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Paladin of Darkness

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White paste upon his lips, both of them withered to crinkled versions of what they should be. The corners of his mouth ache with his room swallowing yawn, the skin made less flexible by dryness. Freaks throat feels dry and sore; every lungful of hot air robs more water from my body. There is a pain at the back of his head that threatens to grow into a powerful migraine. It was a burn that didn't go away but instead grew steadily stronger and harder to ignore as the day went on.

Freak peered out through the vent of its cupboard, watching in mild interest as Aunt collected the mail from the mat. She sorted through it absently as she wandered back to the dining room where Uncle and Cousin were devouring their breakfast.

Freaks stomach snarled and howled and from it came the not-so-subtle undertone of pain. It came in waves and it seemed as though his stomach was slowly digesting itself. Freak clutched at it, pulling it this way and that in an attempt to silence it but to no avail. It cried even louder, it was a slow pain, eating away at his stomach and leaving Freak feeling drained and empty. Water was a wishful dream and food was a concept not even worth the effort of hoping for.

Freak could smell the aroma of the cooking, a meal he'd never be able to eat through the pain that cut each breath short. Freaks belly rumble loudly.

Loud enough for the Dursleys to hear. Almost immediately his cousin began winning about how Freak was disturbing him. Freak was immediately subjected to his Uncles glaze.

The way his eyes squinted when he glared at him reminded him of a pit viper's slit-like pupils. Freak gulped nervously. A burning animosity was developing in his Uncles brown orbs, and he could tell he was likely gonna get it. It promised pain.

The color drained from Freaks face, white as a sheet, he's rooted to the spot, frozen, clammy, cold sweat running down his forehead, unable to control his trembling body, wide-eyed, edging backward, hands clenched, white knuckles, heart pounding, too scared to comprehend.

Freak hid, quaking and sweating with fear as his Uncles boots creaked the floorboards. Tears streamed silently down his face as the footstep grew closer and closer.

Trapped. No way out. Freak frantically searched for something, anything, a crevice, a seal.

Freak whispering to the wind: Please. Please no.

But his silent prayer went unheard as the door swung open.

“Tut tut, I did warn you. Now, look what you've gone and made me do...”

At once her neck and head became rigid, frozen. Freak felt her head being turned to the door, the door became a wall. His hand hit and Freak fell with the force of it.

“Now, pay attention, my boy, we have a game to play. The stakes are high, they always are...”

Though his hand was empty, it was like being hit with a hunk of meat nonetheless and afterward Freak would endure his words of hatred, all spilling from a man that was supposed to be family.
A searing shot of pain ran up the young boy’s body, a scream escaping his pale lips as the devastating sounds bounced off the living room's walls. A man sat opposite the weeping boy, an iron fire poker by his side. His hands were firmly clasped under his chin, a gleeful grin stretched across his face. The man didn't seem at all bothered by the screams that came from his victim. If anything, he seemed amused by his pain. His stony brown eyes stared down at the twitching body before him as if he were inspecting a freshly plucked turkey, all ready to go into the oven. The flames that licked up the sides of the fireplace reflected off the beads of sweat that had settled on the boy's forehead.

The boys’ agony was his entertainment.

At first, there was guilt, an attempt to stop, but soon he gave way, realizing how much he enjoyed beating his fists into the boys' skin. With every hit, he felt a cold zing of delight, a buzz he could get no other way.

After a time, his screams had subsided and his tormentor had grown bored with his silence. Sending a single kick to his stomach, the man stood and left, but not without giving one last lingering glance to the boy.

All Freak could do is writhe, the occasional whimper escaping that echoed off the walls. The pain is increasing in waves, small lulls giving false hope of an end.

In his very short life, eleven-year-old Freak has only known pain. For as long as he could remember, he was constantly yelled at, punished, left alone, starved and beaten by his aunt, uncle, and cousin.

Freak lays there for what seems like hours, barely keeping in suppressed screams, blood seeping beneath his skin, ribs fractured. There would be no doctor, no evidence. Though silent sobs slip past his lips. His vision swam, and black spots fit his vision. Nails digging into his palm piercing his skin and coating them in blood. He clenched his teeth, trying not to scream. It was too much. Blackness came with such completeness it obliterated the memory of the day that had just been.

Chapter Text

Every night it was the same. The inside-out-man would rap on the walls and shake the doors before shimmying up the drainpipe and climbing in the open sash window. He would creep from room to room looking for me, calling my name. The eventually I'd be found, trembling under a blanket. He'd raise a silver dispenser of inside-out powder over my head and shake.

Freak would wake up before he could kill him. But Freak could still feel the presence of the chilling knife around his throat, digging deeper into him. It's sharp edges running around his smooth skin ready to pierce. Freak could hear his heavy breathing and the sweat from his forehead was enough to fill an entire bottle and the pounding of his heart in the throat. It was only a nightmare.

Darkness was normally a comfort for Freak. Darkness means that danger was not here, that peace had arrived. After calming down, Freak registered the sharp pain going through his body. His arm was wrong, he could feel the burns and the stings, it was not right. Checking his body, Freak discovered so was his ribs he could feel them poking out. The rest of his body was hurt and sore as well, but normal cuts and bruises didn't concern him anymore.

No one would come, Freak knew this. People didn't help those without names, people didn't even feed things like him if they could help it. But he wished, he craved someone to take the pain away. The darkness used to be an ally, but right now it just helped him feel alone and scared and hurt. Freak stared into the dark, unable to see, and but this pain was not the same, it was immediate and unforgiving. So he focused and tried to push the pain away, from his world, from the dark.

This kind of thick silence would normally chill Freak, especially on an inky night devoid of even moonlight or stars, but tonight it works like a salve. Freak could feel it. The more absolute it is the stronger its medicinal effect.

Freak began to feel as though energy is being constantly drained out of him. Freak raised his already blanched hand to his stomach before letting fall back to the injury, eyes wide. His fingers clamped over the wound, growing paler by the second. The blood flowed thickly over his fingers, warm. The violent red stained his shaking hands.

Struggling to stay awake, Freak feels this blackness come over him. Like a blanket, but not a blanket of warmth but a blanket of coldness making him shiver. But somehow it's making his eyes feel heavier and heavier. Finally, he gives up and closes his eyes sending him into a dreamless sleep.
Unknown to Freak, a popping sound is heard and something appears beside him. The wildly dressed elf bounces around wildly yelling loudly. An House-elf who is wearing a short sleeved, hide jacket covers that him to just above his waist and is buttoned up completely at the top right side. The sleeves of his jacket are wide and reach down to below his hands, they're decorated with several thread linings at the sleeve ends.

The jacket has a narrow, rectangular neckline which reveals part of the luxurious shirt worn below it and is worn with a large cloth belt, which is held together by an ornate pin. The cloth belt is slightly decorative, but mostly there to hang things from.

The House-elf’s pants are simple and quite wide and reach down to his hard leather boots. The boots are made from a fairly rare leather, but are otherwise a design found commonly.

"Sirs! Master wants Blot to deliver a letter to yo-” The House-elf gasps staring blankly at the little body with wide, horrific eyes.

Against the dirty mattress, the blood trail was stark. Small droplets had tumbled and spread into the gray/white making arcs of scarlet. Blot looked down at the footprints, staggering back at the sight of the red liquid on the floor.

Quickly Blot swooped like a hen-hawk and disappeared with the little body, hoping the little Sirs was still alive.