A Lower Deep
(Another snapshot of Quirinus and Voldemort)
I smell it with the heightened senses my Master has given me: innocence and power. Such a precious thing, a unicorn.
What runs in its veins is more precious still. Move.
I shudder slightly, a vestige of myself lamenting the brutal destruction of this creature. But my limbs move inexorably towards it, floating on the seductive thrall of His will.
That same vestige wails silently, a lost melody in the symphonic tyranny of His power.
The mangled body is piteous, still shimmering in this wild, lonesome place - a light against the darkness even in death. It is this light my Master needs me to take for him, for us both now. The golden essence pools in the shadows and I bend (forever breaking, forever bowing) to drink.
A sudden memory cracks through me of the curse that afflicts those who drink unicorn blood. It was never discovered whether it was the killing of the unicorn that truly caused the curse, or the drinking itself. No one had to date drunk unicorn blood freely given.
Why ask for what you can take, little squirrel? I never have.The casual cruelty of His voice lacerates me, even as its familiar, velvet tones rub along my thoughts. Drink.
And as I feel the liquid drip down my throat like honey, still hot with fading life, that feeble vestige of myself knows (again, again) that I am damned beyond any reckoning.