“𝐈𝐭’𝐬 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐟𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡”
𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘩𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦?
tw: minor descriptions of branding & bl*od
Grit stuck like glue beneath his nails, indents subjected on each thumb, small dents in pale skin like potholes in tarmac. His fingers would scrunch up by his side and dig those sharp edges into his thumb, one, or both, it served the same purpose.
Once it had been a coping mechanism; “𝐩𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫, 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐲𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞.”
Not spoken out of the love, they were not bound in his head from the concern that came with. No, they were firm, and cold, the consequences for one would insist upon them all. So he did not tremble. Not after the first time. His knees knocking about, like an echo in the silent chamber, and saliva pooled at the back of his throat, too terrified to swallow for every sound seemed to reverberate.
Now, some long years later, they were to spark pain where his nerves no longer reached, numb, and skin scarred so heavily in patches no feeling ever caressed it, locked in a frozen state of flesh and nothing more.
The life of a Death Eater was everything he’d expected. He had been taught, raised, bred for the moment the brand was burned into his skin, and something ripped inside choking off any screams as his tissue sizzled like a barbecue beneath the watchful gaze of those ruby red eyes. The mark left no damage but a tattoo, forever a reminder, forever a welcome, and a heavy something in his gut, like a stone pressing against his naval. That something was their ticket out, quite literally, leaving behind a carnage in the swirling mists, and they would land in the protection of the manor of their lord.
On the night of his first mission, his first fight against the order, his first death that stained blood on his hands as it pooled around an unfamiliar face, when that happened; he’d laughed ...
The adrenaline rush, maybe. Feeling it thrum like the coil of a snake rearing it’s head inside his itching skin, tort with a static energy despite the sweat that moistened his palms and the soft breaths that echoed loudly behind the roar of waves. Building, building, stooping higher they lapped in the tides of his ears with the howling wind, climbing, the quicker night drew the louder it got, so close, on the edge teetering between .. and behind the mask his identity was nothing to no one. Draped in those black cloaks he was apart of something 𝘣𝘪𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘳. They surrounded them, the older ones, tightly knit in stance and experience, they seemed woven together in the sea of black cloaks and no spells would make it through that night. He was protected. For a second, he was invincible.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐭.
