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Old Hallow’s Eve, 1999
Cobwebs gather in the nooks and crannies of the crumbling manor as easily as mice run through the walls, as easily as spiders hang from the ceiling, and as easily as Francis knows he shouldn’t be here. It isn’t the large, iron gates that he had to jump over which alarm him, nor the perfectly set table, complete with a blood red tablecloth to tie together the off-putting atmosphere. No, it is the silence. Francis can’t hear the crickets chirping anymore. The thunderous storm raging outside, the whole reason he sought shelter in this abandoned mansion, stopped the moment that towering oak door creaked open. Footsteps echoing as he ventures further through the labyrinth of corridors, he watches how his breath heats the chilled air around him, even that sounding too loud amongst the distinct lack of all other noise. There are no clocks, and every window he finds has been coated in a layer of thick, black paint, leaving Francis unaware of how long has passed since entered; he forgot to set his Nokia to the local time. So far, his holiday has been terrible.
Francis doesn’t know what he was thinking, deciding to visit England in October and expecting nice weather. Since being in this accursed country he’s had food poisoning thrice, almost been mugged twice, and trapped in a definitely haunted house once. With every room he enters, more and more of his hope dwindles—he’s found not one exit, and when he desperately tries to leave from the door he came he sees a heavy, steel lock that he’s certain wasn’t there before. Meaning someone put it there. Meaning he’s locked in here with someone who doesn’t want him out. Suffice it to say, he misses France.
This room, much like the last twenty he explored, lacks much substance. A leather armchair is settled in the corner, a writer’s desk stationed to the side of it, an old inkpot and quill the only thing that really catches his attention. Flickering candlelight allows him to see in the lowlight, a fur rug under his feet quieting the little noise he does make. Unlike the other rooms Francis hopelessly searched, this one lacks that ever present layer of dust. In fact, it’s spotless. Running his finger along the windowsill, not a speck of dirt does he pick up, and when he drops to his hands and knees to check beneath the bookcase, even that has been properly vacuumed. Somebody definitely frequents this room, maybe even sits in the very armchair Francis is slumped in now, hands in his hair and Nokia chucked across the room once it ran out of power.
“This place gives me the creeps…” He mutters, his voice bordering on a whine.
“How rude.”
The most effeminate, shrill scream Francis has ever heard somehow comes from his throat upon not just hearing that awfully creepy voice, but seeing the similarly creepy man it belongs to. Eyes wide, he tries to take in everything about the person standing in front of him, arms crossed and expression displeased. Venom green eyes stab through him, almost glowing in contrast to the man’s all black suit, a cape draped over his shoulders, small accents of silver the only colour for Francis to see aside from that blond hair. The fellow raises an absurdly thick eyebrow, seeming to both demand an answer from Francis and to order him to shut his mouth.
“I- euh, got lost?” He can’t help the way his voice trembles slightly.
“Convenient.” The chap, who couldn’t be too far from Francis’ age, narrows those piercing eyes.
“Tell me, hunter, what makes you believe you have any right to enter my domain?” He takes a step closer, snarling the word ‘hunter’ as if it burns his tongue to speak it.
Francis blinks blankly. Then blinks again.
Mon dieu, I am trapped here with a lunatic, he realises wearily.
Sinking further back into the armchair and using all of his willpower to not pull out his hair, Francis sighs, a reaction the strange man wasn’t expecting if his frown is anything to go by. He doesn’t really know what to say, and that must be clear by his expression because before he knows it, the man’s face is only a few centimetres away, so close he could count the freckles that paint the stranger’s nose.
“If you’re not a hunter, then what are you?” Suspicion is clear as day in the man’s tone, and for some strange reason it makes Francis want to defend himself.
“I am Francis, if you must know. And an ‘unter I am not. ” Francis crosses his arms across his chest, surprisingly annoyed by the man close enough to his face that if he leant in, their lips would graze.
“Not your name, fool. Your species. You’re quite hairy; what are you, a werewolf?” He scrunches his nose, distaste leaking from every pore as he pokes and prods at Francis’ cheek.
“Stop that!’ Francis tries to swat away the man’s hand like an annoying fly, to no avail.
“Tell me what you are!”
“Stop!”
“Tell me!”
“I am French!”
A pause.
“Eugh.” The stranger pulls away as if he’s laid his eyes upon the muck at the bottom of his shoe.
Feeling much better now that the man isn’t one gust of wind away from locking lips with him, Francis tries to force himself to relax. It could be worse, he reasons. At least the man isn’t trying to kill him, that’s always a bonus. Speaking of the man, he seems to be appraising Francis, his eyes dragging up and down his slumped form—for reasons unknown, it makes the hair on his arms stand on end.
After a few tense moments, the stranger speaks again, sounding much more casual than before.
“So, French you say?” His tone is almost conversational, and if it weren’t for the sinking feeling in his gut, Francis might have even believed him.
“Oui. Verdun, specifically.” Francis can’t help the way his eyes briefly dart around the room he’s trapped in, desperately searching for an exit. There’s only one, the one the man is blocking.
“Ah, lovely town, I’m sure. I’m from Wessex, myself.” He gloats, as if it’s some monumental achievement, his eye twitching at Francis’ blank look.
The conversation, blessedly, runs dry after that. Francis stares at the man, so clearly awkward, and the man stares back, a far too pleasant smile on his face. Just as Francis decides enough is enough and begins to stand from his seat, the stranger twitches, then chuckles goodnaturedly.
“Silly me, I never told you my name! How impolite. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Francis. I’m Arthur.” He holds out his hand expectantly, head tilted just so, the picture of pleasantries.
“Non, the pleasure is mine, Arthur. Now, could you possibly ‘elp me get out of ‘ere-” Just as he takes Arthur’s hand in his own, just as he begins to believe there is a way out of this manor after all, does he see the look in Arthur’s eyes.
“No, Francis, the pleasure truly is all mine.” His grip of Francis’ hand is tight, possessive, as finally, for what feels like millennia, does Arthur well and truly smile.
Francis knew he should have never come to England. He knew it the second his flight took off and he saw the Eiffel Tower retreat in the distance, he knew it the second he felt British soil beneath his feet and felt the urge to puke, and he knows it now, looking into Arthur’s acidic eyes, that going to England was the worst mistake of his life.
“Now, let’s see… gosh, it’s been a while since I’ve done this. Let’s hope I’m not rusty, hm?” Instead of the handshake it was meant to be, Arthur holds his hand with the utmost care, gentle and kind, both hands cusping it like it's something of worth, something to be treasured.
“I need you to listen closely, yeah? Can you do that for me, love?” Arthur asks softly, more of a murmur, yet still somehow managing to command Francis’ attention.
And he is paying attention, perhaps the most focussed he’s ever been, the worst part being he doesn’t know why. All he wants for, begs for, is to jump from his seat and flee, but no matter how frantically he screams at himself to move, he stays still. Quiet. Quiet and focussed. Francis doesn't nod; no, Francis feels himself nod.
“Wonderful! You do look a little stressed though, poor thing. Relax for me, would you?” His voice is smooth as silk, like a calming balm on a burn wound, and despite himself Francis feels how his tense shoulders loosen, how his breathing steadies.
Francis feels disconnected from his body. Or maybe that isn’t the right word for it. Francis feels trapped inside his body, still able to feel Arthur’s frozen hands on his, still able to feel the leather cushion he sits upon and still able to feel the fear that coils around his heart like Lucifer around the Tree of Knowledge. But despite his internal turmoil, his face is a perfectly neutral slate.
Arthur tuts a little, dropping down to his knees to be eye-level with Francis.
“I should’ve been clearer, I apologise. I’d like you to relax your mind, pet.”
His body doesn’t react, aside from the slightest widening of his eyes, but Francis can feel his stomach drop. That can’t be good, he knows that much. The very thought of losing the one thing he now has control over, his true thoughts and feelings, terrifies him. However, what terrifies him more is that fact he notices the change instantly, notices how maybe, when he really thinks about it, it doesn’t sound unpleasant. It could be nice to unwind a little, getting rid of the stress that boils beneath his skin. Thinking is such a hassle, too. He even remembers reading somewhere that overthinking can lead to grey hairs, and that’s very the last thing he wants. What better way to make sure he doesn’t overthink than by not thinking at all? It makes perfect sense. He nods yet again, yet this time feels much more in control of his actions. He can move, he could move, but he’s so relaxed here that really, what’s the point.
Arthur leans in the slightest bit, balancing on his tiptoes to tap Francis on the forehead. When all Francis does is tilt his head the slightest in confusion, Arthur grins.
“Good boy. The next step… wasn’t it something like- oh yeah! Isn’t it nice to not think about all those pesky things plaguing your mind? But someone has to think, or else you won’t do anything, and that would be an awful waste. So, how about I do the thinking for the both of us? Your job can just be to listen to me, wouldn’t that be nice?” His voice is inviting, encouraging Francis to listen, begging, ordering him to listen.
It’s not like he has anything better to do, he isn’t going anywhere, doesn’t feel the need to, so Francis listens. Arthur makes valid points—it has been quite nice, relaxing, to simply sit here. He’s in no rush to go back to worrying over every small thing, no rush at all. And yet again, he knows Arthur’s right. Left to his own devices, Francis would simply sit here, content enough not to move, wasting his life away. If Arthur thought for him, that would be the best of both worlds.
“Oui…” His voice teeters off, surprisingly steady.
Arthur stands fully, brushing off his trousers before coming behind the armchair he sits upon, idly tracing up and down Francis’ shoulders as he speaks.
“Besides, you like listening to me. It’s your role in life, you know. I bet you’re so pleased that you’re able to finally fulfil it, aren't you just? Every creature has something they were placed on this Earth to do, that’s common knowledge. I was placed here for reasons still unknown to me…” He grows wistful for a moment, lost in thought, before snapping back.
“But you, you’re able to complete your life’s purpose right away! Listening to me, well, I’ve heard the joy you get from being where you’re supposed to be is simply unmatched. Do you feel it yet, Francis?”
Arthur explains what his life purpose is with such an air of confidence, Francis would be a fool not to believe him. He’s already decided that Arthur thinking for him would be best, it makes the most sense, and upon hearing that not just does he get to not think, but for all of this to be the very reason he was made? Arthur is right, the joy blossoming in his chest is like nothing he’s ever felt before.
“I do. I really do.” And he means it, means it with his whole soul, with every ounce of passion in his body does he mean it.
“I knew you would! I never had any doubts. You haven’t got to worry, I’ll take care of you. I’ll feed you and make sure you’re educated. For the mundane, I’ll allow you to choose what you deem best, because I know that when I do command you, you’ll listen. We’re soulmates, Francis. And that means you can never leave me, not like the rest. You cannot leave me.”
***
“Mon ami, please stop that.” Francis sighs exasperatedly, hand on his forehead in an attempt to hide his pitying expression. Arthur was trying his best, and he really couldn’t blame the vampire for having forgotten how to cook after three-hundred years. But still, there’s only so many times that Francis can take out bin bags full of burnt food before he’s had enough, soulmate or not.
“I said I’d feed you, so I’ll bloody well feed you!”
“You can’t cook, Arthur. You ‘ave to face the facts.”
“No! Pass me the flour, I’ll get it right this time!”
“...right.”