be alone.

"Never, Master," was the unfailing answer.