All Good Things Must End PV closed

@Thomas Lestrange

Disclaimer/Warning

Reducio

The text in the right alignment is herself in her own head. Not anyone or anything else.
This is something that showcases intrusive thoughts including heavy subjects such as death. Which is in relation to her being a changeling and knowing she might die. If this is something that you are sensitive to you please do not read this thread.

A tattered web of attempted stability was being weaved and tangled in her attempts to latch onto the last things that grounded her. Tending to the wounded, duelling, classes, and anything else that kept her away from the things she really needed. People. No one was excluded from her forced desire to isolate herself. Her duelling team was probably feeling the weight of her silence. She had forsaken most of her friends, pushed away from the two people who developed feelings for her, and what was left? What else could she touch and destroy, claiming it was more for their own good in the end?

The question of what else she could destroy answered itself as he entered, allowing the storm clouds hanging over his head to meld with hers. A warm-blooded front colliding with arctic drifts provides the only logical solution. The only thing that could tear them apart. A hurricane of their own creation and not a small one that died down the moment it hit land. This storm had been brewing for over a year now, a steady slow burn that continued to build up and up until one of them threw open the flood gates, and now that he had, she was ready to uproot trees and throw the bricks she had carefully laid.

She felt his energy before she heard him; she always knew when he was around, they had bonded after all. Made each other promises that they would never lie to each other in a room lit from behind red acetate and lightning strikes. She had seen more in him than anyone else and was willing to cut through his bullshit instead of feed into it. She had seen the true heart that lay in his chest instead of the monster he had been cursed to be… And today. Today it would all be thrown away. Welcome to the eye of the storm.



He did not hesitate in breaching her personal space while she was in a duelling stance, and any casting of a spell with him so close would put him in danger and yet…“Ventus.” The monotone oozed as if black oil dribbling out from between her lips. The wind jinx flew forward with an imposing force, and midway to its target, it split the second gale hitting a training dummy a few feet behind and to its right. She did not celebrate the coveted split. Only closed her eyes for a second, and when they reopened, they were looking in his direction without moving her face. “You are one to talk about being alive.” More of the same oil spill leaving her lips. He held a letter out, her letter; she would not take it, nor would she move to take the locket. “If I had wanted to say anything to your face, it would have been impossible. You were in New Romney, not at school. I do not know what letter you are talking about I only wrote you about school stuff and Erin.” A blatant and by her own handwriting an obvious lie. She always thought he would be the one to break their pact, but in the end it would be her. Something that surprised even herself.



“Or did you forget that I was sending you homework because you were not sure that you would even be able to come back.” She looked away from him, not wanting to remember what she thought were good times between them. Maybe she had just been delusional… Did she matter so little to him? That she wasn’t worth an ounce of effort? She had chosen wrong in the best friend department and what bit her more was that Vladimir had been right. He had warned her to stay away from Lestrange warned her that something would happen and here it was. Too little too late, but the advice would be followed now.


Santario took a deep breath and turned toward him. Usually, bright sapphire eyes were more of a dull gray, but they cut just as deep as they glared up at him, a stark contrast to her tone of voice. “I do not know what you and Bridget had to talk about. I told her I had lost my locket and if she found it, give it to you or Percival if she could not find me. After stage one of dueling, I asked her about it, so I knew you were back. You seem pissed, so obviously, you decided to look inside of it, and honestly, I have no time or desire to humor any jealous male peacocking. You can set it down and just leave.” She made no other movement to take it from him, instead directing him to put it on the ground. It was almost as if she couldn’t bear the thought of touching it or, perhaps, accidentally touching him. For the longest time, the boy who had been a source of strength was now only a source of pain. Even if most of it was her own doing.

This trending altercation was not assembled over a few days, as few are. Lestrange provided a series of pointed reasons for his vexation. He stood here today for her, and his return to the castle met with a cold shoulder. Yet his expectations for meeting his abandonment with understanding was sparsely considered by the boy. Having left her out of the loop regarding his father’s entity. Nor offering an apology for the night he snapped, insinuating she carried no differences to the many posing minds. A facade of a helping hand that disguised a self-serving intention to be involved.

Santario was different, and Thomas knew it. Yet fearful to embrace his faults, mind hardened in the brewing distrust for his family. His mother’s honor having fallen to the level of the many, no longer an individual representation of those he would claim to love. Santario’s distance was a product of his decisions, yet a resentful mind would distort the truth to serve his amour propre–as Santario may refer to it.

Yet the exchange of owls through the early months of the school year implied no hard feelings over these aforementioned tough conversations between the pair. A new malediction warped the once cherishing friendship. Engulfing the cherished moments into a grim blur, a bed of lies. Hardly the truth, but the perception of a one Thomas Lestrange rarely embraced things for what they are. Having been tampered with, strung along with promises of truth that never came to fruition. Until, the news of his father’s life was introduced as fact. And the boy would react as many might expect, rank with denial.

Such hypocrisy, truth was invariably the driving force for the boy’s three odd years at the castle. At times inspiring admirable qualities, courageous and decisive. Able to achieve whatever was placed in the sights of his mind. Yet in one swift stroke, he would cast this decaying drive in exchange for self-pity.

The only light of retrieval he intended to end today. Santario Martin’s greatest gift to Thomas Lestrange was imploring an inward view, to accept his feelings for what they are. She held the shield to his sword, as he fought away through the once harrowing reputation. Yet the insecurities that were built that evening, when she opted for questions about his past over his present health, assisted in producing an anxious line of thought: She was only invested in him for his story.

Thomas found her side in the midst of a spell casted towards a training dummy. His eyes would follow the spell as a sharp cut pierced the dummy, separated sections of the torso left collapsing towards the stone floor. The boy subdued a dazzled stare for her aptitude with a wand. Quickly forgoing any remnants of admiration when she would not even turn to face him. A position that solidified her dwindling care. “As if I didn’t write to you.” Swiftly countering the barb, the boy took slow horizontal steps until he stood between her and a once unsathed training dummy.

Either reckless or stupid, to stand between a duellist and her target. Yet such was the definition of Lestrange when allowing his emotions to drive his choices. “I was at your duel, I know you saw m–” Thomas huffed, stopping himself from the circular argument that ensued. Not one to engage in meaningless debates, the purpose for this interaction was simple, and he would address it as such.

“Don’t make this about Gray, it’s not.” Yes, the choice of Gray over Thomas in her locket left its own independent sting. Yet with context, the boy would come to accept the arrival of another close friend, knowing full well it was not his place to dictate her company. Far more pressing was her dissociative status, furthered by either neglect, or impairment of her memory.

”Lost it? Bridget said you gave it to her, to give to me.” His tone now underlined with confusion for her position. “So you did not write it. You did not give the locket to Bridget. You did not see me at your duel.” Thomas’ eyes flickered to the parchment, a frenzied panic of words that insinuated she was far from herself. The image before him solidified this thought, a shadow of the girl he once knew. “I never thought you to be a liar– I know your handwriting. Unless you mean to say someone posed as you…to bring me…here.” Any remnants of anger would dissipate with a self-proposed revelation. That Santario was an instrument of his repercussions. After all, his abandonment would not only affect Santario. Never left to pay for his slights at his coven.

”Who are you?” A silly question, one she would likely deflect. Santario’s erratic behavior is reminiscent of Erin Ryan, a sickness he has witnessed before. ”What is this?” His grip tightened on the letter, shaking it between them. The urgency breached his tone, lips pressed together after he spoke with the typical piercing eyes that implied contemplative thought.

Assuming Thomas would not receive direct answers to the questions he asked, the boy shifted to methods that may inspire her awakening. "Very well, you do not want it." The boy held the locket high above his visage, viewing its delicate twirl, gleaming in the light. His gaze fell upon Santario, in a careless nature he would let it fall to the ground.

@Santario Martin

Your call on the damage done to the locket.

@Thomas Lestrange

He moved himself between her and her target an unwise decision as her wand lowered, perhaps, too slowly. Her eyes were level with his chest, considering the one thing Lestrange always had on her was his physical prowess. The fourteen-year-old was lean, but muscle was there like a swimmer’s build, unlike Santario, who was lithe like a dancer but not nearly strong enough to take on Lestrange physically. Her eyes slowly raised from his chest up to his face, landing on his ever-familiar visage.

She was conflicted. The real Santario wanted to tell him to shut up and hug him. He was her best friend; he was irreplaceable, and regardless of who else was in her life, Thomas was her most significant source of strength when she found she was lacking. Even now, seeing him gave the real Santario hope, a reason to fight what was happening to her. Not that she would ever be successful. She could only do so much, and it would never be enough.

Unfortunately, Santario was not in control. He was not looking down into the sharp, intelligent sapphire eyes of the friend he had come to know better than anyone else. No one knew her like he did, which is why what he could see even closer now would be shocking. Her face remained passive, but her eyes the dulled blue grey a shell of who she used to be. What filled the vessel was not the Santario he knew and cared about; it was rage. Pure rage.

She let him speak and allowed him to throw his primarily correct accusations. When he dropped her locket, Santario stood up straighter the way purebloods were taught to stand when dealing with someone inferior. The delicate silver would clatter to the floor, causing the hinge to break, popping the locket open, allowing both photos to be seen as it lay on the ground. Nothing that could not be fixed with a repair spell. Santario’s heartbeat was hard in her chest, flooding her system with adrenaline as she kept her eyes on Thomas’s face.



“Are you quite finished?” The words dripped like monotone sludge from her tongue, no hint of the rage that burned behind her eyes on her lips. “First of all, I never said I did not see you at my duel, so do not dare to put words into my mouth.” A short exhale of breath through her nose, a sardonic chuckle, the rest of his questions would be ignored. What would come next were the hazardous winds of the hurricane ready to rip their house from its foundation. Her face no longer remained passive but slowly formed the rage to match her eyes.

“Vladimir was right. He always said you would find a way to hurt me and that I should distance myself from you. I told him he was wrong on many occasions because I held loyalty to you. Yet… Here you are. What I have done I have always done for you. I stopped thinking about myself and only thought of you and your needs. Curing you, setting you free from your curse. Anything to give you a better chance at a happy life. You say Gray has nothing to do with it, but you are a liar. Because someone could have feelings for me, you are breaking my things? Sure, my happiness is selfish. I do not deserve it, and I will not live long enough to enjoy it. That is guaranteed. The clock and I have never been friends; it is a constant reminder in my head.” When she mentioned a clock, her whole body tightened for just a moment. “I never needed you in my life, but I did want you there.”

Santario took a significant step away from him, enough of a measure that she didn’t risk too much blowback if she decided to cast at him though her wand remained by her side. “After everything you did to me. STILL, I remained loyal TO YOU!” As more adrenaline-filled her the way a wildfire consumes a forest, she started to tremble and breath heavier. “The night I helped you in Professor Jensen’s office. Even after what you said to me. I stayed with you ALL NIGHT! You NEVER apologized, and we stayed at a distance for an entire year. AN ENTIRE YEAR THAT I NEVER STOPPED TRYING TO BREAK YOUR STUPID FUCKING CURSE.” She was getting so uncontrolled that tears of anger welled up in her eyes as she spit her contempt at him. “And what do you do?” She motioned to her locket on the ground as her wand raised, pointing at his chest, her head shaking slowly from side to side. “I am done being hurt by you. Just leave Lestrange. Just…. Leave. Please.”

The word please was unlike the rest of what she said. It was a sorrowful pleading with the only strength she had left. The real Santario would have allowed her truths to remain dead and buried. She never wanted to confront him about the hurt he had caused her, but the changeling had other ideas. The changeling wanted to hurt Thomas Lestrange because isolation was the key to success in all good toxic relationships. If it could make her lose Thomas, it would eat her alive and make her complicit in her situation. She had asked him for help the only way she could while she could. No longer herself, she could not help him anymore; the change wouldn’t allow it. The slugs were all about self-preservation, and they had no ties to Thomas or anyone else for that matter. They did not care about her or her friendships she was, but a transformative vessel secured to continue their race. The collateral damage meant nothing to them but fueled their hunger to be.