Chapter Three: Decisions
The dark magic cursing through every fibre of Jasna's body lifted, taking just the edge of the pain from her. Blood still trickled from her nose and every muscle trembled with the lingering effects of the curse. But this was nothing new to her – she had been subjected to this particular curse multiple times for longer periods previous days, so the weakness seeping into her bones and the pain was what she used to keep her grip on reality strong and her wit sharp. Pain was almost a friend, a constant companion her entire life – but they did not know that and she could use this to her advantage. At least with this thought Jasna kept her spirits from sinking further into the darkness that beckoned with the promise of relief in eternal sleep.
The knowledge that even her elemental magic's protection was no match to the amount of dark magic cursing through her veins now caused her more pain that the physical scars she bore. She could feel the guarding hand of her sisters and the great priestess slowly drifting away from her with each passing day, each hour spent among their corrupted magical cores. Soon, very soon she would be all alone and drowning in dark magic that would slowly peel away each layer of painfully constructed protections. She knew that much from the connection the so-called Dark Lord had formed with her mind.
Slowly she lifted her head when a cold hand touched the back of her neck. The same dark man was kneeling at her prostrate form, his black gaze unreadable but for a small determined glimmer in them. His touch, amazingly, was kind on her oversensitive skin – she recognized a fellow victim of the curse in him immediately. Then another cruel hand grabbed her by the hair unexpectedly and yanked her head into an unnatural position. It was the Russian captor – she knew his heart was a blackest stone imaginable and she would gladly spit in his face if she had enough strength and vitriol to do so at the moment.
"There's no need to snap her neck!" bit out the dark Englishman with enough edge to his words that even the all-mighty Russian jumped in reaction. This brought a bitter smile to the shadowed corner of her mouth for one precious moment, before the cold voice of her new 'owner' made her focus on the present again.
"Bring her into a kneeling position," commanded Voldemort and two sets of hands manipulated her shivering form in into a heap on the cold floor, one gentle and the other bent on causing her pain.
Jasna could force her muscles to obey her for few moments – enough to look into the red eyes of the man so sure of his success she could almost taste his triumph in the air. "You will never break me," she spat and saw how annoyance flashed across his face. "There is no power in this world that can match the old gods," she hissed, "and I belong to the gods. No matter what you try to break me, you will never get my soul!"
A sharp slap across her already bruised cheek silenced her as so many times before. She should really keep her mouth shut and spare herself the pain, she thought, but the injustice of her situation forced her to speak up again and again. She would not, could not cover before so many of his followers gathered here – they should see that there will always be people prepared to oppose them. See the pride her people held.
"You will sing a different tune soon enough…" smirked Voldemort, not daunted by the poisonous glare she shot his way. His faithful Death Eaters loudly agreed, the mad dark-haired witch being one of the loudest among them. "Now you will see one of the legendary rituals performed for the first time on English soil in three hundred years," he announced and she could feel bile rise in her throat.
She could imagine several different rituals that could force her to betray secrets, weaken her protections or make her experience pain beyond anything on earth – each one more gruesome than the previous one. Her protections and powers were extensive compared to the general populace, but had clear limitations. Limitations, Jasna was sad to admit, that put her at their mercy.
She had almost regretted taking on the duty of a librarian at the Temple when she handled darker texts, but now this could prove to be the only thing that might save her or perhaps show her a way out of the dire situation. But all thoughts were erased from her mind when a familiar object was brought into the room and presented to her. Death or life – it did not matter anymore, Jasna thought when her eyes settled on the book wrapped in human skin.
"I see you are familiar with this work," said Voldemort, a small note of intrigue in his voice. He did not think the Temple held dark texts, but the recognition in her dark eyes before they turned unreadable again was confirmation enough. "No matter – it will make this even more satisfactory," he smirked.
Jasna was almost sure she knew what awaited her, but knowledge did not bring her comfort. In fact, fear and panic were mounting inside her as Death Eaters eagerly helped to prepare the room for a first ritual that would break her protections. She had to do something, anything to prevent them from succeeding. There was only one thing she could think of doing, but then she would be as good as dead.
"Now we will see which vows bind you to the Temple," smiled the Russian. The only thing that had prevented him from performing this particular ritual back in Russia was the knowledge he would have a league of highly-trained wizards and witches at his jugular if he tried. The ingredients are a dead giveaway a dark potion is being prepared and the number of informants high enough in Russia. In Britain, however…
Bellatrix was holding one vial with ruby red potion swirling inside in small spirals. The symbols on the floor that had reminded Voldemort of the ritual were done in a mixture of chalk and drops of a milky-white potion. All that was left to do was to administer the potion inside a cup filled with Jasna's blood. The knife was already held in the Russian's hand.
The shivering priestess was frantically searching for a way to do anything to protect her friends at the Temple. She knew that several of the vows and bonds she had with them could be manipulated. If she was to save them, the only option at this point was to use the ritual itself to sever her bonds, renounce several of the vows in a way that would make her enemies think it was the potion's work, not her own. But Jasna was afraid – if they found out, she was dead.
She clenched her teeth in order to calm herself, to force down tears of despair that wanted release. Now was not the time, she admonished herself. Renewed sense of purpose gave her enough strength to not flinch when the bonds were cut from her hands. Only now she became aware of the damage the ropes had done to her skin and she had to bite back a scream of pain when the knife sliced into bruised tissue. A small stream of dark blood slowly filled the silver goblet while the Dark Lord began to chant the incantation written in the book.
Jasna stared at the goblet, her own chant reverberating inside her mind. This was now a battle of two branches of magic, a race against time. She only hoped it would be enough, that she could manage to do the unthinkable. The Temple and its inhabitants were the only family Jasna had and now she was forced to give them up too.
The air seemed to become stifling all of a sudden and she felt like she could not get enough of it. Her lungs laboured and her heart strained to get enough oxygen to every corner of her body. Small dark spots danced before her eyes so she closed them in order to focus all her energy on the chant. One small mistake, even one mispronunciation of the old Slavic language and all was lost.
A hand settled on her right shoulder, making her open them again thus halting the stream of words for a few moments. The dark wizard was there again, holding the smallest of the flasks in his pale hands. One look was enough to know it was a strengthening potion often used to double the effects of other dark potions. Jasna was torn between cussing and sighing in defeat. It seemed the Dark Lord left nothing to chance.
Jasna's eyes darted to Severus Snape's unreadable and cold face. He saw the flash of fear lurking behind them and was now sure his decision was the right one – he would help her. She struggled hard against him and it took two men to force the useless potion down her throat even though she managed to spit out half of it. Voldemort was satisfied nonetheless, even when she let loose a string of less than flattering words to describe her jailor and tormentor.
"Soon, priestess," he hissed with the ugly smirk still playing at his mouth, "Very soon, you will regret your words. Do not think Lord Voldemort forgets such things…" he finished, almost nonexistent nostrils fluttering.
He motioned to Bellatrix and she poured the potion into the blood where it swirled and bubbled in a dramatic fashion. The final words of the chant were spoken, rattling her soul with the dark energy they called forth from the people hearing it. Death Eaters repeated the last line just as she hastily finished her own incantation, her own prayers.
'Forgive me', she thought after it was done and the atmosphere crackled with magic like the first warning of an oncoming storm. One lone tear slid from her closed eyelids before the magic lunged at her body. Screaming at the top of her lungs, the first of the bonds was ripped from her magical core. The torture began anew.
A/N: Sorry for the long wait, but I've got several things going on that took my time away from the story. Should update soon again, though.