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He had done it.
He had truly done it.
He had. Had he? He- He needed water.
That was the only thing on Regulus' mind as he stumbled forward, the terrible ache tearing at him, screaming at him, demanding. Water. Water. Water. Horcrux long forgotten.
If he had the energy or care to, he might've been embarrassed by how much the act of crossing a distance of a few steps toward his saving grace took out of him. Alas, he did not. It was pure will, sheer stubbornness, that got him where he wanted, no, needed to be. How very Gryffindor of him. He snorted, despite himself, until that too was over and the sharp pain forced him to his knees, no more room for thoughts of the sort.
A mere moment later he blinks and water laps at his skin, clawed hands surging from it. They tear at him, tear until all he feels is the cold embrace of the murky unknown. There is nary a sound, a splash, a gasp. One last, short yet ever-so-sweet surge of air filling his lungs. In an instant, it is replaced by cold. Water fills his being, surrounds him, and becomes all he knows, aside from blurry visages of horror that drag him into the unfathomable depths of this cursed place.
He fights, as he had before, as he always had, even when no one acknowledged it, rather accused him of being a coward and weak and pathetic, not what he was meant to be, could be, not- even he himself among those coming to mind. His wand long gone, lost to the water of the lake, just as he was. As he was pulled and tugged further and further to doom, his eyes searched wildly for that unmistakable light from the Lumos he had cast as soon as he had stepped foot into the cave. Grey snags onto white, moth to a flame, desperate for any light or warmth in this realm of the dead. His limbs, long since torn into grow weary quickly and finally numb, the icy embrace digging in and settling, almost soothing. Give in, it seemed to whisper, a comfort unexpected and gentle, yet striking.
The light dimmed then, more and more until he could barely make it out anymore. Was that so bad? It wasn't- He would not be needing any light, would he?
He had heard of a person's life flashing before their eyes once death was imminent and found himself feeling nothing but relief when this was not the case. He was sure the utter shame and pointlessness would kill any remainder of satisfaction and pride and hope that were still lingering from a deed performed successfully, as unnoted as it might go. No matter, as long as it had the intended effects. A shame it would be, not getting to see the Dark Lord's face, once he realized who had triumphed over him, blindsided him. All because he had dared to harm a house elf. He was sure the outrage would not be a pretty sight, if there was one. Or better yet, imagining Sirius' face, his reaction.
He let himself. Think it, imagine it. Willing it to life. And yet, the thought of his brother only added to the world of pain he was in. And that's all it would always be. A thought.
He wants to scream, to struggle, to fight and win, get himself out of here-
But he had known. Expected it, perhaps even thought he embraced it, in the back of his mind, where he let himself truly admit what he thought and wanted and yet. He had not envisioned just how it would happen and how much he suddenly wished for a way out, an alarm to snap him awake from this nightmare, a saviour, a friend, a brother-
None of that, the voice was mocking, sickeningly saccharine. If there was any left, it would've knocked the breath out of him. His vision blurred and grew dark. His spell was on its last legs and it seemed so was he. The deceptive calm he was cloaked in fled the scene and he was thrust back with such force that he let out a last silent scream that no one would hear, so familiar that the tears in his eyes snatched the last of his vision.
No one would save him. He would stay. Stay behind. Be forgotten. As he was always meant to be. If life had taught him anything, it had been that. Grimmauld Place or the cave. It made no difference. Cold, dead, and all his to inherit. He would never breathe life into them, or ever breathe again, for that matter. All he could hope for was that he had made one, a difference that is. Somehow, that is the note he ends this on. A hope for something hopeless. If he had never done right by anyone, surely not himself, then this was the least he could have done, right? And yet-
Yet, he wanted, he wanted, wanted...
The last spark of light died then and doused the cave in darkness. What followed would be a quiet that would not be broken. Not until much, much later.
One Regulus Arcturus Black would not be here to witness it, or any of what would follow.
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