sanguinis pura

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Gender: Male
Age: 68
Sign: Scorpio
Country: United Kingdom

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February 10, 2019

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01/27/2021 10:39 PM 

morose

January 15th, 1981

Rasping breaths violate the tranquility of the room. The faint stench of death lingers, but Rabastan tells himself it’s simply his imagination; a prelude of what was sure to come if anything. What once was a domineering, willful, strong woman now lay crumpled on a sick bed, damp with her own sweat and Merlin knew what else.

Rodolphus didn’t seemed phased by it. Such circumstances were the norm in his line of work. Check the pulse, take a reading, mark the chart. Much like Rabastan, silent in the corner, the elder brother’s feature were etched in a stoic manner. All business. Neither held much affection for the woman in the bed, but duty bound them to her. She was their mother after all, the one who’d brought them into this world to serve their greater purpose. Or so she’d always shoved down their throats.

From the stiff chair where he sat, Rabastan closes his eyes and winces as a brush with the past swept over him. Swearing he could hear her steel like voice bellowing at him like it had in his youth, a chill takes him. The pain such sharpness had on a young boy was a wound never entirely healed and if he thought back hard enough, could reopen and spew his life’s blood all over the floor. He was her shame, the weight around her ankles pulling her into the murky waters. Only until recently, in the hindsight of her twilight years, did she start to look upon him with anything other than disdain. The black mark on her otherwise unsullied reputation.

Rodolphus finishes checking her vitals then packed his stethoscope into his medical bag with robotic precision. The tiny clicks of the clasps echo. The way his clothes shuffled when he moved, the muffled thuds of his steps, everything could be heard. He gives a nod to Rabastan who nods right back then leaves the room. The last sound being the quiet click of the lock. Mother and son left to ponder each other’s presence

Rabastan…

His name strains through labored breath and the summons pulled the younger Lestrange from his seat. He emerges from the shadows, light from the low fire finally casting some visibility on his hauntingly sharp visage. Approaching the bed, he doesn’t bother to hide how his nostrils flare from the sick and pungent smell. He says nothing. Coming when she called was answer enough.

Françoise’s hand shakily rose and she reaches out, her papery fingertips ghosting Rabastan’s healthy skin. Affection. He’d rarely received it from her. From anyone. It disarms him, attacks him while tearing at the wounds of that little boy who always wondered why his mother was so cruel to him. At first he pulls away. It was instinct. Confusion and defenses shoot up in preparation for the proverbial dagger to come, but instead the woman in the bed whimpered. The assault that comes is in a different form. It mocks him. “Come here, my boy” she whispers.

A shaky breath rattled his lips. The cold heart hardened in stone was angry. Erupting. Any hope for compassion had long left him, but still that little boy persisted. Instead hot lava flows from it. Wrath unstoppable. If only she knew!Why? Why now?” the voice which asks the questions stumbles over itself as it held back the fury. The woman remained still. She looks up at him with her own brand of confusion. So Rabastan turns away, walks towards the fire, and takes out the cigarette container from his pocket. A slim, off white cylinder removed, he crouches and uses the flames in the fireplace to light it.

Minutes pass by with nothing but her breathing and quiet puffs of his respite. He cared not about how the tobacco affected her. When the paper burned almost to his fingers, Rabastan flicks the remains into the fire and stands up. “Your boy,” he finally said, still looking at the flames, “died a long time ago.” He turns to the frail, old woman, his own eyes fill to the brim with tears that’d yet to spill over. He began encroaching upon her, closing the distance between himself and her sick bed with a cryptic walk that was both overpowering and unsettling. “And you killed him. You killed him.

Now his hips gently press against the side boards, bed elevated in a way to help her breathing. Rabastan reaches out and in one swift movement, plucks the feather pillow from under Françoise’ upper body. She barely even made a sound as her back hit the mattress. “You killed me, mum.” And with that he pins the pillow over her face, his own unaffected save for the tears that blurred his vision. She kicks and struggles, reaching up and clutching his shirt weakly. During the apex of it, Rabastan closed his eyes, forcing those tears to dampen his cheeks, but no more came after them. She was fighting more for her pathetic life now than she ever did to be a decent mother to him. Her resistance didn’t last long and when her body was bereft of life, Rabastan let go.

The darkness of the room helps. He couldn’t quite see the contorted expression on her face and for that, he was thankful. But a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders only to be replaced with a twisted heaviness in his gut. He’d become numb to such pain by now, but still, the sensation made him wonder if he’d come to regret this later. But in the end he sighs, drops the pillow on the floor and takes a few steps back to the fireplace. Leaning against the mantle, he let his hand dance over the tips of the flames. An exhale. Then another. And soon enough he found the will to gather himself then head to the door. One last mess of his for Rodolphus to handle.

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