"Trust me, you shouldn't want anyone like me on your back."
"Maybe I don't want anyone like you on my back," His eyes darkened as he stepped closer, confining me tighter into barely any space as my back pressed against the wall.
"Maybe I want you. U...
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CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
LAST CHAPTER OF DULCET DESTRUCTION ACT I
THE GROUND UNDERNEATH MY SKIN was cold, hard and considerably wet when my senses centered. I felt my limbs twisted in human yet odd angles, making bursts of ache throb throughout my frame. I shifted, a groan slipping from my mouth as I moved to retrieve my uncomfortably bent arm from under my stomach as I lay right on it, it was burning hot and partially numb from the exertion.
My eyes opened to bleak darkness as I gathered myself and pushed to sit up. I blinked, a sudden terror coursing through me. Certain gouged out eyes were still fixated in my head, making fury and fear churn inside me and blend into each other like the brewing of an impeccably undiscerning potion. The thought that my eyes could be gone too—it was terrifying. No, I blinked desperately. He wouldn't take my eyes, why would he take my eyes?
I adjusted to the light then, a soft blue that poured out from a small high window above, a thick straight ray of silvery blue light as it crashed onto the dark and damp stone ground in front of me. The light wasn't enough to illuminate the entire room—or cell—that I was in. Try as I might, the light left a lot to be desired, as I turned my head around and around—searching for a reason or description for the place but only saw the darkness it was clad in, shrinking away from me.
It wasn't a cell. A dungeon cell couldn't be this spacious. Or perhaps, Voldemort had chosen to do me the courtesy. I swallowed. But why? Why would he do this when I did what he asked of me? When I submitted my conscience to him and killed Angus, Aurelius? Why, when I had come to him of my own will?
He wouldn't kill me, I thought then. The heuristics cannot be transferred, and killing me would be the end of it for the next four centuries or more. A dark wizard like Voldemort could not afford such a thing, despite his attained immortality, he would not wait four centuries for anyone.
Night had descended outside, as I observed the unchanging moonlight. How long had I been like this? The last thing I remembered was passing out amidst the reek of Angus tattered corpse and the smoke and smell of the former Credence Barebone's charring flesh.
Suddenly then, a second light flickered fire and my attention was torn towards it so fast my head ached with the sudden exertion.
A small stump had been lit with fire against the wall beside a high backed, clearly visible stone throne. On the throne sat the ghastly form of Voldemort. His sickly white and blue veined skin looked greener under the impact of the yellow orange light. His eyes were almost indiscernible, lost in the abyss of his deep eye sockets. It looked as though he had gouged his own eyes out, but why would a dark wizard do such a thing?
His slender, knuckled and sharp dark nailed fingers clutched the end of each stone arm rest gently, lightly. As I looked at him, a certain awe flickered inside me—a spark of something that I couldn't place or recognize.
