In the Absence of God || Dec 11 ‘78 || Rodolphus & Open
It had been a while since Rodolphus had tasted blood in his mouth, and even longer since it had been his. Yet the coppery taste on his tongue was unmistakable, pungent and warm, and it only infuriated him further. The cold uneven ground beneath his back resuscitated him and cleared away the haze of his head hitting the wall seconds prior. Within a minute he was back on his feet, wand aimed at the pathetic lowlife who’d been stupid enough to engage him in a duel. He should’ve ran when he’d seen what Lestrange had done to everyone else in the street. Played dead at least. Now he was in the crosshairs, though not for long, and his exit wouldn’t be as quick as that of the others.
Rodolphus didn’t usually like playing with his food, but when his food attempted to play with him, all rules were forsaken.
Spells were shooting through the air and missing, taking large chunks off the surrounding walls. Plaster and pieces of bricks flew in every direction as the two men fought, only adding to the chaos of the already devastated street. Half-hidden under the debris there were bodies, an odd limb sticking out here and there at an unnatural angle; grim testament to Rodolphus’ rage of minutes ago. A rage that had only intensified when challenged by some halfwit with not enough sense to keep himself alive.
A rage that had begun with a terrible feeling of powerlessness.
But there was none of that now; a human life was in his hands and with it the feeling of control finally. Blowing up the street had satisfied him for the moment, but there was nothing quite like torturing another’s mind into submission. The sweet taste of madness, agony, regret, surrender… Incomparable. A dizzying cocktail that for a minute drowned the constant screams in Lestrange’s head; screams and laughter, the shrill female voice so familiar. But he wouldn’t be a slave to her wounds, her coldness, her pain!
He knew nonverbal casting was the smart choice, but the anger was too much, reaching its boiling point in the pit of his stomach and coiling up around his spine. It burned through his insides in a single cataclysmic wave before spilling out in guttural screams shaped into first spells he could think of.
It was the Expulso that found its target in the end, to a rather dramatic effect. There was nothing but a bloody mist where the other wizard had stood, and the carnage in the street grew by several limbs. Rodolphus found this disgusting, yet oddly satisfying. He was dusting off his robes when he heard steps some metres behind him. Turning around, he was for once glad to be wearing the mask. The figure was still some distance away, disguised into anonymity by the falling darkness and the dust thick in the air.
Friend or foe?
Only time would tell. Wand in hand, Rodolphus prepared for another round.
