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luminescentlyricist · 10 months

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✒️ A Prologue - Identity V 💉

CONTENT WARNINGS: IMPLIED DEATH/LOSS

This is modelled around Season 19 Essence 3, with Homesick and Awaiting! The third figure called to is Aging, though she's not mentioned by name.

Once again, I would like to credit @immortalpheus as a major source of inspiration, even though this isn't about Immortal!

Orpheus De Ross was painfully lonely, and had been for a longer time than he cared to admit. He had dragged himself out of bed and to his desk, monocle affixed to his face as always, but the fountain pen he claimed to treasure sat unused in its ink pot. This had long since dried up, as had his motivation to do anything more than dream. Sleep was his only release from the deepening depression that gnawed at him as if eating a hole in his chest. Though the manor’s staff had upheld their duties and attempted to make the place cleaner and brighter for the lone resident, he hardly noticed the changes. The man had been stagnating for an unknown amount of time, and not even the freedoms of his writing felt like they could save him from the haze that enveloped his emotions.

What use was it all if nobody was around to read it?

This phrase whirled around in his mind as he stared listlessly forwards, eyes tracing the heavy velveted curtains that blanketed the space in near-darkness. He’d made a request earlier that week for his bed to be moved into his writing room, for he felt so little motivation that getting from one location to another was a chore. It had only been a mistake. Instead of relief, what little he felt was taken over by a dull regret, being unwilling to accept that he’d weakened so drastically. Laying his head down on the desk, Orpheus longed to close his eyes and float away. If anyone found him in such a state, he knew his already poorer sales would dwindle, and the only source of joy he could find in the greying skies of his life would fade.

Instead he forced himself to be awake. There was no wound clock in the vicinity, but the deepening bags beneath his eyes were no longer a source of concern. All that mattered was continuing to produce works, whatever internal protests his body had in store for him. Taking up the pen, he unfolded a notebook, reasoning that it was useless to attempt extending an actual book. The ideas necessary to make anything coherent and publishable just weren’t going to come to him in such a slump, after all. His eyelids drooped for a moment before he pushed himself back upright in the chair, arms trembling from the strain. There came a knock at the door of the study, but the young man had no voice to answer it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken to anyone that wasn’t his own face in the mirror.

That accompanied a sense of loss deeper than even he, a writer by trade, lacked the words to articulate. He often wondered if it was all wrong for him, and others had told him he was free to retire because of his inherited estate, but making others happy with his writing had hardly seemed like a job before. Now, his resolution was wavering, as was his sense of identity - “Orpheus” was simply a pen name assigned to him by his publisher. True to the profession, he moulded himself to suit whoever saw him for the best effect, and spent little time wondering about personal preferences. Nobody had cared about him enough to tell him that was wrong before it was all too late, and he’d forgotten who he was behind the mask of the Baron de Ross. He no longer knew, but at least they did. The soft clicking of the door handle roused him from his morose thoughts in a matter of seconds, and he plastered on a gentle smile for no benefit of his own.

Emily Dyer, unexpectedly, had come to his aid. Though she worked silently, she knew the reclusive novelist would only let a precious few people into the Manor, let alone the study. He needed someone to take care of him, however small the gestures. Pulling the curtains open and tying them aside, the doctor placed a small object on Orpheus’ desk as she passed to leave: a white paper boat, folded carefully and hand-painted with flowers. She looked backwards upon placing her hand on the door, poised as if wishing to speak to him, but swallowed this notion just as soon. What little response she could’ve gleaned from his words wouldn’t be worth the effort for either participant. She left him be after that, as much as she regretted it. He was one of the two most important figures in her life, and guilt would prevent her mind from settling for some time after that. It didn’t much matter that the (perceived) uselessness was unavoidable. It stung anyway.

The light from the window did nothing to improve Orpheus’ mood, but one thing did catch his attention: a small black feather drifted downwards from a tree in the garden. That garden… it was like a mockery of times long gone. Yet every staff member he could muster the will to contact insisted that it would make him feel better some day, and they continued to maintain it to the best of their abilities despite his frequent protest. It’d been quite a while since he’d been out of the manor, and even longer since he’d seen any animal that wasn’t a fish drifting aimlessly in the aquarium of the common area. However restricted they were, the novelist often felt they had more freedom than he did. Not that he had the motivation to fix that, of course.

That feather, though… he couldn’t stop thinking about it. The birds had long since fallen silent, and yet they continued to visit him. The manor was feeling less and less familiar the longer he wandered within its walls, like some sick, reversed alienation tactic. Standing up, Orpheus cleared his throat, pulling a suit jacket on and fixing the angle of his slipping monocle. The flowers embroidered across the lapels reminded him of home, even though he couldn’t quite remember where that was to him. Two special people - Miss Dyer being one of them - had sewn the design onto it long ago, and the feeling of the raised threads against his fingers gave him a small burst of comfort.

To be homesick for somewhere he couldn’t remember was torture, but fate had never been kind to him in the first place. Rubbing a hand across his eyes, he didn’t bother to find a proper brush, instead running his fingers carelessly through his hair. Grease came off onto them, but he simply assumed it was because of hair gel, though the container sat empty on his desk as it had for many days. Taking care of himself was just one more expenditure of strength. Removing the familiar presence of a ball-point pen from his shirt pocket, the novelist scrawled down a simple phrase on the paper, as if beginning to make an outline of the day’s plans for himself: ‘The Novelist visits the gardens.’ Doing so was by no means a regular practice for him, but he had a feeling it’d give him a needed sense of direction in such a slump. Tucking away the pen and the notebook both into his pocket, he came to a stand, eyes distantly scanning the window for any sign of another feather or accompanying bird.

Gently, he unfolded the paper boat, refolding it into the smallest square possible. He wasn’t going to distract himself from the bliss of the moment by reading it. There were people who cared about him, and that was all he really needed to know. Details were irrelevant at that point. Unfastening the three topmost buttons on his dark jacket, with trembling fingers the man folded back the top of his suit’s fabric. Resting against the space nearest to his heart, there was a shakily sewn pocket. Tugging at the stitches, he soon managed to loosen those up the top. Despite how badly he was trembling, Orpheus managed to place the paper inside, searching afterwards for a needle. The pocket was usually kept open or simply buttoned closed on other suits he’d added it to, but he felt there’d be no need to replace it any time soon. Sewing the top up, he buttoned his coat before allowing himself to relax.

Opening the door of his study, Orpheus took a deep breath. The air no longer smelled stale. Hearing his own shoes clicking against the floorboards as he walked down the hallway almost made his head begin to spin, but he bore it anyway. He felt distant, as if he were floating within his body, heedless to the environment around him. As much as he longed to be free of sensation, if only for a moment, that wasn’t going to happen. As soon as he turned the corner to go out to the gardens, an ear-splitting cry rang out. The call was familiar, and bought to mind a sleek black feather. This didn’t make him stop - instead, it only furthered the resolve he thought was lost. For the first time in too long, the novelist heaved open the manor’s doors and stepped into the dimming light.

The garden was there, freshly maintained, but the flowers and foliage were the only traces of life. Not even the insects that Melly had once trailed behind her remained, which was a continual worry for the maids in regards to growing produce. Pollination helped in terms of diversity as well, and it made their jobs a lot easier. Orpheus was oblivious to all of this work, of course. He left the manor with returning reluctance, for the burst of motivation he felt was draining away. The sleek black feather remained in his thoughts, but the appeal of it was lessening because of his sobering mental state. Such quick change was exhausting. The novelist continued on his journey at a more relaxed pace, eyes flickering about to take in the sights.

The maze was still standing. After everything that’d happened within the confines of the hedges, it loomed there as a reminder of Orpheus’ failures. He took a rattling breath inwards, trying not to let the heat creeping on the back of his neck unnerve him too much. It was just a bunch of leaves. Nothing else. There would never be blood spilled there again. There never... there never had been. Whatever was he thinking? Shaking his head to clear his thoughts in a physical manner, he continued to walk, though his footsteps were getting increasingly louder in his head. This strange warping was chalked up to tiredness, as the young man had no idea how long it’d been since he’d had a full night of sleep. The demand for his writing was lowering as he’d become more of a recluse and inherited his father’s estate, but old habits were hard to break. To Emily’s dismay, he’d often find himself asleep at his desk despite having no ideas to write.

Sitting on a small bench with his back to the maze in question, he spied the feather lying on the ground a few metres away. It was being ruffled by a slight breeze, but that didn’t deter him. If the bird it’d dropped from were to return, then that could provide him with the burst of motivation needed to complete his next chapter. Why he was so captivated by a small thing was beyond him, but went unquestioned. As he stood to collect it after a momentary rest to collect his thoughts, the feather was swept up in a gust of wind, and lodged itself firmly beneath a tile on the mosaic covering one of the building’s walls. This mosaic was something he often came to when inspiration was lacking, for the manor’s residents and guests were free to decorate one of the numerous panels as a way of leaving their impressions if they were to leave. Many were those he had painted himself, alongside Emily and his other regular visitor.

With another flick of the pen and notebook cover, a yawn was stifled when Orpheus found his resolution in the script: ’The Novelist continues his search, and will not stop until he has uncovered the truth of the gardens that he seeks - whether this be a feather or something more.’ Truthfully, he expected nothing more than the owner of the feather, but as a story writer was prone to slipping into fantasies and dreams. It was detrimental to others in terms of keeping his attention, but on many occasions Orpheus considered this trait to be the only thing that kept him sane. Awareness to the world outside the manor terrified him more than he cared to admit.

Tugging gently at the feather, Orpheus’ eyes roved across the designs on the tiles. Caught up in remembrance, he hardly realised that he’d almost freed the object until something sharp and familiar jolted him away from the wall, tearing part of the feather’s fluff off in the process - the call of a crow, indignant as ever. Well, that was one way to find out who it belonged to… His gaze flickered up to the crow in question, a small smile dancing across his lips. They weren’t a common sight in the manor grounds, so seeing their sleek forms was always a surprise. This one was adolescent, and fluffed up delightfully against the crisp breeze rustling through the garden. Though it would be a bad idea, he almost longed to climb the tree so that he could feel how soft it was, and perhaps get it to a better place. Heedless of the fact he hadn’t asked anyone about their natural habitats, the gardens certainly weren’t safe enough.

Nodding to the bird as acknowledgement before setting back to work, the novelist bowed his head toward the wall once more. Running his fingers along the grout between the tiles, his bitten nails snagged on something unfamiliar. Pulling his hand back, he heard a soft click. That wasn’t a sign of anything good. Before he could move to alert one of the maids of the maintenance issue, a glint of silver caught his eye. The crow had returned, bringing with it a coat pin that it dropped at his feet before letting out an alerting call and retreating to its branch. Orpheus bent down and picked it up carefully. It was a small snake pin, curled in an infinity symbol and biting its own tail. This was similar to one of the mosaic tiles’ designs, but he had no recollection of what it meant to him at the time of painting. That sort of forgetfulness tended to happen a lot, but the mosaic was there to remind him, not take his understanding away…

This was a hassle he wasn’t quite prepared for, so he turned his attention momentarily to adding another point to the day’s itinerary. Uncharacteristically, he nearly dropped the pen from his hand as it shook as if by nerves. Though the wind was becoming colder when the days wore on, it wasn’t enough to send a significant chill through the thick and dry fabrics he wore. Unable to afford himself another brief moment of respite, he scrawled onto the page, ignoring how harsh his strokes turned out. Unless the paper tore properly or the ink stained, it wouldn’t be a problem to record small things such as these: ’The Novelist confidently approaches his destinations, for his fate can always be rewritten.’ This wasn’t true, but he chose to believe what he wrote anyway. Self-confidence was something he needed.

Stowing the pin safely in his other jacket pocket, Orpheus resolved not to waste any more time ruminating on things that didn’t make sense. The crow had disappeared from the treetops, which filled him with an unexplainable sense of regret and sadness. Perhaps it was simply that morning’s mental fog catching up to him, but they had felt like a companion in the isolated garden. Digging the rest of the feather’s misshapen plume away from the tiles, his fingers lingered around the snake design for a few moments longer. If his eyes weren’t deceiving him, the tile had been pushed in slightly, and he could have moved it aside. The ink on his notepad didn’t lie to him: he’d continue looking around the garden itself, and not stray off the beaten path too much this time. With a huff, he reached up and swept a stray hair away from his monocle. The lens was cracking in some places, but he’d never bothered to get it fixed.

The sky was beginning to darken considerably by that time, so Orpheus’ pace quickened. Before he knew what he was doing, he had circled back into the maze, and was weaving through the foliage with an unnatural steadiness. He’d not visited the maze in a long time, much less soon enough to remember all of the twists and turns with such certainty. The leaves blurred together in front of his face, and he continued to walk even though he could no longer tell where he was going. The branches that hadn’t been trimmed back in some time stung as they cut his face, small gashes that luckily weren’t deep enough to bleed. As the sun truly set, the lights flickered on, but the novelist ignored everything around him. He felt a compulsion from his own instructions was stronger than ever, and he wasn’t going to ignore it just for someone else’s sake.

As soon as he reached the centre of the maze, Orpheus sat down and retrieved the mysterious pin from where it was safely stowed away. His suit was going to get dirty, but the significance and comfort of that particular jacket was, at that moment, the least important thing to him. Running his fingertip over the snake’s emerald eye, he wiped the dust onto his pants. His breathing became so quiet that it was a wonder he was awake, for the rhythm of his chest’s rise and fall was more appropriate for someone lost to dreaming. After a few minutes of this, his eyelids truly drooped. Staying still with his eyes closed, Orpheus was unable to stifle a yawn. Pressing the cold metal of the pin into his palm to renew his alertness, he reached up to fasten the pin to his jacket, but dropped it for the second time. Cursing quietly, he bent down to retrieve it. He decided that he’d prefer not to be interrupted, lest he lose his train of thought again.

The doctor, on the other hand, was becoming increasingly worried for his absence. Though it was true they were both adults and had no need for curfews, she hadn’t been able to tell him important news of the day, and he had hardly ignored her before. Adjusting her capelet’s position and rubbing her arms as a ward from the cold, she exchanged a few quiet words with a maid for preparations to begin a search before slipping out the manor doors. She hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but if dawn broke and he hadn’t returned, then there would have to be more serious efforts made. The Baron wasn’t simply the most important person to her: jobs needed to be allocated, calls taken, and he was still the novelist she dearly loved the stories of. He had his own occupation and a life to continue.

Turning the pin around in his hands a few times, he observed how the emeralds gleamed dully in the lights. He heard nothing except the pounding of his heart in his ears, the sound seeming to dwarf everything beyond, but paid no mind to it. How had he been so careless? The pin was beautiful… yes! That was it. He had to show her… Staggering to his feet as if swept into a trance, the novelist swayed in place. There was something in the back of his mind, and he was unable to shake it. He’d write it down just in case… disregarding his shaking hands, he drew the pen across the page of his notebook, but was unable to finish the bullet point as his pen began to leak, staining the paper and his hands both with ink.

Without these directions, he was aimless. A dull thud was heard as the pen and notebook, the latter rapidly drying in the wind and heavy with ink, hit the grass. A single tear trailed down the man’s cheek as he looked down towards it, but he had no voice left to cry. He didn’t want to show weakness to the ones who loved him, but that strange pin felt like it was amplifying his emotions tenfold. He’d simply stay out in the gardens, then, and bother nobody with his feelings as usual. Though he felt strange, light-headed and almost feverish, there was nothing he could do to ease the sickness building in his stomach. Sinking to his knees in the maze, he gripped the grass as if it were the only thing keeping him from floating away, letting out an uneasy chuckle.

It’d be fine, right? The young man hoped so. All that was left was to wait, but he wasn’t so sure that he wanted to be found. Sleeplessness was catching up to him, and his thought patterns caved to falsities and illogical conclusions. The pin… He had everything he needed right there, even though the wind bit into his clothing. How little everything else mattered! Ignorance… why, his father had been right to shove everything into his arms. Maybe now he could let everything fade away, and the emeralds could capture the gaze of his adversaries. That crow knew better than people what was best for him! What fools they were, not to listen to the shrill calls of the birds. Blocking his ears had done him no good before, but now he felt enlightened. He was finally finding the truth!

To Emily’s concern, the Baron was making no effort to reveal himself, and she stumbled through the gardens even as the moonlight began to fade. She wished above all else to find him, of course, but there was only so much she would be able to do. Her fingertips were beginning to go numb from the cold, but she didn’t want to lose track of him. Pulling on the gloves that hung at her waist, she wriggled her fingers to check if some of their sensation had returned. They weren’t lined with the same warm black fur as she’d requested for her capelet, but they’d do well enough insulating her for now. And so she continued to search, but everything was fruitless. Returning to the main building in the early hours, Miss Dyer was left to crawl into Orpheus’ own bed, soaking in the warmth from his lingering presence to attempt easing her thoughts.

If he found her, yes, there might have been some questions, but all of the love in the world to go along with it. Though Orpheus had never been a verbally affectionate man, he’d often leave her a paper crane or something of the sort on her bedside to welcome her with a poem in the morning, and she kept all of these. She used them to teach origami, as his folds were always so perfect it showed how much he cared for her. In return, she would nurse his paper cuts, scolding him with a laugh held back in her voice all the while. “Now, Orpheus, you must be more careful! Your hands are important, you know… No, not as much as your heart. Don’t be silly. I’ll take care of that too.”

He’d never make it back to the Manor, after all.

Orpheus had put the pin through his chest pocket whilst trying to fasten it onto his own jacket, tearing the paper so that he’d never be able to read what was written within. To some superstitious individuals, this was tantamount to making the text a lie, but none of the manor’s residence allowed such negativity to reach them. Emily hadn’t been the only one to write it: a child’s small, shaking script echoed the message in their own writing, but the sentiment was a clear truth in both instances. The state of the paper didn’t matter.

“You’ll always have a place here. I love you.”

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