Post by fleurdelacour5787 on Jul 22, 2009 20:54:04 GMT -5
{name:Mehren Blair#|#picture:0}Hidden away in the dimly lit rooms of the house, the slight figure bent over the desk, pouring over the ancient manuscripts. Her weary eyes skimmed aged paper as she groggily rubbed them to relieve the itching hours of study had caused. She looked ill; her skin was pallid and drawn, having not seen sunlight for weeks. She'd lost weight, forgoing meals in her fervent quest for knowledge.
A crack broke the oppressive silence that permeated the curtained room as she straightened up, her back and neck voicing their complaints at the sudden movement. She let out a slight sigh as she pushed herself to a standing position to further bodily protests and moved to cross the room in which sunlight was fading fast. She lit the lamps of the house with a wave of her wand and slowly made her way down the hall and stairs, moving gingerly to avoid angering under-used muscles more than absolutely necessary.
This new hermit-like life that Mehren had adopted was far from the one she once knew in which she was the object of desire of men and women alike. Each evening brought a new and exciting affair or some new adventure in the name of the Dark Lord, Pureblood Club, or, at least, in the art of necromancy.
Since the demise of her master, she'd found little to occupy her time except her daughter. Things had seemed to change drastically for the young mother, but things had started to change recently. She'd taken up her former quest for more, and darker, knowledge than she'd acquired previously. A thirst for more power, power that even Lord Voldemort had been unable, or unwilling to provide her, had returned stronger than ever. Thus, the care of her daughter had been left largely up to the house elves or her father, when he came round.
Much of this had to do with her surroundings. Being back at Blair Manor after her time away had brought back many unbidden and unwelcome memories from her troubled childhood and hellish marriage. Even now on her way to the kitchen to see what the elves could provide to cease the hunger pains brought on by going two full days without food, memories flooded her already overloaded mind. Flashes of times long gone rolled through her mind.
She was five playing dolls with her sister Moira on the stairs while their mother looked on. Now she was six playing on a broomstick while her sister whined for a turn. In another moment, she was seven begging her father for a kitten. A memory from that same day cropped suddenly into her mind's eye; she was huddled on the stairs in her mother's arms as her father carried a mangled, bloody mass through the front door. Her crying and her mother's wails carried through the entire manor.
As present-day Mehren moved through the manor, her thoughts moved with her through the ordeal of sneaking into the cellar every night to be with Moira, the first time she'd encountered her transformed, the Death Eaters coming to call, and, finally, her murder. The pitiful, searing, cry of an eleven year old girl seemed to cross time to tear at Mehren today.
More memories came as she turned the corner toward the kitchen. The broken body of her ever-strong father lying in the hall with that of her mother close by, her arm lying at an angle that suggested her last act was to reach out to help or simply to touch her beloved husband.
She'd reached the door to the kitchen but had to lean against it for several moments, taking deep breaths, trying to compose herself before entering. She needed to be here, secluded, alone with her own demons if she was ever to move on.
A crack broke the oppressive silence that permeated the curtained room as she straightened up, her back and neck voicing their complaints at the sudden movement. She let out a slight sigh as she pushed herself to a standing position to further bodily protests and moved to cross the room in which sunlight was fading fast. She lit the lamps of the house with a wave of her wand and slowly made her way down the hall and stairs, moving gingerly to avoid angering under-used muscles more than absolutely necessary.
This new hermit-like life that Mehren had adopted was far from the one she once knew in which she was the object of desire of men and women alike. Each evening brought a new and exciting affair or some new adventure in the name of the Dark Lord, Pureblood Club, or, at least, in the art of necromancy.
Since the demise of her master, she'd found little to occupy her time except her daughter. Things had seemed to change drastically for the young mother, but things had started to change recently. She'd taken up her former quest for more, and darker, knowledge than she'd acquired previously. A thirst for more power, power that even Lord Voldemort had been unable, or unwilling to provide her, had returned stronger than ever. Thus, the care of her daughter had been left largely up to the house elves or her father, when he came round.
Much of this had to do with her surroundings. Being back at Blair Manor after her time away had brought back many unbidden and unwelcome memories from her troubled childhood and hellish marriage. Even now on her way to the kitchen to see what the elves could provide to cease the hunger pains brought on by going two full days without food, memories flooded her already overloaded mind. Flashes of times long gone rolled through her mind.
She was five playing dolls with her sister Moira on the stairs while their mother looked on. Now she was six playing on a broomstick while her sister whined for a turn. In another moment, she was seven begging her father for a kitten. A memory from that same day cropped suddenly into her mind's eye; she was huddled on the stairs in her mother's arms as her father carried a mangled, bloody mass through the front door. Her crying and her mother's wails carried through the entire manor.
As present-day Mehren moved through the manor, her thoughts moved with her through the ordeal of sneaking into the cellar every night to be with Moira, the first time she'd encountered her transformed, the Death Eaters coming to call, and, finally, her murder. The pitiful, searing, cry of an eleven year old girl seemed to cross time to tear at Mehren today.
More memories came as she turned the corner toward the kitchen. The broken body of her ever-strong father lying in the hall with that of her mother close by, her arm lying at an angle that suggested her last act was to reach out to help or simply to touch her beloved husband.
She'd reached the door to the kitchen but had to lean against it for several moments, taking deep breaths, trying to compose herself before entering. She needed to be here, secluded, alone with her own demons if she was ever to move on.