Initium ab Tristis
Prologue: Iam Tandem
Gaea Blackwell
Disclaimer: This is the prologue to Sirius's series. The title is Latin for "Beginning of Sadness" and the Prologue's title means "In the End." Don't smack me if the translations are wrong, you Latin buffs out there – my only means of Latin translation is a Latin-English dictionary I found on the 'net (which is of much use, I must say). This part is really quite dark, in my opinion, and it does the exact opposite that Remus's does. It doesn't start at the very beginning, but at the very end. Hey, I gotta shake things up a bit, don't I? "Sirius Black" belongs to JKR, etc. Oh, and it might be hard to figure out which character's perspective this is in, or who it's about, exactly, but keep this in mind: Harry wasn't the only one to ever have parents killed in front of him. Also, this part might be a bit confusing, but that's just cuz you don't know the whole story yet. Mwahahahaha. I think Sirius's story will be, by far, the most interesting.
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The picture was worn with age, cracked down the middle from being creased down the middle and carelessly stuffed into a pocket for thirteen years. The smiling faces imprinted upon the lightweight paper seemed to dim with every passing day, reflecting the reality of the passage of time and fading of memories. But the memory of the picture was as crisp as freshly washed linen.
Smiling to himself, he could see ghostly figures dancing before his mind's eye, laugh lines digging themselves around a genuine smile and battling against the cheerful dimples of childhood. He could see a woman laughing and a woman crying, all with the mere joy of life itself. He could embrace the love of a household, taste the freshly baked cookies on Christmas Eve, and wake up with the dawn to a sunlit bedroom.
But he never smiled, and could never see these things.
Closing his eyes, he could see the green light washing around him, bathing him in the assurance of a quick end. He could hear the piercing screams, the pleading, the laughter – the laughter that sucked the marrow out of joy. But the worst, by far, was feeling the sudden, immense regret. He felt the loss, the pain, the impromptu grief that struck him with the force of a thousand gales. No, don't die…don't leave me …silent tears pleaded through his memory, bringing about a harsh pounding in his ears and throbbing against his temple. He would curl his legs up to his chest, burying his head among his arms, trying to drone out the noise. But it was to no avail. The noise - the fear - was within him, and he could never escape it. He could not run, for the taunting voices would follow, coming ever nearer and bearing down upon him.
He could cry, but the tears did nothing to alleviate the heartache. The tears did not mend, but poured salt upon his open wound, stinging him like poison. He merely squeezed his eyes shut, threatening the tears to come, yet knowing that there were none left. I deserve this pain. Come, spill over my damaged heart. Tear it open with your mockery. He would search the never-ending expanses of his brain for some inkling of joy, something to remind himself that there was life apart from this hell.
But no, there was nothing left. Nothing but hatred for the traitor that had betrayed the family he had once known. They were his only family…the only ones to ever care…
And then something would squeeze itself out from the depths of his very being, some whisper of light that danced just out of his reach, beckoning him ever closer. He would follow, withdrawing himself into the darkness, hoping to reach the light, to pull it to him, to hold it for only a moment. To clasp it in his heart and beg it to forgive him, to let him immerse himself in the happiness he had once known. It would answer, giving him only the insinuation of faraway voices, calling to him from beyond life itself. They now existed only in his memory, yet they were there, calling to him. But these voices were remote, deserted among the island of his heart. A sea of depression spread between his mind and heart, his conscious being trying all he could to cross it. But only the subconscious would give him the brief hope of ever seeing the people he wished to see most.
Such was the life of Sirius Black.