[story] colour me autumn
Sep. 26th, 2011 02:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ib_archiveauthor: m% (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
37_percent)
The yawn that resounded through the otherwise quiet study was proof enough that Maurice Mortimer, heir of the Copper Beeches manor, had stayed awake well past his usual hour.
He leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, groaning as pain shot through his spine, and rubbed his eyes, weary from staring so long at the minute masts and rigging of the model ship he'd been working on. He groped for the pocket watch he'd left open on the desk before settling down to work. Two brass hands mercilessly pointed at two in the morning. Without even looking outside, Maurice knew that the darkness spreading beyond the study's windows was by now punctuated only by the handful of lanterns lining the lane leading to the manor. Such would have been the case for hours now. Summer was coming to an end, making the nights longer. Darker.
Maurice knew well enough that he should have surrendered himself to the realm of dreams hours ago, but his atrocious neglect of the comfort of his bedchamber (not to mention the comfort of his rightfully wedded wife) was, in his mind, firmly justified. For the whole day he'd had not a moment to spare for himself or his hobby, in contrast to his normal sedate routine; the reason for this violation of habit having been, surprisingly enough, his own daughter, Sarah. The otherwise calm, almost angel-like creature had been suffering from a bad fever (most probably due to the absentmindedness of her caretaker); and, generous child that she was, she shared her annoyance, tears, and discomfort with all inhabitants of Copper Beeches, regardless of their social status. This had ultimately forced Mortimer to sacrifice a few hours of sleep in favour of peaceful and, most importantly, quiet relaxation - in spite of his wife's initial protests.
The only person allowed to share Maurice's time of respite - provided he kept quiet, which was a rare occurrence for him - was one Vergil Oakenroad. Equally upbeat and mischievous by nature, Mrs. Mortimer's younger brother had luckily decided to behave appropriately to the situation for once. Lounging on the ottoman at the far end of the room, he kept his mouth shut and his eyes fixed on a heavy tome of ancient lore perched in his lap; pausing only to brush back wisps of reddish hair that kept getting out of his loose ponytail. Vergil was, without doubt, a handsome young gentleman, and in the dim light of the lamp his form gained a strangely ethereal quality; like a painting that had somehow come alive for one night and one night only.
Yet Maurice was too occupied with his work to notice all this, at least on any level more conscious than a distracted glance every now and then. In spite of the late hour, his mind was fixed on his intricate work of naval art - and as such, he was deaf and blind to the surrounding world.
That is, until he heard something. Three words, otherwise perfectly harmless.
But passing the lips of Vergil Oakenroad, they instantly gained a worrying, almost sinister ring to them.
"My, oh my."
Mortimer was at the young man’s side immediately, ignoring the fact this urgency almost cost his precious vessel half of its sails; knowing all too well that these three words had as firm a connection with incoming disasters as a drunkard had with his last bottle of liquor. Over Oakenroad's shoulder, he gazed into the darkness outside anxiously.
"What is it? What’s happening?"
Without a word, his companion pointed in the direction of the flickering lanterns; there, on the very edge of light, something moved towards the building. A couple of somethings even, if Maurice's eyes weren't deceiving him.
"Burglars...!" he scowled, but to his bafflement, Vergil shook his head slowly.
"I do not think so, Mr. Mortimer - unless they have escaped some kind of a freak show. They are rather... Misshapen, I dare say." When his host didn't reply, he added, "Take a closer look, you'll see what I mean."
Somewhat reluctantly, Maurice did as he was told. And he did see.
The dim light hid their faces, but their silhouettes alone had a somewhat disturbing quality, bearing no real resemblance to human shapes. Bizarrely skewed and of unnatural proportions - some of them almost as high as the trees between which they were hiding! - they made Mortimer’s stomach twist with fright. Still, as the owner of these grounds, he was obliged to deal with trespassers, odd as they might be. That was why, without further delay, he withdrew a pistol from his desk and headed downstairs, Vergil teetering behind him like a shadow. It was only after they crossed the main hall and found themselves in the kitchen that the boy spoke up again.
"Should I go and wake up the warden first? He might prove himself helpful if it comes to a confrontation."
"No. We should first investigate the matter on our own. This might be just a trick of the wind." Seeing that his friend was about to protest, he hurried on, "I do realize it’s unlikely, but then again, our minds could be hampered by the lack of sleep. If anything happens, one warning shot will be enough to wake up the servants, rest assured."
"You know I trust you with my life, Mr. Mortimer… Which means I shall have no means by which to pledge my trust, should something unfortunate occur," Oakenroad warned jokingly, trying to handle the uncomfortably dense atmosphere. He had never been one to take matters seriously and he wasn’t going to change that just now.
Figuring this would do for the time being, Maurice opened the kitchen door. Both men snuck outside; then, as quietly as was humanly possible, they moved towards the mansion's front. Once they had the lane in sight, they paused again, uncertain what course of action to take. To the heir's slight unease, the intruders turned out to be more numerous than he had previously assumed; they formed two even columns along both sides of the path, all the way up to the gates.
And seemed to be, for some unfathomable reason, examining the trees.
Maurice turned to comment on it to his friend - only to find said friend already gone from his side and confidently heading towards danger. He bit back a curse and rushed after him, grabbing the foolish man by the arm and turning him around so that they came face to face.
"What do you think you're doing...?! It's dangerous!"
"Calm down, Mr. Mortimer." Vergil patted his hand, grinning from ear to ear, "If I am right as to who... Or rather what they are, they mean no harm whatsoever."
"But if you are wrong, we might not see the light of day," Maurice scoffed, not feeling any more convinced. Still, he let Oakenroad take him by the hand and lead towards the bizarre strangers, figuring that, for all his carelessness, Vergil would never lead any of his friends to certain doom; he must know something that made him sure of their safety.
"Will you... Enlighten me, then? As to what these things are?"
Vergil looked at him sideways, eyes twinkling with triumphant joy which was, as far as Maurice could tell, not even remotely relevant given the circumstances.
"Of course. They are the Leaf Painters."
The heir blinked rapidly in confusion, mouthing a 'what?' before staring back at the lane, down which they were on the verge of traveling, with no less apprehension. The younger man at his side chuckled, then squeezed his friend's hand reassuringly.
"You see, Mr. Mortimer," he purred, leaning closer so he needn't raise his voice and so risk alarming the creatures they were walking among, "Were you a diligent and patient father, you would have noticed that in order to pacify your feverish daughter, one of the maids attempted to interest her with a passage from a certain book..."
"Vergil, I hire the maids to make up for my inbred lack of fatherly diligence. Do not expect my attention to be constantly fixed upon their antics."
"Obviously, Mr. Mortimer, but there's no need for irritation. Back to the point: the text in question, beautifully illustrated by none other than Peter Giles, bears the title In the Court of Four Seasons... And just happens to be mentioning our nightly guests." Here, he made a broad gesture towards the shadowy creatures.
His companion nodded, trying to look convinced. This unexpected transition between real and fictional perplexed him, but for the sake of his own sanity he decided to play along.
"I see. So, what do these creatures do, pray tell? Apart from the obvious, of course," he added quickly as Vergil's mouth was already articulating a graceful 'p'.
Cut off mid-syllable, the boy let out a hollow puff of air, inhaled once again, held his breath for a moment, exhaled - a clear sign he was attempting to recall something. When he'd sorted out everything in his head, he resumed walking, pulling his companion along.
"Quoting from memory, so it might not be accurate form-wise: 'And as Lord Summer ventures South to seek the waning Sun, the birds all follow - but not until with red and gold they paint the halls of rain-eyed Lady Fall'... I might have misplaced a rhyme somewhere..."
"That's good enough, thank you," Maurice once again stared into the night, his eyes already accustomed to the scarce lighting; he itched for his pipe, but unfortunately, it had been left behind, "I wonder what we should do now that the 'misunderstanding' is cleared up."
"I'd suggest heading back to our respective bedchambers, but... I believe you are slightly more eager to explore the matter than previously, Mr. Mortimer." Vergil's voice was laced with laughter.
"Am I?" Maurice inquired in a monotone, but instead of turning back he continued his stroll down the lane. After all, the Leaf Painters were working on his grounds, which automatically made him their supervisor. Besides, he had become genuinely curious.
When they'd assumed a burglary attempt, the figures had appeared grotesquely misshapen, practically inhuman. Upon closer investigation, however, they turned out to possess many bird-like qualities instead - just as the book mentioned by Vergil implied. Despite the almost complete lack of light (only two lanterns stubbornly flickered at the far end of the lane), Maurice could still easily make out their beaks and feathery wings. He heard their sharp talons scratching across the gravel as they moved from one tree to another, the leaves rustling under their ministrations; they were like workers in a factory he had once visited - working in perfect unison without a moment of pause, entirely focused on completing their task.
Stopping in the middle of the broad walk and closing his eyes, he tried to take in all of the familiar, yet otherworldly sounds: claws on gravel, fluttering feathers, rustling leaves. Beneath it all, he soon discovered yet another sound. A low, melodious humming filled the air around them, so that it seemed to quiver with some strange anticipation - the quiet song of the shadowy workers. As if under a spell, his thoughts drifted away from where he stood and towards the fairy tale left by his daughter's bedside. Did Peter Giles do the Leaf Painters justice in his illustrations? Or would they turn out to be a disappointment when compared with the original? Maurice had never really paid attention to those pictures, having purchased the book solely for the artist's name; but now, how he wished to examine them...! Perhaps… At such a moment no idea seemed too bold, too ridiculous. Perhaps on a night just like this one Giles, too, witnessed a flock of Leaf Painters in his gardens?
'Leaf Painters...'
The heir was struck by a sudden thought. A silly thought. One that could only have been produced by a sleep-deprived mind:
'Are they actually using brushes and buckets of paint?'
Obviously, he could have bothered his companion for an answer, Vergil not only being better read when it came to the supernatural, but also far more perceptive. Much as he cherished and respected Mr. Oakenroad, however, Mortimer felt reluctant to execute that particular plan; he didn't wish to make a fool of himself twice in one night. Deciding to investigate on his own instead, he cautiously approached the closest creature. Behind him he could sense Vergil shift uncomfortably, as if he wanted to halt him but changed his mind halfway through; which was well enough - Mortimer despised distractions of any kind once he had fixed his mind on something.
Left free to his own devices, Maurice walked all the way up to the Leaf Painter, mindful to keep a reasonable distance from its claws, and looked up in hopes of spotting a paint container of any sort, accompanied by a brush; but no matter how high he searched and how much he squinted, the curious gentleman could not say with absolute certainty whether what he saw was what he had expected to see, or something entirely different. The only thing he was sure of was the fact that looking up for too long made his head spin.
Giving up on the investigation, Maurice leaned against the tree trunk with an exhausted sigh. He felt heavy drops on his face and fumbled in his pockets in search of a handkerchief, eventually accepting the one handed to him by Vergil.
"I believe it's high time we returned, Mr. Mortimer."
Maurice declined the offered arm with a small scoff of 'I'm not THAT old', then straightened up and loosened his tie.
"Yes, I believe we should," he paused, "... Aren't our composed dispositions surprising, Vergil…? Why are we this calm in such extraordinary circumstances?"
"Lack of decent sleep prevents the extraordinary from sinking in, I suppose. And aids our imagination." Oakenroad smiled knowingly and took his friend by the arm anyway. "I, for one thing, will surely burst into your room come morning, crying about the horror of what we have been witnesses to tonight."
"You are joking, obviously."
"No, no, I assure you. This experience might be exceedingly traumatizing in hindsight. Mark my words, Mr. Mortimer!"
The door burst open, hitting the wall with a loud bang and causing the unfortunate inhabitant of the bedchamber to suffer a minor heart attack. He recovered rapidly, knowing worse things were about to come.
"I demand an explanation. NOW."
"But... Sister dear," Vergil rubbed at his eyes sloppily, "You would make my task that much easier if you were more precise as to the matter at hand."
He tried to placate his fuming sibling with a smile, but she'd have none of that - and before he even managed to put on the gown properly, young Oakenroad was - after a moment of squabbling, fuming and futile cries for help - virtually dragged out of his room, across the corridor, and hurled into the chamber reserved for Beatrice and her husband. Before Vergil had as much as tried to figure out his situation (or rather, how disastrously bad it actually was), his train of thought was instantly derailed by the most extraordinary sight.
On his bed, due to the early hour covered in little more than the pristine white sheets, sat Maurice Mortimer, Vergil's friend and brother-in-law. This otherwise familiar picture was disrupted by two anomalies: the particularly miserable expression adorning Maurice's face and... Vergil gasped in genuine shock.
If there was one thing in the world that young Oakenroad envied anybody, it was certainly Mr Mortimer's hair: a sea of tight ringlets of the most luscious chocolate brown he had ever seen. Maurice was of course very much aware of this and, while generally modest, always tried his hardest to expose this singular trait, gaining the admiration and jealousy of Vergil, followed by many others.
But now, in the tousled mass of brown there appeared - seemingly out of nowhere - vivid streaks of red (as they found out later, perfectly matching in shade with the trees outside). Vergil would have lied if he'd said he wasn't utterly horrified, if only for a moment.
"I shall leave you to discuss in private," Beatrice cut into her brother's reverie curtly. "By breakfast time, however, I do expect you to present a plausible explanation for... This," she gestured at her husband's hair with disdain and left without another word.
Maurice, whose own shock had apparently not yet worn off, rolled one garish lock between his fingers, examining it half-heartedly. Vergil, not really knowing how to approach the subject – in a way other than laughing hysterically till he cried, that was – leaned against the broad windowsill and contemplated the cloudy sky behind the glass. The prolonged silence didn't sit well with his lively demeanour, however, and soon enough he heard his own voice putting an end to it.
"At least nobody will ever question your rights to the estate... Your hair is enough of a testimony." A joke seemed as good a start as any.
In answer, he received only an irritated grumble, sounding suspiciously like: 'As if I needed that'. Figuring instantly that play time was over and he should finally take responsibility for his friend's distress - after all, he could have told Mortimer to stay away from the trees - Vergil climbed atop his friend’s bed, right across from the crestfallen man and combed his fingers through the brown-red tangle with almost motherly care.
"Bloody Leaf Painters..." Mortimer scowled without much force.
"Now, now, Mr. Mortimer, it's not half bad. I'm sure those odd curls can be covered up with no effort at all." As Maurice raised his head, the boy greeted him with the warmest of smiles.
“Are you quite sure…?”
"Of course!” Vergil sat back on his heels, the smile never leaving his face, “As long as they don't start changing colours and falling out come Winter, you should be just fine."
The heir of Copper Beeches hid his face in hands. And whimpered.
the end
37_percent)The yawn that resounded through the otherwise quiet study was proof enough that Maurice Mortimer, heir of the Copper Beeches manor, had stayed awake well past his usual hour.
He leaned back in the uncomfortable chair, groaning as pain shot through his spine, and rubbed his eyes, weary from staring so long at the minute masts and rigging of the model ship he'd been working on. He groped for the pocket watch he'd left open on the desk before settling down to work. Two brass hands mercilessly pointed at two in the morning. Without even looking outside, Maurice knew that the darkness spreading beyond the study's windows was by now punctuated only by the handful of lanterns lining the lane leading to the manor. Such would have been the case for hours now. Summer was coming to an end, making the nights longer. Darker.
Maurice knew well enough that he should have surrendered himself to the realm of dreams hours ago, but his atrocious neglect of the comfort of his bedchamber (not to mention the comfort of his rightfully wedded wife) was, in his mind, firmly justified. For the whole day he'd had not a moment to spare for himself or his hobby, in contrast to his normal sedate routine; the reason for this violation of habit having been, surprisingly enough, his own daughter, Sarah. The otherwise calm, almost angel-like creature had been suffering from a bad fever (most probably due to the absentmindedness of her caretaker); and, generous child that she was, she shared her annoyance, tears, and discomfort with all inhabitants of Copper Beeches, regardless of their social status. This had ultimately forced Mortimer to sacrifice a few hours of sleep in favour of peaceful and, most importantly, quiet relaxation - in spite of his wife's initial protests.
The only person allowed to share Maurice's time of respite - provided he kept quiet, which was a rare occurrence for him - was one Vergil Oakenroad. Equally upbeat and mischievous by nature, Mrs. Mortimer's younger brother had luckily decided to behave appropriately to the situation for once. Lounging on the ottoman at the far end of the room, he kept his mouth shut and his eyes fixed on a heavy tome of ancient lore perched in his lap; pausing only to brush back wisps of reddish hair that kept getting out of his loose ponytail. Vergil was, without doubt, a handsome young gentleman, and in the dim light of the lamp his form gained a strangely ethereal quality; like a painting that had somehow come alive for one night and one night only.
Yet Maurice was too occupied with his work to notice all this, at least on any level more conscious than a distracted glance every now and then. In spite of the late hour, his mind was fixed on his intricate work of naval art - and as such, he was deaf and blind to the surrounding world.
That is, until he heard something. Three words, otherwise perfectly harmless.
But passing the lips of Vergil Oakenroad, they instantly gained a worrying, almost sinister ring to them.
"My, oh my."
Mortimer was at the young man’s side immediately, ignoring the fact this urgency almost cost his precious vessel half of its sails; knowing all too well that these three words had as firm a connection with incoming disasters as a drunkard had with his last bottle of liquor. Over Oakenroad's shoulder, he gazed into the darkness outside anxiously.
"What is it? What’s happening?"
Without a word, his companion pointed in the direction of the flickering lanterns; there, on the very edge of light, something moved towards the building. A couple of somethings even, if Maurice's eyes weren't deceiving him.
"Burglars...!" he scowled, but to his bafflement, Vergil shook his head slowly.
"I do not think so, Mr. Mortimer - unless they have escaped some kind of a freak show. They are rather... Misshapen, I dare say." When his host didn't reply, he added, "Take a closer look, you'll see what I mean."
Somewhat reluctantly, Maurice did as he was told. And he did see.
The dim light hid their faces, but their silhouettes alone had a somewhat disturbing quality, bearing no real resemblance to human shapes. Bizarrely skewed and of unnatural proportions - some of them almost as high as the trees between which they were hiding! - they made Mortimer’s stomach twist with fright. Still, as the owner of these grounds, he was obliged to deal with trespassers, odd as they might be. That was why, without further delay, he withdrew a pistol from his desk and headed downstairs, Vergil teetering behind him like a shadow. It was only after they crossed the main hall and found themselves in the kitchen that the boy spoke up again.
"Should I go and wake up the warden first? He might prove himself helpful if it comes to a confrontation."
"No. We should first investigate the matter on our own. This might be just a trick of the wind." Seeing that his friend was about to protest, he hurried on, "I do realize it’s unlikely, but then again, our minds could be hampered by the lack of sleep. If anything happens, one warning shot will be enough to wake up the servants, rest assured."
"You know I trust you with my life, Mr. Mortimer… Which means I shall have no means by which to pledge my trust, should something unfortunate occur," Oakenroad warned jokingly, trying to handle the uncomfortably dense atmosphere. He had never been one to take matters seriously and he wasn’t going to change that just now.
Figuring this would do for the time being, Maurice opened the kitchen door. Both men snuck outside; then, as quietly as was humanly possible, they moved towards the mansion's front. Once they had the lane in sight, they paused again, uncertain what course of action to take. To the heir's slight unease, the intruders turned out to be more numerous than he had previously assumed; they formed two even columns along both sides of the path, all the way up to the gates.
And seemed to be, for some unfathomable reason, examining the trees.
Maurice turned to comment on it to his friend - only to find said friend already gone from his side and confidently heading towards danger. He bit back a curse and rushed after him, grabbing the foolish man by the arm and turning him around so that they came face to face.
"What do you think you're doing...?! It's dangerous!"
"Calm down, Mr. Mortimer." Vergil patted his hand, grinning from ear to ear, "If I am right as to who... Or rather what they are, they mean no harm whatsoever."
"But if you are wrong, we might not see the light of day," Maurice scoffed, not feeling any more convinced. Still, he let Oakenroad take him by the hand and lead towards the bizarre strangers, figuring that, for all his carelessness, Vergil would never lead any of his friends to certain doom; he must know something that made him sure of their safety.
"Will you... Enlighten me, then? As to what these things are?"
Vergil looked at him sideways, eyes twinkling with triumphant joy which was, as far as Maurice could tell, not even remotely relevant given the circumstances.
"Of course. They are the Leaf Painters."
The heir blinked rapidly in confusion, mouthing a 'what?' before staring back at the lane, down which they were on the verge of traveling, with no less apprehension. The younger man at his side chuckled, then squeezed his friend's hand reassuringly.
"You see, Mr. Mortimer," he purred, leaning closer so he needn't raise his voice and so risk alarming the creatures they were walking among, "Were you a diligent and patient father, you would have noticed that in order to pacify your feverish daughter, one of the maids attempted to interest her with a passage from a certain book..."
"Vergil, I hire the maids to make up for my inbred lack of fatherly diligence. Do not expect my attention to be constantly fixed upon their antics."
"Obviously, Mr. Mortimer, but there's no need for irritation. Back to the point: the text in question, beautifully illustrated by none other than Peter Giles, bears the title In the Court of Four Seasons... And just happens to be mentioning our nightly guests." Here, he made a broad gesture towards the shadowy creatures.
His companion nodded, trying to look convinced. This unexpected transition between real and fictional perplexed him, but for the sake of his own sanity he decided to play along.
"I see. So, what do these creatures do, pray tell? Apart from the obvious, of course," he added quickly as Vergil's mouth was already articulating a graceful 'p'.
Cut off mid-syllable, the boy let out a hollow puff of air, inhaled once again, held his breath for a moment, exhaled - a clear sign he was attempting to recall something. When he'd sorted out everything in his head, he resumed walking, pulling his companion along.
"Quoting from memory, so it might not be accurate form-wise: 'And as Lord Summer ventures South to seek the waning Sun, the birds all follow - but not until with red and gold they paint the halls of rain-eyed Lady Fall'... I might have misplaced a rhyme somewhere..."
"That's good enough, thank you," Maurice once again stared into the night, his eyes already accustomed to the scarce lighting; he itched for his pipe, but unfortunately, it had been left behind, "I wonder what we should do now that the 'misunderstanding' is cleared up."
"I'd suggest heading back to our respective bedchambers, but... I believe you are slightly more eager to explore the matter than previously, Mr. Mortimer." Vergil's voice was laced with laughter.
"Am I?" Maurice inquired in a monotone, but instead of turning back he continued his stroll down the lane. After all, the Leaf Painters were working on his grounds, which automatically made him their supervisor. Besides, he had become genuinely curious.
When they'd assumed a burglary attempt, the figures had appeared grotesquely misshapen, practically inhuman. Upon closer investigation, however, they turned out to possess many bird-like qualities instead - just as the book mentioned by Vergil implied. Despite the almost complete lack of light (only two lanterns stubbornly flickered at the far end of the lane), Maurice could still easily make out their beaks and feathery wings. He heard their sharp talons scratching across the gravel as they moved from one tree to another, the leaves rustling under their ministrations; they were like workers in a factory he had once visited - working in perfect unison without a moment of pause, entirely focused on completing their task.
Stopping in the middle of the broad walk and closing his eyes, he tried to take in all of the familiar, yet otherworldly sounds: claws on gravel, fluttering feathers, rustling leaves. Beneath it all, he soon discovered yet another sound. A low, melodious humming filled the air around them, so that it seemed to quiver with some strange anticipation - the quiet song of the shadowy workers. As if under a spell, his thoughts drifted away from where he stood and towards the fairy tale left by his daughter's bedside. Did Peter Giles do the Leaf Painters justice in his illustrations? Or would they turn out to be a disappointment when compared with the original? Maurice had never really paid attention to those pictures, having purchased the book solely for the artist's name; but now, how he wished to examine them...! Perhaps… At such a moment no idea seemed too bold, too ridiculous. Perhaps on a night just like this one Giles, too, witnessed a flock of Leaf Painters in his gardens?
'Leaf Painters...'
The heir was struck by a sudden thought. A silly thought. One that could only have been produced by a sleep-deprived mind:
'Are they actually using brushes and buckets of paint?'
Obviously, he could have bothered his companion for an answer, Vergil not only being better read when it came to the supernatural, but also far more perceptive. Much as he cherished and respected Mr. Oakenroad, however, Mortimer felt reluctant to execute that particular plan; he didn't wish to make a fool of himself twice in one night. Deciding to investigate on his own instead, he cautiously approached the closest creature. Behind him he could sense Vergil shift uncomfortably, as if he wanted to halt him but changed his mind halfway through; which was well enough - Mortimer despised distractions of any kind once he had fixed his mind on something.
Left free to his own devices, Maurice walked all the way up to the Leaf Painter, mindful to keep a reasonable distance from its claws, and looked up in hopes of spotting a paint container of any sort, accompanied by a brush; but no matter how high he searched and how much he squinted, the curious gentleman could not say with absolute certainty whether what he saw was what he had expected to see, or something entirely different. The only thing he was sure of was the fact that looking up for too long made his head spin.
Giving up on the investigation, Maurice leaned against the tree trunk with an exhausted sigh. He felt heavy drops on his face and fumbled in his pockets in search of a handkerchief, eventually accepting the one handed to him by Vergil.
"I believe it's high time we returned, Mr. Mortimer."
Maurice declined the offered arm with a small scoff of 'I'm not THAT old', then straightened up and loosened his tie.
"Yes, I believe we should," he paused, "... Aren't our composed dispositions surprising, Vergil…? Why are we this calm in such extraordinary circumstances?"
"Lack of decent sleep prevents the extraordinary from sinking in, I suppose. And aids our imagination." Oakenroad smiled knowingly and took his friend by the arm anyway. "I, for one thing, will surely burst into your room come morning, crying about the horror of what we have been witnesses to tonight."
"You are joking, obviously."
"No, no, I assure you. This experience might be exceedingly traumatizing in hindsight. Mark my words, Mr. Mortimer!"
The door burst open, hitting the wall with a loud bang and causing the unfortunate inhabitant of the bedchamber to suffer a minor heart attack. He recovered rapidly, knowing worse things were about to come.
"I demand an explanation. NOW."
"But... Sister dear," Vergil rubbed at his eyes sloppily, "You would make my task that much easier if you were more precise as to the matter at hand."
He tried to placate his fuming sibling with a smile, but she'd have none of that - and before he even managed to put on the gown properly, young Oakenroad was - after a moment of squabbling, fuming and futile cries for help - virtually dragged out of his room, across the corridor, and hurled into the chamber reserved for Beatrice and her husband. Before Vergil had as much as tried to figure out his situation (or rather, how disastrously bad it actually was), his train of thought was instantly derailed by the most extraordinary sight.
On his bed, due to the early hour covered in little more than the pristine white sheets, sat Maurice Mortimer, Vergil's friend and brother-in-law. This otherwise familiar picture was disrupted by two anomalies: the particularly miserable expression adorning Maurice's face and... Vergil gasped in genuine shock.
If there was one thing in the world that young Oakenroad envied anybody, it was certainly Mr Mortimer's hair: a sea of tight ringlets of the most luscious chocolate brown he had ever seen. Maurice was of course very much aware of this and, while generally modest, always tried his hardest to expose this singular trait, gaining the admiration and jealousy of Vergil, followed by many others.
But now, in the tousled mass of brown there appeared - seemingly out of nowhere - vivid streaks of red (as they found out later, perfectly matching in shade with the trees outside). Vergil would have lied if he'd said he wasn't utterly horrified, if only for a moment.
"I shall leave you to discuss in private," Beatrice cut into her brother's reverie curtly. "By breakfast time, however, I do expect you to present a plausible explanation for... This," she gestured at her husband's hair with disdain and left without another word.
Maurice, whose own shock had apparently not yet worn off, rolled one garish lock between his fingers, examining it half-heartedly. Vergil, not really knowing how to approach the subject – in a way other than laughing hysterically till he cried, that was – leaned against the broad windowsill and contemplated the cloudy sky behind the glass. The prolonged silence didn't sit well with his lively demeanour, however, and soon enough he heard his own voice putting an end to it.
"At least nobody will ever question your rights to the estate... Your hair is enough of a testimony." A joke seemed as good a start as any.
In answer, he received only an irritated grumble, sounding suspiciously like: 'As if I needed that'. Figuring instantly that play time was over and he should finally take responsibility for his friend's distress - after all, he could have told Mortimer to stay away from the trees - Vergil climbed atop his friend’s bed, right across from the crestfallen man and combed his fingers through the brown-red tangle with almost motherly care.
"Bloody Leaf Painters..." Mortimer scowled without much force.
"Now, now, Mr. Mortimer, it's not half bad. I'm sure those odd curls can be covered up with no effort at all." As Maurice raised his head, the boy greeted him with the warmest of smiles.
“Are you quite sure…?”
"Of course!” Vergil sat back on his heels, the smile never leaving his face, “As long as they don't start changing colours and falling out come Winter, you should be just fine."
The heir of Copper Beeches hid his face in hands. And whimpered.
the end
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Date: 2011-09-30 06:30 pm (UTC)I love the atmosphere in this one - the atmosphere of the night on the borderline of seasons, when the autumn magic sneaks up. It is splendid how you balance on those borders: real world and fantasy, thriller and a fairytale, all whirled in a story as vivid as the autumn leaves. I enjoyed every little bit of it, from Mortimer's inquisitive actions and Vergil's lighthearted jokes right to that amusing twist at the end. It's an extremely pleasant story, a perfect one to begin autumn with.
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Date: 2011-10-02 02:40 am (UTC)