He wanted it. Wanted so badly to be the one the Dark Lord really valued; wanted so badly to be the one he really trusted. He wanted to be important for once, to have a real role. A vital role.
It was nearly time. Darkness had gradually fallen from dusk, and the night was now illuminated by the scattering of twinkling stars, and the pale glow of the crescent moon far above. The cemetery reeked of the dead; the musty smell of damp soil saturated the air as dark steam rose from the magnificent cauldron set in front of the largest grave.
Tonight was his chance, his one opportunity. He could do this; and turn everything around. He could do this, and the Dark Lord would be powerful again. Powerful enough to give him glory.
It was time, and a sudden flash of light struck the centre of the yard as two boys fell to the ground; clutching a large golden cup.
He could do this. He had killed before, and now he had nothing to lose. What did he care about the insignificant life of a minor? What did he care, as long as he’d have glory. Killing the boy was mandatory; a necessity; part of his task.
He would do it soon. Do it before the traitors returned; those who had long abandoned their Master and now sought to return to their shelters under his shadow. They would have none of his glory.
The potion only needed three more ingredients; flesh, blood, bone.
He could hear his master yelling for him to hurry. He could hear the screams of the enemy, as the boy choked with pain. He could hear the potion, its overwhelming heat almost burning his skin; bubbling energetically, spitting and frothing blood red. It was nearly time.
The knife was in his hands, the dagger’s blade piercingly sharp, glinting under the dim light. He could see that it would do its job, do it quickly, do it right.
One by one, the other ingredients went in. His master was already there, ready to be restored, ready to receive his gift; receive it and give him glory.
Bone of the father.
Blood of the enemy.
He brought his hand up, over his head, gripping the dagger tightly as his knuckles turned livid white.
“Flesh of the servant, willingly given, you will revive your master.”
In a swift stroke, he brought the dagger down, piercing his arm in one forceful movement.
Peter lay on the ground, clutching his wrist, sobbing with pain. Inwardly, he could feel no pain, none at all. As hot blood steadily soaked into the soil, dripped down his arm, seeped into his robes, Peter could only feel one thing. It rushed through his body in an exhilarating instant. It was alive as it pulsed through his veins.
He had given his right hand for this; given himself, and now he had his reward.