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cryxmercy · 4 years

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Blood & Roses || Mercy & Arthur

Mercy surprises Arthur with a trip to her archive. It goes... mostly as planned.

When: recently, after the mimes left and before the sun became an eye. Where: The Western Archives Who: Mercy and Arthur

@arthurjdrake

TW for vomit (from a supernatural creature), injury, and descriptions of internal bodily functions (supernatural creature)

“Still curious?” Mercy asked Arthur as they stood at the mouth of a small, slightly overgrown trail that led off into the murky gloom of a patch of forest in the Outskirts. She’d picked him up less than an hour ago, revving her motorcycle’s engine from his driveway until he’d finally made his way outside. The drive over had been uneventful, other than Mercy’s penchant for breaking traffic laws, especially speed limits. But they’d arrived unscathed.

Now, Mercy shouldered her bag as she grinned over at Arthur, knowing there was likely no way he wasn’t still wondering just what the hell was going on. So she started walking, the trail so narrow in places that they had to walk one behind the other. The forest sounds gradually changed, turning into noises that weren’t quite the same as back where she’d parked her bike. The path seemed to darken as well, though if one looked straight up they could see blue sky overhead.

Mercy walked on as if she’d done this a thousand times. And when the forest simply… stopped… she kept walking. Into an enormous circular clearing… and a sea of crimson blooms. At the center of which stood a tower made of weathered grey stone, it’s surface covered in climbing brambles of the same dark, blood-red hue.

“Mind the roses,” Mercy said, glancing over her shoulder at Arthur as the roses simply… pulled back to allow them to pass through.

“You say that as if I’m ever not curious,” he remarked thoughtfully. There were several puddles near to where she stopped the bike, remnants of a cloudburst earlier in the day. Arthur stepped around them carefully, inhaling the smell of damp earth as they wound through the forest of aspen and pine, letting the pleasing ambience settle him. By now, the sky was a vibrant blue and shards of sunlight cut through the foliage, glinting off the branches.

She moved off without further insight, and it was all he could do but follow her deeper into the gloomier depths of the forest, the sunlight vanishing as the trees seemed to become an unapproachable thicket. Yet she persisted forwards, and he followed suit until suddenly he was blinded by the saber of light that cut through illuminating a large circular clearing. Who would’ve known such a thing was here? Intrigued perked him up enough to hurry his steps, minding a few holes of unpacked earth on route. “Wait, what is this place?”

His eyes widened as they approached the tower, so out of place for a town such as this. It seemed more like something that would fit in back in the wilderness of home. Though he was taken by the roses as they unfurled in front of them making a clear path through to the tower beyond. But a single look was all it would take to tell he was utterly enamoured with this place. “How’d you find it?” there was a quiet note of awe in his voice.

“This… is the Western Archives. Affectionately known as ‘The Dark Tower.’” She gestured at the roses as they moved past. When she’d first seen the place, Mercy had wondered how it had stayed hidden for so long. But it wasn’t exactly on any maps; truly it wasn’t, because she’d checked. It was quite beautiful though, in the way so many old places are.

“I told you I knew a guy. Turns out that guy is me.” Mercy grinned at him as they approached the foot of the tower. “When I was still working in Seattle, some perp gave me the key in exchange for their freedom.” Mercy shrugged. “Seemed weird at the time, but I think I got the better end of the deal.” Mercy could tell he was already done for, and gave his arm a small bump. “Come on… lemme show you the inside.” She walked straight through what looked like a solid wall of bramble-vines into the empty interior with it’s single spiraling staircase that led to the room at the top of the tower.

Mercy turned in a slow circle, waiting for Arthur to join her. “It took me almost a week to figure out how to get into the archive itself.” She glanced at him again, grin still in place. “Care to give it a go?”

“Because that isn’t foreboding.” Yet despite the name, Arthur couldn’t help but be utterly enamoured by the architecture of this building with no apparent entrance. It hardly mattered, even looking at it settled a void he barely even realised had existed in his chest up until now. Gods he really loathed American architecture. What he wouldn’t do for an old fashioned tudor thatch style building, so to look upon the tower brought him a sense of peace he hadn’t even realised he’d been missing up until now.

His stunned look moved over to her, a hand going to adjust his glasses and push them up where they’d slipped down the bridge of his nose in his wandering admiration of the tower. “Damn, what an idiot. How could anyone give this up?” The wonder and excitement was unbridled and practically radiated off him in waves as he reached out to touch the stone, his touch lingering there on the rough surface, fingers curling against the pleasant texture. It took him a little while longer to pull away and follow her inside.

When they were both inside, Arthur looked at the staircase and then back to her. Wondering what she meant by getting into the archive. So this wasn’t the archive? Curious. His eyes drifted back to the brambles they had walked through, thinking about how they had gotten here. He then looked to the roses that bloomed against the wall on the inside stirring from a soft breeze that seemed to circle around the space from no particular point of origin. Cocking his head he wandered over to the roses, stooping at the waist to inspect them more closely. His hand raised to cup a few of the petals gently “They’re beautiful flowers… I don’t think I’ve ever seen blossoms like these… Stunning, simply stunning,” as he spoke these words new life seemed to stir into the plants. Their stems thickening and colour blooming brighter. “Huh, wow…”

“You must not read much Stephen King.” The tower had yet to reveal itself as any otherworldly epicenter, but it certainly was an interesting thing to find in the middle of a small town in Maine, USA. Mercy wasn’t even quite sure why she’d taken the key in the first place, other than it was a little bit too strange a thing to pass up. That, and the fact that she had been desperate for a change of pace. Of something different than the day to day dreariness of Washington State. And of the job she felt was a dead end.

“Not sure,” she murmured in answer to Arthur’s question. “But to the victor go the spoils, hm?” Not that she was sharing with just anyone. Arthur was one of the rare exceptions. But then she’d always shared everything with him, hadn’t she? Bringing him here had been something she’d wanted to do since she’d known he was in town, but the timing just hadn’t been right. Now that they were here, Arthur’s expression said more than anything he could ever say out loud. And knowing he was happy… well, that made Mercy happy.

She went on inside, waiting patiently for him to join her. His questioning look was met with a raised brow and a small gesture that meant he should have a look around. Mercy crossed her arms, following behind him but keeping back a bit to watch as he inspected the flowers. She’d bet money that he would have it figured out in no time. When he commented on the unusual nature of the roses, Mercy couldn’t help but grin. “They’re unique to this place… don’t grow anywhere else in town.” She leaned in a bit, laughing quietly as she watched the blooms grow more radiant under Arthur’s praises. “You work fast, Professor.” New blossoms had started to open up along the vine he was observing, their petals trembling slightly. “They like you already…”

“I’ve heard of it, haven’t read it,” Arthur admitted after a moment as he stood outside the exterior of the tower peering up and having to catch himself before he rocked off his heels peering up at the height. “This doesn’t look at all like it belongs… The architecture… framework, it’s all wrong for this region,” his fingers lightly scraped at the stonework and mortar between them vaguely testing their integrity. “There any aspect that dates this place? Engraved keystones above or the like?” He couldn’t see anything, so naturally he deferred to the person that owned this place.

He wandered in a little while later, and by process of elimination he figured out the next step of where to go based on what he’d seen already. Not that it was very complex given what had happened when they’d arrived and the thicket of rosevines beyond.

An amused noise escaped him as he ever so softly touched the petals, softly brushing them with the back of his fingers. Their colour seemed to deepen, and new blossoms unfurled along the vine. “They’re beautiful,” he said in all honesty, “I’ve never seen anything quite like them… Magic clearly and yet… not.” He continued to talk, idle remarks on the flowers and by the time he was done several new growths had curled forth their vines gently curling around his arms and hands blooming roses yet somehow the thorns never pricked his skin. “I think they do. This happen for everyone?”

“‘Go then… there are other worlds than these…’” Mercy quoted. “It doesn’t quite belong, does it?” she agreed. “It’s curious, but no. No keystones, no markers. Not that I’ve found at least.” That didn’t mean there wasn’t one. Or something that might help date the strange tower. Perhaps it was below, in the archive itself. They would have to see wouldn’t they? Mercy entered after that, giving Arthur a moment with his thoughts.

She hummed quietly as the rose vines reacted to his presence. A small tendril curled towards the Fury, tiny buds sprouting along it’s length. Mercy held out a hand, and the little vine inspected her, rubbing against her like a cat, before turning it’s attention to the newcomer. “I wonder if its the tower that’s magic? And they just… evolved?” The roses were quite unique, and had never harmed her, other than the required price for her to enter the archive below.

“Didn’t happen for me… they were a good bit more wary when I arrived.” The vines seemed to shudder in response to being talked about. “What?” Mercy said to the brambles. “You most certainly were.” Another small shudder. “Yes, well… no hard feelings.” She reached to gently untangle a bramble that was slowly creeping up Arthur’s shoulder. “Naughty… come on now... that’s enouOW!” The bramble poked her before curling back towards the wall. “Well, that’s just rude.” Mercy stuck the hurt finger in her mouth. “You better be nice, or I won’t bring him back…” A sharp rustle from the depths of the vines sounded strangely like a huff of resignation. “Thank you,” Mercy said in return. She looked at Arthur. “Anytime you’re ready…”

“No, it reminds me of home-- England that is,” he made a quite noise of appreciation letting his hand fall away though he continued to admire the architecture of the building. “Seems strange someone built it and left no way to mark its date…”

“Maybe?” he echoed turning around on the spot to simply take in the circumference the tendrils of rose-vine curling around him a little and he was mindful not to tug on them too hard. “An extension of the tower? Maybe it’s from somewhere else and the magic helps sustain them?” Question was where did it come from if that was the case? And how had it gotten here.

The sudden exclamation made him jump a little, turning towards her “Careful!” he exclaimed before concern clouded his features and he looked to her sucking her thumb. “You alright?” The rose vines seemed to uncurl from around him after that, but he lightly stroked one making it tremble before he turned to look at where they had all bunched and curled into an ornate frame against the wall. In the centre being a door that hadn’t been there a moment prior. “Don’t you love magic?”

“Maybe they didn’t want anyone knowing,” she suggested. “Scribes are a secretive bunch from what I’ve heard. And possessive.” Mercy was that way too, about certain things - and certain people - so she could understand to a point. “You mean the roses are from somewhere else? Or the whole tower?” That would be interesting indeed. Time rifts, or objects displaced in time, were something Mercy had only heard of. And she wasn’t quite sure what she thought of it. Other than it made her skin prickle unpleasantly.

The vines took their irritation - and by proxy Mercy’s payment for passage - just then, and Mercy shook her head at Arthur’s concern. She showed him her thumb where the tiny prick was already healing. “I’m fine. Damn things just get touchy sometimes.” But the vines pulled back, and Mercy watched the blooms tremble again as Arthur touched them. Many a comment sat on the tip of her tongue, but she held them in for now. The doorway was open, and there was so much more beneath to explore.

She gave him a soft smile. “It has its moments.” Mercy gestured that he should go first, and they stepped down the stone staircase and into the darkness. In the tower, the vines pulled back and the doorway faded from sight.

A soft breeze drifted through the empty room, and the newly bloomed roses swayed along quietly. Waiting… listening. Watching. As they always had.

“They are, though apparently not very good at hiding their HQs… This is the second Archive that I know of.” He glanced at the walls and general state of the place, “the whole tower, it’s the wrong era… Wrong architecture and from what I know of the region no one typically had reason to construct fortifications of any tower… A lot of housing was lodge-based and built from there you know?”

Still, with that said Arthur turned his attention to the revealed passageway and the staircase that wound down. Stepping forwards he reached a hand to the wall to steady himself as he went down. However, on the descent he stopped dead pushing his glasses up and peering more closely at the wall “do you see that?” His fingers moved over the surface, “see how it transitions? Brick to stone here… But these are newer materials - the bricks” Arthur tapped the surface in question. “So the tower and this archive can’t be connected… Or they certainly weren’t built together.”

“Is it?” Mercy thought back to where she’d heard of another archive. “Oh! Is that the one that what’s his name… Orion? The one he’s trying to catalogue?” She smirked slightly. “He came tromping up here one day, thinkin’ to just break in. We had a little chat about that.” Mercy didn’t elaborate as her attention turned to what Arthur was saying about the tower itself. “Maybe someone from across the pond was just… homesick? People immigrated from all over. Some with entirely too much money. And not a lot of common sense.”

They moved down the staircase, Mercy moving with the familiarity of someone that had traveled them hundreds of times. She turned and came back up as Arthur pointed out another unusual feature of the architecture. One she’d never noticed before. Though to be fair, such things weren’t what Mercy was interested in when it came to the archive. But now that Arthur was showing her, she wondered how she hadn’t noticed before now.

“Huh. That’s… odd.” She ran her fingers over the sections of stonework, noting the differences as Arthur pointed them out. “So… what then? Either the archive or the tower just… showed up one day? That’s…” Mercy didn’t know what that was. Other than it made her skin pebble with goosebumps. “Can you get a sample of the stone? Date it maybe? Because down there-” She pointed off into the dark corridor below. “- when you go far enough… the stone is even older than this.”

“Maybe, but this takes effort…” Arthur said. “And you’d mark a place as unique like this, give some kind of indication of where you’re from that would likely outlive you… You know how people were back then, it was all about legacy.” They’d lived through those days, and the lengths people would go to presence their livelihoods were rather remarkable. “I know they did, but you didn’t do this just ‘cause… And why the magic then? Either you did it deliberately or it’s sheer dumb luck” but even then the initial point stood about markers.

When they were in the stairwell, Arthur traced his finger over the transition line, roughly done but passable enough work that you’d overlook it unless you were looking for something to pick out. Which after their conversation upstairs, Arthur was keeping an eye out for everything unusual.

“Well, either they built the archive under the tower if it was already here… But I’d question the methodology behind that because you wouldn’t know what sort of foundation you’re dealing with…” So it had to be the reverse. The archive and then the tower. He followed the line of sight that she pointed out, a curious and quietly excited chirp working its way past his lips. One that left him a little red-faced as he tried to rein back his excitement, “huh- uh, yeah. I’m sure I could… They have labs up at the university I could use to compare databases.” If they could get a match, they could get a potential indication for where this tower came from and if this theory was even right.

Mercy hummed in agreement, still inspecting the stone. “And you know that’s strange…” She glanced at him. “There’re no… keystones down here either. No markings or nameplates. Not in any of the bits I’ve explored. You’d almost think that… whoever built this place didn’t want to be remembered.” That was pure speculation on Mercy’s part, and she certainly hadn’t explored the entirety of the archive herself. She knew when traveling into a place alone might be a bad idea, and there were many places further in that gave off that vibe. So they remained unexplored for now. “Maybe someone forced them to,” she suggested. That could explain why there was no builder’s mark. “Or maybe this place is magically convergent. Maybe whatever was here, or brought here even - like the roses on the tower - absorbed that magic.” As leery of magic as Mercy could be, she wasn’t completely ignorant. Even if it still gave her the shivers.

Arthur had always had an eye for small details. Whereas Mercy was more inclined towards seeing patterns in things, and connecting seemingly extraneous details. She could focus on the smaller things, but she tended to work her way down from the top, large to small. Though that was just another example of how the two of them worked well together.

Mercy wasn’t sure what the right answer was as far as what had come first. “You need to see the archive itself too… I hope you brought a notepad.” The excited chirp - and the followup blush - weren’t lost on Mercy, who smiled at him fondly. She found it quite endearing - and more than a tiny bit adorable - though she didn’t comment on it, not wanting to embarrass him.

“Come on then… I think I’ve got some glass vials somewhere.” When Arthur was done inspecting, they moved towards the corridor which widened out to allow them to walk side by side. Electric sconces that were at least a century old flickered to life as they approached, dimming again once they’d passed by. There were no other doors here, just plain stone walls with no adornment. After the end there was a rather plain looking set of double doors. Mercy wasted no time pushing them open. They groaned and creaked on their hinges, but opened into a vast, opulent (for a century ago at least) room that spread out into the distance.

Multiple chandeliers flickered to life as they entered, illuminating rows upon rows of shelves lined with books and scrolls and loose papers lined both sides of the main aisle. The carpets were a rich blue, covered in a fine layer of dust in areas that hadn’t been disturbed. There were stacks of books as tall as Mercy, ornate wooden tables covered in papers and writing utensils and odd gadgets… pretty much the cliche aesthetic one would think of when the words ‘archive’ were used. Not that Mercy cared about cliche. The place was a goldmine.

“Have at it, Professor,” Mercy grinned, making sure the doors were shut behind them. “There’s a small bit near the back that I’ve managed to put in some sort of order… but otherwise it’s just… chaos.”

“Maybe,” he agreed in a concomitant fashion that suggested he wasn’t entirely sure about what the actual answer regarding this place was. There seemed to be many possibilities which meant he couldn’t truly say one way or another. So Arthur chose to study the stone before moving on once more, eyes searching for any more information that might clue them in to the nature of what this place was.

In actuality Arthur hadn’t brought anything other than himself, and now that he knew what they were doing he was in hindsight a little frustrated he hadn’t. But here they were. He’d make the most of it, and now he knew about it he made a definitely mental thought to come back and study this place some more.

They continued down the stairs, Arthur’s fingers trailing against the wall as he peered up at the ceiling as they descended until it opened out into a larger antechamber. “I wonder if this place was carved out…” he mused as they went deeper and stone gave way to mortar and brick once more. The material contrasts alone were unique and fascinating not to mention the sconces something else entirely. “I’d love to meet the person responsible for thinking of this decoration, these look like they’ve been modified to fit the electrics in, around the original features.”

Words failed him, it was like the archive at the HQ that Rio had introduced him to but the wood features on the bookshelves seemed even more intricate somehow. The chirp gave way to a soft whistling tune, as his eyes swept back and forth over the interior and he hesitated for just a second before stepping over the threshold. It smelt of ink, old paper and dust enough that Arthur inhaled, savouring the scent for just a moment. “I-- have no idea where to start… Is this the only room? Are there others?”

“Could be,” Mercy said of being carved out. “The tower isn’t on any maps, even ones from the 1700s. Though we could probably find a listing of what sort of bedrock is around here. Check it against some samples.” They moved on, and Mercy glanced at the lighting as he mentioned it. “There might be something about electricity in one of the newer sections? I think I remember flipping over it because I thought it was boring.” She gave him a teasing grin. Though ‘new’ was still a century ago as far as the electrics went. “Apparently whoever the old scribe was that lived here kept track of everything. But the only way you’ll meet him is through a seance.”

Mercy couldn’t help but grin at Arthur’s reaction. The small bird-like sounds had always been something she found endearing, and she gave a soft, warm laugh. “Bit overwhelming, isn’t it?” She stepped up beside him, crossing her arms. “If I was the academic type I’d’ve spent the last six years catalouging this shit. But… since I’m not… I’ve just pulled out things that look interesting and… made a small run at it.” There was a section near the back where a large desk was in somewhat tidy order, and Mercy had done her best to fill the shelves around it with the interesting things she found, and tried to keep a log of what was where. Maybe Arthur could make sense of it.

“This is just the first room. The newest as far as I can tell. There’s a door that way-” She pointed off into the stacks. “- that leads further in. I’ve only gone so far by myself. It feels… strange… in some places.” As in she didn’t think going into certain places alone was a good idea.

“I mean if this is an archive there’s bound to be some records around here anyway about this place… Scribes love to record stuff, regardless of how relevant or irrelevant it happens to be.” So they would probably have some answers there, otherwise a seance wasn’t out of the question but not Arthur’s most preferred method of communication if they had a choice in the matter.

The whistling chitters softened somewhat as his attention honed in on simply taking in the general state and atmosphere of this place. Gods there was so much to do, his mind was already running the possibilities. “It’s… wow, yeah… a bit.” Idly he let his fingers stroke a couple of books, unable to even fathom where you would begin with the shelves here but eager to explore and start by charting out the place. “If there is a section on this place, which I think there should be… There’ll also likely be a codex on how this place is organised.” It was the only logical solution to organising a place like this.

The tricky thing was finding the thing you wanted.

“Hm… Strange how? Static or… something else?”

“Maybe you’ll have better luck than me.” Mercy had looked around a bit, but hadn’t come across anything of the sort in her explorations. Arthur was right though: scribes recorded everything. Along all the interesting information were records of what they had eaten for dinner, or how many candles they’d burned though in a month. It was… mind numbing at times.

Mercy followed along as Arthur inspected the shelves. The place was unique, that much was certain. And further in, there were rooms of more than just books. One room contained a haphazard collection of bones and skeletons of all shapes and sizes. Another was full of hundreds of timepieces that no longer worked. Others were locked and inaccessible. “It’d be somewhere older, don’t you think? Or well… somewhere specific. For keeping records of the archive itself? Maybe it’s in one of the rooms I can’t open.”

Mercy glanced at Arthur, goosebumps rippling over her skin. “Strange like… they feel… wrong. Out of place. Enough that even I don’t wanna go in by myself.”

“Hey, it’ll count for something if we actually find anything actually relevant,” he mused turning in a slow circle simply letting himself take in the sheer scope and vastness of the archive that Mercy was sharing with him. It was rather incredible, all things considered and it was almost definite that he’d be spending the foreseeable majority of his spare time here. Though it needed a damn good clean. The thought alone was enough to provoke a slight itch, and a hand went to rub at the back of his head both at the notion and the fact he’d started to notice the occasional white tip of a pin feather here and there. They were always rather intermittent, but apparently stress had brought on a new bought to come in. Nothing a hat couldn’t hide.

“Maybe… I’ll keep an eye out for anything that might fit.” Suffice to say Arthur wasn’t about to head home any time soon. If Mercy wanted a reason to get him to stay without any objection or question this was it.

“Hm, are those the locked doors?” Not that he intended to go and open them, or investigate yet but it didn’t mean he wasn’t curious. If something made even her wary then he’d take that cue and use it as a guiding framework to inform his own actions upon. “Have you thought about mapping this place? Maybe we could do that if you haven’t? Just ‘til we find an actual reference.”

“I know,” Mercy nodded. “I guess I’ve just been more interested in the bigger picture than the smaller details.” That along with the fact that she couldn’t spend all her time here. And when she did it was mostly in her room at the top of the tower. But that was irrelevant at the moment. She glanced at Arthur as he fussed with his hair, but didn’t think much of it as talk turned to the doors she couldn’t open.

“You’re a better judge of what might be important than I am. But… I can remember if I’ve seen something… if you find a description or anything.” She had an eerily accurate photographic memory at times, and most things of import she could recall with a bit of time and effort. “Some of them are locked, yeah.” Mercy moved further in, towards the back of the room. “Some aren’t.” She told him about the room of clocks and another room that was simply full of broken mirrors. “I don’t go in there.” Once was enough.

When he asked about mapping, Mercy nodded. “I have actually. And I’ve kept a log. It’s… more like notes about a few things I’ve found. How many rooms in which corridor. What’s in the rooms if they’re unlocked. It’s a start I guess.” She led the way between the bookcases to the desk near the back where she worked sometimes. It was a large desk, ornately carved, and covered in haphazard stacks of books, a few scrolls, and some more modern notebooks and pens. “Here.” She picked up a plain black spiral notebook and held it out. “My list. Don’t hate on my penmanship.”

He hummed under his breath as Mercy turned to walk deeper into the library, his instincts itching to simply sit down and start reading each and every book this place contained. He might not have a photographic memory like her but when it came to studying and storing down the keynotes of relevant topics he had long enough to certainly be a master of brevity.

The mention of mirrors made him frown, but the clocks? Naturally Arthur was intrigued. “Do you remember that time I got my hands on my very first music box? It was what… 1818?” He’d been obsessed with the things ever since, even going so far as to tracking the man down to discuss the mechanics of the clockwork he’d utilised to power the thing - revolutionary at the time.”Maybe I can take a look at them,” he said more for his own benefit as they arrived at the desk.

He waited while she rummaged, but when the notebook was produced he took it and flipped it open and leafed through the pages scanning the contents. “Nice to see a thousand years hasn’t improved your handwriting,” he joked while he read over what she’d recorded so far. “And there was nothing else down here? Nothing alive that is?”

Mercy trusted Arthur with whatever he decided to do with the archive. It was as much his now as it was hers. And honestly, Arthur was far better suited to such a place than Mercy. Not that she didn’t appreciate it - she certainly did - but she was more about exploring the depths of the place than sitting at a desk all day. She could be a dutiful ‘scribe’ when it was called for, but she much preferred the procurement of artifacts and information than the recording of them.

“Something like that,” Mercy agreed. “You were fascinated with it.” Though it could’ve been 100 years before that. 200 even. Time ran together after you’d been alive for more than a few centuries. At least Arthur had solid reference points in his timeline here and there. Death and rebirth. Whereas Mercy was… eternal. It sounded cliche at times, but it was nothing but the truth. Sometimes she felt every single one of her 1200 years. Other times she felt like a perpetual child, full of wonder and excitement at what the world still had to offer. Most of those times she was with Arthur. Seeing him light up as she showed him the archive was more than enough to cause a thrum of happiness to roll over her. Though it dimmed slightly as he mentioned looking at the clock room. “We can look if you want, but I don’t think you’ll like it either.”

Mercy stuck her tongue out at him as he commented on her script. She tended to write in a fast, nearly illegible shorthand when trying to record things. Her penmanship had never been that nice, but she’d had enough experience writing letters by hand that she could make it look fancy if she wanted. She just usually didn’t. At least Arthur could decipher it.

She shook her head. “Nothing alive that I’ve seen. Other than spiders.” Mercy gave a small shudder. “Not even mice. There is a room full of bones though. Some of the skeletons I’ve never seen before. Do you wanna see them?”

“Near enough,” he smiled at the thought, but the smile turned into an intrigued look at the mention of these broken clocks. “You say that. I can’t say I’m not curious though.”

He stuck his own tongue out in retaliation as he leafed through the pages, noting anything of reference though he would need some time to go through what she’d found already to actually process any of it. Flipping back to the rough map she’d drawn of the place he turned it this way and that before holding it up to roughly match the way they’d come in. “And all the rooms stay in the same place? Nothing moves about or shifts local?”

“I will never get over that you’re scared of spiders,” he laughed nudging her with his elbow before turning away, “come on then, you’ve intrigued me… Just don’t tell Regan about them she’d impound them as evidence.” The thought was an amusing if unlikely one, “mind, she wouldn’t ever believe they belong to any real creature… Or think they’re some new ground-breaking discovery… Speaking of, I need you to come over and help sort out those flowerbeds.”

“The clock room is one of those rooms I don’t like,” she said quietly, giving him an uncertain glance. “But maybe it’s just me.” Either way, they had time to explore things. And it would be good to mark rooms that were ‘dangerous’ in some way too. Or at least required a bit more caution than others. Mercy suspected the ones that were locked were either these sorts of rooms, or someone simply didn’t want anyone to have what was inside.

Mercy smirked at him and moved to lean against the desk while he looked through the notebook. Her drawing skills were hardly anything to write home about, but it was a passable map for getting a general idea of the place so far. “So far all the rooms are stationary. I don’t know about the ones I can’t get into obviously. No corridors shifting or any of that nonsense…” Mercy rolled her eyes as if shifting corridors was just another everyday problem, which… well, it could be. “I have seen some marking scratched into the stone in some places though. Almost like someone was… making a note? Here…” She sorted around for something else on the desk - it really was a bit of a mess - and came up with a piece of opaque paper. “I did a rubbing of one of them.” She held it out so Arthur could see. “I can’t quite place it.”

She shuddered as he mentioned spiders. “Horrid things.” They moved off, Mercy leading the way out another set of doors and into an adjacent corridor. She snorted a laugh. “Why would I tell her about my bone collection? It’s entirely too cool to waste on someone that won’t appreciate it.” Mercy like Dr. Kavanagh, but the woman was a bit of a skeptic. Even when evidence was right in front of her. “Did I tell you she’s finally gonna dig up those bodies I’ve been pestering her about? So much easier to do it officially than with a shovel and a prayer that you don’t get caught.”

She glanced at him again as they approached a rather normal looking wooden door. “You know a little dirt won’t hurt you, right? Might even do you some good. But.... since I know you probably won’t be elbow deep in fertilizer anytime soon… what kinda flowers do you want?”

“I’d like to see it anyhow.” Curiosity had often gotten Arthur in trouble in the past but unfortunately sometimes you just had to go toe to toe with danger to yield results. But he wasn’t looking for trouble today. Granted, he never usually went looking for trouble. It just seemed to find him.

Tilting his head while he listened to her, he hummed under his breath settling into thoughtful and observant contemplation as they wandered. The blue carpet muffled their steps as they moved through, occasionally he noticed a cloud of dust motes occasionally getting caught in the rays of light illuminating the space. But otherwise most of the space remained undisturbed. How long had it been since anyone had truly populated this space? He had to wonder. But such thoughts were cut short as he was handed a piece of paper, one that he held up to the light and peered at more closely. “Huh…” it was intriguing, mostly because he didn’t have a scooby what it actually meant. “Can’t say I’ve seen anything like this before…”

A wry smile curled his lips, a salacious joke on the tip of his tongue about any kind of bone collection she might have but ultimately he refrained thinking better of himself in the end unsure how it would go down. “True. You know, apparently she’s fae. Lanky-- I mean Langley spilled by accident. Got all tight lipped about it though. Not sure how true it is or isn’t… She seems pretty against the whole concept.” So either it was denial or it was something else entirely. Still, he raised a brow as Mercy mentioned the bodies “you didn’t, but I can see how that’s easier - and a whole lot more legal as well.”

He followed, tucking his hand into his pocket as they walked and talked. “I know, I just have better things to do than get elbow deep in fertiliser.” Though the question of what flowers he wanted caused him to rub his chin. “Hydrangeas. Always thought they were pretty… Always wanted, like, big bushes of them outside the house.”

“And they call me a troublemaker,” she smirked. “Fine. I’ll show you the creepy as fuck clock room. But no taking any of them out of there.” Mercy pointed at him. “I mean it.”

The marking was odd, but to hear Arthur say he didn’t recognize it either was even more surprising. “It’s the oddest thing… I can’t find it anywhere else that I’ve looked. Each mark is different, and they never appear more than once. Maybe it’s… an alphabetic system of some kind? Or even numerical?” Mercy had been a crytographer during the second world war, so breaking codes was something she was good at. But in order to do that, you had some form of… reference. However vague or spotty the source material might be. If they could find out what was behind the doors in the marked areas, perhaps that would give some clue. But until then it was purely theoretical.

His joke would’ve been appreciated, though it was highly likely that Mercy would’ve blushed fiercely before being able to fire off a comeback. She wasn’t a prude by any means, it was simply… it was Arthur. He could make her blush without even meaning to. But as it was, they moved on to talk of Regan Kavanagh. “She’s what?! Are you serious? That’s… excellent,” Mercy grinned. “What kind of fae?” She gave Arthur a small shrug over the body situation. “Wouldn’t be the first time I dug up a corpse. Except these days it’s so much harder to get away with.” And there was the whole not wanting to go to prison thing as well.

“You just don’t like dirtOH! But…” She gave his arm a soft poke. “Guess what would give you free fertilizer? A cow. You’d never have to buy it again. Think of the money you’d save.” Mercy grinned at him, knowing he would say no to a cow (as he had the last half a dozen times), but not able to help herself when it came to pestering him about it. “Oh, I like those, yeah. What colors? I’m thinking blues and purples… maybe a pink thrown in for flare…”

They made their way into the room of bones, Mercy once again closing the door securely behind them. “I thought an archive would just be… old ratty books and moth-eaten scrolls. But this is by far one of the coolest rooms I’ve found.”

He held up his hands, face painted in the picture perfect expression of innocence, “I won’t! I’d never, you have such low standards of me,” he grouched but the slight curve at the corner of his lips gave indication to the joke in the act.

“Maybe, but if there’s repetition it wouldn’t necessarily make sense that it’s an ordering system either numerical or alphabetical… You’d put everything with the same markings together you know? But maybe it indicates a link or some kind of affiliation between those two areas or…” well, in all honesty he didn’t know. And probably wouldn’t until he’d spent a bit more time familiarising himself with this place.

“No idea, a bloody weird one at that,” he admitted with a frown at the few interactions he’d had with her in person and online (mostly online). “Well, yeah ‘cause it’s illegal - I mean it was illegal then but there was way less security on bodies than they have in this place… Heard so many go walkabouts they have to keep them under lock and key at all times.” Whether this was true or not, Arthur had no idea. He didn’t really need to know what the county did with the decedents they happened upon.

“I don’t mind dirt, you’re not the only one that used to be a farmer,” he rolled his eyes at the segway she weaved into the conversation. “No. You’re not getting a cow, and no you’re not keeping it in my yard. End of.” He wasn’t even sure why she wanted one in the first place. His preference for talk about flowers caused him to shift track immediately, “blue and purple definitely - though their colour depends on the acidity of the soil - did you know? If a soil’s acidic they’ll be blue, if it’s neutral or alkaline they’ll be pink.” She might already know that, but it was an interesting fact that had stuck with him over the years.

As they entered the room Arthur’s brows raised towards his hairline, a lot whistle of admiration escaped him as he looked at the ornate wood frame glass display cases that were situated around the room. “Damn… That’s… Wow, you’ve basically got your own museum down here.”

“Yeah, I’d thought of that…” She’d need to take rubbings of the other marks to keep better track of them. And maybe once they got the doors open - if they got the doors open - they could make some sort of connection.

“It’s only illegal if you get caught,” she countered. “But yes yes… I’d rather not be in jail for graverobbing. Again…” The last was muttered to herself, and passed over rather quickly. “I know… but given the option these days you’d rather be in a place like this, wouldn’t you?” She gestured around the room. “Not that I really blame you. This place is pretty cool.” A put upon sigh followed him putting his foot down over her cow. Theoretical cow. “Fine. No cow.” But she tucked the idea in the back of her head for later. As for the colors of the flowers, Mercy hadn’t known that. “Really? Could you play with the soil a bit and get an entirely new color then?”

She grinned at his reaction to the bone room. “I think whoever had this place was a collector too. It’s… unreal what’s in here…”

“I’d be happy to help you work on it?” he offered, it was another reason for him to come back and carry on working here which Arthur most definitely wanted to do. Plus, it was another excuse to see her more.

“I know, and as you like to remind me in almost every illegal thing you do - you’re very good at not being caught. Or, well, sometimes you are other than that time in Paris, that time in Sicily, Rome and Lyons oh! And London, how could I forget that spectacular fail - I still don’t get why’d you even try to use celery to hit that guy anyway?” It was entertaining in a way, to needle her over the times her escapades had gone so very South. He nodded, “yeah! They’re awesome, different colours along a spectrum depending on the acidity of the soil so you can get a whole range depending.”

“You can’t say that and not show me, come on,” he grabbed her hand and wandered deeper into the room.

“Yeah… yeah, of course. I’d… I’d like that.” Why wouldn’t she? He could come here whenever he wanted, even if she wasn’t with him. But it would mean more time she could spend with him as well. And with a project this large to work on, it wouldn’t be finished anytime soon. If ever.

“Hey…” She gave him a mock offended look. “It’s not polite to bring up a lady’s faults… not unless you’d like a list of your own. Because I do seem to remember an incident with… was it one of the Tudors that you nearly set on fire? Bad form, that,” she said in a very proper English accent. It was followed by a snort of indignation at the mention of the celery. “And because it was the best option at the time, alright? Considering I was cornered in a larder. What would have had me do? Throw a turnip at him?” Though in hindsight that might’ve actually worked better. The banter was nice though. It felt good. Like old times almost. So Mercy just went with it. It wasn’t hard, after all. To fall back into old patterns. Old habits. At least for her. Though not all her patterns and habits were good ones.

“We’ll have to see what we get then, won’t we?” she said of the flowers. Another project, another excuse to spend time with him. Mercy wasn’t going to complain. Just as she didn’t complain as he snagged her hand and tugged her into the depths of the room.

An hour or two were spent investigating the rooms at the fringes of the archive, with Arthur finding himself rather affronted by the display case in the bone room labelled as a ‘phoenix’ when it was clearly just some elephant bird skeleton. “That’s just plain idiotic. I thought these guys were meant to be smart? That’s just insulting. It’s not even like it’s close!”

Mildly offended, Arthur had left the bone room leaving Mercy to investigate herself while he wandered further down the corridor. This was how he’d come upon one of the locked doors that Mercy had mentioned. It was ingrained ebony smooth save for the raised pattern of an ouroboros that had been carved into its surface. Beautifully detailed and outlined in silver with two emeralds punched into the spot where the eyes should be. Entrancing in the dim light of the corridor, yet as he looked down there was no handle to this door, his eyes moved to the frame but here too were no apparent hinges or mechanism by which the surface moved.

He flicked through Mercy’s book, and found the marking relating to the door but no further notes. Curiously he raised a hand, tracing first the outer silver rim and then repeating the action with the inner spiral. Infinity. It was on the pass of the inner circle his fingertip caught something, minute and barely visible. “Huh…” intrigued he hooked his finger under it and lifted.

For a moment nothing happened.

Suddenly, with a sliding clunk the ouroboros jutted further outward another inch. More prominent but as he touched the edge where once it had been solid it now rotated freely with the slightest coax. Rotating it clockwise, once, twice - onwards and onwards for several moments until it finally locked in place the emerald ‘eye’ glinting in a fashion that simply screamed push me and it was his curiosity that had him pressing his fingertips to the surface and apply enough pressure to push the key into its lock that gave way with a sshiiick. Sliding home and swinging open to reveal a dark dusty space with a ebony desk, some bookshelves and… a wardrobe? “Wonder who used to use this,” he mused, stepping into the room to investigate.

“It’s not like you all… burst into flames when you die or anything either…” Mercy said, more amused than Arthur at the fake skeleton. She waved him off to explore while she made a few more rounds, noting down any new bits of information she found interesting. A bit later, she headed in the direction he’d gone, but stopped in the corridor as she saw the open door of one of the previously locked rooms.

“Arthur?” Mercy made her way cautiously forwards, glancing at the symbol on the door as the emeralds seemed to glint at her when she passed. Mercy frowned, idly thinking that pushing a button just because it was there was highly dangerous (and honestly more up her alley on most days), but continued on into the room. It was covered in ages and ages of dust. So much that it didn’t take her long to spot the footprints on the floor that headed into the recesses of the newly opened chamber. Mercy followed them, calling out for Arthur once more. “Are you in here? If you’re messing about it’s not funny…”

Mercy’s calls were met with silence. No response to the inquiry of his whereabouts.

The dusty footsteps continued deeper into the room, first to the desk where a few items and dust were disturbed before moving away further into the room. Of note was the fact there were no footprints out of the room. Which meant whoever had gone in… hadn’t come out.

What might happen to be of note, would be the almost indiscernable expansion and retraction of the midsection of the wardrobe at the back of the room.

A wardrobe that happened to presently be trying to digest Arthur Drake and was at that very moment, muffling his cries for help with it’s strangely squishy and truly foul smelling interior. How did a wardrobe have teeth? He didn’t know but its interior tightened sharp teeth crushing inwards on his arms that were trying in vain to push back against it. “Frey! Ow-shit-FUCK! Help!”

Mercy was starting to get worried just about the time she’d followed Arthur’s footprints to the back of the room. There were several strange pieces of furniture in the space, but what drew Mercy’s eye was the rather elaborate wardrobe that the footprints seemed to lead to. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something about the thing didn’t feel right. It was… off. Somehow. She was about to call out to see if Arthur was hiding inside, when she nearly jumped out of her skin as he called out. From inside the fucking thing.

“Arthur?!” Mercy moved forwards, slightly alarmed as she reached for the handle to pull open the door. But it wouldn’t budge. It wouldn’t budge, and it was… gods it was… moving. Like it was breathing, or- Oh no.

“Arthur!” Mercy tugged on the door again but nothing happened. “Hold on!” She’d seen a collection of ornamental axes hanging on the wall over the room’s fireplace. Dashing back, she snagged the biggest and sharpest looking one off it’s holder before running back to the wardrobe that was… eating her friend. With a two-handed swing, Mercy sank the axe into the door of the wardrobe. “Spit him out! Right now!” Another swing of the axe and a huge chunk of the door splintered away. “Or you’re firewood!”

As the wardrobe was addressed, two dark eyes appeared where formerly there were deep knotted rings in the wood. It warbled noisily as a chunk was taken out of it, the four feet curling into knotted tendrils as it creaked and shunted unsteadily. It lurched forwards, a couple of doors lower down in its body snapping open and shut as a thick purple tongue snaked out from between staggered rows of gnashing teeth.

The main compartment doors however, remained shut. Holding fast to the first meal the cabinet had eaten in a very long time. One that it wasn’t intent to give up even when faced with an individual wielding an axe. The tongue snaked out, surprisingly fast considering the lumbering size of its body aiming for Mercy’s ankle in an attempt to drag her off balance and give the cabinet a chance to take a bite.

Inside, Arthur struggled to do much of anything. Torn in the debate as to whether burning would help or hinder his situation considering one thing he’d never bloody well thought to question was whether gastric acid as it corroded through his shoes was highly flammable. Though if the sludgy feeling and burning in his feet was anything to go by he’d need to do something rather than later or else… Gods this would be such a tragic way to go. “FREY FUCk- HURRY UP! OW!” Why didn’t he carry any weapons? Shitshitshitshit.

Mercy was only mildly alarmed as the wardrobe blinked at her. It wasn’t the first monster she’d seen that tried to look like something mundane in order to hide itself. Steamer trunks were notorious for it. “I mean it!” Mercy threatened, getting another good hit in before the thing decided she was actually a threat and went for her ankle. It was surprisingly fast, but Mercy managed to dodge the first strike. She hit the wardrobe with the axe again, the ornamental blade starting to dull beneath the hard wood exterior, and this time, it got stuck. She gave it a solid yank, but the wardrobe took the opportunity to shoot it’s tongue towards her ankles again. The thick, slimy appendage wrapped around her leg with a vice grip. She made a sound of alarm as it snatched hard, pulling her and - thankfully - the ax to the floor.

“You motherfucker…” Mercy cursed as she was dragged across the slimy bit of floor towards the doors that still hadn’t opened to release Arthur. Who was still being digested. “I’m trying! It’s got my leg!” It pulled her closer, the drawers on the bottom gaping wide as it’s next meal came closer. Acidic bile burned Mercy’s leg where it coated the things tongue. “Burn or something!” she called as she swiped at the tongue with the axe and missed. “Give it indigestion!”

The wardrobe gurgled horribly as Mercy snagged something heavy and immobile with her free hand, stopping her forward motion. It pulled hard, protesting the fact that she wasn’t coming quietly. “We’re not… your… fucking… dinner!” Another pointed swing of the axe, and this time, Mercy hit home. She chopped off the creature’s purple tongue, and it screamed it’s rage at her as the severed appendage spewed black blood over the floorboards.

Mercy kicked off the piece that was still attached to her ankle as it retracted what was left into it’s mouth.The drawers clamped shut and it growled menacingly at her, all while seeming to clamp down tighter on the Phoenix. “Arthur! Hold on!” She raised the axe again, hoping she was faster with the weapon than the wardrobe was with its gastric juices.

There was only so much hopping he could do, the burning sensation starting to shoot white-hot pain up his legs and hands where they pressed into the creature’s insides. “Ow-ow-ow-” he grimaced with every switch of his feet that he made. Not to mention the smell of… nope, he wasn’t thinking about what was being corroded by acid right now. That would not go well.

Vaguely he heard something called through the wood, though he wasn’t quite sure what Mercy said. Something about burning? But surely the acid would counter it… How did you start fires? The searing ache in his shins was making it hard to focus, “hydrogen!”

Blindly, Arthur fumbled for his watch catching the lock and tugging it loose. It slipped off his wrist and he dropped it near his legs. How long would it take? He had no idea. He counted the seconds waiting, waiting all while praying that this wasn’t how it fucking ended. Being eaten by a cabinet. The Gods were mocking him if that was how it ended. He dreaded to think what his legs and feet would look like after this, but when the vague time elapsed he screwed up his eyes and focussed on pulling any heat inwards. Siphoning it out of the creature and into himself, the flicker was small but in the confined region of this creature’s stomach it was enough.

There was a moment where nothing happened, the creature continuing to advance on Mercy despite her valiant attempts to hack at its wooden exterior. Before suddenly something happened within it.

Inside the foul smelling interior of the creature the hydrogen caught light, imploding in an inferno of heat within the creature’s stomach and its ringed eyes seemed to widen in surprise. Staggering as it wailed mournfully for its overcooked meal, smoke billowed out of its mouth before the doors hinged open revealing another - larger, cavernous mouth ringed in jagged serrated teeth. From this maw, Arthur was thrown up violently, covered in thick sticky purple mucus and acid. His form rolling to a limp stop nearby; clothes patchy and smouldering while the skin underneath look blistered and pricked with marks from the jagged chomping of teeth that seemed to line this creature’s insides. “Owww--”

The creature made another pained noise, rearing up as it tried to charge Mercy, swinging its doors in an attempt to jam her inside instead. Perhaps this meal would be better.

Mercy couldn’t believe this thing was still standing. There were bits and pieces of it everywhere. Hunks of wood that oozed a foul-smelling black ichor lay all over the dusty carpet. The severed half of the creature’s tongue lay curled and shriveled where Mercy had kicked it off her ankle. Even one of the knotted, black eyes lay on the floor where the axe had dislodged it, swirling madly as it tried to focus on what was happening. No wonder this room had been sealed up. She silently cursed Arthur’s curiosity in this case, though her influence on the normally level-headed phoenix might’ve had something to do with it. Which she didn’t care to think about too much. Not when said phoenix was still being eaten alive.

It trembled and growled at her as she hacked away at it’s doors, but the muffled sounds Arthur was making were the only sounds she cared about. If they stopped-

But then… something happened. Mercy had just pulled the axe out of the wood, and reared back for another strike, when it made a gurgling sound of distress. And when smoke started to billow from between the doors, Mercy took a step back, a small cry of triumph on her lips. “Take that you fucking bastard!” she growled just before the creature opened wide and spewed a singed, slimy, and smoking Arthur onto the floor. “Fuck! Arthur, are you-”

Mercy never had time to finish her sentence as the maw of the wardrobe opened wide, spewing smoke and foul-smelling bile as it roared it’s anger at the Fury who had denied it it’s meal. She backed away, but only so the thing would try and follow her away from Arthur. It creaked and groaned and popped as wood that hadn’t moved in decades lurched towards Mercy.

“Come on, beastie…” the Fury taunted, tapping her axe on the edge of another - non-sentient - piece of furniture to further gain the wardrobe’s attention. “I’m right here…” The smoking creature gave a grumbling, gurgling growl and made a clumsy leap in Mercy’s direction. Mercy raised the axe, intent on chopping one of the doors off at the hinges, but before she could swing, something struck her across the back of the legs. She tumbled backwards over it, cracking her head on the floor. Black spots popped across her vision as she rolled quickly to her knees, then pushed unsteadily to her feet, half expecting to be descended on by the wardrobe at any moment.

But as she turned, weapon raised to the sounds of snapping teeth and banging doors, Mercy paused. She even tilted her head because what the actual fuck…? It appeared she was no longer the subject of the wardrobe’s rage. A steamer trunk, made of thick dark wood and wrapped with leather and metal bindings, was attacking the wardrobe. The larger creature’s mouth was stuck around the trunks ‘lid’... which was apparently it’s head… while the steamer trunks leather straps appeared to be trying to strangle the wardrobe. The noise was deafening. Mercy huffed. It was quite literally one of the strangest things she’d ever seen. But, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, she dipped in the other direction and made a beeline for Arthur.

With the sentient furniture otherwise occupied in deciding who was boss of the room, Mercy dropped to her knees beside her friend. His skin was blistered, and his clothes hung in smoldering shambles. It couldn’t be his own fire that had done this… it had never hurt him before. So it had to be whatever was on him. Mercy snagged a sheet off a random bit of furniture before pulling him up to a sitting position and propping him against the wall. “Arthur… Arthur wake up…” She tapped his face with her hand. “These clothes have got to go… now. You understand? They’re covered in acid…” Without waiting for him to answer, Mercy wiped the acid off her hands onto the dust-covered carpet and used the sheet to wipe the worst of it off Arthur’s skin before tugging on his shirt. “I need your help here…” she told him, tapping his cheek again to make sure he was listening.

This certainly wasn’t how he’d foreseen this afternoon going, but then again he always felt more bold when Mercy was around. Whether that was her valkyrie nature or whether it was his own subconscious effort of trying to impress her he couldn’t rightly say. Either way, it almost always ended up in a situation like this. Sore and painful, yet somehow weirdly gratifying even if his feet felt like they were melting off the bone. Which a glance at the angry red blisters that were breaking out over his skin suggested they might be.

The shock of what had happened was starting to set in, leaving him feeling dizzy and more than a little faint. Enough that he could barely register the turn of events with another sapient piece of furniture joining the rounds of battering off the wardrobe to try and assert dominance. But then again, who’d have foreseen sapient furniture in the first place?

He groaned as Mercy patted his face; sticky and slime covered from the intestinal contents of the creature he’d just been swallowed by moments before. “M’here, m’here…” he said under his breath in a slightly disconnected fashion, but his eyes fluttered wincing at the material where it was sticking to his legs. It took a moment before he shifted, “can we…” he grappled for the wall trying to get back to his feet despite the burning pain in his legs. “Ow. can we-” he glanced at the warring furniture pieces “like get out of here?” That seemed a little more pressing right now.

Mercy gave a heavy sigh of relief when Arthur finally answered her. The sound of the battling furniture behind them was deafening, but at least it meant their attention was elsewhere, and not on Mercy and Arthur. But still, it wouldn’t do to chance it, as Arthur reminded her once he came round enough to try and get up. “Right.” Looping an arm around her shoulder, Mercy helped him to his feet, grimacing at the sticky mess he was covered in. But it took a side-seat to getting the hell outta Dodge.

Carefully, but as quickly as possible, they made their way back to the door with the emerald-eyed serpents inlaid in the door. Propping Arthur against the wall, Mercy pulled it shut. The mechanisms inside it made heavy, clunking and turning noises, until the ouroboros symbol turned as well, moving back to it’s original place with a heavy, almost pointed, click. There was muted, rumbling crash from the other side, and Mercy made a face before moving back to a sticky, woozy Arthur. “Come on… back to the tower. You gotta get outta these clothes before they eat through your skin.”

Once the door was locked again, Arthur slumped a shoulder against the wall the adrenaline coursing through his veins enough to leave him hyperaware. Not that there seemed to be any threats out in the hallway… Just behind the locked doors.

Who knew?

But then again, he always pushed to do things like this when Mercy was around. And it often ended in a comical mess that they usually had to muddle through, though right now the melting pot was his clothes. He looked down at the state of them, grimacing a little. “That… wasn’t the Narnia joke I was hoping to make,” he admitted with a disgruntled huff tilting his head against the wall, before Mercy was back at his side. “I doubt any of your clothes are gonna fit me…”

One thing was for certain, they were marking this room in particular as ‘Don’t Fucking Enter.’ Until they could find a way to neutralize the murderous furniture at least. But it wouldn’t be anytime soon. Turning back to Arthur, Mercy shook her head at him, but couldn’t help the small snort of laughter that followed. “I’d say that joke would be in bad taste,” she said, taking his arm again. “But then I could made a joke about you leaving a bad taste in that asshole’s mouth, so…” She sighed in a put upon fashion. “I guess today just wasn’t the day.”

“My clothes are better than wearing the gut-rot that’s all over yours. I’ve got some joggers and a tshirt that’ll be fine.” They made their way back through the first room and back to the main entrance. Then Mercy took them up the spiral staircase to the little room at the top. It was cozy enough - considering the thunderstorm that had rolled in while they were exploring - and it was clear Mercy had been staying here on and off for awhile. Along with others before that. She flipped on the lights - the electricity here was just as old as the rest of the place - and got Arthur set down on the sofa (on top of the sheet she’d brought along) as she moved to find him something to wear. “This wasn’t on my list of ‘ways to get Arthur out of his clothes’... just so you know…” she teased from a small chest of drawers nearby.

“Yeah, I did leave a pretty bad taste there didn’t I?” he made a face, wiping some acidic saliva off with his one remaining sleeve. Though the fabric was already relatively ruined by now. There was a slight lip to his step as they made it to the stairs, and he had to reach for the bannister to help pull himself up but eventually they made it to the flat at the top of the tower.

“I guess… Still.” He shifted his weight again, but ultimately ended up slipping off his shoes and peeling off his socks grimacing as he peeled them off the semi-blistered skin of his feet. “Ow- fuck,” the leather had done a pretty good job at saving off most of the damage, but it still hurt and left his skin oozing blood in places.

“Didn’t realise you had a list of how to achieve that end… Good to know. I can still surprise.”

“Bit of a scorched aftertaste, yeah.” She gave him a sympathetic glance as they got on their way. Mercy didn’t know how bad he was actually hurt, though hopefully it was just a few scalded spots. Though she could already see areas of blistered skin beneath the holes that had been eaten in his clothes. “Your dignity is safe with me, hm?” she told him. Unlike Arthur himself, apparently. Which made her frown. But Mercy put a stop to that train of thought before it could even get started.

“I have several lists where you’re concerned…” she said idly as she rummaged through the drawers. “Aha! Here we are.” A pair of grey joggers that would most certainly be at least six inches too short were pulled out and held triumphantly aloft. They were followed by an oversized (for Mercy) Queen t-shirt that was faded enough to be an original. “Here.” She set them down on the couch beside him, frowning at the state of him, especially where the skin was blistered and bloody. It hurt her heart to see him in any sort of pain, even if she couldn’t feel the latent discomfort through the mark on her hand.

“Have you got any tears with you? If not I’ve got a first aid kit somewhere.”

“Left the oven on for too long, clearly,” he said.

All in all, it could’ve been worse he decided as he looked at the state of his feet and legs. For the time he’d been trudging in intestinal digestive fluid. But when Mercy offered over the joggers and the t-shirt he took them with a word of thanks “Queen? Seems like an age since I saw them in concert. No one does showmanship quite like that anymore...”

Getting up from the seat and limping over to what he figured must’ve been a bathroom speaking on rout, “Not on me… But if you got some onion around I could probably get some.” Outside the window, thunder rumbled and the sky flashed.“Think we might be camping here tonight...”

It took a little bit longer than usual, considering the joggers were indeed several inches too short and came up to his mid-shin but the shirt fitted surprisingly well. “Think I’ll start White Crest’s new fashion trend with these” Arthur laughed as he slowly limped out to rejoin her after his change.

“Right? Everyone’s all… lip sync and whatever the fuck else they call music these days. That-” She pointed at the shirt. “- is the real deal too. 1977 tour. I think. Might’ve been ‘78. You can keep it if you want.” Mercy looked over at the window as the storm made itself known. “I might have something…” she murmured when he mentioned onions. “Would clove oil do?” Rain started to patter harder against the window a bit harder after that. “Looks like it. It’s been an age since I had a sleepover though.” She gave him a teasing grin. “We can braid each other’s hair and talk about boys.”

He padded off to change, and Mercy busied herself with searching the small flat for something that might bring a phoenix tear or two to the surface without being harmful. She also set the small electric kettle to boiling. Tea was needed after the afternoon they’d had. She’d scrounged up a couple of things that might be useful for tear-making - along with a few snacks she kept handy - when Arthur finally emerged.

Mercy couldn’t help it. She gave him a low whistle. “Nice legs, Professor. I definitely think they suit you better than me.”

“It’s not all bad, I quite enjoy how progressive it’s gone though I’m not so keen with how hip-hop dominant the radio tends to be these days” he laughed as he pulled the t-shirt down to look at the front of it. “I’ve actually got my own from ‘76. Thankfully I had the sense to put stuff in storage so I could come back and get it when I remembered… Good thought that, or else I’d have lost it all and that would’ve been a shame. Good to know you still have good taste in music though.”

“Should do,” he said to the oil, really, anything would work but sometimes he just needed a catalyst. After that things sort of worked out on their own.

“Legs for days,” his face grew red at the whistle and he busied himself with wringing his hands in front of himself. As if that would do anything to detract from the joke. Though the soreness was still enough to leave him fighting back a wince as he limped across to deposit himself once more on the sofa. “Did you find anything that’ll work?”

“Yeah, same. Though I do love me some ‘90s R&B.” She grinned as he said he had a similar vintage t-shirt in his collection. “Nothin’ like the real deal is there? All this… remade stuff just… doesn’t have the same feel to it. And damn right it would’ve been a shame.” A small blush touched her cheeks. “Thanks. Good to know my record collection won’t offend your ears. Though I never could convince you that opera was included in that category.” Her tone was teasing, and she moved off to search for the little bottle of oil while he changed.

“Definitely.” His blush wasn’t lost on her despite the slight dimness of the lighting. But she didn’t comment on it, not wanting to embarrass him. “I wish I had long legs. Mine are just… short and stubby.” She brought the little black bottle of oil over and sat down beside him. “Here. It doesn’t take much. You could probably just… give it a whiff and… boom. Waterworks.” His skin did look awful, and Mercy felt terrible that there wasn’t more she could do. And that he gotten hurt in the first place. Thunder rumbled again, and the kettle started to whistle about the same time. “I’ve got tea, if it’s any consolation.”

“R&B is pretty good, blues rock has been making a bit of a comeback which is good as well” Arthur’s taste in music was eclectic as anything else in his life. There was no one set thing that he’d ever listen to, things quickly grew boring after a while and having a wider catalogue to choose from simply made life and all facets of it more enjoyable. “You still can’t. You’re the only person in the world I’d willingly subject myself to that level of torture for.”

When Mercy remarked on her legs Arthur’s features twisted into one of disagreement, “they’re nice legs,” he protested quietly. “All of you is nice, and there’s nothing wrong with being short - even if it does mean you’re closer to hell,” Arthur joked with a wry wink in the hopes of averting from his own discomfort.

Taking the bottle he looked at the contents, “do you have a cup or vial or something?” It’d be easier to collect the tears first and then use them rather than deal with the ins and outs of getting himself patched up.”Tea’s always a good consolation.”

“Oh man… the Blues. I’ve got so many albums on the original vinyl…” she grinned. “That and Jazz. Fucking Etta James…” Mercy hummed a few bars of a random tune in that genre before being tempted to throw something at him. Something soft, of course, considering his current state. In the end she just gave him a good-natured roll of her eyes. “Well… let it never be said that you don’t sacrifice for others.” Opera held many fond memories for Mercy, one in particular, but she chose not to linger over the subject at the moment. Though Arthur moved on well enough on his own.

Now it was Mercy’s turn to blush slightly. “So you like my… everything?” she asked casually. Though she snorted and pointed a finger at him over the ‘closer to Hell’ comment. “Cheeky.” Mercy retrieved an empty vial from the cabinet and gave it to him before moving to make them both a mug of tea. And give him a small bit of privacy to collect the tears. “That’s one thing I never microwave,” she told him as she worked over the mugs. “It’s an insult to tea.”

“See? Not completely horrendous - just very poor taste in people sounding like strangled cats,” Arthur wasn’t shy about his opinions when it came to opera and Mercy knew all about them. But like everything in life it was about compromise and her love of the artform was why he subjected himself to such torture. In truth he didn’t mind the performances entirely, but he’d personally prefer to go along to a ballet than the theatrics of an opera considering his preference to leaving with his ears intact after the fact. “True, note it down so it might go down in history.”

He took the vial and tea glancing over at her when she blushed. “Why wouldn’t I?” he asked with a furrow dimpling his brow. Though the moment was soon followed up by Arthur poking his tongue out at her, “didn’t deny it.”

When Mercy gave him a bit of space, he set to the task of collecting the tears. It wasn’t too hard, and by now it was a skill he was relatively practised at. With a careful dose on each area of burned skin, he stoppered the remaining liquid and set it aside. “Glad to know the years haven’t turned you into a total heathen.”

Mercy gave him a half-hearted long-suffering look, but it was overridden by fondness. He had suffered through many a falsetto aria on her behalf. But she’d tried to make it up to him in her own way. “Consider it noted.” She gave him a fond smile before his comment on her legs made her blush and she gave him some space. “No reason…” Which was a little white lie that Mercy didn’t care to think too long over. Because there was liking something… and then liking something. She knew that her ‘everything’ likely fell quite firmly into the former category. At least currently.

“Why would I?” she countered about the closer to hell comment, shooting him a smirk.

When Arthur was finished collecting and distributing the tears, Mercy sat down again, glancing over his now healing burns. She hummed her approval at the state of them before sitting back. Thunder rumbled overhead, rattling the glass in the set of double doors leading out to the tower’s small balcony. “Even I have my hard limits,” she told him around the rim of her mug. A bit of silence followed before Mercy asked, “So, despite the murderous furniture, what’s your impression of the place?” She hid her grin behind her mug again. “Other than having a nerd-gasm, of course.”

A mildly suspicious look was sent in her direction, Arthur unsure quite what to make of the remark. If it didn’t mean anything then why had she asked it? Reverse intuition suggested it therefore had to mean something. “You wouldn’t have asked if there was no reason.”

“And guess that’s a point,” he said.

With the wounds slowly starting to scab over, Arthur stretched out and reclined into the sofa hands wrapped around his mug of tea. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he laughed softly though it quietened as she asked his thoughts on the place. “Well, apart from that I think it’s fascinating - sentient furniture aside. I bet there’s loads of interesting stuff to find. How’d you even come to get the key to this place anyhow?

Mercy pointedly ignored Arthur’s look of suspicion, but still shrugged in response to the question. “Most people don’t care for my personality, let alone my everything. So… just wondering.” It was the truth. Mostly.

She tucked her own legs beneath her, leaning into her corner of the sofa. A huff of air was her only retort to his quiet laughter. And she grew quiet as well to let him mull over the idea of the archives. “Oh, I’m sure there is,” Mercy agreed, raising an eyebrow. And she was also certain the man-eating furniture was one of the least dangerous things down there. As for how she’d come to have the key, that wasn’t very exciting.

“I was living in Portland at the time. I’d been doing PI work for right around a year after I quit the force. I was after this guy. Low life bail jumper. Had a ton of warrants for minor stuff. Police couldn’t catch him - no surprise there - so I finally tracked him down and he… offered it to me.” Mercy raised both brows, her expression saying it was just that simple. And that strange. “Literally told me he was in possession of a key to a lost archive of supernatural relics and records. Just out of the blue. Even had the fucking thing on him.” She shook her head. “So… me being me… I took the key and let him go. Told him if I got to this town and found out I’d been lied to, that I’d find him again and he’d regret it.”

A small frown turned her expression thoughtful. “In hindsight… seems almost too strange. Or well…” Mercy shrugged. “... too convenient. Too easy, hm? But… nothing’s happened since I’ve been here. Honestly, today was the most eventful day I’ve had in six years.” She shot him a grin. “So thanks for that.”

“Hm,” he wasn’t entirely convinced but decided perhaps it was best to let sleeping dogs lie for the time being.

“That’s kind of weird, you didn’t think that was kinda weird at the time?” he questioned with a slight frown pulling at the corner of his mouth fingers drumming lightly against the mug. It struck him as strange, “why’d he give up a place like this - crime aside and I get wanting to avoid jail but… Why leave this place if he wasn’t going to be found here anyway… Him being in Portland just…” it didn’t add up. None of it did. “Did it seem like he was running away from something?” Perhaps there was a larger picture to all this but Arthur couldn’t say he could see it right now.

“That’s weird,” he took a sip of his tea but huffed in amusement “ah right, well you know me - I aim to please and entertain you so… Glad I could do that i guess?”

Mercy frowned thoughtfully. “Honestly? No. I was… more curious than anything. Especially when I’d had no clue they were even… remotely involved in anything supernatural.” She took a sip of her tea, holding the warm mug against her mouth for a moment afterwards as she pondered Arthur’s questions. “Maybe there was something here he was afraid of? As far as I know, he was human. I mean… he could’ve been a caster or even fae… but you would think if they were… they’d never give this place up.” Why hadn’t Mercy thought about this more before now? The idea had flitted through her thoughts now and then, but never to the point where it had consumed more than a moment or two of her time.

She shook her head as he asked if the man had been running from something. “The only thing he was running from was me. But…” Her gaze lifted slowly to Arthur’s. “What if… he meant for me to catch him?”

A look crossed over Mercy’s face, one of slowly starting to realize something far after the fact, but she couldn’t help the snort of laughter that Arthur’s last comment brought. “Just don’t jump into anymore wardrobes, hm? That would please me more than anything.”

“I mean killer furniture is a pretty big issue - I wonder if there’s any more in this place…” it was big enough that it was an option, “I wonder if it’s part of a set… Maybe there’s some stuff at the big scribe HQ that Rio works at… There’s locked doors there as well.” What an interesting thought, and one that he was curious to explore - more carefully in future and preferably with something sharp handy just in case. He really didn’t want a repeat of today, it had cost a rather favoured watch of his after all. “Guess whatever they were running from was bigger than this place…”

Though it still left him wondering just what would be bigger than this, “I mean the scribe order collapsed years ago. Barely any of those dusty old fools left. Too busy looking to the past to realise how fast the future was coming for them…”

Mercy’s thoughts fell along a different tangent but Arthur couldn’t follow the logic behind that either. “That doesn’t explain why though… If he wanted you to have it why not just… Ship it or something. Why make you chase him?”

“I promise, though I didn’t jump thanks, I was eaten. There’s a difference.”

“I hope not…” Mercy said truthfully. “Having to dodge every stepstool and steamer trunk in this place’ll get old, trust me.” She gave him A Look when he mentioned the other archive’s locked doors. “No offense, but Rio’s not gonna help much in a fight against somethin’s that tryin’ to eat you. He said so himself. Smart kid, don’t get me wrong, but you’ll be kibble if it’s left up to him.” She knew Arthur could take care of himself - unless he was… swallowed… sort of... by a ravenous wardrobe - but that didn’t stop her from worrying. It never had.

“I guess so.” Mercy looked around at the little flat. “I can think of a handful of things that would make me give this up… and none of them are anything I’d run from.” She wasn’t a coward. There were only a scant few things that could make her turn tail and run. Or that truly scared her. And for that handful of things… one in particular… Mercy would do anything. Give up anything. Because nothing else mattered if that one thing was gone.

“Right, I know,” she agreed on the scribes. “But their knowledge is still here. That collective is… nearly fathomless. We’ve not even scratched the surface.” There was a tone of excitement in her voice at the thought of starting this new adventure. And with Arthur along for the ride.

His question made sense, but it only made her earlier conclusion not make sense. Mercy shook her head. “I don’t know. Unless-” Her expression turned to a look that said a connection was forming somewhere in her thoughts… but she couldn’t quite put the pieces together just yet. “Unless that’s what they wanted me to think…” A deep furrow formed in her brow, and Mercy tapped her nails against her mug.

“Partially eaten…” Mercy quipped, giving his leg a gentle poke with her toe as she was pulled from her thoughts. “But I’m gonna hold you to that promise.”

Arthur snorted, not unkindly but mostly because he knew that was true. Rio was a nice kid, but he really was just that. “I don’t see him wielding an axe to try and get me out of one of those things that is true. But he’s nice, so that counts for something.”

As to the tower, he wasn’t sure what would make someone run from something like this. Even if you thought you knew everything there was always more tucked away. How long would it truly take to even uncover the surface of the information stored here? It was intriguing and Arthur planned to spend a lot more time exploring the contents of this place. “It’s fascinating, but a bit sad that they’re gone - I think that’s what Rio’s trying to do… Rebuild.” It was certainly an interesting notion and he was curious to see how the venture went.

“A question like that will drive you mad,” he said. Perhaps it was better to wait until they had more information. Maybe the archive could give them more insight into its previous owner and past inhabitants.

“Mm,” he sounded his agreement tiredly, stifling a yawn with his hand the combination of tea and comforting rumble of thunder and the evening’s events enough to tire him out rather considerably. “Mind if I crash here tonight?” he asked as he finished the remainder of his drink and set the mug aside.

Mercy grinned. “Though you never know… he might surprise you.” She doubted it, but he was a good kid regardless.

“It’s always sad when the last of something dies.” That statement hit closer to home than she cared to think about, considering their respective status, species-wise. And considering they’d both lived long enough to see more than their fair share of endings. But Mercy didn’t want to think about that right now. “I told him I’d share the archive’s information with him,” she nodded. “I don’t plan on letting him roam around alone down there, but he’s welcome to any information that might help. You can always bring him too, if you want.” The place was as much Arthur’s now as it was hers.

Mercy only hummed at the thought of going mad trying to work out the answer to such a strange question. She took a drink of her tea, glancing at the window as the thunder rattled the panes again. “Course I don’t mind…” Getting up, she gathered his mug and took it to the little sink along with hers to rinse out and let dry. “Should take the bed-” She tipped her chin towards a cozy looking cot in the corner. “-much more comfortable.”

“Maybe I will next time I’m here. But you’re right I wouldn’t let him go wandering around. Who knows… That bone room might come alive and we’ll have a full on skeleton army revolt” he snorted at the thought but there was no certainty that such a thing wasn’t possible if the right magic got unleashed down here. Definitely not something Arthur wanted to deal with though skeletons ranked far less of a threat than wardrobes.

“Alright,” but he waved his hand at her suggestion of taking the bed “no I’m alright here… It's your bed,” the sofa would be a few feet too short but he’d slept in worse places. He wasn’t putting her out of a bed just because he was crashing here and his mind was already made up on that decision.

“Would you believe me if I told you that wasn’t the first time I’ve heard ‘skeleton army revolt’ used in regular conversation?” She finished with the mugs and gave him a half-hearted, long-suffering look as he declined her offer of the bed. But she knew it wasn’t worth arguing over. “”Suit yourself.” Sorting him a blanket and a pillow, Mercy turned on the little oil heater she kept around to warm up the little space since it got cold, even in summer. Not that the cold would bother Arthur all that much. The rain wasn’t letting up, but hopefully come morning it would be gone and they could make the trek back through the woods to her bike.

For now, Mercy turned off most of the other lights before climbing into the little bed and pulling the covers up, stifling her own tired yawn. “Thank you for comin’ with me today… it’s been fun,” she smiled. “Other than the… you getting eaten part, of course.”

“Yes, because I know you and the sort of questionable company you keep - myself included,” he flashed a grin in her direction but soon enough turned to settle as best he could on the sofa. It wasn’t the most comfortable sleeping arrangement, but they’d been in worse. Yawning, he stretched out and settled his head on the pillow tucking one hand under to support his head more comfortably. The darkness fell over the room as she turned out the lights, save the light from the moon shining through the window. “Thanks for inviting me… Even if I did get eaten.”

end.

#chatzy #p: arthur #p: blood and roses #vomit tw #//this is long we're sorry not sorry XD #//only 25 pages : D #wickedswriting

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feuillesmortes · 7 years

Text

Academic life got in the way of this fic, but here we are! This chapter happens just one day after Henry and Lizzie’s day trip to Richmond. I’m tagging my mates @harritudur and @queenbessofyork, who have been incredibly supportive of this fic.

As always, you can also read it on Ao3.

Henry, London Borough of Camden, 2:04 p.m.

One could think of few things better than spending a bank holiday in North London. The sun was out, the birds were singing. The sound of the rustling leaves coming from the Heath was carried along by a gentle breeze sweeping down on Hampstead Village. That posh neighbourhood, known as the new frog valley of London, where french pâtisseries and crêperies endowed the air with the richest of flavours, was home to François de Bretagne.

In one of the large Edwardian houses that populated the neighbourhood, Henry Tudor attended his boss’s garden party garbed with his best bottom-up and armed with a politely trained smile on his face. It was a great chance to properly catch up with his co-workers and improve his networking skills. Except Henry would rather be anywhere else. Well, not really anywhere else. Certainly not with anyone. He had a very specific person on his mind.

For what felt like the hundredth time, he unlocked his mobile screen to look at her text:

Can we meet today at 7? Spoons would be nice x

Just ten simple words. Not unlike with everything else in his life, Henry found himself overanalysing that line of text. She had ended it with a single ‘x’ instead of a double… Not the most affectionate way to end a text, one could say. Their goodbye the previous day had been awkward enough, yes, but she hadn’t shied away from his embrace. Granted, when walking Lizzie to her flat she had hurried inside the building maybe a bit too fast.

But her invite to the local Wetherspoons was a good sign, wasn’t it? A familiar feeling gnawing at his insides, Henry started to think he might have miscalculated his move. Maybe he should have given her more time… He instinctively touched the pocket where he kept the gift he had bought her ages ago: a gold necklace, paired with a rose pendant. He had bought it as a Christmas present, only at the time he hadn’t had the guts to give her.

“Tudor, are you coming or not? We’ll be running out of gravy soon.”

“Yeah, bruv! Just grab your plate and get in the bloody queue!”

Henry looked up to find his co-workers Ed and Tom waiting for him, both mildly annoyed at his delay. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”

His colleagues were right to worry about the gravy, though; the queue for the buffet table was incredibly long. It looked like everyone who worked for the company had been invited to the party. The majority of the employees were EU nationals, but Henry’s fellow Brits were increasing numbers every day.

“Oh shit, is that Jane from HR?” Tom exclaimed suddenly. “I’ve gotta go talk to her. Hold my place for a sec, will you?”

A cocktail cooling in hand, Henry watched Tom approach the HR girl with the characteristic sleazy smile he put on whenever he tried to chat up a girl. Thomas Grey, simply known around the office as Tom, looked just like a generic Tom was supposed to look. Small round eyes, rosy face, neither tall nor short. Every Brit knew at least one generic Tom.

“Doesn’t he have a girlfriend or something?” Henry turned to ask his other colleague, Edward Woodville. He bore the same last name as Lizzie’s mother, which sometimes made Henry wonder whether they were distantly related or if it was all just coincidence.

“Last time I checked, he had a fiancée.” Henry let out a small oh, taking a sip from his glass. Ed simply shrugged. “You know how Tom is. Always… fooling around.” He turned his gaze to Henry. “What about you? What were you doing back there on your phone? Not bad news, I hope.”

“No, not bad news. Just… me being paranoid, I reckon.”

Ed nodded, turning to scan the rest of the party. “Do you… want to talk about it… maybe?”

“Nah, mate. I’m fine.” Henry looked down at his glass, shaking the ice cubes. The liquid quivered with circular vibrations. Some unspoken rules were just not simply broken.

“Cool.”

“Cool.” Henry repeated, as if those were not his worries they were just trying to discuss. Cool.

A comfortable silence settled over them, lasting no longer than Tom’s return. Looking triumphant, Tom got back just in time before the queue moved too far. “I did it! I got her number! See, I told you I would—”

“Well, well, well! Who do we have here?”

They spun around to find Pierre Laudais, François’ assistant. He sported a mocking smile and an awfully tacky tie as he usually did. He wasn’t particularly popular among the employees, not even the EU nationals working for the firm. As the second in command, Laudais was merely tolerated. Henry let out a deep sigh, bracing himself. Here we go.

“And do my eyes deceive me or it is Henry Tudor, the absolute ledge!” The Frenchman laughed, patting his shoulder. “Isn’t it how you lads say it? Absolute ledge?”

Don’t murder stare. Don’t murder stare. You’ve got this. Don’t murder stare. Don’t murder st—

His colleagues shook their heads, barely concealing their contempt.

“It’s not… It’s not really…”

“It’s not how we say it.”

Laudais was thoroughly amused, though. “Why not? This guy— this guy here, I’m telling you. This guy right here is a legend. The best intern we ever had. Go ask François. N’est-ce pas, Tudor?” Laudais spoke his last name with a strong accent dripping with sarcasm. It all clearly meant: aren’t you a proper boss’s pet?

Henry squinted his eyes at him, fake smiling. “Thank you, Laudais. I only try my very best. But clearly, you already know that for sure.” Just the previous month, Henry had checked a couple of funny reports, counts not matching the system. The error couldn’t be tracked at the time, but Henry had a feeling Laudais hadn’t been much happier since then.

Laudais simply blinked at him for some seconds before turning to his co-workers. “Well, forgive me for trying to blend in with you, heh. You know, after Brexit one does fear about losing his job. No one is safe! Who knows who could be next!” He raised his glass of champagne as a way of goodbye and gave them an ugly smirk, a motion that rendered his face even more punchable. He left them to go straight to the casserole dish stand, jumping the queue and receiving some silent head shakes along the way.

“Connard.” Henry muttered under his breath, gulping down the rest of his cocktail. He could assign a long list of names to that bastard. It was a special pastime of his to get colourful with his french insults: enfoiré, abruti, crevard, quickly turning into trou du cul, face de rat, sac à vin, crétin des Alpes, ironie de la création… It was truly a great pity he could not voice his thoughts with so many French speakers around.

His co-workers beside him, though, were not so subtle.

“Dickhead.”

“Fucking wanker.”

Henry served himself a couple of golden yorkshire puddings, a recent favourite of his. “Don’t mind him. Laudais is just trying to scare me. Honestly, I couldn’t be arsed to care.”

“But maybe you should,” Ed said, stuffing his plate with roasted vegetables. “Aren’t you graduating in a few month’s time?”

“Hopefully yes.”

“It’d be nice to have a job then, don’t you think?”

Henry fell silent at that. It would be nice to have a job. That was something he had to remind himself every time frustration got the better of him, like a mantra. It would be nice to have a job.

The hours dragged, the minutes stretched. Taking rounds around the garden to chitchat with his colleagues was like a personal nightmare come alive. The weather! Where would they all be if not for that particular topic of conversation? Switch to French. Switch to English. Switch to French again. François’ relatives were there too, which meant of course even more fake smiling, fake listening, enthusiastically nodding your head and feigning interest in the most tedious things. The number of times he had to say “how do you do?” that day just couldn’t be measured.

Henry would check his watch every now and then. Shit, only five minutes since last time. It was at that rather depressing moment that Tom pulled out a cigarette pack. “Time for a break. Are you coming, Tudor?”

Ed didn’t smoke, though he would sometimes join them during coffee break. Every time, though, he would complain the smoke followed him around. Henry himself as he was trying to quit gradually stopped joining Tom for a drag.

Henry looked at the pack Tom was shaking in his hand. They were L&B, a popular brand, but too chavvy for Henry’s taste. He forcefully willed himself to look away. “No, thank you. I’ve quit.” He rubbed the nicotine patch beneath his shirt, placed just above his elbow. He knew the day would be stressful enough, so he had to come prepared.

“What, Tudor! Seriously?“

Ed congratulated him by clapping. “That’s the spirit. Good for you, Tudor. ”

“Come on, mate! One fag is not gonna kill you.”

Tom extended a cigarette to Henry, nimbly holding it between his fingers, but Henry turned it down. “I can’t. I promised I wouldn’t.” He had promised other things as well, like getting an appointment with his GP. As if Henry had enough time for that.

By now Tom was lighting up his cigarette. “So what now? You promised your mum you’d stop smoking, is that it? Nancy boy doesn’t want to disappoint his mum?”

“Not my mum, you blinking idiot.” It was impossible not to sound defensive. “I promised a friend.”

“A friend?”

“A girl…friend.”

“Oooh, a girlfriend. Ed, do you believe this fucker? He never tells us anything.”

Edward wriggled his eyebrows. “Is it that girl you fancy, Lizzie? Tom, he won’t say a thing but he’s mentioned her name several times.”

“Lizzie, eh?” Tom took a long drag and let it out in a silvery grey cloud. “Yes, I recall. Have you shagged her yet?”

Henry shot him a deadly, fulminating stare. “That’s none of your bloody business.”

Tom turned to Edward. “I take it as a no.”

Ed suppressed a laugh, but Henry wasn’t amused. "Why don’t you just fuck off, Tom?”

“Calm down, bruv.“ Tom raised his palms in self-defence. "I was just taking the piss. What else are friends for these days?”

Henry wouldn’t exactly call him a friend. Co-worker, associate, colleague, work fellow, ally, a little dot in his social network scheme, but certainly not friend. “I appreciate your interest in my love life. But rest assured, I know how to handle myself.”

Tom didn’t take the hint. "You’re really serious about that girl, eh?”

Henry’s best fake smile flashed through gritted teeth and squinted eyes. “Unlike some, I don’t fool around.”

Tom frowned quizzically, as if trying to decide whether that was a veiled insult or not. Thankfully François came calling before the air turned too foul. “Boys! Ed, Tom, Henri! We’re taking a group picture. Come, all of you!”

Henry had thought the party couldn’t get any worse.

__________________________________________

Lizzie, City of Westminster, 6:53 p.m.

A girl sitting by herself is always a sorry sight no matter the place, that much she had been told. Some lessons took longer to unlearn, so maybe that was why Lizzie was so restless in her seat: one minute fidgeting with the rings on her fingers, the next gripping the menu tight in her hands. It was her own fault, actually, to have chosen the local Wetherspoons to meet him. It was too familiar, too public a place to talk with him. Her anxiousness grew from a knot in her throat and spread to the tips of her toenails like a rope stretched too tight.

From her place at the table, Lizzie watched different groups of friends ordering their rounds. She tried to distract herself by inventing lives for each men. The short one with the funny hat was an architect, she decided. The loudest of them, she kept on musing, was actually the saddest, his hollering and chattering only a mask to hide his— No, it wasn’t working. Her rambling mind kept trailing back to her own doubts and worries. No, it was entirely her fault. She didn’t need to get there so early in advance. Henry was halfway across town and chances were he wouldn’t get to the pub in time.

She took another sip of her pint of cider, an overly sweet Strongbow Dark Fruit. Lizzie had never been one for drinking. She had always been too prim, too proper. A general distaste for beer and a lack of aptitude to handle hard liquor made it all too easy for her to rely solely on sugary booze. But regular cider was something a 16 year-old might pick when illegally drinking with her mates in the park. Lizzie, on the other hand, liked to think a Dark Fruit was a much classier option with its rich royal purple liquid gracing her taste buds.

She kept thinking of what Cecily had said during their last facetime session. Lizzie had volunteered to help her sister improve her grades— she vowed she could help her with anything, anything but maths. But Henry could help her with that, Lizzie reckoned. She knew he would if she asked him nicely enough. Cecily had been all too grateful for the help, but when confronted about her seeing a particular boy while still grounded, Cecily had plunged into a sullen mood.

“Whoever said I can’t see him?”

“Well, for one, mum said that.”

“Lizzie, have you thought that mum is not our boss? Do you let her rule your love life? Do you let her pick your boyfriends for you? No, I don’t think so. I’m sure you can think for yourself. So why should she have a say in who I date and who I don’t?”

That hit uncomfortably close to home. Lizzie looked down at her pint glass. She was on her second pint already. God, what was she thinking? She pushed it away while she still had a clear mind. She certainly wouldn’t like Henry to see her tipsy. It was at that moment that she saw a familiar face walking the place. Lizzie ducked her head, tried to hide her face behind the menu as she realised it was her ex-boyfriend Charles. It was a futile action though, for he had already seen her and was coming her way.

Lizzie let go of the menu, but kept her eyes focused on the ground, refusing to acknowledge him. Yet the feet planted in front of her table weren’t going anywhere, it seemed. Lizzie clutched the edge of the table and slowly raised her eyes.

“Chérie, I haven’t seen you in a long time.” His dark hair slicked to one side, a carefree smile dancing on his lips, and sporting a Paris Saint-German shirt, Charles took the chair opposite hers. “What are you doing here all by yourself?”

“I’m not by myself.” She managed to croak out. “I’m waiting for someone.” Her reply was brief, almost rude, but Lizzie had no intention to be polite with him. He surely hadn’t been considerate of her feelings when they were together.

Something like aggravation flickered in his face before he dismissed it with a scoff. “Waiting for someone? Like what, like a date?”

“Like— Well, I’m…” Was it a date? “It's— It’s Henry! I’m waiting for Henry.”

“Oh!” He chuckled, probably relieved. Lizzie couldn’t believe it had taken her so long to see how pretentious he looked with that smug smile of his. “Henry Tudor, isn’t it? We have some classes together. Your roommate.”

“He’s my former flatmate, as I’ve told you well before.” At the time of Henry’s moving out, Lizzie had repetitively whinged about it to Charles. Lizzie had always suspected he hadn’t listened to any of her grievances; now she had complete proof.

“Yes, yes, ma chérie. I’m sure you did.” Charles made a vague dismissive gesture with his hands, his tone patronising.

I am not your chérie, she thought bitterly. Lizzie wanted to erase that smile from his face, wanted to slap him to see if it went away. If she flung her pint into his face would that be enough? Would it be enough to see it dripping into his expensive football shirt?

“Anyways.” He started again, lounging too comfortably on his chair. “I don’t know why you’re still hanging out with him. Tudor is such a huge nerd.”

“Don’t talk of him like that!” She snapped. “You don’t know him.”

Charles frowned, slightly amused. Maybe she had sounded a bit too defensive. “Wow. PMS is a bitch, hein?”

Lizzie looked straight at him. She didn’t flinch from his gaze— she took all in, saw all of him. His dark eyes, his long nose, his wormy lips. She tried to find what had caught her attention before. Maybe, just maybe, it had been that overbearing sense of confidence he exuded through every pore of his being. Only now she knew it wasn’t confidence, no, it was an absurdly heightened arrogance. Suddenly she felt nothing towards him anymore. Neither love nor hate. Neither affection, nor contempt. Nothing at all.

“It was great chatting with you, Charles.” She stated with an even voice. “But I think you should leave now.”

Charles made no intention to move. “What, leave? Ma chérie, we haven’t even started.”

He moved to grab her wrist, but she pulled her hands into her lap before he could do so. "Just. Leave.”

Charles looked at a point behind her. “Tudor! We were just talking about you.”

Lizzie turned around to see a newly-arrived Henry. If he was in any way displeased by seeing Charles at her table, he didn’t show any of it. On the contrary, he looked every bit dignified. His hair was neatly combed, his button-up shirt complemented his Burberry tailored jacked wonderfully. He was wearing his contacts that day, looking every inch sharp and professional.

“Lizzie.” He greeted her with a warm smile, taking the seat beside hers to wrap an arm around her waist, going in for an open mouth kiss. For a moment Lizzie forgot they weren’t alone.

“Rôôôôh! C'est quoi ce bordel?!” Charles sounded a mixture of gobsmacked and furious.

Pulling back, Henry acted like he did not see him before. “Oh, Charles. Hello there.” Henry said simply, almost like acknowledging his presence was an afterthought.

Charles looked from Henry to Lizzie, eyes bulging. “Tu te fous de moi?”

Lizzie carefully replied, fidgeting with the hem of her skirt. “Charles, it’s been months since we—”

“You were fucking behind my back, that’s what you were doing!“

She opened her mouth to deny it, but Henry stopped her by landing a hand atop hers, ceasing her fidgeting. "Lizzie, you don’t owe him any explanation whatsoever.”

“I know, but people are looking.”

“All this time!” Charles kept raving, his accent getting thicker by the minute. “And oh my God, you were roommates!”

”Flatmates!“ Their voices corrected him in unison.

"A slut, Lizzie! That’s what you are!” Charles smacked down a hand on the table.

It was at that moment that Henry grabbed him by the shirt, pulling Charles across the table to face him. “That’s enough.” His voice was cold, perfectly controlled. “You will remove yourself from this table and quietly fuck off. Do you understand?” Charles, caught by surprise, could only stare at him. “Do you understand me?” Henry released him with a sneer. “Pauvre con.”

Charles’ face went quickly from white to purple. “Ta gueule!” He stood up, pushing his chair noisily across the floor.

The whole pub watched as Henry slowly stood up from his place. Lizzie tried to grasp his hand to stop him. “Henry, don’t.” She murmured, but Henry had already disentangled from her grip and made his way around the table.

“Ça commence a me gaver là, putain.”

“Ah carrément?” Charles scoffed, giving him a shove.

“Oui, carrément.” Henry pushed him back. Both men grabbed each other’s by the collar.

It was a matter of seconds. Lizzie rushed to get between them, struggled to pull them apart. “Stop it! Stop it! What’s wrong with you?!”

“Take that outside!” Someone shouted at them.

Why are men so bloody stupid? They were acting like she was some sort of property to be fought over. Henry had the grace to look somewhat ashamed, but Charles still looked furious. Thankfully, someone had called the security guard. “Gentlemen, I have to ask you to leave.”

“I’m leaving. He can stay.” Henry carded his fingers through his hair, putting his clothes back in order. “Come, Lizzie.” He took her by the hand, pulling her along. She managed to pick her purse and jacket before she was half-dragged to the exit door.

Charles still had some in him to bite back. “Yes, flee like the coward you are! Dégage!”

It didn’t matter what Charles could say, Henry was still the one who left the place with his arm wrapped around the girl. Henry mockingly waved to him before they crossed the door, but Lizzie could only feel her cheeks burning. She would never be able to step inside that pub again. They had just walked past the corner when she pushed Henry away. “Why did you do that?”

“Excuse me?” He was still jumpy from his altercation with Charles.

“Why did you have to make such a scene?”

“I made a scene?” He scoffed, sarcasm coming out. “Sorry, were you trying to make up with Charles back there? Did I interrupt anything?”

“You know I was not! Don’t even try to play that card. The point is you made it look like we’re a thing. We’re not a thing! We’re not even together!”

At that Henry lowered his head, as if taking a blow. He blinked for a second before replying. “Well, thanks for telling me now. When were you planning to tell me perchance? Today? Next week? Maybe after I brought you a wedding ring?”

“See, that’s not how a relationship works! You don’t get to decide what we do, what we are, before we can talk things through. Just because we kissed that one time—”

“By that one time you mean yesterday.”

“—That doesn’t mean we are together. It doesn’t mean I owe anything.”

“Owe me? What sort of nonsense is this?”

“Look, Henry.” She ran a hand through her long hair, searching for the right words. “I am not ungrateful. I thank you from the bottom of my heart for offering help when my family faced eviction. I truly do! But you don’t get to decide our relationship. I cannot repay you like that.”

“Lizzie, for God’s sake!” He rubbed his eyes. He looked tired, so so very tired. “I’m not trying to buy you!” His voice took a quiet turn then, almost tender. “Don’t you see that everything I do, I do because I care about you?”

She shook her head. “Don’t.”

“Don’t?” He looked befuddled, almost hurt.

She looked away. “Don’t come at me like that.” Don’t be soft now, or you’ll make me soft too. “What of what I want? What I think, what I feel? I’d like to have a voice in this too!”

“Of course, Lizzie! But you do!”

“I don’t want it to be like that. Like— Like I’m paying back a favour.”

“But you’re not! I’m not asking for payment!”

“It doesn’t matter, that’s what it looks like to people.”

He caught her wrists then and brought them to his chest, pulling her to him. They were both short of breath, chests heaving. He didn’t kiss her, but she almost wished him to. From that close proximity it was almost unbearable to look at him. He wasn’t wearing his glasses— there was nothing between her and his agitated eyes. They were piercing and blue, and terrible to face. “Lizzie, it’s simple.” He said, very quietly. “Do you want me or not?”

“I…” She faltered. Suddenly it was difficult to breathe.

“Stop with the mixed signals for once. Do you want me…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Or not?”

“I…” She searched for a word, anything. “I don’t know.”

He released her then, splaying his hands like she’d just burned him. He stepped back, his expression unreadable “Henry?”

He pulled something out of his pocket and pressed it into one of her hands. She opened it to find a delicate gold necklace, a pendant in the shape of a rose carefully crafted. “What… what is this?”

“A gift. I have no use for it.”

Lizzie felt her eyes swarming with unshed tears. She looked up to find his back to her. Henry was steadily walking away. He is leaving me, the realisation struck her like a dagger. “Henry! Henry, where are you going?”

He didn’t reply. She wasn’t even sure he had listened to her. Lizzie watched as he descended the stairs to the tube station. He wasn’t going back to his flat, that much was clear. He didn’t need to take the tube for that. “Henry!” She called him one last time.

She wouldn’t run after him. Not her, not while people passing by could see her in such an undignified state. She did the right thing, so why did it feel like the worst decision she had ever made? The coldness of the night suddenly crept into her bones. She wrapped herself tight in her jacket, a shiver ran down her spine. She was left alone on that street, alone with her thoughts and the words she should never have said.

#henry x lizzie #henry vii x elizabeth of york #modern au #flatmates au #fanfic #thanks for sticking with me

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