ᴏᴍɴɪꜱᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ✵ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜꜱ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ✵

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐈

☼ ꜰʀᴇʏᴀ ☼

»»-------≪ °❈° ≫-------««

Freya wakes in a disoriented state, utterly exhausted and drained, shrouded in boundless darkness. Night must still conquer the sky, or the sun has yet to peak over the edge of Earth's crust. She can feel Regulus pressed against her spine, arm draped over her waist, face buried into the back of her neck, the warmth of his breath tickles her skin. Their legs tangle under a blanket of soft wool.

With an almost inaudible groan, she reaches up to knuckle at her puffy, gritty eyes, but the corpse of her father flashes behind closed lids. She sucks in a sharp breath, the muscles of her heart tighten with incredible force, chest hurting straight through to her back. Oh. That's why they're still here. Freya had sobbed herself to sleep, and Regulus held her as she did, whispering words of comfort.

She gingerly disentangles herself from him to climb out of the futon. Regulus only stirs for a few seconds, then smacks his lips and proceeds into a deep sleep. Time seems to slow as the gravity of the situation weighs it down, and she can no longer control her hands; they're shaking in an odd trembling rhythm. The mere thought of the vision makes her guilt flare so bright that she feels genuinely sick, like she's in danger of throwing up.

Before her father's abandonment, Freya adored him; she thought he was the grandest thing this world had to offer. Regardless if that admiration dimmed when his true colours came to light, she still loves him dearly to this day. But in that prediction, all she could focus on was the raging desire to kill him. Why? You took everything from me, she had said — or will say. What did he take besides her self-esteem and ability to trust, like most fatherless daughters? That hardly justifies murder.

She presses the back of her wrist against her mouth as a broken, yet muffled sound escapes her throat. It's a crushing realisation to know she's capable of killing, so heavy that her lungs constrict. Tremulous hands furtively search under the pillow that Regulus' head rests upon, and she retrieves her wand without notice.

"Lumos," she mutters.

The tip of stained rosewood illuminates, its light casting twisty shadows across the spacious room. Regulus' cloak lays upon the chaise lounge, and she tiptoes over to fumble through the pockets. Eventually her fingers touch cold silver, and she uses her teeth to pull a cigarette from its case. With a hasty snap, the end ignites, and she harshly inhales a large lungful. She sinks back into the chaise lounge, curling in on herself like she's vulnerable. Acrid smoke trails upward in the wand light.

A simple incarnation has the illuminated tip inflate into a glowing orb that floats around her, sort of like an opal-white balloon with no string. "Accio Journal," she says very quietly.

Lacking the same courteousness of quietude, the periwinkle journal rattles in a bookshelf before flying to her open palm with a satisfying smack. Thankfully, Regulus doesn't so much as twitch. She flips it open to a blank page and begins to jot down details from the vision. Freya switches between relentless drags of the cigarette and writing ugly descriptions in pretty penmanship. All while her brain buzzes as though it's full of bees, like she's on autopilot. She isn't sure how long it's been, unaware that daybreak had passed; the tones of steely blues and majestic purples can be seen through the windows when a voice pulls her back to reality.

"Why didn't you wake me?"

It shouldn't come as a surprise that Regulus radiates effortless beauty when he first awakes, but he always manages to steal her breath away. He watches her through a warm gaze, leaning back on his elbows so that his bare chest is revealed. Freya's eyes linger on his lean muscles for a moment too long, then lift up to his face where the hint of a smirk plays on one side of his mouth. She rolls her eyes and curves the top corner of the page to mark her spot, then crosses the room to sort of just sag into his lap.