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Most would think it a blessing, luck, to be serving the prestigious MacLean family – ignoring their previous scandals, of course.
Me? I think it’s bullshit.
I bet I did lose my life when I fell into that river and this is a particular circle of Hell.
Whatever did I do to deserve this?
~
Early in the morning, the youngest MacLean sibling tries to sneak out.
“Where do you think you’re going, sir?” The voice startles him every time, as if he hadn’t been expecting it to creep over. Slow, the small man turns over to the guard, eyes closed, a sigh. He searches for something in his pocket, hands it over without hesitation. The man accepts it quietly and nudges his head to encourage the youngest to continue with his endeavors.
Like clockwork. Then comes the father, frantic for his diamond.
“Howard, is my daughter up and ready?” The father’s voice calls again today.
“In a few minutes, my lord.” The guard responds, turning over to glance at the escaping child. From below the outside, the boy nods in appreciation, rushing off. As he stares, Howard signs for one of the stationed guards to proceed – he moves to watch over the youngest, a few steps away every distance he takes. Freedom comes with its own set of rules when you’re royalty.
“Go fetch her, please. We have an early morning.” He says as if it were news. When it came to the oldest, there was never a late morning to be had.
Last, but certainly not least; the oldest of the MacLean siblings. Lord MacLean worries every single day for his dutiful daughter. As if, somehow, she will change her ways one lucky day. She might be the worst of the MacLeans.
The response to the man’s words are footsteps, as the guard walks over to the room of the lady. He knocks three times, rhythmic.
“Sir Howard?” The voice of a woman asks from inside the room, mellow.
“Yes, my lady. Are you ready for today?” He asks. For a moment, there is silence.
“Yes, of course. I’ll be out in a minute.” There’s hesitation seeping from the door, a shake of his face in confusion is the first response.
“Are you ill?” Howard asks and the girl quickly answers.
“No, do not worry! I am quite alright! I shall be there quickly. Please, just wait for me downstairs.”
“Of course, my lady.”
She might be the worst of the MacLeans, with the way she makes me worry so.
A few minutes go by, slow and steady, excruciating in their delay. The guard stands upright and immobile. The hoarseness of her voice had prompted a memory. That one stormy night in which he clawed himself out of that river.
Between dirt and the bitter taste of radioactive components did he witness the presence of a princess. So far from civilization she was, traveling through treacherous roads, not at all meant for women like her – ladies of society. The lights of her world twinkled further away, yet her eyes were soaked up by the faint illumination of the river, making her seem so… tender.
Even as the burns trickled through his skin and he couldn’t keep himself from writhing in pain, he had this stupid thought in his head; I don’t want to miss a second, I want to see those eyes before I disappear. This second and the next, and the one after.
Sure enough, he’d met her the day he was supposed to die.
“Sir, are you unwell?” She asks, unsure on what to say or do. She clutches onto her cloak, stepping ever closer. The man raises a shaky, burning hand.
“Radiated… Go.” He begs, the one selfless act he thinks he is capable of doing before he succumbs to his wounds.
“No–I! I can’t leave you here!” She states, stepping close, prompting him to try and push himself back, the faint touch of part of his body against the river causes him to jolt and move back away. Her gloved hands touch him. He can hear the hiss of the heat trying to break through. Faint shakes of his head is all he can do.
“It’s okay, sir. I’ll be fine, I promise, just… We have to move, before you–”
“It’s too late for me,” he manages to say, yet it falls on deaf ears. The last thing he remembers seeing is her turning away, the sound of a whistle and a distinctive neigh responding to her call before the world turned black.
“Sir Howard?” From the top of the stairs stands the lady. When he turns, their gazes meet. He is exposed, for the time being, at her behest. She smiles at him, almost the smile one bears when seeing a beautiful flower. It almost felt like a joke to him, it made him nauseous. Her kindness is nauseating indeed.
Her hand trails the handrail gracefully as she takes rehearsed steps down the stairs, her left hand lifting her dress from the floor as she goes. At the end of the minute, on the dot, she stands by the guard’s side. Her left hand releases her dress, instead lifting itself up for him to pick. He does so.
“You have your gloves on?” She asks and he refuses to give an answer. She can see it, can’t she? “Take them off, we are still home.”
“It’s for your safety, Lady MacLean.”
“Take them off, please.” She uses authority, enough to make him close his eyes and comply. He pulls the gloves off, an endeavor that feels like some kind of punishment. Sadist as she is, she smiles, her hand landing softly on the damaged one. The contrast between their hands would make anyone recoil – it had, before. She refuses to acknowledge it.
“Let us be on our way, father must be desperate.” When was he not? Only a nod comes out of the guard, holding the hand tight, walking over to the main doors. Opened by his fellow coworkers, their steps do not stop until the girl is delivered safely to the carriage. She gives the guard a glance and nod, mouthing a thank you she is not obligated to give. A sick game, almost.
With the movement of her lips thanking him on repeat, he climbs up to his spot. Gloves back on, mask perfectly placed, the horses take off by his hand.
“You took your time, Sugarbomb. Are you alright?” Muffled, he hears the father ask from inside the carriage.
“Yes, father. I’m just–”
“Ah, you’re just nervous about tonight, aren’t you?” He asks, the pause is not long enough, though sufficient to break the rhythm. She is about to lie. Probably even swallowed dry before speaking up.
“Yes, father, you have the right of it.” The way her voice cracks is enough of a tell, he never notices…
“Well, you needn’t worry. It is a ceremony like any other. You are sure to bedazzle everyone, especially him, as you always have. Yet, now, it is time to break our fast.”
“Mm…” She agrees with the man, almost as if she were eyeing the tip of a sword.
It grows quiet after that, horses screeching to a halt after a time. The father and the daughter are taken out of the carriage and escorted into another prestigious abode.
Outside, the guard waits. Out of the corner of his eye does he see two graceful ladies come out from another carriage.
“That’s the Ghoul, isn’t he?” One of them fails at her attempt at a whisper, hiding the gossip behind an open fan. The other leans, taking a glance at the masked man resting his back against the carriage.
“Right, but you might want to keep that comment to yourself or Lady MacLean might eat you alive… Much like he would if he hadn’t been domesticated.” Her giggle almost prevents her from finishing her sentence.
“Howard. You shall address this gentleman by his proper name.” It rings so real, he has to give a slow glance to the side to try and find the girl. Riled up as she had been once her father had called the man she saved a ghoul – or rather, Ghoul and nothing else, she managed to keep herself from erupting to a full-on outburst. She practiced self-restraint just as much as she practiced fencing and horseback riding.
Howard had heard her say those lines time and time again.
“Howard, address him as Howard for it is his name.” Stupid, he’d never asked for it. Just like he never asked to be brought into the family's staff.
But it should have been the obvious, luckiest outcome. Mutilated as he had been by radiation, he would not be accepted into society. But a guard is a guard… and Lucy MacLean had found an honorable loophole to exploit. A way to keep him alive while not really pushing him into the full scrutinization of society. He could not be shunned, no matter how many times he was made fun of – no matter how many times she was made fun of for bringing him in.
Ridiculous, Lady MacLean was distasteful in her decisions. Reckless but somewhat careful. She might be the worst of the MacLeans, the way she makes me feel like something more than just the ghoul she saved from radiation. The mercy of those higher than you can feel like thunder striking over you.
Sparks fly, your body succumbs, you never feel anything like it.
Does it make me an imbecile to beg for its intensity? Even as it drives me mad. As she drives me mad.
What a horrible lady.
The two gossiping women walk over to the entrance, they whisper to themselves and, soon, some of the house staff escort a few of the carriage workers in. To the untrained eye, an act of kindness. To him, a reminder of who and what he is.
Afternoon falls with the two MacLeans rushing out of the household and into the carriage.
Howard prepares to drive the horses when a tap on his arm startles him. He turns over, mask faces the still pristine presence of one Lucy MacLean. A glance, he notices the door to the carriage opened. Tilting his head, he returns the attention to her.
“Yes, my lady?” Howard asks. Two hands lift up, a rather large scone is held by them as she pushes them closer to him.
“I figured you might be hungry.” She manages a bittersweet smile before she whispers. “I specifically asked you to be summoned, but I was rejected… I–I know you don’t care about that and, well, you probably don’t believe me, but–”
To stop her from stumbling through word after word, he accepts the scone, a rare gem. The faint aroma of strawberries activates that dormant hunger he didn't know he had. His mask is taken off abruptly, shoving the scone to his mouth, lest the illusion of the food disappeared before he could savor it.
Shaky, her smile widens. The sadistic lady is pleased with his struggle, but he lets it be.
The way she looks at me with wonder should irk me. But the glint in her eyes set upon me sets my heart on fire. She pulls the radiation out, like the day we met. Maybe, that’s just another color for anger… Yet, I wish she would look at me more, even now, with the crumbs of the scone I destroyed painting a clear display of why we are what we are in society.
“I’m glad you liked it. I’d best get back in so we can be on our way. We might be running late because of me.” She giggles, as if it were the smallest of accidents. And as she is trying to get back up, her world spins, and so does his own as he leaps out of his seat to grab her, keep her in place.
For a moment, she has to gather her bearings, eyes closed, breathing heavily.
“Lady MacLean–”
“Your hands are gloved,” she complains before she steadies herself, shaking imaginary dust away from her dress. He releases her from his tight grip.
“Are you sure you are well, my lady?” Her eyes rise, they’re harshly deep, like a ravenous ocean. She nods her head, carrying a crown of lies with it. In she goes.
That gloved hand faces him, a sin in her eyes, safety in his. Does she want to drive him mad?
The carriage rushes away. Make haste, the father asks of the guard and he complies.
Nightfall arrives with them, just in time for the ball… or so he heard someone comment.
The lady is escorted into the house and, again, Howard is left to ruminate on whatever exchange they’ve had recently. The hand that caught her, but failed to touch her.
“Fuck,” he comments under his breath, taking out the small vial the youngest MacLean had given him in exchange for quiet freedom. A small shot to face the day. Prestigious and grating when it goes down his wounded throat – it’s a feeling he welcomes dearly. Peace is restored, for a moment. And, soon, he lifts his gaze to the sky.
There’s music and bustle beyond the manor doors. Loud noise muffled by the twinkling of the stars, decorated across that darkened canvas… Only for them, those waiting in the cold for their ladies and lords to grow tired of their songs and dances.
He would’ve preferred a bored Lucy to whatever came out of those doors, storming away like a damsel running from a beast. Sparkling, her tears fall against jewelry and silks. The door to her carriage is opened by another of her servants, he says no words, she hides inside.
But her whimpering can be heard, trickled with the attempts to hide away a persistent cough. The knock on the door to the carriage startles her, silence follows. Two, three knocks.
“My lady,” to the familiar call, she feels like she can breathe again, sighing slowly and steady.
“Yes, sir Howard?”
Foolish, foolish me.
“May I have a word?”
“I– Of course…” Though he expects to speak from the door, it opens and there she is, tears clearly brushed away in haste, despite others following their trail. “Forgive me, I look a mess.”
Her words glide down, true like snow, even as she lies.
Foolish, foolish me.
“Of course not, my lady.” Even as she is now, she gleams brighter than any other woman. He chokes at the thought. “Would you mind sharing what left you in such a state?”
“It’s… It’s nothing. You needn’t concern yourself with it.” She speaks and the light of the stars flicker, she dims them with the distance – the very distance he knows he should be keeping. Yet, he places a foot on the step to the carriage. He remains there, taking off his mask, freeing his hands from the restraint of the gloves.
Why else do it but because his lady would complain if he did not?
She fails to react, distracted by the blurry image of the man’s gaze upon her.
“What happened?” His voice is a feather, a tone she hadn’t heard before out of him. Not when he struggled to breathe at the river, or when his slumber was disturbed by pain after being nursed, or the moments after that. Never had he sounded so gentle as he did now…
Maybe it is why she complies.
“The… The man that has been courting me was simply awful today. He was horrible. The way he looked at me, his words. He tried pushing me around like cattle, like I was some ragdoll to use for his deranged amusement.” Remembering was enough to break the image of poise she was trying to keep up. “And I know– I know this is how it goes. I should be used to it and comply, I’m aware, but…”
Her voice trails off when she notices the man step back.
“I– Forgive me, I said too much.” She tries to fix whatever she thinks she broke, but the guard shakes his head.
“Please, give me but a moment.”
“Where are you going?”
“I shall inform your father that you will be going home early.” And, though she wants to say no, an uneasiness looms behind her. The world feels cold, the guard’s presence the only thing blocking the cold from rushing in. Finally, she nods and the man closes the door.
I am, indeed, a fool.
It is painfully easy to barge into those doors and find the man before anyone truly notices the Ghoul has been allowed in. The mask does a good job on keeping his otherwise striking presence from being discovered.
“My lord, a word?” The guard whispers, pulling the man away by the arm. It is too easy, far too easy to take him over to the balcony and forcefully push him to the edge… only to hold him by the arm, twisted on his back.
The man screams, his demands are loud, though not enough to bring the Ghoul to his senses. In fact, he can barely spell out what the man tried to say. He pushes the man’s chest against the rails of the balcony, hand holding the man’s head to keep his gaze on the floor below.
“Come on, it ain’t that high up… You shouldn’t be so scared.” It is high. It's very high up – one of the benefits of royalty's extravagant hubris.
“Wh–What do you want? Who–?”
“I want you to be a fucking man. Unless you prefer being a fucking cadaver. I can give you a hand with that one. Actually, I can give you two.” He twists the arm at his mercy while applying pressure against the pinned chest. It prompts a wail that makes the Ghoul bear a pleased smile. He’d keep it up if it weren’t for the fact that he was on a timer… “Next time you get a lady to court, you better be ready to be judged by your performance.”
The man’s head is pulled by his hair and bashed fiercely against the rail. It takes all of the Ghoul’s willpower to stop on that one bashing, knowing the man was successfully knocked out.
And just as he was in, he was back out, mixing up with the commotion that was the commodity of high society.
I lied. I lie to her, to anyone. I've grown as reckless as she is.
It’s her fault, I say. It’s her fault. And yet, I thank her for it. She is as much a perpetrator as an excuse.
What a terrible lady.
“I shall be escorting you back home, my lady.” He whispers from the door outside. No response. A knock, two, three.
“Sir Howard?” She whispers faintly, groggy.
“Were you resting, my lady?”
“I… I didn’t notice when it happened. I guess I’ve grown tired.”
“Worry not, you’ll be home in a few.”
“Thank… you.”
She is quite ill, probably running a high fever. It is noticeable now more than before. Reminds him of how he was for a time, when she nursed him back and threw him into the circle of hell that was being able to see her eyes upon him every day.
Would it be the same for her, if he were to aid her tonight?
The ride back home was fast, faster than it has ever been. And he blames it on her, the way he wanted the horses to match the march of his heart. She needs to be tucked safely on her bed, back home.
A blink goes by and he opens the carriage door, he pulls her in, carries her in his arms back home. The rest of the staff knows, they can see her, struggling to rest as the Ghoul goes up the stairs to the lady’s chambers. Normally, no one would approve of this, not without her explicit permission… But she was ill and she had won their hearts way before they knew better.
When she lands on the bed, her body barely sinks against the sheets. Howard lifts the blankets and pulls them over to her, leaving only her head exposed. The warmth causing her shivers is what stirs her awake, eyes fluttering to meet the gaze of her guard.
“Did I…”
“You are ill, my lady. You should continue to rest.”
“But I… I must get back to the ball.”
“Not at all. Did you forget? You are excused. I’ll take full responsibility for it.”
“No, I wouldn’t want you to…”
“It is my duty, my lady. Let me do this.”
Her strength fails her, unable to say much more when an exposed hand falls to her forehead. She is burning up, eyes closing, pulling her to slumber with ease. For a while, he stares at her.
This is a particular circle of Hell, with Lady MacLean as its ruler.
Even as she struggles with an illness, she pulls at the chains.
How she makes me worry for her.
He doesn’t know how or when, he just knows he is so close to her. Whether in a dream or through that circle, their lips touch. Hers burn with the embers of the inferno she has imprisoned him in, his with the willful fires of a man that wants to light the match and burn. Burn and continue burning, burn until she saves him from that fiery river. Piece him back up from the ashes, lead him to her heart.
~
Tomorrow, once more, I’ll be set ablaze in secret.
Whatever did I do to deserve this?