Chapter Text
“Come freely, go safely; and leave something of the happiness you bring.”
— Dracula , Bram Stoker
“I’m sorry if I look so… hideous,” was one of the first things that he told you.
By the quickly disappearing light of the setting sun, you stare at him incredulously, waiting for him to say that he was just jesting with you, to reveal that he had a secret turn for the humorous. But your latest client doesn’t laugh, nor does he quirk his lip into even a poor facsimile of a smile. He just inclines his head at you, turns on his heel, and leads you into the gently-lit interior of the enormous castle that, apparently, he called home. You have no idea where you are, because this place was so remote and its surroundings, all forest, so wild that no modern maps of Great Britain make any mention of it. But your employer had insisted that you represent the company, and the young lord Barok van Zieks, the pale-faced man now walking before you with elegant, stately strides, paid a handsome sum just to get someone from the office to come and do a consultation at his residence, instead of your tawdry offices back in London.
You took another furtive glance back at the young man, the second time after he had made that outrageous statement about his looks. He was quite pallid, yes, more so than a typical Englishman, perhaps, with pale hair that glowed almost dark-silver under the lights, and his eyes were blue-blue-blue; not the blue of the freezing Atlantic sea, you hazard, but it rather reminded you of the sky in the height of summer—a rich, brilliant, warm blue, always almost threatening to twinkle, which made you wonder if perhaps he really did possess a humorous streak. But for now, you dismissed the outright lie about his presumed disformity, for while the man before you was not exactly the perfect picture of health, he, too, was far from—what he seemed to believe.
“Through here,” he called you, and you started and followed him through a set of handsome oak double-doors into a room that you suddenly realized was his study. You noticed a huge vase of fresh, deeply-crimson flowers just beside the doorway, and smiled at the thoughtfulness of preparing them just for your visit.
—The first impression that you get of Barok van Zieks’s study is that of a huge, endless library, with shelves and shelves of books reaching to the ceiling. Or, actually, as you would learn some time later while you stayed here in his castle for the duration of your transactions with him, it really had been a library before, built by Barok’s elder brother entirely for the amusement of the younger, simply converted into a huge study by dragging in a workmanlike desk and some chairs by one of the windows—perhaps to supplement the severe-looking library desk in the center of the bright, circular room. “There is another, inner part to the library,” Barok told you genially when you finally put your bag down on the center table and looked around admiringly, “which is where I keep my favorites quite jealously. It is always under lock and key, of course.”
“These books are more than enough to occupy a man for a thousand—no, two thousand years!” you exclaimed, and he flashed a rather sweet smile that made you feel a little warm around the ears. “Pick a book and sit down, and allow me to bring you some refreshments, my friend,” he said, gesturing to the walls and walls of books, “so that you can allow yourself to relax a little before we do get down to business.”
“Thank you, sir,” you mustered, and he left you still gazing around admiringly at the new and novel sights. Perhaps, you realized as you wandered with floating steps toward a nearby shelf and started browsing, perhaps this was one of the eccentricities that Mr. Davies had warned you of when he sent you here to represent him from London. “An odd, young lord who lives by himself, no maid or butler of his own,” was his description, and you wondered why it was that his lip quirked a little when he told you that. “Perhaps you are just the agent he needs, and that is why I am sending you there. You’ll be around his age; regale him with tales of the city that he has so taken an interest in.”
You wondered, as you finally picked an adventure novel out of many (this wall of books seems to be exclusively devoted to adventure novels, you realized, which is charmingly boyish of the owner), whether it was accurate to say that you were an age of Lord Barok when the expression in his eyes was far too… deep, to be only thirty-two or so.
You had actually decided against relaxing and was laying out all of your papers over half the stretch of the table when Barok finally returned, wheeling a serving cart behind him, a silver dome over the dish it carried, and a teapot and cups besides. So, this was one of the evidences of the young lord living alone, then, you thought with a little fascination.
The faint, sweet smell of lavender permeated the room when he finally poured the tea out in the delicate white cups, and the faintly purple liquid was tantalizing and even, to your slight, pleasant surprise, beautiful, as you realized that the young lord has added some dried lavender buds into your tea. As you breathe the scent of the tea in, Barok van Zieks uncovers the silver dish, and you recognize the small, shell-shaped cakes on it as madeleines.
“I hope you like these,” he said shyly, and to your further delight, he also placed a small dish of dark liquid chocolate beside your plate. “You do not need to spoil me like so, my lord,” you said, halfway to becoming overwhelmed, and he laughed. His laugh was refreshingly clear. “I rarely ever have guests over,” he said, and he rumpled the back of his hair so that it was a curly mess. “I hope I have not offended you because of my, er… overenthusiasm.”
“No offense taken, my lord. Actually… madeleines are some of my favorite teacakes.” You dipped a madeleine in the chocolate, took a bite, and almost swooned. The light lemon flavor melded quite perfectly with the intensity of the chocolate. When paired with the mildness of the lavender tea, it seemed like a match made in dessert heaven—
Your host seemed delighted with your joy in his hospitality, too, and when he spotted the novel in your hand, he seemed doubly enthused with your choice. “That is one of my favorites,” he exclaimed happily. “Have you read it before, perchance?”
“Some time ago, I believe. Mr. Davies had a worn copy he used to leave behind in the office, so I read it to while time away whenever I pulled some overtime work.” You stroked the stark black letters on the brightly-colored cover, and smiled. “This must cost an absolute fortune nowadays! I am amazed that you were able to get ahold of the first edition.”
“Well, my esteemed brother liked to spoil me before, when he was still with me.” He poured out some tea for himself as well, and sat across you. You notice that he seemed to take little to no interest in the madeleines, however. Perhaps not much of a sweet tooth, you figured. “He spared no expense in building me this lovely gilded cage. —But enough of someone who is not present as of yet!” He smiled at you, and you felt your slight trepidation—and your slight curiosity at his cryptic words—melt away. “You must like the novel so, too, to have picked it out of the lot.”
“I confess that I am but a dull creature who only reads books to pass the time, Lord van Zieks, but yes, Mr. Haggard’s book is quite a good find. The fantastic locations and horrors that he so describes in this book grips the heart quite firmly!”
“Even you feel that way, my friend?” He leans forward, eyes sparkling, and for the rest of the evening engages you in a lovely conversation about Haggard’s magnum opus and whether you had any opinions on what a desert should look like and smell and feel . That evening, you learn just how much of a personality he really is despite his quiet appearance, how eloquent, how perfectly enthusiastic of a client as you finally spread a map of London before his delighted eyes later that evening to finally orient him on the city he wants to call his new home.
It was perhaps the third afternoon of your business visit with the Lord van Zieks when you finally realized that you do need to get some supplies from the nearest village, which was quite a ways off from the castle. Heeding Barok's advice on how to navigate the misty forest, you found the placemarkers that he had mentioned; curious white flowers that glow a little in the shadows of the wood's green gloom, marking a clear trail for trained eyes, and proving treacherous for those who are not.
You take a deep breath, and walk and walk and walk through the gloom, until you finally reach the village that Barok has mentioned the evening before.
You do your shopping, and do so with caution and not a little curiosity at the hostile eyes turning toward you every which way—clearly, strangers are not a usual sight here—and you buy materials for the next brainstorming session with your young client. It was only when you reached the stationery shop that you finally realized, however, that it was not your strangeness that made them wary of you; but rather, the way that you appeared in their midst.
The shopkeeper is a thin and nervous-looking man, with huge pondering eyes and a sharp chin. He eyes you a little warily as you enter his shop and set the bell a-tinkling, but he doesn’t say anything until you have placed your order and he was already gathering all of the items that you have requested from the shelves behind his counter.
“You came from that there forest, hain't you?” he suddenly asks, almost rudely.
“Yes, I have.” You watch him wrap up your purchases with some brown paper and string, and idly add, “The lord living there is my client, you see.”
The shopkeeper freezes and his eyes widen, and you realize one thing; that instead of morbid curiosity, there is now a marked fear in those eyes.
“Is something wrong, sir?”
“Take it. Take it!”—thrusting your shopping at you. “Do not darken my door again, or the demon of the forest will be cursing me!”
“The demon… of the forest?”
What are they talking about? There is no such thing as demons. Such thoughts run through your head as you try not to show your healthy skepticism, and instead merely asked, “Is it a local legend here, then? A demon, living in that forest yonder?”
He seems not to have heard your question, so wild his expression was, and when the sky had started turning a pinkish-red, he only became even more erratic. “So the lord… of the castle… is still there. Alive and well,” he was muttering, looking scared out of his mind, “Go! Go, before the sun sets! Go before he can sniff out where you have been!”
“What might you mean, good sir? Lord van Zieks has been nothing but a very gracious host to me, and such statements are—”
“Go! Go!”
Affronted for the sake of your client and a little afraid yourself of the sudden change in demeanor of the shopkeep, you finally allow yourself to be booted out of the store, only staring . Outside, the sun is already sinking low in the sky, which, you decided, is an indicator that you needs hurry back to the manor before the darkness has completely swallowed what little light there was.
The road leading back to the forest, tinted by the burning red light of the setting sun, looked almost bloody in your eyes. Your purchases feel a little heavy in your hands. Every step seemed to echo in the eerie silence—
While the way out has been quite pleasant, the forest from the outside going in seemed a little..... hostile. You realize that maybe this was what Barok meant when he said that the forest keeps out any chance of companionship.
It wasn't until you have seen the entrance to the forest and the small light of the white flower that was your guiding path, however, when you sense that you are... being followed—
This isn’t good.
Your heart is beating loudly now.
The fear of being followed by unknown people, and being defenseless in a dark forest…
Maybe I should run! But then, will they give chase?
You have always prided yourself for being one of quick action. Accordingly, you quicken your pace—and your heartbeat begins to resemble the rhythm of a festival drum when you realize that the moment you have done so, the people following you have… mirrored your pace.
Is there a way to lose them? My God, what should I do!
But the road is narrow and straight, and the only salvation left was to lose them in the trees. But that, too, was a futile hope, for you can sense that they will catch up with you before you even get the chance to be able to elude them—
And then, you feel— someone— someone grab your arm—!
“...Nn!”
You feel a scream rise in your throat, but the arm was strong and spun you to face your pursuers—
An urgent whisper, distinctly masculine, and gruff, is suddenly at your ear. “Don’t cry out!— We are only here to prevent you from—!”
“Get off me!”
You don’t let him finish his sentence, and yank hard at his grip, which was loose as of yet, and you—
You run. You can hear them crying after you, equal parts shocked, angry, and—almost, you think, desperate—but you don’t stop to think further—not now—
The flowers are the only thing guiding me back to the castle!
I must not stray from them… or I’ll get lost in the woods forever—
“It's dangerous!” Argh! Again another hand on your arm— It slows you, but you don’t stop completely— “Stop! For your safety, you shouldn’t—”
—You can hear the genuine concern in his voice, and it confuses you.
The split-second of confusion manages to slow you down, and he manages to force you to wheel around and face them again.
“Please— you came from that forest and left alive, you cannot possibly wish to go back again—”
“Unhand me, rogue!” you immediately bark into his face. “If you truly mean me no harm, then let go of me this instant!”
More to your surprise, he actually unhands you, and you were so startled that you almost fell down on your behind. Thankfully, you regain your balance, but some of your purchases slip from your grip and fall down on the ground in a pile. You rub your aching wrist on the place where he had grabbed you, fear giving way into a slowly rising fury.
“Stay away!”
You take a step back, and the moment you do, they start forward toward you, the open concern on their faces even more terrifying than outright terror. One more step, but then another hand clasps you warmly on the shoulder, and you let out an unceremonious squeak—
“What seems to be the problem here, gentlemen?” A quiet voice at your ear, and you start, very badly, your nerves already frayed from before, but now—
The collective gasp of horror from the mob that has pursued you distracts you from your savior’s abrupt, too-well-timed entrance—
You watch the men's faces turn from concern, into—outright—terror—
“You!” one of the men couldn’t help but cry out, and you finally catch sight of the familiar pale, sickly features of your host—for of course, it was he who had come at your assistance—
“My lord!”
“Are you hurt, my friend?” he asks, maddeningly calm.
You nod, tersely. “For some reason… these men followed me here, and gave chase!”
At your words, Barok van Zieks's face looks as if it had never looked before; it was still kind, still gentle, but there was something almost—dangerous—and quiet—lurking in the depths of those warm, summery, forget-me-not eyes—
“Stand back, you cowards who dare lay a finger against my friend here.”
There was a moment of silence, where the men stared, transfixed, at the expression on Barok's face, and where you stared at the arm that he had flung protectively in front of you, hardly daring not to see what they are seeing—
He… he looked as if…
The tone of his voice, his expression… the look in his eyes…
Yes, you determine—at this specific time and place, Lord Barok van Zieks seemed like a completely different person.
He is protecting me, however…
Why would these people be scared out of their wits over a man who isn’t… even armed to defend himself?
And then— as you were contemplating these thoughts—
“…Monster.”
The single word that finally broke the silence was spoken so quietly that you almost missed it, but on the off-chance that you had missed the exact word, the underlying venom under that voice was unmistakable, and you can feel the hatred of one of the men as he raised a shaking arm and pointed directly at you— no, at the young lord standing so protectively before you—
For some reason, Barok had raised a hand to the cross-shaped scar that was between his brows as he stiffened and said, “Have I caused injury to you, mayhaps?”
A cacophony of voices rang out into the evening. You caught different statements, with various levels of hatred— “So meek, so deceptively innocent.” “You— demon— the plague of this village—” “That poor outsider need not be the next prey of this unholy creature—”
You were about to remark in outrage at the insults flying here and there, but Barok kept his grip firm and held you back, and only spoke, quickly and quietly, though still firm and carrying over the clamor:
“This land is my territory. I must ask you— gently , for now—to leave of your free will.”
One bark, louder than all the rest, ripped through the crowd.
“Have you entrapped that person too, perhaps, under your deceptive wiles?”
—And then, you hear it.
The slightest growl, at the back of Barok’s throat, almost animalistic, and—
“Leave.”
He repeats that one single word, and—and—while you are not looking directly at Barok's face, you can see the fear that you are starting to feel being magnified in the men's expressions—
“No— demon— MONSTER— STAY AWAY! STAY AWAY!”
The expression of the man who had cried out resembled the one that the shopkeep from your earlier errands had had, and you realize that—maybe—what he had been talking about when he mentioned the “demon of the forest” was—
“RUN!”
—!
The men had left naught but a cloud of dust in their wake. You are still quite shaken, but then Barok turns to look at you, and then, you are surprised to see—
“My… my lord…”
“—Are you harmed, my friend?”
You saw nothing but the same gentle, melancholic look that he had sported in your presence since the first day—or at least, that was what you wanted to say, but there was also something underlying that expression—a deeper kind of… hurt—
“I will never forgive myself if I lost you, too,” he adds, and you find yourself lost in his melancholy.
Your fears have almost completely evaporated when he smiles at you, sadly, and the scar on his face flashes red one more time before the sun finally disappears, and the deep velvet of the night started to envelop the two of you, protectively, as if the evening was telling you: It is done,— it is safe now.
“I am quite alright, my lord. And yourself?”
“What a gentle question. I am quite unhurt, compared to yourself.” He smiles, a little more brightly. “Well, let us hie home, then. Soon, it will be too dark for your eyes.”
You know of course, you were still shaken by what happened. The behavior of the people in the village, the fear you saw in those men, accusing of the person in front of you of being a monster… and the dark look in those eyes when he told them to leave..
He lets you walk a few paces before himself, and you carefully pick your way through the undergrowth, a little self-conscious. Sometimes you can feel his gaze cross your back once or twice, as if he was trying to gather the courage to ask something, but he never quite does, and soon you fall into a regular rhythm of watching out for the faintly-glowing flowers guiding your path.
“Thank you kindly, my lord,” you murmur, a little awkwardly.
He smiles lightly. “Your good health is thanks enough.”
Barok's expression was an interesting mix of embarrassment, and happiness.
He clears his throat and glances away, his cheeks flushing pink despite his extreme pallor, and you again realized just how sickly he looked today. You wonder if it would be impolite to ask— and yet—
“Shall we quicken our pace, my friend? I have a nice dinner waiting.” As if he has sensed your next question, he quickly takes the lead, and you were a little stuck trying to read more from his quiet back, almost boring a hole through it with your stare, as if by doing so for long enough, you can finally start to decipher what he was thinking of.
“Have you always lived alone in that castle, my lord?”
The too-personal question slips out before you can help it, and you shut your mouth with a snap, embarrassed at your discourtesy. However, Barok seems more thoughtful at your question, rather than outright offended by it.
“Well, there was my brother, and he lived with me once. But that was a very, very long time ago.” Suddenly, he looks as if his heart would break, and suddenly you regret your careless remark, and you incline your head as an apology. But when you raise your face again, the moment of bitterness has somehow passed. “He guided me in all manner of things; he was the best brother anyone can ask for.”
“He sounds like a wonderful person,” you say, and it was with a little surprise that you noticed just how… sincere your thoughts were over a man that you have never known at all.
His smile widens a little at this.
“We are near, and it is quite dark out already,” were his only words on the matter, disappointingly.
You walk together now, pace matching pace, and you must have imagined it, but he felt a little cold at first through his shirt—though, the cold started to fade more and more as you proceed in moving forward, and by the time you finally exit the forest and find yourselves in the beautiful crimson flower garden that surrounded the castle, you figured that it must have been your imagination.
“It is quite a striking sight,” you manage to breathe out. “Every time I see your garden, it always takes my breath away.”
He flushes faintly at your praise.
“Thank you for always complimenting my dear little red ladies. They are very beautiful, possibly more so than cultivated flowers, and yet absurdly hardy, too. Even when I am finally living away from this place, they will continue blooming on and on—like all of the memories I will leave behind.”
As he says thus, a light breeze runs through the field of flowers, sending up a torrent of brilliant red petals that engulfed the beautiful night. You gasp and stop dead in your tracks, making Barok pause as well, and the two of you watch as this lovely storm of petals felt like a cool rain against your cheeks—
“Look at how happy they are!” your host says beside you. “What a beautiful homecoming.”
Indeed quite beautiful, you think, as you cast an eye on his profile.
What an enigma this man is. So innocent and childlike yet…
The contrast between this and the way he was earlier— Those eyes, the way he growled…
It doesn’t make sense. Nothing does.
Innocent of your disturbed thoughts, however, the Lord Barok van Zieks only flashes you a sweet smile, and as he leads you back to the castle, and you think, secretly, to yourself, that his shadow is like a sorrowful echo of something that he dare not voice.
Dinner that evening assumes a quiet, rather introspective air. As usual, Barok picks at his food and you eat heartily; the meal is an excellently-cooked venison steak in red sauce, asparagus, and a bold wine to wash down the meal. You are sorely tempted to make conversation like you did the previous night, but Barok looks a little lost in thought, and it was not until he had brought the dessert in and you had dug into a rather excellent chocolate pudding that you finally loosen your tongue enough to speak.
“Tonight’s meal is very lovely, as usual.”
“Thank you kindly, my lady.”
“You are a fine cook, my lord,” you venture. “However, I do wish you would let me help you.”
“It would be uncouth of me to let a guest help! —Though, if it is only for light meals, for example, like for after-dinner coffee and such… It would be nice to have a little company, yes.”
He looks a little wistful at this. You feel a sort of almost protective instinct that wishes to wipe away that yearning look on his face, all to give him what he so obviously wants.
“Of course!” you say, lightly. “I would keep you company if I’m not too much of a bother.”
His blue eyes widen a little at this pronouncement from you, making him look even more impossibly younger than his years, and you smile, relieved at how much better his mood seems to be as the evening wore on.
“I— I would be honored to have your help!”
The chocolate pudding that evening, you decide, is perhaps the sweetest thing you've ever tasted, coupled with that joyful, hopeful expression on Barok van Zieks's face.
“You have been a very kind host, my lord. Rather overattentive to my needs. Rarely have I experienced such amazing hospitality.”
He seems a little surprised, and again a little flustered, at the topic you have introduced. “You flatter me.”
“However… I’m afraid that you may have overworked yourself.”
“Oh?”
“Well, as the days went on, I can’t help but notice your pallor… Have you been feeling unwell?”
He has been about to put a tiny piece of chocolate in his mouth as you spoke, and you also just realize how much pudding is still left on his plate—his characteristically poor appetite again manifesting itself, you think, which strengthens your position as well, and it emboldens you to stand your ground about the question.
For his part, Barok looks a little shaken, and he puts his fork down.
“I am sorry if I have worried you. Well, to tell you honestly, I— I—”
He seems a little stuck on how to explain himself, so you wonder if you could give him a little push, or if inquiring any further would be incredibly impolite to your gentle host. On the other hand, Barok was sipping his tea instead, and you could swear you heard the ungraceful clinking of the cup against the saucer as he almost dropped it when he put it back.
To think that he would have such a reaction to such an innocuous question. Another foible of your host, perhaps?
“I’ve noticed you don’t seem to have much of an appetite as well, perhaps it is also because of an illness.”
“To think that you would concern yourself so much about me… You really are quite kind, my lady.” He still looks a little troubled. “Well… I am not sure if I can call it an illness— perhaps it is more of a condition that I've had since I was a, er, young child.
He seems a little downcast after admitting as much.
“Excuse me for… prying into your private affairs. It was only out of concern.”
“I appreciate the kind words, my friend.”
The pointed non-answer does not escape you, of course, and you were just about about to comment on it when he stands up, and clears the dishes, and it strikes you one more time just how pallid he looked under the gas lights. Before you could utter another word of concern, however, he had already gathered the final used utensils from the table and left.
He is back, shortly, with a much more careful air, and when you stand up from your seat to follow him and perhaps pick the conversation up from where he left off, Barok turns to you with a brilliant smile.
“Earlier, when we were returning home, you seemed quite arrested with the little red ladies. Would you like to see them one more time before we went to work for the evening?”
“O-Of course!” you gasp, surprised at the unexpected, but welcome, offer.
You can also sense how he's trying to avoid the subject of his affliction, and therefore you decide to handle it, for now, with a delicate hand. Barok stands up and obligingly leads you out of the dining room, back to the softly-lit golden hallways full of bowers of the same crimson blossoms that you have been admiring earlier today, and then back through the back door of the castle, where the ground looked as if it was carpeted by Barok's darling "little red ladies."
The moon was almost at its hugest tonight, which meant tomorrow evening was the full moon already. Like this, lit up by the silvery light of the evening goddess, the mysterious, as-of-yet-nameless red blooms swayed on their stems against the breeze, and danced as one, almost like an undulating, living being.
Again, you think that this must have been the loveliest sight in the whole wide world, in all of your short, few, twenty-odd years of life.
“It is so very beautiful,” you say, heartily. “If only I could take back the memory of this brilliant view when I head back to London—if you give me permission to paint them, my lord, perhaps—”
His eyes widen a little at this revelation. “Ah, you paint! If you do make my darlings the subject of your work, it would very much flatter me as their caretaker.”
Saying thus, with a lovely smile that was almost as brilliant enough to shame the very moon itself, Barok has led you over to a particularly exuberant bed of the flowers, and was bending over and kissing one bloom that stood out from its sisters by virtue of being paler and sicklier. He was whispering something to it, and you can only catch a few words, but they were said in such a loving tone that you felt almost jealous that you didn't have anyone who would address you in such a kind voice.
“—If you survive, perhaps you'll be the strongest and the prettiest one of them yet…”
As if sensing your gaze, he turns back and gazes at you quizzically, and you cough awkwardly and turn away. Barok looks a little deep in thought, once more, and he said, in a voice that was little more than a whisper, as if you were both in a church somehow instead of in a field of red flowers—
“You city people have a saying too; "survival of the fittest," is it not? What does it mean?”
What a sudden introduction; you catch your breath, wondering if you should answer, but he was speaking once more, and you hold your breath—
“Weaklings also have a place on the earth; humans included, and I would like to think that even I, can—”
He stops short, as if he had just realized what he was saying, and he turns slightly pink with embarrassment.
“Ah, I do— I do apologize. I am thinking of so many things.”
You finally find your voice. “I do wonder my lord, if you are certain that you would like to move to the city. Your temperament might… not be suited for such a harsh environment…”
He turns to look at you once more, surprise emanating from his handsome features, and you are once again reminded of how— of how low his self-esteem must be, to think of himself hideous and mean when he was actually shapely and fair and kind and generous, and you realize that the surprise that he is now expressing is due to him not being used to be treated with mercy by another human being perhaps, and a peculiar, sad twinge of pity twists itself in your heart like a knife.
“How remarkable, my friend. How truly remarkable you are. Your superior is… is very astute in having chosen you, of all people, to represent his interests in our business dealings with me.”
It seemed like a normal, polite compliment made on a normal, polite conversation, on the surface, but the inflection of his voice and the look in his eyes told you otherwise; that he meant every single word of it, and that he perhaps did, in fact, think you, lowest of the low on the totem pole back at the office, as someone special.
“It is not something that someone in my position would say, that is true. However, my conscience begets me to speak my mind on behalf of your own interest, my lord.”
“—Klimt said that I was like one of these ichorflowers, once. When he was still with me.”
What a strange thing to say! Again one of his many eccentricities, you suppose—even though his odd comment somehow didn't feel out-of-place in this time and space, as if he can only say it right here and right now, with you and the ichorflowers and the moon and the velvet evening sky and the whispering ancient trees all bearing witness to those sorrowful words.
“You've seen that one small flower that I have spoken to earlier, my friend. I am actually planning to take it with me, to the city, because I believe it might be the best place for it. Perhaps… perhap… even though this place is beautiful and it has many companions with it… Perhaps, that one small, wilting, sickly flower actually… belongs somewhere else.
“One can say that maybe a different kind of sunlight or soil or climate might do wonders to its appearance. Won't you say?”
You could only nod at those words, and you think you are starting to get at what he was trying to tell you.
“I feel very much like that........ that pitiful little plant. Maybe, maybe”—his face twists a little with a pained expression—“Maybe this is not the right place for me, too.”
“Then… in that case…”
You find yourself replying earnestly to his earnest words.
“Please allow me to help you, even after our transaction has been concluded.
“Let me show you the ropes, and help you get used to the city—!”
Barok van Zieks gazes at you upon hearing your statement, a half-surprised, half-hopeful look on his face, and he only nods, silently. His next words are delivered in a voice that was slightly tremulous, as if he was trying his best not to cry, and you are surprised to find out that your own eyes are suddenly full of tears.
“Yes. I… I should like that very much, my friend.”
Strangely, when he speaks the single syllable of the word “friend,” it carried a solemn, happy, almost hallowed weight within it.
He smiles, and you smile back.
The next hour was spent in a beautiful blur. Barok walked you amongst the beautiful beds of ichorflowers, stooping down to your level whenever you had a murmured question about their care, because you dare not raise your voice above a whisper. This ground felt sacred to you, now, as if a pact has been made between the two of you and it therefore made this place special because of it. Barok was still himself, still like before, but now he seemed a little happier, a little healthier despite his worrying pallor, and you wondered if this was because one of the underlying causes of his strange melancholy has been........ lifted, somehow, by your little promise to this strange, wonderful man.
Stripped of his chronic loneliness, Barok van Zieks seemed almost like a different person.
Loneliness. You remember the nasty looks from the people of the nearby village. The two men that have followed you all the way to the edge of the forest just to prevent you from getting back to Barok's side. You remember the unkind rumors, and the unflattering nicknames. And then, suddenly, you realize now that perhaps, one of the roots of his loneliness was also to be found by asking about the incident earlier.
You hesitate to ask, but only for the merest fraction of a second.
“I should like that very much, my friend,” his words from before echo in your mind.
He called you friend.— Wouldn't trying to understand him more, then, be one of your new duties, now? And right now, Barok seems so kind, so cheerful, that—he might be inclined to answer a few questions—
“My lord, I cannot help but notice… the fear of the people who had accosted us earlier when they laid eyes on you.”
He has been softly stroking the petals of a nearby ichorflower with his thumb when you ask him that question; when he finally comprehended the meaning, he hesitated, and then again resumed his gentle touches, as if petting a particularly antsy cat's paw.
When he answered, his tone was still light, but also, you notice, a little careful.
“Well— I imagine that the people of the nearby village do not care much for my looks, and that was the reason for their fear. Have you forgotten so quickly? Or perhaps the kindness of your heart compels you to forget? I am hideous, and therefore… unnatural, and deserving of repulsion. That is why your generosity in extending that offer to me is so… so…
He trails off, absently, though you suspect you know the last word he was going to say.
However… does he truly… believe that drivel?
“I can only think that an ailment has ravaged the nearby village. An ailment that has caused them to have poor eyesight and impaired judgement of character.” You shake your head indignantly. “Because there is no logical explanation… for their poor treatment of you.”
He chuckles at that, even though your tone was far from teasing.
“Hn... It is getting late, my friend. Would you care to get back into the warmth of the house?”
He is clearly done with talking about the matter, and the clock is indeed past your usual time for your nightly business meetings. However, despite the awareness of the time, you follow him reluctantly, your arms tightly crossed against the cold, suddenly determined to show to the young lord what he actually, what he truly, looked like— because there is no way in hell that he might have truly seen himself for who he is if he hasn't anyone to tell him otherwise…
“My lord…. If I may…”
“Yes?”
“I am not an artist by profession, by any means, but… please let me capture your likeness on canvas.”
His expression was one of surprise, though perhaps it was aimed more at the fact that you are so boldly asking this of him. But you push on, bravely.
“Would it be alright with you?”
He seemed less than enthused by the idea.
“May I… May I think about it?
“Of course. When you are ready with a response, so shall my brush be.”
“Thank you very much for your understanding.”
You spend the rest of the trek back up into the familiar, circular study where business is waiting, and as you laid out the maps of the possible estates in London that interested Barok's eye the night before, you catch a glimpse of the red flower field and the near-full moon from the high window behind Barok's desk, and remember the words of this man that has moved you so profoundly. The reason why you have been summoned here, in the first place. The reason why Barok van Zieks is so intent to escape this country of loneliness.
—Maybe this is not the right place for me, too.