Amid the wild and desolate moors of West Yorkshire, a cold and bitter battlefield had emerged as the canvas for a tragic and ugly portrait of Muggle warfare, a scene as cruel as it was to become historic. Bellatrix stood watching, cloaked in shadow and thick wool, cradling the Dark Lord's heir in her womb as she cast her eyes upon the tableau of human savagery that played out before her. This would later be known as The Battle of Wakefield, a chapter in the Muggle Wars of the Roses, a struggle for power and supremacy in their realm.
The frigid winter sky hung heavy, an unforgiving grey leaden blanket obscuring the sun's warmth and light, casting a dull pallor over the grim events unfolding on the battlefield. The air was right with cold and dense, a reflection of the cold hearts that that driven the opposing forces to this violent confrontation. As Bellatrix's deep brown eyes swept over the scene, she saw conflicting banners fluttering in the biting wind, each heralding allegiance to rival Houses: the white rose of York and the red rose of Lancaster. These symbols, each once harmless enough, had been twisted by war and strife into emblems of enmity, calling upon these Muggles to raise arms against their own kin and countrymen.
The battlefield had become a hellscape now, as Bellatrix stood watching with one gloved hand upon her swollen belly. The very ground had been churned into half-frozen mud and muck by the relentless tread of armoured feet and by the stampeding of horses with knights on their backs. The once-pristine moorland had been ravaged bare, scarred by the boots of men driven senseless by ambition and blind loyalty. The mingling stenches of iron and sweat, of blood and human excrement, hung heavy in the air.
On one side of the fight, the Yorkists, led by a Muggle called Richard, had stood with grim determination at the beginning of the battle, their armor glinting in the muted light. On the other, the Lancastrians, fighting under the banner of the Duke of Somerset, were just as prepared. Bellatrix's gaze had narrowed as she had watched the Muggle Englishmen, clad in mail and plate armour, take up their positions and then meet one another directly and physically, the clatter of steel-on-steel creating a grand and chaotic cacophony.
The clash of Muggle weaponry was brutal and unrelenting. Longbow strings whizzed and buzzed and arrows soared like dark angels of death when loosed, piercing through the air and sending victims collapsing when they made contact. Heavy cavalry charges felt like little earthquakes that shook the moors themselves, the clash of horses and the bellowing of war cries merging into a hue and a cry to the sky as beast and man screamed in a lawless din. Bellatrix watched the cruel arcs of swords, which occasionally sharply hit one another and other times hacked bluntly and ruthlessly against a human being, and the deadly thrusts of pikes into man and horse, each movement a new apotheosis of Muggle brutality.
As the battle raged on, blood seeped into the cold, hard earth, mingling with the churned-up mud to create a morbid, slick slush beneath the feet of the desperate fighters. Bodies fell, from combat and from lack of balance. Armour-clad and vulnerable, heavy and ungainly, the survivors struggled to rise. Agonised cries from the injured sliced through the air, constant testimonies to the horror of this warfare, the futility of this sort of human endeavour unfolding on these moors.
Amidst this utter barbarism, Bellatrix couldn't help but marvel at the stark contrast between Muggle warfare and the all of the myriad battles she had fought as a soldier of the Dark Lord. The magic that had flowed freely like rivers in her world, the strategic combat pavane of incantations and counter-spells that bled forth from wands, was replaced here by crude physical weaponry and crude strength. It was a blunt reminder that whilst the Magical world existed largely in secret and shadow, it was infinitely more sophisticated and advanced than anything these ridiculous Muggles could hope to achieve. As the sun descended on the quieting field, Bellatrix's thoughts were a maelstrom of fascination and disdain. Having be held Muggles' basest instincts, she knew that warfare waged by leaders like her master, whilst still pushed forth by primal struggles for dominance, were far superior to this disaster.
In the magical realm, battles were a match of power and precision, an almost choreographed and civilised meeting of offensive and defensive shouted spells that resonated with the very essence of the elements. Bellatrix's mind drifted back to the countless duels she had waged in combat as an armoured, loyal soldier of the Dark Lord. She had not needed a pike or a broadsword, nor had she needed to gallop headlong at her enemy on horseback. Her wand had conducted her magic beautifully, and she had slayed countless foes for her master. The incantations she had spilled for were like music dripping from her lips, each syllable vibrating with energy, each flick of her wand far more powerful than the swings of heavy steel she had seen today. Every flash of green light from a Killing Curse she had inflicted on her enemy had been quick and lethal and had taken her less effort than the brutal, bloody carnage she had witnessed in the hand-to-hand fighting the Muggles had engaged in today.
Such was the power of magic. It was a living entity, responding to the intent of the spellcaster; there could never be a need for such silly fighting as the Yorkists and Lancastrians had resorted to. Bellatrix recalled with a shaking breath the sheer exhilaration of casting the Cruciatus Curse on victims on the battlefield, the way she would often hover above her target as they writhed and screamed but showed no blood or outward sign of injury. There was a pure and unadulterated artistry to each spell used in magical warfare, a finesse needed to be a fine magical warrior that went transcended simple words and gestures. For Bellatrix, who had proved herself time and time again to her beloved master, the magic flowed through her veins, a dark and dangerous animalistic potential just waiting to be unleashed.
The battles that had been fought to assure Lord Voldemort's ascendancy here in England had been fierce enough, to be certain. But it was not until the campaign had moved to France that Bellatrix had felt her mettle as a soldier truly tested… the battles against the magical forces of France, the clashes of Dark magic against a massive defensive force, each side ferociously vying for supremacy. Bellatrix's memories now vividly brought forth flashes of brilliant white and purple and green light, of crackling energy, of spells colliding with one another in mid-air, creating bursts of chaos. Often, it had seemed, the atmosphere around the battlefields in France had shimmered with raw power, the air charged with the intensity of Voldemort's efforts to conquer the place and the French resistance.
Bellatrix clearly remembered the way, a few years earlier, that the Dark Lord had privately taught her to most effectively harness her magic, to tap into the deepest recesses of her being and channel all of her dark and powerful energy with focus and intent. All of this, he had informed her, was a great gambit for dominance, a game of strategy that involved quite a lot of skill, and a single wrong move could spell defeat. In the battles in France, there had been not a single hair's breadth for error, no place for uncertainty, not a moment to hesitate. Every last spell cast by Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters had been cast with purpose. Every incantation Bellatrix had spoken had been a declaration of her allegiance to the Dark Lord's cause. All of that was part of why his movement was making great headway across the Channel, and why she had confidence he would come back to England victorious.
With a heavy huff of breath that formed an icy cloud in the twilight before her, Bellatrix emerged from her reverie, her eyes refocusing on the horrific aftermath of the Muggles' battle before her. The moors were now littered with the corpses of the fallen and the still-moaning wounded. The moor was wounded, too, though Bellatrix knew full well that eventually the plants would grow back. The earth always seemed to regenerate from a battle. People did not grow back.
The yawning shadows lengthened the light continued to fade, so Bellatrix decided to head back to where it was warm and where she could fill her stomach with food. Leaving the wretched moors behind, Bellatrix retraced her steps to Selwyn Keep, the grand castle beckoning her like a sacred sanctuary. She traversed the path leading up to the massive oak doors, which swung slowly open to reveal the dimly lit expanse of the entry. Bellatrix tossed her heavy cloak onto the ground for the House-Elf and made her way through the cloistered corridor that led to the castle's great hall. Within that cavernous space, Dietrich Selwyn and Matilda were seated at a heavy wooden table, looking a bit anxious, and Dietrich flew to his feet at once. Matilda Selwyn's concerned gaze met Bellatrix's, her expression etched with shadows of worry that mirrored the ghastly horrors Bellatrix had witnessed out on the moor.
Dietrich Selwyn's deep voice boomed then through the heavy air in the great hall of his ancestral fortress, its vibrations matching the sombre weight of the battlescape that had spread like ink far beyond the castle walls.
"Madam Lestrange," he intoned, his voice rumbling like a roll of distant thunder, "I saw you standing alone in the distance, out on the moor. You were braver than Matilda and I, being willing to stand so close… were you simply observing it all? That bloody carnage among all the Muggles?"
Bellatrix inclined her head in a simple nod."I was," she replied, her voice unwavering and fearless in the face of the gruesome reality she had encountered.
Matilda Selwyn's ghostly white countenance played host to a duel of emotions then, curiosity and apprehension twirling like competing partners in a dance on her face. She leaned forward where she sat as Bellatrix carefully touched at her abdomen, and Matilda implored, "Tell us, Bellatrix, please, what did you see? We know the Muggles have been at war with themselves for years now."
Bellatrix's voice, low and quiet but almost aloof as she felt no emotion for the Muggles themselves, wove an elaborate picture of suffering and despair as she recounted the stark scenes of brutality. She described in vivid detail the thunderous clash of steel against steel, the cacophony of the whinnying horses and the shrieks of the wounded, and the rivers of crimson blood that flowed with cruel abandon as swords had cut flesh wide open with a crudeness not well known in magical combat. Her narrative was grim and gruesome, she knew; she spoke of humans trapped in a relentless cycle of the most animalistic violence that was foreign to witches and wizards. Dietrich's eyes, wide and shocked, seared into Bellatrix's own, his throat bobbing along with his head as he spoke in a voice tinged with melancholy and acceptance.
"Muggle warfare," he sighed, his words a brief and condescending lamentation, "a ceaseless and savage spiral of annihilation, guided as wars so often are by ambition and arrogance, but hobbled by Muggle barbarity. It is a harsh reminder of how very different they are from us, no?"
Bellatrix nodded her assent. She made a note to inform her master, when next she had the chance, of just how devoted Dietrich Selwyn was to the ideology of magical supremacy. Somehow, she thought Lord Voldemort was aware of that, or else he would not have sent Bellatrix to Selwyn Castle. Still, she resolved to tell him, somehow.
Matilda's voice, melancholic and sorrowful, chimed in then with her own observation. "In our world, it is worth stating, conflict is not absent. Indeed, Bellatrix herself came to us straight from the battlefield, still clad in her armour. Yet, when our kind engage in combat, there exists a more civilised precision, a more exact and elegant potency, and an artistry that distinguishes us from the wretched creatures that the Muggles are. Wouldn't you agree, Bellatrix?"
Bellatrix's heart picked up speed a little then as she silently nodded, and for some reason her eyes burned a bit as she realised she wanted nothing more to be on the battlefield herself again. She wanted to be aiming her strange, bent wand at enemies, hissing one perfectly-aimed Curse after another, her incantations slicing through the winter air, her aim true and her foes collapsing in death. Her goblin-made armour would protect her from some spells she could not evade through clever Disapparation or physical elusion, or by using defensive spells of her own. She could see her master now, slaughtering leadership on the French side, casting grand spells to confuse the enemy by inducing a storm or Conjuring Fiendfyre. Bellatrix felt herself vibrating from the inside out suddenly, craving war, craving a good fight, knowing she would not feel one again for a very long time.
What she did feel was the flicker and quiver of her child in her womb, and at the sensation of the stirring, she gasped a little and tightened her fingers on her abdomen. She leaned onto the heavy table with one hand, her eyes shutting as tears immediately wormed their way unbidden from beneath her lashes. This was his child within her that she felt flittering. This was the heir of the Dark Lord, conceived entirely by accident by without regret from herself or her master, growing in her form to be birthed here in secrecy. What sort of life would the child lead, Bellatrix found herself wondering? And what was to become of her, as the mother of the offspring? What of Rodolphus?
"Bellatrix."
She jolted as she felt a gentle, soothing touch at her shoulder, and she pried her eyes open to see Matilda Selwyn standing beside her, eyeing her with concern in her pale gaze. Bellatrix shook her head and swiped quite roughly at the unwanted tears that had boiled up, whispering with firm insistence,
"I am quite all right, Matilda. I apologise. It still takes me aback… feeling the child's movements."
"Ah." Matilda gave a knowing nod and appeared nostalgic for a moment. "With my eldest, with Bernhard, I did not grow used to the sensation of him stirring within me until his birth. New motherhood is a strikingly intimidating experience. In some ways, perhaps, it is more intimidating than cutting down the enemy on the battlefield, hmm?"
She rubbed at Bellatrix's shoulder, but before Bellatrix could give any response, Matilda flicked her eyes up and looked past Bellatrix, frowning a little, and she asked sharply,
"What is it, Lopsy?"
Bellatrix turned as quickly as her expectant form would allow to see that Lopsy, the nervous-looking House-Elf, had come skittering into the Great Hall and was bearing a rolled up scroll of parchment in his skeletal hand. Once he reached Matilda and Bellatrix, he bowed deeply and held out the scroll to Bellatrix.
"This has just arrived by owl, addressed to Madam Bellatrix Lestrange. The owl did seem most, most, most tired, Mistress Selwyn."
Bellatrix gasped softly. She plucked the scroll from Lopsy's hand and realised immediately that the wax seal on it bore a Dark Mark. She could scarcely breathe all of a sudden. Her lungs seared with the very effort of breath. She eyed Matilda, who wisely suggested to her husband,
"Dietrich, darling. Let us go discuss what we might want to dine upon tonight and leave Bellatrix to read her correspondence privately."
She did not wait for a reply, and before Bellatrix knew what was happening, she was standing alone before the grand, roaring hearth of the Great Hall of Selwyn Keep with the rolled parchment shaking so badly in her hands that she struggled to break the wax seal. At long last, she did, and then she unfurled the parchment, which she realised had been enchanted to be waterproofed and to have Invisible Ink that seeped into appearance as Bellatrix dusted her fingers across the paper's surface. Her breath quivered between her teeth as the writing, which she recognised at once as being Lord Voldemort's perfect and elegant script in Latin, came to life. She translated it quickly in her head, grateful for her proper education.
Bellatrix,
I know not how long this bird will take to reach you. I have sent my speediest and most trusty owl, Anu. Please see that he is given sufficient rest before you send your reply, as we are currently near Rouen and it is quite a flight for the bird to reach you and return to me.
I write to you to inform you of a great victory for our side. Even in your absence (and, believe me, your absence is keenly felt), we succeeded in capturing and occupying Caen. Now that we have also overthrown the French in Amiens and have surrounded Rouen, our march toward Paris is nigh. The French forces are becoming depleted and their morale is weakening. We have noticed decreased resistance from ordinary French witches and wizards in small villages; indeed, some have willingly provided us with provisions and lodging.
Your husband, I am afraid, took three solid minutes' worth of a Cruciatus Curse during the battle at Caen and is recovering. He asks me to send you his regards and assures you he will be fine in due course. You know perfectly well that he will; three minutes is nothing with the Cruciatus, relatively speaking. The boy needs a few days in the nursing tent and all will be well. He has been informed about your condition. He is not angry; he would be a fool to be angry. I allow him his own follies, and he is quite fortunate that I do. The others believe you have been sent home due to a serious combat injury. I permit them the rumours and do not yet correct them. I have not yet finalised my plans for what to say and do when at last my heir is born.
Inform me of your own status and well-being. I wish to know of your progress and welfare. Assure me of your comfort at Selwyn Keep and that you are in good health. I shall do my very best to correspond as often as is reasonable, and I shall expect prompt replies. You are, after all, bearing my child.
Somehow, war is not nearly as entertaining or pleasant with you hundreds of miles away in West Yorkshire. That is an annoyance, but one I am willing to endure for the sake of our child. Be well and write to me once Anu has had some rest.
Your Steadfast Master,
Lord Voldemort
