A/N: Chapter Four! WOOOT! Sorry it took a little longer than usual; I have tests and projects to keep up with and that can become quite a drag especially when I'd rather like to write this fic instead of working. I'm finishing chapters 5 and 6 as we speak and I might upload soon, so throw me some nice reviews and you might get a double wammy ;) who knows!
Anyway onto Chapter Four! Enjoy!
And remember, each time you review, another Bellatrix escapes from Azkaban, so keep em' coming! :D
Felicia
In the Shadows of Endless Nighttime
Chapter 4:
Four thousand, three hundred and fifty eight marks.
Four thousand, three hundred and fifty eight marks crowd the cement wall in Bellatrix's cell.
Four thousand, three hundred and fifty eight times she has moved from her place to the wall to ceremonially begin her ritual.
Four thousand, three hundred and fifty eight times has she slashed pebbles upon pebbles against the cement.
Four thousand, three hundred and fifty eight; it is a very large number, a large number indeed.
Yet these four thousand, three hundred and fifty eight days undoubtedly mark Bellatrix's ever-growing days of imprisonment.
It is an automatic habit, a constant reminder, and a developing, restless motive.
4,358 days she has endured, 4,358 sunsets. 4,358 rises and falls of the moon. It has become inevitable.
She is on her way to approaching the twelfth anniversary, the day in which enough lines signify twelve long years in Azkaban. Twelve years ago she was free; twelve years have passed and she is no longer a servant to her own will.
Many times in the past decade, she has found herself in despair, in anguish, but above all, in longing, longing for the outside world.
Azkaban has been harsh on her, it has toyed with her mind, ruined her beauty, and it has instilled a poignant sense of dejection inside her. She grows weak as days pass. Her body is without a doubt, becoming a void shell of existence (surely twelve years of hell would do such a thing to a person). She is fully aware of the effects her sentence has had on her being. Inside, she is fighting to remain sane, while she lingers about her cell, occupying herself with mundane activities; everything from lying impatiently against her cot, to ritually marking the wall, to eating the filth thrown at her changes her in ways she had not known she could be effected by.
Inside, she struggles to stay strong.
Outside, her body is screaming of ache or cruel handling; never once has she witnessed what she has become, however, she knows that it is nothing short of a nightmare.
Twelve years ago, she was an envious beauty of raven hair and slim figure. Now she is a concave, pitiful sight. She is a disturbance upon the seeing senses; even her guards fear her presence (and not for usual circumstance).
Once infamous, Bellatrix Black is now unidentifiable. Her face is hollowed out so much, the sockets that hold her eyes are almost black. Shadows now surround what were formerly mesmerizing eyes. The bone beneath her forehead can be easily identified; creases are exaggerated along her eyebrows and around her once keen jaw. She raises her hand to touch her solemn cheek, and can feel the ridges of her excess skin, drooping, almost rubber like since there is no meat to fill them. Her hands, calloused and beaten, and swollen in areas where there are no clear bruises, try to attain a proper perception of her face, and the cheek that she attempts to stroke ever so slightly, but they sting with whatever she tries to do. It takes all of her effort to raise her hand, and it falls as quickly and as effortlessly as she tried so hard to move it, to begin with.
She is sore from her abuse and from the many lashes upon her back. A person could without difficulty, compose a map of roads or pathways from the many scars and wounds from her whippings. It was not possible to stretch, to open her arms and change positions, at the risk of reopening wounds in her skin. Most of the time, she sat, sat in growing boredom. Her muscles ache from harsh contact and she remembers her punishment that brought them about, but she has rightly deserved it on several occasions.
Many a time, she would gladly enjoy taunting and banter her guards, angering them. She mocked their work and the misfortune of their jobs (how they were assigned to watch her, they'll never understand), and she would laugh. Her whole body would shake of hilarity; the only ironic ecstasy ever heard radiating from inside a place where darkness was unavoidable. And she would savor every moment of her sneer remarks, her ability to spontaneously answer them so quickly, one could question if she really lost any part of her personality at all. Her greatest triumphs, when they could not retort her sly declarations with anything short of stupidity, further proved to Bellatrix the extent of their intelligence and their dimwittedness. In silent aftermath of the affairs, she would snigger, filling her every being with satisfaction and justice fulfilled.
As much as she enjoyed her small luxury, she was fully aware of the retribution she would receive once her sentries were angered to such an extent. Over time, they would become immune to her comments, her snickering. Sooner or later, she would be beaten, removed of her sniping laughter the instant a club or whip struck her feeble back. Through her thin ragged clothing, she could feel the impact immensely. With each strike, her head with fall beneath her hair, pulled close to her heaving chest. She would bite back her tears; refuse to give in to the urge to scream out. Try as she might, it only provoked their behavior further; the smacks would be harder, the slashes more intense. They would not be satisfied with their actions until Bellatrix was unmoving, bloody and near unconsciousness.
Yes, she was a warrior, unwilling to completely bend to their wills, but each encounter left her weaker than the first. Her remarks grew smaller and less frequent, the inferno surrounding her voice weakening. She was beginning to become tamer, her fire slowly dwindling down to mere sparks of heat. She was burning out, and she was helping them with the task.
The thought that there was hope, that some higher being would take her from this place and end her suffering, was not an option she wanted to proceed with. But when she found herself failing, damning her abusers to a hell they shall eventually fall to, regretting the pain she received, her dignity shattering to pieces in the process, it was a notion that clouded her mind daily. Exhaustion repeatedly overtakes her small frame. At times, she sees no use in rebelling, for it brings her no greater suffering than that she has already received. The only fault is hers. She cannot expect to escape punishment if she is the cause of it to begin with.
Sometimes, she believes it is worthless to fight them. Who shall bring her refuge, when her only safe house is that of a dark corner of her cell, where all it provides her with is a sheer sense of hope, that they may miss her presence and possibly flee their wraths? Sometimes, she regrets aggravating the lookouts, but underneath it, despite her torture, she is smiling to herself, pleased with her hushed victory. They may win the battles, but each time she stands tall, each time her lips spread up from ear to ear in fathomable glee, she knows she has won the war.
She does not fear their calloused hands or the whips that encase their grips like coiling snakes. No, never should she admit her affliction; they are useless and wasted examples of life she only encounters occasionally. She does fear, on the other hand, that perhaps her Lord has truly forgotten her existence that she will ceaselessly rot inside those walls.
He must be out there, somewhere hiding beneath the cover of night, away from the Ministry. He must know that she is no longer by his side, but in a place she'd rather not speak of. Despite popular belief, he must feel some sense of absence, for she is not there to listen to his every word, or to praise his every move. Bellatrix knows this to be true, so then why does she feel unwanted? Does her Master not require her further, she who had proved allegiance far greater than others under his command? No, he should never deny her, her one wish to serve him, for that was her greatest purpose. Then why the neglect? Bellatrix grows weary of waiting. And though she does not want to admit it, her confidence in the Dark Lord's survival is failing.
It seems completely idiotic for her to believe that such a small child as the Potter boy could withstand the power of such a higher being, but it does not mean she is not convinced. Why else would he not venture out to ensure her escape? Worry replaces the triumph upon her deteriorating face. Maybe, her theories are true. Maybe He is defeated. Maybe, after twelve long years and no sign of His return, He is no more.
Returning to reality becomes a more difficult task for Bellatrix as each day rises and falls. Most often she is swimming in thought, completely ignorant to her surroundings. Her chains are forever growing heavier. It becomes quite hard for her to move them around at all, to adjust them so for some time, they might be less of a burden on her hands and feet.
Years ago, jewels of unaccountable worth surrounded her fragile wrists and ankles; a princess was only fit for the best, of course. She harbored rubies of all shapes and sizes, gold of highest karat, diamonds, forever signifying the magnificence and the wealth of the Black family, and silver, how she enjoyed the silver around her neck and upon her ears. Although she was always gracious to receive yellow and white gold, her greatest love was of the silver, the platinum shine that glistened in the sunlight. It mesmerized her and complimented her features oh so nicely. She was always fond of her rings, of the serpentine coils holding her fingers that spoke of royalty. She adored the necklace she received for her thirteenth birthday from her parents; it was pure silver, heavy than most she owned but worth it all the same. A large coiled snake rested just above her growing bosom, intertwined with a peridot jewel, which she always wore proudly.
She loved all her jewelry, and yet the one thing she always had with her, was that of a gift of a man she held most dear to her heart. A bracelet crafted with such finery, such intricate detail, Bellatrix would have believed it to be created by a God himself. The bracelet was a twisting figure of a snake, which seemed to endlessly travel from one side of her arm to the other. Within its eyes, were emblem gemstones, deep seas of green shining back at Bellatrix. Each scale was carved. Each feature was perfectly symmetrical to the slithering being. It fit flawlessly around her wrist, flattering her soft skin without overpowering her gracious hands with its beauty. It was made nothing short of extraordinary for such an extraordinary witch, and for that she was indisputably beholden.
Her fondness of snakes reflected both her obsession over her most prized possession and her infatuation with her Giver. She could not thank Lord Voldemort enough for such a gracious gift on her seventeenth birthday, and yet, although this man that so recently came into her life was new to her, she was unquestionably drawn to everything about him. She can recall the inscription, engraved on the belly of the snake that spoke more to her that night than she would ever dream of.
"Forever".
Forever what? At the time, she was far too naïve to understand its meaning. What had he implied? She shall serve him forever? Or she shall honor him by wearing the bangle eternally? Either way, she followed his silent wish, forever wearing it with pride. She took it with her through countless missions however small when she first earned the title of Death Eater. She wore it on the day of her arranged wedding to Rodolphus Lestrange, despite her efforts to convince her father Cygnus of the events of their dark meeting and her rebellion against marrying a man she did not wish to serve happily "till death do them part". She revolted against her husband over wearing the bracelet when he tried to remove it from his sight, because it was from another man and this he would not allow in their marriage (though he would not know that this man would later become his leader). She wore it to the home of the Longbottoms, fury in her eyes, desperate for any information on the disappearance of her Lord. She kept it till they removed her of her possessions before her imprisonment. She wore it to her trial at Wizengamot, to her final day of freedom, echoes of haunting quality ringing about the halls;
"Throw us into Azkaban; we will wait!"
Her shackles are currently in the place of her glorious wristlet. Dry, brown blood encrusts the shapes of her arms and ankles. Many times, she absent mindedly reaches to stroke where the bracelet would have normally been, but she is sadly reminded that it is nothing but harsh metal that she touches with the care that she would her endowment. Forever I am his, perhaps, was his meaning. Bellatrix scoffs at herself. She was never his completely, merely something to lust after (and with great intensity), nothing more than a servant, but a faithful one at that. How ironic it must seem now, when he is no longer.
As if a sudden force strikes her memory, Bellatrix, in shock and antipathy, immediately regrets her thoughts, biting her tongue with such vigor, the inside of her mouth fills with iron-tasting liquid. She had almost bit her tongue off, disgusted at herself for even considering such thoughts. How could she, his most loyal, most trusted servant, ever believe for a second, that her Lord is not alive? The nerve! The sheer repulsion within her forms rapidly, reaching levels of practically combustion from within. How could she betray him so? Did she ever doubt his power before? Why should she begin to contemplate it now? Never.
Bellatrix Lestrange is and will remain true to her word. She is a warrior and a survivor. If seeing her Lord once more meant enduring a life of Azkaban, for him, she would do it, even if it meant losing all that she has become to her captivity. For Him, she would face the devil with delight. For him she would willingly and blissfully die without question. No, the Dark Lord shall return to her, and when he does, she will praise and honor him with open arms, forever thankful for his actions.
For now, she remains unspoken and engulfed in expectant thoughts and wishes of blissful days. He will return, yes he will. He shall return to free me from my torment. He will return for me, for I am his forever. Forever I shall serve my master.