Reflective: Why does it feel like night today?
Date: May 24rd 2003
Characters: Macnair
Location: Dungeons in the Mansion
Status: Private.
Summary: Macnair reflects about being in the dungeons, being impotent, and Weaver.
Complete: Complete.
Macnair didn't know where he was. Well, he did. He knew where he was only by association. The Entity - Weaver he was called - came to see him awhile ago. So, using deduction skills Macnair rarely exercised, he figured he was in the dungeons of the Mansion. He'd never been in the Mansion before and it served him as ironic that he was in the dungeons now.
Days melted into weeks and then months. He honestly had no clue how long he had been kept in his cell. Down here there were no windows to gauge how many days had passed, and Macnair's internal clock had long since gone haywire. He slept most of the time. Boredom and restlessness was too consuming to force himself to stay awake. He knew that Weaver would wake him if he finally came to him again.
The worst thing about being in the dungeons wasn't the dungeons itself. It wasn't the lost of freedom or the dirty surroundings. It was that he was impotent.
First of all, he couldn't do anything. He couldn't escape. His screams and yells for "help" and freedom went unheard. The Mansion held a mysterious magic. Even if he had the cunning to get out of his cell, which he didn't since cunning was never his forte despite his placement in Slytherin, he couldn't have. The magic radiated off the walls. It suffocated him. But literally, of course, but figuratively he couldn't breathe. His throat was raw from screaming in no time. And despite the fact he was not mistreated and had all his meals and enough water to survive, there was nothing extra to use the energy to make a fuss.
Secondly, he wasn't just figuratively impotent, he was truly impotent. During the one and only visit from Weaver, the creature had stripped him of his ability. It had taken his manhood. It wasn't something that Macnair could accept easily, but then again, he had no choice.
The creature had given him hope despite what that woman had said. Tonks was her name. She had wanted him to loose it all, but the creature said the spell might be able to be reversed if Macnair was on his best behavior. Macnair planned to be, but he knew his best behavior didn't always match up with other's opinions.
But following through with his agreement to Weaver was essential and Macnair knew it. During the long and dark time in the dungeons, he relived that night. The night his manhood was taken from him as well as the night he proclaimed his loyalty to the creature. The creature was far more powerful than Voldemort could ever be. Voldemort had been human. He had always been human no matter how many pieces his soul was broken into. Weaver was no human. Weaver was something beyond human. Something frightening and powerful.
Weaver deserved Macnair's loyalty. And in return for his unfailing loyalty, Macnair knew that Weaver would reverse the spell. It would be Macnair's award in the end, no matter what that woman, that Auror, that Tonks said.
Macnair leaned against the wall, allowing his legs to fold beneath him until he was sitting on the floor and sighed heavily. It would have been a month by now. It had to have been more than week. Probably three or four if he had counted his meals right. He knew, however, that he had missed meals while he was sleeping. A cup of water was sitting beside him. He had to ration the water so he didn't grow too thirsty as he waited for his next glass.
Taking a deep breath, Macnair screamed, "Where the hell are you Weaver? What do you have planned for me? You can't keep me in here forever! If you want, just throw me back behind the damned Door!" It wasn't a challenge. It wasn't even a plea. It was just the truth. He couldn't escape, but his voice had to carry. The creature would come for him. The creature would see the value that Macnair and his experience could offer.
It had to.
Characters: Macnair
Location: Dungeons in the Mansion
Status: Private.
Summary: Macnair reflects about being in the dungeons, being impotent, and Weaver.
Complete: Complete.
Macnair didn't know where he was. Well, he did. He knew where he was only by association. The Entity - Weaver he was called - came to see him awhile ago. So, using deduction skills Macnair rarely exercised, he figured he was in the dungeons of the Mansion. He'd never been in the Mansion before and it served him as ironic that he was in the dungeons now.
Days melted into weeks and then months. He honestly had no clue how long he had been kept in his cell. Down here there were no windows to gauge how many days had passed, and Macnair's internal clock had long since gone haywire. He slept most of the time. Boredom and restlessness was too consuming to force himself to stay awake. He knew that Weaver would wake him if he finally came to him again.
The worst thing about being in the dungeons wasn't the dungeons itself. It wasn't the lost of freedom or the dirty surroundings. It was that he was impotent.
First of all, he couldn't do anything. He couldn't escape. His screams and yells for "help" and freedom went unheard. The Mansion held a mysterious magic. Even if he had the cunning to get out of his cell, which he didn't since cunning was never his forte despite his placement in Slytherin, he couldn't have. The magic radiated off the walls. It suffocated him. But literally, of course, but figuratively he couldn't breathe. His throat was raw from screaming in no time. And despite the fact he was not mistreated and had all his meals and enough water to survive, there was nothing extra to use the energy to make a fuss.
Secondly, he wasn't just figuratively impotent, he was truly impotent. During the one and only visit from Weaver, the creature had stripped him of his ability. It had taken his manhood. It wasn't something that Macnair could accept easily, but then again, he had no choice.
The creature had given him hope despite what that woman had said. Tonks was her name. She had wanted him to loose it all, but the creature said the spell might be able to be reversed if Macnair was on his best behavior. Macnair planned to be, but he knew his best behavior didn't always match up with other's opinions.
But following through with his agreement to Weaver was essential and Macnair knew it. During the long and dark time in the dungeons, he relived that night. The night his manhood was taken from him as well as the night he proclaimed his loyalty to the creature. The creature was far more powerful than Voldemort could ever be. Voldemort had been human. He had always been human no matter how many pieces his soul was broken into. Weaver was no human. Weaver was something beyond human. Something frightening and powerful.
Weaver deserved Macnair's loyalty. And in return for his unfailing loyalty, Macnair knew that Weaver would reverse the spell. It would be Macnair's award in the end, no matter what that woman, that Auror, that Tonks said.
Macnair leaned against the wall, allowing his legs to fold beneath him until he was sitting on the floor and sighed heavily. It would have been a month by now. It had to have been more than week. Probably three or four if he had counted his meals right. He knew, however, that he had missed meals while he was sleeping. A cup of water was sitting beside him. He had to ration the water so he didn't grow too thirsty as he waited for his next glass.
Taking a deep breath, Macnair screamed, "Where the hell are you Weaver? What do you have planned for me? You can't keep me in here forever! If you want, just throw me back behind the damned Door!" It wasn't a challenge. It wasn't even a plea. It was just the truth. He couldn't escape, but his voice had to carry. The creature would come for him. The creature would see the value that Macnair and his experience could offer.
It had to.