A/N: Humbly dedicated to my
husband, who doesn’t quite understand my mania for Harry Potter, yet who still
encourages me to write about it because it makes me happy.
Borthwick Castle comes courtesy
of several biographies of Mary Stuart. I have never been there and do not
pretend to know specifics about the castle or its owners. I have used the
backdrop of Scotland in the year 1544 for this story because it suits my
purpose. Although I hold a BA in History, I plead artistic license in lieu of
historical accuracy.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own any
of the HP characters or their world (although I wish I did!); Geoffrey Gordon
is a fictional character - any resemblance he may bear to someone you know is
completely unintentional. In fact, if you know someone like him, I’d suggest
that you get a restraining order and consider hiring a bodyguard.
Swallowed
by Darkness
“I’ve been expecting you.
You’ve been watching me, waiting for the perfect opportunity to summon that
famous Gryffindor courage and pose your questions. You’re certainly observant;
not many students notice my absence from the Halloween feast year after year.
And we all know of your cleverness. But do these attributes make you a worthy
confidant? Why should I share this knowledge with you when I rarely divulge the
story of my past to my dear Ravenclaws?
No words are necessary; I can
see the answer clearly in your eyes. You too have known a bitter betrayal. You
too have known sorrow and despair and fear – they were your bedfellows.
It would appear that you and
I are kindred spirits.
Very well then, sit. Make
yourself comfortable. But remember, as someone very wise once said, ‘the
happiest people do not become ghosts.’ Remember, and consider yourself warned.”
How long
have I been here? A day, a week…a lifetime? Light does not penetrate these
thick walls so I have no means by which to measure the passage of time. The air
is close and heavy with an unpleasant, underlying scent that I cannot place,
while the darkness is a living, breathing presence, a foreboding entity
possessed of a terrible patience.
“I will
have you,” it promises silently, enfolding me in an embrace that clings like a
dank, mouldering shroud. “Eternity…oblivion…these gifts I grant once you are
mine.”
Warily I
extend my trembling hands, feeling cold, damp stones that stretch far above and
beyond my feeble reach. My fingers are rough and raw from clutching endlessly
at the impassive masonry that surrounds me, and my joints are aching and stiff
from sleeping on the unyielding floor. Slowly I rise and shuffle around the
chamber, keeping close to the wall as I count my footsteps in a futile effort
to measure the dimensions of this place. I suspect that I have already
preformed this task countless times during the length of my confinement, yet I
am compelled to do so once again.
I stumble
suddenly, falling awkwardly to my knees. The lack of food and water has left me
weak and clumsy, but did I only imagine that my foot made contact with
something? Frantically I search through the blackness for the offending object,
feeling only dirt and scattered straw beneath my swollen hands. And then,
triumphantly, my fingers close around something smooth and cool. As I puzzle
over this thing, sudden knowledge, a horrible dawning realization, breaks over
me and I begin to scream. Scream upon scream peals from my throat until I am
incapable of sound. I am surrounded by dozens, nay, hundreds of shrieking
voices, all of them mine, echoing off the walls of my prison. It is a wretched
symphony drawn from the bottomless wellspring of my terror.
I know
now…God help me, I know. A sizeable pile of human bones rests on the damp floor
beside me – a gruesome promise of the fate that will be mine. The sickly sweet
stench of human decay hangs in the air like a malevolent cloud. I am at
Borthwick…the oubliette…no one, save my husband Geoffrey, knows that I am here.
And wherever he may be I know that Geoffrey hears my cries, and he smiles.
How did
it come to this? Me, alone in the dark…desolate, forsaken, desperately trying
to persuade myself that you are not gone. You will come back. You will not
leave me here, entombed within the walls of this castle with encroaching
madness my only company as I slowly starve to death. You must come back. Even
your callousness cannot encompass the cold-blooded murder of your wife.
Was our
wedding only seven years ago? I remember it well. Heaven favored us and smiled
kindly upon our revels, bathing us in soft, golden warmth. Do you recall your
vows, spoken before God and man? You promised to cherish and protect me.
I
believed you. Your eyes, normally so shrewd and calculating, shone on me with
such love and promise. I knew a joy and contentment then that I have never
known since. As I drift through the memories of that day a growing certainty
seizes me; I saw naught in your eyes but the reflection of my own deep love for
you. How was I to know then that you would feed on that love and corrupt it, creating
something both foul and unrecognizable?
I bore
you a son…a handsome, precious child. Our son, but my child, my darling Jamie.
You were indifferent to him, excepting those times when his very presence
served to enrage you. I turned a blind eye to your behaviour – after all, some
men must grow into fatherhood. Oh, I was so foolish! Not until you extinguished
the life from his fragile little body did I realize the terrible truth: you
hated him because I loved him. You hated your son and you killed him before my
very eyes; one quick, practiced twist and his neck was broken. The moment, the
malice in your smile, seared my soul for all eternity.
You
whispered to me then of the precariousness of my position. We live in perilous
times fraught with uncertainties. The king is dead; a small daughter reigns in
his place while her French mother acts as Regent. The English invasions
devastate our country and the world is in disarray. A hint of disloyalty, a
trace of treason - who could fault a man for disposing of such a wife? Who
would dare to question my absence?
And even
now, consigned by you to this endless hell, I unwillingly admit the shameful
truth. In the deepest, most secret places of my heart a small candle still
waxes and wanes for you, Geoffrey. In this, the dark night of the soul, I bow
my head into my hands and weep.
The only
other sound in this oppressive silence is the scurrying of the rats. They grow
bold; the long, bald tail of one slithers over my slipper and my skin crawls
with revulsion. They can sense weakness and they are impatient for their next
meal. And I can only pray that a merciful God will grant me death before they
feed.
