#fandom posting.

You settle for wearing it anyway, and tell yourself it's the best possible option. You're going to have dinner with the Lord of the house, someone who was kind enough to let you stay through the bad weather regardless of the fact that you were the one that invited yourself in. In a sense, you suppose whoever laid this garment out wasn't breaking in anymore than you did.

You aren't necessarily thrilled with the turn of events, however, and after fully dressing yourself, you find there isn't much to look forward to. The thought of dinner makes you nervous. You think there's something terribly wrong with the Lord of the house.

She's deathly pale, for one, which only serves as a grim reminder of plagued villagers a mere knock away from death's door. You could easily determine that such a complexion was the result of staying inside far too much. It would make the most sense, you suppose, as a Lord ought to have an abundance of work to attend to in order to live a life so luxurious.

But your brain tells you otherwise. And you're not one to ignore the feeling that something is beyond wrong.

-

You remember growing up with tales of the undead, stories where creatures crawled out of their graves after dark to leech on the poor and defenseless with no guilt of their sin, only to creep back into their coffins before daybreak. They had few weaknesses, most of which were unachievable to you, but all seemingly worthy enough to appear in your dreams during more miserable nights. You could try luring your captor into the sunlight—watch as the holy light purifies them of their sins leaving nothing but ashes in its place.

Or, you could try water blessed by a priest—though you doubt you'd be able to find one so far away from civilization. Then again, who are you to destroy your own dreams? A wooden stake to the heart, decapitation, even garlic or silver could work—if only just to hurt her.

The problem: You don't think you'd survive a single attempt.

"Something on your mind?" Arlecchino's voice breaks through your thoughts.

You think about not answering, but decide against it. Better to keep your enemies close if you want to survive.

"Just that the weather hasn't seemed to have calmed down," you decide. "I feel awful imposing your schedule on such short notice. The life of a noblewoman must be busy, I assume."

The cup she brings towards her lips stops before reaching its mark. It's filled with something deep and red. You're not sure it's wine.

"I wouldn't worry," she starts as she gently sways her glass, watching the liquid swirl. "I have more than plenty of time to attend to our guests."

"Is that so?" you say quietly, more to yourself than to anyone else. To your displeasure, she answers with more than a nod. It seems she's not keen on keeping the conversation curt.

"The House of the Hearth prides itself in its ability to attend our guests."

You pick at your food. Hers remains untouched. Clearing your throat, you take a risk.

"May I please be excused? The weather has a way of making me feel rather weary."

She stares at you for a second too long. The intensity almost makes you shiver.

"Do as you wish," she says as she places the 'wine' down in front of her. "I understand poor weather can play a role in making some fatigued. I won't keep you any longer."

You give her a quick thank you before leaving the room, trying your best to not make your haste anymore obvious than you're sure it already is.

You walk down the manor's halls determined. If you're going to get out of here, so will they.

Since the very moment you realized the Lord of the house was dangerous, there had been no doubt in your mind that her servants were seen as livestock waiting to be eaten. The thought of such young children being forced to work until that monster decided it was their time to be eaten… you couldn't bear it.

Now, you roam the halls looking for someone to approach.

There, just at the end of the hall, you see two servants whispering about something you're not quite close enough to hear. Seeing they're the only ones around at the moment, you decide to approach them

You hesitate at first, but reach out anyway. You have to be the bigger person, after all.

"Are… you alright?" you say with a slight tremble in your voice. He looks at you with blank eyes and tilts his head before your question hits him and his demeanor changes into something more lively, but also slightly professional.

"[Surname]!" he gives you a quick bow. It's dramatic, and it reminds you of the performers that would occasionally stop by your village. If the situation weren't so dire, maybe you'd laugh. "Of course! Why wouldn't we be when you're here?"

His sister, you assume, quickly elbows him with a nonchalant aura and he spurts out a simple ow! before continuing the conversation for him.

"What he means to say is, we don't get visitors often."

They don't? That can't be right. Maybe they're too scared to admit whats been happening. You almost consider being more obvious, but instead decide to humor them. Maybe it's not that they don't want to admit it, and more so that they can't. Better off playing it safe so no one gets hurt.

"Oh," you say, finally humoring them. "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. This place seems pretty hard to find. I mean, the only reason I'm here is because I stumbled in."

"Right!" the boy chimes in again. "That's why your arrival must be fate. Father's been so—" a hand interrupts him as the girl covers his mouth with a small smack. You can't hear much through his mumbles, but you catch something along the lines of 'since your arrival' towards the end. The young boy eventually relents and instead, leans against his sister as she begins to drag him away.

"We'll be on our way now."

The girls bows as she exits, pouty brother in tow.

Just within a matter of seconds you're alone, and more concerned than you were before.

That was weird, did I say something wrong?

You sigh, and run a hand over your face. This is getting you no where. If you want to leave before Arlecchino tries for your blood, you're going to have to find a way to save them soon. Your feet start taking you to a another section of the manor. You're not sure where you're going, just that you're looking for something.

Your feet carry you to a dimly lit corner away from everything else. There, you spot a boy.

He's hunched over a small table, his face far away and his brows furrowed. The sound of metal clinking echos the hall, and despite yourself, you find yourself curious. Slowly with as little noise as possible, you make your way towards the boy, trying you best to silently creep over his shoulder.

"Got it—!" he squeals as the mechanism spurts to life. You watch as the penguin-like figure waddles. He leans in close, a small smile spreading, the look of someone proud of their hard work's outcome.

"That's incredible!" you pitch in, unable to hold your amazement any longer.

The boy jerks around at the sound of your voice, grip instinctively finding its way towards the animated penguin. He clenches it to his chest, and you feel a pang of guilt at his fear. "Sorry," you smile as best you can. "I didn't mean to sneak up on you."

A lie if you've ever told one, because you totally did, but he doesn't need to know that.

"H-How did you—" the boy stumbles over his words. It's cute, and you're surprised his face isn't red to match his awkwardness. He tries to gain his composure as he shakes his head. It doesn't really work, but he looks actively better than before. Then, so quietly you barely miss it, "Father has always said I tend to be inattentive whenever I'm occupied by my work…"

As he further retreats into himself, awfully embarrassed and possibly scared of you, you try and lighten the mood.

"What's its name?"

"…its name?"

"Your Penguin," you clarify. "Does it have one?"

"…Pers," he finally admits. "I made him myself. Well—I guess you probably knew that already."

"I did," you smile in hopes of comforting him. His skin is deathly pale, similar to a majority of the other captives. He's short, and still has a baby face to him. You assume he's only a few years younger than the two you ran into earlier. Imagining someone with so much potential and genius destined to a life of being nothing more than a leech's blood bag sends an ache to your heart. "I saw you fix it, that's no easy feat."

Blue eyes scan the floor, you feel a familiar pang of guilt. "But you knew that all ready, didn't you?" you added, parroting his earlier response. "Ever considered being a mechanic?"

He doesn't reply. You don't force him to. Instead, you pull a chair from nearby and sit by his desk. You get the feeling he's lonely.

"I've been feeling a little alone since I got here," you say with a slightly over exaggerated pout. "Is it okay if I stay here and watch you work? Just until the rain stops."

It takes a second of consideration, but to your surprise, he nods.

"…Okay."

After that, it falls quiet. You don't push him for anymore than what he's comfortable with. Instead, you settle on enjoying the sound of the rain and his company.

-

It's late when you pull Freminet into your room.

He's confused on why you're so alarmed, and your lungs are burning too much to be able to properly explain.

It's officially been a week since you first stumbled into your worst nightmare. A week since you've been stopped from leaving at every twist and turn. You'd wondered why she hadn't made her move earlier. A part of you suspects she enjoys the hunt. In an attempt to calm yourself down you try and settle your breath.

It had only been two hours past midnight when you were roused from sleep. Above you stood none other than the Lord of the house—Arlecchino. You were aware there was a monster underneath the proper facade she carried, but to see that need for blood firsthand…

You shudder. You can't recall a time you ever saw eyes as dark and inhumane as hers. You're still not sure why she let you escape, you think the idea of chasing you excites her.

Clutching your measly butter knife, you pull Freminet closer in a protective manner.

"Freminet, listen to me, we need to get out of here today. If she finds us—"

"[Name] please! You're not thinking straight."

His words go in one ear and out the other.

"I'm going to get the others. You stay here and keep yourself safe until then."

Without thinking, you shove the knife's silver handle into his hands.

He recoils the second the knife makes contact.

His screech pierces your ears, and your nose quickly floods with the stench of burnt flesh. His wrist instantly moves to encircle his other hand palm up — the same one you had forced to grip the silver utensil moments before.

Your heart sinks.

"You're…" you back up slowly.

"Wait— it's not what it looks like, please."

You shake your head, unwilling to give him any chance to explain himself.

"You're just like her."

You scramble to get the silver knife and aim it toward him. Tears are running down your face. You really liked Freminet, and the thought of him being a monster doesn't suit him.

"…You should go back to your room. Before Father finds you," His voice trembles, uncertain and injured from his burn, but you think he might be trying to command you. You make a break for the door, but he blocks you, unscathed hand gripping your arm with a force that should be impossible from such a young and fragile-looking boy. Then again with a deep breath and random surge of confidence, "I said, I think you should really head back to your room, Mother."

His eyes shrink into something feline adjacent. Yours dilate.

As your feet drag against their will, you find yourself thinking the same thing over and over again.

It really doesn't suit him.

-

Ever since Freminet's betryal, time has never felt less real.

You watch as the days blur by, never really sure of what time it is anymore. Freminet's wound is completely healed now, something a human body with the same degree of burn would be incapable of. He occasionally still tries talking to you, but you're rarely in the mood to indulge him when all you seem to remember is the fact that he was never your ally to begin with. He makes a habit of saying near you anyway.

"This is my home," he had told you with such fondness you're not sure why you never noticed before. "And now, its going to be yours too."

You sit on Arlecchino's lap as her tongue brushes against the wound on your neck. This has become a daily ritual, though she makes sure not to take too much. She's seen to taken a like to you. You're not sure if that's a good thing, or a bad thing.

"Out of all the blood I've ever tasted," she whispers into your ear. "Yours tastes the best. If I had known spoiling my prey made it this delectable, I would have done it sooner."

She chuckles, you don't.

She forces you to look at her by grabbing your jaw.

"You don't seem very pleased, Dear."

You try and break out of her grip, but her strength easily overpowers yours.

"I wouldn't resist so much if I were you," she leans in closer, breath brushing against your lips. "Time has a way of making all things cave. Soon, you'll understand you belong no where else."

But there's something you've learned about Arlecchino, and that is that there is always the calm before the storm. Arlecchino isn't quick to anger. She knows that the key to power is to have control over your emotions. But… that doesn't mean you don't notice a change.

She knows you don't want to be here. She knows you don't want to be with her. But that's exactly why she coerced you into this marriage in the first place.

So, she does what she does best. She schemes.

Arlecchino knows how the children feel about you, and shes not above using their love for you against you. Fortunately for her, she doesn't have to try very hard. Word travels fast in the House of the Hearth.

"I would advise you to keep your secrets close to your chest. Divulge them too easily, and you never know where the wind might carry them."

Some of the children are quick to guilt trip you. Others keep to themselves, preferring to watch over you in the shadows and inform Father of any suspicious behavior you might try. It's no surprise that, in their eyes, you're like a second parent to them. These orphans have lost a lot in their lifetimes, and they can't afford to lose you too.

Arlecchino won't give you much of a chance to bring the subject up again, instead relying on deflection until it's obvious anymore. Prying will bring consequences you're not willing to pay.

Soon, you'll stop bringing it up altogether, the oppressive air that emits her too dangerous to consider any kind of persuasion.

She'll insist on spending more time together, even going as far as to take you along with her on trips. Call it some sort of "couple get-away" and make sure you're cared for.

The Harbinger isn't too big on the material. She's told you countless times that objects are simply that— objects. She still believes that, but you're recently prone to finding expensive presents that suit your tastes upon returning to your room. Even when you send them back, they continue to come.

In a fit of rage, you even tried returning your wedding ring once. When that didn't work, you tried selling it. Come morning, the ring was back on your finger, and the vendor you sold it to was never heard from again.

During this… rough patch in your marriage, Arlecchino makes a note to force closer proximity. At first, she tried to give you space. Or at least, watch you from the shadows. But when she realized this only made you want to spend less time with her when she was around, she decided to surprise you by sharing a bed.

You weren't too happy with the idea, but your wife seemed perfectly content with your arrangements. You were married, no?

But if that's not enough, Arlecchino isn't above trying other methods.

Sometimes, all people need is a little push in the right direction. She'll casually refer to any remaining friends or family members you have left with the intention of making you freeze in fear. She won't say it directly, but you'll know.

It's not a complete empty threat, either. If need be, your wife is more than willing to destroy all you have left of the outside world to keep you trapped in hers. And when she does, she'll be there to hold you as you cry, knowing that she's become your only anchor left. And you'll let her because to your despair, you find that there is no other source of comfort to turn to anymore.

After all, it's as your wife once said,

The unexpected thunk you hear next is all it takes for you to jump—evidence of your guilty conscious— and you can't help but feel frustrated at how easy to read you've become. On the desk in front of you lies a deep red box with a black ribbon tying it all together. Arlecchino has never been one to be careless, so you know for a fact that this… outburst wasn't a slip of the hand. You turn to face her, eyes darting back to the box as if silently asking if it really is yours to open.

She doesn't say anything, but the way her eyes crawl over your face in stern inspection is more than enough to prompt you into making your move.

You feel her eyes burn into your head, and you get a creeping feeling that you've made a grave mistake.

Inside, in the middle of the velvet plush, lies a single ring finger, and on it, an engagement ring you recognize. And you would recognize it—you would—because it was the one you spent an entire day looking for in hopes that your fiancée would like it. And she did. In fact, she loved it so much, she seemed to still be wearing it when Arlecchino cut it off her body.

"It's impolite to long for another when your lover's right in front of you."

You don't move. You can't.

Your stomach twists, and you find yourself wishing you had chosen a lighter dinner. The lid rattles against the box from how hard your hands have started to tremble, and your grip lightly dents its edges. You want to throw the box across the room, to stop looking at whats been placed in front of you, but the part of you that knows you'll never get another chance to hold your fiancée refuses to let go.

Then, from behind you, a smooth practiced voice.

"I'd expect such bad manners from children, but never from someone like you. I was under the impression I'd taught you better than that."

You don't turn around, but you feel the room get seemingly colder with every click of her heels.