Chapter Text
“... Master?”
Your consciousness came back in trickles of sensation, drop after drop into a small pool. But his voice was the first tangible thing that you could register, cold and brisk like a frozen spring.
It eclipsed the feeling that gradually returned to your fingers, low and yet drowning out the distant sound of the rain you could now discern from somewhere.
It stood out against the warm sounds of a crackling hearth.
“... Wake up, Master.”
“Where… Where am I?”
Creak, creak, creak.
You felt under your hands the solid wood of a rocking chair, and realize that you had been rocking back and forth for a while.
The room was dark, the singular fireplace a beacon that glowed against the dimness of your surroundings.
And yet.
“How fortunate. You’ve finally awoken.”
He stood out, hair a pale white like the icy cap of a snow-covered mountain. Skin a sallow white like a bleached bone, or a corpse. Kneeling beside your chair, he stared at you with ruby eyes that were the only things somewhat resembling life on his body.
“Good morning, Master.”
A smile curved the edges of his thin lips upwards and left those eyes utterly untouched. A pang suddenly cut through your chest.
“Is something the matter?”
It both relieved and pained you when that smile left, replaced by a bemused frown. Somehow, that looked rather more natural on his face than a smile.
It confused you.
You had no memories of this man, who looked like a servant and called you Master.
And yet he knew you…
“You have just woken up,” he murmured to himself. “In this case, I should let you gather yourself first.”
He gave you yet another of those flimsy smiles. A place inside you ached, the longing almost tangible, at the polished look of it. You were sure, even as your mind was emptied of any knowledge of him, that this man once wouldn’t have given out such meaningless smiles too easily.
“I’ve missed your voice. It’s been so long.” His ruby eyes locked with yours, an unreadable gleam in them. “Keeping this mansion perfect, until the day you return. I worked hard every day.”
“It made me weary, for it was a long, long time.”
Looking at the windows, where naught but darkness was visible outside, he continued to smile. “And then you showed up outside the window, and I felt joy for the first time in many eras… My heart leaped at the sight of you.”
Those words were smooth and could have made a maiden blush.
His entire being felt lonely, gentle and so utterly unfamiliar. And it hurt.
(Where is the ungainliness?)
(He doesn’t feel like who he should be…)
You opened your mouth. “You-”
“Would you like me to serve you some tea? I remember… You liked chamomile.”
For a brief moment, the thought crossed your mind that for a servant, he rather liked cutting you off. Was he ever properly trained? It didn’t seem to be so. Incongruously, this delighted you.
Like catching a peek of a charming little bird among the bushes in your garden… That hidden flash of someone beyond the calm, implacable servant that he tried to be.
It made a part inside you, cold when you first came to, warm.
You felt a smile tug at your mouth, and oh , did that feel as natural as breathing. Though you didn’t know why, and the reason slipped through your fingers like sand the more you tried to grasp it.
But smiling still felt… Good.
He must have disagreed because upon seeing this, the servant froze.
“Ah - I must apologize for my rudeness. I was overeager.” Stilted words came tumbling out as he hastened to right himself. You watched as he tucked away every little bit of himself that he had shown you until all that remained was the Servant.
And that was… Unbearably sad.
“It… It’s alright,” you managed to get out. Control of your voice, of your lips, was tenuous. You had come to understand that whatever you were, you weren’t alive or human.
Managing even these little replies took a lot of your willpower.
But to get that side of him back, you felt that nothing would be too much for you.
His gaze snapped back to you, and only lingered a second before he looked down. “It was unbecoming. I am a servant of this mansion, and you are the Master.”
(But I didn’t want us to be like that… To stop at nothing but that…)
“No. I don’t know who you are… but we couldn’t possibly be just that.”
“Indeed, you do not know me at the moment.” The affected distance in his eyes and voice stung, for a man you didn't even remember. He had stopped looking at you, staring into the flickering hearth instead.
(But I did once…)
“You do not even remember my name,” he mused with a hollow little smile.
(I want to!)
“Much less who you are.”
“... I don’t remember who we are,” you repeated after him, desolate.
Seemingly coming to a realization, he stood up. It made you notice his height. And yet, instead of filling up the room with his presence and size, he looked as if he had been stretched thin. His long hair, cold white despite how the orange glow of the fire should have cast a warm tone to it, swayed at his back where it had been tied neatly.
“I cannot serve someone,” he spoke slowly, dragging the words out as if to test their weight, cold as hoarfrost. “Who does not remember themselves.”
The words felt like a death knell, almost final. And paired with his corpselike pallor, he looked like a harbinger of the afterlife. And you, yourself, were dead and just recently reformed.
It was, you couldn’t lie to yourself, frightening.
“But you said I had just returned,” you replied, shivering and clutching at your arms to stave off the chill.
As if he sensed your unease, something in him gentled. Perhaps it was his gaze or his posture. Despite the distance he attempted to put between you two, he was still unable to hide that hint of kindness you had glimpsed briefly.
“As a servant of this mansion, Master, I bore witness to the many tragedies that befell the people who once dwelled here.”
Here, he flashed yet another of those smiles that weren’t smiles, as if the tragedies he mentioned were but a trifling matter.
Or perhaps it was a weak attempt to ease his Master’s worries at the mention of misfortunes.
Your mind spun as more questions came.
He called you the Master, but who are you, really? Without even a face to put to your unknown name, you sorely needed all the help that you could get.
“We shall review those incidents, Master. You will recall who you are.”
“Alright, help me…” You reached out your hand to him, on a whim.
(... I want to hold it… But would he allow me?)
(Would his hands be as cold as a corpse’s?)
(... Can I hold it and not cry if so?)
A freezing hand engulfed yours. You barely get a moment to process the aching heartbreak this sensation brought, before your cold, soft-spoken Servant held on to you firmly and pulled you up from the rocking chair.
“Ah, I must remind you, Master. Do not let go of my hand. History is not kind to those who are swept away by the memories.”
"Is that so? Then I won't let go of this hand," you tell him. That had indeed been your plan.