And Then There Was Fiction - Chapter One · Jun 28, 07:28 PM
It was a chillingly bright morning…
The large mansion stood upon the hill, glaring ominously at the rest of the desolate moor, as though challenging it to swallow the mansion as it had time. Time… it always sweeps us off our feet, and as we struggle to stand again, we are surprised to realize just how much of it has escaped us. Time will never be harnessed, being as a wild stallion upon the plain, trotting gaily through the brooks, whinnying with free delight. I do not wish to harness time. Only its occupants, its servants. Those enslaved to the winding flight of the passing moments, unable to release the hold on reality that is essential to controlling what meager time we do have in life.
How cursed are these occupants of time, unfortunately doomed never to be forgotten! At least, their names will live on, in the hearts and minds of those who loved them so. To be eternally changed, permanently placed in time, as though made of stone among the fleeting wildlife. The mansion stood, rebuking the wind that tore at his open windows, chilling the very bones of those inside.
Only three figures stood within the brick walls of the turn-of-the-century home, built sometime in the 1920’s. None of them wished to be there. They had been hired to merely do their job, wait until their employer’s guests came and left(at their leisure), and then they were free to leave. All were dressed in black, and stood around the small, useless fire at the hearth, clasping their hands with bowed heads, the picture of solemnity. Two were male, one was female. The eldest man looked to be about in his mid-fifties, his weathered brown face looking as though it would slip away if the wicked wind were to blow through too harshly. His black cap sat limply upon a wrinkled head, not working to conceal the receding hairline.
The more youthful man nearby stood quite elegantly next to the ancient, slightly huddled figure beside him. A playful glint was in his blue eyes, although dimmed by the depressing prospects of the afternoon. He watched the woman beside him, almost eagerly awaiting a reaction from her.
The only female in the room had a glassy expression in her hooded brown eyes, watching the fire with almost ethereal intensity. Wearing black seemed to escalate the contrast of her pale skin against her raven hair, and the dramatically painted lips resembled fresh blood upon the thin line of flesh. The fingernails were also painted, but this time with a charcoal black, the thin fingers twitching sporadically as she watched the licks of heat in the old-fashioned fireplace. The young man kept his eye on her nervously as he kicked at a fallen brick, chipped and black with soot. Both the man watching her, and the woman herself, seemed to be in their late twenties. Perhaps their very early thirties.
After a long time standing silently, the woman turned, her brown eyes boring through the blue-eyed male. “Why on earth would somebody live in a place like this?” she demanded, with a cool air. The elderly gentleman flickered his eyes in their direction, seemingly occupied with the window overlooking the moor out front.
The young man brightened up immediately, as though the comment fueled him to the very core. “I know! I mean, it’s cold, and dark, and…well…old.” He didn’t look in the direction of the older man, who didn’t seem to be listening.
Raising a tentative eyebrow, the woman thrust out a white hand, shivering slightly in the cold. “Melantha Tolbert.”
Smiling, the blue eyes danced in a light of anticipation. “Colin Frisk, at your service.” Melantha rolled her eyes.
Colin shrugged, then turned to the gentleman now standing at the window, transfixed. “And what’s your name, pal?”
The man said nothing for a time, slowly and surely turning toward the two. The squinting, wrinkled eyes held their gaze with an otherworldly understanding and calm, sending a chill down Melantha’s back. “In the war,” he said with ceremonial delay, “They called me Shannon, Laurence.”
Colin struggled to hold back a snort, trying to compose himself around the old man. “Isn’t…er…isn’t Shannon a girl name?”
The elder just watched him, gazing into the boyish blue eyes. “Shannon is my last name. You may call me Mr. Shannon, or Laurence, if you wish. Though I would much prefer you calling me Sir.” The man slowly flexed his worn, wrinkled right hand, then straightened the depressing black jacket, striding toward the door. Quietly, he stated, “The guests are arriving, now. Girl, go check the fires in the living room, the parlor, and all the bedrooms. Boy, come with me.”
The command was cool and collected, as though practice thoroughly many times before. The two younger shared a look of stilled rebuke, wondering where this man had received authority over them. Sighing, Melantha started up the large, decorative staircase, while Colin strode toward the main hall after the man.
Out on the cobblestone walk, a man stood, erect with the posture that suggested all the formality of a gentleman of old times. He wore a black trench-coat that flapped around him in the dangerously violent winds of the moor. The man wore a wide-brimmed hat, which was pulled forward, concealing his face. Leaving his sleek black Rolls-Royce, he walked up to the front door with a brisk and impatient step, his shadowed eyes locked on the ground in front of him, his mind occupied on other matters. Raising a gloved hand to make good, firm use of the iron knocker, he was slightly surprised to have it open before him, and an old, leathery man stood smiling.
Beckoning him in, he was led to the parlor, where he was told to make himself comfortable. After being seated, the man seemed anxious, and restless, asking for a small glass of Burgundy while he awaited his companions. He refused to allow his coat to be removed, or his hat, which Colin found rude, but his older, wiser companion seemed untouched, looking as gaily at the guest as he had since his arrival.
After exciting the hall, Laurence turned to Colin. “Greet the next guest, and make it snappy! They’re arriving soon!”
Next to arrive was a group of three or four people. It was hard to tell, they were all pressed tightly together on the doorstep, the one in front using the knocker with impatience. When Colin opened the door, all of them toppled inside, shoving the others in a hurried attempt to find shelter from the infernal wind.
“Woah, Susan! Look at that old man! He looks ancient!” A young boy, no older than thirteen, certainly, was pointing a rather rude finger at Laurence, who frowned at the child.
“Who might you be, lad?” He asked, bending down to meet the eyes of the fair-faced boy.
“M’name’s Edmund. Edmund Pevensie.” The boy said stubbornly, crossing his arms in a defiant gesture. A flicker of a smile crossed Laurence’s features, and he turned to the slightly older girl behind Edmund, gripping his arm.
“Then you must be his elder sister, Susan, am I not right?” He asked. The brown-haired teen nodded her head, and pressed her brother onward into the parlor, along with the first guest.
A man stood in the doorway, wearing ridiculous attire. By the looks of his over-large T-shirt, and moth-eaten jeans, along with the grimy hands and face, this man had rummaged in a garbage can for his attire. Wrinkling his nose slightly, Colin greeted him, trying to smile. The effort came out looking like a smirk, which the newcomer genuinely reciprocated.
“Jack.” Said the man, grinning broadly, and shaking Colin’s hand with his dirty fingers. “Jack Sparrow. Would you be so kind as to tell me, whether or not there are any…erm…pretty ladies about the area?” He peered into the hall suspiciously, looking left and right as though afraid of somebody being there. With a look of disappointment and gloom, he stepped inside. “I thought not. Oh well!” Throwing his arms up in the air, he might have been skipping into the parlor, and it would not have been stranger. Colin mentally made a note not to tangle with this one. Or let him have too many drinks.
The next to step inside the door was another eccentric gentleman; this time, a man who seemed around seventy, with a long white beard and purple cloak that fluttered about him like feathers on a bird. With a large smile, he took Colin’s hand, his eyes sparkling. “Very nice to meet you, indeed, Very nice indeed! I am Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. But you may call me Dumbledore.” He said his entire name in one long-winded breath, and without skipping a beat, went on to exclaim about how the house was exactly how he had remembered it on his last visit, and how pretty the windows looked. Colin made another mental note, before turning back to look outside, waiting for the next guest.
“Surely, you jest, foul beast of the earth! Surely!” Rang out a velvety voice, almost consumed by the tearing wind around the mansion. Another voice, much gruffer, and which reminded one of unpolished stone, replied, “Have I ever given you reason to doubt me, tree-dweller?”
An odd pair came up the walk this time; a small, round little man, more wide than he was tall, and with a long beard that was braided all the way down his chest. He wore attire all in browns and reds, with a large silver watch on his right hand, wrapped around his fat wrist. His companion was, in all ways, the opposite of the short man. Tall and slender, pale and fair-haired, the handsome figure wore clothes that looked tailored to his very frame, and walked with an air of grace and tranquility. His tone, albeit soothing and lyrical, was nonetheless full of bursting humor restrained. “No, you have not, Gimli. But I do wonder, sometimes, about how reliable your memory is of late. You do tend to have difficulty remembering these days, old friend.”
The two paused on the road halfway to the house, watching each other with a solemn sadness. The shorter companion coughed, “Aye, Legolas. We did have some good times.”
His colleague nodded, clapping him comradely on the shoulder. The pair continued, and Colin felt the rise of an unnamed emotion rise in his chest. The two friends seemed so…important, and sophisticated. No, those weren’t the correct words. But Colin knew there was something entirely special between them, and he would find out what before they left.
“Oi! Let me go, you confounded old fool! Let me go!” The young man turned around, to see three more figures come up the walk. One, a man in his mid-thirties, with his hand gripped around the arm of a much younger and handsomer soul. The young boy couldn’t be past his early twenties, and he shared similar features as Legolas. Fair-hair, and boyish face, he wore jeans and a simple T-shirt, but held the air of a spoiled aristocrat. The man who held him met eyes with the boy, and the two shared a look of utter contempt. Leaning forward, the older man sneered, “My apologies, good sir. You looked like someone I knew. A young man, with all the airs and graces you possess.” He had an insane edge to his voice, and sounded as though he was about to burst into laughter. Bowing low respectfully, he crooned, “Barbossa, at yer service, kind sir.”
The younger man looked at him in disbelief for a moment, then rubbed his sore arm. Placing a generous smile on his features, he bowed his head to the older gent. “There is no apology needed, Monsieur Barbossa. I am Raoul de Chagny. I would be very pleased to make your acquaintance. If only we had met under less…unfortunate circumstances, as you mistaking me for someone else. I offer my services.”
They both nodded, but Colin could tell that both were merely giving a facade of politeness, and the glare they both bestowed one another made Colin sure a fist-fight was about to break out. Or at the very least, a verbal war. Greeting them both, and taking their hats and coats, he led these last guests into the parlor. Stepping up quickly beside the flabbergasted Colin, Laurence whispered, “That is enough for now. Thank you for you help, Colin. Go back to the kitchens now, and help that girl with the refreshments. And don’t break the glasses.”
Laurence seemed skilled at giving orders, and even more skilled at not letting the company hear the strict demands, but Colin was grateful for the compliment. If only he hadn’t been told to leave all the strange, exotic guests… It was definitely going to make for an interesting evening…
— MaskedNicci
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