Who: Rodolphus and Bellatrix Where: Azkaban Prison What: A montage of moments in Azkaban. When: November 1986 to January 1987 Rating: PG for angst. Status: Complete
Mealtime. The rattle of a tin tray beneath cell door after cell door pulled Rodolphus from the window where he stood. He had included in his daily routine the peering into of clouds, as if perhaps they might twist together into something entertaining to look at.
No luck. It mattered little, as mealtime meant time to socialize, a pastime in which he was taking frequently less interest of late.
A sigh, and he strode across the cell, took his seat at the floor, and leaned into the icy iron bars that separated him from hallway and hallway from wife. "Dinner looks delicious," came the wry remark from his corner. Brown sludge - protein; green lumps - vegetables; uncertainly colored sludge - he wasn't sure, to be honest. It was all very healthy, all very tasteless... but Rodolphus was literally wasting away on the diet. Already his cheeks cast unhealthy shadows across the flesh below, and his clothes hung looser at his broad, but vanishing frame. Perhaps this was why he always sat down before the door; perhaps in some prideful flicker of his subconscious he did not want -her- to see him growing weak.
He did not look to her, either.
Bellatrix looked. She always looked. In a prison desolate of pleasure or joy, one of her only comforts was to watch the faces, to pass the time by any means possible. Gone were the screams and threats that had pierced the air for the first years of the Death Eaters' imprisonment, replaced by an eerie silence that threatened to drive her mad. She would hum to herself, sometimes, distant melodies of symphonies and sonatas that her sister had loved and Bellatrix had always abhorred. But it only brought the coldness quicker, it only increased the growing hollowness that threatened to overtake her, wrapping her an icy chill that was too cold even for her taste.
When mealtime came, she moved to the door of her cell - not to eat, but to watch. Five years later, she subsisted on only the occasional meal, driven by the petty desire to rebel against the guards with a pseudo hungerstrike. It was no wonder, then, that her once voluptuous figure had suffered, the outline of her ribs faintly visible beneath drab fabric, scarcely seen since birth on account of her characteristically healthy appetite. Her face too had been marred by darkness and solitude, the highness of her cheekbones exacerbated by the lack of fat on her face. She retained beauty, as no prison could fully snatch away what nature had given, but it was ghoulish - wraith-like rather than warm and plush. Her hair shined dull, but her imprisonment had not yet beaten the light from her eyes, sparkling passionately even in the depths of her prison hell.
When Rodolphus spoke, she looked up, eyes abandoning a general perusal of the area and instead resting upon him. He too had not fared well, but a faint glimmer of affection lit her features for an instant, before giving way to neutrality once more. "Why do you bother?" Came the reply, glancing down at the tray with obvious distaste.
And what could be his answer? Was he to tell her that he feared the weakness that he could no longer hold at bay? That he needed some source of warmth within to stave off the coldness that ate away at him? After a few moments of reflection, he then looked up, eyes still full of some defiance, some anger, that he scraped from deep within, an effort that seemed to take more and more these days. "They will only rejoice with our death, Bellatrix." Deep, rich tones were only a few shades higher, but the change was noticeable - his power was waning.
"I want you to eat." As if to punctuate his point, he took a large spoonful of ... something, and ate it with relish, cradling his tray in one broad, somewhat worn, hand. Even his fingers seemed thinner, he noticed briefly as he looked at them. Ignored, fear repressed, and he looked back out to his still-young wife. "Mmmm!"
If nothing else frightened him, it was the thinness that looked back at him, the gaunt hollowing of eyes that made those heavy lids seem frighteningly large, those cheekbones dangerously high.
Had it not been for the circumstances, his dramatic display would have earned him a roll of her eyes. But annoyance was increasingly hard to muster and he was not truly a target who deserved it. No, that was reserved for those who had imprisoned them, for the infant whose life had meant her master's demise. Rodolphus was an ally, not an enemy, however vexing he still managed to be at times.
"Our -compliance- will please them," She countered. "How much do you imagine it amuses them, that so many of their captives feed from their hands - from hands that we would sever if not for our incapacitation?" Dark eyes fell shut as she imagined it, imagined their glee at how the ones they had once feared now relied upon their benevolence. It was rage that was her second comfort, the desire for vengeance, the need to seek revenge. It kept her alive where sustenance did not.
"Am I no longer pretty enough for you, Rodolphus?"
Exasperation snapped within him, then, and his arm flung the tin across the room, where it bounced, metal against metal from the toilet to the walls and, dejected, to the floor. His eyes to hers again, wry with resignation. Always her need; he loved it, and yet it ate at him - the question burned him, filled him with doubts.
"I would prefer you beautiful -and- alive. To whom would I speak? Rabastan?" A glance to the cell crosswise, where a dinner had been taken out of range of sight.
Sleep. Sleep was the third comfort. The beds were soft, but she refused to sleep on them - yet another small form of rebellion, an act of desperation from the perilously independent. With the sound of the clattering tray, she awoke, voluminous black hair tousled and in tangles. Insistent as she was on defying their captors, hunger ate at her stomach and cried out for alleviation, lest she wither away utterly.
Glancing around to ensure that the guards were not in sight, she crawled forward to the tray, sitting back on her heels as she poked at the unidentifiable, soupy green mass. It was disgusting, and yet it was all she had. She allowed her dark hair to fall forward and shadow her visage as she forcibly swallowed the food, her actions inaudible to all but the cells directly across and beside her.
And in that cell directly across, Rodolphus too had forsaken his bed. The stone, in all its cold and pain, reminded him of his limbs; the pain of sore joints and bruised flesh - memories of living, of pleasure, of freedom. It was all he had. His move to the door took him longer, but he was driven by the sound of Bellatrix, of metal against metal - his heart jumped at the sound of her eating and he was there, curled against the wall, not pressed -so- close to the bars today.
Love was a bizarre emotion. He did not worry pettily for her health or beauty; he did not worry if she slept well at night; he worried, more, if she was alive. If, when he looked into those eyes he would still see a spark of something of which he felt he was losing hold. A heavy sigh as shoulders slumped against stone, hard too - another reminder, and he looked over, waiting for her to finish as he pushed his own tray beyond her sight with his bare foot. Grateful for the low lighting, he did not admit that in these past few days he had lost his appetite. Hollowed cheeks aged slower than hers with more substance, but it was not taking long for the weakness he felt to grow overpowering.
Yet still, he stood and walked. Still, he looked through the window – still, he maintained his routine. Still, he recited lines from books he was forgetting the words to. But he no longer yearned for food; unlike Bellatrix's defiant refusal, his own apathy spawned from a worm of hopelessness. He would say nothing until she was done; fear of interrupting overpowering his need for human contact. That yearning, too, seemed to be waning.
When she had finished, she carelessly pushed the tray aside, inwardly denying that she had consumed its contents despite her stomach's indication otherwise. Long legs were extended and slightly bent, arms resting atop her knees as she stared across the hallway at her husband. She sometimes wondered if the powers-that-be thought it a cruel joke, forcing a married couple to be in such close proximity, but denying them physical contact. She would not admit that she had eaten, not to him or anyone.
"Italy," She said suddenly, chin resting quietly upon her folded arms. "I miss Italy." it was a seemingly random remark, and yet it yielded the briefest moment of pleasure, memories of the ancient architecture and elaborate cathedrals filling her mind with a feeling not unlike contentment. But the whisper of the frigid wind soon swept it away, leaving her with her loneliness once more.
He would never admit to her that he'd already forgotten it; the trips they'd had, the places they'd seen. He'd forgotten trees and summer winds and greenery. "Tell me," Rodolphus rasped across the hall, his words falling heavy to the stone between them. "Tell me what you remember." But he could not deny that his memory had gone monochromatic with pale skin and grey walls. He looked at her anew; her lips pale, her dark eyes hidden from him. A realization that cut him to the quick - he could not save her. Nausea, then, but he refused to tear his eyes away.
She was silent for a moment. To recall events and places was nothing, but to remember sensations... What had once been easy now seemed almost impossible. But it was necessary. It was essential to make the effort, to remember even if she had to focus with all of her might. If she did not, she would fall prey to the darkness, disappear into the pit of despair that threatened to swallow her with each waking moment. By remembering, she clung to the world that existed outside of the unforgiving stone walls. By remembering, she survived.
"Venice," Bellatrix answered finally, the vaguest hint of a smile residing on her pale, drawn features. "I remember the canals. The water - blue like sapphires. The Piazza San Marco, shimmering and imperial. Muggle religion is foolish and idealistic, but the architecture that arises from their faith is beautiful beyond words." Heavy eyelids fluttered open to meet his gaze, strangely vulnerable in the emotion of her remembrance. "Promise you'll take me there, when this is all over. Promise me I'll see Venice again."
Metal against stone. The sound echoed hollowly in the room, which was silent but for the spattering of raindrops against shoddy glass and iron windows. Occasionally, a drop lashed free, hitting leg or chest with biting coldness. His only acknowledgement of sense was a head turn to the metal. The metal and stone.
From his corner, where he curled, pained and blank, Rodolphus watched the tin pan rattle, rattle, and settle into tangible nothingness. He prayed she would not call his name. Last meal he had convinced himself he was too weak to move. Before that, he had ached and ached and curled into the stone of under-window, miserable - not with his own weakness - for his wife's suffering. He hated her for her resilience, for her vicious refusal to be gotten the better of. (He hated himself for being the weaker).
Rain. Bellatrix loved the rain. She loved the pitter-patter of each droplet as they fell upon the rooftops, the sprinkle of cool water on her upturned face. She loved the smell on a cool November morning after a thunderstorm, the cold, grey landscape it left in its path. As the raindrops fell upon the window, she pressed her face close to it, craving the feel of the stray droplets upon her cold skin, aching for a hint of the pleasant memories that accompanied each downpour.
"It's raining, Rodolphus," She whispered softly, faintly, hands pressed avidly against the glass as eyes eagerly took in the sight of the falling rain. When he did not respond immediately, she turned to face him, the wondrous, childlike expression on her face giving way to sorrow when she caught sight of his curled form in the cell's shadowed corner. "Rodolphus," Bella murmured again, abandoning the tattered window and kneeling beside the iron bars. "Life is more than breathing. It is more than existing. If you do not remember, you will be forever lost in a shell." Her words grew passionate, desperate. "Promise me you'll remember. Promise me you won't forget our destiny - our purpose."
Whether he heard her, or whether her voice was lost to the thick silence of hallway, of stone, of metal and rain, Rodolphus did not move. Whether he was broken or sleeping or stunned by the chill of rain, the burn of the tears that caught at the hollows of his cheeks, his body was still. Every fiber of him ached for her, for freedom, for something other than this forsaken mess of hard and grey and weak, but the strength he needed to resist, to lash out, had been drained. Piece by piece, -they- had come, -they- had stolen each minute fragment he'd retained.
But perhaps some piece of him, some desperate piece, lifted at her words.
"Rodolphus," She called out again when he did not respond. No reply. "Rodolphus." Her voice grew more urgent, more demanding. When even that did not garner the desired response, his apathy sparked the fire deep inside of her, flesh suddenly aglow with warmth, eyes narrowing intently on her mark, unwilling to abide his futility a moment longer.
"Rodolphus!" She practically screamed his name, but she didn't care. She would have her answer if it meant yelling it out of him. "Don't you dare give in. Don't you dare give up." The hint of passion in her eyes blossomed into full-blown fury, enraged by her husband's defeatism. "If you stay curled up in that bloody ball for one moment longer, I swear to Salazar that when we get out of here, I'll tell the Dark Lord that you spent the time moping in the corner!"
Movement then, as a once-brutishly large form curled up into itself. Hot warmth across hollows and rises and to his fingers as he buried his face into his palms, spine and shoulders, broad and thin, were wracked by angry, hysterically silent sobs. "I promise." Not a voice; a cracked mess of hopelessness and resolution. He could feel. He could fucking feel.
And as he turned, eyes smeared and needing and almost angry enough to fight, -they- were again between them. Silent and dark and hungry for her fury, for the spark of life Bellatrix had riled in him.
At the next meal, his form was gone, curled tight against the opposite corner, invisible from the bar-fettered view afforded his wife. Broken and cold, he hid beneath the icy stone of corner and window, eyes dimmed against the clouds and mist of an unruly, miserable sky.