~ I feel a story coming on ~
~ A chance to raise a few questions ~
Dear Dad,
He immediately stalls, chewing his bottom
lip, contemplating how to begin his tale. He has thought about it before,
it was all that filled his mind, aching to be written down. He has so much
to tell his father; so much that he doesn't even know where to begin. The
beginning would seem unjustified, a tale without emotion, filled with logic.
That's not the story this storyteller wishes to tell. Without thinking,
he dips his quill in a bottle of black ink and presses it to the parchment.
He lets his emotions run free for the first time in many years, and soon
the words come to quickly to write down.
We Apparated before dusk, making our attack under the cover of night. Our legion of gargoyles flew above us, their wings rhythmically beating the cool air as we advanced upon the enemy. We were an army yesterday, father. Two ex-Death Eaters, a French maiden, my best mate, and a worried commander. Our defeat meant death, and we knew that going into battle. We knew that when we laced our boots and dressed in our battle robes, a dark black to match our spirits, and chain mail beneath the velvet fabric. We knew the risks, and we still took that leap. It's what was forced upon us; we never asked for any of this.
We walked in as Death with black robes, blood
staining our hands. Chaos hung above us as we marched towards our destinies.
The battle cries of the Death Eaters and the scared cries of the prisoners
filled our ears, father, echoing all around us, ringing to the core of
our beings. Vibrating against our spines, beating at us with their silver
wings and hooked claws. White masks with black hoods, marked with dark
blood, haunted us. We were heroes in the making, striving for change, honouring
our morals. And off in the corner of the battlements, a hooded figure with
a scythe stood overlooking the battle as a king overlooks his kingdom.
Laying his quill down, he then buries his head in his hands. Inhaling deeply, the wizard wipes the forming tears and sleep from his eyes, images still haunting his memory, but he tries to be strong. He couldn't sleep, not even if he wanted to. Vivid dreams of robed figures with scythes surrounded him; skeletons screamed at him, screamed that he failed them. Couldn't save them.
He's seen a lot in his day, anguish mixed with
immaturity; he was always the one with the level head. He was the one his
mates looked up to. But eventually, he knew he'd break. All heroes break,
all good guys eventually fall.
We weren't the heroes that night. The true heroes are Peridot, Ruby, Emerald, and all the other gargoyles who were there to fight, revelling in the glory of the kill, savouring the taste of human blood and flesh. Becoming addicted to the battle, to the raw human emotion, and their never-ending wills to survive. The Death Eaters provided numerous enjoyments for the gargoyles, a chance to taste human flesh again.
They arrived shortly after, only a few hundred were ordered to protect that camp, and they succeeded beyond their wildest expectations. More people, innocent people for that matter, died that night; we were only able to save about one-eighth of the prisoners. I was told it was small victory for us, a setback for the Death Eaters. But I imagine that, despite all the people they inanely murdered, the Death Eaters are rejoicing in the fact that their defences stood true.
Somewhere, in the castle that was once Hogwarts, Lucius Malfoy is dancing with a top hat and cane, singing "we beat them, we beat them! Na na na na na!" to an ebullient harmony.
I saw the battle, father, and words cannot
express the panic and fright of it all. Through the colourless vision of
my yellow eyes, I saw death again, for what it really is. Did you know
that blood is dark grey? Torn flesh is light grey? I wasn't a fighter yesterday,
I was a protector. I protected the innocent while the gargoyles flew them
to safety, and Fleur arranged port key after port key, sending them to
the Delacour Manor.
The killing was nothing to the renewed hope, he
realises.
I overheard things while on my watch. As I have dog's vision, I have dog's hearing. Bits and pieces of conversations drifted into my mind, and I knew that somewhere in that one building, a friend was slaughtering a friend. And do you know why, father?
Because one was a Slytherin Death Eater and the other was a Slytherin prisoner.
It hurts to think about it, but I knew they enjoyed it. Two ex-mates revelled in the heated soul of the battle, basked in the soft rays of violence and adrenaline. Between the pummelling, there was an exchange of words. Sadistic and vicious words; you should have been there. Now that was raw, pure, unhindered hatred. Suitable of the two young men. I'm sure they'd make you proud.
Marcus Flint, I heard his name being shouted by the other in a jeer.
William Bletchley, I heard his name being shouted in hatred.
And do you know what petty quarrel they had, father dear?
Sit back and let me tell you. Grab a mug of coffee if your heart wishes it.
You see, nearly a decade ago, Bletchley shagged Flint's girl. They were still arguing over this, over this woman. The great force that beat us in almost every battle--these Death Eaters--were fighting over what happened in times they should have forgotten! The gods work in mysterious ways, but this must be some cruel joke! How we could be defeated by such gits as those? It's preposterous. And stupid. The gods have dealt us a pathetic hand.
What fate has befallen the earth? Who do we have to blame for this?
Our young commander blames himself everyday; it's what he's been doing for as long as I can remember, for as long as I've known him. At his command, we went into battle outnumbered, outmatched, and maybe even outwitted.
Once upon a time, a little boy was born into a loving family, and over the years he grew. But as he grew, the gods decided to play god and not to let that boy have a full life. That little boy is our leader, and he still lives.
That's why this is all happening. Because the
Merlin line was supposed to end with him, and it didn't. He lived when
he was supposed to die. There is so much that we don't understand, and
so much that King Arthur's spirit refuses to tell us. Are we destined never
to know, to walk through life as empty shells, and put the blame on someone
as our leader, our friend? Although, father, in the midst of what we don't
know, what we do understand is rooted in evil. But, from the evil soil
that the gods cultivated, a seed of goodness was born. And that seed was
soon tainted, as so many others before it.
He's forced to lay down his quill, his hand too
shaky to continue writing. Taking a ragged breath, his shoulders convulse
with suppressed sobs as the smell of death hides in his senses. He hasn't
cried yet, forcing himself to be unnaturally strong, to be there for the
others if they need him.
Fleur has locked herself in her bedchambers;
she hasn't spoken a word since we returned to her mansion. Even the angry
glares between Sirius and Severus have stopped; they've reached a hesitant
truce for the time being. Our young leader still performs his duties, he's
everywhere and yet nowhere, discussing matters with King Arthur, thanking
his gargoyles for all their help and preparing to see the International
Ministries. But he's not human, he's a robot, acting out what was planned
for him. Karkaroff hasn't been seen. Once we Apparated back, he quickly
left for downtown Marseilles. I wouldn't doubt that the ex-Death Eater
is drinking away his sorrows in some dank pub. Those were once Karkaroff's
allies.
And for a moment, he wishes that nothing was expected of him.
It hurts to write, it hurts to think, and it even
hurts to breathe. His mind feels numb, his eyes are sore, and his
aching joints are stiff. He closes his eyes to relax, but quickly reopens
them, startled by the images that he sees, and he feels the urge to write
once more.
Flint emerged from the building, his hands stained with blood, his mind lost in thoughts of bloodlust. That's when he was called over by another of his kind, one that I didn't recognise. He had a young woman in his hands, but she didn't struggle to get away. She accepted her fate with dignity.
I knew her, dad. Her almond brown eyes, her night black hair. It was all familiar. She looked at me before she died, but she didn't beg for help. She stood proud before that Death Eater, with her white-blond baby in her arms, and waited till he cast the killing curse. But the words never came to his lips! He flung his wand back into his pocket, and lunged at the unsuspecting Ravenclaw, grabbing her child from her arms, while another Death Eater, old student Marcus Flint, held Miss Chang firmly at the shoulders. Cho was forced to watch as her young babe was stabbed three times and eviscerated by that Death Eater with a dull knife.
I despised him so much, I wanted to rip their guts out, attack, but I had my orders. I was to protect that senseless git, Gilderoy Lockhart. I stood in the shadows while so many people were being tortured, killed. Freed. The gargoyles rescued so many of our old comrades, and the blood of the enemy stained their claws and teeth and mouths.
Have you ever seen a gargoyle attack? It's gruesome, father. Mere words cannot relay the images; I think you need to have seen it. But I will try my best to describe it. Imagine this, if you will. Imagine a large, dragon-like creature hovering about you, diving at you with a swiftness that, before you can blink, finds you impaled upon his teeth. Or talons are tearing you to shreds, and death would be welcomed. Before your eyes, all is a bloody blur, and you watch as humans fall before you, some so horribly disfigured that you cannot tell who they were, or even if they were human.
But you haven't seen anything that those Death Eaters are capable of. Compared to our unlikely heroes, those Death Eaters know how to kill someone and still make them feel pain long after they are dead.
She died screaming. Miss Cho, she died screaming
as Flint snapped her neck, but do you know what your fellow Death Eater
did before that? He tortured her, beat her against a brick wall while blood
poured down from her head, matting her glistening hair. And he licked it
up! He beat that poor lady within an inch of death and then snapped her
neck, and there was not a fucking thing I could have done about it because
I had my orders!
The quill begins to move faster across the parchment, writing as though the thoughts will leave his mind if he takes time to think about the words on the paper. His emotions are no longer controlled; he lets the tears fall freely, lets his anger determine the words, while he comes to a few realisations.
"By Merlin, I need a pensieve," he mutters.
Have you ever smelt rotting human flesh? Dug your teeth into it, and woken up next to a corpse? I have, father. Because of my uncle's son, I am forever cursed with werewolf blood. Oz, how I detested him when I was younger, and how I hated you for walking out on mother. But now, I think I've come to understand you.
Understand the monster within.
It only took me forty years, but I get it now.
Death Eaters like to kill. It's in their blood, they crave it as a drug. The pain, the fear, the undying sense of power. They like to have control over those weaker than themselves. And that's what that battle was about: control. Malfoy and his followers lost something that was theirs; they controlled it, and now it was being taken from them. They did everything in their power to stop it, and it took all of our power to rescue Lockhart and the few prisoners we could.
We came off bloody and defeated, but we have one person who can now help us change the fate of Britain. I just hope we can restore his memory, for without that, he's useless. Useless as I was to you, and I see now that you are trying to compensate for a lost childhood with me. I don't need your pity. I needed a dad. I see something among the despair of people, and a father figure is something that everyone needs. So many people were killed, so many dads joined You-Know-Who to save their families, or just for power, a chance to be someone in a new world.
Why did you join?
Did you like the kill? Were you once as young Flint?
I close my eyes and I can see it. I can see you eviscerating women and children, raping women and killing men. This battle reminded me of my teenage years, when I was only sixteen. You-Know-Who and his followers were terrorising the wizarding village Acheron one night, my hometown. Were you among those Death Eaters, father? Were you banging on our door, did you knock it down and grab cousin Oz by the hair, hurling him across the room and into the wall? As much as I hated my cousin, I hated that Death Eater even more that night. Was it one of your friends who found mother crouched in a closet and raped her as she cried out your name? Who was it that killed her?
And why did I survive?
Maybe none of those deeds are burnt into your soul. Maybe you were the Death Eater who told me to hush, that if I kept quiet, they'd leave me alone. Oz died that night. Mother died that night. I was sixteen years old, saved by a Death Eater. I was sixteen years old, and I witnessed horror that night. I was sixteen years old, and I was forced to grow up.
I think I do understand you now, father.
Blood poured from our shack in rivers, as the rivers of Cocytus.
And I sailed out alive. I have you to thank for that, dad.
Those rivers flowed again the night of February 16. Blood surfing over ice and snow, people screaming in terror, and only a handful getting away. I wasn't bred for battle, none of us were. Fleur, Karkaroff, Sirius, and Snape. We're not heroes, so why must we act like them? And then there's our young leader, seeking assistance any possible way. He's only twenty, his childhood, as the childhood of so many others, was robbed of him.
Did you know that Percy Weasley was only five years old when You-Know-Who fell from power? Can you imagine the horrid things he saw as a toddler? The Dark Mark floating in the air, and knowing that somewhere people were dead. That boy was born into an underworld. A kingdom of Hades that we've visited so many times before. And I saw him, father. Not as the pompous Head Boy I remembered him as, but as a Death Eater!
Blood was smeared on his face, and in his hair. He was fighting, but I don't think it was with a prisoner. A Weasley may be a Weasley, but Death Eaters are Death Eaters. And I've come to understand a few things about them. About what makes them tick, what makes them take the actions that they take.
It's about power.
It's about control.
And I want you to know that I forgive you.
Your loving son,
Remus J. Lupin
Remus lays down his quill and takes in a gasp of air, realising that he'd hardly breathed for well over two minutes. Rolling the parchment up and tying it together with a silver string, he attaches it to his scops owl and watches as the small bird flies out the window.
Removing his blood-stained robes, Remus falls into a fitful sleep.
~ A heart and soul lay sinking ~
~ And all you want to do is sing along ~
*lyrics brought to you by A Human Drama*
