#fraxus

It was, of course, an extravagant place. His master – lord Mard Geer Tartaros of Berkshire – wouldn’t allow himself the degradation of being hosted somewhere he thought below his status. The man was manic, but smart about it.

Albion House was looming in presence, as if it were watching you in the way a vicious child with a looking glass might watch a line of ants as he waited for the sun to shine. The stones were darkened and covered with ivy, the windows shuttered but rattling in the wind. The shadow cast merged with the moors, dragging it into the world around it rather than making it stand out. It was an institution and a part of the landscape all at once and offered you the requisite kindness and tolerance that any monolith would. None. This was not a house to breathe in, nor to find solace in. It was a house to be endured.

This wasn’t the first time Mard Geer had taken him to a house like this. The man insisted on travelling to evry corner of the damn country on this crusade of his, deciding there was no destination too far provided it might help him in his search for the demonic. He had once been secretive about where his interests lay but had long since learned Laxus relied on him for a wage too greatly to ever betray his trust. He could kick the shit out of Laxus if he wanted, and Laxus would have no choice but to thank him for the correction of his behaviour.  Speaking sacrileges and forcing Laxus to drive him anywhere he pleased was practically a mercy, he likely thought.

Hooves hit cobbles rather than dirt, and Laxus pulled the horses to a halt. “We’re here, M’lord.”

The shuffling of movement in the carriage came quickly, as did the muttered, “Finally.”

Laxus jumped down onto the courtyard, the first time his boots had touched the ground in over sixteen hours, and opened the door to the carriage before Mard Geer’s ire could grow. His master didn’t spare him a glance as he stepped down, looking over the house with his grin growing manic. A place so repugnantly gothic suited him.

“Well,” Mard Geer snapped. “The trunks?”

Hand clenching at his side, Laxus moved to the back compartment of the carriage and unlatched the lock. As he pulled out two large trunks of Mard Geer’s clothing, he gritted his teeth to block out Mard’s loudly muttered complaints extolling the issues of finding good help. He was doing it for a reaction, and the degradation of Laxus’ pride was the point, so giving into the anger would just encourage him,

But, fuck would it be good to take the bastard down. Laxus could do it. Easily. He had a full foot over his fucker of an employer, and more strength than the pampered little bastard could imagine. Mard might think his demonic rites and fraudsters spells might protect him, but three good punches would have him sprawled on the cobbles, bleeding and in his place.

That would be good. So fucking good.

To feel the mans blood dripping down his knuckles.

To see the fear in his eyes as Laxus redefined who was in charge.

To hurt him and to break him and to show him who Laxus Dreyar truly was.

“You’ve made it,” A woman’s voice, pleasant and lilting, had Laxus crashing back into the moment. He yanked on the trunk and pulled it free from the carriage, letting it clatter and scuff against the bricks. “I hope the trip wasn’t arduous. My husband truly does love the solitude.”

“It all but flew by, I assure you Lady Justine,” Mard crooned, and no doubt he would be taking the lady’s hand to kiss.

“Oh, I think Mirajane will be just fine,” The lady waved off the title, eyes on Mard as Laxus brought both trunks to Mard’s back. “Or, if you insist on a title, Lady Strauss will do fine. I always found my father’s name carries a much greater dignity than my husbands.”

Laxus didn’t halt at the statement, but it did judder his mind for a moment. Women who married into power tended to do anything and everything possible to at least give of the illusion of respect for their husbands. But it wasn’t Laxus’ station to say anything on the matter, and the hosts who Mard gravitated towards were always an unusual lot, so why act shocked by them?

“Barely a moment’s knowing each other, and you speak so plainly,” Mard mused, voice playful in a mocking sort of a way. When Mard still cared to be subtle about his disrespect towards Laxus, he had used that voice often. “You wear your personality on your sleeve, Miss Strauss.”

“Oh, we all know why we’re here, Lord Tartaros,” Mirajane laughed, ignoring that Mard had used neither proffered name. “And I’ve always found euphemism to be the killer of a conversation. If we’re to be so disrespectful of polite society, why not have fun with it?”

“I couldn’t agree more. And I certainly hope that mindset extends to giving me access to your drink’s cabinet,” Mard laughed, and Mirajane complied in perhaps the fakest laugh Laxus had ever heard. Mard wouldn’t have picked up on it; his ego was at constant war with his common sense. “Might I ask, where is the man of the house? Not that a beautiful lady such as yourself is an unwelcome sight, of course.”

“Of course,” Mirajane agreed. “My husband shall be around here somewhere. He’s not one for leaving the house without being dragged, I fear, but he does so like to loom and linger. He can be as much a gargoyle as the statues some days.”

One of the horses started to fuss, and Laxus was quick to tend to her. They were a gentle pair, all in all, and Mard’s schedule had pushed them harder than Laxus would have liked. He pulled a brush from under the carriage, stroking her with it in a silent promise that they would be resting soon enough. Places like this knew how to look after horses, even if just for the utility of keeping them healthy. The more secluded a place, the more important it was to keep the transportation running smoothly.

He looked around to see if he could spot the stables. It wasn’t modern for the horses to be so close to the front entrance of a house, but you never could know. There were no obvious ones, but the few stray wisps of straw tucked between cobbles seemed to direct him to a side path. The carriage, in all its ostentatious thickness, would just about fit beside the house. If it didn’t, and the sides were scraped, then Laxus would accept the consequences of finding that a little funny.

Upon turning back, something snagged on his gaze. He halted, and looked up to one of the upper floor windows. A man stood there, looking down on all of them. He was hidden by shadows, and far enough away for his features to be obscure. Laxus could see not much more than firm shoulders tapering down to a trim waist, and long hair that must linger aside the hips. Whoever he was, he stood still, intent, and looming.

The lord of the house, then.

Laxus took a step back from the horses, as to pick up Mard’s trunks again. As he lifted them, a peculiar little urge told him to look back at the window. The man remained, but his body had shifted in the time Laxus hadn’t been looking. It felt as though the body was aimed at him. Not at the group as a whole. Not at the guest he had invited. Not at his wife. At Laxus.

Something happened. A ringing in his ears. A clambering of a bell. A roar of a beast.

The figure, silhouetted and wrong in some way, tilted its head. It was looking closer at Laxus, and Laxus didn’t know how the hell he knew that. But the lord of the house was looking at him, and it was with such ferocity that his mind ached.

“Well,” Mard laughed. “If your dear husband is as omnipresent as you suggest, I should keep my hands to myself.”

Laxus broke away from the gaze of the shadow, and watched as Mard released Mirajane’s hand. Mirajane smiled. “Yes, I suspect you should.” She clapped her hands together. “Now, I shall be giving you a tour myself, but I’m sure these beautiful things would like a rest.” She motioned to the horses, then looked over her shoulder and summoned a suited man with a scandalously shaved haircut. “Bickslow, would you please help with taking the horses to the guest stables, and help mister… I’m ever so sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

It took him a lagging moment for Laxus to realise he was being addressed, and the look of anger on Mard’s expression suggested it was a moment too many. “Dreyar, ma’am. Laxus Dreyar.”

“You can help Mister Dreyar settle into his rooms and show him what he needs to know,” she completed, then turned to walk to her front door, apparently not waiting for Mard to follow. “First of all, let me tell you the tale of our house’s architect. A wonderful, if slightly troubled man with a penchant for mischief…”

She, and by extension Mard Geer, wandered off as Bickslow approached. He seemed to be a butler of some sort, but Laxus suspected he was something of a jack of all trades. Mard had ranted at length that Albion House had as few servant as they could get away with, and the size of the house meant it must have employed an all-hands-on deck attitude to keep things running. Laxus turned to face him and saw the moment the front door of the house slammed shut, because the mans face became alive with a bright, cheerful smile.

“Good to meet you, Laxus,” Bickslow said in greeting. “Welcome to the moors.”

“Thank you, sir,” Laxus said, defaulting to politeness.

“Not been called that in a while,” Bickslow laughed. “Give me one of those bags, yeah? Which is yours and which is his lordships?”

“They’re both for the lord.”

“Christ, what’s he plannin’ on doin? Pissin’ ‘imself after every meal and changing,” Bickslow laughed, and took the trunk out of Laxus’ left hand.

Their hands touched, and Bickslow was warm. Hot. For the most fleeting of seconds, Laxus would say his skin was scalding hot, if it weren’t for the immediate coolness that came once the graze of skin was over. He glanced at the still open space where the trunks had been kept, and his face screwed up slightly.

“You on the other hand seem all too content wearing a shirt ‘till it’s threadbare and rancid,” Bickslow laughed. “Unless you’re hidin’ ‘em somewhere.”

“Got a valise tucked under the seat,” Laxus said, nodding to the seat on top of the box.

“The lord doesn’t even let you store his clothes in with his?” BIckslow scoffed, but his expression grew cheeky and mischievous. “They’ll eat him alive.”

“Excuse me?”

“Time for that later, I think,” Bickslow waved it off. “Get your valise, and we’ll bring his lordships clothes inside, I’ll show you to your room, and then we can get the horses to rest.”

He patted Laxus on the shoulder and walked off towards one of the smaller side doors – the staff entrance, no doubt – and hummed a little tune as he did so. Laxus pushed on to keep pace.

In step with Bickslow, Laxus walked into the house and immediately identified it as a maze. The corridor they were in was narrow, cramped and branched off into multiple corners the moment they entered. Laxus had to hunch down to avoid a beam as he walked on, following Bickslow down corner after corner. Yardsticks of affluence did reveal themselves – candle holders were polished, the floors were carpeted neatly, and despite the age of the building there was no scent of must – but this was obviously servants’ passages.

As quick as he could, though with a few moments of hesitation where he got his baring, Bickslow guided them both to the room Mard would be staying in. The bed was four poster and fitted with thick curtains, a small side door must have led to chamber room, and large windows gave an unincumbered view of the marshland below. If it weren’t such a dreary day, it might have looked almost nice.

“How the other half live, eh?” Bickslow laughed. “Especially your Lord, I think. Seems like he needs a kick in the ‘ead by an ‘orse, way he was goin’ on.”

Laxus didn’t respond to that. He knew Mard wasn’t likely to be listening in or some such rot, but he also knew that rumours, gossip and whispers made their way through a house like this faster than water in a flood. Given the position he was in, any employment was worse than no employment, and if he kept his head down he might end this part of his life with a reference and a way to move onto better things.

A kick in the head by a horse would be good for Mard though. Or a kick by the man who held their reigns.

“Well, time’s keepin’, so let’s get you set up,” Bickslow grinned, unabashedly cheerful and at odds with the house around him. He all but swaggered off into the hall, and Laxus was quick to follow him again. “You’re in a room in the coach house, so right by the stables. Might smell a bit, but comfortable enough. Got your own fireplace, and I’ll show you where to get the wood for it. Always well stocked.”

Bickslow explained to Laxus the basics of how the house ran for guests. He would have breakfast, lunch and dinner delivered to his room at certain times, that he could request a warm bath once every two days at certain times as not to interfere with the bathing of the house’s masters and guests. It was all customary, and Mard had dragged him to enough houses for it to be a surprise anymore, even if the gall of it rankled his nerves. Those that never toiled for anything seemed to benefit from it most.

“Here we are,” Bickslow said as they walked back out into the courtyard, motioning towards one of the other external doors. “Home sweet home.”

The coach house was apparently attached to the main building of Albion House, but split off from it. Open entering, they were faced with a long corridor lined with doors and a large painting of peculiarly geometric shapes at the end. Behind each door was a small guest bedroom apparently fitted with a fireplace, a bed, a small breakfast table and a chest to keep one’s clothing in should they need it. It was likely meant to be staff quarters, but went mostly unused due to the minimal staff the house employed.

Guided to the final door in the row, beside the odd painting, Bickslow opened the door and motioned for Laxus to walk in. The room was… pleasant. The fire had been lit, and it offered a pleasant warmth, and the curtains were opened wide to let in the small trickle of sunlight peaking through the clouds.

Laxus walked towards the bed, and stopped dead still. Something was… the room didn’t make sense, somehow. He turned slowly, taking in every corner of the room that was to be his for two weeks. He looked and looked, and his gaze landed on the fireplace, which lay on the wall shared with the next room over. He looked at it, long and hard, and an immense sense of wrongness flooded him.

The room was... bigger than it should be. The wall must be encroaching on where the next room’s doorway was. Laxus was good with patterns – you had to be if you wanted to survive on the streets of London – and the space between each door was exactly even. This wall must have laid about an inch into the door. What the hell was-

A pop shook Laxus out of his bafflement, and he looked down to see an ember of the fire had flown out and landed on his boot.

“Well, I’ll give you some time to settle,” Bickslow hummed. “I can take the horses to the stable if you don’t mind. One less thing to deal with.”

“I’d appreciate that, thank you,” Laxus nodded, eyes still caught on the fireplace for a moment, before he tore his eyes away and looked to Bickslow. “I suppose I’ll be seein’ you around.”

Bickslow smiled a little. “Don’t count on that.”

“What? You goin’ somewhere?”

“Not exactly. It’s just,” his smile turned a little guilty. “I think this is goin’ to be something real entertainin’ pretty soon, and, well, if you’re going to the opera, it’s awful rude to storm on stage and try and interfere. Much better to watch and let it happen.”

Laxus spine straightened. “The hell does that mean?”

“Nothin’ bad. Just let whatever happens happen,” he grinned at Laxus, patted the door frame, and turned to leave. “It’s nice to meet you, Laxus Dreyar. Hope you enjoy your stay here.”

Bickslow walked away, down the corridor, and Laxus broke from his confusion based stupor a moment too late. He walked out of the room to see Bickslow go, only to find him no longer there. He must have run, and must have done so with shockingly light feet, because the floorboards had been creaking as Laxus walked down. Laxus stepped into the hallway, looked around as if Bickslow might jump out from somewhere, and found nothing.

The door to the adjacent room… it can’t have moved. That wasn’t possible. That didn’t make sense. But Laxus had been sure they were all equidistance from one another. Looking now, the door was at least a foot further down the hallway than he had thought.

He hadn’t slept well since their journey had begun, that was all.

Rubbing at his eyes, he walked back into the bedroom and closed the door with a slam. He’d been driving the carriage almost constantly for just shy of three weeks, he had been sleeping in the back while Mard had slept in the most luxurious boarding houses he could find, and he had spent hour after hour stewing in both his anger and in the cold.

He walked to the window and took a slow breath. His mind was away, and a proper meal and a night in an actual bed would do wonders for him. The house was regular, Mard’s obsession with the demonic and infernal would be proven to be as much a fiction as it always was, and Laxus would wake up in the same tedious, uncaring, bullshit world he had always lived in. Things wouldn’t change, and life would trundle on.

Looking up, Laxus’ eyes met another’s. His window was diagonally connected to the very same window the master of the house had been standing at. They were closer now. Close enough to see sharp, green eyes baring into him, endless and devoid of reason.