“You must realize by now…how utterly boring I find this,” the voice echoed around the walls, deep and reverberating with a silent ‘hum’. Thud, Thud, Thud “I can literally hear your heart beating boy it must be ready to burst.” A laugh here, chilling, sending icy needless through the mind and goose bumps to rise.
A shh sounded as a match was struck, the red and gold flickering in the cold of the damp stone room. A single candle sat on a lone table, almost a stump as wax ran over the dish that carried it. The man who had spoken before blew the match out; his dark hair fell ‘round his shoulders, streaked with silver and his pale skin seemed to fade, looking almost grey in the light.
His linen shirt was stained in splashes with blood while his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. “Must you last so long? You bore me so…” his voice was callous and husky. He looked at the figure on the ground, his eyes shadowed in darkness.
Pale fingers gripped cracked wood and scraping sounded as he pulled a chair from a dark corner of the room. A creak and he was seated; sniffing the air and wiping the back of a blood stained hand over his mouth. The room - he noted dully - smelled of smoke, blood and sweat. Wrinkling his nose he chuckled at the bloody bound figure on the floor whose struggles had long since stopped.
“I remember when I first met her,” the man pulled a shiny silver object – engraved with a spiraling cloth and a rose – from his pocket and opened it with his thumb, “it was eleven months ago. She was already with you but I yearned to be close to her, formality aside even then you were a bit of a brute weren’t you?”
The summer wind dashed across the earth, stirring dust and sending leaves spiraling down the road. The dusty path was lined by pink hydrangeas leading to a scene that was only described as mythical. The tall mansion stood at an imposing height to any other but with a sense of kindness for on the lawn were white linen cloths that billowed in the wind. A picnic was being held, the lawn glowing in full brilliance as dots of color paced it, dresses of the finest silks and suits of ivory were abundant.
Watching the scene with what could be described as ‘interest’ an elder man sat on a fine horse, who’s black mane curled in the wind. Jaw clenched and face rather gaunt he seemed to be well in his prime with amber eyes like pools of honey…but there was no honey in those eyes. A life pertaining to loneliness clung to something that resembled a soul as he wore all black maybe to attend a funeral and not this festive party. He pulled on his white gloves before adjusting his top hat and clicking his tongue. The horse moved toward the colored lawn with a snort and walked with a leisurely pace as the elder man surveyed with a wary eye.
As he approached he heard a distinct yell, “Ah!-Why if it isn’t the Count Seymour of Ark!” The man on the horse – Seymour – watched with wicked amusement as a pudgy red-faced man ran towards him wearing a blue satin suit, strange for the time considering his fashion. Seymour dismounted and nodded to the fellow, removing his hat and taking a bow. Seymour’s hair was held by a single bow at the back of his head which failed to hold the locks of his mane, as strands of thick hair wisped around his face.
Seymour studied the nobleman, with a raised brow. He could tell from the moment he’d seen him that this man liked to show off and was very arrogant but he would never directly show it. A sleight of hand, a simple gesture could mean so much more and it infuriated the older man as he watched this fat self-contradiction waddle around. The first time he’d seen him was at an opera in London no less…And even then his true nature showed…
The cobblestone streets, encrusted in ice, with sickles hanging from ledges and the wings of gargoyles, streetlamps frozen in glowing pools of amber wheat, and the clacking of leather heels could only be the tell-tale signs of the frost covered winter that was London. Blinking specs of silver azure started falling from the cloudy night sky, glinting stars piercing the gloomy clouds for only a brief moment before being shielded from mortal eyes again.
Outside a large house, on the freezing steps of a building, leading up to columns and frozen statues, was a tall dark figure who reflected this night in its entire malevolent splendor. A long black cloak, the flaps bound by a winding grey chain, waved in the quiet breeze, and white gloves like the falling snow pulled themselves over long fingers. A tall black hat perched itself upon his head, much like a crow over a corpse, and dark locks bound back in a simple bow with silvery wisps came from his head.
Holding a black cane with a silver wolf head as the handle in his right hand, his left hand over top his right as he stood, one foot planted on a higher step than the other to survey the darkened atmosphere about. A wind blasted the steps, sending a powerful flare of snow over the city and many hunkered down and huddled together to try and block the cold but the figure stood his ground, almost seeming to welcome it.
His dark hair lashed across his pale face, silver curling with the snow in a spiteful resistance to the cold, his cloak billowing in the breeze. And it almost appeared that a great shadowy beast had taken stead on the steps of the house above, amber eyes peeking out from the darkness.
“How long shall they make us wait?!” The amber eyed man at the middle of the steps turned with less than interested to see yet another nobleman grumble at the cold and spit curses at the opera house.
“I shall leave at this rate!”
“This cold is unbearable!”
“I’ve waited three weeks to see this opera! And they hold it in the blistering cold for us to catch our deaths!”
“Perhaps,” the amber eyed man – Seymour – growled, his voice cutting the airy winter night to greet their ears, “you should have worn thicker coats?” His irritation was mild and his calm, detached voice made them shiver from more than the bitter London air. He turned, taking stride by stride up the stairs to the crowd which parted, till one lone ‘brave’ fool got in his way.
“Who do you think you are?!” The man seemed indignant, puffing out his chest, standing up to the taller gentleman. The man in question was overweight, his fingers covered in jewels and fine silks and furs covering his form. With all that insulation this man should hold his tongue! Seymour thought as he readily turned on the foolish nobleman.
“Count Seymour of Ark,” growled Seymour, and he turned his furious gaze on the man, effectively petrifying him. A ripple of whispers waved through the throng of people while Seymour held the poor nobleman like a snake did a man before it would strike. The man’s lip quivered, a sudden sort of sweat touching his brow, he recoiled in horror. Those eyes…The eyes of a wolf! The fat noble man turned and effectively scurried down the steps to the hushed murmur of the crowd.
Watching him go, Seymour gave a “humph” and proceeded to walk up the steps, tapping on the glass of the front of the house. No one answered for several seconds till a small, thin and watery looking man in a suit opened the door. He bowed deeply under the gaze of the Count. “I’m sorry sir, if I’d heard you were coming I would have opened these doors much sooner. Forgive me.” He bowed deeply once more and Seymour followed him with his gaze, the man standing quickly before opening the door wider and allowing the Count to push his way inside.
“I apologize again sir! You must forgive me, please, allow me to take your coat?” He spoke in a rushed, thick Dutch accent; Seymour allowed him to pull it from his form, giving them his hat but keeping his cane. “Right this way sir,” said the skeletal man, leading him away from the others who were filing in through the – by now – wide open doors. As he was exiting Seymour noted that some were already complaining once more and he left the hall to the sounds of, “why didn’t he do that sooner? Who does he think he is?”
Seymour was lead down a wide upward slanted hallway, tapestries to his right and left showed ancient times and classical plays, while the warm air washed over his dark covered form. He was dressed from head to toe in black except for the white scarf that came out from the top of his dress coat and tucked into the buttons that stopped at the middle of his abdomen. He pulled his cane into the crook of his arm as he followed the concierge, pulling his gloves from his hands to reveal pale skin and bony knuckle.
They came to the end of the tunnel and the man opened another door, going inside before holding it open for the Count himself to come in. Seymour followed and the man once again proceeded up a flight of narrow stairs that winded around and around, following up to the box five. A single chair of fine crimson velvet sat ready as the concierge pulled back a thick set of blood red curtains. The view of the stage was grand, he would be right above and to the left of the actors, allowing him the grandest view of the whole affair.
Seating himself, Seymour looked around at the golden statues of masks, winding bodies brought together by waving, roiling cloth, and the flourished ceiling depicting the Heavens filled with angels too stunning for their world. Turning his attention to the stage he could see the long violet drape, shielding from their eyes the sight of the workers and actors readying themselves.
Running his fingers together, finally knotting them and sitting them in his lap, his left leg lifted so that the ankle rested on the top of his right knee. His cane sat, resting its cool form again the side of his chair. Every now and again the Count would stroke the silver of the Wolf’s head – the symbol of his home – and growled when someone would bother him, asking if he wanted wine.
The show started with the pulling of the drapes, the sound reaching Seymour’s ears and he truly started to enjoy the finery of his new accommodations. A thunderous roar sounded as those below slapped their hands together in amazement of the scene that was before them. The picture of a meadow was placed as the backdrop, several actors in long glowing white dresses already on stage. Seymour watched as the fairy tale played out, from the daring young suitor to the wicked tutor who wanted the young maiden for himself, dotted with the occasional musical number.
One would think from his exterior that he did not enjoy the play at all, his elbow resting on the arm of his chair, his index finger against his temple and hand curled against his hollow cheek. His other arm lazily laid over the other arm rest, stroking the head of the wolf on his cane with a second natured caress of fingers.
The acts wound down by the number and Seymour stretched his legs lazily and stood, pulling back on his gloves and grabbing his cane a few moments before it was even over. He usually liked to leave before all the rest of the chancellors, politicians, nobleman, and the occasional duke got into the lobby. Making his way down the spiral staircase and the long tunnel of tapestries he stopped only when he arrived at the tall ceilinged lounge.
The men’s lounge was large and spacious, maroon cloth wove around the tall pillars that supported the ceiling. Wooden floors stretched in either direction, mirrors touched one wall while dark leather furniture spread themselves about around circular tables where plates of white wine bottles and fine crystal cups awaited to be drank from. Standing in the room he was given his hat and coat back by a shaggy looking brunet boy who couldn’t have been older than twenty. Dismissing him with a hand he was just re-adjusting his scarf when a chubby dark haired man approached him.
His mustache was parted neatly, his hair combed to one side, and his beady green eyes watched Seymour under a heavy brow. His stubby form was dressed in the silk fashion of the time while his gloves bore golden embroidery of an intricate woven silk with a lilac in the middle. “Hello, you must be the strange earnest fellow who scared off the poor duke of Williamsburg!” He said in a chipper voice.
Seymour paid him little mind at first, adjusting his top hat and giving the subtlest of nods as he continued. “I dare say that was quiet the show! But old James has always thought very highly of himself!”
As it appears, Seymour thought, so do you. The man’s voice was perfectly pleasant and one could assume from the way he spoke that he was indeed a very kind man but the old Count could see something in his eyes, some underlying untruthful thing. A sort of hidden sincerity if one could call it that and Seymour finally turned his gaze to him, peeling away the layers of the man before him, taking away the silks and happy tone to find the deeper part of his soul.
Rage…It boiled beneath the surface of his ‘happy’ disposition. An angry storm that was narrowly touching the surface below the persona of the joyous man who appeared before him and like a dam it was sure to break…In due time. He went on and on and Seymour could hear the approach of the others not far behind him, he said his name was Joseph and that he had a lovely wife and daughter that he prided himself on because they were both so beautiful and kind. Truly, this man liked to boast.
For now though, Seymour indulged and listened to him. He was inviting him to some sort of party? A picnic…How cliché; sighing, the Count saw that it would take more than an earnest word to get rid of him so he relented and said he would make an appearance…
Joseph was now fidgeting and nodding to a woman who was taller with blonde locks and a pair of emerald irises. She was dressed in a long satin blue dress and her tannish skin reflected the sun with a sort of brilliance, she was indeed beautiful even though the tell-tale signs of age were slowly reaching the corners of her eyes and mouth. Her hands were folded in front of her and she smiled sweetly at Seymour but he could sense it…A lie. It was a pretty one he would give her that but her obvious detachment from her husband was easily seen.
Her eyes turned away from his – as peoples often do – and turned to some distance on the lawn. Seymour’s own eyes darted to the side and he slowly turned his head to view a handsome looking young man with brown curly locks and a fair – almost girlish – face. His eyes were a shade of deep blue, the color of the ocean and Seymour smirked in amusement. An affair? How intriguing…
“Come, come this is my wife Eliza…and where is that infernal girl?” Joseph withdrew in a rustle of fabric a pocket watch and sighed in an exasperated manner. “I wanted you to meet my daughter Count; she is to be married soon and – ah! – there she is!” Seymour looked to him and then sighed. No telling what his daughter looks lik- Seymour began to think…
When he saw her, his mind reeled, he took the quick moment to register truly what he was seeing…She appeared at first to be some sort of fey. Her long golden curls waved over her shoulders, her skin paled and fair, his breath hitching as he took in her eyes. They were a sort of ashen color, like the ocean before a storm, foaming powerful waves in the surf, turning silver in the glory of ferocity brought on by the clouds. Even from here he could see her shimmering radiance, almost blinding really. Covering his mouth with his hand to withhold his shock he watched her glide towards them, a simple white sheet like dress made home over her form. A straw hat with a dark blue ribbon around the top held to her head now - as another breeze came by - with a delicate hand.
He tried to collect himself as she approached; almost forgetting to stand ridged and take her hand as she offered it. She held it up, trained and proper, to him and as he took it he noted how small it was in his own. He was a head taller than her and she was very petite as well though she did not emerge sickly. Taking her in, he kissed her hand and felt a sensation of warmth. Seymour drew back and tuned out whatever the man next to him was saying and watched the gentle demeanor of the girl in front of him.
No other woman had held him in such an entranced embrace in many years and fewer still had managed to keep it. Seymour tried to see something, something that was utterly not there. Mesmerized and feeling almost woozy he was astonished when she held his amber gaze without a flinch whilst others would have been ill. Again she seemed to radiate, her features that of a woman but her delicacy and…innocence were that of a child. She was obviously foreign to the ways of the world, mistaking his cold stare for a simple exchange of a glance. How could she be so oblivious? So…utterly and truly naïve?
Was she a fool? No, her tone said as much. “Hello my name is Lillian,” her voice was soft and that siren of a sound kept him bound to her. Seymour had this silent wish for her to speak again but her father started railing on and she shyly averted her gaze from his as he continued to stare. Shaking his head to rid himself of her sight he started running his fingers along the edge of his top hat, trying to keep himself distracted from the enchanting maiden beside him.
Mentally he was having a battle with himself, how could one be so innocent and yet not be a total and utter nuisance? Some sort of purity radiated, absolutely shown from her, so much so that it was almost blinding. He should hate her. As soon as he thought it Seymour scoffed. Hate? How in the world could someone hate something as virtuous as the creature currently standing beside him with her hands folded neatly in front of her?
Simple: They couldn’t. And Seymour – for all his ability to sense and ultimately judge a person – could not find a single, solid fault with her. Surely, someone should protect such an innocent and free mind? Such purity should be concealed from the world yet not so much that the petals of naïveté appear. How could such a thing be possible in that day’s world?
Among his many other talents that he prided himself on though was the ability to ultimately ignore useless chatter and only pick up on hints of what others were saying and still somehow manage to stay up to date on the conversation…Such as now.
“I was never very fond of him myself,” Seymour said before he could even really think about it, his eyes somewhere ahead, staring – as he himself finally noticed – at one of the many windows of the mansion. Joseph stopped in his babbling and smiled.
“Impeccable taste Count, impeccable!” He rubbed his hands together in subtle pride that he shared the same views and Seymour only had the faintest idea of who they were now speaking of. Not that it really mattered…
The railing sound of a carriage came from behind and Seymour turned abruptly to see that from the direction he had come such a contraption was now coming straight at them. Whistling loudly his horse darted to the side to evade the incoming and totally inconsiderate driver who was still dashing straight at them. Unlike the other three of his small party Seymour blindly stared with boredom at the two front beasts that foamed at the mouths, their great hooves stampeding the ground as they charged on.
Suddenly, he felt something grip his arm and found that Lillian had attached herself to him and was now fearfully watching the approach of the horses. Too stunned to speak and having tuned out the calling of her parents who were now safely off the road he felt her squeeze his limb a moment before the driver pulled the reigns. Dust spiraled up into the air like a billowing cloud in front of them and in a flash Seymour had covered them both with his cloak, hiding her from the incoming pebbles and dirt.
Her small fingers held the front of his dress shirt in a white knuckled grip as dust settled and his face was pressed into the locks of her head, her hat having spiraled away and his own lay somewhere forgotten. She smelled – he noted from their sudden contact – of fresh grass and some sort of flower no doubt found in a field. Having hugged her form to him with his arm he could feel her thin shape, the rising and falling of her chest as she breathed. Her head was tucked under his chin, face pressed into his neck and there he could feel her warm breath rise to caress the underside of his jaw. He almost feared that she would slip away with the wind but her feet held her there and as the breeze stopped whirling and the dust settled she pulled away to look up at him.
Their eyes locked and in that moment they stood as one, his arm curled around her with his cloak in a protective embrace, shrouding them in darkness. Her hands now lightly furled on his chest and their faces only a few inches apart. Standing there in such an embrace, entranced by the other they could only be pulled from their state by the sudden opening of the carriage door.
Lillian blushed then, the rosy color infecting her cheeks as she withdrew from him, murmuring in a flustered sort of blur apologies of all kinds, she even started saying it in Latin and Greek. Seymour chuckled at this; she was stopped by a sudden whir of movement that passed Seymour. Lillian giggled – forgetting a moment ago it seemed – in a flurry of white billowing cloth and the whirl of the wind, which sent her locks spiraling around her face.
A young man had her around the waist, holding her up and twirling her around in a display of pure joy. His hair was a brilliant brunet color, his locks waving in the breeze around his angular face that still held that boyish hint. Emerald irises peered at the world from below his brow and tan skin from the outdoors gave an eerie bronze glow in the light of the sun. He was striking no doubt but there it lie…Something sinister.
Behind the happy façade and calm demeanor lay something not even Seymour – through all of his ways of digesting another’s masks – could touch the surface of. Lillian’s parents returned to her side and her father went on saying something to the two, beckoning the Count to come closer. Seymour took the few steps and was greeted by the sight of the boy holding Lillian in what one could assume to be a protective embrace.
“This is Mathew,” Joseph said in a voice Seymour almost took as pride, “he is to be married to our little girl in April. Isn’t that wonderful?” He snorted and chuckled with hefty amusement and adoration as Seymour watched the couple. His eyes caught Mathew’s and held him there but in a much more callous and hateful hold than the way he was embracing Lillian. Abruptly, his face dropped and his brow furrowed as he held the amber gaze that felt as if it were tearing into him, peeling layers of lies away with a wolfish bite, rending flesh, stripping him away.
Mathew paled and looked away, aware still that Seymour was regarding him with that wounding stare, and he felt very cold. That detached and frozen hatred keeping him spellbound to the spot, his grip on Lillian’s waist tightening. She barely seemed to notice, just as long as he didn’t hurt her she wouldn’t notice and he made himself stop, and withdraw from her. The Count’s eyes removed themselves from his form, Lillian only sparing him a glance to see his sullen face, eyes on the ground.
“Are you ill?” She whispered to him as her father started rambling on, the Count seeming to listen to him but every now and again his eyes would dart to the couple.
“No…” He lied, those eyes chilling bone and flesh as they pierced his soul.
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