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Regulus Arcturus Black had been well-informed, from the youngest of ages, as to what defined pain.
Pain meant torture. Pain was suffering—sadistic and ceaseless. It called for lessons to be taught; mistakes that shall not be made again.
It meant: Don’t get out of bed late. Don’t get poor marks. Don’t break that vase. Don’t make common mistakes. (Don’t breathe too loud. Don’t fall in love. Don’t defy your elders. Don’t ask questions.)Pain was simple in sum: Ownership and Derogatory Submission.
Yet now—now he had stumbled upon the dignity and deities of Power: pure, raw, indomitable, transcendent.
Power was a blessing hardly harboured and well wielded. It was impressively grave and unrelenting in organic nature.Regulus Arcturus Black was more than powerful. He was more than the oversimplified ideology of Power itself. He was no puppet that would bend, bow, and bear it any longer.
No—Regulus wouldn’t let himself undergo the slightest recall of what pain felt like. Not for half a moment. Certainly not for pitiful Wix with awfully placed complexes.As for the rest of the world?
Well, they’d be lucky if he didn’t burn the whole fucking thing to ashes. -
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Ch 5
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