#phsecretsanta2018

“Mew!” Snowdrop responded.

She petted her cat once more, looking around.

No one. Wooden walls and a breeze.

She breathed out. It wasn’t exactly unheard of that objects such as these could give off strange visions, or spill voices into one’s ears, and she was no stranger to the dark and the dangerous. It was surely just a particularly powerful object, which was simply doing its job, and someone would buy it soon enough.

Despite her mind’s attempts to reassure her, she probably should have been listening more carefully.

For the next few weeks, intermittently when she was in her shop, whispers would tread the air around her. Simple words, cries, accusations, voices that—dare she admit it?—she recognized.

Her brother’s, her uncle’s, her father’s, and—somehow worst of all—her own.

Her own voice, sounding so pitiful, so lost, and tiny.

Did she still sound like that?

After a while, it wasn’t hard to recognize what they were: memories. Memories of a past calling back to her. A sad and empty past that she had tried to forget. A past in which the Baskervilles threw her brother into the Abyss, and that place kept him from her for ten years.

Was this just her mind playing tricks on her? Was it all in her head? Nothing real?

But, of course, these memories were real. She just didn’t think of them too often, because she didn’t quite like that fact.

What kind of an object could do this? Why would someone create such an object in the first place? What should she even be looking for?

She tried to block them, to find something else that would drown them out, to cover her ears, but the whispers seeped in through the boards she nailed over her mind’s doors, and the cracks between her fingers.

The murmurs followed her. They pooled in her brain when she left the shop, and didn’t drain away. They grew louder. There came a point when she tore apart her neatly polished shop in search of the offender, and found…nothing.

But as she turned to leave one day, she saw her reflection in the door window, and behind herself, the curtain to the back…She turned, and did something dangerous:

She started thinking.

Hidden away, back there, like a caged beast, was in an old chest, and within it, something she had been warned about, but whose purpose had never quite been explained to her.

Her hand shaking ever so slightly, she fingered the necklace she was wearing, pulling it from beneath her shirt, holding the end up before her eyes, twinkling in the low light; a tiny, old silver key.

*****

Ada walked out into the darkened school grounds. There was something about the cool night air that made everything seem less inviting, less pure. The person waiting for her, during the day, would—(if a little odd)—have been an ordinary student, but in the dark he was a figure, a mystery, harbinger of more mystic nights to come.

They weren’t supposed to be out after dark—and she was one of those adamant rule-followers—but there had been something about the plea to his voice earlier…

“Good evening, Leo-kun.” Her small, but strong, voice broke the silence.

Leo turned to her, half moonlight reflecting off his glasses, and bowed.

“Yes, Good evening, Miss Vessalius.” He smiled, though there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth that betrayed its reality.

“If I may, can I ask how you found out about my shop?”

He scratched his chin, looking around as if the courtyard had suddenly become more interesting. “I simply heard about it from some of our fellow students. You know how they can be prone to gossiping.”

Who knew about her? And why they wouldn’t say anything about it to her? How did they find out? How many people knew by now? Or, what if he was lying? If so, why didn’t he want her to know how he knew?

“Ah, I see.” She didn’t press the issue, but wasn’t completely satisfied with the explanation either.

She was surprised that Leo would even come to her in the first place; he only ever spoke to her through Elliot—and was always with Elliot in general—so she didn’t want to scare him off with extra, unnecessary questions. This was already the longest conversation they ever had. Though the question of who knew about her shop, and how, troubled her, what was important was this object he was giving to her. It was the reason for their meeting, after all. If she badgered him too much, he might decide not give it to her at all. Nevertheless, the simple fact that he had arranged this late-night meeting, alone with her—without Elliot—in the first place, meant that whatever he was trying to give to her was affecting him deeply.

Or maybe it was affecting Elliot.

“So…you have something for me?”

“Right.” He seemed relieved she wasn’t going to ask any more questions. He set his bag on the ground, and knelt down to fish something from it.

But once he retrieved it, the cloth-covered object gave her few more answers than questions.

She cocked her head to the side, leaning forward, puzzled, but intrigued, trying to keep her excitement from bubbling over.

Leo breathed out the answer to her unasked question. “It’s a music box.”

“Oh! I’ve heard of enchanted music boxes before!” her obsession started to peak through, “What’s this one called?”

She reached out her hand towards it, but he jerked it away from her.

He seemed to realize the suddenness of the action, and relaxed a little. “I…Sorry, I just…” the veiled agitation bled out from behind the curtain.

What was it that made him so jumpy? Usually he was quiet, but confident. Was it this object? Or could it be her? He didn’t seem very comfortable around most people who weren’t Elliot, so maybe her sudden movement just startled him a little? Although…if it was the object itself… should she be scared too?

She decided not to let it bother her. Once again, this wasn’t exactly the first time someone had acted strangely when trying to get an occult object off their hands.

“So…might I ask what its purpose is?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m…afraid I’d rather not say.”

“Eh? It’s going to be rather hard for me to sell if I don’t know what it does, you know.”

“Sell it?” fear came to the surface. “No, no, no, no, you can’t sell this! You can’t even open it!”

She blinked.

“So…you’re giving me something; you wouldn’t like to tell me what it does, and you…don’t want me to sell or use it? Forgive my rudeness, but why don’t you simply hide it yourself? Or destroy it?”

“I’ve,” he cleared his throat, “tried both.” He looked at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck, and she often wished she could see the look in his eyes behind those glasses.

“And?”

He stayed silent, but it was obvious both had failed.

“But you’re used to dealing with these sorts of things, right?” he spoke up again, “So I thought you might have methods of keeping it from…activating. Or be better be able to,” he mumbled the next few words, “tune it out.”

“I’m sure I can handle it!” She smiled, though she was losing confidence the more they spoke.

The same phenomenon seemed to be happening to him.

“Please listen to me, Miss Vessalius;” he placed a hand on her shoulder—and how afraid, how insistent, would the look in his eyes have been, if she could have seen it?—“I can’t force you to accept this, or teach you how to stop it. All I can do is give you a warning; do not open this. For whatever reason, if you start to hear things, cover your ears, if you see anything, cover your eyes.”

“Huh? But why?”

What exactly did all that mean? What sorts of things would she hear or see? Just how powerful was this thing?

He rubbed his temple as if that would keep his aggravation from spilling out.

“This is…dangerous. Maybe the most dangerous thing you’ve ever handled.”

“Well, I have handled—”

His expression shut her up.

“So…” She cleared her throat, trying to keep from getting annoyed herself. “Why do you have it in the first place?”

He shook his head, looking at the veiled box. “Just a mistake.”

He proceeded to pull on a chain around his neck, which ended in a small silver key. He pulled it over his head, pooling it in his hand, holding it out to her his head bowed (out of respect, or a desire not to look at it, she didn’t know)—though he did so as if it were a gun—“Please keep this with you at all times.”

This was more than she bargained for, or guessed the care of this object would entail. Usually if she got a call, even if it was something dangerous, they wouldn’t be so cryptic, and they often just wanted to get rid of it, they didn’t bother with warnings and precautions.

Still, nothing she couldn’t handle.

She nodded, taking it and slipping it around her neck.

He bit his lip, his grip tight around the box, his hands shaking a little.

“Please hide this in the most secure location you can find.”

He thrust the box towards her, though his death grip made it clear he didn’t really want entrust it to her. She wrapped her fingers around it, looking curiously at him as she felt his resistance, before tugging it away from him.

“I promise to take care of it.” she tried to reassure him.

“Promise me you won’t open it.” His voice was the most serious she’d ever heard of it.

She smiled, giving a curt nod.

“Promise.”

But what do people do when presented with a mystery, a curious object, and an unshakable warning about it’s volatility?

They do the very thing they’re commanded not to do.

*****

It was a few days later still, when she gave in.

She knelt on the floorboards in her back room, a battered chest before her, its hinges rusty, its wood splintering. The rug was folded back, and the trap door the chest had been heaved out of propped open.

Did Leo know, then, about the whispers? About how they nagged and poked and prodded at one’s mind? How they staked themselves there, laying claim to her heart? Did he know how powerful it would be? How much it would affect her life?

She told herself he didn’t.

When she knew full well he did; otherwise he wouldn’t have been so adamant, so tense.

The chest’s maw, creaking as she lifted the lid, revealed the veiled oddity sitting at the bottom. Waiting, like a black bride, for her groom.

Surely it wasn’t this object, so small and unassuming, that was capable of invading her thoughts so entirely?

It wasn’t such a big deal. Just one peak. Listen to a few notes. Keep the whispers at bay.

“Come on, Ada!”

She drew in a breath, and lowered her hands into the depths, as if into murky waters, and gently took the dark bride’s hand, pulling her from the waves.

It was light, as if she was holding the whispers themselves. Yet the longer the bride held her hand, the tighter her grip, the heavier the weight of their vows.

“Say, what’s Abyss?”

The voice was louder this time.

Just breathe.

It’ll all be over soon.

She pulled the cloth, unveiling the wretched face she was destined to kiss.

“Well it’s a sort of prison…”

The box was black, ornate silver designs, curls and borders on the sides and top. Other than that it was relatively plain. But holding it made her breath catch, and the room darker.

She told herself it was just her own fear.

Letting it sit in her hands for a moment, she weighed it, along with Leo’s words. Part of her brain begged her to listen to him, screamed at her to return it to its place in the ground.

But it was too alive to bury.

“for bad guys…”

A lump grew in her throat as she tugged on the chord to the key around her neck.

As curiosity often bids us, she did the very thing he demanded she never do. For the simplest reason as a few whispers, and a rickety past.

“Please, let me in! My brother’s in trouble!!”

She gasped, reaching her fingers gently to her lips, as if not quite sure if she had said it herself. The shout had sounded so real, less ephemeral, less there, more here…

Shaking, her hands sweating, glancing around as if someone would see her breaking into something that belonged to her, she fit the key into the lock.

Though the weather was perfectly calm outside, she could hear rain beginning to pound.

“Oz Vessalius, your sin is…”

The pronunciation felt like it was coming down on her own head, like the past-born rain.

She was that little girl again, soaked through with water and fear, begging to be let in. The rain breathed; it was talking to her with the fluttery voices of those she loved, and those she had grown to hate. Some words broke through the crowd—brushing shoulders and pushing others down, louder, stronger—but the memories were so many by now that the whispers seemed like a mob.

Hands shivering, shutting her eyes tight, she turned the key,

—It clicked—

Placed her fingers on the wood of the lid—

The rain was so loud….

“Your very—“

And lifted it.

The action was like a conductor bringing down his baton; those whispers, the breath of the wind and rain, were all simultaneously silenced.

She glanced around, as if she would be able to see their smoke dissipating in the air.

The silence was almost worse…Almost.

Because silence is empty, and can be filled.

When she tipped it open, no tiny dancer twirled around. No frilly art or pretty words decorated the inside. She could see the cogs beneath, like if a ship’s deck were glass, and you could see the rudders, all the working parts and windswept waves that kept it going.

Though the look of it was plain, and rather unexciting, the inside of the lid held a peculiar inscription:

To he who dares play this song

You may yet still know it wrong

If it’s for redemption that you’ve asked

And the answer, you believe, in long awaited past

Without map, without wind, in the end, no sign of treasure

Too late, the hands of time will show you your own measure.

Upon seeing the words, questions boiled in her thoughts. What could this mean? What was she looking for in opening it? If she wasn’t looking for redemption, did that mean it was safe to listen? What about the past? Why would she want to hear whispers of, look into, the past? But if she didn’t…what was she doing here? Could this be more than simple attempts to shut the whispers up? Was there real temptation behind her current actions?

Then, without warning, or winding, the music began to play.

Though the notes were slow and few, they plucked at her heart. They tugged on her veins and sent vibrations through her, like she was their true instrument.

She slammed both the lid and her eyes shut, breath heavy.

She peeked open an eye.

Just a music box. Nothing strange. Nothing to tell her it was capable of great and terrible things. Just an ordinary music box. No notes fell out unannounced.

Taking up the key to lock it again, she felt another presence in the room.

» we all are living in a dream, but life ain’t what it seems, oh, everything’s a mess. » and all these sorrows I have seen, they lead me to believe that everything’s a mess. » but I wanna dream, I wanna dream, leave me to dream.

(the hero doesn’t die in this one.)

The dream starts with his sixteenth birthday.

He doesn’t think it’s that strange at first – and really, he’s used to weird dreams by now (in which the world crumbles and falls, in which he walks down bloodied hallways, in which golden lights rain down from the sky, in which he falls to his knees and does not get up again), he’s had them a couple of times a month ever since he can remember and he’s dealt with them how he’s dealt with everything else in his life: he’s gone to the library and read a couple of books on the matter, and then he’s read more books and then he’s gone back and started re-reading them all until he felt that he adequately understood the topic. It was enough information to figure out that every psychoanalyst would have a field day with his dreams. It was enough to start a dream journal, just for his own personal amusement.

The journal is how he figures out just how weird his dreams have gotten over the years. Specifically, one particular dream.

It’s not a strange dream per se, it’s just that he has the same one in various lengths over and over again, right down to the words he uses to describe it in his diary, like his brain can’t even think of different expressions to write about something that is so thoroughly identical. He’s read about this phenomenon and apparently it’s not that unusual to have reoccurring dreams. It is, however, unusual to have them more and more frequently over the span of a couple of months. What started out as a monthly nightmare turned into a bi-weekly nightmare turned into a weekly nightmare turned into an ‘almost every night’ nightmare.

And then it starts creeping into his days, like reality slipping away into the dream, lose threads entangling with something he can’t really touch or see or explain to anyone except himself. It’s the first time he becomes really, actually scared.

He catches the face looking back at him from blank surfaces – his bathroom mirror in the morning, a window at school he’s passing by, even the stillness of the lake behind the dorm rooms. His face, or what his face would be with a sharp haircut and without his glasses. He lets his hair grow extra messy, just out of spite.

(It may be a nice addition that Elliot likes his hair long and messy, and that he sometimes plays with the dark strands when he’s tired or nervous or concentrating or distracted or –)

(Another nice addition is that Oz would sometimes ask if he can bride his hair – simply as practice for when he sees his sister again during school break, of course.)

The face brings a warning with it that he doesn’t really understand., but he doesn’t have to understand to know that it’s something he should pay attention to – the books have taught him that. And if not the books, then the look in the face’s eyes – his own eyes, not hidden away behind big glasses and thick bangs – that utter desperation, dark and deep and endless. Whatever that face has seen, Leo will make sure that he himself will not have to see it. Never.

(he doesn’t have to.)

The dream is this: he’s standing in some kind of cave, surrounded by darkness and gravel and dirt. There’s a figure in a red cloak standing in front of him, motionless, like the shadow of a statue, still and unmoving and radiating some kind of dark power that makes Leo shiver. The longer the dream lasts (sometimes he wakes after the first few scenes), the darker it gets around him and the figure, but in the darkness, more figures appear until he is standing in an endless sea of statues and shadows and so much power it feels like something is going to shatter under the physical strain it has on this dreamed up world. If the dream lasts this long, the figure steps forward with one elegant motion, almost as if not moving at all but just disappearing and reappearing. And then the figure pulls back their hood and Leo’s own face is looking back at him with those lost and empty eyes. His hair is shorter, framing his face instead of hiding it away and he’s not wearing his glasses. It’s weird how vibrant the purple colour of his eyes is in the darkness, and a part of Leo knows that it’s there where that disturbing power is coming from – somehow it’s connected to his eyes.

Everything comes down to his eyes in the dream. They are what is haunting him when he wakes up, because they are beautiful and terrifying, so sad and lonely and yet so filled with more of the world than Leo will ever see (or at least he hopes so).

The figure only ever says to sentences: “They are watching you.”

And: “Keep him safe.”

That’s where the dream always stops. This is also where it starts bleeding into his reality. The face is watching him, following him around, as if to make sure that he’s listening, that he’s following these orders, that he does keep him safe. (Leo does not have to ask who this he is supposed to be.)

No matter where he looks, it always seems to be looking back at him. He is truly haunted and a part of him – the part that isn’t scared, isn’t worried, isn’t freaking out – is a little thankful for this constant reminder. As long as the face keeps staring back at him, like it’s doing right now, it’s not too late. He can still keep him safe. Leo just wishes he would know what to keep him safe from. What could happen that would turn his eyes into such a deep and troubled stretch of water, filled to the rim with despair? He doesn’t want to think about it, but he can’t help himself whenever –

“Leo? Hey, Leo!” Elliot’s voice draws him away from the his own reflection, glittering on the surface of the still lake behind their dorm rooms. It’s not the face, but he’s been waiting for it ever since they sat down in the soft grass, the mild April sun warm on their skin.

“What?”, he mumbles a little more annoyed than he really is, but it’s just so irritating. Staying on the path between reality and dream is an act of balance that is becoming harder and harder with every day, and Leo doesn’t know how much longer he can keep his slowly decreasing sanity a secret from Elliot.

“I asked you a question”, Elliot shoots back, matching his irritation instantly. “But apparently you got distracted by your own good looks. I didn’t know you were so vain.”

Leo takes a breath to prepare for the oncoming shouting match – or maybe just to push back his fear – but Oz already breaks up the fight before it could develop, as smoothly as ever.

“Where do you think we should go from here?”, he asks, and this boy is a genius when it comes to diplomacy. He takes one of the papers they’ve been scribbling on for the past hour or so and practically throws it at Leo’s face – excitement rolling off him in big waves.

This is exactly how Leo has pictured this school project to be when he and Elliot got grouped up with Oz Vessalius of all people. Of course Elliot immediately complained about having to work with Oz Vessalius because he still doesn’t want to admit that he likes him. He still has to admit that Oz is pretty smart and hard working and therefore a good partner when it comes to school projects. He’s also pretty good at mediating and stopping fights before they escalate (he’s pretty useless once they’ve started though), which is also helpful.

For the project, they have to write a fairytale. It’s ridiculous, really, but it’s an easily achieved good grade and the weather is nice and Leo doesn’t mind spending a little bit more time with Oz. If only because it’s fun to watch him and Elliot dance around their awkward rivalry-slash-friendship.

They are almost done with the fairytale by now, Leo realizes as he skims over the last couple of notes, written in Oz’ neat handwriting.

What they have so far is a knight, happily questing his way through his kingdom, along with his servant and a young magician in training. They are doing all kinds of heroic things: slaying dragons, rescuing people from bandits, helping to rebuild destroyed villages. What they need now is the climax, and the ending.

“So he is stepping into the tower, the only part of the cursed castle that is not completely in ruins”, Leo repeats the last thing they’ve written down. “What are the options now?”

Elliot huffs. “Shorty here wants him to meet a princess and then be cured by true love’s kiss or something.” He rolls his eyes in obvious disdain. It’s adorable how hard he tries to hide how committed he is to the story by now.

Oz rolls his eyes. “It’s a fairytale. Love is supposed to be the final solution!”, he insists.

“That’s not the point of a fairytale at all!”, Elliot rebuffs immediately. “This is not a romance novel. A fairytale is supposed to be dark and … cruel. Almost brutal. And in the end is teaches a valuable lesson. See? No need for romance. At all.”

Leo sighs. Elliot is kinda right, but he doesn’t say that out loud. (He doesn’t have to, Oz is smart enough to figure that out himself. Oz is also smart enough to have figured out what Leo already knows, too. The way they’ve set up all the pieces and parts … there’s only one way for the story to progress now. And apparently Elliot still hasn’t picked up on that yet. That what Oz is trying to do with his silly romance plot is to –)

“Ah, crap!”, Elliot shouts in frustration. “We have to kill him, don’t we?”

(– save the knight.)

Leo came up with the idea pretty early on. It’s what actually sent the knight and his servant on their quest (because responsible knights don’t just abandon their family and political position for a little bit of fun): the knight got cursed. Or rather, the knight got injured and the servant tried to save his life by making a deal with an enchantress who then cursed the knight in the process of saving him. He would die in a year’s time and bring great destruction with his death. To prevent this from happening, the knight and the servant set out to find a way to break the curse. They picked up the magician along the way, who told them about the castle and that there’s supposed to be a means to end every curse ever in its ruins.

Oz nods slowly. “I mean – the problem with breaking the knight’s curse is that it would also mean that his sealed wound would kill him after all. That’s what the magician established when they first met, it’s why he didn’t break the curse himself. I don’t see how that rule should change just because they found something shiny in an old castle. But at least if they use the thing to break the curse, the knight’s death won’t bring eternal destruction over his kingdom?” He winces. “I’m sorry, Elliot.”

For a moment, Elliot only stares at their notes, every pretence of him not being deeply invested into their own characters gone, then he sighs. “It can’t be helped”, he says and shrugs if off. “It’s the only thing that makes sense at this point and I really don’t feel like going back and changing almost everything. Also, like this the magician won’t have to secondhand-kill the knight to prevent the eternal destruction.”

Oz pats him on the back and starts scribbling it down.

Leo chews on his lips. He’s staring at the face, it’s staring back from the surface of Elliot’s metal pencil case.

“Maybe …”, he starts, his mind spiralling down into the violet darkness, “… they could find something to turn back time? Go back to the moment when the knight was injured in the first place and prevent it from ever happening? The lesson would be that it’s never too late to fix your mistakes.”

Oz looks up from his notes and blinks at Leo, something like hope spreading in his green eyes. The emotion suits him.

It’s Elliot who shakes his head and then stretches his arms over his head. “But that would also undo all the knight’s heroic deeds – all the people he’s saved and helped. Even the magician, they only met him because they were on their quest. The knight wouldn’t be the same knight anymore, and he wouldn’t have the same friendships.” He’s very casual about it but Leo knows him well enough to pick up on the stern idealism behind his words. For some reason, it sends Leo’s heart into a thrumming sprint.

“So, what’s the lesson gonna be then?”, Oz asks curiously, watching Elliot with that eager expression that reveals just how bad his case of hero-worshipping is.

Elliot looks back at him with a faint blush on his cheeks. “That sometimes all you can do is make the most of the time you have and use it to do good. That’s the lesson for the knight, at least. For his friends it’s probably something like, they keep questing in honour of the knight’s sacrifice? Sometimes you lose a friend but their effect on your life will never disappear again? It’s all very cheesy, isn’t it?”, he asks, suddenly a little bit shy.

Oz coughs and grins, shaking his head. “Nope, I like it. It fits the general theme of honour and meaning we’ve been going on.”

Leo nods. “The knight dying and his friends carrying on his honourable quest – it’s a fitting end”, he says and means it. But when he looks back at the face, the purple eyes look up at him with an even darker shade of sadness than ever before. Then the face turns away and vanishes.

Somehow, Leo feels like he’s failed his task.

That night, he wakes up from the dream in the middle of the night, soaked in cold sweat and terror clutching his heart in its icy hands. He hates it when that happens. He’s supposed to be stronger than that.

He sits up with a muffled sigh, pushing his bangs out of his face and rubbing his eyes. It takes a moment for his sight to adjust to the darkness around him (normal, powerless darkness, not filled with hovering and ominous figures and warnings and foretold loneliness). He doesn’t notice the figure sitting on the windowsill at first, and it takes him another glance to figure out that it’s Oz. He’s crouched against the pane of glass, his face turned to look outside and his arms hugging his knees to his chest.

Something has always been a bit off about Oz Vessalius. It’s what makes him fit in so well with Elliot and Leo. He’s surrounded by a thin layer of chaos, like he’s pulling a tear in the fabric of reality behind himself. It used to be quite unnerving but then Leo’s own reality has started to splinter and fray around the edges and he’d started to wonder if that would be visible for other people, too. If Oz would look at him and see the same tear drifting around him.

Oz tilts his head and meets Leo’s gaze over the reflection in the window – his eyes are blood red in the dark.

“You get the warnings too, don’t you?”, he asks softly, quietly.

He swallows. “Yes.”

Oz turns around and looks at him, red meets purple and power spreads and – then it’s gone. “What are we gonna do now?”

Leo turns to Elliot, who is still sleeping in his own bed, safe and sound. “We listen”, he says.

Oz simply nods. Reality knits itself back together around him and after he blinks slowly, his eyes are green again. The next morning, Leo wonders if he’s simply imagined the whole thing, but he never dreams the dream again.