Chapter Text
High up on a shelf in the guest room closet, pushed to the back and tucked behind the spare linens, there is an old box, with a lock that no longer functions, but looks forbidding, nonetheless. Rhys doesn’t think of it often, and takes it down even more rarely, but the contents of the box have been dancing around the back of his mind since he returned to Aotearoa, a couple of weeks ago.
The first week of filming had come to an end and he decided to get out of town for the weekend. Rosie had asked him to check on the house and he knew he could use a little time to himself. Being back on set (back in Stede’s character, Stede’s clothes, Stede’s life) had his mind in a sort of liminal space between history and present day, between fact and fiction - much more so now than he remembered in season one.
The drive out to the country presented the perfect opportunity to let his mind wander. Gazing out the window at familiar pastures, he allowed his thoughts to jump from one topic to another, like ghosts floating about a mansion of infinite rooms; until they bumped up against that one locked door, which even a disembodied spirit could not transcend.
He finally arrived and let himself in, locking the door behind him. The air inside smelt stale.
The ghosts of his thoughts wafted in with him, but his mind quieted as he bustled about, opening windows and turning on lights. He knew without question where they had gone: he could imagine them sitting on the guest room bed, waiting patiently for him to open the closet door.
When at last the house was ready for him to spend the night, and he had reported back to Rosie that no bandits or vermin had visited in their absence, he poured himself a glass of wine and made his way upstairs.
Entering the walk-in closet, he had the distinct impression of Stede in his auxiliary wardrobe, and the metaphor was not lost on him in either event. He took out the box, opened the lid and sat on the floor. Carefully, he overturned it on the carpet in front of him, so that the first item placed in the box was now on the top of the pile.
One by one he paged through paper artifacts. The following is what he found.
Two pages from Christchurch’s daily newspaper, The Press: the cover of the September 1, 1997 issue announcing the death of Princess Diana, and an interior page with a small piece about The Green Room’s grand opening. Accompanying the article is a photo of Rhys and Grant on stage under a homemade banner displaying the name Rhysently Granted. The photo is credited to club owner, Rosie Carnahan.
He kept this as the very first item in his collection to set the foundation of a story, this life, his current incarnation as a human adult. And to remind him that Rosie was there first.