aludra is the lesbian love of sirius's life (aludra) wrote in cm_logs, @ 2009-11-10 19:55:00 |
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He was unhappy. Everything had been going so well. There had been so little interference with all of his plans. He had been nearly content with the state of the world that he had worked so hard to recreate. Such careful planning. He had thought of everything. The abduction of one of His was not in the plans. This was unacceptable. Memory loss was unacceptable. What had she told them? And who, just, were they? Questions that He did not want to have to ask. Questions that should not have to be asked at all. And so, her summons. He stood near the fire of his drawing room, where so many meetings had taken place. And He waited. Waiting all day to be summoned by the Dark Lord was not the healthiest of occupations, and by the time Aludra's arm burned with the force of her master's unhappiness, she'd spent several hours sitting and simply staring at a book. Her heart hadn't stopped racing since her shift at work had ended, and her muscles ached with the tension of waiting. She didn't think anything could be worse than this purgatory. Until she actually received the summons. Aludra had cried at Atticus -- cried and begged and pleaded -- not to see Voldemort, but now she didn't cry. She simply collected her wand, willed herself to stay as numb as she possibly could, smoothed down her hair, and then disapparated. The minister cast macabre shadows against the backdrop of the fire, and she was terrified, more than she thought she could ever be, in that instant. She didn't know how to address him. Aludra had always been a figure in Atticus's shadow, unrecognisable, talented but indifferent to recognition of skill, and so they'd rarely had occasion to be face to face. Putting her wand away with shaking hands, she took a step forward and then knelt down. "My lord." Her voice felt immeasurably small. She wished for punishment now without conversation. It seemed too difficult a thing to even breath, much less choose words. He did not, at first, deign to acknowledge her. Stifling, furious anger did not grace His posture or expression, even upon the presence of what might have been such a mistake. Not until she was prone at His feet, did He lower His gaze to her. She was such a small thing. So inconspicuous. Invisible. He unclasped his hands and withdrew His wand. "Aludra," He spoke, His lips all but caressing her name. Long fingers pressed into her hair and then curled tightly around the strands to pull her head back. To face Him. He could ask. But it was always so much easier to see for Himself. And He wasted so little time. He tore through her thoughts. Wednesday. Mundane work, nothing suspicious, at least not in her mind. The typical walk home. And then nothing. Nothing at all. He delved deeper, for some trace, some clue to what had happened. To a who or a why, and more importantly, what was said or revealed. He was hardly careful in his examination, finding emotions (fear most prominently) and tossing them aside. After all, she should have been afraid. No. Her memory removal had been thorough and complete and even He could not find a trace that might lead to restoration. His anger flared, and the second attack was less focused. What she knew. Not just of Him and His followers, but His plans and intentions. He had been so careful. But she was in such a unique position. To be so close to one of His most trusted followers. What had she gleaned? In truth, nothing of importance. Even as He examined their relationship, He found nothing of particular consequence. He lingered for only a moment on their conversation the previous night and was reminded as to why Atticus was allowed at His right hand. His amusement was brief and cold and quickly over taken by frustration. There was no answers here either. The only comfort was that she really knew nothing of His plans. And so He let her go. Aludra's fears spiked as his cold fingers slid across the back of her neck, and she thought she might very well die right then and there, that her heart might burst in her chest and everyone's problems would dissipate. Being forced to stare up at him was all the more terrifying, and her breath leaked out of her lungs until there was nothing left -- though it wasn't a problem that lasted long. The first shove of his thoughts across hers was invasive, agonising, and she gasped, she curled into herself, hands bound so tightly together that they were white with effort. Every image that he pulled up and ignored was relived, but too quickly, too painfully, and she had to press her fingers against her lips to keep from making a noise. One did not complain when the Dark Lord did as he pleased. And after what seemed like hours of delving and picking and tearing, she was discarded back to the floor, breath coming heavy and harsh as she struggled to inhale. She didn't move. Didn't speak. It was much easier to cringe against the floor and wait for his instructions. For a very long moment, He considered her before Him. She could provide no answers to Him. She could not confirm her own innocence or guilt, no evidence to one end or the other. He gripped His wand more tightly and took a handful of brief seconds to decide. Her ignorance would save her life, so it would seem. She would not escape punishment, no. For this slight, this frustration that He would have to investigate because of her disappearance, she would suffer as well. Her loyalty though, was true and complete. And she was, in her own way, useful. And so, all she would receive: "Crucio." To say that Aludra was unfamiliar with the cruciatus would have been a lie. It was part of their training as death eaters, and she had endured it again, again, again. However, there was a singular difference between a cruciatus cast by a greasy nosed teenager -- and even her exceptionally more proficient fiance -- and the Dark Lord himself. Every nerve burned, every muscle contracted so tightly that they knotted. She didn't scream at first -- a second or two could be attributed to will, another second or two to having the breath knocked out of her at the severity of the pain -- but then she could do nothing but scream. Her hands, wrists, arms, found her mouth and she bit on them to stifle the screaming, but still she howled around the mouthfuls of flesh, accomplishing little more than a muffling and maiming of her own doing. Each successive tear at the muscles brought her knees up to her chest, and her spine curled up on itself, her shoulders burrowed inward, but no matter how her body tried to shelter itself, instinct the only brain function that could survive this assault, there was no escape from the cruciatus. There was no escape. No dignity. No pride. No quelling of emotion. Aludra had never felt so much pain in her life. Never. And she likely wouldn't again unless she found herself here at his feet again. When he was finished, she shook against the floor, moaning around her arm, dizzy, sick. Had she more presence of mind she might have cursed her stupidly weak body, but she could think nothing but the fuzzy, stupid gratitude that he'd stopped. He remained impassive to her screams. It was well-deserved. She would never allow herself to be so absolutely stupid again. He would ensure it. Still. He required that she remain sane, and so He allowed a moment of recovery. If she did not retain her particular skill set, then there was no use in keeping her alive at all. In His head, He counted to twenty, and then again. The same, indifferent, cold stare as He administered His punishment on His servant who had allowed herself to go astray. Longer this time, stretching closer to a minute under His wand, to show her His displeasure. When He raised His wand again, He pondered the merits of a third round, of indulging Himself. But then, perhaps not. Tonight, perhaps, He would be a fair Master. "Leave." The second bout of the cruciatus threatened to leave her crippled on his floor, and by the time she had finished screaming in pain, and then crying, and then screaming in rage for the admission of what she considered a purely feminine weakness, and then simply screaming because there was not enough thought left in her mind to do anything else, Aludra's muscles no longer had the will to continue struggling. His magnanimity left her limp on the floor, shuddering with phantom pains that were severe enough that even the blink of eyelids elicited a mewl of pain. Moving seemed impossible, and yet he wanted her to leave. She wondered, in some feverishly logical part of her mind, how likely it was she would splinch. The statistics were calculated as she desperately struggled to rise, and failed, twice, until she dragged herself to the nearest wall and clawed her way up it until she was standing, or at least an approximation of it. "Thank you, my Lord," she rasped, bringing her total word count up to six. And from there she forced herself to leave the room without stumbling, though every footstep seemed impossible. She would at least be going home alive. That made anything else seem inconsequential. |