Chapter Text
The only noise ever made in The Mansion came from Professor Beak, and that was just the way Lord Grian liked it. He had nothing against noise, but he liked his quiet, and that’s exactly what the spacious ballrooms and grand hallways provided him. No frivolous frolicking or flamboyant flaunting went on within these gray stone walls. No lively music or clicking of heels bounced about the rafters. There was only stillness and simplicity.
Lord Grian had sent his entire staff home for the day. Only Professor Beak and a crackling fire pit accompanied him at dinner. The elegant blue bird with perfectly plumed feathers roosted on its stand in the corner. It had had a long day of following its owner about the house, whistling whenever it caught a glimpse of the outdoors. Lord Grian was equally opposed to sunlight as he was sound, and he would close the drapes with a grumble, wondering which maid had forgotten this time. Not that he would punish them. He wasn’t that heartless. The outside world brought messes and clutter and things he opposed though. So he shut himself away from it, within the safety of The Mansion.
A log popped, where it sat nestled in the pit. Grian paid it no head, nose buried in a book as he ate his soup. The kitchen staff had prepared one of his most favored meals, and in addition, he was content with what paperwork he had gotten done today, so he was happy. At least, as happy as he could be. Lord Grian may have lost touch with some emotion after being here alone for so long, but it was good enough, so there was no point in pursuing anything further.
The particular book Grian was reading had been a compilation of old bedtime stories for children. He was only reading it because it had been by one of his favorite authors, and he had set a goal of finishing his entire collection of works by the end of the summer. He’d been making great headway before now, but reading about talking animals and magic was far from his cup of tea. In fact, he’d needed a slightly stronger brew in order to finish the fable about a unicorn. Luckily, he had survived to page 168 and had only 100 or so more to go. By his calculation, he could be done by noon tomorrow.
A scoff escaped him, sounding impressively loud to his unaccustomed ears. The most recent tale in the book had been the most bizarre of them all, with literal flying squirrels and sentient trees. The entire thing was laughable, and a part of Grian questioned whether his favorite author could really be so sophisticated in his best books, and still manage to create this chaotic fever dream on his own. Perhaps they had been in a fever dream while writing this. There was absolutely no point to it. He couldn’t even find the moral to the story.
“You disgrace yourself, you know that?” Grian murmured, turning the book over to look at the author's small portrait. “This was truly your worst work.”
The portrait stared blankly up at him. Professor Beak stretched his wings for a moment before going back to sleep on his perch.
And Lord Grian, sole occupant of The Mansion and objector to sound and sunlight, was happy…
Sort of.