(no subject)
Scorpius had stumbled across Father’s mask when searching for pictures of his mum. He hadn’t known her, hadn’t ever seen a picture of her (and sometimes he heard whispers from the portraits about her, about the strangeness of his birth, the purity of blood), and he felt starved for her.
Instead of finding her (he imagined she’d be blonde and beautiful, and warm and caring, and that she loved him), he found Father’s white mask, poised as it was in its sick manic grin. He had lifted it to his face, imagining the years before his birth, and breathed in the stale scent of blood.
For that moment, he stopped dreaming of his mother and instead wondered about the remnants of power he felt infused within the cold white mask. In that moment, he dreamt of conquering (his mother’s) death.
Instead of finding her (he imagined she’d be blonde and beautiful, and warm and caring, and that she loved him), he found Father’s white mask, poised as it was in its sick manic grin. He had lifted it to his face, imagining the years before his birth, and breathed in the stale scent of blood.
For that moment, he stopped dreaming of his mother and instead wondered about the remnants of power he felt infused within the cold white mask. In that moment, he dreamt of conquering (his mother’s) death.