#mediumsofmayfair

(Dr. Rowan Mayfair - mediumsofmayfair to Nicolas in a Nicolas lives AU; she finds his similarities to Michael unsettling in a way she is as of yet unsure what this means about her individual scientific person)

@mediumsofmayfair ((angsty sentence starters))

(Julien Mayfair ~ mediumsofmayfair to Nicolas, disapproving… for cruelty not for villainy)

"It is the only kind of cruelty I know". Every harm ever done to him was with good intentions, in the moral sense of good. Nicolas believed his father hurt him not because he gained pleasure from the act, but because of shame and righteous fury and a desire to improve Nicolas, to fix him. Lestat, with the best of intentions, had driven him to madness. "It's how we pave a road to hell, is it not? And hell is the only direction I've ever been headed in."

Okay. Well done Vincent, you did it again. He thought. You’ve fucked your life playing with that damn book yet again and now – 

He really hadn’t expected it to work. He’d been just having a mess around again. The spells and rituals in the tomes were so old. Working off translations scribbled down, transcribed in English more than a century ago. Half of them never worked, and some never had a hope in hell. Half bored and definitely drunk, flicking through the pages when he came upon the faded ink: To speaketh to the past, to live through eyes of the dead from the dawn to the dusk. 

Wicked! He’d somehow thought to himself at the time. It could be a way to see into the past. A way to understand his ancestors, whom he knew so little about. What harm was that, and he convinced himself it required so little for all he had was so little at the time. An item from the dead, a bit of his blood, the carving mark and bowl of water where he could see his reflection before he submerged his face. And by the way it read it, everything sounded more or less like it would be in a dream. He gets to see this guy’s life as a passenger. It’d be a vision of sorts, and Vincent had known how to deal with those. So he’d prepared and collected his things. What was needed? So Vincent had scourged around in boxes of old scrap he’d taken from the old estate until he’d produce a red and gold cufflink with the monogram VDS. Yeah. One of the rich ones, he’d figured. That’d be cool. If it ever worked (because of course it wouldn’t).

So he played, because, yes, it was a game to Vincent. These powers, this magic was because who was there to tell him off otherwise. Who was there to tell him not to be a witch and enjoy these little rituals even if they did nothing? Ignorantly, he’d made the sigils, he called, he called his power of the dead, the power of his blood, he followed the book recited the words though he knew not the language, and with the black blade carved his flesh, giving blood to the token which he place bowl that held his reflection… and then waited, but nothing was to come. No great mystical sense or whirling vision. Just him sitting there with a bowl staring at his own reflection with a wound. Well, at least it had been something to pass the time – perhaps, however – from the glint of his knife he’d thought of a moment he’d seen something stir. A flash of light? A passing silhouette – a wash of dread came over as he felt somewhat compelled to look more closely. From eyes of silver to copper brown, from eyes of his silver to copper brown – brown – brown. He shut his eyes tight. His head was spinning. His heart pounding in his ears. Dizzy. Giddy. Not from the alcohol – damn it. He felt his body fall.

When he’d awoken, it had been morning. A crisp warmth on his face and chest. The sheets were soft against his cheek – It would have been peaceful if he hadn’t awoken with such a start to a space that was not his own. Not his. A space so foreign. Archaic. Oh fuck. Had he? He’d almost rushed out of the room half-naked, but the hands of a screeching woman in the hall shoved him back. Wrong clothes. Wrong look. Wrong. “Valentine! You animal, have you any decency?!” He blinked. Eyes wide and wild. Valentine?! He was frozen, staring at the door. Oh no. Curling his toes on the floorboards. The spell – this couldn’t be? That – this felt a little too real to be a vision when he was controlling the actions, and yet it had to be, it needed to be. He had to stay calm. He had to be rational. Normal. Normal as whatever this situation was. He felt his heart drop as he spied a mirror hanging off the other side of the room. Did he dare? Well… he had to. It was only right to see who he might have become? 

With some hesitation, he made his way over to the mirror, peering at the corners. Silver eyes, long dark wavy hair, his face, his body with all the scars – but something was off he was looking down at this image. Taller. He raised his hand looking at it then back to the mirror. Young, a much paler than what was reflected in complexion and not as fine boned, but still long. His arms lacking muscle but hey, having all your limbs was a good thing? Vincent guessed. What did his face actually look like then? What if this man was doing this back in the present? It’s just – oh god. He felt a little nauseous. His head dipped to the wall with a thud. What had he done. No, no. He had to think. This was a dream. Right? That’s all. And if it wasn’t — he had to be rational. Look, he reminded himself of the spell from dawn to dusk – and here was for a day – alright? Right. He was fine. He just had to play it cool. 20th – 21st century Englishman time traveller just like the movies. Where had he even ended up? Say little, and enjoy, perhaps, make do – hopefully not irreputably ruin this man’s life with whatever the hell this was. And so he did.

He’d gotten dressed with some difficulty after he’d even found something of a suit ensemble to wear. Stumbling out to the hall to follow the smell of something cooked lingered where someone greeted him with some friendly French, then a slightly baffled look when he didn’t respond at all and slipped awkwardly past them. From there, another woman was quick to apprehend him as he stepped down the stairs and was ushered into the parlour room where several men of varying ages sat, dressed in fine brown, greens and maroon, criticised his state and the hour he’d awoken when they had guests. Someone gestured to a seat and a younger man for him to sit beside. “You must forgive, Valentine. It’s his first time abroad.” A stern man sneered with an English accent at least, while a very old man with the burns he’d tried to cover with his high collar but stretched too far up his cheek seemed to leer sharper than the others at him with his murky and silvery eyes from behind the others. While some of the older ones continued conversations in some regional French, breaking off at times to comment about the business to the English speakers. They were guests to this wonderful city after all and they had travelled to make contacts abroad, they had elite equine bloodlines from centuries of husbandry in Europe – it was all a drone this was stuff Vincent knew nothing about but got away with at least nodding to but all he could go over and over again in his head with was – this was his family? He was looking at, watching his family – and he didn’t even know any of their names. He didn’t know anything about them. Did anyone realise? It all made him very nervous. Very nervous. Hell, Vincent was always nervous at the best of times, but here in another time, another body. He’d messed up. He’d messed up and he was going to pay for it all.

Was he feeling alright? Someone made a comment. Then someone asked if he’d had something to say. “Oh absolutely. Of course. What do I know about horses? You know they always make me so sad when I see their long faces.” And then he laughed.  It just came so suddenly. Something heavy and breathless, but only for a second. The room fell a little quieter.

(Mona @ Micheal Curry - mediumsofmayfair)

Was any of this supposed to be this way? The Mayfair Ghosts seemed to have had a plan, moving pieces on the Chess board that they manipulated until they had found the outcome they considered best. Michael Curry among them, a broken piece they so carefully slide from left to right and back again.

A prime example of their meddling stood before him, red curls a mess as she expressed herself in big ways, hands and mouth and delicate feet. His beautiful girl playing her big girl games. He forgets until moments like these how young she still was. Usually the pretty picture of calculated perfection.. He's used to seeing the edges grey out, watching those cracks in her defenses flake off the mask until .. This. Balled fists against his chest.

He had promised. He had vowed. But they were never made in the house of god and he was a sinner. The very worse kind and he bends his head as her chin is tilted up.