#in my mind he is in fact biting Arthur in retaliation

[knightswaypoint]

“You look like a startled stoat.”

had a bad week, so I treated myself to some stoat!merlins

(individual shots & poll under cut)

I’m also thinking of getting some printed as stickers for myself, if others are interested:

[yallemagne]

Don't mind me, I saw an edit of the Dracula musical and got pissed.

SO THE GODFORSAKEN DRACULA MUSICAL. I will. I promise. I will fuck up the J&H musical too, it's also by Frank Wildhorn, but I need to hammer on this one shitty thing about the Dracula musical. Or several shitty things about the Dracula musical. I still need to post a rewrite.

TL;DR: The musical is super inconsistent about what it takes to become a vampire, and VH is so useless against Dracula that he's borderline allied with the guy. They're fucking behind the scenes. They're Bonnie & Clyde-ing it. There is no better explanation for how awful VH is at his job.

So, in the beginning, they lean hard into the homoeroticism of Dracula and Jonathan's relationship. Lots of touching and invasion of privacy. Dracula shaves Jonathan. This theme in the story is dropped as soon as the castle scenes are done though. With the Oct 3 scene going so far as to have Dracula tell Mina that he would have already murdered Jonathan if not for the fact he was her husband. What? This point will make less sense in a sec.

Now, here is a kicker. So, this is one of those 'the bites and blood-sharing are basically sex' ones. Jonathan does get assaulted by the Weird Sisters. Unfortunately, they depict him throwing off his crucifix and fully embracing it which is kind of heinous but he is very clearly not entirely well, I assume he's hopped on vampire drugs. In fact, I'd assume that every "consensual" bite in this is under the influence of hypnotism.

They bite him. Several times on several parts of his body. And when they sing the line "I taste your blood on my lips", he sings along, implying that they also fed him their blood. Then Dracula comes in. And he explicitly promises that he will grant both Jonathan and his wife immortality (and yet a few months later I suppose he just decides he's no longer bisexual). Jonathan rejects his "offer", and Dracula retaliates by drinking enough from Jonathan to age down into a young man!

Jonathan and Mina meet Van Helsing at Lucy's funeral. Fucking lazy bullshit way of doing it, but hey, they didn't have that much run time considering how many sad ballads they gave the villain. Van Helsing immediately knows that Lucy's death was the work of Dracula specifically and, without a beat, asks Jonathan if he got bitten.

"Only once," Jonathan says.

CUT BACK TO WHEN THE SISTERS WERE GNAWING ON HIS ENTIRE BODY AND FEEDING HIM THEIR BLOOD. NOW CUT BACK TO THIS SCENE.

This response would be okay if Jonathan were saying it for Jonathan reasons. NOPE. This response is treated as gospel, and you know what VH says? "Okay, only once? Sure, that's nothing. Just rest and eat well I guess."

EXCUSE ME???

In this musical, Lucy dies from getting bitten twice. Once when she sleepwalked and once after her wedding to Arthur. Yeah, they had the wedding, and still, Lucy wasn't allowed to live. Sucks to be blonde, I guess. Lucy hallucinates Dracula at her wedding and passes out. Seward calls up Van Helsing, and you know what Van Helsing does? He forces Lucy to sleep on the couch (okay okay some productions make it a bed) in a room with a doored balcony, completely alone. Then, because the plot hates her, she throws out the tiny amount of garlic decorating the room and lets Dracula in. They sing a shitty love song and Dracula murders her. Very next morning, Arthur goes to kiss her and she pounces. VH aggressively prays at her, and her poor heart stops right then.

TWO BITES. Maybe they intended it to be implied that more bites happened (trust me, it wouldn't make sense if they had), but they did a shit job of it. Maybe that shitty song was meant to communicate that they did the blood ritual? Okay. You know what other song communicated that the blood ritual was done? Blut: the song where Jonathan is assaulted.

Now, I don't think it's a matter of exposure, Lucy having two nights and Jonathan having only one night because Mina gets the blood ritual the very night that she finally meets Dracula in person. Yeah, this musical that tries to play up a Dracula/Mina romance only has the couple meet after Mina has sung more than one song about how much she hates Dracula and wishes he would leave her alone. All other interactions are Dracula creeping on her using the force or something.

So, yeah, Jonathan's bite is trivialized, I can only assume because of sexism. Because what else separates him from Lucy and Mina? He had SO much blood taken from him. What? Can men take more bites, Van Helsing? You absolute whore? How do you know that?

The only thing stopping me from headcanoning that VH is just Dracula but in an overcoat is that they do have a fight song. But you know what? You can still headcanon that they are in cahoots because it's some bullshit. Their reasons for hating each other (VH's gf was eaten by Dracula)? Easily forged. The song they sing? So cliché. They're really hamming up the fact that they're gonna kill each other and then make no move to harm the other. VH's actions? All convenient to Dracula's plans. Disregard Jonathan's bite to make him more vulnerable/a possible threat. Leave Lucy alone in a room with an open fucking balcony. LEAVE MINA ALONE IN THE CASTLE.

YEP, THAT IS RIGHT. The whole team goes to the castle together and VH drags Mina away from the rest of the group, draws a shitty circle around her, and then skedaddles. And moments later, Dracula comes in and forces her to break the circle, forces her to declare her love for him, and then has a sudden epiphany of "whoa actually killing girls is bad" and forces her to stab him. She couldn't even kill her abuser on her own terms.

This whole musical sucks ass. It has to bend over backwards to have the Dracula/Mina romance because they retain the canon fact that Mina despises and fears Dracula. And you know, they retain all the points in which Dracula tortures and kills Mina's loved ones. Remember again that Dracula attacks Jonathan and claims that he would have killed him if Mina didn't love him? *Gestures to Lucy* where was that shit logic with Lucy? Does Lucy not count, you goddamn homophobe?

Anyway, I'll probably post another rant saying how I'd spin it one day with the first course of action being that Lucy doesn't die because it is so pointless to the musical and fundamentally destroys the plot they're trying to set out. And I'm just tired of Lucy dying in every adaptation simply because she must when she could do so much more for the plot alive.

[shookspearewrites]

Welcome back, @anna-the-undertaker and may I say it is lovely to see you back in the askbox! Thank you so much for sending this request, it’s so cool and creative ^^ And I am sending you good vibes & hoping that you’re well, also 💗 As for me, I’m coping alright ^^ I’m very busy at university but, I’m managing! I start my new classes this week and I’m so excited to learn new things!

Part 2 can be found here!

- JJ x

~~~~~~~~~~

Arthur Conan Doyle:

At first, Arthur is cocky, flirty and an absolute tease so, when he notices your teeth, he’ll bring it up in one way or another - “Oh, your fangs are so scary, little bird!” He’ll tease over and over again until you eventually get frustrated with him though, Arthur of course had a retaliation, “What are you going to do, bird? Bite me?”

Though, when you simply respond by winking and liking the tip of your sharp tooth, turning the teasing tables on him instead of getting flustered, Arthur will blush and gulp at the thought of your mouth on his neck. He’ll avoid teasing you about your teeth so much to avoid getting flustered around you.

When he finds out that you used to get bullied about your teeth, Arthur will be rather sympathetic and kind to you about it, reminding you to “Pay those bullies no mind, my dove. You’re such a sweet little thing, you needn’t listen to such nonsense,” and always offering you his shoulder to cry on should you need it. 

And Arthur can’t describe how proud of you he is when you tell him that you used to bite your bullies in retaliation: Arthur adores your defiant, determined streak that always made you stand up for yourself.

Le Comte de Saint Germain:

He’s a little confused once he sees your teeth, to say the least: How curious, he thought. Comte will kinda hover round you for a few days trying to work out why you seem to have fangs, after all, you don’t smell like a pureblood, and you don’t seem to need blood either.

Comte will call you into his office for a meeting about it under the guise of just a cup of tea and a nice chit-chat - He is mildly suspicious and needs to get to the bottom of this immediately. Le Comte will be so incredibly relieved when you explain that you’re not another pureblood trying to infiltrate the mansion poor paranoid man, he needs a holiday, he’s stressed.

He actually finds your sharp canines quite cute and he can’t imagine why anyone would ever bully you for your lil fangs, in fact, Comte will constantly compliment your teeth whenever the opportunity presents itself. Comte just finds you so adorable and he won’t hesitate to remind you of that. 

If Comte finds out that you used to bite others in retaliation to their bullying, he’ll lightly scold you, reminding you, “Ma chérie, we don’t bite others. We have better manners than that in this house.”  Though, le Comte really means no harm at all, he just wants you to keep out of harm’s way, which means not biting anyone in retaliation again.

William Shakespeare:

Oh goodness, he is entranced by your beautiful teeth. Shakespeare knows that its an odd little fascination to have but, he cannot stop obsessing over your sharp canines: Staring at them, wondering how it’d feel for you to bite his neck.

Will is a little unhinged so, when you admit that you were bullied in the past, the future? Time travel is whacky, he will vow to find anyone who has ever wronged you and harm them for upsetting you. You will have to convince him that him harming anyone on your behalf isn’t necessary. 

If you were to tease him a little by smirking and liking the tip of your canines, Shakespeare would immediately be at your feet, worshipping you, begging you to give you just an ounce of your attention, his eyes blown wide and his focus completely on you. 

He’ll write you sonnets and poems with beautiful romantic imagery and vampiric metaphors - Shakespeare writes gorgeous flowery words about how he fanatises about you biting him like how he bites you; its something that he thinks about more than he’d like to admit.

[bonjour-rainycity]

The Long Way Around ~ Chapter 5

Link to previous part: https://bonjour-rainycity.tumblr.com/post/623226519560617984/the-long-way-around-chapter-4

Pairing: Jasper x Reader

Word count: 1621

Warnings: None

Jasper’s POV

“And…checkmate.” I grin, unable to stop my satisfaction at beating Emmett. He grumbles, going on about how he should’ve known better than to play me at my own game. My smugness increases. “Anytime you want a rematch, you just let me know.”

“Whatever,” he mumbles, leaving the chess table to go sit with Rosalie on the couch and lay his head in her lap.

I look around the living room, searching for my next victim. I’m about to ask Arthur, but at that moment, Alice stands and declares they are leaving to hunt. Their emotions hint at a slightly different activity, but I don’t call them out on the lie. In this house, privacy is a luxury afforded to none. My eyes rest instead on Y/n laying on the floor reading a book. I grin, excited at the prospect of a new opponent. “Y/n, care for a game?”

She eyes me, contemplating. “Sure, but you’ll have to teach me.”

Surprise causes me to raise my eyebrows. “You don’t know how to play chess?” I regret the twinge of condescension in my voice. From her, I feel annoyance and the excitement of rising to a challenge.

“Actually,” she takes a seat in front of me and slowly gathers all the red pieces into a pile. “I’m from the twenty-first century, not the nineteenth, so chess is much less common. Oh, and also,”. She hits her head mockingly, as if suddenly remembering something. “I’m not a nerd.” At this she stares unflinchingly into my eyes. I can’t help the thrill that runs through me, nor the shocked laugh that escapes my lips. Her eyes sparkle, challenging me to retaliate. Of course I can’t back down now.

“Well then, miss.” I begin to set up the pieces on my side of the chess board. She mirrors my movements and quickly we have the whole board set. “Because I am such an altruistic person,” she cuts me off with a scoff, but there’s a grin behind it. I give her a pointed look and continue. “I will teach you how to play chess. But just know,” At this, I catch her glance, staring deeply into her eyes. “I can and will obliterate you.”

The corner of her mouth slowly quirks up into a half-smile. Then, in the flawless accent of a Southern Belle, she responds. “Why, that’s very ungentlemanly of you, Mr. Whitlock.” Then her eyes set, the determination in them clear. “But I wouldn’t appreciate anything less.”

I grin, delighted at this match of wits. She quickly catches on to the rules of the game, and, before I know it, we’re knee-deep in a match. I’m surprised when I actually feel bad about beating her. Thankfully, her emotions tell me that she’s not upset, only begrudgingly admiring of my skills.

She sits back in her chair, looking at me appraisingly. “Best two out of three?”

In my pocket, my phone buzzes. “Hold that thought. It’s Alice.” But then we hear the car in the driveway and the tantalizing scent reaches our noses. A human. All Hell breaks loose.

Y/n’s emotions flare as she becomes desperate to reach the unsuspecting human a half mile away. I’m temporarily choked by the intensity of her thirst as it threatens to overwhelm and send me into my own frenzy. Thankfully, Emmett and Rosalie don’t suffer from the same affliction and both lunge toward Y/n. She snarls, shoving Emmett off of her and into the wall. He barely catches himself in time to stop from going through it. Rosalie, always bold, gets a fistful of Y/n’s hair and grabs a wrist, flinging her back in my direction. Carlisle’s appeared now from his study and rushes to help restrain the deranged newborn.

Y/n shrieks, snarls, and begs to be let go. I stop her from biting Carlisle at the expense of gaining a bite of my own. It burns, but it’s nothing I’m not used to. Finally, I get her in a hold she can’t break free from.

Now that she’s restrained, I try reasoning with her. We need to calm her down enough to get her out of here before the human arrives. “Y/n stop, we need to get to the woods.”

She lets her weight drop and falls to her knees as she continues to struggle. It’s a common maneuver among newborns, so I was prepared and don’t let her out of my grip.

“Jasper, please.” Something in the way she says my name, so broken and desperate, makes me pause. And in that pause, she has her opportunity.

The minute she escapes my arms, Emmett lunges, catching her around the waist. She snaps and he narrowly avoids losing a chunk out of his shoulder. In a ball of snarls and flailing limbs, they roll outside, engaged in a vicious dance.

I shake my head, recovering from my uncharacteristic lapse in control and hurry to aid my brother. Rosalie follows and, between the three of us, we’re able to drag Y/n into the woods. Carlisle goes out front, presumably to redirect the unsuspecting driver.

“Chill out, Y/n, we’re taking you to feed.” Emmett’s words do nothing to console her. Y/n’s mind is consumed by one thing.

The further we get into the forest, the better I feel. Although we can remember it well, the actual scent of human blood is gone. Once she’s sure Emmett and I have a good hold on Y/n, Rosalie darts away and comes back in seconds, gripping a deer. She throws it at Y/n’s feet. Immediately, Y/n descends on the animal, quickly draining it of blood. This calms her enough for us to take her deeper into the forest and allow her to hunt for herself. Alice and Arthur catch up with us then, having hurried back from their escapade.

“Is she alright?” Alice’s worry is clear.

“It was a close call,” Rosalie mumbles from a couple hundred yards back, “but we managed. Some warning would have been nice.”

“Lay off, Rose, she called as soon as she had the vision,” Arthur hurries to defend his wife.

But I can’t focus too deeply on the budding argument behind me. My attention is honed in on Y/n as she slowly comes back to herself. Her emotions slam into me, the intensity of them nearly crushing.

Without saying anything, she turns and walks back to the house at a human pace. Emmett goes to follow, but Alice holds up a hand.

“She’s controlled now and the human is gone. She’s just going to go to her room.”

I turn to my adopted siblings. “Good work, guys, thanks for your help.”

Emmett only nods. “How’s your arm?”

I look down, having nearly forgotten the burning crescent-shaped bite on my forearm. “Nothing too bad. I’m gonna go and…” I shrug, gesturing in the direction of Y/n’s fading form. I don’t quite know if she’ll accept company, or worse, interpret it as babysitting, but I have to try. Even from far away I can feel her sadness.

I don’t try to catch up to her, instead choosing to leave some distance in case she wants to tell me to back off. But, honestly, I’m not even sure she notices me, which is cause for concern. She’s quiet once she reaches the house, only pausing briefly to offer Carlisle a heartfelt apology. He’s already forgiven her, of course, but that doesn’t help her feelings.

Carlisle stops me momentarily, clapping me on the back. I feel his gratitude, though I wonder why, given the fact that I’m the one who almost let Y/n eat the human. After passing Carlisle, I head upstairs to Y/n’s room.

She lays on her back, her legs parallel against the wall. Wordlessly, I sit next to her on the bed.

“I suck.” The dejection she feels is clear in her voice.

“No you don’t, it’s just part of being a-”

“I’m not looking for comfort, Jasper. I don’t really deserve that right now.”

I want so badly to disagree, but I can tell that stating so would only make things worse. Right now she’s deeply upset with herself and I’m honestly surprised she’s allowing me to be with her. I know how she feels, and not only because I can literally feel her feelings. But also because I’ve felt everything for myself. I’ve been in her shoes more times than I would like to count.

“I’m really, really sorry I bit you.” If she were a human, she would be crying. As it is, her voice is thick with emotion.

I chuckle quietly, making an effort at lightening the mood. “Want me to even the score?”

With a soft, sad smile she raises her arm, holding her wrist up to my mouth. “Let me have it.”

I’ve never really been good with affection, so I’m not exactly sure why I do what I do, other than that it just feels right. Instead of biting her, which of course I never actually would, I take her hand in both of mine and rest them in my lap.

“It’s going to be okay.”

She sighs, closing her eyes, and I feel her hesitancy to believe it as well as a slight lightening in the intensity of her sadness. Some prideful, stupid part of me wonders if I could have anything to do with that.

Instead of answering, she tightens her hand around mine. And I would by lying if I said that it wasn’t really, really nice.

A/n Let me know what you thought of this chapter and if you would like to be added to the tag list!

xx, 

Bjr

Link to next part: https://bonjour-rainycity.tumblr.com/post/623403705475219456/the-long-way-around-chapter-6

Tag list: @puer-de-infinitate @charliestuff @hindustani-diaspora @one-thread-can-save-a-life

[youngster-monster]

Fire knocking at the heart

(Commission for my dear friend @/eguinerve on ao3)

 “Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame;”

  — Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti

-

The first time Arthur saw Maleagan was… difficult to put into words, even after the fact. Perhaps even more so. Hard to describe but impossible to forget. The way he moved, not quite a man as much as a man-shaped shadow... Even in a crowd of knights, all shiny and wonderful in their novelty and in the envy they awoke in Arthur, his eyes kept drifting to him and him alone. Something about the line of his shoulders, the pale brightness of his eyes glowing like moonlit silver —

Mesmerizing. That’s the word. He was mesmerizing. 

Now that they face each other again — as enemies, this time, rather than mere adversaries in a tourney — those strange feelings return to him tenfold. He’s never been more distracted in a fight than he is now, eyes inexorably drawn to the other man as he twists and spins out of the way of Arthur’s attacks before retaliating. He’s swift, almost dancing rather than fighting, but his strikes betray a strength greater than his lithe form would suggest. It’s all Arthur can do to parry his head-on attacks, as blocking them outright leaves his arms shaking from the shock.

It’s obvious from the grin he bears that he takes some twisted enjoyment from the fight. He’s like a cat with a mouse, kicking Arthur this way and that, keeping him off balance when he had ample opportunities to gravely wound him. God knows Arthur is distracted enough to leave himself unguarded.

Then, eventually, Maleagant tires of these games. He surges forward almost too quickly for the eyes to follow, brings his sword down in a wide arc. Arthur hisses in pain as Maleagant’s sword bites into his flesh. He stumbles, falls on his back, and only narrowly avoids a fatal blow by rolling to the side.

He’s beautiful even like this, hair wild and the edge of his blade inches from Arthur’s throat. Mesmerizing indeed.

Arthur lurches to his feet, his grip on his weapon sure despite the lancing pain. His hand, when it comes away from the wound, is red and slick with blood. Maleagant stops, cold, cold eyes sharpening to a sword’s edge as they settle first on Arthur’s hand, then the tip of his sword, gleaming softly under the setting sun even though it’s stained crimson.

It’s a slight distraction, just enough to leave him surprised by Arthur’s next attack. He blocks the downward strike on sheer instinct, eyes widening slightly before narrowing in predatory concentration. This time, when he pushes back, Arthur is ready for it. He ducks down at the last possible second and catches the wrist of his sword arm, twisting it so Maleagant can’t struggle out of the hold without hurting himself. His opponent is quick as a snake to strike back, blocking his arm in the same way. They stay locked together for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes—

Arthur would lose himself in them if not for the pain pulsing in his side. Stuck like this, unable to move or get away or strike back, the animal fear rising in his chest makes him panic-blind. Each heartbeat is echoed by a thrum that sends fire in his veins. Short of breath, vision swimming, he’s acutely aware of his life running between his fingers in rivulets of blood, and eager to finish the fight before the wound finishes him. 

He throws his knee up, slamming it into Maleagant’s side once, twice, until he feels something crack and Maleagant’s hold slackens, allowing Arthur to throw him back and to the ground. His sword clatters to the ground, out of reach, and he can’t get to his feet in time before Arthur is above him, Excalibur hovering above his chest.

“Do you yield?” He asks, wheezing, his arm tight against his still bleeding stomach.

Maleagant stares up, teeth bared in a snarl, but the threat is empty and he soon drops his eyes away from Arthur’s face, silently conceding defeat.

“I yield,” he spits out. It sounds as if the words are being pulled out his throat right through the barrier of his clenched teeth.

For an instant the air seems to… hum, almost, in the wake of those words. Something halfway between the heaviness before a storm and the faint, distant ringing of a bell, more vibration than sound. He can’t seem to tell it apart from his own heartbeat, deafening in his ears, or the weight of exhaustion settling over his shoulders like a mantle.

One more thing, and he can rest. He just has to make it through this.

“The Gods don’t want your sacrifice, and I don’t want your death,” he says, words clear despite the haze he feels settling over him. He almost misses Maleagant scoffing at the mention of gods. “But you are a knight-” Stumbling forward slightly, Arthur offers Maleagant his sword, hilt first. Excalibur is so heavy, more than a sword has any right to be, and he can’t tell if it’s the blood loss making him think so or some greater, intangible burden, like the crown and the weight of Maleagant’s cold, cold eyes following his every move. “Rise, then, and make me your equal.”

Their fingers brush as Maleagant takes Excalibur. His touch is cold, a balm on Arthur’s feverish skin. He doesn’t kneel so much as he falls to his knees: he couldn’t get back to his feet even if Maleagant turned his own sword against him. Arthur knows he won’t though. There’s something honorable about the dark knight, despite everything.

He can barely make out Maleagant’s words through the buzzing in his ears but the touch of Excalibur on each of his shoulders is unmistakable. He exhales a sigh of relief. His arms drop limp to his side. It’s done. He’s a knight. Finally.

Tradition demands he rise to accept his title on his feet. He almost manages it, but as soon as he stands nausea and pain overwhelms him, and he collapses almost immediately.

Arthur is unconscious before he hits the ground. All he takes with him into oblivion is the image of Maleagant’s self-satisfied smirk.

-

There is little time to think about Maleagant once he wakes up. First he must heal, and the pulsing pain of his wounds is enough to make him forget about the one who inflicted them. Then there is Guinevere, who does an admirable job at keeping him distracted from the pain. By the time he can finally stand on his own two feet without aid they are already betrothed, her father eager to cement an alliance between him and the new king of Camelot.

Arthur watches it all happen with a sense of bemused confusion. He never knew marriage could happen so fast, and with so little input from either of the participants.

Technically, he could say no. He’s king, after all. But Merlin pins him with a look that tells him it would be unwise to do so, and Guinevere is beautiful and sweet, giving him little reasons to go against the decision that was made in his stead.

Still it weighs down on him. Not so much the betrothal itself — it has always been an uncomfortable certainty that he would have little to no say as to whom he’ll marry — as much as what comes with it. Drafting a marriage contract that will strengthen and satisfy both parties takes time. So do the preparations for the ceremony. He’s grateful for the chance to keep busy while his body heals. Less so once he’s strong enough to hold a sword and still doesn’t have the opportunity to sneak away to spar with his knights. He went through all this trouble to become one of them, and all he has to show for it is another scar.

It’s all the more infuriating that putting together a wedding ceremony worthy of royalty doesn’t demand any more input from him than the original betrothal. All he does is sit in meetings and nod at the right time. So much time wasted in boredom when he could be learning how to be the king they already expect him to be.

Fortunately Guinevere sits at his right, looking just as weary of the proceedings as he is. 

He surprises himself the first time he has to stifle a laugh at something she said. She steals a glance at her father, then at him, and smiles in response to his mirth. He was afraid she might resent the situation — being wed to a man who is barely more than a stranger — but so far she has only offered him kindness and friendship, and he’s endlessly glad for it.

Given time, he hopes they will become true friends.

The situation is not ideal, but he is genuinely grateful for Guinevere’s presence. She is more than he ever hoped for in a queen. She is soft and light, like silk and other precious things, but her mind and sense of humor are as sharp as his blade. He looks at her and feels a certain kind of awe and fondness, as well as the boyish anxiety he’s never been able to shake off when in presence of a beautiful woman. 

Maybe one day he could fall in love with her.

But today he looks at her and his mind fills with images he had nearly forgotten since the fight that led him here. Memories half-blurred by blood loss and adrenaline of a shadow, or a man, the flash of a sword and silver eyes—

His heart beats faster and he knows, deep down, that it’s not because of Guinevere. He lifts a hand to his side, fingers brushing lightly over the cloth, following the unseen line of his nearly-healed wound.

That’s when he realizes, somewhat belatedly, that he still knows nothing of the man who knighted him — and nearly killed him. Spurred by this strange feeling churning in his guts and this new sense of camaraderie with Guinevere, he turns to the woman and lowers his voice to a whisper.

Her brows furrow when he asks her about Maleagant, mouth twisting in an uncomfortable grimace.

“He is one of the Tylwyth Teg,” she eventually says. “A faerie playing at human affairs.”

“He is- a changeling, then?”

She shakes her head. “No. He hails directly from the Winter Court, though why he left it to settle in Gore is a mystery to all but him.”

Arthur reels back. Maleagant had seemed strange, yes, but he would never have expected him to be one of the fair folk. To think he had fought him and won—

His victory was fair. But when has this ever stopped one of the Unseelie from coming for revenge?

-

Despite his newfound fears, the preparations continue without a hitch. Maleagant seems to have disappeared, which leaves Arthur both relieved and disappointed in a way he doesn’t dare to think about.

Despite the many weeks spent talking about it, the day of the wedding — the Winter Solstice, to bring some light into the darkest day of the year — comes almost out of the blue. He can’t say he is any more ready for it than he was months ago — but he hadn’t been ready for the crown either. Fate seems to have a habit of dropping responsibilities in his lap whether he can handle them or not.

Arthur breathes deeply and tries to keep his smile from wavering as he stands in the chapel. He shifts on his feet, glances at the people assembled in the pews. Their eyes follow his every movement, which does little to calm his nerves. He wonders if they can tell his fear is more than a new groom’s nerves, if they can see the bags under his eyes from a sleepless night. Even the lack of rest can't numb his anxieties completely as he stands ready to be wed to a woman who is nearly a stranger to him.

Already his mind wanders far from the chapel, heedless of the murmuring crowd. The interior of the building isn't entirely safe from the icy winter air and his side aches from it. The injury inflicted by Maleagant has healed into an ugly scar, yet in the cold it still hurts as if it were fresh rather than with the dull ache of old wounds in bad weather. He rubs it through layers of clothing, almost unconsciously, and knows that if he were to touch it with bare skin it would be noticeably colder than the rest of him.

Injuries from faerie silver do not heal easily. It serves as a reminder – both of his unexpected survival and the man responsible for that pain. He's come to haunt Arthur's thoughts as of late. That first discussion with Guinevere about Maleagant seemed to summon him, and Arthur has had few dreams that were not shadowed by his otherworldly presence. The imminent wedding has not helped any. Now even in the waking world he finds himself obsessing over the other man, one part child-like fascination over his nature, two parts curiosity about the man himself. 

When he closes his eyes he sees the sharp edge of a smile, eyes that shine like twin stars, and it feels like standing over a frozen lake. A single wrong move and he would plunge into the dark, never to be seen again. This darkness in his mind feels entirely foreign, like something that was placed there by someone else, and he wonders if he has been bewitched. How many stories about the Fair Folk also tell of mortals who got too close and were forever changed by it? Longing for another touch, another taste, wasting away from a hunger larger than them, lovesick–

Not that Arthur is in love. But his scar throbs and he thinks about the bite of silver, the taste of blood on his tongue, and wonders if it might have changed him as surely as if he had sunk his teeth into a goblin fruit.

He bites his tongue, instead, and musters up a smile as the bells ring and Guinevere is ushered in. 

She is beautiful — she has never been anything but. Her fair head gleams golden under the candlelight and her eyes, when they settle on him, are warmed by her smile. And yet, he looks at her and wishes for black hair and hard eyes, a smirk like a wolf’s gaping maw. 

Arthur flinches, feels his smile waver as she steps to his side, leaning slightly towards him in silent comfort. The priest begins to speak, but his words struggle to reach Arthur as blood rushes in his ears. It must be a spell, he thinks, or a curse. A fae’s last revenge on the mortal who bested him. Why else would he feel this… this longing for his one-time foe? He was no more than a beautiful curiosity, an interesting adversary, nothing he ought to obsess over — nothing like Guinevere.

Or perhaps it is less longing than envy. Perhaps it isn’t Maleagant he wants but the freedom inherent to his Seelie blood, the wildness no one could ever hope to strip away. Kingship weighs on Arthur at the most unexpected times, and he always finds himself wishing for simpler times, when his biggest worry was his brother’s petulant behavior rather than war and political alliances.

(Is it so selfish to want to marry for love? With the crown heavy on his head, he must accept that the answer is yes.)

He forces himself to listen more intently as the priest drones on and on, swallowing back the dread that threatens to overcome him. For this land he’ll do anything; anyway, he’s sure Guinevere will be easy to love, in time. Once the bittersweetness of victory over Maleagant has faded from memory. Once he has fooled himself into believing this is what he’s always wanted.

“Should anyone here present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony—”

Arthur catches himself hoping that someone would. A coward’s way out, to be sure, but an easy one. Unfortunately the pause is more traditional than practical: of the few who’d dare to doubt the lawfulness of this union, none are present.

“— Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

(But this time, and many more besides, fate listens.)

The audience only has time to hold their breath for the customary few seconds of wait before the doors of the chapel crash open, breaking the quiet atmosphere as surely as if it were made of glass.

Arthur whirls around, hand falling to the pommel of his sword, and swears when he grasps nothing but air.

The sight in front of him steals all desire for a weapon. 

It’s Maleagant, striding into the chapel with all the confidence befitting of a creature which has never considered a place might not belong to him. He looks—

(Even more beautiful than he did in battle—)

—Different. His pitch-black cloak flares behind him, glinting like the night sky as candlelight catches on the minuscule gemstones embroidered in the fabric. His long, elegantly braided hair, his fur mantle and the polished silver of his decorated armor — he is a crown short of looking regal, and instead falls squarely in enchanting.

Shadows rush after him, howling like the northern wind, clinging to the walls and dimming the lights until his eyes become the brightest thing in the room.

Maleagant stops abruptly, a few feet down the aisle from Arthur, and his eyes sweep over the silent audience before he settles his full attention on the king. It’s only for a moment, but the intensity of it freezes his breath in his lungs. There’s hunger there — it’s both terror and elation that awaken in Arthur’s heart when he realizes it’s for him.

He then turns his attention to the priest, dismissing Guinevere with a glance as he takes in the holy man’s attire and raises a single, mocking eyebrow.

“I object,” he drawls. He doesn’t show any emotion but Arthur still gets the strong impression of a smirk, as if his face was a porcelain mask behind which his lips had just quirked in quiet amusement.

The priest gapes at him. It’s an obvious struggle for him to speak with the respect that Maleagant is due. Whether it’s fear or disdain, Arthur can’t tell. “On what ground?” 

“The groom is already promised to another.”

(And here is where the other shoe drops.)

The gathered people gasp nearly as one at the revelation. Faeries cannot lie: that much is true. To learn their king would break a contract to marry another is all the more shocking when you can be sure that the bearer of bad news is speaking, if not absolute truth, at least not a falsehood.

Still, Arthur wishes he knew what prior engagement the fae lord is talking about.

“And who, pray tell, may that other be?”

The sudden apparition of Merlin’s voice makes Arthur flinch. It’s hard to tell if the druid’s presence is a comfort or a hindrance. He’s been the reason behind most of the greatest changes in Arthur’s life — both positive and not. Who knows which way the balance of fate will tip tonight.

This time Maleagant does smile, slight and sharp as a fox-grin.

“Me.”

All the air leaves the room, such is the shock of the people assembled there. Arthur can barely make sense of the words even as a part of him flares with wicked relief at the news, against all logic.

“I am Maleagant, King of Gore, heir presumptive to the Winter Court.” At this he bows, too deeply not to be mocking. “I have come for Arthur Pendragon’s hand, as is my right by law.”

“What laws give you this right?” Merlin bites. His fingers tighten around his staff. Magic fills the air like static — he expects a fight, because he knows the answer and doesn’t see a way out that doesn’t end in failure or battle.

Maleagant, on the other hand, looks more outraged than angry.

“He gave up his blade willingly, to be knighted by my hand.” A knighting is hardly a betrothal, but it is a declaration of intent, of ownership, especially if he has been planning this from the moment he was handed Excalibur by Arthur himself. He speaks the truth, and that gives his words a power that rings clear and true. “By law of the Courts and the Old Magic itself, he is mine.”

By those same laws, Arthur or Leodagan, father of the slighted bride, would be in their right to fight the claim in single combat. But not only is Maleagant one of the best fighters in the realm of men — he is of the Winter Court. Theirs are the Wild Hunt and the silver roads that course through the woods, taking away trespassers and fools who stray off the beaten path. They are not known for their mercy or their forgiveness. The few who dare take oath to them find themselves forever bound in blood, and oathbreakers are hunted beyond death until their souls are nothing but scraps to feed to their ghostly hounds.

Going against him would be madness. Leodagan still seems inclined to try it, if not for Arthur’s sake then for his own. He almost saved his daughter from the interest of an Unseelie Lord, only for this fate to fall on his king instead — there’s a bitter irony in that turn of events.

What would he think, Arthur wonders, if he knew Arthur doesn’t even entertain the idea of fighting the claim?

“You can’t use Arthur as a pawn in your petty little games,” Merlin hisses. He steps forward to put himself more fully between Maleagant and Arthur, hackles rising. “His fate—”

“You think I care about fate?” Maleagant’s voice tolls in the heavy silence. “The Norns themselves couldn’t force my hand. If I wanted a pawn, I would take it, and damn their machinations.”

He turns slightly to face Arthur head-on and everything else— falls away. The full attention of his icy eyes is almost too much to bear. Maleagant’s eyes won’t leave him as he says, “Yet it is not a pawn I seek, but an equal, in battle and outside of it. Something only your king here has proven capable of being.”

It’s a miracle in and on itself that there is no riot at the sound of that. It is, after all, a ludicrous statement. 

“What would you have, then? You in Guinevere’s stead, binding you to him today?” Merlin asks, tone too close to a challenge for comfort or propriety.

This makes Maleagant scowl, although not for long. The bitter expression fades as he doesn’t look away from Arthur’s face. “And shackle myself to a man I might want to kill a week into our marriage? No.” Quieter, softer, as if the words are meant for Arthur only, he says, “What I demand is a courtship — and the time from now to the next Winter Solstice to do it properly. A year, not a day more and not a day less, after which you will be free to make a choice.”

Arthur swallows his anxiety, breathes in slowly and asks, “And if, after a year’s courting, I say no?”

“Then I will leave, and you will be free to marry whoever you see fit.” Maleagant tilts his head, the movement more reminiscent of a bird of prey than a man. His silver eyes strained on Arthur feels like the tip of a blade under his chin. “But something tells me this is not what will happen.”

His low voice carries a dark promise that Arthur desperately wants him to keep.

“Arthur, you don’t have to do this,” Merlin says.

“And what kind of king would it make me, to disregard the very laws I am supposed to uphold?”

The bitter twist on Merlin’s mouth is mirrored by Maleagant’s satisfied smirk. His eyes crinkle at the corner, the first sign of a sincere smile since Arthur met him. “You’ve come to a decision, then?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Arthur draws himself to his full height and casts his eyes on the audience to this strange situation. The wary muttering that had been rising as they spoke fades into silence as their attention focuses on him. He pulls his kingship to him like an armor, makes himself appear more sure of himself than he feels.

“Maleagant of Gore,” he says, returning his eyes to the fae prince, “I accept your demand of courtship.”

(There will be troubles, later, ruffled feathers to smooth, political alliances to mend. But now, as Maleagant smiles slow and wicked and true, he can’t bring himself to feel dread. 

Only relief.)

[spookyspaghettisundae]

No Such Thing, Part 2

The night turned colder with each passing hour since midnight. The fog grew thicker, stifling all light from the street lamps. The trio’s footsteps rapped the cobblestone, echoing through the valleys of buildings.

Bobby hesitated at every fork and every crossroad, holding out the ivory comb in her hand, her fingers numb from the biting cold of wintry air. The two men that followed three steps behind halted and patiently stood still whenever she paused. She waited for the object to do something each time, distracted by her breath condensing in front of her mouth in tiny little clouds. The comb then shook, twisted, and pointed out the direction for them to wander in.

The ghost in the ivory comb became more and more restless. Bobby’s skepticism melted away more each time she wordlessly consulted the spirit for directions, with a sense of dread welling up in her bowels. As an academic, she refused to believe what was transpiring this night, before her very eyes, but the same objective skepticism and scientific curiosity could not deny the facts.

With each step they traveled, homing closer and closer in on the haunted object’s mysterious destination, the more excited it grew in its vibrations—or afraid. Or angry?

At this late of an hour, the only other people they encountered in an entire hour happened to be police constables on patrol in the city streets. The band of policemen approached and questioned the motley group about their destination and intent. With a flick of the wrist, Bobby hid the comb up her sleeve before the lawmen could spot it. It almost felt like it wriggled, as if it wanted to break free.

Sir Arthur Thompson stepped forward to flash a weary smile, and he lied. He told the constables that he had invited his drinking companions from the pub to visit his home here in the Upper City where they could while away the cold night. The constables nodded and tipped their helmets, reminding Arthur that they need only cry for help and find the patrol should they be accosted by any strange folk.

The policemen then marched on, and so did the three, heading opposite ways.

After the clock tower’s bell rang and marked the second hour of their wandering through the nightly streets, the comb changed its strange behavior. Bobby stopped at the end of the next street crossing, and found that it violently jerked around. She wanted to believe in a rational explanation for her moving it thus, but instead of pointing in a new way for them to carry on, it turned her around to face the puzzled faces of Arthur and Pàdair, pointing back the way they had come.

Bobby readjusted the thin-framed spectacles resting on her nose and chortled. She then muttered to the comb, “What do you want?”

Pàdair reacted more quickly in stepping out of the way as Bobby retraced their steps and she almost bumped into Arthur because his confusion had made his boots set roots in the road.

He smirked dismissively, displaying every ounce of skepticism and desperate need for this all to be a collective hysteria. “Ah, yes, the spirit is indecisive,” he chuckled.

Pàdair just glared at him for the nervousness that surfaced in the trembling of Arthur’s voice. The men followed Bobby as she then stopped halfway down the road. It occurred to her that it might be here.

The comb’s destination.

It shook and pulled, as if a ghostly hand tried to wrestle it free from her clutches, spinning her around a quarter revolution. This left her pointing the comb’s horn towards a mansion, surrounded by a wrought iron fence. The gate stood ajar at least an inch, and no lights shone within the windows of the estate.

The sands of time had chewed away at the building’s walls, leaving it covered in vines, with once serene white paint peeling off the wood in long chips. A gust of cold air blew through the streets, sending a shiver down Bobby’s spine.

The blood drained from her face and Pàdair clapped her on her shoulder with a hand.

“Looks like we arrived, aye?”

She shot him a glance and found him smiling, with his gaze sweeping up and down the three stories of the dilapidated edifice. On the surface, he looked relaxed and curious. The tension in his fingers, gripping her shoulder, told a different story: he squeezed her shoulder once to give his fear some space, perhaps to wordlessly communicate it to her. Then he let go and hugged himself, burying his hands in his armpits and rocking back and forth on his heels as if to muster any remaining reserves of body heat against winter’s cold.

Bobby set her jaw and nodded. Her eyes, too, scanned the exterior of this abandoned old house in the middle of the city. She knew well what this place was.

“Hayes residence. This home has been abandoned for years, now,” she said. She held out the comb, pointing it at the mansion, but it had stopped shaking or reacting. “They tried to auction this estate off earlier this year, but no buyers could be found. All of them spooked.”

Looking over her shoulder back at Arthur, she added, “Haunted, people thought.”

He furrowed his brow at that.

“Oh. Delightful,” Arthur mused with dripping sarcasm. “Let me guess. Someone butchered the residents in their sleep, and now they haunt the place.”

Bobby shook her head and took a cautious step towards the fence’s front gate.

“Close enough. Talk of the town’d have you believe that Ellen Hayes murdered her husband Leonard for adultery—he had been nursing a relationship with the maid, Diana Sedley. Ellen found them in flagrante delicto, and then stabbed both Leonard and Diana dozens of times each. She then proceeded to murder the butler and finally committed suicide. It took days of summer heat and the stench of decaying corpses for anybody to discover her grisly deeds.”

“Ah, yes, delightful indeed,” Arthur commented with a melody of more sarcasm—and fear. With a chuckle, he said, “Well, jolly good, mister comb. Suppose we got to the bottom of this mystery and can head into the warm embrace of the hearth of my home. You’re welcome to stay for the night, Bob—”

“It’s been years now,” Bobby said. “So what do you want us to find, mister comb?” She touched the object to the gate, and its rusty iron hinges screeched. The comb slipped out from in between her numbed fingertips and hurled itself towards the front door atop the stairs with breakneck speed, having flown several steps away through the garden before it struck the front door and clattered onto the ground there.

Pàdair scoffed, and even through his thick northerner’s accent, the sarcasm was evident as he asked, “Oh, look at that. Magnetism, you think? Or a freak earthquake?”

Bobby swallowed emptily. She refused to believe in any occult nonsense, and turned to wag a finger at Pàdair as she reminded him, “There is no such a thing as ghosts, mister—what in the devil’s name are you called?” The distraction put her mind at ease for a brief spell.

Pàdair smiled at her and said something in his native tongue. Her hyperactive mind translated it but she kept her poker face, displaying no sign of comprehension as he uttered what would have translated to, “The wench asks me now?”

“Pàdair,” he then replied after a pause.

“As I was saying, Pàdair; there is no such a thing as ghosts, and you had best settle on internalizing this philosophy. Only superstitious idiots and impressionable children believe in such tomfoolery.”

With that, she pushed the gate open, prompting its hinges to screech some more.

Arthur stepped up and clapped a hand on a shoulder of theirs each with a nervous chuckle, “Well, this was absolutely illuminating and educational, if I dare say so myself. But it is against the law to trespass on other people’s property.”

Bobby glared at him with a fiery glint of mockery flaring up in her eyes.

“The Hayes family has been dead for years and not a soul has lived here the entire time, so nobody will exactly tell the police about us,” she said. “And what better way to educate your northern friend here about how silly this whole ghost nonsense is?” She had stressed the word “friend” with a long and profound emphasis, curling her lips into a sly smirk.

Pàdair grinned and Arthur frowned at her.

“Dead or alive does not matter,” he whinged in retaliation. “Look, if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it the right way. Let us go fetch those constables and request permission to enter to investigate.”

“And tell them what? That a possessed comb led us here and we want to find out what some ghost is trying to tell us?”

Pàdair cocked his head and underlined her words with, “Miss Simmons has a point there, aye.”

Turning red in the face, Arthur turned.

“Fine then. If you’re so bloody insistent on following up on this, I will go fetch those constables right now and talk them into letting us investigate. I’m sure my station will convince them,” he said while walking off, without ever looking back. “Wait here—and for the good god’s sake, don’t do anything stupid.”

Surprised, Pàdair and Bobby watched Arthur leave. His footsteps echoed through the streets until the thick bank of fog had swallowed him whole.

Bobby swiveled and looked up into the red-bearded face of Pàdair. She tipped her hat at him. He stared back into her eyes. They nodded at each other in silent agreement.

Both of them grabbed hold of an iron bar and pushed open one wing of the fence’s gate each. The hinges screeched again and they wandered through the overgrown garden. Rotten leaves from autumn past lay on the ground here, frozen and crunching underneath their shoes as they approached the front doors.

With each step closer—the doors adorned with stained glass imagery of angels and holy symbols, now grimy from the passage of time and years of desertion, the brass handles tarnished and stained—the atmosphere turned colder. More oppressive. Bobby found it harder to breathe. The skin on her head contracted, every single hair on her body stood up straight. Something awaited them here—a presence. Something dark.

Something hostile.

The front door creaked as it opened an inch. Completely by itself, with nothing but darkness behind it. Beckoning them. Bobby exchanged a short glance with Pàdair, whose entire posture had stiffened. She refused to believe what was happening had anything supernatural about it. She wanted desperately to know for certain that all of this had a rational explanation behind it.

She squatted down to pick up the ivory comb off the ground. Inches away before her fingers reached it, the small object spun around on the spot, then shot away in a low arc, disappearing through the crack of the door and letting the darkness beyond swallow it entirely.

Bobby’s chin crinkled and she stood up straight. She reached out to open the door.

Her hand trembled the entire way.

Pàdair’s big meaty hand landed on her forearm and pushed her back with a gentle but firm touch. Under any other circumstances, she would have given him an earful for patronizing her thus, but the terror that gripped her now also paralyzed this instinct. Without giving her another look, Pàdair stepped forward and pushed the mansion’s door inwards.

It creaked more and swung open with a painful slowness until it came to a grinding halt. The dim illumination from the street lamps barely shed any light on the interior, revealing a ghostly sight: several pieces of furniture covered in white sheets, layers of dust, and cobwebs. A magnificent set of stairs led upwards to a sprawling gallery, and many doors led deeper into the mansion from this entry hall beyond the door.

Like a madman, Pàdair stepped inside, wandering forth to explore. Bobby’s stomach tightened into a knot and she opened her mouth but nothing came out. The dread that made her heart pound like a drum, erupting from her pores in cold sweat, told her to turn and leave.

Now.

But she feared being left alone. And after all the years of conditioning herself to dress, speak, and act like men, she felt a sense of duty and honor to accompany the northerner, who did appear to be her old friend’s new friend, or something like that. So she perished the thought of letting Pàdair enter this accursed place by himself.

Accursed, she then wondered? Had she really just thought that?

“There is no such a thing as ghosts,” she repeated as her mantra, exhaling in a sharp and articulated sigh. She followed him inside.

Pàdair whispered something unintelligible back at her. Or rather—he did not. He had indeed turned to look back at her over her shoulder as she said that, clear from the reflections in the white of his eyes. But as more whispers snaked through the air, no breath condensed in front of his mouth—he had not spoken a single word.

The whispers resounded from the walls around them. He glared at her as if the whispers were pouring from her very own lips. The front door slammed shut and the whispers ceased, leaving her to wonder if they had just been the wind, sweeping through old sheets and cracks in the wood.

Her hand shot out and gripped Pàdair by the forearm, squeezing him tightly. He returned the gesture by grabbing her by the shoulder and pulling her half a pace closer, squeezing as well.

The wooden floors of the gallery creaked overhead, and dust rained down, making Bobby wince rub her eyes. Someone walked—upstairs. Soft steps, not hurried. But nobody was to be seen up there. Not a soul.

Soft winds drifted towards them and it got even colder, seemingly colder than the winter air outside these haunted halls. Bobby shivered. So did Pàdair. They let go of each other and he advanced towards the branching flight of stairs leading upwards through the majestic entry hall.

The comb lay there, resting at an angle against a step. Pointing upwards.

“Wait,” she hissed at him. “Perhaps we should wait for Arthur and the constables after all.”

She could barely make out anything around her save for the little light that managed to slip inside, distorted by the stained glass it poured in through. Still, she could see Pàdair flash her a toothy, defiant grin as he asked, “What? I thought there was no such a thing as ghosts, miss?”

The wooden boards of the stairs, hidden beneath moth-eaten carpets, groaned under his weight as he ascended, taking one careful step after another.

The blood rushed in Bobby’s ears. She had no choice but to leave or follow him. She feared the isolation more than whatever might be here, for her mind kept going in circles—no ghosts; none here; no such thing.

So she followed. He stopped and ducked down to pick up the ivory comb off the stair’s steps.

Pàdair’s hand then wandered to the hilt of a hunting knife that hung from the back of his belt. She caught herself wondering what good a man-made blade would do against disembodied spirits, and internally scolded herself over the very thought. As if he had followed the exact same train of thought, his hand crept back to his side, leaving his knife alone, and then slid up the wooden banister of the stairs as he continued upwards.

He held the comb out in front of him, letting it guide him the way she had done when she was still leading the two men through Crimsonport’s deserted streets.

Wind blew again. More whispers.

Bobby gasped when she saw something from the corner of her eyes, on the gallery above, but behind them. There was nothing there, just curtains, gently billowing in a ghostly manner. But her gaze met Pàdair’s as she turned to follow him once more—he had glimpsed something, and it had spooked him, as well.

Arriving at the top, they entered through a door that Pàdair pushed open. Unlike the front door, it did not creak. He appeared to follow the ivory comb’s lead entirely, ignoring the different doors and hallways that branched away along their meandering path through the mansion.

Pàdair led her through long corridors and when he entered a small and dingy room, the blood froze in Bobby’s veins. The air that billowed out from it enveloped Bobby and chilled her to the core, carrying a bite yet colder than any other room before.

She squinted, staring in and looking past his tall and portly figure, into what appeared to be the slain maid’s bedchamber. The most unsettling part were the stains on the floorboards—drawn in a circle with strange glyphs, all faded and illegible from the passage of time and someone likely having tried to scrub them away, but failing to erase them entirely. Pàdair pointed to it with the comb. Either he wanted Bobby to take a look at it, or the comb was doing this, drawing his attention there, and Bobby’s by extension.

Bobby stumbled back a step when the door slammed shut in between them. Her heart skipped a beat and she looked around in a growing panic. Her numbed hand clutched the brass door handle and shook it; rattled.

She rattled more, but it remained stuck and the door refused to open. She slammed her shoulder into it, acting on instincts honed from the fistfights she used to get herself into, but the door would not budge.

She yelled out at the door, “Pàdair!”

He did not respond. She hammered at the door with the side of her fist and yelled at him more, “Open the bloody door. This is not funny!”

The whispers erupted all around her, louder than before. She choked on her own breath and stopped banging against the door and spun around multiple times, looking out for anyone or anything around her. Now the whispers invaded her mind with more clarity. With intelligible words.

“If you can have what you want, then so will I,” a woman hissed with spite. A shriek. Different whispers, different voices flowed into each other. Whimpering, “No. No! Stop, please—” The curtains at the end of the hall parted, billowed in a gust of non-existent wind. Screams, sharp as a blade, pierced the air. Whining, sobbing, begging. Gurgling sounds. The sound of wet meat slapping against a hard surface. All in her head, or coming from all around her, she could not tell.

Then Bobby saw the carpets move. Something underneath the carpet, the size of a fist, or a rat, rolled closer and closer towards her, accelerating with each inch.

She turned and ran, and the whispers coalesced into a crescendo.

“Eye for an eye, blood for blood,” they whispered in a chorus of forgotten echoes. Bobby realized that the whispers came from her own throat, escaping her own lips. She tripped and stumbled around a corner, glimpsing the rolling horror underneath the carpet drawing nearer—and growing to the size of a hound, roiling with motions that hinted at something ghastly, with far too many limbs, emerging from the depths.

Growls, snarling, whispers everywhere. Bobby ran, burst through a half-opened door, then another, not once turning around to the sound of fabric violently ripping apart behind her and the wet slapping sounds of large feet or paws; the sounds of something awful and abominable pursuing her through the darkened rooms.

“I will live again,” Bobby whispered, but it was not her words. Not her voice. Breathy, panting, she crashed through another door and staggered forth onto the gallery of the front hall, above the stairs, where more light dared enter through the stained glass windows.

But the depictions on the windows had turned into something sinister. She had no time to take in what she beheld, but Bobby knew that something was terribly wrong about the patterns and imagery. Something sinister, distorting the light in hellish red tones, something abominable and frightening.

Instead, she looked behind her. Cold air grasped at her shoulders, tried to pull her back. She saw nothing for a moment until a bureau shattered, exploding into pieces, and the growling erupted again, sounding like bears she had once heard while visiting the royal zoological garden.

Bobby charged towards the stairs and nearly fell, grabbing onto the banister at the very last moment, tumbling down a few steps and sliding back up onto her feet and then continuing in her desperate stride. The fabric of the carpets audibly tore behind her, mixing in with unnatural snarls, closing in on her.

Closer. Ever closer. No matter how fast she moved, this—this thing—was ever faster.

She lept down the last few steps of the stairs and reached the front doors, catching only a glimpse of the stained glass windows. They now depicted a blood-red moon and a horned, crimson figure dancing with a hooded and cloaked skeleton, the two of them holding a harvesting scythe between them.

Bobby ripped the door open and escaped.

Or at least, she tried. The first footstep she placed outside would be the only one. Something grabbed her by her other heel and yanked her backwards, robbing her of her footing. Her chin hit the wooden floor and had her black out for a split second, making her see stars on the inside of her eyes. There was no time to register any pain, as the adrenaline and dread had frozen every ounce of her body and being.

She twisted around just in time to see something drag her off, dragging her back into the bowels of this haunted place.

“I will live again,” she whispered with fierce determination. Once more, these were not her words. Not her thoughts. Not even her own voice—though it was the cold, ghostly air that escaped Bobby’s own lungs, forming as a small cloud of condensing breath.

What grabbed her, and pulled was nothing. Nothingness.

Nothing but a billowing cloud of pitch-black smoke. She could not even see strands of it wrapped around her leg, where a particularly chilling cold cut through the fabric of her trousers and flesh and all the way down to the bone. It yanked again, and pulled her further, back inside. She felt something there, but there was nothing there. Nothing with the power of something.

Just before she could scream, the mansion’s front door slammed shut behind her.

—Submitted by Wratts