Meander Patterns

"I like to be told when it's going to hurt. It helps me to get ready for the pain.

Someone had said that to him, Remus remembers. But the thing is, he can never get ready. He can never really get used to it because pain is designed that way, he knows. The cells don't have memories, and when it comes again, it is just as raw as ever, even though he knew it was going to hurt.

But his mind is already numb. So he doesn't care. So he walks on.

It was too much like desire, the way this insatiable need burnt, incoherent and vehement. Too indolent and hidden but fervent all the same. It coerces him to go on. So he treads the snow that tastes like nothingness in his mouth, trailing behind him a path of prints that belonged to neither man nor wolf. The snowstorm feels cathartic to him because it is cold and fair. Hard, dried blood and cold snow blind his eye-all consuming. It stuns, the cold. And the wind keens in lament, he stands unmoving and lost; skyward gaze seeking a break between the clouds; when the night squalls sharp and bleak, Remus touches the hexagonal crystallites to watch them melt away -- he believes that they're beautiful.

Remus had heard something to this way, some howling, wind-whipped sound that sounded frighteningly familiar. He should've been inside his house, in front of the fireplace where it would be warm; he is outside. Wherever he is, he doesn't care, because it really -- really -- doesn't matter much.

Instincts kick in when a rustle is heard beyond the yowls, but he sees nothing so he decides that he is dreaming. He now wishes for a clearer, more navigable night.

Into the dark whispers Remus, "Lumos."

A blue, eerie light ignites, inadequate compared to the eloquent darkness. And by this glow, Remus staggers on. He knows that there is something beyond the cloaking snow, something incorrigible and dissipated. Wolf-like howls and deadening stings fill the air, and as Remus crosses the frozen river, he stops to look eastward. No moon.

Then it strikes him that something is terribly wrong.

Because the next thing he knows he is on his knees and crying. Gloved hands bury deep within the frozen snow and he barely notices the coldness because they're already senseless. Mind winding and shifting into oblivion. His wand lay ineffective beside him, tipped with a fading blue. Tears do not fall because they become part of the snowstorm and roar along with the wind. When Remus screams, it is unsatisfying. It feels like bloodlust and adrenaline; it is cadenced and mad. Even as he kneels defeated, he can hear the laughter and he screams harder. Until his throat is bruised and he can't see anything anymore.

All sounds cease because he is spent and lacklustre against the storm.

Where are you, Sirius…

And he heeds a howl that resonates, because it sounds desperately alike the dirge for a lost lover.

It is the insane loneliness all over again. Powerful and overmastering and indefensible against. Blankness meanders maze-like and he is lost between the night and the storm.