Fire & Ice: Reaper

Disclaimer: The characters of the Harry Potter world belong to J.K. Rowling and company. I am only playing in her world and promise to return all characters in same condition (more or less). No copyright infringement is intended on her wonderful world.

Anubis

Inhaling deeply he let the alluring scent of the Irish Sea wash over him as the salty breeze swept lazily through his hair. Closing his eyes, he listened to the nocturnal choir of Scotland as it overwhelmed his senses and bewitched his mind. Looking out over the water, he could almost feel the warmth shining in a distant lighthouse nestled atop the Emerald Isle.

His lips curled involuntarily into a small smile as the gentle splash of waves crashed against the jagged rocks below. White foam spray arched into the chilly air far below the star splattered sky. The image of his broken, twisted and bleeding body lying on those rocks below came unbidden to his mind as the toes of his boots perched over the cliff’s edge. Eyes closed, he imagined the feel of the wind caressing his body as the earth rushed towards him. He wondered if Death would claim him swiftly as he met thrth rth or would he lie there, withering on those rocks.

Guilt bound his feet to the damp earth looming above the whispering waters. With gritted teeth he clenched his fists and reveled in the sharp, needle-like tearing in halmsalms and the warm tingling as blood dribbled from the fresh cuts. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt. He smirked into the fathomless darkness, “I can still feel. You took everything from me, you and Him, but not this. I can still feel.”

Thunder rumbled in the horizon, beyond the rolling hills of Ireland. He glared at the ominous harbinger in spite of himself, almost wishing to be back within the warm folds of the castle. Sighing heavily, his fingers worked their way down the robe, unbuttoning one button after another. Shrugging the garment off his bony shoulders, he folded the pool of material carefully. Skilled fingers worked the buttons on his frock jacket and the silk white shirt beneath followed. Folding both pieces of clothing neatly, he placed them on top of the robes. He sighed and willed his trembling body to still. He inhaled sharply, letting the cool chill wash over his exposed skin.

Twenty years of penance, twenty years of servitude to one master or another, twenty long years of wishing for Death to take him. But the Reaper had stalwartly refused him and now he was tired. Tired of waiting for Death to claim him and was now making preparations to rush into the Dark Angel’s arms. For the first in his life, he felt truly alive. Yes, he was past stagstage of denial and was now basking in the aura of acceptance.

He inhaled deeply as his fingers drew out a cold, metallic case no larger then a match box. His wand glided through the air a breath above the case as he whispered an enlargement charm. His fingers traced the intertwining serpents emblaz on on the lid. Twin ruby eyes glistened beneath the quarter moon from their emerald bodies.

Why the other houses looked down upon the noble creature of his house with disdain and distrust was beyond him. The serpent was cunning and quick, able to contribute to a mass group effort or perform the tasks of a lone soldier. Silent and lethal, what could possibly be better then that? He knew what the wizards and witches of the other houses thought and what they saboutbout the Slytherin House. Was the serpent to be blamed for Eve, a silly little girl who had let curiosity led to the forbidden? If anything, the serpent was the only honorable creature on the planet. Everyone else was too busy sugar-coating the truth and the facts to be as honest.

Honor. The word itself had become sinuous with pain, with penance. A trait that had cursed his family line back before the time of the four founders and would no doubt had continued if he weren’t the last of said line. One word had kept him bound cha chained to this life as long as there was a chance He would return to walk the earth. One word drove him to risk exposure, pain on a daily basis for little snippets of information to his Gryffindor master.

It softly clicked open as he unlocked the silvery case and gazed at its contents. A perfect
emerald serpent’s body roped around the hilt of the weapon, its head rested on the smooth, polished blade itself. The Harvest Moon over head was reflected perfectly on the weapon’s polished surface. Twin Ss were embedded in silver on the handle of the heim anm and slipped from view as his fingers clasped around the weapon. He held his breath as the weapon was slowly lifted outthe the nest of forest green velvet and felt its full weight.

Kneeling, legs spread wide on the moist earth, he watched as the precious gems glistened beneath the silvery tendrils of autuautumn heavens. His breath waggeagged, hitched as its beauty struck him. Stilling himself, his eyes locked on the night sky twinkling above him. Lifting the weapon at an angle and above his head, he inhaled sharply as he plunged the hungry blade downward.

The day’s events swirled through his mind. The attack at the castle and the ensuing fight of good versus evil. The sharp cries of bodies falling to the earth until Death claimed them. Wounded falling, bleeding to the earth. A swirl of black descending to the earth as the Order burst through their lines and slew those in their path.

The fall of the Dark Lord by the hand of the same child eighteen years previous. The wails of grief as those who were killed where recovered and the injured taker trr treatment. The final task’s completion and he slipping from the benevolent folds of the castle, out into the darken world beyond. Adrenaline carried him to the secluded shoreline of Scotland and his own release.

Pain. A sharp burning sensation swelled in his abdomen, he gritted his teeth as he pushed the sword further in. The blade cut through tissue, muscle and organ alike beneath the pressure of his own brute strength. Blood seeped from the edges around the blade rushrushed down his body as gravity forced it to the ground, pooling at his earth-ridden knees.

His fingers, stained with his own blood, gripped the hilt as he pushed it further into his body. Biting back a scream, he twisted the weapon. The weapon’s hole widened, letting more of the life-sustaining liquid fall to be absorbed by the earth. He’s eyelids threatened to close as his body sagged from the loss of the blood. His chest burned as the lungs cradled beneath screamed for air. His bowayewayed back and forth as the life in him seeped steadily form the gaping wound.

His cold fingers feebly pushed at the handle, desperate to engulf his being into the seductive embrace of the darkness. A shuttering sigh escaped his lips as his body fell to the ground. Numbingly he was aware of his head hitting a large stone from behind. Crimson blood seeped from the cut and leaked to the ground to pool at the rock’s edge. His eyes fluttered as the light vanished from his sight. His body jerked upright as a spasm rocked his body, blood trickled from his lips and down his neck.

The silvery light of the moon faded as a shadow crossed its face. Great, leathery wings carried the harbinger to the earth. Cold eyes stared out at him from the pale, impassive mask. He shivered as he watched the Dark Angel’s fingers trace the trail of blood down his face. The wind swept slowly through the mass of silky black hair as the Dark Angel bent over him. In the dim lit he could make out the shadowy features of Death, he gasped softly as recognition came to him. He stared into his own face.

He shuddered involuntarily as he gasped for air. Numbing cold curled through his body as his fingers slipped down the sword. Floundering for air, his eyes shuttered against the world one last time. A slow hiss echoed along the serene coastline as his final breath escaped his lungs and into the night. A moment later, his body lay motionless against a sea of grass. The wind played listlessly with a loose strand of ebony hair.

Finite Incarnatum