Post by Deleted on Jan 14, 2013 18:37:14 GMT -5
[style=width: 420px; background: #121212; color: #465945; font-family: times new roman; font-style: italic; text-align: center; font-size: 38px; letter-spacing:-4px; line-height: 60px; padding-bottom: 4px; -moz-border-radius: 10px 10px 0px 0px; opacity: 0.8;]WORLD FULL OF NOTHING
BUT MAN AND THE SEA ETERNAL
tag: bellatrix lestrange// words: 1508// notes: roddy is not a happy bunny
tag: bellatrix lestrange// words: 1508// notes: roddy is not a happy bunny
[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=style, width: 151px; v-align: top; padding-bottom: 0px; height: 400px;] | [style=height: 400px; overflow: auto; font-family: verdana; line-height: 11px; font-size: 10px; text-align: justify; color: #ffffff; -moz-border-radius: 0px 0px 10px 0px;]This was not how it was meant to be. He had sworn, with every living fibre of his being that he would never be back here. He would never allow those scum, those traitors to better him again, to catch him and cage him. He had sworn that he would rather die then let them have the opportunity to drag him back here. If there was anything more in this world he feared then the Dark Lord, it was Azkaban prison. Azkaban had not been kind to Rodolphus Lestrange in his fourteen years of hell. As a punishment it was more then well suited for him. With his games and manipulations to keep him entertained, his brooding addictions, locking him away with nothing but his own mind, his own menacing thoughts with no-one to turn against but himself. The dementors had never needed to turn his head in on itself. He had never been suited to solitude, had never been able to cope with long periods inside his own mind, there was to much thought, to much analysis and back and forth arguing, he needed the distraction of others. When they’d finally emerged from their captivity Rodolphus been little more then an emaciated husk of his former self, physically drained to the state of a gaunt walking corpse. It had long been held with historians and those who studied genealogy that while many pureblood families had diminished their intelligence in their desperate search for purity, the Lestrange family had weakened their own grips on reality and sanity, preferring inbreeding to the concept of even sinking to a halfbreed for fresh blood. Azkaban had sharpened the already broken and jagged points of Rodolphus’ personality to violent spikes. His solace had been returning to the dark lord’s service, his and his families loyalty known and proven forever more above all else. In the year that followed he had rebuilt himself, slowly returned to the man he once was if albeit darker, crueller, more broken then ever. It was only recently he had began to eat properly once more, only recently he had began to adjust to sleeping in one single room again during the night time hours without his mind closing the walls down around him, suffocating him as if he were back in his cell. And they had dragged him back. His arrest had been anything but dignified. He had screamed as they bound and dragged him. Cursed every one of them, swore and spat viciously the things he would do to them to make them pay, the things the Dark Lord would do to them, to their loved ones, their children. Every ounce of effort had been expended into fighting, every futile attempt taken at escape. Before finally exhausted he was forced into one of the interrogation rooms. The first time he had lent back in his chair decadently, grinning coldly as he told them all about Frank and Alice, their fellow aurors and how they had begged for death, begged to join the Dark Lord before finally being driven mad. Mocked them sardonically without a care. This time he was silent. Staring hollow and soundless into the corner of the room no matter the attempt used to squeeze the dark lords plans or location from him. He would tell these mudblood lovers, these sorry excuses for wizardry nothing. No doubt they would try again after the first few days in Azkaban had taken their effect. Finally he was processed. His wand taken. This time forgoing the imprinting of his number across his throat where it still remained. Stripped and donned in the tattered uniform. The dark lord would come… wouldn’t he? Azkaban had been inevitable last time, it had been either that or hiding in cowardice. Their service in Azkaban had been a clear display of their loyalty, a display that had done everything in their power to find their master. But this time… this time he had actually failed. No, no it wasn’t his fault! He hadn’t known there would be dementors, hadn’t been prepared for them in the midst of battle. But his master was not one for excuses. Had the others escaped? His brother? Bella? Was he the only one captured? The ever heavily inflated ego of Rodolphus Lestrange had received its first significant bruising since his early twenties. It was colder then he remembered, Rodolphus thought as he was forced into his new cell, a cold that sank straight through into the bones and froze solid. The bars drew shut with a clang leaving him alone, barefoot against the slick frozen stone floor. It was sometime that he would stand in the centre of the cell staring at the walls before his silence finally broke. The fit was Rodolphus Lestrange at his absolute lowest. Screaming like a wounded beast, hands raking through his hair, the miserable excuse for a cot over turned and destroyed (something he would no doubt deeply regret later). Fists slammed into unyielding walls, frantically pacing back and forth, a caged animal in utter despair. Not here. Not here again! As if he had never left at all. Eventually his fury could stand it no more, spent and exhausted he collapsed into the corner of his cell, clinging to the shadows away from the slim endless patrolled hallways beyond the bars. The noise was maddening. The screams and sobbing of thousands of tortured inmates, turning in on themselves. It seemed impossible that in the end of his fourteen years sentence he hadn’t even heard the others anymore. And the fucking rats. He’d almost been fond of the rats in the end, more then the inmates anyway, taken to watching them as the smallest form of distraction as they scurried from their holes to the bowl of grey slop that he’d ignored for months on end. How had he not remembered their noise, the scratch of claws on stone that made his teeth grate? And the dementors. Warmth and light were the first things he had forgotten in this place. And at first the things he had focused on retaining most. It would not be the same this time. The desperate reminders that he had been free, that the last year of service in his lords hands had been real already held a slightly futile air to them. It had not taken the dementors long last time to find his weaknesses, to find the memories that most agonised him and even less time for his own mind to latch onto them, repeating them painfully over and over again even when the foul guards were further away from his cell, not that their hold ever truly weakened. No one is coming. He was coming. He had to come. The dark lord would know that it was a mistake he could have done nothing about. Would know that he was still of use. Would know he was loyal beyond anything that he would do everything to redeem what he had lost. Lucas. A horrible anger seethed in his chest like a coiled serpent at the mere thought of his lost battle. He could have had him. Could have bested him if not for the dementor! Though even that arrogant certainty seemed hoarse as he repeated it. The dementor, he had been certain in that moment, his body weakened beyond all capability that he was facing his doom, certain the end was there. Certain he would be done with a foul, rotting kiss. And perhaps that would have been preferable to this. And to be captured, neigh worse saved by none other then Dumbledore’s damned whore. That was an embarrassment he would never live down. He glanced up momentarily from his despair as the noise of movement arrived from beyond the cell. A new prisoner? Who? Malfoy had no doubt vanished like the little coward he was the moment the dementors had arrived. McNair perhaps? One of the Carrows? Rabastan? He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry hysterically when the question answered it’s self. And right in the adjacent cell. Was this some type of kindness or a torture so much worse then anything he had experienced last time? He promptly leant towards the latter. A clever scheme of the Ministry to see them turned against each other perhaps? Or merely the dementors having their fun? He lent back, arms wrapped around his torso in a vain attempt to keep the cold at bay, allowing her the time to adjust to her new home. Not quite the grandeur of the Lestrange mansion he had promised her with a ring once upon a time, he noted with a cold irony. Perhaps he would just stay here, silent in the dark. Perhaps it was wiser to wait alone. Showing weakness to his wife of all people certainly seemed akin to laying out torn and ready infront of jackals. But he’d have to move eventually. “Hello dear.” He conceded finally, his voice hoarse and cracked from overuse. The term of endearment as frozen as their cells. |
