#in which case man no I had the black splash paint and I almost rage quit cuz that shits rare af on top of just being sad 😭

[woundedheartwithin]

Don't you dare remind me of MY POOR HORSE

Heh sorry

[abluescarfonwaston]

The Eternal Fire

This is turning into quite the day.

He wanted a new jacket. That's the only reason he'd come to Novigrad. He just wanted a new jacket. It was a very nice jacket. It already had a tear in the sleeve.

"Geralt." Dandelion tugged at it. Worsening the tear. He be annoyed if he weren't so relieved at his return from wherever he'd wandered while they waited. "Where do they keep the money?" He asked. His whinny whisper sounding almost as distressed as Geralt felt.

"In the cellars, perhaps?" He didn't shift as he carefully watched the dwarves and young men continue their work of filling parchment with numbers and figures. It appeared very monotonous but they didn't look up from their papers so it must have been engaging. He still carefully positioned Dandelion in front of his sleeve in case they looked up.

"No Geralt! I looked!" That did explain where he had gone. "There's no cellars here!"

He tugged his medallion grateful for Dandelions panic. It helped keep his own calm. The halfling, Dainty, continued to tap his foot impatiently, ignoring them. "The attic then." He explained. Because that was the other place people kept money. Banks had to be the same.

Dandelion nodded and eased slightly. He let the chain of his medallion go. The urge to fiddle with it passing. If Dandelion believed him then he was likely right. Because Dandelion knew cities and was a very smart man.

A banker waved them into his office. Discussing the financial wonders that the doppler Dudu was making with Danity’s face and income. They spoke quickly, excited and confused in rapidly shifting amounts that he could hardly follow. The figures were far more than he could ever dream of having. He wouldn’t know what to do with figures that large. 

They spoke of tax and debts and profits which was all very boring and rather soured him to the whole affair. He and Dandelion did not have 22 crowns for a new jacket or even one for lunch. Dandelion had instead stolen some fritters from a market stall for them to snack on and they’d made do.

Dandelion appeared to be listening so he stopped attempting to follow them. If it became important Dandelion would be willing to explain after. 

He considered instead the glossy cornflower blue of his clothing. The way it framed his shoulders. They weren’t as wide as his despite the fact Dandelion was somewhat taller than him. He rarely stood up straight, of course, so it was hardly noticeable. There was a small stain near his ankles where the jar of cherry preservatives had splashed him as Vespula had attempted to toss her entire apartment at the troubadour. His blond hair slightly frizzled under his plum bonnet with it ergot feather from the pure chaos of this morning.

His cheeks were full enough that he knew he’d eaten well these past few months. But given how his fiance had thrown him from her home and the barkeep had refused to spot the bard a drink he figured Dandelion’s time in this city was about done.

Dandelion had wished on the carp in the fountain for a proper ending to his song. The rhymes wouldn’t come, he said. Travel. That would help the poet. He always claimed to do his best work by the embers of a dying fire.

He wondered if he would join him. The quiet popping and crackling of the fire painting Dandelion orange as he muttered while the fire died. Sleep found him easier those nights.

“A troubadour, a Witcher and a merchant. Congratulations. Master Dandelion shows up here and there, even at royal courts, and no doubt keeps his ears open.” He focused as the banker mentioned them. “ And the Witcher? A bodyguard? Someone to frighten debtors?”

“Hasty conclusions, Mr. Vivaldi,” He said coldly pulling his name from the plate on his desk. “We are not partners.”

“And I,” Dandelion said, flushing, “Do not eavesdrop anywhere. I’m a poet, not a spy!”

“People say all sorts of things.” The dwarf grimaced. “All sorts of things Master Dandelion.”

“Lies!” The troubadour yelled. “Damned Lies!”

“Very well, I believe you, I believe you.” He raised his hands placatingly. “I just don’t know if Chappelle will believe it.”

Chappelle. The head of the church of the Eternal Fire. That had surrounded them with the temple guard and threatened them should they not leave town after paying the taxes Dainty owed. It seemed that matter had been settled. So they weren’t in overt danger.

The weapons the temple guard had used. They’d filled him with rage. He’d nearly drawn his sword as they surrounded them. Dandelion’s whisper in his ear and shaking hand on his shoulder all that stopped him. “Geralt,” He’d whispered, “By all the Gods, keep calm-”

“I won’t let them touch me,” He’d muttered. “I won’t let them touch me, whoever they are. Be careful Dandelion. When it starts, you two flee, as fast as you can. I’ll keep them busy... for some time.”

Dandelion’s hand on his shoulder was all that kept him from lashing out as the temple guard had inched closer. Surrounding them with their spiked whips that were prohibited in most countries Geralt knew. Novigrad included. He’d seen people struck by them. He would never forget those face.

He shifted in front of Dandelion. His wide shoulders helping shield the bard from them.

Dandelion stepped around him. Shifting his lute on his shoulder. Spoke to the man for them. He did not look away from the weapons in the guards hands.

And then Chappelle had asked to speak with him in private. Those few steps from Dandelion and Danity, still surrounded bubbled the rage under his skin. If he touches me, he’d though, I’ll strike him. If he touches my elbow i’ll strike him, whatever happens.

He hadn’t. Asked instead the price for killing a vexling, a doppler. He’d managed enough politeness to make clear he wouldn’t.

Then he’d suggested the fee for such a service might guarantee he and his friends might leave this city. He’d wavered as Dandelion and Danity shifted nervously in the circle. Surrounded by the spiked whips.

They’d left. Dandelion touched his elbow and guided him from the bank. Towards the market where the doppler impersonating Dandy was.

It was always quite the day when Dandelion was involved. The man was trouble. His brand new jacket already had a tear in the sleeve. His long fingers warmed his elbow as they headed to the Western Market.

He shoved his way through the overly crowded market towards the sounds of Dandelion and his Lute. His voice calling out to the beauties passing by from a fabulously colored stall decorated with the sign: ‘Buy your wonders, amulets and fish bait here’.

“Dandelion!” He said, approaching. “I thought we had split up to search for the doppler. And you’re giving concerts. Aren’t you ashamed to sing at markets like an old beggar?”

“Ashamed?” Came the astonished reply. “What matters is what and how one sings and not where. Besides I’m hungry and the stall-holder promised me lunch. Look for the doppler yourselves, I’m not cut out for chases, brawls or mob law. I’m a poet.”

“You’d be better off not attracting attention, Poet. Your fiancée is here. Could be trouble.” He’d spotted her earlier yelling at a pots and pans merchant.

“Fiancée?” He blinked nervously. Casting his gaze over the crowd. “Which one do you mean? I have several.”

Irritation bubbled up as Vespula appeared welding a copper frying pan, answering his question. Dandelion jumped up from the stall and nimbly darted away. She turned to him. Nostrils flaring and he stepped backwards. His back hitting the stall’s wall. 

Dainty knocked her off balance as he leapt through the crowd, directing him to his double. He took off in pursuit, eager to escape Vespula’s screams that promised she’d show them how well she could wield the frying pan.

The back of his jacket was lashed as he knocked over two baskets of herrings. The other sleeve caught on a fence and tore.

He stopped. Swore. Spat. Swore again.

He’d just wanted a new jacket. Already it was ruined. Not even half a day later.

Dainty rushed into a tent after the doppler. The noise of blows, curing and an awful banging came from inside. He swore obscenely. Gnashed his teeth. Raised his hand and used Aard on the tent. 

It billowed up like a sail in the gale and collapsed. The doppler crawled out on his belly out from under it. Dashed towards a smaller tent. He hit him in the back with a sign. He tumbled forward but tucked into a somersault and rushed into the tent. He followed in. Hot on his heels.

Dudu turned to him. The canvas firmly attached to the ground. No escape besides the entrance he blocked.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you again mimic.” He said coldly. One of his sleeves bunching around his wrist.

He was breathing heavily. Hoarsely. “Leave me alone. Why are you tormenting me?”

“You attacked Danity. Stole his horses and identity. Left him in the woods. And you’re still using his face and causing him problems.” He watched him shift and consider making a break for it. He stayed ready. Knees bent in case he acted on the impulse. “I don’t want to kill you or turn you in but you have to leave the city. I’ll see that you do.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“I will carry you out in a sack on a handcart.”

Dainty’s face twisted in displeasure and then he swelled up abruptly. Became thinner. Taller. Curly chestnut hair growing white, long and straight down to his shoulders. His green waistcoat shone like oil becoming black leather with silver studs. His face elongated and paled. His swords elongating over his shoulders.

“Don’t come closer. I won’t let you touch me. I’ll kill you if you touch me.” He smiled and his gut twisted.

Was that really how horrible his smile looked? It must be. He thought as he reached for his blade. How hideous I look when I squint. That’s what I look like? Damn.

It was a wonder they didn’t charge him more at brothels.

Their fingers both touched the blades at the same time. Sprung from their sheaths in one identical motion. Two simultaneous quick steps. Forward. To the right.

Their swords swung and connected in perfect symmetry.

They froze. Stopped dead.

“You can’t beat me,” he snarled. “Because I am you.”

“You’re wrong, drop the blade and take Dainty’s form again. Else you’ll regret it.”

“I am you.” He repeated but his hand eased off the blade.

“You have no idea what it means to be me, mimic.” He remained focused on his hands. “Because you are a good natured doppler. You could have killed Dainty and buried him. Taken his life in total safety. But you didn’t because you are at your core a good natured doppler whose close friends call him Dudu. You only know how to copy the good in us.”

His hands dropped from the blade and he stepped backwards. Colliding with the tent’s canvas.

“So turn back into Dainty. Let me tie your hands. You can’t defy me because you can’t copy this in me.” The willingness to kill. “You know that. Because for a moment you were me.”

The slight hunch to his shoulders disappeared as he suddenly straightened with a hideous smile. “You’re right Geralt.” His features warped and his hair shortened. Darkening a tone to blonde. His lips changed shape as he spoke making the words indistinct. “I was only you for a moment but it was enough. Do you know what I’m going to do now?”

The oil black of his leather turned into glossy cornflower blue. He smiled, straightening his plum bonnet with its ergot feather. Adjusted the strap of his lute that had just moments before been a sword.

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do.” He said, with the rippling laughter characteristic of Dandelion. “I’m going to walk out of here and you are going to let me. You won’t fight me. Because then you’d have to kill me. And you can’t.”

The doppler stepped forward. He stared not at his hands but his face as they looked at him. He stood straight, in the way Dandelion only ever did when he was trying to impress. To catch someone’s eye.

“I’ll go and quietly transform into any old body. Because that’s better than starving in the wilds. I’ll blend in amongst these people an one will raise a fuss because what is one more person amongst the thirty thousand that already live here?”

Dandelion’s eyes stared down the tiny distance that separated them in height. His hip cocked with his easy smile. He stood right in front of him. His sword, still in hand, hung limply at his side.

“After all. They let the dwarves, gnomes, halflings, and even elves,” his mouth twisting into the insolent smile of Dandelion’s, “the modest possibility of assimilation. So why not me? Why am I any different from the half elves they let wander here? I can look just the same as them. I can do just the same as them. I deserve a chance to live among them.”

He said nothing as one of the Dopplers string calloused hands pressed against his chest. “Yes. As I said. I am going. And you are going to let me. Because for one moment I was you. Because I knew your thoughts Geralt. Including the ones you won’t admit to.” He leaned in and he could smell the fritter on his breath. “The one’s you hide from even yourself.”

He did not move. His heart hammered in his chest under the fingers of Dandelion. The doppler leaned over towards his ear and he watched his lips form words.

“Because to stop me you’d have to kill me. And the thought of killing me in cold blood fills you with disgust. Doesn’t it?”

He leaned back. Adjusting the strap of his lute. Turned away and walked confidently towards the exit.

He moved confidently but his hands shook and back hunched just slightly. Anticipating the whistle of a blade. His jaw trembled just so slightly over the jackrabbit beating of his heart.

Even in fear he mimicked Dandelion perfectly.

He turned to him mid-step at the exit when no blade came. “Thank you Geralt. Farewell.”

“Farewell Dudu.” He replied. “Good luck.”

The doppler turned away and headed into the crowded bazaar with Dandelion’s sprightly, cheerful, swinging gait. He swung his left arm vigorously and he grinned at the women as he passed them.

He set off slowly after him. Slowly.

He seized his lute in full stride and played two chords. Then played a tune he knew. He sang the song Dandelion had been troubling with all day.

His voice exactly like Dandelions. He sang. But the rhymes came to him.

He smiled brightly back at him when he was done. “Pass that on to Dandelion if you remember.” He called back to him through the crowd. “And tell him that Winter is a lousy title. The ballad should be called The Eternal Fire. Farewell Witcher!”

He started to nod when Vespula, launcher of missiles and angry ex-fiancé of Dandelion’s, shouted out “Hey! You, pheasant!”

The doppler turned around in astonishment. He removed his bonnet and bowed with his broad and easy smile. “Vespula my dear! How glad I am to see you.” He shoved and elbowed his way through the crowd desperately towards the poor fool. “Forgive me my sweet. I owe you-“

“Oh you do, you do.” She interrupted. “And what you owe me you’re going to pay!”

The copper frying pan flashed in the sun as it clanged deep and loud against his head. He staggered. An indescribably stupid expression frozen on his face as his arms spread out and he began to melt into nothing human.

He leapt in full flight swiping a blanket from a stall. Wrapping the doppler in it and sat atop the bundle.

Vespula gripped her frying pan. Her fury mixing with confusion.

“He’s sick.” He smiled affectedly. “Don’t crowd. He needs air.”

“Did you hear?” Chappelle asked calmly but resonantly. Pushing his way through the crowd. “Do not form a public gathering here! Please disperse! Public gatherings are forbidden, punishable by a fine!”

In the blink of an eye the crowd dispersed. Dandelion approached them against the movement of the crowd. Vespula cried out when she saw him and with a palid glance at the blanket, ran.

“What happened? Did she see the devil?” The bundle under him began to move weakly. Chappelle slowly approached. His personal guard nowhere to be seen.

“Don’t come closer.” He said quietly. “If I were you I’d turn around and pretend I never saw anything.”

“You, no doubt.” Chappelle said coldly. “But you are not me.”

Dainty ran up behind them but upon seeing Chappelle he stopped. Began to whistle, held his hands behind his back and pretended to admire the roof of the granary.

Chappelle stood by Geralt, very close. He narrowed his eyes. Chappelle leaned over the bundle.

“Dudu” he said to Dandelion’s strangely deformed cordovan boots still sticking out the blanket. “Copy Dainty, quickly now.”

Dainty objected but Dudu, only my friends call me Dudu, began to compress under the blanket and after a few moments he scrambled out.

Dandelion watched the proceedings from perched atop a trunk. Strumming his lute with an expression of moderate interest on his face. From the corner of his eye he could find no fault in the doppler’s impression of him.

“Now who is this?” Chappelle asked Dainty pointedly.

“My cousin. Dudu Biberveldt of Knotgrass Meadow. An astute businessman that. I’ve decided to appoint as my factor in Novigrad.”

“Oh thank you cousin.” His close relative and pride of their clan smiled broadly. Chappelle also smiled.

“What happened to the real Chappelle?” He asked him.

“Died of apoplexy two months back. May the earth lie lightly on him, and may the Eternal Fire light his way. No one noticed. Geralt you aren’t going to-“

“What didn’t anyone notice?” He asked with an inscrutable expression. Dandelion smiled ruefully from his perch.

“Thank you.” Chappelle muttered.

A Gnome arrived, bringing with him another matter of mercantile business.

“Geralt.” Dandelion groaned. “He’s earned more in three days than I’ve earned in my whole life singing!”

“Maybe you should take up commerce then. Perhaps if you ask he’ll take you as an apprentice.”

Dandelion gave a rueful smirk as he strummed his lute with a shake of his head.

“Witcher.” Dudu tugged at his ruined sleeve. “Tell me how I could repay you?”

“Twenty-two crowns.”

“What?”

“For a new Jacket. Look what’s left of mine.”

“Do you know what?” Dandelion suddenly yelled, jumping from his perch. “Let’s all go to the house of ill repute! To Passiflora! The Biberveldts are paying!”

“Do they admit halflings?” Dainty asked with concern.

“Just let them try not to.” Chappelle put on a menacing expression. “Let them try and I’ll accuse their entire bordello of heresy.”

“Right.” Dandelion called, already leading the way. “Very satisfactory. Geralt?” He turned his eyes to him. His face warm and open. Framed by his blond curls. “Are you coming?”

He laughed softly.

“Do you know what Dandelion?” He said. “I’ll come with pleasure.”

[writeforself]

Hank ft. Connor, reader

How Hank found his way back to life.

A/N: Sooo, I’ve been thinking about writing with this song for a long time. This is my favorite Japanese song from my favorite artist. I thought abt write with ma bois, but after some thinking, I figure probably only Hank in DBH could fit this song. And I didn’t think it would turn out to be this long. Hope you all enjoy this. Thank you :)

p.s. not so good at translating, so I borrow some translation from Lyricstranslate.com

Song: Amazarashi - 僕は死のうと思ったのは(Once I thought about dying)

Once I thought about dying, because my heart had became all empty. Whenever someone cry for not being happy, I’m sure it’s because they really want to be.

It was another Monday night, Hank found himself in a bar, luxuriating in the numbness provided by the alcohol, and the hypnotizing music muffled by the low whispers of other patrons. Like falling into a deep lake, lights fading, into infinite darkness, being suffocated with the cold dark water, until he became stiff, falling and falling. He spent most of nights like this, staring blankly into a glass full of whiskey, replaying the accident in his head again and again. He hated the face inside the golden liquid staring back to him, an old soul filled with hatred, cursing indefinitely. Words cutting like a thousand knives, anger burning furiously inside him, eventually all that left was a tattered shell cold and numb, withered and still.

Splash of blood painted on the snowy white, dark red liquid spread like velvet on the soft ground, oozing into the earth, digging deep, till nothing left on the surface. Like a sinking stone, a life descended into the earth, vanished with time. Two hearts were taken away in a white corridor by the white angels covered in crimson. Pitiless phrases flew over his head, merging with the white noise wandering in the bleached corridor, flew into space, disappeared nowhere. The soft jazz turned into classic rock, the strings of guitar tightened his every sense. The golden liquid had gone, left a glass full of empty air.

Despite the warmth indoor, he couldn’t help but feel surrounded by frozen air, every inch of him, shivering. Every breath he took feels like it’s filled with thick rusty smell, blending in with the dizzying alcohol. If only all of these could take him away from where he was. Alcohol certainly lifted him up during the process of taking it, but after the night it would be another heavy fall, and a tormenting pain would haunt him for the rest of the day, before he took another sip to lift himself up. He scoffed at himself, vibration in his throat, a laughter came out but eventually absorbed by the mellow surrounding.

“Another one?”

The bartender noticed the empty glass. Golden light spread across the dark counter as the whiskey bottle was raised into the air, shimmering under the dim amber light. Then it dropped, a tiny golden waterfall, gently fell into a gleaming glass, creating a little splash. The man in the glass came back. He looked older with every sip. Weariness crept across his face, leaving deep lines and a frown tight as knot. Eventually he was gone, vanished within the bottomless glass.

He never liked the part of leaving the bar. All of his efforts were instantly crashed with the merciless wind roaring on the street. Threw back into the reality from the embrace of the warmth. Awake he was again, into the night.

Once I thought about dying, because my shoelaces came undone. I was never very good at retying them, kind of like how I am with the ties between people.

Dealing with normal people with intention was never hard for him. Give people what they want, or completely ignore them. Be nice to those who are nice to you; be an asshole to those who are asshole. Or just be a complete asshole and be alone. For him being an asshole was not hard when he’s alone. After all the cries into the void, he was used of a vast emptiness. He had became tired of trying. Nothing around him gave him much hope in the world. Another crime, another gruesome murder. Ragged corpse lying in a pool of scarlet, foul smell creeping into his nasal. They were like stop motion pictures flying before him, so fast, and so negligible. Flying past his eyes, tangled with other disturbance in the world, and disappeared in the turbulence.

If there was one thing that stir up trouble inside him, it would be android. Indistinguishable from human, yet hard to read, hard to deal with, for they have no intention. When he was assigned on a series of cases with the newest android, he was furious.

Connor, the android sent by cyberlife, that’s what the thing called itself. It had no desire beside accomplishing the mission. It appeared in the middle of nowhere, ripped Hank from his comfort. However, he was impressed by how fast it was able to put the clues together when they caught the first rogue android that killed its owner. He was even moved a little when Connor showed compassion toward the deviant. Yet was it compassion? Doubts still lingered in his mind. He couldn’t trust Connor, after all androids work with logic, so there must be a reason other than compassion behind the kind act. It’s probably just a reflection of what he wanted to see in this world, interpreted the action with his own wish, twisted the world for his own desire.

The nature of determination in Connor still annoyed him. Being assigned as partner didn’t much help with the state he was in at the time. Every words coming out from the plastic mouth felt like an insult, like fuel adding into the raging fire inside him. A report of a missing android was savior for the heated moment, and maybe, he thought, some rain could help cool him down.

Once I thought about dying, because people said that I don’t have a heart. Whenever someone cry for not being loved, I’m sure it’s because they already knew what’s like being loved.

Although it only seemed like a trifle, he was happy it got him out of the office. As he was standing in the rain, listening to the briefing, he watched Connor standing by the car idly. Blue light flickering around his temple calmly as he turned his head to look around the area. The rain pouring down from the sky somehow seemed like a refreshment for the mind. Yet it couldn’t wash away the weariness in him. It felt like a complete wild-goose chase.

Eventually the android they were looking for escaped right in front of them. Connor was ready to give his life to chase the android across the busy highway. Yet he listened to Hank, although utterly frustrated by the result, he was safe, which strangely provide comfort to Hank knowing Connor listens to him, for the most part.

As the android crossed the highway with the little girl, they witnessed a person appeared from the other side. It was a figure wearing black, dark hood covered the face. Hank managed to take a glimpse at the figure when the figure turned around to check on Hank and Connor. An indescribable feeling rose inside him, like a flood pouring into his mind. Call it a hunch, a detective instinct--they will meet again.

It didn’t take much time for the hunch to come true. As he was grabbing his high-calorie lunch, the mysterious figure still haunted him, lingered inside him as he devoured the hamburger.

When Connor approached him and started the conversation, he noticed the surroundings were unusually quiet. Connor’s voice somehow sounded soothing mixing with the pouring rain, at least it lost the condescending tone from earlier. And the fact an android was trying to get along with him amused him.

“Why did you stop me?” Connor asked him with genuine curiosity written on his face. “I didn’t want to damage the property.”

He replied with a humorous annotation. That’s only half of the truth. Certainly writing a full report would be a dreadful idea; he’s never good at coming out with all sorts of reason to explain a situation that just simply got out of hands. In the same time he started to see something special inside Connor, a purity that he hadn’t seen in the people around him for a long time. When Connor told him everything he knew about him he was actually a bit glad because he was sick of lying, sick of the ability to distinguish lies and truths. Nevertheless, Connor still crept Hank out with everything he did. The wink at the end of the conversation would haunt Hank for days.

They managed to find another android later that day. Hank almost ran out of breaths trying to catch up with Connor and the android. They ran through roofs after roofs, farms after farms. Fields of grains, greenhouses, even across the moving subway. It was like nothing he had ever seen. When he finally caught up with the android, it pushed him off the roof and ran toward a dark figure. The figure handed something to the android and urged it to run away. But the figure remained, you remained.

You stood there for a few seconds, like contemplating on the thought whether to escape or not. You cautiously approached to Hank by the edge of the roof and tried to pull him up by yourself. Yet not to your surprise you couldn’t do it by yourself. Connor finally caught up, and pull up Hank with you.

It took awhile for Hank to gather his breaths. He was speechless, looking at you with disbelief. As you were standing up and readied to leave, a hard grip stopped you from doing that.

“You were at the highway.”

The hand grasping your wrist strengthened as Connor finished his sentence. Even Hank could feel a sense of intimidation coming from Connor, the strength Connor had putting onto you wrist felt visible as a silent agony crept onto your calm expression. He finally stepped in between of you, and took your hand in his.

“Ma’am you need to come with us.”

Once I thought about dying, because I saw your beautiful smile. Whenever someone can’t help but think about dying, I’m sure it’s because we all try a bit too hard.

You’d never been into an interrogation room. Never expected tension could be so strong in the air. Sitting on the other side of the table was Hank, looking at you as if you were something he had never seen before. Yet you just sat there, gaze fixing on the ground, surprisingly not nervous, which for Hank found it oddly intrigued. He noticed a badge with a square symbol on it hanging loosely by the collar, took note to ask about it later. Although Hank could’ve gotten all your information from Connor, as he was sure that Connor already got plenty by just scanning you, he decided to take the approach in the old fashion way, slowly.

“Do you know why you are in here?” “No.“

Your gaze fixed on the red book laying under Hank’s hand. He noticed your gaze, took the book up and scanned through the indecipherable pages.

“You know what it is?” “Yes,”

From your gesture, Hank could tell you were somewhat scared. Arms crossing on your chest, back slightly arched, you looked cornered, yet without hostility.

“You know that deviant. Why were you helping him?” Standing behind Hank, Connor was agitated on pressing questions. This is the closest opportunity to push forward the investigation, because so far it felt like there wasn’t any progress, and in two of the occasions it is because of you.

“He’s my friend.” “He’s a deviant. Deviant can be dangerous.” “He’s not dangerous.” “He nearly killed Hank.” “He panicked.” “Connor.” Hank stopped your conversation, “Wait outside would ya?” “But lieutenant,” “Connor.”

When Connor finally left the room. Hank noticed the red on your wrist, must came from that grip earlier, he thought. His eagle like gaze scanned you thoroughly. There were not much he could find, all black, beside the small badge hanging by the collar, and the subtle confidence gleaming quietly in your eyes. It felt familiar, the symbol,  four lines forming a octagon, in the middle was an empty square. He couldn’t remember where he saw this though.

“So the android is your friend?” “Yes, he is.” “Do you know what it is?” He picked up the red book , waving it around in front of him. “It’s his diary.” “What’s written on it? Anything important on it?” “I don’t know.”

He put down the book and frowned. He needed to change an approach, then he remember the other android from the morning. Headaches started to kick in as he was refreshing his memory.

“What about in the morning, what were you doing there?” “Some androids told me about it, so I went.” “So you just went there?” “Yes, I wanted to help them.” “Why?” “Why not?”

You looked at him, as if it was a question that needed no answer. By then he felt like there’s no more reasons to keep you at the police station. After all, you didn’t violate any law, and you saved his life. You could’ve just ran away, and let him fall because he knew he couldn’t hold on much longer at this physical state. He chuckled, and saw the bewildered expression on your face.

“Well, You are free to go.” “You are not going to arrest me?” “Why? You done something wrong?” “Uh, no?” “That’s it then. C’mon.”

He stood up and guided you toward the door like a gentleman. Before open the door, he turned around and ask.

“By the way what is that badge?” “It’s a symbol.” “Well, does it mean anything?” “Slaves used it back when they were escaping through the underground railroad.”

He remembered where he saw this, back in his history class. He nodded thoughtfully and proceeded opening the door. When the door opened you nearly bumped into Connor who was standing so close to the exit. Hank saw the your reaction you had when you saw Connor--unconsciously protecting your wrist, startled.

“Sorry ma’am.” Connor was the first to speak. “It’s ok,” Rubbing your wrist with another hand. “Goodbye.” “Hold on ma’am.”

As you turned around in small steps, Hank called. You turned and saw a small piece of hard displaying in front of you.

“If you think of anything, call me.” Cautiously taking the card from his hand, you nodded in the smallest angle. “Thank you,” your mouth curled subtly, replied in a warm tone. “I will.”

They stood at the corridor and watched you leaving the station. From the corner of his eyes, Hank notice a faint yellow flickering around Connor’s temple. He was confused by the hesitation that kept Connor from asking question, because he imagined by now he would at least ask 10 questions non stop by now. Yet he couldn’t care less. He was tired from all the chasing. The rain and the alcohol probably had some effect on him as well. The beating pain in his head torturing his senses.

“Well, I am heading home now.” He stretched and groaned. “The headache is killing me.” “You should cut down on the alcohol lieutenant, your body would be overwhelmed if you continue drinking like this.” “Shut the fuck up.”

He scoffed, and laid a friendly pat on Connor’s shoulder. He didn’t need to look back to know the yellow light still lingered around Connor’s temple.

Into the rain again he went, back to his cozy home with Sumo.

Once I thought about dying, because you hadn’t came into my life. And if people like you can exist in this world, then maybe I like it a little after all.

That night at the Eden Club was truly an eye opening for him. It wasn’t until then that he understood your words, and understand the hesitation from Connor. He needed to think, he hadn’t feel anything for a long time, expect of the agony that dig deeper into him everyday since three years ago. He hadn’t feel any sense of warmth, any sense of hope. Maybe the world was worth it, after all he had witnessed recently. Maybe among the violence, and bloodshed, the indifference, there’s still something else in this world. This belief was reinforced after the Kamski incident.

His frustration when he was told to let go of the case was unpredictable before today. Even Fowler was stunned by his attitude. It didn’t take him long to agree to help Connor when Connor came begging with some sort of desperation. He never expected himself to care about this android, but after all they had been through, all he had seen from him, he was happy to. Plus the thought of pouring his anger on that FBI prick was very tantalizing.

With an anxious mind he was sent back home. Lying on the sofa  with a glass of whiskey again, he couldn’t shake away off the thoughts of androids in his head. There’s going to be something huge that night. The golden liquid in his hand, shed mellow light onto his face as he looked at the light through the glass. Memories flashed in front of him. He thought of that night from three years ago a lot, but recently he was finally able to steer his mind onto other matters.

Then the phone rang.

Sumo woke up from his sleep and looked at Hank with patience, as he took time putting down the glass, stood up to find his phone.

“Hello?” “Hello, is this Lieutenant Anderson?” He recognized this voice. “Yes, this is him.” “Hi, sorry I haven’t introduced myself. I’m [Y/N].”

“Yeah I recognized your voice…” He remembered you took his card, and carefully put it inside the pocket in your pants. Your back slightly arched while you’re walking as if a burden laid heavily on you. Your attentive words, and the confidence in your eyes. You sure had left him quite an impression. “[Y/N] is it?”

“Yes, sorry to call you at this time, there’s something I need to tell you.” “I’m listening.” “As you probably had figured it out, “ You paused for a second, silence in the air. “I’m helping a group of androids.” “Go on.”

He walked back to his room as he was listening to you explaining Jericho. Needless to say he was a bit amazed how a group of androids managed to stay hidden for so long, and how you, had spent your time devoted in helping them. A smile quietly crept on to his face while he listened to your story.

“But something happened earlier lieutenant, “Your voice became distressed. “We…” He could feel hesitation through the cold cellphone. “Connor, needs your help.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, listening to everything that had happened tonight. When he heard about what happened to Connor, he wasn’t shock, instead he was relief. Then you proposed a plan.

“I can get you into Cyberlife’s warehouse.” “You are full of surprise, aren’t you?” “I have connection, that’s all.” “I will come, but no guarantees.” “Thank you.”

A warmth rose up in his chest, he didn’t sure whether it was because of the whiskey or the conversation. Something important was happening tonight. He put on his clothes as fast as possible, hugged Sumo with all the love as he stood at the door preparing to leave.

Into the night again he went, with a sense of determination and hope, he went into the stormy night.

And if people like you are living in this world, then maybe it’s alright to hope a little too.

Everything happened so fast as he entered the white tower standing alone on the Belle-Isle. He saw you at the gate wearing a badge of cyberlife employee, greeted him with hospitality. Then Connor came, snatched him away from you with a work excuse. He didn’t suspect that much before he saw your face covered in fear as he was being taken away. It didn’t take long for him to find a gun pointing in his head. The expression on Connor’s face turned cold that he had never seen before.

“Sorry to disappoint you lieutenant Anderson.” He spoke with a voice sharp as a frozen blade, the smile on his face expressed nothing but despise. “We are just going to pay my predecessor a little visit.”

Hank stayed silent as he turned his focus on the monitors in the elevator, and watched the flickering light inside this dim elevator. It reminded him of the feeling of falling into the dark lake, instead this time, he was dragged into the darkness by a unrelenting force. Yet he felt that there’d be a light in the end, somehow. He just had a hunch.

“It’s nothing personal, lieutenant Anderson.”As he pushed Hank outside to the dark corridor he spoke again. “It’s just for the mission.”

He could see Connor lingering in the sea of androids. He wanted to shout but he figured it would probably ruined everything. So he chose to wait for the right moment.

He had a little faith in Connor, but he had faith, that’s enough. It was almost like a moment of enlightenment when Connor chose to save him. He fell and watched everything unfolded in front of him. For a moment he thought this could probably be the most bizarre scene he had ever witnessed in his life. Two people looking exactly the same fighting with each other like mirror image.

He gathered his breaths and stood up. Pointing his gun at the indistinguishable androids, asking questions trying to figure out who’s the real Connor. Eventually he asked the question that haunted him for long.

“My son, what’s his name?”

The scarlet velvet spreading on the ground. The tiny body lying almost motionless on the soft white carpet. Two souls was taken away that night, by the angel in white.

“Cole.”

He didn’t expect to hear this name again from an android. He didn’t expect the android spoke in such compassionate tone that it felt like a human. He didn’t expect those eyes looking at him with both with fear and understanding. He didn’t expect to be touched and dragged further and further, away from the bottom of the lake.

A bullet pierced through the head of Connor. Falling, nothing but a sound of void. They stood. Blue liquid covering the white floor.

“I’ve learned a lot since I met you Connor.” He shifted his gaze to the motionless android laying on the cold white floor. “Maybe there’s something to it.” Then shifted his gaze to Connor, who’s looking at him with slight confusion. “Maybe you’ll be the ones to make the world a better place...” He urged Connor to finish his mission.

Being waken up from sleep, an android after another, calling each other into life.

Then he bid Connor with luck, and made his way back to the outside.

To his surprise the building had somehow became empty. He walked to his car and saw you standing beside it, alone in the snow, covered in black.

“Thank you for coming lieutenant Anderson.” “No sweat... Where’s everyone?” “They evacuated after Connor woke the androids up.” “I guess you lost your job?” “Well,” You chuckled. “I didn’t really like that job anyway.” “You think things will work out tonight?” “I certainly hope so.” Rubbing your wrist again, you contemplated for a second, and spoke with confident. “It will.” “Let’s go then.” He opened the car door, and instructed you to get on the vehicle. “Let’s go celebrate.” “Already?” “It will be alright. I have a good feeling about this.” He laughed.”And trust me, my hunch has been working pretty well recently.”

[carpe-astra]

                                                    Mood Music

                                          Kingswood, Bristol 1935

                                                        3:25 AM

The Crown was a squat, one story building made of plaster and brick. Once upon a time it had been proud and ruddy, but now it was grey. Dinginess bred of heavy smog and the grit of factories on the outskirts of town, as well as the perpetual soak of mud by the drizzling rain. The sign creaked quietly in the breeze, made of an old slab of wood that had been painted black, with a gold crown in the middle. That too had once been bright and colorful, now it was ordinary and drab.

They had all thought it a sense of poetic irony to take it over. For awhile, it had been funny. But tonight, there was no humor to be found in those old walls. Tension had bit through every crevice and crack of the building -- and choked the air worse than the clouds of cigarette smoke did.

Valentino set his hands down on the edge of the bar top and studied the way the candlelight shimmered over the mountains of his bloody knuckles. A cigarette hung slack in the corner of his mouth, lazy curls of smoke half obscuring the man tied to his chair beside him. Absently, Valentino reached for the bottle of vodka that was sitting next to his glass to dump some in before taking a lengthy swig of it.

“So, Driscoll,” he began thoughtfully, his voice a warning rumble of an impending storm. He turned to the man, a cruel edged smile on his face like the jagged edge of a broken bone.

Driscoll was a fat man, but built around the arms. Someone who had done real work once upon a time, and then gone somewhere softer in his old age. The Butcher of Eagle Street still wore his leather apron, but it was no longer the blood of beasts that stained it, and the blood of the lives he had taken -- but his own now, too. His hair was kept closely cropped, and it was easy to see the large gash that arced over his scalp, deep enough to see the twinkle of bone through the scraps of flesh. His entire face was a sheet of blood, piggy blue eyes blinking rapidly as blood dripped into them.

Driscoll had given up straining against his bindings, but he shook his head wildly which sent blood splattering across the floor and Valentino’s shirt. But Valentino didn’t really notice it, just like he barely minded the spark of cold drops where Driscoll’s blood had dusted over his face earlier and cooled.

“I don’t know nothing,” he slurred out, red spit escaping him in a spray with his words. Most people had feared the Butcher. They had wondered if he sold his victims like he did his slabs of beef and pork to the unwitting masses of Bristol. Any reservations Valentino had had previously, the need for cunning strategy and the long game had evaporated the moment Leo had brought him Elizabeth’s hat where he’d found it on the side of the street.

Valentino touched the brim of the hat, slicking his thumb along the curve so that he wouldn’t blemish the pristine white with dirt or blood. “I might have believed you Driscoll, if I didn’t fuckin’ know that Malcolm was always watching her.” He took in air suddenly, dragging his fingers through the tail of hair that slathered back over the top of his head as the ferocity of his fury almost consumed him.

Driscoll shook his head again, more blood spraying around them while he swayed violently with a sickening green tint to his face.

“One more time Driscoll. WHERE. IS. MY. WIFE?” He took in another deep breath after he roared in Driscoll’s face, the echo of his gravelly voice ringing in the near empty bar. Again he spoke, but quiet this time, and calm. A frozen intensity burning in the undercurrent reminiscent of a Siberian winter. “Last chance.”  

All he could picture was that hat sitting on the edge of the street. Long red ribbons trailing in the passing wake of a cart, lost and alone. He was going to find her, or burn the world down around him.

“We didn’t take her! Malcolm ain’t that stupid!” The Butcher reduced to slurring words that were barely coherent, tangled up in blood and exhaustion.

“I beg to disagree.” Valentino upended the bottle of vodka abruptly, pouring out the gleaming liquor right into the ragged wound in Driscoll’s skull. It took a moment, but Valentino watched hungrily as the burning began.

It started slow, Driscoll’s eyes wrenching open and his head lolling up, before he squeezed them shut against the rain of scarlet soaked alcohol that washed away the blood that had been sticking to his fat face. He flushed hotly, face creasing into a tight grimace of pain while he struggled not to cry out. His jowls quivered, then he was sputtering against the agonizing sting as he hissed. It bubbled up louder and he started to rock in place, flinging drops around as he shook his head like a dog.

“Right nasty shit, innit?” Valentino questioned Driscoll as the man screamed in pain. There was no one to hear him but Valentino, and the few King Breakers he had brought to guard the place as he worked. And none of them moved.

Valentino pried his cigarette from his mouth, breathing out a cloud of pollution directly into Driscoll’s tortured face as he kept screaming. A bit of ash sprinkled over the leather apron he wore, sticking there. The man’s collar had been stained piss-yellow with his sweat and now it clung to his thick throat damply, a hint of pink from the steady ooze of blood spreading downward before disappearing under the line of the apron.

He could feel the shark’s grin stretched over his face too tightly, like it was too wide for his bones, or not wide enough to contain his monsters. He felt hollow -- just a deep, black unending river that he dipped his hands into and washed himself with.

Elizabeth had always kept it under lock and key; had built a cage for the rippling, sinuous leviathan that he had brought back from the war. The one that took pleasure in feeling the wet heat of life on his palms. He wasn’t fit to be on his own anymore -- not without Elizabeth. She was his sanity. For a heartbeat, his hands shook as he hoped Odette would sleep through the night soundly, and never learn of this.

The thought was smothered abruptly under a gout of rage as Driscoll’s face swam into his view again.

“You don’t know anything, huh?” His voice dropped to a rumbling growl, edged like a razor while he stuck a finger into the wound on Driscoll’s head to peel his scalp up. It was harder than he thought it’d be, or that could have been Driscoll’s renewed howling and thrashing. It was hard to tell. Though it was slick against his fingertips, he hung onto the Butcher’s mousy hair and yanked brutally. Driscoll wobbled again, but Valentino slapped his cheek a few times to keep him conscious while the vomit dribbled from his mouth.

Valentino stepped away as the reek touched his nose, shoving both dirty hands into his hair as he watched with a hawkish intensity. He grabbed his seat suddenly and set it across from his prisoner to sit down with his elbows on his knees while he thought.

Elizabeth had been last seen walking home from a shopping trip. No matter that he had told her time and time again to take one of the boys with her, just in case. He had only wanted her safe. The bloodied, vodka soaked heels of his palms pressed into his brow while he desperately tried to think, his cigarette burning idly between his fingers. Normally, everything came to him as easily as breathing. He could see all the ins and outs, the path forward to get his hands on what he wanted.

Malcolm had always had eyes for Elizabeth, even before Valentino had met her. It’d been a stupid accident, that day in the rain. But he’d bathe in a river of blood before he let another touch her. Some of the Breakers had seen Malcolm’s men, The Jackals, around King Breaker territory. He could only assume it had been The Jackals. But if he didn’t play it smart, Elizabeth could end up hurt, though he didn’t think Malcolm would kill her.

A gut wrenching coldness crept down his spine at the image that had been rattling around in his mind for days. Crimson splattered over her fine face and soaked into her pale hair. Eyes, utterly lifeless. The eyes had always gotten to him in the war. When they became so still and glassy, that was the moment he had known. He couldn’t bear to see Elizabeth’s beautiful blues empty like that. He wouldn’t survive it.

Driscoll was Malcolm’s top killer, but still a pawn. It would send the message that Valentino needed it to. He gestured to the boys lingering on the fringes of his attention and they moved forward into action to hoist Driscoll up and smash his head down onto the bar.

With the flames of perdition licking up his spine like a rabid dog, he took up a second bottle of vodka from the counter. Driscoll whimpered, blood and snot dripping down his face and being inhaled... then exhaled with each shuddering breath he took.

“C’mon Driscoll, don’t be a pussy eh?” Valentino chided him as he tipped the bottle over and sent a gleaming tidal wave of vodka spilling across the counter to splash up against the Butcher’s face and over the edges. He took in a sharp breath, lighting up the end of his cigarette into a gleaming cherry before he flicked the stick onto the pool.

Flames ignited in a rush, greedily devouring the bartop until it reached Driscoll and washed over his face as though the hounds of hell were after him. The stench of burning flesh and hair filled his nose in a sickeningly familiar way, that kept after him even while he and the men who had hauled Driscoll up backed away from the blast of heat and fire.

For a moment, Valentino was transported back to the battlefield, with the sharp sizzle of gunpowder and the cloying ash under the stench of burning bodies.

The scream that tore through the cold bar startled him back to the present, and Valentino reached forward to wrench Driscoll up off the counter as he thrashed and writhed, dumping him onto the floor in a wailing, knotted heap of limps. The flames were blistering against his hands, but he stepped away again, shadows dancing around them in a hedonistic display. Through the tangled tongues of the fire, he could see Driscoll’s skin bubbling and cracking, splitting apart to reveal the hot meat underneath that sizzled like a side of beef in a stovetop pan.

“Toss him onto Malcolm’s doorstep and stick a goldie with him,” he growled at the men around him, who watched silently at the gory display Valentino had put on. Driscoll had finally stopped moving, and they snapped into action to snuff out the flames before they could spread far enough to burn the whole place down.

He crushed the sodden cigarette that had rolled back at him under his heel. “Have Mr. Delong send me the bill for repairs and cleaning.” The golden bullet Valentino had prepared three days ago was pressed into Brandon’s hand, Malcolm’s etched name glittering in the still lingering flames. Brandon looked sick to his stomach when he glanced at Driscoll. New, and too young to have been in the war -- but Brandon blanched when Valentino met his eyes.

Valentino tugged out another cigarette to light up, taking comfort in the familiar burn of smoke snaking down into his lungs while he rolled his sleeves back down to cover the tattoos on his forearms. He left The Crown with Elizabeth’s hat, to wash his hands and check on Odette -- their daughter.

[hetaliasummerexchange]

The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall

Pairing: Austria/Prussia

Rating: T (Mentions of violence)

Word Count: ~9k

Summary: There are all kinds of ghosts, ghosts of smiles, ghosts of songs and ghosts of the past, but, as one snooty city boy by the name of Roderich comes to discover on his seaside adventures, the ghost of Candlecreek Hall is by far the most captivating of them all.

This is my gift for Flower-crowned-galaxy​ for the 2017 Hetalia Summer Exchange. I hope you enjoy it! :)

  Notes - human names:

I used two nyo!characters in this story - Daniel Héderváry is male!Hungary and Martin is male!Belgium. The rest of the characters carry their usual, canon names.

Part One

Many years ago, there was a little town which stood to the shores of a vast, grey ocean. It was a quiet, remote place, several days of riding away from the nearest large city. In that town, everyone knew each other, and so whenever a visitor arrived, the whole town would stir with excitement. Therefore, when on one beautiful day of early summer a carriage jolted down the dirt road leading to the town, a small crowd formed to watch and welcome the newcomers.

The carriage, so they discovered, transported a respectable little family from the city. The man wore a suit better and cleaner than the Sunday clothes of any of the townspeople, and his wife a velvet dress adorned with lace and muslin. Their son, a pale, timid boy, shouldered an instrument case. They had arrived for a vacation and were to stay the summer in the seaside town.

The townspeople were curious about the peculiar city folks who were unlike any other they had ever met. In the first few days after their appearance, the townspeople showered the man and his wife with questions, and in exchange, provided them with essential information and gossip: Where to buy bread, milk, and fish, where to repair shoes and mend clothes, who’s a good, trustworthy fellow and from whom should they steer away.

The local kids, however, noticed something strange and displeasing in the days to follow. The son almost never came out of their rented lodgings. They found it an insult that upon arriving at a new place, he chose to stay inside instead of enjoying all the adventures their town and the wild areas surrounding it had to offer. The bravest of the children, a stable boy named Daniel Héderváry, decided to go and see what was the matter with him. And so, one afternoon, when the man and his wife went out to the market, he climbed up the stairs to the room where they stayed.

Just before knocking, he heard music coming from behind the door. The tune that dribbled through the wood was unlike anything he had ever heard. It was gentle and complex, ever-changing and sweet. Daniel then remembered the black case that the newcomers’ boy carried on his back the day of his arrival. A violin – he had only seen one or two of those miraculous objects in his life. He swung the door open and with beaming eyes called out to the astonished boy who stood inside: “Show me how you play that!”

Just as the newcomers’ boy seemed strange to Daniel’s eyes, so did Daniel seem to him. A dirty, puny boy with scraped knees and messy hair that fell over his shoulders, who barged into his lodgings without invitation. “What are you doing here?!” The boy demanded once he overcame his shock, voice full of rage. He had very unusual, unnerving eyes: Deep purple. Daniel shrunk under his furious violet gaze. “You are always hiding inside here,” he defended himself, “what’s the point in a vacation like this? We want to invite you to play with us!”

The boy opened his mouth to shout again, then closed it and puckered his lips into a pout, cheeks red. He seemed to be embarrassed of his outburst. “I didn’t think about it in such a way,” he mumbled, “and in any case, I don’t think we’ll get along…”

“What!” Daniel cried, almost hurt. “We’ll get along just great, you’ll see!” And since he was the kind that acts before thinking, he grabbed the city boy’s elbow (gently, for he knew better than putting the precious instrument, which the boy was still holding, in danger). “Come with me,” he demanded. “We’ll show you all the nice places.”

As one surrendering to fate, caught between curiosity and revulsion, the boy sighed heavily. After shaking Daniel’s hand away, he placed his violin in its open case with extreme tenderness. “I shall come, but not for long,” he announced. “I’m still not done practising for today.”

“Great!” Daniel exalted, and in his heart hoped to hear the boy playing again. “My name is Daniel. What is your name?”

“Roderich,” the boy replied curtly and sharply, and followed Daniel out into the street.

***

Despite his concerns, Roderich had no real choice - the town boys had made up their minds to make him love the countryside, and nothing could stand against their will. In the weeks to follow, the city boy became acquainted with a whole new way of life. In this age, the town boys informed him with certainty, one should run barefoot over stones and grass, swim in the ocean and explore the wilderness – not worry about serious matters. Smile at the world and the world will smile back at you. With their help he managed, after much splashing and spitting and rubbing salt from his eyes, to stay above the water surface.

There were some differences, of course, that were impossible to overcome – his skin, for example, refused to tan and instead reddened and peeled under the sun. His accent and speech were educated, and sometimes difficult to understand. His eyesight was another problem – at first, he went out wearing his glasses. Then, realising the danger that it put them in, he left them in his room, which in turn transformed his world into an unidentifiable blob of blurry, colourful shapes. The greatest struggle was the violin. Roderich was always wary of the condition of his hands – refusing to climb steep rocks or throw a heavy ball; and every day, he woke up before first light to get his practice. Not one of the town boys’ arguments could falter his determination. Daniel was secretly glad that he kept playing, since he could come and listen on some evenings.

One afternoon, while the boys sat on the fishing docks and dangled their feet into the water, the subject of a certain haunted house came up. There was, they explained to Roderich, an old, deserted mansion just about an hour’s walk away, beyond the hills that lay at the edge of the town. The name of the place was Candlecreek Hall.

“Do you like ghost stories, Roddy?” asked one of the boys.

“At night, you can see candlelight moving in the windows - even though the place had been deserted for years!” A second boy added, and others went on:

“And whoever walks in after sunset, never comes back…”

“And some people can hear beautiful music, that at first seems harmless, but little by little they go insane, it haunts their dreams and afterwards, their waking hours, too–”

“What? That one’s bullshit, you made it up!”

“No, I didn’t! Everyone knows that! And since when do you know anything about haunted houses, we all know you piss your pants when–”

“Shut your face! Did the baker’s daughter tell you about the ghost music when you braided her hair with flowers–”

A loud splash sounded; one of two arguing boys had dragged the other into the water. Everyone laughed when their heads popped above the surface, shaking wet strands of hair out of their eyes. After some humorous attempts to drown each other, they emerged again, breathless, lay their arms on the wooden dock and listened from there like outstandingly silly-looking mermaids.

Daniel suggested that they went to Candlecreek Hall the next morning. The idea was enthusiastically supported by Francis, who always drew their treasure maps, and Feliks – who had just pulled his friend off the dock. Said friend, Toris, who was more likely to be considered Feliks’ ultimate nemesis, objected to the idea just for the sake of not agreeing with him.  Martin, who was a year or two younger than the rest, objected as well – he seemed genuinely afraid of going. “It might be dangerous, even during the day…”

They all turned to look at Roderich, waiting for his opinion. “I don’t mind whether we go or not.” He shrugged. “I don’t believe in ghost stories anyway…”

“So… you don’t mind if we do go?” Francis interpreted excitedly.

Roderich glanced at Daniel’s pleading eyes. “I… guess so.”

The supporting party cheered.

***

The next morning, they climbed the green hills eastward, each carrying a bag of lunch. It took them, as they had predicted, no more than an hour to reach the peak of the highest hill. From there, they could see the valley lying below, and in the middle of it – Candlecreek Hall. It was a building of an ancient architectural style that had long ago passed from the world, tremendous and made out of grey, forbidding stone. The boys stopped and stood, enjoying the view and the light breeze.

It was not yet noon when they crossed the dead, dry gardens around the mansion and entered through the gates of the Hall. It was a stunning place; and at daytime, with the sunlight flowing through the shattered windows – not the slightest bit scary. Even little Martin seemed excited. The ceilings were high, decorated with beautiful paintings that were only half covered with cobwebs and dust. The floor was white marble. Numerous corridors weaved in and out of each other and led deeper into the mansion. The boys decided to split up into pairs and explore the place, then meet again in the entrance hall before sundown.

Daniel and Roderich went together. They soon discovered that the marvels of Candlecreek Hall were endless. It had hundreds of rooms, some still furnished with unbelievable richness, some empty and bare, and countless hidden paths and stairways leading to small, dark niches or to large dining halls. They opened drawers to find tiny baubles: a golden pin with carved flowers, a porcelain figurine of a horse, a ring with a shining red stone in it… “Don’t take anything with you,” Daniel warned, sounding cheerful. “Just in case the place is haunted.” Roderich snorted, but took the advice anyway – just in case…

Candlecreek Hall was a maze; at first, they kept repeating their steps and bumping into the others. At one point, they spotted Feliks and Toris fencing with a pair of wooden swords they had found; at another, Martin balancing upon Francis’ shoulders, trying to reach a staircase whose lower part had collapsed.

Eventually, they stopped meeting the other boys. It was growing quiet; they were wandering into the depths of the mansion. The light here was dim, coming only from high, narrow windows. Water dripped in a steady rhythm somewhere in the distance. Their footsteps echoed.

Roderich was being awfully quiet, Daniel noted worriedly. His purple eyes were unfocused, and he walked as if caught in a dream. It scared Daniel to look at him. “Let’s start getting back,” he said. “Let’s just get to the end of this corridor and then turn back.”

Roderich nodded twice in silence. They went on, but after a few more steps, Roderich stilled. “Let’s go back now,” he urged. “It’s getting… strange, here.”

“What do you mean?”

“The sounds.”

“The water?”

“No…”

Daniel raised an eyebrow. “Then what?”

“Can’t you hear it…? It’s getting louder…”

“What is?!” Daniel demanded. “Come on, you’re scaring me.”

Roderich swallowed hard. “The music…”

Daniel’s heart skipped a beat, and his breath hitched in his throat. “Tell me you’re joking.”

“Flute playing,” Roderich stared straight back into his eyes. His pupils were wide and dark in contrast to his pale face. “It’s unlike anything I’ve ever heard…” He bit his lip. Then, in a sudden, eerie change of expression, a devilish smile appeared on his face. “Of course I am joking.”

Daniel blinked at him. He tried to laugh; it came out slightly hysterical. “For God’s sake, Roddy, don’t do that again…”

“Oh, you should have seen the look on your face…”

“Roderich, please… That was too much…”

They retraced their steps back towards the exit. Daniel’s pulse still thumped loudly in his ears. Once, he glanced sideways at his friend; his eyes still seemed distant. Daniel took his arm and hastened his steps.

***

The others were waiting for them in the entrance hall. They all seemed restless; the sun was almost down, and through the windows, they could see the sky turning dark blue. “Took you a while,” Francis commented nervously.

“Sorry, we didn’t notice the time,” Roderich apologised. His voice sounded small and thin.

Martin burst out speaking: “When Francis and I went into a corridor on the second floor, all the windows, those that still had a windowpane that is, slammed shut at the same time.”

Francis sighed. “I told you it was just the wind, Marty…”

Martin seemed unconvinced. “How can you be so sure?”

Feliks cleared his throat. “Something happened to us, too.”

Daniel’s heart fell. Martin was easy to scare; Feliks was another thing. He wouldn’t admit seeing something unusual unless he was completely certain about it – wouldn’t want to seem as a coward unless it was completely worth it.

“What happened?”

Toris answered in Feliks’ stead. For once, they seemed to be in agreement. “At some point, doors started closing behind us.”

“We’d go into a corridor,” Feliks explained, “then, when we tried to go back, the door would be closed and stuck. We had to find other ways out.”

A frightened silence fell.

“Let’s get out of here,” Martin’s tiny voice expressed their thoughts for all of them.

They didn’t waste time. Within minutes they rushed outsides, hurried to the iron gates of the gardens and made their way out. Sparing the mansion a last glance over their shoulders, they headed straight back to town.

“Nobody took anything, right?” Daniel asked all of a sudden, as they began climbing the hill. Everyone nodded. Roderich followed their example, half-a-second late. In his shirt pocket, he could feel the weight of folded paper. He had found several pages of sheet music, written in faded ink, in one of the rooms, and slipped them into his pocket while Daniel was studying a painting on the wall.

It seemed as if Daniel could read his thoughts. He pursed his lips, but said nothing.

Part Two - Seven Years Later

There was only one inn in the whole town, a very modest one. On a regular night, you could only spot three or four men in the common room, regulars that were well familiar with the innkeeper.

However, that night was an exception. The common room was filled with loud chatter and laughter, and the anticipation in the air was almost tangible. The tables were pushed to the sides and arranged in a half-circle to make space for an impromptu dance floor. The innkeeper and his son bustled about, carrying trays and filling cups; to their great satisfaction, they soon had to bring out a new barrel of ale from the back.

The reason for all that excitement stood near the counter, tuning his instrument while standing upright and calm. The musician’s name was Roderich Edelstein, and that name preceded him. A violinist with inhuman skill, they said, who could stir the coldest heart and set the heaviest feet dancing. Rumour had it that the King himself had invited him to play at his court.

The violinist plucked his strings and listened to the sound carefully with his eyes closed, twisting the pegs ever-so-slightly. He seemed awfully young for such a celebrated man – he must have been no more than twenty. His features were dainty and slightly feminine, his hair dark and carefully combed. He furrowed his thin brows with intent concentration and pressed his lips into a slim line, drawing attention to the a little beauty spot near the corner of his mouth.

When he was done tuning, he reached for his case and pulled out the bow out of its niche of red velvet. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. He didn’t speak loudly, yet his words rang clear and bright. “It is an honour for me to visit your lovely town again. I shall now commence the performance,” he bowed his head humbly. When he raised his head, he looked straight at the sole person in the room who remembered him as he was when he had last left the town. “And I hope you enjoy it.”

Seven years ago, when Daniel Héderváry first heard Roderich play, it seemed to him like nothing could ever sound better. Now, it was way more than that. The melody sounded like someone had grasped Daniel’s own emotions and thoughts and put them to music. Roderich didn’t change much; he still played with a proud jerk of his chin and fierce eyes. The townspeople shouted song requests and he performed them all with absolute excellence, and even added his own to them, making them into something new and stunning.

Out of the group of friends, only Daniel had remained in town. He was now a horse caretaker, and was content with that; life was simple and the town was his home. The others preferred to chase their luck in the wide world, away from the little seaside town in the middle of nowhere. Francis had married a beautiful woman who had a temper like the stormy sea of their hometown. In the last letter, he mentioned that they were expecting a child. Feliks and Toris, the last time he had heard from them, were travelling together; years proved the existence of an unbreakable bond between them. Little Martin was working in the city, making sweets. It fit him, Daniel thought.

But what had been with Roderich, he never knew. A month after the incident in Candlecreek Hall, his vacation ended. The five boys felt as if a crucial part of their group had been cut off, and Roderich himself, on his departure day, looked as if he were about to cry. However, he never came back to visit, and never wrote. Only years after he left, word of him reached the town.

Time seemed to pass quickly, as Daniel was lost in thought; when Roderich finished playing, bowed to loud cheers and turned to pack his violin, it was nearing dusk.

***

“Where have you been?” Daniel demanded. “It’s been so long. Why didn’t you come to visit? No, forget about that - why didn’t you even consider writing?”

They had been sitting together at the bar for a while; the sun was slowly rising. Their reunion, when Roderich arrived the day before, was coloured with contrasting emotions. They hugged and laughed and shed tears for their lost days of childhood, yet there was something sour beyond the surface. Now, it seemed, after several drinks, it was all coming up.

“I can’t explain.”

“Can’t?” The years had done Daniel well. The scraggly little brat that Roderich remembered had grown tall and broad-shouldered. He kept his hair long and tied it back with a yellow, woollen thread.

Roderich looked into his eyes. Those, at least, were still the same grassy green. “It’s not a reason that you would understand. But believe me, I would come back if I could.”

“If you could? Come on, Roddy.”

The violinist winced involuntarily at the nickname. It bore memories as heavy as a mountain, and it stung his heart. “It’s very complicated.”

Daniel crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, why did you come back now, then?” He huffed. “And don’t tell me that it’s because you missed us.”

“That…” Roderich sighed. “That you wouldn’t understand either.”

“Try me.”

Roderich removed his glasses and wiped them on the fabric of his sleeve. “I cannot,” he said very quietly. “Please don’t ask me to.”

A short silence fell. Roderich was biting his lip, and his eyes were distant and unfocused. It reminded Daniel of something that he couldn’t quite put his finger on… Then it clicked. He leant forward. “Roddy, does it have to do with Candlecreek Hall?”

Roderich’s hand stopped mid-motion as he was lifting his glasses back to his face.

“I knew it,” Daniel tried to sound triumphant, but instead, heard his own voice cracking. “You behaved so strangely after we came back from the mansion. You were way more closed inside yourself. You kept thinking about the music you heard, didn’t you.”

Roderich nodded. His eyes were closed shut. “I didn’t want to scare you, so I told you I was joking. When you said you couldn’t hear it, I realised that it was the ghost’s music. I knew it was said that whoever heard it went mad. I didn’t want you to think that I was.”

“And did you really? Go insane, that is.”

“You must be thinking that I was not quite alright in my head to begin with…”

Daniel shook his head. “I never thought so. I believe that you really heard something there, and that it was not your imagination.”

“Well, thank you.” Roderich smiled faintly. “To your question, my mind is as clear as always. The ghost ruined me in another way.”

Daniel waited silently.

“Ever since that day,” Roderich began, “I’ve been hearing that music in my sleep. In my dreams, I trace our footsteps through the corridors of Candlecreek Hall, until I reach the point where it’s loud and clear. I think to myself – this is perfection, nothing could ever sound better. I take out my violin; for in those dreams, I am always carrying it. I accompany the invisible flautist until the end of the song. I wait until I see its figure walking out of the darkness, towards me. Then I wake up.”

Daniel opened his mouth to speak. Before he could, Roderich went on. He seemed to be drifted away by his flood of words; a dam that stood strong for years had finally collapsed. “You knew that I took something from the mansion, of course. It was sheet music. I learned them. I practised them over and over. You heard that song tonight.” He inhaled deeply. “The reason I did not come back was that I was afraid. I knew that if I came back to visit you, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from going to the mansion, for I craved with all my being to hear more of that music. But I knew that if I went there, it would be the end of me. The ghost has chosen me as a victim. I’ve been trying to escape that fate for the past few years, but no matter how far I went – and oh, I went far, trust me. I’ve been to the edges of the world known to men. No matter how far I fled – the ghost’s shadow still fell over me, calling me back.”

“And now you finally gave in,” Daniel finished, defeated. “I want to say that you should have told me, and I would have tried to help. But I understand that you would never do that, because of who you are.”

Roderich chose to ignore the last part of his words. “I am going to the mansion tomorrow.”

“May I come with you?” There was little hope in Daniel’s voice. He didn’t bother trying to talk Roderich off the idea – there was no point in that.

Roderich shook his head. “I am going to stay the night. No use putting both of us in danger. Also… it is a matter between the two of us… me and the ghost.”

“I wish you luck, then, friend,” Daniel looked away. “My thoughts will be with you.”

***

The next afternoon, Roderich climbed the green hills with the violin case bumping up and down his back. As he walked, he felt the bittersweet memories rise in him, and craved with all his being to be a thirteen-year-old boy again and smile at the world with little worries. The strength of the memory was enough to bring tears to his eyes, and he stopped in his tracks to wipe them away with the back of his hand. Then, shaking his head to himself, he kept walking.

Then sun burned bright and hot. He could feel the sweat trickling down beneath his shirt. After what seemed like an eternity – for he wasn’t used to that kind of physical effort – he reached the top of the hill. The valley lay before him, and in the middle of it – the mansion which had haunted his dreams for the past seven years.

The door to the gardens wasn’t locked. Roderich pushed it open. The screeching of the hinges startled a flock of crows inside, and they rose in a mess of flapping wings and croaking, to find shelter on the branches of bare, dead trees. He stepped inside and closed the gate behind him. The gardens, just as he remembered, were a grey kingdom of thistles and nettles. A paved path of cracked stones with wild weeds growing between them led to the mansion’s door. Roderich made his way across it, glancing over his shoulder from time to time out of an unexplained instinct.

The gates to the mansion itself weren’t locked either — just slightly stuck. He put his shoulder against one of the gate wings and pushed forcefully until it gave in. The smell of dust hit him; he pushed open the second wing too, to let in some fresh air. Then, after taking a deep breath, he stepped in.

For a moment, Roderich stood there and considered his options. Should he wander into the depths of the mansion, like he and his friends did back then, like he did in his repeating dream? No, he told himself immediately, that was a bad idea. He should stay close to the gate, his only real means of escape, in case something went wrong.

Of course, all chances were that something would go wrong.

Roderich chose a window and settled beside it. He placed his violin case on the windowsill and flicked the clasps open. He found comfort in the familiar routine of applying rosin to the bow and tuning the strings. When he was done, he began playing. He played childrens’ songs and drinking songs, earthly songs that were as far as possible from the cold whisper of Candlecreek Hall. For a while, he felt confident.

However, the sun was inching towards the green hills in the horizon, and the light was growing dim. As the shadows lengthened, the sound of his music seemed more and more unnatural to his own ears; it echoed from the far walls of the hall, a thin and lonely tune within the vast silence.

Roderich shuddered. All of a sudden, a disturbing thought fell upon him – that if he stopped playing now, he would be able to hear terrible things… rustling in the darkness, something twisted crawling closer…

He gritted his teeth. What a foolish idea, he told himself firmly. It was simply the eerie atmosphere getting to him. As if to prove his imagination wrong, he let the music fade mid-sentence, and put down the violin and bow on the windowsill beside him. He should make some light.

Roderich pulled his flint and steel out of an inner pocket of his coat, and searched the outer pockets of his violin case until his fingers found candles.

He struck the steel. After a few attempts, the wick caught fire, but it was blown out right away by a sudden gust of wind that seemed to have come not from the outside, but from the dark depths of the mansion. Roderich shuddered. He tried again, guarding the tiny flame with his palm. This time, although the fire danced and flickered, he managed to bring it into safety by placing it between his case and the wall. A bright circle of candlelight spread around him. Relieved, Roderich put the flint and steel back in his pocket and rubbed his hands against each other. It was cold, he realised, and held his palms near the candle, enjoying the warmth.

By then, the sun was close to setting. As he watched, it slowly moved past the line of the mountains, and the sky lost its pink and orange, gradually turning dark blue. For several moments, a last strip of gold hung over the horizon; then it disappeared, and night fell over the earth and over Candlecreek Hall.

Roderich forced a courageous smile. “Now the real fun begins,” he whispered, and reached for his violin again. He played a cheerful sailors’ tune and knocked the rhythm with the heel of his boot against the marble floor. The minutes drew longer. The song ended, then the next, then the one that came after. He played on, stubbornly keeping up the liveliness of the music. He glanced out of the window, but it was a cloudy night, and he could not see the stars nor the moon.

Little by little, Roderich became aware of the other presence in the hall. At first, he threw it off as another trick of his imagination, those movements in the darkness, beyond the edges of the candlelight circle, and that uneasy feeling of being watched… But at last, when the footsteps sounded clear, despite the music, he let the bow leave the strings and spoke. “I know you are there.”

Although he knew he was not alone, the sudden laughter that burst as a response to his words startled him and caused his heartbeat to quicken. He swallowed hard. “Show yourself.”

A bare foot stepped into the circle of light; the other followed. A dark cloak dragged behind the figure that exposed itself to Roderich’s eyes. The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall had arrived at last. Its breath was frost, and its footsteps traced ice on the floor — a thin layer that spread like ink in water. The ghost’s hair was a snowy white, and its skin so pale that it was almost grey. Its nose was crooked, birdlike, and its lips thin and blue, as if suffering from an unbearable cold. As it advanced, Roderich did his best to stand his ground. Every sensible part of his mind told him to run for his life; yet there he stood, motionless, and watched the ghost creep closer.

It came to a halt an arm’s reach away from Roderich, who raised his eyes to meet the creature’s dim red gaze. The ghost stood as proud as a king, back tense and straight, and in its hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, Roderich noticed with amazement, there was a hint of a long-gone beauty.

The ghost spoke. “It’s a splendid fiddle you’ve got, and you play it well.” It bowed its head, formal and serious, yet its voice was amused and the corner of his bloodless lips crooked upwards. “But what brings you to my house, tonight? Surely there are better places for you to practise your art.”

The pleasant words didn’t calm Roderich, and he watched the ghost’s face intently, aware of the madness that lay within, searching for any sign of its outbreak. “Long ago, I have heard your music,” he replied cautiously, “and I wanted to see, with my own eyes, the one who had created those beautiful sounds.”

For a moment the ghost didn’t move. Its brows furrowed, and something dark flashed in those blood-coloured eyes. Roderich tensed, ready to spring, and the ghost grinned wickedly, exposing pearly white teeth and stretching its ashen skin over sharp cheekbones. Then, suddenly, it bowed a deep, theatrical bow, elegantly throwing its arm to the side. “That would be me,” it acknowledged, and straightened up. It held out a spidery hand, and its voice dripped irony: “Gilbert Beilschmidt, at your service.”

Without thinking, Roderich put aside the violin bow and tried to grip the offered hand. His fingers closed upon thin air, and he let out a small, surprised gasp. His hand dropped to his side. “Roderich Edelstein.”

The ghost laughed again, a harsh and unpleasant sound. “I know.”

Roderich smiled sadly. “Right.” He reached for his breast pocket, and pulled out a few folded pages. “These belong to you, I believe.”

A burst of wind snatched the pages out of his hand. By a gesture of the ghost’s hand they unfolded themselves in the air in front of him. Roderich watched the movement of his eyes as it skimmed through the first lines. The ghost’s face crumbled with distaste. “An old work. It’s so lacking. You may keep it.”

“Thank you.” Hesitantly, Roderich plucked the pages out of the air and folded them again. He tucked them into his pocket. “It means more to me than you can imagine. And I do not think it’s lacking.”

“Of course,” the ghost acknowledged arrogantly. “It is far beyond any music that you, the living, could ever create. Yet it is not close to being perfect.”

““What is ‘perfect’?” Roderich tilted his head. “Isn’t it all in the eyes of the beholder?”

“No,” the ghost frowned. “I have composed better ones – therefore, it is not perfect.”

“But for me, the way I am right now, it is.”

“You have not heard enough to know.”

“Maybe it is time I did, then,” Roderich suggested with uncharacteristic gall.

The ghost scowled with disbelief at his shameless request, and his ire made the candle flame flicker. Roderich flinched, but mustered the remaining bit of his courage to insist: “Since you lured me back to this place against my will, I believe I deserve to hear just another song of yours, before you carry out the fate you have planned for me.”

The candle was extinguished. The room went black; in the darkness, Roderich could see the ghost’s eyes shining like embers. He heard him step closer, and around them – the same sounds he had feared earlier, whispers and murmurs and thousand of nails scratching at wood. Then the ghost spoke again: “I did not lure you here. You came back on your own.”

“The dreams. I had no choice.” Roderich couldn’t help glancing to his sides, searching for the source of the sounds.

“But that was all. I never broke your mind or bent it to my wishes like I did to others.”

“And why didn’t you?”

The candle swooshed back to life. The ghost was standing inches away. His nearness brought the cold with it, and its breath bit at Roderich’s skin. “It is true that I have made my way into there,” he gestured at Roderich’s temple with a bony finger, “since the day you and your little friends trespassed into my mansion. But I had nothing to do with what went on in here,” he pointed at Roderich’s chest. “That was completely your doing. By truly wishing to come back, you made it easier for me.”

Roderich stammered a step back, until he was leaning against the wall. Out of all the thoughts that raced through his mind, he picked the one that seemed the most pressing. “What do you want from me?”

The ghost pondered over that for a long moment, studying Roderich’s face cautiously. At last, he decided: “That you can’t know yet.”

“Play for me, then.”

“…Fine.”

Roderich blinked; when his eyes opened again, the candlelight flashed from the surface of a silver flute, which the ghost held casually in one of his wispy hands as if it had been there the whole time. Tuning, apparently, was not needed for this phantom flute; the ghost brought it to his bloodless lips, and immediately the space around them was filled with sounds.

After the first few lines, Roderich joined in. They sounded well together – the airy floating of the flute on top of the melancholic, rich tune of the violin, contrasting yet completely harmonious. The ghost seemed surprised; he glanced sideways at Roderich, and with a challenging tilt of its head began playing faster, creating sudden changes and turns in the music. The violinist followed, tiny beads of sweat forming on his forehead. The ghost was right – Roderich hadn’t heard enough to realise what real perfection was. And unlike in his dreams, now it took all his concentration not to fall behind.

However, he soon began to understand the rules by which the ghost played. Although at first the ghost’s rhythm and line of melody seemed like the mind of a madman, lacking any sensible connection between sentences, little by little Roderich noticed that like any human composer, Gilbert Beilschmidt had a style that was recognisable just as it was – to an expert listener – predictable. As soon as Roderich found the key behind his patterns, creating the counter melody became an easy task. It was time for the tables to turn, he thought, and from playing the second voice he careened his way into the first, pulling the music behind his own melody line. The ghost’s eyes shot fire, and the shadows around them deepened. Ice covered Roderich’s shoes. “Stop cheating,” he hissed through gritted teeth. The flute let out an ugly, jarring sound, but the ghost quickly recovered and caught up. He was trying to snatch back the leading voice; Roderich played like never before. He was sure that at any moment, his fingers would slip and he would miss a note, making him lose his line of thought; but it was clear that the story, one that he was telling, was nearing an end. He saw bitter defeat in the ghost’s eyes as the last sentence was sung and the two lowered their weapons.

“What do you want from me?” Roderich repeated his question, panting.

The ghost’s expression was furious. His hands, still holding the flute, were shaking. “That you cannot know.”

Roderich felt a mad grin spread across his face. “Play for me, then.”

***

They played together three times; and although the ghost called all the forces of darkness to his aid, desperately trying to distract Roderich from the music, the violinist always finished leading. He felt divine, as if there was nothing he couldn’t do; during their last battle, his smile wouldn’t falter. Perfection is all in the eyes of the beholder – and at that moment, he knew no one could ever play better than him, not even The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall. Gilbert Beilschmidt’s  music spoke of ageless pain and longing, and was as beautiful as the cold moon; but Roderich shone above him like the sun, for he knew the joy and the love of the outside world, of blue skies and green hills and the shimmering sea, of laughing voices and tears of reunion – smile at the world and it will smile back at you.

“What do you want from me?”

The ghost stood at the eye of a black storm, and through it, all Roderich could see was the dim light of his red eyes. Only now that he stopped playing did Roderich notice the wild fluttering of his clothes and hair, and suddenly had to grip the windowsill to stop himself from falling.

“I want your hands,” the ghost shouted above the roaring of the wind.

Roderich understood. “You can’t have them,” he whispered, almost full of sorrow. The ghost would be able to hear him, he knew. “I can’t give you this body. I still have things to live for.”

The storm began draining out, fading, and the room gradually turned quiet. “I know that,” Gilbert said, “and I won’t take it from you. Go away.”

Roderich didn’t move.

“Go away!” Gilbert demanded. “I will no longer haunt your dreams. Go, and never come back, for I shall not show you this kindness again.”

Roderich stared. Then, at once, realisation hit him and he snapped up; he dropped the violin and bow in the case with little care and swung it off the windowsill, and with a last glance over his shoulder at Gilbert Beilschmidt’s pale silhouette, he fled.

***

Despite the ghost’s promise, in the following nights he kept visiting Roderich’s dreams. But those, Roderich knew, were just dreams.

Just like Roderich did as a child, he stayed inside the humble lodgings that he had rented in the little seaside town. He paced back and forth in his room, lost in thought. Daniel came several times to knock on his door and plead with him to open it, but Roderich ignored him. He could not possibly explain to his old friend any of what had happened in Candlecreek Hall.

On the seventh day since the incident at the mansion, he packed his violin and set off for the hills again. This time he was really coming back on his own will. Long ago he had given his heart to the ghost, and he wouldn’t desert him now.

It wasn’t yet dark when he arrived; it seemed that there were still one or two hours left until sunset. He decided to delve deeper into the mansion, like he did in his dreams, and wait for Gilbert’s appearance. He lit a candle and strolled with little aim, listening to the distant sounds of dripping water.

At some point, he began hearing different noises – a moving presence nearby. A long time must have passed without him noticing, Roderich realised, if Gilbert was already awake. He looked around, but the corridor he walked had no windows.

Roderich followed the noises – as he grew closer, they began sounding clearly like Gilbert’s voice, angrily muttering to himself. He carefully pushed open a wooden door and entered a dusty and luxurious bedroom.

Standing with his back to him, clothed in a simple white shirt and ankle-length trousers, was Gilbert Beilschmidt. He was flipping over a small object in his hands, examining it.

“I came back,” Roderich said, and the ghost’s head turned to look at him. Something in his face seemed not quite alright to Roderich – it might have been the lack of fire in his red eyes – but he kept speaking, for he feared that if he stopped he wouldn’t be able to ever say it. “I want to help you. I will do anything to set you free.”

Gilbert stepped towards him. “Anything?” he asked quietly. Roderich opened his mouth to speak – then his eye caught the sight of the shadow Gilbert’s form cast on the floor behind him. With sudden panic, he glanced down at the floor beneath them – which lacked any smallest touch of frost – then back at the man in front of him, whose face was vital and full of colour. The latter was now sliding the object he was holding into his breast pocket.

Roderich acted without thinking. He dropped the candle to the floor, leant forward and snatched the object out of the moving hand – which was, undeniably, flesh and blood – then turned around and ran out to the corridor. The man in the room let out a startled curse and followed him. Roderich halted at the forking of two corridors, then took the one that – so he thought – led to the opposite direction of the exit. There was again some light to unveil his way, coming through scattered, broken windows – the dim light of nearing dusk. Roderich had only one intention in mind – to keep the stranger who wore Gilbert’s looks, whoever he was, inside, until dark.

As he ran, he opened his palm to expose a golden medallion. Shaking his head confusedly, he tucked it into his own breast pocket. Behind him, the stranger was catching up; he could hear his hastened footsteps getting closer. The surroundings, Roderich noticed, were strangely familiar. As he turned into another corridor again, he realised why. In his mind, he saw two mischievous, golden haired kids climbing each other’s shoulders to reach the top of a half-collapsed staircase. He slowed down his pace as the first descending steps appeared in his sight; his pursuer, on the other hand, sped up. Roderich turned to face him, heart beating fast in his chest, and looked straight into Gilbert’s red eyes. Someone, or something, stared back out of them at him, and his pupils widened with horrified realisation just as Roderich gripped his shoulder and threw him off the broken edge of the staircase.

After the resounding crash that came from the floor beneath subsided, Roderich inched slowly towards the edge and looked down. Gilbert’s body lay there motionless, blood trickling down his face, and his right arm – trapped under his weight – was twisted in a grotesque angle. Through the torn flesh, Roderich could see the pristine whiteness of a bone.

A sickening feeling rushed through him as the weight of his actions sunk. He hurried to the opposite side of the corridor, where another, fully intact staircase led to the bottom floor. He stumbled through the darkness of the hall to the location where he reckoned Gilbert had fallen. He dropped to his knees beside him and felt for his pulse; it was faint, but steady. Focusing on this small relief, Roderich stilled and waited for sunset.

On closer examination, he could see that although the man had the same snowy hair and lashes as the ghost did, the same crooked nose and red eyes, he was older at least by ten years than the young lad that The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall seemed to assume the shape of. Of course – Gilbert was a young man when he became a ghost, but time had passed since. As for the being that inhabited his body now… Roderich remembered how Gilbert planned to take over his own body. The same must have happened to him in the past. The Ghost of Candlecreek Hall hadn’t always been Gilbert Beilschmidt, and the former actor of that role now lay beside Roderich in Gilbert’s body.

After an immeasurable time of waiting in suffocating darkness, Roderich began feeling the cold that marked the arrival of the ghost. He heard footsteps approaching from behind him, and pulled himself up to his feet, turning to meet the real Gilbert.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come back?” The ghost snapped. Roderich moved aside silently, exposing the rigid form that lay behind him. Slowly, Gilbert came closer, and to a commanding motion of his hand, the darkness that shrouded the floor wrapped around the unconscious figure and flipped it onto its back. Gilbert stared at his own lifeless face, and in a matter of seconds his expression changed from confusion to horror to scalding fury. “What have you done…”

“He would’ve escaped if I didn’t–” Roderich fell silent under the phantom’s seething gaze and staggered back as the ghost reached towards him, gripping right through his chest as if meaning to tear his heart out. Ice cracked under their feet and Roderich slipped; the case flew out of his grasp and his head hit the ground. His sight blurred. Around them, the mansion was as though jolting awake, and the shadows gave birth to horrors that gathered and shrieked with vicious joy. To Gilbert’s word, Roderich knew they’d tear him to pieces.

“For years I’ve waited to come back to life,” the ghost bellowed,“but all those stupid, reckless heroes who stepped into this mansion weren’t good enough for me. There was no way I could keep playing with those coarse, vulgar hands. Until you came along, and I thought, there, I finally found the perfect body.”

Roderich tried to pull himself up; an invisible hand pushed him down and the back of his head hit the floor again. He tasted blood.

“However, you and your friends were clever enough to come during the day, and so all I could do was place my mark in your mind, hoping it would be enough to bring you back one day – but when you indeed returned to me… I could not seize the opportunity, for I realised I could never make you into the new ghost. Your talent was too great to be wasted.”

Roderich opened his mouth to speak but found that all that came out was a quiet gasp, like a faint breeze. He held up his hands pleadingly. Then, by some desperate idea, he felt for the violin case, until his hand finally bumped into it; seeing that he could still not move from his place, he dragged it towards him across the thickening ice.

“And now,” the ghost finished, and its voice shook the whole hall, “you have broken me, the body I was born with, that by a miracle came back here– You took away my chance to return to my old life–”

Roderich slammed the violin case at the floor; the sound caught the ghost’s attention and the vice around his throat seemed to loosen. “Would you prefer me to let him get away?” he yelled, and from the case that had snapped open, pulled out his violin. The bow had spun out of his reach as he slammed it down, so he plucked the strings furiously with his fingers. The ghost played by certain rules, and Roderich very much hoped that cutting a song in the middle was still forbidden. “The former ghost did not come back ‘by some miracle’, but to get something – you can find it in my chest pocket.” As the wind grasped the medallion and sent it swirling into Gilbert’s open hand, he went on. “You say you’ve spent years waiting. Do you prefer waiting on, or taking back what belongs to you?” He jerked his head sideways at the unconscious man. “You won’t be able to play, that is correct, but what is that compared to a life of eternal loneliness?”

The G string snapped beneath his finger. Roderich cursed under his breath; he only had moments left before the others would follow. “Do you not want to take revenge on the one who trapped you in here, and went out to the open world wearing your face and name?”

The second string ripped, sending a resonating D through the air like the last word of a dying man. “I will play for you!” Roderich yelled, and felt tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’ll play what you write for the rest of your life.”

The third string split; the figures in the dark careened closer; Gilbert’s face was a hideous mask of senseless rage and pain, and he raised his hand again, ready to snap his fingers one last time and bring the end to Roderich’s song. Before he could manage, the violinist threw his instrument at the frosted floor.

“You have my heart and soul, I am willing to give you what is left of my life. I love you.”

His world went dark.

***

At dawn, a pillar of black smoke was rising from beyond the green hills. An unexplained fear sent Daniel Héderváry to the door of Roderich’s lodgings. After a few minutes of frantic knocking and shouting, and no sound coming from within, he broke the lock and swung the door open. The room was empty.

He rushed down the stairs and out to the street, and headed for the outskirts of the town, then out to the hills. When he reached the peak of the highest hill, the sight of Candlecreek Hall, engulfed in red flames, was unveiled before his eyes. Terror seized his heart; then, he saw something moving through the burning gardens. A moment later, two figures emerged from the gates.

Daniel sprinted down the hill. As he drew closer, he recognised one of the figures as Roderich, whose clothes were scorched, but apart from that he seemed unharmed. The man who leant on his shoulder, however, seemed to be worse for wear. Blood stained his ashen hair, his arm was twisted in a strange angle, and he was limping.

“Daniel,” Roderich croaked, “help me.”

He briskly nodded, and took the other side of the injured man. “What happened?!”

“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you everything when we get back safely to town.” Roderich glanced over his shoulder at the burning mansion. “For now…” He smiled wryly. “I can tell you as much as this – it is all over. This is the end of the Ghost of Candlecreek Hall.”

“B-But… how?” Daniel asked puzzledly. “And who is this?” He gestured with his head at the half-conscious man suspended from either of their shoulders.

“That’s Gilbert Beilschmidt,” Roderich replied, ignoring the first question. Then he added, almost to himself: “And from now on, he’s going to be alright.”

Endnote

A thousand thanks for RomanosCheese, Red-bean-soup, and Gavriel, who accompanied me along the whole process of coming up with this idea, tolerated my endless blabbering and spent long hours out of their time editing and correcting. Love y’all <3