L'Histoire Noire

L'Histoire Noire

Prologue: To Begin with the End

Heaven from all creatures hides the book of Fate,

All but the page prescribed, their present state

-From "An Essay on Man," by Alexander Pope.

The once-noble house was no more.

Tendrils of blood still slid through the veins of wizards and witches, but the name was no more. The House of Black would no longer lend its name to new lives. Members of the family had been instrumental in shaping one of the biggest events of recent history. It was impossible to speak of any of the terrible wars without mentioning a Black in some shape, form or fashion.

A thousand moments and decisions paved the path to the House's self-destruction. The innocent and the guilty alike were ultimately responsible, the innocent proud and the guilty sorrowful. Ancient traditions and long-since abandoned practices disappear into the depths of history, hated by those who survive and forgotten by those who are dead.

But ultimately any family is formed by the people who belong to it. The Black family is like every other family, with the coveted and disliked sharing undeniable bonds and its children did it service and disservice alike. Some who bore the name had chilled their hearts 'til none could enter, and thought themselves stronger for it. Some suffered in silence and bore their pain alone, wishing for comfort but too proud to demand it. Others made their feelings and presence known in the same breath, and found no comfort in it. Some simply were.

No single word or phrase could describe the whole of the House of Black. No generalization or simplistic description could trap the essence of who the Blacks were. They were loving and they hated, were passionate and uncaring, respected and revered and infamous alike. They lived and died and loved and married and lost. They laugh and cry and hurt and bleed.

Members have been branded evildoers and fanatics. Members have lived out perfectly presentable and respectable lives. Members have martyred themselves to their cause.

Their stories can only be told individually. There are common bonds, but each person is a force unto their own. As inextricably entwined as family is, they ultimately each face life on their own terms. Their strengths and weaknesses, successes and failures are unique.

The whole is greater than the sum of the parts, true, but it is the parts that the whole is comprised of. Without them, there is no foundation for the House of Black. Without the individuals, there is no House. Without the Blacks, the name is useless.

The Blacks each have tales to be told. They are remarkable and they are mundane, and for every action expressed, for every moment immortalized, hundreds more slip past into obscurity. From the surety of the present into the fogged shades of the past, their tales scream to be told.

These are the triumphs and the failures of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. These are the people who bore the blood and the stigma of claiming the pure Black ancestry.

Toujours pur, this is the Black family.