bella sees your italic caps and raises you a bold (mostdevoted) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2009-07-30 10:32:00 |
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Entry tags: | ! [1980-07] july, bellatrix lestrange (née black) |
Who: Bellatrix Lestrange
Where: Lestrange Manor
When: 30 July 1980
Status: Complete
Rating: PG
Soundtrack: http://www.box.net/shared/t1t59vvlo
Bellatrix had only just returned from the cliffs, her face a mask of fury as she tore through the house, intent on remaining home just long enough to fetch weapons - her wand alone did not seem to be enough for the destruction she wished to bring down upon the world around her. She wanted a sword. She needed her knives. She would level the very city of London to it's foundations as payment for these games.
Her thoughts and visions of impending chaos were interrupted by the terrified house elf that suddenly appeared before her, begging her to come with it, only securing her acquiescence with the timidly squeaked, "It's Master Lestrange."
Relief flooded her senses at the simpering elf's words, as she followed it to the edge of the wards. He had returned. They had relented or he had escaped. It did not matter what had happened, only that he was home. And apparently in need of her help.
And then she saw the body. The burlap shroud had been pulled back, revealing a broken and battered form that so little resembled her husband after the tortures that had been inflicted and yet was still unmistakably him. Her heart stopped.
This was wrong.
This was not how this was to have gone.
Her wand still clenched in her hand, Bellatrix sunk to the ground, her knees hitting the ground with a pain she did not feel. No. No, this was not happening. Rodolphus Lestrange was the strongest man she knew, save the Dark Lord himself. He could not die. He could not be so bested that he was returned to her as a mangled corpse.
With no regard for her dignity, Bellatrix crawled across the ground, hands and feet scrabbling at the grass as she covered the few metres between them in a matter of seconds.
"Rodolphus!" Her hand drew back and she slapped him across the face with such force that her palm burned but his head just fell lifelessly to the side.
No.
Some vague sense of sanity set in and she pressed her palm against his chest, feeling desperately for the faintest sign of life. Some laboured breath, some dim beat of his heart.
Nothing.
Hands balled into fists and fists beat against his battered, scarred chest. Her arms, still sore from the violence she had inflicted on Lupin, screamed in protest as she brought her fists down over and over again, as if by violence and sheer force of will, she might bring him back. Her hands ached but she welcomed it. She welcomed the physical pain. Anything to distract from the twisting, sinking, hollow feeling in her chest.
"RODOLPHUS! RODOLPHUS LESTRANGE, IF YOU DO NOT WAKE UP, SO HELP ME SALAZAR, I WILL KILL YOU MYSELF!" Each word was punctuated by another smack of her hand against his flesh, the flat of her palm now as she senselessly, relentlessly beat at his body in her desperation. But there was only so much strength that she possessed and even her violence was failing her now. The force of will that had carried her through all the indignities of the past months was for nothing. Her hands slowed, each sound of flesh smacking against flesh further apart and then drowned out entirely by the gut-wrenching sob that tore from Bellatrix's throat, a noise that was more wounded, feral animal than human. She fell heavily across his chest, her nails digging into his skin.
He could not do this to her. Not now.
There had been three anchors in her life. Three men with the capacity to keep her grounded, whatever the word meant for a woman like Bellatrix Lestrange. To keep her on some semblance of a course when the whims and desire for chaos that compelled her to stray took hold. Her father. Killed by an Auror who had at least paid the price for his deed, but she remembered neither the loss nor the vengeance that had been paid. She remembered only waking up and being told. The Dark Lord. Still ever-present and no less the object of her devotion, her adoration, but he had shunned her for her flaws. He had cast her aside; abandoned her. They all abandoned her.
And now Rodolphus. The man who she did not remember marrying and yet somehow, over the course of months, she had come to care for him in a way she felt for few others. She did not remember marrying him and yet she had come to understand why she had. As she struggled to adapt to her new circumstances, he had been there. A constant force to pull her in line. To temper her rages. To balance her emotions with his infuriating calm. He was her rock. Her stubborn, impossible, maddening rock who knew how to reach her through the most irate tantrums, who understood her even when she was being senseless, who shared her passion for violence, who indulged her whims but only when it suited him. He had earned her respect, then her own brand of affection. And then her love. She knew that only now with every ache of her chest.
And she had failed him.
Minutes passed and Bellatrix did not move. The smell of filth and blood and death itself filled her nose, suffocating in its oppressive weight and yet she took it in. It was no less than she deserved. She had failed to save him. But she would not fail him again.
She sat up, her hand curling around his wrist, nearly crushing bones in its force as she struggled to keep hold of herself. To keep in one piece in the face of the overwhelming, destructive rage that was settling into the empty space in her chest. She would have her vengeance. His vengeance. She would make whoever was responsible pay for this ten times over. They would not know just what they had unleashed upon themselves. Upon the world. But first there was work to be done. Fury was channelled into iron-willed determination. Destruction into action. She had duties to uphold. Perhaps it was one last final bit of tempered reason that she gleaned from her husband even after his death that guided her resolve. His final gift to her. She rose to her feet and lifted his body with her wand to take him back to the Manor. Into his study. It seemed appropriate.
But she would not have him seen like this. He would not have wanted it that way. The man who had been so strong in his life could not be seen with the weakness, vulnerability and unmistakable human frailty that was in every bit of ruined flesh. With a silent, steely determination that none would have expected of her in this moment, she cleaned the body. Dirt and blood and filth were washed away in meticulous, ritualistic strokes of cloth against skin. Wounds were knit closed as best as she was able. The body was carefully dressed in clothes brought by the one servant she entrusted to assist with this task. Dark grey trousers, crisp white shirt, perfectly tailored vest, dark green silk cravat. Stockings, but no shoes. There was little to be done for his face as she would not have him suffer the vanity of glamours and instead simply reset bones and mended wounds. It did nothing for the ravages of dehydration that were visible across every line of his face, it did nothing to hide the fact that this was a man who had been brutally tortured - a sudden flash of rage, quickly tamped down - but she would do what she could to preserve his dignity, even in death.
The effort of tending to her husband's body had left her drained beyond any expectation, or at least what her expectations might have been had she ever actually considered the possibility of this moment. But it was as if she could hear Rodolphus's voice in her mind, reminding her of her duty. The others must be told. As loathe as she was to have this space descended upon by those who wished to pay their respects to the man who laid before her - a veritable pillar of society - she would not dishonour her husband by neglecting her responsibilities. Not now. No matter how hard she had to fight to keep her focus, to hold back the barely contained emotions that boiled just beneath the surface, waiting for even one crack in her resolve. She had again become the woman she once was; the however marginally more restrained woman she did not remember who had tempered raw edges with age and experience. If only for the moment.
A message was penned and then she sat. Her obligations completed, the force of will that had been propelling her gave way and she all but collapsed onto the floor. She had expected her fury to break through then, to drive her out of the house to wreak whatever havoc she might find. To destroy. Instead she was still, her hand covering Rodolphus's as she closed her eyes.
It was to be the calm before the storm.