Seven Devils - Ursula

Life was not easily adjusted to in this post-Epidemic world. Rabastan felt unlike himself. He thought this must be what it is like to lose a limb. You know in your mind it is gone—but sometimes you still feel it there…sometimes you still go to reach with that hand that has been severed. He well knew, of course, that his magic was gone. That he could not cast… He knew that. He had accepted it with the logic in his mind.

But still—instinct won out and his hand would go up, a motion would be made without thought or hesitation…and then he would realize what he was doing. A wave of judgment would come over him and he would feel foolish. He would feel the loss of his magic again, poignantly. It was crippling sometimes, to his psyche. He had been wandless for so long. Decades and decades, Rabastan had been able to perform magic at his whim. He had not been bound to a conduit. He was above that restriction, removed from it.

Now, though, he was impotent…magically speaking of course.

The Lestrange tried to remain hopeful. He tried to believe that a cure would be found…a remedy for this sickness that had taken so much from so many. He knew efforts were being made. He was making them himself. Researching in old necromantic texts and writing to necromancers all across the planet, none had been able to help him. Not really. They were all fascinated by the concept. Many wanted bodies to examine…but of course, corpses could not be sent out of the country. No one living or dead could leave the United Kingdom. The state of emergency saw to that.

Rabastan did not know how long Andromeda could really keep everyone here. There were always ways to escape if one was willing to risk enough. And then what? What if this sickness spread to the world? What if magic died everywhere?

He could not dwell on those sorts of thoughts. They were too despairing for him. He had let some of his emotional turmoil on the issue show to his mistress. Anya was useful in that, among other things, of course… but it was good for a man to have somewhere to lay down his armor and be weak. It was easier to do so with her, since she was a halfblood—and loyal to him. He did not feel judged in her presence. He did not feel expectations there. Not like with Athena.

Things with Athena were war and games. They were politics and doubled edged swords. Words with multiple meanings layered over one another with novels written in the blank space of silence for those keen to read between the proverbial lines. It was fun, yes…but tiresome, too. Was it a life he wanted? Where comfort had to be sought outside the marital bed? Was that to be expected in a purist pairing? He did not see such a relationship between his brother and his wife. But Rodolphus had always had more than Rabastan. Why would now be any different?

It was as pointless to dwell on those lines of thought—as it was to ponder what might happen if the epidemic spread like a plague over the planet. It was better to give himself over to what could be mastered and understood. Which was why he had come to the Coffin House—the necromantic arts were more than spells and magic. A great deal of work on the topic was completing translations and cross-referencing ancient tomes against one another to gain understanding.

It felt good, too, to be at the shop—to work—to speak to others about his passion. He was still a master necromancer, even if he could not cast a spell. The knowledge and expertise he had gathered over a lifetime was not lost to this sickness. There was still not many alive—and certainly none here in the United Kingdom who knew more about this dark art than he. So, there was a bolstering of his ego to be here— it was good for him. So, he came. He gave advice. He answered questions. He reveled in the praise and appreciation he received from others who pursued knowledge and understanding of the workings of Death.

Russian words were whispered softly from his lips as he worked over a letter received from a comrade in the far away tundra. Rabastan tended to speak when he read words written in something other than his native tongue. Not loudly, of course, but softly—the speaking of the words letting his mind work over their meaning. It surely spoke to something about how he learned—a topic that had likely been covered years ago when he was studying psychiatry at Lukfin, but that lesson had long been lost to memory now.

The tinkle of the bell at the door did not draw him from his task, perhaps it should have…a better shopkeeper would have addressed the customer. But Rabastan did not worry about sales or customer service. His operation appealed to a very niche market. They would come to him because they had need of him or his wares. He did not have to seek out patronage. It helped, too, that he had no need of the funds that this place earned. If it was never profitable, he was not fussed. That was not the purpose of owning and operating the shop. It was a duty, almost—a responsibility to keep the necromantic arts growing and flourishing in the United Kingdom.

He did put down the parchment, though, when his name was called. A smile came over his features at the voice who searched for him. Rabastan was quite fond of Ursula le Fay. She was one he was pleased to mentor. The witch had shown herself to be quite the necromancer—with quite the curiosity and cleverness. Her questions were always though provoking and it was something of an understatement to say that Rabastan was intrigued by her. The woman’s loveliness did not escape his notice. She was beautiful. Extremely so—and he was a warm blooded man, after all. Though he believed her beauty could have been easily appreciated by a vampire just the same as he enjoyed it.

Rabastan rose from the stool he had perched upon and circled round the counter, moving between shelves to see where Ursula had been drawn to today. “Ursula,” he greeted when his eyes fell on her. The lengths of her bare legs in that black dress coaxed his gaze down. Pale eyes migrated to the ground and then back up to the woman’s face. The appreciation in his look was not lewd or degrading, simply appreciative. The wizard moved closer, brushing his lips against the woman’s cheek—one and then the other, in French tradition. He was a Lestrange, after all.

“How are you? Still well, I hope.” The Le Fay had not been struck down by the Epidemic last they had spoken. He hoped that was still true. He did not wish this loss on anyone…well, perhaps the Order and muggleborns, but really for the muggleborns it would just be a return to what they should have always been. For the most part, he did not think on how to give the sickness to anyone else. He was far too preoccupied with how to rid himself of it.

another lbd | OUTFIT | 1223