The taste of death

Antonin Dolokhov is a limp body that performs the functions and tasks of its former owner. Still satisfying its basic needs, still bowing its head politely at the sight of the Dark Lord, still swallowing the burning throat of the firewhisky from the throat and allowing you to use your body like a Muggle robot programmed for boundless cruelty. He is the best fighter of his master, cannon fodder and the most valuable ally at the same time, an important part of their awful society of bastards and an ordinary soldier who can be used up if badly needed. Once he was an impeccable execution of orders, a crazy grin, squinting sideways and the soul turned wide open, now he is a rusted detail of a torture machine, the significance of which in the overall picture is not significant at all. Antonin is inexorably aging, and the years spent in Azkaban do not help a bit. He is shell—shocked, half-dead, half-alive, rotting from the inside and slowly disintegrating into molecules and atoms. He is a walking corpse with sunken eyeballs and a body so emaciated that all the ribs can be counted on the fingers. He is a chain dog, hit in the face by the owner's boot. He is a bundle of malice. He is a concentrated apathy. After Azkaban, it is returned to the leg. Antonin does not complain — he eats regularly three times a day, sleeps in a clean and comfortable bed, holds a wand in his hands for the first time in fourteen years in captivity, and he even seems to be appreciated. The lord expects from him the contentment of a cat who, after the eternal frosty winter, was taken into the house, warmed, washed and fattened, but Antonin, perhaps, never wanted to die like this before. The feeling that their whole struggle is not for ideals, but for the pride and vanity of their leader, suffocates. Antonin feels himself drowning in a pool of senseless bloodshed. At night he hears the people he killed screaming in their death throes. In all reflective surfaces, he sees innocent and wide-open eyes of children begging for mercy for their mothers who are pressing them to their breasts. Closing his eyes, he feels the ghosts of his victims driving their claws under his skin, as they whisper forbidden thoughts to him and squeeze his barely beating, frost-covered heart in his bony fingers. He does not ask for mercy and is not preparing to smash his forehead on the floor at an audience with the Almighty, begging forgiveness for all his sins. He is preparing to be punished, and hopes that all those who, in the name of the monster, did not disdain to leave defenseless children orphans will be punished. Antonin is standing on the bridge. Absolutely reckless, because he is a wanted criminal, whose distraught face is hanging on literally every corner. Catch if you want to. The black expanse below beckons, fascinates with its indifferent incomprehensibility, cold disregard, its monstrous magnetism. She stretches out her icy, slimy tentacles to him, possessively envelops him and strives to plunge into herself. The darkness beneath him is moving — she dances and nibbles the bones of those who have already succumbed to temptation, laughs gaily and devours another fool who has fallen for the myriad stars in her black, button eyes. She screams his name. Antonin covers his ears — her rustling voice breaks through the thick water with which he has surrounded himself, and he feels a tear roll down his rough, battle-scarred and shaving, whitish cheek. For the first time in twenty years. He looks up at the sky, not even trying to restrain himself. He forbade himself to feel half his life, why is he obliged now, actually standing a step away from his own death? Antonin grunts and the corners of his lips creep up cheerlessly — he feels the skin, which has long lost its elasticity and healthy color, tighten. He feels his heart begin to dance, beating a rhythm consisting purely of sixteenth notes. He feels dizzy and his legs come to a jelly-like state. He hardly takes out a cigarette from a full pack, and tremors cover his hands. After a while, he notices that he is shaking completely, as if he had a bad cold and even under ten blankets felt every inch of his body trembling. Ignoring the difficulty that has arisen, Antonin squeezes a cigarette in his teeth and, striking a lighter, sets it on fire. The smoke shamelessly bursts into the lungs, leaving a trail of nicotine on them, making them feel full, even for such a short time. He throws his head back, exhaling smoke. A gray cloud rises above him, diluting the boundless blue of the night sky, which quietly shared his joyless fate. It was as if, realizing his uselessness in this world, he approached something ... on a larger scale, merged with nature, feeling every breath of wind, as if he himself was a maple leaf blown up by his chaotic gusts. Footsteps are heard from behind and the bridge is illuminated by a lumos. Antonin irritably pulls the air with his nose and throws the cigarette down, immediately trampling it with the sole. — Antonin Dolokhov? — the voice of some self-confident brat is heard. Dolokhov winces as if from a toothache and raises his hands up, as if preparing to be arrested. Aurors. Another hemorrhoid. He turns to the youngster with an ironic smile, still holding his hands up and noticing all the seriousness written on the face of the ministerial puppy. And the badge on his chest. Next to him is a second, stronger and stockier, but also not causing concern. Dolokhov's grin twists sideways, and his long-extinct eyes squint in a mocking expression. He is practically trembling from how close death was and how unfortunate the circumstances were. Well, today he will still be the personal Cerberus of the Lord of Death and make these bastards fight in agony. And tomorrow... tomorrow, perhaps, he will hang himself with his only tie. The Dark Lord's personal executioner raises his magic wand and drowns in flashes of curses for the last time.