Mulciber, Mulciber, you took a wrong turn.
authors note: mulciber now owns my life, okay? he's completely insane and this fic plays out a bit like an acid trip at first. it's supposed to be confusing.
When the wall crumbled, the first breath of fresh air that Athelstan had taken in fourteen years tasted like saltwater.
Fourteen years in Azkaban. Fourteen years of silent torture in a six-by-six cell, wearing nothing but a thin gown against the cold. Athelstan reveled in the feeling of freedom that could be achieved with the destruction of a single wall. The air was thick with fog and dementors, darkness seeming to press down from the sky. Athelstan cast his eyes about, looking at the surprised faces of the others who had been imprisoned with him. Far off he could hear a familiar cackle. Bellatrix Lestrange. His own lips curled back from his teeth and a high, shrill laugh forced its way from his ill-used throat. What a contagious thing, laughter.
Travel from the bitter island prison was a blur of darkness and nausia. The location was unknown. All that Athelstan was sure of was that he would be reunited with his lord, and his faithful brothers and sisters. When he arrived others were already there, clad in their dark robes and skeleton masks. He didn't hesitate to throw himself at the feet of his master, despite his lack of clothing. It had been too many years for him to wait for proper garb before gathering the hem of Voldemort's robes to his face and breathing deeply the familiar and unfamiliar scent of him. He wasn't alone in his show of dedication. Bellatrix brushed shoulders with him more than once as they sought comfort in his existence.
"My lord," they both muttered, a mantra in voices rough from disuse.
Athelstan felt a hand in his hair, petting him as one would a loyal dog, and something in him twisted in rage. He thrashed, biting at the hand. Quicker than he could comprehend he was thrown back, sprawling across the ground and howling hysterical laughter.
"Crucio," a cool voice uttered, and the pain made his vision go black, his spine arching and his fingers clawing at the ground until the nails broke off and they bled.
As soon as the pain stopped he erupted into another fit of breathless hysterics, twisting and writhing on the ground.
"Broken toys are discarded," his master threatened, and Athelstan immediately fell still, enduring another round of the unforgivable before being dragged to his feet.
He was carried to stand before Voldemort, who lifted his head with a finger under his chin. "Broken but loyal. I wonder, are you still useful to me?"
"Yes," Athelstan hissed, grinning, "Not broken enough, my lord, to be useless."
"Good," Voldemort said, releasing his chin.
Athelstan was dropped to the ground at his feet and kissed at his robes before struggling to stand and stumbling away.
--
"Athelstan?"
The man's head jerked around, and he stared through unfocused eyes at the Death Eater approaching him. He'd been staring at the skeleton mask laid out on the bed with his robes for a long time, his mind blank and his soul hollow. He tilted his head at the man behind him, all garbed in robes of death, and smiled. He had a vague recollection of that posture, and that voice. Something blurry and distant, but precious and bright.
"Yes?" he asked, turning his attention back to the mask on the bed, his eyes going unfocused again, and his mind immediately drifting away from the present. The rustling of cloth reached his ears and he turned again to see that the man was removing his mask. He frowned. That wasn't how the game was played. The masks stayed on until the party was over.
"You-I," the man seemed flustered, his face uncovered. His eyes were a familiar cool blue, and locked on him, searching his face. "It's me."
Athelstan's frown deepened, "Yes, it is you. Who are you?"
The man took a few slow steps closer, and a name begged to be remembered. Athelstan's frown twisted into a grimace, and he took a step back, his knees hitting the bed and his balance escaping him. The world twisted and churned, and his head felt light and empty and disconnected from the rest of him.
He was staring at the moldy, peeling ceiling of the room.
He blinked. How long had he been staring there? Someone was sitting next to him, their weight making the bed dip and tempting him to roll towards them.
"I think I took a wrong turn," he said slowly, frowning at the man who was beside him, mask still off.
"Where?"
The world swam, and Athelstan closed his eyes. "Somewhere."
--
"Avery," Athelstan said, as though he had discovered the meaning of his existence. "Rowan Avery."
Names had been slow to come to him in the days following his escape from Azkaban. That one had been the longest coming, and remembering it was like drinking cool water in a desert. Disjointed thoughts snapped into place, and his eyes focused, wholly for the first time, on the man who had taken him into his house.
"Ro'," he amended softly, blinking, his head tilting. "You've changed."
The man slowly lowered his paper, regarding Athelstan thoughtfully. "You have too."
"Yes," Athelstan said, slowly lowering himself into the chair across from his old friend. He regarded him through narrowed brown eyes. "But you've changed more. You never used to wear plaid socks."
Rowan let out a surprised laugh, "No. No, I didn't."
"You shouldn't have ever started," Athelstan continued, "They're hideous."
"They're comfortable," Rowan argued.
Athelstan made a noncommital noise in his throat, his eyes losing focus again.
Where on earth had he gotten to? He took a sip of tea and found it cold. The sun was sinking outside the window. Rowan was still sitting across from him, watching him carefully. Athelstan frowned.
"I've gone again, haven't I?" he asked setting the tea cup down.
The feeling of disconnect was back, and he was floating just a ways away. He distantly heard Rowan speaking. "I don't know, have you?"
Athelstan tried to nod, but he couldn't feel his body anymore, and he wasn't sure if he succeeded.
---
Athelstan liked to watch Rowan Avery sleep. Once he had remembered who the man was he had taken to watching him even closer. He stared down at his face, relaxed and pleasant looking. He always looked tense and uncomfortable when he was awake. He leaned in closer, his eyes narrowed, until their noses nearly touched. There were memories of school, murky and uncertain, left in tatters in his head. The dementors hadn't wanted everything, after all, and had let stay behind some cloudy thoughts, broken shards that spoke of touching and holding. He reached out slowly, his index finger running slowly along Rowan's bottom lip. His eyelids fluttered and he shifted a bit in his sleep.
Athelstan leaned in closer, pressing a quick, clumsy kiss to the sleeping mans lips. He pulled away, his face and neck turning a horrid shade of red. Cool blue eyes stared up at him, and his flush darkened, his eyes widening in fright.
“Am I sleeping beauty, now?” Rowan asked groggily, his eyes half closed, and his words slurred.
Athelstan swallowed, leaning in to take another kiss. Rowan didn't protest, and it felt terribly familiar. He gave an experimental nibble at the lips against his and then bit harder. That was familiar too, the coppery tang of Rowan's blood on his tongue. Very familiar. Incredibly pleasant.
He pulled back, his eyes narrowed, and his vision became overlapped with another of a younger Rowan Avery, and the younger Rowan was flushed and wanting.
“I missed you,” he whispered, and as he spoke the words he knew they were true.
Rowan was looking more awake, and reached up to tangle his fingers in Athelstan's matted, dirty hair. “I know.”
He tugged them together again, and Athelstan felt a frighteningly familiar pang of happiness.
-
Athelstan liked chasing things. And even though he was dizzy and laughing like something completely mad, he was overjoyed to be chasing little mudbloods and blood traitors. It was like being twenty years old again, as though he had never been locked iup at all. He leaped over a fallen bit of furniture, his laughter echoing loudly all through the ministry.
The children got away.
The aurors found him still cackling, his eyes crazed.
He laughed in Azkaban until the day he died.