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The dust couldn't quite settle over the firm room, soft melody that bleeds of ichor intertwining with the scratches of pen the only remarkable thing that entered the sanctuary of which belonged to him. It had been long years, drastic hours and seconds had ticked by and it couldn't even begin to balance the mind that he had lost since he first came here. Fire, warmth, and screams still echoed inside the crevices of his head, even until he closed his eyes and all he could see was a dreadful face that he had longed to erase so long ago reappear over and over again.
It should've been easy. Most things logically were. But emotions were a factor that always ruined the mind and his was a constant push and pull no matter how much he denied it.
The pen stops and the scratches still, only the melody of ichor continues to bleed inside. The manor had long been celebrating a dream he couldn't fathom, under a moon he couldn't remember and a song he couldn't place. Those concordant notes had been a balm, but even his ears couldn't handle the slight tang of discord in them, sown to forever be heard by untuned ones. To Aesop, the piano was a comfort, brought by its strings and keys, and each individual note that came from it always kept his mind silent— kept his face away.
But this song? It wasn't like the ones he had his gloved fingers play over and over again when the nights turned quiet and the room grew cold, the solace turning— begging— into the only instrument he has known ever since his life started. His mother's wish for him to have a musical ear has done him well, has served him solitude and peace for as long as he could remember, before she disappeared.
The narrative was all over the place, but so was his mind. Since when were his thoughts ever straight? So jubilant and extraordinary? Far as he could remember, they had been nothing but disappointing, allowing his addled mind to be thrown from school because of a confirmed diagnosis his parents refused to tell.
His curiosity had always been great, however, and that knowledge had scarred him into what he is today. Different. He was different in ways words cannot define. Not physically, for his limbs still act and move. Not emotionally, for he had loved and admired before, like the yellow roses that had always adorned their living room table. Just… different. The embalmer couldn't look people in the eyes too often, barely spoke, and barely appeared. Others found that strange. Kids aren't meant to be like this.
Others found it a weakness to exploit.
A clenched hand and a deep inhale, it took everything in the wounded boy to keep it inside. The manor could hear everything and everyone and this wretched game does not need more weakness from him. He had to be smart, even if he cannot be strong, and that meant keeping his silence. He stood, then, a cyan like suit filled with floral patterns revealing itself from behind the desk he had sat in for hours. Aesop Carl, the manor's embalmer, had barely felt the time pass by despite the ache in his lower back.
He had a performance to do, did he not? The host has graced him with this opportunity. Why did he take it? He couldn't remember. Again, it was all but a jumbled narrative.
His fingers thread through his hair, silver like the moon celebrated below his feet, and it was hung down once more in its usual style of a ribbon. Tired eyes looked up at the dresser, catching sight of a man who barely knew what his life meant staring right back at him. Covered lips, smudges of black underneath his eyes, there was exhaustion deeply embedded into a soul that no one could comprehend and chose to offend and aggravate into nothing but a fearful mouse. The wounds would throb, forever seared into his skin like a bruise that would never fade.
Because, in a way, his mind would always remember where those purplish blur lies and which skin wasn't left tainted.
His head turns as crows cawed and tapped at his window, a reminder of which he had promised. ‘Right.’ His thoughts gathered. ‘The party.’ Practiced hands went and pulled on his cuffs, a nervous tick of which he'd never grown out of, before it stayed by his side. Prim, proper, chin up even if your eyes show fear.
That's what he taught him, right? Right. Like corpses would care whether or not you can keep your head up while they can barely keep theirs from limping to the side.
When tapping against the window that showed a full moon that shone down a moment— that the embalmer wished he could deeply feel, started to grate on his nerves, he opened the door and stepped out of the solace and the silence, trading it for the orchestra of both chaos and fun. Laughter and cheers, dozens of footsteps that held pattern, would enter his ears and make him shift, shoulders tensing as the familiar dread and gnawing crawled up his throat. Had he not promised to try better, he would've gone back inside his room and hid for good.
But the call of the piano rendered him motionless against the idea and his feet continued to traverse through the empty halls, not quiet despite the ghost of the manor's inhabitants. Those notes belonged to him and only he could play it. That's what they promised. That piano belonged to him only and only he could bring out the festivities into its highest potential.
In a few moments, Aesop Carl would feel like he mattered more to humans than corpses. And, despite his utter dislike for life itself, it made him hope for something different. Something like the yellow roses that would bloom every spring and would rival the sunflowers with its beauty with its significance of friendship.
Or did it mean jealousy? Of a life he should have deserved but never got?
Who knows? Certainly not him. The embalmer had long given up his flights of fancy in terms of reality that didn't concern the matters of the Dead. He was their guide and a guide for the lost should never think of another path than the one they should take, lest they get lost too.
The double doors opened and a strange sight greeted him. The manor had never been this decorated nor large and bright. Chandelier crystals fell in soft waves like blinking stars brought inside for the occasion, yellow and white blending together harmoniously as dancers twirled and yelled in glee, prancing in dresses and suits he's never seen them in before. Had they been given these clothes in the same manner as he? Or were these already with them when they entered? That, he doesn't know.
His presence continued to stay bleak and unnoticed by the crowd, silk and ribbons flowing through the wind as forty and so inhabitants came together to celebrate an occasion never to be forgotten. These people have spilled blood, just like him, yet they laugh with a merriment that the dead cannot replicate. Life was a strange being, a peculiar architecture of cells that belonged but never truly were identical.
That didn't matter to Aesop though. Not when his gloved fingers finally touched the cherished piano, dragging it across the cover. Dust has clung onto the fabric once he lifted it, a soft smile tugging against his mask unconsciously at the action. He sat, then, at the small stool that fit him in its center and he lifted the cover up, revealing keys of both darkness and light. They both exist for a reason, he understands, and this one was a tune he'd always know by heart.
The first orchestral music had calmed down and the dancers waited for more, but what they received had tamed an excitement unparalleled for a moment when the first keys were pressed. A symphony flows through the air, coming from his skilled fingers as it travels across the life and death it had remembered. Gloves had turned stained, but he continued his symphony because it was the only thing that kept him sane, the only thing that kept the face away.
And the dancers twirled once more.
Yet, as death played away on his keys, eyes focused on the instrument that he had brought as himself, life looked at him and smiled. In fond memory, life had always seen death as his equal, even if death was a stubborn being that preferred loneliness. His partner hoots beside his shoulder— his eyes— as if acknowledging the fact that, finally, he saw something familiar once again. Something that had brightened the light of which he gave with the shadows that he emitted.
The white silhouette of silk and gold stood there with a soft smile, admiring the tune that echoed into his ears and the blurry apparition of familiarity that he could see through his owl’s eyes. Death has always been a great pianist, a music master of which his skill with it could never be denied. The tone reached every crevice of the room, matching the vibe of every attendees that have braved stepping foot into his shadows and listening to his thoughts. Life had always been fond of him.
Eli had always been fond of him. The years had done him slightly well, if he were to be honest. Every match, every injury and embalmed coffin and owl that was sent, the seer could see—hah— how the layers of the grey man peeled back to reveal the soft, anxious exterior beneath him. The traumatized boy that learned nothing but the hands of a shadow and the mind of death became someone more comfortable, grown, and it was something that the seer himself had cherished and held dear because to see light shine in a place that never reached it before?
That was, in itself, a magical moment. Even to a blind one like him. Just like the forests and the ways the trees would bend into a canopy to provide shelter, or the ways animals would turn to their caves to hibernate once winter comes, it was like watching a flower bloom under the sunlight. A natural occurrence of life.
Shadows bend in the light and Aesop was no different when it came to Eli. He could tell even if his own small smile was hiding behind that beloved mask of his. It was hilarious how even Helena saw through it. (How did two blind people even see that anyways and most of the others don't? Or do they just ignore him?)
Brooke Rose’s hoot took him out from his stupor, making him blink beneath his own blindfold. “Ah. Yes. We should go say hello after his performance, no? Wish him a great job.” The owl only hoots in response, an understanding the seer knows by heart. But then she flies off without as much of another hoot. That confused Eli. There goes his line of sight…
Thankfully, however, a few of the survivors caught up to him and greeted him, aiding the poor seer towards the banquet table, towards other survivors for a brief chat, and, finally, to the balcony where the moon shone brightest. How the manor had such a pleasant view despite the horrors of which came with it, he'd never know, but it was a miracle to even be alive until now.
Sometimes, in the presence of the moon, he asks how Gertrude was doing. Was she happy? Safe? And would she forgive him for this feeling? Hah. Eli Clark had always been a thinker despite his clairvoyance, yet with the knowledge came only hope. Hope that his letter had reached her, that he had said her final goodbyes to her and that she was not trapped under heartache. The seer would never forgive himself for that.
The shadows stretch,however, and footsteps echo, a low, quiet voice presenting itself. “Mr. Eli.”
The aforementioned man only looks back. With Brooke Rose still missing, he only had a view of darkness. But why need eyes to see when the person in front of him is Shadow himself? “Aesop. It's good to see you. Uh… Well…”
A small chuckle escapes him then. “I see you found yourself in a tiny predicament, Mr. Eli. I don't see your partner with you tonight.”
The owner of the owl only sighs. “Yes, well, Brooke Rose decided to fly off tonight and I have no reason to question it. If she wants to fly, she can. Actually,” He perks up then, white silk falling seamlessly down his shoulders. To Aesop, this was the only light he'll ever accept in his world. Not even the embers of flames would compare to him. “I wanted to tell you that you did a great performance! Your skill with the piano was amazing, Aesop! You should play it more.”
“Ah no. I don't think I can.” His hands shake in front of him, denial portrayed as clearly as murky water. Awkwardly, he places them down to the side, the knowledge of which came with Eli's blindness turning him a little sheepish. “I only promised a brief performance tonight since the host asked me specifically. Even I was surprised.”
Lengthy, his words were, a small success that it hasn't trembled. The embalmer always found himself calm around the seer and it was something he took advantage of, speaking more often than never after the years of friendship that had erupted ever since that first match together.
“Really? Well, you did great, regardless. I would love to hear more.”
Aesop could only curse Eli inwardly because of that. That damned smile of his was going to send him into an early grave by the moment and he'll have to ask Andrew to get him a good place to rest in. It's too bright. It makes his heart soft and pound and hurt.
“Uh… I'll think about it.” Unable to refuse Eli's small happiness, Aesop only nods and silently acquiesces. His eyes then draw themselves towards the moon. It looked familiar, like that moon he saw when Eli mentioned it years ago.
“The moon looks beautiful tonight.” He mumbles through his mask and the seer only looks up at it. Through Brooke's eyes, he could see shrubbery and a faint light of something before a screech and claws hindered it, the stone balcony of the manor coming back into view, and, with it, a small sight of the moon that the darkness himself had complimented.
And, in his palm drops a yellow rose. A hoot comes from his shoulder, an acknowledgement.
Eli only snorts and stretches his arm out, offering the rose to the shadow he now could never live without.
“I think the yellow rose looks more beautiful tonight.”
And his hands, unshaking for once, took the yellow rose as he smiled underneath the mask.