There is a beat like a jackrabbit running in his chest, it thuds to the tempo of the mantra that dances across his mind like a warning and a promise rolled into one.
“I’ll save them, I’ll save them, I’ll save them.”
If someone had told him three years ago that he’d be here today, in a cave surrounded by water darker than ink, in a plateau abandoned by the world, hidden in the middle of a raging ocean, if someone had told him three years ago, on his fourteenth birthday, that Regulus would be preparing to die-
He’d probably have believed them, honestly.
Not about the cave, not about the bowl before him, mounted on a pedestal like it should be revered (all he felt was hate and fear and grief and terror and-), not about the necklace or the mark on his arm, not about any of that- but the dying bit, sure.
He never would have thought it’d go like this, though.
It looks almost innocent, it looks like water. He knows it isn’t because nothing is ever that easy- he can see the necklace shimmering in the depths of the bowl and it taunts him.
Kreacher stands at his side, solemn, silent. There is a quiet reverence in his gaze as he peers up at his Regulus, his young master. There is a loud grief in his eyes that want to flood with tears but Kreacher has a mission, a last request and Kreacher will sooner drop into the depths than disappoint Regulus.
And Regulus stares into the liquid, his hands are shaking at his sides, trembling like they did when he was a child and his mother is screaming and Sirius is shouting and Orion is watching and Regulus is trying not to cry and there is something on the floor and a wand is rising and-
He breathes.
Gasps, really, air threading into his lungs in violent heaves because Regulus may have wanted to die but he never wanted to die.
This will save them all.
No more Voldemort, no more war, no more child soldiers, no more- no more.
He wishes he’d at least spoken to Sirius, just once, just one interaction that wasn’t spitting insults and razor sharp wit, just once where Sirius didn’t look at Regulus like he was their mother, just once where Regulus didn’t look at Sirius and see him leaving.
Just once.
His hands shake as he takes the shell, derisive amusement curling in his gut because at least Voldemort had been kind enough to leave the poor sod that tries to access the horcrux something to drink with. How thoughtful.
“You remember what to do, yes, Kreacher?” If his voice trembles just a little, if he feels dread building up in his stomach like a ravenous beast, if he’s prolonging the inevitable then- well, he deserves it.
Regulus is going to die here.
He hasn’t quite accepted that fact (he never will).
“Kreacher remembers, Master Regulus, Kreacher is to take the necklace and destroys it and Kreacher is not to tell anyone who asks, even if it’s Masters and Mistress Black.” The elf seems to sneer across their names and Regulus has never been lost on the fact he is the only one the elf refers to by name.
It has always warmed him, it does now, even against the icy wind that cuts along his face.
Regulus smiles, it doesn’t meet his eyes and there is something a little bittersweet in the way his lips curve, eyes the same colour as the storm clouds outside, brightened by the unshed tears that hang on his lashes.
“Good. If-” He pauses, hesitates, rolls his lower lip between his teeth in thought, “- if my brother asks, tell him I’m sorry and that I love him- that I’ve always loved him.”
Regulus will never know that Sirius never asks. Regulus will never know that his brother will live his life scorning Regulus as a coward and a deserter until the day he falls through a veil- Regulus will never know.
He feels his heartache anyway.
“Thank you for everything, Kreacher. You’ve been the most wonderful companion and elf.” He doesn’t have to look at Kreacher to know the old elf has tears on his cheeks, he can hear the quiet sniffles as the elf tries to pull himself back together.
“Of course, Master Regulus, Kreacher will miss yous. Master Regulus is the best master and Kreacher’s friend.”
The smile on Regulus’ lips is a little less hollow as he takes the first sip from the shell, fighting back a gasp as his stomach seems to rebel against it almost immediately, cramping painfully as he takes down another mouthful.
The ache spreads through his body, a violent fire of agony travelling through his veins until he’s forced to his knees, groans falling from his lips. He wants to stop- it hurts so bad.
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, ithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurtsithurts.
He can feel tears flowing down his cheeks like an unending river, a physical representation that falls far too short to truly amount to the sheer pain that flickers through his blood. He’s too hot, he feels like he’s burning, his mouth is so dry, it feels like every ounce of water has been sapped from his body, his blood, his very being.
The flames course through his blood, he’s panting, he’s dizzy, the shell is on the floor and- Sirius, Sirius, Sirius, all for Sirius, he has to be safe he has to be he has to be he has to be he has to be he has to be.
The next mouthful feels like torture.
Regulus would have preferred actual torture over this, actually.
He thinks he screams, his voice torn raw from whatever sound he makes, he thinks he can taste blood but maybe it’s just the poison. Maybe it’s the shredded remains of his vocal chords.
Sirius always said he was too quiet.
Now he’s being too loud.
The thought has him giggling, manic little sounds that fall from his lips like rain. He thinks the Black family madness has finally caught up- maybe it’s been in him for a while because only the truly crazy would take to doing this.
Maybe Aunt Bella would be proud of him for giving into the madness, even if she’d kill him for what he’s doing.
That thought sets him off on another bout of manic laughter.
The pain is making him delirious, he knows. The shell clacks against something as he takes another mouthful and Regulus realises with a blessed sense of peace that that’s it. He’s drunk it all.
The fire in his veins and the dryness of his mouth does not falter and he writhes on the floor. He’s vaguely aware of Kreacher swapping the necklaces, aware of the way the elf hesitates over his body and Regulus snarls.
“GO!” He snarls, the word is broken and he tastes blood filling his mouth until it breaks past his lips, splattering against the floor with a wet, slick sound. He can feel it in his mouth still but his mouth still feels agonisingly dry, his body still burns.
There’s a sharp crack of sound and Regulus grins.
It’s bloody and full of far too many teeth, he laughs but that’s a lie- it’s more of a cackle as he writhes on the floor, body tense and flames are licking against the inside of his skin but he’s done it.
Voldemort will die and it will be by Regulus Arcturus Black’s hand.
Eat that, you vile, monsterous fucker.
He feels himself crawling toward the edge of the water. He isn’t dead yet and he doesn’t understand- surely the poison would kill him?
He’s just so thirsty and his body’s on fire.
Just a sip.
The water is blessedly cold against his fingers.
Maybe a dip. Cool down his flaming body.
He crawls, his lips touch the water and he drinks it down like a man who has roamed the desert for days- it tastes like freedom, it tastes like relief.
Regulus thinks maybe he won't die here, maybe Voldemort overlooked something, maybe he used the wrong poison. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
He crawls further until the water laps against his chest but the burning does not temper and he wants to scream and cry and he just wants to go home and curl up against his brother like they did when they were kids, when their mother roamed the halls like a poltergeist, rage burning like an eternal bonfire in her chest, her fingers ready to burn, to destroy anything they touched.
He remembers being afraid and yet he’d never felt safer, held against his brother while Sirius told him about stars and Hogwarts and anything and everything he could think of to take his mind off their mother.
He doesn’t feel safe now.
His mouth still feels dry and his body still burns and there’s hands around his wrists and claws digging into his arms and his shoulders and he’s being pulled further into the water and there’s hands wrapping around his throat, digging into his flesh until the water turns red-tinged and there’s claws in his sides and Regulus wants to laugh but he’s underwater now because no, Voldemort had not made a mistake.
Maybe it’s Regulus’ own fault for not thinking of more ways for Voldemort to be a sadistic bastard.
Make a man burn, make him thirsty, make him drown for his greed.
There is a moment when Regulus feels weightless. The hands are tight around his body, his neck, he’s suffocating and not because he can’t breathe underwater.
He’s suffocating because he’s hit with a want so overwhelming, so pure that Regulus is surprised he’s never realised it was there before.
Regulus does not want to die.
He wants to live.
How funny it is that Regulus finally wants to live as life is being torn from him, violently, aggressively, carelessly.
At least Sirius will live.
At least Sirius will be fine.
Regulus had never given much credence to the whole “seeing your life flash before your eyes” thing but here, now, as the abyss calls to him like a long-forgotten friend, Regulus does not see his life but he remembers.
Remembers the sound of Sirius’ laughter, remembers the stories he’d weave about Hogwarts, about his friends and oh, how Regulus had hated Sirius’ friends, how he had loathed them for taking his brother away from him but here, now, he can only feel thankful for them, thankful they had done and will do what he can not.
Thankful they will be there for him, thankful they will love him, thankful that Sirius will not be alone like Regulus had been, thankful that Sirius will love and be loved and belong and live and thrive.
He remembers that Orion had once told him that “Sirius” had been his first word. He had not said it with love, no affection or humour, just a statement of fact and to this day Regulus still does not know why- why Orion had parted with the fact, why he bothered.
Regulus finds himself thankful for it anyway.
It made sense- even before Regulus had known Sirius’ name was Sirius, Walburga had shouted it through the halls so much that it was only natural Regulus would pick it up. He’d shouted it at Sirius, too.
Where Walburga had screeched it with rage and hate and dislike, Regulus had called it with love, with joy, babbling at Sirius with hands outstretched, hoping his brother would come to him, would talk to him- Sirius always did.
Always.
Whenever Regulus had called for him, Sirius had been there.
All Regulus can see is blood. He can feel claws in his skin but the pain isn’t there anymore, disconnected in a way that would make him scared but he can’t feel fear anymore, either. He wants his brother. He wants so bad for Sirius to look at him, not with hate, not with disgust but with love, with those eyes that had softened for him and only him, with that smile that was for Regulus and Regulus alone.
His lips part before he’s even aware of it but before the water can enter and before he drowns, before hands dig between his teeth and rip his tongue from it’s place, before darkness can take him, before he falls into Death’s loving arms, before it all, Regulus calls one last time-
“SIRIUS!”
And oh, how fitting that his brother should be his first and his last word.