Blood Justice (Ficlet-background)
Red flash and haze. Intensified, screaming rage, indignation, channeling through and all around him, drawing fingers into fists and jerking his movement. But for one thought, he would have acted then, gone to her directly and ended the matter.
No. No, there is family. It is the sole consideration.
But they are short a patriarch. He recalls this as a part of his anger, the fact that the bitch would dare to slip out and away during husband’s business-required absence seeming an act of cowardice. Oh, she had ever been a creature of cowardice, slipping silent along back hallways, stealing into the night to meet weak-willed, vile creatures, never daring to meet the eyes of her own children. She never could match their force, that power of every born Travers that even Reginald grasped at times. This was no place for the bitch. She had served her purpose and now had signed her warrant.
And so, lacking their father, he found the brother, the sister nearby. Afterward, he would vaguely remember the brother’s hands on his own arms, restraining him, would recall striking his brother and shouting before quieting at all. When he did quiet, it was to speak in that deathly whisper-rush, the hiss of a young man ill-acquainted with reason and accustomed to compulsion.
They-Reginald, Siri-knew the tone well, though rarely had they heard such force in it. These were words beyond threat, useless to resist. While their brother had taken time to explain the situation, to make certain that it was right for the family, he would act regardless. And so, they thought, it was better. For as Willis told what Reginald, at least, already suspected, they took his anger to their own.
Afterward, too, Willis knew that he must have spoken the transgression somehow, beating through the red, eyes never failing in anger. He watched as the anger caught, first in her eyes and then in his. Yes, they understood, and before he spoke his action, he knew that they understood and accepted. They must. He wouldn’t destroy them, no, and could never bring himself to, but they must not stand in his way.
They knew. Shared currents ran strong within their veins.
Reginald must have asked a question, because Willis heard himself speak. His voice-hoarse, thick-came from a distance, his focus already carried to her, the bitch that no doubt sat lounging nearby, with never a care. “I’m going to take care of it.” Somehow, he had understood his brother’s words, must have begun to function on another level, somewhere. Now he watched as his brother opened his mouth, hesitated, nodded. Siri had already slipped away.
He was about to move when a hand, unwelcome restraint, grasped at his elbow. Striking out as he turned, he drove his hand against his brother’s shoulder; this did nothing to alleviate his rage, serving only to push a half-startled Reginald aside. Then there was a calm word, a direction that he understood and might vaguely have been glad of. Her location was thus revealed, and Reginald continued to watch, at last without remark.
In an instant, Willis was moving again, stalking toward the final choice location of her. He saw little, needed to see nothing. One goal and one possible end and one neck of one very dead bitch. Fate had decreed this occur the moment she transgressed, the moment she dared even think such abominations.
He had heard it. He had heard it, damn her, let her think whatever she would about her little secrets. Their were no secrets, not from the family, not on their own estate. Yes, they had known of her short adventures, disgusting but silent from the outside, so known only in the walls. It was her choice, her very thought to break this silence that had caused the end.
That she had dared-Oh, but it was too infuriating to dwell long on, that single thought. His rage had not subsided, his mood had not for a moment altered, and he found himself sound in purpose. So much the better. To best do this deed, he must be willing, must fully give himself to it. Must give himself for their blood.
And give to take her blood. Willis did not know, could not have felt his own physical reaction, but he grinned as he walked, a twist of expression frightful enough to send a house elf fleeing, calamitous signal of years and acts to come.
Those years were yet ahead of him, though. Years of fire and chaos, years in which he would laugh stronger than ever, hold power over those he saw only for an instant before blacking them, destroying them. He had not yet known these revels. Yet he had felt sparks, had been always the spawn of rage and action, pointed direction. Now he drove as ever toward an inevitable goal.
There. Quiet deception covered in light robes, frail as she. This will pose no difficult, no, but as he sees her, watches the tilt of her neck and delicate posture of innocence, he knows well that he could snarl in anger. Perhaps, indeed, he has, for she shifts, turns those treacherous soft eyes toward him and looks at him without looking, the same look with the same smile, that intimation of secret knowledge and condescension that has driven him to anger before.
The bitch didn’t know. Somehow she rose and stepped to meet him, missing the eyes, the seething, the jilted step that would become prevalent with the years. He wasn’t about to stop, not for that frame so small, and as she came toward him with that maddening smile, he thrust her to the ground with a single movement of heavy hands, of years of anger and a moment’s realization.
He was faster than she was, dropping to meet her and tear the wand from jittering hands, drawing a hand across her face and clamping the other onto her throat. Whatever pithy confession she might have made was withheld, trapped forever within her lungs, and she could only claw at the air around and at him to no avail, eyes wide, never entirely understanding. In her last moments she was panicked, refusing to meet death, ineffective as ever. It was disgusting.
This was what she had earned. A tearing, a scream that she could not release, all for what he had heard, what she had thought could be kept secret. She had found another one, a disgusting Mudblood, and she had never spoken of that silly rumor called love before, but this time-he slammed her head against the ground, recalling, readjusted his grip-this time she had dared to speak it, to trounce and hope to leave them for good, to denounce them and to openly join with this thing that called itself a man-a snap as he broke her wrist, pinned her arm-to keep secret only until she had left. And she had giggled. The bitch had dared to laugh as she spoke of soiling their name, the name of the family that had taken her in. Ever unworthy.
The red haze continued, covering her body, her face so that he found himself working harder still to achieve, to feel the feel of her flesh beneath his fists. It must have been working, driving again and again into her and finding less resistance, until finally he drew his own wand, rough-whispered a final curse, and brought the bitch to an end.
For a moment, blank silence became.
And then he began to recall himself, to stand slowly, returning. As he stood over the body, he felt at last a level stillness, and the red receded. The deed had been done, the call was gone. He threw a glance at the body, uncaring, and then stepped away. Inside. Leave this corpse, to be claimed by the grounds of his father and fathers before him. Leave for now the grounds that he had always known, now spattered with the worthless blood. Find the living family.
He found them where he had left them. As he entered, Siri leapt from her seat, throwing her arms around him before he bothered to speak. “We’ll need to do something about your robes, Willis. They’re quite covered in blood.”
Reginald had stopped pacing. “Is it done?”
“Of course it’s done,” Willis spat, then shrugged, flared irritation receding. “I’m not about to go back on my word.”
For a moment Reginald seemed ready to respond, but he simply shook his head, returned to pacing. “It appears that Siri was rather more careful than you.”
Willis turned his attention to his sister, who had taken on a sly smile. “It wasn’t much of anything. Poppy is no more a worry, though.”
“Good,” he nodded, running a hand through her hair. With the corpse’s house elf gone, there would be no one to run off, squealing the story. Willis would have liked to have announced the deed, to have told the world, but their father would want to keep this quiet. All such deeds, he had told them, should never be told, never be turned to scandal against the family. It was a shame, perhaps, but he would obey this one man and this consideration. “Father must know.”
“It was an accident,” Reginald interjected suddenly. “She met with misfortune.”
“It was nothing less than what she deserved,” he sneered, derisive. “Do you plan on lying so to Father?”
“Not at all,” the return, in a cool tone. “I know as well as you that he’d not believe it.”
“As long as we’re clear.”
“We are.”
Siri held herself closer still, her tone warmer, more distracted. “I’m glad. We’re free of her, at last.”
Reginald nodded once, then turned away, lost in whatever thoughts might have drawn his mind. He understood the situation, knew that it would fall to him to cover the mess and to take care of the body. Soon, he would attend to these matters; he was simply loath to leave, and so lingered.
Willis noticed the stains on his robes, sniffed slightly. “I was pleased to see her go.” Siri was right. He would need to have his robes cleaned, and soon.