Work Text:
We are Azkaban. Azkaban is us.
Father is Ekrizdis. Ekrizdis is father.
Father made us whole. We came to the island disparate and weak, mortal minds dressed in mortal trappings; father liberated us from our shackles.
Azkaban hungers. Father made us hungry.
He parted our souls from our flesh prisons, giving us new form. We became corporeal specters, capable of influencing the minds of men—always ravenous, we feast upon their essence.
Hungry. Always hungry.
Father blessed us with maws of death. He commands that we rend soul from body, and we oblige him. With loving care he harnesses their life force and allows us to gorge upon it.
Azkaban grows. So too does our soul-lust.
Father is not as he was. He grows demented, insisting that we cease our incessant whispering despite our enduring silence. He grows cruel, stopping the flow of people to the island which made our repast. He grows delectable, his mind offering a delicious outpouring of misery.
So very hungry.
It is with great regret that we turn father’s gifts against him. With our death maws we extract his soul, and he becomes subsumed into the whole.
We are father. Father is us.
Father hungers.