Chapter 251: The Event On The Horizon (1/2)
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The link is also in the synopsis.
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The evening moon rose in the blue sky, ushering in the time of night, tugging the cover off from over the arrays of stars, revealing all the constellations that peered down on the mortals of the world. But in a clearing by the woods, away from the excitement of the city — bright flashing lightbulbs strobing all around like a disco ball in an eighties nightclub, ushering a different sort of zest and zeal.
A gigantic multi-colored sign lined with bulky tinted lightbulbs hung on two beams under which people walked past from a put-up stall with bored attendants talking to each other while stamping tickets to a cityside carnival.
People with families, friends, or their lovers on dates entered the beat-down grounds, occasionally housing the visiting carnivals and concerts. The music climbed louder, recorded clown laughter cackled through speakers, and the melodies of children's joy as some ran around with carnival food in hand while others rode on the chugging motor powering the rides.
Outside the raucous circus establishment, near a growth of trees that cast ghastly shadows under the weightless moonlight, space itself twisted and turned like being sucked through a tube before the one by one, the fabric of space spat out people dressed in black robes with air popping loudly, but only to be drowned out by the loud circus music.
In a few seconds, twenty people stood blending in the shadows, all looking at the inviting put-together fairgrounds of wood and metal with life thrumming with vigor.
”I can almost taste it,” said the woman with thick, shining dark hair, long eyelashes, and heavily hooded eyes, ”the joy, the delight, ah, it's almost palpitating,” she stuck out tongue as if wanting to taste the emotions.
Bellatrix Lestrange's companions turned their eyes hidden beneath their masked faces to the woman, many wondering how the woman could descend further into madness; she had been twisted as writhing horrors behind her once great beauty — but that was Azkaban for you, it never failed to leave its taint on its guests, and Bellatrix had stayed long enough to call it her home.
She cackled, her body shivered, and her shoulder involuntary twitched as she turned to a robed matchstick figure standing in the middle of the groups, a hood covering the bowed head that sat upon a slouched back.
”Rivers!” Bellatrix called as she hopped to him like a schoolgirl. ”So what do you have planned today? Tell meee~! I. Am. So. Looking. To. Having. Some. Fun. Tonight!”
Rivers looked at the crazy woman swaying her waist in front of him as her curls bounced from shoulder to shoulder. How had it come to this? How was he roped into this?
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- (Scene Break: Flashback) -
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Rivers had heard tales about Azkaban and its notorious jailers, but never could he have realized that hallowed eyes and depressed voices couldn't even scratch the surface of the realities of the most harrowing prison on living lands.
Being imprisoned in a shoddy excuse of a room — something that even by the most losest of the standards couldn't be called a jail room. Floors and walls seeping with moisture from the surrounding sea kept the cell uncomfortably wet all around the year; the days and days he had spent trapped not being able to find a dry spot to rest with the crazy screams, crying, and the woman's laughter ringing in his ears had driven him longing for the simple bed back home — he would even beg for the cold wood floor, or anything as long as it was dry.
Then there was the chilling abrasive air coming from the barred window that scraped the skin, leaving it cold and raw. He and the prisoners were given an old matty blanket with a thick weave that did a poor job of keeping anyone warm — but that was a negligible problem when the only cover he had gotten wet like everything else.
The food was always cold mush that had left his teeth without exercise for years, and the water was limited, hastily thrown down their gullet by the Aurors who were always in a hurry to get out of the Dementor's sight that always stared at them from under their robes as if the Aurors were fresh, juicy prey.
No one talked in Azkaban. There was plenty of screaming, crying (and the woman's laughter) but never any talking.
Rivers hadn't minded it when he had newly arrived, but as the days passed by and the Dementors gathered around in his cell for a mint meal every day for weeks, he hoped someone would tell him that there was a way to escape the daily nightmare, but no one spoke a word — even after he called and cried for someone, anyone — no one spoke — not even an ”It's no use,” that he had read in the books.
Rivers had soon come to realize that in Azkaban, there was no hiding from the Dementors. As long one stayed in the fortress, they were nothing more than feeding beds for the hooded monstrosities.
As long as they stayed.
He couldn't lie if he hadn't thought of breaking out, but those mentations were squashed by his own hard logic. He wasn't a magical savant; neither he possessed a crew of minions for a breakout, nor could he assemble one — the people had long lost hope; he lacked leverage that would make the Aurors for him.
In short, there was no way out for him.
'Without help,' Rivers thought bitterly, 'I can't get out of here.'
Then the walls of hell broke open, and his face was hit by cold rain and windy gusts after years. He was so thirsty that he stuck out his tongue and let the raindrops hit his tongue — it felt heavenly.
It must be a dream, he had thought. But then he realized why the damned woman had been laughing for so long.
Before his mental faculties could catch up, he was dragged out of his cell. They, whoever they were, didn't technically drag him out; they didn't even touch him — magic lifted him off from the ground, and he was flown through what he inferred as corridors, he had only vaguely seen them only once when he was brought in, but at that time, he was taken by the sight of the doomed prisoners without light in their eyes.
Soon he was out of the fortress, just like that. He was out of the prison; he had spun his brain into hopelessness by thinking on how to escape — but here he was, seeing the moon without the rusted black iron bars in his way.
'It's raining,' he thought, but the shower wasn't falling on him — it was perfect.
”Rivers Lock.”
For a second, there was no reaction from Rivers; it had after all been so long that he had been called by his name — he was always Prisoner — no guard had called him by his name, he doubted they even knew about it.
”Rivers Lock.”
Rivers finally weakly lifted his thin neck up and fronted his gaunt face to the caller. In the weak light of the pouring and thundering rain, Rivers couldn't see the face; all he could see was a short and thin man dressed in heavy robes.
”It's nice to finally meet you after so long,” said the man, ”though I wished it would've been in better circumstances,” Rivers could feel the man's eyes looking all over him, ”hmm, your condition doesn't seem to be great,” and he said it like it was surprising
How dare this man say that and have the nerve to be surprised, he thought. Rivers was sure this man was some sort of pampered imbecile who hadn't tasted a day of hardship.
Rivers growled at the man, but all that came out was a frail groan from his unused voice box, and his neck couldn't keep his head up, and it fell back down.