TW: mention of death, racism, and curse words
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I do feel like an absolute arse for treating my legal wife in this manner. However, it is much better than actually letting the feelings she harbours for me grow. I, who's constantly being torn apart by the despair of losing my other half, will never be good enough of a husband for her.
I strode across the hall, opening the huge wooden doors to the drawing room, where the staircase descended to the ground floor. I took two steps at a time unelegantly, my mind swirling with intense emotions that might blow up sooner or later.
I reached the entrance hall, going into the guest room on the right, which had been my personal quarters since my marriage.
I kicked open the wooden door with so much force that it slammed against the wall with a loud 'thud'- not that I cared.
I strode in, locking the door behind me - my wife wouldn't be invading my only safe space today.
I ran my fingers through my hair, frustrated with the incident earlier. It's not as if I could just tell her the truth. However, if I slip up about it, my family will be ruined, losing all standing in society. If the stakes weren't as high as this, I wouldn't have hesitated to tell her and bolt away from this empty life.
I was acutely aware of the pressures weighing on her. Both our families had been relentless, insisting that we have a child soon. It hasn't been too long since I got a letter from my elder brother, Sebastian, inquiring about Lady Lavinia's fertility. I informed him that she was in good condition and the issue was likely my fault, to save her face. I feel bad for her for being in this deranged marriage arranged by our parents, which brought nothing but despair to both of us. Some might say that I could forget the past and give in, but how can I turn to another when I already have someone held in my heart for eternity, even after death?
I looked down at my ink-stained suit. I crossed the room, yanking aside the flimsy curtain that separates the dressing area from my bedroom.
Entering the dressing room, I tilted my head back to look at the ceiling - just a blank, empty space. Eyes closed, I dragged my finger through my once tidy hair, already feeling the dull throb of a headache gathering at my temples.
I opened my eyes and turned my head, only to lock gaze with my own exhausted reflection on the dressing room mirror.
My blonde hair, which was styled in a side part, now had a few strands falling on my forehead.
My eyes, the same orbs that looked like shining sapphires in his perspective, had become dull as a deep, endless ocean at midnight, so hollow as they stared right back at me.
I had dark circles under my eyes as I hadn't had proper sleep after his passing, as nightmares haunted my nights constantly.
My lips had often been plump and swollen because of the number of kisses he had given me. Now, without him, they've dried, cracked, and left untended just like the rest of me.
The light grey Savile Row, which was tailored days ago, is now drenched in ink, just like how my life is swallowed by grief.
I studied my appearance in the mirror further, seeing my once milky skin had become blanched like blotting paper, not that I cared any longer.
The more I stared, the more disgusting I felt in my own skin. I tore off my gaze from the mirror and let out a sigh, trying to relieve the feeling of heavy weights on my shoulders weighing me down emotionally.
I glanced around, and one of my most treasured items caught my eye. It was the first ever gift I received from my Sol. He had gifted me this at the start of our adventures together. However, what made this even more precious was that the gift was handmade from scratch by him.
That day he had gifted me a white collard shirt, a dark blue V-neck sweater, a black tweed jacket, high-waisted pleated trousers a pair of leather plimsolls. A complete set of clothes he sewed for me personally. I could remember the day he gave me the clothes as if it were yesterday. I could almost see a puppy tail when I accepted the gift from his wounded hands, which he probably caused by sewing.
He didn't even let me pay a dime for the outfit. When I offered, the only thing he told me was "Come on, don't be shy now. We are friends, aren't we? Besides, you owe me one. I'll ask for something more from you." But he never asked for such a favour at all.
Those few words from him made my heart do a marathon at the time, even though we were just friends.
I snapped out of my daydream, seeing a sappy, loving smile spread across my face through my reflection in the mirror. Just thinking about him affected me so much, yet it will never be enough, as I long for his presence every waking moment. The warm, nostalgic feeling was killed instantly as the memories of him bleeding out on my arms on that snowy field, gasping for his last breaths as he struggled to hold on to the last strings of his life, came crashing into my line of vision.
I closed my eyes tightly, feeling my eyes water. I took a shuddering breath, trying to diminish the anguish gnawing me from the inside. But it didn't go away, which led me to my decision to go to my secret office, 'The Phantom Inquiry', one of the places I could feel closer to him and the memories we shared together the most.
Not even wanting to waste another second, I started undressing.
Just as I was halfway undoing my buttons, my room door was banged on hard, startling me greatly.
"You'll regret pushing me away, Charles!!! I hope you'd never find anyone to love and die a bitter man alone." Lady Lavinia cried out from outside, her voice tinged with anguish and heartbreak, as it was the 20th time I had refused her advances just for this month.
I stood frozen in place, my fingers still on an unbuttoned button. Not long after, I heard her footsteps fading gradually until it was inaudible.
I let out a breath I had held in without much awareness. I let my hands fall to my sides in defeat. Oh, how clueless she was. If she ever knew that I had already lost the person I wanted to be with for the rest of my life and any lives to come to the embrace of Hades, then what will she say? All I know is that the only person who should be blamed for this situation is not her, but me, for not having enough power to save him that day. If I had, we would have been living together happily, not in a loveless marriage that hurt both Lady Lavinia and me.
I got my mind back to the task at hand -unbuttoning my shirt with stiff hands as many emotions swirled in my mind. Now just adorned in my trousers, I threw the rest of my attire into the laundry basket. The fabric brushed against my arm as I threw it, sending a stinging pain down my wrist. That's when I noticed the deep scratch marks on my arm, which I probably got during the earlier incident.
My gaze shifted to the mirror without thinking as conflicting emotions battled inside my mind. I snapped back to the present when I noticed a scar running from my chest to my abdomen, something I got from my adventures together with Sol. A few smaller scars littered my body, each a mark unbefitting of a noble like me.
"I look like a bloody ghost," I muttered to myself, seeing the ghostly pale complexion I seem to have.
I studied my broad shoulders, then the stark collarbone jutting beneath my skin. The result of too many times of ignorance instead of food, of distraction over hunger.
My once well-defined muscles had shrunk a lot, making me look thinner eventhough I have slight muscle definition. I took a mental note to eat more cause I know if I keep going like this, I might collapse. Then again, if I think about it, dying and reuniting with him is far better than living. Yet I'm here living just because I know from the bottom of my heart that he wants me to live happily as much as I would if I were in his position.
As the belt loosened, I remembered how his hands would settle there, not to claim, but to steady himself, like I was the only thing grounding him to the earth. He always used to wrap his arms around my waist when I was distracted or overwhelmed, gently pulling me closer, nuzzling my neck, whispering sweet nothings in a hushed voice in my ears.
"Lionheart, your imperfections are the most perfect things that ground me to my senses. I'm so lucky to have you in my arms. I feel so loved when I'm with you. Every moment I think that I have fallen into the deepest depth in love with you, I'll always be proven wrong because I fall even deeper with each passing day. I love you so much, my Lionheart. " He would tell me at random intervals, catching me off guard every time.
I saw a blush tingeing my ears, face, and shoulders pink in the mirror as my face heated up with warmth at his words, even though they were uttered ages ago.
I took a deep breath to regain composure. I tossed my belt into the drawer of my cupboard before closing it. I slid my trousers off and put them in the laundry basket, thanking the gods for not letting my boxer shorts be drenched in ink like the other pieces of clothing.
Quickly, I walked over to my open cupboard where the outfit I cherish the most was hanging. I put on the suit and admired myself in the mirror. Although I had done this more than a hundred times, I never get tired of it as I admire his exquisite sewing on the clothes, as they fit me perfectly.
After a lingering moment of admiration, I slid open the drawer of my personal cupboard. Inside was a black masquerade mask, its golden patterns coiled like serpents around the hollowed eye sockets, sharpening the wearer's gaze into something predatory, otherworldly. I felt warmth bubbling inside me as I recalled his words when he handed me the mask he had crafted for weeks.
"For our nightly charades, Lionheart. I don't want any nightly creatures falling for you just because you help them. I do not want to fight a ghost for your affections in the middle of the night. I'll fight those fools if I must, but I'd prefer to keep you to myself tonight and every single dawn and dusk in the future," he said when he gave me the mask for the first time with a lopsided smile, which I love.
I fixed the mask on my face tightly, making sure it won't fall off, and made my way to the only gigantic portrait I have of a landscape of Santorini, Greece, a place we had planned to travel to together a few years back.
I slowly put my hands behind the portrait, finding a small button behind it which I pressed, resulting in a trap door for a tunnel opening in the middle of the dressing room. It was one of the emergency escape routes I added to the mansion's blueprint during its construction in case the war grew even severe.
I jumped in, plunging a few feet down and landing on my feet with practiced ease. In the darkness, I felt around the walls and found a lever which I pulled down instantly, closing and locking the trap door while switching on the Vadodara bulbs, which lit the path of the tunnel.
Thanking Mr. Eddison in my mind for inventing the light bulb, I started sprinting along the tunnel, as it takes an agonizingly long time to reach the destination on foot.
I reached the other end of the tunnel without any mishaps. I climbed the iron stairs leading to the trap door, pulling a lever up that was on the side. All the lights switched off, and the tunnel door swung open. I climbed out and inhaled the fresh breeze, which was much sweeter than the rotting smell underground.
Getting out, I slowly turned the head of the statue of an angel, which was on a tomb next to the tunnel door, clockwise until a click sound was heard, successfully shutting and locking the tunnel door.
I took in the haunting beauty of the vicinity around me. I was surrounded by ancient tombstones and catacombs. Further up in the morning sky, a USSAF bomber formation left trails of smoke behind as they flew west, probably for the mission 'Pointblank'.
I was standing on the grounds of St. George's Gardens in London, where my secret office tower, The Phantom Inquiry, stood tall away from the prying eyes of outsiders. It was a perfect hideout for a ghost hunter like me, who had been ghost hunting for almost five years.
I made my way to my office, a spooky tower that stood tall among the tombs. Seeing the structure, memories of my Sol running around to construct the tower back then came flooding into my mind.
I felt an involuntary smile spread across my face at his past shenanigans.
"Young master!? You're here on a Sunday morning? That's rather odd. Did something happen at the manor?" My thoughts were interrupted by the surprised voice of the tower keeper, a tall African man in his 30s who was wearing simple work clothes.
"Kwame? Good morning to you, too!" I replied to his rather peculiar morning greeting.
"Ummm... I thought I could pay a visit today since I was feeling rather bored," I lied through my teeth, which isn't something noticeable for many.
He gave me a rather unamused look, seeing right through my lie.
"Alright, you caught me. I had a rather rough morning with my wife," I said, sighing. Kwame's eyes softened at my words. He was a towering man, his Ghanaian accent still thick despite four winters in London. Winters that had nearly killed him before Sol and I found him curled in an alley, frost clinging to his coat like a second skin. Back then, employers saw only his height, his complexion, and the way he didn't "fit." However, he was not different from any of us but rather more sensitive and kinder than the typical Englishman one could meet on the streets. He saw straight through my guarded, impassive face, reading my emotions and feelings like a book. Even at my worst, when Sol's death left me screaming at walls and drinking Whiskey in the depths of my despair until my body gave out, Kwame never called me weak. Just handed me soup for my hangover and sat in the silence with me, sometimes helping me onto his own bed while he slept on the floor to my dismay. The friendship we share isn't something I would trade for anything, not even for immortality or eternal health.
"Young master, is there anything I can do for you?" He asked.
"Sorry, Kwame, I got lost in thought. And how many times have I told you to just call me Alistiar or Alexander or my other names?" I say with a slight feigned annoyance.
"Y-Yong master! I'm not comfortable with calling you that, I've told you before. Have you eaten breakfast? I made some food earlier for breakfast," he stammered, changing the subject to another topic, flustered.
"No, my morning was rather unpleasant, so I forgot about breakfast altogether," I said, chuckling, letting him have his way with words.
"Then please come in, young master, cease your hunger," Kwame said, entering the tower. I follow him inside to the ground floor of the tower.
The room was quite spacious with an air of a cozy living room. There were two burgundy sofas on the right with a tea table in between them. A fireplace was built on the other side, a few feet next to the sofas. There were a few table lamps placed around the room for lighting. There was a ginormous bookshelf which was placed right next to the entrance on the other side of the fireplace, a few feet next to the sofas. On the left side of the room was a big office table with a radio, Kwame's reading spot since I taught him to read, as he never used the comfortable sofas that stood idly by, collecting dust. Right next to the table was another big space with a few chairs abs a table surrounding an evidence board with clippings of ghostly activities, evidence from the latest case we worked on, which we successfully resolved. Right in front of the entrance, on the other side of the room, was a hydraulic lift leading to the upper floors of the tower.
I sat on one of the chairs surrounding the evidence board, which had threads pulled from one place to another connecting the evidence we had collected when Kwame brought in the dishes he had made, the rich aroma of spices filling the air, making my mouth water.
He placed a plate of freshly baked corn bread from the bakery downtown and a pot of hot and steamy putupap (a cornmeal porridge) on the table in front of me.
Very hungry, I raced to the kitchen, hunger overriding my aristocratic dignity, which had a door in the left corner of the room to wash my hands.
When I returned, Kwame was sitting on a chair with an amused look plastered on his face. Well, not even nobles can resist appetizing, mouth-watering delicacies.
"I should apologize for stealing your breakfast today, Kwame," I said.
He only nodded as I dug in, savouring the food. I took a spoonful of putupap and shoved it in my mouth, and it melted in my mouth. It was gritty but soft with a flavour of corn. It was nutty, a bit biscuity, and surprisingly was sweet and savoury at the same time.
The putupap's gritty warmth flooded my mind with memories of the past on the day Kwame cooked for me and Sol for the first time, finally his sanity snapping from eating tasteless and bland English food - his words, not mine. Kwame hummed Ghanaian tunes as he stirred the pot, not noticing Sol being an utterly beautiful and mischievous git as he stole spoonfuls of the food as it still bubbled in the pot when Kwame was occupied, much to my amusement. He grinned like a twelve-year-old school boy who successfully smuggled candy unbeknownst to a strict schoolmaster who hates kids with all their might.
Smiling at the fond memories, I dipped a piece of corn bread in the putupap and ate it. The bread went soft and mushy in my mouth as the flavour soothed my frazzled nerves from the argument earlier.
I was brought back from the food heaven when Kwame broke the silence.
"Young master, not to intrude, but what was the fight about this time?" He asked skeptically.
"The same old heir problem," I answered bitterly.
He sighed and looked at me.
"You should tell the young lady the truth, young master. If you do, she'll understand and give you space. She's an intelligent person." He said.
"How do I tell her, Kwame? She's clever, yes, but I do not know her views on the world must be molded into the shape that aristocrats desire since she's a noble. Kwame, in your colony, people were not brainwashed by colonizers, and you were accepting of me and Sol, but she was homeschooled since childhood, and she probably doesn't know anything about this kind of relationship. It'll be repulsive for her, maybe. I can see her attempts at affection, thinking our marriage will be fine as long as she loves me hard enough. But how can I tell her that I do not return her feelings or never will be doing that now, both our families are pressuring her for a child? She'll be crushed. And how do I explain to her that my body and soul were sworn to another man before she decided to be a part of my life?" My voice cracked as I gripped the piece of bread in my hands so hard that it crumpled.
Kwame nodded in understanding. Homosexuality wasn't just frowned upon in this society, but rather a hanging offence. The backlash if found out is gruesome, even more so if one is a noble, a scandal that could topple empires. And I, the Duke of Wellington, stood on the tightest rope of all. One misstep, and my family wouldn't just fall from grace; we'd be dragged through the gutter, stripped of title and wealth, reduced to something lower than slaves. At least slaves had masters who valued their labor. We'd have nothing but the world's contempt.
"Maybe you should move on and give your wife a chance, young master," Kwame said meekly.
I laughed bitterly as hot tears blurred my vision.
"Move on? Do you think I don't want to feel free and happy? I do so bloody much. But it was he who gave me the chance to be that. I was chained, contained, trapped by a curse I never wanted when he came into my life, releasing me, letting me feel the joys of life. I was a bloody mess before I met him. He was the reason I could stand up and speak against a whole room filled with scheming aristocrats without trembling like a scared little lamb. I was a broken shell; he fixed me. I was a sick bastard, shoving everyone away when he approached me, not caring about the insults, and he cured me. He made me feel whole and showed me the world. I was a caged bird before he appeared and unlocked the cage for me to fly away, which I didn't, cause his warmth felt safer than flying. He didn't just show me the world - he made it survivable. And you think I'd trade that? Fly away from the only hands that ever felt like home," I snapped as tears flowed out of my eyes like a waterfall. I choked out a sob, feeling as if my throat was being squeezed.
"It's bloody unfair that he was ripped away from me right in front of my eyes that day." My voice cracked as I was struggling to breathe as the memories of his gasped breath, faint pulse, bloodied clothes, and pale face flashed in my mind.
"Every day when I wake up, all I can remember is him, his warmth back when he was right next to me, alive. Everywhere I go, all I see are his twinkling dark brown eyes filled with pure affection and stupid adoration towards me, which he never bothered to hide. All I can think of is his smile that reached his eyes, that always made my day, and that lopsided smile of his that I love so much." I said as sharp sobs wracked through my frame.
"I would dream of him, his laughter and his witty remarks, fluttering my eyes open each morning with more hope and love than anyone could wish for. Then I remember. Then it kills me all over again, making me want to scream my heart out, which I never do, fearing the scream will take away the only bits of remnants from him, the only memories of him. I know it's silly and not accurate, but I can't help it. I loved him in the shadows and had to bury him in the silence like another person slaughtered in the rage of war. Everyone thinks he died in a land mine incident, which I know isn't the truth! We loved each other, shared laughs and stories during ur missions surrounded by ghosts. And now you ask me to live as if it never mattered? To pretend as if my heart doesn't long for him? Kwame, I gave him my heart the moment my eyes locked onto those cedar orbs. And I buried it with him the day he left this world." I let out a cracked and bitter laugh.
"I'd rather let myself out there in the war and die than let him go. I know it has been two years, but the pain never went away. It still feels as if yesterday." I took a shuddering breath to compose myself.
I wiped my tears on the edge of my sweater, breath heaving, finally calming down.
Kwame looked at me apologetically before muttering a quiet apology under his breath, focusing on his food the entire time.
We finished the rest of the meal in silence, helping him clean up after.
"Young master, I'm sorry about earlier, I-" Kwame said as he wiped his hands on a cloth after washing the dishes.
"It's alright, Kwame, I overreacted. Don't worry about it." I cut him off with a small smile, earning a smile and a nod from him.
"Young master, a letter arrived for you today. It's in your office." He said.
"Thank you, Kwame, I will see to it," I said, already making my way to the lift.
I pulled the lever to the second floor, from the ground floor, passing the first floor, which was filled with cursed items no one should touch.
The lift stopped, and I made my way to my office, which was the end of a straight hallway with dim lighting.
I opened the door and entered the room. The room was dimly lit by a few talking candles, which let out incoherent screeching sounds at my presence. They were one of the few unharmful cursed objects I kept in my office.
A few of the cursed trinkets clinked and clanked, making noise, adding a creepy atmosphere to the already dark and moody room.
I ignored all of the sounds and walked straight to my desk and switched n the desk lamp. There were a few letters on the left corner, and my record book on ghosts on the other corner. My desk had a typewriter, a fixed-line phone, an antique pen, and a few ink bottles.
I let out a sigh and drew the curtains of my window open, and looked out of it, seeing a few ghosts wandering around, not being able to enter the tower because of the protection charms I installed.
Since I was born, I could see, feel, and communicate with ghosts. The few people who knew about it called it a curse. But I consider it a blessing in disguise since it paved the way for me to meet him, my Sol.
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number of words - 4473
Sorry guys, I was busy with exams. I swear I'm not dropping the story. Thanks for being patient with me so far. Hope you like this chapter.
-Bai Sayoran-