|Beth H (bethbethbeth) wrote in hp_beholder,|
@ 2009-04-22 11:05:00
|Entry tags:||beholder 2009, fenrir greyback, fic, het, slash|
FIC: "Breaking the Chains" for curia_regis
Title: Breaking the Chains
Pairings: Fenrir Greyback/various
Word Count: 1227
Warnings: Darkfic, non-con, child abuse, mentions of incest, killings, and cannibalism (of sorts).
Summary: Another month over, another full moon approaching.
Author's/Artist's Notes: I scared myself writing this, something which happens very rarely... Many thanks to my lovely beta reader, who knows how much I appreciate her help!
"We found the boy," one of the pups said, shoving something forward: a child, gagged and bound, stumbling on tiny feet. Standing and coming over to look, he could see that they had found the right one. A smile curled his lips.
"Very good," he told the youngsters, giving them an approving nod. "You can go now."
Alone, he lit a lamp to get a closer look, bending over the child, who was shaking with fear. After some seconds, he sighed with contentment. Yes, this was definitely the right one.
"Don't be afraid," he said silkily to the boy, reaching out with one long finger to turn his chin upwards. Large eyes, brim-full of tears, stared back at him. "It'll be over in a minute. And then..." He grinned. "You just wait."
His mother had been turned when she was still a child, his father out of love for her at eighteen. He had helped her escape the cellar where her family locked her up during full moons, and together they had fled to Scotland, where lonely hills and valleys offered them refuge.
When she found herself pregnant, they fretted at first, but then decided that a child would ease their loneliness; and when a big, healthy boy-child was born one late night while the wind howled outside their cottage, they were so relieved and happy that they almost forgot that they would have to make him one of them.
The moon was not quite full yet. Standing by the window, he felt the force of it, like tidal water, the very fibres of his being sparkling with excitement, getting ready for the change.
His parents had never allowed him to roam free during these nights. They never did so themselves, but stayed inside, out of fear, caution, weakness. Thinking back, he almost pitied them, sometimes.
The boy's sobs were not quite silenced by the gag; the sound of them reached his ears, like soft and pleasant music. Sobs, wails, screams: they all had a different quality to them. He liked them all, especially when they were his doing.
"You'll have to wait some more," he told the boy, drumming lazily on the windowsill with his fingers. "Are you excited?" He chuckled. "I am."
Another month over, another full moon approaching. He lived for these nights, for the heady ecstasy of the hunt, and for what came out of it: soft bodies yielding under his as his teeth sank into them, turning and twisting to transform, to become new members of the flock, forever his.
There had been a time when he had gone by another name, although he couldn't remember clearly which one. It had been something from his father's side of the family, something mundane, Muggle-sounding -- John? Nick? David? -- and it had been completely unfitting, even if his parents never realised that, not until it was too late.
During the full moon, he would not have had a chance against the two of them in their wolf shapes. So he waited until the day before, when the pull of the moon was growing strong inside him, and then he took the chance: his father, chopping wood, got a blow to his neck; his mother, peeling potatoes, a stab in her back. It was easy.
When the moon rose some hours later, he fled, but not until their bodies were picked to the bone. His hunger had always been great, especially when he was transformed.
From that night on, he went by a new name, one that he knew from his mother's tales of foreign lands and ancient gods, and that he himself had chosen: Fenrir, in honour of the great and terrible wolf which would break its chains only at the end of all things, when its fury would be unleashed upon the world.
Years of practise had taught him which bites would turn and which bites would kill. This boy would suffer the former, and oh, how enjoyable it would be. He hadn't turned anyone for almost four months, his pack having grown large enough to need whatever prey they could catch to merely sustain them. But now... Yes. It would be delicious.
"Do you want to play a little?" he asked the boy, smiling. The child's eyes widened as he ran a finger down the neck, his nail leaving a slight mark in the soft skin.
Tempting -- but, no. It could wait until the morning, when the power of the change had gone, and he needed something to distract him from the emptiness.
The first girl had been an easy target: all alone, resting her back against a tree trunk, she hadn't even been aware of his coming. There hadn't been much in his thoughts besides curiosity, not really, but when she screamed and tried to run, a sudden anger had overwhelmed him, and he had caught her, forcefully thrown her to the ground, and silenced her.
He had felt hunger, then, but not for food. Joy and excitement pulsed through his veins as he pushed his way into the warm flesh and thrust, again and again, spurred on by her terrified shaking and the smells of panic and sweat, until his body shuddered and convulsed, and he spent himself inside her, grunting.
As he stood, he looked down at her, where she lay sobbing, trying to cover herself with the torn fabric of her skirt. She looked about nine, give or take a year. A nice age, he thought.
It was happening.
Standing quite still, his arms outstretched and his head tilted back, he closed his eyes and waited for the moon to pull away the shell of his human flesh and set free the force within. The contraction of muscles, the wonderful pain -- the sharpening of his every sensation --
Just as the world began to change around him, he looked at the boy again, at the face which was upturned in fear and confusion, and he felt his mouth broaden in a harsh grin, wider, wider, wider.
The magic of wizards was nothing to this.
He had bitches, more than one. It wasn't the same, though -- their full breasts and heavy bodies couldn't compare to the exquisite tenderness of young flesh. But the offspring was often healthy, and some of them grew up to be beautiful; so beautiful, in fact, that he'd take them even before turning them.
They were all his, and rightly so: nobody else had dared doing what he did, rebelling against the unfair laws which sought to hold down Nature itself, breaking the chains, one by one, until nothing was left but revenge and raw strength.
Human smell and human taste, human body under his, writhing as he clenched his jaws and bit.
Sunrise. His loins were aching, but the thrill of the night was still in his blood, and the hour of sleep was enough for now. He got to his legs, and stretched languidly, savouring the pain, wanting to keep it there, as a reminder of the pleasures to come in four weeks.
He opened the door and called for one of the pups.
"Take him away," he said and pointed to the corner, where the boy's still form lay slumped. "His father should have learned a lesson by now."