Chapter Text
Alastor’s lashes fluttered open, and a sea of brilliant white light spilled forth into his eyes. Warm air brushed the side of his cheek as it left his lips, bouncing silently off the car door window. A wave of condensation waxed and waned against the smooth glass surface, smearing the outside world until it was nothing more than an undefined wash of color and gradient.
Heat pressed eagerly at his side, crowding around his bare skin like a cat that was vying for attention. It rubbed affectionately along his neck and across his forehead, manifesting in a thin sheen of sweat, and Alastor wearily raised a hand to wipe its film away.
Already, his eyelids were drooping again.
The cat settled itself decidedly against his chest, insistent paws kneading into the base of his sternum as if they aimed to slowly force the life from his lungs. Fuzziness continued to wrap a long, plumed tail around his mind as he eventually turned away from the window and sat up.
Straighten the back, hands at your side, eyes forward.
Alastor gracefully placed his hands atop his legs and stiffened the length of his spine. The white smears of light that were still caught in his gaze dissolved, and he blinked into a dark interior. His mind stirred.
Should he ask if they were close yet? Surely there wasn’t much longer to go on this journey. Shouldn’t the estate be somewhere between these rolling country hills and patches of woodland? Why was this taking so long?
The tips of Alastor’s fingers began to drum against his leg, and something passing through the far window captured his skittish gaze. He turned sharply to spy what it could be, vision narrowing, before the voice inside his head replayed insistently.
Straighten the back, hands at your side, eyes forward.
His digits fell still. The heat pressed even more firmly against his neck.
Smooth-rimmed tires raced down the open highway, carrying Alastor forth. The wheels bounced with each crack and pothole that sprang from the asphalt, jostling him slightly each time. Late afternoon sun sprawled across the car’s dashboard, and additional condensation slowly crept along its windshield. A drawn out sigh whistled through Alastor’s nose, and in the quiet, amid the stuffy heat, his train of thoughts began anew.
Why did he have to be here? He didn’t want to be here. Why couldn’t he be making his own decisions? How was one even meant to impress aristocrats such as these? What would they be like? Would they be decent enough to give him a chance?
Forget chances. Force them.
Alastor tensed at the cold, resigned tone that whispered in his ear. Sharp claws brushed against his shoulder, threatening to dig into soft, olive toned flesh. A part of him internally flinched as the cadence rattled between his ears, and his fingers curled themselves into tight fists. His train of thought grounded to a halt once more, replaced by habit.
Right. Astuteness was a weapon. Wield it.
Another few minutes of driving passed by. Each one felt longer than the last, and drowsiness began threatening to overwhelm Alastor once more. His legs prickled beneath him, yearning to stretch in the same way that a ballroom dancer prepared for a performance. He resisted sleep’s temptation though, stubbornly preferring to maintain hope that the ride would soon come to an end and he could be free at last. And as luck would have it, his stubbornness proved correct.
“We’re nearing the estate, sir,” the chauffeur announced from up front as he pulled off the highway and onto a winding country road. His distinct lack of a southern twang caught Alastor off guard for the umpteenth time.
Straighten the back, hands at your side, eyes forward.
“Good.” He flattened his palms against his knees. “I feared that we might never arrive.”
The chauffeur hummed, and in the overhead mirror, a smile broke onto his face. “Hey, I get it. To an unaccustomed eye, the midwest looks all the same.”
A hint of reproach flared in Alastor’s gut, and he backtracked quickly with, “Oh, it’s not that! A bayou will play the same old tricks. But I believe it’s safe to assume that you don’t have alligators to worry about, now do you?”
“Nope.” The chauffeur bobbed his head agreeably. “Can’t say we do, sir.”
The hint of a honey-sweet flavor bloomed on Alastor’s tongue, and he sat back in painstaking composure. His shoulders visibly loosened on his frame, as if a physical weight had just dropped from their peeks, and a new kind of warmth gathered around him —one that he accepted this time.
Unaccustomed. What a childish insult. Who did this old man think he was, comparing the prairie to real wilderness? The bayou was a world of tricky paths to navigate and creatures that lurked between the cattails, biding time until they could get their jaws around their victim’s neck. Sucking mud dragged boots below the marshy surface, and bugs feasted on bare skin. Lawlessness ruled the ecosystem, taking without a second glance or a flicker of regret in its sharp red gaze.
It was nothing like what Alastor saw now as he returned to watching the outside world. Low rolling hills passed before him, speckled with the occasional livestock and loose hanging telephone wire. A flock of geese flew north overhead, and in the distance, large farm houses and mills overlooked their fields.
His chauffeur turned the wheel again, and the car’s tires met hard, compact dirt. Dust kicked up in their wake as they left the paved road behind and trundled beyond a thick line of trees. The land around them transformed from unruly wild weeds to neatly trimmed bluegrass and hedges as soon as they’d slipped through a pair of ironrod gates. The brush lining the long driveway was carefully pruned back, and allowed ample space for all to approach the towering house standing before them.
A small wave of nerves began to grow in Alastor’s chest upon the sight, prickling through his fingertips like miniature bolts of static. He swallowed hard, his pulse threatening to rise as reality truly struck him on where he was and whose presence he was about to be in.
Straighten the back, hands at your side, eyes forward.
The car pulled into a large cul-de-sac and came to a stop alongside its curb.
A gravel pathway met the drive, inviting Alastor directly to the threshold of the Morningstar Estate. Flying buttresses all but begged onlookers to raise their chins, reveling in the building’s soaring height. A countless number of steep roofs and pointed spires gave it an almost-gothic architecture, despite the whitewashed walls and decorative ivy draping from every terrace. Stained glass windows sparkled on the upper levels, and several different flags waved lazily atop their finials.
Alastor could feel his limbs practically vibrating as he stepped out of the car and leaned himself against its door. He drank in a dozen deep gasps of cool air, all while continuously staring up at the stone estate. His nose detected the smell of sweet odors that drifted from a nearby orchard, and his ears perked at the sound of unseen quacking ducks.
At least this prison would be charming…
Movement caught Alastor’s gaze, and he quickly blinked as someone stepped gracefully through the estate’s front doors. It was a woman, tall and thin, gussied up in a long pink dress and an oversized sunhat. She swayed as easily as a willow branch caught on the breeze, but her shoulders were firmly drawn back in unmasked pride. There was a confidence to the way that she carried herself down the gravel path, and if Alastor was any more humble of a young man, then he might actually find her stature respectable.
He squared his own shoulders, heels clicking together and hands meeting his pants seams. Each vertebrae in his spine backed itself against an invisible wall, and his chest tightened with another wave of silent nerves.
Astuteness was a weapon. Grip the hilt. Plant the feet.
His observational skills kicked into gear as the woman in her voluminous hat came to a stop before him. He could smell the expense of her high heels and dangling jeweled earrings, and the blended-in rouge on her cheeks hid light skin behind the guise of a perfectly preserved porcelain doll. However, what he couldn’t have predicted was the chipper northeastern accent that bubbled on this dame’s lips.
“Oh! Would ya just look at that. I swear the models get cuter every year!” The woman clapped her hands together as she examined Alastor up and down. Her chopped silver hair framed a set of high cheekbones and grinning pearls, and two deep brown irises sparkled against the sunlight’s reflections. She laughed openly at her own tease before flicking a wrist in Alastor’s direction. “Oh I’m kidding! You’re much too young for an old pile of bones like me!”
Involuntary amusement rose in Alastor’s throat, before the heat dug its claws deep into his neck. He bit his tongue hard and nodded with careful indifference. “Perhaps. But I see plenty of life in you yet, madam.”
Was that too much? Was it not enough? Did his words hold any form of weight before this rich woman’s gaze? Maybe he should have gone for a different angle. Had she been serious? Surely not!
Quickly, he added, “I, on the other hand, suspect that your wisdom far exceeds mine.”
To his silent relief, the woman feigned a light gasp, shaking her head as if his words had been the most ridiculous thing she’d heard all day.
“No sir! You’ve got the makings of a handsome cab. Ya can’t look that sharp without having a few aces up your sleeve!”
Alastor shoved aside another humored reaction. He flashed a passive grin and held out an upturned palm in offering. “And yet I’m sure we can both manage to think of a few people that bypass that criteria.”
“Too true! You’ve got me there,” the woman nodded firmly, placing one of her own hands in his. “Don’t even get me started— Oh, that’s a conversation for another day.”
Alastor cordially bent and brushed his lips against her knuckle. The grin on his face grew with visible satisfaction, lips finally parting to reveal a picture perfect smile. Another stroke of welcoming warmth rippled through his body.
Pride satiated him in the same way that honey filled a bear. Its golden droplets trickled down the back of his throat, coating every inch in a sweet, sticky glaze. The warmth insulated his innards, reassuring him that he had maneuvered this oldtimey greeting flawlessly. He had held his own despite so little preparation. And now the rich dame in her powdered makeup and pink dress was going to have no choice but to acknowledge him as shrewd.
Are you done bein’ a fool?
The cold, cruel voice came again to Alastor’s ear. Its words slithered against his skin, brushing his shoulders and prodding at his sides. It instantly snatched away the precious golden possession, ripping its warmth free from Alastor’s calloused fingertips. The smile on his face faltered, and his hands retreated into formation once more.
Do you even hear yourself? Are you gonna hush up already? Or did I teach you nothing in this life? Still the same old brat as always; can’t cope, can’t recover, can’t take you anywhere, can I? Should’ve thrown you to the gators when I had the chance. Worthless little creature. Why do I even bother?
Alastor’s shoulders grew hunched, and his gaze lowered itself to the earth. His arms desired to clutch at his sides —to hold himself. But doing so would only prove their points.
Astuteness was a weapon. Plant the feet. Drive in the heels. Play the aristocrat’s game or be trampled.
His welcoming party tipped her head, watching him with those same deep pools of brown. Her lips retained the same friendly smile as she wordlessly nodded back towards the house, offering Alastor shelter from the late afternoon sun. Grateful for a distraction, he scooped up his two suitcases and followed her.
Large bushy greens lined the narrow gravel path, promising an assortment of colors with the summer’s passage. Shadows fell across rows of blossoming trees to their right, cast from the estate’s left face. The dedicated craftsmanship on the building was certainly nothing to scoff at. But it equally served as a reminder to just the kind of people that it housed. Its flaunting of wealth and privilege was not lost on Alastor as he squinted up at a marble lifesize statue of a horse and rider, sitting in the forecourt.
“Imposant,” he hummed just loud enough for the dame to catch. The two of them walked around the statue and across the rest of the open space, through two towering doors sitting wide open in welcome.
The Morningstar Estate was just as grand on the inside as it was on the outside. Shandaliers and huge winding staircases greeted the entry hall, toying with the soft light that shimmered down through crystal panes. Graceful swans and snuggly ducklings flew across the ceiling fresco, and canvases housed in gold trimmed frames dotted the gallery up above. Alastor’s critical gaze sharpened as he took everything in at once.
They won’t want you either.
“You must be starvin’ after your travels. Are ya hungry, pumpkin?” The woman turned back to him again. Her dress swayed freely with the movement, and the huge feathers in her hat bobbed against her backside.
“I can’t say that I am,” Alastor admitted, still scrutinizing the front entry like a cartographer pouring over his maps. “But I must impress upon you how taken I am with your homestead. Finer than frog’s hair, really.”
Apple-polisher, bootlicker, soft-soaping little creature.
“Why, I believe even my mother would approve.”
Should have thrown you to the gators years ago.
Rosie let out a light giggle, clapping her hands together again. “I can’t tell ya how pleased I am to hear all that. But I can’t take all the credit. I’m merely a humble resident here.”
Alastor had already figured as much. Which only made him all the more curious as to where the Morningstar’s might be. But it would be rude on his part to ask for them outright. So instead, he raised one playful brow and purred, “In that case, my only request to you would be a name that I might put to your humble figure.”
Rosie’s entire form seemed to melt at his pleasant words. She grabbed the folds of her pink dress and flared them in a short, elegant curtsy. “The name’s Rosalyn Cansie, my dear, but you can call me Rosie.”
A bolt of white hot lightning shot directly down Alastor’s spine.
Worthless brat. Weak little creature. Just like your mother.
“Alastor! It’s a pleasure to be meeting you,” he replied calmly.
“The Morningstar’s were just devastated when they realized they couldn’t be here to greet ya personally,” Rosie continued on quickly. “But imagine my surprise! I just couldn’t believe my ears when I heard that you were comin’ around –pleased as punch, I was! I reassured them that it would all be taken care of; not to worry their little feathered tails about any of it!”
Meanwhile, a member of staff dressed in a suit and bowtie slipped into the room through one of the connecting hallways, hovering at a polite distance. As soon as Rosie noticed him, she waved a hand in beckoning. The tall, sturdy man silently headed her guidance, coming forward and offering to relinquish Alastor of his two suitcases with an outstretched palm.
Alastor flinched. The leather between his fingers buckled as he habitually took a step back.
Hold your own. Get a handle on yourself. Did I teach you nothing? Should’ve thrown you to the gators. Worthless little creature.
For the first time since starting their conversation, an awkward pause broke between the dame and himself. Alastor quickly corrected his actions and all but shoved everything into the valet’s hands with a tight smile and an exasperated sigh. “Truly, this has been an informative conversation my dear. But perhaps rest would better suit me. I’m barely keeping myself upright, as it seems!” He barked out a laugh and waggled his fingers for emphasis.
Rosie gave him a curious look, but nodded easily in agreement. Her hat’s feathers bobbed again. “Oh of course, honey! My apologies for not thinkin’ of that myself. You know us northerns; we think with our stomachs first, brains later. Go and rest up then. Freshen up that charming little smile of yours.”
Alastor ducked in a curt farewell of his own, and silently sighed with relief. He lost “that charming little smile” as soon as his face was turned away, following his dedicated staff member up one of the grand staircases. All was quiet aside from their footsteps, until suddenly, Rosie’s voice called him back. The smile sprang to Alastor’s lips again as he spun smoothly on his heels.
“Alastor?”
“Chère?”
Rosie grew still for a few long moments, her expression complex. She looked hesitant, as if she was mulling over her words carefully before speaking them aloud. But her eyes were the same thoughtful pools of deep brown.
In a voice that was almost too quiet to be heard, she murmured, “You’ve got your mother’s eyes… I hope you know that?”
Another bolt straight to the spine. Alastor’s pulse rocketed into the stars.
“Yes, so I've been told.”
Rosie dipped her head, finally letting him go.
The ground pitched with violent force as Alastor again made to follow his valet, and he paced himself in order not to overcorrect. Every muscle strained as the fiery tempo of his heart rate pushed unwanted heat back into his face and along his neck. The invisible attention-seeking cat perched itself atop his shoulder, claws digging in for balance.
Astuteness required focus —a clear head. Grip the hilt, two hands, don’t let them win. Strike first, take the offense, dig in the heels, hold your own. What was he doing letting her stupid words get the better of him like this? Why couldn’t he just— Stupid little brat. Worthless creature, why did dad even bother? Should be dead. Should be sleeping with the fishes. Should have thrown you to the gators when I had the chance.
He dismissed the valet as soon as they reached his designated room. The decorative trim around the door’s edges shuttered as Alastor closed them, locking away the outside world. Both suitcases were tossed aside before he stumbled forward, catching himself clumsily on the nearest available piece of furniture.
Weak little creature. Just like your mother.
Frustration sat at the forefront of his mind, goading him like a carrot dangling on a stick. The pit of his stomach tied itself into a dozen tiny knots, and rope coiled around his sides, threatening to squeeze at any given moment. The voices continued to fill his mind, jabbing and prodding at every weak spot in his defenses. For their effort, Alastor’s limbs released an involuntary shudder.
Just like your mother. Weak little creature.
He stared silently down at a pattern of wood grains as his breath attempted over and over to recompose itself. Both shoulder blades pinched painfully beneath his weight, and a thin ringing sound filled his ears.
I didn’t raise no cowering sheep.
The cruel voice cut deep into Alastor’s skin, like how a switchblade tore through fabric. It sent a final burst of electricity spiraling throughout his nervous system, forcing his sides to seize.
Are you done bein’ a fool?
“Yes, sir.” Alastor spoke the words aloud, their volume hardly more than a breath.
Then cut the act. I don’t know why I even bother with you.
Needle sharp claws sank into his arms, leaving marks. Another shudder wracked his limbs.
You need no reminder of what’s expected.
Straighten the back, hands at your side, eyes forward.
Nor the consequences.
Alastor’s fingers curled even as he drew himself stiffly up into a line. His fists met his pants seams, hollow eyes boring into the mirror that sat atop the vanity. Behind him, a shadow situated itself at the room’s far corner. And in spite of it all —the voices, the aches, the ever-present dread that caved in on him— Alastor’s mind begged the softest of pleads.
Please stay… I’ll do better.
In the mirror’s reflection, a demon-esc creature stared back. Its shape was a dark, undefined shadow, and the eyes were bright red slits. The mouth formed itself through a jagged line of uneven, pointed teeth. Its head was crowned by two branch-like limbs.
The bayou incarnate; a product of its means; a product of lawlessness.
Lord knew that Alastor hated that thing. He hated it with every ounce of fiber in his very being. But how was one meant to remove oneself, from oneself?