Elle "hates thestrals" Abercrombie (abandonedheart) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2008-08-06 13:52:00 |
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After jotting a quick note to Kate in her journal that she was going to check out wards at the crime scene, Elle gathered her things and apparated to Regent's Park. She had wanted to go back to the scene anyway; she felt like there was something she was missing. It was like she felt like there was a reason the murders were commited the way they were (no matter how disparate and disgusting), and if she could just make the common connection, she would have somewhere to go. A direction in which to even just look for the culprit. The anger still bubbled in her veins about the murders, and she knew she would not rest until she brought the perpetrator to justice. And Al was right. Justice in their rules. Following the laws and customs of their culture. With the pop of apparition, she appeared in the grove of trees that surrounded the gazebo where the bodies had been found. She had to swallow down the images that resurfaced immediately when she returned to this place, and with a brief glance around she strode the scene of the crime. She didn't see anyone yet, but that didn't mean they weren't there. She was on the alert, though she did assume it was a false alarm like it had been a least a dozen times before. The slats were a dull rusted stain now, even magic couldn't get out blood completely sometimes. She removed the charms that covered up where the Dark Mark had been written in blood and she walked to the center of the structure. She was missing something. Something. She started with where the child's body had been; according to their magical forensics he had died first. Bones pulverised. Then to the husband. Drowned. Then to the wife. Exsanguinated. While bloody and harsh, there was a similarity to the three murders. She just couldn't place it. But she would. She knew she would. She remained alert to her surroundings as she paced back and forth between where each body had been, and kept repeating certain phrases outloud in her head. Bones. Lungs. Veins. Bones. Lungs. Veins. Life is a puzzle. Antonin had had a troubled day at work, unable to concentrate, hearing soft, broken whimpers in every silence, muffled sobs behind running water, ugly gasps for breath that wouldn't come underneath the conversation of his coworkers. Tsetsiliya and her family are dead, 'Toninya. There was an explosion. His oldest sister had been crushed, every bone in her body destroyed. His baby sister had drowned, playing in the river. Antonin's nephew had cut himself badly and bled out before anybody found him. It was supposed to have helped. Why hadn't it helped? And so he'd gone back to the place where he'd done the deed, standing by the path and gazing at the gazebo where he'd tried to lay to waste his sense of sentimentality, the innocence that none of them could afford during this war. Why hadn't it helped? Elle, already on the alert from the alarms, sensed the approach of another, and with a quick wave of her wand, the charms to cover the stains of the Dark Mark were replaced. She holstered her wand, though didn't completely latch it in, just in case she needed it, and then continued to do her work, one eye on the look out for whoever had set off the alarms. She made a few notes in her notepad and then paced to the opposite side of the gazebo. Ah-ha. A figure, standing not too far in the distance. She made to look like she was looking at one of the support beams, and scrutinized the supposed passerby. She recognized him, vaguely, and she scrambled for a name. She knew it was there, somewhere in the recesses of her mind. Dolohov. The Healer at St. Mungo's. He'd been one of the Healers in and out when she had been admitted after the disaster at Edgar's. What was he doing out here in Regent's Park in the mid-afternoon? Of course, she didn't know where he lived or if he worked today, so it wasn't as if she had any right to say he could or could not be here. She moved away, letting her gaze follow the rusty coloured outlines of the blood spatters, but she kept an eye on him peripherally. The girl -- woman, he supposed, but she looked so young -- spotted him, he knew; you didn't survive as long as Antonin had whilst working for a very unpopular man without picking up a sort of sense for when people were looking at him. She looked familiar, but it took a few minutes for him to place her. Of course; she was the Auror who had come into St. Mungo's earlier that year. Finella Abercrombie. Well, there was his excuse to talk her. "Miss Abercrombie, is it not?" he asked, approaching with a hesitant smile. "How are you feeling? You look much better than the last time I saw you." Elle glanced up and settled into an easy smile. She dealt with people for a living, and she had to be grateful to him. He was one of the Healers who helped her at her worst. Sometimes she still felt tender along the long scar that trailed along her side, but for the most part she was back in tip-top shape, thanks to Dolohov and his colleagues, "Yes, and you are Healer... Dolohov. Correct?" She tucked her journal under her arm and extended her hand out to him, "I did send a thank you note for my care back in June, but I'm glad to say it in person." He shook her hand, still with that carefully professional smile. "Antonin Dolohov, yes. I am glad you are doing better; we were a little worried when you came in. You Aurors have such trouble keeping still for the length of time required for your proper recovery." Elle laughed lightly and nodded acquiescently; it was a true statement. She probably had gotten up and moving far too quickly (not to mention being carried around the hospital by Rufus) but it was just part of being an Auror. You did what you had to and you kept going, "We're a resilient bunch, that's for sure. We have to be." She glanced around the gazebo and the park and then looked at the Healer. Something wasn't right. She probably was just imagining things she wanted to be true... but she felt like he had to know something. Why else was he here in this insanely remote spot? "Do you come to Regent's park often, Mr. Dolohov?" "I try to get a certain amount of exercise each day. I understand something happened here recently," he said softly, looking at the gazebo. "Would that I could have done something." It wasn't entirely a lie; he would have given anything for things to have gone differently. But life was the way it was. Well that was certainly easy. She didn't even have to try to steer him to the subject - he had brought it up himself. He had shown up at the gazebo and brought up the horrendous event that had occurred in this spot. "Don't we all." Elle said. It wasn't a lie either, Elle wished more than anything else that she could have done something to prevent the murders. She walked up and let her hands rest on one of the posts. "The family that died here, the one that was left was a friend of mine. Nicest man I know. It's always those who don't deserve it..." she trailed off. Now... how did she play this? "I thought I knew inconsolable grief when I lost my parents," she glanced at him and then shook her head, "it's nothing compared to his..." "Life is a puzzle," Antonin murmured. "I am sorry for his pain. Tell him that, if you think it would help. To lose family in such a way, in violence... it is a dreadful thing." She walked a few paces to the edge of the gazebo and gently ran her fingers against the surface, "I know that all too clearly, although I cannot imagine it in such violence. My parent's deaths were sudden, but not violent." She felt a certain unease, but she talked with a comfortable conversational tone. "Excuse me. Something about such violent deaths puts me in a bit of a morbid mood and I talk about depressing things. I don't mean to." She paused for the briefest of moments as she decided her next tactic, "though I am certain you understand what I mean, given your specialty." "Morbidity is to be expected. The human mind has many different ways of coping with trauma and unpleasant situations." Something was wrong in this. She was guiding the conversation. "This is true," she said, without much to add. It was a true statement, but that wasn't what she was constructing in her mind. She was probably scraping at straws here, but she couldn't help but start to put some things together. First and foremost... that he was here. This was an out-of-the-way gazebo, no where near St. Mungo's. It was the middle of the day. He should be at work. Second, the deaths. Bones. Lungs. Veins. She and Kate had established that the three ways of murder were very personal, but there had also been another aspect to them. They were somewhat clinical, especially the exsanguination. Precise, even. Something that a Healer- Don't get ahead of yourself, Abercrombie. "I'm sorry to interrupt your afternoon excercise," she said with a faint smile, "unless you desire company? I can always spare a few minutes." She also wanted to see inside him a little bit. And when she got back to the office, she was going to look up every damn record they had on Dolohov. But she wasn't going anywhere just yet. He was an astute wizard, and it would look mightily suspicious to him if she just up and went back to the office when she had been working before he arrived. She was guiding the conversation. She knew. How much? Enough to be dangerous, or enough to merely be inconvenient? Either way, he'd run out of options. He had to act, and act now. Antonin kept his wand in a forearm holster, easily accessed and easily tucked away, for ease of use during his work. He slid his hands into his pockets now, feigning a chill, and gazed at her as he slid his wand into his hand, ready to pull it from his pocket in an instant. "I should return to my daughter. The events of late have been troubling her." Elle wasn't a trained Auror for anything, and she immediately noted his hands in his pockets. Fuck, he knew. He knew that she suspected him. Luckily she hadn't latched her wand completely in it's holster, so it would take a quick movement to have it in her hands. But if Dolohov was a Death Eater (Dolohov was a Death Eater?!) he probably already had his wand in his hand. "I am certain. I believe the events of late have been troubling all of us. Have a good day." She couldn't arrest him. She didn't have any evidence. But at least now she knew what she needed to look for. She nodded in closing at him, but didn't turn away. She wouldn't be that stupid to turn her back on someone. She merely turned to observe the rest of the gazebo, but truthfully she was only watching him. "And you, Miss Abercrombie." People didn't assume Antonin was any sort of fighter, and they had a point; hand-to-hand, he was disadvantaged doubly by his size and his joints. He'd made up for that by excelling in wand-duelling, however, including the quick draw that he utilised now, sending a Stupefy at Elle. Thank God Elle was (a) a trained Auror and (b) observant. Barely, just barely she had her wand out and cast Protego followed by a quick Stupefy. Normally she wouldn't start with a strong spell - but he had attacked her and if he was the bastard who had done this to Dedalus' family... The anger bubbled up in her and she hoped Kate's Muggle Repelling Charms were up, because this was going not going to be pretty. Her journal clattered to the ground and she didn't bother with it. She'd get it after she captured him. "I wish," he said through gritted teeth, throwing up a shield spell, "that you were less clever." He slashed his wand down sharply, a line of purple fire following the motion. It wouldn't kill her, but he wanted to take her down so he could find out what she knew. "Not," she tumbled to the side, somersaulting out of the way of whatever the fuck that spell was, "on your life." She was on her feet and angry and in a split second she weilded her wand and cast Crucio. She hesitated slightly - she only wanted to incapacitate him. She didn't relish in the idea of torture. But it was... it was a strong fucking spell and she was going to use it against this bastard. For a moment, the pain was blinding. But only a moment, and Antonin's vision cleared quickly, as he threw another shielding spell up. "You have to want it," he told her, almost lecturing. "The Unforgivables require hate. You do not have the necessary anger, not yet." Another stunning spell, followed by Expelliarmus. Maybe she'd be off-balance enough from dodging to lose her grip. "Or maybe I'm just not fucked up in the head like you," she said, and dodged the stunner as she cast Expelliarmus. But he was right, she was just slightly off because of her dodge and her casting, and his expelliarmus hit her hand and threw her back a couple feet and her wand flew away from her. She narrowed her eyes and then lunged for him, wand left wherever it had fallen. She'd tackle him, disarm him, incapacitate him, and then bring the bastard in. His own wand hand been knocked from his hand by her spell, and he was definitely not going to be a match for her in physical combat. Oh, people talked about how men were stronger than women, and broadly that was true, but she was a trained Auror who almost matched him in height and weight, while he was a Healer who had never really found a cure for the myriad joint problems his hypermobility gave him. He would have to make this a quick fight, and a dirty one. Being a Healer, of course, meant that he knew where to put pressure at her throat to knock her out. If he could hold on long enough to get into the position to do so. Elle's lunge brought her straight at his waist, and they both went toppling backwards and hit the boards of the gazebo. Elle reared back for a right hook, but his hands were around her throat and she couldn't get a good shot. So instead she shifted and dug her knee right under the center of his ribs. She leaned her weight into it... if she wasn't going to breathe, neither was he. Something cracked, and as she shifted Antonin felt something in his shoulder give way with a wrenching, tearing sensation that sent hot pain through him before fading into numbness. It would hurt much more later, when he had to get it back into joint. Grunting and forcing back the pain, he tightened his fingers on Elle's throat, pressing over the carotid artery, restricting the flow of blood to her brain. Elle dug her knee in more and struggled against his hands against her throat, but her arms felt almost heavy. No, no, no! She tried to turn her head away, but to no avail; his grip on her neck was like a vice, and moving it only made it worse. She managed to shift and directed another knee to his genitals, hoping to at least get him to loosen his grip enough so she could wrench herself free. But the edges of her vision were fading and she was loosing strength. How stupid was she to come to the scene of a heinous murder by herself? To engage in conversation with someone who just appeared? Why did she not leave... when... when.. why would she... and... if she died... Kate... and... Rufus... bu... Al... wh... Antonin waited until she stopped moving before letting go, sliding his fingers down her throat to check her pulse. It was there, strong and steady; he hadn't done any permanent damage. Letting her slump to the ground for a moment, he braced himself against the side of the gazebo and wrenched his shoulder back into joint, crying out at the hot, sharp pain that flooded through him. It hurt to breathe deeply, and he was sure she'd broken at least one of his ribs, but that could be fixed later. Right now, he had to get them out of the public view. Kneeling and getting a firm grasp on her with his good arm, he sidelonged them to the topmost room in the tower of the manor, one of the rooms nobody went into. Not the servants, not Anzhelina, nobody but Antonin. It was warded to keep sounds in, and the doors were strong; it was the only room in the entire manor that he ever cried in. The safe room, where the rest of the figments and representations never came, where he could just be without having to worry about what they represented, what they meant. The one place where his mind wasn't laid bare, open and raw and wounded for his clumsy steps to track pain everywhere. It would be the best place to keep her until he worked out what she was. Awkwardly dumping her on the sofa, he nudged aside a cardboard box with something (don't look don't look let it be a dream) inside, kneeling on the floor and supporting himself against the sofa as he cast Incarcerous, binding her hands and feet tightly, and then turned the wand on himself, awkwardly trying to heal his ribs as best he could. He wouldn't be able to repair all the damage, and he'd have to go rig a sling for his arm to let the joint heal properly, but people were used to seeing him with slings, or walking with the aid of a stick; a man of Antonin's age, with his physical frailty, was injured more often than most. It wouldn't raise any untoward questions that he couldn't answer. His own state as repaired as he could make it in a sitting, Antonin settled down to wait for the girl to wake, so he could talk to her. Find out what she knew, and what she was. What she represented. Elle stirred slowly, and groggily. The first thing she noticed, obviously, was the headache. It was probably what brought her to consciouness. Then it was the binding. Hands and feet. Those immediately brought her mind to the forefront. She kept her eyes closed and stirred gently as in sleep, but took stock of her position. She was laying on her back, on some sort of cushion... it felt something like a couch with the sag under her hips that would be where the cushions came together. The bonds were tight; they cut into her ankles and wrists and would probably leave bruises. If she survived this. No, that was stupid. Of course she would survive this. If he had wanted to kill her he would have done so already. Wouldn't he? She waited a few more minutes before her eyes fluttered open and took notice of the room. Her headache pounded but she remembered as many details as she could. She would need to remember it when she got out of here. Unfortunately though, as she took it all in, she realized she was in one hell of a room. Something she wouldn't easily escape from. And... she had no idea where she was. She said nothing, just stared at her captor, and waited. He would say something. They always said something. "I am trying to understand," Antonin said softly, after a moment. "You see, it has to mean something, otherwise why would I have noticed it? There is no other explanation that makes sense to me. But you were getting so close. You knew, somehow you knew. Why would I have you close in so swiftly if not for a reason? You must be something. I do not know what yet, but I will find out." What the fuck was he on about? She merely watched him and his calm demeanor, his soft tone nearly as disturbing as the situation she found herself in. What did he mean, 'You must be something?' That didn't make any sense. Of course she was something, but she had a feeling that there was a totally other meaning to what he said than just the words he used. "I'm good at my job, that's how I knew." It was probably a bad idea to engage him in conversation, but she couldn't help it. This, this monster, this bastard, was the one who slaughtered the Diggles. Her tone was nearly venemous; she had no patience for him, despite the fact that he obviously had the upper hand in the situation. He smiled briefly, closing his eyes. "And of course you would say that. Internal consistency, after all; the Auror who found me must be good at her job, and she would know it. I am not a student of human psychology for nothing." He looked up at her then, tilting his head, his expression turning almost wistful. "You look a little like Theresa. She has hair like yours, perhaps a touch lighter. The same lift to the chin when she is angry. I wonder what the significance of that is?" She was kidnapped by a madman. There was no other explanation. And who the hell was Theresa? She watched him, coldly, and made sure to keep her chin down (she'd never even noticed that before... but, yes, all right, she did lift her chin when angry). She had nothing to say to him - he... he seemed to be almost talking to himself. She was just a sounding board for his introspection. What the hell had she gotten herself into? "I wish you could meet her." His voice was soft, almost inaudible by now. "She is... my soul." A dark, bitter smile touched his lips. "Perhaps that is why I can do such dreadful things, because my soul is missing. But I do not know why I would dream that. Why would I dream something so terrible as her death, why would my mind want to cause me that much pain?" He looked up at her, blinking back sudden tears. She was so like Theresa, even moreso now that his vision was blurred and all he could see was a blurry, blonde figure on the sofa, lying as Theresa used to lie while she was ill, still and moving as little as possible, like -- lying like Theresa had lain when the final sickness took her, coughing and eventually too weak to breathe, too-- "No." He shook his head sharply, raising his good arm and twisting his fingers into his hair, the heel of his hand pressing against his temple, denying the memory, because it wasn't a memory, it wasn't. "No," he whispered, his voice shaking. "No. It is a dream. It is a dream, not a memory, not the past. It is a dream." His soul is missing? She watched him as he descended into what she thought was madness. A dream? Who was this man? How did he function so well in their society when he was obviously delusional? Though, the brutality of his crimes almost made sense... No, she could not humanise this person, this monster. Although... She decided to take a chance. This could either go really well, or really poorly. "Antonin," she said softly, stirring gently and attempting to sit up the slightest bit, "Antonin do not cry. Do not be upset. I am not here to upset you." She was treading on thin ice right now, but she watched. She made sure to not lie. She... played carefully. She wasn't an Auror for nothing, after all. "No," he said sharply, shaking his head. "No, you do not say that. You are not the rationalising voice, that is Him, telling me that what I do is for the greater cause, you do not try to comfort me. You are not that. You are something, but you are not that." Elle shut her mouth. She was not, was not going to push it. She gleaned some important information though. Him - that had to be the leader of the Death Eaters. She couldn't help her wondering if he was under some sort of Imperius. Perhaps all of this wasn't quite his fault. Stop it. Of course it was his fault. He had done it. "So," she said, a bit tentatively, "What am I?" "I do not know," he said quietly, all the heat gone from his voice. "I do not know, there is so much I do not know. There is nobody, nobody who is not made up of memory and imagination or created whole cloth from my mind, nobody. Do you know what that is like? Knowing you are the only thing, that everything else is just... ephemera, mindstuff, the things brought into creation by the subconscious mind to flesh out the subconsciousness and add reality to a thing that is, at the core, the very antithesis of reality? Anything may happen in this state." His voice turned faraway, as though he was... lecturing, perhaps, or explaining. "Anything. A man who was once a healer becomes a murderer, doing away with obstacles to his final goal because he cannot afford sentimentality, he cannot afford innocence, and messages must be sent, and there truly is no other way but to rid his mind of those things that cannot be mastered. They were not real." A whisper, now, barely more than a hint of sound. "They were not real. Their pain was symbolic of an ending of what innocence remained, not pain in its own right, that has to be so. It must. It cannot be any other way. Oh, god," he whispered, slipping back into Russian, "forgive me these thoughts, these terrible, callous thoughts. Forgive me the ability to even think such things." Elle listened. She listened and absorbed and found herself utterly at a loss. This man, this troubled man... he was living in some sort of fantasy world. Some sort of state of almost psychosis. She didn't know how to understand it, she wasn't a mind Healer or a psychiatrist or whatever you wanted to call it. What she did know is that she was seeing a pattern. He'd talked about dreams and subconscious and... The Diggles. Sentimentality and Innocence. Elle's eyes opened a little wider behind her askew glasses. And then the message... Dedalus? Was it really a message meant for Dedalus? "I cannot say that I understand," she said, her logical mind putting pieces together like a puzzle, "Because if I did, you wouldn't not believe me, because I am made up soley of your subconscious, but that same logic can be used if I said outright that I do not understand. If I am truly a figment of your mind, then I am merely a part of you." "You argue." He looked down at his hands, frowning. There had to be some reason behind this, there had to be. "The others do not argue, nobody else argues. Even when they were bleeding, they did not argue. You are different, something else, something new." She didn't know what to say to that. Of course she argued. She didn't want to end up with her chest split open and her heart taken out. She swallowed, hard, and remained silent. She was at a loss; she had never had to rationalize with a man so out of any sense of reality. The risk of repeating herself was high, and Elle wasn't sure if that was a direction she wanted to go in. He might find it a nuisance rather than interesting. The longer she kept him interested, the longer she remained alive. So, for lack of anything else to say, she merely echoed his last word rather than repeat something she herself had already said, "...new." "I do not understand what you are meant to represent." He absently reached out to right her glasses, wincing as the movement grated his still-sore ribs. Despite the situation, his touch was gentle. "There is so much I do not understand anymore." Elle didn't shy away from his touch; she wasn't afraid at the moment. In a strange turn of events, she actually... well, she pitied him, and found herself wanting to help. He would come to justice for what he had done, but he was obviously in mental turmoil over it all. "Perhaps that is why I am here," she said so softly it was barely a whisper, "to help you understand." "Perhaps." Antonin fell silent. This room was where he came to think, and now there was something in it that confused him, that made no sense. Nothing made sense anymore, how did that work? Why was his dream turning into this -- this riddle? Why had things changed so? "I wish she was here." He said it without realising he was speaking out loud; he was used to being able to say anything here without having to qualify it to an onlooker. "I miss her," he whispered, curling his fingers in his lap, fingernails cutting into his palms. "Why would I dream her gone, why would I dream her dying so horribly? It does not make sense. And I feel she has been gone so long, so long, why would I do that?" Theresa; that must be the 'she' he referred to. She made some quick deductions - Theresa died horribly and she had to have been his, well, his wife most likely. However, she had to stop trying to apply realistic logic to his questions. While a smart man, he believed he was living in a dream; she needed to apply backwards logic. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Backwards logic... "Perhaps you have done this to yourself because you don't believe that you deserve her. Once you achieve what you need to in order to be worthy of her..." Elle trailed off. This sounded ridiculous, "perhaps she will return to your subconscious." Antonin frowned, gazing at her thoughtfully. "You make valid arguments, you were there, you put the pieces together. A part of me must want to be found out." He tilted his head, curious. "You look a little like her. I used to call her my soul, but I do not think that is it, not for you. My conscience? It would explain why you put the pieces together, why you argue the way you do." Of course she made valid arguments; that was what she did best. Still, she was confused. 'you put the pieces together' - what did he mean by that? But as he continued, realization dawned. If this was a dream... then she was a manifestation of his inner self. Conscience? Is that what she wanted to be? What would keep her alive? "Your reason, perhaps?" She offered, her voice more confident than she herself felt, "Though in the end, what you deem me to be is what is going to be correct." "I cannot be rid of you." His voice was quiet, and his gaze shifted to the window, where the stars were out. "A man without his conscience, his reason, is little more than a monster. Whatever wrongs I have done, whatever evils I have perpetrated, they still affect me. I do not want to think about what I would become without a conscience." ....neither did Elle. If he was equating people to parts of himself, she was damn glad to be his conscience or his reason. If she could survive this, then she would be fine. She would bring the bastard in, and Dedalus could have justice. They could all have some justice. There was the problem though. He wasn't about to just... let her go, was he? This was going to be a tricky situation, one that she wasn't sure she could win no matter which way she played. She watched him for a long time before she responded, and when she did, her voice was soft and almost childlike, "A man without reason is nothing but a pawn to stronger men, but a man with reason has the intellect to see the entire board and move with precision toward his ultimate goal." He looked at her silently for several long moments, before speaking again. "Enough." Getting to his feet slowly, wincing as the movement jarred his ribs and shoulder, he withdrew his wand from his pocket, pointing it at her. "This will not hurt. Obliviate!" The process of altering her memories could have been a lengthy one, if he had wanted to replace them with something; instead, he simply... removed them. Took the last several hours, from her leaving work to the present, and left a blankness in their place. It would confuse her, probably upset her, but it was better than a lie. Anything was better than a lie, wasn't it? It was the early hours of the morning when he Apparated from the manor, the witching hour drawing to a close. Fitting. He left her on the doorstep outside Dedalus Diggle's home, leaning down to gently cover her with one of Theresa's old winter cloaks, made for a Russian winter; thick crimson wool lined with lush, soft fur. He didn't want her to get cold, after all. Retreating into the shadows, he scooped up a rock with his good hand and lobbed it lightly at the door, angling it so it wouldn't rebound and hit her, and then Disapparated before the door opened. He had a lot of work to do. |