He tasted grit on his tongue, felt a coolness on his cheek and numbness on the other. The world around him had been made hypersensitive, colours bled into one another, made more vibrant, ethereal, and fuzzy around the edges. There was no definitive point, everything was on a slant. His body jerked as crimson blossomed from fried nerves, evoking a grunt from his comatose state, he couldn’t feel it yet still he made an indication that he had. There were voices, which were an echo, far off and distant, his brain barely able to process them into clarity.Â
Antonin stood stony faced and placid, his eyes seemed to glow against the shadow that loomed over his figure on top of the ledge, his hand on a railing. He regarded with coolly with steely eyes and turned to his companions who were beside him. They huddled into each other, spoke in low voices. The Carrows were left alone.
Amycus could not feel his feet, nor his hands and yet he could feel this dull throb where his chest was. Shame, shame, shame. Where the fuck was his nobility? Where was his fight? His head turns and he’s face to face with the mudblood, the vermin laying there idly like trash and Amycus wonders if that’s him.
Pureblood, dirty blood.
  {You’re twins. One of the same.}
All he ever needed was his twin, he never stopped to think of the war. He went where his father guided him towards with his sister beside him, his crutch, his support, his life. Was that all he would ever be?
Ribcage expands slowly, a leg drags itself, he flops onto his side, an arm extended underneath, raising, raising him slowly, painfully upright. It’s adrenaline that powers him, barely keeping him sane. The cruciatus is known to deteriorate the brain, eat at the gristle until everything’s mixed up. That’s what his head feels like, all mixed up.
Confusion contorts his face as he glances around, scrutinizing his surroundings as if he were lost but not wanting that to be known. He stops on brown hair, his expression soft and {loving?} he’s about to smile but stops himself.
There’s an empty look in his gaze, he frowns and glances up towards the huddled group. Amycus is surprisingly calm, despite the crimson that bleeds from him, drips from his fingers. And he doesn’t seem to notice the gaping wound in the middle of his chest. The blunt of the impact that has left him feeling like a husk, that makes his tone soft and distant.
"I failed it, didn’t I?"
{Kill the boy. And let the man be reborn.}
Amycus turned to his sister, his vision blurring again, misting over, wet and shiny with water. He blinks, and rubbed at his eyes. {Boy, boy, cry baby boy}
"I’m not worth the mark, am I?" His knuckles go white, and his voice inclines steadily. "I should have used a deflective spell… I should have looked out for the both of us."
{Love gets you killed, boy}
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